"Lipton," he murmered.

"What's that, Bob?" the captain said, leaning over him.

Bolinger looked up with the cigarette hanging from his lips. "I said 'Lipton.' He did this."

The captain's face clouded over. Bolinger was his best homicide man, maybe the best he'd ever seen. But he was also a hardheaded mule, a man who had a difficult time admitting when he was wrong.

"I want you to look into the father, Bob," he said firmly. "I know how you feel about your instincts. I respect that as much as anyone… but I want you to check him out. Keep an open mind. Can you do that?"

Bolinger looked past his boss at a young woman who was sliding what looked like a kidney into a cellophane bag.

"Yeah," he said as he rose to his feet. "I can do that."

Back at the station, Bolinger let the captain out at the curb.

"You going out there now?" he asked.

"Yeah," Bolinger answered.

"You'll take someone with you, Bob?" the captain said, leaning into the car through the window. It was more than a suggestion.

"Okay," Bolinger said.

"Good." The captain rapped twice on the roof of the cruiser with his knuckles. "Let me know what you turn up. I'll be here all night."

Bolinger paged up Farnhorst, who had been questioning a barmaid down on Sixth Street about a knifing on Saturday night.

"But I'm having a sandwich right now," he admitted.

"I'll swing by and get you," Bolinger said.

On the ride out to Sales's place, Bolinger filled in Farnhorst on what had happened.

"My gut tells me it's Lipton," he concluded.

Farnhorst nodded but was noncommittal, and that made Bolinger wonder. He knew better than the captain about his own propensity to be pigheaded. Was he being that way now? They pulled into Sales's dirt drive just as the sun was dipping below the rim of the western hills. It was a perfect crimson orb. With it went the warmth of the day, and Bolinger rolled up his window before he got out.

Together they mounted Sales's porch. The creak of old wood called out amid the din of ten thousand night insects. The tranquil setting was strangely familiar.

"Bob," Farnhorst said in an alarmed tone, "look."

As Farnhorst drew his gun, Bolinger looked down on the porch. There was a spattered line of blood he hadn't noticed that started at the bottom step and ended at the front door. Bolinger knelt down and touched it with the tips of his first two fingers. It was still greasy and moist.

"It's not too old," he said quietly. He looked at Farnhorst's gun but didn't draw his own. Instead he stood and hammered on the door. There were no lights on, and the new dusk made it quite dark inside the cabin. Through the front window, he could see a large form passing quickly through the gloom. The porch light went on suddenly, and Farnhorst stepped back into the shadows with his gun raised. Bolinger stepped aside as well. The door swung slowly open, spilling light into the cabin through the screen. There was no one in sight.

"Don," Bolinger cried out, "it's Bob Bolinger. We need to talk to you."

There was some shuffling inside the cabin, and suddenly Sales appeared in the doorway.

"What do you want?" Sales demanded in a tone that was sullen and much harsher than Bolinger had grown used to over the past year. His expression was hard to read through the screen, but Bolinger could hear the tension in his voice.

"Put the gun down," Farnhorst commanded in a loud booming voice that seemed almost obscene on such a peaceful night. Sales had a pistol in his hand, and although his arm hung straight down with the gun pointed at the floor, it made Bolinger swallow hard.

"You put yours down then." Sales glowered. "I don't need someone pointing a gun at me in the doorway of my own house."

"Put it down," Bolinger gently told his partner. "We need to talk to you, Don."

"Talk," Sales said. Some of the tension left his voice at the sight of Farnhorst's weapon by his side.

"We want you to come downtown with us," Bolinger said. "Will you do that?"

"Why?" Sales asked. "What's the problem? I didn't do anything."

"I know, Don," Bolinger said. "But Frank Castle was killed last night. Someone cut him open."

Sales stared blankly at the detective. He sighed resignedly and said, "Let me get my coat."

Without waiting for a reply, Sales turned back into the house, then emerged a minute later emptyhanded, wearing a black suede jacket and a matching cowboy hat. Farnhorst kept his gun ready, and when Bolinger asked about the blood on the porch, he tightened his grip. But Sales only laughed at them and held up his left hand. There was a blood-soaked bandage wrapped tightly around his index finger.

"Cut it to the bone," he explained. His mouth was twisted somewhere between a grimace and a smile. Then, pointing to the small shop on the side of the cabin, he continued, "Band saw."

The two detectives nodded silently and followed Sales across the dusty front yard. They piled into their car just as the headlights from his pickup cut into the coming night. Sales waited until they got turned around, then followed the police cruiser as it snaked its way to the main road.

"I didn't like that gun," Farnhorst complained.

"Man has a right to protect his own house," Bolinger pointed out. The lighter popped out on the dash, and after removing it he touched off the Winston that dangled from his mouth.

They hadn't been driving for more than three minutes before Bolinger, who had been keeping a casual eye on Sales in the rearview mirror, saw the dome light illuminate the truck's cab. Bolinger's instincts told him it meant something. When the light went off, however, he relaxed. But two minutes later, Farnhorst heard him utter the words "Oh, shit."

"What's the problem?" Farnhorst asked, but before Bolinger even answered, Farnhorst was thrown into his door when the sergeant slammed on the brakes and flipped the wheel, skidding around until they were facing in the opposite direction.

"There he goes," Bolinger muttered as he hit the gas. He slammed the wheel with the palm of his hand. "Shit!"

The two grim-faced cops wove in and out of the thin traffic. Sales was driving like a maniac, passing cars on double yellow lines and narrowly avoiding the oncoming traffic. Bolinger flicked on his lights and the siren, which helped clear the traffic.

"Hang on!" he shouted as the cruiser mounted a hilltop and took to the air momentarily before crashing back to the pavement. Sales was already at the bottom of the hill and had shot around a wooded bend out of sight. When Bolinger rounded the corner, he cursed out loud.

"Son of a bitch!"

There was Sales's truck, driven right off the road and stopped just this side of the trees in some knee-deep grass. Sales shot out of the truck with a bundle under one arm and a rifle he'd wrenched from the rack behind the seat. Farnhorst rolled down his window on the approach and brandished his gun; he screamed for Sales to freeze. Sales never broke stride. Just before he hit the trees, Farnhorst began to fire. Bolinger jammed on the brakes, throwing his partner into the dash.

"Goddamn!" Bolinger cried. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Son of a bitch is gonna get away, Bob!" Farnhorst shouted. He jumped from the car, gun in hand, but pulled up beside the pickup and turned to face his sergeant. The truck's engine was still running. Country music spilled from the cab into the dusk. Bolinger got out of the car and met Farnhorst's eyes with a cold, hard stare.

"You know better than that," he told Farnhorst in reference to the gunfire. Bolinger waded through the grass, already wet with dew. Farnhorst pursed his lips. He did know better.

"Should we try to follow him?" Farnhorst asked, his gaze following the beam of the headlights where they pierced the darkness of the woods.