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Dick Stone fishes around in the pocket of his shorts and shows me the five shell casings he picked up in Laumann’s driveway.

“Never leave your brass at the shooting scene. I made that mistake with the cop on the roof. Otherwise, I’m a pretty good sniper, because I’m a tight-ass finicky bastard. I always use the same brand—Remington. But there was only one Remington on the ground, the live round I loaded into the gun. The other four are Winchester. See?”

The tiny etching on each copper jacket says WIN-45.

“You switched the magazine for blanks, didn’t you, darlin’? Very slick, but the Bureau screwed up. The dummy bullets should have been Remington.”

Jason Ripley secured the blanks.

“A rookie,” I say bitterly. “He wasn’t thinking.”

“What do you expect?” Stone claps my shoulder sympathetically. “They’re not all as good as you and me.”

“I wasn’t that good, apparently.”

“You were doing fine. Until I talked to Berwick. The arrows started lining up.”

“Frankly, Dick, it’s a relief. I couldn’t have kept it going.”

“Enlighten me, Ana Grey. What were they thinking?” He removes the Colt from a holster under a loose guayabera shirt and holds it in both hands. “They already sent one of their clowns.”

Indignation flares and I don’t try to stop it.

“If you’re talking about the agent you murdered with a bomb, he had a name—Steve Crawford. He left a wife and children, and he was a friend of mine.”

“You think he was a together guy? He came across to me as a real asshole.”

“That was his cover,” I say angrily.

“Nope, sorry, that was him. He’s supposed to be dealing methamphetamine, but he’s wearing a Harvard University ring, for Christ’s sake. And nice-looking boots.”

Stone is busy unscrewing the top of a water bottle, then soaks a red bandanna inside. He ties it tightly over his head, gangsta-style. Water drips along the pink flush in his neck.

“Your buddy Steve was pushing too hard. He comes in way too fast and fancy. You’re thinking, Man, what is this? You know what was the tell? He’s cheap. He acts like a high roller, but he doesn’t tip well, like a person on an expense account trying to shave a little. Working people know that barmaids have to make a living. That was paltry.”

“So you lure him into the woods and blow him up?”

“Why do that? Why off an agent and send the whole world up here? He blew himself up. He hears a rumor I’ve got a buried fortune in stolen turquoise and silver, and he decides, I’m going to do something about this kingpin. I’m going to take the turquoise. Because I’m the government, and the government can do anything. He out-and-out threatens me, just like any crooked scumbag cop. He says, ‘I’m going to take the goods off you. I’m gonna steal it because it’s stolen anyway. If you don’t cooperate, I’ll have you arrested.’ So I told him where it was.”

Then it collapses, like a sand castle undercut by waves. “That’s not the guy I knew.”

“I’m amazed you didn’t see through the act.”

“Did you tell him what the turquoise is? Don’t say Indian jewelry.”

Dick Stone smiles. “I like symbols. I like the great western myths—like preserving the freedom of the wild mustangs—it stirs people’s loyalty. There’s an open secret—one I’ve cultivated for years, like the orchard—that I have the means to finance operations. Otherwise, nobody would pay attention.

“No, it’s for real. Back in the day, I was working a deal we had going in Arizona, called Turquoise. Case closed, bad guys in jail, and Berwick the techie and I find ourselves alone in a garage, disabling the crap he’d installed on this armored car, and sweet Jesus, there is a bag with a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in the bottom of the trunk. It was nowhere on our inventory. Nobody knew it existed. The Bureau was acting like I was an orphan child they’d disowned, so screw it. We took the cash. Berwick was scared, so I kept his share for him. Then some dudes from the Paiute Nation got ripped off of a load of semi-precious gems, and thus a legend was born.

“Don’t lose sleep over your buddy. He was just another insignificant, corrupt little