Let Him Go: A Novel Read Online Free PDF

says. He and I worked on an extradition case once. Knew a hell of a lot more law than I did. When we explain our situation, I believe he’ll be able to provide some direction.
    As her husband opens the car door, Margaret asks, Isn’t it late for him to be here?
    The light’s on. And they don’t keep bankers’ hours. You of all people ought to know that.
    Fine. But don’t tell him more than you need to.
    I couldn’t if I wanted to.
    What I mean is, this isn’t a legal matter.
    No, George says, stepping out of the car. Not so far it isn’t.
    Margaret climbs out too. My God. How can I get this sore doing nothing but sitting in a car? You go ahead, she says, first reaching high overhead and then bending down to touch her toes. I’ll stay out here and stretch my legs and enjoy the evening air.
    George heads toward the jail, and Margaret proceeds in the other direction, striding across the gravel with the long-legged pace of someone measuring off distance. When she reaches the farthest corner of the lot, she stops, wraps her arms around herself as protection against the dropping temperature, and sniffs the air. Although she can’t see it from here, just down the block from the courthouse is a greenhouse. She and George commented on it as they drove past, its glass walls and roof reflecting light from a sky that to their eyes held nothing but darkness. And insidewould be other elements rapidly vanishing from the outer autumnal world—warmth, soft dirt, fragrances from flowers blossoming according to their own season. What must it be like, on a night like this, when another hard freeze is coming on, or during a winter snow, to smell moist dirt and what grows from it, when even the odor of decay is welcome . . . She looks up at the sky where, within the hour, the first stars have appeared. Long past the moment when her neck begins to stiffen and ache, she continues to stare into the darkness, even though none of the human secrets she needs to know are to be found in the stars but rather closer to the earth her boots stand upon.
    Finally she walks back to the car. She doesn’t get inside but leans against the hood and its still-warm metal. Soon she hears footsteps kicking through the gravel, and in the light from the jail’s back door she sees two men approaching. They might be doubles, a pair of tall, slow-moving men who walk as though they have yokes across their broad shoulders, yet something in their carriage hints that they can carry still more weight. They’re wearing uniforms issued by the same army—sweat-rimmed Stetsons, plaid shirts with snaps instead of buttons, Levi’s, and boots. The man who is not Margaret’s husband takes off his hat as he comes near.
    Margaret, George says, this is Jack Nevelsen. Jack’s sheriff here. Wes Hayden’s been out of office for some time now.
    With the two men standing side by side, it’s apparent that George Blackledge has years on Jack Nevelsen, but the resemblance is close enough for them to be father and son. Does being sheriff give a man that distant, carewornlook, or will people in this part of the world elect only a man who has it?
    Pleased to meet you, ma’am, Nevelsen says, extending his hand. Yes, the Haydens are living in Fargo now. Wes and his family, anyway.
    I explained our situation, George says.
    Nevelsen nods and though there’s no light overhead but what comes from the stars, when he puts his hat back on his eyes are cast deeper in darkness. The thing is, Nevelsen says, the Weboy clan has two branches. Like I told your husband, the ones up here—they’re townsfolk. Good people. They’ve had a little hard luck but they’re hardworking and law-abiding. Frontier Saddlery here, that’s a Weboy operation. Or at least started up by the family. But from what I’ve heard, the Weboys down around Gladstone are nothing but trouble. Always looking for the easy dollar and not much caring how they get it. That’s the branch Donnie’s from, and maybe that’s