He’d already pulled out, and you can tell when somebody wants you to pass. They’ll slow down, maybe because they’re drinking beer and don’t want to turn one up in front of you because they don’t know if you’re the law or not, since all they can see is your headlights. They’ll poke along and poke along, waiting for you to pass, slowing down to a crawl in the straightaways, and it’s maddening if it’s happening to you, if you’re riding around wondering why your wife’s boss keeps driving by the house and waving out the window, almost as if he’s looking to see who’s home, if you’re riding around wondering if you’re riding around a little too much.

I got right on his bumper and rode that busted set of tail-lights and watched that stiff neck and that cap pulled down low over his eyes, that head turning every five seconds to the rearview mirror for eight or nine miles, him crawling, me crawling along behind him, letting him know that somebody was onto his game and following him all the way home. I went all the way down through Yocona bottom behind him, where it’s straight for three miles, nothing coming, him speeding up a little, me speeding up, too, thinking: You son of a bitch. Pull your dick out in front of her now. Swing that dick around like a billy club now.

I kept drinking and following him and he started weaving and I did, too, and we almost ran off the road a few times, but I stayed right on his ass until he got down to Twin Bridges and tried to outrun me, stayed right with him or pulled up beside him and then I eased off, thinking he might have a wreck. I didn’t want to kill him. I just wanted to talk to him. I kept telling myself that. I kept drinking. Everybody wanted pussy and pussy was good. But this guy had a hell of a way of going after it. I laid in there right on his ass, and when he turned around in George Fenway’s driveway, I turned right around with him and followed him almost all the way to Bobo.

I let him get a little ahead of me. I knew where he lived. Deputy sheriff had told me, and his name was on the mailbox. I knew he was trying to run, hide, I knew by then that he knew he was caught somehow. I knew there had to be a whole lot of fear going through his mind, who was after him, what’d they want, all that kind of stuff. He just hadn’t thought about any of that when he flicked his Bic.