Smith and Bentas watched the Taurus approach up the main drive.

Bentas called out to Brodie, “It’s Nash—and he’s brought the coroner.”

The Taurus pulled to a halt in front of the farmhouse. Nash leaned over, turned off the ignition, took the key. He got out, walked up the slope toward Brodie, and said, “There’s a problem.”

Brodie said, “Is it my problem?”

Nash looked befuddled, so Brodie snapped, “Have you jammed me or my operation up with some bullshit?”

Nash shook his head, then stammered, “I…No, I don’t think so.”

Brodie said, “Well, okay then. Go sob on Craine’s shoulder.”

“I shot a cop.”

“Really?” Brodie grinned at Bentas and Smith. “Well, that ain’t right!”

Bentas smirked. “Particularly what with you being a cop and all, too, right?”

Brodie said, “So let me guess—you’re here because you want our help with the body?”

Nash shook his head. “No. She’s not dead.” He turned and gestured to the car. “Just wounded.”

Brodie bounded off the porch and grabbed Nash by the scruff of his collar, shaking him like a rat. “You stupid fuck! You shoot a cop, and you bring her here?”

Brodie stared at the car. Jenner was watching impassively from the driver’s seat; Brodie could almost feel the man figuring his next step.

He turned to Bentas and snapped, “You and Tony get rid of the cop and the ME. Strip the bodies, burn the clothes. Fuck up their faces, tell Tony to cut off the fingers. Then take the airboat and dump them out there—I don’t give a fuck where, somewhere far out enough they’ll stay gone a while, though.”

Bentas was walking to the car when Brodie said, “No, wait. Hold it.”

He turned to Nash. “I want to get this straight: you shoot a cop, then you bring her here with another witness? What are you, some kind of fucking retard? This can only end one way—they both die.”

Nash nodded slowly.

Brodie spat, then said, “You started this, you finish it. Take them down to the water and get rid of them.”

He started back to the cookhouse, leaving Nash standing there, pale, nerves jangling.

Bentas clapped Nash on the shoulder. “Hey, nut up, buddy! It’s your chance to show us what kind of man you are!”

Smith called out, “Yo, Brodie! It’s a chick! She’s pretty fucked up, there’s blood everywhere…” He was leaning against the car, peering into the back. He straightened. “She’s not a regular cop, she’s wearing a green uniform…I think maybe she’s a park ranger or something.”

Bentas said, “Maybe she’s a fucking leprechaun!”

Brodie walked back to the car and stared down at Deb Putnam, who lay immobile, eyes closed. He turned to Nash and said, “Take care of them in the boat shed. If you don’t, I’ll let Mr. Bentas do it. Either way, both of them will be dead an hour from now.”

He paused, looked Nash in the eye. “And if you can’t handle it, Mr. Bentas will take care of you, too.”