They’re all classified as still under investigation, although they read like accidents. Just like ours.”
“Four?”
Larry nodded. “Of course, we won’t know until—”
Cody said, “Justin is on that trip.”
Larry rubbed his eyes. “Oh no, man.”
“You need to move your rig,” Cody said. “I need to get the hell out of here to Bozeman.”
Larry sighed and his shoulders slumped.
“Larry, move your truck.”
* * *
Cody roared down down U.S. 287 toward Townsend, the flat south end of Canyon Ferry Lake shimmering with moonlight. The night was warm and he kept his windows open so the rush of air would keep him awake. Synapses in his brain seemed to be firing with the crackling machine-gun rhythm of a spark plug. He shot by the sleeping ranch houses and barns, past the faded wooden archway to the ranch his friend Jack McGuane’s parents still ran.
The sight of the ranch brought back a flood of memories both painful and euphoric. A year and a half before, he’d laid it all out there for his friends Jack and Melissa McGuane. In the end he’d lost his boyhood friend Brian Eastman, gutted his own reputation, and lost his stripes in the Denver PD, but it all still felt right to him. Even with the high body count of scumbags, he’d gleefully do it all over again.
That was the thing, he thought. Throughout his life his friends, lovers, and colleagues wondered aloud what made him tick. As if he were like Churchill’s description of Russia, a “riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma,” when really it was so damned simple. So damned simple. Cody was born damaged. His Maker had flinched when soldering his hard wires together, and they would always short out or overheat at the wrong time. He could probably blame his white-trash family for his criminal tendencies and penchant for self-delusion and self-medication, but he didn’t believe in justifying bad behavior with that kind of touchy-feely crap. Cody was not good and he was incapable of being good, but that didn’t mean he didn’t recognize and revere goodness, and he’d do anything— anything —to protect those blessed with clean, unimpeded wiring. Like his friends the McGuanes, whom he’d helped. Like Hank Winters, whom he’d failed. Like Justin, his miracle son, whom he had to save.
* * *
He slowed through Townsend, glancing over his shoulder at a yelp that came from two drunks stumbling out of the Commercial Bar into the street. Thought maybe he might even know them, and smiled bitterly.
Two miles south of Townsend, the inside of the Ford exploded with red and blue light. He glanced into his rearview mirror and squinted at the intensity of the wig-wags on the light bar of the Highway Patrol car.
“Shit,” he hissed, noting he was only five miles over the speed limit.
Fuming, he pulled over. He reached for his badge which was no longer there and sat back and closed his eyes. He hoped like hell he knew the trooper and could manage to talk his way out of a ticket so he could get back on the highway as soon as possible. For a second he considered flooring the Ford once the trooper got out of his vehicle, but he knew that wouldn’t work for long. No doubt, his plates had already been called in, and there wouldn’t be a record of them.
He was caught, unless he could talk his way out of it and get the plate search canceled.
A flashlight blinded him through the driver’s window and he looked away.
The trooper, an unfamiliar beefy youngster who looked six months out of the training center, said, “You were aware you only have one operating headlight, mister?”
Cody said, “I’m an investigator for the sheriff’s department. I’m in a hurry.”
The trooper grinned, his teeth glinting in the secondary light of his flashlight’s reflection.
“Well, you’ll just have to show me a badge and get the sheriff on the horn,” the trooper said. “And in the meanwhile you can follow me back to town until we can
“Four?”
Larry nodded. “Of course, we won’t know until—”
Cody said, “Justin is on that trip.”
Larry rubbed his eyes. “Oh no, man.”
“You need to move your rig,” Cody said. “I need to get the hell out of here to Bozeman.”
Larry sighed and his shoulders slumped.
“Larry, move your truck.”
* * *
Cody roared down down U.S. 287 toward Townsend, the flat south end of Canyon Ferry Lake shimmering with moonlight. The night was warm and he kept his windows open so the rush of air would keep him awake. Synapses in his brain seemed to be firing with the crackling machine-gun rhythm of a spark plug. He shot by the sleeping ranch houses and barns, past the faded wooden archway to the ranch his friend Jack McGuane’s parents still ran.
The sight of the ranch brought back a flood of memories both painful and euphoric. A year and a half before, he’d laid it all out there for his friends Jack and Melissa McGuane. In the end he’d lost his boyhood friend Brian Eastman, gutted his own reputation, and lost his stripes in the Denver PD, but it all still felt right to him. Even with the high body count of scumbags, he’d gleefully do it all over again.
That was the thing, he thought. Throughout his life his friends, lovers, and colleagues wondered aloud what made him tick. As if he were like Churchill’s description of Russia, a “riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma,” when really it was so damned simple. So damned simple. Cody was born damaged. His Maker had flinched when soldering his hard wires together, and they would always short out or overheat at the wrong time. He could probably blame his white-trash family for his criminal tendencies and penchant for self-delusion and self-medication, but he didn’t believe in justifying bad behavior with that kind of touchy-feely crap. Cody was not good and he was incapable of being good, but that didn’t mean he didn’t recognize and revere goodness, and he’d do anything— anything —to protect those blessed with clean, unimpeded wiring. Like his friends the McGuanes, whom he’d helped. Like Hank Winters, whom he’d failed. Like Justin, his miracle son, whom he had to save.
* * *
He slowed through Townsend, glancing over his shoulder at a yelp that came from two drunks stumbling out of the Commercial Bar into the street. Thought maybe he might even know them, and smiled bitterly.
Two miles south of Townsend, the inside of the Ford exploded with red and blue light. He glanced into his rearview mirror and squinted at the intensity of the wig-wags on the light bar of the Highway Patrol car.
“Shit,” he hissed, noting he was only five miles over the speed limit.
Fuming, he pulled over. He reached for his badge which was no longer there and sat back and closed his eyes. He hoped like hell he knew the trooper and could manage to talk his way out of a ticket so he could get back on the highway as soon as possible. For a second he considered flooring the Ford once the trooper got out of his vehicle, but he knew that wouldn’t work for long. No doubt, his plates had already been called in, and there wouldn’t be a record of them.
He was caught, unless he could talk his way out of it and get the plate search canceled.
A flashlight blinded him through the driver’s window and he looked away.
The trooper, an unfamiliar beefy youngster who looked six months out of the training center, said, “You were aware you only have one operating headlight, mister?”
Cody said, “I’m an investigator for the sheriff’s department. I’m in a hurry.”
The trooper grinned, his teeth glinting in the secondary light of his flashlight’s reflection.
“Well, you’ll just have to show me a badge and get the sheriff on the horn,” the trooper said. “And in the meanwhile you can follow me back to town until we can
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