He brightened. Like literally. It was weird. He pushed open the window another inch and poked his nose and mouth out. “Names?” he whispered.

“Yes, names of people. I need to know if they’ve passed or not.” I could lose him any second. Keeping Rocket’s attention for more than several seconds was similar to winning the lottery, minus the monetary gain.

He pushed the window frame against his face to scrunch it and was making fish faces at me. “Hellllllloooooo, Miss Charlotte.”

I drew in a deep, calming breath. “Rocket, where are Strawberry and Blue?” Blue Bell was his sister who died in the thirties from dust pneumonia. I’d never met her. Apparently, she didn’t want to be introduced to the grim reaper. Strawberry was the departed little sister of a local police officer who worked with my uncle. She was a pain in the ass.

With his face still scrunched, he smiled. “They’re hiding from you.”

“Oh, great, now they’re both going to avoid me?” At first I got a little irked under the collar; then I remembered I disliked children, so this was actually quite nice. I had no choice. I had to give him the names. He would probably bolt through the asylum and I’d lose him entirely, but that was better than having a leg gnawed off. “Teresa Dean Yost.”

He stepped back and froze, his lids fluttering as he flipped through his mental registry. Then, as quick as that, he refocused on me. “No. Not her time.”

His answer stunned me. Really? She was still alive? What the hell? I was positive Doc Holliday killed her. Two million smackeroos was a lot of smackeroos. But she was alive. I still had time. “Rocket, I love you.”

He laughed, then slammed the window shut again.

“Rocket, wait.” I pulled and jerked to no avail. The guy was like a boulder. Rocks were digging into my ribs and elbows, and I’d have to go home and change before I could do anything else. After a herculean yank, it budged, but only a little. “One more name, sweetheart,” I whispered into the slit.

“Can you say the magic word?”

“Please?” I said, after exhaling loudly.

“Please is the magic word? I thought it was abracadabra.”

“Oh, right, sorry. Okay, are you ready?”

He nodded, his eyes glistening in anticipation.

This was going to be trickier. Earl Walker had several aliases, and who’s to say what his real name was, but it was worth a shot. “Earl James Walker.”

“Dead,” he said, matter-of-fact.

I blinked in surprise again. “Wait, are you sure?”

Rocket closed the window and latched it with an evil laugh.

“Rocket, damn it.” I pulled and fought, unlatching it over and over only to have him latch it back. “Rocket!” I rasped.

He finally stopped laughing long enough to look at me.

Hoping he could hear me through the window, I said, “Earl James Walker. You’re sure he’s dead?”

He opened the window again, just enough to talk through it, refusing to give up the game, then shrugged. “Most of them are.”

“Most of what? Earl James Walkers?”

“Yessiree.” He counted on his fingers. “Seven dead since the black storms. Who knows how many before that?”

I had no idea what the black storms were, but Rocket had grown up during the Dust Bowl era. Maybe that’s what he meant. “But, are there any alive?”

He counted again. “Two.”

Wow, that meant maybe Reyes wasn’t crazy. Clearly these Walkers weren’t the most creative lot, naming all their kids Earl James. “Can you tell me where they are?” I asked, knowing the answer.

“Not where, only if. Alive or dead. That’s what I know.”

Well, crap, this was not helping. Maybe if I explained some things about this particular Earl Walker, we could narrow it down. “Rocket, let me in.”

“Why?” he asked, as if thoroughly confused.

“Because I need to talk to you, and I don’t want to be eaten by a freaking Rottweiler.”

A huge grin spread across his face. “Like that one?”

He pointed over my head as a massive dollop of saliva dripped onto my jacket sleeve. Then it breathed, its hot breath fanning across my cheek, and I tried not to wet my pants.

A rush of adrenaline flooded my body, making it difficult to lie still, but lie still I did. Running only made them happy. As though defusing a bomb, I eased a hand into my jacket pocket and took out a rawhide strip in the shape of a bone. I had barely pulled my hand out of my pocket when a huge set of jaws clamped down on it and rolled over on top of me with a bark, likely breaking several ribs in the process.

I grunted and looked to my side as the Rottweiler spread out beside me and started gnawing, thankfully on the bone. He nudged me as if begging me to try to take it. And my heart was lost.

“Aren’t you a sweetheart?” I asked, and he—correction, she—rolled onto her stomach, bone locked between jaws, stubby tail wagging hard enough to cause a hurricane in China. I rubbed her stomach. “You’re just a doll. Yes, you are.” She nudged my hands with her nose, and I looked at her collar. “Artemis? Your name is Artemis?”

Figuring it would be good practice for my new career, we wrestled for a while. “Are you a goddess? You look like a goddess. What a pretty name for a pretty pupp—” I stopped talking baby talk and froze when a large set of boots stepped into my line of sight.

My gaze wandered up chap-covered legs, a skull-shaped belt buckle, and a T-shirt framed within a leather vest that said KILL THEM ALL, LET GOD SORT THEM OUT. I continued my journey up to a scruffy jaw, a pair of black wraparound sunglasses, and hair so dark, it didn’t reflect, but absorbed the sunlight.