Scowling, he put the car in gear, left the trailer park, and headed back across town. His watch beeped but he couldn’t remember why he’d set it for seven o’clock. It was almost dusk.

He found Isherwood just as he’d left it earlier. Restive. Sleepy. Catatonic. The main street saw few cars and the shops even fewer customers—what shops were open. Many hadn’t even bothered. The apparent emptiness of the town didn’t cause any great concern in Charlie Bean. Isherwood was never a lively place except for special occasions like Christmas or the Fourth of July or when the Hoosiers won the NCAA title. But the shops were normally open, all of them, rain or shine, waiting for that one tourist who might wander through and leave a buck or two behind. He slowed the car and peered into the darkened windows that lined the block. The lights of the barbershop and the Woolworth’s were usually out by seven on a Sunday, but the knowledge that they and others had not been on at all today bothered him. Across the street Moore’s was still open—a Sherman tank couldn’t keep Sharon Lou from her business—but only for the moment. The lights in the rear were winking out in succession, and he realized how much slack the drugstore had been taking up. With its closing, the street was plunged into a gloom that only deepened with the flight of the sun.

He shivered. Must be something going around, he thought. Another Asian influenza, maybe an epidemic. Hell, the marshal hadn’t even made it in today. Bean coughed by association and felt his forehead and made a mental note. Nyquil and vitamin C and a lot of zinc. Stop by the IGA before it closes.

He couldn’t get his mind off Susie. Why don’t you call her? a voice kept nagging, though another retorted that she wouldn’t talk now any more than the five times earlier. She had ran off to Bedford last night after he’d gone to bed, and her parents’ home was as much a recognized sanctuary as the church. Norman and Bernice were always cloyingly protective—her mother had already rebuffed each of his calls, answering in a burst of short, staccato yesses and nos. Another call would not change anything. Why waste the time?

Yeah. Why?

He steered into the Sunoco station just as it was shutting down for the night. The sign was still lit and the doors open, but Kenny Houter was already out front in his stained coveralls, pulling the heavy tire displays toward the bays and struggling to make headway as the wiggling casters kept catching in the rutted asphalt drive. The young man grinned when he saw the deputy get out to help him. “I ’preciate the hand, Charlie,” he sighed. “These babies can be a bitch by yourself.”