“The worst. A bunch of migrant workers in a pickup. Kids in the back. It was awful.” She looked pale and exhausted. He hugged her then got up to make her a Margarita. She usually drank two, then took a five or ten milligram Valium, after these occasions.

“I’m sorry,” he called from the kitchen but she had followed him.

“Johnny, please take off that gun. It scares me. Doctor Rabun said there was trouble and you made a lot of money.”

“It’s okay, kiddo.”

“Don’t give me that tough guy bullshit. I’ve seen gunshot wounds.”

“Anything you say, baby.” He took off the holster and tossed the whole works into the corner wastebasket. He handed her a drink and they clicked glasses. “You’re all wound up, love, you want to play strip poker?”

“Oh god, why not.” She laughed. “It beats solitaire.”

Chapter 29

July turned into August, August into September, September into golden October, October into dreary November: the ancient cycle of the season was not to be denied by those sorry fools who hated bad weather but were too poor to move south. The books of Sigurd Olson were helping Warlock to accept the climatic injustice of the earth with equanimity. Why piss and moan about the weather when it’s such a big part of reality, he thought. He was toughening his spirit and body in so many ways that he was frequently dizzy with activity. He had cleaned and clumsily partitioned a room in the basement for his own secret place. He had always been a little fearful of basements but now a dark secretive basement seemed particularly suited to his work. He had placed a massive combination lock (33-33-33-1) on the door and was modestly irritated when Diana had evinced no curiosity, but then her own life, too, was a frenzy of activity: with the approaching elections her ERA work was coming to a head.