Badwater by Clinton McKinzie Page B

someone, probably the missus, didn’t want all the crap in front of the house. There it would ruin what was an impressive view of high, rolling plains leading up to the peaks.
    She met us on the porch. Tall and powerfully built, she resembled Cody’s father, and this, along with the different last names, led me to assume that the familial connection went through her. She wore a clean white uniform. It turned out that she was a nurse in Badwater’s emergency clinic.
    “I was there when they brought him in,” she told me, shaking her head sadly. “He looked so tiny I almost didn’t recognize him. We worked on him for almost an hour and did everything we could think of. But he’d been under for too long.”
    I bowed my head, feeling again that maybe I’d really screwed up by chickening out on that first dive. Maybe a single minute would have made a difference.
    “Our boys told us what you did. I want to thank you for going into that river after my nephew. For trying to resuscitate him, too.”
    “Thanks,” I mumbled. “I wish I’d gotten there sooner.”
    She turned to her husband. “Make sure the boys don’t give this young man any guff.” Then she marched out to her car to start her shift.
    I was sorry to see her go. Her forthright, appreciative manner contrasted with what I already knew of her husband and at least his younger sons.
    Ed Mann silently escorted me upstairs. He hadn’t yet spoken but a few words to me. Randall and Trey were waiting in a shared bedroom. It was a disaster—what you’d expect of kids their age—but not particularly dirty. The only offensive things about the surroundings were the posters on the walls and the related music that was playing too loud.
    I was familiar with it, although I’d rather not have been. The group was called the Insane Clown Posse. White guys dressed up in leather, spikes, and clown makeup like Kiss, but playing shock rap-metal, singing about graphic violence in terms full of expletives. Their music had been pulled from one Wyoming store, and a school district banned their apparel, after a few concerned parents connected it with an uptick in teen shootings and suicide. This, of course, only added to that band’s luster among the tasteless kids who were really only looking for a way to jerk around their parents.
    “This is the fellow who wants to talk to you about what happened yesterday,” their dad said. He pointed to the larger boy—“That’s Randy”—then to the smaller one—“That’s Trey.”
    I walked uncertainly into the room, feeling out of place in my suit and tie. And I suddenly felt old. I had nothing in common with these sullen kids and their shitty music. A trained and experienced undercover investigator, I’d always assumed I could get along with anyone, from any segment of society. I’d always been athletic, smart, and cool. But I could tell there was nothing I could do that would impress these two.
    “I was at the river yesterday, too,” I said. “I need to hear from you two what happened before your cousin fell into the river.”
    “He didn’t fall,” Trey said. “He was pushed.”
    “You’re the guy who told the cops to shoot us,” Randy said.
    I sighed and looked at Ed Mann before addressing his kids.
    “I didn’t mean for him to really shoot you. All I wanted was for you guys to stop interfering with my attempts to do CPR on Cody. I’m sorry I phrased it that way—I didn’t mean it literally. And I’m really sorry about what happened to your cousin.”
    Neither of them replied. Both boys were glaring at me with more than the usual teenage hostility. Randy, the big one, was older and fatter than his brother. In fact, he was probably heavier than his dad. I knew he was fourteen years old, but he looked even older than that. He had a spiky flattop hairdo but wore it long in back, a country style known as a mullet or the Missouri Compromise. He wore a T-shirt and a pair of saggies big enough for a cow. Trey was