She waves the phone around. Still no bars. “No, no, c’mon,” she mutters. “Don’t do this to me, you piece of crap, don’t you dare.”

She moves to the far end of the lot. Nothing. Back the other way. Nothing again.

Everything here is flat. No way to get to higher ground, unless she’s interested in climbing up on top of the barn. Or worse, up onto Ellis Wayman’s shoulders—man’s probably got a whole cloud layer around his ears. But seeing as how that’s not an option, she keeps roving. Back to the front of the barn just as one fight is starting to get going—Charlie in the ring, two fighters: Jasmine the boxer versus Tuco the bull. Still no signal.

She heads to the back of the barn, where Bird took her on her last trip here.

There. One little half bar. A stub of a signal, but should be enough.

She redials the detective, quick before the signal can fade.

Just as she hears a click behind her ear. Then the pressure of something round and cold.

In her ear she hears the phone ring.

A voice behind her, scarily familiar. “You dumb twat.”

Skinny Skank. Melanie.

“Hang up that fuckin’ phone,” Skank says, “or I’ll pull the trigger. Unless you’re not a fan of that ear. And you don’t mind being deaf for the rest of your probably short life.”

On the phone, Atlanta hears the detective’s voice answer: “Holger here.”

Skank reaches over with her free hand and snatches the phone, killing the call with a thumb.

“Turn around,” Skank says.

Atlanta hesitates, but turns—slowly.

And there stands Skank, holding a Luger pistol. Leather pants vented with knife slashes. Torn black half shirt with a white swastika emblazoned upon it, what little cleavage she has thrust up and out, pale as couple of cave crickets. Her hair a briar tangle of platinum branches.

“You overplayed your hand this time,” Skank says. Lips the color of spilled wine peel back to show her feral smile. “I’ve been waiting to do this.”

Atlanta sticks out her chin, defiant. “Do what?”

Skank clubs her on the side of the head with the gun. Atlanta goes down. Dizzy. Feels the Nazi girl’s fingers wind around her hair and yank her forward.

“Let’s go, fag hag,” Skank cackles. “We’ve got business.”

Skank drags her by the hair around the back of the Morton building—the murder building—and throws her up against the metal wall with a bang. To her left she sees a bale of barbed wire and a metal washtub. To her other side, a heap of moldering plywood, rusty nails sticking up like beckoning fingers.