"Suit yourself. Left it at home though, huh? You sure you didn't leave it at Red Cliff?"

The words registered just as the trooper spun toward Ben and buried the short end of his baton in Ben's solar plexus. As Ben doubled over, he felt a second blow on top of his skull. His vision blurred. He lunged forward and grabbed the trooper around the waist. Baton blows rained down on his back, and Ben heard the man cursing, yelling for Ben to let go. Ben reached up and found the hard plastic handgrip of the officer's holstered weapon. It was the work of an instant to adjust his grasp to the correct angle and pull. It came loose easily and Ben fell back as he aimed and pulled the trigger without hesitation.

Two wires shot out and one of the fishhook barbs planted itself in the fleshy meat under the trooper's chin. The other punctured the muscle of his upper arm. A well-placed spread. The electric current began to cycle immediately and the baton flew from the trooper's hand. The man's body seized, and he gave a loud grunt of pain as he fell onto the roadway. The clack-clack-clack continued for five seconds-a brief enough interval that Ben was still on his knees, groggy from the baton blows. The trooper made as if to stand and Ben hit the trigger again, beginning another five-second fifty-thousand-volt ride accented by the clack-clack-clack and grunts from the trooper. This time, when it was done, Ben was standing over the prone officer.

"All right, asshole. What the hell was that all about? Who sent you?"

The trooper got to his hands and knees and reached for the semiauto still holstered on his belt. His answer was short and sweet. "Fuck you, Sawyer."

"Oh, I don't think so."

He hit the trigger again, and the patrolman fell to the asphalt with a thud, splitting open his left cheek. When the cycle ended, the trooper lay stretched out and still, a trail of spit mixed with blood running across his face. Ben used his foot to turn the man onto his back and read the man's name tag.

"We can do this all day, Petersen. Who sent you?" When no answer came after several seconds, Ben spoke again. "I guess we're going to find out once and for all if one of these things can actually kill a man, aren't we? Ready for another ride?"

Ben held the Taser pistol up, making sure the trooper could see his finger on the trigger, and the man finally found his voice.

"McKenzie. Doyle McKenzie."

It's true, he thought. McKenzie is behind all of this. His thoughts turned to Alex and a sense of urgency overtook him. Ben nudged the trooper in the chest with the Taser. "Keep talking."

The trooper struggled to speak. "McKenzie called me. Gave me the description of your car. He knew you'd be at Red Cliff. Said from there you'd turn for home. Told me to find you."

"Find me and what?"

"Hold on to you. Let him know where you were. That's all, Sawyer. I swear it."

"And you did it? A guy calls you and says, 'Hey, nab an off-duty cop for me,' and you do it? How come I think you know more than that?"

"No. I don't, I swear to-"

The current sounded again, and the trooper let out a pathetic squeal. When the cycle was complete, Ben offered some cursory sympathy. "Was that number three or four? Either way, you've got to really be hurting by now, huh?"

"Jesus, Sawyer. You're going to kill me with that thing."

Ben held the Taser directly in front of the man's face with his finger poised over the trigger. "Maybe. Five seconds to start talking. Four, three-"

"McKenzie paid me." The trooper's voice started off sounding desperate, but when he saw Ben slide his finger away from the trigger, he fell into a slow, exhausted cadence. "I mean, he pays me to do special jobs for him. Usually it's just turn my back on some dope or something like that. He says it's undercover stuff. This time, though, he's crazy. He said you're working with a con named Harlan Lee and you've been out raising hell."

"Where is he? This Harlan Lee guy?"

"I don't know."

Ben held the gun in front of the trooper's face, and the man screamed. "Nobody knows, I swear! McKenzie thinks he'll head for Florence County; Lee lived there before he went to prison. In some homestead shack deep in the middle of nowhere couple miles from the Michigan border."

When the man went silent, Ben grabbed him by the shoulder. "Get your ass up."

The trooper struggled to his feet and Ben pulled the forty-caliber semiauto from the other holster on the Sam Browne belt and tucked it into his own waistband. He took the spare magazines from the trooper's belt and jammed them into the rear pocket of his jeans. He grabbed Petersen's police radio and flung it into the woods that lined the highway. Ben motioned the trooper to head to his patrol car, the barbs still buried in his skin and the wires running back to the weapon in Ben's hand.

When they reached the vehicle, Ben said, "Open the trunk and climb in, Petersen."

"What are you going to do, Sawyer?" the man said, sounding truly lost. "Don't kill me. I can help you. I'll tell you everything. We'll drive up to Florence and I'll help you find this Lee guy. I will. Just don't kill me."

Ben forced the cop into the trunk. "I'm not going to kill you, Petersen, but this is police work and you ain't a cop. You're just another crook. I don't work with crooks." Now that his adrenaline rush was fading, Ben noticed the feeling of moisture-blood-on top of his head and running down his shirt. He touched his fingers to his wounded scalp and blinked his eyes at the throbbing pain of the contact. He could feel the welts growing on his back.

"Asshole," he muttered and pulled the trigger one last time. The trooper's body seized and he thrashed around in the trunk's confined space as the electrical current played hell on his muscles and flesh. Ben threw the Taser in and slammed the trunk shut, with the trooper still a jerking mess inside. Ben heard the echo of the man's cries mixed with the sounds of his latest electrocution as he walked away.

"I guess we're about even."

Ben fought the temptation to steal the much faster police cruiser. If he was seen in the marked car with a state trooper locked in the trunk, he'd have the entire Wisconsin State Patrol chasing after him. As it was, they'd be after him soon enough. The odds were that before too long, someone would check on Petersen, who might tell a story that would put them on all Ben's trail. No doubt the crooked trooper would eventually alert McKenzie, and that spelled more trouble for Alex.

Alex was still on the hook for a murder she didn't commit, and in the morning she was due in court. Ben realized even with all he had discovered, McKenzie seemed to be hooked up enough to make it go away. If the trooper had been successful, it would have been over for Alex. Once the state got rolling, there would be no stopping it. Ben knew what he had to do. If he could get to Florence and find Harlan Lee, it would be over. That was the single blow that would destroy the case against Alex. He was sure of it.

He looked at himself in the mirror, his hair matted with blood, his shirt stained red and torn. He put the van in gear and rolled onto the road. A few miles to the south he'd pick up the state highway. His cell phone was dead, and he was headed into the remotest part of the state where not a single town had a population of more than five hundred souls. He hoped one of those souls was Harlan Lee.

FIFTY-SIX.

McKenzie stood outside the bars and stared inside. Alex made sure to give it right back and lace it with steel hate. The isolation cell carried the thick smell of decades of nicotine being absorbed into the gray paint of the walls, mixed with human waste that sat in a covered bucket marked SUBJECT TO SEARCH. Alex figured the temperature in the cell hovered around eighty-five degrees, and she could smell that her visitor had already begun to sweat. McKenzie lit a cigarette as he began to speak.

"You can blame the new living arrangements on me, but you probably figured that out already."

When Alex said nothing, McKenzie went on.

"Thought you might want to know, your husband's a fugitive. He misrepresented himself to officials of the Florence County Sheriff's Office, then provided confidential information to a state convict. After that, he assaulted a state trooper. Nearly killed the man. Seems to me Ben must have just snapped. Every cop in the state is looking for him. As it stands now, he'll be lucky to survive the day."

Alex hadn't heard from Ben in more than thirty-six hours. In the middle of the previous night, male guards she hadn't recognized came to her cell and escorted her to the maximum-security isolation wing. She was confined in a space no bigger than a large broom closet, lit by a bare sixty-watt bulb. The only furnishing of any sort was a cement bench built right into the wall that also served as a bed. Her circumstances now seemed hopeless, but she'd choke on it before she let McKenzie get a reaction out of her.

"Anyway, I figured just in case that crazy son of a bitch got some idea about busting you out, we'd better put you in a bit more secure environment. I ran it by the DA. She was good with it. She's just wants to be sure you make it to the courtroom in the morning."

Alex tried to control her voice, but even she heard the tremble. "I'll be there, Detective. And so will my husband."

"Sorry, Alex. But I don't really think he's coming back. He seems to be having himself a hell of a time. Probably got a new Bonnie to go along with this Clyde Barrow image of his."

"He'll be back, McKenzie. You can count on it. And when he gets here, you're screwed. For Ben to be gone this long, he must have found out what's really going on around here. Something tells me you're in it up to your eyeballs."

McKenzie's eyes roamed up and down her body and Alex couldn't help but shiver, and she pulled her arms in tight around her waist. He seemed to pick up on her fear. "Tell you what, Alex. I got some pretty strong connections in the corrections department. Once you're locked up, maybe a year or two down the line, I'll stop by for a visit. We'll see just what you're willing to do for a square meal and a hot shower. See how sassy you are then."

"You are a vile degenerate, McKenzie." Alex nosed up to the bars and stood inches from his face. "On top of that, you're the ugliest, most pathetic excuse for a man I've ever laid eyes on. I'd spend the rest of my life in this cell and eat the shit from that bucket before I'd let you within a hundred yards of me."

"Yeah. You are something. That's really why I put you in here, Alex. Just to fuck with you." McKenzie lowered his voice and leaned his shoulder against the bars. "You wanna hear something that'll really blow your mind?"

Alex offered no response, and McKenzie gave his yellow smile. "I know you didn't do it."

Alex only stared ahead with a dumbfounded expression that made McKenzie laugh out loud.

"That's right, sweetie," McKenzie said. "I won't go into any detail, but I thought you'd like to know that somebody out here knows, shit-ass bitch that you are, you ain't a killer. Don't mean you ain't going to prison for it."

"What are you talking about?" Alex shook her head in disbelief. "You'd let an innocent person go to prison?"

"If it helps you to know, seems like your husband pretty much has it all figured out. I gotta give it to him. Damn good cop." McKenzie pulled on his cigarette and exhaled the smoke directly at Alex. "Only problem is he's headed up to Florence, and there's a hell of a welcoming committee waiting for him. When it's all over, he'll just be seen as the loving husband who couldn't accept the obvious fact his wife was a cheating bitch who killed her lover."

Alex felt an anger like none she had ever experienced. She thought of her husband risking his life. Her son losing his mother. Her father alone. Alex lunged forward; her hands shot between the bars, and her fingernails connected with the flesh of McKenzie's face. He sprang back, but not before she left a three-inch gouge in his cheek. "You bitch."

McKenzie wiped the blood from his face. "I don't give a shit who killed your boyfriend, Alex, but within a week you're going to be a murder convict. I figure your old man will last about a month in a state hospital. And that boy of yours, what'll we do with him?"

McKenzie's loud voice grew maniacal, and Alex began to back away.

"Maybe I can line up a foster family down on the east side of Chi-town. One of those big-city arrangements, with fourteen rug rats runnin' around. He'll have three or four brothers named Leroy and a couple little girlfriends who go by Shanana. He'll be fine, don't you think?"

Alex put her hands over her ears and retreated to the corner of her cell. McKenzie gave a second swipe at the still oozing blood and once again approached the bars.

"You'll see, Alex. You'll come around. Then maybe if you treat me right I'll work out some special visiting arrangements for you and your boy." McKenzie grabbed his crotch and winked. "But remember, degenerate piece of shit that I am, I don't do nothin' out of the goodness of my heart."

Alex sobbed, defeated. McKenzie threw his lit cigarette through the bars and headed for the exit. "Don't forget. Court in the morning, Alex. I'll pick you up at eight."

FIFTY-SEVEN.

Standing in the darkness, Ben stared at the minivan's rear tire, which was buried to the axle-and sinking in thick, oozing mud. The rain had started falling hard two hours earlier, making the already difficult road leading into the Nicolet National Forest even more treacherous, and now that narrow track was swallowing the minivan whole. Nine miles down the road sat a modest parcel of land that, according to the records at the county seat, was all that was left of the one-hundred-sixty-acre homestead that had been owned by the Lee family for three generations.

The towering pines and hardwood trees of maple and hemlock were part of a vast forest that surrounded the roadway for thousands of acres in any direction. Looking again at the listing van, Ben realized he had no other alternative. He wrapped the forty-caliber and extra magazines in a sweatshirt, then tucked them into his backpack and strapped it on. He gingerly tested the leaf-strewn floor of a forest that had last been thinned by lumberjacks a hundred years ago and since then never altered in any substantial way. The surface felt slick, but he could keep his footing, and it seemed safer than the road. He patted the hood of the minivan as if saying farewell to a loyal horse, tightened the straps of his pack and headed into the forest at a fairly brisk pace, trying for a comfortable eight minutes per mile.

He soon fell into a good rhythm. Deeper in the forest, the canopy of trees served as a roof and his footing became more solid. Feeling strong, he opened up his gait. He'd left Newberg forty hours before and driven close to seven hundred miles. After his run-in with the trooper, Ben had made his way back to Florence County using less-populated roads. He'd snuck into the library, a stone's throw from the sheriff's office, thirty minutes before closing and convinced the librarian on duty to give him an extra half hour after that. The one-room country library didn't have computers, but Ben still knew how to work a microfiche.

In that hour he found a brief newspaper account of a drug-related murder, and that led to a good bit of information about a young man named Harlan Lee. Sure enough, nearly eighteen years ago Lee had pleaded guilty to murder and been sentenced to twenty-five years. With time off for good behavior, Ben figured Harlan could be out by now. Ben also found the obituary for Harlan's father, Jedidiah, who died several years after Harlan was locked away. County land records indicated there was a parcel of land a few miles south of the Michigan border that was owned by the Lee family. Ben imagined that would be the best place to look for Harlan Lee.

In two days Ben had slept less than two hours, but fatigue was not a factor. His mind was clear and he'd get plenty of sleep if he ended up dead. But until then, there was work to do.

An hour into his run, guided only by his instinct and the stars, Ben heard the sound of a revving engine. He stopped to listen more closely. By the sound of it, it was a truck, probably a four-by-four, and it was hard at work. The engine cut off. Silence, then the crack of gunfire from the same direction. One shot, a pause, then several more. Ben knew he was close to the scene. A few hundred yards away, maybe less.

This is it, he thought. The confrontation was at hand. Ben hunkered low to the ground and headed toward the sounds of the battle.

FIFTY-EIGHT.

It had been thirty minutes since the exchange of gunfire. All man-made sounds had faded away, replaced by the night chorus of ten thousand types of wildlife and the residual rain hitting the canopy of trees a hundred feet over his head. Ben had been in the forest for over an hour, and his eyes had achieved a keen nocturnal dilation.

The small house of stone and timber stood dark. Ben imagined the builder had intended it to last, and though long ignored, the structure stood firm in the deep uncharted forest that probably predated Columbus. With only the waning moon to betray his position, Ben crept close enough to the cabin to peer through one of its many broken windows. It was hard to make out anything in the dim interior.

Ben climbed the three steps to the cabin entrance and pushed the door open, holding the trooper's forty-caliber handgun at the ready and surveying the part of the room he could see from the doorway. There seemed to be no signs of recent human activity or occupation.

He stepped fully into the small room and, in that instant, sensed movement behind him. Instinctively he spun to confront whoever it was, but the darkness was replaced by a brilliant light that burned away his night vision. A hard blow caught him in his chest, and Ben fell to the floor in a heap.

The blinding light remained in his eyes, and a voice came from somewhere in the brightness. "I don't know what the hell's going on out here, but drop the piece." The voice carried authority.

Ben peered into the light, trying to shade his eyes with one hand, and caught a glimpse of a large figure. He slowly lowered his weapon to the floor; the light followed the gun. Though his vision was still light dazzled, Ben made out the shape of a man in uniform, the glint of metal on his chest.

"Shove it away. Give it a good push."

Ben did as he was told. The gun skittered away and, by the sound of the impact, hit the cabin wall.

"Now what?" he asked.

"I'll tell ya now what," the man said. "You're going to tell me who the hell you are and what you have to do with this."

The flashlight beam shifted until it partially illuminated a dead man stretched out on the cabin floor. Ben's eyes still burned, but he could see that a good amount of blood covered the wood plank floor. The dead man, dressed in a flannel shirt and trousers, had been stoutly built and well muscled. In the dim gray light, he could tell little more about the scene. He turned back to the man currently in charge.

The man shifted and the white light once again shined in Ben's face. Ben raised a hand to shield himself.

"I'm Ben Sawyer. I got nothing on what happened here."

"Ben Sawyer." From the man's tone of voice, Ben felt that he was being studied. He knew he must look frightful-covered with fresh blood that still seeped from his head wound, soaked from old blood, sweat, and rain, pasty white with exhaustion. "You look like you've gone a few rounds. What brings you to the middle of nowhere?"

Ben studied the other man, picking up on the brown uniform of county law enforcement. He had few reasons to trust a cop. "Am I under arrest, officer?"

"Say what now?"

"I said, am I under arrest? If I am, I'd like to know the charge and you can get me to an attorney."

"You aren't from around here, are you, Sawyer?"

"Am I arrested or not?"

The voice turned serious. "Let me tell you how it is. I'll be damned if that son of a bitch right there, who by the way died at my hands in case you're wondering whether or not I mean business, ain't none other than Harlan Lee.

"Harlan ain't been seen around here for more than fifteen years. Last I heard he was doing life in the state penitentiary, but apparently there was a change in living arrangements and no one bothered to tell me. Then you come slinking in here armed with a hand cannon. I suppose I could probably just go ahead and oblige you, take your ass into custody until I figure it out."

Ben swallowed hard at the news that the dead man was Harlan Lee. Would he still be able to prove Alex's innocence? His better judgment and instinct still told him not to trust the cop, but sooner or later, Ben knew, he had to rejoin the world of law and order. He squinted into the dark, trying to see his captor. "You're a deputy, I take it?"

"Sheriff, actually. Sheriff Scott Jamison, Florence County."

Ben cringed, remembering McKenzie's reference to his friendship with Jamison.