Darling was holding this one piece back, lying. He was an excellent liar, but

Stadic was a professional interrogator. He wasn't sure that Darling was lying, but he also knew that he had no way to control the man. He couldn't take him with him, couldn't hold him. And if Darling got in touch with LaChaise, LaChaise would recognize Stadic's description. A problem.

He sat in the kitchen chair with the barrel of the gun pointing at Darling's chest.

''Tell me again,'' Stadic said. ''You get off at Lexington…''

''And it must be about six blocks up the road. North. Then right. Just a little house.''

''You didn't see the number or the street name.''

''Nope. I was just following behind.'' He brightened. ''But I'll tell you-my truck is on the street. So is Martin's. You could look for my truck, it's got a license plate says, QHORSE.''

Stadic nodded. ''So six or seven blocks.''

''No more than that,'' Darling said. ''We could find it. I'd go down there with you.''

Stadic thought for another moment, then shook his head.

''Nah,'' he said.

''What, then?'' Darling asked, his eyebrows going up as if mystified, a stupid smile on his face. Stadic shrugged, and pulled the trigger.

The 00s in the three-inch Magnum shell blew Elmore Darling completely off his kitchen chair.

• • •

SANDY HUDDLED IN THE BEDROOM, JUST TO BE AWAY from them.

LaChaise went to sleep in his chair, and Martin and Butters sat in the living room, the television turned down, talking quietly about the kills.

Martin said, ''I had my hands on him and when the knife went in, he kind of rose up, and shook. Like when you cut the throat on a deer, they make that last little try to get goin'… you know?'' ''Sure, they push up, try to get their feet under them…''

''Damn good time to get hurt,'' Martin said. ''There's one old boy, Rob Harris over to Luce County, got down on a spike buck like that, stuck him in the throat with his knife, and that buck rose up and stuck one of them spikes right in

Rob's eye. Blinded the eye.''

''What happened to the buck?'' Butters asked.

''Run off. Rob says it must've been a brisket hit 'cause there was blood all over hell,'' Martin said. ''Probably out there to this day…''

''Yeah, well, this Sherrill dude sure ain't.''

''Not when I get that close,'' Martin said. ''When I get that close, the boy's a goner…''

They both turned and looked at LaChaise, thinking they might have given offense, but LaChaise was unconscious.

''This Kupicek, she never even twitched,'' Butters said. ''Never even knew what hit her. One minute she's talking to me, the next minute, it's St. Peter.''

''Silencer work good?''

Butters nodded. ''Worked real good. All you hear is that ratchet sound, you know, maybe a little pop, but it's no more'n opening a can of soda.''

''Wish I had me a silencer like that.''

''If I were gonna do it again, I think I might do it as asingle-shot. You know, load one round, carry it cockedandlocked over an empty clip. Then you wouldn't get the ratchet noise…''

They went on, working over the details, the TV turned down. Butters's face would come up every half hour or so. On the first newsbreak of the day, at five o'clock, TV3 produced a series of computer-morphed photos of both LaChaise and

Butters, with a variety of hairstyles and facial hair.

''Oughta shave your head,'' Martin said. ''That's the only thing they ain't got.''

''Nah. Too late for me,'' Butters said. He looked at his watch. ''Be daylight in a couple-three hours. I'm going out. Check this kid's house, the Davenport kid.''

''Better wait for Dick,'' Martin said.

Butters shook his head as he stood up. ''It's about fifty-fifty that it's an ambush,'' Butters said. ''Better that only one of us goes; and Dick's hurt, and they don't know you yet.''

''You sober?''

''As a judge.''

Martin dropped his hands on his thighs, a light conclusive slap, and nodded.

Butters said: ''Help me load up.''

''What're you takin'?'' Martin asked.

Butters grinned: ''One of everything.''

LaChaise stirred in the chair, half-opened his eyes, shook his head and slept again.

''I better get going,'' Butters said. ''Don't want to disturb Dick's beauty rest.''

DEL WAS IN THE HALLWAY, STRETCHED OUT ON THREE couch pillows. Small was in bed, still dressed but in stocking feet, alert. Every once in a while, he'd get out of bed and creep through the hallway, and whisper a question down to Lucas.

''Anything?''

''Nothing yet.''

Lucas yawned, pushed a button on his watch to illuminate the face. Five forty-five. More than two hours to first light. He walked carefully back toward the bathroom, navigating by feel through the darker lumps of the furniture. The bathroom was for guests, for convenience: small, with a toilet and a sink, a tube of Crest and a rack of kids' toothbrushes for aftermeal brushing. There was no exterior window. Lucas shut the door and turned on the light, winced at its brightness, splashed water in his face. His mouth tasted worse than his face looked; he rubbed a wormy inch of Crest over his teeth with his index finger, spat the green slime into the sink, and stoodthere, leaning over the sink, weight on his arms, watching the water.

There were all kinds of hints and pointers, but none of them solid. Not yet. But the case would go quickly, he thought. If he were alive, if Weather and Sarah and Jennifer and Small were all alive in a week, then it'd be done with.

It'd be done with even if they didn't stay around.

They could walk out now, catch a plane, fly to Tahiti-he had the money to do it a hundred times over-lie on the beach, and when they came back, it'd be done.

The difference of a week.

And maybe they should.

But he liked the tightening feel of the hunt.

He didn't like what it had done to Cheryl Capslock or the others, the dead, but he did like the feel of chase, God help him.

He turned out the light, opened the door and went back to the living room.

DEL WAS AWAKE. HE SAID, ''CHERYL COULDN'T FEEL much of anything after they got her out of surgery.''

''She'll feel it today,'' Lucas said. He unconsciously touched a white tracheotomy scar on his throat.

''Yeah, that's what the docs said.''

''They say anything about scars?'' Lucas asked.

''She's gonna have some, but they shouldn't be too bad. What there is, she can wear her hair over.''

''I know a plastic surgeon over at the U, friend of Weather's. If you need one.''

They sat a while in the dark. Then Del said, ''If she died, I don't know what

I'd do.''

''She'll be okay.''

''Yeah.'' Then: ''But that's not exactly what I meant. I mean, I never really thought of it until this afternoon. If shewas gone, I'd be lost. I been on the streets so long, the whole world looks like it's fucked. Cheryl keeps me from going nuts. I was going nuts before I met her. I was a crazy motherfucker…

I was such a good wino that I could've become one.''

''Made for each other,'' Lucas said, with a wry undertone cops affected when they were getting too close to sincerity.

''Yeah. Jesus, I want to kill that motherfucker…''

Then the handset: ''Lucas. Got one coming.'' A surveillance voice. Lucas grabbed the radio and stepped to the front door. He could see out the inset glass windows without being seen himself.

''White male in a pickup, moving slow. He's not delivering papers.''

''Can you see the plates?''

''I can't, but Tommy can, he's got the night scope… Tommy? He'll be there in a minute.''

''Right, I got him coming…''

''Lucas, he's coming up to the house now.''

Lucas could see the headlights on the snow, then the slowly moving pickup. ''Get the plate, get the plate.''