Corrie slid the first one out, a full-frontal image of the reconstruction she had labored so hard over. She handed it to him, and he peered at it, frowning, his lips moving but making no sound.

“Here’s another,” Corrie said, handing him a three-quarters view.

He held them, one in each hand, looking from one to the other, lower lip protruding. A good minute or two passed. “Any others?”

Corrie gave him the profile. He peered at it. Then he gave a loud sniff. “Sorry, don’t know him.”

“You sure, Grandpa?” Homer asked.

“Never seen him before. I’m sorry to disappoint you, young lady.”

Corrie gathered up the photos.

“Can you think of any other folks around here who might know him?” Fountain asked the sheriff’s grandfather. “You know, old-timers who still have their marbles. Older than me. Older than you—if that’s possible.”

The man cackled. “That’s a tall order.” He was silent for a while, then tore a piece of paper off a nearby pad and started to write.

“There.” He handed Corrie the paper, on which were written two names in a shaky hand. “Homer will know where to find these people. Both of ’em are eighty-five years or older.”

Corrie drained her coffee, hoping to get a refill before they had to leave, and sure enough the sheriff’s grandfather, without even asking, poured her another.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Have another cookie.”

They were Tollhouse, her favorite, but she managed a polite refusal. The lawyer, however, swiped a few as he walked past the plate.

“Even if Gramps didn’t recognize it, that reconstruction you did was some piece of work,” Homer said as they walked back to the Jeep a few minutes later. “Even the photo of it looks lifelike.”

“Thanks. I always enjoyed working with clay in high school art class, when I got the chance. I never dreamed it might be useful in a law enforcement career.”

The sheriff frowned at the paper with his grandfather’s spidery script. “Clark Stoudenmire and Marilou Foss.”

“We should also check the local paper,” she said. “There might be some photographs in the back issues.”

“The Socorro Register building burned down back in 1962, and it took all the old newspapers with it.” Fountain shook his head sadly.

Watts was still examining the scrap of paper. “Foss is in town, but Stoudenmire is way the hell out in the foothills. I suggest we get him out of the way first.”

“You’re a most unusual man, Sheriff,” Corrie said.

Watts looked up. “Why’s that?”

“All those awards. I don’t know how you resist bragging. I even heard you let that scumbag Rivers draw first.”

For a minute, she thought he was going to turn red again. But then he scoffed. “Aw, heck. Practice and patience count for most of it. And you’re not so old yourself—you’ve got time. How’s your performance on the FBI range?”

“Sucks ass.”

“Hell, it can’t be that bad.”

Corrie looked away quickly.

“What’s the trouble there, Corrie?” she heard him ask in a quieter voice.

“It’s not the marksmanship,” she said, surprised to hear herself blurting it out. “It’s—it’s something else.”

“You mean that little fracas at Cedro Peak Campground?”

She glanced back. “What did you hear?”

“I’m sheriff.” And Watts shrugged, as if that explained everything. After a moment, he spoke into the silence. “How old was the girl?”

“What girl?”

“In the camper.”

Corrie paused. “Seven.”

“You were seven once. What was your father like?”

“Nice.” Another pause. “It was my uncle who was the bastard. My mom’s brother.”

Watts sighed, shook his head. “Corrie, I’m not old enough to lecture you.”

“Good.”

“But I will say this: Pulling a gun on someone, with intent to kill—well, it can bring all kinds of stuff to the surface. Stuff you don’t even know you remember. You can shoot five bad guys, but there’ll be something about the sixth … ” He paused. “Cops don’t like to admit it, but it’s true. I’ll tell you something: If it ever stops mattering, you’re in the wrong game.”

This was followed by a silence. Fountain looked out curiously at them from the Jeep.

Corrie drew a slow, deep breath.

“Okay?” Watts asked.

“Okay.” She looked at him, eyes narrowed slightly. “Did we ever have this conversation?”

“Hell no.”

“I didn’t think so.”

19

STOUDENMIRE LIVED IN a double-wide set upon a rise, surrounded by spectacular views. He didn’t have a phone and so they weren’t able to call ahead, but by the time they pulled up he was already standing in the doorway, a giant of a man with a barrel chest, narrow hips, and a bald, grinning head. As they got out, he held his hands up in mock fear. “You got me, Sheriff ! I’m guilty! Slap on the steel! Whatever I’ve done, Mr. Fountain here will get me off !” And he gave a belly laugh as he shook the hands of both men.