The two other hookers, who had been hiding in the hall, finally came into the kitchen, helped the pimp to his feet and dragged the unconscious woman out the front door.

“You set foot in this town again and I guarantee you I will put a bullet in you,” Sturm said from the front steps. The two hookers dumped their business associates in the back seat and were smart enough not to say anything, just slammed the doors. The minivan took off with a jerk and a cloud of dust and gravel. They didn’t even turn on the headlights until they were safely down the long driveway.

* * * * *

Sturm pulled Frank aside. “Listen, do me a favor, would you? Would you go out and find my son, make sure he’s okay? Maybe even talk to him. I’d ask one of the boys, but I think Theo’s been through enough tonight. They’re liable to give him a hard time, and you, well, I think you got enough sense to realize…well, hell he’s at that age, you know. Don’t want to listen to anybody, really, much less his father.”

“Sure.” Frank went down the stairs and stood at the far edge of the garden for a few moments, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. A few minutes ago, his head had been swimming merrily along thanks to the fifth of rum. But now, standing out in the dark under enough stars to make a man go mad, he suddenly felt uncomfortably sober. His sweat felt cold and he shivered. The crickets were quiet. Even the mosquitoes had holed up for the night.

Truth was, he was scared. He didn’t think he’d been this nervous since he’d had to talk to the cops outside the gas station. Theo was one goddamn cruel bastard. At least, with the clowns, you could see it coming if they lost their temper. With Sturm’s son, you never knew what the hell he was thinking. Frank wouldn’t put it past him to fling a pitchfork or something just because he didn’t want to be bothered.

So Frank took his time and moved as quietly as he could. The barn loomed in front of him, dark as a tomb. He stepped inside the open door, skin on his neck crawling as he realized he must be silhouetted against the lights of the house. Once inside, he could hear nothing but Sarah contentedly chewing on hay.

He crept along the aisle, eyes straining in the palpable blackness. The fear grew. He couldn’t help but wonder if Theo was watching him, stalking him. A tiny spot on his back, right between his shoulder blades grew hot and tight, as if there was a laser sight pointed right at him. He whipped around, but the aisle was empty.

The horse stopped chewing and watched him warily for a moment.

In the sudden silence, Frank could hear something else. From out back. Out behind barn. Where they had left the lion. A hushed grunt. Then, hissed between clenched teeth, “See? See? I told you, you bitch. I told you.”

Frank swallowed. Sarah put her head down and tore off another mouthful of alfalfa. Frank moved to the far end of the barn, gently easing his boots through the dust. The hoarse grunts continued. “You. You. You.”

Frank peered through a crack in the sliding door. Out in the grass, under the stars, Theo had his jeans down around his knees and was hunched over the back of the dead lion, fucking it. His white ass pummeled lion, making the big cat’s corpse shudder with each thrust. “You. You. You.” Theo said every time he slammed into the lion.

Frank had seen enough. He’d seen more than enough. He doubted that all the rum in Jamaica would erase the image. He tried not to run back to house, acutely aware that if Theo knew he’d been seen, he’d probably kill whoever was watching him. When Frank got back to the garden, he forced himself to stop for a moment, collect himself, slow his heart, watch his breathing. He went back up on the deck, got himself a beer, and told Sturm he couldn’t find Theo.

DAY SEVENTEEN

Frank dosed half a pound of ground lamb with Acepromazine and fed it to two more cats and the tiger early in the morning. They loaded the first of the lionesses and hauled her back to the ranch.

This time, it was Fairfax’s turn. He’d managed to squeeze back into his new clothes. By now, everyone knew his boots hurt like hell. Pine stationed himself by the horse trailer, while Chuck was a good twenty yards away at the pickup, and they had some fun calling him back and forth, asking Fairfax to watch the lioness for a moment, then calling him back over to the pickup to ask him what kind of caliber he thought was the best. Fairfax never did figure it out. He just thought they were being nice to him because it was his turn, and so he just kept hobbling around.

Like before, Frank and Pine opened the gate and swung it back around while everyone else waited with their rifles back by the pickups. No one was ready. Everybody expected the lioness to simply sit there, like with Theo. But with a streak of tan fur, the lioness erupted from the trailer and was simply gone, as if the cat was bending the light somehow, slipping through the morning sunlight in a hazy mirage.

It leaped over the barbed wire fence and was halfway to the house before Fairfax had even gotten his eye through a scope. As soon as he caught a glimpse of the animal, he fired, jerking repeatedly on the trigger of the semi-auto like he was scratching a nasty itch. But it was like trying to shoot a bumblebee out of your yard with a slingshot.

Bullets exploded into the back of Sturm’s house, spiraling through wood siding, concrete, glass. Sturm shouted into the gunfire, but Fairfax either wouldn’t stop or couldn’t hear. Finally, Chuck and Sturm jerked up their rifles and fired. The lioness went down in the garden. The gunfire died.

“I got it! I got it!” Fairfax screamed.

“You didn’t shoot shit, dickhead,” Pine said. “Fuck, it’d be halfway to Idaho by now if it was up to you.”

“What the hell is the matter with you?” Sturm ripped the rifle out of Fairfax’s pudgy hands. “You. Stupid. Goddamn. Asshole. You’re paying for all that damage, so help me God.”

Fairfax stood stock still, mouth open, realization sinking in like concrete in his veins. He licked his lips a few times, but nothing came out.

Sturm glared at him. “You fucking stupid, or do you just not give a shit?”

“I…I…oh good Lord.”

The men tried to hold it in, but snorts of laughter escaped anyway, sounding like they were trying to suck snot from somewhere up near their brain. Sturm growled through his teeth, whirled, and flung the rifle as far as he could into the field. Frank figured Fairfax was lucky Sturm didn’t just shoot him. Without another word, Sturm climbed into the Jeep. Theo started it up and everyone followed it back to the house.

* * * * *

They found Sturm on his knees in the dog pen, a little enclosure wrapped in chicken wire, set off in the back of the yard. Frank hadn’t realized that Sturm even had a dog until he saw Sturm cradling the black lab’s head. Frank immediately saw how a bullet had torn through the dog’s guts lengthwise. Bluish gray intestines had spilled out in a wash of blood on the concrete. The dog was still alive, breathing in low, keening sounds.

Sturm stood up, pinching at the bridge of his nose. He yanked his rifle out of the Jeep, shoved it up into Fairfax’s chest, eyes searing holes in the lawyer’s skull like a kid burning ants with a magnifying glass. “This is your doing. Now you finish the job, you sonofabitch.”

Fairfax’s fingers clasped the rifle against his will, but he knew better than to protest. He looked like he wanted to throw up. He stumbled over to the dog pen, put the barrel against the dog’s head, just in front of the soft ear, closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger. Afterwards, he couldn’t move, just stood there with his head down, shoulders hitching once in a while. Bob Bronson went inside and pretended he didn’t know him.