Inhuman

would be all right. He pulled into his slot in front of the cream-colored building that housed the sheriff's department. Questions would be fine, as long as she remained his friend. He believed… hoped… she would.
    He climbed out and set off on foot for one of Midland's institutions—a watering hole called The Bar. It was only half a mile away, on the other side of the railroad tracks. Jimmy Shaw had spent his last night on Earth there.
    This was one of the peculiarities others noticed about him—his penchant for walking whenever possible. Pedestrians were regarded with some suspicion in Midland, but walking was a habit he'd been unwilling to give up. He couldn't see the point in shutting himself up in a vehicle any more often than he had to, doing damage to the earth and the air in order to avoid using his body.
    People did just that all the time, though. Most claimed they needed to save time. It was true they had little enough of that—their lives were so soon ended. But Nathan didn't see them treating time as precious otherwise. They'd sit in their cars at a fast-food place for fifteen minutes when it would be quicker to park and go inside.
    No, he blamed the modern culture of urgency. Only the most urgent sensations, emotions, and situations were considered important. They called it living life to the fullest. Not surprisingly, many sought numbness in alcohol or the pervasive voyeurism of reality TV, while others tried to live a perpetual peak experience through drugs, sex, or celebrity. Ordinary lives, ordinary living, had little value.
    Nathan thought people needed to wash dishes by hand sometimes. Prepare their own meals more often. And take walks.

    THE Bar was a flat, fading structure with little to recommend it from the outside. Inside it was dim and smelled of grilled hamburgers and beer. The five-o'clockers hadn't hit yet, so there weren't many customers. It still took the manager several minutes to find time for him.
    The woman was over fifty and over six feet, with poufy hair and lips greased to an immaculate shine. "Jackie Montoya," she said, holding out a hand. "I'm night manager. Is there a problem?"
    "No, ma'am." She had a good handshake, firm without trying to prove anything, and she didn't hold on too long. "I'm Sergeant Hunter. I've got some questions about one of your customers last night. Jimmie Shaw."
    Her glossy lips tightened. "Look, I want to help and all that, but I already told that other officer all I knew."
    Nathan let that sink in a beat. "Other officer?"
    "The detective. Cox, Fox—something like that. Little guy with a shiny face."
    "Eldon Knox."
    "That's him. He's already got his witness, so I don't see what more I can do for you."
    The flush of anger took a second to dissipate enough for Nathan to speak calmly. "I apologize for the inconvenience, ma'am. I know you're busy, but I do have to ask some questions. Is there someplace quiet we could talk?"
    She heaved a sigh, looked around, and grimaced. "Might as well make it my office. Your uniform puts some of my customers off. Come on."
    She set a quick pace in spite of the heels that must kill her feet by the end of the night. Nathan followed.
    Her office was a tiny, cluttered cubby just past the rest-rooms. It stank of ashes and cigarette smoke. She shifted a pile of computer printouts off the wooden chair and told him to have a seat. He did.
    Immediately she lit a cigarette. "Okay. Like I told the other guy, Jimmy's a regular. He doesn't—didn't—come in every day, like some. Doesn't work downtown, does he? But he has—had—a taste for the panty hose crowd, if you get what I mean. Women in heels with office jobs. Did pretty well with them, too."
    "How did he do last night?"
    Her smile was quick and cocky. "Just fine." The smile died. "Or not so fine, maybe, if she's the one who killed him. He left with her about midnight."
    "Who?"
    "Well, I didn't know her—don't think I've ever seen her in here before. But Ed Bates did. He's a real regular, in here every night, and he knew her, see? That's why that detective took Ed with him, so he could make a statement. Lord, but Ed'll be full of himself." She inhaled hard enough to sink her cheeks in, then blew the smoke out her nose. "If she turns out to be your killer, he's going to be dining out on his story for months."
    "Did you learn the name of this woman?"
    "I heard Ed telling the detective about her. We all did. She's the one who did his therapy after he totaled his pickup a