Prayer for the Dead

Chapter 14

Special Agent Ty Hoban’s full name was Tyree Zorro Hoban after the legendary masked swordsman and a character in an old John Ford Western. Being a black in Boston and somewhat beleaguered by life, Hoban’s father usually sided with the Indians, but something about the character of Tyree caught his fancy as he watched the late movie on the TV in the hospital waiting room while his son was being born. Hoban was only grateful that his father hadn’t been watching Tammy at the time-or Gidget Goes Hawaiian. His mother was Hispanic, so Hoban’s father threw in the Zorro as a nod to the only Spanish hero he could think of. By the time Hoban’s mother came out of the recovery room, the deed was done.

If anyone in the FBI other than the clerk in personnel who handled birth certificates knew Ty Hoban’s full name, they had been smart enough not to let on. People generally did not tell Ty Hoban things that might annoy him, since he had inherited his father’s huge, muscular frame to go with a name that was asking for trouble. Hoban was not terribly well-coordinated-a bit on the clumsy side, in fact-and had never played football or basketball, despite his height and heft, but if other people wanted to think he was an ex-linebacker and gave him the commensurate respect, he was not one to disabuse them.

The disadvantage to being a six-foot-four black man in a business suit was that it made being inconspicuous extremely difficult, not to say ludicrous, particularly in a small Connecticut town like Waverly. Keeping a low profile was not within Ty Hoban’s range of abilities, although he had many others. Selecting an agent on the basis of his race or appearance was strictly forbidden within the Bureau’s code of bureaucratic behavior, however, and so Hoban, the closest man at the time, was sent to the insurance agency in Waverly as the advance scout of the larger troop of agents that would be there later in the day.

A brown-haired man with a full beard looked up questioningly from his desk as Ty Hoban entered the office, temporarily filling the doorway.

“May I help you?”

“Ty Hoban,” said the agent, extending his huge hand.

The man half rose to shake hands. “Roger Cohen,” he said. “Pleased to meet you. What can I do for you?”

“Well, Mr. Cohen, I hope someone can sell me some insurance. I just bought a house in Waverly and the bank tells me I have to have homeowner’s insurance before they give me the mortgage.”

“I can certainly help you with that. It will take about ten minutes.”

“Everyone else gone to lunch?” asked Hoban. “It seems awfully quiet.”

“It’s a quiet town,” said Cohen. The owner and I are the only ones who work here and you’re right, he’s at lunch. Did you want to wait for him?”

“That would be Mr. Rice?”

“Rice? No, his name is Hogg. Charles Hogg.”

“Really? The people at the bank told me I should see Mr. Rice. Maybe I have the name wrong? Rice? Tice? Something like that.”

Hoban watched the man closely. His eyes looked vacant as he slowly shook his head.

“No, no one like that here. As I said, there’s just the two of us.”

“Was it Dice, maybe? I’m sure they said there was somebody around like that.”

Cohen continued to shake his head.

“I guess I just misunderstood,” said Ty. He leaned back in his chair, relaxed and casual, but his eyes never left Cohen’s face. He fit the description only in hair color and age, but it wouldn’t be the first description that was wrong. Ty had been told to A amp;D. Ascertain the suspect’s whereabouts and deploy forces until the order to apprehend. Deploying would be a little tough since Ty was the only force at his command at the moment, but as for ascertaining, it looked to him as if someone had screwed up again. If this puny little thing was the man who collected bones under his kitchen floor, then his appetites were one hell of a lot fiercer than his appearance. Ty knew better than to judge by looks alone-how often was he himself misjudged? — but still, instinct played a part in these things, and this guy looked as if he’d have trouble dissecting a frog in biology class.

“There is another insurance agency in town,” said Cohen. “I don’t think they can do anything for you we can’t do, but…”

“No, this is fine,” said Ty. “I don’t want to cause anybody any trouble.” He’d check out Mr. Charles Hogg, too, of course, but his guess was that his man was probably at the other insurance agency, or in another town, or nowhere at all. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been given the wrong address.

“No trouble,” said Cohen. He looked on his desk for something he couldn’t find. “Should we look at the homeowner’s policy, then?”

“You bet.”

“I’ll need some information before I can give you a quote, but I promise you I’ll find the best deal that’s around. That’s the advantage of coming to an independent agent; we’re not locked into any one company.”

Ty put his hand atop the computer terminal. “That’s what this is for?”

“That’s it, that’s our access to just about any company in the country.” Cohen rummaged in his desk for a moment. “I’m out of forms, I’ll just get one.”

He was on his feet and walking toward a door in the back of the office before Ty could think of a way to stop him short of tackling the man.

“Won’t be a minute,” said Cohen, smiling, as he stepped through the door.

The speed of the man’s withdrawal surprised Ty and set off an internal warning. Ty still didn’t think he was the bone man, but there was no real assurance that he wasn’t, either. After all, he was in the right place, he was the right age and general size-along with forty percent of the male population in the country. No one had said anything about a beard, but then no one had seen him for several weeks, either, and it definitely made Ty uncomfortable to have him disappear like that. A amp;D meant keeping the suspect under surveillance until some larger cheese like Hatcher could come waddling in, quack a few times, and get credit for the arrest-it did not mean sitting on his ass and watching him slip away into a rat hole.

By its location, Ty could tell that the storeroom did not have a door leading to the outside but he couldn’t be sure there wasn’t a window. Ty decided to give “Cohen” three minutes. If he didn’t return by then, Ty would go help him search for the right form himself If he did come right back, it was a pretty good bet he wasn’t the suspect.

Ty left the office and walked around the corner of the building. He spotted a window that probably led into the storeroom, but it was closed and the shade was drawn. If “Cohen” was going to flee that way, he would already have made his move and he couldn’t have done so through a closed window. Ty turned and went back inside.

Once he was back in the office, Ty glanced at his watch, then crossed to the storeroom door.

“Mr. Cohen?” he called. “You all right in there?”

There was no response. Ty tried the door. It opened immediately. Ty paused a moment, then stepped into the dark storeroom. As he felt for a light switch with one hand, the other moved reflexively toward the holster under his jacket. He felt a pinprick in his thigh and swung a huge arm in front of him to sweep the man away, but Cohen had already stepped back. Agent Hoban could see him pulling farther back into the dark behind a file cabinet.

“Freeze,” said Hoban, freeing his gun. “Federal agent.”

“Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot. I’m unarmed.”

Ty reached toward the pain in his thigh and felt the syringe sticking out of his leg.

Don’t panic, he told himself. You can handle this. First get the man into the light, then get to the phone.

“Come out of there. Now!”

The man, Cohen or Dyce, stepped into the office, his hands in the air. He looked entirely too calm.

Ty backed toward the phone on the desk, keeping the man at gunpoint.

“You sterilize this needle?” he asked, realizing the irrelevance of the comment as he spoke.

“Oh, yes. You won’t get infected. I wouldn’t do that.”

Thoughtful little asshole. “What’s in it?” Ty asked, pointing at his leg. He couldn’t decide whether removing the syringe would make matters worse. The leg no longer hurt, which he knew was not a good sign.

“PMBL,” said Dyce.

“What the hell is that?” Ty saw the phone but couldn’t seem to move any closer to it. He thought of shooting the bastard’s head off just because. What the hell is it? he demanded, only then realizing he hadn’t spoken. Couldn’t speak.

“I would tell you, but I don’t think you’d understand,” said Dyce. The man was huge and the dose was only the usual one. As the man sat heavily on the desk, Dyce was afraid that he hadn’t given him enough. The agent continued to stare at Dyce as the gun slowly lowered into his lap.

Shoot the motherfucker, Ty thought. He’s killed you, shoot his head off. But he couldn’t lift the gun, couldn’t pull the trigger. As he pitched forward onto the floor he could no longer see it rising up to hit his face.

It took a considerable effort for Dyce to drag the man to the storeroom. It would not be possible to get him into the car without being seen, and taping his arms and legs would buy Dyce only a few minutes beyond the life of the drug anyway. Killing him, on the other hand, would give Dyce enough time until Hogg happened to go to the storeroom. That could be minutes or it could be days. He could cut the man’s throat with the scissors from his desk. Or he could inject an air bubble into his artery. He had heard that that would do it, but he wasn’t sure. The scissors were more certain.

Dyce found the FBI badge and identification and put it in his pocket, then thought about taking the gun, too. He held it in his hand and experienced the surprising weight of it. It was beyond imagining that he would ever point a weapon like this at another person and pull the trigger. Just contemplating the violence of it made him shudder with distaste. He was not that kind of man and had no desire to become one.

The artery in the man’s neck was easy to find. Dyce pressed and held a finger against it and watched the artery swell.

The agent was looking at him, but there was no message to read in his eyes; he seemed to be looking on with complete disinterest. The scissors were large and bulky and dull, a clumsy instrument. Dyce remembered the surprising blade on the knife he had used with Helen. That had been so pleasant, he recalled. A moment they had shared together-a long moment. It had been ruined at the end by her outburst, but on the other hand it was her very vitality that had made the experience so good in the first place. This agent wasn’t going to struggle, but Dyce wished there was some animation in him. Watching the peace come over Helen’s face had been so sweet. The agent didn’t look peaceful so much as arrested mid-breath. He looked as if he had been abruptly clubbed, pole-axed like a steer. Serenity would come in time as the muscles gradually relaxed, but Dyce, alas, did not have time.

“This is going to be a little on the sloppy side,” he said apologetically to the agent. “I haven’t really had time to prepare. If I’d known you were coming…” Dyce giggled. “You should always call first, didn’t you know that?”

Although the dose was average, its effect was stronger than usual. Dyce regretted it, but how could he have suspected this man would be so susceptible. He’d been afraid the normal dose wouldn’t be strong enough. He knew it was too late to change anything, but if only there was enough energy left in the man to respond in some way. There was beauty in doing it the old way, beauty and peace, but the time with Helen had been exciting in a brand-new way.

The artery stood out against the pressure of Dyce’s finger, throbbing. Invitingly, Dyce thought. “You won’t feel this, of course, but I don’t think it hurts much anyway. Not that anyone has ever told me.” He started to giggle again.

He opened the scissors and drew one of the blades across the artery. A white line showed against the dark skin, but no blood. Dyce tried the other blade and managed to get only a trickle from damaged capillaries. The blade was too dull to penetrate to the artery.

“I mean, really,” he said in disgust. He looked into the agent’s eyes, which looked back with the same impassivity. “I might as well be using a saw,” he said.

Dyce turned the man’s head away so that the blood, if he ever managed to get to it, would spurt away from himself Using the tips of the scissors, he began to snip.

“My apologies,” he said. “This is really clumsy… Under different circumstances, I think we might both have enjoyed it.”

But Dyce was enjoying it now, surprising himself with the pleasure he took, even in this unaesthetic way.

The blood, when it finally came, was astounding in its volume and pressure. To think that all that pressure came from the tiny pump of the heart.

It took him several minutes to clean his hand before he closed the closet door behind him and then he had to go back in to retrieve the syringe.

Surprisingly, although the needle had snapped off in the big man’s leg when he fell, the syringe itself was unbroken. He would need another needle, perhaps several, and more PMBL. There was a needle in the car hidden under the material of the visor and enough PMBL under the seat in a water bottle to suffice for one more injection. After that he would have to return to his supply.

Dyce’s heart was pounding and he realized it came from excitement, not exertion. Helen had been a revelation and this agent a confirmation. There was more to dying than just being dead. The state of death was serene-but dying, dying was a dynamic act shared by two. Dyce was sorry that it had taken him so long to realize it-but grateful he had learned at last.

Dyce glanced in the plate glass window of his office and was surprised at how calm he appeared as he walked toward his Valiant. A casual observer would never know he was a man who had just had a life-altering experience. Dyce laughed inwardly at his inadvertent pun. The experience had actually altered two lives.

A clerk from the hardware store was standing in the store’s doorway. He nodded and smiled politely at Dyce.

Dyce took the time to pause. “How are you today?” he asked. “Looks like a good one, doesn’t it?”

The clerk glanced up at the sky. The cheekbones are perfect, Dyce thought. And the nose, sharp and raw as a chip of flint. The eyes were wrong, but they’d be closed.

“High time we had a good day,” the clerk said. Even the mouth was right, with the same taut lips as his father’s. Dyce felt the stirring within and wondered that it could strike him even now, even when he should be fleeing and sated. In a way the death of the agent may have been only a tease, he realized, not a resolution. He may have served only to whet Dyce’s appetite. Or perhaps to combine two appetites into one larger, all-encompassing, insatiable one. He felt like a man who had lived his life on a diet of brown rice and has just had his first taste of ice cream.

“Well, have a good one,” Dyce said. He felt the clerk watching him as he forced himself to walk casually toward his Valiant and slid behind the wheel.

Perhaps we’ll meet again, Dyce thought to himself He adjusted his rearview mirror and saw that the clerk was, indeed, watching him. Not with any great interest-there was little else to look at on the street- but watching him nonetheless. We may well meet again, he thought. We shouldn’t, but we may.

Driving well within the speed limit, Dyce left Waverly and headed north toward Minnot.

“We stopped calling it sexual perversion a few years ago,” Gold said. “Too judgmental. Paraphilia sounds more scientific, anyway.”

“As if there were science involved,” said Becker.

“We have our professional image to maintain,” said Gold wryly. “Otherwise, we could just call everybody loony and be done with it. Being scientists, how ever, we like to sort our loonies into categories and give them names.”

“You’ve loosened your sphincter muscles a bit since we began,” said Becker.

“That’s the effect you have on me. You’re so comforting to talk to.”

Becker laughed.

“Is this a new tack? Shrink as wit and good guy? Shrink as pal?”

“Shrink as human, maybe. Since I can’t impress you with my credentials or my vast learning, I might as well try my menschlichkeit.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Great, then let’s get on with it. What do you need to know about paraphilia?”

“How does it happen?”

Gold shrugged. “I don’t know how specific I can be, but which particular variety? There are an awful lot and some of them have yet to be identified, like the insects in the Amazon basin.”

“Dyce’s variety. I think he has to make himself look like a corpse to get aroused. And I think he likes to look at other corpses. I don’t know if he does anything to them or not, but I’m pretty sure he sits there looking at them. Probably in the dark. And not just any corpse or he could get a job at a mortuary. They have to look a certain way.”

“That’s what the mother’s maiden name is all about?”

“I think it’s a start. If you like redheads with green eyes and freckles, it’s not a bad idea to start with — people with Irish names. He wants Scandinavians, or people who look that way. So he starts with people whose mothers were of Scandinavian descent. He’s got access to thousands of names anyway and this way he’s not going on a random search; he knows where they live, where they work. It’s easy enough for him to get a look at them and see if they’re what he’s after.”

“Why doesn’t he find someone who looks right in the first place?”

“Because it’s difficult and dangerous. If he sees somebody in a line in a supermarket, how is he going to find out enough about the guy’s patterns to abduct him? Follow him home? Hope his wallet falls out of his pocket so he can get an address? Strike up a conversation and have witnesses see him? It’s not as if he’s just trying to pick somebody up; he’s selecting a victim, and he’s very careful about it.”

“Why does he use the mother’s name? Why not the victim’s own name?”

“I’m not sure. There’s always the fact that you can’t be sure the father is really the father, but I suspect it’s to avoid creating an obvious pattern. I think he’s been at this a long time, and the only way he’s gotten away with it is by making it appear that nothing at all is happening.”

“Any idea why your boy likes Scandinavians?”

“His father was Norwegian is all I know. His mother was Jewish, but she died shortly after he was born anyway.”

Becker paused and Gold studied the ceiling for a moment.

“Well-in general, paraphilias are caused by some sort of psychic trauma that occurs when a child is between the ages of about three and eight. That’s when the pattern is set in the mind-a lovemap, some call it, but I’m not crazy about the term. It sounds too much like pop psychology, although it’s meant very seriously. Anyway, something happens to the child to derail the normal erotic drive. It could be child abuse-it frequently is-or the loss of a parent or sibling. It could be as simple as severe sexual repression in a family’s attitudes so that the child finds a way of expressing his desire by masking it. Spankers, mild sadists, people who can only have sex if it’s seen as punishment. It could take the form of a fetish that substitutes for forbidden lust-rubber suits, feather, silk garments. Or it can be caused by very complicated circumstances and find expressions that are bizarre in the extreme. There are men who kill their partners after sex as a form of atonement. You probably know about those.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Professionally, I mean. Does any of this help at all? Or even tell you anything you didn’t already know?”

“Not really.”

“Sometimes it helps just to hear it said aloud,” said Gold.

“Maybe.”

“And how about you?”

“What about me?” Becker asked.

“Any closer to telling me about your traumas? It’s all for the same price, as long as you’re here.”

“Is there any hope for curing somebody like Dyce? If you could find out what has caused him to be this way, could you undo it?”

Gold studied Becker for a long moment.

“Truth?”

“No, lie to me.”

“No, there’s not much hope. We could keep him drugged, which would probably prevent him from doing it again, whatever it is he does. But to change him fundamentally? He’s a very, very sick puppy. This isn’t neurosis we’re talking about. My profession isn’t too bad with neurosis; we can cure it, or help it, or mask it. But psychosis? No. He’s probably that way for life.”

“The wiring is twisted.”

“In the brain, you mean? Yes. Things are hooked up wrong. Some conditions are just because of chemical unbalance, we think. Bipolar manic depression, definitely. Schizophrenia, probably. In time we should be able to control those conditions completely with a pill. I don’t mean drug them; I mean treat them specifically as we can do with hypertension or diabetes. But psychosis is different. You’re right-it’s in the permanent wiring by the time they’re adults, and we’re just not able to tinker with the wiring in the brain. Not yet.”

“So there’s no hope.”

“For Dyce. There’s hope for you.”

“I’m not talking about me,” said Becker.

“That’s all you’ve talked about since I’ve met you,” said Gold.

They sat in silence for a long time.

“Tell me about people who enjoy killing,” Becker said at last.

The flight to Minnot was like a half-hour roller-coaster ride-a good twenty-nine minutes longer than necessary for anyone but a teenager. Or perhaps someone who’s had his stomach surgically removed. Tee thought. It was certainly more than he needed; he got the point on the first dip and didn’t need any further reminder of the frailty of the aircraft, the whimsical nature of air currents, or the delicacy of his own inner ear.

“It’s summer,” the pilot yelled over the sound of the engine after the plane had regained altitude only to be sucked downward abruptly once more. “The sun heats up the ground, the air rises, and you get these wind shear kind of things.”

Wind shear was a word Tee associated with airline disasters. He reached forward to brace himself, but there was nothing to hold onto in the tiny aircraft. Agent Reynolds had shooed him onto the plane with assurances that it was perfectly safe-and also the only thing immediately available. The pilot/meteorologist appeared to Tee to be sixteen and wild-eyed. He likes being bucketed up, down and sideways, Tee moaned to himself. The kid is up here for the sport.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” said the pilot. He grinned at Tee’s discomfort, revealing a large gap between his front teeth, a condition Tee had always associated with stupidity. “Don’t fly much, do you?”

“Only in real airplanes that give peanuts,” Tee said. He couldn’t decide what to do with his eyes. Looking out made him dizzy and if he looked at the instrument panel, all the whirring dials and flashing numbers alarmed him. The plane tilted sideways and groaned loudly.

“How about you?” Tee asked. “Do you fly much?”

The pilot laughed. He thinks I’m joking, thought Tee.

“It’s just the summer,” the pilot said again. “It’s not dangerous. Except during landing.”

Tee decided his best bet was to close his eyes and pretend to be asleep. If that didn’t work, he would try to throw up in the pilot’s direction so he could get a little satisfaction before the adolescent killed them both.

He had tried to protest, but Reynolds had hustled him to the airport and onto the plane before he had much of a chance to think up a good excuse. Not that there was ever a very good excuse for a law officer to ignore a direct request by the FBI, but some kind of demurrer seemed in order if only to establish his independence. The fact was, he didn’t have any excuse; he could be spared at any time and the department would function pretty much the same. It was actually rather exciting to be invited in on the last of the chase for Dyce-it was the feeing of being commanded that he objected to.

They circled once over a surprisingly flat area of ground that appeared suddenly amidst the surrounding wooded hills as if a giant foot had landed there while striding past. Luxuriant crops covered the area, and along one side was a green strip, distinguishable from the rest of the land only by a windsock at one end and a white streak of powdered lunestone that had been laid down the center. The windsock stood straight out from its pole.

“Kind of tricky here,” the pilot said before nosing the plane into a steep decline that Tee would have thought was a power dive rather than a runway approach.

The young pilot brought the plane down as if the grassy airstrip at Minnot were a diving board and he were taking a few preliminary bounces to test the spring.

“Not bad, huh?” The pilot flashed the gap between his teeth at Tee.

I knew he was a teenager, thought Tee. He wants a grade.

“Pretty good, I’d say,” said the pilot. He taxied to the end of the runway and stopped. “You don’t mind walking to the terminal, do you? I have to take up a glider now and it’s right here.”

Tee saw a goateed man and his pretty daughter standing next to an engineless aircraft a few yards away. The girl looked to be about the age of the pilot, which meant she was too young for Tee. But not too young to appreciate.

“Where is it?” Tee asked.

“Right there.” The pilot pointed at the glider.

“I mean the terminal.”

“Oh. Well, we call it a terminal.” The pilot nodded toward a building alongside the field, equidistant between the two ends. Tee had thought it was a refreshment shack.

Tee staggered briefly as he got out of the plane and clutched at the wing for support, hoping the pretty girl had not noticed.

“Great day for it, isn’t it?” asked the man with the goatee.

The girl smiled shyly. The flash of her perfect white teeth transformed her from pretty to a ravishing beauty and Tee felt his knees weaken, no longer sure if it was airsickness or the lust, longing, and bittersweet sense of loss that beset him several times a day when he saw loveliness that was forbidden him. More and more beauty was denied him every year, an unrelenting calculus that depressed him when he paused to think about it.

He had not been entirely wrong about the terminal being a refreshment shack. The proprietor, dispatcher, air-traffic controller, and owner of the field was stocking one of three candy dispensers as he explained that a car had been left at Tee’s disposal along with directions to find Hatcher and he, the owner, would explain it all to Tee just as soon as he got the machine loaded and ready to go. Tee assumed the vending machines provided more of an income than the airstrip.

Standing outside the shack, waiting for his car. Tee saw Dyce drive by. The road was no more than ten yards from where Tee stood, and for perhaps a second he and Dyce looked directly into each other’s eyes before the car passed. It wasn’t much and the man’s appearance was greatly changed by his beard, but Tee recognized the eyes of the man who had looked up at him from the hospital bed, the eyes that had locked with Becker’s in that peculiar, semi-seductive confrontation. He was convinced he had seen the shock of recognition in Dyce’s eyes just now, which meant that there was no time to lose in pursuit.

Dyce’s car did not change speed and Tee could not see him moving his head to look back in the mirror, but he knew it was Dyce. As startled as Tee, no doubt, but too cool to give himself away. It was a game that Tee had to play, as well, and he made himself walk slowly back to the terminal as long as he was in Dyce’s line of vision. He wasted no time once in the terminal, lifting the proprietor by the armpits and propelling him to the board with keys dangling from hooks.

“Call the police-no, give me the keys first — and have them get in touch with Hatcher of the FBI. Hatcher, he’s in Waverly. Got it?”

Tee was already sprinting toward the waiting Toyota. “Tell him I’m following Dyce, going that way.” He jabbed his finger in the direction Dyce had taken, then leaped into the Toyota.

Within two minutes Tee caught up to the Valiant that was still driving within the speed limit. The roads through this flat section were long and straight, with few turnoffs, and if the Valiant had been trying to elude pursuit, it would have had to speed, but the car was fairly dawdling along.

Tee began to wonder if he had the right man. He had seen him for but a second, at a distance, in a moving car, wearing a beard. Hatcher would have his ass served on a platter if Tee had pulled him away from a stakeout to chase the wrong man. Surely, he won’t come. Tee thought, if he really has Dyce cornered in Waverly. Pray God he’ll know better than to leave the real one behind and come following me. What the hell do I know? I’m the chief of police in Clamden, for Christ’s sake.

The road continued straight as a plumb line and the Valiant drove steadily onward at thirty-five miles per hour with Tee four hundred yards behind.

“Unless I’m right, Tee thought. Then I’m a goddamned hero. Maybe Dyce had not recognized him as Tee originally thought and was just going on his merry way, oblivious to the car behind him.

The Valiant seemed to be slowing and Tee eased off the gas. He wished to hell that Becker was here. A mistake wouldn’t ruin his career since he didn’t have a career to ruin anymore. The difference, he knew, was that Becker wouldn’t make a mistake.

It’s about your self-esteem, big guy. Tee thought. You got to learn to think positively about yourself You saw the guy, you recognized him instantly. There wasn’t any doubt then; you didn’t say to yourself, gee, it looks like Dyce. You knew it was him. So stick with that, trust yourself. You’re not some local jerk, you’re the goddamned chief of police.

The Valiant turned to the right and vanished for a moment in the intervening swell of corn. Tee reached reactively for his car radio, then realized he didn’t have one. There was no way to let Hatcher know where he was or where he was going-in fact he didn’t know himself. He would just have to play it by ear, watch Dyce come to a stop, then find a telephone. If he had turned here, at least he couldn’t be going far. There was no major highway in this direction. Tee felt pretty sure, just corn and more corn and maybe a house or two.

Tee eased around the corner and saw the Valiant ahead of him, slowing still further, his blinker on. Awfully obliging. Tee thought. The man is such a law-abiding citizen he puts on his blinker on an empty road-except when he decides to boil a few bodies in the kitchen. He’s not quite so law-abiding then. Well, there are laws and there are laws, aren’t there, jug-head? It passed through his mind fleetingly that he himself was not the law here; he had no jurisdiction outside of Clamden, he doubted that he could make an arrest, and if he did, would it violate Dyce’s rights? But then, I’m not making an arrest. I’m just following the guy.

The second turn took Tee deep into the heart of a cornfield with stands of green corn reaching above the car and closing in on either side. It was like driving through a transparent tunnel under an emerald sea. The road was only packed dirt and rutted, a farmer’s access lane, narrow enough that a tractor hauling equipment would brush against the stalks.

With the corn this close. Tee could no longer see the large stone house and barn that he had noticed from the distance, but when the Valiant turned again, he realized that had to be where Dyce was heading. Tee stopped his car and thought. He couldn’t follow by car any longer. If Dyce hadn’t noticed him so far-and apparently he hadn’t-he could hardly miss him if he pulled up into the barnyard. He wasn’t sure, but the chances were good that the final turnoff led to the farmhouse or a cul-de-sac. It was too deep in the field to go much farther unless it went all the way across, and even then Dyce would hardly think it just coincidence that another car was tooling through the cornfield. If it was Dyce. Tee tried not to dwell on that possibility.

Or it could run all the way through the field; it could lead to some other access road. Hatcher would like that, too. Follow him to the middle of a cornfield, stop and wait while he drives out the other side and all the way to Canada. Tee felt a sudden intense dislike for Hatcher. The man was an absolute prick, Becker was right about that.

Wishing he could think of something better. Tee got out of the Toyota and walked into the cornfield, two rows deep. He followed the row that ran parallel to the lane and headed toward the path where the Valiant had made its last tum.

Listening first. Tee cautiously peered out from the corn to scan the lane. It ran for thirty yards, then turned left, vanishing once more into the corn. The Valiant was nowhere.

Tee crossed the lane and took to the corn once more, staying parallel to the lane, then turning with it. This is not my line of work. Tee thought. Already his heart was racing and his breath was short, although he’d done nothing but walk a few dozen yards. He felt an uncomfortable tingling on his skin as if he was about to sweat.

I’m scared, he thought. What the hell am I scared of? Being boiled in a pot, that’s what the hell I’m scared of. Isn’t that good enough? He felt for the revolver riding on his hip and pushed off the leather thong that held it in place. He considered drawing the revolver and carrying it at the ready, but then thought, for what? To arrest the wrong man? Ridiculous what embarrassment can do, he thought. So what if you make a mistake and look like an asshole. Don’t you look stupid enough already, creeping through a cornfield? If you want to pull the gun, pull the damn thing. He left it in his holster and bent to peer cautiously once more into the lane.

Seeing just a glimpse of the dull green of the Valiant, he jerked his head back behind the sheltering corn. What now, chief? There was the car, parked at the end of the lane, a few yards away. He could hear noises from the farmhouse, music playing, the noise of a black rapper sounding ludicrously incongruous in a field of corn. Tee tried to calm himself; he could hear little besides the rapper’s voice and the insistent electronic drum above his own breathing. Was the Valiant’s engine still running? Was Dyce parked, or not?

Tee knelt on the soft earth, his backside brushing against the corn as he went down. Be quiet, for Christ’s sake! God, he really wasn’t meant for this kind of thing. Where the hell was Becker with his icewater nerves? Just establish that the car is parked, then get the hell out of here and find a phone. If the engine is still running, he’s not going to stick around and you’ll look like an idiot. Christ, you are an idiot. His sweat glands were working overtime now; he could feel the dampness in his armpits. This is stupid, this is so stupid. Just turn around and run if you feel so scared. No one’s watching. Just hightail it out of here and worry about your dignity later. Staying as low as he could, though not certain why except for some childhood memory of doing what they did in the movies, he eased his eyes toward the edge of the curtain of corn.

I investigate burglaries and refer them to the state police, he thought. I stop suspicious-looking characters who are cruising Clamden neighborhoods. On the holidays I direct traffic so we can hold parades. I don’t even do most of that anymore. I’m the chief now. I have the officers do it. Ten years ago Ralph Smolness swung a chair at me when I answered his wife’s call about domestic violence. That’s it. That’s what I do. I don’t play Indian in the cornfield with a maniac who’s going to make soup out of me if I don’t quit bumping into stalks.

The engine of the Valiant was running, the car was vibrating slightly. Dyce was not in the car, at least not in sight. Tee wiped away a drop of sweat that was threatening his eye. The rapper was saying something that sounded like “fug it, fug it.” Probably not. Tee thought. There were still laws, at least in Connecticut, and why in hell was he thinking about that? The music sounded over and over in his head; he couldn’t get the noise out of his mind even when the record ended.

He lifted himself to his knees and heard the corn behind him rustle again. Be quiet, he warned himself then realized he hadn’t made the sound just as something hit him hard in the right buttock. Oh, fuck it, he thought. He tried to reach for his gun, but a foot in his back pushed his face in the dirt and another foot stood on his right arm. The lyrics “fug it, fug it” were still reverberating in his mind and the beating of his pulse in his ear matched the beat of the drums.

Someone was in grandfather’s house. He couldn’t believe it. Someone was living there. He heard the jungle music, the unrelenting drums, the raucous squeal of guitars, the lyrics that went beyond suggestive to demanding, all of it profaning grandfather’s values and his memory. No, not his memory. Nothing could touch his memory, for that lived within Dyce’s soul. There was a tractor parked by the front porch, someone in overalls sitting on the stone steps, eating, leaning his back against the stone pillar that had once held the porch roof. Behind the man was the porch itself, or what remained, charred by fire. No one was living there. It had been repaired-could not have been without Dyce’s knowledge and permission-so the man blasting the music into the rural air was only there temporarily. Dyce could deal with him, if he had to, when he replenished his supply of PMBL. The last of it had just gone into the cop in the cornfield.

Dyce dragged Tee’s body two rows farther into the corn so that it could not be seen by anyone passing on the road. He walked to Tee’s car and drove it deeply into the field, curving his route so that no one glancing down the entrance furrow could see anything at the end but more corn.

Dyce prepared grandfather’s body as he remembered grandfather having done for his father ten years earlier. The coffin, however, was beyond his talents. Unskilled with saw or hammer, he simply laid the old man’s body on a plank set up on the sawhorses covered by the black tarpaulin. For three days Dyce sat vigil in grandfather’s chair in the darkened living room, and with every hour his faith in grandfather’s religion drained a fraction more until finally, the vigil over, there was none left. His faith in the resurrection was nothing more than a distant hope, his credence in the hellfire and the righteous, whimsical god who fueled it with his wrath dwindled to nothing. But he never lost faith in grandfather himself. If grandfather’s God was wrong, that did not mean grandfather himself was wrong.

On the morning of the fourth day Dyce carried grandfather’s withered body to his bedroom, dressed him in pajamas and laid him to rest under the blankets, The old man had become so frail in his final years it was like carrying a child. It was winter and Dyce had kept the heat off so the decomposition was slight, but the odor, as he cradled the body against his chest, was very strong. Dyce choked back his revulsion and forced himself to breathe deeply. If grandfather stank, then the stench was good and pure.

When all signs indicated that the old man had died peacefully in bed-as indeed he had-Dyce called the authorities and told them he had just returned from a weekend in upstate New York looking at the campus of the college he was to attend in thirteen days and had discovered his grandfather dead. Dyce waited a week after the official funeral before he set fire to the house. He knew he would not return and he could not bear the idea of anyone else living in the home where he and grandfather had loved one another.

The fire department responded more quickly than he had anticipated, saving most of the roof and the attic rafters and a portion of the porch where grandfather had sat and waited and watched for the arrival of his grandson.

It was good enough, Dyce decided. No one could live in the house and there was something comforting about the indestructibility of the stone walls that continued to stand, blackened by smoke but as solid as the earth from which they came. From a distance the house still looked whole and someday, when he had wrested his fortune from the world, Dyce could return to live again in his only inheritance.

The cemetery was empty except for the men digging a fresh grave in Section Three, and they were too far away and preoccupied to pay any attention to him. With one more look around to assure his privacy, Dyce knelt on the grass beside grandfather’s grave. A spider had spun a web from the plastic flowers that sat atop the funerary urn to the ground and the encased carcasses of two victims hung from the threads like roosting bats with their wings enfolded round them. Dyce removed the plastic flowers from the top of the urn, snapping the web, revealing the glass gallon container beneath. He would need all of it this time, he would have to take it with him, so Dyce pulled out the bottle. Dirt and some kind of moss encrusted the bottom of the container so it came up with resistance, and algae was slowly colonizing the unperceptible valleys of the glass surface, but inside the bottle and its plastic lid, which was still untouched by nature’s slow incursions after fifteen years, the liquid PMBL was still as clear as spring water with the faintest touch of blue. Like water from a glacier, Dyce thought. Like drinking water of an earlier age before pollution. Like the water in Canada, maybe. He would find out soon enough.

Holding the bottle to his chest with both arms wrapped around it, Dyce spent a moment alone with grandfather. At first it was hard to concentrate; there were so many things on his mind. They were chasing him and they were so close. He didn’t understand how they could be so close, two of them within an hour- but they were stupid, they were gullible. He had no doubt that he could outwit them. There was only one of them he feared, the companion at the hospital of the cop he had just dealt with-but he wasn’t here and maybe he wasn’t coming. If he did come, Dyce knew what he had to do. He could ignore the others or deal with them as they came along, but that one he would have to kill.

He struggled to put such things out of his mind and to get in touch with grandfather. Eventually the peace settled over him and he could see the old man again, and smell the scent of the plain soap he used to wash his body and his hair. He could feel the gentle prickle of grandfather’s beard touching his cheek, and then the back of his neck as grandfather got behind him. He could hear the rapid panting of grandfather’s breath into his ear, he could feel grandfather pressing against him from behind, pressing and pressing until the panting stopped with a shuddering sigh.

Dyce felt a moment’s anger with grandfather for dying-no, not for dying, but for failing to come back. For leaving Dyce alone and without hope. But the moment passed and he left grandfather as he always did, with love and longing.

He positioned the plastic flowers atop the urn and then placed a stone atop the grave marker before leaving, clutching the bottle carefully in both hands.

This time he took a different route out of the cemetery and passed his father’s grave. Dyce had not visited the grave in many years and it took him a moment to find it. Dysen had not been buried near his wife nor the plot that would become grandfather’s a decade later. Grandfather had seen to it that Dysen was planted in the ground as far from the Cohens as possible. Dyce stood by the far edge of the cemetery where the weeds protected themselves from the mower while growing tall next to the border fence. Cobwebs proliferated between the fence rails, and the whine of automobile tires could be heard from the nearby road.

Although he tried, Dyce could remember little of his father. Nothing came back to him except the smell of liquor on hot breath, and a sense of fear. He could not picture his face clearly; he could not recall scenes or incidents. There was none of the vivid imagery that would come to him in his dreams-only the sense of fear. And then something else, something he had never felt before when he thought of his father. He looked up to be sure he was still alone. The grave diggers were closer now; their work was along the fence, one section away. Dyce turned his back to them to be sure they couldn’t see the tears in his eyes.

I don’t know why I’m crying, he said to his father’s grave. But it’s not for you. Not for you. For grandfather, not for you. But he stayed beside his father’s grave much longer than he had planned, weeping silently at first, then sobbing as if his chest were being tom open.

You were a monster, he cried in his mind. A monster! Grandfather told me, again and again. I know what you were. A beast without control, without love, without pity. You killed my mother, you tried to kill me, you mined our lives, grandfather had told him, like a chorus, like a litany.

I do not cry for you! I can’t even remember you. There’s nothing of you in me, I am my mother’s child, I am grandfather’s child, I am not yours!

When he left the cemetery, Dyce was alarmed at how long he had stayed. Time had seemed to fall away and he had had no idea of the hour that passed. He had been careless; he had made a mistake and for the strangest of reasons. He did not understand what had overcome him at his father’s grave, but he must not let such foolishness affect him in the future.

He headed north, leaving Minnot in the direction of 1-91, which would take him through Massachusetts and Vermont and eventually to Montreal, but he got no farther than the edge of town where Main Street connected with Route 17, the feeder road to the thru-way. A state police car was parked there, its lights flashing, and behind it a brown Dodge. A uniformed trooper was leaning over the driver’s side of the lead car in a line of six waiting to pass. The driver’s door opened and an elderly man with a beard got out in obvious puzzlement. Another trooper and a man in a business suit came slowly down the line of cars, peering into each.

Impatient drivers behind him were throwing their cars into reverse to back up and try alternate routes and Dyce joined them while the approaching trooper and suit-clad officer were still three cars away. In his mirror he saw the lead trooper wave a woman through with little more than a glance.

They are faster than I realized, Dyce thought, and the FBI man was more resistant than I would have thought possible. The important thing was not to panic and run into their net. I must hide for a time, and to do that I will need a few things.

The town center was clean of police. They will be close to the highways, he thought, trying to keep me in, not on the inside trying to flush me into the net.

Dyce drove to a supermarket and walked quickly but without too much haste through the aisles. He wouldn’t need much; it shouldn’t be more than a few days and he could live on very little. There was a hardware store in the same lot so it would be one-stop shopping.

A stock boy glanced up at him as he passed and Dyce felt his breath jerk in his chest. The boy was perfect, not really a boy but a young man, and his features were everything Dyce needed. Dyce made a brief detour to the pharmaceutical aisle for an impulse purchase before checking out.

The farmer’s tractor was gone by the time Dyce returned, which was a good sign. Dyce would not have to waste any more time dealing with him and if he returned tomorrow, he would be excellent cover. Dyce needed all the time he could muster now because the police officer was large and heavy but he could no longer be allowed to stay in the corn and recover in his own good time.

The extension ladder he had purchased at the hardware store had a rope and pulley, which allowed it to be levered to its full length. The pulley helped in lifting the cop up the ladder, too, but it was still very difficult and took a long time. By the time Dyce had hidden his own car and pulled the ladder in after him, it was growing dark and beginning to sprinkle. The rain would take care of any tracks he had left behind and the night would shield him from all but the most determined and skillful of pursuers. He was safe now and could see and hear anyone approaching, and if they approached too close, there was still a little room for them to keep the cop company.

The rain brought out the smell of charcoal that still lingered after fifteen years. The sound of rain pattering overhead had always been comforting and for a moment he felt as safe and comfortable as if he were in his old room under the eaves, waiting for grandfather to come and give him his bath.

He was excited.

Hatcher dreaded making the call and he wanted to be alone when he did it. If groveling was called for, he could do it-it was for a larger cause than his own ego-but not with a witness. He had enough trouble with the men under him with this stupid duck business. He didn’t know where they got it or what it referred to, but he had overheard them use the term, he had caught the quacking sounds when they thought he was out of earshot. There was no need to add any further fuel for disrespect.

At first he had planned to make the call from the radio in his car, but there was too big a chance someone else in the system would come in on his frequency. He did it finally from a pay phone, charging the call to his Bureau card.

Becker sounded annoyed to hear from him.

“We have a little problem here,” Hatcher said. “I thought you might want to offer your notions.”

“What.” Not even a question, as if he knew things would get screwed up and Hatcher would be forced to ask for help. Hatcher realized he was already squeezing the telephone receiver. He tried to keep his tone light; don’t give the son of a bitch too much satisfaction.

“It seems Dyce realized who Ty Hoban was and he-uh-he killed him.” The silence was thunderous.

“You sent Ty Hoban in first? And alone?” Becker spoke in a choked whisper.

“Hoban was an excellent man,” said Hatcher.

“I know that. He’s not exactly the best man for undercover work in Waverly, Connecticut, though, is he?”

“I was following policy, it was just A and D.”

“Jesus Christ, Hatcher.”

“He may have handled it wrong,” said Hatcher. “We’ll look into that.”

“And Dyce got away,” said Becker.

“We don’t think so.”

“Good, then you have no problem.”

“But we’re not sure.”

Becker sighed and Hatcher squeezed his eyes closed, waiting for the sarcasm. Becker said nothing at all, which Hatcher decided was worse.

“Your friend Terhune apparently spotted Dyce driving north past the Minnot airport and went in pursuit. We’ve sealed the area, and if he made his way to any major road, the state troopers haven’t spotted him yet. My guess is he didn’t get out; he would have had to do it awfully fast. And if he was in a hurry in the first place, he wouldn’t have been going through Minnot on the back roads. We think he’s holed up in the Minnot area someplace.”

“Who’s we?”

“Well-me.”

Again, Becker was silent. The bastard wasn’t going to help a bit. “And Washington. I’ve been in contact, of course.”

“Of course.”

“And they confirmed my theory.”

This time Becker laughed, a short, nasty bark.

“You’re all right then, aren’t you?” Becker asked. “Ass covered and theory confirmed. What do you want from me that Washington can’t provide?”

Hatcher seriously considered hanging up. Why give the bastard the satisfaction of asking? There was only one good reason-Becker might very well know the answer.

“We were just wondering if you might have any notions-considering your closeness to the case-you know, just wondering if it might occur to you…”

“What.”

“Well-where to look.”

Once more, the damning silence.

“We’re following the standard procedures, of course. I’m getting more agents from New York and Boston, and we’ll go door to door starting in the morning. I mean, if he’s here, we’ll find him, but I, we, thought you might have some-insight-into how he might be thinking right about now.”

This time Hatcher kept silent, too. He had asked him; he wasn’t going to beg. The silence stretched.

“Ty Hoban is six-foot-four and black,” Becker said at last. “Did you think he wouldn’t be noticed?”

“He was sent in to A and D, that’s all. He may have exceeded his brief; we’re looking into it.”

“He would have been noticed anywhere within the town limits, you can’t blame him. Why not send a man in a clown suit to a funeral?”

“I have decisions to make, and I make them.”

“Yeah, and when it counts the most, they’re wrong,” Becker said. Hatcher breathed deeply and let it ride. “You’re a fucking menace. Hatcher.” Hatcher let that one ride, too, waiting. If Becker was belittling him, at least it meant he was still involved.

Another pause. Hatcher studied the woman dashing with her dirty clothes to the laundromat across the street from the public phone. I’m getting wet. Hatcher thought. Why don’t they put pay phones in glass booths anymore? If Becker knows it’s raining he’s probably making me stand here on purpose.

“Where did Dyce live when he was growing up?” Becker broke the silence at last.

Got him, thought Hatcher. He was too good at it to turn his back on it. Or too involved in some way that Hatcher didn’t understand.

“I don’t know.”

“When he applied for work as an actuary he would have had to list his degree. Find out where he got it, wake some people up and see what he gave as a permanent address when he entered college. If it’s in Minnot, and I think it probably was, roust the town clerk out of bed and find out who lives in the house now. Then put a man on the local cemetery where his relatives are buried.”

“The cemetery?”

“Hatcher… An inconspicuous man, out of sight.”

“I know that. Anything else?”

“Try the house where he grew up.”

“He wouldn’t go there if somebody else lives there now.”

“Do what you want, then.”

“I mean, you’re probably right-but why would he go there?”

“Because something happened there. Why would he be back in Minnot in the first place? It was the first place he ran when he was in trouble. First to Waverly, which is close enough for him to drive over every day if he wanted to, then when Ty flushed him, he went straight to Minnot itself, not the highway. Something’s there he wants, or needs.”

“Anything else?”

“Don’t fuck it up again.”

“I can have a plane at the airport for you in ten minutes,” Hatcher said.

“I’m not coming.”

“You’ll have a better feel for things if you’re here on the ground.”

“I go down no more holes for you. Hatcher. I told you that already. Find him or not, it’s up to you now. It’s no longer any affair of mine.”

“I understand,” said Hatcher. “There’s one other thing… Just after your friend the chief of police had someone call us and report that he had seen Dyce and was following him…?”

This time Hatcher made Becker wait.

“… Well, after that. Chief Terhune disappeared.”

The silence had a very different quality to it this time. It was broken only when Becker hung up.

The music came first, before the sound of the tractor, the thrumming of the bass notes cutting through the air as if they were connected directly to the auditor’s viscera. Dyce felt them before he actually heard them, and long before the rest of the music was audible. As it approached, the noise of the tractor obscured the sense of the music, but the steady pulse of the drums and bass came through everything.

Jungle music, Dyce thought again. At grandfather’s house. It must be Birger Nordholm, although the music didn’t sound like anything he would listen to.

With the noise of the tractor to cover the sound of his movements, Dyce crept to the edge and peered out as the tractor entered the yard. He glanced back once to make sure the cop was all right and saw him lying perfectly still on his back. Only the wheels of the tractor could be seen, huge and black and cleated, moving parallel to the house and across the yard-or the space that had once been yard but was now so overgrown with weeds and gouged and flattened by continual passings of the tractor that it was hard to give it a name. Travelling in a blare of racket, the tractor moved out of sight, heading toward the south field, which had once been scrubland where Dyce and grandfather had taken walks through stands of supple sumac, the weed of trees. Grandfather had cut and split the trunks and shaped them into arrows for the bow Dyce had fashioned from a fallen branch of the apple tree by the house. They had spent a summer shooting wayward shafts at a target painted on the barn, but never at a living thing. Grandfather did not approve of hunting, and Dyce was too kind of heart to want to hurt anything. When he cupped in his hands the bewildered moths that made their way into the house and released them out of doors, grandfather called Dyce a “softie,” but always with approval.

Now the scrubland had been cleared and torn by Nordholm’s plow. Dyce had noticed the bushy, stunted tops of soybeans planted there when he drove to the neighbor’s cornfield where he hid his own car. For several hours he could faintly discern the sound of the tractor in the far distance, and when the wind turned and blew toward him, he could occasionally hear something of the music, a phrase or two of melody, or a few lines of the lyrics, not distinguishable as individual words but clearly a human voice. Twice he had started at the sound, thinking it was a real voice he heard, but there was no one there, not even a vehicle all morning on the long approach road that came through the fields to grandfather’s house, then past it to outlying farms. From his vantage point Dyce could see not only the approach road but much of the valley and a long stretch of the county road that led to town. Anyone coming would come from there and he would be able to see them miles away.

At noon the tractor returned and stopped in front of the porch. Dyce could see him clearly as the driver descended and removed his cap, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. It was not Nordholm, but Nordholm’s son, grown now to his mid-twenties and every inch the offshoot of his father. Dyce struggled with the sounds that wanted to come out of his throat, beckoned by the perfect look of the boy. He could have been Dyce’s father himself, the way he kicked his boots against the stone steps, the way he hitched his pants before sitting with his back against the pillar, the way he stretched his legs and sighed as if they had been carrying a dreadful weight. The boy was thin like Dysen, and the sharp bones pressed against his skin so hard it looked as if it would be painful just to wear his face. The Adam’s apple was prominent in his throat when he swallowed and even the hair was right, blond and short and straight as a freshly ironed crease. With the cap off, his ears stuck out from his head.

Dyce felt as if his father had somehow risen-from the dead after all, summoned not by Dyce and grandfather’s vigil of prayer, but by Dyce’s inexplicable tears at the graveside the day before.

The cop lay still behind him, not moving, barely breathing, no longer a worrisome consideration. Dyce wanted young Nordholm, desired him so much, he could feel himself trembling. He had known it would build to this point again, the awful, irresistible yearning that had to be placated before it drove him crazy. He needed it and it had been presented to him in the form of perfection. In the dark, drained of color, still as death itself, the man would not just look like his father, this man would be Dysen as none of the others had ever quite been.

He would take this one, he would give himself this one, perfect man, and he would make it last longer than ever, days and days and days. And the cop could be a sort of side attraction. An appetizer or a dessert.

Dyce wiggled backward, still watching the farmer, until he reached the syringe. It was full and ready and all he needed was a way of getting down and appearing to the young man without scaring him off. Close enough to touch him, that’s all he needed to be. Then he would handle him so gently.

Back at the edge, Dyce glanced up and saw three cars on the county road coming so fast that the first one was almost to the approach road before Dyce had noticed them. The farmer had pulled a bottle of bourbon from somewhere and was sipping from it while holding a sandwich in his other hand. He was oblivious to the cars, oblivious to Dyce stalking him.

All three cars were on the approach road now, sending up plumes of dust. The lead car was state patrol and its lights were flashing, but Dyce heard no siren. The lights went off abruptly as the patrol car approached the farm. In the distance another patrol car appeared on the county road, this time following a civilian auto. Lights were flashing on that patrol car, too, but it was not chasing the other car; it was following it.

The three lead autos tore into the drive and jerked to a halt as the Nordholm boy frantically sought to hide his liquor bottle.

As the men who poured from the cars spun and braced him against the porch pillar, the bottle fell and clattered against the steps, but did not break.

“Nordholm,” the boy sputtered in answer to the first in a volley of questions. “Daniel Nordholm. This is my farm, my dad’s farm. I didn’t do anything.”

The second team of cars ripped into the drive. Dyce, now far out of sight, heard doors slam like volleys of gunfire. The other men were shouting questions and commands at the farmer, fear and urgency in their voices. Dyce did not know how the boy decided which questions to answer as he pleaded his innocence of everything and anything, his voice even more fearful than the other men’s.

Finally one voice took over, asserting itself over the police and FBI.

“The property is registered in the name of Roger Dysen,” said the voice.

“Well-sure, but it’s ours.”

“How is it yours?”

“He made a deal with my dad when his grandfather died.”

“Who made the deal?”

“Mr. Dysen, Roger Dysen. His grandfather died and the house burned down and he was going to college to study math or something. That’s what my dad says. I don’t know, I was too young, but there’s no way to make a living in math around here, so he knew he wasn’t going to be staying, he sure wasn’t a farmer…”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Have you seen him?”

There was a note of annoyance in the voice. “No.”

“He’s soft, he’s very soft, he couldn’t farm a garden. My dad offered to buy the land, but he didn’t want to sell; he didn’t want to work the place but he didn’t want to give it up, either. Like he expected to come back and fix up the house someday, you know? So he worked out a deal with my dad; he gives us permission to farm the land and all we have to do is pay the taxes on the place.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Mr. Dysen?”

“He calls himself Dyce now. Or Cohen.”

“I haven’t seen him in years.”

“Have you seen anyone around here in the last three days? Anyone at all?” The original voice was back in charge again.

“No. Nobody.”

“Have you noticed any sign that anyone has been here? Anything out of the ordinary at all?”

“No.”

“How often do you come here?”

“Here? To the house? Every day.” Someone snapped off the radio as if it had just been noticed.

“Why?”

“I eat my lunch here. I like it.”

“What’s to like?”

“I–I just like it.”

Dyce heard the clink of glass against stone, then the voice of another man.

“You keep your hooch stashed here, son? Come here to drink where your parents don’t know about it?”

“I’m twenty-five.”

“Didn’t say it was illegal. Is that why you come here?”

“I like a drink once in a while,” Nordholm said defensively.

“You know the place well, do you? Would you know where someone might hide if he had to?”

“The old well house, maybe. Or the cellar. But I would know if anyone was around.”

A fourth voice spoke. “You can see right through what’s left of the floor into the cellar from here. There’s no place to hide.”

“There’s an old root cellar down there, dug into the ground. I don’t think you’d want to hide there very long, but you could.”

“Marquand, check out the root cellar. Mr. Nordholm, I want you to show me the old well house. Lieutenant, if you and your men would examine the barn, please?”

Dyce heard voices scattering, then calling to each other from the distance, moving around. They stayed for a long time, searching, until finally the doors of the cars slammed again, then the tractor engine roared to life.

I’ve lost him, Dyce thought. He was perfect and I lost him, the police took him away from me. Just thinking about the young man made him terribly excited again. It was safe now; the FBI visit had just proven that. It was safe, but they had taken the young man away from him.

Dyce turned his head and studied the cop. The man’s eyelids were beginning to flutter. He needed another dose… and while he had his sleeve pushed up and access to the vein… The cop was a poor substitute, but Dyce was so excited.

Becker caught her as she walked in the door and lifted her off her feet, kissing her deeply, then standing her against the wall. He held her up with his body as he peeled off her clothes, then entered her while she was still off the floor, lowering her slowly as she wrapped her legs around his waist. His passion was overwhelming and contagious and Cindi was ready when he entered her, then ready when he was and they both cried out in completion as he was carrying her toward the bedroom. Becker stood on the stairway, shuddering like a man freezing while Cindi clung to the banister to support them.

After he laid her on the bed he kissed her lips and face with a tender urgency for several minutes. When he embraced her it was so firmly she gasped involuntarily and only then did the intensity of his passion subside.

“Not that I’m complaining,” Cindi said after a few moments, “but what was that all about?”

“Lust?” said Becker.

“No,” she said. “I mean, maybe partly. But it felt more like-need.” Becker was quiet.

“You felt wide open, John. I thought I could have reached right inside you and touched your heart-if I hadn’t been so preoccupied.”

Becker murmured something against her neck.

“What?”

“You already have,” he said.

“Have what?” She pulled away from him far enough to look him in the eye. “If you’re going to break down and say something good, I want to be sure I hear it right.”

“You’ve already touched my heart,” Becker said.

“Really?” She shook her head vigorously. “I’m sorry. That’s all I can think of to say. You haven’t whispered many sweet-nothings, you know.”

“I know,” said Becker. “I was afraid to start, didn’t think I could stop.”

“You don’t have to stop now.”

“I’m a frightened man, Cindi.”

“You, John?”

“A frightened man.”

She realized the seriousness of his tone. “I know you are,” she said. “I’ve just never been sure of what.”

“That’s some of what Gold and I have been looking at,” he said.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” she said, hoping very hard that he would. “I know that’s private.”

“Part of the cure is making it unprivate. Admitting it. Aloud. To myself. To my loved ones.”

He faced away from her, pulling his knees to his chest.

Cindi could see she would have to help him with this.

“And I’m a loved one?”

Becker nodded. She put her hand on his back and felt him trembling. For a moment she thought he was truly frightened-or crying, but when he turned to her again, he was grinning ear to ear.

“Isn’t that stupid? I don’t mean loving you; I mean that it’s so damned hard to say. It’s stupid, it’s stupid.”

“So is that what you’re actually saying, John? You love me?”

“Yes.”

“Would you care to say it directly? I hate to be a stickler about this, but everything is sounding rather oblique.”

“I love you,” he said.

She touched his cheek. “I’m glad you told me,” she said. “I’ve been reading so many tea leaves, trying to figure it out… I’m sorry. I’m not really taking it lightly. Maybe it isn’t that much easier for me to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Becker said. “I’m not asking for a response. It’s just something I had to face up to and deal with.”

“Why now?”

Becker eased back down on the bed. “That’s the other thing that frightens me,” he said and the joy was gone from his voice.

“What?” She rose up on one elbow to look down at him. He was staring at the ceiling.

“What else frightens you, John?”

“Me,” he said. “I scare the shit out of myself.”

The room fell silent as Cindi sank back to the bed. A neighbor slammed a car door and yelled at a child.

“Can you tell me why?” she said finally.

“When I come back,” he said. “I’ll try then.”

“Come back from where?”

Becker paused a long time. “I’m not quite sure. Wherever I need to go.” He rolled over and put his hand on her hip and ran it slowly along her thigh.

“And I’m not quite sure who I’ll be when I come back,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

He didn’t answer but ran his fingers the length of her leg, then feathered them across the skin on the back of her knee.

He’s the sexiest man in the world, she thought. I have no idea what’s in his mind-I’m not sure he does-but I want him so.

“Can you promise at least that you will come back?”

“Yes. That much I can promise. I don’t want to go, I don’t want to leave you… I don’t want to find out what’s going to happen-but I seem to have a talent for coming back.”

That will have to do for now, Cindi thought. He moved his hand to the very top of her inner thigh and just held it there where it burned a hole in her skin.

“You have a lot of talents,” she said as she leaned forward to kiss him.

As they made love she thought of saying, “Thank you, Mr. Gold,” but didn’t for fear she would be misinterpreted under the circumstances.