Under ordinary circumstances, Gabe knew he could make the throw ten times out of ten—but that was without walls behind him and overhead, and allowing for a few warm-up spins, and, finally, provided the subject to be roped wasn't holding a gun. This time Gabe would have one chance and only one. A miss and he would be trying to outrun a professional gunman on a leg that was barely functional.

He hefted the lasso and tried to imagine the moves he would make to close the loop as he was dropping over the balcony wall, using Crackowski as counterweight to keep him from smashing to the concrete poolside.

Just another Sunday hangin' in Dodge.

No mercy, he pleaded with himself. No mercy. . . . No hesitation. . . .

He took a step back, then leaned over the balcony, swung the lasso once to open a small loop, and floated it around the killer's head. Before Crackowski could react, Gabe toppled off the balcony, grasping the rope from the rain pipe with all his strength. The drop was rapid, the snapping neck sickening, and Crackowski's death instantaneous. Gabe hit the concrete floor with force, but only enough to stun him. He released the rope, still tied to his waist. The killer crumpled to the floor beside him, the stench of excrement already filling the air.

For most of a minute, Gabe stayed dazed on the floor, trying to orient himself from what he knew had to be a concussion. Finally, thoughts and images of Carl worked themselves into his hazy consciousness, intermixed with images of Gabe's high school coach, kneeling over him, administering smelling salts, and asking if he knew where he was and if he was able to go back into the game.

He had to move. Carl was painfully wounded, but he was mobile and he had a gun. For a moment, Gabe became excited about finding Crack-owski's pistol. Then he vaguely remembered seeing it clatter down into the empty pool. Had that really happened?

Groaning with every movement, he crawled to the edge of the concrete hole and peered down. He could barely make out what he thought was the bottom and could not discern anything else.

Perhaps he was wrong. . . . Maybe the gun was still nearby. . . . Maybe it was under Crackowski's body.

Gabe knew he wasn't thinking clearly, but he was unable to focus any better. His head was pounding, and the wound beside his hip made turning especially unpleasant. He crawled over to Crackowski's body. The killer's eyes were bulging nearly out of his head and his protruding tongue looked like a plum. Blocking out the odor, Gabe rolled the corpse over once, then again. No gun.

Still trying to shake the fog from his brain, he tried to rise, then fell back to his knees. When he turned back to the pool, Carl was standing there, watching him curiously, his heavy pistol resting loosely in his hand.