"Gilbert, I gotta tell you. I never mistook you for a nice guy. Not once." Casually Ray reached back, and when his hand came into view again, he was holding a Smith amp; Wesson.38 Special.

Gilbert laughed. "Fuck. A shoot-out. This should be fun."

"More for me than for you," Ray said. His eyes glittered with malice, but Gilbert only seemed amused, as if he didn't consider Ray a threat he had to take seriously.

"Daddy, don't," Laura said.

I said, "Come on, guys. You don't have to do this. There's plenty of money…"

"This isn't about the money," Ray said. He wasn't looking at me. He was looking straight at Gilbert, the two of them standing no more than ten feet apart. "This is about a guy abusing my daughter, beating up my ex-wife. This is about Darrell and Farley, you asshole. Do we understand one another?"

"Absolutely," Gilbert said.

I felt myself backing up a step, so intent on the two men, I didn't see what Helen was doing. She brought up the baseball bat, flailing wildly in Gilbert's general direction, bashing Ray's arm on the back swing. She missed Gilbert altogether and nearly whacked me in the mouth. I could feel the wind against my lips as the bat whistled past. She hit the car on her follow-through, and the impact knocked the bat right out of her hand.

"Jesus, Ma! Get out of here. Get her outta here!"

Laura screamed and ducked. I hit the ground, looking up in time to see Gilbert take aim and fire at her. There was a click. He looked down at the Colt in astonishment. He recocked and pulled the trigger; the hammer clicked again. He pulled the slide back, ejecting a round, then let it slam forward again, popping another round into the chamber. He swung the gun around and aimed at Ray. He pulled the trigger. Click. He recocked and pulled the trigger again. Click. "What the fuck?" he said.

Ray smiled. "Well, shame on me. I forgot to mention I shortened the firing pin."

Ray fired and Gilbert went down with an odd sound, as if the wind had been knocked out of him. Ray moved forward easily until he was standing directly over Gilbert. He fired again.

Spellbound, I stared as he fired again.

Ray turned and looked in my direction. He said, "Don't do that."

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a blur of motion and then I heard the crack of the baseball bat coming down on my head. In the split second before the dark descended, I flashed on Helen with regret. Her erratic batting practice had come to an abrupt halt and she'd popped me a good one. The only problem was I could see her and her hands were empty. Laura was the one up at bat and I was gone, gone, gone.

I spent the night in a semiprivate room at a hospital called Baptist Hast with the worst headache I believe I've ever had in my life. Because of the concussion, the doctor wouldn't give me any pain medication and my vital signs were checked every thirty minutes or so. Since I wasn't permitted to sleep, I spent a tedious couple of hours being interrogated by two detectives from the Oldham County Sheriff's Department. The guys were nice enough, but they were naturally skeptical of the story I told. Even mildly concussed, I was lying through my teeth, cleaning up my culpability in events as I sketched them out. Finally, a call was placed to the Courier-Journal and some poorly paid reporter checked through the back files to find an account of the bank robbery, including names of all the suspects and a lot of colorful speculation about the missing money. As it turned out, of course, the money was still missing, as were Ray Rawson, his aged mother, and his daughter, Laura, whose common-law husband was laid out in the morgue, his body perforated with bullet holes.

I maintained stoutly that I'd been forced along at gunpoint, clobbered and abandoned when my usefulness ran out. Who was there to contradict me? It helped that when a call was placed to Lieutenant Dolan back in Santa Teresa, he spoke up in my behalf and defended my somewhat sullied honor. The investigating officer laboriously handprinted my account of events, and I agreed to be available for testimony when (and if ) Ray Rawson and his merry band were arrested and tried. I don't think the chances are all that good myself. For one thing, Ray has all that money in his possession, along with the forty years' worth of contacts and criminal cunning he picked up while he was in prison. I'm relatively certain he's managed to acquire three sets of false identification, including passports, and first-class tickets to parts unknown.

Wednesday morning, when I was released, a nurse just getting off duty offered me a ride as far as the Portland neighborhood where Helen Rawson lived. I got out at the corner and walked the remaining half block. The house was dark. The back door was standing open and I could see where miscellaneous items of clothing had been dropped in the haste of their departure. I went into the bedroom and turned on the table lamp. All the old lady's pills were gone, a sure sign she'd decamped with her son and granddaughter. I took the liberty of using her telephone, not even bothering to charge the call to my credit card. I had a dreadful time getting through to anyone. I tried Henry and got his machine again. Was the guy never home? I tried Rosie's and got no answer. I called my friend Vera, who must have gone off with her doctor-husband for the long Thanksgiving weekend. I called my old friend Jonah Robb. No answer. I even tried Darcy Pascoe, the receptionist at the company where I once worked. I was out of luck and beginning to panic, trying to figure out who in the world could help me out in a pinch. Finally, in desperation, I called the only person I could think of. The line rang four times before she picked up. I said, "Hello, Tasha? This is your cousin Kinsey. Remember you said to call if I ever needed anything?"