Sobbing, Donaldson managed to pull Lucy free of the Honda.

Luther jammed the airgun into his belt, heaved her over his shoulder, and ordered Donaldson to follow.

The trio trudged up the dirt road. Earth sucked at Donaldson’s bare feet.

“You’re seriously still crying?” Luther asked. “Pathetic.”

Cows groaned in the adjacent field.

Snowfields glowed on the slopes of a mountain range twenty miles away.

The barn loomed fifty yards ahead.

“What do you want?” Donaldson asked, his voice cracking.

“Keep walking, Fat Man.”

The barn stood silhouetted against the night sky, a massive structure with a steeply-pitched roof. Across a winter-killed field, at least a half-mile away, there was a farmhouse. Dark. No lights. No cars out front. It looked abandoned.

Luther said, “The cop. Jack Daniels. You’ve met her.”

“What?” Donaldson’s voice continued to quaver. “Sorry, but you gotta speak up.”

“Jack Daniels. You know her? I saw her talking about you on the news.”

“Met her at a truck stop, few weeks ago.”

“Tell me. Tell me everything.”

So he did. Donaldson told Luther about meeting Taylor, their plans for Jack, and how the bitch had gotten the upper hand. The story took them up until they got into the barn through a giant, sliding door that creaked with rust as Luther dragged it open. Inside, it was pitch black and smelled like moldering hay. Luther led them to one of the support posts for the loft.

“What was she like?” he said, bending down and dropping Lucy.

“What?”

Luther glanced back at Donaldson, saw the blood draining out of the hole where his ear used to be. He turned around and stuck his finger in the hole, holding Donaldson’s head while he screamed. Blood rushed out, and then the flow eased.

“That better?” Luther asked. “I’m kind of tired of repeating myself.”

Donaldson fell to his knees, and then rolled onto the ground. Luther raised up a boot over Donaldson’s bad arm, and the fat man began to blabber.

“She’s a cop,” Donaldson moaned. “Busted a bunch of serial killers. In person, she’s cute. But strong. And smart. I really wished I’d had a chance to dip my wick. Been thinking about going back and looking her up, after I heal.”

Donaldson squinted at Luther, who had found a rusty kerosene lamp with a little gas left hanging from the rafters. He used his Zippo to fire it up and hung it on a rusty nail. A soft, orange glow filled the barn.

“You think you’re going to get that chance now?”

“That depends on you. I’m at your mercy.”

“Yes, you are. You know how this little game usually turns out, don’t you?”

“I know. Can’t say I really care all that much at this point, either.”

“You’re not afraid of death?”

“Brother, I AM death.”

Luther seemed to consider it. Then he walked over and kicked Donaldson in the arm.

“And I am PAIN,” Luther said. “I’m a lot worse than death.”

Donaldson grabbed his swollen appendage and whimpered through the pain until he found his voice again. “Why so interested in that cop? Got a thing for women in uniform? Or… wait a sec… you’re going to make a run at her, aren’t you?”

“I know you think you’re the best at what you do. Obviously, the fact that I’m here, healthy and comfortable, refutes that. There is no one like me in the world. I need a challenge.”

“I can help you.”

“I don’t need your help. Clearly.”

“You could use someone to watch your back. This one isn’t easy. Trust me. She’s a tough nut to crack. We could… hunt her together.”

Luther knelt down and looked Donaldson in the eyes.

“Two more questions and then we can move on to other things. I want your opinion. Is Jack Daniels lucky? Or is she really better than you are?”

“Bitch got lucky.”

“How about me? Did I get lucky, too?”

“Every dog has his day,” Donaldson said, then spat in Luther’s face.

Luther wiped the trail of saliva away with one finger and touched his tongue to it.

“How about Lucy? Looks like she did quite a number on you. Did she get lucky? Or maybe it isn’t luck. Maybe you’re just a used-up, fat piece of shit, and that’s why Lieutenant Daniels beat you. Why Lucy beat you. And why I’m about to beat you. To death.”

Luther kicked Donaldson in the chest, and then began to stomp on the man, using his boot heel.

At first, Donaldson tried to cover up, protect himself.

Eventually he stopped trying.

“That’s just a taste,” Luther said, delivering one final kick and wiping the blood off his boot and onto Donaldson’s heaving chest. “I’ll be back when I move the cars. Stick around, make yourself at home.”

Luther strolled out of the barn and disappeared.

Donaldson struggled to sit up.

“Lucy!” he whispered.

He rolled over and took her tiny face in his hands. Shook her head.

“Wake up!”

He smacked her face three times, and she stirred, her eyes fluttering opening.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“He’s gone.”

“Who?”

“Luther, you dumb bitch. He shot you with a tranq dart. Something short-acting.”

Lucy sat up, moaning. “The nerve block has almost worn off. My legs are on fucking fire.”

“Take a number and join the club.”

“Where are we? It stinks in here.”

“A barn. Your friend, Luther, is not a nice man. I can’t walk and carry you. You can’t walk at all. Where are the keys to these handcuffs?”

Lucy rubbed her eyes. “What?”

“The keys, you stupid—”

“Oh.” She grinned. “It’s like…kind of embarrassing.”

“Look, if we can get these cuffs off, I can surprise him when he comes back. Then we can take his car. But I can’t do that if we’re fucking chained together.”

“Why should I help you? That man… Luther… is my friend.”

“That man ain’t anybody’s friend.”

“People would say the same about you, D.”

Donaldson let out a slow breath. He met Lucy’s eyes.

“Believe it or not, I’ve been thinking about what you said, while your friend was kicking the fuck out of me. About killing together or dying alone. I’m starting to like that idea.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Really really?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake—”

“Okay. If you want out of the cuffs, the key is up my ass. But you have to get it.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m serious.”

“Why in the hell would you stick the key up your ass?”

“I knew you’d frisk me. I didn’t have any other place to put it.”

“Well, why do I have to get it?”

“You’ve killed a hundred and thirty people, and you’re getting squeamish at sticking your finger up a girl’s ass? Some people pay to do it.”

Donaldson just glared at her.

“Tick, tock,” Lucy said. “My friend will be back any minute.”

“Roll over.”

Lucy shifted onto her side. Donaldson stuck his hand down the back of her scrubs.

“Donaldson?”

“What?”

“Be gentle.”

“How do I know you don’t have a fucking rat trap up there? I don’t want to lose a finger.”

“The rat trap is in front, in case you tried to rape me.”

Donaldson grunted, running his hand over bandages, slipping it underneath and inside.

“How far up is it?”

“I don’t know. An inch or two? I lost fifteen percent of my ass in the car wreck. You’ll probably know you’ve found it when your fingers touch a key.”

“Goddamn it.”

“Wouldn’t it be funny if there was no key, D?”

“Asshole. And I mean that in every sense of the word. Wait…okay…I think I got it.”

He retrieved his hand, pinching a not-so-shiny handcuff key. “Explain to me why I had to do this, and not you?”

“I don’t want to get shit all over my hand.”

Swearing, Donaldson moved to unlock the cuffs just as Luther returned.

“Look who’s awake,” Luther said.

Donaldson hid the key under a pile of moldy hay.

Luther walked over and squatted down in front of Lucy and Donaldson. He smiled at Lucy.