Gurney began walking slowly down the pasture path. The rider kick-started his machine—a big, muddy motocross bike—and began creeping erratically up the path from the low end, moving no faster than Gurney was walking. The result was that they met approximately in the middle of the field. It wasn’t until the man flipped up his visor that Gurney recognized the intense eyes of Max Clinter.

“You should have told me you were coming,” said Gurney in his unruffled way. “I have a meeting this morning. You might have missed me.”

“Didn’t know I was coming till I was coming,” said Clinter—as edgy as Gurney was calm. “Awful lot of items on my list, hard to decide on the right order. Right order is the key. You understand that things are coming to a head?” His engine was still running.

“I understand the Good Shepherd is back, or someone wants us to think so.”

“Oh, he’s back. I feel it in my bones—the bones that got broken ten years ago. The evil fucker is definitely back.”

“What can I do for you, Max?”

“I came to ask you a question.” His eyes sparkled.

“If you’d left a number when you called me, I’d have called you back.”

“When you didn’t pick up, I took it as a sign.”

“A sign of what?”

“That it’s always better to ask a question face-to-face. Better to see a man’s eyes, not just hear the voice. So here’s my question: Where do you stand on this Ram-shit business?”

“Say that again?”

“World is full of evil, Mr. Gurney. Evil and its mirror. Murder and the media. Need to know where you stand on that.”

“You’re asking how I feel about news coverage of violence? How do you feel about it?”

A rough laugh burst from Clinter’s throat. “Drama for idiots! Orchestrated by maggots! Exaggeration, garbage, and lies! That’s what ‘news coverage’ is, Mr. Gurney. The glorification of ignorance! The manufacture of conflict for profit! The sale of anger and resentment as entertainment! RAM News, the vilest of all. Spewing bile and shit for the profit of pigs!”

Patches of white spittle had accumulated at the corners of Clinter’s mouth.

“You seem pretty full of anger yourself,” said Gurney placidly.

“Full of anger? Oh, yes! Full of it, you might even say consumed by it, driven by it. But I’m not selling it. I’m not a fat mouth selling anger on RAM News. My anger is not for sale.”

Clinter’s engine was still idling, more roughly now. He gave the throttle a twist, revving it up to a screaming roar.

“So you’re not a salesman,” said Gurney when the roar subsided. “But what are you, Max? I can’t quite figure you out.”

“I’m what that evil fucker made me. I’m the wrath of God.”

“Where’s the Humvee?”

“Funny you should ask.”