The bikers don’t realize what’s happening until it’s too late to get out of the road, but Snake hears us. The silhouette stutters against the lights, doubles in height as Snake struggles to his feet, but before he takes two steps our rear bumper plows him over at fifty miles per hour. The heavy metal Harvester doesn’t even slow down until it smashes into the first Harley. The momentum of the old truck carries implacable force, and three motorcycles crumple in the face of it. After the fourth collision, the Harvester finally judders to a stop.

Screams of rage and pain reach my ears, but before anyone has time to react, I shift back into first and floor the accelerator again.

“What happened?” Lincoln croaks from the backseat.

“Snake’s dead.”

“You saw him go down?”

“He’s gone. Obliterated. How bad are you hit? Can you get to the boat?”

“I think something clipped my lung . . . can’t breathe right. How close are we to the river?”

“Close.”

“Don’t go too fast. The last thirty yards top a little berm, and there’s nothing but river after that.”

It takes inhuman restraint to slow the Harvester, but as I battle the fear coursing through my body, I remember Colonel Eklund describing my father’s actions in Korea. If Dad could do what he did in the face of almost certain death, then I can ignore what’s behind us and slow down to keep from launching us into the river.

“See any lights behind us?” Lincoln asks in a hoarse voice.

“Not yet. Do they know Snake has a boat out here?”

“I don’t know. Let’s pray that boat was Snake’s ace in the hole. Maybe they think they have us penned against the river.”

Without warning the truck tops a rise and the Mississippi River appears like the dark edge of an ocean. I kick the brake pedal, then ease back enough so as not to skid, and finally the old truck shudders to a stop.

“Where’s the boat?” I ask.

“It was tied to a tree this afternoon. Look to your left.”

Sure enough, about thirty yards downstream, I see gleaming chrome rails bobbing in the powerful current.

“Can you make it if I bring the woman?” I ask.

“I’ll make it. Is she alive?”

“I don’t know. Yell out if you need help.”

As I go around to the passenger door, I remember that Wilma Deen is the woman who blinded Keisha Harvin. But it’s not her I’m rescuing. It’s the testimony about Snake Knox killing Viola that Wilma began back in the stinking shack. Will she ever repeat those words? I wonder as I catch her under the arms and drag her from the truck. Or is all this for nothing?