your responsibility, all right?” Rogers rubbed the back of his head. “All

right.” “You clean up well,” she said, running her gaze over him. “You’re in

amazing shape. How old are you anyway?” “Older than you probably think.” “You

must work out a lot. Insanity? P90X? MMX?” He shook his head. “Good genes.” She

smiled. “Lucky you.” Yeah, lucky me. “You do not drink on duty. You can have

whatever you want after you get off, for free.” “I’m not much of a drinker.”

“Suit yourself. Well, good luck tonight.” “Thanks.” Rogers walked out and sat at

the bar, counting down the minutes to when the place opened for business. He

asked for a glass of water with a lime and the bartender poured it out for him.

 

There was a TV on the wall behind the bar. The news was on. A man killed in West

Virginia near the Virginia border. A young boy left fatherless. A rare gun

stolen.

 

The newscaster looked particularly indignant as he recounted the cold-blooded

murder.

 

The police were following up leads. A car might have been seen leaving the site

of the killing. The little boy had survived but emotionally was not doing well,

apparently having witnessed the entire thing.

 

The bartender had turned to watch the screen with Rogers as he wiped down

glasses. “Friggin’ sociopaths out there,” he muttered, glancing at Rogers.

“Death penalty’s too good for ’em.” Rogers didn’t reply. He had other things on

his mind.