Dennis drove into the man as hard as he could, flinging punches that had no effect, and now the belt was his, snapping across him over and over and over until all his tears were gone.

She never came out, and after a while the man went back into the room. Her little pleasure.

'Dennis?'

Dennis cleared his eyes, then slid off the bar stool.

'Be quiet, Kevin. I'm not leaving here until I can take that cash.'

Dennis went back to the office and unplugged the phone. There was no point in talking to the cops until he knew what to say. He wanted the money.

KEN SEYMORE

The Channel Eight news van was parked at the edge of the empty lot. The reporter was a pretty boy, couldn't have been more than twenty-five, twenty-six, something like that, who got off telling everyone he went to USC. Trojan this, Trojan that, God's a Trojan. A Trojan was a fuckin' rubber, but Seymore didn't say that. The reporter pool complained all evening because there were no toilets; the local cops promised that a honeywagon was coming out, but so far, zip.

Seymore asked the guy if it would be all right to step behind their van, take the lizard for a walk.

The pretty boy laughed, sure, but watch where you step, they got a regular lizard trail back there. Dick. Seymore thought he was the kind of guy who ordered chocolate martinis.

Seymore stepped behind the van where no one could see him and did two spoons of crank. It hit the top of his head like a blast of cold air and made his eyes burn, but it kept him awake. It was after two and all of them were fighting the hours. Seymore noted that the Asian chick with the hot ass kept ducking into her SUV and had a fine set of the sniffles to show for it. A regular one-woman Hoover convention.

Coming out from behind the van, Seymore saw the Channel Eight reporter conferring with his producer and cameraperson, a man with hugely muscled arms. They looked excited.

Seymore said, 'Thanks, buddy.'

'No problem. You hear? They're getting one out of the house.'

Seymore stopped.

'They are?'

'I think it's the father. He's hurt.'

A siren spooled up, and they all knew it was the ambulance. Every camera crew in the lot hustled to the street in hopes of a shot, but the ambulance left from a different exit; the siren grew louder, peaked, then faded.

Seymore's phone rang as the siren dopplered away. He answered as he walked away, lowering his voice but unable to hide his irritation. He knew who it was; he started right in.

'Why the fuck I gotta hear this from a reporter? Fuckin' Smith comes out, for chrissake, and I gotta learn about it last?'

'Do you think I can get to a phone any time I want? I'm right out front in this; I have to be careful.'

'All right, all right. So tell me, was he talking? The guy here says he was hurt.'

'I don't know. I couldn't get close enough.'

'Did he have the disks? Maybe he had the disks.'

'I don't know.'

Seymore felt himself losing it. Fuckups like this could cost him his ass.

'If anyone should know, it's you, goddamnit. What the fuck are we paying you for?'

'They're taking him to Canyon Country Hospital. Go fuck yourself.'

The line went dead.

Seymore didn't have time to get pissed about it. He called Glen Howell.

PART THREE. THE HEAD

CHAPTER 17

Friday, 11:36 P.M.

Pearblossom, California

MIKKELSON AND DREYER

It was late when Mikkelson and Dreyer found Krupchek's trailer, a thirty-foot Caravan split at the seams, waiting for them at the end of a paved road in Pearblossom, a farm community of fruit orchards and day workers in the low foothills at the base of the Antelope Valley. That was Mikkelson's notion when they finally found the damned place, that it was waiting, wide, flat, and dusty, the way a desert toad waits for a bug.

Dreyer swiveled the passenger-side floodlight and lit up the place. Somewhere under the dust, it was pale blue going to rust.

Dreyer, more cautious by nature, said, 'You think we should wait for Palmdale?'

Mikkelson, anxious to get inside, said, 'Why'd we go to the trouble of getting the warrant, if we're gonna wait? We don't have to wait. Leave the light.'

Krupchek's road ran the gut of a shallow canyon between two low ridges. No streetlights, no cable TV, no nothing out here; they had phone service and power, but that was about it; the sun went down, it was black.

Mikkelson, tall and athletic, behind the wheel because she got carsick when Dreyer drove, got out first. Dreyer, short and square, came up beside her, the rocky soil crunching. Both had their Maglites. They stood there, staring at the trailer, both a little bit nervous.

'You think anyone is home?'

'We'll find out.'

'You think that's his car?'

'We'll run the tag when we finish inside.'

An eighties-era Toyota Camry, itself dusty and speckled with rust, sat outside the darkened trailer.