Rough Country

and said, “We’re down in the lobby.”
    “Go get a cup of coffee somewhere,” Virgil moaned. “I’ll get up in a minute.”
    “You don’t sound like you’ll be up in a minute,” Mapes said.
    “Ah . . . all right. I’m getting up.”
     
     
     
    THE MORNING was cool and quiet, with a sniff of rain in the air, and when Virgil got out to the parking lot, he found it wet: it had rained overnight, but not much—there were dry rain shadows under the cars. He walked across to the lobby, past the crime-scene van, and found Mapes and an assistant, Herb Huntington, looking at travel brochures.
    “Lot to do around here,” Mapes said. “I didn’t realize.”
    “Your wife’ll be happy to hear that,” Huntington told his boss. “ ‘ Honey, we’re getting out of Bemidji this year. Yes sir, we’re going to Grand Rapids. Fishing, hunting, golf, whatever you want.’ ”
    “You guys got your stuff ?” Virgil asked.
    “Virgil, I’m not saying you’re crazy,” Mapes said. “But I’m gonna hide in the back of the truck while Herb does the work.” Virgil shook his head, a sad smile crossing his face, and Mapes asked, “What?”
    “I’m not really guessing,” Virgil said. “Let’s go get some breakfast—we might be out there for a while.”
    “What do you got that I don’t know about?” Mapes asked.
    “We can’t find Jud Windrow,” Virgil said. “Not even with a LoJack on his car.”
    Mapes hitched up his pants. “Huh. Well, there is that. So—Log Cabin? Pancakes?”
     
     
     
    THEY ATE AND PICKED up the two deputies, made a three-truck caravan out to the Ashbach place. They parked in front of it, which, for a moment, seemed abandoned, a cloud hanging over it. Virgil banged on Slibe’s door, got no answer, and one of the deputies walked around to the garage, looked inside, and called back, “His truck’s gone.”
    “Check the loft.” To Mapes: “Might as well get going.”
    Virgil started toward Wendy’s double-wide, and halfway there, the door opened and Wendy, barefoot, in jeans, came out on the concrete steps. “What’re you doing?”
    “Where’s your father?” Virgil asked.
    “He’s . . . our attorney said we weren’t supposed to talk to you, no matter what you said,” Wendy said. Berni came up behind her, put her hand on Wendy’s shoulder.
    “You gotta do what your attorney says,” Virgil said. “But I’ll tell you, Wendy, if your father is here, and he pops up and he shoots somebody, I’ll send you to prison for murder.”
    “Let me . . . what are you doing out there?”
    Across the yard, Mapes and Huntington were pacing across the garden. “Continuing the search,” Virgil said. He looked at Berni: “Berni, the attorney hasn’t told you anything because you don’t have an attorney. So I’m asking you, do you know where Slibe is?”
    “That’s not fair,” Wendy protested.
    “Fuck fair,” Virgil said. “Berni, if you know, you better say, or you’re gonna be in as deep as Wendy.”
    Wendy said, “I’ll tell you—don’t pick on her. He’s working a job south of town, on the Wendigo farm.”
    “When did he leave?”
    “Usual time, I guess—six-thirty or so. I heard him go,” Wendy said.
    “Didn’t you think it was a little odd, him not going to see the Deuce?”
    “I think he was too freaked out, and then they took the Deuce away,” Wendy said. “Berni and I are going down to St. Paul today, maybe he’ll come. What’re you doing out there, Virgil?”
     
     
     
    HUNTINGTON WAS AT THE BOTTOM of the garden with a metal box slung around his shoulders, holding what looked like a basketball hoop at the end of an eight-foot pole. As they watched, he pushed the hoop out in front of him, so it hovered over the top of the potatoes, and started walking up the length of the garden, Mapes pacing along with him.
    “Wendy, you oughta go see your brother,” Virgil said. “I was down there last night. He could use some support.”
    She turned back to him: “Is he bad?”
    “Bad enough. They can fix him, but it’s going to take time. The biggest threat is infection.” He told her about the visit, turned back, and saw Mapes walking toward them. Huntington was wandering in a circle, stepping on tomato plants and cucumber vines, heedless of the damage, killing them.
    Mapes said, “We got a mass, Virgil. And it’s big.”
    “No question?”
    “Well, we got a mass. You think you know what it is; and it’s consistent. That’s all I can tell