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around his chin it was a wonder he could speak. His ears were as red as signal flags.
    “Yes, sir,” he barked.
    She cupped her hands around her mouth. “We gotta get these aid cars outta here. Clear the driveway.” She pointed to a white van with a satellite dish on the roof. “Start with those media types. Get ’em outta here.”
    “Public’s got a right to know,” Richardson yelled.
    “Which is why he called them?” she said under her breath.
    She crooked a finger. Richardson marched over and stood stiffly at attention, staring out over the sheriff’s head. She stepped in close, speaking to the point of his collar. “First you get them the hell out of here. Then later we’ll talk about you calling them.”
    He stiffened. “The right of the public to have free access—” he began to recite.
    “Shut up,” she said through her teeth. “The rights of those poor people in the barn are what concerns me. However it was they came to be there…they have a right to some respect. They have a right to be treated with dignity.” Richardson’s thousand-yard stare never wavered as the sheriff continued. “What if they were people you knew? What if they were members of your family?” She patted him heavily on the shoulder and said, “Try to weigh that kind of thing against your great desire to be on television.” She patted him again, a little harder this time. “Who knows…maybe your better side will emerge.” Before he could respond, she went on. “Get the driveway clear. Remind the media types that there’s no parking on Hawthorne Road…especially in a snow emergency like this. If they park that damn van there, call Bob Sowers and have them towed. Once the aid cars leave, we can bring the rest of the cruisers back in.”
    “Yes, sir,” he barked again, before turning on his heel and marching off into the melee. The sheriff sighed heavily as she watched him go and then shifted her gaze down to Corso, who lay strapped to a gurney at the rear of an orange and white aid car. The top third of his head was bandaged like the Mummy. His nose was packed with gauze.
    She shook her head sadly. “The ‘sir’ stuff is Richardson’s way of reminding me that he doesn’t think sheriff is a job for a woman,” she said. “He ran against me last November. I beat him by thirty-seven votes. He’s gonna run again next year, so he’s trying to get himself on TV as much as possible.” She sighed again. “Probably gonna win too.” She grinned down at Corso. “Gulf War hero, you know.”
    She was middle-aged, black hair, brown at the roots, crammed up under her winter hat. She could have been fat or she could have been slim—at that moment she was wearing too many layers of clothing to tell. The crinkles at the corners of her blue eyes put her somewhere in her late forties.
    She read Corso’s mind. “I didn’t hire him, so I can’t fire him,” she said. “His father’s the chairman of the City Council. Clint Richardson’s the one who talked the council into making me take his kid on as deputy sheriff. Said I wasn’t making a strong enough impression in the community. Needed some new blood.”
    Corso watched as the doors on the other aid car were closed. One guy stayed inside. The other three started Corso’s way. The last police cruiser was backing out of the driveway. “Done nothing but fight me on everything,” she said. “Won’t even wear a proper hat, for pity’s sake.”
    “They’re his ears,” Corso offered.
    “Wanted to carry a forty-caliber, and when I wouldn’t let him, he started loading his own thirty-eights with enough powder to either blow his hand off or kill somebody in the house next door.” She shook her head. “He just don’t get it.”
    The sheriff put a hand on Corso’s shoulder. He turned his head in her direction. “Speaking of not getting it, Mr. Corso…you want to tell me what a world-famous writer and his photographer friend were doing driving around on a night