Kirby Harwood’s cell phone rang loud and insistent. Beside him in the queen-sized bed, not watching the sport-fishing reality TV show, Terri-Lee put down her book and frowned.
“Who could be calling at this hour?” she said. She had that tone to her voice again: disapproval, accusation. As if they wouldn’t be getting disturbed like this if only they were living the life they should have been, if Kirby hadn’t gone and fucked up his full ride, dragged them back to this shit-hole town. She had that tone of voice a fair bit these days.
Harwood looked at the display, recognized the number. Was already standing when he accepted the call.
“Harwood.”
“They got the dog.” Bryce Whitmer’s voice, deep and steady. “Came in with a shotgun and blew the lock off the back gate. Had the drop on me before I could go for my gun.”
Harwood walked into the hallway, leaned against the wall. “Bullshit.”
“I wish,” Whitmer said. “I was on my way out to piece out that dog like we planned, figured I wouldn’t need more than the cleaver.”
“Thought those dogs of yours were supposed to be guard dogs.”
“They are. But the guy led them off while that Winslow bitch held the gun on me.”
Harwood rubbed his face. Why’d this have to be so damn difficult when it should have been simple? A little extra cash for a couple of jobs a month, a little rainy-day money, fix the roof on the house and redo the kitchen, maybe pay for some more visits to that fertility doctor who charged so damn much, give Terri-Lee the family she wanted, so maybe she’d stop acting so damn aggrieved all the time.
It was supposed to be easy. Wasn’t nobody supposed to get hurt, not even a damn dog. But Kirby Harwood had seen plenty firsthand how the best-laid plans often turned to shit. He shouldn’t have been surprised that this one was no exception.
“The guy with Jess,” Harwood said. “Midthirties, tall? Look like a hard case?”
“That’s the guy.”
Burke. Who the hell are you, Mason Burke? And why the fuck have you taken such an interest in messing up my little town?
“I’m headed your way,” Harwood said. “Call Cole and Dale, have them meet us. We got to track that bitch down.”
Harwood ended the call. Walked back into the bedroom, where Terri-Lee was reading her book again, some self-help manual, visualize the things you want and they will appear in front of you. Snake-oil bullshit.
“Who was it?” she asked.
“Bryce Whitmer.” Harwood was already crossing to the closet and pulling on his pants. “Had some prowlers lurking around back of his place.”
“So send Dale. He’s Bryce’s brother, for God’s sake.”
Harwood buttoned his shirt, grabbed his Stetson. “Dale’s off tonight. You know how it works.”
His wife sighed, long and expressive. Opened her book again. “They’d damn well better make you sheriff of this county,” she said. “For all the bullshit they throw in our lap.”