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shut her up.
    Now think Roy. He thought.
    He picked up the phone and called his shift mate—not a buddy, Jardine didn’t have buddies—but a dim dude who sometimes swapped shifts with him. Sorry it’s so early but would you mind taking my shift this morning?—I’m hungover. Jardine wasn’t, he’d never been, but this was an excuse any of the guys would buy. What the excuse bought Jardine now was an info dump from his shift mate. Oh Roy, man, ya gotta come in cuz Ballinger’s callin in everybody cuz—shit man you dunno? —and then the dimwit went on to tell Jardine what three other guys had told him.
    Roy Jardine concluded he was presumed as innocent as the next guy.
    He went to the kitchen and rinsed out the ice cream carton and put it in the trash and washed his spoon and put it in the drainer. Jersey followed, nosing around the trash. “No, girl.” She knew something was up. She knew he wasn’t going to bed and so she wasn’t going to be curling up in her plush dog bed on the floor beside him.
    He went back to his Lazy-boy and picked up the yellow pad. Under Roy’s Action Items , he wrote Undercover Recon At The Dump .
    He moved into action. He packed up emergency supplies—extra clothing, toothbrush, paste, soap, deodorant, washcloth, all the things he’d need at the hideout. Freeze-dried food, bottled water, and sleeping bag were already stored there.
    Jersey sat on his pack and wouldn’t get off.
    He squatted beside her. He ruffled her curly topknot and scratched under her chin. He wished he could take her along, but she’d hate the hideout. Too cold, too dark, no soft bed. No ice cream. Easy to get lost. He wished he knew how long he’d be there. He scooped her in his arms and carried her into the bathroom. He set her on the sink and turned on the water. She loved to lap out of the faucet. He leaned over and slid his left hand under her belly, hugging her to him. She kept lapping. So thirsty. He felt bad; he hadn’t checked her water dish. He opened the drawer and took out the Buck knife and slid his right hand beneath her chin and made the cut quick and deep. She shuddered but made no sound and went limp in his arms and he held her close while she bled out and the water washed the blood down the drain. When she was finished, he laid her on the counter. He had to use the sink himself, then, to wash away the tears.
    He wrapped her in a towel and carried her to the back yard. He was in a hurry—he really had no time to spare—but he owed her a decent burial. She was a small dog, a toy poodle, and it was not much work after all. He spoke over her grave. “Farewell, girl. I’m sorry. I’m going on a dangerous mission and it’s better this way.”
    He gathered his supplies and locked up the house. He drove through Beatty and out onto highway 95.
    When this was all over, he decided, he’d get another poodle. A big one, a standard. Definitely not a toy. That would be sacrilege. There could never be another Jersey.
    By the time he reached the dump he had put his feelings in order.
    Back in the saddle. The Long Lean Dude was going undercover.

8
    I opened the van door and stepped into the ninety-degree glimmer of Tuesday’s dawn at the radioactive waste dump.
    With daybreak I could see that we were on a high plain dotted with creosote and sage, which already stung my nose. To the east and west were bald mountain ranges. To the north and south ran highway 95. I toed the ground. A gravelly soil, nearly dry now. No talc seams here. If I found talc at the dump it wouldn’t be native. It would have hitched a ride.
    Walter remained in the van, where we had set up a rudimentary lab. He’d said you have the talc, dear—and the heat—and I’ll have the driver’s mud and the air conditioning.
    How does he do that? Make it sound like I’m doing him a favor.
    But he’d read me right. I wanted that talc.
    We’d convoyed here from the crash site—RERT vans, FBI vans, Soliano’s big SUV, Miller’s