He dried himself with a Harley towel. He went into the bar owner’s bedroom and took a clean T-shirt from Fred’s highboy. It said, “STURGIS, ’96” and showed an Indian chief with an extravagant bonnet riding a chopper through the Black Hills. Fagan looked at himself in the tarnished mirror above the dresser. His short hair looked like a Brillo pad. He had a goose egg that looked like an eggplant emerging above his left eye.Fagan stood in the doorway and scanned the room as he’d been trained to do.Sooner or later he would have to go through it searching for any evidence related to Helmet Head. But now was not the proper time. He quietly shut the door and returned to the bar in control of himself. Macy had backed her chair into a corner, sitting with her arms and legs crossed as if trying to take up as little space as possible.She must have felt it, too, Fagan realized; a crimson tide rising up his neck.“Does that old pick-up out back run?”“Yes.”“Do you know where the keys are?”“Should be behind the bar.”“Can you find them for me?
