Crow toppled under him, and Ruger straddled his waist, locking his legs around Crow’s hips for balance, and began the work of beating this man to death. Blood burst from Crow’s eyebrow and nose, his cheek ruptured and tore, and the fists never stopped. They kept hitting and hitting.

Then suddenly Ruger was falling!

Crow had brought his knees up, planting his shoes flat on the muddy ground, and then with all his strength and speed, had arched his back and twisted. Ruger was lifted like a rodeo rider on a bucking bull, and as Crow twisted, Ruger’s weight pitched him sideways. As they fell, Crow balled up his right fist so that the secondary knuckle of his forefinger protruded, and as they landed he punched Ruger once, twice very hard in the very top of his thigh.

The pain was so intense that it made Ruger howl.

Snarling in pain and surprise, Ruger kicked himself free and rolled catlike to his feet, and Crow came up off the ground at him. Crow faked high with both hands as if to tackle Ruger around the middle and then dropped suddenly to one knee and hooked a sharp uppercut into the tender flesh on the inside of Ruger’s thigh, missing his groin by half an inch. Ruger’s leg buckled and twisted, and he went back down.

Crow leaped at him, but Ruger kicked out as he fell and the thick heel of his boot caught Crow in the chest and using his leg like a strut, he threw Crow over his head.

Crow tucked and rolled and was on his feet first, spinning and crouching to face Ruger.

Ruger staggered to his feet, ignoring the pain in his leg. His hands opened and closed, opened and closed as if he were squeezing something that would scream.

Ruger’s eyes narrowed as he moved. Suddenly it had become a different fight. From a murderous attack—the kind of attack that had worked for him so many times in the past—he now found himself in a real fight. Whoever this guy was, he could fight, and in a twisted way Ruger was actually enjoying it.

They circled each other for a few seconds, making tentative half lunges, feinting, dodging half-​thrown blows.

It was Ruger who made the move, and he made it as fast as the lightning that lit the sky. He used a variation on Crow’s trick and faked high, then dipped and dove for Crow’s legs. The move was an old favorite of his: wrap the legs just above the knees and bear forward. The poor sap goes down hard on his coccyx with two sprained knees to boot.

Crow stepped into the rush, and as Ruger’s arms closed like a crab’s pincers around his legs, he punched downward in as hard and true a vertical line as a drill press, driving the two big knuckles of his right hand between Ruger’s shoulder blades, dropping all his body weight with it to try and break the man’s back. It was a devastating blow, but the mud was soft and Ruger was hard. Still, the air went out of his lungs for a moment and he tasted mud in his mouth.

Crow stood over him for a moment, chest heaving, heart hammering from fear as much as from exertion. He had never seen anyone move so fast or hit so hard or fight with such animal ferocity. He risked a glance at Val, who was on her knees, one hand massaging her throat, he face slack with dizziness and nausea. He tried to give her a reassuring smile, and even opened his mouth to say something, but Ruger abruptly reached up and punched him right in the balls.

Crow screamed and staggered back, cupping his testicles, yet backpedaling to give himself room.

Ruger got to his feet, covered in mud like a golem, and he smiled with muddy teeth. “I’m going to fuck you up so bad they’ll have to bury you in installments.”

“Talk is cheap, dickhead,” Crow wheezed. His groin felt as if it were on fire.

Ruger hurled a handful of mud at Crow’s face, and followed it with another rush.

Crow was not as hurt as he pretended. A strike to the groin, even a hard one, does little actual damage. It’s just pain, and it is the pain that stops most people, but some people don’t care as much about pain. They know it, they’re used to it; it may not be an old friend, but it is an old companion. Crow was long acquainted with pain, even the pain of a hard punch in the balls. It hurt him, but hurt can be dealt with.

He waited in his half crouch, looking done-​in, letting Ruger close the distance, letting Ruger provide the force.

Then he slid in between Ruger’s reaching arms and turned half away, catching one of his arms with one hand, and cupping the back of his neck with the other and then pivoted his body as fast as he could. Ruger’s force, plus the speed and arc of the turn, plucked Ruger right off the ground and sent him flying right into the driver’s door of the big brown Impala. The back of Ruger’s head slammed into it and he rebounded with a grunt, leaving a deep dent in Missy’s door. He slid down to the ground shaking his head, tried to get to his feet, and fell back again against the door, head lolling.

Crow stepped forward and grabbed him by the hair, hauled him ten inches away from the car so he could look at the man’s face, snarled in disgust, and then literally threw him backward into the same dented spot on the fender, ringing his skull off the crumpled metal. Ruger sagged bonelessly to the ground by the tire and lay there in the rain, blood running from his scalp.

Crow looked down at him, watching for signs of trickery. Ruger didn’t flicker so much as an eyelash. Just to be sure, and because his battered face was really starting to hurt like a bastard—and because the dread of this man still turned an icy knife of terror in Crow’s guts—Crow kicked him in the mouth and shattered all of the man’s front teeth.

Ruger fell over sideways, face forward into the mud.

Crow stood there, swaying, feeling his knees wanting to buckle. Fireworks were going off at the corners of his vision and there was something wrong with his head—it felt as if it had been badly broken and poorly taped back together. He wanted to vomit, or collapse. Instead, gasping, holding one hand to his streaming nose, he turned and slogged through the rain and the mud to Val. He swooped down on her, gathering her in his arms, aware of her hurt, her dangling arm, her bruised face, but needing to feel her solidity, her realness in his arms. He showered kisses on her mud-​streaked face, kissed her hair and her eyes. She was crying with big, painful sobs, and each one stabbed into Crow as surely as a needle.

“Baby, baby, baby,” murmured. “What happened here? What did he do to you? My sweet baby…”

Her voice was a strained croak, the vocal cords bruised beyond normal speech. She was still half conscious, swimming on the edge of a big waterfall that wanted to take her over and down into the blackness.

Somewhere, half drowned by rain, the wail of police sirens could be heard, coming, coming…The sirens made her remember.

“Daddy!” she cried. “Oh my God, Crow…Daddy’s out there!”

“What? Where?”

“In the cornfield. He needs help. I tried to help him, but I couldn’t, Crow, I couldn’t…” she rambled, hysterical, almost inarticulate with trauma. It was all catching up to her now, overwhelming her. The iron determination that had kept her steady earlier was crumbling now as grief and injury took hold.

“Val,” Crow said sharply, trying to steady her. “What about your dad? What’s wrong with him? Where is he? What the hell happened here?”

The sirens were louder, closer.

“In the cornfield. We were helping the hurt man. We tried to run. I heard a shot. Daddy…he…”

“Jesus Christ! Did that son of a bitch shoot your father? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

“I tried to help him. I did. But I couldn’t…my arm…I just couldn’t.”

“Shh, shh,” he soothed. “It’ll be okay. Just tell me where he is. I’ll go get him. And see? See there? Cops. There are cops coming. They’ll help, too.”

“Help?” she asked in a little girl voice that broke Crow’s heart.

“Yes, baby, they’ll help. Now tell me where your dad is. Tell me so I can go help him.”

The police cars screeched as they slid to a halt outside the front of the house, sirens dying away, but the lights swirling red in the storm. Crow could hear doors opening and slamming. He turned and in as loud a voice as he could manage, he yelled, “Hey! Back here! We need help!”

The sloshy sound of footsteps drew near, and Crow could see flashlight beams dancing. Two officers, still silhouetted behind the lights, came racing toward them, guns drawn.

“Mr. Guthrie?” one of them called.

“No, it’s me. Malcolm Crow. And Valerie Guthrie. Call for an ambulance, she’s hurt.”

One cop peeled off and ran back to the car, the other came and shone a light on them. Close up, Crow recognized Rhoda Thomas, one of the younger officers.

“Oh my God,” Rhoda gasped. “What happened?”

Val’s eyes were swimmy with growing shock and all she could do was shake her head. Crow said, “I don’t know what all went on. When I got here, Val was running from some maniac. He caught her and all but strangled her. I think he must have done something to her arm, be careful with it.”

“Where is he?”

Crow jerked his head toward Missy.

Rhoda looked at the slumped figure and frowned. “What happened to him?”

“We had words.”

“Who is he?”

“How the fuck should I know? I think he might be one of the assholes you people are looking for. Who knows? Look, we got to check something out. Val said that this clown shot her father. At least I think that’s what she said. Out in the cornfield somewhere. We have to find out what’s happened.”

“Rhoda!” a voice called, and she and Crow turned toward the house. A cop Crow didn’t know stood by the side of the house, pointing toward it. “There are two people in here. Man and woman. Man’s tied up, and I think the woman’s been assaulted. I called for an ambulance.”

“Jesus,” Rhoda breathed.

“Oh my God! Connie!” Crow looked from Val to the house to the cornfield and back to Val, trying to decide what to do. He bent his face close to Val, kissed her, and whispered in her ear, “Val, baby. I need to find your dad. You’ve got to tell me where he is. C’mon, baby, try to think.”