Practical Demonkeeping

buried his face in her hair and held her tight so she could not pull away and see the tears in his eyes.
    “Jenny,” he said softly, “it’s been a long time…”
    She shushed him and dug her hands into his hair. “Everything will be fine. Just fine.”
    Perhaps it was because they were both afraid, or perhaps it was because they really didn’t know each other; it might even have been that by playing a role they would not have to face anything but the moment. The roles they played throughout the night changed. First, each gave when the other needed, and later, when need was no longer an issue, they played their roles out to felicity. It progressed thusly: she was the comforter, he the comforted; then he was the understanding counselor, she the confused confessor; she became the nurse, he the patient in traction; he took the role of the naive stable boy, she the seductive duchess; he was the drill sergeant, she the raw recruit; she was the cruel master, he the helpless slave girl.
    The small hours of the morning found them naked on the kitchen floor after Travis had played a rampaging Godzilla to Jennifer’s unsuspecting Tokyo. They were crouched over a cooking toaster oven, each with a table knife loaded with butter, poised like executioners waiting for the signal to drop their blades. They polished off a loaf of toast, a half-pound of butter, a quart of tofu ice cream, a box of whole wheat cream-sandwich cookies, a bag of unsalted blue corn chips, and an organically grown watermelon that gushed pink juice down their chins while they laughed.
    Stuffed, satisfied, and sticky-sweet they returned to bed and fell asleep in a warm tangle.
    Perhaps it wasn’t love that they had in common; perhaps it was only a need for escape and forgetting. But they found it.
    Three hours later the alarm clock sounded and Jenny left to go wait tables at H.P.’s Cafe. Travis slept dreamless, groaning and smiling when she kissed him good-bye on the forehead.
    When the explosions started, Travis woke up screaming.

Part 4
MONDAY
The many men, so beautiful!
    And they all dead did lie:
    And a thousand slimy things
    Lived on; and so did I.
    —Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Rime of the Ancient Marnier
    23
RIVERA
    Rivera came through the trailer door followed by two uniformed officers. Robert sat up on the couch and was immediately rolled over and handcuffed. Rivera read him his Miranda rights before he was completely awake. When Robert’s vision cleared, Rivera was sitting in a chair in front of him, holding a piece of paper in his face.
    “Robert, I am Detective Sergeant Alphonse Rivera.” A badge wallet flipped open in Rivera’s other hand. “This is a warrant for your and The Breeze’s arrest. There’s one here to search this trailer as well, which is what I and deputies Deforest and Perez will be doing in just a moment.”
    A uniformed officer appeared from the far end of the trailer. “He’s not here, Sergeant.”
    “Thanks,” Rivera said to the uniform. To Robert he said: “Things will go easier for you if you tell me right now where I can find The Breeze.”
    Robert was starting to get a foggy idea of what was going on.
    “So you’re not a dealer?” he asked sleepily.
    “You’re quick, Masterson. Where’s The Breeze?”
    “The Breeze didn’t have anything to do with it. He’s been gone for two days. I took the suitcase because I wanted to know who the guy was that was with my wife.”
    “What suitcase?”
    Robert nodded toward the living-room floor. The Haliburton case lay there unopened. Rivera picked it up and tried the latches.
    “It’s got a combination lock,” Robert said. “I couldn’t get it open.”
    Sheriff’s deputies were riffling through the trailer. From the back bedroom one shouted. “Rivera, we’ve got it.”
    “Stay here, Robert. I’ll be right back.”
    Rivera rose and started toward the bedroom just as Perez appeared in the kitchen holding another aluminum suitcase.
    “That it?” Rivera asked.
    Perez, a dark Hispanic who seemed too small to be a deputy, threw the suitcase on the kitchen table and opened the lid. “Jackpot,” he said.
    Neat square blocks of plastic-covered green weed lay in even rows across the suitcase. Robert could smell a faint odor like skunk coming from the marijuana.
    “I’ll get the testing kit,” Perez said.
    Rivera took a deep sniff and looked at Perez quizzically. “Right, it could be just lawn clippings that they weighed out in pounds.”
    Perez