“But she’s getting there…”

“So dangerous,” Jane said.

“Do it, goddamnit,” Leslie snarled. “She’s there. Put me on her.”

JESSE HEARD the sudden acceleration of the van coming up behind her. In this neighborhood, that could be a bad thing. She turned toward it, her face a pale oval in the dark patch. The van was coming fast, and just as quickly lurched to a stop. Now she was worried, and already turning away, to run, when the van’s sliding door slammed open, and a big man was coming at her, running, one big arm lifting overhead, and Jesse screamed…

LESLIE HOPED to be on her before she could scream, realized somewhere in the calculating part of his brain that they’d done it wrong, that they should have idled up to her, but that was all done now, in the past. He hit the grass verge, running, before the van had even fully stopped, his chin hot from his breath under the nylon stocking, his arm going up, and he heard the girl scream “Shoe,” or “Shoot,” or “Schmoo.”

Or “Screw”?

He was almost there, the girl trying to run, he almost had her when he became aware of something like a soccer ball flying at his hip, he had the pipe back ready to swing, and cocked his head toward whatever it was…

Then Screw hit him.

Leslie Widdler hit the ground like a side of beef, a solid thump, thrashing at the dog, the dog’s snarls reaching toward a ravening lupine howl, Leslie thrashing at it with the pipe, the dog biting him on the butt, the leg, an upper arm, on the back, Leslie thrashing, finally kicking at the dog, and dog fastening on his ankle. Leslie managed to stagger upright, could hear Jane screaming something, hit the dog hard with the pipe, but the dog held on, ripping, and Leslie hit it again, still snarling, and, its back broken, the dog launched itself with its front paws, getting Leslie’s other leg, and Leslie, now picking up Jane’s “Get in get in get in…” threw himself into the back of the van.

The dog came with him, and the van accelerated into a U-turn, the side door still open, almost rolling both Leslie and the dog into the street, and Leslie hit the dog on the skull again, and then again, and the dog finally let go and Leslie, overcome with anger, lurched forward, grabbed it around the body, and threw it out in the street.

Jane screamed, “Close the door, close the door.”

Leslie slammed the door and they were around another corner and a few seconds later, accelerating down the ramp onto I-94.

“I’m hurt,” he groaned. “I’m really hurt.”

LUCAS AND LETTY were watching Slap Shot when Flowers called. “I’m down in Jackson. Kathy Barth just called me and said that somebody tried to snatch Jesse off the street. About twenty minutes ago.”

“You gotta be shittin’ me.” Lucas was on his feet.

“Jesse said somebody in a white van, a really big guy, she said, pulled up and tried to grab her. She was walking this dog home from her boyfriend’s…”

“Screw,” Lucas said.

“What?”

“That’s the dog’s name,” Lucas said. “Screw.”

“Yeah. That yellow dog. Anyway, she said Screw went after the guy, and the guy wound up back in the van with Screw and that’s the last she saw of them,” Flowers said. “She said the van did a U-turn and headed back to Lexington and then turned toward the interstate and she never saw them again. She ran home and told Kathy. Kathy called nine-one-one and then called me. She’s fuckin’ hysterical.”

“Call Kathy, tell her I’m coming over,” Lucas said. “Are the cops looking for a van?”

“I guess, but the call probably didn’t go out for ten minutes after Jesse got jumped,” Flowers said. “She said the guy was big and beefy and mean, like a football player. Who do we know like that?”

“Junior Kline…Can you get back on this?” Lucas asked.

“I could, but I’m a long way away,” Flowers said.

“All right, forget it,” Lucas said. “I’ll get Jenkins or Shrake to find Junior and shake his ass up.”

“Jesus, tell them not to beat on the guy unless they know he’s guilty,” Flowers said. “Those guys can get out of hand.”

“Tell Barth I’m on the way,” Lucas said.

THE ARTIST was wearing a black T-shirt, black slacks, and a black watch cap on his shaven head, a dramatic but unnecessary touch, since it was probably seventy degrees outside, Coombs thought, as she peered at him over the café table.

There was