Albert arched his back, squinting slightly. He stared up at the hill behind his house. “Did you know Chief Joseph and the whole Nez Perce tribe came right down that draw? They were trying to outrun the U.S. Army. They got slaughtered down on the Big Hole – women and children and the old people, too. The soldiers mutilated the dead and later robbed the graves.”

“Yeah?” I said, not making the connection.

“This place looks peaceful. But it’s not. The degenerate who murdered that college boy up there is the canker in the rose. It doesn’t matter where you go. The same fellow is always there. Just like that jailhouse I was in when I was eighteen.”

THAT AFTERNOON CLETE came down to our cabin and asked me to take a walk with him.

“Where we going?”

He lifted his eyes up to the hill behind Albert’s house.

“What for?” I asked.

“The sheriff, what’s-his-name, Higgins, thinks it’s just coincidence that kid was killed behind Albert’s place.”

“You don’t?”

“Higgins says Albert called the Shrubster a draft-dodging fraternity pissant in the local newspaper. The paper actually ran the letter. He helped run a PCB incinerator out of town. He got into it with some outlaw bikers over a barmaid. He has a general reputation for causing trouble wherever he goes.”

“Why would somebody execute a kid on his knees because he’s got it in for Albert?”

“Somebody called in a 911 on the location. The caller also said the kid was alive. He wanted as many people as possible to suffer as much as possible. I don’t think Higgins knows what he’s dealing with. I don’t believe Albert does, either.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“To use your own words, why do the shitbags do anything? Because they enjoy it, that’s why. Trust me, Streak, the guy who did this has got a beef with Albert.”