“My boys said that you stole their rifle and let the air out of their tire,” the man said with a smile.

“If I look like I’d steal a rifle, so do you. They felled a hemlock that had been a nesting sight for a pileated woodpecker.”

“I see,” the mastermind said, trying to estimate the gravity of the situation.

“You might be interested in my life list.” Warlock pushed the Peterson across the table. “I’m up to three hundred and twenty-three. I’m going to Hawaii at Christmas to pick up thirty more. Tell those jerkoffs at the bar not to bother me. I got twenty years of karate and I love to turn dummies into hamburger.”

Chapter 25

Needless to say, he hightailed it out of town. It was easy enough to talk rough in daylight when you had the drop on someone, but night changed the odds. He barreled down Route 77 toward Seney, “barreled” being a flattering term for what the four cylinder Subaru would do on a straightaway. It was doubtless time to buy a muscle car, not something obvious like a Porsche; the job seemed to demand a black Trans Am. It was difficult to drive fast with one eye on the rearview mirror and a Trans Am, so he had read, would outrun anything.

The panic of the departure only slowly subsided. Hudley had dashed around the room barking, which hadn’t helped. Then in a nervous gesture he had discovered that he had neglected to load the pistol. My god. Few of the fans of the movie Deliverance realized that the Great North owned backwoods feebs who far exceeded in threat their southern counterparts. Every little town had a bully named Tiny who would eat fifteen hamburgers or five fried chickens, drink a case of beer and beat up on some hapless stranger. The recent surge of marijuana into the outback had helped calm these thugs: now, some ten years out of date, they were wont to wear their hair long and exchange greetings such as “Peace, baby,” or “¿Qué pasa?”