Milo strode over and took her. “Check the workbench and see if you can find suitable bindings for Ms. Funnel here.”

Nora Dowd said, “Brad raped me, it was nonconsensual.”

“That’s redundant,” said Milo.

“Huh?”

“Nonconsensual rape.”

Confusion in the dope-ruddy eyes.

Milo said, “That’s some art project hanging from the door.”

Nora began sobbing tearlessly. “Dylan! I loved him so much, Brad got jealous and did that horrible thing! I tried to stop it, you’ve got to believe me!”

“How’d you try to stop it?”

“By reasoning with him.”

“Intellectual debate?” said Milo. “The merits of organic kapok versus polyurethane foam?”

Nora wailed. “Oh, my God! This is terrible!”

Still dry-eyed. An onion would’ve helped.

She sniffed. Looked up at Milo.

He said, “Your show’s closing due to bad reviews.”

* * *

In a workbench drawer, I found a roll of duct tape and two spools of heavy, white rope. Milo said, “Do it.”

He had Nora’s arms bent behind her back and she’d switched from crying to cursing. She swore louder as I bound her wrists, tried to head-butt Milo’s arm. By the time he managed to drag her across the barn from the Caddy and get her in the passenger seat of a white ’55 Thunderbird, she’d gone mute.

He said, “Fun, fun, fun, when Milo takes it away,” and belted her in, too.

The two of us stood there. Panting. His face was sweaty and I felt moisture trickle down the side of my head. My ribs hurt. The back of my neck felt as if I’d encountered a blunt guillotine.

Milo used his phone.

The sirens began as distant moans, enlarged to nuclear trombone slides.

I was working hard at not thinking and the noise was sweet music.

Eight sheriff’s squad cars, strobe-fest of blinking lights.

Milo had his badge out right away.

A slit-eyed, sunburned sergeant in body-conscious tans got out of the lead car.

“LAPD,” said Milo.

“Keep your hands where I can see ’em.”

Multiple weapons trained on us. We complied. The sergeant swaggered toward us with that mixture of fear and aggression cops display when they’re faced with uncertainty. His mustache was orange and bristly, big enough to nest hummingbirds. M. Pedersohn on his tag. Tight neck muscles. A squint at the small print on Milo’s shield didn’t warm the atmosphere.

Freckled hands slapped on tan hips. “Okay...you came up here for what?”

“Job-related,” said Milo. “Lemme show you— ”

“The dispatcher said something about a body,” said Pedersohn.

“That’s partially accurate,” said Milo.

“What?”

Milo motioned round the south side of the barn. Pedersohn stood in place, showing his men he couldn’t be bossed around. Milo disappeared from view. Pedersohn went after him.

* * *

A peek inside the hatch turned the sergeant’s sunburn to chalk.

“Jesus...” He grabbed his mustache, rubbed his teeth with the side of his index finger. “Is that...”