Free Iron River by T. Jefferson Parker

don’t have cameras at that location.”
    “Greyhound might.”
    “Greyhound is around the corner.”
    “A witness?”
    “We’re working on that. That whole area is dead at night. Especially when it’s up above ninety degrees.”
    “We can get some information from the Polaroids,” said Ozburn. “Did you guys touch them?”
    “None of us touched them. They’re yours.”
    Atkins slid the envelope and pictures into the plastic freezer bag and gave the bag to Ozburn.
    “You haven’t called any reporters, have you?”
    “No reporters.”
    “Because the people who have Jimmy will play for attention. That’s the whole idea. It’s a form of terrorism.”
    “Nobody knows but us and his wife. I haven’t told her about the pictures. It’s up to you now.”
    Janet Bly walked outside and slammed the door.
    Ozburn was already on the phone to the regional director by the time Atkins followed her out.
    “They’ve got Jimmy,” he said. “They took him right off American soil.”

8
     
     
     
     
    T hat evening, Hood sat in the shade of his modest courtyard and watched Bradley’s green Cyclone stream up the hill toward the house. The music blared and the dust danced. Bradley’s fiancée was riding shotgun and Hood could see her red hair flying behind a black scarf.
    He waved them into the carport, and Bradley goosed the car into the shade. It looked good next to his IROC Camaro. Hood had always loved the single-minded power of muscle cars, their half wildness and partial comforts. The music stopped and Erin turned and looked at Hood, then the doors opened at the same time.
    Bradley was wearing plaid shorts and flip-flops and a white guayabera and a narrow-brim hat . His hair was cut short and his face clean shaven. “Why’d you pick this place?”
    “Location,” said Hood.
    “We can’t stay long. Just came by to give you the good news.”
    Erin got out and stretched and tossed the scarf into the car. She pushed her sunglasses up into her hair. She wore a white dress with black polka dots and no shoes. “I’ve got dust on my dust. Good to see you, Charlie.”
    Hood showed them the house, then they sat in the courtyard at a round rough-hewn table and benches without backs. The courtyard faced east to get the cool of evening if there was any. Hood brought out a pitcher of ice water and glasses. The desert spread in a flat infinity below them. Hood thought of Holdstock.
    “There have been some changes since we talked to you,” said Bradley. “Erin? Want to get this show started?”
    He watched Bradley and Erin exchange looks. Erin went to the Cyclone.
    “So, how’s the Iron River?” asked Bradley.
    “Quiet for three whole days.”
    “Not a shot fired?”
    Hood shook his head absently. He couldn’t get Holdstock out of his mind. Pliers and a circular saw, he thought. Christ, what have we come to?
    “You glad you came down here?” asked Bradley.
    “Oh. Yeah.”
    “You don’t look too glad.”
    “That was your word.”
    “Okay, friend. Just talkin’, just filling up space.”
    “Do you know Victor Davis? Your mother bought a gun from him four years ago. The one you gave me after she died.”
    Bradley shook his head. “She had more than one gun.”
    “You tried to buy six.”
    Bradley looked at Hood and nodded. “It never happened. I was fifteen.”
    “That’s what worries me.”
    “Worry about yourself.”
    Erin was back with a plastic garment bag on a hanger slung over one shoulder and a square envelope in her other hand. She lay the bag over the low courtyard wall, then sat back down and handed the envelope to Hood.
    It was heavy and cream colored, and on the front in beautiful cursive writing, it read: Charles Hood & Guest .
    “That’s your handwriting, Erin.”
    “It sure is. Open it.”
    The wedding invitation inside was classy and brief, though Hood read it twice to make sure he hadn’t made a mistake.
    “It’s a three-day wedding celebration?”
    “We hope it’s enough,”