He sniffed the air wishfully, as if his quarry might have some telltale scent he could follow. If only it were that easy. But there was nothing, only the aroma of fresh coffee drifting over from the diner. His stomach groaned. He could use something to wash down that damned Egg McMuffin.

“Pardon me, bud,” someone said from behind him in a slow drawl, “you wouldn’t have a spare nickel, would you?”

Stiles turned, half-expecting some down-on-his-luck derelict scrounging for Ripple money. What he didn’t expect was a uniform.

The deputy was standing by the Pepsi machine outside the barbershop, counting out a handful of change he’d quarried from his pocket. He was really wearing only an officer’s coat and cap; the rest of his uniform, a plaid shirt and Levi’s and a worn pair of Converse tennis shoes, were not very businesslike, but somehow fit the rest of the town. He wasn’t even wearing a gun. He was at least ten years older than Stiles and a few inches taller, and the snug fit of his clothes suggested that he ate better and a bit more often.

“Sure,” Stiles managed, digging into his pocket but keeping his arms close to the body to hide any bulge from his shoulder holsters. He pulled out a coin and flipped it to the deputy, received a nod and an appreciative horsegrin in return.

Gears were turning in Stiles’s head. He’d dealt with the law before, more times than he cared to remember. And something on a purely gut level told him that this man wasn’t what he appeared to be. This one was sharp. He’d have to be careful.

The officer punched the button for Mountain Dew (appropriate for the surroundings) and pulled a hair-flecked towelette from his collar. “Thanks again, Russell!” he yelled back into the shop, running a hand over his close-cropped hair. The man inside with the broom nodded and waved.

He turned and ambled slowly toward the van like a big, lanky bear, extending a gibbonous right hand. “The name’s Bean. Charlie Bean. Either one’ll do. I don’t think we’ve seen you ’round here before, have we?”

“My first time,” Stiles said with a smile accepting the greeting. The handshake was a real knucklepopper, one of those manly rites of passage that some individuals never seem able to surrender. Stiles just winced a little and endured. One thing he’d learned over the years was to avoid attracting attention, especially the law’s, and matching the deputy strength-wise might tend to make him stick in mind a little longer than necessary. “Chris Stiles. It’s good to meet you.” He sighed (mostly from getting his hand back) and looked around him. “You’ve got a pretty nice little town here.”

Bean laughed, probably at the familiarity of the line. “We like it,” he nodded. “It ain’t nothing big, you know, but it’s comfortable. You got relations around here, Mr. Stiles? Coming to visit, or . . .” He left the line open deliberately. Stiles smiled to himself. The deputy was baiting him already.