As she got out of the car, Nash murmured, “Doc, don’t make me shoot her; I like her more’n I like you. And if I shoot her, I have to shoot you, too—please don’t pull anything stupid.”

“I won’t.”

She walked over to them, smiling; Jenner saw she was wearing her weapon.

“Hi guys. What’s up?”

Nash was standing close in behind the Accent, right arm straight down so that Deb couldn’t see his pistol.

“Hey there, Deb. Not much.”

Jenner nodded at her. “Hi. Sorry I didn’t get through to you.”

She smiled. “It’s okay, Jenner—I’ve been out on the mud all morning, busting rich little pricks from the Beaches riding their four-wheelers in protected wetlands.”

She glanced in the open trunk, at Jenner’s bags of clothes. “You two look like you’re up to no good!”

Nash looked blankly at Jenner.

Jenner said, “The ATF wants to send some of my stuff from the bombing to the federal lab in DC, test it for explosives residue and whatnot; Deputy Nash was kind enough to meet me halfway to pick it up.”

Deb frowned. “Why didn’t you do it in Port Fontaine? That would’ve been a lot simpler.”

“Timing. I wanted to get on my way, and I was going to meet you in Bel Arbre, and Nash was heading up here anyway, so we just figured we’d meet up here.”

“You shoulda waited and done it at the substation in Bel Arbre—air conditioning!” She was cheery. “Okay, well, let’s get that stuff moved, then get some lunch.”

She looked over at Nash. She hesitated a second, then said, “Tom, want to join us for a farewell taco?” Her tone was completely uninviting.

Nash shook his head. “Nah, thanks, Deb. I gotta get this stuff back to the lab pretty quick; they want it up in DC right away.”

Jenner picked up a bag; before he could stop her, Deb reached in and grabbed one of his clothes bags. It slipped open and the laundry bag fell out, spilling packets of hundreds across the carpet.

“Whoa.”

She stepped back and turned to stare at Jenner, then turned back to the car.

“Deb, don’t.”

But she leaned in, and grabbed one of the knotted garbage bags, pushed a finger into the thick plastic. The dark plastic film stretched pale gray, then tore raggedly, and she jammed her other hand in, and pulled her fingers apart to rip a big gape into the side of the bag.

The bag looked like a cracked meteor filled with kryptonite, the money glowing pale green in the black plastic shell.

As she stepped back, Deb saw Nash’s Glock in his hand. She looked him in the eye, then went for her pistol, and Nash shot her.