Let Him Go: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

wasn’t fair.
    As intently as he stares straight ahead, she stares at him, at that large skull that must be filled with words— it must be —but which remains as silent as if it were chiseled from granite. She waits a mile or more, until the road finds a reason to curve, a grassy butte hardly high enough to justify going around. I give up, Margaret says. Again.
    She tries the radio dial once more, and soon she finds a Williston station where an announcer tells them they’re listening to The Northern Plains Gospel Hour . But before so much as a line of a song is out— I’m just a poor —George reaches over and snaps off the radio.
    Goodness, says Margaret.
    I try to stay out of their churches, George says. They can keep their goddamn music out of my car.
    That would make it my fault, Margaret says, for inviting it in. But it’s just a song, George. A pretty song. You’ve probably heard me sing it myself. Though the way I massacre a tune, you maybe wouldn’t recognize it.
    Then turn it back on if you like, George says. He takes out his pack of Lucky Strikes, shakes one loose, and brings it to his lips. Without being asked, Margaret pushes in the cigarette lighter.
    That’s not what I’m saying. But when it comes to letting things go, George Blackledge, you sure as hell talk a better game than you play. How many years ago did you walk away from your father? And you’re still looking over your shoulder. Just because he was a Bible-thumper—
    And if it was just Bibles he thumped, that’d be a different story.
    Fine. A man who beat his wife and children. A cruel man.
    The lighter pops out and he brings its glowing rings to the tip of his cigarette. He inhales deeply and then blows a stream of smoke toward the small window vent. And a tyrant, says George. A cruel tyrant.
    All right. He was all you say and then some. But my God, the man’s been dead and gone for how many years? And you still can’t listen to a hymn? It must have been hell for you, sitting through James’s service.
    Like it was for you. And the music didn’t have a goddamn thing to do with it.
    Now it is George who turns the radio back on.
    I’m just a-going over Jordan. I’m just a-going over—
    And it’s Margaret who turns it off.
    The sun has dropped low enough to bring up the colors in the prairie grasses, the shades of lavender and gold that can’t be seen at any other moment of the day and that incline most travelers through this landscape to silence. Gospel hour indeed.

6.
    W HEN THEY ARRIVE IN B ENTROCK , THE COUNTY SEAT of Mercer County, Montana, dusk has finally let loose its long hold on the day. Darkness has fallen from the apex of the sky and risen from the rooftops and tall trees, taking over all but a streak of the western horizon. Streetlamps and porch lights have come on and windows have been closed against the evening chill. The only birds flying at this hour are the nightjars hunting insects stirred by the day’s heat. The owls are waiting for that blood-red smear in the west to disappear.
    To drive into this little town from the wide, undulating, horizontal world of the prairie means to experience an abrupt alteration of scale. Here people have tried to install the vertical, though they’ve been modest about it. No building rises higher than two stories. The trees have had less than a century to grow. A water tower, a few church steeples, a grain bin, the cupola on the courthouse—these are darker forms against the backdrop of the night.
    Because this town is small and all its intentions apparent, even to a first-time visitor, the Blackledges have no difficulty finding Main Street and the hotel where they plan to spend the night. Even easier to locate is the nearby courthouse, a brick and stone structure that also housesthe county jail and the sheriff’s office. The entrance to both is at the back of the building, and George pulls in to the un-paved lot and parks the car.
    I want to see if Sheriff Hayden’s in, George