“Thirty minutes. The place is an equipment-storage yard now. Drive around to the left side of the building. The chain on the gate’ll be cut.”

“I’ll be there.”

I hang up and speak to Sam Jacobs on the balcony, and Sam declares himself ready to draw off the surveillance long enough to get me clear of Aquitaine.

The old pecan-shelling plant stands on prime real estate in Natchez’s old warehouse district, a sort of no-man’s-land between the town proper and a sleepy residential area filled with Victorian gems. It has an unobstructed view of the river, and one day will probably be the site of a luxury hotel. At the moment it is an eerily lighted compound surrounded by a high fence and razor wire, with the rigid arms of great cranes jutting against the night sky.

As Ike promised, the chained gate on the left side of the building has been cut open. I nose the Maxima through it without getting out, and negotiate my way through backhoes, draglines, and D-9 bulldozers parked like Patton’s army marshaling for a campaign. I can’t see the river, but forty yards to my left, the bluff drops away to a vast dark sky, leaving the impression that I’m driving along the edge of a mountain.

Out of the blackness to my right, a pink and blue light bar strobes like a carnival, then vanishes. I slow nearly to a stop, trying to place the location of Ike’s cruiser.

There.

I turn right and idle toward the main building. As the black silhouette looms over me, the lights flash again. In their light I see that Ike has opened the old truck door of the plant and is parked in it. As I approach, he starts his engine and pulls forward, leaving me plenty of room to pull inside the building. I park the Maxima beside his cruiser and shut off the engine. Kelly’s Browning is in the glove box, but I don’t want to cause any kind of reflex reaction in Ike, especially if he’s wired on speed.

Ike is standing by my passenger door, between his car and mine. I get out and walk around the trunk of the Maxima, extending my hand to shake his.

“What have you got, Ike?”

He holds out his hand, but instead of shaking he grabs my wrist and jerks me to my knees on the concrete floor. As I try to look up, something slams into the top of my skull. The blow drives every thought out of my head, leaving only white noise. My first coherent perception is of something cold and hard pressed against my hairline.

“That’s a gun,” he says. “Don’t fucking move.”

The terror generated by the gun barrel is absolute, paralyzing. If any muscle in my body is moving, it’s the sphincter of my bladder. “Ike? What the hell are you doing?”