"That's what I'm gonna prove to you, dumbhead. Just listen. There's a cop from Minneapolis working with the FBI on this case. His name is Lucas Davenport"-she spelled it for him-"and he's a deputy chief from Minneapolis. I had a run-in with him up there, and he chased me out of my bar in Wichita. Now he's down here helping the federales. You got that much?"

"Yeah." He was typing like crazy, the computer keys rattling in the phone.

"Okay. Here's how I prove who I am. I called him this morning about ten o'clock from East St. Louis and talked to him about the case. He told me that his fiancйe is pregnant. I called him at the FBI building."

"Pregnant. Jesus. Are you kidding? Is this really Rinker?" His voice was rising; he was starting to believe.

"Yeah. This is Rinker. If you call Davenport and ask him about his fiancйe, he'll confirm that I called him and that nobody else could know about it. About that part of the discussion. Now, I have a statement, okay?"

"Go."

"What?"

"Go with the statement," White said.

"Oh. Okay. Um, the FBI arrested my brother Gene in California on some made-up drug charge. Gene isn't right in the head. He never has been. He's not stupid, but he's just not in this world, you got that? And he's claustrophobic. They are torturing him by putting him in jail. He's an innocent kid, and they're torturing him because they think that will make me surrender. But I won't. I will tell you and everybody else this: If anything happens to Gene-he's just like a helpless kid-if anything happens to him, the blood is on their hands and I will wash it off them, one at a time. One at a time, off them and off their families. Off the FBI people who've done this."

"Go ahead."

"That's all I've got."

"You say the drug charges are bullshit?"

"You sure swear a lot, for the telephone," Rinker said.

"Sorry. I'm kind of excited."

"Okay. Ask them, the FBI, about the charge on Gene. Gene never had more than a single doobie in his whole poor life. He never had more than ten dollars. When was the last time you saw somebody dragged from California to St. Louis in orange prison overalls and chains because he had a doobie?"

"Okay."

"Oh, and something else. The FBI are all over a guy named Andy Levy from First Heartland, because they think I'm going to kill him next. But I'm not going to. Andy used to handle money for me, but he hasn't for a long time. I just wanted to talk to him."

"First Heartland?"

"Yes. Andy's a vice president at First Heartland, and he does the banking for the Mafia here in St. Louis. The FBI knows that, and they've got him protected because they hope they can catch me. But they're wasting their time. I've got no interest in Andy."

"Holy shit. First Heartland."

"There you go again."

"Sorry, but listen… Who are you going to kill next? I'd like to send a photographer."

Rinker laughed-almost like a quick cough. The guy had some balls. "I gotta go."

"Let me read this back."

"I don't have time. But you talk to Davenport."

"I don't… What, uh… why in the hell is a guy from Minneapolis down here?"

"The FBI brought him down because they think he's the most likely guy to catch me."

"Are they right?"

"Maybe. But he hasn't caught me yet, and he's had his chances."

RINKER ARRIVED BACK at Pollock's in time to see Pollock climb the porch steps and then disappear inside. She pulled her car in a tight U-turn, took it down the dirt driveway to the garage, hopped out, lifted the door, and parked. When she let herself into the house, Pollock was in the kitchen. Pollock leaned into her line of sight and called, "You okay?"

"I'm good," Rinker said.

"Got a hornet's nest going," Pollock said.

Rinker looked at her for a minute, then said, "If you think I should go…"

"I just think you should lay low for a few days," Pollock said. She came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishcloth. "I heard on the radio about you calling the FBI. There are cops all over that truck stop, if that was really you."

"It's on TV?"

"It's everywhere on TV," Pollock said. "They're taking fingerprints, they're talking to witnesses. They're making a sketch of you from witnesses."

"All right," Rinker said. "Soon as it gets dark, I'm gonna take off for a while. I'll be gone two or three days, outa here."

"I don't want to know where you're going."

But she did; and Rinker said, "Anniston, Alabama, the garden spot of the Deep South."

"I been there. I don't remember no garden," Pollock said.

"That's okay, because I'm not going after carrots," Rinker said. "I'm going to see an old Army buddy."

Malone had put together an approach to Levy, and one of the feds was doing a PowerPoint presentation on Levy's connections in the overground banking world and his possible ties with underground money-laundering activities. Levy's private-client list had turned up a vein of investment by people tied to organized crime. A three-man team had put together a half-hour-long briefing after six hours of financial research.

The team was taking questions when a silent strobe began flashing on a phone on a corner table. Malone was irritated by the interruption, but she was closest. She leaned back and picked up the receiver, listened for a second, and then looked at Lucas. "Marcy wants to talk to you. Problem at your office," she said in a quiet voice. She'd met Marcy during the Rinker investigation in Minneapolis.

"Sorry. She should have called me on the cell." Lucas walked around the table and took the call, half-turned his back to the guy making the presentation, pushed the hold button, and said, quietly, "Marcy?"

"Lucas?" Didn't sound like Marcy, unless she'd developed a cold.

"Yeah… Is this Marcy?"

"No, actually it's not, Lucas."

It took him just a second. In that second, he remembered what she smelled like, the nice smell of perfume and a little beer, the time they danced in her Wichita saloon. "How've you been?"

Lucas started waving frantically at Mallard, who looked puzzled for a second, then caught on. He said, silently, miming the name with his lips, "Rinker?"

Lucas nodded, but missed part of what Rinker had said. He caught, "… you should know about that."

Around him, the feds were scrambling for phones and one man dashed out the door, a yellow legal pad spinning to the floor behind him.

"Yeah, I heard you were hit pretty bad," Lucas said. His heart was pounding, but he thought, Cool down, cool down. She's too smart to give herself away. He groped for something that would make a human connection and keep her talking. "I'm really sorry about the baby," he said. "My fiancйe is pregnant… I'm doing that whole trip myself. Gonna get married in the fall."

One of the feds looked up at that and gave him the thumb-and-forefinger attaboy circle-sign. He could hear Malone mumbling into a phone: "Need an immediate trace on the call…"

Rinker said, "Your fiancйe-anybody I'd know?"

"No. She's a doctor. Pretty tough girl. You'd probably like her."

"Maybe… but to cut the b.s., I just wanted to call you and to tell you to keep Gene out of this. I knew the federales were going to get involved, I wasn't surprised when I saw that woman Malone in the paper, but we all know that Gene isn't quite right. Putting him in jail won't help anything. I'm not going to come in-you can't blackmail me. But you can tell whoever's running that show over there that I take Gene real personally, and if they mess him up, if they put him in prison, or hurt him, or do any of that, then they better look to their families. I won't try to blow up the president. I'll start killing agents' husbands and wives, and you know I'll do it."