She reached for the phone and called Brazil, catching him just before he was out the door.

“Andy? We’ve got trouble,” she instantly said.

“Fish?” he asked.

“Oh God. You too,” she said.

“And Virginia. Same thing.”

“This is awful.”

“I’m on my way to her house right now.”

“I’m coming,” Hammer said.

9

THE ADULT BOOKSTORE was enjoying a steady business at twenty minutes past eight, when Smoke parked between a Chevrolet Blazer with eight-inch superlift and 39x18.5 custom tires, and a granny-low Silverado 2500. He turned the engine off, waiting for a break in spent, dazed, afraid-the-wife-or-mother-would-find-out male traffic exiting the small sex shop.

A gimpy old man in overalls emerged from the door, looking this way and that, Viagra worn off, face wan, exhausted and paranoid in the sick glow of neon lights. He stuffed a bandanna into his back pocket and checked his fly and touched the side of his neck to see what his pulse was doing. He was unsteady as he made a dash for his El Camino. Smoke waited until it was spitting gravel and lurching onto Midlothian Turnpike. He knew his way through the woods so well he didn’t turn on the flashlight until he reached the plywood entrance of his clubhouse.

Candles had long since been snuffed out, the gang gone except for its newest member. Weed was sitting in his own vomit on a mattress, hands and ankles bound with belts. He was shaking and whimpering.

“Shut up,” Smoke said, shining the light in Weed’s terrorized face.

“I didn’t do nothing,” Weed repeatedly muttered.

Smoke quickly undid the belts, keeping his distance and not breathing.

“Maybe I ought to dump your ass,” he said in disgust. “You’re nothing but a puny little pussy. Throwing up all over the place and crying like a queer. Well, I’ll tell you one thing, Mr. Picasso. You’re cleaning up this place before you go anywhere.”

West was running around her house, picking up, straightening up, throwing out pizza and fried chicken boxes, stuffing dishes into the dishwasher while Niles stuck with her feet like a soccer ball.

“Get out of my way,” West told Niles. “Where’s your mouse? Go get your mouse.”

Niles wouldn’t. West trotted into the bedroom. She sat on the left side, where she didn’t sleep, and bounced up and down. She punched the pillow and rumpled the spread. She ran back into the kitchen and got two wineglasses out of a cupboard. She dusted them, swirled a small amount of Mountain Dew in each, raced back to the bedroom and placed them on the bedside tables. She dropped a pair of athletic socks that could have passed for a man’s.

She was out of breath when she hurried inside her office and began digging in drawers for a greeting card, maybe a letter that looked suspiciously personal from someone besides Brazil, who had written her often back in days that meant nothing to her anymore. She came across a florist’s card still in its envelope, her name typed on it. She walked quickly into the foyer and dropped the card on a table, in plain view of anyone who came through the front door.