"Thank you," a woman behind the table would say, as the people laid down their money.

Ham came up with two twenties, put them on the table and got thanked, but no tickets were offered, no hands stamped. They pushed past a canvas flap and stepped inside the big tent.

Holly stopped and blinked. At least three hundred people were milling about among exhibits, and there was a loud murmur of constant conversation. The tent, to her surprise, was air conditioned, and it seemed to be filled with displays of guns-everything from pistols to assault weapons. There were booths with World War II Nazi memorabilia and displays of Confederate swords and uniforms. Everybody was busily doing business, buying and selling.

Holly and Ham exchanged a glance.

"I wasn't expecting this," Ham said.

"Neither was I," she replied, "but if we're going to blend in, we'd better start shopping-window-shopping, at least."

They moved off to their right, toward a large display of black powder handguns.

Ham picked up an old Colt Buntline revolver and handed it to Holly. "Can you imagine wearing that thing on your hip?"

"Nope," Holly said. "Not without developing a list."

They moved slowly on, taking it all in, then Holly stopped and stared. "What the hell is that?" Holly gasped.

Before them lay a weapon a good five feet long, made of black steel, with a stock of some sort of plastic and a very large scope.

"That, my dear, is a Barrett's fifty-caliber rifle," Ham said.

"What is it for?"

"Just about anything you want it to be, I guess. I saw one used during Desert Storm. A sergeant I knew put two phosphorus-tipped shells through an Iraqi armored personnel carrier and blew it to hell. The other carriers in the column stopped, and troops started pouring out of them; they couldn't surrender fast enough." Ham reached into the display, picked up a cartridge and handed it to her. "This is what it fires."

Holly was astonished. The cartridge was six inches long and seemed to weigh half a pound.

"They developed that ammunition for the Browning machine gun in World War One, but it didn't really get used much until World War Two. You can put one of those babies right through an inch and a half of rolled steel armorplate."

Holly set the cartridge back where it came from. "That's downright spooky," she said.

Holly turned to find a fit-looking man in his mid- to late forties standing behind her. His graying hair was cut short, and he was wearing a military-style jumpsuit.

"That thing is hell on wheels," he said. "I've never seen one fired in anger, but I once saw somebody put a round through a six-hundred-pound safe, and I mean all the way through." He turned to Ham. "You say you saw it fired in Iraq?"

"I sure did," Ham said.

"What was it like?"

"Awful, for the men in the carrier. I was a mile away, with the shooter. He said he could hit a playing card with it from that distance."

"A good shooter can hit a playing card from twice that distance, in no wind, if he has time to bracket," the man said.

"From two miles?" Holly asked.

"I kid you not, little lady."

Holly thought he had a lot of balls calling her that, since he wasn't quite as tall as she.

The man turned to Ham and stuck out his hand. "I'm Peck Rawlings," he said.

Ham shook his hand. "Ham Barker. This is my daughter, Holly."

Rawlings nodded at where Ham's stripes used to be. "You ex-military?"

"We both are," Ham said. "I put in thirty-eight years, and Holly did a double sawbuck."

"What kind of service?"

"I was in Special Forces for a long time, then I trained a lot of folks, and then they started pushing a lot of paper at me."

"Yeah, they'll do that," he said.

"What about you?"

"Oh, nothing exotic. I was just a grunt noncom. What about you, little lady?"

"I commanded an MP battalion," she said, "and if you keep calling me that, you're going to get even shorter."

The man gave her a shocked look, then burst out laughing.

"Holly doesn't take any shit from anybody," Ham said.

Rawlings bowed from the waist. "I apologize, ma'am," he said. "Just a figure of speech."

Holly nodded, and as she did, they were joined by two other men.

"Oh," Rawlings said, "these are my neighbors, Jim Cross and James Farrow."

Hands were shaken all around.

"What brings you folks to our little event?" Rawlings asked narrowly, and it was clear he wanted an answer.

"We didn't come to your event," Ham said. "We were just looking for some bass fishing, and we saw the lake on the map and just wandered down this way. Haven't seen the lake, yet. What's the fishing like?"

"Not bad, but nothing to write home about," Rawlings said. "That's a nice pickup you're driving."

"Ford'll sell you one," Ham said, "but not cheap."

"Where do you folks hail from?"

"Over at Orchid Beach, in Indian River County."

"Oh, yeah, that's pretty ritzy over there, isn't it?"

"Some parts are," Ham said.

"What do you do over there?"

"Every day, I explore the meaning of the word 'retired,'" Ham said.

"So do I," Holly chipped in.

"What sort of little town you got here?" Ham asked.

"A homogeneous one." Rawlings chuckled.

"I didn't see it on the map."

"That's the way we like it. You know, I can't remember anybody ever turning up here who didn't have an invitation."

Ham turned to Holly. "Well, I guess we're intruding here, babe; let's take a hike."

Rawlings threw up his hands in a placating manner. "Hold on, now, Sarge; I didn't mean any offense. It's just that this is a private affair, here, and we're unaccustomed to visitors."

"Sorry, I never heard of a private gun show," Ham said.

"Well, it is, but we're glad to have you. Just go on and wander around and pick up some hardware for yourself, if you're in the market. When you get ready to leave, though, I'd appreciate it if you'd check with me, so I can clear you out."

Ham looked at Holly. "You want to stay?"

Holly shrugged.

"All right, we'll have a look around," Ham said. "Thanks."

"And we're going to have a little firepower demonstration a little later," Rawlings said, "if you're interested."

"I'll let you know. C'mon, Holly." They walked slowly on around the big tent. "Well," Ham said, "I guess we're getting the feel of the place."

"Not a very good feeling, is it?" Holly asked.

"You notice anything unusual about this crowd?" Ham asked.

"You mean the lack of anybody any color darker than pink?"

"That, and the absence of any girls in cutoffs with bare bellies or guys with nose rings. I mean, this is still Florida, right?"

"It reminds me of the crowd at a PX," Holly said, "absent the people of color."

"I guess I've gotten so used to what you might call a more diverse population of former hippies and current rappers that I find it strange to be in this crowd. And it's not exactly comforting, either."

"I know what you mean."

They looked at weapon after weapon, at ammunition-loading kits, at holsters, at collections of knives and at more than one collection of Nazi memorabilia.

"I don't think I've ever seen this many Lugers in one place," Holly said.

"Me neither." Ham looked to his right. "What's going on?"

The crowd had thinned, and now people were streaming out the back entrance of the tent. There had been no announcement, no signal.

"Let's find out," Holly said. She and Ham went with the flow, and soon they were back in the humid Florida outdoors, walking down a broad path through pines. Shortly they emerged into a large clearing and stopped in their tracks.

"Good God!" Holly said under her breath.