in a subfreezing POW shack where men with ice crystals in their beards and death in their throats stared intently at everything around them, as though taking the measure of the world, when in reality they saw nothing, or at least nothing they ever told the world about.

?My roast,? T-Bone said.

?Say again??

?My pot roast is burning. It?s addax. It cost five grand to kill it.?

?Don?t worry about it. We?ll handle it,? Hackberry said, looking up at Pam Tibbs.

?I?m a good cook. Always was,? T-Bone said. Then he closed his eyes and died.

Pam Tibbs walked away, her hands on her hips. She stood still, looking at the floor, her back turned to Hackberry.

?What is it?? he said.

?I saw a security camera mounted on the corner of the building. The lens is pointed at the parking lot,? she said.

He glanced at the TV mounted above the bar. Below it was a VCR. ?See if it has a tape.?

BOBBY LEE MOTREE placed his hand on Hugo Cistranos?s shoulder and walked with him to the cliff?s edge, like two friends enjoying a panoramic view of topography that seemed as old as the first day of creation. Down below, Hugo Cistranos could see the tops of cottonwood trees along a streambed that had gone dry in late summer and whose banks were flanged with automobile scrap jutting from the soil like pieces of rusted razor blades. Farther out from the cliff was a cluster of trees that still had flowers in the branches. Beyond the streambed and the trees was a long flat plain where the wind was troweling thick curds of yellow dust into the air. The vista that lay before Hugo Cistranos?s eyes was like none he had ever seen, as though this place and the events transpiring in it had been invented for this moment only, unfairly, without his consent as a participant. He hawked and spat downwind, leaning away from Bobby Lee, anxious to show his deference and care. ?I was just delivering the money,? he said.

?You bet, Hugo. We?re glad you did that, too,? Bobby Lee replied.

The plateau was limestone, topped with a soft carpet of soil and grass that was surprisingly green. The wind was cool, flecked with rain, and smelled of damp leaves and perhaps the beginning of a new season. Twenty yards away, Preacher Collins was talking in Spanish to two Mexican killers who had a great gift for listening while he spoke, absorbing every word, never challenging or advising, their taciturnity an affirmation of his will.

Their pickup truck was parked next to Preacher?s Honda, the compact?s back window pocked with a hole that looked like a crystalline eye. The Jewish woman sat in the backseat, her expression less one of anger than of thought, her purse and a box of brownies next to her. What did Preacher intend to do with her? Not harm her, certainly. And if Preacher wasn?t going to harm her, maybe he would not harm Hugo, at least not in her presence, Hugo told himself.

?Beautiful, isn?t it?? Bobby Lee said. ?Puts me in mind of the Shenandoah Valley, without the greenery and all.?

?Yeah, I know what you mean,? Hugo said. He lowered his voice. ?Bobby Lee, I?m a soldier just like you. I take orders I don?t like sometimes. We?ve been on a lot of gigs together. You hearing me on this, son??

Bobby Lee squeezed Hugo?s shoulder reassuringly. ?Look yonder. See the deer running inside the wind. They?re playing. They know fall is in the air. You can smell it. It?s like wet leaves. I love it when it?s like this.?

As Hugo looked into Bobby Lee?s face, he knew for the first time in his life the distinction between those who had a firm grasp on the day and the expectation of the morrow and those who did not.

Preacher finished his conversation with the Mexicans and walked toward the cliff. ?Let me have Hugo?s cell phone,? he said to Bobby Lee.

Preacher wore a suit coat and a rumpled fedora and slacks that had no crease, one cuff tucked inside a boot. The wind was blowing his coat as he dialed a number on the cell phone. ?When Arthur Rooney answers, you say, ?I did what you told me to, Artie. Everything went fine.? Then you hand the phone back to me.?

Hugo said, ?Jack, Artie is going to be confused. Why would I say ?Everything went fine?? I was just bringing the money up. Artie could say anything, because he wouldn?t know what