Sheriff Cole looked around at Sherlock, narrowed his eyes, then turned back. He spit. No spray, just a wad of spit that hit maybe eight inches from Savich’s right foot. “I’m Sheriff Burris Cole. What are two FBI agents doing in this little town?”

“Like I told Doreen, we’re here to see Blessed Backman.”

That rocked him, but to his credit, he recovered quickly. “Well, Blessed’s not here, now, is he? I’ll bet you Doreen already told you that. So I guess there’s no other reason for you to stay.”

“You’ve got a nice town here, Sheriff. I think Agent Sherlock and I will hang around awhile, see the sights, visit with Shepherd and Grace. Who knows? Maybe Blessed will show up. And, ah, Sheriff, could you tell us where we can find Caldicot Whistler?”

Savich thought the man would come at him on the spot, but whatever good sense he had stopped him at the last minute. He let out a frustrated breath, keeping the violence pulsing beneath the surface, and hooked his thumbs into his wide leather belt.

All in all, Savich was disappointed.

He looked into Cole’s nearly colorless eyes. The sheriff’s fingers dug into his belt so hard they turned white. So he did have some control. A pity.

“We don’t have any Caldicot Whistler in our town.”

“If not here then close by. Surely you know about his…organization, Children of Twilight? As a fellow law enforcement officer, I’d sure appreciate some cooperation with this, Sheriff.”

The sheriff spit again, this time about six inches from Savich’s left foot.

Savich shook his head, sighed. “No cooperation then. Agent Sherlock, call Director Mueller, tell him we’re going to need a cadre of agents in Bricker’s Bowl as soon as possible. We got us a cult leader to track down.”

“On it, Chief.”

Savich heard her speaking on her cell not two seconds later.

“Now wait a minute, there’s no reason to flood my town with a bunch of federal guys poking into everybody’s business. All right, all right, I’ll help you.”

“Agent Sherlock, tell the director we might get some local cooperation after all. Now, Sheriff Cole, where is Caldicot Whistler? Where are these Children of Twilight?”

“I told you, Mr. Whistler doesn’t live in Bricker’s Bowl, but he does visit on occasion. I don’t know about any cult. ‘Children of Twilight’? That sounds crazy. Whistler’s a nice man, Agent Savich, wouldn’t hurt a soul. I believe he sells cars over in Haverhill. Why do you want to see him?”

“I want to talk to him about his cult you’ve never heard about,” Savich said.

“I tell you I don’t know about any Children of Twilight cult. Don’t you government types have anything better to do than harass car salesmen? Yeah, that’s what he does—sells those fancy German cars. Caldicot Whistler has nothing to do with a cult. Who claimed he did?”

Savich leaned forward a bit, his voice confiding. “Actually, Sheriff, the FBI knows just about everything we need to. I’m surprised that you, a law enforcement officer, haven’t bothered finding out about them, or think the FBI wouldn’t. On the other hand, you’ve been stuck in this valley a long time—don’t bother with TV or newspapers, right? Now, what’s Caldicot Whistler’s address?”

“We got TV, newspapers, computers, even People magazine.” Sheriff Cole wanted to kill this asshole or at least hurt him bad, and it showed. He also wanted to scratch at the itchy rash around his middle because the heavy leather belt dug into his flesh. That didn’t help. As for the girl with all her red hair and white skin, her long fingers flirting with that SIG, he’d like to introduce her to other sorts of things he liked—a little bowling, a little love, a little pain.

He wondered if she knew what to do with that powerful weapon so close to her fingers. His two deputies were more than likely already over at Kandra’s Kafe chowing down on “All the Tortilla Chips You Can Eat,” today’s special. When Doreen had called him, he’d almost not come by, thinking about all those chips and the big bean burrito waiting for him. He could always count on Kandra to come through with the food when his wife was in one of her moods.

Stupid lost tourist who needed some hassling, that’s what he’d thought. And now this. Now he had two FBI agents on his hands, this big guy whose nose needed to be broken, and the woman, probably the guy’s girlfriend. He could just pull them behind the gas station, but it was too big a risk. The woman had already called the damned director.