“You little bitch,” Snake said, chuckling. “I was gonna pop you with a .22 short and let my neighbor’s feist come get you. But you’ve got a date with destiny. We’re going to put on a little show tonight, and you’re the star.”

Sonny didn’t know what Snake was talking about, but he didn’t feel confident enough to ask.

“How’s your chest feeling?” Snake asked.

“It aches something fierce,” Sonny said truthfully, remembering the crazy Texas Ranger who’d threatened him with the blowtorch in the back of the RV.

Snake leaned his rifle against the lawn chair and laughed. “You salty son of a bitch. Walking right out of the hospital!”

Sonny forced himself to laugh despite the pain. “It sounds like something’s on for tonight, huh?”

Snake grinned. “Yeah. A nice little op. Billy’s left for Toledo Bend already.”

A vague answer, at best, but Sonny didn’t ask for clarification. Billy Knox owned a luxurious home on Toledo Bend, the vast man-made reservoir that lay on the Louisiana-Texas border. He called it his “fishing camp,” but it was nicer than the homes in the most affluent subdivisions of Natchez.

Snake reached into an Igloo and handed Sonny an ice-cold Schaefer. “Yeah, him and Joelle Brennan pulled out before six this morning.” Joelle was Billy’s latest squeeze; she ran a local health club and was built like a brick shithouse. “You and me can leave as soon as you’re feeling steady.”

“Are we flying over?”

Snake shook his head. “Drivin’. Flying back, though. Alibi city.”

Sonny couldn’t begin to fathom this strange arrangement. He looked at the beer, then handed the can back to Snake. “I’d better pass after all the drugs they give me.”

Snake downed the Schaefer in five gulps.

“You gonna fly drunk?” Sonny asked.

“Shit. I’m twice the pilot drunk that most men are sober.”

Sonny was only making conversation to divert his friend; Snake had walked away from a half-dozen crashes that would have killed less hardy men.

“What gun is that?” Sonny asked, pointing to the rifle leaning against the chair. “That ain’t your regular .22, is it?”

Snake gave Sonny an odd leer, then picked up the rifle and ran his fingers down its long barrel and checkered stock. “Something special. For tonight.” He held the rifle out to Sonny. “Check it out.”

Sonny groaned as he reached for the gun. One of the bruises on his chest was shaped like the heel of a Red Wing boot.

“Never mind,” Snake said, noticing his grimace.

“You gonna shoot that damn coon or just torment it some more?”

Snake laughed and looked down at the cage. “I was, but this little lady has a job to do tonight.” He touched the trap with the rifle barrel, and the coon went batshit. A blood-chilling scream came from the needle-toothed mouth and pointed snout.