"That's right."

"Lucky break," Harston said.

"If you don't mind losing a friend," Ham said. "I'd rather have had the friend."

"Death comes to us all," Jim said.

There was a murmur of agreement.

"And taxes," Ham echoed.

Nobody said anything.

"What church do you go to over at Orchid?" James asked.

"I don't go," Ham said. "My wife was a Baptist, and I used to go sometimes with her. Me and my Maker seem to get along all right without any meetings on Sunday mornings."

Everyone got quiet again. Ham waited them out.

"You do much shooting?"

"I do some bird hunting from time to time," Ham said.

"Peck says you're quite a shot with a pistol."

"The army trained me. It's like roller skating; you never forget how."

"I never knew anybody who could cut a cattail," Harston said. "Peck told us about your shot."

"I was in an outfit in 'Nam had half a dozen guys who could do that. It helps your accuracy if you're shooting to stay alive."

"I guess it might," Harston said.

It helps if you practice every day, too, Ham thought.

Mrs. Rawlings went into the kitchen again for a few minutes, while the men chatted and the women remained strangely silent, then she came back. "Dinner is served," she said.

Ham followed the group into a large kitchen, with a dining area at one end. A large table had been set there, and it practically groaned with food. Ham took the seat offered him and waited to see if someone would ask a blessing. No one did, so he dug in with the others. "This is very fine cooking, Betty," he said, biting into a fried chicken breast.

"Betty's the finest cook I know," Peck said, biting into his own chicken.

The food was Southern-corn, collard greens, black-eyed peas, cornbread and biscuits, and of course the chicken. Ham ate well, but saved a little room.

"How about some dessert?" Betty asked, as she and the other women cleared away the dishes. "We've got some pecan pie."

"I'd love that, Betty," Ham said.

"Be right back."

"The women'll leave us after dessert," Rawlings said, "then we can talk."

Ham nodded as if he understood. Nothing about this evening so far was any different from a hundred other evenings he'd spent at the home of fellow soldiers, except there had been less drinking. He hadn't been offered a refill after his first bourbon, and iced tea had been served with dinner.

Betty returned with the pie, and when that was gone, coffee. "I've put a pot in your den," she said to her husband.

"Gentlemen, why don't we go in there and have our coffee?" Raw-lings said. He led the way across the living room and into another room that had been paneled in pine and furnished with leather easy chairs.

Ham looked around him and saw the largest private collection of weapons he had ever seen outside a military arsenal. There were hunting rifles and shotguns, but the bulk of the weapons were military-assault rifles, pistols, machine guns. The Barrett's rifle occupied a place of honor over the fireplace.

Ham gave a low whistle. "Hey, Peck, looks like you've been shopping at your own gun show."

Peck gave a little smile and indicated where Ham should sit. "I like to be well armed," he said.

Ham laughed. "That's an understatement."

Peck poured everybody a drink from a decanter. "On the day," he said, "it'll all get used."

The other men raised their glasses. "On the day," they said in unison.

Ham didn't have the slightest idea what they were talking about, but he raised his glass, too. Then everybody sat down.

Peck Rawlings got the ball rolling. "Well, Ham, tell me something: what do you think of our current president of the United States, William Henry Lee?"

Ham said nothing, but held his nose.

Everybody smiled a little.

"I guess you've got some support around here for that opinion," Rawlings said.

"I believe somebody took a shot at him during the campaign," Ham said. "Pity he wasn't a better shot."

"You think his opponent was the better man, then?"

"Yes, but not much better."

"Who would you have preferred?"

"George Wallace, maybe, but he wasn't running, and anyway, he was a little too far to the left for my taste."

Rawlings seemed pleased with that assessment.

"And what do you think of our present form of government?"

"I think it was a great idea that got royally screwed up along the way, especially in the twentieth century."

"I can't say I disagree with you," Rawlings replied.

Ham sipped his brandy.

Mack Harston leaned forward in his chair. "Would you change things, if you could?"

"Sure, but what could I do?"

"Maybe more than you think."

"I'd be interested in hearing about that," Ham said.

"It's better to light a candle than to curse the darkness," Jim said.

"So I've heard, but I'd prefer a flashlight."

"Your proficiency with various weapons might represent a flashlight," Rawlings said, getting up and taking a manila folder from his desk. He sat down again and opened it. "Your service record says you fired Expert with everything the army gave you."

"My service record?" Ham said, genuinely surprised. "You've got my service record?"

"I have," Rawlings said.

"How in the hell did you do that?"

"Let's just say that we've got friends in useful places. I get the impression from reading it that you don't have much compunction about killing."

"I've never had any compunction about killing somebody who needed it, but I don't intend to spend the rest of my life on death row. They say the death penalty isn't a deterrent, but it sure is for me."

"That's a smart way to think," Rawlings said.

The phone on the desk rang, but it was picked up somewhere else in the house. A moment later, Emily Harston came to the door. "It's okay," she said to her husband, then she closed the door.

Ham sipped his brandy. "You planning on killing somebody, Peck?"

Rawlings smiled. "Oh, I'm just speaking hypothetically."

"Okay."

Suddenly Rawlings stood up, placed the file on his desk and turned to Ham. "Well, Ham, it's been a real pleasure having you out here." The others stood up, too.

Ham figured he'd been dismissed, so he stood up, too. "I've enjoyed it. Please tell Betty for me that it was a real fine dinner, and I appreciate the trouble she went to."

"That's what women are for, isn't it?" Rawlings said, leading the group out of the den and toward the front door. On the front steps, he paused and offered Ham his hand.

Ham took it.

"Thanks again for coming," he said.

"Good night," Ham replied and walked out to his truck. He got in, started it, backed out of the driveway and drove away. When he was back on the main road, he opened the glove compartment. His pistol was still there. He drove on slowly toward Orchid Beach.

Then, as he reached the outskirts of town, he saw a vehicle a couple of hundred yards behind him, lit by a streetlight but showing no headlights. "Why, I believe I'm being followed," he said aloud. The vehicle followed him all the way to the turnoff to his little island.

When he reached the house, he went inside, and instantly, he had the feeling that someone had been there. He switched on some lights and walked slowly around the place. The chair where he watched TV in the evenings had been moved. He knew, because there were indentations in the rug where the chair legs had formerly rested. A phone was on the table next to the chair. First, he switched on the TV and found a noisy cop show, then he picked up the telephone receiver and, while holding down the flasher, unscrewed the mouthpiece, then removed the disk that rested there. Behind it was a small electronic something-or-other that had been soldered into place. His phone had been bugged. He gently replaced the disk and screwed the receiver together again.