The phone woke him from a dream. At first his dream
simply incorporated the sound in its narrative, and his
dream–hand picked it up and his dream–voice said hello,
and there his imagination quit on him, failing to invent
a caller on the other end of the line. He said hello
again, and the real–world phone went on ringing, and he
shook off the dream and got the phone from the bedside
table.

“Hello?”

“Doak Miller?”

“Right,” he said. “Who’s this?”

“Susie at the Sheriff’s Office. Sorry, your voice sounded
different.”

“Thick with sleep.”

“Oh, did I wake you? I’m sorry. Do you want to call us
back?”

“No, it’s what? Close to nine–thirty, time I was up. What
can I do for you?”

“Um—”

“So long as it’s not too complicated.”

“On account of you’re still not completely awake?”

He’d gotten a smile out of her, could hear it in her
voice. He could picture her at her desk, twirling a
strand of yellow hair around her finger, happy to let a
phone conversation turn a little bit flirty.

“Oh, I’m awake,” he said. “Just not at the absolute top
of my game.”

“Well, do you figure you’re sharp enough for me to put
you through to Sheriff Bill?”

“He won’t be using a lot of big words, will he?”

“I’ll warn him not to,” she said. “You hold now, hear?”

Just the least bit flirty, because it was safe to flirt
with him, wasn’t it? He was old enough to be her father,
old enough to be retired, for God’s sake.

He let that thought go and went back for a look at his
dream, but all that was left of it was the ringing
telephone with no one on the other end of it. If the
phone hadn’t rung, he’d have awakened with no
recollection of having dreamt. He knew he dreamed, knew
everyone did, but he never remembered his dreams, or even
that his sleep had been anything other than an
uninterrupted void.

It was as if he led two lives, a sleeping life and a
waking life, and it took the interruption of a phone call
to make one life bleed through into the other.

“Doak?”

“Sheriff,” he said. “How may I serve the good people of
Gallatin County?”

“Now that’s what I ask myself every hour of every day.
You’ll never believe the answer came back to me first
thing this morning.”

“Try me.”

“‘Hire a hit man.’”

“So you thought of me.”

“You know, there must be another fellow with your
qualifications between Tampa and Panama City, but I
wouldn’t know how to get him on the phone. Susie said you
were sleeping when she called, but you sound wide awake
to me. You want to come by once you’ve had your
breakfast?”

“Have y’all got coffee?”

“I’ll tell her to make a fresh pot,” Sheriff William
Radburn said. “In your honor, sir.”

When he’d moved to the state three years ago, Doak had
put up at first in a motel just across the Taylor County
line. A Gujarati family owned it, and the office smelled
not unpleasantly of curry. It took him a couple of months
to tire of the noise of the other guests and the small–
screen TV, and he let a housewife with a real estate
license show him some houses. The one he liked was off by
itself, with a dock on a creek that flowed into the gulf.
You could hitch a boat to that dock, she’d pointed out.
Or you could fish right off the dock.

He made an offer. When the owner accepted it, the agent
delivered the good news in person. He’d had a beer going,
and offered her one. She hesitated just long enough to
signal that her acceptance was significant.

“Well,” he said. “How are we going to celebrate?”

She gave him a look, and that was answer enough, but to
underscore the look she twisted the wedding ring off her
finger and dropped it in her purse. Then she looked at
him again.