"Nice truck," he said, when Lucas got out. Youngie had cool blue eyes like Lucas's own, and they seemed slightly amused.

"I got it for the Magic Fingers seats," Lucas said, looking back at the blue Lexus. "Keeps you company on the long hauls."

Youngie glanced at the truck, biting just for a second, then back at Lucas, amused again. "You gonna catch Charlie?"

"Yeah. Or else kill him."

"I heard that about you," Youngie said. "The or-else part."

"Just the job I had," Lucas said.

"I hear you." Youngie put out his hand and Lucas shook. Youngie's hand was like a wood file. "Here come the kids…"

Another sheriff's car was coming off the interstate. Lucas could see two cops inside. "The kids?"

"They got three, four years between them," Youngie said. "I'll have them come in last."

"You really think…?"

"If we ain't ready, why're we going out there at all?"

"That's a point," Lucas said.

YOUNGIE BRIEFED THE TWO young cops on the visit to the Martin farm. He would lead the way in, Lucas would follow, and the kids would come in and block and watch. "If there's trouble, you call in first, help us later," Youngie told them.

One of the kids, who was trying to hide premature baldness by shaving his head, hitched up his pistol: "We're cool," he said.

THE MARTIN PLACE was an aging farmhouse that sat foursquare at the top of a hill. A gravel driveway, badly humped in the middle, led up the hill to the side of the house and then behind it. Halfway up the driveway, a barn emerged from the umbra of the house.

The house was a turn-of-the-twentieth-century structure of two stories, gray shingles on the top, with twin dormers over a front porch. The porch had space for a swing, but no swing. The house, barn, and lawn were on a quarter section, a hundred and sixty acres, a square a half mile on a side.

To the left of the house was a cornfield; to the right, at the bottom of the hill, was an untended apple orchard, with knee-deep weeds growing up around a few dozen old apple trees, all crabbed over like aging crones. Farther up the hill, beyond the apple orchard and to the right of the drive, was a fallow field, deep in weeds. It had, in the not-too-distant past, been cultivated; Lucas could see the tangled yellow dead vines in what was once a squash or pumpkin patch.

Lucas pushed the Lexus up through the cloud of dust thrown up by Youngie's car. As they topped the hill, coming up to the space between the house and the barn, Youngie suddenly juked left.

Lucas went right and hit the brake and saw what Youngie had seen a half second sooner:three men had burst from the barn and were running toward the cornfield. A second later, a fourth man ran out of the farmhouse, headed down the hill, then slanted toward the cornfield like the Others. One of the first three was oversized, and not fast.

Pope, Lucas thought, and then he was out of the car and running.

"WAS THAT POPE?" Youngie shouted. He had his hand on his pistol.

"I think so," Lucas yelled back. "Get some help in here."

He was fifty yards from the cornfield and could see cornstalks rippling in front of the running men. Youngie was shouting something at him, but he kept going, trying to sort it out as he ran. The big guy had gone right, and Lucas plunged into the field after him.

And was blinded.

Though the tops of the cornstalks were only a few inches higher than his eyes, the field might as well have been a rain forest. He stopped, listened, ran after the thrashing sound to his right. The other two men, he thought, had gone straight in, but Pope had been curling away, as though he had a destination in mind, as though he weren't simply trying to hide. Lucas had his gun out now, jacked a shell into the chamber, locked the safety down: cocked and locked and a quick click from action. Farm-houses had guns, so Pope might have one. He couldn't see, the corn leaves were whipping him in the face; and it was hot in the field, stifling, and the leaves were sharp edged, cutting at him. What the hell had Youngie yelled? He knew what it was, but…

Meth lab.

That's what he'd said; and Lucas remembered the smell now, the sharp tang that might have been hog urine but wasn't. The Martins were making methamphetamine, which would probably explain their preference for privacy…

Stopped: listened. Heard nothing, Pope might also have stopped, trying to pick out Lucas running after him. Lucas squatted, listening for footfalls, peering down the rows at knee-high level. He'd been in corn-field chases a couple of times, once as a uniformed cop, doing just what Youngie had the kids doing now, blocking, and once as a detective. You couldn't see anything at eye level; too many leaves, but there was a cleared space from waist level on down, especially when the farmer used a weed suppressant.

Lucas crawled across rows, looking down them; and then heard the sound of a man running away, still farther to the right. Lucas ran in that direction, then jumped, got above the level of the corn for just a half second, jumped again, saw what he thought was movement, and went that way…

The blow came without any warning and pitched him across two rows of corn and down on his stomach. He didn't know exactly what had happened, but the other guy was right there, and Lucas got the impression of size and red socks and heavy boots and thought one thing: hold on to the gun, hold on to the gun.

He rolled, unsure of whether he'd been shot or punched, his face on fire, blood on his hands, and he saw legs and felt another blow on his thigh. He was losing it, he thought, and he dropped the safety on the.45 and pulled the trigger, blindly, hoping to freeze the other man just for a second, just long enough to get a break.

And it worked; the other man lurched away with the explosion and Lucas caught sight of his lower body ten feet away, turned, and screamed, "I'll fuckin' kill you, stop…"

The other man ran and Lucas rolled and fired a second shot, at knee level, missed, but the other man suddenly stopped and shouted, "I quit. I quit. Don't shoot."

Lucas was on his feet now, blood streaming out of his nose and onto his shirt and suit; pain surged through his face and down his neck.

"Get the fuck over here," he told the big man. "Get the fuck over here and get down on your fuckin' knees, get down on your fuckin' knees…"

And he heard Youngie, some distance away. "Davenport, Davenport.

"Over here, over here…"

The other man was down on his knees, his back toward Lucas, his hands webbed behind his head. He'd done this before.

"Look at me, Charlie," Lucas said.

"Look at you, who?" the other man said. He was overweight and block-headed and going bald and thick through the shoulders and arms, like a bench-press freak. He turned just his head. "Who the fuck is Charlie?"

LUCAS, STILL BLEEDING, held the man as he heard Youngie thrashing up through the field. "This way," he shouted.

Youngie pushed through the corn, pistol pointed at the sky, looked wide-eyed at Lucas and the kneeling man. "What happened? You shot?"

"Naw, he hit me in the nose. Goddamn it, it hurts. It's busted. Could you put some cuffs on this asshole? I'm leaking all over my suit."

They got the big guy on his feet and his hands cuffed, and Lucas put the.45 away, the stock all sticky with his blood. The guy's wallet was chained to his belt, and Youngie jerked it off the chain, flipped it open, looked at the driver's license. "Bobby Clanton, Albert Lea."

"I want a lawyer," Clanton said.