Nothing. Cursing under my breath, I turned back up the levee. I could hear somebody inside. A voice, a banging of drawers. There was a window on the far side of the building. If I could get to it, I should be able to see into the main work area.

I started around the clearing, staying in the brush as long as I could, then darted into the cage area at the rear of the main building. Most of the animal pens were simple wooden or wire cages stacked six high inside a chain-link fence, but there was also an open pen for puppies. A couple of half-grown spotted mongrels stood up in the pen as I went by, watching curiously, and I prayed for silence. One continued to watch me, its nose pressed through the fence, while the other one turned in its tracks and settled down again. Neither barked.

Standing in the darkness of the pens, I waited a second, listening, then poked my head out. A shaft of light came out of the window onto the grass. Then a man spoke, but I couldn’t make out what was being said. I stepped out from the pen area, staying close to the building, moved up to the window, and carefully looked in, moving slowly

Hill was there, his back to me, stuffing paper into a plastic garbage sack. The file cabinets around him were standing open. He was cleaning the place out. That was OK, as long as they didn’t physically trash the computer. The voice I’d heard came from the radio, a local sports talk show about the high school baseball team. I let out a breath and started to step back.

“Don’t fuckin’ move.” The voice came from ten feet away and nearly stopped my heart. I turned my head, and St. Thomas was there. He was wearing loose, soiled khaki slacks and a light short-sleeved shirt, which was half open over his fat belly. With one hand, he fumbled with his fly. With the other, he pointed a shiny chrome pistol at my head. I froze.

“Duane, get your butt out here,” St. Thomas hollered. Then to me he said, “Picked a good time to take a leak, didn’t I?” Then louder again: “Duane, goddamn it

“

Hill came around the corner of the building and stopped, his mouth half open.

“Goddamn,” he said. He broke it into two words, dragging out the God. He didn’t exactly smile, but he was delighted. “I knew you was the nigger in the woodpile.”

“I talked to the mayor before I came-“

As I started the sentence, Hill walked up to me and, before I had a chance to raise my hands, swatted me openhanded on the face. The blow almost knocked me down, semiblinded me, and the taste of blood surged into my mouth.

I put my hands up to defend myself, and St. Thomas screamed, “Put your hands down, motherfucker, motherfucker