Durwood Oak Jones had killed before. Many times he hadn't known names or particulars, as in Iraq, or last fall dispatching the dozen-odd cult leaders trying to nuke their own Southeast Asian country to prove a point. These tactical outcomes gave him no pause.

Other times he'd killed to stop others from killing him. When it turned out the new clerk at Nethkin Feed & Fertilizer worked for the English mercenary Blake Leathersby, Durwood had deflected the woman's machete swipe and sent her hurtling down the grain elevator's shaft—and slept fine that evening.

Occasionally he'd questioned himself. Could he have saved the Chief Justice of the United States without putting a bullet through that phony court reporter's brain?

Had he used more C4 than was strictly necessary to stop the zombie freighter bearing down on those scientists' lab in Vladivostok?

When Carol Bridges told him the foreman was dead, Durwood felt a chill inside. A pipe freezing somewhere between his mouth and heart.

Then it thawed.

He said, "I didn't kill the man."

Carol Bridges's face was sickly yellow, still. "I'm looking at the message." She turned her phone around for him to see. "It's from Deputy Gomez. 'I'm at the hospital, they just pronounced Ozzie dead of—'"

"I kicked him. Once," Durwood said. "Men don't die from one kick."

"Unless the kick lands in the wrong place."

Durwood shook his head. "Who found him at the hotel? Who brought him in after this supposed killer kick of mine?"

"Oh, one of the bankers. Name was something like Holmes."

"Holcomb?"

"Right. Holcomb."

Durwood recalled the pink-faced man with gym muscles. The walls felt suddenly close, like he could swivel around and touch all four. The particleboard table wasn't sanded. It had given him a splinter.

He reached across the table for Carol Bridges's hands. He looked her square. "My boot did not kill that man."

The mayor's fingertips were calloused like his. Maybe she built furniture in her spare time, or gardened barehanded.

"I want to believe you," she said, "but there was only one boot up in that hotel room. Yours."

Durwood shook his head again, firmer. "They're covering their tracks. I—I told something I shouldn't have. The foreman, this Ozzie. I told him about Sybil Fitzgerald's firm playing both sides of those lawsuits. He must've asked Chester Lyles about it."

"And then Chester Lyles...murdered him?"

"Sure. Lyles or that Holcomb goon, one of 'em."

In this room underground, at an hour when most were asleep, Durwood knew his words sounded fantastical.

He said, "There's too many dollars at stake. It's down to the wire, and they know it. They'll kill or discredit anybody who can expose them."

Carol Bridges tipped back in her chair. If Durwood was right, she was in danger too—though nothing in her posture suggested fear. He thought of the medal and combat action ribbon in her office at City Hall.

"I saw Ozzie myself, just last night," she said. "I swung by the hospital before bed."

Durwood crooked an eyebrow.

She said, "He wasn't critical. Doc Paisley mentioned the spleen. But, you know..."

"A spleen."

"Right," the mayor said.

Clattering sounded up the hall, and hearty voices. More than just the guard's, Durwood thought.

How quickly had news of Ozzie's death spread? Would the terms of Durwood's incarceration change? He believed the nearest federal facility was Three Rivers, up San Antonio way.

Carol Bridges must've had the same thought.

"They'll revoke your bail." She cut her eyes to the hall. "You'll get transfered. It'll be mid-week before you get a hearing."

"After the deal closes." Durwood set his jaw. "By then Rainey'll be selling off machines. Folks have their walking papers."

More bustle from the hall. Carol Bridges stood and pulled both hands through her full red hair. She began pacing. She looked out the door.

"No good, no good—they're coming," she muttered. "Looks like Dix's old attorney general, the creep." She finished pacing and braced herself by the table. "He's probably here to demand a transfer. Maybe I can stall, wrap 'em up in a little red tape."

As she considered the matter, Durwood had the thought to go stand beside the door—back flat to the adjacent wall. When the guard and whoever else walked in, he could disarm them. Lock them in the cell with Crybaby Joad and beat it. Head back to the Sawyer House, get those files. Show the whole world the truth about Hogan Consolidated's demise.

It was nearly breakfast time. This plan, he knew, involved breaking a goodly number of eggs.

"No," Carol Bridges said.

Durwood turned both palms up. "What?"

"I can see what you're thinking. I do, Durwood. But it can't be that way."

She had a way of saying his name. Her voice dipped there in the middle, between r and w. Not a growl. Nor quite a grunt.

"Okay," he said. "What way's it need to be?"

"I need to take the lead on this. There are things I can do—within the confines of the law—to dig deep on Rainey Financial."

"And the lawsuits. Don't forget the—"

"And the lawsuits," Carol Bridges said. "The files may be up in that hotel room, but those records exist other places. In those jurisdictions. I'll call around during business hours and get to the bottom of things."

Durwood felt a headache coming on.

"Jurisdictions," he said through gritted teeth. "Business hours. No time for pussyfooting."

"This is not pussyfooting!" Carol Bridges said, and stomped her foot. "This is called living with a realistic view of the world—knowing you're not in some dime store shoot-'em-up, you can't just ride the testosterone wave"—she wobbled like she was on a surfboard—"from one fight to the next."

Durwood didn't answer. After her loud words, the room felt quiet. That headache was blooming.

Carol Bridges circled the particleboard table, around to his side. Her face was flushed from arguing. Her breasts heaved against her blouse.

"Stand," she ordered.

Durwood stood.

The mayor stepped very close to him. She took a long, appraising look. There was a stubborn kink in her forehead—and Durwood felt certain his own had a similar kink.

She raised one finger between his steel-gray eyes. "If you let me down. If you can't contain the demons that live up here."

She pressed her fingertip into Durwood's hairline—the approximate center of his headache. The pain diffused, or at least changed. He could smell her toothpaste. See downy hairs on her neck.

Then, wildly, her hand was on his bluejeans.

The back of his bluejeans. Her hand started from his belt and slid down—flat and urgent against his backside. The move brought their privates together. Durwood felt their heat mixing.

Her hand was in his back pocket, then out.

She backed away without expression.

In another second, the guard and a second man burst inside. Carol Bridges traded frosty words with them and left.

The guard made a snide comment to his companion, their eyes low on the mayor's body.

They came to cuff him. Offering his wrists, Durwood was aware of an object in his jeans' pocket. The size and weight felt right for a pocketknife.

—

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