He wondered, more and more, just what could have made her act like that. He wasn't Sly Stallone, by any means — the mirror didn't lie — but then again he wasn't Quasimodo, either. Something must have happened in Becky's past that put her off men or sex, and the mystery was eating at him, keeping him awake at night. At first he thought it might have been a sour love affair while she was at college, but the pieces didn't fit. It hurt when someone dumped you, but Vickers had never seen a woman gasp and cringe the way Becky had, not just from being jilted by some prick. It was as if she had been hurt somehow, and not emotionally, either, but he didn't have the nerve to ask.

Not yet.

In time, perhaps, when they had spent a bit more time together, it would seem more natural for him to ask about her past. He knew she was a local girl who went away to med school in Los Angeles and wowed them with her smarts. She'd done some time at one of those big hospitals, more nurses on the staff than there were people in the whole of Santa Rosa, but it hadn't lasted. Vickers wondered if there might be some connection, linking Becky's job with her uneasiness toward men. It didn't seem to make much sense, but you could never tell.

If the vehicle had been passing through a couple hours later, he might have overlooked it. There was more traffic as the day wore on, but at the moment Vickers was all alone... until the dark sedan turned out in front of him, emerging from a narrow side street, and the driver swung around in his direction. In a single glance, he made the plates — from Mexico. The driver slowed a little as he came abreast of Vickers's squad car, smiling at him like a hungry weasel, nodding as though they ought to be the best of friends from way back. Vickers gave the man the evil eye but did not turn around to follow them or pull them over. They were cruising well below the limit, and he did not want to start his day by hassling nationals.

Grant Vickers did not know the driver or his passengers, but he could place the type. They came across the border on occasion, passing through, cold men in hot machines who rarely stopped in Santa Rosa, moving on toward other destinations in the north. Sometimes they passed the other way, toward Mexico, and he was never sad to see them go.

He did not know the strangers, but he had a fair idea of who they worked for, yes indeed. Thus far, their business interests had not clashed with his, and he would like to see things stay that way. He liked the hometown nice and peaceful, where the women and their kids were free to walk the streets. He wouldn't want it to become a shooting gallery, a modern Tombstone with himself in the unlikely role of Wyatt Earp.

Grant Vickers was a lawman who had come to terms with his limitations. He was not a hero, not an athlete, and he certainly would never pass for Sherlock Holmes. He had the common sense to recognize a lethal situation when he saw one, and whenever one confronted him, he had the brains to back away. If he could turn a dollar on the side, for doing what came naturally anyway, well, that was icing on the goddamned cake.

He curbed the cruiser, waited for the dark sedan to grow smaller in his rearview, but it turned instead of heading north. He frowned at that, and tried to put himself inside the driver's mind, discover what the bastard might be up to.

They were hunting, obviously. Here in Vickers's town. But who? And why? He would have known if there were any personal or business links to Santa Rosa, and he would have taken steps to sort it out, to warn the foolish locals off. But there was nothing. Zip. And that was what had Vickers worried as he put the cruiser back in motion and continued on his way.

The guns were out, and they were hunting. In his town. For someone Vickers didn't know. There was a wild card in the game, from out of frigging nowhere, and he didn't like the way that changed the odds. If they got lucky, if they made their tag in Santa Rosa, there would have to be an inquest, an investigation. He would have to act, and who the hell knew what might happen then?

His digital read 7:45. Old man Beamer would be open now. Grant Vickers cranked the squad car hard around and gunned it toward the diner, hoping that a cup of coffee might do something for his stomach. It was rolling now, as if he had consumed a couple bowls of Beamer's Texas chili, but without the pleasure that preceded heartburn. For a moment Vickers wondered if he might be working on a goddamned ulcer, finally deciding that it didn't matter either way. Some Rolaids ought to ease him through the afternoon, at least until he found out what — or whom — the Mexicans were looking for.

And once he knew... then what? Would he have nerve enough to throw their asses out of town? If they got lucky, dare he push the matter with indictments and arrests?

He had no answer at the moment, and he put the problem out of mind. He hoped the man they were searching for was a thousand miles away by now and running for his life. It wouldn't do him any good, of course, but once beyond the city limits he was someone else's problem. Someone else would have to scrape the victim up when the Mexicans were finished, and investigate the crime.

As long as it did not occur in Santa Rosa, Vickers would be satisfied. He was an easy man to please.

Darkness, and he was naming toward the light of leaping flames, prepared to dodge each time a muzzle-flash cut through the night and angry hornets swarmed around his head. He answered fire when targets showed themselves, but they were few and far between. The hostile gunners had grown cagey, scoping out his battle plan and lying back to wait for him within the shelter of the shadows. If he wanted them, if he was going to complete his mission, he would have to seek them in the fire.

The heat was strong already, even at an estimated range of thirty yards. He raised one hand to shield his face, aware that he was framed in silhouette for any gunners who might choose to take advantage of the moment. Still, the fire was central to his strategy, his needs. And while he could not have explained his purpose at the moment, there was something in his gut that knew why he was here.

It was essential that he find Rivera, he remembered that much, but the man was laughing at him now, his low, reptilian chuckle emanating from the darkness. No. It was emerging from the flames, the very white-hot heart of what appeared to be a burning warehouse, miles across. A blazing structure that might stretch forever, from horizon to horizon, if he dared to look. He didn't, concentrating on the evil laughter, eyes like slits against the heat as he attempted to pick out his nemesis.

Just there: a movement in the fire. He hesitated, strained against the baking heat to make out shapes and sizes, finally deciding that the form was human, more or less. Too wide, perhaps, but otherwise complete with head and arms and legs, all wreathed in flame and moving jerkily, as if the puppeteer was having trouble with his strings. He waited, felt the figure drawing closer, though it scarcely seemed to close the distance for the longest time. At last, when he could tell the gap was narrowing, he braced himself, prepared for anything that might emerge out of the fire.

Rivera smiled at him through withered lips, his eyes like livid coals beneath a blistered brow. The fire had taken its toll, but he was recognizable, still on his feet. Incredibly he seemed to feel no pain. And he was laughing, softly, with a grim malevolence that chilled the watcher's soul.

Rivera held a squirming figure in his arms. Somewhere along the line, he had acquired a female hostage, and although she kept her face averted now, there was something terribly familiar in her stance, her general form. Unlike her captor, she had not been blistered by the flames, but while Rivera seemed immune to pain, the woman writhed and whimpered as the tongues of fire reached out to lap around her ankles, leaving not a mark upon pristine flesh.