Wyatt, for some reason, didn’t lift his glass to his lips.

  HERB

  This time, they came with guns.

  Guns trumped a shock pole, and Herb surrendered on behalf of himself, and Tequila, who’d passed out again.

  Herb expected to plead for Tequila’s life, but the guards showed no intention of shooting the unconscious man. Instead, they had a wagon on the back of the ATV. Tequila was hoisted onto that, and Herb was pulled along behind them, a wire loop around his neck. Luckily, the added weight of Tequila meant the vehicle crept along at walking speed. As long as Herb didn’t trip over something and fall, he was able to keep up without strangling.

  If he had any doubt he was back in the USA, the doubt vanished when he and Tequila were taken over a slight slope, and Herb kicked a beer bottle.

  The faded label was instantly recognizable.

  Old Style.

  Old Style was a cheap, mass market beer, like Budweiser or Miller. But it didn’t have the nationwide reach of those brands. Old Style was regional. A Midwest thing.

  Could they actually be in Illinois?

  The landscape didn’t seem familiar. Herb knew Illinois, even the southern part that consisted of a thirty million acre cornfield. And it didn’t have the woodsy terrain of Wisconsin or Minnesota.

  Iowa, maybe? One of the Dakotas? Nebraska?

  The thought that Herb might be less than five hundred miles away from his home in Chicago was the most depressing thought he ever had. He felt like crying.

  What was that Greek myth?

  Tantalus. Condemned to stand for eternity in a pool of water with a fruit tree over his head. When he reached for the fruit to eat, it pulled away. When he stooped to drink, the water receded.

  A mile or so later, gasping for air as they crested an endless, gradual slope, Herb was able to get his clearest look at his surroundings since his escape. Off in the distance, to the east, there was a house. And to the west, dotting the plains, a speckling of white dots.

  Turbines.

  A wind farm.

  So close. And so far away.

  Herb yelled. Loud as he could.

  He didn’t expect to be heard.

  He didn’t expect to be rescued.

  Herb yelled to prove he was still there. Still alive. Still relevant.

  He yelled for his friend, Tequila, who against all odds was still defying death.

  He yelled for injustice. For bad luck. But also for the opportunity and privilege of being born. For living, up until this point, a damn fine life.

  Herb Benedict took all that made him human, that made him him, and let it loose in a single, soul-baring, heartbreaking cry to the universe.

  The universe didn’t notice.

  Then his catch pole shocked him, dropping Herb to his knees, and he was dragged for a few meters before the ATV stopped and he was able to stand up again, neck and throat aching, palms skinned.

  Herb kept going. But he knew it didn’t matter.

  After that yell, he was empty.

  He had nothing left.

  YURI

  Vehicle, approaching from the south,” Dmitri said.

  Yuri checked the time. It was early. He pressed the intercom button. “Is it them?”

  “Da. Yes.”

  Yuri set down the opium pipe. He was feeling no pain, but still judged himself clear-headed enough for this transaction. After a quick check of his desk, he located the battery operated disc sander, and then went to meet the arrivals.

  They came in a large grapple truck; a construction vehicle that resembled a dump truck, but with a mechanical arm and crane attached to the cab, allowing it to load itself.

  Yuri approached, flanked by two of his men. None of them were armed. And why would they be? There was nothing illegal about what was about to transpire. And Yuri didn’t care what these people thought of his land train. In a few days, Yuri will be across the ocean, five thousand miles away.

  No, this wasn’t the transaction he had to worry about. That will come later. That’s the big gamble.

  This was nothing more than a side bet. Albeit, an essential one.

  Yuri had never met the man he’s dealing with, a metal scrapper named Melvin who owned a company called TungCore. He approached the truck with a practiced smile. Yuri wanted to foster a good relationship. One that might well continue into the next decade.

  A man exited the cab. He was short, stout, wearing overalls and a weary face. MELVIN was stenciled on the left breast of his blue work shirt. He took a long look at the LeTourneau, then acknowledged Yuri and extended his hand.

  “Welcome, by friend,” Yuri said, shaking it enthusiastically.

  “Ain’t that the damnedest thing. A train with no track.” He looked at Yuri. “You George?”

  George was the Western equivalent of Yuri, in case Melvin had some prejudice against dealing with a Belarusian.

  “I am.”

  “I’m Mel. This is my associate, Greg.”

  Greg was tall, lanky, and looked every bit as tired as Melvin.

  “How was your trip?” Yuri asked, ever the cordial businessman.

  “Long. And confusing. Never traveled by latitude and longitude before.”

  “Sorry for the trouble.” Yuri was trying his best to sound as American as possible. “Damn train broke down here, we’re still doing repairs. Thanks for meeting us.”

  “No problem, buddy. For an order this big, I would have driven all the way down to Brazil. Where do you want it?”

  “In the last car, on the end. My guys can help. But do you mind if I…” Yuri raised the grinder.

  “Of course. This way.”

  Melvin led him to the rear of the truck, to the tailgate. It had a pin lock in it the width of Yuri’s wrist. The man Melvin brought along, Greg, pulled the pin and the two men lowered it, revealing the payload.

  Yuri was surprised by how shiny the rods were. And how small.

  “This is twenty tons?” Yuri said.

  “Yes sir. It’s a heavy sucker. Twice the weight of lead. Almost as tough as diamonds. You need a hand up there?”

  Yuri was only paying half-attention, and already climbing up the rear ladder, into the dump bed.

  The eight rods were each six feet long, thick as a tree, and the sun reflecting off them seemed even brighter than the actual sun.

  Yuri crawled to the end of the nearest rod, switched on his grinder, and touched the sanding disc to it, leaning in hard.

  There were sparks, but not many, and the color was dark orange. The grinder could cut through a crowbar in less than a minute. But when Yuri turned it off, there wasn’t a scratch on the rod. He checked the grinding wheel, and saw that much of it had worn away.

  This was the real thing.

  “This is… perfect,” Yuri said.

  “Glad to hear it, George. As you can guess, it isn’t the easiest metal to work with. Especially making rods this size.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “And the price per pound has gone up since we took the order, but of course I’m honoring our original agreement. With delivery, we’re looking at four hundred and sixty thousand dollars.”

  Yuri nodded. He climbed out of the truck bed, and snapped his fingers. One of his men, Grigori, brought over his laptop.

  It took five minutes to make the bank transfer. Normally, the process took less than three minutes, but Yuri kept hitting the wrong keys.

  His mind was elsewhere. Back in Belarus.

  “Thank you for your business, George. Put them in the last car, you said?”

  Yuri nodded, unable to take his eyes off the rods.

  “I gotta ask this. What in the world do you need eight, two and a half ton tungsten carbide rods for?”

  Yuri smiled, thinking of President Lukashenko. “They’re a surprise. For an old friend.”

  Melvin scratched his head. “Oooookay. Well, I hope your friend likes them.”

  “Melvin,” Yuri said, “these are going to absolutely blow him away.”

  JACK

  All I’m saying,” I told Harry, “is I don’t trust the guy.”

  Wyatt had left us, yet again, to go to the bathroom. Yet again.

  “Because he keeps going to the shitter?” McGlade said. “Maybe he has irritable bowel syndrome. Or has to put out a fire.”

  “Huh?”

  “Wring the zinger. Uncap the mushroom. Make the bladder gladder. You know. Piss. All that booze has to go somewhere.”

  McGlade had a point. Wyatt had made some serious dents in the whiskey, the Jägermeister, and a recently introduced bottle of Cuervo.

  “What about the spur?” I asked. “Spurs jingle, and in Wyatt’s gunfight story he said it was crazy quiet that night. Not even the crickets out. Remember? So how could the Cowboy have snuck up on him? Wyatt would have heard him coming.”

  McGlade poured more Red Bull. “Brilliant deduction, Holmes. The jury is sure to convict and recommend the death penalty, based on that rock solid evidence.” He took a sip, made a sound of approval, and drained it. “C’mon, Jack. Guy slips up once, and he’s automatically the villain? That only happens in trashy thriller novels.”

  I wasn’t convinced. “It’s more than a slip-up. It’s a lie.”

  “Everyone lies when telling stories. It’s called taking creative embellishment liberties. Or something. You don’t just tell your buddies you scored. You tell them you scored with the hottest chick ever, who was amazing in bed, and then her twin sister joined you. Which actually happened to me. Twice.”

  “So you believe him?”

  “I believe everyone. And I believe no one. But most of all, I believe I’ll have another Jäger Bomb. That would be a good title for something, wouldn’t it? Maybe I’ll pitch it to my agent.”

  Harry got up and walked around the bar, hunting for more Red Bull. While his head was down he said, “Holy shit, Jack. I think you may be right about him.”

  “What?” I stood up to see what Harry had found.

  With dramatic flourish, Harry set a bottle of beer on the counter.

  “Old Style,” he said. “You can’t trust anyone who drinks Old Style.”

  I wasn’t impressed. Harry shrugged and pinched off the cap with his robot hand, then took a swig.

  “I hate this beer. Have I ever made you try Sam Adams Utopias? Two-fifty a bottle, but worth every penny. Best beer ever.”

  “You pay two hundred and fifty dollars for a bottle of beer, and then wonder why you’re broke.”

  “I don’t wonder at all. I know exactly why I’m broke. I have impulse control problems and I make bad decisions.”

  “Speaking of,” I said. “Heckle and Jeckle. What’s their story?”

  “You mean, why do they seem like creepy, telepathic serial killers in training?”

  I nodded.

  “They answered an ad. Knew who I was. Were willing to work for free. I ran their backgrounds. Sealed juvee records, but nothing recent. You got a bad feeling about them, too?”

  I shrugged, and drank more whiskey.

  “You don’t think I’d notice if I hired two lunatics to work for me?”

  “You married a lunatic.”

  “I explained that. Impulse control and bad decisions. But it’s not really my fault. I didn’t think women could be serial killers, because; sexism.”

  “I think you’re the first guy to use sexism as a defense.”

  “Equal doesn’t mean same. I’m a feminist, but there are some big differences between the sexes. Men tend to be more violent.”

  I’d heard this argument before. “Women can be violent.”

  “I said more violent. You don’t see women starting wars, torturing prisoners, or grabbing an AR-14 and firing into a crowd.”

  “Putting women on a pedestal is its own shitty kind of sexism.”

  “I’m not saying women aren’t horrible. They are. Look what you just did to your poor husband. But there’s a big difference between being an asshole and ethnic cleansing. Yes, there are female serial killers. Yes, there are women in prison, many for violent offenses. But there are twelve times as many men in prison. That’s not sexism. We’re just worse than you.”

  As a rule, I didn’t like to agree with Harry. But considering the number of men I arrested, vs. women, I understood his point.

  “I still think there’s something going on with Wyatt.”

  “Sure there is. It’s called chemistry. He’s really hot. And I’m betting Phin hasn’t tapped that in a while.”

  At the other end of the great room, Wyatt was coming back. A woman on his arm.

  “Why do you say that?” I asked Harry.

  “Because there are no men’s magazines called Fupa.”

  “You’re a dick.”

  “I know. I hate myself, remember? But it’s always good to be reminded how much I suck.”

  “Jill,” Wyatt said on approach, “Harry, I’d like you to meet my sister. Annie.”

  Annie was brunette, long hair that hung past her collarbone, and much shorter than her brother. Like Wyatt, she wore jeans and a flannel shirt, though hers was green, and she filled her clothes out in an angular, rather than curvy, way. Unlike Wyatt, she wasn’t wearing a belt or gun holster, and she approached as if walking wasn’t something she did much of.

  Harry actually stood up—I’d never seen him stand for a woman before—and immediately stuck out his hand. “Miss Steinhoffer, it’s a pleasure.”

  Her eyes lit up when she saw him, and she shook enthusiastically. I also took her hand, and found her grip to be firm and assured, but a bit moist. And there was something… odd, about her face. Then I remembered her ordeal with the Cowboy, and all the pulled teeth. She must have had some major orthodontia work done, and it left her jawline somewhat asymmetrical.

  “Nice to meet you both,” she said. Her voice lacked the energy of her handshake.

  “Thank you for agreeing to this interview,” said Harry. “I can only guess how difficult it is for you.”

  So Harry was attempting charm to make sure she’d go on camera.

  “Anything I can do to catch that psychopath, I’m willing to do.”

  “Is now a good time? I can call my guys in.”

  Annie nodded. “Actually, I’d like to get it over with. Not just because of the bad memories, but I’ve had a long day.”

  Harry stepped away to use his cell and Wyatt said, “Annie volunteers at the dog shelter in town.”

  Annie smiled, which unfortunately looked distorted and scary. Poor thing. “Chasing after dogs all day can wear a girl out.”

  “You’re an animal lover?” I asked.

  “Of course.”

  “And you hunt?”

  Annie stared at me like I’d asked her to lasso the moon.

  “These stuffed trophies,” I said, indicating the nearest taxidermy bear. “Wyatt said they were yours.”

  Annie nodded. “I bought them. I didn’t hunt them. They’re antiques.”

  “Ah, I see. I was under the impression you shot them.”

  She smiled that creepy smile again. “What fun is shooting something that can’t shoot back?”

  What an odd thing to say. I excused myself to go to the bathroom, and Wyatt asked if I needed help finding it.

  “I’ll manage,” I said, not wanting him to come along.

  Or did I secretly want his company?

  Was my suspicion actually just a cover for a crush?

  I considered it as I walked off, alone. I prided myself in being self-aware, so I was self-aware enough to know that I wasn’t self-aware enough. Among my navel-gazing habits was second-guessing, third-guessing, and fourth-guessing myself, and an inability to understand what my motives were.

  Truth was, Phin and I hadn’t had sex in a while, and really good sex for even longer. And that made me feel hormonally, and emotionally, bereft. I knew Wyatt was flirting with me. At least, I think he was. Maybe my adverse reaction was my fault, not his. And now I was getting an odd vibe from his sister.

  What seemed more likelier? That Heckle, Jeckle, Wyatt, and Annie were all hiding deep, dark secrets, and were actually terrible people? Or that I was the terrible person, trying to hide that from the world and overreacting?

  Odds were on me being the crazy one.

  Leaving the great room, I walked down a hallway decorated with plaques and medals. Ann Steinhoffer won a whole lot of competitions. Roping. Shooting. Riding. Racing. And one for Steer Wrestling, which is apparently a thing.

  Tough chick.

  Wyatt, though he didn’t mention it, also had his share of awards, including a trophy shelf. Seems the guy was an amateur boxer. Heavyweight. And he’d won more than a few bouts.

  Wyatt and Annie were probably good people. And Heckle and Jeckle were probably harmless, socially awkward nerds. The problem was me, angry with the world because I’d driven my husband into the bed of his ex-girlfriend.

  McGlade, though, really was a dick.

  I found the bathroom, and it was lush, all mirrors and granite and brass, large enough to work-out in. The rustic touch was a toilet with a pull chain flush. When I was finished I whipped out my cell and called Phin, rehearsing my apology in my head.

  It didn’t matter. He didn’t pick up.

  I tried to locate his phone, but it was turned off. Google’s last checkpoint was Chicago, hours ago.

  Even though I’d gotten no alerts, I double-checked to see if I’d gotten any texts or voicemails.

  Nada.

  Fix it when you get home, Jack. Do whatever it takes to win him back. Right now, focus on finding Herb.

  I washed my hands, tried to shake off the whiskey in my system, and strolled back to the group. Heckle and Jeckle had set up next to one of the fireplaces, Harry and Annie facing each other in two of the deep leather chairs. As I approached, they were already in the midst of the interview. I stood behind the cameras, next to Wyatt, who was holding a fresh drink.

  “I’m horrified,” McGlade said. “And I hesitate to bring this up. But all those things that were done to you; I’m sure some of my viewers won’t be able to believe you went through all of that and still survived. Is there any sort of evidence to support your claim?”