85
It was a sound louder than drums. Closer than thunder.
The punch of a shotgun blast blew Lyle backward off his feet.
The machete flipped into the air. It landed blade-first on the edge of the table near Alice's hip.
Lyle lay on the grass, a mess of a hole in his chest.
The drums cut dead. The crowd gasped all over again. Kilbride moved for the machete. He hesitated at the crank of a pump-action chamber, his hand twitching an inch from the handle.
Alice looked to her left. She saw her father emerging from the darkness. A smoking Remington in hands. The crowd parting, out of his way.
Don aimed the barrel of his gun at Kilbride. "Get away from my little girl, you satanic sack of shit."
Kilbride's hand strayed a little closer toward the machete handle.
"Go on," Don said. “I double
