The whole gang of crooks was there. Sybil Fitzgerald stood back a piece with two yes men and Chester Lyles. (Make it three yes man.) Rudyard Raines tapped his paunch in the shadows. And up front, Britt Holcomb pushed Carol Bridges ahead by a fistful of shirt.

Her wrists were bound and a rag stuffed in her mouth. She bled from a cut at her hairline.

Raines called through the dim factory, "Whatever it is you think you've found, we'll be happy to take off your hands."

Durwood cursed his own stupidity. Getting distracted, wallowing first in rage, then wispy thoughts of Carol Bridges. He'd let his guard down. He should've been watching from a superior angle, perched in a high window making sure Carol Bridges came alone.

Might not've been enough to save her. But it would've been better than this.

"Found?" Durwood repeated. "How do you mean?"

The banker looked at Sybil Fitzgerald, the lawyer. The two of them laughed.

"A good liar you're not," Sybil Fitzgerald said. "I don't believe professional diplomacy is in your future. Better keep your day job as..." She rolled her tongue around her mouth. "Whatever your day job is."

Carol Bridges was bucking against Britt Holcomb's grip, trying to speak around her gag. "Dur—-d, d—- l-st—n t- th—! D--'t!"

Holcomb jerked her aside, making her red hair whip.

Durwood said, "Fella, you need to take your hands off her. Now."

"Or what, you—" Holcomb used a slur. "Think you're all country strong. Think you're ba-aaa-ad, huh? Come on, get some of this."

Still holding the mayor with one arm, he flexed the other bicep and kissed the muscle's peak.

"Enough Britt," Raines said. To Durwood, "Let's dispense with the bluffs, shall we, Mr. Jones? We heard every word you said to the mayor."

Sybil Fitzgerald muttered, "Precious few that there are..."

Durwood scanned their number, counting, calculating. "You had the phone lines bugged."

Raines neither confirmed nor denied. He wobbled to the fore past Holcomb and Carol Bridges.

"You said you knew what happened." He turned sideways as he talked. Looked like a Bartlett off one of Grandma Jones's pear trees. "Said you had proof."

Now it was Durwood's turn to neither confirm nor deny.

"Factory made bum parts," he said. "Folks got hurt. Pretty cut and dried."

A disbelieving smile went around the other side. Durwood wasn't fooling anyone, he knew. He needed time to make a plan. Sybil Fitzgerald's yes men were both armed, as was Britt Holcomb. So three guns, six hostiles altogether.

Or was it five? Chester Lyles looked queasy next to Sybil—his kinky partner. The COO's tanned skin had a green tint. His wavy hair had dents.

Maybe he wasn't here of his own free will. Maybe he just had regrets.

Sybil Fitzgerald said, "Rudyard, we need to boogie. Somebody could drive by and see cars. We need to contain this. Keep it tidy."

"So we do," the banker said. "So we do."

He focused his gaze—two eyes in deep, wrinkled sockets—on Durwood. "The visitor logs. You found the visitor logs, didn't you?"

Durwood kept his face straight as he could.

But Raines said, "Yes, you did. I can see it, you most certainly did. The question is where—whether you moved them."

He dispatched one of Sybil Fitzgerald's men to check the file cabinet. The man returned after a minute and said the logs were gone.

Raines smirked. "Of course they are. Mr. Jones has taken private property—private records, like those he attempted to steal from The Sawyer House. And now we must reclaim them." He bowed formally, the short bit he could. "If you'd be so kind, Mr. Jones, please show us where you've hidden the files."

"Wouldn't," Durwood said.

"Excuse me?"

"I wouldn't be so kind."

Rudyard Raines grimaced, hitching up his slacks by the belt loops. As he darkly considered Carol Bridges and her captor, Holcomb, Durwood raced through scenarios.

He felt certain Raines and Fitzgerald (and Lyles?) planned to kill him and Carol Bridges. They would need it to appear like an accident or murder-suicide. Durwood was officially a fugitive from justice—maybe they would make it seem like she'd been trying to apprehend him.

Maybe they would just burn the place to the foundation, and only wanted to make sure Durwood hadn't stashed the files off-site.

"You're right," Durwood spoke up. "I found 'em. I found the stinking logs."

Without meaning to, he singled out Holcomb with his eyes. Holcomb—whose name had been in the logs. Who'd moved the chuck on that riveter and doomed those people to their injuries.

"You're angry," Raines observed. "That's because you don't understand these deals—these multi-million-dollar deals. Market conditions have to be right. Hogan Consolidated needed to go down—like a firetrap in a crowded block of wooden houses. We just..."

He gazed up, into the high reaches of the factory.

"...helped it on its way."

As Raines gabbed, Carol Bridges—stooped under Britt Holcomb's grip—narrowed her eyes at Durwood. She was trying to communicate something. She kept glancing down, then back at Holcomb, then down again.

Put him...what, on the ground?

Bury him?

She ducked her head twice. She bugged her eyes urgently.

Durwood puzzled at her attempted clues. He studied the ground beneath his boots. Was there some advantage to be had in the concrete? Years back, he'd sprung Quaid Rafferty from a similar standoff—on the ridge of a gigantic hydroelectric dam under a madman's control—using the current underfoot.

But the juice here wasn't on.

Then Durwood realized she didn't mean the ground. She meant her hands.

He looked more closely and saw that her wrists weren't actually bound. They looked bound, but they weren't. She was holding them together for show, but the ziptie was broken. She was holding it in place between her palms and fingers.

The understanding must've shown in his face—she gave half a smile, then motioned again to Holcomb.

She can take out Holcomb.

That was good. Two against five (or six) was better than one against six. Little better, at least.

"Alright-ee, chop chop," Sybil Fitzgerald said.

She snatched a pistol from one of her yes man and pressed it into Carol Bridges's head. "Tell us where the damn logs are. Tell us now or your girl gets it."

Durwood reached out at the sight of the muzzle against the mayor's ear.

"Don't!" Fitzgerald pressed the gun harder—Carol Bridges muffled a noise. "Not one inch. A single inch closer and I swear, I blow this Reba McEntire retread to the Rio Grande."

Durwood stopped.

The lawyer said over her shoulder, "Tonight's going into the ledger at hazard pay, Chet. Base times ten."

Chester Lyles stood back and bit the corner of his lip.

Durwood shook his head. "She forgot t'bring your collar."

"Oh, spare us the antiquated frame of reference," Fitzgerald said. "It's tired. I'm tired. And you, Mr. Marlboro Man, are out of time."

Her finger poised on the trigger. She staggered her feet apart.

Chester Lyles said, "But what—what're you doing?"

Even Rudyard Raines wore an uncertain look.

Sybil Fitzgerald said, "Let's just burn the damn place. It's easier. The files are here. They're paper. Paper burns."

She closed one eye and seemed on the verge of firing.

"Wait!" Durwood said. "Don't shoot, I'll tell you where the files are. I will. I'll tell you."

He made a lowering motion with one hand, as though to gentle the factory air. When Sybil Fitzgerald did take the pistol away from Carol Bridges's head, it felt like Durwood's whole body had been freed from a vice.

Fitzgerald said, "Where."

Durwood flicked his head left. "There."

The lawyer growled and re-gripped her gun. "Where precisely?"

Durwood raised his hands. "Okay, I'll tell you. I'll be precise as I can." He breathed deeply, and sent Him a prayer. "I put the logs in that closet."

—

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