Page 57 of The Bright Lands

“Not that I know of. He hadn’t played for a few years by the time he disappeared.” Clark leaned back to check her phone, saw that it really had died. She plugged it into a charger by her toaster.

Browder chuckled. “It probably wouldn’t have done no good. They say girls is secretive, but shit—some of the Bison I played with had more tricks than a deck of cards.”

“I think the same’s true today.” Clark frowned. “How do I talk to those kids, Browder? How do I make them open up?”

The deputy gave her an exaggerated shrug. “Torture? I don’t know, man. If those boys know anything about what happened to Dylan they’re probably settling their own scores.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Clark finished her rum.

Browder refilled her glass before she could stop him. A funny look came into his eye as he filled his own. “I’m thinking of getting another tattoo,” he said abruptly, and he eased the shirt of his uniform up from beneath his belt to reveal a pale, firm stretch of stomach. He indicated the band of muscle that ran along his hip. “I want it to say Lead the Charge. Like inside of a football, maybe? Or is that corny?”

Eyeing all the tattoos already visible on his arms and torso—lots of birds and crosses and Chinese script—Clark said, “Why not just a Bison or something?”

“I already got two of them.”

She looked him up and down, arched an eyebrow. “Where?”

Browder undid his belt buckle.

“Oh God.” Clark held up a hand, laughed. “I don’t want to see this.”

“Too late,” the deputy said, and when Clark peeked between her fingers she saw Browder’s bare ass, where two green Bentley Bison charged toward one another from either cheek. Two scrolls floated above them, ornate and frilled like the garland of some ludicrous ceremony, reading2008and2012.

Clark couldn’t hold back a guffaw. “Put it away! Put it away!”

“I’m taking your mind off the situation,” Browder said over his shoulder. With a touch of disappointment he added, “You don’t like it?”

She laughed harder. “Not in my kitchen I don’t.”

Browder tugged his pants back up. He blushed. “It was my graduation gift to myself.”

“Money well spent.”

The radio on Browder’s shoulder sputtered. It was Jones, calling in a report of illegal fireworks being shot off FM 217. Browder copied him. Clark finished her second glass of rum in one long gulp. Her phone buzzed.

Browder thanked her for the drink before remembering he’d brought it himself. He hesitated at her open door.

“That was inappropriate,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not filing a complaint.”

“I just feel so useless out here sometimes. Like I can’t do nothing to stop the shit people keep doing to each other.”

Clark squeezed the young deputy’s shoulder. “You’re keeping the peace.”

“Just don’t go easy on them. Whoever did this fucking thing. Don’t let them get away like they always do.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. She watched him until his taillights flared and disappeared down her road.

When Clark closed the door again she heard the old windows of the house rattle in their frames. She checked the latches, carried the empty glasses to the sink. Browder was right. People sure seemed to get away with a lot around here.

the best years

She thought about missing case notes. She thought about dreams.

Only the best years of my life

She stared out at the night, half expecting some black shape to detach itself from the horizon and come shambling across the Flats toward her house.