He made a clucking sound. "The old man's always up to new tricks, huh?" he said.

"The Baton Rouge cops want you out of the area. I do, too." He sipped his beer and gazed lackadaisically at some kids shagging flies on the softball diamond.

"Where's Barna?" I asked.

"She went to give Bobby his present. You got to get a number and wait. You'd think he was the pope."

"It's time for you to go back to Lyle's. I'll find Barna and bring her along."

"What the hell are you talking about, Dave?"

"You're leaving."

"Are you serious?"

"You're leaving on your own or you're leaving in custody. It's up to you, Weldon."

"I don't know about legal jurisdiction and that sort of thing, but I doubt you have much authority here, Dave. And I don't see any Baton Rouge cops, and I don't see any old man with a pistol. Take a break and get a soft drink over at the pop stand."

"You're starting to piss me off again, Weldon."

"That's your problem."

"No, it's yours. I think you were born with a two-by-four up your butt."

"I never said I was perfect."

"Do you have to prove that you're not afraid of your father? You flew hundreds of combat missions. Didn't you ever learn who you are?"

He raised his face and looked at me in an odd way. For just a moment in the fading light, his big ears, his square face, his close-cropped head made me remember the young boy of years ago, his bare feet gray with dust, his overalls grimed at the knees, swamping out the poolroom for two bits an hour.

Then the light in his eyes changed, and he took a drink of beer and looked down between his knees.

"You've done your job, Dave. Now let it go," he said.

I felt Batist pull my sleeve, felt the urgency in his hand even before I heard it in his voice.

"Dave, look yonder," he said.

Bobby Earl and his entourage of bodyguards and political aides had gone into the grassy area between the speaker's platform and the concrete shell. Bama had worked her way through the throng and was giving him an oblong box wrapped with satin-finish white paper and a pink ribbon.

But that was not what Batist had seen.

On the other side of the concrete shell, Vic Benson had just exited one of the portable bathrooms that stood in a long row under the trees, a baseball cap on his head, dark glasses on his nose. And as quickly as I saw him, he disappeared behind the far wall of the shell.

Then it hit me.

He knows Bama went to the park with Weldon. Through the crowd he got a glimpse of Bama talking with Bobby. At a distance he's mistaken Bobby Earl for Weldon.

"God, he's going to shoot Bobby Earl," I said.

"What?" Weldon said.

I took my badge from my coat pocket, held it open in front of me, and ran toward the grassy area behind the speaker's platform, the weight of the.45 knocking against my hip. I heard Batist hard on my heels. People paused in mid-sentence and stared at us, their expressions caught between laughter and alarm. Then Earl's bodyguards were moving toward us, spreading out, their faces heating with expectation and challenge.

Through their bodies I saw Earl's peculiar monocular vision focus on my face.

"Get that man out of here!" he said.

Two men in suits stepped in front of me, and one of them stiff-armed me in the shoulder with the heel of his hand. His coat hung at an odd angle because of a weight in the right hand pocket.

"Where you think you're going, buddy?" he said. His breath was rife with the smell of cigars.

"Iberia Parish sheriff's office. There's a man in the crowd with-" I began.

"Yeah? Who's that with you? The African paratroopers?" he said.

"He's FBI, you peckerwood shithead," I said. "Now, you get the fuck out of my way."

Mistake, mistake, I thought, even as the words came out of my mouth. Don't humiliate north Louisiana stumpjumpers in front of either their women or the boss man.

"Iberia Parish don't mean horse piss on a rock here," the second man said. "You better haul your ass 'fore you get it hauled for you."

Then more of Earl's bodyguards and aides pressed toward me, as though I were the source of all their problems, the spoiler of a grand moment in which they had been allowed to participate.

I stepped back from them and held my palms outward.

Then I pointed one finger at them.

"I'll make it brief," I said. "Get your man out of sight before he gets dusted. Second, I'm going to be back later and bust every one of you for interfering with an officer in the performance of his duty."

I moved out of the crowd and behind the concrete shell to the far side. Lines had formed in front of the portable bathrooms, and large numbers of people were now drifting out of the picnic areas and the pavilion toward the speaker's platform. The wind had suddenly died, and the air had grown close and hot, with a dusty, metallic smell to it, and the field lights were white and haloed with humidity against the darkening sky. I kicked over a trash barrel, rolled it snug against the concrete shell, stood on it, and tried to see Vic Benson's baseball cap among the hundreds of heads in the crowd.

It seemed impossible.

Then I heard a woman scream and I saw people separating themselves from some terrible or frightening presence in their midst, tripping on each others' ankles, falling backward to the ground. Not twenty feet from me, Vic Benson was racing through the crowd, the way a barracuda would slice through a school of bluefish, a small silver pistol in his upraised hand.

Bama saw him before Bobby Earl, whose back was turned as he signed autographs for children. Her face went white, and her mouth opened in a round red 0.

I knocked a woman down, felt somebody bounce hard off my shoulder, crashed across a folding wheelchair, and dove headlong into the small of Vic Benson's back.

He hit the ground under me, and I heard the breath go out of his lungs in a gasp, and once again I smelled that odor that was like turpentine or embalming fluid, wind-dried sweat, nicotine, smoke rubbed into the skin and clothes. His baseball cap toppled off his head, his dark glasses were askew on his face, and his eyes stared into mine the way a lizard's might if it were trapped on top of a hot rock in the middle of a burning field.

His lips moved, and I knew he wanted to curse or wound me in some fresh way, but his breath rasped in his throat like a man whose lungs were perforated with holes. I slipped my hand along his arm and removed the unfired pistol from his fingers.

I thought it was over. It should have been.

But Batist, when he had seen what was about to happen, had plunged through the crowd from the other side, his arms outspread, and had flung both Bama and Bobby Earl to the ground and had landed with his huge weight on top of both of them. People were screaming and shoving one another; photographers and TV cameramen were trying to get Bobby Earl's prone body, with Batist's on top of it, into their cameras' lenses; and three uniformed cops were fighting desperately to get through the rim of the crowd and into the center before a riot spread throughout the park.

Then I realized that most of the people pressed into the center of the grassy area had not seen Vic Benson or understood what he had tried to do. Instead, some of them obviously believed that Batist had attacked Bobby Earl.

As Batist tried to raise himself on his arms, a man on the edge of the crowd swung a doubled-over dog chain at his head, then two of Earl's bodyguards grabbed him by the belt and began tugging him backward.

"Put that fucking nigger in a cage," someone yelled. Then the crowd surged forward, toppling over one another, trampling others who had already fallen to the ground. Between their legs I saw the desperation in Batist's face as he tried to shield his eyes from a solitary fist that was flailing at his head, A string of saliva and blood drooled from his lower lip.