“I don’t like to see you bitter.”
He placed his fork on the side of his plate and poured cream from a small pitcher on top of his half-eaten wedge of blueberry pie. He picked up his fork and then hesitated and set it down again. “By the seventh-inning stretch, this is what you learn. Evil people are different from the rest of us. Redneck cops, Klansmen, predators who rape and murder children, ChiCom prison guards, and messianic head cases like Jack Collins, all of them want us to think they’re complex or they’re patriots or they’re ideologues. But the simple truth is, they do what they do because it makes them feel good.”
“Would you have put that broken pool cue down that bartender’s throat?”
“The bartender thought so. That’s all that counts.”
“Don’t stop being who you are because of these guys. You’ve always said it yourself: Don’t give them that kind of power.”
Hackberry stared out the window at the electricity trembling on the tree above the bronze figure of the doughboy. The statue’s head was turned slightly to one side, the mouth open, as though the doughboy were yelling an encouraging word over his shoulder to those following him across no-man’s-land. Did they know what awaited them? Did they know the Maxim machine guns that would turn them into chaff were the creation of a British inventor?
Hackberry wondered who had erected the monument. He wanted to call them idiots or flag-wavers or members of the unteachable herd. But words such as those were as inaccurate as they were jaundiced and hateful, he thought. In our impotence to rescind all the decisions that led to war, we erected monuments to assuage the wandering spirits whose lives had been stolen, and to somehow compensate the family members whose loss they would carry to the grave. Who were the greater victims? Those who gave their lives or those who made the war?
He said none of these things and instead watched a man in a wilted hat park his car in front of the café and come inside.
“Ethan Riser is here,” Hackberry said. “There’s something I didn’t tell you about him. He found out recently he has terminal cancer. No matter what he says tonight, he gets a free pass.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t think he wants other people to know. He’s one of those guys who never shows his hole card, even when the game is over.”
She pinched her eyes with her thumb and index finger, then widened them, the lines in her face flattening. “I’m not to be trusted?” she said.
“Don’t do that.”
“You treat me like I’m some kind of burden you have to put up with, someone you have to instruct regarding decent behavior.”
“Come on, Pam, stop it.”
“You have no sense at all of the pain your words cause, particularly to someone who cares about you. Goddammit, Hack.”
He let out his breath and tried to keep his face empty when he waved at Ethan Riser.
“Just go fuck yourself,” she said.
“Did I walk in on anything?” Ethan said, not looking directly at either one of them, his smile awkward.
“How you doin’?” Hackberry said.
“Pretty good. Can I join you?”
“Yes, sir,” Hackberry said.
“You sure?”
“Sit down, Ethan,” Hackberry said, moving over, not looking at Pam.
“Lorca is out of surgery,” Riser said. “It’s nice to see you, Chief Deputy.”
“You, too,” Pam replied.
“Lorca told me about the ambulance attendant and the possibility of Jack Collins and Noie Barnum being in the Glass Mountains. I have the feeling you might be headed up there, Sheriff.”
“I can’t say I’ve given it any thought,” Hackberry replied.
“I have trouble believing that,” Riser said. “This time out, you and Chief Deputy Tibbs need to stay in your own bailiwick. I can’t order you to do that, but I can ask you.”
“Whatever we decide to do, we’ll coordinate with the Bureau,” Hackberry said.