“Maximilian Clinter. Weather is only an issue for physical snakes. It’s the idea of the snakes that keeps the undesirables out. Weather has no effect on the snakes in their heads. You get my point, Mr. Gurney? I’d invite you in, but I never invite anyone in. Can’t handle it. PTSD. If you went in, I’d have to stay out. Two’s a crowd. Can’t fuckin’ breathe.” He grinned, a little wildly. His accent, Gurney realized, was an antic brogue that came and went, like Marlon Brando’s in Missouri Breaks. “I entertain all my guests in the open air. Hope you’re not offended. Follow me.”

He led Gurney around the outside of the fenced weeds to a weathered picnic table in back of the cabin. Beyond the table, parked just at the edge of the bog, was an original military Humvee, painted desert tan.

“You drive that thing?” asked Gurney.

“On special occasions.” Clinter winked conspiratorially as he sat at the table. He picked up a pair of spring-loaded hand exercisers from the bench seat and began squeezing them. “Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Gurney, and tell me what your interest is in the Good Shepherd case.”

“I told you on the phone. I was asked to—”

“Look over the lovely shoulder of the lovelorn Miss Heart?”

“Miss Heart?”

“Corazón means ‘heart.’ Basic Spanish. But I’m sure you knew that. Perfect name for her, don’t you think? Affairs of the heart. Passions gone awry. Bleeding heart for the victims of crime. But how does this involve Maximilian Clinter?” In this last question, the transient brogue disappeared. The man’s eyes settled into a sharp, steady gaze.

Gurney had to decide quickly how to proceed. He opted for brash openness. “Kim thinks you know stuff about the case, stuff you’re not telling her. She can’t figure you out. I think you scare the shit out of her.” Gurney would swear that Clinter was pleased by this but didn’t want to show it. Cards on the table seemed to be the way to go. “Incidentally, I was impressed with the story of your Buffalo performance. If half of what I heard is true, you’re a talented man.”

Clinter smiled. “Big Honey.”

“Say again?”

“That was Frankie Benno’s name in the mob.”

“Because of what a sweet guy he was?”

Clinter’s eyes glittered. “His hobby. He was a beekeeper.”

Gurney laughed at the thought of it. “And what about you, Max? What sort of gentleman are you? I heard that you might be in the specialty-arms business.”

Clinter gave him a shrewd look, his hands compressing the exercisers rapidly, almost effortlessly. “Deactivated collectibles.”

“You mean guns that don’t work?”