“Don’t fall in love with a whore,” Sam Frye said. “If anyone asks, those girls will know us. They know we were here, passing through. Accounting for our time.”

“When do we get the goddamn call?”

“It happens when it happens,” Sam Frye said. “Jesus Christ, kid. Have you loaded your guns?”

“Sure,” Toby said. “And the fucking car has plenty of gas.”

“We won’t be using that car,” he said. “It stays here. Our car is waiting across the street at the truck stop.”

“What the fuck you talking about?”

Sam finished his cigarette and ground it out under his pointy-toed black cowboy boot. He lifted his eyes and gestured, letting out a long stream of smoke.

“Only car I see is a cop car,” Toby said. Sam leaned against the wall in his undershirt and underpants, nothing else on but his pair of boots.

“That’s the one.”

“You must be crazy.”

“Shut up and follow me,” Sam Frye said, moving toward the motel room and walking inside. He unzipped a black canvas bag and tossed the tan uniform with all the patches on the bed, pulling out a pair of spit-polished lace-up shoes. “I wear this.”

“And what do I wear?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Sam Frye said. “You’re the prisoner.”

“The fucking what?”

Sam Frye pulled out a pair of handcuffs and tossed them on the bed. He looked at his Timex. The wind kicked up outside, blowing open the motel room door, a hard rain coming back in and hammering the parking lot. He walked over and closed the door with a soft click.

“I don’t understand,” Toby said.

Sam pulled off his T-shirt and slipped into the cop uniform shirt, pinning a star on his chest. He strapped on the gun belt and shook his head at the kid. “You don’t have to,” he said. “Just stand there and watch me. And keep this gun in your boot. When I say shoot, you shoot. OK?”

TEN

Caddy parked her truck outside the Southern Star just as the storm really picked up, the big oak branches on the town square whipping about, a mean rain hammering the sidewalks of downtown Jericho. She had her radio set to the local country station, Merle and George Jones singing “Yesterday’s Wine,” one of her all-time favorites. She thought about her and Jamey Dixon listening to that song as they worked on the old barn at The River, both of them dusty and worn-out, feeling like they were really getting to the heart of something good. She could still see the thick scar on Jamey’s shoulder where an inmate in Unit 23 had tried to kill him for not joining up with the Aryan Brotherhood. Damn, she missed that man.