But at the last instant, he turned his hand. The spitting machine pistol ripped up the soil instead, but it was close enough for Charlie Bean to throw down his revolver, cover his head, and yell, “I give up! Jesus, don’t shoot!”

Stiles stood over him, glaring. “Goddamn you,” he fumed, visibly shaken himself. He’d barely averted the fire in time. “What the hell are you doing out here? I could’ve blown your fucking head off!”

The deputy sat up and cradled his aching face in his hands. “Mr. Binford . . . lives out yonder . . . stopped me in town, said he saw somebody parked back in the trees out here. I came out to . . . hey, you sonuvabitch! I should be asking the questions here!” He crawled toward the gun he’d dropped but Stiles was already past him and picked it up instead.

Bean watched him hesitantly. “What’re you gonna do?”

“I don’t know. Yet.”

He motioned to the Uzi. “Full auto, huh? That’s illegal. I hope you know that.”

“I do.”

Bean fidgeted. What did he have on his hands here, some kind of psycho? A terrorist even? “Wha . . .” He cleared his throat. “What do you need something like that for?”

“It’s just a tool,” Stiles said evasively, but the more he stood there facing the law, the more he realized he would have to tell the deputy something, anything, any kind of explanation. It was either that or get sent up for illegal weaponry and assault on a police officer.

Or he could kill him.

He weighed all his options.

“I’m going to confide in you, Charlie,” he said simply. “I’m a hunter.”

“With that kind of armament?” Bean laughed, but then it dawned on him. “Oh. You mean a bounty hunter?”

“Of sorts. I’m after somebody right now, and I’m waiting for him to return to the scene of the crime.”

Bean looked around him. “Crime? What crime?”

Stiles was blunt. “Murder. There are three bodies stuffed into that culvert over there. And I have a feeling their killer will be back.”

The deputy stared at him blankly before inching his way toward the culvert, though never taking his eyes off Stiles or turning his back. He took the police light from his belt and stooped to look into the concrete tube. Stiles prepared for the retching sounds to come. Even a seasoned officer like Bean would never have seen anything like that.

“Mr. Stiles?”

“What?”

“There are no bodies here.”

Stiles scrambled across the road and dropped into the culvert beside Bean. The tube was indeed empty save for the trickling of backed-up water. There were no twisted limbs, no grinning throats, no gaping, pained faces. No blood to stain the water or the concrete walls.

Nothing.

“I repeat,” Bean said from right beside him, wondering whether he should try jumping the guy and wrestling for his gun, “where are the bodies?”