Her lips were tight, nostrils flared. She stomped out the fucking cigarette and walked out to her SUV.

Bleeker closed the shack door and walked over to the Roadmaster, got in, and followed Trish off the ice. He turned on talk radio to keep himself awake and focused. Was a time he'd bought all these guys' acts-the liberal and fag conspiracies, the Illuminati, the Mark of the Beast, the President being the Antichrist, the government with its disarmament squads and black helicopters. But at some point between the decent Somalis he'd met, and the way his Lutheran church had taken Trish's side, pretty much kicking him out, telling him to find God elsewhere, and Cindy's soft-heartedness, he'd started listening more carefully, not accepting the party line as easily.

Now the bozos were mostly noise to keep him awake on iced-up roads.

Just when he thought the world might be a better place than he'd believed, this had to happen. His love, his baby, Forrest, Poulson, his marriage, his peace of mind…

His cell phone rang. He picked it up, saw that there were a dozen messages waiting, starting at around three in the morning. His dash clock said it was seven fifty-one. Trish had been a real trooper, getting up that early to come tell him his mistress and unborn child were dead. Jesus.

Answered the phone. It was the Chief.

"Trish find you yet?"

"Yeah, just now. I'm heading back."

"I'm sorry, Ray. If we could've found you last night, you know. Trish left as soon as she could. It's shit. It's all shit."

"Thanks." What else could he say? "Yeah, thanks."

"Howie's already out talking to people. We'll get who did this." He was having a hard time even saying consoling things. All business, the Chief. "If you need time, I can give you plenty of time, if you need it."

Bleeker wouldn't know what to do with himself without something to take his mind off it. Paperwork. Small-time shit. "I'm good. I'd rather work."