She spat toward the grass.

She took her hat off and fanned her face.

As she unbuttoned her wet uniform shirt, she wondered if she had ruined her phone. She had not. While she had been fighting for Deputy Luck’s life, Oppo had reached out again.

Part 5: 103°–96°

Fri, Aug 9, 1:33 PM

To: Dairy Queen ([email protected])

From: Oppo ([email protected])

Subject: Two Things

1. New Rickreiner Tidbits: failed high-school English Lit twice for plagiarizing; failed EMT urine test for using someone else’s urine; failed field-sobriety test by vomiting on Chief Deputy Elvin Lund (deceased) who drove him home to Babette and came away with $500 in Liquor City discount coupons.

2. Silver Alert: Leroy Fanta not responding to multiple contact efforts since asking for information yesterday PM about Golly Bros. property in Town of Leavings.

CHAPTER 27

Fanta made his move. “Why not bring the world to you?”

Faith Golly had put the boy to work watering sod roofs. Jim Golly, with his dog’s help, towed by the harness handle, had herded Leroy Fanta back to the creek for cooling. The madman had shucked his saffron robe. He sat nude on the bottom, immersed to his eyes like a hippo. Fanta sat on the bank, soaking his hobbled feet. His headache had somewhat receded. His brain had slowly clarified. Lamb of God. He shuddered.

“Newspapers and magazines are dead,” he made himself declare. He would never believe this.

“That’s not how it works anymore,” he continued anyway. “We don’t need Life magazine. The world is digital. Everyone is a journalist. People tell their own stories.”

Since the arrival of Golly’s “Lamb of God,” he had listened long enough—hours, it seemed, dappled shadows traveling across the water—to recall and confirm the specific delusion that drove the man. On August 26, in Biarritz, France, at exactly high noon—“new midnight”—outside the hotel where the G7 leaders would be meeting, Golly would immolate himself—like the great martyr Thich Quang Duc—in defense of Mother Earth. In Golly’s retrograde planning, magazine photographers would be there. After that, leaders would lead, and mankind would be saved.

But Golly feared he wouldn’t live that long.

My vegetarian therapy has been too indirect and too slow…

And you, Mr. Fanta, don’t look much better than me…

This did not mean that he would be spared, Fanta understood. He was going to die anyway. He had blundered right into Hell Hollow, had interrupted a glorious martyrdom, and Golly couldn’t let him go. Not that he cared much about his own death, Fanta had reminded himself, which had been a work in progress for years. With his remaining powers, he was ad-libbing a half strategy to save the boy, and now he blundered on.

“Boris Johnson, Emmanuel Macron, those guys can see you right here in the Bad Axe. Justin Trudeau, Shinzo Abe. You don’t have to go to France. You can bring France to you.”