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AT SUNSET, I’M back at Parker’s, sitting in a lawn chair and looking at the short stalks of the cornfield. I’ve changed out of my work clothes and am wearing a plain white T-shirt and jeans. My gun’s locked up in my truck. The kids and Josie are at her mother’s house, and Parker and I have the whole property to ourselves.
Parker and I carried lawn chairs out into the yard, and then he left me to go fetch the bourbon. Before leaving, he tossed his cell on his seat, and now it buzzes with an incoming message.
I glance at it and see that it’s from Harvey.
Still on for tomorrow?
A moment later, another comes in.
Be there at 11 unless you cancel.
The back door of the house opens, and I settle back into my seat. Parker walks up with two tumblers and a fifth of Garrison Brothers Cowboy Bourbon. When I see the bottle, I raise my eyebrows. I’m pretty sure this stuff goes for two hundred dollars a bottle.
“That’s some high-dollar liquid gold right there,” I say.
“I’ve been saving it for a special occasion,” Parker says, settling into the seat next to me. “Today, my family is safe and healthy, and a good friend is visiting—what could be more special than that?”
This is the first extravagant item I’ve seen that suggests Parker might be living beyond the means he declares each year to the IRS. Or maybe he’s telling the truth—buying the bottle was a rare indulgence and he’s been waiting for the right moment to crack it open.
He pours three fingers and hands the glass to me. He pours the same for himself. I hold the glass close to my face and inhale. The bourbon smells like freshly cut cedar—I can feel my sinuses clearing from just the heat of the aroma.
“To family and friends,” he says, holding up his glass for a toast.
He clinks his against mine, then downs his whiskey in one swallow. I take a healthy sip, savoring the sweet caramel and coffee flavor. Instantly, my tongue feels numb and my belly warm.
Parker offers me the bottle for a refill, but I wave him off. I still have half of my original pour. He fills his and settles back. The sun is an orange blob disappearing into the cornstalks.
It will be dark soon.
“You’ve got a really nice life here,” I say. “I’m envious.”
He nods, takes another drink. “This is my oasis,” he says, gesturing to the property. “My safe place from the horrors of the world.”
I say nothing, hoping he’ll continue.
He does.
“Out there,” he says, gesturing to the world beyond the cornfield and the woods, “society is immoral and sick, and the bad people sure as hell outnumber the good. Drug dealers. Human traffickers. Pedophiles. Sociopaths in business suits pulling the strings. Corrupt politicians enabling crime and profiting by it. Nothing changes. People who actually want to do good can’t. Their hands are tied by a broken system. Only way to raise a family in this world is to shelter them from all that evil.”
While I understand the sentiment, I’m shocked by the vehemence of his words.
“This country has a sickness of greed that keeps good people down,” he says. “We working folk have to tithe to the rich. These billionaires get tax breaks while the poor and working class can’t get ahead no matter how hard they try. The system’s rigged against the little guy.”
He refills his glass again and continues in this vein, talking about how he couldn’t stand to be a Ranger anymore because the system doesn’t work. His eyes are growing glassy as he continues to drink. I can feel the power of the one-hundred-thirty-proof alcohol in my bloodstream, but Parker’s matching my drinks three to one. And the more he drinks, the looser his tongue gets.
“How can you stand it, Rory?” he says. “You’re a good person, yet your hands are tied by a flawed and corrupt system.”
“I just try to do what little I can to make the world a better place,” I say. “I’d rather do what I can than not do anything at all.”
I realize too late that this might have sounded like an accusation.
“Is that a dig at me?” he says, his eyes fiery in the last glow of twilight. “Are you saying I should be doing something to make the world a better place? Trust me—Ido my part.”
“I’m sure you do,” I say. “I wasn’t suggesting you weren’t. The way I see it, as long as you’re not hurting anyone else, living a good life, you’re doing what you’re supposed to.” I add, pointedly, “As long as you’re not breaking laws—as long as you’re not a criminal.”
“What if breaking laws is the only way to do good?” he says. “What if that’s the only way to keep your family safe in this immoral world?”
I feel a cold chill creep up my spine.
