The bison was waxing poetic about the vistas of South Dakota.Tracie said, “Where to now?”The bison started singing “Home on the Range.”I pointed across the highway.“Introduce me to Farmer Randisi,” I said.“I’ve never actually met the man.”“I thought you knew everyone around here.”“Randisi is a recluse. Or antisocial. I don’t know what. He has no family, as far as I know. No friends. You never see him in town except for Sunday morning services, and even then he’s in and out in a hurry, never stops to talk. He does his shopping—I don’t know where he does his shopping, but it’s not in Libbie.”My admiration for the Imposter was starting to grow.“He picked his targets well, didn’t he?” I said.Randisi kept his property like he was expecting company. He lived in a pristine white clapboard house on a low hill at the end of a groomed gravel driveway. A rich, manicured lawn surrounded the house, and green and purple fields of alfalfa bordered that. The outbuildings were recently painted, and what machinery I could see, although well used, looked like it had just come off the dealership lot.
