I should have remembered something then. But, naturally, I didn't.
It was the time when you could argue about whether it was twilight or night. In the deep dusk, the Rolls looked to be a horror-flicker giant bug. I fumbled for the keys. Then the old man made me break stride by digging narrow fingers into my bicep.
Marshal Thompson and the bulky quarry foreman, Kelvin, stepped out of the shadow of the car.
"First, throw away that gun of yours, Mr. Madison," the marshal said.
I looked at his old pistol that must have used old powder cartridges, instead of liquid propellants, and forked out my Smith & Wesson with two fingers, letting it plop at my feet.
"I'm afraid we can't let you spread the professor's lies, Mr. Madison," Thompson said.
"You planning on killing me?" I asked with admirable restraint.
"I hope not. You can have the run of the town, like the professor. I'll tell your company you are making a thorough investigation. Then maybe in a few weeks or months I can arrange so it looks like you were killed—someplace outside."
"We don't aim to let any crazy fanatic like Parnell ruin our business, our whole town," Kelvin interjected bitterly.