Twisted

didn’t find any physical evidence in the front or back seats.
    “Damn,” Boz muttered, poking through the glove compartment.
    “Well, well, well.” Ed called. He was peering into the trunk.
    He lifted out a large Armored Courier cash bag, plump and heavy. He opened it up and pulled out thick packets of hundred-dollar bills.
    “Phew.” Ed counted it. “I make it nineteen thousand bucks.”
    “Damn, my salary without overtime. Just sitting there. Lookit that.”
    “Where’s the rest of it, I wonder.”
    “Which way’s the river?”
    “There. Over there.”
    On foot, they started through the grass and sedge and cattails that bordered the Shenandoah. They searched for footprints in the tall grass but couldn’t find any. “We can look for ’em in themorning. Let’s get to the caves, have a look-see there.”
    Ed and Boz walked down to the water’s edge. They could clearly see Nate’s house overlooking the bluff. Nearby were several cave entrances.
    “Those caves right there. Must be the ones.”
    They continued along the riverbank to the spindly black willow Nate had mentioned.
    This time Boz lost the toss and dropped to his hands and knees. Breathing heavily in the hot, murky air, he disappeared into the largest of the caves.
    Five minutes later Ed bent down and called, “You okay?”
    And had to dodge another canvas bag, as it came flying out of the mouth of the cave.
    “Lordy, whatta we got here?”
    Eighty thousand dollars, it turned out.
    “S’the only one in there,” Boz said, climbing out, panting. “Lester must’ve planted the bags in different caves.”
    “Why?” Ed wondered. “We find one around here, we’d just keep searching till we found the rest.”
    “Wood for brains is why.”
    They poked through a few other caves, feeling hot and itchy-sweaty and sickened by the stink of a dead catfish, but didn’t find any more money.
    They looked down at the bag. Neither said a word. Ed glanced up at the sky through a notch in the Massanuttens, at the nearly full moon, glowing with brilliance and promise. Standing on either side of the bag the two men rocked on their heels like nervous boys at a junior high dance. The shoalbeneath their feet was smooth and black and soft, just like a thousand other banks along the Shenandoah, banks where these two had spent so many hours fishing and drinking beer and—in their daydreams—making love with roadhouse waitresses and cheerleaders.
    Ed said, “This’s a lot of money.”
    “Yeah,” Boz said, stretching a lot of syllables out of the word. “What’re you saying, Edward?”
    “I’m—”
    “Don’t beat around the bush.”
    “I’m thinking, there’s only two people know about it, ’side from us.”
    Nate and Lester. “Keep going.”
    “So what would happen . . . I’m just thinking out loud here. What would happen if they got together—accidental, of course—in a room back at the station? If, say, Lester had his knife back.”
    “Accidental.”
    “Sure.”
    “Well, he’d gut Nate and leave him like that catfish over there.”
    “ ’Course, if that happened,” Ed continued, “we’d have to shoot Lester, right?”
    “Have to. Prisoner gets loose, has a weapon . . .”
    “Be a sad thing to have happen.”
    “But necessary,” Boz offered. Then: “That Nate, he’s dangerous.”
    “Never liked him.”
    “He’s the sort’d go postal in a year or two. Climb up to the South Bank Baptist Church tower and let loose with an AR-15.”
    “Don’t doubt it.”
    “Where’s that knife of Lester’s?”
    “Evidence locker. But it could find its way back upstairs.”
    “We sure we want to do this?”
    Ed opened the canvas bag. Looked inside. So did Boz. Stared for a time.
    “Let’s get a beer,” Boz said.
    “Okay, let’s.”
    Even though alcohol on duty was clearly prohibited by the Procedure Manual.

    An hour later they snuck in the back door of the station.
    Boz went down to the evidence room and found Lester’s knife. He padded back upstairs, made sure that Sheriff Tappin hadn’t returned yet and slipped into the main interview room. He left the knife on the table—under a folder, hidden but not too hidden—and stepped innocently back into the corridor.
    Ed brought Lester Botts up to the door, hands cuffed in front of him, which was definitely contrary to procedure, and escorted him inside.
    “I don’t see why the hell you’re holding me,” the tendony man said. His thinning hair was greasy and