twenty-nine

Tom Leighton was working his shift at the Irving service station when Gus Spooner came in, face white, his left hand still bandaged. “Did you hear what the fuck happened?”

Tom was rubbing the counter with a wet cloth. “No, what’s
going on?”

Gus looked around to make sure they were alone. “I don’t know the details, man, but some heavy shit went down at the Crowley house yesterday. Some gunplay, and later on, you know that van with the Quebec license plates that was here earlier? Well, it got drove off and there weren’t no Canadians driving it. Your uncle Dickie was driving it.”

Tom felt like he was going to shit his drawers. He took off his Irving jacket and tossed it in the corner. “That’s it, I’m quitting, I’m outta here.”

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Shit, don’t you see? All it’d take is somebody telling Duncan or Cameron that those Canadian guys were here yesterday, and man, it’ll take about one second for them to put it together. I’m getting the hell out of here.”

“Out of Turner?”

“Hell no,” Tom said, pushing past Gus. “I’m getting out of the state. Hell, maybe even New England. What do you think’s gonna happen to me or you when Duncan finds out those guys got directions from here? Remember when they bought some coffee and doughnuts, I gave them a receipt? Suppose that receipt is found in the van, hunh?”

Desperation was now in Gus’s voice. “Shit, I didn’t think about that. Look, please, can I come with you? Hunh? Just take me by my trailer so I can get some things.”

Tom hesitated, and then said, “Fine, shit, whatever.”

Outside they got into Tom’s Chevrolet T10 pickup truck, and he sped quickly to Turner Farms, a mobile-home park outside of town. As he drove he kept his head moving about, looking for a maroon Chevrolet Colorado or a dark green Honda Pilot, the Crowleys’ vehicles. He still felt like shitting himself. Tom pulled up to Gus’s mobile home and Gus scrambled out and said gratefully, “Tom, I’ll be right back. Thanks, bud.”

“Sure,” he said. He waited until Gus got into the light blue trailer and then he shifted his truck into reverse, roared out of the tiny driveway, and got the hell out of the park. He glanced up in his rearview mirror, saw Gus burst out of his trailer, run after him, waving and yelling.

To hell with it, Tom thought. Every man for himself when it came to going against the Crowleys.

He wondered if California would be far enough.

Prior to her early-afternoon drive to New Hampshire, Tanya Gibbs was in her office in the Federal building in Boston, when there was a hesitant tap-tap on the door, like some deranged woodpecker looking to find insects in a telephone pole instead of a tree trunk. Walter Dresden, once again exploring the outer limits of men’s fashion by staying with black shoes, black trousers, white shirt, and black necktie.

“Walter, I’d like to say it’s a pleasure to see you, but I’d be lying,” she said impatiently. “I need to leave here in three minutes. What is it?”

“Ah, that matter involving the … er, missing shipping container in Quebec. It seems there’s been a development … not earth-shattering, but a bit of information. It appears that there’s been a brief intelligence interception … no further data available … that the container will be crossing the United States border sometime tomorrow.”

She no longer cared that she had to leave in three minutes. “Really? How reliable is this information?”

“Fairly reliable,” he said, voice apologetic. “Came from the domestic Canadian Signals Intelligence Services … alas, they were unable to pinpoint the crossing point. It could be Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, or er, New York …”

Not very likely she thought. Not with Duncan Crowley’s name attached to that container. Only one place to come over, and that was New Hampshire, Duncan’s home turf. For place and time, she was relying on her rogue Coastie to pull through.

“And there’s no change in status? No raising of the Alert level or putting the Customs stations on standby?”

“No, nothing like that at all.”

“Walter, thank you very much.” She got up and gathered her soft leather carrying bag. “Feel free to go to the building cafeteria, buy yourself a cookie, and charge it to my expense account.”

In her government-issued Crown Victoria, she was heading out of the city with Henry Wolfe, her driver and bodyguard. Another lovely perk of the job was not having to navigate or worry about the paved meandering cow paths that were Boston roads. Sitting in the back like this, she let Henry worry about the stressed maniacs out there who thought green lights meant go like hell, red lights meant go even faster, and that yellow lights were for wimps. She, on the other hand, could review paperwork, strategize, and think things through. Street gangs could be outside her Crown Vic, tossing Molotov cocktails at each other, and with Henry at the wheel, she could give a crap what was going on outside.

When they finally made I-93, heading north to New Hampshire, she said, “What news of our independent contractor?”

“Our tracking devices show that not only has he been in the Turner area, we’ve also been able to narrow down a resident location,” Henry said, not referring to any notes or cheat sheets, talking clearly. “The home of Duncan Crowley. He’s been at that location for at least eight hours, according to the latest data dump. Plus you got a voicemail message from him last night. It appears the shipment will be arriving sometime tomorrow.”

“Really?” she asked, thrilled. “He said it was tomorrow?”

“Actually, when he made the call, he said it would be arriving in two days. Hence, tomorrow.”

I’ll be damned, she thought. Walter’s information from about ten minutes ago had just been confirmed. Two sources, then, that it was going to happen. She felt her heart race at the anticipation of what was going to happen next. Oh Emily, she thought, I’m going to do it this time. Going to do what others failed to do more than a decade ago.

“Did he say anything else?”

“He indicated that, quote, he was now in the employ of the Duncan Crowley criminal organization, and that he would contact you sometime today, unquote.”

“Wonderful.”

“But there’s one other thing. He also said that a Quebec biker gang was also interested in the shipment.”

“Canadian bikers? Gee, I’m really worried.” She laughed. “Henry, you work and work, and gamble and gamble, and sometimes, both the work and the gamble pay off. Damn. All right, when we get up to Manchester, drop me off at the Radisson at the Center of New Hampshire. You’ll be released for the rest of the day. Pick me up tomorrow at nine a.m. Any questions?”

Henry said, his head staring straight ahead, “Anything you need from me tonight, ma’am?”

She said, “Have as much fun as one can have in Manchester, Henry.”

Tanya looked out the window, smiling, arms crossed. Henry glanced up at the rearview mirror. “You seem quite pleased, ma’am.”

“I am,” she said. “You know your history?”

“Some.”

“The Pashtuns of Afghanistan have a saying that’s been picked up by everybody from the British to the Sicilians, that revenge is a dish best eaten cold.”

Henry said, “Who are you getting revenge on, ma’am? The ones behind the trailer coming in?”

“No,” she said, thinking again of the burning twin towers. “The ones letting it come through.”

Tanya was working on her third glass of wine, looking at her date sitting across from her at J.D. Tavern’s restaurant at the Center of New Hampshire, a large Radisson hotel in the middle of the state’s largest city. He was Carl Kenyon, a major in the New Hampshire State Police. On this night, he looked afraid of her, a feeling that should have been pleasing, but which instead she found depressing. She was sure that in most ways, the good major did a fine job for the State Police and its citizens, but tonight, she was going to use a weakness of his to get what she wanted.

Other times, other places, she would go through channels to get what was needed, but this wasn’t other times or places. Something bad was coming across the border, and she was going to use the man across from her to make sure it was stopped. A distant part of her was sickened and ashamed for what she was about to do, but it had to be done. There was no other way. That distant part … at night it would come out in full fury, sometimes making for some long, sleepless nights, internal discussions about the ends justifying the means … and at some point, just before the sun came up, she would finally fall asleep.

Tanya said, “Carl, it seems this unannounced drill is starting earlier than I thought. It’s going to be happening sometime tomorrow night. Place confidential, but I’m sure I’ll be able to give you specific information later. Let’s just say it’s going to be in the northern reaches of Washington County.”

Carl was about ten years her senior, with close-cropped gray hair, a large pock-marked nose, and wide shoulders. He wasn’t dressed in standard uniform of the N.H. State Police—green uniform blouse, Sam Browne belt, and striped trousers with the unusual color of military pink—but was in a dark blue blazer, blue striped shirt, and red necktie.

“Tanya, that’s … you know that’s impossible. A drill like this takes weeks to set up.”

She nodded. “Which is why it’s going to be unannounced. You take weeks of preparation, then it isn’t a readiness drill. It’s a predetermined three-act play where everyone knows their lines and their positions. This way, its much more realistic, much more useful for all concerned.”

He frowned. “What’s the drill scenario?”

“Unauthorized shipping container coming in from Quebec to New Hampshire, being smuggled across the border. Your folks will take primary; anyone else you can scrape together will serve as security and backup.”

“Tanya …”

She put her wine glass down. “Carl, really, I need your full cooperation. Please don’t force me into doing something I don’t want to do.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t do it. It’s impossible.”

Tanya sighed, opened up the purse at her side, took out her BlackBerry. She toggled a few switches and passed over the BlackBerry to Carl. He took one glance at the tiny screen and his face drained of color, such that it was nearly the shade of the tablecloth. He tossed the phone back at her. “Shut that fucking thing off and put it away.”

She refused to look at the picture that was on display. Bad enough she had carried it all these years, just in the unlikely event that she would need to use this angry man sitting across from her, but it was like some cursed jewel that was in her possession, that she could never get rid of.

Carl leaned over the table. “You fucking promised me, back in Virginia, that you’d never say a word to my wife about … about that night. So where the hell did you get that photo?”

Tanya suddenly felt queasy again and had to take a deep breath. Even the thought of avenging her dead friend wasn’t helping. She finally pulled herself together and said, “I know you remember that night, Carl. I had my BlackBerry up to my ear, checking messages. When I got into your hotel room by accident … I saw what was going on the bed. It was nearly automatic, just in case something untoward happened. So I took that photo of you and the other officer. A bit blurry but both of your faces are quite clear.”

The color roared back into Carl’s face. “You fucking bitch, you promised—”

“I did promise,” Tanya said. “I promised that I wouldn’t tell your wife a word. Which I plan to keep. But I didn’t make any guarantees about not releasing that photo to the colonel who runs the State Police. Or the governor. Or a newspaper reporter or two.”

It looked like he was struggling not to leap over the table and strangle her. She pressed on. “So please don’t put me in a box, Carl. Be a good boy and cooperate. Or—if I may be excused for using such rough language—people of prominence you know in this state will soon be looking at a photo of you with your dick up another man’s ass.”

Now her stomach was really queasy, and Tanya put her hands on her lap so Carl couldn’t see how they were shaking. Carl’s hands, however, were clenched on top of the table, the knuckles nearly glowing white.

“You fucking bitch,” he repeated in a rough whisper. “You’ll get your drill. But that’s it.”

She nodded, hoping the relief flooding through her wasn’t showing. Tanya said, “Fair enough, Carl. And to show there are no hard feelings, when the drill is over, we’ll get together and I’ll show you my BlackBerry as I delete that photo. Heck, even if you’d like, I’ll even give you my device, so you know the photo will disappear.”

Carl took a hefty swallow from his water glass. “How do I know there’s not other copies floating around, on a thumb drive or a DVD?”

Tanya smiled, again feeling sorry for the blustery major sitting across from her. “I guess you’ll just have to trust me.”

Carl snorted. “They’ll be making snowmen in hell before I ever trust you.”

Tanya picked up the check. “Truth be told, I don’t blame you.”

At the Slinky Pussy Gentlemen’s Club in Laval, Quebec, Francois Ouellette got up from his desk as his deputy and second-in-command,
Michael Grondin, came in, dressed in jeans, a Montreal Canadians hockey team sweatshirt, and as always, wearing that ridiculous
ponytail.

“Are we all set?” Francois asked calmly.

“Yeah, boss, we are. He’s in the basement back quarter. Bruised a bit, but he’ll be all right.”

“His name again?”

“Manny Beaudoin. An intelligence officer and liaison with the Sûreté du Québec. We’ve exchanged favors over the past year. He’s the one that gave us the original information on the shipping container and Duncan Crowley.”

Francois stepped around his desk. “Then let’s see what additional information the good officer can provide us.”

Through a back stairwell in the club that was only used by him and Michael, he went down two flights, to the basement. There, the two of them walked across a cement floor packed high with cases of beer and hard liquor, along with some hot electronics that were in the midst of being transported across Quebec and into Ontario, and a couple of pallets filled with cardboard boxes of stolen cold medicine, to be eventually cooked into crystal meth. In the far corner of the basement was a steel door with a combination lock, which Michael spun open. A heavy click, and the door opened up. Michael pressed ahead and Francois followed, smiling in satisfaction at what he was seeing as the door closed behind them.

In the center of the room was a comfortable wooden chair bolted to the floor, and seated in the chair was a man in an ill-fitting gray suit. He was balding, with a silly-looking comb-over on his head, and his skin was pasty white. His eyes were wide with fear, which made sense, since his ankles and wrists were handcuffed to the chair. There were two other chairs in the room, and a flatscreen television hanging from the near wall. Francois and Michael took the empty chairs.

The man licked his lips. “This is outrageous. I demand you let me go, right now, or there’ll be hell to pay. Do you know who I am?”

Francois sighed, picked up a remote television controller from the arm of his chair. “Certainly, Monsieur Beaudoin. We know who you were. We also know that you’re an intelligence officer and liaison with the Sûreté du Québec. Alas, we also know that you’re a bit of a pervert.”

Francois turned, aimed the remote up to the television screen, pressed the Play button. The screen flickered into life and it showed a bedroom, with a naked Manny Beaudoin and two giggling girls joining him on the bed.

Manny let a whispered “shit” escape from his lips.

Francois said, “From what I understand, a few days ago, you were at home, by yourself, when you got a visit by two young ladies who said they were on a petition drive to stop oil sand expansion in Alberta. I see one thing led to another. Why not? They’re both very attractive young ladies. Unfortunately, Monsieur Beaudoin, you should have checked their identification before bedding them. Both of those ladies are quite underage.”

Another whispered “shit” from the man in the chair. Francois went on. “What this is all about, Monsieur Beaudoin, is our desire to receive more information about that shipping container that has the entire province in an uproar. You see, my associate and I, we’re very eager to locate this container.”

Beaudoin said, “So’s nearly every fucking cop in the province.”

Francois said, “Eventually. So here’s our problem. We’ve attempted in our own, primitive clumsy ways, to find this trailer. Unfortunately, four men we’ve sent to get information on this trailer have failed to return. Regrettable, but part of doing business. But those levels of business losses are unacceptable. So we need to know more about that trailer.”

He tugged at chains holding his wrists and ankles to the chair. “I’ve already told you everything I know!”

Francois said, “Which is why we’re all here. This is what you’ve told us. That the shipping trailer contains something quite valuable. That it was once stored at the St. Lawrence Seaway terminal. It’s now missing. Duncan Crowley, a criminal from northern New Hampshire, is somehow connected to this trailer. True so far?”

An uncomfortable-looking Beaudoin nodded, looking up at the screen where he and two girls were going at it.

Francois said, “We need to know more. We need to know it right now.”

“But I don’t know anything more!”

Francois gestured with his right hand. “If we don’t get additional reliable information, Monsieur Beaudoin, then my associate here will distribute this DVD to your superiors. You can imagine what will happen to you and your career once this recording is made public.”

Francois toggled a switch on the remote and the volume increased. Beaudoin closed his eyes. “Turn it off, damn it, turn the fucking thing off!”

The sound went mute, but the DVD kept on playing. Beaudoin licked his lips and said, “The container … it’s not the standard shipping container. It’s about half-size, allowing one driver to maneuver it by himself.”

“Very good,” Francois said. “Do go on.”

“It … its yellow, and has the logo of Mextel Lines painted on both sides. Red and blue. But … but they’re pretty sure it’s been repainted. So it’s a half-sized shipping container with a fresh paint job. That’s what everyone’s looking for.”

“What’s in the trailer?”

“Swear to Jesus, I don’t know. Only it’s something very, very valuable.”

Francois pursed his lips. “Is that it … really?”

A quick and eager nod of the head. “Really, that’s all there is. Honest to Christ.”

Francois got up, and Michael stood next to him. “Very good, Monsieur Beaudoin. We appreciate your cooperation.”

He turned to leave with Michael, to go back out the door, and the man called out, “Hey! What about me? Aren’t you going to let me go?”

Francois looked to Michael, who reached into a pocket, took out a small key, went over, and unlocked his wrists. He then dropped the key in the man’s lap. “That we are, Monsieur Beaudoin. You’re free to go. Feel free to take the DVD with you as well.”

Francois and Michael left the basement. Francois said, “You burned another copy of the DVD, right?”

“Of course,” Michael said.

“Nice investment.”

Back in his office, Francois said, “Truck like that needs diesel, driver needs food, shit like that. Closer it gets to New Hampshire, the sparser the roads and towns. So this is what’s going to happen. You get word out to everyone that belongs to the club, has ridden with the club, that has friends in the club, or that belongs on our fucking fruit-of-the-month list. Get out a description of that half-sized shipping container with a fresh paint job, heading to New Hampshire. Anyone finds it, they’re to call it into us, and follow it, so we have the best information. Got it?”

“Got it, boss.”

“Good,” he said. “Then, goddamn it, we’re not sending anyone else in except for you, me, and a couple of very hard men. This time, we’ll do it right, grab that container, zap Crowley and his fucking boys, and find out what’s so valuable that everyone with a police badge and government ID in Quebec has gone apeshit looking for it, posting a million-dollar reward.”

Michael kept quiet. Francois didn’t like the man’s attitude. “Did I fart or something, Michael?”

His deputy said, “Just thinking, that’s all. Wondering if this is still worth it. We might get a firefight down at the border. You know how freaky the Yanks can get about the border. We get in a scrape down there, might mean lots of attention.”

“Michael,” Francois said evenly, “you let me worry about that. All right? In the meantime, do what I’ve said. Every last item.”

Michael nodded. “I’ll get the word out, boss.”

“Super,” Francois said, sitting behind his desk. “But one more thing, Michael.”

“Yes, boss?”

He picked up some papers. “Get that freaking ponytail cut off before we go, okay? Makes you look like a fag.”

As dusk arrived in Turner, Zach was tired from spending the day with Duncan Crowley, who had insisted that Zach come along on a trip down memory lane, driving in and around Turner, checking out some of Duncan’s businesses. The day had begun with breakfast in the big kitchen, with Karen insisting on cooking for the both of them. Anything you want, she had said, with a wink and a smile, anything at all.

So he had gone with French toast and bacon, fresh coffee and orange juice. Duncan had wanted the same thing, but Karen had frowned and given him a bowl of oatmeal. “He may look fit,” she had said, “but his cholesterol level is so far off the chart they have to tape an extra one to it.” Duncan had such a sorrowful look on his face, Zach had secretly passed him two slices of bacon under the table, like he was feeding the family dog.

The day had been a long drive of going in and around Turner, as Duncan pointed out the stores he owned, the gas stations, and the Flight Deck Bar & Grill. He also mentioned in passing other business interests: converted barns that grew marijuana under artificial light, and small warehouses at the end of dirt roads that held cases of whisky, beer, and cartons of cigarettes. Duncan had explained, “Smuggling has been going on around here since Colonial times. Nowadays, it depends on the tax stamps, the prices, and the exchange rate between the American dollar and the Canadian dollar. Sometimes it makes sense to smuggle booze and butts north, other times, it’s the opposite.”

Zach had said, “How the hell do you do this without cops paying attention?”

“What cops?” Duncan had said. “Most of the towns around here don’t have a police force. Those that do, it’s a one- or two-man force. The sheriff department serves arrest warrants and such for the county, and that’s about it. The State Police patrols the main roads, responds to 911 calls when they can. If you’re quiet, careful, and not too greedy, it’s easy to pass under whatever radar’s bouncing around out there.”

Now they were back in Turner proper, and Duncan slowly drove by the regional high school. He said, “So there it is, our alma mater. Thought I’d go far away from there, with my pitching arm, but real life sort of plays roulette with your ass, don’t it.”

“True,” Zach said.

“Mind telling me something?”

“No promises, but give it a shot.”

Duncan said, “You waxed me a few times in wrestling, but never again. Why’s that? Did I improve that much?”

Zach laughed and looked at the dreary building. “Truth? Duncan, after I beat you the third time, the phys ed coach took me aside and told me to cut the shit. Even then, you were getting attention as somebody destined for the majors. He didn’t want me to hurt you, nail your arm. I told him to go screw, and then he went to my dad, and he convinced me otherwise, with the end of his leather belt.”

Duncan said, “Jeez. Sorry about that, Zach.”

“Not your fault. Our fathers … they set the tone, don’t they. Your dad was a lawyer, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah. Darn good lawyer, but poor judge of character. After he and my mom died, and after his corrupt partner got killed in that car crash, what passes for a legal community up here came together and tidied things up. Left me and my brother holding an empty bag. Your dad … quite the politician, right?”

Zach sighed. “Politics was his first and last love, with time left over for chasing strange. My mom put up with it as best as she could, but she had other issues. Bouts of depression, rage. She might have done better with some psychiatric help, but hell, you know how it is. Nearest medical facility for something like that was a fifty-mile drive, and trying to keep that secret in a small town like this … Never happen.”

Duncan said, “So here we are. You and me. Now that I’ve shown you my deep and dark secrets, how about revealing one of yours?”

Zach froze, wondering what Duncan was getting at, wondering if he could get to his .32 Browning in time, wondering if this whole drive around town had just been a goddamn ruse to relax him.

“Ask away,” he said, keeping eyes straight and focused on Duncan’s hands.

He smiled. “Your dishonorable discharge. What the hell was that all about? Getting drunk on duty? Beating up a superior officer? Saying something nasty about the First Lady?”

Zach said, “It was because I did what I was trained to do. Save lives.”

“There’s more to that, Zach. Go on, tell all.”

So that’s what he did.

Duncan pulled out of the school parking lot as Zach told the story of his travel into Sierra Leone. He found it hard to drive without swiveling his head constantly to look at Zach as his old classmate calmly talked about his last mission, going up a river by himself, in the middle of a civil war, gunfire and explosions echoing around him.

“Then I reached the rendezvous point, where two Agency guys were waiting to be picked up, along with all of their gear. I got there, loaded them up, and before we were going to shove off, four civilians came out of the brush. Dad, mom, and two kids. Dad had been a prominent politician and was hiding out because of the war. He said an official at the American embassy had promised him safe passage. That official had been evacuated, and safe passage never showed up.”

“Sounds like a mess,” Duncan said.

“You bet,” Zach said. “I figured if we dumped the gear for the Agency fellows, we’d have enough room to take all four back with us. The Agency guys violently disagreed. I managed to convince them through my charming personality and force of arms to change their mind. They did. The gear was destroyed, the family and the two Agency guys and yours truly were successfully evacuated.”

“What a story,” Duncan said.

“War stories usually are. But this one had a messy ending. I had obviously disobeyed orders by not picking up the gear, and by taking four civilians out on a covert op. So that’s why I got cashiered.”

Duncan drove up Gosham Road, a narrow country lane with farmland all around them. In one pasture, sheep grazing, and in another, three horses ambling about. He said, “At least you got them out. Not much of a trade, I’m sure, but it must have felt good, saving those four.”

Zach turned away, looked out the passenger’s-side window. “You’d think. But not all good stories have happy endings. That ending was pretty messy, too. After a few months, when a truce was negotiated, the guy I rescued was invited to go back to Sierra Leone. Against most advice, he and his wife went back. His kids, at least, stayed behind with some relatives in London.”

“What happened?”

Zach kept on looking out the window. “They were seized at the airport. He was forced to watch as his wife was beheaded. And then he was machine-gunned to death.”

Zach kept quiet as Duncan maneuvered the truck up the road, and then the asphalt petered out and the road became well-packed dirt. Duncan said, “One more stop, and then we’ll get home. See what my Karen has set for dinner.”

“That sounds like fun,” Zach said.

Duncan turned right at a mailbox marked Cooper and went down a dirt driveway. He pulled to a stop in front of an old farmhouse with a wide porch that had a new green metal roof. Nearby was a barn and two out buildings. Parked in the yard were a yellow school bus with Turner Cooperative School District stenciled on the side, a Volkswagen beetle, and a white Chevrolet Ram pickup truck with rust chewing along the side panels.

Duncan said, “This here is where Nat Cooper and his family live. I need him for the job tomorrow night and just want to get things straight with him. Shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”

They both got out of the truck and an English Springer Spaniel came bounding out of the barn, a dirty green tennis ball in his mouth. “Hey, Tucker, how goes it,” Duncan said, rubbing his head. Following the dog was a man in his late forties, wearing worn jeans, muddy work boots, and a gray hoodie sweatshirt over which he had a light blue down vest. His brown hair was thick but cut short, and his chin was receding. He was grinning as he approached Duncan, holding out his hand. He had a two-day growth of beard and one of his incisor teeth was missing, making a black splotch in his smile.

“I’ll be damned, look who’s come up all the way to see little ol’ me,” the man said as Duncan shook his hand.

Duncan turned and said, “Zach Morrow, this is Nat Cooper. All around good guy, truck driver, farmer and independent contractor. Nat, Zach Morrow. Ex-military guy and a new employee of mine. How’s it going, Nat? How are the girls?”

Nat kept grinning, though Zach noticed that his lips were curled some about the right side of the mouth, like he was trying to hide his missing tooth. He said, “Kelly and Stacy, both doing well, both kicking ass on their softball teams. Looks like they’re gonna have a good season.”

“And Dora?”

“Dora’s good,” he said. “Still drivin’, still threatenin’ the kiddos when they raise hell on the bus. And your brood?”

“All fine,” Duncan said, walking about and putting an arm around Nat. “Tell me, has Dora been baking lately? You know how Karen loves those apple pies of hers.”

Nat grinned. “S’pose we could find one or two, if we dig enough in her kitchen.”

Duncan said, “So, Nat, why aren’t you answering your phone?”

He shrugged apologetically. “Our land line got service cut off two days ago for non-payment. Might just let it go for now because of the bills we owe on it. Dora’s trying to get a cellphone set up, but that might be a few more days. ’Cause of our credit, we’re gonna need somebody to co-sign it for us, and that’ll probably be her dad, once he comes back from Maine.”

Duncan lowered his arm, rubbed his hands together. “This is short notice and all, but might you be available for a job tomorrow night?”

His smile got wider. “Hell, yes, Duncan, I guess I would be.”

“Don’t you want to know it is?”

Nat said, “Hell, you’ve always been straight with me before, Duncan. I figured with a record like that, it’d be all right.”

“Darn nice of you to say, Nat. What I need is your truck driving skills, take a load from up in the northern reaches, maybe go down to Concord or the Manchester airport, long-term parking area, depending.”

“How long?”

“Not more than two days.”

“You got yourself a deal, Duncan,” Nat said.

“Don’t you want to know the pay?”

Nat said, “The pay will be fair, that’s all I need to know.”

Duncan gently slapped him on the shoulder. “That’s fine, Nat. I wish all of my negotiations went so easily. So tell me, is your Dora in the house?”

“That she is,” Nat said. “Go ahead, go look her up.”

“I’ll do just that, see if I can’t sweet talk an apple pie out of her. Meantime, why don’t you show Zach your prized pets.”

Duncan strolled away, went up the front porch, and into the house. Nat turned to Zach and said, “Come along, fella, let me show you what’s what.”

He followed Nat into the near barn, where there was a strong scent of hay and manure. Inside were three of the largest creatures Zach had ever seen: oxen, each in its own stall, each towering above and looking down at them with wide brown eyes. Nat said, “My prize oxen. Bring them out to all the fairs from spring to fall, in pulling contests.”

Across from the stalls was a large piece of mounted plywood, and stuck on the plywood were scores of blue ribbons. Nat pointed to them proudly and said, “That’s what we got last year. Can you believe it? Won almost every competition we entered, thanks to their hard work, and thanks to Duncan Crowley.”

Zach said, “Why Duncan Crowley?”

Nat moved some straw around with his right boot. “Tell you the truth, what happened was a couple of years back, I was an independent trucker. Didn’t make a lot but enough to get along. Then most of the companies around here, the ones that hired me out, they either got sold or bought out. My trucking contracts dried up, and when the cost of diesel kept on going up and up, had to declare bankruptcy. Things got real tight. You know how tight? Tight is when you go through the seat cushions, looking for coins back there, coins you can wrap up and bring to the bank so the electric don’t get shut off.”

“That’s tight,” Zach said, looking at the peaceful brown eyes of the three oxen, their nostrils gently moving in and out.

“Damn right,” Nat said. “Things got so bad, I was planning to sell these three, even though they and their ancestors have been part of the family for decades. Cooper family has always been known for their prize oxen, since the early 1800s. Tough times, but Duncan Crowley, he heard about my troubles and came over to help. No damn welfare or bailout, I’ll tell you, but money for work. He’s a good man, he is. He truly is a good man.”

Zach said, “That’s what I hear.”

Outside there was shout and Duncan emerged from the house, carrying a small paper package. A stout woman with long black hair and wearing tight jeans and a black sweatshirt followed him out, smiling. He turned and yelled out, “Thanks, sweetie, for the pie and the good wishes!”

Handshakes were exchanged all around on the front lawn, and Duncan said to Nat, “Come to my house tomorrow at five p.m. for a briefing for what happens later.”

Nat said with a smile, “Dora give you permission to let me out tomorrow night, then?”

“Surely did,” Duncan replied. “Said to make sure that your worthless carcass comes back in one piece.”

Inside the truck cab, Duncan started up the engine and paused, his hands fussing with the brown package next to him, as Zach entered from the other side. Nat trudged back to the barn, followed by the English Springer Spaniel, dirty tennis ball still in his mouth.

Zach said, “Good people.”

Duncan said, “They’re all good people. Throughout this county, there are lots of good people. You hear about people falling through the cracks? People up here, they’ve been falling into canyons the past few years, and nobody gives a damn. The state and the Feds do what they can, but these years at least, war’s been declared on the rural and poor.”

Zach said, “You forget every four years.”

Duncan laughed, put his truck into drive, and started going out the driveway. “Damn, you’re right. Every four years, time of the New Hampshire primary, all those nice sounding, well dressed folks come trooping through promising help for industry, help for medical care, help for everything. They grab the people’s votes and then head off to the next primary, and that’s it. About the only place that makes out during the primary season is Channel Nine, the television studio. Gosh, the money they make from commercials. That’s about it.”

Back on Gosham Road, Zach said, “What’s your other job, then, Duncan? Helping everybody you can?”

“I do what I can, Zach, do what I can … but I know it won’t last.”

“Why’s that?”

Duncan pondered that, and said, “My dad, he used to love watching old TV shows, programs he loved when he was a kid. Got them on VHS and made me and Cameron watch them. Some of the craziest stuff you ever saw, like Welcome Back, Kotter and Three’s Company and older stuff, like My Mother the Car. Couldn’t believe the crap he made us watch.”

“Some people might call that child abuse,” Zach said.

A laugh from Duncan. “Sure enough. Anyway, he also liked the old Ed Sullivan shows. Comics who were as dry as toast, funny animal acts, and one guy that always stuck in my mind. Can’t remember his name none, but he was this guy who had these tall sticks, and on the sticks, he’d rotate these white plates. Know what I mean?”

“Sure,” Zach said. “I remember that, too.”

“Yeah. So this guy would put one plate up, and then another, and then another. And he’d be going back and forth, back and forth, trying to keep the plates moving so they wouldn’t fall. My dad thought it was hilarious, watching this guy run back and forth, back and forth, ’cause eventually, the plates would start falling and breaking. Funny, hunh? But I asked my dad, why the heck didn’t he just grab the plates and prevent them from falling. Dad said, that’s not the point. The point of the act is to have those plates fall and break.”

They came to the intersection of Gosham Road and Route 117. Duncan looked left and then looked right as he took a left out on the road. “That guy is me, Zach. I got lots of plates in the air, and I can’t afford to let any one of them fall. All I need is for one curious cop, one ticked off weed smoker, or one guy who thinks I’m charging too much for smuggled smokes, and those plates will fall—and my butt will be in jail for a long, long time. Then, I won’t be able to help anyone, including my family. Zach, that’s intolerable. That’s why the shipment tomorrow night matters. It’s going to set me up so I can get out of my illegal stuff, be able to go straight for the first time in nearly twenty years, and still be in a position to help out where I can. Do you know what I mean, Zach? Do you?”

Chest tight with betrayal and with a haunted tone in his voice, Zach said, “By God, I do.”