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quiet as he could, he’d had the queasy sense of being targeted. Maybe she was gone. Maybe she wasn’t.
    “Ground’s plenty muddy. I found some footprints, probably hers, going toward the county road at first but they seemed to turn that way.” He pointed to the dense woods and steep hillside behind the house. “She’s gotta be hiding there someplace. You hear anything?”
    “No. But it’s freaking me out. I keep looking over my shoulder. Man, she is going down. When we get back, I am tracking down that bitch. I don’t care who she is, where she lives. She’s going down. She fucked with the wrong man.”
    I’m the one who got shot, Hart reminded silently. He examined the forest again. “We almost had a problem.”
    Lewis blurted sarcastically, “You think?”
    “I checked his phone. Turned it back on and checked.”
    “The . . .?”
    “The husband’s.” A nod toward the house. “Remember? The one you took away from him.”
    Lewis was looking defensive already. As well he should. “Got through to nine-one-one. It was a connected call,” said Hart.
    “Couldn’t’ve been on it more than a second.”
    “Three seconds. But it was enough.”
    “Shit.” Lewis stood up and stretched.
    “I think it’s okay. I called back and told ’em I was him. I said I’d called by mistake. The sheriff said they’d sent a car to check it out. He was going to tell ’em to come on back.”
    “That would’ve been fucking pretty. They believe you?”
    “I think so.”
    “Just think ?” Going on the offensive now.
    Hart ignored the question. He gestured at the Ford. “Can you fix it?”
    “Nope” was the glib response.
    Hart studied the man, his sneering grin, his cocky stance. After Hart had agreed to do this job he’d gone out to find a partner. He’d checked around with some contacts in Milwaukee and gotten Lewis’s name. They’d met. The younger man had seemed all right, and a criminal background check revealed nothing that raised alarms—a rap sheet for some minor drug arrests and larcenies, a few pleas. The skinny guy with the big earring and the red-and-blue neck decoration would’ve been fine for the routine job this was supposed to be. But now it had gone bad. Hart was wounded, they had no wheels and an armed enemy was out in the woods nearby. It suddenly became vital to know Compton Lewis’s habits, nature and skills.
    The assessment wasn’t very encouraging.
    Hart had to play things carefully. He now tried some damage control and, keeping his voice as neutral as he could, said, “Think your gloves’re off.”
    Lewis licked the blood again. “Couldn’t get a grip on the wrench. Detroit piece of crap.”
    “Probably want to wipe everything.” A nod toward the tire iron.
    Lewis laughed as if Hart had said, “Wow, did you know grass is green?”
    So that’s how it was going to be.
    What a night . . .
    “I’ll tell you, my friend,” Lewis muttered, “Fix-AFlat does shit when there’s a fucking bullet hole in the sidewall of a tire.”
    Hart saw the can of tire sealant where Lewis had flung it in anger, he supposed. So that now the man’s prints were on that too.
    He blinked away tears of pain. Fourteen years in a business in which firearms figured prominently and Hart had never been shot—and he’d rarely fired a weapon himself, unless of course that was what he’d been hired to do.
    “The other houses. Up the road? We could try them. Might have a car parked there.”
    Hart replied, “Wouldn’t make sense, leaving a car out here. Anyway, try hot-wiring a car nowadays. You need a computer.”
    “I’ve done it. I can do it easy.” Lewis scoffed. “You never have?”
    Hart said nothing, still scanning the brush.
    “Any other ideas?”
    “Call Triple A,” Hart said.
    “Ha. Triple A. Well, guess that’s it. We better start hiking. It’s a couple miles to the county road. Let’s empty out the Ford and get moving.”
    Hart went into the garage and came back with a roll