He swished back a hefty shot of Walker and stared through the tall weeds into the moth-shrouded forest. Then he shrugged.

Big deal. So I bust an axle?

CHAPTER 15

“When, Sheriff?”

The man’s voice rose angrily.

“When?”

With the description hair on fire, Denise had perfectly captured runty, rusty-haired, overboiling Father Paul McCartney, hardly thirty years old, director of Our Lady of the River Catholic Mission.

“When-when-when does somebody step up and do something?”

She felt tired, anxious about Taylor, desperate for Harley to get home, worried what Belle might say to him about her fabricated affair with David Morales and her potentially real pregnancy. Was Taylor hearing the Morales rumor? Did that explain his trouble?

She stared at Father McCartney in his Roman collar, cargo shorts, striped tube socks, and Teva sandals. She appreciated his concern for the homeless, but she didn’t have the energy for his histrionic language. Who, specifically, did the reverend father want to do what?

“Father,” she said, just managing to stay patient, “we found a dead man this morning. What we are doing, the Bad Axe County Sheriff’s Department, is we are investigating a homicide.”

“Investigating,” he repeated sourly.

“That’s correct.”

He had already implied a difficult history with the cops in La Crosse, who didn’t take his concerns seriously. He had already made it clear that before her desk stood a warrior, prepared to fight all comers. Good for him. She felt this sincerely. But she was not his bone to chew.

“We are investigating one homicide, in our jurisdiction.”

“Five men!” he exploded. “Five of God’s children since last summer, disappeared into thin air! When do we stop investigating and do something?”

So he proposed that she should stop investigating? And do what? What kind of something?

She held her tongue. Denise, sensing her need, had brought her an ice-cold Mountain Dew as she ushered in the priest. Sheriff Kick sipped from the bottle and looked away. Denise was heading off-duty now. Beyond the sheriff’s office window, etched against the vehement red surrender of the day, her lovely friend trundled out into the soybeans, uprooted the BARRY HER and WHY ARE YOU KICKING YOURSELF? signs and delivered them to the dumpster.

Feeling renewed by this, the sheriff asked Father McCartney, “What makes you so sure that those five men didn’t just move on? They’re homeless, transients. Isn’t that what they do?”

Her question tormented the young priest, the paucity of her understanding apparently beyond reply. He paced back and forth in front of her desk, muttering and fulminating. Bless his heart. She meant that. He cared. More people needed to care.

“What makes you think there might be crimes involved?”

He drew a long and weary breath. “Sheriff, I have been serving the homeless community since Jesus was a boy.”

Less than ten years, she guessed, given his age. “Thank you for your service.”