The sheriff stepped back. Nathan, the sharpshooting deputy, walked into the room, behind Bell, and snagged the sheriff’s pistol from its holster. Another man entered—a large man in a tan suit and white shirt.

Ben too ran inside, ignored everyone else and hurried to Rhyme, wiping the criminalist’s face with a paper towel.

The sheriff stared at Lucy and the others. “No, you don’t understand! There was an accident! That poison stuff spilled. You’ve got to—”

Rhyme spit on the floor and wheezed from the astringent liquid and the fumes. He said to Ben, “Could you wipe higher on my cheek? I’m afraid it’ll get into my eyes. Thank you.”

“Sure, Lincoln.”

Bell said, “I was going for help! That stuff spilled! I—”

The man in the suit pulled handcuffs off his belt and ratcheted the loops around the sheriff’s wrists. He said, “James Bell, I’m Detective Hugo Branch with the North Carolina State Police. You’re under arrest here.” Branch looked at Rhyme sourly. “I told you he’d pour it on your shirt. We should’ve put the unit someplace else.”

“But you got enough on tape?”

“Oh, plenty. That’s not the point. The point is those transmitters cost money.”

“Bill me,” Rhyme said acerbically as Branch opened Rhyme’s shirt and untaped the microphone and transmitter.

“It was a setup,” Bell whispered.

You got that right.

“But the poison …”

“Oh, it’s not toxaphene,” Rhyme said. “Just a little moonshine. From that jar we tested. By the way, Ben, if there’s any left, I could use a sip just now. And, Christ, could somebody get that AC going?”

Tense, cut to the left and run like hell. I’ll get hit but if I’m lucky it won’t stop me.

When you move they can’t getcha…

Amelia Sachs took three steps into the grass.

Ready…

Set…

Then a man’s voice from behind them, inside the lockup area, called, “Hold it, Steve! Put the weapon on the ground. Now! I’m not telling you again!”

Sachs spun around and saw Mason Germain, his gun pointed at the shocked young man’s crew-cut head, his round ears crimson. Farr crouched and set the gun on the floor. Mason hurried forward and cuffed him.

Footsteps sounded from outside, leaves rustled. Dizzy from the heat and the adrenaline, Sachs turned back to the field and saw a lean black man climbing out of the bushes, holstering a big Browning automatic pistol.

“Fred!” she cried.

FBI agent Fred Dellray, sweating furiously in his black suit, walked up to her, brushing petulantly at his sleeve. “Hey, A-melia. My, it is too too too hot down here. I don’t like this town one tiny bit. And look at this suit. It’s all, I don’t know, dusty or something. What is this shit, pollen? We don’t have this stuff in Man-hattan. Look at this sleeve!”