Badlands by C. J. Box Page B

that shows up on the periphery. We’ve always got to remember they’re here to prey on the good people who were here before the boom and the new folks who are living the dream. Our job is to protect the good folks and make sure the bad guys get punished. Simple as that.”
    He sighed. “It used to be that if I ran across Ole the farmer out driving drunk after a big night of whiskey drinking and polka dancing, I’d follow him home to make sure he was okay and he didn’t hurt anyone else. Maybe give him a stern warning or something. We can’t do that kind of thing anymore. Ole has sold out and moved to Arizona, and the drunk driver may be some Idahole with a bad attitude and a pistol on his front seat. There’s no such thing as North Dakota nice anymore,” he said wistfully.
    â€œAnd when I was talking about the stress of living here, I wasn’t kidding. We’ve always had drugs and we’ve always had fights. But the types of calls are just more traumatic now. Bar fights are more vicious. Domestic violence calls are more bloody. Bad actors from other parts of the country bring their lack of manners with them. Once in a while the crews from the different oil field outfits get in big fights with each other. It’s something out of a Western movie. Think cowboys versus sheepmen or sailors versus marines—that kind of thing. They ride for the brand.
    â€œThe drugs of choice have gotten worse also. It used to be weed and blow. Now it’s meth and heroin, both the black tar and white powder versions.”
    Cassie said, “You said there was a lot of stress. Does that come from money, or change, or what?”
    â€œMy theory is there’s a lot of mourning going on beneath the surface and it builds up until they lash out. The locals are mourning what they had, and the newcomers are mourning what they lost when they moved here.”
    Cassie sat back and looked at him. She said, “That’s profound. What keeps you here?”
    He grinned ruefully. “You mean because I’m obviously so damned old I could retire?”
    â€œI didn’t say that exactly. Remember, you said I was getting old myself a while back.”
    â€œI think I’ll be hearing about that for a while,” he said with a wink. “Just don’t tell my wife.”
    â€œI won’t. So what keeps you here?”
    He merged into the heavy traffic for the slow ride back into downtown Grimstad. “My horses, for one,” he said. “I used to ride ’em in team penning events. Now they’re too old to win me any money and I’m too old to ride ’em. So I keep ’em fed and doctored, and maybe we’ll time it right so we’ll all ride off into the sunset together.”
    He paused. “And I guess I just feel like I need to see this thing through. I was here when it started and I want to try to make sure the good guys win in the end.”
    Then: “You hungry?”
    â€œStarved.”
    *   *   *
    EN ROUTE to the Wagon Wheel, Kirkbride continued to play tour guide by offering anecdotes on places they passed.
    The mega Walmart parking lot was packed with cars as if it were the day after Thanksgiving. “Up until a few months ago, they didn’t even bother stocking the shelves because they couldn’t keep up. They’d just bring pallets of stuff in and stack ’em in the aisles. There’s actual merchandise on the shelves now, so I guess we’re gaining a little ground.
    â€œLast year, a garbage truck in the alley started lifting up a Dumpster when a guy jumped out who’d been sleeping inside on old mattresses. The guy started screaming and luckily the driver heard him. Last time I saw him he was working at Walmart.”
    At the Amtrak station, he said, “Every single day the train stops and a few men get off. Some of ’em don’t even have coats. Saddest sight you’ll ever