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they touched, they were the Crows, named for their mothers’ father, Dick Crow.
    Later in life, a medicine man gave them Dakota first names. The names were impossible to translate. Some Dakota argued for Light Crow and Dark Crow. Others said Sun Crow and Moon Crow. Still others claimed the only reasonable translation was Spiritual Crow and Practical Crow. But the cousins called themselves Aaron and Sam. If some Dakota and white-wannabees thought the names were not impressive enough, that was their lookout.
    The tall Crow was Aaron, the spiritual man. The short Crow was Sam, the practical one. In the back of their pickup, Aaron carried an army footlocker full of herbs and barks. In the cab, Sam carried two .45s, a Louisville Slugger and a money belt. They considered themselves one person in two bodies, each body containing a single aspect. It had been that way since 1932, when the daughters of Dick Crow and their two small sons had huddled together in a canvas lean-to for four months, near starving, near freezing, fighting to stay alive. From December through March, the cousins had lived in a cardboard box full of ripped-up woolen army blankets. The four months had welded their two personalities into one. They had been inseparable for nearly sixty years, except for a time that Aaron had spent in federal prison.
    “I wish we would hear from Billy,” said Sam Crow.
    “We know he’s there,” Aaron Crow said quietly.
    “But what’s he doing? Three days now, and nothing.”
    “You worry that he’s gone back to drinking. You shouldn’t, ’cause he hasn’t.”
    “How do you know?”
    “I know.”
    Sam nodded. When his cousin said he knew, he knew. “I’m worried about what’ll happen when he goes for the hit. The New York cops are good on a thing like this.”
    “Trust Billy,” said Aaron. Aaron was thin, but not frail: wiry, hard, like beef jerky. He had a hundred hard planes in his face, surrounding a high-ridged nose. His eyes were like black marbles. “He’s a smart one. He’ll do right.”
    “I hope so. If he’s caught right away, the television coverage will come and go too fast.” Sam had a broad face, with smile lines around a wide, soft chin. His hair was salt-and-pepper, his eyes deep and thoughtful. He had a belly, which bore down on a wide belt with a turquoise buckle.
    “Not if Leo moves. He should be in Oklahoma City tomorrow, if his car holds out,” said Aaron. “If the two . . . attacks . . . come right on top of each other, the TV’ll go nuts. And the letters are ready.”
    Sam paced down to the water’s edge, watched it for a moment, then turned and spoke back up the sand spit.
    “I still think the first two were a mistake. We wasted Bluebird, doing that second one. Those killings won’t have the impact we need . . . .”
    “We needed some low-risk attacks to start . . . .”
    “Wasn’t low-risk for Bluebird . . .”
    “We knew he might have a problem . . . but we had to set a tone. We had to make it a war. We can’t just have a couple of assassinations. We have to make the media think . . . War. We have to pump this motherfucker up. It has to be big, if we want to get . . .”
    “The Great Satan,” Sam snorted. “It’ll be for nothing if we can’t get him out here.”
    “It wouldn’t be for nothing—the ones we’ve already taken are bad enough. But he’ll come,” Aaron said confidently. “We know he comes out here. We know why. We know where. And we can get at him.”
    “No,” said Sam. “We know he used to come here. Butmaybe no more. He’s got the media watching. He wants to be president . . . . He’s careful . . . .”
    “But once he’s here, he won’t stay away. Not with the monkey he’s got on his back.”
    “Maybe,” said Sam. He thrust his hands into his pockets. “I still think the first two were bullshit killings.”
    “You’re wrong,” Aaron said flatly.
    Sam stared out at the water. “I don’t want to