A moment before, he’d prayed silently, lips quivering, hands hooked in the blankets.

He said, “My, my, my” as I wheeled him forward. When we reached the door, the footrests of his chair nudged it open, and we stepped out into an amethyst twilight.

The pair of cowboys holding Aimee and Bert were twenty or so yards up the gravel drive, off center, closer to the western edge of the pathway, where the forest began. The sky was slate, and the foliage had deepened to olive drab. Flesh tones remained vivid; I saw the fear on Bert’s face.

The bigger cowboy was positioned slightly in front of his partner. The pickup’s driver. Midforties, five-eleven, with a potbelly that strained his ice-blue shirt, thick thighs that turned his blue jeans into sausage casing, a complexion the color of dirty copper, and a bristling, graying mustache. His hat was broad-brimmed, brown felt.

Bored demeanor, but even at this distance I could see the edgy movement around his eyes. He towered over Bert, held the old man by the scruff.

Just behind him, to the right, the smaller intruder maintained a grip on Aimee, clutching her sweatshirt from behind, stretching the fabric over the rolls and bulges of her torso. Younger, five-five, midtwenties, he wore a baggy black T-shirt and saggy black jeans too urban for his straw headpiece. The hat looked cheap, a hurried addition. He had a round face bottomed by wispy goatee. Dull, distracted eyes. A mass of tattoos ran up his arms.

One of the car restorers at Vance Coury’s garage.

The sun didn’t move, but Bert Harrison’s complexion grayed.

Aimee said, “Billy, what’s happening?” She made a move toward the chair but the small cowboy cuffed the back of her head. She flapped her arms clumsily. He said, “Cool it, retard.”

“Bill—”

Bill said, “Everything’s cool, babe, we’ll work it out.”

“Sure we will,” said the big cowboy, in the husky voice that had brought us out. A pack of cigarettes swelled one of the pockets of his shirt. Western shirt, with a contrasting white yoke, pearl buttons, still box-creased. He and his pal had dressed for the occasion. He said, “Get the fuck over here, Willy.”

“Over where?” said Bill.

“Over here, Stevie Wonder.” Glancing at me: “You—asshole—wheel him over here real slow—take your hands off the fucking chair, and I’ll blow your fucking head off.”

“Then what?” said Bill.

“Then we take y’all somewhere.”

“Where?”

“Shut the fuck up.” To the smaller man: “We’ll load ’em in back with the shit. Under them tarps, like I showed you.”

Small said, “Why don’t we just do ’em here?” in a nasal voice.

The big man’s chest swelled. Taking a deep breath. “That’s the plan, mijo.”

“What about the wheelchair?”