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I stepped around the Vic and called out to Magpie.
“Hey, Magpie,” I said. “It’s Stephanie Plum.”
His fire was small. Just enough to heat a can of beans or roast a hotdog. Magpie wasn’t a big guy. He was 5'5? and slim. Definitely entranced by all things shiny, and very clever at stealing them. When his treasures exceeded his storage space, he’d sell them off for whatever he could get.
Magpie looked past his campfire at us. “How’d you find me?”
“Lucky break,” I said. “You have a nice spot here.”
“It’s one of my favorites. It’s so peaceful.”
He was wearing the usual. Baggy jeans, a plaid flannel shirt, and about $30,000 worth of gold chains.
“You missed your court date,” I said to him.
“Are you sure?”
“Yep. You have to go back with me to reschedule. You’ve already eaten dinner, right?”
“Yes. I was just enjoying the fire.”
“It’s a real nice fire,” Lula said. “Keeps the spooks and ghouls away. And by the way, those are some lovely necklaces you’re wearing. Not everyone understands the importance of accessorizing correctly.”
“I have a whole trunkful,” Magpie said. “I can’t wear them all at the same time. They get too heavy. You can have some if you want.”
“Thanks,” I told him. “That’s nice of you, but we can’t take any. I’ll put the cuffs on you, and Lula and I can put the fire out, and then we’ll go into town. Do you want to ride in the Vic with me? Or do you want to ride in Lula’s Firebird?”
“The Firebird!”
I was about to cuff Magpie when Raz jumped out of the shadows, knife raised. He looked certifiably crazy in the moonlight, bonfire flames reflected in his eyes, and his hair all Wild Man of Borneo.
“Eeeeee!” Lula shrieked. “It’s the Devil. It’s Satan!”
Magpie’s eyes went wide, rolled back into his head, and he crashed over in a dead faint.
“It’s not Satan,” I said to Lula. “It’s Razzle Dazzle.”
Raz lunged at me. “Bitch whore. I burn you good with fire stick until you tell me.”
“Hey! What’d you call her?” Lula said, hand on hip, lower lip stuck out. “You better be careful what you call her. We don’t put up with none of that shit talk.”
He snarled at Lula. “You shut pie hole or I carve you like pig roast.”
“Was I just insulted?” Lula asked. “Did he compare me to a roast pig? ’Cause I don’t like bein’ compared to a pig. And what’s with the knife? I mean, who uses a knife these days?”
Raz held his knife in his right hand and pulled a semiautomatic out of his pants with his left hand. “I also got big gun,” he said to Lula. “I shoot you in eye and then I slice you and make bacon and cook you in fire.”
And he squeezed off a shot.
“Run for it!” Lula yelled. “He got a gun! Satan’s got a gun.”
Lula took off and was immediately swallowed up in the black night. She crashed through shrubs, smacking into who knows what on her way to the parking lot, her voice carrying back to me. “Ow, shit, sonovabitch.”
Raz turned the gun on me and fired. I jumped behind a tombstone, he fired again, and the bullet pinged off the marble. I bolted for a small patch of woods directly behind me. I had my gun in my bag, but no time to search for it. I saw him stumble forward, lit by the campfire. He was hampered by a bullet wound in one leg and a knife wound in the other.
I carefully walked toward the ambient light originating from the front of the church, avoiding the road. I could hear Raz shuffling behind me.
