Wolgast withdrew the gun from its place against his spine. It was the one Lacey had left on the floor of the Lexus. The clip was empty; whether she’d been the person to fire it or somebody else, Wolgast didn’t know. Maybe she had said something, but he couldn’t remember. In all the chaos it had been hard to tell what was what. In any event, the gun was familiar to him; Springfields were standard Bureau issue. He freed the clip and locked the slide to show the man it was empty and placed it on the counter.

The man took the weapon in his big hand and examined it. Wolgast could tell, from the way he turned it around, letting its finish hold the light, that he knew guns.

“Tungsten frame, beveled ejection port, titanium pin with the short trigger reset. Pretty fancy.” He looked at Wolgast expectantly. “I didn’t know better, I’d say you were a fed.”

Wolgast did his best to look innocent. “You could say I used to be. In a former life.”

His man’s face took up a sad smirk. He placed the gun on the counter. “A former life,” he said with a dispirited shake of his head. “Guess we’ve all got one of those. Let me take a look.”

He passed through the curtain into the back, returning a moment later with a small cardboard box.

“This is all I have in a .45 ACP. Keep some around for a fellow retired from the ATF, likes to take a twelve-pack up into the woods and shoot the cans as he empties them. Calls it his recycling day. But I haven’t seen him in a while. You’re the first person to come in here in most of a week. You might as well have them as anyone.” He placed the box on the counter: fifty rounds, hollow points. He tipped his head toward the counter. “Go on, they’re no good in the box. You go right ahead and load it if you want.”

Wolgast freed the clip and began thumbing rounds into place.

“Anyplace else I can get more?”

“Not unless you want to go down into Whiteriver.” The man tapped his breastbone, twice, with his index finger. “They’re saying you got to hit them right here. One shot. They go down like a hammer if you do it right. Otherwise, that’s it, you’re history.” He stated this fact flatly, without satisfaction or fear; he might have been telling Wolgast what the weather was. “Doesn’t matter if it used to be your sweet old grandma. She’ll drink you dry before you can aim twice.”

Wolgast finished loading the clip, pulled the slide to chamber a round, and checked the safety. “Where’d you hear that?”