his top hat was silhouetted against the moon, giving him the appearance of even greater height.

“I’m doing nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“We leave this man alone.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Esther told King Xerxes if he killed her people, he’d have to kill her, too. That’s how she became the handmaiden of God. You don’t know that?”

“No, and I don’t waste my time on that biblical claptrap, either.”

“That’s because you’re uneducated. Your ignorance isn’t your fault.”

“Jack, this guy knows too much.”

“You don’t like what I’m doing?” Preacher said.

“This is a wrong move, man.”

Nick could hear the wind and a sound like grasshoppers thudding against the side of the farmhouse. Then Bobby Lee said, “All right, to hell with it.”

Nick heard Bobby Lee’s footsteps going away, then the voices of Bobby Lee and Hugo merging together by the SUV. Preacher inched forward on his crutches until Nick could smell the grease in his hair.

“You take care of your wife,” Preacher said. “You take care of your kids. You never come near me again. Understood?”

But Nick’s mouth was trembling so bad, from either fear or release from it, that he couldn’t speak.

Preacher threw Nick’s .25 auto into the pond, the rings from the splash spreading outward, rippling through the cattails. As Preacher worked his way back toward the SUV, his shoulders were pushed up by his crutches, close to his neck, as if he were a scarecrow whose sticks had collapsed. Nick stared dumbly at his three abductors as though they were caught forever inside a black-and-white still taken from a 1940s noir movie—the giver of death in silhouette, stumping his way across the baked earth, Hugo and Bobby Lee looking at Nick with faces that seemed aware that a new and dangerously complex presence had just come aborning in their lives.

9

JUNIOR VOGEL HAD told his cook he was going to have lunch with his wife. But he did not show up at his house, nor did he come home that evening. Junior was a temperate man, a member of the Kiwanis, a deacon in his church, and was not given to erratic behavior. That night his wife called 911. By dawn his wife was convinced he had been abducted.

At 7:16 A.M. a trucker carrying a load of baled hay reported what he thought was a wrecked vehicle at the bottom of a steep arroyo, just off a two-lane road eight miles south of Junior’s house. The guardrail on the road shoulder was broken, and the mesquite growing out of the rocks on the other side had been bark-skinned or stripped of leaves by the vehicle’s descent.

Hackberry Holland and Pam Tibbs parked the cruiser in a turnout and threaded their way down the arroyo, slag and gravel sliding from under their boots, the dust rising into their faces. The wrecked pickup truck looked like it had rolled, crumpling the cab’s roof, blowing out the windshield, coming to rest on a wash bed of dry rocks coated with butterflies trying to find moisture.

The driver was still behind the wheel. The airbags had not inflated.

Hackberry worked his way between a boulder and the driver’s door. The driver was round-shouldered and slumped forward, his uncut hair extending over his collar. From the back, he looked as though he had fallen asleep. The morning was still cool, and the pickup was in shadow, but the odor that had collected inside the cab was already eye-watering.

Pam came around the front of the vehicle from the other side, pulling on polyethylene gloves, staring past the dashboard and the shards of glass that sparkled on top of it. Junior Vogel’s eyes seemed to stare at the dashboard, too, except they contained no expression, and his brow was tilted forward as though he were involved with a final introspective thought. A blowfly crawled across one of his flared sideburns.

“The airbags are turned off. Junior had grandchildren, didn’t he?” Pam said.

“Yep.”

“Think he fell asleep at the wheel?” she said.

“Could be. But he went missing in the middle of the day.”

Pam looked up the side of the arroyo at the broken guardrail. “There’s no curve up there, either. Maybe he dropped a tie-rod.”

“The turnoff to his place is almost ten miles back. What was he doing down here?” Hackberry said.

Above them, an ambulance pulled to the side of the road. Two paramedics got out and looked down from the guardrail, their faces small and round against a blue sky.

“The driver is dead. There’re no passengers. Give us a few minutes, will you, fellows?” Hackberry called up.

“Yes, sir,” one