And alien tears will fill for him
Pity’s long-broken urn
For his mourners will be outcast men And outcasts always mourn
   —Oscar Wilde, inscription on his tomb, from Reading Gaol

MATT WORTHSON was late to the graveyard service. Near the front, he could see a closely packed group dressed in black and gray. That had to be Arlen’s family. On the right the red-clad choir, and the ministers, and the members of the Bowmans’ church. Mixed into the crowd were a number of uniformed deputies.

A tall, distinguished-looking man with gray hair glanced back at the news camera at the cemetery gates. William S. Herrick Jr., come all the way to Spokane for the funeral. Somewhere on the other side of the crowd was Valerie Herrick’s contingent, resort employees and uniformed officers among them. He saw Russ’s gray and bristling head, surrounded on either side by the mayor of Coeur d’Alene and the city attorney. This was an opportunity for him.

Yet on the other side of the crowd were the uniforms—Russ had not won their loyalty yet. Andy Merrill did not wear a uniform, he was in an enormous black suit. And Merrill had won a place of privilege, as the current sheriff and Arlen’s supervisor. Like some anchored whale, he drifted nearby the mother and wife, as if he knew them. Surrounding Merrill’s contingent was the endless sea of uniforms—Bitterroot County Sheriff, Coeur d’Alene police, Spokane police, and a contingent of north Idaho firefighter and police uniforms, ironed and pressed.

The canopy billowed in the breeze, and the wife stood and went to the front. She looked blankly at the crowd. Her expression still put Matt in mind of a younger Sall. The wife stood near the grave for a moment, carefully taking a blossom from the arrangement of flowers and putting it on the lid of the coffin. The singing started back up again, and the service, for all intents and purposes, was over.

Reverend Edward Smith was wearing a white three-piece suit. Many of the mourners he greeted with a hug. Some of the women he kissed on the forehead as he let them go. To the men in uniform, he gave a solemn two-handed grip, holding their arms in his, looking into their eyes as they talked about Arlen Bowman, their chaplain.

It seemed like years since the night before. Looking at Smitty now in a white suit, Matt still couldn’t shake the memory of his fat face laughing at some dirty joke, beet red from the exertion. Now he looked healthier than he had in years, his skin pale and smooth.

Somehow, that disgusted Matt. Underneath, he still thought of Smitty, obscenely laughing. The man had been in prison, after all. Despite their conversation the night before, the white suit had to be just a veneer. Anyone else, once they flushed it away, it was gone.

“Matt! Lieutenant Worthson!” He took Matt’s hand in both of his. “My friend.”

“Smit, it’s good to see you too. Thanks for—”

“Look Matt—I’m sorry if I came on too strong the other night. It was just so good to see you. If you have a chance in the next few days, I’d like to talk to you more about Arlen. I only knew him for a few months. And I’d like to talk more about you, too.”

The pity on Smitty’s face was more than he could stand. “I’m over that,” Matt said.

“I don’t know if you are. Let me tell you,” Smitty put a hand on his shoulder. Matt looked at his calm face, but he couldn’t help from flinching away. It didn’t seem fair that after all the nights they’d spent drinking together, all the afternoons poured away, now Smitty was the one giving advice, Smitty was the sober one.

“Hey, it’s Matty!” said a voice, and Matt turned in relief.

Merrill winked at Matt and then took Smitty’s hand. “You spoke to me, Reverend! Your words—they just . . .” He touched a place on the rounded curve of his vast belly, somewhere where his chest should be.

“Least I could do for him,” said Smitty. “He was a good man. A fellow pastor.”

Merrill smiled at them both. “Didn’t know if you’d make it here, Matt!” “Car trouble,” said Matt. “My engine’s running a little rough.”

Merrill held on to Smitty’s hand, but he glanced over at Matt. “I should tell you both that I feel personally responsible for the case not being solved, for us not having that balm to give Arlen’s family today. He deserves to rest in peace. And we should have this scumbag in custody already. That’s why we’re all here. Responsibility.”

Then he stepped away from Smitty. He put an arm around Matt’s shoulders as they walked away. “Y’know, that wasn’t all bullshit, and I am going to help you solve it.”

“Thanks, Andy. Look, do you have Spokane’s report yet? Can you let me read it?”

Merrill smiled. “You’re sure one eager beaver, Matty! Hey, I haven’t even had a chance to check if Spokane sent over their fancy forensics report yet. They probably haven’t, they’re all backlogged, like usual. So, here to pay your respects?”

“I was hoping to see if he showed up—you know, the old perpetrator at the funeral thing. There’s a name for it now. Russ said the FBI calls it a grace note.”

Merrill’s head tilted. He looked at Matt sideways, seeming to find something odd in his face. “Taking tips from Russell again, are ya? Think he’ll be our next sheriff?”

Matt spoke again. “It could happen. You can always hope.” Merrill gave his political grin, an edge underneath. “Hey, whatever floats your boat, Matty.” Then he leaned closer, whispering. “I’ve been meaning to ask you. You’re asking the deputies about this case? You think some deputy is involved?”

“Yes,” said Matt. He gulped his coffee hurriedly. It scalded his throat. Merrill looked down at the ground, and then he chuckled unexpectedly.

“Matt,” he said. “You’ve got a good heart, my man. Good heart. I just have to tell you how much this diligence means to me. But these deputies, they know less than you and I do about this whole thing. Let’s keep it that way—not let too much information get out.”

“I’m not telling anything,” said Matt. “I’m asking. I’m asking easy questions.”

Merrill changed expression, and punched him on the shoulder. “And it’s impressive that you’re here—knowing how spooked you are by funerals. Dedication, that’s what it is.”

“It’s not as hard as I thought it would be. After all, he’s dead, he’s not . . . ,” said Matt.

But Merrill was looking up at the last remnants of mist that curled from the tops of the trees. “Beautiful day to lay him to rest,” he said. Then he turned his head toward the crowd. “Hey, Ward,” he called. “Look who I’ve got over here.”

When Matt came to Arlen’s wife, he was surprised that those in attendance seemed to be avoiding her, clearing an empty path for her through the crowd. She seemed to realize it too. As the people moved, her eyes went with them, back and forth. There was no black veil for her, yet there were tearstains on the cheeks of the little girl holding her hand. The girl wore a wool dress, her blond hair pasted to her brow by sweat.

“Mrs. Bowman?” he said. “We’ve met before. Bitterroot County Sheriff’s Department, Lieutenant Matt Worthson.”

“Oh, yes,” she said distantly and held out her hand. In its smooth white glove, her grip was dry as a piece of wood. “I saw something in the paper about you a few weeks ago: ‘Worthson’s Brave Rescue,’ I think. Apparently you’re a mining hero.”

“That was my father, Stan Worthson. It was some sort of historical thing, a retrospective—Pop saved some miners back in the ’70s. He’s the hero. Not me.”

“Oh.” She glanced at his face and away, suddenly awkward. “A retrospective. I didn’t read it that closely. Sorry, other things on my mind.”

Matt reached in his pocket. “I might have found one of Arlen’s personal effects. I’d like to return it to you. Did Arlen wear a necklace?”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, he had a necklace he liked to wear. It had a cross on it.”

Matt opened his hand. In it was the blackened silver chain, a broken bit of red plastic attached. “Could the cross have broken off—could this have been his?”

The woman grimaced. “Oh no, that’s not Arlen’s.” She touched her own throat. “He had a fiber string, with a simple wooden cross. Nothing heavy and metal like this chain.”

Matt put the chain back in his pocket. “I’m sorry,” he said. Then he glanced at the girl. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been a clay-covered ghost, splashing water over his tires. But her eyes hadn’t changed at all.

“I’m so sorry about that. And I’m so sorry that we haven’t solved it, and that we had to wait so long to release the body. That wasn’t right.”

“It’s all right, it’s not your fault.” She looked at him. “We’re fine. I think we buried Arlen a long time ago anyway.”

“Right after he died, I’d imagine,” said Matt slowly. “I’d imagine you would have to, for peace of mind. For the family.”

“Yes, for the family,” she said. “But I think we did it a few years before that.”

On the other side of the lawn, Matt could see the television camera again. Now it was moving toward them across the lawn. It was following the newspaper reporters toward the Bowmans. He didn’t want to finish this conversation here, in front of a camera.

“Betty,” said Matt. “Would it be all right if I called you—would that be okay?”

“Sure—that would be fine.” She gave a forced laugh. “There was a guy named Leonard called for Arlen too—something I should probably have told you about, I guess. But after Arlen’s last phone call, I threw the phone. Broke it, I guess.”

She blinked and looked away.

“He left me, but you probably already know that.” She picked up the girl. The little body went limp, splayed out against her mother. “He hadn’t been around for years, not really. Arlen was a great pastor, he could talk anyone into finding their best self, into not doing the bad things we’re all capable of.”

She tilted her head back, her eyes wet and dark. Then she blinked and shook her head, and the darkness was gone suddenly from her face.

She went on in a low tone. “The problem with Arlen was that it was his entire life, that damn church work was, and he never gave enough to us. But I had to keep part of myself. I couldn’t do what Arlen did. And that’s what happened to us, I guess.”

She smoothed the girl’s hair against her collar. “I didn’t care, one way or the other. I figured he wouldn’t come through. He didn’t. He died instead. That’s all there is to it.” Carefully, she scanned the crowd. “I was just talking to another officer from the sheriff’s department—I just need him . . . Arlen introduced us actually. He’s been so helpful to me. I wish I could see him again, today. I need him . . . I need to ask him . . .”

“Who’s that, ma’am?”

“Russ,” she sighed. “Russell White. Do you know him?”

“Yes, I do.” Matt turned and looked over the teeming people. “But I haven’t seen him today. I don’t know if he’s here. I’d be happy to pass along a message.”

“Oh, I was just talking to him, I’m sure he’s here, I think he might have gone . . .”

“Hold on,” said Matt. “Let me get his wife—I think I see her over by the coffee.”

“Never mind.” Arlen’s wife looked out at the crowd blankly, and then her voice tightened. A moment later, she seemed to be talking about something else.

“Arlen was leaving with her, you know,” she said. “Stealing my child.”

“He was? That’s the first I’ve heard of—”

“He was taking her.” She looked directly at him, her face flushed, her eyes bloodshot. “You know, he’d been dead to me—I haven’t talked to Karyn about him in a long time. And now I have to pretend I cared, like he’s come back from the dead to be dead for real.”

Matt shook his head, confused by what she said. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said finally.

The newspaper reporters and cameras crowded close to them. Someone spoke. A flashbulb went off, and then another. Her face was bright and strangely joyous in the flash.

She motioned at them, at all of them. “It’ll be in all the papers tomorrow,” she said. “How we had to dig Arlen up again for this funeral. He’ll be the hero this time, instead of the bastard I thought he was.”

Matt looked at the little girl in her arms. Her eyes opened. The girl looked at him as if she had been right about something and he had been wrong. Then her eyes closed again.

“Thank you for talking to me,” said the mother. She grasped his hand again.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said again, and walked away across the lawn.

The truck engine turned over, a choking sound. Then it turned again, and again. But it failed to catch. Matt had been twenty minutes out of Coeur d’Alene when a plume of smoke came out of the hood of the truck. The engine still ran, but after that it wouldn’t go above forty miles an hour. Now, after parking for the funeral, it didn’t look like it would go at all. He thought it was a busted carburetor, or even possibly a broken valve.

Matt spent a few minutes with the hood up, fiddling with the fuel lines, before giving the whole thing up. Now he’d have to get it towed from Spokane. When he slammed the hood again and yanked the rear open to put his tools away, he somehow managed to run a deep scratch along the side of the vehicle with his toolbox, marring the sheriff’s star and the new paint job. It was always something.

Afterward, he sat in the truck watching the television anchors rotate in place at the entrance to the cemetery, all of them doing a variation on the same one-minute summary of the funeral. They weren’t interested in him: he wasn’t a hero, he wasn’t dead, he wasn’t running for office either. Then, as Merrill and a phalanx of deputies came through the gate, the cameramen all picked up their gear. The reporters and anchors swarmed together around the cemetery gate, shouting questions at the once and future sheriff.

The day before, Undersheriff Ward Louden had requisitioned the newest V-12 chase cruiser for the ride to Spokane. Already it was filled with officers: Mark Taylor, lieutenant, was riding shotgun. Louden was driving. They made room for Matt beside the rear passenger window, between two sergeants—Dustin Hartman and Bill Bouse.

Louden liked to tell stories in the car. Sometimes they were funny, more often they carried some obscure moral. Matt had heard them all before. He looked out the window and thought about Smitty. How could he come back and act as if it had all been forgiven? Once you’d shit on everything you once stood for, how could anything remain?

“See, there are two kinds of people in the world,” Louden said. “The fuckers and the fuckees. You’re either fucking or you’re being fucked. And if you want to be doing . . .”

Bouse and Taylor were laughing now—they glanced at Matt, wondering if he’d heard the punch line. Not for the first time, it occurred to Matt that he’d been working in the department for far too long.

“Now this works for marriage too,” said Louden. “Whoever’s holding the reins does the fucking. You let her wear the pants, ain’t no way she’s going to let you get in—”

Hartman leaned his head back and began to laugh uproariously, a hoarse yelp coming out of him. With a flash, Matt saw the picture Louden had painted: reins going into a man’s mouth, a hard bit pulling him this way or that way. Someone was pulling strings.

“Hey!” Matt said. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I got some time sheets to reconcile for a case—the one at the resort. You know, twenty-seventh of August? So, do you guys all remember who was there? I’m sorry, I just can’t remember everything that happened at the resort.”

After a moment, Hartman stirred himself. “Maybe if you were doing your job, you’d be able to.”

Louden glanced over. “Don’t be an insubordinate asshole, Dusty—answer the man.”

Hartman sat back. “Hell, that place was a mess, dontcha remember? I had to go to Russell White for direction that night, Lieutenant. Why don’t you go ask him? You weren’t doing shit all night.” He had a smug, satisfied expression on his face.

Matt opened his mouth to call him on the lie, and realized that all he’d accomplish would be to embarrass himself, make his shame worse.

“Look,” he said. “It’s not a big deal—it’s just that I’ve been informed that a sheriff’s deputy was, ah, credited with some work before Russell and I arrived on the scene. I need to know what happened there at the Coeur d’Alene. A few of you break out some of that honor bar liquor?” No one grinned. Matt glanced up at the rearview mirror, trying to catch Louden’s eye. He was looking stonily at the highway.

“Look, Matty,” said Louden finally. “I appreciate your efforts. But fundamentally, something you have to understand is we don’t appreciate you covering for Russell. He’s—”

“What are you talking about?” “You’re a drunk, sir,” said Hartman. “Not to be insubordinate, but—”

“Would you shut the hell up, Dusty?” Louden grimaced. “Look, Matty, it’s pretty clear to us that Russell White worked his ass off to take over that case, and now that he’s gunning to replace Andy, it’s clear where your loyalties lie. You’re giving him credit every time you talk to the press about it. And the fact that you haven’t solved this thing—that you’re trying to point fingers at deputies—is pretty obviously something Russ put you up to. You’re making us all look bad. On purpose. Now the fact that you continue to waste—”

“That’s a lie! What the hell would make you think—” Louden held up a hand. “Let me finish, Matty—”

“Russell is just another lush,” muttered Hartman. “You’re a pair of shit-heel drunks, that’s what both you guys are.”

Louden whirled and hissed at Hartman. “Enough fuckin’ said about Russ too. Now listen! I’ll talk to Matty, and you can just shut your piehole. Understand?”

Matt turned toward Bouse. “You agree with this? Is this what all the guys are thinking? I mean, is this why . . .”

Bill Bouse looked uncomfortably around the car and then, without looking at Matt, he gave a tight nod.

“Now listen to me, Matty,” said Louden. “I’m only going to be straight with you this one time—”

“Oh gee, thanks for that,” Matt sneered. “Thanks for the support.” He shook his head and looked out the window at Post Falls passing by. “After all the times I covered your ass, all the times I was your partner on patrol, all the times you and I shared night dispatch duty, all the friggin’ work we put in over the years, you and the rest of the guys just up and decided that I would put my friendship with Russ above my loyalty to the department. Thanks for that, Ward, thanks a hell of a lot.”

A flush covered Louden’s neck; then, in the mirror, it covered his face too.

The car pulled off the exit ramp, and Matt glanced through the car window. Another Sheriff’s Department car was there. Nancy Ferreday, the psychologist, talking animatedly to Russ White. Her face was backlit by the sun over the water. As Louden slowed, she looked over too, smiled at Matt. Then she and Russ pulled away.

Matt pushed himself upright, managed to pull a little steno pad from his pocket. “I don’t really give a damn what you think of me,”—he glanced over at a cowed Hartman—“my sobriety, or my damn friends. I have a case to work, and I’m going to work it.”

He turned to look at the rearview mirror again, at Louden’s narrowed eyes. “There’s someone who’s been taking a little on the side, I think. Something rotten in Denmark here. So I need to find out who was on shift when. If someone else brings your names up as being part of something shady, I can say that you’re cleared. I wish I could think you guys would do the same for me, if the tables were turned. I guess you wouldn’t. But I don’t really give a damn—I need this information, and I need it now.”

The deputies slid their seat belts off as Louden turned off the engine.

“Well, you got my statement, at least, sir,” said Hartman. “You know what I did.”

Louden stepped out of the car, opened Bouse’s door.

“Wait a sec,” said Matt impatiently. He touched Taylor’s shoulder.

“I really don’t know anything, Matt,” said Taylor. “Besides, I’m on duty in fifteen minutes—there are calls coming in right now. Right now, Lieutenant. I’m sorry. Gotta go.”

Matt turned to Hartman. “You hold on. You just said you don’t know what you did that shift. How about it, Dusty? What did you do at the resort?”

Louden spoke up. “C’mon, Matt, give it a break. This ain’t a fuckin’ TV show.”

“No shit,” said Hartman. “You’re not some hotshit hero like your dad. Give it up.”

The car doors opened, and the men moved down the hallway. Louden stayed there with him. A whisper of sound floated back to him, someone chuckling malevolently. Matt shook his head. An ache started behind his temples as his heart pounded.

“What are you saying, Ward? You saying I shouldn’t be doing my job?”

“Maybe so, Matt,” said Louden slowly. “Maybe that’s what I’m saying, all right. Maybe this job just ain’t for you anymore. Like I said, give it up.” Louden leaned close to him. “Call the fuckin’ FBI in already—those two jokers in Spokane can solve it!”

“No, I don’t think I will.”

“What the fuck?” Louden looked around the empty garage, as if he’d heard someone else speak. “Let me get this straight. As the officer in charge, you are refusing to release this case to the people who can actually solve it? You’re playing right into Russell’s hands. The case is an albatross—this damn thing is killing Andy in the polls!”

Matt shook his head grimly. “Look, Ward, I’m pretty sure it’s not a serial killing. You think you’re protecting Andy, but he feels the same way. All the signs point to the dismemberment being later than the killing. According to the FBI’s own memos, the Metaline killer doesn’t work that way. Besides, even if I did turn it over to the Feds in Spokane, I don’t think they’d solve it either. They don’t have the best rep here.”

“What a crock. Goddammit, Matt, you are just going to fuck it up—for all of us.”

Matt turned his face toward Louden, something rising in him, an unnatural arrogance. “What makes you so sure? I’ve done a number of cases right over the years.”

“Oh yeah? And what was that stunt you pulled a few months back with that slut and Russell—what was that all about? His dick finally got him in the shit, and you just turned around and got him out of it! Talk about something rotten in fuckin’ Denmark!”

“Look, Ward, he didn’t know the girl was underage—”

“You’re wrong, Matty! You made the wrong choice that day—you were covering your damn friend’s back, instead of anything else! I don’t know how you explain to your old dad the mining hero why you keep sucking up to the Herricks. Weren’t they his lifelong enemies and all? Jesus, but you must have a real talent for bullshit, that’s all I can think. Maybe you just drink the guilt away, and after that—”

“Dammit—that’s totally uncalled for, Ward. Yeah, sure, years ago, I was drinking too much, but I’ve cleaned myself up since then. I’ve been dry for a while now. And dammit to hell, I’m still in charge of this case!”

Louden stared at him, as if he’d spoken a foreign language. He came closer. “Matt, you haven’t made any progress—and now I have to go dig up leads for you! You’re so damn pigheaded, you don’t know when to shit or get off the pot. Stop bugging deputies who are doing their jobs about the damn time sheets and do your job!”

“If there is something wrong here in the sheriff’s office, who’s going to clear any of you, of anything?” exclaimed Matt.

With a grunt, Louden pushed his way past him, out of the garage. Then, unable to resist, he turned back again in the doorway.

“Do the job, Worthless. Even if something did happen, if some deputy fucked up the scene, what does that matter?” said Louden furiously. “Just find the damn guy who cut Arlen’s throat. Lock him up, throw away the key. Shoot him in the back, fuck if I care. Sure, you’re in charge, God help us all!”

Matt could hear something in his head now, a rushing sound. He imagined blood filling his head, flushing his face. Slowly, he undid his knotted fists.

Louden moved in close and grabbed his shoulder. “You throw this election to Russell White, and I guarantee that I will implicate you in everything you’ve ever touched. You think it’s a big secret, but I sussed out what happened a few years back in that accident. I think I know what happened back then. And so you’ll sign your own prison sentence if you throw this election to Russ. Someone will testify—I’ll make sure the truth comes out about how you killed that bimbo you were porking. I, for one, am sick and tired of lushes like you fuckin’ up major cases, not caring about what’s right because what’s in the bottle matters more to you.”

Then Louden left him and went down the hallway. In Matt’s head, the surging tide faded away. He stood there, an inaudible sound in his head, a ticking in his own skull.