“It stops seeming real,” she said. “The city becomes the dream. The mirage. The real world is out there—here in the wilderness. It’s Mitchell in his cage, waiting to die.”
“No wonder you didn’t want to talk to me.”
They drank, quietly, for a moment. Soon, she knew, he would ask if she’d like another drink, and she would say no, because she was on a case—she was always on a case—and she had never found a man who was willing to fit into that kind of work, to support her the way she supported him. She didn’t want something ordinary. That was the truth. Because she was not ordinary—none of us are, really—and neither was the world. It was extraordinary.
“I came down here to check the factory,” he said. “We have several factories here in the Deep South, where labor—and housing—is cheaper. Others are overseas. I travel a lot, too. I get it. Maybe not entirely, but I do.”
“Have you ever married?” she asked, taking a sip of her wine.
“No,” he said.
“Did you really come down here on the eve of an execution to check the factory?”
He looked outside to the gloaming night. In the apartment building up the street, women in kitchens were making sandwiches for tomorrow, the men in front of the tube.
“The supervisor told me you visited. Do we have anything to do with this?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Can I help?”
A wildness filled her. The wildness of hope.
“Do you know what happened?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Then maybe not.” She smiled at him.
“The fellow who visited before, was he a real investigator?”
“Nope. I checked.”
“Well, shit. We should have known better. He had access to the files, you know—don’t know if the supervisor told you that.”
“He did not. Was anything missing?”
He looked uneasy. “Yes. Mitchell’s file here. The supervisor didn’t realize it at the time. But that’s what I just confirmed. We went looking for it, and it was gone.”
“How long has it been gone?”
“No idea. No one ever asked before.”
“Do you know why someone would take it?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “But you have the original copy from Oregon, right?”
“Right.”
His face was genuinely kind, and caring.
“If you don’t find anything by tomorrow—”
“He dies.”
It was as simple as that: the dead goat, torn apart by the wolves. The scapegoat the people had decided must suffer for all their sins.
“You’ve saved a lot of men, I read. Dozens.”
