Rough Country

chained to a tree. They unlocked it, loaded it on the truck, and headed over to the river.
    “Dark,” Slibe said, as they turned off Highway 2 and rolled past a wild-rice processing place, and down to a boat landing.
    “Not bad, when you get used to it,” the Deuce said.
    They put the canoe in the water next to the bridge, working with the Deuce’s headlamp. He dropped in the pack, the rifle, the fishing rod, and the yoga pad.
    Slibe said, “That pad, you’re getting soft.”
    “Takes the hurt out of the roots,” the Deuce said. “Sleep easier.” He took the paddles from Slibe, and added, “I don’t know what you’re up to, Dad, but I’d ’preciate it if you’d leave me out of it.”
    He pushed off, pivoted the canoe, and disappeared into the night.
    Slibe watched until he couldn’t see or hear him, then spit into the water and climbed the bank back to the truck.
    He stopped at an all-night gas station and bought a bottle of beer and drank it on the way home.
    Thinking all the time.
    Working the plotline.

20
    VIRGIL STOOD ON ZOE’S front porch and pounded on the door like a drunk husband. The porch light came on, then the door popped, and Zoe peered at him through the screen. “Virgil?”
    She was still fully dressed.
    “Haven’t found him. I was out at the Ashbachs’. Can I come in?”
    “Sure.” She stepped back, and Virgil pulled open the screen door and followed her into the living room and plopped on the couch, his pistol digging into his back. He’d forgotten about it. He leaned forward, pulled it out, and put it on the coffee table.
    “You’re carrying a gun,” she said. Her voice was apprehensive.
    “Not for you,” Virgil said. “I was out at the Ashbachs’ with a couple of deputies and we were ready to go.”
    “You mean ‘kill somebody.’ ”
    “I mean ‘shoot back.’ We’re dealing with some loonies out there. That goddamn Slibe says his goddamn son’s gone walkabout, whatever that means.”
    “It’s Australian.”
    “I know that. I’m a cop, not an idiot,” Virgil snapped. “Anyway, the Deuce is out wandering around with a gun, in the middle of the night. When I pushed them on it, all of them out there, Berni, Wendy, and Slibe, pretty much agreed on the killer.”
    “The Deuce?” She sounded skeptical.
    “No. You.”
    She sat back. “Even Wendy?” she squeaked.
    “Even Wendy. Though it started with Berni. Anyway, so here I am, ready to do what I should have done a long time ago, but didn’t, because I like you. Go get a rope.”
    “A rope?”
    “Yeah. Like a clothesline or something. Six feet long or so.”
     
     
     
    SHE HAD TO THRASH around for a while, but finally came up with a piece of electrical cord, which Virgil said would have to do, and he brought her back in the living room, looped it around his neck, put his hand under the cord, in front of his Adam’s apple, palm out, turned his back on her, and said, “Strangle me.”
    “What?”
    “Strangle me. Really go for it,” he said.
    “Virgil, I don’t want to hurt you,” she said.
    “Well, if you start hurting me, stop.”
    So she tentatively pretended to strangle him, and he shook her off like a flea, said, “ Really try, or I will kick your freakin’ homosexual ass all over this living room.”
    That got to her, a little bit, anyway, and she tried harder, and he yanked her around and slapped her off the cord, and said, “Just like a little girl. What a fuckin’ pussy. I’ll tell you what, my third ex-wife was half your size, and she could’ve done a hell of a lot better job than that.”
    The goading worked. The third time, she finally went for it, and he had trouble getting loose, yanking her this way and that, and with one heavy heave, yanked her around and she lost her grip on the cord and cried, “My hands . . .”
    He unwrapped the cord and asked, “You all right?”
    “You almost broke my fingers.” She was half lying on the couch, where she’d landed, looking at the reddening grooves across her palms.
    He sat down and looked at her. “All right. You could’ve strangled Lifry, but I don’t see you cutting her head off.”
    “I didn’t strangle anybody,” she said, tearing up.
    “Why didn’t you tell me that you do Jan Washington’s taxes.”
    “I don’t . . .” But then her mouth made an O. “Oh . . . shit . Mabel does!”
    “You never said anything,” Virgil said.
    “But I don’t do their taxes,” she said. “I never even thought . . . Mabel