The first one stepped over a form sprawled across the narrow front porch without giving it any particular notice. He could have stepped out of the film Deliverance. He was well over six feet and two hundred pounds, his face tanned by the sun. Blue eyes twinkled from under his John Deere cap. A reddish beard streaked with gray covered his lower face but not the broad lips that were curled into a smile. He was clad in bib overalls. His step had a confidence to it, a manner that seemed to say shooting a couple of men was a normal night's work.

Stereotypes exist. A lot. That's why they keep showing up in life.

The other man was much smaller and looked Latino. His eyes darted back and forth as though anticipating an attack at any moment.

The big man turned back and stooped to examine the body at his feet.

He stood and rolled it over with his brogan. "Ain't nobody I know."

Lang lowered his shotgun. "I'm happy for you."

Behind him he heard Gurt moving toward the bedroom and the gun in her purse.

Both strangers stopped at the door. "Mind if we come in?"

Lang stepped back and they both entered. The larger of the two surveyed the room. The cabin's thin frame and Sheetrock hadn't stopped many bullets. "Looks like somebody didn't much want you here."

Lang shrugged. "A man makes enemies."

The man in overalls continued to look around, nodding as though understanding a basic truth. "I'd say."

He turned his attention to Gurt as she entered the room, making no effort to hide his admiration. He doffed his cap. "Evenin', ma'am."

She held a SIG Sauer, having left Manfred in the other room despite his howls of protest. Lang felt relief as he saw Grumps slink out from behind the kitchen counter and follow the sounds of Manfred's displeasure. Everybody had made it through OK.

Gurt studied the stranger as intently as he was her. "You are to thank?"

He leaned forward, an imitation of a bear trying to bow. "My pleasure, ma'am" He extended a hand the size of a football. "Larry Henderson. I'm your neighbor."

"And a good one," Gurt said, smiling as she transferred the automatic to her left hand to slip her right into the huge paw.

If Larry noticed the weapon, he said nothing. Maybe pistol-packing mommas were the norm around here.

The little one said something Lang didn't catch.

Larry nodded. "He's right, we need to clean up this mess 'fore daylight"

Perplexed, Gurt glanced from one to the other. " 'Clean up'? Should we not call the police?"

Larry took off his cap again and clenched it in a hand, a gesture Lang guessed was a habit. He shifted from one foot to the other like a schoolboy caught passing a note in class. "Well, ma'am, I'm not sure thass a good idea. See, first, we ain' got no phones out here an'…" He shuffled shoes die size of rowboats. Then he spoke, staring into Lang's eyes as if seeking an answer to an unasked question. "An', well, I'd soon as not involve the law if you take my meaning An' if done, 'tis best done quickly."

Was that a line from Shakespeare? Unlikely. But Lang got the message loud and clear. Whatever Larry was doing was something that the long arm of the law wasn't going to help. The man had just saved Lang's ass by blowing away a couple of unknowns, voting them totally off the island- Now he was asking, almost pleading, not to involve the cops.

"Will not somebody come looking for them?" Gurt asked.

Larry shook his head. "Doubt it. They're all dressed the same like some sorta army an' carryin' those Russian guns…" "AK-47's?"

"Thass the one. Ennyhow, ain' nobody from 'round here. They's from off. I kin take a tractor, tow that car so deep in the woods they's have to send in th' hounds to find it, bury those guys where nobody'd ever look even if they wanted to find 'em. An' I got a feelin' nobody does."

There was a certain logic to what Lang's new friend said. If, as he was certain, these would-be assassins were from the same group that had killed Eon, it was unlikely anyone would be asking questions about their disappearance. Attempted arson, illegal automatic weapons and botched murders would invite the unwanted attention not only of local law enforcement but of the ATF, FBI and other federal and state agencies, not to mention the press. What Lang had in mind could not be accomplished under the scrutiny of an alphabet soup of law enforcement agencies, either.

Larry was looking around the cabin again. "Wouldn't be smart to stay here tonight."

"There is a Gasthaus nearby?" Gurt asked.

Larry gave that sort of bend/bow again. "Why, ma'am, I'd be pleasured if you'd stay with me. Mamma'd love the…"

Manfred walked slowly out of the bedroom escorted by Grumps.

Larry gave a grin of sheer joy. "No argument, now. Mamma'd love nothin' more'n than to have a tyke in the house agin."

Hours later, Gurt, Lang and Manfred had been fussed over, looked after and generally made to feel at home in a small but comfortable house while Larry and Jerranto went about work Lang had no desire to question. The living room/dining room featured a wall of shelves filled with books, hardly what Lang expected from what he had seen of his new friend and benefactor. Closer inspection revealed inexpensive and well-worn works of Shakespeare and Milton, some of the metaphysical poets as well as Shelly, Byron and Keats. Somebody in the family had a love of literature as well as shotguns.

He hadn't heard Darleen come up behind him. "Larry's grandaddy's books. 'Fore TV, he read out those book ever night. Larry's daddy did, too. Larry done read ever one of 'em, most two, three times."

That line about done quickly. It was from Shakespeare, perhaps Macbeth? Lang's surprise must have shown, for she added, "Jus' 'cause Larry couldn' afford college don' mean he's ignorant."

Lang wondered how many college graduates could even name the metaphysical poets.

"Not Tara," Gurt, whose favorite book was Gone with the Wind, noted, "but is Southern hospitality I have read of. It really-"

Larry's return interrupted the comment. He stood on a narrow plank porch, using a spade to knock dirt from his shoes before he swung the screen door open. He grinned at Lang and reached into a pocket in the back of his clay-encrusted overalls, producing an unlabeled bottle half full of white fluid.

He proffered it to Lang. "Have a swig. Calm your nerves."

Lang accepted hesitantly. He unscrewed the cap and smelled something like gasoline. "What is it?"

"Georgia white," the man said as proudly as though offering a fifty-year-old Bordeaux. "Made by my family for years." He nodded toward the bookshelves. "Not an eye of newt in the whole process."

Lang was hesitant to try it, but it seemed tactless to refuse the man who had not only saved their lives but also was putting a roof over their heads for the night. Through compressed lips, he let a little trickle into his mouth.

Eye of newt notwithstanding, the brew of Macbeth's witches couldn't have been more potent.

At first, he wanted to spit. Then he was afraid to for fear of setting the place on fire. His eyes blurred with tears as he forced the burning liquid down his throat. He felt as though flames were coursing down his intestinal tract.

Larry was watching every move with the anticipation of someone expecting plaudits. "Well, how was it?"

Lang wiped his lips with the back of a hand and gasped for air to cool his interior. "Just right," he choked.

"Jes' right?"

"It was any better, you wouldn't have wanted to share it. Any worse, it would've killed me."