"Nothing, at first. Don't ask too many questions. Let him tell you."

"You want me to be sneaky, huh?"

Holly laughed. "Real sneaky."

"That's one of the things I do best."

"Okay, I want to know how many of them there are, where they came from, how they support themselves, and anything else you can find out."

"I guess I can find out most of that just by going out there again."

"I guess so."

"But if I start asking him where he's from, he'll get suspicious."

"Right."

"Something else he's going to be suspicious about, kiddo."

"What's that?"

"You."

"Me?"

"He's got to read the papers and watch TV. Pretty soon, he's going to figure out who you are and that the man they shot in the bank meant something to you."

"How are you going to handle that?"

"Well, I've got to tell him something. You want him to think you're a closet Nazi or something?"

"You might let him think that I'm not totally averse to his views."

"I guess I could do that. You think he'll buy it?"

"When he finds out I'm the chief of police, he's going to be cautious."

"I guess he might be."

"Maybe you better bring it up, so he won't find out from somebody else."

"Okay." Ham took a bite of fish. "I think it might be best if I let him know, somewhere along the line, that I didn't approve of Jackson much and that that was a sore spot with you."

"Good idea. I don't think he liked me too much when we met."

Ham chuckled. "Well, when you offered to make him shorter, that probably didn't go down all that well."

"He'll have me pegged as somebody he can never trust."

"I guess he will."

"So you've got to make out, one way or another, that you and I aren't as close as we could be."

"I guess I can do that."

"I wish there were some other way to do this, but I think Harry Crisp is right: it would take too long to put an FBI agent in there."

"Probably."

"Ham?"

"Yep?"

"See if you can find out if this outfit has a name. That could be a big help."

"You mean, if they call themselves the United White Brothers of the Klan, that could tell you something?"

Holly laughed. "No, I mean if they have a name, we can use it to find out more about them. There are people who track extreme organizations, keep files on them."

"Okay, I'll see what I can do."

Holly looked at her watch. "I've got to get back to work. Call me when he leaves, will you?"

"I will."

She gave him a big kiss on his forehead. "Don't piss him off, Ham; I wouldn't want to lose you."

Ham selected a weapon, field-stripped it and spread the parts out on a towel draped over a table on his back porch. Then he waited.

At six o'clock sharp, there was a loud knock on the front door, and a male voice yelled, "Ham?"

"Yo!" Ham yelled back, then went to the door, wiping his hands on a paper towel.

Peck Rawlings stood on the front porch, a thick envelope tucked under one arm. "Hey, there."

"Hey, Peck, come on in," Ham said, opening the door. "Come on out on the back porch. Can I get you a drink?"

"Well, I guess the sun is over the yardarm," Rawlings replied. "Sure, if you've got some Scotch."

"Go on outside and grab yourself a chair, while I pour." Ham went to the kitchen, poured himself a bourbon and Rawlings a Scotch, then joined him.

Rawlings was bent over the table, examining the pistol. "What the hell is that?" he asked.

Ham handed him his drink, set his own down, quickly reassembled the pistol, screwed on the silencer, and handed it to Rawlings. "There you go."

Rawlings examined the evil-looking.22 automatic. "Jesus, Ham, that's an assassin's weapon. Where'd you get it?"

"Oh, when I was in 'Nam I ran a few errands for the Company, and they issued me the thing. Somehow, it got lost, and they never got it back. Pretty pissed off, they were."

"I can imagine."

"They were manufactured in small numbers-handmade, really- specifically for the Company. They were used in wet work all over the world, I believe." He took the pistol back from Rawlings, shoved in a clip, and worked the action. He took aim from the porch at a stand of cattails and fired, making only a tiny pfft sound, and cutting the head neatly off a cattail. "That was a.22 Magnum round, believe it or not." He handed the pistol back to Rawlings. "Try it."

Rawlings took aim at a cattail, fired a round, and missed. He handed the pistol back. "That's really something," he said.

"A little different from your Barrett's rifle, but it gets the job done. And nowhere on it is there a serial number or any mark that would identify who made it."

"I don't suppose you'd like to sell it?"

"You'd have to pry it from my cold dead hand," Ham said.

"I don't blame you."

"Sit down and drink your drink, Peck."

The two men settled themselves and sipped their whiskey.

Ham said nothing, just looked out at the Indian River. He'd wait for Rawlings to get around to it.

"Pretty place you got here," Rawlings said, finally.

"Yep, I sure love it."

"How'd you ever come by it?"

"The easy way. Fellow I was in the army with died and left it to me."

"You're a lucky guy."

"I sure am."

Rawlings was quiet for another moment, then he shoved the thick envelope across the table to Ham. "I brought you something to read."

Ham opened the envelope and shook out a book. "Ah, The Turner Diaries, " he said. "I read it twice, years ago." He shoved it back across the table.

"No, keep it. That's an autographed copy," Rawlings said.

"Well, thank you, Peck. I'll treasure it."

"What did you think of the book?"

Ham had read it when he'd found a buck sergeant who served under him reading it. He thought it was the most outrageous collection of lies, bigotry and downright trash he'd ever come across. "Prescient," he said. "The naked truth, well told."

Rawlings grinned. "It sure is, ain't it?"

"It is."

"Ham, I think you're my kind of guy."

You do, do you? Ham thought. You go right on thinking that. "What kind of guy are you, Peck?" he asked.

"Me and my friends are what you might call patriots," Rawlings said. "In our fashion."

"And what fashion is that?"

"You might say we're working toward the goals expressed in that book," Rawlings said.

"And just how do you go about doing that?" Ham asked, looking curious. "Without getting sent to prison, I mean."

"Slowly, carefully, and above all, quietly."

"I should think so," Ham said, nodding. "I've often wondered if there was anybody actually doing anything."

"More than you might imagine," Rawlings said.

"That's interesting to hear."

"Just how interesting, Ham?"

"Very interesting. Tell me more."

Rawlings shook his head. "Not right now," he said. "You and I will have to get to know each other better before I can do that. You'll recall I said that we work carefully."

"Sure, I understand. You go right on doing that."

"With that in mind, I'd like to know a little more about your daughter."

"Holly?"

"Right, Holly. She seemed to me to be a little-"

"Annoying?" Ham ventured.

"If you'll forgive me saying so, yes, annoying."

"Well, Holly's not the smartest girl who ever came along. I mean, she's my daughter and all, but we've never seen eye to eye about a lot of things, so we don't see all that much of each other."

"Looks like you go fishing together."

"That's about all we have in common," Ham said. "If we can get through a couple of hours of fishing without getting into an argument, we're doing well."

"What do you argue about?"

"Well, politics, and, until recently, her boyfriend."