9:05 a.m.

Max Kramer crushed the paper coffee cup and tossed it at the trash can, missing, not even hitting the rim. Not a good sign. The caffeine had made him shakier than usual. Probably not the caffeine but all the wine he'd managed to down last night. After Barnett's phone call Max started opening wine bottles from his wife's reserve, getting a rush each time he popped a cork. He had left before she got up this morning so he wouldn't have to endure both a hangover and her wrath.

He swiveled his leather chair around to stare out the window and down at the mall. Another fucking beautiful day. A little too warm and humid for him, but the Nebraska sky was cloudless, not a wisp of white to mar the blue. As a young man he used to brag about Nebraska's blue skies when he was traveling back and forth to New York City, working for a huge law firm and flying coach because his bosses cared even less about their attorneys than they did their clients. Back then he did have a passion for the law, for righting wrongs, even for blue skies. He couldn't remember the day it stopped. It wasn't one event in particular, some injustice or a major failing. It wasn't any one thing. Instead, it happened piece by tiny piece. First one exception, one exemption, one small unintentional slip to take advantage of the rule of law. Then another. And another. He couldn't even remember when the unintentional changed to the intentional. It had happened so gradually, so smoothly, so easily.

He checked his Rolex. Less than an hour until he had to be in court. He thought about Grace Wenninghoff turning down his deal. He had Carrie Ann Comstock ready and willing to identify Jared Barnett as the convenience-store robber and the prosecutor hadn't taken the bait. He wondered if he shouldn't have played such hardball. Wenninghoff surely wouldn't have hesitated had she known who he was ready to finger. But he couldn't sound too anxious, too willing to hand over the man he had spent the last year and a half getting out of jail.

And God knows, Carrie Ann wasn't exactly the most reliable witness, let alone liar. Jesus! She couldn't even get down the details of how she was supposed to know Jared Barnett, the simple story he had made up for her. Every time he showed her Barnett's photo she kept saying she had seen him in her apartment building hauling out some huge bag of trash late one night. The stupid crack whore couldn't get anything right. It was just as well that Wenninghoff had passed.

His cell phone interrupted his thoughts. He pulled it from his jacket's breast pocket and sighed when he recognized the caller ID, the same number from last night.

"Max Kramer."

"You got everything ready?"

"There's no way I can have a new ID made that quickly for one of you, let alone all three of you. You need to give me a couple of days."

"I don't have a couple of fucking days."

Max noticed something different in Barnett's voice. The calm-and-collected, but angry, tone seemed a bit frantic. Could it be that the bastard was feeling a little vulnerable?

"I need at least another twenty-four hours," he said, not able to contain his smile.

"Forget the IDs. Just get me the fucking money."

Max sat up in his chair. The minute he thought he had control, Barnett took it back. It was like a fucking chess match, a chess match with a madman. "Okay," he said. "Where are you? How am I supposed to get it to you?"

"There's a truck stop off the interstate. Take this down. Are you getting this down? Because I'm not gonna fucking repeat it."

Max grabbed a pen and started jotting on his desk pad. Yes, the calm-and-collected Jared Barnett was beginning to crumble. He could hear it in the crackling sound as Barnett unfolded and folded some kind of paper, perhaps a map. "Go ahead."

"It's about fifty miles west of Grand Island. I can't remember the name of the fucking truck stop, but the exit is for Normal."

"Normal what?"

" Normal, Nebraska, you stupid bastard. Bet you didn't even know there was a town named Normal in Nebraska, did you?"

Max rolled his eyes. He wanted to tell Barnett that Normal was the last place he'd expect Barnett to be. It was too fucking ironic, and he wondered if Barnett had chosen it on purpose.

"Have the money at the truck stop by two p.m."

"By two?" Max said. "How the hell am I supposed to get the money there, let alone by two?"

"You're a smart guy, Kramer. If you could get me out of jail for murder, surely you can figure this out."

"Okay, I can probably wire it somehow. You'll need ID to pick it up."

"Have it wired in the name of Charlie Starks. And don't screw this up, Kramer. I'm getting fucking tired of screwups."

Max wanted to tell him that he was the one who had a right to be sick and tired of screwups. Barnett was the one who got himself into this mess. If he had stuck to the plan, none of this would have happened. Instead, he told him, "I'll try to have it there by two."

"Don't try. Have it there. You set me up, Kramer, and you go down with me. You get that?"

"Don't worry. It'll be there."

Max waited for the click. He swiveled his chair back around to his desk. He could probably find the name of the truck stop online, and he flipped his laptop computer on. He could probably make the wire transfer online, too. He knew his wife's money market account number by heart. While he waited for the Internet connection he punched in a number on his cell phone.

She answered on the third ring. "Grace Wenninghoff."

"Grace, it's Max Kramer. As an officer of the court I have some information that I feel obligated to tell you."

Yes, obligated, he thought. No one could fault him for turning in a client whom he had helped and sacrificed for.

Not when that client was now on a killing spree. Forget about anyone finding fault with him. He'd probably end up being a fucking hero for being the one to turn in Jared Barnett.