“This is an area you know?”

“Well enough. The restaurant doesn’t ring a bell, but I think I’ve been over that bridge before.”

“How did he sound?”

“Drunk.”

It wasn’t much of a drive—southeast of the city about five miles from Swope Park into a rural area where the only hitch was the dark night making us miss the junction of 40 and 10E; we had to backtrack and try again—no sign of anyone following, at least not yet. This time we turned south on the county road and soon came to a covered wooden bridge. Midnight now… midnight on a lonely country road.…

I told Letterman to pull over.

He did, then nodded toward the bridge. “Should I leave the headlights on?”

“No. It’d just make a target of me.”

He shut off the beams and the bridge’s mouth turned black and unwelcoming. I got the nine millimeter out again and slipped from the car into the night.

I entered the sheltered structure slowly, cautiously, wood groaning under my feet, sparse moonlight filtering in between slats, my back to a creaky wall, edging along like I was expecting the Headless Horseman at any moment. But no ghost on horseback came charging and no one was lying in wait—there was really nowhere to do that. I went all the way to the north end and stayed low, gun ready, as I came out. I looked around the low brush on either side of the road, going down the slope on both sides to the narrow gurgling stream.

Nobody.

I climbed back up. There were trees on both sides but anyone who emerged would have shown himself even under that stingy slice of moon.

I returned to the car and got in. “No sign of a soul,” I said. “Not L, M, N or P. But go slow.”

We rumbled through the rickety bridge and then pulled off to the left as we exited the north end. From the back seat I yanked out the duffel and then the two of us, like gangsters in fedoras and topcoats dragging a dead body, lugged the eighty-five pounds of money—thirty pounds heavier than Bobby Greenlease—to the underbrush just past the north end of the bridge, concealing the duffel just a little, not wanting to attract anyone’s attention but M’s.

“All right,” I said. “Now you head back.”

He blinked at me. “You mean we head back.”

“No. I’m waiting for these bastards.” I lifted the nine mil and lowered it, to make a point.

He shook his head—really shook it. “No. We’re not taking that kind of chance.”

“I’m not asking you to. Don’t worry about me getting back, Will. They’ll have a car.”

He pointed to the Caddy, which sat purring. “Get in, Heller. You heard what Bob said. This is my call.”

I thought about my options. What could I do, slug him? He was twenty years older than me, and if I knocked him out, who’d drive the car back? It might even kill him, and that only complicated matters.