least she hadn’t bought the crotchless panties Ronnie wanted her to wear.
By the time Jackson stopped at a service station and Katy awakened, it was after midnight. They both got a coffee-to-go, and then Katy offered to drive.
“I’m fine,” Jackson said, “but unless you want to sleep, you could tell me about hunting lions and tigers.”
“As I understand it, I’ll be briefing the State Police hunters in –” she looked at her watch “– something like six hours, so you’ll hear most of it again.”
Jackson cracked a grin. “Hearing it twice probably won’t hurt me.”
For the next thirty minutes Katy told him about tracking and hunting big cats. Jackson interrupted her often to ask questions, and when they finally fell silent, she said, “So what do you think?”
“I think finding and killing the lions and tigers won’t be as easy as people imagine.”
“It never is.” Katy looked out the window and saw the green and white sign that indicated they were twenty miles from Pocatello. “I need to stop in Pocatello.”
“Stop? Where? Kind of late to pay a visit.”
“Not to this guy.” Katy turned on the map light and read off an address and asked if Jackson knew it.
“The university district,” he said. “I can find it.”
“It’s a house. Belongs to a gun dealer.”
Jackson glanced at her curiously.
“I can’t go lion hunting without rifles. This gun dealer said he’d provide what I need if I stopped by tonight. He’s actually a friend of someone I know in Colorado, a man who runs an animal rescue operation.”
“An animal rescue guy that’s friends with a gun dealer that’s helping a safari guide. Did hell freeze over?”
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s an American luxury, seeing the world as left or right, good or bad, hunters or preservers,” Katy said. “In Africa the lines are fuzzier.” She watched him as she spoke. “Take you for instance. You’re a policeman. But does that mean you never do harm?”
Jackson kept his eyes on the road. Katy didn’t see the sadness deep inside them. “Aren’t you half-American?”
“American mother, British father. I was born in England, but I lived a lot of places growing up, including Africa and the States. My dad worked for the World Bank.”
“Guess that explains the tiny accent.”
“What accent?” she said with a laugh as she watched his profile in the dashboard lights. Jackson’s face was not classically handsome, but she liked the combination of rugged and sensitive. He had a burn scar on the side of his neck. It didn’t look to be more than a few years old.
“House fire,” Jackson said once he noticed her looking at the scar.
Katy waited for him to say more. Most people felt a need to annotate, to explain, as if they owed the world a reason for their imperfections. Jackson silently returned to watching the road ahead. Katy repeated the question from before that remained unanswered. “So do you?” Katy asked. “As a policeman, do you ever cause harm?”
Jackson knew Iris would say yes. Eileen Stevens too. Nancy Larson certainly would say yes, if she weren’t dead. “Nobody walks through life without leaving a footprint,” Jackson said. “Not even if we want to.”
Thirteen
“This is it,” Jackson said as he stopped behind a white Mercedes SUV parked outside an immaculate 1930s’ Craftsman bungalow. Katy knocked, and a man wearing pajamas under a bathrobe made from loud beach towels opened the door. Ollie Hamm was six-two and twice as wide as a normal man. When Katy shook hands, it felt like she was gripping sausages. Hamm was cordial despite the hour, but after Jackson answered his questions about the escaped cats without adding commentary, Hamm soon got down to business.
Ten minutes later, in the glow of bright outside lights, Jackson and Katy loaded two gun cases into Jackson’s Grand Cherokee. One rifle Katy identified as a .375. “It’s the one I use in Africa unless I’m culling
By the time Jackson stopped at a service station and Katy awakened, it was after midnight. They both got a coffee-to-go, and then Katy offered to drive.
“I’m fine,” Jackson said, “but unless you want to sleep, you could tell me about hunting lions and tigers.”
“As I understand it, I’ll be briefing the State Police hunters in –” she looked at her watch “– something like six hours, so you’ll hear most of it again.”
Jackson cracked a grin. “Hearing it twice probably won’t hurt me.”
For the next thirty minutes Katy told him about tracking and hunting big cats. Jackson interrupted her often to ask questions, and when they finally fell silent, she said, “So what do you think?”
“I think finding and killing the lions and tigers won’t be as easy as people imagine.”
“It never is.” Katy looked out the window and saw the green and white sign that indicated they were twenty miles from Pocatello. “I need to stop in Pocatello.”
“Stop? Where? Kind of late to pay a visit.”
“Not to this guy.” Katy turned on the map light and read off an address and asked if Jackson knew it.
“The university district,” he said. “I can find it.”
“It’s a house. Belongs to a gun dealer.”
Jackson glanced at her curiously.
“I can’t go lion hunting without rifles. This gun dealer said he’d provide what I need if I stopped by tonight. He’s actually a friend of someone I know in Colorado, a man who runs an animal rescue operation.”
“An animal rescue guy that’s friends with a gun dealer that’s helping a safari guide. Did hell freeze over?”
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s an American luxury, seeing the world as left or right, good or bad, hunters or preservers,” Katy said. “In Africa the lines are fuzzier.” She watched him as she spoke. “Take you for instance. You’re a policeman. But does that mean you never do harm?”
Jackson kept his eyes on the road. Katy didn’t see the sadness deep inside them. “Aren’t you half-American?”
“American mother, British father. I was born in England, but I lived a lot of places growing up, including Africa and the States. My dad worked for the World Bank.”
“Guess that explains the tiny accent.”
“What accent?” she said with a laugh as she watched his profile in the dashboard lights. Jackson’s face was not classically handsome, but she liked the combination of rugged and sensitive. He had a burn scar on the side of his neck. It didn’t look to be more than a few years old.
“House fire,” Jackson said once he noticed her looking at the scar.
Katy waited for him to say more. Most people felt a need to annotate, to explain, as if they owed the world a reason for their imperfections. Jackson silently returned to watching the road ahead. Katy repeated the question from before that remained unanswered. “So do you?” Katy asked. “As a policeman, do you ever cause harm?”
Jackson knew Iris would say yes. Eileen Stevens too. Nancy Larson certainly would say yes, if she weren’t dead. “Nobody walks through life without leaving a footprint,” Jackson said. “Not even if we want to.”
Thirteen
“This is it,” Jackson said as he stopped behind a white Mercedes SUV parked outside an immaculate 1930s’ Craftsman bungalow. Katy knocked, and a man wearing pajamas under a bathrobe made from loud beach towels opened the door. Ollie Hamm was six-two and twice as wide as a normal man. When Katy shook hands, it felt like she was gripping sausages. Hamm was cordial despite the hour, but after Jackson answered his questions about the escaped cats without adding commentary, Hamm soon got down to business.
Ten minutes later, in the glow of bright outside lights, Jackson and Katy loaded two gun cases into Jackson’s Grand Cherokee. One rifle Katy identified as a .375. “It’s the one I use in Africa unless I’m culling
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