'Weed, tell me what the five's for?'

'Huh?'

'The five tattooed on your finger. Let's try that story again and see if it comes out better this time.'

Fear turned to panic. Weed's mind went blank.

'I told you before it don't mean nothing,' Weed said.

'I know it does,' Brazil persisted. 'The Pikes. The gang taking credit for painting the statue, right?'

Weed was beginning to shake, Pigeon right behind them. Brazil probably smelled him and suddenly spun around, hand on his gun.

'Don't go shooting me, I ain't worth it,' Pigeon said calmly as he eyed the statue. 'Now that's special.'

'Who are you?' Brazil asked Pigeon, relaxing his shooting hand a little.

'Pigeon. I've seen you before,' Pigeon said. 'Usually with some hot-looking lady cop. Can't be on the street as much as I am and not see everybody eventually.'

Pigeon studied the statue again. Weed wasn't sure, but he thought he saw admiration shining in Pigeon's eyes. For an instant, Weed felt joy.

'So,' Brazil said, 'either one of you got any idea who painted this statue to look like Weed's brother?'

Weed tensed.

Pigeon waited.

'Well,' Weed said in a tight voice, 'they was both eighteen. Maybe that's why somebody did it.'

Pigeon squinted at the inscription on the statue's base.

'What?' Brazil frowned.

'It says right there.' Weed pointed. 'The man in the statue was eighteen just like Twister was.'

'You need to recheck your math,' Pigeon said to Weed. 'Jeff Davis was eighty-one when he died.'

'What'd he do anyway?' Weed asked.

'Went to jail for a while,' Pigeon said. 'About two years, leg irons and the whole bit, as I recollect.'

Weed stared at the statue and got a frightened expression on his face. He wondered if leg irons were like big handcuffs and if he'd have to wear them, too. He didn't want to go to jail for two years. He tried to console himself by hoping Mr. Davis had done something worse than paint a statue.

'What you do to him if you catch him?' Weed said.

'Catch who?' Brazil asked.

'The one who did the paint job.'

'Can't say for sure. I'd have to talk to him first and find out why he did it,' Brazil replied thoughtfully. 'Whoever it is, your brother must be very special to him.'

'Lock him up right this minute,' Pigeon was quick to volunteer. 'That's what I'd do with him.'

'Naw,' Brazil replied. 'If all he did was paint this statue, what good would it do to lock him up? Better to get him to do something helpful to the community.'

'Like what?' Weed asked.

'Like cleaning up what he's done.'

'You mean getting rid of it? Even if it's good?' Weed said.

It didn't matter that his artwork wouldn't survive the first rain or spray of a hose. Weed couldn't stand the thought of cleaning it up himself. It would just kill him to wash Twister away.

'Doesn't matter if it's good,' Brazil was saying.

But it did to Weed, and he couldn't resist asking, 'You think it is?'

'I sure as hell think so,' Pigeon said. 'I think the artist ought to open a gallery in goddamn New York.'

'That's not the issue,' Brazil said to Pigeon. 'There's someone running around out there who's unusually gifted, I'll admit that. But this isn't the way to show it.'

'What does gifted mean?' Weed said.

'Special. Really good at something. You sure you don't know who might be doing this?' Brazil asked.

Brazil knew. Weed could tell.

'Come on, Weed, fess up,' Pigeon ratted on him. 'Remember what we talked about, huh? Remember the devil out there?'

Weed ran like hell, his knapsack flapping on his back. Two paintbrushes flew out and landed on Varina Davis's grave.

At the Commonwealth Club, Hammer was losing her polish and becoming argumentative. She had not eaten breakfast and unwisely had washed down a Multi-Max 1 sustained release multivitamin, two Advils, two BuSpars and three tropical-fruit-flavored Turns calcium supplements with black coffee. Her stomach burned.

'I think we need to put things in perspective,' Hammer announced.

'I think there's exactly why we're doing it,' Ehrhart answered her.

'The point is not our reverence of monuments and a historic cemetery,' Hammer said, knowing she was venturing into an Indian burial ground.

'It's not a matter of reverence but of a far-stretching perception,' Ehrhart butted in. 'Hollywood Cemetery is a symbolism of the prospering advancement of culture that midway in the middle of the nineteenth century catapulted our marveling city into the twenty-fifth bigger of the others in America.'

'Anybody know how many big cities there were back then?' challenged Reverend Jackson.

'Anybody know what she just said?' Mayor Lamb whispered in Hammer's ear.

'At least thirty-five,' offered publisher Eaton.

'Closer to forty. South Dakota entered the union in 1859,' Lieutenant Governor Miller quietly corrected the mayor.

'I'd like to finish what I was saying,' Hammer pushed forward. 'The important point is that a painted statue is not the worst crime that's ever happened here.' She looked pointedly at Ehrhart. 'It might be a better idea to focus on gangs and escalating juvenile crime, and on the community's refusal to participate in protecting and taking care of itself. Which is what brought me here to begin with." 'Why did you thinking were in here there morning if not to participate?' Ehrhart said with emotion. 'And for the records, it's never been my believe we needed Charlotte to telling us how to ruin our police department and our city.'

'Well, they're sure as hell running things a whole lot better than we are,' commented NationsBank president Albright, who had worked out of the headquarters in Charlotte before transferring to Richmond.

'We're not here today to talk about Charlotte,' the mayor said irritably.

'Nothing wrong with learning from somebody else,' said the lieutenant governor.

'I suggest the Blue Ribbon Crime Commission pave the way, Lelia,' Hammer said to Ehrhart, who was looking at her gold and diamond Rolex watch and getting anxious. 'You're in a strong position to mobilize citizens and state and city officials. You have a voice.'

'It's the responsible police, not the citizens what do away with crime. You already know the commission's subscription. We need to hire another additional more one hundred officers. We need more patrols on feet. Police officers should be forced even if they don't want to, to live with the city and carry there police cars home so there's more in our neighborhoods to be visible." 'Who's going to pay for all that?' the mayor wanted to know. 'You never have explained that part, Lelia.'

Hammer's flip phone vibrated. She absented herself from the gathering umbrage at the conference table and went out the door.

'Chief?' West's voice came over the cell.

'Now's not a good time,' Hammer said.

'I'm at 6807 Midlothian Turnpike,' West said. 'I think you'd better come.'

The handcuffs around Bubba's wrists had been snapped on with contempt and no nonsense. Steel teeth bit into his soft flesh. The air conditioning inside the patrol car was up too high and Bubba's cranky bowel syndrome had rumbled out of remission.

Bubba had always known it was risky to tuck his Anaconda.44 under the seat, but he had never imagined he might get into this much trouble. Police were everywhere, some of them detectives. Moments ago, two fire trucks and an ambulance had screamed past, heading around to the back of Kmart. The media was rolling in and a helicopter was circling the area.

Officer Budget was standing outside the car talking to the woman deputy chief who had come to Bubba's house after the break-in. He recalled her name was West. She kept glancing in at Bubba, her face hard, eyes sharp with anger that Bubba was certain was directed at him, although he didn't know why. He didn't understand why the cops had wanted his filthy tee shirt.