Badwater by Clinton McKinzie

jeans that went with it, as well as the well-worn buckskin boots. Good enough, I figured. Not quite respectable, but at least not obviously offensive.
    The long driveway was dirt but graded smooth. The house was maybe a half mile from the county road, set in a dip between two hilltops. On three sides around it—the west, south, and north—had been planted cottonwoods to block the wind. They must have been around for a long time, as the trees were more than fifty feet tall. The house was a two-story with wooden shingles and dark windows. Parked all around it were dusty sedans, SUVs, and beat-up ranch pickups.
    Despite it being a rare windless evening, and despite all the vehicles, there was no one outside.
    “
Paranda que,
” I told Mungo before locking her in.
    Then I walked toward the silent house.
    The house was as well maintained as the driveway. The porch was freshly painted and had been swept clean of Wyoming’s ever-present grit. More than a dozen pairs of boots and tennis shoes were lined up outside the door.
    I glanced at the picture window by the door but couldn’t see much because the front room was dark and there was a lace curtain on the inside. I bent and peered in, wondering what had happened to all the owners of the boots and vehicles. I jumped back when I realized there was a face, just inches away through the glass, staring back at me.
    It was one of the boys from the river. The older one, judging by his chubby face. The one who Jonah claimed had told now-dead Cody to “whack this yuppie dipshit with a stick.”
    “Hello,” I called out.
    He didn’t respond.
    I motioned toward the door, but the kid just kept on staring at me. I mimed turning a knob, opening the door. Nothing. Finally I knocked on the door. Hard. The kid’s face suddenly did take on an expression—the brat snarled at me like a wild animal then disappeared.
    I stood there for more than a minute before the door opened. The man standing on the other side was big—tall, wide, and beefy. His whole face seemed droopy, though, following the bow of his walrus mustache. I could see that his eyes were red. He didn’t resemble the small, cold figure I’d done my best to breathe life back into, but I knew this had to be the dad. And I wanted to crawl away.
    Do your goddamn job, Ant,
I reminded myself.
    He looked me over, then asked, “What can I do for you?”
    “I’m sorry to bother you. Are you Mr. Wallis?”
    The big man nodded.
    “My name’s Antonio Burns. I’m a special agent with the Wyoming Division of Criminal Investigation. I, uh, believe you already know what I’m here to tell you.”
    The man nodded again, the face drooping even more. “My boy’s dead.”
    “Sir, I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”
    Another dull nod. Behind him was a dark living room, a TV playing quietly, all but naked men and women incongruously cavorting on a beach. Some bullshit “reality” show. Try this for reality. Beyond the room was a hallway, and it led into a sunken family room. There was light in there, a murmur of many voices, and a few faces peering down the hall at me. That was where everyone was. Mourning. Grieving. The snarling boy, though, was gone.
    “Sometime in the next few days I’d like to talk to you and your wife. I realize that now’s not the time. I do, however, need to talk to the two boys who were with your son as soon as possible. I believe they’re his cousins. Are they here?”
    “I’ll get them,” the man finally said. “Their parents will want to talk to you, too.”
    “That’s fine,” I said. “I’ll wait here. We can talk on the porch.”
    The man started for the other room but stopped.
    “Are you the fellow who went into the river?”
    Now it was my turn to just nod.
    The man stood very still, looking past me, his red eyes slowly filling with liquid. The drooping face began to crumple.
    “Thanks,” he managed to say on his second try with a breaking voice. Then he turned and staggered like a blind