'Who the fuck are you?' said Ray.

'Shut up,' said Quinn, pressing the barrel of the Glock to the soft spot behind Ray's right ear. Quinn frisked Ray quickly, found an automatic holstered at the small of his back, pulled it, nimbly released the magazine, let it drop to the muddy earth, and tossed the body of the gun far aside. Quinn nearly grinned; he hadn't lost a step or forgotten a goddamn thing.

'Walk back into the barn,' said Quinn.

'Easy,' said Ray.

'I said walk.'

Ray turned, and Quinn turned with him. They moved together, the gun still at Ray's ear, and made it to the barn door. Then they were through the barn door, Quinn blinking water from his eyes. Then they were inside.

Quinn speed-scanned the scene: the father was behind the bar, his eyes lazy and unfazed, his hands not visible. Eugene was sitting at some kind of card table, drinking a beer. Delgado was not in sight.

'Get your hands up, both of you!' shouted Quinn. 'Don't come up with anything, or I swear to God I'll blow his shit out across the room.'

'Take it easy, fella,' said Earl, as he slowly raised his hands.

Quinn could barely hear him. The music coming from the jukebox echoed loudly in the big room.

'You at the table,' said Quinn. 'Lay your hands out flat in front of you!'

Franklin did as he was told.

'Move over to that bar,' said Quinn, giving Ray a shove. 'Put your back up against it, hear?'

Ray walked to the bar, stopping about six feet down from where his father stood on the other side. He turned and leaned his back against the bar and placed the heel of one Dingo boot over the brass rail. His forearms rested on the mahogany, and his hands dangled limply in the air. Blood trickled from one nostril and ran down his lip.

Quinn moved the gun from father to son. He moved it to Franklin and then quickly back to the Boones.

'You,' he said, his eyes darting in the direction of Franklin. 'Get up and pull the plug on that jukebox. Do it and get back in your seat.'

Eugene Franklin got out of his chair, walked to the jukebox, got down on one knee, and yanked the plug out of the receptacle. The music died instantly. Franklin walked back to his chair, sat down, and placed his hands flat on the green felt of the table.

Now there was only the sound of the rain. It beat against the wood of the barn and clicked steadily on the tin roof.

'What're you?' said Ray. 'FBI? DEA?'

'Whatever he is,' said Earl, 'he's all alone.'

'Must be one of those agents likes to do it solo,' said Ray. 'A cowboy. That what you are?'

That's what I am, thought Quinn.

They heard the muffled scream of a woman. Then the rain alone, then the woman's steady, muffled scream.

'You hear that, Critter?'

'I hear it.'

'Just shut your mouths,' said Quinn.

Delgado wrapped a meaty hand through Sondra Wilson's hair and dragged her toward him across the sheets.

The door burst open. Delgado turned, naked. A man was rushing toward him with a crowbar raised in his hands. Delgado took the blow on his forearm and used his fist to clip the man on the ear as the man body-slammed him into the dresser. Delgado threw the man off of him, the crowbar flipping from his grasp. The man stumbled, gained his footing, and took a stance, his feet planted firmly, the fingers of his hands spread wide.

'Strange,' said Delgado, and he laughed.

Strange saw Delgado glance at his clothing heaped on the floor. Strange kicked the clothing to the side. Delgado balled his fists, touched one thumb and then the other to his chin, and came in, Strange backpedaling to the wall.

Delgado was on him then. He led with a left jab that stung Strange's ribs, then hooked a right. Strange tucked his elbows in tight, his left bicep absorbing the blow down to the bone. Strange grunted, exploded with an uppercut, connected to Delgado's jaw. It moved Delgado back a step and brought rage to his eyes. He crossed the room in two strides. The right came furiously. The right was a blur, and it caught Strange on his cheek and knocked him off his feet.

Strange rolled, came up standing, and shook the dizziness from his head. His hand found the sheath on his hip. He unsnapped it and freed the Buck knife. He pulled the blade from the handle and hefted the knife in his hand. Delgado smiled from across the room. His gums were red with blood.

'I am gonna take that motherfucker from you, old man.'

'Take it,' said Strange.

Delgado bobbed, moved in, feigned a left and threw a right, putting everything into the right and aiming three feet behind Strange's head. Strange slipped the punch. The momentum carried Delgado through, and he stumbled, slipping so that he was on one knee before Strange and looking up at him, his eyes wide and white. Strange came down violently with the knife, burying the blade to the handle in Delgado's thick neck. The blade severed his carotid artery and pierced his windpipe. A crimson fountain erupted into the room. Sondra screamed.

Delgado pawed weakly for the handle as he crashed to the floor. He coughed out a mist of red and fought for air. Delgado's brain died, and he kicked like an animal as his head dropped into a spreading pool of blood.

Strange put the sole of his boot to the side of Delgado's face and withdrew the knife. He wiped the blade off on his jeans, pushed down on the brass safety, and folded the blade back into its handle. Sheathing it, he turned to the girl. She had balled herself up against the headboard, and her screams were shrill in the room. Strange picked up the crowbar and slipped it into the back pocket of his jeans.

Strange crossed the room and slapped Sondra hard across the face. He slapped her again. She stopped screaming and began to sob and shake. She was afraid of him, and that was good. He ripped the wool blanket off the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders.

Strange picked Sondra up and carried her from the room, out onto the landing, and down the stairs. He managed the front door and walked out to the porch, down the steps, and out into the rain. He didn't look at the barn. He stopped at the stand of pine, laid Sondra down, slung his day pack over his shoulder, and picked her up again. He saw Quinn's pack and coat and left them there. He moved quickly into the dark shelter of the trees and did not look back.

'Screamin' stopped,' said Ray.

'I know it,' said Earl, looking over at Franklin.

'I told you to shut your mouths,' said Quinn, side-glancing Franklin, seeing Eugene's right hand slip off the green of the table.

'I'm just gonna go ahead and keep talkin',' said Ray, 'it's all the same to you.'

'Keep talkin', Critter.'

'Makes me feel better. Don't it make you feel better, Daddy, to talk all this out?'

'Yep,' said Earl, who scratched his nose.

'Keep your hands on the bar,' said Quinn.

'Yessir,' said Earl, and Ray laughed.

'What is it you want, exactly?' said Ray. 'Money? Drugs? Hell, boy, it's right up there on top of the bar. Get it and get gone, that's what you're here for.'

Quinn said nothing.

'Your gun arm must be gettin' tired,' said Earl.

The rain sheeted the walls of the barn.

'You gonna stand there like that all night?' said Ray. 'Shit, boy, you gotta do somethin'. I mean, shoot us or rob us or walk away. What's it gonna be?'

The beeper sounded on Quinn's hip. No one said anything, listening to it. Then the beeping ended.

Quinn began to walk backward, still covering the men with his gun. Ray laughed, and Quinn felt the blood rise to his face.

'Look at that, Daddy. He's gonna back on out of here now.'

'I see him,' said Earl, the lines of his cheeks deepening from his thick smile.

'That what you gonna do, pussy-boy? Just walk away?'