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“And point of interest: when law enforcement asks you a question, we generally already know the answer.”
Bill looked a little unnerved. “You’re not going to drive it back for me?” “Wasn’t planning on it. Anyway, you’re going to need the practice.” “What if I run over somebody?” “You’ll hardly feel it.”
It was a velvety evening in the Black Hills, and the slight breeze carried the scent of the pines and the clear high-country air—or maybe it was the lumberyard on the other side of the river.
Sometimes it was like that, I suppose; some people become so important in your life that they’re almost like a trademark, but then they’re gone. Sometimes they might reappear, but they’re nothing at all like what you’ve assembled in your mind since their departure; sometimes you can’t even stand them anymore, because they break up the legend and nothing dies harder than a good, personal legend.
There’s something profoundly sad in the striking down of a young person in his prime, an injustice that offends beyond all others. I’ve had numerous engagements with the Reaper, but it’s outside the lines when he takes the young—just plain cheating.
He shook his head at her. “Boy, if you want to know how to break a law, ask a cop.”
She stopped and, shaking her head, studied me. “I am consistently stunned by the shit in your head.”
“One of the disadvantages of operating in the contemporary American West is that not all the bad guys have handlebar mustaches.”
She reached overhead to a console and a button that read AUDIO and flipped the switch. “Wonder what this does?” Her voice echoed off the building in front of us as the PA system projected her words over the valley. “Oh shit. . . .” Which also carried through town. I reached up and flipped the toggle switch. “I don’t think that’s it.” I looked at the dash again. “How about I just stick the thing in and see what lights up?” “Always been my method of operation.”
