"Yeah," said Kurtz. "It was." They walked out through the gate and Kurtz hesitated by the Volvo, jingling the keys in his free hand. He would feel better when he had the H&K in his hand. "One question," he said. "Or maybe it isn't a question."

The Dane waited.

"Little Skag… Stevie Farino… he's going to get out and take over this mess."

"It was my understanding," said the Dane, "that this was what the one million dollars was all about."

"Yeah," said Kurtz. "Little Skag is as penny-pinching as the rest of the family, but this was his one shot at getting back in the driver's seat. But what I meant was that Skag will probably want to tidy up all the loose ends." The Dane nodded.

"Hell," said Kurtz. "Never mind. If we meet again, we meet again." He got into the Volvo. The Dane remained standing near the car. No bomb. Kurtz started the engine, backed into the empty road, and glanced into his rearview mirror. The Dane was gone.

Kurtz pulled his pistol out from under the seat and set it on his lap anyway. He put the car in gear and drove away with one hand touching the valise on the passenger seat. Kurtz drove at or under the speed limit. He had no driver's license, and this would be a bad time to be stopped by the Orchard Park sheriff.

He'd driven less than two miles when a cell phone rang in his backseat.

Kurtz slid the Volvo to a stop on a grassy berm and was out the door, rolling in the grass. He didn't own a cell phone.

The phone kept ringing.

Semtex, thought Kurtz. C4. The Israelis and Palestinians had specialized in telephone bombs.

Fuck, thought Kurtz. The money. He went back to the car, removed the valise, and set it a safe distance from the vehicle.

The phone kept ringing. Kurtz realized that he was pointing his H&K.45 at a cell phone.

What the hell is wrong with me? He retrieved the valise, slid the pistol into his suit pocket, picked up the phone, and hit the answer button.

"Kurtz?"

A man's voice. He didn't recognize it.

"Kurtz?"

He listened.

"Kurtz, I'm sitting outside a little house in Lockport. I can see the little girl through the window. In about ten seconds, I'm going to knock on the door, kill that fucker who's pretending to be her father, and take the teenaged bitch out and have a little fun with her. Goodbye, Kurtz." The man hung up.

Normally it would have been a thirty-minute drive from Orchard Park to Lockport. Kurtz made it in ten minutes, doing well over a hundred on I-90 and almost that speed on the Lockport streets.

He slid the Volvo to a screeching stop in front of Rachel's house.

The gate to the picket fence was open.

Kurtz jumped the fence, 45 raised and ready. The front door was closed. The lights were out on the first floor. Kurtz decided to go in the back way. He moved around the side of the house—not quite running, paying attention but still in a hurry, his heart pounding wildly.

One of the goddamned bushes rose up as he passed.

Kurtz swung the.45 to bear, but too late—a man's arm from the bushes, some sort of camouflage suit, something black and stubby in the man's right hand.

A great, hot force exploded against Kurtz's chest and God's flashbulbs went off in his skull.

Pain.

Good. He was alive.

Kurtz came back to consciousness slowly, very painfully, muscle by muscle. His eyes were open and there was no blindfold, but he could see nothing. He was in great pain. His body did not respond to commands. He was having problems breathing.

It's all right. I may be hurt bad but I'm alive. I'll kill the fucker and get Rachel free before I die. Kurtz concentrated on forcing breath into his lungs and calming his pounding heart and screaming muscles.

Minutes passed. More minutes. Kurtz slowly became oriented in his body and around it.

He was in the trunk of a car. Big trunk, big car. Lincoln or Cadillac. The car was moving. Kurtz's body wasn't moving. His muscles were alternating between cramps and involuntary spasms. His chest was on fire, he was nauseated, and his skull rang like a Buddhist gong. He'd been shot, but not with bullets. Stun gun, thought Kurtz. Taser. Probably rated about 250,000 volts. Even as his muscles and nerves came back on line, he found he could barely move. His wrists were manacled or handcuffed behind him, cruelly, and somehow attached to manacles around his ankles.

He was naked. The floor of the trunk was covered with crinkled plastic, like a shower curtain.

Whoever it is had it all planned. Followed me to Farino's. Put the phone in the Volvo. Wanted me, not Rachel. At least Kurtz prayed to whatever dark god that the last was true.

He was not quite blind. Brake lights glowed red every now and then, illuminating the carpeted interior, the plastic, and Kurtz's bare flesh. The car was moving, not just idling, leaning around turns, going somewhere. Not much traffic. The road was wet beneath the radial tires, and the sibilant hum made Kurtz want to go back to sleep.

He hasn't killed me yet. Why? Kurtz could come up with a few possible reasons, none very probable. It occurred to him that he had not seen Cutter die.

The car stopped. Footsteps crunched on gravel. Kurtz closed his eyes.

Fresh air and a light drizzle when the trunk was opened.

"Don't give me that shit," said a man's voice with a slight Brooklyn accent. The man set the Taser against Kurtz's heel. Even with the voltage lowered, it was like having a long, hot wire inserted directly under the flesh. Kurtz spasmed, kicked, lost consciousness for a second or two, and then opened his eyes.

In the red light, looming over Kurtz, a Taser in his left hand and a huge.44 Magnum Ruger Redhawk in his right hand, stood a meaner-looking version of Danny DeVito. "You fake being out again," said Manny Levine, "and I'll shove this stun gun up your hairy ass."

Kurtz kept his eyes open. "You know why you're still alive, fuckhead?" Kurtz hated rhetorical questions at the best of times. This wasn't the best of times.

"You're alive because my people value burial," said Levine. "And you're going to lead me to my brother for a real burial before I blow your motherfucking head off." He cocked the heavy.44 Magnum and aimed the long barrel at Kurtz's exposed testicles. "But I don't have any reason to keep you in one piece, fucker. We'll start with these."

"Letchworth," gasped Kurtz. Even if he'd been unmanacled, he couldn't have grabbed for Levine at that moment. His arms and legs were still spasming. He needed time.

"What?"

"Letchworth Park," panted Kurtz. "I buried Sammy near Letchworth."

"Where, cocksucker?" Manny Levine was so enraged that his entire dwarf body was shaking. The long steel barrel shook but the muzzle never moved off target… targets.

Kurtz shook his head. Before Manny pulled the trigger, he managed to gasp, "Outside the park… off Alternate twenty… south of Perry Center… in the woods… have to show you."

Letchworth was more than sixty-five miles from Lockport. It would give Kurtz time to recover control of his body, clear his head.

Manny Levine's teeth were grinding audibly. He shook with fury while his finger tightened on the trigger. Finally he lowered the hammer on the big Ruger and hit Kurtz on the side of the head with the long barrel, once, twice, three times.

Kurtz felt his scalp rip loose. Blood ran salty into his eyes and pattered on the plastic liner. Good. Nothing serious. Probably looks worse than it is. Maybe it'll satisfy him for now.

Levine slammed the trunk shut, made a U-turn, and drove away with Kurtz rocking and bleeding heavily in back.