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heads taped in plastic. Then Dally emerged holding a piece of cloth in his latex-gloved hand. He spread it out and held it up to the light: a cornflower-blue dress shirt, stained everywhere brown. That’s when I began to worry for Aub.
    Deputy Jackson bagged the shirt and they disappeared inside Aub’s house for what seemed like a couple hours. My mind was in different directions. The sun just kissed the western hills when I heard all the vehicles start up and head my way. Deputy Jackson was last out, and he paused by my truck long enough to tell me about a meeting tomorrow morning at the sheriff’s office, to go over the coroner’s report and what they’d found at Dunigan’s farm.
    Time passed slowly. Around five I heard cars coming up the road and wondered was it George with something to tell me, but instead it was two more staties to spell Zukowski and Robertson. I convinced one of them to take my post at the foot of the driveway and that two troopers on the ridge was one too many; they’d never be able to cover it all, so best just keep one of them where we found the body, and one by the house. By the time I left the farm, the sky had begun to darken.

B ACK AT the station, I turned up the radio and flipped back and forth between the nothing on channel one and the nothing on channel two, listening for George. All I could see was the body lying there. I tried thinking of other things but the body always returned, an afterimage floating blue on black.
    In a morgue the size of a walk-in freezer, Wy Brophy was opening up our John Doe. The sheriff would be briefing the DA’s office and the judge, and dealing with Aub. My deputy was wandering the Heights, and it had been too long since I’d heard from him.
    I picked up the phone, intending to dial Liz Brennan at home, as the clinic would have closed. Calling her made me nervous, and after a few calming breaths, I shook my head and told myself, idiot, she’s just your best friend’s wife. I dialed. When she answered I could hear her boy and girl in the background—they’re five and three—and some kitchen noises.
    “Listen,” I said, “don’t . . . this is between us, but I sent George to pick Danny Stiobhard up today, and I—”
    “Yeah, he stopped by. Danny had already left.”
    “Yeah.”
    “I left him lying flat for two minutes and he found the back door, I guess. Jo never saw him leave till his truck started up. Should have known.”
    “He say anything to you that might be useful? Too much to hope for.”
    “No, nothing important. Kevin Dunigan came by, also too late.”
    “What shape was he in?”
    “Danny? You saw him. Walking wounded. He said Aub tagged him as he was stepping out of his truck, kind of through the door and window. He told me he never even set his foot down, just closed the door back up and drove straight to my office. Listen, it’s almost six. We can talk in person.”
    “Yeah. I doubt I’ll make it over tonight.”
    “Come on.”
    “No, sorry, I—”
    “How many times is this? I’d let you off the hook again, but I’m tired of it. We take it personally. I’m going to stop asking.”
    Into the silence on the other end I said, “I can’t find George. I’m sorry.”
    “You don’t know your own deputy, even. He’ll be at the bar. Hey, what’s going on today? Been seeing a lot of cops. Not locals either.”
    “Can’t say right now. It’s been a busy day.” We said goodbye and hung up.
    I keep a drawer of maps of the county. Topo maps, the kind that show the shape of the hills with concentric lines, and give elevations in feet. Maps from the county office divided into parcels of ownership. I pulled out the whole sheaf of them and found the ones I wanted. My route this morning from 37 to 189 to Fieldsparrow Road had led me progressively into the wilds—fewer roads, and narrower, between ridges of higher elevations. If you squinted you’d be hard-pressed to tell a road from a creek on those maps. There were