Each turn Lou directed Chief Gilbert Stone to take led them to another narrow dirt road that cut through another field. With a gentle breeze fanning the tall stalks, it all seemed so peaceful—so far removed from the guns … and the combine harvester … and the blood … and the death. But the nightmare had been real, and Notso Brite had apparently paid for someone’s paranoia with his life.

It had taken most of an hour before the 911 call from Cap’s cell phone had directed a cruiser from the Kings Ridge police station to where the three of them were waiting in George’s car. The officer, on orders from Stone, had led Lou and the others to the station, and after photographing Lou, fixed him up with a shower and a set of clothes. Even after washing off the blood and caked soil, he looked beaten and totally spent. His face had half a dozen gouges, and his knuckles throbbed. Nasty crimson bruises encircled his neck like a cleric’s collar. Worst of all, his ankle was quite swollen and was monitoring every heartbeat.

The small motorcade consisted of two cruisers. Stone drove lead with Lou riding shotgun and Cap and George seated quietly in back behind a wire mesh screen. Two officers occupied the second car. Even staying under fifteen, nothing Lou or the others described was of any help in leading Stone to the spot where they were ambushed. Thirty minutes passed. Then another thirty. Several times, Lou thought they were on the right track. His pulse spiked, only to quickly settle down at the sight of a road sign or a house or outbuilding that told him they were still in the wrong place.

Stone was patient and understanding, but several times suggested that they might do better to suspend their search until daylight. Lou was adamant they continue.

“Look at my neck!” he insisted. “I didn’t do this to myself. There are at least two bodies out there—one of the men who was trying to kill us, and our friend Anthony Brite. Cap saw him get shot.”

He glanced back at his stoical friend and wondered what Gilbert Stone was thinking about him and George.

“Turn here,” Cap said suddenly.

“Turn here?”

Lou nodded and Stone made the right. The other police car followed them onto yet another narrow dirt road. Both drivers cut to their fog lights and slowed to five. There were no distinctive tire tracks on the dirt road, but there was something about the interface between the road and the stalks that seemed familiar.

“Cap, you sensing something?” Lou asked.

“Maybe.”

“Duncan, do you really think you killed somebody, too?” Stone asked.