Luck is always better than skill. I hear bone crack, or maybe nasal cartilage, then a strangled scream of agony as someone hits the gravel. Throwing the car keys at Caitlin, I yell, "The black BMW!" then whirl to face the other three, who jump me simultaneously.

We're wrestling more than fighting, but once they get me on the ground, they'll remove my teeth two at a time.

"She bit me!" someone screams. "She bit my fucking ear off!"

I would probably laugh had not serious blows begun landing on my skull. My thoughts instantly evaporate into survival instinct as I cover my head and try to keep my feet.

A wallop to my right temple obliterates my sense of balance, and I drop to my knees, glimpsing the silver toe cap of a boot just before it savages my ribs. Another head blow puts me on my back, and the fists come down in a steady hail. I see white flashes of light, and my ears are roaring. You hope you black out at a time like this, but I'm not that lucky. Every fist feels like I walked into a steel pole.

Suddenly a new sound breaks through the fog in my jiggling brain. A brief, percussive pock. Again: pock-pock. At first I think it's the sound of something hitting my skull, but no one is hitting me anymore, yet the sound goes on. Pock! Pock-pock!

Rolling onto my side, I see three men cowering against a brick wall. A large uniformed man stands over them, hammering them mercilessly with a stick.

Deputy Ike Ransom.

Ike the Spike is beating Spurling and his redneck posse like willful dogs, his baton cracking shins, shoulders, elbows, and skulls with surgical precision. The flashing lights I saw must have been the arrival of his squad car.

"Penn? Penn, can you hear me?"

It's Caitlin. Soft hands try to pull me to my feet, but they haven't the strength to lift my frame.

"Count to five!" she orders, her voice electrified by fear.

"Is that what they teach you at Radcliffe?" I croak, wobbling to my feet. "I'm surprised you're not over there screaming about police brutality."

"Screw them. They need to learn some respect for women."

Two roughnecks have fallen facedown, but Ike shows no inclination to stop what he's doing. Spurling makes the mistake of lunging at the deputy and screaming "nigger," which earns him a sweeping baseball-style lick that lays him out flat on the ground.

"Ike!" I yell. "Stop it, man!"

Caitlin and I run toward him, but I'm not about to try to grab his baton. In his present state he might not be able to distinguish between white faces quickly enough to spare me a concussion. Caitlin isn't so timid. She steps between Ike and his targets and holds up both hands, creating a sight arresting enough to paralyze the deputy. Ike lowers his baton and turns to me, his eyes filled with sweat.

"You'd best get out of here quick. Police won't be long."

Now isn't the time for extended thank-yous. I take Caitlin's arm and hobble toward the driver's door of the BMW.

"You're not driving," she says. "Give me the keys."

"I'm fine."

"You took at least ten blows to the head. Your nose is bleeding. I'm driving you to the hospital."

"My father can check me out when I get home. Get in the car!"

She scrambles over the driver's seat to the other side. I crank the car and pull slowly out of the lot. Ike's cruiser is already gone.

One circuit of the block takes me to Caitlin's green Miata, and I park in the street beside it. Double-parking is an old Natchez tradition.

"I can't believe you bit that guy," I tell her, rubbing the back of my skull. "You fight more like a bar girl from Breaux Bridge than a blueblood from Boston."

"When in Rome, right?" She slaps her thighs and yells, "Whoooooo, what a rush! That's the most fun I've had with my clothes on in a long time."

"Yeah, loads of fun," I mutter, but her excitement is contagious. Her face is flushed like a sprinter's, and her breath comes in short gasps.

"I assume that deputy was a friend of yours?"

"I'd say he's a friend of ours." I give her a hard look. "We still have a deal, right? No story about that little altercation in tomorrow's paper?"

"Absolutely. No story." She pokes me in the shoulder. "I told you I could hold my own."

"I'm afraid that was just the first round. It'll get a lot worse."

Her smile doesn't waver. "We can handle it." She gets out of the car and closes the door, then leans into the open passenger window. "Would you be furious if I asked a personal question?"

"Go ahead."

"Have you thought much about our kiss since last night?"

I'm glad for the dark. The black veil of her hair gleams in the window, framing her porcelain face, setting off her lips and eyes.

"Please tell me to drop dead if I'm out of line," she says quickly. "It's just… I've been thinking about it. It literally curled my toes. And I wanted you to know that."

A pulse of pure pleasure spreads outward from my heart. How do I answer? Yes, I've thought about it a hundred times, in a way that's not even thought but a constant awareness of how your mouth opened to mine, the coolness and knowingness of it-

"Would you like to go to Colorado with me tomorrow?"

She opens her mouth but makes no sound.

"I'm flying up to talk to the lead FBI agent on the Del Payton case in 1968. But part of your job will be baby-sitting Annie. She's coming along."

Caitlin is shaking her head in confusion. "Is this trip business or pleasure? Or a baby-sitting job?"

"I'm sorry-I didn't put that very well. It's business, but I'm taking Annie along for her safety, and we have a stop to make on the way. A place I can't take her."

"Where?"

"Huntsville, Texas. The Hanratty execution."

Her eyes go wide. "Are you serious?"

"Yes. You can be there when I interview the agent, but I need you to stay at the hotel with Annie during the execution."

"The hottest ticket in journalism this week, and I'm going to be babysitting?"

"They wouldn't let you in the witness room anyway. It's your call."

She purses her lips in thought. "I'm still not sure how to think of this. Do you want me to come?"

"Very much."

"Then I will. But what if Annie won't stay in the hotel without you there?"

"Then I'll skip the execution. I don't really want to see it anyway."

"She'll be fine with me. We got along great on the plane. Hey, what's this FBI agent's name?"

Caitlin's mention of that flight makes me remember her deception about her identity, and this makes me hesitant to confide Stone's name. I wipe my bloody nose on my shirtsleeve and look through the windshield.

"Penn, I could have the guy's life story before we ever talk to him."

She has a point. "Dwight Stone. Crested Butte, Colorado."

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" Her eyes are almost mocking, but they hold more understanding than I have seen in a long time.

"The answer to your earlier question is yes. I've thought about it since last night."

A serene smile lights Caitlin's face.

"And I'd like to kiss you again."

Her smile broadens.

"May I?"

She leans through the window and across the passenger seat, her eyes not closed like last night but open, inviting me into them. Our lips touch, and a perfect echo of the warmth I felt last night rolls through me. This kiss is passionate but more intimate, the crossing of another boundary together. She pulls back and peers into my eyes, then closes hers and kisses me once more.

When she pulls away this time, she has a Charlie Chaplin mustache.

"You've got blood on your lip."

"My first war wound," she laughs. "It'll wash off. What time do we leave?"

"Seven-thirty for the drive to Baton Rouge Airport."

She touches her forefinger to my nose, then pulls back through the window. "Pick me up at the paper. I'll be ready."