back door of the house into the kitchen.

Pete Flores and Vikki Gaddis were waiting for him at the breakfast table, both of them obviously tense, their mouths and cheeks soft, as though they were rehearsing unspoken words on their tongues. In fact, inside the ambience of scrubbed Formica and plastic-topped and porcelain perfection that was Hackberry?s kitchen, they had the manner of people who had wandered in off the highway and had to explain their presence. If they had been smokers, an ashtray full of cigarette butts would have been smoldering close by; their hands would have been busy lighting fresh cigarettes, snapping lighters shut; they would have blown streams of smoke out the sides of their mouths and feigned indifference to the trouble they had gotten themselves into. Instead, their forearms were pressed flat on the yellow table, and there was a glitter in their eyes that made him think of children who were about to be ordered by a cruel parent to cut their own switch.

Whatever was bothering them, Hackberry did not appreciate being treated as a presumption or an authority figure with whom they had to reconcile their behavior. He set the groceries and the pizza boxes on the table. ?What did I miss out on??

?Somebody was trying to take a shot at us,? Pete said.

?Where??

?Up yonder from your north pasture. On the other side of a hill. There?s a church house by a stream.?

?You said ?trying.? You saw the shooter??

?We saw the laser sight,? Pete said.

?What were y?all doing at the church??

?Taking a walk,? Vikki said.

?Y?all just strolled on up the road??

?That about says it,? Pete replied.

?Even though I said stick close by the house??

?We were watching some people get baptized. We were sitting under a willow tree. Vikki saw the red dot on my face and on her hand, then I saw it on the ground,? Pete said.

?You?re sure??

?How do you mistake something like that?? Pete said.

?Why wouldn?t the shooter fire??

?Maybe he was afraid of hitting one of the black people,? Pete said.

?The bunch we?re dealing with doesn?t have those kinds of reservations,? Hackberry said.

?You think we made this up?? Vikki said. ?You think we want to be here??

Hackberry went to the sink and washed his hands, lathering his skin well up on his arms, rinsing them a long time, drying the water with two squares of thick paper towel, his back turned to his guests so they could not see his expression. When he turned around again, his neutral demeanor was back in place. His gaze dropped to Pete?s pants legs. ?You ran across the creek?? he said.

?Yes, sir. Then on inside the church house. You could say we were bagging ass.?

?You think it was Jack Collins??

?No,? Vikki said. ?He?s done with us.?

?How do you know what?s in the head of a lunatic?? Hackberry said.

?Collins let us live, so now he feels he?s stronger than we are. He won?t test himself again,? she said. ?He tried to give me money. I spit on his money and I spit on him. He?s not a lunatic. Everything he does is about pride. He won?t risk losing it again.?

?So who was the guy with the laser sight?? Hackberry said.

?It?s got to be Hugo Cistranos,? Pete said.

?I think you?re right,? Hackberry said. He opened the top on one of the boxed pizzas. ?You spat on Jack Collins??

?You think that?s funny?? she said.

?No, I did the same. Maybe he?s getting used to it,? he said.

?Where you going, Sheriff?? Pete said.

?To make a phone call.? Hackberry walked through the hallway toward the small room in back that he used as a home office. He heard footsteps behind him.

?I apologize for my rudeness,? Vikki said. ?You?ve been very kind to us. My father was a police officer. I?m aware of the professional risk you?re taking on our behalf.?

Better hang on to this one, Pete, Hackberry thought. He sat behind his desk and called Maydeen at the department and told her to put a cruiser on his house. Then he left messages at both of the phone numbers he had for Ethan Riser. Through the side window, he had a fine view of his south pasture. His quarter horses and the windmill and poplar trees were silhouetted against the purple coloring in the west like dimly backlit components in an ink wash. But the fading of the light, the gray aura that seemed to rise from the grass, gave him a sense of terminus that was like a knife blade in his