Virgil had a podium between him and the gathered journalists. He’d fought and lost. At the end of the day, even the Chief answered to greater powers; and greater powers could start the institution’s engines with or without him. Stepping up the microphone, he felt impossibly small. If he got any smaller, he felt, he might disappear entirely.

He wasn’t even there. He was just the guy (—making the call) delivering the message.

“Due to the growing forest fire, now…now believed to have been started by wanted criminal Robert Robertson, Junior…we will be strictly enforcing a nine o’clock curfew tonight. Police will show zero tolerance for any Oceanrest residents found outside after nine o’clock in any part of the city.” He folded his lips. Cleared his throat. Unfolded them. “All area businesses must close by eight to accommodate employee travel time. Any business not closed at eight o’clock will be issued a citation. I, uh, I repeat,” people had already started asking questions, but he raised his voice into the mic and barreled on, “all businesses in the Oceanrest metro area must be closed by eight o’clock tonight, and all citizens must be inside by nine. There will be no questions. Thank you.”

“How will you handle Squatter City?” someone shouted.

Virgil walked back inside the precinct, uniforms closing ranks between the approaching clamor and the glass doors. He felt the Mayor’s hand on his shoulder and fought off an incredible impulse to shrug it loose and swing.

“Great job out there, Virg’.”

As one of three men responsible for appointing the Oceanrest Chief of Police per term, the Mayor carved out the nickname with a casual surety that disgusted Virgil LeDuff. It disgusted him doubly because, as with so many other things, he allowed it to happen. Though the speech he’d just given served as far more ample evidence of such allowances.

To go along and get along. Bullshit.

“Uh…a’yeah.” Virgil replied.

The hand remained on his shoulder.

It squeezed.

“I wanted to talk to you about something else…”

Thankfully, Virgil’s cellphone interrupted the man. Virgil withdrew it and saw Det. John Bowman Booker stamped across the screen. He shrugged the Mayor’s appendage loose. “Gotta take this,” he explained, turning away. “It’s about Robertson.”

“Talk later, then.”

“Yeah. Later.” Virgil moved toward the back of the precinct. He waited until he’d already managed a dozen paces before answering the call. “Book?” he asked. “John? What’s going on?”

“I need a ride.”

Virgil glanced over his shoulder. Nobody had followed him. “What?”

“Uncle Nick—uh, Nick Robertson. Bob inherited from him just before the lockdown.”

“So?”

“There are answers in that house,” Booker sounded detached. Cool in a way the subject matter didn’t suggest. “I just need someone to drive me over.”

“I—earnest, what kind of lead do you have?” Virgil hushed his voice, dodging between uniforms. A couple people turned as he walked, but none asked him anything.

“Better you didn’t ask.”

“The forest is on fucking fire,” Virgil rage-whispered, quiet and hoarse at once. “I need more than your goddamned word.”

“You took me off the case, anyway,” some of the alien distance faded from Booker’s voice. “But you know that I’m right, right? Bob didn’t just wake up one day and turn into a serial killer.”

“Isn’t it a bit late for a profile?”

“Pick me up when you have time. If you don’t believe me, don’t do it.”

“Listen to me Detective B—”

But Booker had already hung up.

Virgil stood there for a long time, holding the phone. He stood there until he realized he’d been standing there for a long time. A long, uninterrupted time. He turned, half afraid to see what new hell awaited him, but he found himself unneeded. Everyone played their roles. The Mayor did what the Mayor did, and Virgil did what he did, and all the officers and the beat cops and the staff did what they did. No matter how mad, the protocols and procedures rolled out. The goddamned world spun on.

How badly would it really miss one old man?