The cold night would be full of urgent calls but I was determined more than ever to find Yellow Knife. I was going to make sure he was off the streets for good.

When I left Louise, she was sitting in the big chair with one of Aida’s romance novels open on her lap, but she wasn’t reading. She looked out the big, black window to something I couldn’t see. All I could see was me, my hard badge glinting in the window’s reflection, a beautiful woman turned away from my glances.

It was a tough night for driving. Snow sank over the ruts in the road like soft ground sifts over a grave. I seemed to be the only one driving the road that night; the back roads were quiet with snow. My wheels made no sound. Snow was so light it sprayed from my car, a silence that made me edgy. Yellow Knife was out there someplace, ready to jump me. I was looking for him, looking hard, but all I found were annoyances, a lot of little annoyances.

There were traveling nights where I felt the need to keep searching. And then there were tangled nights. Long night calls, drives to disturbances where even the fighters have given up and gone to bed. Even when the shades were drawn and the houses were quiet I had to investigate the complaint. And I pounded on doors only to be met by the half-woken complainer peering from behind a half-open door, a woman clutching her nightgown to her throat, the man behind her blinking at me in his sagging underwear, drink turning to the dull dream of regret and headache. Heartache. That was one of those nights. I crossed off the sour complaints and chased the next call. I turned toward Hot Springs from Perma, passed the turnoff where Florence had drowned. A new-moon night. The river held light the way soft stones do.

I should have determined a plan of action to find Yellow Knife. I was chasing hunches. I could have been driving toward Baptiste or way the hell away from him. I spotted some car tracks headed up Bluebird Road and followed them. The road circled back over the river through the badland peaks. Land where the farmers grazed their cattle but no occupied homes existed anymore.

I imagined I wouldn’t find anything out of the ordinary, probably a cheating couple looking for privacy on a dark road. I’d flashed my searchlight on too many breathfrosted cars, saw the startled faces of lovers, the sudden gleam of skin as they scrambled to cover themselves. I expected I’d have to warn another couple about the dangers of asphyxiation, a job that required diplomacy, not quick wit.