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for a laugh. "You must think I'm crazy."
    "I'm not suggesting that you take me into your home. But what about that old trailer parked on the north side of the barn? I could bunk in it."
    Corbett glanced in that direction. "It hasn't been used in years. My wife and I lived in it while we were building the house. We tore down the original, but wanted to build on the same site. That was almost forty years ago. I should've sold it to a salvage yard, but never could bring myself to. It's probably falling apart."
    "Does it have water and electricity?"
    "Hookups. The stove works on butane."
    "I'll clean it out. It'll suit me fine." Corbett tested him with another long, measure-taking stare. Jack's eyes didn't flicker. He'd developed that knack by dealing blackjack in a Reno gambling hall. "Well, Mr. Corbett, what do you say?"
    CHAPTER SIX

    C ecil Herbold had gnawed his index fingernail down to a nub by the time the Arkansas state policemen strolled into the office of the garage and body shop where he worked. There were two of them. Mean bastards, by the looks of them.
    It had only been a matter of time before they showed up. They had let him sweat out the morning in anxious anticipation of the inevitable. Now here it was well after lunch on a sweltering afternoon, and even though he had been expecting the visit, his sphincter was tested when one of the duo upended a wastepaper basket and sat down on it, facing him, not more than six inches away from the tip of his nose.
    "Now, Cecil," he began, "we asked Mr. Reynolds if he would lend us this nice office of his so we could talk to you private, away from your coworkers and all. He was most obliging. So I'd hate to test his hospitality and wear out our welcome. We pride ourselves on not taking advantage of law-abiding citizens. Let's make this short and sweet, okay?"
    These guys were nothing but hillbillies with shiny badges, starched uniforms, and fast cars. Cecil didn't know these two personally, but he'd known their type all his life, and hated them. Their faces were shaved so close their skin was chapped. There wasn't a wrinkle between them. Hot as it was, there weren't even sweat rings under their arms.
    But they looked as stupid as the day is long. Take away the uniforms and badges, the fast cars and good guns, and he and Carl would make mincemeat out of them in no time flat. Soon. But later. This wasn't the time. For now, he had to play dumb and scared. Which was good. He could be convincing. Not that he was dumb. But he was a little scared.
    "If you've come here to talk to me about that stunt my brother pulled yesterday, I'll tell you right off that I don't know anything about it."
    The guy sitting on the trash can glanced over at his partner, who was leaning against the wall, arms folded, ankles crossed. He rolled a matchstick from one side of his mouth to the other and said, "He must think we've got shee-ut for brains."
    "Swear to God," Cecil cried earnestly. "I'm telling you the truth." The worst that could happen would be that they would throw him in jail on some trumped-up charge just to keep an eye on him. He must convince them that they had his full cooperation.
    "First I knew of that prison break, I heard it on the evenin' news when I got home from work. I settled down with a Diet Pepsi in front of the TV and there was my brother's face, filling up the goddamn screen. Nearly messed my pants." He paused to gauge their reactions, but they were revealing none.
    Doggedly he continued, "All I know is the same as what everybody knows. I learned about it from the TV."
    Matchstick hitched up his pistol holster. The one on the trash can pursed his lips and continued to stare at Cecil, who squirmed uncomfortably in his seat until he could stand the tense silence no longer. " What? "
    "You think we're stupid, Cecil?"
    "No, sir."
    "You know Myron Hutts?"
    "No, sir."
    "You never met him?"
    "No, sir. Him and my brother linked up at Tucker. I was never in Tucker."
    "No, you were in