In the bed of the Ford F-150 parked next to Donohue’s ride, Rogers saw some

cardboard boxes and old, rusted tools. None of it was any use to him. What he

wanted was still inside the tent. He retreated to his car, pulled it around to

that side of the tent, and waited.

 

Light grew to night. And the temperature continued to drop.

 

But time and cold meant nothing to him.

 

His stomach had rumbled once, and then he rubbed his head, focused, and the

feelings of hunger vanished.

 

People streamed in and out of the tent for hours, until finally the stream grew

to a trickle. And then the parking lot emptied. And then the dealers started

taking down their booths and packing up what they hadn’t sold.

 

Rogers watched as Donohue came out carrying several boxes.

 

One of them, he noted, was the distinctive case of the M11-B. He wasn’t

surprised no one had bought it. Most of the potential purchasers he’d seen

inside were working stiffs. He doubted any of them had four grand to throw down

on a fancy-ass collector’s pistol.

 

He rubbed his shoulder where Donohue had slapped him twice.