Dead Center

“Me? Need him?” I sneer. “You must be kidding.”

Laurie just smiles and goes out to the ambulance, as Madeline is being loaded in. Laurie leans over, squeezes her hand, and kisses her on the head. She whispers something to her, but I can’t make out what it is.

Then Laurie and Parsons go back inside to attempt to interview Marcus.

Lots of luck, guys.

• • • • •

MADELINE BARLOW has gone through more than anyone should have to. She has seen her sister and friends murdered, and she cannot get anyone in her town, including her mother, to understand the continued danger that lives among them. She has been threatened and kidnapped for simply talking to someone trying to learn the truth. Now she is away from her home, from what’s left of her family, and she remains in fear for her life.

Fortunately, her physical injuries are quite minor, just a few bruises from her fall. Emotionally, she is trying to put up a good front, but she is one damaged young lady. She has adamantly refused to see her mother, though Jane Barlow has spent considerable time in the hospital lobby, hoping she will change her mind.

Stephen Drummond has called me to express outrage at my intervention in the affairs of his community and the Barlow family. He started to launch into a denial that Madeline was in any danger in Center City, claiming that we coerced her to leave. Not in the mood for any more of his bullshit, I suggested that he file a complaint with the police, and I hung up.

Laurie has assigned Cliff Parsons to investigate and try to apprehend the two men who terrorized Madeline before themselves being terrorized by Marcus. Three days have gone by, and if any progress has been made, I haven’t heard about it. Center City is a tough place to crack, and though it’s part of the area Parsons has always covered, he’s very much an outsider there.

Laurie has gotten Madeline placed under the control of Wisconsin Child Protective Services, even though Madeline is only five weeks from her eighteenth birthday. Legally, it makes it possible for us to find a safe place for her to stay, and I took care of that yesterday. Richard and Allie Davidson generously offered to let her share their home, and Madeline agreed, at least for now. Part of her going along with it was my promise that Marcus would help watch over her. After his performance the other day, with Marcus at her side Madeline would feel safe in Jurassic Park.

I’ve been visiting Madeline every day and have taken occasion to gently probe to see if she can provide any more helpful information about the case. She cannot, a fact that causes her obvious frustration.

Laurie has seen her every day as well, and she was there yesterday when I arrived. They have established a remarkably close relationship, and Laurie obviously feels very protective of her. Her motherly instincts have come to the fore, and they are impressive indeed.

The events at the picnic area have made me more anxious than ever to nail the people who killed Liz, Sheryl, Eddie, and Calvin and tried to do the same to Madeline and me. If my knowledge matched my motivation, I might even succeed.

All I really have to go on is my belief that the airstrip is central to the solution. And the only way I’m going to find out for sure is to execute a stakeout there.

I have been told by a number of cops, Pete Stanton and Laurie among them, that there is nothing more boring than working on a stakeout. It can be endless hours of having to stay alert while absolutely nothing happens. I don’t mind the endless hours or the nothing happening; you can put me in front of a TV showing sports and I’ll sit there until a week from Tuesday. It’s the staying alert that’s the problem; I prefer drinking beer and occasional dozing.

Fortunately, I’m very rich, and it is “so not chic” for multimillionaires to do stakeouts. I call Dave Larson and tell him that I need his help, with a stakeout of the airport as his first assignment. He’s very enthusiastic about getting the work; the private eye business in Findlay has apparently experienced a bit of a slowdown these last hundred years or so.

We discuss his hours, which I suggest should be as many as he can handle. He tells me that he has an associate who will be on the scene when he can’t. We also discuss his pay, and I increase what we earlier agreed upon by twenty-five percent. It’s still half of what I would pay in New Jersey, but the raise makes me feel less guilty about turning him into a frozen snowman.

He asks that I inform the Findlay police about what we’re doing, and I have no problem with that, especially since I’ve already told Laurie. Dave wants to have someone know his whereabouts in case of sudden trouble, and for some reason he doesn’t consider me a significant enough emergency lifeline.

“What is it we’re looking for?” he asks.

“I’m not sure… something bad.”

“How bad?” he asks.

“Bad enough that four people got killed over it.”

“Oh.”

“So be careful,” I say.

“You got that right.”

• • • • •

I KNOW THE Bible says otherwise, but Christmas must have been invented in Wisconsin. It just looks the part. The streets remain white for days after it snows, not turning dark and dirty like what happens in the city. Virtually every house is decorated with colored lights; after dark Findlay in December becomes a frozen Vegas strip.

Laurie and I have been quite out in the open about our relationship, now that the case has been over for a while. And with Jeremy cleared of the murders, the portion of townspeople that resented my appearance on the scene seem to have gotten over it. They are making me feel welcome, though I suspect most of them are wondering exactly why I’m still here. It’s a terrific question.

I’ve seen Madeline Barlow a handful of times, and she’s doing quite well with the Davidsons. She’s homesick for her mother and friends, but not yet willing to see any of them. Laurie has seen her much more often and is struck by Madeline’s unwillingness to say anything negative about Keeper Wallace or the Centurion religion. Madeline considers this to be about a few bad apples, and not in any way a reflection on the lifestyle. Belief runs deep in Center City.

I’m now three weeks into the Dave Larson airport stakeout, and absolutely nothing has happened. No planes have taken off, and none have landed. The only sign of life, other than Dave, is a snowplow that arrives daily to plow the landing strip and keep it functional.

Cliff Parsons has reported no progress in finding the two guys who grabbed Madeline. No one in Center City will admit that they even exist, and there simply is no way to locate them, given the lack of cooperation within the community.

To make the futility complete, Laurie’s investigations into the murders of Liz, Sheryl, and Calvin have gone nowhere as well. There has been no new evidence, no discoveries, no nothing for a while now. Short of a confession, the chances for solving these cases are looking as bleak as the terrain around here.

Yet Andy the Idiot Lawyer continues to persist, hanging around in the frozen north and waiting for something to happen. It reminds me of the old joke… I think I heard it as a lawyer joke, but it could have been about any group or nationality. “Did you hear about the lawyer who froze to death at a drive-in movie? He went to see Closed for the Season.” Well, Findlay has been closed for the season for a while now, but I’m still sitting in my car waiting for the coming attractions.

Making my mood even worse is all the holiday cheer I’m surrounded by. I tag along with Laurie to about four hundred parties, though in Findlay the word “parties” may be overstating it. They’re more pleasant get-togethers with smiling people who talk about good health and toast with eggnog. It’s enough to make me nauseous, with or without the eggnog, yet Laurie seems to revel in it.

Since today is Christmas, it seemed an appropriate time to give my stakeout team the day off. They’ve uncovered absolutely no activity of any kind at the airport, and there’s no reason to think that any nefarious activity would suddenly spring up on Christmas Day.

I tell Laurie about the suspension of the stakeout, since she is the officer in charge at the precinct today. Laurie has voluntarily agreed to work on the holiday so as to give Parsons and others under her a chance to be with their families.

The net result of her generosity to her staff is that Tara and I are left alone. I turn down a bunch of invitations to spend Christmas at various friends of Laurie’s, preferring to indulge my bad mood by staying home and watching a college bowl game and two NBA games.

I call in a bet on the bowl game, since why else would anyone in their right mind want to watch Toledo play Hawaii in the Aloha Bowl? I take Toledo and four points, and I realize I’m in trouble before the opening kickoff. The coaches for Toledo are wearing ridiculous flowered Hawaiian shirts, not the kind of outfits that will motivate their players to fight their hardest for dear old Toledo U.

Sure enough, Hawaii is ahead 31-3 at halftime, and unless the flower-shirted coaches are going to convince their team to blossom for the Gipper, my bet is history.

This leaves me more time to think, a pastime I haven’t found to be terribly enjoyable lately. It is burning a hole in my gut that cold-blooded murderers are out there, getting away with what they’ve done and probably pointing and laughing at me in the process.

“You feel like going on a stakeout?” I ask Tara.

She doesn’t get excited and start wagging her tail, but nor does she growl or cover her head with her paws. Tara has led a fairly sheltered life, and it’s just possible she’s never been on a stakeout before and therefore doesn’t know what to expect.

“We sit in the car, with the heat on, and eat potato chips and dog biscuits,” I say by way of explanation. Her tail starts to wag, but I think it’s the word “biscuits” that does it.

“Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, biscuits,” I say, and get the same wag. I think I’m detecting a pattern.

In a few minutes I’ve stocked the car with stakeout supplies and we’re driving out toward the Center City airstrip. I’m aware it’s a ridiculous, unproductive thing to do, but the possibility that something will happen on the one day we’re not watching is gnawing at me.

We’re at the airstrip in twenty minutes, and we take up the same position that Larson has been occupying. It only takes a quick look to see that today is no different than every other day; the place is totally quiet, with no one to be seen anywhere.

Within thirty seconds I’m bored out of my mind and Tara is asleep on the backseat. I know that it’s very unlikely that anything will come of this, but just in case, I need to remain alert.

When I wake up, the clock in the car tells me that I’ve been asleep for almost an hour. Tara continues to sleep on the backseat; she has many wonderful qualities, but ability as a stakeout dog is not one of them.

Within moments I realize that I didn’t just happen to wake up, that an increasingly loud noise did the trick. I look around, trying to find the source of the noise, which seems to be coming from up in the air. Maybe ten seconds later I see it, coming from the other side of the airstrip. It’s a small cargo plane, already quite low and obviously coming in for a landing.

My heart starts pounding in my chest, and a bunch of things quickly run through my mind. One is that I have no idea what to do. Another is that I’m sorry I brought Tara; the idea of exposing her to any possible danger is simply unacceptable. Even dumber than bringing Tara was forgetting my cell phone, which leaves me with no possible way to call for help.

It’s warm in the car, but I’m frozen in place, watching the scene unfold before me. The cargo plane lands and taxis toward the hangar. The large hangar door opens, revealing the presence of someone inside. I can’t come close to seeing who it is from this distance, and I don’t know if that person has been there the whole time, or arrived during my nap.

The plane enters the hangar, and the door comes down behind it. Once again the airport takes on that desolate, abandoned look, but this time I know better. I know that there are humans in that hangar; what I don’t know is what the hell they are doing.

I briefly debate whether to leave my car and sneak across the airfield to the hangar, so as to learn what is going on. The reason the debate is brief is that the idea of it is stupid: I would be completely exposed to anyone who bothered to look outside.

So all I can do is wait, and I do so, for an hour and twenty-one minutes. That’s when the door opens, but instead of the plane coming back out, a truck rolls out. It looks like any one of the trucks that carry goods out of Center City. It’s hard to make out the name from this distance, but my best guess is “R amp;W Dairies.”

The truck rolls out onto the road, heading in my direction. I’m set off from the road, and there’s no way the driver will be able to see me. The unfortunate flip side of that is that there is no way I will be able to see him.

I get out of the car, leaving it running so that Tara will remain warm. I move quickly toward the road, just reaching it as the truck goes past. The side of the truck does say “R amp;W Dairies,” and there are two people in the front seat. From my vantage point I can’t see who the passenger is, but I definitely recognize the driver.

Alan Drummond.

I go back to the car and get in. I slam the door shut, which wakes up my stakeout mate in the backseat. She looks around as if to say, “What did I miss?” but I don’t give her the satisfaction of telling her.

My strong desire is to go toward the airstrip and check out what might still be inside the hangar. That desire collides head-on with my self-preservation instinct, and I decide against it. I have no idea whether there are any people still in there, but if there are, I’d be a sitting duck.

I drive back to Findlay, annoyed that all this took place without me learning anything from it, but somehow rejuvenated by the process.

• • • • •

LET’S GO” are the first words out of Laurie’s mouth when she hears my story. I dropped Tara off and came here to her office, and within three minutes Laurie and I are back out and in the car.

“We’re going out to the airstrip?” I ask.

“That’s right. We’re going to check it out.”

Ever the lawyer, I point out, “You don’t have a search warrant.”

“I’ve got something better than that,” she says. “I’ve got a citizen who reported seeing a possible crime taking place.”

“That would be me?”

She nods. “It would.”

Laurie drives right up to the airstrip with no apparent hesitation, but makes a rather obvious concession to the possible danger by taking out her handgun as she gets out of the car.

We walk to the smaller door, the one that lets in people but not planes, and Laurie rings the bell. We hear it sounding loudly through the building, so if anyone is in there, they could not help but hear it as well. Laurie holds her gun at her side, concealed but ready.

There is no answer, so she tries twice more. Still no response.

“Can you kick it in?” she asks.

“Excuse me?” I ask, though we both know I heard her quite clearly.

She takes out a small device, which looks a little like a can opener, and calmly pops the lock. The door swings open.

I shake my head, showing my disapproval. “Illegal entry, said the defense attorney to the judge.”

“I had a perfect right to do that,” she says. “I believed that someone might be in distress; the citizen I was with thought he heard a scream.”

“That would be me?” I ask.

“It would.”

We enter the hangar and see the plane, the hold open and empty of cargo. There are no people around, no trucks, and no evidence of what might have been on that plane.

Laurie says, “So a plane comes in on Christmas Day, leaving a cargo that is taken off in a dairy truck. Doesn’t sound terribly normal to me.”

“Maybe somebody needed a cheese transplant, and they flew in a Gouda.”

We close up the hangar and leave. Laurie drops me back off at the house, and she heads to her office. We make plans for her to come over for dinner, at which point we’ll try to figure out where we go from here.

I call Sam Willis at home and ask him to get on the computer and see if he can find out anything about R amp;W Dairies. It only takes him about forty-five minutes to call back and tell me exactly what I expected: He can find no record of such a company.

What I believe happened today is that a cargo plane landed at the Center City airstrip, its contents were unloaded and placed on a truck, and that truck was driven away by Alan Drummond.

In legal terms I have only circumstantial evidence of this; I certainly didn’t see the unloading and loading take place. Theoretically, the plane could have come in empty, and the truck could coincidentally have left empty a short while later. But as the old example goes, if you go to sleep with the streets clear, then wake up in the morning and they’re covered with snow, it’s a good bet it snowed that night, whether you saw it happen or not. The airstrip scenario is not quite as clear as that, but it’s clear enough for me.

By the time Laurie comes over, I’ve formulated some theories well enough to bounce off of her. “There is no doubt in my mind,” I say, “that whatever those kids were afraid of that night has to do with Alan Drummond and that airport.”

She’s not quite so convinced. “We’re making some assumptions here,” she says. “We don’t know for a fact that they were afraid of Alan Drummond, only that Madeline thinks so.”

“Eddie said he was afraid I was Drummond,” I point out.

“He could have meant Stephen, and it could have been because Stephen is the number two man in that church. Stephen represented authority, and Eddie could have been afraid of that authority.”

“You don’t believe that,” I say.

“That’s true, but it is possible. And while we’re talking about what’s possible, it’s also possible that there is nothing criminal going on at that airport. All we know for sure is that a plane came in and a truck left.”

“A cargo plane with no flight plan came into an airstrip that according to the FAA does not exist.”

She doesn’t seem happy with this, so I continue. “Laurie, I agree that I am making assumptions here. But that is the only way I can move forward. If they’re wrong, then they’re wrong. But for now I have to assume they’re right.”

She nods; that makes sense to her. “Okay, make some more assumptions.”

“I assume that the plane was carrying illegal merchandise of some sort, maybe drugs, maybe counterfeit money. Whatever it was had to be small enough to fit on that truck.”

“Where was it coming from?” she asks.

“Canada. I spoke to Donna Girardi again today and bounced some ideas off of her. If it originated across the border, came in over Lake Superior, and flew low enough, it likely wouldn’t be picked up on radar in this area. But if it flew over the U.S. most of the time, the chance of it not being detected would go way down.”

“And if it weren’t crossing a border, there would be no need for a plane,” she says. “They could just load it on a dairy truck in the first place.”

“Right… so here’s my theory: Alan Drummond, probably acting on behalf of his father and Wallace, has been smuggling illegal goods from Canada by plane. Liz, Sheryl, and Eddie somehow found out about it. Perhaps Sheryl was the first one to discover it, since she was Alan’s girlfriend, and she told her friends. Alan realized what they knew, and they were all too aware how dangerous Alan could be, so they tried to run. Liz and Sheryl didn’t make it, and Eddie made the mistake of calling me.”

Laurie thinks about this for a long while, weighing the possibilities. “Okay, but something else bothers me,” she says. “You had someone staking out that airport for weeks, and nothing happens. The day you pull your guy out of there, in comes a plane.”

“Maybe they saw Larson on his stakeout and then followed him. Maybe they were smart enough to track the guy tracking them.”

“It’s possible, but a stretch,” she says.

“Or maybe Christmas Day was always going to be the day they did it. I’m sure the Centurions don’t celebrate Christmas, but they know that nobody’s out on the roads… everybody’s home with their families…”

She still looks dubious as she considers the possibilities.

“Laurie, I’m a lawyer. I come up with my theory of a case, and I pursue it. This is no different; in fact, there have been plenty of times that I’ve had a lot less to go on. The only difference for me is that usually I have to convince a jury, but now I have to convince you.”

“Why me?”

“Because I need you to take the next step.”

“Which is?”

“To be there when this happens again, stop the truck, and search it.”

She thinks about this for a few moments and says, “I can’t spare people to watch that airport for another flight to come in. It took three weeks last time; this time they could be waiting for Memorial Day.”

“You don’t have to do that. I’ll have Larson watch it; he’ll be much less noticeable this time.”

“Why is that?”

“Because he doesn’t have to get close to the airport. He’s just watching for a plane, and we know what direction it’s coming from. He can be a long distance away.”

“And where will your police officers be stationed?” she asks. It’s a not-so-subtle dig at me for trying to use her department as my personal investigative staff.

I pretend not to notice. “They don’t have to be stationed anywhere,” I say. “From the time Larson sees the plane, we’ll have at least an hour to get in position to wait for the truck. I’ll call you or Parsons, and then your officers come out and stop the truck along the road.”

She spends a few more minutes trying to poke holes in my plan but is unable to make a dent. Finally, she says, “Okay. I’ll set it up.”

“Good. I’ll tell Larson.”

I give her my best boyish smile of victory, with just a touch of humility thrown in. It’s a specialty of mine, and to my knowledge women have no defense against it. When I use it, they are genetically compelled to kiss me.

Laurie, it turns out, must have some kind of genetic defect, because all she does is leave.

• • • • •

LARSON’S CALL takes me by surprise. It’s only been three days since we put our plan into action, much sooner than I expected.

“I’ve got incoming at twelve o’clock” are his first words. He sounds like he’s talking to his tail gunner, but I resist the impulse to say “Roger” or “Wilco.” Instead I say, “Got it,” and I hang up the phone and call Laurie.

Laurie and Parsons have been alternating days being on call, and today is her turn. She wastes no time in telling me that she and her people will meet me at the designated area. I drive out there, hiding my car behind nearby trees. Laurie and three officers arrive a few minutes later in three cars and set up for the roadblock.

Larson, as per our plan, drives toward the airport, though he keeps a safe distance away. He is to call me when the truck leaves and to confirm that it is again an R amp;W Dairies truck.

An hour and ten minutes after the original call, Larson calls me on my cell phone. “It’s heading towards you,” he says. “R amp;W.”

We’ve estimated that the truck will take five minutes to reach us, and it makes it in four. Once it’s in sight, Laurie and her team execute a roadblock, using two of the cars. The third car circles behind the truck, blocking a possible escape to the rear. It’s done with great precision, and as I watch, I feel a flash of pride and admiration.

The truck slows to a halt, and I can see Alan Drummond in the driver’s seat. This time he is alone; or at least there is no one in the passenger seat. There could certainly be someone in the back with whatever merchandise was transferred from the plane.

Two of Laurie’s officers have their guns drawn, though Laurie does not. “Step down from the truck, Mr. Drummond,” Laurie instructs.

Alan Drummond does as he is told. He may be intimidating to the youth of Center City, but he couldn’t be further from that right now. Unless I’m a very bad judge of emotions, he is close to panic-stricken at what is taking place.

“What’s the matter? What’s going on?” he asks.

Laurie instructs him on the proper position to assume, with his hands against the squad car and legs spread. He does so, and one of the officers frisks him, signaling with a shake of the head to Laurie that he is not armed.

“Is the back of the truck locked?” she asks.

“Hey, come on. I didn’t do anything wrong” is his answer. It comes across as a bit of a whine, reflecting his fear at the way events are moving.

“Is the back of the truck locked?” Laurie repeats.

“Yes.”

“Where is the key?” she asks.

His mind seems to be racing for a way out of this, so much so that he forgets to answer the question. Laurie repeats it, and he says that it’s on the key ring that is still in the ignition.

One of the officers gets the key, and he gives it to Laurie. He then handcuffs Drummond and leads him back to one of the patrol cars, putting him in the backseat. Laurie and the other two officers go around to the rear of the truck. They both draw their guns while Laurie unlocks the door and opens it.

The odor of cheese slams into us the moment the door opens. Looking inside, I can see about fifteen barrels, the type that would ordinarily contain cheese, but this time they had better not. The smell is not a good sign, and Laurie makes eye contact with me that indicates she doesn’t like where this is going.

It takes an hour and twenty minutes for the officers to search through the truck’s cargo, though it feels like about a week. They find nothing but cheese, which I suppose on some level makes sense, since they’re searching a cheese truck.

When they finish, Laurie just gives me a shake of the head to indicate what a waste of time this was. An officer takes Drummond out of the car and uncuffs him.

“What is R amp;W Dairies?” she asks him.

“It’s a… it used to be a dairy company in this county,” says Drummond. “They went out of business a few years ago, and we bought their stuff. We never bothered to change the name on the truck.”

“What was the cargo on the plane that just landed at the Center City airstrip?”

“Nothing… it was empty.”

Laurie asks him some more questions, but he’s feeling increasingly confident, and he deflects them. She doesn’t want to probe too much, so as not to reveal the little that we do know.

“You’re free to go, Mr. Drummond,” she says.

His face is a mask of surprise and relief. “I can go?” he says, to make sure he heard correctly.

“That’s correct,” Laurie says, and Drummond wastes no time in getting back in the truck and hauling his ass, and his cheese, out of here.

Laurie walks over to me. “Well, we did it, Andy. We smashed a Parmesan cartel.”

She and her officers get in their cars and leave, my humiliation complete. I have no idea what went wrong, but I’ll have plenty of time to think about it. Unfortunately, thinking has not been my strong point of late.

I was wrong about what was in the truck, but no matter how many ways I look at it, I don’t believe I was wrong about the big picture. Even if there had been no murders, and no one had expressed a fear of Alan Drummond, what took place today would still be absurd.

It is simply preposterous to assume that a cargo plane flew into that airstrip, set in the middle of a community whose only product is cheese, and delivered a load of cheese. Yet that is exactly what seems to have happened. What I need to figure out is why.

By the time Laurie comes over for dinner, I have it narrowed down to two possibilities. One is that our adversaries are watching Larson, and once they found out that he was still staking out the airport, they set us up to look foolish.

The other possibility, perhaps more likely, is that Laurie and I weren’t careful enough and left some evidence that we searched the airstrip hangar the last time the plane came in. It signaled that we were on to them and would continue to be watching. So they set us up.

Laurie, to her credit, is not angry about what happened. She accepts the responsibility, since she went along with it willingly. But even though we both agreed on what should be done, she will suffer the most for it. Stephen Drummond will certainly file a complaint over the way his son was treated, and Laurie will at the least receive a severe reprimand.

We talk about it through dinner and afterward. It’s only when we’re finished and heading for bed that I think of something that I noticed on the road but hadn’t thought about since. “Did you think Alan Drummond looked scared when he came down off that truck?”

She nods. “Petrified. That’s one of the reasons I was so surprised when we didn’t find anything.”

“I felt the same thing. And I think he really was afraid. He couldn’t be that good an actor, and he would have had no reason to even try.”

“Which means he thought he was in trouble.” Then, “Do you think it’s possible he didn’t know what he was carrying? That he was as surprised as we were when it turned out to be barrels of cheese?”

“Yes, I absolutely think it’s possible. But if he didn’t know what was in that truck, who did?”

• • • • •

I’M GOING TO have to adjust my goals downward. This will not be easy; downward goal adjustment has never been a specialty of mine. But it’s got to be done.

I’ve stayed in Findlay in order to identify the one or more people who killed Liz, Sheryl, Eddie, and Calvin. I now believe that those murders were committed to cover up a criminal conspiracy, the geographical center of which is the Center City airstrip.

My recent efforts, however futile and embarrassing, have been directed toward uncovering the details behind that conspiracy. I will continue in that vein, and I may or may not succeed. But even if I do, it’s a stretch to think that evidence will also be uncovered to make a charge of murder stick. So my new goal will have to be to get the bad guys put in jail for the criminal conspiracy, which will no doubt be a lesser charge than they deserve. What they deserve, as Jeremy Davidson said, is to be strapped down and have a needle inserted in their arms.

By the time Laurie leaves for work, we’ve come up with Plan B. I call it B even though it’s very similar to Plan A. It’s just that A was such a disaster it seemed logical to move on to a new letter.

We’re going to continue a stakeout of the airport, though this time Larson will not be involved. I’m going to have Marcus with me, taking him off his assignment of watching over Madeline Barlow. No one has made any kind of an effort to go after her, and Laurie will have Cliff Parsons make sure she is watched by one of their officers.

We’re going to be in Marcus’s car, so if anyone is watching me, my car will be parked in front of my house. Marcus will ensure that we are not followed, so there will be no reason for anyone to think the airport is being watched.

I’ve told Laurie I will call her, as before, if anything happens. What I’ve neglected to mention is that Marcus and I are going to take a more active approach. Before we call Laurie, we’re going to move into the airport and try to catch the bad guys in the act, whatever that act might be.

I’m not thrilled about deceiving her in this manner, but I don’t feel like there is any alternative. As civilians, Marcus and I do not have the right to do what we might wind up doing, and if Laurie had the knowledge of it, her job would compel her to prevent us from doing it.

Going into this operation, I knew there were a couple of possible downsides. For one, we could wind up getting killed. Actually, I can’t picture Marcus getting killed, so I’m more worried about me. Second, we could accomplish nothing except wasting a lot of time and effort.

Sitting in the car now, about fifteen minutes into the first day, I realize I hadn’t factored in another downside. I’m stuck alone in a car with Marcus.

I feel like I should make conversation, but I don’t have the slightest idea how to have one with Marcus. “Sandwich?” I ask, thinking he might like one of the sandwiches I made and brought with us.

“Unhh,” he says.

“I’ve got roast beef, turkey, and turkey pastrami.”

“Unhh,” he says.

“I’ve never actually seen a turkey pastrami, have you? I mean, do they look like regular turkeys? Or regular pastramis?”

“Unhh,” he says.

“To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t know what a pastrami looked like if it were sitting in the backseat.”

“Unhh,” he says.

“Anyway, they’re in the cooler in the trunk if you want one,” I say. “Just help yourself.”

This time he just nods; maybe he feels like he’s been chatting too much.

Suddenly, I realize that the radio is not on. I don’t know if playing the radio violates stakeout etiquette, but I’ve got to do something to cut through the silence. “Okay if I turn on the radio?” I ask.

He shrugs his assent, and I turn it on. Classical music blares through the speakers, and in about four seconds I find myself longing for silence. “I’ll tell you what,” I say. “You listen to what you want for an hour, then I get the choice for an hour, then you, and so on. That work for you?”

He nods.

“Great. This your choice for now?”

Another nod.

“Okay,” I say, looking at my watch. “We change over at about… oh… nine-sixteen and thirty-one seconds. Somewhere around there.”

Still another nod; it looks like we have a deal. I think I’ll grab myself a sandwich.

Seven hours into our stakeout, I may even be getting to like classical music. “Like” may be too strong; “tolerate” would probably be more accurate. We’ve just concluded the latest hour with some Beethoven, and my critical assessment would be that it’s got a good beat, but you can’t dance to it.

I’ve been using my precious hours for a combination of news and sports, and I start this one with news. The newscaster introduces a feature piece about “the obesity epidemic in America,” and I see Marcus perk up, seeming to listen intently. It surprises me, since his percentage of body fat is slightly less than absolute zero.

I lean over and turn the volume up a little, to allow him to hear better, but in a quick motion he reaches and shuts the radio off entirely. This seems to be a violation of our arrangement, but I don’t complain because it’s now obvious that Marcus wasn’t listening to the newscast at all. He was listening to a sound that seems to be overhead.

We are about a mile and a half east of the airstrip, and the previous planes have come in from the northeast. We chose this location to give us a vantage point from where we could see the plane without the people in the plane seeing us.

Right now the plane is coming from the same direction as the previous times, but something seems different. I soon realize that it’s lower this time, perhaps in an effort to avoid radar detection.

Marcus starts the car, and we drive toward the airport. I climb in the backseat so I can watch the plane through the rear side window. Not only is it lower, but it’s losing altitude in preparation for landing.

But this plane is not heading for a landing at all. It’s too low, too far from the airport, and as I watch with a combination of fascination and horror, its nose tilts downward and goes crashing into the otherwise peaceful countryside, about three hundred yards from us.

The resulting explosion lights up the Wisconsin sky, and even Marcus seems mesmerized by it.

Nobody could have survived this crash, and if Alan Drummond was on that plane, he’s just answered for his crimes.

And whatever secrets he had went down with him.

• • • • •

WITHIN TEN MINUTES it seems like every fire truck and police car in Wisconsin is on the scene. The area where the plane crashed is an open field, surrounded on three sides by trees. The field might have been long enough for a successful emergency landing, but the way the plane smashed down, nose-first, it never had a chance.

Laurie arrives with three of her officers, though the state police have taken temporary control of the scene. Nevertheless, I tell her that Marcus and I witnessed the crash, and she conveys that message to the authorities. Marcus and I are then told to remain on the scene to answer questions.

The fire is put out relatively quickly, and all that remains of the plane is a charred shell. It’s in pieces, but those pieces are not spread over a large amount of land, possibly because the plane was moving down vertically at the time of the crash.

A number of cars from Center City arrive as well, and I see both Keeper Wallace and Stephen Drummond. They are surrounded by at least four uniformed servants of the Keeper, though I don’t recognize any of them as being the ones that kidnapped Madeline.

Both Wallace and Drummond look properly somber as they are led in to talk to the authorities. Drummond sees me, and his face reflects his surprise that I am there, but I doubt he dwells on it very long. He’s got other, bigger problems with which to deal.

I see Drummond again about twenty minutes later; he and Wallace are leaving the trailer that’s been set up as command central as Marcus and I are being escorted to it. Drummond is attempting to appear composed and in control, but his face is tearstained, and the anguish is evident. Alan Drummond must have been on that plane.

Officials from both the FBI and the National Transportation Safety Board have made their way out here, and they seem to be sharing a dual command. With terrorism being the first thing that everyone thinks of when a plane crashes, the FBI will treat the location as a crime scene until they find out otherwise.

Marcus and I answer questions from FBI Special Agent Ricardo Davila. Marcus is as unresponsive as ever, which proves not to be a significant factor when he says that he didn’t see the crash. He’s telling the truth; I was the one in the back watching while he was driving.

I report the salient facts: that I saw the plane coming in far too low to reach the airport and that it was rapidly losing what altitude it had. The nose was pointed down, at least forty-five degrees, and if it made any effort to straighten out, I certainly didn’t see it.

“What were you doing out here?” Agent Davila asks.

“We just went for a drive,” I say.

He looks at me, then at Marcus. Then he looks at me again and then at Marcus again. “The two of you went for a drive?”

“That’s right,” I say.

He nods, though it clearly doesn’t compute. “Did the plane break apart at all in the air?”

“Not that I saw. And I had a clear view.”

“Nothing fell off of it? It stayed completely intact?”

“Completely intact,” I say. “And there was no smoke either. Not until it hit the ground.”

Davila asks a bunch of additional questions, then calls over a guy from NTSB to ask a bunch more. Satisfied that they’ve extracted all the information they’re going to get from us, they take our names, addresses, and phone numbers and send us on our way.

Marcus and I head toward our car but stop when we see Laurie and Cliff Parsons. “Was it Alan Drummond?” I ask.

Parsons nods. “They think so, though it’s difficult to identify the body in this condition. He was wearing a ring that his father says was his. They’ll do DNA testing.”

“Did you see anything fall off the plane?” Laurie asks.

I shake my head. “No. But the FBI asked me the same thing. Any idea why?”

“A mail carrier out on his route about four miles from here says he saw something fall out of the plane. His view was partially blocked, but he seemed certain of it.”

Considering that we believe the plane was carrying illegal goods, this is a potentially significant fact. “Have they been able to determine what cargo the plane was carrying?” I ask.

“None,” Parsons says. He shakes his head, as puzzled as the rest of us. “The plane was empty. Not even any goddamn cheese.”

There would seem to be the possibility that the illegal cargo was thrown from the plane, which was what the witness saw falling to the ground. To believe that, one would have to accept that Alan Drummond knew the plane was going down, but rather than focus on saving himself, he saved the cargo instead. This despite the fact that his coconspirators would have no idea where he threw it, and therefore it would most likely wind up in the hands of the police.

I doubt that Alan Drummond was that brave, or that stupid.

Marcus drops me off back at the house, and I take Tara out for a long walk. I feel guilty about having left her for so long, but the truth is, she had proven to be a mediocre stakeout dog the time she went with me. By the time we get back to the house, Laurie is there, already cooking dinner. I’m glad, because there’s nothing I like better after a long stakeout than a home-cooked meal.

Laurie has little more to report on the crash, except that an intensive search has not yet turned up anything that might have fallen off the plane. “If Alan Drummond knew he was going to die, why would he throw something off the plane?” she asks. “And how would someone know to look where he threw it, unless…”

“Unless what?” I ask.

“Could this have been planned in advance? Could he have known beforehand that the plane would go down, and he prearranged with someone where he would drop the cargo?”

“You’re asking if Alan Drummond could have committed suicide? Because how else could he know the plane would go down, unless he was going to take it down?”

“Is it possible?” she asks. “Why would he commit suicide?”

“Just thinking out loud,” I say, “but maybe he thought we were about to bring him down, and he was protecting his father and maybe Wallace by taking the literal fall.”

“Or maybe the wheel told him to do it,” she says.

It’s not as far-fetched as it sounds. Be they suicide bombers or Kool-Aid drinkers, people down through the ages have sacrificed their lives in a misguided pursuit of their religion.

Why not Alan Drummond?

• • • • •

MY UNDERSTANDING of the Centurion religion and the role of the wheel is limited. Try as I might, and I’ve tried pretty hard, I haven’t been able to get a good feel for it. Catherine Gerard described it in some detail, and her husband’s articles did as well, but the real essence of it remains somehow just beyond my comprehension.

I think this lack of understanding is more on an emotional than intellectual level. I know the mechanics of how the wheel operates; I know about the symbols that only the Keeper can decipher. I know about the ceremonies, about the decisions that are turned over to Wallace and his wheel, and how the townspeople have achieved a serenity and bizarre freedom of choice by their choosing to give up that freedom.

What I can’t quite grasp, can’t really believe, is the level of devotion that these people seem to have. To my knowledge, in well over a century only two people, Henry Gerard and Madeline Barlow, have in any sense turned against the town. Yet even they have not turned against the religion and have maintained their faith in its precepts.

But how far will these people go? Are there limits to what they will do in the expression of their devotion? Will they commit murder? Would they, or more specifically, would Alan Drummond, commit suicide if directed to?

Almost since the day I arrived here, things have happened that seem to defy logic. As is my style, I have been trying to make logical sense out of them, to figure out the “why” behind the actions of these people. I’m being overly kind to myself to say that I’ve had very little success.

But if the wheel is behind everything, then there’s no way I can succeed. If actions are taken because the wheel dictates them, then the “why” questions are meaningless, and logic has no place.

I don’t like to hang out in places without logic.

So I’ve got to get out of here.

It’s time, actually way past time. I want to get back to my home and my office and my job. I want to get back to a New Jersey courtroom, where I can deal with normal thieves and murderers. I want to be with people who aren’t so friendly; I can hang out with Pete and Vince for twelve years, and neither of them will tell me they hope I have a good day. It’s not that they don’t want me to have a good day; it’s that they don’t care either way.

I’ve packed my stuff and loaded it in the car, and I call Laurie to tell her that it’s time. She comes over so we can say our good-byes, a conversation I dread with every fiber of my being. If I had twice as many “being fibers” as I actually have, I would dread it with them as well.

I don’t really know how this good-bye scene will play out; I certainly misjudged the “hello” scene in my hotel room when we had sex. One thing I do know: We’re not going to have sex now. Not unless she wants to.

She doesn’t. From the moment she walks in, all she wants to do is hug, then sob a little, then hug some more. Hugging is not a specialty of mine, and I’m a completely mediocre sobber, so I pretty much let her take the lead.

Finally, she pulls away and says, “I’m sorry things didn’t work out better for you, Andy.”

“We got to spend some time together,” I say.

“That was wonderful, but I’m talking about the case. I know how much you hate loose ends.”

I nod. “This one is a little looser than most.”

“You’ve got to let it go.”

“That’s what I’m going to be doing in a few minutes. But it will continue to bug me. You know, I don’t think I’ve ever had a case of any kind that didn’t end with me knowing who the bad guy was. I’m not saying the jury always had it right, but in my heart I knew what the truth was. Until now.”

“We’ve been after Alan Drummond all this time, Andy. Just because he died, it doesn’t make him innocent.”

“Of course, I know that. Alan Drummond was certainly not innocent. But there is no way he was in it alone. Not even close.”

She nods, knowing that I’m right but not wanting to say so, since she knows how aggravating I find the whole situation. She finally concedes, “There were the two guys that kidnapped Madeline…”

“They were just soldiers,” I say. “And so was Alan Drummond. They didn’t have the smarts or experience to tap Madeline Barlow’s phone, or watch Larson, or anticipate our every move. That came from someone above them, with more resources and more experience. I’m betting it was Wallace, but it’s just a guess.”

“I’ll keep working the case, Andy.”

I nod. “I know.” Then, “Laurie, it’s time for me to go.”

“Yes,” she says. “You’ll drive carefully?”

“I’ll drive carefully.”

“This is awful,” she says.

“Yeah.”

She gives Tara a huge hug, and Tara’s tail is down, a sure sign that she knows what’s happening. She was a witness to the previous final good-bye between Laurie and me, and I think she might hate them almost as much as me.

“Good-bye, Andy. I love you,” Laurie says, giving me a final hug. I don’t answer her, because I seem to have grown a watermelon in my throat, and she turns and leaves.

I watch through the window as she drives off, then I take a moment to give Tara a hug of my own. “It always comes down to you and me, kid,” I say, and then we head for the car and civilization.

Unfortunately, between Findlay and civilization lies Center City, and after I’m ten minutes into my drive, the sign tells me that the exit for it is coming up in five miles. My mind, possibly seizing on any opportunity not to think about Laurie, takes me on a little trip down Center City memory lane, and my various contacts with the town pass before me, starting with my first visit during the town meeting.

I think about Madeline Barlow and what she has been through. And then I think about Stephen Drummond, our first meeting, our clash in court, and his outraged phone call over what he saw as the abduction of Madeline. He vowed in our first meeting to defend the privacy of Center City citizens at every possible opportunity, and he certainly did that.

No, he didn’t.

The one time he didn’t rush to the defense of the town’s precious privacy is when we stopped the dairy truck his son was driving, and handcuffed him while we searched it. Yet it was the one time he would have absolutely been in the right to complain, and could have profited from it. Laurie’s bosses would likely have felt obligated to tell her to back off from the “harassment,” and it would have significantly hampered our ability to investigate what Alan Drummond was doing.

Yet his father never said a word. Not one. I can only think of one possible explanation for that.

He didn’t know it happened. His son never told him, and I can only think of one possible explanation for that.

Stephen Drummond did not know what Alan Drummond was doing. If the son was involved in a criminal conspiracy, his father was not a part of it.

As I consider all of this, I realize to my surprise that I’m not driving anymore. I’m sitting on the shoulder of the road, near the exit sign for Center City.

I no longer harbor any illusions that I’m going to make people pay for their crimes. That boat has sailed. But I would sure as hell like to learn as much as I can about what happened, and another conversation or two just might help in that regard. So I put the car in drive, get off at the exit, and head for Center City to talk to Stephen Drummond.

When I reach the center of town, I see a display near the town hall with flowers and letters posted on a bulletin board. I am struck by the irony that the first time I was here, a similar display was there for Liz Barlow and Sheryl Hendricks, and now the tribute is to Alan Drummond, who died two days ago. Again the tributes are arranged as spokes on a wheel, but this time I understand the significance of that design, whereas last time I did not.

There’s a strong possibility that Stephen Drummond, in mourning for his son, will not be working today. Nevertheless, I park the car, take Tara out, and we head for his office, in the building next to the town hall.

As we approach, two uniformed servants of the Keeper come out to meet us. “Can we help you, sir?”

“I’d like to speak to Stephen Drummond,” I say.

“Is he expecting you?”

“Tell him Andy Carpenter has information about his son.”

One of them goes into the building to do just that, which leads me to believe that Drummond is, in fact, working today. So far, so good. Now, if he’ll just see me…

The servant comes back out, and much to my surprise, Stephen Drummond is with him. He looks about thirty years older than the last time I saw him.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say.

“Thank you. You had something to tell me about Alan?”

“Yes.” I look at the two servants. “In private.”

He nods and points across the street. “Is that your car?”

I confirm that it is, and he tells me to get in the car and follow him. He gets in his own car, and we drive four blocks, to one of the houses on the edge of town.

We get out and walk toward the house. As we near the door, Drummond realizes that Tara is with me. “I don’t think we’ve ever had a dog in our house,” he says.

“Then we can talk on the porch,” I say.

He thinks about this for a moment. “No, I want you to come in.”

We enter the house, and I am struck by how similar it is to the Barlows’. Simple, inexpensive furniture, only family photos on the walls. If Stephen Drummond was making big money in a criminal enterprise, he wasn’t using it to pay his decorator.

He sits on a chair in the den, and I sit on the small sofa across from it, with Tara at my side. He neither offers us anything nor engages in small talk. “What did you want to say about Alan?”

“I don’t believe his death was accidental. I believe he was either murdered or committed suicide, and though you don’t know it, you can probably tell me which.”

His face is impassive, betraying neither surprise nor anger at what I am saying about his son. “And how can I do that?”

“Is it possible that the wheel, through Keeper Wallace, instructed him to bring the plane down?”

“Not only is it impossible, it is also absurd and insulting. I neither know nor care what you think of our religion, but your lack of understanding of its values is complete. It is peaceful and beautiful, and violence of any kind has no place. What you are accusing the Keeper of is ludicrous.”

I nod. “I accept that. But then it means your son was murdered.”

“Explain yourself,” he says. It’s a two-word sentence that my keen ear notices does not contain words like “impossible,” “absurd,” or “ludicrous.”

So I proceed to explain myself. I probably talk for about twenty-five minutes, detailing everything I know about the murders, the airport, the criminal conspiracy… everything.

He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t say a word, and the only time he changes expression at all is when I tell him that I was there the day that Madeline Barlow was abducted and that two of the Keeper’s servants were the perpetrators. I think that the expression I detect in his face at that moment is surprise; could he not know what really happened?

I conclude my soliloquy with a description of the search of Alan’s dairy truck, my witnessing of the plane crash, and my belief that its illicit cargo was thrown down to the ground minutes before. When I finish, he continues to sit there, almost expressionless, for a few moments. Then he stands up and leaves the room.

I have no idea what to make of this, and Tara seems as confused as I am. It’s possible he’s not coming back and that Tara and I should just be on our way. I figure I’ll give him five minutes and then call out to him.

At about the three-minute mark he comes back into the room, carrying a small carton, maybe a foot and a half square. He brings it over to the table next to me and sets it down. The carton has been previously opened, and he just pulls open the flaps.

He takes out a smaller box that was contained within, and has also been opened, and hands it to me. “Do you know what this is?” he asks.

I look inside the box and take out a small bottle of pills. The legend on the label identifies the contents as OxyContin, which I know to be a painkiller that doubles as a popular recreational drug in the United States. I also see that the box has a notation that the materials were packaged in Alberta, Canada.

I explain what it is, and Drummond says, “There were three boxes just like that in Alan’s room.”

“They must have been smuggling them across the border from Canada. They are a fraction of the price there compared to the United States, so they can be resold here at huge profits and still be less than the legal marketplace.”

He nods. “That was my fear.”

“And my guess is, they weren’t bringing in just the kind of drugs that can be abused. The market would be almost as good for all kinds of prescription drugs; the sale of it has even become a huge industry on the Internet.”

“Perhaps he kept these aside for his own use,” he says, something I was thinking but saw no need to voice.

“Alan wasn’t the leader of this operation,” I say. “Until today I thought that you probably were.”

“And now?”

“Now my best guess would be Wallace, but it’s only a guess.”

“It’s an incorrect one. I would vouch for the Keeper with my life.”

Unfortunately, he’s not able to come up with any idea who might have been directing the conspiracy, but promises to give it intense thought and effort. “I just hope I’m not too late,” he says.

“Too late for what? With all the attention that the crash brought to this area and that airfield, that operation has to shut down.”

“You think it’s over?” he asks, clearly doubting that it is.

“I do, only because I don’t see how it can continue.”

“Then you’re not thinking clearly,” he says. I wait for him to continue, and he does. “You believe that the crash was intentional, yet you also believe the crash ruined their chances for continuing their operation. These are smart people; why would they intentionally stop themselves?”

What he is saying is so obviously true that I’m embarrassed it eluded me. “Unless they’re moving on to something else and were ready for this to end,” I say.

He nods. “Exactly.”

• • • • •

I’M ABOUT FIFTEEN minutes out of Center City, and I can’t get the conversation with Drummond out of my mind. Since I arrived in Findlay, I’ve always been a couple of steps behind the people I’m chasing. If anything, that gulf is widening now.

My goal has been to figure out who they are and to stop what they’re doing. I haven’t given the slightest bit of thought to what they’re going to do next, but Drummond is absolutely right. There is no reason to think they would have done anything to stop themselves, yet it seemed as if the plane crash did just that.

I turn toward the passenger seat to make sure that Tara is all right, something I do every few minutes. It causes me to glance at my cell phone in its case, and I see that I’ve received a phone call and have a voice mail message. I didn’t take the phone in with me when I went into Drummond’s house, so the call must have come in then.

I check caller ID and see that the call came from Laurie. I’ve been so focused on Drummond and Center City that I haven’t thought about her at all.

I play back the message, and within moments I hear her voice, which sounds excited. “Andy, I think we got a break. It looks like Wallace has been behind the whole thing. Cliff Parsons has gotten one of Wallace’s servants to turn on him… Cliff says the guy is rock-solid and will testify in court. We’re going to get Wallace in a few minutes and bring him in for questioning. I’ll keep you posted.”

I hear what she’s saying, but a cold chill runs down my spine as I hear even more clearly what she isn’t saying… something she doesn’t know, but I suddenly know down to my very core.

Wallace is not the leader of any criminal conspiracy: he’s had nothing to do with the murders, and Cliff Parsons has not gotten one of his servants to turn on him.

Because Cliff Parsons has been behind it all.

I pull the car to a screeching halt and execute as fast a U-turn as I can. At the same time, I dial Laurie’s number at the station. No one answers her phone, and the call gets kicked automatically to the sergeant at the front desk.

He says that Laurie is out, so I ask to speak to Parsons, though there is little chance that he is there. When the sergeant says he’s also out, I tell him that he needs to reach Laurie and have her call me. I tell him that it’s again a life-and-death situation, but I don’t tell him that the life on the line is hers.

I call Drummond, only to find that he has not returned to his office. No matter how much I beg, they won’t give me his home number. I plead with them to reach him and have him call me, and though they say they will, I have no confidence in it. They’re not accustomed to doing favors for strangers that involve any kind of invasion of privacy. Especially when the person whose privacy they’d be invading is Stephen Drummond.

The feeling of panic and dread that I have as I speed back toward Center City is overwhelming. The signs that Parsons was behind it were right there in front of me, but I never saw them. Now they are hitting me in waves.

Parsons was kept informed of our stakeouts of the airport, which explains why we were never able to catch them with anything other than a truckload of cheese. The only time he thought the airport was unwatched was when I went out there on an impulse on Christmas Day, and that is why a plane came in that day.

I never knew how the two servants who kidnapped Madeline found out she had spoken to us, but Parsons certainly knew, and directed them to do what they did. He’d been assigned to Center City for a few years and must have found a few of the servants, Alan Drummond included, that he could recruit for his scheme.

I keep turning to stare at the cell phone, as if that might get it to ring, but it refuses, leaving me alone with my thoughts and my fears.

I’d bet my life that it wasn’t cargo that the postman saw fall through the clouds from the plane that day, and it wasn’t a piece of the plane. It was Cliff Parsons, a former Army Airborne Ranger, who parachuted out of the plane after he killed Alan Drummond. He must have been afraid that Drummond was so scared he would talk to us, or perhaps it was time to end the scheme, and he didn’t want Drummond around as a possible future witness.

The next step is all too obvious. Cliff Parsons is going to kill Laurie and make it look as though Wallace did it. Then he’s going to take Laurie’s job, a job he thinks he should have gotten in the first place. He must have all the money he needs; now he will get the position and respect he thinks he deserves.

He’s a piece of shit, and if he does anything to Laurie, I will hunt him down until the day I die.

I make it back to Center City in less than half the time it took me to leave, and I pull the car to a screeching halt right in front of the town hall. There are a number of people in the street, going about their business, and I’m sure they must be staring at me. For the first time, I don’t see any servants in front of the place, providing security.

I leave Tara in the car, but as I run toward the building, I flick the button on my key ring, locking her in. I see a Findlay squad car parked along the side of the building, which increases an anxiety that is already threatening to explode my head.

I run up the steps, realizing as I do that I’ve never been in this building. It’s possible no outsider ever has. But there’s no one to stop me, and no one could stop me if they tried.

The large double doors are closed but unlocked, and I open them and rush in. I think I hear someone behind me in the street yelling, “Hey!” but I don’t know who it is. I leave the doors open in the hope that they’ll follow me in; I can use all the help I can get.

I enter a lobby area, though it’s narrow enough to be classified a hallway. I don’t see anyone, but directly in front of me are large, ornate double doors, probably fifteen feet high. I don’t know where I’m going or what the hell I’m doing, so I stop to see if I can hear anything. All I hear is silence.

I get the idea that I’ll call Laurie’s cell phone and see if I can hear it ring in the building so I can determine her location. It’s a good idea but impractical, since I left my own cell phone in the car.

I can think of two options at this point. I can stand here in the hall like a jerk, or I can rush in through those doors like a jerk. If I let my natural cowardly instincts take over, I’ll stand here. Instead I listen to my head, which tells me I have to go in.

I open the doors and cautiously step inside. The scene is stunning. I’ve entered through the side of what looks like a church, with rows of bench seating under a ceiling at least four stories high. There is a balcony above me which probably contains seating as well, but I can’t see it from this vantage point. A large chair, almost like a throne, is to my left in the front, facing the area where the congregation would be sitting.

But it is what is behind the throne that would take my breath away, had fear not already done so. A wheel, covered with symbols that are unintelligible to me, towers over everything. It has been described to me as a large, carnival-type wheel, and while that’s technically true, it’s a ludicrously inadequate description. It is majestic and stunning and overpowering.

“Well, if it isn’t Sherlock Holmes.” The voice to my left belongs to Parsons, and as I turn, I’m not surprised to see that he is pointing a gun at me. About fifteen feet from him are Laurie, Wallace, and two servants, none of whom seem to be armed. Parsons is in control here.

“What’s going on? What are you doing here?” I ask, since I can’t think of anything else to say.

Parsons laughs a short laugh. “You want the official version? Your girlfriend and I came to question Wallace, but he resisted violently, and shots were fired. They were all killed; I’m the only one to make it out alive. Sorry, but you didn’t make it either.”

“You’re a cop,” I say. “You know the forensics people will take the place apart. There’s no way you can pull it off.”

“Sorry, Sherlock. I’ve got the whole thing choreographed. I’ll be able to fit you in easily. Now, go over there in the corner and keep your mouth shut. It’s showtime.”

I make eye contact with Laurie, but there’s no sign that she has any more of a solution to this than I do. I move toward the corner as told, and for a brief moment I’m close enough to make a grab for Parsons’s gun. I let the opportunity, if there was one, slip away.

“Okay, Keeper-Man,” says Parsons. “Spin the wheel.”

“I will not,” says Wallace.

“Oh, but you will. When this is over, it’s not going to be in that position.” He points toward the top, which seems to be the starting place. It is the one area without symbols. “You’re going to spin it, and it’s going to tell you to violently resist.”

“I will not,” Wallace repeats.

“Then your servants have ten seconds to live.” He moves the gun slightly to the left, so as to point in their direction.

Wallace considers this for a moment.

“Now,” says Parsons.

Wallace nods with resignation, walks over to the side of the wheel, and pulls down a large lever. The entire wheel seems to groan for a moment and then starts to turn. It is an amazing sight, though one I am not in the mood to fully appreciate.

After more than three rotations, it comes to a halt. Wallace looks up at the symbols on which it has landed, and a peaceful smile broadens across his face.

“What’s so funny, Keeper-Man? What does it say?”

“It instructs us to keep calm. It tells us that we will prevail.” His voice is so serene and confident that there is no doubt he believes what he is saying.

“Is that right?” Parsons asks. “Well, I got news for you. Your prevailing days are over.”

Without another moment’s hesitation, Parsons raises the gun, points it at Wallace, and fires.

What happens next probably takes no more than two seconds but seems to play out for me in slow motion. One of the servants, seeing Parsons about to fire, launches himself in front of the Keeper and takes the bullet in his upper chest.

As the servant falls to the floor, Parsons raises the gun again, but a tree trunk comes out of nowhere and knocks it out of his hand to the floor. It turns out that the tree trunk is a forearm, and the forearm is attached to Marcus Clark.

Parsons makes a dive for the gun, but Marcus is closer, and he kicks it across the room toward Laurie and the others. Laurie picks it up as Parsons gets to his feet, and she points it at him.

Marcus turns to her and says, “No.” Somehow he is at his most eloquent in a crisis.

Parsons is now on his feet and facing Marcus. He has about six inches and thirty pounds on Marcus, plus he has his army elite training to fall back on. He comes at Marcus with a karate kick and connects with the side of Marcus’s head. Marcus blinks it away, but it had to have hurt.

Parsons launches another kick, which again connects with its mark. Marcus still seems clearheaded, but I’m not sure I could tell if he weren’t, and I’m getting worried.

“Laurie, shoot the son of a bitch!” I scream, my only contribution to this entire episode. But Laurie ignores me, still pointing the gun but not pulling the trigger.

Parsons comes at Marcus again with still another kick to the head, but this time Marcus just reaches his hand up and seems to pluck his ankle out of the air. Parsons screams in pain as Marcus raises his arm, his hand locked around the ankle.

Parsons’s head and shoulders hit the floor with a sickening thud, but his leg is still up in the air, with Marcus’s hand around it in a death vise. I can see Marcus’s fingers tighten even more, and through the sounds of Parsons’s screams I can hear his ankle bones cracking.

Laurie and the other servant rush to pull Marcus off him, but I don’t join in. It flashes through my mind what this man has done.

“He killed Calvin, Marcus. He broke his neck with his bare hands. And he killed those kids.”

I can see this register on Marcus’s face, and he increases the pressure on Parsons’s ankle, which by now has the consistency of overcooked capellini. I should be embarrassed to admit that the man’s agony is music to my ears, but I’m not.

Calvin, this one’s for you.

Laurie is screaming in Marcus’s ear: “Marcus, that’s enough! That’s enough!” She yells it over and over, until finally he lets go.

Wallace is leaning over the servant who was shot, and with Laurie pointing a gun at the writhing Parsons, I rush outside and scream to the people in the street that we need an ambulance.

It seems that within moments the room is filled with medical personnel, as well as Findlay and state police. Both Parsons and the wounded servant are taken off, with Parsons wearing handcuffs as he lies on the stretcher. Laurie checks and tells me that the servant took the bullet in his right shoulder and should recover.

It’s maybe an hour later that the room starts to clear out, and Laurie and I walk to the door. I take a final look back at the wheel.

It was right.

We prevailed.

• • • • •

TARA IS WAITING in the car when I get there. I know that she’s pissed to be treated like a dog, and she’ll never buy the story that I locked her in for her own sake. I give her a couple of biscuits as a peace offering, and though she takes them, I doubt I’ve heard the last of this.

I drive to Laurie’s house, let myself in, and wait for her to finish the myriad of interviews and paperwork that will follow today’s chaos. We’ve both agreed that after what we’ve been through, we deserve at least one more night with each other.

I am emotionally exhausted and fall asleep on the couch within minutes. Laurie’s entering the house wakes me, and a check of my watch indicates that I’ve been sleeping for three and a half hours.

Clearly exhausted herself, Laurie comes over and lies down next to me on the couch. I wouldn’t describe it as a hug exactly, it’s more that we just hold on to each other.

After a while we both fall asleep in that position. Laurie wakes me up at about two-thirty in the morning, takes my hand, and leads me into the bedroom. We make love, then sleep until eight in the morning. The entire time she’s been home, I don’t think we’ve said ten words between us.

It’s not until we’re having breakfast that we talk at all about yesterday’s events. Neither of us really wants to relive it, so there isn’t that much to say.

Laurie has concluded that Calvin was most likely not trying to reach her when he called the station on the night he died. She thinks he was calling Parsons, who was in the process of setting him up to be killed.

“How did you know it was Parsons that was behind it all?” she asks.

“The pieces all fit, but it wasn’t until I got your message that I tried to fit them. After listening to how Drummond and everyone else in that town talked and felt about Wallace, I just didn’t believe that Wallace was a crook.”

“Richard Davidson was instrumental in my getting this job instead of Parsons,” she says. “I wonder if that played into all this.”

“It certainly could have. Who has jurisdiction over the investigation now?”

“The FBI is coming in, because the smuggling was from Canada,” she says. “They’re going to turn Center City upside down to find everyone involved. The people living there don’t know what they’re in for.”

“They’ll survive it, and in the long run nothing will change. They believe what they believe.”

She nods. “I know. Madeline’s ready to go back to live with her mother.”

“Where’s Marcus?” I ask.

“He just left. Had you told him to stay and watch over me?”

I shake my head. “No, and that’s not what he was doing. He was still watching out for me, and when I came back, so did he.” I raise my glass of orange juice in a toast. “To Marcus.”

“To Marcus,” she agrees, and we drink the toast.

“Actually, it’s lucky he was here,” I say. “If not, I might have killed Parsons with my bare hands.”

She smiles. “Andy, coming back like you did was incredibly brave. And incredibly loving.”

“Oh, pshaw,” I say. My ability to receive compliments hasn’t shown much improvement, probably because I haven’t had that many opportunities to work on it.

We’re silent for a few moments, since we both realize that another wrenching moment is approaching. “I think we’re about to break the indoor record for painful good-byes,” she says.

“I know,” I say, but then I shake my head. At this particular moment my mind has no idea what’s coming next; it’s like my mouth is on its own. “No, I don’t want to say good-bye again. Been there, done that.”

“Andy…”

“No,” I interrupt. “Hear me out. I’m going back, and you’re staying here, but you can spend your vacations back East, we can meet for a hell of a lot of weekends, and I’m going to come here whenever I have time. It’s not like I have a lot of clients.”

“That’s true,” she says.

I continue, since I feel like I’m on something of a roll. “So we try it. We do more than try it… we make it work. And it keeps us at least somewhat together.”

She nods. “And being with you part-time beats the hell out of being with you no-time.”

“I’m sure it does.”

“This will not be easy, Andy.”

I nod and wait for her to continue.

“But it will be worth it,” she says.

“Good. Now we just have to work out the details. What about seeing other people?” I ask, sounding a little like a high school freshman in the process.

She shakes her head. “No way. It’s you and me, buddy boy. Rita Gordon will just have to deal with that.”

Did she really just say what I thought she said? “You spoke to Rita Gordon?”

“I speak to everybody back there,” Laurie says. “That’s my home also. Those are my friends.”

“And she told you about…” I end the sentence there, since I have no idea how to finish it.

“No, but I read through the lines.” I know what she means: Rita’s lines are really easy to read through.

“Tell me the part again about how being with me part-time beats the hell out of being with me no-time,” I say.

She ignores that. “Andy, we love each other. Let’s just hold on to that for now. Okay?”

I have never been as okay with anything as I am with that.

ACCLAIM FOR DAVID ROSENFELT’S PREVIOUS NOVELS

SUDDEN DEATH

“Rosenfelt’s usual pleasures: a twisty plot, sparkling courtroom scenes, and a thousand wisecracks.”

– Kirkus Reviews

“Rosenfelt scores another touchdown… He’s in the game to stay… Andy Carpenter’s wit seizes the reader’s attention.”

– Publishers Weekly

BURY THE LEAD

“A clever plot and breezy style… absorbing.”

– Boston Globe

“Exudes charm and offbeat humor, sophistication, and personable characters.”

– Dallas Morning News

FIRST DEGREE

“Entertaining… fast paced… sophisticated.”

– Marilyn Stasio, New York Times Book Review

“Entertaining.”

– Cleveland Plain Dealer

OPEN AND SHUT

“Splendid… intricate plotting.”

– Cleveland Plain Dealer

“Engaging and likable… The action is brisk.”

– San Francisco Chronicle