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Oh, no. Not them.
"Well," Rich Culbeau said. Brushed away a fly that landed on his sunburnt forehead. He tossed his head and his thick, shiny braid swung like a horse's tail.
"Thanks loads, ma'am," the other one said to her with mild sarcasm.
Sachs recalled his name: Harris Tomel--the one who resembled a Southern businessman as much as Culbeau looked like a biker.
"No reward for us," Tomel continued. "And out all day in the hot sun."
Culbeau said, "The boy tell you where Mary Beth is?"
"You'll have to talk to Sheriff Bell about that," Sachs said.
"Just thought he might've said."
Then she wondered: How had they found the mill? They might've followed the search party but they might also have had a tip--from Mason Germain maybe, hoping for a little backup for his renegade sniper operation.
"I was right," Culbeau continued.
"What's that?" Sachs asked.
"Sue McConnell upped the reward to two thousand." He shrugged.
Tomel added, "So near yet so far."
"You'll excuse me, I've got some work to do." Sachs started past them, thinking, And where's the other one of this gang? The skinny--
A fast noise behind her and she felt her pistol being lifted out of her holster. She spun around, crouching, as the gun disappeared into the hand of scrawny, freckled Sean O'Sarian, who danced away from her, grinning like the class cutup.
Culbeau shook his head. "Sean, come on."
She held her hand out. "I'd like that back."
"Just looking. Fine piece. Harris here collects guns. This's a nice one, don't you think, Harris?"
Tomel said nothing, just sighed and wiped sweat off his forehead.
"You're borrowing trouble," Sachs said.
Culbeau said, "Give it back t'her, Sean. Too hot for your pranking."
He pretended to hand it to her, butt first, then grinned and pulled his hand away. "Hey, honey, where you from exactly? New York, I heard. What's it like there? Wild place, I'll bet."
"Quit fooling with the goddamn gun," Culbeau muttered. "We're out the money. Let's just live with it and get back to town."
"Give me back the weapon now," Sachs muttered.
But O'Sarian was dancing around, sighting on trees as if he were a ten-year-old playing cops and robbers. "Pow, pow ..."
"Okay, forget about it." Sachs shrugged. "It's not mine anyway. When you're through playing just take it back to the Sheriff's Department." She turned to walk past O'Sarian.
"Hey," he said, frowning with disappointment that she didn't want to play anymore. "Don't you--"
Sachs dodged to his right, ducked and came up behind him fast, catching him in a one-armed neck lock. In half a second the switchblade was out of her pocket, the blade open and the point tapping out red dots on the underside of his chin.
"Oh, Jesus, what the hell're you doing?" he blurted then realized that speaking pushed his throat against the tip of the knife. He shut up.
"Okay, okay," Culbeau said, holding up his hands. "Let's not--"
