"All right then, ma'am," the woman said. "It's all right."

Tony walked into the bedroom and sank down on the floor beside the bed. His face was white and drawn, and when I looked I saw something that terrified me. His hands were covered with blood.

He stared at me, as if he were looking right through me. "They killed Popeye," he said. "They shot him with a high-powered bow. He's dead."

He looked down at his hands, as if they didn't belong to him, and then he stood up. "I'll be back."

He turned and walked away, his back stiff, his gait strangely uneven.

"Where are you going?"

He looked at me for a second then turned away. "To bury my dog."

I listened to his footsteps dying away, the sound of the back door deadbolt sliding as he unlocked it and stepped out onto the deck. The next sound I heard was that of a shovel ringing against the hardened ground as Tony dug a grave for Popeye.

When he came back inside, the sky was beginning to lighten. I could see it seeping through the edges of the curtains. Tony had walked past me, into the bathroom, and closed the door. I heard the sound of water running, then the broken sound of water hitting his hands and him washing, over and over. When he came out, he walked over to where I still sat on the floor. With one harsh movement he pulled the covers from the bed onto the floor, then reached for the pillows. Next he pulled his gun from his waistband and placed it on the floor next to the phone.

He started arranging the blankets, making a pallet, and as soon as I realized this, I began to help.

"We can't sleep on the bed," he said, his voice thick with fatigue. "It's not safe. And you're not sleeping alone."

He lay down on one side of the blanket and turned away from me, onto his side, his fingers inches from his gun. I watched him for a moment and then, finally, lay down beside him, wrapping myself in the blanket and turning away from him. Within moments, we slept.

Carlucci was up before I was, and the smell of coffee was what finally drove me out of the warm blanket and into his kitchen. Tony was standing by the window over the sink, staring out at the field behind his house, watching concrete trucks kick up clouds of white dust as they moved through the gate and into the plant. The look on his face frightened me. His eyes were hollow and rimmed with sleepless, dark circles. His hair was wiry and unkempt. But when he turned to face me, his expression took my breath away. He was more than angry; he was enraged.

"You should've called me when you found Vernell," he said. His voice escaped through clenched jaws, rasping at my sleep-drugged mind, forcing me into a sharp awakening.

"You had a million opportunities to let me know you'd found him, and you didn't. What's wrong with you? Didn't I tell you I had to know? Don't you think some of this could've been avoided if I'd had first crack at him and not your precious detective?"

He frightened me, but I wouldn't let him see it.

"What was I supposed to do, Tony, say "Excuse me," and step into a phone booth? I don't carry a cell phone. And what would I have said, huh? 'This P.I. is looking for you, he breaks into houses and waits, he drives your daughter home on his motorcycle without our permission, and he says he wants to get in touch with you before the other people looking for you kill him'?"

Tony's eyes narrowed. "Something like that."

I straightened my back, pushed the hair out of my face, and frowned. "First off, there wasn't time to call you. Second, Marshall Weathers found us, I didn't call him. And third, I don't really know a thing about you. What if you're looking to hurt Vernell, just like the others are looking to do?"

Tony folded his thick forearms and the frown on his face deepened. "So you're saying basically that you don't trust me."

"Something like that," I echoed.

"That's why you didn't tell me straight out when you got home?"

I walked past him to the coffeepot, grabbed a mug from the hooks that lined the underside of his cabinets, and poured myself a cup of steaming coffee.

"I didn't tell you because I wasn't ready to tell you. I wanted to talk to Vernell first, find out what's really going on. I have a history with him. I don't have one with you."

He'd talked to Bess. She'd told him. That much was easy to guess.

"You're playing it wrong, Maggie," he said. His eyes were narrow angry slits, and his face was set in cold, hard lines that sent a chill running through me.

"Take me home, please. Now."

"You can't go home."

That's when I lost my temper. "Yes, I can. Watch me, Mr. Carlucci. You can take me home, or I can call a cab or I can call a friend, or"-and I let the word dangle for a second-"I can call a cop. Somehow, I don't think you're exactly in favor of that idea, are you?"

He took a step toward me, and I braced myself, but I didn't move. I thought he was going to keep coming. I expected him to try and hurt me, but he didn't. He stopped himself, his fists clenched by his side, his face colored with a dusky red rage, and as I watched, he let it all go. He stared at me, never taking his eyes from my face. He inhaled, held it, and exhaled, visibly relaxing the muscles in his body.

"All right," he said at last, "I'll take you to your car. But it's not safe. I'm telling you they're looking for that money and they won't stop until they have it. Hurting you is just an amusement for them, Maggie."

I looked past him, out the window, staring at the barren fruit trees.

"They didn't have any trouble finding me here," I said. "You told me, the only way I can get out of this is to go see Vernell and get him to tell me where the money is. If they have their money, they'll leave me alone."

Tony reached for his jacket, pulling it off the back of one of the kitchen chairs.

"Then I'll take you," he said.

"I'll take myself."

Tony shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You're a piece of work, Maggie Reid." He stepped closer to me, standing so close I could smell the leather and oil of his jacket. "Let me help you."

I wanted to tell him I didn't trust him, that I couldn't trust someone who carried that much excess anger around like spare luggage, but I couldn't say it.

"All right," I said finally. "Take me."

Chapter Twenty

Carlucci drove down Washington Street to the front of the Municipal Plaza, bumped his Harley up onto the sidewalk, and guided it across the concrete, almost to the broad steps that led to the police department. He stopped the bike in front of a statue of a policeman patting a little boy on the head.

"You're nuts," I said as I pulled off my helmet. "You're surrounded by cops and here you are begging for a ticket. What's wrong with you?"

He looked around the empty plaza. "I don't see anybody coming to take me in. They probably do it all the time themselves."

I shook my head, remembering how Weathers pulled up on the sidewalk exactly as Tony had, but the difference was that he was a police officer and Tony was definitely not one of them.

I handed him the helmet and walked away. Tony Carlucci was strange, and I didn't know that he was any of the things he said he was, or that I could trust him any further than I could throw him. But he was only one of my worries. Vernell and the Redneck Mafia were my main concerns.

By the time I'd worked my way up the stairs and into the lobby of the police department, I'd worked up a good head of steam. When I presented myself to the receptionist in the Criminal Investigation Department, I was almost shaking, I was so mad.

"Detective Weathers, someone's here to see you, says she's a Miss Reid."