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Tuesday, October 29, 1985

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 29, 1985

The morning was not kind.

A pounding headache and sour beer cotton mouth with a whiskey belch chaser. I lay in bed for a couple or forty minutes staring at the dust motes wafting in front of the window and slowly rolling over the events of the previous day. None of it made any more sense than it had yesterday. The chief effectively closed the Boyd case and, as far as he was concerned, Peter Graham was officially the Department of Natural Resources’ problem.

Both were good calls. Neither was satisfying, but they were still sound, responsible decisions. Laying there listening to my head ring, I tried to convince myself to stay in bed until this all blows over. That’s what the chief wanted me to do. Rest. Take care of myself. Get my head right. But whenever I closed my eyes, I saw that field and those shadows. I was off the map. I didn’t know if I was going crazy or the rest of the world was. But I do know Boyd wasn’t killed by some drifter, Graham wasn’t
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