Smith was dressed up fancy, and he had one hand behind his back. His brown wingtips were huge, like real-life fancy clown shoes. He had overstarched his button-down shirt, but it was blue and it made his green eyes look good, and his blazer was only a little worn in the elbows. He looked real handsome even though his mouth was gaping open all weird at Jerry. Smith couldn't see me. He wouldn't have expected to find me in the chicken coop, wouldn't have recognized the bunker as a coop. I don't know if Smith saw Hitchcock because the rooster went frozen and still, but Smith and Hitchcock looked a lot alike in that moment. They both looked worried and their feet were planted in odd directions. The rooster's eye was moving, vigilant, watching the two men. Smith was keeping one eye on Jerry, taking the measure of things with the other.

“Grace around?” Smith asked.

Jerry pivoted his body between Smith and Hitchcock and pointed the shotgun at Smith. “I want to see your piece,” Jerry said, real calm. “I want to know what you're holding.”

Smith took a step back and put a hand up, but it was a one-handed surrender, like promising something with your fingers crossed. “Let's just calm down. I only came out to talk to Grace. I catch you at a bad time, Jerry?”

“Who else you got out there?” Jerry said, lunging the shotgun toward the door. Jerry's voice was like one of those old-timey crank sirens, getting louder, more shrill, by degrees. “You got the guard out there?”

Smith seemed genuinely confused. “Wha?” he said. “The guard? What guard?”

“The National fucking Guard!” Jerry hit full wail, hopping from one foot to the other. He looked like he was on drugs. It's possible he was on drugs. “I know you're too chickenshit to come alone!”

Hitchcock made his move from behind then, launching with a staccato, helicopter whoosh. His talons, the scaly genetic gift from his dinosaur ancestors, landed on Jerry's shoulder and he beat Jerry about the head with his wings, the triumphant battle crow reduced to a few pathetic squeaks by his no-crow collar. Jerry let out some real high-pitched whoops and shrieks. He twisted around trying to lose the rooster, finally leaping onto a stack of two hay bales. In the chaos, his gun went off and I saw the spray of blood when the bullet hit Smith, who after a little staggering collected himself enough to pull a gun of his own out of a concealed holster and fire two really impressive shots. He took out Hitchcock and Jerry both before he hit the ground, and then they were all three silent, motionless. Next to Smith, the loose dirt from the barn floor was swirling, floating paisley patterns on top of a seeping puddle of blood, and in the middle of that spread was a single white rose. I couldn't see Jerry.