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Boyd waited in the church, feeling relaxed. He was on the top of his game. He knew what he was doing, and he knew the cards he held. He also knew the cards the Bennetts held, and he was pretty sure his hand was the strongest.

Arlo sat with him, and he was less sure of Arlo. Definitely the low card in the hand, still reeling from Helen's death. He was a bit of a wild card, and Boyd would have to watch him closely, just as he watched the Bennetts.

Well, a little bit of danger added spice to the meal. Kept a man on his toes. He was glad Ava was well out of this, safely hidden away in the basement of her house, with his men on watch in case Dickie tried another ambush, another shortcut through a woman.

The door opened behind him, and Boyd looked over his shoulder. Doyle and Mags. He had hoped Dickie would be with them, but no such luck. "Well, the Bennetts are in the house," he said, getting up.

The preacher approached them with a plastic milk crate, holding it out. "Mornin', Mags. Doyle," he said.

"Pastor," Doyle said perfunctorily, but his eyes were on Boyd.

"Now, at this time we're going to have to ask you to surrender any and all weapons or firearms in your possession."

Doyle lifted a pistol, placing it in the crate along with Boyd and Arlo's weaponry, and submitted to being patted down by the preacher, who then looked at Mags and thought better of patting her down.

"Mom, you packing?" Doyle asked her.

"No."

Satisfied, the preacher took the crate and left the building in order to let them talk business.

Boyd pointed to the pew opposite where he was standing, and Doyle and Mags took their seats.

He sat down facing them. "Well, I want to thank you both for agreeing to this sit-down. This is a very sensitive time for all parties concerned, but surely it's better that we talk things out now than shoot them out later."

"In case you didn't notice, the shootin's already started," Arlo said bitterly.

To do her credit, Mags looked uncomfortable at the reminder of Helen's killing. And well she should—if she'd exercised half the control over her boys she'd always claimed to have, Helen would be alive right now.

"I'm just sayin', emotions are runnin' awful high right now," Boyd added as an underscore to Arlo's pain and grief. In case Mags had missed the danger there. "But nobody wants a full-scale war."

"Nobody without enough guns, anyway," Doyle said. There was arrogance there, a certainty that the Bennetts had the numbers.

The cop he'd spoken to had been right, Boyd reflected. The Bennetts had run things long enough.

Mags snapped at Doyle, "I came here to listen to Boyd Crowder, not you."

"Your point is taken, Doyle. You Bennetts are many," Boyd admitted. "We are few. But I think we both can agree that blood-letting is bad for business."

"You want to talk about business, huh?"

"Yeah, Mags, I do."

"All right, then." She weighed her words carefully. "Aside from money, what is business but contracts and agreements? Now, you and me, we had an agreement. I gave up my family's claim on this county, but for one thing: the pot business."

"That is true, Mags, but then your son Dickie approached—"

"You didn't shake hands with Dickie, you shook hands with me," she interrupted savagely. "We had a deal. You broke it. The rest is just chin music."

She wasn't wrong. Boyd had to admit it. If they hadn't stolen the pot, Helen might be alive today. He'd felt he had to, but that wouldn't cut any ice with Mags. Instead of defending himself, he leaned toward her and said softly, "You're right, Mags. I'm sorry."

"Question is: What do you aim to do about it?"

He reached for the briefcase behind him and set it in the aisle between them.

"What is that?" Doyle asked.

"The money we took from Dickie. Every single dollar."

Doyle reached for the case and opened it to assure himself that the money was there.

"Well, now." Mags leaned toward Boyd. "I'd say that's a step in the right direction." She looked him over thoughtfully. "But it strikes me that this little deal of ours may not be enough for you. Oh, it's enough for now, when it's just you, Arlo, the cripple, and the other fella. But one of these days you're gonna want more. And we both know when that day comes, you will take more."

Boyd was thinking about how to respond to that very true statement when a phone rang in Doyle's pocket. He took it out and looked at the caller ID. "It's Dickie."

Mags tensed, and Boyd felt an answering tension as she barked at Doyle, "Answer it."

Doyle walked away, holding the phone to his ear. "Yeah. … What? … You sure?"

Every word increased the tension in Boyd. Ava should be safe. She had to be safe. And as long as Ava was safe, nothing Dickie could do mattered. Boyd had planned for all of it.

Doyle turned around, shaking his head minutely at his mother while he closed the phone and put it away. Mags looked distressed.

"Well, I take it that's not good news. I didn't want to make the mistake of underestimatin' you, Mags. But now I think we understand each other." He got to his feet. "Arlo."

The old man got up and followed him as they walked out of the church. Boyd felt satisfied. The Bennetts' plan had failed, whatever it was, because he had been ready for it … and from now on, Mags Bennett would lose her power, bit by bit. The fall of the Bennett clan was coming, and Boyd was ready for it.