He looked up as another car skidded up onto the shoulder. Fancy vehicle, opaque, armored windows, reinforced bumpers.

Two men stepped out of the car, shoes shined to mirrors and decked out in tailored black suits. Typical State Security. The short, stocky one looked at Colarusso like he had a bad taste in his mouth; the gangly one walked easier, almost friendly, a farm kid playing dress-up. They each kept a hand inside their jackets.

“Don’t hurt yourself, boys, I’m Deputy Chief Anthony Colarusso.” He saw the gangly one scan the pin on his lapel, confirming his status. “Just checking out the neighborhood.”

“Your rank doesn’t mean anything here-all that matters is that you’re trespassing,” said the shorter one, his hand still inside his jacket. “State Security’s got this scene boxed up, so climb back in your ride and haul ass back where you-”

“Relax, Napoléon,” said Colarusso, “you’re going to give yourself a hemorrhoid.”

The stumpy one stepped closer.

“It’s all right, Jay,” said the gangly one. “We’re all-”

“I asked you once, I’m not gonna ask you again,” said the stumpy one.

“Just a second.” Colarusso fished around in his paper bag, moved the half sandwich aside and looked up. “Nope. I checked, but there’s just no give-a-shit in here, not even a little piece.”

The gangly one laughed. It sounded like a hiccup.

The stumpy one jabbed Colarusso in the chest. “I could take you down, you fat Catholic fuck. You’ll end up in the goddamned emergency ward with a saline drip in your arm and a catheter in your dick.”

“Sometimes, when I can’t sleep”-Colarusso removed a speck of lint from his jacket, watched it float to the ground-“I think about all the dizzy bastards threatened me over the years, all the tough-guy yak…” He yawned, stretched his mouth wide. “Sends me right off to dreamland.”

The stumpy one’s eyes went dead.

“Jay,” said the gangly one. “Go on back to the car, I’ll take it from here.”

“I don’t want to go back to the car,” the stumpy one said softly.

“Please, Jay,” said the gangly one. “I hate filling out paperwork.”

The stumpy one glared at Colarusso. “You got no idea how lucky you are.” He turned on his heel, stalked back to the car.

“You like to live dangerously, Chief,” said the gangly one. “Jay teaches hand-to-hand combat to the recruits just for the opportunity to beat people up.”

“I never intended to use my hands,” said Colarusso. “Figured I’d go brain-to-brain with him, where I have the advantage.”

The gangly one laughed again. He was older than he looked at first, the bones in his face prominent, his eyes steady. “Never met a cop who wasn’t a joker. That’s the only bad thing about State Security, everybody’s so darned serious.”

“Not you, though,” said Colarusso. “You’re a fun guy.”

“I enjoy my work, if that’s what you mean.” The wind from passing cars lifted the blond hairs on the gangly one’s neck. A tiny vein throbbed along his jawline. “You really shouldn’t be here, sir.”

Colarusso sidled back into the weeds, eyes on the ground.

“What are you looking for?” asked the gangly one, keeping up.

“Whatever you State Security boys missed.” Colarusso saw a glint in the grass, bent down and picked up a small piece of blackened metal. Tossed it to the gangly one. “See what I mean?”

The gangly one flipped the piece of metal back onto the ground. “We have five or six boxes of debris just like that. No evidentiary value.”

“I know,” said Colarusso, still walking, “that’s why I didn’t keep it.”

The two of them paced the outskirts of the site for another ten minutes.

“The full report has been sent to all law enforcement agencies,” said the gangly one.

“I read it,” said Colarusso.

“Then what are you doing here?”

“Some folks love going to the movies.” Colarusso shrugged. “Me, I just love crime scenes.” He heard the buzzing of flies. Followed the sound. Parted the weeds. A swarm of bluebottles drifted up, a couple bouncing against his front teeth before hovering overhead. Colarusso wiped his mouth, reached down and picked up the small, blackened, curled-up thing that the flies had been feasting on.

The gangly one squatted beside him. He used too much cologne. “What is it?”

Colarusso held the blackened thing between his thumb and his fore-finger. Held it a couple inches from his face, and turned it over. “I think…I think it’s an ear.”

“I’ll take that,” said the gangly one, his voice hard now. Serious as any other State Security officer. He pulled a latex glove onto his right hand. “I’ll take it, please.” He held out his hand.

Colarusso stood up, still holding the ear. “What’s your name?”

“Billings.” He snapped his fingers. The glove muffled the sound. “The ear? I’m afraid I have to insist.”

“You like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Billings?”

“What?”

“PBJs. You like ’em?”

“Yes. I like them.”

“Plain or crunchy?”

“Sir…”

“It’s a simple question,” said Colarusso. “Not like you’re being interrogated or-”

“Crunchy. I prefer crunchy peanut butter. Okay? Now may I please have the ear, because it is most definitely evidence?”

Colarusso reached into the paper bag, handed Billings the other half of the peanut butter sandwich. Dropped the ear into the bag and stuffed it into the pocket of his suit jacket. He started walking toward his car.

Billings traipsed along beside him. “Deputy Chief Colarusso, it is within my authority to arrest you…”

Colarusso kept walking.

“…and take possession of the item in question,” said Billings, voice rising.

Colarusso kept walking.

“Give me the goddamned ear,” demanded Billings.

Jay, the stocky one, got out of the car, walked briskly toward them. He had a gun in his hand. Kept tapping it lightly against his thigh with every step.

Colarusso kept walking, neither increasing nor decreasing his pace. Just kept walking. While the two State Security agents conferred with each other, he got into his car, looking straight ahead, and drove away. It wasn’t until he reached highway speed that he realized he was soaked with sweat.

Chapter 15

“Hey! Stevenson told you not to take Highway Twenty-seven,” said Leo.

“We need gas,” said Rakkim.

“You got half a tank,” said Leo.

“Sit back and shut up,” said Rakkim. “Go over the periodic table or something.”

“Dad told me you took some getting used to. He didn’t tell me how much.” Leo pulled computer chips and switches from his top pocket, bits and pieces he had stolen from the toys in Stevenson’s shop, examining them in the flex light from the dash, the tip of his tongue poking out of his mouth. “You didn’t even ask me if I wanted to go to New Orleans. Don’t I get a vote? Don’t I?”

Rakkim followed Highway 27, checking the darkness on the sides of the road as often as his rearview. The tourist rush from Mount Carmel had thinned out hours ago, but traffic flowed on, mostly truckers, restless teenagers, and families where the dad was too cheap to stop and get a motel. Twice he slowed, approaching gas stations, but the stations were surrounded by flatland and he drove on, Leo too busy working with his tinkering to notice. A few miles farther, a Freedom gas station blinked OPEN ALL NITE near an overpass. Within the shadow of the overpass, Rakkim spotted a Texas Rangers cruiser. He pulled into the station.

The air smelled sweet and syrupy, almost rank. Rakkim looked around. Combines chewed their way through the surrounding fields of sugarcane, headlights gleaming on the bright green shoots. Rakkim undid the gas cap as the attendant hurried over, a middle-aged guy, in a faded but neatly pressed khaki army uniform.

Massive hurricanes from the big warm had pretty much shut down oil production from the Gulf, the few rigs left expropriated by the Aztlán Empire. Coal and imported oil supplied most of the energy needs of the Belt, but the chain of Freedom stations was owned by retired vets, and sold only ethanol, with every drop coming from domestic sugarcane.