Peter waved to Susan, who was conferring with the other two judges – the town librarian who was also the reading teacher at the school and a retired doctor everyone said was hiding out from his kids and ex-wife.

«What? Brook Benton?» Tiny's shout carried across the room. «No fucking way, man. We are 100 percent Elvis.»

Casper was grinning at him. «Come here, Tiny. I've got an idea.» Casper had him by the arm, dragged him across the room.

Jesse and Phillip were giving the room a careful appraisal. «This many sequins and white vinyl jumpsuits should be illegal outside of Las Vegas,» Jesse said finally.

Phillip raised his eyebrows. «If grown men are going to wear eyeliner, they should at least put it on while they're sober. It takes a steady hand. That's all I'm going to say about that.»

«You two look very good,» Peter admitted. The rest of the Elvis contenders were closer to sixty than thirty, with the unmannered hair, stained teeth, and reckless approach to fashion that characterized men from the Alaskan bush. A few Elvises, in the interests of authenticity, were three sheets to the wind, their flasks bulging in their costume pockets. Jesse and Phillip were gorgeous and slender and well groomed and young, and already the lady Elvises were giving them points for being cute and clean.

Tiny climbed up on the stage and picked up the microphone. Casper was working on the CD player attached to the karaoke machine. «Okay, let's get this show on the road. First, the rules: We're tribute artists, honoring The King. Anybody who just came to make fun of Elvis? You'll find your ass full of gravel when you go sliding out the door and across the parking lot behind my foot. Two: Nobody sings 'Down in the Ghetto.' That song belongs to The King alone. Three: You're too drunk to stand up and sing, you can't go sober up and try again. You got to wait until next month. What else?» Tiny looked over at Casper, and Casper waved the mic at him. «Oh, yeah. We're gonna start tonight's contest by raising the bar just a

little.» The music came on, 'Rainy Night in Georgia,' but Tiny didn't leave the stage. He and Casper both had microphones, and they sang together, their voices as rich and dark as bittersweet chocolate. Peter didn't think he'd ever heard anything like it, and the rest of the audience apparently felt the same. Everyone listened, eyes closed or full of tears, and the sound filled the small room with some magic, and some soul. When they finished singing everyone stared at them in silence, stunned, until Peter stood up and started clapping. The whistles and boot-stomping and shouts for an encore went on a good long while, until Tiny took the mic again and told everybody to shut the hell up.

Peter had attended hundreds of these contests since he had lived here, and this one was about par for the course. Jesse and Phillip did a very nice ass-wiggling rendition of 'Hound Dog' that had all the women in the audience rattling the windows with wolf whistles and throwing dollar bills onto the stage. They were listening to 'Kentucky Rain' for about the eighth time when Susan pulled the police radio off her belt. She spoke into it, then stood up and made her way through the crowd. She gestured for Peter to join her. «Peter, I need you.» «Sure, Susan. Let me give Casper the keys to the van.» «Hurry, Peter.»

Susan was already in the police unit when he came out with the lights flashing blue and red across the dim parking lot. «Susan, what's wrong? Is there a fire? Half the fire department is inside.»

She tore out of the parking lot, stomping down on the accelerator. «Somebody out at your place called 911. I don't know what's going on.»

«911? What did they say?» Susan was silent, both hands on the wheel. They were driving very fast, and Peter reached for the dashboard. «Susan, they must have said something. Who called, and what did they say?»

«It was a man,» she said, checking the rearview mirror. «The person who called, he said someone was dead. That's all.»

Peter's chest felt like ice suddenly, frozen and heavy, and he couldn't breathe enough to speak.

«We don't know what's going on,» Susan said again, reluctantly. «They said it was Jacob, Peter. They said that Jacob was dead.»

«No.» He felt a burning panic, like he was choking, his throat suddenly full of acid. «No. That can't be, Susan. There has been a mistake.» Peter could hear the strain in his voice, the odd formality, and he had a sudden picture of Jacob shivering in his T-shirt and slippers, walking away from him, walking back into the hotel and closing the door. He looked over at Susan again. She was gripping the steering wheel so hard her knuckles were white. «Clearly there has been a mistake. Jacob is fine.»

They came screaming into a black nightmare, lit by pulsing red and blue lights, the ambulance, the cop car, solemn men and women in uniforms standing in a cold rain, sorrowful faces, and Peter pushed through their arms and there was Jacob on a gurney, half his body covered in mud, and Peter tried to brush it off his face and that's when he saw the rope around Jacob's neck. It's too tight, how can he breathe? Susan pulled him off. «Don't touch it now, Peter.»

Jacob had bare muddy feet, where are his slippers? «He needs his slippers,» he told Susan. «It's cold out here. He shouldn't be out here without slippers.» And then Tom had his arms around him. Tom was the senior EMT. He had mud on his face; he must have been doing CPR. «Tom, why did you stop CPR? That's Jacob.»

And Tom lifted him up, arms still wrapped around his chest, carried him to the front steps. «Peter. Peter, Travis found him. You need to go help Travis. He's in a bad way.» And Tom pushed him through the front door and closed it behind him.

There was a deputy inside, the other half of the island's law enforcement department, a big, rawboned kid who was sitting on the edge of an armchair, twisting his hat between his hands. Mike was sitting on the couch, his knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them as if

he was holding himself together. Nelson was leaning in the doorway, face blank, his hands in the pockets of muddy overalls, hair frizzed from the rain. Travis was walking back and forth, leaning up against a wall, pushing himself off and walking again. He didn't seem to know what to do with his hands. He was wiping them down his thighs, tucking them beneath his arms, balling his hands into fists, shoving them down into the pockets of his jeans. His clothes were streaked with mud.

He met Peter's eyes, then he closed his tightly, rubbed the heels of his hands across his eyes, smeared the mud and overflowing tears.

Peter didn't want to comfort him. He wanted to stay leaning against the wall, but he pushed himself off, went to Travis and folded him up in his arms, let Travis cry hoarse, racking sobs into his shoulder.

«I'm here now, Travis,» Peter said, stroking Travis's back up and down like he was an infant needing soothing. «We'll get this all straightened out. I'm sure there has been some kind of mistake. It can't be Jacob.»

And Travis pulled back out of his arms, confusion on his face, then sorrow. «Oh, Peter. It is. It is Jacob.» * * * * *

«I don't know what happened, Peter. I mean, he was upstairs packing, and he came down looking for his journal. It was in the living room and he picked it up and said something like, 'What are you doing down here?' Then I heard somebody come down and go into the kitchen. I stuck my head in there to look and the door was open a little so I closed it but I didn't lock it, Peter. You come in through the kitchen sometimes and I didn't want to lock it.»

Peter shook his head. «We never lock the kitchen door, Travis. Not until everyone is in for the night. You didn't do anything wrong. What made you want to go outside?»

«I don't know. Something didn't feel right, the sound of the voices in the kitchen, something was off about it, and then that door being open. I went upstairs and Mike was in his room, but not Jacob. His door was open, and his duffel bag was there on the bed, like he was packing, and I looked around but I couldn't find him. So I went outside and he was… His face was down in the mud. I turned him over and tried to do CPR, but I didn't see the rope. The CPR didn't work. I mean, I couldn't get a breath in, the rope…» Travis stopped then, crying, his hands up over his eyes. «I didn't know what to do. I ran back in to call 911, but they say you're not supposed to stop CPR once you start, but it wasn't working, and I…»