“Which one’s that?”

“Let’s say either one.”

Leland shrugged. “Don’t know.”

“Okay. Maybe take a guess.”

“It’s been awhile.”

“You ought not lie to me, Leland.”

Leland appraised him. A dull expression in his eyes. Opaque. Like a drawn curtain. “Okay, I saw Jack. So what?”

“So Jack pays you a visit. You. A man he hasn’t spoke to in years. Now, why would he do that? I can’t think of any reason. Except one.”

Leland stretched and picked up the Coors. He popped the tab and raised the can to his lips and sipped.

“Next thing I know,” Doyle said, “I got a dead correctional officer and two missin’ boys and a vehicle looks like a deer’s been gutted in it. Now what are the chances of that all bein’ a coincidence?”

The heater rattled on. Leland leaned back and tipped up the Coors and gulped, his throat chugging. He set the empty can on the table and wiped his mouth.

“Where are your boys?” Doyle asked.

“I don’t know. Hey, you know a detective?”

“I think what you need to consider,” Doyle said, “is how you got here in the first place. What you did and who you did it with.”

Leland smiled without humor, saying nothing.

“You’ve got them boys involved with some very serious folks.”

A noise like scorched laughter burst from Leland. “You’re right about that.”

“These folks will kill your boys, Leland. They won’t quit.”

“Yeah, well. Jack won’t, neither. He’ll fight.”

“If you know where they are, you ought to tell me—”

Leland jerked forward in his chair and snatched up the empty beer can. He smashed it in his fist and dropped the can onto the table and banged a hand down to crunch the Coors flat. A crease of blood welled up from his palm. He made a fist and sat up straight. “I got nothin’ left except those boys—but I don’t know where they’re at. And I wouldn’t tell you if I did, neither.”

Doyle looked at Leland, who stared back.

“Do you know what you’ve done?” Doyle asked.

Leland didn’t answer. Then he nodded.

“Yeah. I know what I done. And what I’m gonna do.”

When Leland returned to his cell, he sat on the edge of the bunk while an officer locked him in. For a long time, he just sat there. Not moving. In his head fiddlers played sharp quick songs that rose in volume to fill the cell and scratch sounds higher and higher.

They’re safe.

They’re holed up.

Or they’re out lying dead somewhere.

Buried in the snow.

Thrown in some dark hole.