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didn’t follow the meal plan, plainly didn’t exercise and didn’t seem particularly enamored with anyone, much less Samuel Grayson, so that made him difficult to categorize in Rafe’s book. He hadn’t mentioned to Fargo about his missing baby, but with each brick wall and dead end, he wondered if it wasn’t time to elicit the help of law enforcement. To Rafe’s knowledge, that jack wad outside of Laramie hadn’t placed a call to Fargo like he’d said he would, but after landing in Cold Plains, Rafe realized that was probably a blessing in disguise.
    Fargo acknowledged Rafe with a nod, then spit a sunflower seed shell onto the ground. “Evening, Doc. Got a minute?” he asked, the question plainly rhetorical, and they both knew it. Still Rafe smiled, as if being harassed by the local cop wasn’t an inconvenience at all, and leaned casually against his car.
    “Sure. What’s up?” he asked, purposefully omitting an invitation to go into the house. It was his perverse way of keeping Cold Plains on the outside and, hopefully, the craziness out of his personal sanctuary. “Something wrong? That ulcer giving you trouble again?” he asked, referencing a recent diagnosis and course of treatment that Fargo had plainly ignored.
    “Ain’t no ulcer. I’m fine,” he muttered, plainly irritated that Rafe had mentioned it. He narrowed his stare at Rafe, as if sizing him up and finding him worthy of a second, deeper look, and said, “Word around town is that you’re asking about some secret infirmary. That true? And if so, where the hell would some secret facility be hidden in a town as small as Cold Plains?”
    “Secret infirmary?” Rafe maintained his neutral expression, but inside, his gut twisted in warning. Fargo seemed a fair bit puzzled by his own question and the fact that he’d had to ask it. To be fair, it wasn’t a normal thing to ask. But then Cold Plains wasn’t normal. He crossed his arms and seemed to be thinking about the question. When he’d done a fair search of his memory, he flat-out lied with a rueful chuckle. “Can’t say that I have. But if we do have one, maybe I ought to find out if they’re hiring. Private practice is murder on the insurance,” he said playfully.
    But Fargo wasn’t laughing. Hell, Rafe wasn’t sure the man knew how to laugh. “Of course there’s no secret infirmary,” he returned roughly, glancing away. Rafe bit his tongue to keep from calling him a liar. He’d heard enough whispers, enough hushed talk to know something was out there. “But I want to know why someone would say that you’re asking about one when that’s plain crazy talk.”
    “I agree. I’d like to know who’s been saying that, because I can’t remember ever asking it or even hearing about one.”
    Fargo grunted and adjusted his girth. “Good, because you know Samuel doesn’t like rumors like that getting spread around. It erodes community spirit. Cold Plains is a good place to live. You know that or else you wouldn’t have moved here, right?”
    “Of course,” he said, a trickle of unease sliding down his back like a rivulet of sweat on a hot day. “Cold Plains is unlike any other place I’ve ever lived, and I like it here.”
    Satisfied, at least for the moment, Fargo climbed into his cruiser. His elbow out the window, Fargo said, “If you hear of anyone else spreading those kinds of poisonous rumors about our town, you let me know, you hear?”
    “You got it, Chief,” he agreed, giving the impression he shared the chief’s concern. “If there’s anything else you need, don’t hesitate to stop by my office.” And stop making house calls, you bloated bully. Rafe smiled for emphasis. Fargo grunted and pulled out of the driveway and then out onto the highway.
    It wasn’t until Fargo was gone and out of sight that Rafe breathed a little easier. That was close. He’d been sloppy, asking around about the infirmary to too many people who were apparently loyal to Samuel and his