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North Dakota (population 112). A sign informed him that he was looking out at the badlands of the Theodore Roosevelt National Park. He’d always thought that badlands was just a name for the places where outlaws like Butch Cassidy and Sundance went to hide, but learned that it was a geological term for rocky terrain extensively eroded by wind and water. The sign also said he might see—although he didn’t—bison, feral horses, elk, and prairie dogs. He wanted to see a prairie dog, having never seen one before.
    An hour or so later he stopped again to get the kinks out of his back and to be treated to the sight of Salem Sue: the world’s largest black-and white Holstein cow. It was made of fiberglass, stood thirty-eight feet high, and was fifty feet long. Not a sight he would have seen had he not traveled fifteen hundred miles from Washington, D.C.
    He crossed the Missouri River and drove into Bismarck, almost five hours after leaving Thorpe’s place. The white, nineteen-story state capital building, the tallest structure in the city, dominated the view. He checked into another Holiday Inn Express and his room seemed identical to the one he’d had in Billings. Even the abstract art over the bed was the same.
    He called the number Thorpe had given him for Sarah Johnson and she answered on the second ring. “Hi. This is Joe DeMarco. Would you like to get together to talk?”
    â€œYeah, you bet. There’s a Starbucks—”
    â€œHow ’bout picking a place that serves a decent martini. It’s been a long day. I need alcohol, not caffeine.”
    â€œOh, well, let’s see.” After a long pause she said, “We could go to Minervas, I guess. It’s near the Capitol. I don’t drink much, but I’ve heard it’s okay.”
    â€œI’ll find it,” DeMarco said. “I’ll see you in an hour.” DeMarco figured in a city the size of Bismarck he could get anywhere in an hour. “How will I recognize you?”
    With a name like Minervas, DeMarco had been expecting a traditional tavern: neon Budweiser signs in the windows, photos of the softball team Minveras sponsored behind the bar. Or even better, maybe Minerva was the name of a famous madam back when they were building the railroads across the Great Plains, and the bar would be located in a historical brothel with embossed red wallpaper and portraits of plump naked ladies on the walls. It turned out, however, that Minervas was in a low brick building with a green roof and was a family-friendly restaurant with a well-lit bar, tables set with white cloth napkins, large comfortable booths, and a wholesome girl-next-door-type bartender.
    DeMarco ordered a martini, and about five minutes after his drink arrived, Sarah Johnson walked through the door dressed as she’d told him she would be: blue jeans, a white turtleneck, and a woolly green vest. When he saw her eyes scanning the patrons looking for him, he raised a hand.
    Sarah was six feet tall and according to her grandfather, twenty-two years old. She had alabaster-white skin, blue eyes, a flawless complexion, and butterscotch-blond hair reaching halfway to her shoulders. She wasn’t beautiful, but she was striking because she was young and tall and had a nice figure and just glowed with good health.
    She took a seat across from DeMarco and started off by saying, “Grandpa’s email said you work for John Mahoney and might be able to help me, but he didn’t tell me exactly what you do.”
    â€œYou want a drink?” DeMarco asked.
    â€œUh, not really. I’ve got a lot to do tonight, and would just as soon get to the point.”
    â€œOkay. Well, as for what I do, I don’t actually work for Mahoney. I mean, I’m not on his staff.”
    â€œOh,” she said, looking disappointed.
    â€œI’m a guy Mahoney calls from time to time when he’s got a problem or when one of his friends is having