“On to Hollywood,” Governor Feuer ordered.

“There’s really not time, sir,” Jed suggested.

“There’s never time,” the governor said, waving him on.

Weed decided he had stayed long enough in the big hole with broken clay pipes in the bottom of it. Water was leaking from somewhere. A Bob Cat was parked nearby and lots of shovels and hoes were scattered on the ground.

He had begun to worry that the hole was really a grave, even though it wasn’t at all shaped like one. Maybe everybody was on an early lunch break or something. Maybe all of a sudden dirt would start falling in and Weed would be buried alive.

He peeked out and didn’t see a sign of Brazil or anyone else. He listened hard. Only birds were talking. He climbed out of the hole and made a dash for the cemetery fence. He climbed to the top of it as the Lemans slowly cruised into view. Dog, Beeper and Sick were looking for him so Smoke could shoot Weed and dump him in the river. Weed dropped back inside the cemetery and ran with no particular destination in mind, zigzagging around graves and leaping over monuments.

Brazil too was running fast and could have continued his seven-minute-mile pace for hours, although boots would not have been his footwear of choice and his shins were beginning to hurt. The more frustrated he got, the faster he ran.

He cut over to Riverview, flying past memorials, monuments, plaques, sculptures, vases and tablets. Tiny Confederate flags waved him on. A groundskeeper with extra spools of nylon twine tied on his belt trimmed around stones, the weed-eater popping and buzzing as he maneuvered it with the skill of a surgeon.

“You seen a kid in Chicago Bulls stuff?” Brazil called out as he got close.

“Like the statue?”

“Only smaller,” Brazil said, running past.

“Nope,” the groundskeeper said as he trimmed.

Brazil wove between a marble lamb and a mausoleum, jumped over an English boxwood and to his amazement landed almost on top of Weed. Brazil grabbed him by the back of his jersey, kicked his feet out from under him and sat on him. He pinned Weed’s arms to the ground.

“I changed my mind,” Weed yelled. “You can lock me up.”

Bubba had lost control and it was obvious to all. He was humiliated and sick to his stomach when Officer Budget opened the back of the patrol car and exclaimed, “Shit, man.” Bubba felt sure one more hideous nickname had just been added to the list.

“I’m sorry,” Bubba said. “But I told you . . .”

“Man, oh man!” Budget cried.

He was beside himself, almost gagging as he unlocked Bubba’s handcuffs while Chief Hammer and West looked on.

“And just who’s going to clean this up! Man, oh man! I can’t believe it!”

Bubba’s shame could not have been deeper. He had been so certain it was his destiny for his path to cross with Hammer’s. But not like this. Not half naked, dirty, fat and soiled. He could not look at her.