Never Look Away

SEVENTEEN

The woman opened her eyes. She blinked a couple of times, adjusting to the darkness.

She was in bed, on her back, staring up at the ceiling. It was warm in the room-there was an air conditioner humming and rattling somewhere, but it wasn’t up to the job-and in her sleep she had thrown off her covers down to her waist.

She reached down and touched her stomach to see whether she had broken out in a sweat. Her skin was cool, but slightly clammy. She was taken aback for a moment to discover she was naked. She’d stopped sleeping in the nude a long time ago. Those first few months of marriage, sure, but after a while, you just want something on.

Light from the tall streetlamps out by the highway filtered through the bent and twisted window blinds. She listened to the relentless traffic streaming by. Big semis roaring through the night.

She tried to recall where, exactly, she was.

She slipped her legs out from under the covers, sat up, and placed her feet on the floor. The cheap industrial carpet was scratchy beneath her toes. She sat on the side of the bed for a moment, leaning over, head in her hands, her hair falling in front of her eyes.

She had a headache. She glanced over at the bedside table, as if some aspirin and a glass of water might magically be there, but all she could see in the minimal light were some crumpled bills and change, a digital clock that was reading 12:10 a.m., and a blonde wig.

That told her she’d only been asleep for an hour at the most. She’d gotten into the bed around half past ten, tossed and turned and looked up at the stained tiles overhead until well after eleven. At some point, clearly, she’d nodded off, but the last hour of sleep had not been a restful one.

Slowly she stood up, took two steps over to the window, and peered between the blinds. It wasn’t much of a view. A parking lot, about a quarter of the spots taken. A sign tall enough to be seen from the interstate advertising “Best Western.” Off in the distance, more towering signs. One for Mobil, another for McDonald’s.

The woman went to the door, checked that it was still locked.

She padded softly across the room and pushed open the door to the bathroom. She went inside and felt for the light switch, waiting until she had the door closed behind her before flicking it on.

The instant, intense illumination stung her eyes. She squinted until she got used to it, then gazed at her naked reflection in the oversized mirror above the counter.

“Yikes,” she whispered. Her black hair was stringy, her eyes dark, her lips dry.

There was a small, open canvas toiletries bag on the counter by the sink. A few things had not been returned to it, including a toothbrush, some makeup, a hairbrush. She opened the bag wider, rooted around inside.

“Yes,” she said when she had found what she wanted. She had a travel-sized bottle of aspirin. She unscrewed the cap and tapped two tablets into her palm. She put them in her mouth, then leaned over a running faucet to scoop some water into her hand. She got enough into her mouth to swallow the pills. She tilted her head back to ease their passage down her throat, then cupped more water into her hand just to drink. She reached for a towel to dry her hand and chin.

She glanced down at a bandage on the inside of her right ankle and grimaced. That cut wouldn’t have healed yet. A couple more days should do it.

At that point, her stomach growled, loud enough that it seemed to echo off the tiles of the tiny room. Maybe that was why she had the headache. She was hungry. She’d had very little to eat the whole day. Too on edge. Wasn’t sure she’d be able to keep anything down.

The McDonald’s was probably one of those twenty-four-hour ones. Truckers had to have someplace to eat in the dead of night. A Big Mac would do it. She could imagine the wonderful blandness of it. There was nothing left to eat in the motel room. Not so much as a few Doritos or half a Mars bar. They’d picked up some junk to eat along the way, but she’d hardly touched it.

Hungry as she was, she wasn’t going to venture out of this motel room. Best to stay put, at least for now. She might end up drawing more attention to herself at night, a woman alone, than she would in the middle of the day.

She put her hand on the bathroom doorknob, flicked off the light before turning it. Now her eyes had to adjust in reverse, getting used to the darkness so she wouldn’t stumble over anything on her way back to the bed.

She returned to the window, half expecting to see the blue Ford Explorer out there. But that had been ditched long ago, and far from here. It would surely be found eventually, and it was hard to know whether that would end up being a good thing or bad. Lyall probably would have called the police by now. Useless as he was, he’d notice eventually that his wife hadn’t returned home. Drinking to all hours, staying out late with his friends, never helping out around the house, and that damn smelly dog. The Explorer had reeked of that beast. At least Lyall wasn’t a mean drunk. Every once in a while, he got this look, like maybe he wasn’t going to take it anymore. But it never lasted long. The guy didn’t have it in him to fight back.

Someone stirred in the other half of the bed she’d been sleeping in moments earlier.

She turned away from the window. There wasn’t much else to do but try to get back to sleep. Maybe, once the aspirin kicked in, she’d be able to nod off. She looked at the clock: 12:21 a.m.

There was no reason to get up early. No job to go to anymore. No one to make breakfast for.

She sat gently on the side of the bed, raised her legs ever so slowly and tucked them under the covers, lowered her head onto the pillow, trying her best not to breathe. If there was anything good about motel beds, this was it. The mattresses seemed to be resting on concrete, not box springs, and you could usually get in and out of bed without disturbing your partner’s sleep.

But not this time.

The person on the other side of the bed turned over and said, “What’s going on, babe?”

“Shh, go back to sleep,” she said.

“What’s going on?”

“I had a headache. I was looking for aspirin.”

“There’s some in the little case there.”

“I found them.”

A hand reached out and found her breast, kneading the nipple between thumb and forefinger.

“Jesus, Dwayne, I tell you I’ve got a headache, and then you cop a feel?”

He withdrew the hand. “You’re just stressed out. It’s going to take you a while to get over this whole Jan thing.”

The woman said, “What’s to get over? She’s dead.”

EIGHTEEN

“So you better get off my porch and hit the fucking road,” Horace Richler said to me.

“I… I don’t understand,” I said, standing at the open front door, looking into the faces of Horace and his wife, Gretchen.

“Too goddamn bad,” he said, and started putting his weight behind the door to close it.

“Wait!” I said. “Please! This doesn’t make any sense.”

“No kidding,” Horace said. “You wake us up in the middle of the night asking for our dead daughter, you’re damn right it makes no sense.”

He nearly had the door closed when Gretchen said, “Horace.”

“Huh?”

“Hang on a minute.” The door didn’t open any farther, but it didn’t close, either. Gretchen said to me, “Who did you say you are again?”

“David Harwood,” I said. “I live in Promise Falls.”

“And your wife’s name is Jan?”

Horace interrupted. “Christ’s sake, Gretchen, the guy’s a lunatic. Don’t encourage him.”

I said, “That’s right. Jan, or, you know, Janice. She’s Janice Harwood now, but before we got married she was Jan Richler.”

“There must be lots of Jan Richlers in the world,” Gretchen said. “You’ve come to the wrong house.”

I had the palm of my hand on the door, hoping it wouldn’t close farther.

“But her birth certificate says that her parents are Horace and Gretchen, that she was born here in Rochester.”

The two of them stared at me, not quite sure what to believe.

It was, surprisingly, Horace who asked, “What’s her birthday?” There was a defiant tone in his voice, like he wasn’t expecting me to know the answer.

I said, “August 14, 1975.”

It was as if the air had been let out of both of them. Horace acted as though he had taken a blow to the chest. He folded in on himself and his head drooped. He let go of the door, turned away, and took a step back into the house.

Gretchen’s face had fallen, but she held her spot at the door.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “This is as much a shock to me as it is to you.”

Gretchen shook her head sadly. “This is very hard on him.”

“I don’t know how to explain this,” I said. My knees felt weak, and I realized that I was trembling slightly. “My wife has been missing since early today-since Saturday, around the middle of the day. She just vanished. I’ve been trying to think of anyone she might have gotten in touch with, and that’s why I came here to see you.”

“Why would your wife have our daughter’s birth certificate?” Gretchen asked. “How is that possible?”

Before I could even attempt to come up with an explanation, I said, “Would it be all right if I came in?”

Gretchen turned toward her husband, who’d been listening without actually looking at us. “Horace?” she said. All he did was raise a hand dismissively, an act of surrender, suggesting it was up to his wife whether I’d be allowed inside.

“Come in, then,” she said, opening the door wider.

She led me into a living room filled with furniture that I was guessing had been handed down to them from their own parents. Only the drab couch looked less than twenty years old. What splashes of color there were came from pillows smothered in crocheted covers crudely resembling flowers. Scattered across the couch and chairs, they were like stamps on old manila envelopes. Cheap landscapes hung so high on the wall they nearly lined up with the ceiling.

I took a seat first in one of the chairs. Gretchen sat down on the couch, pulling her robe tightly around her. “Horace, come on, lovey, sit down.”

There were some framed family photos in the room, most of them featuring one or both of the Richlers, often with a boy. If the pictures could have been arranged in chronological order, I’d be able to see this boy’s progression from age three to a man in his early twenties. There was one picture of him-as an adult-in uniform.

Gretchen caught me looking. “That’s Bradley,” she said.

I nodded. I might normally have offered up a comment, that he was good-looking, a handsome fellow, which was true. But I was feeling too shell-shocked for pleasantries.

Reluctantly, Horace Richler came over to the couch and sat down next to his wife. Gretchen rested her hand on his pajama-clad knee.

“He’s dead,” Horace said, seeing that I’d been looking at the picture of the young man.

“Afghanistan,” Gretchen said. “One of those I.E.D.s.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“He was killed along with two Canadians,” she said. “Almost two years ago now. Just outside Kabul.”

The room was quiet for several seconds.

“So that’s both our children,” Gretchen said.

Hesitantly, I said, “I don’t see any pictures of your daughter.” I was desperate to see what she had looked like, even as a five-year-old. If it was Jan, I was sure I’d know it.

“We… don’t have any out,” Gretchen said.

I said nothing, waiting for an explanation.

“It’s… hard,” she said. “Even after all these years. To be reminded.”

Another uncomfortable silence ensued, until Horace, whose lips had already been going in and out in preparation, blurted, “I killed her.”

I said, barely able to find my voice, “What?”

He was looking down into his lap, seemingly ashamed. Gretchen gripped his knee harder and put her other hand to his shoulder. “Horace, don’t do this.”

“It’s true,” he said. “It’s been enough years that there’s no sense beating around the bush.”

Gretchen said to me, “It was a terrible, terrible thing. It wasn’t Horace’s fault.” Her face screwed up, like she was fighting back tears. “I lost a daughter and a husband that day. My husband’s never been the man he was once, not in thirty years. And he’s a good man. Don’t let anyone tell you any different.”

I asked, “What happened?”

Gretchen started to speak but Horace cut her off. “I can tell it,” he said, as though this was part of his penance, to confess. “I’ve lost a daughter and I’ve lost a son. What the hell difference does it make anymore?”

He reached inside himself for the strength to continue.

“It was the third of September, 1980. It was after I’d come home from work, after Gretchen had made dinner. Jan and one of her little friends, Constance, were playing in the front yard.”

“Arguing more than playing,” Gretchen interjected, and I looked at her. “I’d been watching them through the window. You know how little girls can be.”

Horace continued, “I was going to meet my friends after dinner. Bowling. I was in a league back then. The thing is, I’d got home late, ate my dinner fast as I could, because I was supposed to be meeting up with everyone at six, and it was already ten past when I finished dinner. So I ran out to the car and jumped in and backed out of the driveway like a bat out of hell.”

I waited, a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“It wasn’t his fault,” Gretchen said again. “Jan… was pushed.”

“What?” I said.

“If I hadn’t been going so fast,” Horace said, “it wouldn’t have mattered. You can’t go blaming this on that other little girl.”

“But it is what happened,” Gretchen said. “The girls were having a fight, standing by the driveway, and Constance pushed Jan into the path of the car just as Horace started backing up.”

“Oh my God,” I said.

Horace said, “I knew right away I’d hit something. I slammed on the brakes and got out, but…”

He stopped, made his hands into tight fists, as though that could keep the tears from welling up in his eyes. It worked for him, but not for Gretchen.

I tried to swallow.

“The other little girl started to scream,” Gretchen said. “It was her fault, but can you really blame a child? Kids, they don’t know the consequences of their actions. They can’t anticipate.”

“She wasn’t driving the car,” Horace said. “I was the one behind the wheel. I should have been watching. I was the one who should have been anticipating. And I wasn’t. I was too worried about getting to a fucking bowling alley on time.” He shook his head. “And the hell of it is, they never did a damn thing to me. Said it wasn’t my fault, it was an accident, just one of those horrible things. I wish they’d done something to me, but maybe it wouldn’t have made any difference. Anything they might have done, short of killing me, wouldn’t have stopped me from wanting to punish myself even more.”

“Horace tried to take his life,” Gretchen said. “A couple of times.”

He looked away, embarrassed by that revelation more than the one he’d made himself. When he didn’t say anything further, it was clear this was the end of the story.

“That child who pushed Jan, her life was ruined that day, too. I know she deserves some pity,” Gretchen said. “But I never had any for her, or her parents. Not surprising, they moved away after that. Sometimes, I think we should have done the same thing.”

“There’s not a single time I get in the car I don’t think about what I did,” Horace said. “Not a single time, not in all these years.”

This was the saddest room I’d ever been in.

I was definitely a mess. Listening to Horace Richler tell how he ran over his own daughter with his car would have been devastating enough. But the implications of his story were overwhelming me.

He was talking about Jan. The Jan on my wife’s birth certificate.

But Horace’s Jan had been dead for decades. And my Jan was, at least up until today, alive.

My wife had Horace and Gretchen Richler’s child’s name. She had her birth certificate.

But it was glaringly obvious that they could not be the same person.

I was dumbstruck. I was so numbed by what I’d been told that I didn’t even know what to ask next.

“Mr. Harwood?” Gretchen said. “Are you okay?”

“I’m sorry. I…”

“You don’t look well. You’ve got bags under your eyes and don’t look like you’ve had any sleep in a long time.”

“I don’t… I don’t know what to make of this.”

“Well,” said Horace, trying to put some bluster back into his voice, “we don’t exactly know what the hell to make of you, either.”

I tried to focus. I said, “A picture. Could I please see a picture of Jan?”

Gretchen exchanged glances with her husband before deciding my request was reasonable. She got up and crossed the room to an old-fashioned rolltop desk and chair in the corner. She sat down, opened the door, and reached in.

She must have stolen a look at the picture every once in a while, because it took her no time at all to put her hands on it. I could understand, from Horace’s point of view, why the picture was not on display. Did you want your daughter, the one you’d killed, looking at you every day?

It was a black-and-white portrait shot, the kind that might have been taken at Sears, about three by five inches. Slightly faded, one of the corners bent.

She handed it to me. “This was taken about two months… before,” she said.

Jan Richler had been a beautiful child. An angelic face, dimples, bright eyes, curly blonde hair.

I searched the photo for any hints of my wife. Maybe something in the eyes, the way the mouth turned up at the corner. The line of her nose.

I tried to imagine this picture on a table covered with photos of other children. I looked for anything in the shot that would make me pick it up and say, “That’s her, that’s the girl I married.”

There was nothing.

I handed the picture back to Gretchen Richler. “Thank you,” I said quietly.

“Well?” she said.

“I know it seems ridiculously obvious to say that’s not my wife,” I said, “but that’s not my wife.”

Horace made some kind of grunting noise.

“May I show you a picture?” I said, reaching into my jacket. It was one of the copies I’d printed out of the snapshot I’d emailed to Detective Duckworth, taken in Chicago.

Horace took the picture first, gave it nothing more than a glance, then handed it to Gretchen.

She gave the picture the attention I thought it warranted, considering this was a woman with her daughter’s name and all. She studied it at arm’s length at first, then brought it up close, giving it a kind of microscopic examination, before putting it down on the table.

“Anything?” I said.

“I was just… noticing how beautiful your wife is,” she said, almost dreamily. “I like to think that if our Jan had lived, she would have been as pretty as your wife here.” She picked it up to hand it to me, then reconsidered. “If this woman, your wife, is using our daughter’s name, maybe she has some ties to this area. In case I saw her, should I hang on to this?”

I had other printed copies. I supposed it was possible Jan might yet show up here, although I now couldn’t imagine why, and it would be good for her image to be fresh in the Richlers’ minds. “Sure,” I said.

She took the picture and put it in the drawer with her daughter’s, and stood there with her back to us.

Horace said, “And that woman, she says we’re her parents?”

“She’s never talked about you by name,” I said. “I figured it out from her birth certificate.”

Gretchen turned slowly and said, “Didn’t it seem odd that she’s never taken you to meet her parents?”

“She’s always said she’s been estranged from her family. That was why I came here. I thought, maybe, she was trying to reestablish contact. Say her piece. Something. Because for the last couple of weeks she’s been very troubled. Depressed. I wondered if she could be, I don’t know, exorcising her demons. Confronting things that have troubled her for years.”

“Would you excuse me for a minute?” Gretchen asked, her voice shaking slightly.

Neither of us felt the need to give her permission. After she had climbed the stairs and we heard a door close, Horace said to me, “You think you’re over it, and then something comes along and opens up the wound all over again.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Yeah, well, whatever,” Horace said.

I nodded my regrets and attempted to stand up. I was a bit shaky on my feet.

“I hope you’re not thinking of getting behind the wheel of a car,” Horace said.

“I should be okay,” I said. “I’ll stop for a coffee or something on the way.”

“You look so tired even coffee may not help,” he said, the first time since I’d come here that he sounded at all conciliatory.

“I need to get back home, see my boy. I can pull over and grab a few winks if I have to,” I said.

From the top of the stairs, Gretchen said, “How old is your son? He looks about three in that picture with your wife.”

I watched as she descended, slowly coming into view. She seemed to have pulled herself together in the last couple of minutes. “He’s four,” I said. “His name is Ethan.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Five years.”

“How’s it going to help your son if you fall asleep at the wheel and go into a ditch?”

I knew she was right. “I may find a place to stay,” I said.

Gretchen pointed to the couch, where Horace still sat. “You’d be more than welcome to stay here.”

The couch, with its bright crocheted pillows, suddenly looked very inviting.

“I don’t want to put you out,” I said.

“Please,” she said.

I nodded gratefully. “I’ll be gone first thing in the morning.”

Horace, his brow furrowed, had his face screwed up tight. “So if you don’t mind my asking,” he said, “if your wife is going around saying she’s Jan Richler but she’s not, then who the hell is she?”

The question had already been forming in my mind, but I’d been trying to ignore it.

Horace wasn’t done. “And how could she do that to our little girl? Take her name from her? Hasn’t she suffered enough?”

NINETEEN

Sunday morning, the Duckworths’ clock radio went off at 6:30.

The detective didn’t move. He didn’t hear the newscaster say that it was going to be a cloudy day, or that it was only going to be in the high 70s, or that it might rain on Monday.

But Maureen Duckworth heard everything because she was already awake, and had been for some time. A nightmare-another one involving their nineteen-year-old son, Trevor, who was traveling around Europe with his girlfriend, Trish, and hadn’t phoned or sent them an email or anything in two days, which was typical of him, never giving a thought to how much his mother worried-woke her around four. In this dream, her son had decided to go bungee jumping off the Eiffel Tower, except somehow while he was on the way down he was attacked by flying monkeys.

She knew there were a lot of things that could happen to a kid away from home, but had to admit this particular scenario was unlikely. She persuaded herself that this nightmare held no special meaning, that it wasn’t an omen, that it was nothing more than a stupid, ridiculous dream. Having done that, she might normally have gotten back to sleep, had her husband’s snoring not been almost loud enough to shake the windows.

She gave Barry a shove so that he’d roll off his back and onto his side, but it didn’t do a damn bit of good. It was like sleeping next to a chain saw.

She twisted in the earplugs she kept next to her bed for just such emergencies, but they were about as effective as heading out naked in a snowstorm with nothing on but lip balm.

She had, in fact, been staring at the clock radio when it read 6:29, and was counting down the seconds in her head, waiting for it to come on. She was off by only two seconds.

She’d gotten Barry to try those strips that stick to the top of the nose, supposedly open up the nasal passages, but they didn’t do anything. Then she bought him some anti-snoring capsules he could take just before going to bed, but they struck out as well.

What she really thought would help would be if he lost a little weight. Which was why she’d been serving him fruits and granola at breakfast, packing him a lunch with plenty of carrot sticks, and cutting back on fried foods and butter at dinner.

She got out of bed and collected dirty clothes in the room. The clothes she’d taken off the night before, the slacks and shirt Barry had tossed off after coming in late from work. He’d put in an extra-long day, looking for this woman who went missing at the roller-coaster park.

She looked at the slacks. What was that on them? Was that ice cream? Mixed in with some kind of pie?

“Barry,” she said. He didn’t move. “Barry,” she said, a little louder so she could be heard over the snoring.

She walked around to his side of the bed and touched his shoulder.

He snorted, opened his eyes. He blinked a couple of times, heard the radio.

“Yeah, okay,” he said. “I didn’t even hear that come on.”

“I did,” Maureen said. “You sure you have to go in today?”

He moved his head sideways on the pillow. “I want to see if that release we put out last night turned up anything.”

“You want to tell me what this is?” she said, holding the stained trousers a few inches from his nose.

He squinted. “I was working vice undercover. Had to get a hand job in the line of duty.”

“You wish. That’s ice cream, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” he said.

“Where’d you have ice cream?”

“The missing woman? I went to see her boss. You’ve seen that Bertram Heating and Cooling truck?”

“Yeah.”

“Him. His wife got me some pie.”

“With ice cream.”

“Yeah.”

“What kind of pie?”

“Apple.”

Maureen Duckworth nodded, as if she suddenly understood. “I’d eat apple pie for breakfast if we had it.”

“What do we have?”

“You’re getting fruit and some fiber,” she said.

“You know torture’s not allowed now, right? New regime and all.”

The phone rang.

Maureen didn’t react. The phone could ring anytime, day or night, around here. “I’ll get it,” she said. She picked up the receiver on her side of the bed. “Hello… Yeah, hi… No, don’t worry about it, I was already up… Sure, he’s here… We’re just bringing in the hoist to get him out of bed.”

She held out the phone. Barry leaned across the bed to grab it.

“Duckworth,” he said.

“Hey, Detective. You got a pen?”

Barry grabbed the pen and paper that were always sitting by the phone. He wrote down a name and a number, made a couple of notes. “Great, thanks,” he said and hung up.

Maureen looked at him expectantly.

“We got something,” he said.

Duckworth waited until he was showered and dressed and had a cup of coffee in his hand before he dialed the number from the phone in the kitchen.

Someone picked up after two rings. “Ted’s,” a man said.

“Is this Ted Brehl?” Duckworth asked.

“That’s right.”

“Did I pronounce that right?”

“Like the letters for the blind, right.”

“This is Detective Barry Duckworth, Promise Falls police. You called in about half an hour ago?”

“Yeah. I saw that thing on the news last night. When I got up this morning, came in to open the store, I thought maybe I should give you a call.”

“Where’s your store?”

“Up by Lake George? On 87?”

“I know the area. Real pretty up there.”

Maureen put a bowl of granola, topped with bananas and strawberries, in front of her husband.

“Yeah, so, I saw that woman.”

“Jan Harwood.”

“Yeah, she was in here.”

“When was that?”

“Friday. Like, must have been around five?”

“Five in the afternoon?”

“That’s right. She came in to buy some water and iced tea.”

“Was she alone?”

“She came into the store alone, but she was with a man, her husband, I guess. He was out in the car.” Ted Brehl’s description of it matched the vehicle owned by David Harwood.

“So they just stopped to buy some drinks and then left?”

“No, they sat out there for quite a while, talking. I looked out a couple of times. I looked out again around five-thirty, and they were gone.”

“You’re sure it was her?”

Brehl didn’t hesitate. “Oh yeah. I mean, I might normally have forgotten, but she struck up a conversation with me. And she’s a nice-looking lady, the kind you remember.”

“What did she talk about?”

“I’m trying to remember how she put it. She said she’d never been up this way before, first of all, at least not that she could remember. I asked her where she was going, and she said she didn’t exactly know.”

“She didn’t know?”

“She said her husband wanted to take her for a drive in the country, up into the woods. She said maybe it was some sort of surprise or something, because he’d told her not to tell anyone they were going.”

Duckworth thought about that.

“What else did she say?”

“That was about it, I guess.”

“How was her mood?”

“Mood?”

“Was she happy? Depressed? Troubled?”

“She seemed just fine, you know?”

“Sure,” Duckworth said. “Listen, thanks for calling. I might be in touch again.”

“Okay. Just wanted to help.”

Duckworth hung up the phone, then looked down at his cereal. “You got some sugar or whipped cream I can put on this?” he asked.

Maureen sat down opposite him and said, “It’s been two days.” Barry knew instantly she was talking about their son, Trevor. He reached out and held her hand.

TWENTY

I woke early on the Richlers’ couch, but that was okay because they were early risers themselves. I heard Horace Richler banging around the kitchen shortly after six. From my vantage point, I could see him standing at the sink in slippers and robe. He ran some water into a glass and popped a couple of pills into his mouth, then turned and shuffled back toward the stairs.

Once he was gone, I threw off the crocheted blanket that Gretchen had told me she’d made herself. It was so huge I marveled that anyone under two hundred years of age could have stitched it. Even though I’d packed a small bag, I’d opted to sleep in my clothes, taking off only my jacket and shoes before I’d put my head down on an honest-to-God bed pillow, not a crocheted one, that Gretchen had provided.

“I’m sorry about not having anything better than the couch,” she’d said. “You see, no one sleeps in our son’s room. We’ve left it just the way it was. And the guest bedroom has kind of turned into storage, you know? We don’t get a lot of company.” She’d thought a moment. “I don’t think we’ve ever had any overnight guests, to tell you the truth. You might be our first, ever.”

I could have used a shower, but I didn’t want to push it. I grabbed my travel kit and went into the first-floor bathroom at the back of the house and shaved, brushed my teeth, and wet my hair enough to get the bumps flattened. When I came back out, I smelled coffee.

Gretchen was dressed and in the kitchen. “Good morning,” she said.

“Good morning.”

“How did you sleep?”

“Pretty good,” I said. Even though I’d gone to bed troubled and on overload, my body had been exhausted and I’d conked out right away. “How about you?”

She smiled, like she didn’t want what she had to say to hurt my feelings. “Not so great. Your news, it was disturbing. And it brought back a lot of bad memories for us. Especially for Horace. I mean, we both took the loss of Jan hard, but when you consider how it happened, he…”

“I understand,” I said. “I’m sorry. I had no way of knowing.”

“Something like this, it touches so many people. Us, our relatives, the school Jan went to. Her kindergarten teacher, Miss Stephens, had to take a leave for a week, she was so upset. All the kids in her class were devastated. The little girl who pushed her… If it happened today, they’d have probably put her in therapy. Maybe her parents did, who knows. Mr. Andrews, the school principal, he got them to put up a little plaque at the school in Jan’s memory. But I could never go look at it, and Horace, he couldn’t bear to see it. He didn’t want the fuss, except he wished they’d have put him in jail or something, like he said. So a lot of people, they were affected by this.”

“And then me,” I said.

“And then you. Coffee?”

“Please.”

“Except with you,” Gretchen said, “it’s different.”

She filled a mug with coffee from a glass carafe while I waited for her to continue.

“You didn’t know our Jan. Not ever. You don’t know any of us. And yet, here you are, sitting here, connected to us somehow.”

I poured some cream into the coffee, watched the liquids interact without stirring, and nodded. “And I don’t know exactly how,” I said.

Gretchen put both hands flat on the countertop, a gesture that seemed to foretell an important announcement, or at the very least, a direct comment. “Mr. Harwood, what do you really think has happened to your wife?”

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I’m worried that she may have harmed herself.”

Gretchen took half a second to understand what I was getting at. “But if she hasn’t, and you find her alive…” Gretchen was struggling with something here.

“Yes?”

“Let’s say you find her, and she’s okay, is it going to be the same?”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“Your wife can’t be Jan Richler. Isn’t that clear to you?”

I looked away.

“If she’s not the woman you’ve always believed she was, how are things going to be the same?”

“Perhaps,” I said slowly, “there’s just been some kind of a mix-up. Maybe there’s an explanation for this that’s not immediately obvious.”

Gretchen kept her eyes on me. “What kind of explanation?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why would anyone take on someone else’s identity? Why would they do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“And why, of all the people whose identity someone could take, why take my daughter’s?”

I couldn’t say it again.

“Horace was right, last night, when he asked how someone could do that to our girl. How could someone use her like that? All she is to us now is a name, and a memory. And all these years later, someone tries to steal that from us?”

“I’m sure Jan-” My wife’s name caught in my throat. “I’m sure there’s an explanation. If, for some reason, my wife had to take a name that was not her own, I’m sure she would never have intended any harm to you or your husband or the memory of your daughter.”

What the hell was I talking about? What possible scenario was I trying to envision?

“Suppose,” I said, thinking out loud, and very slowly, “she had to change her identity for some reason. And the name she had to take, that she was given, say, happened to be your daughter’s.”

Gretchen eyed me skeptically. I looked down at my untouched coffee.

“Horace couldn’t sleep last night,” she said. “It was more than just being upset. He was angry. Angry that someone would do such a thing. Angry at your wife. Even without knowing her.”

“I just hope,” I said, “that there’ll be a chance for you to tell her face-to-face what you think.”

Before I left, just in case Jan somehow turned up here, I wrote down my home and cell numbers and address, as well as my parents’ number and address.

“Please get in touch,” I said.

Gretchen placated me with a smile, like she knew she wasn’t going to have any news for me.

My cell rang on the way home. It was Mom.

“What’s happening?” she asked. “We’ve been worried sick, wondering why you haven’t called.”

“I’ll be home in a few hours,” I said.

“Did you find her?”

“No.”

“What about the Richlers? Did you find them?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Did Jan go see them? Have they heard from her?”

“No,” I said. I didn’t want to get into it. I was almost afraid to ask how Ethan was, given his rambunctious nature, but did anyway.

“He’s fine. We thought a truck hit the house this morning, but it was just him jumping on the stairs. Your father’s got him in the basement now to-”

“Locked up?”

Mom actually laughed. “He and your father are in the basement talking about building a train set.”

“Okay. I’m going to go by the house on the way. Then I’ll come and pick up Ethan.”

“I love you,” Mom said.

“Love you, too.”

The interstate’s a pretty good place to let your mind wander. You can put your car on cruise, and your brain as well, if you want. But my thoughts were all over the place. And they all circled around one thing.

Why did my wife have the name and birth certificate of a child who had died years ago at the age of five?

It was more than some crazy coincidence. This wasn’t a case of two people having the same name by chance. Jan’s birth certificate details had led me to the Richlers’ front door.

I thought about the things I’d speculated to Gretchen. That maybe Jan had been required to take on a new identity.

I tried to work it out. Jan Richler, the Jan Richler I’d married, the woman I’d been with for six years, the woman I’d had a child with, was not really Jan Richler.

It was hardly a secret that if you could find the name of someone who’d died at a young age, there was a good chance you could build a new identity with it. I’d worked in the news business long enough to learn how it could be done. You applied for a new copy of the deceased’s birth certificate, since birth and death certificates were often not cross-referenced, certainly not several decades ago. With that, you acquired other forms of identification. A Social Security number. A library card. A driver’s license.

It wasn’t impossible for someone to become someone else. My wife had become Jan Richler, and when she met and married me, Jan Harwood.

But before that, she had to have been someone else.

And what was the most likely reason for someone to shed a past life and start up a new one?

Two words came to mind immediately: Witness protection.

“Jesus Christ,” I said aloud in the empty car.

Maybe that was it. Jan had witnessed something, testified in some court case. Against whom? The mob? Was it ever anyone but the mob? Bikers, maybe? It had to be someone, or some organization, with the resources to track her down and exact revenge if they managed to do it.

If that was the case, the authorities would have had to create a new identity for her.

It was the kind of secret she might feel she could never tell me. Maybe she was worried that if I knew, it would expose me-and more important, Ethan-to risks we couldn’t even imagine.

No wonder she’d hidden her birth certificate. The last thing she wanted me to do was nose around and blow her cover. Not because of what it would mean to her, but because of what it might mean to us, as a family.

And if she was a protected witness, relegated to living out a new life in some new location, what, if anything, did it have to do with her disappearance?

Had someone figured out where she was? Did she believe she was about to be discovered? Did she run to save herself?

But if she did, why couldn’t she have found a way to tell me something?

Anything?

And if Jan’s life was in danger, was I doing the right thing in trying to find her? Would I end up leading the person or persons who wanted to do her harm right to her?

Assuming, of course, that any of my theories about Jan being in the witness protection program were anything other than total horseshit.

I’d have to tell Barry Duckworth what I’d learned. He’d no doubt have connections, people he could talk to who might be able to reveal whether Jan-under another name-had ever been a star witness in an important trial. Maybe-

My phone rang. I’d left it on the seat next to me so I could grab it quickly.

“Yeah?”

“Dave?”

“Yes.”

“David, Jesus, you’re the biggest story on the news and you don’t let your own goddamn paper know about it?”

Brian Donnelly, the city editor.

“Brian,” I said.

“Where are you?”

“I-90. I’m coming back from Rochester.”

“Man, this is terrible,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said. “Jan’s been gone since about-”

“I mean, shit, by the time the cops issued their release, the paper had already gone to bed, so TV and radio have it, but we haven’t got anything in the edition, and it’s about one of our own people! Madeline’s totally pissed. What the hell? You couldn’t call us with this?”

“Sorry, Brian,” I deadpanned. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Look, I want to put Samantha on the line, she can get some quotes from you for the main story, but I want to know whether you could write a first-person. ‘Mystery Hits Close to Home for Standard Reporter.’ That kind of thing. I don’t mean to come across as an asshole or anything, but-”

“No worries there,” I said.

“But a first-person perspective would be really good. We haven’t gotten much from the cops about what actually happened, and you could give us some of that, and you know, this kind of play, it might help you find… uh, find…”

“Jan,” I said.

“Exactly. So if you-”

I flipped the phone shut and tossed it back over on the passenger seat. A few seconds later it rang again. I flipped it open and put it to my ear.

“Dave? It’s Samantha here.”

“Hi, Sam.”

“I just heard what Brian said to you. My God, I am so sorry. He’s the King of Doucheland. I can’t believe he said those things.”

“Yeah, he’s something.”

“Is Jan still missing?”

“Yes.”

“Can you talk about it? Is there anything you can say, for the record?”

“Just… that I’m hoping she’ll be home soon.”

“The cops are being real weird about it, I have to tell you,” she said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“They’re just not saying much. Duckworth’s the head of the investigation. You know him?”

“Sam.”

“Oh yeah, stupid question. He’s releasing very few details, although we learned that something happened at Five Mountains, right?”

“Sam, I’m on the way home. I’m going to see Duckworth when I get back, and maybe then we’ll have a better idea what we’re dealing with. I honestly hadn’t expected them to release anything until this morning. The news last night, that caught me off guard.”

“Okay, off the record. How are you holding up?”

“Not so good.”

“Listen, I’ll call you later, okay? Give you some time to get your shit together.”

“Thanks, Sam.”

I pulled into my driveway shortly before noon.

Once I was in the door, I called out Jan’s name. Just in case.

Nothing.

For the last twenty miles, all I could think about was the birth certificate I had found. I needed to see it again. I needed to prove to myself that I hadn’t imagined it.

Before I went upstairs, I checked to see whether there were any phone messages. There were five, all from different media outlets asking for interviews. I saved all of them, thinking at some point I might be willing to give as many as I could if it meant more people would know Jan was missing.

Then I went upstairs.

I opened the linen closet and dragged out everything from the bottom. I crawled into the closet and pried away the baseboard along the back wall with a screwdriver I’d found in the kitchen drawer.

The envelope, the one that had contained a birth certificate for Jan Richler, and a key, was gone.

TWENTY-ONE

She was actually asleep when the man in the bed next to her threw back the covers and padded across the bristly carpet to the bathroom. She’d stared at the ceiling for a long time after getting back under the covers, wondering whether she’d ever nod off. Thinking about what she’d done, the life she’d left behind.

The body they’d buried.

But at some point, it happened. Her anxiety surrendered, at last, to weariness. If only it had been a restful sleep.

Like her, Dwayne had slept naked. Dwayne Osterhaus was a thin, wiry man, just under six feet tall, with a small tattoo of the number “6” on his right buttock. It was, he believed, his lucky number. “Everyone picks seven, but I like six.” His lean, youthful body was betrayed by his thinning gray hair. Maybe prison did that to you, she thought, watching him with one eye open as he crossed the room. Turned you gray early.

He closed the bathroom door but she could still hear him taking a leak. Went on forever. She reached for the remote and clicked on the TV, thumbed the volume button to drown him out. It was one of the morning news shows out of New York. The two hosts, a man and a woman, were jabbering on about which couples were in the lead to get married on live TV.

The bathroom door opened, filling the room with the sound of a flushing toilet.

“Hey,” he said, glancing at the set. “I thought I heard voices out here. You’re awake.” She hit the mute button as he crawled back into the bed.

“Yeah, I’m awake.”

“How’d you sleep?”

“Lousy.”

“Me, any time I woke up, I kept listening for the sounds of other guys breathing, snoring, having a middle-of-the-night wank. As much as that can fuck up your sleep, the sounds all start blending together, you know, and you get used to them. I guess it’s a bit like when you live in New York or something, and you hear horns honking all night, after a while you don’t notice it. Then you go sleep someplace where all the noises are gone, at least the ones you know, you really notice the difference. That’s how it was when I woke up. I thought, hey, where the fuck am I? Lot of truck traffic on the highway all goddamn night, but that’s not what I’m used to. You still got your headache?”

“What?”

“In the night, you had a headache. You still got it?”

“No,” she said, and immediately regretted it.

Dwayne shifted closer to her under the covers, slipped his hand down between her legs.

“Hey,” she said. “You’ve been away so long you think you have to get to the main event right away. No one’s marching you back to a cell in five minutes.”

“Sorry,” he said. She’d mentioned this before, but in a different context. At last night’s dinner at the Big Boy just off the interstate, he’d had his meal half eaten before she had her napkin unfolded and on her lap. He was shoveling it in like the restaurant was in flames, and he wanted his fill before his hair caught fire. When she mentioned it to him, he explained he’d gotten into the habit of finishing his food before someone else tried to grab it away from him.

He moved his hand away, lightly played with one of her nipples. She turned to face him. Why not be a bit accommodating? she thought. Play the role. She reached down to take him in her hand. She wondered what he might have done in prison. Had he had sex with men? She knew he wasn’t that way, but half a decade was a long time to go without. You made do. Had he? Maybe she’d ask him sometime. Then again, maybe not. A guy might be touchy about that kind of thing, asking whether he’d engaged in a bit of knob gobbling while he was away.

Not that it mattered to her one way or the other. She was just curious. She liked to know things.

Dwayne figured thirty seconds of foreplay was more than enough to get her motor running. He threw himself on top of her. The whole thing was over in a minute, and for that she was grateful.

“Wow, that was great,” she said.

“You sure?” he asked. “I kind of, you know, could have gone longer, babe, but it just happened.”

“No, you were terrific,” she said.

“Listen,” he said, propping himself up on his elbow, “what should I call you now? I need to get used to something other than your regular name. Like if we’re in public. I guess I could call you Blondie.” He nodded toward the wig on her bedside table and grinned. “You look hot as shit when you’re wearing that, by the way.”

She thought a moment. “Kate,” she said.

“Kate?”

“Yeah,” she said. “From now on, I’m Kate.”

Dwayne flopped onto his back and stared at the cracked plaster overhead. “Well, Kate, sometimes I can’t believe it’s over. Seemed more like a hundred years, you know? Other guys, they just did their time, day after day after day, and it’s not like they didn’t want it to be over, but it wasn’t like they had anything waiting for them when they got out. Me, every day I just kept thinking about what my life would be like when I finally got the fuck out of there.”

“I guess not everybody had waiting for them what you had waiting,” said Kate.

Dwayne glanced over. “No shit,” he said. “Plus, I had you waiting, too.”

Kate had not been foolish enough to think he’d been talking about her in the first place.

“I know you probably still think I’m the stupidest son of a bitch on the planet,” he said.

She said nothing.

“I mean, we were all set, and then I get picked up for something totally unrelated. You don’t think I wasn’t kicking myself every single day, asking myself how I could be so fucking stupid? The thing is, that guy provoked me. I never should have gone down for that. It was justifiable. My lawyer sold me out, that’s what he did.”

She’d heard it before.

“A guy takes a swing at you with a pool cue, what, exactly, are you supposed to do? Stand there and let him hit you in the head with it?”

“If you’d paid him the money you owed him, it wouldn’t have come to that,” she said. “Then he wouldn’t have taken a swing at you, and you wouldn’t have picked up the eight ball and driven it right into his forehead.”

“Good thing the son of a bitch came out of his coma before sentencing,” Dwayne said. “They’d have sent me away forever.”

Neither of them said anything for a couple of minutes. Dwayne finally broke the silence with “I have to admit, babe, every once in a while, I’d get a bit worried.”

“About what?” she asked.

“That you wouldn’t wait. I mean, it’s a long time. Even when it’s something good at the end, it’s a long time.”

Kate reached over and lazily traced circles around his nipples. “I don’t want to make it sound like I had it as bad as you,” she said, “but I was kind of in a prison of my own while you were in yours.”

“You were smart, I gotta hand it to you, the way you did it, getting a new name, disappearing so fast.”

The thing was, she’d already had that in place, even though she hadn’t started using it right away. Just seemed like a good idea. Planning ahead and all that. Even she hadn’t expected to be needing it so soon.

Dwayne had already been going by another name around the time it all went down-not that he had all the documents Kate had-and was confident if that guy started asking around, things wouldn’t get traced back to him. When he got arrested for the assault, it was his real name that went in the paper, so no major worries there. But once things went south, even before Dwayne did the dumbass thing with the eight ball, she started playing it safe. With so much waiting for her at the end of the rainbow, she didn’t want to end up dead before she got there. She didn’t want to leave anything to chance. Not when she realized the courier had lived.

“So this guy,” Dwayne said.

“What guy?”

“Whaddya mean, what guy? The guy you married. That guy.”

“What about him?”

“What was he like?”

She wasn’t going to answer, then said, “He loved me. In spite of everything.”

“But what was he like?”

“He’s… never realized his potential.”

Dwayne nodded. “That’s what I’m about. Realizing my potential. You’re going to have a much brighter future with me, that you can count on. You know what I’d like to do? I’d like to live on a boat. You’re so totally fucking free. You don’t like where you are, you cast off, you go someplace else. And you get to see a whole lot of the world. What about you? You want to live on a boat?”

“I’ve never really thought about it,” she said, and stopped running her finger on his chest. Now she was looking at the ceiling, too. “I think I might get seasick. One time, when I was a kid, my parents took that ferry across Lake Michigan and I puked over the side.” She paused and became briefly reflective. “I like the idea of an island, though. Someplace with a beach, where you could sit all day and watch the waves roll in. A piña colada in my hand. No one to bother me, pick on me, ask me for anything. Just a place where I could go and live the rest of my life in peace.”

Dwayne hadn’t listened to a word. “I’d like to get a big one. A boat with whaddyacallems, staterooms or something. Little bedrooms. And they’re not like sleeping on some fucking submarine or something. It’d be a nice size bed. And every night, when you’re going to sleep, you hear the water banging up against the boat, it’s real relaxing.”

“Banging?” she said.

“Maybe not banging. Lapping? Should I have said ‘lapping’?”

“Have you ever even been on a boat before?” Kate asked him.

Dwayne Osterhaus screwed up his face momentarily. “I don’t think you have to have done something to know you’d like it. I never been in the sack with Beyoncé, but I got a pretty good idea I’d enjoy it.”

“She’s been waiting for your call,” she said. She threw back the covers. “I’m going to take a shower.”

Walking to the bathroom, she wondered what had happened in the years since she’d last been with Dwayne. Something was different. Sure, he was no rocket scientist when she was with him before, but there’d been compensations. Living on the edge, the almost constant, awesome sex, the thrill of taking chances, not knowing what the next day would bring.

Dwayne seemed to fit the bill back then. He suited her purposes. He helped her get the things she needed. It was no surprise that he’d be different now. A guy gets sent up for a few years, he’s not going to be the same guy when he gets out.

Maybe it wasn’t just him. Maybe someone else had changed.

“I need some breakfast,” he said. “Like a Grand Slam, you know? The whole thing. Eggs, sausage, pancakes. I’m goddamn starving.”

At Denny’s, they got a low-rise booth next to a man who was taking two small children out for breakfast. The man, his back to Dwayne, was telling the boys-they looked to be twins, maybe six years old-to sit still instead of getting up and standing on the seat.

The waitress handed them their menus and Dwayne said, smiling ear to ear, “Kate and me could use some coffee.” While the waitress went for the pot, Dwayne grinned and said, “I thought I’d start getting used to it.”

“You say it like that, she’s going to know there’s something fishy about it,” she said.

The waitress set two mugs on the table, filled them, then reached into the pocket of her apron for creams.

Dwayne said to Kate, “I’m thinking sausage, bacon, and ham. You should get that, too, put some meat on your bones.” He grinned at the waitress. “You keep these coffees topped up, ya hear?”

“You bet,” she said. “You know what you want or you need a few minutes?”

“I want a donut!” one of the boys shouted behind Dwayne.

“We’re not getting donuts,” the father said. “You want some bacon and eggs? Scrambled the way you like them?”

“I want a donut!” the boy whined.

Dwayne was grinding his teeth as he ordered his Grand Slam with extra meat, while Kate ordered as basic an order of pancakes as was possible. “No home fries, no sausage, just pancakes,” she said. “Syrup on the side.”

As the waitress walked away, Dwayne glanced over his shoulder at the kid that was annoying him, then leaned toward Kate and whispered, “I think your wig’s a bit cockeyed.”

She reached up and adjusted it, trying to make it look like she was just patting her own hair, making sure everything was in place.

“You look good like that,” he said. “You should keep it that way. You should dye it.”

“And if the cops somehow figure out they’re looking for a blonde, what am I supposed to do? Dye it again? I’d rather get myself a couple more wigs.”

Dwayne smiled lasciviously. “You could wear a different one every night.”

“That how they do it inside?” she asked. “Guy’s a redhead one night, brunette the next, takes your mind off the fact he’s a man?”

She couldn’t believe she’d said it.

Dwayne’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

“Forget it,” she said.

“There something you want to ask me?” he asked.

“I said forget it.”

The twins, when they weren’t whining because their father wouldn’t let them order french fries for breakfast, were jabbing at each other. The father yelled at them both to stop it, prompting each to accuse the other of starting it.

Dwayne’s eyes were boring into Kate.

“I said forget it,” she said.

“You think I’m a faggot?” he asked.

“No,” she said.

“‘Cause a person might do things and still not be a faggot,” he said.

No more wondering now, she thought.

“You want to go places you shouldn’t?” he asked. “I can do that, too, Kate.”

“Dwayne.”

“How’s it feel, putting your friend in the ground?”

“She wasn’t my friend,” she said.

“You worked in the same office together.”

“She wasn’t my friend. And I get it. We’re even. I’m sorry.”

“He did it first!” one of the boys whimpered.

Dwayne closed his eyes. Through gritted teeth, he said, “Fucking kids.”

“It’s not their fault,” she said, relieved to be able to channel Dwayne’s thoughts to the kids, and away from her comment. “They have to be taught how to behave in a restaurant. Their dad should have brought something for them to do, a coloring book, a video game, something. That’s what you do.”

Dwayne took a few deep breaths, inhaling and exhaling through his nose.

The waitress served the father and twins, and a moment later, brought plates for Kate and Dwayne. He was on it like a bear on a bag of trash.

“Eat your breakfast,” the father said behind Dwayne.

“I don’t want to,” said one twin.

The other one suddenly showed up at the end of Kate and Dwayne’s table. He inspected their breakfast until Dwayne said, “Piss off.”

Then the boy began strolling up to the cash register. The father twisted around in his booth and said, “Alton, come here!”

Dwayne looked at Kate and mouthed, “Alton?”

She poured some syrup on her pancakes, cut out a triangle from one and speared it with her fork. There’d been plenty of things to lose her appetite over in the last twenty-four hours, but she was hungry just the same. Had been since the middle of the night, when she’d stood at the window looking at the McDonald’s sign. And she had a feeling that she needed to eat fast, that they might not be staying here much longer.

Dwayne shoveled more food into his mouth, put the mug to his lips, mixed everything together. His mouth still full, he said, “What were the odds, huh?”

She couldn’t guess where his mind was. Was he talking about the odds that they would be here, today, getting ready to do the thing they’d been waiting so long to do?

When she didn’t answer, he said, “That we’d run into her? That she’d see us?”

“Alton, come back here right now!”

“But I gotta say,” Dwayne continued, “I think we turned a bad situation into a positive.”

“Whatever.”

“Alton, I’m warning you, you better get back here!”

“My eggs are icky!” said the twin still at the table.

Dwayne spun around, put one hand on the father’s throat, drove him down sideways and slammed his head onto the bench. The man’s arm swept across the table, knocking coffee and a plate of eggs and bacon all over himself and the floor. His eyes were wide with fear as he struggled for breath. He batted pitifully at Dwayne’s arm, roped with muscle, pinning the man like a steel beam. The boy at the table watched, speechless and horrified.

Dwayne said, “I was going to have a word with your boys, but my girl here says it’s your fault they act like a couple of fucking wild animals. You need to teach them how to behave when they’re out.”

She was on her feet. “We need to go,” she said.

TWENTY-TWO

“When was this again?” Barry Duckworth asked.

Gina tried to think. “Around the beginning of last week? Maybe Monday or Tuesday? Wait, not this past week, but the week before.”

“I’m not saying you have to do this now,” the detective said, getting a whiff of pizza dough baking in the oven, “but if I needed you to find the receipt for that night, do you think you could?”

“Probably,” she said. “Mr. Harwood usually pays with a credit card.”

“Okay, that’s good. Because at some point I may need to know exactly when this happened.” Duckworth was already thinking about Gina on a witness stand, how a defense attorney would slice her up like-well, that pizza he thought he could smell cooking-if she couldn’t remember when the incident took place.

“So Mr. and Mrs. Harwood are pretty regular customers at your restaurant here?”

Gina hesitated. “Regular? Maybe every three weeks or so. Once a month? I really wonder if I’ve done the right thing.”

“About what?”

“About calling the police. I think maybe I shouldn’t have done this.”

Duckworth reached across the restaurant table, covered with a white cloth, and patted her hand. “You did the right thing.”

“I didn’t even see it on the news at first, but my son, who works here in the kitchen, he saw it, and he said, ‘Hey, isn’t that those people who come in here once in a while?’ So he showed me the story on the TV station’s website, and I saw that it was Mrs. Harwood, and that’s when I remembered what had happened here that night. But now that I’ve called the police, I think I may have done a terrible thing.”

“That’s not true,” the detective said.

“I don’t want to get Mr. Harwood in trouble. I’m sure he’d never do anything to hurt his wife. He’s a very nice man.”

“I’m sure he is.”

“And he always leaves a fair tip. Not, you know, huge, but just about right. I hope you’re not going to tell him that I spoke to you.”

“We always do our best to be discreet,” Duckworth said, promising nothing.

“But my son, he said I should call you. So that’s what I did.”

“Tell me what the Harwoods are usually like when they’re here.”

“Usually, they’re very happy,” she said. “I try not to listen in on my customers. People want to have their private conversations. But you can tell when a couple are having a bad evening, even if you can’t hear exactly what they are saying. It’s how they lean back in their chairs, or they don’t look at each other.”

“Body language,” Duckworth said.

Gina nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, that’s it. But the last time they were here, forget about the body language. I could hear what they were saying. Well, at least what she was saying.”

“And what was that?”

“They’d been talking about something that couldn’t have been good, because they both looked very upset. And I was coming over to the table, and that was when she said to him something like ‘You’d be happy if something happened to me.’”

“Those were her words?”

“It might have been different. Maybe she said he’d be happy if she was dead. Or he was rid of her. Something like that.”

“Did you hear Mr. Harwood say anything like that to her?”

“Not really, but maybe that was what he said to her just before she got so upset. Maybe he told her he wished she was dead. That’s what I was thinking.”

“But you didn’t actually hear him say that?” Duckworth asked, making notes.

Gina thought. “No, but she was very upset. She got up from the table and they left without having the rest of their dinner.”

Duckworth sniffed the air. “I can’t imagine leaving here without eating.”

Gina smiled broadly. “Would you like a slice of my special pizza?”

Duckworth smiled back. “I guess it would be rude to say no, wouldn’t it?”

When he got back into his car, after an astonishing slice of cheese-and-portobello-mushroom pizza, Duckworth made a couple of calls.

The first was to his wife. “Hey,” he said. “Just called to see what was going on.”

“Not much,” Maureen said.

“No emails or anything?”

“He’s five or six hours ahead, so he has to be up by now.”

“Don’t be too sure.”

“Don’t worry. Just do your thing. Did you eat the salad I packed you?”

“I won’t lie. I’m still a little hungry.”

“Tomorrow I’ll put in a banana.”

“Okay. I’ll call you later.”

The second call was to see whether Leanne Kowalski had come home. He didn’t call her husband-he didn’t want to get into a discussion with him right now-but he knew he’d be able to find out what he needed to know by calling headquarters.

She had not come home.

The detective felt it was time to step up efforts where she was concerned. Someone needed to be working exclusively on that while he worked the Harwood disappearance, and they’d need to compare notes several times through the day to see where the two cases intersected, assuming they did. He put in a call to the Promise Falls police headquarters to see what could be done on that front.

Duckworth was thinking he might need to take a drive up to Lake George before the day was over, but there was at least one other stop he wanted to make first.

Along the way, he thought about how this was coming together:

David Harwood called the police to tell them his wife had gone missing during a trip to Five Mountains. But there was no record of her entering the park. Tickets to get him and his son in were purchased online, but there was no ticket for his wife.

This is what trips them up. They try to save a few bucks and end up in jail for the rest of their lives.

You think they’re too smart to make a mistake that dumb. And then you think about that bozo who helped bomb the World Trade Center back in 1993, gets caught when he’s trying to get his deposit back on the rental truck that carried the explosives.

The surveillance cameras at the amusement park failed to turn up any images of Jan Harwood. Not conclusive, Duckworth thought, but not a very good sign for Mr. Harwood. They’d have to go over the images more thoroughly. They’d have to be sure.

David Harwood’s story that his wife was suicidal wasn’t passing the sniff test. No one he’d spoken to so far shared his assessment of Jan Harwood’s mental state. Most damning of all-Harwood’s tale that his wife had been to see her doctor about her depression, and Dr. Samuels’s report that she’d never shown up.

Now, Gina’s story about Jan Harwood telling her husband he’d be pleased if she weren’t in the picture anymore-what the hell was that about?

And the Lake George trip. David Harwood hadn’t mentioned anything about that. A witness had put Jan Harwood in Lake George the night before she disappeared. The store owner, Ted Brehl, reported that Jan had said she didn’t know where she was headed, that her husband was planning some sort of surprise. And her boss, Ernie Bertram, had backed this up, saying that Jan was headed on some sort of “mysterious” trip with her husband Friday.

Was it possible Ted Brehl was the last person to see Jan Harwood? Not counting David Harwood, of course. Duckworth was becoming increasingly convinced that David Harwood was the last person to see his wife alive.

And he was getting a gut feeling no one else ever would.

Arlene Harwood tried to keep busy. Her husband, who could sometimes get underfoot and be-let’s be honest here-a real pain in the ass when he started telling her how to do things, was entertaining Ethan. That was good. Don had gone into the garage and found an old croquet set, and with Ethan’s help had set it up in the backyard. But Ethan quickly adopted a playing style that had little to do with hitting the wooden balls through the hoops. Just whacking the balls in any old direction kept him occupied, and Don quickly abandoned plans to teach his grandson the game’s finer points.

Arlene, meanwhile, went from one activity to another. She did some dishes, she ironed, she paid some bills online, she tried to read the paper, she flipped through the TV channels. The one thing she did not do, at least not for more than a minute or so, was use the phone. She didn’t want to tie up the line. David might call. Maybe the police.

Maybe Jan.

When she wasn’t feeling desperately worried for her daughter-in-law, she was thinking about her son and grandson. What if something had happened to Jan? How would David deal with it? How would Ethan deal with losing a mother?

She didn’t want to let her mind go there. She wanted to think positively, but she’d always been a realist. Might as well prepare yourself for the worst, and if things turned out better than you’d expected, well, that was a bonus.

She racked her brain trying to figure out where Jan might have gone, what might have happened to her. The thing was, she’d always had a feeling that she’d never shared with her son or her husband. She certainly couldn’t tell Don-he’d never be able to keep his mouth shut about how she felt. But there was something about Jan that wasn’t quite right.

Arlene Harwood couldn’t say what it was. It might have had something to do with how Jan handled men, and didn’t handle women. David had fallen for her hard soon after he met her while doing a story for the Standard on people looking for jobs at the city employment office. Jan was new to town, looking for work, and David tried to coax some quotes out of her. But Jan was reserved, didn’t want her name in the paper or to be part of the piece.

Something about her touched David. She seemed, he once disclosed to his mother, “adrift.”

Although she wouldn’t be interviewed for the piece, she did disclose, after some persistent questioning from David, that she lived alone, didn’t have anyone in her life, and had no family here.

David had once said if it hadn’t been so corny, he would have asked her how a woman as beautiful as Jan could be so alone. Arlene Harwood had thought it a question worth asking.

When David finished interviewing other, more willing subjects at the employment office, he spotted Jan outside waiting for a bus. He offered her a lift, and after some hesitation, she accepted. She had rented a room over a pool hall.

“That’s really-I mean, it’s none of my business,” David said, “but that’s not really a good place for you to live.”

“It’s all I can afford at the moment,” she said. “When I get a job, I’ll find something better.”

“What are you paying?” he asked.

Jan’s eyes widened. “You’re right, it’s none of your business.”

“Tell me,” he said.

She did.

David went back to the paper to write his story. After he’d filed it, he made a call to a woman he knew in Classified. “You got any rentals going in tomorrow I can get a jump on? I know someone looking for a place. Let me give you the price range.”

She emailed him copies of four listings. On the way home, he parked across from the pool hall, went upstairs and down a hallway, knocking on doors until he found Jan.

He handed her the list he’d printed out. “These won’t be in the paper until tomorrow. At least three of these are in way better parts of town than this, and they’re the same as what you’re paying now.” He tried to peer past her into her room. “Doesn’t look like you’d have that much to pack.”

“Who the hell are you?” Jan asked him.

That weekend, he helped her move.

Someone new to rescue, his mother thought, after Samantha Henry made it clear she could manage on her own, thank you very much.

It was a short courtship. (Arlene grimaced to herself; there was a word nobody used anymore. “Courtship.” Just how old was she, anyway?) But damn it all, things did move fast.

They were married in a matter of months.

“Why wait?” David said to his mother. “If she’s the right one, she’s the right one. I’ve been spinning my wheels long enough. I’ve already got a house.” It was true. He’d bought it a couple of years ago, having been persuaded by the business editor that only saps paid rent.

“Jan wants to rush into this, too?”

“And remind me how long you knew Dad before you got married?”

“Got you there,” Don said, walking in on the conversation. They’d gone out for five months before eloping.

The thing was, Don had loved Jan from the first time David brought her home. Jan ingratiated herself effortlessly with David’s father, but did she really make the same effort with his mother? Maybe Arlene was imagining it, but it struck her that Jan had a natural way with men. She got them to give her what she wanted without their even realizing it.

No great mystery there, Arlene thought. Jan was unquestionably desirable. She had the whole package. Not a supermodel’s face, maybe, but the full lips and eyes, the pert nose, went together well. Her long legs looked great in everything from a tight skirt to tattered jeans. And she had a way of communicating her sex appeal without it being tarty. No batting of the eyelashes, no baby girl voices. It was just something she gave off, like a scent.

When David first started bringing her around, Don made an absolute fool of himself, always offering to take her coat, freshen her drink, get her another sofa cushion. Arlene finally spoke to him. “For Christ’s sake,” she said one evening after David and Jan went home. “What’s wrong with you? What’s next? You gonna give her a back rub?”

Don, awakened to the fact that he’d gone overboard, managed to tone it down from that point on, but never stopped being entranced by his son’s girlfriend and future wife.

Arlene, however, was immune to that kind of charm. Not that Jan had ever been anything but cordial with her. (“Cordial”? There I go again, Arlene thought.) But Arlene felt the girl knew that what worked with men wouldn’t pass muster with her.

What kind of girl, Arlene wondered, cuts off all ties with her family? Sure, not everyone came from a home as loving as the one she made, but come on. Jan didn’t even let her parents know when Ethan was born. How bad did parents have to be not to let them know they had a grandson?

Jan must have had her reasons, Arlene told herself. But it just didn’t seem right.

The doorbell rang.

Arlene was only steps away from the door at the time, going through the front hall closet, wondering how many years it had been since some of the coats at the ends had been worn, whether it was time to donate some of them to Goodwill. Startled by the sound, she clutched her chest and shouted, “My God!”

She closed the closet so she could see the front door. Through the glass she spotted an overweight man in a suit and loosened tie.

“You scared me half to death,” she said as she opened the door.

“I’m sorry. I’m Detective Duckworth, Promise Falls police. You’re Mrs. Harwood?”

“That’s right.”

“David’s mother?”

“Yes.”

“I’m heading the investigation into your daughter-in-law’s disappearance. I’d like to ask you some questions.”

“Oh, of course, please come in.” As Duckworth crossed the threshold she asked, “You haven’t found her, have you?”

“No, ma’am,” he said. “Is your son home?”

“No, but Ethan’s here. He’s out back playing with his grandfather. Did you want me to get him in here?”

“No, that’s okay. I met Ethan yesterday. He’s a handsome young fellow.”

Normally, Arlene Harwood might have swelled with pride. But she was too anxious about why the detective was here. She pointed to the living room couch, then realized several of Ethan’s action figures were scattered there.

“That’s okay,” Duckworth said, moving them out of the way. “My son’s nearly twenty and still collects these things.” He sat down and waited for Arlene to do the same.

“Should I get my husband?” she asked.

“We can talk for a moment, and then maybe I’ll have a chat with him. This is the first I’ve had a chance to talk to you.”

“If there’s anything I can do-”

“Oh, I know. Your son… this must be a terrible time for him right now.”

“It’s just dreadful for all of us. Ethan, he doesn’t really understand how serious it is. He just thinks his mother has gone away for a little while.”

Duckworth found an opening. “You have some reason to think that’s not the case?”

“Oh, I mean, what I meant was… I mean, we are hoping that’s all this is. But it’s so unlike Jan to just take off. She’s never done anything like that before, or if she has, David’s certainly never mentioned it.” She bit her lip, thinking maybe that came out wrong. “I mean, not that he keeps things from me. He counts on us a lot for support. We-my husband and I-look after Ethan all the time, now that we’re retired. He doesn’t go to day care, and he’ll be starting school next month.”

“Of course,” Barry said. “Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary with Jan lately? A change in mood?”

“Oh my, yes. David’s been saying the last couple of weeks Jan has seemed very down, depressed. It’s been a tremendous worry to him. Did he tell you Jan talked about jumping off a bridge?”

“He did.”

“I can’t imagine what might have triggered it.”

“So you observed this yourself, this change in Jan’s mood?”

Arlene stopped to consider. “Well, she’s not here all that much. Dropping off Ethan in the morning, picking him up at night. We usually only have time to say a few words to each other.”

“Keeping in mind that you’ve only seen her for short periods, would you agree that Jan’s been troubled lately?”

“Well,” she hesitated, “I think Jan always puts on her best face when she’s around her in-laws. I think if she was feeling bad, she might try not to show it.”

“So you can’t point to any one incident, say, where Jan acted depressed?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“That’s okay. I’m just asking all kinds of questions here, and some of them, I have to admit, may not make a lot of sense, you know?”

“Of course.”

“Do you know whether Jan and Leanne Kowalski ever talked about taking a trip together? Were they close friends?”

“Leanne? Isn’t that the girl who works in the office with Jan?”

“That’s right.”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t know. I don’t really know who Jan socializes with. You’d do better asking David about that.”

“That’s a good idea,” he said. “Now, I’m just trying to nail down Jan’s movements in the day before she went missing.”

“Why is that important?” Arlene Harwood asked.

“It just gives us a better idea of a person’s habits and their behavior.”

“Okay.”

“Do you know what Jan was doing on the Friday before she went to the Five Mountains park?”

“I don’t really know. I mean-oh wait, she and David went for a drive.”

“Oh yes?” Duckworth said, making notes. “A drive where?”

“I’m trying to remember. But David asked if we would look after Ethan longer that day, because he had to go someplace and Jan was going to go along with him.”

“Do you know where they were going? What they were going to do?”

“I’m not sure. You really should ask David. Do you want me to get him on the phone? He’s on his way back from Rochester right now.”

“No, that’s okay. I just wondered if you had any idea.”

“I think it had something to do with work. He’s a reporter for the Standard, but you probably already know that.”

“I do, yes. So you think he was going somewhere on a story. An interview?”

“I really can’t say. I know he’s been working on that new prison that’s supposed to come to town. You know about that?”

“I’ve heard about it,” Duckworth said. “Isn’t it unusual for your son to take his wife along with him when he’s working?”

Arlene hesitated and shrugged. “I don’t really know.”

“So, he asked you to babysit Ethan until they got back from this trip?”

“That’s right.”

“When was that?”

“In the evening. Before it got dark. David came by to pick up Ethan.”

“David and Jan,” Duckworth said.

“Actually, just David,” Arlene said.

“Jan waited in the car?”

“No, David came by on his own.”

Duckworth nodded, like there was nothing odd about this, but he had a strange tingling going on in the back of his neck. “So why would that be? Wouldn’t it make sense for the two of them to drop by here on the way home and pick up Ethan?”

“She wasn’t feeling well,” Arlene said.

“I’m sorry?”

“David told me. He said Jan wasn’t feeling well during the drive back, so he dropped her at their place, and then he came over here for Ethan.”

“I see,” Duckworth said. “What was wrong with her?”

“A headache or something, I think David said.”

“Okay. But I guess she felt well enough in the morning to go to Five Mountains. How did she seem to you then?”

“I didn’t see her in the morning. They went straight to the park,” Arlene said. Outside, the sound of a car door closing. Arlene got up and went to the window. “It’s David. He should be able to help you with these questions.”

“I’m sure he will,” Duckworth said, getting to his feet.

TWENTY-THREE

When I pulled up in front of my parents’ house, I spotted an unmarked police car at the curb.

My pulse quickened as I parked behind it. I was out of the car in a second and took the steps up to the porch two at a time. As I was swinging open the door, I found Barry Duckworth standing there.

“Mr. Harwood,” he said.

“Has something happened?” I asked. I’d only run a few steps but felt out of breath. It was an adrenaline rush.

“No, no, nothing new,” he said. Mom was standing just behind him, her eyes desperate and sorrowful. “I was driving by and decided to stop. Your mother and I were having a chat.”

“Have you found out anything? Did they search the park again? Did anything turn up on the surveillance cameras? Has-”

Duckworth held up his hand. “If there are any developments, I promise you’ll be the first to know.”

I felt deflated. But the truth was, I was the one with news.

“I need to talk to you,” I said to him.

“Sure.”

“But I want to see Ethan first,” I said. I could hear his laughter coming from the backyard. I started to move past the detective but he reached up and held my arm.

“I think it would be good if we could talk right now,” he said.

My eyes met his. Even though he’d said there was nothing new, I could tell he was holding something back. If he’d had good news, he would have just told me.

“Something has happened,” I whispered to him. “Don’t tell me you’ve found her.”

“No, sir, we have not,” he said. “But it would help if you’d come down to the station with me.”

I had that feeling you get from too much caffeine. Like electrical impulses were racing through my body. I wondered if he could feel them in my arm.

Trying to keep the anxiety out of my voice, I said, “Okay.”

He let go of my arm and went out the door. Mom came up and hugged me. She must not have known what to say, because she said nothing.

“It’s okay, Mom,” I said. “I’m sorry. I was going to take Ethan off your hands-”

“Don’t be stupid,” she said. “Just go with him.” She let go and I could see tears welling up in her eyes. “David, I’m sorry, I think I may have said something-”

“What?”

“That detective, he looked at me funny when I said that Jan-”

“Mr. Harwood!”

I looked over my shoulder. Detective Duckworth had the passenger door of his unmarked car open, waiting for me.

“I have to go,” I said. I gave my mother a hug and ran down to Duckworth’s car, hopping into the front seat. He was going to close the door for me, but I grabbed the handle and slammed it shut myself.

When he got into the driver’s seat, I said, “I could just follow you in. Then you wouldn’t have to bring me back.”

“Don’t worry about that,” he said, putting the car into drive, looking back and then hitting the gas. “This will give us more time to talk.”

“Why are we going to the station?”

Duckworth gave his head a small shake, his way of ignoring my question. “So you came back from Rochester, what, this morning?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“And you went out there why again?”

“I was looking for Jan’s parents.”

“The ones she hasn’t spoken to in years.”

“Yes.”

“Did you find them?”

I hesitated. “That’s what I want to talk to you about. But let me ask you something first.”

He glanced over. “Shoot.”

“If the FBI or some other organization, if they put someone in the witness protection program, and they resettle them in your own backyard, do they give you a heads-up about it?”

Duckworth seemed to take a long time before answering, his tongue moving around the inside of his cheek. Finally, “What’s that again?”

I repeated it.

“Well, I guess that might depend on the situation. But generally speaking, the FBI tends to view local law enforcement as a bunch of know-nothing hicks, so my guess is they’d not be inclined to share that kind of information. Also, in their defense, the more people know something like that, the more likely someone’s going to find out.”

I considered that. “That could be.”

“And you’re asking this because…?” Duckworth asked.

“I’m not saying this is what’s happened, but I think it’s just possible that-”

“No, wait, let me guess,” Duckworth said. “Your wife is a witness in hiding. And her cover’s been blown, and now she’s taken off.”

“Is this a joke to you? I thought you’d want to know about this.”

“No, no, that’s a very serious thing,” he said. “Very serious.”

“You think I’m full of shit,” I said.

I thought maybe he’d deny the accusation, and when he didn’t, I said, “I think Jan may not be who she says she is.”

Another glance. Then, “And just who is she, really? Tell me, I’m listening.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve… I’ve found out some things in the last day that don’t make a whole lot of sense to me. And they may have something to do with why Jan’s missing.”

“And what are these things you’ve found out?”

“I went to Rochester and found the people who are listed on Jan’s birth certificate as her parents.”

“And that’s who?”

“Horace and Gretchen Richler. The thing is, they had a daughter named Jan, but she died when she was five.”

The tongue was moving around inside Duckworth’s cheek again. “Okay,” he said.

“It was an accident. Her father hit her with the car, backing out of the driveway.”

“Man,” Duckworth said. “How do you live with that the rest of your life?”

“Yeah.” I gave him a minute for it to sink in. “What do you make of that?”

“You know what? Let me make a call when we get to the station. And while someone’s looking into that, we can talk about some other things.”

“Have a seat,” he said, pointing to the plain chair at the plain desk in the plain room.

“Isn’t this an interrogation room?” I asked.

“It’s a room,” Duckworth said. “A room is a room. I want to talk to you privately, it’s as good a place as any. But hang on for a second while I make a call about that witness protection thing. You want a coffee or a soft drink or something?”

I said I was okay.

“Be right back, then.” He slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him.

I walked over to the table, stood there a moment, finally sat down on one of the metal chairs.

This didn’t feel right.

Duckworth brings me in, says he wants to talk about something but doesn’t say what, puts me in a room, leaves me alone.

There was a mirror on one wall. I wondered whether Duckworth was on the other side, watching through one-way glass to see how I behaved. Was I fidgeting, pacing, running my fingers nervously through my hair?

I stayed in the chair, tried to calm down. But inside I was churning.

After about five minutes, the door opened. Duckworth had a coffee in one hand, and a bottled water tucked under his arm so he could turn the knob.

“Got myself a coffee,” he said. “I grabbed you a water, just in case.”

“I’m not an idiot,” I said.

“Say what?”

“I’m not an idiot. The way this is going. Bringing me down here. Leaving me in here to sweat it out for a while on my own. I get it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Duckworth said, pulling up a chair and setting the coffee and water on the table.

“Look, I’m not the greatest reporter in the world. If I were, I wouldn’t be at the Standard. They stopped caring about journalism a long time ago. But I’ve been around long enough to know the score. You think I’m some kind of suspect or something.”

“I never said that.”

“So tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you don’t think I have anything to do with this.”

“How about you tell me about this trip you took up to Lake George two days ago?”

“What?”

“You’ve never mentioned it. Why’s that?”

“Why would I? Jan went missing the following day. Why would I bring up what happened on Friday?”

“Why don’t you tell me about it now?”

“Why is this important?”

“Is there some reason you don’t want to tell me, Mr. Harwood?”

“No, of course not, but-fine. Jan and I drove up to Lake George to meet with a source. Actually, I was meeting with the source. Jan just came along.”

“A source?”

“For a story I’ve been working on.”

“What story is that?”

I hesitated before continuing. Could I discuss with the police stories I was working on for the Standard? Was it ethical? Did it violate journalistic principles?

Did I really, at this moment, give a flying fuck?

“I’ve been working on stories about Star Spangled Corrections wanting to come to Promise Falls. The company has been doing favors for at least one council member that I know of. Someone sent me an email, that there were others taking payoffs or kickbacks, or whatever, to buy their votes when the prison comes up before council for zoning approvals.”

“Who sent you the email?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Oh,” said Duckworth, looking like he wanted to roll his eyes but restraining himself. “Confidentiality. Protecting your source.”

“No,” I said. “The email was anonymous.”

“But if you met with this person, you must know who it is.”

“She didn’t show up,” I said.

“She?”

“She said in her email that I was to look for a woman in a white truck. No woman in a white truck showed up.”

“Where was she supposed to meet you?”

“At a general store/gas station place north of Lake George. Ted’s, it was called.”

“So you drove up there?”

“That’s right. Friday afternoon. She was supposed to come at five.”

“And you took your wife with you?”

“Yes.”

“Why’d you do that? Do you normally take your wife along when you’re going to interview someone?”

“Not usually.”

“Have you ever taken your wife with you before when you were on an assignment?”

I thought. “I’m sure I have, but I can’t actually think of an instance. There was an awards dinner a couple of years ago.”

“You were covering the awards? Or you were up for one?”

“I was up for one. For spot news reporting.”

“So that wasn’t really an assignment. That was the sort of thing anyone would take their spouse to.”

“I suppose so,” I conceded.

“Did you win?” Duckworth asked.

“No.”

“So then, why did you take your wife on this outing?”

“Like I told you, she’s been feeling depressed the last few weeks, and she told me she was going to take Friday off, so I suggested she come along for the ride. She could keep me company on the way up and back.”

“Okay,” Duckworth said. “What did you talk about on the way up?”

I shook my head in frustration. “I don’t know, we just-What’s the point of this, Detective?”

“I’m just getting a full picture of the events that led up to your wife’s disappearance.”

“Our drive to Lake George did not lead up to her disappearance. It’s just something we did the day before Five Mountains. Unless-”

Duckworth cocked his head to one side. “Unless?”

The car. The one Jan had spotted following us. The one that did a couple of drive-bys of the place where I was supposed to meet the woman.

“I think we were followed,” I said.

Duckworth leaned back in his chair. His eyebrows went up. “You were followed.”

I nodded. “Jan noticed a car following us up. But I wasn’t that sure. Then, when we were waiting in the parking lot for this contact to show up, the car drove by a couple of times. Went up the road, turned around and came back. I ran out to it at one point, trying to get a look at who it was, but then the car sped off.”

Duckworth folded his arms across his chest. His forearms sat on his belly like it was a countertop. He hadn’t touched his coffee yet, and I hadn’t cracked the top of the bottled water.

“You were followed,” he said again.

“I’m pretty sure,” I said.

“Who would have followed you?”

“I don’t know. At the time, I figured it was someone who found out this woman had arranged to meet me. I thought maybe that was what scared her off. She saw that car snooping about and chickened out.”

“But now you have a different theory?”

“I don’t know. You’re so interested in what happened Friday, and after what I found out from these people I thought were Jan’s parents, maybe the person in that car was following Jan. Maybe that’s what this is all about. She’s a relocated witness, someone figured out who she was, was following her, and she had to disappear.”

Duckworth, finally, took a sip of his coffee. He smiled. “You’re not going to believe this, but this coffee is fantastic. We’ve got this one guy, he works burglary, makes the best pot of coffee. Better than Starbucks. What are the odds, in a police station, you know? You sure you don’t want a cup?”

“No thanks.”

“So, what did you tell your wife about where you were going?”

“I told her what I’ve told you. That I was going up there to meet with this woman.”

“Who was going to tell you all the council members who’re taking payoffs from this prison outfit.”

“That’s what she suggested in her email.”

“I guess you wouldn’t have any trouble producing this email for me,” Duckworth said. “When did you receive it?”

“Last Thursday,” I said. “And… I deleted it.”

“Oh,” Duckworth said. “That seems like an odd thing to do. Why’d you do it?”

“Because,” I said slowly, “I didn’t want it left in the system.”

“At your own office? Why?”

I thought before answering. “I don’t think everyone at the Standard shares my enthusiasm for pursuing this story.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Just that I’m learning not to present stories on this prison thing unless they’re completely nailed down. I want to make it hard for my superiors to say no to printing something. I like to play my cards close to the chest. So I don’t leave emails around for them to read.”

Duckworth looked unconvinced, but went in another direction. “Do you remember the email address?”

I took a look around the room and shook my head, disgusted with myself. “No. It was just random numbers and letters strung together. A Hotmail address.”

“I see. Okay then,” Duckworth said, “tell me about this car that was following you. Make, model?”

“It was dark blue. It was a Buick with tinted windows. A four-door sedan.”

Duckworth nodded, impressed. “Did you happen to get a plate number?”

“I tried,” I said. “But it was covered with mud. But it was a New York plate.”

“I see. Was the whole car covered in mud, or just the plate?”

“The car was pretty clean, actually. Just the plate was dirtied up. Doesn’t that tell you they probably did it deliberately?”

“Absolutely,” Duckworth said.

“Don’t patronize me,” I said. “You don’t believe a word I’m saying. I can tell. I can see it in your face. But we were there. If you don’t believe me talk to whoever was working in the store that day. It’s called…” I struggled to remember the exact name of the place. “Ted’s Lakeview General Store. That was it. Jan went in to buy something to drink. Someone there might remember her.”

Duckworth looked at me without saying anything.

“What?” I said.

“I believe you were there,” he said. “I don’t doubt that for a minute.”

He was good at keeping me off guard. Just when I was sure he didn’t trust what I was saying, he seemed to accept that last part.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“So when did you drive home?”

“I stayed until around five-thirty, and when I was sure the woman wasn’t going to show, we drove back.”

“Both of you,” Duckworth said.

“Of course both of us.”

“Any stops along the way?”

“Just to my parents’ place. To pick up Ethan.”

“So both of you went to get your son.”

I could tell he already knew the truth here. “No,” I said. “I went alone to get Ethan.”

“I’m confused,” he said, although I doubted that. “How did you end up going to your parents’ house alone?”

“Jan wasn’t feeling well,” I said. “She had a headache. She asked me to drop her off at our house first. She didn’t feel well enough to see my parents. Or maybe she didn’t want to see them, and just said she had a headache.”

Duckworth nodded a little too hard. “Okay, okay. But isn’t your parents’ place on the way home? I mean, you’d have to pass your parents’ house to get to yours coming back from Lake George, then double back to get your son.”

“That’s true,” I said. “But sometimes my parents… they like to talk. They would have thought it rude not to at least come out to the car to talk to Jan. And she wasn’t up to that. That’s why I took her home first. What are you getting at? You think I left her up in Lake George?”

When Duckworth didn’t say anything right away, I said, “Do I have to bring my son in here? Do I need Ethan as a witness? To tell you my wife came back with me that day?”

“I don’t think there’s any need for that,” Duckworth said. “I wouldn’t want to put a four-year-old through anything like that.”

“Why’s that? Because if he backed me up, you wouldn’t believe it anyway? Because he’s a kid? And you’d think I coached him?”

“I never said anything of the kind,” Duckworth said, taking another sip of coffee.

“At least go up there,” I said. “Talk to whoever was working at Ted’s store that day.”

Duckworth said. “There’s no problem there, Mr. Harwood. Your wife’s been identified as being in the store at the time you say.”

I waited.

“Trouble is what she had to say when she was in there.”

“Excuse me?”

“She said you’d driven up there for some sort of surprise. She said she had no idea what she was doing up there.”

“What?”

“She didn’t know why you were taking her up there. She seemed not to know what you had in mind.”

It felt like a punch to the gut.

“That’s crazy,” I said. “Jan knew why we were going up there. Whoever told you that’s lying.”

“Why would someone lie about that?” Duckworth asked.

“I have no idea. But it’s not true. Jan wouldn’t have said that. It makes no sense for her to have said that.”

“Why did Mrs. Harwood tell you that you’d be happier if she was gone? Maybe even dead?”

“What?” I said again.

“You heard me.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Are you denying she ever said that?”

I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Not for several seconds. Finally, quietly, I said, “Gina’s.”

“Yes?”

“Almost two weeks ago, I think. We were having dinner-we were going to have dinner-at Gina’s. This is what you’re referring to.”

“Suppose you tell me.”

“Jan was very distraught through dinner. She said some crazy things. And then she had this outburst-probably loud enough for anyone in the restaurant to hear-that I’d be happy to be rid of her. Something along those lines. But not that I wanted her dead. She never said that.”

“So you would be happy if you could be rid of her, but not if it meant she had to die.”

“No! None of it’s true. I mean, yes, she said I’d be happier without her, but it’s not true. I don’t know why she’d think that, unless it’s all tied in to her depression. Did you talk to Gina? Because if she’s saying Jan said I wanted her dead, that’s horseshit.”

“About Jan’s depression,” Duckworth said, “it’s kind of interesting that the only one who’s noticed your wife has been suffering from that is you.”

I was shaking my head violently. “That’s not true. That’s not true at all. Talk to her doctor. Talk to Dr. Samuels. He’ll tell you.”

Duckworth gave me a pitying look. “Your wife never went to see Dr. Samuels.”

“For Christ’s sake,” I said. “Get him on the phone.”

“I’ve talked to him,” Duckworth said. “Jan Harwood never went to see him about her depression.”

I think I did a pretty good impression of a slack-jawed idiot at that moment. I stared at him, openmouthed, trying to make sense of the news.

Finally, I said, “That’s a load of horseshit, too.”

But it only took me another couple of seconds to realize it was possible Jan could have lied to me about going to see the doctor, just so I’d get off her case. But this clown at the Lake George store, suggesting Jan didn’t know why I’d brought her along, that person was a goddamn liar, there was no doubt in my mind about that.

“So everyone’s full of shit,” Duckworth said. “What about the security cameras and the computers at Five Mountains? Are they full of shit, too?”

“The ticket thing?” I asked. “Is that what you mean?”

“Why were only two tickets charged to your wife’s card, Mr. Harwood? One adult, one child. Was it because you knew you wouldn’t be taking your wife with you? Did you take her card out of her purse when you were online, or had you written down the details earlier?”

“I didn’t order them,” I said. “Jan ordered them. And she was there, at the park. I can’t explain the ticket thing. Maybe… maybe, when she came back from the car, she realized she’d printed out the wrong thing, that there wasn’t a ticket for her, and she paid cash to get in.”

“We’ve looked at all the security footage at the gates, and we can’t find her. Not coming in, and not going out.”

“Then there’s something wrong with it,” I said. “Maybe there’s some footage that’s missing.”

I pointed at him, then started stabbing the table with my index finger to make a point. “Look, I see what you’re doing here, and you’ve got it wrong. The first thing you need to do is check out this thing with Jan’s birth certificate, these people I thought were her parents, but who turned out not to be.”

“So show it to me,” Duckworth said.

“I don’t… have it.”

“It’s at your house?”

I shook my head. “It had been hidden. It was in an envelope, behind a baseboard in the linen closet. But I looked today, when I got back from Rochester, and it was gone.”

“Well.”

“Come on. Can’t you call those things up anyway? The state has records. You can get a copy of it. Can’t you do that?”

Duckworth nodded slowly. “I suppose I could.”

“But you’re not going to. Because you don’t believe anything I’ve told you.”

“Which story would you like me to believe, Mr. Harwood? The one about your wife wanting to kill herself, or the one about her being in the witness protection program? Or have you got a third one waiting in the wings?”

I put my elbows on the table and my head in my hands. “My wife’s out there somewhere and you need to be looking for her.”

“You know what would save me a lot of time in that regard?” Duckworth asked.

I raised my head. “What?”

“You could tell me where she is. What did you do with her, Mr. Harwood? What did you do with your wife?”

TWENTY-FOUR

“I didn’t do anything with her!” I shouted at Barry Duckworth. “I swear to God I didn’t. Why the hell would I want to hurt her? I love her! She’s my wife, for God’s sake. We have a son!”

Duckworth sat expressionless, unruffled.

“I am not lying to you!” I said. “I’m not making this up! Jan’s been depressed. She told me she went to the doctor. So maybe she didn’t go, maybe she didn’t tell me the truth about that. But that’s what she told me.”

Still nothing.

“Look, I don’t know how to explain that no one else noticed how Jan was feeling. Maybe… maybe she could only be herself when she was with me. When she was with others, she put on this act, put on a happy face, to get by.” I shook my head in frustration. “I don’t know what to tell you.” Then, an idea. “You should talk to Leanne. Have you talked to her yet? They work together. Leanne sees Jan day in and day out. Even if Jan was able to hide how she was feeling with most people, Leanne would pick something up.”

“Leanne.” Duckworth said the name slowly.

“Leanne Kowalski,” I said. “She’d be in the book. Her husband’s name, I’m trying to think. It starts with an ‘L,’ too. Lionel, or Lyall, something like that.”

“I’ll have to check that out,” Duckworth said. There was something in his tone, like he either didn’t think Leanne was worth talking to, or he’d already done it. “How would you describe Jan’s relationship with Leanne?”

“Relationship?”

“Good friends?”

“I’ve told you this. They just worked together. Leanne generally acts like she’s got a pickle up her ass.”

“They ever do things together?” Duckworth asked.

“Like what?”

“Lunch, shopping? Catch a movie?”

“No.”

“They didn’t hang out sometimes after work?”

“How many times do I have to tell you? No. Why’s this important?”

“No reason,” Duckworth said.

“Look, just talk to her. Talk to anyone. Talk to every goddamn person you can find. You’re not going to find anyone who thinks I have anything to do with Jan’s disappearance. I love her.”

“I’m sure,” Duckworth said.

“Fuck this,” I said. “You have this so completely wrong.” I pushed back my chair and stood up. “Am I under arrest or anything?”

“Absolutely not,” Duckworth said.

“Do I need a lawyer?”

“Do you think you need a lawyer?” he asked.

There was no smart way to answer that. If I said yes, I looked guilty. If I said no, I looked like a fool.

“I’m going to need a ride back to my car and-no, forget it. I’ll find my own way back to my parents’ place.”

“About that,” Duckworth said. “Before we sat down for our little chat, I popped out to see about search warrants. We’re seizing both of your cars, Mr. Harwood, and we’re going to be conducting a search of your house.”

“You’re what?”

“So maybe getting in touch with a lawyer would be a good thing.”

“You’re going to search my house?” I said.

“We’re already doing it,” he said.

“You think I’ve hidden Jan in our house? Are you serious?”

As if on cue, my cell phone rang. I flipped it open, recognized my parents’ number.

“Hello?”

“David?” My mother.

“Yes?”

“They’re towing away your car!”

“I know, Mom, I just found out that-”

“I went out and told them they couldn’t do that, that you can park for free for three hours on that side of the street, but-”

“Mom, there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“You need to get here fast! They’re loading it onto the back of another truck right now! Your father’s out there telling them they’ve made a mistake but-”

“Mom! Listen to me! I’m at the police station and I need a ride-”

“One of my men can give you a lift,” Duckworth said.

I glanced at him. “Go fuck yourself.”

“What?” said Mom.

“Send Dad down here,” I said. “Can you do that?”

“Are you okay? Are you in some kind of-”

“Mom, just send Dad and I’ll explain it when I get there.” I closed the phone and slipped it back into my coat.

“You son of a bitch,” I said to Duckworth. “You goddamn son of a bitch. I’m not the bad guy here. You’re going to have people searching my house when they should be searching all over Promise Falls. What if my wife’s tried to take her life? What if she’s somewhere and needs help? What if she needs medical attention? And what are you doing? Turning my life upside down?”

Duckworth opened the door for me and I went through it. I was heading for the main lobby, with Duckworth following, making sure, I supposed, that I got out of the building without causing any trouble. I was nearly to the front doors, people going this way and that, when I stopped suddenly, turned, and said to him, “You didn’t even ask anyone to check the witness protection thing, did you?”

Duckworth said nothing.

“You have to look into Jan’s background. I know, at first, I thought maybe Jan had killed herself. That’s the way it was looking to me. But there’s more going on here than I realized. And I don’t even know what the hell it is.”

“I can assure you, Mr. Harwood, that I’ll be following this investigation wherever it goes.”

“I’m telling you,” I said, leaning in close to him, getting right in his face, “I did not kill my wife.”

“Well,” said a familiar voice off to one side.

Duckworth and I both turned to see Stan Reeves, the city hall councilor, standing there. A grin was creeping across his face.

“I’ll be damned,” he said, looking at me. “If it’s not the holier-than-thou David Harwood of the Standard. The things you hear when you’re just dropping by to pay a parking ticket.”

TWENTY-FIVE

I broke away from Duckworth and headed for the door, glancing back only once to see Stan Reeves talking to the detective.

Dad pulled up to the curb in his blue Crown Victoria about five minutes later. I got in the passenger side and slammed the door.

“Watch it, you’ll shatter the glass,” he said.

“What’s happening at the house?” I asked.

“It’s like your mother told you on the phone. They took it away.”

I had the keys on me, but the police wouldn’t need them to remove the car, or get into it.

“It wasn’t parked illegally,” Dad said.

“That’s not why they towed it,” I said.

Dad looked at me with disappointment. “They repossessed it? Jesus, you didn’t keep up your payments?”

I suppose it was a sign of faith in me that Dad would suspect me of being a deadbeat before he’d think of me as a murderer.

“Dad, the police are looking for evidence.”

“Evidence?”

“I think the police are… I think the police are looking at me as a suspect.”

“A suspect in what?” he asked.

“They think maybe I did something with Jan.”

“Jesus!” he said. “Why the hell would they think that?”

“Dad, take me by my house.”

“She’s your wife, David! What’s wrong with them? You’d never hurt Jan. And why do they think something’s happened to her?” Suddenly it registered. “Oh my God, son, they haven’t found her, have they? Have they found a body?”

“No,” I said. “Cops, they always look at the husband when a wife goes missing.” Was I trying to make Dad feel better, or myself? Maybe my interrogation by Duckworth was just standard operating procedure. Something the cops did as a matter of course.

No. There was more to it than that. The circumstances of Jan’s disappearance were working against me. The fact that only two tickets had been ordered online. The fact that no one-other than Ethan and me-had seen Jan since before the trip up to Lake George. The fact that Jan had not disclosed to anyone else how depressed she’d been feeling the last couple of weeks.

I believed most of those things could be explained. What I couldn’t figure out was why the person working at Ted’s Lakeview General Store was lying. Why would someone tell police Jan had said she didn’t know where she was going, that her husband had brought her up there for some sort of surprise?

That was crazy.

Jan had gone in to buy a couple of drinks. Nothing more, nothing less. How likely was it that she would strike up a conversation with whoever was behind the counter about anything, let alone why she was up there with her husband? I could imagine a short exchange about the weather, but what possible reason could Jan have for telling someone she’d been brought up there for reasons unknown? Given that I’d gone up there to meet a source, it stood to reason that Jan would have said very little, even if asked what she was doing up at Lake George.

If that’s what the proprietor at Ted’s told the police, he or she was lying.

Unless, of course, Detective Duckworth was lying.

Was he making the whole thing up to rattle me? To see how I’d respond? But how did he know in the first place that we’d been up there, that Jan had gone inside to buy drinks? The person she’d bought them from must have contacted the police, after seeing the news reports about Jan.

“What?” Dad said. “What are you thinking?”

“I don’t know what to think,” I said. “Just get me home.”

I saw the police cars out front as we turned the corner. Jan’s car was no longer in the driveway, so they must have scooped it the same time as they were taking mine from my parents’ house. Dad barely had the car stopped before I was out the door, running across the lawn and up the steps. The front door was open and I could hear people talking inside.

“Hello!” I shouted.

A woman, in uniform, appeared at the top of the stairs. I recognized her as the officer who had looked after Ethan at Five Mountains yesterday while I talked to Duckworth. Campion, her name was.

“Mr. Harwood,” she said.

“I want to see the warrant,” I said.

“Alex!” she called, and a small, slender man who couldn’t have been much more than thirty emerged from the bedroom I shared with Jan. His hair was bristle short, and he was dressed in a sport jacket, white dress shirt, and jeans.

“This is Mr. Harwood,” she told him.

The man came down the stairs but didn’t extend a hand. I supposed those sorts of pleasantries were dispensed with when you were turning a man’s house upside down for evidence that he’d offed his wife. “Detective Alex Simpson,” he said, reaching into his jacket. He handed me a paper folded in thirds. “This is a warrant to search these premises.”

I took the paper from him and glanced at it, unable to see through my anger to the words on the page. “Just tell me what the hell you’re looking for and I’ll show it to you,” I said.

“I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way,” Simpson said.

I bounded up the stairs. Campion was looking through my and Jan’s dresser, rooting through socks and underwear. I saw her linger a moment on a garter belt in one of Jan’s drawers, then keep going. “Is this necessary?”

Campion did not answer. I noticed that the laptop that had been in the kitchen was in the middle of the bed. “What’s that doing there?” I asked.

“I’m going to be taking that with me,” Campion said.

“You have to be kidding,” I said. “That’s got all our finances and addresses and everything-”

“David.”

I turned. My father was standing in the doorway. “David, you have to see what they’ve done with Ethan’s room.”

I crossed the hallway. My son’s bed had been stripped, and the mattress was up on its side, leaning against the wall. All the plastic bins where he kept his toys had been dumped and strewn across the floor.

“Come on!” I said. “Why the hell do you have to tear apart my son’s room?”

Simpson came up the stairs. “Mr. Harwood, you have the right to be here while we do this, but you can’t interfere as we do our work, or you will be removed.”

I was speechless with rage. I was about to say something else when the cell in my jacket rang.

“Yeah?” I said.

“Hey, Dave, it’s Samantha. What the hell is going on?”

“I can’t talk right now, Sam.”

“Dave, listen, I’ve got to be up-front with you. This isn’t just a friend calling. I’m looking for a quote. I need something now.”

The Standard’s Monday edition wouldn’t go to press until tonight, so Sam was looking for something for the online edition. I hadn’t had a chance to check the website today, but it was reasonable to assume something was on there, given that Jan had made the TV news the night before.

I took a look into Ethan’s room, a glance back into mine. What I felt most like saying at that moment was that the Promise Falls police were a bunch of morons and assholes who were wasting time harassing me while my wife remained unfound.

But instead I said, “Go ahead, Sam.”

“Is it true,” she asked, “that you’re a suspect in this investigation into what happened to your wife?”

It hadn’t been thirty minutes since I’d left the station. How could the Standard already know that-

Reeves.

I doubted Duckworth would have told the councilor anything, and the detective wouldn’t have had time to call any sort of news conference since I’d left him. But my stupid overheard comment would be all Reeves needed to put in a call to the paper. Undoubtedly an anonymous call. Reeves was a weasel if there ever was one. A simple call to the assignment desk to say that one of the Standard’s own people was spotted at police headquarters, angrily denying that he’d killed his wife, would be enough to get the newsroom buzzing.

The moment Reeves was finished with the Standard, his next calls were probably to the TV and radio stations.

“Sam, where did you get this?”

Dad was looking at me, mouthing, “Who is it?”

“Dave, come on,” Samantha Henry said. “You know how this works. I’m sorry, really, but I have to ask. Is it true? Are you about to be arrested? Are you a suspect? Are you a person of interest? Has Jan’s body been found?”

“Jesus, Sam. Look, just tell me this. What are the police saying? What’s their official comment?”

“I don’t have anything yet from-”

“So this is just a rumor. Someone phone into the desk, not leave his name?”

“Dave, I’m not doing anything you wouldn’t do. We got a tip, and I’m following it up. Look, if you’re going to talk to anybody, you should talk to me. This is your own paper. If anyone’s going to give you a good shake, it’s going to be us.”

I wasn’t so sure about that.

Outside, I heard the squeal of brakes. Still holding the phone to my head, I slipped past my father and down the stairs and looked out the front door.

It was a TV news van.

“I have to go, Sam,” I said, and ended the call.

“Isn’t that News Channel 13?” Dad said.

“Yeah, thanks, Dad,” I said. “We need to get out of here. If they start showing up at your place, I don’t want them bothering Ethan.”

“Okay.”

“We’re just going to walk out calmly and get in your car,” I said.

“Gotcha.”

We walked out together, paying little attention as a driver and reporter got out of the van. I recognized the reporter as Donna Wegman. Late twenties, brunette, always pulling hair away from her eyes during remote newscasts.

“Excuse me,” she called over. “Are you David Harwood?”

I pointed back to the house. “Check with the cops. They might know where to find him.”

On the way, Dad said, “I don’t know if you’ve thought of this, son, but maybe you need to talk to a lawyer or something.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I might have to do that.”

“You could try Buck Thomas. You remember him? When we were having that trouble with the Glendons’ driveway encroaching onto our lot? He’s a good man.”

“I might need someone with a different area of expertise,” I said.

Dad nodded, conceding the point. “Lawyers charge a pretty penny, you know. If money’s a problem, your mom and I, well, we have a bit tucked away. If you need it.”

“Thank you, Dad,” I said. “The thing is, the police haven’t actually charged me with anything. I think if Detective Duckworth really had something on me, he never would have let me walk out of that station.”

Dad nodded again, not taking his eyes off the road. “You’re probably right. And since you haven’t done anything wrong, it’s not like they’re going to find any evidence against you after tearing apart your house and your cars.”

If that comment was meant to put me at ease, it didn’t work.

“Jesus,” Dad said, looking ahead. “Son of a bitch didn’t even signal.”

TWENTY-SIX

They were cruising along the Mass Pike in Dwayne’s tan pickup, which his brother lent to him when he was released from prison. It was a fifteen-year-old Chevy, and despite all the rust around the wheel wells, it ran okay. But it sucked gas, even with the air conditioner off, which was all the time, because it didn’t work.

“Are you sure it’s not working?” Kate asked.

“Just put the fan on.”

“I did and it’s nothing but hot air.”

“You’re nothing but hot air,” Dwayne said. “Just open the window.”

Kate said, “Your brother really hate you? That why he gave you this clunker?”

“You want to walk?”

At least, if his brother gave it to him, chances were the truck was legit. If they did happen to get pulled over-God knows Dwayne had a history of getting arrested at the most inopportune times-the plates were in order. Dwayne even had a renewed driver’s license, praise the Lord.

“You know,” Dwayne said, “I used to know a Kate in high school, used to wear this low-cut thing, and when she’d bend over, she’d know you were looking and didn’t give a shit. Wonder what she’s doing now.”

“I’ll bet she’s not sitting in some antique pickup truck driving on the Mass Pike with no A/C when it’s a hundred degrees out. Maybe we should have hung on to the Explorer. It was old but the air worked.”

Dwayne shot her a look. “What’s with you? You still pissed about what happened back there?”

At Denny’s. She’d given him shit for that as soon as they’d gotten back into the truck and were on the highway.

“What the hell were you thinking?” she’d said. “Probably somebody’s already called the cops.”

“It was no big deal,” Dwayne had said. “I did that guy a favor.”

“What?”

“From now on, he’ll get those kids to behave, they won’t grow up to be monsters.”

For thirty miles she kept looking back, expecting to see flashing red lights. Maybe no one saw them leaving in the truck from Denny’s.

This habit Dwayne had of losing it just when they needed to keep a low profile, it definitely was a problem. She just hoped he could keep a lid on things until they got their business done in Boston.

“Look, I’m sorry about that,” Dwayne said as they continued along the highway. “So put the bitch back in the box and cut me some slack.”

She held her hand out the window, felt the wind blow between her fingers. They didn’t speak for several miles. She was the one to break the silence.

“What was it like?” she asked.

“What was what like?”

“Prison.”

“What are you asking, exactly?”

“Not that,” she said. “I mean, just like, everyday life, what was it like?”

“Wasn’t so bad. You always knew what to expect. You had a routine. You knew when to get up and when to go to bed and when it was lunchtime and when you got to go out in the yard. You had stuff to look forward to.”

This was not the answer she was expecting. “But you couldn’t go anywhere,” she said. “You were, you know, a prisoner.”

Dwayne hung his left arm over the sill. “Yeah, but you didn’t have to make a lot of decisions. What should I wear? What should I eat? What should I do? That kind of stuff wears you down, you know? I don’t know sometimes how regular people do it, having to make so many decisions. Every day you got up, you knew what to expect. It was kind of comforting.”

“So, it was paradise.”

“Not always,” he said, missing the sarcasm. “The food was shitty, and there wasn’t enough of it. If you got in line last, there might not be anything for you. They cut back on how many times they did laundry. Ever since the place went private, the fuckers were looking to pinch pennies every place they could.”

“Private?”

“The place was run by a company, not the state. Some of the guards, you’d listen to them, they got paid so lousy, they’d be talking about whether they were going to make it to payday, what with kids and the mortgage and car payments and all that shit. Almost made you count your blessings. Not that that’s going to be a problem for us very soon.”

Dwayne moved into the passing lane, went around a bus.

“You get what I’m saying?” he said. “About all those decisions? Only decision I want to make is how big a boat I’m gonna get.”

She was thinking about what he’d said. She actually got it. Wasn’t that what her life had been like the last few years? Decisions? Endless decisions? Having to make them not just for yourself but other people?

It did get tiring.

“Let me ask you this,” she said. “You feel free?”

Dwayne squinted. “Yeah, sure, of course. Yeah, I’m free. I wouldn’t trade this for being inside, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

The thing was, she felt like she’d just gotten out of prison, too. She’d escaped, gone over the wall. Here she was, heading down the highway, feet up on the dashboard, the wind blowing her hair all over the place.

What a feeling. What a rush.

She wondered why she didn’t feel better about it.

The plan was pretty simple.

First, they had to go to the two banks. Then, once they had the merchandise from the safe-deposit boxes, they’d find this guy Dwayne heard about who’d assess the value of their goods, then make them an offer. If it wasn’t good enough, Kate figured there’d be room for negotiation. Or they could go see another guy. Where was it written that you had to take the first offer?

She just hoped it would be worth the wait. Hard to figure how it wouldn’t be. She-they-were going to be rich. The only question was how rich. It was the only thing that kept her going all these years. No doubt about it, money was a great motivator. Knowing that at the end, there was going to be-in all likelihood-millions of dollars.

Maybe, if she and Dwayne hadn’t swapped keys, and the moron hadn’t gotten himself thrown in jail on an assault charge, she’d have found a way to move the process along, even if it meant only getting a chance at her half. But when Dwayne got himself arrested, and the key to her safe-deposit box got tossed in with his personal effects where she couldn’t get at it, what choice did she have, really, but to hang in?

Hang in, and hide out. That last part was particularly important. Because she knew someone was going to be looking for her. She’d read the news. She knew the courier had lived, against all odds. Once he recovered, it seemed a safe bet he’d go looking for the person who’d not only relieved him of a fortune in diamonds, but his left hand as well.

She’d always figured she was more at risk than Dwayne. The courier had seen her face. He’d looked right into her eyes before he passed out. She hadn’t expected him to wake up.

The blood.

It wouldn’t take long, she figured, before the courier figured out how she’d gotten onto him.

It had been through his girlfriend, or rather, his ex-girlfriend. Alanna was her name. She’d worked late nights with Alanna at a bar outside Boston. Grabbing a smoke out back during breaks, Alanna would rag on about this guy, what an asshole he turned out to be. How he was always away, going over to Africa and shit, and he’d never let her come to his place, how he was all fucking mysterious about what he did for a living. One time she’s with him, they’re in his Audi, he has to pop into a building to meet somebody, tells her he’ll be back in ten minutes, and she decides to check out this gym bag he’s got tucked down on the floor behind the driver’s seat. She didn’t even know he worked out. First thing she notices is, it sure smells good for a gym bag. Or rather, it sure doesn’t smell bad. What kind of guy has a gym bag that doesn’t smell bad? She starts rooting around in there, doesn’t find any shorts or track shoes or sweatbands, but damned if she doesn’t find these little velvet-lined boxes. One of them’s got half a dozen diamonds in it, and she’s thinking, holy shit, is this stuff real? He comes back out sooner than expected, catches her, has a shit fit, hasn’t called her since.

And the woman who now called herself Kate thought: Diamonds?

She’d been hanging out with this guy Dwayne for a few weeks at that point, told him what she’d heard. They tracked down Alanna’s ex, started watching him, figuring out his routine. Planned a bait-and-switch. They’d meet him with a limo when he came up from New York on Amtrak.

It wouldn’t take the courier long, once the painkillers started wearing off, to figure out Alanna was the leak.

A couple of months after it all went down, there was a story on the Globe website about a woman named Alanna Dysart found floating off Rowes Wharf. There was every reason to think that before she died, she gave her killer the names of everyone she might ever have blabbed to about his line of work.

She might very well have given him the name Connie Tattinger.

And so she vanished.

“So you think you’re on the news yet?” Dwayne asked.

She’d been so wrapped up in her thoughts she didn’t hear him the first time he asked.

“Get off at the next major intersection where there’s some hotels,” she said.

Dwayne aimed the truck down an off-ramp west of where 91 crossed 90, found a hotel with a business office where you could go in and check your email if you were the one business traveler in a thousand who didn’t travel with a laptop.

Kate strolled into the office, told the girl her husband was at the front desk seeing about a room. But first, she needed to check on her sick aunt Belinda. Every time she phoned, the line was busy or she got voicemail. Maybe someone had sent an update to her email address. If Belinda had taken a turn for the worse, she said, laying it on thick, they’d just have to turn right around and go back to Maine, no sense finding that out after they’d registered and-

Go ahead, the girl said. Use this computer, no charge.

She went first to the Standard website, as well as the sites of a couple of the local TV stations.

There were two things she wanted to know.

Was Jan Harwood’s disappearance getting a lot of play?

Had they found the body?

She scanned all the stories she could find, then said to the woman at the desk, “Thanks. She’s taken a turn for the worse. We’re going to have to turn back.”

“I’m so sorry,” the woman said.

Back in the truck, she said to Dwayne, “They haven’t found her yet.”

“That’s not good, is it?” he said.

“It’s only a matter of time,” she said.

Dwayne thought about that for three seconds, then said, “I could definitely go for something to eat.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

Ethan ran into my arms as I walked through the front door of my parents’ house. I hoisted him into the air and kissed both his cheeks.

“I want to go home,” he said.

“Not yet, sport,” I said. “Not yet.”

Ethan shook his head. “I want to go home and I want Mom.”

“Like I said, not right yet.”

He squirmed angrily in my arms to the point that I had to put him down. He strode forcefully down the hall and out the front door.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“I’m going home,” he said.

“The hell you are,” I said and went out after him, grabbing him around the chest and swinging him up into the air. I brought him back inside, plunked him on the floor, gave him a light swat on the butt, and said, “Go find something to do.”

He vanished into the kitchen, where I heard him open the fridge. Ethan usually enjoyed his time here, but he hadn’t been in his own house since early yesterday morning. And as much as my parents loved Ethan, he was probably wearing out his welcome.

“Sorry,” I said to Mom.

“It’s okay,” she said. “He just misses her. David, what’s going on? Why did they take your car away?”

Dad, who’d just come in, said, “You should see what they’re doing at his house. Tearing the goddamn place apart, that’s what they’re doing.”

I steered Mom outside onto the porch where Ethan couldn’t hear. “The police think I did something to Jan,” I said.

“Oh, David.” She was more sorrowful than surprised.

“I think they think I killed her,” I said.

“Why?” she said. “Why would they think such a thing?”

“Things are… things seem to be pointing in my direction,” I said. “Some of it’s just coincidence, like the fact that no one’s actually seen Jan since I took her to Lake George Friday. This mix-up with the online tickets-”

“What mix-up?”

“But then there’s other things, things that don’t make sense, where people have been telling lies. Like up in Lake George, whoever runs that store up there.”

“David, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why would people tell lies about you? Why would someone want to get you in trouble?”

“The boy needs a lawyer, that’s what he needs,” Dad said through the screen door.

“I need to go up there,” I said. “I need to find out why that person’s lying.”

“Is anyone listening to me?” Dad said.

“Dad, please,” I said.

“Your father’s right,” Mom said. “If the police think you had something to do with whatever happened to Jan-”

“I don’t have time now,” I said. “I have to find Jan, and I have to find out why things are being twisted to look like…”

“What?” Mom asked.

“Reeves,” I said.

“The councilor?” Mom said. “Stan Reeves?”

“I was thinking he only just found out about this when I ran into him at the police station. But what if he’s known about it for a while?”

“What are you talking about?” Dad asked.

“And Elmont Sebastian,” I said. “I can’t believe-I know they’ve got it in for me, but they wouldn’t…”

My mind raced. It didn’t take long to connect the dots, but what sort of picture did they form, really?

If something happened to Jan, and if I could be framed for it, I wouldn’t be able to write any more stories challenging Star Spangled Corrections’ bid for a prison in Promise Falls.

There wouldn’t be any more attempts by me to get stories into the paper about how Sebastian was bribing councilors-at least Reeves-to see things his way.

Was that possible? Or was I nuts?

Was it worth going to that much trouble to silence one reporter? I did work for the only paper in town, and despite its decline, the Standard still wielded some influence in Promise Falls. And I was the only one at the paper who seemed to give a shit about this issue. Not just whether for-profit prisons were a good idea, but what Star Spangled Corrections was willing to do to get its way.

And while taking me out of the picture wouldn’t solve all of Elmont Sebastian’s problems, it sure wouldn’t hurt.

But even if it was true, and Elmont Sebastian was manipulating things behind the scenes to have me neutralized, how was I to explain what I’d learned in Rochester? About Jan’s past, or lack of it?

“I need a glass of water,” I said suddenly.

Mom led me into the kitchen, where Ethan was lying on the floor, his head pressed sideways to the linoleum, running a car back and forth in his field of vision, making soft, contented engine noises. Mom ran the tap until the water was cold, filled a glass and handed it to me.

I took a long drink and then said, “There’s something else.”

My parents waited.

“Something about Jan.”

I led them out of the kitchen so Ethan wouldn’t hear what I had to say.

I hit the road half an hour later in my father’s car. Now, having done it, I wasn’t sure telling my parents about what I’d learned in Rochester had been such a good idea. Dad had gone into a rant about incompetent civil servants who’d probably issued Jan the wrong birth certificate.

“I’ll just bet,” he said, “she sent in her particulars to get a birth certificate, and they gave her one for some other Jan Richler, and when she got it in the mail she never even looked at what it said. They pay these people a fortune and they have jobs for life so they don’t care how good they do them.”

But Mom was deeply troubled by the news, and spent much of her time looking out the window into the backyard where Ethan was now whacking croquet balls all over the place. At one point, she said, “What will we tell him? Who are we supposed to tell him his mother really is?”

I floated my theory about the witness protection program, which Dad found plausible enough that it distracted him from his tirade about government slackers. (It never seemed to occur to him that he had been a municipal employee himself.) His willingness to embrace the theory made me doubt its validity.

Dad was still going on about how I needed to get a lawyer even as I got behind the wheel of his car. On this, I had to admit he was talking sense, but I couldn’t bring myself at this point to explain everything that had happened in the last two days to someone new.

I had too much to do.

To placate him, I said, “You want me to get a lawyer? Go ahead and find me one. Just not someone who handles driveway disputes.”

I kept watching my rearview mirror all the way up to Lake George. I wasn’t expecting to see the blue Buick Jan had spotted the last time I’d driven up here, but I did have a feeling that Detective Duckworth, or one of his minions, would be keeping an eye on me. If Duckworth truly believed I was a suspect, it didn’t make sense for him to let me out of his sight.

If I was being followed, they were doing a good job of it. No one car caught my eye the entire drive up. I pulled off the road and into the parking lot of Ted’s Lakeview General Store shortly after three in the afternoon.

The place was far from jumping. No one was pumping gas, and there were only a couple of cars in the lot. Assuming one belonged to whoever was minding the store, that meant maybe one customer inside.

The door jingled as I went in. A thin man in his late sixties or early seventies was behind the counter. At first I thought he was standing, then saw he was perched on the edge of a tall stool. He gave me half a nod, and half a smile, as I came in.

A plump woman already in the shop reached the counter before I did and set down a bag of Doritos, a king-sized Snickers bar, and a bottle of Diet Coke before him. He rang up her purchases, bagged them, and sent her on her way.

Once she was gone, I said, “Are you the Ted?”

“That’s me,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m a reporter for the Promise Falls Standard,” I said. “The police, Detective Duckworth, he told me he was speaking to someone here about that woman who’s gone missing. Would that be you?”

“One and the same,” he said with a lilt in his voice. The suggestion that he was about to be interviewed had brightened him.

“So this woman, Jan Harwood, she was in here?”

“I’m as sure it was her as I am that you’re standing right there,” he said.

“And you called the police? Or were they in touch with you?”

“Well,” he said, slipping off the stool and leaning across the counter, “I saw her on the news the night before, them saying she was missing, and right away I recognized her.”

“Wow,” I said, making notes in the pad I’d taken from my pocket. “But how could you recognize someone who was just in here for a minute?”

“Normally, you’d be right about that,” he said. “But she was pretty chatty, gave me a chance to get a good look at her. Nice-looking lady, too.”

Jan? Chatty?

“What did she have to say?”

“That she was up here for a drive with her husband.”

“She just came out and said that?”

“Well, first, she said how beautiful it was up here, that she’d never been to Lake George before, and I said are you staying somewhere up around here, and she said no, she was just up for a drive with her husband.”

That all sounded plausible. Some friendly conversation. Why was Duckworth trying to make that sound like more than it was?

“So then what?” I asked. “She bought something and left?”

“She bought some drinks, I remember that. Can’t say what they were off the top of my head. An iced tea, I think.”

“And then she was gone?”

“She asked me if there was any interesting things to do around here. Something fun.”

“Something fun?”

“Aren’t you going to write all this down?” Ted asked.

I realized I hadn’t been taking notes. I smiled and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll remember the good stuff.”

“I just don’t want to be misquoted or anything.”

“Don’t worry about that. So what did she mean, something fun?”

“She wondered if there was something to do around here, because her husband had brought her up on a little car trip, and she was wondering why. She thought maybe he was planning to surprise her with something.”

“Did she give any other reason why they were up this way? Like, I don’t know, that they were meeting someone?”

Ted thought about that. “I don’t think so. Just that her husband had brought her up this way and wouldn’t tell her why.”

I set my notepad and pen on the counter and didn’t ask anything else for a moment. Ted was confused.

“There a problem?”

“Why are you lying, Ted?” I asked.

“What’s that?”

“I asked why you’re lying.”

“What the hell are you talking about? I’m telling you the truth. I’m telling you the same thing I told the police.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “I think you’re making this up.”

“Are you some kind of nut? She was here, standing right where you are. Only two days ago.”

“I believe she was here, but I don’t believe she said those things to you. Did someone pay you to tell the police those things? Is that what’s going on?”

“Who the hell are you, anyway?”

“I told you. I’m a reporter, and I don’t like it when people try to jerk me around,” I said.

“For fuck’s sake,” Ted said, “if you don’t believe me, get the police to show you the tape.”

“Tape?”

“Okay, I call it tape, but it’s on a disc or digital or some kind of shit like that. But look.” He pointed over his shoulder. A small camera hung from a bracket that was bolted to the wall. “We got sound, too. It’s not great, but you listen close you can hear what people say. I got robbed pretty bad here back in 2007, asshole even took a shot that went right past my ear and into the wall back here. That’s when I got the camera and the microphone.”

“It’s all recorded?” I said.

“Ask the cops. They came up here earlier today, made a copy of it. Why the hell are you accusing me of lying?”

“Why would she say those things?” I said. But I was talking to myself, not Ted.

I grabbed my notepad, slipped it back into my jacket, and started heading for the door.

Ted called out, “When’s this going to be in the paper?”

I was shaking my head, looking down as I went out the door, trying to come up with a reason why Jan would have told someone she didn’t know why I’d brought her up here. Why she would have said I was planning some kind of surprise for her. It made sense that Jan wouldn’t have told a stranger we’d taken a run up here so I could meet a confidential source. That would have been just plain dumb. But to actually start up a conversation for the purpose of saying those things-what the hell was that about?

Maybe, had I not been so preoccupied, I would have had some inkling that Welland, Elmont Sebastian’s ex-con driver, was waiting to ambush me the moment I came outside.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Welland grabbed hold of me by my jacket and threw me up against the wall of Ted’s Lakeview General Store hard enough to knock the wind out of me.

“What the-”

It was all I managed to say before Welland had his face in mine. “Hey, Mr. Harwood,” he said. As I tried to catch my breath I couldn’t help noticing his was hot and smelled of onions.

“Get your hands off me,” I said. Welland’s arms, like a couple of shock absorbers, had me pinned to the building.

“Mr. Sebastian was hoping,” he said with exaggerated politeness, “you might be able to have a word with him.”

I glanced over and saw the limo only a few feet away, the motor running, the tinted windows all in the up position. I’d have to take Welland’s word that his boss was in there.

“I said get your fucking hands off me,” I said to Welland, still holding me against the building.

Welland, not letting up, said, “Let me ask you something.”

I said nothing.

“Some guys, guys like you, can actually go their whole lives and never actually have to prove themselves. You know what I mean? I’m talking in a man-to-man context.” He said that last word with pride. “You ever had to do that? Or was the last time you were in a fight when you were six years old?”

I still said nothing. The door opened and Ted stuck his head out. “Everything okay out here?”

Welland shot him a look. “Get lost, old man.”

Ted went back inside.

Welland eased off on me, but placed a viselike grip on my arm and led me to the limo. He opened the back door and shoved me through the opening.

Elmont Sebastian sat on the far side of the thickly padded leather seat. In his hand was a Mars bar, the wrapper peeled back on it like it was a banana. I pulled my leg out of the way just in time to keep Welland from closing the door on it.

“Mr. Harwood, a pleasure,” Sebastian said.

Welland came around the car and got behind the wheel. He put the car in drive and sped out of the lot so fast I felt myself thrown back into the seat.

“I think they call this kidnapping,” I said.

Sebastian grinned. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, chewing. “This is a business meeting.”

“I never saw you following me,” I said. “Big car like this is kind of hard to disguise.”

Sebastian nodded. “We were a couple of miles back.”

“Then how did you-”

“We were sloppy last time, having you followed up here with one car, which, to your credit, you spotted. So this time, we used several to keep track of you. I brought in a few of my other staff. When you have a network of institutions such as mine, you have access to a large and varied workforce. Most of them know how to drive. Some of them probably took their driver’s test in stolen cars.” He chuckled at his own joke. “Anyway, once you stopped here again, that information was relayed to me.”

“Where are we going?” I asked as Welland pushed the car north.

“Nowhere in particular,” Sebastian said. “Just toodling about.” He finished the candy bar, wadded the wrapper down into a tiny ball, and tossed it to the floor. There was no other trash there, so I guessed Welland’s duties included more than just driving.

“This’ll make quite a story,” I said. “‘Prison Boss Kidnaps Standard Reporter.’”

“I don’t think you’ll write that,” he said, moving his tongue over his teeth, getting the last little bits of chocolate out of the way.

“Why not?”

“Because you haven’t heard my proposal. Once you have, I think you’ll be feeling more kindly toward me.”

“What sort of proposal?”

He reached out and touched my knee. “First of all, I totally understand if you don’t give me an answer today. I know you have a lot on your plate right now, what with this unfortunate business of your wife.”

“You know all about that,” I said.

“It would be difficult not to,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve seen the news. I believe some reports are calling you a ‘person of interest,’ which has always struck me as a nice way of saying ‘suspect.’ Wouldn’t you agree?”

“How soon did Reeves call you after he left the police station?” I asked.

Sebastian grinned. “I will grant you, the only thing that travels faster than good news is bad news. But then, in your line of work, you probably already know that. Tell me this. Why do the media only focus on the negative? It’s so discouraging, dispiriting even.”

“When a plane lands safely, it doesn’t tend to warrant a headline,” I said.

“Yes, that’s true. Good point. But look at my situation. Here I am, offering a needed service, willing to bring jobs and prosperity to your little shithole town, and all I get is grief. At least from the likes of you.”

“But not my paper,” I said. “It’s been very kind. Have you made a deal yet with Madeline to buy her land?”

Sebastian smiled. “Star Spangled Corrections is exploring a number of options, Mr. Harwood.”

“What makes you think that my current problems will stop me from writing about your plans?”

“Well, I don’t know a lot about journalism, but I think even a minor newspaper like the Standard would have qualms about having a murder suspect actively reporting on the news. My guess is you’ll be on a leave before long.”

Was that something he actually knew? Just a guess? Either way, he was probably right.

“And frankly, even if your current problems, as you call them, should happen to disappear, I don’t think it’s in your interests to pursue this any further.”

“And why would that be?” I asked.

“Let’s come back to that later,” Sebastian said. “What I’d like to do now is get to my proposal.”

“By all means,” I said.

“I wondered how you’d feel about a career change.”

“A what?”

“A career change. There’s no future in newspapers. Surely you must be considering your options.”

“What are you getting at?”

“When Star Spangled Corrections does set up here-and we will, let me assure you-we’re going to need a sharp media relations officer. Someone to deal with the press. I think someone familiar with how the media operates is the way to go.”

“You’re serious.”

“I am. Do I strike you as someone who likes to joke around, David?”

Up front, Welland snickered.

“No,” I said.

“I’m being quite sincere here. I’d like you to be my media relations officer. I can guess what you’re being paid at the Standard. Seventy, eighty thousand?”

Less.

“Your starting salary would be nearly double that. Not a bad wage for a man with a wife and young son.”

He seemed to linger on “son.”

“You haven’t even broken ground yet,” I said. “I guess, in the meantime, I’d still be doing stories about the opposition to your prison.”

“As a matter of fact, there’s so much prep work involved, I’d need you to start right away if you’re agreeable,” Sebastian said. When I didn’t say anything, he continued, “Look, David, neither of us is stupid. I don’t want to insult you. I’ll be honest. If you take this job, you solve two problems for me. Your editorial campaign against my facility ends, and I end up with a bright young man with a lot of media savvy. It’s the old axiom about having your enemies in the tent with you pissing out, instead of being outside pissing in. I’m asking you to come into the tent, David, and I’m prepared to compensate you well for your trouble.”

After a moment, I said, “As you said, I have a lot on my plate right now.”

He leaned back, nodded. “Of course, of course. What must you think of me, even making such a proposal when you’re going through such a difficult time.”

“But I can still give you an answer now,” I said.

“Oh,” Sebastian said, taken aback. “Well then, let’s have it.”

“No.”

He looked disappointed, but it seemed feigned. “In that case, that leaves just one other item of business. I had hoped, had you accepted my proposal, this next thing would be a simple matter. But now I suspect it may be more difficult.”

“What’s that?”

“Who’s your source?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Who was it you came up here to meet?”

“I didn’t come up here to meet with anyone,” I said.

Sebastian smiled at me as though I were a child who had disappointed him. “Please, David. I know that’s why you came up here Friday. I know a woman was in touch with you. And I know she didn’t show up. Now you’re up here again, only two days later, and you’d have me believe it’s not for the same reason? Were you stood up again?”

“I’m not here to meet with anyone.”

Sebastian sighed and took in the scenery flashing past his window. Without looking at me, he said, “Do you have time for a story, David?”

“I’m something of a captive audience,” I said as the limo continued down the road.

“One time, at our facility outside Atlanta, we were having trouble with an inmate who went by the nickname of Buddy.”

Welland glanced at his mirror.

Sebastian said, “He got that name because everyone wanted to be his friend. It’s not that he was the life of the party or anything. It’s just that everyone thought it was in their interests to stay on his good side. He was a tough character. Buddy was a member of the Aryan Brotherhood, a white supremacist gang that’s insinuated itself into correctional facilities across the country. Are you familiar with them?”

I just looked at him.

“Yes, of course you are,” Sebastian said. He shifted slightly to the center of the seat and called up to his driver. “Welland, given that you are our resident expert, how would you characterize the Aryan chaps?”

Welland glanced into the mirror. “Scariest motherfuckers who ever lived.”

“Yes,” Sebastian said. “A fair assessment. Welland, would you like to tell this? I’m always afraid when I do it sounds boastful.”

Welland collected his thoughts a moment, licked his lips, and then said, “Mr. Sebastian had a problem with Buddy. He was an expert at piss-writing.”

“At what?” I asked. All I could picture was taking a leak outside as a kid, writing my name in the snow.

“You can use piss to write, and it’s like invisible ink. When you hold the paper up to the light or heat it, you can see the message. Mr. Sebastian found out Buddy was sending a lot of messages this way, communicating with his associates, and he didn’t want him to do it anymore. It wasn’t conducive to the smooth operation of the facility.”

That made Sebastian smile.

“So Mr. Sebastian here had Buddy brought to his office, keeping him cuffed, of course. One of the guards, he undid Buddy’s pants, pulled ‘em down around his ankles.” Welland coughed, cleared his throat, like maybe he didn’t enjoy telling this story. “And that was when Mr. Sebastian put fifty thousand volts to his package.”

I looked at Sebastian.

“A Taser,” he said. “A stun gun.”

“You stun-gunned the man’s genitals?”

“Not a simple task,” Sebastian said. “The wires that shoot out from a stun gun don’t have pinpoint accuracy. But I was lucky.”

A lot luckier than Buddy, I thought.

“You might as well tell the rest,” Welland said.

Sebastian said, “I explained to Buddy that when you have blood in your urine, it makes it a lot trickier to use it for invisible ink. To be honest, I wasn’t sure fifty thousand volts would do anything but make Buddy a candidate for state-supplied Viagra, but as it turned out, it achieved the desired effect.”

There was a moment of quiet in the car. Finally, Sebastian said, “I never would have thought it was possible to make a member of the Aryan Brotherhood cry.”

“I think it would be hard not to, having something like that done to you,” I offered.

“Oh, it wasn’t that,” Sebastian said. “Once he’d recovered from the shock, I showed Buddy a picture of his six-year-old son, living with his girlfriend on the outside, and explained how unfortunate it would be if any of the recently released inmates he’d sodomized and otherwise terrorized were to find out where his little boy lived. That was when I saw that solitary tear run down his cheek.”

“Well,” I said.

“Indeed,” said Elmont Sebastian. “So, I would very much appreciate it if you would tell me who wrote to you at the Standard and invited you up here to meet with her.”

“I don’t know how you know about that email,” I said, although I had a pretty good idea. “But since you clearly do, you know it was anonymous.”

He nodded. “Quite true. But there are countless other ways to get in touch with people. And I think even though your first rendezvous was unsuccessful, it’s entirely probable that this woman found another way to contact you.”

“She didn’t,” I said. “I think she must have had second thoughts.”

“Then what are you doing back here again?”

“I drove up to talk to the manager of that store back there. I wanted to ask him about my wife. She went in there to buy some drinks when we came up here Friday. I thought she might have said something to him that would help me find her.”

Sebastian appeared to be mulling that one over.

“You see, David, I can’t afford to have leaks in my organization. No company can. Not Apple, not Microsoft, and certainly not Star Spangled Corrections. I have to assume that email came from one of two places. From within my organization, or from within Promise Falls city hall, specifically someone connected in some way to Stan Reeves. Now, as I explained to you the other day, all of my dealings with political representatives have been totally aboveboard. But a false allegation can be as damaging, perhaps even more so, than one that turns out to be true.”

Welland was slowing the car. I glanced ahead and saw no obvious reason to do so.

“So it’s very important to me to find out who would contact you and suggest any kind of malfeasance on my company’s part. The author of that email admitted to a couple of things. One, that she was female, and two, that she had a white truck. My own investigation has determined that Star Spangled has four female employees within a two-hour drive who either have, or have access to, a white truck. And at city hall, among those who might be privy to the correspondence of council members, perhaps half a dozen are women. What vehicles they have I’m in the process of nailing down. I am prepared to escalate my investigation of these women unless you’re willing to save us all some trouble.”

I heard Welland repeat the word “escalate” under his breath. He had the turn signal on, and a moment later was driving down a narrow gravel road slicing its way into a thick forest.

“Mr. Sebastian, my hat’s off to you,” I said. “You’re no slouch at this whole intimidation thing. It would have been hard to miss the point of your little Aryan crybaby story. I’d toss whatever journalistic standards I might have out the window in a minute if I believed, even for a second, that you were threatening my son.”

Sebastian made a face of mock outrage. “David, is that what you took from that story? I just thought you’d find it interesting.”

I continued, “If I really thought you might hurt my boy, and all it took to save him was to betray a source, well, I’d burn that source. I wouldn’t much like myself for it, but blood runs thicker than newsprint ink.”

Sebastian nodded.

I added, “And if you did harm him in any way, if you so much as took away one of his action figures, I would find you and I would kill you.”

Sebastian smiled wearily. “You know what would be really interesting? What would be really interesting is if they nail you for this. If they find your wife’s body and find a way to pin it on you, and they put you on trial and convict you and send you up for ten or twenty years, and it turns out to be one of my jails. If we get this thing fast-tracked, it might actually be the one in Promise Falls. Wouldn’t that be something?” He chuckled softly. “Welland, wouldn’t that be something?”

“You know what that would be, sir?” he said, bringing the car to a stop. “That would be ironic.”

“Indeed.”

I looked outside. We were in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by forest.

I asked Sebastian, “Don’t you worry about yourself?”

“What do you mean?”

All those other Aryan Brothers out there, aren’t you afraid someone might want to get even for what you did to Buddy? Maybe pay a visit on a member of your own family?”

“If I had any family, that might be a concern. But a man in my line of work functions best when he doesn’t have the burden of loved ones.”

I looked out the window again. I didn’t want to ask, but couldn’t stop myself. “What are we doing here? Why are we stopping?”

Welland shifted in his seat so that he could catch his boss’s eye in the rearview mirror. He was awaiting instructions.

“It’s beautiful out here, isn’t it?” Sebastian said. “Only a mile off the main road, and it’s like you’re a hundred miles from civilization. Magnificent.”

I put my hand on the door handle. I was getting ready to run. I didn’t like my chances of escaping, out here in the middle of nowhere.

“But being out here, in the open, can be as dangerous as being kept behind bars in one of my facilities,” he said. “Certainly for you. Right now. At this moment.”

We locked eyes. I was determined not to be the first to look away, even though I was pretty much scared shitless. He could have Welland kill me and dump me here and my body might never be found.

Finally, Sebastian sighed tiredly, broke eye contact, and said to Welland, “Find a place to turn around and head back.” To me, he said, “This is your lucky day, David. I believe you. About your source. I actually do.”

I felt, briefly, tremendously relieved. Elmont Sebastian, by giving me something new to worry about-whether I might live to see the end of the day-and then giving me a reprieve, had made me forget, at least for a while, my other troubles.

“But we’re not done,” he said. “While you may not know who this source is, I would be most grateful if you’d make an effort to find out, and then let me know. You may be contacted again. There may be an opportunity for another meeting.”

I said nothing. The limo was moving again. Welland found a narrow intersection up ahead and managed to turn the beast around, then headed for the highway that would take us, I hoped, back to Ted’s.

“So was it Madeline?” I asked.

“I’m sorry?” Sebastian said.

“Madeline Plimpton. My publisher.”

“And what is it you think she did?”

“She fed you the email from that woman. It’s not much of a stretch to think the publisher would have some kind of clearance that would allow her to read every message attached to one of the paper’s email addresses. I deleted it as quickly as I could, but I guess I wasn’t fast enough. Is that the deal? She betrays her staff, keeps the heat off you, and in return you buy her land?”

Sebastian’s eyes seemed to twinkle.

“That’s the trouble with you newspaper types,” he said. “You’re so incredibly cynical.”

TWENTY-NINE

“Why the hell do you keep staring at that picture?” Horace Richler asked his wife.

Gretchen was sitting on the front step of their Lincoln Avenue home, forearms resting on her knees, holding the picture David Harwood had left with them of his wife in both hands. It was a printout on regular paper, and if she held it with only one hand the breeze would catch it and flip it over.

Horace noticed that on the step next to his wife was the framed photo of their daughter, Jan.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“I’m just thinking,” she said.

“You want a coffee or anything? There’s still some left in the pot.”

Gretchen said nothing. She looked up from the picture and stared out at the street. She could see them. The two little girls playing in the front yard. Running around in circles, laughing one minute, arguing the next.

Then Horace, running out the front door, getting into his car, throwing it into reverse and hitting the gas.

“Hey. Coffee?”

Gretchen craned her neck around. She couldn’t move it all that far. She noticed it most when she was trying to back out of a spot at the grocery store. Couldn’t turn around to see where she was going, had to rely on the mirrors. Always came out real slow, figured if she did hit something, she’d hear it, could step on the brakes right away.

“I don’t want anything, love, thanks,” she said.

“What’s going on inside your head?”

When Gretchen didn’t reply, Horace came down the steps and plunked himself down, not without some discomfort. Both his knees hurt like the devil. Once he was settled, he leaned his shoulder into his wife’s.

He said, “I had a dream about Bradley last night. That Afghanistan never happened. That he never went over there, there never was any goddamn Taliban, that none of that ever even existed. I was dreaming that I was sitting right here, and you were sitting next to me the way you are right now, and I looked down the street that way and I saw him walking up the road in his uniform.”

A tear ran down Gretchen’s cheek.

“And he had Jan with him,” Horace said, his voice breaking. “She was still a little girl, and she was holding on to her big brother’s hand, and the two of them were coming home. Together.”

Gretchen held on to the photo with one hand and dug a tissue out of her sleeve with the other. She put it to her eye.

“And then I realized that they weren’t really alive,” Horace said. “I realized that you and I, we were dead. That Lincoln Avenue was heaven.”

Gretchen sniffed, blew her nose, dabbed her eyes.

“Sorry,” Horace said. “I shouldn’t have told you that. It was that fella coming here, I think that’s what triggered it. He shouldn’t have come here. He shouldn’t have done that, bringing his troubles into our house when we got enough of our own. I don’t know what the hell he was thinking, barging in here with a cockamamy, bullshit story like that.”

Gretchen sniffed again, dabbed again, then wadded the tissue up into a ball.

Horace picked up the photo of his daughter. His body seemed to crumple around it.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Gretchen said for probably the thousandth time in all these years.

Horace didn’t respond.

Gretchen got both hands again on the printout picture of Jan Harwood and stared at it.

Horace said, “The idea that somebody would go around using our daughter’s name and birth certificate, it just… how can you steal a little girl’s identity?”

“It happens,” Gretchen said quietly. “It happens all the time. I saw, on TV, how someone went through a cemetery, found graves where they could tell from the dates that it was a child that died, and they’d use that name to make up a whole new person.”

“Some people,” Horace said under his breath. He glanced over at the picture his wife couldn’t stop staring at. “She’s pretty.”

“Yes.”

“It must be hard on that fella, not knowing what’s happened to her. Not knowing if she’s dead or alive. That has to be bad, the not knowing.”

“At least with not knowing, there’s always hope,” Gretchen said, not taking her eyes off the picture. “I haven’t stopped looking at this all day. I knew, when he first showed it to me last night…”

“You seemed kind of upset,” Horace said. “You went upstairs.”

Gretchen was struggling to say something. “Horace…”

He slipped an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “It’s okay,” he said.

“Horace, look at the picture.”

“I’ve seen the picture.”

“Look, look right here.” She pointed.

“Hang on,” he said, then sighed and took his arm from around her shoulders. He reached into the front pocket of his shirt, where he kept a pair of small wire-rimmed reading glasses. He opened them up, noticed they were smudged and dirty, but slipped the arms over his ears just the same.

“Where do you want me to look?”

“Right here.”

“I don’t know what you’re looking at.”

“Here.”

He grasped the picture with both hands. He studied it for a moment, and then his face began to fall.

“I’ll be goddamned,” he said.

THIRTY

Once Welland had the limo turned around and we were well on our way, I said to Elmont Sebastian, “Suppose, just for a moment, that I did find out who emailed me, and I told you who she was.”

His eyebrows went up half an inch.

“What would you do to her?” I asked.

Sebastian said, “I would have a word with her.”

“A word.”

“I would tell her that she was lucky that no harm had been done, and I would explain to her that it’s not a good thing to be disloyal to those you work for.”

“Assuming she works for you,” I said.

“Or Mr. Reeves. It’s not a good thing to rat out your friends or employers.”

“But it’s okay if I rat her out.”

Sebastian looked at me and smiled.

As we approached Ted’s, I sensed the car slowing, but then it sped up. “You passed it,” I said to Welland.

“Thanks for that,” Welland said. “I never would have known.”

I glanced at Sebastian. “What’s going on?”

He didn’t seem to know any more than I did. “Welland?” he said.

His driver said, “Didn’t look safe to pull in, sir.”

“What did you see?”

“Looked like someone was waiting for Mr. Harwood,” Welland said.

Someone was waiting for me at Ted’s?

“Pull over up ahead, once we get round that bend,” Sebastian said.

The car maintained its pace for another few seconds, then Welland steered it over onto the gravel shoulder. Once the car was fully stopped, Sebastian said to me, “Always a pleasure, David.”

These guys were pretty consistent at not returning me to my pickup point.

As I opened the door Sebastian said, “I hope you’ll give due consideration to everything I’ve said.”

I got out and started walking back to Ted’s without closing the door. It wouldn’t have killed Sebastian to lean over and deal with it, but when I glanced back I saw Welland getting out of the driver’s seat, going around to the other side. I expected him to slam the door, but he leaned in briefly, came back out with what appeared to be a Mars bar wrapper in his hand, then slammed the door shut. He glanced my way, and for a second time, made his fingers into a gun and pointed at me.

This time, he fired twice.

As I walked along the shoulder my cell phone rang. It was my mother.

“It’s getting bad here,” she said.

“What are you talking about?”

“TV trucks and reporters. Everyone wants to talk to you, and if they can’t get you, they want to talk to me or your father. Or they want to get a picture of Ethan.”

“God, Mom, what’s tipped everyone off?”

“I’ve been checking the websites, first your paper’s, then others. It’s starting to spread. The headlines say things like ‘Reporter Questioned in Wife’s Disappearance’ and ‘Reporter Tells Police: I Didn’t Kill My Wife.’ But like I said, it’s not just your paper. It’s on the TV news websites, and I heard something on the radio, and, David, it’s just terrible. I can’t believe the things they’re saying about you, well, not actually about you, but it’s all the innuendo and suggestions and-”

“I know, I know. Once Reeves got the ball rolling, everyone joined in. Tell me about Ethan.”

“We’re keeping him inside, just putting him in front of the television. We’ve got some Disney DVDs and he’s watching them. David, I went onto the CNN website, and even they had an item on it. It was short but-”

“Mom, just worry about Ethan. Does he know what’s going on?”

“He looked outside a couple of times but I’ve told him to stay away from the window, because if they can get a picture of him, they’ll probably use it.”

“Okay, that’s good. Does he know why they’re there?”

“No,” Mom said. “I made up a crazy story.”

“What kind of story?”

“I told him sometimes people come by to see the house because Batman used to live here.”

In spite of everything, I laughed. “Yeah, your house is a regular Wayne Manor.”

“I don’t know why I said it. It was the first thing I could think of. Hang on, your father wants to talk to you.”

“Okay, Mom, thanks-”

“Son?”

“Hi, Dad.”

“Where are you?”

“Just walking along the highway north of Lake George.”

“Why the hell are you doing that?”

“What is it, Dad?”

“I got somebody for you.”

“Got somebody who?”

“A lawyer. Her name’s Bondurant.”

It rang a bell. “Natalie Bondurant?” I asked.

“That’s the one. Is that French, you figure?”

“I don’t know.”

“I called the office and they had this weekend emergency number and I got hold of her. She said she’s willing to talk to you.”

“Thanks. That’s great, Dad.”

“You need to talk to her today. The shit’s hitting the fan around here.”

“I hear ya.”

“I got her number. Can you write something down?”

I had my notepad in my pocket. “All right, fine.” I got out the pad, flipped it open, wrote down the number Dad dictated to me.

“If you were smart, you’d give her a call right now,” Dad said.

“When I get back on the road.”

“Is my car okay?” Dad asked. Even with all that was going on, Dad never lost sight of the things that mattered to him.

“The car’s fine,” I said.

“If you’re not going to call her now, she did have one piece of advice for you in the meantime.”

“What’s that?”

“She said not to say a goddamn thing to the police.”

Ted’s had come into view. Leaning up against Dad’s car was Detective Barry Duckworth.

“Nice day for a walk,” Duckworth said as I approached. His unmarked cruiser was parked off to one side. That must have been what Welland saw before he decided to keep on driving. Unmarked police cruisers had a certain look about them.

“Yeah,” I said. Was there anyone who hadn’t followed me up here?

I fished the car keys out of my pocket, hoping to send the message that I was on my way.

“What are you doing up here?” Duckworth asked.

“I might ask you the same thing.”

“But if I don’t answer, it doesn’t look suspicious,” he said.

“I came up to talk to Ted.”

“What were you doing leaving your car here and strolling down the highway? Not much down there to see.”

I wanted to tell him about my ride with Sebastian. But the prison boss had intimidated me to the point that I wasn’t sure that was a good idea. Plus, I didn’t think Duckworth would believe me anyway.

“I was just walking, and thinking.”

“About what Ted told you?”

“So you’ve already spoken to him.”

“Briefly,” Duckworth said. “You shouldn’t be doing that. Approaching witnesses, giving them a hard time. That’s bad form.”

“He told you things that didn’t make any sense to me. I wanted to hear them for myself.”

And did you?”

“Yeah.”

“Still think he’s lying?”

“He says it’s on the security video. What Jan said to him.”

“That’s right,” Duckworth said. “It’s a little muddy in places, but we got people who can clean that up. But what he said basically checks out.”

“I don’t get it,” I said.

“I think I do,” Duckworth said.

“You would,” I said, “because you think I know what’s happened to Jan. But I don’t.”

“Who was it took you for a ride and dropped you off down the road?”

So. He already knew about that, too. Ted must have told him about seeing Welland grab hold of me.

“It was Elmont Sebastian,” I said. “And his driver.”

“The prison guy?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s he doing up here?”

“He wanted to talk to me. I’ve been trying to get some quotes from him.”

“And he drove all the way up here to give them to you?”

“Look,” I said, “I want to get back home. Things don’t sound good there.”

“Yeah,” Duckworth said. “There’s a bit of a media frenzy building. I want you to know, for what it’s worth, I didn’t set it off. I think it was your pal Reeves. Once the media started calling, we’ve had no choice but to field their questions. It’s not my style, to get something like this going.”

“For what it’s worth, thank you,” I said. “So you followed me up here?”

“Not exactly,” Duckworth said.

“Then what are you doing here?”

“I was on my way up to something else and decided to pop in and have a word with Ted myself. Another Promise Falls officer came up earlier to get the surveillance video off him, but I thought a face-to-face was in order. Ted mentioned you’d just been in, and that your car was still here.”

“So you decided to wait for me.”

Duckworth nodded slowly.

“What was the other thing you were coming up here for?” I asked.

Duckworth’s cell phone rang. He put it to his ear and said, “Duckworth… Okay… Is the coroner there yet?… I don’t think I’m any more than a couple of miles away… See you shortly.”

He ended the call and put the phone away.

“What is it?” I asked. “What was that about the coroner?”

“Mr. Harwood, there’s been a discovery just up the road from here.”

“A discovery?”

“A shallow grave just off the side of the road. Freshly dug and covered over.”

I reached my hand out and used the car to support myself. My throat went dry and my temples began to pulse.

“Whose body’s in it?”

Duckworth nodded.

“Who?” I asked. “Is it Jan?”

“Well, they don’t know anything for sure yet,” Duckworth said.

I closed my eyes.

It’s not supposed to end this way.

Duckworth said, “Why don’t we take my car.”

We headed north, the way I’d been taken by Sebastian and Welland, but in under a mile Duckworth put on his blinker and turned down a narrow gravel road that went down, then up, winding all the time. The inside of Duckworth’s car smelled of french fries. The smell made me feel sick to my stomach.

Not far up ahead, several police cars and vans blocked our path.

“We’ll walk in from here,” Duckworth said, slowing and putting his car into park.

“Who saw this grave?” I asked. I’d felt my hands shaking a moment ago, and had grabbed the door handle with my right and tucked my left under my thigh, hoping Duckworth wouldn’t notice. I felt I needed to disguise how nervous I was, worried Duckworth would take that to mean I was guilty of something.

But wouldn’t any man, especially an innocent man whose wife was missing, be distraught after learning a body had been found?

“What the locals tell me,” Duckworth said, “is there’s a couple of cabins down at the end of this road, and a guy who lives in one of them spotted something suspicious at the side, went to check it out, realized what was buried there, and he called the police.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Couple of hours,” Duckworth said. “Local cops secured the scene, then they contacted us. We’d already been in touch, putting them on alert about your wife.”

“I told you nothing happened with Jan when we were up here,” I said.

“You’ve made that very clear, Mr. Harwood,” he said. He opened his door, then looked at me. “You can stay right here if you’d like.”

“No,” I said. “If it’s Jan, I have to know.”

“Absolutely,” he said. “Don’t think I don’t appreciate your assistance.”

Fuck you.

We got out of the car and started up the road, the gravel crunching beneath our shoes. A uniformed officer coming from the direction of the crime scene approached.

“You Detective Duckworth?” he said.

Duckworth nodded and extended a hand. “Thanks for the quick heads-up on this,” he said. The cop looked at me. Before I had a chance to introduce myself, Duckworth said, “This is Mr. Harwood. He’s the one whose wife is missing.” The two of them exchanged a quick glance. I could only imagine what this cop had been told already.

“Mr. Harwood,” he said. “My name is Daltrey. I’m very sorry. This must be a very difficult time for you.”

“Is it my wife?” I asked.

“We don’t know that at this stage.”

“But it’s a woman?” I asked. “A woman’s body?”

Daltrey glanced at Duckworth, as though looking for permission. When Duckworth didn’t say anything, Daltrey replied, “Yes, it’s a woman.”

“I need to see her.”

Duckworth reached over and lightly touched my arm. “I really don’t know that that’s a good idea.”

“Where’s the grave?” I asked.

Daltrey pointed. “Just beyond those cars, on the left side. We haven’t moved her yet.”

Duckworth tightened his grip on me. “Let me go up there first. You wait here with Daltrey.”

“No,” I said, breathing in short gasps. “I have to-”

“You wait. If there’s a reason for you to come up, I’ll come back and get you.”

I looked him in the eye. I couldn’t get a read on him. I didn’t know whether he was trying to be compassionate here, or whether somehow I was being played.

“Okay,” I said.

As Duckworth went ahead, Daltrey positioned himself in front of me, in case I decided to run after him. He said, “Looks like it might rain.”

I walked to Duckworth’s car, ambled around it a couple of times, always glancing back for him.

He was back in about five minutes, caught my eye, beckoned with his index finger. I ran over to him.

“If you’re up to it,” he said, “I think it would help if you make an identification.”

“Oh God,” I said. I felt weak in the knees.

He gripped my arm. “I don’t know for certain that this is your wife, Mr. Harwood. But I think you need to be prepared for that fact.”

“It can’t be her,” I said. “There’s no reason for her to be up here…”

“Take a minute,” he said.

I took a couple of breaths, swallowed, and said, “Show me.”

He led me between two police cars that had acted as a privacy shield. Once we got past them, I looked to the left and saw that where the opposite side of the ditch sloped up, there was a five-foot ridge of earth. It was in full view of the road. Draped over the ridge was a pale, dirt-splotched white hand and part of an arm. Whoever that arm belonged to was on the other side of the dirt pile.

I stopped, and stared.

“Mr. Harwood?” Duckworth said.

I took another couple of breaths. “Okay,” I said.

“I can’t have you disturbing anything,” he said. “You can’t… touch her. Sometimes, people, when they’re overcome with grief…”

“I understand,” I said.

He led me up to the grave. When we were close enough that we could see beyond the ridge, Duckworth stopped me.

“Here we are,” Duckworth said. I could feel him watching me.

I looked at the dirt-smeared face of the dead woman lying in that grave and fell to my knees, then pitched forward, catching myself with my hands.

“Oh God,” I said. “Oh God.”

Duckworth knelt down next to me, held on to my shoulders. “Talk to me, Mr. Harwood.”

“It’s not her,” I whispered. “It’s not Jan.”

“You’re sure?” he said.

“It’s Leanne,” I said. “It’s Leanne Kowalski.”

THIRTY-ONE

In the short time she’d been going by the name Kate, she’d never gotten used to it. Maybe she needed a few more days for it to feel like her own. Taking Leanne’s middle name, shortening it, it was the first idea that came to her. Just seemed natural.

The funny thing was, she couldn’t even think of herself by her own name these days. If someone called out “Hey, Connie!” she wasn’t even sure she’d turn around. It had been years since anyone had known her as Connie.

Her worry now was if someone shouted out “Jan!,” she’d turn around reflexively, wouldn’t even think about it.

But that was still how she thought of herself. You spend six years with a name, you start to get comfortable with it. That was the name she’d been answering to for a very long time.

That, and “Mom.”

When she’d told Dwayne Jan was dead, she’d been telling herself more than him. She wanted to put that person, that life, behind her. She wanted to lay Jan to rest. Give her the last rites. Say a few words in her memory.

But she wasn’t really gone. A large part of her still was Jan. But now she was moving into something new. She was evolving. She’d always been evolving, moving through one stage to get to another. It was just that some of those stages took longer to get through than others.

She reached up, made another adjustment to the wig as they continued their journey to Boston.

It was the same wig Jan had worn when she walked in-and out-of Five Mountains. She’d worn it long enough to get through the gates, then went in a ladies room stall to remove it before rejoining Dave and Ethan. The wig and a change of clothes had been stuffed into the backpack. The moment Dave had run off in search of Ethan, instead of heading straight to the gate as he’d instructed her, she’d turned in to the closest ladies’ room, taken a stall, and stripped down.

She’d switched from shorts to jeans, traded the sleeveless top for a long-sleeved blouse. Even took off the running shoes and went with sandals. But the blonde wig was the accessory that really pulled it all together. She jammed her discarded outfit back into the backpack-couldn’t leave her clothes around for someone to find-and strolled back out of that ladies’ room like she hadn’t just had her son snatched out from under her. Walked, real cool-like, through those gates, through the parking lot, met up with Dwayne and got into his car. He’d wanted to take off the fake beard right then, said it itched like crazy, but she persuaded him to keep it on until they were beyond the park grounds.

She’d never had to worry about Ethan. She knew that if Dave didn’t find him, someone else would. He’d be okay. The abduction thing, that was all a distraction, a way to make David’s story even more unbelievable. Ethan would be fine.

She hoped the Dramamine-spiked juice box she’d given him put him out for most of it. Sure, there’d be plenty of teary moments later, in the days and weeks to come, but at least he didn’t have to go through the terror of an actual kidnapping.

It was the least a mother could do.

Having a kid, becoming a mother, that had never been part of the plan. But then, neither had getting married.

She’d picked Promise Falls more or less at random. She saw it on a map, checked it out online. Nice upstate New York town. Quaint. Anonymous. A college town. It didn’t look like the kind of place where someone would hide out. New York, that was a place where someone would disappear. Buffalo, Los Angeles, Miami. Those were places where someone went to blend in, to vanish.

Who’d go looking for someone in a place called Promise Falls?

She had no ties there, no roots. There was no more reason for the courier to think she’d be in Promise Falls than in Tacoma, Washington.

She could go there, find a job, a place to live, and bide her time until Dwayne had done his time. When he was out, they’d go back to Boston, exchange keys, open the safe-deposit boxes, and make their deal.

It would be a long time to wait, but some things were worth it. Like enough money to go sit on a beach forever with nothing more to worry about than a bit of sand in your shorts. Living the dream like Matty Walker in Body Heat.

It’s what she’d always wanted.

So she came to Promise Falls, found a room over a pool hall in what was clearly not the best part of town, and went looking for work at the employment office at city hall. And ran into David Harwood, Boy Reporter.

He was, she had to admit, adorable. Not bad-looking, very sweet. She didn’t want any part of his story, however. She was here to keep a low profile. If you gave an interview, the next thing they were going to ask you for was a picture.

No thank you.

But she chatted with him a little, and darned if he wasn’t out there when she came out, offering to give her a lift. Why not? she thought. When he saw where she lived, he just about had a fit. Can’t live here, he said, unless your employment plans include dealing crack and turning tricks. He actually said that.

Don’t worry, she said. I’m a big girl. And, she told him with a smile, it’s good to have options.

Later, when she opened the door and found him there with a list of other apartments for her to check out, well, she almost cried, except that wasn’t something she tended to do unless she was having to perform. But it was sweet, no doubt about it. Not the sort of thing she was used to.

She let him help her move. Then she let him take her to dinner.

Not long after that, she let him take her to bed.

After a couple of months, David, while not actually popping the question, made some vague comments along the lines of how there were worse things that could happen than spending the rest of their lives together.

Jan sensed an opportunity presenting itself. She said to David that he might just be onto something there.

The only thing more anonymous than living as a single woman in Promise Falls was living as a married woman in Promise Falls. She’d turn herself into June Cleaver, the mom in Leave It to Beaver, although Jan didn’t believe June ever did for Ward the things she did for David. Mayfield never had a girl who could fulfill a man’s dreams the way Jan could. (Jan had to admit, Cleaver would have been the perfect name for her, considering what she was running from.)

With David, she could be the perfect wife with a perfectly boring job. She’d live in their perfect little house, and make a perfect little life for them. As the wife of a small-town newspaper reporter, she didn’t exactly fit the profile of a diamond thief.

No one was going to find her here.

And she’d been right. Not that the first year hadn’t been hell. Every time there was a knock at the door, she feared it would be him. But it was the meter reader, or someone looking for a donation to the cancer society, or the neighbor coming over to tell them they forgot to close their garage door.

Girl Scouts selling cookies.

But never him.

After a year or so, she started to relax. Connie Tattinger was dead. Long live Jan Harwood.

At least until Dwayne got out.

She could do this. Play the role. Wasn’t that what she’d been doing since she was a little girl? Moving from one part to another? Imagining herself to be someone she wasn’t, even if the only one she was fooling was herself?

That was certainly what she did when she was little. It was the only way she got through her childhood. Her father ragging on her all the time, blaming her for fucking up their lives, her mother too pissed or self-absorbed to run interference and tell her old man to lay off.

She did what a lot of children do. She created an imaginary friend. But it was different in her case. She didn’t hang out with this make-believe companion. In her head, she became her. She was Estelle Winters, the precocious daughter of Malcolm and Edwina Winters, stars of the Broadway stage. New York was her home. She was only living with this bitter, mean-spirited man and his drunken bitch of a wife as research for a role she was destined to play. She wasn’t really their child. How could she be? She was much too special to be the daughter of such common, horrible people.

She knew the truth, of course. But imagining herself to be Estelle, it got her through until that day she walked out that door and never came back.

And then, after a very long run, Estelle Winters, her imaginary friend/defense mechanism, was allowed to die.

For some time, she was actually Connie Tattinger. But even as Connie, she could be whoever she needed to be. She could be a good girl, and she could be a bad girl. Whatever the situation demanded.

When she was living on the street, the bad-girl thing wasn’t so much an act as it was a way to survive. You did what you had to do, and with whoever you had to do it with, to get a roof over your head, some food in your stomach.

If you got a lead on a half-decent job, in an office, say, what her mother would have called a “shave your legs” position, well, she could do that, too. She could turn herself from a street kid to a nice girl in a flash.

Whatever the part demanded.

When she met David, she fell easily into the role of small-town wife. It didn’t take a lot of effort. It was actually fun to play. She could do as long a run here as she had to. And when the time came to pack it in, she could do that, too.

The thing Jan hadn’t counted on was the kid. That was definitely not part of the plan.

They hadn’t been married long before she suspected she was pregnant. Couldn’t believe it, sitting there in the bathroom one morning after David had gone to work. Got out the test, waited ten minutes, looked at the result, thought: Shit.

Great day for David to have forgotten some notes. Suddenly appears upstairs. She’d been pretty good-excellent, in fact-at keeping on the mask, but he caught something in the way she looked, saw the pregnancy-test packaging. She ended up telling him she was pregnant.

This doesn’t have to be a bad thing, he says.

Part of her decision, she knew, was calculating. A child would make her blend in even more. Make her more invisible. And David wanted this child. Ending the pregnancy, it could send this new marriage-this terrific cover-off the rails. So far, this marriage thing was going very well.

And being a loving mother, well, wasn’t it just another role? One of the most challenging of her career? If she could play all these other parts, she could play this one, too.

Once she started looking at it this way, Jan wanted the child. She wanted the experience. She wanted to know what it would be like. She didn’t think about the future, what she would do when Dwayne got out. For once, she wasn’t thinking long-term. She was in the moment. Like all great ladies of the stage.

But now Dwayne was out. And she’d stayed with the plan. She was going for the money, and once she had it, she’d move on to her final role. The independent woman. The woman who didn’t need anyone else for anything. The woman who didn’t have to pretend anymore. The woman who could just be.

She was going for the beach and piña colada. No more David. No more Dwayne.

But there was a hitch.

Ethan.

She’d really gotten into that whole mother act. So she knew she’d feel something. What she hadn’t anticipated was how hard this role would be to walk away from.

Jan knew the Five Mountains thing was going to be tricky to pull off.

But she’d been out there a couple of times on her days off, scoped out where all the CCTV cameras were. There was the remote chance she’d see someone they knew, but Jan figured she had a couple of things in her favor. She wasn’t going to be there long, and for much of the time she wasn’t going to look anything like Jan Harwood, not once she came back out of the women’s restroom.

And if she had been spotted at Five Mountains-by a friend, a neighbor, someone who’d come into Bertram’s to get a furnace part-then they’d abort. She’d told Dwayne, if I don’t show up, we’ll try this another way, soon.

But it went well. It went perfectly.

It just never, not in a million years, occurred to Jan she’d run into someone she knew after they got away. Once they were miles from Promise Falls.

If only Dwayne had picked someplace else to get gas. The needle had been a quarter tank off empty. He could have gone another sixty, seventy miles, but he wanted to start off with a full tank. Psychological, he said.

So outside Albany, he gets off the highway near one of those big malls. And guess who’s filling up right next to them?

“Jan?” Leanne Kowalski said. “Jan, is that you?”

The dumbass.

On cue, like he knew she was thinking about him, Dwayne said, “We’re making good time. Should be in Boston pretty soon.”

“Great,” Jan said. The fact was, the closer they got to Boston, the more on edge she felt. She told herself she wasn’t being rational. It was a big city. And she hadn’t been there in half a decade. What were the odds anyone was going to recognize her? And it wasn’t like she and Dwayne were planning to spend a lot of time there.

“So let me ask you this,” Dwayne said. “You feel kind of bad for him?”

“I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t feel bad about leaving my son,” she said.

“No, not the kid. Your husband. I mean, the poor bastard, he’s not going to know what hit him.”

“What do you think would be better?” she asked. “Would it be better to have every cop in the country wondering where I’d run off to, have them looking for me? Or would it be better to have them thinking I’m already dead?”

“Listen, I’m not saying you did the wrong thing. It’s fucking brilliant, that’s what it is. Acting all depressed, but just for him, letting him think one thing, setting it all up so the cops will think another. I’m in awe, okay? I’m in fucking awe. All I’m saying is, you did live with the guy for a long time. How’d you do that, anyway? Stick with him only as long as you needed him? Make him think you cared about him when you really didn’t?”

Jan looked at him. “It’s just something I do.” She went back to looking out her open window, hot wind blowing in her face.

“Well, you did it good,” Dwayne said admiringly. “You ask me, it’s okay if you don’t feel bad about it. That’s probably even better. No sense striking off on a new life feeling all guilty about what you did to get it. But I just keep picturing the look on his face. When he finds out what you told the guy at the store. When he finds out you never went to the doctor. And when they can’t find you on those park cameras. The guy’s got to be shit-tin’ himself.”

“Let’s talk about something else,” Jan said.

“What do you want to talk about?”

“When’s the last time you talked to your guy who wants to buy our stuff?”

“The day after I got out,” Dwayne said. “I call him up, I say, you’re never going to guess who this is. He can’t believe it. He says he gave up on me long ago. I never got a chance to call him after I got picked up for the assault thing, so when we didn’t show years ago, he just kind of gave up on us. So I say, hey, I’m back, and we’re still ready to deal. He goes, shit, are you kidding me? He figured maybe I was dead or something. The other thing he said that was kind of interesting was, there was never anything in the news about it, I mean, about the diamonds actually going missing. He said there was something in the paper about some guy got his hand cut off, but nothing about diamonds.”

“That’s not surprising,” Jan said.

“How you figure?”

“You don’t go reporting illicit diamonds stolen,” Jan said. “There’s not even supposed to be any of them anymore, not since that whole diamond certification thing got going back in 2000. The Kimberley thing. You never saw that movie because you were in jail, the one with Leonardo Di-Caprio, all about Sierra Leone and-”

“Don’t you mean the Sierra Desert?” Dwayne asked.

“That’s the Sahara Desert.”

“Oh yeah. Okay.”

“Anyway, even with the certification thing going on, and the whole industry clamping down, there’s still a big market in illicit diamonds, and you don’t go to the cops whining about having some ripped off, even as many as we got. Did you know that al-Qaeda made millions off the sale of illicit diamonds?”

“No shit?”

“Yeah,” she said, holding her hand out the window, pushing against the wind.

“So what we did, in a way, was help fight the war on terror.” Dwayne grinned.

Jan didn’t even look at him. You had to be careful, she thought. You started thinking he was dumb as shit, it made you forget he could also be very dangerous.

Funny thing was, he didn’t mind inflicting pain, but he couldn’t stand the sight of blood. Complex, in his own stupid way.

“So who is this guy?” Jan asked.

“His name’s Banura,” he said. “Cool, huh? He’s black. But really black. I think he’s from that Sierra place you mentioned.”

“How do you get in touch?”

“I got his number written down in my pocket. He lives on the south side, in Braintree.”

“Does he know we want to do this tomorrow?”

“I didn’t tell him an exact day. I was kinda just putting him on alert.”

Jan said she thought it would be a good idea for him to get in touch. Banura might need time to start pulling the cash together, in anticipation.

“That’s a good idea,” Dwayne said.

Jan didn’t want to be around the Boston area any longer than she had to. Get the merchandise, exchange it for cash, get the hell out.

They got off the turnpike and Dwayne went looking first for a place to fill up. While he was pumping gas, Jan wandered into the store to look around. She was twirling the sunglasses rack when she noticed the heavy-set woman next to her. The woman was leaning over, telling her daughter to stop whining, and she’d slung her purse over her shoulder and onto her back.

It was open. Jan was staring straight into it.

She didn’t care about the woman’s purse. She had enough cash to get to Boston, and once they delivered the diamonds, there was going to be more money than she knew what to do with.

But the woman’s cell phone might come in handy.

Jan pulled it off in one clean move. She leaned over the woman as if to reach for something on a shelf, one arm going for a package of two cupcakes, the other sliding down into the purse, grabbing hold of the slender phone, and slipping it into the front pocket of her jeans.

She bought the cupcakes-they were Ethan’s favorite; he liked to eat around the little white squiggle across the chocolate icing and save it for last-and got back to the truck about the time Dwayne was done filling the tank. She tossed the cupcakes through the window, got in, and handed him the phone once he was behind the wheel.

“Phone your guy,” she said.

By the time they decided to each have a cupcake, the icing had melted to the cellophane wrapper.

Jan worked carefully to peel it away, and she managed to free one cupcake with relatively little damage. She handed it over to Dwayne, who shoved the entire thing into his mouth at once.

The second one turned into a horror show. Most of the icing lifted off, so she bared her teeth and scraped it off the wrapper.

A technique she had learned from her son.

“Look, Mommy.”

Ethan’s in the car seat, Jan’s up front, driving home from the market. She glances back, sees that he’s not only managed to peel the icing from the wrapper in once piece, like a layer of pudding skin, he’s eaten along each side of the white squiggle. He’s lined it up along the underside of his index finger. His mouth is a mess of chocolate icing, but he looks so proud of himself.

“I have a squiggle finger,” he says.

Dwayne snapped the phone shut. “We’re good to go, tomorrow. I told him we should be there about noon. Maybe even earlier. The banks open at what, around nine-thirty, ten? We hit mine, we hit yours, and unless you stashed your half in fucking Tennessee or something, we should be done pretty quick. Sound good to you?”

Jan was looking away. “Yeah.”

“What’s going on? You okay?”

“I’m fine. Just drive.”

THIRTY-TWO

Oscar Fine had parked his black Audi A4 on Hancock Street, looking south, the back of the State House up ahead to the left. From this side, parked on the downslope, the gold dome was not visible. But that wasn’t what he was looking for, anyway.

He liked Beacon Hill. He appreciated it. The narrow streets, the sense of history, the beautiful old brick homes with their extraordinary window boxes full of flowers, the uneven sidewalks and cobblestone streets, the iron boot-scraper bars embedded into almost all the front steps, not quite so important now that the streets weren’t full of mud and shit. But it was too crowded for him around here. Too jammed in. He didn’t like having a lot of neighbors. He liked being on his own.

But still, it was nice when his work brought him up here.

He was watching an address about a dozen doors up, on the other side of the street. It was early evening. It was about this time that Miles Cooper got home from work. His wife, Patricia, a nurse over at Mass Gen, was, as usual, working the late shift. She’d left about an hour ago. She usually walked, although sometimes she’d only hoof it as far as Cambridge and then grab a bus part of the way, and occasionally she’d even grab a cab. Most nights, when she got off, she was dropped off by a coworker who drove and lived in Telegraph Hill and didn’t mind taking Hancock on her way home.

Oscar had been watching their routine for a few days now. He knew he was being more cautious than he needed to be. He already had a good idea of what Miles Cooper did, day in and day out. He knew Cooper liked to spend his weekends on his boat, that he spent too much money on the horses, that he was a lousy poker player. Oscar knew that firsthand. The guy had so many tells it was laughable. If he was dealt a useless hand, he shook his head side to side. Not noticeably. A millimeter in each direction, if that, but enough for Oscar to notice. If he was holding a flush, you could feel the floor shifting underfoot because Miles’s right knee was bobbing up and down like a piston.

There were other things Oscar knew about Miles. He was seeing his doctor about gastrointestinal pains. He went through a medium-sized bottle of fruit-flavored Tums every day. He had a storage locker outside of the city where he was hiding, for his younger brother, three stolen Harley-Davidson motorcycles. Every second Monday, he went to the North End and paid three hundred dollars to a girl who worked out of her apartment over an Italian bakery on Salem Street to take her clothes off very slowly and then blow him.

Oscar also knew he was stealing from the man they both worked for. And the man had figured out what Miles was up to.

“I’d like you to look after this for me,” the man said to Oscar.

“Not a problem,” Oscar said.

So he’d tracked Miles’s movements for the better part of a week. Didn’t want to drop in on him when the wife was home. Or their daughter. She was in her twenties, lived in Providence, but she often came to visit her parents on weekends. This being Sunday, there was a chance she could have been here, but Oscar had determined she was not. If Miles Cooper followed his usual routine, he’d be walking down the hill from the direction of the State House any moment and-

There he was.

Late fifties, overweight, balding, a thick gray mustache. Dressed in an ill-fitting suit, white shirt, no tie.

As he reached his home, he fished around in his pocket for his keys, found them, mounted the five cement steps to his door, unlocked it and went inside.

Oscar Fine got out of his Audi.

He walked up the street, crossed diagonally, reaching the other side out front of Miles Cooper’s home.

Oscar rang the bell.

He could hear Miles’s footsteps on the other side of the door before it opened.

“Hey, Oscar,” Miles said.

“Hi, Miles,” he said.

“What are you doing here?”

“Can I come in?” Oscar said.

Something flickered in Miles’s eyes. Oscar Fine could see it. It was fear. Oscar had gotten a lot better at reading people the last five years or so. Back then, he’d been a bit cocky, overconfident. Sloppy. At least once.

Oscar knew Miles wouldn’t close the door on him. Miles had to know that if Oscar didn’t already suspect he was up to something, he surely would if Miles refused to let him into his house.

“Sure, yeah, come on in,” Miles said. “Good to see you. What are you doing around here?”

Oscar stepped in and closed the door. He asked, already knowing the answer, “Patricia home?”

“She’ll be at work by now. She’s usually half an hour into her shift by the time I get home. What can I get you to drink?”

“I’m good,” Oscar said.

“You sure? I was just going to get a beer.”

“Nothing,” Oscar said, following Miles into the kitchen. Oscar Fine did not drink, which Miles could never seem to remember.

Miles opened the fridge, leaned down, reached in for a bottle, and by the time he turned around, Oscar was pointing a gun at him, holding it in his right hand, his left arm stuck down into the pocket of his jacket. The gun had a long tubular attachment at the end of the barrel. A silencer.

“Jesus, Oscar, what the fuck. You scared me half to death there.”

“He knows,” Oscar said.

“He knows? Who knows? Who knows what? Christ, put that thing away. I nearly wet my pants.”

“He knows,” Oscar said again.

Miles twisted the cap off the bottle, tossed it onto the countertop. His mouth twitched as he said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Please, Miles, show some dignity. He knows. Don’t play stupid.”

Miles took a long swig from the bottle, then moved to a wooden kitchen chair and sat down.

“Shit,” he said. He had to put the bottle on the table because his hand was starting to shake.

“You need to know why this is happening,” Oscar said. “It would be wrong for you to die not knowing why this is happening.”

“Oscar, come on, we go way back. You got to cut me some slack here. I can pay it back.”

“No,” Oscar said.

“But I can, with interest. I’ll sell the boat. I’ll sell it tomorrow. And I’ve got some other cash set aside. The thing is, it’s not really all that much. He won’t have to wait for his money. He’ll get it back right away, and that’s a promise. Plus, I’ve got some motorcycles. I was holding them for my brother, but I can sell them and give the money to him. Fuck my brother. Tough shit for him, right? I mean, it’s not like he had to pay for them in the first-”

The gun went pfft, pfft. Oscar Fine put two bullets in his head. Miles Cooper pitched forward, hit the floor, and that was it.

Oscar let himself out, walked down the street, got in his Audi, and drove out of Beacon Hill.

Oscar Fine only had to slow as he approached the security gate at the shipping container yard. The guard in the booth recognized the car and driver and had hit the button to make the gate slowly shift to the right. Oscar waited until there was just enough of an opening, then guided the car into the compound.

There were thousands of the rectangular boxes, stacked like monstrous colorful LEGO blocks. They came in orange, brown, green, blue, and silver and were labeled Sea Land, Evergreen, Maersk, and Cosco. They were stacked six high in some places, and it was like driving through a narrow steel canyon. The compound took up a good ten acres on the outside of the city. Oscar drove his car to the far side, parked up against a ten-foot fence with coils of barbed wire adorning the top. He got out of the car, taking with him some milk he had bought at a 7-Eleven after driving out of Beacon Hill, and walked over to the square end of an Evergreen container that had two others stacked atop it. He reached into his right pocket, found a key, and unlocked the container door.

He swung it open, and about four feet inside was a secondary wall and a regular-sized door. He unlocked it with a second key, opened the door toward him, and stepped into what seemed to be almost total blackness, although there was a hint of light.

He reached along the inside of the secondary wall with his right hand and found a bank of switches. He flipped them all up, and instantly the inside of the container was bathed in light.

While one might have expected the inside walls to be exactly the same as the outside-metal and vertically ribbed-they were instead smooth and painted a soft moss green. The interior walls, perfectly drywalled, were adorned with large examples of modern art. Underfoot was not metal but gleaming wood flooring. Just inside the door were a leather couch, a matching leather reclining chair, and a 46-inch flat-screen TV mounted to the wall. About halfway down the container was a narrow, gleaming kitchen area with aluminum countertops and dozens of recessed pot lights. Beyond that, an elegant bathroom and bedroom.

Oscar Fine heard a sound. A second later, something brushed up against his leg.

He looked down as a rust-colored cat purred softly.

“I bought you some milk,” Oscar said. It was for the cat that Oscar had left on a couple of nightlights. He set the bottle on the counter, hugged it to himself with his left arm while he uncapped it with his right, and poured some into a bowl on the floor. The cat slinked noiselessly to the bowl and lowered its head down into it.

Oscar took the gun from his jacket, set it on the counter, then opened an oversized kitchen cabinet door to reveal a refrigerator. Oscar set the milk inside and took out a can of Coke. He popped the lid with his index finger, then poured the drink into a heavy-bottomed glass.

“How was your day?” he asked the cat.

Oscar sat on a leather stool at the kitchen counter. A silver laptop lay there, its screen black. He hit a button on the side, and while he waited for the machine to get up and running, he reached for a remote and brought the flat-screen TV to life. It was already on CNN, and he left it there.

The laptop was ready to go and he checked his mail first. Nothing but spam. If only you could find those people, he thought. They had it coming even more than Miles. He checked a couple of his favorite book-marked sites. One showed how his various investments were doing. Checking that tended to depress him these days. The other site, which always cheered him, featured short videos of kittens falling asleep.

He glanced up occasionally at the TV while he surfed around.

Onscreen, the news anchor was saying, “… in an unusual turn of events, a person who makes his living reporting the news finds himself at the center of it. Police are refusing to say whether they believe Jan Harwood is alive or dead, but they have indicated that her husband, David Harwood, a reporter for the Standard, a paper in Promise Falls, north of Albany, is what they are calling a person of interest. The woman has not been seen since she accompanied her husband Friday on a trip to Lake George.”

Oscar Fine glanced up from his laptop to the television for only a second, not really interested, then back to his computer. Then he looked back up again.

They had flashed a picture of this missing woman. Oscar Fine only caught a glimpse of the image before the newscast moved on to a shot of a house where it was believed this David and Jan Harwood lived, then another shot of the reporter’s parents’ house, and an older woman coming to the door, telling the media to go away.

Oscar kept waiting for them to show the woman’s picture again, but they did not.

He returned his attention to the laptop, and with his right hand did a Google news search of “Jan Harwood” and “Promise Falls.” That took him to a couple of sites, including that of the Promise Falls Standard, where he found a full story, by Samantha Henry, as well as a picture of the missing woman.

He clicked on it, blew it up. He stared at it a good minute. The woman’s hair was very different. He remembered her hair as red, but now it was black. And she’d worn heavy makeup, eyelashes like spider’s legs. This woman here, she had a toned-down look. Looked like your average housewife. Okay, better than that. A MILF.

He clicked again, blew the picture up even more. There it was. The small scar, shaped like an L, on her cheek. She probably thought she’d pancaked it enough to make it invisible the one and only time they’d met. But he’d seen it.

That scar was all the proof he needed. That, and the throbbing at the end of his left arm, where his hand used to be.

Oscar Fine had some calls to make.