"I guess not," I said.

He sat down again.

His hair had dried into ringlets and the wind lifted them playfully. His eyes glinted in the light from a bulb at the upper corner of the building. He was watching me with interest. "Your daddy ever bring you out here to watch planes?"

"He died when I was five."

"Mine didn't either. Cocksucker. No wonder I turned out bad."

"What, he didn't show up to watch you play Little League?"

"He didn't do much of anything except drink, fornicate, and kill folk. That's where I got all my talent. From him."

My fear had receded and in its place, I was beginning to feel a characteristic crankiness settle in. It was one thing to die, and quite another being forced to sit around in a cold wind making small talk with a fatuous ass like Messinger. I'd been thinking I better make nice. Now I wondered what the point was. In the meantime, he was staring at my face. I stared back, just to see what it would feel like.

He nodded judiciously. "Your black eye's looking better."

I ran a finger along my orbital ridge. I kept forgetting what I must look like to the uninitiated observer. The last time I'd assayed my various injuries, I'd noticed the bruises had changed hues dramatically. A lemon-yellow backdrop now blended into lime-green, which was overlaid with plum. "You nearly got me that round."

He waved the compliment away. "That was just a warm-up. I wasn't serious."

"What'd Eric think of it?"

"Didn't bother him. Look at cartoons. Kids see violence all the time and it doesn't count for shit. People don't really die. It's all special effects."

"I doubt he's going to feel that way if you shoot his mom."

"Not if I shoot her-when." I saw his gaze shift.

Out on the runway, a tiny plane had landed, sounding like a VW in need of a new fan belt. I lost sight of the aircraft behind some outbuildings and then the plane appeared again, puttering toward us. He got to his feet. "I bet this is him. Come on. And keep your mouth shut or I'll pop you one."

The plane reached the concrete apron beside the hangar and the pilot made a miniature U-turn so that he was now facing out toward the runway. He cut the engine, doused the lights. Messinger had gripped me across the back of the neck, marching me toward the plane in quickstep. I imagined the pilot taking off his headset, writing in his logbook, loosening his seat belt. If this was Rochelle's brother, he was going to recognize Messinger as soon as he caught sight of him.

A column of fear wafted up my spine like smoke. I tried to hang back, resisting, but Messinger's fingers dug into my neck with excruciating pain. We had picked up the pace, almost trotting side by side until we reached the tail unit of the plane. Just in front of us, the door to the cockpit opened and the pilot stepped down. We were less than six feet away.

Messinger said, "Hey, Roy?"

I screamed a warning.

The pilot turned in surprise.

Spwt!

Roy dropped to his knees. He toppled forward on his face. His nose had been shattered by the bullet, which took out a chunk of skull when it exited. I cried out in horror, recoiling from the sight. I felt tears like a stinging blow. A quick cloud of gunpowder perfumed the night air. I put a hand against the plane for support. Messinger had already lifted the dead man by the arms and he was dragging him backward across the tarmac toward the slanted shadows of the hangar.

I pushed away from the plane. I took off, running for dear life. I headed toward the parking lot, hoping to reach the road.

"Hey!"

I could hear Messinger behind me, pounding hard. I didn't dare look. He was faster than I and he was gaining. I felt the shove that sent me tumbling forward on my hands. I tried to roll, but I wasn't quick enough to save myself. I was down and he was on me, winded and raging. He pulled me over on my back. I kept my arms up to ward off the blows he aimed at me.

Something caught his attention and his face jerked up. A car was approaching from the direction of the slough. He pulled me to my feet, half-dragging, half-hauling me across the concrete toward the shelter of the building. He backed up against the stucco, my body clamped against his, half tucked under his armpit. He had his one hand across my mouth, the barrel of the gun at my temple again. I was close to suffocation, both of us breathing hard.

The car pulled into the parking lot. I heard two car doors slam, one right after the other, and then the murmur of voices. I saw Rochelle first, heard her heels tapping on the pavement, saw the pale cheeks, the pale hair above the turned-up collar of her trenchcoat. Eric walked beside her, his face tilted toward hers. The two were holding hands. Dietz was locked up close to her, his attention focused on the surrounding darkness. When he spotted the plane, he hesitated. I could almost see his puzzled squint. He put an arm out to stop Rochelle's progress and Eric halted in his tracks.