“Yes.”

“She all right?”

“Shaking like a leaf. Dazed. Otherwise okay.”

“What’d she say about him?”

“Badly wounded.”

“Is he armed?”

“She says he has what sounds like a nine-millimeter, but it’s empty, and he hid the cartridge. Or so he told her.”

“Any other weapons?”

“A pocket knife. But in her opinion it’s not much of a threat.”

Joe thought, Yeah, but she’s not a hired assassin. “She left his palm pistol on the floor here, about ten yards inside the door. Be sure it’s bagged.”

“Got it.”

Joe took several deep breaths to bolster himself mentally and physically for whatever might occur in the next few minutes, then called out Kinnard’s name.

“I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me,” he said from out of the hollow gloom. “What’s taking so freakin’ long?”

“Turn the spotlight around so I can see you.”

“I’m not armed.”

“Convince me.”

He directed the light off Joe and onto himself. Nevertheless, Joe still could barely make him out, and he didn’t trust the fucker as far as he could throw him. He reached back and slid his pistol from its holster. As he started forward, an inane thought flashed through his mind: Marsha would kill him if he got himself killed.

As he moved farther into the building, he gained a clearer view of the man sitting on what appeared to be a blue tarpaulin. He was angled thirty degrees to his right, bracing himself on that arm. His left hand was pressed against his left side, which he was obviously favoring.

“Raise your hands,” Joe said.

Grimacing, he shifted into a more upright position and removed his left hand from his side, then did as ordered. The skin across his sharp cheekbones looked stretched tight, waxy, and pale. Sweat had plastered strands of hair to his forehead. Blood had soaked into his clothes and was smeared beneath him on the tarp.

He was blinded by the spotlight, so as Joe came nearer, he had the advantage of being able to see Kinnard better than Kinnard could see him. He halted while still out of arm’s reach. “Lie down and turn over.”

“Bet you a thousand bucks you lied about coming in unarmed.”

Joe gripped his extended pistol tighter. “Hands behind your head.”

“On my stomach? Hands behind my head? That’ll hurt like a mother.”

“I don’t give a shit. Do it.”

Either he was a damn good actor, or he really was in excruciating pain. Even the slightest motion caused him to gasp. He paused several times, switching between holding his breath and panting. It took him a full minute to do as Joe had ordered, but when he was in the position, Joe called out for Hick and the others.

Joe himself was nearly mowed down by the special ops officers in assault gear who charged into the building and rushed past him to form a ring around Kinnard, shouting at him not to move, their weapons primed to fire if he did.

Hick jogged up to Joe, who lowered his pistol to his side, noticing that his hand on the grip was wet with nervous sweat. “You called the cowboys after all.”

“The whole damn cavalry,” Hick said. He squatted and picked up the palm pistol before it got lost in the shuffle.

As Kinnard was being cuffed, he was Mirandized by a deputy, then paramedics were allowed in and, for the next five minutes, he was in their charge. While they performed triage and got an IV started, Joe glanced through the door to the outside.

Several officers, including Deputy Morrow, were grouped around Jordie Bennett. Someone had draped a slicker over her. Joe could see her lips moving, so he knew she was responding to Morrow’s questions, but she was staring straight ahead through the yawning door of the building, past him and Hick, as though in a trance.

“She looks spooked,” Joe said. “Does she need medical attention?”

“She says no.”

“They should at least put her in a car, get her out of the rain.”

“They tried,” Hick said. “She wouldn’t budge.”

Joe turned and met Hick’s gaze. Hick raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

“Find out what she’s telling Morrow. They’re probably doping Kinnard with painkillers, and I want to talk to him before the juice takes effect.”

Hick went back outside. Joe walked past Kinnard’s car, which was already being gone over by investigators from Morrow’s department. Others were setting up portable lights so they could search the building, although there didn’t appear to be much to search. No hiding places that Joe could see.

He stepped over two halves of a broken arrow and called a detective’s attention to it. The detective squatted down. “It’s a toy, the kind that comes in a kid’s starter set.”

“Any blood on it?”

“Not that I can see.”

“Collect it anyway.”

Another of the officers approached Joe with a bagged object. “Thought you’d want to see this.”

Joe looked at the thing in the bag. “What is it?”

“Her weapon.”

When the detective told Joe what it was, he shook his head in awe. “No wonder he’s hurting. He gonna make it?”

“He’s asking, too. Paramedic told him it depends on what all was sliced and diced by this propeller. Also on how tough he is.”

One of the detectives who’d been examining the car joined them. “Agent Wiley, we just pulled this out of the tailpipe.” He handed Joe an evidence bag. “Cell phone battery. We figure it belongs to the phone we found near him on the floor.” He also passed Joe the evidence bag containing the phone.

“Thanks.”

Joe walked over to where the paramedics were transferring the suspect onto a gurney. Morrow’s man cuffed both his hands to the rails. During the process, Kinnard was jostled. That brought on an outburst of vile and profane language the likes of which Joe hadn’t heard since Marsha had delivered their son breach. One of the paramedics assured Kinnard that the pain med he was getting intravenously would soon begin working.

Kinnard nodded at the paramedic, but his gaze had moved beyond him and connected with Joe’s. He looked him up and down and gave a derisive snort. “I didn’t know the FBI was so hard up.”

Joe smiled. “I caught them on a slow day.”

“Must have. They actually issued you a weapon?”

Joe turned his back and raised his rain slicker to reveal the holster, where he’d replaced his nine-millimeter.

When he came back around, Kinnard asked, “You ever actually fired it?”

“Practice range.” When Kinnard registered his scornful opinion of that, Joe added, “At least I never got stabbed with a broken boat part. By a girl.” He paused, then added, “’Course, a man who takes money to kill a woman doesn’t have any balls.”

Kinnard gave another snuffle of contempt and closed his eyes.

Not to be ignored, Joe nudged the sole of his cowboy boot. “Whose phone is this?”

Kinnard opened his eyes, looked at the evidence bag Joe was holding up to him, then closed his eyes again. “Get fucked.”

“If I call the last caller, who am I gonna reach?”