“About four o’clock, then.”

“At least. No way to get back to Wheatfield and set up and shoot somebody. And I didn’t have a gun with me—ask Rose.”

“He didn’t have a gun,” Rose said. “They got two of them, and I saw both of them, in the rack, before we left.”

Raleigh said, “See?”

Virgil asked Rose, “Where do you work?”

“Bob’s Spinners and Bells,” she said. “It’s a gym. I’m a spinning instructor.”

Button said, “I was at an assembly plant over in Albert Lea, looking for work.”

“On a Saturday?”

“Weekend work. You can call and ask.”

The clothesline lady said, “They had both cars. Me’n Marie stay home when they’re all gone.”

Virgil asked, “Do you have WiFi out here?”

Good, a short, wide man who seemed to consist mostly of tangled black hair and who undoubtedly had a broken-down Harley somewhere, snorted. “We’re lucky we got runnin’ water out here.”

“You don’t like it, you could always move,” Button snapped.

“We got WiFi at the gym,” Rose said. “Why?”

“Because you’re all talking about reasonable alibis, but I need to check. If you could email the names of people who saw you around those places, who you’d talk to, I’d appreciate it. If everybody backs you up, then we got no problem.”

The five of them eye-checked one another, and then Button said, “Sounds okay. We’d appreciate it if you could skip over the National Socialist stuff when you talk to them. Hard to find jobs, with all the bigots out there.”

Virgil nodded. “I can do that. Though I gotta say, this being Minnesota, you’d have been better off to pick Communism. If you know what I’m saying.”

“Got that, all right,” said the unidentified, clothes-hanging blond woman. “I’m thinking about switching over.”

Bakker gave Virgil a tap in the ribs with an elbow, and said, “Give me a minute, Virgil.” He walked a dozen steps away, and when Virgil came over, he whispered, “If you look behind the machine shed, you’ll see the back end of a black Chevy Camaro. Woody Garrett drives a black Camaro.”

Virgil nodded, and said, “You want me to lead or you?”

“You got a gun on you?”

“As a matter fact, I do, at my back,” Virgil said. “You know, heavily armed Nazis.”

“Right. I don’t think these guys are dangerous, but Garrett could be a problem.”

* * *

—

They walked back to the group, and Virgil said, “Could you ask Woody to come out here?”

Button did an astonishingly bad imitation of a confused man. “Woody who?” He scratched his head and looked at the others. Rose rolled her eyes.

“Woody Garrett, who drives that black Camaro parked over there behind the machine shed,” Virgil said, nodding toward the shed.

The group all turned to look, and Rose said, “Oh, that Woody Garrett. Jim thought you meant some other Woody.”

Virgil was getting the impression that the group lacked cohesiveness. “Could you ask him to come out?”

“What’d he do?” the clothes hanger asked.

“Beat the heck out of his wife and daughter,” Bakker said. “Busted the daughter up real bad, using a two-by-two the size of a baseball bat. Broke her pelvis.”

“What! He beat up Anna? She’s nine years old!” Rose turned to Button. “You said he had an argument with Sandy and needed a place to sleep for a couple of days.”

Button said, “Well . . . he did. He didn’t mention the beating-up part.”

“You dumbass,” Rose said. To Virgil: “He was sleeping in the back bedroom, first floor, when you showed up. He was drunk last night, so I believe he’s still asleep.”

“Are we invited in?” Bakker asked.

“No,” said Button.

“Harboring a fugitive from the law is a felony,” Virgil said.

“Like I said, you’re welcome to come in,” Button said. “Don’t go shooting the place up.”

“Yeah, we don’t need any home improvements,” Rose said.

* * *

—

The entire group moved to the house, but Button, Good, Rose, and the others waited in the kitchen, after pointing Virgil and Bakker to a door at the back of the house. Rose whispered, “The lock’s broken.”

Virgil tiptoed across a worn carpet, with Bakker a couple of feet behind, and tried the doorknob. It creaked, and Virgil gave it a fast twist and pushed the door open. The room contained an empty, two-tier bunk bed, a dresser supported on one side by a two-by-four that was replacing a broken leg, and an open window whose curtain was blowing gently into the room.

“He’s run off,” Bakker said, and he turned to sprint to the front door. As he took his first step, Virgil hooked his arm, put a finger to his own lips, and pointed beneath the lower bunk. Bakker stooped and looked under the bed; he could see two jean-clad knees.

“What do you want to do?” Bakker asked.

“Ask him to come out of there. Be careful, though, he could have a gun.” Virgil stooped, and said, “We can see your knees, Woody. Don’t make us drag you out.”

A couple of beats later, “Fuck you.”

Rose had walked up behind them. “What a dimwit,” she said. “Woody, did you beat Anna with a board?”

“Fuck you, Rose. Did you tell them I was here?”

“No, dumbass. Your car was sticking out from behind the shed,” Rose said.

“You got a gun?” Virgil asked.

“Fuck you.”

“You go shooting at a cop, you’re gonna die right here,” Bakker said. “Keep that in mind.”

“Fuck you.”

Virgil walked to the end of the bed, noticed that it was bolted to the wall, and peeked under the lower bunk. He could see the soles of a pair of cowboy boots a couple of feet back. “I’m going to pull him out,” Virgil muttered to Bakker. “Get your gun. If the motherfucker shoots at me, kill him.”

“Happy to do it,” Bakker said.

“Fuck both of you,” Garrett said.