“Garrett wanted this book.” She held it up. “Is it okay if I give it to him?”

“What is it, a Bible?”

“No, it’s about insects.”

Nathan took it and searched it carefully—for weapons, she supposed. Then he handed it back. “Creepy, that boy is. Somethin’ out of a horror movie. You oughta give him a Bible.”

“I think this is all he’s interested in.”

“I guess you’re right about that. Slip your weapon in the lockbox there and I’ll let you in.”

Sachs put the Smith & Wesson inside and stepped to the door but Nathan was looking at her expectantly. She lifted an eyebrow.

“Well, miss, I understand you got a knife too.”

“Oh, sure. I forgot about it.”

“Rules is rules, you know.”

She handed over the switchblade. He dropped it in beside the gun.

“You want the cuffs too?” She touched her handcuff case.

“Nope. Can’t get into much trouble with those. Course, we had us a reverend who did once. But that was only ’cause his wife come home early and found him hitched to the bedpost with Sally Anne Carlson atop him. Come on, I’ll let you in.”

Rich Culbeau, flanked by nervous Sean O’Sarian, stood beside a dying lilac bush at the back of the lockup.

The back door to the place overlooked a large field, filled with grass and trash and parts of old cars and appliances. More than a few limp condoms too.

Harris Tomel drove his sparkling Ford F-250 up over the curb and backed around. Culbeau thought he should’ve come the other way because this looked a little obvious but there was nobody out on the street and, besides, after the custard stand closed, there was no reason for anybody to come down here. At least the truck was new and had a good muffler; it was quiet.

“Who’s in the front office?” O’Sarian asked.

“Nathan Groomer.”

“That girl cop with him?”

“I don’t know. How the hell do I know? But if she is she’ll have her gun and that knife she was tattooing you with in the lockbox.”

“Won’t Nathan hear if the girl screams?”

Recalling the redhead’s eyes and the flash of the blade once more, Culbeau said, “The boy’ll be more likely to scream than her.”

“Well, then, what if he does?”

“We’ll get the bag over him fast. Here.” Culbeau handed O’Sarian a red-and-white canister of pepper spray. “Aim low ’cause people duck.”

“Does it? … I mean, will it get on us? The spray?”

“Not if you don’t shoot yourself in the fucking face. It’s a stream. Not like a cloud.”

“Which of ’em should I take?”

“The boy.”

“What if the girl’s closer to me?”

Culbeau muttered, “She’s mine.”

“But—”

“She’s mine.”

“Okay,” O’Sarian agreed.