Keith Morrison

But the story she took with her on that tortured drive...

was, she knew, going to change everything.

She came, and we talked, and we recorded the conversation with her permission, and it was dynamite.

The man she had come to talk to was a distinguished attorney.

If anyone could advise her, surely it would be he, about the story she said she had to tell.

And then out it came, the whole terrifying story, possibly true and possibly a careful and cunning deceit.

Still was, she said, about the thing that happened and about who was there and what happened after and what might happen next.

in a small town deep in the American desert.

Some things aren't fixable.

Some things are hard to explain.

There is a place, a remote, windy place tucked away in a sliver of northeast Nevada, next to the Utah border.

You'd certainly see it if you cruised along Interstate 80.

Casinos.

Five of them.

Flashing away like some Vegas in miniature.

A golf shot or two off the highway.

The town of 4,000 or so spilling out onto the surrounding desert.

And if tempted by a meal or a rest or a roll of the dice, if you pulled off that highway, you'd be welcomed by a great grinning cowboy, or the improbable towering image of one, 63 feet high, garish and weirdly charming as it waves a welcome.

A giant concoction in neon and steel they call Wendover Will, for West Wendover, name of the town.

And a reminder of more innocent days.