“She dead?” Krueger asked.

“No,” Karl told him. “I put a sleeper on her.” Karl limped in his cell, held himself up by the bars.

“Can you walk?”

“No way,” Karl said. “Bitch shot me. I’m stiff all up and down one side. Couldn’t take more that two steps.”

“That’s a damn shame.”

The .32 spat fire twice, and Karl’s eyes went wide as he fell back on his cot, bounced off and hit the cell floor.

“Why in the hell did you do that?” I asked.

“I need a pair of good legs, and Karl would have wanted his cut of the money.”

“You could have given it to him.”

“And I would have too if everything hadn’t got so messed up,” Krueger said. “But the situation has changed. I’m going to need every dime if I have to go on the run. I might try to get to Mexico. Hey, that’s probably some kind of irony or something. All this time I been bringing wetbacks north. Now I got to smuggle myself south.”

He looked at the bodies on the floor and sighed. I sighed too. In such a short span of time the station had been torched and wrecked, bodies littering the floor. Surreal. One of Molly’s words.

“Okay,” Krueger said. “Best get this show on the road.” He waved toward the back room with the revolver. “Let’s go.”

“What do you want from me?”

“I told you I need a good pair of legs.” He held up his bloody hand. “And two good arms. I need you to carry something to the car for me.”

“And then you’ll shoot me? Fuck that.”

“Okay, I won’t shoot you,” he said. “You help me, and I’ll lock you in the cell. That’ll give me a head start.”

“And I’m supposed to trust you?”

“I could shoot you now and end all the suspense, make do best I can with one arm.”

I headed for the back room, and he fell in behind me.

“Okay,” he said. “Go to the safe. I’ll tell you the numbers, and you work it.”

He told me the numbers and I spun the dial.

“Open it.”

I opened it.

I didn’t think I had enough energy left to be surprised by anything. I was wrong. The safe was packed top to bottom and front to back with tight bundles of cash. It was hard not to be impressed. I could slave all my life and probably never see so much cash.

“In the last locker there’s a gym bag,” he told me. “Fill it up.”

The bag was cheap, bright red and said Razorback Pride on the side with the Arkansas pig logo. I unzipped it and started loading the cash. None of the bills were new. Wrinkled. Various denominations, fives, tens, twenties. The variation made it hard to guess the total amount. A lot. I stuffed in the last bundle, zipped up the bag. The cash barely fit, the bag bulging.

“Good,” Krueger said. “Now go back to the same locker and get that accordion file folder. Lots of names and embarrassing facts in there. I’ll probably burn most of it, but I need to go through it all first.”

I went back into the locker, got the file folder.

“Now grab it all up and let’s go back out to the alley. I’m parked back there.”

I went out ahead of him, feeling like there was a big bullseye target on my back. I’d expected to see his cruiser, but it was his personal car, a big luxury Chrysler about a year old. The chief wasn’t a pickup truck kind of guy.

“Stand over on the other side of the car.”

I did.

He dipped his hand down to his pocket, still holding the revolver, and hooked his keychain out with his little finger. It was awkward going, but he wasn’t about to drop the gun, and he couldn’t use the other hand.

He pulled the keys out and flung them at me. They bounced off my chest and hit the ground. I set down the bag of money and the file folder, bent and picked up the keys.

“Open the trunk,” Krueger said. “Load it up.”

I opened the trunk, picked up the files and money. I felt like I was moving through mud, my arms and legs like cold stone. These were the last moments of my life. Lifting the cash, loading the files, closing the trunk. My last actions on earth. I felt I could hardly breath, like life would leave me all on its own before the chief could even pull the trigger. Part of my brain told me to jump him or run for it or anything. But I didn’t do it, couldn’t make myself do anything but obey.

When the trunk thunked shut, it sounded like a cold metal coffin closing.

“Okay, now back away,” Krueger said.

We circled each other in the narrow alley, traded places, him standing next to his car, me backed up against the trashcan near the backdoor. We looked at each other a moment, the sky going a vague orange. The sun was gearing up for morning, light seeping into the world, the color slowly coming back. The chief looked death pale, his hair now completely matted with sweat. I didn’t think he’d last long on the run, unless he knew some doctor someplace that maybe owed him a favor.

But it was hard to think beyond the alley and the .32 in the chief’s fist.

“You’re not talking me back inside to lock me in the cell, are you, Chief?”

He sighed. “No. I guess not.”

“You’re going to shoot me now.”

He nodded. “I like you, Toby. I think you could have grown up and been something. But this is just business. I need to get away as clean as I can, nobody left to answer questions.”

I tried to think of some startling piece of logic to convince him to let me live, but I could only think of one word to say.

“Please.”

“I’m sorry,” Krueger said. “I’ll do what I can. I’ll make it a clean shot. You want to turn around? Maybe it’ll be easier if you don’t see it.”

And right then it didn’t matter how many cowboy movies I’d seen or any cartoon notion I had about being a hero. Right in that moment, I didn’t want to see it coming. The image of a bullet coming straight for my nose sent a wave of nausea though me. I was a coward, and I didn’t care.

“Okay, wait. L-let me …” I hated how my voice trembled. “Let me turn around.”

“Go on then.”

I turned around, and just like that my knees gave out. So light headed. Fear and fatigue and misery pulling me down. I caught myself on the metal trash can, stayed like that for a long moment.

“Wait,” I said. “Please. I don’t want it in the back. Let me stand up like a man. I can do that at least.”

“I understand. Get on your feet.”

I pushed myself up, slowly at first.

Then I spun quickly and fired the little green squirt gun.

The ammonia sprayed across his eyes. He yelled pain, fired the revolver, but I’d already ducked underneath and was flying at him for a tackle. It was like throwing myself into a tank, but we went over, me on top, and I had one hand around his gun wrist. With my other hand, I dug a thumb into the bloody bullet hole in the chief’s palm.

He screamed, and bucked me off, but he also let go of the revolver.

I grabbed it, stood, backed up three steps. He stood too, cradled his wounded hand. We stared at each other a second, panting.

“All right now,” I said, catching my breath. “Let’s get you inside and into a cell.”

Krueger shook his head. “Nope.”

“I’m telling you—”

“Jail’s not an option, boy. I won’t do it.” He came toward me.

“Hold it right there.”

“You’re going to have to make a decision.” He summoned a burst of speed and was on me, his good hand going to my throat.

I strained in his grasp, tried to pull his grip loose with my free hand. “Don’t make … me … shoot …” The hand clamped tighter, cutting off oxygen.

“Don’t …” I put the gun against his chest.

“You either got the guts for it or you don’t, boy. But this is how it ends, one way or another.”

Buzzing in my ears.

My eyesight fuzzed and went dark, mouth opening and closing trying

… to find.

Air.

Bang.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

When my eyes popped open, I was flat on my back in the alley. I sat up. My throat felt like it was full of hot gravel. The chief lay near me, a hole in the center of his chest. I still clutched the little revolver. I stuck it in my pocket, pushed myself up. My legs felt weak. I was a little dizzy.