The man kept humming, kept going even faster, kept leaning up until his glasses were inches from his windshield, and even then he could barely keep the truck on the road.

Taylor’s backpack sat on the floor between his knees. He crept his hand to the zipper, slowly opened it two inches, and saw the handle of his hammer. He looked up. The truck’s shadow lunged long in front of them, spreading all over the road.

“Sir, I would like to get out, please.”

“What’s your name?”

He had practiced this. “My name is Riley Rilke-Rickreiner. I’m going home. But this is not the way to my house. I would like to get out. Please.”

“Your name is Riley?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Rickreiner?”

“Yes, sir.”

The man’s bloated hand dropped off the steering wheel and snatched up the backpack. As he held it close to his face, the truck’s outer wheels caught the shoulder. Gravel flew. The truck jolted left and right, then plunged into a deep and rocky ditch, shearing off small trees until the road surged back up beneath them.

The backpack still dangled from the man’s fist. He dropped it into Taylor’s lap to show exactly where Grammy Belle had stitched Taylor down one shoulder strap and Kick down the other.

“You,” he said, “are the sheriff’s little boy.”

“She will find you,” he blurted, tears rising.

He waited for a reply, but the man kept humming and driving.

“Wherever you take me,” Taylor said, “my mom will come there, with a gun, and a whole bunch of other people will come there too. Fast.”

The man stepped on his brake. The truck fishtailed into the opposite ditch. He bulled it out in reverse and began to turn it around.

“Exactly,” he said. “Bring the world to you, a friend of mine told me. I was blind but now I see.”

“I have a hammer,” Taylor warned him. But it came out as barely a squeak.

“Good boy. We’re going to need a hammer.”

CHAPTER 42

The woman staggered toward Sheriff Kick, her large raw hands gripping what looked like the same rifle the sheriff had seen her carry down the hillside.

Bender bellowed from above, “Stop! Drop the weapon! Get on the ground!”

She didn’t seem to hear, or maybe from the look on her face she didn’t care.

The sheriff reached a hand to her rifle strap. She needed two seconds to swing it around and bring it to a useful angle. She could get shot in that amount of time.

“Ma’am, Mrs. Golly, stop.”

“Jim’s not here,” she said, still coming.

“Ma’am, stop. An officer on the hill has his weapon on you. You will be killed. Drop the rifle. Sit down on the ground. Keep your hands where I can see them.”