“Oh?” Deputy Bean seemed genuinely interested, but Stiles caught his roving eye and saw his interest was mainly in the van. He drifted past Stiles’s shoulder in a casual, unsuspicious movement. “What kind of work do you do?” He glanced through the side window, raising a hand to cut the glare on the glass. His gaze fell immediately on the rack of power tools Stiles had taken pains to situate in plain view. It always diverted prying eyes, and Charlie Bean was no exception. “A handyman, eh?” the deputy grunted, moving on to the fine paneling and cabinetry and the hardwood bunk built across the back. “You fix this up yourself?” He nodded appreciatively—“That’s mighty fine work there, mighty fine”—and continued to peer through the window, searching.

Stiles grew a little anxious at the officer’s curiosity. “Is there something I can show you, Deputy?” he finally said.

“Nah, that’s okay,” Bean shrugged, turning from the van with a bit of a guilty chuckle. “But I was just thinking, Mr. St— . . . Chris, right? I was just thinking, Chris, if you’re looking to pick up some change, we’ve got a desk up at the office that could use some minor repairs. You interested?”

“I might be.”

“Well, good,” Bean’s perpetual smile widened. “You want to go look it over now?”

Stiles shook his head. “Maybe later. I was thinking about taking my van somewhere to get the transmission looked at.” He motioned toward the diner across the way. “And I have been looking forward to a good cup of coffee. Can I get you one?”

The deputy held up the still half-full Mountain Dew. “Thanks, but I’d best be getting back. You might try the gas station ’round the block, over by the IGA. They do pretty good work. Tell ’em I sent ya.”

“I’ll do that.”

“And whenever you want to look at that desk, you just stop by, okay?” He started his slow and measured stride up the sidewalk, and Stiles saw for the first time that he was indeed wearing a gun. It was a Ruger .357, holstered way back on his hip, the combat grips mostly hidden by the tail of his jacket. He stopped abruptly and turned. “Oh, Mr. Stiles. I mean Chris. One more thing.” There was a measured pause, then an equally measured grin. “You enjoy your stay in Isherwood. You hear?”

The soldier laughed himself and waved and finally let his jaws unclench. That was too close, he reminded himself. This deputy was sharp, a lot more so than the folksy exterior would suggest. A suspicious lawman could complicate things. “You’re not making this easy, are you, Alex?” he whispered as he locked the van and headed for the drugstore across the street.