I was sound asleep when the call came in at a little after midnight on a Friday night, or should I say Saturday morning. Personally, I don't consider it the next day until I have a cup of coffee and it's light outside. The call was from my second-in-command, Emmett Hopkins, who was on phone duty tonight/this morning. Seems Joynell Blanton had called her parents, claiming her husband Darrell was fixing to shoot her, and they, of course, had called us. I sighed hard when I heard that, because it meant I'd have to go to Blantonville. I wasn't the only one in the department who had qualms about going to Blantonville, a little township on my side of the county, home to more than a few people who were a few tacos shy of a combination plate. In fact, I hadn't met a Blanton yet who appeared to be playing with all their marbles. And in Blantonville, a Blanton is all you got. They were like British royalty back in the olden days – way too much inbreeding. And since my house was closest to Blantonville – and Emmett was a chicken shit – he thought he should call me to take care of it.

I left a note on my pillow, kissed my still-sleeping wife goodbye, pulled on my pants and a shirt, grabbed a jacket in case it was chilly, and headed to my car. Early fall in my part of Oklahoma is an iffy thing – you never knew if it was gonna be hot or cold, warm or cool, or blowing rain and hail. Luckily it was a nice night – excuse me, morning – no moon, but a million stars shining in the firmament, no breeze to speak of, and just a slight nip in the air. I pulled on the jacket and fired up my Jeep.

The trip to Blantonville would usually take upwards of half an hour, but at this time of night – sorry, morning – with no other vehicles in sight, I was able to make it in little more than fifteen minutes. Of course, as a peace officer, I should have stopped myself and given myself a ticket for speeding, but I chose to give myself a break.

The ME's vehicle was sitting at the end of Darrell Blanton's long driveway, which ran up a hill and out of sight. I pulled up beside it. I knew there was a double-wide up there beyond the trees. The ME's assistant was standing next to her vehicle, flanked by a man and woman who seemed real distraught. I got out and went to greet them. The man was tall and lean, the woman short and hefty. They appeared to be my age or thereabouts – fifty-something – and the woman looked like she'd been crying. They were, of course, Joynell Blanton's parents.

'Our daughter Joynell called us saying her husband was gonna kill her, but this lady won't let us go up there—'

I nodded. 'She's right. This is a job for police personnel,' I said. If Darrell Blanton was threatening to shoot his wife then he was probably armed, and an armed Blanton was not a good thing. I was the one being paid the big bucks to put my life on the line, not these civilians. So I went to the back of the Jeep, got out the shotgun (I'd left my service revolver back at the house – not my best move, but then again I was sleep deprived), loaded it, put it on the passenger seat of the Jeep then crawled in, cranked it up and headed toward the double-wide.

I don't dwell on things like feelings. It's just not manly. But I've got to admit that I'm pretty much a happy son-of-a-bitch – at least, in the last half of my life. I mean, I was raised OK; my mama and daddy were good people, although they didn't go in for sparing the rod. And I was in high school before my little sister, Jewel, was born, so that didn't impact me too much, except for the embarrassment factor – you know, proof that my mama and daddy still 'did it.' I just got less attention which, when you're a teenager, is always a good thing. I had lots of friends, played a good game of football for my school and had a virgin girlfriend, and after high school and a stint in the air force, I married and deflowered her, which began the not-so-happy part of my life. We both wanted kids, but it didn't happen for us, which put a damper on the marriage. After twenty-something years, she left me. It took me a while to notice that she was gone. But a couple of years after that, I met Jean McDonnell.

A beautiful woman, a psychiatrist and victim of childhood polio, she's the love of my life. It didn't take the people of Longbranch much time to get over the fact that the hospital's new chief shrink walked with braced legs and crutches. We hadn't known each other long before we discovered she was pregnant. So we got married and had our son, John McDonnell Kovak. She calls him John; I call him Johnny Mac. Now that he's eleven it doesn't seem to confuse him so much.

All this is to say that I'm happy. But I don't think I could ever be as happy as Darrell Blanton was when I found him sitting on the aluminum steps of his double-wide, shotgun over his knees, dead wife at his feet and sporting a big old grin. Like I said, the Blanton elevator doesn't go to the top floor.

'Well, hey, Sheriff!' he greeted me, the grin getting bigger. 'I done kilt Joynell! And boy was she asking for it! Know what she did?'

'Why don't you tell me after you put that shotgun down on the ground, Darrell?' I said, holding my own shotgun barrel down so as not to be too aggressive. Blantons don't deal well with aggression. Or much of anything else.

'Oh, hell, Sheriff, I ain't gonna shoot you! You didn't sneak off and do the horizontal mambo with somebody else, now, did you?' Darrell said, and laughed.

'Put the shotgun down, Darrell. I don't wanna have to hurt you,' I said.

The smile left his face and he sighed. 'Well, OK then,' he said. 'Although I don't know what all the fuss is about. She up and messed around on me, Sheriff! Ain't there a law?' Darrell dropped the shotgun on the ground, barely missing his wife's body.

I walked up and kicked the gun away with my foot, then asked Darrell to stand up. He did, the grin thankfully gone, and I cuffed him and read him his rights.

'But why do I need a lawyer?' he whined as I led him to my Jeep. 'She's the one done the nasty, not me! I ain't messed with nobody but her since the day of our weddin'!' A wide grin spread across his face. 'Nailed the maid of honor in the baptismal font of the church! What a rush, know what I mean?'

'Darrell,' I said, 'you just need to stop talking.'

When Dr Jean McDonnell awoke that Saturday morning, she saw the note on her husband's pillow. She was quite familiar with this type of communication from him, knowing that a call must have come in during the middle of the night for a county emergency. She'd gotten to the point where she could sleep through the phone ringing in the middle of the night, knowing it was almost never for her. The only time it had been for her was when a severely depressed patient had called to say she had just taken twenty Ativan, washed down with Scotch, and figured she should croak in about thirty minutes or so. Since she was calling from her home number, it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out where she was and get an ambulance there. That had been more than a year ago and the woman had been stabilized on anti-depressants, but the late-night calls for Milt kept coming in at least once every two weeks or so.

Knowing Milt could be gone for most of the day, Jean called her sister-in-law, Jewel, and asked her if she could drop John off with her for a sleepover later. Jewel, of course, said yes. Since Jewel had a pool, a trampoline and a neighbor boy with whom John liked to play, she knew her son would have no objections to these arrangements.

Because Jean had plans. Big plans. First, her undergraduate roommate and medical school buddy, Paula Carmichael, was flying in today, and she had to pick her up at three o'clock at the Tulsa airport. After that, she and Milt's deputy, Jasmine Bodine Hopkins (wife of Milt's chief deputy and best friend, Emmett Hopkins) were hosting a surprise bachelorette party for Milt's civilian clerk, Holly Humphries, who would be marrying Milt's long-time deputy, Dalton Pettigrew, Saturday after next.

Jean had made reservations at the Longbranch Inn for one of their suites. Since the Longbranch Inn made most of its money off its restaurant, and the rooms upstairs were usually empty, she got a good deal and their biggest suite. Jasmine was in charge of finding a stripper and collecting the booze. Since Prophesy County had recently been voted dry, that meant she had to go halfway to Tulsa to find a liquor store. Where she was going to find a stripper was a mystery to Jean.

Jean had already bought items to decorate the suite – streamers, balloons and flowers, and had had a banner made that said 'Holly and Dalton Forever' that she planned to string up. By noon, with still no word from Milt, Jean took John to the Longbranch Inn, where they had lunch, then went upstairs to check out their suite. John blew up balloons while Jean paid a busboy from the restaurant to hang up the banner over the top of the wet bar. She and John strung the streamers around the room and Jean made two very nice flower arrangements out of the flowers she'd brought. When they were finished they left the suite, turning out the lights and locking the door behind them.

By this time it was close to half past one in the afternoon, and they would have to hurry to make it to the Tulsa airport by three. Jean and John jumped in her car and headed north. They pulled into the turn-around at the Tulsa airport at about five minutes after three p.m., and had to make the circle twice before Jean spotted her old friend standing outside the baggage claim area.

Jean exited her vehicle on her crutches, while her friend Paula pulled her luggage down the curb and they met by the back of Jean's extra-large SUV.

They hugged, then Paula exclaimed: 'Oh my God! You look gorgeous! Marriage becomes you!' She held her friend at arm's length and admired her.

'And you don't look a day older!' Jean lied.

'Ha!' Paula said. 'You must have bad vision, girl. My wrinkles have wrinkles!'

Jean opened the back hatch of the SUV and Paula put her luggage inside. 'Come on,' Jean said. 'I want you to meet my son.'

'Actual proof that the world's oldest living virgin no longer exists, huh?' Paula teased.

Jean elbowed her gently in the ribs. 'Hush!' she said as she led Paula to the door of the back seat of the SUV, where her son was strapped in. She opened the door and said, 'John, I want you to meet my good friend, Doctor Carmichael. Paula, this is my son, John Kovak.'

Paula stuck her hand in and shook John's proffered one. 'Are you sick?' she asked him.

John gave her a confused look, then said tentatively, 'No.'

'Good. Then you don't have to call me "doctor" anything. The name's Paula. If you're not allowed to call me that, try Aunt Paula.' She turned and grinned at Jean. 'Unless you feel that's inappropriate?'

Jean laughed. 'Not in the least. Come on,' she said, opening the passenger-side door for Paula. 'I'm taking John by his "other" aunt's house for a sleepover while we party hearty tonight—'

'Can we go see Dad first?' John asked from the back seat.

Jean looked at Paula, who shrugged. 'You're the boss,' Paula said.

'Sure, why not?' Jean said. 'I want you to meet Milt anyway. Better before the party than after. You'll be more coherent.'

'Hush!' Paula said.

Color me surprised when I heard the side door to the station open and saw my wife and son come sauntering in, followed by a woman I could only assume was Jean's old college roommate, who had flown down to spend some time with us on her way to a job interview in Houston. Jean had described her to me many times – a party girl with a serious IQ, who rarely studied but always aced her classes, had men falling all over her but never took any of them seriously. So I was surprised by the woman I saw. She had short-cut gray hair, a face devoid of make-up, and was heavily wrinkled for her age, which would have to be early fifties, like my wife. She was so skinny you could actually see her bones, and when she spoke she had a smoker's raspy voice. Not at all the woman I'd imagined.

'Well, hey there, y'all!' I said. I stood up and held out my hand for the newcomer. 'Milt Kovak,' I said.

'Hi,' she said. She turned to Jean and said, 'He is too good-looking! I don't know what you were talking about!'

Jean laughed and, after a minute, so did I. OK, Jean hadn't said I wasn't good-looking. It was a joke, I guess.

Jean took her friend's arm, looked at me and said, 'As I'm sure you've figured out, honey, this is Paula.'

'Nice to meet you,' I said.

Paula shook her head. 'So you're the redneck sheriff Jean refused to leave this burg for, huh?'

I don't like being called a redneck. Maybe because it's too close to the truth, but really, it's just rude.

Jean closed the door behind her. 'Remember tonight's the surprise bachelorette party for Holly.'

'Damn, totally forgot about that. Been a busy morning,' I said.

'What was the emergency?' she asked.

I looked at my son and the stranger – I guess I should say Paula – and said, 'No biggie. I'll tell you about it later.' To Johnny Mac, I said, 'So what are you up to today?'

'I'm going to Aunt Jewel's house,' he said, 'if you're gonna be busy. If you're coming home I'd rather stay with you.'

Johnny Mac's been like that since my heart attack last spring. Since I had the attack in front of him, he's sort of been like my shadow. I'm afraid he thinks I'm going to croak any minute. I keep trying to tell him that the quadruple bypass they gave me means I'm gonna keep going for at least another fifty years. I don't think he believes me.

'Well, I could be here for a while, kiddo,' I said. 'Got me a bad guy in the pokey. And a drunk teenager in the second cell. Kinda standing room only around here today.'

'Two cells?' Paula asked, then laughed. I bristled.

Johnny Mac nodded. He was well versed in the priorities of my profession. 'OK, then. I guess I'll go to Aunt Jewel's,' he said.

I grabbed his head and gave it a smooch. 'Dad!' he said in that way they have of drawing three little letters out to sound like a four-syllable word.

Holly Humphries sat at her station in the bullpen, doing some paperwork – a little overtime would come in handy for the honeymoon, she thought. The front door opened and Ronnie Jacobs came in, carrying a pizza box. Ronnie worked for Bubba's Pizza and Pasta on the town square, close to the Longbranch Inn, and was short and skinny, with a pimply face and crooked teeth, wearing too-big jeans and showing off his Calvin Klein's. He wore a baseball hat backwards.

'Here's your pizza,' Ronnie said.

'I didn't order pizza,' Holly said, although she thought it might not be a bad idea. 'Any name on the order?'

'Yeah. Darrell?'

Holly shook her head and laughed. It wasn't the first time a prisoner had ordered a pizza from an unconfiscated cell phone in the jail. Milt had put Darrell in the cells before Holly had come in, and she'd assumed Milt had checked him for contraband. She walked around the bullpen, the ring of keys for the cells in her hand. 'Come on,' she said. 'I just hope he has money, 'cause I don't think the sheriff will approve this!'

She unlocked the steel door that led into the cells. That door was supposed to stay locked, but half the time the deputies forgot to do it. Milt, at least, had locked up after depositing Darrell Blanton in his cell.

There was a knock on the door and Holly Humphries stuck her head in. 'Milt! Come quick, we got a problem!' Seeing Jean and Johnny Mac – and the stranger – she said, 'So sorry, Jean. It's an emergency. Hi, Johnny Mac!' She nodded to the stranger and then her head disappeared.

'Go,' Jean said. 'We're going to Jewel's.' She gave me a quick kiss and I was out the door, following Holly.

Holly was right, as usual. The drunk teenager was convulsing in his cell. 'You call an ambulance?' I asked her.

'Of course,' she said. 'Help me.'

I glanced over at Darrell's cell. 'Pizza?'

Holly shrugged.

Ronnie, the pizza delivery guy, said, 'You want I should leave now, or you need some help?' He was peering curiously into the cell with the convulsing teenager.

'Out!' I said with some enthusiasm.

Holly and I went in the cell and she showed me how to hold his shoulders while she stuck a wooden, doctor-type stick in his mouth, holding his tongue down.

'Jeez, what's with him?' Darrell Blanton asked from the next cell, chomping on a pepperoni and double cheese slice. 'Boy sure can't hold his liquor, huh?'