Smith and I sat at a picnic table the following morning as Julia dished pancakes onto our plates from the hot griddle. The sun climbed in the sky. We'd been up all night, most of that time in an interrogation room at the sheriff's office. Being in danger saps one's energy, and once the peril passed, we were getting our second wind. Smith ate heartily, his face pink, his demeanor more peaceful than I'd ever seen it.
Julia and Smith kept up a non-stop commentary.
"Did you see that look on Rousseau's face?" said Julia. "When he saw Rich and me peering down at him, one would have thought he'd seen Satan himself!"
Smith was chagrined. "His discomfort was extreme, but I suppose he had it coming. Ingratitude, ...