He rubbed his hand on the glass and saw a humped figure at the base of a ponderosa with his wrists fastened behind the trunk. He saw a second figure walk out of the darkness, carrying an armload of organic debris from the undergrowth. The figure stood above the man fastened to the base of the tree trunk and poured the load of twigs and dead branches and leaves on the man’s head and shoulders.

The man wore work boots and a dark suit and dark shirt. His hands and wrists were covered by rawhide gloves with cuffs that extended back over the wrists. He wore a full mask, one that was molded from thick plastic, bone-colored, hard-edged, and incised with slits to cool the skin. He seemed encased in his own darkness, his movements simian, his ritual one that he had learned and refined and fed in a private world that only his victims were allowed to witness.

Gribble could not understand how he had gotten where he was or what was going on by the pine tree. Through the back window of the camper, he could see a long wooded slope and part of a log road that zigzagged through the trees. He could see stars over the Bitterroot Valley and a creek full of white water notched deeply in earth that was soft with lichen and layers of damp pine needles. Had Mr. Purcel gotten into it with the bikers at the saloon? Had they followed the truck and forced it off the road? But there were no motorcycles here, nor any other vehicle that he could see.

The man in the mask was examining the ground as though he had lost something. He picked up a cigarette butt and put it in his pocket, then brushed his foot across the spot where the cigarette had been.

A pinecone fell from overhead and pinged on the pickup’s hood. Suddenly the man in the mask was staring at the truck, his body motionless, a red gas container in his hand. Gribble froze, staring back at the man in the mask, afraid to move, afraid not to. His hand touched the barrel of the Remington pump.

What should he do? This wasn’t his business. The worst trouble in his life had always come from messing in other people’s business. He hadn’t made the world. Why was it his job to change it? Why didn’t people deal with their own damn grief? A good deed had sent him to the pen, on the hard road, spreading tar under a white sun that gave even black men heatstroke. It wasn’t fair. He had just wanted to listen to music, to drink one or two beers and not think about the catastrophe he had made of his life.

Another pinecone toppled from the tree, hitting the camper’s roof. The man in the mask looked upward and seemed to relax and lose curiosity about the truck, turning his attention to the figure sitting on the ground.

CLETE PURCEL TILTED up his head, listening, trying to sense the movements of the man who had covered him with debris from the woods. “Tell my why you’re doing this? I know I’m not walking out of here. What’s to lose?” he said.

A long time seemed to pass. Then the man got down on one knee, his breath echoing inside a hard surface of some kind. When he spoke, his voice was thick and ropy, hardly more than a whisper, like that of someone in the throes of sexual passion: “It’s fun. Particularly when I do it to somebody like you.”

Had Clete heard the voice before? There was no inflection or accent in it that he could detect. But all whispers sound alike, and the tonality of one has almost the same tonality as another.

The only life preserver available was time. Make him keep talking, Clete thought. Keep him occupied with his own sick head. The sicker they are, the more they want to talk. Inside every sadist is a self-pitying titty baby. “But I know you, right? Somehow I got in your space, jammed you up, maybe, not even knowing I was doing it?” Clete said.

No answer.

“I remind you of somebody,” Clete said. “Maybe somebody who knocked you around when you were a kid. Ever do any reformatory time? It’s a bitch in those places. You know what the Midnight Express is, right? A skinhead with Gothic-letter tats all over him holds a knife at your throat while he drives a locomotive up your ass. Is that what we’re talking about here? The whole country is turning into The Jerry Springer Show, and the jails are worse. Someone make you pull a train when you were a kid?”

He heard the man chuckle and get to his feet. For a moment there was no sound at all, then the man kicked Clete in the ribs, waited a second, and kicked him again, harder.

“I was in ’Nam,” Clete said, eating his pain. “I saw psychopaths do stuff that made me ashamed I was a human being. I always wanted to believe some of them got help when they came back. But the truth is, they probably didn’t. Know why? Because nobody cares what they did. They did it to Zips, and we were in the business of killing Zips. ‘How do you shoot women and children? Easy, you just don’t lead them as much.’ Ever hear that one? What I’m saying is, you’re not as different as you think you are. You ever see a ville full of straw hooches naped? Nobody gave a shit then, they don’t give a shit now. Somebody screwed you over when you were a kid. You got a legitimate beef. When I say ‘screwed over,’ you dig exactly what I’m talking about, right? I smoked a federal informant. That was in Louisiana. I could have ridden the bolt on that one. Instead, I’ve got a PI license and a permit to carry a piece.”

“No cigar, fat man,” the voice whispered.

The man standing above Clete was breathing deep in his chest, as though oxygenating his blood. Then he poured the rest of the gasoline on Clete’s body and on the dried wood and leaves and pine needles, saving out a little to trail off of Clete’s shoes so he could use it as a liquid fuse without exposing himself to the whoosh of flame that was about to burst from the base of the tree.

GRIBBLE WATCHED THE man in the mask set down his gas can and take his cigarette lighter out of his pocket again. Gribble’s pulse was pounding in his ears. The man in the mask removed a piece of paper from his coat pocket, twisted it into a tight wrap, then flipped open the top of his cigarette lighter. He lit the tip of the paper and watched the flame curl along the edges toward his fingers.

Gribble grasped the stock of his Remington pump and pulled the lever on the door of the camper. He rolled onto the ground, momentarily losing sight of the man in the mask. Then he was on his feet, erect, throwing the stock to his shoulder, jacking a round into the chamber.

“Back away and put out the fire!” he shouted. “I’m holding a rifle. I’ll pop you between the eyes.”

The man in the mask stood stock-still. Then he seemed to make a decision, extending his arm away from his body, the twist of burning paper lighting the surfaces of his mask. He released the paper, letting it float to the ground, igniting the trail of gasoline he had poured on the leaves and pine needles.