“Wait.” The blue tarp stopped moving. “Where’s Callahan? Your stud ex-major. Have him talk to me.”

Antonia ignored him. “Robert, I’m coming out—”

“I said wait! Shit. He’s not in there, is he? You fucking bitch.”

He dropped the tarp, kicked his way out of it as he ran toward the cottage, splashing through the water-soaked grass and sand. Hank could clearly make out the gun in Prancer’s right hand.

Moving fast, Hank jumped out from the lilacs. Prancer spotted him and fired—but not at Hank. At the back door.

Antonia was supposed to be inside with her pan of boiling water.

Hank dove for Prancer, hitting him in the solar plexus with the paddle. Prancer staggered backward, and Hank followed up with another hit, dislodging the gun. But the SOB was still on his feet. And he had his knife.

Antonia swooped down from the back steps and, without the slightest hesitation, stomped on Prancer’s left foot—the same one she’d treated a few weeks ago. He screamed out in agony, dropping the knife as he fell onto his hands and knees.

Hank grabbed the gun out of a puddle and pointed it at Prancer. “Up on your feet. Hands in the air where I can see them.”

His hands went up, but he sneered as he got to his feet. He was white-faced but seemed oblivious to any pain he was in. “You won’t kill me. It’d do in your chances to be elected.”

Hank paid no attention to him. “Antonia?”

“I’m okay. He didn’t hurt me.”

She was lying. There was blood on her upper right arm. Hank could see it out of the corner of his eye. “Can you make it back inside on your own?”

“Of course.”

He almost smiled. His lovely Dr. Winter was nothing if not independent. “We’ll need something to use to tie him up.”

“Gus says duct tape works best.”

Leave it to Gus to explain such things to his doctor niece. Hank waited until she was back in the cottage, then compelled Prancer inside at gunpoint. He’d lost some of his cockiness, moaning in pain, limping. His shirt was torn, his skin ravaged, his long hair matted down from rain. Blood trickled down one side of his mouth—he’d probably bit his lip. Hank knew he hadn’t hit him hard enough to cause internal bleeding. He hadn’t got good footing in the wet grass.

Hank ordered him to sit on a chair at the kitchen table.

“Go to hell,” Prancer said.