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like last night?” Corso shrugged. She leaned in closer. “Ole Swanson dead in his truck I can understand. Since his missus died last spring, Ole’s been getting so drunk every night it was just a matter of time before he did something stupid and ended up dead. But you, Mr. Corso, if you don’t mind me saying…you really ought to know better.”
    Because his eyes were incapable of keeping up with the movement of his head, Corso averted them slowly. He watched as one of the trio of EMTs slipped and fell heavily in the snow. Watched as his buddies helped him to his feet, dusted him off, and then pulled him Corso’s way. Corso could feel her gaze on the side of his head.
    “I guess I was looking for something,” he said.
    “What was that?”
    “A free lunch.”
    The sheriff whistled under her breath. “A costly commodity.”
    “Apparently so,” he said.
    The EMTs checked that his straps were tight and then lifted him into the back of the ambulance. The sheriff stood in the doorway as they buttoned the gurney down.
    “You think the whole family’s in there?” Corso asked.
    “I didn’t want to touch anything,” the sheriff said. “But if you ask me, there was more than one set of remains in that bundle.”
    “Yeah,” he said as the doors swung shut.

 
    I t’s hard to know Jesus. No matter how I try to keep his picture in my mind, the face just leaks out my ears like sand. I think it’s ’cause I’ve got all these other pictures in there. Things that happened to me…here in my life. Not to somebody else a way long time ago. I can stare at the picture of Jesus in Papa’s Bible…the one with him standing on a cloud with all this white light coming out from him like he’s the sun or something. I can look at it for an hour, and the minute I stop, all I can see are Billy Cameron’s eyes, and that pink party dress Brittany Armstrong wore to the last day of school…and my hair…my hair…all scattered and lying there. Mama says that’s why those nun ladies wear those black things and lock themselves all up together in musty buildings. So’s they can keep their minds empty. So’s they can make room for Jesus.

6
    T he television image flickered, but Richardson’s voice came through loud and clear. Beneath the talking head and the bank of microphones, they kept flashing the words Deputy Sheriff Cole Richardson . Live from downstairs in the hospital lobby. Back over his shoulder, the guy who showed up at the Holmes place—Judge Powell—stood shoulder to shoulder with a tall man who looked a lot like Deputy Richardson. His city councilman father, Corso guessed. Although Richardson didn’t come right out and say it, the message was that if he had been sheriff for the past seventeen years, those poor people in the shed wouldn’t have been lying around out there all this time.
    Someone rapped on the door. Corso clicked off the TV and told whoever it was to come in. The kid’s yellow nylon jacket was so bright it made Corso squint. HERTZ. Big black letters across the front. Cursive Craig embroidered up higher on his chest.
    “Uh…Mr. Corso,” he stammered as he pushed a clipboard toward the bed, “if you wouldn’t mind signing right here.”
    Corso marked his place in his journal and used his pen to sign on the dotted line. The kid tore off the top copy of the rental agreement and handed it to Corso. From his right-hand jacket pocket he produced a set of keys. Corso nodded toward the end table. The kid took the hint, placing the keys next to the water pitcher.
    He walked to the window and looked down into the parking lot. “Hunter green Expedition. Right down there,” he said. “Next to the white Buick.” He turned back toward Corso. “Plate number’s on the keys.”
    Corso nodded his thanks and picked up his journal. The kid began to leave the room. From the rear, it was obvious he had something tucked beneath his arm.
    “What’s that you’ve got there?” Corso asked.
    The kid stopped