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pardon?”
    â€œThat’s the only reason anyone heads to Los Lobos. Either they’re going back to the reservation or they’re visiting someone at the prison. There sure as hell ain’t anything else out that way.”
    â€œI still want a ticket to Butter Junction.”
    The bus driver shrugged, pulling a receipt book out of his breast pocket. “It’s your money, kid. That’ll be thirty-five bucks.”
    The bus trip to Los Lobos made the ride from Little Rock to Tucson look like first class on the Concord. Jackrabbit Transportation, Inc. consisted of a decommissioned school bus painted blood red with a crudely cartooned rabbit wearing a cowboy hat on the side. There was no air conditioning, nor was there an onboard toilet.
    As the bus jolted its way along Highway 86, punishing his kidneys with each jounce, Skinner’s anticipation battled with his exhaustion and physical discomfort. He hoped that whatever information he turned up after all these years would be worth the trip. If not, he was going to be one unhappy camper.
    The bus held twenty or so passengers. He noticed that the wives, girl- friends and mothers of the prisoners all seemed to be wearing their best clothes and makeup. A couple of them had small children who whined and complained of being bored and uncomfortable on the hot, dusty bus. Skinner could sympathize.
    A hour out of Tucson the bus stopped at a wide spot in the road marked by a large metal sign pockmarked by motoring sharpshooters, that read: LOS LOBOS COUNTY CORRECTIONAL FACILITY : BEWARE OF HITCHHIKERS .
    A white minibus was parked in the shadow cast by the sign. There was a man dressed in a prison guard’s uniform and mirrored sunglasses seated behind the wheel. About a mile away—although it was hard to judge distance in the desert—Skinner saw white-washed concrete walls and metal fences. It didn’t look like a place he’d care to visit.
    The prison wives disembarked, taking their children with them. The bus started up again and lurched into gear. This time the talk taking place around him was in Spanish or an unrecognizable language he assumed to be Navajo. No one offered to bring him into a conversation, which was fine by him. Twenty minutes later the bus pulled into Butter Junction. Skinner was the only person to get off the bus.
    â€œRemember, if you plan on gettin’ back to Tucson today, you better be waitin’ here at six o’clock sharp, kid,” the bus driver told him as he levered the doors open. “I don’t make another run out this way until Tuesday—and this here’s Saturday.”
    Left standing in the dust kicked up by the bus’s passing, Skinner scanned the surrounding buildings of downtown Butter Junction. In many ways it was remarkably similar to Seven Devils. Half the storefronts were boarded over, while the other half were grimed with so much dust it all but obscured the array of dry goods and hardware on display. Main Street was a huge doublewide boulevard designed for horizontal parking. The handful of battered pickup trucks and jeeps occupying the spaces made the street look even twice as big and empty. No doubt, back before the railroad disappeared, the local farmers and Indian tribes had come to town in their buckboards to buy and sell their wares on the weekends. Skinner headed in the direction of a cafe across the street called Lulu’s.
    There are diners tucked away in isolated pockets of America that delight weary travelers with some of the finest downhome delicacies: platonic potato salad, apple pie to kill for, fried chicken of the gods. Lulu’s was not one of these, however.
    â€œWhatcha having?” grunted the burly Hispanic behind the counter. Skinner didn’t see anyone who might possibly be “Lulu” washing dishes or working the grill. “Today’s special’s chili.”
    â€œI’ll have that, then.”
    The cook shrugged and dipped a