That bitch reminds me of my old girlfriend, Baker would say when we watched the six o’clock news. He kept a picture of the girlfriend in his wallet and showed it to me once. She did look a lot like Kellie Lankershim — blonde, cute, big dimples.

Kellie disappeared the week after Baker strangled me at the stable. Guess what? Her apartment was in a complex by the river where one of Baker’s doper friends lived. Baker’s doper friend had a white van. The morning Kellie disappeared, someone saw a white van peeling out of the parking lot where Kellie’s purse and keys were found.

When I heard that, I went to the police station and told them what I knew. But they didn’t listen to me and they never found her.

For a while I went on search parties for Kellie Lankershim. We searched the fields and woods. I talked to Kellie’s sister and mother. I tried to do something.

TWELVE

ONAKONA

Working at the prison, I got to where I didn’t like myself anymore, so I quit. But it’s where I met Jerry. He was a correctional officer, too. He quit a few years after I did. We started going to flea markets and got friendly with some of the dealers. They’d say, You two ought to set up a booth. That’s what we do now — travel around on weekends, sell things.

We stayed in Onakona. We bought a little house in the country on top of a hill. We can look for miles from our front porch. We see eagles and deer and hear coyotes at night. There’s a cute main street downtown and the beautiful Mahaskah State Park.

The American Gothic painter was born in Onakona and he’s buried here, too. He was gay, married to a woman. When they divorced, the painter’s family disowned him. The painter didn’t want to be buried with his family but he ended up in their plot anyway, under their big stone lion. His tombstone is just a little square with his name and years. He didn’t want nothing fancy.

Later they named the local school for him. There’s an annual art festival in his honor. He grew up in a house not far from mine. They say he painted on rocks there and if you’re lucky you’ll find one.

I kept Chico and Mick at a stable nearby for awhile. They’d graze in the same big pasture this painter used to sit in with his easel and canvas and his little folding stool. The pasture looks like his paintings — hilly, rolling, really green. At one end of the field is a falling-down barn with one of the painter’s murals on it, but nobody did anything to preserve it and you can hardly see it now.

BAD WEATHER OR NOT