“Nope.” He gave an apelike grin. “Just missed her. Anyway, too many hounds on her tail right now— don’t need my picture in the paper. Figured you’d be able to help. But I’ll track her down if I have to. You know?”

David knew. “I wish I could help.” He spread his hands as if he were utterly helpless and gave an exaggerated shrug. “But you know how it is.”

The guy balled up his powerful hands into fists, but David, a participant in more than his share of barroom brawls, edged sideways along the Rover’s front fender and felt his muscles tightening. If he hadn’t gotten himself sandwiched between the Rover and his would-be assailant, he would have made a swift and calculated retreat.

But such was not the case. He tried out a smile. “How ’bout some coffee? Tea? No need for us to get violent, you know.”

“I don’t trust you, Wakefield.”

One of the powerful fists started up. David swore to himself, knowing he was caught, and quickly lunged toward him, trying to get inside the blow and push him away. It was his only real hope. And a slim one.

But the guy was a pro, and he slammed his fist into David’s ribs, preventing him from pushing back and beating a hasty path to hell out of there. Even with the stunning pain of the blow, David’s momentum carried him into the other man, who responded instantly by shoving David back hard, separating them to give him room to throw more punches.

Caught off balance, David instinctively tried to protect himself, but a sudden left jab snapped his head back. He tucked his arms in and ducked, expecting the right hook aimed for his solar plexus. The blow ended up glancing off his arms.

Swearing, gulping in air past the pain in his ribs and head, David slammed at him with a left jab and a right cross, but the blows missed, and the guy came at him again, hammering his head with a left, nailing him hard with a right cross.

Somewhere David heard Barky’s voice. “What goes on here?”

And then his insides were being ripped out and he was spinning, sinking, tumbling, and finally he hit something hard and unyielding. The driveway. He was breathing dirt. He couldn’t move.

Far away Barky was yelling, “You son of a beetch,” and there was a car starting and the screech of tires. David curled up into a fetal position. The pain pulsed through him, and he decided he was just going to lie there and never move again.

Barky got him inside and onto the tattered living room couch, next to the warmth of the potbelly wood stove. His old uncle sighed irritably and brought him ice. “Damn,” David said, “my head hurts.”

“That’s your headache, not mine.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Stupid to take on a man like that.”

“Think I had a frigging choice?”

“Language.”

Barky stumped out of the room and returned in a few minutes with two cold wet cloths. David dabbed his bloody nose and gravel-scraped cheek. When he coughed, it was as if he were being carved for dinner.