Spencerville

The radio crackled, and Sergeant Blake came over the speaker. "Chief, about that license plate info..."

"You want the whole fuckin' county to hear? Call on the damned phone."

"Yes, sir."

The phone rang, and Cliff said, "Shoot."

Sergeant Blake reported, "I faxed the Bureau of Motor Vehicles with the name Keith Landry, car make and model, and they got back to us with a negative."

"What the hell do you mean?"

"Well, they said no such person."

"Damn it, Blake, get the license plate number off the fuckin' car and get back to them with that."

"Where's the car?"

"Old Landry farm, County Road 28. I want all the shit on his driver's license, too, then I want you to call the local banks and see if he's opened an account, and get his Social Security number and credit crap, then go from there — Army records, arrest records, the whole fuckin' nine yards."

"Yes, sir."

Cliff hung up. After nearly thirty years of police work, he'd learned how to build a file from the ground up. The two detectives on his force kept the criminal files, which did not interest Cliff much. Cliff had his own files on nearly everyone in Spencer County who was important, or who interested him in some way.

Cliff was vaguely aware that keeping secret files on private citizens was somehow illegal, but he was from the old school, and what he learned in that school was that promotions and job security were best accomplished through intimidation and blackmail.

Actually, he'd learned that long before he joined the force; his father and his father's family were all successful bullies. And, to be truthful, the system hadn't corrupted him; he had almost single-handedly corrupted the system. But he couldn't have done it without the help of men who conveniently screwed up their personal and business lives — married men who had affairs, fathers whose sons got into trouble with the law, businessmen who needed a zoning variance or a tax abatement, politicians who needed to know something about their opponents, and so on. Cliff was always right there, sensing the signs of moral weakness, the little character flaws, the signals of financial and legal distress. Cliff was always there to help.

What the system lacked when he entered it was a broker, a central clearinghouse where a citizen could come to offer a favor for a favor, where a man could come to sell his soul.

From these humble begi

Lately, however, a lot of people he didn't like were getting too involved in the system. Schoolteachers, preachers, housewives, even farmers. Already there was one woman on the city council, Gail Porter, a retired college professor, a nosy bitch, and an ex-commie. She got elected by a fluke, the guy ru

The mayor was his cousin, the city council and county commissioners were men he knew, and every one of them had to run for election. But Cliff Baxter was appointed, and as far as he was concerned, he'd been appointed for life. The fact was, if he ever lost his job, he could think of about a hundred men and some women who'd go for his throat, so he had to hold on tight.

Cliff Baxter was not unaware that the world had changed and that the changes were coming across the borders of Spencer County and that they were dangerous to him. But he was pretty sure he could keep it all under control, especially since the county sheriff, Don Fi

So he'd keep a lid on things for a few more years, then, with thirty years in and his kids out of college, he could skip across the border into Michigan, where he had a hunting lodge. Meantime, he had to eat his enemies even when he wasn't hungry.

The part of him that was shark could smell blood in the water a mile away, but he smelled no blood on any of these new people, including Gail Porter. He'd shown her his file on her once, thinking he could get her in line, showed her all he knew about her left-wing activities at Antioch College, and some stuff about boyfriends that her husband wouldn't appreciate. But she told him to roll up the file, put a coat of grease on it, and shove it up his ass. Cliff had been more than pissed off, he'd been almost homicidal. If people weren't afraid, how was he going to keep them in line? This was a little scary.

The part of him that was wolf sensed danger before any other animal in his woods had an inkling of it. In the last few years, he'd noticed these new people sort of circling around, sizing him up like he was fair game instead of the other way around.

Then there was A

He'd been working on these problems when this new thing came along. "Goddamnit! People after my ass, people after my job, and now my own wife tries to kill me, and some guy who used to fuck her shows up. Hey, God, what'd I do to deserve this shit?"

He wondered if A

He realized he couldn't watch both of them forever, but he'd watch for a while, and maybe catch them. If not, Landry was still going to get fucked, but not by Mrs. Baxter.

Cliff was a pro at lovers' lane busts, and in the old days, before kids started screwing in the houses of working parents or in motels out of the county, he'd grabbed a few every weekend in cars or abandoned barns. He had a sixth sense for knowing where they were and catching them naked or at least half-naked. This was the part of his tough job that he enjoyed, and if he thought about it, a night like that always ended with him going to one of his ladies' houses with big Johnson trying to bust out of his zipper. Sometimes he took Johnson home, and a couple of times A

All this thinking about sex was getting him cranked up.

Cliff Baxter turned back toward town and drove into the south end, the part of town that was literally on the wrong side of the tracks. He called headquarters and said to Blake, "Takin' an hour. Beep if you need me. In fact, beep in an hour so I can get onta where I'm go

"Right, Chief."

Baxter pulled into the cracked concrete driveway of a wooden bungalow and used an electronic opener to raise the garage door. He parked the police cruiser inside the garage, got out, and hit the button to close the door.

He went to the back door and opened it with a key. The kitchen was small, dirty, and always smelled like bad plumbing. A

He took a look into the untidy living room, then walked into the first of two bedrooms. A woman in her mid-thirties lay sleeping on her side on top of the bed sheets, wearing only a T-shirt. The room was warm, and a window fan stirred the hot air. Her white waitress uniform and underwear were thrown on the floor.