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There, right there on the screen. Cummings saw himself, placing first the gym bag and then 10 bags of cocaine into the trunk of his federal car...

'That's two counts of murder. Agent Cummings.' Strakcr spoke up again, 'but one of the men you murdered was a state police officer.'

'Dutch,' Cummings murmured.

'That's right. He was a state narcotics plant working a sting. We had cameras inside and one outside, for tag numbers. The cameras inside, of course, burned up in the fire you set. But the one outside...'

Straker's free hand bid the VCR screen. On it, Cummings was driving away.

'You're fucked, Stew' Peerce said. 'You're an asshole.'

'The murder of a police officer,' Straker was kind enough to embellish, 'as you probably know, carries a mandatory sentence of death in this state.'

I'm caught. Cummings thought simply. I'm dead.

But he wasn't dead yet, was he?

'Stew, unholster yer piece an' set it on my desk. Real slow like.'

Straker had his own piece on him. I'm not going down, Cummings thought. I'd rather punch out now than spend a decade years getting butt-fucked in the can while my appeals run out.

Cummings, very slowly, set his service revolver on Peerce's desk.

'Good boy,' Straker said.

Cummings shrugged, then, in an instant, lashed his hands out, remembering the pistol-disarm technique they'd taught him in the army. His hands wrapped around Straker's gun, pushed away—

BAM!

The bullet grazed his side but he didn't even feel it.

'Goddamn it. Stew, don't'cha even—'

The automaton again. Cummings had disarmed Straker in less than one full second, had the guy's piece in his hand.

Straker, though shit-scared, tried to maintain his authority. 'Don't be stupid. Cummings. You can plea-bargain your way out maybe. You can say you killed them in self-defense and were bringing the money and the coke back here. But if you kill us. you're finished.'

BAM!

BAM-BAM!

He took out Peerce first, a clean headshot, then punched Straker's ticket with a double-tap in the 5x. a heartshot. Blood jetted out of the holes a good three feet. Peerce lay limp in his office chair, the back of his head emptied.

Brown tobacco juice drooled as a single rope from the comer of his mouth.

Cummings head was ticking: the swamp rat was back, whipping more circles, trying to find a way out.

Be cool, he ordered himself, though that was not particularly easy considering he'd killed six men today, three of them police officers. What's done is done. Don’t freak out.

Think.

Plea bargain? No way. He'd already dumped the cocaine. No judge would buy it. He'd done the only thing he could do to preserve his own life. The way he saw it, he had maybe an hour lead before anyone found the bodies, more if he was lucky. He'd have to pinch a car, blow over the state line, then steal more cars along the way till he got to Mexico. There was no other way.

After all, he still had over all that money in his trunk.

Out of here.

He didn't even take a final look around. He left the VCR; surely Straker wasn't the only state narc who'd seen the surveillance tape. So he got into his car and drove.

Take the Route to 23. Best to stay off the intestate. They'd have an A?? out on his car soon, so he'd have to steal something quick, and abduct the owner so the car wouldn't be reported stolen. Who knew? But—

What am I doing? He decelerated, then pulled a U.

Kath...

He couldn't just disappear. He owed her an explanation, at least. And the money? He'd leave her half, to keep her on her feet and pay her pharmacy bills. Hell, even half of the cash. U.S. greenbacks, would last a long time in Mexico. But it wasn't just that—

I've got to— Suddenly Cummings, a cold-blooded murderer, a cop killer, was in tears.

I've got to see her one last time...

In one afternoon he'd destroyed his entire life. And the only good thing that remained in that life was Kath. My God What have I done?

There could be no point in deliberating regrets, no logic in reconsideration. It was a cruel world, and sometimes people had to do cruel things. Ripping off the money, killing Dutch and Spaz? It was either that or live in squalor, weighed down by Kath's medical bills. They both deserved better than that. All he wanted was enough to get by. It was the chance he had to take, and the whole thing went sour. From the beginning, he'd never had a choice.

Dust followed him up the gravel road to his house. He skidded to a halt. In a waking nightmare, he saw a house full of State SWAT and DEA tac men, waiting for him, waiting for the cop killer. But the house was pin-drop silent when he entered. No shadows in wait.

Gym bag in tow, he walked down the dim hall to the bedroom. She was probably resting, worn out by the fatigue of her illness. What would she say? How would she react? Cummings brushed aside tears, his hand on the doorknob. Disgusted with him? Appalled? All that and more, he realized.

He could just leave half of the money, then drive away, call her later. Anything not to have to face her with what he'd done. But that wouldn't work, either. By then the state would be tracing any incoming calls. He'd be caught.

Be a man, you asshole. Go in, wake her up, and tell her.

The gym bag felt as heavy as a bag full of body parts, or dead babies. The door stood slightly ajar. But just before he could open it, he heard - “Yeah, like that.'

Kath's voice.

She must he on the phone, he discerned, Then paranoia kicked in. Had the state called her? Were they talking to her right now, rubbing the revelation in her face that her husband was a murderer? But no, that couldn't be. Her voice sounded normal, even enlivened.

'Want more?'

Cummings' brow furrowed. Then he heard another voice.

A man's.

'Yeah, cut me another line.'

Cummings peeked in the gap, and that was when the rest of his world collapsed.

Kath lay naked on the bed, spread-legged and grinning. She was giggling as a naked man—Dr. Seymour, no less—inhaled lines of cocaine off her belly, simultaneously rubbing the furred plot of her sex.

'Where do you get this good blow, Jimmy?' she asked.

The pharmacist leaned up, wiped white power off his nose. 'I got my sources.' Then he chuckled, his finger still in the groove of Kath's vagina. 'Bet your husband'd shit a brick if he knew.'

Kath laughed. Her sweaty face looked aglow in untold delights. 'Are you kidding? He'd kill us both!'

'It's amazing how stupid he is, though.' Now the man was rubbing her breasts, so nonchalant. 'Just keeps forking over the cash week after week, and never suspects a thing.'

'I'm a good actress, Jimmy. The asshole still thinks I'm so sick I'm about to die. And he believes it all because I show him those phony doctor slips and drug prescriptions you give me. He thinks I'm using all that money for medicine!'

'Yeah, well this is some fine medicine,' the man said, shaking the bag of white powder.

'And he just got a raise!'

They both laughed like jackals. Kath's breasts bobbing. Cummings could only stand there and watch, as if