

# Joey Warnecki

### Eight Days

John E. Dahlborg

1st Edition

# .

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 John E. Dahlborg

License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover photo by Elizabeth Kaminski

Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

# Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

# Chapter 1

### November 2000, Tuesday

The first shot shattered the home's rear window and storm glass, plowed a furrow along the man's scalp and buried itself in the opposite wall. The second, without any obstruction to slow its velocity, tore through the wall and ended up in the bathroom medicine chest, where it nested between a bottle of aspirin and a toothbrush. The tall, thin man crumpled to the floor, unconscious, cold November air pouring over him like a waterfall through the broken window. It was a few minutes into a new day, two days before Thanksgiving.

His chair, an old oak Craftsman- style rocker with a colorfully knitted afghan draped over the back, rocked itself to a stop. After a few minutes, the furnace clicked on, trying in a losing battle to overcome the invading cold. The warm air blowing from the register on the floor, and the fall of air through the shattered window became the only movement in the house, save for the slight rise and fall of Joey's chest, the faint beating of his heart, and the slow sweep of the wall clock's second hand.

The room he lay in had been his bedroom as a child, when his aunt and uncle had still been alive, and when he had grown, and they had passed away, it had become his sitting room. The furniture was elderly, inexpensive, 30's and 40's vintage, but well cared for. Two large bookcases were filled mostly with paperback novels. Framed photographs of his aunt and uncle and his parents sat atop one of them, the colors somewhat faded from the light. A textured print of Van Gogh's sunflowers hung on the wall between the bookcases, framed in the same dark oak as the rocker. The wall adjacent to the broken window contained another window that faced the driveway, and below it sat a sprawling Christmas cactus upon an oak plant stand, a plastic doily between pot and wood. The other chair in the room was a small armchair, upholstered in a pale pattern of flowers and leaves. It sat in the corner between the two windows and had a knitted doily across the top back edge. It was accompanied by a small footstool, covered in the same material. The floor was varnished oak, covered in large part by a circular braided rug, in black, red, and green — old neckties, socks, and other castaway clothing.

It was upon this rug that the man yet breathed and bled. Shards of glass littered the room and his body. A news magazine was crumpled beneath his knee. Half asleep, reading this magazine, it had slid from his lap. Lurching awake to grab it, his movement, simultaneous with the first shot, had prevented the bullet from killing him outright . Now the blood coagulated with the glass and his hair and in the rug, and the furnace worked to keep him from freezing to death this cold November evening.

The house, a single-story frame house, had a low-pitched gable roof. It sat in a densely packed neighborhood of similar houses on quarter acre lots. This house, however, had the advantage of being backed by a forested state park, so the small picket-fenced yard behind it offered an expansive, leafy background and more than minimal privacy. The grass was neatly trimmed, as were the various bushes planted tightly alongside the house foundation. A graveled driveway to the left of the house ran up to a single-car garage with swinging doors. This structure, sided in white-painted shingles like the house, had been converted to a workshop. Backed up to it was a blue ten-year-old Ford pickup truck, its bed haphazardly piled high with rotted wooden boards with protruding rusty nails. To the left of, and parallel to the driveway, on the neighbor's lot, a line of mellon-sized, white-painted stones were laid out to separate the two properties.

In the mid-morning of the next day, a man crossed this line of stones and the driveway to mount the two concrete steps of his neighbor's back stoop. Noting the broken window, he paused, fist raised to knock, and leaned to the right to look through.

"Joey?," he said in a moderate voice. He repeated, "Joey?," more loudly. "Hey, Joey, you all right?" He waited. still and tense for several heartbeats and then rushed through the unlocked (seldom locked) back door. Through the cold kitchen, around the corner to the right, and into the colder room where he stopped short of the pooled blood, his shoes crunching on glass, and his hands raised before him as though to hold back the scene before him.

Fifteen minutes later an ambulance braked to a stop on the street in front of the house. And ten minutes after that, a police patrol car in black and white disgorged a uniformed officer. He entered through the back door, noting the shattered window, now having what looked like a patchwork quilt hung over it inside. He stood in the doorway to the sitting room where the two paramedics were scissoring Joey's hair to separate his head from the rug, drying blood having glued the two together. A blue blanket covered him to his shoulders and a collapsed stretcher lay on the floor next to him. A vacuum cleaner sat nearby. The officer stepped around the activity to stand in the room's center. After nodding to the next-door neighbor who now was sitting on the footstool, he looked up on the wall opposite the damaged window, seeing the two bullet holes, four inches between them. He was a tall and heavy man and he hiked up his pants with its ponderous equipment belt before squatting on his haunches to face the paramedics and the object of their activity.

"How dead is he?" he asked, scratching under his cap. One of the paramedics, a slightly built young man with prematurely thinning blond hair, looked up from where he was supporting Joey's head so the other could get scissors between it and the carpet.

"Dunno," he said. "It looks like more blood than it really is, but he's apparently been lying here unconscious all night. He's gotten real cold. Soon's we get him unstuck, we'll rush him in so's they can warm him up and check for internal damage to his head. He's concussed for sure."

"You check for a wallet?" the officer asked.

"None on him," the paramedic replied. The other paramedic looked up. "Done," she said. "Let's get him loaded and go. You two," indicating the neighbor and the officer," give a hand with his legs." She looked like a twin to her partner, except for the thinning hair. She supported Joey's head and they lifted him to the stretcher. Two minutes later the ambulance rolled away, siren on. Neighbors up and down the street looked out of windows or stood on their front porches. It was a blustery Tuesday morning.

"You called it in?" The officer and the neighbor were standing. The neighbor was a sixty-ish, black man, stocky and strong looking, a fringe of gray hair cut close to his scalp. He wore pressed khakis, a short-sleeved white t-shirt, and brown leather loafers without socks. Hands in his pockets, jingling coins, or keys.

"Yeah," he replied. "I came over about nine or so to complain about the dust and‐"

"Wait a minute." The officer pulled a notebook and pencil from a chest pocket. The name tag over the pocket read 'Sims'. "Now, your name is?"

"Louis Armstrong. I live next door, driveway side." Louis pronounced the 's'.

"Address?" Officer Sims licked his pencil point and wrote.

"Two-twenty two Fourth Street." Louis, having taken some shit from cops in the past, appreciated the lack of commentary on his name.

"What dust?" The question wouldn't naturally be next in line at this point, but the officer was curious.

"I got roses planted next to the garage and Joey had a fan in the window yesterday blowing sawdust all over my new cedar bark mulch. I came over to bitch at him about it and saw him through the broken window, lying there, blood and glass all over."

"Sawdust is just more mulch, isn't it?" Officer Sims pointed at Louis with his pencil.

Louis crossed his arms over his chest. "I prefer things neat. Nice, clean, new red mulch with yellow dust all over it don't make it."

Sims glanced through the side window and took in the row of white-painted stones. They were singularly uniform in size. He scratched under the side of his cap with the point of his pencil, licked it again and poised it over his pad. "You hang up that bedspread? Is that a bedspread?"

"Yeah, I took it from the bedroom," pointing through the wall with the bullet holes. The bedroom was on the other side of the bathroom.

"What else did you touch here this morning?"

"Well, I checked the pulse in his neck to see if he was alive and covered him up with the blanket off the bed. Then I went in the kitchen and called 911 for the ambulance. Then, while I was waiting for them, I got the vacuum cleaner with the brush attachment out of the hall closet and vacuumed the glass specks off his eyelids, so's he wouldn't get glass in his eyes, if he woke up, you know, and opened them." Louis rubbed the back of his neck.

"You prefer things neat." This was stated matter-of-factly. Louis listened for sarcasm but didn't hear any. Still, he didn't respond to the question or comment, whichever it was.

"Hear anything last night, this morning?" The officer took off his cap, so he could scratch on top, and replaced it. He had about as much hair as Louis, though it was brown, and there were some strands on top.

"No, nothing out of the ordinary. Least ways no gunshots. Anyway, I had the stereo going about all evening, and fell asleep in my chair. Woke up and went to bed about midnight. Didn't hear anything that I remember." He paused. "Can't think why anybody'd shoot Joey, unless maybe someone was poaching deer back in the woods there, and shot this way." They both turned to look at the bullet holes, six feet high on the wall. The grouping and the angle, even if Joey had been standing, seemed unlikely to have originated back in the woods, where the ground was higher.

"Don't seem likely, though, does it?" , Louis said.

"No, maybe not." Sims turned to look at the dark spot on the rug. It was the size of a dinner plate and appeared to him like a silhouette of Mickey Mouse's head. Mickey had a scraggly brown beard of genuine human hair. He turned back to Louis, narrowing his eyes a little, as though considering Louis for the crime. Louis met his gaze with a narrowing of his own eyes.

"What's the victim's name?" Sims returned his attention to his notebook.

"Joey Warnecki."

"That's Joseph, right?"

"Yeah, haven't heard him called that since his aunt died, though."

"What about family, somebody to inform about the victim."

Louis put his hands back in his pockets. "Far as I know, Joey doesn't have any family. Both his parents died when he was a little kid and his aunt and uncle raised him. They've both been gone for several years now, left him this place. Joey never mentioned anybody else."

"No wife, ex-wife?"

"Nobody."

Sims stopped to consider his surroundings in light of this information. The furnishings, even the wallpaper, did not appear to be the selection of a single young man. "How old is Joseph Warnecki?"

"Joey is thirty-one years old. He was a Woodstock baby, born right there at the music festival, in a tent. Parents were hippies. I didn't know his dad, really, but his mom was a nice girl. She grew up here, too, with the aunt. Actually, Helen, the aunt, was Joey's great aunt." Louis wondered why he was being so expansive, decided the whole situation felt just too unreal. He shook his head and looked down at his feet, to ground himself.

"What did he, does he, do for work?"

"Joey's a carpenter, handyman. Small stuff, mostly. Fix a rotten porch, hang a new door. Takes care of some summer places down by the shore in the off season. Stuff like that, you know."

"He into drugs?'

At this, Louis looked back up at the officer and cocked his head to the side.

After a pause, "Noooo, I don't believe so. Shit, this look like a drug dealer's house to you?"" His answer sounded defensive to the officer, who stepped back a half pace, giving Louis some more personal space. It worked and Louis continued. "Joey's a regular working guy. Never got into anything bad, never hurt anybody, got along with everybody. He's even nice to that asshole on the other side."

"Well, he may have had at least one enemy. Who on the other side?"

"Ah, I didn't mean to pick out Old Joe as a suspect, even if he is a miserable son of a bitch. He's just a crank. I'm talking about Joe Soucup, neighbor on the other side of the house. Joey's the only one in the neighborhood that'll even talk to him, that's why I say he doesn't have any enemies. He's too nice to have any. This thing is too crazy."

"This neighborhood. This neighborhood is full of mostly old folks who kept their houses when the cannery closed down. Quiet place, hardly any kids. Nothing this strange happens here. Sometimes someone has a heart attack and the ambulance comes. That's about it." Louis was illustrating how odd this occurrence of crime was.

Sims knew about the neighborhood. He'd responded to several ambulance calls and very few criminal complaints here. The neighborhood consisted of mostly single-family, small homes packed together closely on property that had been owned by the Adams' family, who had also owned and operated a cannery located three-quarters of a mile away, on on the north side of this Maine coastal town's harbor. The Adams' family sold the lots and held the mortgages for cannery workers, creating a stable work force and increasing their own wealth at the same time. The housing construction was done by a company owned by the same family. The cannery closed down with the depletion of the fishing grounds, just about the time most of the thirty-year mortgages had been paid off. The jobs had gone and the people had stayed.

Sims reviewed the jottings in his notebook and returned it to his vest pocket. "Mr. Armstrong," he said, "I'm going to call this in. Later, I or another officer will want to talk to you again. Can you plan to hang around for a while?"

"Sure, I don't have any plans for the moment. I want to call the hospital to see how Joey is, maybe go up there later, but I'll stay around. I'd like to clean up the glass and stuff, you know, put some cardboard in the window before dark." He looked around as though he would begin cleaning right away.

"I think you're going to have to wait on the cleaning, Mr. Armstrong. We'll want to preserve the scene for a while, not disturb anything else." Sims looked pointedly at the vacuum cleaner. "Would you please step around the mess and wait at home, sir?"

"Yeah, okay, I understand. I'll, ah, wait at home." And with that, Louis walked around and out, crossing outside to his rear porch. There he paused, looking back to see Officer Sims looking through the side window at him. Louis opened the door and went inside.

In the sitting room, Sims stood in the center of the room, turning in a slow circle, committing details to memory. He noted the pattern of broken glass, some of which sprinkled the rug beneath where the body had lain. The crumpled magazine, the rocking chair, the position of the body — these led him to the conclusion that Joey had been reading in the chair, and had been shot without warning.

Leaving the room, he entered a hallway. The first door on his right led to the small bathroom, which was clean and orderly, fixtures all polished, towels hung neatly. The mirror of the medicine cabinet over the sink was cracked, craze lines radiating outward from a central point. A bedroom lay at the end of the hall, orderly except where bedspread and blanket had been hastily torn from the bed, pulling a pillow to the floor. The bureau top was overlaid with a cutwork linen doily. On it lay a hairbrush and comb, a wallet and a loose-leaf ring binder; all laid out straight and square to each other. He did not handle any of these, but left the room and turned to the right through a doorless entry into a twelve by twenty foot space divided into dining and living room areas by their furniture groupings. The furnishings here were in character with the rest of the house: older, inexpensive pieces, somewhat worn but well cared for. Clearly, the original furnisher of the home was a devotee of the needle arts. Doilies and anti-massacars were in abundance. Cutwork and embroidery, pieces knitted, tatted, and crocheted, overlaid every table and upholstered piece of furniture in the space. And two large, circular, braided rugs covered the centers of the floor areas. Sheer curtains bordered the room's windows, two on the wall facing the street and two on the wall facing the neighboring house, separated from this one by twenty feet or so. The front door was in a small alcove on the bedroom side.

The kitchen, behind the dining area, looked to have been renovated in the sixties, with its plastic-laminated counters, birch-veneered cabinets, and stainless steel sink. A small, round oak table with four oak chairs in the Craftsman style occupied the center of the linoleum floor. No dishes or flatware were on the counters or in the sink. All in all, the house spoke little of the individual who lived there, save that he was neater than the average male, not terribly acquisitive, and didn't own a television set.

Sims thought about that as he exited the back door to stand on the concrete stoop outside. He had noticed a radio in the kitchen, and one in the sitting room, but had seen no stereo equipment, no CD's or cassette tapes. "Think of that," he said to himself, "a thirty-year-old man without even a boom box." He turned to face the broken window, thinking that if the gunman had shot from there, he would have had to hold on to the doorframe to lean far enough out to the right to shoot. Don't touch the doorframe, he thought. Two steps down and two to the right would have been a good position for a tall shooter. This area was paved with brick. No cartridge casings were evident. Sims returned to his car to call in his initial report.

Using a cell phone, he called direct to the sergeant's office, by-passing the switchboard. "Sarge, this is Sims. The 911 call was correct, there was a shooting. The victim was alive but unconscious when I got here. The EMT's took him to Regional Hospital and I'm parked in front of the house right now."

There was a pause, and the sergeant replied. "Tell me more." He sat at a gray metal desk spread with budget reports. This was the time of year when the department's financial reports were pulled together to make a case for the next year's budget. If the department waited for the end of the year to prepare, the money the town raised by taxes would go to non-essential services, like the library or the schools. So reasoned the sergeant, who fiercely desired to replace aging and outmoded equipment and increase his operating budget.

"Apparently, two shots were fired from outside, through the window, and creased the skull of a thirty-one year old male, one Joseph Warnecki. I've talked to one of the neighbors, so far, but nothing obvious presents itself as an explanation. I'm going to need some help here."

The sergeant, whose name was Clarkson, swiveled his chair away from his desk and its paperwork to concentrate on this non-budgetary matter. He tried to banish dollars and cents from his mind. "Okay, let's see." He took a minute to think. "How secure is the scene?"

"Well, like I said, I'm sitting out in front. The neighborhood is quiet, nobody walking around, though some neighbors are looking out their windows. No reporters or anything."

"The vultures will be around soon. They're probably monitoring this call." The sergeant had unsuccessfully petitioned for an encrypted cell phone system for two years and was not a great fan for the rights of a free press. "Is the place locked up?"

"No. I didn't look for any keys. The place was open when I got here."

"Listen. Run some tape across the front of the place and run back here to pick up Mary and the evidence kit. There aren't any cars in the yard right now. I'll get Knowles down there to keep the press out. He's north of the cannery somewhere. Should be able to get there in ten minutes or so. Use the siren and lights. Go."

"Roger," replied Sims, who hurriedly strung fluorescent yellow crime-scene tape from the white picket fence in front of Armstrong's house to the rusty farm fence that fronted the property on the other side of Warnecki's house. In doing so, he had to string it across the neighbor's driveway. A wizened, bald, hook-nosed figure scowled at him from inside that house. He looked back at him for a moment. I'll be back in a few minutes and change it, he thought. He waved to the figure and jogged to the car, holding on to his flopping equipment belt. A few seconds later he was away, flashing lights and siren on.

.

U.S. Coastal Route One ran northeast through the mid-coast town of Rock Harbor, Maine, effectively dividing most of its population from the sea. Three of the town's four traffic lights allowed residents and tourists to cross it along its length, here denominated Main Street, through the commercial district. The craze for urban renewal that had swept much of downtown America in the 'fifties and 'sixties had not touched Rock Harbor. Neither had the town given way to the later trend of hiding historic (some said outmoded) detail with lath and stucco, nor of updating a crenelated brick roof line by covering it with a false sheet-metal gambrel roof. The district retained the original nineteenth-century character of its construction, not because of foresight on the part of the citizenry, but rather because of their frugality, and in part, down-east poverty. The lately-recognized charm of the downtown had recently been locked in by naming it an official historic district and zoning out the architecture of fast-food culture. Thus the area had become, in the nineties, a magnet for tourists fleeing the modernized blight of their own urban landscapes. A new prosperity turned empty storefronts and failed banks into trendy shops and upscale restaurants. Antique shops vied with art galleries for tourist dollars. And real estate values soared.

The new prosperity, though, like the canada geese that dug up the grass in the town park, was largely migratory, flying south when summer ended. Fully half of the shops, and most of the restaurants, closed up with the summer cottages and the departure of pleasure craft from the harbor. Restaurant wait staff returned to college or competed with out-of-work shop clerks for jobs in year-round businesses. With the closing of the cannery and the export overseas of manufactory enterprise, these jobs were few. Some locally-owned shops, those that did not do well enough in the summer, would not open again in the following year. So was reinforced traditional yankee thrift. The old values of 'waste not, want not', and 'a penny saved is a penny earned' remained viable in the place of their origin.

A few narrow streets and alleys ran southeast off Main Street to the harbor. Extending a half-mile from Rock Harbor Lighthouse and Harbor Town Park in the southwest to the defunct cannery in the northeast, it was protected from the open ocean by a narrow, conifer-studded barrier island. Deep water channels entered the harbor at each end, though by tradition, traffic entered by the northeast and exited the other. This practice originated when boats laden with their catch would enter at the northeast to reach the cannery and the commercial docks clustered at that end. Flouting this rule, non-local pleasure craft endured the sneers of local lobstermen, purse-seiners, and draggers.

The lobstermen were a sub-set of the local economy that had not seen a diminishment of numbers in recent years. While other fish stocks had declined, the numbers of lobsters taken had increased. After the cannery shut down, Charles Adams, heir to that failed business, had driven piles and enclosed a two-acre lobster pound. Not a fisherman's cooperative, he bought the catch outright at a set price and sold or held the lobsters according to the market price. Not all the lobstermen sold to him and not all who did were happy with his policies. And those that left him to deal independently wouldn't be welcomed back. This was a continual subject of discussion at Molly's , a hangout for fishermen and other working class heroes, located on the northernmost alley running from Main Street to the docks.

The harbormaster's shack was crowded between the two commercial docks and the marina. Boat yards jostled for space with the Rock Harbor Yacht Club and a few waterside restaurants. During the summer, the harbor teemed with activity, a noisy bouillabaisse both rank and sweet: smells of diesel fuel and fried seafood, low-tide and cocoa butter; sounds of engine and seagull, laughter and salty imprecation; light flashing from varnished brightwork, deep shadow where hull met water. This November, the chill, damp wind seemed to have blown most of all that busy cacophony away. It was still a nice, fishy stew, but not one to linger by in shorts and a tee shirt.

The town's business district was a scant two blocks wide, merging into municipal buildings and then residential areas. The southern end of town melded into farmland, alluvial plain. To the north, scarcely a mile from the sea rose Frenchman's Hill State Park, donated by Charles Adams' father shortly after the second world war. Matthew Adams divested himself of this land in an attempt to ensure a fond and grateful memory of him in the hearts of the local population and, only incidentally, to reduce his property tax liability. (He had wanted it named Matthew Adams State Park, but the trustees, influenced by the not-grateful-enough locals, had named it after its first white resident, a hermit of French-Canadian extraction.) The lavish estate at its peak, and the sole right of way to it, was left to his daughter Meredith, and was to revert to the state upon her death. She was now seventy-four years old and used the place summers and holidays with her children and their families. None of them were willing to invest any capital in a house that would soon belong to the state, and as a result it was slowly subsiding into decay. Still, it was an impressive piece of brick, Federalist-style architecture, with a magnificent view of the town, its harbor, and a great expanse of Penobscot Bay. The grandchildren of Matthew Adams resented him greatly for his gift to the state. Almost as much as the townspeople resented him for his local greed and his arrogant management of his businesses. A new generation might someday come to revere his memory, but the one now residing in Rock Harbor would never do so.

.

Joey Warnecki awoke to unfamiliar surroundings in mid-afternoon of the day he was brought to Mid-Coast Regional Hospital. His head was throbbing and his vision was blurred. The beginnings of panic caused him to start to sit up but the increased pain put his head back down on the pillow and a low groan issued from his throat. A matronly nurse tucking in the sheets on the empty bed to his left turned to the sound. Her eyes went first to the monitors above him and then came to rest on his face. At his startled expression she consciously brought a consoling smile to her face and said, "You're in the hospital, dear. They brought you in this morning with a head wound. Don't fret now, just relax there and I'll get the resident. He'll explain what's going on. Just relax now." And she patted his hand where it lay atop the tight blanket and walked away. He tried to follow her with his eyes, not moving his head. When they travelled as far as was possible, the strain brought a new stab of pain and he closed them, too upset to articulate questions in his own mind.

Lying there, he resembled nothing so much as a large, scraggly, puppy dog. Outsized, callused hands lay at the ends of long, thin, corded arms. Beneath the sheet he stretched the length of the bed and his size-twelve feet splayed to the sides, held that way by the taut bedding. He was tucked in as though to keep him from escaping. Indeed, the hospital staff weren't sure how to regard him, being the victim of a gunshot wound. He certainly did not appear dangerous, except for his hair, which was wild. Even without the shaved and stitched area to the right and rear of his head, his hair was savage. Three cowlicks vied for supremacy and he was at least a month overdue for a haircut. And remnants of dried blood matted swatches to his scalp. Hair aside, he wasn't an unattractive man. Though his facial features were, like hands and feet, slightly outsized, they formed a harmonious and expressive whole: eyes brown and large, but not protuberant; nose with character overhanging a generous mouth; jug handle ears that promised to listen to your problems. His face appeared engineered to disarm fear, and invoke trust.

The nurse reappeared, hauling in tow a chubby, pink-faced resident. "Mr. Warnecki?" She patted his hand. "Mr. warnecki, I've brought the doctor." Joey opened his eyes and the doctor stepped to the fore.

"I'm Dr. Wickman. I'm sure you're confused, but I'll try to set your mind at ease." As he spoke, he leaned forward with a small penlight to peer into Joey's eyes. "You were brought in this morning, unconscious. The police say you were shot from outside your house. Probably a hunting accident, or something. A bullet clipped the side of your head, causing a hairline fracture to the skull. We took an MRI when you were brought in and it doesn't show any apparent internal damage. Meanwhile, we've got you on some meds. You may feel thirsty." Joey's mouth felt dry. "We want to keep an eye on you here for a while, maybe a few days, just to watch, you know." He straightened up and regarded Joey.

Joey licked his lips. "Head hurts," he allowed.

The doctor nodded. "Is your vision blurred? Or double?"

"Blurry, a bit."

The doctor held out his penlight like a candle before Joey. "Can you touch this?" Joey raised his left hand and touched the penlight with an index finger. "Good. Do you know where you are?"

"In a hospital," Joey replied.

"Right." The doctor paused and said, "The police want to talk to you but we're keeping them away for now. You need quiet and rest. Don't get up to pee without calling the nurse." He held up the call button at Joey's side for him to see. "Okay?"

"Okay."

The doctor made some notations on the chart at the foot of the bed, nodded to the nurse, and left. The nurse tucked in the sheets even more firmly, patted Joey's hand for the third time and said, "You'll be fine, dear. I'll be back in a little while." She left Joey with his thoughts and his headache.

.

Thirty minutes after Joey was taken away in the ambulance, Officer Sims with Officer Mary Hartz arrived back at the house to find three other vehicles parked along the curb in front. Two were black and white police cars, the other was a white van emblazoned with the Channel 26 Television News logo. "Shit, they beat us. And what's the chief's car doing here?" Sims scraped the curb with the tires in his hurry to park. The crime scene tape lay on the ground, detached from one end where he had tied it to the wire fence. Officer Knowles, an Archie Bunker look-alike, stood with his arms crossed at the end of the driveway, barring entrance to a young, blond, blue-suited news reporter. Not being allowed to enter the property, she was trusting a microphone before his face and attempting to interview him. Knowles shared more with Archie Bunker than his appearance. He had nothing to say but, "I got nothing to say to you." Seeing that her winning smile was not winning any cooperation, she turned to confer with the cameraman and, catching sight of Sims, tried to intercept him. He strode past her and hustled down the driveway. She trotted to where Mary Hartz stood bent over, pulling two aluminum cases from the trunk of the car. The cases, stenciled in yellow 'RHPD', might just as well have had Mary's initials instead, as she jealously guarded them from any and all who would meddle with them. She, among other duties required in small, underfunded police departments, was the department's evidence technician.

"Close that for me, would you?" Mary straightened, a case in either hand. Her way to the curb was blocked by the reporter. "Thanks. Tina, I've got to get by. I just got here, I don't know anything yet, and I couldn't say anything to you now, anyway."

"Oh, come on, Mary, give me something. Anything." The reporter stamped her little foot. A slight-framed woman, Tina Bronki had a thin face and a sharp nose. She wore her jaw-length hair in a manner to make her face appear rounder. To the same end, she presented a three-quarter profile when appearing on camera.

"Okay: All comment to the press is handled by the department press officer. That would be Sergeant Clarkson. Sorry Tina, you know how he is about speaking with reporters." Officer Mary Hartz, mid-thirties, tall and sturdy, with short brown hair, stood in contrast to the birdlike reporter. As a teenager, she had been the reporter's babysitter and they had remained friends through the several years since then.

"He hates me! He'll never talk to me." A shooting in town was an extremely rare news-reporting opportunity. Tina Bronki sensed a possible boost to her career.

"He hates everybody, Tina. C'mon, let me by."

Tina stepped aside. "Hey, maybe I'll call you later, off the record," she said hopefully, as Mary walked by without reply. Tina returned to the van with the cameraman to escape the gusty November wind and called the police department on her cell phone.

Sergeant Clarkson was not happy to be hearing so soon from the press. "How did you hear about this? You know, it's illegal to intercept cellular calls." He made a mental note to press harder for an encrypted system.

Tina brushed by his remark. "Sergeant Clarkson, can you comment on the shooting? Was it a hunting accident or was Mr. Warnecki shot intentionally?" In her mind she said, "Give me a break, you son of a bitch."

The sergeant was a stone wall. "The investigation is ongoing. The department has no comment at this time. We will make every effort to keep the press properly informed, at the proper time." Which, if he had the choice, would be never. He was drumming his fingers on the desk.

Tina tried sweetness. "Will you comment off the record?"

Clarkson used gruffness. "There's no such thing."

Tina tried threat. "A good relationship with the press can be good for the department."

Clarkson stuck with gruffness. "There's no such thing as a good relationship with the press." And he hung up.

Tina Bronki decided to poll the neighbors for opinions until she could get another chance with one of the officers at the scene. Later she could try the hospital.

Sims had entered the kitchen to find Chief Harry A. Sloan talking on the wall phone. Leaning back against the counter was the department brown nose, Officer Jimmy Brulick, otherwise known as 'Jimmy Bootlick'. Jimmy had grown up in town being disdained and bullied by family and schoolmates alike. He had turned to police work as a kind of revenge. The chief was a political appointee with neither the aptitude nor the experience necessary to do a competent job in that position. Sims wished they weren't here. Mary Hartz entered and rolled her eyes at Sims, out of sight of the chief and his toady.

The chief hung up. "Nice of you to show up, Sims." Turning to Mary, "Nice contaminated scene for you, Hartz. I think the whole world's been through here before you." Sims and Hartz bit their tongues. Mary was struck by how much the uniformed pair looked alike, from the sneers on their faces to the shine on their shoes. Both were short and thin. Brulick even emulated the posture and stride of his mentor. But where the face of the chief was weathered and deeply lined, the face of his toady was pasty. And the chief barely revealed eyes like bright, blue chips of ice, in contrast to Brulick's watery, brown orbs. The Chief and Jimmy Show. She shook her head to clear the thought.

"Have you touched anything besides the phone, sir," she asked.

"Uh, no." Looking at it. "I was just talking to Sergeant Clarkson."

"How about the rest of the house? Have you walked through?" She held the cases at her sides as though they were two pistols she might draw and shoot.

"No, no, we just got here." With a glance at Jimmy. "Peeped through at the room where the victim was, that's all."

"Did either of you handle the doorframe on your way in?" This from Sims. Double team them. Drive them out.

"Don't believe so, no." The chief drew himself up straight. Time to re-establish his authority. "You two get to work here. Don't waste any more time. I want a comprehensive report as soon as possible." He jerked his head at Brulick and the two sidled out the door past Sims and Hartz, who watched them go.

Sims and Mary half-smiled at each other. It was a small victory. Mary set the cases on the floor. "What's first? What do you want me to do?" Sims asked, deferring to Mary. She would lead in this part of the investigation.

"Let's walk through. You can tell me what you found while I take some pictures." She retrieved a polaroid camera from her kit.

Sims had told her much of it in the car and now he pointed out the position of the victim, the chair, the magazine, and the bullet holes while she snapped pictures. He suggested what he thought of as the probable scenario and she concurred.

"What's with the vacuum cleaner?" she asked, one eyebrow raised.

"The guy that found him, the neighbor. He said there was glass on the victim's eyelids. Was afraid he might wake up, open his eyes, you know. Both him and the vic seem like neat freaks. Wanted to clean up the glass right away. Told him he'd have to wait on that."

When they entered the bedroom he stopped short. "That wasn't there," he said, pointing to a rolled plastic baggy on the bureau top. "That was't there an hour ago."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. Pretty sure. No, I'm sure. That wasn't there. Shit." They stood in silence, the wind outside the only sound in the room.

"Looks like dope," Mary finally said. She snapped a picture of it.

"Do we have probable cause to examine it?" Sims did not like this thing appearing in a place that he had supposedly secured as first officer on the scene.

"This is a crime scene and it's right out in the open," Mary said. "Even if it wasn't there before, when you first got here, it's evidence of something, now. Hey, maybe you did miss it first time around, nobody's perfect. Listen, we gotta take it. If it's dope, we'll get a warrant to go into drawers and stuff." She was pulling on a pair of thin, cotton gloves. She was anxious to dig out bullets, lift fingerprints, do all of the tasks her speciality called for, bring everything back to the closet at headquarters she called her 'lab'. She wasn't odd, she was enthusiastic.

"Yeah. I guess so. I want to talk to Knowles, see who else has been here, talk to the neighbor, Armstrong. You need me here?"

"No, no, I'm all set. You go ahead." She had already dismissed him from her mind.

He stopped at the doorway for a moment. "That bag wasn't there,"he said, and left her bagging the evidence.

.

Knowles was sitting in his car with the engine running when Sims reached the front. Sims entered the passenger side. "How you doing, Charlie?" he said.

"Okay, I guess, just sitting here watching that reporter going door to door and wondering what's going on here. So, what is going on here? All I know is there was a shooting. Guy die?" Knowles put one arm on the seat back. He was getting comfortable with the warm air blowing from the car's heater.

"He wasn't dead when he left here. Don't know if he is now or not. Shot from outside, looks like. Two holes in the wall. What time did you get here?"

"I got the call about quarter after ten and I was on the sidewalk for five minutes or so before you got here. The chief and Jimmy the Boot were already here. Don't know when they arrived. Surprised to see them, though. What does the chief do, anyway?"

"Delegates, mostly. And then meddles." The chief of police was nominally in charge of the first shift, with the lieutenant heading up the second, and a corporal leading the third. In practice, Sergeant Clarkson bossed the first shift, as well as doing the bulk of the administrative work. If the chief was around during the day, he mainly spent his time with the marine unit. Everyone in the department was comfortable with this arrangement, with the exception of the marine unit and Sergeant LeBeau, its lead man. "Anyone else go in the house?"

"Didn't see anyone. The tape was down. Old guy in that peeling house next door's been giving me the hairy eyeball. Like to ask him if he took it down, put my own hairy eyeball in his face." They both turned to look over their shoulders. The guy was looking back at them.

"Looks like he might poke it out if you did," said Sims. "Be good if you hung here for a while, keep the news-lady away. I'll go talk to the old man. I want to talk to the other neighbor again, too, guy that called it in. When Mary's done, we can lock up the place and check out the rest of the neighbors."

"Fine with me. Nice and warm in here." Knowles faced the front and Sims got out of the car. He wished he had his jacket.

Sims closed the rusty gate after himself, walked up to the front door and knocked. Knocked again when he failed to get an answer after half a minute. Seems like the old man would know I was here, face in the window all the time, he thought. He knocked a third time, banging on the door so that it rattled. This time it opened.

"Whadya try'n to do, bust the door down?" The old man had a rivulet of brown spittle oozing from the corner of his mouth. His breath reeked of tobacco and his voice, several decibels above normal conversational level, came from around the enormous chaw he held in his mouth. A slight, eastern-European accent came through in his speech, mixed up in with the tobacco juice and Maine vernacular.

"Sorry. Mr. Soucup, is it?" Sims stepped back a foot on the porch landing. No response to his question was forthcoming. "I'm Officer Sims, Rock Harbor Police. I'd like to ask you a few questions, sir." The old man looked as though he might close the door in his face. "Please, just a few questions, sir, if you don't mind."

"Well, hurry up then, yer lettin' in all the cold air." His voice was juicy. He closed the door so that just his head was sticking out. Sims thought he could jerk the door shut and chop it off at the guy's turkey neck. Instead he said, "May I come in for a minute, sir, then the cold will stay out." The old man retreated inside, holding the door open enough so that Sims could squeeze through. The hallway was so dark, Sims could barely make out any details of the house interior. The light coming in through the windows had to pass through a thick, dirty film. Sheer curtains that had probably once been white covered them. Any light that did pass was jaundiced and dim. The smell in the house was heavy with tobacco, eau de cat pee, old man odor, and boiled chicken.

"Sir, there was a shooting between yesterday evening and this morning. The man next door was injured. Did you see or hear anything out of the ordinary between then and now?" Sims eyes were becoming adjusted to the dim light. None of the surfaces of walls or woodwork reflected light. The finish must have been mostly smoke and dirt.

Joe Soucup narrowed his eyes, chewed his cud, and replied, "Seen a lot a cops in blue uniforms, that's what I seen. Din't hear nothin'." He had a flesh-colored hearing aid over each ear, the earpieces hanging away from the ear canal where they might have done some good. He seemed to be reading lips as least as much as he was hearing. Sims had been speaking in a strong, clear voice.

"So you haven't seen anyone who might have been out of place in the neighborhood. Maybe someone creeping around in the back."

"Told you. All I seen creeping around's been cops. Must a been a cop shot him." His eyes were mere slits now. The hostility emanating from him was adding to the heavy atmosphere in the house. He was chewing with determination. Sims thought the guy might spit on the floor. He didn't really want to see that.

Sims was becoming angry with the scrawny old bastard. "Did you remove the crime scene tape from the wire fence out front?" His hands were on his hips now and he was leaning forward into the old man's face. He was sorry he did.

"Nobody asked me if they could hang anything from my fence." Flecks of spittle peppered Sim's face, caused him to blink. Time to go. Before he strangled the old man. "I don't have to say nothin' to you," the old man finished.

He followed Sims out the door. Sims stopped on the bottom step and turned. "Are you familiar with Mr. Armstrong?" The question just popped out, he didn't know why he was asking it. Joe Soucup straightened and turned to look at Louis' house. Louis was sweeping the steps of his front porch.

Joe smiled and stretched out his gray-bristled neck to spit a dark stream over the side railing. "That stupid son of a bitch. Look at him. Sweeping his porch that hasn't seen a speck of dirt since his old lady died. Heh-heh." His voice carried easily to where Louis stood. Louis stopped sweeping, scowled back, and went inside, muttering.

"I got to get out of here," Sims said out loud. He strode down the front walk and through the gate, leaving it open as his last word. Joe stood a minute on his front porch, proud of himself, before returning inside.

Sims was still fuming as he passed Knowles in the car, who looked back at him with raised and amused eyebrows. Sims stopped at the white picket gate before Armstrong's house. "Get a hold of yourself," he said, still talking to himself. "Be a cop. Cool down. Don't be a fool. Do the job. Okay, I'm okay." He had been twenty-seven years on the job and no one had gotten to him the way that old man had. He could control himself with his kids, who weren't easy. He could even keep a cool head with the chief, who was the biggest asshole he had ever known, at least until today. Irate businessmen; self-righteous, pompous minor politicos; drunken drivers with attitude; abusive, unaware, neglectful parents: he had handled them all with aplomb and professionalism. How did that one old man, in a few short minutes, get him so out of joint? The guy must have made a science out of aggravating people. A skill learned over a lifetime, since he was a little kid. Sims didn't want to imagine him as a little kid. "Maybe the shooter just got the wrong house," he mused, finally in control and reaching Louis' front door, which opened before he could knock.

Louis looked at him with an what-did-I-tell-you expression. "Guy get your goat?"

Sims shook his head, not to deny his goat was missing, but to indicate that he didn't want to talk about it. "May I come in for a few minutes, Mr. Armstrong, I'd like to ask you a few more questions."

"Sure, come on in." Louis swept his arm to the interior of the house, indicated for Sims to take a seat. The living room Sims entered was a stark contrast to the house he had recently left. The walls and woodwork were light and bright. The sofa and chairs were upholstered in pale pastels, accompanied by brightly colored and patterned throw pillows. The room showed a woman's touch in decorating. The furnishings were inexpensive, but tasteful, and well kept. The nap of the wall-to-wall pile carpet showed evidence of having been recently vacuumed. It looked like the pattern mowed on a ball field before a big game. Louis looked at the heavy equipment belt surrounding Sim's waist and said, "Maybe we ought to sit in the kitchen. Want some coffee?"

Sims was not offended, he'd be more comfortable in the kitchen, anyway. "Coffee would be nice, thank you." He followed Louis into the kitchen. The three houses Sims had been in were all laid out to the same pattern. "House designs are similar in the neighborhood, huh?

"Like out of a cookie cutter. Aren't but three designs in the whole bunch. Old Adams didn't want to pay the architect more than he had to, cut into his profits." Louis poured two cups, set out milk and sugar. Sims' mother had had the same set of dish ware, collected a piece at a time from the supermarket. One week you could buy cups and saucers, the next week dinner plates. Both men took their coffee black.

"Good coffee," Sims said. "Have you been acquainted with the victim, Mr. Warnecki, for long?" He pulled the pad from his breast pocket and looked at his notes. He hadn't taken any at Joe Soucups'. He wrote: 'Joseph Soucup, 226 Forth Street, neighbor claims to have seen and heard nothing, uncooperative.' He could not put down what he really felt about the nature of Mr. Soucup. These informal notes could be part of a trial sometime in the future. No sense writing anything down that could come back to haunt him someday. He wrote the time and date.

"I've known him about all his life. I've gotten to know him real well, since I retired from the Navy, in '89. Joey must have been about twenty or so. His aunt and uncle were good folks. Good to Kat all the time I wasn't around. Kat, Katherine was my wife. I became sort of like an uncle-slash-friend to Joey, especially after his uncle died. Killed in an accident at the cannery, after it had been closed up. Guess I know Joey as well as anybody does." Louis felt at ease with the big policeman.

"Did you notice anyone around his house before the police showed up, after I left?"

"No. I went down in the basement, cut a piece of cardboard to cover up the window. Didn't come back up until the doorbell rang. News reporter." A square of brown corrugated cardboard and a roll of gray duct tape lay on the otherwise cleared counter. "Okay if I stick that up?"

"I'll take it over, put it up before we leave. Do you have a key for the house?"

"Yeah. Like to get it put up, keep all the heat from leaking out."

"I'll take care of it soon as I can. May I have the key?" Louis got up and removed a brass key from a ring of keys hanging from a hook by the back door. He dropped it in front of Sims and sat down again.

"Do you happen to know what Mr. Warnecki did yesterday, where he was working?"

"Let's see. I think he tore a porch down in the morning. For the Jennings, summer people, have a place on the shore, north end of town. Then I know he went over to the Lion's Club to repair a desk in the upstairs office got broken during a stag party the other night. He came over here afterward. We had a beer. His face had like a grid pattern on the skin. Said he fell asleep with his face on the floor register waiting for some epoxy to set up. Said when he came downstairs, must have been asleep for a couple hours, Charley Adams was all pissed off at him. Told him he wouldn't get anymore work through him. Called him some names. Joey was real upset."

Sims wrote it all down. He would have two people to talk to, but did not figure that either were very promising as leads in the investigation. "Does Mr. Warnecki have a girlfriend, other friends, acquaintances that you know of, that I could talk to. I don't have a great deal here to go on. I'd appreciate any help you could give me."

"Well, Joey has a lot of friends. Works with a lot of people. Doesn't work for anybody, you understand, but he does a lot of subcontracting, takes a lot of jobs too small for any of the larger contractors to handle. I can't say he has any particular friends, mostly people he would go out with, have a beer."

Sims thought that Louis enjoyed talking about Joey. It could be a ploy, if he was the shooter, but the impression Sims got was of an almost paternal pride. He was close to being willing to dismiss Louis as a suspect, but because he was a cop, and was short on other suspects at the moment, he told himself to keep an open mind.

Louis continued: "As far as girlfriends go, he doesn't seem to have many, or any. I don't mean to imply he's a homosexual or anything like that, but all his people, people who have been close to him, have died. He had a steady girl all through high school. I'm sure they would have gotten married right after high school, but she died in a car crash. Just going down to the store for a loaf of bread, or some such thing, and a truck crashed into her. Killed her. What with his mom and dad killed when he was little, uncle dying in an accident, aunt dying of cancer, I think he may be gun-shy about relationships. Shit, I didn't mean to say that. I wonder how he's doing. Have you heard anything? The hospital wouldn't tell me anything."

Sims sat with his chin resting on steepled hands, listening to Louis' narrative. Now he put his hands in his lap. "No, I haven't had time to check on him yet. I'll do that soon."

"Could you give me a call, let me know? I'm worried about that boy." Louis' eyes were serious, his expression intent. His hands were flat on the table before him.

Sims paused, trying to reconcile his gut feeling of this man with the innate suspicion and distance every good cop must hold to be objective, to keep from blocking any reasonable avenue of investigation though dint of familiarity.

The conscious decision to trust another person, by the thoughtful mind, is relative. The circumspect learn what to trust in another by degree, according to the character of the trustee. Some, one may trust with money, others with secrets. And some may be trusted with one's most precious possessions — the heart, or the well being of one's children. Sims was a thoughtful person.

"Sure," he said. "I'll get back to you this evening sometime." He rose from his chair. "I'm going back to the house. When we finish up there, I'll put in that cardboard and lock the place up. I'd appreciate you keeping an eye out. I'm going to give you my card. If you think of anything that could help, give me a call." He wrote his home number on the back of a card from his wallet and set it on the table.

Louis picked up the card and looked at it. He sat at the table for a long time after Sims left, holding the card in both hands, staring at and not seeing it, thinking.

.

"Hey, good, just in time." Mary Hartz was standing on the ground outside the broken window, holding the ends of two pieces of string. The bedspread had been taken down and Sims could see that the other ends of the string were thumbtacked to the bullet entry points on the wall inside. "Hold these," she said, "I'll go inside and direct you how to move. Then I'll take some measurements and a few more pictures. I sent Knowles to get the hole-saw. All I have left to do is core around the bullet that remained in the wall, and I'll be done for the day." She went inside.

Sims spoke to her through the window. "One stayed in the wall?"

"Yes. The other was sitting in the medicine cabinet, waiting for me to pick it up. Looks about a thirty-eight caliber, copper jacket. Not too badly deformed." She sighted along the string to where it passed by the rocking chair. "Move to your left a little. Stop. Now back a step. Good. Stay there." She took up the camera and flashed a picture where the string passed over the chair. Then she took one of Sims through the window, blinding him with the flash. "Sorry," she said, "Hang there another minute." She came back outside and measured from where the strings intersected to the ground, and then to two points on the outside wall. She sketched a diagram, added her measurements to it, and took the string from Sims' hands.

Sims tried to blink away the red spot in his vision. "Okay if I tape this cardboard in the window?"

"Sure, all done here. Here comes Knowles." Knowles came around the corner carrying the hole-saw and an extension cord. "Charlie, give me a hand inside."

When Sims finished his taping, he returned to the sitting room, where Mary was popping out a two-inch core from the end of the heavy hole-saw. "Anything else?" he asked. Mary shook her head. "Okay, let's lock up and canvas the street. The three of us should get it done in a hour or so. Did you grid-search the yard already?"

"Yes, I did," Mary replied, "Not even a gum wrapper."

None of the mostly elderly neighbors up and down the street had anything to offer, though all that knew him were concerned with Joey's condition. All were sure that he couldn't have had an enemy in the world.

.

It was now after six in the evening and Sims was tired. He hadn't eaten since breakfast and he wanted to get home, see his wife and daughters. But his exhaustion stemmed mainly from the stress of seeing the plastic bag where none had been before. He tried to convince himself of the possibility that he had missed it the first time around, but could not accept that. He had been a scant half-hour away from the scene. In that time, someone had slipped in and planted it. His mind struggled with the implications.

Now he was driving Mary Hartz back to the police station where she was anxious to do a preliminary work-up of all she had collected. He asked her, "Did you print the bag?"

"No, I'll do that first thing. I did pull several prints at the scene that probably belong to Warnecki, for comparison if I get any off the bag. I can do a preliminary test on the substance before I send it off to the state lab. I want to get enough tonight to justify a warrant to search the rest of the place. First thing in the morning I'll deliver the bullets and the bag to the state, and then see about a warrant. Maybe you want to get the warrant, save time."

"Maybe, yeah. Did you get anything from the door jamb or the window sill?"

"Too smudged. Nothing was fresh there, anyway."

Sims pulled the car up to the back door of the station and helped Mary unload her gear. "You coming in?" she asked.

"No. I'm going to swing by the hospital, see if I can talk to Warnecki."

"Going to keep the chief waiting, huh? He'll be pissed."

"Let him wait. How long are you going to be, 'til you get something?"

She thought for a moment. "Figure and hour or so."

"I should be back around then. I'll call if it's going to be longer. We can go up against the chief together. Double-team him." Sims drove off and Mary carted her equipment and evidence inside.

Brulick caught sight of her as she was going down the stairwell to her space and yelled, "Where's Sims?"

She didn't look back and answered, "Working. Be back later."

Brulick followed her down. "The chief wants a report right away."

She stopped and turned with a sigh as he caught up with her. "Listen, Bootlick, we're putting in a full day here. I don't need you hassling me. When I've got something, the chief will be the first to hear." She towered over him, six feet tall and one hundred and sixty-five pounds to his five-five and one hundred and forty. And she wasn't going to be harassed by him.

His face grew red and he sputtered, trying to come up with a suitable retort. He couldn't come up with anything — direct confrontation had never been his forte. He preferred the indirect approach. Mary didn't wait for a reply, anyway, and continued on her way, leaving him to fume in the hallway.

.

At the hospital, Sims was directed to the nurse's station on the second floor. There he was informed that visitors, official or otherwise, were restricted. He asked to see the attending physician. The nurse paged Dr. Wickman for him and offered him a seat in the waiting room. In five minutes, the doctor, white coat wrinkled and stained from a long day, entered the waiting room and approached Sims.

"Officer Sims, I'm Dr. Wickman, I assume you're here officially." He shook the officer's hand.

"Yes." Sims stood. "Thanks for your time. What can you tell me about Mr. Warnecki's condition? Is he conscious?"

The doctor looked at a clipboard in his hand. "Joseph Warnecki was admitted at eleven-oh-six this morning in an unconscious state. Tests showed a hairline fracture of the cranium on the right, rear side. He regained consciousness around three-fifteen this afternoon. There does not seem to be any significant subdural hematoma, but since he did lose consciousness, we will keep him under close observation for twenty-four hours, and may release him at noon tomorrow, if his condition does not deteriorate. I would say the prognosis is good. He is significantly oriented, and motor response is good. He has a tremendous headache, though, and we feel that visitation is proscribed." The doctor clasped his hands, with the clipboard, in front of him. "You'll have to wait until tomorrow to talk to him."

"Did Mr. Warnecki offer any information about the incident?"

"I couldn't say." Neither invoking doctor-patient privilege, nor denying hearing anything. He was tired, but still aware of the legal protocols involved in his position.

"Okay, I'll come back in the morning. Thanks again." They shook hands again.

"No problem. Morning visitation is from ten until noon."

.

The hospital had been restricting his fluid intake and Joey was thirsty. His headache had receded to a dull throb, which increased when he tried to sit up. So, he mainly tried to lay still. He wasn't sleepy, and he wondered about being shot. His assumption was that the shot was a stray, from some hunter in the state park. He knew of no reason to conclude otherwise. He was not outraged, he accepted the fact as a piece of bad luck to be waited out, recovered from, and forgotten. Altogether a commendable attitude, given the circumstances of his life, and the losses he had sustained. Life thus far had taught him that bad things happened. There was no sense to rail against adverse fortune, and the best you could do was to keep on with life. At the same time, he was careful in his actions to not provoke the fates. Be cautious, but not overly limited. Enjoy what is available to you, but don't take unnecessary risks. This formula had worked well enough, so far, and in any event, it was all he had to go with. He wanted to reassure Louis that he was all right. He knew that Louis would be worrying about him, but the hospital staff wouldn't let him use the phone until tomorrow. This concerned him even more than his own condition. Since there wasn't anything he could do about it, he let this go, too. He let everything go and drifted off into sleep, convinced that tomorrow would be a better day.

.

Sims returned to the station, locating Mary Hartz in the chief's office. Jimmy Brulick sat quietly in a corner chair, the chief behind his desk, Mary in a straight-backed wooden chair before him. They were discussing the plastic bag.

"Hey, John," she said, "we just got started, grab a seat." The chief didn't welcome him.

"You were talking about the bag? What did you find?" Sims acted as though he and Mary were alone in the room.

"As I was just telling the chief," nodding in the chief's direction as though to acknowledge his existence, "the substance is cocaine. About half-an-ounce, stepped on once or twice." This was a felony amount, not mere possession. "The bag was clean, no prints." She waited for his reaction, one eyebrow raised.

Sims took off his cap, put his elbows on his knees and looked at the chief. "Chief," he said, "the stuff wasn't there when I was at the scene the first time."

The chief was in uniform, and his cap was on. He leaned back in his chair, which creaked like a small animal in pain, and locked his hands behind his head. "You searched the place, first time?"

"No, I took a walk-through, get a general impression of the place." He turned the cap in his hands by its brim, a steady rotation, round and around.

"You could of missed it, first time around."

Sims let out a long breath through pursed lips. "Nope. I've gone over it a dozen times in my head. It wasn't there."

"You're saying someone put it there while you were gone." The room grew still, and silent. Sloan's eyes were intense.

"I can draw no other conclusion. And I have to say that I don't have a clue as to who could have done it." Sims crossed his legs and hung his cap on his knee.

Mary had been looking back and forth between the two men. She said, "Captain, do you want to get the lieutenant in on this?" She was thinking that the lieutenant might act as a buffer in the room, keep the situation honest. The chief was a purely political animal, prone to act in a less than straightforward manner when situations were not clearly cut.

His gaze turned to her. "No," he said, "I'll brief the lieutenant when we're done here." He looked back to Sims. "Have you written this down yet in your notes, or a report?"

Sims, uncomfortable at the beginning of this meeting, began to fear that he was going to be compromised. "No, sir, I haven't."

"Well." The chief paused. "The way I see it, the circumstances are ambiguous. An officer leaves the scene of a crime unattended and someone may or may not have slipped in and planted evidence. If the suspect, as the result of a search based on this evidence, is discovered to be dirty, a defense attorney might use any such notes to get his guilty client off on a technicality. I think, for now anyway, we should keep the possibility that this evidence was planted between us, see what turns up tomorrow in the search. I certainly am not suggesting that your opinion on the state of this evidence be suppressed. No, not in any way, shape or form. Just hold off on your complete report. Are we agreed? Good." (Not waiting for anyone's assent.)

"Now," he continued, "I have Officer Hartz' preliminary report, so we're about done here, for now. I want a search warrant obtained and a thorough search of the suspect's home begun first thing in the morning. You are dismissed." He rose to show the meeting was at an end. "Brulick, get Lieutenant Waters for me."

Sims, feeling heat rise from his stomach to his head, did not trust himself to speak. He stood, cap in hands and went out the door, followed closely by Mary Hartz. Brulick, who had been a ghost in the corner, got up and followed them out. Sims would have proceeded directly to the lieutenant's office, had not Brulick been headed there also.

Once they exited the rear door, Mary stopped him with a hand on his arm. "John," she said, "You've been put it a bad position."

"You got that right. I left a scene unattended; my memory is faulty; I have not filed a timely report. Anyway you look at it, I'm screwed. I'll go along for now, maybe, until tomorrow at least, but I'll be damned if I let this go."

"Listen John, if it comes down to it, you know I'll back you up. Let's do the search in the morning, see what else, if anything, turns up. Then we'll decide what to do. We'll keep our minds open and we'll do the right thing."

"You're good, Mary. Thanks. And you're right. I'll work on the warrant first thing, we'll keep in touch, meet at Warnecki's house, okay? I'm gonna get home, see my family."

"Right, see you in the morning." She held out her hand, he shook it.

.

Mary Hartz, thirty-six, lived alone in a duplex on the south end of town. She had married young and was divorced before two years had passed, joining the police force shortly after that. For the last fourteen years, her life had revolved mainly about her work and, for the most part, she was satisfied with her choices. When she got home, the message light on her answering machine was blinking. There were two messages from Tina Bronki. Mary's cat twined itself around her ankles, begging to be fed. A wreath of white hair transferred from cat to cuff. "Damn, you shed year-round, or what? Just wait a minute." She was removing tinfoil from a can retrieved from the refrigerator, ready to spoon it into the cat's bowl when the phone rang. It was Tina.

"Hey Mary, just get home?"

"Yeah, long day, Tina. Can I call you later? Cat's driving me nuts, wants to eat."

"That hairy thing still around? Must be fifteen years old."

"Sixteen. Even hairier. I'm hungry too, Tina, let me call you back."

"This will take just a second. Give me the gist of what happened at Joey Warnecki's. I can't get anything from the department."

"You know Warnecki?" The cat stretched itself up Mary's leg, putting in its claws and purring loudly.

"Oh yeah, we were in school together, first grade through twelfth. Nice kid, easy to get along with. Except for his grades, he was the kid every mother wanted their kid to be like."

"No trouble in school, or with the police?"

"Joey? Naw. He wasn't Mr. Goody Two-Shoes, or anything, did all the stuff most kids do, but he never made any trouble, not that I heard of. The nerds helped him with his homework, the criminal element never hassled him. What condition is he in? Was it an accident?" Tina didn't seem to need to take a breath between sentences.

"I really don't know what his condition is. He was alive when they took him away. Tina, call the lieutenant. He should be up to date by now. He'll probably be able to tell you the basics, anyway. I'm in a bind here. The investigation is on-going and if anything should be seen as coming from me, my job is history."

"Mary, I'd never put you in that position. Anything you tell me is off the record. I may be a reporter, but I've got ethics. At least where you're concerned. I wouldn't say the same about Sergeant Clarkson. That prick."

"The sergeant's okay, he just hates reporters and politicians. I gotta go, Tina, this cat just snagged my pants. Bye-bye." Mary hung up and cursed the cat fondly, spooning food into her bowl.

.

Tina immediately dialed the police department, asking to speak with Lieutenant Waters. "Lieutenant, this is Tina Bronki, Twenty-Six News, what can you tell me about the shooting on Forth Street this morning?"

Lieutenant Lawrence Waters was a twenty-year veteran of the New York City Police Department who had decided to move to a less violent clime after he was involved in an off-duty shooting on a busy city street. It had been the first time he had fired his weapon in the line of duty and he had killed a suspected bank robber, himself armed with an automatic weapon. He now headed up the second shift, and would most likely inherit the chief's position, when the chief retired. The rank and file hoped that would be soon. Even though he had been hired from the outside, over the heads of candidates within the department, he was not resented. He was a diplomat rather than a politician, presenting a first line of defense between the concerns of the men under him and the sometimes arbitrary behavior of the chief above him. The pressure of this position did not overly bother him; he had been used to worse.

Lieutenant Waters had been briefed by the chief an hour before. "The suspect, Joseph Warnecki, was taken to Regional Hospital at around ten-thirty this morning with a gun-shot injury to the head. The —"

"Did you say suspect, lieutenant? I thought he was a victim."

"Uh, excuse me, I mis-spoke. The victim is listed by the hospital as being in satisfactory condition at this time. We have no suspects at this time. The shooting has not been determined to be intentional or accidental as yet, but we are proceeding on the assumption that it was not an accident, until a determination has been made otherwise."

"Was he shot from inside the house, or outside?" Tina had ruined a pair of pantyhose climbing a neighbor's fence to get into the park, from where she had seen the broken window.

"We believe he was shot from outside the building."

"Could it have been a hunting accident? Hunting isn't allowed in the park, is it?"

"We are not presuming a hunting accident, no." The lieutenant did not entirely share Sergeant Clarkson's prejudice against the press, but at the same time, he was not willing to give them more than he thought prudent, particularly the electronic media, who tended toward the sensational, in his opinion.

"Was it a rifle round, lieutenant, or from a hand gun?" Tina had grown up in a family of hunters and she knew the difference.

"A final determination has yet to be made, but the preliminary report suggests a hand gun." The lieutenant had to show that the department was on the job, and at the same time, not give too much away.

"What about motive, if the shooting was not accidental?" Tina was willing to push as far as she could.

"I'm afraid that's as far as we can go at this point, Ms Bronki." Meaning she had reached his limit.

"Does that mean you have no leads to go on?"

"The investigation is on-going. Good night, Ms Bronki.

"Okay, I'll be in touch, thanks." The day had been a bust, as far as Tina was concerned. A twelve second bit on the six o'clock news. There would be no follow-up at eleven. Her professional instincts told her there was a real story here and she was determined to get it. Also, she had a personal interest in what had happened, having known Joey for most of her life. Why had the lieutenant called Joey a suspect? Had it been a misstatement, as he had said, or was something else going on?

.

Sims shared a modest cape-style house with his wife of twenty-five years and two teenaged daughters. Another daughter had married and moved west to California. Sims had two granddaughters through her, but seldom saw them, having to follow their growth by means of letters, pictures, and phone calls. He accepted that, but was not happy about it.

All three of their daughters had been difficult to raise: willful, stubborn, and fond of boys, popular culture, and extreme sports. As a result, their marriage had focused on the children and his and her careers. But now they realized that children grow up and move away and start lives of their own, and careers reach their peak, so their attention was turning more toward each other, and their relationship was maturing into something different, something more relaxed. They had become more comfortable with each other, talking was easier, misunderstandings fewer. Sims came home and didn't unload his day on June, his wife, he shared the day with her. It was an uncommon marriage, because they had so much in common.

He came home to an empty house. June must have been working late at the real estate business she owned and only God knew where the kids were. First one home was responsible for getting a meal together, so after shucking the heavy equipment belt and removing his shoes, he headed for the refrigerator. Halfway there, he stopped and went for the wall phone, instead. He punched in Louis' number from memory. At Louis' answer he spoke, "Mr. Armstrong, John Sims here. Told you I'd let you know what I heard about Mr. Warnecki's condition."

"How's the boy doing?"

"Spoke with a doctor there — Dr. Wickman. He said Mr. Warnecki was going to be okay, wants to keep him overnight, you know, in case of complications. But he expects to release him tomorrow, around noon. Just wanted to let you know."

"Hey, that's great, thanks. He'll probably call me, get a ride home. Suppose you're gonna want to talk to him, first thing."

"Yes. I'm going to try to talk to him before they release him. Maybe I'll drive him home. Be convenient. Save you some time."

"Yeah. Thanks again. G'night now."

June Sims came through the door as her husband was hanging up. She was half a foot shorter than her husband, plump, pleasant faced, curly shoulder-length hair on the verge of going to gray. "Who you talking too? And what's for dinner?" She gave him a kiss, set a pile of brochures and other papers on the kitchen table.

"Neighbor of the guy that got shot last night, and I don't have any idea."

"Any idea about what?"

"Any idea about dinner."

"Call for pizza. If your day was anything like mine, making dinner is too much to ask." She let her coat fall off from shoulders to the floor, slumped her shoulders, stuck out her tongue, and rolled her eyes.

"What happened in your day?"

"You don't want to know. But if you did want to know, I spent the entire day with Charles Adam, Esquire, and some recalcitrant bankers."

"What's going on?"

"Charles, Esquire wants to turn the old cannery into luxury waterfront condominiums, only he hasn't the cash to put up front."

"Doesn't sound like a bad idea, on the face of it."

"On the face of it, yes, it sounds like a good idea, and if anyone other than Mr. Bad Financial Risk Adams, Esquire were presenting it, it would probably fly. As it is, the bank wants twenty percent up front, and personal financial liability, not merely the assets of Adams Real Estate and Development."

"What do you have to do with it?"

"Adams proposed my coming in as a limited partner, mainly as listing agent for the units. I told him I would listen, but after listening, I don't think so. He's going to have to come up with some serious money before anyone will listen to him. He claims to have a 'secret resource', some 'angel' that's going to come to his aid very soon. Do I believe him? Am I going to hold my breath? Did I waste my day? No, no, and I think so."

Sims picked up her coat from the floor and draped it over a chair. "I guess Charles doesn't possess the financial acumen of his forebears, eh?"

"Nope, just their greed. The business savvy didn't get passed down. Everything that man touches turns to shit. Well, actually the lobster pound does well, I think. Actually, that may be his sole income now. The realty doesn't do much. The Adams' empire seems to have been reduced to a lobster pound and a defunct cannery. I'm beat. How are you doing?" She sat in the chair and the coat fell again to the floor.

"My day began well and ended badly. Where are the kids?" He picked up her coat again.

"Sissy's at a meeting for ski club, Carrie's working 'till nine. Expect both within the hour. Don't want to talk about it?"

"Yes, I do. Let's call for pizza, change out of our working clothes, and I'll tell you about it on the way down to pick up the pizza."

Her car, a brand new Camry, was too loaded with papers to carry the both of them, so they took the wagon, a five year-old Volvo. The cold wind had ceased and the air was warming, filling with dampness.

"Smells like rain," Sims said. "What's the forecast, have you heard?" It was a ten minute drive to the pizza place. He drove.

"Supposed to rain tomorrow. Chance that cold air from Canada might turn the whole thing to snow. Maybe a lot. So what happened today?"

"You hear about the shooting?"

"There was a small bit on the news. Guy was wounded in his house, right?"

"That's right. Shot from outside his window. Doesn't look like an accident, but nothing suggests a motive or a suspect. That's problem enough, but I have two more big ones. It seems that an bag of cocaine appeared all by itself in the victim's house after he was taken to the hospital. Either that or my memory's shot to hell."

"You've got the memory of a mainframe computer. I haven't seen any slippage there. Getting a little thin on top of your head, but inside it's still full of good brains." She reached out and tapped with her knuckles on his balding pate. "What's the second problem?"

"This is the one that really pisses me off. I met with Sloan this evening. He told me not to put it in my report. Said the circumstances were 'ambiguous'. Ordered me not to write anything down until after the general search tomorrow. I'm out on a limb here with this. I could have strangled him in his own office." He thumped the steering wheel with his fist.

"That pruney old bastard. Do you have a witness to any of this?"

"Mary Hartz was in the office with us. Brulick, too, not that I can count on him. I was alone on the first go-round at the scene, so Mary can't help me there."

The car was silent for a few minutes. June then spoke her council: "You need to cover your ass with the lieutenant. He's loyal downwards. Call him when we get home, tell him what's going on. That way, nothing has to go on paper until tomorrow, but he's not in the dark anymore. He's in charge of this shift, anyway. I think he'd want to know about all this. He wouldn't want to get blindsided, later on."

Sims was slow to speak "I think you're right, June. That's the only feasible way to handle this. The shit may still hit the fan, but maybe we can delay it. For a day, anyway." They had reached the parking lot of the pizzeria. He went in and returned with two boxes.

"Haven't lost your appetite, anyway. That's a good sign. Two large pizzas?"

"I haven't eaten since breakfast. If the kids aren't home when we get there, we'll have to save them a piece or two."

As hungry as he claimed to be, he called the lieutenant before sitting down to eat. The lieutenant wasn't happy to hear Sim's news, but thanked him for it, anyways.

Having passed part of his burden on to the lieutenant, Sims appetite returned. His daughters had come home while he was on the phone and had finished one pizza with June, leaving him the other for himself. He ate it all.

Lieutenant Waters had been eating pizza, too, but he lost interest in it during Sims' call. Once again he had been placed in the middle of a conflict between officer and chief. The chief's job was essentially a political sinecure, an office appointed by the board of selectmen. It was a system that necessarily would align the office-holder with the movers and shakers of the small world that was Rock Harbor, setting him at a remove from the department. To Waters, self-interest appeared to be Chief Sloan's principle motivation for his actions and policies. Waters did what he could to keep the department independent of town politics. It was, in large part, a losing battle because of the limits in the power of his position, but he would do what he could to fight the good fight. For the last two hours of his shift, he reflected back upon his career as a professional police officer. He pondered the responsibilities of his position in this police department. And then he wrote a memorandum to himself, filing it on his computer's hard drive in a secure file.

# Chapter 2

The first light of dawn illuminated Joey's hospital room with a soft, gray quality. He awoke to it shortly before seven o'clock and looked about him, finding his bearings. Three other beds, two occupied, shared the space with his. Two men appearing to be at least in their seventies were in the beds across from him. One was asleep, snoring loudly. Joey thought this might be a geriatric ward. The other, directly across, had his eyes open and was staring at Joey. Joey thought he might be sleeping with his eyes open, but the man spoke: "How's a body going to sleep with that old geezer making noise?" This question, delivered loudly, woke the old geezer whose sleep ended with a single, loud snort.

"Old geezer yourself," he said, and massaged his face with both hands, as though to rearrange his features into a more youthful visage. He squinted at his roommates. "So, we woke up alive again, did we? Another day on planet earth." He addressed Joey: "What are you in for, young feller? You older than you look? Nice hair."

"Thanks. Good morning. According to the doctor, I got shot, though I couldn't swear to it. One minute I was sitting in my own house and the next I woke up here. Kind of a shock." Joey tentatively explored the right side of his head with his long fingers. "Does it look bad?"

"Looks like a tornado hit your head." This from the snorer. "Can't imagine a bullet doing that much damage."

The other man snorted and shook his head. "Saw you come in yesterday. You look better now than then. Cleaned you up considerable. Head hurt much?"

"Just a little. Hard head, I guess. I'm Joey Warnecki."

"I'm Frank Tuttle. The geezer is Harold Hardy. You live on cannery row? Think I've seen you around."

"Yeah, near the end of Forth Street, two-twenty six. You?"

"Third Street. Lived there forty some odd years now. Only shooting I can recall there was when Jim Harkady shot himself in the foot, cleaning his rifle. You get yourself in some kind of trouble?"

"No. Must have been somebody jacking deer in the park. Just one of those things, happens out of the blue."

The nurse from the day before breezed in while the three men mused on the nature of random circumstance. "Good morning, gentlemen, are we all awake? Time for your medicine, Mr. Hardy, how are we feeling today?"

"We're feeling like we haven't moved our bowels in three days. I'm all backed up here. No cigarettes, no coffee. How's a man supposed to keep himself regular?"

"I guess we'll have to do something about that today, won't we?" She gave him a pill with a cup of water and put a thermometer in his mouth.

"That'll shut him up for a few minutes, maybe." After his comment, Tuttle got his own thermometer.

Joey spoke around his thermometer, "Am I getting out of here today?"

"Keep your mouth closed for a minute, dear. Dr. Wickman will be doing his rounds shortly. He may decide to let you go. You do seem much improved today. We discontinued the diuretics." She renewed the bandage on his scalp and plumped the pillow behind his head. "You caused quite a stir around here. Friends calling, reporters and police coming around. Lot of people want to talk to you. Dr. Wickman has kept them all away, but once you're out you'll have a number of people bothering you."

"Oh. Reporters, too?" It didn't sound like media attention was a desirable outcome of his accident.

"Yes. That Tina person on the television has been around some."

"Tina Bronki. I know her, sort of. I think I'd like to avoid any special attention, if I can."

"Well, I'll talk to Dr. Wickman. He may be able to help, somehow. You just relax now, you'll be fine in no time." She gave him a motherly smile and went on to her chores with the other two men.

Doctor Felix Wickman entered the room ten minutes later and went directly to Joey's bedside. "How's the head feeling, Mr. Warnecki? Throbbing this morning?"

"Morning. No, just a slight ache. Can I get out soon?"

"Let me check you out." He peered into Joey's eyes with his penlight, ran through tests of motor and visual response, loosened the strip of gauze around Joey's head and looked under the bandage at the wound. "Sixteen stitches. Gonna be tender for a while. I'm going to let you go today, around noon. I want to tell you though, don't get knocked on the head anymore. No sports, no fights, no alcohol for a week, at least. Non-narcotic pain relievers only. Nothing to get your blood pumping. Take a few days off work." He paused a moment. "Policeman named Sims wants to talk to you. Said he'd be by around ten. Feel up to talking to him?"

Joey looked up at the doctor. "I know I'll have to talk to the police. That's okay, I'd prefer to avoid the press, though. I'd like to get home without any fuss."

"Don't see why you shouldn't be allowed your privacy. Maybe we could let you go a little early, send the policeman around to your place. You got a ride home?"

"I can call my next-door neighbor. He'll pick me up, if I can call him." Joey looked eager to go home. He cocked his head at the doctor. "What's it like, being a doctor," he said incongruously. Wickman seemed taken aback by the question. "I mean," Joey tried to explain, "I'm a carpenter. If I tear apart a wall and find rot inside, I rip it out and replace it, clean and simple. A room isn't square, I just cut to fit, you know? I think a doctor's work must be much more uncertain, more iffy."

Wickman thought about it. "Well, we're both mechanics, in a way. Examine a problem and do what you think might fix it. But, remember when carburetors turned into computerized fuel injectors and cars became harder to fix?" Joey nodded. "Medicine is like that. Nothing is as easy as it used to seem to be. Our tools are better, but sometimes we just chase a problem around, not sure if we're doing it right. We just do the best we can with what we have, just like everybody else." The doctor smiled at him. "Your phone here is working now. I've been blocking incoming calls to it. Why don't you give your neighbor a call. See if he can pick you up around ten. In the meantime we'll get you cleaned up some more, do the paperwork here."

"Thank you, that'd be great." Joey felt the stubble on his jaw and grinned the doctor out. He called Louis.

"Hey, Joey, how you doing, man? Good to hear your voice. I thought you were a goner, for a while. Police been all over this place. You coming home soon?"

Joey smiled at the concern in Louis' voice. "I'm fine, just a scab on my head and a little headache. I can come home around ten if you can pick me up."

"Well, sure. Policeman named Sims called me last night, told me how you were. Also said he'd be around there in the morning to talk to you. Offered to bring you home, but I'd just as soon come get you myself, if it doesn't make any problem."

"I'm certainly willing to talk to him, but who knows when he'll be around? If you come pick me up I can maybe avoid the news people. Nurse here says they've been coming around. Maybe I can sneak out without running into them, you know?"

"They've been around here, too. I'll be there before ten, wait for you. You want me to bring you anything?"

"I'm all set 'till I can get home, shower and change. Thanks, Lou. Bye."

"See you at ten, Joey."

.

At ten o'clock, Joey was checked out of the hospital in the clothing he had been brought in with. There was a spot of blood on the collar of his checked flannel shirt, and he found a shard of glass in its vest pocket. Louis was waiting for him in the lobby. The hospital staff had insisted on pushing him to the lobby in a wheelchair. Louis, all smiles, reached down to him in it and shook his hand. Joey used the hand to pull himself from the chair, feeling lightheaded as he stood. He was smiling, too.

"Whew, give me a minute to straighten up. All the blood left my head standing up. Been lying down all the time." The orderly who had wheeled him in stood close, ready to catch him should he fall.

Louis lost his smile. "Yeah, man, you take it easy. You want to sit down again?"

"No, I'm alright." He turned to the orderly. "I'm alright now, thanks."

"I got the car right outside the door. It's raining out. You want to take my arm?"

"That's alright, Lou. Let's just go now. I'm anxious to get home.

Louis took his arm anyway — this short, older, black man in pressed chinos and tweedy sport jacket helping the gangly, pale, younger man dressed in old jeans and worn flannel shirt. Were it not for the difference in their skin hues, an observer might have mistaken then for father and son. As it was, they were an unlikely pair, given the familial care with which Louis eased Joey into the passenger seat of his shiny, white, Chevrolet sedan.

There had been no police or reporters to interrupt their progress to the car, for which Joey was thankful. Louis drove carefully over the wet city streets that led back to their neighborhood. An irregular wind was blowing from the west. Gusts would blow sheets of rain across the roadway, die into a light mist, and start up again. Louis spoke: "There's a cop parked outside your house. They put yellow tape across both your doors last night. You might have a hard time getting in."

"There's a policeman there now?"

"Was when I left. Been there since seven or so this morning. Expect he's there still. Joey, I don't think it was an accident, you getting shot."

Joey raised his eyebrows as high as they could go. "What do you mean? It must have been an accident."

Louis shook his head. "I saw where the bullet holes were. They were up on the wall above the bookcase. About six feet up. Man that put them there must have been in your backyard."

They drove on a few blocks in silence, Louis making the turns that brought them closer to the place where what had happened might have been something other than an accident. This thought was inconceivable to Joey, and he giggled. "What, do you think one of my customers wasn't happy with my work? Come on, Lou, what can you be thinking? That's crazy."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. But I got to believe my own eyes. You'll see, you get home and look at them holes in your wall. You got to take this seriously. Somebody meant to kill you, hard as it is to believe. I can hardly believe it myself. For sure, though, whoever shot you was standing in your yard, not back in the park." Usually considered in his speech, Louis would sometimes revert to the syntax of his youth when he became excited, as he was now. He didn't want Joey to take the problem lightly. "Listen to me, Joey. With you it's always 'row, row, row your boat, gently and merrily', and all that shit, but that ain't gonna do this time. You better get yourself in the right frame of mind for this, boy, and I ain't joking with you." He nodded several times for emphasis.

Joey was startled by Louis' fierceness. His mouth dropped open. "Okay,Lou, I get your point. You can understand how strange this is, to think that somebody would deliberately shoot at me. All right, I'll keep my mind open, but..."

"You do more than keep your mind open. Keep your eyes open, too. Somebody tried once, might try again." Louis made a right turn onto Fourth Street.

The rain was now just heavy enough to require windshield wipers. Knowles was sitting in his car with the engine running and his wipers going, facing them. He saw Louis with his passenger arrive and pull into Louis' driveway, on the opposite side of the house from Joey's. He shut off the engine and got out in time to intercept the two as they exited Louis' sedan. He approached Joey. "Mr. Warnecki?"

"Yes. How are you?" He extended a hand.

Knowles, after a slight pause, accepted it. "I was led to believe you would be coming with Officer Sims. Didn't he make it to the hospital?"

"I managed to get released a little early, so I could avoid talking to the press. I figured the police could see me here just as easy as there. Can I get into my house, get a change of clothes?" The three men were getting wet. Joey put his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders against the chill.

Knowles looked from Joey to Louis, standing on the opposite side of the car, and back to Joey again. "The scene is supposed to be sealed until the other officers arrive, conduct a search. I really shouldn't let you in."

"A search? Search for what?" Joey looked puzzled, and a bit uneasy.

Now Knowles was hunching his shoulders, too. Louis didn't seem to notice the cold rain. He put his forearms on the roof of his car. "You could go in with him, couldn't you, makes sure he doesn't disturb anything he shouldn't. He could get a change of clothes, shower at my house, put on some dry things, clean things."

Knowles crossed his arms over his chest, his face getting that stonewall look. "I really can't. You'll have to wait for the other officers to get finished in there."

"Hey, look at the boy. He just got out of the hospital. He's getting soaked! He's the victim of this thing, you know. You want him to come down with pneumonia or something? Let the boy in, for crying out loud." Louis walked around the car and stood directly in front of Knowles.

Knowles considered whether it would be worse for him if he kept Joey out and he did get sick, or if he let him in and caught hell from the department. In the end it was Joey's pitiful appearance that made the decision. "Okay, I'll go in with you and you can get a change of clothes, but that's all."

"That's fine with me. Good. Thanks." Joey headed for his back door, Knowles right behind him.

"I'll set out a towel for you. You come in the back way, leave your muddy shoes on the porch, hear?" Louis pocketed his keys and went into his own home.

Knowles cut the tape with the house key and opened to door for Joey, who was looking at the cardboard taped over the window. "You think someone shot right through the window, huh?"

"I'd say that's a fair guess. C'mon, let's get in and out." Knowles spoke gruffly. He was six months from retirement and conflicted over his decision to allow Joey to enter the scene before Sims arrived.

Joey preceded Knowles into the kitchen, looking around as though seeing it for the first time. He stopped at the entrance to the sitting room, Knowles at his shoulder. He looked at the stain on the rug, the shards of glass that littered the floor. "Can I go in here? I'd like to see."

"I suppose so. Just go to the center. Don't touch anything."

Joey tip-toed over the mess and turned in a slow circle, stopping as he saw the small bullet hole and the larger, cored hole next to it. Looking back over his shoulder he could see that Louis had been right about where the shots had probably originated. This is the point at which his world dislocated. Order had been lost; chaos entered.

Louis and Joey held in common their love for order, neatness, cleanliness. But they came to this commonality from different origins. To Louis, order and cleanliness were tied up with pride of place and self-respect. This attitude was brought on partly by his upbringing, a mother and father that kept up their own modest home and tried to instill the virtues of clean living in their progeny. His upbringing was reinforced by his years in the Navy, where these values were appreciated, and mandated. And lastly, being one of the only persons of color in this small, Maine town, keeping his surroundings shipshape was a way of dispelling the preconceptions northern Yankees might hold toward minorities usually only seen in the stereotyping mass media.

In Joey's life, keeping order was a methodology, a way of compelling the universe to obey rules he would impose. It was a system only a few steps removed from being clinically obsessive. Understandable, perhaps, in one who had lost so many people who were dear to him.

He looked down at the rug. "Damn, that's a mess. How long you think it will be 'til I can get back in here?"

"Can't really say. Should be sometime today."

"My aunt spent most of a year braiding that rug. Pieces of old coats and socks and shirts and things. That line of blue there," indicating a two-foot length of bright braid near the center, "that was my mom's bandana. Pieces of all our lives wrapped up together in a rug. Hope it all comes clean again."

Knowles stood impassively, arms crossed. "Let's get your stuff." He led the way into the bedroom and Joey knelt down before the bureau, pulling out the bottom drawer. He withdrew a pair of jeans from a row of similar, folded jeans. The next drawer up contained shirts, mostly flannel, mostly plaid. Underclothing and socks were in the next. The top drawer remained closed.

"Mind if I take my wallet? Like to have some cash in my pocket, in case I get hungry before you're all done in here."

"Not a good idea."

"Look." Joey picked up the wallet and opened it to Knowles. "I'll show you what's in it. There's ten, twenty, one, two, three dollars. Receipt from the grocery store." He put the receipt on the bureau top and unsnapped the cover from the section of transparent sleeves. "Picture of my mom, one together with my dad." The pictures showed a young man and woman dressed in sixties, hippy-style garments. Tie dye and beads, peasant dress and embroidered bell-bottomed jeans. The man had long, frizzled, red hair that sat on his head like the roof of a thatched hut, and a fu manchu mustache hung below his jaw line. He wore an intense expression on a freckled face. The woman resembled Janis Joplin, smiling sweetly for the camera. The woman was very pregnant. The backdrop for both pictures was a crowded sea of similarly attired young people.

Joey flipped through two empty sleeves and held up the wallet before Knowles, thumbs covering the center of the next two items. "Social Security card and driver's license," he said. Knowles squinted at the photo on the license. His reading glasses were in the car, and without them he could just make out that the picture resembled Joey. He grunted.

Joey re-snapped the flap and pulled out everything else that was in there from various slots and pockets of the wallet, putting all in a pile on the bureau, showing Knowles the now empty spaces. "Just trash there, business cards and receipts and stuff. Okay?" He held up the closed wallet, awaiting permission to hold onto it.

Knowles looked doubtful. "Yeah, alright," he finally assented, "you about done now?"

Joey smiled. "You bet. Just let me grab a jacket and I'll be out of here." He made for the closet on the other side of the bed. Opening one of the bifold doors he asked, "Who put up the cardboard over the window?"

"Sims did it."

"I'll have to thank him for that." Joey removed an unlined denim jacket from its hanger and a Red Sox ball cap from the shelf above. "You want to check the pockets?" He felt the pockets. "Empty. Okay?"

"Sure. Let's get out of here now."

"Yeah, great, thanks." Joey led the way out through the back door, holding the bundle of clothing clasped to his chest. Outside, patches of blue had appeared in the ragged sky. Clouds could be seen to be stacked up in several layers and traveling in different directions. "Looks like a change in the weather," he said.

"Yeah, I guess." Knowles put his head back to check the sky, his mouth opening. He brought his head back down. "You'll wait next door to see Sims, right?"

"Sure. I'm just gonna shower and change. Put on a couple of new band aids. Thanks again." He glanced over Knowles' shoulder and waved. Knowles turned and saw the specter of Joe Soucup staring back at him. Knowles held his stare for several seconds, then turned back to watch Joey cross to Louis' house, pull off his shoes and enter the rear door.

Just as Knowles returned to his car, he got a call over the radio. It was Sims: "Did Warnecki return to his house? I just got to the hospital and they said he left with the neighbor." He sounded irritable. Sims had not arrived at the hospital until eleven o'clock, being tied up with phone calls and paperwork. A call to the summer house where Joey had been tearing down the old porch had gone unanswered, and he had had a short, unsatisfactory conversation with an impatient Charles Adams about Joey's work at the Lion's Club. All Adams would tell him was that Joey had been sleeping on the job and would get no more work through him. He was too busy to talk and would likely be out of town for the rest of the day, and no, he couldn't say when he would be available to meet with Sims. "Big shot," Sims thought, "I'll pin the self-important son of a bitch down, busy or not."

"Yes," Knowles answered, "he's at the neighbor's now, getting cleaned up."

"He go in the house?"

"Uh, yeah. I took him in to get a change of clothes and stuff, jacket and whatnot." Knowles prepared to defend his position. There was a pause.

"That's alright," Sims said, and Knowles relaxed some. "Brulick get there yet with the warrant?"

"Nope. Nobody else's been here."

"Well, he should be there soon. Mary too. I should be there in fifteen minutes or so." He paused. "Listen, when Brulick shows up. I'd just as soon have only you and me and Mary enter the house to conduct the search. No sense having unnecessary people tracking around, okay?"

Knowles smiled to himself. He'd enjoy an opportunity to step on Brulick's toes. "It's your investigation. Whatever you say goes."

"See you in fifteen. Out."

Knowles replaced the handset and looked out at the sky. The highest layer of clouds was coming in from the northeast. "Yup, looks like a change in the weather," he said.

.

Knowles was standing toe to toe with Brulick on the sidewalk when Sims pulled up. Mary's personal car was parked behind Brulick's department vehicle on the opposite side of the street. She was lifting her gear from the trunk and turned and waved as he pulled to a stop behind her. Sims took one of the cases from her and together they crossed the street to join the other officers on the walk. Brulick took the opportunity to turn away from facing Knowles. He had been inching back away from Knowles and Knowles had been keeping up with him, so that their shoes were almost touching.

Brulick held up a rolled document: "I got the warrant. Chief suggested I help you out here, get done quicker." Sims took the document from his hand and unrolled it. "Back off, Knowles," Brulick said, "You got no call to intimidate me." Knowles had crept up on him again and Brulick felt bolder in the presence of the other two officers.

"This warrant is pretty broad," Sims said, "it looks like we could carry away the whole house as evidence. 'Controlled drugs, weapons, financial records, notes, documents, personal correspondence, unknown substances', etcetera, etcetera,etcetera." 'Unknown substances'? What's that?"

"It's a blanket warrant, you know, based on the cocaine found in the house. Chief talked to Judge Biederman this morning, set it up." Sloan had sent Brulick for the warrant, telling Sims to concentrate on the investigation. "So why don't we get on it, stop wasting time?"

Sims felt both weariness and anger at being manipulated in his investigation. Whenever the chief took an interest in a case, his ends for doing so were convoluted and unclear. Even after the resolution of a case, his motivations for involvement were rarely evident. Sims determined again to put his resentment on hold until they finished with the house. He said, "You want to help me out?"

"Sure, why not?" Brulick shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, how about taking a drive to North Shore Road, check out the place Warnecki was working earlier on Monday. I tried calling there, couldn't get an answer. I'd appreciate you doing that for me."

"Chief thought —"

"Number forty-eight. Jennings' place," Sims interrupted.

Brulick looked at all their faces. Each gazed back, expressionless. With no other graceful way out, Brulick acceded. His tires squealed as he pulled from the curb. The three watched his progress until he turned the corner at the end of the block.

Mary spoke for the first time, addressing Knowles: "You really enjoy that, don't you?"

"Enjoy what?" Knowles was innocent and unaware.

"Looming, like some big, blue bird."

"Well sure, don't you? Guy like that? Gotta take every opportunity that comes along." He allowed himself a small smile.

"Hey, I don't allow him to give me any shit, but I don't go out of my way to bust his balls. That stuff can come back on you, you know."

"Aw, bullshit. That pissant gives me any trouble, I'll squash him like the bug he is. He'd stab anybody in the back any chance he got, if they're nice to him or not. He's one of those people can't look good unless somebody else looks bad. And when I retire? In just a few short months? I'll harass him as a civilian." His expression during this short harangue was unreadable.

Mary smiled at him. "Quite a speech, Charlie. Feel better, now you got that off your chest?"

"A little, yeah. What I really want to know is, what's Sloan's angle in this?" He directed this last to Sims.

Sims shook his head. "I don't know. Let's do this thing. Maybe we'll get some answers." He led the way to the rear entrance.

"Hey, Mary," Knowles said. "You know what the 'A' stands for, in Harry A. Sloan?"

Mary smiled a rueful smile. "I think I can guess, Charlie."

They reached the rear of the building and Sims stopped, turning to the others. "Listen, let me go next door, present the warrant, take a look at this guy. Maybe I'll get a better sense of what we're doing. Be back in five, alright?"

"Sure," Mary said, "may as well wait in the car, stay warm. Charlie can tell me more about what he's going to do as a civilian, right Charlie?" Knowles declined to answer, instead turning around and heading back to the car to wait for Sims. Mary addressed Sims: "John, I know something isn't right with all this. I don't know what's going on, but Charlie and me are solid. Count on us."

"I know I can." Unsaid was the fact that if a scapegoat was required, one would be found, no matter what support well-intentioned friends could provide. That was the way it always had been; that was the way it always would be. Sims was the one who had seen a bag of illegal drugs where none had been an hour before. Sims was the one whose ass would be hung out to dry if the investigation went south.

As Sims climbed the two steps to Louis' back porch, he thought of many questions he'd like to put to Warnecki. Several had to do with getting to an answer of why Sloan was involving himself, and to what ends. But he didn't feel ready to ask many questions before the results of the search were tallied. And, he felt uncomfortable even conducting the search under such dubious grounds. The door opened as he raised his fist to knock.

"Officer Sims, come in," Louis said, "Joey's just out of the shower." He looked down to where Sims was vigorously wiping his shoes on the cocoa doormat. "Wipe 'em good, unless you want to take them off. I just washed the kitchen floor."

"I'd prefer to leave them on." Sims felt awkward enough without standing in his stocking feet. He gave one final wipe and followed Louis into the kitchen. Joey entered from the bath hallway at the same time, barefoot, wearing jeans and a white tee-shirt, a towel draped around his neck. Joey's thin arms were roped with muscle and patterned with prominent veins.

"I'm Joseph Warnecki." He approached Sims with an outstretched hand.

"Officer John Sims." Sims noted the hand as he shook it. It was heavily calloused, had large knuckles, and the fingernails were bitten to the quick. It seemed too large to Sims, as though it had been transplanted from a larger body. For that matter, Sims thought, the feet must have come from the same donor. He released Joey's hand. "How's your head?"

"Oh, I think I'm going to be fine." Joey tilted his head and turned enough for Sims to see the wound. The line of black stitches contrasted with the whiteness of the shaved area on his scalp. "Feels tight, like they had to pull the edges together to sew it up. Is one ear higher than the other?" Joey grinned.

Sims grinned back. "Not so's you'd notice." With that hair and the stitches, who is going to notice your ears? He removed the grin from his face and passed the warrant to Joey. "This is a warrant to search your house. Certain ... irregularities have arisen that make it necessary."

Joey's grin also disappeared as he read the warrant. "I don't understand ... 'drugs, weapons, papers' . . .

"I don't understand, neither." Louis stood with darkened brow, his arms crossed. "Who is it did the crime here and who got shot, anyway?"

Sims half-turned to Louis, without taking his eyes from Joey's face. "Excuse me, Mr. Armstrong, let me speak with Mr. Warnecki." Joey's face was losing what color it had and he sat down on the chair beside him. Joey looked everywhere but at the two other men. Sims thought it resembled the look of a man caught at something he had thought hidden, not so much a guilty look as one of despair, and resignation.

Joey put his hand to his head, touching the row of stitches and released a long breath through pursed lips. "Here," he said, handing the document back to Sims, "do what you gotta do." He looked directly into Sims eyes, as though searching for something lost, something important.

"I left some people waiting. I'll get back to you later. I'd like to set up a time I could interview you, at the department." Sims was turning the tightly rolled document in his hands. He was intently curious at the expression of profound defeat on Joey's face.

"Yeah, whatever." Joey flapped his hand dismissively and faced the table, a quarter turn away from Sims. Sims looked at Louis, who now had his hands on his hips and was looking at Joey in consternation. Sims decided to leave. "I'll be back," he said, and left.

Louis sat down opposite Joey. "Joey, What's the matter? They ain't gonna find anything over there. Are they? You don't have any drugs or guns over there. Do you?" Joey didn't respond. "Joey, talk to me, boy. What's going on with you?"

Joey, who had been lost in thought, idly scratching his forearm, looked up. He chuckled. "Sorry, Lou, guess I got lost there for a while."

"So? Is there anything for them to find that shouldn't be there, or what?"

"Well, no drugs or guns or anything like that. No piles of money or bodies buried in the basement. Just my life. That's all."

"Just your life. Tell me something that makes sense. When he gave you that piece of paper, you looked like you lost your life."

"Louis, I'll tell you: If they drag away all my records and stuff, I may not lose my life, but then again, in a sense I might." He wore an ironic smile and a look or regret.

"Stop talking in riddles. You been cheatin' on your taxes?"

"No, nothing like that." He laughed at the frustrated look on Louis' face. "But I do have a sort of a secret life.

Louis was ready to explode. Consciously, he calmed himself. "Look," he said, "I promised your aunt I'd look out after you. If you're in some kind of trouble, I'll do whatever I can to help. If you don't feel you can tell me what your problem is, well, that's alright." He looked away from Joey with an expression of hurt.

"Hey, Lou," Joey put a hand on Louis' forearm, "I know you've been looking out for me since before my aunt died, even before my uncle died. And I'd trust you with my life. This thing, my secret, I don't want to make you any kind of accessory or anything. I'm going to go out walking, think it all over. I need time to think of what to do."

Louis straightened up. "If you need some money, I got it. If you need to travel somewhere, I'll help you with that, too. Whatever it is you're into, I know you haven't hurt anybody else. Does this secret of yours have anything to do with someone wanting to shoot you?"

Joey thought it over, biting at his thumbnail. He shook his head. "I don't see how it possibly could. It's just an unfortunate coincidence. I wish the two things weren't happening at the same time. Too much to deal with." Joey looked at his thumb. He had torn a hangnail and it was bleeding. He concentrated on it. "I'm gonna finish getting dressed and walk it off. When that cop comes back, tell him I'll be in touch. You can tell him I went walking and you don't know where, which is true, since I don't know myself." He gave Louis a smile and Louis frowned back at him and Joey went to finish dressing.

.

Collecting the other officers from Knowles' car, Sims led the two around to the back door. Knowles unlocked it and glanced to his left, to Soucup's window. "That's one scary old man," he said. Mary and Sims looked to see the old man peering out at them. "Every time I'd look out the back window of the car, there he'd be, staring back at me. Must go from window to window, all day long." He turned to face Sims. "You know, if anyone saw anything Monday night, It'd be him." He indicated Soucup with the key in his hand.

"Ornery old bastard," Sims muttered. Then, more loudly, "You want a go at him after we're done here, be my guest. In fact, you could almost match him, ornery for ornery. I'd like to see that. Not too close, though. Let's go in." Sims wiped his feet going in. Mary did, too. Knowles tracked mud onto the kitchen floor.

As before, Sims deferred to Mary in the search for evidence. She gave them each cotton gloves. "Charlie," she said, looking at Knowles muddy shoes, "you have the basement. While you're down there, look for a step ladder so you can get up into the attic. There's a trap up into it from the hall, outside the bathroom. Let's keep everything in order, no reason to trash this guy's house. John, you take the bedroom. I'm going to do a quick sweep in the kitchen and then do the closet in the room where the shooting occurred. We'll decide where to go from there. Okay? Let's go. You find anything interesting, sing out." They separated without comment and went to work.

In the kitchen, Mary found nothing but what one would expect to find in a kitchen. She took an address book from the counter by the telephone. In the sitting room closet were old board games and children's books stacked up under a row of winter coats, men's and women's, hung on a pole. The pockets were empty except for moth balls. The smell was strong enough to make her eyes water. It seemed to be a space unused except for the storage of items no longer used. She took a moment to examine the bookcases: paperback titles whose themes were largely mystery and police procedurals. Ed McBain and Laurence Block. James Lee Burke and Elmore Leonard. Michael Connally, James W.Hall, and LeCarre. She thought he had a lot in common with her in his reading habits. She looked for Sara Paretski. None there. "Well," she said, "every library has a few holes in it." If he wasn't dirty, maybe they could trade books. She laughed at herself, stood upright and went into the bedroom, where Sims had a trunk pulled out of the closet and open. She stood behind him and asked, "What's all that?"

"Time capsule." Sims was removing items, examining them briefly and stacking then aside. "Looks like a collection of stuff from the 'sixties. Photos, ticket stubs, anti-war protest placards, love beads. Love beads, can you imagine that?" He held up a strand of wood and clay beads. "And look at this." Out came a hand tooled leather belt with a brass hashish pipe for a buckle. "Lots of paraphernalia — old, dusty stuff though, doesn't seem recently used." He sniffed at a blackened corn-cob pipe. "I'd say Warnecki kept all his parents' stuff and put it in this trunk. Kind of a shrine, like." Sims looked back over his shoulder at her. "Have you seen a picture of his parents?"

"If the picture of the hippies in the other room is his parents, then yes, I have. What happened to them, do you know?"

"I believe they died in an accident when Warnecki was very young, but I don't know the particulars. One interesting note: According to some papers in here, his mother's name was Tomasino and his father's name was Goldberg. So, his aunt and uncle must have adopted him and gave him their name. Confusing."

"Bag up the paraphernalia, just for form. Have you been through the file cabinet yet?" She indicated a beige metal, two-drawer cabinet alongside the trunk.

"No I haven't. You want to go through that while I put this stuff back?"

"Sure. You can do the bureau next." She got to her knees and moved shoes and boots out of the way so that she could drag the cabinet free of the overhanging clothing. She pulled out the bottom drawer first. Inside were five brown accordion files labeled 'state and federal taxes' for the previous nine years. She withdrew the latest one and undid the string that held it closed. It held receipts, bank statements and canceled checks, and copies of tax forms filled out in pencil. The file contained everything an individual operating a business as a sole proprietor would keep to justify his payment of due taxes. But there was one glaring oddity. Mary stood up and then sat on the end of the bed. "John, look at this."

"What's that?" Sims left the open bureau drawer and stood with the backs of his legs against the bed to see what Mary was reading.

"Look at the name on this return. It's the same name on Schedule C and the other schedules, and the bank statements and canceled checks." She looked up at Sims. "Who the hell is Joseph Wojciehowski, and why does Warnecki have his tax records?"

Sims sat down beside Mary and took Schedule C, the business reporting form, from Mary's hand and looked at it. "Joseph Wojciehowski, Rock Harbor Carpentry," he read. "That's the name of the business painted on the door of Warnecki's truck, except for the 'Joseph Wojciehowski' part." He took off his cap and flipped it to the top of the bureau. "Tomasino, Goldberg, Wojciehowski, Warnecki. Who are you?" He turned his head to hear Knowles setting up an aluminum stepladder in the hallway. "Knowles," he said loudly, "check the registration in Warnecki's truck."

"Yo," came the reply, and they heard him walk to the back door.

"There's a checkbook in the bureau." Sims stood up, plucked a vinyl-covered checkbook from the open top drawer, and opened it. "Checks read 'Rock Harbor Carpentry' at this address. No proprietor named." He flipped to the register. "Last entry pays a lumber yard bill, then above is a deposit of two-hundred fifty dollars from Jennings, North Shore Road, labeled 'deposit for porch repair'. I see other payments, deposits, nothing sizable other than to Internal Revenue."

"So," Mary concluded, "unless Warnecki has a roommate we don't know about, Wojciehowski must be an alias. What else do you have in that drawer?" She rose to stand next to Sims.

"Looks like current stuff," Sims replied, "this years bills, invoices, receipts, etcetera. He must work his business out of this drawer."

Mary pawed through the drawer herself. "Calculator, pencils, personal checkbook in name of Wojciehowski, and loose change. I'd say you're right. I'm going to drag this stuff out to the kitchen table, see if I can draw a picture of Warnecki-slash-Wojciehowski. You might want to go next door, see if he wants to enlighten us, assuming he's still there."

"Shit, yeah." Sims grabbed his cap and strode from the room, nearly crashing into Knowles, who was entering with a slip of paper."

"Hey, where you going?" Knowles backed against the wall in the hallway to let him pass. Sims didn't answer. Knowles frowned himself into the bedroom.

"Truck registered to Joseph Wojciehowski?" Mary took a guess.

"Yeah, who's that?"

"An alias, unless it's his real name and Warnecki's the alias. Or it could be Goldberg or Tomasino. Sims is going to ask him."

Knowles raised his eyebrows. "Interesting."

"Hey, Charlie, your eyebrows moved. Pick up those file folders for me, would you? I want to go through this stuff in the kitchen." Mary scooped all the paper from the bureau and headed to the kitchen. Knowles looked at the file drawer, bent down to it and carried away the whole cabinet.

.

Louis opened the door to Sims' knocking. "What are you banging for? I can hear plain enough." Louis didn't step aside to welcome Sims.

"I need to speak to Warnecki. He here?"

"Joey went for a walk, said he'd get in touch with you later."

Sims turned in a circle on the landing. "Damn," he said, how long ago?"

"About half an hour ago. What do you want him for?" A worried look began to replace the frown on Louis' face.

"Do you know where he's walking?"

"No telling. Boy will walk for miles when he gets the mood. What do you want him for?"

Sims calculated the odds of catching him on the street. He decided to spend a minute questioning Louis, then get Knowles and cruise the streets separately. "May I come in for a minute? Maybe you could answer a couple of quick questions for me."

Louis was divided between wanting to protect Joey and curiosity about what Sims might ask. He decided that one didn't preclude the other. "Alright, come on in," he said. He looked down at Sims' shoes. They were clean enough, but Sims wiped them anyway and followed Louis into the kitchen. A big black cat jumped down from a kitchen chair and vanished into the hallway. They sat opposite one another.

Sims watched Louis' eyes. "Let me ask you: Who is Joseph Wojciehowski?" He thought he saw a glimmer of recognition in Louis' face, and then the eyes drifted sideways in thought.

Louis brought his eyes back to Sims'. "I can't truly say. I've heard it before, seems like a long time ago, but I can't place it. Must be years ago. Now you tell me why you're asking." His expression intensified. It would be tit for tat here or he wouldn't cooperate.

Sims saw the situation as it was. He could view Louis as being on the opposite side of the game and keep his hand hidden, or put some cards into play, one at a time, and bet that he could get ahead. Or break even. With the captain being in the game, he decided he was losing anyway and may as well bet on Louis. "We've come across some papers that seem to indicate Warnecki may be using the name Wojciehowski as an alias. I need to talk to him about it right away. If you had to guess, where would he be most likely to walk today?"

Louis shook his head. "Honestly, there's no way to say. He's a walker. If he's thinking deep, he won't even know where he is. Called me once to pick him up after he thought himself twenty miles up Route One. So what kind of papers are you talking about?" The cat came in, sauntered once around the table watching Sims and walked out again.

Sims drummed the fingers of one hand on the table top. "Business papers, tax papers, bank statements."

"Well I'll be damned." Louis was thunderstruck. "I had no idea. What in the world would he be doing that for? That why he got shot?"

"No idea, but I'd really like to find out. And soon. Will you help me with this?"

Louis didn't answer right away. "I don't see you as being out to crucify the boy. I'd like to help you. No, actually I'd like to help Joey and that might be the same thing, I don't know.

Sims scraped back his chair and rose. "Whoever shot him once might try again. He'd be safer with me than out there walking around. Will you call me if you see him?"

The cat returned and jumped into Louis' lap. He idly scratched its neck and the cat began to purr loudly. "I don't know. What I will do is advise him to call you when and if I do see him. I'll promise you that much."

"Fair enough. I'll be getting back to you. Thanks for your time." Sims placed the chair back under the table and exited out the rear door.

.

Mary was sitting at the kitchen table, papers spread about on top when Sims reentered Joey's home. Knowles was leaning over the table, palms flat on its surface.

Mary spoke: "Not there?"

"No, left there less than an hour ago. Walking. Charlie and me should go looking for him. Getting much out of that paper?"

"I'm getting a good sense of his financial life. Nothing that will help you find him. Go ahead, I'm good here. If I don't hear from you before four or so, I'll head back to the department. Maybe he'll show up here, and I'll call you." She picked up her portable radio from under a pile of papers and set it down again.

"Right. Whether we find him or not, let's meet together at the end of shift and see what we've got. Charlie, all set?"

Knowles straightened up and grunted something that sounded like a yes.

Walking back to the cars, Sims asked what Knowles had seen in the basement and attic.

"Not much and nothing. Basement's got an oil furnace and tank, some garden tools and a dirt floor. No junk, no clutter. Floor's packed down, nothing that looks like anybody's done any digging. Attic's totally empty, just joist tops and fiberglass. Not even a wasp nest." They reached Knowles' car.

"Okay, Charlie. You take the neighborhoods north of Route One. I'll cruise One, north and south and then check the waterfront. Armstrong said that Warnecki's liable to walk miles in any direction. Said the more he's got to think about, the further he walks. I'm guessing he's got a lot to think about. I'll check in with you in an hour, see what's left to cover." Knowles nodded once. Sims slapped the car top and crossed the street to his. Both cars drove off slowly.

.

After more than two hours of walking, Joey found himself outside Emily's Rest, in the middle of a block of brick-front businesses off Main Street. Emily and Doris served breakfast from six in the morning until two in the afternoon, seven days a week, so the name was something of a misnomer. Longtime companions, the two women got up at four and didn't finish work until twelve hours later. They had help from eight until closing from a loyal, older woman named Martha, who waited tables and washed dishes, as needed. Otherwise, Doris cooked and Emily served. For two weeks out of the year after Labor Day, they closed, and Doris and Emily vacationed on the Yucatan peninsula.

Joey was a regular. At least four mornings a week, sometimes seven, he showed up early to devour a huge breakfast. Eschewing the regular menu items, he would pick from the special daily offerings written in four colors by Emily upon a chalkboard. His stomach pulled him here today, not having been fed since a poor breakfast of runny eggs and cold toast at the hospital. He entered the nearly empty restaurant through a heavy, old, wooden door, green-painted and inset with twelve panes of beveled glass. He turned and watched it close with a solid thunk before him. The thunk brought him fully into the present from his walking reverie. He had installed the new hydraulic closer a week before. In fact, he did enough work for Doris and Emily that he built up sufficient credit to cover most of his breakfasts for the year. Breakfast barter, no tax. Emily kept a loose accounting for him in a notebook she kept below the cash register.

Usually, both women would greet him upon his entrance, but today Emily looked to Doris, who looked back and gave her a single nod. Now, Emily smiled at Joey. "What?" he said.

Emily's smile was uncertain and she rubbed her hands together. "Joey, we heard about your accident. Are you okay?" Emily was slender, of medium height, with long, curling red hair. She favored knee-length dresses in bright colors and wore white canvas tennis shoes. She glanced back at Doris standing behind the kitchen serving window. Doris stared soberly at Joey.

"Oh, I'm okay, just got a scrape and some stitches." He felt a tenseness in the atmosphere, like he had somehow transgressed and was going to be excommunicated from one of his favorite places. He put his hands in his pockets and shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. "Is something wrong?" He looked back and forth between the two women.

"No, no, Joey, we were just worried for you, getting shot and all." Emily came forward to Joey and took his hand. "Let me see," she said, indicating that he should remove his cap. Joey removed his cap and tilted his head so show her his stitches. "Oh," she said, "that doesn't look so bad. We thought you were mortally injured." She gave his hand a pat and released it.

"Are you still serving breakfast?" Joey felt more encouraged.

Doris came through the swinging door from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. The last two customers left, leathery lobstermen ending up their workday with a good breakfast. Martha could be heard banging pots and pans in the back of the kitchen.

Doris was taller than Emily, and husky. Her short, stiff, dark hair was covered by a Mets cap, turned backwards. A long, food-spattered apron covered a white tee-shirt and white, canvas painter's pants all the way down to her black, high-topped, basketball shoes. She walked up to stand beside Emily. "We're just about finished up here, didn't expect anybody else to come in today." Her manner was always direct and forthright. "You got a few minutes to talk about something, upstairs?"

Joey shrugged, disappointed at missing breakfast. "Sure, you thinking about doing that room renovation?" The women exchanged a glance, then Emily looked at the floor and clasped her hands behind her back.

"Yes, and some other things." Doris' intense gaze was unsettling for Joey, who resumed shifting his weight from foot to foot. "C'mon upstairs," she said, un-tieing her apron and tossing it on to a table top. Joey followed her to the kitchen, Emily coming behind.

In the kitchen, Doris stopped at the door that would open to a stairway leading to their apartment above the restaurant. "Marty," she called, "We're going upstairs to discuss some business. Lock up and don't let anyone bother us, okay?"

"Alright," came the reply in a cigarette-scarred voice. Martha was in her sixties and looked like her life had been a difficult one. Her straggling, gray hair always looked in need of washing and she wore large, unfashionable glasses that she continually pushed back as they slid down her long nose. Her body looked lost in a large men's flannel shirt and baggy jeans. She pursued her washing without looking up at the three people entering the stairwell.

A single flight of worn wooden stairs led to Doris and Emily's apartment kitchen overlooking the street. A steel door at the base of the stairs served as both a delivery entrance from the alley alongside and a private entrance to the apartment above. Joey gave the oak banister a shake on the way upstairs. He had tightened it up a year ago and it still held sturdy. They entered the kitchen and Joey and Doris both set their caps on the round, maple table in the room's center.

"Done a lot of work here. Lot of breakfast." Joey turned in a circle, surveying the room. Two double-hung windows overlooked the street. A third brought light into the small bathroom adjacent. Counters, cabinets and appliances were relegated to the front and bath-side walls. All were done in 'twenties style, picked up at antique shops and flea markets by Emily, refurbished by Joey, and finished by Emily.

Kitchen and bath occupied one-third of the building's depth. The second third opened onto a living room and two bedrooms shared the last third. Throughout, Emily had decorated in the fashions of seventy years past. It was a harmonious whole, achieved at no little expense or effort, and many arguments between the couple occupying it. The arguments were always won by Emily, who would defer in other ways to her companion, but stood firmly when the issue was her home.

The two women had not spoken since entering the apartment. They stood observing Joey, Doris contemplatively, Emily still smiling nervously. "So!" Joey clapped his hands together to break the awkward silence and took long strides through kitchen and living room to the open doorway of the spare, unfinished bedroom. "What did you finally decide on?" He perused the space.

"A nursery," Doris said, calmly.

Joey froze and then turned to them, eyes wide. "Wow. That's great. That's wonderful! You'd be great parents! When's this happening?" His own problems were forgotten in hearing good news from friends. None of the time spent walking and thinking had helped him to come to an analysis of his misfortune, nor given him a prospective course of action. At this point, he welcomed distraction.

"This coming year, we hope," Emily said, looking up to Doris and taking her hand in both of hers.

Doris pulled a chair from the table and led Emily to sit. She stood behind with her hands on the back of the chair as Joey made his way to stand opposite them. "Have a seat, Joey," she said.

"You adopting? Boy or girl?" Joey sat and clasped his hands before him, a large grin on his face.

"Well, you know, we've been trying to adopt for some time now, but it's been difficult. Especially for people in our position. It puts us way down the list, or completely off," Emily spoke earnestly.

"So we're considering an alternative route," continued Doris.

"Ah." Joey nodded his understanding. His expression grew serious. He pouted his lips and looked down to the table top. His hands, looking for something to so, found the two ball caps and arranged them bill to bill, like opposing teams. "I guess that brings problems of its own." He looked back up to them. "But you certainly have my support, what ever you do." Discussing personal issues with them was not a role Joey was used to, or comfortable with, but if moral support was what they wanted from him, then he would give it readily. They were his good friends.

Doris spoke: "Glad to hear that, Joey. I know we can count on you."

"There are clinics, you know, that deal with people in our position," Emily said, "and we've visited a couple. We have friends who have gone that route and are very satisfied."

"The problem, aside from the expense," Doris said, "is donor selection."

"I'm afraid I don't know anything about that." Joey went back to rearranging the caps.

"Emily feels that there is a spiritual component to being a donor that can't be discovered in the clinic's process." Doris' tone implied a tinge of flakiness to the concept. "She feels that certain aspects of character are inherited. I don't know, maybe it's true. She's more in tune with those things than I am, and that's why I'll go along with her. After all, she's the one that's going to bear the child."

"Don't say it as though it's just a whim of mine that you'll tolerate." Emily looked over her shoulder at Doris. "We've been through this whole decision together and are in total agreement, right?"

Doris paused and then said, "Absolutely." She looked to Joey. "So we're asking you to be the donor."

It was a bombshell that dropped his jaw and rendered Joey speechless. He could only move his eyes, shifting his blank gaze between the two sober women.

"I can see this is a shock to you." Doris' small smile was wry.

"Joey," Emily said, "Don't freak out. Let me explain." She took a moment to compose her thoughts. "Okay, here it is: We've known you for a long time. You may have odd hair, but otherwise you're sound enough physically. You have a good, stable, honest, friendly character. You're reasonably intelligent. You're discreet and that's important. And you have a good heart, and that's most important." Joey looked ready to bolt. Emily continued. "Hold on, give us another minute. All we're asking you to do is give us a little bit of yourself." She held up a hand and separated thumb and forefinger an inch apart to illustrate how much. "In a cup."

Joey blushed beet red. He was frozen in disbelief. Then he giggled involuntarily. The tension broke and Doris guffawed. "You should see your face," she said, "you look like a boiled lobster."

Joey found his voice. "I'm speechless," he said. "Give me a minute here. I guess I'm honored by you choosing me, of all people, but I have to say that I have some serious doubts about this idea." He giggled again.

"Joey, I agree with everything Emily said about you. Especially about you being discreet and having a good heart. 'Discreet' is important here and I know how you feel about gossip. You've never been a part of the local rumor mill, and in this town, word travels fast. We trust you. If I worry about anything, it's that the kid might have your hair." Doris 'haw-hawed' again. "we're still friends, however you decide. But Emily's best time to conceive is in the next couple days, so think fast, okay? Not to put too much pressure on you or anything."

"No, no Joey," Emily remonstrated, "If we miss it this month, you can still contribute to the cause next month." Emily laughed with Doris. "But you will think about it, won't you?" Emily moved from humor to earnestness.

Joey felt the heaviness of life and circumstance returning. "You know what bothers me?" he said and leaned forward, putting his weight on his forearms on the table. "Change. And no matter what I do, everything in my life is changing, turning upside-down. What you're asking me, no matter what I decide, is going to change our relationship, our friendship. Other things are going on now, being shot and some things I haven't told you about. My life is catching up to me and I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do."

They had never seen Joey so intense. Emily, the sensitive one, said, "Hey, Joey, if this was a bad time to put this on you, we're sorry." She put a hand on his. "Let's put everything on hold, for now. If something is going wrong in your life, we're here for you if you need us. Do you want to talk about it?"

Joey was grateful for the human contact. He regretted his outburst. "I didn't mean to be scary." He took his hand from under Emily's and placed both of his in his lap. He sat up straight. "In the next day or two, you're going to hear some things about me that may make you change your minds about me. I don't want to get into it right now." At the look of alarm and concern on their faces he added, "I haven't done anything evil, you know, but my life is about to become complicated. Just don't make any fast judgments about me for a while, okay? Sooner or later, everything will clear up. You'll see. They have to. I've been cruising along on autopilot, but now I'm going to come down. Hope I don't crash."

Doris, the practical one, stated their position: "We're standing pat in our opinion of you. You need to hide out, you can hide out here. You need cash, you got it. And when you get your feet under you, we'll talk about our proposition then. That's it. Now what do you want to do?"

Joey wanted to slide away. He wanted to turn back the time and live his life like it had been, before someone had taken a shot at him. If he couldn't go back in time, then he would walk, and let the world catch up with him, if it could. "I think I'll do some more walking." He rose from his chair and walked to the door. Hand on the doorknob, he stopped and turned. "I'll see you again, soon, I hope. I really do think you deserve to be parents. Any kid would be lucky to have you two for their folks." He left the apartment and exited through the side door into the service alley. He had left his cap on the table but decided not to go back for it.

.

Knowles missed running into Joey by ten minutes. Between them, he and Sims had cruised every street in town and Route One north and south for twenty miles in either direction. Sims had radioed Joey's description to the other two cars patrolling in town and a few men in jeans, denim jacket, and red ball cap had been stopped and identified and released. Now, Knowles was stopped in front of Emily's Rest. He often stopped for breakfast there and remembered seeing Warnecki on occasion, Joey being notable for the amount of food he could put away at a sitting. He approached the door as Martha was coming to lock up. He opened it and stuck his head inside. "Hey, Marty," he said, "you seen Joey Warnecki here today?"

"Who?" she rasped. She stopped five feet from the door, peering at him, watery blue eyes magnified through the thick lenses of her glasses. Her head was tilted back so that she could see through the glasses that had slipped to the end of her nose.

"Warnecki, Joey Warnecki, tall, thin guy, comes here a lot." Knowles would rather have talked to Emily. He didn't get along very well with Martha.

"I know who he is. I ain't seen him and you're letting in all the cold air. Shut the door." She advanced, rattling the keys at him.

He retreated, shutting the door harder than necessary. "Scrawny old bird," he muttered, "ought to get together with old Soucup, make a good pair." Watching her turn the key through the beveled glass of the door, he decided to drive back to Warnecki's house. He would relieve Mary and park on the street. "Enough driving around." He turned to leave and bumped into Pardner Jenks, who bounced away from him, managing to keep his feet with difficulty, because he was drunk. The older man wore a long, greasy, gray wool coat that dragged threads to the ground from its raveled hem. The cuffs of his baggy pants all but covered the buckle rubber arctics he wore. A black watch cap was pulled down to just above bloodshot eye level.

"Knowlsey, fancy bumping into you here, got any spare change for your old buddy?" Jenks was a wet talker. Droplets of saliva and the sour smell of cheap wine on his breath caused Knowles to recoil away from him.

Knowles brushed at the front of his uniform where he had come in contact with Jenks. "Geez, Pard, what the hell are you drinking? Smells awful," he said. In fact, Jenks had never been his buddy, but rather had been a longtime drinking companion to his late father. The two men together had drunk up their wages at Molly's, leaving their families to feed and clothe themselves on whatever their wives could earn, assuming the women could keep their money well enough hidden.

Jenks took a step closer to Knowles and grinned widely, showing that a few yellow teeth remained his. "Juicy Lucy and the Mad Dog, my best old friends." He slapped a pocket on the side of his coat that hung lower and a nearly full pint slipped through a hole in the pocket lining to crash at their feet, wetting the lower trousers of both men. "Oh no! Jenks cried, "look what you done! You broke my bottle!" His face showed acute dismay and then accusation. "You owe me a buck."

Sims looked down at the dark stain wetting his pants below the knees. Pieces of glass remained on his shoes. He composed himself and leaned forward into Jenks' face. "I'll tell you what, Pard. You pick up all that glass and I won't haul you off for drunk and disorderly." He spoke calmly, but menace lay behind the words.

Jenks caught the tone of Knowles' voice and stooped. He picked up the two largest shards and dropped them over the curb into the street. When he stood upright again, outrage had replaced caution. "You cop," he said, the plosive carrying a dollop of spittle over Knowles' shoulder. "You ain't nothing like your old man."

"From where I stand, that's a good thing." Knowles turned away and walked toward his car, plucking at his trousers where they stuck to his skin. From the rising odor, he knew he would smell of cheap wine for the rest of the day.

A parting salvo came from Jenks. "Some people know how to treat people right. Joey knows how to treat people. Unlike some people I could name." When Knowles stopped in his tracks and strode back, Jenks, figuring he had gone too far, tried to shuffle away in the other direction.

Knowles grabbed the old man by the sleeve of his coat. "Hold it," he said, "Joey who?"

Jenks tried to pull away, but couldn't. Caught fast, he stuttered, "Ah, Joey, Joey What's-His-Name, ah, Joey Warnecki." His floating eyes pulled the name from the sky.

"When did you see Warnecki?" Knowles released the sleeve and stared hard into Jenks' eyes.

Never one to pass up the slightest opportunity to further his principle goal in life, Jenks' eyes dissolved from alarm to craftiness. "What's in it for me? he asked.

Knowles leaned to whisper something in Jenks' ear. Whatever it was he said, Jenks' expression reverted to its previous state. "You wouldn't," he said. Knowles remained impassive. "Maybe you would." Jenks resigned. "Okay. Joey give me a dollar right where I'm standing, maybe twenny minutes ago, maybe half an hour."

"Which way did he go?"

"I don't know. I stared that dollar right across the street into the liquor store, and bought that pint you broke." Jenks pouted, but wouldn't look Knowles in the eye again.

Knowles considered how to reward Jenks for his cooperation. A number of attractive options occurred to him, but in the end he withdrew his wallet and handed the old man a dollar. At least it would keep Jenks from bothering his old lady a while longer. He took a perverse pleasure from the act, but did not pause to consider its meaning. Jenks took the dollar as his due and shuffled across the street without any sign of gratitude.

.

Sims was spinning his wheels, figuratively and literally. Making a right turn from Main Street to Wharf Street, his car slewed sideways on a patch of ice and was nearly caught broadside by a sanitation truck approaching the intersection. He over steered and the car swung the other way, slamming the tires against the granite curb and bring the car to a halt canted away from the brick walk. In passing, the sanitation truck driver grinned at him and made a motion as if wiping sweat from his forehead.

Sims took a moment to radio the town public works dispatcher to report the icing streets. Most of the roadways had dried up, but a cold wind blowing in from the northeast was freezing areas that remained wet. On Wharf Street, the wind blew directly up the street from the harbor which lay at its end. Thirty yards before him, Sims saw the sign announcing Adams Real Estate and Development hanging perpendicular to the plain, brick front facade of that establishment. The heavy, iron-bound, wooden sign was painted black, with deeply carved gilt lettering. Wooden signage was mandated in the historic district by zoning laws. Sims eased the car forward into a parking space across the street from the sign. He would see if Charles was in the office.

This block, between Water and Wharf Streets, was once owned in its entirety by the Adams family. Through the years, especially since Charles had taken over the reins of the family's business interests, their holdings had diminished to the one building bearing the sign that now swayed in the wind. The wind that so slightly moved the sign tried to remove the cap from Sims head as he made his way from the car to the worn, brownstone stoop at the building entrance. The door, painted like the sign above, admitted him to the silence of a building where not much business was presently being conducted. The only sounds were of a cast iron radiator whistling and the clacking of keys on a computer. The floor of the room was painted brown, except for a trail worn through the paint by gritty shoes. The trail led past a gun-metal gray desk to a door opposite the entrance. In addition to the desk, the room was large enough to contain a love-seat and two upholstered chairs, the fabric of both being a somewhat worn, green velvet. A drooping ficus occupied the space between the desk and a front window.

The clacking ceased and Sims regarded the pleasantly smiling woman that sat behind the desk. The slender, fifty-ish woman had her hair, blond turning white, pulled back in a tight knot. Her face was pale, unlined, and had the patrician bones and bearing of an old Yankee family. She wore a white linen blouse, buttoned to the neck and pinned there by a cream and pink cameo brooch. As she rose to greet him, Sims saw that she wore a green tartan, wool, wrapped skirt fastened with a large gold safety pin.

"Good afternoon, officer, how may I help you?" Her voice was welcoming.

"Hi. I'm Officer John Sims and I was hoping to have a word with Charles Adams."

"I'm Letty Adams. Aren't you June Sims' husband?"

Sims knew that she was Letitia Adams, wife to Charles. Word had it that she had brought a sizable fortune to the marriage, and that Charles had invested it badly in a scheme to build a strip mall to the north of town. The development was doomed by poor design and vacancy, the mortgage holders ultimately foreclosing and tearing down the structure to replace it with condominiums. Though Sims was loath to accept rumor, he had to admit the ring of plausibility to this one. "Yes, glad to say I am," he said.

"She's so nice. She was here yesterday."

"Thank you, I know. And she did mention a meeting with your husband yesterday. Is he available?"

"No, I'm sorry. He's away at meetings all day, I believe. I'm not sure when he'll be back. Perhaps I can help you."

"Well, probably not. I'm trying to ascertain the movements of the man who was shot Monday night, and I know he had contact with your husband that evening. Did your husband speak of that?"

"Joey Warnecki? How terrible. Such a nice, young man. But no, Charles didn't mention seeing him." She thought a moment. "Monday night. I believe Charles met with Harry Sloan that evening. At the Lion's Club. About the annual fund raiser. They're both on the committee. Does that help at all?" She ended with a full smile.

Sims smaller smile faltered. Sloan hadn't mentioned seeing Warnecki that evening. "Yes. Mr. Warnecki did some work at the club that afternoon. Was anyone else at that meeting?"

"I don't know if anyone else was there with them, but Dick Wiltse and Jim Laird are on the committee. Perhaps you might call them." Letitia Adams was the heart and soul of openness and accommodation. She retrieved the phone numbers of the two men from her Rolodex and copied them for Sims.

"Thank you," he said, receiving the paper from her hand. He thought of another question. "Did Mr. Warnecki do any work for you, personally?"

"Oh yes. Ever since that terrible accident at the cannery we've felt obligated to help Joey out with whatever work we could give him. And he's very good at his work, too."

"The accident where his uncle died?"

"Yes." Her expression grew thoughtful. "The cannery was already closed, you know, but Charles kept Stan Warnecki on as a kind of watchman afterwards. When the cannery was operating, Stan kept the machinery running, fixed whatever needed fixing, things like that. They were setting up forms for pouring concrete when Stan fell and hit his head. Even back then Charles had plans to make the building into something else. Of course, that didn't pan out at the time. The project ran out of money before anything but a foundation and deck could be poured." The way she told it, beneath her words it was a foregone conclusion that the project wouldn't reach completion. Her voice carried resignation without bitterness.

Sims was beginning to fell uncomfortable. "So," he said, "Mr. Warnecki did some work for you. May I ask how you paid him? By check, cash?"

"That's an odd question. Why do you ask? I should think you would ask Joey, if you needed to know something like that."

"It's been proving difficult to get a hold of Mr. Warnecki. We're trying to come up with some motivation as to why someone would want to shoot him, and without having him to help us, we're reduced to coming at the problem sideways, so to speak."

"I thought the shooting was an accident."

Another person concerned with Warnecki's welfare, was Sims' thought. "It's looking like something other than an accident right now, that's why we have so many questions. I appreciate any help you can give me."

"I can't imagine anyone wanting to shoot Joey." She was genuinely distressed at the possibility of someone wishing Warnecki harm. At the same time she accepted her husband's fiscal mismanagement with such equanimity.

Sims brought her back to his question. "So, can you tell me how you paid him?"

"I don't see how it pertains, but yes, we always paid him by check, unless the amount was so small it wasn't worth the bother. Joey insisted."

"By a check made out to..."

"To Rock Harbor Carpentry."

"Thank you. That confirms what we've found so far. Do you know the Jennings, on North Shore? He was working for them on Monday, too."

"Yes, they live just down the hill from us. They're summer friends of ours. I'm sure Joey deals with them in the same manner." She spoke in the courage of her convictions.

"I'm sure he does." Sims' voice was conciliatory. "I guess I'll be on my way now. Thank you for your time." Everyone involved with him seemed pro-Joey. Or almost everyone.

.

When Knowles arrived back at Joey's house, he announced himself loudly at the door so Mary would know it was he entering, and not Warnecki.

"I'm in here, Charlie," she called back, and he entered the sitting room to find her sitting cross-legged before a bookcase. Ostensibly, she was using her time to search for papers that might have been secreted between pages, but she took the time to review the contents of books that looked interesting, and that she wasn't familiar with. She considered taking a few for 'evidence', but decided against the idea as unwarranted.

"Phew. You been drinking, Charlie?" She wrinkled her nose at him.

Knowles scowled at her. "Naw, I'm just wearing it. Get anything new?"

"You ought to think about changing your aftershave. Spend a few more dollars, you won't regret it. Neither will anybody else."

"Alright, forget it, will you? I know what it smells like, I've been living with it. Answer the question."

"Okay, Charlie. Calm yourself. The only thing I've gained is an appreciation for the guy's library. You read, Charlie?" She held up the foil-back book in her hand. She wiggled it in the light from the ceiling fixture and all the colors of the rainbow flashed luridly from it.

"Not since high school. And if I did, I wouldn't read that shit."

"Hey, don't knock it if you haven't tried it. Some of it would go nicely with your cologne, but some is really worthwhile reading."

Knowles thought about the covers on the gothic novels that his wife favored, but didn't mention them. If the whole truth were to be told, Knowles would have to admit to being an avid reader of military history, but he didn't feel like sharing his personal life. Not even to someone as non-judgmental as Mary. You never knew what people might use against you. Especially on the job.

"I got sick of driving around, thought I might as well come back and relieve you here. I can sit in the car out front, see if the guy shows up. You may as well pack it up, head back."

"Well thanks, Charlie, that's very considerate of you." Teasing Knowles was an art. One had to keep just far enough from the line to make him wonder, without completely alienating him. It was a delicate balance and Mary had it down. Or thought she did. With Knowles it was difficult to tell.

She replaced the book she was holding and pulled out another one. "Here," she said, handing him the book, "check this one out while you're waiting. I'll go pack up. Guy might remind you of someone."

He removed his reading glasses from a breast pocket and put them on. " 'A Twist of the Knife'," he read, and opened the cover. He'd read ten pages when Mary startled him.

"Hey, I'm ready to go. Help me carry this stuff out." In the kitchen, she'd packed two cardboard boxes of papers. She took one, he the other, and they carried them out to her car, a five-year-old Honda.

"Your ride still in the shop?" Knowles asked. The floor in the rear was littered with candy wrappers and Styrofoam coffee cups.

"Yeah, supposed to get it back two days ago. I see you put that book in your back pocket. Hope you're not going to appropriate it for your personal use." She took the carton from him and loaded it into the trunk next to her own.

"I'll put it back before I leave. Don't worry about it." She smiled, he scowled, and she drove off.

.

If he hadn't had the dome light on in the car, he might have seen Joey before Joey saw him, and Joey might not have gone down a driveway further down the street to approach his home from the rear. As it was, he was trying to read and watch the street at the same time. At first, he tried to look up after every paragraph, but then he was remembering to pull out of the book every three pages or so. This was not good police work, he decided. Also, the sky was completely dark and the dome light didn't put out enough light to read by. He turned off the light and the car's engine and got out of the car, the index finger of his right hand keeping his place in the book. He walked down the driveway to the rear of the house.

Joey froze next to the garage at the rear of his property. He watched as Knowles came down his driveway, unlocked the rear door, and entered his home. A light went on in the kitchen. He'd been hoping to enter the house himself and pick up a sweater and another hat. He was getting chilled by the cold wind that continued to blow. The walking had kept him warm for a while, but having not eaten all day, he had run out of fuel and the cold was getting to him. Also, all of his walking and thinking, turning things over and over again in his mind had come to naught. He needed something to eat, some place to get warm, and someone to talk to. That left Louis. He would go there.

.

The room in Joey's house, which he referred to as the sitting room, corresponded to the room in Louis' house called the t.v. room. And that was a good name for it, because the room was dominated by a fifty-inch television set. The t.v. was the focal point of an entertainment center that covered the wall space between the room's entrance and a small corner closet. Shelving above and to both sides of the set was packed tightly with sound equipment, videotapes and cd's. There were reel-to-reel and cassette players, a VCR, a DVD player, and a phonograph. For his viewing and listening comfort, Louis had matching, black leather-covered reclining chairs set up opposite his system. They flanked a small refrigerator stocked with beer, so that he wouldn't have to go all they way out to the kitchen for a brew. Atop the fridge lay four remote controllers, lined up in a row. These material comforts had been his only personal choices in the furnishing of his home. The rest, including the room's beige wall-to-wall carpet and its color-coordinated, floral print wall paper, had been the selections of his late wife.

In Louis' own small corner of the universe, he liked to sit and listen to music, as he did now, with headphones on and the only light being supplied by the tiny, multicolored indicators on his sound equipment. Coming through a quiet passage of one of Ellington's sacred compositions, he heard a tapping noise. He removed the headphones and directed his attention to the cd player, thinking the sound originated from that machine. It came from the window behind him, in sets of three. Taptaptap, taptaptap. He pulled aside the shade with one finger and peered out, leaning over the armrest of his chair. He recognized Joey in the faint moonlight. Joey stopped tapping and waved to him.

When the porch light come on over him, Joey jumped. He opened the storm door quickly and slipped in. "Turn off the light, turn off the light," he whispered urgently.

Louis complied and regarded Joey in the light from the kitchen. Joey's teeth were chattering. "Good god, Joey, your lips are blue. Where you been?"

"E-everywhere." Joey peered around him to see that the kitchen shades were drawn and stepped into the room. "Jeez it's getting cold out there. I'm froze to the bone. What do you got to eat?" He rubbed his hands together, shoulders hunched.

"Chili." Louis watched him.

"Corn bread?"

"Yeah, I got corn bread." Still watching, waiting.

"Oh, man. It still warm?" Joey was smiling now, and blowing on his hands.

"It's still in the oven. What you been doing?"

"I knew it." Joey was ecstatic. "Wednesday night. Chili night. I can smell it. I can feel that hot chili warming up my insides right now. Louis, you can save my life with a bowl of chili and some hot corn bread. Will you do that for me?"

"Yeah, I'll do that." Louis tried to temper his curiosity. "I'll trade you three bowls of chili for some explanations. How's that?"

"Anything, man, anything. Food first, okay?"

"Deal. Grab a bowl and help yourself."

Joey knew where everything was, a veteran of many help-yourself meals with Louis. Louis had had to learn the science of cooking all over again, when Kat had passed away. He had served on an aircraft carrier while in the navy, and the physics of cooking for five thousand men did not apply to making meals for one or two persons. Kat had enjoyed feeding him when he was home on leave, but when she was gone, necessity had caused him to relearn his trade.

Joey's first bowl of the spicy chili burned his tongue, spooned in hot off the stove. The second, accompanied by buttered corn bread, put the warmth back in his bones. And the third brought beads of sweat out on his forehead. Louis' chili was so spicy hot it made your nose run and numbed your lips. Joey loved it. "Now I could use a beer," he said.

Louis had eaten one small bowl of chili and a small square of corn bread while Joey ate, watching him quietly. "There's some stout in the fridge. You're not supposed to drink, are you?"

"What's chili without beer? One can't hurt." Joey got up from the table and helped himself. "Want one?"

"Yeah."

Joey went to the window over the sink, carrying a can of Guinness in each hand. He peeked behind the shade. He didn't see any light in his windows. "What time is it?"

Louis looked at his watch. "Six o'clock." The black cat appeared by the door and mewed.

"Hey, Kat, you want to go out?" Joey asked. "Alright if I let her out?"

"I guess. You want to sit down now and tell me what's going on?"

Joey opened the door enough to let the cat out and then returned to sit at the table after checking the pot on the stove to make sure that it was empty. Louis got up to get two pint beer glasses from a cupboard. Both men opened their cans and poured slowly.

Joey took a sip. "Good chili," he said.

Louis shook his head. "Don't see how a man can eat three pounds of chili and a tray of corn bread and stay as skinny as you. But that's beside the point. Who the hell is Joseph Wojciehowski and why are you using his name." Louis sipped, lining his upper lip with foam.

"Long story, Lou."

"I got time. Let me have it." Both men drank.

"Well, you know that I was born at the Woodstock Music and Arts Festival. I understand Jimi Hendrix was on stage at the time. What you probably don't know is that my parents never bothered with things like birth certificates and marriage licenses and other bureaucratic niceties. My old man was rebelling against the system. A hippie and a yippie and member of the Weather Underground. Draft card burner. War protester. Admirer of Che. You seen the picture of him in his beret?" Joey had slipped off his shoes and leaned back in his chair, stockinged feet resting on another.

"Yeah, one of the ones on the bookcase. I didn't know about the other thing, though. How'd you manage to get into school?"

"Don't jump ahead. Let me get us another beer." He retrieved two, set one before Louis who was only half finished with his first, and poured his own. "Mom was a good little hippie girl, just happy to hitchhike around the country with dad and be a part of the love generation. One weekend they hitched out to Akron, Ohio to a Sly and the Family Stone concert, got a ride in a VW microbus, of course, and the driver fell asleep at the wheel. They crashed into a tree and I was made an orphan at the age of two. Aunt Helen didn't get the news for three weeks, until a friend of mom's called with condolences. Aunt Helen just kept on babysitting.

As to how I got into school without any birth certificate, I suppose I just slipped through the cracks in the system. I went to school and grew up as Joseph Warnecki without any problem until I was about to turn eighteen. I made do without a driver's license, but at eighteen you have to register with selective service. Didn't have a social security card, either.

"And this is where Joe Wojciehowski enters the picture. You don't remember him?"

Louis opened the second can. "Can't say as I do. Name rings a bell though."

"Joe moved here with his father in January, in eighty-seven. He sat behind me in home room and we became friends. He used to hang out at my aunt's house all the time, because she fed him and stuff. His old man was a drunk. Beat him up. Wojie would do about anything to keep from having to go home."

Louis interrupted him. "You know, I think I do remember him now. I had a thirty-day leave around then and he came around, asking me about being in the navy. Had a wacky look to him, like he was on dope or something. Made me nervous."

"He was a little bit crazy, did all kinds of dumb stuff, joy riding, starting up the heavy equipment at the sand pits. I went with him doing some of this stuff, but I always managed to avoid getting caught. Plus, I was with Sharon a lot of the time back then, and she tried to keep me away from the really crazy stuff." Joey stopped talking for a while, thinking about those times.

"So anyway," Joey abruptly returned to his story. "Wojie planned to join the military at the end of the summer after graduation. He talked me into going camping for a few weeks in July. We went into the Allagash. Hitched into it until we ran out of road and then backpacked for a day, following a river. No map or anything, just followed the river. Figured we could just follow it back out when we'd had enough.

"It was a really nice river, too. Cold and clear and fast. Most places it ran about ten feet wide or so. Full of brook trout. But after a week, we were about out of food, and sick of eating fish. One more day in the woods, and we were going to pack out of there.

"Just past where we were camped, a bigger river joined our river, and just a ways beyond that, there was a falls that fell about thirty feet into a round pool, big as the pool at the Boy's Club. Real pretty spot, hemlocks and ferns and moss all around this pool that was white where the water fell in, boiling out to the sides, and brown around the white, and then the green banks. The rock face behind the falls was cut out and you could stand back there and watch the water roar past, but you couldn't see through it.

"That last afternoon, we went swimming there. From the top of the falls you could see a rainbow coming up off the pool like magic. Wojie would jump from the top of the falls into the pool, but I wouldn't do it, even though I couldn't touch bottom in the middle of the pool. When Wojie saw the rainbow, he said, 'There's a pot of gold at the bottom. Let's dive and get it.' I said no thanks, let it stay there. 'Uh,uh, I'm gonna get it, drag it on out of here and buy a ranch in Texas.' And he dove in, head first. I waited for him to come up. And waited and waited. And he didn't come up and I ran down to the bottom and jumped in and groped around for him for what seemed like forever and never got him." Joey took a deep breath and let it out. "That was about the worst time of my life."

"That's a terrible thing to happen, Joey. You never found him?"

"No. The water shot out of that pool through a narrow channel, three or four feet wide. I figure he must have washed out of there while I was looking for him, or maybe while I was waiting for him to come up. I spent two more days there, hiking downstream and looking for him. After that, I packed up everything I could carry, left the rest, and hiked out."

"I suppose you must have been in pretty bad shape after all that. Don't believe I got back here at all that summer. Med cruise, I think. I sure would have gotten word from Kat about it, though. Did you go to the police?"

Joey spoke into his lap. "No, never. I was so wiped out after hitching home, I ate everything in the house and slept for a day and a half." He paused, and then returned his eyes to Louis. "I went to see his old man. Found him drunk at ten in the morning. They lived in that trailer park in the west end. Place was a mess. Dirty dishes everywhere, maggots in the sink, bottles piled up in the trash. If Wojie wasn't around to pick up, nobody did."

"No mom?"

"Wojie told me she left when he was ten, couldn't take the old man anymore. Anyway, I told the story, expecting the guy to break down, blame me, anything. But all he said was ask who was going to clean up around there, now. I asked him did he want Wojie's stuff, sleeping bag and wallet and stuff. He said to burn it all. Damn."

"Unbelievable, Joey, just unbelievable." Louis shook his head in wonderment. "So, I guess you didn't burn it anyway, not the wallet."

"Nope, I kept it. Wojie's driver's license picture looked enough like me that when it came time to renew it, I went down to the motor vehicle and got my own picture taken. I used his I.D.'s to set up a bank account, file my taxes, everything. Came close to getting caught once or twice, but I've been traveling under two names for almost half my life now."

"Anybody else know about this, your aunt?"

"No. Well, Sharon knew. Didn't much care for the idea, either. We were gonna get married, you know, and she wanted me to straighten everything out beforehand. 'Course I don't blame her for that. Who'd want to start a marriage with someone who used two names? She died one month later, end of August. I just kept on with it, seemed like the easiest thing to do." Joey rubbed the tips of his fingers along the knots of the sutures on his scalp. "I suppose Aunt Helen would have found out sooner or later, but she got sick the next year and died in 'ninety, at her sister's place in Aroostook County, near the border."

The two men sat quietly at the table, Joey lost in his memories, Louis considering the tale and how to advise Joey. "Everybody's gonna know now, Joey," Louis said quietly.

Joey smiled ruefully. "Cat's out of the bag now, that's for sure."

"So what are you going to do? You gotta think, not only are you going to have to deal with the name thing, but you still got someone out there who took a shot at you. I'm having a hard time trying to connect the two things."

"I can't connect the two, either. I wish I could figure out what to do with even one of them. I don't feel like running away, and I don't want to face them, either. What would you do in my place?"

Louis spoke thoughtfully. "Joey boy, I ain't gonna pretend to have been anywhere near the spot you're in. One thing I do know, running ain't gonna buy you much time. The police are looking, and they'll find you, sooner or later. My opinion is that you ought to get to them before they get to you. The longer it takes, the madder they'll be when they find you."

"Damn. I suppose you're right, but it's hard to let go after all this time."

"You know that cop Sims seems like a decent man. If you have to pick someone to go to, I'd pick him."

"Yeah?" Joey was reluctant.

"Yeah, that's my advice." Louis seemed warily sure of himself.

"Okay, I'll do it. Tomorrow morning." Joey assumed Louis' attitude. Two beers made the decision easier. "You mind if I crash here tonight? I'll call that cop first thing in the morning."

"Sure. I think you're making the right decision. Let's go sit in the t.v. room and talk some more." And they did.

.

Knowles was the last to arrive at the conference room on the second floor of the police department building. Sims had arranged with everyone to meet at six o'clock, and when Knowles hadn't arrived by five past, he'd paged him. Knowles had lost track of time, sitting in Joey's kitchen, and entered the room fifteen minutes late.

The conference room was large enough to hold a gray metal table and eight metal folding chairs. The floor was green, indoor/outdoor carpet; the ceiling perforated acoustic tile around a fluorescent ceiling fixture that cast a ghoulish light. The walls, where not covered by cork-board and papers, were painted an institutional green. In one corner stood an ancient coffee maker on a stained, once-white, plastic table. All in all, it was not a pleasant room, and it pretty much reflected the other spaces in the 'sixties-era building.

Mary was holding forth from the center chair, opposite the entrance, when Knowles entered and closed the door behind him. She paused for Knowles to take a seat across from her. To her left sat Sims and next to him at the table's end, Lieutenant Waters. Chief Sloan sat alone at the other end of the table, Brulick behind him in a chair against the wall.

"Nice of you to join us, Charlie." She smiled at him, he didn't respond. "As I was saying, Warnecki-slash-Wojciehowski has been writing checks on two accounts held in the Atlantic Bank in Camden since nineteen-ninety. He's been paying his taxes on the business account: state and federal income, self-employment, and property. That account is also used for what appear to be business related entries and all income shown has been dumped into that account. His living expenses seem to have been paid through his personal checking account. He uses an ATM card for cash in town, drawn from the personal account, and records all draws from the business account to the other checking account. In short, unless we find another stash, Joseph Wojciehowski has been paying his taxes and keeping good records. I've got everything: tax returns, bank statements, everything going back to the beginning balances in the accounts. If I were doing an audit, using this paper, I'd have to give Wojciehowski a gold star for clean record keeping." She looked around the table. "And, so far, if I had to find Warnecki by following a paper trail, I'd have to conclude that he existed as a schoolboy, and nowhere else." Sims was frowning, looking down at the table. The lieutenant looked interested. Knowles looked inscrutable, as usual. Sloan had an expression of irritation and impatience, as usual. She paid no attention to Brulick, as though he were merely a shadow behind Sloan.

Waters stated the obvious question. "So why use an alias to conduct legitimate business? It's backwards. We're missing a bunch."

"Now I get to the interesting part." Mary raised her eyebrows. She seemed to be enjoying her part. "There's a sheet on Joseph Wojciehowski, beginning in February, 'eighty-seven, and ending five items later, in May of that same year. Trespassing; malicious mischief, two counts; and two moving violations - reckless driving and speeding. Nothing since. Tomorrow I'll extend the search elsewhere, doesn't seem such a career would stop so abruptly."

"Maybe they switched identities. Look for Warnecki's name out of state. Military, too. Still doesn't make sense." Waters didn't like anything about this case. "Get the inquiries out on the wire this evening."

"Right." Mary thought about her cat. She'd run home and feed her and come back.

Sergeant Clarkson chose that moment to burst into the room. Everyone except Knowles started when the door banged against the wall. He glowered at them. "Somebody leaked," he said. "Big-mouth Bronki just broke the news about cocaine being found at the scene." He looked hard at Mary.

Her eyes widened and her mouth opened and closed. Then her eyes narrowed. "You go to hell, Sarge."

Taking her insubordinate retort for what it was, he looked around the room, barely glancing at the lieutenant, lingering at the chief and longer at Brulick, who always had a guilty look, anyway. His look at the chief approached insubordination itself, but such was his reputation and value to the department, he could walk where others might fear to tread. The chief knew that the sergeant did the best part of his job for him. It could be supposed that there was a line that could not be crossed with impunity, but only the sergeant and the chief might know where it lay. Between the sergeant and the lieutenant, there were definite boundaries, well established and recognized. There existed a good working relationship between them. To everyone else in the department, Sergeant Clarkson was a cipher. Little was known about his personal life, even his first name was a mystery to some. The safest way to deal with him was to do exactly as he said, ask no questions but for the essential, and do your job.

"What did she say, exactly?" Sims said.

The sergeant's attention steadied at Sims. "She said, and I quote, 'an undisclosed source with the police has reported that a substantial amount of cocaine was discovered at the home of the victim of Monday night's nearly fatal shooting of Joseph Warnecki, a resident and local carpenter in Rock Harbor.' She also said that the slugs found at the scene were thirty-eight caliber. Anybody care to guess how she got that information?" No one spoke. The silence in the room was uncomfortable.

Waters broke it. "As far as I know, Sergeant, no one is privy to the details but the people in this room, and people at the state lab. Anyone here speak to anyone else about it?" He paused a moment for someone to speak. No one did. "I guess that's all for now, Sergeant, we'll go into it later." Clarkson nodded to the lieutenant without speaking and left the room. People stirred in their seats.

"Sarge doesn't care for the media, huh?" Mary tried to break the tension.

"I have it on good authority that he doesn't even trust the comic section to get it right," Waters said, letting a more relaxed air into the room. "Okay, let's get back. Why run a legitimate business under an assumed name."

The chief spoke for the first time: "It's obvious. Wojciehowski's an escape alias. Clean i.d., access to funds, probably has cash in a safe deposit box somewhere."

"Then why were all his records in such an accessible location?" Mary asked.

"Well," said Sloan, "If he starts to feel the heat, he can grab everything and head south."

"Rock Harbor carpentry is linked directly to him under the name Warnecki. Those accounts and the other identity would be linked to him very quickly." Mary tapped the papers before her with a pencil.

"He may even have another identity, like those welfare queens, I don't know." Sloan looked at his wrist watch.

"Check the banks for other accounts and safe deposit boxes under either name." Waters was addressing Mary.

"He could have his money under a rock, for all we know," interjected Brulick. No on at the table made any response to his comment. It was as though he hadn't spoken at all and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"What eludes me so far, is any connection to the shooting that initiated all this," Sims said. "The paper trail to the alternate i.d. is substantial, but we're getting nothing that would lead to a suspect from that."

"Move on what you know. Let the rest follow." Sloan was being impatiently gruff.

"Okay," Waters said, "We'll need a response to the t.v. revelations."

"Get an arrest warrant," said the chief.

Sims stiffened. "I think that would increase the risk of flight. We need to get him in here for questioning. And for his own protection."

"Let's announce that he's wanted for questioning, and not comment on the drugs," Waters said.

The chief appeared to consider this. "Alright, do it." He looked again at his watch. "I've got another meeting." He pushed back his chair and left the room, followed closely by Brulick.

The room was silent until they could no longer hear the retreating footsteps. Waters broke the silence. "Anything else? Anyone not clear on what to do?" He waited for comment. "Okay. Mary, you're following the paper. Sims, you and Knowles are working to pick up Warnecki and investigate the shooting angle. I guess we're done here for the moment." Three chairs scraped back. Mary gathered her papers. "Sims, hang back for a minute," Waters said and Sims sat back down.

After the others left the room, Waters said," John, I wrote a memo to cover you in not writing up a report last night. Now's the time for you to do a report on everything to date. Don't worry about it, I won't leave you hanging." His gaze was direct.

"Okay, Loo, thanks." And both men rose, Sims to write his report, Waters to prepare a statement for the press.

Mary, following Knowles down the stairwell noticed the paperback in his back pocket. "How far'd you get?"

"Far what?" he retorted. He stopped and turned on the first landing.

"In the book, Charlie. Finish it?"

"Oh, I guess I forgot to put it back. Naw, I lost interest after the first few pages," Knowles scoffed.

"Want me to see that it gets returned? I've got all the other stuff, I could just keep it all together. You know?" Sincerity in her words and expression.

Knowles clumped away down the stairs. "No, that's okay, you got enough to keep track of. I'll take care of it." He disappeared through the fire door, leaving Mary smirking to herself on the landing. Her expression faded as she realized that she would have to work late into the evening.

.

Having talked Joey's problems to death over beers in Louis' t.v. room, both men were silent, listening to Brubeck's 'Time Further Out', playing on a scratchy l.p. record. The recliners were fully extended and a line of empty beer cans spanned the width of the small refrigerator between them.

"I got to pee," Louis said, and pulled the handle on the side of the chair that allowed him to sit up and then stand. He left the room and Joey heard the back door open and close. After a minute, Joey heard the word 'damn' come faintly through the closed window beside him. He got up to investigate.

Louis was outside, muttering. "What's the matter?" Joey asked, hunching his shoulders against the chill.

"Damn cat ran in front of me," Louis said.

"Oh." Joey paused, then, "Better not let her in."

"Guess not. She likes to go up on the bed."

"Cold out, though."

"Yeah, maybe we should try to catch her. Bring her in, clean her up."

They wandered the yard, calling for the cat in lowered voices. Joey started to walk up the driveway and stopped when he saw the police cruiser parked on the street before his house. He walked backwards, bumping into Louis.

"Where the hell you going?" Louis said.

"Sssh, there's a cop car out front."

"Oh." Louis tried to peer around him and Joey pushed him back behind the house.

"I don't want to be found, just yet," Joey explained to Louis, who might have an attitude about being pushed. Louis didn't respond. He merely glowered at Joey. Joey, attempting to deflect Louis' attention, pointed to the sky. "Hey," he said, you know the stars and things, don't you? Being in the navy and all?"

Louis continued to look hard at Joey for a few seconds before following Joey's pointing arm to the heavens above. "Well, sure," he said. "All us sailors know the stars and constellations and stuff." Both men were weaving slightly, dizzy from looking up after several beers. A long, straight line of clouds, stretching across the northeastern end of the heavens had just swallowed the moon. Louis raised his arm to point as Joey lowered his. "There," Louis said, "you see that line of three stars, all the same brightness?"

Joey sighted along Louis' arm. "Yeah, what's that?"

"That's Orion's belt." He moved his arm. "Now, follow that line up, say about ten times its length, and you see a little cluster of six or so, not quite so bright. Those are the Pleiades."

"Neat," Joey said. He looked back to see Orion, but the clouds had overtaken the hunter to past his belt. "Show me another one."

"Okay." Louis looked around the western sky. "There. There's a group of five, all about the same brightness, about as wide as your hand with your fingers spread out. See it?"

"I think so. What's that called?"

"That's the Big W," Louis said proudly.

"Big W? Looks a little lopsided to be a W, don't it? That really what it's called?" Joey sounded doubtful.

"Sure it is. Look at those clouds move." Louis shivered. "Let's go in. I'm getting cold." He headed for the door, Joey following.

Louis checked his watch, returning to the t.v. room. "Ten o'clock. Let's check the weather." He sat down and clicked the television on with the remote, turning to the Channel 26 Action News Report.

Joey looked at him quizzically. "Hey. Was that some kind of petty revenge for me pushing you, telling me that line about the Big W?" Louis just looked at him before turning his attention to the television, where Tina Bronki was beginning her anchor spot.

"Leading the news tonight," she said, "the police are still looking for Joseph Warnecki, victim of Monday night's near-fatal shooting. As reported earlier, the home of the Rock Harbor carpenter was searched following the shooting and a quantity of cocaine was discovered. Police Lieutenant Lawrence Waters would not confirm this earlier report, saying only that Mr. Warnecki is wanted for questioning. In other news..." Neither man heard what followed. Joey stared at the screen, his mouth gaping. Louis turned to look at his profile.

Joey shut his mouth, turned to Louis. "No," he said, shaking his head, "no cocaine. No cocaine, no nothing." Color rose in his face. "What the hell is that all about? What are they trying to do?" His voice rose. "Shit, shit, shit!"

Louis was convinced. He'd seen Joey under stress. He'd seen Joey smash his finger with a twenty-ounce framing hammer and will away the pain, smiling in embarrassment at his ineptitude, not blaming the hammer for his own crime. He'd seen Joey deal with unreasonable clients. The ones who expected the contractor to read their minds when even they couldn't discern what was wanted. Joey would slough it off, redo the work, and bill for less than would be thought reasonable by any other contractor. He'd say he was just building up good Karma. And in Joey's reaction to the newsreader's words, Louis saw a man unjustly accused of a felony; Billy Budd in sawdust instead of salt water. At least Billy'd had someone to hit. Joey had to pound the leather of his chair, which he did with each imprecation.

"Alright, alright, alright, hold on a minute, let's figure this out." Louis held up his hands and Joey stopped hitting the chair, but kept swinging his head from side to side in denial.

"What? What are we going to figure out?" Joey stopped moving his head and looked directly at Louis. "Someone shot me, I don't know why, and now the police think I'm selling cocaine, or something. This on top of me using Wojie's name and who knows what else. Next thing they're gonna accuse of of shooting the president." He flipped his legs over the side of the reclined chair, ejected, and began to pace about the small room. Two strides and he had to change direction. "Shit. I don't have enough room here. I gotta get out." He headed for the doorway.

Louis struggled with the handle to straighten his chair, gave up and tumbled over the side, following Joey into the kitchen. "Wait up a minute," he said, "whoa, don't be running out now, let's work this out." Joey was putting on his jacket. "Where you gonna go? It's cold out. It's gonna snow or something."

Joey didn't seem to hear him. He was looking for the cap he'd left at Emily and Doris's. Realizing that fact, he said, "shit," again and bolted outside, leaving Louis standing in the kitchen, staring after him with the door wide open and the warm air of the house flowing out into the November night. The black cat slipped by him into the house without his noticing.

.

Mary got home just in time for the ten o'clock news, a freezing rain beginning to fall as she parked her car in the driveway. She hustled inside to the warmth of her home and the meowing of the cat she hadn't had time to feed. She snapped on the television and listened as she opened a new can of turkey with giblets and scooped a third of it into the bowl on the floor. Her cat had definite priorities, immediately abandoning its purring and ankle-circling to devote its attention to the food and Mary walked into her living room, can and fork in hand, to watch Tina deliver the news. She set the fork in the can, put them on the floor beside her and sat down on a footstool to idly roll the cat fur from the legs of her trousers, disregarding the second report on the news. She decided to leave the television on until the weather report and walked on her knees to the bookcase, where she compared the titles in her collection to the ones in Warnecki's. Many were the same, and some of the serial works that were missing in his collection were evident in hers, and vice versa. She wished that she had borrowed a couple of Travis McGee stories that she hadn't seen before. What the hell, she thought, they're just paperbacks, he wouldn't mind.

.

Sims didn't get home until after the ten o'clock news. The freezing rain was mixing with sleet and snow, making the streets treacherous, since the town road crews had not yet gotten out to sand. He hoped, as he pulled into his driveway, that June and the girls were all home and not out on the roads. The lieutenant had told him to leave the Volvo wagon and drive home in the patrol car. Nothing's worse on a slippery road than a Volvo wagon, he'd said, after Sims gave him his typed report. Unstated was the fact that Sims would probably be called in early, or in the middle of the night, to deal with accidents or whatever else can happen on a night of bad weather. Sims was one of those police officers who were always on call, simply because of their competence.

June was in the kitchen, scrubbing out a roasting pan that had held lasagna at one time, but had been languishing in the sink for two days, the adults too busy, the children too lazy to clean it. She was in her pajamas and robe, both flannel, both pink, both wet to the elbows in tomato-stained dishwater. "Hi, honey," she said, and turned from the sink to grab him by the cheeks with her sudsy hands and plant a wet kiss on his mouth. Sharing the dishwashing experience.

"Thanks," he said, grabbing the lapel of her robe and wiping off his face. "Kids home?"

"Yeah, bad night to be out, huh?"

"Yup. You catch the weather?"

"Supposed to turn to all snow. Lots of wind. Maybe a foot by morning." She turned back to her work.

"Great. Anything to eat?"

"What's left of a bucket of chicken in the fridge. I got home late, sent Carrie out for it. Should be almost enough left for you. There's coleslaw, too. Knock yourself out." She chuckled. Dinner was never a sure thing at their house. "By the way, a Louis Armstrong called. Said he tried at the station, but you had already left. Said to call anytime you got home. That's the neighbor from the shooting thing, isn't it?"

Sims had been at the refrigerator, pulling out what appeared to be a gallon cardboard bucket. He pulled of the lid, looked inside and said, "Yeah. Guess I'll nuke this stuff and call him back."

Louis answered on the first ring. "Sims," he said, "what's with the cocaine thing? It was on the news tonight, Joey about freaked out."

"Is Warnecki there?" Sims spoke excitedly.

"Naw. He was here earlier. I had him convinced to call you in the morning. He was almost comfortable with the idea. And then the news came on and he panicked, ran out of here. Damn. What's going on?"

Sims thought about it. "I can't tell you that the cocaine being there isn't a problem, 'cause it is. But I'm not convinced it's Warnecki's problem. He's got other problems, though, and‐"

"No shit."

"‐and it's very important that I get ahold of him. Do you know where he is?"

"No," Louis said resignedly. "I don't know where he went. I don't think he knows himself. Like I said, he just flew out of here."

"What is he wearing?"

"Same stuff he's had on all day, only wetter, now. Tell me about the cocaine."

"I can't talk about it now. Do you talk to him about Wojciehowski?"

Louis waited a few beats before answering. "Yeah, some. Tell me about the cocaine."

Sims waited a few more beats, calculating. "Tomorrow. I'll get over to you tomorrow, early. We'll talk."

"Meanwhile, that's boy's out in a blizzard. May be no tomorrow for him." Louis hung up.

Sims called the department, alerted the lieutenant to the visit with Louis, then patched through to the officer parked in front of Warnecki's and waited on the phone while he checked the house and grounds. The policeman reported no sign of Warnecki and no evidence of his walking in the snow that had recently begun to fall and blow around.

.

By the time the officer was looking for tracks in the snow around Joey's house, Joey was walking up the access road in the state forest that led to Meredith Adams' second home. Though there was as yet only a scant inch of snow on the ground, visibility was nil. He was able to stay on the road surface only by feel, and had a difficult time staying out of the ditches that ran on either side of the single-lane, tarred road. The wind swirled and blew in fits and starts, further confounding his sense of direction. And the snow fell so heavily that the heat from his body, passing through the thin denim jacket, couldn't melt it fast enough to keep it from accumulating on his shoulders and back. The temperature had plummeted to fifteen degrees and even Louis' five-alarm chili wasn't sufficient to keep Joey warm. He was soaked through and shivering.

Halfway up the hill, Joey slipped and fell into the right-hand ditch. Since his hands were stuck in his jean pockets, he was unable to break his fall, and he fell hard, splitting several of the stitches on his head and reopening his wound. It took him several minutes to regain his feet and, once up, he lost his sense of direction and took the fire road that led around the hill. He stumbled a mile along that road before realizing his mistake and turning back.

As to his state of mind, Joey was on autopilot. Simple survival took over the reins, banishing all concern over lesser matters. Joey put one foot in front of the other for three hours, until he fell over the heavy chain stretched across the road at the entrance to the hilltop estate. The rimed fabric of his jacket cracked like a peanut shell when he hit the ground, his legs hung up over the ice-stiffened chain. Part of his mind voted to stay where he lay. A deeper part, holding the controlling vote, somehow caused him to disentangle himself, rise, and stumble forward toward the dark house which sat some fifty yards further along. The two-story brick house stood as a darker mass in the almost lightless world that surrounded Joey Warnecki. He stood hunched over at the foot of the two granite steps before the black, paneled door. A lighted doorbell button beside the door drew his focus and he struggled to remove his right hand from where the denim of his jeans pocket had frozen around it. He managed to extricate it and it was like a claw, foreign to him. He mashed it against the yellow spot of the button and heard faint chimes ring from inside the house. He took heart from this, but from the darkness of the house's windows, it was evident that no one was at home there to answer his summons. He then used the club that was his hand to smash the sidelight window closest to the door handle. His hand was torn in the process but since there was no feeling in this extremity, he paid it no mind. Instead he stuck his arm through the broken window and fumbled with the door's inside hardware, trying to flip the deadbolt latch. His fingers wouldn't work, but he managed to knock the lever over and then clubbed the thumb latch inside, allowing the door to open into the house. He fell through the opening door onto the threadbare Persian rug inside and, after a few seconds, pulled his stiff legs inside and pushed the door closed with his foot.

He melted on the floor by the door. Though the furnace thermostat was set to a frugal sixty degrees, it was still forty-five degrees warmer than the outside air, not even considering the chill factor imposed by the howling wind. In fifteen minutes, his shivering, given up as a useless stratagem by his body some time ago, began again. His reptile brain, still in control, accessed the part of his mind that remembered a bathroom at the top of the stairway before him. He had worked on this house several times over the preceding years. That part of his brain dragged him up the straight stairway, using his chin to pull him up as much as any limb.

In the bathroom, an ancient claw-footed tub squatted in its majesty on a white tiled floor. With his chin hanging onto the curled edge of the tub, he reached into it and inserted the rubber plug, hanging from a brass chain, into the drain. He knocked the porcelain hot-water handle open and a rush of water forced through the small hole of the brass spout. He held his hand in the spray, but couldn't tell by feel whether the water coming out was hot or cold. After a bit, he could smell the steam, so he removed his hand before it cooked and opened the cold water tap halfway. He watched the water fill the tub to the level of the overflow drain, inhaling the warm, moist air. He leaned into the tub and tested the temperature with his tongue. As far as he could tell, it seemed a reasonable temperature. He climbed over the edge of the tub and plopped inside, clothes, shoes, and all. Water splashed onto the floor and he settled in, his head against the sloping end, above water only from the nose up. His shivering stopped after a few minutes and he turned on the hot water again with his shoe, letting the excess water flow into the overflow drain. A torpor overcame him in the warmth of the water and he shut off the running water before he fell into sleep.

The little light of the doorbell button went out ten minutes later when an ice-laden pine branch fell from the top of a tree overhanging the road-side power line, carrying its lower neighbors with it and bringing the wire to the ground. Joey woke up, cold again, around four a.m. There were no lights, the window above the tub a dim rectangle of dark gray, perceived only in slight contrast to the blackness that otherwise surrounded him. He awoke confused as to his location and condition. Since sight was denied him, he had to rely on his other senses to moor himself in the universe. His body felt almost weightless, backside and feet lightly anchored to the smooth bottom of the porcelain tub, hands floating palm down, knuckles broaching the water's surface slightly. He became aware of pain in his right hand, and this pain drew him to further awareness. The water had grown cool, but his face above the waterline was feverish, sweaty. He pushed with his shoes against the end of the tub and rose above the surface to the level of his shirt pockets. Hearing joined the sense of feeling as his back and bottom squeaked and rumbled against the smooth surface and the water sloshed. The thousand car freight train of the storm roared by outside. With full consciousness came awareness of his discomfort. His teeth were chattering again. How could he feel hot and cold all at the same time, he wondered, rising to his feet and feeling for the edge of the tub in a sudden dizziness. The sodden jeans clung to his legs as he lifted each leg out of the tub and onto the floor, holding as tightly as he could to the tub rim. Then he sat down in the pool he was creating on the tile floor and laboriously stripped off his clothing, which resisted his efforts as though they were glued to him. Regaining his feet, he found a rack of towels and dried himself as well as he could with shaking hands, dropping the towels onto the mess of clothing at his feet.

Naked, hands outstretched before him, he stepped forward, feeling for the invisible doorway, and walked into the door's edge, which dealt him a sharp blow to his nose and forehead. Now, another sense returned to him: his sense of the absurd. He giggled. With that giggle, he was again fully human for the first time since his mental retreat to the rear of his brain in the storm outside. He was damaged and possibly ill, but now could consciously decide to find a bed and blankets, to crawl under them, and wait out the storm. This he managed to do.

# Chapter 3

This Thanksgiving Day, the personnel of the Rock Harbor Police Department not scheduled for the day off were assigned split shifts or reduced hours in order to allow maximum time with their families. The duty roster had been devised months before so that people could arrange their holiday meals and family meeting times. The storm, of course, threw the careful planning to the wind. Knowles, who had seniority in the department, was to have had the entire day off, but had been called in early, along with Sims and others, to deal with the fender-benders and downed power lines brought on by the storm. Sergeant Clarkson, to whom holidays meant little or nothing, was back at work by one a.m., calling out the troops as they were needed to cover the streets of his town. The department was his one true calling and he believed, perhaps rightly, that it could not function without him.

The storm blew itself out by nine in the morning, leaving behind perhaps a foot of snow, the actual amount difficult to ascertain since it was so heavily drifted. The sun reasserted itself with a vengeance, blinding those unfortunate souls who were attempting to drive the streets without sunglasses. Sims was one of the them. He stopped at home to pick up a pair and to give Armstrong a call. Snowplows had been by and pushed up a bank of snow for him to clamber over. Entering his house at ten in the morning, after six hours in the car, he couldn't see his wife standing before him in the kitchen. He could hear her greeting as he stood just inside the door, but only saw light from the window over the sink, squinting and waiting for his eyes to readjust. She laughed at him.

"It's not funny," he said, "I can't see a damn thing."

"I know, I'm sorry," she apologized, still amused. "You just look so silly, standing there with your eyes all screwed up. Want some coffee?"

"Yeah." He was beginning to be able to make out her silhouette. She led her blind husband to the table, putting his hand on a chair back. He sat. "Thanks," he said, as she placed a steaming mug before him. "Kids up?"

She sat opposite him. "They were up when the wind stopped. Grabbed their cross-country skis and took off to get in some miles before the streets are all cleared. Are you going to be off work soon?"

"Be nice if they dug out the driveway, instead. Maybe in a few hours. What time were you planning to eat?"

"I was going to put the bird in the oven early, but decided to wait to hear from you." She looked at the clock. "Can you be home by four?"

"Definitely." His vision had returned for the most part, though the colors were still flat.

She took a sip. "How is it out there?"

"Lot of lines down. The trees loaded up with ice and then snow and the wind brought them down. Gonna be a lot of people postponing their Thanksgiving dinner. Streets should be cleared up pretty soon, power's gonna take longer." He set his cap on the table and rubbed his head where the hair had matted down under its rim. He yawned. " 'Scuse me. I've got a few things to do yet. Want to see if I can talk to Armstrong this morning." He pushed back his chair and rose, carrying his mug with him to the phone.

Louis answered after a dozen rings. "I was digging out," he offered as an explanation. "You find him?"

"No. Not a trace, yet." Sims had kept an eye out for Joey in his morning travels. "Must have found somewhere to hole up through the storm."

"Hope so." There was half a minute of uncomfortable silence.

Sims broke it. "Can you spare some time for me this morning? Like to drive over and talk to you."

"Maybe. Far as I'm concerned, talk's gotta be a two-way street."

Sims deliberated only for a few seconds before agreeing. He told Louis to expect him within the half hour. He pecked his wife on the cheek. Halfway through the door he said, "See you before four. Try to get the kids to do some shoveling."

"Fat chance," she replied, and added, "You ought to grab some sunglasses." He returned briefly to grab a pair from a drawer below the counter and left.

.

Louis' kitchen was devoid of the aroma and disorder that was taking place in the thousands of other homes preparing for the holiday feast. The only steam in the room arose from his sweated clothing, damp from strenuous, outdoor work. Louis' driveway and walk had been shoveled clear, as well as the walk and driveway belonging to Joey Warnecki. Sims' trousers were damp below the knee from climbing through the snowbank between his home and the patrol car. The two men stood a few feet apart, like men preparing to spar, but unwilling to throw a first punch. Louis had already gone a full fifteen rounds fighting the heavyweight snow and he was exhausted. His shoulders slumped and he said, "Why don't we sit down."

Sims began. "There was no cocaine in the place where it was eventually found when I first went through the house." He paused. "I'm sure about that." He paused again. "I don't know when or how it got there. It's been causing me a lot of grief trying to figure it out." He met Louis' eyes.

"Man, ain't that a pile of shit." Louis was feeling a different kind of heat now, and struggled to rein in his indignation. "If that shit didn't happen, Joey wouldn't have ..." He lost the words.

Sims didn't approach the job with an us-verses-them mentality. He saw himself as a part of the community and acted accordingly. Still, he knew he was taking a chance with Armstrong. Many police officers had crossed the line, given something up to persons not in the uniform, and been burned badly. It said something about him, that he was willing to take a chance on Louis, and Louis was savvy enough to understand this. It defused any expression of his outrage toward Sims and returned his mind to coherence.

"Okay," he said, settling down, "here's the story..." And he related everything Joey had told him during the prior evening. Sims sat without moving or saying a word until Louis had finished speaking. Then the two men sat to digest this unholiday-like meal of circumstance.

"Alright," Louis said, "here's how I see it: The shooting and the drugs are connected, but not the Wojciehowski thing, probably. Joey didn't have anything to do with the drugs, so the drugs are connected to the guy who did the shooting." He stabbed a finger in Sims' direction. "That's the core of the situation."

Sims settled back in his chair. "I buy the connection between the shooter and the drugs, but I'm going to withhold judgment on any relationship to the false i.d. I don't care for coincidence.

"It don't sound right to me." Louis shook his head. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to keep on looking for Warnecki. He's got to hold the key to this thing. He had to have done something, seen something, heard something, that made someone feel the need to kill him. Or then, when that failed, to discredit him in the eyes of the law by making it look like he was dirty."

"Have you been able to make any progress at all on that?" Louis leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table.

"Not much," Sims said, and crossed his arms over his chest. "There's a few things to look into yet. Did you get to talk to him any more about what he did on Monday"

"No, why?" Louis put more weight on his forearms.

Sims shrugged. "Need to fill in some blanks, is all. Listen, if you see him before I do, will you convince him to call me?"

It was Louis' turn to shrug. "Maybe. Probably. Tell me what kind of trouble he's in for using somebody else's name."

Sims rolled his eyes. "No way around it, that's going to be a mess, even if it isn't tied up with anything else criminal. There will be problems on every level: local, state, and federal. He's been using false i.d.'s for Social Security, Motor Vehicles, state and federal income taxes, and from what you told me, it's likely that his aunt's estate was never probated. I'm not even going to speculate on the outcome. At the very least, to put the best light on it, he's going to be tied up in every bureaucracy I can think of. And still, those are the least of his problems right now."

.

Mary Hartz was at her mother's, furiously mashing potatoes while being interrogated. Standing next to Mary, her mother looked like a small bird wearing big glasses. She was a widow, living in an adult community an hour's drive inland from Rock Harbor. Little bits of mashed potato were flying from the bowl and spattering Mary's sweater.

"So," her mother said, "have you heard from Tom at all?" Her hands were clasped in front of her against her checked apron. She was dressed in her holiday best and stood too close to her daughter, so that her little head, covered in wiry gray curls, was tilted far back.

"No, mom, I haven't been in communication with Tom since the divorce. Not for years. You know that. You want to step back a foot or two? You're going to get potatoes on you." Her mother had not yet given up hope of a reconciliation. She wanted grandchildren. Mary turned up the speed of the hand-held mixer a notch.

"Oh, that's okay, dear." Instead of retreating from the spray, she raised her voice to carry over the mixer noise. Small white specks appeared on the lenses of her glasses. "Have you been meeting any nice young men, lately?" She asked the same questions on every visit.

Mary turned off the mixer, popped the beaters into the sink and faced her mother. "Mom, my life is a never ending social whirl. Men call me every night, asking for my hand in marriage. There are too many candidates for me to chose just one, so I tell them I can give them only one night apiece, out of fairness to the others."

Her mother's eyes blinked behind the huge lenses. "Sarcasm isn't necessary, dear. And it won't increase your chances for finding a good mate. I'm just trying to help."

Mary wrapped her arms around her diminutive mother and hugged her, almost hiding her from view. She stepped back and said, "I know you love me, mom. I love you too. Let's declare a truce for the rest of the day, alright? I won't bait you, you won't solicit for grandchildren. Okay?"

"Oh, I suppose." She forced a weary smile. "We'll have a nice dinner together before you have to go back." Besides being opposed to Mary's marital status, she disapproved of her occupation, feeling that police work was not a suitable job for a lady. The small, efficiency apartment grew smaller through the course of Mary's visit, until she was able to escape in the late afternoon, having been able to arrange her holiday schedule to require her presence at work that evening.

.

"How are we doing?" Sims was standing in front of Clarkson's desk, trying to get the sergeant to tell him when he could go off shift.

Clarkson didn't look up from the papers spread across his desk. "Nothing's happening. You're off at two. Chief wants to see you in his office."

"He's in today?" A holiday appearance by the chief of police was unusual.

The sergeant glanced up briefly under lowered eyebrows. "In his office," he repeated, without inflection.

"Okay, Sarge, I'm on my way. But listen, when I'm done with the chief, I've got some new information to share with you on the Warnecki thing. You going to be around for a while?

"Corporal Eddy's due to relieve me at eight."

.

Sims knocked and entered Sloan's office where the chief was in conference with Sergeant Clifton LeBeau, apparently micro-managing the marine unit's patrol schedule. A large-scale map of the harbor and its surrounding waterways was spread over the mahogany desktop. A tide table rested on top of the map. The long-suffering sergeant was resigned to the chief's excessive control over his unit, but had never been happy with it. His strategy was to outlast the old bastard, confiding his hopes to his wife and no one else. He greeted Sims' entrance with a nod of his head.

"Hi Cliff, Chief," Sims said. "You wanted to see me, Chief? Shall I come back when you're done?"

"We're done," Sloan said, dismissing LeBeau with a nod. LeBeau left the room, grateful to escape. Sims advanced to stand before the desk.

"I want you to get a warrant to arrest Warnecki on the fake i.d.'s. Call the prosecutor, Daniels. He'll get through to Biederman."

Sims had expected to get flak from the chief about his report written the evening before, but apparently Sloan was ignoring the drug issue for the moment. Judge Samuel J. Biederman of the Superior Court was an old crony of the chief, belonging to some of the same service clubs and civic organizations. They were both political animals in the Old Boy Network of the North.

Sims took a moment to look around the room while he thought. The walls of the room were covered about half-and-half with political memorabilia and marine artifact. Photos of Sloan with unremarkable notables and locally historic fishing vessels. Plaques for the recognition of longevity of service to various organizations and polished brass ship fittings. Sloan was the son of a son of a fisherman and a son of a bitch of a networker. Trying to reconcile the two sides of the man was like attempting to reconcile land and sea. Of course, the two met at the shore, but that was a shifting locality

Something was missing in the room. Sims realized what it was. "You don't want Brulick to get the warrant? He got the search warrant."

"I want you to do it." Like Lord Admiral Nelson, the chief's motto was 'never explain.'

"Do you think either one will be available today?"

"Try," the chief said. He sat back in an antique, mahogany captain's chair, salvage from the wreck of a British luxury yacht that had foundered on the rocky coast of Maine one hundred years earlier. The weathered grain of his face seemed sprung from the same ancient wood.

Sims nodded his assent. "Okay, that all?"

"No. You want to tell me if you've had any success in locating Mr. Warnecki, yet?" The chief had intense blue eyes, and they bored in on Sims.

Sims wore his own integrity like armor. "No," he answered, "we haven't been able to find him." He was a righteous cop. He felt no need to be defensive and though Sloan was able to cow less self-confident officers, Sims was immune to bullshit and intimidation. There had always been a barely perceptible antagonism between the two men, and an uneasy truce had developed over the years, Sims doing his job, trying to stay out of Sloan's way. And Sloan, for his part, was wary about pushing Sims too far. They avoided one another as far as was possible in the small department, using Sergeant Clarkson and the lieutenant as buffers between them, never approaching a point where something destructive might ignite. But the potential was always there. Both recognized it, both skirted around it. Sharing territory, steering away from confrontation. They both had power. Sloan had the power of his position and Sims had the power of scruple. These would ever be in conflict, waiting for circumstance to bring the pot to a boil.

"Anything else?" Sims asked.

"That's all," Sloan answered.

Sims turned away and started towards the exit. He stopped short of the door and turned again. "By the way," he said, "I understand you were at the Lion's Club on Monday evening, when Charles Adams chewed out Warnecki for sleeping on the job."

"Where'd you hear that?" The chief's tone was flat.

"I spoke with Letitia Adams. She mentioned a meeting of a fund raising committee. Were you there?" Sims tone was casual.

"I was, as a matter of fact." Sloan wasn't volunteering anything extra, but that was his style.

"Was anyone else present?"

"Mmmm. May have been. Don't recollect who, at the moment. I'll think on it, get back to you." Sloan looked like he was searching his memory.

"Maybe Dick Wiltse or Jim Laird? Mrs. Adams said they are both on the committee."

"Mmmm. Not sure. Don't think so. Someone else maybe, you'll have to give me some time to think about it. Why? You don't imagine the committee had a gripe against Warnecki, do you? Or that Adams was pissed off enough to shoot him, do you?" Clearly, ridiculous ideas, was the connotation.

"No, of course not," Sims scoffed, "It's just that I'm trying to get a clear picture of the day preceding the shooting. Warnecki's state of mind. His agenda. You know, put everything into context."

"Well," Sloan allowed, "don't waste your time with that scene. It was just what you'd expect when someone who's hired to do a job takes too much advantage. I suspect that Warnecki was trying to pad his time, get a little extra. Adams called him on it. Don't read any more into it than there is. Move the investigation along, get to the false identity, the cocaine. Look for connections there or you'll just be spinning your wheels." The chief busied himself with folding the charts, apparently preparing to leave. He checked his watch and looked up, surprised to see Sims still standing in his office. "Well? What are you waiting for? Move along, get on it."

Sims watched him straightening his desk for another few seconds and then left to get ahold of the prosecutor, Daniels. He hadn't brought the chief up to date on what he had recently learned concerning the Wojciehowski identity, and he wasn't sure why he hadn't.

.

"Are you nuts? You call me away from the dinner table where I'm chowing down with my in-laws and other, legitimate, company, and you want me to call Biederman away from his dinner to issue a warrant about a bad driver's license?" Henry Daniels' laugh was not a humorous one. Sims could picture him with a gravy-spattered bib, holding the phone in one hand and waving a turkey drumstick in the other. His manner was ever theatrical, in court and out. Truth be told, he didn't mind being called away from his holiday dinner. The intrusion would make him seem more vital to the justice system for his guests, especially his in-laws.

"I'm sorry to bother you with this. It's just that Chief Sloan ordered me to contact you, now. I've got to do what he says, you know. I'm sure it can wait for tomorrow. I'll get back to you at a better time." Sims was conciliatory. He knew that a warrant would not be forthcoming on anything less than a homicide on a holiday, but had to cover his ass with Sloan. He allowed Daniels the opportunity to rant on for a while, he owed it to him for interrupting his dinner, and then they both signed off.

It was about two o'clock, and Sims was preparing to go home where he expected to have to shovel out the driveway before being able to park his car. He was thinking about this, pulling his rubber boots from his locker, when Cliff LeBeau opened his own locker, a few feet down the row. "How you doing, Cliff?" Sims asked. "You don't have the day off?"

"Aw, you know how it is, John, crime never takes a holiday." LeBeau spoke ironically, and with resignation. The sergeant, head of the eight man marine unit, was short and tough. His rolling, bow-legged walk and tanned, weathered face with squint-lines radiating from the corners of his eyes marked him as a waterman. His forebears had long-lined for cod in dories on the Grand Banks for generations, and he had retained his family's connection with the sea after the water was fished out. Both of his grown sons were lobstermen and his daughter was the wife of a lobsterman.

"Are you going to get time off today to do a Thanksgiving dinner with your family?" Sims asked.

"I'm supposed to be off at six. Marianna and the kids are cooking up a big turkey and everyone's gonna be there." Marianna, Lebeau's wife, was Portuguese, with her own familial connections to the sea. In her case, being a woman in a family of fishermen meant waiting to see if the sea allowed your loved ones to return from work and she had tried to steer her progeny toward inland occupations, without success. The fact that her husband was rarely out of sight of land was bare consolation to her. She'd prefer him to drive a bus, but a love for the sea seemed to run in the family bloodline, and he refused to consider any occupation that would take him away from it. In compensation, she decorated the walls of her home with pictures of farming scenes for pastoral assurance, and shrines to the saints for spiritual insurance.

"Is your crew doing a full patrol schedule today? The chief seemed to be taking a special interest." Not that the chief's preoccupation with the marine unit was unknown to Sims, but he liked Clifton LeBeau, and even though the sergeant would never complain about the chief's excessive supervision over his command, Sims gave him the opportunity to talk about it from time to time. It seemed to help.

"Oh, you know how it is," Lebeau allowed, "Sloan's got an obsession with the boat crew, wants to have my job, I guess. But no, we're not running a full schedule tonight. Cut in half, about. In fact, and this is a little odd, he wants us to patrol west of the town beach later. Said he thought some kids might get into some mischief there. Where do you suppose he got that idea?" LeBeau's perpetual squint grew even tighter with his question.

Sims shrugged and shook his head. "Just no way to figure what the man is thinking. His mind's a closed book."

"He's inscrutable!" LeBeau laughed. His good humor went a long way in keeping morale high in his unit. Sims smiled back at him and the two men went on their way, LeBeau to post the chief's orders to his crew, Sims to go home and shovel out his driveway before dinner.

.

Joey drifted in and out of an uneasy sleep. Sometimes shivering with chills, sometimes throwing off the bed clothes in a sweaty fever, he concluded that he had come down with the flu. Cuts on his right hand had scabbed over, but not before staining the bedding with his blood. Both hands suffered with mild frostbite and the water of his bath had been too hot in thawing them. Looking at them, it was difficult to recognize them as his own. They were swollen and red except for whitish patches about the knuckles. And they ached. He tucked them gently under his armpits and tried not to think about them. If he hadn't felt so bad physically, he would have regretted the mess he had made of another person's home, but he put those feelings away for the time being, concentrating on his own recovery.

Around six o'clock in the evening, he awoke to the sound of steam rising in the pipes to the room radiators. Electrical power had been restored to the house. Rising in the darkness of the cold room, he pulled the quilt from the bed, draping it over his shoulders and wrapping it the best he could around himself. He walked hunched over like a feeble, old man into the bathroom, where he picked up his wet clothes from the floor and deposited them into the tub, along with the towels he had used. Then he carried another towel downstairs to plug the window frame where he had broken into the house. That was all he could manage for the moment and he went back up to his bed and slept for several more hours. In uneasy dreaming, he walked. When his body was overcome by chills, he trudged through snow and sleet. When overtaken by fever, he slogged hot city streets in August. Always, sinister figures pursued him, shadows without faces, stalkers without names.

.

Mary Hartz arrived at the police department at six o'clock, exactly, after stopping at her home to feed her cat and put away the Tupperware containers and plastic-wrapped parcels her mother had insisted that she take away with her. It was enough to feed her for about a week, she thought. A phone message awaited her at her department desk, requesting that she call a Dr. David Pym as soon as possible. She put it off for the moment, and walked into Sergeant Clarkson's office to pick up her assignment for this evening.

The sergeant greeted her with a grunt. He was watching the evening news report on a small, black and white television that perched atop a file cabinet in the corner. For someone who hates the media as much as he does, she thought, he sure keeps a close eye on it. Aloud, she said, "Keeping tabs on the enemy?" He didn't respond. It was clear that she would have to wait until the first commercial to get his attention.

Tina Bronki was holding the evening anchor slot, a position available to her only because of the holiday, when the regular anchor had the day off. Mary knew that Tina would willingly forego any holiday time of her own to get this exposure. Tina was finishing up the report on the unexpected snow storm.

".... and power company crews expect to have all remaining downed lines repaired by midnight tonight." She shifted papers in her hands. "In other news, police sources report a new wrinkle in the investigation of Monday night's shooting of Rock Harbor carpenter, Joseph Warnecki. Papers were found in a subsequent search of his home that point to Warnecki's having assumed a second identity. This new evidence, along with the discovery of cocaine in his home, is causing a step-up in the search for Warnecki. A warrant for his arrest is being sought and citizens are urged to report any sighting of the suspect to the police." The reporter smiled into the camera that carried her image into thousands of mid-coast Maine living rooms and segued into the first commercial break.

Clarkson was working his lips together and glaring at the screen, which now carried a commercial promising relief for the sufferers of migraine headache. Mary thought the sergeant might be working at developing one for himself.

"So, Hartz," he said, pleasantly enough, "I don't recall releasing that particular information to Channel 26 News, do you?" He appeared thoughtful, not angry at all.

Mary decided to assume the same attitude. "No Sarge, can't say as I do. Must have been someone else, just trying to help. You know, take some of the burden from your shoulders."

"Yeah," he said, pleased that someone was thinking of his welfare. "Let's see," he wondered, tapping his lip with a fingertip and gazing at the ceiling, "couldn't be the lieutenant, 'cause he's got the day off, and doesn't even know that we're getting a warrant. Sure would like to know who it is, just so I could thank him in person, express my gratitude." He smiled at Mary with his mouth, but not his eyes.

"Sarge?" His smile was unsettling and Mary wanted to change the subject. "What's the warrant going to read? Is it for the cocaine, too?"

"I suppose the chief would want it to be all-inclusive, don't you?" His attitude remained scarily upbeat.

"Did you read the report that the lieutenant got from Sims?"

"Why yes, I did indeed."

Who was this creature sitting before her? "Then you know that the drug count is bogus. It was slipped in after Warnecki was taken away in the ambulance."

His unnatural placidity evaporated into the air and the familiar hardness returned to the sergeant's features. "And what does that fact suggest to you, Officer Hartz?" he delivered, flatly.

Mary leaned forward and put her palms flat on his desk. "I can't draw any conclusions about the origins of the drugs, but I do know that someone is using it to manipulate both the media and this department. And it's going to come back to hurt both, but mainly the department. And that pisses me off." She held his gaze.

"And what would you propose to remedy the situation, Officer Hartz?" Clarkson's face was rigid, and darkening.

Mary felt the heat and stood up straight, crossing her arms defensively over her chest. She wasn't ready to fully retreat, however. "There's nothing I can do," she said, "and far be it from me to suggest anything radical for you to do, but it seems that if some of the truth of the matter were given to the media, some of the fallout might be avoided, and maybe the source of the leak might be discredited." She didn't say that another kind of fallout could be expected after taking such steps. She didn't have to.

Sergeant Clarkson retreated into himself, leaving Mary feeling like she was alone in the room. She began to feel a slight regret for having been so outspoken. She waited silently for him to return and give her hell. She steeled herself for it.

Instead, he simply looked up at her and said, "You're on stand-by, here at the department, until twenty-four hundred hours. Then you're back on your regular shift tomorrow morning. Dismissed." He went back to his private thoughts and Mary left to work at her desk.

.

Mary was about to hang up after calling the number and waiting for a dozen rings when a man answered, saying simply, "David here."

"Good evening, sir, this is Officer Mary Hartz of the Rock Harbor Police, returning your call. Is this Dr. David Pym?" She used her official police voice.

"Yes, yes, yes, thank you for calling back. I've been anxious to talk to you." His voice was a high tenor.

Mary pictured a tall, thin man in a white lab coat, stethoscope around his neck, talking on the phone at the nurses' station in a hospital. "And what can I do for you, doctor?" she asked.

"David, call me David," he said, "I'm a professor of chemistry at UMaine and I've been doing a research project that seems to concern your department."

Mary took away his stethoscope and put him at a lab bench, beakers boiling over a Bunsen burner. She waited for him to explain, and when he didn't, she prompted him. "A research project that involves us? How so?" Apparently, he needed a straight man for his act.

"Well, let me explain," he said, pleased that she was so interested. "I've been doing a project for the DEA, the Drug Enforcement Administration." Mary waited, but he didn't go on. He wanted another prompt. She rolled her eyes and caused the beakers to boil over onto the table.

"I see," she said, "go on."

"I was given a grant to develop a process to fingerprint substances, so that they might be traced to their origin, and patterns of distribution might be plotted." He waited for her enthused reaction to his project. Mary made the over-boiling beakers burst into flame. She pictured his family waiting for him to show up for dinner at home, forks and knives at the ready, a turkey drying out in the oven.

"Please, continue," she offered. She was a practical person and the pedantic mind bored her to distraction. She began to slump in her seat.

"I've had some modest success in my research, and I'd like to know if the sample I received from the state lab, submitted to them by you, could possibly have been contaminated somehow, in the process."

Mary's pique at the slur to her investigative technique was tempered by interest in a reason for his odd question. "Our lab here is very basic, I'm sure, by your standards, but I can assure you that I follow a very careful protocol in my procedures." She pressed on. "What is it, that makes you ask? And what have you found, that makes the sample unique?" Mary was attentive now, and sitting up straight.

Pym was apologetic. "I certainly did not mean to demean your professionalism, Officer Hartz. It's just that this sample will be of particular interest to the DEA officials to whom I report, and I wanted to make sure that my findings would not be suspect to any alternative speculation. You understand, I hope?" He waited for absolution.

"That's okay, Dr. Pym. What exactly did you find?" Get to it, was her unstated wish.

Never one to take the short road when a longer one was available, he went on: "My process is unique in that I can combine both spectrography and electrophoresis on extremely small amounts of substances to determine batch origination. The fingerprint resulting from this process will enable the law enforcement community to track a drug unit, or particular mix of drugs, through the different levels of distribution, and their concomitant "cuttings", so to speak, and create a map, which appears in a somewhat irregular funnel shape, as you might expect, —"

Mary suspected that he might go on interminably, if she didn't stop him, so she did. (She'd been practicing on telemarketers.) "Wait," she interrupted, "I understand completely." She offered him a bone to soothe any hurt feelings. "I think your work is a great advance in law enforcement and drug interdiction. I, for one, want to offer my appreciation for your efforts." Two bones. "Tell me about our sample."

He hesitated. "Well, the DEA might consider it proprietary information. I'm not sure if I should ..."

Time for another bone. "Your work is so vital, so important, is would be a disservice to limit it. It deserves a broader scope, assistance to more levels in the entire system of law enforcement. So please, help us, as only you can." She was afraid that she might have overplayed her hand, but never underestimate the ego of the professorial class.

"I believe you're correct. I will give you the information." He took a breath. "The sample I tested from your department's search tests out to be part of a cache impounded at Logan International Airport in August of this year, and stored at the DEA facility in Boston. Approximately four pounds of the substance disappeared from the storage facility in September, and this is the first of it to surface anywhere in the sampling area. Needless to say, it's causing quite a stir at the DEA. I expect that you will be hearing from them very soon."

Mary was silent for a moment, absorbing this information. "Were there any arrests made at the time of the seizure, in August?" she asked. She was taking notes now.

"My information is that the contraband came in on a plane loaded with fresh flowers from South America. I haven't been made aware of any arrests, but I know that the DEA has been investigating quite vigorously. The total weight of the original shipment was over seventy-five kilos, or one hundred and sixty-five pounds. I suppose the thief thought that taking just four pounds wouldn't be readily noticed. Indeed, it did go undiscovered for a month."

"So, the DEA is sharing some information with you, Dr. Pym," Mary observed.

"David, please. Yes, they are, a bit. I'm also working with colleagues here in the computer science program to create a statistical model that incorporates mapping overlays for the tracking of drug distribution. So we need to be fairly well informed to create adequate parameters. It's quite exciting, really." The ivory tower was a safe place to observe more dangerous elements of society, apparently a titillating experience for David Pym, PhD. "Will you share with me the circumstances surrounding your collection of this evidence? I promise to be discreet," he added.

Mary decided that she could tell him what was already on the news, anyway, and she did. "However, Dr. Pym, don't take the information at face value. It would definitely screw up your model. There are anomalies in the investigation that have yet to be explained," she cautioned.

"Anomalies, yes, of course. Ha,ha, the little bastards are everywhere, aren't they?" He was delighted to hear it. "Well, thank you very much for your time, Mary. May I call you Mary? I should ring off now, I believe my family may be awaiting my arrival for a grand feast. Bye-bye, now." And he hung up.

Mary sat at her desk, doodling on the page of notes she had made of her conversation with the ebullient chemist. She wanted to think about it for a while before giving Clarkson a heads-up on the new information and the impending descent of federal investigators.

.

"This is Sergeant Clarkson of the Rock Harbor P.D. Let me talk to Tina Bronki." He'd gotten through to the news director at the television station.

The news director was taken aback by the call. He'd never spoken with the sergeant, but was aware of the enmity Clarkson held for the news media. "Hold one second, Sergeant, she's just getting finished up on the set. I'll try to patch you through." He put Clarkson on hold and yelled over to Tina, who was having her lapel microphone removed by a technician. "Tina! Sergeant Clarkson is on line two. Want to take it there?"

Tina figured the sergeant was calling to ream her out for her latest, unofficially sanctioned news report. What the hell, she thought, if I can't get anything out of him, I'll take what I can, where I can. He can screw himself. And she stabbed the button that connected her phone set to the sergeant. "This is Tina Bronki," she said, "what can I do for you, Sergeant? Got a tidbit of news for me?"

Clarkson didn't respond right away. He'd considered hanging up while waiting for the connection to be made, but hadn't, and now her defiant attitude kept him on the line. "Ms Bronki," he began, "You've been airing news reports that are not necessarily factual. Your source is using you for his own means."

"Well, I would appreciate it if you could set the record straight for me. I'd prefer to get it right the first time, but haven't as yet gotten the cooperation I need to do my job." She got her digs in first to let him know that she wasn't afraid of him. "You got something for me?" Sugar had never worked with this man, she may as well be blunt.

"Actually, I may. I don't generally have much regard for television reporting, but ..."

"No kidding," she cut in, and regretted it almost immediately. Did he actually say he had information for her? She hadn't expected such a thing could happen and it slipped by her. "Sorry, Sergeant, didn't mean to interrupt. Go on."

He continued without the disclaimer. "I am informing you, officially, that Mr. Warnecki is not wanted on a drug charge. Also, that a warrant has not yet been issued on any other charge. And that's all I have to say at this time." He was about to hang up, but she spoke quickly, trying to get a little more.

"Sergeant, wait a minute. What is wrong with the drug charge? If you want me to correct myself on the air, you've got to give me enough to keep me from looking like a fool. I have to cover my own ass, too, you know."

Clarkson thought for a moment. "Due to the press of time, a complete report from the investigating officer was not available until you had, apparently, been given improper information from an unauthorized source." He paused another moment to compose his next line. "In point of fact, the investigating officer noted that the substance was not present at the time Mr. Warnecki was taken away by emergency medical personnel. So you can see, Ms Bronki, that your source —"

"So who dropped the ball, Sergeant? The first officer? Sims was first on the scene, wasn't he? Where are you speculating the cocaine came from? How'd they get in to plant it?" Give her an inch...

Clarkson, who up to now had thought he was handling his breakthrough appearance with the media very well, was having second thoughts. He could retreat to his fallback position, the stonewall, but sensed it was too late for that. He looked for a third position. Innovation had never been his strong suit, but he tried it anyway. "Hold up, Ms Bronki, take it easy on an old man, you're asking me too much at —"

"Ha, ha, ha," she pealed, "That's good, Sergeant, you may get the hang of this yet. A little more practice and you could get the board of selectmen in the palm of your hand, get some more money out of them." She sobered up. "All right, in deference to your age, take your time and just give it to me straight." She was offering neutral ground.

"Okay, fair enough. The investigation is on-going, and I can't tell you everything you would like to know. I've given you a good piece of it, so don't push. I will say that Officer Sims has acted properly in the matter, no fault should be attached to him. He's a good officer."

"Well, that's a start, Sergeant. I know this is new ground for you, so I won't use the full force of my personality on you. I hope we can expand our professional relationship based on this one, small step."

"No doubt. So who's been your source on this? I think it only fair that a relationship work in both directions, don't you?"

"Better and better. You're a fast learner. However, we can't reveal everything on a first date, especially something as confidential as my source."

"Even a source that burned you?"

"Even that, for now. I will take everything from him with more than a grain of salt from now on, though, and not trust it out of hand. Sometimes a liar reveals more than he intends to. Watch me do damage control tonight, Sarge. You can evaluate our new-found love. Bye, now."

.

Mary entered Clarkson's office to find him staring distastefully at the phone receiver, which he held in his hand. "Something wrong with your phone, Sarge? Or did you eat something that didn't agree with you?"

He looked up at her and set it down. "Yeah," he said, "tastes like crow, or maybe my hat. I don't know." He waved it away. "What do you want?"

"Mind if I sit down for a minute?" She took a seat in front of the desk without waiting for a reply. "I just had an odd phone call, too." She settled herself in, crossed one leg over the other and folded her hands together in her lap. She proceeded to relate the information she had received from Dr. Pym and then waited for his response.

"DEA's gonna be down here, huh?" Federal agencies generally took more than they gave in dealings with local law enforcement. He didn't relish the prospect of working with them.

"Well, yeah," she replied, "but what do you think about the origin of the cocaine? Can you imagine? Right from under the DEA's noses. They must be going bullshit. Man, I wish we had Warnecki here."

Clarkson had gone inside his head. Something about the DEA and Boston had struck a chord, and he strove to bring it closer to his consciousness.

"Sarge? You with me?" She was leaning forward, elbows on her knees.

"Huh?" He returned to the present, leaving his brain to bring up the information on its own. Sometimes you had to just leave it alone for a while, let the deep stuff float around in the mental stew. Sooner or later it would pop up, just like the answers that appear in the window of those black plastic ball things. "Yes, having Warnecki around would be a help. Maybe less than we would want, though. Bits and pieces, bits and pieces. We get one piece to fit and another bit flies in, knocks it all apart again. You talk to Sims at all today?"

Mary thought Clarkson was oddly distracted. "No, we haven't crossed paths today."

Clarkson looked at his watch. "He should be through with dinner by now. Give him a call, he picked up a piece of the puzzle today, too." When Mary left him, he was looking at the papers on his desk without seeming to see them.

.

All officers involved in the Warnecki case watched the ten o'clock report on channel twenty-six that evening. Tina Bronki began the show with a piece on the storm damage, which included a remote spot with a breathless reporter standing near a crew of linemen rehanging some of the last wires to be repaired. After a commercial break, she went on to the next item: "Here's an update on a story we've been following this week. If you've been following the story along with us, you will remember that Joseph Warnecki, a Rock Harbor carpenter, was shot on Monday night from outside his home. He was treated and released from Regional Hospital a day later and following an initial interview with the Rock Harbor Police, disappeared from town and hasn't been seen since. We subsequently reported that the police were seeking him in regard to another matter, when a quantity of cocaine and false documents were found during a search of his home. This reporter spoke with an official representative of the Rock Harbor Police Department this afternoon and learned that though they are indeed searching for Mr. Warnecki, a warrant for his arrest has not been issued as yet. And, though the illegal drugs were found inside his home, it is now believed that they are not directly connected with Mr. Warnecki, and were placed there by an unknown person or persons after Mr. Warnecki was removed to the hospital. Keep following this story with us on Channel 26 Action News as we follow the news, when it happens, where it happens." Dissolve to another commercial.

Mary Hartz was watching the news with her feet up. She sat relaxing in her small living room, a plate of microwaved leftovers on her lap, her cat watching her and the plate, hoping for a scrap to fall. "Son of a gun," she told the waiting cat, "will wonders ever cease." It was a rhetorical question and, in any event, the cat was concentrating on a different matter. Mary went on as though the cat was interested. "I didn't really think he'd do it, you know? No wonder he was so out of it, he'd just sold his soul to Satan." She peeled off a little piece of white meat and gravy and dangled it for the cat. "Come on, take it before it drips on the floor." He did, but in his own sweet time.

Clarkson watched from the privacy of his den, in the finished basement of his home. The space was a model of his office, complete with desk and file cabinets. Since much of the paperwork on his desk at home came with him from the department, it was like he had never left work. It was quieter at home, though, with less distraction. Since his wife had died, four years earlier, he spent more and more of his time down there, visiting the upstairs only to eat and sleep. His life had become the job, and vice versa. After the segment of news he had been waiting for, he simply nodded his head in a qualified approval, and then called the lieutenant to discuss the day.

After four hours of sleep, which was as much as he ever needed, he awoke with the connection.

# Chapter 4

At four o'clock in the morning on Friday, the tide was dead low in Rock Harbor. The channel was well marked, but vessels not intimately familiar with the bottom-busters that gave the harbor its name were well advised to wait for high tide and daylight to navigate upon its waters. The barrier island that protected the harbor from the full brunt of Atlantic storms was only the largest of the spawn of granite that formed the harbor basin. The shoreline was littered with the debris of boats that had torn their hulls and broken up in shallow waters. Though loss of life was rare in these mishaps, even experienced fishermen found themselves in need of rescue, at times, by the police patrol. The embarrassment of grounding themselves, not to mention the financial loss incurred, was compounded by the fact that a photograph of their unfortunate accident would inevitably find its way to Molly's Wall of Infamy, where it would be seen and commented upon by all patrons of that establishment. Once enshrined there, the wrecking of both boat and reputation repeated endlessly in conversation and memory.

Rock Harbor Patrol boat One was a twenty-four foot dream in mahogany and brass. Lovingly restored and maintained by the men of the R.H.P.D. marine unit, the seventy year old cruiser was the pride of the department. The school children of town were given tours of the harbor in it. Visiting yachtsmen admired it and offered grand sums of money to buy it for themselves. So it was with great caution that its crew of two negotiated the channel back to their slip on the municipal dock this dark, early morning after patrolling the area of the harbor park for the third time tonight.

One officer directed a spotlight to sweep the narrow channel while the other manned the wheel, one hand ready to slow or reverse its twin diesel engines. The power of the one hundred and fifty h.p. engines was enough to push the vessel to over forty knots, but neither man aboard would consider that possibility here and now. They only wanted to thread the needle back to home and hot coffee. So intent were they on protecting their craft, that they almost missed seeing the spark of light that flared briefly near the lobster pound, three hundred yards away. It registered just enough in their minds to draw both their attentions to it in time to catch the flat sound of a small-caliber weapon that carried to them over the still water of the harbor. The officer at the wheel throttled down to idle and disengaged the screws. The other officer, swinging the powerful light to illuminate the far end of the harbor, thought he heard a splash. "Call it in. Shot fired, in pursuit." The helmsman spoke without taking his eyes from the dimly lit scene ahead. He could just make out a man in a small light-colored boat, stooped over in the stern, head turning to look back at him. The man moved quickly to the steering console amidships and powered up the large, black outboard at the stern. The small boat reached planing speed almost immediately and raced for the channel leading out of the northeast end of the harbor. The patrol boat accelerated more cautiously, trying to stay in the center of the channel. On open water they would have caught him, but once beyond the island, the smaller craft bore to port, leaving the channel and entering shoal water where the larger boat did not dare to go. Keeping safely in the channel, the officers watched a mad performance of rock and shoal dodging until the other boat was hidden from sight behind the several small islands that occupied the next three miles of coastal water. He never reappeared in view at the end of the chain.

Cruising back homeward, the officers considered only two possible end results of such an insane flight. Either the boat's pilot found his way into any one of several tidal creeks that crawled like snakes through the mudflats to meet the broken shoreline, or he tore his hull open and met his end in the cold, cold water. Of the two, they thought the latter more likely. They stopped for a few minutes by the lobster pound to shine the light around the area, but all was still and quiet. The fishermen wouldn't be on the water until the tide rose somewhat, so the patrol boat was the only thing happening on the harbor. When they were tied up to the dock again, nothing was moving on the water.

.

Around the same time the patrol boat was tying up, Joey woke up hungry. His fever had broken and the bedding twisted about him was clammy with his fevered sweat. He thought for a while about what to do, but hunger caused him to untangle himself from the bedding and get up. He wrapped the quilt around himself and padded downstairs in the moonlight that found its way through the windows of the house. He went directly to the kitchen and opened cupboards, searching for foodstuffs, the old linoleum of the kitchen floor cold under his feet. He found a plastic-wrapped tube of crackers and tucked it under an arm. Opening the refrigerator, the glare of its bulb almost blinded him, since there was little inside to diffuse its light. There was a half bottle of screw-top red wine on a shelf, an open box of baking powder, and an almost full package of individually wrapped slices of american cheese. He took the wine and cheese. Standing at the pine table, he unwrapped, chewed and sipped, unwrapped, chewed and sipped, until he was left with a pile of plastic sheets and an empty green bottle. "A lovely meal," he said, aloud, "wine and cheese and bread, almost." The wine made him feel giddy. "Now to do the laundry."

Fifteen minutes later, his clothing, the towels he had used, and the bedsheets were all swirling together in the washing machine in the laundry room that backed the kitchen. In another half-hour, his athletic shoes joined the mix to bump around in the dryer. Forty minutes later on, he was dressed and making up the bed he had slept in.

Light returned to the world and the early morning sun reflected off the glazed crust of the snow frozen in drifted waves outside. Joey wrote a note of explanation and apology to Meredith Adams, promising to more than make up for the damage of his intrusion into her home and begging her pardon. He signed it and left it on the marble-topped hall table where she would be sure to see it, her next time here.

Although his hands still felt like claws from the damage done to them by the cold and the cuts, overall he felt much improved. He was fastening the last button of his denim jacket and preparing himself mentally to face the cold whiteness of the world outside when he heard the sound of a truck rumbling up the access road to the house. He looked through a window of the door sidelight and saw a man get out of a primer-gray pickup truck and unhook the chain that blocked entrance to the driveway up to the house, wrapping it around its post. A rusted plow on the front end of the truck angled crazily. Joey wondered how the driver managed to travel the roads without catching the lower end of the plow on potholes and curbs. Then Joey recognized the driver. It was Benny Tankowitz, Benny the Tank to his friends, of whom Joey was one. Benny's substantial gut was visible, hanging below the hem of a red plaid shirt. Benny's dog, a large black animal of uncertain breed, rode shotgun in the passenger seat.

Benny counted on income from winter plowing to get him through the season and keep him supplied in the fuel that kept him going, namely peach-flavored brandy. Summer, spring and fall, the work was mowing and raking lawns and he stoked his engine with beer. He lived alone, except for the dog, and spent most of his off-time in Molly's Bar, enjoying the fruits of his labor.

Joey watched from inside until Benny had finished scraping the gravel driveway free of snow and then stepped outside, waving to attract his attention. The dog noticed him first, letting out with a woof through the open passenger side window. Benny stopped the truck, squinting to recognize the figure stepping through the snow left before the granite steps.

"Joey!" he shouted, "What the hell are you doing here?" Benny was a big man with a voice to match. His bearded face appeared in the passenger window alongside the dog's. Together, they filled the frame. Joey thought again that he resembled Santa Claus, with his white mane and reddened, bulbous nose.

"Hey, Benny," Joey answered, "I kind of got stuck here during the storm. Can I get a ride with you down the hill?" Joey put his hands on the door frame, leaning away to keep away from the dog's licking tongue.

"Sure, Joey. Say, you don't look too good. What happened to your hands?"

Joey pulled his hands away and looked at them. "They got a little frostbit, I guess, and then I got cut breaking into the house." He pointed to the brown towel, half hanging out of the busted sidelight.

Benny followed Joey's pointing finger and then regarded him again. "Old lady Adams ain't gonna be too happy with that, Joey. Don't think I'd want to be in your shoes when she sees that." He changed subjects. "You been in the news a lot. You in trouble?"

Joey looked at his feet. "Yeah, some. Don't know how much, yet. I'm going to try to get it cleared up." He looked back up. "People talking much?"

Benny chuckled. "Oh jeez, yeah. You're the main topic around town. Get in, I'll tell you all about it on the way down.

Joey squeezed into the over-burdened cab and Benny picked up the plow blade, backed and turned, and drove away the way he'd come. The rust that was in the process of claiming the plow had already eaten away most of the truck's muffler, and the roar of the engine made conversation difficult. They yelled back and forth, Joey telling much of his version of the story to an amazed Benny, and Benny relaying what he'd heard from the news and the various wild speculations of the denizens of Molly's bar. Good stories were valuable currency at Molly's and Benny would be the richest man there this afternoon, with first-person knowledge to barter. It was worth increased status and a good many free drinks.

Overhanging branches of hemlock and pine along the roadway, laden with the heavy ice and snow, released their load onto the truck when it scraped beneath then. Some of the snow found its way into the overheated cab and melted on its occupants. "You know," Benny said, "Old lady Adams and her whole crew were supposed to be up there, day before Thanksgiving, set up for the holiday." He laughed. "Can you imagine her finding you in her bed? She would have had a stroke right there." The picture made him laugh again.

Joey's amusement was somewhat less. "I imagine it would have been a scene, alright. I'm not too popular with the family right now. Hope I can make it up, somehow."

They were approaching the entrance to the park. Concrete-capped fieldstone pillars stood on either side and a rustic wooden sign announcing the park's name hung between a pair of wooden posts. Benny idled at the stop sign to reattach the chain between the pillars. "Where do you want to get left off, Joey? You gonna go to the police now?"

Joey had been relieved to hear from Benny that he wasn't wanted for the drug charge, but wasn't yet ready to take that step. "Drop me off at my house first, would you? I want to change and shower, and stuff."

.

Except for a few extra cars in the parking lot behind the building, the gray concrete exterior of the Rock Harbor P.D. was peaceful. The sun was bright and the United States and Maine flags hung limply atop their iron poles in the still air. Inside the building, the atmosphere was other than tranquil.

The chief was berating Sims for obtaining neither the warrant nor the suspect. He had previously chewed out Mary Hartz for not getting the out-of-state information and for not getting a court order to hold the Wojciehowski bank accounts. The fact that the day before had been a holiday was not alluded to. Without offering a word in her own defense, she had gone to her desk to do her work. Also on the receiving end of Sloan's ire had been Sergeant Clarkson, for the crime of breaking his habit of silence with the media. Clarkson was another that did not offer words of excuse.

Sergeant Lebeau waited outside the ring of Sloan's abuse for a chance to break in and orally report the incident of a few hours earlier. Two men in conservative dark suits watched from behind Lebeau, awaiting their turn to speak. And two other men stood apart from it all, leaning against opposite walls of the desk-filled bullpen. One was Brulick, trying to be invisible and darting his eyes from person to person in the room. The other was Knowles, wearing mirrored aviator's sunglasses and sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup, appearing unconcerned of any fuss. Half of the dozen or so gray metal desks in the room were filled with uniformed officers and clerical staff, pretending to be occupied with paperwork or phone calls, but actually eavesdropping to gauge the direction of the blowing wind.

The chief appeared to have finished with his present diatribe, so LeBeau dove in. "Chief," he said, "Got to tell you something. You'll want to hear it firsthand."

Sloan darted his eyes to him. "What is it?" he snapped, and noticed the men in suits. "Who are you guys?"

The two men appeared to be cast from the same mold and dressed by the same tailor. Both tall, fit, neatly attired from their recently trimmed brown hair to their shined wingtips, the only significant difference between them was that one had designer-frame glasses and brown eyes while the other wore no glasses and had blue eyes. Glasses stepped in front of LeBeau and held open a leather badge case, letting Sloan read the laminated picture i.d. next to the silver badge. "James Donovan, DEA out of Boston. And my partner, Roy Stennis." He indicated the other man who nodded, but remained silent, hands at his sides. "Like to talk with you, privately, about the cocaine you discovered."

Sloan studied the i.d. for a moment longer than necessary before replying. "Let's go in my office." He turned to LeBeau and said, "Wait here for me," before leading the DEA men to his office. Conversation in the bullpen increased after the door to his office closed.

Sims turned to Sergeant LeBeau. "I talked to Tommy when he came in. What do you make of it?" Tom Blakely was the boat helmsman during the early morning chase.

LeBeau shook his head. "That little boat flew like a bat out of hell. If he didn't crack up on the rocks, it would have been a miracle that saved him."

"So the guy knew his way around, assuming he survived."

"The next crew out took the sixteen-footer and went out at daybreak to check it out. They're not back yet, but haven't reported seeing any wreckage. Yeah, I'd say it was a local guy. Someone who's spent his life on the water around here. Someone who learned the rocks as a kid, you know? Still, I grew up in a boat here, too, and I'd never pull that shit at night. Not even with the moon we had last night."

"And they really heard a shot." Sims was looking for further confirmation of the story, not attempting to cast doubt on it.

"Oh, yeah. It was real quiet on the water last night. No wind, no surf, no traffic. They saw the flash and heard the shot a second later. They're sure it was a gunshot. When they went back, you know, there wasn't nothing. Not a ripple. I gotta ask the chief does he want a diver out there, see if there's anybody down there. Water's only about six feet there by the pound at low tide, but that water's cold."

"Water's not too clear, huh?"

"Well, you know, only a few boats went out this morning, but it was enough to stir up the mud. I'm gonna try to keep the traffic down and have the crew scope the bottom when the tide goes out again." The men would use a glass-bottomed tube to pierce the surface reflection of the water and view what lay below. "I got four guys out checking the mudflats, too, looking to see if anybody ditched a boat there."

"What kind of boat, do you know?"

"Tommy said it looked like a Whaler, about sixteen feet, with a big Merc to push it." Not a custom boat, common enough in the area, but distinct enough to narrow the field down considerably.

Two gun incidents in the same week in Rock Harbor was unusual in the extreme. Fistfights were common on a drunken Saturday night, but other kinds of violence were rare. Not a single officer in the department, saving the lieutenant, had ever had to draw his weapon in the line of duty, and Water's sole experience of it had been far distant from this little town. Both Sims and Lebeau were uncomfortable with the prospect of increased violence in Rock Harbor, but both had checked their sidearms carefully this morning.

"Well," Sims excused himself, "I've got to see about a warrant. Check you later." He retired to his desk to call Henry Daniels, at the county courthouse.

.

Joey had to slam the truck door twice to get it to latch, because a piece of loose weatherstripping prevented it from closing properly. Joe Soucup's face appeared in a front window of his house and Joey waved to it. The face stayed in the window and no hand showed to wave back.

"Guy's kinda creepy, ain't he?" Benny observed, seeing the unsmiling apparition floating in the window frame.

"Joe's a coot, but he's okay. Just pissed that I didn't get his walk shoveled for him, probably. Thanks, Benny, buy you a beer when I get a chance."

"No prob, Joey. Hope you get to do it before they lock your ass away." He drove away then, after his inconsiderate comment, and Joey made slight tracks along the shoveled driveway to his back door. He looked to the windows of Louis' house in passing, but saw no signs of life.

He opened the left side swinging door to his garage enough to reach in and above to retrieve the spare key kept on the ledge above the door. He used it to unlock his back door and pushed the door in, away from the yellow tape that covered it without breaking the tape. Inside, he began to put his house and himself in order, showering and changing, vacuuming and straightening. "Enough is enough," he said to himself, "If I'm going to jail, at least my house will be clean."

.

Sims was put on hold for five minutes before reaching Daniels at the county courthouse. "Good morning, Officer Sims. Are you calling about that warrant?"

"Yes, I am, Henry. Is it a good morning?" Sims thought that Daniels sounded a bit too chipper this morning. It was his 'I'm fine, but you're screwed' voice. The one he used when a defense attorney had no choice but to admit defeat in the face of overwhelming evidence.

"Well, concerning that matter, I happen to be in the judge's office at this moment and he has a few words to say to you on the matter. Here he is." Sims heard the sound of the phone being passed and then the stentorian tones of the Honorable Samuel J. Biederman.

"Sims? What the hell are you trying to do to me here? Don't you know I'm up for appointment next year?" The judge was pissed.

"Sir?"

"Sir? You get me to sign off on a blanket search warrant on the basis of drugs being found in plain sight in the home of the victim of a shooting, and then I see on the news, the television news, that the basis for the warrant, the warrant that I issued, is not only questionable, but totally unsubstantiated." Biederman's voice increased in volume until he was nearly shouting. Now his voice became softer, but more menacing. "Now, how do you think this is going to reflect on me, should this come up in a trial? Do you think that anything you found on this warrant is going to be admissible?"

Sims considered whether he should accept the heat for this mess. Or if he'd take the heat even if he tried to pass it along to where it belonged. "Sir, I am calling on the express instruction of Chief Sloan. And if you recall, sir, the search warrant was picked up by Officer Brulick. If I may, sir, I'll give you my personal assessment of the matter at hand, and one way to go about it."

The line went silent, while Biederman considered his options. A uniformed officer was a preferred scapegoat over the politically astute and vengeful Sloan. The chief and he went way back and if there were a way to resolve the issue without a confrontation with him, the judge was willing to hear it. He was still pissed about being put in a dubious legal position, but he could get Sloan to pay him back in some other way. "Let's hear it," he said shortly.

"Sir, I believe this guy was ready to come in on his own, before the threat of a heavy drug charge made him bolt. When he learns that we don't want him on that, I think he's going to come in on his own. We may not need a warrant, and if he's reasonable, I think we can work something out. The problem is, that all the extraneous issues have sidetracked us from the central matter, namely the shootings. I want the chance to get him in here without him rushing to lawyer up and shut up. We had another shooting incident early this morning and I need to find out if the two things are connected." Sims heard muffled voices as a hand covered the phone mouthpiece and the two in the judge's office discussed the situation.

"Alright, Sims, it's your call on this." Putting the blame for any failure on Sims. "No more bullshit, you hear?" And letting the previous matter sit with Sims, too. Biederman hung up without saying goodbye. Sims was low man on this particular political totem pole, and not being any kind of political animal, he would accept it if it meant resolving this case.

.

Joey checked the contents of his wallet. It still held the twenty-three dollars that was there two days before, minus the one he had given to Jenks, and he was thinking about breakfast at Emily's. He wondered if he dared to stop there before going to the police. And he was uneasy about what Doris' and Emily's attitude toward him might be.

He had showered and changed and cleaned the blood out of the braided rug as best he could without taking it up and dragging it out to a professional cleaner. That would be a priority when he had finally cleaned up the other messes in his present life. He was deciding what to do next when he heard a car stop in front of the house. He got to the front room in time to see the cop from the other day, Knowles, and two men in suits climb out of a patrol car. Knowles had parked close enough to the pile of snow along the curb that the suited men had to bang their doors into the snow bank to get them open wide enough to exit the car. All three were wearing sunglasses against the strong glare.

Joey panicked. Although he was almost determined to turn himself in and put himself in the hands of the law, those hands still felt like grasping claws to him, and his heart pounded. He wasn't ready for this. He ran into the hallway by the bathroom and jumped, knocking the hatch to the attic up and to the side. He jumped again and grasped the joists to either side of the opening, pulling himself up and into the attic space. Without the adrenaline of his panic, he would have struggled to hoist himself up, but as it was, he went up in one smooth motion, like a gymnast on the parallel bars. He perched there, with his bottom on one joist and his feet on the other and set the hatch back into place between his legs, waiting for the men to enter his home. His breathing sounded loud to him and he tried to slow it down, but his body needed the extra air and wouldn't cooperate. Instead, he concentrated on taking long, slow breaths.

Below him, he heard them enter and check the house, their footsteps cautious, only the occasional creak of a floorboard to betray their movement. Satisfied that the house was unoccupied, they began to talk. Their voices came faintly but clearly to Joey as he perched above them and his breathing and heartbeat returned to normal.

Knowles spoke from the hallway directly below him, apparently speaking through the doorway to the men in suits in the sitting room. "Someone's been in here, cleaned the place up."

"Maybe the guy came back, huh?" A second voice, clear, without the gravel of Knowles'. "Smells like pine cleaner in here. Rug's damp on this stain here. This is where he bled on the floor, right?"

"I'm gonna check the basement, see if he's still here." Knowles voice. "Then I'm gonna ask the guy next door if he's been doing some cleaning in here."

A third voice. "I'll back you up."

Knowles again. "Alright, but don't shoot the guy if he's down there. No reason to consider him dangerous at this point."

Joey heard footsteps moving through the kitchen and someone moving things around in the sitting room. He hoped that they wouldn't think to check the attic, but if they did, well, then that was it.

Without voices to concentrate on, Joey's mind began to wander. He rarely visited this space and didn't use it for storage. Yellow fiberglass insulation filled the bays between the joists to their tops, and a single line of boards stretched the length of the attic from gable to gable, for access. Joey remembered helping his uncle install the itchy batts when he was a preteen. Just behind where he was presently poised, he had slipped and fallen, and one leg had gone through the sheetrock ceiling of the kitchen, up to his hip. His aunt had screamed at the sudden appearance of a limb protruding into her kitchen from above. He hadn't gotten hurt, except for a few scratches on his shins and a sore groin where he had caught the joist. Joey smiled now at the memory of his aunt's surprise.

Let's see, he thought, I busted through right about ... here, and he leaned back slightly to feel under the fiberglass to find the patch with which his uncle had filled the hole. A rustle of papers met his searching fingers and he drew forth a sheaf of colored sheets of paper. He held them so the light from the louvered gable vent could catch them and tried to make out the writing on them. The light was weak, but he could make out the names of trucking companies on the sheet headings. They appeared to be receipts of some kind. He could make out some of the listings: "Ten drums, 55 gal., oil-contaminated polychlorinated biphenyl; fifteen drums, 55 gal., dichloro-diphenyl-something, something." He would need better light to make out much more. Signatures were scrawled and unreadable, as were dates and much of the rest. Joey folded the papers into fourths as quietly as he could and stuffed them into his shirt pocket for later perusal. He thought it a strange place to keep papers of any kind and wondered why his uncle, it must have been his uncle, had put them there.

Downstairs the voices had returned and moved into the bedroom, where the sound was too muffled to understand more than the occasional word or phrase. Joey strained to hear. Ten minutes later they were directly below him.

"I guess we're done here. Take us back to the station and we can interview the other investigating officers, okay?"

"Sure," Knowles replied, "Go on out to the car and I'll close the place up. Just be a minute."

Joey heard steps to the rear door and heavy feet, must be Knowles, move into the sitting room. Then he heard what might have been books being moved in the bookcases. This went on for a half-minute and the footsteps moved to the rear of the house, the door opened and closed, and the lock snapped.

Joey waited five minutes to be sure no one was going to return before dropping down to the floor below. Standing on tiptoe, he could just get the hatch to seat itself over the hole. His home seemed to be undisturbed by the presence of the three interlopers, except for some damp footprints. He wondered what Knowles had been doing in the sitting room. Everything there appeared as it should be. Shrugging his shoulders in dismissal, he went to the closet in the bedroom for a warmer coat and a pair of boots high enough to keep his feet dry in the snow. He took a blanket-lined, tan canvas coat and a pair of leather work boots with tracked soles.

Closing the back door behind him, he noted that Knowles hadn't bothered to replace the yellow plastic tape, which hung down at the side of the door. Louis was standing at his own rear door, holding several white plastic grocery bags by their loops. They noticed each other at the same time. Joey grinned and waved and Louis dropped his key ring into the snow by his steps.

"Joey, damn," Louis uttered, then more loudly, "Where you been, boy? Get on over here and talk to me." A path had been shoveled over the grass strip between the two houses and Joey walked it.

"Hey, Louis," Joey said, "How was your Thanksgiving? Make a turkey?"

"Get my keys for me, unlock the door," he ordered and then, under his breath, "Boy disappears two days, then shows up looking for leftovers." He pushed the door open past Joey and carried in the bags. "Leave your boots by the door."

Louis put the bags on the kitchen counter. "I'm gonna put this stuff away and you're gonna tell me where you been."

Joey sat at the table and told the story in the time it took for Louis to stow everything away. Louis slumped in a chair opposite him and noticed Joey's hands for the first time. "Your hands don't look too good. You ought to get a doctor to look at them."

Joey picked them up from where they lay on the table and examined them. "They're better than they were. The swelling's gone down and the cut's scabbed over pretty good. I think it's like a bad sunburn, or something. I'll be all right."

Louis shook his head and scratched at the gray stubble on his jaw. "I worry about you, boy. Every time you get nervous, you think you can just walk away. You got to face up to things now. You know, they aren't after you for the drugs now, just the other stuff."

"Yeah. Well, the 'other' stuff is enough. But, I'm turning myself in today, for sure." Joey spoke like a true believer.

"You can call from here. Right now." Testing his commitment.

"I think I'll show up down there. Might look better, going in on my own." Joey's voice said that his conversion was complete, but his eyes floated around the room.

"Hmm. You know, you're going to need a lawyer. Sooner the better." The probability of martyrdom considered.

"I think I'll wait on that, see how things go." Willing to put his faith to the test. It was time to change the subject. "So, did you cook a turkey? Doesn't smell like Thanksgiving in here."

"Doesn't feel like it, neither. No, I didn't cook any turkey. It's still sitting in the refrigerator. I haven't felt like cooking much. Sure ain't gonna make a big turkey to eat by myself. So there's no leftovers. All there is handy is peanut butter and jelly, or maybe cheese and crackers. You want cheese and crackers?" It didn't sound as though Louis was willing to jump up and cook for Joey.

"Ah, no thanks." Joey was remembering his last meal. "I might go on down to Emily's and have a big breakfast."

"Yeah? You mean before you go on down to the police station? Like a last meal for a condemned man?"

"Hey, no need for sarcasm. I said I'd go and I will," Joey said, defensively.

Louis gave it up. Joey would follow through on it, or not. "Yeah, okay. You want a ride?"

"No, thanks. It's not too far to walk. I've been laid out for too long, anyway. Need to stretch my legs out." He stuck his legs out under the table and stretched his arms above to demonstrate. The papers crinkled in his shirt pocket, reminding him of their presence. "Hey, take a look at these. Tell me what you think they are." Joey drew them from his pocket, handed them over to Louis, and explained the odd circumstance of their location.

Louis examined them, taking his time. "Looks like about a hundred barrels of chemicals, maybe waste. Two trucking companies. All delivered to AdCanCo in the late 'seventies." His brow furrowed. "Seems like strange stuff for a cannery. What use would a fish cannery have for this kind of stuff?" He shook his head. "Beats the hell out of me. What do you think?"

"I have no idea. You think it's something I should hang on to? If Uncle Stan put it, hid it, away in the attic like that, maybe it's important in some way."

"I don't know. Wouldn't hurt to keep it. Like to know what this stuff is, anyway." Louis flattened the creases in the papers and stacked them in the center of the table.

"Could you hold on to them for me?" Joey asked. "I don't want to bring them with me when I go to the police."

"Yeah, I don't mind. Might take a ride to the library, later. See if I can find out what this stuff is." He paused. "You know, it's strange, the shit that comes back to haunt you."

"It's beginning to seem that everything comes back, sooner or later. Sure feels like it now, I can tell you." Joey's appetite was getting stronger, and it took over his interest, pushing aside consideration of the machinations of fate. "I'm going to head out now. I'll call you when I find out what kind of trouble I have."

"You do that. In fact, you need bail money or a lawyer, call me first."

.

By mid-morning, the streets of Rock Harbor were full of slush, and water ran into storm drains and then to the sea. The sun was strong, and everywhere, snowmelt dripped from eaves unto the necks of passersby on the sidewalks of town. The cold cringe of this frigid assault upon pedestrians was flanked by attacks from the side, as car and truck tires splashed through the ice water mix banked up along every curb.

Joey hunched his collar tightly to his neck and walked closely to the buildings that lined Main Street on his walk through town to Emily's Rest. He'd taken a few hits of cold water and his pants were wet from knees to boot tops. Even so, walking on the sunny side of the street was pleasant. There was no breeze to speak of and the snow that remained was still clean enough to be attractive. By the end of the day, it would be gray and grimy. By nightfall, it would freeze into an unyielding, iron-like mass. By the following morning, that which hadn't been shoveled away would have to be chopped and chipped.

Joey considered going back and clearing Joe Soucup's walk. He'd done it for as long as he could remember, Old Joe paying him the same dollar-an-hour he'd given Joey as a boy of ten. Well, maybe he'd be able to do it later, he thought.

He turned right onto Green Street and crossed in the middle of the block to the front door of Emily's Rest, avoiding some broken glass that a passing plow truck had thrown up onto the sidewalk. He picked up a few of these, dropping them over the banked snow into the slushy gutter. He looked through the glass in the door to see a dozen people eating, talking, and reading the newspaper. Then he went inside the restaurant.

The heavenly aroma of Emily's Rest almost picked him up off of his feet. Coffee and hot, buttered toast. Cheesy omelets, sweet onions, and spicy home fries. So transported was he, that he barely noticed that every head turned at his appearance. Even the unperturbable Martha peered out at him through the service window of the kitchen. Conversation ceased, but he floated by everyone to sit at his usual stool, next to the cash register.

He gazed upward at the chalkboard over the service window, reading today's specials. Emily came behind the counter to stand before him. Emily's hairstyle and dress today evoked the look of a 'thirties film star. His eyes drifted down to her and he smiled. "Hey, Em," he said, "Boy, am I hungry. How you doing?"

Emily looked at him curiously. "I'm fine, Joey. Got to tell you though, you don't look any better than the last time I saw you. What happened to your hands?"

"Little frostbite, I think. And I cut myself. But I'm fine, actually, or will be, once I have some blueberry 'cakes, coupla' scrambled eggs, home-fries, ah, bacon, and coffee." First things first. His eyes had gone back to the chalkboard. "What's a salsa omelet?"

"Joey. Earth to Joey. Hey." He focused on her again with a sigh. "Joey, you've been on the news every night. No one's seen you. You've been the main topic of conversation in here. And you show up here out of the blue and order breakfast like nothing's happened."

Joey came back to the present unwillingly. He blinked and surveyed the room. Doris and Martha watched him from the kitchen. The other diners had curiosity written on their faces. He made a small wave to the room at large and turned back to Emily. "Yeah, I guess. Things have been happening. I'm trying to get a handle on it." Emily wasn't satisfied with the short version. She remained unmoving. "Tell you what," he continued, "I'll make a deal with you." Seriously. "After I get some food in me, I'll tell you the whole story, okay?"

Emily looked over her shoulder at Doris, who shrugged. Emily nodded in acquiescence. "Deal," she said. The other patrons went back to their plates and papers. It was clear they would get the story second hand, if at all, and their food was getting cold. First things first.

.

The worn linoleum tile before the front desk was puddled with melted slush and sand, dragged in by the feet of people who didn't fell the need to wipe their feet on the mat. Apparently, the sentiment was universal. The maintenance man had mopped the area twice already this day and his efforts were in vain. Still, he waited at the ready to do it again, by order of the chief, lest someone slip and sue the police department for negligence. Sisyphus with a mop, until a hard freeze, or spring.

Sims felt like he was going around and around, too. He'd been on the phone for much of the morning, getting nowhere. He'd called both Dick Wiltse and Jim Laird and neither of them knew of any committee meeting at the Lion's Club. Charles Adams was still unavailable. Nothing had come in regarding Warnecki's location and Sloan had inquired about it several times already. The DEA men had gone over his investigation three times, asking the same questions repeatedly, as though they might catch him in a contradiction of his own report. The day dispatcher, a white-haired ex-WAVE, way past retirement age, but still with a perverse sense of humor, had even shunted a telemarketer's call to him. And Knowles had returned to tell him that someone, perhaps Warnecki, had been in the house. There was no answer at Louis Armstrong's home.

He had just put the phone down again when it rang. It was Meredith Adams, transferred to his line from the front desk. She was irate about Joey's visit.

"He broke a window, slept in a bed, took a bath, and drank a bottle of wine. After all the work I've given him, he breaks into my house and sleeps there! I want him arrested. I want him put in jail, the ingrate." She was breathless with indignation.

"You say he left a note?" Sims rubbed his temple with his free hand. He was getting a headache. Must be the flu that was going around.

"Yes, can you imagine! He had the nerve to think that an apology would be enough to undo the damage he'd done. I feel like I've been violated. My holiday has been absolutely ruined."

"And you had been planning to spend Thanksgiving on the hill, but the storm kept you away." Talk her to death.

"Yes. Instead, we had to have dinner at Charles'. I was most put out. Thanksgiving dinner on the hill is a tradition. And it was absolutely ruined. Ruined, I say."

Did he dare interject reason into the conversation? "Well, Mrs. Adams, if the holiday was spoiled, you'd have to say it was the storm that did it, wouldn't you?" He suspected that not being in control of the feast, on her own territory, was the causal issue.

She chose to ignore his rationale. "And that horrid little man, intruding upon our family celebration as he did. That never would have happened on the hill. He wouldn't have dared to show himself there. That awful, awful, wrinkled, man."

Now Sims was confused. Who was she talking about? Warnecki? Wrinkled? "Excuse me, are you talking about Joseph Warnecki?" Sims pinched the bridge of his nose, pulling his eyelids shut tightly. His headache was getting worse. Didn't he have some Tylenol in the desk somewhere?

"Of course not, you fool. I'm talking about Harry Sloan, of course." Even more indignant.

Sims stretched his eyelids wide. Now where was she going? Then it came to him. Harry A Sloan had wooed Meredith Adams as a young man, he a youth of twenty-one or so, she already on her way to spinsterhood at the age of thirty-three. He pursued, she fled, a woman of her station not about to accept the attentions of the son of a fisherman. When the family fortune began to diminish, and father Matthew Adams, feeling the imminence of death, began to give the remnants of his fortune away in the hope that his name might ever be preserved, Sloan gave up the quest just as the fair maiden was about to give in. The town tittered and Meredith lost face. She eventually married a widower with two children of his own and Harry A. Sloan wed the daughter of a Boston retail merchant. Her enmity survived to this day, apparently.

That Sloan and Adams, two big fish in a small harbor, should have business together, or social congress, was not to be thought unusual, and Sims really did not want to explore this occurrence. "What time did you arrive at the hill house? he asked.

Meredith wasn't ready to dismiss the subject. "He showed up in the evening, just as we were about to have evening dinner, just a reprise of the principal repast, you know, and literally dragged Charles away on some business excuse or other. It was so unmannered, so rude, so ..." Meredith ran out of words.

"Yes, I see. You must have been upset, but what time was it that you arrived at the hill house, this morning?"

"And they never came back, just never came back. We waited and waited, everything drying up at the table, until Letitia, bless her soul, finally suggested that we should go on and wait no longer. I don't know how she can put up with such behavior. To plan and prepare on such short notice as she had, and to do such a perfect job, considering the press of time, and —"

"Yes, it must have been difficult. You were saying, Mrs. Adams, you arrived at your place on the hill‐"

"Eventually, it got so late that we just had to go to bed. I slept horribly and was awakened at five in the morning by Charles creeping in, probably from out drinking all night with that horrible man, I don't know why he would spend any time at all with such a person —"

"Mrs. Adams‐"

"Excuse me, I am speaking. And if you must address me as Mrs., then it's Mrs. Rutledge. You may call me Ms Adams, or Mrs. Rutledge, one or the other."

Sims took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. It seemed to help. "Ms Adams, can you, no, will you tell me: At what time did you arrive at your house and discover that someone had been there?" He had observed the form to the best of his ability.

"Not someone. Joseph Warnecki," she corrected. "At about ten this morning."

Two hours ago. "Thank you, Ms Adams. Will you save the note for me, please?"

"Most assuredly."

"I'll need you to come by and file a formal complaint." One more charge to add to the list.

.

Joey's outlook on life was much improved on a full stomach. He felt ready now to turn himself in to the police and bear whatever consequences awaited him. But first, he had made a promise to Emily to tell his story. He drained the last sip from his coffee cup and said to her, "Okay, Em, I'm ready to tell all. Great breakfast."

Two diners remained in the restaurant. Emily conferred with Doris and they decided to leave the rest of the day's business to Martha. The day after Thanksgiving was usually light for business, anyway. "C'mon Joey, let's talk upstairs," Emily said. Doris met them in the stairwell and the three of them went up to the apartment.

They seated themselves around the kitchen table and Joey told his story, from the death of Wojie to his stay on Frenchman's Hill. Doris did not interrupt him at all, listening quietly. Emily stopped him several times to clarify certain points, and wanted to know more about his parents. For his part, Joey was content to sit and talk in the comfort of a warm room, good friends, and a full belly. It felt good to share the secrets he'd been keeping for so many years and it was good practice for his debut with the law.

"That's quite a story, Joey," was Doris' sole comment on what she had heard. "Do you think you'll go to jail for any of it?"

"Naw," he scoffed. "Well, at least I don't think so." Considering the bare possibility. "I hope not, anyway. What do you think? Do you think they would do that to me?" Once the possibility of incarceration was open to question, worry entered into the breach. He began to nibble at a fingernail.

"Don't chew your nails, Joey. Your hands look bad enough already," Doris scolded.

"You should put some aloe vera on them," Emily suggested.

"Never mind my hands. Do you think they might put me in jail?"

The two women conferred by glance and Doris answered him. "To my mind, taking on what's-his-name's identity sounds like just a stupid thing to do by a young kid who didn't know any better. The problem would be that you're not a kid any more, and you're still doing it. And you know how the state can be. If they decide to hang you out to dry, well, you have a problem. You need to talk to a lawyer."

"It's a mess, Joey," agreed Emily. "You should get a lawyer."

Joey began to chew on a nail again, realized it, and clasped his hands together on the table. "Louis said the same thing." He paused and made up his mind. "Okay. This is what I'm going to do: I'm going to the police, see what they have to say, and then I'll decide about a lawyer. If I don't face them today, well, tomorrow will be harder. And I don't want them to pick me up off the street, so I'm going."

Emily gave him a few seconds before changing the subject. "You were sick with the flu, huh?"

"Yeah, it was one of those over-night things. I'm fine now."

"Have you given any thought to our proposal?" Emily asked.

Doris looked at her with one eyebrow raised. "Jeez, Em, don't you think he's got enough to think about? Give him a break."

Joey was left out of it now. Emily faced her partner. "Look. I'll never have a better time. I'm at the top of my cycle. And he," pointing an accusing finger at Joey, "he might be going to prison, for who knows how long."

Doris, with a straight face, looked at Joey, who looked back at her, stunned. Doris then turned again to Emily, whose expression was pure determination. Doris fell apart into loud guffaws. Emily held out for only a few seconds before she broke down into laughter, also. And then Joey was infected with their spirit and he, too, laughed, but only lightly and somewhat uncertainly.

"Hell, Joey," Doris gibed, "You're going to prison anyway, it's probably the closest thing to sex with a woman you're going to see in a long time." She and Emily broke out into fresh peals of laughter.

Even though they were laughing at his expense, Joey didn't feel mocked. He could still smile, feeling the humor and the absurdity of his situation. And though his feelings were partly of sadness and regret, he loved these two friends of his as though they were blood sisters to him. They were all three outside the norm. All three socially suspect, somehow not part of the legitimate world. Louis too, for that matter. Joey supposed that their otherness was a part of what drew them together, but mostly, it was heart. Heart was the connection. Heart was what mattered.

"So," he said, "how do we go about it?"

Doris and Emily stopped laughing, but kept their smiles. Tenuous, small smiles, but smiles none the less. "Yeah? You'll do it?" Emily's response was direct, but not insensitive. She looked to Doris to give practical directions.

Doris read the look from her partner that told her to get on with it before the chance was lost. She was, as always, direct. "Simple," she said, "you take a cup into the bathroom, do your thing. I take the cup, transfer the contents in a manner which will not concern you, and we all wait weeks to see if anything happens."

Joey's expression was blank, but only for a second. He was filled with resolve. "All right. Let's do it." He slapped his hands on the table and stood up. Doris and Emily both stood. Doris went to a cupboard, vocalizing the theme from 'Mission Impossible', "Daa,da,dum, daa,da,da..." She returned with an eight-ounce waxed paper cup and handed it to Joey. "Don't fill it to more than a half-inch below the rim," she said, poker faced. Emily offered him a an issue of 'Cosmopolitan' magazine on his way to the bathroom. "Will this help?" she asked.

"No, thanks," he said. Ten minutes later, after plucking his red cap from where it hung on a peg near the door, he was back on the street, only a little embarrassed.

.

Mary Hartz was presently using Knowles' desk, since the DEA agents had taken over hers. They had seized upon the information about Joey's use of another identity and were using her phone to put the many-tentacled machinery of federal law into motion. Before leaving the area of her desk, Mary had heard them talking to a revenue agent for the IRS and someone in the office of the Inspector General of the Social Security Administration. Ostensibly, their purpose was to use contacts with their federal brethren to quickly access information in those offices, but Mary knew that once Warnecki's name was fed into the ponderous maw of the federal bureaucracy, his life would be chewed exceedingly fine before it was finally either spit out or digested.

Knowles used his desk as little as possible, so it wasn't much of an intrusion into his space. She was opening a drawer to find some scrap paper when he returned to the bullpen after visiting with Meredith Adams to investigate her complaint. He hadn't removed his mirrored sunglasses after leaving the sunny world outside, and approached his desk to find her rummaging in the drawer.

"Charlie," she greeted him, "the Man With No Eyes."

"Who?" he asked.

"You know, the guy in Cool Hand Luke."

"Who?"

"Never mind, Charlie." She pawed through a rat's nest of candy wrappers and other trash. "What a mess. Don't you have a trash basket?" She emerged with a book. "Hey, this isn't the book you had before, it it?" She held it up.

Knowles removed his glasses to see it in better light. "Sure it is," he said, "I haven't had a chance to return it yet."

"No, it's not." She shook the book at him. " 'Force of Nature,' same author, different title. Guess you liked the first one, eh?"

Knowles didn't reply to her accusation. Instead, he returned the sunglasses to his face and turned away, saying, "Got to check the front for messages."

.

Joey's footsteps had become slower over the three blocks between the restaurant and the police station. Still, they eventually led him all the way to the front walk. Brulick, exiting the front door, saw him turning onto the walkway that led from street to station. He actually drew his weapon to accost him, shouting, "Freeze, hands over your head!" Joey froze, eyes and mouth opening wide in shock. Brulick approached him, spun him around, and cuffed him, before returning gun to holster and frog-marching him into the department.

Knowles watched the entire process from inside the doors. "Got yourself a dangerous one, Brulick? Don't you think you should have called for backup before going up against him? He might have smacked you with his hat or something."

"Shut up, Knowles. You don't know how dangerous he might be. Just go tell the chief that I got him."

Knowles walked back to Sims' desk, instead, shaking his head all the way. "Bootlick's out front with Warnecki," he told him. "Asshole actually drew his gun, cuffed him. Right on the front walk while the guy was coming in to see us."

"Shit," Sims said, rising and returning to the front with Knowles. "Just what we need. Make the guy feel safe coming to us. Inspire him to talk with our kind intentions."

Brulick was frisking Joey, who was facing the wall. Sims said, "Take the cuffs off him and go tell the chief that Warnecki came in on his own."

"Am I under arrest?" asked an obviously frightened Joey over his shoulder.

"I think we should leave them on," Brulick said, one hand on Joey's back. He was reluctant to hand over his prize to Sims.

"I'm the investigating officer and I'm telling you to take them off. And even if I weren't, you're an idiot for putting handcuffs on someone who's coming in on his own without an arrest warrant." Sims got right into Brulick's face with the lecture. Reluctantly, he removed the cuffs and stalked away to Sloan's office.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Warnecki. That was entirely unnecessary. Come on back to my desk and talk." Sims hoped that he could undo the damage that Brulick had done and calm the nervous man that stood before him, rubbing his wrists.

"Are you arresting me now?" Joey repeated.

"Ah, well, not at the moment. I'd just like to talk to you for a moment, get our priorities straight, so to speak." Strictly speaking, official charges had not yet been filed, but Sims knew they would be, including the complaint by Meredith Adams, who had not been to the department as yet. He would have to tread carefully.

Taking a seat behind his desk, he invited Joey to sit on a straight-backed wooden chair that stood beside it. Joey sat and looked up at Knowles, who still wore his sunglasses and was standing close beside him. "Knowles, how about getting Mary to help me out here?" She would be much less intimidating to Warnecki than the glowering Knowles, who took the cue and left.

"Do you mind if I make a quick call to my neighbor? I told him I'd call when I got here." Joey wanted Louis to reassure him.

"Armstrong? Sure, just dial nine for an outside line," Sims said generously and sat back, folding his arms. Let Warnecki lower his anxiety level and relax.

Louis answered on the first ring, obviously waiting for the call. "You just get there, Joey?" he asked.

"Yeah, I stopped at Emily and Doris'. Thought I'd let you know."

"They arrest you for anything?"

"No, not yet." Uncertainly.

"Not yet? Are they going to?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe."

"Listen up. I called the place that handled some business for me a couple of years back. They said they'd have someone down there right away, soon as I called. You don't say nothing until he gets there, hear?"

"Do you think that's necessary?"

"Don't be a fool, boy. You do as I say."

"Well, okay Lou, I guess."

"Take care, now," Louis ended, and hung up.

Mary had taken a chair from the next desk and put it in the aisle, blocking traffic there and causing people to detour around their space. She introduced herself when Joey put down the phone. "Hi, Mr. Warnecki," she said with a friendly smile and shook his hand. "I'm Mary Hartz. Glad to finally meet you."

"Hi," Joey smiled back and, letting the smile disappear, turned back to Sims. "Uh, well, Louis suggested that if I'm going to be arrested that I ought to have a lawyer here."

"Well, you certainly have that right," Sims replied, remaining upbeat, the soul of cooperation. "Though I was hoping you might wait until we got a few things out of the way, first."

"Actually, Louis said that a lawyer would be here soon. My intentions," Joey went on, looking at his shoes, "are to get everything straightened out that I can. That's why I came here. I ..."

He was interrupted by the officer manning the front desk. "Excuse me. Meredith Adams is here to file a complaint. She asked for you."

Sims felt his friendly manner evaporate. He felt his headache returning. "Mary, would you stay with Mr. Warnecki for a moment?" He left his desk.

"What happened to your hands?" Mary inquired.

"They got a little frostbit," Joey answered, clasping them together in his lap and trying to make them look smaller. "I got cut a little bit, too. I suspect that's why Meredith is here."

"You ought to put some aloe vera on them," she said.

.

Meredith was a large-boned woman in her seventies. Tall, gaunt, and broad-shouldered, she wore once-fashionable, out-dated but well maintained apparel of a conservative nature. Her eyes were a steely gray and her similarly toned hair was pulled back into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. She looked like what she was — an older woman struggling to keep up appearances, when her time of affluence was past, and all glory and conquest were faded away. No matter the battle was lost, defeat could never be admitted.

She stood apart from others in the constricted space of the reception area. Sims thought she looked particularly out of place there, and lost, like she had found herself in a shelter for the homeless, when she had expected the lobby of the Ritz.

Sims was generally a straight-forward kind of man, but he wasn't above using what little acting talent he had to forward his agenda. In this instance, believing her complaint to be intemperate, considering the circumstances of the break-in, his objective was to convince her to drop her charges. Also, they were a stumbling-block to his other aims. He considered the best way to handle her as he approached and decided to accommodate her illusions. "Ms Adams," he said, almost bowing, "Let's find a space to discuss your grievance." He felt like a maitre' d', leading patron to table. Where to go. Conference room? No. He walked her into Sergeant Clarkson's office without knocking.

Clarkson looked up from his desk, ready to chew out whoever dared to intrude on him without leave. Sims preempted him. "Ah, Sergeant," he began, loftily, "would you mind if we used your office for a moment? Ms Adams needs a redress of grievance."

"What?" Clarkson screwed up his face into a pre-explosion knot.

"Please, Sergeant, if you don't mind, of course." Sims stood there with a self-deprecating smile on his face.

Clarkson's fuse fizzled in mid-burn at Sims' outlandish demeanor. "At your service, of course," he said, giving Sims a look full of meaning. Sims would pay, one way or another. But the sergeant did leave the room to them.

In the end, Sims got her to drop the charges, convincing her that it was a matter of noblesse oblige on her part. Joey's part would be to repay the obligation ten times over, a deal that almost warmed her tight-fisted Yankee heart. And Sims hoped that his work on Joey's behalf would increase his trust in Sims' good intentions.

With this chip of good will to put on the table in dealing with Warnecki, he returned to his desk to find both Hartz and Warnecki missing. Seeing Knowles at his desk, he approached him to ask where they'd gone.

"Sloan put them in the interrogation room," Knowles informed him, "and a lawyer just showed up. He's up there with Mary and Warnecki now."

"Ah, shit," Sims exhaled. "I was hoping to have him alone for a little while. Now I'll probably get nothing out of him."

"Yeah, well, I don't think the guy has all that much to give you, anyway."

"There's got to be something. Something that he doesn't know that he knows. Some piece of the pie that will connect to the shooting, maybe connect to the shooting in the harbor this morning, too."

"Speaking of which," Knowles went on, "LeBeau heard back from his crew on the water and the guys checking out the flats."

"Yeah? Did they come up with anything?"

"Nothing in the water. It was still all roiled up. Wasn't likely anyway, the way the current runs through and flushes everything out. But, on the flats there were tire tracks, like from a car and small trailer, backed down to the water where Chubb's Creek Road dead ends. Looks like a small boat was pulled out this morning when the tide was still low."

"So it looks like the guy didn't crack up, after all. Anything else?"

"No, that's all, at least so far."

.

Daniel Drew of Meahan and Cowles, Attorneys at Law, was a tall, bookish-looking man of twenty-six years. His uncle Martin Cowles had hired him as an associate upon the insistence of his wife, Daniel's aunt Margaret. Uncle Martin had been reluctant to take him on because he viewed Daniel as something of a gadabout, unable to keep to any one course of direction.

Actually, Daniel was more like a pilgrim, searching for the holy grail of service to humanity. After coming to the conclusion that life as a seminary student was not likely to result in a call to the priesthood, he dropped out to pursue relief work with the Red Cross. After seeing too much of the suffering of mankind at first hand, his life took a curious reversal of direction and he went into accounting. That field proving to dry to his taste, he attended law school and finished the course of study to receive his J.D. His ambition was to practice environmental law and protect the world from polluters. Now he'd been practicing law for two years. Uncle Martin had hired him with the stipulation that Daniel would stay the course for ten years. This had been a difficult commitment for Daniel to make, but one forced on him by the necessity of supporting a new family. Thus far in his career, the practice of law had not shown much promise of bettering the lot of his fellow man to any significant degree, that work consisting largely of real estate and trust work. His uncle pushed him in that direction based on his accounting background, delegating the more interesting work to the three other associates of the firm. Being the only one available on the short notice of Louis' phone call, Daniel was given the nod.

He found Joey and Mary Hartz in the interrogation room and she left him for fifteen minutes to speak privately with his new client. In this time, Joey acquainted his new lawyer with the facts, as he saw them, of his case.

"Actually," he confessed to Joey, "I haven't done any criminal work at all. You're my first." 'Fake it until you make it' was not an acceptable rationale to this former seminarian. Joey accepted the credentials of his counselor without question or reservation. Daniel's earnestness spoke more to Joey than his experience.

.

There were two entrances to the cramped space of the interrogation room. One opened into the upstairs corridor that also led to the offices of the chief and the lieutenant and to the conference room. The other entrance was from a small viewing room, complete with requisite one-way glass and hidden microphone. This is the route taken by Sims to enter the room now occupied by Warnecki and his lawyer and Mary Hartz. Sims was surprised, but not very, to find Sloan and Brulick standing at the one-way glass on his way through. He wondered if they had been standing there when lawyer and client were supposedly conferring in private. The two DEA man followed Sims into the viewing room and remained there when Sims continued into the interrogation room.

Mary Hartz was in the process of explaining the charges that were likely to be brought against Joey by his assumption of another's identity. She covertly signaled her awareness of their audience to Sims with her eyes as he took the sole remaining chair at the end of the small, scarred wooden table. The table was bolted to the floor, as was the chair occupied by Warnecki. The other three chairs were of the gray, metal, folding type.

Sims introduced himself to Drew and then turned to Joey. "I convinced Meredith Adams to not file a complaint against you."

This was good news. One down, a hundred to go. "That's good," Joey said, "Thanks. I'm surprised, really. She can be difficult to deal with. How'd you do it?"

"Well, actually, I made some promises on your behalf," Sims replied, somewhat self-consciously. "I told her you'd repair the damage and more. Probably a few days more. You'll have to work that out with her."

"That's fine. I counted on making it up to her, anyway. If I'm not in jail." Joey looked worried about this eventuality. "What about that? The possibility of jail, I mean."

"Well," Sims answered, looking at Joey and his lawyer alternately, "you understand that I can't make any promises. That's not up to me or the department. But, having spoken with the district attorney and the judge, I think it possible that you may be able to avoid jail time. At least at the state level. And your cooperation at this stage could go a long way toward making things easier on you. The federal stuff is anyone's guess."

"Look." Sims changed course. He became more intense. "I'm interested in finding out who shot you. I'm interested in finding out how the cocaine came to be in your house. I want your full cooperation on these things and I don't think your connection to either is criminal. That's what I believe and I am proceeding on that basis." He sat back to see what the reaction to his statements would be.

Daniel Drew locked his hands behind his head, leaned back, and looked at the cobwebs in a ceiling corner. He meditated on them for a full three minutes before rejoining the group. "Okay. Here's the way I see it," he reflected. "It does appear that there is little likelihood of my client further incriminating himself in answering your questions on these issues. I would only insist that any questions be asked in my presence and on my advice to my client." He turned to Joey. "That sound okay with you?"

Joey shrugged and folded his hands in his lap. "Sure, I guess." He looked at Sims. "So what do you want to know?" Mary prepared to make notes.

"First thing: Do you know of anyone who might have been the one to shoot you?"

Joey didn't even pause to think. "No," he answered.

"Have you received any threats, written or spoken, in the last few months."

"None at all that I can recall. Not like violent threats. I suppose I get my share of crap from other drivers, and maybe a pissed-off customer or two, but I wouldn't call them real threats."

Sims felt the unseen presence on the other side of the glass. The hell with it, he thought. "Next: I want to know everything you did and everyone you saw on last Monday."

Joey recounted the events of that day in the same order that Sims had gotten from Louis Armstrong, adding a breakfast stop and prepping some stock in his garage workshop.

"Charles Adams was upset with you on Monday evening."

Joey blushed. "Yeah, well, he thought I was sleeping on his time. But I wouldn't try to charge him for something like that. It was so warm upstairs and I just fell asleep waiting on some epoxy to set up, so I could remove the clamps and go home. I don't know why he was so pissed off." Joey's eyebrows went up. "Not that he was pissed off enough to shoot me. Good god, I don't think that."

Sims tone became casual. "No, doesn't seem likely. Who else was there with Adams when you came downstairs?"

"Well, Chief Sloan was there, and Woody Trott. That's all, I think."

Mary spoke. "Elwood Trott? The biker guy?"

"Yeah. You know Woody?" Joey asked as though discovering a mutual friend.

Mary snorted. "Every cop in Rock Harbor knows Elwood Trott. Probably most of the cops from Kennebunk to Bar Harbor. I've stopped him on the road half a dozen times myself. Are you a friend of his?" Her question implied that Elwood Trott was a loser and likewise any friends of his.

Joey took her opinion with a grain of salt. "Well, we grew up together, in school and all . . ."

"Elwood went to school?" Mary feigned astonishment. Sims let her go on with it, sensing she had some purpose.

"Oh, well, only to the tenth grade. He dropped out at sixteen, got into the motorcycle thing. Went to California for a while, maybe got into a little trouble there and came home. I see him around once in a while, maybe at Molly's, or on the street. We always got along. He never gave me any trouble. He's actually an alright guy underneath all the tough-guy bullshit."

"The trouble Elwood got into in California involved drug trafficking and assault. He did two years in the state penitentiary. Was he involved in drugs here, to your knowledge?" Mary pressed the issue.

"Wait a minute," Drew interrupted. He whispered in Joey's ear.

"Absolutely not," Joey said out loud to him and then to Mary, "I know he may be involved with some stuff, but I never asked and he never told. We don't deal with each other on any kind of level except like two people who've known each other for a long time and have a beer together once in a while." Mary seemed satisfied with his answer and nodded to Sims to continue.

"Do you know any reason for Trott to be at the Lion's Club that evening?" Sims asked.

"No. We didn't even speak. I was so embarrassed by Charles Adams yelling at me that I grabbed my tools and got out of there."

"And you know of no reason for Trott to hold a grudge against you or cause you harm?"

"No. Woody and I always got along, no problems." Joey had no doubts.

"Have you seen Trott since the shooting?"

"No."

"Heard from him?"

"No."

"Heard of him?" Sims was reaching.

"No."

Sims was running out of questions. "Did you know that there was another possible shooting early this morning?"

Joey looked surprised. "No. Possible shooting? What's that?"

"There was a shot fired in the harbor this morning, around four. We haven't found a victim, but two shootings in one week in this town is alarming." Sims' posture underwent a subtle shift from hunching forward in query to resting his weight on the table in concern. "Listen," he said, "Someone shot you. Maybe someone was shot or shot at this morning. It's not at all certain that, were you to walk out of here this afternoon, someone might not still want to hurt you. It really bothers me. If there's anything you can think of, anything you can tell me to help me prevent this from happening, say it now."

"Or forever hold your peace," went the ridiculous refrain in Joey's mind. He didn't know what to think or say. It was totally outside of both his experience and imagination. Joey dealt with problems in one of two ways. Either he faced it head on and dealt with it, or he walked away. The threshold between the two was a quantum one. Right now he wanted to walk away. It was as though his mind shut down and his feet wanted to take over. But, he was stuck in this room with three people whose job it was to deal with these problems and the focus was on him. He turned to his lawyer for help.

Daniel Drew wanted to help. The priestly potential in him could pat Joey on the back and say, "There, there." The accountant side could help with the morass of tax difficulties Joey was bound to have. And the lawyer could be an advocate with the variety of government agencies that would want a piece of him. But not even the relief worker could keep Joey from being shot again. He was not suited to be a bodyguard, neither in temperament nor physique. Well, he would have to do what he could, and pray about the rest. "Well. Let's see. What are the issues here. One: For my part, I should see what I can do to deal with Mr. Warnecki's legal issues. Two: The police department must do what they can to investigate the shooting,etc. and provide, in whatever ways are reasonable to provide, for Mr. Warnecki's continuing safety. And three: Assuming that I am able to secure Mr. Warnecki's release today, he must exercise all reasonable caution while away from police custody. Now, Officer Sims, would the police department be adverse to Mr. Warnecki's release on his own personal recognizance, if I can persuade the court to do that?"

Sims considered it. He would have to pass it by Sloan. He said so. And Beiderman was not likely to be a hard-ass on the issue, since the matter of the legality of the search warrant was in question. Drew seemed to be aware of that issue. He could likely use it as a lever. The feds were on their own. That machinery would be slower in grinding up to speed, DEA notwithstanding. Their issues were different, anyway. They'd probably prefer to have Joey on the street where someone could take a potshot at him. It might resolve the problem sooner for them that way.

"Well then," Drew said to Sims, "why don't we leave Mr. Warnecki in the hands of Officer Hartz while you and I speak to Chief Sloan? Then I can be on my way." Drew and Sims went together into the corridor and then to Sloan's office. The chief must have beaten them there by a few seconds, not wanting to appear overly interested in the goings-on in the interrogation room. The chief fell one notch lower in Sims' esteem, not that it was much of a drop. Brulick, Donovan, and Stennis were the other occupants of the office.

Surprisingly, to Sims anyway, Sloan had no objection to Daniel Drew's proposal. He acted as though it had been his idea all along. Drew left to return to his client and Sims remained with Sloan. The chief lounged against the corner of his desk, waiting on Sims. The DEA men ranged against the wall and Brulick busied himself with some paperwork on a clipboard, pretending to be unaware of the other four men.

"You heard," Sims began, "that Warnecki identified the other man at the Lion's Club that evening as Elwood Trott?"

Sloan smiled and shook his head. "I've been thinking about that evening. And the truth is that Adams and I were alone at that meeting, at least when Warnecki woke up from his nap. Warnecki must have been still dreaming. Or walking in his sleep. Or maybe," raising one eyebrow, "Warnecki has another agenda."

"Like what?"

"Like he knows Trott is a dealer. Like he's trying to put the focus on an easy mark, shift suspicion on to someone else. Whatever. All I know is that he's hiding something and we're gonna watch him until he makes a mistake, then grab him. That's why I want him on the street."

"You think he's dirty." Sims was deadpan.

"Of course." Sloan was amazed by Sims' credulity. "Why else would he say that Trott was there?" The chief grew serious. "Now look. He can't run, at least not easily now that he has no i.d. and his bank accounts aren't available to him. (Mary had gotten an order to freeze his accounts and had taken his false papers. Joey was essentially a stateless person now. Insofar as anyone is defined by the paper they can carry, Joey was a high school graduate, and nothing else.)

"So, you want to watch him and let him lead us to the other bad guys." Sims was apparently warming to the idea.

"Exactly." Sloan pounded palm with fist. "He doesn't have any money. He's got to eat. So he's got to lead us to his stash, the dope from Boston. And when he does, we've got him." It was so simple.

Sims leaned up against the closed door, hands in his pockets. "So how do you want to do this?"

Sloan waved away the details. "I'll leave it up to you. Use Hartz and Knowles and Brulick. Just keep an eye on him."

"Well," ventured Sims, "We should talk to Trott anyway, just so he can deny Warnecki's story, right?"

"Absolutely. Do that." And Sims was dismissed.

Donovan and Stennis had been quietly interested in the conversation, but did not interject an agenda of their own, and voiced no objection to Sloan's plan. Sims didn't feel a need to speak with them. As far as he was concerned, they were on their own. He was hoping they would remain out of the way.

.

Mary was making small talk to avoid breaking Drew's commandment about asking questions away from his presence. "So you read mysteries and police procedurals, huh?" Her notes were stacked neatly to one side and she absentmindedly tapped with her pencil eraser on the table top.

"Oh yeah. You looked over the bookcases then."

Mary shrugged. "Yeah, reason I noticed is that I collect them. I have about fifteen-hundred books. Some duplicates — reading copies of first editions and signed books that I want to keep nice, you know."

"Really? That many. I suppose I might have half that. No hardcovers."

"I noticed. Foil-backs, mostly. Who's your favorite author?"

Joey thought. "Really couldn't say. I have a lot of favorites."

"Okay, then what do you reread most often? What do you go back to?"

Well, I guess I've gone through the Arkady Renko series five or six times. And I go back to the George Smiley books sometimes, too."

"Good stuff. You like series."

"Yeah. It's like they have lives, you know? You can follow them book to book, see how they develop."

Mary considered the fact that much of Warnecki's life was a paper life, too. He had developed a fictional character of his own. Maintaining the fiction, living a story. It must have been a strain. Well, that was about to come to an end and that change would have difficulties of its own. They talked about books until Sims returned to the room.

"Looks like we're going to cut you loose, Mr. Warnecki, and let the paperwork catch up to you." Sims remained standing. "You and Mr. Drew are expected at the courthouse. Officer Hartz will escort you over there to meet with Judge Biederman and sign some papers, a promise to appear and so on."

"Now? Already?" Joey was relived to understand he wouldn't have to spend the weekend in a cell.

"Yes," Sims answered. "You should understand that you shouldn't leave town without informing us and that you are not to leave the state under any circumstances."

"Not a problem. How about my truck? And can I get some cash from the bank?"

Sims answered directly. "You do not have a valid driver's license, and I'm afraid you do not have access to your bank accounts, either. Sorry, but you're going to have to figure some other way to get along. At least you're free to use your home now."

Sims held Mary back for a minute after Joey and his lawyer left the room. "What is your impression of Warnecki?" he asked.

Mary thought for a moment. "I don't think he's the bad guy. He may be an idiot, but he's not the bad guy."

.

Mary walked Joey with his lawyer across the street to the county courthouse where they met the prosecutor and Biederman. They went over the ground rules for his release and set a tentative date for him to appear. Tentative because no one had yet dealt with the probate issues involving his aunt's death and the status of the house Joey resided in. Because that was the only issue wherein the state had missed out on fees, it would be the one to receive the most focus.

Joey and Daniel Drew stood on the courthouse steps to discuss Joey's future course. "I don't know how or when I'm going to be able to pay you," Joey said.

"Louis Armstrong hired me to represent you and he has guaranteed all costs involved. He seems to think a great deal of you."

"Thank you, Louis," Joey said, looking upward as though Louis were an angel watching over him. Then to Daniel, "Where do we go from here?"

"Luckily for you, I'm good with paper. I'm going to initiate discussion with the various agencies involved and attempt to work things out so that you can get proper papers." He shook his head. "There's so much time gone by since you picked up the other name that it's going to be a real tangle. I won't fool you; it may be a year or more before you have a real life."

Joey's eyes drifted. The paper that people deal with, incrementally, all through their lives, made a large pile. In Joey's case, that stack loomed all at once. "Well," he said, "one step at a time." They walked together for a block, then separated, Drew continuing straight to his office and Joey turning right onto Water street, which ran three blocks to the harbor, passing by Molly's in the middle of the last block. Joey still had twenty-two dollars and decided to stop for a beer and call Louis with the news.

.

Although Molly's was situated a mere hundred yards from the water's edge, it offered no view of the harbor. Crowded in on three sides by old and mostly abandoned fishing shacks, it barely afforded room for the evil-smelling dumpster snugged in tight to the building, let alone parking space for its patrons, of which it had many. People parked on the street or in the refuse-strewn parking lot of the defunct cannery, which terminated the street and blocked public access to the water. The area was a blight on the town and one that provoked endless discussion in town meetings of how to rehabilitate it. Of course, the only solution was to level everything with bulldozers and start fresh, but it was a daunting project and money was lacking. Some suggested that the town take possession of the property, since taxes were much in arrears, but the property owners were prominent in the town, politically.

Though the Adams family had once held title to all the property surrounding it, that plot occupied by the rusted tin-roofed, concrete-block sided, dirty windowed bar known as Molly's had never been a part of their holdings. The series of bartenders who had owned it were all known as Molly, whatever their proper names, and the original Molly may have been either a woman or a man, a popular argument among regular stool holders at that establishment. Whatever the gender of the original Molly, the bar had begun and remained a dive, a dimly lit and dusty cave whose only amenities were a flickering, color t.v. and a juke box offering tunes from many years past. No pool table, no electronic game machines, and no potted plants. Just a bar, a dozen stools, and six small tables with chairs, every item stained, scratched, and much repaired.

The odor of the place was typical of establishments of that sort: tobacco smoke and stale beer, overlaid with a faint smell of urine, except in the toilet, which was dominated by the piercing scent of mothballs.

Not to say it wasn't a comfortable place, at least for the townsfolk that frequented it and found a place there to drink and talk with friends. It offered steamed clams with butter, beer with peanuts in the shell, and shot-glasses of inexpensive whiskey. Even pickled eggs or pigs feet were available for those so inclined. It had been popular for generations of fishermen and other blue-collar workers, who could stroll right in and feel comfortable and welcome, no matter what residue of their profession might cling to their clothing, skin, or hair. Molly's was no fern bar.

Joey felt right at home there. As he crossed Main Street and strode down the gently sloped, sidewalk-less street that led to Molly's, he anticipated the pleasure of having a large, cool one in complete freedom, with friends, and away from the halls of justice.

"Pssst," he heard. It sounded like gas escaping from the once green-painted dumpster next to Molly's. It wasn't surprising that what fermented in that dumpster might release gas, but that it might do so audibly, was. He heard it again. "Pssst." He stopped in his tracks and looked. This time the dumpster called his name. "Pssst, Joey." The rusty, drooling dumpster spoke in a hoarse whisper. "Joey, C'mere." Joey was alarmed, but curious enough to investigate. He approached the foul bin cautiously, looking around for witnesses, of which there were none.

The lid, which was raised an inch above the bin's contents, now lifted another inch to reveal a pair of eyes, surrounded by refuse and what might have been matted hair, or dark seaweed. Joey edged right up to them, despite the aroma of bad shellfish and sour beer that emanated from within. "Who's there?" he whispered, as though confronting the troll under the bridge. It was late in the afternoon and daylight was fading. Within the hour, it would be full dark.

"It's Woody, Woody Trott," came the muted reply.

"Woody? Jeez, what the hell are you doing in the dumpster? Get out of there! You could die in there!" Joey exclaimed, loudly.

"No shit. Keep it down, would you? I don't want anybody to know I'm here." The voice was urgent, but suppressed.

"Well, you sure picked a place where no one would look for you." Joey moderated his voice a trifle, still overwhelmed by surprise and trepidation.

"Yeah, yeah." The eyes shifted left and right, watching for passers-by. They settled again on Joey. "You gotta get me out of here, man, get me to my sister's, somewhere safe."

Joey stepped back a pace. The smell was overpowering. "Aren't you cold, Woody? How long you been in there?"

"All day, man." The creature rolled its eyes. "Never mind, man. Just get a car, something, get me out of here. I'm wounded, man, just do it!" The eyes flashed with exhortation. "And get back here before the dumpster guy comes to make a pickup."

"Okay, okay, let me think." Joey's truck was out of the question. He could try to borrow Doris' and Emily's old Chevy Suburban. It had an advertisement for the restaurant painted on the door, so it was somewhat conspicuous, but it was the closest vehicle he could borrow without lengthy explanation. "Woody, I'll be right back." He turned to go.

A police cruiser pulled to the side of the road, next to the alleyway where Joey stood talking to a dumpster. The window on the passenger side rolled down electrically to reveal Officer James Brulick. "What are you doing there, Warnecki?" came the high tenor voice from inside.

"I put a coffee cup in the dumpster," Joey replied, approaching the car and blocking the view. The lid of the dumpster settled down quietly and the eyes were lost to view. "What do you want?" Joey asked innocently. Brulick fixed him with the steeliest eyes he could muster and didn't reply, rolling the window up and pulling away slowly, instead. Joey watched him turn around in the cannery parking area and drive past again, before glancing back at the closed dumpster and then returning the way he had come.

.

Doris was sitting at the kitchen table, trying to reconcile the books for the business, when the buzzer sounded, announcing someone at the side door. No one was expected, but Doris was not a timid woman, afraid to confront an unexpected visitor at her alley door in the dark. She slammed the accounting ledger closed and went to answer the buzzer. She was only a bit surprised to find Joey at the door. Not that she didn't like Joey, she did. And not that he wouldn't ordinarily be welcome at her door, because he would be. But, she didn't want him hanging around acting like he was a father or something. As far as she was concerned, he'd done his job and now had to stand out of the way, like an uncle, or something. It had been a concern of hers, one that her partner had dismissed in her drive to be a mother. "Joey," she said, "what's up?" Blocking the door, arms crossed.

"Hi, Doris. Listen, I need a favor."

"Yeah?" she said suspiciously, "What's that?"

"I need to borrow your Suburban. Just for a little while." Joey was earnest, not at all acting like a regretful sperm donor.

Doris was relieved. "Sure, Joey, no problem." She didn't ask why. "I'll get the keys." She was back in less than a minute.

"Thanks Doris," Joey said. "I'll get it back by morning, if it gets too late to return it tonight. That all right?"

"That's fine, Joey. We don't need it until tomorrow afternoon. Bye,bye." She started to close the door, relieved.

"Wait a minute," he said.

"What." Hesitating.

"Well," he said hesitantly, "how's Em? I mean, how did it go?"

"Emily's been standing on her head for six hours, Joey." She still filled the doorway. "I'm trying to get her to relax, you know?"

"Yeah," Joey said thoughtfully, uncomprehending. "Well, good luck, anyway. I wish you the best, you know. That's all."

Doris relented. "Thanks, Joey. I know. See you tomorrow." And she began to close the door again.

"Wait a minute. Do you have a tarp or something?"

Doris hesitated. "What for?"

"Well, I just wanted to cover the seat to keep it clean, you know?"

Doris looked him up and down. He looked clean enough. Never mind. "There's an old shower curtain in the back that I don't care about."

"Perfect, thanks." Joey walked toward the back of the alley while Doris watched and wondered why he needed to cover the seat.

.

Joey eased the old blue Suburban to the side of the road in front of Molly's and backed in to the dumpster. He got out and open the rear door as the lid to the dumpster popped open. The figure that emerged was like some surreal jack-in-the-box, sodden, and reeking of brine, stale beer, and clam juice, and stuck overall with peanut shells and disintegrating paper napkins. Elwood Trott was not a pretty sight. In other circumstances, the sight he presented might have provoked laughter, but Joey focused on the way his left hand held on to his right shoulder. A dark red stain spread from under that hand to cover the side of his shirt and tinted the garbage stuck there.

Elwood was a large man, standing over six feet tall and weighing upwards of two-hundred and fifty pounds. His full, black beard and shoulder-length hair were matted and flecked with bits of refuse from the bin. He wore a ratty denim vest, bleached to the palest of blues over a once-white tee-shirt and torn blue jeans. Black leather engineer boots with chain straps completed his ensemble, and as he crawled over the edge of the dumpster to the ground, the crack of his substantial ass presented itself to Joey's view above the low waistline of his belt-less jeans. Standing on the ground a foot from Joey, stooping from obvious fatigue, the stench that emanated from him was almost overpowering. Joey hastened to spread the yellow, daisy-patterned, plastic shower curtain on the bed in the rear of the truck. "Lie down on that," Joey instructed and Elwood climbed onto it, slumping to the floor of the truck in exhaustion. Joey closed the door on him and got into the cab after checking for activity on the road.

The way was clear and the last light of day was fading. The transfer from dumpster to truck had taken less than a minute and no traffic had passed. Joey drove onto the street and stopped at its intersection with Main Street. He spoke over his shoulder, "Where do you want to go?"

The voice from the back said, "Take me to my sister's place in Beer Can Park." Bierken Park was a trailer park on the west side of town. It was the same trailer park where Joseph Wojciehowski and his father had lived. As trailer parks go, it was on the low end of the scale, but it provided a place for people of modest means to live, and folks have to live somewhere.

Elwood's sister had been a few years behind them in school, but she had grown up fast, and by the age of twenty had borne three children, who now lived with their father in Camden. Sophie Trott had been an early convert to the Church of Crack Cocaine and the court had seen fit to remove her children from that parish several years ago. Lately, Sophie had found another faith, in the form of a fundamentalist Baptist Church, and her transformation had been remarkable. Where once she might stand on street corners attempting to sell herself for dope, now she spent time on those same corners passing out tracts for hope. Her metabolism had been changed by the drug use, and she had never gained back the weight lost during her former addiction. The wear from years of dissipation was still evident in her face, but now that face was clean, and if some people ridiculed her for the flip-flop in her life, still others, Joey among them, saw the change as a better chance for survival. She was trying to get her act together and trying to get her children back.

Joey made a left turn onto Main Street and drove slowly, mindful that he did not have a driver's license, and watching for the police. Main Street shut down for business at half-past five, even on a Friday evening. In the summertime, it was different, with vacationers prowling the street with money to spend, but shortly after Labor Day, it was as though someone pulled a big switch and all the lights went out. Late November was a quiet time in Rock Harbor. Three blocks down Main Street, Joey bore right at a blinking yellow traffic light and cruised along Trevor Street. Three miles of residential neighborhoods past the entrance to Frenchman's Hill State Park brought him and his silent passenger to the forty trailers that made up Bierken Park.

"Woody?" Joey hadn't heard from Elwood since leaving the dumpster behind and was concerned about his wellbeing. The smell that had its source in the back of the Suburban had crept forward during the ride and was now strong in Joey's nostrils.

"Yeah," came a voice from behind. His passenger was still alive, though he didn't smell that way. Joey turned right into the trailer park and slowed, passing the tightly packed row of metal-skinned boxes. In the summer, he knew, the small plots allotted each trailer would be bereft of any but the hardiest of weeds, anything else crushed under the feet of children with much energy and little room to expend it. Now, with snow covering the ground, a thousand paths and trampled patches showed where traffic occurred and children met to play. The life that must have been evident during the day had retreated to the warmth indoors, now that darkness had fallen and the heat of the sun had been lost. There was no snow atop the poorly insulated trailers, excepting those few left vacant for the cold season, some residents migrating south every year.

"Which one is Sophie's? I've never been to her place." Joey slowed to a crawl.

"Keep going straight. Her's is the last one on the right." Elwood sounded worn to exhaustion.

At the terminus of the dead-end road, plows had piled the snow to the height of a man and the children had used that minor mountain to construct opposing forts of snow, complete with breastworks and tunneled caves, to make war upon one another with snowballs, the preferred weapon of the season. Some of the less accurately thrown missiles spotted the adjoining trailer to the right. Joey pulled to a stop behind an ancient, rust-blotched, yellow, Datsun sedan in the adjoining driveway. Bumper stickers with evangelical themes covered much of the rust and might even have provided structural support to the vehicle, as it provided spiritual support to its driver.

"Help me out. I'm all stiffened up," came the voice from the back. Joey saw a face appear in the end window of the trailer as he got out of the vehicle and went to the rear to assist his passenger. Elwood was indeed stiff and Joey had to help him to swing his legs to a position where he could climb out. Joey did so with gestures as much as actual physical help, reluctant to touch the slimy fabric covering Elwood's legs and making sure that nothing could jump onto his own clothing. Elwood finally stood on his own, shivering, and Joey walked a safe distance behind him to the door at the side of the trailer.

"Holy shit." Her reaction was a forgivable lapse in discipline to her new deity, considering the unexpected aroma and appearance at her door of her wayward brother. "Woody, what the hell." Two strikes. Then, recovering enough to remember the requirements of her new order, she stood back from her door, allowing the two men to enter. Joey closed the door behind him and stood silently, not too closely to Elwood, as Sophie looked the two of them up and down. "Joey, you sit there," was her greeting to him and she pointed to a chair at the worn, formica-topped table behind her. "Woody, strip right there and don't touch anything, or I'll kill you." Elwood was the antichrist, straight from a reeking hell and she meant to control the foul beast.

Woody obediently stripped naked, perhaps too weakened to do battle with his spiritual opposition, and stuffed all his clothing into a black plastic trash bag that Sophie opened at arm's length before him. Only his boots were left to stand and represent his former biker regalia. She opened the door and tossed the bag into the snow outside. The stripped, hairy behemoth that was Elwood Trott attempted to cover his privates before the wrathful archangel that was his sister. "Shower," she ordered. Apparently, demons must be cleaned before being judged and sentenced to damnation. Stoop-shouldered, he obeyed her command and soon Joey heard the shower running and Sophie returned to sit opposite him at the table.

"Hi, Sophie," he offered weakly. Despite the fact that she wore a flower-print dress and no stockings, her presence was commanding, authoritative. In school, she had been slightly overweight, but with the same heavy bone structure and rounded musculature of her sibling. Her post-addiction weight loss left her with hardened contours, but the same sense of strength. Determination and conviction had been added to her features, giving her an altogether indomitable and forbidding appearance, accentuated by her long, black hair and the gray streaks that flowed from her temples. She'd been through a lot, and it showed on her face in lines of harsh experience, and eyes that bore down without relenting. She made Joey feel uncomfortable, even without having delivered this mess to her doorstep.

"Talk to me, Joey. What's going on?" Her voice was all business.

Joey explained the circumstances of finding her brother in the dumpster and his ignorance of how he came to be there. "And that's all I know," he ended, and shrugged.

"You found him there and brought him here," she said.

"Yeah." He shrugged again. "This is where he wanted to go."

"I have two felony convictions, I'm on parole, I'm trying to get my kids back, and you brought him here. I assume he's in trouble. He's always in trouble and if there's a warrant out for him, and I'm found to be harboring a fugitive, I'll not only lose any chance of having my kids live with me, but I'll probably go to prison myself. Now, why would you want to put me in that position?"

Her consideration for the consequences for rash action had matured more than was the case for Joey. He was new to the process. He didn't know how to answer her. A friend had asked for help and he had given it, without thought of any repercussions to himself or anyone else. "I didn't know what else to do, he said. "If you want us to leave, well, then we'll go somewhere else."

If he had said anything else, if he had tried to appeal to her new Christian principles or tried to manipulate her in any way, her heart would have denied him. But by simply handing her the option of casting them out without pleading a case, she relented. By his yielding the ground of battle immediately, mercy became her only recourse, though not without some resentment on her part. She wore a bracelet on her wrist with the initials 'WWJD', meaning 'what would Jesus do?' The idea of mercy was difficult for her, since she had seen so little of it shown to her throughout her own hard life. By nature and upbringing, she was an Old Testament kind of gal, eye for an eye, and all that. In her new cosmic view, though, mercy was all tied up with grace, and grace was central to the faith that she had bought into. It was an issue that she was working on. If Joey was a native to the process without being aware of it, she was an immigrant trying to assimilate an alien culture, and fighting for every hard-won inch.

Elwood emerged from the shower, pink and dripping. His right shoulder bore a puckered, red-rimmed hole, from which a thin line of diluted blood seeped down to his elbow. His lank hair was plastered to his scalp and shoulders and he wore a threadbare towel like a skirt. Sophie walked up to him and sniffed. "Again," she said, and her brother returned to the shower.

Sophie sat again at the table to face Joey. She regarded his hands, which were flaked with peeling skin and bore a large, irregular scab on the back of his right hand. She had previously noted the stitches on his head. "You're messed up," she said. "Are you involved in something illegal with Woody?"

"No, not at all," protested Joey. "I've had some trouble, but I haven't been into anything with Woody. Me running into him is just coincidence."

"So what is it that you've been into?" asked Sophie Trott. She apparently hadn't been watching the television news this past week.

Joey gave her his story, as far as he knew. "... and I'm trying to get everything straightened out now," he concluded. "My being here shouldn't cause you any problems."

His reassurance didn't carry a great deal of weight with her and she would have told him so, but Elwood emerged from his second cleansing and asked if she had anything that he could wear. Sophie got up from the table and walked back into the combination living and bedroom beyond the bath.

Joey used his time alone to look about the kitchen. Every surface was worn but clean, scoured to within an inch of its life. The faux wood-patterned plastic cabinet fronts retained little resemblance to wood, having been scrubbed through to the substrate beneath in most places. The sink fixtures had lost every trace of their original nickel plating. The counters were clear of any clutter and what little wall space existed was free of adornment. Not even a calendar hung on the walls. There were shades to pull for privacy, but no curtains. Altogether, it was a stark living space, with little to mark it for a home. Joey figured that Sophie had cleared away every trace of her old life and had yet to replace it with anything personal that might define a comfortable place in her new one. Too sober, he thought.

Elwood and Sophie returned to the kitchen, Elwood wearing a black tee-shirt that was only a bit too tight for him and navy-blue sweat pants that rode up on his calves. The heels of his feet hung over the backs of a pair of pink plastic flip-flops. He sat at the table and his sister stood to his side and peeled the sleeve of his tee-shirt up over his shoulder to examine the wound. A bullet had apparently passed through the meat of his arm above the biceps. It had left a neat, circular hole on each side, dark in the center with coagulated blood and rimmed with red. The light from the circular fluorescent fixture in the ceiling gave the wound an ugly, purple cast. Joey couldn't detect any trace of the odor that had emanated from him before.

"I'm going to get some peroxide," Sophie said, and retrieved a brown plastic bottle from the bath. She poured from the bottle over both ends of the bullet hole, catching the runoff with a frayed dish towel. The peroxide foamed in the hole. She poured again and blotted with the towel. If it stung at all, Elwood didn't let it show on his face. "You need to see a doctor, Woody. This could get infected, especially since you were covered in garbage all day. I can only clean the outside. Who knows what's inside." She peered closely at his shoulder, as though she was straining to see what might lie inside, hidden from view.

Elwood shook his head. "Can't do that," he said, looking down and avoiding the eyes of the others.

Sophie took his bearded chin in her hand and turned his head to face her. "Why not?" she asked. Her grip did not allow any evasion.

He looked her straight in the eye and said, " 'Cause if I do, I'm fucked, that's why."

She held on to his chin, squeezing more tightly, so that his jaw opened. "Don't you curse in my house. You tell me straight on, what's going on with you, or I'll throw you out into the snow, brother or not." Her face might have been carved from stone, for all the compassion it showed. He would tell the truth or she would throw him out. That was clear.

"How did you get so hard?" he asked, to deflect her.

"I've always been hard," she answered without hesitation. "But now I'm hard with a purpose. You try to be hard. You only think you're hard, but you're not. You're all front, with nothing behind it but a bad attitude. Now tell me what's going on." She released his chin and sat down, still holding his gaze.

Elwood sighed. "Okay." He looked at Joey. "I owe it to you anyway. Believe it or not, you're the center of all this, though you don't even know it." He shook his head slowly, and droplets of water released from the ends of his long, matted hair onto his shoulders. He looked at Joey from lowered brows. "If you hadn't come downstairs when you did, everything would be cool right now." His eyes accused Joey of something, and Joey couldn't imagine what it might be. "I'd be swimming in money right now, and not sitting here with a hole in my shoulder."

Sophie saw through her sibling. "Wait a minute," she said, holding her hands out before her. "Either Joey did something wrong or he didn't. You said," and she pointed at her brother, "that he didn't know what was going on. So don't put anything on him that doesn't belong there. Own what's yours. Tell it straight." At this point in her life, Sophie rejected all but what might speak to the heart of a matter. No bullshit allowed.

Elwood raised a meaty left paw and rubbed at his jaw. His right arm rested in his lap. "Do you remember," he began, "when I dumped my bike, first week of October?" Sophie shrugged and Joey nodded. "My left leg was pinned under the bike and I couldn't get leverage to get it off me and I was stuck there like I was nailed to the road. This was out on Baylor Road, on the flats past the bait shop. Lot of dried mud on the road, washed up during a storm. Well, who should show up to come to my aid but Chief Asshole Sloan and his dickhead sidekick, what's-his-name. Nobody around, no traffic for like a half an hour, until Sloan, who lives out there at the end of the road, drives up and stops his car about a foot from my head. His idea of a joke, I guess. Little pissant gets off on intimidating people that can't fight back.

"My bad luck, a couple of squares of coke wrapped in tinfoil spilled out of my shirt pocket, out of my reach. Wouldn't you know, Sloan goes right to them and checks 'em out. 'Well,well,' he says, 'look what we have here.' Son-of-a-bitch was happy as a pig in shit." Here he paused, remembering. Joey was listening intently, anxious for him to continue. Sophie sat back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest, not really wanting to be a part of her brother's story, nor his life, but needing to know what kind of trouble had been brought to her door.

"Sloan squats down, just out of my reach, and looks at me for a while, thinking. He keeps looking at me and says to Bootlick, that's his name, says, 'Jimmy, take a little walk, I want to talk to Mr. Trott alone for a minute.' Bootlick goes off down the road without a word, not even wanting to know what's going on. Then Sloan says, 'Listen Trott, there's a way you can walk away from this.' And he's shaking the squares in his hand, like he's rattling dice, or something. 'You interested?' he says.

"Well, shit. Here I am, lying in the road looking at a drug bust. What am I gonna say? No?" Elwood blew out a breath in a raspberry. " 'Hell, sure,' I said. 'Get this fucking hog off of me and tell me what you want.' " Elwood looked between Joey and his sister, waiting for what he was sure would be their approval of his decision. It was not forthcoming. Both his listeners sat still, waiting for him to go on. He shook his head at the apparent unsophistication of his audience.

"Turns out," Elwood went on, "Sloan was looking for a connection, a connection for quantity, wholesale. Can you believe that shit?" Elwood wanted a reaction from his listeners. He got one from Joey, whose eyes rounded. Sophie merely looked impatient, as though a chief of police might be expected to do no less in her world.

"Did he want a connection to buy, or to sell?" asked Joey.

"To sell, man, to sell. What do you think of that?" Elwood had been wanting an opportunity to share this rare story. He would have preferred an audience closer to his immediate peer group, namely other bikers who would respond to it in the appropriate manner, but Joey and his sister would have to do. Up until now he had had to play everything close to the chest, and if word got around to the wrong people, he could be telling his tale to fellow inmates in the state prison. That threat was not immediate with his present listeners. At least not with Joey, though his sister was not entirely known to him. She wasn't exactly squirming in discomfort, but her body language was less than welcoming.

"Woody," she said, "you're going to make me an accessory after the fact. I think you're going to have to leave."

Elwood stared at her. "Gonna throw your only brother, your flesh and blood out into the cold?" he asked sarcastically.

The barb was not entirely without effect. She spoke down into her lap. "I can't afford to be charged with harboring a fugitive, that's all. I'd never get my kids back."

Elwood laughed and she looked up in surprise. "I'm not a fugitive," he said. "They think I'm dead. Food for the fishies. Nobody's looking for me." He looked pleased with himself.

"Well," Joey interjected, "that's not entirely true." Their eyes swung to him. "Actually, I think some police are looking to question you, because I told them that you were with Adams and Sloan last Monday at the Lion's Club. They wanted to know everything I did before I got shot." Joey was apologetic. He turned to Sophie. "I don't want to put you in a bad position. We'll go somewhere else." And he turned back to Elwood. "But I've got to hear the rest of it, at least the parts that concern me. My life has come apart in just a week. I want to know why."

Elwood regarded Joey for a moment and then spoke to Sophie without taking his eyes from him. "Alright Sis, we'll go somewhere's else. Wouldn't want you to be uncomfortable or anything."

Sophie exhaled, still looking down. She was in conflict. She feared that her self-interest was taking precedent over her duties of faith. And that her sense of duty was legalistic instead of by love, which was the supposed basis of her faith. It was a mess. She couldn't work it out. She shook her head and gave it up. "Shit," she said, "Stay as long as you need to. Whatever I have is yours. I'm sorry." A tear made its way to the corner of her mouth and she wiped it away.

This, in fact, was the true moment of her conversion. All of her life, she had existed on her own substantial reservoir of strength. Even her choice of faith had been an act of pure will, without any admission of personal weakness, or need for a superior strength. Christianity had been a pragmatic choice, a methodology to get her life in order, and to regain custody of her children. Allowing her brother to stay, and offering her unfettered help, had been her first true act of faith. Now it remained to be seen what would be its result.

Elwood, for one, was touched and amazed. In all his life, he'd never seen his sister shed a single tear. All through their childhood together, alternately abused or neglected, she had seemed to have an impenetrable shell of indifference and self-preservation. He had modeled himself on his younger sister, feeding on her strength to create his own persona. Now he felt a stirring of something akin to tenderness toward her. It was out of character, and if anyone but Joey had been there to see, it would have been impossible, but now he stood and went around the table to her, and hugged her with both arms. The implausibility of this act was lost on Joey, who saw it as a perfectly natural response. Sophie, on the other hand, who had never been the recipient of such concern from her brother, received it with more tears. It was an event to shatter the earth, and Joey didn't even realize it.

.

It was six o'clock and Sims had been home for an hour. Both his daughters were home and June was on her way. It wasn't a common event for all of them to be home for supper together and Sims was going about getting something together. Since it was the day after Thanksgiving, leftovers were to be the menu. Covered dishes in the oven contained sweet and mashed potatoes, creamed onions, and dressing. On the stove, green vegetables were steaming. He had stripped the turkey and was in the process of making fresh gravy. The goal was to use everything up before the family had a chance to tire of it. The trick was to prepare to plan the initial quantities in the right proportions to effect that end. After this evening, there would be just enough turkey left for sandwiches in Sims lunch tomorrow. Perfect planning.

He was browning flour in the pan when his wife came through the door. "Perfect timing," he said. "Ready to eat in ten minutes."

"The cooking cop, John Sims," she greeted him and pecked him on the lips. She shed her coat and hung it in the hall closet. "How was your day?" she asked from there.

Sims added chicken stock to his mix, stirring with a wire whisk. "Well, my principle case is still wide open, with undertones that are making me uncomfortable. Frankly, I feel like I'm walking down a dead end street."

June returned and kicked off her shoes in a corner. She sniffed at the pan. "Add a little soy and some herbes de provence. He gave her a look that told her to butt out. She backed away, holding her hands up in defense. "You want to talk about it?"

"The gravy? No. My day? Later. How was your day?" The broth was incorporated in the mix and he added the soy and herbs.

June poured them both a glass from the half-bottle of zinfandel left from the day before. "My day had two points of particular interest," she answered and took a sip from her glass. She began to set the table for four. "One: I closed on the Stedler place this morning, and deposited a nice fat commission check in the bank." She held up her glass in a toast to herself. "And two: Word is that Charles Adams showed up with a check at the bank this morning, also. No, wait. It was a wire transfer." She left the statement hanging.

Sims turned down the heat under the bubbling pan and turned to face her, picking up his wineglass from the counter. "And?" he asked.

His wife smiled at him. "And," she said, "it was for a million-two, drawn on a bank in the Cayman Islands. Pretty mysterious, huh?" She swirled the wine in her glass and took a sip. "He also showed up with the deeds to all his property, including his residence, for security. Wonder how Letty feels about that?"

Sims grew thoughtful. He felt that it somehow connected to the morass he'd been swimming in all week, but he couldn't say how or why he felt that way. When otherwise disconnected but coincidental pieces of information floated together, he tended, like Clarkson, to let them stew together on the right side of his brain. Sometimes they made a gravy to serve over a case and pull it together, and sometimes they went into the trash with the bones. But this was Friday night, the kids were home for a few hours at least, and tomorrow was another day.

.

Louis was growing fretful. He had talked to Joey's lawyer and learned that Joey was on the street again, for which he was thankful, but no lights had come on in Joey's house since his release and he hadn't heard from him. This made him nervous. Also, even though Louis was paying his fee, Daniel Drew refused to give him any specifics about the case, pleading client confidentiality. Louis was staying off the phone, not wanting it to give out a busy signal in case Joey should call.

He was pacing in the kitchen, wondering what was happening, when the front doorbell rang. It would be unlike Joey to come to the front door and ring the bell, but his hopefulness led him to think it might be him, coming to set his mind at rest. He strode through the unlit front room to the door and flung it open. On the other side, wonder of wonders, was Old Joe Soucup himself, come to call.

Joe had on a green, quilted nylon jacket, frayed at the elastic cuffs and stained from long use without washing. His baggy, brown wool pants were tucked into unbuckled, black rubber boots, which brimmed with snow, evidently from trudging through the snow of his un-shoveled front walk. His chicken-like neck moved like a spoon in a teacup as he peered around Louis into the unlit front room. He looked as though he expected Louis to invite him in.

Louis glanced down at the boots, considering whether to ask Joe to walk around to the rear door. Joe preempted him by stepping in and around him to head for the lighted area of the kitchen. Louis followed behind, picking clumps of snow from the carpet before they could melt. Neither man had said a word of greeting. Their relationship thus far as neighbors had been one of mutual antagonism, buffered by the position of Joey between them. Louis suspected Joe of racism, thought he might be some sort of damn Nazi, but the reality was that of a generalized misanthropy. Joe discriminated not on the basis of race, creed, religion, or national origin. He was absolutely democratic in his cynicism, mistrusting all equally. Excepting perhaps Joey, who still shoveled his walk for a dollar-an-hour.

Joe settled himself in a chair at the table, grinning slightly at Louis dumping the slushy remnants of his passage into the sink. Louis caught him at it, scowling in return. He had enough on his mind without a visit from his closest enemy. Louis leaned back against the sink counter, crossing his arms over his chest. Let the old bastard speak first, he was damned if he was going to make small talk to draw out the reason for this visit.

"Nice slippers," said Joe, still with that maddening grin on his face.

Louis almost looked down at his brown leather slippers, shinning with recent polish. "What exactly do you want, old man?" he asked instead.

Directly, Joe answered. "Where's Joey?" he asked, as though Louis might be hiding him in the basement. Joe screwed the earpieces of his hearing aids into place.

"Haven't the slightest idea," Louis answered. "What's the matter, didn't get your walk shoveled? Looking for someone to take you to the supermarket? Or are you just being the miserable old prick that you are."

Joe responded by making himself comfortable, shucking his coat to hang backwards over his chair and rolling the sleeves of his ancient red flannel shirt over his elbows. The fabric of the shirt was so worn, Louis could discern the lines of a sleeveless white undershirt. Louis was surprised to note a faint blue tattoo of numbers on the inside of Joe's forearm.

Silence grew in the room like a dull shadow, making the light in the kitchen seem inadequate. Louis was about to break it by ordering Joe out, but the old man spoke first. "I'm worried for Joey," he said, the grin fading from his face.

Louis wasn't totally disarmed by this comment, but he relaxed his guard enough to sit opposite old Joe at the table. A shared concern for their mutual neighbor was enough to call a temporary truce between them. Louis was able to open a bit. "I've been a little worried, myself," he allowed.

"I been watching the cops crawling around all week," Joe said, his accent more pronounced than usual. "And the t.v., when I can get it to work. I don't trust the sons-of-bitches, none of them. I think they're going to screw the boy." Joe dug in his pocket and pulled out a pouch of chewing tobacco.

"Don't do that here," Louis said.

"Huh?"

"Don't chew that shit here." Joe narrowed his eyes at him. "Please," Louis added reluctantly. He could picture the old man leaking brown juice in his kitchen. Joe took the 'please' as a minor victory and returned the pouch to his pocket without loading his cheek.

Louis shared Joe's concern for Joey, but not his paranoia about the police and the media. "Well," he began, "I suppose the news people aren't going to help Joey out at all, but I don't think they'll do him much harm, either. It's not that big a story and they'll disappear as soon as it's over. As for the police, well, they have to be the ones to figure it all out, catch the guy who shot Joey. That's the only way." Louis leaned back and laced his fingers together over his stomach. He bore the look of a man with superior knowledge of how the world operated. He thought that Joe's expression was close to a sneer, though it may have been the natural set of his features. But the old man was reaching for his chew again. It was about time for him to leave, Louis decided.

Joe preempted him. "Maybe you're stupid, and maybe not. Maybe you're just ignorant." Joe had a golf-ball sized lump of tobacco in the hand that he was waving at Louis and shreds were coming loose and flecking the table top. He paused to shove the plug into his mouth. He continued speaking before Louis could find words to reply. "I got something to tell you. If you can't understand it, then you're a fool, too." The tobacco in his mouth was still dry, and small pieces accompanied the words from his mouth.

"I'll tell you who the fool is, old man, and‐"

"Hold on," Joe interrupted, "I ain't done yet. Just listen for a minute, before you start yappin'." He glared at Louis, daring him to say something.

Louis was simmering. He glared back at Joe, refusing to let the old man goad him into boiling over. Let him finish what he had to say and then hustle him out before he worked up enough saliva to spit somewhere. And if he did, then Louis would wipe it up with the skinny old bastard and toss the whole mess into the snow outside.

Old Joe Soucup could read Louis' mind, and he almost grinned. Instead, he went on. "When I say the cops were creeping around, I mean they were creeping around Monday night, too." He paused to let his words sink in. "It was a cop I saw in Joey's backyard that night. It was a cop that shot him."

Louis went still. Joe was a crank and a rotten neighbor, but he wasn't a liar. If anything, he was only too willing to call things as he saw them, and to hell with anybody who didn't like it. But he could be mistaken, given his prejudices. "A cop," Louis said.

"That's right." Joe nodded once.

"In uniform."

"Nope, but I seen his picture on the t.v. enough that I know who he is."

"You could recognize him in the dark."

Joe nodded once more. "Yup. Almost a full moon. My hearing is for shit, but my eyes are still good."

Louis paused. "Who?"

Joe tilted his head back and to the side, while holding Louis' eye. He had the knowledge, the key to the mystery, and he savored it for a moment. But he hadn't come here merely to vex Louis, though that was worthwhile in itself. "It was the Chief of Police, himself. Sloan, that greasy piece of shit."

Louis knew this was impossible, or improbable to the maximum extent. He also knew Joe, as one could only know an enemy after studying him for decades, and it was clear that Joe was convinced of his observation. It was likely that Joe had seen a man who at least looked like Sloan. And if he believed that the man was the chief of police, that would be reason enough not to confide his sighting to Sims when he had visited the old man.

"What are you gawking at?" asked Joe. "Didn't you hear me? Maybe you are a fool." Joe snorted and began looking around for a place to unload his accumulation of saliva. His eyes went to the sink.

"Hold on," Louis said, and got up from his seat to retrieve an empty coffee can from the cabinet under the sink. He removed the plastic lid from the can and set it before Joe, who managed to spit into it without getting more than a drop or two on the table top. Louis grimaced.

"Look," Joe said, "I don't care what you think about me. The important thing is that Joey has to get the hell out of here before the bastards kill him. I got a few bucks I can give him. You ante up some cash, too, and get him to go somewhere's else where they can't get to him." His eyes bore in on Louis. "I know what I'm talking about. When it's the police that are the bad guys, you got to get out. There's nothing else you can do. They got me once, when I was a kid in '42." He tapped the tattoo on his arm. "I got out with my life, and a lot of others didn't."

That Joe would share this piece of personal information with him, and was actually willing to part with some of his own money to help Joey flee, was astounding to Louis. The old man had never even been in his home before, nor Louis in his. Louis had to take him seriously. "Okay," he said, "Let's say that the guy you saw was actually Sloan, or at least looked a lot like him." Joe snorted. "If that's the case, I believe there's at least one policeman we can trust to tell it to."

Joe snorted again. "How do you know the bastards aren't all in it together?"

"Hey," replied Louis, "You're about ready to die anyway, aren't you? What do you got to lose?"

.

The evening temperature had dropped below freezing and Joey had started the Suburban to warm it up for the underdressed Elwood while his sister was putting a gauze bandage over his wound. Elwood was now standing a few feet away from the vehicle in his flip-flops and tee-shirt, holding his foul-smelling black boots away from his body, their tops pinched together between thumb and forefinger. Joey opened the rear door for Elwood to put them on the shower curtain in the back.

"Ain't this the lesbo-mobile?" asked Elwood. "Ha. Do they know who you're driving around in it?"

"It's Doris' and Emily's, yes," answered Joey, "and no, I didn't mention you." Joey shut the rear and got into the driver's seat. Elwood followed suit on the passenger side.

"Wouldn't they shit if they knew," Elwood said. "Breakfast with Butch would be all over for you, that's for sure." He laughed at his own joke. It was just this kind of talk that had caused Elwood to be excommunicated from Emily's Rest for life. Doris had gotten fed up with his loud comments one day and had hauled him out to the street by his upper lip. Even after a year had passed, the scene was hauled out to be rehashed at Molly's whenever Elwood appeared. He appeared to be as amused as everyone else by the retelling.

Joey frowned. "I don't plan to bring it up with them." He turned to Elwood. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't, either."

"Shit, I'm not going to be telling nobody nothing. I'm gonna get my gear together and head out south on my bike, tonight."

The Chevy still idled in the driveway. Joey was digesting the fact that any information he could get from Elwood would have to be received this evening, or not at all. "Alright, Woody, tell me how I got tied up in this."

"Drive, man. Take the back way. I'll talk on the way." Elwood manipulated the heater controls to blow hot air on his toes as Joey backed onto the street and began the journey to Elwood's apartment, five miles to the southwest corner of Rock Harbor.

Woody began his narration with the shouting scene at the Lion's Club, pausing in his tale to slide down in his seat whenever a car's headlights appeared ahead of them on the road. "You shoulda seen your face," he said, "when Adams started chewing you out. Mouth open, beet red face with lines on it like a checkerboard. That scene was funny at the time, but I'll tell you, if I knew what was gonna happen with you later, I woulda cold-cocked that runty son-of-a-bitch right there. I'm sorry about that, man. You gotta know I had nothing to do with that."

Joey interrupted. "You're talking about Sloan? Sloan shot me?" Incredulity was in his voice and expression.

"That's right. We were meeting there to go over the schedule for the deal. Adams and Sloan thought you were listening in on the conversation. Adams freaked and Sloan said he'd take care of it. I thought he might warn you off or something, but I never thought he was gonna try and kill you. Stupid of me I guess, not to see who would be next on his list."

"He's the one that shot you, too?" Joey took his eyes off the road to ask this and the Suburban veered across the road into the other lane. Elwood put his hand on the wheel and jerked them back to their own side. No other vehicles were in sight.

"Watch where you're goin', man. That's right, Harry Sloan, pillar of the community, tried to kill us both. Just goes to show, asshole can't do anything right the first time." Elwood paused, watching the road. "I ain't gonna give him a second chance, though, and you better watch your ass, too."

"Anyway," Elwood continued, "not that the details are something you gotta know, but Adams and Sloan are together in this deal to make some big money. Somehow, and I don't have any idea how, they came up with a source of cocaine and heroin in quantity and used me for a go-between to unload the stuff through some people I know in Portland. Serious weight, man. Coupla kilos of fine Colombian flake and fifty kilos of pure, high-grade smack from Afghanistan, or somewhere like that. Enough dope to kill a million junkies.

"My piece was supposed to be ten large for a coupla days work. Set it up, keep the parties separate, make the delivery. Shoulda known I was the piece that had to be eliminated to erase the connection. Stupid me. Keep your speed up, you're going about ten miles an hour."

Joey was distracted from his driving, his mind reeling from Elwood's deadpan delivery of a tale so foreign to Joey's non-fiction life. He read this stuff; he didn't want to live it. He felt like he'd been drawn through the cover into one of the books on his bookshelves. He pulled himself back to the job at hand, glancing at the speedometer and increasing his speed to what he thought should be reasonable for this dark, rural, back road. The trees slid by, still rimed with the icy remnants of the storm. They passed unpaved driveways and fire-roads and houses set back from the roadway, some lit, others awaiting the return of the families that, presumably, inhabited them. In any other week past, he would have felt some connection to this world. Now, they seemed screened from him, as though a gauze curtain had been drawn between his life and theirs, and the edge of the curtain was hidden from him. "Sorry," he said, "Go on."

Woody watched him for a minute, wondering if he should offer to drive, though his right arm was throbbing with pain, each beat of his heart sending a jolt down to his fingertips. He'd better save all his strength for the ride ahead of him, he thought. He wanted to put several hundred miles between him and the trouble in Rock Harbor before allowing himself a good sleep.

"I did the deal," Elwood said. "Scary bastards on the other end. Dress in nice suits and wear big gold rings with diamonds and shit, but you know, looking in their eyes, they're as bad as bad gets. I did it straight, not trying to work any angles into it to cut myself a bigger piece. No room to fuck around with these guys." He shook his head, clearing them from his vision. I did it straight and delivered the goods on Monday night. Drove down in a rental, left a black trunk full of dope and an envelope with a black guy in a van in a parking lot in the middle of town, and came home, job done. Guy never said a word to me. Didn't help me lug that trunk into the back of his van, neither. Just watched me until I drove away."

"What was in the envelope?"

"Dunno. Probably an account number or something. That kind of money, nobody deals in cash, just check the quality and the weight and wire the money through enough banks so's it gets lost in all the other money flying around, here to there and everywhere. That's how they do it in the big time deals. Nobody has to get their hands dirty counting out dollar bills, just tap it out on a clean, white keyboard. It's only people like me and you, got to get down into the dirt, come out smelling like shit. If we come out at all." Elwood haw-hawed.

Joey didn't laugh with him. He was trying to put everything in order, find some way to reconcile all the bits and pieces so that he might be able to put his life back together. "So Sloan and Adams got ahold of some dope, got you to unload it, shot the both of us to keep it secret, and what? Why'd they need to do it? What's the point?"

Elwood haw-hawed at Joey until he had to grab hold of his shaking shoulder to stop its movement and ease the pain. "You are one stupid son-of-a-bitch," he said. "You don't know a gawd-damned thing about people and money and power. How could you live so long and not have a clue?" He shook his head. "Never mind. It don't matter. Don't miss the turn up ahead, on the right."

Joey might have missed the turn, but Elwood's prompt caused him to slow and turn into an early-fifties' era development, hastily thrown up for the benefit of returned veterans of the Korean conflict and the prior world war. The vets had escaped the shoddy project as quickly as they became able to, and it became just another low-rent district of poorly insulated duplex apartments, forty double units that should have been torn down before they were occupied. The Housing Authority had plowed the short driveways clear and Joey parked in Elwood's space beside a unit painted a faded and peeling red. "Where's your bike?" he asked. "It isn't here?"

"It's here. You don't think I'm gonna park it where some scummy little kids are gonna climb all over it, do you?" And indeed it was there, as Joey discovered when they entered the front door and Elwood flicked on the overhead light. It sat upon its kickstand in the center of the small living room, over a greasy stain on the long-ago varnished, yellow pine floor. Pieces of drive chain, a wheel rim with bent spokes, and various other bike parts decorated the room, scattered and clumped like the toys in the room of a particularly messy child, a child who drank a lot of beer in cans. The Harley, itself, was polished and gleaming, flawless in black and chrome. The only furniture in the room consisted of a defunct and grease-stained, under-stuffed, brown corduroy couch and a console television set/workbench that was elevated a foot above floor level, apparently to provide a better working height, on stacks of red bricks.

"Have a seat," Elwood offered. "I'm gonna get some clothes on and some gear. I want to head on out before anybody knows I been here." He headed immediately up the stairway, threading his way around the obstacles that dotted its treads. Joey followed him up. The detritus on the stairs may have been overflow from the bedroom and bath that comprised the second floor space allotment. There was a kingsize mattress in the bedroom, sheet-less, and strewn with crumpled clothing and blankets. It may or may not have had a pillow to go with it, hidden among the clothing and trash that covered both mattress and floor space. There may even have been a rug beneath, but it would have been redundant. The smell in the room was reminiscent of that of Molly's, minus the mothballs, but with an overlay of petroleum products.

Elwood stripped unselfconsciously, and began excavating for wearing apparel. He came up with a set of red flannel long-johns, the kind that were all of a piece, with a drop seat. He found jeans, a blue, hooded sweatshirt, and a black, insulated, nylon parka with a section of sleeve that had melted and fused in an odd pattern. He donned what he had found so far, lest it be lost again to chaos.

Joey waited until the long-johns were settled to Elwood's oversized contours before asking his next question. "How did you get shot?"

Elwood spoke while continuing his task at hand. "Friday early, about three o'clock, I was supposed to meet Sloan and Adams at the cannery. By that time, they would know whether the payment had come through and I could get my end. They knew I was leaving town right after, but either that wasn't enough to keep me quiet, or they just didn't want to let go of that little piece of the action. Probably both.

"The side door to the cannery floor was wide open, so I walked in and saw Adams, dressed like some old lobsterman, rubber boots on his feet and everything, standing in the middle of that big, empty floor. There was enough moonlight coming in that I could see he was holding a white envelope in his hand, slapping it on his thigh. I focused in on that envelope and walked right up to him like a fool, never looking around to see if anyone else was standing in the shadows. Son-of-a-bitch Sloan stepped out and showed me a piece, thirty-eight revolver. That's when I knew I was going down."

Joey stood just inside the doorway, having shuffled his feet down to the actual floor and unwilling to tread any further on what lay beyond. Elwood rooted around some more and came up with a hightop, leather construction boot, sans lace. He paused in his search for a mate and offered an observation. "You know," he said, "We must have been shot with the same gun. That makes us like blood-brothers, or something. What do you think of that?" He chuckled.

"That's great, Woody. What happened next?" Joey's sense of humor wasn't as highly developed as Elwood's. He spotted the other boot in an opposite corner and pointed it out to Elwood.

"What happened next was I told them what I thought of them as humans, or non-humans, and tried not to shit my pants. I think I might have hurt Adams' feeling a little, but Sloan just waved me outside to the dock with his gun and followed right behind me. Adams watched from inside, the pussy." Elwood found a black leather bomber hat, and pulled it on, earflaps down.

"Sloan had a Whaler tied to the dock. He got in first, holding that gun on me while he backed down to the dock on the ramp. Low tide, steep ramp. I was hoping the asshole would trip and fall off into the water, but he didn't, and when I climbed down into the bow, I saw the cement block and the rope that was tied to it. I think I might have actually shit myself a little bit then, I'm not sure. But he made me tie that rope on my ankle and when he pushed the Whaler away from the dock, I knew for sure that my time was up. He was gonna bring me out into deep water and disappear me."

Elwood lifted a corner of the mattress and removed a small stack of bills, which he counted and shoved into the sole rear pocket of his jeans, and a small, black, semi-automatic pistol, which he placed in a side pocket of his parka. He zipped the pocket closed. He plucked a few more items of clothing from the jumble on the floor for alternate wear, but underwear did not seem to be a necessary part of his ensemble. Satisfied with what he had found, he clutched the laundry to his chest under his good arm and pushed past Joey to return downstairs.

Joey caught up to him as he stuffed his assemblage into a pair of black, fringed and studded saddlebags hanging from the back of his bike. "So how'd you get from there to the dumpster?" he asked.

"Help me push this mother outside, willya?" Elwood asked. Joey assisted from the right side and together they balanced it off the kickstand and guided it through the kitchen. Elwood talked while they were moving. "There was a light moving on the water. Patrol boat finding its way back to the pier, I guess. I was sitting with that cement block on my lap, looking at it like it was gonna talk to me or something, show me a way out. Sloan and me both looked up at the light and I took my chance." Elwood left Joey to balance the bike while he opened the back door. A piece of plywood ran down the center of the three concrete steps to ground level. Elwood balanced the bike while Joey acted as a brake, holding back from the rear end of the seat and straddling the plywood strip, and the heavy machine pulled them both down into the soft snow lying below. The door was left open behind them.

Elwood spoke between grunts as they forced their way through the snow to the clear pavement beyond. "I stood up to jump in the water. Ugh. Holding that stupid block. Ugh. Sloan shot me while I was in the air. Rrgh. Splash, and I was under. Ugh. I could hear that big Merc start up as the block dragged me to the bottom, and the whine when he took off. I had a knife clipped on my pants and got it open and cut that fucking rope. Shucked off my jacket, son-of-a-bitch nice leather jacket, lost my knife, son-of-a-bitch nice knife, and floated up after the other boat went by. Damn, my lungs were bursting. I paddled, half a dog paddle, you know, under the pilings to the shore and made it up the street into the dumpster. And there you found me and that's all she wrote."

Joey balanced the bike as Elwood straddled it. "You gonna be all right?" he asked. "How are you gonna drive it with one arm?"

"I'll make it. I want to get a long ways tonight before I sleep, but I'll make it okay." He jumped on the crank and the engine roared to life. With his left, he guided his stiff right arm to grasp the handlebar. "You know," he said, "if you promise to shoot those two assholes, I'll leave you my piece."

Joey blinked. "No. I don't think I could do that."

"Alright, man. But I'm gonna come back someday, after I heal up and things cool down. And when they least expect it, I'm gonna pay it all back. In fact, once I get far enough away, I think I might just give old Charlie a call, let him know I'm all right." Elwood goosed the engine and lights went on in the house next door. "Don't let them kill you, Joey," he yelled, and rolled into the roadway, accelerating after he was straightened out to the direction of travel.

Joey said good-bye, too, but his farewell was lost beneath the roar. He quietly got in the Suburban and drove away before his presence was noted by the neighbors. He drove randomly, thinking about what he had heard and trying to fit it in with some reasonable course of action that would bring his life back on track and maintain his safety. He couldn't imagine taking this wild tale of conspiracy to the authorities and having them give credence to it. After all, both Sloan and Adams were respected men in the community and he was a man who had built a life using an assumed identity. His only witness was an outlaw on the run, unavailable in any case. He wondered whether he would be more,or less, in danger of losing his life by coming forward with his dubious story. Either way, he had to assume that his safety could not be taken for granted.

After hours of aimless driving, the gas gauge was down to an eighth of a tank and he would have to park it or fill it soon. Joey drove with his window down, attempting to air out the vehicle, but the smell of Molly's dumpster persisted, despite the volumes of cold, fresh air passing through it. "Shit," he said aloud, "Woody's boots." The boots had pickled in the foul soup at the bottom of the dumpster for several hours, time enough to alter their character forever. Picturing them in his mind, reeking, sitting on the plastic shower curtain behind him, they began to annoy him. They became a focal point for his frustration and inability to find a remedy for his situation.

Though Sloan and Adams had tried to kill him and had caused his secrets to come out into the open, and Woody had been a part of their corrupt scheme, his growing anger didn't settle upon them. He had never been able to be angry at the many people close to him who had deserted him through death, so it may not have been surprising that he misdirected his anger now. He stopped at a filling station on the edge of town and filled the tank, glaring through the glass at the sodden black boots in the back with their ridiculous chain straps. Filling the tank left him with three dollars and change. He bought a coffee and a candy bar, reducing his means by another dollar and a half. Driving toward the center of town, he found that the odor from the back spoiled the taste of his coffee and candy. He emptied the cup onto the road and put it and the rest of his bar on the floor. Another reason to despise those boots. Then he had an idea, probably no worse an idea than some others he had had during the past week.

Instead of stopping and parking the big Chevy in its alley spot next to Emily's, he continued through town to the northeast end and the lone, paved road that led down to the flats. It was approaching three a.m. and he hadn't passed a single occupied vehicle on his way through town. Chubb's Creek Road ran three-quarter's of a mile to a small paved parking area and boat ramp on a tidal creek of the same name. Small boats on trailers could gain access to the water there on all but the lowest of low tides. And from there, clammers had easy access to the broad flats of gooey stuff that was home to their shelled quarry. Baylor Road split left from Chubb's Creek about a hundred yards before the parking area and continued past a defunct bait shop and two or three graveled driveways to dead-end by a high-gabled, gray shingled Cape Cod-style house. The house belonged to Chief Harry A. Sloan and Joey approached to within a hundred yards of it with his lights off and stopped.

Joey sat in the idling Chevy with the windows down and watched the house. He could see the unmarked department-owned Chrysler parked beside it over the expanse of beach rose that dominated the landscape here. A moderate breeze, enough to rattle the ice-covered bushes, blew through the open windows, bringing some freshness and the unique aroma of the flats to Joey's nostrils. The house seemed to be entirely asleep.

Joey got out of the vehicle, pushing the door closed quietly with his hip and opened the rear door. He narrowed his eyes at the sight of the offending boots and bundled them up in the shower curtain, careful not to come in contact with them. He walked slowly and cautiously with his parcel to the wooden steps of the house and set it upon the landing there, laying the plastic open so that the boots faced the door neatly, side-by-side. He backed away from them, admiring his gift. "There you go," he said quietly, "try 'em on, see how they fit." Then he turned and strode back to his ride, glancing over his shoulder as he went. He backed away from the scene, turning in the first driveway before switching on his headlights. Not until that time did he wonder if his action had been one more ill-considered move.

# Chapter 5

The phone rang and Charles Adams was still somewhat drunk. Muddleheaded, he opened his eyes halfway to peer at the luminous numerals of his bedside alarm clock. It read 5:55 and, without really being able to determine what they signified, he reached out reflexively with an arm to shut of the alarm. The button moved to the off position and the ringing continued.

"It's the phone, Charlie," came a voice from the adjacent pillow. "Get the phone."

With one foot yet mired in the world of the unconscious, one struggling to reach the shore of wakefulness, he found the phone handset and held it to his ear, by chance, right side up. "Yeah?" he answered.

"Wake up, Charlie. How the fuck are you, asshole?" The voice managed to be cheery and menacing at the same time.

Charles wasn't sure if he was dreaming this scene. "Who's this?" he asked, trying to force his eyes open. The lids were gummed together and his mouth was a ball of cotton.

"You know who this is, fucker. Wake up." The voice was more forceful, and loud enough to carry to the ears of Charles' wife, now fully awake beside him.

"Where are you?" Charles' eyes had popped open and the shadowy light of predawn placed him firmly in his bedroom at home.

"Why, I'm with the fishies, where I'm supposed to be. Where else could I be, Charlie? Did you think I might be in your house? Maybe right outside your bedroom door?" Mockery rose ascendant in the voice, adding to the menace.

Letitia Adams came up on one elbow, alarmed. "Who is that, Charles? What's going on?" Charles said nothing, but he picked his head from his pillow to look at the bedroom door, open to the hallway.

"Ha, ha. No, Charlie, I'm not with you right now, but I will be, someday soon. Keep watching for me, Charlie." Click.

Letitia sat upright. "Charles, who was that? What did he mean?"

Charles was staring at the dead phone. "Huh?" He realized that his wife was speaking to him. "Crank call," he said. "Go back to sleep." He put the receiver down in its cradle and sat on the edge of the bed, hands to his temples, trying to force his emerging headache away.

Charles did not look his best this morning. At his best, perhaps ten years past, he cut the robust figure of a man in his prime. A distinguished touch of gray at the temples of what was otherwise a full head of black hair. A man made to wear a tailored suit to perfection, broad shouldered, and narrow hipped. A man seemingly chosen by the gods to succeed in life. And a man who could persuade others into endorsing his far-reaching plans, to loan him money, invest in his projects.

The man now sitting on the edge of his bed, clad in rumpled blue pajamas, carried more weight in his belly, and less in his shoulders. The hair was fully gray, and thinning. Time and alcohol had creased his face, dulled the once fierce glint of his eyes, and compromised his posture. The promise of his youth had taken a severe beating by time and by his own fecklessness, a double whammy.

Charles pushed himself to a standing position and shuffled into the master bathroom, closing the door softly behind him in the face of his wife, who had risen with him and followed him to the bathroom, entreating him for an explanation of the disturbing phone call. Through the door he only said, "Go back to bed." He did not turn on a light in the bath, preferring not to catch a glimpse of his reflection in the multitude of mirrors that spanned the double vanity to his left. Instead, he shucked his pajamas and stepped into the tiled shower area to bathe himself sober.

Letitia stepped away from the door when she heard the shower running and stood before the windows that, on that side of the house, offered a broad view of town and harbor. The view from here was about the best available, second only perhaps to the one from the house on Frenchman's Hill. The Adams family had a lock on good views. This morning, though, Letitia barely noticed the glow of dawn beginning to lighten the eastern horizon. Nor the lights beginning to move in the harbor as fishing craft began preparing for their work day. The argument with Charles of the evening before, his subsequent drinking, and the threatening voice she'd heard from her pillow combined to cause her to look inward to a less pleasant vista than was offered by the window to the external world.

She leaned forward, putting her hands and her slight weight on the heavy cast-iron radiator before the window, drawing its heat into her chilled hands. Her fine hair, loose only at night while she rested, fell forward over the shoulders of her pale blue nightgown. She considered her mental state. Overall, she thought, she felt depressed. She separated her depression into elements. Anger at Charlie for not getting her agreement before offering their home as security on a loan. Sadness at his drunken dissipation. Fear from the early morning call. Perplexity about the source of the funds put down for his construction loan.

She straightened. Time to come to some conclusions about her present life. Time to make some decisions. She began pulling her hair back into a tight ponytail before her morning run. The more disciplined bun would be assembled after breakfast and a shower. She moved away from the window after finally taking good note of the view it offered and gathered her running gear.

.

Joey dropped off the Suburban in its usual parking space beside the restaurant. He left the keys under the mat and the windows open, hoping the odor would dissipate before Emily or Doris needed to use it. Arriving home near four a.m., he entered his own home, locked the door behind him, drew all the shades, and crawled into his own bed for the first time since Sunday night. Being there was comfort enough to allow him to drift into a sound sleep, despite the turmoil of his mind. He slept for four hours and was awakened by a dream in which Sloan and Adams were sitting at the end of his bed, counting dollar bills into stacks which eventually covered the bed and began to suffocate him. He sat upright, throwing off the covers, surprised to not see a flurry of cash. Startled into full wakefulness, he got out of bed and showered.

The day promised to be sunny and warm. He would repair his windows and shovel Joe's walk. But first, breakfast. Since the only place he could eat without paying money he didn't have was Emily's, he walked there, looking over his shoulder occasionally for signs of danger. Feeling threatened was a new sensation for him, and one he did not like.

Breakfast was great, as usual, and he outdid himself in putting away an exceptional amount of food. Emily and Doris behaved no differently toward him than on days prior to this past week, for which he was thankful. The only discordant note of the occasion was Doris' chiding of him for the slight, odd odor in the Chevy. He pretended not to know what she was talking about.

"What do you mean, you don't know? Go out there and take a whiff. Smells like rotten shellfish. What'd you do, haul Molly's garbage to the dump?"

Her hitting so close to the mark caused him to stammer. "Ah, oh, ah, well, ..."

Doris didn't have time to wait for a coherent explanation. "Forget it. Just don't ask to borrow it again." She returned to the kitchen to catch up on the waiting orders and Joey left as soon as his plates were scraped clean.

.

Charles Adams was out the door before his wife returned from her run, not desirous of another confrontation with her and anxious to meet with Sloan to discuss the unexpected continuing existence of Elwood Trott, the major fly in his ointment today. He drove a newish Lincoln Town Car, midnight blue, as befitted his perceived place in society and his age, sixty-one, too mature for a Beemer. He wore a gray herringbone jacket over a lighter gray cashmere sweater and pressed khaki trousers. The casual man-about-town wore Bean boots with molded-rubber bottoms.

He had called Sloan from his cell phone in the car without announcing the reason for his visit and arrived in front of Sloan's house to see him standing on his front porch, contemplating what appeared to be a pair of boots on a plastic sheet. Sloan glanced up at his arrival, but offered no welcoming gesture as Adams joined him on the small porch landing. Adams recognized the boots. He related the phone call he had gotten as they both watched the boots. Both messages seemed clear. Elwood Trott presented a more or less immediate threat to their plans and even, perhaps, to their continued existence.

Sloan looked Adams up and down. He himself was dressed in fisherman-casual: gray hooded sweatshirt, stained and saggy Dicky work-pants, and rubber boots. "Complicates matters, don't it?" he said. "Gonna have to watch our backs, be ready to take him out, opportunity presents itself."

Adams was more upset by the turn of events than Sloan. "You're going to have to do a better job than you've been doing. Shit, you've screwed it up twice in one week." His usually deep, well-modulated voice almost rose to a squeak at the end.

Sloan narrowed his eyes at him, deepening the lines on his face. His face looked like an old, brown apple, framed by the tightly draw-stringed hood of his sweatshirt. He fingered the fabric of Adams' sweater. "Nice," he said, "Wouldn't want to dirty it up, do any of the messy work yourself, would you?"

Adams pulled back from his touch. "I'll do what has to be done," he said defensively.

Sloan smiled cunningly. "You did once, didn't you?" Something was left unsaid. Adams looked about him, as though someone else might be within hearing range. Sloan chuckled, apparently having made some point. "Don't you worry, Mr. Upstanding Citizen, we're in this together, you and me. You go on home. Attend to your business. I got two pieces of unfinished business to work on now."

"You're not going to try again for Warnecki, are you? Too many people are watching. He's not believable now, anyway. Trott's the dangerous one. You've got to take care of him." Adams' apprehension was palpable.

"Calm yourself down. I'll do what's best. And Trott, well, he's definitely gonna come to a bad end. Knew it the first time I laid eyes on that boy, a bad end."

Unfortunately for Elwood, the shadow he cast that day over the lives of Adams and Sloan would be his last to ever darken any portion of Rock Harbor. A scant hour after his early wake-up call to Adams, he fell asleep on his bike and rode it into a swamp in New Jersey. Neither he, nor his bike would be discovered until springtime, when the rising water in the swamp from the spring melt carried his corpse close to a roadside rest stop. There it was found by a birder, making a spring count of waterfowl for the Audubon Society. So, effectively anyway, Sloan had screwed up only once this week, though he didn't realize it.

.

When Louis noticed that Joey's garage workshop doors were open, he pulled on a jacket and went out immediately. Joey worked at a scarred bench, heating the putty that held the remnants of broken glass to his window sash. One hand played a propane torch along the putty while the other chiseled the softened stuff away with a putty knife. The air in the shop smelled of burning paint. Pieces of glass tinked to the concrete floor as he worked.

"Joey, hey, where you been?" Louis asked.

Joey glanced up from his work and smiled at his old friend. "Hey, Louis. How you doing?"

"Fine, fine." Louis waved the question away. "Listen, I thought you were gonna keep in touch, let me know what's going on with you. I learned some stuff you ought to hear. Regarding your predicament."

"Yeah? Well, I've got some story to tell you, too. Story you're not gonna believe." The last shard fell to the bench and Joey twisted the knob to shut off the flow of gas and watched as the blue flame shrank and died. "You busy this morning?"

Louis shrugged. "Nothing pressing. I want to know what going on."

"You want to drive me and my truck to the dump and the building supply, empty that load and pick up some glass? I'll tell you what happened yesterday and you can tell me your news."

Louis looked down at his feet. He was wearing his slippers. "Yeah, sure. Let me grab my wallet and my shoes and we'll go."

Louis told of Soukup's visit on the way to the dump, and listened as Joey emptied the truck's load into the burn pile at the dump and spoke of his yesterday.

"You left the boots on the porch?" Louis asked, at the end of the tale. He paid no attention to the smoke from the smoldering pile when the breeze changed to blow it towards them.

"Yeah, I did. You think that was a bad idea?" He screwed his face up into a look of uncertainty and squinted against the smoke that was stinging his eyes.

Louis frowned at the ground, squinting also. "Shit. I dunno." He looked up at Joey. "Might take their attention off you, some, if they think Elwood might be lurking around. Not much chance of him telling what happened to the police, is there?"

"No way. He'd go to jail himself. He's out of it, entirely, far as my problems are concerned." The increasingly heavy, dark smoke arising from the pile burst into sudden flame, making their present position uncomfortably hot.

Louis leaned away from the blaze. "Let's get out of here before the truck catches fire." They got in and drove away to their next stop. On the way, they discussed Joey's options. Louis thought he should tell all to Sims. Joey was doubtful. Louis said that, by god, if Joey didn't, then he would. Joey didn't respond to that and they continued their mission in silence, except for Joey asking Louis to sport for the cost of the glass, the building supply operator having heard too much of Joey's history and refusing to continue his credit account. Louis paid, glaring at the man and giving him a short lecture on loyalty to old friends. The man, knowing that he owned the only building supply in town, glared right back at Louis and suggested where he might shove his loyalty. Joey seemed only embarrassed by the whole scene, apparently reserving his outrage for Elwood's stinking boots. A truce settled on Joey and Louis on their way home, the terms of the truce remaining undetermined, Louis firm in his resolve, Joey anything but.

.

Tina Bronki, on the make for an advancement in her stalled career, smelled a story. Every instinct of her t.v., nose-for-news soul cried out for her to follow up on the Joey Warnecki Story. There had to be something big hidden beneath what seemed to her news director and the other station bigwigs to be small town trivia. She had pushed for leeway in digging up the real deal, and they had given her an assignment to cover the bumper potato crop, inland. She had threatened to take her considerable talent to another station, and they had pointed out the numerous applicants for her job. At that, she had backed off, heading to the potato fields and muddying her shoes and producing a report that her director called 'uninspired'. "What the hell did you expect," she yelled back at him, "the Pentagon Papers?! They're goddam potatoes, for shit's sake!" He responded by putting her on job probation for insubordination and she stalked out of the newsroom.

On her way out of the station, she resolved to dig up the story on her own time. Maybe she'd move to the print media and get a Pulitzer. But her writing skills were on the weak side and she had the face and personality for television, big-time television. She was going to be a Caucasian Connie Chung, not a Minor Media Mainer. She chuckled at her own impromptu alliteration. Maybe she could make it in the print media. She decided to swing by and take another chance at finding Joey at home on her way to her own home. It was only a half-hour out of her way. This, she thought, was the difference between a hack and a star on the way up, the willingness to go out of your way for a chance at a big story.

Joey had replaced the broken sash at his home and had worked his way across the twenty-four feet of packed-down snow of Joe's front walk by high noon. The sun was strong and Joey was working in his shirtsleeves, working up a good sweat, halfway to Joe's front steps. He knew the old man was aware of his presence. Nothing escaped Joe's notice within sight of his dirty windows, but the old man hadn't put his head out to say hello. Joey knew that Joe wouldn't want to pay for the time spent in a greeting. Joey had to chuckle at Soucup's penny-pinching ways. For a dollar-an-hour, he thought, can't waste any time talking. He heard the car coming down his street and stopping at the curb close to him. For a fleet instant, he thought someone was stopping to shoot him, and he flinched, ready to toss the shovel and dive for cover. The familiar face of the driver, though not entirely welcome to him, at least now, relieved his anxiety enough that he smiled her way and waved hello.

Tina leaped the snow at the curb and was in his face, smiling back at him, before he could prepare himself mentally for her presence, or even compose a greeting, so he said, "Shit, Tina, what the hell?"

Her eyebrows went up. "Nice talk, Joey. And how the hell are you?" Tina was a close talker, probably to ensure that she would share the frame with any interviewee.

Joey stepped back a pace, backed up even with the line of uncleared snow between himself and Joe's front steps. "I'm doing okay, I guess, how about yourself?"

Tina didn't answer. She tilted her head to one side, looking at him quizzically. "How long have you known me, Joey?"

Joey pursed his lips and thought. "Since about fourth grade, when you punched me on the playground for trying to kiss you. I'd have to say that was the moment."

"Well, anyways, we grew up together, known each other forever. You've been avoiding me, holding out on me. I want to know why. What have you got against me?"

"Nothing at all, Tina. I've just been trying to keep my life private. Anything wrong with that?"

"No, nothing wrong with that. Hasn't worked too good, though, has it? Look. The way I see it, if the whole world is going to take a look at you anyway, then why not give me a break. I could use a break." She halved the distance between them and raised her voice. "Joey, give me a break. They've got me doing potato reports. I'm dying out there."

Joey looked behind himself. No where to go without stepping into the snow and, anyway, he didn't want to appear to be intimidated by a woman who barely reached the level of his chin, even if he had been leery of her since the fourth grade. "There really isn't much to tell you, Tina."

"No? Well, how about where you've been since you left the hospital? How about why the DEA was hanging around? How about what you know about the police report of a shooting in the harbor?" She held one hand clenched in a fist at chest level. Joey didn't know if she thought she was holding a microphone or if she was going to punch him again. She saw that a softer approach was called for. "Listen," she said, "Not only could you do me some good, but by confiding in someone you know and can trust, you can make sure that the story shows you in the best possible light. I know you're a good guy. I know you're not a crook or a doper. Do you think that when the whole story comes out, and it will come out, the other guys are going to cut you a break? Uh, uh, don't believe it. I'm your best bet, Joey, count on it." She finished by tapping him on the chest with her fist, lightly, just for emphasis.

He smiled. "I was wondering if you were going to hit me, and you did." He waited until she relaxed her determined expression and smiled in return. "I'll make a promise to you," he said. "When the time comes that I think I need to say anything, I'll come to you. There's really nothing I can tell you now without making more trouble for myself."

Tina grew thoughtful. "Tell me this, Joey. Is there a chance someone might still be out to shoot you?"

Joey's eyes wavered. "Maybe. I don't know."

She waited a beat. "Don't wait too long, Joey. Much as I want the story, I don't want to see you killed." With that, she whirled away from him and was driving away before he could react to her last statement. Tina had never been much for small talk.

Since Joe didn't own a car, Joey shoveled a walkway along the driveway to the rear of the house and cleared a space around the trash cans. With the last shovelful removed from the steps, Joe opened the door and appeared with two one-dollar bills in his hand. "There's a little extra here for you, since it didn't take you two full hours," he said.

Joey grinned at him and took the money from his hand. "Well, that's mighty kind of you, Joe. Thank you very much." If there was an ironic note in Joey's voice, it didn't appear to reach Joe's ears. "Hey, Joe!" Joey yelled, "Screw in your ears!" He pointed to the earpieces, dangling on either side of Joe's head. The waxy earpieces were speckled with bits of hair and grit, but Joe screwed them in. They whined with feedback until they were seated.

"Don't have to yell," Joe said, "What do you want?" If he was at all relieved that Joey had returned home, nothing in his manner showed a trace of it. If anything, he was more brusque with Joey than usual.

"Louis told me what you saw on Monday night."

"Yeah? What of it?" Joe spit into the snow, most of the tobacco juice clearing his lip.

"I don't suppose you'd be willing to tell that story to the police, would you?"

"Not a chance. You think I want them bastards coming after me, too? That information stays between me and you, so's you know who to watch out for, next time." With that, the old man turned and reentered his house, closing his door without a good-bye. He was, like Tina, not much for small talk.

.

Knowles and Sims both had this Saturday off. Sims spent the morning cleaning his home while his wife was out showing a property. Knowles had taken it upon himself to drive out to Elwood Trott's apartment to see if he was there and then stopped at Sims' home to relate his findings.

"You went in without a warrant?" was Sims' first reaction. The two men were sitting in Sims' kitchen, drinking reheated coffee, left over from breakfast.

"What warrant? The back door was wide open, I knocked like a proper visitor and went in. You would not believe that place, the mess. Garage-slash-flophouse." Knowles took another sip. It wasn't any better than the previous one. "How old is this coffee, anyways?"

Sims ignored the question. "Are you going to report the visit?" he asked.

"Nah. I'm off-duty. I'm on tomorrow. I'll drop by again, see if he's come home. Looks of the place, though, I'd say he's not coming back."

"Talk to any neighbors?"

"Yeah. Guy next door heard the bike start up, take off. Looked out the window and saw a man leave in a dark Chevy Suburban. No description, except he was tall and skinny. Said there was writing on the door, but he couldn't make it out. Wasn't much interested, anyway. Used to hearing that motorcycle come and go late at night.

"Hey, speaking of which. I saw LeBeau this morning, that's what gave me the idea to see Trott. One of his guys found a black leather motorcycle jacket snagged on a piling after the last high tide, out by the pound. Red silk lining, zippers and chrome studs all over, hadn't been in the water too long. And get this, it had a hole in the right shoulder, through and through, like from a bullet hole."

Sims stared into his cup. A slick of oil floated on the top of the black liquid. "LeBeau going to do anything with the jacket?" he asked.

"He sent it up to the state lab, see if they can make anything on it. Probably any residue would have been lost, though, it being in the water for a while." He pushed the half-full cup to the table's center. "You know," he commented, "you're gonna have to do better than this, company comes to visit."

"I don't want to get used to the good stuff on the weekend," Sims said, deadpan. "Makes it too hard to adjust to the department coffee." He took another sip, staring at Knowles over the cup's rim.

Knowles stared back. "So what's your take on all this? What do you think about that meeting, Monday evening, if Trott was there, or if he wasn't?"

Sims pushed his cup to join Knowles' in the middle of the table top. It was half-full. "I'm going to keep my mind open, and my eyes," he answered. He was wary of letting his feelings about Sloan push him into any premature conclusions. "But my gut's telling me that something's wrong, and it's not just the coffee."

June chose that moment to bang the kitchen door open, startling the two men. She saw them jump at her sudden appearance, entering with two full grocery bags. "What are you two so jumpy about?" she asked, grinning. "Did I catch you planning a revolt or something? Should I call a cop?"

Knowles raised an eyebrow at her perceptiveness. Sims rose to assist her in setting the bags on the counter. "Can't get away with anything around you," he said.

"Bet your ass," she countered. "How're you doing, Charlie?" She brushed some dust from her black, tailored suit. Her working clothes.

"I'm good, June," he answered. "Gotta go." He stood up. "No sense planning insurrection with you around, anyway."

When he'd gone, June hefted the glass coffee pot and swirled the contents, peering at it to assess its drinkability. She poured it into the sink and set about making a fresh pot. Scrubbing out the pot, her back to her husband, she asked, "House all in order?"

"Tolerable," he answered. "How did it go with the showing?"

"Not great. They're qualified for less than the houses they want to buy. I think they're going to waste a lot of my time before they realize what they can or can't have."

"Morning wasn't a total loss. At least we have groceries. Get anything good?"

She measured ground coffee into the filter basket. "If you start putting the stuff away, you'll see that we have two pounds of fresh shrimp, a pound of fresh pasta, fresh garlic, and a nice bottle of white, to cook with and to drink. And I picked up a quarter-pound of fresh gossip, too."

"Do we have to share any of it with the girls?"

"They won't be back from Sunday River until late. Did you see the boys that picked them up this morning?"

"Yeah. Two guys with earrings and snowboards. Made me nervous."

"Don't worry. Those girls can take care of themselves on the snow and off it. Aren't you going to ask about the gossip?" June's confidence in her daughters was absolute.

Sims accepted her assessment. "Okay, what juicy tidbit came your way at the grocery store?"

"At the wine store," she corrected. "I ran into Jayne Mudroe, loan officer at the bank. I asked her about Adams' deal, with his invisible backers. She said they were scrambling to reevaluate the whole thing. They never expected him to be able to come up with the nut, and basically put the thing on the shelf as soon as he proposed it." She kicked off her shoes into a corner and began to pace the kitchen, keeping up with the pace of the now burbling coffee maker. "I know they set the conditions for the loan so high that they assumed he'd never be able to meet them. And I think they're afraid he'll have grounds for a suit if they turn him down now that he has. So now they're scurrying around looking for another reason to deny the loan. Can't blame them, given his history in trying to develop property."

Sims was attempting to appear barely interested, inspecting the grocery items and stowing them away. He disapproved of gossip, of course. But when she stopped talking, he stopped what he was doing and faced her. "And?" he said too casually.

She gave him a look that told him she knew what he was doing. "Oh, never mind," she said, "it's just the idle chatter of old fishwives, nothing a manly cop would be interested in. So what's up with Charlie Knowles?"

Sims pretended to study the label on a can of tunafish. "Charlie was doing a bit of off-duty sleuthing. He pretends to be just putting in his time until retirement, but I think he's worried about turning into a civilian after so many years on the job. How are they thinking they might worm out of granting the loan?"

"Charlie will be like a fish out of water, after leaving the department. He lives and breathes the job, just like you, pretending to not be interested in Adams' deal. You think I can't see that Adams is on your mind lately? He involved with your case somehow?"

Sims wondered if he was as transparent to others as he was to his wife. He hoped not. "I give up. Maybe you should be the cop, instead of me. Yes, I am a little curious about what Adams is up to. And he is running a little too close to my case for me to discount his possible involvement. But everything I have is a jumble, and I would be grateful for any little tidbits that might possibly throw a little more light my way." The coffee maker sputtered and hissed to a conclusion as he did.

"You want any?" June poured herself a cup.

"No, thank you."

She took a sip. "Two things: One, Adams insists that the project occupy the footprint of the cannery, using the existing foundation and deck. Even the architect who drew the plans fought over that issue. A luxury condo development does not share the esthetic values of a fish factory. Design-wise, his plan would be a blight on the landscape, and everyone, including his wife, is aware of that fact excepting Charles Adams. And two, all waterfront projects must have a complete environmental audit, especially on sites that formerly accommodated industrial uses. Charles does not yet have that approval, though he's been pulling strings all the way to the state capitol. The bank will use these two issues to stall for enough time to commit, one way or the other."

"You picked all that up in a few minutes at the grocery store?"

"Wine shop. And being in real estate is all about having connections and getting information."

"Sounds like the requirements to be a good cop."

June considered his remark as she sipped her coffee. "Yes, but in real estate, at least you know it's almost always about money."

.

Mary Hartz was working this Saturday, catching up on paperwork in the morning, occasionally calling the number at Warnecki's house to see if he had shown up there yet. If he was at home, he wasn't answering the phone, anyway. By noontime, she'd had enough of the pencil and paper bit and decided to go home to check on her cat and have lunch.

At home, she shared the last of her mother's Thanksgiving care package with the cat, who preferred dark meat and wasn't big on cranberry sauce or creamed onions. The old tom finished first and purred around her legs, begging for seconds. She set her empty plate on the floor for him to clean up the gravy remnants before the dish went into the washer. "Just like Jack Sprat and his wife, you and me," she told him, "except reversed for the fat and lean part, and the platter gets licked clean just the same, huh?" Mary had the habit of talking to her cat when the house was feeling especially quiet, which seemed to be most of the time. Her world had narrowed, these last several years, to home with her cat and her reading, and to the job, her main window to the world. Outside of it, she had lost touch with most of the friends of her youth, not a rare phenomenon in her profession. She considered calling her mother, but decided to postpone that task until Sunday, their usual day for extended communication. She decided to swing by Warnecki's house to see if he was there. Despite Sloan's order to keep tabs on him, no one had seen him since the previous afternoon. Heaven help him if he was on the run. Or if his assailant had made another try for him. She went upstairs for a peace offering to bring with her, hoping to gain his confidence in her good intentions. Before leaving her home, she stepped into the downstairs half-bath to check her appearance in the sink cabinet mirror. "Officer of the Law can't meet the public with gravy on her chin," she told the cat, who was perched on the toilet tank, cleaning his paws. The mirror was too small and the room to tight to step back and regard much more than her face, but she was satisfied with what she saw, considering her age and frame. "Not too many new lines, not too much fat," she commented, though her cat didn't appear to be listening, attending to his post-meal grooming. A slight odor of ammonia, emanating from the litter-box behind the toilet let her know that another chore was to be added to tomorrow's list. Sunday and Monday were her days off.

Back in the department vehicle, she radioed her intentions to dispatch and drove the twelve or so blocks to Warnecki's neighborhood. The afternoon sun shone brightly, reducing the curbside piles of snow to dirty remnants that contrasted starkly with the clean stuff that ranged beyond the reach of sand trucks and splashing cars. By and large, the neighborhoods along her route had cleaned up from the storm. Walks shoveled, storm drains and fireplugs cleared, broken branches cut up and stacked at curbside for removal to the town dump burn pile. Kids were playing outside, throwing snowballs and getting wet in the melting snow. It was a nice day to be alive in Rock Harbor, Mary thought, and she wondered if the snow cover would stick, or melt away to bare ground before the next snowfall.

Warnecki's house on Fourth Street was one of only a few that retained snow on it roof. Most of the others were bare, a result of the mostly elderly homeowners being unable to afford to insulate them adequately. Mary noted that Armstrong's home kept its blanket of snow, also, but Soucup's was bare down to the worn roofing. Soucup's house was a blight on the neighborhood.

Mary turned in Joey's driveway and backed out to park in front of his house. She left her uniform jacket and cap in the car and, carrying a plastic grocery bag, walked down his driveway to the rear. His pickup was parked and empty. She noticed as she knocked on the door that the window next to it had been repaired, but the storm window had not been replaced. Fresh putty edged the glass in a neat bevel and the shade was drawn on the inside. Probably a good idea, she thought. Receiving no answer to her summons, she knocked again, louder. Catching a glimpse of movement in her peripheral vision, she looked left to see the cadaverous visage of Joe Soucup gazing from his window at her. The squeak of a hinge behind her turned her all the way around and Joey emerged from the garage, blinking in the sunlight. The hand that he held up to shade his eyes was smeared with some black substance, which had apparently migrated to a spot beside his nose and a streak in his unruly hair as well.

"Hello," he said, recognizing her. "I've been working in the shop, putting my storm back together. Been knocking long?"

"No, just a half-minute. Sorry to bother you. Stopped by to see if you're alright, had any more trouble." Mary left the steps to join him behind the truck. "Whatever it is you're working with, you got some on your face and in your hair."

"Oh?" he said, touching his hair and transferring more of the stuff. He looked at his hand and pulled a rag from a rear pocket to wipe at it. "Messy stuff, until it dries. I'm using it to hold the aluminum frame together, should have let the glass guy do it. Next time I will."

"Next time someone shoots through your window?"

"Hope not." He grinned ruefully. "Baseball be okay, maybe." She wasn't smiling back and he lost the grin. "I've been okay, though. No major problems have turned up lately."

"No threats made to you? No strange faces in the window?"

"No, nothing like that." He wasn't offering her anything new.

She stepped back a pace, mentally, giving him some breathing space. She sensed he had something hidden behind the closed face he showed her. She smiled a little. "That stuff going to wash off, or do you have to wear it until it flakes away?"

He smiled in return, ready to change to subject. "It's supposed to wash off with soap and water, if you get it before it dries. Window's done, maybe I should do that now." Letting her know that this might be a good place for her to leave.

She held up the plastic bag. "Brought you a present," she said, still smiling and tilting her head to the side. "Books you might like."

"Yeah?" Now he was obliged to invite her in. "You want to come in for a cup of tea?"

"Tea sounds nice, sure." She was in.

Joey set a kettle on to boil before retreating to the bathroom to wash. "Back in a minute," he said. "Tea and cups are in the upper cabinet beside the sink."

Mary found cups and a box of store-brand teabags in the second door she tried. She put a bag into each cup and sat at the table to wait. She considered her approach. Casual, round-about, not too pushy, she thought. Just get what comes easy, keep the door open for another time. The kettle whistled simultaneously with Joey reentering the kitchen. Mary watched him remove the kettle and pour. His hands and face bore a slight remnant of black stain. He'd probably have to cut his hair where a stiff clump feathered out. But then, she thought, there was a head of hair born to wear a hat, anyway. "Guess they lied about the easy clean-up, huh?" she asked.

"Yeah. It'll wear off, few days. Sugar or milk?"

"Just black's fine. Did you fix the bathroom mirror, too?"

"Not yet," he replied, putting the cups on the table and sitting. "Holding the pieces in place with tape until I get around to it. Rug has to go to the cleaner's, see if they can get the blood out." He stared into his cup, dunking the teabag.

Mary stood for a moment to deposit her teabag in the sink. She preferred her tea on the weak side and he was evidently planning to leave his in the cup. She sat, took a sip and then slid the contents of her plastic bag onto the table top. Five paperbacks. "Paretsky, Wilhelm, and Rosenberg," she said.

He picked them up in silence, reading the covers and the first paragraph of each. "Haven't read any of these, I don't think. Sometimes I forget a book and don't realize I've read it until I've gone through fifty pages." He smiled. "A bad memory can be a good thing. The old becomes new again. All women authors, huh?"

"Yes. I happened to notice some gaps in your collection, serious ones, I'm afraid." She spoke with mock seriousness. "Not many women represented there and why is that?"

"Well, I don't really know, except that I just don't search them out. Christie got me started. Tried Rendell, but she writes over my head. Read some of Highsmith. Her Tom Ripley character disturbs me." He shrugged in embarrassment.

"He's supposed to be disturbing. I can almost guarantee you'll like these. Good characters, good prose. If you do like them, I can continue your education in a new direction of gender equality."

"Sure, fine by me. But tell me why you would want to do that." He was curious without sounding suspicious of her motives.

It was Mary's turn to be slightly embarrassed. "Actually," she explained, "I was hoping you might let me borrow a few from your collection, some I haven't seen before. Isn't your tea getting a little strong?"

"Stronger the better. Like it to put fur on my tongue. Sure, take anything you like."

"Thanks." Mary sipped and put her cup down. Time to push a little. "I've tried calling several times, drove by some, wanting to check that nothing's happened to you. You staying somewhere else at night, keeping out of sight?" She watched his eyes and they evaded her gaze. He was clearly uncomfortable with her question. The sound of someone knocking on the back door brought relief to his face. The sound of the outside door opening and closing was followed by the appearance of Armstrong at the kitchen door. Louis entered and nodded in Mary's direction.

"Hey, Lou. What's up? We were having a cup of tea. Want some?" Joey was talking too fast and Louis frowned.

"I was going out for some groceries, thought you might like a ride, pick some stuff up." Louis didn't respond to Joey's offer, but sat at the table, wondering what had his friend so uptight. He turned to Mary. "This a social visit?" he asked, "Or official?"

Mary shrugged. "Social, mostly. And checking to see if Mr. Warnecki has felt any threats to his well-being lately. Chief Sloan asked a few of us to keep up with his condition." At the mention of Sloan, Mary felt a chill from the other two.

"Sloan, huh? He's concerned about Joey?" Louis' gaze on her was intent, almost hostile.

Mary held his eyes for a moment and then looked to Joey, who looked into his cup as though the tea might have become too strong for his taste after all. She looked back to Louis. "Is there some reason for you to doubt that the police might be concerned for the safety of Mr. Warnecki?" Her words may have been defensive in nature, but her tone was not. She wanted a reason for the sudden change of atmosphere in the room.

Louis tilted his head back in thought, searching the ceiling for the right answer. Mary and Joey watched him, as though he were the pivot of the seesaw that would move them up or down. After a long minute, Louis looked down at both of them in turn and then settled his gaze on Mary, leaning forward with his forearms on the table. "Let me ask you something," he said. "What is your personal opinion of Chief Sloan?"

Mary sat back, brow furrowed, considering his question. The thin blue line was not casually crossed, but there was something going on here that surpassed automatic loyalty to the uniform. "I think he's an asshole," she stated. "Of course, that's only my personal opinion." Her disclaimer brought a slow grin to Louis and a tight smile to Joey, who continued to regard his cup. Nonetheless, the tension in the room seemed to ease. "Why do you ask? What do my feelings about my superior officer have to do with anything?"

Joey took a deep breath and blew it out between pursed lips, like he was about to dive into an unknown pool and spoke. "Because I think he was the one that shot me, that's why, and I don't know if any other cops might be in on it with him. I don't know who to trust."

Mary was stunned. Her face grew red under the eyes of both men. She pulled herself upright. "That's ridiculous," she said. But even as she said it, she felt her automatic defense becoming untenable. She sought refuge in reason. "Why would you say something like that? What evidence do you have?" The two men were silent. "Come on," she challenged, "You can't say a thing like that and not back it up." She glared at Joey. "I've been straight with you from the beginning. Me, Sims, and Knowles have given you every benefit of the doubt, and protected your rights all the way. Now you come straight with me, stop holding back, and I promise you, I'll do the right thing as I see it, damn me if I don't." She thumped the table with her closed fist, startling herself as much as Louis and Joey with her vehemence. Louis yet watched from the verge, unwilling to commit himself totally.

"You, Sims, and Knowles. Those the three names we should trust?" Louis demanded quietly.

"For sure. Without a doubt. Two more, Clarkson and Waters. That's a given. I'd trust my life and my soul to any of them. Maybe not my soul."

"Ain't your life we're worried about," was Louis' rejoinder. He looked at Joey, gaining his silent assent. "Make a deal with you. Gonna put this boy's life in your hands, okay?" Mary stared back at him, not committing to any deal before hearing it. Louis went on. "Gonna tell you everything. You're gonna keep it in that little circle of people you mentioned. Sims I think I know, the others I don't, have to trust you on them. You okay with that?" Mary held her silence, nodded slowly, committing to an agreement she had no right to make on her own. She had jumped in the pool with Joey and the water was soberingly cold. Her instincts and her personal honor overruled her professional misgivings. She stood to lose more than her job if she were wrong, and even if she were right. The ramifications of either were beyond her at this moment. But her eyes held steadily on Louis' until he, too, nodded. "Okay," he said, "Let me tell you first about a visit I had last night from Old Man Soucup, the first and last, I hope, from that old prick."

Mary sat still, listening to Louis' tale, until he finished and then faced Joey as he related the story of his last twenty-four hours, from dumpster to home kitchen table. His incredible narration was related with a matter-of-fact modulation that lent it the ring of truth. "You left the boots on his porch?" she said, when he had finished.

"Yeah. You think that was a bad idea?" He asked as though she might have had a better suggestion, given the circumstances and lack of rational alternatives. Those damn boots again, he thought. He may have muttered the words, by the looks that came his way from the other two.

Mary shook her head. "I don't know," she said, "It just seems a strange thing to do, under the circumstances. Give me a minute to think here." She pressed on her temples, trying and failing to come up with a plan that might confirm Joey's account of events to Sims and the others, especially Clarkson, who could doubt that the sun rose in the east, had he not observed it personally on each and every day. There was no confirmation to be had, apart from Sloan and Adams, which wasn't likely, and Trott, who was neither creditable nor available. That left Joe Soucup, an elderly man with an attitude, and a few circumstantial, difficult to verify miscellanea that were unlikely to add up to a case worth trying to present to any legal entity, grand jury, prosecutor, or judge. She had to get together with Sims first, and then the others and decide where to go from there. "Okay," she said finally. "You have to understand that I can't take your story on face value, own it and act on my own. But I will be discreet, given the possibility that certain members of the department may be involved in illegal activity." Brulick entered her mind as someone not on the need-to-know list. "I'm going to take this to Sims, first. He's principal on the case, anyway. That's as far as I can think at the moment." She waited for a reaction.

Louis cleared his throat. "Seems that the more people that are involved, the more likely it may be that persons with an interest in shutting Joey up are gonna feel that the problem needs a quick solution. People overhear things, watch if other people are acting different. You know what I mean."

Mary's forgotten tea had grown cold. She pushed the cup from her. "I hear you," she said. "So, time is a factor. Have to work fast enough and quiet enough to contain things. As far as Mr. Warnecki's safety, two things. One, he keeps in touch so we know where he is and what he's doing." Mary realized that she was speaking as though Joey were not present. "Sorry. You willing to do that?"

Joey shrugged, and then nodded. "Sure, I guess. Not that I'm going to be doing much, anyway. Can't drive. Can't work. Do my best to let you know what I'm doing, something comes up." He was cradling his cup in both hands as though trying to absorb warmth from the now cool liquid.

"I'll be back to you by tomorrow at the latest, set up a system. Second thing. Your best course of action is to be alone as little as possible. Witnesses are a good protection from someone who might wish to cause you harm."

"I can hang with Louis some of the time, he doesn't get sick of me."

"Joey can sleep at my house, too," Louis said, glad for a chance to keep a closer watch over his neighbor.

"Plans for the rest of the day?" asked Mary.

"I think I'll go grocery shopping with Louis, if he can front me the cash." He looked to Louis, who looked back without giving a response to what he considered a given.

Mary stood and picked up her cap. "I'm going to go, then. One more thing. You're watching the neighborhood for anything out of the ordinary. How about your neighbor on the other side, Soucup. Do you have any confidence in him to cooperate at all with this?"

Joey shared a look with Louis. "Well, Joe sees everything that goes on around here, but he's not what you might consider a cooperative person," Joey replied. Louis snorted and swung his head at what he apparently considered a more than generous assessment of Joe's character. Mary left at that point. She would see about Joe Soucup another time.

.

At seven in the evening, John and June Sims were sitting back in their chairs in the modest dining room of their home. While they would ordinarily have eaten at the kitchen table, June had declared this to be a special meal, worthy of candlelight and the good china. And indeed it had been. Shrimp cooked in butter and white wine with garlic and a hint of lemon zest, served over fresh linguine, finely chopped parsley over all, fresh French bread, and the rest of the crisp white Cote de Beaune. Sims was a contented man, not at all bothered that his hands smelled of shrimp from peeling and de-veining them, small cross to bear given the fruit of his labor and the present good company of his wife. He smiled at her.

"What are you grinning about?" she asked.

"Just appreciating you, dear," he answered.

"You're an easy man to please, John Sims. Fill your belly and you roll over like an old hound dog, waiting for a scratch." She grinned back at him over her wine glass.

"A scratch might be nice. How about a scratch?" The phone began ringing behind him, in the kitchen. He didn't seem to hear it.

"Later. You going to get that or are you stupefied from overeating?"

"Yeah, stupefied is the right word." He groaned to his feet and went to answer the phone, still clutching his napkin as though unwilling to let go of his dining experience. "Yo, Sims here," was the way he answered the call.

"Yo? What the hell is that?"

"Nautical expression. What's up, Mary? Clarkson got you working late? Need someone to complain to?" His voice was hearty.

"You're sounding a little too smug to me, John. I think you need something to bring you back to earth and I've got just the thing."

"Oh." Sims didn't want to leave his present state of grace. His plans for the evening had included a video and snuggling on the couch, but not police business. As much as he liked Mary Hartz, right now she was an unwelcome intrusion. "This something that can't wait until the morning?" An exaggerated groan came from the dining room, June performing as much as complaining. Busted evenings were par for the course.

"Sorry," was Mary's simple answer.

"Do you need me to come down to the department?"

"No. I just ended my shift and need your ear and your brain. I'll come there."

"What's it about?"

"Tell you when I get there. I'm leaving now." She hung up and Sims was left staring at the phone. At least he wouldn't have to leave the house. He was too full to move.

"Make some coffee," came a voice from the dining room. "I'll clear the table. Mary can share dessert with us before you discuss business."

"We have dessert?" Sims was still holding the phone.

"Of course." June appeared with stacked plates.

Mary arrived ten minutes later, in time to enjoy a chocolate cannoli and coffee with the two of them. June disappeared afterwards, picking up on Mary's pensive disposition and not wanting to be party to their discussion. Sims caught it also and lost the lethargy brought on by the meal. "Alright, Mary," he said. "What's on your mind?" He pinched out the candles and wisps of smoke rose to the ceiling as she began laying out the whole scenario as she had put it together in her mind in the intervening hours since she had heard it. She had constructed a coherent whole from all the pieces, strung out along a time line carefully drawn on two sheets of notebook paper, unfolded from her breast pocket and now spread before Sims to follow. She pointed to each item with the point of a yellow pencil as she described them in turn. Sims watched the paper and the tapping pencil point, not interrupting her once throughout her narration. When she had finished, they sat quietly. She, searching her mind for details overlooked, Sims waiting for her to complete that process. Finally, she put the pencil down and leaned back, crossing her arms over her chest.

"When you arrived at the department this morning," Sims asked, "was Sloan there and did he say anything about finding a pair of boots on his porch?"

"Sloan came in around ten o'clock dressed like a fisherman and didn't mention a word about it. He checked the logs from the night before, asked me if I'd been keeping track of Warnecki and left. I haven't seen him since."

Sims tapped the sheets of paper. "You were there, face to face with Warnecki and Armstrong. Do you buy their story?"

Mary took a breath and let it out. "I think they believe it, at least. If not, they're better actors than I want to give them credit for. I have to admit that I can't find a piece that doesn't fit, and as much as I hate to admit it, I can picture both Sloan and Adams playing a role in this deal."

"And Brulick?"

She shook her head. "Only as a stooge. He couldn't be trusted to be given an active part in something this heavy."

"What about the heroin? This is the first time anything but cocaine has come up."

"The chemist working for the DEA, Pym, said nothing about heroin."

"It fits with something else, though." He told her about the wire transfer that had arrived for Adams at the bank. "A few pounds of cocaine wouldn't bring anywhere near a million dollars. And I have to say it's a stretch to imagine how either Sloan or Adams could come across a connection to that kind of weight."

"That's a big loose end," Mary said, "not to mention that nothing we have is verifiable." Both Sims and Hartz realized that they were buying into the proposed model and they were both aware of the stakes at risk if they acted on it. That subject did not come up. They would act on it according to its merits, it went without saying.

"We can't do this on our own, you know," Sims said.

"No, of course not. We need Knowles, Clarkson and Waters at the get-go. Maybe LeBeau, later. Don't want to involve anyone unnecessarily in a plot to overthrow the constitution, which is what this feels like."

"I'm not comfortable with it, either. But you're right about the principal players. You have tomorrow and Monday off, right?" She nodded. "Clarkson does, too. At least no one expects him to spend every minute of his off-time at the department. Let me try to set up a meet at his house, early. We'll lay it out and go from there. Good?"

"That's a start, anyway." Mary slapped the table with both hands and stood. "I'm out of here. Call me in the morning."

Sims rose with her, holding the papers. "Mind if I hang onto these? Like to go over them on my own."

"That's fine," Mary answered. "I've got them so high in my brain I can see them like they're imprinted on my retinas." He walked her to the door and then made his calls, reaching Clarkson and Waters, and setting up a meet for eight o'clock in the morning at Clarkson's house. He asked Knowles' wife to have him call when he got in.

.

When Letty Adams returned home after her morning run, Charles was gone. She had stretched her run to eleven miles, four more than usual, and the result was that she was sore but clear-headed. She cleaned house, showered, and drove to Freeport, where she spent the afternoon browsing in the outlet stores. Around seven, she returned home and Charles was there, sitting at a newspaper-strewn kitchen table, cleaning and loading a nine-millimeter automatic pistol. She hated guns and the squarish, matte-black weapon looked like death in a box to her. "What are you doing with that? Why do you have it out?" was her greeting to him.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" His reply was sarcastic, his habitual defensive tactic when he didn't want to account for his actions. He didn't look up at her, but continued to click the bright cartridges into place in the clip.

"I won't have a loaded gun in the house," she said.

"Yeah, well." He pushed the clip into the heel of the pistol, not chambering a round.

"Does this have to do with that phone call?" She backed to a granite-topped counter and crossed her arms over her chest. She wore a navy wool blazer over a white cotton shirt, and blue jeans tucked into black leather cowboy boots. She waited for an answer that was not forthcoming. "Are you going to answer me, Charles?" His answer was to rise and tuck the pistol under his belt behind him, under his jacket. He crumpled the newspaper into a ball and stuffed it into the trash basket under the sink. "Charles?" she asked again.

He finally glanced at her and then his eyes drifted to the darkness outside the window over the sink. "Yes," he said. "The phone call was a threat. Some nut-case. It probably won't amount to anything, but I don't want to take the chance. You never know."

"Who was it?" she asked. He shook his head and shrugged, feigning ignorance, but she knew him too well. "We have to talk. We have to talk about a few things and we have to talk now." She hadn't raised her voice, but her tone was clear. Discussion would not be put off until tomorrow.

He met her eyes full on, but his face was closed. "I can't discuss it with you now. You'll have to trust me."

"You won't talk about the threat. You won't talk about the money." She wanted to make it clear, what it was that he was unwilling to discuss. He didn't respond. "Are the two connected?" she asked. Still no response. "I'm an officer in the corporation and I'm not to be a part in the business decisions, is that correct? Is Meredith aware of the steps you're taking? Does she approve?" His sister was also a corporate officer, but took little part in the business.

"You'll just have to trust me," he repeated. "For a while, maybe for a couple of weeks."

She held his eyes for a long minute, reaching her decision. It surprised her, how easy it was. The conclusion she had been avoiding with dread, with a fear of giving up her investment in a relationship that had endured for so many years, now reached her with the ease of shedding a jacket that no longer fit. "I'm afraid that's not acceptable, Charlie. I can't live with that. I'm moving out to the farm, tonight." His shoulders slumped, just a bit, with resignation or relief, she couldn't tell.

"Maybe that would be for the best," he said. "If the threat is real, I wouldn't want you to be hurt. The farm is safe. When this is over, everything will get back to normal."

She shook her head. "No," she said. "If I leave, I won't be coming back. I'll work in the office this week. You'll have to find someone else to take my place there after that." The farm, where she kept her horse, was sixty acres of pasture and woodland an hour to the north and inland. It was in her name only, as this house was in Charles', left to her when her parents had passed away several years back. They had also established a trust sufficient to maintain it and her, the principal of which was closed to her. Her parents had never had full confidence in their son-in-law and intended that their only daughter would always have the means to live independently, should it become necessary.

Charles retreated to his study with a bottle and his gun while she packed a few things, and did not offer to help her load them into her car. Closing the hatch on her white, late-model Land Rover, she paused to take a long, last look at the home she was leaving. The only light from the stately, old, colonial house came dimly through drawn curtains in the room where Charles kept his study. The money her parents had left her free of encumbrance had gone into the business and into restoring this house and grounds to make it the nicest in town. She wondered if she would have left it so easily if her parents had not provided her the means. She dismissed that thought. She had stuck it out for many years and would have left in this circumstance, whatever her means.

.

Louis had a gun, too. "What the hell are you doing with that?" asked Joey. Louis had removed it from a brown paper bag taken from under the kitchen sink in his house. Another, smaller bag held the bullets. They rattled and rolled onto the table as he poured them out beside the gun that was sitting on folded newspaper. Both men stood by the table, perhaps not anxious to sit down at a table that supported a gun.

Louis pointed at the pistol. "I won that in a card game from an old chief who won it in a card game from a Marine who supposedly took it off a dead officer on Guadalcanal during the war. World War Two." It was a military issue, Colt forty-five automatic. A small, brown spider was dried up in a dusty web inside the trigger guard. Louis scratched his chin. "I thought it might be useful, you know, if someone came around again." Joey gingerly picked up one of the rounds. The brass casing was green with verdigris. He looked at Louis questioningly. Louis shrugged. "Sink leaked a few years back. Guess they got wet."

"Assuming these bullets were still live," Joey commented, "which I wouldn't, and assuming that old gun worked, which I doubt, chances are one of us would get killed with it as easy as anybody else. I think you ought to put it away." He picked the gun up by the barrel, holding it like a hammer. "Heavy sucker, though. Might be able to drive spikes with it." He giggled.

"Gimme that," Louis ordered, taking the gun from Joey's hand and thrusting it back into the bag. Joey watched him with a grin on his face as Louis put everything away and wiped the table top with a damp sponge. Louis was embarrassed, but had to eventually smile back. "I guess it wasn't such a great idea. Sit down. Something else I want to talk about." Joey sat and Louis got two bottles of beer from the refrigerator, opened them, and sat down opposite him. "You know those papers you found in your attic." Joey nodded before bringing the beer to his mouth. "Forgot to tell you before," Louis went on. "I went down to the library to see what those chemicals were. Some are pesticides that they don't use anymore 'cause they're too dangerous. Some of the stuff is cancer-causing chemicals. All the stuff is basically toxic waste." Louis waited for a reaction from Joey.

"Doesn't seem like stuff you'd expect to see turn up at a fish cannery, does it?" Joey's interest was casual.

"No, it don't. And it being so odd that your uncle Stan would stash that paper in the attic, and remembering that your lawyer, Drew, used to do, still does, environmental work, I gave him a call yesterday. He thought it was all more than odd. He called me back in an hour and he told me that the trucking company on some of those slips was busted years ago for dumping toxic waste in out-of-the-way places. Said the company was mobbed up. Said we ought to give those papers to the Department of Environmental Protection."

While Joey appeared to be considering this, Louis' black cat padded into the kitchen, circled the table once and jumped into Joey's lap. He started to pet it and pulled his hand away. "This cat get cleaned up?" he asked.

"Damn cat," Louis said. "Yeah, I gave her a bath. But not before she snuck in and burrowed down under the covers on my bed. Had to wash everything, mattress pad and all." Louis dismissed the subject with a wave. "Never mind the cat. What about what Drew said?"

Joey began to pet the cat, whose immediate purring was almost as loud as his speech. "I'm thinking there's enough federal agencies interested in me without adding to the list."

"I'm thinking that one more won't matter," Louis retorted. "I'm thinking that putting some attention on Adams might take some of his interest away from you, too."

Joey leaned forward, putting his arms on the table. The cat jumped from his lap and disappeared. "What if it just pisses him off all the more? What if it gives him one more reason to get rid of me?"

Louis leaned back. "Well," he said, "there is that possibility. But he doesn't have to know right away where the papers came from. And maybe putting some public attention on him would make it harder for him to sneak around behind you. Another thing." He leaned forward and glowered. "Your uncle Stan died just a while after the dates on those papers. My mind's jumping to all kinds of crazy conclusions. What if Stan didn't die by accident? What if Adams acted then like he's acting now? What if he had something to do with your uncle's death?"

The color leached from Joey's face. He felt a chill run through him as if someone else's ghost had touched the back of his neck. "Whoa, Louis," he said. The voice of reason, maybe. "Let's not get carried away."

Louis was primed to let himself get carried away. He rose his voice. "Stop bein' Mr. Nice-guy, for a change. Always giving everybody the benefit of the doubt. You the only one in the world got a nice word for that asshole lives other side of you. I'm saying you got to consider the possibility that other people ain't as nice as you. And I'm beginning to wonder if being nice ain't the same as being stupid. If Sloan and Adams are bad enough to be willing to kill you 'cause of what they think you know, then maybe they did the same thing before. And I, suspicious bastard that I am, think that's possible, maybe even likely. So what are you going to do about it?"

Joey's native response would be to laugh at this as just another of Louis' rants, but something in the man's face told him that he had better not. So he held himself still and forced himself to address Louis' allegation seriously. He did not want to call the DEP. His credibility felt to him to be too vulnerable to do that. Louis expected him to do something, but what? "I've got an idea," he said. It was the only thing he could think of under the pressure of Louis' determined gaze. "I'm going to use your phone."

.

Sims had just gotten to sleep after several hours of thinking, using Mary's time line as the center of his study. What was to have been a quiet evening at home with his wife had turned into lone hours of disquieting reflection. The low trill of the phone beside his bed pulled him from the first stage of sleep and he grabbed it with a reflex born of many such late calls. "Yeah," he answered. His wife slept on soundly.

"You asleep already?" came the voice on the other end.

"Just barely."

"My wife said you asked me to call."

"That's right." Sims looked at the glowing bedside clock. It read twenty past one. "Can you get together with me, Mary, and Waters at Clarkson's house in the morning?"

"I can do that. Never been there. You?"

"No, I haven't. Listen, this is sensitive. Keep it under your hat, okay?"

"Sounds mysterious." Knowles paused a moment. "I went back to Trott's pigpen tonight. Thought I saw something, went back to check it out." He waited for Sims to say something about a search warrant and when none was forthcoming, continued. "Trott had a list of phone numbers scratched into the wall by the phone in the kitchen and guess whose was on the bottom of the list."

After another silence, Sims said, "I'll bite. Whose?"

"Harry A. Sloan's, that's whose. Just the number, though. No name next to it. Now what do you suppose those two would have to talk about?"

"That's what we have to discuss tomorrow." Sims was a go-by-the-rules guy and asked the next question reluctantly. "Anything else?"

"Yeah. There was a black t-shirt on the floor upstairs with what looked like blood on the right shoulder, right about where that leather jacket had a hole. I left it there for someone with a warrant to find it. And I shut the back door, keep the kids out."

Sims digested this information. "See you at eight." As he hung up the phone, his daughters entered the house noisily and he got up to welcome them with his parental love and his cop's watchful eye.

.

Joey stayed until late at Louis' house, talking, drinking beer, and watching television, but demurred at staying the night. His choices of accommodation there were to sleep on the living room couch or in a recliner in the t.v. room where Louis was presently snoring, one seat away. His own bed called to him and he crept home, surveying the area around his house carefully before quietly entering his rear door. With a flashlight taken from his truck, the truck he wasn't allowed to drive, he skulked throughout his home, checking the shadows for lurking gunmen. None were found, so he locked the doors, pulled the shades, and slipped into his bed, fully dressed. Resentment at having to feel insecure in his own home brought the image of Woody's boots standing outside of Sloan's door. Cold comfort came to him from the possibility that one or two other people might share an uneasy night, wondering if their lives were safe. Joey slept with his old little league bat next to him.

Both Sloan and Adams took similar precautions before climbing into their beds, with the additional insurance provided by the major league gun each kept under their pillow.

# Chapter 6

To Sims' eye, the only person in the room who appeared to be at all at ease was Waters, who seemed never to lose his cool, anyway. They had arrived almost simultaneously at eight o'clock and been ushered quietly down into the sanctum sanctorum of Clarkson's private lair. Four wooden kitchen chairs and Clarkson's rolling office chair awaited them, set in a circle in the center of the low-ceilinged basement room. Fluorescent tubes in the acoustic-tile ceiling mimicked the light of the police department. Waters sat in the catbird's seat, dressed in creased, tan chinos and a pale blue, oxford cloth shirt, perusing the first copy from Clarkson's printer. Clarkson stood at the scanner, removing Mary's original time line, which Sims had annotated the previous evening. The Sergeant's concession to being off-duty was to be tieless in his uniform shirt and pants. Mary wore blue jeans and a pressed, blue denim shirt, her off-duty uniform of the day. She distributed copies as each slid into the printer tray, her nervous movements betraying her unease. Knowles was in uniform, clearly surprised at having been handed a delicate china cup of coffee, complete with matching saucer, from the hand of Clarkson himself. He balanced that in his left hand, in his right was the Styrofoam cup he had carried in. Sims was dressed for church in his off-the-rack, blue suit, though he doubted that this morning's agenda would free him in time to accompany his wife to services. With the printer shut off and everyone seated, Waters gave Sims the nod to begin. "Not to pass the buck," Sims said, "but I'm going to defer to Mary here, since she put this all together and can tell it better than I."

Mary looked back at him in reproach and took a breath. "Thanks a lot, John," she said with slight sarcasm. "Okay. Here it is as I heard it from Warnecki yesterday afternoon, along with the other events that I've plotted in . . ." She spoke as though reading from a script, as indeed she was: the same script that each other person in the room followed, like actors following lines in the first reading of a play about a conspiracy. The others listened silently, apart from the occasional grunt from Clarkson and a few questions from Waters, who took notes on a clipboard on his lap. At the end of her narration, a long silence ensued. The ramifications of considering police involvement in a criminal scheme made every person in the room uncomfortable. More than their careers, the integrity of the entire department was at stake. The only person in the room who had had any experience at all with police corruption was Waters, who had traveled north to quaint Rock Harbor in part to leave all that compromising activity behind. Clarkson seemed embarrassed behind his usual air of irritation.

Waters broke their musing. "Anything else to add?" he asked.

Knowles cleared his throat. "Well," he began, "since we were looking to find Trott to confirm or refute Warnecki saying that he was in on that meeting Monday night, I thought I might ride on out there to talk to him. And since when I got to his place and the back door was wide open, and thinking that he might be hurt in there or something, I went in, you know, announcing my presence, of course, and I looked around for him." This drew a grunt from Clarkson, but no comment. Knowles glanced Clarkson's way from lowered eyebrows, cleared his throat and continued, finding a spot on the ceiling to focus upon as he spoke. "I looked through the place and didn't find him, so I left, closing the door behind me to keep the heat in, you know. But, I did happen to notice one or two things in passing, so to speak. One was that the Chief's home phone number was written on the wall there in plain sight. And the other was a shirt with what might be blood on the right shoulder. There was a hole in the shirt there, too. Just happened to glance at it 'cause it caught on the toe of my shoe as I was checking to make sure Trott wasn't lying upstairs hurt, or something. But that's all, you know. I didn't, like, go in to search the place or anything. Of course." Knowles crossed his legs at the ankles, legs stretched out in front of him. He pursed his lips and furrowed his brow, the picture of a concerned police officer, always looking out for the well-being of the town's citizenry. Mary caught the beginnings of a smile appear on her face and stifled them. Knowles was hoping for someone else to speak and take the focus from him.

"The consequences of pursuing an investigation along these lines, where the head of the department is a target, are apparent to all of us, regardless of the outcome," said Waters. "This is a very serious business. With that in mind, I'd like to ask each of you as to your thoughts on the matter. Sims?"

Sims looked inward for only a few seconds before meeting Waters' eyes. "I don't want to do this," he said. "I like my job and I don't want to lose it. Also, I'm sure that this thing is going to hurt the department and make it harder for all of us to do the job. But I don't think we really have any choice. We have to follow the matter, whatever the outcome. How we go about it is my main concern. I trust you to do the right thing."

Waters' eyebrows rose slightly. "Thanks for that vote of confidence. Mary, what's your take on this?"

"I agree with John," Mary answered directly. "We have to do it and do it right, so that most of the stink doesn't stick to the department. We have to play it close to the chest. And we have to keep Warnecki alive."

"Most definitely," said Waters. "Knowles?"

"I'm retired in a few months. I got nothing to lose but my pension. Maybe. But I wouldn't mind seeing Sloan go down, and Brulick with him. I'll play it however you see fit, long as I can be in it."

"Let's not convict anyone until we're sure." If there was a loose cannon on board, Waters thought, it would be Knowles. "Sarge?"

Clarkson glared out at everyone. "The department's got to be kept intact. If the staties or DEA or anyone else gets wind of this, it'll go out of our hands. We have to keep it in-house, take care of our own laundry."

"It sounds to me as though we've all bought into the proposed train of events. That being the case, I have one more piece to add." Waters looked at each face but Clarkson's. "Sergeant Clarkson brought me the information that Sloan's brother-in-law is an agent for the DEA out of Boston. That makes a circumstantial link of access to the cocaine and, as we've just heard, to a substantial amount of heroin. Charles Adams' happening to come up with a large infusion of cash for his project from an unknown source makes our scenario feasible. The problem we have, especially with trying to be discreet, is to come up with something solid, since all we have is conjecture without evidence."

Knowles cleared his throat. "They're bound to go after Warnecki again. He's their biggest problem. Watch 'em and grab 'em when they try."

Waters nodded, but otherwise let the suggestion pass. "The money angle is out-of-bounds for now. Cayman Islands banks are too tight, even for the feds. Trott is gone and unlikely to come back to help. But we can use him as a stalking horse, get into his house legally, somehow, for that shirt. We need to get Mr. Soucup to cooperate with us. We need to keep an eye on Warnecki and keep tabs on Sloan, Brulick, and Adams. What else?"

"If there's a weak link in that trio," said Sims, "it's Brulick. If he's part of it, and the shit comes down, he'd be the first one to break." Beside him, Knowles grinned evilly, like he wouldn't mind facilitating that breakdown.

"Find the boat," said Clarkson. "We need LeBeau."

Waters agreed. "LeBeau should be involved. But no one else, for now. I'll talk to him."

At that point, the phone rang and Clarkson picked it up. "Clarkson," he said, and listened for a minute. Everyone else in the room held their silence, feeling as though they were children hiding from the adults. It was uncomfortable for them, people who were used to acting in the open now having to act surreptitiously. "Not that I've heard. I'll get in touch with him," Clarkson responded to the voice on the other end of the line. "I'll be in shortly." He hung up without saying goodbye. "That was Sloan," he said, turning to Waters, "looking for you. He wants an update on Warnecki's movements and whether or not we've located Trott." Clarkson shook his head slowly and sank into his chair. Although all in the room were up-front, in-your-face kind of people, Clarkson was an extreme example of that type. "I hate this shit," he said, speaking for all of them.

"Let's break it down like this for today," Waters said. "Mary, give Warnecki a call, find out his schedule for the next few days. Give him some phone numbers, the list of who he can talk to." Mary nodded. "Knowles. Drive on out to Trott's, knock on his door. Check around if anyone has seen him. And pay a short visit to Mr. Soucup, but don't push him. We want to gain his confidence."

"Would you like me to take care of that?" Sims interrupted.

Knowles chuckled. "Don't worry, John," he said. "I'll be Officer Friendly."

Sims looked doubtful, but Waters waved him off. "You're off today, John. Tomorrow you can try Soucup if Knowles has a hard time there. I'd like you to see if June can get more information about what's going on at the bank, if you're comfortable with that."

Sims thought about it. "She has a legitimate interest, since Adams approached her about the project. I think she wouldn't mind digging a bit, and she's discreet. I'll ask her."

"Thanks," Waters said. "The Sergeant and I will stay for a while to work out some things, rearrange schedules. If there's nothing else, you're all free to go." He looked around for any response and then looked down to study the time line in his lap. Clarkson shepherded the three officers upstairs and out and they walked to their cars in bright sunlight. The tree-lined, residential neighborhood of single-family homes was quiet. Sims checked the time and saw that he could get to church in time. Knowles and Mary drove off separately in the direction of town, Mary behind him in her red Honda.

Mary decided to stop at Warnecki's home rather than calling, since it was on her way. Knowles stayed ahead of her, heading for the department to check in. Just after passing the intersection of Main and Water Streets, a shabbily dressed, older man paused in his rooting through a trash barrel to give Knowles the finger as he passed by. Knowles slowed and the old man scurried back and around the corner down Water Street. Mary wondered what that was all about. Knowles kept going and Mary turned right on Chandler Street, towards Joey's neighborhood.

Her knocking on the rear door of Joey's house went unanswered until Louis poked his head out his own rear door and announced that Joey had walked into town for breakfast a half-hour earlier. Mary thanked him and drove back into town, found a parking space on Green Street, and entered Emily's Rest to find Joey sitting at the counter. The restaurant was just beginning to fill up with families out for Sunday brunch, most opting for table space and leaving the counter seats largely empty. Mary sat between Joey and a man dressed in bib overalls. Joey was sitting with a mug of coffee held before his mouth in both hands. The skin on his hands was red and flaked with pieces of white, peeling skin. He didn't seem to notice her presence.

"Hey," she said. "How you doing?"

Joey was startled from his reverie. "Hi," he said back, looking around at his surroundings as though surprised to find himself there. He put the mug down and his hands in his lap. "Were you looking for me?"

"Sort of," she answered. "Got some things to talk about." She looked at the hair sprouting from under the sides of his red ball cap. "You need a haircut," she observed.

Joey smiled. "Yeah? That what you needed to see me about?"

Emily materialized in front of them, pad in hand. "What can I get you?" she asked pleasantly, but seeming to study Mary more closely than the average customer.

Mary smiled at her. She had a nodding acquaintance with the two owners of the restaurant, but didn't know more about them than what local gossip provided. "How about a large coffee, regular, and a blueberry muffin, to go." She turned to Joey. "You close to being finished? I can give you a ride home and we could talk for a minute." Emily lingered behind the counter longer than necessary, writing down her order. Emily's wavy hair was loose to the shoulders of a western-style, white blouse with red piping and a fringed skirt to match. When Joey allowed that he was done eating, Emily walked away and Mary saw that she wore white leather cowboy boots. Mary caught the look that passed between Emily at the counter and Doris in the kitchen. As a cop, she was used to getting odd looks from some citizens, but this was the look that passed between parents evaluating the suitability of their child's date. It amused her as much as puzzled her. She saw Doris speak a few words to the gray-haired woman in baggy clothes at the stainless-steel sink and the sound of banging pots and pans ceased as the woman came to the opening in the kitchen wall to peer out at her, pushing up her glasses to do so. Joey noticed and waved to her, but she ignored him and returned to her work.

"What was that all about?" Mary asked.

"You just got the third degree," he answered. "Martha can go all day without saying a word. So, the fact that she stopped work for a second means she is somewhat interested. If she tips back her head to look at you without pushing up her glasses, then she's more interested. And since she did, well . . ."

"And she was checking me out how, whether I'm worthy of sitting and talking to you?"

Joey thought about it. "I don't think Martha thinks like that. It's more like she's handicapping a horse at the track. You know, deciding whether or not to place a bet."

"A horse, huh?"

Joey blushed. "No, no, I mean it's just that it's unusual for them to see me with a woman, even if the woman is a cop."

"Are you saying it's all right for me to be a cop, but not a woman? Or a woman cop. Or what?" Mary had her chin in her hand and her elbow on the counter, wondering why she was enjoying making Joey feel uncomfortable. Joey finally figured out that she was teasing him and rolled his eyes without comment, and stood up to leave.

Back in the car, Mary set her coffee and muffin on the dashboard and fastened her seat belt. "You have a tab in a breakfast joint?" she asked.

Joey found his knees jammed up against the dash and adjusted the seat all the way back to accommodate his length. The sound of crunching coffee cups and candy wrappers came from behind him. "Yeah. I do a little work for them and barter for breakfast. Good thing, too, since I'm broke."

Mary started the car and pulled out from the curb. "Mind using your seat belt? I am a cop, you know." He complied with her request. "It's going to be tough for you, financially, until some of this mess gets straightened out. You going to be all right? Your neighbor seemed willing to help you out." Mary turned left on Main Street, going around the block to head in the direction of Joey's house.

"Louis is good. He's already paying for my lawyer and he's taken care of what I need so far, but I'd much rather pay my own way. I've got to find a way to work. I got a job for some people that will pay cash if I ask. The problem is getting to the job with my tools without tying up all of Louis' time. It's a drag." The same old man that gave Knowles the finger was back on Main Street. Joey waved to him and he waved back and smiled to show where teeth were missing.

"Who's that?" Mary asked, stopping for a red light.

"Pardner Jenks," Joey said, rolling down his window as the man stumbled off the curb in his direction.

"Joey, how are you? Got any spare change?" Pard leaned to the window and gave Mary a leer. Joey struggled to free some coins from his pocket and dropped them in the man's hand as the light changed to green. Mary turned left, leaving Pard to stand in the street, counting what he held.

"I guess I've seen him around," Mary said. "He live around here?"

"I think Pard's homeless now. Last I heard, his wife got a court order keeping him away from her house. I don't know where he stays."

The snow from the storm had retreated to misshapen lines of dirt-laden lumps along the roadsides and thin patches of crust in the shaded areas of lawns back from the street. By this afternoon, it would likely have all but disappeared, leaving behind the browned grass of late fall to await another fresh blanket of snow to cover its drabness. Leaves not already raked up would freeze in place until spring arrived and property owners were coerced by the new season to set their yards in order. "Not a good time of year to be homeless," Mary said as she pulled into Joey's driveway to stop before his pickup truck.

Mary noted with approval that Joey had to unlock his place for them to enter. She stood at the counter in his kitchen to open her coffee, offering him a part of her muffin. He declined, leaning back against the same counter in his quiet house. "I made you a list of phone numbers where to reach a small group of us that are looking into your...situation," she said, taking a folded sheet of paper from a breast pocket. "There's six of us going to be involved for now. We're taking this seriously." They stood facing in opposite directions, Mary tearing off small pieces of muffin, speaking between bites. "I believe I'll be your main contact person." She turned sideways to face his profile. "Call any time, day or night, if you perceive a threat or learn anything important. Both my home and cell numbers are on that paper." She cocked her head, studying him. "You seem especially thoughtful today. Anything going on that I should know about?"

Joey paused before he answered. "Maybe. There is something else going on." He had yet to face her. "I found some strange papers in the attic." Now he turned her way and told about their contents and the speculations that Louis had offered towards their possible meaning. Then he told her what he was planning to do with them.

"Tina Bronki? You think that's a good idea? I don't know, Joey." Joey had hit a ball way out into left field and Mary was running to catch it.

"I don't know, either," he said, "but that's what I'm going to do. Can't be any more stupid than putting those boots on Sloan's porch, could it?" Joey found room for a tentative grin on his worried face. "In a way, it's more of the same. Another thing for him to worry about."

"Or another reason for him or whoever else to finish what he started." Mary thought for a moment. "In any event," she said, "it's bound to accelerate the pace of whatever is going to happen. Which might not be a bad thing, because this business isn't going to stay under wraps for long."

"For my part," Joey said, "I've got to see this thing end soon. I'm nervous as hell, and I don't like feeling this way. All my life, I've let things decide themselves whenever I could, but this isn't going to work that way. I've got to push the issue, make things happen." Joey folded his arms and looked down at his boots.

Mary began to pace the floor. "Alright," she said, "then it's all the more important for you to stay in touch. You can't be floating off on your own anymore, right? If you're walking to breakfast, I want to know about it. What are your plans for the rest of the day?"

"I think I'm going to stay home, take it easy. Maybe take a nap. I didn't sleep well last night."

Mary stopped walking. "Listen. You want to work tomorrow?"

Joey nodded. "Yes, I do. I've got a week's worth of work on the Jennings' porch."

"I'll come by in the morning, drive your truck to the site. Keep an eye on you for part of the day, drive you back when you're done for the day."

"Well." Joey was nonplused. "That's very nice of you to offer, but I couldn't take that much of your time. I can get Louis to drive."

Mary shook her head. "No. I'll do it tomorrow. I'm off work, anyway. I'll call later to set up a time." She checked her watch. "What time is Tina coming by?"

Joey looked at the clock behind her. "In about fifteen minutes."

"I'm gonna leave. I don't want to be here when she comes, or she'll think I'm part of it. You weren't planning to tell her any of the other, were you?"

"No. Not now."

"Good. Watch out, though. When Tina's after something, she's like a terrier with a rat; she doesn't quit. Okay, I'm gone. I'll talk to you later." She headed for the door and stopped. "You check out any of those books yet?"

Joey smiled. "Not yet. I will, though. Promise."

.

Tina got to Joey's house ten minutes early. She entered by the front door and the first thing out of her mouth was: "Was Mary Hartz just here, and what did she want?"

Joey had to laugh at her abruptness. "Well hi, Tina. And how are you? I'm fine. Won't you come in, have a seat? Like some coffee?"

She gave him a hard look for a Sunday morning and flopped down in the middle of the sofa. "Sure. It'll be about my fifth cup today, but why not? Just don't jerk me around today, Joey, I'm not in the mood." She was made up for television, having worked the Sunday morning newscast. She wore a red, raw silk suit over a white blouse, and her stockings and red, high-heel shoes were spattered with mud. An enormous black cloth bag sat on the couch beside her. She immediately stood again as Joey went into the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. "I'm going to use your bathroom," she announced.

In the bathroom she noticed the cracked mirror, loose pieces held together with tape. She sat to pee and yelled through the closed door. "Is this mirror broken from a gunshot?" She thought Joey answered in the affirmative. "What?" she shouted. Now he answered loudly enough for her to hear. Good. She'd get a picture of that. Her bag had everything: still camera, tape recorder, laptop with modem, cell phone, even a video camera. Washing up, the mirror reflected back a broken, segmented image of herself. "That's about how I feel this morning," she said. "What?" came a voice from the kitchen. "Nothing," she yelled back. She opened the door and saw that he was still busy with the coffee maker. She went into the front room and retrieved the loaded video camera from her bag and padded back in her stocking feet to shoot the mirror. Then she went into the sitting room and panned the room, lingering on the bloodstains on the braided rug and the holes in the wall. Too bad the windows were fixed, she thought. When she had what she wanted, she boldly walked into the kitchen with the camera running, catching a stunned expression on Joey's face for a second before he broke into laughter. Have to cut that last bit.

"Shit, Tina, would you turn that thing off, please?" The coffeemaker burbled to a finish and Joey turned to pour. "Milk or sugar?" he asked.

"Black." Tina returned to her place on the sofa to be served. "Got any donuts or anything?" The camera went into the bag, out of sight, but ready to grab.

Joey carried a tray into the front room, with the cups, paper napkins, and slices of store-bought poundcake arranged in a fan on a plate.

"How nice," Tina commented. "So, what do you have for me, Joey, and make it good. I'm running on borrowed time."

"Potato fields calling? Heard there was a bumper crop this year. That true?" Joey sat on an embroidered footstool in the center of the room, smiling at her and waiting for her to settle down a bit. Even in grade school, she'd been a blur of activity. The only way to get her calm attention was to piss her off just enough for her to focus, without pushing her over the edge into attack mode. She was about there.

"Enough," was what she said.

Joey put down his untasted coffee. "This may be part of a larger story. What happened to me Monday night is why you think you're here, but listen to me anyway." He told her how he had found the papers, what they contained, and raised the question of why toxic chemical waste would be delivered to a cannery. He left it to her imagination.

She chewed and sipped and thought. "You say 'larger story." Are you saying that it's connected to what happened to you last week?"

Joey looked up and shrugged. He had to choose his words. "There seems to be a connection of characters, if not individual events, or circumstances." His choice of words was ill-considered, giving Tina a foot in the door to his story.

Tina stopped chewing. "Damn," she said. "Are you telling me that the Adams family is involved in both attempted murder and illegal waste dumping? Is that what you're saying? Because if it is, you'd better have solid proof, or there's no way a story like this is ever going to see the air. Can you imagine the lawsuits the station would face if we couldn't prove this?" She waved her cup and a dollop of coffee sloshed over onto her skirt. "Damn," she said. "Get me a damp cloth."

Joey's intention had been to push the chemical issue and keep her out of the other, but he'd blown it somehow, and would have to work it out some other way. He was grateful for the distraction of having to get something to blot the stain from her skirt. She followed him into the kitchen where he looked in the cabinet beneath the sink and came up with a clean rag. He handed it to her and she dampened it under the faucet and dabbed at the stain. "This has got to go to the cleaner," she said. she straightened. "Well? Tell me. What do you have?"

He took the rag from her hand and dropped it into the sink. He couldn't trust her to keep anything he told her from eventually being aired for the world to see. But he did believe that she was concerned enough about losing her job and any future job prospects not to release anything that she couldn't back up with evidence. So, why not give her a good piece of it and see what she could do to put the pressure on Sloan and Adams? "C'mon and sit down for a while. I'm going to give you photocopies of some receipts for the chemicals and tell you a couple of strange tales. And then you tell me what you think of all of it, okay?" They returned to their positions in the other room, and Tina elicited the whole deal, notwithstanding his assurances to Mary Hartz. Tina rummaged through her bag as they began speaking, coming up with a tissue with which to dab her nose, and incidentally pressing the record button on the miniature cassette recorder within the bag.

Tina's technique with reluctant interviewees was to interrupt with a million questions, keeping her subject off balance until he or she had revealed more than intended. With someone like Joey, the process was like taking candy from an innocent babe. He didn't stand a chance, and by the time she was done, he had revealed everything. He squirmed, realizing he had held nothing back. "This is confidential, right?" he asked. "Off the record?"

Tina was affronted. "Off the record? Nothing's off the record." She threw him a bone. "But. I will act prudently. I respect the fact that you have given me a lot here and I'll do what I can to not jeopardize your safety." Her expression of concern and sympathy morphed to one of awe. "What a story," she said. "It has all the elements: small-town corruption, drugs, murder and greed." Her eyes came back to focus. "The only thing lacking is a good sex scandal. No sex, Joey?"

Joey was appalled. In two short hours with Tina Bronki, he had managed to release chaos from the box. "Tina. Listen to me. We have to make a deal."

"What deal?" Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. What was his leverage for any deal? She had the tape, but it had been made with neither his knowledge nor consent. He had given her no hard evidence, not even the promised photocopies. All right then, deal.

Joey saw the calculations being made behind her eyes. He needed a visual aid to bargain with. He got up abruptly and went into the kitchen, removed a sheaf of papers from a cabinet drawer, and returned to his perch on the footstool. Her eyes went to the papers as he spoke. "These are the copies. The deal is that you start in slowly. Work around the edges first. We want to push them into making mistakes, not let them build a stone wall. I'd like you to start with the chemical thing, bring the pressure up slowly. If everything breaks at once, we'll lose all control of it. And you have to discuss everything with me before going ahead with any of it." He fanned the papers before her as though showing her a winning poker hand.

Tina was reluctant, but she could see his point. "Makes sense, I guess, up to a point." Her eyes let go of the papers and returned to his face. "But I'm not going to let you tie my hands. I have to use my own judgment." Shrewdness came into her eyes. "You get me an in with the police and I'll go along — mostly. And I want an exclusive on the story."

.

Sims got to the Rock Harbor First Church of Christ in time to slip in and stand beside his wife during the opening hymn. June had saved a place for him beside her in the last row. He held the hymnal with her, but didn't sing. His eyes roamed the congregation, looking for Charles Adams. Adams stood two rows ahead, a bit to his left. He saw that Charles was alone, Leticia not in her usual place beside him. Charles seemed to have done a poor job of shaving that morning, which was also unusual. June noticed his stare and nudged him with her elbow. "On the job this morning?" she whispered. He feigned innocence and tried to find his place in the song, but it came to an end and they sat.

The sermon that morning blew right past Sims, so involved was he with studying the profile of Adams. He stood and sat at the appropriate times with the rest of the assembly, but he really took no part in the service. After the benediction, he wandered with the rest to the parish house for coffee hour, keeping a lookout for Adams, who slipped away without attending that time of sociality.

"He probably felt your eyes on the back of his head," June said. She and her husband were standing together with cups in their hands in a corner of the large room, apart from other people.

"Who?" Sims said. June gave him a look, but felt no need to respond. He rolled his eyes. "Okay, okay, never mind. How about we go home? I'll pick up some chinese on my way." June tipped her head in gracious assent.

At home, at the kitchen table, suit-coats off and sleeves rolled, they spooned from several cardboard cartons: chicken, shrimp, vegetables and rice. They both liked it made extra spicy, and the aromas combined in a heady and heavenly mixture.

"So," June said from around a bite of hot-pepper green beans, "you actually got to see the inside of Clarkson's house. What was it like?"

Sims swallowed before he spoke. "Didn't really get to see much. He hustled us down to the cellar, where he has recreated his office at the department, right down to flickering fluorescent lights and a beat-up, gray steel desk. Kind of frightening, really. It's like he has no life at all apart from the department. I did see a picture of him and his wife, taken when they were young marrieds. And the living room was set up with a hospital bed. She must have been living there for the several years before she passed away. He hasn't changed it since she died."

"That's sad." They ate in silence for a minute, appreciating what they had in their lives. She wouldn't press him to reveal what had been so important and secret to occasion a meeting in such an unlikely locale. If he wanted to tell her, he would.

The clock on the wall read noon. "Girls are sleeping late," he observed.

"Yes. They're 'plum tuckered out'. They need it."

"You want to go for a little walk?" Sims asked. "Nice sunny day, no wind. And I'd like to run some things past you, see what you think."

"Sure. Let's leave some of this for the girls for their breakfast, change and go. Walk off the calories we just added." Sims added some to his plate before she could close all the containers and put them in the refrigerator. "Chow-hound," she commented.

.

Knowles made a pass by Elwood Trott's place, stopping long enough to knock on the rear door and then ask the next-door neighbors if they had noticed any comings or goings. They hadn't. His next stop was at Joe Soucup's. He was looking forward to talking to the old man who had given Sims such a hard time. Sims was generally unflappable, so Old Joe must be an especially hard case. Knowles enjoyed dealing with that particular type. He parked on the street in front of the house, noting the instant appearance of Joe in a front window. He knocked on the door, waited, knocked again and waited some more. He could stand there and knock for as long as it took, and it took a full five minutes before the old man was irritated enough to answer his summons.

"What the hell do you want?" said the high-pitched voice. The door was opened a scant inch, just enough to show one angry eyeball and part of a beaked nose with white hairs sprouting from its tip.

"Mr. Soucup, like to take a minute of your time," said Knowles in his most pleasant voice.

"Got nothing to say to you." The door closed. Knowles resumed his knocking. This time, after a minute of knocking, the door opened all the way. Joe stood there in all his splendor: graying, sleeveless undershirt; belt-less, brown, double-knit trousers that had a stain or damp spot at the crotch; and faded blue, open-toed, knit carpet slippers that showed his long, yellowed toenails to full advantage. He said nothing, but glared at Knowles. His chest was stuck out and his gnarled hands were clenched into fists, as though daring the cop to take a poke at him so that he would be justified in knocking the uniformed bastard down.

Knowles smiled, like a shark. "Good morning, Mr. Soucup. Lovely day indeed, wouldn't you say? I have just a couple of quick questions for you, won't take any time at all." Joe made a move to close the door. "Whoa, now," Knowles said. "I can stand here and knock all day, or you can give me a minute of your most valuable time."

Joe sized the big cop up, figured him out, and gave him a grin ten times as mean as Knowles' own. As the door closed in his face, Knowles just caught a glimpse of Joe's hand, giving him the finger. "That's twice today," Knowles muttered. "Twice too much." The steam rose to his head and he knocked until other neighbors were appearing on their front stoops and in their windows. And still he knocked. He could feel the old man inside, grinning like Satan. Still he knocked, until Joey saved him from himself.

"Hey." Joey came from his own front door and around the fence to stand on the walk below Joe's front steps. Knowles turned rigidly to face down at him. "Knowles, isn't it?" Joey asked, trying to keep from looking amused. The cop nodded once, incapable of speech at the present moment. Joey looked around at the elderly neighbors observing them. They, seeing that Joey was taking the situation in hand, retreated from view. "Joe will let you stand there and pound all day and night, enjoying every minute of it." Joey paused dramatically and looked directly up at Knowles' clenched visage. "And when you finally pass out from exhaustion, or die from a heart attack, he'll open the door and stand on your chest and crow like a rooster for all the world to see." The image that brought to Knowles' mind broke the spell and he came to ground. His face relaxed and his shoulders slumped a fraction. "As long as you're here, I wonder if I could talk to you for a minute," Joey said. "I tried calling Officer Hartz at home and got no answer and then I tried Sims' number and got his daughter who said he was out walking."

Knowles had an out from his stand-off. He could retreat with some dignity left. "Sure," he said as casually as he was able, considering the level of adrenaline still coursing in his veins. He allowed Joey to lead him to his kitchen, where he sat in a chair at the table. His hands had a slight tremor and he hid them in his lap. How did the old bastard do that to him? "Could I have a glass of water, please?" he asked. Joey got him one and another for himself and sat down opposite.

"Don't try to figure it out," Joey cautioned. "Everyone has some special talent and Joe's is to piss off everybody. Some people can play a musical instrument, some can make themselves rich. Some can sell ice to the Eskimos and Joe could do to Job what Satan couldn't." Joey was talking him down, his own special talent.

"If you could bottle what that guy has," Knowles observed, "you could destroy the world." He was about back to normal. "I've never seen anything like it. The guy didn't say more than a dozen words to me. I just came apart." There was wonder in his tone. He drank down the water. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it." Joey saw that Knowles was cool enough to listen to him. "I did something," he began. "It may have been a mistake, but you ought to know about it so that you won't get caught off guard." Joey related his visit from Tina Bronki. Knowles received it with the calm that comes to those in the aftermath of an adrenaline high.

"Yeah," Knowles said thoughtfully, "she might stir things up beyond what we might appreciate. Cat's out of the bag now, though. We'll have to deal with it. Mary's an old friend of her's. Might be able to rein her in a bit." He paused. "Tell me about those papers again." He leaned forward, elbows on the table as Joey made the issue clear to him.

When they were finished talking, Knowles left by the front door and trotted back to Soucup's. He lifted the mail slot and yelled inside. "So long, Mr. Soucup. Nice talking to you. See you soon." He knew the old man was just inside. One parting salvo to show who would have the last word.

Joey spent the afternoon reading and dozing in the chair where he had been shot, with the shades drawn.

.

Mary spent her afternoon visiting with her mother. Mom wanted to fix her up with the nice young man from next door, a recently divorced software programmer. "I think he might be Jewish, but you're not getting any younger and can't afford to be too choosy." They were sharing tea and cookies in the tiny woman's small living room.

"But, mom," Mary said, taking the bait and running with it, "what about the children? Would they be Jewish or Christian?"

"I've looked into that," her mother said seriously. "I believe that for the children to be Jewish, the mother has to be Jewish, so you'd be okay in that department." She gave her daughter a comforting smile.

"I've heard that Jewish men have unusual sexual practices," Mary said, concerned.

Mom didn't want to go there. "I wouldn't know about that," she said, looking in the air about her for another direction to lead the conversation.

"I'd have to try him out, first, so I'd know what I was getting into, don't you think?" The fish was in the process of landing the fisherman, who would be flopping out of the boat in another minute. "Should we invite him over now? I've got plenty of time to check it out."

Mom let out a deep sigh. "Let's forget it, shall we? You're just toying with me."

"Sorry, mom. You know where this conversation always leads. You have to accept that I'm a big girl now, responsible for my own choices. Let's talk about you. Maybe you should find a man. Any worthy candidates in the running?"

Her mother tittered. "Oh my goodness. I'm not looking for anything like that. Your father was the end of the line for me." With that, Mary was able to steer the conversation to her mother's remembrances of things past, a subject they could explore together in comfort.

In the evening, when she got home, she got caught up on the day's events by phone and arranged to meet Joey at his house at seven a.m., to drive him to his job site. She fed her cat, cleaned his litter box, and went to bed early. Tomorrow might be a long day.

Knowles, off-duty by evening, took it upon himself to drive by both Sloan's and Adams' houses several times until the early a.m. They both seemed to be staying at home in the hours of darkness, with their shades drawn.

# Chapter 7

Mary arrived ten minutes early to find Joey not at home. The back of his pickup truck was loaded with tools and materials, but her knocking at his back door had gone unanswered. The door was unlocked and she had entered, calling his name in case he had overslept. A note was on the kitchen table to tell her that he had gone for an early breakfast and that he would be back by seven. She was irritated that he had once again gone somewhere without letting her know beforehand. He showed up, whistling, to find her leaning back against the grille of the truck, one heel on the bumper, arms crossed over her chest, and scowling. He stopped whistling. "What's the matter?" he asked.

"I thought you were going to keep me informed of your whereabouts," she said. She was wearing a green chamois-cloth shirt under a tan canvas jacket, loose-fitting blue jeans and hiking boots. Joey wore tan canvas carpenter's pants, his high-top work boots, and a heavy, wool, red and black-checked shirt. The bill of his red ball cap was skewed a few degrees to the side.

He put his hands into his pockets. "Well, it was so early, I didn't want to wake you up. I only walked down to breakfast."

"I don't care if it's the middle of the night and you're going outside to piss, you call me and tell me what corner of the yard you're going to use. I want to know every time you step outside your door. And if you can't reach me, you call one of the other numbers. But call me first. Anything happens to you, it's my ass. Got it?"

Joey bobbed his head. "Yeah, sure," he said, avoiding her gaze. Time to change the subject. "Ready to go? All my stuff's in the truck and the keys are in it." Instead of answering, she pushed off from the front of the truck and swung inside to the driver's seat. She started the engine and looked down at him, hands on the wheel. He stood blinking at her for a moment and got in the passenger seat. He had to bang the door closed twice to get it to latch. She drove without speaking. Joey thought that she was unreasonably upset, but was uncomfortable with her silence. "You want to stop and pick up a coffee or something?" he asked as a peace offering.

"I'm all set." A black cloth bag next to her threatened to vibrate onto the floor and she tucked it closer to her hip. The truck had a standard transmission shifted from the column and she moved through the gears as though she had been driving it every day. Traffic in town was light and the early morning sky had an uncertain quality about it, as though it were still making up its mind as to the weather it would produce this day.

Joey looked at the bag. "Are you carrying a gun with you?" he asked, indicating the bag.

"Always," she answered. She took her eyes from the road for a moment to look his way. "I think that you sometimes forget the position that you're in. I am concerned for your safety. You should be, too. Point made?"

"Point made," he granted. "Let's let it go now, okay?"

"Fine, this the place?" At his nod, she shifted down and turned into the driveway of a large, Dutch colonial house, yellow with white trim. Decorative patterns of varying shapes of shingles wrapped around the house in bands. The oyster-shell driveway wound past burlap-wrapped shrubs and a wooden rowboat made into a planter to the rear of the house, where a gabled porch roof was supported by inclined two-bys. A pile of building material sat close by, covered by a blue plastic tarp. "Nice house," she said.

"Nice house, nice people. Done a lot of work for them." He exited the truck and immediately began hauling his gear from the back: portable table saw, power cords, toolboxes, sawhorses, and various portable power tools. He seemed anxious to get moving after missing a week of work. "I'll get all this stuff out and you can take the truck, do whatever you need to do. And thanks for bringing me out."

Mary stood beside the truck, stretching and surveying the area. It seemed to be a fairly safe place to work, with several houses nearby in view of the property. Year-round residents: witnesses, she thought. From the rear of the house, a slice of the back bay and the mudflats were visible. From the front, a good piece of the harbor could be seen. This was prime real estate, she thought. The landform rose past this property to the primest piece in town, the Adams' home, perched above them a thousand feet further up the road. Its dark slate roof and double chimneys could just be seen over the tops of the intervening vegetation. Anyone driving down from that house would have to pass right by the Jennings' summer residence. She looked up to the early morning sun. A haze was drifting in from the west, turning the sky above her to gray and already stretching in streamers toward the blue sky and sunshine of the east. She completed her circuit of the property and Joey had the truck empty and saw table and horses set up. Two yellow power cords snaked from a slightly opened window next to the porch area. "So what are you doing today?" she asked.

He scratched the stitches under his cap, pushing the bill farther to the side. "I'd like to have the framing for the porch and stairs all done by the end of the day. The piers are already set. Maybe I can even get some of the decking done. I'll work 'til dark. You can pick me up then or tell Louis, he'll do it if it doesn't work out for you."

"You want to get rid of me or something?" Mary smiled at his haste to get started.

"No, no," he said hastily. "Hang around long as you like. Check out the interior of the house, whatever. I just feel like I'm imposing on your time."

"Well, it is my day off. Maybe I'll take a look inside, see what you're doing for a while, take off and do some things and bring back some lunch." She thought this would be a nice place to relax for a while, if the sun would only stay out. She watched as a Channel Twenty-Six News van drove past, heading toward Adams' house.

.

Tina Bronki and a video-cam man emerged from the van that parked in front of Charles Adams' house on the driveway that continued on to a separate three-car garage beyond the house. The doors of the garage were closed. Tina, knocking on the front door with the camera man close behind her, thought she saw a shadow move behind the closed drapes of an adjacent window, but banging the heavy brass knocker brought no response. Three minutes of knocking and waiting was enough for her and she decided to visit the business office downtown. Her trademark red coat swirled around her as she hustled the cameraman back into the van. He was a slightly overweight, disheveled-looking man in his mid twenties, with long hair in a ponytail and his shirt untucked. He couldn't seem to move fast enough for her and grumbled about her constant state of hurry. Jim Fleck was his name, and it was his job to drive the van, but she preempted that spot, not being able to wait for him to stow his gear and get into the driver's seat. He muttered about union regulations and she told him to shut up and move his fat ass, driving away before his door was fully closed.

Letitia Adams was the only person evident in the business offices of Adams Real Estate and Development. Tina and Jim and his gear crowded into the small reception area where Letty received them politely but coolly. Jim had the camera on his shoulder and running as they entered the door. Mary liked a jumpy, hand-held, lead-in shot. She felt it made her appear to be an investigative reporter on the move. Before Tina could speak, Letitia held up a hand. "If you would like to speak with me, you may shut that off, first."

Mary started to speak, saw the firmness in Letty's eyes, and signaled Jim to stop recording. "Mrs. Adams," she said, "I'm Tina Bronki with Channel Twenty-Six and I would like to speak with your husband. Is he here?"

"I am aware of who you are, Ms Bronki. I do watch the news, occasionally, and no, Charles is not here at the moment. Perhaps I can help you. What is it you would like to know?" Letitia spoke with her usual poise, in calm and measured tones. She was dressed in a soft, gray wool suit over a cream silk blouse, and every hair of her tightly tucked bun was in place. Her posture was perfect. Only a certain tiredness around the eyes revealed any break in the armor of her persona.

Tina evaluated the woman before her for signs of evasiveness and found none. She certainly did not look like a woman who had anything she needed to keep hidden from the press. Tina wished that she had Charles Adams in front of her for the same kind of scrutiny. "Mrs. Adams," she began, "can you think of any reason that toxic chemicals should be delivered to the cannery, before or after it ceased operation?"

A hint of puzzlement came over the tired-looking eyes. "There were certain caustic cleaning and disinfecting materials that were used, but nothing that would be considered toxic, unless it were used improperly. It was a food production industry, and proper methods to insure cleanliness were necessary. Is that what you mean by toxic chemicals?"

"No, Mrs. Adams. I'm talking about other things, specifically banned pesticides and herbicides, chlorinated hydrocarbon compounds, and PCB's. Things like DDT, chlordane, and methoxychlor. And some organophosphate compounds."

Letitia's eyebrows rose. "Small amounts of pesticides were used, occasionally, when the cannery was in operation to control roaches. I remember that when DDT was banned, we went to methoxychlor, and when that was banned, other chemicals were used, but only in very small quantities. None of the other things were used, I'm sure. I did the invoicing and inventories personally. I would know. I must ask why you are inquiring about this." She was intensely interested, and not at all indignant.

Letitia seemed to be very straightforward, but Tina would play out her hand. "I have, in my possession, shipping invoices that show the delivery of more than a hundred drums of these substances in the years between 'seventy-five and 'seventy-nine." What she had in her briefcase were copies of copies, but they would do for now. As long as Joey didn't lose the originals.

Letitia shook her head. Those dates and quantities didn't make any sense. "Let me see them," she demanded, holding out her hand. Tina reached into her briefcase and removed several sheets of paper, handing them to Letitia and watching her face closely for any reaction. Letitia moved into the better light next to the window and studied the pages, noting the recognizable signature of her husband on some and seeing the signature of Stan Warnecki on others. Without looking up from the papers, she asked, "Where are the originals?"

"In a safe place," came the non-answer.

"Where did you get them?"

"I'm not at liberty to say. Would you care to comment on them?"

Letitia straightened and turned to Tina. "I have no idea what these papers mean, but I can assure you, I intend to find out. May I keep these copies?" Her stare had turned to iron, her mouth set and determined.

Tina nodded. "I will be doing a short piece on this on the six o'clock report. You might want to watch it." Although Tina could be as callous as only a t.v. journalist could be, she was not entirely inured to the personal concerns of others. It would take several more years of hard work to build that requisite scar tissue. The small piece of vulnerability that yet resided within her responded to what she saw in Letty's eyes. They were both exceptionally strong women. Tina saw a glimpse of how even a strong woman could be blindsided and taken down and it made her feel vulnerable herself. Sympathy was the result of this realization. She would go after the true bastards, and leave this woman in peace. If possible.

In front of the sign proclaiming the name of Adams' business, Tina did a short stand-up piece for the evening news, raising the questions that must be answered, and challenging Charles Adams to answer them. Afterwards, she asked Fleck what he had thought of Mrs. Charles Adams. Jim Fleck was a tech nerd, but years of watching people through the objective lens of a camera had given him a certain perspective. He caught the shifting eye and the facial tic that belied the speaker's words. "She didn't have a clue," he said. "But I pity the poor bastard that pulled the wool over her eyes for so long." He shook his head in sympathy with the creature of his own gender who was going to have to account to the righteous woman they had just left. "She's going to tear him a new asshole."

Tina rolled her eyes. "Don't sympathize with assholes just because they're male assholes, Fleck. Or else you qualify to be one yourself. Let's go."

Charles Adams skulked in an brick-lined alleyway across from his own office, watching, but not able to hear the brief report that Tina Bronki spoke into the microphone she held in her gloved hand. The slight breeze blew wisps of fog and a light mist that deadened her words before they could reach across the street. The collar of his tweed sport coat was turned up to deflect the chill air, and the job he had done shaving was no better than that of the day before. His breath steamed sourly from another late night of heavy drinking. He was, in fact, still a little drunk this morning, and anxious for a small nip from the silver flask he carried in his left jacket pocket. His jacket was too nicely tailored to completely hide the shape of the flask or the bulge of the pistol stuck in the waistband of his trousers behind his back. Charlie didn't look himself today. Passing him on the street, anyone who knew him would think an impersonator was wearing his face and frame, and trying to sully his reputation by casting him as a degenerate bum. Reluctant as he was to confront his wife this morning, he had to know why a reporter was after him. When the sound of the departing news van had faded into the sound of the traffic passing on Main Street, he crossed over to his offices and slipped inside the door.

Letty looked up from the papers she still held and was shocked at his haggard appearance. His eyes were bloodshot, with dark pouches beneath. His shirt was wrinkled and the cuffs of his pants were dragging and wet. This, from a man who took great pride in appearance and never left the house without checking himself thoroughly in a full-length mirror. "You don't look well, Charles," she said. She felt a pang of sympathy for whatever trouble he had gotten himself into, but did not approach him from her position by the window.

Charles rubbed the stubble on his chin. He was having trouble meeting her eyes. "Yeah, well. I haven't been getting much sleep lately. What was the reporter here for?"

Letitia took two steps toward him and extended the papers. "She was asking about these. Asking what AdCanCo would do with these substances. I've been wondering, myself."

Charles was startled. His jaw dropped and his eyes widened. "What the hell," he said, turning through the pages. "Where did these come from?" He looked up. "What did you tell them?"

"I said that I had no knowledge of them. Tell me about them, Charles." Her voice was calm and non-threatening. She stood stone-still, watching him.

"I've got to see Martin Cowles," he said, more to himself than to her. Then, directly to her: "Don't say anything to anybody about this." He turned to peer through the window in the door, craning to look up and down the narrow street. Without further notice of her, he slipped out the doorway and crossed to enter the alley, hunching his shoulders and walking away quickly. Letty watched him from the window, not moving from her position for long after he disappeared from view.

.

Sergeant Clarkson was seated behind his desk, shirtsleeves rolled and tie loosened. Across from him, leaning over to point at something in the clutter of the desk was Lieutenant Waters, neatly dressed in civilian clothes, jacket and tie. Chief Sloan, striding by in the corridor, noticed Waters presence and stopped abruptly in the doorway. "What are you doing here?" he asked. Although the second-shift commander commonly reported in hours ahead of his start time, he rarely came in this early in the morning.

It was a second before Waters turned to face the chief. "Doing some schedule changes," he said, deadpan. Clarkson glanced up briefly at Sloan and returned to his work, erasing and penciling in a name. Averse to paperwork of any kind, nonetheless Sloan entered the office to lift the scheduling forms from under Clarkson's pencil. The sergeant's chair creaked loudly as he leaned back to regard his chief. Sloan studied the papers. It was obvious that changes were made to accommodate fuller coverage of Warnecki. "Put Brulick on third shift, too," he said.

"We'll be short a car," said Clarkson. After a beat, "You want him to ride with Knowles?" His tone, normally gruff, had another note to it, one that Sloan didn't recognize. Sloan looked at him, trying to pick up what it was.

"He can use my vehicle. That way we can keep an eye out for Trott, too. I'll use my own car," said Sloan, too easily relinquishing this major perquisite of his office. His own car was an old Plymouth sedan, rusted and faded from being parked too close to the salt water. His boat took up the space in his one-car garage that might have been used to shelter the car. His wife seldom went out, using the car to pick up groceries on occasion or to get her hair done. She was a small, slight woman with a cowed look, usually seen, if ever, wearing a nervous, apologetic smile.

Clarkson thought that Brulick would be keeping an eye on Knowles for Sloan, as much as Elwood Trott. "Sure," was all he said. A look passed between Clarkson and Waters.

Waters cleared his throat. "Chief," he said. He was standing so close to Sloan that the diminutive chief had to crane his neck to look up at him. Sloan took a step back. "You know, we've been looking for that boat that LeBeau's men chased out of the harbor the other night, and the sergeant happened to mention that you have a similar boat. We were thinking that we could take a picture of it, print it out, and post it around the harbor. It might stir someone's memory, give us some leads."

"There's gotta be a thousand Whalers like mine up and down the coast," Sloan scoffed. "And those guys probably saw some kid throwing firecrackers. Waste of time."

Waters shrugged slightly, cupped an elbow in one hand and lightly scratched his jaw with the other. "Maybe," he said. "Still, I'd like to follow up on it. Wouldn't think there'd be too many boats like that left on the water, this time of year. Won't take too much time."

Sloan appeared to consider it. He shrugged. "Go ahead. No skin off my nose. Boat's in my garage. Send someone over anytime." He turned to leave.

"Chief," Waters said, halting him at the door. "You mind meeting someone at your place, sometime this afternoon, maybe three?" Sloan nodded once, curtly, and left, heading back in the direction from which he came.

Ten minutes later, Sergeant LeBeau entered Clarkson's office, lugging a damp cardboard box which he set on the floor before the desk. Clarkson rose from his seat enough to see what it contained and sat down again, heavily. A solid cement building block lay in it with a piece of black polyester line knotted to it, the kind that lobstermen sometimes used to secure their pots. Waters squatted down to finger the cleanly cut end of the rope. "Hasn't been in the water long, has it?" he said.

"Nope," agreed LeBeau. "No barnacles, not even any algae. I'd say a week or less. Just a little silt from boats going by overhead. We picked it up 'bout an hour after low tide, sitting on the bottom right about where my guys saw the shot fired. I got them looking for a knife and a gun, right now."

"Diving?" asked Waters. LeBeau nodded. Waters looked at Clarkson. More confirmation of the story. Clarkson looked disgusted, like a dog had shit on his carpet and he would have to clean it up.

"Cliff," Waters said, "take the digital camera and meet Sloan at his place at three this afternoon. Check out the boat, shoot some pictures for flyers to post harbor-side. If the chief isn't there, go on in anyway."

"He say okay?" LeBeau raised one eyebrow. Waters nodded slowly. "I'll see if there's any biker boots in a corner, too," LeBeau added with a wry smile, and left.

"You going to do an inventory today?" asked Waters.

Clarkson nodded. "Gonna check the evidence room and the gun locker. Should be a few thirty-eight specials in the locker from when most of the men went over to nine millimeters. Check 'em against the list."

Waters studied him. Clarkson wore the look of a man whose cherished vocation had suddenly soured on him, grown too heavy to be easily carried. "We're going to run out of time soon," Waters said. "Cops are going to begin to talk about strange goings-on. You know how it is. They'll feel it in the air before they know exactly what it is." Waters had already gotten a few questioning looks from officers and staff that indicated the rumor mill had begun grinding.

"I know," said the sergeant resignedly. He put down his pencil and got heavily to his feet.

.

Louis' first stop in his morning errands was at the Constitution Gun Shop, located in a converted barn on a side road off of Route One, south of Thomaston. The clerk looked at the green bullets that Louis spilled onto the glass-topped counter and remarked, "Good thing you didn't try to fire any of these."

"I was hoping you could dispose of them for me. Like to buy a box to replace them," Louis said.

"No problem," answered the clerk, a heavily bearded, pear-shaped man of forty years or so. His red hair was cropped closely to his skull and he wore a button on his pressed blue denim shirt that read: 'Preserve Your Right to Arm Bears." The heavy man had red, white and blue suspenders and a belt to hold up his black denim pants. "Fired the gun in a while?" Louis shook his head. "Got a cleaning kit?" Louis shook his head again. "What exactly is it?"

"World War Two Colt automatic."

"A cannon, huh?" The man grunted to his knees and stood with a red-painted metal box. "Might want this then, unless you don't intend to ever fire it." Louis paid for the kit and the bullets with cash. He wouldn't tell Joey what he had purchased, but he intended to be prepared. He'd had an idea. It involved going to see the old prick that lived on the other side of Joey's house, but he'd do it anyway, as much as it pained him.

His second stop was in town, on Court Street, at the law offices of Meahan and Cowles where he had a ten o'clock appointment with Joey's lawyer, Daniel Drew. Drew's small office was on the second floor of the three-story, white, Victorian-style building, converted from residential use some thirty years earlier. The office had apparently been created when a bedroom had been split into two smaller rooms by means of a drywall partition that interrupted the crown molding and baseboard that otherwise continued around the room. The office had an old, oak desk, two wooden chairs, a few metal filing cabinets, and three meagerly populated bookshelves. It also had one window that looked out into some tree branches, and two framed posters, one espousing Greenpeace, the other a playbill for 'A Moon for the Misbegotten.' Louis was shown into the office by the secretary/receptionist whose services were shared by the three associates on that floor.

Daniel stood to greet him. "Sit down, Mr. Armstrong. How may I help you?" He held up a cautioning hand. "You understand, of course, that I can't speak to you of anything concerning Mr. Warnecki's affairs." He smiled apologetically.

"You don't have to tell me anything," Louis said. "You just have to listen to what I have to tell you. And then you can get together with Joey and decide what to do with it. Okay?" Daniel spread his hands to invite Louis to continue. Louis withdrew the folded sheaf of receipts from an inside pocket of his long, gray raincoat and placed them on the desk between them for Daniel to peruse. He explained how Joey had come to find them and related subsequent events that the lawyer had not previously heard, bringing him up to date on Joey's activities. Drew took everything in, making notes on a yellow legal tablet, doodling as much as writing.

"Wow," was what he had to say when Louis had finished.

"Wow? That's what you got to say?" Louis had expected some other kind of reaction, something more lawyerly, a dignified 'hmm' or 'I see.'

Drew smiled. "First reaction." He put on a more serious expression. "This is interesting. More than interesting. This environmental stuff is right up my alley. I'd like to see Mr. Warnecki today, talk this over. Do you know what he's doing today?"

Louis nodded. "He's working over to North Shore Drive. Number fifty-five, I think. Big yellow house. Lunchtime be a good time to catch him there. Otherwise he's not going to want to stop work. Bring him a sandwich, get his attention."

Drew walked Louis downstairs to the front entrance to show him out. At the sound of voices in the downstairs hallway, they both turned to see Martin Cowles ushering a troubled looking Charles Adams into his office, one arm across Adams' shoulders, like a priest offering consolation to the bereaved.

"You guys lawyer for Adams, too?" Louis was alarmed.

"Hmm," Daniel said, seriously. "Yes. My uncle Martin has been counsel for the family for years and years."

"I think that could be a problem, don't you?" Louis asked.

"Could be, for me anyway. But not for Mr. Warnecki, I promise you." Drew looked as sincere as only a failed seminary student could. Louis was not much assured.

As unsettling as his visit to Drew's office was, the third stop in his morning promised to be worse. As much as he dreaded going to Joe Soucup's house, after parking his car in his own driveway, he forced himself to walk the several step it took to lead him to Joe's front door. Joe opened the door to his knock almost at once, dressed apparently in the same clothes he'd worn the day before. No greetings were exchanged between the two men. Louis stepped around Joe into the front hall and into the living room, where he decided to stand, even if offered a seat. The furniture was greasy with the dirt of the ages and covered in cat hair. The house was uncomfortably warm and the commingling of unpleasant scents in the air, the strongest of which was that of cat urine, was almost unbearable. Louis would almost prefer to have Joe come to his own home to talk with him. Louis forced his mind to his purpose. "I been thinking," he said. "I want the two of us to cooperate in looking out for people that might come around bothering Joey at night. If you was to see someone that shouldn't be there, creeping around or whatnot, I'd like you to call me on the telephone. Would you do that?"

Joe stood like a molting turkey buzzard, his head cranked to the side to hear better, focusing on Louis with one eye. His head bobbed slightly as he was thinking. "Yeah," he said slowly, dragging out the vowels. "I could do that, maybe. And then what would you do?"

At least he doesn't have that goddam smirk on his face, thought Louis. "Well," he began. He didn't want to say that he had new bullets for his gun. "I guess I'd check it out and do whatever seemed necessary, scare the guy off, yell, call the cops, call Joey and wake him up. You know, break it up somehow."

Joe walked by him, scuffing over to a pile of junk mail mostly stacked on a straight-backed wooden chair, some slopped onto the floor. He picked up an unopened envelope and handed it to Louis. "Write your number on there." Louis did so, with a pen from his coat pocket. Joe slipped the envelope under the black rotary dial desk phone next to the mail chair. "That all?" he said. Louis nodded. "Okay then," Joe said, dismissing Louis from his presence. Once outside, Louis took several draughts of fresh air, purging his lungs. Thank God that was behind him, he thought.

.

Mary drove Joey's truck to run a few personal errands that morning, leaving Joey's work site after seeing Adam's Lincoln drive by ten minutes after Tina had sped back down the road. She couldn't catch up to him, so she picked up some groceries, brought them home, and then made calls to Sims and Clarkson to check in with them.

A half-hour past noon she returned to the North Shore address with a large sausage and cheese pizza. Joey was sitting under the rear porch roof on the newly installed flooring joists, just finishing what appeared to be an over-stuffed sandwich. He wiped his hands on the butcher-paper wrapping and strolled over to the driver's side of the truck, chewing the last bite. "Hey," he said. His knees and boots were muddy and sawdust was stuck to him all over.

She rolled down her window and his nostrils opened at the aroma of fresh pizza that poured out. "Hey yourself," she said. "You already ate, huh?"

Joey looked at the cardboard carton on the seat beside her. "You brought pizza," he remarked.

"Got room for a piece?" she asked.

Joey shrugged. "I might." He got in on the passenger side and held the carton on his lap. "Daniel Drew stopped by to talk for a few minutes. Brought me a sandwich. Thanks for thinking of me, though." He opened the carton, inhaled deeply of the aroma, and dealt out two slices. "Louis talked to him this morning and gave him those papers. The toxic chemical stuff, you know. Let him in on everything that's been going on. We agreed that he, Drew, should bring it up to the EPA, see what they can do with them." Steam from the pizza, in combination with the moisture from Joey's damp clothing, was causing the windows of the truck to completely fog over. "Also," he said, "I was thinking of getting him to link Tina up with his friends in the EPA, make a bigger splash. He used to work with them, you know."

"That so," Mary commented from around a mouthful. "He going to do that?"

"Yeah, he thought it might be a good idea." Joey was generally optimistic, more so when filling his belly.

Mary rolled her window all the way down. "Aren't you getting soaked?" she asked. The fog that had been rolling in from the harbor was reaching up the landform. The sky was leaden and a light mist had begun falling by mid-morning. "Aren't you in danger of getting an electric shock, working in the wet?"

"I think it's evaporating off me as fast as I get wet. Long as I keep moving I'll be good. And I'm plugged into a ground-fault circuit in the kitchen. It just pops off once in a while. I'm happy to be working again, that's all."

"If it pours though, you'll quit, right?"

"Yeah, can't work in the rain. Just make a muddy mess of everything."

They talked back and forth, eating and enjoying a casual conversation. The world of Joey's problems and the fact that Mary was a cop acting in her professional capacity seemed far removed from the moment. By the time the pizza had disappeared and Joey was picking at and eating the strings of cheese that were stuck to the box, they had spent a pleasant hour of give and take. Joey broke the corners of the box, folded it up , and stuck it under the seat. "Guess I'll get back to work," he said.

"What time shall I pick you up?" Mary asked, passing him a stack of napkins to wipe the grease from his hands.

"When the light's gone or it starts to really rain," he said. "If I have to get out of the rain before you get back, I go inside and wait. Don't worry about it. Take your time, do whatever you gotta do. I'm good here. And thanks again for the pizza." He got out of the truck and she drove away, thinking that under other circumstances she might consider going out with him. But that would have to be put aside. He was part of her job, not a potential boyfriend. She wondered if he had cracked open any of the novels she had left with him.

.

At about the time that Mary was driving away down North Shore Drive, leaving Joey to cut wood and bang nails, Charles Adams finally was able to reach Sloan at his department line. "Harry," he said, obviously several drinks ahead for the day. "Gotta talk to you."

"You're drunk," observed Sloan, alone in his office. "Where are you? You on a cell phone?" Fool, he thought, all flash and no guts.

"No, I'm in Camden. At the Shipwreck. On a pay phone." The Shipwreck was a lowbrow, working-class bar that featured cheap drinks between the hours of ten a.m. and two p.m. No one who associated with the likes of Charles Adams or the Chief of Police of Rock Harbor was likely to frequent it and, best of all to Charles' mind, it was a dark, cave-like place, perfect for drinking alone and not being seen. He'd been hiding from the world there among the draping nets and nailed-up hunks of driftwood since leaving Meahan and Cowles. "Hey, you been able to get a line on Trott?"

"No, nothing yet. Is that all you want?"

"Something's come up out of the past. We gotta talk. Can you come out here?" Adams hunched over the pay phone in the hall space next to the men's room, holding a drink in his free hand.

Sloan was irritated. He didn't want to babysit a drunk, but he thought he'd better go and see first hand what condition Adams was in. "I'll be there in half an hour. Don't drink anymore." He hung up and left his office, taking a civilian topcoat with him. He would leave his uniform cap in the car when he got to the Shipwreck. On his way to the basement exit to the parking area, he passed the property room where Clarkson's back could be seen before an open gun locker. Three, gray steel, standing cabinets stored the tightly controlled weaponry of the department. He stopped and stuck his head in. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"Inventory," answered Clarkson, without turning around. He was comparing serial numbers on a list with the handguns, shotguns, and rifles hung and tagged in the locker. Sloan stared at his back for several seconds and strode away to the exit. Clarkson's hands clenched on the clipboard in his hands, bending it until it almost snapped. He stood perfectly still until the heat slowly left his body and he was able to resume his work. Not being able to act on his anger was becoming increasingly difficult. He thought he might snap if a resolution did not come soon.

The Shipwreck was located on a side street two blocks away from the harbor, on the edge of the commercial district. It had no parking lot of its own, so Sloan parked on the street, around the corner from the bar. Sloan didn't expect to be recognized by any of the few patrons that frequented this kind of bar this early in the day, but he turned his collar up against the drizzle and slipped in as quietly as he was able. None of the half-dozen men at the bar paid any attention to his entrance. They, like the aproned bartender, were engrossed in the soap opera playing on the t.v. over the bar. He sat opposite Adams in a back booth of scarred pine. The pine-slab table was carved with enough initials to hold a pint of spilled beer and Sloan kept his arms off the table. Adams leaned heavily on the table, tracing designs in the water rings left from his iced drink. "What's so important you had to drag me out here?" Sloan asked, taking in Adam's appearance. It made him nervous and pissed him off. Adams watched his glass as he told Sloan about the reporter's visit. Sloan wanted to know where the papers had come from.

"Only one place they could have come from. Stan Warnecki must have taken them and hid them when he started bitching about what we were doing. Why they should turn up after all these years, I don't know." Charles spoke with a drunken sadness, like a man resigning himself to the loss of a favored hunting dog.

"Get ahold of yourself," Sloan said harshly.

Charles eyes were watery. "You know, my wife left me," he whined. "Cops and reporters coming around, this old shit surfacing. I've been sitting up all night with a gun in my hand, waiting for Trott to come around. You've got to do something."

"Keep your voice down." Sloan's eyes slid to the bartender, who had looked their way, casually interested in soap opera sounds not on t.v. Sloan stared his attention away. "Oh, I'll do something alright," he hissed. "And if I need your help, you'd better be sober. So dry up. Go home and sleep it off." Sloan checked his watch. Three o'clock. "I gotta go." He slid from the booth and Charles remained, searching his besotted imagination for options should everything fall apart.

.

Sergeant LeBeau, wearing a yellow raincoat with reflective stripes on the back and sleeves over his uniform, got out of his patrol car. He also wore high, black rubber boots with the tops folded down. There was a fine mist that hung in the air, heavier than fog, lighter than rain, that diffused the light of the day into an even gray that cast no shadows. Sloan's cedar-shingled garage sat thirty feet away and at right angles to the house. Both buildings had roof ridge-lines that undulated between their widely-spaced rafters. The structures were old. Old enough to be of post and beam construction, built by Edmund Sloan, Harry's great-grandfather. LeBeau's and Sloan's forebears, Acadian and Anglo respectively, had collided in years past, contending over fishing grounds rights in cod wars between the ethnically differing groups. That area of dispute had disappeared with the cod.

LeBeau looked to the house. The gray-haired head of Sloan's wife appeared in a window, the wavy glass of the many-paned sash distorting her features enough to make her face appear unsymmetrical. LeBeau waved to her and pointed to the garage. She vanished from view. LeBeau had heard a rumor that she was agoraphobic, becoming over the years less and less able to leave her house, and seldom seen in town. Living with a bully like Sloan wouldn't make her condition any easier, thought LeBeau. He crunched over the gravel drive to the garage and unclasped the latch, swinging the double doors wide to reveal the trailered boat. It rested, bow forward, amidst a tangle of wire lobster pots, lines, foam buoys, fuel cans and whatnot that barely left room for the boat. He stooped, lifted the tongue of the trailer, and pulled it out into the open. He was just setting it down when Sloan's unmarked departmental Crown Vic pulled into the yard and stopped behind his own. Sloan's quick, impatient steps brought him to the opposite side of the boat in a hurry.

"Well, take your pictures and get back to work," he said.

LeBeau's forearms draped over the gunwales. "Pretty clean," he remarked. The outboard motor still hung from the transom, but the boat's fiberglass hull was scrubbed clean, inside and out.

"Putting it up for the winter," was Sloan's short reply.

"Don't you still have a few pots in the water?" asked LeBeau. Though Sloan had been with the department for many years, he maintained his early connection with the water, keeping a dozen or so traps going for his own use, selling any surplus to the pound operation.

Sloan hesitated. "Couple. I'll get Manny Rose to pull them for me." Manny was a small-boat lobsterman, an old-timer of few resources and fewer words, who would do odd jobs on the side for a few extra bucks.

The boat was going to tell him nothing. With a slap to the hull, LeBeau walked away to get the digital camera from the seat of his car and returned to snap a few photos, Sloan pacing outside of camera range. LeBeau wouldn't get an opportunity to poke around in the garage, not that he could expect to see anything interesting in there, judging by the immaculate condition of the boat.

Sloan sent him off, saying he would roll the trailer back into place by himself. He listened to the crunch of the car's wheels on gravel until the sound was swallowed up in the surrounding mist and fog. He stood by the boat, thinking. There had been an atmosphere of tense watchfulness about Waters and LeBeau that disturbed him. And Clarkson, usually gruff but not hostile towards him, had seemed to be unwilling to confer with him on the business of the day. Something was not right. He should get back to the department and find out what it was.

.

"Last issued to McKesson. Retired in 'ninety-seven. Last inventory was three months ago and it was there where it was supposed to be." Clarkson hunched over his desk, phone to his ear, talking to Waters at home. The implications were clear to both of them. Only the watch commanders had keys to the gun locker. The three watch commanders and Clarkson, who was acting watch commander for the first shift, since Sloan couldn't be counted on to be there when needed.

"How incredibly stupid," remarked Waters. Waters was in his home office, a converted spare bedroom on the second floor of his home where he could close the door and escape the noise and confusion created by his three young stepsons. His wife, ten years younger than he, had been widowed when her husband had died of a cerebral aneurysm six years earlier. June Sims had played matchmaker for her and the lieutenant, inviting them both to a picnic three years ago. Her husband had been embarrassed by her obvious maneuvering, but the couple had hit it off almost immediately and gotten married within three months of being introduced. Waters had had no children by his first marriage and his ex-wife lived in New York. Waters felt he'd been settling in nicely in Rock Harbor, putting down strong roots in his adopted community where he felt that a man with good intentions and ability could make a difference for good. The box that had been opened during the past week had a moldering smell that he associated with big city police work, where anything could happen, and did. He hoped that here, the cause of that smell could be rooted out and purged from the system before it destroyed the department and all he had gained in his hard-won new life. In the city you sometimes had to turn your head and look away. Not here, and not him. "That's too stupid to be possible," he reiterated, "if it turns out to be the weapon used last Monday night." There was a sample bullet fired by every gun in the department, kept for comparison with any found at the scene of a shooting to determine which might have been fired by a cop's gun.

Clarkson thought about it. "Maybe," he said. "If the gun were cleaned and replaced before a scheduled inventory, it wouldn't be even considered for comparison. That's for the future, when they're all computerized."

"And the reason the gun hasn't been replaced is that the job isn't over, right?" Waters took Clarkson's silence for assent. "So, when Sloan becomes aware of the unscheduled inventory, the situation becomes more immediate."

"He saw me doing it," Clarkson said. At that moment, Sloan opened the door to Clarkson's office and entered. There was a slight hitch in his step when he saw the box on the floor containing the cement block. Clarkson could have put it out of sight, but he'd wanted to see Sloan's reaction on seeing it. "Chief just came in," he said, talking to Waters and keeping his eyes on Sloan, who hid his surprise well.

"Who you talking to?" Sloan asked. He was still wearing the long topcoat, and had his uniform cap on his head. His eyes flicked to the box beside the desk and back again.

Clarkson held the phone away from his ear, open to the air, not cupping the mouthpiece like one who wanted privacy. "I'm talking to the Lieutenant," he answered in flat tones. His face might have been cast in stone, for all the expression it showed.

For some reason, Clarkson's deadpan speech and countenance irritated the chief. "What the hell's this supposed to be?" he said, giving the box a small kick.

"I'll call you back," Clarkson said into the phone and hung up. His movements were controlled, like he was afraid to move too fast and might break something. He folded his hands on his stomach and leaned back. His chair didn't squeak. "LeBeau's guys pulled that out of the water near where the shot was fired."

Sloan stayed in character, rolling his eyes and then staring at Clarkson. "And why would they want to do that?" he asked, inferring that only an idiot would think to do such a thing.

Clarkson raised one eyebrow and pursed his lips, giving an elaborate shrug. "Guess they thought it was interesting. Only recent thing that's been put there, maybe. That's all they've found so far." His expression grew more serious, almost mock serious. "I told them to spend a little more time there. Serve as a training exercise, you know."

"What do you think they're going to find, a body?" Sloan was incredulous.

"No," Clarkson said, "not a body. Maybe they'll find the knife that cut the rope." His tone suggested the implausibility of such a find, but his eyes held no humor that Sloan could see.

"Well, get 'em out of there," Sloan ordered. "Stop wasting the taxpayer's money and the department's time." His long coat swirled as he spun and headed out the door, slamming it behind him. Clarkson held himself stiffly in the chair, hands grasping the wooden armrests. If he didn't hold himself so, he might fly out of the room after Sloan and choke him to death. A commotion in the hall, with the sound of Sloan yelling and another, softer voice, outside his office door preceded the double knock and then entrance of Sergeant LeBeau. He was carrying a small plastic bag and still wore the rolled boots. Sloan did not follow him in, but LeBeau was watching over his shoulder after he closed the door and strode to the desk. He placed the clear bag in the center of the desk and a drop of water rolled from it to make a worm track in the ink on a paper beneath. Clarkson lifted it away from the desk and saw that it contained an open folding knife. It was the kind that had a nub near the hinge end of the blade so that it could be opened with one hand. The stainless steel bolster had a belt clip attached and half of the three-inch blade was serrated.

"I guess that's the one," Clarkson said. "Sloan notice it?"

LeBeau noted that Clarkson was referring to the chief as 'Sloan' lately, apparently not willing to accord the man the title of respect due his office. "Oh, yeah," LeBeau said, "his eyes bugged out and then he tore me a new one for wasting time over there."

"What'd you say?"

"I said, 'yes,sir'. Then he took off down the hall." LeBeau paused. "Things coming apart?"

Clarkson gave a small wave of the head. "I'd say things are coming to a head. I think we got almost enough for an arrest warrant."

LeBeau looked around for a seat and saw one against the wall. He went to it and sat down there, rather than moving it closer to the desk. "Anybody else, yeah, maybe enough for an arrest. In this case, we got enough to make a big stink, maybe force a resignation." He crossed his legs, slouched in the chair. "Without getting one of them to roll over, the chances for a conviction are minimal to none. Adams and Sloan got a lotta juice. I'd say we need more. Maybe a lot more."

Clarkson knew all of that. And he recognized the fact that he was so anxious to rid his department, and he truly felt that it was his department, of a bad apple that he was ready to spill the whole barrel now, rather than work toward a solid case. It was an itch he desperately wanted to scratch. He leaned back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling, thinking. "Brulick's on third tonight," he said.

LeBeau was watching him. "Yeah, so?"

"So's Knowles."

LeBeau got it. "Maybe the weak link can be broken, that what you're saying?"

Clarkson shrugged. "I was just thinking that since we're losing our edge so fast and we're running out of time anyway, why not step up the pressure where we can?"

"Without actually crossing the line into a formal accusation," LeBeau added. He put his feet flat on the floor and sat up straight. "I agree," he said. "The more time goes by, the more time they have to cover their tracks. We should push all we can." He hesitated. "I think. Better ask the lieutenant."

.

At four o'clock, Mary was at Sims' home, sharing coffee with him until it was time to pick Joey up before dark. It was getting close to that time, night would fall early in this kind of weather. "Have a cookie," Sims offered. "Made them myself."

"How domestic," she said, taking one. "So what do you think about this toxic waste thing?" she asked. "Good cookie." Chocolate chip.

He shrugged. "Anything to put Adams in the spotlight makes it harder for him to act privately. If he finds out it came from Warnecki though, it might give him one more reason to go after him. We're going to have to keep good track of all of them." Sims was dressed for work and ready to go. He'd been waiting for a call from June, but she hadn't gotten back to him. He put on his jacket. "I gotta go. Take some cookies." He shuffled half of the plateful into a brown paper lunch bag for her. She accepted them graciously, not being much of a baker, herself.

Joey's truck was parked behind Sims' Volvo in the driveway. Sims stopped as he opened his car door to get in. "Hey," he said, "You driving an unregistered vehicle?"

Mary froze with one leg already in the cab. "Oh, shit. I forgot. I've been driving it all over town." Sims lived about six blocks from Joey's. "I'm going to park it and take my own car." She drove slowly and carefully, looking for police vehicles. Every cop in the department knew that truck shouldn't be on the road and she didn't want to be embarrassed by being caught driving it.

Very little light remained in the sky by the time that Mary reached the worksite. The porch light was on, showing that the framing was complete and more than half covered with gray-primed decking. The piles of building materials were covered with blue tarps and Joey was lugging his tools through the open door into the house. Mary followed him into the kitchen, where another tarp was spread on the floor under his neatly stacked equipment. "Want some help?" she asked.

"Nope, last trip." Joey disappeared and returned with an armload of coffee cans and boxes of fasteners. He brushed his clothes off over the tarp. "All done. Good timing." He grinned at her, holding the door for her to precede him through. He locked up and hid the key under a rock next to the foundation. He didn't ask why she wasn't driving his truck, but she told him and warned him against using it again until he had a valid registration under his own name. "That may be a while," was his comment.

At the street end of the driveway, Mary waited for a dark Lincoln to pass before pulling out onto the narrow road. Her headlights illuminated the passing driver. "I do believe that's Charles Adams," she said.

"Doesn't look too good," Joey commented.

"No. Driving like he's had a few, too. Maybe more than a few." The car was moving slowly, driven with exaggerated care. They watched until the car was out of sight around a curve. The road had no painted line and the Adams had kept close to its center, weaving somewhat. "Wish I could stop him, give him a breath test," she said. "Good to know where he is, anyway."

"Maybe he's nervous about Woody," Joey said. "Wants to be home before dark." If so, he had barely made it. The foggy shroud of night had just about settled over the seaside community.

Mary drove carefully through the streets of town to Joey's house. Visibility was nil, traffic creeping, drivers hunched over their steering wheels to see what little remained of the observable world. Mary made the trip safely and backed into Joey's driveway. Joey had been quiet throughout the journey and Mary had thought he was letting her concentrate on her driving, but when she turned to look at him, he was asleep, head back and mouth open. "Hey," she said. "We're here." Joey picked his head up and blinked awake, not overly surprised to find himself home. "Mind if I use your phone?" she asked. She wanted to call in and report Adams' location and, incidentally, to check out Joey's house.

"Not at all," he said, exiting her car. "Come on in."

Joey left his muddy boots beside the kitchen door on a rubber boot tray. His wet socks flopped at the toes and left damp footprints on the kitchen linoleum. "Want some tea?" he asked, heading for the bathroom.

"No, thanks," Mary said. "Got to get home and feed my cat." She left her shoes by the door and passed Joey to look briefly into each room of the house.

Joey watched her. "What are you doing?' he asked.

"Nothing. Just seeing if you've had any visitors." Satisfied that the house was secure, she made her call while Joey was in the bathroom. When he emerged again she asked him if he had plans to do anything but stay in for the evening.

"No, I'm going to shower, eat, and read until I crash. I want to get up early and get started work right away." He looked like he could use a shower. His hair was matted down on top from his ball cap and the sides were sticking out crazily. Damp sawdust clung to him all over and mud streaked elbows and other projecting joints. At least his hands were clean, though a few knuckles were scraped and it appeared that mud had been incorporated into the fresh scabs. Mary got the impression from his appearance of a marionette without strings, loose jointed, with too long arms and outsized hands and feet. "What?" he said.

Mary shook her head. "Nothing. Just thinking. Guess I'll go." She moved to where her shoes lay.

"Hey," he said. "Didn't you want to take some books?"

She paused and straightened. "Yeah, you mind?"

"No, no. Let me get you a bag. Take all you want." He grabbed a plastic shopping bag from under the sink and followed after her into his sitting room, where she squatted on her heals, searching titles for books she hadn't read.

"How's this guy?" she said, pulling out a book called 'Free Fall'.

"Oh, yeah, he's good. Elvis Cole and Joe Pike. Start with this one, though. If you like it you can take the rest in the series." He pulled another from the 'C' shelf and handed it to her, replacing the one she had.

She took three more that looked promising. "That's enough," she said. "Thanks." When she stood, her knee popped. "Ouch. Have you had a chance to look through any of the ones I brought?"

His face brightened. "I read 'Windy City Blues' by who, Warski?"

"Paretsky," she corrected. "Good, huh?"

"Very good. Good lead character, finely crafted plot, smooth writing style." His tone was critically serious, as though he were a wine maven discussing the fruity overtones of a 'ninety-four Pinot Noir. Mary had to chuckle.

"Okay,then. See you at the next meeting of the Rock Harbor Literary Guild," she said, and left.

Joey got cleaned up, scrounged through the refrigerator for something to eat, coming up with a plastic bowl of Louis' beef stew, and went to bed, reading until he fell asleep with the book propped up on his stomach and the light still on. He didn't see Louis that evening, but Louis had agreed to drive him to work early the next morning.

.

Charles Adams caught the local evening news report, watching the television through bleary eyes in his den. He'd been drinking scotch all day, watering it down enough to maintain an even state of inebriation without falling over the edge into stupor. It was a practiced discipline with him, this self-anesthetization, and he even felt a little pride in his ability to fine-tune his consciousness. To his mind, it was something akin to Zen meditation, western style.

Tina Bronki's taped stand-up bit in front of his business made it onto the tag end of the program. His meditation was deep enough that he had to struggle to rise from it into the physical world. Nonetheless, he got the gist of it: the shipping receipts, his unavailability for comment, and his wife's claim to ignorance. He also caught the closing statement made by the live anchor that the EPA was expected to look into the matter. This stuck him as an injustice. Those papers rightfully belonged to him and he called his lawyer right away, to tell him so. It was an easy call, the phone was right next to his seat and his lawyer's home number was on the speed-dial. That done, he rewarded himself by freshening his drink.

Martin Cowles and his wife Margaret were sitting down to dinner when Charles called. They, unlike Charles, preferred a more solid nourishment in the evening and it irritated Martin to be disturbed in the evening at home. That was what associates were for, he thought. It bothered him enough that he called Daniel Drew, who was also about to sit down for supper. He asked Daniel if he had received the papers from Warnecki and said that if had, then he must turn them over forthwith. Daniel refused to either confirm or deny his possession of those or any other papers, claiming client confidentiality. Martin was not satisfied with his response, pointing out that associates were not partners and were therefore liable to release from employment at any time. Rashly, Daniel told his uncle where he could stuff his employment and hung up. This truncated conversation provided for an uncomfortable evening all around. Margaret Cowles castigated her husband for his heavy-handed treatment of her only heir and nephew. Melissa Drew cried, causing their two young children to cry, and lamented the soon expectation of a state of homelessness for their family. All this, from the dharma of a Zen alcoholic.

.

Sims worked an uneventful shift. Uneventful, but tiring nonetheless, since the fog and mist made it difficult to do anything but avoid smashing into other drivers on the roadway. Sometimes it was difficult to know even where he was on a particular street. It was an evening where everything was hidden, where an army of insect-faced aliens could infiltrate the town and no one would be the wiser. It was an evening for eyestrain and white-knuckle driving. Still, he did the best he could, once setting out flares and helping an elderly woman to change a flat tire on his way to cruise by Elwood Trott's apartment. At Adams' house, he'd seen the light from one first-story window. Similarly, Sloan's house showed a light, but the department vehicle couldn't be seen there, and Sloan's other vehicle was missing as well. So, he thought, the chief was out and the missus was probably home. One light at Warnecki's house burned through to the end of his shift.

He was bone tired by the time he traded his patrol car at the station house for his Volvo wagon. He thought he'd sleep like a dead man tonight. Changing from first to second shift had always been a difficult transition for him. He'd never liked working either the second or third shift, no one in the department did. A possible exception was Knowles, who seemed to take it in stride, perhaps even enjoying working the dark hours. Knowles liked breaking up the closing-time bar fights, hauling off the drunken participants to jail, maybe knocking a few heads together; following the weaving motorists who'd had two or three drinks too many and needed to have their keys taken away and brought to spend a sobering time in the lock-up. But, Sims thought, Knowles' father had been a drunk. Maybe he had a mission, a special calling to redress the grievances of his youth when he hadn't the power to make his life the way he felt it should be. In any event, as far as Sims was concerned, Knowles could have the late shifts. Sims would take the daylight, anytime.

.

At nine o'clock in the evening, while Sims was busy with the flat tire, Sloan met with Jimmy Brulick at Brulick's house in the north end of town, half a mile from Sloan's own residence. Brulick was to ride home with the chief and take the car for the graveyard shift.

Brulick's house, where he lived alone, was a prefab ranch house on a cement-block foundation, hard by the road and nestled tight to the steep bank of an expired sand and gravel operation. It had been a hastily built development, run through the town zoning board by it's well-connected developer, namely the Adams Real Estate and Development Corp. It was one of the few of Charles' projects that had actually netted him any serious money, mainly because of the questionable site and the cheap cost of construction. In the summer, sand blew from the unstable banks and covered window sills and cars with grit. Rain washed sand down into yards where grass would not grow, and parents feared to let their children play outside for fear that their play on the banks would cause them to collapse and bury the kids alive. The development was thirty-two small houses packed together in a desert, and it was a hardy soul who tried to grow a garden there, or maintain a lawn. Property values were so low that even a single cop could afford a mortgage there, as Brulick had.

The outside of Brulick's house was as plain as plain could be, siding and trim painted a dusty beige, with no attempt made to soften its bleakness with plantings or yard decoration. Not even a pink plastic flamingo or fanciful mailbox suggested the individuality of the lone man that resided there. No curtains showed to soften the windows, the shades were usually pulled. Only the black-painted metal numerals tacked over the front door indicated that the place had an address to which mail might be delivered.

Inside the house, if anyone were to visit there, one might see that the walls were covered with photo-finish, faux-walnut paneling. Posters were thumb-tacked here and there, the main themes of which were handguns and large-busted women in unlikely poses. There was a painting on black velvet that might draw an eye hoping for visual relief: a mother and child, possibly the madonna, sitting in repose beside a lively mountain stream, green moss-covered rocks and lush foliage enfolding them in in a seemingly protective embrace. This painting, the only framed decoration of the home, hung on a wall opposite the most comfortable chair in the living room, a brown corduroy-upholstered recliner. The recliner faced this picture rather than the nondescript color t.v. in the closest corner. Aluminum soft-drink cans and an empty potato chip bag sat on the floor, close beside. There was a small bookcase in the room, of dark-stained pine, but the only books it contained were a dictionary and thick, paperback almanac. Two small, framed pictures occupied a shelf along with a few miniature ceramic dogs. One photo was of an elderly couple, gray-haired and smiling uncertainly at the camera. Another was of a young woman who had Brulick's thin nose and pointed chin, her arm protectively around the shoulder of a young girl in a frilly, white confirmation dress.

A competent housekeeper would note that the furniture was never moved when vacuuming was done, and that dusting was casually, if ever, done. That the kitchen counters were streaked and the dishes and pots and pans not really clean. Dirty laundry resided under the unmade bed and behind the closet door. All in all, a poorly kept house, not worthy of being called a home. Elwood Trott's slovenly cave of a home had at least the character and individuality of an intentional misanthrope. This place had the ambiance of a train station, or a transient hotel. Traces of character were so slight as to be almost nonexistent. James Brulick's inner life was almost completely hidden, as least as such might be revealed by his place of residence. The velvet painting, and the position of the chair presented the only items that might intrigue anyone who could possibly be interested in digging for the secret life that must reside somewhere in the man, as it does in any man.

Brulick was nervous. He was nervous from the aura of intensity that seemed to steam from his boss, from the sidelong glances he got lately from certain members of the department, and from a general feeling of uncertainty in the air in the department at large. He'd been protected from egregious harassment at the hands of those in the department who disdained him, by virtue of his position close to the head of the department. Some might categorize his position in another way, but his chief had always been a shield for him. He needed a shield. Compared to most police officers, he was small. The size and depth of a person's spirit does not relate to physical size, but Brulick's was small and mean, not lending itself to inspire a feeling of confidence and trust in his co-workers. This had made him an outsider and Sloan had used this status to create a loyal sycophant to his own personal glory.

Riding in the passenger seat, Brulick noticed the chief's jaw muscles working. That happened when Sloan was fretting over a troublesome issue. At times, when a problem was particularly vexing, Sloan would click his teeth together. Brulick listened closely and thought he could hear that sound beneath the engine noise. A good and careful toady learns the signs that indicate whether the boss is blowing hot or cold, so he would know which way to jump. Brulick knew now to wait for his chief to speak, and not interrupt his thought process.

Sloan kept silent all the way home until the car was idling beside the chief's personal car, behind his house. Sloan put the shift lever into park and turned half-way in his seat, resting his forearm atop the steering wheel. He spoke confidentially. "Jimmy," he said, "I need you to keep an eye on Knowles for me tonight. I think he may be involved in something — something illegal. This has got to be between you and me for the time being, until I can get the goods on him."

Brulick recognized his cue to speak. "What sort of thing is he doing?"

"Well," said Sloan, "I don't want to say until I know for sure, but it may be drug related."

"You talking about the stuff we found in Warnecki's house?"

Sloan gave a barely perceptible nod. "Maybe. I'm working on it and I want you to keep tabs on him for me."

Knowles made Brulick nervous. The headlights of the car showed an area thirty feet in front of them, everything else of the world hidden in fog and mist. "Don't you think I'd be pretty obvious, chief, hanging on his tail in this shit?"

"I don't mean for you to follow him around, for crying out loud. Sure, you'll see him on the road once in a while. He'll be checking out Warnecki's place, and Trott's too, but call him on the radio every twenty minutes or so, check his location. What could be more natural on a night like this? You're just checking in with your shift mates. Shit, Jimmy, use your head." Sloan pushed his uniform cap back on his head and rubbed his forehead.

Brulick nodded his compliance. "Okay chief, whatever you say. Where you gonna be?"

"I'll be right here, listening to the radio in the house," Sloan said.

# Chapter 8

"Son of a bitch," Knowles said. "Cruised right by the bastard not half an hour ago and he's calling me again." It was two-thirty in the morning. Knowles thought his eyes were going to bug out from the strain of watching the road and of checking street signs to be sure of where he was. He pulled to the curb and put on his emergency flashers to rub at his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Pissant," he said. He answered the call and spoke his location, asking Brulick's in return. Victory Road, must be at Trott's place, Knowles thought. He stuck his head through the open window to listen for traffic before pulling back onto the road and caught the bill of his cap on the door post, knocking it off onto the wet road surface. He started to open his door to retrieve it and closed it just in time to avoid being clipped by a passing car, traveling too fast for the driving conditions. With the car past and his door open, the interior light showed him that his cap had been run over and crushed. "Son of a bitch," he said, and leaned out to pick it up. He spun it to the floor on the passenger side and took off after the offending vehicle.

It was a futile chase. His strobing light bar only made driving more difficult, reflecting off the fog back into his eyes and he gave it up. Since he was heading in the general direction of Trott's apartment anyway, he decided to pay Brulick a visit and find out why the schmuck kept calling him. He had an idea, but wanted to confirm it, see how much Brulick would squirm when he asked him.

Twenty minutes later, to the minute, Brulick called again. He was sitting in his idling car directly across the road from Trott's. Knowles didn't respond right away and he repeated his query: ". . . What's your twenty . . .", and was interrupted by a loud voice next to his ear.

"I'm right here, asshole," growled Knowles. "Why the hell are you checking up on me?" Brulick started in his seat, dropping the handset to the radio and letting out a yelp. He started to reach for his sidearm and Knowles put a restraining hand on his shoulder. "Easy now, buckaroo," he said, "Don't be forcing me to shoot you in self-defense."

Brulick froze. "Get your hand off me," he said. His eyes were wide and his teeth clenched, one hand still on the snap of his holster.

Knowles put his forearms on the window sill and leaned into Brulick's face, an inch from the nose of the wide-eyed officer. "So tell me, why would Sloan be interested to know where I am, each and every minute of the night, hmm?" Knowles voice was sinisterly cordial and he smiled like the Cheshire Cat.

Brulick strained away from the leering visage and blurted the first thing that came to his mind. "We're wise to you, Knowles," he said, "you and your doper friends."

Knowles eyebrows went up and his smile eased into a half-grin. "I think we need to chat," he observed. "Push over." He opened the door and squeezed his meaty bulk onto the seat, forcing Brulick to the center of the bench seat. "Cozy?" Knowles asked. Brulick's feet were caught on the driver's side of the transmission hump and he disentangled himself, moving close to the opposite door, one hand on the handle, ready to flee.

Since Knowles had not responded on the air to Brulick's inquiry, the dispatcher at the department repeated the call, checking to see if Knowles was in trouble. Knowles answered with his location and turned to face Brulick, his knee up on the seat and his arm stretched along the backrest, almost reaching Brulick's ear. "Jimmy," he said, "why might the chief think I'm a druggie, anyway?"

Not answering, Brulick stared through the windshield into the dark blankness outside. He felt like he was floating in the water with a shark slowly circling him. No lighted windows showed in the near buildings that may as well have been moored ships, for all that could be seen of them. The closest, just thirty feet from them, was only a paler shadow in the gloom that surrounded them. It made Knowles' mock-sociability seem all the more threatening. Knowles decided to take another tack. "I may be a lot of things, Jimmy, but a druggie I'm not, and you know it." Brulick turned his head to look at him, but remained silent. The dashboard lights cast enough greenish glow to discern facial features in the car. "You notice a different feeling in the department lately? Talk to anyone besides Sloan? Have you got a clue, Jimmy? Wouldn't want to end up on the wrong side of this, would you?" Knowles paused a full beat between questions. "Might be hazardous to your career, such as it is."

Brulick felt his lifeline slipping in his grasp. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"I mean, Jimmy, that your boat is sinking. You just might be able to pull yourself out of the water, if you get your mind right in time. I want you to think about a few things." Knowles lowered the tone and volume of his voice, until he seemed to be talking from outside the car. Brulick had to strain to hear. "Did Sloan ever go into the bedroom at Warnecki's house? Alone?" Knowles gave him a moment to think about it. "Did Sloan ever have any private conversations with Elwood Trott that you know about? Maybe when Trott dumped his bike down in the flats a while back?"

Brulick's breathing was becoming shallow. Knowles questions floated around his head like debris on the water from the impending shipwreck of his career. He knew the answers to Knowles questions, had thought about them on his own. Sloan might be going down and he didn't want to be sucked down with him, but he couldn't abandon ship prematurely. He intended to say: "I don't know what you're talking about," but what came out was, "What do you want from me?"

Knowles nodded to himself. "I'm going to give you a day to think it over. Before your shift tomorrow, you go have a talk with the lieutenant. If you decide to go the other way, well, you're going down with Sloan." Brulick was lost in thought, staring through the windshield again. The slamming of the car door when Knowles got out brought him back to the present with a jerk. Knowles spoke his final words through the window from a few feet away. "If you mention our little talk to Sloan, you won't have to worry about just losing your job. And don't call me any more tonight."

.

At three a.m., Louis was jarred awake by the ringing of the phone on the bedside table next to him. He'd been dreaming that he was aboard ship again, opening giant cans of green beans, and the ringing of the phone mutated into a shipboard klaxon sounding general quarters. The phone rang four times before he was sufficiently aware of who and where he was to answer it. "Yessir," he said.

"Hell, Armstrong, you drunk or something? Get up, there's someone out front."

"Out front where? Who is this?" Louis sat up and swung his legs from under the blankets to put his feet on the floor. His skivvies bunched up into his crotch and the cool air of his bedroom prickled the hairs on his legs. The darkness in the room was almost complete, the lighter gray of the light from the window was definitely not from a porthole and he was not on board a ship. "Soucup?" he said.

"Of course, you fool. Now get up. I just saw someone sneaking around Joey's front door, doing something. Get up, get up, get up!" Joe hung up with a bang and Louis stumbled from his bedroom to look out the front room window on the side facing Joey's. He could see part of the steps to Joey's porch, but no one who might be standing on the landing. Just as he turned away to go to the kitchen phone, he heard the crash of breaking glass and the whump of something heavy falling, followed by a great brightening of orange light from the front of the house. He turned back to see flames in the area of Joey's front door. He moved quickly to the phone, punching the lighted buttons in the darkness of his home, while firelight flickered in his peripheral vision.

Joey's only phone was in the kitchen. He got up from bed without really wakening, faintly puzzled but not alarmed by the odd, unsteady light that showed around the edges of the drawn shades in the front room. Joey slept in sweat pants and a voluminous, red and black-plaid cotton shirt that was missing several buttons. He idly wondered about the strange light while picking up the phone. Louis' excited voice woke him all the way to a confused awareness. "Get out of the house, Joey!" the voice yelled. "Your house is on fire! Run over here, I'll call the fire department!" Louis hung up and Joey panicked.

Louis punched in nine-one-one, looking through his kitchen window as Joey's back porch light came on. What he saw made him drop the phone and dive for the cabinet door under the sink: a hooded man, dressed in dark clothes, stood twenty feet from Joey's back door in the middle of the yard. His outstretched arms held a gun in both hands and he was in a half-squatting position, ready to fire. Louis came up with the old Colt just as Joey burst through the back door and froze at the sight of the gunman. Joey's arms went up and out to the sides in the effort to halt his forward momentum, the big sleeves of his shirt hanging down, looking like a giant cormorant drying its wings. The muzzle of the dark man's gun blossomed with fire as Louis smashed the window over the sink and pointed his gun at the figure. Joey felt something pluck at the sleeve below his arm and he dropped to the ground, trying to crawl back into his house.

Louis found that he couldn't fire directly at the man, even after the man fired a second shot through Joey's open doorway. His hands shook and he couldn't bring himself to pull the trigger. He raised the gun to point over the man's head and squeezed the trigger. The sound of the pistol discharging inside his kitchen deafened him, but he kept his eyes open and saw the man flinch and look his way. Louis fired again and the man fled to the back of the yard, climbing over the fence onto the park property. Louis was sufficiently emboldened by his success in scaring away the intruder that he was ready to give chase, but the ringing in his ears had receded enough for him to hear the tinny voice sounding from the dropped phone receiver and he remembered that Joey's house was on fire and Joey had gone back inside. Louis grabbed at the receiver, almost pulling the trigger again on the gun held tightly in his other hand. "Fire!" he shouted, "Gunfire! Two-twentyfour Fourth Street!" The calmly insistent voice on the other end of the line asked if anyone was injured, but Louis didn't have time to answer. He rushed out through his back door and across to Joey's, almost tripping over his body where it lay in the hallway. "Oh my god!" he exclaimed. "Joey, are you hurt? Are you shot? Answer me, boy!" Joey lay prone, hands clasped over his head, shaking. Louis stooped to his knees, looking for blood on the floor, then turned Joey by a rigid shoulder to look beneath him. No blood. Joey, whose eyes had been squeezed shut since he'd clambered into the hallway, opened them to see Louis holding a large gun that was pointing at his face. His eyes opened wider. Louis saw the cause of Joey's alarm and pointed the pistol in another direction. "Sorry," he said. "Are you hurt?" Joey shook his head. Louis grabbed the loose cloth of the front of Joey's shirt and hauled him to his feet, then snapped the light switch off with his gun hand. "Let's go, boy," he ordered, crouching and leading his neighbor by the shirt he still held bunched in his fist.

In the middle of the driveway, half-way to Louis' door, Joey balked. "Hey," he said, "my house is on fire."

"No shit," was Louis' reply, not releasing his grip and peering into the foggy night for armed intruders. The air temperature was only a few degrees above freezing, but Louis didn't seem to notice. His breath steamed from his nostrils in twin plumes.

"Let me go. I got a extinguisher in the garage." Joey dug in his heels and forced Louis to stop.

Louis was on a tear. He jerked Joey forward again and propelled him in the direction of his back door. "Git in the house, boy, 'fore I whup your ass." With the fierce look on his face and his bared teeth, Louis could have been Lon Chaney as the wolfman, and Joey backed off, retreating to the safety of Louis' open door. The first fire truck arrived two minutes later, and a police car one minute after it.

.

Knowles had been driving in the direction of Warnecki's house, feeling somewhat satisfied by his confrontation with Brulick, and a bit worried that he was in the wrong place and that Sloan knew it. When the address of the fire came over the radio, he pounded the steering wheel in frustration and drove faster, too fast to be safe on the road. By the time he got to the scene, the fire was almost out. Spotlights from the fire truck played on a scorched area that covered the lower half of the house in a semi-circle centered on the front landing, and three firemen were wielding chemical extinguishers to quench the last of the flames. Exiting his car, the smell of charred wood reached his nose, overlaid with the distinct odor of gasoline. Neighbors stood on their porches and peered through front windows — all except for Armstrong's house, which was completely without lights. Knowles could see a face that looked like Warnecki's, holding back a curtain to look out. The dispatcher had reported shots fired. Knowles needed to check that out first.

Joey opened the door half-way before he could knock, peering around Knowles with frightened eyes, like someone who had recently been shot at. "First thing," Knowles said, "anybody hurt?" Joey shook his head. "Okay, tell me what happened, short and quick."

Joey forced his attention to Knowles. "Louis called and told me my house was on fire and to get out of there. I ran out the back door and there was a man in my yard with a gun. He shot at me and I crawled back inside. He shot again and the next thing I knew, Louis was dragging me over to his house." Joey sighed loudly, getting ready to elaborate.

Knowles held out a hand to stop him from continuing. "Did you see the guy's face, recognize him in any way?"

Joey wet his lips. "He had on a hooded sweatshirt, pulled tight to his face, and all I saw was the gun, anyway. He was short, though." He shook his head. "But that could have been because he was crouched down, sort of. But he wasn't a big man, anyway."

"Okay," Knowles said. "Stay inside, I'll be back in a minute." Knowles waited until the door was closed and then trotted back to his car. He radioed the dispatcher, requesting all available units to assist (there were two other police cars on the shift, besides his and Brulick's), one to the scene and two to the state park. "Advise caution," he said, "suspect is armed. Call Clarkson, Sims, and Waters, too. Tell 'em what's going on." He would have added that no ambulance was needed, but it had just arrived. The dispatcher asked if he should inform the chief. "Don't bother," he said. "I think he's already up."

Brulick pulled up behind the ambulance. Knowles told the ambulance driver that he wasn't needed and then walked up to Brulick, who was standing in front of Warnecki's house in the flash and strobe of the various red, white and blue lights of the assembled vehicles. "Secure the scene," Knowles ordered. "I want tape around the perimeter of these three properties," indicating Joey's and the two neighbors' homes. "Then stay in the back. You might see a friend of yours there." Without waiting for any acknowledgement, Knowles returned to talk to Joey and Louis.

Louis' adrenaline high had faded, leaving him feeling and looking as old as he was. Joey looked merely worn out, and maybe a little anxious. Knowles was surprised. After the fear had diminished, he would have expected to see anger, outrage, righteous indignation at least. Something is lacking in this boy's emotional arsenal, he thought. Thirty-some-odd year-old boy. They were all three seated at the table in the kitchen to recollect and write down the events of the past hour, while it was fresh to their memories. Knowles had detected the tell-tale odor of cordite in the house, but Louis had only offered the explanation that it had possibly drifted in through the broken window from the outside air. Knowles didn't press the issue, figuring that it was probably better that a weapon, even an unregistered weapon, had been available in this particular circumstance. Knowles had pressed for either of them to identify the shooter, but it was clear that one would not be forthcoming. "What about the old bastard on the other side?" Knowles asked. The tone of his question brought a faint smile to Joey's mouth, and a scowl from Louis.

"You gonna try to talk to Joe again?" Joey asked, trying to hide his amusement behind his hand.

Knowles glared back at him. He thought it was an odd time to find amusement in the old man's orneriness. "Have to," he said regretfully.

"If I could suggest something, you might get Officer Hartz to talk to him. He's mostly mean with men. Women throw him off his stride, he doesn't know how to act with them."

"Yeah, maybe." Knowles didn't like the thought that a woman might get from the old man what he couldn't. Also, he was curious as to how Joey could go from fear to complacent acceptance of his recent trauma so quickly. He dismissed the thought; he was no shrink. He looked at his notepad. He had what he needed for the moment. He wanted to look at the site of the fire before it was trampled into nothing. "Listen," he said, rising. "You probably won't see any more trouble tonight. Too many people around. But stay inside, keep the shades drawn. In the morning there'll be more questioning. Oh, and let the place air out, stinks like gun-smoke in here."

He needn't have worried about the firemen, they had recognized the fire as an arson as soon as they had arrived. The worst they had done was to cover the blackened area with a light dust of dry chemical suppressant. Two of them were checking for burning embers left on the charred wall, two were crouching on the lowest of the two concrete steps that ascended to the landing. All were in full turnout gear, excepting air tanks and masks. One, wearing an old-style leather fire-helmet, was holding a long flashlight and pointing out something to his partner. Knowles approached behind them. "Whaduya got?" he asked.

Leather helmet turned briefly. "Knowles," he acknowledged. He pointed to several large shards of smoke-blackened glass. "This was a half-gallon juice jug." He moved his finger to point to a small, squarish, flat shape. "This is what's left of a book of paper matches. Next to it is a burnt cigarette filter." Now he directed Knowles to look above. "Up there, stuck into the top of the door frame is a big fishhook with a piece of partly melted, nylon squid line knotted to it." He stood up on the step and turned to look down at Knowles. "Way I see it," he said, "guy hung a jug of gasoline by the line, tucked a lit cigarette inside a book of matches closed around the line. Cigarette burned down, flared the matches, burnt the line off and dropped the jug to smash and ignite from the flare. Low-tech arson. Now look at this." He turned and directed the flash to a pair of charred nubs protruding from where the door closed against its stop, near to the door knob. "See those?" Knowles grunted. "Know what they are?" He turned again for Knowles' answer.

"Quit showing off, Eshner. You'll make me think you started it yourself just to show me how smart you are. Just tell me what they are."

The big fireman grinned down at him. "They're old-fashioned claw pegs, banged in to force the latch-bolt against the strike, so the door couldn't open from the inside."

Knowles looked puzzled. "Claw pegs?"

Eshner's grin widened. "Yeah, claw pegs. You know, what they used on lobsters before everyone started using rubber bands." He made to pinch Knowles cheek, lobster fashion, but Knowles backed out of reach. Eshner laughed. "Look for an old, cigarette-smoking, juice-drinking lobsterman, and you'll have your man." All four firemen laughed.

Knowles turned away, shaking his head. Firehouse humor. "Preserve the evidence," he growled. He went to his car to get his flashlight. He wanted to look around back before calling Clarkson, who would most likely be at the department within the hour. It was four-thirty in the morning.

.

Mary got to the scene at six, arriving simultaneously with the television news van, driven by Tina Bronki. Mary had been awake for exactly twenty minutes, having gotten a call from Clarkson, taking the time to brush her teeth and splash water on her face, and pulling her uniform on over her pajamas. It was ten minutes from her house to Joey's. Tina, as usual, looked ready to dine at the White House. She could drive and apply her make-up at the same time, although Jim Fleck might fear for his life in the process. Tina and Mary opened their doors at the same time, intersecting on the sidewalk in front of Joey's house. "Mary, whoa," Tina said, grabbing at Mary's jacket sleeve. "Tell me what happened."

"Have to catch you later, Tina," Mary said, trying to pull away. Tina held on, now looking at Mary's neck in an odd way. Mary stopped pulling. "What?" she asked.

"What are you wearing under your shirt?" Tina asked. Her fingers went to Mary's collar and plucked at a bit of lace that was sticking out. She guffawed, her other hand going to cover her mouth. "Hell of an undershirt, Mary. That part of the uniform these days?"

The predawn light was sufficient to show that Mary blushed. Both hands went to her neck to fold the offending material out of sight below her neck. She fastened the top button of her shirt and tried to smooth the bunchiness out of the material where her pajama top folded in ridges beneath and then zipped her jacket. She looked down to see if her pajama bottoms showed beyond the cuffs of her trousers. They didn't. Mary looked at Tina. "Fix your lipstick," she said, breaking away to join Knowles beyond the police line of tape.

Alarmed, Tina ran back to the van to check her appearance in the side-view mirror. Mary lied. Her lipstick was perfect. "Shit," she said. Her cameraman was bumbling around inside the van, getting his gear organized and humming a tuneless melody. "Damn it, Fleck, stop that noise and get your shit together. I ain't gonna wait all day for you."

Fleck turned and stuck his head through the open side door. "You," he said, "you can cool it. I'm humming because I'm glad to be alive, considering the way you drive. Find me something to shoot and I'll be there, don't you worry your pretty little head."

Mary paused in front of the blackened front of the house for a moment. The scene belonged to the fire marshal, who was charged with the determination of the cause of the fire. She'd get to see the evidence later. She walked down the driveway between the two houses to where Knowles was searching the backyard. He'd done it once by flashlight and was going over the ground for a second time, now that the day was lightening. The sky had cleared in the last few hours, taking the fog and mist out to sea. The wet grass held footprints. Those not made by Knowles or Brulick were marked with flags, pieces of stiff wire topped by a small orange plastic pennant. Mary stayed on the hard ground of the driveway. "Tell me about it," she said without preamble.

Knowles walked to where she stood and gave her the gist of it, including his encounter with Brulick. He pointed out where the shooter had stood and then she followed his pointing arm to the yet open doorway into Joey's house. "I screwed up, though," he sighed.

"What do you mean?" she asked. Knowles looked both tired and frustrated.

"I had a chance when this thing went down to put Sloan somewhere other than at his house, but I was pissed off and I blew it." He shook his head. "I shoulda had dispatch call his house. Dammit."

Mary leaned back on the door of the pickup, crossed her arms and looked at the ground between them. "Could have been Adams," she offered.

"Naw. Armstrong said the guy was short. Adams is over six feet, maybe six-two. I make it for Sloan."

"Still," Mary said. "Ought to have a guy out to Adam's house, talk to him. Sims has been wanting to button-hole him anyway. Want to give him a call, offer him the job?"

"I'll run it by Clarkson." He kicked at a stone on the driveway, rolling it under the truck. "You got your kit?"

Mary shook her head. "I ran out here without stopping at the station. I'll have to go back and get it." She fingered her collar, making sure nothing was showing of her pajama top. She'd stop at her house and re-dressed before going to the department. "Okay," she said, straightening. "If you don't need me for the canvas, I'll just check in for a minute with Warnecki and then go back for my gear."

"We're all set here. I got two guys going house to house, Beshloss and Peterson. They already did the park. Nothing there, but they'll go back again when it's full daylight." He hesitated. "Maybe you could take a shot at the old prick next door. See if he'll talk to you. Can't do any worse than me or Sims."

"Art or Don try?"

He nodded. "Couldn't get in the door, either of them."

Louis answered the door for her. He and Joey had been in the t.v. room, watching the live feed from Joey's front walk. She followed Louis, leaving her shoes by the door at his suggestion. Joey gave her a brief smile and a wave, returning his attention to the television. Tina was attempting to interview a fireman — Dave Eshner, now without his coat, but still wearing his leather fire hat and his boots. He was smiling, being pleasant to the pushy reporter, but refusing to comment on the fire other than to admit that arson was suspected. Tina gave an encapsulated version of Joey's troubles over the past week and signed off, ending with: ". . . One wonders if this is the last of Mr. Warnecki's string of misfortune, or if there is more to come. Tina Bronki, Channel Twenty-Six News, at the scene."

"Yes, one wonders, doesn't one?" Joey said lightly. He was in the fully-extended recliner farthest from the doorway, hands behind his head, flexing his toes, grinning at the two standing inside the doorway.

Mary had the incongruous thought that he had the longest toes she had ever seen and then Louis spoke: "Don't seem so very damn funny to me, boy."

Joey's grin eased by half and Mary noticed that his humor did not reach his eyes. "No, I suppose not," he admitted. "And I suppose I'll feel different about it myself, in a hour or two. But right now, I'm happy to be alive, so bear with me." He pulled the lever on the chair's side and it popped upright with a clunk. He stood and extended his right arm. "Look at this," he said to Mary. She came closer to him and he plucked at the hanging fabric with his other hand to show where the sleeve had been shredded by the bullet's passage.

She leaned and peered, fingering the rent cloth. "I'm going to need the shirt," she said. She straightened. "He set the fire to get you to run out where he could shoot you. Not that that isn't obvious, but my point is that you've got to act with consideration. Don't act impulsively." Her second thought was that this was a stupid thing to say. Who would stay in a burning house? But she did want him to behave in a more circumspect manner, and not just react to events automatically. He responded by grimacing and scratching at the stitches on his scalp. She noticed that they were healing nicely. The redness was gone and bristly hair was growing in around them.

Joey spun and plopped down in the leather chair with a whoosh. "Are you going to pick this guy up?" he asked, looking straight at her.

Mary looked down at her shoes, hooking her thumbs into her utility belt. An inch of white lace and a bit of pink flannel draped over the top of her shoe. How professional, she thought. Oh, the hell with it. Time to be professional and honest, both. She looked him in the eye. "If it were anyone but the chief of police, he'd be locked up right now. But the fact of the matter is, we need a lot more. Like a smoking gun in his hand and two eye-witnesses."

"So you need the boy dead on the ground before you're gonna do anything," Louis interrupted, pissed. "Shit, you might as well shoot him now and get it done with." Louis was standing too close to her, his hands on his hips, leaning into her face.

She refused to back away, holding his eyes from inches away until he looked away, and then she faced Joey again, determination and resolve incarnate. "I promise you," she said. "If you can manage to stay alive for another day, we'll get that asshole behind bars." It may have been a rash promise, but at the moment, anyway, she believed it to the bottom of her soul. "I'll see you later," she ended, and spun on her heel and left the house.

Louis and Joey were both stunned by the vehemence of Mary's parting promise and Louis took the other chair, sinking into its enfolding arms with a sigh. "Shit, Joey," he said.

"Exactly right," was the reply. "How about a beer, Lou? It's been a long night."

Louis regarded his friend. Joey looked wistful. Louis shrugged. "Sure. It's seven o'clock in the morning, but we been up all night. A beer might be just the thing, make us relax, maybe fall asleep for a while." He leaned over the arm of his chair and removed two bottles from the diminutive refrigerator between them. They weren't screw-offs, but Louis pried the caps with fingernails like rhinoceros horn.

They sipped in silence, staring at but not watching or hearing the television program, which was an informercial on how to suck the air out of your clothing in special plastic bags so that your closets wouldn't be too stuffed to add more clothing. Six dead soldiers stood in a row across the top of the fridge by the time the television was in the middle of its next offering: a soap opera that Louis was prone to watch, but wasn't able to follow at the moment. Joey's eyes were beginning to close, exhaustion and beer finally overcoming anxious concerns for self-preservation.

"I could use a cigarette," observed Louis.

Joey came into the present. "You don't smoke," he said. "Do you?"

"Not for thirty-five years, but you know, it's one of those things that comes back every so often, times of stress." He paused. "Kat made me quit."

Joey's memories of Katherine were of a stout, handsome woman who baked cookies for him and told him stories of her youth in rural Georgia, daughter of a share-cropper and his wife who had seven children besides her. "You miss her," Joey said, a statement and not a question.

Louis sighed. "Oh, yes I do. She was a fine, fine woman." He lost himself in thinking about her for a moment and then pulled himself out of it. "You been missing out on some good things, Joey, never getting married." Joey shrugged and looked down at his hands. This was a subject that came up in conversation every once in a great while, and Joey avoided it when he could. Louis recognized the signs, but wasn't ready to let the subject go. He pulled himself up straight in his chair. "When's the last time you had sex with a woman, anyway?" he asked.

Joey raised an eyebrow. It wasn't like Louis to be so direct about personal matters. He thought about it, and wondered if his encounter with a dixie cup in the week past would count. No, he guessed not. "It's been a while, I'd have to say," he admitted.

Louis snorted. "I'd guess it's been more than a while, from what I can tell."

Joey frowned at him. "I wouldn't want to tell you that it's none of your business, but it's none of your business." He was offended.

"Now don't be getting all defensive with me. I consider myself a friend of yours and I think I can say what's on my mind, as a friend."

"Alright. You've said it, now let's let it go." Joey directed his intent gaze to the soap opera, where a couple who had been reviling each other the moment before were now passionately kissing and declaring their eternal love. That kind of flip-flop in attitude baffled him. He couldn't relate to it and didn't believe it. "How can you stand to watch this crap?" he said.

Louis wasn't ready to let it go. "How about that lady cop?" he asked. "I think she might be sweet on you."

Joey looked to see if he was smiling. He wasn't. Joey pursed his lips and blew a raspberry in dismissal. "No way, Louis. She's a nice person who just happens to be a cop. Now keep quiet for a while and let me grab a few z's." He laid his head back and closed his eyes.

Louis had to have the last word. "Maybe so, maybe so. But, one does wonder, doesn't one?" Joey opened one eye to look at his neighbor. Louis' eyes were closed but he wore a half-smile on his lips.

.

Charles Adams awoke in his chair at ten o'clock in the morning, though 'awoke' may be too strong a word to use in this context. His was more of a shambling rise to bleary-eyed consciousness when his fingers let go their grasp on the pistol in his hand and it slid to the floor with a thunk. He came to full wakefulness during the five-minute news-brief that preceded the Homemaker's Movie on the television that had remained on all night. The vivacious Tina Bronki was having another go at the events of the previous night, recapping what was the only newsworthy incident to occur during that news cycle. Her demeanor was appropriately serious and she seemed to be talking directly to the attentive Charles Adams as he squirmed to relieve the pain in his lower back from improper sleeping accommodations. He squirmed in his thoughts, also, as he considered Sloan's recurring failure to solve their problems. "Son of a bitch," he said. "Guy shouldn't be allowed to carry a gun. What next?"

What next was the ringing of the doorbell, reaching his ears from the front door, twenty feet from where he sat. "Oh, damn," he said, looking down at his wrinkled clothes. He'd let the doorbell ring. Let it ring until whoever it was got bored and went away. But they didn't go away, and when ringing failed to provide the requisite reaction, they knocked. Loudly and repeatedly. Charles finally got angry and rose to give a piece of his mind, what was left of it, to the insufferable knocker-man. He couldn't straighten completely, so the man who finally made it to open his door gave the appearance of having aged twenty years in less than so many days.

John Sims was so shocked at the representation of a train wreck casualty that appeared before him that he stepped back a pace from the doorway. Was this the dashing and debonair Charles Adams, or a dissolute and dying elder brother? "Good Lord," he said, before he could think. "What happened to you?" He half-thought that Charles might have been the victim of another crime.

Charles' anger turned instantly to acute embarrassment. His vanity had always been in his appearance and in his perceived position as a member of the distinguished elite of the community. For a lowly, uniformed cop to express such astonishment at his downfall was almost more than he could bear. He tried to gather himself together into some semblance of his former self. Clearing his throat to speak brought up a gob of phlegm that he had to again swallow. "Excuse me," he said. "What can I do for you? I'm rather busy at the moment, so I hope you'll be brief."

Adam's fatuous response brought Sims away from his astonishment and back to his purpose. "I'm Officer Sims, and I need a few minutes of your time, ask you a few questions." He stepped forward to his previous position at the door.

Charles filled the doorway, making no move to invite Sims into his house. "Questions about what?" he asked, reverting to his imperious manner.

"Do you mind if I come in for a minute?" Sims asked, edging forward. "Shouldn't take long." Adams backed away from him, allowing Sims room to pass by him into the hall. The spacious hall was elegant, with elaborate painted moldings and a mahogany staircase leading to the upper floor. The open doorway to the left led into a formal dining room with seating for twelve around a dark walnut, Queen Anne table. To his right, beside an antique tall-case clock, the doorway led into Charles' study where the television could be heard playing a singing duet from some forgotten musical comedy. Everything in Sims' sight whispered money and taste, from the oriental rugs and runners to the well-polished, antique items of early-American furniture and handsome landscapes and portraits that adorned the painted walls. All except for the man who leaned against the wall beside him. Charles was a mess, entirely out of place here in these opulent and well-maintained surroundings.

Sims wanted a reaction to gauge the man's complicity in Sloan's activities, so his first question was a fastball. "Do you know Elwood Trott?" he asked, watching Adams' face closely.

His pitch streaked by; the batter almost ducked. Charles recovered quickly and resumed his stance. He rubbed at his unshaven jaw. "I may have heard the name. Why do you ask?" Charles was still residually drunk, and he spoke with the elaborate care that the self-conscious drunk employs to preserve his self esteem.

"Were you at home all during this past night?"

That one was easy — a slow ball. "Yes. And I would like to know why you're intruding on my privacy with these very odd questions."

"Can anyone substantiate your presence here, last night?"

That one was harder, but still manageable. "As a matter of fact, no. But then I see no reason why I should have to account for my whereabouts, anyway." Charles put his jaw forward.

Sims gave him that one, tilted his head and nodded. "Perhaps not, right now," he said. "Can you account for the source of the substantial amount deposited to your business account at the bank?"

That one almost knocked Charles down. He gasped audibly. How could this item of privacy be known to the police? "That's my personal business," he stammered, "and none of yours. I'll have to ask you to leave now, unless you have a warrant or some such."

Sims smiled. Charles in his cups sounded much like his older sister. "Not at present. But thank you for your cooperation. I'll be back." He left without a goodbye, closing the door behind himself without a backward look. He knew Charles was standing inside, sweating.

Two strikes aren't usually enough to call a batter out, but in this case Sims had gotten what he wanted — gut confirmation of Adams' involvement. And maybe he'd given the man enough of a push for him to do something stupid. He'd keep on Adams' ass like white on rice until something broke. By tomorrow morning, Clarkson and Waters would broaden the original group to include two other officers, Beshloss and Peterson. More would be included before the end of that day. They would have enough officers to keep close tabs on Sloan and Adams. And Waters was seeing Henry Daniels this afternoon to see if they had enough to go before a grand jury. For better or for worse, they were married to this thing now and it was only a matter of time. Either the bad guys would go down or the whole thing would explode in their faces, and the department would go down in flames.

.

Charles was indeed sweating. He could smell the sour odor that rose from his body. He smelled like spilled scotch and stale popcorn, with a hint of bad onion. He felt like shit and was ready to trade his body and soul in on a younger model. Fat chance. But he could change his location. He could get the cash to take himself far from his problems, maybe to some tropical isle where the dollar was king and an older gentleman might be able to lose himself in the throng. Not that he was old. Hell, he was only sixty-one, not too old to start over, or at least to enjoy another decade or two of comfort. With the cash he could get, more than comfort, luxury even. Leaning against the doorjamb to the dining room, he watched the steady swinging of the pendulum of the tall-case clock opposite him. The ticking of seconds passing could be heard beneath the sound of the television. Damn. Do it. Do it before it's too late.

He watched each step as he climbed the staircase, thinking of what he must do, leaning heavily on the bannister. In his bedroom he stripped, leaving his slept-in garments where they fell. He never raised his head to look about him and showered on automatic pilot, scarcely aware of his movements, ritual taking the place of conscious action. He was casting about in his mind: Where to go? South America? The Caribbean? He had no idea of how to avoid any potential extradition processes or how to move his money so that no one could trace it, but his first stop would have to be the Cayman Island bank where he already had an account. From there? Play it by ear.

It was a different Charles Adams that emerged from his house an hour later. Clean shaven and dressed for business in a conservative, gray wool suit and black oxfords. His agenda was simple: go to the bank and arrange the wire transfer; return home for just long enough to find his passport and pack a small suitcase; drive to the airport and travel south to the money, using his credit cards for the last time. After that? Buy a new identity and move on. He felt sure that his money could facilitate the process, somehow. And he resolved not to have a single drink until he was on the plane, or at least in the airport lounge with his ticket in hand.

.

Jimmy Brulick went directly home after his shift, not stopping to ask if his presence was still required at the scene. He had a lot to think about. Of all the questions in his mind, the only certainty was that his situation was about to change, and not for the better. He felt that his anchor, in the person of Chief Sloan, was dragging, and the lee shore was beckoning him onto the rocks.

Jimmy didn't drink, couldn't, in fact. His few early experiments with alcohol had tended to expose even more of the nature that caused other people to steer away from him. Behind his veneer of sobriety lay a world of craven venality that was only exacerbated by alcohol. On the few occasions he'd been in public, drunk, people tended to react to him in one of two ways, depending on their personalities: avoid him like a plague, or beat him up. So, Brulick had learned to stick with soft beverages.

He held a can of lukewarm cola, a store brand, as he sat in his easy chair, losing himself in the picture on the wall opposite him. Sometimes the woman was his mother, protecting him from the world behind the green trees and flowing river. His own mother had been distant, distracted by the concerns of her own life and a husband who had been absent most of the time selling on the road. Sometimes the woman was the wife he'd never had, waiting with their child for him to come home to her. Whichever role she was playing for him at the time, she always had the answers for him — the answers that would make him feel loved and admired. Her answers worked in his fantasy world, but right now she had nothing to say to him that could relate to his real-life problems.

His phone rang several times through the course of the morning and afternoon, but he wouldn't respond to it. The voice that came through his answering machine was usually Sloan's, and twice it was that of Clarkson. He stayed where he was. Let them think he was not at home. In a few hours he had to make decisions, but for now he would stay by the river.

.

In the early hours of the morning, Sloan had arrived home where his wife was sleeping. She was taking a medication that caused her to sleep heavily all night long, and that left her somewhat unfocused during the day. She had suffered from a chronic nervous anxiety and insomnia all through her life and the last few years had seen her less and less willing to leave the house — to the point where she found herself sometimes unable even to get behind the wheel of a car, let alone drive it anywhere.

Edith Sloan, nee Bracken, was the daughter of a moderately successful Boston merchant. Her father had owned two retail clothing stores, and she and her brother Edward had grown up in fairly comfortable surroundings, despite the fact that their mother had died early on in the children's lives. Where Edward had been loud and boisterous, rebelling against authority just short of the extant that would have precluded his subsequent career with a law enforcement agency, Edith had been timid and unsure of herself. She did what she was told to do, happy not to make any strong decisions on her own. When Harry Sloan came along, offering her the same deal (though not in so many words), she accepted and became his wife. Husband and brother got along just fine, being if not exactly birds of a feather, then at least animals of similar species.

Edward had a secret vice, namely an addiction to gambling, that had led to his involvement in certain crimes that were facilitated by his position in the Drug Enforcement Administration. Harry Sloan's addiction was to power and he used his position similarly. Most of their dealings over the years had been small in scope, easily hidden from watchdog authorities and family members. Their present enterprise had been occasioned by both opportunity and need: Edward's need to pay off a large gambling debt and Harry's opportunity to invest surreptitiously in Charles Adam's waterfront condo project. The plan had been to get the project started, sell several units before completion, and then sell off to other investors who would be attracted by longer-term profits and delayed capital gains. Enough cash had been returned to Edward's creditors to persuade them to accept a deferred payment plan, one that was expected to be paid in full in less than a year. Edward had demanded an early partial payment because the initial risk was largely his. Adams and Sloan had both their shares totally invested in the project.

Harry was considering the stability of Adams and the reliability of his pension plan supplement as he went about the business of hiding or destroying every trace of his late-night activities. There wasn't that much to do: the gun was hidden, body and clothing cleansed of any gunpowder residue. His sleeping wife was more of an alibi than he had any right to expect. He himself had increased her medication of the evening before to ensure that she wouldn't awaken during the night and find him missing. But Adam's behavior of the last several days was on his mind as he prepared a breakfast and carried it up the stairs to wake his wife. Adams was a weak link and Sloan had little confidence in his ability to tough it through to the end. Adams' increased drinking made Harry think that he would have to keep a closer rein on him. Sloan decided to spend the morning in the office and then check up on Charles.

Upstairs, Sloan had trouble rousing Edith. She was slow to wake and slow to recognize him. She didn't have complete control over her jaw muscles, chewing her toast slowly and dribbling some of her coffee onto the breast of her nightgown, sitting up in bed. He thought that he had perhaps dosed her a little too strongly. He made a mental note to adjust it a bit downwards, next time. She thanked him for his touching concern in serving her breakfast in bed. Buttered toast and coffee.

At the office later that morning, Harry was feeling a slow burn. He'd come in a few minutes early to catch Brulick for a talk and had found his own unmarked car in the lot, keys on his desk. No sign of Brulick, who had apparently slipped in and out without a word to anyone. He needed Brulick to keep him clued in on what was going on and who was where, and he couldn't get ahold of him. Brulick could tell him things he couldn't get on his own, like what rumors were spreading in the department. Jimmy had a knack for overhearing conversations that would cease the moment the chief entered a room. Sloan wanted his spy on the scene, but what good is a spy if you can't talk to him? Son of a bitch, thought Sloan as he replaced the receiver after his third try to reach him.

Sloan sat in his office, listening to the silence. Usually, the noise of the department reached right through his closed door: heavy feet pounding down the adjacent stairwell, laughter and shouts from the locker room during a shift change, Clarkson's voice booming over all other sounds as he dressed down some officer over sloppy gear or a lame written report. Today, the place made about as much commotion as the front office in a funeral parlor. Phones rang and were answered quietly. The shift change had come and gone without so much as a slammed locker. And Clarkson hadn't even briefed him on the shooting and fire.

One time, when Sloan had been a young man drawing a living from the sea, he'd been pulling his traps on a beautiful August morning, a morning when the sea was as dead and smooth as a sheet of green glass. He was working a line of pots that were strung along the small islands that stood out from the flats just a half mile from his home. The lay of the sea bed, invisible under the surface of the water, was as known to him as the lumps in his own mattress, beneath the blankets. He spent about the same amount of time on each, every day. The fact that the usual raucous crowd of seagulls weren't wheeling above his boat's wake gave him pause, and he idled the boat's engine to almost nothing and looked around him. He watched as a black front of clouds rode up and over him from the south, blotting out the sun and unloading a torrential downpour that brought the sea to a spasmodic boil of wind and wave in a matter of minutes. It wasn't the usual summer storm that came on a hot afternoon with towering, anvil-shaped thunderclouds. This particular storm flew in like a giant black crow whose wings spanned the sky, and swooped down to rake his unsuspecting head with claws of hail. He managed to ride out that storm in the lee of an island, using his internal guidance system to keep him from the rocks that the storm was blinding him to, and an almost instinctual knowledge of how to guide his small boat among the unpredictable waves. Two boats and one life were lost in that freak storm and the old-timers still spoke of it in tones usually used to describe an encounter with the supernatural.

The feeling, the perception of impending doom that came over him when that line of black was nearing overhead, was the same as that which he was sensing right now in his office. He'd ride it out, if a storm came, just as he had back then. And if any small boats were to go down, his wouldn't be one of them.

.

At a quarter to twelve, Letty Adams was clearing her desk. It had been a quiet morning. No phone calls, no visitors, just the mailman dropping off a stack of bills and junk mail. The business books were all up to date and she wanted to go out for lunch and then to take the rest of the day for herself, going to the farm and taking her horse for a long afternoon ride. She was about to reach for her coat when the door opened and a young-looking man entered. He might have been twenty-five or -six years old.

"I was just going to close up for lunch," she said. "Is there something I can help you with that won't take very much time?" She smiled pleasantly, but it was a somewhat impatient smile. Working in the office these last days depressed her and she was anxious to close the door behind her.

Her visitor was dressed in a low-powered business style — except for his shoes, which were heavy-soled walking shoes, polished but scarred with wear. A long, blue London Fog-style raincoat was buttoned almost to the top, revealing only that he wore a white shirt and tightly-knotted tie. His pants draped a little too long, as though he wanted to cover as much of his footwear as possible. Letty thought that the ploy only served to draw more attention to them. He was blond and round-faced, overweight by twenty pounds or so. His expression was earnest but pleasant, displaying an uncertain smile, as if unsure of his reception today.

"Ah, actually," he began, searching the wall behind her to find the right words. "This is an informal call. I'm with the State Department of Environmental Protection and would appreciate just a few minutes today to inquire about something that recently came to our attention." He had barely enough authority to come here today on his own volition and didn't want to mention the source of his information, namely Daniel Drew. The other part of his prompting came from the unexpected story on the television news that had appeared to steal a move on his office. Today he was playing catch-up with the media and doing a favor for an old friend.

"And your name is . . ." Letty pulled the ends of her unbuttoned cardigan sweater to wrap it more tightly around her. In her low-heeled shoes she stood eye to eye with him.

"I'm sorry," he said, "Bert Hines, with remediation and waste management." He took one step toward her and bent at the waist to reach out to shake her hand. A lock of his fair hair fell over one eye.

Letty hesitated offering her hand for just long enough for his gesture to start to seem awkward, and then relented. "Letitia Adams," she said, shaking his hand briefly. She felt unwilling to involve herself in any more of the company's business, new or old, and although she knew the reason for his visit, he would have to bring everything out on his own with no assistance from her. She moved behind her desk and smoothed her skirt under her as she sat, not offering him a seat.

Hines stood in the center of the room, playing out his line, hoping for cooperation in a matter for which he had at present no legal basis to pursue. He wasn't even sure what form that cooperation might take. All he knew was that some bad compounds had found their way to the site of the old cannery, and he'd like to know where they had gone from there. Letty sat like she could have been carved from marble. Bert Hines was beginning to feel stupid. He should return to the office and work through channels, setting in motion the legal machinery that would formally require answers to specific questions. A lawyerly mano y mano that could string out the process for as many years as had passed since the original occurrences.

While she was sitting and half-listening, Letty was thinking: the dates on the papers she had seen coincided with about the time that Stan Warnecki had died in the accident, which occurred around the time the new floor had been poured. A floor, she had thought at the time, which had been a complete waste of money. She had an irreverent thought, probably resulting from all the stress she had been under lately. It brought a slight smile to her face. "Well," she said, "why don't you just bang a hole in the floor and see if the stuff is under there?"

Hines' look of astonishment made her smile grow. "Seriously?" he asked. "I mean, it seems a rash idea, especially since we haven't had an opportunity to speak to Mr. Adams. After all, it's his signature on most of the receipts, and he would be the most likely person to know the wheres and whys of it all."

"Mr. Hines," Letty said. "If you can find Charles and he's willing to answer your questions to your satisfaction, go for it." Letty was finding a way to separate herself emotionally from the business. Maybe she wouldn't ever return to the office again. Forget coming in to finish out the week. "I'll tell you what," she said, leaning forward over her desk, clasping her hands before her. "If you have a problem with Charles, or finding Charles, or whatever, as a corporate officer, I'll give you permission to knock a hole in the floor or in the walls or in the roof. Whatever you please. How's that?"

He looked doubtful. Was she rattling his chain, or what? She didn't seem like the type to be other than sincere, but who knows? He wouldn't take her words at face value, but at least he had a reference point to work from. He'd just have to see where it took him. "Well, thank you for your cooperation," he said. "I guess my next step is to meet with Mr. Adams."

Letty stood and pulled her coat from where it stood next to the door. "Good luck," she said, opening the door for him to precede her into the open air. On the stone landing, she took a deep breath. It tasted of freedom, cool and fresh. The sky was in transition. In the narrow lane between the rows of brick buildings, she could see wisps of ragged clouds hurrying toward the southeast, shuttering and then releasing the light of the sun. She took it as a metaphor for her present circumstance. Would the sky clear entirely, or would more clouds blow in to shadow her future?

Tina Bronki was making the rounds. She'd been twice to the scene of the fire and shooting, twice to the police station, and once to Adams' home to see if she could get a comment on the record from Charles about the toxic chemicals. Along the way there had been a stop at the television station, but no time for a break. Jim Fleck was feeling pangs of hunger and being constantly rebuffed by Tina. "One more stop," she said, aggravated by his nagging. "Then you can put on your feed bag."

Driving down Wharf Street to make another try for Adams, Tina saw the green sedan with government plates and the DEP logo on the door. Letitia Adams and a blond-haired man were stepping onto the sidewalk from the entrance of the Adams Realty and Development office. Perseverance pays off again, she thought. She stopped in the middle of the street and hustled to catch the pair on the sidewalk. A car following the van stopped abruptly and beeped its horn. Flack had one foot on the street and Tina yelled for him to park it out of the way. He muttered a complaint to himself and pulled the van into an empty space twenty feet ahead.

As Tina intercepted the pair, Letty deftly introduced her to Hines and made an escape before Fleck could get set up to get her on tape. Bert Hines made his television debut alone, smiling nervously and trying to say nothing that would come back to haunt him. He failed, by slipping in Letty's off-hand comment about knocking a hole in the floor of the cannery. It takes practice to speak and say nothing, and Hines was a rookie at the game.

.

Louis snored when he slept on his back. Generally, it was a rhythmic sound, not unlike a sawyer's steady cadence. The saw hit a nail. Saw-teeth screeched and snapped off; the saw jumped the cut; the sawyer cursed. Joey woke, startled and wide-eyed, and looked at Louis. Louis gasped and chewed, and settled back to his work. Joey got up.

Outside, the air was chill and Joey's bare feet lost their heat quickly to the gravel on his driveway. A police car blocked the entrance to his driveway, but he saw no official presence around him and felt uncomfortably exposed. He walked gingerly to his back door, looking around him for hidden gunmen as he stepped. Entering his house, he was relieved to see Mary Hartz and then alarmed at what she was preparing to do. She held a reciprocating saw, plugged in and ready to go, apparently about to cut a chunk out of the doorjamb that opened into his kitchen. "Whoa," he said. Mary turned to him with a questioning look, holding the power tool across her chest like a sentry on guard. Joey held up a hand and approached to inspect the doorway. A hole had been punched through the varnished door casing, about chest high. He drew the pencil from behind Mary's ear and probed the hole. The bullet had lodged in the studs behind the casing. "How about if I pry off the trim and then you can cut out what you need. That way I'll only have to fix a small hole, instead of the whole thing." He looked hopefully at her.

Mary grinned at him and toggled the switch of the power tool. It gnarled a threat and the eight inch-blade cycled in and out. "C'mon," she said. "I've never used this thing, it's brand new. I want to try it out."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Joey said, and grinned back at her. "My house has enough damage. Let me get a flat bar and pry off the casing. You can core it and snap out a plug like you did in the other room. Okay?"

She pouted, looking at her new toy and toggling the switch again. "Oh, alright," she said, laying the tool down on the floor. "Ruin my fun. But if you're worried about damage, don't look in the dining room. Or at the front of your house."

"What's in the dining room?" Joey asked. Early in the morning, he'd taken a quick look at the scorched front of his home and didn't want to think about it at the moment.

Mary straightened. "The other shot went through the kitchen wall and broke the mirror on the other side." She looked down at his bare feet. "Don't walk in there. There's glass all over the floor."

"Damn," Joey said.

Joey removed the one piece of trim. Mary exchanged power tools and used a core drill to cut around to bullet. One good crank against the side of the hole with a large screwdriver popped the core loose and she fished it out of the hole. Joey nailed the trim back into its original position, thinking all the while that he was losing another day of work. Mary had found the other bullet on the floor of the dining room, its energy spent by passing through two layers of drywall and a heavy wall mirror. Mirror clips held two pieces of the frameless mirror against the wall, the rest lay in shards and chips on the carpet before it.

"Sorry about your house, Joey — all the damage." Mary knelt on the kitchen floor to pack up her kit. She would put everything in the trunk of the patrol car and then visit Joe Soucup to see if he would talk to her.

Joey stood in the doorway between kitchen and dining room, leaning against the jamb. From that position, he could see the broken glass in one room and Mary in the other. Joey sighed. "Hope you guys can stop him before he does any more damage. There aren't any more mirrors to break, anyway." He crossed his arms. "You going to try to talk to Joe?"

Mary snapped the last case shut and stood. "Yeah. Got any hints as to how I should approach him?"

Joey though about it. "Not really. Just don't try to push him, or he'll get his back up. Right from the start, though, you've got a better shot at it than anyone else. Joe likes women, especially attractive ones, but never really gets a chance to talk to any." He smiled. "They seem to avoid him for some reason. I'm betting he'll talk to you just to keep you in sight."

Mary, who had been watching him as he spoke, tilted her head forward to look at him from under her lowered brow. He had just said that she was an attractive woman in a very matter-of-fact way, without seeming in any way to appear to be coming on to her. As the only female officer in the department, she was constantly on her guard to avoid any impropriety, or appearance of impropriety, in her speech, manner, or dress. Implicitly when possible, explicitly when necessary, she made it clear to all that liberties were not to be taken with her. She wore no make-up on duty and did not fraternize with the male officers unless it was an occasion where their wives were present. Since police officers tended to hang out with other police officers, it limited her social life considerably. Still, it was nice to know that one was considered to be attractive, so she felt comfortable in accepting this off-hand remark as a kind of compliment. But she'd be damned if she would use her femininity to seduce Old Joe into talking to her.

Joey didn't seem to notice her slight reaction to his comment, preoccupied as he was with his own problems. He left his torn shirt for her to take away as evidence and went to shower and dress before attempting to restore what he could of his house. Mary stowed her gear away and went to knock at Joe's door.

Old Joe let her knock for a while before answering his door. When he opened it, he was wearing a relatively stain-free knit shirt, and baggy trousers that showed signs of having been lying folded in a drawer for a long time. He was also wearing socks and shoes. When he opened the door, he looked at her without saying anything.

"Mr. Soucup," Mary said, "do you mind talking with me for a minute or two?" Not 'would you answer some questions'?

Joe looked her up and down in an appraising way and then looked over his shoulder into his dark living room. He shrugged and allowed her in, closing the door behind her and watching her until she came to a stop in the center of the front room and turned to face him. His face wore an expression that was a strange mixture of wariness and hunger.

Mary's mind flew back to stories from her childhood of being trapped in an ogre's lair. She kept her features neutral, not wanting to show her distaste for his person or living quarters. She took her eyes from his face and looked about her. She hoped he wouldn't offer her a seat. She could imagine standing again with a pound of cat hair and greasy dirt stuck to her uniform.

"So?" he said, remaining where he was in the short hallway by the door.

Mary managed a slight smile. "Mr. Soucup. It's my understanding that you saw a man in front of Mr. Warnecki's home and phoned Mr. Armstrong. Is that correct?"

Joe tilted his head to the side. Both earpieces were screwed in. "Maybe," he answered.

Her situation suddenly seemed ridiculous to her and and a chuckle escaped her. She tried to erase the smile that followed, but failed, and she shook her head. "Please, Mr. Soucup. Either you did or you didn't, right?"

Her smile may have been non-threatening to him, or he took it as a challenge, or he just enjoyed seeing it, but he allowed himself a slight, wry grin. "Okay, yeah, I did."

Mary nodded and lost her smile. She took one step towards him. "And then what did you see?" she asked.

Joe didn't move except to put his hands in his pockets. It was a half-minute before he answered her. "I saw the little weasel run to the back, between my house and Joey's," he spat out. "I went into the back room and watched him. He stood there with a gun, and when Joey ran out the back he shot, twice. Goddam asshole bastard." Joe shook a little with his last expletive and actually spat, to Mary's amazement, towards a coffee can that stood on the floor against the wall to his right. His aim was fair, but not perfect, evidenced by the brown staining of the wall and floor in the proximity of the can.

Mary retreated a step, not that she was within range, but as a general caution and natural reaction. She was not too taken aback to lose the thread of her inquiry, however. "Did you recognize the man? Could you recognize him if you saw him again?" she pressed.

Here, Joe's attitude was hard to figure. He was angry, no doubt. Whether he was refusing to being made to feel cowardly in the presence of a woman, or put off from the typically belligerent stance he took before a male, or just fed up with the whole deal, he let it go. Whatever the reason, he put his jaw forward, craning his chicken neck as far as it would extend and nodded. "I know who it was," he said, spitting out the words. "It was the same rat bastard Nazi that came creeping around the last time, shooting at Joey. Asshole jerkface dickwad . . ." Joe was lost in a profane trance, shaking his head,cursing, and moving his feet in small steps that went nowhere. He kept on cursing in an almost mystical way, like some crooked gnome casting an malign spell.

"Mr. Soucup," Mary said, cutting his tirade off in mid curse. Besides the fact that his performance was disturbing, she needed to pull him back to her reality. "You said you know who it was. Do you know his name?" She spoke too loudly, a little concerned that he might go on ranting like Rumplestiltskin until he stamped a hole through the floor and disappeared into the earth, leaving a only a wisp of sulfurous smoke to show where he had disappeared.

Joe returned his focus to her, but retained the strange light of dementia in his eyes. "His name is Sloan and he's your boss, the police chief. I seen his face enough on t.v. to know who he is, and I seen him around here three times, creeping around. I know who he is all right." Joe's gnarled hands were clenched into knobby fists and he stared fiercely at her, daring her to dispute his veracity.

Mary felt a thrill of triumph. She had an eyewitness. Almost immediately, doubt came into her mind. When it came to court, what kind of witness would Joe make? He was ancient. He was mostly deaf. And if he wasn't actually crazy, he surely would give that impression to a jury. Nevertheless, this was what she had, and this is what they would have to use. "Thank you, Mr. Soucup. What you've told me is extremely important. It's something we can use."

"Just keep the bastard from finishing the job," Joe said, then added, "Though he's such a piss-poor shot, he'd probably need a dozen more chances to do it right."

Mary didn't want to give him any more chances. She would bring the evidence she had collected back to the department, meet with Clarkson and perhaps the lieutenant, and then return to baby-sit Joey until the end of her shift. She hoped they could provide continuous coverage on him until warrants could be issued and Sloan and Adams taken into custody. One more day, she thought, maybe two. With Joe Soucup's evidence, they should surely be able to justify those actions. She excused herself and left Old Joe's presence.

She hadn't been really aware that she had been breathing so shallowly while she had been inside, but when the door closed behind her, she drew several large breaths, purging her lungs of the miasmic atmosphere of the house. The air outside was clear and cool and the sun shone brightly, stark contrast to the gloom and fetor of Joe's cave-like home. As she walked to her car, she unzipped her jacket and flapped it like a bellows to dispel any malodorous residue from her clothing. She shook her head to shake the feeling of spiders crawling around in her brain. What a kook, she thought. Then she smiled to herself, anticipating Knowles' reaction to her success in getting Old Joe to talk.

.

Joey showered and shaved and dressed in work clothes. His work clothes were distinguishable from others in his wardrobe only by the fact that they had become faded or stained to a degree that he determined made them suitable for work. From that point, they disintegrated rapidly until they were usable only for rags. Joey was rough on clothing, never hesitating to get down into the nitty-gritty of a job. Dirt, sawdust, pine pitch and plaster seemed attracted to his person like a magnet and his long-jointed body wore out his clothing at the elbows and knees first. Nothing he wore would ever end up in a Salvation Army bin. He'd never owned a proper suit or even a sport coat. Grade school had been the last time he had possessed a pair of shoes other than sneaks or leather work-boots. In the cold months, he wore flannel shirts and jeans. The summer found him in tee-shirts and jeans. What did he have to dress for, other than work or his very casual and limited social life? He'd never had to attend a funeral, had never dressed up and gone to a wedding or a high school prom. Joey had one face, one character, one role to play. He was a one-note man.

His vicarious life was to be found in his reading, in the paperback novels that filled the shelves in the room at the rear of his home. In those books he took on the characters and guises of international spies and wealthy socialites, private detectives and murderous but nattily-dressed drug lords. These transformations were for the entertainment and diversion of his mind. They were not intended to pertain at all to his quotidian existence. So what was happening to him, here and now?

He was picking up the larger pieces of mirror shards from his dining room rug and dropping them into a brown cardboard box. They reflected pieces of himself — a shoulder clad in green- and blue-checked plaid, a belt buckle that had once been plated with shiny brass but now was worn to the grayish sheen of the steel beneath, and an eye that revealed a look of troubled uncertainty. The eye held him because he found little recognition in it.

His may have until this point been the unexamined life, but he had never questioned whether it had been worth living or not. He had just lived it, accepting whatever came his way and rejecting whatever seemed to be the most uncomfortable. Doors had opened, doors had closed. Choices had been few and easy, seeming to push him toward a preordained path. Now he was caught up in something beyond his ability to chose, a wild river-ride of uncontrollable circumstance. Did he have anything like a paddle, or was he merely a passenger?

He sighed and turned the reflection away, dropping the piece into the bag to clink and shatter further. He couldn't strategize, turn and examine the possibilities piece by piece until he came up with any plan. He would just put his head down and deal with each event as it unfolded. He wasn't built to do it any other way.

He vacuumed the rug as well as he was able, being careful not to push any pieces down into the pile where they might hide and later emerge to lodge in an unprotected toe. He bent low to catch any glint of reflected light that indicated a missed sliver of glass, plucking with tweezers those few that clung too tenaciously to the fabric. Wood slivers were an everyday fact of life for a carpenter. Ofttimes he would spend an hour in the evening working with needle or tweezers to remove them from his hands before they could fester and make working with his hands painful. But glass splinters were particularly onerous, being essentially invisible to the eye and found only by feel — the clicking resistance of glass against the needle and the sharp twinge of pain at the locus of the lodgment. The blood that might stain a wood sliver into visibility only further obscured a transparent fragment of glass. The thought that his current problems were more akin to breaking glass than any other kind of demolition made him work longer than was perhaps necessary to groom the rug. When he was done, he had twenty pounds of glass in a box and a wall that showed a bullet hole nearly centered in an un-sunfaded rectangle of pastel green.

.

When Mary Hartz returned, a few hours later, Joey had cut away portions of the fire-damaged yews that flanked his front steps. What had once been a pair of neatly trimmed, green cupcakes were now low crowns of brown sticks. He was scrubbing the blackened concrete of the steps and landing when she parked on the street in front of his house. Gray suds oozed from under a stiff brush and down the steps to soak into the earth around the denuded plants. The door and surrounding shingles showed long, running streaks from their first scrubbing. The paint had alligatored and every once-crisp edge was charred and rounded. Joey looked over his shoulder at the sound of her car door closing, stopped working, and stood.

Mary stood inside the line of shade where the sun had moved beyond the corner of the house. She wanted to see his face to judge the state of his mind, though the area in the shade held a distinct chill. The evening promised to be clear and cold, this day in early December. "What's the damage report?" she asked.

He turned back to the house. "Mostly superficial. I have to replace a couple dozen shingles, strip and sand the door and trim. I'm gonna wash everything once more and then hose it down." He wore no jacket and his knees and his shirt sleeves to the elbow were soaked and black with greasy soot. A chill breeze blew by and he shivered once, involuntarily.

"Maybe you should wait until tomorrow, change out of your wet clothes and get warm," Mary suggested.

Joey shook his head. "Another half an hour and I'll be done for the day. You talk to Joe?"

Mary grinned. "Yes, I did." She looked to Joe's house and waved to the waxy image standing back from the window. Joe didn't return her wave and faded from view. "Guy is a real piece of work, isn't he?"

Joey didn't reply to her comment. "So what's going on?" he asked.

Mary took a second. "Tell you what," she said. "Rather than stand here talking while you freeze, why don't you finish doing what you have to do and then I'll tell you all about it? I'll sit in the car where it's warm until you're done." She turned to go.

"Wait a minute," he said, dropping the brush from his hand to splash into the bucket of dirty water. "I'm too curious to wait. Come on in and we'll talk."

Sitting at the kitchen table opposite Joey, Mary removed her cap and set it on the chair beside her. "Don't you want to get cleaned up?" she asked. Joey's hands were black and chafed, wrinkled from their soaking. Dirty water seeped from his lower sleeves where they rested on the table surface.

He turned his palms up and grinned at her. "I don't mind making a mess, long as I can clean it up afterward. I just want to hear what you have to say."

She told him of her interview with Joe and her subsequent meeting with Clarkson and Waters. The state fire marshal's office had gotten involved, and their brother agency in the Maine Department of Public Safety, the state police, had expressed an interest in the goings-on in their small town. Three shooting incidents and an arson in little more than a week and the increasing media coverage had led them to offer their assistance. In fact, it was more than just an offer. Lieutenant Waters was meeting with them at this moment to see whether or not he could keep them from preempting the entire investigation. Mary suspected that the staties would let the locals retain just enough involvement for them to save face, but once a chief of police was implicated, the bulk of the case would be taken from their hands.

"What's Chief Sloan doing about all this?" Joey asked.

Mary shook her head. "No one's seen him since around noontime. The sergeant's been scrambling to locate him, but isn't having any success short of blowing the whole thing wide open. When that happens, and it will, soon, there's going to be a shit storm. Our friend Tina is going to put a spotlight on our quiet little town."

"How about Adams?" Joey asked. "What's he doing?" He leaned forward on his forearms.

"He's disappeared, too. Sims has been trying to get a line on him, but he apparently left his house some time ago." She shook her head again. "We need more guys on this. I, for one, am glad the staties are getting into this."

The two of them sat in stillness for a minute or two. Then Joey spoke: "So how long? When's it going to be over?"

Mary had been giving a great deal of consideration to this. "My best guess is that by tomorrow morning the big decisions will have been made and warrants will be issued. Or at least subpoenas for several people, including Sloan and Adams, to appear before a grand jury."

"Me too, I guess," Joey sighed.

"Yeah. You too. But by that point, I don't think you're going to be in any physical danger."

"Well, that's something, at least."

.

Charles Adams hadn't been able to keep his promise to himself. His intention had been to keep out of sight until shortly before his bank would close, then make a quick stop there to transfer his cash to the offshore account and head for Logan International Airport in Boston where he had a reservation on a plane heading south at nine o'clock in the evening. His passport was in his vest pocket. A small suitcase was packed in the trunk of his car. And his pistol was locked in the glovebox. The problem was, where to spend the intervening hours until he could move? Where else but a dimly lit bar like the Shipwreck?

It was there, sitting on a barstool, watching television and nursing his second scotch on the rocks, that he heard about his wife's off-hand offer to allow the DES to look for hazardous materials under the concrete deck of his cannery building. That was enough to bring him to finish his drink at a gulp and order a third. He finished two more by the time he had to leave for the bank at a quarter after four. He had exceeded his Zen-drinking discipline by an ounce and a half of scotch, but was still able to drive his Lincoln in a manner that would approach sobriety to any but the most observant of watchers.

His visit to the bank caused quite a stir among a few of its officers, but he managed the transfer and waited for confirmation in a slightly drunken appearance of composure. Even the tellers were casting glances his way and whispering behind their hands to one another by the time he left the building. His temperate mien, however, was entirely on the outside. Inside he was a bundle of nervous anxiety, ready to bolt at any provocation. Exiting the brick-faced building, feeling wondering eyes at his back, the first bead of visible sweat emerged from his temple to trace a cool track down his flushed cheek. He was making it, he thought. The sky was nearly dark. Close the distance between building and car and he would feel the first stage of relief. An hour of driving should bring a second stage, and so on, until he stood on strange soil with a new identity. One step at a time to a safe anonymity.

Harry Sloan, dressed in civilian clothing and driving a rented Chevy Cavalier, had spotted Charles' dark blue Lincoln in the bank parking lot and waited at the curb, engine idling, for its owner to emerge from the building. He watched Charles closely, walking to his car; noted his tense posture; recognized his level of intoxication. Altogether a suspicious-looking character. Although he couldn't see Charles' eyes, he could tell that the man was scanning the area for threat by the way his head swiveled in a wide arc. Harry switched the dome light on to catch Adams' attention.

Charles halted abruptly in recognition of the figure lit in the unfamiliar car. His eyes went to his own car, judging whether to continue on to drive away from this place without acknowledging Sloan's summons. Hope died; he couldn't. Sloan would chase him down before he could reach the outskirts of town and then his game would be known. His only chance was to face Sloan and then somehow slip away before the rumor of his banking business reached his ears. Before he could take a step toward the rented car, Sloan pointed a finger at the Lincoln and then made a beckoning gesture, indicating that Adams should follow him in his car. Adams' shoulders slumped and he turned to obey.

Sloan led Adams north out of town, away from his wanted direction of travel.

.

"The shift change, that's the most dangerous time," Mary said.

"Like right now, you mean," Sims said. "And who would know that better than Sloan?"

"So from now on, like when Knowles relieves you, he should relieve you on station, right?" She looked at Clarkson, the third man of their trio, one eyebrow raised to solicit his approval.

The sergeant nodded. "Right. The returning officer can hand off his car at the end of his shift to another patrol. I'll just need to juggle the unit assignments." They were in Clarkson's office, Sims and Hartz standing, he seated behind the desk. His phone rang and he picked it up. "Your wife," he said and held out the handset to Sims.

"John," she said, "I just bumped into Jayne at the bank and she told me something you ought to know."

"Bumped into her?"

"Well, alright, I managed to be in the parking lot when the bank closed and intercepted her in the lot. Anyway, she told me that Charles Adams came in just before closing, canceled his loan application, and wired his money straight back to the bank it came from. Looks like a radical change in his plans. She said he looked to be three sheets to the wind. Thought you ought to hear right away."

"Always said you'd make a good cop, June. Thanks for the tip. See you later on." He hung up. Sometimes, when she called him at work and knew others might overhear his end of the conversation, she would try to get him to kiss her over the phone. She enjoyed the embarrassment it caused him. She was all business this time, to his gratitude. He relayed her news to the other two in the room. "Listen," he said, "if Adams is D.U.I., we can pull him in, take the night away from him."

"Yeah," said Clarkson, "if we can find him on the road." He called the front desk for the other officers due to go out on the road to relay this charge to them in person. He didn't want it to go out over the radio where Sloan might get wind of it. They would be looking for Sloan, too, though they wouldn't know why. Or perhaps they would. The department was awash in rumor and speculation. Bits and pieces were being put together in a semblance of the truth, but no one outside of the core group had the whole story. By morning, surely they would.

At the beginning of his shift, Sims gave the entire neighborhood a good looking-over before parking in front of Joey's house. Knocking at the back door brought no response, so he checked at Louis' home. Louis and Joey were there, eating supper, and Louis invited him in without asking him to remove his shoes.

Chili Night had been moved up a day by special request. "Smells spicy in here," Sims said. Louis set a new place at the table without asking if Sims wanted to participate and Sims accepted by sitting down to it. No, he wouldn't care for a beer, but chili and hot cornbread sounded just fine, thank you. His throat began to burn after two spoons-full. "Holy shit," he offered. "This stuff is hot. May I have a glass of water, please?" Louis and Joey both grinned at him and Louis got him a large glassful.

They ate and talked. Sims managed one small bowlful and Louis two. Joey ate the rest and most of the cornbread. "High octane fuel," he said of the food.

Sims stopped marveling at his ability to pack the hot stuff away without apparent ill-effect and turned to Louis. "I understand you have a gun in the house, and fired it out the window."

Louis looked about him for a disarming reply but couldn't locate one, so he admitted to the action. "I just shot into the air over his head, though," he said. "When I pointed it at him, I couldn't pull the trigger, so I pointed it up and used it to make a loud noise."

Sims considered his next words. "I'm glad it worked to scare him away. You should understand, though, that even when a gun is possessed legally, it can't be fired out into the neighborhood. These particular circumstances constitute a gray area, but you could still get into trouble with it. It's good that you didn't hit him." He looked at the curtained window over the sink, where several layers of plastic wrap and masking tape showed at the bottom of the sash. "In fairness, I have to tell you that it could bring you some problems, even though you probably did the right thing." If the incident came out, Sims would do what he could to help, but he felt that he had to let Louis know about potential difficulties. To Sims, the Second Amendment was a minefield where private citizens would tread at their peril. In Louis' eyes he saw a resolve to do what needed to be done, regardless of the consequences to his own person. Luckily, he thought he could also discern an intelligent concern for responsibility. He decided to put the matter aside, for now anyway.

Sims left after letting them know that he would be around until the end of his shift, checking the neighborhood every half-hour and sitting outside in his car for the balance of time until Knowles relieved him. "Make sure you don't shoot me by mistake," he said on his way out the door. Louis nodded at him gravely.

Joey retired to his own home at nine, trying to get some sleep and waking at every creak of his house and every click of the furnace turning on.

.

Sloan had Adams follow him to a dirt road north of town. He stopped at the road's outlet and waved Charles past him, following on foot until the Town Car was out of sight around a bend. The road led to a disused campsite and was only visited by the occasional teenaged couple looking for a discreet place to make out. On a cold weeknight no one would likely go there.

Adams removed the pistol from his glovebox and tucked it into his waistband before Sloan reached the car. Tree branches reached out to touch the car on both sides and Charles protected his face with his forearm to step out. One small branch flipped into the open doorway and stuck there when Charles closed the door on it. "Shit," he said. "What did you drag me out here for? You got my car all scratched up."

Sloan was a darker shadow in the night. "We need to talk. Come on," he said and walked back to his car, Adams following with difficulty on the rutted surface that he couldn't see. In the car, they continued northward for several miles, until Sloan apparently changed his mind and headed back to town. Sloan refused to speak, choosing to think in silence and listen to the occasional police calls that came over the portable radio sitting on the dashboard over the steering wheel.

"Okay, I give up," Adams said. "What's this all about? Where are we going?" Sloan looked at him but didn't answer. They returned to town and Sloan turned down Water Street toward the cannery. He drove through the open and hanging chain-link fence gates onto the weed-grown gravel lot and parked in an open-ended carport attached to the brick side of the building, once used to keep the cannery owner's car out of the hot sun. Sloan opened his door and got out, walking back into the open lot to see if his car was visible in the doorless shed. Satisfied that it was not, at least to a casual eye, he walked back to where Adams was now standing next to the car and together they entered the building through a locked steel door to which Sloan had a key. Five concrete steps led up to a large open space, broken only by square, brick columns that supported the flat roof thirty feet above. Moonlight coming through floor-to-ceiling multi-paned windows cast long shadows behind the pillars. Much of the glass on the public side of the building was shattered. Above this side entrance, a two-room office space sat above the work-floor, quieter workspace for a manager and two clerical workers.

In its heyday, the cannery employed some fifty-odd people, dispersed among conveyer belts and machinery that reached almost to the ceiling. Trucks would be pulled up to loading docks on the long side of the building and boats would be emptied of their catch from a pier that extended into the harbor from the far end. Voices would have been heard shouting over the din of the machinery in Polish, French, and German and the smell of fish and oil would hang heavy in the air. Rubber-booted feet walked carefully on thick plank floors greasy with fish oil and scales.

All that was gone now. In its place remained a silent and barren cavern, the machinery sold off to other canneries or as scrap metal, the workers gone, the great doors locked and barred. Broken glass littered the floor from stones thrown through the tall windows by kids making late-night mischief and rowdy drunks leaving Molly's at closing time. There was other litter on the floor, evidence of trespass - beer cans and wine bottles, candle stubs, torn and crumpled pornographic magazines, the detritus of vandals and vagrants.

Sloan carried a long-handled flashlight, which he shined into the dark corners of the space, looking and listening for signs of human occupation other than their own. "Let's go upstairs," he said, and led Adams to the wooden stairway that led to the offices above their heads. Their footsteps rang hollowly, echoing back to them from the far wall. The door at the top of the stairs was closed, but the padlock and hasp had been torn away some time ago, so entrance to the outer office was unrestricted. Inside, Sloan's light revealed a wooden table and two chairs, shelving on the walls largely devoid of anything but trash, and a stained mattress. Obviously, the space was sometimes habitation for the homeless, but appeared now to be not presently occupied. Still, the chairs were free of dust and much of the litter had been pushed into a corner, so someone had been there fairly recently. An old wind-up alarm clock rested on its face on the table, but it was not ticking. A two-burner Coleman stove occupied a wall shelf with a can of white gas next to it and there were a few unopened cans of beans and beef stew. "You ought to keep this place locked up better," Sloan observed.

Charles shrugged. "What's the point?" he said.

Sloan took a seat and waved the flashlight to indicate that Charles should do the same. He did so and Sloan laid the light on the table so that it pointed at Adam's chest, lighting up his face but not blinding him with the direct beam. The air in the room was cold and Adams' breath steamed into the cone of light. "What's going on at the bank?" Sloan asked.

Charles shrugged again, and it turned into a shiver. He wore no overcoat, not expecting to need one where he had been heading. "Just doing some business," he said. "You going to tell me what we're doing here?"

Sloan regarded him narrowly. Adams dark suit jacket was flecked with lint and bits of leaf matter. Not like the Adams of old to be out in the world unbrushed. The tie was clean, but the shirt beneath was wrinkled. Either he had put it on un-ironed or he had been sweating. His face, puffy from heavy drinking and troubled sleep, wore a guarded expression which he was taking pains to hide by being overtly casual in his posture.Sloan felt that he was looking at a man who had something to hide from him. Not that he had ever completely trusted Adams, but Sloan knew that Charles had always feared him enough to not step out of line. The fear was still there, but something had been disconnected. He looked like a rabbit ready to bolt if the light were taken from his eyes. Sloan would have to tighten the cords that bound them. "Things are heating up," he said. "We're going to have to take serious steps."

"We?" Adams asked petulantly. "All the screw-ups have been yours. You've had two chances to take Warnecki out of the picture and blown it both times. You let Trott get away and did the stupid thing with the cocaine. You haven't thought anything through, you've been acting on impulse. If there are problems, they're of your making and you get to work them out." He scraped his chair back to stand. "Take me back to my car. I have things to do and we shouldn't be seen together."

Sloan picked up the light and shined it in Adam's face. "Sit down," he ordered. Adams held up a hand to block the beam, but sat down. "We're going to finish it tonight, you and me together," Sloan said.

Charles pushed his shoulders tightly against the back of the chair. "How? What do you mean?" His schedule had no time for another foolish distraction and his plans didn't include putting himself into further jeopardy.

Sloan scratched his jaw. "They're trying to cover Warnecki full-time now. We've got to find a distraction for his keepers and get him into the open. I got an idea . . ."

"You bassards." The slurred words came from behind Sloan. Charles opened his mouth wide and gasped. Sloan looked over his shoulder and saw the raggedy figure of Pardner Jenks, wool cap pulled low over his ears and bulky with several layers of old clothing. Jenks lurched forward from the doorpost and Sloan jumped to his feet, knocking his chair to the ground. The old drunk took one more step and Sloan knocked him into insensibility with the butt of the revolver he had drawn from under his topcoat. Jenks lay crumpled on the floor like a large bundle of rags.

"Oh my god, is he dead?" Charles whispered. Sloan knelt and put a finger to the pulse in Jenks' neck. He shook his head and took a plastic strap from a coat pocket, a wrist lock that riot police use to bind unruly demonstrators in crowd situations. He pulled Jenks' hands behind him and pulled the cuff tight. Adams licked his lips. "Just what we need — another problem," he said.

Sloan stood and stared down at the fallen man, thinking. "Actually," he said, "he might be part of the answer." He checked his wrist watch and paced the inner and outer rooms. Adams could hear that his jaw was making small clicking sounds. Sloan paced and stopped, looked about him, paced and stopped again. Ten minutes of stop and go seemed to bring him to a solution to the maze he was following, and he began to gather materials. He wound the alarm clock and listened to it tick. He set the time to that shown on his watch and set it back on the table, checking on it every minute or two to see if it kept time. From the inner office he collected a six-volt battery-operated camp lantern, and an empty half-gallon liquor bottle. He took a lace from Pard's shoe, the old man still unconscious. And he took the can of white gas from the shelf. And with a few small bits of wire from an old phone line, he built an incendiary device.

They trundled Jenks limp form down the stairs and into the trunk of the car and Sloan went back to collect his flashlight and his parcel. While he was gone, Charles looked to see if the keys were in the ignition, considering briefly if he had a chance to make a break for himself. The key slot was empty and Charles doubted that he would have made a try for it, anyway. Sloan returned with a canvas knapsack. "Amazing what you can do with a little camping gear," he said and chucked deep in his throat. Adams couldn't appreciate his humor.

.

Sims got the call at ten-fifty: fire in progress at Thirty-four Main Street, all available units to respond. The dispatcher wasn't making an exception in his case, so he set his light bar and siren going and floored it to the scene.

Thirty-four Main was a three-story, wood-framed and wood-sided building with a red-brick facade on the street side. The first floor was occupied by a florist's shop and the other two floors housed families in six apartments. When Sims arrived, the rear of the structure, accessed by an alley too narrow for fire apparatus, was engulfed in flame. Men, children, and mothers clutching babies were streaming from the alley-side exit and pouring out onto the street in front. Sims pushed his way through the throng, grabbing a shoeless man dressed in a sleeveless tee-shirt and jeans. "Do you know if anyone is left inside?" he shouted. The panicked man pulled away from his grasp, wide-eyed and shaking his head in bewilderment. Sims ran to the rear of the building. The base of the column of flames was centered around a large, wooden lath trash enclosure. The flames licked the wall to the top of the structure and the trash shed collapsed in a storm of sparks that flew onto Sims' uniform as he held up an arm to protect his face. Sims fled back down the alley to run headlong into the first fireman arriving at the scene. He rebounded from the man and headed for the open door. The fireman pulled him away and pointed to his own smoke mask. "You can't go in there," came the muffled words from behind the mask. "Get the people out of the way and clear the street." Then the fireman and three others dashed inside to check the building for people left behind or overcome by smoke. Sims listened to the men pounding up the stairwell and thought he could feel a breeze sucking past him into the building before turning to his duty out in front.

.

Mary Hartz had just fallen asleep, struggling to stay awake and finish the last few pages of her book before dressing for bed and turning in for the night. Her reclining position on the couch, the cat purring on her lap, and the fatigue of her day conspired with the warmth of her apartment to seduce her into slumber and her book fell to the carpet unnoticed. Her feet hung over the cushioned arm of the couch clad in thick socks. She was still dressed in her uniform shirt and trousers, but they were due to be cleaned the next day and had been stripped of badge, name-tag, belt, and all the other uncomfortable apparatus that hung on her all day long. What a relief to shuck all that gear at the end of the day.

The phone rang and the cat jumped from her lap. Jerked from sleep, she bolted upright, swinging her feet to the floor and remembering where and who she was. The clock on the wall read ten-fiftyfour. Mary caught it in her bedroom on the fourth ring just as the answering machine cut in. "Hello, you have reached ..."

"Mary? Are you there?" The voice was a shout.

". . . please leave a mes- . . ."

"Yes, who's this, Joey?"

" . . . the beep, tha- . . ."

"Yeah, I just got a call from Pard Jenks, he's . . ."

"Who?"

"Pard Jenks, the old guy on the road the other day. He's hurt, up on Frenchman's Hill. I gotta go up there . . ."

"Wait a minute, Joey. Don't, do not go anywhere. I'll . . ."

"I got to. I'm just telling you . . ."

"No. Joey, wait. It . . ."

"Gotta go. Bye." He hung up.

"Damn!" she shouted and slammed the receiver down. "Idiot!" Her hands went to the sides of her head to keep it from exploding in exasperation. She growled through her teeth. "Stupid son of a bitch." She grabbed her running shoes from a corner. Her socks were too thick, but she pulled the shoes on anyway, tying the laces tightly. A black wool turtle-neck sweater from the back of a chair went over her head. She grabbed her gun from its holster, lying on top of the dresser. Checked the clip and chambered a round, safed it, ran downstairs into the kitchen. Grabbed her keys from the top of the refrigerator and was out the door. Three minutes from call to door.

Her Honda needed a tune-up. It wouldn't start in the cold on the first try. "Come on!" The second turn of the key did it and she revved the engine and backed squealing into the street. Lights and emergency flashers on. She flew by the police station. Not a cop in sight. "Where are the police when you need them?" she shouted. Twelve minutes to the state park, she did it in eight, blasting her horn and swearing at other drivers in her way, breaking before corners, accelerating out of the curves and on the straightaways.

She swung into the entrance to the park on two wheels, rocking to a stop just inches short of the heavy chain that hung from pillar to pillar. She got out of the car without bothering to shut it off and left it, lights on and door open. Six minutes to the top of the hill, she vowed, hurdling the chain and hitting the pavement running full out, gun in hand.

.

Joey was intercepted by Sloan where a straight run from his house across the ballfields intersected the access road. Sloan stepped from behind a tree and stuck a gun in his face, bringing a winded Joey to an abrupt halt. "Nice of you to be so predictable," Sloan said. "Coming to help out an old friend, were you?"

The moonlight showed a wicked grin on Sloan's face. Joey was almost too out of breath to speak, but he realized he had acted rashly, again. "Where's Pard?" he gasped out.

"I'll take you to him. Move on up the road a bit." Sloan prodded Joey to walk before him to where his car sat around a curve. "Up against the car. Assume the position." Joey had never heard that expression in life, but he'd read enough police procedurals to know what Sloan meant. Sloan didn't read much, but he had gotten it from the movies and used it whenever he had the chance. Joey put his hands on the trunk of the car and Sloan pushed him forward so that Joey's face hit the trunk. Sloan pulled Joey's hands behind him and used a plastic tie to bind his wrists. At one point, he had to put the gun in his pocket and use two hands, but Joey wasn't offering any resistance. Joey hit his head again when Sloan pushed him into the back seat of the rented Chevy, this time on the roof gutter. Joey sprawled on the seat still seeing stars as Sloan drove up the road to its end at Meredith Adams' vacation home. Sloan parked around the side of the house and led a self-reproachful Joey to the front entrance.

A forlorn Pardner Jenks and a rapidly sobering Charles Adams awaited them on the porch steps of the stately home. There were no lights on in the place, but the front door hung open. "I'm sorry, Joey. They made me call you." Pard was sobering enough to have lost any trace of belligerence in the presence of two men with guns.

"Shut up," said Sloan. "Let's go inside and set this up." He pushed Joey toward the stairs.

"Set what up?" asked Charles, knowing but not wanting to know. He longed for escape with body and soul. He longed for a drink, too, but the house was empty of spirits. He held his own pistol uncertainly, as though he would just as soon toss it into the woods.

"Shhh," whispered Sloan. "You hear that?" He cocked an ear toward the road and held up a warning hand. Three of them could hear a faint sound of running feet. Pard's hearing ability was limited. Sloan leveled his pistol in Joey's face. "You call anyone? You know who that is?" Joey swallowed and shook his head, but Sloan read the lie in his eyes. "Adams. Get these two inside and shut them in a closet where they can't make any noise. I'm gonna check it out."

"Let's get in the car and get out of here," Adams said, almost whining.

"Do it now," Sloan hissed. "Turn on one small light in the back and leave the door open." He ran with his peculiar short, choppy stride toward the dense growth of woods at the edge of the access road and disappeared into shadow. Adams reluctantly prodded the two captives into the old house.

.

Mary was too smart to blunder out into the clearing in front of the house. She slowed her pace to a walk fifty yards before it and moved to the edge of the road, out of the moonlight. Still hidden in the darkest shadows at the edge of the clearing, she stopped and leaned forward, hands on her knees. Her turtleneck was soaked with sweat, but in the cold, night air, she didn't dare remove it Her gun weighed fifty pounds and was hard to hold on to. Though she ran nearly every day, she had never pushed herself as hard as she had tonight, not by a long shot. She struggled to get her breath. Her thighs were burning and her calves were shaking, threatening to cramp up on her. She couldn't walk it off and she was afraid she might collapse. She drew up every ounce of her willpower to lift her head and interpret the scene before her. The front door was wide open and a light was coming from downstairs, somewhere in the rear. The best thing to do would be to keep to the edge of the clearing and edge around to the back of the house, try to see if anything was going on inside. The absolute best thing would have been to take the time to call in and tell the dispatcher where she was going, but that wasn't an option now. She damned herself for being almost as stupid as Warnecki.

She tried to listen for sounds other than the gasping of her breath and the pounding of blood in her ears. She did hear the click of a hammer being drawn back and she did feel the cold muzzle of the gun that touched the soft spot under her left ear. For a moment she froze entirely: her breathing, her trembling, and her process of thought all came to a stop. She tensed.

"Don't even think about it," said the voice beside her. "Welcome to the party, Officer Hartz. I do believe you are out of uniform." Keeping the muzzle of his gun where it was, he gently removed the pistol from her fingers.

.

Knowles had more than an hour to kill before he was due to relieve Sims. He'd gotten in to the department early, checked out a vehicle, and decided to make a swing by Trott's apartment to see if the biker wannabe had come home. He'd probably relieve Sims early, let him get home and see his wife before she went to sleep. His own wife was incommunicado, preferring to watch the soaps all day and read those stupid gothic novels all night.

Two issues were burning his ass. The first was his cap. His new one was too tight, sitting on top of his head like a party hat on a cantaloupe. He should have an elastic band on it to go under his chin. And Clarkson had given him a raft of shit about the shield. He'd transferred it from old cap to new, but it had gotten bent and scratched from being run over. Now he'd have to pay for a new one and what was the point of that when he had only a few months to wear it?

The second issue was that Hartz had gotten the old bastard to talk to her. Sims was amused by that, laughing it off. But Knowles knew that Mary would use it well, rubbing it in in that sly way she had. Not that she wasn't a bad cop. He hadn't worked with one better, preferred her to most. He wasn't looking forward to seeing her, though. He could never get one up on her, and it pissed him off.

One thing cheered him, almost enough of a lift to reduce his other two issues. Tomorrow, Sloan was expected to feel some serious heat. He had cornered the lieutenant before going on the road and Waters told him that the state was convening a special grand jury in the morning. Subpoenas would be issued to more than a dozen people. Even if he wasn't indicted, Sloan would inevitably be forced to resign. The worthless prick would be out of the department before Knowles retired. Knowles almost chuckled as he pulled to the curb five houses away from Trott's dark apartment.

He missed the alarm by less than a minute and hadn't taken his portable for fear that it would squawk when he was creeping around the rear of the duplex. By the time he returned to his car, having decided that no one had visited the place since he had last been there, the incident was fully covered. Fire trucks were battling the blaze, traffic was being diverted around Main Street, and rescue workers were taking care of the injured and displaced. Listening to the radio traffic for a few minutes, taking his time moving towards Warnecki's house, he realized that Sims was one of the officers involved and that the Warnecki house was not covered. He sped up. Then he considered that two fires in town in one day were more than coincidental and he sped up some more.

He almost missed seeing Mary's car at the gate as he sped by, so involved was he in his thinking, but the lights and the open door caught enough of his attention for him to stop and reverse his car to check it out. Stopped in the middle of the road, engine idling, he didn't have to get out of the car to recognize the Honda as hers. But what was she doing here and why would she leave the door open and the engine running? He left his car where it was, got out with his flashlight, and looked at the car and swept the powerful beam of the light over the open grounds of the park inside the fence. Nothing and no one. No sound but the even idling sound of the two car engines.

.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," Sloan sang. He prodded Mary before him into the entry hall of Meredith's home. "Ally, ally in come free." He chuckled. Adams looked cautiously around the corner at the end of the hall. "Charles, bring our other two friends out here. Don't be shy." Sloan was oddly gleeful. Adams opened the door to the closet, stood back from the door and silently waved its two occupants out with the gun in his hand. The sound of wire coat hangers rattling on a closet pole accompanied the emergence of the two men. The poorly lit hallway was too crowded with the five of them standing there. "Let's go outside where we'll have some more room to work," suggested Sloan, flicking on the switch for the porch light. He backed out the door and down the porch steps, leading the others in a silent parade.

Standing on the front walk, both Joey and Pard looked sheepish, as though they had been caught doing something foolish in school. Mary was tense and watchful. The three of them stood abreast in a line, not looking at each other. Adams and Sloan stood apart from them, Adams clearly nervous, Sloan calm and smiling. He looked pleased with himself. He cleared his throat. "Okay. You may take two steps forward, Officer Hartz. She did so, after a beat. "You forgot to say 'May I.' Now, Charles. Would you be so kind as to secure Officer Hartz' wrists together behind her back, while I watch?" Without taking his eyes from hers, he fished one of the plastic ties from a pocket and held it out to Adams. "Turn her sideways, Charlie. Stay out of the line of fire. We don't want to take unnecessary chances with this one." The thought that he might himself be shot made Charles even more nervous. His hands shook as he bound her wrists and he pulled too tightly, causing Mary to wince. Immediately, her hands began to throb.

"You won't get away with it, you know." Her voice was controlled, but her anger came through clearly. Adams stepped away from her and she turned back to face Sloan.

"Won't get away with what?" Sloan asked, mock puzzlement on his face.

"Killing the three of us." Deadpan.

"Hmm. Not that I have any choice, but why not? The way I see it, Jenks and Warnecki and Trott comprised a dope ring in our little community. The two boys were having a meeting up here, Officer Hartz somehow found out about it and rashly came up here to investigate on her own. Unfortunately, though she managed to shoot and kill the two offenders, she herself was killed in the line of duty."

Mary still kept her cool. "Ligature marks, for one. I can't even feel my hands, the tie is so tight. And the gun. If that gun you're holding is the one I think it is, you had access to it." She wasn't trying to convince Sloan of anything. He was so full of himself it wouldn't matter what she said. He'd been running the department in his own arbitrary way for so long, he probably felt immune to even hard evidence. Adams was the wild card. She looked at him. He was sweating even in the chill air. She herself was freezing in her wet clothing, trying not to shiver and appear as vulnerable as she felt.

Adams spoke. "Harry, shit. Let's cut our losses and get out of here. Leave them tied up inside, we can get clear before anyone finds them." If he could only get to his car, he still had a slim chance to escape.

Sloan ignored him. He addressed Mary. "Officer Hartz, it's a shame. You're a fine-looking officer, but we're out of time. Too bad . . ." He looked her up and down lasciviously.

At his gaze, she sneered. "You're a lizard. Slithy tove."

He grinned. "Snicker-snack," he replied and raised the gun.

Mary felt real fear for the first time in her life.

.

Knowles stood by the open door of Mary's car, hands on his hips. He looked at the car, looked at the chain gate. Looked along the access road and then back to the car again. Walked in a tight circle and then abruptly plunked his solid frame into the driver's seat. He backed her car onto the side of the street and shut it off, got out. Looked to his car and then to the chain again. Came to a decision.

Directly across from the park entrance, a driveway led to the parking lot of an ice cream stand, closed now for the season. He backed thirty feet into the driveway, checked for traffic coming from either direction on the road, and unholstered his gun. The Baretta 92 series held fifteen rounds and had been standard in the department for long enough for even an old-timer like Knowles to get to feel comfortable with it. He set it on the passenger seat, cocked and locked. Then he put the car in gear and floored the accelerator, both hands on the wheel, stiff arms pushing his shoulders against the seat back.

The big eight-cylinder engine may not have pushed the heavy Crown Vic to any great speed in the seventy feet of travel between ice cream stand and chain, but the momentum gained was sufficient to tear the anchor point of the chain free from the stone pillar. His right front headlight caught the chain at the low point of its hanging arc. That headlight went away and the chain bounced up over the hood to smash the windshield, which exploded inward in a hailstorm of glass. The chain rode up over the doorposts at either side of the windshield and tore the light-bar from the top of the vehicle before pulling free of the stone column to rattle in the debris on the ground behind. The airbag went off, breaking his nose and blinding him until it deflated. He never let up on the accelerator, never lost his grip on the wheel, and he regained all of his momentum and then some, roaring up the hill.

.

All attention was on Sloan. Eight eyes saw only the gun in his hand. Sloan's finger tightened on the trigger, and then he hesitated. All but Jenks heard the new sound coming from the direction of the access road. In a few seconds, he heard it too and redirected his attention along with the others. With the growing sound, soon a single light could be discerned, stabbing the darkness around the last curve before the top. Sloan turned and exchanged his revolver for the gun in his belt — Mary's automatic. The car was now six hundred feet away, coming straight at them and not slowing at all. At two hundred feet, Sloan began pulling off rounds, both hands on the butt of the gun. One after another at a rate of two per second. As soon as he began firing, Mary swiveled and yelled to Pard and Joey. "Move!" She led and they followed, running with their hands tied behind them toward the side of the house. Adams hesitated for only a half beat before dropping his pistol and running for the opposite side.

Knowles' single headlight picked out the action in front of him. He saw Mary and the others fleeing, saw Sloan firing directly at him. He took his foot off the accelerator and one hand from the wheel, picked up his gun and begin firing through the glassless windshield opening. He didn't touch the brake until he was forty feet from Sloan, who never even jumped out of the way. He got off only three rounds to Sloan's five, but his last was the one that counted, catching Sloan at center mass. Not that it mattered a great deal. The front end of the car picked Sloan up right out of his shoes and flipped him headfirst into the passenger seat next to Knowles before plowing into the porch stairs. The car bounded up the stairs into the house wall, obliterating the entryway and dislodging several dozen bricks around it. Knowles' seatbelt kept him from leaving the car, but Sloan popped out and landed on the floor in the hallway.

Mary, watching it all happen from the corner of the house, only ducked back out of the way for the crash. An instant later, she was around the corner and perched on the edge of the porch next to Knowles' window. He was sitting back, eyes open and glazed, blood running from his broken nose. The engine had stalled and the only sound was its ticking as the metal began to cool. "Charlie?" she whispered. He didn't respond. "Knowles?" Louder this time. A final brick fell from over the door and banged loudly on the hood. Since the right front corner of the car was actually inside the house, the brick landed only three feet from Knowles face. Mary jumped and Knowles blinked. "Damn," he said. "I think I'm alive."

.

Sloan was dead, of course. Knowles was able to call it in from where he sat in the car. The doors were jammed shut and the steering column pushed up to his chest, but the radio still worked. Imagine that. He was able to get to his pocket knife to free Mary's hands, but a fireman had to come up the hill with the Jaws of Life tool to extricate him from the wreckage. Mary's hands were numb and useless for an hour.

And Charles Adams was picked up on the road an hour later, trying to hitchhike a ride to his car. He refused to say anything at all without his lawyer present.

.

And Tina Bronki got her big story, parceled out over the next days and weeks to come.

