Bitterroot (Billy Bob Holland 3)

"On his birthday I make a wish for each year of his life that he would have had, then put roses on his grave," she said.

The sheriff sat beside her on the bench. It was made of stone and felt cold and hard under his legs. "I worry about you, Cleo."

"Why is that, J.T?"

He looked down the slope, through the trees, at a maroon Cadillac convertible that was parked in the drive with the top up. The Cadillac had been waxed and hand-buffed with soft rags and the reflection of the leaves overhead seemed trapped inside the paint.

"You're here with Nicki Molinari?" the sheriff asked.

"We've let bygones be bygones." "I have a hard time accepting a statement like that."

She rose from the bench. It was cool in the shade and she wore a silk scarf tied under her chin.

"I don't ask you to, J.T.," she replied, and walked down the slope toward Nicki Molinari's car. The wind blew the roses into crossed patterns on top of her son's grave.

"She's one I can't read, Sheriff," I said.

"It's not hard. Her husband's crooked money got her little boy killed. Cleo says she didn't know where that money come from. When people got more than they're supposed to have, they always know where it comes from. So she's got to get up every morning, denying to herself that little boy's death is not on her. How'd you like to carry a burden like that?"

We were in the shadow of the Higgins Bridge now, and the sheriff had managed to fling his lure into a willow tree.

"Why'd you tell me about Cleo and Molinari?" I asked.

"It's just a warning. She'd like to see you hung from a meat hook."

"You can sure put it in a memorable way, sir," I said, and started to leave. "By the way, how is it you're so close to Cleo?"

"My son's in that same cemetery. He was killed in Desert Storm. That was rich men fighting over oil, Mr. Holland. My boy was too young to enlist on his own. So I signed the papers for him."

He began jerking his lure to free it from the tree, until the line broke in his big hand.

I BOUGHT avocado and creamed cheese sandwiches and frozen yogurt and cold drinks at a grocery by the university and put it all in an ice chest and picked up Temple at her motel. We drove through Hellgate Canyon, east of town, and out toward Rock Creek to eat lunch. I told Temple about the sheriff's encounter with Cleo Lonnigan in the cemetery. I thought I could simply mention it casually and get it out of the way and not call up unpleasant memories about past relationships. That's what I thought.

"What's God's gift to the Res up to?" Temple said.

"Taking Molinari over the hurdles. He's out of his depth," I said.

"Maybe it's the other way around. Xavier Girard says Molinari is in the sack with his wife. But maybe our girl is asexual or a lesbian and doesn't care. What's your opinion?"

"I don't have one," I said.

"A little sensitive, are we?"

"No, I just wish I hadn't brought this up," I said.

There was no sound in the truck except the hum of the tires on the asphalt. We were in a long valley now and the hills rose up steep and green against the sky. When I turned off the interstate I passed a restaurant made of logs and entered another valley, this one traversed by a wide, pebble-bottomed stream that flowed out of the south, with both meadowland and high, wooded, sharp-peaked mountains on each side.

I drove two miles along the stream, past fishermen up to their waists in the riffles, and did not try to say anything else to Temple. But I could feel her looking at the side of my face.

"You're just going to turn to stone on me?" she said.

"No, I gave up."

"Pardon?"

"I'm tired of sackcloth and ashes," I said.

"You're saying I'm too heavy a burden to deal with?"