“I’ll tell you just what you are,” Bean said flatly. “You’re a problem I can do without. S’funny, I’ve always dreamed of a little action in this neck of the woods, a little oomph, you know? Guess there’s a little Barney Fife in me after all. But you . . . I hate to say it, Mr. Stiles, but you scare the holy hell out of me. And I don’t like that.” He leaned over the soldier, slowly so as not to look like he was going for his gun, and pushed open the passenger door. “Go on, get out. And don’t make me regret this. I don’t want to pick up the Bedford paper and find out you’ve shot up a grocery store or something.” He held out his hand. “Can I have my gun back?”

Stiles took the Ruger out of his belt. “Promise me time, Charlie. To go back to town and get my stuff. Then I’m gone and you’ll never hear from me again.”

Bean nodded. “Sounds fine to me.”

He put the revolver in the deputy’s hand and walked back through the trees to the van. A cursory search told him it was secure. Bean was still waiting when he pulled out onto the road. The squad car followed him all the way back to town and even into the all-but-empty motel parking lot, staying right on his tail the whole time. Stiles got out, fuming, walked over and leaned in the cruiser’s window. “I thought we had a deal,” he said, irritated. “I trust you, you trust me. Remember?”

“I’m not giving you no trouble,” Bean said. “Yet. I just want to make sure you get out of town.”

Stiles’s tone was clipped and full of warning. “Get off my ass, Charlie. I said I was going.” He leaned in closer, enough that the deputy could feel his breath, and he grinned. “You don’t want to get the psycho mad, do you?”