Wes stubbed his cigarette out on the edge of one of the coffee cups that littered his desk “They know  about this out at the farm?”
“I doubt it,” Phin said. “I haven’t heard any screaming. Rachel will tell them when she gets out there.
You want to go out?”
“No,” Wes said, sourly. “Amy won’t tell me anything anyway. When you go, find out if they have a .22.”
“Everybody has a .22,” Phin said. “Hell, I have a .22, or at least, my dad did.”
“I know,” Wes said. “I ran the registration forms. There are almost four hundred of the damn things in  this county alone.”
“An armed populace is a secure populace,” Phin said. “Also, this is southern Ohio. What did you  expect?”
“You have one, Frank has one, Clea’s dad had one, which could mean it’s still at the farm, Ed has one,
Stephen has one, hell, even Junie Miller and Hildy Mallow have one—” He stopped, caught by an idea.
“Your entire city council is armed.”
“That, I didn’t need to know,” Phin said, standing up.
“I went to Cincinnati today,” Wes said, and Phin sat down again. “No bank book anywhere, although
Zane showed it to a couple of people on Friday.”
Phin winced. Missing money and Dempseys were a no-brainer.
“Also, he had the whole council investigated.” Wes tossed a thick folder across the desk to him. “He  had a crackerjack research team. The people at the station thought a lot of him. Evidently he was a damn  good reporter. He’d been an investigative journalist before doctors found his heart problem and made  him quit, but he trained the research team. They thought he was God.”
Phin picked up the folder and began to leaf through it. The top sheaf of papers had his name on them: a  list of everybody he’d slept with for the past ten years, with significant details. “Fuck you, Zane.”
The next set of papers was Hildy Mallow’s arrest record.
“Everybody at the station hated Clea, though,” Wes was saying. “Said she was a conniving, manipulative  bitch.”
“That sounds like Clea,” Phin said, still reading. “Hildy went to jail for protesting the war?”
“Often,” Wes said. “She said Zane tried to talk her into stopping the video on the basis of family values,  and when that didn’t work he threatened to do her arrest record as part of a human-interest story. She  offered him his choice of pictures of her behind bars from her scrapbook and asked him for a copy of the  arrest records because she wants to frame them.”
“Good for her.” Phin flipped through her records, his respect for Hildy growing. “Man, she was busted  everywhere. She—” He stopped when he came to the next set of papers: Virginia Garvey’s record. “He  knew about Virginia’s driving citations.”

“She says he never mentioned them, but he did come by the house. She said he asked Stephen to stop  the video on the family-values grounds again, and Stephen said he’d look into it.” Wes shrugged. “He  probably didn’t use the records because he didn’t need them. They came on board without the threat.”
“Did he have anything on Stephen?” Phin said, stopping to frown at an invoice from an online video-porn  distributor. “He didn’t really think he was going to blackmail Ed for porn, did he?”
“He tried,” Wes said. “Ed told him everybody in town knew he had the best porn collection in southern
Ohio.”
Phin flipped the invoices over and found a medical record. “What the hell? So Frank Lutz had a  vasectomy in 1976. Who cares—” Then he heard Georgia again, talking about the little girl she didn’t  get. “Frank, you moron.”
“Yeah,” Wes said. “Frank’s revenge.”
Phin looked at the Cincinnati address on the top of the form. “Georgia would have left him if she’d  known. How the hell did Zane find this?”
“Look at the next one,” Wes said. “Stephen has Parkinson’s disease.”
“That’s why his hands have been shaking,” Phin said, reading the next medical record and feeling sorry  for Stephen for the first time in his life. “They don’t always, so I thought it was just rage.” He looked up  at Wes. “That’s why Virginia was driving. He didn’t want to have an attack while he was driving.”
“It’s more than that,” Wes said. “He didn’t want anybody to know because of the election.”
“Why? I don’t—”
“Because he thought you’d use it against him,” Wes said, and when Phin jerked his head up, outraged,
Wes added, “He’d have used it against you.”
Phin sat back and stared down at the folder. “Christ, what a mess.”
“You know, this might be pretty much the last chance for him,” Wes said. “Parkinson’s is progressive,  and he’s getting older. He only has to keep it a secret for another two months to win this time. But  another two years, in this town—” Wes shook his head. “It’s not like Temptation’s ever given him a  break before.”
Phin winced. He’d never thought of it that way, and for the first time he wondered what it must be like to  be Stephen Garvey in Temptation. While he’d been trapped under the weight of dozens of Tucker  victories and one loss, Stephen had been carrying dozens of losses and one victory. What must it be like  to be destined to strive for something you were lousy at, that your father had been lousy at, and his father  before him? What would that do a man?
What would a man do to end that?
Phin met Wes’s eyes. “So did Zane threaten him with the medical report?”
Wes shook his head. “Stephen swears it was all family values and agreement.”

Phin spared one last sympathetic thought for Stephen and then flipped through the rest of the papers,  through Davy’s record, and a page on Sophie’s relationship with the therapist that he definitely didn’t  want to read, and a much thicker sheaf of pages on a Michael Dempsey that had to be dear old Dad. At  the bottom of the Dempsey stack was a final clip of papers, and Phin stopped when he saw the  newspaper article on top.
Mayor’s Wife Dies in Accident.
“He really was going after that, then,” Phin said, shuffling through Ed’s autopsy report and the police  report with crime-scene photos and the newspaper report and Diane’s obituary. He tried not to look at  the photos, at her pale face lit starkly against the dark of the grass. “What did he find?”
“I don’t know,” Wes said. “But I don’t think Zane bluffed anybody. I think everything he said was true.
Had a real nose for secrets, Zane did, not that there’s anything there to show Diane’s death wasn’t an  accident.”
Phin tossed the folder back on Wes’s desk. “So what do you conclude from this?”
“There’s a thorough report in there on all four of the Dempseys,” Wes said. “And there are reports on  you and all the council members. Except one.”
Phin felt sick. “Maybe he just couldn’t get anything on her. She’s damn near perfect.”
“Nobody’s perfect,” Wes said. “Not even your mother. If he took Diane’s file to her and told her he  was going after you—”
Phin thought of Liz saying, “anything.” “What do you want?”
“Bring me your dad’s .22,” Wes said.
“Fuck,” Phin said.
Out at the farm, Sophie stared miserably across the kitchen table at Davy while Lassie sniffed his  suitcase by the door and Amy glared at them both. “You really have to go?”
“Yes,” Davy said. “I’m catching a ride with Leo, but we’ll both be back Friday, so stop looking so  tragic.”
“I’m not tragic,” Sophie said, and Amy said, “Sure, go ahead, just desert us,” but then the phone rang,  and when Sophie picked it up, it was Brandon.
“Are you all right?” he said. “Amy called and said you’d fallen in a river. I think I should come down  there.”
Sophie glared at Amy, who looked at the ceiling. “No, you should not come down here. I’m fine.
Brandon, you should stop calling. I appreciate your—”
“Sophie, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and I think you should come back home,” Brandon said. “I

realize you feel the need to act out your anger with this man—”
“Brandon, you’re a wonderful man,” Sophie said. “You deserve somebody who loves you completely,  not somebody who love you comfortably. I—”
“Comfort lasts,” Brandon said. “The kind of passion you’re talking about doesn’t. A year after you  marry this man—”
“We’re not getting married,” Sophie said, looking at the pretty apples on the wall. “He’s not that serious  about me.”
“This guy needs his ass kicked,” Davy said, and Amy said, “Which one, Phin or Brandon?”
“Both,” Davy said. “The two of you have terrible taste in men.”
When the silence on the other end of the line lengthened, Sophie said, “Brandon?” and he said, “You  deserve more than that, Sophie.”
“I know.” Sophie swallowed. “I’m working on it. But—”
“Sophie, I think Amy’s right I should come down there—”
“I have to go, Brandon,” Sophie said. “I’m sorry. Good-bye.”
She hung up and said to Amy, “Do not call him again. Stay out of my life.”
“At least he loves you,” Amy said. “He’s boring, but he’s committed. The mayor doesn’t even—”
“Yes, he does,” Davy said. “He gets my vote. Now, let’s discuss the stupidity of a Dempsey getting  involved with a cop.”
“I’m not involved,” Amy said, trying to sound tough and only sounding more miserable because of it.
“He hasn’t even called since he yelled at me.” She shoved back her chair. “It doesn’t matter, I have a  real problems. I have to finish cutting a documentary. I don’t have time to worry about some guy.”
When she’d gone, Sophie sighed. “Do you really have to go?”
“Things to take care of,” Davy said. “But I’ll be back. Don’t let her shoot anybody till I get here.”
Sophie swallowed. “You don’t think—”
“I don’t know,” Davy said. “I wish the cop would just take her over. She needs a strong hand, and  you’ve babysat her long enough.”
“Hurry back,” Sophie said.
Phin’s next two days were lousy with problems and frustration, alleviated only by the time he spent with
Sophie. Phin watched Wes move up to two packs a day and thought, We have to finish this before he

gets lung cancer. It didn’t help that his dad’s .22 was gone from the locked gun cabinet. “Anybody  could have taken it,” he told Wes. “The key’s on the top, up where Dillie can’t reach it, but we weren’t  trying to keep anybody else out. I haven’t looked in there for over ten years. It could have been gone  that long.”
“Great,” Wes said, and turned down a pool game to obsess over his lack of evidence again.
The premiere took over the townspeople’s attention, possibly because Zane had been such an outsider,  probably because the video was more interesting because it was about them. Stephen suggested the  schools assign it as homework. “I have to write a report,” Dillie said on Friday, “so I have to watch TV.
Jamie Barclay said I could watch at her house and then we could do our reports together—isn’t that a  good idea?”
“Oh, yeah,” Phin said, and thought, I hope to hell they’ve got a G-rated version of that video.
“I’m going out to the farm,” he told Liz, who looked at him with frozen contempt. He went out to the  car, grateful that it had finally stopped raining, and then caught sight of the water tower on the Hill above  him.
It was peeling.
“What the hell happened?” he said, when he’d tracked down the Coreys.
“It’s that stupid cheap paint,” the older one said. “When that hard rain hit, it just peeled right off.”
“It’s cool,” the younger one said. “Looks like blood dripping off. The newspapers were here taking  pictures.”
Phin looked back up the Hill where the tower did indeed look like a huge bleeding phallic symbol. “Can  you get that red off and paint it white?”
“Oh, yeah, like we’re gonna strip the water tower,” the older Corey said. “Just give it a couple of days  and it’ll be off anyway. The tower’s gonna be a weird color, though. That red doesn’t stick, but it stains.”
That would explain why the tower looked rosier this time, even more like flesh than before. Wonderful.
He let the Coreys go and drove out to the farm for sanity and comfort, and by the time he’d slammed  the car door, Sophie was on the porch. He went toward her, feeling better just looking at her, but she  shook her head and whispered, “This isn’t a good time.”
“Now what?” His irritation married his frustration and made him snarl. “Amy build a bomb? Davy decide  he hates me again? Or are you just playing hard-to-get because you want to go out to dinner? Come on,
Sophie, I’ve had a lousy day. Fuck me.”
Sophie winced, and he frowned at her, wondering when she’d turned into a prude. The screen door  slammed as he said, “What’s wr—” and then a fist slammed into his eye and he was on his back in the  dirt, his head throbbing.
“Brandon.” Sophie said, and Phin looked up through the pain at a guy the size of a tank.
“You son of a bitch,” the therapist said.