State Trooper Bill Taggart sat in the rec room that was the gathering place for officers reporting to duty and for those who were wrapping up their shift for the day. He nursed a lukewarm cup of awful coffee, rereading a dog-eared copy of Charles Bukowski’s Post Office for the fourth or fifth time. He liked all Bukowski’s books, but Post Office had to be his favorite. The crazy bastard drank too much and chased too much tail, but his observations of all the little things in life—sad, pathetic people and the lives they led—cracked him up. Taggart always kept some kind of book handy. He’d rather read a book than talk to the mental midgets he worked with.

He glanced at his watch. One-forty A.M. Twenty more minutes, and then he would pack it up for the night. His shift had been pretty uneventful. Dealt with a few snow-related automobile accidents in the area and assisted in a holdup at a doughnut shop downtown. A junkie needing to get some fast cash for his fix had walked into a Dunkin’ Donuts with nothing but a baseball bat and a bad jonesing for heroin. The dirtbag had smashed a few windows and broken the arm of the teenage clerk, then made the mistake of using the john to relieve himself. Happened all the time—a felon so wired and jacked up by committing his little crime of theft or rape or murder that the urge to defecate becomes too overwhelming. When Taggart arrived, the junkie still sat in the men’s-room stall, heeding the call of nature. Taggart enjoyed shoving the punk’s head into the unflushed toilet. Served the bottom-feeder right.

Worthless street scum. It’s just getting worse.

From the corner of his eye, Taggart watched the new guy approach. Tall and gangly, a big pointy nose over thin lips, and barely any facial hair to speak of. At the table behind the new guy, three other officers looked on with big, stupid grins.

“Hey, Bill. A few of us are heading over to the Cork and Bottle after our shift if you want to join us,” the new guy offered.

The other officers cracked up at the table, loving every second of it. Taggart picked up his coffee, stood, and spoke loud enough so that the others could hear him.

Tripper turned a bright shade of red and backed away from Taggart like he might be contagious. “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t know. I was just talking with the other guys. I’m sorry. Really.”

Taggart gathered up his book and newspaper and spoke slow. “I know you didn’t. You’re just getting initiated, is all. Have a good time, and drive safely.” After Taggart stepped out of the rec room, he heard the eruption of laughter behind him.

Assholes. Self-righteous assholes.

He walked down the long hallway, fluorescent lights glimmering off the spick-and-span linoleum floor, and stepped into the men’s room. His blood pressure was soaring.

Bullshit at work. Bullshit at home. Can’t get away from the bullshit.

He stepped into the last stall and locked the door behind him. He listened to make sure that no one else was in the restroom, then removed the lid to the toilet basin.

They can kiss my ass.

Taggart reached into the water basin and pulled out a pint of Smirnoff vodka. It was half empty. He spun the cap off and tilted back the bottle. He drank deep twice, then washed it down with the cup of coffee he was still carrying.

Taggart recapped the bottle, then looked at his watch again. One forty-five A.M.

Hell with it. Almost quitting time.

Taggart stepped to the sink and washed his face a few times with soap and hot water until he thought he could pass the sniff test. He dried his face off and then made the mistake of glancing in the mirror—he looked like hell. His face was red, splotchy, and bloated. His head looked enormous, too big for his body, like the Pillsbury Doughboy minus the cheery smile. He had a pronounced brow that stood guard over deep-set, kelly green eyes. Blond hair turning white. Big, thick shoulders supported a thick neck. He had always been barrel-chested, but now his gut kept getting larger, heavier, and lower. He leaned a little closer to the mirror and inspected a few tiny red spider veins on the tip of his nose.

How does everybody not know? It’s written all over you, you piece of garbage.

He turned away from his reflection. Couldn’t stand looking anymore at the man he had become. Once upon a time, some twenty years ago, Taggart used to look good in a uniform. He turned quite a few heads in his day. But not recently. The booze had seen to that.

He shook a few more Tic Tacs into his mouth and stepped out of the restroom. He headed in the direction of the locker room to put another day to an end, tired feet barely lifting off the floor.

“Bill?”

Taggart stopped at the sound of his name. He turned too quickly and almost lost his balance. The half pint was hitting him pretty fast and hard. A female desk sergeant walked down the hall toward him holding a blue slip of paper.

Shit. You got to be kidding me.

Taggart listened to her but still didn’t take the blue slip of paper from her hand. She extended it out a little further. “Ferguson wants you to take this.”

“Christ. Just great.” Taggart reluctantly took the slip of paper. “I was just getting ready to head home.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Guess you’ll get the OT.”

Taggart looked at the slip of paper like it was written in Latin. “Wyalusing? Sounds like the sticks. Where the hell is it?”

“About thirty miles southeast of here. You know where Wysox is?”

“Yeah. I know the place.”

“Well, Wysox is the last town with streetlights before you get to Wyalusing.”

“Christ,” he said again.

The female officer offered him a half smile. “Drive safe.” She turned and went back down the hallway.

Taggart stared at the blue slip of paper for what seemed like an eternity, then sighed and made his way toward the locker room. He needed to get something for his drive.