McGreevy stepped out of the port-o-potty into the bitter cold and driving snow to find Rigs flipping the bird at a departing pickup truck.

“Fuck you too, asshole!” said Rigs.

“Another hostile driver?” asked McGreevy?

“Jesus Christ! I’m not cut out for this.”

“Think about the paycheck,” said Corky, blowing the smoke of his cigarette through his nose in his direction. “Ain’t that right, Mouse?”

McGreevy stiffened but tried not to let it show. “It’s McGreevy,” he said.

A week back at work since the investigation into his conduct during the night of the concert, and he was already putting up with bullshit. He should have just quit. But then, you can’t do that when there’re bills to pay. He was a landowner—at least for the time being. Sure, it was a measly little parcel in the middle of the boonies, but it was his. That, and the fact that the strange woman who called herself White Owl had asked him to carry on as usual. There was a bigger purpose, and he needed to be ready for what he was going to endure.

His alibi was believable enough (He said a silent thank you to Gwen for sending him that text message): a peaceful night, his duties ended, he’d been granted leave to cut off early and go home, where he unplugged from technology and set in for a long night of working on his novel, a police procedural about the unsolved murder of a famous Escape addict. Comstock, reluctantly, seemed to buy it and put him back on duty.

“All in a night’s work. He’s not the only asshole on this road tonight,” McGreevy said, knowing Corky would take it as an insult. That’s what bullies did. They took things as insults so they could justify their violence.

He couldn’t keep his mind off the Billings job. He had pressed send on the application that morning. There was a certain romance to that city, home to the towering and mysterious BAT. Maybe he could start practicing Chinese again.

Shit was getting weird at the Lake County Sheriff’s Department. Comstock had delegated official duties to a team from John Taylor Securities—he only had to sign off on the paperwork. Another JTS team was heading up the manhunt, now stretching into Idaho and parts of Wyoming. The FBI had been in town for a while, but they pulled out at Taylor’s request. It was too bad. Agent Norelhouda had been a breath of professional fresh air. Not only was she beautiful, she treated him with respect, and he didn’t think she bought for a second that a cop, a shrink, and a boy were responsible for the grisly murders. Maybe that was why they got rid of the FBI.

On top of everything, John Taylor had ordered a complete media blackout. No one was allowed to talk to the press, and if there were any inquiries, they were funneled through JTS media relations. Not that it mattered. The news cycle had already changed, and everyone was talking about the missing president-elect and how she had been taken hostage by FEEN. Where was she during those two days? Who did she talk to? Had she been compromised? Was a ceasefire in the works? A Christmas without killing? That would be a first.

He headed over to the autonomous semi-truck. He would have to get a smart warrant while Rigs and Corky secured the outside. They were young and untrained—their fathers being Comstock’s buddies—and they were just looking to make a quick buck and do some resume building during the holiday season. Rigs was a good kid, and he got brownie points with McGreevy because he couldn’t stand Comstock. Corky, on the other hand, had a mean streak and quickly picked up on the tone Comstock used with McGreevy.

At this very moment, the newly elected sheriff sat at the little desk in the fifth wheel, taking orders via video call with a manager in JTS. Comstock talked like he oversaw this manhunt, but he was just a glorified signature. John Taylor, via his organization, called all the shots.

There was also that strange woman, Taylor’s friend, Sister Jillian. The blonde one who spoke sophisticated English with a distant accent and was oh-so-hot but totally untouchable. She gave McGreevy the creeps whenever she was around. Her eyes never seemed to blink, and she looked at him like she’d been granted access to his soul and was making a map. She must have been someone of wealth and power because she arrived at the station in a motorcade of several SUVs and had a personal security detail like a foreign head of state. McGreevy was happy to avoid her whenever possible.

“It’s clear on the outside,” Rigs said.

“Inform Comstock,” said McGreevy. Rigs jogged up to the trailer.

“Why don’t you go start on the van?” he said to Corky.

The man just stared at him. He had a buzzcut, and it looked like he spent a lot of time in the gym. One of Pastor Tony’s Boys, no doubt.

“Is there an issue?” McGreevy asked.

Corky smiled. “No issue.” He turned and slowly began a saunter toward the van.

“Hey, Corky,” he hollered after him. “Be nice. Remember why we’re out here.”

He did not acknowledge his words.

Pot smoke wafted from the van and polluted the air like there was a skunk about. He groaned at the prospect of paperwork for that offense. Montana was one of the few hold-out states that had repealed the legalization of recreational weed when the puritanical Security Party had swept the state elections back when he was just a kid. It did little to stop the consumption of marijuana, but it did a lot to clog up the system with unnecessary paperwork and dole out hypocritical punishments for something everybody did on their own time anyway. When he got home tonight, the first thing he was going to do was light up a bowl and take a hot bath.

Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

“Comstock said inspect, but don’t waste time on the warrant,” said Rigs on his return from the trailer. “We’re backed up on the north end, and they’re all going to be hitting us at once.”

“Warrants are important.” McGreevy sighed. He checked his phone. Authorization was still pending. “Fine, let’s do this in five minutes.” He went to the back door of the semi-trailer and keyed in the override code. An LED blinked from red to blue, and the door popped open with a chime.

On the right side of the trailer were stacks of old magazines. He pulled one out at random. A skinny twink was sucking on his furry daddy’s dick. “Kinky pornography: Check,” said McGreevy as he noted it on the electronic packing invoice. “It says there’s home keeping magazines in there too. Do you want to look?”

“Fuck off,” said Rigs.

“My thoughts exactly. Inspection passed. Clear.” They hopped out of the trailer and resealed the door.

“Listen, asshole, you can’t do that in Montana! Get out of the car!” Corky shouted from the van.

“Christ,” said McGreevy, jogging over to assist. “What’s the problem?”

“They’re breaking the law,” said Corky. “Devil weed.”

“Are you the officer in charge?” said the old hippie behind the wheel.

“I am,” McGreevy said. Technically, it was Comstock, but he was in-charge in charge and only wanted to be bothered with pertinent information.

“Then please kindly tell this ignorant young man that I am not breaking the law.”

McGreevy rolled his eyes and began his well-rehearsed soliloquy. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what the legalization code is like where you are from, but you’re in Montana now, and the people have not seen fit to legalize cannabis. If you have a small, personal amount, I’m authorized to confiscate it and⁠—”

“Now, you just wait a second, son. You see my plates, Florida.”

“Hey, Corky, why don’t you go help Rigs do his report? I’ll handle this.”

Corky shook his head and laughed. “I’m getting Comstock.” He took off jogging toward the fifth wheel.

“I understand you may not be familiar with recent laws,” continued the hippie.

“Jesus, I don’t care about the weed,” said McGreevy. “You were at the concert.”

“What concert? I go to a lot of concerts.”

“The one at the jail. Francis Builds A Fire.”

The man looked McGreevy up and down.

“I heard the music,” said McGreevy. “I was washed in the rain.”

“Yes, in fact, I do remember you,” said the hippie. “The short cop.”

“Have you seen my friend, Deputy Wolf? Francis and Dr. Smith are missing too.”

“Up in there, bro.” The man pointed to the semi. Beyond them, from the door of the fifth wheel, Comstock emerged donning his heavy parka.

“Fuck,” whispered McGreevy.

“What’s the hold up?” Comstock barked.

“Just some tourists. I cleared them. They want to follow this big rig to cut through the snow. They’re on autopilot.”

“Alright then. I want to see in this cab.” Comstock slapped the side of the trailer.

“Okay, I’m just waiting for the warrant to clear,” McGreevy said.

“I said fuck the warrant,” Comstock growled. “All warrants will be cleared by tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” said McGreevy. The hippie in the Volkswagen van started blowing his horn.

Comstock headed to the van. “Just what the fuck? Check that cab.”

“A little recreational,” said McGreevy.

“Open that fucking cab. I got this.”

McGreevy approached the cab as Comstock chewed out the man in the van.

The windows were polished black, opaque, and reflected the flashing lights of the roadblock. He used the universal override key to unlocked the door. It hissed and lifted, revealing the interior driver and co-driver seats, probably never used. The curtain was drawn over the sleeper, and when he pulled it aside, the faces of Gwen Wolf and Alan Smith stared back at him.

Gwen put her fingers to her lips. McGreevy nodded and stepped down.

“Anything?” Comstock shouted.

McGreevy pushed the button, and the automatic door closed, giving Comstock only a brief look into the cab before it locked.

“Clear,” McGreevy said, brushing off his hands. Comstock looked at him and looked at the cab and shook his head.

“Fuck it,” Comstock said as he headed back to the trailer. “Write that hippie mother fucker a ticket for possession. Tell him it will cancel if his autopilot doesn’t stop until he’s out of Montana.”

“Open the gates,” he shouted to Corky and Rigs.

The hippie rolled down the window as he approached. A joint burned between his lips.

“I’m supposed to write you a ticket, but I’ll just tell you. Get out of Montana as soon as you can.”

“Thanks, brother,” said Nash.

“You’re just lucky potheads cause too much paperwork.”

The man laughed at this. “I guess I am, aren’t I?”

“Well, this isn’t a local case anymore,” McGreevy said. “John Taylor is funding it. It’s like Men in Black up in here. There are people I’m not allowed to talk to. There are hunters, you hear me?” At that moment, he saw movement in the back. “Who’s that?”

“Oh, her? We call her Greta.”

“Christ. Get out of here.”

The man handed him something through the window. It was a silver tin. “You confiscated that from me. Go put it in your car.”

McGreevy slipped the box into his inside pocket and slapped the roof of the van. “Okay, move on. You’ll pass through all the roadblocks unless you stop your car, so I suggest saving your empty beer cans to piss in. And one more thing.” He looked around to make sure he wasn’t observed or overheard. “Keep the Maji alive. People need to hear that music.”

The old hippie put two fingers to his forehead in a salute.

Deputy McGreevy watched them drive off as they continued down the road. He felt funny now, as if he had crossed a line that he could never move back from. He had been different all his life. He didn’t really know until that boy began to sing in the jail cell. It had imprinted upon him indelibly. He could still feel that warm rainwater washing away his guilt and shame. His fear. Oh, the dreams still came, the shadows still haunted him, but now, even though they were looking for him. they couldn’t zero in on him.

McGreevy felt quiet. He had committed a great crime tonight, but in his mind, on the balancing scales, he’d done something good, something brave. If Comstock ever found out, the consequences for him would be dire.

Sometimes justice needed people to look the other way, and tonight he did.

The dark loomed long, and he felt small and lonesome in the world. He was hopeful and worried about the music. The precious music.

Corky had gone inside to kiss Comstock’s ass. He stood with Rigs, waiting for the next car. He wrapped himself in his coat and lit a joint from the silver tin the hippie had given him. It was supremely good weed. He offered a conspiratorial hit to Rigs, who accepted with a genuine smile. They smoked together out on the cold highway in the snow, their little world lit by the flashing lights of the roadblock.