the bike in Pensacola, Florida and ridden it across country. That had been the best week of his life. Pearl black with chrome wheels, the Harley-Davidson had been a pussy magnet from day one, which he knew made it even stranger that he was on his way to see a woman who rode a wheelchair instead of a motorcycle.
After Maryann Fedder’s accident, her dad had installed a separate door with a ramp that led directly into her ground floor bedroom. The door would be unlocked now and Maryann in bed watching television or reading. At first Ronnie was simply curious about sleeping with a crippled woman. Then he discovered that he truly liked Maryann, and he kept returning to see her. Now he was the backdoor man. The thought made Ronnie laugh. Backdoor man! He wondered if Maryann had done it that way before? Maybe tonight!
Jackson studied a photo of Katy while he waited in the baggage claim area. This late at night there were few other people. After a while he laid the photo on the seatbeside him. He stretched his legs, clasped his hands behind his head, and stared up at the ceiling.
To be a policeman, he thought, was to spend each day pushing a boulder up hill knowing that it will naturally roll down again. Although his job was to maintain order, disorder was inherent in life. It simply was a matter of whether we created it or whether disorder found us. There was both rape and Katrina. There was murder, and there was 9/11. There was assault with intent, and there was whatever you call a monster cat that kills a dying man looking to fly-fish his way into that gentle night. His real job, Jackson decided, was to maintain a myth of order.
When he heard the announcement for the arrival of the flight from Denver, Jackson got up and went to the men’s room. As he came out he nearly ran over a young woman pushing a wobbly baby stroller. A wheel was bad, and he offered to look at it. The woman wore the old-fashioned long dress of the conservative Mormon sects clustered in southern Utah. She stammered a shy “thank you” but declined his help. He watched her leave, struggling with the stroller. She reminded him of the few traditional Muslim women he had seen in Colorado, the invisibly caged.
Jackson took out Katy’s photograph again, but he didn’t need it to recognize her. Katy was smaller than heexpected and thin too but without looking starved. She moved with the grace of someone who had learned posture by walking with a book on her head. Although most of the other women wore clothes designed for a gym instead of an airport, Katy was dressed in a loose pants and jacket outfit and nice shoes suitable for traveling. She wheeled a sage green carry-on with a computer bag riding piggyback. The strap of a small purse angled across her body, emphasizing her breasts. She spotted him now and smiled.
“Miss Osborne,” he said, going up to her.
“Katy,” she told him and smiled again.
They shook hands. “I’m Jackson Hobbs.”
“I know,” she said. “From the TV, remember?” Jackson forgot that he was still holding Katy’s photograph until she took it out of his left hand. In the photograph she was on safari and carrying a large caliber rifle. “I tend not to travel with my elephant culling gun,” she said. “I hope you’re not disappointed.”
“Not too much,” he said. “We waiting for luggage?”
“I’m afraid so. I’ve been on the road over a month.”
They continued to make small talk while they waited for Katy’s luggage to arrive, and when it did Jackson lifted a large Briggs & Riley roller bag off the conveyor.
Twenty minutes later they were in the Jeep and leaving the Salt Lake City airport. They drove north on Interstate 15 toward Pocatello, some two and a half hours away.
As soon as they settled into the drive, Katy asked Jackson questions about Safari Land. He told her some of what Angie had dug up on Ted and Dolly Cheney and then said, “They were living in Buckhorn when I arrived, five years ago.
After Maryann Fedder’s accident, her dad had installed a separate door with a ramp that led directly into her ground floor bedroom. The door would be unlocked now and Maryann in bed watching television or reading. At first Ronnie was simply curious about sleeping with a crippled woman. Then he discovered that he truly liked Maryann, and he kept returning to see her. Now he was the backdoor man. The thought made Ronnie laugh. Backdoor man! He wondered if Maryann had done it that way before? Maybe tonight!
Jackson studied a photo of Katy while he waited in the baggage claim area. This late at night there were few other people. After a while he laid the photo on the seatbeside him. He stretched his legs, clasped his hands behind his head, and stared up at the ceiling.
To be a policeman, he thought, was to spend each day pushing a boulder up hill knowing that it will naturally roll down again. Although his job was to maintain order, disorder was inherent in life. It simply was a matter of whether we created it or whether disorder found us. There was both rape and Katrina. There was murder, and there was 9/11. There was assault with intent, and there was whatever you call a monster cat that kills a dying man looking to fly-fish his way into that gentle night. His real job, Jackson decided, was to maintain a myth of order.
When he heard the announcement for the arrival of the flight from Denver, Jackson got up and went to the men’s room. As he came out he nearly ran over a young woman pushing a wobbly baby stroller. A wheel was bad, and he offered to look at it. The woman wore the old-fashioned long dress of the conservative Mormon sects clustered in southern Utah. She stammered a shy “thank you” but declined his help. He watched her leave, struggling with the stroller. She reminded him of the few traditional Muslim women he had seen in Colorado, the invisibly caged.
Jackson took out Katy’s photograph again, but he didn’t need it to recognize her. Katy was smaller than heexpected and thin too but without looking starved. She moved with the grace of someone who had learned posture by walking with a book on her head. Although most of the other women wore clothes designed for a gym instead of an airport, Katy was dressed in a loose pants and jacket outfit and nice shoes suitable for traveling. She wheeled a sage green carry-on with a computer bag riding piggyback. The strap of a small purse angled across her body, emphasizing her breasts. She spotted him now and smiled.
“Miss Osborne,” he said, going up to her.
“Katy,” she told him and smiled again.
They shook hands. “I’m Jackson Hobbs.”
“I know,” she said. “From the TV, remember?” Jackson forgot that he was still holding Katy’s photograph until she took it out of his left hand. In the photograph she was on safari and carrying a large caliber rifle. “I tend not to travel with my elephant culling gun,” she said. “I hope you’re not disappointed.”
“Not too much,” he said. “We waiting for luggage?”
“I’m afraid so. I’ve been on the road over a month.”
They continued to make small talk while they waited for Katy’s luggage to arrive, and when it did Jackson lifted a large Briggs & Riley roller bag off the conveyor.
Twenty minutes later they were in the Jeep and leaving the Salt Lake City airport. They drove north on Interstate 15 toward Pocatello, some two and a half hours away.
As soon as they settled into the drive, Katy asked Jackson questions about Safari Land. He told her some of what Angie had dug up on Ted and Dolly Cheney and then said, “They were living in Buckhorn when I arrived, five years ago.
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