But you answered me regardless, Dunlap thought. Oh, you were close enough, all right. Hell, you were nearly there to see it happen. Once you heard the shot and saw that shattered gate, you sped up through it, stopping by the pickup truck and running farther up the trail to find the rancher with his shotgun aimed at several other hippies. Oh, yes, Dunlap could imagine what the scene had been like, the hippies looking down the barrel of the shotgun, terrified, not knowing what to do. If they ran, Wheeler would fire. If they stayed, he'd likely do the same, the rancher too far gone to maintain control, his eyes wide, his face stark, breathing hard and tensing his finger on the trigger. And the two of you, the last thing that you wanted was to shoot the guy. You didn't want him shooting someone else, though, either, even if that someone else was just another hippie, the first one spread out on the ground, his face like someone had squashed a quart of strawberries on it. And the others. Sure, there would have been other hippies from the compound who'd heard the shot and come running through the trees, and when they saw the body, they stumbled back or maybe just froze in shock, and soon the rancher became more nervous, seeing people all around him, hippies, his finger tight on the trigger as he squinted at the two cops who had their guns out, telling him to stop this, inching toward him.

"How'd you manage to take it from him?"

"What?"

"The shotgun. How did you take it?"

Dunlap hoped that the question would appeal to Rettig's pride, but the cop just stared down the highway.

"Some dumb hippie tried to grab him," Rettig said abruptly. "Wheeler turned, and I jumped close to get the shotgun. I had it pointed toward the ground when it went off. It blew up bits of dirt and pine needles. But I had him, and he couldn't work the pump to slide another shell in."

My, my, my, and sure, you didn't have much trouble telling me how well you did, Dunlap thought. He knew that soon he'd have it all, especially what happened to the rancher's son.

"Hey, tell me what you saw up there."

But Rettig didn't answer.

"I mean-"

"Look, I said we'll clear it with the chief first," Rettig told him, and their little game was finished. Dunlap didn't even try again. He sat back, his clothing sweaty against the seat, and watched the country they were passing, flatland mostly, clumps of brush out in the fields. They turned left through an open, listing, wooden gate. Then they were on a weedgrown wagon road, and he heard gunshots, many of them, louder as they sped along the dusty road. Dunlap leaned ahead.

"Trouble?"

But they didn't answer. They sped down a hill, dry red earth on either side, and there were buildings in a hollow: first a modest house, four rooms maybe, with a porch in front, painted white; and then a barn, about the same size as the house, and painted white as well; some kind of shed, and it was white. And all three were beside a fenced-in pasture where two horses shied from what disturbed them in the gully.

Slaughter watched them shooting by the gully. Then he turned to face the medical examiner. "It was a cat, all right. I shot its fucking head off."

The medical examiner narrowed his eyes. 'You're sure?"

"You think I never saw a cat before? The god-damned thing attacked me. Some big torn. I mean a big torn, fifteen pounds at least. And if I hadn't shot it, I'd have had my face scratched off."

The medical examiner scowled. It didn't make sense. Not only the attack, but Slaughter's fierce reaction. And then he understood. Sure, Slaughter must have been terrified. Lying in that hollow, thinking he would end up next like Clifford. He likely hadn't felt that kind of fear since he had worked back in Detroit. He wasn't used to it, and he was angry now because he'd lost control. The medical examiner had never thought of Slaughter's being capable of fear. The thought was oddly new and made the medical examiner feel sympathetic, liking him even more.

Over by the gully, the men continued shooting.

"What about that scratch? You'd better let me have a look at it," the medical examiner said.

But Slaughter only waved the offered hand away. "I fixed it up myself." The scratch was long and deep across his cheek, thickly scabbed and ugly. "Old Doc Markle made me keep a decent first-aid kit out here. Just in case. From when I tried to raise those horses. First I washed it. Then I disinfected it."

"I was thinking about stitches."

"No, it isn't bad enough for that. I should have gone to see you, but all I wanted was to get home."

Slaughter turned toward the sound of the cruiser angling down the red-clay road between the hillocks. Rettig and the new man were in the front. But as Slaughter watched them drawing closer, a dust cloud rising, he could see as well another person, this one in the back, a man in a gray, wrinkled suit, his face-it was obvious even through the dusty windshield-as gray and wrinkled as the suit.

But when the cruiser stopped and they got out, the man hitched up what seemed to be a tape recorder and a camera, and his body wasn't stooped or wasted, and if Slaughter's judgment was correct, his age was forty, forty-five. A face like that, though. Slaughter knew there wasn't any question. This guy was a boozer. Dry and brittle hair, gray like the rest of him.

Slaughter stepped from the porch. "There's some beer inside," he told the medical examiner. "See you later."

"Wait a minute. I have questions."

"Later." Slaughter walked toward the gray-faced man who had the tape recorder and the camera.

Rettig and the new man didn't even bother looking toward the sound of the shots in the gully, but the gray-faced man was staring in that direction.

"We did everything you told us," Rettig said as Slaughter reached them. "Nothing."

"I expected." Slaughter held his hand out. "Mr. Dunlap." And that earned the look that Slaughter had anticipated. Dun-lap was impressed. Slaughter always made a point of keeping track of names. He'd learned that in the city, understanding that a name could mean the difference between trust and panic. "People tell me you've been looking for me."

Dunlap gripped his hand. 'You're a hard man to find."

"Not so hard. You're here, after all." Slaughter smiled, and Dunlap turned once more toward the gunshots in the gully.

"Look, if you don't mind my asking."

"Anything. That's what you're here for," Slaughter said.

"That shooting."

"Target practice. It's a pattern we got into. Saturdays, I have the men I work with out to drink some beer and eat some chili. At the start, though, before they drink the beer, they go back behind the barn and do some target practice. Some towns don't require that, but I insist my men shoot two times a month at least. The shift on duty today will come out next week, and we alternate like that. You care to see?"

As they walked toward the barn, Rettig joined them. "He's been asking about Quiller and the compound."

"I know it," Slaughter said. "Parsons phoned about that. Quiller was before my time. That's why I sent our guest to you."

"He said that he had cleared it, but-"

"You did exactly what you should have. I tried calling on the radio, but evidently you weren't near the cruiser. There's no problem. In your place, I'd have been suspicious, too."

They passed the clean white barn, the gunshots louder, echoing, and then they came around the back, the dirt here hard and brittle, and five men were in jeans and rolled-up shirt sleeves, spread out by the gully, shooting revolvers at tin cans below a ridge across the ditch. The ditch was maybe twenty feet across, the cans another five feet farther on, and three men were reloading, glancing at where Slaughter came with Dunlap and then Rettig past the barn to reach them.