Culbeau touched his ear and examined the blood. Then he looked down at the young woman. From a scabbard on his belt he took a folding knife and opened it with a click. He gripped her brunette hair, pulled it up, exposing her white throat.

She grabbed his wrist and tried to hold it back. But his arms were huge and the dark blade moved steadily toward her skin.

“Stop,” a voice from the doorway commanded. Garrett Hanlon stood just inside the cabin. He was holding a large gray rock in his hand. He walked close to Culbeau. “Leave her alone and get the fuck out of here.”

Culbeau released Mary Beth’s hair; her head dropped to the floor. The big man stepped back. He touched his ear again and winced. “Hey, boy, who’re you to be cussing at me.”

“Go on, get out.”

Culbeau laughed coldly. “Why’d you come back here? I got close to a hundred pounds of weight on you. And I got a Buck knife. All you got’s that rock. Well, come on over here. Let’s mix it up, get it over with.”

Garrett clicked his fingernails twice. He crouched like a wrestler, walked forward slowly. His face showed eerie determination. He pretended to throw the rock several times and Culbeau dodged, backed up. Then the big man laughed, sizing up his adversary and probably concluding that the boy wasn’t much of a threat. He lunged forward and swung the knife toward Garrett’s narrow belly. The boy jumped back fast and the blade missed. But Garrett had misjudged the distance and hit the wall hard. He dropped to his knees, stunned.

Culbeau wiped his hand on his pants and gripped the knife again matter-of-factly, surveying Garrett with no emotion, as if he were about to dress a deer. He stepped toward the boy.

Then there was a blur of motion from the floor. Mary Beth, still lying on the floor, grabbed the club and swung it into Culbeau’s ankle. He cried out as it connected and turned toward her, lifting the knife. But Garrett lunged forward and pushed the man hard on the shoulder. Culbeau was off balance and he slid on his knees down the cellar stairs. He caught himself halfway down. “You little shit,” he growled.

Rhyme saw Culbeau grope in the dark cellar stairway for his rifle. “Garrett! He’s going for the gun!”

The boy just walked slowly to the cellar and lifted the rock. But he didn’t throw it. What was he doing? Rhyme wondered. He watched Garrett pull a wad of cloth out of a hole in the end. He looked down at Culbeau, said, “It’s not a rock.” And, as the first few yellow jackets flew out of the hole, he flung the nest into Culbeau’s face and slammed the root cellar door shut. He hooked the clasp on the lock and stood back.