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The big cop nodded. “Okay. You can go. But if you remember anything that might be helpful, call us.”

The women nodded. They edged out the gate and past the spot where blankets were being held up to keep people like them from ogling the body.

“There's a name etched on the knife handle,” a voice said from behind the curtain. “Anybody know someone called Mad Dog?”

***

That you, Englishman?”

Sheriff English hated that nickname, though what could you expect once your brother started calling himself Mad Dog? The sheriff also thought it was a stupid question. His only remaining deputy, an incompetent bumbler who was most effective while at home and asleep, wouldn't be crawling from behind the wheel of the Benteen County Sheriff's Department's black and white with a walker.

“Yeah, it's me,” the sheriff said, arranging the contraption so he could get around without falling flat on his face.

The chief of the local volunteer fire department stepped out of the chill night and into the glow of the cruiser's interior lights.

“We did what we could,” the man said, his breath fogging. “I think we'll save the out buildings, but there weren't nothing left of the house.”

All that remained of the structure was a series of small bonfires. The volunteers weren't paying much attention to them because they were still working on the flames licking at the garage door.

Other bonfires, smaller ones, burned fitfully all over the yard, evidence that the house hadn't just burned, it had exploded.

The sheriff's mouth felt dry and his breath came harder than normal. “What about my…?”

“Don't know. There's no sign of your brother or that wolf of his. Of course we ain't had a chance to sift through those ashes yet.”

“He would have been here, this time of night,” the sheriff said. Hell, in Benteen County, even on a Friday night, they rolled the sidewalks up at dusk. There was nowhere to go—no movies, no bowling alley. Hardly any bars, and Mad Dog didn't drink. Not recreationally, anyway. “Any idea what happened?”

“Now, there we got lucky,” the chief said. “Billy Macklin stopped by soon after we got here. He said he was taking Dana Miller home, driving by Mad Dog's place just at the moment the place blew.”

Billy Macklin was maybe twenty-one, now, and the son of a member of the Benteen County Board of Supervisors. And the sheriff thought Billy had more likely been parked with Dana Miller somewhere nearby. Though sex in parked cars was the one recreational activity young people in Benteen County could enjoy consistently—this time of the year, with the motor running to supply heat as well as a quick getaway in case someone happened to come along—the sheriff doubted Billy and Dana had been in each other's pants. Not that he thought they hadn't experimented together with their sexuality. They were just odd kids, both of them. Geniuses, for whom all the world seemed to be an ongoing experiment. If Billy and Dana were parked near Mad Dog's place when it blew up, they were more likely dissecting a fresh road kill than trying out positions recommended by the
Kama Sutra
for back seats. Whatever, he was lucky to have a witness of any sort. There wasn't much traffic on these back roads late at night. For that matter, there wasn't much traffic anytime, with the county's population in steady decline.

“Billy says there weren't any flames before the explosion. Says the house was lit up, normal looking. And then it just erupted like it was hit by a cruise missile. He saw someone, back lit, running away. Someone who jumped in a pickup and sped off without lights. You don't suppose that could have been Mad Dog?”

The sheriff wanted to think so, but if it had been his brother the sheriff would have heard from him by now. And his brother didn't have a pickup.

“Not likely,” the sheriff said. “And I've tried calling his cell. Goes right to his messages. I've left several.”

The chief hung his head. “Damn! I am
so
sorry, Sheriff.”

The guys fighting the garage door fire finally managed to extinguish it. One of them took an ax to what remained. The sheriff thought about telling him it wouldn't be locked, but it wasn't like the man was damaging anything that wasn't already ruined. Besides, the guy had probably been looking forward to chopping his way into something from the moment they got the call.

“Billy still here?” the sheriff asked.

“Nah. He's gone on home. Other than telling us what he saw, wasn't nothing he could do to help.”

“Billy have any idea what kind of truck it was?” the sheriff asked.

“No, sir. Says him and Dana was scared and ducked down when it went by and didn't get a good look.”

What
were
Billy and Dana doing out here at this hour? That was just one of many questions the sheriff would ask them when he got the chance.

“Hey Chief! Sheriff!” It was the guy with the ax, hollering across the ruin that was Mad Dog's yard. “The garage is empty. Mad Dog's Mini Cooper isn't in here.”

***

Mad Dog hadn't the foggiest idea what to do next. He shouldn't have run. But Hailey had led the way and he'd had bad feelings about staying. Still had them about going back, even worse now.

He aimed the Mini down the first major street he found and headed east, away from the freeway. Getting out of town wouldn't work. Sooner or later, he was going to have to turn himself in to law enforcement. Getting caught on the interstate, they'd think he was trying to get away from Tucson. It would make him look even guiltier than…well, it was hard to imagine how much guiltier he could look than he already did.

He came to an intersection with a major thoroughfare and turned south. It wasn't like he knew where he was going. He'd been through Tucson a couple of times on his way to visit the Pacific Ocean. He hadn't stopped, except for gas and a meal and, once, to spend the night in a motel. Or had that been Benson or Gila Bend? He couldn't remember.

What he'd seen of the city so far had a surprisingly dim and industrial feel to it. Of the desert, there was no sign—except there were almost no patches of grass and damn few trees. In fact, but for a little fitful post-midnight traffic, there seemed to be hardly any living things in Tucson.

Another intersection, another turn. Back west, this time. Was his subconscious taking him back to the scene of the crime? Telling him to turn himself in now? No. What he wanted was some private place to consider what had happened and what to do about it. He needed to commune with the spirit world. But he didn't have his medicine pouch anymore. And he hadn't packed the rest of his Cheyenne paraphernalia. Not that he actually had to have it, but painting himself, putting on his breechcloth and the headband with the raven feather—it helped him focus on who and what he was. It helped him feel like a Cheyenne shaman, even if the rest of the world thought it was all a bunch of nonsense.

This time the street ended, offering him the choice of north or south. North was wider, brighter, so he went that way even though it would take him back toward Pascua Village. Not a good idea. The police thought he'd killed one of their own. That might lead to a shoot-first-and-ask-later response from any law enforcement agency. In fact, that very concern was why he'd followed Hailey when she ran. And the guy who'd done it, he'd seemed to know exactly what to say and when to say it to deflect the guilt toward Mad Dog. Plus, the guy actually looked Indian. What if Mad Dog's accuser was some well-known local, respected, and believed by the community to be absolutely incapable of killing an officer? And why had the man killed? Mad Dog was going to need contrary theories to that of himself as prime suspect. Right now he didn't have any, and that was why taking time out to commune with the spirits seemed like a good idea.

Then he saw the shop and realized why he'd been driving in circles.

The place was still open. And it would probably stock some of the stuff he needed to make himself feel Indian. He slipped the Mini over into the left lane, made a U-turn, and went back and parked in the vacant lot next to the building. A four-wheel-drive pickup, a Harley, and a battered old Chevy were already parked there.

Hailey stayed in the car when he got out so he didn't worry about leaving the windows down and the doors unlocked, even though this didn't strike him as a great neighborhood. Mostly old motels, some of them the by-the-hour variety. And the business he was going to—well, you wouldn't find what he was looking for in a Circle-K.

Mad Dog pulled the door open. There was a man perusing the magazine racks against one wall. Loud music with a heavy beat boomed from a back room masked by curtains under a sign that said LIVE NUDE GIRLS, 24-7!!! Another guy sat at a counter looking bored.

“What'll it be?” the counter guy asked.

“What have you got in the way of body paint and breechcloths?” Mad Dog smiled, trying not to look as kinky as the question sounded.

***

Excuse me,” Heather said to the stretched blanket that hid the corpse. “Did I hear right? Did you say Mad Dog?”

The man who stood up from behind the blanket was not much taller than Heather. His skin and hair and eyes were very dark and he had cheek bones to die for. He was wearing a uniform that proclaimed him as another Sewa tribal policeman, like the man who'd passed them through the gate.

“Why do you ask?” He stepped around the blanket. He was older than she'd thought at first and there were a couple of bars on his shoulders.

She introduced herself and showed him her Benteen County departmental ID. “My uncle's name is Mad Dog. That's why I wondered.”

The man studied her identity card. “He's what, a biker or something?”

“Actually, he's Cheyenne. Me too, partly, though the bloodline gets pretty thin by my generation.”

The man nodded, though he didn't look convinced. Heather couldn't blame him. He was so clearly Native American while she looked lily white.

“Your uncle, he was here with you tonight?”

“Ah, no actually. In fact, he's still in Kansas. Or I think he is. But the officer at the gate, he asked us if we'd seen a big bald man and that could be him.”

“Describe your uncle for me.”

Heather was feeling increasingly uncomfortable. It couldn't be Uncle Mad Dog, not unless he'd gotten her email and hopped in his car first thing this morning and driven straight through. She supposed that was possible. But her uncle was a pacifist and an opponent of capital punishment. There was no way he would have killed anyone.

“Well, he's about six-two, maybe two-fifty. Middle-aged, but fit. He doesn't look Cheyenne. He's fair skinned like me. Oh, and the bald isn't from hair loss. He shaves his head every day.”

The man nodded. “He carry a knife?”

“Yeah. Pretty much everybody back home has a pocket knife.”

“Describe it.”

Heather dug into her Levis and pulled out a small Swiss Army knife. It had an inch-and-a-half blade, a screw driver of similar size, a tooth pick, and a set of tweezers. “Just like this, only his is red, not pink. He gave my sister and me a pair of these when we were still teens because we were always borrowing his.”

“How about his chrome-handled switch-blade?” the officer said.

“No,” Heather said. “He doesn't own a switchblade. He wouldn't because they're illegal and he wouldn't want to embarrass his brother. My dad's the sheriff.”

“Ah,” the man nodded, as if that explained why a kid like her was carrying a badge.

“It couldn't be him,” Ms. Jardine said.

“And next,” the cop said, “I suppose you're going to tell me your uncle doesn't have some kind of huge beast of a dog that follows him around, or drive a red Mini Cooper with Kansas plates?”

Heather's jaw dropped, but she countered the best she could. “Well, he doesn't have a dog. She's a wolf.”

***

Bits of Mad Dog's house still burned. The fire crew had doused most of them leaving seared patches of lawn that only produced smoke instead of flame.

“Could it have been a gas explosion?” the sheriff asked. What else might cause a house to explode, unless his brother was conducting some sort of strange chemical experiments?

“Nope,” the fire chief said. “Checked the propane tank the moment we got here to turn it off so's it wouldn't feed the fire. Thing was already off.”

“That's right,” English remembered. “Mad Dog was trying to get through the winter without turning on his gas. Said he'd huddle up near his Franklin stove with Hailey and not contribute to our nation's policy of wasting irreplaceable energy resources.”

The chief shook his head. Everybody knew Mad Dog was peculiar, but he had a way of making folks feel guilty for not making similar lifestyle choices. “Not many things will cause a house to blow up like that. Mad Dog don't strike me as the type, though I've heard him say he tried most every drug, back in the day. Any chance he might have tried to brew up some methamphetamines?”

The sheriff smiled. Mad Dog had done it all, from grass to LSD to opiates. But that was a long time ago and his brother had turned into one of the cleanest living people you could meet. If peyote was explosive, maybe, since peyote was considered a holy sacrament by some Native American churches. But even that would surprise the sheriff. Mad Dog didn't need substances to get high. Life got him high. Being Cheyenne got him high. Trying to be a shaman got him higher still.

“No,” the sheriff said. “Mad Dog might do a lot of crazy things. Turning his house into a meth lab isn't one of them.”

The sheriff and the fire chief were wandering about the yard, examining small smoldering clumps that had once been Mad Dog's house or belongings. The sheriff was having a tough go of it because, though it was below freezing again, it was barely so, and the water the fire crew had been spraying was turning into gelatinous mud. Maneuvering his walker across a surface that swallowed its legs instead of supporting them was a problem.