They love not poison that do poison need. . . .
With Cain go wander through shades of night
And never show thy head by day nor light.
Lords, I protest, my soul is full of woe,
That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow.
   —William Shakespeare, Richard II

THINGS CAME at Matt in a blur. The edge of a cabinet door swinging open. The dark orifice behind it. His arm yanking out the round curve of a bottle. The fluid inside splashing and churning in the abrupt upheaval, glowing amber in the sudden light. The harsh sound of his breathing as he moved like a thief in the early morning, stealing through his own house.

In each bottle, there was enough for a stiff drink. Years in the past, he’d always left an inch. That way he could convince himself he could stop anytime. He had control. He could leave an inch. On the bad old days, he’d drain two bottles down to an inch before he toppled into bed. Now he was done with secrets. His hands trembled as he threw each bottle into the box. Soon his arms were burning with the effort of holding the box as it grew heavier with the weight, a collection of old friends, found in odd locations.

The angular shape of Jose Cuervo, leaning to the side in between the roof beams in the attic crawl space. His buddy Jim Beam, resting behind a stack of magazines under the stairs. A small capsule of Bushmills, lurking inside one of his boots. In the other boot, a half-pint of Absolut. And inside the box with a carton of Doug’s cigarettes, more than an inch of rum left in a moldering Captain Morgan’s.

Above the box, he remembered to get the bottle of Fleischmann’s vodka— the one that hid inside a papier-mâché Indian statue. Wild Turkey in the back of the old barbecue, Jack Daniel’s inside a rolled-up newspaper. Jim Beam again, this time sideways, under the Thanksgiving tablecloth.

He’d been up all night, thinking, and his fingers still trembled with rage. Once, he picked up a bottle and swung it around so hard that the cap popped off, spilling some of what was inside over his hand. He flinched, the touch of it on his skin like a wound on the flesh. He touched his finger to it, and brought the taste of it toward his mouth.

Not for the first time, it occurred to him that he could just sit down and empty the bottles into himself. That urge would still be there long after the time he lit a match to it all. He looked at the liquor dripping off his finger, and wiped it carefully on his jeans.

There was another hiding place in the kitchen. The existence of it there had always made him feel comfortable and secure, even when Sall was mad at him. It kept him safe. He reached up and loosened the board above the sink.

Outside, then, he heard a car on the gravel. It was Sall’s Jeep, turning in the drive. She was home from the night shift. Hurriedly, he pushed the board flat again, back in its place. He glanced down at the box, its heaving pile of bottles, sloshing with alcohol. He couldn’t explain this very well. As far as he knew, Sall hadn’t discovered these bottles.

Quickly, he went through the house to the old sheriff’s department truck. Carefully, he placed the box on the floor of the passenger seat, out of sight. He could hear Sall on the other side of the house: the squeak of the brakes, the Jeep’s door opening.

She came into the garage before he left. “Where are you going?”

“I—I’ve got some work to do.” Then it came into him, something that would satisfy her, and leave behind other questions. “At Pop’s place. I decided to finally get rid of that damned old shed. I’ll knock it down while he’s in the hospital, clean up his yard.”

As he drove away, Sall stepped out of the front door to watch him go.

The shed was a mess. It had once been white, but the two layers of paint had mostly peeled off. A miasma of rot seeped up from the damp soil. The lock had broken off, but there was nothing Matt wanted in there. Rat holes speckled the foundation.

The first blow with the axe was aimed at a patch of creeping white mold. The blade went in a half foot—a dull thunking sound—and jammed in a mass of wet wood.

Matt tried again. This time, instead of striking at the rot, he cut down through the edge of the roof. The boards cleaved in half with a shriek, and the axe sank straight through the roof and down toward his feet. A rat squeaked wildly and scurried out a hole in the side. He chopped down again, and again, opening the darkness of the empty shed. Underneath the old veneer of paint, there was dry tinder waiting for the match.

Matt worked for the rest of the morning, taking apart the shed board by board. His first strike all the way through had been a lucky hit; usually, it took more than one swing to slice all the way through. Finally, he stood back, a boxer between rounds.

Everywhere, torn and twisted boards gaped open, letting sunlight into the depths. He could hear himself breathing heavily. Then he leaned his weight against the structure.

Shingles and roof beams began to fall into the hollow center of the building. The walls of the shed bowed out, creaking and snapping as he punched at them with the axe. The roof timbers gave way with a groan and caved in.

Matt poured two inches of vodka and whiskey onto the broken boards. When he brought the barbecue lighter close, there was a sudden inhaling rush. Flames danced all over the top of the broken timbers. The boards were dry, and the alcohol helped. The heat of the flames singed his skin, but still he stayed, feeling the burn.

Inside the shed, he could hear the agonized squeaking of rats trapped somewhere between the blossoming flames and the collapsed lumber. The sound gave him a grim sense of satisfaction: he was taking care of the rats where they lived.

The next bottle that came to hand was bourbon, he smelled the aroma as it hit the bonfire. The next he hurled deep into the flames. It rolled to a halt in the center, and then as the liquor flamed inside, the glass burst upward like a miniature grenade.

They cracked, but they didn’t burn. It made him laugh now, thinking he could get rid of the bottles so easily. What the hell had he been thinking? He’d have to scrape up all the glass later. Nevertheless, he kept throwing them in, one after another.

It became an easy rhythm of destruction. Yank a bottle out, pitch it hard into the center of the fire, watch the liquor inside catch on fire, grab another from the box.

When Kev came up the hill, the billowing smoke made him think the house itself was on fire. After getting the greatcoat from old man Worthson’s house, and taking a blanket off someone’s clothesline, he’d gone to the depot, checking schedules to see where he’d go next. He ran to get his things before the firemen came—they’d probably blame him for the fire.

He came up to the old Worthson place through the trees. The large bonfire was directly ahead of him. He still couldn’t make out what was burning. It was large enough to be a slash heap or a junkyard blaze. A man stood beside the fire, his back toward Kev.

Kev concealed his plastic bag—the one with the blanket and his extra tapes—behind a bush and waited. After a time, the man he was watching began to feed old bottles and chunks of wood into the flames. Kev decided that he should simply wait in the shed until the man was gone—either he was a vagrant like Kev or he was doing a burn job for the Worthsons. Either way, Kev could gain nothing from him.

Kev edged toward the spot where the shed stood. Then, as he looked around at the empty half acre, it struck him that the shed was entirely missing. Now he could see, at the edge of the smoldering fire, one of the gray-painted walls of the shed, and part of the shingled roof. He could see a piece of his sleeping bag in the fire, the plastic melting away. Everything else was there too—the duffel bag he’d found, his food, the picture of his mother—all of it being burned to ash. Kev shouted and ran toward the flames.

Matt turned his head, fumbling for his holster, and found that he’d left his gun inside the truck. He stepped back from the fire, and took an empty bottle in his hand. The boy slid to a halt on the verge of the fire, his steel-toed boots covered in cinders.

Matt took him by the arm, dragging him back from the bonfire. The boy jerked out of Matt’s grasp, and two small earphones popped out of his ears as he pulled away, a tinny sound at the ends of twin cords. Their absence seemed to cause the boy pain. He shifted, brushing against Matt brusquely.

“What’s your problem?” said Matt.

“No problem.” The boy stalked away a few paces and stood glowering into the blaze that was consuming everything in the shed. “Why’d you have to burn it down?”

“It’s Pop’s place.” Matt threw the bottle into the flames. “Why do you care?”

The boy was expressionless, his face red from the light of the fire. His eyes glinted from under his brow, deep pockets of emptiness. Yet he seemed familiar to Matt, in the way that people in dreams are familiar. In that half recognition, it also came to Matt that there was a question in the scowl. The boy himself didn’t know if the act was succeeding. Intimidation was something studied for the kid, Matt saw. It went only as deep as flesh.

“C’mon, kid—start talking. Did you have drugs in the shed or something?” Matt jingled the cuffs on his belt. “I’m with the sheriff’s office—I’m not fooling around.”

The boy gave no sign that he’d heard the cuffs. He muttered something inaudible.

“What did you say?”

“You work for Sheriff Merrill, huh? That kike.” The boy ran a hand over the ruff of hair on his head. The movement made Matt’s skin crawl. “Fuckin’ Jews, man.”

“What is this garbage? How about I just arrest you now, breaking and entering?”

“I didn’t break anything. Didn’t hurt anyone,” the boy said sullenly.

“Trespassing, then. I can cook up something. What the hell are you doing here?”

The boy’s hand came back to its strange movement, caressing the fur on his head as if it were a piece of dead flesh, something acquired from a recent victim. After a moment he spoke again. “I was sleeping here, in that shed. You burned my things, man.”

“I’m sorry, Mister . . . ,” Matt paused and held out his hand, waiting for the boy to say his name, take his hand. There was no response, and Matt dropped his hand. “Well, I’m sorry your property was burned up—what did you have here?”

“Fuck it. After all, I still got my tunes.” He flicked the earphones that hung around his neck and pointed behind him. “I’ll just get the fuck outta here. Don’t fuckin’ worry about it.”

“Okay—but I still need to know what you were doing here in the first place.” “Fuck you. Why do you need to know?”

“Well, this is my pop’s property, and I can arrest you, and I can—”

“Ah, Jesus Fuck-on-a-Stick, don’t give me that shit. Look, man, I just came here for that ’Cuda—the old yellow car parked beside the house.” He gave a malicious smile, as if he’d caught Matt in some sort of trick when he’d refused Matt’s hand.

“I see.” Matt felt a sudden distaste for the boy. It had come with his smile, the slyness of it. “You mean you wanted that old junker I dumped in the lake last week?”

The boy didn’t move. His face shifted, but the smile remained, hollow underneath.

“Well, then again, I might not have dumped it. How about you tell me how you knew about the car, and I might tell you where it really is. How you could get at it.”

“I met this kid Doug, like a month ago. Bought the car from him.” Matt heard the lie in that. Then the liquor in a bottle caught on fire. They stepped back as the bottle spat flames. Matt scratched his head with a soot-blackened hand. “And you had the cash.”

The boy shrugged his expansive shoulders. “Hey, man, Doug sold it. I paid him.”

“Sure he did. Where’s the deed of sale—the papers that prove you own the car?”

The boy gestured at the bonfire, where the coals were red. Despite himself, Matt felt a sudden pity for the boy.

“Look, the car isn’t worth all this.” He stood and brushed dirt and dust and soot off his hands. “It’s just a heap of junk. I had to tow it out of here to get rid of it.”

“I like old muscle cars like that Barracuda. I can make it run again.”

“All right—have it your way.” Matt tossed another bottle into the fire. He watched the flames catch the label and lick the glass slowly black. “So maybe Doug really did sell you the car. I don’t know—who the hell knows? I’ll give you a ride out to where it is, and you can decide if you still want that piece of crap. That okay with you?”

The boy stared across the fire at Matt. “You didn’t tell me where the car is.” “You didn’t tell me how you met my son.”

In the truck, Matt recognized the boy’s reflection in the mirror. It was the shaved head, the sunken eyes, that had thrown him off. “You didn’t just meet Doug, did you?”

Kev sighed and unplugged the earphones from his head. “What?”

“Doug—my son. You went to high school with him. Your name is Kevin, right?”

Kev shrugged.

“Yeah, that’s you all right. Why, you guys were best buds for the longest time. Both of you have changed a little, I guess, since back then. But I never forget a face. And hell, I couldn’t forget your scared faces when I picked you up at the police station.”

Kev shrugged again, as if the conversation were about another person, someone neither of them knew. He turned to look out the passenger window.

“Ah, come on,” said Matt. “You got arrested with Doug back a few years.” Matt accelerated as the car came onto the freeway. “Back when you kids were in high school.”

“Junior high,” muttered Kev.

“Yeah—that was it! But you weren’t here the last year of high school, were you?”

Kev shrugged. The tinny growl of music from the earphones hummed in the car.

“What did you do, drop out? What happened? Why’d you lie to me?”

Matt glanced at him again. “Regardless, I’m sure it was you. Tied up with Doug.”

Kev stared out into the blasted landscape of Smelterville as the car moved further out of the Silver Valley. He clenched and unclenched his fists. “I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember?” Matt shifted savagely, pulling the lever down as the car jumped. “You were the reason he was arrested! You guys were best buds!” Matt shook his head. “Can I take you somewhere other than the car? Where do you need to go?”

“Nah—don’t fuckin’ worry about it.”

“So, your folks aren’t around here anymore then? Did they move away?” Kev shifted his shoulders.

“Okay, so you don’t want to tell me. But if Doug is out there, on the road alone, I’d hope someone would give him a hand. If I can, I’d like to help you out a little too.”

“Don’t fuckin’ worry about it.”

“No, really—how about this. Doug is gone right now. You could sleep on his old army cot, in the garage. But it’s kind of cold without a sleeping bag. You got one?”

“You burned the sleeping bag too.” Kev shrugged. “Don’t fuckin’ worry ’bout it.”

“Hey, I’m sorry. Really. Why didn’t you say you were Doug’s friend? I nearly kicked you off the property.” Matt pointed a thumb at the shield between the secure backseat and the passenger area in front. “I nearly arrested you.”

Kev shrugged and nodded, as if to agree this could have happened.

“Well, now you know where the car is. It’s at my place—sitting out in back of my garage. Heck, we could work on it together like you guys used to. We could get it going.”

Kev rubbed his head, pondering. “I don’t work with Jew-lovers. Fucking kikes.”

Matt slammed on the brakes, throwing them both violently forward before the seat belts caught them. The cab of the truck jerked to a halt, the engine coughing.

Matt looked over at the boy, but Kev just sat upright, facing the windshield, as if he were made of wood. After a moment, he replaced the earphones in his ears.

Matt took his foot off the brake and accelerated again. His voice was tight with anger. “All right, go to hell then. If that’s how you want it. I guess I already offered you the garage to sleep in. And you can have the car. But I’m not going to lift a hand to help you fix that piece of junk. Get it running and leave. Just stay the hell out of my house.”

“No problem.” Kev rubbed his head placidly, as if entirely unperturbed.