This is a scene that doesn't actually appear in the book (as of yet).  I don't think it will, because it is unecessary, but it is in my brain, so it must be written in order to get it out of my brain and make room for more...so I guess what I'm saying is ya'll get to be my “sock drawer“.

     Flinty little slivers of moonlight glinted off the surface of Lake Bemidji, forming an ever-widening path of glass-like shards.  That's probably why they called it “Diamond Point Park“.  Nikki wondered idly if it would even be possible for her to follow that path out into the lake…just walk it out to the middle and keep walking until she ran out of air.

     She knew it wasn’t possible, because the human body just wouldn’t let itself die.  But tonight was different.

     There was a bloody shovel in the trunk of her car that told the truth, and a fat manila envelope full of pictures that proved how well people can over-ride their self-protective instincts under just the right conditions.

     1987 had been a weird year so far, and on this chilly night in late September, it had just gotten a lot weirder.

     She drew some more smoke into her lungs, and settled herself into a more comfortable position in her perch on the tree that swept out over the lake.  It had been hanging out over the shore-line for as long as she could remember, seeming to defy gravity.  Every year, though, it seemed to droop a little closer to the water.

     She had read a story once, in maybe fifth grade, about a guy who falls through the ice in Alaska, and has to build a fire to save his life.  The whole story is just talking about this guy and how cold it is, and how much he needs to get that fire going, and all the problems he has with it.  She’d been reading, and never really let herself get worked up about this guy because one; why should she give a flying fuck in a rolling doughnut about some stupid shit-head in Alaska?  And two; dude’s the hero of the story, right?  What could go wrong?

     Well, a bunch of snow fell on the dude’s fire and he died.  The end.  What the hell kind of a story was that?  It still pisses her off, but that’s not why she’s thinking about this story at this particular time.

     What stuck with her was the way the dude just laid down and died.  He just was overcome with this feeling of warmth and peace and resignation, and died like a good little boy.

     Nikki exhaled her lungful of smoke.  Maybe it was just the weed, but that’s how she felt right now, this very second.

     It couldn’t be the weed.  She’d felt that way the whole time she was driving her monstrous maroon Catalina named Angus away from her first real serious-shit crime.  Accessory to murder, assault (are shovels deadly weapons?) battery, and probably a bunch of other stuff that only cops and lawyers know about that they tack on if they really feel the need to see you go to jouvey.  Not that the first two wouldn’t do the job, especially with her record.

     But one thing she knew for sure, even if she was as completely and relentlessly cluster-fucked as she thought, and even if all she could do was lay down and die…at least she was not going to do it in Bemidji.