When Roop tipped off the police that a gang called the Pikes had claimed responsibility for the cemetery vandalism, Brazil knew Weed quite possibly was into something deep and dangerous.

Brazil knocked again and no one answered. It was dark out with no moon. There were no sounds coming from inside the house and no car in the driveway.

'Anybody home?' Brazil loudly tapped the door with his Mag-Lite.

West covered the back door, and after several minutes of silence she came around to the front.

'He knows we're looking for him,' West said, slipping her nine-millimeter Sig back into the shoulder holster.

'Maybe,' Brazil said. 'But we can't assume he's figured out we know who his brother was.'

They were walking back to the unmarked car. Brazil shone the flashlight on his pager and read the number. He got out his phone and dialed. Miss Sink answered immediately.

'Andy?'

'Hi,' Brazil said sweetly as he thought of the florist's card on the table in West's hallway.

'We're closing the cemetery to the public,' she told him right off.

West took her time unlocking her door. Brazil was certain she wanted to know who he was talking to.

'I think that's a great idea,' Brazil said.

'The statue's going to have to go into the shop, which is no easy thing when you think how much it weighs. So until we can get it out of the cemetery, the association has decided to keep everybody out except funeral parties, of course.'

'What time?' Brazil said in a hushed voice.

'What?' Miss Sink said. 'I can't hear you.'

'Right now?'

'Oh.' Miss Sink sounded confused. 'You mean is it closed right this minute?'

'Yes.'

'It is. Do you like pot roast?'

'Don't tease me,' Brazil whispered as West jerked open her door.

'I'm not wheezing,' Miss Sink said. 'But this time of year, the pollens are awful, especially if you're in the garden very much. Well, I guess pot roast isn't what young people eat these days. Not fried chicken either.'

'Oh yes I do,' Brazil said as he went around to his door and got in.

'You know what the secret is?' Miss Sink's mood was considerably uplifted.

'Let me guess. Honey.'

West abruptly pulled out onto the street and gunned the engine.

'Exactly right,' Miss Sink exclaimed. 'How did you know that?'

'Had it before. About time I had it again.'

'Now that's talking,' Miss Sink said. 'I'll get back with you and we'll do something about it.'

'I sure hope so,' Brazil said. 'Gotta go.'

West was driving as if she hated the car and was determined to punish it.

'At least I don't make personal calls on the job,' she exclaimed.

Brazil was silent. He stared out his window. He took a deep breath and sighed. He glanced over at her, his feelings a volatile mixture of euphoria and heartache. She was jealous. She must still care. But he couldn't stand to hurt her. He almost told her the truth about Miss Sink. But when he remembered the florist's card, he thought, forget it.

Bubba was not in good spirits as Smudge drove through the tar-black night, rocking over ruts and splashing. Stars were out and stingy with their light. Bubba wished he'd never come. He felt awful. He thought he might throw up.

'We really haven't gone over the rules,' Smudge said cheerfully.

'I thought we said they'd be the same as always,' Bubba replied despondently.

'No, I think we ought to add a default clause,' Smudge proposed. 'Since so much is at stake and this is a one-on-one competition.'

'I don't understand,' Bubba commented as suspicions gathered.

'Let's say Half Shell's being her typical loudmouth cold nose and starts treeing about two or three trees away from the tree where the coon is. And Half Shell's doing it every time. You might just want to bag it instead of staying out in the woods all night. Same thing goes for me.'

'So if I default, you get the thousand dollars. If you default I get it. If both of us default, neither of us get a thing,' Bubba deduced.

'You got it, good buddy. We'll go one hundred and twenty minutes, five minutes' rest between each segment, regular competition rules.'

Bubba had no idea where he was when Smudge finally parked the truck on a muddy road and climbed out, leaving the headlights on so they could see. They sat on the tailgate and put on their boots and coats.

'Left my Bucktool inside,' Bubba mumbled.

He crawled into the front seat, far out of Smudge's view, and dug inside his knapsack for the pearls on black string. He stuffed them into a pocket. He slipped out his Colt Anaconda.44. It was not his gun of choice for the night. But Bubba had nothing left. The rest had been stolen. He slid the monster revolver into a Bianchi on-belt HuSH nylon holster beneath his long, full coat.

'We all set?' Smudge asked.

'Let's get on with it,' Bubba replied bravely.

They let their dogs out of the pens and both began howling and baying, tails wagging as Bubba and Smudge restrained them with heavy nylon leashes.

'Good girl,' Bubba said as he kneaded Half Shell behind her long silky ears.

Bubba loved his dog, no matter her deficits. She looked like a long-legged, sleek Beagle with surprisingly soft fur. She loved to lick Bubba's hand and face. Bubba was reluctant to let her go crashing through those woods. If she got snake-bit or a coon tore her up, Bubba couldn't live with it.

Smudge had out the stopwatch. Bubba was petting Half Shell and encouraging her to find a coon this time.

'Go!' he said before Bubba was ready.

Weed ran through the dark along Cumberland Street until he neared I-195's Cherry Street overpass. Banking either side of it were thick growths of trees and shrubs closed in by a high chain-link fence.

He walked over a grassy bank, furtively looking left and right as he reached the fence, which he could not see through because the foliage was too dense. He almost didn't care what was on the other side. So what if he fell fifteen feet into rushing traffic? What was left in life but for Smoke to find him?

Weed climbed the fence and pushed branches away from his face as he worked his way down the other side. He held his breath as his feet touched ground and blindly pushed his way through tall grass and shrubs, holding his arm in front of his face to protect his eyes. He found himself in a clearing where he could just make out a small camp and a figure sitting in the middle of it, the tip of a cigarette glowing. Weed's heart flipped.

'Who's there?' an unfriendly voice sounded. 'Don't try anything. I can see in the dark and I know you're puny and don't got a gun.'

Weed didn't know what to say. He had no place to run unless he tried to get back over the fence or decided to jump the wall and land on the expressway.

'What's the matter, kitty got your tongue?' the man asked.

'No, sir,' Weed said politely. 'I didn't know nobody was here. I'll be glad to leave.'

'No place to go. That's why you're here, now ain't it?'

'Yes, sir.'

'You can stop all that yes sir shit. My name's Pigeon.'

That ain't your real name.' Weed ventured a little closer.

'I don't remember my real one anymore.'

'How come they call you that?'

'Because I eat 'em. When I can, that is.'

Weed's stomach flopped.

'What's your name, and why don't you come a little closer so I can get a good look at you.'

'Weed.'

'That ain't your real name," Pigeon mimicked him.

'Yes, it is, too.'

Weed was hungry and thirsty, and the constant thunder of traffic frightened him. A chill had settled over the night and he was cold in his baggy jeans and Bulls jersey. Pigeon lit another cigarette and Weed caught a glimpse of Pigeon's face in the spurt of flame.

'You're pretty old,' Weed said.

'Older than you, that's for damn sure.' He inhaled deeply and held it.