“Fella called Patrick Fallon. I don’t know the man. That means he’s not a regular, anyway; there’s no local feud going on, nor nothing like that.”

Patrick Fallon is presumably P.J. “Huh,” Cal says. “That’s my neighbor. I haven’t heard him mention any trouble since I got here. I guess it must’ve been a once-off thing.”

“Lads messing,” O’Malley says, with comfortable finality, breaking off another big hunk of cake.

Looking at that cake has made Cal hungry. He finds a café and gets himself a slice of apple pie and more coffee, to pass the time till his laundry is ready. While he finishes the coffee, he gets his notebook out of his jacket pocket and turns to a fresh page.

He tosses around the possibility that Brendan was setting himself up as a source of stolen farm equipment, boosted P.J.’s stuff, got spooked and gave it back when he found out the cops had been called in, and skipped town to avoid the fallout or was run out, like the cat-killing Mannion kid. It doesn’t sit quite right—anyone with half a brain would have expected police, and Brendan is or was no dummy—but maybe he didn’t think the theft would be noticed so soon. Caroline said he didn’t take people’s reactions into account.

He writes: Farm equipment 3/16. What was stolen? Was it recovered?

The other thing hanging around the edges of his mind is the thought of those dead sheep. Mart isn’t sitting up in those woods on the off chance. He has some reason for thinking P.J.’s sheep are next.

Cal draws himself a quick sketch of Ardnakelty townland, with help from internet maps. He marks in Mart’s land, P.J.’s and Bobby Feeney’s; he doesn’t know where Francie Gannon’s is exactly, but “beside the village” gives him a rough idea. Then he marks in all the other sheep farms he knows about.

Geographically, those four have nothing to single them out from the rest. They’re not the nearest ones to the mountains or a wood where some creature might stay hidden, not all close together, not the nearest to the main road for a quick getaway. There’s no reason, at least none that Cal can see, why they would be an obvious set of targets for either man or beast.

He writes: Francie/Bobby/Mart/P.J. Links? Related? Beef w Brendan? W anyone?

He can think of one person who had beef with Mart, anyway, not long before Mart’s sheep got killed. He writes: W Donie McG?

The last of the coffee has got cold. Cal buys his groceries, including Mart’s cookies and a three-pack of socks, picks up his laundry, and heads out of town.

The road up into the mountains feels different in a car, rockier and less welcoming, like it’s biding its time to puncture Cal’s tire or send him sideslipping into a patch of bog. He parks outside the Reddys’ gate. There’s no shoulder, but he’s not too worried that another car will need to get by.

This time the Reddys’ yard is empty. The breeze nips at his neck, and the ropes hanging from the climbing structure sway restlessly. The front windows of the house are blank and dark, but as Cal crosses the yard, he feels watched. He slows down, letting them get a good look.

It takes Sheila a long time to come to the door. She holds it a foot open and looks at Cal through the gap. He can’t tell whether she recognizes him. From somewhere inside the house comes faint, bright cartoon laughter.

“Afternoon, Miz Reddy,” he says, staying well back. “Cal Hooper, who you helped out with dry socks a couple of days back, remember?”

She keeps looking at him. This time the wariness doesn’t dissolve.

“I brought you these,” he says, holding out the socks. “With my thanks.”

That brings a spark of life into Sheila’s eyes. “I don’t need them. I’m not so poor that I can’t afford to give away a pair of old socks.”

Cal, taken aback, ducks his head and shifts his feet on the step. “Miz Reddy,” he says, “I didn’t intend to give any offense. You saved me a long wet walk home, and I was raised not to be ungrateful. My gramma would sit up in her grave to yell at me if I didn’t bring you these.”

After a moment the resentment fades and she looks away. “You’re grand,” she says. “Just . . .”

Cal waits, still abashed.

“I’ve the children. I can’t be letting strange men call round.”

When Cal lifts his head, startled and affronted, she says almost angrily, “It’s nothing to do with you. People are fierce talkers, round here. I can’t give them an excuse to say worse about me than they already do.”

“Well,” Cal says, still being a little miffed, “I apologize. I don’t mean to cause you any trouble. I’ll get out of your hair.”

He holds out the socks again, but Sheila doesn’t take them. For a moment he thinks she’s going to say something more, but then she nods and starts to close the door.

Cal says, “You hear anything from your boy Brendan?”

The flash of fear in Sheila’s eyes tells him what he was looking to know. Sheila’s been warned, too.

“Brendan’s grand,” she says.

“If you do,” Cal says, “you might let Caroline Horan know,” but before he’s finished the sentence, Sheila has shut the door in his face.

On his way home Cal drops off the cookies at Mart’s place, as a thank-you for last night and an indication that he spent today behaving himself. Mart is sitting on his front step, watching the world go by and brushing Kojak.

“How’s the head?” he inquires, shoving Kojak’s nose away from the cookies. He looks perky as ever, although he could do with a shave.

“Not as bad as I expected,” Cal says. “How ’bout you?”

Mart throws him a wink and a finger-point. “Ah, you see, now, that’s why we love Malachy. His stuff’s pure as holy water. It’s the impurities that’ll destroy you.”

“Here I thought it was the alcohol,” Cal says, rubbing behind Kojak’s ears.

“Not at all. I could drink a bottle of Malachy’s finest, get up in the morning and do a day’s work. But I’ve a cousin over the other side of the mountains, I wouldn’t touch his stuff with a ten-foot pole. The hangover’d last till Christmas. He does always be inviting me to call in for a wee drop, and I’ve to find a new excuse every time. It’s a social minefield, so ’tis.”

“P.J. see anything last night?” Cal asks.

“Not a sausage,” Mart says. He pulls a fluff of fur out of the bristles and tosses it onto the grass.

Cal says, “That guy Donie McGrath isn’t too fond of you right now.”