“Sorry,” I say as I turn to Dalton. “I … It’s …”

“Yeah, I know.”

He rubs his chin with his free hand, and his fingers are trembling slightly. He exhales, breath rushing through his teeth in a long, slow hiss. I look back at Hastings, lying on the ground, that terrible black scar on his stomach. It’s not the blood or the wound that sickens me. It’s the thought of what’s happened. Of what someone has done.

“We need to get him back to town,” I say. “Fast.”

Dalton already has his radio out. He calls Anders and tells him to get the big Gator out here now. And bring Beth.

I’m on my knees beside Hastings. He’s in shock, his mouth working, making the same motions over and over, as if he’s saying something, and it must be important, but when I lean in, it’s just a meaningless garble, repeated as if his brain is stuck on it.

Whatever Hastings did down south, he didn’t deserve this. Someone cut out part of his intestine and sewed him back up. That’s not justifiable homicide; it’s sadism.

We shuck our coats to cover him, trying to keep the shock from deepening, and I talk to him until Anders and Beth arrive. Once Beth gets past what’s happened, she has to cut him open on the spot. He won’t survive the bumpy trip back unless she gets a look at exactly what’s happened. She sedates him and cuts and that’s when the true horror hits, because whoever sliced out that length of intestine only cauterized the ends and shoved them back in. Septic shock has set in, and she does what she can, but Hastings is dead minutes after she made that first cut.

Dusk has fallen by the time we get back with Hastings’s body, but our day is far from over. First, a conference between Dalton, Anders, and me on how we’ll inform people.Then over to the clinic for the autopsy. Back to the station to make notes. More talking. It’s ten at night, and I’m on the station deck with Dalton as Anders does rounds, telling a few key people in town about the death. I hear a “Hello?” inside the station and I tense. Dalton does, too, his eyes narrowing.

“I’ve got this,” he says as he rises.

“No, I’ll handle it.”

It’s Diana. She’s hovering just inside the station, one hand still on the door frame. There’s this look on her face, exactly like when she had to crawl back after dumping me for the popular girls in high school.

“Can we talk?” she says.

“Casey’s busy,” Dalton says behind me. “We’ve had a—”

I cut him off by turning with a quiet but firm, “I’ll handle this.”

Steel seeps into his gaze as it stays fixed on Diana. He looks about two seconds from throwing her back onto the street.

“I have this,” I say, firmer.

He’s still bristling, like a guard dog sensing trouble. But after a moment he turns on his heel and stalks back onto the deck, muttering something I don’t catch.

When he’s gone, I turn to Diana. “We found Jerry Hastings, and it wasn’t good. Dalton’s right. I’ve had a long day.”

“A drink? That’ll help you—”

“No.” I resist the urge to add an I’m sorry. I’m not doing it. Not now. “I’m going to turn in early. I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

“Can I at least apologize?”

“You don’t need to.” Because I don’t need to hear it. “Have a good night. I’ll go get some sleep.”

I turn and walk out the back door before she can respond.

Two

Dalton didn’t even shut the inside door—just the screen.

“You should get a good night’s rest,” he says.

Not even going to pretend you weren’t eavesdropping, are you? I suspect he didn’t mean to be rude—he was just listening, in case Diana gave me a hard time.

I nod. “I’m going to take off. I’ll see you in the morning.”

I start for the door again.

“Hold up,” he says. “I’m turning in, too, and we’re going the same way. It’s quieter walking the back route. No one to pester us about the case.”

We set out, taking his personal highway along the border. I ask how he’s doing, given what we found earlier. He gives me a shrug and an honest, “Trying to forget it.”

“Marginally successful?”

“Yeah,” he says.

“Same here. I know Hastings wasn’t a good person …”

“No one deserves to die like that.”

I nod, and when I go quiet, he gives me that long, cool stare.

“Which doesn’t mean some people don’t deserve to die,” he says. “Just not like that.”

I squirm and veer a little to the side.

“Did you go there planning to shoot him?” he asks.

I realize he means Blaine. “Of course not,” I say before I can stop myself. I take a deep breath. “I’d rather stick to—”

“Blaine Saratori didn’t deserve to die. He deserved to be beaten within an inch of his life and spend weeks in hospital and months in rehab, and never really get over it, not physically, not psychologically. But that wasn’t going to happen. You didn’t plan to shoot him, but it’s bullshit to pretend you killed an innocent man. And it’s bullshit to even think about that in comparison to this.”

“I don’t believe I said I was thinking of it.”