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understand. I came here to write my dissertation.”
    She bristled. “And you think Andy’s too dumb to understand you. You were always too good for us up here, weren’t you? You were too good for ordinary folk—too good to follow the law too.”
    “Wait, hold on,” I said. “Jesus, that was a long time ago.”
    “And so good you don’t think about taking the Lord’s name in vain. You haven’t changed, Miles. Does Duane know you’re coming?”
    “Well sure,” I said. “Don’t be so bitchy. Look, I’m sorry. I’ve been driving two days and I’ve had a couple of funny experiences.” I saw her glance at my handkerchief-wrapped left hand. “All I want here is peace and quiet.”
    “You always made trouble,” she said. “You and your cousin Alison were just alike that way. I’m glad neither of you was raised in the valley. Your grandparents were our people, Miles, and we all took to your father like he was one of us, but now I think maybe we got enough trouble without having you here too.”
    “Good lord,” I said. “What happened to your hospitality?”
    She glared at me. “You wore out your welcome here the first time you stole from us. I’ll tell Andy to take your beer down to your motor. You can leave the money on the counter.”
PORTION OF STATEMENT BY MARGARET KASTAD:
    July 16
    I knew he was Miles Teagarden when he first set foot in our store even though Andy says he didn’t know until he said he was Eve’s boy. He had that same look he always had, like some bad secret was on his mind. I used to feel so sorry for Eve, she was straight as a die all her life, and I guess you don’t know what will happen to your children if you bring them up in funny places.But Eve never was to blame for that boy Miles. Now we know all about him, I’m glad Eve passed away before she could see just how bad he turned out. On that first day I just turned him out of the store. I said Miles, you ain’t fooling none of us here. We know you. Now you just get on out of our store. Andy’ll take that beer of yours down to your motor. I could tell he was in a fight or something—he looked weak or scared, the way they do, and his hand was still bleeding. I told him, and I’d tell him the same again. He never was any good, was he, for all those brains they said he had? He was just funny—just funny. If he was a dog or a horse you’d have penned him up or just shot him. Right off. Him and that sneaky look and that handkerchief around his hand.
    —
    I silently watched Andy load the beer into the back seat of the Volkswagen, shoving in the case beside the paper boxes full of notes and books. “Hurt your wing, huh?” he said. “Wife says you paid up there. Well, give my regards to Duane, and I hope your mitt gets better.” He backed away from the car, wiping his hands on his trousers as if he’d dirtied them, and I wordlessly got in behind the wheel. “Bye now,” he said, and I looked at him and then took off out of the dusty little lot. In the rearview mirror I saw him shrugging. When the curve in the road by the red sandstone cliff took him out of sight I snapped the radio on, hoping for music, but Michael Moose was droning on again about Gwen Olson’s death and I impatiently turned it off.
    When I had got as far down the valley as the shell of the school where my grandmother had taught all eight grades I pulled over and tried to relax. There is a special feeling in the mind that represents the creation of alpha waves, and I deliberatelysought that mild state. This time I failed, and I merely sat in the car, staring alternately at the road, the long green field of corn to my right, and the shell of the schoolhouse. I began to hear the buzz of a motorcycle, and soon I saw it flying down the road toward me, growing in size from the dimensions of a horsefly to the point where I could see the black-jacketed, helmeted rider and the blond passenger behind him, her hair whipping out in the wake and her thick thighs