"Follow me." She turned and trotted toward her car – darn good speed, for a person in sandals. On the interstate she twice nearly lost him in traffic. They ended up at a Mexican restaurant near the dog track. Katie settled covertly in a corner booth. Krome ordered beers and fajitasfor both of them.

She said, "I owe you an explanation."

"Wild guess: You told Art."

"Yes, Tom."

"May I ask why?"

"I was sad because you didn't call like you promised. And then the sadness turned to guilt – lying in bed next to this man, my husband, and me keeping this awful secret."

"But Art's been banging his secretaries for years."

Katie said, "It's not the same thing."

"Apparently not."

"Plus two wrongs don't make a right."

Krome backed off; he was a pro when it came to guilt. He asked Katie: "What kind of gun did Art use?"

"Oh, he didn't do it himself. He got his law clerk to do it."

"To shoot out my windows?"

"I'm so sorry," Katie said again.

The beers arrived. Krome drank while Katie explained that her husband, the judge, had turned out to be quite the jealous maniac.

"Much to my surprise," she added.

"I can't believe he paid his clerk to do a drive-by on my house."

"Oh, he didn't pay him. That would be a crime – Art is very, very careful when it comes to the law. The young man did it as a favor, more or less. To make points with the boss, that's my impression."

"Want to know mine?"

"Tom, I couldn't sleep Sunday night. I had to come clean with Art."

"And I'm sure he promptly came clean with you."

"He will," Katie said. "In the meantime, you might want to lay low. I believe he intends to have you killed."

The fajitasarrived and Tom Krome dug in. Katie remarked upon how well he was taking the news. Krome agreed; he was exceptionally calm. The act of quitting the newspaper had infused him with a strange and reckless serenity. Krome said: "What exactly did you tell Art? I'm just curious."

"Everything," Katie replied. "Every detail. That's the nature of a true confession."

"I see."

"What I did, I got up about three in the morning and made a complete list, starting with the first time. In your car."

Krome reached for a tortilla chip. "You mean ... "

"The blow job, yes. And every time afterwards. Even when I didn't come."

"And you put that on your list? All the details?" He picked up another chip and scooped a trench in the salsa.

Katie said, "I gave it to him first thing yesterday morning, before he went to work. And, Tom, I felt better right away."

"I'm so glad." Krome, trying to recall how many times he and Katie had made love in the two weeks they'd known each other; imagining how the tally would look on paper. He envisioned it as a line score in tiny agate type, the same as on the sports page.

She said, "I almost forgot, did you take that picture for me? Of the weeping Mother Mary?"

"Not yet, but I will."

"No rush," Katie said.

"It's OK. I'm going back tonight."

"Must be some story."

"It's all relative, Katie. Not to change the subject, but you mentioned something about Art intending to kill me."

"No, to haveyou killed."

"Right. Of course. You're sure he wasn't just talking?"

"Possibly. But he's pretty mad."

"Did he hurt you?" Krome asked. "Would he?"

"Never." Katie seemed amused by the question. "If you want to know the truth, I think it turned him on."

"The confession."

"Yes. Like suddenly he realized what he was missing."

Krome said, "How about that."

He paid the check. Outside in the parking lot, Katie touched his arm and asked him to let her know, please, if the $500 wasn't enough to replace the busted windows. Krome told her not to worry about it.

Then she said, "Tommy, we can't see each other anymore."

"I agree. It's wrong."

The concept seemed to cheer her. "I'm glad to hear you say that."

Judging from the note of triumph in her voice, Katie believed that by sleeping with Tom Krome and then confessing to her low-life cheating husband, she'd helped all three of them become better human beings. Their consciences had been stirred and elevated. They'd all learned a lesson. They'd all grown spiritually.

Krome graciously chose not to deflate this preposterous notion. He kissed Katie on the cheek and told her goodbye.

Demencio took the stool next to Dominick Amador at the counter at Hardee's. Dominick was going through his morning ritual of spooning Crisco into a pair of gray gym socks. The socks went over Dominick's hands, to cover his phony stigmata. The Crisco served to keep the wounds moist and to prevent scabbing – Dominick's livelihood depended on the holes in his palms appearing raw and fresh, as if recently nailed to a cross. Should the wounds ever heal, he'd be ruined.

He said to Demencio: "I got a big favor to ask."

"So what else is new."

Dominick said, "Geez, whatsa matter with you today?"

"That dippy woman lost the Lotto ticket. I guess you didn't hear."

Demencio held the gym socks open while Dominick inserted his hands. One of the socks had a fray in the toe, through which oozed a white dollop of shortening.

Dominick flexed his ringers and said, "That's much better. Thanks."

"Fourteen million dollars down the shitter," Demencio grumbled.

"I heard it was a robbery."

"Gimme a break."

"Hey, everybody in town knew she had the ticket."

"But who's got the balls," Demencio said, "to do something like that? Seriously, Dom."

"You got a point." The only robberies to occur in Grange were the holdups committed by itinerant crooks on their way to or from Miami.

Demencio said: "My guess? She lost the ticket some stupid way, then cooked up the robbery story so people wouldn't make fun of her." "They say she's a strange one." " 'Scattered' is the word."

"Scattered," said Dominick. He was eating a jelly doughnut, the sugar dust sticking to the socks on his hands.

Demencio told him about JoLayne's turtles. "Must be a hundred of the damn things inside her house. Tell me that's normal."

Dominick's eyebrows crinkled in concentration. He said, "Is there turtles in the Old Testament?"

"How the hell should I know." Just because Demencio owned a weeping Virgin didn't mean he'd memorized the whole Bible, or even finished it. Some of those Corinthians were rough sledding.

Dominick said, "What I'm thinking, maybe she's putting some type of exhibit together. You know, for the tourists. Except I can't remember no turtles in the Good Book. There's lambs and fishes – and a big serpent, of course."

Demencio's pancakes arrived. Drenching the plate in syrup, he said, "Just forget it."

"But didn't Noah have turtles? He had two of everything."

"Right. JoLayne, she's building a fuckin' ark. That explains it." Demencio irritably attacked his breakfast. The only reason he'd mentioned the damn turtles was to show how flaky JoLayne Lucks could be; the sort of space cadet who could misplace a $14 million lottery ticket.

Of all the people to win! Demencio fumed. It might be a thousand years before anyone in Grange hit the jackpot again.

Dominick Amador said, "Why you so pissed – it wasn't your money." Dominick didn't know JoLayne very well, but she'd always been nice to his cat, Rex. The cat suffered from an unsavory gum disorder that required biweekly visits to the veterinarian. JoLayne was the only person besides Dominick's daughter who could manage Rex without the custom-tailored kitty straitjacket.

"Don't you see," Demencio said. "All of us woulda cashed in big – you, me, the whole town. The story we'd put out, think about this: JoLayne won the Lotto because she lived in a holy place. Maybe she prayed at my weeping Mary, or maybe she got touched by your crucified hands. Word got around, everybody who played the numbers would come to Grange for a blessing."