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The killer opened his door and went to the back, removing Macklin from the web of seat belts.

“Shaman like you,” the killer said, “I'm surprised you don't know.”

“This place is close to the spirit world,” Mad Dog said. “I can feel that.”

The man with the spare head smiled. “That's hardly a convincing display of your powers at this point.”

He carried the head around the front of the SUV and into the lot. For some reason, Mad Dog got out of the Mercedes and followed him. Running like hell would have been smarter, but the guy had saved him at the parking garage. Besides, his own muscles still ached and threatened to cramp because of the mistreatment they'd received earlier. And, for some strange reason, he didn't feel he was in any serious danger from this man.

“The Spanish name, El Tiradito, means the castaway. People also call this place the Wishing Shrine.” He nodded at a plaque a few yards in front of a wax-soaked adobe wall and all those flickering candles.

“This is one of those folk shrines you find in this part of the world. They say, a long time ago a young man went searching for his bride and found her in the arms of another man. He killed his rival with an ax, then was put to death for the crime and buried here in unconsecrated ground. Actually, near here. The city moved him to put in a sewer. But by then, people had taken to lighting candles at his grave. Sometimes, miraculous things happened as a result—cures, wealth, children for the childless—good luck of all sorts. The people who come here do so to make wishes. They say this poor devil, as penitence for what he did, intercedes with God on their behalf. That's what all these candles are. Wishes.”

“I've heard of stuff like this,” Mad Dog said. “But, how do you know about it, and why have you brought me here?” He wasn't sure he really wanted an answer to that last part.

The killer laughed. “I've got lots of people who do research for me. I was looking for an appropriate place for Bobby Earl, and I feel some sympathy for the poor bastard who's buried here. What I found out about this place makes it perfect. Bobby Earl's head will make a lot of his political opponents' wishes come true. And the message it sends his friends will come with a dramatic postmark.”

There was a kind of niche in the adobe wall, a spot where you might expect to find the statue of a saint or maybe a crucifix. A couple of votive candles were all it held. The man with the head, carrying it by the hair, stepped up to the wall, nudged the candles gently aside, and tried placing Bobby Earl in the niche. The ledge was too narrow or too slanted. The head toppled onto more candles below, mixing blood with the wax that had stained this earth for generations. Its hair was singed and smoking a little when the killer picked it back up.

“Uh, why would this man's head answer wishes? And what kind of message will it send?”

The killer patted the hair until it stopped smoking and brushed the face clean, not that Mad Dog could see that doing either made any improvement to its looks. The killer stepped back and examined the wall and the metal rack of candles in front of it.

“Bobby Earl Macklin was a big man in Tucson. Owned car dealerships, restaurants, construction companies that build ticky-tack housing developments that fall apart in a few years and where every place looks alike. Bobby Earl's worth was in the hundreds of millions, maybe more. And he happens to be a cousin to the Macklins you know back in Kansas. Those Macklins don't like you very much, do they?”

“I suppose not,” Mad Dog said.

“Bobby Earl's the head, you should pardon the expression, of the local business mafia and their bought and paid for politicos who run this town. And he's the guy who hired me to get you labeled a cop killer and see that you were gunned down by the local constabulary.”

“But why? I've never heard of him.”

“A favor for his cousins, and it seems you were a thorn in his side anyway.”

“Oh?”

“One of those Kansas cousins put together a batch of computer hackers. They persuaded Bobby Earl and his Tucson buddies to come up with the seed money to fund their start up in exchange for fixing a Tucson election. The Kansas Macklins also offered a spot in the middle of nowhere to stick an ethanol plant where Bobby Earl and his pals could launder cash and provide a convenient excuse for their cousin's sudden wealth. Your ruckus over the ethanol plant put you in Bobby Earl's way. By then, the Kansas hackers were arranging for people to clean up little problems like that. They contracted with me for this Tucson operation. Turned me into their Mr. Fix It.”

For a moment, Mad Dog thought he'd said Fig Zit, and recalled how the man's features resembled those of the towering monster that had turned so much of his play time in War of Worldcraft into a nightmare.

“Tucson's election hack was coming undone. Some people were considering talking. One of them was your victim at Pascua. He was nobody, just part of Macklin's muscle. But he and the guy who actually fixed the vote got scared and tried to cut a deal. Fick, what your hackers called themselves, had been planning to eliminate you. They broke into your email account and discovered you were on a last minute trip to Tucson. So Bobby Earl and his boys decided to kill three birds with one stone. Me, I was their stone. Even though this thing got complicated and amateurish toward the end, everything would have worked if I hadn't gotten hurt. That's when they decided you'd be easy to take out and they didn't need me anymore.

“I don't understand,” Mad Dog confessed.

“Don't need to.” The killer moved a couple of candles and tried the head on the metal rack. It looked impressive there, surrounded by glimmering saints, virgins, and images of a very Caucasian Jesus painted on the glass candle containers.

“They underestimated me,” the killer said, admiring the way Bobby Earl stared into eternity with a puzzled smile. “So I decided to cut their organization off at the neck,” he grinned, “literally.”

Mad Dog understood that part.

“Got the head. Now we're waiting for the hands—the guy who's in charge of their local muscle. Handles the dirty work, or arranges for others to do it for him.”

“Who's that? Why would he come here?”

“He's the Deputy Chief of Police. Guy named Dempsey. And he'll come because he knows, if he doesn't stop me now, I'll end his gravy train.”

“Why won't he just send some of that muscle to gun you down?”

The killer adjusted Bobby Earl's head slightly. “Because I've already taken out most of the people he could use. Even in a city as corrupt as Tucson, there are only so many people willing to kill for you. Fewer, once things start coming apart. And, since they are, Dempsey has to worry that I'd tell them something they could use against him. No. Dempsey has two choices. Come for me, or run.”

“And me? Why am I here?” At last, the question Mad Dog had been avoiding.

“I don't know. Just seems right, somehow. This whole bungled mess started with you. Macklin and Dempsey, and the Kansas Macklins, have been using me to set you up to get killed since you got here. With the tables turned, maybe I owe you the pleasure of seeing one of the men who tried to kill you die.”

“Then what?”

“Then I go after Fick.”

Headlights rounded the corner north of them and a large unmarked Ford pulled in behind the Mercedes.

“But first things first,” the killer said. “Dempsey's here.”

***

The sheriff was surprised to find the last two mines so close to the porch. Their tripwires were strung where they would be disturbed by anyone taking the most natural paths to rescue young Cole. Considering that they were designed so a small explosive charge propelled them above the ground to a height where they would cause maximum damage to surrounding troops, there wasn't much chance Cole would have survived if anyone set off either of them.

And finally the sheriff was past them, safely on the porch. Duct tape was wrapped clear around the boy's head. The sheriff used his pocket knife to saw through the tape and was none too gentle when he peeled it away from Cole's mouth.

“Can you put a stop to what's going on in Tucson?” English asked.

“Not without a computer. Maybe not even then.”

“Why?”

“Our assassin's running himself,” Cole said. “He knows we tried to shut him down. Now, the best I can do is find him and put together a strike force to take him out.”

Cold words. The boy was talking about a man's life. Cole was what, fifteen maybe?

“Frank,” the sheriff shouted. “Can you put Cole's computer and this house back on line?”

“No, sir. I blew the cable where it comes out of town and then wrecked their satellite dish. No way to get on from here.”

“Where's the nearest working computer?”

“Billy,” Cole said. “My brother's got a satellite phone link for his laptop. We could use that.”

The sheriff shook his head. “Airport's just down the road. In the time it took me to cross your lawn, Billy could have driven to and from there half a dozen times. They've had plenty of time to leave.”

“They're waiting for me,” Cole said. “Billy told me. This is just a trial I have to pass. A way to make me prove I'm worthy by stopping you and getting loose to join them.”

“A trial?” The sheriff lost it. “You were supposed to let me get killed. Jesus, kid. People died because of you tonight. This is real, not some stupid quest out of a computer game.”

Cole shook his head. “I kept you safe, and Billy wouldn't actually leave me.”

“Look, Sheriff, I know it's real,” Cole said. “But only sort of. Billy set it up so we use paintball guns and cherry bombs instead of the real thing. I don't know why Ed would…”

“Are those real mines or firecrackers you just walked me through?”

“Real. We get some of the real stuff to play with now and then. I thought that was weird, when Billy and his girlfriend planted them. But then I figured they were probably disarmed.”

“What if we really fixed elections?” Frank said from the driveway. “What if the money we transferred is real, or our assassin hasn't been playing paintball tag? I was in town, Cole. Ed Miller didn't use a cherry bomb. He's really and truly dead.”

“But, Billy….”

“Shut up, kid,” the sheriff said. He laid the boy's Adirondack over on its side facing the house, then he tipped over a redwood table and shoved it between the boy and the yard. It would be a long shot for a sawed-off, but at least a shotgun had the advantage of throwing lots of lead. He picked a target.

“Frank,” the sheriff said. “Duck your head around the far side of the house for a minute.”

“Already have, sir.”

The sheriff crouched behind his fortification, sighted, and pulled the trigger. The night lit with fire. The sheriff's headlights and windshield blew out. Chips of wood and broken glass from the house rained on them as the sheriff bent and got in Cole's face.

“Was that mine disarmed? How do you survive the trial your brother set for you if I trip a mine anywhere near this porch? That shrapnel would have torn the life out you, boy, and you know it.”

Cole didn't answer this time. Instead, his eyes got large and filled with tears. He began to whimper.

“Could Billy or that laptop still be at the airport?” the sheriff called to Frank.

“No, sir. I don't think so. Billy's a better pilot than Mr. Macklin. None of the others were checked out to fly a jet, not that I know of. Most likely, the nearest computer is the one Mrs. Kraus has back in Doc Jones' office.”

The sheriff sawed through the tape binding Cole's legs and started on his hands. “Then we'll hightail it back to town. Put Cole on the internet and see if we can find out what's going on. What we can do to help. And I can get out some kind of alert on that plane.”

“You don't have to do that, sir. Look east.”

The sheriff stopped cutting duct tape long enough to glance toward Frank, then beyond him, across the farm yard and the stock pens beyond. Dawn was close. He hadn't even noticed, but you could see the infinite horizon out there, backlit where the sun would soon rise.

“What?” the sheriff said. And then he saw it. A cloud of thick smoke climbed the endless sky, its source hidden behind a distant row of Osage Orange trees. Two, maybe three miles past the airport, he guessed. “Is that…?” he started to ask Frank.

“Yes, sir. I borrowed one of the mines before Billy and Dana set them out here. Right after I came to the office…when I realized this might be real.”

“You rigged an explosive device on that Cessna, Frank?”

“I did, sir. I got one of those mines and went to the airport and put it where, if they took off and raised the landing gear….”

Frank Ball began to cry, too. “I didn't think they'd actually go. In spite of everything, I still thought this had to be a game. But, if it was real, I knew they'd take that plane and….”

“My God,” the sheriff said. “You blew them out of the sky?”

“Yes, sir,” Frank said with a forlorn little chuckle. “In our game, Billy would have had to give me extra points for pulling a successful coup d'état.”

***

Heather was the first one out of the car. Matus had provided directions, and kept his pistol in Dempsey's gut to make sure the assistant chief didn't interfere.

“Like the Energizer Bunny,” the psycho quipped. “You keep coming and coming, don't you?”

“Are you all right?” Heather asked Mad Dog. Her uncle was her first concern.

“I'm fine, thank you,” the psycho said, playing with her.

Mad Dog nodded and she turned her attention back to the strange man who'd planned to mutilate her, then briefly turned into a partner of convenience.

“And, thanks to me, your uncle is fine, too. As you can see,” he waved a hand toward the rack of candles beside him, “I found Bobby Earl Macklin. We had an interesting discussion about the ethics of fixing elections, then turning on the people you employ to clean up the resulting mess…until he lost his head.”