Final instructions were issued and goodbyes said, and the pair drove away in their truck. From the outside, it looked like a rattletrap held together with baling wire and crossed fingers.

But as it drove past Landry, he was close enough to feel the vibration of the new engine the twins recently had had installed. The swap-out had been done in a barn on a farm that had been foreclosed on years before. The mechanics, who’d helped themselves to the empty space, catered to moonshiners and bootleggers who were trying to outdo, or at least to equal, the horsepower had by lawmen, government agents, and each other.

He wondered if Mrs. Plummer was aware of the new oomph under the battered hood of the O’Connors’ truck. He would guess she wasn’t. The O’Connors were too cocksure of themselves by far. Brimming with piss and vinegar, they took needless chances, seemed to thrive on excitation, and routinely flirted with calamity.

But he couldn’t fault them. He reveled in risk-taking.

Lights were on inside, affording him a view through the window into the kitchen. He watched Mrs. Plummer drink a glass of tap water at the sink. Then she moved about the room nervously, picking up this or that, setting it down, opening a cabinet door only to close it without putting anything in or taking anything out.

He saw her actually wring her hands. At one point, she lifted her pocketbook off a peg adjacent to the back door, as though she were about to leave, then changed her mind. She seemed troubled and restless, feeling compelled to do something, but unsure of what she should do.

His timing was perfect.

He emerged from the shadows and crossed the yard. The honeysuckle vine brushed his shoulder as he neared the back door. He knocked, but stood to one side, keeping himself concealed in the darkness until she appeared behind the screen.

He stepped into the light and tipped his bowler hat to her. “Mrs. Plummer.”

Her lips tightened with dislike. “What are you doing here?”

Her hand moved to her side, where she no doubt secreted a firearm in the pocket of her skirt. Probably a Derringer. A whore’s pistol. Small but lethal if fired at close range.

“May I come in?”

“No, you may not.”

“You sound adamant.”

“I am.”

“Why?”

“It would be improper.”

Amused by her hypocritical stance on propriety, he said, “Improper because your father-in-law isn’t at home? He’s away this evening?”

She realized that she’d trapped herself into admitting she was by herself, but rather than quail, she drew herself up taller. She looked above and beyond him at the lightning that streaked the sky.

“It’s about to storm,” she said over the boom of thunder that rattled the windows of her house. “You wouldn’t want to get wet, so leave now and don’t come back. You and Mr. Croft were fishing in the wrong pond today. In any case, I said everything I had to say. Now if you’ll—”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Our visit today.” He gave her a look of rehearsed chagrin. “You have every right to be miffed.”

“Don’t talk down to me.”

He held up his hand in a pacifying gesture. “Mr. Croft often gets carried away. His strident manner is a character flaw which I’ve pointed out to him on numerous occasions. Sadly, to no avail. His overbearing approach to you was tactless and clumsy. He came on like a buffalo when a swan would have been more effective. It’s little wonder to me that you turned him down.”

“Did he send you to make amends?”

“No, I came entirely on my own.”

“I don’t want your apology. I want you to leave.”

“But I didn’t come to apologize.”

“To do what, then? Ask me to reconsider your deal?”

“No,” he said smoothly, “I came to offer you a better one.”

His statement startled her, but not as much as the gunshot that punctuated it.

Numerous blasts followed, the rapid popping sounding like the finale of a fireworks display.

Even before the barrage stopped, Laurel stunned him by shoving open the screen door. She shouldered him out of her way and began running in the direction from which the shots had come.

Landry went after her, shouting her name.

She didn’t even slow down.

* * *

Bill locked the door between the office and the cell block while Thatcher retrieved Barker’s rifle and took another from the rack for Bill. Moving swiftly and without a single word being spoken between them, they exited the building and got into Bill’s car.

While Thatcher loaded and checked the weapons, the sheriff drove at top speed through downtown. Main Street was already filling up with curiosity-seekers streaming in the direction of the apparent shootout. Thatcher noticed that one man in the crowd still had his napkin from the café tucked into his collar.

Bill shouted at the onlookers and angrily waved them out of his way. He used his horn to bleat out warnings for them to move aside or get bowled over. Bill gave the car more gas as it trundled across the bridge.

On the far side of it, they rounded a bend to find the road blocked by a disabled truck. Both doors stood open. The radiator was spewing steam like a teakettle.

The truck had been riddled by bullets. The driver had made it out. He lay sprawled in the road. The passenger was still in his seat.

“Jesus.” Bill used the handbrake to bring his car to a skidding stop. Thatcher, noticing movement in the underbrush to his right, was out of the car before inertia rocked it to rest. He leaped across the ditch in pursuit.

The woods were as dark as midnight. Bursts of lightning only served to momentarily blind him. But the brilliant flashes followed by complete darkness were reminiscent of nighttime battles, and he’d had plenty of experience with those. Conditioned reflexes took over. Rifle up, he ran on, dodging trees, ducking low branches, doing his best to avoid pitfalls in the undergrowth.

Ahead of him, men were shouting to each other. The words were indistinct, but their connotation was urgency. If they kept up the racket, they’d lead Thatcher straight to them. But then he heard the sound of an auto motor sputtering to life.

“Fuck, fuck.” He pushed himself harder, but by the time he reached the road, all he saw of the retreating car was the wink of its taillights as it disappeared around a curve. Any attempt to run it down on foot would be futile.