Page 18 of The River We Remember

“Who’s at the office?” Brody asked.

“Asa came in early. Said he didn’t sleep well last night. Looks like you didn’t either, those bags under your eyes.”

“The hard ground, this old body,” Brody said.

“Old?” Graff smiled broadly. “Son, you tickle me. All you need is some coffee and a good breakfast. Why I’m here.” He went back to his pickup and returned with a thermos and a ham sandwich wrapped in waxed paper. “Got something for Hector, too.” He visited his pickup again and brought back a brown paper bag. Whatever was in it had Hector dancing on his paws. “I chopped up some round steak I decided I wasn’t going to eat. Okay if I give it to him?”

“I think he’ll bite you if you don’t.”

Brody ate the sandwich, the two men drank coffee, and Hector chomped the raw beef.

“Talked with Sam Wicklow last night,” Graff said. “He delivered the photos he shot of Quinn’s body. I told him we’d appreciate him being out here this morning. He’ll be joining us pretty soon.”

“Any trouble during the night? Any calls?”

“Nope. Quiet as the grave. How ’bout you two? Any excitement?”

“Heard a woman crying,” Brody said. “That or it was the coyotes.”

“Inkpaduta Bend. Pretty out here, but it’s always had a reputation.” Graff’s gaze fell on the riverbank, the place where it was stained with blood. “And now this. Who would’ve thought?”

Brody’s radio crackled, and Asa Fielding’s voice came over the speaker. “Base to Unit One. Do you read me, Sheriff?”

Brody slipped inside his cruiser and lifted the mic. “Unit One. Go ahead, Asa.”

“Just got a call from Ed Swallow, Brody. He says somebody with a pellet gun put holes in the window of his gas station last night. He wants me to find ’em and shoot ’em if I can. Pretty steamed.”

“He has a right to be. Does he have a suspect in mind?”

“Every kid in the county with a ducktail haircut. I’m heading out to take a look. I’ll keep you posted. Quiet on Inkpaduta Bend last night?”

“Yeah, but the ground was like concrete. My back’s killing me.”

“You and Connie okay working the scene out there without me?”

“Yes, then I’ll meet the Quinns at the funeral home for an official ID.”

“Ten-four. Anything else?”

“Nope, but good luck with Swallow. Unit One, out.”

Graff was grinning when Brody finished. “What’s so funny?” Brody asked.

“Ed Swallow. He’s a son of a bitch. I’ve been tempted on occasion to shoot out his windows myself.” He nodded toward the overgrown lane. “Here comes Wicklow.”

Sam Wicklow drove a brown and white Studebaker station wagon. The tall grass and wildflowers bent with the push of the front bumper, and the car approached with the soft grating of stalks against metal. He parked behind Graff’s pickup, got out, and brought his Leica with him.

“Thanks, Sam,” Brody said.

Wicklow looked toward the birches and the Alabaster. “This is the place, huh?”

“Yep,” Brody said, then offered, “Coffee?”

Wicklow shook his head. “So, when do we get started?”

“You coffee’d up enough?” Graff asked Brody.

“Let’s do it,” Brody said.