I hadn't planned to be outside, so I'd left my coat in the hotel room. Fog was rolling in from the river, veiling the lights in the parking lot in a smudgy haze. I stood up, brushed off my fanny, and was about to take a reasonably short hike when a man approached from the parking lot. He was wearing a white satin cape over a jumpsuit emblazoned with rhinestones and sequins, and his hair was combed back in an improbable pompadour, with only a single black curl out of alignment.

"Evening, ma'am," he said. "I'm sorry if I'm alarmin' you, but you look troubled. Anything I can do to help?"

I appraised the distance to the door. "I just came out for some fresh air."

"Did you lose your money gambling?"

"No," I said irritably. "I wasn't handling the crowd well. I'm fine now."

"Crowds used to bother me, too, growing up like I did in a small town and all. I was only ten years old the first time I sang in front of an audience, and my knees were so wobbly I could hardly stand up. You sure I can't do something for you? Here you are, a pretty little thing out here in the cold. Are you lonesome tonight? Can I buy you a cup of coffee and a piece of pecan pie?"

"Don't you have a show to perform?"

"I wish I did," he said, then turned around and walked back into the parking lot, gradually disappearing as he moved out of the diffused glow of the red and yellow casino lights.

It was most definitely time to get some sleep. A couple of catnaps could not compensate for an all-night marathon drive. My nerves weren't just shot; they were flat-out riddled with bullet holes.

I began to walk along the sidewalk to the hotel entrance, unable to convince myself that the arctic wind was medicinal rather than punitive. It was likely that Estelle was in her room, counting out her money and eating bread and honey (which she could most definitely afford), or flushing Mrs. Jim Bob's utilitarian underwear down the toilet. I didn't much care.

I'd almost made it when Cherri Lucinda came skittering up to me and came damn close to knocking me into the bushes (where I would have banged my head against at least one chair).

"You got to do something?" she shrieked.

Jim Bob knew he had to do something, but damned if he knew what. He'd been told to sit on the couch, and that's what he was doing, trying not to notice how Saddam had gulped down the last beer, as well as half a bottle of whiskey he'd found under the sink, and looked ready to slide out of the recliner. Joy was flat on the floor, having injected herself with something Jim Bob figured wasn't along the lines of insulin. She most likely wasn't dead, but she didn't look like she was in the right frame of mind to drive him to the hotel.

He pasted on a smile. "You know, Saddam, I was thinking I might head on out so you and Joy can have some privacy. Why, if you could see to loan me twenty dollars, I'll bet I could call a cab and be out of your hair in no time flat."

"I should have shot that bitch," Saddam mumbled. "I went to high school with her, fer chrissake. She probably got on the phone the second I left and fingered me to the cops. Any second now they'll come squealing down the road." He pointed a finger in the general direction of Jim Bob. "When they do, I ain't gonna go out the door with my hands in the air. You ever see Bonnie and Clyde? They didn't wuss out. Gawd, I loved that movie."

Jim Bob nodded energetically. "My all-time favorite. You know what, we could rent it and watch it this very night. Why don't I take the car and go to the video store? I could be back in twenty minutes. I'll pick up a pizza and more beer. It could be a regular party."

"On my sixth birthday, my pa took me to see Clyde's grave in Dallas. Ever since then, I've wanted to be on the FBI's most-wanted list." Saddam let out a belch that rattled the windows. "Fuckin' awesome, huh? You get your picture in every post office in the country. My last mug shot was kind of cool. I got this little shit-eatin' grin, and-"

"You asshole," Joy said as she sat up. "Next you'll be saying you want your handprints on that sidewalk in Hollywood. Armed robbery's no big deal."

"Is too," he said. "What's more, when the cops show up, I'm gonna get my shotgun and make my stand in the doorway. Nobody's walking away."

Jim Bob felt a chill run down his spine. For one thing, he didn't doubt Saddam's sincerity for a second; if the cops showed up, all hell would break loose in the form of tear gas and assault weapons. Nobody in the shoddy little house would be in any condition to crawl, much less walk away. What's more, he was not only a fugitive waiting to be charged with murder, he was also implicated in an armed robbery. There was no way the police would believe he was an innocent party.

Saddam lurched to his feet. "I'm gonna get a chainsaw."

Kevin realized he had to do something, and pretty darn quick. If he ran out of gas and had to hitch a ride to a gas station, it could be hours before he got the four-wheel back to Idalupino, who probably had noticed it was gone by now. She'd be madder than a wet hen. The minute Jim Bob got back from Hot Springs, she'd be griping in his ear and he'd have to promise to fire Kevin to shut her up.

He glanced in the mirror. The police cars were still there, their lights flashing, but they were keeping their distance. It was making him kind of nervous, though. It'd seemed like at least one of them would get tired of driving so slow and go ahead and pass. There were a lot of other vehicles back there, too. Something special was going on over in Oklahoma. It was too darn bad he didn't know what it was.

Dahlia was most likely already back at home, seeing to Kevvie Junior and Rose Marie. Thinking he could find her had been a dumb idea. About all he could do was stop and fill up the tank, then take the Bronco back to the supermarket and pray Idalupino didn't suspect him of being the culprit that borrowed it.

Up ahead he could see the white lights of a service-center plaza. It looked like a right fine place to buy gas and maybe treat himself to a can of pop and a candy bar before he drove back to Maggody. The last thing he wanted to do was spoil his supper. Dahlia kept a real close watch on what he ate.

He put on the blinker and pulled into the parking lot. He'd sort of expected the police cars to git on about their business, so he was surprised then they all turned in behind him. He stopped at a pump, cut off the engine, and felt in his pants pocket for his wallet. He'd just remembered where he'd left it when he heard a voice amplified by a bullhorn say, "Get out of the vehicle and keeps your hands above your head."

Kevin closed his eyes.

The Reverend Edwin W. Hitebred had determined through intensive prayer that he and he alone had been chosen to do something. Martha had pleaded with him, but his mind was clear and his mission set forth in words as plain and straight forward as the Scriptures, which he had quoted to her as he packed his bag: "Moreover this they have done unto me: they have defiled my sanctuary to profane it; and lo, thus have they done it in the midst of my house."

She hadn't looked real convinced, and had gone so far to have raised her voice before he'd reminded her of the fifth commandment. Perhaps he'd erred when he allowed her to take a position at the high school as a secretary. None of her fellow employees came to the church; as far as he knew, she could be mingling all day with drunkards and atheists. This wasn't to say that he didn't trust her. She was stout, loyal, and submissive. When her mother had died, she'd accepted the burden of caring for the two of them and seeing to the time-consuming chores required to keep the church functioning smoothly. He might have been able to call on another member of the congregation to wax the floors, sweep, dust, brush cobwebs off the rafters, and take the preschool Sunday school class every week, but he'd lacked volunteers. Besides, Martha was as stalwart as her biblical namesake. She was eager to do God's work. Her eyes shone with dedication every Sunday morning, just as her mother's had done.