The Devil's Bag Man by Adam Mansbach Page A

ever was one, but who the fuck was Nichols going to send in his stead?
    And besides, it was a little late to play anything by the book where Jess Galvan was concerned.
    Nichols wasn’t proud of it, but he felt calm and strong right now, like he owned the moment. A crime scene always did that: you spun yellow tape around it, cordoned it, gave it parameters. And then you went to work. You brought logic to bear, you comforted survivors, questioned witnesses and imposed order on chaos, stabilized the world right before the eyes of the traumatized. You made them feel that whatever horrible thing had just happened, it was only an aberration. A blip. A tiny blemish on the smooth skin of civilization.
    Sometimes you made yourself believe it, too.
    Nichols was pretty goddamn sure this wasn’t one of those times.
    The car crested the hilltop, and there was Sherry, caught in the high beams, turning toward him, her face tear streaked, hugging herself for comfort or warmth. She ran toward him without uncrossing her arms, and Nichols cut the engine, stepped out just in time to enfold her against his chest.
    Sherry’s sobs were huge, convulsive.
    â€œIt’s okay,” he murmured, splaying a hand across her back and rubbing. “It’s all right.”
    The things we say for no damn reason at all .
    He shut his trap and let the sadness run its course. Everybody stopped crying eventually, and if you tried to rush them through, the tears just welled back up, interrupted the conversation you’d been so impatient to have.
    It took Sherry a couple of minutes to compose herself. That wasn’t much bounce-back time; the bar on tragedy had been set pretty fucking high for the poor girl. She stepped away, wiped her face with her palms, and blinked up at him, expectant.
    â€œYou cold?” Nichols asked. “You wanna warm up in the car, while I have a look around?”
    She shook her head, crossed her arms again, gave an involuntary shudder. “I’m okay.”
    He reached into the backseat and handed her his jacket. She slipped into it, the size of the thing transforming her instantly into a little girl.
    â€œLook,” he said, leaning back against the driver’s door. “I’m not here to judge you. I’m here to help. This is Nichols the sheriff, not Nichols the guy sitting around watching baseball in his bathrobe, okay?”
    That got the grudging tick of a smile he’d been hoping for.
    â€œOkay. So. Who was he, and how long had you been seeing him?”
    And why didn’t you tell us?
    Sherry sniffled, swallowed, gazed off into the darkness.
    â€œNot long. His name was Alex.”
    â€œAnd he was from here? He went to your school?”
    She shook her head. “He was from all over.” She looked him in the eye. “He was nineteen. Just passing through. And now—”
    Her voice caught in her throat, and Sherry shook her head. Covered her mouth with both hands to trap the sob.
    â€œWalk me through it again,” Nichols said after a moment. “When you’re ready. Everything that happened. You were in the car . . .”
    But Sherry was staring off now, in the direction of the cliff, the wreckage down below. Nichols had glimpsed it on a switchback—not close, but close enough to know it was gruesome.
    â€œHe’s still in there,” she said, the tears leaking with the words. “Shouldn’t you— I mean, what if—”
    â€œWe’ll get to that,” Nichols assured her. “My backup is on the way. Right now, I need to understand what happened. Why your father . . . did what you say he did.”
    â€œI don’t know.” She shook her head, slowly at first, then faster and faster. “We were just sitting in the car, watching the sun set. And then out of nowhere, the window shattered, and there’s my— there’s Galvan. He must’ve followed me from work.”
    â€œAnd how did he