THE AGENT FROM AMARILLO arrives at noon exactly. His bright black car appears down the dirt road in a shimmer of undulating heat. The tires spray a continuous plume of yellow dust as the long sedan approaches the town’s fence, then stops, and Cooper and Robinson roll back the entrance gate and the sedan enters slowly. The driver pulls the car over and parks. The three of them, Cooper, Robinson, and Dawes, stand attentively aside.
The driver’s door opens. A very tall man with very blond hair unfolds himself from the front seat, then reassembles himself to stand straight again, like some new brand of expensive and complicated umbrella. He wears a black suit, white shirt, and black tie, the whole outfit entirely inappropriate to the heat. On his face, he wears wraparound sunglasses that look as though they’ve been stolen from a surfer. His white-blond hair is gelled straight up in the air in an almost aquatic crown of spiny spikes. He’s very pale, Cooper thinks, like he crawled up from the bottom of the sea to emerge blinking in the Texan sun.
He steps forward and extends a white hand.
“I’m Agent Paul Rigo,” he says.
Cooper shakes his hand. “Sheriff Calvin Cooper.”
“I know,” says Rigo. “Now where’s the bar?”
As the quartet walks through the center of town, faces appear at windows. Curtains are parted. This is exactly what Cooper had hoped to avoid. He’s relieved when the four of them finally reach the trailer that houses the bar, Blinders, where Greta Fillmore is already waiting outside to receive them. Robinson offers a mumbled pleasantry, then excuses himself to dubious-sounding duties. Cooper’s hoping Dawes might similarly recuse herself, but no such luck—she sticks around to observe. The four of them step into the darkened bar together. When Greta flicks on the lights, a defeated ceiling fan begins its exhausted rotation. Rigo steps forward and inspects the plywood bar, which still bears a large kidney-shaped stain. Then he inspects the stool where Gable sat. Then he walks around the bar and inspects the shelves behind the bar. He finds a hole basically at a plumb line from where Gable’s head would have been while he was seated. Rigo pats his pockets, pulls out a Leatherman tool, then wrenches free a bent slug from the wall. He puts it in his palm and peers at it like a prospector appraising a nugget. Then he sets the slug on the bar, and requests a beer.
“Thoughts?” says Cooper, now nursing his own beer and seated next to Rigo on a barstool. Dawes hovers, beerless, behind them, scribbling notes.
“It’s a nine-millimeter round,” says Rigo. “You know anyone in town with a nine millimeter?”
“I don’t know anyone in town with a gun,” Cooper says, smiling, “save for me. Which is our dilemma in a nutshell.” He unholsters his gun and presents it to Rigo. “It’s a thirty-eight, in case you’re wondering. Never even carried it loaded, until today.”
Rigo inspects it disinterestedly, then hands it back. “You had another shooting a while ago, yes?”
“That’s right. A suicide.”
“Suspected suicide,” Dawes interjects from behind them. Cooper shoots her a glance that, if there were any justice in this world, would send her scurrying to the other side of town.
“You folks seem to be suffering from an epidemic of unexplained shootings,” says Rigo.
“In the case of the suicide, we did keep an extra handgun in a locked case in the police station,” says Cooper. “Couple months back, someone broke in, smashed the case open, stole the pistol.”
“You weren’t concerned?”
“We were plenty fucking concerned at the time. Then we found out what had happened to it two days later. Fellow by the name of Colfax, Errol Colfax, one of our original eight, he’d stolen it to end his own life. I found him myself, with the gun in his hand, in his living room La-Z-Boy, having ushered himself from this world.”
“That seems like an awful lot of trouble to go to just to off yourself,” says Rigo. “Breaking into a gun safe like that.”
“Well, some people don’t like ropes,” says Cooper. “And we’re a long way from the nearest bottle of pills.”
“What happened to that gun?”
“We bagged it and sent it to the Fell Institute in Amarillo to let them handle it,” says Cooper. “That’s the institute that runs this place.”
“I know,” says Rigo. “I work for the Fell Institute. They sent me out to assess this situation.”
“You’re not Justice Department?”
“Ex-Justice.”
“So you work for Dr. Holliday now?”
“Indirectly,” Rigo says.
“What happened to Brightwell?”
“Reassigned.”
“Shame,” says Cooper. “He was a good man.”
“I wouldn’t know,” says Rigo. “The point is, the Institute is”—here he considers his words, in a very ostentatious manner—“concerned. About this killing. As you would imagine.”
“As are we, I can assure you,” Cooper says.
“Who sent that gun in to the Institute? You?”
“It was my ex-deputy, Ellis Gonzalez. That was his real name. His name out here was Marlon Garner.”
Rigo laughs. “That’s right, you’ve all got these funny names here. What’s your real name, Cooper?”
“I can’t tell you that. Not while I’m still employed.”
“What about her?” Rigo nods to Dawes.
“Deputy Sidney Dawes, sir.”
Rigo says to Cooper, “So what happened to Marlon Garner?”
“He quit, not long after Colfax killed himself.”
“And where is he now?”
“I have no idea. We haven’t kept in touch. Why?”
Rigo picks up the slug from the bar and studies it, pincering it between two long fingers. “Because my guess is that the pistol you gave him never made it back to the Institute. And that if this slug here matches the one from that gun, we might have two murder mysteries on our hands. You pulled the slug from Colfax, right?”
“Sure did—I sent it back to Amarillo with the gun.” Cooper did no such thing.
“And the body?”
“Colfax? Cremated. Our local nurse has an arrangement with a town nearby. Same fate awaits Gable, is my understanding. You want me to hold them off?”
“No need. You go ahead and deal with your dead.” Rigo finishes his beer, pulls a few bills from his pocket, and slaps them on the bar.
Cooper slides the cash back toward him. “You know your money’s no good here, Agent Rigo.”
“The Institute’s got it covered.”
“No, I mean it’s literally no good here. We don’t exchange cash.”
Rigo glances at Cooper. “That’s right. No names, no cash—quite an operation you’ve got going here.” He pockets the bills and retrieves the slug from the bar and pockets that, too. “You got any kids living in this town?”
“Just one.”
“They let you raise a kid out here?”
“It wasn’t exactly planned.”
“Does he have a funny name, too?”
“He’s a good kid.”
“No doubt. This town seems like a regular Mayberry.”
Cooper stands, in hopes of ushering Rigo out of the bar. “I know you’re new, Agent Rigo, but traditionally the Institute more or less leaves us alone to handle our own affairs.”
“That might be changing. After all, you’ve never had a murder before.” Rigo stands. “Nice to meet you both. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again soon.”
“Would you mind doing me one favor when you leave?” asks Cooper.
“What’s that?”
“Outsiders tend to make our residents a wee bit nervous. So drive a little faster out of town.”