“How did it start?” I said. “It started with Eisenhower. It’s his fault.”

“Eisenhower?” he said. “What’s he got to do with it?”

“He built the interstates,” I said. “He killed Margrave. Way back, that old county road was the only road. Everybody and everything had to pass through Margrave. The place was full of rooming houses and bars, people were passing through, spending money. Then the highways got built, and air travel got cheap, and suddenly the town died. It withered away to a dot on the map because the highway missed it by fourteen miles.”

“So it’s the highway’s fault?” he said.

“It’s Mayor Teale’s fault,” I said. “The town sold the land for the warehouses to earn itself some new money, right? Old Teale brokered the deal. But he didn’t have the courage to say no when the new money turned out to be bad money. Kliner was fixing to use it for the scam he was setting up, and old Teale jumped straight into bed with him.”

“He’s a politician,” Finlay said. “They never say no to money. And it was a hell of a lot of money. Teale rebuilt the whole town with it.”

“He drowned the whole town with it,” I said. “The place is a cesspool. They’re all floating around in it. From the mayor right down to the guy who polishes the cherry trees.”

We stopped talking again. I fiddled with the radio dial and heard Albert King tell me if it wasn’t for bad luck, he wouldn’t have no luck at all.

“But why Margrave?” Finlay said again.

Old Albert told me bad luck and trouble’s been his only friend.

“Geography and opportunity,” I said. “It’s in the right place. All kinds of highways meet down here and it’s a straight run on down to the boatyards in Florida. It’s a quiet place and the people who ran the town were greedy scumbags who’d do what they were told.”

He went quiet. Thinking about the torrent of dollar bills rushing south and east. Like a storm drain after a flood. A little tidal wave. A small and harassed workforce in Margrave keeping it rolling on. The slightest hitch and tens of thousands of dollars would back up and jam. Like a sewer. Enough money to drown a whole town in. He drummed his long fingers on the wheel. Drove the rest of the way in silence.

WE PARKED UP IN THE SLOT NEAREST THE STATION HOUSE door. The car was reflected in the plate glass. An antique black Bentley, worth a hundred grand on its own. With another hundred grand in the trunk. The most valuable vehicle in the State of Georgia. I popped the trunk lid. Laid my jacket on top of the air conditioner box. Waited for Finlay and walked up to the door.

The place was deserted apart from the desk sergeant. He nodded to us. We skirted the reception counter. Walked through the big quiet squad room to the rosewood office in back. Stepped in and closed the door. Finlay looked uneasy.

“I want to know who the tenth guy is,” he said. “It could be anybody. Could be the desk sergeant. There’s been four cops in this already.”

“It’s not him,” I said. “He never does anything. Just parks his fat ass on that stool. Could be Stevenson, though. He was connected to Hubble.”

He shook his head.

“No,” he said. “Teale pulled him in off the road when he took over. He wanted him where he could see him. So it’s not Stevenson. I guess it could be anybody. Could be Eno. Up at the diner? He’s a bad-tempered type of a guy.”

I looked at him.

“You’re a bad-tempered type of a guy, Finlay,” I said. “Bad temper never made anybody a criminal.”

He shrugged. Ignored the jibe.

“So what do we do?” he said.

“We wait for Roscoe and Picard,” I said. “We take it from there.”

I sat on the edge of the big rosewood desk, swinging my leg. Finlay paced up and down on the expensive carpet. We waited like that for about twenty minutes and then the door opened. Picard stood there. He was so big, he filled the whole doorway. I saw Finlay staring at him, like there was something wrong with him. I followed his gaze.

There were two things wrong with Picard. First, he didn’t have Roscoe with him. Second, he was holding a government-issue.38 in his giant hand. He was holding it rock steady, and he was pointing it straight at Finlay.

29

“YOU?” FINLAY GASPED.

Picard smiled a cold smile at him.

“None other,” he said. “The pleasure’s all mine, believe me. You’ve been very helpful, both of you. Very considerate. You’ve kept me in touch every step of the way. You’ve given me the Hubbles, and you’ve given me Officer Roscoe. I really couldn’t have asked for anything more.”

Finlay was rooted to the spot. Shaking.

“You?” he said again.

“Should have spotted it Wednesday, asshole,” Picard said. “I sent the little guy to Joe’s hotel two hours before I told you about it. You disappointed me. I expected to be doing this scene way before now.”

He looked at us and smiled. Finlay turned away. Looked at me. I couldn’t think of anything to say to him. I couldn’t think about anything at all. I just looked at Picard’s huge bulk in the doorway and had a strong feeling that this was going to be the last day of my life. Today, it would end.

“Get over there,” Picard said to me. “Next to Finlay.”

He had taken two giant strides into the room and he was pointing the gun straight at me. I noticed mechanically that it was a new.38 with a short barrel. I calculated automatically that it would be accurate over such a short distance. But that a.38 couldn’t be relied on to put a target down. And there were two of us and one of him. And Finlay had a weapon in a shoulder holster under the tweed jacket. I spent a fraction of a second weighing up the odds. Then I abandoned the calculation because Mayor Teale stepped through the open door behind Picard. He had his heavy cane in his left hand. But in his right hand he was carrying a police-issue shotgun. It was an Ithaca Mag-10. Didn’t really matter where he was pointing it.

“Get over there,” Picard said to me again.

“Where’s Roscoe?” I said to him.

He laughed at me. Just laughed and gestured with the gun barrel that I should stand up and move over next to Finlay. I heaved myself off the desk and stepped over. I felt like I was weighted down with lead. I clamped my lips and moved with the grim determination of a cripple trying to walk.

I stood next to Finlay. Teale covered us with the giant scatter gun. Picard darted his hand up under Finlay’s jacket. Took the revolver out of his holster. Slipped it into the pocket of his own enormous jacket. The jacket flapped open under the weight. It was the size of a tent. He stepped sideways and patted me down. I was unarmed. My jacket was outside in the Bentley’s trunk. Then he stepped back and stood side by side with Teale. Finlay stared at Picard like his heart was breaking.

“What’s this all about?” Finlay said. “We go back a long way, right?”

Picard just shrugged at him.

“I told you to stay away,” he said. “Back in March, I tried to stop you coming down here. I warned you off. That’s true, right? But you wouldn’t listen, would you, you stubborn asshole? So you get what you get, my friend.”

I listened to Picard’s growl and felt worse for Finlay than I did for myself. But then Kliner stepped in through the door. His bone-hard face was cracked into a grin. His feral teeth glittered. His eyes bored into me. He was carrying another Ithaca Mag-10 in his left hand. In his right hand, he was carrying the gun that had killed Joe. It was pointed straight at me.

It was a Ruger Mark II. A sneaky little.22-caliber automatic. Fitted with a fat silencer. It was a gun for a killer who enjoys getting close. I stared at it. Nine days ago, the end of that silencer had touched my brother’s temple. There was no doubt about that. I could feel it.

Picard and Teale moved around behind the desk. Teale sat in the chair. Picard towered over his shoulder. Kliner was gesturing Finlay and me to sit. He was using his shotgun barrel as a baton. Short jerky movements to move us around. We sat. We were side by side in front of the big rosewood desk. We stared straight at Teale. Kliner closed the office door and leaned on it. He held the shotgun one-handed, at his hip. Pointed at the side of my head. The silenced.22 was pointing at the floor.