“Whose fault is it, then? Tell me.”

“Your own, I guess,” Orrin said.

The gunman jacked his seat back so he could reach Orrin, but Findley raised a hand to stop him. Sandra watched through slit eyes, one hand clamped over her bleeding mouth. Everything looked watery, as if the rain had come inside the car.

“How do you figure that?” Findley asked.

“Your own son hates you,” Orrin said calmly.

Findley reddened. “My son? What do you know about my family?”

“You shouldn’t have done what you did about his friend Latisha. I don’t believe he’ll ever forgive you for that.”

“Who have you been talking to?”

Orrin closed his mouth and looked away. Sandra cringed, waiting for the inevitable blow.

But the gunman was looking past her, down the street. He said, “Here it comes now, Mr. Findley.”

Sandra risked a look. What was coming was a plain white van. Sandra couldn’t begin to guess at its significance, but Findley was pleased to see it. He waved at the driver of the van as it passed. “All right then,” he said. “We might as well get moving.” Into the land of unspeakable things.

“One more chance to tell me about Bose,” Findley said. Sandra glanced at the gunman, who smiled horribly.

Orrin watched the van pull ahead. “Mr. Findley?”

“What do you imagine you have to say, Orrin?”

“Mr. Findley, I believe that truck’s on fire.”

*   *   *

Yellow flame guttered out of the van’s loosely chained rear doors. Smoke, too, though rain and mist concealed it. The driver of the van apparently hadn’t yet noticed.

Then something inside ignited with a visceral thump. The rear doors flew open, feeding air to a sudden inferno. The van swerved and came up hard against the curb. Two men tumbled out of the cab, looked back in horror, then ran into the darkness.

Findley and the gunman were still staring when Bose’s car barrelled out of the coffee shop parking lot. Findley saw it first: “Go! Drive for fuck’s sake!” he shouted; but Bose braked directly in front of the car, blocking it. The gunman put the car into reverse but succeeded only in ramming his rear bumper into the concrete bus bench. His last recourse was the weapon in his hand. He raised the pistol, looking for a target. Findley was still shouting, pointlessly.