“Marvin, I don’t have a lot of time,” Quentin said. “You heard what he said. Something crazy is going on. I thought you should hear it, seeing that you’re the only doctor we got in town.”

“Sheriff. I just had Willis Good kill himself in my office. He cut his throat.”

“What?”

“Willis cut his throat because he was afraid that something was coming to town,” Marvin said. His face was almost gray from the stress. His shirt, splashed with blood, was pulled out and hung from under his sheep-skin jacket. The shirttail was stiff and hard with dried blood.

“Willis killed himself? I just sent him down to Sacramento with T.C. That’s impossible.”

“There was an accident outside of town. They brought Willis to my office,” Marvin said.

“Eileen, where’s T.C.?” Quentin spoke into the intercom.

Eileen Anderson opened Quentin’s door and stepped into the office. She’d put on her coat and a ski hat.

“I don’t know, Quentin. He never got to Sacramento with the prisoner is my guess. I’m leaving the office. I have to find Ronny.”

Quentin stood up and wanted to grab something, anything, to stop the world from spinning.

   “Quentin. I think there’s something very wrong. Some kind of mass poisoning or meningitis. I’m not sure what,” Marvin said. “I called the CDC. We’ve had over twenty cases at the office this morning alone.”

“Poisoning?” Quentin said. “What’s that got to do with Willis killing himself in your office, for Christ’s sake?”

“I don’t know. He was hysterical,” Marvin said.

“Okay. All right, there’s something going on, okay. You heard what the man said on the phone. Let’s slow down. Marvin, I want you to go back to your office. We’ll investigate Willis’ suicide as soon as we can. Eileen, I want you to find out where the hell T.C. is.” He looked at the two of them. The doctor’s bloody shirt and coat were unnerving. They both were staring at him.

“I want to use the phone,” Marvin said. “I want to check on my wife.” Quentin nodded.

“T.C. is missing,” Eileen said. She walked back over to her side of the office and turned on the intercom. “I had the note on my desk. I just didn’t read it, I’m sorry. T.C. wasn’t at the accident site when they found Willis. His patrol car was destroyed,” she said over the intercom.

“Accident site?” Quentin said.

“T.C. must have gotten into some kind of accident out on 50 this morning,” Eileen said over the intercom. She lifted the Highway Patrol flash report from her desk and pressed it against the glass between them, showing Quentin the report.

The sheriff’s car pulled out of the parking lot and merged into the traffic on Main Street. It didn’t seem much different than any other February morning, Quentin thought. The sky was overcast. Lit Christmas lights were still strung over the street. Quentin took comfort in the familiar sight. The lights always reminded him of his own childhood.

“What time did Lacy call?” Quentin asked.

“About an hour ago,” Eileen said.

“I’m glad she’s decided to go back. I don’t know what got into that girl. Kids, huh?” He looked at his friend.

She was looking out at the street, her expression pensive. “What did the captain mean by mass hysteria?” Eileen said.

“I don’t know. People are missing all over the state. Maybe it’s a coincidence. Or maybe it’s some kind of illness. I just don’t know.”

“Quentin, what would make people go missing all over the state? Come on? Don’t talk to me like a cop, Quentin.”

“Eileen, you heard him. They don’t know.”

“You said Sharon didn’t go to school this morning.”

“Right.” Quentin turned off Main Street. He looked into the new coffee house that had gone in on the corner. The bike stand in front of the place was full of mountain bikes. He stopped the patrol car. “She likes to come here, Sharon and her friends. I bet you a dollar I’ll find her in there cutting class,” he said. Quentin stopped the patrol car in the middle of the street and turned on his red lights. He threw the shift lever into park. “I’ll be right out.”

“Quentin, hurry, please,” Eileen said.

Quentin walked into the Higher Ground Cafe. The stereo was playing a song he didn’t recognize. The tables were full of young people on break from the businesses nearby. He saw Rebecca, Mike Stewart’s daughter, talking to a tall kid in bike clothes sporting a goatee, a bright yellow bike jacket hung over the chair behind him. Quentin walked through the crowd. Several of the local business people nodded to him. His radio went off and he turned it down. Eyes started to follow him toward the back of the cafe.

“Hey, Rebecca,” Quentin said.

“Hey, Sheriff. This is my new friend, Gary.”

The sheriff saw how red both kids’ eyes were. Stoned, he thought.

“Hi, Gary,” Quentin said.

The kid glanced at him, not wanting to look him in the face.

“He’s just moved up from the City,” Rebecca said.

Quentin nodded. “Welcome to Timberline, son. Rebecca, I’m looking for Sharon. Has she been in here this morning?”

“I didn’t see her, Sheriff.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah, what’s wrong?”

“I’m not sure. If you see her today, will you tell her to please call me? How’s your dad?”

“Okay. The shop’s being picketed by some anti-gun people. All week long,” Rebecca said.

“I know, he called me about it. I got to run. If you see Sharon, please tell her to call me on my cell. Or better yet, to go to the office and wait for me.”

“Sure, Sheriff,” Rebecca said.

“Nice meeting you, Sheriff,” the kid said.

Quentin was going to move on, but he stuck his hand out and the kid shook it. Quentin tried to smile back at the young man’s eager-innocent stoned face. He felt protective of the two kids, of everyone in the cafe.

   “I should go back to the store,” Rebecca said. “It’s like, not cool. But I can’t stand meeting someone and then—I don’t know. I’m kind of impulsive,” she said.

“What about the video store?” Summers asked.

“I know the owner. She’ll understand. I want to check on my dad.”

“Cool,” Gary said. He wanted to look at his watch. He was going to be late for his appointment with Mr. Worden at the pet shop, but he didn’t give a damn. The girl in front of him was not only beautiful; she was turning out to be unpredictable, too, which was very exciting. She was different from all the girls he’d known in San Francisco, with their cool-breeze, butter-won’t-melt attitudes.

“The sheriff said your dad was being picketed?”

“Yeah. It’s really stupid,” Rebecca said.

“You mind if I ask why?” Gary asked.

“He has the gun shop in town, and every once and a while the gun haters come up from San Francisco, Sacramento, or LA, some big city, and picket our shop.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, it’s really stupid. My dad’s great.”

“Why his shop? I mean, there are lots of gun shops in the Bay Area.”

“We’re one of the biggest sellers of handguns in the state,” she said proudly. “I hope you aren’t one of them. I mean those people who, you know—don’t know his ass from a can of chocolate sauce.”

Gary hardly heard what she was saying. She sounded like a truck driver but she looked like one of those girls on the cover of Maxim. “I don’t really know much about guns,” he said carefully.

“I could teach you,” Rebecca said, smiling. “I know a lot about guns. I was two-time NRA pistol champion in my age division.” She leaned over and touched his arm. He could smell her again. She smelled like coffee and some kind of sweet soap. He had a fantasy of rubbing shampoo all over her in a big shower. “We have a Fifty Caliber at the house,” she said, winking at him. “It’s legal, too. Did you know it isn’t really illegal to own machine guns? Not if you get a permit from the ATF. My dad got one.”