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garage.” Hannah retrieved a stepladder from the broom closet. “But the judge keeps the engine in real good condition. If you ask me, I think it runs better than brand-new models.” She kicked off her wooden clogs and mounted the metal steps to climb on top of the counter. “Even the poor white trash in this town drive those cars. They never die—they just get passed down and around.” Bare feet firmly planted on the countertop, she opened a cupboard door. “I swear if Coventry had a town flag, the emblem would be a Mercedes hood ornament.”
    The tiny woman rose up on her toes to reach a high shelf. After moving a few canisters out of her way, she pulled out a tea tin, extracted the car keys and handed them down to him. “It’s still a one-drugstore town. You know the way.”
    Startled, Oren wondered if Hannah did this each time she took the car out, but he only pocketed the keys, asking no questions.
    It was that kind of a day.
     
 
In Coventry’s insular idea of geography, the northwestern town perched on a cliff at world’s end, where the earth fell away in a wicked drop to a rocky coastline. An elderly man posed close to the edge as a companion photographed him against blue California sky and the Pacific Ocean; he leaned one shaky hand upon a metal rail installed to prevent witless tourists from falling to their deaths. Across the street, a pastel row of small art galleries and boutiques was waking up to the morning trade, opening shutters and raising shades. These buildings were dwarfed by the Straub Hotel with its four flights of windows capped by attic gables.
    Every street was lined with the cars of weekend travelers, and it was Oren’s good luck to find a parking space.
    On the hotel verandah, a stout gray-haired woman was ensconced in a high-back wicker chair. Deep frown lines gave her the air of one who took offense at all that she surveyed, and her ample flesh hung in jowls and a double chin. Imperious, she presided over the comings and goings of hotel guests, giving each a curt nod, as if to say, Okay, I’ve acknowledged you. Now move on! And they did.
    He should know this senior citizen. She knew him.
    Though the lady wore sunglasses, he sensed that her eyes were tracking him when he left the car and stepped onto the sidewalk. As he came closer, she graced him with a smile and lowered the dark glasses. Her smile quickly slipped away, and Oren knew that he had failed a test of some kind. The woman raised one clenched fist and slowly extended her middle finger as an invitation for him to perform an unnatural act upon himself. And by this hand gesture alone, he recognized her. He had been a teenager the last time they met. Then, she had been a woman in her forties with a lean body and long hair the color of lions.
    Then and now were different creatures.
    He approached the hotel steps, calling up to her, “Hello, Mrs. Straub.”
    She leaned forward, causing the wicker to creak with the sudden shift of her bulk. Her voice had the husky quality of booze and cigarettes when she said, “Oren Hobbs, we’ve had sex in half the rooms of my hotel. I think it’s time you called me Evelyn.” Impervious to the peasants, a startled pair of guests, Evelyn Straub donned her sunglasses. She sat well back in her chair and turned her face away from him.
    This audience was clearly over.
    Thus dismissed, he gave her a wave, almost a salute, and continued down the sidewalk toward the drugstore. As always, the traffic moved slowly, not even close to the posted twenty-five miles per hour. By some mystical agreement of tourists and residents alike, all the drivers slowed down at the sign that welcomed them to town. Yet Oren was mindful of the slowest car, the one keeping pace with him. In sidelong vision, he noted only that it was black and low-slung, for his eyes were fixed on the pharmacy bottle in his hand.
    This was not the judge’s medication.
    Another name was printed on the label . He recognized the drug, and