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  “You’re not going to like him,” she warns. “Judge Bender has a way of making ‘good morning’ sound like something filthy just crawled in.”

  “So?” Craig shrugs. He’s slim for someone his height, but instead of looking gangly, he looks controlled. He has a natural coordination that makes his smallest movements look graceful.

  “Some people like to avoid unpleasant experiences,” she says, and grimaces, thinking of the afternoon visit at Emmett’s shop.

  “You can’t live by dodging unpleasant experiences,” he says back, giving her a weird look. “Life’s just one problem after another. Can’t let that get to you.”

  “You have problems? Like, what, you only scored twenty points instead of thirty?”

  “The season doesn’t start for another four months,” he says.

  Miriam rolls her eyes.

  He grins and shrugs. “What?”

  “Nothing,” she mutters. Why was she so afraid of conflict? Maybe because she’s never all the way sure if she’s right or wrong, whereas self-doubt doesn’t seem like something Craig has much problem with. “You’re welcome to come along with me; in fact, probably better I have a witness when the judge does something inappropriate.”

  “What, like, hit on you?” Craig asks, a hint of steel in his voice. That toughness reminds her that he never answered her question: What problems does a golden child have?

  “Not necessarily,” she says. “But there’s something about Judge Bender that makes you feel like he’s recently finished a diet and you’re dessert.”

  Chapter Nine

  Emmett rubs the space between his eyebrows, where tension headaches like to start. He needs his loan called early like he needs a case of the Ebola virus. Working with Natasha was a dangerous proposition to begin with, and really, when you lie down with snakes, you can’t be surprised when they bite you. But you can still curse rotten timing.

  The shop is quiet in the aftermath of Natasha’s bomb. He imagines he can still hear the crash of the door she slammed behind her, but it’s more of a psychological echo than an auditory one. The music playing is some indie rock group he can’t name, though the song sounds familiar. Light breeze from the ceiling fan flutters a citation for a city ordinance violation on his desk, held down by a metal dragon paperweight. It states that the crack on the walk to the front door of the shop has been deemed a dangerous impediment for the disabled. It’s his second citation. The first came a few weeks ago for the lightbulb that was out over the front door (city ordinance: reg. 14, paragraph b: premises must be well lit); never mind that the light only mysteriously malfunctioned when Officer Richie arrived and the shop was closed. No one’s trying for subtlety here.

  The mayor, eyeing a run for state senate, recently proposed all sorts of bans on “undesirable businesses” in downtown Hamilton. Even though the proposal won’t come up for vote for another two months, with the town’s conservative base frothing at the thought of “cleaning up” downtown, the police chief has already been issuing tickets for various minor infractions. Ironically, Natasha might be out of luck getting any of her investment money back, let alone the entire loan. In two months, he might lose his business license and the whole shop with it. That would probably be fine with her; it was never about the money to begin with.

  A customer walks in with a sketch in hand. It’s a pen-and-ink drawing from a funky children’s book that was published a couple years ago. She’s excited and confident—it isn’t her first tattoo. They discuss pricing and placement as Emmett firmly puts aside his future problems and concentrates on his current (if perhaps temporary) business.

  Emmett is bent over his work, carefully following the lines of the sketch in blue ink, when someone walks in. He spares a glance. A man in his thirties wearing a leather coat and cowboy boots ambles in, thumbs hitched in his wide leather belt, fingers framing an enormous brass belt buckle with a stylized flame. Emmett doesn’t recognize him, but something about his face has Emmett taking a second, longer look. Medium frame, longish brown hair carefully disheveled … He could be an undercover health inspector. But he’s not. His cowboy boots are silent on the polished floor and his pale eyes have not left Emmett’s face since he entered. They have weight to them, those freaky eyes. Not right. The thought pops into Emmett’s mind. He’s not right. There’s something hot and malevolent in the gaze, at complete odds with the mild expression on the man’s face. The small hairs on the back of Emmett’s neck stand up. He sets down the needle gun and rises from his stool without realizing it. The customer glances over her shoulder in surprise when she feels the inking has stopped.

  The man doesn’t speak. Now that Emmett is standing, he looks away and eyes the shop lazily. Emmett’s heart pounds with adrenaline and he scans the man for weapons. As if reading his thoughts, the man looks back at Emmett, a small smile playing on his generous lips. He slowly unhooks his thumbs from his belt, and Emmett tenses, ready to leap forward, but the man’s hands remain at his side as those colorless eyes flick up and down, taking their measure, that little mocking smile widening a hair.

  All kinds of strange people walk into the tattoo shop, and normally, no matter how belligerent someone appears, Emmett would be asking how he could help by now. But he stays silent. He’s unsure why his instincts are screaming—there’s nothing about the man that is actually aggressive—but he’s learned to listen to his gut. He hasn’t felt in this much danger since his tour in Afghanistan.

  Obeying those screaming instincts, Emmett steps in front of his customer in an unconscious reflex to protect her, standing between a noncombatant and incoming fire. He rolls his shoulder in, his biceps flexing under his shirt until the sleeves grow taut. His hands in their black latex gloves curl into fists. Still silent, he shakes his head no. As in: No, there’s nothing here for you. No, I won’t help you. No, you’re not welcome here.

  The man’s smile grows wider as his eyes grow hotter. For a moment, Emmett swears they flash red, and the unassuming mask slips to reveal something hideous and full of fury. But like a flickering reception, it’s only for a split second and, in the next moment, the man looks only mildly amused at the lack of service.

  “Excuse me,” the woman in the chair says indignantly, “we’re in the middle of my tattoo, if you don’t mind.” She’s annoyed with Emmett, totally oblivious to the malevolent presence of the man in the shop.

  The man tilts his head as he considers her. For some reason, Emmett’s heart constricts with dread. She shouldn’t have done that, he thinks. She shouldn’t have drawn his attention.

  The man gives her a small nod, as if deciding, Yes, she’ll do, and smiles. She smiles back, suddenly shy, ducking her head.

  “I might come by later, when you aren’t so … busy,” he says to Emmett, his voice surprisingly high and smooth. Then he shifts his gaze to the woman in the chair, her shirt raised over her right side where the tattoo is taking shape on her ribs. “That tattoo is going to look amazing on you.” His voice deepens slightly, the words smooth and caressing.

  She turns pink with pleasure and bobs her head in thanks. As the man steps out without a backward glance, she stares after him.

  Chapter Ten

  The interview is supposed to take place at Bender’s chambers in the county courthouse, but half an hour before the scheduled meeting, Bender’s secretary calls to say he’s at his home and expecting Miriam there. The change in venue makes Miriam uneasy and she’s doubly glad Craig’s coming along.

  Bender’s house is a sterile-looking new construction in gray stucco on an old street of redbrick colonials. Miriam knocks on a large wooden door painted such a glossy black that it still looks wet. The heavy brass door knocker is shaped like a gavel. Miriam and Craig exchange glances and she rolls her eyes. Craig grins back. He has an expressive face. Miriam hopes he can keep it blank during the next twenty minutes, because it’s almost certain that Bender will be rude.

  Bender opens the door dressed in slacks and a pale peach shirt that
brings out the sunburn on his nose and cheeks. His gut presses against the thin pima cotton. He smiles in welcome at Miriam, but the smile freezes into a grimace when he catches sight of Craig.

  “This is Craig Lang,” Miriam introduces. “He’s interning at the paper.” Craig is three years younger than Miriam and stands nearly a foot taller. Bender eyes him sourly. It does look a little like she’s brought along a bodyguard. Craig stands relaxed, arms by his side, smiling politely at the judge, bland game face on.

  “I wasn’t informed,” Bender huffs importantly. “This is a private conversation.”

  “This is an interview,” Miriam corrects. “If you say anything off the record, Craig understands that it’s confidential.”

  Bender considers her for a moment, his rat eyes flicking from her face to her chest to her notepad to Craig. Miriam holds a firm, no-nonsense gaze as her skin crawls. In another thirty seconds, she might call the interview off.

  Bender senses something of her determination. After another pursed-lip glance at Craig, he sucks on his teeth loudly and steps back to let them through. They follow him down a long, sterile hallway lined with black-and-white photos of skeletal trees. It’s cold inside and the photos make the place feel colder. Miriam wonders why a confirmed bachelor in his fifties needs such a massive home.

  There are several closed doors leading off the hallway. He opens one and ushers them in. After the modern façade of the house and the stark hallway, Miriam expects a room with lots of glass and chrome, but his office is surprisingly traditional: sizeable Oriental rug, mahogany desk, walls lined with bookshelves full of legal texts. It’s curiously warm in the office after the chill of the hallway. Too warm. There’s a large window, but the view is hidden behind a fussy striped curtain of gold and burgundy, drawn shut. It’s dim in the room without natural light and Bender flicks on a small lamp that only accentuates how stuffy and gloomy the office is, considering the bright sunshine outside.

  Craig and Miriam settle on a small brown couch and Bender eases into a wingback chair upholstered in the same ugly fabric as the curtain. There’s a space heater next to the chair, which explains the heat in the room, but not why Bender would blast AC in the house and run a space heater in the office.

  Eager to finish this awful interview, Miriam flips open her notebook, ready to begin. But Craig, who’s been unabashedly studying the place, suddenly sits up with an exclamation of alarm. Miriam follows his appalled gaze. There’s a massive terrarium flanked by two potted ficus that takes up half the wall in the corner of the office. She walked right by it as she entered the room, so distracted by the hideous drapes that she never noticed it. At first there are only brown coils in the mottled colors of a muddy topographical map. They’re so thick and tangled it takes her mind a while to work out that not only is it a snake, it is a very large snake. Each coil is almost as thick as her thigh.

  “Oh my God!” she exclaims. “How big is that snake?”

  Bender smiles benignly and Miriam is annoyed that she gave him the exact response he clearly wants from guests to his office.

  “Reticulated pythons can grow to be as much as thirty feet long. Genghis is a twenty-two-footer, a rescue,” he explains. “He was about to be euthanized after strangling a toddler.”

  Miriam and Craig exchange horrified looks. The story rings a bell to Miriam. It made national news a few years back. The family awoke in the morning to find its pet python had slithered out of its cage, down the hall, up into the crib and around the small, sleeping girl. It hadn’t eaten her when the father discovered them, but the little girl’s head was covered in rows of bite marks where the snake had bitten her with its numerous small teeth to keep her in place while it constricted her.

  “Not the snake’s fault, of course,” Bender says, looking fondly at the massive python. “It wasn’t bred to be vicious, just following its nature. To kill it for that seemed like a sin.” He looks like he expects to be lauded for this act of mercy. Miriam pictures this beast gliding through the house in the middle of the night, peering into the various bedrooms before choosing the small crib and the child sleeping there. She eyes the gleaming muscular coils and tries to imagine what twenty-two feet of snake looks like coming into your bed.

  “Didn’t it happen in Florida?” Miriam asks, feeling nauseated. “How did you end up with it?”

  “It did take place in Florida.” He nods, pleased that she’d heard of the story. “I happen to be good friends with the judge in the hearing. I asked him what would happen to the snake. The state wildlife and game commission were planning to put it down after the trial. Didn’t seem right to me. The father was an unfit parent, he’d lost a child, but there was no need for another life to end.”

  It’s so wrong, so twisted, to keep the snake as a pet even if Bender is right and the snake isn’t vicious. Her gaze keeps sliding off Bender to rest on the snake, which revolts and fascinates her at the same time.

  With a steadying breath, she turns to her prepared questions. She expects it will take some time before they relax enough in each other’s presence for a good conversation. But Bender seems unfazed by her reaction to the snake, the stiflingly warm office (can’t have an uncomfortable snake), or Craig’s presence. She hardly needs to prompt him. Some interviewees are like that.

  “I moved here back in 1982,” he begins easily when she asks how long he’s lived in Hamilton. “Different time then, different place altogether. There were untouched woods down Route 31—none of these endless shopping malls and fancy stores. It was good Christian folks living a good wholesome life.” Bender sits back in his chair, ankle on knee. “I made it my mission in life to protect this community. Are you getting this down?”

  Miriam nods, pen racing on her notepad.

  “I’ve seen some awful things from the bench; the worst dregs of humanity come before me, begging for mercy.” He looks at Craig. “I have no mercy for the wicked.”

  “Tell me about your ties to the community,” Miriam quickly says. “I understand that you’re deeply involved with many civic organizations.”

  Annoyed at the interruption, Bender uncrosses his legs and leans forward, both feet on the ground, with his gut resting in the space between his spread legs. “I have been a member in good standing of the Kiwanis Club for over twenty years. During that time, we have participated in many worthy projects. My dear friend, Bob Morth, he’s now the mayor of this fine town, he began his Kiwanis membership the same time as I did.”

  The closer Bender leans forward, the farther into the couch Miriam presses herself, lifting her pad like a small shield. He tells her about his deep friendship with the mayor and the chief of police, his pride in Hamilton and his hopes for its continued prosperity. She quickly writes his quotes in shorthand, nodding to keep him going.

  Emmett had told her about the ordinance violation from a few weeks ago and this morning she saw on the daily blotter that he recently received a second one. With Bender droning on about the deep friendship he shares with Morth and his high ambition to protect the morality of Hamilton, Miriam suddenly makes a connection. Could Bender be the one behind the campaign to re-designate city ordinances and the harassing violations Emmett is charged with? Morth never seemed like he had the destructive sneakiness to engineer the plan he was pushing. She scribbles a note to herself in the margin of her pad to look into whether any email exchanges between the mayor and the judge qualify as public record.

  Craig sits quietly by her side, listening to the interview. From time to time, he glances over to study her pad and the notes she’s taking. Miriam doesn’t mind; one of the hardest things for a journalist is writing down a subject’s quotes during an interview. It’s a skill to know which key words will re-create the quote once back at the office. Craig reads the note she jotted in the corner and looks visibly surprised. He slides a glance over at the judge and the atmosphere in the room abruptly changes.

  Bender, with the instincts of a brawler, immediately picks up on Craig’s surprise whi
le reading the note. It’s obvious from Craig’s expression that Miriam has written something unfavorable about Bender. He narrows his piggy eyes threateningly at Craig and turns them on Miriam. Busy jotting the latest quote, she’s oblivious to the exchange, so she jumps when Bender’s large, fleshy hand pats her leg familiarly. The pen leaves a worried squiggle as her hand jerks.

  “You know, I saw the booking sheet from your arrest,” Bender mentions, squeezing her leg like a vise. “I can’t begin to tell you how something like that hurts a reporter’s credibility, their trustworthiness.” Miriam feels the blood drain from her face. “People count on a reporter being unbiased. When it seems like someone’s got an agenda, it compromises things. Don’t you agree?”

  She glances at Craig, who’s carefully looking down at the floor. Beads of sweat have formed on her upper lip in the warm office and her back tickles where moisture runs down between her shoulder blades. “There’s no official record of the arrest,” she says. Her pad lies on her lap and she feels oddly vulnerable without the mad scribbles to hide behind.

  “You’d be surprised what stays in the system.” Bender smirks. “A person like you, new to the community … It’s a terrible way to make a first impression.”

  “I didn’t do anything wrong,” Miriam says. “The community knows that.” Miriam was arrested while trying to stop the previous intern, Jason, from bringing several guns to Warfield Prep, the school he attended so miserably. In the confusion of the police raid on his place, she was accused as his accessory but was cleared when the editor of the paper explained she’d been working on a story. No one has mentioned her arrest to her since, and she assumed there were no records of the police error.