older guy that Scottie played music with named Dale Fulbright. They were sitting on the curb on Marshall Avenue directly across the street from a mom-and-pop convenience storeâitâs not even there anymore. Bobby said, âHi, guys. Whatâs going on?â Scottie said, âNothing.â Fulbright said, âLeave us alone.â So Bobby continued on to Burger Chef, bought a cherry cola, and sat in a corner booth waiting for me. I drove up a few minutes later in my fatherâs car. âWhat do you want to do?â âI donât know, what do you want to do?â That was pretty much how we began all of our conversations back then. I saw Scottie and Fulbright on the curb, and I asked what that was all about. Bobby said, âWho knows?â We drove off. I donât remember where we went. It must not have been much fun, though, because we returned about an hour later to find cops all over the place, especially in front of the store. We wandered over, asked what was going on. We were told that a couple of guys armed with a .45 just robbed the place. A plainclothes cop asked, âDid you see anyone hanging around the store?â Bobby answered, âI saw Scottie Thomforde and Dale Fulbright sitting on the curb about an hour ago.â The cops drove to Scottieâs house and knocked on the door. Mrs. Thomforde answered. The cops said, âWe would like to speak with your son.â That was all it took. Scottie broke down, started crying, said he was sorry, said he had never done anything like that before, said it was all Fulbrightâs fault and asked to be forgiven. Fulbright, on the other handâno one ever confused him with a scholarâanswered his door with the .45 in his hand. He shot a cop. The cops shot him. They killed him. The cop he shot had only a flesh wound, but now everyone was angry and they couldnât take it out on Fulbright. So even though Scottie was two months shy of his eighteenth birthday, had no previous record, and had nothing to do with the shooting, the county attorney went for the max, aggravated robbery in the first, forty-eight months. Scottie served thirty-two. Ruined his life. Scottie blamedâ
âLieutenant Dunston,â Honsa said.
âIt never occurred to me that I was ratting out a friend,â Bobby said. âNever entered my mind.â
âItâs what got us thinking about becoming cops,â I said.
âYou said Thomforde served thirty-two months,â Honsa reminded me. âYes. Except that was just the beginning. Heâs been in and out of prison ever since.â
âWhy now? Why wait all these years to get revenge on Lieutenant Dunston?â
âI donât know.â
âWhy is he angry at you?â
âUp until now, I didnât know he was.â
âMcKenzie did him a favor once,â Bobby said. âBefore that first jolt in Stillwater, Scottie got into trouble and McKenzie helped him out.â
âSomething changed,â Honsa said.
âSomething,â I said.
âI have his record,â the tech agent said. All this time he had been working his laptop and I hadnât noticed.
Honsa peered at the computer screen. âLast crimeâhe did a short stretch in Stillwater for check forgery, been out for about six months, released to a halfway houseâ¦â Honsaâs head came up from the laptop and fixed me with his eyes. His reassuring smile had been replaced with something hard. âItâs in the Badlands.â
âLetâs go get him,â Bobby said. He had his Glock out of its holster, and he was checking the load.
âGo where?â Harry said. âI doubt heâs calling from the halfway houseââ
âLetâs go,â Bobby insisted.
âDonât even think about it,â Honsa said.
âIâm going to get my daughter back.â
âYouâre not leaving this house.â
âDonât try to