The railroad tracks come to a stop a hundred miles outside of the city. It’s hard to say who’d ripped up the pressure-treated beams, but a whole pile is sitting ten yards away in a motley heap of dirt and wood, with weeds and crabgrass growing up through the debris.

Someone must’ve needed a blowtorch to burn through the metal – whoever it was probably hauled the lot off to a scrap dealer and earned themselves a full fist of cash. Must not have happened long after the Division since the earth has bounced back and overtaken the hammered ground where the tracks once laid, leaving nothing more than parallel indents in the soil leading off to the west. Nature wasted no time reclaiming what was hers.

At least the highway runnin’ alongside the old tracks is in decent shape, a two-lane strip of black top with a crumbling shoulder on either side. The paint job’s faded but it’s far from the worst Jensen’s ever seen. All he needs is a radio and a smooth ride, and if he can’t have both, he’s happy to have a good road – he can’t afford to bust a tire before his next post. Ranger work pays, but it’d been a slow winter and Jensen’s captain can’t pull jobs outta thin air.

Mo’s flopped on the passenger side of the bench seat, big paws hanging down into the foot well. The mutt snores louder than any man Jensen’s had the displeasure of waking up next to, puppy jowls flapping. Jensen had picked Mo up two postings ago before some greasy bottom-feeder could turn the runt into ground meat. Fuckin’ sicko. Jensen had left the guy with only a broken jaw when he easily could have shot the bastard’s nuts off.

Just ‘cause the Secessionland is a good bit poorer than the United States or California, it doesn’t mean they have to be uncivilized.

Mo whines in his sleep and his silky soft ears twitch. Jensen keeps the Sabre going steady, pushing seventy, cutting through the territory like a hot knife through butter. He ought to make Braywater by dinner and he’ll find himself a room and a connection for the night. He’s itching for a new job to fall into but they’re coming fewer and farther in between.

It ain’t that Jensen’s worried – he’s the best at the job. He’s the solution when all you’ve got are problems. Just don’t forget to pay him or you’ll have a whole new kind of problem.

Might take a few days, maybe a couple of weeks, but Morgan’ll get him another job, and Jensen will walk tall into that one the same way he always does: two eyes open and one hand on his gun.

The Sabre rumbles over a patch of rough pavement, heaves left over from a cold winter and neglected upkeep, and Mo woofs with his eyes closed.

“Learn to drive if you’re gonna complain,” Jensen says, steering the car around a pothole. “Otherwise, leave me in peace.”

He cranks up the radio and lets the highway take him toward the foothills.



Braywater is twice the size of Jensen’s last post, which ain’t saying a hell of a lot. Means there’s more than one highway motel for him to choose from, but he’s guessing none of them are keen on takin’ dogs.

It’s a damn good thing Mo’s learned to be quiet when it counts.

The room he ends up with has a view of the parking lot. Beyond that, just a forest of old billboard stumps and crumbled foundations. It could have been a strip mall a decade ago before most small town businesses collapsed under the weight of shrinking populations.

The sky’s been the same shade of gray all day, hard to tell what time it is. The bedside clock flashes 12:00 in digital red numbers and Jensen wonders if the power in Braywater cuts out every night. Rationing’s not unheard of in these parts; sometimes a town’s just too far from the power hubs and can’t pay to maintain power around the clock.

Mo circles between the bed and the wall while Jensen grabs necessities out of his overnight bag. He leaves the rest in the car; unlike a motel room, the Sabre can’t be broken into.

Turning around when he hears Mo’s tail thumping against the knobby carpet, Jensen shakes his head.

“I don’t wanna know what scent you’ve caught there, buddy.”

All kinds of unappealing things come to mind. Jensen never looks too closely at the dark spots on motel rugs. Mo huffs and sticks his mottled snout against the baseboard.

“And I’m going out to eat by myself tonight, ‘cause I’m getting way too used to talkin’ to you.”

The mutt’s unfazed by Jensen’s dilemma.

Jensen leaves Mo snuffling around in the room, confident that his pup will keep quiet. He walks across the gravel lot, boots crunching the rocks, and ends up at a roadhouse two blocks up the road towards town. He checks the cars in the lot first: makes, models, license plates. More than half have handwritten tags taped inside their rear windows – the local government has more important things to worry about than car registrations.

Inside, no one greets Jensen but he feels eyes on his back, checking his stride. Years have taught Jensen how to mask his gun swagger, his piece concealed so that it’s not obvious. Jensen’s not working this town; no need for anyone to know he’s carrying.

The thick-neck tendin’ bar doesn’t say hello, just points Jensen to an empty table under the front window. The chair wobbles but the menu’s got a lot to offer, more options than Jensen’s used to seeing. In his head, he promises Mo a burger, no onions. The mutt’s breath is like a landfill already.

There’s an indistinguishable twang to the house music. It’s not the classic rock Jensen prefers but it ain’t gonna make his ears go numb. His waitress, a bony thing with shorn black hair, shrugs off small talk – Jensen’ll try to leave her a tip in appreciation – and walks away with his simple order. Chicken roasted on the bone and whatever vegetables the kitchen is cookin’ up and callin’ a side dish tonight. He’ll order Mo’s burger later.

Jensen’s sat in dozens of roadhouses like this one. There are always patrons claiming to be just passin’ through who wind up coming back night after night, nowhere better to move along to. A few locals, too, men and women who’ve always called Braywater home, for better or for worse. As far as Jensen’s seen, Braywater is getting by. The variety on the menu tells him crops and livestock around here have been good for a few years – they probably export quite a bit to turn a profit. It could bode well for Jensen.

He flags down his waitress after she drops off a steaming plate that ain’t his.

“Excuse me. Do y’all have a hard line connection in town?”

“Hard wired and satellite.”

“Satellite, really?” Jensen asks but the girl’s out of range, heading back around to the kitchen. He wasn’t expecting to find a more sophisticated connection ‘til he made it through to Texas. Dishes require a lot of money or a back-door government deal, bureaucrats with special interests or greedy pockets. Though, every now and then, Jensen runs across a few resourceful citizens manufacturing their own sat dishes – former engineers or tech specialists. All the same, it’s welcome news.

His dinner arrives on the waitress’s next pass. Chicken’s a tad on the scrawny side but the vegetables are steamed crisp, not soggy. Mo’s treat, tin-foiled and sitting in a brown paper bag, arrives as Jensen’s pickin’ the neck bone clean of dark meat, fingers slick and greasy but his stomach’s singing a happy tune for the night.

Jensen tosses a couple of folded bills on the check when his waitress sets it down. “Where can I pick up the sat connection?” The satellite must not be a secret if she’s throwing details out to strangers. That or she doesn’t know any better.

The girl is bold, counting Jensen’s cash and pocketing it without asking if he needs change. Jensen writes it off as the cost of information.

She asks, “You have your own equipment?”

“Yup.”

“Try the library,” she tells him, hand folded over the cash in her apron. “It’s a wing off town hall, ‘bout three blocks up. They don’t advertise it, but you can hook up to the sat there.”

“Appreciate it,” he drawls.

She’s gone after that without acknowledging his thanks. Hardly a big deal. Jensen grabs his mutt’s burger and leaves, roadhouse door slamming behind him. The streetlight above him hisses, power lines frowning where they’re strung from post to post down Main Street. There’s no daylight left to give, Jensen walks back to the motel in semi-darkness, stepping around the halos cast on the road by flickering lamp posts. Mo’s gotta be starving and all the equipment Jensen needs is in the Sabre’s trunk.

A satellite connection – lucky find. Jensen’ll be able to file his last report and, if he’s lucky, get a line on some work sooner rather than later. It won’t do the Rangers any good to let him sit idle.

Mo slobbers all over his burger, swallowing faster than his puppy teeth can chew.

“Slow down, mutt, before you choke,” Jensen grumbles, setting a bottle of Texas Red Eye on the nightstand for when he gets back. The dog’s not listening, stopping only when he gets the paper bag between his teeth and growls like there oughta be more. “Bet that bag’s tasty, Mo.”

Jensen sighs, worn down from a long day’s drive. Even Mo settles when he’s done eating, sprawled on the end of the bed, his shiny brown eyes asking Jensen to stick around.

“I’ve gotta go,” he explains as his pup whines. “We need a job, buddy.” Lord help him if Morgan ever heard Jensen commiserating with his dog. He’d be laughed right outta the ranks.

Mo’s silent begging doesn’t last; the pup’s snoring again. If the motel manager ever stops to have a listen, the nosy little man will think Jensen’s sawin’ timber. Let him.

The Sabre purrs steadily when Jensen starts her up. He doesn’t waste time staring longingly at the motel room’s door, aching to relax in a bed that’s actually his, but he thinks about it as he’s pulling out onto the main road and hoping the library keeps late hours.

Someday there won’t be any more postings. Someday time will be his again and he can go lookin’ for a life away from the job, if he’s not in a pine box six feet under already.

It’ll happen someday, but not today.

So, Jensen drives.



“Idle, Colorado? Never heard of it.”

Jensen’s fingers travel across the map, crossing the Oklahoma panhandle into the southeastern corner of Colorado.

He’s back in the warm heart of Texas, three days out from wrapping up a small support job with a couple ‘a other Rangers. Jensen put Braywater in his rearview mirror almost two weeks ago.

It feels easier laying his head down at night in the Lonestar state again, like the air’s made of different stuff down here. This motel certainly ain’t his home, but Jensen’s not even sure he has one. Home’s not the right word to describe the lonely Dallas apartment the Rangers keep on their books for him anyway.

Jensen crooks his shoulder, repositioning the phone against his chin.

“Doesn’t look like there’s a hell of a lot there, Morgan.”

His captain’s resonant laugh lacks dimension over the motel’s landline.

“You lookin’ for a spot to vacation?” Morgan asks. “I never pegged you as the picky kind.”

“Is it a job or not?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Morgan grumbles. “Let me grab the specs McKellip sent me. Just a sec, Jensen.”

JD Morgan’s been Jensen’s captain for five years and a pain in his ass for more than a decade, ever since he rode Jensen’s ass hard at the Academy. Morgan’s the reason he stuck it out back then, through every training camp and division shuffle. Jensen had started in the Highway Patrol, but Morgan hadn’t left him in peace, yanking him out when he made captain of Special Projects. And back then, after everything that’d happened, Jensen was all too eager to make the switch.

“Wait,” Jensen says, cutting into the sound of papers shuffling across JD’s desk. “Did you say McKellip? What’s he got to do with this?”

“The posting came down to me from his office. He’s – ah! Got it.”

“Since when do the Rangers bend over for government hacks?” Jensen hisses, eyes cutting across the motel room to Mo; the pup’s gnawing happily on one of Jensen’s shoes. Jensen chucks its mate across the room to shoe the mutt off. Mo backs away, one fuzzy ear flopping forward.

“Don’t even start, Jensen. You know how this works. I guess McKellip’s got an interest in Idle.”

“What kind of interest?”

“You think I get paid enough to know those kinds of details?” Morgan’s question comes hard across the line. “I just know he wants someone in there ASAP, someone with a badge who’s good at taking out the trash. Now, are you done waxin’ all bitter about politics so I can tell you about this job?”

“Fine,” Jensen mutters, feeling like JD’s done tossed a shoe at him. He pulls a soft face at Mo in sympathy. “Hit me.”

“Small town in Colorado,” Morgan begins, with the crinkle of a case folder as a backdrop for his voice. “Guess it used to be a farming outpost until about twenty years back when the state government laid down blacktop for Highway 81 just to the south of it. It grew from nothin’ to a decent-sized place over the next couple of years, but that dropped off maybe ten years ago.”

“Any clue on why?”

Mo’s come over to tuck himself at Jensen’s feet, tongue lolling out one side of his mouth. Jensen scratches roughly behind the mutt’s ears as he listens; every detail JD gives him is mentally cataloged for later.

“I think there was some rough action in that area a decade or so ago. Not in Idle as far as I can remember, but it might have scared people off from really settling there. I remember once 81 had been built, there were a lot of gun busts along the highway. Guess the runners favored it because it was out of the way.”

“Good way to move contraband in from California,” Jensen says, tracing the hairline curves of Highway 81 on his map. “Is gun running still a problem in the area?”

Morgan hums. “Trade’s been dead in Colorado for a while. The last major bust must’ve been over five years back, the Sheppard brothers, I think. Doesn’t seem like anyone was left to take over the business after that, so whatever’s going on in Idle now, it ain’t guns.”

Jensen refrains from taking a crack at JD’s speculation. He’s seen too many Rangers and uniformed officers sidelined from active duty after assumptions like that. Wiping theories off the slate before a job’s even begun smacks of incompetence and laziness – JD Morgan’s obviously been behind a desk for too long, but Jensen values his job to much to tell him.

He presses, leaving Mo to his afternoon snooze. “What d’you know about what is going on?”

“What I’ve got is pretty thin,” JD admits. “A couple of suspicious disappearances starting a few months back. Locals thought they had a few runaways on their hands. The reports filed on the missing aren’t much to go on – mostly loners, townies no one knew very well.”

“What made the locals think they needed a federal badge?”

“First body showed up last week. Some local doc did the best autopsy he knew how. I guess the guy wasn’t trained for this sort of thing, but it was pretty obvious the death was suspicious.”

Jensen sighs. He hasn’t even agreed to take the job but any body count adds weight to his shoulders. Telling himself that there was nothing he could have done stopped feeling like a comfort years ago.

“I’m thinkin’ drugs.” Morgan’s speculating again. “We haven’t picked up on any chatter through our informants that this is an organized group, or a branch off one of the Mexican cartels. Could be Californian, but all the signs point to an upstart group or a few rogue pushers. I mean, they’re not exactly being careful. They’ve got federal eyes taking notice after only a couple of weeks.”

“Still doesn’t seem like enough to go on,” Jensen says. “Usually, you’re givin’ me a lot more than theories and hearsay, Cap. All this because some politician is pulling strings with the Rangers?”

Morgan ignores the accusation. “Do you want the job or not?” he asks. “I’ve got a dozen guys who’d trip over the possibility of a one-man posting and a chance to play the hero in some little town. Not to mention it comes with a pretty hefty paycheck, thanks to some politician pulling the strings.”

“Since when have I cared about the purse?”

“I thought you might be up for something different, Jensen,” Morgan jests. “You gonna start disappointing me now?”

“Fuck off,” Jensen fires back without much of an edge. His captain’s well aware that pushing Jensen’s buttons is the fastest way to make him take a new job. He adds insult to the jab. “Hey, Cap. Did I ever tell you that I named my dog after you?”

Morgan groans. Mo echoes the low sound in his sleep and Jensen rolls his eyes.

“Careful, Jensen. I can still change my mind and send you up to babysit a one-man station in the Territory.”

“Promises, promises,” Jensen mocks the casual threat. He’s heard it before. “You gonna send me the file?”

“It’s already on the way. You’ve got a good connection where you’re staying?”

Jensen hadn’t let on that he was in Texas again. Morgan might try to bring him in for a sit-down or something. Jensen doesn’t do meetings.

“I’ll find something around here ‘n get on my way in the next day or so.”

Morgan’s voice drops to a more serious tone, sounding like a Captain instead of a friend. “Good luck, Jensen. Whatever support you need, you just give me a call.”

He hangs up, leaving Jensen with a skull full of information and none of it helpful. Morgan might have been kidding, but a job like this is outside of Jensen’s usual sphere. He hates walking in with more questions than answers, and this posting’s got more unknowns than he’s really comfortable with. But Morgan hadn’t been lying about the payoff. If Rand McKellip, rising star in the cut-throat world of Secession politics, really is bankrolling the job, finishing this could give Jensen the out he’s been looking for.

Checking the map, Jensen’s at least a day or two out from Idle. He’d been on his way down to El Paso before checking in with Morgan – always a job to be had down at the border to pocket some quick cash – but he’s fine with turning around. Sure, the border gets you paid, but most of the time the money ain’t worth the trouble.

Jensen gets up, his leg brushing Mo’s side. The mutt flops over and whines, soft underbelly heaving with sleepy breaths. As with every other motel room he’s stayed at, Jensen hadn’t bothered to unpack much of anything. It’ll take no time at all to round up his stuff in the morning and clear out.

Jensen sighs, grabbing his wallet. He knows there’s an accessible satellite connection for a price down in the motel manager’s office. Mighty hard to keep a thing like that hidden from a man with Jensen’s attention to detail, but it might end up costing him more than the price of the room. He clips his gun into his belt holster and makes sure it’s visible – maybe he can wrangle a discount from intimidation.

“What d’ya say, Mo? Colorado sound appealing to you?”

Mo’s only answer is a resounding snore.



Blue sky meets the earth in a blinding line of sun-bleached rocks, low white clouds scalloped along the horizon. The skeletal arms of electrical pylons are raised over two lanes of rough brown asphalt that disappears in an apparition of heat at the limit of Jensen’s vision.

No speed limit to worry about in these parts; the Highway Patrol sticks to the major interstates and turnpikes, leaving back roads like this one free and clear.

A farmhouse windmill, its blades spinnin’ idly fifty yards off the road, is the only sign of life for miles in any direction. The Sabre whips by doing eighty-five, her intense drag pushing golden waves of low grass away from the shoulder. Jensen hasn’t passed another car in the last seventy miles as he cruises alone along the Texas border towards Colorado.

Jensen likes the border roads. Most are passable, hit-or-miss for a smooth ride, but Jensen would rather steer away from city routes and six lane thruways. The Secession States tended to leave wide buffers of deserted land between them, remnants of distrust from back during the days of the Division. They’d rather not encroach on one another, just in case, but that opened up a whole different world of problems.

The Union of Seceded States had established itself as an isolationist colony over a century ago. Jensen’s not sure why they bothered to call it the Union – could’ve just called the whole thing Texas. Fifty years back, during the Division when the remaining United States of America figured it deserved all that seceded land back, the Union had finally asserted its independence and broken away. California, getting stronger in the west, stepped in on the Union’s side, eager to keep the buffer the Secessionland provided, and followed suit with its own independence not long after. The whole damn Pacific coast had seceded in its own quiet revolution, unwilling to follow the course of Eastern or Central politics.

The Union government found isolationism had been hard to maintain without a solid border or the funds to defend it. With acres of open grasslands and a population that hadn’t seen real growth in nearly a century, contraband began seeping through the gaps. Petty smugglers who’d graduated to become gun dealers and drug runners passed merchandise through border towns left ravaged after the Division, getting away with it from the start because most folks in the Union had bigger problems.

Two decades back, when the illegal trades had reached their peak, it had been the Texas Rangers stepping up to curb the violence as local agencies gave into pressure, corruption, and bribery. More than a few local sheriff’s departments had gone under rather than fight foes who were better funded.

The Rangers had quickly grown into the largest law enforcement unit in the Secessionland, given jurisdiction throughout the country. Jensen’s always been proud to be numbered among them, joining up the moment he had a college degree in-hand. Four years spent earnin’ a piece of paper he was never gonna use, but it made his momma happy to frame it up in her front hall for the neighbors to admire. It was one of the least and the last things he could do to please his family.

Mo woofs, dragging Jensen’s eyes away from the road and out of idle thought. The mutt’s back hips are squirming around on the seat, and Jensen curses, pulling over.

“Couldn’t wait until dinner, huh?”

The pup lopes right out of the driver’s side door behind him, barking happily and taking off into the grass bordering the road, big paws kicking up dust and more than one disturbed brush sparrow. Insects rattle in a broken symphony coming from every direction, no other sounds to compete with.

“Mo!” Jensen punctuates his yell with a sharp whistle, hearing his mutt romping in the grass ten yards from the Sabre. He gives Mo another minute before stomping in after him, catching the pup chewing on a gnarled branch.

“It’s always playtime for you, huh?” Jensen complains, patting Mo on the back to hurry him back up to the car.

He could make Idle by dinnertime but he’s always preferred to get his first look at a town when the sun’s coming up, see how the place weathered the night. Although the sheriff’s expecting him around midday, Jensen’s plan is to roll in early and catch him off guard. There’s never a guarantee the local law’s gonna fall on Jensen’s side – better to get a solid read on the man right away so Jensen can do his job.

Jensen shakes his head as Mo jumps back into the Sabre, plopping down in the passenger seat and sticking his head right out the window.

Five years he’s been working these postings, forcing the bad element out of cities and towns that are cryin’ for help. Jensen believes in the Union, in the Secession. He’s never cared much that he’s a good deal poorer than he’d be if he worked in one of the big American cities. Hell, he hears that even the Californians pay their detectives better, but none of those corrupt, stuffed-shirt, overweight misdemeanor chasers get to do what Jensen does. The towns he works have families who want to get back to their peaceful living. It’s less than they deserve after all the problems the Secession inadvertently caused.

Idle, Colorado is the next in a long list of places Jensen’s been assigned to. JD Morgan has sent him all over the Union, from the murky waters of the Mississippi River to the lonely northern border with the Disputed Territories, under the authority of the Ranger’s Office of Special Projects. Sometimes he has help, but he prefers workin’ alone. Partners have a way of making a man divide his attention and Jensen likes to focus on the job.

Not like there’s much else for him to focus on besides the mutt riding shotgun.

“You gettin’ hungry?” Jensen asks Mo as the Sabre growls back onto the pavement. The pup ignores him in favor of letting his tongue drag in the wind, jowls flapping. Jensen wishes road trips were half as much fun for him. “We’ll stop soon, buddy.”

The promise is more for him than for the dog; Jensen’s stomach is rumbling for highway cuisine, but he knows he won’t pass a diner for another hundred miles. Beyond that, hopefully a motel with a decent bed or else he’ll be sleeping in the Sabre’s backseat with Mo drooling on him.

The life of a Texas Ranger… Jensen sighs. It doesn’t get much better than this.



Idle, Colorado isn’t what Jensen had expected.

“Should've named it Stupor,” Jensen mutters to himself as he steps out of the Sabre in front of a squat building with dented aluminum siding.

JD told Jensen that Rand McKellip had some sort of interest in the place, but for the life of him, Jensen can’t figure out what that could be. Unless the politician has a hard on for butter-and-sugar corn, there ain’t much else to the town besides fields and farms.

Idle sits east of where the great Rockies fall down from the heavens, steep slopes giving way to canyonlands and softer valleys until the plains sweep across, spreading towards the sunrise for hundreds of miles. When he drove in this morning, Jensen pictured storm clouds dropping over the mountains, heavy and thick with the rain they’d been waiting to let go. Idle must see some fantastic storms.

The town’s surrounded by foothills and shallow canyons to the west and fields to the east. Jensen imagines there are plenty of family farms to give Idle some agricultural weight, but there’s gotta be more to the place than just a hearty crop of growers exporting corn and sugar beets. Jensen wouldn’t be here otherwise.

It doesn’t seem so bad at first glance – Idle’s got all the staples of a small, home-grown western town, plus a few extras. It’s the extras that Jensen has to look twice at.

A pawn shop leases space next to the barber’s, a classic red and blue stripped pole clashing with a vulgar neon sign in the next window over, and a gambling hall in what used to be a lodge for the Veterans of the Secession Wars, from the looks of it. Idle’s a mix of small town innocence and trouble, money comin’ in from all the wrong places. Farm communities don’t usually look like this.

Jensen had barely seen a soul on the drive in. A few trucks heading out for early farm shifts, plus one or two early birds on downtown streets, but there’s no one else awake to meet the gray sunrise that cuts across the plains. He’s relieved to see lights on in the sheriff’s station at least, and a lone vehicle out front. Leaving Mo in the Sabre, Jensen walks into the station with a purpose.

It’s high time he got started.

No one greets Jensen when he saunters in but he doesn’t announce himself, soaking up the details. He’s in a typical two-bit station, outfitted with just the basics. In the corner of the main room, the Union flag hangs on a rusted pole next to the state flag of Colorado. Two smaller desks sit empty behind a larger reception desk; Jensen leans over and sees thin files and a blank message pad next to the phone. This is enough for a town like Idle to get by if no one bothered them, but once the bigger problems rolled in…

“Excuse me.” A woman in khaki browns steps out of a back office, glaring at Jensen. “What are you doing in here?”

“I’m with the Rangers,” Jensen answers, swiping his coat aside to let the silver on his belt do the talkin’. “Jensen Ackles.”

“Shit, right.” She curses like she’s used to it. Walking towards him, Jensen notices her most obvious feature – fierce blue eyes that sharpen in on his badge. Her dark blonde hair curls around her freckled cheekbones too haphazardly to be styled that way. “I knew you’d be coming but I lost track of the day in this mess. The name’s Cassidy.”

“Last or first?”

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t answer. Jensen grudgingly begins to like her on the spot.

“So you’re the Ranger who’s gonna fix all this?”

“Been doin’ this job for a long time now,” he says. Cassidy doesn’t strike Jensen as the type to be plied with some Ranger spiel. “I’ve worked in a lot of towns like this, so I should be able to help y’all get things under control. I know I’m early, but I wanted to talk to Sheriff Corbin. He around?”

The corners of Cassidy’s mouth pinch inward. “I guess it’s been a day or two since you last got briefed. Corbin’s gone.”

“He left?”

“Disappeared,” Cassidy says, tremor in her voice saying she’s not used to sharing the news yet. “He never came into work yesterday and no one’s been able to track him down.”

Jensen steps up to the desk that Cassidy’s kept as a buffer between them, firing questions. He’s on the job – no time for pleasant conversation.

“When’s the last time anyone talked to him? Does he have a vehicle you could radio in an APB on? And who’s runnin’ things around here if he’s been gone for more than a day?”

Cassidy doesn’t flinch. Jensen likes her with fewer objections. “As far as I know, I was the last one to talk to him. Must’ve been the day before last when he left here for the night. I thought he was heading right home like he usually does, but I don’t know if he ever made it. He’s got a Mustang he uses on the job, lights and everything. It’d be pretty hard to miss.” Her hands go to her hips, challenging. “And I’m running things. Is that gonna be a problem?”

“I don’t have a say in how this office works,” Jensen tells her. “If you’re the ranking officer, I’m not gonna argue. It just means you’ll be talking to me an awful lot.”

“I’m thrilled already.” The joke lands flat. Nothing funny in the situation and they know it. “Look, you don’t have to sugar-coat anything for me, Ranger.”

Jensen nods, but he’d figured as much where Cassidy is concerned.

She sighs. “I’ve only worked in Idle for a few years but I’ve never been through anything like what I’ve been seeing. Newcomers drifting in all the time – I thought they were just looking for work, but they’ve never been out to the farms.”

“Newcomers?” Jensen latches on to that detail. “How many?”

“Maybe a dozen in the last twelve months, and mostly younger. They could have been couples or a few friends starting over, you know? But with everything else, I figured they might be a part of whatever racket’s taken hold here.” Cassidy drops her head. “Corbin thought it was nothing at first, but I kept telling him…” She sighs. “Think I’ll ever get the chance to tell him ‘told you so’?”

Jensen shakes his head. “Until we know what happened to him, I can’t tell you no.”

The office goes quiet. Jensen can see in Cassidy’s glacial eyes that she’s thinkin’ through all the possibilities, each one worse than the last. He gives her a minute, lets her work through the implications of the Sheriff’s vanishing act. It’s a setback for Jensen, but it’s also a big piece of evidence. If Corbin’s disappearance is connected to Idle’s recent problems, the culprits are stepping up their game and Jensen’s on the clock.

“So, where do you usually start with a job like this?” Cassidy asks, cool and collected again.

“I heard you have a body.”

“Had.”

“What?”

“We had a body,” Cassidy says. “Idle doesn’t exactly have a coroner’s office or anywhere good to store a body, so after Dr. Padalecki took a look at it, we had it sent up to the coroner in Hastings. Standard procedure, not that we’ve had many dead bodies to worry about.”

“This Doctor,” Jensen says, not even attempting the guy’s name, “he knows how to perform an autopsy?”

“He’s just a regular doctor, I don’t know if they’re all trained in this sort of thing, but he documented what he could, took pictures and everything, and collected samples for the county coroner.”

“And he could rule it a homicide?”

“It wasn’t much of a question. Trust me, Ranger.”

Jensen’s used to small towns makin’ do with the thing’s they’ve got, but he doesn’t want some backwoods M.D. who’s better with a hunting knife than a surgical scalpel making calls for him.

“Where can I find the Doc?”

Cassidy smiles for the first time and the expression does wonders to her already attractive profile. “I’ll take you over there, but don’t call him Doc. He tells everyone to call him Jared.”

“I’ll try to remember,” Jensen keeps his groan silent.

Cassidy leads the way out of the station, locking up behind her.

“You were the only one in there?” Jensen asks.

“We’ve never needed more than three officers and a few admin workers. Corbin’s obviously not around and Davis covers the nightshift, so he left when I got in,” Cassidy says, eyes on the Sabre. She smirks. “Your car’s not obvious at all.”

He considers the aerodynamic lines of his older model Sabre. It had never been a popular car, rarer and rarer to see their wide frames on the Union highways these days. Cars in California barely live up to the name – little computerized vehicles that practically drive themselves and run on cow manure or something ridiculous – and the U.S. had turned to public transportation and unreliable electric cars after they were cut off from the worldwide oil supply.

Jensen appreciates the Sabre’s sleek profile as much as he does her intimidating chrome grill, baring her mechanical teeth. The Sabre conveys power, but she also means loyalty – Jensen has spent countless hours under her hood, keeping her running better than she had the day he bought her. She’s a classic, no one can argue that, but she’s pretty damn conspicuous.

“It not supposed to be?”

“Just an observation,” Cassidy says. She steps past the driver’s side door and Mo bumps his spotted nose against the window, sharp bark tripping Cassidy up. “The hell… You’ve got a dog too?”

Jensen shrugs. “Guess I never read the Ranger rulebook. Go on ahead. I’ll follow you to the Doc’s office.”

He shoves Mo back into the passenger seat and pulls out behind Cassidy’s sedan. The mutt’s breath fogs up the window, snout smearing the glass as his eyes follow pedestrians on the sidewalk.

There are more people out and about than when Jensen drove in, Idle coming to life. Typical small town fodder – folks who’d moved in lookin’ for a quiet life mixed in with the ones who grew up here and never made it out. Whether they’re just peaceful folk or they’re bitter and resigned to life on the fringes, they’re never much for causing trouble unless a foreign element corrupts the balance. One drop of acid changing the entire reaction.

Cassidy leads Jensen to a clinic that occupies the far corner of a two-story brick building. It had only taken five minutes to cross downtown Idle, two spent sitting at poorly programmed traffic lights. He cracks both front windows for Mo and leaves the pup with a rawhide strip he grabs out of the trunk.

The name on the clinic’s door isn’t the mouthful of letters Cassidy had spouted.

William Conners, M.D.
GENERAL FAMILY PRACTICE

Cassidy tries the door and finds it locked.

“It’s a little early for a doc to be in, isn’t it?”

She shakes her head. “Not like Jared’s ever far away.” Turning to an intercom and keypad Jensen hadn’t noticed, Cassidy hits a few numbers and static hisses.

“Hello?”

“Jared? It’s Cassidy. I’ve got someone here who needs to talk to you. Sheriff’s business, you know what I mean?”

The distorted voice on the other end of the intercom doesn’t hesitate.

“Hang on, I’ll buzz you in.”

A mechanized lock disengages a few seconds later and Cassidy walks into the clinic, Jensen on her heels.

“He lets you in, just like that?” Jensen asks, wondering to himself how well the Doc and this attractive deputy know one another. When he’s on a job, every fact matters until it doesn’t, and that includes personal relationships.

“Jared trusts me, and besides, I’m sure he took a peek out his window to check who I was bringing in with me.” Cassidy smiles. “He lives in the apartment upstairs, didn’t I tell you that?”

“Must’ve slipped your mind,” Jensen mutters, knowing full well she’ll hear him.

The waiting room is small, cozy. Taupe walls meant to be comfortably neutral and the carpet is a forgettable shade of tan. Jensen can picture an older woman behind the check-in desk, graying hair pulled back as she sorts through patient files, earning a decent paycheck but happier to be out of the house and away from her kids for half a day.

Framed pictures around the desk give the place more personality. With sunlight falling in through the blinds, Jensen looks over photographs of the same older man on various outdoor vacations. He’s a hearty guy with a wide face and deep laugh lines, thick arms holding a fish in every other picture. In some, the man is surrounded by grandkids, Jensen assumes. If the Doc’s older, this might not be his first go-around with a dead body. Could be Jensen gets something useful out of the guy.

The door behind Jensen opens, bringing a burst of fresh, morning air inside along with a tall, thin-lipped stranger. The man looks between Cassidy and Jensen, yawning and waving to the deputy.

“Sorry about the early call, but it’s official business,” Cassidy tells him.

Shaking sleep out of his eyes, the new arrival takes a deep breath. “I figured it had to be,” he says, turning to Jensen. “I’m Jared Padalecki, and this is my office.”

“Ranger Ackles.” Jensen keeps his introduction curt but shakes Jared’s hand. “I didn’t see your name on the door.”

Jared sighs. “Technically, this is Bill’s practice. I’m here most of the time ‘cause he’s got, what?” Jared looks back at Cassidy, “seven grandkids now?”

“Eight,” she clarifies.

“Right. Bill’s out of town half the time anyway, so he figured he might as well bring on another doctor. He’s in and out for some of the older patients, though. Guess they’re just not comfortable with me yet.”

Jensen’s reevaluating quickly. The Doc’s age is a surprise – Jensen wouldn’t put him past his early thirties – but not as big of one as the man himself. Without having to ask, Jensen knows Jared’s not from Idle. He’s an import, a piece that doesn’t fit. A healthy brown complexion and a cowboy’s build, Jared stands lean in all the right places, feet apart in a wide, comfortable stance. Jared definitely doesn’t come from Secession stock; Jensen would peg him as Californian, their breezy personalities and magazine good-looks set them apart in a crowd. Whatever Jared is, he doesn’t belong in Idle and Jensen’s immediately alert.

“So, a Ranger, huh?” Jared hides his hands in the pockets of his faded jeans. “I’ve never met one of you guys.”

“He’s here about Gabe Hicks’ body,” Cassidy cuts in. “The Rangers sent him to head up the investigation into the disappearances.”

“That’s what I thought.” Jared’s posture sags, an extra-large plaid shirt loose around his shoulders. “I’ve got the file I wrote up, plus all the photos and information locked up in the back office if you want to see it.”

Jensen nods. “And I’ve got a few questions for you, Doc, if you don’t mind.”

“Me?” Jared looks at Cassidy for help but she shakes her head. “I can tell you about the preliminary work I did on the body, but I don’t know what else I can tell you.”

“Everyone’s got something to tell,” Jensen says. “They might not know it ‘til they’re asked the right questions.”

The Doc hardly looks convinced. “Sure – I mean, anything you want to know. We’re not open here for a while, so whatever you need, I guess. The office is back this way.”

Cassidy doesn’t follow when Jared turns around.

“Do you mind if I head back to the station? Days like these, I never know what’s going to happen. I should be there just in case anyone –”

“It’s not a problem,” Jensen says. He’d been about to suggest the same thing. “I’ll take care of the Doc and meet you back there.”

“Radio in if you need anything before then.” At the door, Cassidy looks back. “And stop calling him Doc, seriously. He hates that.”

“Whatever.” Cassidy definitely doesn’t hear his groan this time.



Jared’s back office wasn’t built with him in mind, Jensen notes. The Doc could stretch his arms out and touch drywall on either side, but he crouches behind the desk without commenting, pulling a fat folder from a safe on the floor and handing it to Jensen.

“I didn’t want – you know,” Jared says, wavering. “I figured they should be kept locked up.”

“Good.” Jensen glances at the report clipped to the inside of the folder, wincing when he sees the Doc’s scrawl. Damn doctors and their hieroglyphics. There are plenty of words on the report, but Jensen’s got no shot at decoding ‘em. Pictures are more his speed.

The Doc watches carefully as Jensen flips through the macabre photographs, wounds and bruises cataloged from various unappealing angles, and he’s struggling to keep his mouth shut.

Jensen clears his throat. “Tell me about the autopsy.”

“My notes are there –“

“I don’t read doctor,” Jensen says gruffly. “I’m askin’ for your words, what you remember. Not everything makes it into the notes. Was this your first autopsy?”

“My first murder victim,” Jared admits quietly, like he knows it’s not something to boast about. “Hunting accidents are pretty common around here. We had two woodsmen pass away last summer, and I filled out those reports. And there was a woman who died from an overdose a few months back.”

“An overdose of what?”

“The official lab report went to the coroner in Hastings, but I heard it was heroin. It fit with my initial guess.”

“A guess that didn’t make it into your report, right?”

The Doc nods, conceding Jensen’s original point.

“So, Gabe Hicks…”

Jared sighs. “Sheriff Corbin brought his body in last week and said it had been found in one of those rundown lots heading north on Ashburn Road. I told him I could call up to Hastings and get the coroner to drive down for something this big, but the Sheriff told me to handle the report.”

Jensen goes through the photographs again one by one as the Doc describes his findings, wrapping his words around the visuals he’s faced with.

“He had three gunshot wounds; two were thru-and-thrus. One below the collarbone, another punctured his liver, and the third went straight through his forehead, front to back. The bullet from the head shot was the only one I recovered – a twenty two.”

Jensen can’t help the gut-deep satisfaction, hearing that he’s carrying a bigger gun.

“And the other injuries?”

“He was beaten before he died,” Jared says. It’s hard for Jensen to read his voice, but there’s less detachment than he’s used to. The Doc has little in common with some of the hardened, soulless coroners he’s met over the years and Jensen’s not sure which attitude is worse. “Are you gonna take the file with you?”

“Something wrong with that?” Jensen asks.

“No.” Jared lets out a deep breath. “I’m glad. I didn’t really want it here anymore. Gabe was just a kid, you know? He was barely twenty-one, did pretty decent back in high school, I heard.”

“You knew the victim?”

“I know his family. Idle’s a small place, Ranger,” Jared says, defensive. “I’m sure you’ve figured that out.”

Jensen likes the guy’s bite – gives him something to poke at. “And you’ve been here long enough to figure that out?”

“What do you mean?”

“C’mon,” Jensen says. “All I needed was one look to know that you’re not from around here, Doc.”

“You don’t need to keep calling me Doc,” Jared growls and adjusts his posture, standing with his hands square on his hips. “Where I’m from doesn’t matter.”

The Doc’s height and breadth alone might be intimidating, but physical force has been no match for Jensen in the past. Jared’s out of his depth, visibly eager to get the conversation done with, though he’s inextricably tied to the whole mess, professionally and emotionally.

“I’ll be the one judgin’ if it matters or not,” Jensen says, posture loose to tell the Doc that his physical challenge is being ignored. “How long have you been livin’ in Idle?”

“Wait, am I being interrogated, here?”

“Just a professional conversation. I’m not tryin’ to get you riled up, but if I need to ask again–”

“Two years,” Jared cuts in without embellishment.

Long enough to bond with the people he sees day-to-day, Jensen considers, but he remains an outsider, visibly apart. The apartment upstairs might be the Doc’s temporary home, but this isn’t his office. No cheap frames with Jared’s dimpled expressions cataloging family vacations and favored hunting spots on the walls, and nothing to match his personality, what little Jensen’s seen of it.

“Is it a problem?” Jared asks when Jensen’s kept silent for a full minute. “I’m not an outsider here.”

“Sure ya are,” Jensen says. “Unless you grew up here and have Idle in your blood, you’re an outsider. Gotta have that pull to stay even when everything in you is screamin’ to get the hell outta here. Is that how you feel?”

Jared says nothing.

“But no, it’s not a problem,” Jensen adds, admitting to himself that he’s been nothing but an outsider for the last ten years of his life.

The Doc narrows his eyes, teeth clenched, mustering the will not to snap. Jensen’s gun, secured in its hand-tooled holster at his hip, is usually a pretty good deterrent.

His interview’s been derailed, but Jensen figures he’s got most of the important stuff already. No sense gettin’ the Doc even more worked up for nothing, though Jensen’s short on entertainment these days.

“Anything else you can think of–” Jensen starts, but the Doc cuts in with a sharp shake of his head.

“You’ll get whatever you need from my report.” Jensen knows Jared’s not offering to translate his medical scribble. “And if you don’t mind, I’d like to lock this place up and get back upstairs.”

Jensen follows the Doc to the front door of the clinic without a gesture of complaint. He might need to talk to the guy again; no sense burning bridges yet even if he’s got the torch in hand.

At the door, Jared waits with a terse expression for Jensen to exit, spinning and locking the door behind them. Turning back, Jared sees the Sabre and the spotted nose sticking out the passenger side window. Mo woofs as soon as he’s noticed, bouncing on the seat. Unexpectedly, the Doc’s mouth goes soft, the corners of his eyes losing their tightness.

“Is that your dog?”

“Nah,” Jensen jokes gruffly. “Must’ve snuck in there when I wasn’t lookin’.” His mutt keeps pushing, trying to force his head through the window. Jensen whistles. “Mo! Calm down, I’m coming.”

“He looks like he’s still a puppy,” Jared says. “What kind?”

“Half mutt, half blockhead.” Jensen enjoys the laugh that gets out of the Doc, but he dismisses it as an insignificant feeling. Jared has his uses, and Jensen doesn’t anticipate any of them going beyond professional. “I’ll be in touch, then.”

“There was one more thing I left out of the report,” Jared calls out before Jensen can circle around the Sabre. The Doc’s arms are crossed over his chest. “You probably haven’t driven up Ashburn Road yet, but those empty lots are a real mess. Rusted metal and old farm debris, trash and bottles from the kids who use them as party spots.”

“That’s where Hicks’ body was found?”

“That’s what Sheriff Corbin told me.” The Doc hesitates; Jensen lets him get there on his own time. “I just thought it was strange that the body was pretty clean.”

“Clean?”

“Yeah. I expected the body to look as rough as those lots, carry some of that dirt and trash with it, but I didn’t find much.”

A suspicion that’d tickled Jensen’s brain inside the clinic resurfaces. “Why’d you leave it out of your report?”

Jared has enough sense not to look guilty about it. He’s tellin’ Jensen now, and Jared considers that effort enough. “The Sheriff told me that Gabe Hicks was found in one of those lots. I didn’t have any reason to question him, but I think you’re the kind of cop who questions everything.” He shakes his head. “Just thought I should mention it.”

The Doc steps around the corner of the building, probably heading back to the upstairs apartment. Jensen’s suspicion starts taking shape, no longer just a thread of an idea. He holds onto it all the way back to the station, Mo sniffing at the new scents on Jensen’s jeans and barking happily during the whole ride.



Jensen holds the room phone to his ear and waits impatiently for the line to connect. The number he’d dialed by heart lets him bypass the Special Projects switchboard and Morgan’s obnoxiously nosy assistant.

The rough voice picks up midway through the fourth ring. “Morgan.”

“I was beginning to think you were takin’ a day off,” Jensen says.

“Dealing with you, I’d need more than just a day. I hope you’re calling to tell me you’ve already wrapped the Idle job and that I can add you to the books as having the fastest clean-up in history.”

“That record’s gonna have to wait.”

JD laughs. “I figured. Alright, let me have it.”

Jensen runs through the case, what he’s been able to pick up in his first twenty-four hours in Idle, anyway, while he walks in circles around the motel room. It’s a clean establishment – small, barely more than a strip of rooms off the highway – but the mattress is firm under his back at night and the bathroom’s lacking any mysterious stains. Jensen’s spent nights in places much, much worse.

“And I ran down the names of the people Cassidy said had moved in recently.”

“Any flags?” JD asks.

“Most were just regular folks movin’ to town, nothing suspicious. I checked employee records at the farms and local stores just to make sure, but there were two or three I couldn’t track down. Could be part of whoever’s pushing product here.”

His captain considers the idea. “You think it’s drugs.”

“It fits,” Jensen says. “Rise in petty crime, windows being broken and building’s being trashed.”

“Shit kids do when they’re high.”

“The operation’s gotta be pretty new, though,” Jensen speculates. “I’d say not more than six months old, no time for a network to develop. They’ve got people hooked, but there’re probably only a few dealers.”

“Cutting out the middle-man,” JD adds.

“No time to hire middle-men. They might figure they don’t need to if no law’s stepped up to stop ‘em and if no one takes ‘em out soon, they’ll have the run of the place by the end of the year.”

JD hums. “Seems pretty straightforward.”

Jensen doesn’t answer. He could easily peg this as a rogue group of drug dealers who’ve broken off from one of the larger cartels. Hell, they probably stole whatever product they’re selling in Idle, earning cash and planning to move on as soon as they’re out. But there are plenty of pieces that don’t fit and Jensen’s riled by them. There’s McKellip’s involvement for one, as well as the missing Sheriff to consider.

He keeps those ideas to himself.

“I guess so.”

“Is everything working out in town? Getting what you need from the Sheriff’s department?”

“Cassidy’s been helping as much as she can.” Meaning as much as he lets her, Jensen doesn’t say. “Idle’s got a good connection – satellite set up by some old Army engineer who likes building things. The guy ran wiring all the way to the station and for a price, he’ll hook anyone up. Seem like the town’d be doing just fine if it weren’t for the drugs moving through, I imagine.”

“Well, keep me up to speed on this,” Morgan drawls. “I know McKellip’ll be calling for an update. The man’s a fucking pit bull, I’m telling you.”

“Hey Captain, did I ever tell you–”

“Shut up, Jensen.”

The line goes dead and Jensen’s still laughing.