The Hunter

He’ll do it well, and thoroughly. Cal can’t tell whether he likes the guy or not—he can’t see him straight, through all the layers of things going on between them—but he would have liked working with him.

“It’d be great if Theresa could have another think,” Nealon says, “see if she can put a name to any of the voices. Maybe you could ask her. I got the sense she’d listen to you.”

“I’ll ask her next time I see her,” Cal says. The last thing he wants is for Trey to get specific. “Not sure when that’ll be, though. We don’t have a regular schedule.”

“What about yourself?” Nealon asks, cocking an eye at him over the glass. “Would you have any new ideas? Anything you’ve heard around the place, maybe?”

“Man,” Cal says, giving him a look of disbelief. “Come on, now. You think anyone’s gonna tell me something like that?”

Nealon laughs. “Ah, I know what you mean. Places like this, they wouldn’t give you the steam off their piss, in case you’d find a way to use it against them. But you could’ve picked something up. I’d say they might underrate you, round here, and that’d be a mistake.”

“Mostly,” Cal says, “people just want to pick my brains for what I might have heard from you. They don’t have much to offer in exchange.”

“You could ask,” Nealon says.

They look at each other. Over the field, the swallows’ twitters and chirrs swirl in the warm air.

“I could ask,” Cal says. “I doubt anyone would answer.”

“You won’t know till you try.”

“This place already thinks I’m buddy-buddy with you. If I start sticking my nose in, asking questions, I’m gonna get nothing but a fuckton of disinformation.”

“I don’t mind that, sure. You know how it works, man. A few answers would be great, but just asking the right questions could do a lot to get things moving.”

“I live here,” Cal says. “That’s what I do now. Once you’ve packed up and gone, I still gotta live here.”

He never considered doing differently, but saying the words hits home in a way he wasn’t expecting. It’s not that he wants his cop life back; that’s gone and done with, and he doesn’t regret it. But somehow he seems to have spent the last while cutting himself off from everyone round him. If this goes on, he’ll wind up a hermit, holed up in this house with no one to talk to but Rip and the rooks.

“No problem,” Nealon says easily. He’s too experienced to keep pushing when he’ll get nowhere. “Had to give it a shot.” He settles back in the rocking chair, shifting it to turn his other cheek to the sun. “Jaysus, the heat. If I don’t watch myself, I’ll go home looking like a lobster. The missus won’t know me.”

“It’s some sun,” Cal agrees. He doesn’t believe in Nealon’s missus. “I was thinking about shaving off my beard, till everyone pointed out I’d be two-toned.”

“You would, all right.” Nealon examines Cal’s face, letting his eyes move leisurely over the bruises, which have faded to faint yellow-green shadows. “Why’d you fight Johnny Reddy?” he inquires.

Cal recognizes the shift as the conversation switches track. He’s felt it plenty of times before, but then he was always the one pulling the lever. Nealon’s making a point: Cal can be a cop, or he can be a suspect. Just like the guy said, he’s rattling cages.

“I didn’t fight anyone,” he says. “I’m a guest in this country. I mind my manners.”

“Johnny says different. So does his face.”

Cal has pulled this one too often to fall for it. “Well,” he says, lifting an eyebrow, “then you best ask him the reason.”

Nealon grins, unabashed. “Nah. Johnny says he fell down the mountain drunk.”

“Then he probably did.”

“I saw your knuckles, the other day. They’ve healed now.”

Cal glances down at his knuckles, bemused. “They might’ve been scraped up,” he agrees. “My hands mostly are. Goes with the job.”

“It would, yeah,” Nealon acknowledges. “How’s Johnny treat Theresa?”

“He treats her OK,” Cal says. He expected this, and he’s a long way from feeling any need to worry. He’s on guard, but he was that anyway. “He’s not gonna win any Father of the Year awards, but I’ve seen a lot worse.”

Nealon nods like he’s giving this some deep thought. “What about Blake?” he asks. “How’d he treat her?”

Cal shrugs. “Far as I know, he never said two words to her.”

“As far as you know.”

“If she had any hassle with him, she’d’ve told me.”

“Maybe, maybe not. You’d never know with teenagers. Blake seem like the type that might take an interest in teenage girls?”

“He didn’t run around wearing a badge that said pervert,” Cal says. “That’s as much as I can tell you. I hardly saw the guy.”

“You saw enough of him to spot he was dodgy,” Nealon points out.

“Yep. That wasn’t hard.”

“No? Anyone else spot it?”

“No one mentioned anything,” Cal says. “But I doubt I was the only one. When I moved here, I didn’t bring up what I used to do, but people made me for a cop inside a week. I’d bet good money that some of ’em, at least, made Blake.”