Dylan tossed the dishcloth into the sink and moved to the entry to the living room. He leaned a shoulder against the wall as the theme music for Adam’s favorite television show, Heaven on Earth, filled the room. Fluffy clouds, blue sky, and the beautiful face of Adam’s mother filled the screen. Golden springy curls waved about her face as if she really were the angel she played. America’s sweetheart, Juliette Bancroft, rolled her eyes toward heaven and a light appeared above her head.

The Julie he knew was nothing like the angel she portrayed. When she’d lived with him, she hadn’t been so soft-spoken, and as far as he could remember, she’d never spent one hour in church. Heck, her hair was really brown, the color of their son’s.

“Come sit by me, Dad.”

Dylan pushed away from the doorway and sat next to Adam. Just like he always did, Adam scrambled onto Dylan’s lap and laid his head on Dylan’s shoulder. And as always, Dylan wondered if Adam really understood that what happened on television wasn’t real. That his mother wasn’t really an angel who spread goodness and saved souls. They’d talked about it many times, and Adam had always shrugged and said he knew. Dylan wasn’t so sure. “Remember what we talked about last week?” he asked.

“Yep, Mom’s not a real angel. She just acts like one.”

“Your mom’s an actress.”

“I know,” Adam answered, distracted by the opening scene.

Dylan held Adam close and kissed the top of his head. “I love you, buddy.”

“Love you, too, Dad.”


Hope stared out the window of Number Two Timberline, at the crescent moon hanging at the top of the Sawtooth Mountains like an ornament placed atop a Christmas tree. Its pale light spilled across Gospel Lake. Stars crammed the inky-black night, one almost on top of the other, and Hope was sure she’d never seen so many stars in her life. Like the night before, she was once again struck by the utter silence that surrounded her. No cars, no sirens, no helicopters buzzing overhead. Not even the bark of a neighbor’s dog to drive her nutty.

Her focus changed to her own wavy refection in the glass and the light splashing across the porch and into the dirt yard. Gospel, Idaho, had to be the loneliest place on the planet.

She let the heavy green drape fall back into place. She’d accomplished a lot since that first day. The downstairs of Number Two Timberline was clean, and she’d taken the bearskin from the wall and placed it over the bloodstain on the floor. She’d unpacked some of the boxes that had arrived with her things and cleaned the bedroom across from the bat room. She’d added her own personal touches, and hung her clothes in the closet. There was a lot more to do, but it was past time she got to work.

She moved into the dining room and booted up her laptop as well as her other computer, which also had arrived that afternoon. She placed a throw pillow on the hard chair, then sat at the long table. After the previous night’s chicken bone story, she figured her muse was back. With her fingers resting lightly on the keyboard, she closed her eyes and cleared her mind, freeing the clutter.

Half an hour later, she jumped to her feet. “Shit,” she swore as she grabbed a bottle of Windex and a soft cloth. When another hour passed and cleaning the house hadn’t uncovered her muse, she dragged out her fingernail kit. She chose a polish to fit her mood and painted her nails a deep blood red.

Blood red. She glanced over her shoulder to the fireplace in the other room. She didn’t write true-crime stories. She didn’t write about real people or the secrets and demons that drove them.

Hope rose and blew on her nails as she walked into the living room. With her toe, she pushed aside the bearskin and gazed down at the dark brown stain on the hardwood floor. She wondered what had been so horrible that the old sheriff had felt the only way out was a bullet through his head.

Shelly had mentioned something about kinky sex. People didn’t kill themselves because they liked to be spanked, and Hope wondered just how kinky things had gotten in this house and how much the people in town knew about it.

Chapter Five

WOMAN PARTIES AT HER OWN WAKE

The Buckhorn Bar was the oldest surviving establishment in Gospel. Rebuilt after the fire of ‘32, and erected several years before Our Savior Jesus Christ Church, it also held within its rough-timbered walls a devout following. Wednesday nights were “twofer” nights until ten, and there weren’t many in the Buckhorn congregation who could pass up two beers for two bucks.

Perhaps the Buckhorn was so popular with the locals because, like them, it never pretended to be something it wasn’t. The Buckhorn was simply a place to tip back a few, play some pool in the back room, or two-step to Vince Gill. During the summer months, the regulars put up with the tourists the best they could, but no one was blamed if a flatlander had to be forcefully removed from a favorite stool.

The choice of music pouring from the new juke was country, strictly country, and loud enough to drown out the rattle of the swamp cooler. Last year, some smart-ass had sneaked into the bar after hours and switched George Jones with Barry Manilow. Barry had no more sung half of “I Write the Songs” before Hayden Dean picked up a barstool and put the old juke out of its misery. Now the stools were nailed to the floor.

The owner of the Buckhorn, Burley Morton, had never had a real keen eye for decor, but he did kind of like the way the new juke blinked to the sound of steel guitars and coordinated with the big Coors light behind the bar. Except for the poolroom in the back, walking into the Buckhorn was like walking into a dimly lit cave. The denizens who called it their second home liked it that way.

Hope stood in the entrance, giving her eyes a moment to adjust. Although she could see little beyond shadows and glowing neon bar signs, the place reminded her of the bar in Las Vegas where she’d first met her inspiration for Micky the Magical Leprechaun, Myron Lambardo. It smelled strongly of beer, decades of cigarette smoke, and rough timber. That probably should have warned her to turn and run, but she was a bit desperate these days. She shoved her headphones into her fanny pack and took a few steps to the right so a big cowboy could squeeze past. Her shoulder came into contact with a large bulletin board, and she lifted her gaze to a flyer pinned to the cork. It was a sign-up sheet, inviting people to participate in the:


ANNUAL FOURTH OF JULY

ROCKY MOUNTAIN OYSTER-EATING CONTEST

AND TOILET TOSS


Of course she’d heard of an oyster feed. When she was growing up, her family had often hosted seafood barbecues. A toilet toss? That was a new one, but, considering what she knew of the town, not all that surprising. In the five days she’d been in Gospel, she’d discovered some pretty strange things. Like the number of guns on open display. It seemed there was some rule that if you owned a truck, you had to have at least two rifles in the rear window. If you wore a belt, it had to have a buckle the size of your head, and if you had a pair of antlers, they must be nailed to your house, your barn, or your truck. The prevailing bumper-sticker sentiment could be summed up in one sentence: If you’re not a cowboy, eat shit and die.

Hope glanced at her sports watch and figured she had an hour before it turned dark outside. She hadn’t planned on coming into the Buckhorn at all, but she’d been jogging past and thought she should check it out. She hadn’t been able to write a decent article since the chicken-bone story. Walter had e-mailed her this morning and wanted something big. Preferably something to do with Bigfoot, or aliens, or Elvis. He was losing patience with her, and she hoped she might find a Bigfoot Elvis impersonator hiding inside the Buckhorn.

Once Hope’s eyes had adjusted to the light, she made her way to a vacant booth along the far side of the building. She was very aware of the stares that followed her, as if the people had never seen a pair of black spandex jogging shorts and a midriff sports bra. She’d pulled her hair back into a ponytail, and she wore very little makeup.

She ordered a Corona, settled for a Bud Lite, and listened to the pool game in the rear. Over the whining of steel guitars from the jukebox, she could hear the couple in the booth behind her discuss something about flatlanders. The longer she eavesdropped, the more she gathered there was some sort of betting pool going on. It seemed that with the latest accident, Otis Winkler was now ahead with three cases of poison oak, two torn ankle ligaments, a broken thumb, and a cracked rib.

Hope listened carefully, then begged a pencil from the waitress. As she poured her beer into a red plastic cup, she grabbed a napkin and began to write:


ALIEN SABOTEURS HIDE WITHIN

THE HIGH MOUNTAINS OF IDAHO


In a sleepy town somewhat reminiscent of that television classic, Mayberry, aliens trick unsuspecting tourists…


Dylan hit the door of the Buckhorn Bar with the heel of his hand, sending it crashing against the wall. He was absolutely not in the mood for this shit. Two of his deputies were dealing with a nasty two-car accident south of Banner Summit, another was on vacation, and Lewis was still half an hour away. That left it up to Dylan to strap his duty belt over his Levi’s, pin his star to the pocket of his plaid shirt, and come deal with the idiots at the Buckhorn.

The combined sounds of fists hitting flesh, shouts of bets being placed, and Conway Twitty’s “Hello Darlin‘ ” filled the bar.

Dylan pushed his way through the spectators and barely missed a roundhouse punch intended for Emmett Barnes.