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Deacon follows the short hallway back to the pay phones. A quarter just to get a dial tone, and then he punches 411 and tells the operator he needs to place a collect call to Detective Vincent Hammond, Atlanta PD, Homicide Division, so she transfers him to an Atlanta operator. A long moment of clicks and static across the line, and Deacon waits and watches the towering, gold-framed portrait of George Washington hung on the wall opposite the hallway’s entrance. Washington stares back with his ancient oil-paint eyes that are neither kind nor cruel, the unflinching face of authority and history, and after just a few seconds of that Deacon looks down at the scuffed toes of his shoes, instead.
    “Is anyone there?” Deacon asks the phone, and “Just one moment, please, sir,” the Atlanta operator says impatiently, and then a phone begins to ring at the other end.
    “This is Hammond,” the man who answers the phone says in a smoky, tired voice, gravel voice, and just hearing him again, Deacon can smell the menthol Kools that dangle perpetually from Vince Hammond’s thin lips.
    “You did this,” Deacon says. “You’re the one that told them where to find me.”
    A pause and “Deke?” the cop asks, trying to sound confused or surprised, but Deacon knows it’s just an act. “Hey, bubba, is that really you? Goddamn. I haven’t heard from you in a coon’s age.”
    “Don’t ‘hey, bubba’ me, you sonofabitch. You did it, didn’t you? You fucking knew I didn’t want any more of this crazy shit in my life, and you did it anyway.”
    “Yeah, well, let’s just say I owed someone a favor.”
    Deacon wipes at his face, at flop sweat and the pain piling up higher and higher behind his eyes. Really no point in any of this, the call to Hammond, the accusations and anger, because the damage is done now, and there’s no undoing it.
    “Just calm down, bubba. You guys have a bad one over there. They needed some help.”
    Deacon takes a deep breath, holds it, and glances back at George Washington; serene, certain George in his just-aucorps and white wig, and Deacon exhales very slowly.
    “I’m married, man,” he says. “I have a pregnant wife. I’m doing everything I can to stay sober. I can’t have this sort of shit in my life anymore.”
    “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that. Congratula—”
    “You could have fucking asked. You could have called me first and asked.”
    “And you would’a told me to fuck off, right? Look, I just thought maybe you could help those boys out down there, that’s all. This one’s something special, Deke, something bad .”
    “Yeah, and that’s exactly why it’s not my goddamn problem.”
    “Good to know you’re still the same philanthropic soul I remember from the old days.”
    “Fuck you, Hammond,” Deke growls into the receiver, raising his voice, and a passing librarian scowls at him.
    “Just don’t do it again, okay? Don’t ever do it again, do you understand me?”
    “You have a gift, Deke—”
    “I have a wife ,” and he hangs up and stands glaring at the phone, waiting for his heart to stop racing, for the fury to drain away and leave him with nothing worse than the headache and his thirst.

CHAPTER TWO
Deep Time
    A lice Sprinkle’s old Toyota pickup bounces over a rut in the interstate pavement, and Chance moans and opens her eyes. She’s been trying to doze since they left Birmingham, catch some shut-eye while Alice drives, but it’s impossible to get comfortable in the cramped cab of the truck, and she’s tired of trying. Tired of staring at the insides of her eyelids, the bright sunlight shining through her flesh, and, besides, she has to piss again.
    “Better stop at the next exit,” she says, and Alice sighs and nods her head.
    “Wouldn’t you rather wait until the rest stop? We’re almost to the state line.”
    “I can try,” Chance grumbles, shifting in her tiny bucket seat, trying to find any position that’ll make her back ache just a little