“If he didn’t do anything wrong, I don’t have a beef with him.”

“You cops always got a beef with us.” Shaking his head, he puts his hands on his hips. “Can I go now?”

“Don’t leave town.”

“Fuckin’ cops.” Turning away, he slogs up the steps and disappears into the trailer.

I look at Pickles. “Nice young man.”

Pickles grins. “You think he’s scary, you should see his mama.”

“Big lady, huh?”

“No, just hairier.”

There is an underground society that runs beneath the Norman Rockwell–façade of most small towns, and Painters Mill is no exception. While regular folks are working at their jobs, paying their bills and raising their families, others are selling drugs, getting high and generally leading lives of crime.

In Painters Mill, the Brass Rail Saloon is the heart of that underground, and it’s the first stop on my list after Pickles and I leave the Krause place. I’m surprised to see the parking lot half full. Then it strikes me that the Farnhall plant’s first shift lets out at four o’clock. It’s a quarter past, so the booze is just beginning to flow. Tongues will be loosened. Inhibitions will wane. Drugs will be snorted, swallowed, injected, bought and sold. We’re right on time.

I park next to a vintage VW with a bumper sticker that reads: If you don’t like my driving call 1-800-EAT-SHIT. In the back of my mind, I hear the clock ticking down those crucial first forty-eight hours. The passage of time taunts me. The Planks have been dead for over fourteen hours now and still I have nothing.

“So is Drew as big as his brother?” I ask Pickles as we get out of the Explorer.

“No, but he’s a mean son of a bitch.”

“Terrific.”

“Smells better, though.”

“Something to look forward to.”

Ten yards from the entrance, I feel the bass rumble of rock music vibrating beneath my feet. I push open the door and we step inside. The place is as dark and dank as an underground cave. I look up, half expecting to see bats hanging from the ceiling. Cigarette smoke hovers like fog. On a lighted dance floor a dozen or so bodies undulate to some chainsaw rock music I don’t recognize.

My eyes have barely adjusted when Pickles jabs a finger toward the bar. “Speak of the devil,” he says.

I follow his point and spot Drew Krause. Pickles was right; he’s not as big as his brother. Maybe six feet. One-eighty. He wears faded blue jeans and a navy T-shirt with the phrase I didn’t do it emblazoned on the front. He looks like a normal guy, enjoying happy hour after a long day. But I learned a long time ago just how deceiving appearances can be. That’s particularly true in the drug world.