Sheriff Dan Rhodes looked at the man who was pointing the pistol at him.

Aside from the tattoo of the snake coiling around his neck, the man wasn't impressive. He was around thirty, about five-ten, skinny, dirty blond hair sticking out all over his head, scraggly goatee, bad teeth. He wore a thin white T-shirt with "Don't Taze Me, Bro" printed on it in faded red letters. The shirt was streaked with dirt, and the faded jeans were even dirtier and ripped at both knees. Rhodes didn't think the rips were a fashion statement. The man's brown eyes bugged out a bit because he was a little high, probably on meth even this early in the day. Meth, breakfast of champions.

The pistol wasn't any more impressive than the man. It was a cheap knockoff of a 9mm Glock, most likely picked up at a flea market for a hundred dollars or so, and a rip-off even at that price.

The problem with an unimpressive man tweaking on meth and holding an unimpressive pistol was the combination of all those things, especially when the man was sweating and his hand had a slight shake. You never could tell what might happen.

Rhodes was sweating, too, but not because he was nervous. The blue August sky held only a couple of high, wispy clouds, and the temperature was well over ninety, probably closer to a hundred. Rhodes had a feeling that the spot on the back of his head where the hair was getting thin was going to blister. He really should start wearing a hat or a cap, but having something on his head bothered him.

"Are you planning to shoot me with that thing?" Rhodes asked the man with the pistol.

The man glanced down at the pistol as if he wasn't quite sure he was still holding it, then looked back at Rhodes.

"Might," he said. His voice was high and whiney, no more impressive than the rest of him.

His answer wasn't exactly the one Rhodes had been hoping for, but it was better than a more positive one would have been.

"What about him?" Rhodes asked, looking over at the heavyset young man sitting down and leaning back against the front fender of a gray Toyota Camry parked on the side of the road.

The man wore a vacant expression, and had his eyes closed. Beyond his car, the grass in the ditch and in the field was sparse and brown. It hadn't rained for quite a while.

"He needs shootin', all right," the man with the pistol said. "Cut me off back there on the highway, nearly made me go in the ditch." A rusted-out old Chevy pickup sat in front of the Toyota. "I chased him down and gave him a little scare. Taught him a lesson."

"We aren't on the highway," Rhodes said.

"Nope, we're not. He thought he'd get away from me by takin' this dirt road, but he 'uz wrong about that. After I got him stopped, he 'uz gonna get tough with me, got out of the car and called me a bad name. I showed him the gun, and he changed his tune quick, got pretty dang polite. Got scared, too. I think he's fainted."

Rhodes wondered just how little the scare had been. "Guns can do that to people. Make them faint, I mean."

"Not me," the man said. "Don't seem to bother you, either."

The pistol twitched in his hand, but Rhodes didn't say anything. He was embarrassed about the situation, which had resulted from a mistake on his part. He'd been on the way back to Clearview, the county seat of Blacklin County, from looking into an early-morning dispute between two neighbors near Thurston in the south part of the county. They'd had a little tiff about the ownership of a couple of roosters that had wandered over into the rooster-free pen of the neighbor who didn't want his hens to be laying any fertile eggs. The dispute had become heated, with a lot of shouting and even a scuffle, and one of the wives had called the sheriff's department.

Things had settled down soon enough, however, and the men had reached a peaceful accommodation before Rhodes got there. The accommodation apparently involved one of the roosters becoming Sunday dinner for the man whose pen had been invaded, but Rhodes didn't delve into that.

On his way back to Clearview, Rhodes had seen the two cars parked beside the county road, just a little way off the highway. Thinking that the man slumped by the Toyota was in some kind of distress and that the other was helping him, Rhodes had turned the green-and-white county Tahoe around, pulled off on the country road, and gotten out to help.

Now, having read the situation incorrectly, he was in trouble, and it was his own fault. He didn't like the feeling. He'd called in to Hack Jensen, the dispatcher, and told him that he was stopping to help someone, but he hadn't sounded any alarms. Hack wouldn't worry about him or send any backup. Even worse, when he got back to the jail, Rhodes would have to explain to Hack what had happened.

That is, he'd have to explain if he got back to the jail. Right now he wasn't so sure he'd make it. He could hear a scratchy voice on the radio in the Tahoe. He wondered if he should try to answer it. Probably not.

"Your name's Elroy, right?" Rhodes said to the man with the pistol.

He knew the man's name wasn't Elroy, but he wanted to start a conversation that didn't involve the pistol.

"Hell, no, my name's not Elroy. I don't even know anybody named Elroy. What kind of name is that? I'm Kenny."

"Kenny what?" Rhodes asked.

"Kenny Lambert."

"Right. Kenny Lambert. Well, Kenny, I'm Sheriff Dan Rhodes, but maybe you knew that already."

"I knew it. I guess you don't remember me if you think I was this Elroy fella you called me, but I spent some time in that jail of yours."

"I thought I recognized the tattoo," Rhodes said, although it wasn't true. "Nice work," he added, although that wasn't true, either.

"Had it done at Mink's Ink. You know Mink?"

"I haven't had the pleasure."

"Got a nice touch with the needle. Anyway, that jail of yours is a pretty crappy place, you ask me."

Rhodes hadn't asked. He said, "It's not my jail. It's the county's jail."

"Whatever, it's still crappy. I don't think I wanna go back."

"Not much of a way to avoid it," Rhodes said, "considering you're holding a gun on me, and no telling what you've done to your friend there."

"He's not my friend."

"Even if he isn't, I'll have to arrest you for pulling a pistol on him."

"Not if I shoot you."

"Kenny, Kenny, Kenny. You're not going to shoot me."

Kenny looked puzzled. Rhodes had a feeling it wasn't a new feeling for him. "I'm not?"

"Nope. If you shoot the sheriff the lawmen never give up on you. You know how it is. You've seen it on TV, right? You can run, but you can't hide. They hunt you down no matter where you are."

"They won't find me," Kenny said. "I got friends in Houston."

Kenny wasn't the sharpest blade on the knife, and Rhodes was willing to bet his friends in Houston weren't much better. They'd probably post something on Facebook as soon as Kenny showed up at their place, assuming he could find his way there.

"Houston, Mexico, Canada, doesn't matter," Rhodes said. "The law will get you, and then you'll have to go to worse places than the jail in Clearview. State prison, for one."

"I won't kill you, then," Kenny said. "Just wound you a little."

"Not going to happen, Kenny."

"I think I peed on myself," the man leaning against the Camry said.

Kenny turned his head at the sound of the man's voice, and the distraction was...