“Holy Christ,” Finn shouted. He was pointing at a child who had just appeared and was standing a foot or so in front of Magnus, staring into the fire.

“That’s Clyde’s kid,” Goldwin said. “The one’s soft in the head.”

“Don’t look soft in the head to me,” Bennet said.

“Jesus”—Siggy looked around the clearing—“what if Clyde turns up?”

“Get him down,” Bennet shouted, pointing up at McFarlane. “Sal, Sal, get hold of that kid a minute.”

Sal looked up helplessly from his hands. “Why does this happen to me?” he shouted, digging his finger into his chest. “To me.”

“I said get hold of that fuckin’ kid,” Bennet ordered.

Sal got up and took hold of Roh gently by the shoulders. But the boy began to scream.

At the same moment Siggy said, “He’s not breathing.”

“Fucking shut that kid up,” Bennet called as he ran over to McFarlane, who was lying on the ground now. The tape and socks had been pulled from his mouth, and he had been cut free of the ropes, which had gouged into his wrists and ankles.

Siggy had his head on McFarlane’s chest. “He’s not breathing,” he repeated.

Goldwin, who was standing beside McFarlane’s body with Finn, repeated this hollowly: “He’s not breathing.”

McFarlane’s face looked as if it had been parboiled, his eyes grotesquely swollen, his mouth open, those teeth horribly exposed.

Out of breath, Bennet shoved Siggy aside and got down onto his knees. “He’s all right.”

“He’s stone dead,” Siggy said.

The child was still screaming.

“Shut that goddamn kid up,” Bennet shouted.

“I can’t,” Sal called from the other side of the fire. “He punching me. He go crazy if I touch him. He crazy.”

Bennet slapped McFarlane’s cheeks. Snatching the bottle of bourbon out of Siggy’s hand, he splashed it into the hobo’s face. “Damn, damn.” He began to administer mouth-to-mouth, blowing hard between McFarlane’s spit-clabbered lips. Then he listened to his heart again. “Jesus. Jesus.” Straddling McFarlane’s chest, he pumped with his joined hands. “What the fuck is it? On the count of three?” He pumped harder. “Is it the count of three?” He looked up at Siggy, who shrugged. Finn and Goldwin were like men standing around the opened hood of a truck.

“I think you got to hold his nose or something,” Siggy offered, squatting down.

“It’s not a heart attack,” Goldwin put in. “I think he’s suffocated.”

Snapping his fingers, Siggy pointed excitedly at Goldwin. “Assfiseated. Assfixeated. No air above a fire. Didn’t have no air to breathe. Fire uses up the air.”

“Fire uses up the air,” Goldwin parroted blankly. “No air above a fire.”

“Try turning him on his front,” Finn suggested. “That’s what they do when someone’s drowned. Or you could lift his hands above his head.”