Home Body

Gerry Boyle

Reporter Jack McMorrow has a knack for following an explosive story. But this time, the story's followed him. His name is Rocky, a runaway teenager who's broken into Jack's isolated cabin looking for safe haven. No sooner do his parents come looking for him than he vanishes again, leaving behind a cryptic note--and a mystery that's taking a fatal turn. Now Jack's following Rocky--straight into the heart of a world where truth is only the best lie told, and only the guilty can be counted on to survive.
"Complex characters and strong storytelling." --Kirkus Reviews
"Expect the battle-weary reporter to become an old friend
to his loyal readers much as Spenser or Dave Robicheaux
have become with theirs."--Booklist
"Gerry Boyle is the genuine article."
--Robert B. Parker

"Fans of Robert B. Parker's Spenser novels
will love Jack McMorrow."
--Booklist

Praise for
Gerry Boyle's Jack McMorrow Novels

PRETTY DEAD

"Boyle is at the top of his form.. .riveting."
--Publishers Weekly (started review)

"Boyle deftly illustrates the nearly irresistible pull that
wealth and power can have on us all, even as he keeps the
conflicted Jack hard on the case."	--Booklist







"Snappy prose."
COVER STORY

--Publishers Weekly (starred review)



"The best part? You'll never guess the identity of the murderer."	--Pittsburgh
Post-Gazette

"This may be the one that puts him on the bestseller lists.
It is intricately plotted, the characters are painfully human.
.. An outstanding crime novel."
--Booklist (starred review)

"A powerful story with deft dialogue and detail."
--San Antonio Express-News

"Boyle's dialogue is crisp, poignant and often witty."
--Maine Sunday Telegram

BORDERLINE

"Boyle's best work...Lovely, evocative passages about rural,
remote Maine."	--Booklist

continued on next page...

POTSHOT

"The climactic chase is a stunner."

--Publishers Weekly






"Well-realized, believable characters...an interesting subplot.
. .an unusual and suspenseful novel."
--The Cleveland Plain Dealer

LIFELINE

"Boyle's style is poised and pointed."
--The New York Times

"Stay healthy, McMorrow. You're fun to have around."
--The Washington Times

BLOODLINE
--Kirkus Reviews

"The dialogue hums and crackles."

"Wonderful supporting characters...superb writing. His
feel for small-town New England is almost eerily photographic."	--The
Cleveland Plain Dealer

DEADLINE

"The writing is sharp and evocative."
--The Washington Post Book World

"There's a steel backbone in his lean plot, and the clipped
prose and flinty characterizations are to this rugged literary
landscape what the back woods and craggy cliffs are to the
contours of Maine--a daunting kind of beauty."
--The New York Times Book Review

"Boyle lets his suspense build to an excruciating point."
--Library Journal


HOME
BODY
GERRY BOYLE

BERKLEY PRIme crime

Gerry Boyle is a former newspaper reporter
and columnist, and editor of the Colby College
magazine. He lives in a small village in rural
Maine with his wife and their three children.

Visit the author's website at www.gerryboyle.com



THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's
imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business
establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
HOME BODY
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime hardcover edition / June 2004
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / June 2005

Copyright © 2004 by Gerry Boyle.
Interior text design by Kristin del Rosario.

All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form
without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in
violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

ISBN: O-425-2O18O-5

Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design
are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 10 98765432 1

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was
reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

For Emily, Carolyn, and Charlie.
I count my blessings.

Berkley Prime Crime Books by Gerry Boyle

DEADLINE
BLOODLINE
LIFELINE
POTSHOT
BORDERLINE
COVER STORY
PRETTY DEAD
HOME BODY
CHAPTER 1

A Monday morning and I was waiting for Roxanne at
Portland District Court. She had a hearing about a little girl
who was being molested by her uncle, who had done time for
doing the same thing to his daughter, but I didn't know that
because it was all confidential. I stood in the corridor with the
defendants: drunken drivers and bar fighters, check bouncers
and methadone junkies. We were slouched against the wall,
eyeing the cops and lawyers and listening to their cheery,
grating banter. The guy next to me, tall and gaunt and
wolfish, looked at the people in suits and shiny shoes and dismissed
them with an obscenity. Along the wall, there was
silent agreement. And then a deputy pushed the courtroom
doors open from inside and a knot of people emerged.
A puffy-eyed woman and her emaciated husband. Their
lawyer, a pale, doughy guy who looked about fifteen. A
counselor or something, a woman toting folders for each of
her young and tormented clients. And then Roxanne,
pulling on her trench coat, looking for me. I peeled myself
off the wall and took her arm.
At the foyer, we paused. Roxanne held my arm for balance
as she switched her pumps for running shoes. She stuck
the shoes in her briefcase, and zipped it up.
"What would I do without you?" Roxanne said.
"Topple,' I said, and we went out into the cold and down
the stone stairs.
It was snowing, a dry flurry that swirled like dustballs on
the brick sidewalks. We walked arm in arm, past the federal
courthouse, across Market Street, behind the Portland Press
Herald building, across Exchange up the courtyard at
Monument Way. The courtyard had benches and round concrete
planters that looked like giant ashtrays. It was lunch
hour and people from the downtown offices were hurrying in
all directions, heads down, intent on their errands. Executive
types in cashmere coats pretended to be on important business,
solemn and serious as assassins.
We went to our usual place, the Victory Deli, and took
our usual table in the front window by the neon Rolling
Rock sign. Roxanne hung her briefcase and pocketbook on
the back of the chair, then her trench coat, too. She brushed
at her hair, which was frosted with snow, and she eased herself
down. I sat, too. Roxanne sighed.
"Did you win?" I said, folding my hand over hers on the
table.
"Oh, I guess so. If you ever do. I don't know. We got
what we asked for. The mother is in total denial, which was
hard. I don't know. I just don't feel so good."
I looked at her. Her skin usually was milky white, but
today it was tinged with blue-gray. There were shadows under
her eyes.
"You're beautiful when you're tired," I said, smiling.
She smiled too, but wanly.
"I know. I look awful."
"No, you don't."
"I just think maybe I'm getting some kind of bug."
I frowned and said, "Maybe you should go to the doctor."
"Jack, just because I'm pregnant doesn't mean I have to
run to the doctor every time I get a sniffle."
"Sure it does. Now you need to eat. How 'bout chicken
soup?"
"Jack, I'm not an invalid. I'll have spicy Asian noodles.
You want to split an order--"
Roxanne looked toward the window. I paused. She listened,
and then I heard it, too. Slapping. Pounding. Muffled
footsteps, growing louder, coming closer. I turned to the
window just as a figure flashed by. Then another and another
and another.
Kids.
"Oh, god," Roxanne said, and she was up, her chair sliding
on the floor. People looked as she slipped between the
tables and eased her way through the take-out crowd at the
door.
"Hey, lady," somebody said. "Watch it."
I started to move through, too, and a little guy in a suit
tried to block my way. I moved him like he was a potted
plant.
But by the time I got out the door, Roxanne was gone. I
hesitated, then turned left, the direction the kids had run.
The next building was a parking garage and I ran to the entrance
and stood by the ticket machine and listened. A car
pulled up and I crossed in front of it and heard the horn
blow behind me. The sound echoed as I trotted from the
garage, past a line of cars parked in the alley outside. The alley
ran along the back side of buildings on Monument
Square, and I ran along it. I slowed to listen. Stopped. I
heard voices. Shouts.
Roxanne.
CHAPTER 2

"Stop it," she was yelling.
I could see her as I rounded the corner. She was pulling a
guy by the shoulders from behind. It was a kid but he was
her size, or a little bigger, wearing a black baseball cap on
backward. As I ran toward them, he reached behind him
and gave Roxanne a shove. She held on to his sweatshirt and
they both staggered. I hit him at a full run, took him by the
neck and shoulders and flung him over a curb and into a
parked truck. He banged against the metal, and I turned
back as Roxanne, in her suit and sneakers, bounded up a
flight of steps and disappeared.
I was behind her as she shoved another kid aside. There
were four of them standing and one was on his knees in a
corner filled with trash. He had his arms over his head and
two of them were kicking him in the back, another was
kicking at his face, which was streaked with blood. As I
came up the stairs, they shoved the boy onto his side and he
put his arms out behind him and a girl kicked him in the
mouth and he screamed. She was whooping and grinning as
I took her by her shoulders, spun her around and threw her
off the stairs.
"Hey, you--" she said, but then another one was on the
kid on the ground, crouching as he punched him in the back
of the neck, kneed him in the back of the head. The kid on
the ground was making a sobbing animal shriek, and I
booted the bigger boy off, taking the wind out of him, then
kept shoving him back until he hit the graffiti-covered wall.
He had black feral eyes, a scrubby moustache, and brown
stained teeth. He came off the wall like a weasel, arms and
feet flying.
I stumbled in the trash and fell back for just a moment,
and he was on me, snorting and spitting and grunting. I
didn't want to hit him, but he was clawing at me, scratching
my hands and arms, then kicking for my groin. I took
him by the arms, whirled him around until he came off the
ground, then heaved him off the steps. He flew ten feet in
the air and landed hard, and clutched at his leg and didn't
get back up. The first kid, the one with the hat, stood beside
him and screamed at me but didn't come closer.
Roxanne was beside the boy on the ground, saying, "Stop
it, stop it," to one of the girls, trying to wrap the girl in her
arms, but the girl was kicking at the boy and at Roxanne's
shins, stepping on Roxanne's feet. I grabbed the girl from
behind, and she turned and tried to bite me, her teeth white
against black lipstick, her green-and-red hair pressed
against my face.
"You asshole," she said, and I dragged her away from
Roxanne, and shoved her down the stairs. As she stumbled
back, the weasely kid came bounding toward me, up the
steps, and then leapt into the air so fast I couldn't even get
my arms up. His sneaker caught me in the mouth, and I felt
a white-hot flash of pain, and then he was jumping up
again, like something on a video game, kicking and punching
at my face in this flurry of limbs. I staggered, grabbed
an arm, and yanked him toward me, then spun him toward
the cinderblock wall. When he hit it, still facing me, I took
him by the throat and slapped him in the face, hard, over
and over, until he started to go limp. I stopped and let go.
A siren whooped and the kids scattered, two going down
the alley past the parked truck toward Free Street and the
two others going the other way, around the corner toward
Exchange. For a moment, it was just the three of us, me and
Roxanne breathing heavily over the boy on the ground. My
mouth was bleeding and one of my front teeth was kicked
in. I could feel it with my tongue, slanted inward like a
broken slat on a fence. Roxanne's hair was in her face, and
her suit jacket was torn at the shoulder. There were long
scratches on her neck. Four of them, parallel like jet entrails
in the sky.
"You okay?" I said.
"I don't know," Roxanne said. "I guess so."
"You can't do this."
"They were killing him," she said.
She leaned down to where the boy now was sitting up.
He leaned forward and coughed blood on to the litter of
leaves and fast-food trash, flattened cans and broken bottles,
all dusted with snow.
"You all right, Rocky?" Roxanne asked gently.
He sniffed and didn't answer. His glasses were bent, but
still on his face. His nose was bleeding. There were scuff
marks on his cheekbones and on his temple on one side. He
was breathing in quick shallow breaths, but he got himself
to his feet. Blood ran from his mouth down his chin. He
wiped his face with the sleeve of his red plaid wool jacket,
then took his glasses off and examined them. He was slight,
. bookish. His wrists were thin and hairless.
"I think you need an ambulance, buddy," I said. "You got
kicked pretty hard, and you don't know if something inside
He bolted as soon as he was out of arm's reach, and scurried
around the corner of the building. I started to follow, but
he was already crossing Exchange Street, slipping through
traffic. I didn't want to leave Roxanne alone so I loped back
up the alley, just as the police cruiser slid to a stop, blue
strobes flashing in the grill.
Two cops got out, a blond guy and a dark haired woman.
They were both carrying flashlights, and the guy called out
to me and started to run.
"Hold it right there."
I did, and then he saw Roxanne walking slowly toward us.
"Roxanne?" the woman cop said. "You okay?"
"You don't move," the guy told me, pointing the flashlight.
"You get on the ground, now."
"It's okay, Jimmy," Roxanne said. "He's with me. This is
Jack."
"You want to sit in the car, Roxanne?" the woman cop
said. "You know you shouldn't be doing this, not in your
condition."
"I'm fine. It was Jack they got into it with."
"Who?" Jimmy said.
"Kids from the square. The one who hangs out with
Crystal with the green hair. A couple of guys I've seen, but I
don't know them. Another girl. I think her name is Hillary
or Helena or something. They had that new kid, the little
kid, Rocky. They were beating the hell out of him."
"You know you really should be more careful," the
woman cop said.
"Thanks, Mom," Roxanne said. "Jack, this is Delena."
She nodded at me sternly, like it was somehow my fault.
"They all split?" Jimmy said.
"In different directions," I said.
"The Rocky kid, too?" Delena said.
"Went toward Exchange, but I don't know if he went up
or down," I said. "He's got glasses. Red plaid jacket. Face
pretty beat up.'
"Weapons?" Jimmy said.
I shook my head.
"Just fists and feet, that I saw. One of the little bastards
kicked me right in the mouth. Came at me like some sort of
ninja warrior.'
"They start that crap, I just use this," Jimmy said.
lie popped a can of Cap-Stun off his belt. Held it up and
popped back in.
"Takes the ninja right out of em."
I felt my tooth with my tongue, spat blood on the pavement.
"You
need Medcu?"
"Nah," I said. "You okay, Roxanne?"
"Yes, for god's sake."
"Hey, this is a very crucial time,' Delena said. "What are
you, five months?"
It seemed odd, talking about pregnancy in the back alley.
It seemed odd that this cop was talking about my baby.
Roxanne said she and the baby were fine.
"It's Rocky who might need to be looked at. They were
kicking him in the face and the back. Kidneys maybe?"
"Little darlings," the woman cop said.
"You sure you don't need to be checked out, Rox?"
Jimmy said.
"Ahhh," Roxanne said, shaking her head. "No, Jimmy. I
just need to go home and take a hot bath."
We stood in the alley in the cold. Jimmy held out his hand
in a Dickensian fingerless black leather glove. I shook it.
"You're the newspaper guy?" he said.
I said I was.
"You should write about these kids," Delena said. "Out
here loose and all the laws keep them here. Like stray dogs.
Little kids, got no chance of making a life at all. Fourteen or
fifteen and they're done."
She looked to Roxanne.
"Unless somebody like her gets hold of 'em before it's too
late."
Jimmy looked over at me, peering at my mouth.
"They might be able to save that tooth," he said. "If they
can't, hold on to your wallet."
He opened his mouth and touched a finger to his tooth,
top, right front.
"Post," he said. "High school hockey. Cost, like, four
grand."
He closed his mouth.
"We round up these tykes, you want to file an assault
complaint?" I shook my head, touched my tooth with my
tongue.
"Screw it."
"The kid getting beat, his name's Rocky? Got a surname?"
Roxanne
thought for a moment, then shook her head.
"No. He's not one of mine. I just heard about him. Landed
in town from somewhere up north. Stayed at the Port House,
with the rest of them, at least he was, but he just kind of
stands out. Sort of wimpy and studious looking."
"What's the name, a joke on the little Poindexter?"
Jimmy said. "What's he doing on the street?"
"I don't know," Roxanne said. "I was trying to figure that
out."
"Looks like he'd get eaten up," I said. "Little skinny guy
with glasses. Arms like sticks. Kicking him like that, they
could kill him."
"They get on the street, they change," Jimmy said, looking
up from his notebook. "What was that movie about the
kids on the island? It was on cable the other night.'
"Lord of the Flies?" I said.
"Right," he said. "These kids. Leave 'em alone, they turn
into little goddamn animals."

CHAPTER 3

We talked on Market Street. I stood by the door as Roxanne
sat in the driver's seat, the Explorer idling, the snow
falling, Roxanne running her fingers over the rips in her
tights, the scratches on her thighs.
"So what's the deal with this Rocky kid?" I said.
"I don't really know."
"Name's a misnomer."
"Yeah," Roxanne said. "He's anything but, from what I
can tell. I don't know why he's here, really. He doesn't fit.
He doesn't have that hard shell."
"Not yet. How long has he been down here? "
"I don't know. I noticed him a couple of weeks ago.
These kids, even if they're soft underneath, they swagger."
"Their defense," I said.
"From years of being treated like dirt. Rocky was sort of
wary, but he didn't have it. The cockiness."
"The bravado."
"No. He looked like he needed a hug," Roxanne said.
"Where was this?"
"At Port House. The shelter. I was looking for somebody
else. But he just looked so vulnerable with these other kids.
I said, 'Who's that?' "
"What'd they say?"
A seafood truck passed on the cobblestone street, compressor
motor roaring, bound for the docks. I waited to hear
Roxanne's answer.
"They said the kids called him Boonie, because he was
from the country somewhere."
"You think anybody is looking for him?"
"That was the odd part. Usually, you get a kid like him,
you've got parents calling every shelter in the state, putting
up posters all over town. Nobody had asked for Rocky at all."
"So he doesn't have anybody?"
"Or nobody who cares," Roxanne said.
"Boonie," I said. "I wonder where in the boonies."
Roxanne gave me her warning look.
"Jack, don't head off on some wild goose chase. He's a
DHS problem, not yours."
I pictured his skinny arms, folded over his head as he
curled up like an armadillo and the blows rained down.
Roxanne said she had to go, had to get cleaned up and get
back to the office. I said I had to go, too, didn't want to be
late. I said I loved her and kissed her on the cheek. She said
she loved me too, and put the truck in gear. Then she
turned to me one more time.
"Jack," she said. "Don't."
I didn't answer.
CHAPTER 4


It was quarter to one and my shift started at the Clarion at three. Three to eleven, Monday through Thursday. Two
o'clock on Fridays and every other Saturday. A hundred and
fifty dollars per shift and health insurance for twenty-five
bucks a week. That was key. You needed health insurance to
have a baby.

Ours was four months away, good Lord willing, as my father
used to say. One day Roxanne had said she'd have to go
back to work after the baby was born because we couldn't go
without health insurance and my freelancing didn't provide
any. I said I'd go get us insurance and then she could stay
home as long as she wanted, take care of one child instead of
fifty. Try to raise our child well rather than trying to fix the
problems of children gone so far astray.

She said I was a dinosaur. I think she meant it in a nice way.

So that was the impetus, and off I went. I hurried back to
Congress Street and picked up the truck. Headed down the
hill toward the highway. I glanced down at the CDs, looking
for something to pass the two-hour ride. I sorted through
music, glancing up at the traffic, back to the radio--

Over at the kid in red plaid.

He was standing in the doorway of a seedy corner store. I
saw the jacket, the glasses, and then I'd passed the corner

and traffic was moving me along down the hill toward the
next light. I stayed in the right lane, turned on the red
light, drove a block, and turned up the hill again. A block
up, I took a right onto a street of tenements that faced the
backside of downtown, circled until the store was in sight,
pulled over and parked.
There was no sign of Rocky.
I shut the truck off, got out, and started walking on the
sidewalk toward the corner. The doorway was visible now, but
only part of it. The windows of the place were spray-painted
white from the inside and I couldn't see through to the alcove
where the kid had been. I hesitated, then kept going. In front
of the store, I stopped. Listened. Turned the corner.
He was gone.
I stepped back and looked down the block. No Rocky. I
looked back the way I had come. I looked the other way, and
then opened the door of the store. A bell jingled and I went in.
The counter was on the left. It was low and made of
metal, dented like it had been drummed by a hammer. On
the counter was a jar of eggs in a yellow solution, like something
from high school biology. Behind the counter, someone
coughed.
I stepped forward and turned. Behind a cash register was
an old smoke-colored woman. She looked at me and coughed
again, as if to clear her throat to speak. Then she stopped
and didn't say anything. I looked closer and saw that her
chair had wheels. On one of the armrests was a revolver
hanging in a holster. On the wall behind her head were
racks of cigarettes and cardboard displays of condoms.
"Hi," I said.
"Yup," she said.
"I'm looking for a kid."
She looked at me.
"Glasses. Red plaid jacket. Kind of skinny."
"Ain't seen him."
"He was just standing in the doorway."
"Can't see the doorway."
"I thought he might have come in," I said.
"Might've. It's a free country."
She looked at me and rubbed her nose.
"I'll look around," I said.
I started to turn.
"You a cop?" she said, behind me.
I turned back.
"No," I said.
"You his dad?"
"No."
"Then what you want the boy for?"
"I know him. I need to talk to him."
I looked at her but she didn't say anything. I glanced
around the store one more time, then turned to the door and
opened it. The bell jingled like I was leaving Santa's workshop.
I stepped out onto the sidewalk. And the door jingled
closed. I stood there for a moment, then walked to the corner
of the building and turned. Stepping over trash and
glass, I eased along the brick wall of the store and then
paused again. Listened.
I heard a scuff. A sniff. I turned the corner.
"Rocky," I said.
He took a step back, but there was nowhere to go. Behind
him was chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. He
ran toward it and leapt, scrabbling up until his feet were at
eye level. There was a clanging sound as he tried to climb
higher, but then he grunted and slid down and turned and
faced me, wide-eyed as a cornered animal, arms wrapped
around his belly.
"Relax," I said, walking slowly toward him. "Nothing to
be afraid of."
Rocky looked behind him, his eyes searching for a way
out. I stopped five feet from him, hands in my jacket pockets.
"I don't want to scare you. I was driving by, that's all. I
saw you in the doorway. You know, you still should go to
the hospital or something."
"I'm fine," he said.
His voice was a child's, the sound of an eight-year-old
coming from a fourteen-year-old's body.
"You're not okay. Even I can tell that. You could have
broken ribs, or I don't know what. I'm not a doctor. I'm just
a friend of Ms. Masterson's. You know her, right?"
His eyes searched me. His arms still were wrapped around
his midsection. Snow flaked on his glasses, and he reached up
with one finger and wiped the lenses, first one, then the other.
"The state lady," Rocky said.
"Right. She was trying to help you, too."
"I don't need any help."
I shook my head.
"They would have stomped you into jelly, Rocky. Why
were they doing that to you? You know those kids?"
He looked at me. Nodded.
"What'd you do to them?"
"Nothin'."
"Then why would they do that?"
He shrugged.
"They just decided to beat you up, for no reason? What'd
you do? Wear the wrong color hankie?"
Rocky stared at me, then looked down at the trash-strewn
ground. He kicked at a flattened can with his sneaker. The
sneakers were Nike Air Jordans, one red lace, one white.
The can was Colt 45.
"They said I was annoying," he said quietly.
"Harsh punishment for rubbing somebody the wrong
way."
He shrugged again.
"I can take it," he said.
"Why would you want to?"
Another shrug. I shifted on my feet, blinked snow from
my eyes.
"Where you from, Rocky?"
He didn't answer.
"You from around here?"
Rocky scowled. Then gave his head a little shake.
"You from far away?"
The shoulders came up, dropped back down. They were
narrow shoulders, like the jacket was draped on a metal
hanger.
"I just mean, if you live nearby, I could give you a ride
home. I don't know why you're kicking around on the
street, but you don't seem cut out for it."
"I'm fine," he blurted, then clenched his teeth. He was
angry.
"I didn't mean to insult you," I said.
"What do you care, anyway?"
"I don't know. I just thought you might be more hurt
than you realized. And Ms. Masterson, she was worried.
When she's worried about something, it rubs off on me."
He looked at me, squinting as if to search for some seed
of truth, or a hint of a lie.
"If you want a ride, I'll give you one. If you want to go to
the hospital, get checked out, I'll give you a lift over there.
But I've got to go. I'm late for work. I've got to drive all the
way to Bangor."
His eyes seemed to brighten behind the smeared lenses.
"I used to go to Bangor."
He started to say something else, then caught himself
and stopped.
"I work in Bangor. I live in a place called Prosperity. It's
between there and here. Closer to there."
"Why you work way up there?"
"I don't know. It's where the job is."
"What do you do for a job?"
"I work for a newspaper."
"You mean, like a reporter--"
"More like an editor. I do reporting for other papers. At
this one I fix up other people's stories."
"The spelling and stuff?"
"Yeah."
"Well, if you write about me, my name's not Rocky."
I smiled.
"My name's not Jack. Nice to meet you, not Rocky."
"It isn't," he said, the anger rising to the surface like a
hungry fish.
"Okay, okay," I said.
"It's David," Rocky said.
I smiled.
"Okay, Dave. Good to officially meet you."
I turned and started to walk away. As I glanced back, I
saw him take a couple of steps and clutch his abdomen
again. I kept walking and he followed, five feet behind me.
I turned the corner of the building and continued past the
abandoned cars, toward the street. At the sidewalk, I turned
back. He still was there, holding his belly and looking up
the block, away from me.
"My truck's up here," I said.
I started off down the sidewalk. I sensed that he'd turned
the other way, and then I heard the jingle of the bell on the
door of the store. So he'd gone back in there. That was okay,
I thought. The store lady seemed to be looking out for him.
And then I heard the jingle again.
At the truck, I looked back. He was walking along the
sidewalk toward me. I opened the truck door, took out my
big L.L. Bean duffel, and heaved it into the truck's bed. I
got in and popped the passenger door open from the inside.
I moved CDs and the phone off of the passenger seat. He got
in and reached over and closed the door, still clutching his
belly with one arm.
I turned the key, put the truck in gear and drove.
"I told Lannie I was okay," he said.
"Who's that?"
"The lady in the store. She lets me eat there sometimes."
I glanced over at him. He seemed to be relaxing, the hard
coating melting off. The more it melted, the younger he
seemed.
"That's nice of her," I said. "What do you eat?"
"Cheez-Its and Doritos. Sometimes doughnuts. She gives
me the doughnuts at the end of the day."
"All the basic food groups, huh?"
"Yeah. She has a gun, you know."
"I know. I saw it."
"You went in?"
"Yeah. I was looking for you."
"She didn't rat me out, did she?"
"No. Didn't say a word."
He smiled.
"Then how'd you know I was out back there?"
"I felt the draft. The cold air when you opened the back
door."
I could see him processing that.
"I should've closed it quicker, huh?"
"Maybe," I said. "Where to?"
We stopped at the stop sign at Congress Street.
He hesitated. Wrapped his arms around himself, and
pulled his legs up.
"You hurt in the front or the back?" I said.
"Kind of all over," Rocky said.
"Down low on your back?"
"What's down there?" he asked.
"Kidneys, spleen. I don't know. All your innards. Hospital?"
"Will
they call the cops?"
"I don't know," I lied.
"Cops will bring me home."
"But what's worse? Going home or having your spleen
rupture or something."
He considered it, his mouth set in a frown, forehead furrowed.
It appeared to be a tossup.

CHAPTER 5

I drove for a couple of blocks, waiting for Rocky to reveal
some hint of why he had left home, what had turned his
life down this dead end. The city was gray and cold, everything
cast in the color of dirty cement. The heat had turned

the truck cab into a sauna but Rocky still was hunched in a
near-fetal position, his hands between his thighs, his cheeks
still white and cold.
"They can't make me go anywhere," he muttered, then
turned toward the window. "It's the law."
"Who?" I said.
"The cops. The state ladies. They can say what they want
and I'm, like, 'Kiss my butt.' "
"You say that, huh?"
"Well, I think it."
"Where do they want you to go? Home?"
"I'm not going home. I don't have one."
"That's too bad," I said. I braked to let a woman cross the
street. She was heavy, legs like gnarled stumps. She shuffled
along in unlaced basketball shoes.
"Lots of people don't have a home. Like that lady there,
I'll bet. When I lived in New York City there were homeless
people all over the place. Living in cardboard boxes, under
bridges. You know, highway overpass bridges? They get in
there out of the rain and--"
"I'm going to New York," Rocky said.
"Really. How you getting there?"
"Hitch a ride. With a truck driver."
"Is that right? What are you going to do in New York?"
We were alongside the park, where paths wound through
the arching black trees. A couple of people were walking dogs.
A skinny guy in a red stretchy outfit was shuffling through
the snow on skis. An unshaven guy in mismatched boots held
up a scrap of cardboard that said, "Please help." I had a vision
of Rocky in Central Park, helpless as a pet-store rabbit.
"I'll get a job in a big museum or something," Rocky
blurted.
"Oh, yeah? My father worked in a museum in New York.
He studied bugs. You mean that kind of museum?"
"No, I mean the kind filled with old stuff. I like things
that are old."
"Your house, the one you don't have, is that filled with
old stuff?"
"No. It's new and boring. But I don't go there."
He glowered, and I didn't say anything. Then he said,
"This the way to the hospital?"
"Yup."
"I don't think I want to go there."
"Why not? They'll check you out."
"They want permission to look at you. Your parents or
something."
"You tried to get looked at here before?"
He hesitated. We were grinding up the hill toward the
hospital.
"They wouldn't help you?" I asked.
"I left. They were wanting to know who I was with and
stuff, and I said, 'Nobody,' and they said, 'Well, we'll have
to call so-and-so.' Some social worker. I'm like, 'No thank
you.' And I'm gone."
I glanced at him, smiled at his tiny bit of bravado. We
came out of St. John and into the circle in front of Maine Medical
Center. Three cars in front of us an old woman was being
hoisted from a wheelchair into the passenger side of a taxi.
"You'd think she'd have somebody to come and get her,"
I said.
"Maybe everybody she knows is dead," Rocky said
solemnly.
I glanced at him. He'd said it with empathy and I wondered
if he was an orphan, bolted from some foster home.
Brand new.
"So what was wrong with you?"
"When?"
"When you came here and changed your mind."
"Ah, nothing. I had this, like, cut on my foot. It was
getting all infected and stuff. It had pus coming out of it."
"Yuck," I said. "So what did you do? After you left, I
mean."
"I got this stuff at the drugstore and I put it on it and it went away. It got better. I didn't need these doctors and
nurses. Your body, it has all these lymph nodes and stuff."
"Is that right?" I said.
"Yeah. It's how you heal. White blood cells. They march
right in and kill the infection germs."
"You learn that in school?"
"Yeah."
"Who was your teacher?"
"Mr. Leonard."
He caught himself, like divulging even that much
made him jumpy. I could see him looking for the door
handle. The woman finally was loaded into the taxi, and
the driver wrestled the wheelchair into the trunk. He got
in the taxi and pulled away, and we moved up a place in
the line.
"I could just get out here," Rocky said.
"No, I've got time. Wait just a minute and I'll drop you
right at the door."
"No, that's okay."
"No, really. I don't mind."
I could see him tensing in the seat.
"I'll get out here."
"Hang on," I said.
He was fumbling for the door handle.
"Rocky, buddy. You could have internal bleeding. You
could hemorrhage or something. You really shouldn't--"
I started to put my hand on his shoulder, but he opened
the door, slid out, and started down the driveway, bent at
the middle like he was carrying an invisible load on his
back. There were cars behind me and I couldn't back up. I
watched in the mirror as Rocky disappeared around the corner
of the hospital building, running away like a wounded
deer, heading for deeper cover.

CHAPTER 6

We were the doddering daily of Bangor, junior to the Bangor Daily News. Circulation was modest, ad lineage was
slipping, but the Clarion was family-owned and run with an
odd lack of concern for the bottom line. The family, the Danforths,
had made big bucks in land speculation, timber and
shipping, originally, and, oddly enough, the newspaper. The
younger Danforth clan had degenerated or evolved, depending
on your point of view, into a scattered band of trust-fund
hippies from Blue Hill, Maine to Marin County, California.
They were sculptors and painters and musicians. One of the
granddaughters made violins and a grandson made necklaces
from deer antlers. Their grandmother, our fearless leader,
made only occasional editorial dictates to the Clarion from
her Victorian mansion overlooking downtown Bangor.
The staff plodded along with impunity.
Her name was Tippy Danforth and in the three months
I'd been on the staff I'd gotten to know her pretty well. Her
cause was primarily cats, but any other stray animals would
do. She was known to stake out trash cans in restaurant
parking lots, baiting her Havahart traps with salmon and
swordfish. Cats and kittens trapped by Tippy Danforth were
handed off to other animal lovers in her network, like
hostages taken by jungle insurgents.
Robust and mannish, Tippy came to the newsroom every
week with the latest installment of her column, "All God's
Creatures.' The column usually retold an animal story sent
in by one of Tippy's many compatriots, but it sometimes was
more hard-hitting. Once she told how animals were used in
horrible experiments so companies could produce important
products, like mascara. Each column ended with a plea that
a featured cat be adopted. Tippy warned that potential adoptive
parents would be subject to a background check.
When I walked into the newsroom that day Tippy Danforth
was standing by my desk, waiting for her personal editor.
She nodded, but kept talking.
"Just because it's winter, don't think they can't have
fleas," she was telling one of the news assistants, a young
woman named Mama who also pampered her cat. "They
breed year round. Ditto for ear mites."
They looked at me.
"Sorry I'm late," I said.
"What happened to your mouth?" Tippy said.
They both stared.
"Oh, that. A little bump."
"Don't tell us. You walked into a door," Marna said.
She was young and sharp, a single mother and part-time
student from the boonies, scraping out a life. Tippy, in her
L.L. Bean boots and smudged parka, gave my swollen mouth
a last look and went right on to more important matters.
"There's the column," she said, pointing to the pages on
the keyboard of my terminal. "It's rather a disturbing one,
but I think it needs to be said. These Satanist people."
I took off my jacket and hung it on the hook by my cubicle.
"Satanists?" I said mildly.
"Stealing cats for sacrifices," Tippy said, waving toward
the column. "It's all in there. I heard about it from a friend
of mine on the coast. Sickening. Well, I'm off."
And she was, striding through the still-quiet newsroom
like the Queen off to the hunt. Sound the horn. Load the
Havahart.
Marna shook her head.
"I'm glad I just work here," she said.
"Likewise," I said.
And oddly enough, I was.
The Clarion wasn't the New York Times. Its world was
smaller and its news judgment sometimes provincial. But it
covered greater Bangor with diligence and affection, and most
of the time was a serious newspaper. When it wasn't, I said so.
Sometimes they listened. As Tippy said, I'd improved her pet
column a hundred percent, and the animals thanked me.
I smiled and shook my head.
"What?" Marna said, behind me. "Didn't they do cats in the New York Times?"
"Only on Broadway," I said.
"I'd die to be in New York," she said, looking dreamily at
her computer screen.
"Some people do," I said.
"When I was a kid, about fourteen, me and my best
friend, Alicia, were going to run away to New York and become
writers," Marna said.
"I did a series once on kids who did that," I said. "Ran
away to New York."
"Did they become writers?"
"One actually did. Wrote for magazines. The rest became
store clerks. One was a waitress. There were drug addicts
and a prostitute and one of them got killed," I said.
"Leave me my dreams, McMorrow,' Mama said, and she
started punching her keyboard. I ran my tongue over my
swollen lip and thought of Rocky, hunched in his red plaid
jacket, hurrying away on skinny legs into the snow, visions
of skyscrapers dancing in his troubled little head.

CHAPTER 7

/I wasn't a bad night on the desk. No major crisis. No
breaking news to keep me late. I began with obits, those little
prose nuggets that attempted to sum up an entire life in
a hundred words.
On that day's death list there was a woman who'd
worked in a woolen mill for forty-two years. A man who had
cut wood and raised eleven children. A man who kept a garden,
supported his family, and didn't raise his voice. "His
word was his bond," the obituary said.
I thought of the obituaries in the Times, where simple
goodness, the most fundamental of virtues, didn't often
make the list of illustrious lifetime achievements.
I smiled.
"Good one?' Marna said.
"Very," I said.
Reporters and editors swept into the room, released from
the afternoon news meeting. A couple of the reporters waved.
The city editor, Ronald Randall, rounded the corner, grimly
serious as always, like he'd just gotten off the phone with
the president--and the president was not happy.
"Mister McMorrow," he said as he strode by, headed for
the photo department.
"Mister Randall," I said.
He said he had two stories for me to rewrite. One was
rough, he said, and the other was ten inches too long. "So fix
'em," Randall said loudly, knowing he was within earshot of
both reporters. "Save the originals so maybe somebody will
learn something." One reporter was young and earnest, a
woman on the way up. The other was older and tired, a
gray-haired guy on the way down. Randall wasn't making
either ride any easier.
Pathetic little tyrant, I thought. Is this how you get your
jollies?
I tapped at the keys. Opened directories and closed them.
The health insurance, Jack, I told myself. Hold your tongue.
There was a time when I would have told him to kiss off,
but this was the new me. Four nights a week and home.
Write the freelance stories in between. Don't take it so
much to heart. Insurance for the baby.
I took a long, deep breath, stretched in my chair. Randall
went to his desk and got on the phone.
"Can you spell, 'Pompous ass?' " Mama murmured behind
me. "Of course you can't. You're a moron and I'm god's
gift to journalism."
"Five o'clock," I said quietly. "He'll be gone."
And he was, home by five fifteen, recounting the day's
victories to his cross-bearing wife. They didn't have children,
thank goodness, but word was that when Randall came to
work at the Clarion and met Tippy Danforth, he went right
out and bought a cat.
He knew whose milk to lap.
But the fearless leader did leave the rest of us to our business.
I edited the stories. One was about a zealous town constable
who was making himself unpopular in his little town
up north. The story was a little rough but not bad. The
other was about a robbery at a branch bank out by the mall.
It wasn't clear whether the guy really had a gun; he was definitely
wearing a ski mask. The story needed trimming, but
not a hatchet job. I made a point to tell the reporters I
thought they were good stories. They said, "Thanks," but
warily, still not sure if I was friend or foe.
With the exception of Marna, that was true of most of
the newsroom. I was an outsider, one with an intimidating
big-time past. And they didn't know the half of it.
So I was left to myself. I drank tea, read stories, and at
seven fifteen, I called Roxanne in South Portland. She answered,
sounded worn out. She said she might be coming
down with something.
"Get to bed," I said.
"I've got reports to finish."
"They can wait," I said. "They're only matters of life and
death."
I could feel her smile.
"Thanks, Jack," she said.
"Anytime."
"How are you?" Roxanne asked.
"Okay. Still feeling a little isolated in the newsroom.
Peer acceptance is coming slowly."
"I meant your tooth."
"Oh," I said. "It's fine."
"Does it still move?"
"Only if I want it to. I do it at recess to gross kids out."
"Did you make an appointment yet?"
"No. I've been tied up."
"Will you do it in the morning?"
"Sure."
"Sure you'll do it, or sure you won't?"
"Sure, I'll try to remember to do it," I said.
"The great equivocator," Roxanne said.
"We don't use words like that here at the Clarion. Randall
says the average subscriber reads at a fourth-grade level."
"Only if you give them fourth-grade writing.
"We try to be vigilant but sometimes some seventh
grade words get by," I said. "But hey, speaking of seventh
grade, guess who I ran into on the way out of Portland."
I told her about Rocky, the store, the hospital.
"You drove him in your truck?" Roxanne said.
"Yeah. It was cold. He's hurt."
"You should be careful of that. Especially if you re alone
with them."
"He's harmless."
"No, I mean be careful for you. These kids will say a lot
of things that aren't necessarily true."
"Oh," I said. "I get it."
"Yeah," Roxanne said.
"You know, it's almost like he's not really running away.
It's more like he's hiding."
"Maybe from an abusive adult,' Roxanne said.
"But he didn't seem like a kid who's been abused for
years and years. Don't they develop a pretty hard shell?"
"Or they're obsequious, like an abused dog," she said.
"Always cowering and fawning, looking for approval."
"I don't know," I said. "He just didn't seem to fit any of
that. He just seemed like sort of a quiet little guy. And you
know, I think he liked me. Liked talking to me."
"Maybe he needs a father figure."
"I wonder what was wrong with the old one," I said.
"Could be any number of things," Roxanne said. "There
are countless ways that relationships come apart."
"Not ours," I said.
"No, not ours."
"And not our kid."
"I hope not," Roxanne said.
"What if this Rocky kid hemorrhages or something?
What if he has a broken rib sticking in his lung?"
"It's out of your hands, Jack. You tried to help."
"Maybe I didn't try hard enough."
"Don't be so hard on yourself. He's a big boy."
"No, he isn't. He's a little skinny runt."
"Who knows how to take care of himself, probably more
than we think," Roxanne said. "He'll find his way."
"But to what? Some flophouse? Some place full of drunks
or junkies? A few years from now I could be here editing his
obit. Drug overdose or AIDS or he gets killed and dumped
in a ditch."
"I don't know, Jack," she said. "Most of these kids are
survivors. They'll surprise you. They really will."
CHAPTER 8


The route home was down the interstate for ten miles,
then off the highway to the east until that road intersected
with a road that went south, over hills, along ridge crests. I
drove through the woods, passing occasional hamlets, silent
in the still-falling snow. They were inexplicable settlements,
remnants of places that had sprung up around farms and
churches. There had once been small wood-framed mills
propped beside streams that ran down steep, rocky pitches.
Now the old buildings--the big barns, the farmhouses where
craggy maples stood sentry--were falling down, pitched to
their knees. As I drove through, just before midnight,
everything was dark and still.

I pictured Rocky in places like these. In the country where
did you hide? The woods? He'd freeze. Abandoned houses?
He'd starve. Soup kitchens and shelters? There weren't any.
Knock on doors? They'd call the sheriff or worse--grab him
by the shoulder, toss him into the pickup and drive him home.

"What do you mean you're running away? Get in that
goddamn truck before you freeze, for god's sake."

I pictured it as I swung off Route 9 and headed east to
Prosperity. The back roads hadn't been traveled at all and
the snow covered the pavement like white moss. The black
woods rose steeply to my left and the road twisted and

dropped and then climbed again, following the path some
homesteader had trod some two hundred years before.
It was another ten miles to home, through Knox and
Freedom, and then another back road. I turned off onto a
dirt road through the woods, and off that road to the track
through the trees. There were four houses on the little track,
which crested a ridge just past my place, a half-mile in.
The road was rutted by a late December thaw. The door
yards of the houses--the college girls, the widow Mrs.
Soule, Clair, and me--served as laybys where you waited for
oncoming cars to pass, like in Ireland. But that didn't happen
much. A strange car on the road was an event. The
driver usually was lost, or trying to be.
Which was why the footprints struck me as strange.
They led along the edge of the road in front of the truck,
plodding up the rise. The snow had partially filled them but
still they showed plainly in the headlights.
The college girls? They were in Montana on a winter survival
training course. They'd asked me to watch their house.
Mrs. Soule wouldn't be out. Clair wouldn't be likely to
walk this end of the road, and if he did, his tracks wouldn't
look like these. These tracks meandered, wove a gentle
slalom in the snow. I followed them like a hound.
The tracks continued along the edge of the road, then
veered into the woods and back onto the roadway. I stopped
the truck and got out and looked. The person had stepped
into the trees, urinated and continued on. So it was a male,
and it looked like he'd put something down on the ground as
he relieved himself. I climbed back in the truck and followed.
The tracks scuffed in the snow. At one point they
stopped, as though the person had paused to listen or look,
and then they continued until they came to the college girls'
oversized cabin. I felt myself tense. The girls were active in
the school's gay-rights organization, and we looked out for
them. Drunken guys had driven by a couple of times,
stopped once, but Clair had gone out and enlightened them.
He always took his rifle; they didn't tend to come back.
So was this one of them?
At the girls' house, the tracks turned in. I stopped. The
tracks stopped ten feet from the house, meandered a bit toward
the car parked in the driveway, then veered back toward
the road.
I drove on.
The tracks were straight now, on the right side of the
road, close to the trees, and when he approached my house,
on the same side of the road, the prints drew closer together.
He had slowed, walked nearly past the house, then turned in.
And hadn't come out.

CHAPTER 9

I eased the truck into the yard and stopped. The headlights
illuminated the front of the house, the tracks to the
side door dark shadows in the snow. No lights showed from
inside. I waited a minute. I looked toward the shed, to the
left. Nothing showed. I waited some more, looked for some
movement in the darkened windows.
Nothing moved.
My rifle was inside, in the kitchen closet. The shells were

in the drawer beside the sink, behind the towels. There were
no other weapons in the house, except for the arsenal of
knives in the block on the counter. Was the person in there?
Had he gone out the back? Was this a burglary, somebody
looking for a house that looked empty? Was he looking for
cash? Beer? The DVD? If he was gone, he'd be easy to track.
If he was still there, I didn't want to wrestle.
I reached for my cell phone between the truck seats, dialed the operator. When he answered, I asked for the number
of the Waldo County Sheriffs Department. The operator
asked me if this was an emergency.
"I don't think so," I said.
He told me to wait for my number. I did and then I dialed.
Waited. The truck motor ticked. The dispatcher answered.
I identified myself. I said I lived on the old dump
road in Prosperity. I said there was somebody in my house. I
told her about the tracks. She asked me if anyone else should
be in the house. Roxanne was in Portland. The tracks were
too small to be Clair's. I said no. She asked if there were
guns in the house and I said yes, but only one. She said she'd
send a deputy but it could take a half hour. She said I
shouldn't try to enter the dwelling myself.
I sat. A minute went by, then another. One more and I
eased out of the truck, shutting off the motor but leaving
the headlights on, trained on the house. Then I backed away
from the truck and walked up the road.
At the edge of the woods, I walked toward the back of
the house, shuffling through the new snow and trying not to
break through the frozen crust underneath. When I could
see behind the house, I fell to a crouch.
I watched. Back on my feet, I circled the clearing behind
the house, looking down for tracks. I walked the perimeter
of the yard. Nothing. I stopped again and watched. The
house was still, the snow falling in the darkness. I could see
the faint green glow of the light on the microwave. Nothing
else. I eased closer. Closer. Stood beside the house, alongside
a window. Moved slowly over and peered in.
Shapes of furniture showed in the dark. Nothing moved.
I walked slowly to the front of the house, by the road.
The truck lights blazed on the door. I walked to the truck
and shut them off, then walked carefully to the side door.
The tracks were to my right. They stopped at the door, shuffled
in place. And then he must have opened the door, which
hadn't been locked. Why lock a door when the cops are a
half-hour away? I reached out and pressed down on the
latch.
It moved. I gave the door a tap and it swung open.
I tapped it again and it swung wider. I listened. Thought
I heard something. A snort or a grunt. I stepped in. Stopped
and listened, but didn't hear it again. Then, in the dark,
I eased my way to the closet, and opened that door. It
creaked. I waited. Nothing. I reached in past the jackets,
past the broom and the mop, and took out the rifle by the
barrel. I eased it into my arms, put my finger on the trigger
guard, then with my left hand reached for the light
switch.
And there he was.
"What are you doing?" I said.
Rocky awakened with a jerk, eyes wide and white. He
started to get up from the couch but saw the rifle and froze.
"What the hell?" I said. "How'd you get all the way up
here?"
He was on the edge of the couch, a paper grocery bag beside
him.
"Hitched," Rocky said.
"Why? How'd you find me?"
"I, urn, I didn't really mean to. I just did."
He looked disoriented, jarred from a deep sleep.
"What do you mean, you 'just did?"
"I just sorta did. I mean, I was gonna go to New York."
"Wrong turn," I said. "Didn't they teach you north and
south?"
"The guy was on the ramp. How was I supposed to know?
Then he says he's going to Unity. He's in this big truck, it,
like, has these ladders to get in, and he just keeps on driving.
It was really warm. I fell asleep."
"Why'd you leave Portland?"
"I couldn't go to the shelter. This kid told me they were
gonna, like, hurt me bad during the night. I had to get out
of there. I mean--"
"So how'd you find me?"
"I asked the lady. The lady at the restaurant."
"What restaurant?"
"I don't know. The one the guy with the truck stopped
at. It was right near here, sort of. I saw the sign, it said
Prosperity. She told me where you lived."
"And you walked?"
"Yup."
"That's four miles. You're lucky you found it in the dark."
I stepped to the closet and put the rifle back.
"She made me a map."
"A map? That's nice, but you know what? There's a
Waldo County deputy on the way, coming out here because
I thought you were a burglar."
"Shit," Rocky said, coming off the couch like an animal
bolting for an open cage door. He was by me, with his hand
on the door, when he remembered his grocery bag. He
turned back.
"You can run, but that's the best way in the world to get
picked up. Wandering the roads around here in the middle
of the night."
"They won't get me," he said, going by me again.
"If they do, they can hold you this time. You'll be a suspect
in a burglary."
"The door was open."
"Doesn't matter."
At the door, he paused.
"I'll go in the woods."
I looked at his thin, wool jacket. His sneakers.
"You'll freeze," I said.
"I'll be okay," Rocky said.
"No, you won't. Let me tell you. I've got nine toes because
of the cold."
He looked at me skeptically.
"I'm not kidding. I'll call the cops," I said. "I'll tell 'em
it's okay."
His hand dropped from the latch.
He stood there while I went to the phone and dialed,
pausing to recall the number. The same dispatcher answered.
I told her who I was, that it was okay. The intruder was a
neighbor. She asked if everything was ten-four. I said it was
and apologized for the inconvenience.
I hung up. Rocky stood by the door holding his bag.
"Sit down," I said. "You hungry?"
"Nah."
He stood.
"Yeah, sure. I've got to close my truck door."
I did, and when I came back in, I took off my boots and
jacket, and told Rocky to do the same.
"At least take your jacket off. And you can get the stove
going while I look for something to feed to a kid who isn't
hungry. How bout some lettuce?"
He looked doubtful.
"Just kidding. The paper and kindling are beside the
wood box. You heat with wood at home?"
"Yeah," Rocky said, then catching himself again. "I
mean, I don't ..."
"I know. You don't have a home. You were born in a
pumpkin patch. How 'bout tuna fish sandwiches? It's a
house special. The bread's frozen but I can toast it."
He didn't say no, and he even started the fire. He knew
just how much newspaper and kindling to use, selected the
logs, and set them just right. He'd grown up in a wood
burning home. That was a clue that narrowed the possibilities
to three-quarters of the homes in Maine.
I opened two cans of tuna, got out mustard and mayonnaise
and celery and onion. He squatted by the stove and watched
the flames through the glass panels in the door. Then he noticed
me watching him and started to get up and winced.
"Still hurts?"
"Not as much. A lot better than before."
I chopped the celery.
"Good," I said. "Onion?"
"Sure."
"A lot of people don't like onions, but they're really good
for you. I read that some place. Purple onions are supposed
to be really good for your heart. I don't know. Maybe they
made the whole thing up. They're in the onion business, so
they invent this theory about--"
"No, it's true," Rocky said. "My mom, she--"
He stopped.
"She what?" I said.
I peeled the skin off the onion, and waited. Rocky stood
there, his lips compressed, then turned toward the fire.
"If you want to say something, go ahead. I'm not a cop.
I'm just an innocent bystander. Or something like that."
Rocky opened his mouth, then closed it. He held his
hands up to the fire to warm them. His fingers were long
and slender, like his wrists. I watched him for a moment,
then continued to mash the onion and celery, mustard and
mayonnaise, into the tuna. I wondered if he got a hard time
in school, looking so young. I considered whether that
might be what he was running from. I decided it wasn't.
I toasted the bread, deli rye Roxanne had brought from
Portland. As the toast popped, I made the sandwiches, quitting
after four. The sandwiches went on a plate, and I put
two glasses on the table, and turned to the refrigerator.
There was Sea Dog brown ale, mine, Diet Pepsi, Roxanne's.
I took out both, poured a glass of each. Rocky shyly
pulled up a stool. I sat across from him and raised my glass.
He held his Pepsi awkwardly. We both turned when the
headlights darted through the trees.
And then the spotlight.
"It's the deputy," I said.
"Oh, my god," Rocky said, lunging from the table.
The stool clattered to the floor.
CHAPTER 10


The cruiser pulled up outside, the spots on the end of
its light bar strafing the windows of the house. Rocky was
pressed against the door, his mouth open, face pale, eyes unblinking.
He looked to the sliding door at the rear of the
house, but he didn't move.

"Please don't let them take me," Rocky said. "Please don't."

"I'll go talk to him," I said.

I came out of the house into the dooryard. The cruiser
was parked across the end of the driveway, blocking my
truck in. The door opened and the deputy emerged slowly,
disappearing behind the glare of the lights.

"Sir, did you report a break? " a Woman's voice called.

"Yes, I did," I said, walking toward the car. "But I was
mistaken. It wasn't anything. I told the dispatcher--"

"Stop right there, sir.'

"But I told the dispatcher it wasn't--"

"Do you have any identification on you, sir? "

I stopped. Stood in the lights, with the snow in my eyes,
and patted for my wallet. It was in my back pocket. I started
to pull it out.

"Could you hold it right there, sir?" the voice called.

I did.

"Hey, listen. I just--"

"Just turn so I can see your back, sir, if you don't mind.
That's good. Now take it out. Slow."
I heard her murmur something, then the radio coughed
and I heard my name. The deputy came around the front of
the car and I finally saw her. Dark wavy hair. Fair skin, pale
in the lights. Heavy-set, but that might have been the flak
vest under her uniform. A wide, high-cheeked face. A resolute,
unflappable set to her mouth.
She kept her right hand low, near her gun.
"What's your name, sir?" she said, approaching me.
I told her.
"You live here?"
"That's right."
"You reported a break in progress?"
"Not exactly. I just saw footprints going in. I just got
home from work. In Bangor. But it turned out to be somebody
I know. I just didn't know he was coming by. So I'm
really sorry you had to come all this way."
"Not a problem, sir," she said.
She looked at me neutrally, her gaze flickering past me
toward the house.
"You have your driver's license?" the deputy said.
I said I did. She kept eye contact, still wary.
"So you saw footprints? Your friend walked here?"
"Yeah. Down the road."
"Are these the prints?"
The deputy flicked the flashlight beam over the ground.
I pointed to Rocky's prints in the snow.
"That's some of them. I guess I walked on them a little.
Once I knew it was him."
"What's your friend's name?" she asked.
I looked at her. She stared back. The motor in the cruiser
huffed patiently, like a panting dog. She was in no rush.
"Rocky."
"Rocky what?"
I hesitated. She caught it.
"I don't know," I said.
"You don't know your friend's name?"
"No," I said. "We just met. Just recently. He's not really
a friend. More of an acquaintance."
"Since when?"
"Since this morning."
"And this new acquaintance dropped by at almost one in
the morning? You must have really hit it off."
I shrugged.
"Is he still here?"
"Yeah."
"Why don't you have this person come outside, sir. Is
there anybody else in the home?"
"No," I said.
She looked toward the house. The radio blared from the
cruiser, then was silent. Her hand dropped to her gun again.
"Tell this Rocky to come outside," the deputy said. It
wasn't a request.
"Hey, Rocky," I called. "Come out here."
We waited. I was half-turned to the house. I could see the
lights in the kitchen, the glasses on the table. And then the
figure bolting across the room.
"Hold it! Police!" the deputy shouted. "Hold it right
there."
I saw Rocky fumble with the sliding door at the rear of
the house, then disappear from view. The deputy saw him,
too, and started to trot toward the house, still shouting,
"Hold it. Police." Then she turned back to the cruiser, trotted
around and leaned in for the mike.
"I've got one in the woods, one in hand," the deputy was
saying. "I'm not sure what the situation is here. Is there a
canine close?"
The radio crackled. She came back to me, her expression
hard and determined, a flashlight in hand. I was standing
there in my sweater, starting to shiver. She said she wanted
my ID. I handed her my license. She looked at it, then put it
in her pocket. She motioned for me to go toward the house.
I walked to the doors, following Rocky's footprints. She followed.
When I turned I could see the gun hand low, the
light held like a club.
Inside in the light, she looked the place over, the way
cops do, then did the same with me. I saw her note the scuff
mark on my mouth, but she didn't say anything. I walked to
the woodbox and got another log and she told me to put it
down. I did.
"So why'd he run?" the deputy said.
"I don't know. He has this thing about being taken into
custody."
"Who is he?"
"His name's Rocky. That's all I know."
"Where's he from?"
I hesitated, fully realizing for the first time what this was
going to sound like.
"I don't know. I met him in Portland."
Her eyes showed the faintest flicker of disgust.
CHAPTER 11

Her name was Divan, like the couch. I was sitting at
the table in the kitchen. She was standing at the counter.
She'd told me to keep my hands in sight.
"Met him in Portland? When?"
"This morning."
"I thought you said you worked in Bangor. And he walked here. From up the road. Why don't you cut the crap
now, Mr. McMorrow, and tell me what this is about."
"I said up the road, not from up the road," I said. "And
he's a kid."
This time her eyes showed more than a flicker. Her
mouth hardened in distaste.
"A kid? How old a kid?"
"I don't know. Thirteen. Fourteen. A runaway."
Her eyes narrowed, pronounced me a pervert.
"You brought him here?"
"No," I said. "He hitchhiked. I didn't invite him. Listen,
it's not what you're thinking."
"Never mind what I'm thinking."
"I didn't pick the kid up. I was with my friend. My girlfriend."
I
paused. Was this going to get Roxanne in some sort of
trouble for fraternizing with the clients? The deputy
waited. I looked down. Melting snow from her boots had
puddled on the pine floor. She dug in her pocket for a pad
and pen and I could see the line of her flak vest. When she
was ready I told the story, from the deli to the alley to the Clarion to home. She asked me to spell Roxanne's name and
I did.
"So you invited the kid to come and stay with you?"
"No," I said. "I didn't invite him anywhere. Like I said, I
just tried to get him to go to a hospital to get checked out."
"But he got all the way up here somehow. And he looked
like he could run pretty good. He couldn't be hurt too bad."
I shrugged. "I saw him taking a pretty good beating."
Divan scribbled on her pad. The puddle at her boots was
widening.
"Why would he think he could stay here?"
"I don't know.'
"You didn't tell him he could sleep here?"
"Hell, no."
"But you didn't kick him out."
"In the snow? A kid? Would you?"
"Then why'd he run?"
"I don't know," I said.
"What happened to your mouth?"
"A kid kicked me in Portland. Another kid. One of the
ones who was beating on Rocky."
Her eyes swept the room, stopping at the table. The
sandwiches. The ale.
"You give him alcohol?"
"No," I said slowly. "Pepsi."
"That's not Pepsi in that glass."
"That's for me, not him."
"So you were gonna have a few beers and then both of
you were going to go to bed?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Take it how you want," the deputy said.
"I hadn't thought about going to bed. I hadn't figured
out what I was going to do with him."
"Had you called your friend? From DHS?"
"Not yet."
"Why not?"
"I was making the kid something to eat. He was hungry."
"Nice
of you," Divan said. "You have this Roxanne Masterson's
number in Portland?"
I recited it. She wrote it down and I motioned to the
phone. She picked it up and I went to the sliding window,
watched the snow falling in the window light, filling the
tracks that Rocky had left as he'd run in his sneakers into
the dark, cold woods. In an hour, all evidence of him would
be gone. The rock would be sunk and I'd be left with the
ripples.
I stood there, back to the deputy as she talked to Roxanne.
It lasted ten minutes and then she hung up and I turned
around. Her expression had softened but only slightly. When
you loathe someone, it's hard to shift gears.
"Some people prey on runaways," Divan said. "And
they're not always the people you think they'd be."
"Hardly ever."
"You'd be surprised at what we see," she said.
"No, I wouldn't," I said.
She looked at me like I'd sassed her.
"I was a reporter in New York City for years," I said.
"Oh," Divan said. "So you've seen what I'm talking
about, Mr. McMorrow."
"Times ten," I said.
She looked at me curiously.
"If we don't find him, I want you to call me if he turns
up," Divan said.
"Tonight?"
"Any night. I want to talk to this kid. I want to know
what he's running from."
"That," I said, "makes two of us."

CHAPTER 12

At two thirty-three by the clock on the microwave,
Rocky came out of the darkness. I was sitting in the big
chair in the living room with a mug of tea. The lights were
off. The phone was beside me from when I'd called Roxanne.
She'd said she was sorry she got me involved in this
whole mess. She said to call her when Rocky showed up, and
she was sure he would, but not until the coast was clear.
Cold woods, a warm house, cops gone.
And sure enough, I watched as he emerged from the trees
and picked his way down his own path, still carrying his
grocery bag, placing his sneakers in each faint footprint like
a deer. At the edge of the deck, he paused and peered up,
then walked up the steps and over to the door. It slid open
and he stepped in.
"You could have called," I said. "I was worried sick.'
Rocky jumped.
"Close the door," I said. "You frozen?'

He slid the door shut.
"I'm okay," he said.
In the darkness, I could see him trembling.
"Good. That cop'll be glad to hear it."
I could see him stiffen. I got up from the chair and
poured a little more tea from the pot on the counter.
"Don't worry. She left. What's with this shyness when it
comes to police officers? What's with you?"
He stood there.
"Nothin'."
"That's why you're running around in the snow at two in
the morning? Jimmy Cagney gave up easier."
He didn't say anything, probably because he'd never
heard of Cagney. I didn't bother to explain. I did get up and
turn on the lamp on the counter. Rocky's head was crusted
with snow. The end of his nose was white. His glasses were
fogged, which made him look almost blind. His hands,
clenched together as though in some sort of supplication,
were blue. The bag was under his arm.
"Stand by the stove. Can you feel your toes? Take off your
sneakers and move your toes around. I'll get you a towel so
you can dry your hair. How 'bout hot chocolate?"
Rocky didn't say no, which I took for a yes. I went to the
bathroom and got a towel and came back and tossed it to
him, then put a mug of milk in the microwave to warm.
When it beeped, I took it out and dumped in some chocolate
syrup, one of Roxanne's few vices other than me. I
stirred the steaming, brown milk and handed it to him. He
took the mug without dropping his bag. He'd unlaced his
sneakers but hadn't taken them off.
Maybe there were holes in his socks.
I leaned against the counter and sipped my tea. Rocky
faced the woodstove and blew on the hot chocolate for a
couple of minutes, then drank it in gulps. When he was
done, he held the mug for warmth, hands wrapped around it
like a priest holds a chalice. I went to the refrigerator and
took out the bag of sandwiches. I handed it to him, and he
opened it and fished one out with his slender fingers. He ate
it in four bites, swallowing it in chunks, like a dog would.
"Could you eat a little faster? I'd like to get some sleep,"
I said.
He looked at me.
"Just kidding," I said.
Rocky took another sandwich out and took a bite, then
another. I watched him, and suddenly felt very tired and annoyed.
This was my house. I hadn't invited him and here he was, just standing there, shoving food in his mouth. Where
did he think he was? Burger King?
"So what's the deal?"
He looked at me.
"What are you running away from? Get a D in algebra or
something?"
He eyed me and kept chewing, like a cat that didn't want
to give up a kill.
"You get beat up at home?"
Rocky chewed, poked his glasses back up his nose, which
was turning from white to pink. I could smell the odor of
warming, wet wool.
"Where is home?" I tried.
He looked away, my little amnesiac.
"You have parents? Mother and father. Want to call your
mom and dad?"
"My mom's sick," Rocky said quickly, almost reflexively,
as though it were a well-worn explanation.
"Oh," I said. "Sorry to hear that. Well, maybe she'd like
to hear from you then. Is she in the hospital?"
"No," he said.
"Oh. Then you want to call your dad? He can tell your
mom you're okay."
"No."
He chewed. I stood there for a moment, and he did, too,
looking away from me, looking far away. So it's the father, I
thought.
"Okay. That's fine. But I've got to get--"
"Thank you for your help, sir," Rocky said suddenly. "I
hope I'm not too much trouble."
It startled me, this outburst of courtesy. Somewhere
along the way, he'd learned some manners.
"No, it's no trouble. And I won't toss you out in the snow
tonight, but you can't just park here. I'm sure there's someplace
you can go--group home or something. Ms. Masterson
will know. But you can't be staying here because she's
here, living here, a lot of the time and I'm sure there's some
rule or something that says you can't just move in with the
state lady. You know what I mean?"
"Yeah," Rocky said, swallowing a last chunk of bread and
tuna. "I'll go."
He bent down to lace his sneakers.
"Oh, come on. I didn't mean that. You don't have to go
this minute, for god's sake. Take your shoes off. Or don't, I
don't care. I'll get you a dry shirt, if you want. You can sleep
on the couch."
I went up to the loft and got a pair of sweatpants and a
T-shirt, and came down and tossed them on the couch.
"Bathroom's in there," I said, nodding to the door under
the stairs. "You got your toothbrush in that bag?"
It still was under his arm, clutched protectively. He
didn't answer.
"If you don't, and you don't want your teeth to fall out
when you're twenty-two, there's a couple of new toothbrushes
in the cupboard under the sink. Help yourself. And
there are towels in the closet in there. You can take a shower
if you want. I don't know, get yourself squared away for another
few days on the street. Whatever. I've got to be up by
seven, so I guess you'll have to be up, too."
"You going to Bangor?" Rocky asked.
"Not until the afternoon. You want to go to Bangor? You
know people there?"
He shrugged. "I've been there before."
"Well, I don't know. We'll see in the morning. I've got to
work on my truck, and I want to finish it before I go to
work, so I don't know."
I turned to the loft stairs.
"So good night or whatever."
"Good night," Rocky said.
It sounded strange here, these words that belonged at his
home, not mine. I started for the stairs, then turned back
and went to the counter for the phone. I took it off the
charger and brought it with me. He was standing in the same
place. I walked over and closed the damper on the woodstove.
"How's your insides?" I said.
"Okay," Rocky said. "Better."
"Good," I said. "There's some ..."
I was going to tell him where the ibuprofen was, but
thought better of it. What if he took the whole bottle? His
parents would sue me. I wondered if I should take the medicinal
stuff upstairs with me. No, I thought. I'd have to
clean out the whole house. Knives. Toilet bowl cleaner.
If somebody was bent on self-destruction, there really
was no stopping them. And Rocky didn't seem like he
wanted to hurt himself. He just seemed like a kid who, for
some reason, didn't want to go home. For some reason . . .
I went up the stairs, started to undo my trousers, then reconsidered.
Kid in the house, me in my shorts? Uh-uh. I unlaced
my boots and yanked them off. Then I put the phone on
the bedside table and stretched out on the bed in my clothes.
I didn't call Roxanne.
She couldn't be up all night, arranging for someplace for
this kid to go. She couldn't overdo it, get exhausted. She
had a baby to think about. We had a baby to think about.
I'd call her in the morning, let her know somebody had to
do something with Rocky.
I couldn't baby-sit him. I was supposed to be at Clair's,
up the road, at seven thirty. I supposed the kid could come
along. Clair wouldn't mind, but then Mary, Clair's wife,
would want to take Rocky into the big kitchen, fill him full
of pancakes or something. She'd have him half-adopted by
lunchtime and he would have wormed his way even deeper
into my life, and what did I do to invite that, other than
yank those little creeps off of him, and that was more for
Roxanne than for him ....
The phone rang, but in my dream it was on a ship, on a
metal wall, and the ship was pitching and I kept sliding
away and the phone was just out of reach, and I had to call
Roxanne because I didn't want her to try to swim to the
ship, and the phone was ringing and it was her, calling from
the water, holding our baby, calling for help.
Half-conscious, I picked up the phone.
CHAPTER 13

"Yeah."
"Mr. McMorrow," the voice said from the darkness. "This
is Deputy Divan. How are you, sir?"
How was I? Who the hell knew?
"Fine," I croaked. I looked at the luminescent glow of my
watch. It was twenty minutes before six. The deputy's day
was winding down.
"Did the boy ever come back?" she asked.
Did he come back? My mind struggled to put everything
in place. Yeah, he'd come back, but should I tell the
police? Should I have called them when he walked in? I considered
it. The truth, my father had always said. Always tell
the truth.
"Yeah," I said. "He's asleep on the couch."
"You didn't call?"
"I gave him some food and I fell asleep. I'm going to call
the DHS and ask what they want to do. I can't have him
here."
"No," Divan said. "You can't."
In her tone was the faint ring of innuendo. In the background,
I heard the gruff voices and buzzing phones of a police
station. I heard Rocky stir.
"I made some inquiries," Divan said. "There's a boy named
Arthur Doe who's been missing from the town of Woodfield
since December nineteenth."
"Arthur Doe? Sounds like a dead body," I said.
"No, that's his real name. Actually, there are quite a few
Does in Waldo County."
"And one on my couch?"
"I called the father. If it's him, he'll come and get him.
He said the boy's still gone."
"What's he look like?"
I heard papers shuffle.
"Five-five, hundred and five. Brown and blue. Build is
thin. D.O.B., one-eighteen, ninety-one. Glasses. Last seen
wearing red plaid wool jacket, jeans, black-and-white sneakers.
High tops. Nike Air Jordan. Left sneaker has red laces.
Right one doesn't. Doesn't say what color it is."
I pictured Rocky's shoes, snow melting onto the floor.
"White," I said.
She kept going.
"This came from the school. He showed up at school one
morning, got off the bus, went in the front door and out the
back."
"What about the parents?"
'They didn't report it. The school finally did, I guess. Father
said he figured the boy would come home when he was
ready. Said it's been an ongoing problem."
"Nice," I said. "No wonder he took off."
I vowed to never be a father like that.
"I don't know," Divan said. "Might be one of those tough
love things. Sometimes kids need to decide to come home
on their own."
"He's not even fourteen yet and he was on the streets in
Portland getting the crap kicked out of him. That's pretty
tough love."
"So you think it's him, Mr. McMorrow?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"The sneakers. The laces."
"Okay, I'm gonna call the dad back. I told him I thought
we'd located Arthur but I'd confirm it and get back to him.
I'll give him directions and he'll take him off your hands."
"If the kid'll go," I said. "You know none of this addresses
why the kid ran in the first place."
"That's not up to law enforcement, unless there's something
obvious or he alleges something," Divan said. "I'll
write up a report for DHS. They'll take it from there."
"Okay, Pontius," I muttered.
"Pardon me?"
"Nothing."
She wanted to know where I could be reached later. I
gave her the number at the Clarion and my cell phone. Divan
took the numbers and hung up. I pressed the button on
the phone and rested it on my chest.
The house was quiet but I could hear the first morning
doves coming to life. Through the skylight, I could see the
sky turning from blue black to dull gray. The snow on the
skylight glass had slipped off, which meant it had warmed
up overnight. That's good, I thought. The kid won't be
quite so cold, but then I remembered that he'd probably be
home, in his house, probably in his room. I wondered what
sort of scene that would be. Shouting and screaming? Taking
away his privileges? No more Play Station? No more Internet?
What did you do to a kid these days? Would the
father hit Rocky, once he had him home? The kid seemed
able to take a beating. Maybe he'd had practice.
I took a deep breath and readied myself to go down and
break the news. Or should I wait or not tell him at all? Let
the dad just knock on the door. If Rocky ran, I wasn't going
to stop him. Hey, I'd let the father chase him through the
woods. It was his son. It wasn't my fault he was screwed up.
"Oh, brother,' I said.
I heaved myself off the bed and staggered. I felt like I
hadn't slept at all, and I lurched stiffly down the stairs. I
looked at the couch. The kitchen. Turned toward the bathroom.
The door was open, the light still on. The bathroom
was empty.
Rocky was gone.
"Son of a bitch,' I said.
I went to the door to the deck and looked out. In the dim
light, I could barely make out the remnant of the tracks
Rocky had made the night before, going out to the woods
and coming back. I reached for the light switch and turned on
the floodlight. Next to the old tracks, gauzy with new snow,
was another set of prints that crossed back and forth over the
old. The fresh tracks went one way, leading into the trees.
"Oh, man,' I said.
The father was on his way and I'd lost the kid. Well, he
could follow the tracks himself. Stake out the roads. What
was I supposed to do? Tie the kid down? No, they frowned
on that down at DHS. Hell, if the cops couldn't hold him,
what chance did I have?
I shook my head and walked to the side door and opened
it and looked out to the road. Snow was slipping from the
branches in sticky clumps, like color washed from a painting.
The sky was pale to the east, and I could see that snow
still covered the truck. Rocky's tracks from the road to the
house still were visible, and my tracks to the door. But nothing
else. He hadn't come back this way.
Standing there for a moment, I wondered if I should go
look for him. I could loop around to Route 137 and see if he
was hitchhiking or just walking. Would he hide in the
woods? Would he risk being followed? Did he think his
father would trail him? How badly could the guy want him
if he hadn't even reported him missing?
"Goddamn it," I said.
I turned back into the house to get my boots and my
jacket. If Rocky had taken off after hearing me on the
phone, he couldn't have gone too far. And traffic at this hour
would be almost nonexistent. A hitchhiker at six in the
morning in the middle of nowhere? Then again, it would
probably work to his advantage.
I went up the stairs to the loft and sat on my bed as I put
on my boots, then came back downstairs and grabbed my
parka off the hook by the door. Maybe I could find the kid
and turn him over to his dad and go back to bed. No, Clair
would be out in the barn, getting a fire going in the stove.
Maybe I could take a nap, after lunch. Even an hour would
help, I thought. I opened the door. Felt for my keys. Heard
a truck coming up the road.
It was a green Dodge pickup, a big four-wheel drive
diesel, dressy and new, and it slid to a halt in the snow in
front of the house. I stepped out. The driver did, too. He
was a very big guy, tall and rangy with a flattop haircut. He
was wearing a tan field jacket, tan leather gloves, and a determined
expression. On the door of the truck were the
Words, RUSTY CLEMENT, LOGGING CONTRACTOR. They
were painted in gold.
Stepfather.
He closed the door. I walked toward him, and he toward
me.
"You the guy got my boy?" he said.
His voice was disdainful, as though he'd like to toss me
aside.
"I don't know. I said slowly, as he stopped in front of me.
"There was a kid named Rocky here. But he's gone. Just left."
"What the hell you mean, he just left?" the guy said.
"Where'd he go?"
"I don't know. Into the woods. But probably just a few
minutes ago."
"Then go get him. Go get my boy."
He stood over me, which meant he was six-three, anyway.
I told myself to stay calm. The guy was worried about
his son. If I were in his place, I'd say things like that, too.
"So move," the guy snarled.
I exhaled slowly.
"I know you're upset. I would be--"
"You bring him out here, or I'll tear this shack apart with
my goddamn bare hands. I'm gonna count to ten. Now
move your friggin' ass."
His teeth were clenched. His fists, too. My hands were in
the pockets of my jacket, but ready to come out if the need
arose.
"I can't bring him out," I said slowly. "He's not in there."
"I don't care. Get him. What the hell you doing with my
kid, anyway? I hear you laid a finger on him, I'll kill you."
I took a step toward him.
"Listen, I saved your kid from getting stomped to death
in Portland. I didn't ask him to come here. He just showed
up because he was cold. I fed him. I gave him a couch to
sleep on. I could've--"
"That kid's got psychological problems. He's not right.
Mister, you touched him and I'll have you put away. What
the hell is your name? I want to know your name."
He paused. I looked right at him, a foot from his face. I
told him my name.
"And if you want to know where he went, I'll show you
the path. Otherwise, get in your goddamn pimp truck and
get off my property or I'll call the cops."
I turned and walked back toward the house, then around
the side of the shed. Behind me, I could hear his boots
crunching in the snow. I crossed the yard in the back of the
house and stopped. Pointed to the ground.
"There you go. I'd say he has about a ten-minute start.
Maybe less."
He looked at the tracks, then toward the woods.
"Where's that lead?"
His tone was less threatening, more authoritative. A man
who was used to pushing people around.
"Depends," I said. "If he follows the path that's there, he
could pop out at the main road. A half mile or so. He could
listen for the trucks. He might do that. He got a ride up
here from Portland with a trucker."
"He told you that?"
"Yeah."
"What else did he say?"
I looked at him. It was an odd question.
"Not much."
"What's he been doing for food? You said he went all the
way to Portland?"
The tone was more reasonable now. Maybe he was just
one of those people with incendiary tempers. Screaming one
minute, calm the next. I'd known a few editors like that.
"Stayed at a shelter for kids," I said. "Hung around with
some street kids."
"He's all right?"
"More or less."
"What's that mean?"
"He's a little beat up. Got kicked pretty good yesterday."
The guy didn't react to that. I waited. It was lighter and
a band of chickadees arrived at the feeder, six feet away,
cheeping and whistling. The guy didn't react to that either.
"Don't suppose the little shit said why he won't come
home," the guy muttered.
The little shit. I vowed to never say that about my son.
"No," I said. "I didn't get into that with him. He didn't
say much at all, really."
"Never does."
I looked at him.
"He said his mother is sick," I said.
"Why'd he tell you that?" Clement said. His voice was
sharp, newly angry.
"How the hell should I know?"
"Yeah, well, she's got leukemia."
"Sorry," I said.
Leukemia? What an odd thing to confide, but it was an
odd conversation all around. I stood there in the snow and
didn't say anything. The birds came and went. Clement
turned toward me suddenly, and thrust out his gloved hand.
I looked down. He was holding a business card. I took it. It
read, rusty clement, logging contractor, just like
the truck door. There was a sketch of a truck in the background.
A string of telephone numbers.
"I'm gonna drive up to the road, see if I can cut him off.
If he shows up here again, call me."
A chickadee fluttered by his head, blithely cheery. Rusty
Clement turned and started back around the house, then
stopped and turned and jabbed at me with a forefinger.
"If you touched him, you're in deep shit," he said.
"Likewise," I said. "I'm sure."
CHAPTER 14

Clair was using a torch to cut the rusty bolts that held
the bed of my truck to its frame. The torch hissed, then the
bolt clinked onto the concrete floor. Clair rolled out on the
mechanic's creeper, and turned the torch off. The flame glowed
blue, then went out with a pop.
"Guilt," Clair said, laying the torch on the floor. "Guy's
feeling guilty 'cause he didn't chase the kid down in the first
place. Now he needs a bigger villain than himself. So he
picked you. Chester the Molester."
"I hope the kid doesn't tell him some tale," I said.
"I'll vouch for you. A changed man since you found Jesus
in state prison."
"Thanks."
"Don't mention it."
It was nine thirty and we'd been at it for two hours. With
Duke Ellington playing in the background, I'd told Clair
about' Rocky and Rusty and Deputy Divan, and he hadn't
said much as he'd moved from the bench to the truck and
back. Now he flipped off his welder's mask. His hair was
close-cropped and silver. His hands were big and muscular.
"Isn't it amazing how bad people can screw things up?"
he said, shaking his head. "Even something that should be
easy. Like a kid."
Clair got to his feet, and turned to the truck bed and
started to lift.
"Wait," I said. "Your shoulder."
"It's fine. I did rehab."
"Yeah, for three weeks."
"What do I look like? A hypochondriac?" Clair said.
"It was a gunshot wound. That's not hypochondria."
"Just get over on the other side and lift."
I did, on three. The bed made a crunching, ripping as it
pulled away from the truck and shards of rust shook loose.
Clair eased the gas-tank filler nozzle through the gas-cap
hole and we lowered the bed to the floor.
"There," I said. "Now we turn it into a Woodie."
"Should build them this way in the first place. This oak'll
still be solid when the rest of the truck is squished the size
of a hay bale."
We turned to the stacks of oak and hemlock.
"Rusty Clement had a nice truck," I said. "Thirty thousand
easy."
"Shoulda spent that money on his son," Clair said. "What
I hear, he steals a lot of that money. Gives a lot of hardworking,
honest loggers a bad name."
"His reputation precedes him?"
"Hard to keep secrets around here."
He took one of the hemlock shims and placed it on the
chassis.
"Strange combo," I said. "Kid looks like he'd be in the
chess club or something. And the dad is this big, aggressive
macho type. It's like the son got switched at birth. Must be a
stepfather."
"A lot of it's genetics, anyway," Clair said. "You been
reading about that? They've identified genes for just about
everything now. Violence. Ambition. This kid's genes probably skipped a generation. Instead of daddy's, the boy gets
Great Aunt Mabel's. Old ramrod there is macho man and
his kid wants to do needlepoint."
"Nothing wrong with that."
"Nope," Clair said.
"But he isn't doing any needlepoint where he is now," I
said.
"No, that's true."
"You'd think a kid like that, I don't know, kind of soft,
would just want to stay home."
"Something must've happened," Clair said, fitting a
stringer over the wooden shim.
"You think you suddenly run away because you've been
ignored by your father for fourteen years?"
"It builds. One hurt on top of another. And then one day,
the whole thing collapses. Guy's probably oblivious to the
hurt he causes. Had some kids in the Marine Corps. You felt
like you had to undo eighteen years of damage. Start from
scratch. For some of 'em it was too late. They'd given up on
themselves."
"I don't think it's too late for this Rocky kid. He seemed
nice. Just troubled. Worried."
"Worried about what?" Clair asked.
"I don't know. He said his mother was sick, but I don't
know if running away had anything to do with that. Why
would you run away if your mother was sick? Seems like
she'd need you."
"Unless she was dying and maybe you didn't want to .
watch."
I remembered my own parents' passing. Part of me had
wanted to run, and I had been twenty-three, not thirteen.
"Maybe that's it," I said.
Clair shrugged, then bent to fit another U-bolt in place.

"What'd Roxanne say?" he said, his back to me. "She's
the expert at putting all these Humpty Dumpty families
back together."
"Didn't know him. And I missed her this morning. Besides,
it's all confidential."
"Be nice to at least know the kid's home and okay," Clair
said.
I pictured Clement's wrath.
"Home and okay may not be the same thing," I said.

We worked until noon, and with the exception of the taillights,
the truck bed was done, the beams bolted down,
the planks screwed in place, the rusty metal bumper
replaced by a varnished oak four-by-four. Clair was unwinding
electrical wire from a reel when Mary came into
the barn through the side door. I was putting wood in the
stove.
"Warmer out here than it is in the house," Mary said. "I
made soup, if you're interested. Jack, what happened to
your mouth?"
"A long story," I said.
"Aren't they all," Mary said. "You know you are the most
accident-prone man I know."
"Thank you,' I said.
"It was an accident?"
"Well ..."
Mary shook her head. "Roxanne's a saint," she said.
"Now that's the truth," Clair said.
Mary left the barn, the door closing behind her. Clair
smiled to himself, and then bent to attach the wire to the
snipped wire-ends on the frame. I used the driver to screw
the taillights to the top of the wooden bumper. Clair connected
the wires with plastic wire nuts, and taped them with
black electrical tape. Then he went to the cab and turned the
key on and tried the brakes and blinkers. I checked the lights
as I screwed the license plate to the oak beam.
"Okay," I said.
"Just like we knew what we were doing," Clair said.
The blinkers blinked. The brake lights glowed. The
Duke played on, and in the truck, the phone rang.
Clair moved to the bench and turned the music down. I
leaned into the cab and picked up the phone.
"Hey," I said, expecting Roxanne.
"Mr. McMorrow," a voice said.
"Yeah."
"This is Deputy Divan. We spoke this morning."
Her voice was distant and fuzzy.
"Right," I said.
"I just wanted to let you know that we think we've located
Arthur Doe."
"Oh, really," I said.
"Well, sort of. We had a report of a boy that may have
been struck by a motor vehicle, on Route 202 in Dixmont.
We think--"
"Oh, my god. How is he? I mean, was he--"
"We don't know, at this time. A witness said the truck
stopped. A pickup truck. A boy--I guess he was walking
north on the side of the road, maybe hitchhiking--was
picked up and put in the truck, but he hasn't shown up at
any hospitals. He fit the description, I think."
"Red plaid jacket?" I said.
"And black sweatpants," Divan said.
I remembered.
"Oh, yeah. Those are mine."
"He was wearing your clothes, Mr. McMorrow?"
"Well, no," I said, still leaning into the truck. "Not my
clothes. Just the sweatpants. His jeans were soaked from the
snow last night. You know, when he was out in the woods? I
gave him something to sleep in."
"Right," she said.
"Something dry."
"I understand," Divan said, but I didn't think she did.
"He was frozen."
"Right."
"They were black sweatpants. Cotton. Regular sweatpants.
And he had on that jacket, and maybe a flannel shirt.
Plaid flannel shirt."
"I don't know about that," she said. "Now, Mr. McMorrow
. . ."
I waited.
"Tell me. That Toyota at your house. Is that the vehicle
you drive every day?"

CHAPTER 15

"What is this?" I said, rubbing pink hand cleaner between
my fingers. "Does she really think I tried to run the
kid over? Saved him in Portland to kill him in Prosperity?
That doesn't make any sense."
Clair shrugged.
"It does, if you start with a couple nasty givens. That
you lured him to your house for the purpose of exploiting
him in some way. Then he takes off. You get scared because,
I don't know, maybe he says he's gonna tell people what
you did to him, and you can't let that out. Or maybe he
wanted money. Tried to extort money from you. Threatened
to make up some story about you molesting him. You
can't let that happen, so when he runs, you wait for him up
on the road."
"But I was the one who called the cops in the first place."
"Because you thought he was a burglar. You didn't call to
say he was back."
"It was two in the morning."
"Cops don't care what time it is," Clair said.
"I do. I had to sleep. I work till eleven o'clock at night,
and drive an hour home. I can't stay up all day and night
jibber-jabbering about this nonsense."
"It's not nonsense, Jack," Clair said.
"No," I said. "It's not nonsense at all."

I passed on the lunch, and Clair said he understood and would
give Mary my regrets. He also said he'd take a ride around
that afternoon and see what he could see, ask around about a
kid in a red jacket. I told him I'd give him a call later, and he
slid the barn door open and I backed the truck out.
It was snowing again, granular flakes that fell like smokestack
grit. I turned the truck in Clair's barnyard and pulled
out onto the road, and even as I drove the short distance to
my house, I found myself scanning the woods for Rocky and
his red plaid jacket. Hit by a truck? Maybe they did try to
bring him to a hospital. Where? Belfast, ten miles to the east
on Penobscot Bay, was closest. The cops would have checked
there. Bangor and Waterville, too. The rural, health center in
Albion. The clinic in Unity.
Goddamn it, I'd do it myself but I had to be at the Clarion.
I had an hour to change and eat, try Roxanne again. Should
I call the father? Divan would have done that, wouldn't
she? Maybe I should just back off, let the thing play out
without me.
I parked and went in, saw the answering-machine light
flashing on the counter. Four messages: Roxanne, saying
she'd try me later; Divan, saying she'd try me at the other
number; Marna, saying a lady named Joelle or something
like that had called me at the newsroom; a lady named Joelle
Duguay, saying she was from the Department of Human
Services in Bangor, and she'd try to reach me at the office.
I could run, but I couldn't hide.
I went up the stairs slowly, my knees creaking, untied
my boots and fished in the bureau for clean khakis, and in
the closet for an ironed shirt. The only shirt was white Oxford
cloth, which seemed dressy for the Clarion newsroom,
or at least for me. The officious, obsequious ones dressed up,
like Randall in his silly suits and power ties. I covered the
shirt with a drab blue sweater.
Dressed, I came back downstairs. There was a streak of
black grease on my left wrist, and I went to the bathroom to
scrub it off. The door was half closed. I pushed it open, hit
the light and there they were, askew on the floor.
Two black legs.
It was Rocky's jeans. I paused, startled, then picked them
up. I held them for a moment, then reached for the shower
curtain and yanked it open. He wasn't there. The jeans were
Lee brand, beltless, with a 30-inch waist and 28-inch length.
They still were damp around the ankles. Damp and cold.
I walked back to the living room; the pillow was on the
couch, the blankets tossed off on the floor. I picked them up
and shook them. Nothing fell out. I got down on my knees
and looked under the couch. There was nothing there but
dust. I got back up and lifted the cushions. Cracker crumbs.
A Ballantine Ale cap. One of Roxanne's socks, lost during
one romp or another. For a moment, I pictured her, sockless
and in other states of abandon, but then those images faded
away.
I was left with the jeans.
They were dirty, smelled like boy. In one of the front
pockets was seventy-five cents and a book of matches from a
Portland restaurant. The other front pocket was empty, with
a hole. The back pockets were empty, too. I turned the jeans
again, reached inside the legs, then into the pockets again,
one by one.
And then I fingered the watch pocket, the little one in
front, on the right. I felt a piece of paper and fished it out. It
was white, folded until it was the size of a sugar cube, and
hardened, as though it had gone through a washing machine.
I picked at the corners and bent them back, and it
slowly unfolded.
It was a piece of paper, half of a page, white and lined and
starting to tear at the folds. On it, someone had written:
April 7 1987. Kitty Kitty Kitty. How can you live?
The words were written in the schooled hand of a child.
And then there were doodles. Squiggles and slashes, and
cubes piled one on the other, like a city skyline.
I turned the paper over. The other side was part of what
looked like a test or a homework assignment. In this novel, Johnny Tremain shows his character because even though his hand
was burned. . .
That was all, at least on this half of the page. Someone-- Rocky had grabbed this piece of paper and scribbled the
note on the back and saved it. He was carrying it in a safe,
relatively well-hidden place. Rocky considered it important
for some reason.
April 7, 1987 . . . Kitty . . . How can you live?
In 1987, Rocky wasn't born. Did the parents have a cat?
What happened April 7? How can he live? Who, the cat?
Kitty, Kitty, Kitty. Like someone calling a cat. A cat ran
away? But why would Rocky care about that?
I turned the paper over, then back again. I read it over and
over. Kitty. April 7, 1987. Haw can you live? It was strange,
but probably made perfect sense to Rocky. Maybe it was a
song. Maybe he'd written it himself.
Kitty kitty, kitty, bow can you live?
But the date? Somebody's birthday? Who knows, I
thought. Rusty Clement had said his son had psychological
problems. Maybe this was an indication of something like
that. I'd had a running conversation with a man in New
York who'd seen my byline on a story about a murder on
East Seventieth Street. A madame had been shot in some
sort of turf fight. The story was on page 24, and he was
twenty-four. His mother was seventy.
"So you can see how it all fits," he'd say.
And this Rocky story probably all fit, too, but I didn't
see how. Was he nuts? Behind the store, in the truck on the
way to the hospital, Rocky had seemed perfectly sane. A little
troubled maybe.
April 7, 1987 ...
I folded the paper to its original size and shape, and put
it in my wallet, then went to the kitchen. There was tuna
salad left from Rocky's midnight snack, so I spread some
on stoned-wheat crackers and ate them with a glass of
orange juice as I stood by the window. The chickadees and
nuthatches and finches had gone, but a lone female cardinal
was huddled reluctantly in the old honeysuckle, like some
troubled person who'd stayed after mass to see the priest.
The cardinal came forward warily, hopping from branch to
branch, then onto the step of the deck and then up onto the
deck itself, where it ate hurriedly, head rocking up and
down. I thought of Rocky, the kid who came in from the
cold and ate sandwich after sandwich with that same jerking
movement.
The cardinal was worried about being eaten. What was
worrying Arthur "Rocky" Doe?
I finished the tuna and put the dishes in the sink, then
put a travel mug of water in the microwave, spooned China
Black Tea into the mesh strainer and dropped it into the mug. One mug would get me to Bangor, or at least close. At
my "work station" in the newsroom, I had another canister
of tea, another strainer. The coffee guzzlers at the Clarion eyed me suspiciously when I poured my zapped hot water
through the strainer, as though I were performing some
mysterious religious rite. After the news meeting, we could
all chant.
When the tea had steeped, I jammed the cover on the
mug, grabbed my keys and leather jacket, the one I wore in
the big city, and went out to the truck. The sleet rained
down and the sky was gray, the road slashed by a single
track. I followed it down to the main dirt road, and as I
turned, a buck deer loped across the road in front of me. It
was odd that a deer would be moving at this time of day,
unless something had frightened it. Somewhere back in that
range of woods, Rocky had passed, and then his father, on
his trail, tracking his son like a hound.
As I drove out to the main two-lane road that wended its
way northeast, I thought of Rocky and his dad: the hunter
and the hunted. There was something odd about the father,
a lack of despair or worry. No, he seemed worried, but not
in the way I would have expected. Was he worried that his
son was cold and hungry? Or was he more angry at the
inconvenience of having to be worried? Rusty Clement was
a very hard guy, it seemed, and yet the son seemed so soft.
"Mom must be a real cream puff," I said aloud. But was
her name Kitty?
I pondered it as I drove, following the ridge line to the
northeast. The road split farms, big dairy operations where
yellow loaders were poised in front of the gaping brown manure
pits, torn open like strip mines, ballasted with tires
and black plastic. And then there was the bustling little town
of Unity, and that left behind, there were fields and woods and houses with peeling paint like flayed skin, and sagging
stairs, and satellite dishes mounted on posts, aimed skyward
as if to receive communications from another planet, orders
beamed to outposts on the frontier.
The road climbed and the land fell away steeply to the
west, and the houses were scattered and solitary. Trailers sat
next to rotting homesteads, vans on blocks served as storage
sheds, cars and trucks sat in dooryards in states of both decay
and disrepair.
It was tough, living on these ridges, and it took a certain
optimism. I'll get that car running one of these days. I'll get
a hundred dollars ahead. I'll win the Megabucks. It was a
fine line that separated hope and despair. My son will
straighten out.
The sleet turned to snow and the tire tracks in the road
turned to narrow black lines. And then a sign said Dixmont,
and I slowed and eyed the shoulder of the road, looking
for something to show where Rocky had been hit. I
eased along, one eye on the rear-view mirror, but nothing
showed on the roadside. Then I was at the crossroads, with a
store and a scattering of houses, and then back in the woods
and it seemed there should be footprints or something, but
the snow apparently had covered any sign of the accident.
No evidence that it had happened at all, and for a moment,
I pictured Rocky faking his own mishap from some shopping
center pay phone.
That would get them worried, wouldn't it? Run over and
spirited away. How do you like that one, dad?
I sped up after the Dixmont town line, into Newburgh,
where I'd turn northwest toward the interstate. Or I could
turn east, toward the town of Woodfield, seven miles away. I
looked at my watch.

CHAPTER 16

Woodfield was a neat little town with an odd prosperity,
gleaned from a couple of small electronics plants and a
home-grown construction company that had mushroomed
into a big player in New England. On the edge of town I
passed a subdivision, "Woodfield Meadows," that looked
like a ranch-house version of a Civil War encampment. It
flanked a strip mall with a video arcade and a styling salon.
Then there were some older houses, overlooked in the
town's makeover, and in the downtown were a pretty old
church, a couple of brick banks, and a restaurant. Cars and
trucks were parked around the restaurant like animals around
a watering hole.
I figured I'd find a phone booth and look up Rusty's address,
then take a spin by his house and his business. If a guy
threatened to kill you, it was wise to know where he was
coming from.
I parked and got out of the truck and walked up the sidewalk
toward the restaurant, past an insurance office, a gift
shop, a bookstore. Everything had an air of, if not affluence,
then comfort. I looked in the windows, at the secretaries,
the ceramic chickadees. I was passing the bestsellers when I
heard a familiar sound, a roar and a clatter.
A diesel.
I turned and saw a mini-van backing out of its space in
front of the restaurant. Behind it, Rusty's truck waited, its
blinker on. Rusty was at the wheel.
He waved to the blond woman driving the van. She
smiled and waved back. Rusty wrestled the big green pickup
in and climbed out, like a cowboy easing down from his
horse. He left the truck running.
Rusty went into the restaurant, the Downtown Diner. I
eased my way along until I could see inside the restaurant. I
passed once, squinting in. There was a lunch counter on the
left, tables on the right. Behind the tables was a deli counter.
The lunch counter was full, the tables a third occupied, a
couple of people at the deli. I hesitated for a moment, then
walked back, pushed quickly through the door, and sat at a
table by the window. I looked out.
He was behind me, at the lunch counter.
"Hey, Mandy honey," Rusty was saying. "There's a man
down here needs your services."
"Oh, he does, does he?" a woman's voice said.
"Better watch what you say, Rust," a guy called from one
of the tables. "She's feeling feisty, today."
"Hey, I like 'em feisty," Rusty said.
"Oh, yeah," the woman said. "What else would you
like?"
"I'll tell you later. When we're alone, and Harold isn't
listening in. Harold'll get all jealous. Isn't that right,
Harold?"
"Jealous of you? That'll be the goddamn day."
"Whoa, I think I rubbed Harold the wrong way. Speaking
of rubbing, Mandy, I got this stiff muscle."
"That's not what she said," Harold said.
Everybody guffawed at the counter. Harold cackled. I
turned slightly and looked.
Rusty was hunched over the counter, his big boots
perched on the foot railing. Mandy, blond and pretty in a
weathered sort of way, poured coffee in Rusty's mug. He
said something and she said, "In your dreams" and started
in my direction. She was fortyish and sturdy. Her jeans were
tight and there was a confident swing in her walk. I turned
toward the window and put my right arm up in front of my
face as she approached.
"How are you doing today?" she said, putting the mug
down and starting to pour.
"Good," I said quietly.
"You did want coffee?"
"Sure."
"Need a menu? We have homemade vegetable-barley
soup, and meatloaf with gravy and mashed potatoes."
"No, thanks. Coffee's fine."
I gave her a quick glance and a smile. She smiled back,
and seemed to give me an extra look. I was a stranger.
"Just sing out if you change your mind," Mandy said,
and she headed back to the counter.
"What do I have to do to get service here?" Rusty bellowed.
"Can't you hear my stomach grumbling?"
"Not when you're flapping your gums," Mandy said.
I glanced as she circled the end of the counter. Rusty's
gaze followed her rear end, his radar locked in. I sipped the
coffee and listened as he joked with Harold, then ordered
lasagna and garlic bread. Harold pulled a houndstooth
sportscoat on over his shirt and tie, made his way to the
counter. He punched Rusty on the shoulder as he passed.
"Thought I felt a mosquito," Rusty said. "Oh, no, it's
just Harold giving me his best shot."

Everybody laughed. This was dinner theater and Rusty
was on stage. Finally the lasagna came. Mandy put it on the
counter in front of him, then leaned confidentially. I strained
to listen.
"Flossie isn't feeding you?" Mandy flirted.
"I haven't been home," he said. "Been chasing the goddamn
kid around half the state."
"He still hasn't come home?"
"Hell, no, why would he? Must think I got nothin' better
to do than drive around the puckerbrush huntin' him."
"Where the hell does he go?"
"Where doesn't he? This morning he turns up with some
guy in Prosperity. Guy says he met him in Portland. I said,
'Mister. Let me tell you something. You touched my boy, I'll
be back here to kill you myself.' "
"Who was he?"
"I don't know. Some goddamn flatlander."
"These people are sick," Mandy said. "So you didn't bring
Rocky home right there and then?"
Rocky, I thought. Not David.
"Kid took off in the woods. I'm out there in the goddamn
snow, like I'm tracking deer. I mean, I got jobs going.
I can't be chasing the kid all day." '
'"Course not," Mandy said.
"Now I got messages to call the cops in Belfast or something.
I call back, the cop ain't there. I mean, I gotta be the
other side of goddamn Skowhegan in an hour. Explain to some
wingnut from New Jersey that I can't cut every third tree."
"Thinks you cut wood with tweezers."
"You said it."
"Well, maybe the cops picked him up."
"Who?"
"Rocky."
"If they did, I hope they talk some sense into him. He
was a pain in the ass before he took off."
"It's that age. When Eric was fourteen, fifteen, he was a
miserable little punk. They grow out of it."
A bell rang and Mandy turned to a shelf with a window
to the kitchen, brought a plate to a table and came back to
Rusty. She put both elbows on the counter and leaned close.
"So this must be always on Flossie's mind. Paying any attention
to you?"
I could see Rusty's jaw muscles flex as he chewed. Mandy
waited. He shoveled another load into his mouth and she
waited some more.
"She's too easy on the kid. Always has been. I know she's
been sick and all, but I think that's half the problem. He
hits the real world and he's dead meat. I figure in two years
I could have him on a crew. Christ, I started working when
I was fifteen, shoveling shit for Old Man Haskins. I'd pay
him good money, put him with some good boys. But he
wouldn't last an hour. Hell, wouldn't last fifteen minutes."
Mandy shook her head.
"Now I get home, it's all I hear about. Call here, call
there. Hey, he wants to see what it's like out there, let him."
Rusty chewed some more. " 'Talk to him,' she says. Friggin'
A, my old man would've tanned my ass. He said, 'Jump!'
you said, 'How high?' Now there was one tough old bastard.
Said ten words to you a day, but, boy, you listened."
He tore at the bread. I sipped my coffee and looked out
the window. At the next table, two white-haired men were
talking about ice fishing. Beyond them, three stolid women
were slurping their soup.
"You all set?" Mandy asked me suddenly from the
counter.
Rusty started to turn my way. I nodded and put my hand
alongside my face.
"Hey," he said. "That's the guy."

CHAPTER 17

I turned, saw him facing me, still on his stool, fork in
his hand. I tried to appear surprised.
"Hey," I said. "How you doing? I thought I'd heard that
voice before.'
"What the hell you doing here?"
"What are you doing here?" I said.
"I live here. What are you doing here? I thought you
worked in Bangor."
I sipped my coffee and smiled. Mandy smiled back, unsure
how to place me.
"That's right. For a newspaper. I had to stop and talk to
somebody on the way up there."
"Pretty weird. I'm in here every day. I never seen you in
here before."
"Never been here before. Nice place."
Mandy smiled again.
"Friend of yours, Rust?" she said.
"No," he said. "This is the guy I was telling you about.
The guy with my kid."
"Ucck," she said.
"Nice to meet you, too," I said.
"So what the hell?" Rusty said, gesturing toward me with
his chin.
"What the hell what?"
"What the hell you doing?"
I looked in my cup.
"Drinking coffee," I said. "How's the lasagna?"
The fishermen had stopped talking. The three soup
slurping ladies were watching, eyes glittering at this unexpected
diversion. Entertainment was sparse since they'd
banned bear baiting.
"Don't make no difference," Rusty said. "What're you
doing? Following me?"
I snorted.
"No. Just a pleasant coincidence."
"Don't give me your coincidence shit."
"Trust me. I spent more than enough time with you this
morning for one day."
"Hey, asshole, you remember what I said," Rusty said,
his voice lower, meant to be menacing.
"Which pearl of wisdom was that?"
"Jeez," Mandy said. "Who does this guy think--"
"I'm warning you. You laid a finger on my kid, you'll regret
it. And I want to know if he came back. I didn't see a
goddamn sign of him out in those woods."
"You didn't hear?"
"Hear what?"
"The deputy called me this morning. They think he was
hit by a car."
"Oh, my god," Mandy gasped.
"You son of a bitch," Rusty said, coming off his stool.
"Whatever," I said. "Don't you want to know how he is?"
He didn't answer, just moved toward me, all big boots
and red-faced glower.
"They said whoever hit him put him in their truck and
kept going. So maybe he's okay."
Rusty stood over me and pointed a big finger in my face.
"You better goddamn hope so, 'cause if he isn't, I'm
gonna take you apart piece by piece. He wouldn't've been
up there, if it wasn't for you."
"He wouldn't have been there if he'd been happy at
home," I said.
"I could make you eat that, you piece of shit," Rusty said.
He shoved my shoulder and his palm was hard as lumber.
I raised my cup and took a sip. Then I shoved my chair back
and stood and squared around and faced him.
"You know, all this may make you feel better but it
doesn't have anything to do with your son."
"Stepson," Mandy murmured.
"You stay away from him," Rusty said, his eyes narrowed,
teeth clenched, cheeks flushed. In the corner of his mouth,
there was a spot of red sauce from the lasagna. "Last warning."
"No problem. Personally, I wish I'd never heard of the
kid."
"You better watch your mouth. Or I'll be asking you to
step outside."
"Ask away."
"So where the hell is he?"
"I don't know. Call the deputy. I hope he's okay."
"You better do more than hope," Rusty said.
"I'd better go to work. And you better ask yourself why
it is when Rocky heard you were coming to get him, he took
off like a rocket. Why is he so afraid to come home?"
"None of your goddamn business," Rusty said.
"Rocky made it my business, when he showed up half
frozen to death."
"You shoulda called."
"I called the cops and he took off. They called you and he
took off again. And now who knows where he is."
"That's what they probably wanted, Rust," the waitress
said. "To tell you about this accident."
I took two dollar bills from my pocket and tossed them
on the table.
"If it were me and my son were missing, I'd return a call
from the police," I said.
"Hey, I'll be talking to them. And I'll be telling them
about you."
"Why don't you get out of here," Mandy said.
"Gladly."
"Before I toss you out," Rusty said, but there was just the
faintest hint of hesitation in his voice and I wondered why.
My bulging biceps? An allergy to cops?
"Go," Mandy said. "We don't serve perverts."
I glanced around the place, the cold staring faces. I smiled.
"Now that," I said, "I find very hard to believe."
CHAPTER 18

I drove up the block and turned into a convenience store
lot. There was a phone on the wall of the store and a rain
swollen phone book hanging on a cable. I pulled up and
hopped out, leaving the motor running. There were a dozen
Clement listings, but only one in Woodfield, on Orchard
Field Terrace. I dropped the book and went inside and asked
the expressionless guy behind the counter where that was.
He pointed back the way I had come.
"Left at the light, two miles up, on the right."
At the light, I took the left, and then sped up, all the
while thinking how strange the encounter in the restaurant
had been.
The guy hears that his son, or stepson, has been hit by a
truck, and he lashes out at me. His reaction was all anger, no
concern. His reaction to his son running away was annoyance,
not worry. And yet he'd driven right over when he'd
heard Rocky was in Prosperity. It was as though he wanted
Rocky back, but for all the wrong reasons. There was no
love there, certainly none that you could see. Was it all for
his wife? And what kind of marriage was this? I wondered
what poor ailing Flossie would have thought of their little
banter over the counter. I wondered what Rusty did when
he really had a chance to step out.
And then there it was, Orchard Field Terrace, denoted by
a short fieldstone wall with a white wooden sign set into the
stones. I turned in.
It was a wide street with new houses set on treeless lots.
The lots were big and the houses were, too, set away from the
road and each other. The intent probably had been for the
homes to appear stately, but in the snow and the cold, they
looked temporary and out of place, like they were going to
be dismantled and loaded on trucks.
I drove slowly, peering at the names on the roadside
mailboxes. Other names, some with no name at all. And
then, on the side of the mailbox. Rusty Clement, Logging.
I looked up at the house. It was white, a raised ranch
with a two-story addition coming off the back. There was a
two-story garage on the far side of the house. Next to the
garage was a snowmobile trailer with one machine sitting
on it, wrapped in a black cover. The cover said, SKIDOO.
Parked next to the trailer was a black rack truck with a plow
attached.
I drove past and then pulled into a driveway and turned
around. As I approached the house again, I slowed almost to
a stop--as the side door swung open and a woman crept out.
She was wearing a long, quilted black coat that came
nearly to the ground, and she moved monk-like down the
driveway toward me and the mailbox. I stopped the truck
but looked down at the passenger seat, as though checking
an address, and the woman came closer.
I looked up. She did, too.
She was small, with blond hair pulled back tightly and a
round, snub-nosed face that once might have been cute. It
was a look that was sometimes called perky, but this woman
had set her mouth in a baleful, permanent sort of frown that
grew taut as she approached. I smiled and nodded, and she
gave me a barely perceptible nod, and pulled the little door
down on the mailbox and slid a sheaf of envelopes out.
Standing there at the edge of the street, she quickly flipped
through them.
Then, even under the shroud of a coat, I could see her
body sag. Her thin-lipped scowl opened into an anguished
gasp. "Oh, my god," she mouthed.
What had she been looking for? Was it news of Rocky?
I quickly rolled the truck window down.
"Mrs. Clement?" I called.
She looked over at me, startled.
"I'm Jack McMorrow. I can tell you about your son."

CHAPTER 19

"You're the man?" Flossie Clement said.
"Yeah," I said. "I'm the one where Rocky stayed last night."
"My husband, he--"
"I wouldn't hurt him. I know what your husband thinks,
and that's one reason I'm not going to talk to you long. I
don't have that much to tell you anyway."
We were standing beside my idling truck, in the street.
She was looking up at me. Her eyes were big and dark like her
son's; her expression was like his, wounded and mistrustful.
"Where is he now?" Flossie Clement said, her tone more
desperate than demanding.
"I don't know where he is. I know where he's been."
"Why didn't you bring him home?"
"I didn't know where home was, Mrs. Clement. And
Rocky wouldn't tell me. He wouldn't tell me anything."
"Well, what are you doing here?"
"The police told me where Rocky lived. Early this morning,
before they called your husband. Or you."
"No, Rusty is handling it. I didn't talk to them. He told
them to call him on his car phone, and he'd go get Rocky.
He . . . well, I've been sick and ... So is he okay?"
"He was all right. Not great."
She nearly gasped.
"What do you mean, not great?"
I told her about the fight in Portland, that Rocky might
be hurt. I told her about Rocky standing out in the cold. I
started to tell her about the accident, but stopped. I asked
her if she or her husband had talked to the Waldo County
Sheriff's Office yet.
"I don't know. I haven't. Maybe Rusty has. Why? Why
should we talk to them?"
I hesitated, looked down at my feet and at hers. I was
wearing tan work boots. She was wearing white sneakers,
with pink designs on the sides and pink laces. I thought of
Rocky. One lace red, one lace white.
"I don't know. I don't think I should be the one to tell
you," I said.
Her face went white as the snow on the street, and a
shiver seemed to go through her.
"Tell me what?"
This wasn't what I had planned. This kid had turned into
a vortex and I could feel myself being sucked in. I looked at
Flossie Clement, shaking with fright and cold.
"What is it? What is it?"
I took a deep breath.
"They said this morning that somebody fitting Rocky's
description was struck by a truck--"
"Oh, my god," she wailed.
"But he might be fine. He went in the truck. Maybe he's
okay."
"Oh god, oh god," she cried. I stood there helplessly.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't want to upset you. You should
talk to your husband and--"
"He's up north. He's got jobs going. They've got to get all
the wood out before mud season so he's straight out for--"
"I just saw him in town. At that restaurant. I think he
said he was going to a job but he hadn't left yet."
She looked bewildered.
"Oh. Well, then I'll try him in the truck. Oh god, he's
got to be okay. Please god. I'm going to go call."
She started to turn away.
"Mrs. Clement. Your husband, he thinks, well, I don't
know why, but he thinks I molested your son or something.
But I didn't. I wouldn't. I just tried to help him. My girlfriend
works for DHS and she knew him and I just happened
to be there. He seems like a nice kid and--"
"He is," she said. "He's the nicest boy you'd ever find."
"Well, I won't keep you. But if I see him again, if he
comes back to my house or whatever, what should I tell
him?"
She turned toward me. She was crying, alternately wiping
her cheeks and pressing her hand over her mouth.
"Tell him I love him and I want him to come home. I just
don't understand why he won't come home. I don't understand
why he left."
"It's not something he's done, I don't know, even for a
day or two?"
"No. Never. Never ever. He liked it here. He liked it. He
was always home. Always in his room. Just hanging out,
reading or doing his models. Model planes and things. Just
liked to be indoors. And I know it was kind of frustrating
for his stepdad, but he's a good kid. He really is."
"Why was it frustrating?"
"Rusty played football," she said, as though that explained
it.
"I don't understand," I said.
"I mean, he tried, marrying somebody with a baby already.
We went out in high school and then he graduated
and we didn't see each other and then I had Rocky and then
he came back and we got back together, but he didn't know
much about kids. And Rusty works a lot, I mean, half the
time I don't know where he is, and before car phones it was,
like, who knows where he is?"
She looked away and seemed to be reliving something, and
then she gave a little shake and gathered the coat around her
and looked at me again.
"So you've got to understand. He didn't see much of
Rocky when Rocky was real small. But when he got older he
bought him his own four-wheeler, his own snow machine,
and Rocky used it, like, twice, and then it sat. Rocky said it
was too loud."
"Not his thing?"
"Nope. But what can you do?"
"Nothing."
I looked at her, helpless and small, a well-intentioned hand wringer with a small-town bully for a husband.
"Okay," I said. "Now this isn't my business, but I feel
like I have to ask. If I'm going to talk to him. Do you really
know why he left? Can I tell him whatever it is, it's okay
now?"
"I don't know what it is," she said. "I don't know. He just
left. He just left this house and didn't come back. He and
Rusty, they don't get along great, but there was nothing
that happened."
"Nothing at all?"
"No. I mean, they bicker. Rocky he was--"
She hesitated, wrapped her arms around herself, shuffled
her feet on the frozen pavement.
"I'll let you go."
"No, it's okay. See he was playing with--this sounds
funny, but it isn't--he was playing with Legos. He's always
liked Legos. Building whole cities, with little streets and
everything--oh, my god--he's been hit by a car? I'll call
the hospitals and see. Where would they go? Bangor?"
"Probably," I said, but Flossie didn't seem to hear. She
seemed distracted, her mind wandering. I wondered if she
was medicated.
"Oh, god, and anyway, the Legos, I was telling you about
the Legos. They were all over the place and Rusty, he, well,
Rusty just doesn't like that sort of thing and he says Rocky
is too big to be playing with blocks and once he threw them
all away, but Rocky went and he just dug them all out of the
trash, and oh, god, but Rusty doesn't mean anything. He
says Rocky has to get ready for the real world and I baby
him, but if he likes to do these things, build stuff with Legos,
I say let him be, you know? But he's never left. Oh,
god. I mean, if there wasn't any ambulance or anything, he's
probably okay, right?"
"I'm sure," I said, though I had no reason to be.
"Well, tell Rocky, come home to us, baby. We're right
here. Everything's okay. Everything's fine."
Flossie Clement closed her eyes and shuddered, and her
face flushed. She looked suddenly unwell and unsteady,
wavering on her feet, clutching the mail to her chest.
"You all right?" I said.
"I gotta sit down. You can . . . you can come in if you
want. I'll make coffee and you can tell me. You can tell me
more about Rocky."
I considered what Rusty would think if he came home to
find me parked on his couch, chatting up his wife.
"Thanks, but I've got to go to work."
"Oh. Okay. What do you do?"
"I'm a copyeditor at a newspaper."
She looked at me and brightened.
"So you could put a write-up in the newspaper, saying for
Rocky to come home, or to call."
I thought of Tippy Danforth. She had stray cats. I had a
stray boy.
Flossie took another step to the house. I hesitated, then
said to her half-turned back, "Mrs. Clement, do you know
somebody or something named Kitty?"
She froze in the cold. Turned back to me, her pale hands
clenched.
"Kitty?" she said.
"Yeah, like a cat. Rocky had a piece of paper stuck in his
pocket, all folded up, so it was about this big."
I held my thumb and forefinger out, an inch apart.
"It had a date, in 1987. And it said, 'Kitty kitty kitty.
How can you live?' Does that mean something?"
Flossie looked at me and her mouth opened. She gasped
softly and then she made a guttural sound, something between
a sigh and a cry of pain. She turned away and, in the
long black coat, walked up the driveway and into the side
door of the house. The door clicked shut. The street was
quiet. I got back in the truck, knowing that what I'd suspected
was true.
When Rocky had run, he'd taken a family secret with
him.

CHAPTER 20

The microfilm machine was in the news library, a
cramped, windowless room lined with gun-metal gray file
cabinets and yellowing stacks of newspapers. I'd skipped out
after the news meeting, turned on the lights and the microfilm
viewer, which whirred reluctantly to life. The microfilm
reels were in a cabinet at the end of the room, and I fingered
the drawers until I found 1980 to 1989. April 1987 was in
the back of the drawer. I pulled it, wiped the dust from the
box, and took out the film reel. Pushing the door almost
closed--reporters were a nosy breed, even at the Clarion--I
threaded the film into the machine and onto the reel, and
turned the knob. First there was a blurry white light, then
newspaper pages whirred across the screen like one of those
time-passage devices in old movies. I stopped but I was on
April 13-1 reversed the film and it ground to a halt on April
5. I eased the film forward, and bits of history strolled past.
On Tuesday, April 7, the day in question, AIDS was reported
to be the hot topic in Los Angeles, not because it was
a terrible disease, but because it was a terrible disease that
could kill heterosexuals, too. In Washington, John Hinckley,
locked up for six years after he shot Ronald Reagan, was
saying he, Hinckley, wanted to live with a woman who had
killed her sleeping daughter. In Central Maine, the Clarion editorial decried the Soviet bugging of the U.S. Embassy in
Moscow. The rest of the state was recovering from its worst
floods in a century.
There was another flood story with a photo of "weary victims."
The Soviets said an unmanned space "module" had
failed to link with the orbiting Mir laboratory. Six West
German skiers died in an Austrian avalanche. In London,
the prime minister's cat, Wilberforce, had retired.
Could that be the "kitty, kitty, kitty" in Rocky's note?
I pored over the pages on the humming machine. Catholics
training for marriage. Scientists cloning mammals. Admissions
to the hospital in Bangor. A ferry capsized in Belgium,
with 134 people feared dead. The Pope kissed a sick woman
in Chile. Five members of a family in the town of Pittsfield
escaped a fire. In the photo they were wearing pajamas and
parkas, standing in mud and snow.
There was no mention of their cat.
But if the date was April 7 then maybe whatever it was,
it had been reported April 8.
I heard stirrings in the newsroom, but whirred into
Wednesday nonetheless. Attorney General Ed Meese denied
blocking an investigation of gun-running to the Nicaraguan
Contras. The Bangor Planning Board pledged to tighten up
subdivision requirements. In Augusta, a woman was sentenced
to twenty years in prison for selling her child for sex
for thirty dollars.
A police dog was used to capture a burglar in Hampden.
The Celtics were on a roll. The burned-out family was looking
for donations. Reagan said there were no easy answers to
the problem of acid rain. In the Maine town of Newport, a
woman was killed in a hit-and-run.
I paused.
It was on page 2. A woman had been found dead on something
called the Horseback Road. Police said she was between
twenty and twenty-five, wearing jeans and a white parka with
"aqua" trim. She'd been found by a nurse on his way to work.
The nurse had almost hit her again, in the early morning
darkness, but had picked up the white parka in his lights and
swerved his truck in time. A state police detective named
David Turgeon said it wasn't known whether the woman
had been killed when she was struck or had died afterward of
shock and exposure. The woman's name was being withheld
pending notification of next of kin. There was no photo.
I hit the print button; the machine spat out the page.
Spinning through the rest of Wednesday, I started in on
Thursday, looking for the follow-up. There were more Soviet
spying hostage stories, a big story about flood victims getting
low-interest loans for new mobile homes.
From the newsroom, I heard somebody say, "Anybody
seen McMorrow?"
I bent to the screen, letting the pages pass in a slow procession.
And there it was.
It was at the top of the local section front, two columns
on the right. Her name was Katia Poulin. The story was
written by a staff reporter named Bonnie Cue, no longer
with us. It said Poulin was twenty-three, a waitress who'd
been living in the town of Scanesett, southeast of Newport.
Police now said they believed Poulin had died of hypothermia
in the thirty-degree cold after being struck and left unconscious
in the road. Turgeon, him again, said police didn't
know what Poulin was doing on that road, twenty miles
from her apartment. The investigation was continuing. He
asked anyone who had seen anything suspicious to call the
state police. In other words, at that point the cops had squat.
Katia? Kitty? Or did Rocky's note refer to something that had nothing to do with the newspaper? A cat? A kitten?
What had it said?
Kitty Kitty Kitty. How can you live?
From the newsroom, I heard voices, my name again.
I hit the print button again and locked the door. Rewrites could wait.
Turning the knob, I moved ahead quickly, scanning the
passing headlines. On April 9, a Thursday, a story on the front of the second section said there were no new leads. That story added the detail that Poulin was a waitress in a lounge that featured Jell-O wrestling and hot-oil shows. It didn't say that she was a participant.
I printed that page, too.
On April 13, a Monday, Turgeon was reported appealing
to the public again. The story ended there, where a better
reporter with better editors would have gleaned something from other sources. What was the direction of the investigation?
Who was Katia Poulin? What had her life been like? Was she a hooker? A kid trying to work her way through
college? Where were her parents? Why hadn't they been interviewed?
The Clarion should have done a full-blown profile on the
short life of Katia Poulin, but instead had just regurgitated
the police press releases. And then the newspaper had
stopped doing even that.
Two weeks after the death, the Clarion printed the last
story I could find for that month. It was three paragraphs, with Turgeon saying there was nothing new to report, that
the investigation was continuing. That was it.

Had there been another follow? An anniversary story? I
looked at my watch. It was three twenty-five. I turned and
listened for my name, but they'd stopped calling. Turning
back to the machine, I rewound April 1987, pulling it off
the spindle and returning it to the box, then returned the
box to the drawer. I closed it, moved up one drawer, and
pulled out April 1988. Anniversaries were artificial news
hooks but papers used them all the time. How long has it been since the Jones murder? Let's do a followup.
Had the Clarion been that vigilant?
The film slipped through the spools and the images
whirred across the screen. The fourth of April. The fifth. I
slowed the machine and scanned the headlines. Reaganomics.
Car accidents. A cocaine bust in Bangor. Four Portland men
convicted of molesting children.
No hit-and-run story that day. No hit-and-run story on
the sixth or the seventh. I backed up to the sixth, and went
through page by page.
Nothing.
Until page 16. A one-by-two ad, near the bottom.
"In Memoriam. Katia Poulin." A photograph, fuzzy,
black-and-white, with Katia looking over her shoulder toward
the camera. Lots of blond hair, feathered with bangs,
the way they wore it back then. Three lines of copy:

Katia Poulin, May 19, 1963-April 7, 1987. Killed
by hit-and-run driver. Gone but never forgotten. From
one loving friend to another. I miss you. Love, Sandra.

Katia? Kitty? There was alliteration, if nothing else.
Maybe nothing else. I hit the print button again, and waited
for the page to slip out. Did they keep a record of who bought

these ads? If they did, did they keep it this long? I knew they were careful keeping records of death notices. Death notices and obituaries. Obituaries.
Damn. Why hadn't I checked that before?
I wound April 1988 back on the reel, and crammed April 1987 back into the machine. I found April 8, and slowed until
I found the obit page. A woodsman, 93. A teacher, 41. A
salesman, 69- A homemaker, 96. A waitress, 23.
There was no Katia Poulin obit on April 8. Nothing on the ninth or tenth. Maybe they hadn't bothered, whoever "they" had been. Maybe she wasn't from the Bangor area. Maybe she was from out of state, and the obit would appear there. Maybe she was. . .

. . . born in Newport Beach, California, the daughter
. of Raymond Poulin and Jessie Bertone. She attended
school in California and at the time of her untimely
death was pursuing a career in modeling and in the
restaurant industry. She enjoyed dancing and the company
of her friends. She was a good person and brought
joy to everyone she met.
She was predeceased by her mother and father. She is
survived by several cousins of California and a friend,
Sandra Baker of Scanesett. Services will be private and
held at the convenience of the family.

"But did they call her Kitty?" I asked aloud.
I printed that page, too, and then rewound the film and put it back in the drawer. As I gathered up the papers, Marna
knocked on the door and I wheeled the chair back and opened
it. I folded the clips and stuck them in my back pocket.
"Jack, I don't mean
"I know. Tell our fearless leader I'm coming."
"No, it's not him," Marna said, her eyes wide. "It's that
lady who called. Joelle Duguay? From DHS?"
"She called again?" I asked.
"No," Marna said. "She's here. She came right in. I looked
up and she was asking Randall if you're here."
"Oh, great."
"She said she was from child protective. She needed to
talk to you because of some investigation. Child abuse or
something?"
"Oh, for god's sake."
"And Jack."
"What? What's the matter?"
"Tippy was there, too."

CHAPTER 21

Joelle Duguay was waiting in the lounge at the far end
of the newsroom. As I walked through, the reporters looked
up from their terminals, then turned away. Randall was on
the phone but he started to motion to me. Tippy Danforth,
wrapped in her big coat, was talking to one of the reporters
but paused when she saw me.
I kept walking.
Duguay was parked on the plaid couch next to the fake
rubber tree. There were newspapers and magazines on the
table, but she wasn't reading them. She was staring straight
ahead, a small but blockish woman in her twenties. Glasses.
Hair tied back with tendrils spilling down onto her forehead.
Corduroy slacks and suede shoes. A dark blue parka and a
briefcase on her lap. Incongruous turquoise earrings.
I strode up to her and held out my hand. She reached out
and gripped it hard and stood. I felt like I was lifting her
out of a ditch. She smiled but kept her lips firmly closed,
like she was hiding a missing tooth.
"Joelle Duguay. Department of Human Services. I'm so
sorry to bother you in your workplace, but I felt it was really
imperative that I talk to you today."
I started to say it was okay, but she kept talking.
"First of all, what I'm going to tell you is confidential,
Mr. McMorrow. Anything you tell me, of course, will be
kept in the confidential case files of the department. Now, if
we could just go someplace--"
"I've got to work. I'll try to be helpful but this isn't the
best time."
"Rocky Doe isn't having the best time, either."
She gave me her pursed-lip smile again. If it was meant
to be soothing and to put me at ease, it wasn't working. Her
gaze was as firm as her handshake. Only her long, turquoise
earrings wavered as she stared.
"Out in the hall," I said. "For Rocky's privacy, not mine."
I led the way to the end of the corridor past the elevator.
I leaned against a dusty file cabinet. Duguay stood erect,
hands folded in front of her, briefcase at her knees.
"I'm trying to determine whether Rocky is at risk," she
said.
"I'd say he is. Or was. Have you talked to him?" I asked.
"No, sir, but I've talked to the deputy at the Waldo
County Sheriff's Department. Deputy--"
"Divan."
"Exactly. She's very concerned about this boy's wellbeing."
"She should be."
"And I talked to the boy's father."
She hesitated.
Here we go, I thought.
"The father was concerned about his son--"
"Stepson."
"Right. He was concerned about his son's association
with you."
I could feel myself bristle. Easy, I thought. She has to ask
these questions.
"His association with me kept him from being beaten
unconscious."
"No, I think the father--"
"Stepfather."
"Right. Whatever. I think he was more concerned with
the boy sleeping at your house."
"Why?"
"He thought it improper for his son to be alone with a
strange man."
"He thought it improper?"
"He said he was worried about you messing with the kid."
"Messing in what way?"
"A sexual way, Mr. McMorrow."
"Well, you can tell him he's got nothing to worry about.
I was just trying to keep 'the kid' from freezing to death."
The smile. She understood. She just had to ask the questions,
just as Roxanne did.
"That's fine, Mr. McMorrow, but it doesn't address the
question," she said.
"I haven't heard a question yet."
"You know I'm legally required to investigate all allegations--"
"Of
course. But let's back up a minute. Allegations by
whom? Rusty? This isn't an allegation or anything, but
it's my impression that this guy couldn't care less about
Rocky."
"That's not really the question. The question--and
please don't be defensive--the question is why you invited
the boy to your home."
"I didn't. He just showed up. Hitched a ride up to Prosperity
and asked around until somebody gave him directions
to my house. I didn't invite him. I didn't want him.
But once he was there--it was snowing and cold and I live
way out in the country--I couldn't just toss him out. He's
got sneakers on, you know? Hadn't eaten in who knows how
long. I mean, what would you do?"
"I'd call the proper authorities."
"It was one in the morning. I didn't want authorities. I
just wanted to go to sleep. So I made him a sandwich and
gave him a blanket. Told him he could sleep on the couch.
What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing, Mr. McMorrow. Maine is full of Good Samaritans.
But we do have to be aware that some adults have
other motives when it comes to children."
"Not this adult. I have a very longtime partner. We're
having a baby. I mean, I'm not some sicko."
She looked at me. Didn't smile. Didn't immediately
agree that I was a good guy. Behind me I heard someone
pass, then the men's room door slam.
"Mr. McMorrow," Duguay said. "I understand that this is
difficult. No one likes to be accused of something like this."
"Something like what?"
"Improper contact."
"Is that what the stepdad said?"
"He was concerned."
"He had no reason to be. If I were him, I'd be more
concerned with finding my boy. And maybe you should
be asking why he took off in the first place. Once you make
sure he's not in an E.R. someplace."
"I would be, Mr. McMorrow, but I've been informed that
he was dropped off right here in Bangor. The citizen called
and reported it. The boy wasn't struck. He was almost
struck, and then given a ride here."
My turn to pause. She gave me the thin smile again.
"Well, that's good news. So he's okay?"
"That's all I know. You seemed to have such an interest in
the boy, I thought I'd talk to you."
"Such an interest? I let him sleep on my couch."
"And he fled into the woods. Can you tell me what precipitated
this event?"
"Precipitated this event?" I said. "Didn't they tell you
that you don't have to talk that way. You just have to write
that way in your reports."
"Okay. Why'd he bolt?"
"Much better. Because the cops came. He's afraid of cops
because he knows they'll send him home and he doesn't
want to go there. The second time it was because his step
dad showed up."
"Why won't he go home?"
"I don't know."
"He didn't confide in you?"
"Confide in me? Hell, no. He barely speaks."
"He must have said something," she said.
I looked at her, this persistent little terrier of a woman.
She looked soft, but inside was the hard heart of a zealot.
I'd have to ask Roxanne if she knew her, what her rep was.
"No, he didn't say anything. He's never even told me his
real name. But I didn't press him. I just gave him a sandwich."
"And
he ate and ran."
"Basically, yeah. You know, you should be asking his parents
these questions. You might have better luck."
"But you're the only one who was with the boy before he
ran."
"He's been running for weeks."
"And he's in a vulnerable state. I'd like to talk to him."
"Go right ahead."
"I don't know where he is, sir."
"That makes two of us."
"If he contacts you, will you call me?"
"I don't know. I guess so," I said.
"Why do you hesitate, Mr. McMorrow?"
"I'm not hesitating. I said I thought I would. Or maybe
I'll tell him to call you, but I can't guarantee he will. The
kid seems to know his rights under the law. He says he's
fourteen and you can't hold him."
"Is that what he told you?"
The smile again. Feet planted close together in the flat,
suede shoes. The shoes were scuffed at the toes, worn at the
seams. The earrings swung like a hypnotist's baubles. Behind
me the men's room door opened and slammed shut
again. I could feel someone walking down the hall behind
me. Joelle Duguay kept her eyes locked on mine. The urge
to tell her who I was welled up inside me. Tell her about
who Roxanne was. Did she know who she was talking to? I
was one of the good guys.
I swallowed it.
"He told me he didn't have to go home if he didn't want
to. The cops couldn't make him, and DHS couldn't make
him. I wouldn't call him savvy, but he knew that much."
She nodded.
"Well, that's sort of true. But we can remove him from a
situation where he is in danger."
"Then take him off the streets."
"Or if he's in danger of becoming a victim of a crime."
"He could get mugged out there. He's just a little guy."
"There are other forms of violence. A lot of things can
happen to a little guy."
"And where do they usually happen?" I said. "In the
home. And who is usually the perpetrator? In the vast majority
of cases, it's a family member. Ms. Duguay, you're
looking for answers in the wrong place, with all due respect.
Go after the family. There's something very wrong there."
Again, the implacable smile.
"Right now we're talking about how the boy is making it
on the street. And there are only a couple of ways for a kid to
get money on the street," she said. "One's theft. The other is
performing services for adults."
"Shoveling snow? Running errands?" I said.
Duguay shook her head. The earrings swung like wagging
fingers.
"The guy who picked up Rocky on the road said he offered
to buy him a meal. Rocky reached in his pocket and
took out at least three twenty-dollar bills. Said he was set."
"I didn't give him any money. If it was mine, he stole it."
This time she gave me a little shrug. Shoulders up.
Shoulders down.
"I had cash at home. In the kitchen. I'll check to see if it's
gone."
"And if it is?"
"I'll call the cops and report it. Or should I call you?"
"Both, Mr. McMorrow."
She held her hand out, extended her card like it was an
ace from her sleeve. I took it the card but didn't read it.
Then she shook my hand. It was a long, hard squeeze, tight
as handcuffs.

CHAPTER 22

The newsroom was as silent as a courtroom. I ran the
long gauntlet between the reporters, none of whom looked
up. Dropping into my seat, I gave the keyboard a slap.
Marna began to type furiously, eyes fixed on a pile of news
releases. I aimlessly scrolled through the directories, pounding
the keys.
Without turning around, Randall said, "Jack. The scam
story by Miss Child. I gave it a once-over, and I think it
needs some tightening. Trim off the fat. She's got to learn
she isn't getting paid by the inch. And Souza's got a marijuana
bust. Make sure he doesn't convict the guy in print,
will you? We don't want the story to look like it was written
by the district attorney. And the only other page-one candidate
is a feature on that teen-shelter place, whatever the hell
it is. It's by a freelancer. Don't let the counselor types go on
and on. Let 'em justify their jobs someplace else."
"Gotcha," I said.
The teen shelter, I thought. My first stop.
I opened the story and started in, deleting unneeded
words and phrases, fixing style stuff. The place was called
Penobscot House. The director said it was a safe haven for
runaways who might otherwise be victimized on the streets.
"There are predators out there," the guy said.
"So I've heard," I said aloud.
Randall turned around and looked at me, then got up
from his chair. He walked over to me, and leaned down. The
typing subsided. Ears pricked around the room like dogs
had awakened.
"McMorrow," Randall said. "Everything all right?"
I could smell his aftershave. See the little beads of sweat
on his upper lip.
"It's fine," I said.
"What'd that woman want?"
"Oh, nothing. She's looking for a kid I saw in Portland.
Some runaway."
"Came a long way, didn't she?"
"The kid's supposed to be here now. Maybe at this shelter."
"Yeah,
well, tell her next time to chase the kid on her
own time, not ours. We have a paper to put out. Early deadline.
Snow, heavy at times, beginning after midnight."
I nodded. Randall paused, then jerked his head toward
the hall. He walked out of the newsroom. I heaved myself
out of the chair and followed. He was waiting by the water
cooler, arms crossed on his chest, feet apart, shoulders back.
"Give it to me straight, Jack. Something funny going
on?"
I hesitated. Cleared my throat.
"Depends on what you call funny."
Randall looked away, then gathered himself up.
"Child protective. They do child abuse. Kids getting
beat up and . . . well, molested. Jack, she asked me if there'd
been any teenage boys in the newsroom."
"How is that internship program?"
"Jack, she meant--"
"I know what she meant. She's looking for a runaway. I
helped him out and he left and now they want to find him."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
"Because all I need is the Bangor Daily getting hold of
some dirt. You know what that would do, don't you? Advertisers
would run like we had the plague. Doesn't have to be
true. Just the accusation."
"It's nothing like that," I said. "It's a runaway kid from
Woodfield."
" 'Cause I never asked why you left the New York Times. I
figured it was your business and--"

"I said it was nothing."
"You're sure?"
"Yeah. I helped a kid out. He went on his way. End of
story."
It was what Randall wanted to hear, but even as I said it
I knew the last part was a lie.
We walked back into the newsroom, where the heads
were bowed as if in prayer. I went to my desk and sat down.
Randall went to his desk, where the phone immediately
rang. I heard him say, "Yes. Sure," and hang up.
"Jack," he said, without turning around. "Tippy wants to
see you. Her office."
Her office was on the fourth floor, on the southeast corner,
with windows all around. Tippy held meetings of the Bangor
Area Animal Rescue Society there. Very rarely had I heard of
her inviting members of the Clarion staff to her aerie.
I took the stairs. The foyer was dark and the door was
closed. I held my hand up to it, hesitated, then knocked.
Twice. Tippy told me to come in and I did. I closed the door
behind me.
She was sitting sidesaddle on the front of her desk, reading
something, her L.L. Bean boot swinging absently in the
air. The room was cold and Tippy had her big parka on. Behind
her hung an oil painting of a fat white cat on a red velvet
pillow. It looked like it was being served for dinner.
"I'd tell you to have a seat but there's no need for either
of us to get settled," she said. She still was peering at the paper,
a newsletter by the looks of it. As I got closer, I could
see there was a drawing of a puppy on the back page. Tippy
tossed it on the desk.
"Vivisection," she said. "It never ceases to amaze how
cruel humans can be."
The phone rang. Tippy said, "Oh, bother," and swung off
of the desk and walked around to pick it up. I moved to the
window and looked out over the city: red-brick rows of the
old downtown, with gray-black rooftops. The Penobscot
River, an open channel running black as oil between rafts of
snow-covered ice. Beyond the river, the city of Brewer, highways
and mini-malls, and then the distant hills to the east,
still bristling with trees, flanked by low clouds.
Behind me, Tippy said, "Well, we'll talk, dear," and then
hung up. I turned back to her. She turned to me, direct, as
usual.
"Jack, I'm not going to waste too much of your time. I
know we have a paper to put out. But I'm going to tell you
what I cannot tolerate. Cruelty to helpless things. The
most helpless things are animals. Pets who look to us for
food and affection. The second most helpless thing is a
child."
I nodded, barely. She fixed me with her blunt gaze: reddened
nose, salt-and-pepper hair, and the blind self-assurance
that came with money.
"As you know, you've worked with my column, part of
my role here is to protect the helpless pets among us. I've always
loved animals. That was just born to me, part of my
wonderful heritage."
If you don't say so yourself, I thought.
"I never married, so I never had children," Tippy went
on. "But if I had married and had a family, I suppose I could
have taken up children as my cause. After all, it really is
cruelty that I oppose, cruelty of all sorts."
She gave me a searching look, then turned away, took a
couple of steps and stopped. Her parka smelled of animals.
"There was a woman downstairs from the state. She was
looking for you. Did you see her?"
"Yes, I did."
"Randall said she said she needed to talk to you because
of some sort of investigation."
Covering his butt, the little weasel.
"That's right," I said. "She did."
"Well, I'm not going to pry into your business, but I read
the paper, I know the things that go on. Is this something--"
"Tippy, it's nothing. I helped a kid and they're looking
for him. He's a runaway and she thought--"
"Because any association with something like this would
be very damaging to the Clarion. As you know--"
"Tippy," I broke in. "It's nothing, like I just told Randall.
You're getting all bothered for no reason. I fed this kid,
like you'd feed a stray cat."
She looked at me like it all suddenly made sense. It was
very pretty to think so.
CHAPTER 23


The newsroom was spooling up to full speed, the spattering
sound of fingers on keyboards, the bark of impatient
voices. I took a deep breath and opened the editing queue.
The marijuana bust. It seemed almost wholesome.

I started in, picking at typos and misspellings as I gave it
a first read.

A husband and wife were arrested at their apartment on outer State Street. Police found four pounds of processed
pot, a few hits of LSD. They also came away with an assortment
of weapons: a shotgun, three rifles, and two handguns,
including a loaded nine-millimeter the cops said was under
the woman's pillow. The couple went to jail. Their six-year
old son was remanded to the temporary custody of the Department
of Human Services until relatives or other suitable
placement could be arranged. The kid was crying as he was
led from the house.

They were armed drug dealers to us, but to him they
were Mom and Dad.

But even that hadn't kept Joelle off my back. Had she handled
that kid? Maybe they only unleashed her on grownups.

I culled the cop jargon from the story, then made sure the
incriminating statements were attributed to police. Souza
wasn't a bad reporter, but he tended to get caught up in the

semi-hysteria that surrounded an event like this. It was my
job to keep that emotion from making it into print, and I
was pretty good at it.
For a child molester, I was a hell of an editor.
The teen-shelter story needed less editing, only because
there was less to work with. The freelancer had talked to the
guy who ran the place, just a couple of blocks up the hill
from the Clarion building. Predictably, the guy said his facility
addressed an urgent, growing need in the community.
He waxed on, and then the freelancer described the inside of
the place, right down to the starched white curtains and
gleaming Formica counters. And then the story ended.
"There aren't any teenagers in this story about the place
for teenagers," I said aloud.
Randall, getting up from his desk, overheard me.
"Yeah, I guess there weren't any there when she went for
the interview. They leave during the day."
"People to see? Burglaries to commit?" I said.
"Probably. Ought to put the little bastards to work or
something."
"Juvenile chain gangs. Now there's an idea. You want to
run this as is?"
"Yeah, dump it. It's been hanging around for a week. I've
got it pegged as a bottom dweller. It's thin but it's done and
I'm sick of her calling me, asking me when it's gonna be in."
We were nothing but for our high standards.
Randall went down to the conference room to meet with
the sports editors. I plugged away until my stomach growled
loud enough for Marna to hear. She asked if I wanted to order
something. I said no, I was going out. Crossing the newsroom,
I told gray-haired Souza and earnest Miss Child that
I'd liked their stories. They said thanks but looked at me
skeptically.
It was going around.
I started for the door, and then turned back, stopping at
Souza's cubicle.
"Question for you," I said.
He looked up, surprised.
"Yessir."
"This teen shelter place. It doesn't open until six o'clock.
Where do you think the kids hang out during the day? You
see them around town?"
His eyebrows raised ever so slightly, but then he seemed
flattered to have been asked.
He said he could find out. He picked up the phone and
dialed.
"Hey, Billy. John Souza. You been busy? . . . Yeah. . . .
Didn't let that lady get her hand under her pillow, did
you? . . . Just a T-shirt? No, she wasn't bad looking, either.
Yeah, right. All look better around closing time. . . . Hey, listen,
you know these street punks who go to this new shelter
place? Yeah. Kids. Your future job security. You know where
they're likely to go during the day? Uh-huh. Right. . . .
Uh-huh. . . . gotcha. . . . Owe you one, partner."
Souza hung up.
"In the morning, some of them go to the mall. They take
the bus out there, make trouble. Later on, before the shelter
opens, they might go to the Cave. It's that sleazy arcade next
to the bus station. But he said some of them go down by the
river, under the bridge. They drink, sniff paint. Cops run
'em out every once in a while. A few days go by, they're
back. Like chasing raccoons outta your garbage."
"Thanks," I said.
Souza paused, then the competitive reporter in him kicked
in. He added with poorly feigned nonchalance, "What's your
interest, McMorrow? Thinking of doing a story?"
"No," I said. "Just curious. I know a kid who might be
one of those raccoons."
"Crafty little bastards," Souza said. "Hang onto your
wallet."
"Not this one. Crafty is the one thing he isn't."
"Or he just has you really fooled, McMorrow. The sneakiest
sneak is the one who doesn't seem sneaky at all."
His phone rang. He turned away. His words hung in the
air, so I snagged them and took them with me.

CHAPTER 24

I left the Clarion building and trudged down the hill
past City Hall and around the corner. The sidewalk was
slippery with sand and the air was cold but heavy. To the
east the sky was dense, dark gray, and it felt like it was going
to snow. I turned up the collar of my jacket and walked.
This was Main Street, set in the shadow of the handful of
six-story high-rises. Where there once had been family
owned department stores, a movie theater, shops, and restaurants,
there were storefront churches, a second-floor dance
studio, an Indian restaurant. A shoe store, surviving against
all odds. And the arcade, serving the street kids who, like
alchemists, could somehow turn their idle hours into a little
gold.
It was a block up, across the street. Outside was a knot of
girls, standing in the cold, heating themselves with cigarettes.
I slipped around them, shoved the door open and
walked in.
Lights flashed. Lasers hummed. The building shuddered
with pounding, pulsing music, punctuated by electronic
grunts and raining blows. My ninja friend's training ground.
This was the cantina in Star Wars and kids were the
aliens. They clumped around the machines, peering into the
glowing screens. One kid saw me and elbowed the kid next
to him.
Was I a cop? A social worker with a bad attitude? Somebody's
father, ready to yank his kid out of the place by the
scruff of the neck? An old guy looking to buy drugs or companionship?
I
made a quick circle of the room but didn't see Rocky. I
considered asking but didn't think any of these kids would
answer, even if they could hear me in the din. The guy doling
out change behind the counter was a possibility but
when he saw me looking at him, he scowled and busied
himself behind the glass cases of cheap baubles.
He didn't know who I was but he knew I was trouble.
So I moved to the back, stood behind a kid playing "Battle
in the Bronx." Bare-chested thugs hit each other with
clubs against the backdrop of the Manhattan skyline.
"Die," the kid muttered.
I shook my head and left, and as I came out of the door,
the girls looked up.
"Hi, daddy," one of them said. "Looking for somebody?"
The rest turned toward me and giggled.
There were five of them, all fourteen or fifteen, made up
like exotic birds. Peering at me from behind black eyeliner,
they put cigarettes to their red-lipped mouths and blew
smoke into the cold air.
"How you doing?" I said.
"Freezin' our asses off," one girl said. "You got a car with
heat?"
"Tammy," another girl protested.
"I'm friggin' freezing," Tammy said. "I don't care."
I moved closer. She looked at me defiantly. She was
pretty, in a big-boned sort of way, with large brown eyes and
a ring in her eyebrow. Her denim jacket was open and her
shirt was short so her pale white midriff was bared to the cold.
"I don't have a car, but I'll buy you a cup of coffee," I
said.
One of the girls said, "Nice line."
"No, it's nothing like that," I said. "I'm from the newspaper."
There
was a moment's pause and then they started gabbling
like geese.
"Hey, you want to interview me? . . . I'll give you my life
story. ... Is this really gonna be in the newspaper? . . .
Where's your camera? ... I was in the newspaper. This
douche bag, like, spells my name wrong."
Tammy, the alpha female, sucked her cigarette until they
subsided.
"What's the story about?" she said. "How us kids got no
place to live?"
I hesitated.
"Not exactly. It's more that I want to find a specific kid."
"What kid's that?" Tammy said.
"His name's Rocky."
They looked at each other, then back at me, suddenly
stone-faced.
"What do you want to talk to him for?" Tammy said.
She waited for an answer.
"I met him. He's a street kid from Portland but I think
he's in Bangor now."
"Does he mean Twiggy?" one of the girls, a short squat
white-blonde, said.
"He hates it when you call him that," another girl, also
blonde, said. "I remember he got, like, so pissed."
She grinned at the thought.
"Is this guy gonna buy us hot chocolate?" a girl toward
the rear said.
"Gotta show him your boobs first," the white-blonde said.
"She ain't got any," another girl said.
"Then you do it. You'll do anything."
Tammy looked at them and shook her head in dismay.
They quieted.
"You guys act like you're two years old," she said, and
turned to me.
"What do you want to find him for?"

"I need to talk to him."
"Yeah, well, no shit. I didn't think you were gonna sing
him a song."
The gallery tittered. I smiled. Tammy looked at me, eyes
narrowing as she assessed me. I tried not to stare at her eyebrow
ring but couldn't help it.
"Didn't that hurt?"
She shrugged, pushed her hands in her jeans pockets so
the jeans pulled down and more belly showed. I didn't know
if it was deliberate.
"Pain don't bother me. I just tune it out. Just go floating
away in my head."
"But you can't float away from cold?"
"Sometimes. But right now I can't even feel my feet."
"How 'bout the coffee?"
"I hate coffee."
"Okay. How 'bout hot chocolate?"
"Sure."
The group giggled.
"Everybody else?"
"I'm going back in," the white-blonde said.
"He said we were kicked out for the night."
"Oh, he always says that. He said that, I'm like, 'Right.'"
They turned and followed the white-blonde girl into the
arcade. Tammy looked at me, then started walking down
the sidewalk. I fell in beside her, and we both looked down
at her black sneakers as we walked. Neither of us spoke. At
the end of the block Tammy stopped in front of the Indian
restaurant. I peered in doubtfully.
"They have hot chocolate?"
"Yeah. I been here before, like, lots of times."
"They don't mind if you don't have dinner?"
"Nah, they're goddamn Egyptians or something but
they're all right."
She opened the door and a bell jangled. We went in and
the place was empty. I went to a table in the front window.
These days, if I had cocoa with a kid, I did it in public.
We sat. Off the street, Tammy seemed younger, more
vulnerable. She sat straight in her chair and then grabbed a
paper napkin off of the table. Looking out the window, she
began to shred the napkin into confetti.
"So you do know Rocky?" I asked.
"I don't know. Sort of. I might've ran into him."
"Here? In Bangor?"
"No. Portland. We was at Hope House together. He
came from the friggin' boonies with this other kid."
"How long ago was that?"
"Oh, gee. I don't know. Like, three weeks. Before Christmas.
I don't keep track."
"I saw him down there. These kids were beating the heck
out of him."
Tammy shrugged.
"Yeah, well. That's the way it is. I mean, when I first was
on my own, I got it. I mean, nobody knew me. It was like,
'Let's go kick her ass.' I mean, I didn't even know how to
fight. I was, like, twelve."
I thought of the Portland cop. Lord of the Flies.
"You ever do that to anybody?"
"Sure. It's punch or be punched, you know what I'm saying?"
I
looked at her hands. They were dirty, with dark blue
fingernails, and illegible words scrawled on the palms with
pen.
A waiter came, an older man.
"Hi, there, honey," he said to Tammy, but gave me a hard
look. I ignored it and ordered a hot chocolate and black tea
and picked up the menu.
"You sure? Not hungry?"
Tammy shook her head. The waiter left, leaving us
glasses of water. Tammy took a sip.
"So I heard Rocky was back in Bangor today. You seen
him?"
"Today? No."
"If he was in town, you think you would?"
"Don't know. Sometimes Rocky hangs out with us.
Sometimes he's, like, by himself."
"Maybe he's afraid of getting beat up."
"Yeah, well, maybe in Portland, but here it's, like, more
mellower and shit."
The guy came back. He smiled at Tammy as he put her
mug of hot chocolate in front of her, and then a bowl of
marshmallows beside the mug, and then a big cookie on her
saucer. He winked at her paternally, then dropped my tea in
front of me with a bang, and strode off.
"So you haven't seen him?"
"Nope. Didn't know he was here. Why do you want to
find him?"
I sipped my tea. It was lukewarm. Tammy's hot chocolate
was steaming.
"He came to my house last night."
Her eyebrow ring twitched.
"He was freezing. Got dropped off by a trucker in the
middle of nowhere and it was either my house or the woods.
I live way out in the country."
Tammy sipped, peering into her mug like she was reading
tea leaves. Then she put her mug down, reached into a
pocket and pulled out an elastic thing and gathered her hair
back. I couldn't tell if she was listening. I took a chance and
told her about Rocky's tracks and calling the cops, and his
stepfather coming to get him.
I paused. She didn't say anything, then blurted, "Oh, he
hates his stepdad. He'd rather be like dead than living with
that guy."
"Why?"
"Why do you want to find him? '
"Well, it's mostly because he took off when the stepfather
came. Ran into the woods."
"Go Twiggy," Tammy said.
"And I felt bad, because I didn't call the guy, the step
dad, I mean. The cops did. But I think Rocky probably
thinks I set him up or something. But I didn't know the guy
was coming to get him."
Tammy took a marshmallow and popped it into her
mouth. Then a handful.
"He likes his mom," she said, swallowing.
"Yeah?"
"He says she's great. But she's, like, sick or something."
"What's wrong with her?"
"I don't know. He didn't say exactly. He just said he
missed her and stuff. I mean, saying that kind of stuff?
That's what gets you beat on."
"Saying you miss your mother?"
"Shit, yeah. I mean, he could tell me that, but, like, one
time these other guys heard. They busted his glasses and
stuck his sneakers in the toilet."
"That's pretty low," I said.
"Yeah, well, you gotta know when to keep your mouth
shut."
"Rocky learn that yet?"
"He's learning. He's okay. He's wicked smart. A wicked
good artist."
I sipped my tea, looked out at the street.
"Is that right?"
"Oh, yeah. He draws these mazes and stuff. If you
couldn't find Twig in Portland, you know where he was?"
"Where?"
"In the art museum place. He goes in there and sits and
draws and stuff. They don't even kick him out."
"No kidding."
Tammy finished off the marshmallows and started on the
cookie, not taking bites, but picking it apart with her fingers
and popping morsels into her mouth. I waited.
"You know what he said? He said his stepdad used to
make fun of him when he was littler. Call him a little pussy
and stuff in front of, like, all these other guys. Old guys. His
friends. Doesn't that totally suck?"
I agreed that it did.
"I mean, he's his stepdad but that's like your dad, and the
guy's busting his kid's nuts in front of these people and
laughing at him. Rocky said they all laughed at him."
"That's sick," I said.
"Yeah, that really bugged the shit out of me. I mean, if
the guy's mad or something, and he loses it and whacks the
kid. But busting him like that?"
She held out her middle finger to the spirit of Rusty
Clement.
"I hope that man has something really bad happen to
him. Don't you think something really bad should happen
to him for doing that?"
I smiled gently.
"Sure, if you believe in justice and all that."
"Well, why not? Don't you?"
I smiled again. Underneath the toughness and makeup,
there still was naivete.
"Sure," I said. "You've got to believe in something."
"Uh-huh," she said, and popped a piece of cookie in her
mouth.
"Listen, Tammy, where else would Rocky go?"
"I don't know. Sometimes he just runs the road with us.
Goes to the mall. We go in the stores, do some shopping.
Five-finger shopping."
She grinned.
"If we get bored, we can always go pick on the rent-a
cops. We make fun of them. Those guys hate us."
Tammy drank her hot chocolate and came up with a
brown moustache on her red lips. She licked it off languidly,
her tongue writhing like an eel, her big brown eyes suddenly
fixed on mine. I looked away. She dropped the Lolita
act and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
"Just kidding," Tammy said. "I hate guys. My mother's
boyfriend, he pretended to be my daddy and that was fine
and then he stopped pretending. Get me drunk, I'll tell
you the whole fucking pathetic story. Anyway, I said, 'I'm
outta here, you piece a shit.' And I ain't a lesbian, so what
does that leave? Maybe I'll be a nun. I'd be a wicked good
nun."
She sipped again. I smiled.
"So where would he go?" Tammy said. "I don't know.
District Court. Sometimes I go there, cause it's warm and
really quiet and you can sit on the benches in the lobby and
sleep. But the cops know me now, so they kick me out.
These old farts, they put 'em there 'cause they're too old to
catch criminals. I'm like, 'Hello? Is anything going on inside
that bald head of yours, you senile old bastard?' But
Rocky, he looks straight so they don't bug him."
I sipped my tea.
"So anyplace else?"
"Oh, Dunkin' Donuts. McDonald's. Places like that.
Sometimes people get up and just leave the stuff on the tables,
and we, like, sit down and start eating. I don't eat the
sandwiches, though, 'cause people's teeth have been on them,
but I eat the french fries. Or if there's Chicken McNuggets
that haven't been touched. They're separate, you know what
I'm saying?"
I nodded.

"Rocky does that?"
"Sure. I showed him. I said, 'This ain't gonna kill ya. Get
used to it.'"
She ate more cookie. From underneath the table, I could
feel her leg drumming nervously. She looked out the window,
then back at me.
"You know I can get pot easier than I can get cigarettes.
Getting to be a pain in the butt."
The pun was lost on her. The leg drummed some more.
The table shook like a table on a train. Cars passed slowly and
Tammy watched them, then suddenly turned back to me.
"I stuck up for him, 'cause he's not like these scabs. These
guys who are just these, like, total jerks but they think
they're just so cool. This one time we were at the mall in
Portland and these guys were goofing on Rocky and I'm going,
'Leave him alone, you assholes. Just 'cause he's got a
brain, you fuckin' huffers. Go suck paint.' I ain't afraid. I'll
kick their asses and they know it."
"So they left him alone?"
"Yeah. They pushed him around a little but they didn't,
like, beat on him."
"Nice of you, Tammy."
"Yeah. He owed me that day. Big time."
She popped the last pieces of cookie into her mouth.
"Hey, I gotta go. Thanks for the drink."
"Thank you," I said.
I got up, fished in my pocket and dropped a five-dollar
bill on the table. Tammy already was headed for the door. I
followed her out on to the sidewalk, where we hesitated and
watched the traffic, the exhaust rising like fog in the cold. I
was going left, back up the hill to the newspaper. Tammy was
going right.
"Nice talking to you," I said.
"Yeah, right," Tammy said, her facade back in place.
Body pierced. Face painted. Little girl street warrior.
"No, really. Listen, if you see Rocky, tell him--"
Tell him what? Tell him his stepfather had the wrong
idea? Tell him to call home, his mother was worried? Tell
him I needed him to get this DHS lady off my back? Tell
him I wanted to know who Kitty was?
"Tell him he dropped something at my house," I said. "A
note. Tell him it was folded up really small."
Tammy was walking backward, away from me.
"What was it a note about?" she said.
"I don't know," I said.
"Whatever," Tammy said, and with a shrug hurried off
into the night, her band of bare belly pale in the streetlight.

I slipped back into the newsroom, settling in at my terminal.
The reporters looked down. Randall picked up the
phone. Across the room, the other copy editors bent to their
tasks with renewed concentration, as though the stories
were written in a code that they were on the verge of breaking.
The guys in sports never paid much attention to anybody
else, anyway. Marna was away from her desk.
I sat down and poked the keys. There were stories in the
editing directory: A snowmobile accident that left a guy
paralyzed from the waist down. A dinner and dance to raise
money for a five-year-old girl with terminal cancer. With horizontal pic of kid and mom.
Starting at the top, I worked my way down, culling words
like stones from a harrowed field. After fifteen minutes, I
closed the snowmobile story and sent it on its way. The dinner
dance was next, and I scrolled through it. Miss Child's
work and really pretty good. "When Molly Seguin asks when she'll be able to go back to kindergarten, her mother says, 'Soon.' And
then she turns and whispers to a visitor, 7 still believe in miracles.'" Very nice. I considered breaking the silence by complimenting
her, but when I looked over, Miss Child was looking
toward the door to the corridor. Then Souza turned and
looked, too. Randall hung up the phone and said, "Christ,
what now?"
A partition blocked my view, but I saw Miss Child get up from her seat and start toward the door. Then she reappeared,
looking over at me.
"There's someone here to see Jack McMorrow," Child
said, and then there was Tammy.
She stood there, with her dyed hair and garish makeup,
and looked down at Randall like he was a stiff in the front
row at a strip show. She took a long drag on a cigarette and
glanced around.
"Shit," she said, smoke billowing from her mouth. "This
is just like on TV. WKRP."
"I'm sorry, but you can't smoke in here," Randall said.
"Oh," Tammy said. "Okay."
She put the cigarette to her mouth, took another deep
drag and blew a mushroom cloud of smoke toward the ceiling.
When she leaned back to exhale, Tammy's bare belly
stared Randall in the face. He stared back as she stubbed the
butt out on her hand.
One of the copyeditors said, "Jesus." Randall turned to
me with a cold stare.
"Friend of yours?" he said.

CHAPTER 25

I scrambled out of my chair and hurried toward her.
"Hey, newspaperman," Tammy said, as Randall listened.
"I found him for you. I think he'll talk to you, too."
"Oh, good," I said, as the reporters stared. "Hey, these
guys are trying to work so let's go down here."
"Yeah, well, he hasn't eaten much in, like, all day and I
thought if you could give him five bucks he could get, like,
a burger and some fries maybe, 'cause ..."
I took her by the arm and eased her away. At the end of
the room, I let go.
"Tammy, I've got to work another three hours or so.
Where could I find him at, let's say, eleven?"
She put her hands in the pockets of her jeans and shrugged.
"I don't know. He said he ain't going to Penobscot House."
"Well, then where would he go?"
"I don't know."
"Where are you staying?"
"These kids I know, they know this guy's got this apartment.
I'll probably go there, maybe."
"Would Rocky go there?"
She frowned skeptically.
"Nah, these guys, they'd trash him."
"So where can I meet you?"
"Me or Rocky?"
"Rocky."
"I don't know. I could tell him to come here."
"I don't think so. They're kind of edgy about people just
coming in."
"How come?"
"It's hard to explain."
Tammy's eyes darted around the room.
"They're all watching us, you know," she said, grinning.
"I think they think I'm gonna steal something. Got any
doughnuts or anything?"
I moved her into the corridor, by the elevator, then dug
in my pocket and brought out some bills. I peeled off a ten
and gave it to her. She slipped the bill into her jeans.
"Can you and Rocky get some dinner?"
"Sure."
"And then I'll meet you guys?"
The elevator started to hum. It was on the first floor,
headed up. I started to maneuver Tammy toward the door.
She kept talking.
"I don't know. I might be partying."
"Rocky, then. Did you tell him about the note?"
"Yeah. He said, 'Does he have it?' I said, 'What do I look
like? A mind reader? I don't know.' I'm like, 'Ask him.'"
I did have it. I could feel the little square in my pocket. And I'd give it to him. I'd give him the note, and he could
talk to Ms. Duguay and tell her to leave me alone.
"Tell him I have it and I'd like to talk to him."
The elevator's hum was louder. Then it stopped.
"Okay," Tammy said. I opened the door to the stairwell.
"So you'll eat? Where you going?"
"I'll bum a ride to Burger King. Hey, I think I'll take the
elevator down. I like elevators. We used to just ride the one
at the bank until they kicked us out."
"No, why don't you--"
She moved past me to the elevator door. I was standing beside
her when the humming stopped and the door slid open.
"Oh, my god," Tammy squealed. She darted into the elevator
and dropped to her knees.
"Mr. McMorrow," Tippy Danforth said.
"Hi, there," I said.
"He's so cute," Tammy said.
She was kneeling on the floor of the elevator, where Danforth
had set down a Havahart trap. Inside the trap was an
enormous white cat. The cat yowled. Tammy cooed. The elevator
door started to close, but I reached out and blocked it
and it rolled open. Tippy, with the trap, stepped out,
Tammy followed, crouching beside her.
"Hey, pretty kitty," Tammy said.
"Miss Danforth," I said. "This is Tammy. Tammy, this is
Miss Danforth."
Tippy looked down at the expanse of Tammy's bare back.
"Hello," she said, neutrally.
"Hi," Tammy said. "This cat is so beautiful I can't believe
it."
Tippy almost smiled.
"Yes, she is. She'd been living on Hammond Street. I
think she was dumped off by somebody. And she just recently
had kittens, but I couldn't find them, poor dears. She has
rather a nasty gash on her hind leg and she was quite cold.
Her whole system is weakened, so I didn't think she should
be left in the car. She needs plenty of TLC, that one. You
like cats?"
"Oh, I love 'em."
"Do you have cats at home?" Tippy asked.
"No. I had this cat when I was, like, really little, but my
brother killed it. My mom's like, 'Get over it. It's just a cat.
We'll get you another one.' I'm like, 'Yeah, right. So Dickie
can kill that one, too?' Frig that."
Tippy blanched. The white cat meowed.
"And where are you from?" Tippy asked her.
"Oh, here and there. I used to live in, like, Rockland
area, but I don't anymore."
"Tammy's staying in Bangor now," I said.
She still was on her knees. Tippy looked at me.
"Tammy knows the boy I was talking to you about.
Rocky. She located him for me."
"Oh. Where is he?"
Tammy looked at me.
"You can say it. Miss Danforth isn't going to bother him.
She's a good person."
"Well," Tammy said. "He's down by the river. He met up
with this kid he ran away--I mean, left with."
"And what are they doing down there?" Tippy asked.
There was no judgment in her voice, just curiosity. Tammy
poked her finger in the cage and the cat licked it.
"Oh, I think she likes me. I'd take her home, except--"
"Except you don't have one, do you?" Tippy said.
There was an awkward pause. I didn't fill it. Tammy didn't
answer, but after a moment, her shoulder blades lifted in her
trademark shrug.
"Hi, kitty. Hi, honey," she said, in the high-pitched voice
that people use when they talk to animals.
"You're a stray, too," Tippy said, matteroffactly.
"Yeah, so put me to sleep," Tammy said softly, almost to
herself. "Hi, little kitty. Hi, little mama kitty. Where's your
babies, huh? Where's those little babies?"
I looked at Tippy, in her big jacket and boots, her nose
pink from the cold. She stared down at Tammy, her vertebrae
showing like the bones of a snake, her green-and-red
hair like something growing on a tropical reef. Tammy was
singing softly to the cat.
"Lost your kittens, you poor little Mittens . . ."
"Do you have a job?" Tippy said. "Stand up, now, so I can
talk to you."
I waited. Would Tammy spit in her face? Tell her
where to go? Tell her she'd stand when she was good and
ready?
She gave the cat a last finger pat and straightened, her
fingers stuck defiantly in her belt loops.
"Do you have a job, young lady?" Tippy asked again.
"Yeah, right. Do you?"
"Miss Danforth owns the newspaper," I said.
"No shit. The whole thing?"
Tammy moved one hand from her belt loop and brushed
at her hair, her eyebrow ring.
"But I also try to find homes for wayward animals."
"What's wayward?"
"Lost," I said.
"You like animals?" Tippy said.
"Well, yeah," Tammy said, her voice warbling on the last
syllable to indicate it was a stupid question.
"Do you mind changing litter pans?"
"Well, I ain't going out of my way to find cat poop, if
that's what you're saying. But I can do it. Hey, you wouldn't
believe the gross shit you see, living on the street."
"You want a job helping with the animals?" Tippy asked flatly.
"Hey, I don't need no charity, no fake people. They tell
you they want to save you and then, after two days, it's like,
'Okay, that was fun. Let's play some other do-gooder game
now.' I been down that road."
"Miss Danforth isn't fake, Tammy," I said. "Anything but."
"I'm not talking about charity," Tippy said. "I'm talking
about work. Twenty-five dollars a day and a place to sleep
and eat, if you want it."
"I don't know, Tippy," I said. "You don't know what
you're--"
"Where's this?"
"West Broadway," Tippy said. "The animals are in the
carriage house, mostly."
"Can I smoke?"
"Outside," Tippy said.
"So what am I supposed to do? Like, pick up poop all day?"
"No, not all day. I do it now myself. It takes a good three
hours to clean and water and feed all the animals. And they
need human company to be resocialized, so you need to talk
to them, pat them, if they'll let you."
The cat yowled. Tammy looked down at it and made a
kissing sound with her garish lips.
Then, still looking at the cat, "This isn't, like, some dyke
thing, is it? 'Cause I'm sorry, but I'm not like that."
"It's a job," Tippy said. "You do the work, I pay you
money. That's all."
"Do I have to stay? All the time?"
"Not if you don't want to."
"Well," Tammy said. "Like when? Tomorrow?"
"You can help me with them tonight."
"I've gotta get my stuff."
"Where is it?"
Tammy said it was at an apartment behind City Hall.
"But I don't like it, I'm gone."
"And vice versa," Tippy said. "You can start by carrying
that cage for me. I've got to get some things upstairs."
"When do I get paid?"
"When the job's done."
"Tonight?"
"If the job's done."
"Where do I sleep? Like on some busted couch in this
garage or something?"
"No, there are rooms," Tippy said.
Rooms galore, I thought.
"Well, okay," Tammy said.
I looked at Tippy.
"You sure?"
"The quality of mercy and all that, Mr. McMorrow."
"Is that why you called me upstairs?"
She smiled, eyes only.
"I may owe you an apology," Tippy said. "Tammy, you
carry her."
Tammy picked up the cage and the cat started a bleating
mew of panic.
"It's okay, honey," Tammy said.
Tippy hit the button and the door hissed open.
"We have to go up and then down," she told Tammy.
They stepped into the elevator.
"Hey, but where's Rocky?" I said.
The door started to close and I blocked it and it opened.
"Hobo Hotel," Tammy said. "You know where that is?"
"No. Never heard of it."
"Down at the bridges."
The door started to close again, and, again, I blocked it.
"Right by the river?"
"Yeah," Tammy said. "Yeah, like you fall off you land in
the water. They're partying."
"Rocky?"
"I don't know. That's where Crow Man said they were
going."
The door again. I held it and waited and it opened.
"Who's Crow Man?"
"Just this guy."
"You weren't going?"
"Frig that," Tammy said, as Tippy shook her head in dismay
behind her. "I ain't gonna cook my brains. It's a guy
thing, you know what I'm saying?"
"But Rocky? Would he--"
"Maybe he'd just, like, hang on the fringes. But not too
close I hope 'cause it's a long way down. This kid fell last
summer. He busted his legs and got all cut 'cause there's
metal and junk under the water."
"Yeah, well," I began, then paused.
I wanted to tell Tammy not to screw this up. I wanted to
tell Tippy to watch herself. But instead I just looked at
them: Tippy in her parka, Tammy in her Technicolor hair,
and the cat crouched in the cage.
"So how many cats you got?" Tammy was asking as the
door rolled shut.
"At the moment, twenty-two," Tippy said.
"That's a lot of poop," Tammy said, and then the door
was shut and the elevator was on its way. Like a lot of things
I'd started, this was out of my hands.

CHAPTER 26

The streets of the old downtown were white, like snow
covered frozen canals, and I rolled the truck quietly down
the hill to Washington Street, and turned left toward the
river and the Penobscot Bridge, and the railroad bridge
just beyond it. It was a little before midnight and the
downtown was quiet. The Penobscot Bridge was lighted,
but dimly in the falling snow. The railroad bridge was
marked by a couple of faint red beacons. All else was
blackness.
I rolled the truck to the side of Washington Street and
stopped, then pulled into the parking lot of an office building.
Lights showed through the snow from across the river,
which was otherwise lost to the darkness. I peered out for a
moment, then fished a flashlight from the glovebox and
swung out of the truck.
The parking lot ended in a retaining wall, followed by a
five-foot drop to the rubble and railroad tracks below. I
flicked the light down over the wall and saw trash and shopping
carts and a refrigerator and unidentifiable pieces of
metal, piled up like buffalo driven over a cliff.
I stopped. Listened.
The snow seemed to rustle as it fell, like falling bits of
paper. From the direction of the river, I heard glass break. I
tried to fix the direction but only heard the snow and a distant
car horn. Taking another look down, I turned the light
off, climbed to the top of the wall and, turning around,
eased myself down.
I dropped the last couple of feet onto the refrigerator,
then half jumped, half stumbled, off the refrigerator, off a
tangle of metal and onto the ground.
Froze. Listened.
Heard the murmur of the snow.
Picking myself up, I clicked the flashlight. It worked and
I clicked it off and started toward the river. The tracks were
black lines, four sets of them, and I stepped from rail to rail,
silently.
But did I want to surprise anyone? Or did I want to announce
my presence? I didn't want to spook them; I just
wanted to talk to Rocky.
The railroad bridge was upriver, to my left. The highway
bridge was to my right. In the darkness, I could make out
boxcars, a crane on a truck, some sort of tugboat heeled over
on the bank. I listened again, then walked toward the abutment
under the railroad bridge. The light played on the
snow, and there were beer cartons, a vodka bottle, and footprints,
but they were filled in with fresh snow.
I turned back and walked slowly along the rails, peering at
the black shape of the highway bridge. A car passed overhead,
and the joints in the bridge rattled and clanged. I played the
light over the riverbank, through the fringe of scrubby
birches and alders. Tammy had said they might fall in the
river, but where would they be? On the ice? Behind the abutments?
I walked slowly, making no sound in the snow.
And then I heard voices.
I looked up and saw a flare of orange light, a flicker of
flame.
They were on top of the first abutment in the river, in the
space between the granite and the metal beams of the bridge.
I listened. Heard a soft whoop, laughter. I walked closer,
heard someone talking. The light of the flame dimmed, then
flared again. I stood on the riverbank and looked out.
There were tracks that led down the bank to a rusty metal
pipe, about a foot in diameter. They'd crossed the pipe, six
feet above the ice. I peered into the dark, then gave a quick
stab with the light.
On the side of the abutment were iron rungs, implanted
in the granite. The kids had crossed the pipe and climbed the
rungs, twenty feet up to the top of the graffiti-spattered
abutment. Their den was hidden from view, sheltered from
the snow. Hobo Hotel, with its scenic view of the mighty
Penobscot River, was a four-season resort.
I stood for a moment. The light of their fire flickered
again. I called.
"Hey, Rocky."
My voice was driven back by the snow. I called again, louder.
"Hey, Rocky. It's Jack."
The firelight dimmed. I heard voices from atop the granite.
I played the light on the the top of the abutment.
"Hey, Rocky. It's Jack McMorrow. I need
Faces appeared at the edge of the stone shelf, like owls
peering from a nest. First two, then two more. Baseball hats.
Knit caps. One guy older than the rest. Then a fifth face,
pale in the flashlight. Rocky.
"Hey, Rocky," I called. "Tammy told me where to find
you. We need to talk for a minute."
They squinted at the flashlight, and I started to shine it
away, but then noticed something seemed odd about them.
I left the light on them and looked closer.
There was silver above their lips, like metallic milk mustaches.
I played the light down the row, which looked like a
casting call for Tin Woodsmen. All of them had it, except
the older guy, who looked like he was in his twenties and
had a real mustache. The kids in the knit caps had the spray
paint version. Rocky, too.
Rocky had been huffing.
"It's your pepe," the older guy said.
"It's a cop. Don't shoot me," another kid cackled.
"Faster than a speeding bullet," another kid, one in a knit
hat, said. And then he gave this strange, sing-song laugh.
Rocky stared at me and said nothing.
"Rocky, you okay?" I said.
He smiled weakly.
"You his daddy?" The older guy said. "Come to read you
a bedtime story, Twig."
"What's he been doing?" I said.
"Getting the old chrome mustache," the older guy said.
"These kids are little paint junkies."
"Is he all right?" I said.
"He's fine. You a cop or what, 'cause if you ain't, how
'bout running down the store and getting me a goddamn
bottle? I'll pay you."
"You don't got no friggin' money left," the kid squatting
next to him said.
"This dude's got cash. I can tell. Oh, yeah, the man can
tell who's got dinero. He's looking for Twig. What do you
think he's gonna pay Twig for? "
He grinned, and it was a lecherous drunken leer.
"Twig. Earn us some cash, you little whore. I have another
drink, I might do you myself, you little girl."
The others grinned with their painted mouths. Rocky
stood suddenly, then staggered, whirling his arms to get his
balance.
"Look out," I shouted, scrambling down the bank.
"He's gonna fly," the older guy called out.
Nobody moved to help him, but Rocky regained his balance
himself and dropped to his knees, the vacant grin still
on his face.
"Hey, Twig, do another bag," the older guy said. "You
ain't high enough to fly."
"Leave him alone," I said.
"Hey, I'll leave him alone. I'll go and have another drink
and then we'll sell Twig to the highest bidder. First case of
Bud takes him. Make that two cases. And some wood. We
need some wood up here. This is Maine. Goddamn place is
full of trees and we got no wood? What the hell? I mean,
what the hell?"
The last of it was a bellow that echoed metallically under
the bridge. "Crow Man," one of the kids said. "You're baked."
The older guy staggered out of sight, and one by one, the
kids followed. Rocky went last.
I stood looking up at the edge of the abutment for a moment.
Waited. Looked down again and started across.
CHAPTER 27

I took one step, started to slip, and backed off. The pipe
was bare at the very top, but icy if you wavered from that
two-inch line. Below, the ice was white, then pale gray,
then, closer to the abutment, greenish and soft, with the
current showing through it.
Fall there and you might not come back up, at least not
where you went through. And Rocky was supposed to negotiate
this with a head full of paint fumes?
I held my arms out for balance, and then, like a tightrope
walker, made a feint, with the flashlight beam stabbing
in front of me. Paused. Plunged.
One, two, three, four steps. A slip. A crouch. Back on the
pipe, and onto the abutment, scrabbling up on my knees,
the flashlight in my hand. It went out. I shook it and tried
the switch. It came back on. Above me, someone shouted an
obscenity.
The rungs were iron, the color of dark chocolate, cold
even through my gloves. I looked up once, then clicked the
light off and started to climb. Ten careful steps, then my
head poked over the edge. I reached out and felt broken
glass, a crushed can. Beyond a concrete pillar there were
shadowy figures in the light of a fire. The sweet smell of
paint hung in the air.
I hoisted myself over the edge and got up off my elbows
and knees. They were talking and I heard the rattle of a
paint can being shaken.
"You don't shake it, you idiot," a voice said.
"I can if I want," someone else said.
I approached slowly and stepped around the pillar.
One kid was crouched by a pile of burning trash, stirring
it with a stick. Another kid, one with a baseball hat, was
spraying paint into a plastic bag filled with what looked
like wadded paper or rags. He dropped the can onto the
concrete and jammed the bag over his mouth.
God, I thought. Was this Bangor or Brazil?
The kid inhaled. I put the light on him and he turned toward
it and stared, hat on backward, the bag still on his
face, more befuddled than surprised.
"Off to Planet Metallica, dude," the older guy said, his
voice coming from the darkness to my left.
I put the light on him. He was leaning against the concrete
wall, and he gave me a half-toothed grin. Peter Pan
and his very Lost Boys.
"Thought you was going to get me a drink," he said.
"Yeah, right. Where's Rocky?"
"No, you said you'd get me a drink," the older guy slurred.
"A man oughta keep his word, unless he's a goddamn lying
son of a whore."
I ignored him, swept the light over the kids next to the
fire, then beyond it. There he was, leaning on the other side,
his mouth half open, his head lolling.
"Rocky, let's go," I said.
He gave me an absent smile.
"Where's my drink?" came the voice behind me.
I stepped over one kid, crouched in a litter of bags and
paint cans and paper towels, then kicked a can. It skittered,

ringing on the granite. I went to Rocky and lifted him to
his feet. With one arm around his shoulders I started to lead
him across the stone platform.
Glass broke. I put the light on the older guy, saw the
broken bottle in his hand. His hand was bare. The bottle
was clear. Miller Genuine Draft. He held it in front of hin
like a knife and moved unsteadily toward me, the grin fixed
on his face.
"I don't think I like you," he said.
"I'm all broken up," I said.
I stopped, Rocky beside me.
"Cut him, Crow Man," one of the crouching kids said,
but none of them moved.
"You got money," Crow Man said. "Gimme your money."
"Get lost," I said, "you worthless piece of human garbage."
The grin vanished. I swallowed. Still, no one else moved.
I got between Rocky and Crow Man and started to ease my
way toward the opening and the ladder, shuffling in half
steps.
"I'm talking to you," the drunk said.
I didn't answer.
"Hey, I'm talking to you," he said again. "Gimme all
your money and I'll let you go."
I moved a step. He half staggered to his right, to cut me
off. The bottle wavered in the air in front of him. He was
five feet away, then closer.
A feint with the bottle. I stopped. Kept the light in his
face. He grinned again, two spaces for every brown tooth. I
thought of my tooth. Maybe I would see a dentist.
"Never flossed, did you," I said.
"I'm gonna cut your balls off," he said.
To my right and behind me, someone stirred. It was time
to get moving.
"Another time," I said. "I'm leaving and he is, too. We'll
leave and you can get back to the party."
"With what? I ain't got no money."
I shrugged.
"Not my problem."
"I'm gonna make it your problem, dude. Gonna make it
a problem like you never seen. I don't like you."
"You said that."
"I'm gonna say it again. I don't--"
It was half lunge, half stagger, but the bottle was in my
face. I grabbed his arm and forced it down, and then the
bottle was in my gut against the leather of my jacket. I
could smell his foul alcoholic breath, his bristly face brushing
mine, his hand on my shoulder, the bottle hand jerking,
trying to get loose.
It did, but I grabbed his wrist again, the bottle sticking
up between us.
"Get him," Crow Man called, but the kids just watched,
like it was a movie with subtitles in a language they didn't
understand.
"Rocky, go," I said.
He moved between the posts and out of sight, while we
staggered like sumo wrestlers. I kept my eyes on the bottle,
the jagged points of glass, and both hands clamped on his
wrist, the flashlight caught in the grip. Our feet ground in
the trash, and a can got underfoot and I stepped on it and almost
tripped, but hung on to the wrist and swung him
around and pushed, while he had momentum, toward the
edge of the abutment. One step, another step, close now,
close to shoving him right off and down onto the ice, and
he'd be dead, the stinking piece of crap, he'd be--
I eased off. I couldn't kill him, but he could kill me, and
he pushed back toward me, straining to get his wrist loose,

scratching at my face with his other hand. And then we
were tripping over the kids, and they were saying, "Hey," and shoving back. He stepped on one and the kid said,
"Ow," and Crow Man staggered and I took one hand off of
his wrist, slammed him in the face with the flashlight. That
jolted him and I dropped the light and got him by both
arms and drove him back until he caught a foot on the kid
by the fire, and fell flat on his back.
The bottle smashed. The fire sparked and crackled. For a
moment, I thought of just leaving him, but then remembered
the ladder. I'd have to get Rocky down and across the
pipe. I needed time.
I kicked Crow Man while he was on the ground, once in
the thigh, once in the gut, the third time in the groin. He
said, "Oooh" when I hit the groin, and he writhed in the
smoking ashes.
"Awesome," one of the kids said.
I leapt over that kid, and trotted in a crouch through the
opening. Rocky was standing near the ladder, too close to
the edge, and I took his shoulders and moved him back.
Then I turned and eased my way over the lip and found the
top rung with the toe of my boot. I stretched out until I
caught his ankle, and pulled him toward me. He came passively,
and I turned him, then told him to kneel. I had to
tell him twice.
"Okay," he said, and he did it.
"Where is he?" I heard Crow Man shout.
"Come on," I said. now toward me."
Rocky shuffled back on his knees, but slowly.
"Hurry up," I said.
"I'm gonna friggin' kill him," Crow Man screamed.
I took Rocky's right ankle and drew it over the edge, and
then eased my way down, stabbing for the rung in the dark.

With one hand on the top rung, I took his foot with the
other and pulled him to the first rung. When that foot was
planted, I took the other and pulled it down, too.
Rocky started to fall back.
"No," I said, wrapping my free arm around his ankles.
He swayed like a tree.
"Back," I said.
I forced him against the granite with my shoulder.
"You let him go, you pussies," Crow Man was shouting.
"I oughta kill all of you. If he's gone, you're dead."
With Rocky's legs pinned to the wall, I began the slow
descent. Pressing against him, I let go of one rung and
grabbed for another. With each grab there was a moment
when we both wavered. We wavered again, my shoulder
pinned to the back of Rocky's legs, as his feet scuffed the
stone, searched for the ladder.
Scuffed. Probed. Swayed above me in the dark, as my face
pressed against his thin buttocks.
Three steps down. How many did that leave? And then
the pipe. I'd have to carry him.
I grabbed for a rung. Searched with my boot for another.
Rocky's foot slipped, and he was half-sitting on my shoulder.
"Hold on, will you?" I snarled.
"Assholes," came the shout from above.
Something hit me in the shoulder. I heard Rocky cry out,
then something hit me in the head. A piece of ice. Then another.
Then a can that missed and clanged on the granite below
me.
"You mother, you're dead meat," Crow Man bellowed.
I pressed my face against Rocky, as more stuff rained
down. That was fine. As long as he was throwing things, he
wasn't following. But then the rain stopped.
"Son of a bitch," I heard, but more muffled, and I glanced
GERRY BOYLE

up to see him sliding over the edge. One rung, then another.
I grabbed for the rungs. Told Rocky to hurry, but he still
wavered in place.
Like Jack fleeing down the beanstalk, I held tight to my
goose and continued down. And then Crow Man reached
Rocky and kicked for his head. I dropped a rung and he
missed, and said, "Shit," and almost fell.
I pressed for another rung and scuffed the concrete.
Crow Man kicked again and connected, and Rocky cried
out. "Ooohh," and I was on the abutment. Should I stop and
put this guy over the edge? Would he pull me in the river
with him?
No. I swung Rocky off the last rung and over my shoulder,
pausing at the edge to shift him higher on my shoulder.
Behind me, I heard Crow Man's feet hit the concrete.
Off the ledge, on to the pipe. One step. Two. My legs
straining under the weight, pressing to stay on center.
Three steps. Four. Five, then six. My leg slipped and my
knee slammed the metal, and the pain jolted right up to
my hip, and I pitched forward and Rocky tumbled off my
shoulder.
Onto the snow.
I rolled off the pipe, and dropped a foot to the riverbank,
scrambling to my hands and knees. Looking back, I saw
Crow Man leap from the abutment to the pipe, take two
steps and stumble and fall. He grunted and hugged the
pipe, lying on it, his legs pumping to get himself back up. I
got to my feet, rushing forward, and took Rocky by the red
plaid jacket and hauled him, still on his knees, up the bank.
The snow and ice smashed beneath us, and branches
snapped. One lashed my face, and then we were in the open,
across the railroad tracks, and Rocky was loping along as
I dragged him.
At the retaining wall, I looked back and saw Crow Man
cresting the bank, persistent for a drunk. I clambered up the
pile of junk, pulling Rocky up after me. His foot fell in, and
he said, "I think my shoe's caught," but I took him by the
armpits and yanked him out. At the top of the heap, he
reached up for the lip of the wall, then hesitated. I stood on
a shopping cart, and took him by the arm and the buttock
and heaved him up, then pushed him over. He rolled. I
vaulted up. Crow Man was starting up the pile, but he fell
and there was a clang and he cursed and I knew that in the
tangle of metal, he'd met his match.

CHAPTER 28

"You need to choose your friends more carefully," I said.
"Don't have any," Rocky said.
His voice was slurred. He was slouched against the door of
the truck, his skinny legs pressed together. I drove up Exchange
Street, away from the river, to the safety of downtown
traffic and people who wouldn't kill for a bottle of vodka. At
State Street, we turned right, following a single pair of tire
tracks in the fresh snow. Rocky's mouth gleamed in the light.
"Have you done that before?" I said.
He shook his head.
"You shouldn't do it again. It can kill you. Even if it
doesn't, it kills big chunks of brain cells. I interviewed a kid
once who had reduced his IQ by twenty points. And he
didn't have a lot to begin with."
Rocky looked out the window. Pushed his glasses up on
his nose. I stopped for the light at Broadway. The wipers
made angel wings in the snow.
"I only did it once. Some kids kept doing it. I feel a little
better now."
"Why did you?"
He shrugged.
"Because you don't get along with your stepfather? That's
pretty stupid."
He smiled at the glass.
"It doesn't matter."
"What doesn't matter?"
"It."
"What's it?"
"It's it. It's everything."
"Everything doesn't matter?"
Rocky gave a short, high-pitched chuckle, and smiled.
The paint on his mouth made him look like a clown.
"You may think this is funny, but to me it's getting to be
a royal pain, you know that? You know I have a DHS worker
asking what my interest is in you?"
"Interest," Rocky said. He seemed to be considering the
word.
"Right," I said. "Interest. As in unhealthy interest. Like
Crow Man back there was talking about."
He didn't say anything.
"So you know what would be a good idea? For you to talk
to this DHS lady and tell her exactly what I did. Saved you
from getting your butt kicked in Portland. Let you stay for
part of the night at my house, after you showed up uninvited.
That's it."
"Thanks," Rocky said. "It was cold. That truck almost
ran me right over. I said, 'This is not good. This is not
good.'"
"But they didn't hit you?"
"It was like, 'Look out!'"
He made a sound like tires screeching.
"And then they gave you a ride?"
"Country western."
"What?"
"Country western. All the way. Country western."
The light turned, and I turned left onto West Broadway.
It was after midnight and most of the big houses were dark.
One was lighted, a big old mansard-roofed place.
"Palatial," Rocky said, his head turning as we passed.
"Yeah, this is where the rich people used to live. There's
a few of them left. You like old houses?"
"Mmmm."
"You like your house?"
Rocky sagged, then frowned. He took his glasses off and
peered at them, then put them back on.
"Why don't you go home?"
His frown deepened. He took the glasses off again.
Above the silver mouth was a red spot where the nosepiece
rested.
"Can't," he said softly, as much to himself as to me.
"Never, ever. Never, ever."
"Why not? You know your mother's very worried about
you?"
He turned to me for the first time since he'd gotten in
the car.
"I saw her," I said. "I told her I'd seen you. I didn't know
you hadn't been hit by that truck. That's what the police
thought. They thought it hit you and the people picked you

up and drove away with you and tossed you in the woods or
something."
"No," Rocky said.
"That's what your mother thinks, Rocky. Don't you
think you should at least call her? Let her know you're
okay?"
He turned away.
"Can't."
"Why not?"
"Just can't."
"You afraid of your stepfather? What, does the guy beat
you up or something?"
Rocky didn't answer for a moment, but I could feel
something coming, so I waited.
"He doesn't even like me," he said.
He said it as though it were worse than a beating. I
looked at him, a skinny little kid in Rusty's long shadow.
"Your mom's good to you, isn't she?"
"My mom's awesome."
"So why don't you go home? Your mother's frantic. She
misses you, Rocky. She's worried about you."
He was turned to the window. I downshifted and slowed
the truck, and turned to look toward him.
"So what is it?" I asked.
He still was turned away, but I could see his jaws working,
then his hand wiping his face. It came away wet. Rocky
was crying.
"Well?"
He shook his head resolutely.
"And what's this kitty stuff?"
Rocky jerked around and leaned toward me. Silver
mouth. Reddened eyes. Glasses fogged.
"Don't talk about that," he snapped.
"About what?"
"I can't talk about that. Never, ever."
"Then why did you write it down?"
"I didn't."
"I saw the paper. You left it in your pants. In my bathroom."
"I
didn't," Rocky insisted.
I dug in my pocket and took out the folded piece of paper.
Rocky's hand shot out and he grabbed the paper. I
thought he might eat it but he stuffed it in his pocket.
"Who or what is kitty? Is it Katia?"
"I never heard of any kitty."
"You know that's not true. Why can't you talk about it?"
"Because she--"
He stopped.
"Because she what?"
Rocky paused, as though confused.
"I didn't. I can't."
"What? What is it?"
His eyes were still vague, but the words came through
clenched teeth.
"Because she's my mom."
' "Who is? This kitty? What do you mean?"
But he wouldn't say anything else, so we turned into the
drive of Tippy's big old manse, stopped by the side of the
house--headlights on, motor running, staring straight ahead.
A dog barked and then others took up the chorus. There
were lights on in one of the gable-ended dormers in the ell
and in the second floor of the main house. We waited.
"What's this place?" Rocky said finally.
"I know the lady who lives here. Tammy's here, I think.
You know Tammy?"
He nodded.

"You like her?"
Another nod.
"Would you rather stay here than the shelter?"
"I'm not going to that shelter. Crow Man'll tell those
guys to kill me."
"Then it's decided, if she'll take you. Her name is Miss
Danforth. She takes care of stray animals and Tammy's here
to help with them. At least that's the plan for tonight. You
like animals?"
"They're okay."
"Act like they're more than okay," I said. "This'll be a
safe place for you tonight. Tomorrow you can talk to the
DHS person and then we'll be even."
Rocky didn't answer. Lights came on over the back door.
It opened and Tippy emerged. She was wearing boots and
her parka over a bathrobe and bare white legs. I got out of
the truck, but left the door open and the motor running.
Rocky squinted in the glare of the dome light.
"Sorry to bother you," I said.
"What's the matter?" Tippy said.
She peered into the truck.
"Who's he?"
"He's a friend of Tammy's," I said. "Rocky, this is Miss
Danforth. Miss Danforth, this is Rocky. Rocky is the one
that the state person was asking about today."
"Hello there," Tippy said.
"Hi," Rocky said.
Tippy leaned past the open truck door and stared at his
silver mouth.
"What's this? Some sort of theater thing?"
I looked at Rocky. He scowled and looked away.
"It's paint," I said.
"They're painting their faces now?"
I paused, not sure how to explain.
"Sort of," I said. "They spray paint in a bag and inhale
the fumes."
Tippy looked incredulous.
"Why?"
"Because there's nothing on TV."
"What?"
"I don't know, they do it to escape. They're too young to
buy beer."
"That's barbaric," Tippy said.
"In some circles," I said. "Rocky just tried it once, just
enough to get it on him. I think he's okay now."
"But he needs a place to stay?"
"He doesn't want to--"
"Isn't he able to speak?" Tippy interrupted. The paint
thing had thrown her off but now she was taking charge.
"You all right, son?" she said, leaning into the truck cab.
Her robe hiked up and I could see the broken blood vessels
behind her knees.
Rocky replied but spoke so softly that I couldn't hear
him over the dogs, who had settled into a rhythmic baying,
like hounds trailing a fugitive. Tippy asked him if he'd like
something to eat, and he said, "No, thank you." She asked
him if he wanted something to drink, and he said, "Yeah. I
mean, yes. Please."
"Well, come in then."
She eased backward out of the truck and turned to me.
There was snow in her hair. The truck exhaust rose in a
cloud around her, but she didn't appear to notice.
"He can't go to some sort of shelter, Mr. McMorrow?"
"I'm afraid he might be beaten up. We just had a bit of a
run-in with some other kids and an older guy. They'll be looking for him."
"What about his home?"
"He won't go there. I'm not sure why."
Tippy watched as Rocky swung out and came around to
the front of the truck. He stood there, ten feet away, looking
toward the carriage house, where the dogs had picked up
the pace.
"I thought you did mostly cats," I said.
"I don't turn anything away," she said. "I have a goat
right now--don't tell the neighbors."
"And two kids?" I said.
"He can stay tonight, but this can't get out of hand."
"It won't. I'll call you in the morning. I couldn't just
turn him loose. It's cold and it's snowing and he doesn't
even have gloves or--"
Tippy held up her hand to stop me.
"You're preaching to the choir, Mr. McMorrow. But tell
me, with this paint thing, is he dangerous?"
"No," I said. "He's a nice kid, I think. But if you're worried,
I can take him someplace else. With all this DHS stuff, I
didn't think it would be right to bring him home with me."
"Probably not."
"And you already had Tammy, and I think she sort of
looks out for him. How's she worked out?"
"Fine. Swears like a sailor but good with the animals.
She's in the shower now. Been in there for a half hour, but
that's okay."
"He's okay, too. Not as tough as her. He's just sort of--"
"Lost," Tippy said, and that was enough for her.
"Let's go in," she called to Rocky. "I don't suppose you
have any luggage."
He hesitantly started for the door. She turned back to me.
"I'll call in the morning," I said. "I'm off tomorrow. I'll
come back up if I have to."
"Before nine. I've got a busy day, Mr. McMorrow."
I turned to the truck, then back to Tippy.
"You know, you can ask him. About this DHS thing.
Whether I ever--"
But she was moving away, another stray to be tended, another
lost creature with a mysterious and unknown past.

I hadn't been fed, or watered, for that matter, but I didn't
stop. I drove through the city's dark streets to the highway
and then slowly south, in the one lane that had been traveled.
Just south of Bangor, I fell in behind a tractor trailer
and the rest of the highway portion of the trip was spent in
the swirling, white maelstrom of the truck's backwash.
My hands clenched the steering wheel, and my mind
wheeled through the day's events. Rusty and Flossie. Crow
Man and Tippy. Rocky and Tammy. Kitty and Katia? What
was it that Rocky wouldn't speak of? If he loved his mother,
if he was close to her, why wouldn't he want to see her?
What was keeping him away? What, as I'd tried to quiz
him, had kept his mouth clamped shut?
Don't talk about that. Never, ever.
Talking about "that" was worse than a beating. Worse than being cold and hungry. Worse than paint fumes burning
your virgin lungs. Worse than Crow Man, his dirty
mind and foul breath. Worse than sleeping in a strange
woman's house.
The snow swirled. My mind played it all, again and
again.
In Hampden, I tried calling home, but the line was busy.
That was good because it meant Roxanne was there, talking
to someone. God, I'd barely thought of her all night, but
then again, I'd been busy, hadn't I?
I called every five or ten minutes, down the interstate,
across to the meandering ridge-top route that took me
over the hills to home. The phone was busy? What if
something had happened to her? What if something was
wrong with the baby? What kind of father didn't think of
his wife?
In Dixmont, I pulled to the side of the road and set the
front hubs of the truck to better track through the ruts in
the snow. Before getting underway again, I called again.
Still busy. I was forty minutes from home. It was twelve
forty in the morning. I considered calling Clair, but he'd be
sound asleep, resting up for his five a.m. reveille. Maybe
Roxanne was just chatting. Maybe she'd called one of her
friends out West. Her old skiing crew loved to gab, and it
was before eleven in Jackson Hole or Park City. Maybe I was
getting jumpy for nothing.
The truck caught in a rut, and pulled to the right and
jolted me back. I said, "Jeez," and pulled it back into the
two-track lane, and continued on, peering into the meteor
storm of snow. If I could have willed myself home, beamed
myself home, I would have. Something was wrong.
On the outskirts of the little town of Unity, the ruts gave
way to plowed road and the yellow blips of a plow truck's
strobe lights showed in the distance. I sped up and overtook
the truck as it reached the town center. The strobe lights reflected
off the snow like fireworks, and the truck lumbered
along like a dazzling Mardi Gras float, down the deserted
main street, sparks cascading as the plow blade scraped the
pavement.
Oh, the strange things you see.
And I followed the truck south, out of town, where the
fields and farmhouses were lost to the snow. The flakes were
bigger now, and slower. They flew at the windshield like bugs,
piling up beyond the reach of the wipers. The plow had
slowed moving up a long grade, and I eased my way into the
other lane and gave the accelerator a testing tap. The snow
was two or three inches deep, and the truck wove from side
to side as the tires grabbed. The plow truck roared, lights
flashing, and I fell back into my lane and cursed. At the
crest of the hill, I slid the truck out again and blasted by the
plow into the white-flecked darkness.
Roxanne.
Coming into the farm town of Albion, I almost went off
the road, the truck starting to go sideways, then grabbing
again on the shoulder on the opposite side. I yanked it back
onto the roadway, then grimly started off again, sliding
around the corner onto the road to the little hamlet of Freedom,
beyond which was my hamlet, Prosperity. The fat
snowflakes were giving way to sleet, and I drove grimly and
gingerly, forty, forty-five, then eased off as the rear end of
the truck started to break loose.
There were no other cars, no headlights but mine, no
lights at all. The road twisted like a chute between walls of
spruce. I was riveted to the few square feet illuminated by the
lights, to the road flowing toward me like a rushing river.
Miles passed, and I was deeper into the Waldo County hollows
when I had an odd premonition. Roxanne was sick. It
was something very grave. It was about the baby. She would
put her hand on mine to calm me as she gave me the news.
And then there was my turn, the road sign flashing past,
and I braked and the truck skidded, coming to a shuddering
halt fifty yards up the road.
I backed it up. Turned off. Down the paved road, then off
onto the snowbanked path through the woods, where a single
set of tire tracks led the way. Past the big oaks, past the
college girls' house, and scrabbling deeper into the woods,
and then home.
The lights were on. Roxanne's car was in the dooryard.
Her footprints led from the car to the house. I parked and
got out, heard the gritty sleet pelting the truck hood as I
hurried in.
Opened the unlocked door that I'd told Roxanne to lock.
Closed the door behind me, and turned the key. The bolt
slid across.
I listened.
The house was silent. The woodstove ticked. The refrigerator
hummed. The lights were on by the big chairs, but
Roxanne wasn't there. There was a light on in the loft, too,
but I didn't call to her.
My jacket still on, boots still snowy, I crossed to the
stairs and quietly started up.
Her jeans were on the chair, her underpants and socks on
I the floor. I stepped toward the bed, and at first I couldn't see
her at all, then I saw a swatch of dark hair. She was on top of
the bed, covered by the down comforter. There were magazines
strewn on the bed beside her, one near her head. Travel
magazines. One was open to a story about "Classic Castile."
I slid the magazine away from her, and leaned down close to
her to hear the always-reassuring sound of her breathing.
Peering at her, I hovered there. Her breathing faltered
and caught. Was she sick? I reached down and put my hand
gently on her forehead.
Her eyes opened and she turned.
"You okay?" I said.
Roxanne smiled.
"I think so," she murmured.
Again, not the right answer.-
"What's the matter?" I said.
She didn't answer, and in that moment, my mind raced.
My panic must have shown, because Roxanne smiled sleepily
and slipped an arm from beneath the comforter and took my
hand in hers. She squeezed, then held on tightly. Without
letting go, she shifted and turned toward me.
It was coming true. She had the same soft smile, but her
eyes were filling with tears.

Oh, no.
Roxanne squeezed my hand tighter, reached out and
touched my cheek. A tear slipped from her eye, and left a
silver trail on her skin. All these silvery faces.
"What?" I said.
"Jack," Roxanne said. "We'll be good parents, won't we?"

I sat on the edge of the bed and we talked. Roxanne said
she'd been on the phone, a page from work but the issue had
been resolved. We talked about how most parents start out
with good intentions but still things get screwed up. And
then their kids ended up in her hands. I said our child
would already have her so she or he would be all set.
"But those kids in the alley. They all had parents who
thought everything was all set. That little guy, Rocky, I'll
bet his parents always thought they were doing the right
thing for him."
"Maybe," I said. "Maybe not."
"What do you mean?"
I leaned on one elbow beside her and told her the story, as
much of it as I knew. When I was finished, Roxanne said, "I
wonder if Rocky saw this guy abusing his mother?"
"Then why would he leave her alone?"
"Maybe they fight about him, how to treat him, discipline
issues. So Rocky takes off to keep them from having
these disagreements."
"That could be, but who's Kitty? And this date from a
long time ago."

"I don't know," Roxanne said.
"I don't know, either."
"But you're going to try to find out."
"The kid needs some help," I said.
"Be careful, Jack," Roxanne said. "You have another kid
to worry about."
"When it rains it pours," I said.
"Tell me about it," she said, and she sighed and gave my
hand a good-night squeeze.

CHAPTER 29

The house was quiet. I stirred the coals and put wood in
the stove, then went to the refrigerator and peered in. There
was Ballantine ale and Murphy's stout. I took out a Ballantine
and opened it. Turning out the light, I stood by the
stove and lifted the bottle into the air.
"Here's to you, my son, my daughter," I said. "May the
roads rise to meet you and the wind be always at your back."
I drank some of the stout and went to the big window
and looked out at the woods. The sleet had mixed with rain,
and the snow was flopping off the branches like something
treed and shot. I watched it absently, and sipped the ale, and
then the questions began to come at me, like snow in my
headlights.
What kind of father resented his son? A Rusty Clement
kind of father. And that kind of father produced a Rocky
kind of kid, wandering the streets like a spooked dog.
"Never," I said aloud. "Never, ever."
But things were going to change in this life I'd carved
out for myself, carved out like a cave in these dark woods.
Another witness to my life, another person looking to me
for answers. Funny, I was much better at questions. Maybe
my kid would be a questioner, too.

Daddy, why don't you have a regular job? Daddy, how
come we have two houses, one in the woods and one in the
city? Daddy, what happened to your little toe? Daddy, how'd
you get that big scar on your face? Daddy, is your tooth going
to fall out? Daddy, who's that big kid sleeping on our couch?
Daddy, why do we have a rifle? Daddy, there's somebody on
the phone who says you're dead meat. What does that mean?
The stakes suddenly had been raised.
I stood there for two ales, my mind whirling. Diapers
and poop. Little swings and seats with wheels and plastic
things kids chew on. Peek-a-boo and lullabies, and baseball
and walks. A stroller and people leaning over it saying, "My,
how she's grown." Three of us in the car instead of two. A
car seat. A bigger truck. A van?
I prayed it would go well.
Well, Clair and Mary did it with their two girls, all
grown now with kids of their own. People did it all the
time. Even Rusty and Flossie Clement did it, after a fashion.
And Rocky hadn't turned out bad at all, really. A little
confused. A little frightened. And that had been only lately.
Maybe he'd come out of it.
I wondered how Rocky was doing at Tippy's house, her
home for wayward mammals of all kinds. He'd be with
Tammy, but she was a different type: hardened and emotionally
calloused, hurt so deeply for so long that she didn't
feel anymore. For all her exuberance, she was a cold, calculating
kid. Why had she gone with Tippy? She could smell
a warm bed and meal a mile away.
Rocky wasn't like that. He didn't have that feral survival
instinct, and I still wondered what had driven him out. Rusty
didn't even like him, Rocky had said. He'd said it like it hurt,
but could it hurt enough to drive him into the streets? To
leave his mom behind, all alone with Mister Macho?
I finished the last swallow of ale and put the bottle on the
counter. In the morning, Roxanne would be up early, and I
wanted to be up with her so we could talk some more. Or I
could just look at her and wonder. Boy? Girl? Her eyes or
mine?
I put two big chunks of maple in the stove and closed the
damper. The stovepipe ticked and the firelight faded to an
orange glow. The rain and sleet made a hissing sound on the
roof. I climbed the stairs and the hiss was louder, but when
I stood still and listened closely I could hear Roxanne's soft
breathing. I slid under the sheets, moved over to be closer to
her. In her sleep, she nestled into me. I put my arm around
her and didn't let go.

Clair was building something, hammering timbers into a
frame. I was telling him I wasn't sure it was a good idea,
building it so far from the house, because it was a baby and
if it cried at night, you'd have to put on your jacket and
boots to go get it.
"They have to be isolated because of disease," he said, and
he kept pounding away with a big framing hammer. Bam,
bam, bam.
I slowly opened my eyes. Light filled the room and the sky
was blue through the skylight. The hammering continued.
"What's that?" Roxanne said.
I tried to focus.
"Somebody's at the door, Jack," she said.
"They're knocking it down," I rasped.
I rolled out of the bed and found my jeans on the floor
and, hopping on one foot, pulled them on. Roxanne pulled
the comforter around her and I looked at the clock. It was
five after eight. I started down the stairs.
"Hold on, for god's sake," I called.
I twisted the bolt. Fumbled with the latch. If this was
some goddamned religious nut, I was going to ...
I yanked the door open. Squinted into the glare.
"What the hell do you--"
"Mr. McMorrow."
It was Divan, the deputy. Standing beside her was a guy
wearing a tie and brown sportscoat. The tie was blue with
little red pistols all over it. Divan's cruiser was in the yard.
The guy's car was behind it. It was blue and unmarked, cop
written all over it.
"What's the matter?" I said.
"Mr. McMorrow, this is Detective Cobb of the Maine
State Police."
"What's the matter?"
"Could we come in, sir?" the detective said.
"Sure. But what is it? What's the problem?"
I backed away from the doorway and they followed me.
Barefoot, I moved toward the front of the room and paused.
"What is it? Is it Rocky?"
"Do you mind if we sit down and talk, sir?" Cobb said.
"No," I said. "Of course not."
I showed them to the dining table. The detective was my
size but chunky. A round face and a bald spot like an underdone
pancake stuck to the back of his head. He glanced out
the big window.
"Pretty woods," he said. "Lotta deer?"
"Some," I said. "You hunt?"
"No," he said. "I see enough, you know what I mean?"
I didn't offer a reply and he didn't seem to expect one. He
looked around more and unzipped his parka. I said I'd be
right back and went to the bathroom behind the stairs and
washed my face and brushed my teeth. As I opened the
door, I heard the stairs creak above me. Divan and the detective
were looking up. Roxanne was coming down.
"Hello," I heard her say.
"Hi, there," the detective said. "Sorry to bother you, but
we just needed to have a word with your husband."
"Oh," Roxanne said. "Is everything okay?"
They didn't answer. She came down the stairs and introduced
herself. The detective nodded, then awkwardly shook
Roxanne's hand.
"Would you like coffee?" she said.
"Sure," the detective said.
Roxanne turned back toward the kitchen and met me.
She was wearing jeans and one of my flannel shirts. She took
both of my hands in hers and squeezed them.
"I'll be right out," she said. "Or do you need me to leave?"
"No," I said. "Stay."
Roxanne went into the bathroom and closed the door. I
went to the table.
"Sit down, officers," I said.
They did. The detective put a small black tape recorder on
the table in front of him. His hair was thin and fuzzy but his
forearms were taut and muscular, the arms of a guy who did
something other than ride around in a car and ask questions.
"Mr. McMorrow, Deputy Divan here told me about her
last call here. The one where the boy was here but then he
ran away? Is that right?"
"Yeah. Rocky. But is he okay?"
"We were going to ask you that. When did you last see
him?"
I hesitated. Swallowed.
"Last night," I said.
"Where, sir?"
"In Bangor. I left him with a friend. Well, she's not really
a friend, she's sort of an acquaintance. She owns the paper I
work for. The Clarion."
"Who's this?"
I told him.
"And you left the boy with her?"
"Yeah. He didn't have any place to stay. And he was--"
Roxanne came out of the bathroom and walked past me
to the kitchen side of the room. Her hair was pulled back.
She opened a cupboard and took out mugs.
"He was what?" the detective asked.
He did the talking. Divan watched me closely. A red
light showed on the tape recorder like the eye of a snake.
"He'd been sniffing paint."
"How do you know that, Mr. McMorrow?"
I told him what I'd seen, down by the river.
"So he's huffing and then he goes with you voluntarily?"
"Yeah."
"Just said, 'Okay, pops, let's go?' "
"No, he didn't say much. It was kind of a scene. One of
them tried to stop us."
"But he wasn't successful," Cobb said.
"No," I said.
He paused. I didn't elaborate.
"So Rocky left with you voluntarily?"
"Yeah. I'd say he was glad to get out of there. He was
in over his head. This wasn't a bunch of Cub Scouts. All
juveniles except this one older guy they call Crow Man. A
real dirtbag. If you want to go after him for endangering or
something, I'd be glad to--"
"We can talk about that, Mr. McMorrow. Now, the kid
went with you to this lady's house. Theft what?"
"Then I drove home."
"Here."
"Right. Home. Where I live."
"Oh. Well, Officer Divan here said she thought you lived
in Portland some of the time."
I looked at her. She didn't speak, didn't let me off the hook.
"Sometimes. Roxanne has a condo there. South Portland,
on the harbor."
"So you came here and just went to sleep."
I felt a tingle of irritation but fought it off.
"I talked to Roxanne, had a beer, and went to sleep;"
Roxanne walked over and put the mugs down in front of
them.
"We talked about Rocky, about our baby," she said.
They both glanced at her belly, then away. Divan said,
"When are you due?"
Roxanne told her April or early May.
"How exciting," Divan said, but she didn't sound excited
herself. I supposed she meant it would be exciting for us.
Cobb took a sip of coffee and said, "That's good, Ms. Masterson,"
about the coffee or the baby, I didn't know which.
"So what is this about?" I said. "Is Rocky dead?"
"Getting to it," he said. "So that day when the kid was
here. Can you tell me about that. You got up early. The kid
was here, right?"
"Right. But he was gone when I got up."
"And then what?"
"And then the stepfather showed up."
"Looking for the kid?"
"Right."
"But he's G.O.A.?"
"Gone on arrival?"
"Right," Cobb said.
"Yeah. He bolted out the door and into the woods."
"So the dad must have been a little unhappy, huh?"
I stared at Cobb.
"He was angry. He said if I'd touched his son, he'd kill
me. Stuff like that. I figured he was just emotional."
"And what made him think something like that might
have taken place?"
Cobb smiled. Roxanne looked at him coldly.
"I guess he didn't believe that I'd help the kid for the
sake of helping him," I said. "That anyone would do that
just to help out."
"So if you bothered with the kid, it had to be because you
were a pedophile," Cobb said.
"You got it."
"So you had words?"
I shook my head.
"He had words. I didn't want to listen to it so I left."
"And you went?"
"Down the road."
"To where?"
"To work on my truck. At a friend's house. In his barn.
It's got heat. Then I came back here and got ready for work."
"That's in Bangor."
"Right."
"Drove right up there?"
It was Divan all of a sudden. I could see Cobb watching
my reaction.
"No," I said.
I told myself to remain calm.
"I stopped in Woodfield on the way. Where Rocky lives."
"Why did you go there, Mr. McMorrow?" Divan asked.
"Just curious."
"About what?"
"About Rocky. Where he lived. Why he wouldn't go
back there."
"So what'd you do?" Cobb said.
"I stopped for coffee. Right in the little downtown. This
little lunch-counter place. But you know that."
"What do you mean, we know?"
"You've talked to Rusty Clement, and he fed you some
line of crap and now you're coming here to check it out.
Why is it you can't even talk to a kid these days without
people thinking you're a pervert? I don't know what that
guy's problem ft. I know he can't stand the kid. You should
ask him why his stepson won't go home."
"Did Rocky tell you?" Divan said.
"No. Not really. But I'll tell you, he left this piece of paper
in his pocket, all worn like he carried it everywhere.
Something about Kitty. I mentioned it to the mother--I
drove by the house and she was outside and we talked for a
few minutes--and she went white as a ghost. You should
ask her about that."
Divan looked at Cobb. He looked at me.
"We'd love to, Mr. McMorrow," Cobb said. "But she's
dead."
CHAPTER 30


"How'd she die?" I asked, still stunned, still picturing
the fragile woman in the big black coat, collapsed before my
eyes by some sort of grief.

The cops said they couldn't say how she died. The autopsy
hadn't been completed.

"When?" I asked.

They said they didn't know that, either.

"Who found her?" I asked.

"The husband," Cobb said. "He said he was out of town
on a logging job and she called, all upset."

I waited. Roxanne listened intently, too. Under the table,
she reached over and took my hand.

Cobb brushed at his hair, working on the thinning spot.

"He said she was distraught about the kid," he said. "He
said you stopped to talk to his wife about her son, and whatever
it was you said, it must have made the wife, Flossie
Clement, despondent."

"So you think she killed herself?" Roxanne asked.

"That's what the initial investigation seems to indicate."

"But I barely said anything. She said she was worried
about Rocky, and I told her how he was. She was worried.
But not hysterical or anything. I told her what you--" I
looked to Divan "--told me about Rocky being hit by the

truck. Which turned out not to be true. He told me they almost
hit him, but missed, and then they gave him a ride to
Bangor."
"And that upset her?" Cobb said.
"Yeah, but not to the point of killing herself. We talked
after that. This was just standing there in the street. I was
going to stop and knock and she came out to get the mail.
So we talked right there in front of the house."
"About what?" Divan asked.
I took a deep breath, tried to remember it all. Flossie had
just rambled, and I did, too. I told them about the Legos
and the four-wheeler, but that was a year ago. The kid reading
all the time, the stepdad saying he was too soft for the
real world.
"She kind of just went on, how she didn't understand it,
there hadn't been one thing to make him run. And then I
told her about Kitty. And that seemed to shock her."
"This is this note?" Cobb said.
I told him what it said, word for word.
"And you told Mrs. Clement?"
"Yeah. I thought maybe she'd know what it meant."
"What'd she say?"
"Nothing. Just turned white. Said, 'Oh, my gosh,' or
something like that, and walked into the house."
"That's it?"
"That's it. I went to work."
There was a lull. They looked at each other and the red
eye on the recorder looked at me. Roxanne sipped her coffee.
Cobb looked up at her and brushed hair over his bald spot.
"So where's this note?" Cobb said.
I told him I'd given it back to Rocky. I told him what I'd
found checking out papers around that date: the woman
named Katia, killed in the hit-and-run.
"Katia?" Cobb said.
"Right. Katia, Kitty. Maybe it was a nickname."
They looked at me, unimpressed.
"And that's all you said to Mrs. Clement?" Cobb said.
"Yeah. She walked away. Up until then, she seemed glad
to hear about Rocky. I could at least tell her he was all right."
"Unless he'd been run over by a dump truck, right? That
wasn't such good news, was it?" Cobb said.
He smiled.
"You think this is funny?" I said.
Roxanne squeezed my hand to shut me up. Cobb's face
hardened. Divan's, too.
"No, sir," he said. "This is what I think. I think I've got a
guy--you--who's got a history of attracting trouble like flies
attract--whatever. I've got a thirty-three-year-old woman
who's dead. I got a guy--you--who keeps turning up with
her fourteen-year-old son."
"He keeps turning up with me."
"Uh-huh. I got DHS involved with this juvenile who's
on the streets. Now I've got a note that's supposed to be
some sort of clue, about some kitty, but maybe it's some
other name that sounds like kitty or starts with K or something.
This information shocked the deceased shortly before
her death. And the note is gone."
"No, it isn't. It's with Rocky. I'll bet he still has it. Just
ask him."
"We'd like to do that, too," Divan said.
She took a notebook out of her breast pocket and flipped
the pages.
"At zero thirty-three hours today, a Theresa Danforth,
161 Broadway, called the Bangor Police Department to report
a theft. A boy she identified as Rocky had stolen sixty
three dollars and a pizza from her home and fled."
"The little bugger."
"You know where he might be now?" Cobb said.
I started to shake my head.
"He isn't here, is he, Mr. McMorrow?" Divan asked.
"No, he's not here," Roxanne snapped.
Divan gave her a cool stare. No more baby talk.
Cobb looked at her curiously.
"Now, you work with--"
"Department of Human Services," Roxanne said. "Child
Protective."
"Right. I've seen your name. In reports. Our paths have
crossed, at least on paper."
"Homicide cases?" Roxanne said.
"Sometimes," he said. "Sometimes just C.I.D."
"So does it look like a suicide?" I said. "Gun in her hand
or something? I really need to know."
"There's been no ruling on cause of death," Cobb said.
"Until there is, I can't comment on that at all. She's dead. It
doesn't appear to have been natural causes."
He pursed his lips, and looked up at me and said, "So
maybe Rocky had a cat?"
"I don't know."
"But you discussed it with him?"
"He said he couldn't talk about it."
"Why not?"
"He wouldn't say. Just said, 'Because she's my mother'"
"Who's his mother?" Divan said.
"I don't know," I said. "I figured his mother was his
mother."
"Okay," Cobb said slowly. "So where can we find this kid,
do you think?"
"I don't know. He could be in Bangor. When I first saw
him, it was in Portland, Monument Square. He doesn't like
shelters. In Bangor, he was afraid the huffer kids were going
to come after him because of what happened to this older
guy, Crow Man."
"What happened to him?" Cobb said.
I looked at Divan and Roxanne.
"I had to kick him a couple of times. Pretty hard."
"Why?" Cobb said.
"He came after me with a bottle."
"So you kicked the crap out of him and took the kid and
left," Cobb said.
I shrugged. They looked at me curiously, like I was a
museum specimen, something to examine from various angles.
Then Cobb stood up and reached for the recorder. He
clicked it off and the eye went black.
"So what is it you do at this newspaper, Mr. McMorrow?"
he said, slipping the recorder into his jacket pocket.
"I'm a copy editor."
"Is that right?" he said. "What do you do if the writers
spell a word wrong? Break their ringers?"

CHAPTER 31

They left, but said they'd probably be talking to me
again. I said that was fine, but it really wasn't. After the door
closed, and their cars crunched out of the yard and down the
road, I went to the window and stood. Roxanne put their

mugs down on the counter and came and stood beside me. I
put my arm around her waist and we both looked out.
The wind had shifted to the north and the temperature
was dropping. The trees were towering figurines with brittle
glass branches. At the edge of the woods, the brush glittered
in the sun. The tall grass was encased in crystal, like
upended icicles poking from the snow.
"It's beautiful," Roxanne said.
"It's not right," I said. "This isn't the way I want it to be.
Not for us."
I looked at her.
"All of us, I mean."
"I know."
"They think I caused her death."
"They don't know what to think. They're just asking."
"Or they think I'm some sort of pervert."
"That will work itself out," Roxanne said.
"I just want them to leave us alone," I said.
"They will, Jack."
"I suppose. But what if--"
"What if what?"
"What if I do get dragged into this thing somehow? This
Rusty guy, if he really thinks that something I said put his
wife over the edge, then I don't know. He could--"
"But you know that's not true, Jack," Roxanne said softly.
"No, I don't. I don't know what that note meant."
"Maybe it didn't mean anything. If she killed herself, it
was a lifetime of, I don't know, sadness, frustration, mental
illness. I don't know. But it wasn't you."
I looked out at the woods, the silver trees like knives
against the blue sky.
"Yeah, I know. But you hate to think you were the one to
give her the last little shove."
"You don't know that at all. Husband's a jerk, maybe
abusive. She was sick, right? Son runs away. If someone was
in severe depression, that could be more than enough."
"Sure, I know that. But her face. The blood just drained
out of it, like you'd pulled a plug."
"Jack, you can't blame yourself."
Roxanne put her arm around me.
"These events were set in motion a long time before we
ever even saw this boy," she said.
We stood and looked out at the porcelain woods, and we
could hear the sound of the wind in the branches, the roaring
of thousands of tiny snaps, building with the gusts and
then receding like an ebbing wave.
"He's going to be crushed," I said. "He was close to his
mother. He really was."
"It's sad."
"How could she do that?"
"Maybe she didn't," Roxanne said.
That silenced us for a moment and we stood there, thinking
of this woman and who might have killed her.
"Rusty," I said.
"I'm sure that's the first place police will look," Roxanne
said.
"And you know what's really sad?" I said. "I bet Rocky
doesn't even know. If they don't find him, he could see it on
TV, in the newspaper."
"That would be a terrible thing."
"Terrible piled on terrible."

I was headed for Stonington, for a story for the Times on the
last fishing dragger there. I took the second shower, kissed
Roxanne good-bye and waved as she pulled out of the door
yard. And then I called Tippy.

Her answering machine came on, telling me to leave a
message if I was calling regarding stray or abused animals. I
was, sort of, so I stayed on the line.
"Tippy, this is Jack McMorrow. I heard about what happened
and--"
There was a clatter and Tippy herself said hello.
"Tippy. Jack. Listen, sorry about what happened with
Rocky. I didn't think--"
"It's okay. There's a certain percentage of loss one has to
accept if one is to do any good at all in the world, isn't that
right? The girl was up at six, did her chores. She's really
rather sweet, though I must say that thing in her face--it
makes me ill just to look at it. But she was a good--"
"I need to talk to Rocky, Tippy," I said. "Or somebody
does."
And I told her why.
"Oh, god," Tippy sighed. "The poor child."
"Yeah. It's sad. He wasn't close to his stepfather. Only
child. It's going to be very hard."
Tippy talked about bad luck and the burdens placed on
people and other creatures. I interrupted again and asked if
Tammy was there. Tippy said she'd left, but promised to be
back in the afternoon. I told Tippy to call me if she saw or
heard from either of them.
"Call me if you hear anything. Even if it's from the police,
that they've found him or--"
I paused. Heard a truck approaching. I went to the front
of the house and looked out. A white van was coming up the
hill fast, bouncing off the potholes and ruts. And then behind
it, a pickup. A big one.
It was green.
Rusty.
"Gotta go," I said, and hit the button. Then poked the
speed dial. The van had pulled in. The doors were opening.
Guys were jumping out.
Phone to my ear, I ran to the closet. The number was ringing. I yanked the door open, grabbed the rifle. Mary's voice.
"Mary. Jack. I need help. Tell Clair--"
A thump outside. The phone went dead. I ran for the
kitchen, for the shells in the drawer. Clawed for the box.
The door crashed open. Shells spilled across the counter.
"Get him," I heard.
I had one shell in, but they were on me. Gun yanked
from my hands, fingers digging in my throat, my hair. I
lashed out with my feet, but they pushed me back, pinned
my arms back, and I fell to the floor, under a pile of bodies.
The hand was squeezing my throat. I couldn't breathe. I
tried to scream, but it came out a choking sound.
"Break his arms," someone was saying. "Break his legs."
"Kill the skinner. Cut his balls off."
"No, let Rusty do it. It's his old lady got killed."
"How tough are you now, skinner? Like the little boys?
Like scaring little ladies? How's it feel now, skinner?"
They started punching my abdomen, and I tensed my
muscles to protect myself. Then someone punched me in
the groin, and I tried to double up but I couldn't, and the
pain ran into my belly, down my legs.
"Like that, skinner? Won't be using that again, you
scumbag."
Something, a rope, a belt lashed my face, but all I could
see was jackets and arms, leering faces, and then the crowd
parted and a guy--blond, big beard and gut--leaned down
and yanked my head up and cinched a belt tight around my
neck.
A noose.
CHAPTER 32


They pulled me to my feet and held me up, my arms
pinned behind me on the countertop. My legs were kicked
apart, and a guy stood on each bare foot. Boots ground on
my insteps and I bellowed, and one of the guys on my feet
grabbed my jaw in his hands and squeezed until I was quiet.

Rusty stood in front of me. He was bigger than I'd remembered,
his eyes bleary. He took two long steps, turned
like a pitcher, and punched me hard in the gut.

"Oh," I said. I felt faint. Thought I'd vomit. The room
spun and I felt hot and clammy and started to collapse.

"Give it to him, Rust," I heard them say.

"Kick his skinner butt."

"Don't let him pass out, goddamn skinner pussy."

Rusty came into focus, close to my face, teeth bared,
breath rank with alcohol.

"You killed my wife."

His words came slowly, each one seething with hatred.

"No, I didn't," I said.

No plea. Just a flat statement. Rusty took a step back,
went into his wind-up, and punched again, same place, the
blow collapsing me inward.

"Yeah," I heard. "Another one, Rust."

I couldn't breathe, couldn't gasp, the belt was choking

me. I started to panic, to thrash, and they held me tighter,
twisting my arms back until that hurt, too, and someone
laughed, a nervous high-pitched cackle.
Rusty leaned close.
"You killed her. You told her about the boy and it killed
her. You messed with my boy. Now it's payback time."
His hand went behind him and came back with a knife,
black and silver. He unclasped it, looked at me again, and
then jammed the blade under my belt and yanked upward.
The belt was cut loose.
"He's pissing himself."
"He ain't gonna have anything to piss with."
"It's payback time, skinner."
The high-pitched voice. Singing the words.
I felt Rusty's hands digging at the waist of my pants.
Heard the snap come undone, felt the fly unzip.
Oh, god, I thought. Oh, god in heaven, save me.
"No!" I shouted, and the hand grabbed my jaw.
A cold jab. The blade against my belly. Rusty's voice.
"Where's my boy?"
Where was his boy? Where was Rocky?
"I don't know."
The blade sliced and I felt it, not pain, but heat. White
hot, but not burning, something wet and warm. Blood.
"Where is he?" he said. "Where the hell is the kid?"
"Bangor," I gasped.
"Skinner's singing now."
"Where?"
That was Rusty.
"I left him with a friend last night. An old lady. She put
him up in her house."
"What old lady?"
"Her name's Danforth. Tippy."
"Tippy? I think he's bullshitting you, Rust."
"Cut him some more, then we'll find out. Goddamn lying
son of a bitch."
A jab. A prick. Pain this time.
"Where in Bangor?"
"Broadway. I don't know the number. A mansion. Big
place."
Their faces, a couple filled with gleeful lust. One with
hatred. One toward the rear, a long-haired guy, no expression
at all.
"A mansion. Yeah, right. Go ahead, Rust. Give it to him."
"He's lying, Rusty."
"What color's the house?" Rusty said.
Color, I thought. What color?
"White. Right up from the downtown on the left. Ask
anybody, they all know her."
But then Tippy crept into my mind, the house with the
doors wide open, the house full of cats. Tippy telling Rusty
that Rocky wasn't there, she didn't know where he was.
"But he left this morning," I said.
"See," they crowed. The belt around my neck jerked and
cinched tighter. The guy pulling the belt leaned close and
spat against the side of my head.
"Chicken shit," he said.
"So where'd he go?"
"Don't know. He's with kids in Bangor. They're easy to
find. Street kids."
"Put his hand on this stove, Rust. That'll make him
talk."
"You killed her, you son of a bitch," Rusty muttered.
"You did it, you did it, you did it."
The last was a bellow and he swung again, and I tensed
and the blow came, a crashing pain that spread like a flash
fire. I doubled over, gasping. The belt guy jerked me back
up and one of the guys on my feet reached for my jeans and
started to yank them down. The other guy on the other side
did the same and the jeans were at my knees, and the room
fell quiet, and the hand reached and got the waist of my
shorts and ripped them and I was exposed. Rusty leaned
down toward my crotch with the knife. I screamed, "No,"
and the door blew open.
"Party's over, boys," Clair said.
They froze. Rusty turned. Clair had a shotgun at his hip,
aimed at Rusty's face.
"I'd pump it like in the movies, but there's already a shell
in the chamber," Clair said. "Four in the tube. You let him
go or I start killing you."
He spoke with an odd, detached calm. This was a man
who had killed many times before and everyone in the room
sensed it. Rusty shuffled, backed a step toward me, knife
behind him.
"This ain't your fight so why don't you--"
"He's got a knife in his right hand," I said.
"A three-count," Clair said to Rusty. "Then I cut you in
half."
"Hey, easy," one of the guys said. "I didn't do nothing. I
just--"
"You know guns, boys? This is a Remington 870 pump.
Magnum. Number four buckshot. The way you're all
bunched up, I'll bet I won't need five shots. It'll be like
bowling."
"One ..."
"Jesus Christ..."
They got off my feet, let go of my arms. The belt around
my neck went slack.
"Two ..."
"Don't shoot, man. Hey, I got my hands up."
Rusty still hadn't moved. Two of them raised their hands
high. Three more started to sidle toward the door.
"On the floor," Clair barked.
They fell like they'd already been shot. Rusty still stood,
staring at the gun barrel.
"Three," Clair said.
There was a moment when nothing happened. Just the
word, its echo, hanging in the air. Clair's finger on the trigger.
The knife in Rusty's hand.
And then he dropped the knife. It clattered, then was
still. Clair lowered the shotgun, took three long strides toward
Rusty, and in one quick, practiced motion cracked
him across the face with the butt of the gun. Rusty fell
backward and his head made a hollow, wooden sound as it
hit the floor. His mouth was open, his eyes were half-closed.
Blood spilled from his flattened nose, running down his
cheeks in dark rivulets.
Clair picked up the knife, then looked at me, glancing at
my crotch. I leaned down and saw drips of blood below my
navel. Pulling up my shorts, I used them to dab at the cuts,
then pulled my jeans up, too.
"How bad are they?"
"Not very deep," I said. "Little jabs."
"They all in on this?" Clair said.
He still was calm, but there was something chilling in
the hardness of his expression, even to me.
"Yeah," I said. "Pretty much."
"Okay. We'll pick one."
They were on the floor all around us, like suspects at a
drug bust. Clair glanced around the room, then went to the
nearest guy, the one who had held the belt and spat on me.
He put the barrel of the shotgun on the back of the guy's
head, and the guy said, "Oh, no. Please, no. I didn't do
nothin', I was just--" Clair raised the gun, took a step back,
and like a football kicker, booted the guy in the side.
Three of them pleaded when the gun was put to their
heads. Three were silent. They all groaned after Clair had
punted them, one by one. One guy, the one who had
laughed, said, "Oh, my ribs." Rusty, already punished, lay on
the floor, his bloody hands held over his smashed nose and
cheekbone.
"Okay," Clair said, standing over the group like a guard
charged with a chain gang. "Now you can call the police."

It was a long wait. Clair had me hold the shotgun while he
tried to call Mary, but the phone still was dead, I asked if
they'd cut the line, and one of them nodded.
So I went out to the truck to call, first Mary, to say we
were fine but Clair would be held up for a while, and then I
called the sheriffs department. I told the dispatcher there
had been a home invasion and an assault. He didn't perk up
until I said the seven guys who had done the invading and
assaulting were in my kitchen.
"They're still in the home, sir?" the dispatcher said.
"Yes, they are."
"Are you in any danger at this time?"
"No," I said. "Not at this time."
Still, it took most of the morning. A young deputy arrived
first, then a state trooper, then a couple of guys from
town who were paramedics and had heard the ruckus on the
police scanners in their trucks. And then an ambulance, for
Rusty and the laughing guy, who said he still couldn't
breathe, and finally Divan and Cobb, all the way from
Belfast.
"I think we should just attach ourselves to McMorrow
here," Cobb said, as we sat in his cruiser. "Establish one of
those field offices. It'll save the state a lot of mileage money,
don't you think?"
Divan half-turned to see me.
"You're keeping us pretty busy, McMorrow," she said.
"I'm not," I said. "He is."
I nodded toward Rusty, at the back of the ambulance. A
paramedic was fixing some sort of splint on his face.
"Ask him."
"He says your buddy there busted his face up for no reason."
"He
had a knife and he was threatening me and he
wouldn't put it down. Clair could have shot him and still
pleaded self-defense."
"Mr. Clement says he blames you for his wife's death and
he just lost it. Says he didn't mean to hurt you, he just
wanted to scare you."
"Yeah, right. You blame a guy for your wife dying, so
you decide you'll scare him? Give me a break."
Divan looked at Cobb and I could tell she didn't buy it,
either.
"Hey, mitigating circumstances. I can just hear his
lawyer. Guy's wife dies, maybe a suicide. He's up all night.
Grieving. Drinking. Fixates on you as the cause of all this.
Drives over here in a rage with his crew."
"Six guys hold me down while he gets ready to--"
I hesitated.
"Cut me in a serious way. What's mitigating about that?"
"Good thing your friend was home," Cobb said.
I silently thanked god.
"This guy's a one-man goddamn battalion, isn't he? You
said he was in the service."
"Marines. Force Recon they call it. Vietnam."
"That right?" Cobb said.
Divan looked over at Clair.
"Huh," she said.
"They'd be a hundred miles behind enemy lines in Vietnam.
Laos. A handful of guys all by themselves."
"One mean mother, huh?" Cobb said. "Well, I guess that
explains how we got three guys with broken ribs, one guy
they say maybe has a collapsed lung. Guy in the ambulance
said your friend there put that cannon to their heads and
made them beg, then put the boots to 'em."
I didn't say anything.
"Reckless conduct with a firearm, McMorrow."
"Come off it. He saved my life. What was he supposed to
do, reason with them? What about Rusty? What's he charged
with?"
"I don't know," Cobb said. "Maybe terrorizing with a
dangerous weapon. Assault. Criminal trespass. Criminal
threatening. With the dead wife and all, D.A. may decide
the whole thing's a little touchy, going after a guy while his
wife's body's still warm."
"So he walks?"
"No, but he may bail. Just warning you."
"I'll be ready," I said. "And Mrs. Clement?"
Cobb looked at Divan. She didn't say anything, but her
eyes flared, flickering some sort of warning.
"Yeah, well, that investigation is ongoing," he said.
He paused. Looked at me in the rear-view mirror.
"Unless you want to tell me any more about your last
conversation with the deceased. You sure you didn't say
something else? Maybe said you were gonna write something
about this kid? How he was making it on the street.
How he was turning tricks in Portland?"
I cursed him aloud.
"Hey, I'm just brainstorming, McMorrow."
"And I've said all there is to say."
In the mirror, I saw Cobb watching, watching, always
watching.

The ambulance pulled away first, lights flicking but no siren.
Then the locals in their pickups. Then one of the cruisers,
with three of Rusty's buddies, the probation holds, handcuffed
in the backseat. I overheard Rusty telling Cobb he
couldn't go to the hospital because he had to go home
and complete his wife's funeral arrangements. Rusty put his
hands over his bandaged face like he might cry. When he
brought his hands down he was looking at me, and he wasn't
crying at all.
Cobb's cruiser pulled out, tires grinding in the snow. We
stood for a minute and Clair looked up at the ice-coated
trees. Blue jays hurried by overhead, like grousing commuters,
bound for my ice-bound feeders.
"Pretty, huh?" Clair said, like nothing had happened.
"Oh, yeah," I said. "Beautiful."
"You know in the jungle sometimes, lying there for
hours with the bugs crawling over me, sweat pouring off
me, I'd dream about ice storms."
"I'll bet."
"And then things would explode and you'd go into the
other state, not thinking at all."
Clair paused, looking at the trees, but beyond them into
the past.
"This was like that."
"I could see that," I said.
"I hope I didn't get you in any deeper."
"You got me out of it."
"I mean after. I couldn't just walk away."
We stood, and it was a little awkward, this glimpse of
Clair stripped naked.
"There have to be consequences," he said. "There has to
be something to tell the enemy that for every action they
take, the reaction will be greater, so everything the enemy
does is a net loss. Not them losing two, you losing one. A
big loss. So they know everything they do carries a price."
"And the price here was . . .?"
"I'd say their boss won't be able to round up much of a
posse next time," Clair said.
"Maybe he'll come by himself," I said.
"If he was gonna do that, he would have come solo today."
"But he wanted a show."
"Right," Clair said. "That was staged, to a point. But
dangerous because it was out of control."
"But if you're going to kill somebody, or even hurt somebody,
you don't bring six witnesses."
"No. But you do if you want six witnesses for some other
reason."
I thought.
"To show you couldn't have killed her," I said.
"Beside yourself with grief," Clair said.
I pictured Rusty, the knife in his hand, fist balled up. His
anger was real, but it wasn't crazy rage.
"You know what he wanted? I mean, before you got there?"
Clair shook his head.
"He wanted to know where Rocky was. He kept asking
me. Where was he? Where did I leave him?"
"He's hunting for him?"
"I guess. But there was this desperation to it. He had to
know. Once I told him, it was back to the enraged husband."
"Maybe wants to tell him about his mom himself."
"Maybe," I said. "Maybe not."
CHAPTER 33


Mama lived in one of those complexes built in a dairy
farm pasture--drab gray-sided buildings that go up overnight
like the builders are staking a claim. This was out by the
Bangor mall; Mama's building was 6A, toward the rear. It
was drab and bare, with a couple of shrubs and kids' toys
frozen in the snow like stuff stuck in the ash at Pompeii.

I stood at the door and pressed the buzzer. Marna's voice
came on, like someone taking an order at a drive-through. I
said hi and she sounded surprised, a little flustered. She clicked
the door open and I walked down a corridor where boots and
sneakers were placed on plastic trays. One door opened and she
popped her head out. Another head followed, waist high. A
little girl peered at me and grabbed Marna around the legs.

"Jack," Marna said.

"Hey, there," I said. "Sorry to bother you."

"No bother. What happened to you this time?"

I touched the scuff marks on my face. Shrugged.

"I know. You walked into a door."

"Not exactly," I said.

"You don't have to explain, Jack."

"Okay. Can I come in?"

"An adult to talk to? Would I turn this down? Hey, if I
offer you coffee in a sippee cup, please be understanding."

She opened the door wide and I followed her in. Mama was
wearing gray sweatpants and a University of Maine Tshirt.
Her hair was pulled up on top of her head in a big plastic clip.
She was barefoot and I followed her into the room, wondering
if I should take off my boots. I hesitated on the threshold and
she waved an arm and said, "Just come in, on the condition
that the state of this apartment doesn't leave this room."
The apartment was plain and white, with toys and children's
books strewn everywhere on the carpet. There were
scribbled drawings pinned to a corkboard, like pages from a
Rorschach test. There was one stuffed chair and a small television
on the floor. In the center of the room was a tiny table
with tiny plates and a bowl. Dolls were seated in the chairs.
"Jack, this is Annie. Annie, this is Jack. He works with
Mommy at the paper."
I said hello. She looked up at me, all big eyes and curly
dark hair. She didn't resemble Marna and I wondered who
her father was, and where.
"You have a big boo-boo on your face," Annie said.
"Annie--" Marna began.
"It's okay. You're right. I do. But it doesn't really hurt."
"Good," Annie said, bouncing to the table. "You came
just in time for the tea party. It's the whole family. The
mommy and daddy and the little girl and the little boy."
She propped one of the dolls up. I smiled but considered
Tammy and Rocky, and wondered if the whole, happy family
was something from a fairy tale.
"Are they hungry?" I said.
"Oh, yeah," the little girl said, and she took a cracker and
crumbled it into the mouth of one of the dolls. Crumbs fell
to the carpet. Annie stepped on them with her bare foot.
"Oh, well. Cleanliness is overrated," Marna said. "Another
guilt trip foisted upon us by the vacuum-cleaner industry.
Come into the kitchen, if you dare, and I'll make you a cup
of coffee."
I followed her to the end of the big room. There were
dirty dishes on the counter, more scribbled pictures on the
refrigerator door. Marna stretched her short square frame to
get mugs from the cupboard, then a jar of instant and a box
of store-brand teabags. She put water in a kettle and put it
on the stove.
"So, Jack with the big boo-boo," she said, fixing her hair
as she turned to me. "This is a surprise. How'd you find me?"
I shrugged.
"Oh, I know. You can find anybody. Everything okay, I
hope. Tippy didn't hand out pink slips? Randall didn't decide
to work nights?"
"No," I said. "I was on my way to the paper and I
thought I'd stop. I need a favor. I didn't want to talk about
it in the newsroom."
"Where the walls have ears. What is it?"
The kettle began to hiss like a drumroll.
"Well, I was just wondering. You know all the funeral directors,
right?"
"Not intimately. Yuck. Can you imagine?"
"No," I said, smiling. "But you talk to them every day."
"Oh, yeah. They like me because I talk a lot. Unlike their
customers."
"Think they'd tell you about a cause of death?"
Marna paused, the chatter subsided.
"Maybe. Why?"
"Well, I know this person who just died and people are
saying it was a suicide. I was just wondering what happened,
I guess. It has a bearing on some other things."
The kettle began to whistle. Marna turned and took it off
the burner and poured.
"What's the name?" she said, her back to me. Annie
pranced into the kitchen and Marna went to the refrigerator
and took out milk and a Popsicle. She told Annie she could
watch TV. Annie scampered back out.
"Flossie Clement. Might be a nickname. I don't know."
"Where?"
"Woodfield," I said.
"That's Savant. He handles that whole area."

"Think he'd tell you? If you asked in the right--"
"Jack, you know me. If there's one thing I can do, it's
talk. And get other people to talk. I get talking and it's contagious."
I
could tell Marna was warming to her task.
"Can you get them to chatter about a cause of death?'
"That's usually from the medical examiner."
"I know, but they'll probably take a while. I'd like to
know now. This Savant guy, if he's seen the body, he probably
has a good idea already."
"You mean what happened?"
"Right. The circumstances."
"A gun or pills or a hose in the exhaust pipe?"
"Right."
"When do you need to know this?"
"As soon as you can get it," I said. "You're off today, right?"
"Yeah. But they don't need to know that. I'll have Annie
pound on a keyboard in the background."
"What would you tell them?"
"That somebody called, asking if we were going to run
the Clement obit tomorrow. They were from out of state
and they wanted to have a paper FedExed to them. I just
need a heads-up."
"For an honest person, you lie awfully well."
"Only for a good cause," Marna said. "I assume this is one."
"Yes," I said. "It's important."
"Then I'll do it. I'll call you."
I gave her my cell phone number. She wrote it down with a purple crayon. Annie came charging back into the kitchen.
She stopped in front of me and held out a small but perfect
hand. She opened her fist and it held a cracker.
"Dollie's giving it to you," she said. "Because you're
hungry."
I smiled and thanked her and she ran back to the tea party. Marna handed me the mug of tea. I sipped; she touched her lips to her coffee, leaned back on the counter, and crossed her legs.
"Mama," I said. "You're a mom."
"How observant. You must be a reporter."
"Nothing slips by me. And let me ask you something. As a mother, if your child had run away and was on the street,
and you loved him very much, way more than his father or
stepfather or whatever, would you kill yourself and leave
him alone?"
"Well, I don't know," Marna said. "And I hope I never
have to know. But I think I'd be in mom mode."

"Mom mode?"
"Yeah. If my kid was out there alone, I wouldn't be
thinking about me. I'd be protective, thinking of how to
keep him safe."
"And killing yourself, that would be the opposite," I said.
"I don't know, Jack. I'd feel like I was abandoning my
own kid," Marna said.
"Unless you were the reason he ran away. And maybe got
hurt."
"You'd really have to think there was no hope. That he
was dead and gone or something. Run away to Australia or
someplace."
"Or killed," I said.
Mama lifted the mug to her mouth, swallowed and
looked at me. In that moment, her eyes were as big and
wide and curious as her daughter's.
"Or killed," she said. "That would probably do it."
She paused, studied me.
"Does that help, Jack?"
I ran over it all in a single, dismaying instant. Flossie.
The truck. The look on her pale, fragile face.
"Yes," I said. "And no."

CHAPTER 34

It was a little after one, lunch hour on Main Street, and
people were strolling on the sidewalk, squinting in the sun
like they'd just emerged from bomb shelters. I parked in a
bank lot in front of a sign that read customers only and
started walking.
I wanted Rocky, of course, but mostly I wanted a kid, not
just any kid, but one of the rural refugees who would be
likely to know Rocky, maybe even know where he was. It
was more likely that I'd get what was known in sales as a referral.
One kid would point to another, that kid would point
to somebody else. It was like reporting, but easier. I didn't
have to take notes.
So I walked through the little city parks, past the statue
of Hannibal Hamlin, with his cold, stoical stare. I continued
along the sluiceway of the Kenduskeag Stream, gurgling
blackly on its way to the Penobscot River. Pigeons scattered,
then wheeled back to squabble over scraps of a sandwich. I
swung onto Main Street, where cars sloshed through murky
puddles. As I walked I looked up the alleys, between the
buildings. Up one side of the street, down the other.
In front of the bus station, a thin man in curled-up
sneakers and a gray sweatshirt leaned against the wall. His
gaunt face was right out of the Dust Bowl, a WPA portrait.
I approached him and he looked up, alarmed, and slipped
the brown-bagged can behind him.
"Hey," I said, not bothering to smile. "I'm looking for
some kids. Teenagers."
He stared back, and I could see the hairs in his nostrils,
the dirt in his pores, the crust in the corner of his eyes.
"You know. Dyed hair? Rings in their noses?"
Still he stared.
"Kids? Les enfants? Bambinos?"
The guy looked away.
Feeling sour and nasty, I asked everyone I could accost. A
slow-track lawyer shook his head and scurried into his foyer.
A secretary, shivering in her short skirt while she sucked
down a cigarette, said she hadn't seen anybody, and flicked
the butt past my head.
I ducked and continued on. The video arcade was closed
until three. The Indian restaurant was open, but the waiter
shook his head and turned his back.
If there had been any diners, I would have grilled them
but there weren't so I walked down to the river. No one had
been to the bridge abutments since the snow. The frozen
Penobscot was cold and white and empty.
Turning back, I followed our route from the previous
night: across the tracks, onto the rubble and over the wall.
A guy coming out of the back of a store looked at me suspiciously.
I started to approach him and he went back inside
and slammed the metal door.
I could have carried a vacuum cleaner and done better.
Then it was around that block of buildings, across the
street and up the hill toward City Hall. I crossed with the
light and hiked up the hill. Cars passed, and I thought of
the cacophony of New York, the constant downtown din.
There was a cold silence to this city. Nobody beeped their
horns. Nobody talked to strangers. They were all Amish
and I was shunned.
I continued on, past City Hall and into District Court,
where I circled the long lobby. I saw deputies, closing in on
retirement minute by minute, breath by breath. Two women,
one crying on the other's shoulder. A couple of lawyers,
carrying their briefcases like big black IDs. We aren't dirt
bags. We work here.
But no Rocky. No Tammy. No kids.
Leaving the courthouse, I started down the hill, sliding
on the sand. Picking my way, I kept my eyes on the sidewalk,
then looked up.
They were hurrying toward me, in the shadows on the
other side of the street. Two hooded sweatshirts, one baseball
hat worn sideways. One with no hat at all. Jacket open.
Belly showing white in the cold.
Tammy.
I crossed toward them at a diagonal.
"Tammy," I called.
She looked up, stopped and started to back away. The
three boys looked back at her, then at me, then back at her.
"A cop?" the kid in the hat said.
She shook her head and he came off of the sidewalk
and started toward me, arms low, mouth hanging open.
"Tammy, I need to talk to you," I said.
Tammy hesitated. The two hoods stopped and waited. I
strode past the open-mouthed kid and he did a little skipping
step to stay alongside me but out of reach.
"What are you trying out for?" I said. "Alvin Ailey?"
He stopped skipping and stood there. Tammy hooked
her thumbs in her pants, her at-ease position. The hooded
kids peered out at me like monks.
"Have you seen Rocky?" I said.
"Nope. Not since he blew the animal lady's."
"Well, what happened there? Tippy was just doing him a
favor. She wasn't going to turn him in."
"She started asking us where we were from, why didn't
we go to school, did we have pets at home, that kind of
stuff. Rocky just kind of like freaked. I go, 'She's just talking,
partner. She's just, like, making conversation.' He got
all jumpy. I think he was still messed up."
"Maybe I shouldn't have left him," I said.
"Who's this?" one of the hooded kids said.
"Twig," Tammy said.
"Oh," he said.
"You seen him today?" I said, throwing the question out
to all of them.
The guys looked at Tammy. Tammy looked at me. She
shook her head. They shook theirs, too.
"Come on, Tammy. You sure?"
This time she looked away.
"Nope," she said.
"Tammy."
"She said 'no,' man," the kid in the hat said. "Leave her
alone."
I looked at him. A smattering of acne. Wisp of a goatee,
like dust from under the bed. Stud in his nose. Reckless, dumb
expression. What if my child ended up like that? My child.
"Just shut up, will you?" I said.
"Hey, man, I could--"
"Tammy, I've got to talk to him. Something's happened
to his mother."
Her expression changed.
"Like what?"
"Like something not very good. Something bad."
"Is she in the hospital?"
"Big deal," the kid in the hat said. "My ma's in the hospital
like every other week. She's been through detox like
twenty-eight times. Now they won't take her anymore at
Eastern Maine."
"Tammy, this is serious," I said.
She fingered her eyebrow ring, the worry bead implanted
in her face.
"He took--"
"The money. I know. That was stupid."
Tammy shrugged and her shirt rode up.
"He said, 'How far can I go with this money?' I said,
'What do you mean? On a bus?' He said, 'No, right now. In
a taxi.' I said, 'Sixty bucks? Jeez. I don't know.' I said,
'Boston? Maybe Portland?' Twig said, 'No, I just want to go
home.' And then he, like, scoops up four pieces of the pizza
the lady got and he goes out the door. I said, 'Twig, this
ain't good, man. You're gonna end up in MYC "
"I been there," the kid in the hat said. "It's no big deal.
Cottage A, they treat you like shit, but--"
"So that's all, Tammy?" I said. "He just walked out the
door?"
"Yeah," she said, but there was something too sincere
about it, too wide-eyed and innocent.
"Let's walk," I said. "I'm cold."
I started down the hill, and Tammy fell in beside me,
shuffling along in her Nikes. The two guys in hoods were in
front of us, and the kid in the hat walked point. I slowed
and let the boys move ahead.
"So you going back to Tippy's?" I said.
"Sure. She's a little whacked, but hey, who isn't? What
the hell. I never seen a house like that before. It's full of
these friggin' antiques and shit. Rocky shoulda stayed. He
likes all that old stuff."
"But he left."
"Yeah."
There was a new vagueness in her tone. I slowed some
more.
"So where is he really?" I said softly.
"He left. Like I said."
"Went home?"
"I don't know. I didn't go with him. I was watching TV.
Rich lady like that and you know what? No cable."
I waited.
"So what is it?"
Tammy didn't say anything.
"If you want to help him, tell me."
She exhaled impatiently, and looked at the ground.
"He was in town this morning," she said, in a whispering
mumble.
"Where is he now?"
"I don't know."
"Come on, Tammy."
"I don't know."
"Tammy. His mother."
She shook her head, disapproving, not of me, but of herself.
"OK. I don't know why I tell you shit but I do. You ever
been to that history place?"
"What's that?"
"This old house, but it's like this museum. Full of old stuff
with little tags saying where it came from. They give tours.
These historical people. I call them the hysterical people."
"He's there?"
"I don't know. He might be. It's where he goes in the
daytime. Normal people go to the mall, you know? Twig
goes and hangs with these whacked-out old ladies. He's a
friggin' trip, I'll tell you."
Our little platoon, Fagin and the gang, swung onto Main
Street, past a tattoo place that did body piercing, an army
surplus store with dusty mannequins in jungle fatigues. The
kid in the hat made machine-gun noises, then leapt into a
whirling karate kick. Another ninja who needed a good
smack in the head.
There were more people now. The lawyer I'd tried to talk
to before came out of his office and gave me a dismissing
look. A twentyish guy with long limp hair and headphones
looked Tammy up and down. She thrust her chest out and
fixed her mouth in a sneer.
"In your dreams," she said as we passed.
At the corner of the next block, we slowed.
"You wanna go to Kmart?" the kid in the hat said.
"No way," one of the hooded kids said. "I get bagged,
I'm going south."
"Come on, pussy," the kid in the hat said.
"They catch you again, you're gone," Tammy said.
"They ain't gonna catch me. I'm the flash."
I took a notebook from my jacket and wrote my phone
numbers, ripped the paper out, and handed it to Tammy. She
looked at it and stuffed it in the front pocket of her jeans.
"If you see him before I do," I said.
"His mother, huh?"
"Not good."
"Okay," Tammy said. The boys crossed the street, turned
and yelled, "Come on."
"Ain't going," she shouted back.
"So where is this place?" I said.
"Up the hill, on the right. It's got this sign."
"You want to come?"
"I'm going back," Tammy said. "Old dippy Tippy has
this cat that's gonna have kittens and she said I could have
one. I want to watch."
"Good for you," I said.
"I want to see 'em come squirting out. You ever seen anything
being born? My oldest sister, she's a flaming bitch,
but she had her baby at home. We were there, waiting in the
other room, which was bullshit 'cause my mother and my
sister's boyfriend were in there with video cameras, and I
don't know why 'cause my sister, she was screaming and
yelling like they were cutting her up with a chainsaw."
I looked at her, chattering away, now that the boys were
out of earshot.
"It was like this horror movie. She's bawling and then
the baby's coming out and everybody's like, 'Oh, my god,
oh, my god.' I'm in the other room, I'm saying, 'What's it
got? Three heads?' You got kids?"
I shook my head.
"Not yet."
"Well, if you do, don't bring a video camera. That's all I
can say."
And it was, because she skipped across the street, weaving
through traffic like something blown in the wind.
CHAPTER 35


The museum was a brick Greek Revival place with an open-columned porch, and a sign: TOBIAS WELLINGTON

HOUSE-- 1834. HOME OF THE BANGOR HISTORICAL FOUNDATION.
The public was welcome on Tuesdays and Thursdays
from 1 p.m. to 4 p.m.

It was Wednesday. The place was closed.

I walked up the shoveled path to the porch and crossed to
the big double door. It was massive and carved, with
beveled and etched glass. It was locked.

The windows were dark but when I shaded my eyes with
my hands and peered in, I could make out portraits on
the walls, placards beside the portraits. There was a massive
black marble fireplace and columns separating two of the
rooms.

The house was still. The chandeliers didn't swing. The
eyes in the portraits didn't move.

But Rocky did.

He came into the rear of the big room and went to the
back window and peered out. As he turned, I stepped to the
side and pressed myself against the brick wall, between two
windows. I heard faint steps inside the house. They came
closer, then stopped just to my left.

Rocky was looking out.

A truck rumbled past, then a string of cars, and then
there was a pause in the traffic, and quiet. I listened for his
footsteps again. I heard his voice, echoing faintly.
"The gasoliers we think were put in about 1848," Rocky
was saying, in an odd sing-song. "This is the morning-glory
pattern. This is a matched pair between the two. The black
Italian marble fireplaces, we're not sure when they put them
in. Did Wellington put them in when he built the house, or
did "Sidney put them in to make the "house more elaborate?
Most experts think Sidney removed the white marble because
there were four white marble fireplaces upstairs. Now,
originally Wellington had this as a double parlor with a partition
and a door, like all of these old houses of the time. But
Sidney wanted to have the grand salon of Paris--"
He pronounced it Paree. A chill went through me.
I heard his steps, squeaking on the wooden floors. His
monologue went on.
"These are Corinthian columns, as opposed to the Ionic
out on the porch. This is all hand-carved wood, all the
leaves and the scrollwork ..."
And then the voice was fainter and I couldn't make out
the words. I leaned toward the window and peeked in, and
saw Rocky at the other end of the house, standing in front of
a portrait, arms raised, finger pointing.
"Note the detail," he said, and then he slipped from the
room.
I stood on the porch, unsure what to do. Should I interrupt
whatever play-acting Rocky was doing? Would it be
like waking a sleepwalker? And why was it they said you
shouldn't do that? I couldn't remember.
And how had Rocky gotten in? Was there a key? Was he
a member of the historical society? How many times had he
taken the tour?
The gasoliers. The grand salon of Paree.

I stood for a moment, my back against the bricks. Cars
stopped for the light at the intersection and people looked
over at me. The light changed. The cars rolled through. I
eased my way along the wall, slipping past the windows and
around the corner. Stepping carefully on the porch boards, I
made my way to the rear of the house, and down a set of
wooden stairs.
There was a short gravel driveway and a lot big enough
for four cars. It was empty. There was a back door, and I
tried to turn the knob. It turned. I pushed. The door was
locked.
I stood there. Rocky could have locked it from the inside
or he could have gotten in through a window. I continued
on, over the snowbank at the end of the parking lot, behind
the house, into an alcove between the main house and an attached
ell.
Where there were footprints. One fresh set over old
tracks. They led to a wooden bulkhead door, painted green
and peeling. The door was down but there were chips of
paint on top of the snow.
Rocky's entrance.
I looked around, eased one of the doors up, and saw that
there were no stairs. The door covered a stone-lined space,
three feet deep, probably originally used to deliver coal. The
space ended with another wooden door that opened inward.
I stepped into the hole and lowered the bulkhead door down
over me. Crouched in the darkness, I felt for the inner door,
scooched toward it, and pushed.
It swung upward and damp cellar smell billowed out. I
leaned into the space and tried to see the floor, but it was too
dark. The door was heavy and my arm started to cramp, so I
held it with both arms and eased my legs over the stone lip
of the little cairn. I peered down. Felt spider webs on my
face, but I couldn't brush them off. I blew them away from
my mouth, and poked into the darkness with my boot.
The foundation wall was rough stone. Finding toeholds,
I eased my way down, and the door lowered. It swung closed.
I stepped onto the floor. Wiped my face. Peered into the
deepened blackness and waited for my eyes to adjust.
I took a tentative step. And another.
It seemed to be lighter at the far side of the cellar, and I
shuffled forward again. Again.
Something clanged under my feet. There was a roar to
my right, flames and light.
I jumped, then settled. The oil burner had kicked in. I'd
tripped on a pipe.
I listened. There was no sound from upstairs. I waited,
forced myself to count to fifty. Then, in the dim flickering
light, I picked my way across the cellar, between brick
columns and steel posts, and found the stairs.
At the bottom, I stopped. Counted to fifty again.
Started up.
The stairs creaked, but just barely, not like in the movies.
As I continued up, I could see the thin horizontal line of
light at the bottom of the door. It was level with my head,
and then I was above it, and
Something clattered. Hit me in the face. I grabbed at it
and it was cold metal, and I held on.
It was a pipe. It was attached to the vacuum cleaner at
the top of the stairs. I cursed silently and propped the pipe
against the wall. Listened again. Nothing.
I paused at the door, and then felt for a knob, but found a
latch. I eased it up and it made a snap, and I waited and listened.
Pushed gently. The door swung open.
The stairs led to a kitchen. I could see a brick chimney,
a fireplace hung with cooking utensils, and a black slate
sink. There were cups and saucers on the sideboard next to
the sink. Stacks of papers and books beside the cups and
saucers.
Rocky's voice, then steps. He was coming downstairs. He
was coming this way.
"... four white marble fireplaces upstairs," he was saying.
"Each bedroom had a walk-in closet, which was unusual."
He was coming closer. I stood there by the open cellar
door. Should I hide? Should I call out and warn him?
"We're trying to restore the upstairs, too, but it's a long
process. Note that we say restore, not renovate. There's a big
difference and if you follow me into the kitchen, I'll explain--"
"Hey,
Rocky," I said, smiling. "How's it going?"
He froze and said, "Wha--"
"It's okay, buddy. I just need to talk to you."
"No," Rocky said, and he ran from the room.
When I came into the hallway, I saw him running, then
sliding into the front door. He fumbled with the lock,
tugged at the door, fumbled some more.
"Rocky," I said, walking toward him. "It's okay. You
don't have to run. I'm not going to--"
He whirled, his eyes wide, and ran for the stairs, to my
right, leaping up them. I broke into a trot, and started up
behind him. He went to the left, feet pounding. I followed,
through one room full of plastic and plaster pails, and into
another. I called, "Rocky, come on."
But he was clattering down another set of stairs. I followed
and the stairway was narrow and steep, and I half fell
at the bottom, and heard a clang and a crash.
The stairs led to a room behind the kitchen, and I turned
and could see the cellar door, still open. I ran toward it and
heard panting and then a moaning sound, and I reached for
a light switch and hit it and looked down the stairs. The cellar
lights were on. Rocky was on his side on the floor, trying
to crawl, but clutching at his leg. The vacuum cleaner was
upside down beside him. I went down the stairs, crouched
beside him.
"You okay?" I said.
"Leave me alone," he sobbed, scrabbling along the floor.
"Leave me alone."
"Hey, stop. Just stop."
"I didn't do nothin'. I didn't take it."
I put a hand on his shoulder.
"It's okay, Rocky. I don't care about any of that. Just stop.
Just relax. What'd you hurt?"
He reached back and clutched his leg. He was crying,
sobbing in short, quick pants.
"Hey," I said. "Take a deep breath now."
Rocky didn't, but the pants came more slowly and he
rubbed at his knee.
"Is that what you hurt?"
He nodded.
"Can you move it?"
He did, wincing.
"You think it's broken?" I said.
Rocky shook his head. The silver paint around his mouth
still showed faintly and tears had left luminescent trails on
his cheeks. He reached under his glasses and wiped with
his hand. His hand was dirty and it left a long dark streak
from his cheekbone to his chin. He looked small and young
and broken.
How could I tell him?
I helped him to his feet and he put weight on his leg and
took a couple of tentative steps. At the stairs, I put my arm
around his shoulders and lifted, half carrying him upstairs.
In the kitchen, I let him go and he limped to the sink and
stopped, facing the wall. I walked over and stood beside him.
"You okay now?"
Rocky shrugged, shoulders thin under his filthy Tshirt.
When I stood close to him, I could smell him, smell his
hair. He was dirty.
"You come here a lot?" I said.
For a moment he didn't respond, then he nodded.
"How'd you know?"
"Tammy told me."
He frowned.
"I told her I really needed to talk to you. It was important.
She wouldn't have told me otherwise."
"I'll pay back your friend's money," Rocky said.
"That's okay. Don't worry about it."
"I didn't mean to take it. I just... I just did."
"Was it the paint?"
He scowled and shrugged.
"You shouldn't do that, you know. It's very bad for you."
"So?"
"So you shouldn't hurt yourself like that."
"Why not? It doesn't matter."
"Sure it does, Rocky. You're a good kid. You'll do some
good things."
He shook his head.
"I'm not good. Nobody's good," he said.
"Sure you are."
"I'm shit. Everybody's shit."
"No, you're not. Don't talk that way."
He shook his head again and his scowl deepened. His
glasses had slipped down his nose and he pushed them back
up and sniffed.
"It's all shit," Rocky muttered.
"No, come on. What makes you say that? You're a good
kid. You're smart. You like these old houses, don't you?
Someday you'll work in a museum or something, but you're
going to have to--" Get counseling, I thought. Get help.
Get over this somehow. "--get back on track," I said.
"I'm not going back," Rocky said.
"Well, Rocky--"
I paused. He was right. What was there for him to go
back to? A brute of a stepfather? He'd probably marry that
waitress. She'd tell everybody at the restaurant how the kid
played with Legos. They'd all have a good laugh.
"I'm not saying you have to go back. But there are better
places than the street."
"I like it here. I'll stay here."
"Rocky, you can't hide here for the rest of your life."
"I won't hide. I'll work here."
"I don't think they'll let you do that," I said.
"Yeah, they will. They like me here. They say, 'Dave's our
most dedicated member. He's--'"
"Dave?"
Rocky caught himself, looked almost bewildered.
"Yeah, well . . ."
He looked at me blankly.
"Dave," I said. "Not Rocky."
"No. Not Rocky. Rocky left because he had to ... he had
to go."

His eyes narrowed, as though he were reading the fine
print in his own head. He frowned and shook his head.
Something had eluded him, something had slipped from his
grasp.
"He left 'cause--"
"Did something happen?" I said softly.
"No, but my mother said, 'Rusty, he doesn't want to go.'
And Rusty said, "We got one permit. The kid's. Do you understand
that. I'll shoot the goddamn thing. He doesn't
have to even pull the trigger.' And mom said, 'But he
doesn't want to do it. He doesn't want to see you shoot it.'
Rusty gets all mad, and he pounds the table and the beer
spills and he says, 'See what you did, goddamn it,' but I
didn't do it. But he grabs my arm and he twists it and he
makes me take this towel and wipe it up, holding my arm
really tight and going back and forth, back and forth, and
my mom says, 'Leave him alone. Just leave him alone.' Rusty
says, 'Wouldn't I like to, but I got this permit for the little
puke. A hundred bucks for that goddamn moose permit and
I don't care if the little pussy wants to stay home and play
goddamn paper dolls, he's going. And I'll shoot it and I'll
gut it out, and he can just stand there and goddamn watch.'"
I stood motionless and listened.
" 'Why don't you think about somebody other than yourself?'
" Rocky's voice but higher, mimicking his mother,
then low. Rusty.
" 'You leave him out of this.' . . . 'Turn him into a pansy
fruit loop. I don't give a shit.'. . . 'Don't you talk that way
in front of my son.' . . . 'I'm leaving. I don't need this.'"
Rocky paused, as though spirits had left him.
"And then the door, bang, smash. The truck starts,
vroom. He's gone and my mother's crying, but trying to
smile at the same time, and she can really do that, really do
both at once. Cry and smile. And she always says, 'How
'bout we get a movie?' We always get these old movies,
black-and-white and everything 'cause they're the movies
we like. 'You like old things, don't you?' my mom says. 'I
don't know where that came from.' Everything in our house
is, like, modern and brand new. Rusty likes it really clean
and no junk around. If I leave something out, it's gone."
Rocky paused, leaning against the black sink. I stood and
waited and slowly he focused on me.
"So when did all this happen?" I said.
"What?"
"The moose permit?"
"Oh," he said, as though I'd brought it up. "I don't
know. The fall."
"What made you think of it now, Rocky?"
He pushed at his glasses, wiped nervously at his face.
"I don't know. I just did. Sometimes things just kind of
replay in my head. My mom says I have microphone ears
'cause I remember everything people say. Like I'm a tape
recorder."
"She says that?"
"Yeah."
Rocky smiled, looked inward again.
"She's cool. She's a real nice lady. You'd like her. She, like,
never says anything bad about people. She never gets mad.
She'd never do anything to hurt--"
He stopped. Looked troubled for a moment.
"To hurt anybody?"
Rocky saw me again.
"She never would."
"I'm sure," I said.
"Really."
"I believe you."
"Really cool," he said.
"I know."
Rocky started, as though he'd been interrupted.
"You do?"
"Sure," I said.
"How do you know?"
"Well, you just told me."
"Oh," Rocky said. "Well, yeah."
I was off the hook, if I wanted to be. But it wouldn't be
honest, and that left no choice.
"I met her once," I said.
He looked at me. The house popped and creaked.
"When?"
"A few days ago."
"My mother?"
"Yeah. Flossie. That's her name, right?"
He nodded, his mouth slightly open.
"How'd you--"
"I went to your house. I told her you were okay. She was
very worried."
"What'd she say?"
"She just asked how you were. That was it, mostly. Were
you all right? Where were you. And . . . and I told her
about the truck. I'm sorry, but I thought I should."
"The truck?"
"That they thought hit you."
"She musta freaked."
"A little," I said. "She freaked a little."
He gave the glasses a poke. Wiped at his face. He seemed
to be thinking furiously, calculating something. I waited a
moment, then spoke.
"Did you go there last night, Rocky?"
He shook his head.
"Uh-uh."
"Because Tammy told me you wanted to take a cab
home."
"No. I ... I couldn't."
"So you still have the sixty dollars."
"No, I spent it."
"On what?"
"No, I mean, I lost it. It musta fell out of my pocket. But
I can get some more money and I'll pay the lady back. You
don't have to call the cops or anything. I promise I'll pay her
back."
He was a very bad liar.
"That's fine, Rocky. Don't worry about it. So what did
you do last night?"
"I came here," he said.
"You slept?"
"There's a sofa upstairs."
"Must've been tough getting through that cellar in the
dark."
"No, it wasn't that bad 'cause I could see the line of the
door. The light--"
Rocky caught himself. It hadn't been night. It had been
morning. I knew. He knew. The taxi companies would know
whether they'd taken a kid to Woodfield. And back.
He fidgeted. I looked away, tried to look blase. So if he
had come home, why had his mother killed herself? Her
baby was back. Or had she been dead already? Had Rocky
walked in and found her body?
It didn't appear so, though there was something odd
about him. This sing-song recollection of conversations. He
wasn't right. But if he had gone home, why would he leave
again? He must have been exhausted. Hungry. No, he had
the pizza. But why not stay? Why leave in the first place?
Why was he hiding in a museum in a strange city? Why
wasn't he home, where he belonged?
Where his mother had just ended her life.
"How 'bout some lunch, Rocky?" I said, smiling. "I'm
starved."
He shrugged, then suddenly looked right at me.
"What'd you really need to tell me?"
I hesitated.
"Well--"
"That you saw my mom?"
"Well, sort of, but--"
There was a bang. Outside. The porch.
Rocky flinched, turned toward the hallway. There was
another bang, and another. Heavy footsteps on the planks. I
went to the doorway and looked out.
A figure stood at the front door, the silhouette tall
through the frosted glass of the door. A man. He turned the
knob and pushed but the lock held. He rattled the door. I
turned back toward Rocky. He was standing in the middle
of the kitchen, poised to run.
"They know you here?" I said.
"Yeah, but I don't have a key."
"Can we say the door was open and you came in and
locked it?"
"I don't know. I'm not supposed to be here. We gotta
hide. We can't--"
The silhouette left the door and I heard footsteps on the
porch.
"He doesn't have a key, either," I said. "Stand in the corner,
where you can't be seen."
He did, and I moved into the center hallway and looked
into the parlor. I heard steps. A figure passed one window on
the side of the house, but I saw only movement. The man
was walking slowly. He stopped. I pulled my head back as
he appeared in the window, opposite the doorway.

But I saw the face.
The bandage on the nose.
CHAPTER 36

"It's Rusty I whispered.
"Oh, my god," Rocky said in a whisper, "He's gonna kill
me."
And then I heard the cellar door opening, Rocky's sneakers
on the stairs. His faint footsteps scuffed below me, then there
was a muffled bang as the inner door to the bulkhead fell.
Rocky was going out the back, but Rusty was walking
that way, along the porch, moving toward the back steps. I
went to the top of the cellar stairs and hissed, "No, don't," but
Rocky didn't answer. I went to the kitchen window and eased
forward just far enough to see. Rusty was coming toward me,
distorted in the leaded glass, and I backed away. He went past
the window, off the porch, and up the stairs to the back door.
The wooden storm door creaked open. The inner door
rattled. Rattled louder. Then there was a scraping sound.
Rusty was trying to pick the lock.
The bulkhead was ten feet from him, just around the corner.
Could Rocky hear him?
"You little piece of crap," I heard Rusty say. "I'm gonna
wring your goddamn neck."
And then tell him his mother was dead? Nothing like a
shoulder to cry on.
The scraping continued and then Rusty said, "Goddamn
it," and slammed the outer door shut. I backed away from
the window and waited for him to pass, but he didn't. Instead
I heard him mutter, "You're dead, you little shit."
It was quiet. I breathed slowly, in and out. Stood motionless.
Listened. Rusty must have been doing the same.
I waited. A minute passed. Then two more. Rusty was
waiting, like a cat. Another minute and another. I stood,
and so did he, on the other side of the wall. Rocky crouched
like a stowaway between the two bulkhead doors.
Wait, Rocky, I prayed to myself. Just wait.
And then there was a faint scratching, the scritch of
sneakers shifting on concrete. I heard Rusty step off the
landing, then the sound of his boots crunching in the snow.
Moving away.
Moving toward the bulkhead door.
I went to the back door. Turned the bolt and yanked the
door open, and pushed through the wooden storm door and
stepped out onto the landing. I stood there as Rusty turned,
saw me, and stopped.
"What the--"
"A history buff, too? You're a real Renaissance kind of
guy. But sorry, the Greek Revival discussion group doesn't
meet until tomorrow."
He started toward me, muttering obscenities. I had my
hands on my hips and a smile on my face, but my weight
well forward.
"You don't have your buddy now," Rusty said, coming
toward me.
"At least I only needed one. You had to bring the whole
garden club."
He leapt for the landing, both arms outstretched. Banging
me backward, he grabbed me by the shoulders, but I got my
arms between his and both hands around his throat. We
leaned into each other, like elk during rutting season, him looking down and me looking up, and he was grunting, trying
to drive me off the stairs. I held my ground and pushed back and he wasn't as strong as I'd expected. He gave ground, his boots sliding on the ice as I squeezed his throat. He kicked for my groin and I twisted and took the blow on the thigh, and when he kicked again, I rammed into him as his leg was off the ground, and he fell back against the door. I got a leg behind him and thrashed and shoved until he tripped and slid
and landed on his side, his head down over the first step.
His throat was bare, his neck bent back like something
ready for sacrifice. He writhed and I jumped on him, pinned him again, his left arm under my knee, my forearm against his throat.
He gurgled. Choked. His right arm was moving down
by his side and I got my knee up and pinned his hand to the
boards. Reached back and felt his hand, clawing at me, then
the knife, still in the sheath on his belt, but him fumbling
with it and the blade coming out.
I leaned down and yanked it from his hand, then pressed
the back of the blade against his throat.
"Where are your boys now? Who's gonna hold me down,
huh? Gonna cut me again? Huh? Huh?"
I pressed his throat harder, felt the vertebrae against my
arm. He coughed. Gurgled again. His face was distorted under
the bandage, his eyes bulging and I was smiling, the sweet
rage bubbling over inside me like syrup. And then I thought
of the baby, my baby. I thought of Roxanne. I thought of
Clair, his cool grace under fire, and the smile left me. I let up.
And then there was a bang like a door slamming.
The bulkhead.
Rocky.
The sound of footsteps in the snow and then he was gone.
We both knew it.
I eased back on Rusty's neck, and he gasped and coughed
and gasped again. His mouth gaped open and I could see a
white film on his tongue, the silver fillings in his teeth, the
red tadpole at the back of his throat. I kept the point of the
knife against the jugular side of his neck and droplets of
blood formed. I eased back on the knife and he jerked and my
hand brushed against the blood. I wiped it on my shirtfront.
"You're dead," he wheezed.
"And he's a dead boy? Why do you want to kill your own
stepson? What the hell is your problem?"
His breathing was an asthmatic rasp. Still straddling
him, I took him by the throat again.
"What's wrong with you? What do you have against him?
Just because he doesn't play football? Won't shoot a moose?"
I pressed the knife point.
"So you pick on him? In front of your friends? Treat him
like dirt? What the hell's the matter with you? What the
hell is it?"
I pressed with my forearm. He coughed and I let up.
"Gonna . . . kill you . . . slow," Rusty rasped.
As he said it, he smiled.
"That's not what we're talking about. We're talking about
Rocky. I heard you. I heard you out here. 'Gonna wring his
neck. He's dead.' Why? 'Cause his mother killed herself?
What the hell is it?"
Rusty still was smiling, his cockiness returning with his
breath.
"She didn't kill herself. You killed her," he said.
"That's crap and you know it."
"You don't know shit."
"What don't I know?"
"I did everything for that kid. Everything. Took him in
the truck with me every place I went. Tried to teach him to
hunt. I got him his own snow machine. His own four
wheeler. But it was too late. He's a momma's boy. If it weren't
for me, the kid would be a goddamn girl. He'd be wearing a
dress. No boy of mine is gonna be like that. My old man, he
was alive, he'd beat the girl outta him."
"So you come from a long line of sadistic bullies."
"My old man could chew you up and spit you out."
"Made you what you are today? Well, there's something
to be proud of."
"Kiss my--"
I pressed the blade point.
"Why's this boy threaten you so much? Why does he
scare you?"
"I ain't scared of nothing."
"I think you're scared of him. Otherwise, you'd let him
go-"
"Kiss my ass."
"You're shaking in your boots. What does he have on
you? What does he know?"
Rusty smiled up at me, blood oozing from his swelling lip.
"He don't know shit, except for what you taught him.
What'd you teach him to do, skinner?"
I pressed the blade harder and he coughed. I felt an urge
to slice with the knife. To hammer his broken nose with my
fist, hammer it back into his skull. But he was goading me.
He wanted to drag me down, suck me into the sordid mess
that was his life.
And he wanted Rocky. And I was going to find out why.
"Why don't you just let him go?" I said. "Why are you
chasing him?"
Rusty looked at me, his eyes narrowing and crinkling the
white tape on his cheekbones.
"Because he's family," he said. "Why are you?"

I flung myself off him and backed away, dropping the knife
into my jacket pocket and trotting across the backyard of
the house in Rocky's tracks, leaving Rusty on his knees.
Tracks went to the street and disappeared, and I hurried up
the block but Rocky wasn't in sight.
I loped up the hill, the big old houses perched above me,
the roofs of the old downtown below. At the corner of the
next block, I turned and looked back. No Rocky.
I turned right on a cross street, hopping a snow bank and
trotting along in the street. People in passing cars looked at
me curiously. A guy in a pickup honked his horn and swung
wide, as though the road were mined ten feet all around me. I
kept running, looking down the driveways, between the
houses and garages. The street zigged and zagged and popped
out on another main drag, where I paused on the curb.
The police station was somewhere nearby. I could just go
there, tell them.
The traffic broke. I kept running.
I moved in a fast trot back down the hill, slipping on the
ice and snow, skipping between the cars, looking ahead and
on both sides for the red plaid jacket.
Rusty's truck passed.
He was going up the hill, the way I'd come, but the brake
lights went on and he pulled the truck into a driveway and
started to back out. I didn't want to find Rocky now, I'd have
to wave him off. Say, look out, your dad's on my tail.
And he was, the diesel clacking as the truck pulled back
into traffic. I ran along the sidewalk, faster, leaping over
snowbanks, slipping and falling once, but then back on my
feet. But what could he do, shoot me at midday in downtown
Bangor? Jump the curb and run me over? Or lay back
and try to follow, hope that I'd lead him to Rocky?
Rusty did just that, once he had me in sight. I needed to
shake him and get to my truck and get on the road, because
I had a feeling that was where Rocky was now, walking backward with his thumb out. When he ran, he hit the
highway. But if I was quick, I'd get there before somebody
took a chance on the skinny kid with glasses.
I could hear the diesel behind me as I approached the
next cross street. I slowed to a walk, then took a right, walking
faster on the plowed sidewalk. Rusty followed, idling. I
took another right, and started to circle back. The street was
narrow, with big Victorian houses chopped into offices. I
walked along, then cut up a driveway, through a snow-filled
yard behind a dentist's office, and over a short chain-link
fence strung with vines.
The green Dodge roared ahead to get around the block,
and I jumped back over the fence. A face poked out from behind
a shade in the office, and I followed my own tracks
back to the street, up another driveway, into another yard,
where a dog looked up, startled. He woofed, the chain ran
out like line on a fishing reel, and I went over the fence with
the mongrel slashing at my legs.
He ripped my pants. I ran on.
I was a block over now, and couldn't hear the diesel. Looking
up and down the next side street, I took another right,
looked for an easy cut-through. There was a beehive apartment
house, with a double lot for tenants' junk cars, and I
slipped through it, pulling my jacket off as I ran, and turning
it inside out. It was copper-colored quilting now. In the trash
strewn lot, there was a shredded baseball hat embedded in the
snow, and I kicked it free, shook it and stuck it on my head.
And walked. ,
Main Street was the next main drag, and I took a right,
strolling along close to the edge of the buildings. In the distance
ahead of me, at the top of the hill, the Dodge turned
right and headed my way. I walked into a car lot, and bent
to check the stickers.
I waved and continued to work my way up Main Street.
Rusty swung back and I walked through a fried-chicken
place, in one door and out the other. The truck passed. I
crossed the street, cut through to the waterfront, and followed
the railroad tracks. When I came back up over the
concrete wall, I was fifty yards from the bank parking lot. I
hurried over, dumped the hat, peeled off my jacket and put
it back on, started the truck and drove.
Rusty had passed me heading south, and I drove west,
out of the downtown, in the general direction of the interstate.
How long did it take to hitch a ride in Bangor, Maine,
in the middle of the day? I supposed it could take two minutes,
or it could take two hours. A scruffy kid with paint on
his face? I figured I still had time.
I drove fast, past schools and tenements, into the suburban
spread, where the houses had garages and the driveways
had been scraped clean by plows, like finger swipes through
white frosting. The snowbanks narrowed the road and a
hitchhiker here would have to have one foot in traffic.
And Rocky did.
He was walking fast, with his hunched back to the passing
cars, his left arm out, thumb extended. Every few steps,
he'd break into a trot. I pulled the truck alongside him,
leaned over .and swung the passenger door open. Rocky
stood there for a moment. The car behind me stopped, then
pulled around me, the kid at the wheel turning and shouting
an obscenity as he passed.
I gave him the finger. Turned to Rocky.
"Get in," I snapped.
Rocky still stood there.
"Or you can wait for your dad," I said.
Rocky hesitated, then grabbed the door. I shoved books
and a wrench and notebooks and newspapers onto the floor,
and he got in. I started off, ramming through the gears, and
then we were away.
"He isn't my father," Rocky said.
"I noticed," I said.

CHAPTER 37

For miles, we rode in silence. We took the back way,
south to Hampden and then west, and soon the tract houses
gave way to grown-over farms, with gangrenous barns and
farmhouses collapsing slowly into their cellar holes, clapboards
bare as bleached bones. Next to the houses were
trailers, hunched on snow-covered slabs, and then the trailers
gave way to woods, with only an occasional driveway
winding its way into the trees, the NO trespassing signs
stating the obvious.
Climbing the hills of Dixmont, I finally spoke.
"Where you headed?" I said.
Rocky shrugged. "Where you going?"
"Portland," I said.
"That's fine," he said, as though it didn't matter.
Portland, Maine. Portland, Oregon.
"Where you want to go in Portland, Rocky?" I asked him.
His shoulders did their rise and fall. Rocky looked out
the window at the view of far-off ridges to the north.
I didn't want to dump him in Portland. I wanted to handcuff
him to the truck and drive him to the Waldo County
Sheriff's Office in Belfast. I'd hand him over to Divan, say,
"Here he is, deputy. All yours." I glanced over at him, and saw
him blink slowly. He was drowsy, probably having slept very
little the night before. If he dozed off, I could turn off in Dixmont,
head south through Brooks and on to Belfast, on the
coast. I could turn this kid in, continue on to Portland and
start making plans to take care of my own. I'd have to tell Divan
that Rusty had threatened to kill the kid, that something
was seriously wrong there. She could pass it on to DHS, and
maybe make sure they stuck him in a safe house. Rocky could
tell them I hadn't touched him, and I'd be free and clear.
I looked over. He closed his eyes, then opened them. I
turned up the heat, turned on the fan. We'd crossed the
peak of the ridge and were coasting down into Dixmont
Center. The turn-off to Belfast was a mile away. The heat
billowed through the truck cab. Rocky's eyes closed, then
opened, then closed again, then opened but just barely.
The Belfast sign passed, the arrow pointing left. I
slowed, but gradually. Rocky's head was starting to make
tiny circles, and his mouth had fallen open. The intersection
was in sight. I slipped the truck into neutral, touched the
brakes. I'd just roll gently around the corner, and we'd be in
Belfast in twenty minutes, and then--
The phone rang.
Rocky jerked awake, alarmed.
I braked just before the turn-off, pulled over on the
shoulder and grabbed the receiver from between the seats.
"Hello."
"Hi, is this Jack?" a woman's voice said. It was fuzzy and
distant.
"Yeah."
"Jack, this is Mama."
"Oh, hi."
"Can you hear me?" Marna said.
"Yeah. Not great but I can hear you."
"Well, you said to call."
"Right."
"If I talked to the funeral guy, I mean."
I looked at Rocky. He was listening, eyes narrowed behind
his glasses.
"Right," I said, my voice brightening.
"So I got it," Marna said, as though I still didn't.
"You did?"
"Yeah."
"You mean--"
"The cause," she said, her excitement coming through
the static. "I mean, the circumstances and everything."
I looked at Rocky. He was staring intently at me. I
smiled and looked away.
"I called Savant, he's this old guy who comes into the
newsroom. You've seen him. Wears black clothes and never
smiles? Anyway, he wasn't there, but this woman was, who
I've talked to a couple times when I called with a question
about an obit. She's real nice, and we started talking and I
knew she didn't work there all the time, you know? Well,
she doesn't 'cause guess what."
"What?"
"She works for the medical examiner's office. Part time."
"Really."
"Yeah, and I'm like, 'This is too perfect.' "
"So she talked to you?"
I forced a smile again.
"Well, yeah. I mean, I had to--I don't know if you're
supposed to do this. I'm not a reporter--but I kind of
fibbed a little. Well, I didn't really. But I was talking to her
and I was asking her about what she did and did she like it
and all that, and she said she's not a doctor, she's like a technician
or something. And I'm saying I'd like to get out of
this dead-end newspaper job. I mean, I'm not a reporter.
You try typing briefs all day."
"That's okay."
"So anyway, I act like I'm all interested, and I was, sort
of, but it turns out she fixes up the bodies for the funeral
homes, if they've been run over or mangled or whatever, she
kind of makes them look normal again. So they can have the
casket open at the wake and everything."
"No kidding."
"No. And you know who she just worked on?"
"I can guess."
"I'm saying, 'Yes!' I mean, she said self-inflicted gunshot
wound. A woman. Blonde. Did you know they have to wash
the hair?"
"No," I said.
The smile was becoming a strain.
"Oh, yeah. If it has blood in it or something. But anyway,
I'm asking questions, you know, Miss Innocent. And she
says sometimes it's not easy, making the people look presentable.
She says--I wrote it down--she says this lady was
really pretty but she shot herself in the mouth."
The motor ticked. A loaded log truck lumbered past.
Rocky watched only me, his gaze flickering from my eyes to
my mouth and back.
"That's interesting," I said cheerily.
"Well, I guess. And that's not all. She says the hard part
is the bullet took off a little piece of her lip. So get this. She
has to fill in the missing part with this waxy stuff, then
cover the whole thing with lipstick. 'Cause if there's a wake,
you know people are gonna be kneeling and staring right at
the lady's face."
"If there is. Did she say?"
"Oh, shoot. I didn't ask that. I was so wrapped up in this
death stuff," Marna said. "So. How'd I do?"
"Good. Great. I'll talk to you about it more."
"She said the woman shot herself in the mouth, but it was
harder for her--her name's Gretel--because the lady held
the gun, like, close to her mouth but not in it. You know
how they put the gun right in their mouths, like on TV?"
I felt Rocky's stare and suddenly felt very, very sad.
"Yeah. Well, this time the gun was in front of the face
and the mouth was open. But the bullet sort of caught the
lip. Nicked a tooth on the way in, too. Did I tell you that?"
"No," I said.
"And listen to this. She said it was very unusual for a
woman to shoot herself. It's more of a guy thing. And even
more unusual for a woman to shoot herself in the face. Women
are vainer, I guess, and this woman was quite pretty. They
don't want to mess themselves up. They usually use pills. Or
they jump. Did you know most jumpers are women?"
Marna paused.
"I'll be off in a minute, honey," she said, away from the
phone.
"But was there any question?" I said.
"Oh, sorry. About what? Whether she did it?"
"Yeah."
"Well, she didn't say that. She said it was sort of different,
the way it was done and everything, but mostly she was talking
about what she has to do. I was saying, 'Oh, really. Now
how long do you have to go to school for that? Gee, what an
interesting job.' Do you think I shouldn't have done that?
'Cause now she wants to have lunch and talk about it more. I
might, even if you don't care about it. I think it might be
kind of interesting."
I glanced at Rocky. His expression had turned into a
glum sort of scowl. I managed to smile but he wasn't buying
it, and his scowl deepened. He knew I was hiding something.
I prayed he didn't suspect what it was.
"Sure," I said. "It could be. But listen, there really wasn't
any other possibility?"
"You mean, that she didn't shoot herself?"
"Yeah."
"No. I mean, I didn't ask. There was the part about it being
unusual. For a woman, I mean. And the tooth, and the
lip. And then the gun being outside her mouth, not right in
her mouth, but other than that..."
"And that's what it was?"
"What what was?" Marna asked.
"What the decision was?"
"You mean suicide?"
"Yeah."
"That's what she said. Self-inflicted gunshot wound."
"How do they know that she--"
"She what? Was holding the gun?"
"Yeah."
"I don't know. I mean, don't they find it in their hands?"
"That and other things," I said. "Things about the person's
life. Other things."
"Well, was this person upset about something? Depressed?"
I looked at Rocky. His thin legs pressed together, his
oversized sneakers, the little boy's face stuck on a half
grown frame, the glint of silver above his lip.
"Yeah," I said. "She was."
And then Marna said she had to go because something
had spilled. I thanked her and said good-bye and hung up.
When I looked up, Rocky still was staring, his chin jutting
out in defiance.
"That was about my mother, wasn't it," he said.
I looked at him, tried to muster a denial, but couldn't.
"Yeah," I said.
He turned to face forward, folding his arms across his
chest.
"Well, I don't care what anybody says," Rocky said. "She
didn't do it."

CHAPTER 38

"What makes you say that?" I asked, as gently as I
could.
Rocky stared through the windshield and didn't answer.
"You don't want to talk about it?"
He stared. I put the truck in gear, put the blinker on,
and turned left, headed south. I could see him tense.
"Where we going?"
"Belfast," I said, easing the truck through the gears.
"I thought we were going to Portland."
He was suddenly panicky, his dirty fingernails clawing at
his jeans.
"This is serious, Rocky. I think we have to talk to the police.
There's a sheriffs deputy who's been looking into this,
and I think we ought to--"
"No, he'll kill me," Rocky said, reaching for the door.
It popped open and there was a wind-tunnel blast of
noise and cold. Rocky swung his feet out and I said, "No,"
and reached for him. The truck swerved as I fell toward
him, my feet coming off the pedals, one hand gripping the
steering wheel. I groped for the brake pedal with my foot,
grabbed the back of Rocky's jacket. He was poised at the
edge of the door like a skydiver.
"No, don't," I shouted, and the jacket started to pull free.
The truck swerved left and right, crazily, still going forty or
fifty, still too fast. Rocky had one hand on the door frame,
started to pull himself out of the seat.
"No," I said, and my foot hit a pedal but it was the gas,
and the truck accelerated and the door started to close, and
then I found the brake and pressed and the truck whipped
to the right, sliding sideways. Rocky fell back into the cab,
on top of me, and I let go of the steering wheel and we were
sliding backward, then forward, spinning around and around
until there was a crunch and I came off the seat, and Rocky
did, too.
I was wedged between the seat and dash, my legs tangled
in my seat belt. The truck had stalled, but the seat-belt chime
was ringing like an alarm clock, telling me it was time to get
up. I tried, but I couldn't move with Rocky on top of me.
"You okay?" I said.
He didn't answer, but suddenly started flailing, his legs
and arms jabbing me in the face and belly. Then he was off
me and out the door, and I kicked my legs free and squirmed
after him, flopping out onto the snow. The rear of the truck
was jammed in a snowbank. Rocky was running up the road.
I scrambled to my feet, saw a yellow trailer just off the
road to my left. A big heavy woman was standing in the door
yard, and a man was coming out the door. Rocky kept running,
past their driveway, and the man, wearing a baseball
hat, turned and trotted back inside, probably to call the cops.
"Goddamn it," I sputtered, then called, "Rocky, stop."
The woman took a couple of steps toward me.
"Leave the boy alone," she shouted.
I ran past the woman and the driveway but my belly hurt
and my knee, too. Rocky was sprinting up the road, his
plaid jacket whipping behind him. I hobbled to a halt and
turned back. The woman had come out into the road, her
hands on her hips, her belly hanging over the waist of her
gray sweatpants. The front of her sweatshirt said, las veGas,
and she was wearing white basketball shoes, unlaced.
"He your kid?"
I shook my head.
"Then why you chasin' after him?"
" 'Cause I'm his goddamn guardian angel," I said over
my shoulder.
"Goddamn drunks and druggies," the woman called.
"Why don't you go back wherever the hell you came from?"

By the time I got to the truck, Rocky wasn't in sight. With
the woman still watching from the end of the driveway, I
looked the truck over.
The rear end was jammed in the snowbank so that the
rear wheels were off the pavement, the right more than the
left. I got in and turned the key and the truck started. As it
idled quietly, I got out, locked in the front hubs and climbed
back in. With the door open, I put the truck in four-wheel
low and eased out the clutch. The rear wheels spun, the front
wheels, too, and there was a grinding whine. Then the front
end grabbed and the truck lurched forward and rolled.
I shifted out of low, into high, and slammed through the
gears as I sped up the road. The woman glared and I saluted,
and drove fast until I reached the point where I'd last seen
Rocky. Then I slowed and, driving on the left side of the
road, looked for his tracks in the snow.
The snowbank was hard and too high to see over from
the truck. I stopped and got out, and climbed the bank and
looked up the road. The snow between the bank and woods
was coated with ice, an unbroken candied surface as far as I
could see. I got back in the truck, drove another fifty yards,
and stopped again.
"Rocky," I called.
From the woods, there was no answer.
An empty pulp truck passed, southbound, reminding me
that Rocky still could catch a ride and be gone. But he'd
vanished so quickly, I thought he had to be in the woods. I
ran along the top of the snowbank, sure that if he went over
on this side of the road, I should be able to see . . .
Tracks.
They were twenty yards ahead, breaks in the sheen of the
snow that showed Rocky had plunged straight into the
woods, knocking the ice and snow off the spruce curtain as
he went. I ran back for the truck and drove back to the
tracks. Parking the truck, I tucked my jeans in my boots
and laced them tight, and put on insulated gloves. Then I
went over the bank and started to follow, but stopped.
What if he'd just made a loop in the woods and then had
come back to the road? Or crossed over the road?
I ran along the snowbank for thirty or forty yards, eyes on
the woods. There were no breaks. I turned and went back,
and, shrugging through the trees, followed.
The tracks went through the spruce curtain, and then
into the second-growth hardwoods that grew densely behind
them. This had been pasture, twenty or thirty years ago, and maples and birches had filled the high ground close to the road. Rocky's tracks threaded through the trees, first veering to the right, then to the left. His feet had punched through the crust like fists through windows, leaving jagged pieces of
ice on the hard surface of the snow. The snow was a foot deep
near the road, but then deeper, and the leading edge of the
crust slashed at my shins. A hundred yards into the woods,
he had climbed a knoll and then plunged down, and on the
far side of rise, the snow was deeper and Rocky had fallen,
leaving his outline in the crust, like a chalk outline at a death
scene. I stepped through it and continued on.
"Rocky," I called out.
I listened. The treetops crackled in the wind. A chickadee
called in the distance, oblivious to the mess the humans
had made.
Rocky didn't answer.
I plunged on, down into a hollow where there were old
dead pines and cedar huddled in patches. This was lowland,
and there was a faint indentation in the snow that looked
like it might be a streambed. Rocky had crossed it, and I
followed, skipping over his tracks to try to stay on the
higher points that might be rocks or logs or stumps. At the
center of the streambed, I hesitated, then leapt over three of
Rocky's prints, now filled with icy gray water.
He'd broken through. His feet were wet.
But he'd climbed away from the stream, away from the
road, deeper into the woods. I stopped and listened, thinking
I might hear the sound of his footsteps, but I could only
hear the rattle of the wind in the trees. I continued on, starting
to sweat under my jacket. It was uphill now, and there
were blowdowns, shallow-rooted hemlocks and spruces that
had been upended by a storm. They all had fallen in the direction
of the wind, limbs driven into the ground like
stakes, making these woods an almost impassable tangle of
trunks and branches.
Rocky had crawled under one tree, toppled over another.
I followed his route, saw where he had backtracked, where he
had climbed a trunk and then had fallen, breaking branches
and landing hard in the snow. He left his imprint and,
where his hands had been, a stain of blood.
But then he had gotten himself up and moved on, and as
I did, too, the woods fell into shadow. I looked to the northwest
and saw gray clouds covering the sun. The temperature
dropped almost instantly, and I felt a chill where I was
damp with sweat.
I called his name again and again heard only the wind.

CHAPTER 39

The tracks were moving steadily uphill, but veering left
and right around blowdowns, into blind openings that led
to dead ends. I'd been walking for an hour and now Rocky
was stumbling often, and I saw another smudge of blood in
his handprints. Then, as he crossed a shallow ravine where

I plunged into the snow nearly to my hips, I began to see
blood in his right footprints.
The shattered crust was sharp as broken glass, and I
could feel it sawing away at my shins. The legs of my jeans
were wet, and snow had worked its way down inside my left
boot. Rocky had sneakers on. His feet were wet, and we
were a half-mile or more from the road, still moving deeper
into the woods. We'd have to backtrack out, so I could double
every step I took. And Rocky was weaker and colder.
His return trip was going to be tough.
The clouds had moved across the sky in a dense gray
wall, and the wind had picked up. The trees swayed and
snapped, and icy snow blew from the treetops like sleet. I
trudged on, calling Rocky's name into the wind, and then
the snow began to fall. It was a sudden squall, and the snow
was immediately dense, and the distant trees receded into
the white smoke like masts in fog. I walked with my head
down and my collar turned up, stepping from print to print,
still catching an occasional glimpse of blood.
And then, at the crest of a ridge, a fallen figure in red.
Rocky had stumbled down a steep pitch, into a snow
filled hollow, and collapsed. I kicked my way through his
tracks, smashing the crust as I slid down the incline, and
bent to roll him over.
He was in a fetal position, his hands between his legs. I
turned him over and he looked at me. His lips were gray
blue. His teeth were chattering uncontrollably.
"Sorry," he said, the word shivering slowly from him.
"We've got to get you out of here," I said.
His shirt was open and his T-shirt was wet. His neck and
chest were a pale gray. I took my gloves off and took his
hands from between his legs. His fingers were white and
stiff, his fingernails blue. I held his hands in mine, blowing
warm air on them, like it was mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
After a minute, I felt his socks. They were hard, frozen
on his feet. His sneakers were unlaced, filled with snow. His
shins were scraped and the scrapes were dark gashes against
skin the pale color of death. His legs were thin.
I had to figure out how to get him home. Or should I
build a fire and warm him here? Three miles to the road--if
he could walk at all, it was a toss-up. The truck would be
warm. Here, it was snowing harder, and there was no shelter.
Even with a roaring fire, we'd be wet, his clothes would
be sodden.
"Let's go," I said.
I reached down and took him under the arm and lifted.
On his feet, he leaned against me, his whole body shaking. I
bent his fingers into fists, and took my gloves and pushed
and prodded his hands inside them. Then I put my arm
around his shoulders, my hand under his right arm. I could
feel his ribs, the bony fins of his shoulder blades.
"God almighty, don't you ever eat?" I said.
He shivered.
"Here," I said. "I'll help you."
I set off up the grade, slogging through my own tracks,
breaking the crust with my knees. Rocky staggered and I
dragged him, and between us we reached the crest of the
slope. We paused, and I looked at him. Snow-covered hair.
Blue lips. Chattering teeth. White blotches on his cheeks,
where the blood had drained from the tissue, retreated inward to protect the vital organs.
We had to keep moving.
"Come on," I said, and we began to backtrack, following
the meandering path down from where Rocky had led me.
It twisted right, veered left, slipped between trees and through
the scourges of blackberry canes. I turned my shoulders to
protect him from the thorny whips, but one or two slipped
past me, and slashed at his face, leaving bloodless scratch
marks, like the etchings in the glass at the house in Bangor.
Rocky didn't cry out, didn't put up his hands to protect
himself. I held him by the arm, fending him off as we slid
down the sides of ravines, pulling him up as we climbed.
The wind had died, at least in the woods, and the snow fell
steadily, building up on Rocky's head. Every few minutes, I
reached over and brushed his hair off, wiped the snow from
the back of his neck where his thin jacket gaped open.
"A little cold isn't going to bother a couple of rugged
guys like us, is it?" I said.
"I'm not rugged," Rocky said weakly.
I looked at him. It sounded like something he'd had to
admit before.
"I'm not, either," I said, smiling and patting him on the
back. "But maybe between the two of us we'll add up to
rugged. You know. The whole is greater than the sum of the
parts."
"That's not how it goes," he said.
I took him by the forearm and started walking again.
"You're right. I've never been very good at those sayings."
"Aphorisms,"
Rocky murmured.
"Right. Adages. Addage and subtractage. Are you good
at math? I figured you would be. That was never my strong
point. I figure that part of my brain has atrophied and is
now the size of a raisin. And inside that raisin is everything
I still remember about trigonometry, analytic geometry, and
calculus. Maybe it's not a raisin. Maybe it's smaller than
that. What's smaller than a raisin but still wrinkled and
dried up? A currant, maybe . . . Well, it's probably the size
of that. ..."
And so I chattered away while we walked. I couldn't tell
whether Rocky was listening but I hoped my babble gave
him something to think about other than the next frozen
step. And the next. And the next.
I followed my old tracks, and sometimes his, weaving
like a fox coursing for scent. But it seemed colder and
Rocky began to plod more and more clumsily, his snow
covered sneakers catching the crust as he lifted them, sending
jagged pieces of ice skittering across the top of the
snow.
Each of those missteps used energy and calories and heat,
and the blotches on Rocky's cheeks seemed bigger and
whiter. I stopped and brushed him off and then I listened.
In the distance, I heard the drone of a truck. Then a
pause, and then the drone was higher pitched, as the trucker
downshifted. The sound came from my left, which meant
the road probably was in that direction and our path took
too soft an angle. I grabbed Rocky firmly by the arm and
said, "Come on."
I plunged down an incline, stomping the crust as I went.
There were bigger hardwoods on the opposite slope and I
grabbed the trunks, swinging my way up with Rocky in
tow, until I lost my grip and he fell back on his seat in the
snow and just sat there, shaking, his arms folded across his
skinny little chest.
"Get up," I said, and I lifted him from the armpits, and
then started dragging him through the trees. Branches
raked my face, but I didn't care because I could sense the
road ahead, the light beyond the trees.
"We're almost there, buddy," I said, heaving Rocky after
me. "What'd I tell you? Maybe we can start a guiding service,
you and me. Jack and Rocky, registered Maine guides.
How's that sound?"
It sounded like Rusty, with his moose permit, and I
caught myself.
But then I could see the dark druid shapes of the spruces
that lined the road, and I drove ahead with a surge of energy,
towing Rocky behind me.
"We're there, Rocky," I said. "We're gonna get you
thawed out. How 'bout hot chocolate and hot soup and a
hot bath and--"
A car passed. I could hear the drumming of tires on ice
and pavement, and then I couldn't hear it. The car had
stopped. I crunched a few more steps toward the dark hedge
of trees, and then I heard a car door open. The trees were
there, ten feet away, but the maples were dense and I had to
shove them aside and pull Rocky through, step and pull,
step and pull, and then I heard it, a cracking snarl.
A police radio.
"No," Rocky gasped.
I stopped. He fell back in the snow, crouched there and'
was still. I was, too. Through the gaps in the snow-covered
spruces, I could see a blue car. Hear it idling.
"Rocky," I said softly. "What is it? They'll help you."
His hands were over his mouth and the shivering made
them tremble.
"No," he quavered.
"Rocky."
"I'll stay here."
"But you'll freeze to death."
"I'll stay here," he said.
"You can't."
He didn't answer.
"Come on."
Rocky shook his quivering head.
"No," he said. "Don't make me."
"I can't leave you here."
"Don't make me."
"You're freezing."
"No, please."
"Why?"
Rocky rocked on his knees.
"He'll kill me," he said, the words shaking from him like
pennies from a bank.
"Who, Rusty? Why?"
Rocky sat there, his head doing its jackhammer jiggle.
"Why, Rocky?"
"Can't talk," he said. "Because of my mom."
I looked at him. Heard the police radio spit again, the
metallic garble muffled by the falling snow.
"Rocky," I said softly. "What is it?"
He shook his head, like a mechanical doll.
"My mom," Rocky said. "Can't hurt my mom."
Hurt what, I thought. Her memory?
I stood over Rocky like he was a gutted deer I'd dragged
from the woods. The police radio blurted and then there
was a message that came through more clearly.
"Augusta, three thirty-eight."
It was a state trooper, getting a call back from the Augusta
dispatcher.
"Red eighty-eight Toyota pickup. Registered to Jack
McMorrow, P.O. Box, Prosperity. Expires eleven, oh-four.
One prior, speeding, ninety-nine. No warrants."
"Save that for me," the cop said, more distant.
I hesitated. He was at my truck, running the plate. His
cruiser was warm. Rocky was nearly hypothermic, half
frozen. I reached down and touched his cheek. It was cold
and hard. I looked at his eyes, staring rigidly.
He was paralyzed with fear.
If I marched Rocky out of the woods, the cop would get
him in the car, maybe call an ambulance and take him to the
hospital. They'd thaw him out, check for frostbite. And
then they'd--
"Three thirty-one," the radio voice said. "Additional on
that. There's a file six out of Waldo S.O. Jack McMorrow,
D.O.B. eleven-eleven fifty-six. May be in company of a juvenile.
Rocky Doe, D.O.B. one-eighteen-ninety-one. White
male, brown and blue, five-foot five, one-hundred five pounds.
Stop and hold for fifteen eighty-six, Waldo S.O. Parent will
go for juvenile."
"No," Rocky pleaded, closing his eyes.
I stood behind the trees as the cruiser idled. Heard the
cop open and close the doors of my truck. I knew I should
just step through the trees and, like some bounty hunter,
turn in my runaway, send him back to his master.
Turn him over and go home.
Now I could see the cop, walking to his car. He was very
tall, very young, hair shaved past his ears, and a blue Smokey
the Bear hat perched on his head. He stood by the driver's
door of the cruiser and began to talk.
"I've got that subject's vehicle on Route 7 in Jackson.
Subject has apparently gone into the woods. Resident here
said vehicle went off the road and a male juvenile fled the
vehicle. Like I said, the truck is here, but nobody's around. I
can stay here and wait, unless you've got anything else."
The trooper waited. I waited. Rocky huddled at my feet,
snow beginning to cover him like a battlefield casualty.
"Augusta, three thirty-eight," the radio voice said. "If
you can clear there, we've got a two-car accident, Route 9 in
Newburgh. One vehicle is blocking the roadway. Unclear on
injuries at this time."
"Ten four," the cop said.
The car door slammed. The motor roared. The trooper
drove off.
"Yes," Rocky said, teeth chattering, turning the word
staccato.
I hauled him to his feet.
"Let's go," I said.
"Where?" he asked.
"I don't know," I said.
"Not Rusty?"
"No," I said. "Not Rusty. If I can help it."

CHAPTER 40

"Jack," Roxanne said from the kitchen as I pushed
through the door to her house.
I heard the sharp tap of her heels and then she came around
the corner, still in her work slacks, arms outstretched, smiling
as though she loved me more than life itself.
And then she stopped.
"Roxanne," I said. "Roxanne, you remember Rocky.
Rocky, you remember Roxanne."
"Oh," Roxanne said, her eyes showing only a flicker of
surprise, a twinge of disappointment. "Hi. Good to see you
again."
"Hi," Rocky said glumly, as though he didn't believe
there was anything good about it at all.
"You remember Roxanne, don't you? From here in Portland?"
He
looked at her more closely.
"Oh, yeah," Rocky said.
"She's the one who helped get those kids off of you, down
behind the square."
"Yup. I mean, thanks a lot."
"You're welcome, Rocky," Roxanne said, and then she
looked at me and smiled. It was her eyes that said, "What
the hell is this?"
"Rocky had kind of a cold afternoon," I said. "He spent
some time in the woods and got a little frostbitten, I think.
Needs a good warming up."
"Oh," Roxanne said. "Well, that we can do, Rocky. How
'bout some hot chocolate. I have vegetable soup. You like
that?"
He shrugged.
"Yeah, sure."
"We stopped in Unity and had hot chocolate and pizza,"
I said. "I think what he needs is a hot shower and then
maybe something to eat. How's that sound, Rocky?"
"Okay," he said.
"Fine," Roxanne said, smiling at him gently. "You follow
me and I'll show you the bathroom and get you towels and
all that."
She turned and started for the stairs. Rocky still stood
there, his big sneakers leaching puddles onto the hardwood
floor.
"Go ahead," I said. "Go with her."
He did, but reluctantly, clomping up the stairs. I followed,
and while Roxanne showed him the linen closet
where the towels were kept, I went into the bedroom to find
him some clothes. I heard the bathroom door click shut.Roxanne came into the bedroom and that door clicked shut,
too.
"Sorry," I said.
"What's going on?"
"I didn't know where else to take him. He--I tried to
call you, Rox, but I never got hold of you."
"I haven't been home."
"I tried your office."
"I was on site visits."
"I tried the car."
"I was mostly in people's houses."
"Well--"
"What's the matter?"
"He's just absolutely petrified of his stepfather, and I
guess I can see why."
We sat on the edge of the bed, and I told her about Rusty
at the history house, and at my house. I told her about the
cops, and I told her about Marna, and I told her about the
woods.
"My god, Jack. Are you okay?"
Her eyes dropped to my groin.
"Fine," I said. "Well, some little nicks, but nothing . . .
nothing vital."
I managed a smile and took her hand.
"How are you?"
"Good. Fine."
"Felt any kicks or anything?"
"A couple."
"Great," I said.
"Thank god for Clair," Roxanne said.
"I did."
"If anything ever happened ..."
"It didn't."
"It can't," Roxanne said, taking my hand. "Not ever. Not
now."
"It won't."
"So, what do we--"
"What do we do with him? I don't know. If I hand him
over to the cops, they'll give him to Rusty. They have to,
don't they?"
"They don't have to but they will. There's no evidence
that he's done anything to the boy, or that the home is unfit
or anything like that. But Jack--"
"I know. You can't have him here. I'll find another place,
but right now, I just didn't know where else. The guy'll
look for him at the shelters, I would think, and--"

"No, that's not what I was going to ask you."
I waited.
"Jack," Roxanne whispered. "Does he know?"
I looked at her.
"I don't think so. He said she didn't do it, but I think
he's talking about something else, not suicide. He wouldn't
say any more, but if he knew she was dead, he'd be upset,
hysterical, I think. And he's not at all."
"Oh, god," she said. "Somebody's got to tell him."
"I know. I just couldn't bring myself--"
"Well, we'll have to. What if there's a funeral or something
and they can't find the son? That's just not right."
"Nothing about this is right, Rox," I said. "Nothing."
"But he can't just not know."
"I know, but you should hear the kid talk about his
mother. It's like she was his closest friend. He just doesn't
have anybody else. The stepfather, saying he's going to
wring his neck. I heard him."
"But I can't have him here. It's against everything--"
"I know. And I've got your northern counterpart there,
on my trail."
I put my arm around her shoulder.
"Oh, Jack. What about us?"
"We're still here. That hasn't changed. I'm sorry to drag
you into this."
"You didn't drag me. I came willingly."
She kissed me, then held on. And then we heard the
bathroom door open.
"So what do you--"
"Oh, Jack," Roxanne said. "I've got to think about this
one."

Rocky was standing in the hall in his dirty clothes. I told
him I'd find him something clean, and I went to the bedroom
closet and came up with black soccer shorts, gray
sweatpants, a red Adidas T-shirt, and white socks. I didn't
tell him they were Roxanne's.
She showed Rocky to the guestroom and left him to
change. I set the table for three and then took a Sea Dog
pale ale out of the refrigerator and opened it. Roxanne
stirred the soup and put French bread in the oven to heat. I
stood in front of the window and looked out on the lights of
Portland and drank. The ale went down in three gulps, and
I went to get another. Opened it, and lifted it to my mouth
and stopped.
I went to the table and put the bottle down by my glass.
Two would be the limit, because this was no time to get
sloppy, no time to check out. This was only a reprieve. They
were all still out there--and Rocky was here.
Five-five. A hundred and five. Brown and blue. Parent will
go for.
So we fed him by candlelight, because that was the way
we ate, and if Rocky thought it was odd, he didn't show it.
He didn't show much, didn't say much, either. But he ate
slowly and steadily, taking the bread when it was offered, a
second bowl of soup, another glass of milk. Roxanne talked
to him, but didn't interrogate. Instead, she chatted about
living on the harbor, and how she'd learned to tell the ships
by shape and route. Tankers and tugs and fish processors and
Navy ships that used the Bath Iron Works drydock. Rocky
listened and looked out the window at the lights of the
Portland skyline.
"Jack loves the country," Roxanne said, "but I need my
city fix. The buildings and people and just the whole hum
of it all. Jack lived in New York City for a long time and he
says he doesn't miss it, but I would. A city is so, I don't
know, so alive."
"So indifferent. Anonymous."
I smiled.
Rocky looked from me to Roxanne and back.
"We agree to disagree," Roxanne said.
"Huh," Rocky said, puzzled but intrigued. A disagreement
that didn't end with a drunken shouting match? A
disagreement that didn't end with me storming out of the
house?
How novel.
But still Rocky was quiet. He answered in monosyllables,
said please and thank you and not much more.
Finally, when Roxanne couldn't talk about ships anymore,
we lapsed into silence. The beacons on the bank towers
glowed red from across the harbor. Cars flowed across the
bridge, like bubbles in a water-filled tube.
"Pretty, isn't it," Roxanne said.
"Yes, it is," I said. "I admit it."
Rocky sat there, silent and passive. What was this? Some
Zen thing? Had his eruption in the museum house been
some sort of side effect of huffing paint? Kills brain cells.
Can lead to death. Also can cause user to become uncharacteristically
chatty.
I looked at him, then at Roxanne. She raised her eyebrows,
and got up and began to clear the table. Like it was reflex,
Rocky got up, too, nearly upending his chair but reaching
back and catching it before it toppled. He took his plate and
glass and followed Roxanne into the kitchen, then came back
and collected the soup toureen and the bread basket.
Someone--Flossie presumably--had taught Rocky some
manners. Now that someone was dead, a bullet plucked
with tweezers from the base of her brain. She wouldn't be
teaching him anything ever again.
He came back into the dining room and looked out the
window, his back to me. Dishes rattled in the kitchen.
"You want to go online, Rocky?" I asked. "Watch television?"
He
shrugged. I pointed to the remote, on the table in the
adjoining room. Rocky walked that way, padding along in
his socks, stiff and noncommittal. I went to the kitchen and
put my dishes on the counter. Roxanne was bent over, unloading
the dishwasher. I touched the bare band of her
waist, and she stood and put her arm around me.
"Not the way we planned it, is it?" I said.
"Is it ever?" she said.
"Once in a while. Purely by chance."
"It wasn't my first choice," Roxanne said.
She smiled, a little ruefully, and I pulled her close.
"I thought we'd lie in bed and talk about our baby," she
said. "Plan a trip to someplace where we can lie in bed and
talk about our baby some more."
"Where would we do that?"
"I've got it narrowed down to Barcelona, Wales, or Bruges
in Belgium. It's supposed to be sort of a miniature Venice."
Roxanne smiled as I reached out and touched her belly.
"Can you believe it?" I said.
"Yeah," she said. "I can."
I kissed her on the cheekbone, which was hard but silky.
She turned her face and we kissed again.
And the television blared on.
Roxanne gave me a peck on the lips, then bent to the
dishwasher again. When she rose, she put clean plates on
the counter and said, "Well?"
"Well, what?" I said.
"Well, I think somebody should tell him."
"Us?"
"I don't know. But it's got to be done."
"God, does he have a worker or anything? Like you, I
mean?"
"Yeah, maybe, but only nominally. I don't think he's
stayed in one place long enough to have any real contact
with anyone. Certainly there's no relationship there."
"What about a counselor type?"
"Sure. Police might recommend he have one."
"When they hand him back to Rusty."
"Yeah," Roxanne said.
"Then who does that leave?"
She looked at me.
I took a deep breath and exhaled, then started putting
the dirty dishes on the racks. From the other room, we
could hear Rocky blipping through the channels. I stepped
back and looked out and could see him, standing there in
the blue light, the only movement in his right thumb.
"I don't know what the answer is," Roxanne said quietly.
"Sometimes there just isn't one."
"I think we need to turn him over to the police."
"But--"
"And we stress that he needs to be evaluated, and maybe
shouldn't go back to that house to live."
"Who decides that?" I said.
"A district court judge."
"When?"
"As soon as they can find one."
"And in the meantime, Rusty says, 'He's my kid. I'm
taking him home.' The guy, if you'd seen him, you'd know.
He's determined. There's something very wrong--"
The phone rang.
Roxanne went to the end of the counter and picked it up.
"Hello," she said.
"Hello," she said again.
She paused and hung up.
"Somebody was there. I could hear breathing."
"You're sure?"
"Yeah. And a car or something. I could hear a motor."
"A cell phone?"
Roxanne nodded.
"Strange," she said.
"Maybe it was just a random thing."
"Maybe."
She sounded doubtful.
The phone rang again.
"I'll get it this time," I said.
"No," Roxanne said.
She picked up the cordless receiver, and brought it
slowly to her mouth.
"Hello," she said, listening intently.
"Are they there?" I whispered.
"Hello," Roxanne said once more.
And took the phone from her face and pushed the button
to disconnect.
"Same thing?"
"Yeah. Breathing. Traffic noise."
"Let the machine answer it," I said.
"I just thought, well, the number's unlisted and I've got
some moms I've given it to lately in case, you know, things
get real bad at home, or they feel they're going to lose it
with the kids. And I called a couple of friends to tell them
about the baby, so I thought--"
"You haven't been bothered lately?"
"No, not at all. Not here. A couple of big-mouths but
they were all talk. And that was weeks--"
The phone again, the ring cutting through the silence. We
stood and looked and waited. After four rings, the machine
intervened and after a couple of clicks, the light showed
that a message was being left. The light stayed on. Roxanne touched the screen button and we listened as a woman's voice
came from the speaker, speaking quickly and quietly.
"Hi, this is Mama from the newspaper. Calling for Jack.
Jack McMorrow. I hope this is the right number, but, urn,
Jack, I think you need to know what's going on up here. That's extension 298.1 guess you know that."
I picked up the receiver. Marna had hung up.
"What do you think that's about?" Roxanne said.
"I don't know."
"She sounded--"
"Nervous," I said. "Something's wrong."
I dialed the newspaper, and the call went through to the
newsroom. Miss Child answered. I hesitated and handed the
phone to Roxanne.
"Extension 298, please," she said.
Mama's voice mail kicked in. I told it to have Marna call
me back. The television blared. Rocky stood in its flickering
glow, the remote control low at his side like a weapon.
"What do you think it is?" Roxanne said.
"I don't know. Maybe they're thinking of firing me.
Maybe Duguay stopped in again. Maybe something with
Tippy."
The television suddenly went silent. We both looked over
as Rocky tossed the remote on the couch, then thought again
and picked it up and placed it on the table. He stood in his
stocking feet, with his hands in the waist of his sweatpants,
then rubbed his hair wearily. He turned toward us. I walked
toward him and Roxanne followed. Rocky looked at us,
searching our faces for some hint of our intentions.
"There wasn't anything on," he said.
"There never is," I said.
"We disagree about that, too," Roxanne said, and smiled
at Rocky.
"She means she likes to watch TV sometimes," I said.
"Yeah, my mom does, too."
I swallowed hard. Roxanne smiled gently at Rocky. He
looked away, at our reflection in the window. The three of us
stood there like we were at a bad cocktail party.
But it was my party. I had to be the one to break the ice.
"Rocky," I said. "We need to talk."
He looked at me, his mouth twisting, starting to quiver.
Did he know?
"Your mom, she--"
I hesitated. Right in front of me his face was melting, his
mouth pursed, eyes closed behind the glasses. His hands
were out of his sweatpants and he was clenching and unclenching
his fists. Roxanne put her hand on his shoulder.
"It's okay," she said softly.
"She didn't do it," Rocky cried, then sobbed. "She didn't."
"It's all right," I said.
"She didn't. She's a good mom. She's a great mom."
He sobbed again, started to rock in place. I looked at
Roxanne but she was rubbing his shoulder and telling him
it was okay.
"Rocky," I began.
"I know she didn't. I know it."
"But the--"
"The note. It didn't mean nothin'."
I thought. Had Flossie left a note? Had she already been
dead when Rocky had stopped at home?
"It didn't mean she did it," Rocky said, his voice cracking.
"She wouldn't do that. She was really nice. She wouldn't've."
"No?"
"But you're gonna tell, aren't you?"
He looked at Roxanne. Slid a finger under his glasses to
wipe away tears. Sniffed and wiped at his nose. Roxanne
glanced at me; we both were puzzled.
"She's gonna tell 'cause she works for the state and they
have to tell everything, right? They have to, so she'll tell
and everybody'll know."
I glanced at Roxanne. She was listening intently.
"Well, not everybody, Rocky," I said slowly.
"And they're gonna put her in jail but she didn't do it,
she couldn't've. She's just saying that. Goddamn stupid
note. Goddamn kitty. Goddamn stupid lady."
He had stopped sobbing, but the tears were running
down his flushed cheeks as fast as he could brush them away.
Kitty, kitty, kitty. How can you live?
"Your mom didn't do it?" I said.
Rocky shook his head, slowly, then quickly, like a dog
with a rat.
"No," he said.
"Because she couldn't do that, not something like that?"
He shook his head. Roxanne looked at me, then shook
her head, too. I blindly pressed on.
"Well, then who did, if your mom didn't? Who could do
that?"
Rocky turned away from me. Roxanne glared, mouthed
the word, "no." I waited.
"He could," Rocky said, the words low and raspy, coming
through clenched teeth.
"Who?"
Rocky raised his hands to wipe his face. Roxanne still
had her hand on his shoulder. I waited.
And the phone rang. Once. Twice.
Roxanne hesitated, as though she didn't want to leave
Rocky alone with me, then walked to the kitchen and
picked up the receiver. She said hello, and listened, and then
said, yes, I was there, and walked to me. I took the phone
and answered.
"Jack. Sorry to bother you," Marna said. "I mean, I
wouldn't if it weren't something that seemed important. I
mean, I'm dialing from your phone 'cause I knew you had
Roxanne's number on speed dial and I hope you don't mind
or anything but I just thought you'd like to know."
"Know what?" I said.
"The police were here."
"Yeah?"
"Looking for you."
"Why? What police?"
"These detectives. Two of 'em. They came here looking
for you, and Randall said you weren't scheduled to work."
"What'd they want?"
"Well, I didn't hear that part because Randall sorta took
them out of here and went down to the conference room,
but, um--"
"But what?"
"But Lori, she's working on this story and--"
"What story, Marna?"
She didn't answer for a moment.
"Somebody got killed. Down by the river."
"Who? Who was it?"
"Jack, it was a kid."
I felt like the floor was sinking away.
"Yeah?"
"Jack," Marna said. "You know that girl, the one who
came in here?"
"Oh, no," I whispered.
"The one with the cigarette. The one who came in here to
see you? Lori said she's the one who's dead."

CHAPTER 41

I stood there, unsteady.
"What's the matter?" Roxanne said.
Rocky was staring at me, expectant. I looked beyond
him, saw Tammy, sitting at the restaurant table, her lipstick
smudged with cocoa. I sighed.
"What?" Roxanne said.
Rocky scrutinized me, trying to intuit the news. I started
to tell them, said, "The girl--" But then I was startled by
Rocky's intense gaze and I stopped.
"I've got to make a call," I said, and I moved away, but
only as far as the kitchen, where I dug a phone book out of
the drawer and looked for the state police number on the inside
of the front cover. It was toll free. I dialed, and a dispatcher,
a man, answered. I told him my name and said I
understood there were detectives looking for me in Bangor.
He asked me if I was in Bangor, and I said, no, I was in
South Portland, Unit 120, Harbor View. He called me sir,
and asked me to stay on the line. I did, as Roxanne and
Rocky watched from the dining room. I heard police-radio
crackle, and then the dispatcher talking to someone he addressed
by call number. And then he was back.
"Mr. McMorrow. Detective Cobb is on his way to see
you," the dispatcher said. "He'd like you to stay at that location."
"I'll
do that," I said.
I hung up and Roxanne walked toward me. This time it
was my shoulder she took, as Rocky watched.
"What is it?"
I hesitated, then mustered a smile and called to Rocky.
"A family thing," I said. "We'll be right back."
I took Roxanne's hand off my shoulder and led her up the
stairs. In the bedroom, I shut the door and told her what
Marna had said, that the police were on their way.
"I was with her today."
A shimmer of alarm crossed Roxanne's face.
"On the street. I was looking for Rocky. She's one of his
friends. Maybe his only one on the street. I walked along
with her. She was with some other kids. Boys. She was fine.
She was a nice kid. She was just talking. She was talking
about her sister having--" I paused. "--a baby. Oh, god."
"Jack, I'm sorry."
"Yeah."
"Do they know what happened?"
"Maybe. I don't. I mean, Mama just said she was killed.
'The girl in the office with the cigarette,' she said. She blew
smoke on Randall. She was working, sort of, for Tippy. She
was happy, she was fine."
"And they're sure it was a murder?"
"I guess. I don't know. Killed. I guess that means--"
There was a sound behind the door, a faint scratch. I kept
talking as I reached for the knob.
"So I don't know what to tell you, Roxanne. It could
be-- "
I yanked the door open. It was Rocky, but he didn't
flinch, just stood there, square to me, defiant.
"Somebody's dead?" he said.
After a moment, I nodded.
"Yeah," I said.
"Who is it?"
"I don't know," I lied.
"Yes, you do. You're just not telling me."
"All I know is it's a girl. In Bangor. I know it was down
by the river. But nobody told me a name."
"How did she die?"
"I don't know."
"How do you know that it's a girl?"
"They're doing a story at the paper," I said.
"And they don't know who it is?"
"I don't know. The person had heard secondhand, but
she's not a reporter."
I waited. Rocky was still in the doorway, blocking it.
There was something faintly threatening about him, his
presence here on the threshold of the bedroom, with the bed
neatly made, Roxanne's pumps on the floor by the closet
door, the smell of her perfume in the air. A wave came over
me, a feeling that Rocky didn't belong here, in this room, in
this house, in my world, with my baby. That murder didn't
belong in our house.
"So why don't we just go down and--"
"I know who it is," Rocky said suddenly.
For a moment I didn't say anything. I heard Roxanne
breathing. Rocky scratched his nose, and I heard that, too.
"You do?" I said.
"Yeah. It's Tammy."
I swallowed slowly. Roxanne looked at me. The phone
rang in the bedroom. I went to the table by the bed and answered
it.
"Jack, it's me," Marna whispered.
I watched Rocky. He took a step into the room. Roxanne
stood tensely, five feet from him. I held the phone and listened.
"I
just thought I'd let you know what's going on. The
girl, the one who was killed. They're saying she was stabbed."
"I see."
"And Lori, she's been trying to call you at home. She's
trying to find out about the girl, more about her life."
"It was short," I said.
"I guess. But the Bangor Daily, they've got, like, three reporters
working on this story and Lori is all alone on it. So
she's looking for some different angle. She's left messages at
your house. I don't know if you want to talk to her about it,
but I thought--"
"Not now," I said, watching Rocky watch me.
"Oh," Marna said. "Sorry. I mean, I didn't mean to interrupt--"
"No, that's fine. Maybe I'll talk to her later."
I hung up and moved toward Rocky and Roxanne.
"So what makes you say that?" I asked him.
He smirked, a bitter, defeated expression.
"You know I'm right. She liked me. And anybody who
likes me has bad things happen to them."
He shook his head and gave a sad sort of snort.
"Is that true?" Roxanne said.
. I waited.
"Sure. Tammy, she liked me. She stuck up for me. She
even got in a fight for me once. And there was this kid in
fifth grade, we were friends and he came over to my house
and everything, and he got this infection and he died. I'm
like, what's that guy with the hood and the big knife thing?"
"The Grim Reaper," I said.
He drifted off in thought for a moment but I brought
him back.
"Is that all, Rocky? A friend in fifth grade and a friend on
the street now? That doesn't seem like so much."
He looked at us, first one, then the other. And then he
pushed his glasses up and dug at his nose again.
"Well, there's my mom," Rocky said.
He paused. We waited. I wasn't breathing. Roxanne's
lips were pursed, her arms crossed.
"She likes me and it's made her life pretty crappy."
I exhaled silently. Roxanne wet her lips. Rocky smiled,
an odd, unsettling grin.
"So," he said. "Why are you guys letting me hang around?"
With that he turned and bounded down the stairs. I
glanced at Roxanne and followed, and found him by the
front door, holding his soggy sneakers.
"My shoes, they're all wet inside. The snow melted and
now they're, like, soaked."
"We can dry them with a hair dryer. I'll get it for you."
"Naah."
"Suit yourself. But wet feet are no fun in the cold."
"Well. . ."
"I'll get it," I said, and I went back up the stairs to the
bathroom. The hair dryer was on the counter, plugged into
the wall. I yanked the plug out and Roxanne came in.
"You're going to let him go?"
"Should I tie him to a chair? They'll get me for that,
tot)."
"I don't know. Let me make some calls. Maybe I can get a blue paper for him. He's not right."
"How long will that take?"
"I don't know. I can get the city police over here in two
minutes."
"You think he's nuts enough for them to take him in?"
"Involuntary? I don't know," Roxanne said. "It's a judgment
call, but you heard him. He's scary."
"And then even if they do take him, what then?"
"Jack," she said. "Would you rather have him here?"
I looked at her. Eyes full of worry, arms crossed protectively
over her breasts. It was decision time, the first of many
to come. This kid or my kid? Who will it be, Peter Pan?
"No," I said.
"What do you think the detective is going to say when
he sees him here?" Roxanne said.
"I think he's going to have some questions for him. And
then they'll take him away."
I looked at the hair dryer.
"Is there a way to make this thing just blow cold air?"

There was, and I alternated between that setting and the
warmer one, pulling the nozzle out of the shoe every few

minutes and checking the soggy lining. Roxanne was by
the kitchen sink, grimly picking dead leaves off a house
plant. I was sitting in a straight chair in front of the big
window, and Rocky was perched on the edge of the couch,
watching me.
Rocky didn't ask about Tammy and I didn't bring it up,
either. A light tanker drifted by, its navigation lights slipping
through the blackness as it moved out into Casco Bay.
I talked about working as a merchant seaman or a fisherman
in the winter and how tough it must be, out there in the
vast Atlantic, an ice-cold ocean as deadly as boiling oil.
"They have to go out and chop ice off the railings and
deck, and they can have storms with forty-foot waves. My
dad was in the Navy in World War II and he used to talk
about waves towering over his ship, which was towering in
itself. Way up there, this wall of water, and then it comes
crashing down. Ba-boom."
That killed five minutes, which meant Cobb was five
miles closer, probably more. It was one hundred and thirty
miles from Bangor to Portland, less if he had been anywhere
to the south. If the interstate was clear, he'd be in the passing
lane doing the cop's customary eighty. I figured it
would take him another hour and fifteen, anyway.
The hair dryer kept blowing. I kept talking. Rocky
watched me, holding one sneaker while I worked on the
other. Before I switched them, I'd turn up the heat for a few
seconds, so the shoes were hot, like cookies right out of the
oven.
Roxanne finished one plant and started on another. The
tanker moved out of sight, and only the lights of Portland
showed, with headlights moving like orderly columns of
fireflies. I asked Rocky if he thought they looked like fireflies
and he shook his head glumly.
"A torchlight parade on a mountain," Roxanne chimed in.
"She skis a lot," I said. "You ski?"
.Another shake of the head.
"Me neither. I snowshoe. You do that?"
"Uh-uh," Rocky said.
"You see a lot more. Snowshoe hares. I saw a snowy owl
this winter. Ever seen one?"
He shook his head, lost in thought.
"Beautiful birds. They come down from Canada when
prey is scarce. This one stayed near this clearing in the
woods near my house for about a week. I went out there
with my binoculars and a folding chair and watched him."
Rocky didn't respond. I continued.
"You know what they think it was eating? Cats."
"Oh, god, Jack," Roxanne said.
"Yeah, it was there a week and my buddy, Clair, he started
out with seven or eight barn cats, and in a week, he only was
seeing three or four. The lady across and up the road from
him lost a pet one, though. Kind of sad. She'd be out there
on the steps, yelling, 'Here kitty, kitty, kitty.'"
Rocky flinched. Roxanne looked up.
"You know, Rocky, we never did talk about that," I said
softly.
He got up from the couch and picked up the remote.
Pointed it at the TV and it flickered on. The scenes spun by
like a newsreel.
"Yeah, well..." Rocky said.
"So what's the deal?"
He stared at the screen. I felt Roxanne listening. I
waited. Rocky didn't speak. I turned the hair dryer off. And
the phone rang.
Roxanne answered it. She sad, "Yes," and "Okay," and
then turned away and started giving directions to the condo.
"Yes, it is," Roxanne said. "Yeah. It's a Ford Explorer. It's
green. Yeah, it's right out front. Uh-huh."
I listened, but watched Rocky. The TV channels
whirled--a flooded trailer park, a hockey game, two cops
with guns drawn--but he was listening to Roxanne, too. I
turned the hair dryer back on and Roxanne hung up.
"Somebody coming over?" I said.
"Yeah," Roxanne said.
I could see Rocky tense.
"Tomorrow," she said. "Somebody from work."
"They know the way?"
"I told them."
She went around the corner and I heard the bathroom
door shut. I got up and held the shoe and hair dryer out to
Rocky.
"Here," I said. "I'm not your manservant,"
He turned from the TV and took the shoe and held the
dryer in it, still holding the remote.
"I'll be right back to spell you," I said.
I went around the corner to the bathroom. The door
was open a crack, and Roxanne was standing in front of the
mirror.
"A half-hour," Roxanne said.
"Cobb?"
"No. Another name. A man. From Bangor."
"Bangor police?"
"I guess so."
"You tell him about--"
She shook her head.
"No. I just gave him directions."
Roxanne peered in the mirror and brushed at the skin
under her eyes. She frowned.
"I look like hell," she said.
"No, you don't."
"Yes, I do."
She turned to me, frown still in place.
"And I want him out of here. I spend ten hours a day
dealing with kids. I talk to their mothers and their fathers
and their stepfathers and boyfriends and girlfriends and--"
And then I felt a chill, a draft.
I backed from the bathroom, rounded the corner, and
walked into the room. The TV was on. The hair dryer was running. It was on the table beside the remote control. The
sliding door was open a crack. The sneakers were gone and
so was Rocky.
"Shit," I said.
I slid the door open and walked out onto the deck, my
socks catching on the snow. Rocky's tracks crossed the deck
to the stairs. I walked over and looked down. He'd taken a
left and hugged the building, heading in the direction of
the street.
"Fine," I said aloud. "Go freeze to death. Get your throat
slit and your head pounded in."
And then I heard myself and didn't like the sound of my
own words. I cursed and padded back to the door and inside.
Roxanne was leaning over the table to turn off the hair
dryer.

"Gone again?"
CHAPTER 42


The car was a dark blue Crown Vic, unmarked. I
watched from the bedroom window as it pulled into the
space between Roxanne's Explorer and my truck. The headlights
went out and I could see two men inside. They sat for
a moment and then got out. The one on the passenger side
was Cobb, and as I watched, he reached back into the car
and took out a flashlight and shined it inside the cab of my
truck. The other detective, a younger guy in a black leather
jacket, came around the car and my truck and played his
light in from the passenger side, toward the back of the seat,
the gun rack. Then both lights went out and the detectives
walked quickly toward the door.

Roxanne let them in.

"Hello again," I heard Cobb say as I came down the
stairs. "This is Detective Bruno of the Bangor Police Department.
Is Mr. McMorrow--"

I appeared and Cobb paused.

"Hi," I said.

"Hello," Cobb said. He smiled and introduced the other
detective again. He nodded at me, his black eyes searching
my face. I could smell cologne on him, which seemed out of
character. Roxanne turned toward the kitchen and he reflexively
looked her up and down, then turned back to me.

"Hey, listen, Mr. McMorrow," Cobb said, sounding agreeable.
"We don't want to bother Ms. Masterson here. I'm sure
she's got things to do. So how 'bout we run over to Portland
P.D. so we can talk?"
I considered it for a moment. They were taking me in,
voluntarily. I flashed back to New York homicide cops. I
could still hear them:
"You don't say the word suspect 'cause that means Miranda
rights.... You always try to take them easy first, McMorrow,
'cause a guy isn't gonna say shit after you've banged his head on the
car.. . . This ain't TV, you know what I'm saying?"
So what was this? I searched my memory for the term.
"A noncustodial interrogation?" I said.
Bruno's eyes narrowed.
"Jesus, McMorrow," Cobb said. "What you doing? Going
to the criminal justice academy or something? We're
just cops. We forgot all those big words, isn't that right?"
Bruno nodded. A lie.
Cobb said. "Hey, I'll drive. We'll bring you home."
He made it sound like we were going for beers. The three
of us. Buddies. I turned toward Roxanne, saw the concern in
her eyes, concern for me, for us, for all of us. I turned back to
the cops.
"But there's something I should tell you," I said.
Cobb had moved toward the door, but he stopped. The
Bangor detective hadn't taken his eyes off me.
"Rocky was here," I said. "But he just took off."
"How much lead time?" Cobb said.
I told him.
"Shit," he said.
"Right," I said.
I grabbed a leather jacket, told Roxanne to lock the doors
and out we went. Down the steps and all the way to the car,
Bruno stayed to my right and Cobb to my left. As we
reached the car, Bruno took a radio out of his jacket pocket
and called Portland P.D. He gave his call number and
Cobb's and asked Portland and South Portland to look for
Rocky. Bruno knew his name, his age. When he paused, I
added the glasses, the sweatpants.
We waited, then heard the call come over. An ATL for
area units, with name and description. Stop and hold for S.P.
three thirty-one and Bangor P.D. Juvenile wanted for questioning
in connection with ten forty-eight, Bangor this date.
A ten forty-eight was a homicide.
Cobb smiled and opened the back door of the car. I
started to get in, but Bruno put his hand on my shoulder.
"Hey, Mr. McMorrow," he said. "I noticed you've got the
gun rack and everything in your truck. You carrying anything
you shouldn't be?"
"No," I said.
"You're sure?"
"Yeah."
But as I leaned toward the car again, I remembered. Patted
my pocket. Felt the weight of it against my hip.
I stood again.
"There's a knife in my right jacket pocket," I said.
"Okay," Bruno said, moving close behind me. There was
just a hint of tension in his voice, more than a hint in mine.
"Why don't you just kind of empty your pockets, sir," he
said.
"The knife's not mine," I said.
"Is that right?" Cobb said.
"It's Rusty's. I took it from him."
"Uh-huh," Bruno said. "Let's see it. Right on the roof of
the car there."
"He tried to use it on me."
I fished it out and placed it on the car roof, where it
rocked like a teeter-totter on the curve of the snow-dusted
metal.
"Oh, yeah?" Cobb said.
I followed the knife with a sheaf of folded bills. Some
change. A crumpled receipt. My wallet and my keys. On
the key ring there was a thirty-ought-six cartridge, a gift
given me by Clair when I'd finally learned to shoot straight.
"It's a dummy," I said. "My friend's a Marine."
"Right," Cobb said. "Rambo, there. McMorrow's got
this friend who's some kind of Green Beret or something.
He's the one busted the logger guy's nose. A real bad-ass but
with gray hair."
"Silver," I said.
"Hey, who's telling this story, McMorrow?"
Cobb was smiling again. Bruno wasn't.
"That it?" he said, when my pockets were empty.
"Yeah."
"Would you mind if I checked, just in case you missed
something?"
I turned and put my hands on the top of the car. Bruno
patted me down. Neck and underarms, waist and crotch, boot tops, left and right. Cobb leaned into the front seat and came out with a small paper bag and a surgical glove. He put the glove on and used that hand to pick up the knife by its ends and drop it into the bag.
"You're probably gonna find blood on it."
"Is that right, McMorrow?"
"Rusty's," I said. "He got cut a little when I took it away
from him."
"No kidding," Cobb said, and then to Bruno. "See, I.told
you we'd have something to talk about. I mean, for a newspaper
guy, McMorrow here is a very interesting person."CHAPTER 43


We parked in the garage that was part of the building, a
big modern place with a glass-fronted entrance that let you
look in at the people, sort of like an ant farm filled with cops.
Cobb and Bruno flashed their gold badges to the dispatcher
in the window and she buzzed us in, Cobb first, then me, and
Bruno bringing up the rear. A detective coming down the
stairs, a short muscular guy in jeans with a nine-millimeter
on his hip, knew Cobb and they said hey and hello and hit
each other on the shoulder. Then Cobb introduced Bruno
while I stood there like somebody's tagalong little brother.

Except I wasn't part of their brotherhood, and the Portland
cop knew it. He looked at me, then at my hands, to see
if they were cuffed.

We went past the dispatcher's counter and into another
room, and the Portland cop came back with a key on a plastic
tag. He led the way up the stairs and down a hall, and opened
the door. The detectives said, "Thanks." I didn't bother.

The room was white with white plastic chairs and a white
topped table. Cobb motioned for me to sit and I did, and he
and Bruno did, too. Cobb's black tape recorder went in the
center of the table, with Bruno's black-and-silver one beside it.

"There," Cobb said, smiling. "Stereo."

"Okay, Mr. McMorrow," Bruno said, very seriously

as if to offset Cobb's banter. "Tell us about your day."
I took a deep breath and folded my hands in front of me
on the table.
"It's been a long one," I said.
"We got time," Cobb said.
So I started off, as the little red lights flickered in front of
me. Cobb paced and listened. Bruno, his hair just so, teeth
very white, sat and took notes in a small coilbound pad.
When he wrote, he stuck out his tongue.
I started with the visit from Rusty and his buddies, and
Bruno looked up when I got to the part about the pants coming
off and the knife coming out. But he didn't say anything,
and Cobb didn't either. I'd expected Cobb to rush things
along because he'd heard it before, but instead he asked some
of the same questions he'd asked that morning. He even
asked me to back up to my conversation with Flossie.
"What was it you said to her?"
I told him again. About Rocky. About Kitty.
"But it's not a cat?" Cobb said.
"I don't think so. I think it's a person. A woman or a girl.
Like I told you, there was a woman killed in a hit-and-run."
"Yeah, right, and her name was Kathy or something,"
Cobb said.
Bruno looked at him.
"Begins with a K," Cobb said.
Bruno looked puzzled.
"An old case," the older detective said. "McMorrow's
idea, not mine."
And then he told me to keep going. I did, recounting my
visit to Bangor to search for Rocky. I told them about finding
Tammy and talking to her on the street. When I got to the
part where she told me Rocky was at the museum, Bruno
told me to back up and start again, because he couldn't keep
up with me. That was transparent, but I did it anyway.
Before I talked about the museum, Cobb went and got
three coffees from a machine. I didn't drink mine and Bruno
didn't, either. Cobb slurped and said, "Go ahead," and I did.
Rocky in the museum. Rocky giving the tour. Rocky denying
he went home that night, the night his mother died,
but slipping up when it came to the part about the light in
the cellar. Rocky saying his father was going to kill him.
Rusty saying he was going to wring Rocky's neck.
"A lot of parents say that, don't you think?" Cobb said.
"Not like that," I said. "This was meaner."
He shrugged, and then I talked about grappling with
Rusty, how I felt he'd threatened Rocky, how he tried to use
the knife on me when I had him down.
"He says you jumped him and pulled a knife on him so
the kid could get away," Cobb said.
"That's not true," I said.
"What's that on your shirt?" Bruno said.
I looked down. Near my waist, there was a brown stain in
the denim.
"I think it's blood. He jerked around and the knife cut
him."
"We're gonna have to take that shirt," he said.
"Whatever," I said.
So then there was the chase on the streets, and the ride in
the truck. I told them about Rocky saying things like, "She
didn't do it," and "They'll put her in jail."
"For what?" Bruno said.
"I don't know," I said.
"Like she's alive?" Cobb asked.
"Yeah. He said something about not hurting her. And
when he figured out I was trying to turn him over to the cops,
he said, 'He'll kill me,' and tried to jump out of the truck."
"Who'll kill him?" Cobb said.
"Rusty, I think."
And on it went, how we got to Roxanne's and Rocky was
outside the door and he guessed it was Tammy who was dead.
The talk about "stupid kitty," and more about his mother
going to jail.
"What did he say?Exactly?"Cobb said, finally taking a seat.
"I don't remember exactly. Something like, 'She couldn't we
done it. She's just saying she did.' And I said something
like, 'Who could do it?' And Rocky said, 'He could.' "
"Could what?"
"I don't know. Were you going to put her in jail for
something?"
"Not that I know of."
"And you would know, right?"
"You would think so," Cobb said.
"Jesas," Bruno muttered.
They paused. The black recorder clicked as the tape ran
out. Bruno flipped the cassette.
"So," Cobb said.
"So he guessed who was dead," I said. "He guessed it was
Tammy. After I heard about it, I was talking to Roxanne.
He was listening. Through the door."
"How'd you hear?" Bruno asked.
I hesitated, then told him.
"Newspeople stick together, huh?" Cobb said.
"Like cops," I said.
"What'd he hear? Rocky, I mean," Bruno said.
"Through the door?"
"Right."
"I don't know. That somebody was dead. That it
was a kid, a girl. Maybe that I'd just talked to her."
"Would that be enough?"
I thought, my head in my hands, my elbows on the table.
The recorders made a very faint hum. I looked up suddenly
and caught Cobb staring at me intently, the offhand facade
peeled back.
He looked away.
"I don't know," I said. "Maybe. He knew I'd spent some
time with Tammy. She was the only street kid I really knew,
except for him. He knew I'd set her up with Tippy Danforth
and all that."
"The cat lady," Cobb said.
"But not the same one," Bruno said.
"No," I said. "Because the other one's dead."
"Since when?" Cobb asked.
"1987," I said. "The date on the note."
"And what's the connection?" Bruno said.
Cobb answered.
"The kuh sound," he said.

CHAPTER 44

But that was only the beginning. I talked and they
listened intently. Noted every change of my expression,
searched for meaning in every pause, every swallow, every
rub of my nose, scratch of my head. No one gets more
complete attention than a witness in a murder investigation,
unless, of course, it's a suspect.

Maybe I was a little of both.
They wanted to talk about the time I spent with Tammy.
I recounted our conversations, described the boys she had
been with before she went for a walk with me. I tried to remember
everything she'd said about her family, her home.
At nine forty-five, Cobb left the room and when he came
back, he had Divan with him, from Waldo County.
Jack McMorrow. This is your life.
"Hi, there," I said.
"Hello, Mr. McMorrow," Divan said.
"You know each other?" Bruno said.
"We go way back," I said. "A couple of days. Seems like
years."
Divan gave me a noncommittal smile.
"You don't mind if Officer Divan joins us at this late
date? She's assisting in the investigation," Cobb said.
"What investigation?"
He hesitated, then smiled, his defensive reflex.
"You've got a suicide in Woodfield, a homicide in Bangor,"
I said.
"So what's the connection?" Bruno said.
Bruno glanced up at Cobb. Divan looked at him, too.
Cobb stared at me, and then the grin kicked in.
"I'm looking at one of them," he said.
"True," I said. "And don't forget you've got a runaway,
too. What's the connection there?"
"We'd like to find him," Cobb said, "but every time we
show up, you've turned him loose."
"I didn't turn him loose. He bolted."
One smile. Two cold stares.
Cobb brushed at his bald spot and turned. As he started to
pace, he asked me if I had any idea where Rocky might have
gone. I said I didn't, really. Monument Square. A shelter. The
mall. But if he made the highway and stuck out his thumb,
he could be anywhere.
They wanted to know about the fight, again.
I told them.
They wanted to know what I said to Rocky in the museum,
what he said to me.
I told them.
They wanted to know what Rusty said at the museum.
I told them.
They wanted to know everything that happened on the
ride from Bangor. The time at Roxanne's. They wanted to
know what I'd said to Roxanne in the bedroom.
I told them that, too.
They wanted to know what I thought of Tammy, about
the Indian restaurant, again. Tippy again. The part about
the taxi. Everything, again and again.
At ten forty, I realized what made Cobb a good detective.
Bruno and Divan looked pale and drawn, but Cobb didn't
tire. In fact, as the night went on, he became more animated,
more focused, more intent on my every word. He paced the
room, pawed at his bald spot, gestured with his hands. It was
like we were screenwriters collaborating on a script.
"Now tell me again why you think Rocky is afraid of his
stepfather. ..."
The coffee curdled and the tapes stacked up, carefully labeled
in Bruno's left-handed script. And then Cobb suddenly
smiled and said, "Well, I hate to cut this short."
He smiled. Bruno looked relieved.
"But we need your clothes and your boots."
"Okay."
"And we need your truck."
"Yup."
"And we need to talk to your girlfriend."
"Now?"
"As soon as she can get here. Can she bring you some
clothes?"
"Yeah," I said. "You want me to call her?"
"We'll take care of it," Cobb said.
"How long will she be? She has to get up in the morning
and she's pregnant."
The investigation halted for a moment of awkward silence.
The business of violent death had been oddly interrupted
by news of impending birth.
"Hey, this is gonna sound funny, coming right now, but
would you mind giving us a blood sample?"
I shrugged.
"Just to sort of nail things down for us."
"Nail things down which way?" I said, looking up from
the table.
I waited for an answer. It didn't come.

It was eleven thirty-five, way past her bedtime, when the police
cruiser drew up in front of the door. A cop came around
to open the car door for her. She was pale and worried, like an
indicted celebrity in a newspaper photograph. She swung her
legs out of the car and visibly steeled herself and started for
the door, a small duffel in hand, the cop at her side.
The glass door clicked and opened and Roxanne strode
through. When she saw me, she hurried toward me, her
eyes searching for a clue to my status, my state of mind. I
smiled and she came to me and took my hand. I took the
bag and Divan appeared from the dispatch room to my
right and Roxanne gave my hand a squeeze, and Divan said
hello and I said, "I'll- be here," and Divan led her through
another door and she was gone. I stood there for a moment,
and then Bruno materialized, holding a grocery bag. He
took my bag and unzipped it, and rummaged through it.
"She bring the Uzi?" I said.
Bruno looked at me, startled. Then he got it, but he
didn't smile, just told me to follow him down the hall to an
interview room, where I stripped and handed my clothes
and boots to him through a crack in the door. Then I closed
the door and glanced at myself in the mirror. I looked old,
face drawn and lined, my skin a stubbled pale gray in the
fluorescent light. But the mirror no doubt was one way, so I
turned and put on the shorts and jeans, shirt and sneakers.
Roxanne had forgotten socks.
So with bare ankles, I waited for her. From my chair, I
could hear the radio chatter, the dispatchers talking to people
who had called on the phone. "Is he conscious now,
ma'am?. . . Does your boyfriend have the weapon at this
time?. . . Just stay put, sir. We'll send someone over to talk
to your neighbors. . . . What was your daughter wearing,
ma'am? Ma'am, we'll do our best to locate her. No, there have
been no accidents tonight. She's probably fine, ma'am. . . ."
I wouldn't be so sure.
I got up and stretched, looked toward the door through
which Roxanne had disappeared. I'd tried to protect a kid,
and Roxanne had found herself having to protect me. From
whom? From Rusty? Or was the common denominator here
a skinny little kid who called himself the Grim Reaper?
A shudder ran through me as I sat there. Rocky in my
house. Rocky taken in by Tippy, trusting Tippy. Rocky
standing silently outside Roxanne's bedroom door. Was
there a pathological pattern? Did Rocky slash the hands
that fed him? Had this Kitty tried to help him? Was that
why there was a question?
How could she live?
And then the door behind me clicked, and I turned as Divan thanked Roxanne for coming in. A patrol car pulled up and I looked to Divan and she said I could go, they were all set.
We rode in silence, me and a blond woman cop. From the bridge, the harbor waters and the bay were black as space. And then we were off the bridge, and turning into the condos,
where the day ended as it had begun, with flashing
lights outside my door.
This time it was a Portland P.D. ramp truck that had
rolled into the parking lot at Roxanne's building. The
ramp-truck driver was a young guy who leapt from the cab
as Roxanne's neighbors watched from their windows. I
stood with the cop and watched, too, as the wrecker driver
wrote the truck registration number on a form on a clipboard.
Roxanne went inside.
"I need to sign anything?" I called to the driver.
"No, sir," he said. "And everything in the car stays."
"Cell phone?"
"Everything."
And then from the cab of the truck, the driver took a pole
with hooks on both ends, and used it to pop open my truck
door. Leaning in, he pressed the clutch pedal down with one
end of the pole, and hooked the shifter with the other. Then
he eased his way out, closing the door with the pole, too. The
hydraulic rams lowered the ramp, and he hooked a cable to
the truck's rear axle. The motor revved and in the flashing
yellow lights, my truck rolled up the ramp, which then
tipped back into place. The driver chained the Toyota down
and then the ramp truck and the police car were gone.
The wheels of justice don't always turn slowly.
CHAPTER 45


When I came in, Roxanne was already in bed. The light
was out, and she was lying on her back. Her eyes were closed
but she wasn't asleep. I sat on the edge of the bed.

"Sorry about all this," I said.

"It's okay."

"Was it difficult?"

"No. It was just late."

"What did they ask?"

"About you. All kinds of questions about you."

"What'd you tell them?"

"The truth."

"Did they believe you?"

Roxanne put her hands over her eyes, ran them down her
cheekbones to her chin.

"I don't know. Who knows? I'm just--"

"Tired," I said. "I know. I'll let you sleep."

"Jack, I'm so tired I feel sick. And I can't do that. It's not
good for me, for us."

"I know."

"I have to be at work at seven."

"So call in sick."

"I can't," Roxanne said. "Jack, I just need to sleep. We'll
talk tomorrow."

"Okay," I said, and I kissed her on the forehead. She gave
my hand a squeeze and then closed her eyes. I eased off the
bed and left the room and went downstairs.
The house was quiet, but not silent. The refrigerator
hummed, and the microwave beeped, telling Roxanne the
hot water for her coffee was ready. It had been ready for hours,
but the machine beeped patiently, a faithful servant. I turned
it off and the kitchen light, too, then the light in the hall.
When my eyes had adjusted to the dark, I went from window
to window, door to door, turning the locks and peering
out into the cold stillness. Nothing moved under the parking
lot lights. Nothing showed against the glow of the city,
across the harbor. The bridge lights glowed red in the sky
like the lights of motionless airplanes. I watched for a few
minutes, eyes narrowed, looking for some clue in the blackness,
some reason for a girl's life to end in this lonely way, for
a woman to live with such sadness that she would choose
death over the son she loved and who loved her.
A life conceived, two lives extinguished. And the lives
gutted and tossed aside seemed to somehow diminish the
value of the one. life we'd created. If those lives were cheapened,
so was this one. If no explanation were offered, all of
our lives were made cheaper still. If the explanation involved
me, my baby would be sullied. And I wanted its
slate to be oh so clean.
So I stood and watched. Waited, but no clue appeared.
Nothing showed, except the lights and their reflections on
the black, beguiling water. I considered going out, looking
for Rocky, but I'd done that and even with him in hand, had
come up empty. It was time to move ten feet and dig a new
hole. I turned away from the window and walked to Roxanne's
desk and fumbled for the button in the dark.
I found it.
The computer turned on.
It burped and whirred and clicked, and the screen
glowed blue. I sat there in its wash and half-grudgingly
clicked on the little pictures.
I went to a people-finder site, typed and hit the enter key
and the machine did its thing. Sitting in the blue haze, I
waited while the machine rounded them up.
Sandra Bakers. Three-hundred ninety-one of them.
Downey, California. Delray Beach, Florida. Sun City,
Arizona. Newport, Vermont. St. Paul, Minnesota and Bryn
Mawr, Pennsylvania. I scrolled through quickly and the
Sandra Bakers marched across the screen. There were dozens
of Sandra L. Bakers, even more listed under Sandra M.
If my Sandra Baker had left the state, this would be no
help at all.
But odds were that she had stayed, so I narrowed my
search to Maine. The computer scuttled here and there and
rounded up only three Sandra Bakers with Maine phone
listings. None lived in the Somerset County town of Scanesett
or in Somerset County at all. One was in Searsport,
southeast of Bangor, another in South Portland. The third
was in Eastport, way downeast. That did not include Sandra
Bakers who didn't have phones in their names, or didn't
have phones at all, or lived with their daughters and sons-in-law.
Or Sandra Bakers who were listed under the initial
S. Or had married or remarried. Or who were dead.
Always a possibility.
Sitting there in the quiet, I searched for S. Bakers in
Maine. There were five, scattered from Ellsworth to Auburn,
none in Scanesett. I started to reach for the phone, but then
remembered it was one in the morning. I put the phone back
down. It was just the computer and me. I put it to work.
Getting my date book from the counter, I dug out the
microfilm page with the hit-and-run and double-checked 'the first name of the investigator, a David Turgeon. I'd never heard of him, so I ran him, too, and got the scattered list.
Forty-three of them around the country, four in Maine. If he was a detective in 1987, there was a good chance he was retired.
There were five David Turgeons in Florida, including
one in Pompano and another in St. Augustine.
Or he could be patrolling in Aroostook County. I'd find
him in the morning.
It promised to be a day's work, but no more. At the Times, I'd once done a story revisiting the relatives of victims
of a serial killer ten to fifteen years after the murders.
Some were easily found, just by opening the phone book.
Some took calls to other relatives, neighbors, phone operators,
town offices, and tax assessors. As long as each encounter
yielded a single new clue, the trail meandered on
and the person eventually could be located. Even in the vast
reaches of the country, even in the teeming cities, it is very
hard to truly disappear.
If Sandra Baker was alive, I'd find her. I'd find her if she
wasn't.
I shut down the whirring machine, with its blue Cyclops
eye, and made one more round of the perimeter, as Clair
would have called it. Portland was a city that, unlike many,
actually slept, and the harbor was black, the skyline
dimmed. Roxanne's neighbors were snug in their beds, resting
so that in the morning they could once more sally forth
to earn their mortgage payments. I padded quietly up the
stairs and went into the bedroom, pausing to look once
more from the darkened window. As I watched, a car turned
in from the road and coasted through the lot.
It was an unmarked cruiser. As it slowed behind Roxanne's
car, I could see the head turn in the driver's seat. They


were looking for Rocky, and making sure they didn't lose me.
There was no chance.

I fell asleep with my arm draped protectively over Roxanne
my face against her hair. I awoke to the sound of her hair
dryer in the bathroom. It still was dark, a blue-black dawn.
The bathroom door opened and the light spilled out and I
squinted as she came over. She was wearing a wool skirt and
dark tights and a big sweater.
"Is that one of those maternity outfits?" I said.
"Jack, I've had this sweater all winter."
"Oh. It looks different."
"You look at it differently."
"Sorry."
"You don't have to be sorry. I'm glad you do."
Roxanne leaned over and kissed my forehead.
"But I've got to go."
"What time is it?"
"Six thirty."
"What do you have to do? Make the doughnuts?"
"Get my act together for today."
"At six thirty?"
Roxanne hesitated.
"While you were gone last night, I got a call from the
district manager. I've got to meet with him at seven."
"About what?""
She paused again.
"Well ..."
"About Rocky? About me?"
"It's nothing. He just needs to know what's going on. I guess he got a call from the police last night."
"Sorry," I said. "You need me?"
"No, it's nothing," Roxanne said. "Routine."
I But there was an edge of apprehension in her voice.
"I thought we might talk," I said. "You know, about
things. Like, I haven't told anyone about the, well, the--" "Baby."
"Right. The baby."
; "And you want to see Clair and Mary."
"I don't know. Don't you? It's a big deal. But you can't
come up?"
"Not until Saturday."
"I'll come back."
"You don't have to," Roxanne said.
"I know, but I will anyway. Late. I've got to be at work at
three, but I don't think I'll be late. Something tells me they
may not need me."
"How are you going to get there?"
I'd forgotten.
"Oh, yeah. I'll rent something. You think insurance covers
a rental when the police take your car in connection with
a murder investigation?"
Roxanne didn't laugh.
"Are you going to talk to those detectives again?"
"I'm sure. I want to know if they found him. And they
want a blood test and they said something about a polygraph."
"Jack--"
"It's nothing. Routine, as long as you're not lying."
She kissed me again.
"You've never lied in your life," Roxanne said.
"Just a few white ones," I said. "But not to you. You
know, I'd rather you weren't alone tonight."
"I'll lock the doors."
"Leave the outside lights on."
"Okay."
"Have somebody over."
"I just want to have you over."
"I know, but I'd feel better if somebody else were here
earlier. How 'bout Skip next door?"
"He's in St. John, the Virgin Islands. He and his new
flame, this stockbroker guy named George. They chartered
a boat."
Roxanne squeezed my hand.
"Jack, I've seen worse than Rocky and his father."
"Maybe not the worst of them."
"I'm a big girl."
"I know you are. But now--"
"Worrying for two, Jack McMorrow?"
"Yes," I said. "I am."
"And I love you for it," Roxanne said. "But I'll be fine."

I stayed in bed and listened. The almost musical tap of her
heels on the floors. The door opening and closing. The sound
of the Explorer starting, and the sound of her scraper on the
iced-over windshield. The motor revving, then the car
crunching on the ice, and Roxanne fading into the distance.
I was alone, a chronic condition.
After a minute, I got up and showered and shaved, and
looked at my tooth in the mirror. It seemed to be turning
gray, but I told myself it was the bathroom light. White lie
number one. After toast and tea, I called the car rental place
at the Portland Jetport and asked if they would deliver a car
to me. The young woman on the phone said they didn't do
that, so I said I had to be in court in Bangor. Still no dice. I
hung up and called a cab. At the cab company, another
woman told me it would be a half-hour. I told her I was in
no hurry; it was just the typical American male's innate fear
of being without a motor vehicle. She said it would be an
hour. I said actually even ten o'clock would be fine. She said
that would be finer.
So with the taxi scheduled, I went to work. It was too
early to start on Sandra Bakers, so I called Tippy Danforth,
who'd be out cleaning the pens. The tape began to play, but
then she picked up. I said hello.
"Oh," she said, as though not sure how to react.
"I'm sorry about everything."
"Well, I am, too. Terribly sorry. It's--"
She caught herself again, and I knew. She wasn't sure
how much she could say, wasn't sure exactly what I was.
Copy editor or pervert? Good Samaritan or psychopath? It
made a difference.
"You've talked to the police, I assume," I said.
"Well..."
"Whatever. I'm just calling to say I'm sorry that you got
involved, with Tammy and all this. I was just trying to help
her and you were, too. And it's all gone to hell."
"Yes, it has," Tippy said.
"And this is the other thing. Rocky, I'm not so sure you
should be around him. If he comes back, I mean. He was
here last night--I'm in Portland--and he was acting pretty
strange and then he took off again. I don't know if the cops
have picked him up, but if he turns up at your place, or in
Bangor at all, I'd just call Bangor P.D."
"I certainly will do that."
Her voice had softened.
"So I guess that's about it. I don't know. That and maybe
what Tammy said. I saw her yesterday on the street and we
talked and she told me how much she liked being at your
house and working for you. She said she was going back to
see kittens born. She said you were going to give her one to
keep. She was happy about that."
"That's true. I told her she could keep it here. I didn't
want her carting it around on the streets. The boy, too."
"The boy, too, what?"
"I said he could have one."
"A cat?"
"A kitten," Tippy said. "These kids are so alone. You
know, I think they just need a companion that doesn't question
them, interrogate them. Something that will just love
them."
"That could be."
"But you're right about him behaving strangely. Because
when I said he could have one of the litter, too, his reaction
was quite odd, really.'
"What did he do?"
"Well, I just said, 'How would you like a kitten?' and he
just stopped talking, just withdrew. Never said another word
in my presence, and, of course, when I got up he was gone."
"That's all you said?"
"Yes. Do you think I offended him? I'm not around children,
so I don't know quite how they think. Not like I know
cats and dogs. Maybe he thought I was treating him like a
baby or something. But that's just the way I refer to them."
"To whom?"
"To the cats. I call them my kitties. I said, 'You can have
a kitty, too.'"
"Kitty, as in Katia?" I said, half to myself.
"What?" Tippy said.
"Nothing," I said. "If you see him, or his stepfather, call
the police. Call me, too."

Tippy may have hung up puzzled but I didn't. It was almost
eight o'clock; I made another cup of tea, and with barely a
glance at the harbor skyline, went to the desk and picked upthe phone book. I opened the inside of the front cover and went down the list of emergency numbers. This wasn't one, but there was a business listing for the Maine State Police in Augusta. I dialed. Waited.
A man answered, and I asked for Detective Turgeon. He said there was no detective by that name with the Maine State Police, could somebody else help me? I said I wasn't sure, but had Detective Turgeon retired? He said he didn't know but he'd check.
He put me on hold. I waited, and he came back. He said Detective Turgeon retired some time ago. I asked where Turgeon was now and he said he had no idea, as though the
detective had been lost at sea. And then I asked, as he was about to hang up, whether a ten-year-old death, a hit-and- run, would still be under investigation.
He said it would be active until it was solved. I asked if
it would be on the bottom of somebody's case list. He said all active cases are under investigation, but some may not
get daily attention. In other words, when David Turgeon packed up his desk, the case of Katia Poulin went with him.
So I took my Turgeon list and started calling. In Orland,
Maine, on the coast, I found a David Turgeon who had been
sleeping until the phone rang. I asked for David Turgeon,
the former police detective, and this David Turgeon said he worked nights at a supermarket. Before I could apologize,
he hung up. A David Turgeon in Kennebunk, Maine, had
left an answering machine message in which a lisping toddler
said, "Dave and Jessica and Chelsea and Matthew aren't
home. Oh, yeah. Leave a message after the beep-beep."
I didn't. Instead, for some reason, I moved directly to St. Augustine, where a woman answered.
I made my pitch. She asked who I was. I told her and
asked if I had the right place.
"Well, yes and no," the woman said.
All right, I said to myself, pumping my fist.
"Yes and no?" I said.
"Yes, my husband was a detective with the Maine State,
Police."
"Could I speak with him?"
"You're going to need a mighty long phone line," the
woman said. "Mr. Turgeon passed away in 1994."
I said I was sorry. She said she was, too, and sorry she
couldn't help me, but if I would excuse her--"
"Not to keep you, but did your husband ever talk about a hit-and-run case? A woman killed in Newport? I don't believe it ever was solved."
In the movies, this would be the serendipitous moment.; Some cases he put behind him, but that hit-and-run case
gnawed at him, she would say. He went to his grave hoping
the perpetrator would come to justice.
"You don't mean the shooting in Rockland?" Mrs. David
Turgeon said. "That one bothered him."
"No, this was a woman run over and killed. In Newport."
I
waited as she considered it.
"No," she said. "I don't know."
"Woman might have been called Kitty? Kitty Poulin?
Katia Poulin?"
"No," the detective's widow began, and I could feel myself
sag. "You sure you have that right? That name to me is
a cocaine name. It was everywhere back then, just like people
used to have martinis."
"And that's what you think of when you hear her name?"
"I'm probably wrong," Mrs. Turgeon said. "But I think
of Dave saying, 'Another life down the tubes 'cause of that
poison.' He said that a lot. You know, they sold it in the barslike it was peanuts. Terrible thing. And now I really do have
to go."
So she went, just like that, just like Katia Poulin had
gone, quietly and without fuss or bother. A week of investigation.
A bunch of dead ends, and perhaps Detective Turgeon
had been weary after twenty years, and his caseload was heavy
and there were only so many hours in the day. And then perhaps
there had been a live homicide, one with real clues and
real suspects and a chance of a quick and just solution, and
Katia Poulin slipped away, lost in ever-growing stacks of
paperwork.
Like the papers in front of me.
I spread out my lists of Sandra Bakers. Like a salesman
with mouths to feed, I started calling.
I started with the Sandra Bakers in Maine, considering the
three. Searsport, Portland, and Eastport. Katia's obituary
had listed only Scanesett as a Maine connection. Lubec
seemed least likely, Portland and Searsport about equal. But
in Maine, like most poor rural states, people tended to drift
downstate toward the cities. Like something washed downstream,
they caught in the logjam of jobs and welfare that
cities offered. Caught like Rocky.
So I tried Portland's Sandra Baker first. The number rang,
and a recording began. The number had been changed. The
new number was . . .
I dialed again. It rang four times and a man answered. I
asked for Sandra Baker. He said, "It's for you. Somebody
selling something."
"Just hang up," a woman's voice said.
"You do it," he said.
The phone clattered and then a woman said, "Yeah?"
"Hello, is this Sandra Baker?" I asked, not too brightly.
"Who's this?" the woman said.
"This is Jack McMorrow at the Bangor Clarion newspaper.
I'm trying to locate the Sandra Baker who is the friend
of Katia Poulin?"
I paused.
"Is this the right number?"
"Who is it?" the man said in the background.
"Some christly newspaper in Bangor."
"Tell 'em we already get the Portland paper. What the
hell we want the Bangor paper for?"
"Did you know Katia Poulin?"
"Who?" she said and she hung up.
I dialed again.
The Sandra Baker in Eastport wasn't home but a little
girl was. She answered on the first ring and said her mother
was at work. The girl sounded about six, and I got the impression
she was home alone.
"When will your mom be back?" I asked.
"She gets done work at two," the girl said. "I get the bus
at eight-nineteen."
"Have you ever lived near Scanesett?"
The phone went dead.
So I dialed over and over. No answer in Searsport.
S. Baker in Hallowell was Steve. S. Baker in Oquossoc was
disconnected, probably a summer camp. In Waterville, I left
a message on a machine. In York, no answer. In Hollis Center,
the woman who answered was deaf, which raised the
question of why she answered at all. At nine o'clock, my
Sandra Baker still was at large.
I sipped cold tea and leaned back, then called directory
assistance. An electronic whisper, then a real person, a guy,
came on the line. I pictured him rustling through pages but
probably he was peering at a screen.
"There's no Sandra Baker listed in Portland, sir."
"Oh. How 'bout Lewiston?"
He paused.
"No. I don't see--"
"Could you try Bangor then?"
"All right."
He was losing patience, so I told him I really appreciated his help. He didn't answer, but then he said the number was
unpublished.
"In Bangor?"
"Yessir, bur that number is--"
"Is this the Ohio Street or Broadway listing?"
"Neither, but I really can't say any more."
"Thanks," I said. "You've been a big help."
He hung up, and I did, too. Another Sandra Baker. Scanesett
to Bangor? Forty miles, from a small town to the nearest
big city? It made sense, as much as anything did. All that remained
was to find her and ask her about Katia and Kitty,
why Rocky was running, why he carried that date in his
pocket, why he thought everyone he touched turned to dust.

CHAPTER 46

The mini-van I rented at the Portland airport was black,
with those smoked windows the car people call "privacy
glass." It was big and cushy and quiet, and I turned in the
driver's seat and looked back, trying to picture a kid in a

baby seat, and a playpen stowed in the stern. But that image
was replaced by one of Clair, sitting inside the sliding door
with his shotgun. The Clair image came easier.
What was wrong with that picture?
I took 295 into the city, whipped off the highway onto
Congress Street. I slowed and began scanning the sidewalks:
students from the university or the art school, shuffling
along like Sherpas under their backpacks. A few more of the
lost souls, who gladly traded their dreary rooms for the biting
cold. In the lot of a convenience store, an old man in red
rubber boots and a woman's knit hat shuffled along, moving
his feet like unfeeling stumps. He was accosted by two
younger men, unshaven sidewalk jocks in baseball hats and
curled-up sneakers. I slowed as I passed. One of them gave
the old man a cigarette. I turned hard and pulled in.
The store was open twenty-four hours, a place to thaw your
feet and hands as you dawdled as long as possible over a paper
cup of coffee. On a cold night, this place was a sanctuary.
I shut off the van and got out. The two guys in the hats
and the old man in the red boots still were huddled down near
the street. I approached them, and one of the guys looked up.
"Hey;" I said.
He nodded, disheveled and wary.
"I'm looking for a kid. A young kid."
The guy grinned, and the inside of his black-toothed
mouth looked like something out of a corpse.
"Who ain't?" he said.
The other guy laughed, but it turned into a tubercular
cough. I waited for the hacking to cease.
"I ain't. Not for that reason. I'm looking for a kid named
Rocky. Fourteen and little and skinny. Big glasses and a red
plaid jacket.'
They shook their heads, first one, then the other. The old
man dragged on his cigarette and squinted at me through
the smoke.
"You a cop?" the second guy said.
I shook my head.
"Friend," I said.
"There a reward?" the first guy said.
I considered it, then took a notebook from my parka. I
wrote my number in Prosperity.
"Yeah, there is," I said.
"How much?"
I considered that, too. How badly did I want Rocky,
what bounty should I put on him? How badly did I want
this to be over?
"Hundred bucks, cash."
The baseball hats looked at each other, the greed passing
through them like a jolt of adrenaline.
"But he's got to be fine. If something happens to him,
we've got the opposite of a reward. You know what I'm
saying?"
They all looked at me. I didn't flinch and they looked away.
"Really, information as to his whereabouts would be
good enough."
I scrawled the toll-free number at the Clarion.
"Make sure you ask for Jack. If I'm not there, leave a message
on my voice mail."
They looked at me like I'd asked them to write software.
"It's just an answering machine. You know, talk after the beep?"
I wrote "red plaid jacket" and "Rocky" and "skinny with glasses" and held out the paper. The first guy, the alpha
male, snatched it like it was the hundred-dollar bill itself.
He glanced at it, then folded it small with reddened dirty
fingers and put it in the front pocket of his jeans.
"He's on the street?"
"Yeah, I think so."
"Turning tricks? Shooting up?"
"No."
"No gang shit? I ain't messing with them little bastards."
"No, nothing like that," I said. "He's just a kid. A nice I
kid."
They looked at me like they thought that highly unlikely.
I thanked them, started to turn away, and the first
guy said, "Hey, buddy. How 'bout a couple bucks up front?"
I turned back and fished a five out of my pocket. The first
guy grabbed it and I left them bickering over it like jackals
over carrion. I continued on.
Inside the store, I made my inquiry but got a blank
shrug. I bought tacks and tape and made my way up Congress,
leaving my messages outside a tattoo parlor, at a news
stand, in front of a karate school. I asked my questions,
ripped out my pages. Nobody admitted seeing Rocky. At a
tattered bulletin board where Portland's underground cryptically
surfaced, I wrote "Rocky. Call Jack" and the Clarion number on a piece of paper and tacked it up.
At Monument Square, I hit another bulletin board, and
tried to talk to two bulky young women and a misshapen
man leaning against the wall of a vacant storefront. I was giving
my pitch when a couple of kids came out of a restaurant
and started over. One of them was the girl from the alley
fight, the one with the black lipstick who'd tried to bite me.
"Hey, I know you," I said. "You seen Rocky?"
"This guy's some kinda cop," she said, her eyes fixed (Mime.
"Beat the shit out of my friend."
"I don't think so--" I started to say, but they were already
backing away, five people retreating in five directions.
They didn't make crosses with their fingers, but close to it.
I followed the girl and she broke into a run and slipped through traffic and I gave up.
I walked back to the van, sat for a minute in the warm velour, and drove around the block to the shelter. It was
closed and the children had been turned loose to range for food, like organic chickens. There was a message board . there, and I left mine with all the others.
Rocky, call Jack at the office. . . . Tanya M., we love you. Please
call home. . . . Laney, call Michael at DHS. . . . Damian T., your mom isn't mad. Everything's fine. . . ."
Sure it was.
So the traps were set, the weir in place. If Rocky had
stayed in Portland, perhaps he'd let himself be caught. If...
I went back to the van, double-parked on Free Street, and
circled the block. At the far end of Congress, outside the Portland Press Herald building, I stopped and went to a phone
booth and called Roxanne. Fumbling with the quarters in
the cold, I left messages at her office and at home. I told her
I was on my way to Prosperity and Bangor, that I really
didn't want her to be alone. I was about to tell her I loved her
when the answering machine beeped and hung up.

At noon, I was on the outskirts of Augusta. An oncoming city
cop flashed his lights at me to warn me to slow down. I did,
until the cruiser disappeared from view in the mirror, and
then I gave the van its rein and continued east, through Vassalboro,
South China, the town of Palermo, which had nothing
to do with Sicily. I passed mobile-home churches with
signs that promised salvation, used-car lots that promised the
same, no money down. And then the Waldo County hills
grew steeper, with spruce-green spills amid the hardwood
browns, and the landscape, with its staggering barns and
grown-over pastures, took on the poignant bleakness that I for

some reason found so reassuring. There was solace in the loneliness of these ridges, a pathos that was almost invigorating. '
Roxanne said I took comfort from obscurity, but I said I
had tasted obscurity on Manhattan sidewalks, and there was something stark and noble and timeless in these sleepy,
drunken hollows. She said she enjoyed the woods, in small doses, and I said the same of cities, even the small one in
which she lived. I found the city smugness too laughable;
she found the country poverty and isolation too hopeless;
We would have to compromise somehow, five months from
now, but in the meantime, I turned from Route 3 and
wound my way toward my personal patch of oblivion. I
turned off at Prosperity, turned again at the big oaks, and then onto my road.
There were tire tracks in the snow and I followed them
up the rise and past the college girls' house, still deserted,
past Mrs. Soule's, and up to my house, where the car or
truck had turned in. It had sat there, but there were no footprints
in the crusty dusting. The car had then backed out,
and continued on. I did the same, following it up the road
to Clair's where it had turned into the yard and driven up
the ramp and into the barn.
I pulled in and parked in front of the rolling barn door
and sat there with the van motor running. The little door
inset in the big barn door opened and Clair came out. I
buzzed the window down as he walked over, tugging at his
hat and looking the black van over.
"What'd you do?" he said. "Rob an undertaker?"
"My new career. There's money in stiffs."
"Sure there is", if you don't mind working up to your elbows
in gizzards."
And then I thought of Tammy, that little girl dead on a
table somewhere, stabbed and then quartered by the process
of autopsy. I stopped smiling and shut off the motor. Clair
leaned close to the window and looked in.
I smiled.
"So where's the second-grade soccer team?" Clair said.
"It's a rental."
"Where's your truck?"
"In a garage, I hope. Police took it."
He looked at me.
"We need to talk," I said, and I followed him into the barn.

There was a kettle on the woodstove and I poured a cup of
tea. I stood by the stove, mug in hand, while Clair bent over
! a chainsaw, the bar of which was held by a bench vise. He
filed the chain. The file made a scritching sound and Marion
McPartland played piano in the background, the music
echoing through rafters. The woodstove ticked and popped.
"How's it going?" I said.
"Fine, so far," Clair said. "Of course, you just got here."
"Anything happening today?"
"A couple of trucks went by slow early this morning."
"A big Dodge diesel?"
Clair shook his head.
"Red Ford with a fuel tank in the bed. One-ton rack
truck with chainsaws."
"Rusty's crew?"
"Could be. Looked like they worked in the woods."
"So does half the county," I said.
"Half the county doesn't circle this road twice in twenty
minutes."
"Half the county doesn't know this road exists."
"That's right. And they gave your place a good look,"
Clair said. "Slowed down here but got a look at the Mauser
and changed their plans."
"Where was the rifle?"
"I was holding it."
"Where were you?"
"Standing in the middle of the road. They had to back up
'bout a quarter of a mile. I figured I'd let them know the fire
zone here extends some distance."
"What? About three hundred yards?"
"More like four. I got the scope on."
"It is rabbit season," I said.
We paused. Clair moved the chain up a link and filed. I
asked for Mary and he said she went to the Maine State Museum
with the Philathea ladies. A talk about prehistoric
Maine.
"Sounds fascinating. Why didn't you go?"
"The bus ride with the ladies is a killer," Clair said.
A killer. I sipped my tea.
"You hear about the girl in Bangor?"
"Yes. A shame."
"That was Tammy. She was the one who helped Rocky."
"Saw it on Channel 5," Clair said.
"Somebody stabbed her. She was a nice kid. Very funny, in
this naive but tough sort of way. I got a real kick out of her."
"That's too bad."
"I just saw her yesterday morning. They found her body
at six."
"Cops have any ideas about who?"
"Yeah," I said. "They do."
"Who?"
"Me, for one."

Clair kept filing, peering at the chain. After a few strokes
he said, "Are they serious?"
I shrugged.
"They're homicide detectives," I said. "They tend to be."

CHAPTER 47


Clair listened as he washed his hands with the pink
soap from the dispenser above the work bench, then toweled
them dry. I told him about Tammy on the street, Rusty at
the museum, Rocky at Roxanne's. He opened the woodstove
and tossed in a chunk of maple, then reached for his coffee
and turned to me.

"So that's where it stands. I don't think I'm a strong suspect."
"A
lot of weak suspects are sitting in prison," Clair said.
"And the knife doesn't help."

"No."

"So what's your plan?"

"Find Sandra Baker, the woman who may know why the
boy is running. The one I think was connected to the note
in his pocket."

"What about the outlaw logger?"

"He's kicking around, I'm sure."

"Want some company? I was gonna run up to the John
Deere place in Brewer, pick up a coupling or two for that
power take-off shaft. Snapped my last one yesterday."

"Leave you alone for one day and things go right to hell."

"I was just saying the same about you. I'll follow you up.
Gotta be back in time for the missus."

Ordinarily, I might have kidded him about that. Not now.
"Yes, you do," I said. "Roxanne's not going home until I
get there."
"But you have to work?"
"Yeah, but I won't be there long. Something tells me!
they have a policy about murder suspects in the newsroom."
"If they didn't before, they may now."
Clair, rumbling along in his big Ford, had waved to me
on the highway and continued on across the river to Brewer; for his tractor parts. I'd told him we'd meet in front of the Clarion, give me an hour. That turned out to be generous.
When I walked into the newsroom, heads turned away, I hands reached for phones and files, dug through drawers.
Randall wasn't at his desk. Marna was at hers, and only she
said hello.
"Hello," I said back.
"You okay?"
"Fine," I said. "How 'bout you?"
"Good, but--"
She turned away and spoke softly.
"Police were here again this morning."
"About Tammy? Good. Maybe they'll actually catch
somebody."
"Yeah, well, Randall was ballistic. He's afraid TV's gonna
get it."
"Get what?"
"That they were here. You know--"
"Investigating? That's how they catch people."
"Well, he's afraid it's going to make the paper look bad."
"Hey, there's a guy with his priorities straight. Find a
murderer or protect the reputation of a two-bit little newspaper."
I
looked at her.
"Sorry. It's not so little. Who's doing the story? Is there a follow today?"
She flicked her eyes toward Child. I looked her way. Child saw me look and looked away. A reporter with better
instincts would be hauling me into a room to talk, but she was fussing with something on her desk. Maybe Randall
had told her to stay away.
Mama's phone rang and I sorted through my messages.
Sticky notes said Cobb had called, and Bruno from Bangor
P.D., too. Randall had written See me ASAP!!! and stuck the
message to my computer screen.
I sat down and signed on at the computer. My password
hadn't yet been revoked and the directories tumbled onto
the screen. I scrolled through the city-desk queue, and
quickly copied a file slugged MURDER2 city and then
moved across the system into the file slugged obits. I
copied that, too, and then slipped back into my queue.
The two files rested on top. I looked around the room.
My screen was visible to Marna and two other copy editors,
neither of whom was at his desk. Behind me, Marna
Still was on the phone. "I understand, sir," Marna was saying,
"and I would be frustrated, too. ..."
I opened the murder story, unedited and incomplete.
Child had written six predictable inches. Police had identified
the victim as Tamara Weymouth, from the town of East
Corning, forty miles northwest of Bangor. She was fifteen
and a runaway and had been living with friends and in shelters
for at least a year. The cause of death was a single stab
wound to the neck; the knife had sliced a major artery and
she'd bled to death.
"She was a nice kid," a shelter worker was quoted as saying.
"She just didn't get many breaks in life."
Put that on Tammy's gravestone.
The rest of the text was garbled notes, typed as Child interviewed people on the phone. I wondered why she was doing the story from the newsroom and not from the streets of
Bangor or farmhouses of East Corning, but at this point
what did I care?
Bruno had said that police were talking to people who
knew the victim, both in her hometown and in Bangor. Police had not ruled out robbery because there was no money
found on the body, but the victim was a transient and "she
may not have had any on her." Reflexively, I started to paraphrase
the awkward quote, then caught myself and read on
scrolling through the notes.
Police were confident the killer would be brought to justice.
East Corning was a small farming community. The Weymouth
family declined to comment. The local middle school
principal said Tamara quit in the middle of the eighth grade,
but the principal wasn't at liberty to discuss the student's
record or character because of "issues of confidentiality."
And then there was some garble, and that was it. No
mention of me. No mention of Tammy's association with
Tippy, no doubt per Randall's instructions. When it came to
the principles of good journalism, he never forgot who
signed his paycheck.
I closed the story and quickly opened the obituaries. I
scrolled down. A millworker. A homemaker. A dairy farmer.
A guy who was in insurance and the Rotary Club. A woman
who had been in the logging business with her husband,
Rusty Clement.
Even in his wife's obituary, Rusty managed to do all the
talking.
She'd died suddenly. She'd attended Woodfield Academy,
where she was homecoming queen. She married Rusty
Clement when she was twenty, and worked with him in his
business for several years, seeing Rusty Clement Logging
grow to one of the state's biggest independent logging contractors.
She was predeceased by her parents, Lester and
Marion Cayford. She was survived by her husband and one
son, Arthur "Rocky" Doe.
There would be no public services. Burial would be in
the spring.
That was it. No donations to the cancer society. No summation
of her interests or loves. Even in death, Flossie
Clement was brushed aside. And in the morning, her hollow
tribute would be in print for everyone to read.
Including her son.
More likely, he'd be told. Or maybe he'd go for days,
knocking around in places where nobody read the daily
newspaper, or if they did, they didn't know his name. Or
did the Grim Reaper have intuition?
I felt that odd chill again, that tremor that had run
through me when Rocky had been in the bedroom, speaking
in that forlorn, faraway voice. I felt I didn't know what
powers of intuition he had. I felt I didn't know what I was
into. I only knew that for my sake, for Roxanne's sake, for
our baby's sake, I wanted out.
I saved Flossie's obit, created it as a new file, and sent it
to the newsroom printer, along with the murder story. The
machine, on a table near the reporters, whirred to life and I
went and stood in front of it, blocking the view. It didn't
matter; they all turned away.
Printouts in hand, I went back to my desk and dug out a Clarion phone list and got the extension for advertising.
Then I hunched over the phone and dialed. The police scanner
conveniently squawked.
"Hi," I said cheerily when a woman answered. "This is
Jack in the newsroom."
"Hello, Jack in the newsroom," she said.
"I have a question for you."
"I'll try to answer it, Jack in the newsroom."
"We're looking for an address for a person who sometimes
places 'In memoriam' ads. Would you keep a record of
that?"
"Well, we might. Depends on how long ago. Whether
she paid cash. What's her name?"
"Sandra Baker. Or Sandy. Something like that."
"When were the ads?"
"Last one was April 7."
"Last spring?"
"Right."
"Well, Jack in the newsroom," she said. "Let me look."

As I waited, Randall strode past, then stopped abruptly at the sight of me. He pointed a ringer. I pretended not to
notice. He waited. I started to talk.
"Okay, so what's the change? Corinna Cub Scout Pack
134 will meet when? Sure, I can find it. I know ..."
Randall glowered, then waved to get my attention. I
concentrated on the phone, and scribbled on a pad.
"Activities will include animal track identification, Native
American storytelling ..."
Randall strode off. The woman in advertising came back
on the line.
"You got lucky," she said. "She pays cash, and the address
is just a post office box, but last time she came in late and
there was a question about getting it in, and she left a number.
What's it worth to you?"
"A lot," I said.
"You're the guy who sits next to Marna, right?"
"Right, and you are--"
"Angelica. Who sits closest to the door."
I pictured her: sort of handsome, with silver-streaked hair
and big glasses. She always said hello when I walked through.
"You can buy me lunch," she said.
"Deal," I said.
"You doing an article on people who place these ads?"
"Something like that."
"Here's the number, but you didn't get it from me."
She read it off. I took it down. It was a Bangor exchange.
"And what's the box number?"
It was 1281.1 thanked her.
"That'll cost you a drink," she said.
"Done," I said, but I wasn't. I was only beginning.

CHAPTER 48

Randall's private office was a glass-walled cube he'd
had erected after he saw All the President's Men. I left the
door open and sat down and crossed my legs. Randall got up
from his desk and walked over and closed the door. I perused
the shelf of framed certificates from newspaper seminars,
which Randall never missed.
"How's it going?" I said.
"How's it going? It's going just great, if you like being
awakened by homicide detectives at one in the morning. My wife answered and she practically had a heart attack."
"Why?"
"Because unlike some people, we aren't accustomed to
being called by cops in the middle of the night."
"Some newspaper editors would welcome it. At the Times, I worked with a great metro editor who had more
sources than--"
"I don't care about the goddamn Times," Randall hissed.
"Since when? I thought you loved stories about the big
time. Living vicariously and all that."
"Since when? Since I had detectives investigating a murder
by traipsing around my newsroom."
"The victim was in here. What else are they going to do?"
"She was in here because of you."
"So?"
"And they're asking about you, McMorrow."
"They have to do that, too."
" 'What was his connection with this girl? How long has
he worked for you? What do you know about him?' "
I nodded.
"Those sound like the right questions to me."
"They're not the right questions. They're the wrong
questions when they're asking about a Clarion employee. I'm going to presume you had nothing to do with this girl's
death, but a Clarion staff member shouldn't be associating
with some urchin, some trailer trash off the street."
He was leaning forward across his desk, teeth bared in a
smug little sneer, blue oxford cloth sleeves folded precisely,
a silver pen clutched in his soft little hand.
"That come with a spoon?" I said.
"What?"
"Never mind. You know, I've always hated that trailer
trash label. It implies some sort of phony class superiority,
don't you think? Tammy was really a nice kid, and for people
to assign her to some lower caste just isn't right."
"McMorrow?"
Randall's mouth opened and his eyes bulged.
"You also have to wonder about people who feel a need to
draw class lines like that. I've always figured it comes from
raging insecurity or fear. Which do you think it is? Or
maybe it's both. I think some people need to constantly
prop themselves up. Inside they're afraid that they're losers,
so they reassure themselves by making somebody else inferior.
Probably goes back to how they were raised as children
and--"
"Do you know who you're talking to, sir?"
"I thought I did, but all this trailer-trash talk makes me
wonder."
"Goddamn it, McMorrow, you arrogant son of a bitch.
Consider yourself hereby notified that you are on administrative
leave. You're not to set foot in this building without
my express written permission."
"Is that paid?" I said. "I have to know what to tell my
lawyer."
"From what I hear, you might one need one."
"That's right. One that handles slander suits. The Clarion policy cover you for that or just for libel?"
He leapt from his seat. I looked up at him and smiled.
"Want me to ask Tippy for you? Or don't you associate
with people who have 'trailer trash' in their house?"
"You may leave the premises, sir."
At that moment, the phone rang. I slowly unfolded my
legs, while Randall stood with his little hands on the desk.
As I stood, he finally reached for the phone.
"Yes," he snapped, and then paused and said, "No, I am
not available to talk to anyone at Channel 5. What do you
tell them? You tell them, 'No comment.' You work at a
newspaper, don't you?"
"Pretty to think so," I said to myself, and turned and
opened the door and left.
I walked through the newsroom, where the heads bowed
in deference. At my desk, I grabbed the printouts of the
obit and story, and then waved to Marna, who was taking
dictation over the phone, the receiver crooked against her
neck.
"See you later," I mouthed.
Her eyes opened wide in what seemed to be some sort of
expression of regret and affection.
"I'll call you," I said, and smiled.
I turned and started for the door. At Child's desk, I
stopped. She was peering at the text on her computer screen
like it was the Rosetta stone.
"Just tell the story," I said.
Child looked up, startled.
"I gotta go, but two things. One, Tammy was a nice kid.
Very kind. Very smart. She had a lot of potential and her
death is a terrible tragedy."
She still looked up at me. Her mascara showed in little
lumps and I could see where she plucked the eyebrows between
her eyes.
"You can write that down, if you want."
"Quote you?"
"Sure. Attribute it to Jack McMorrow, a former Clarion copy editor who met the victim on the streets of Bangor."
She scribbled in a notebook, and then she stopped and
looked up again, her pen poised. As I spoke, she started to
take it down.
"And two, you could go somewhere in this business, but
you've got to get out of here. This place is the kiss of death."
It was. In more ways than one.
Clair wasn't in sight, so I zipped my parka and walked up
the block to the post office, which took up a big chunk of
the federal building on Harlow Street. I crossed the wide expanse
of sidewalk and went through the double doors. The
courts and marshals and the rest of the feds were protected
by a guard and a metal detector. The postal workers, to the
right, were not, and I strode into the lobby, which was quiet
in mid-afternoon, wide open to anyone who had a problem
with the price of stamps.
From behind the walls, I could hear people talking and
laughing, but there was no one at the counter. I scanned the
mailboxes until I came to the twelve-hundreds, then looked
for twelve eighty-one. It was head high, all the way to the
left. I could see that it was full of mail, and I peered through
the glass door for a closer look.
With the rush over, the clerks had unloaded the junk mail,
and I could see advertising circulars, addressed to "Box
holder." Underneath the circulars were catalogues or magazines
and at the bottom was an inch-high stack of actual
letters. I squinted and cupped my hands against my temples.
I could see the "Sa--" of Sandra on a letter from a Bangor
bank. But banks needed a street address, because checks
needed a street address.
I thought for a moment, then went to a vending machine
and bought a stamped envelope. From the trash can at the
far end of the lobby, I pulled out some discarded mail-- credit card offers, magazine subscriptions. When I had a
thick wad of paper, I stuffed my envelope until it was bursting,
then licked it and sealed it, pressing it down like an
overstuffed suitcase. Then I addressed it to Sandra Baker,
and made up a return address--12 Maple Street, Searsport,
Maine. I looked over to the counter.
Two clerks had appeared, one a thin serious-looking man
with a crisply ironed uniform, and the other a big older
woman with wild red hair. She was whistling, pausing to
call out to someone I couldn't see. She laughed and then
continued sorting through a drawer. I waited a minute and
the thin man left, and I went to the counter.
"Hi," I said.
"Good afternoon to you," the woman said.
"I need to mail this," I said, "and I wondered if it could
get there today."
I handed her the envelope.
"Today?"
"Well, it's her birthday. She's my sister, and I know she's
going to be in later to get her mail, but she's leaving at six
tomorrow morning for a week and I just thought maybe ..."
I gave her an imploring smile.
"Twelve eighty-one," she said. "Well, you know, we're
not supposed to divert from the normal procedures, which
means this would be delivered--"
"But it's right over there," I said, pointing to my left.
"It's fifty feet away."
She looked at the letter some more.
"You know this is gonna need more postage."
"Fine," I said.
The woman flipped it onto a scale, read the meter.
"Another thirty-two cents."
I smiled as I handed her change.
"So do you think you could, just this once, for her birthday?"
"Well,
how old is Sandra going to be?"
"Fifty," I said. "The big five-oh."
"You don't have money in here, do you?"
"Well..."
I gave her a sheepish grin.
"She's going to Vegas. I told her to take this lucky
money. It's only fifty."
"Fifty dollars cash?"
"A dollar for every year."
"Oh, jeez. What do we do with this guy? You're a good
brother, you know that? My brother doesn't even know
when my birthday is."
"We've always been close."
"That's nice. You know, this should be mailed registered,
if it's.of value."
"But then she has to sign for it?"
"That's the idea," the woman said.
"But she might get here late. Isn't the lobby open later
than the windows?"
"Yeah, but--"
"Well, then she could get the notice but not the card."
I looked at her plaintively.
"Please?"
The woman looked around. She looked at the letter, then
looked around. Suddenly, she opened her drawer and scooped
out change.
"Eighteen cents, sir," she said, in her official voice.
I took the money. She took the envelope, slammed the
drawer shut, and went through a door to her right, my left.
Through the little glass-doored boxes I could see her walking.
I moved toward the box, watched as she tried to stuff
the envelope in, then stopped and pulled the sheaf of mail
out. Shuffling it into a bundle, she stuck my letter in first,
pressed the bundle flat, and slid it in. It stuck and she
pulled half the stack out.
"Tell your sister she ought to come in more often," the
woman said, fitting the envelopes back into the box.
"I'll tell her when I see her," I said.
As I peered through the glass, I tried to read the addresses
before they were covered. I missed once, twice, then there was
an envelope with the address hand-lettered. It showed only for
a second but that was enough. "P.O. Box 1281,484 Hope St."
I glanced up. For a moment, the red-haired woman and I
were nose to nose. I gave her a thumbs up. We both smiled
and she was gone.

CHAPTER 49

Hope Street was in the north end of the city, a mile
back from the river. It ran through a quiet neighborhood of
nondescript houses, forty years of forty-hour weeks and a
paid-for bungalow over which the children would someday
bicker. The houses were the kind you could find anywhere,
Maine or Michigan, Massachusetts or Montana. They were
monuments to quiet diligence, nothing more, and oddly
lifeless on this cold afternoon.
Clair drove slowly and I looked for house numbers,
which ran into the two-hundreds before the houses grew
more scattered. We sped up past the woods that guarded the
hospital, and then there was another house and another, in
the low three-hundreds, and then, a few hundred yards further,
a house with no number at all. Across the street there
were scrubby woods, and no other houses in sight.
I looked as Clair pulled the truck to the side of the road
just beyond the house and stopped. The house was low and
faded red with white metal shutters and a big screened
porch on the far side. There was a newish Toyota Camry in
the driveway, and the driveway had been plowed, but not
recently. The drive and the car were snow covered, but both
were black and the sun had melted the snow to a thin, icy
veneer. There were no fresh tire tracks.
"Looks deserted," I said.
"Did you see the light?"
"Where?"
"In the car. Dome light's on, but weak."
"You've got good eyes for an old guy."
"Used to do this for a living. Think this is it?"
"I don't know," I said. "If we were cops we could run the
plate."
"If we were cops we could kick the door in."
"Only with probable cause. Let's go knock."
"We have probable cause for that?"
"If it's Kitty's friend?" I said. "Yes, I do."
He backed the van to the end of the drive and shut the
motor off. Chimes rang as we opened the van doors, stopped
when we closed them. I walked slowly up the drive until
Clair said, "Wait."
"What?"
"Don't walk there. Walk off to the side. I want to see the
tracks."
"I thought you only did jungles."
"It's all the same," Clair said.
He walked up beside me and looked down. I could see
faint snow-filled outlines, like craters on some planet, photographed
by a satellite.
"See? It looks like two sets. She turned and went in the
side door, and the second person went in behind her."
"Man? Woman?"
I paused.
"Boy?"
"Hard to say," Clair murmured. "They're so washed out.
But this second person came across the driveway. Didn't get
out of this car."
"It wasn't the mailman," I said. "She has a box at the post
office."
"It was somebody."
"Maybe it was her husband."
"Or not," I said.
I looked in the car. There were two bags of groceries on
the backseat, and I said, "Clair," and pointed to them. He
glanced and nodded, and we approached the door, which led
to a breezeway connected to a two-car garage. I peered in
the garage window and saw another car, an old MG or Triumph,
dusty with boxes piled on the hood. When I turned,
Clair was pulling the storm door open with the blade of his
knife hooked through the handle. He held it open with the
point and looked in. His eyes narrowed and he frowned.
I stepped past him and up into what served as an entryway.
There were two pair of women's sneakers and a pair of
fleece-lined moccasins lined up on the floor.
This was where she took off her boots. There were no
boots in sight. There were no men's shoes, either.
The entryway had a couch, a table with a lamp, and a
bookshelf full of TV magazines and romance paperbacks.
There were wooden pegs on the wall for jackets, and several
of them hung there. Most were colorful and out of season.
Opposite us was a door that led to the backyard. At the rear of
the room, to the left, was another door that led into the main
house. The keys were hanging from the lock, and the door
was closed, but not latched.
"Hello," I called.
We stood and listened. A blue jay called from outside but the house was silent. Then there was a scratching sound from the back door. Then another. I walked slowly over and peered
out the window. A gray tiger cat looked up at me and mewed.
I turned back.
"Cat," I mouthed.
Clair nodded.
"Hello," I called again. "Anybody home?"
There was no answer. I leaned close to the door and
peeked through the crack, squinting with one eye. I glimpsed
part of a kitchen table, then another grocery bag, tipped
over, with food spilled out.
Lean Cuisine. Diet Pepsi in a two-liter bottle. A carton of
cigarettes. Newports.
"Maybe she's in the bathroom," I said.
"Time to go. Maybe call the cops. Something isn't right
here."
"Nothing's right," I said. "Hasn't been in a long time."

CHAPTER 50

We backtracked out of the place, past the car, down
the driveway and back into the truck. A couple of cars passed as we were pulling away, and Clair followed them
until we reached the next house, a quarter-mile down the

road. Clair pulled into the driveway and backed out and we
drove past the red house and back into the city.
"They're probably looking for me anyway,' I said.
"You want to stop at a house?"
"Let's just keep going. We'll find a phone booth."
"You know, I've got to get home," Clair said. "Nothing
personal, but I don't want Mary coming home to a dark
house, with me tied up with cops or something."
"Getting to be a habit, isn't it?"
So Clair drove down the hills to the old downtown, stopping
in front of the Clarion.
"Careful," he said.
"Always," I said.
"Give me a ring."
"The minute I know something."
"Don't wait that long," Clair said, and I hopped out and
gave him a wave and the big truck rumbled off.
Hunched in my parka, I started down the sidewalk in
search of a phone. It was after four, and between the brick
walled buildings the winter dusk already was turning to
darkness. The passing cars had their headlights on in the
slow procession that constituted a rush hour in Bangor,
Maine, and I squinted against the glare as I walked. There
was a bank up the block, and it seemed I had seen a public
phone there. If not, the bus station was a block over toward
the river, and I'd just run over and--
I saw them in silhouette. The ninja was out in front, swaggering
into the line of cars, arms jerking, legs lashing out.
Then another figure, hooded, ignoring the honking horns as
he followed the ninja, then two more, with baseball hats on
backward, and behind them a bigger guy, his long hair under
a baseball cap, a paper bag under his arm.
Crow Man and the boys. The platoon on patrol.
I hurried down the sidewalk, breaking into a trot. At the
corner, the light changed against me and the cars streamed
past. I stood in the gutter and peered across the traffic, trying
to keep the band in sight. They'd gone up the block,
then slipped into an alley. I saw the last figure disappear.
Was it Rocky?
The light changed, but it released another stream of cars
and trucks, this one coming around the corner from my
right. I stepped out into the street, gauged the distance,
then broke between the cars, leaping to the sidewalk as the
horns honked and someone shouted. Running along the
sidewalk in the shop lights, I reached the alley and saw two
of them turning onto the next street, moving toward the
river. They disappeared around the corner, and I ran after
them, tripping on something in the darkness and staggering,
then rounding the corner myself.
They were across the street, moving in single file, the
ninja kid still pirouetting in front. I waited for one car, then
crossed diagonally behind them, catching up with the trailing
kid as the rest of them started across a parking lot toward
the railroad tracks.
I drew ahead of the kid, then turned in front of him.
"Hey," I said.
A pale white face turned to me, a face with glasses and
for a moment I thought I had him.
But it wasn't him. It wasn't Rocky.
The kid didn't say anything, just jerked back warily and
put up his arms.
"Leave me alone, I didn't do nothing to--"
"It's okay. I'm just looking for Rocky. Twig. You know
him?"
He shook his head, his street-kid reflex.
"Come on. I'm a friend of his. He's looking for me, too."
I was walking backward. He gave another shake, followed
by a feint, as he tried to get past me to rejoin the group.
"Have you seen him today?"
"I don't friggin' know him so leave me alone, man."
He dodged again, but I deliberately cut him off, pinning
him against the brick wall.
"Hey, get the hell away from me. Hey!"
He shouted and the next kid heard him and turned. He
called up the line and there were more shouts and then the
sound of feet on the pavement. I watched as they approached
and slowed, wary as hyenas. They spread out, one kid moving
into the street and working his way up behind me, and then
the ninja kid drew up and recognized me.
"That ain't no cop," he said. "That's that guy who was
with Tammy."
Crow Man moved through his minions, paper bag under
his arm. I moved aside and let the kid against the wall slip
away into their ranks.
"That guy wouldn't let me go," he said. "He had me and
he was asking me about Twig. He's looking for Twig."
The ninja kid moved around me until he was on my
right, ten feet away. Crow Man walked toward me. He was
scowling and he did not appear to be as drunk as the last
time we'd met. I couldn't yet tell whether that was good
or bad.
"Hey, buddy," I said, smiling. "How goes the battle?"
His eyes narrowed under his hat.
"I've seen you before."
"Mind like a steel trap," I said. "I'm looking for my
friend, Rocky. You seen him?"
"You the guy climbed up? Under the bridge?"
"Doesn't sound familiar."
He looked at me more closely, and I could picture the
neurons bouncing around his tattered brain. I was giving silent thanks for alcoholic blackouts when I felt the ninja kid drawing closer. I turned.
"Back off," I said.
He stopped, mouth open, swaying on the balls of his feet. A car passed but didn't slow.
"You kill Tammy? 'Cause Tammy was a friend of mine,'
Ninja said.
"She was a friend of mine, too. And no, I didn't kill her.
You have any idea who else it might have been? Who else
was she with that day?"
"You ain't a cop," the ninja kid said. "You work for the
goddamn newspaper. We don't have to tell you nothin'."
"You a reporter?" Crow Man said, moving closer.
"Yeah," I said. "And I'm looking for Rocky. Twig."
"What're you gonna do, interview him?" he said.
Crow Man said it as though it were something dainty.
"Maybe," I said. "But I have to find him first. Last time I
saw him was in Portland yesterday."
"I think he stuck her," Ninja said. "He was talking to her."
In some circles, one would not logically follow the other.
Not in this one.
"I can see why you'd think that, but it's not true," I said.
"You want to interview me?" Crow Man said.
"Maybe another time."
"Hey, I gotta story you wouldn't believe. Beat on from the
time I was a little kid. My old man was a drunk. My mother
was in the loony bin. Old man used to beat the crap outta me
with a goddamn shovel handle. Hey, I could tell you a story.'
"I'm sure."
"You pay for stories?"
I smiled, started to shake my head. Then stopped.
"I'll pay for Twig's story."
"No, I mean my story. You buy me a bottle of Jack, I'll
tell you a story that'll knock your socks off."
"I'll buy you six bottles for Twig."
Crow Man swayed in his sneakers, taken aback. The
other kids looked from me to him and back to me again.
"Bullshit," he said.
"Try me," I said.
I slipped a hand into my pocket and Ninja readied himself
to spring.
"Cut the crap," I said.
He settled back onto his feet, and I dug out a twenty
dollar bill and held it out in front of me. In the streetlight,
it fluttered. Crow Man's eyes fixed to it like a junkie's on a
loaded syringe. He stepped forward and started to reach. I
jerked the bill back and his dirty hand clawed at the air.
"Give it," he said.
"Uh-uh. But it's all yours and four more like it if you
bring me Twig."
He still was staring at the bill, which meant a bottle,
which meant another night of oblivion, if not bliss.
"We gotta take him, Crow," Ninja said. "He killed
Tammy."
"You don't know that," I said. "You don't even know who
I am, or what I really do."
I put headlines on news briefs. What they didn't know . ..
Ninja looked ready to try it. Crow Man still was looking
at the bill. The other kids, opportunists all, waited patiently.
I tried to look calm and self-assured. Ninja crouched
and came off the ground.
His arms started churning as he hit me, knees on my
chest, open palms thrashing at my face. The kids started
yelling and I could hear him grunting and spitting as he
swung and kicked and I backed away, trying to protect my
face, my groin. I stumbled but kept moving, and knew that
if I fell they'd be on me, all of them, stomping and kicking
and then it would be over, maybe really over and I had a flash of Roxanne and the baby, this baby I'd never know, and
I wrapped my arms around the kid's shoulders and spun and
ran hard at the brick wall.
My arms hit first and then his head hit the wall and made that coconut sound and he started to go limp, then thrashed
again but weakly. I slipped my arms out from behind him
and got him by the armpits and put him up against the wall again, but this time more gently.
His eyes were unfocused and his mouth was open, his jaw
slack. His arms fell to his sides as I felt the back of his head,
then looked at my hand in the dim light. There was blood.
I looked into his eyes, hoping and searching for life.
After all, he'd meant well.
"You all right?" I said.
Ninja closed his eyes, then opened them and stared at
me. Then squinted to focus.
"I think maybe he needs an ambulance." I said to the Lost
Boys, now talking quietly among themselves. Suddenly they
stopped and there was a pause, a moment of silence broken
when Crow Man stepped forward.
"Ah, he's fine," he said. "But I was wonderin'. You got
that hundred bucks on you?"
CHAPTER 51


The negotiations were momentary, the agreement
sealed without a handshake, but made in good faith, or at
least as good as it got on the street at night in the cold.
They'd deliver Twig to the Hannibal Hamlin statue by seven
o'clock, unharmed. I showed them the hundred dollars, saw
the yearning in Crow Man's eyes, and watched as he led the
little band off down the street. Ninja was unsteady on his
feet but Crow Man didn't wait. He was truly a man with a
mission.
And then I turned back. I had one, too.
I walked up a block and through a brick-walled alley and
out onto the street. It was after five and the stores and offices
were closing, the street already emptying in the late afternoon.
I walked up the hill, rubbing my arms, which were
sore where I'd hit the wall. The tussle had done something
to the cuts on my belly and I felt something warm dripping
down to my groin. Back in the van, behind my privacy
glass, I opened my jacket and undid my jeans and looked.
My shorts were bloodstained and there were streaks of blood
below the cuts, but they already were scabbing over.
The human body was a very resilient thing. Sometimes.
As I pulled away, the plan was to find a phone, call the police
about Sandra Baker, if that was her house. Maybe grab
some dinner and then head back to the riverfront to wait.
And if they had Rocky? I'd childproof the locks, bundle him
in the van, drive him to the police station, hand him to a
cop, say, "Here he is. The Grim Reaper. He's all yours."
So I swung around the block, and there was a phone,
against the wall outside the bus station. I pulled over and
parked, and leaving the van running, went to the phone.
There was gum pressed over the mouth end of the receiver
and it had hardened like concrete in the cold. I picked most
of it off, put a quarter in and dialed.
The number rang. Once, twice . . .
Roxanne answered. Or a reasonable facsimile.
"You've reached Roxanne Masterson at Child Protective
Services. I'm away from my desk, but if you need to talk to
someone tonight, call the following number."
I waited as she gave it.
"If you want to leave a message, you may do so after the
tone. If this is J.M., I'm all set until eleven. Call the car between
seven and seven fifteen."
On the phone, I heard her breathing. I listened until
there was a last breath. Then a click, and the tone.
"I love you, too," I said, and hung up.
As I stood there, on the sidewalk of the deserted street, I
knew what I would do. Like a smoker saying they would
only have one cigarette, a drinker saying just one more
drink, I told myself I would just drive by. Take one more
look. Not even get out of the car.
CHAPTER 52


And I didn't, not right away. At first I just sat by the
side of the darkened road, with the parking lights on, the
motor running, and watched.

The light still was on in the Camry. There was one light
on in the house, in the basement. I sat for fifteen interminable
minutes and nobody came or went. Two cars passed
on the road, one swerving wide around the van, the other a
pickup that sped past headed out of town, and I pulled
ahead to a wider part of the shoulder, the kind of place
where deliverymen pull off to eat lunch. I shut off the motor
and lights, and it was still and quiet and cold.

I took the flashlight from my bag and tested it, but it
didn't work. I gave it a sharp rap and it did, and I turned it
off and looked up and down the road. There were no cars in
sight, and I got out, and, crunching through the crusty
snow, crossed the road.

As I approached the driveway, headlights showed in the
distance. I hurried past the Camry, stepping clear of the
frozen tracks, and huddled in the shadows near the side door
until the car passed. It did, and I slipped the flashlight into
my parka pocket and took out a pen. I pressed it against the
yellow light of the door bell.

Pressed again.

I waited a minute, then forced myself to wait a minute
more. Then I counted to ten. Took the pen and pulled the
storm door open, and slipped inside.
Listened. Looked. Turned on the flashlight and played it
over the room. It was the same: shoes, jackets, keys in the
lock in the inner door. I went to the crack and peeked. The
food was on the table. I swallowed. Breathed slowly and .
silently. Inside, there was a click and the refrigerator started
to hum.
"Hello," I said, and it was jarring as a scream.
I waited. There was no answer. I said it again. Waited
some more. Used the pen to push open the door.
It swung but didn't creak. When it stopped, I could see
the groceries, a brown leather pocketbook hanging by its
strap on the kitchen chair. I called out again. No answer. I
stepped into the room.
My boots made gritty footsteps on the tile floor, and I
fought off an impulse to wipe the prints and get out. I told
myself I only wanted to know if this was Sandra Baker's
house. I didn't want to know that she was asleep on the
couch.
I crossed the kitchen and stood in front of the refrigerator,
moved the flashlight beam over it. There were notes
stuck to it, pink and yellow and green. One was the number
of a travel agent. Next to it was a newspaper article about a
cruise: Miami to St. John to St. Croix and home. Someone
had circled the phone number to call for information.
If it had been Sandra, she had some money.
There was a postcard from Atlantic City, showing the
casinos, another from Greece, showing the Parthenon. The
appliances were new and top of the line. There was a fishy
smell from the grocery bags and I peeked in and saw a bag of
shrimp, a jar of cocktail sauce, a twenty-dollar bottle of wine.
No screw tops here.
I listened. No sign of life, either.
Another door led to the rest of the house, and it was
slightly ajar. I hesitated, then walked over.
"Hello," I said again. "I'm Jack McMorrow. I'm looking
for Sandra Baker. Ms. Baker, this is a long story but I really
need to talk to you. Do you know a boy named Rocky?
Rocky Doe?"
Silence.
With the pen, I pushed the door open. It caught on the
carpet in the hall and stopped. I pushed again, and it made
a soft shush. There was an odor. A toilet odor. A rancid
smell. I called, but my voice was hushed, too. I walked into
the hall, the light leading the way like a dog on a leash.

To the right was a bathroom, and I flicked the light on
and sniffed. The bathroom was neat, with matching flowered
hand towels on the rack. The vanity had a white marble
top. There were pink fluffy slippers on the floor by the tub,
and I could smell deodorant. Perfume. The bad smell wasn't
coming from there.
"Hello," I said again, but this time it was a whisper.
No one whispered back.
I moved along the hallway until I came to another doorway
to my left, another door straight ahead. The doorway
led to a living room, with white carpeting and two rose
colored overstuffed chairs that matched an overstuffed
couch. They were empty.
The door was closed.
I pushed with the pen. It didn't open. I took a twenty
dollar bill from my pocket, wrapped the bill around the
knob. Turned. The door opened. The room was dark. The
smell was much stronger.
The light searched as I stood in the doorway. There were
boots on the carpet in front of me. Women's boots, one upright,
one on its side. Then a liquor bottle, also on the carpet.
Absolut Citron. A pill bottle. Pills, yellow and pink,
scattered about the floor like tiny Easter eggs.
Dangling from the bed was a woman's foot.

CHAPTER 53

She was wearing socks, tweed slacks, a white sweater
on which she had vomited. Her hair was orange. Her mouth
was open and her eyes were closed. Her skin had taken on
that shading that medical people call lividity, which I'd always
thought an odd term because to me it implied emotion.
It meant anything but.
Lividity meant the woman's blood had settled after she'd
died. I could see it in her neck, a coloring like that rust
colored paint they put on the bottom of a boat's hull. Her
face was blotchy and drawn. Her jaw was slack as though
she were terribly exhausted. Perhaps she had been, when
she'd drawn her last breath.
There is something mesmerizing about a corpse, this irrefutable
evidence that despite all our efforts to believe the
contrary, we are about as enduring as ripened fruit.
And for a long time I stood in the doorway and stared,
drawn inexorably to the sight of her. Was this my Sandra
Baker? Was this the woman who wouldn't let her long-deadfriend die? Where was the explanation now? What had happened,
that she had died before she could even unload the
groceries? Why such a wide swath of death? Kitty, Flossie,
Tammy, and now Sandra Baker. Where was my Grim Reaper now? Had he already come and gone?
There was a sound and I started. A humming, ticking sound. The heat kicking on. As the water gurgled in the pipes, I backed slowly from the room, as though she might jump me if I turned my back. I turned in the hallway and made my way to the kitchen to find the phone. With the light slashing at the
dark, I found the base of a cordless phone on the counter.
The phone wasn't in it, and I played the light down the
counter, across to the table. There was no phone but the pocketbook was hanging there. I peeked in with the light.
There was a wallet, the kind held together by a strap and snap, but the strap was undone. I took the pen and pushed the wallet open, and Sandra J. Baker stared me in the face,
eyes open, mouth closed. It was her driver's license photo, and she looked almost merry, at least by comparison.
The wallet slipped aside and I picked further. A large
package of sugarless gum, a pack of cigarettes. Kleenex, in a
plastic wrapper. Matches. Lipstick and eyeliner pencil. Hard
candies and yellow sticky-notes. Crumpled gasoline receipts
that said "Bangor Mobil." Two keys on a metal ring. I gave
them a poke.
One said Toyota. The other said "U.S.P.S. Do not duplicate."
I thought for a moment, then moved to the door,
where the keys still were hanging from the lock. I looked at
them, saw another Toyota key, another post office key. The
keys in the bag were her spares. I paused. I wanted to know
more, but I couldn't stay here. But the mailbox, the one
with my phony letter.
My fingerprints.
Leaning over the bag, I fished the key ring out with the
pen, and put the pen and the keys in the pocket of my
parka. Turning off the light, I let myself out.

CHAPTER 54

The road was dark when I left the house, and I didn't
meet another car until one passed as I crossed into the city
limits. I slowed at houses where there were lights, half
intending to stop and knock on the door and ask whoever
answered to call the police.
But before I knew it I was back in the downtown, driving
down Broadway, past Tippy's house, which thankfully was
dark. Then I took a right, cut through to Harlow Street, and
there was the post office.
The lights in the lobby were on.
I drove past the federal building, parked on a little court,
and got out and walked back. The court side of the building
was deserted, the door locked and the guard nowhere in
sight. But the door to the post office was open, the service
windows closed. I went to a section five feet over from Sandra
Baker's box and leaned low, fiddling with the key and
peeking through the boxes into the post office. I could hear
the voices of the mail clerks, calling back and forth, but
they were distant. I turned. There was no one approaching.
I rose quickly, went to box 1281 and popped it open.
The sheaf of mail slid out easily. I tucked it under my
arm, closed the box and yanked out the key. At the door, I
checked the sign. It said box lobby hours, 8 a.m. to 7 p.m.
I'd scan the mail and return it. I had fifteen minutes.
Gloves on, in the dark, with the flashlight resting on the
passenger seat of the van, I sifted through it. There were
bills for credit cards, offers for still others. Something from
a dentist in Orrington, an insurance company in Virginia. A
renewal notice for Newsweek, and a bill from the Bangor
Daily News. A postcard from a casino in Connecticut, signed
by Myra, who had won one hundred and eighty-eight dollars
and wished Sandy were there. Flyers from discount
stores, a brochure for the new Toyotas. My letter and a letter
with no return address, with the name "Sandra Baker"
scrawled quickly.
And a Woodfield postmark.
I turned on the dome light and held the envelope up.
The light showed what appeared to be a piece of paper torn
from a spiral-bound notebook. There were words, but I
couldn't make them out. I turned the envelope, turned it
again. Took the flashlight and held it up, with the envelope
against the lens. Two words showed, big and bold but backward.
I flipped the envelope over and read.
The note said, "No more."
I examined it, but that was it. Two words. "No more."
No more what?
I sat back for a moment, looked at my watch. It was
seven minutes of seven, and I didn't want to meet a guard in
the lobby locking up. I did want to meet Crow Man and the
boys. I did have to make the call.
Gathering up the mail, I left my stuffed envelope on the
seat and got out of the van, locked it, and started walking.
Putting the van key in my left parka pocket, I felt for the
box key in my right. Felt again, then slipped off my glove.
Stopping on the sidewalk, I dug in my parka pockets, then
checked the pockets of my jeans. Went back to the van and
looked in the seats, on the floors, in the gutter.
"Shit," I said.
I checked the van again. My pockets again. I dug in my
pockets, patted my jeans, fished in the seats. Checked my
watch.
It was four minutes of seven.
"Goddamn it," I said.
I'd done it now. I was being eyed for one murder, and had
failed to report what could very well be another. I'd lifted
evidence from the scene, probably committed a federal
crime by taking someone's mail. Who investigated that, the
F.B.I.?
It was two minutes of, and I turned and started up the
sidewalk, intermittently turning the light on and playing it
on the pavement. They had to be somewhere between the
post office and the van, and there still was time. If I found
them now, I'd just make it. Get rid of the mail, get out of
there, go down to the statue and wait.
I loped along the sidewalk, playing the light like one of
those guys who look for coins at the beach with metal detectors.
An older man with a dog approached and I turned my
head away, but still felt his stare.
"Lose something?" he said, ready to join the search.
"No," I said. "But thanks."
I crossed the wide walk in front of the entrance, trying to
retrace the path I'd used, and I saw bottle caps, used lottery
tickets, cigarette butts.
And then, as I approached the doors, I saw the guard
turning his key in the lock. He closed the door behind him,
gave it a jiggle and then turned. Through the window, I saw him hold something up and examine it. Then he twirled it
and held it up again.
The key. The guard had it, and I had the mail.
I turned away quickly, and stood there for a moment,
holding the mail, first against my chest, and then, as I
strode away, under my arm. I thought of tossing it down a storm drain, or burning it in the woodstove. But there had to be some way to get it back into that box. Some way, I
thought as I walked away from the building, back down the
hill.
Sneak into the post office and just stuff it in myself? Mail it all again? Go back to Sandra Baker's house and leave it
there, but that would be misleading. Or I could just give it to the cops and tell the truth.
I had never been much of a liar. I didn't need to start now. It was time to start telling the truth, the whole truth,
nothing but.
And I'd told Crow Man and the ninja I'd meet them at
Hannibal Hamlin at seven, and it was three minutes after,
which probably didn't matter, though there was a chance
that Crow Man would, for some hundred-dollar reason,
manage to be punctual. So putting the mail on the passenger
seat, I drove down the hill, up one red-brick block and over the steel-railed bridge that crossed Kenduskeag Stream. I parked the van in front of a shoe-repair place, which was closed, shut off the lights and motor, and sat.
The downtown had emptied like a tide pool, and the little park was dark and deserted. I couldn't make out Hannibal
Hamlin from the van, but he had to be there, and maybe they were, too. Or maybe they'd walked a hundred yards, and, with the attention span of puppies, wandered off to sniff out some booze, huff down some fumes, forgotten all
about me, and now here I was sitting in the dark in some
frozen outpost of a city.
But then again, where else could they trade a skinny little
boy for a hundred bucks?
I got out of the van and, reaching back in for the flashlight,
crossed the street and walked back over the bridge.
Below me, the stream was running fast and cold, a black
gash in the center of the ice. The ground was icy and crackled
like broken glass as I walked. The sound echoed off the
buildings on the far side of the stream, but when I stopped
beside the statue, everything was still.
In the distance I heard a siren, and thought of Sandra
Baker. I'd wait fifteen minutes, then go make the call and
come back. I started counting down. Waited some more.
Stared up at Hannibal Hamlin, and his monument to the
fleeting nature of fame. These kids wouldn't know him from
Adam. But then, they probably didn't know much about
Adam, either.
I stood some more, shuffling on my feet to stay warm,
but the sound carried in the night air and I tried to hold
still, me and Hannibal. But the cold seeped in like water,
and my feet ached, my nose ran. I wiped it with a gloved
hand, then turned as footsteps came from the direction of
the van.
Someone was approaching, tapping along the icy sidewalk.
I turned to watch, and the figure materialized. It was
in a long coat, carrying a bag. As she passed under a light, I
saw blond hair, but then a van came down the street, and
slowed and I couldn't see her. The van stopped.
I saw the driver turn. Someone called something. The
woman emerged from behind the van, walking faster with
her head down. Someone laughed. The van motor idled
loudly, and then there was a metallic scrape. The doors
opening. Feet crunching on the ice. Two guys came around
the back of the van, and then two more, and I thought of
Rusty's bunch and tensed. And then I saw him.
He was at the center of the huddle that crossed the street, and I only saw glimpses of him as they approached. His hair. His glasses. The gag tied over his mouth.
When they got close, Crow Man turned. He gave me a gap-toothed, triumphant grin. "Friggin' delivered to your door," he said. "Now hand over the cash." They separated, and there was Rocky, huddled like a hostage. The gag was a blue bandanna. His hands were tied in front of him, and his chin was on his chest. The rest of the posse, bright-eyed and feral under their hoods, awaited their reward expectantly.
"Wiry little scrapper," Crow Man said. "Had to practically
hog-tie him to get him in the truck. You oughta throw
in another twenty bucks for wear and tear. And I gotta pay
the guy for the goddamn van."
"It's called overhead," I said. "Or didn't they teach you
that at Amos Tuck?"
He looked at me blankly.
"Take that thing off his mouth," I said. "And untie him."
"Why? You're just gonna tie him back up later, right?"
He grinned again and winked. On cue, the kids leered.
One tittered.
"So where's the money?" Crow Man said.
"Yeah," a kid seconded.
I dug in my jeans, pulled out the bills and counted. When I reached one hundred, Crow Man snatched the cash
like a monkey taking peanuts, and the whole bunch of them
fell away from Rocky and tumbled back across the square
toward where the van waited.Rocky stood there, like a broken dog. I walked to him
and yanked the gag down from his mouth. Then I undid the
knotted shoelace from his wrists. He didn't run. Didn't
move. Didn't speak. Hannibal Hamlin looked on with disapproval
of the whole sordid transaction.

"Sorry," I said. "I didn't think it would be like that."
Rocky said nothing.
"I'm parked across the street. Let's get out of here."
"Why should I?"
Again, good question, no answer. But I had to remain
calm, matter of fact. Of course, he was going with me. Of
course, he wouldn't run. Of course, he hadn't killed anyone.
Of course. He was just a kid.
"Because you have to. For a whole lot of reasons. Where
were you, anyway?"
"The mall," Rocky said.
I started to walk and after two steps, he started to follow.
"You hungry?" I said.
"Where we going?"
"We'll swing through Burger King."
"Where we going?"
"The one by the onramp."
"Where we going?"
We crossed the street, and I fished in my parka for the
keys. I went around and opened the sliding door, and Rocky
started to get in. He had one leg in when I remembered the
mail and started to reach for it, but he was halfway in, and I
reached under him and he reached down and the mail
spilled onto the floor at his feet. Rocky leaned down, and in
the soft light of the van, he froze.
I slammed the door shut. Ran around the front of the van
and fiddled with the lock. When I climbed into the seat,
Rocky still was bent over, staring at the floor. I watched him
for a moment as he looked at each envelope, the address
labels on the magazines. Sandra Baker.
"Somebody you know, isn't it," I said.
Rocky didn't answer.
"Kitty, too."
He eyed the mail, then slowly shook his head.
"I think this is Kitty's friend," I said. "How do you know her, Rocky?"
He didn't answer. He had come to the small envelope, the one I had held up to the light. He picked it up, held it in his thin, white hands.
"You know what it says inside? It says, 'No more.' That's all. That mean anything to you?"
Slowly he shook his head.
"Nothing at all? 'Kitty, kitty, kitty,' Rocky. 'How can you live?' You remember that, don't you?"
He stared straight ahead, lost in thought, then suddenly
reached for the door latch. He yanked it twice but the door
didn't open.
"Only opens from the outside," I said.
Rocky sat back. I leaned forward on the steering wheel so
I could see him in the rearview mirror. He looked pensive,
angry.
"My mom didn't do nothing," he murmured.
"I didn't say she did."
He stared, unseeing, the envelope still in his hands.
"You know whose handwriting that is, Rocky?"
Still he stared.
"Rusty's," he whispered.
I swallowed.
"Why would Rusty be writing to this lady?"
For a moment, Rocky didn't answer. I could see his face,
pale in the streetlight, lost in thought.
"I don't know," he said.
"And do you know why he would say 'No more' to this
lady?"
The pale face shook.
"He wouldn't be having an affair, would he? Not with a
lady who might be his age. How old is Rusty?"
"He's forty, I think."
"No, if Rusty had a girlfriend, she'd be more like twenty.
You think he was mad at this Sandra?"
Underneath the red plaid, the shoulder flinched.
"So he did know her, but he wasn't mad at her? Did he
like her?"
This time he just stared.
"Were they friends or something, Rocky? Was Sandy a
friend of your mom?"
"No," he snapped.
I paused, considered his clenched jaw, his angry scowl.
"So they didn't like each other?"
No answer. A car approached from behind, the lights
painting us in glare. I squinted and adjusted the mirror so I
could see Rocky full in the face. And then the car passed,
leaving us in the icy cast of the streetlight.
"So how did you guys get to know this Sandra lady?"
No answer.
"She didn't live in Woodfield. You know where her house
is?"
He looked at me carefully, then slowly shook his head.
"It's just outside of town here. Maybe a mile and a half
from here. We could go there."
I watched for a reaction, but his face was a glowering
mask. I put the key in the ignition and the dashboard
glowed pale green like something from the space shuttle,
and I started the motor.
"Why don't we? Just stop by for a minute. Maybe Sandra
Baker will be home and we can ask--"
"No."
It was a bark. Almost a shout. When it had subsided, the
van motor idled quietly.
"Why not?" I said.
"We just can't," Rocky said.
"Maybe she won't mind. Maybe she'll be glad to talk
about--"
I put the van in gear.
"No," he barked again, and reached for the door handle,
started to heave himself forward off the seat. I put my hand
on his chest and shoved him back down. He bounced back
up, and I shoved him again and this time he stayed down,
tears running down his cheeks.
"Start talking," I said. "Or I'll park this thing in Sandra Baker's living room."

CHAPTER 55

At first he just sat there. I sat, too, arms across the steering
wheel. Rocky cried, snuffling quietly and wiping his
eyes with a dirty hand. I fought off pangs of sympathy by
thinking of Sandra Baker on the couch, the smell in the
room, Roxanne and the baby.
The child of a murder suspect.
I put the van in gear and pulled out: I'd driven fifty yards
when Rocky said, "No."
I pulled over again, this time in front of a thrift store
where mannequins wore hand-me-downs in the window.
Rocky looked out at them and wiped his face.
"Next time, I don't stop until we're in her driveway," I
said.
He bit his lip and then took a deep breath.
"She was dumping bad on my mom."
"And Rusty was telling her to stop saying this stuff?"
He shrugged.
"What kind of stuff?"
Rocky looked out the window. I waited. Slipped the
gearshift down.
"Bad things." he said.
"Like what?"
No answer. I took my foot off the brake and the van
rolled forward.
"Bad things," Rocky said, quickly. "About my mom and
Rusty and Kitty, except she's dead."
"Sandra Baker said bad things about Rusty and Kitty,

5"
too:"
Rocky shook his head.
"No, not about Kitty. Kitty's dead."
"How do you know that?"
A pause. The van rolled. Rocky talked and it stopped.
"On account of what Sandra Baker said. About her being
dead, I mean."
"What did she say about her being dead."
"I want my mom," Rocky said.
I turned and he was crying more, his eyes reddened and
swollen as though they'd been punched, black dirty streaks
like brush strokes across his face. I felt the sympathy start to
well up inside me and I turned away and choked it back down.
"Rocky," I said. "What was it Sandra Baker said about
Kitty being dead?"
Rocky sobbed. I waited, steeling myself to the sound. He
sobbed again and again. I let the van roll.
"She said--"
I braked to a stop.
"She made it up. She was just making accusations and lying
and--"
"About your mother?"
In the mirror, I saw him nod.
"What about your mother, Rocky?"
"Bad things, but they weren't true."
"Well, if they weren't true, then you shouldn't mind
telling me, right? If they were just made up."
In the mirror, I saw him staring out the darkened window.
When I looked ahead, I saw a car approaching the intersection.
There was something stealthy about the way it
moved, and I put the van in gear, and pulled out slowly.
"No," Rocky said.
"Just hang on," I said, and I drove up to the intersection
and turned right, just as the patrol car passed through. The
cop, a young man, glanced at me but drove on. A block up,
I pulled into a convenience store lot and parked. I left the
motor running and I asked him again.
"What was she saying about your mother?"
Rocky grimaced.
"We can be at Sandra's in five minutes. Is that what you
want?"
He shook his head.
"I can't wait much longer, Rocky."
He swallowed.
"We can just pound on her door, Rocky. If she isn't home,
we can just go in and wait. Sit right down--"
"She called my mom a lot of things."
"Where was this?"
"On the phone."
"She was talking to you?"
He shook his head.
"Talking to your mom?"
Another shake.
"Talking to Rusty?"
He hesitated, then nodded.
"And where were you?"
Rocky didn't answer.
"Come on, answer me. Where were you?"
"Listening," he whispered.
"Listening in?"
"In the family room. On the phone in the family room."
"Listening to Rusty talk to--"
"To Sandra Baker."
"And what were they saying?"
He started to cry again, to rock in place, rubbing the
tops of his thighs.
"Rocky, just say it."
He closed his eyes, bit at his lips, rocked faster. I waited,
and then the words came, choked out between racking sobs.
"She's a liar. A liar."
"What did she lie about?"
"She lied about everything."
"She lied about your mom?"
"She said my mom did it and Rusty did it, but my mom
didn't. I know she didn't. The Baker lady just wanted
money and Rusty said, 'Leave us alone.' And she said, 'Oh,
yeah? There's no statute of limitations on murder. I'll go to
the cops and you know it.' And Rusty said, 'You blackmailing
bitch, you'll go to jail, too.' All this stuff about her being
a cokehead and those days were over and she'll go down
for it, too. She says, 'No, I won't. I'll turn state evidence.
And I'll put--' "
Rocky paused.
"Put what, Rocky?"
He took a breath.
"She said, 'I'll put both of you away.' "
Rocky panted like he'd run up a flight of stairs. I waited
for him to recover, then asked as calmly as I could, "Put
both of them away for what?"
The tears ran, the finger brushed at them like mosquitoes.
"For--"
He
started to break down again.
"For what, Rocky?"
I waited. Watched him in the mirror as his face became
almost distorted by a sneer, transformed by a scowl. When
he spoke, it was in the voice of a woman.
" 'That bitch ran her over and you left her there to die.
You left her there in the road, you bastards. You screwed
her, you bastard, and then you and your little wife ran her
over and you left her there to die and you've got to pay.'"
The last words came in a screech that ended in a sob. I waited, my eyes closed, and I listened to him cry. And when, after several minutes, his sobs had begun to wane, I asked another question. I asked this one gently.
"What did she want, Rocky?"
"Money," he said, his breath coming in quick little spasms. "More money."
CHAPTER 56


So we sat there, Rocky and me. I reassembled everything
that had happened since he had pounded past the
restaurant window in Portland. He stared out the window,
breaking the silence with an occasional sniff.

"You okay?" I said, after minutes had passed.

Rocky nodded. Sniffed again. I turned in my seat to face
him and he looked at me and scowled. Was he angry with
himself for telling me? Angry that I knew?

"You know, just because this lady said this doesn't mean
it was true."

He turned away.

"And just because Rusty paid doesn't mean it was true. A
lot of people are paid off to keep things from coming out.
Just the accusation would be enough to ruin him, you know.
And once something like that is out, you can deny it all you
want. The damage is done."

"And all because I picked up the phone, and Rusty, he'd
said not to do that, it was for babies, and I was a baby and he
was going to grow me up."

I looked at him.

"So is that what he said this time?"

"He didn't say anything. He just came downstairs and
he started to say something, standing there, and I was just

sitting there watching TV and I was gonna act like nothing
had happened, but then I looked at him and he looked at me
and you didn't have to talk 'cause it was in our eyes, it was
in both our eyes."
I waited.
"And then what?" I said.
"And then I stood up, like I was gonna just go get something
to eat or something but I got, like, ten feet away from
him and I just sorta bolted and I went up the stairs and he
was chasing me, and my mom, she's saying, 'What? What's
going on?' and she musta got in his way 'cause I grabbed my
jacket and I'm out the back door and running and then he's
out the door and he's running and I can hear my mom
yelling, 'Leave him alone. Leave him alone,' like she thought
he was just gonna smack me for doing something but he
wasn't."
"What do you think he was going to do, Rocky? "
He considered it.
"I don't know. Something really bad. But he couldn't
catch me."
"Big guy like that?"
"He's big but he's got something wrong with him. He's,
like, wheezing and coughing a lot. He smokes. And sometimes
he coughs up bloody stuff. It's gross."
"Did you go back home?"
"That night I did. He was asleep. I hid and he left in the
morning and I went to school and I didn't come back. I'm
not making trouble for my mom no more."
Rocky still stared through the window, which was
opaque from his breath. He reached up and wiped it with
his arm. I leaned toward him.

"Who have you told all this to?" I said.
He didn't answer.
"Rocky. Answer me. Who have you told this story to?"
He shrugged.
"Just Tammy," he said.
"You told her the whole thing?"
He waited, then gave a quick nod.
"So she knew," I said, half to myself. "And your mom.
And your dad. And Sandra."
Rocky turned and looked at me with an odd expression.
A half-smile. Almost smug, as though he'd managed some
sort of ironic triumph. And then he looked back at the
glass.
"And you," he said. "And you'll tell your girlfriend. And
she'll tell somebody else and they'll tell somebody else. And
everybody'll think my mom is a murderer or something,
and she's not, she's great, and I can't let people think that,
because they'll put her in jail and she can't go to jail 'cause
she's sick."
So was Rocky the Grim Reaper? Or was the Grim Reaper
trailing Rocky, sweeping up the dirt he'd scattered?
Flossie, Sandra, Tammy . . .
"You're going to have to tell your story one more time," I
said, putting the van in gear.
"I don't want to."
"Well, Rocky," I said. "As you know, sometimes life is--"
"--a bitch," he said. "And then you die."
CHAPTER 57

He didn't fuss, didn't move, didn't say another word as I
drove through the still streets to the Broadway intersection,
made a U-turn and started back toward the downtown. But
when I approached the Bangor police station, a long low
brick building built into the side of one of the city's hills,
Rocky sat bolt upright.
"These cops will just call my dad."
"No, they won't," I said. "There's a detective here who's
working on Tammy. He'll know what to do."
We pulled up outside and parked behind a cruiser.
"What if he isn't here?" Rocky asked, panic rising up in
him. "What if it's just some regular cop and they call my
dad?"
"They won't. I'll tell them not to."
"So what. Who are you?" Rocky said.
Who am I? I considered it. I'm Jack McMorrow, I talked
to Detective Bruno and this is Rocky and, no, he's not my
son, he's just a ... a friend and he's been on the streets and
he's fourteen and I know Bruno would like to talk to us.
Yeah, the name sounds familiar probably because there's an
ATL out on the kid. Yeah, Woodfield. Yeah, parent will go
for, but whatever you do, don't call his stepfather, because,
well, it's a very long story, and what is my connection to all
this? Just an interested bystander, and sure, I'll go and wait
down the hall, but where's Rocky going? To see the juvenile
officer? Oh. Well, just remember, you can't call his house.
Will you tell the juvenile officer that? You're sure?
"What if we call first?" I said.
Rocky didn't agree, but he didn't try to kick the windows
out, either, so I slowed as I drove along, looking for a
pay phone, wishing I had my truck, my phone, and then remembering
there was a pay phone in the Clarion foyer, up
the block and around the corner.
I sped up, rounded the corner and pulled the van up in
front of the door. Getting out, I looked back at Rocky, huddled
in the backseat, considered him, then slid the door
open.
"Come on," I said.
He looked at me, but then, without a word, got out of
the van. Like a suspect being brought in for booking, he
walked in front of me, waiting as I reached over him to open
the door. I kept him within arm's reach as I dialed the operator
and asked for the Bangor Police Department, and no,
this was not an emergency. She gave me the number, and I
put in a quarter and punched the number. Two guys from
composing burst out of the door, headed for supper. They
glanced at Rocky, then at me. I nodded briefly. They did,
too, dubiously. A dispatcher answered and I asked for Bruno
and she said he was off-duty, could someone else help me?
The composing-room guys gone, I said, no, could they
beep him because it was important. How important was it?
Well, it was related to a homicide he was investigating and,
yeah, I could hold for the sergeant, and--
"Jesus Christ, you're here."
I turned, the phone at my ear, Rocky at my side, and
Marna came over and grabbed me by the arm.
"I've been trying to call you," she stage-whispered. "I tried
your car phone, I tried your house. This detective has been
calling you. And Roxanne's called you, like, eight times."
I told the dispatcher I'd call back and hung up.
"Roxanne? Is she all right?" I said.
"I don't know. She says for you to call her in her car, but then she calls back, like, fifteen minutes later, and says it again."
She looked at Rocky.
"How are you?" Marna asked.
Rocky shrugged.
"Okay," Marna said. "Nice to meet you."
"This is Rocky. I've told you about him."
"Oh, yeah. Hi."
"Hey," Rocky said.
"So that's all she said?"
"Yeah. Over and over and over."
"Call her in the car?"
"Yup."
"And she was okay?"
"I don't know," Marna said. "I mean, don't tell her I said this. Never met the woman and I'm passing judgment, but she sounded kind of strange."
"Strange like what?"
"I don't know. Like she was, this is gonna sound funny, but kind of like she was on stage or something. She's not like that, is she?"
"No," I said. "Not at all."
"I wrote the number on--well, you don't need the number,
you call it all the time."
I began to dial. Marna moved toward the doors, then turned back. She looked at Rocky. I put the phone down and walked to the door with her, and leaned close. She whispered."You know that woman you asked me about? The--"
She looked over her shoulder at Rocky, still by the phone.
"I talked to the funeral woman again, and she was saying
something about the business, which I really may look into.
I've got a strong stomach, and you know they make, like
forty thousand a year? Anyway, she said--" Mama leaned
close, and I could smell coffee on her breath, see the flakes of
lipstick on her lips. "She said they ruled that case a suicide.
You know one of the reasons?"
I shook my head.
"No."
"She was sick a lot. Some sort of kidney thing. And you
know what else? The woman was despondent. Some problem
with her kid."
I must have looked stunned.
"I know," Marna said, a tenderness creeping into her
voice. "But you can get pretty wrapped up in kids. When
things go wrong with them, it hurts pretty bad."
"Yeah," I said. "It must."
Marna shouldered her bag and pushed through the door.
"I gotta get a sandwich before I expire. Call Roxanne,"
she said, and the door hissed shut.
I turned to Rocky, who was standing by the phone
watching me.
"You still gonna call the cops?"
"Yeah," I said, distracted. "In a minute. Just wait. Let me
think for a second. You know, we've got to get you to somebody
besides me. A social worker or something. There's a
woman named Duguay who I met who I think would look
out for you pretty well."
"I don't need no--"
"Yeah, right. You're doing just great. But we've got to
talk to the cops, anyway."
"I'll talk to this detective but I'm not going into the police
station. Can he come and meet us?"
"Yeah. I'm sure. Just sit tight."
" 'Cause I don't want them to try to take me into PC or
something. I've heard of it happening. They say you're a danger
to yourself or others and then they ship you to the hospital
or the youth center or someplace. I don't want to ..."
I was dialing. Rocky was talking. The phone was silent
and then it was ringing.
Roxanne answered. Rocky turned away.
"You okay?" I said.
"Yeah," she said, her voice high-pitched and strange, like
something that could spiral into hysteria. In the background
was the murmur of traffic.
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing," Roxanne said.
"You sound like you're going to cry."
"Me? No. I'm fine. I'm just . . . just tired."
"You know you can't overdo it. It's not good for you, or
the baby."
"I know."
She said it with an odd inflection, like I'd confided something.
"Where
are you?"
"Well, I'm coming to see you. Where are you?"

"Where am I? I'm in Bangor, at the paper. But I'm not
working. I thought I was supposed to come down there."

"I know, but I got out early. I thought I'd come up."
She paused. I listened but only heard the car-phone hiss,
a surge and ebb that might have been a passing car. Rocky
had walked across the foyer to the door to the circulation
department, where a manager was pouring change into a sorting
machine. The coins started to clatter and I turned away."You're sure you're okay? I can come to Portland."
"No, I just thought I'd sort of surprise you," Roxanne
said. "And I was wondering, did you find our friend?'
"Rocky?"
"Yeah, Rocky. Did he turn up?"
She said it as though he were an amiable dog with a habit
of wandering off.
"Turn up?"
"Uh-huh."
"Are you sure you're all right?"
"Uh-huh. I think maybe we should talk, the three of us.
He's going to need services and I talked to somebody today
who would . . . who would like to help him."
"Roxanne. Something's wrong, isn't it?"
"Yeah, that would be fine," she said, with a strange little
girl voice.
"Is somebody there? If it's yes, say 'Good.' If it's no, say,
'Great.'"
"Good, so I'll see you,' Roxanne said, her voice bright
and tinny.
Christ almighty. Somebody there. Somebody in the car.
"I'll call the police."
"No, that wouldn't be good."
"Somebody threatening you? Say 'better' if it's yes."
"That would be better."
"So who? How can you--"
"I thought maybe we could have a drink," Roxanne said.
"I could use a Scotch and Drambuie. It's been a long day."
A what? Roxanne, who sipped Merlot. Roxanne who was
pregnant. Scotch and Drambuie?
I tried to think, sorting back through the years to bars on
the East Side, bars in the Village. Smoke and crowds and
rows of bottles and bartenders pouring liquors, mixing
drinks, saying, "You want that straight up?" and all the rest
of the alcoholic ritual.
And then it came to me.
Scotch and Drambuie. A Rusty Nail.
Rusty.
"Is Rusty there? 'Great' is yes."
"Great."
"Is he armed? 'Okay' is yes."
"Okay. That sounds good."
"Knife or gun? 'Sure' is knife."
"Sure," Roxanne said.
"And he wants Rocky? 'Okay' is yes."
"Okay."
Oh, god, I thought. Oh, god almighty.
"So I thought we could meet, let's say, right there in Bangor,"
Roxanne said, blurting quickly, as though she'd been
jabbed. "We could buy Rocky dinner."
"Where are you? Say 'Great' when I get close. Freeport. Yarmouth. Brunswick--"
"Great," Roxanne chirped, the hysteria pooling on the
surface now. "How 'bout the Sea Dog pub? By the river.
Rocky could wait in the truck."
"His idea? 'Sounds good' is yes."

"Sounds good," Roxanne said.
"What about cops? I could call the state police, they could stop your car. Would that be the right thing? 'Okay' is yes. 'Great' is no.""That would be great," Roxanne said.
"He's close to the edge?"
"That would be okay, too."
"I need time." I said. "Can you just go along with him,
can you make it up here, do you think?"
"Sure.""Drive slowly."
"Uh-huh. Tell Rocky I said hello. Tell him I'm looking
forward to seeing him."
"It's twenty of nine. You're two hours away."
I thought frantically.
"Is he nuts? What if the cops pull you over? Will he hurt
you? 'Sure' is yes. No is--"
"Urn, sure," Roxanne said.
"Where did he find you, your office?"
"Sure."
"Oh, god. I have a black van. A Windstar. It has black
windows. Does he know I don't have my truck? No is 'I love
you.' "
"I love you, too," Roxanne said, and this time her voice
cracked. I thought I heard a sound in the background, a
grunt, and then the receiver was covered, and she came back
on and said, "Call me in an hour. Bye," and the phone went
dead.

I hung up, my heart pounding, turned and looked at Rocky,
still staring at the jingling change.
In a second, I was across the room and I had him by the
shoulder and he said, "Hey, leave me alone."
"Just stay away from the door."
"What's the matter with you?"
"Nothing," I lied. "Just stay where I can see you."
"What's your problem? Who was that on the phone?"
"Nobody," I said.
"Didn't sound like nobody. I don't think I want to talk to
that cop."
"What you want doesn't matter right now. Just stand
there."
Rocky did, but sullenly, one eye on the door. I dialed
Clair's number, stood and waited with the steel phone cord! stretched taut, as close to the door as I could get. Rocky
watched me suspiciously from behind his glasses, and. watched him, too, but I saw him differently. I saw Roxanne's life, her ticket out of this nightmare. I saw our baby,' its life in the hands of this bastard. I leaned against the cord even harder.
Clair's line was busy. I hung up.
"What now?" Rocky said.
"Just wait."
"I want to go."
"Just stand there."
"You can't hold me. You've got no legal right--"
"So report me," I said. "But right now, just shut up."
I dialed again. Still busy. It could be Mary talking to one of her daughters, and Clair said those conversations went on for an hour or more. I waited for what seemed like a minute, but might have been twenty seconds, and tried again.
Still busy.
I had to call the cops, I had to. They'd have the plate, the description of the car, they'd find it, they'd stop it, they'd
take Rusty out at gunpoint, maybe shoot him. Call her in an
hour, she'd said. Maybe he'd change rendezvous points.
Maybe he'd change his mind and tell Roxanne to drive out to some deserted place and--
Or maybe he'd show up.
Rocky was scuffing at the carpet. I stood there with the phone in my hand, the cord stretched. The circulation guy
came out and said, "Hey, how's it going?" and I said, "Good,"
and Rocky said nothing. The guy glanced at us curiously and
swung through the door and stomped up the stairs. I dropped
my quarter back in and dialed again.
It still was busy.
I thought. Forty minutes to Prosperity. Forty minutes
back. That was eighty, and I had a hundred and twenty. I
could call on the way. Or I could just go to the Sea Dog and
wait, or I could go to the cops, explain, hope it was the right
thing to do.
"Come on," I said, and I took Rocky by the upper arm
and went through the doors and outside, with him in front
of me. He tried to shrug me off, but I hung on tight as I
walked him to the van, slid the door open, pushed him in.
"Hey," he said.
"Just sit there," I said.
I started the van and even as I started down the hill to
Main Street, I knew. Main Street led out of the downtown,
past the car lots and stores and vacant scrub. It had started
to snow and I drove in the left lane, steadily and fast, eyes
squinting against the pelting flakes. Then I swung onto the
highway, blasted through the snowy backwash from tractor
trailers, and swung off two exits down, at Route 202 south.
"Where the hell we going?" Rocky said.
"Home," I said.
"I don't want to go home."
"Not your home. Mine."
"Why you going so fast?"
"Because I'm in a hurry."
He quieted after that, buckling his seat belt and watching
the road, wide-eyed. I drove the same way, silent and
staring, eyes fixed to the pale splash of light that split the
darkness that lurked on both sides of the road. In Maine, the
city abruptly gave way to woods as though you'd passed
through a walled gate into the blackness where the country
people huddled around fires. You traveled the roads at your
own risk, hurtling down long, steep grades, grazing oncoming
trucks that reeled under their loads of logs.
There were a few oncoming, a few going our way. A.
loaded pulp truck, a ramshackle pickup, listing to the right,
an old Chevette crammed with kids. I passed them and soon
the city was miles behind and it was just me and Rocky,
hurtling south, riding the fine line between killing ourselves
because we were going too fast, and killing Roxanne
because we'd gone too slow.
But I didn't think of it that way, not then, not consciously
as I feathered the brakes, pressed the accelerator
down, felt the van start to slide almost imperceptibly, not
going quite straight, and then I'd let off as Rocky muttered,
"Jesus."
And I said, "Jesus," too, oh, dear, Jesus, get us out of this
one, don't let anything happen, not to her, not to them, as I
hit eighty on a long downhill grade, the snow rushing at the
lights like neutrons, and then the distant glow of a sign, red
and white.
It was a store, in Newburgh Center, and the lights were
on but there were no cars, except for a pickup, plowed in
and snow-covered. I wheeled past the gas pumps, up to the
door, saw the ice locker, the air hose, the phone.
I parked and said, "Don't move," to Rocky and got out.
The quarter went in, but trickled out the change return. I
tried it again, and again it jingled all the way through.
"Son of a bitch," I said, jamming the coin in. It took it
and there was a dial tone and I punched the numbers with a
cold finger. It clicked. Clicked again. The busy signal rasped.
"Damn," I said, hung up and grabbed the quarter and ran.
Back in the van, Rocky looked at me coldly.
"Something's wrong, isn't it?" he said.
"Yes," I said, but that was all.
From Newburgh we climbed, still headed south, following
a single set of black tracks on the now-whitened
roadway. It was more slippery and the tracks swerved
where the car had slid, losing traction on the long grade. I gripped the wheel tightly, narrowed my eyes against the
snow glare, tried not to think of Roxanne, the baby, but
tried to think of them, too.
Call the police? Hand over Rocky? What was the best
way to get her back into my arms? Me and Rocky in the
narking lot, and Clair in the van? Roxanne in view first,
alone and unharmed? I pictured her running to me, falling
into me. Rocky taken by the arm and led oft to who knows
what. Did that have to happen? Could I allow it?
The images turned, like the TV with Rocky at the remote,
blipping and whirling as I drove. The snow was heavier
now, more and bigger flakes, covering the tracks that had
been my guide. I crested the hilltops in Dixmont, and then,
starting to slide at sixty miles an hour, had to choose: Turn
east and head for Brooks, or continue on toward Unity. The
van waggled, the rear end swinging. There was a store in
Troy, a store in Unity. I hit the gas and the van straightened
and sped on through the blackness, past the shadows of
dimly lighted trailers, the black shapes of houses, my passenger
silent and grim.
In Troy, the store was closed, the parking lot white like
the ice on a pond. I pulled in, saw footprints, a single set,
leading toward the door, leading to the phone.
There was a young guy talking, tall, long-hair in a ponytail,
college age. He turned as I pulled up, then turned back,
huddling over his conversation. I told Rocky to stay put,
and then got out and strode over.
"Emergency, I need the phone," I said.
gripped the wheel tightly, narrowed my eyes against the
snow glare, tried not to think of Roxanne, the baby, but
tried to think of them, too.
Call the police? Hand over Rocky? What was the best
way to get her back into my arms? Me and Rocky in the
parking lot, and Clair in the van? Roxanne in view first,
alone and unharmed? I pictured her running to me, falling
into me, Rocky taken by the arm and led off to who knows
what. Did that have to happen? Could I allow it?
The images turned, like the TV with Rocky at the remote,
blipping and whirling as I drove. The snow was heavier
now, more and bigger flakes, covering the tracks that had
been my guide. I crested the hilltops in Dixmont, and then,
starting to slide at sixty miles an hour, had to choose: Turn
east and head for Brooks, or continue on toward Unity. The
van waggled, the rear end swinging. There was a store in
Troy, a store in Unity. I hit the gas and the van straightened
and sped on through the blackness, past the shadows of
dimly lighted trailers, the black shapes of houses, my passenger
silent and grim.
In Troy, the store was closed, the parking lot white like
the ice on a pond. I pulled in, saw footprints, a single set,
leading toward the door, leading to the phone.
There was a young guy talking, tall, long-hair in a ponytail,
college age. He turned as I pulled up, then turned back,
huddling over his conversation. I told Rocky to stay put,
and then got out and strode over.
"Emergency, I need the phone," I said.
"Somebody's dying," I shouted at him, shocked by my
own words even as I said them.
"Yeah, well, you don't have to knock somebody down,
you asshole," he said, and he gave me a shove. But there was no force in it, just lost face. I jiggled the receiver and pumped in the quarter and dialed.
Waited, with him glowering.
Busy again.
"Shit," I said, and I slammed the receiver down, grabbed
the coin and turned away.
That was it, the last call, and now it was a dash over the
ridges, through the woods, twelve miles to home. I flung
the van around the corners, crested the hills with the pedal
down to the floor.
"You don't have to kill us," Rocky said suddenly, as we
sped over Knox Ridge.
He was right, the little twerp, and I took a deep breath as
I slowed. We'd be there in fifteen minutes, back on the road
in twenty, explanations delivered en route. But how would I
do that, with Rocky in the van? And what if Clair weren't
home?
Well, he just had to be, if there was a God, if there was
any justice, if there was ... he just had to be. He just had to.
CHAPTER 58


But was he?

The barn was shut, the windows dark, the lights were on
in the house.

I pulled in, wheeling the van close and crunching the
front end into a snowbank so the headlights played on the
door. The dooryard spotlight came on, the light spilling
over the snow.

"Somebody sick?" Rocky said behind me.

"No," I said. "Nobody's sick."

Except Rusty, I thought, but then the door swung open,
the storm door swung out, and Clair peered at us, then hurried
down the steps. I shut the van off, taking the key, and got
out. We met in front of the van, standing in the falling snow.

"What's wrong?"
I told him, speaking soft and low. Rocky. Sandra Baker.
Roxanne.

Clair's face hardened.

"Where?"

"By now? Probably approaching Augusta."

"Police?"

"Not yet. She said he'd hurt her, that he was desperate.
Desperate to get the boy back."

"Because the boy knows?"

"That's his version. The boy's, I mean."
"Whatever."
"We have to bring him."
"Bait," Clair said.
And without another word, he turned and went back
into the house. I got back in the van and started the motor
and sat silently at the wheel. Rocky watched me closely, and
when Clair came back out with the Mauser, I glanced over
and saw Rocky's owl eyes widen. Clair trotted with the rifle
toward the barn.
"It's Rusty, isn't it?" Rocky blurted, and then he fell to a
crouch, started to try to scramble between the front seats. I
leaned over and strong-armed him back down.
"No, I'm not going," he said, and popped up again. Back
down he went.
Back up. Back down.
"Rocky," I barked. "Sit there or I'll tie you down."
The words hurt both of us and I caught myself, but there
was no choice. I couldn't allow myself to be nice or kind or
compassionate. Not now, not yet.
Rocky resignedly sat back in the backseat, and when I
told him to buckle his seat belt, he did. Clair came back out
of the barn, hunched against the snow. I leaned over and
opened the passenger door and he handed me the phone from Mary's car and a small canvas ammo bag. Then he got
in, holding the gun in front of him, the muzzle pointing at
the ceiling. Clair glanced at Rocky and gave an absent nod.
He was distancing himself, too.
I followed my own tracks down the road, but the snow
was falling steadily and the snaking lines were filling, turning
a pale gray against the white undulating sheet of the
road. Clair plugged the phone into the cigarette lighter, and
as he leaned back in his seat, I took a crest too fast and the
van started to skate. I let off the gas and the van snapped
back straight and Clair steadied the gun.
"We aren't gonna be doing anybody any good sitting in a
ditch," he said evenly. "You're letting your heart take over,
Jack. Time to put it away and start using your head. Establish
your objective. Devise a way of achieving it. Plan for
old Mr. Murphy to show up and screw things up, and plan
for that, too, as well as you can. And then execute."
I slowed but still skidded through the corner at the end
of the road. The van went sideways, but we stayed between
the snowbanks and straightened out and I hit the gas again.
"The objective is to get her back," I said.
"Then let's get to the drop zone in one piece."
"What drop zone?" Rocky said. "I want to get out."

CHAPTER 59

For ten miles, we didn't answer him, we didn't speak. I
had to slow to fifty, as the snow piled up and drummed
softly on the underside of the van. The defroster was blowing
hard and hot and the wipers flicked every few seconds,
clearing away the splattered flakes. Clair stared straight
ahead, but approaching Dixmont, with the blackness on
both sides, he suddenly spoke.
"Hour's up," he said.
"You dial," I said.
I gave him the number, digit by digit, and he punched it in. I took the receiver. After two rings, she answered.
"Hello."
Her voice was high-pitched, the gaiety bizarre and false.
Static drifted in and out like clouds.
"Hi."
"Oh, Jack. How you doing? You getting this snow up
there?"
"Can I talk?"
"Yeah, it's snowing to beat the band down here. I'm just
coming out of Augusta, getting onto Route 3. Where are
you?"
"Dixmont, coming up over the ridge."
"Well, I'll let you get back to work."
"And I've got Clair with me," I said.
"No, I don't mind. Really. I've got it in four-wheel drive
and I'm just putt-putting along."
"And I haven't called the cops yet."
"Yeah, I'm starved, too. Can you take a break? Bring
Rocky with you and I'll treat."
"What about police? Will he stay with this or should we
have them looking for you?"
"No, you know I think maybe we should stay over. How
'bout the hotel at the airport? A night of romance at snowbound
Bangor International?"
"So no police?"
"Naah."
"No Sea Dog?"
"No, this'll be fun. I'll meet you at the front door, but
why don't you call me in a half hour or so. And tell Rocky to
put the old feedbag on."
"He's here, too."
"Good, I love you," Roxanne said, and even through the
static, those words rang true.
"I love you, too," I said quickly, and then she was gone,
once again.
I handed the receiver to Clair.
"Airport," I said. "At the hotel, but call in a half hour."
"He's moving us around, in case we know, in case we're
trying to set something up. Next call, hell move it again."
"Who?" Rocky said.
I paused, felt the truth rising in my gullet, on my lips,
and then remembered the objective. I couldn't lie, so I said
nothing. Instead, I turned the radio on, flipped the balance
to the rear speakers, right behind Rocky's head. I turned up
the music, a discordant flailing.
"Hey, turn it down," Rocky called out.
"Kind of a feeble attempt to be cagey, don't you think?"
I said, leaning toward Clair.
"He's desperate, not thinking straight. They must've
pushed him pretty hard. The cops, I mean."
"I'll bet it's Tammy. There had to be something on him."
I paused.
"Or he thinks he can beat that one, but if Rocky links
him to this other thing, he can't beat two," I said. "I think
we should call them. They could just follow her."
"I don't know. Pretty delicate thing to set up over the
phone in a half hour. Could turn into a mess. What'd she say?"
"No."
"And she could have?"
"Yes."
"Another half hour?"
"Yup."
"Let's wait."
"I'd like to have them pull him over and blow his head off."
"Stay focused," Clair said, and as the music screeched ;
squawked behind us, he bent and picked up the ammo I
and unzipped it.
I drove at a steady fifty-five, eyes fixed on the vague lines of the roadsides. Atop the ridge in Dixmont, the wit
was blowing from the northeast and the snow turned and sideways across the road, drifting from the right side,
scouring the pavement bare on the opposite lane. It
harder and harder to see the where the road began and ended,
and approaching Newburgh, I went off the road to the right.
There was a rumble and then the wheels caught the drift
and the van tipped to the right and Clair said, "Easy," and I fought the urge to turn hard to yank it back onto the pavement, and held on tight as the van bumped and lurched and finally slowed.
"We stopping here?" Rocky called, over the din.
I didn't answer, just shook my head, and pulled back on, pressing the pedal gently as the front wheels spun.
There was a pickup off the road, spun into a field on the left. Two guys in baseball hats were standing in the roadway and they tried to wave us down, but I looked them in the eyes and drove right past. They shouted something that was
lost to the snow and wind.
And then there was just a white-flecked blackness, the, snow slipping through the headlight glare like blips on as
radar screen, the music thumping away, both Rocky and Clair staring straight ahead, thinking their disparate thoughts. I,
drove with hands and teeth clenched, eyes narrowed, feathering the accelerator as the van teetered on the edge of control.'
The driving kept me from thinking, kept me from screaming,
but it didn't keep images of Roxanne from creeping into ;
my mind. Roxanne and the way she drove with two fingers ofone hand across the bottom of the steering wheel. Roxanne,
how she held the baby in front of her, even now. Roxanne just
before she went into court, how she sort of puffed herself up,
steeled herself, and then let this disarming confidence come
over her like a spell. Had she done that now? Was she talking
to him? Reasoning with him? Disarming him with her empathy,
her sympathy? Disarming him--
The headlights flashed through the trees, just a glimmer
at first, to my right but moving toward us at a tangent. I
looked ahead and there was a green sign that said new
BURGH village and an arrow pointing to the right, and
then the headlights moving closer, snow showing in them,
and the lights slowing but still coming and then they were
there, and taillights, too, a car, sliding into the road and hitting
the side of the van.
A tremendous booming bang. Then the van rocking and
swerving, then rolling to a stop. All was quiet, but for the
dinging of the door chime, like an odd sort of churchbell.
"Jesus," Rocky shouted.
"Damn," I said.
"Murphy," Clair said. "He rears his ugly head."
The van was in the middle of the road, fifty yards past the
intersection. It had stalled, but the lights still were on. I
turned and Rocky was turned, too, looking back at some old
wreck, a Pontiac or Chevy, with the front end crunched in on
the left side. The door opened and a man got out, followed by
several little kids, exiting like clowns from a circus car. The
guy glanced at the damage, then walked toward the van. I
tried to buzz the window down on Clair's side, but it didn't
work, so Clair opened the door and the cold and snow came in.
"Hey, I'm sorry," the man said, coming up to the door.
"Jesus, that hill is slicker than shit. I put on the brakes and
she just kept on coming. You people all--"
He stopped talking when he saw the rifle. Looked at Clair and looked at me, his eyes wide under unruly blond eyebrows.
Clair smiled and I started the motor. The music blared.
"Don't worry about it," I said.
"Go," Clair said, and I pulled away as he closed the door, leaving the man and his children standing in the road like
people looking up at a departing spaceship.
"Aren't you gonna get his license number?' Rocky said.
"Focus," Clair said.
And we did, turning off in Newburgh and cutting across
to the interstate. I watched the temperature gauge, but it
held steady and the van, slogging down the one tracked lane
of the highway, handled same as ever.
"Good thing the air bag didn't go off," I said.
"Very good thing," Clair said. "But I'll bet that door
doesn't slide anymore."
"You've factored that in?"
"Just removes one option."
"There are others?"
"We're going to have to talk about that," Clair said.
"In a minute," I said, and glanced toward Rocky.
His head was back against the seat, and his mouth was
open. He snapped back to consciousness every few seconds,
but as I watched, his mouth gaped one last time, and with
his glasses perched crookedly on his nose, Rocky fell asleep.
We waited a minute or two and he didn't stir.
"I'm going to head for the airport," I said.
"When's the half hour up?"
I checked my watch.
"Four minutes."
"We've got several things going for us," Clair said. "Several
advantages."
"He doesn't know we know."
"We don't know that for sure," Clair said.
"But he probably doesn't know what I'm driving. And he
doesn't know you're here."
"And we have the boy," Clair said.
"And he wants him, so that he can--"
I paused.
"We can't just hand him over," I said.
Clair didn't answer.
"Just to be hurt?" I said, "I can't do that."
The lights of Bangor's outskirts were showing through
the snow. Clair started taking .30-30 shells from the bag
and slipping them into the magazine of the Mauser. In a
pause in the music, I heard the metallic clack.
"This isn't about can or can't," he said. "It's about what
you have to do, given the circumstances. And the circumstances
have dealt him one card."
"Roxanne," I said. "And that's not one card. That's two."

CHAPTER 60

Clair started to punch the number as we approached
the airport exit, but something made me reach out and
touch his arm to stop him.
"Wait," I said.
I coasted to the end of the ramp, took a left and drove a
hundred yards up the road to the entrance to some sort of
industrial park. The park had grown up around a military
base, long closed. The first building, called something systems,
was dark, and I turned into its lot and parked. Shut
off the motor and turned the key back on and the radio off.
Rocky, who'd likely been up for thirty hours or more, slept
through the chimes.
They rang, four, five, six times and then stopped.
I dialed the number and waited.
It rang. Once, twice, three times.
Then stopped.
"Hello," I said, cheerily.
There was no answer, just a faint hiss.
"You there, hon?"
Then away from the phone--
"Yeah, you've got the obits, but that story on the hospital,
it doesn't pass the 'So what?' test. The information is
there, it just needs to be interpreted, not regurgitated. No.
Yeah, okay. Hang on one second, I'm on the phone."
"Okay," Clair said faintly.
Then back to the phone.
"Roxanne, is this thing working? Roxanne?"
The anxiety crept into my voice, and I tried to retract it.
"Roxanne?"
"Oh, hi," she said. "Sorry. I, um, I dropped the phone
and I couldn't take my eyes off the road to pick it up.
Sorry."
"No problem. I'd rather have you safe. Are you?"
"Oh, yeah. Getting a little slippery, but I'm just trucking
right along."
"Safe?"
"Oh, yeah," she said.
"Did he answer?"
"Yeah, it's really not bad. Maybe a couple of inches on
the highway, but the sand truck came through here, and if
everybody stays sane, we'll all be fine."
"How's he doing?"
"Okay. I mean, the judge didn't decide today, but I think
we made a strong case."
"Police?"
"No, I don't think we'll be able to pull both of them. The
older kid, he's sixteen, he can just go and live with the
grandparents."
She paused, and the phone was silent for a moment, as
though a hand had been placed over the receiver, and then
Roxanne was back.
"Speaking of kids, Rocky still coming to dinner with us?"
"Yeah. He's asleep in the backseat."
"So--"
"How long?"
"How long?" Roxanne echoed. The silence again, and
then the road hiss and she said. "Twenty minutes."
"At the hotel?"
"No, why don't we do the Sea Dog after all. They'll let
underage people in, won't they? It is a restaurant."
"Okay."
The phone was covered for a moment.
"Listen, why don't you call me in fifteen minutes. Round
up Rocky and we'll head over."
"I'm not going to meet you there?"
"Call me, Jack. Love you."
"I love you, too," I said, but the phone already was dead.
"Back to the Sea Dog. In fifteen minutes I'm supposed to
call."
"Okay," Clair said. "That's what we expected. If we'd set
something up at the airport, we'd have to move it all. He's
just playing a game now."
I started the van and Clair looked over at me, saw the
grimness, the fear. I hit the gas and the wheels spun in the
snow as the van turned in a slow spin. Rocky stirred, rubbed
his mouth.
"Calm down," Clair said, as though he were talking to a
green private in his platoon. "I know it's Roxanne, it's the
baby. But this isn't the time. You've got to keep it absolutely
together."
I took a deep breath, and we pulled back out onto the
highway and headed for the ramp, driving slowly in the two
ruts in the snow.
"Okay," I lied. "I'm fine."

We drove into town, joining the long procession of cars that
accompanies any Maine snowstorm. In Maine, when it says
on TV that the road conditions are hazardous, you don't stay
home. You go out to see for yourself.
So we threaded down the hill, past a fender-bender and a
snow-covered cop directing traffic. Part of me wanted to roll
the window down and scream, "He's got Roxanne," but I
didn't, and the cop waved us through with his flashlight,
while Clair pushed the Mauser under the dash.
"Loaded firearm in a motor vehicle," I said. "Five-hundred
dollar fine."
"Just add it to the list."
"You're getting to be a regular outlaw. They'll be looking
to write you up in the paper."
"It all started when I met this pansy reporter from away."
"That's 'Claire' with an 'E,' right?"
It was false bravado. We fell back into silence, driving
slowly past the brooding Victorian houses, black shadows
with lights showing high above us, glowing yellow through
the snow. We coasted and braked, coasted some more, and
I checked my watch in the glow of the dash. It had been
eleven minutes, and Roxanne had said fifteen.
At twelve minutes, we were sitting at a light. At thirteen,
we were taking a right on Main Street. At fourteen we
were squeezing through the back streets, heading for the
waterfront pub. At fifteen, we were sitting in front of flashing
red lights, waiting for a freight train to pass.
Rocky stirred and this time he woke up. He looked
around.
"What're we doing in Bangor?"
I hesitated.
"Getting something to eat."
"I'm not hungry."
"I am," I said. "You can have water."
He reached for the door latch and jerked on it, but the
door wouldn't open.
This wasn't going to be easy.
Finally, the last car passed, the barrier raised and the
clanging stopped. I drove up and over the tracks and under
an overpass and into the lot of the brew pub, a long low
brick building right on the river. There were twenty cars in
the lot, college kids headed in. I parked. Picked up the
phone and, with a glance at Rocky staring at me from his
seat, I called.
Again the silence.
"Roxanne," I said. "Pick up the phone."
I waited. Someone picked up.
"Yeah, that was better," I said. "No, I put it in city news.
CLARe. It's slugged hosp. HOSP. Right."
There was a jiggling sound, like the phone being passed.
"Hi," Roxanne said, and this time she sounded weary, exhausted.
"Something
happen?"
"Yeah, I'm fine," she said, close to tears. "Yeah, the driving
isn't bad. Uh-huh, I'm in town now."
"Did he hurt you?"
"Yeah, well, nothing I can't handle. Four-wheel drive is a lifesaver. You were right."
"Cops now?"
"No, I'm fine. Just tired. When I see you I'll perk up."
There was a muffled rattle, like she'd covered the phone.
"Rox?"
"Sorry. Had to drive. You know, you tend to forget when
you're talking? Hey, I'm tired. How 'bout I swing by the
paper and we can go to dinner together. Where's Rocky?"
"He's here."
"He's with you there? What are they doing, turning him
into a copy boy?"
"Give me time to get over there. I'm at the Sea Dog.
Give me five minutes."
"I'll meet you at the door. Wait, I'll call you right back.
Gotta drive. Love you."
And she hung up.
"The paper," I said.
"What's going on?" Rocky asked. "What is it?"
"When?" Clair said.
"Now."
I wheeled the van out of the lot, just as the crossing
lights started to flash. In the dark, I could see the same train
backing up, thirty feet from the crossing. I floored it and
the tires shimmied and then grabbed, and the bells were
ringing and the red-and-white bar started to lower and it
came down on the windshield and there was a bang and I
blinked and the bar snapped off, and the windshield cracked
in front of my face.
"Hey," Rocky said.
"Can you see?" Clair said.
"Not really. Tell me if we're headed for something big."
"I want to get out," Rocky said.
"Just sit there," I said. "I have to stop at the office."
I took a right on Main, pushing my way New York-taxi style into a line of cars, and drivers honked and one unrolled
his window and gave me the finger. I drove two blocks up the
hill, across the Kenduskeag and past the Clarion building.
"He'll expect her to call the paper," I said.
At the light, I dialed.
"Hello, Marna please. I have an obit."
The phone clicked. The light changed. I pulled ahead,
but a car was timidly waiting to turn left and we sat.
"Hello, this is Marna, can I help you?"
"It's Jack."
"Jack," she whispered. "Those police still are calling. The
last time, they wanted to talk to Randall."
"That's fine. But I need a favor."
"What? I'm not going to get in trouble, am I?"
"If my phone rings in the next five minutes, forward the
call to this number."
I gave her the cell phone number. I pictured her taking it
down.
"And Marna. Make it sound like I'm in the newsroom."
"Why? I mean, it's none of my business but--"
"Marna, please. It's very, very important."
She sounded doubtful but said she'd do it. I hung up the
phone. The light turned red, but I bulled my way through.
As we approached City Hall, I pointed to the spaces that
faced the Clarion.
Clair nodded.
"I'll back it in, look right out at the door."
"But we've got to be in the lobby there."
"What if he calls?" Clair asked.
I thought.
"We'll wait two minutes. You drop us around the corner,
and we'll go in the side door, cut through to the front. You
can come back here and set up."
"What's going on?" Rocky said.
"Nothing. We're meeting Roxanne."
"No, you're not. I'm not going--"
The phone rang. I turned left into an alley and stopped.
Picked it up.
"Newsroom. Jack McMorrow."
"Jack, Mama. When I hang up, you have a call and a call
holding. I did it like you said."
"Who?"
"First call is Tippy. Second one is a man. Wouldn't say
who he was."
"I'll take the second."
"I don't know how to do that," Marna said. "I think I'll
have to connect you and then you hang up, and the next call
will come through. It's a camp-on and a forward. You do
pound three-eight, then star six, and pound and the number
and--"
"Thanks," I said. There was a pause and a click.
"Newsroom, Jack McMorrow."
"Mr. McMorrow. Tippy Danforth. I've been trying to reach
you since I had a rather distressing call from Mr. Randall. Before
I reach any conclusion, I'd like to talk to you and--"
"Me too, Tippy. But not now."
I hung up. The phone rang. I answered.
"Mr. McMorrow."
Not Roxanne. Not Rusty.
"This is Detective Cobb. You're a hard guy to reach. We
need to get together, sir."
"Yes," I said. "We do."
Clair looked. With the wipers off, the snow hit the windshield
and ran down the glass, leaving watery trails over the
cracks.
"So where can I meet you?"
"Well, I'm here at the Clarion and--"
"Good," Cobb said. "Be there in five."
And he hung up. I held the phone.
"Cobb's coming here, too."
"More the merrier," Clair said doubtfully.
"I don't like this," Rocky said.
"Me neither," I said. "Let's go."
I got out and Clair slid across, then tucked the rifle down
by his right leg. I went around and tried to open the sliding
door, but it was bent and stuck. I opened the passenger door.
"I don't want to get out now," Rocky said.
"Rocky, some things you just have to do," I said, leaning
in.
Clair reached back and took one arm and I took the other.
Rocky squirmed but I got him between the seats and out
the door, half dragging him to the snow-covered ground.
He went limp, then jerked away, but I held tight to his arm
and kicked the door shut. Clair backed up and pulled out,
and I led Rocky to the glass side door, marked employees
only. I unlocked it and pulled him in behind me.
"I could scream," he said.
"You could. And you'd be home in Woodfield with your
dad within the hour."
"He's not my--"
"I know, I know. Come on."
Rocky followed as I made my way through a storage area
and into the advertising department. There were lights on
at two cubicles, and from one a woman showed her head.
"Hello," I said, as we passed, my hand still clamped on
Rocky's upper arm.
"Newsroom intern," I said.
"Hi, there," the woman said, and then, as we reached the
end of the room, "What, we have to drag them in here now?"
We left her standing there and passed into a corridor, up
a half-flight of stairs, and then down. There was another
glass door, but when I leaned against it, it was locked. I
stopped. Tried my key. It opened, and we went out into the
foyer, onto the brightly lighted stage.
I went to the door and looked out through the glass,
Rocky standing behind me. As I was peering out at the
dark, the door behind me opened.
"Jack," Mama said.
We both turned.
"Hi."
"I tried to call but somebody else answered. Your friend?"
"Yeah."
"Roxanne called. Your friend said to say you were downstairs
waiting for her. Was that okay?"
"Yeah. Thanks. But you might not want to be here."
"Well, why?"
Rocky tried to jerk away, but I hung on, and he cursed
and swore and then gave up. Marna looked at me with
doubt, then fear.
"It's okay."
"Jack, is it true what--"
"No. Tell Cobb, the detective, we're in a green Explorer."
I recited the plate number.
"Tell him I'm with Rocky. Tell him--"
But she turned and half-walked, half-ran to the door, and
it slammed behind her, and I could hear her pounding up
the stairs. Rocky squirmed again, and said, "Let me go."
"I will. But you just have to stay calm for a few more--"
The Explorer rolled up, the driver's side away from the
curb. I could see Roxanne at the wheel but no one else. She
looked at me and her face was expressionless, like she was in
a trance.
I said, "Let's go." Fingers clamped.tight around Rocky's
arm, I led him through the door and onto the sidewalk. The
Explorer blocked the view of the van, but I knew it was
there, knew I could trust Clair.
We walked to the car and I opened the door, Rocky behind
me, and then I could see him.
Rusty was crouched on the floor, behind and to the right
of the driver's seat. His eyes were wild, and his long arm was
stretched across to Roxanne. Her sweater was hiked up and
the blade was pressed against her bare belly.
"Get in, McMorrow," he said.
"No," Rocky screamed, and he flailed at the end of my
arm like a trapped bird.
"Get in, or no baby," Rusty said. "Get the kid in."
I hesitated. Waited for a shot, for something. But Clair
would see Roxanne at the wheel, nothing else, not through
the dark glass. The knife pressed against Roxanne and she
gave a little cry. I got into the passenger seat and pulled
Rocky in behind me, cramming him onto my lap.
"Drive," Rusty said.
The Explorer pulled away with the door open, but the
momentum swung it shut. Rocky was flailing at me, elbowing
me in the sides, screaming, "No, let me go," over and
over.
"I see a cop, the knife goes in," Rusty said. "I'll take her
with me, McMorrow. Your little baby, too."
Rocky kept jerking his arms, but I held onto him tightly,
smelled his odor, felt his hair in my face. Roxanne drove
without looking at me. She was rigid and wooden, with
only her hands and feet moving.
"Let me go," Rocky hollered, kicking at the dash, but I
hung on to him and said, "Calm down. It's okay,' between
clenched teeth, praying that Clair was behind us.
"Turn right, honey," Rusty said, his voice a weary wheeze.
Roxanne turned, cutting through a side street, passing
a young woman carrying a grocery bag. Rocky hollered,
"Help," but the woman frowned and looked straight ahead,
ignoring a carload of heckling kids.
"Straight," Rusty said, and Roxanne winced and doubled
over on the wheel and I tensed and Rusty said, "Sit right
there," and "Keep your panties on, honey" to Roxanne. "I
just slipped, is all."
We drove through the streets, past the houses where life
went on, normal and safe and secure, and Rocky tired of
kicking and lapsed into giving an occasional sudden jerk. I
eased forward to try to see in the rearview mirror, and
there were headlights far behind us, but then Rocky bucked
and our heads clacked together and I felt my lip start to
bleed.
At the wheel, Roxanne turned her head and I could see
that she was crying silently, tears running from her eyes almost
to her mouth.
"It's okay," I said. "It'll be okay."
She didn't react, just bit her lip as the tears slipped down
her cheeks, and she didn't reach to wipe them, just kept her
hands on the wheel. I turned my head toward her, and saw
Rusty, craning his head to see out the windshield.
"Straight again," he said.
"You know I can't remember anybody ever getting away
with this," I said.
"Always a first time," he said, "and why don't you just--"
"What do you have, Rusty? A ten-year-old manslaughter? Hit-and-run? You could say it was an accident--"
"Yeah, it was an accident. I said, 'Drive,' I didn't say,
'Drive right over the bitch.' Jesus H. Christ."
Rocky was still in my arms, wide-eyed, listening.
"So you could plead for eight to ten, do five or six. No serious
priors, right?"
I ignored Tammy, for the sake of argument. Sandra
Baker, too. What he didn't know I knew . . .
"Who are you, my friggin' lawyer, McMorrow? Just shut
up."
"You're just hurting yourself. Just pull over, take the car.
You could be in Canada in three hours. Have a better chance
that way than--"
"Shut up," he screamed, and Roxanne said, "Ohhh," and
Rusty said, "Barely touched you, now keep driving."
We came to the end of the side street, and Rusty said,
"Right." Roxanne turned gingerly, like she was driving on
the edge of a cliff, and we started down another street full of
warmly lit houses. There were kids in the road, Rocky's age,
shuffling along defiantly in the headlights.
"Get 'em the hell out of the way," Rusty snarled, and
Roxanne looked in the mirror, as if to ask, "How?" and he
said, "Flash the lights."
She did and the kids turned insolently, squinting into
the lights, and one of them gave the car the finger with a
ski-gloved hand.
"Drive right through 'em," Rusty said, still crouched on
the floor, the knife silver like a belt buckle on Roxanne's belly.
Roxanne tapped the gas, and the kids fell to the side and we
passed, and Rocky shouted "Help," again, but they shouted
obscenities back, and one of them pounded the side of the car.
And then we were at West Broadway, and Rusty said,
"Right," and Rocky elbowed the window, trying to break it
out, but it held and I held him, feeling the blood from my
lip smear into his hair. Roxanne waited for a truck to pass,
and then pulled out and we went south on West Broadway,
past the looming houses, past Tippy's house, where the
lights were on but Tammy wasn't there for feeding time.
Rocky's head turned as he looked at the house, and he said,
"How did Tammy die?"
I didn't answer, which may have been an answer, and he
suddenly thrashed and I held him and saw Roxanne close
her eyes, as though to pray. But then she opened them, and
slowed the car, letting it coast softly over the snow, and
Rusty said, "Keep going."
"I feel sick," Roxanne said.
"So feel sick. Drive."
Rusty must have felt me tense again.
"Don't even think of it. I'll slice her wide open."
"And I'll rip your heart out," I said, and then I remembered
Clair's advice: head, not heart. I didn't say any more.
Roxanne was pale, the veins showing blue in her neck,
her earrings incongruous, her breath coming in short pants.
We drove down Broadway, down, down, down, through the
lights, and I thought Rusty would say to go left, to the
bridge over the Penobscot, but he didn't. He ordered Roxanne
right, and then left, where there was no road, just a
mall with offices and an auto parts store, and Roxanne
stopped in the lot.
"Straight,' Rusty said. "Then around the back.'
And then I knew. We were going to the river, down to
the trestles, down where the muffling snow would mask a
gunshot, never mind a scream or a cry. They found Tammy;
they didn't hear her.
I looked for headlights behind us, saw none, but had to
believe that a guy who could trail the enemy in the night
jungle could trail a car in downtown Bangor.
But if the van stalled, if Clair got hung up at a light, I
needed a plan, a plan to get Roxanne out, a plan to--
"Turn in," Rusty said.
Roxanne eased the car between two trailers, inching forward
until the bumper touched a guard rail that separated
the lot from railroad tracks. The snow fell in the headlights,
but then he said, "Shut it off," and Roxanne did, and there
was a moment in which we could hear the tick of snow on
the roof and the vague black shapes of train cars and bridges
materialized in front of us.
"Now we go slow," Rusty said. "Turn off the dome light."
I did, fighting off the urge to bring my arm down hard
on his.
Wait, I told myself.
Clair.
"Better if you just let us out and left," I said. "Lock us in
one of these trailers. You'll have at least all night to--"
"Shut up. Out. You two first, and remember what I said.
I'll gut her if you run, cut that baby to shreds. Rocky, too.
Hang on to him for her life, McMorrow."
I did. As we eased out of the car, my hand gripped his
arm to the bone, and he said, "Ow," but I held him even
tighter. We stood as Rusty eased himself out of his crouch
and popped his door open.
"You come my way," he said, and Roxanne scrambled
backward between the seats, the heels of her pumps scuffing
at the console, the shifter. The knife stayed on her belly, as
she kicked her way through, and then he half-dragged her
out into the snow.
"Let's go," Rusty said.
Roxanne didn't have a jacket on, and her sweater was white
in the blackness, like a light in fog. I led Rocky to the railing, and Rusty led Roxanne, the knife still on her belly, and he
said, "Go over it," and we did, and he and Roxanne followed.
I looked around for some sign of Clair, but saw nothing in the
snow-brushed darkness. I told myself that was good.
"Move," Rusty said, and we did, stumbling over jagged
metal and trash and then crossing the railroad tracks, first
one, then another. I could see the lights of the bridges,
headlights moving vaguely across the river. It was snowing
hard, the flakes dense and heavy and everything was hushed,
even our footsteps.
A scream wouldn't carry fifty feet. A gunshot would be a
muffled pop.
I looked to my right, but saw only snow and distant
lights and train cars, still and idle. It was cold and no one
would be out here, not in this wasteland, not at this hour. I
looked over at Roxanne, already grieving.
"It's okay, hon," I said. "It'll be okay."
She looked at me, and with her eyes she said goodbye.
We weren't at the trestle, but fifty yards south of it,
where the tracks skirted the river and work boats had been
lifted onto the bank for the winter.
Rusty said, "In there," and I led Rocky between the boats
and turned, blinking against the snow. He had his arm
around Roxanne's chest, the knife laid against the left side
of her neck. They were silhouetted against the white hull
behind them, and I could see that Roxanne was shivering.
"Down on the snow," Rusty said, and Rocky jerked his arm
away from me, started to run toward the river, but slipped and
fell backward and rolled over. I ran to him and squatted and put
my hand on his shoulder and my knee on his back, and his legs
flailed like a swimmer's against the snow.
"No!" he screamed, looking up at Rusty and Roxanne.
"Stop it," I said.
"Stay right there," Rusty said, moving Roxanne toward us.
"On your belly beside him, hands behind you, at your waist."
I looked at him, couldn't see the knife, but could feel it
against Roxanne's skin, the blade poised over her life. And
suddenly the hope started to drain from me, and the plan,
what there had been of one, petered out. He'd cut her, leap
on both of us. Two stabs to the back, to the lungs or heart,
and we'd be gone, he'd be gone. I had to fend that moment
off, hold it back until I couldn't hold any more.
Crouching, I felt Rocky sobbing on the ground. I looked
at them.
"This how you did Tammy? Slaughter her like a pig?
You're a real man, you know that? What, were you raised by
a coward just like you?"
"My old man woulda chewed you up, McMorrow."
"Would he be proud of you now?"
"Christ, don't try that with me."
The words poured out of me.
"You're right. You don't have a conscience. How do people
end up like that? Some people say it's biological. A gene
left off the chain. You gonna kill your own kid? Maybe
you're missing a whole bunch of genes. You killed Sandra,
right? That was the worst faked suicide I've ever seen. Hell,
you could practically take your fingerprints off her throat."
"You're nuts. I haven't seen her in ten years. She checked
out, don't blame it on me. So just shut the hell up. You just
shut the hell up or I'll hurt her."
"No, you won't. You hurt her, you've got no hold on me.
You don't think very far ahead, do you? Jeez, DNA will put
you away for Tammy. You think you stab somebody and
walk away without a drop? Blood must have been spraying
like a sprinkler. Cops take your shoes? Your pants? Your
truck? One little fleck and you're gone. No, you'd
run now. Might buy yourself a few months, anyway."
He moved toward me, Roxanne clutched in his arms in if
strange swaying dance.
"Oh, Jack," she said softly.
"Rusty, no," Rocky said.
"And Sandra Baker. What'd she do, squeeze you too
hard?"
"Too long," Rusty said. "Wouldn't go away. Well, she
found out there was an end to the gravy train."
"I guess she did."
"Once she was told, she backed right off. I tell her to kiss
off and then I send her an envelope and she thinks there's
money in it, but what is there? Two words. 'No more.'"
"You didn't have to go see her?"
"Never heard another word from the bitch. Shoulda said
it a long time ago. Called her bluff, that greedy pig."
In my arms, I felt Rocky go still. Felt the pulse in his
wrist and it seemed to quicken. A poor man's polygraph.
"And now your stepson is spreading the word."
"Thought it was over, and instead it's spreading, you
know what I'm saying? A man can only take so much."
"A man? You've got to be kidding."
His eyes narrowed and he jerked back on Roxanne's neck.
The blade showed in the darkness, and snow covered her hair.
"On your belly, McMorrow. On your belly."
"Nah," I said. "I'd rather talk."
He took a swaying step forward. I lifted my hand an inch
off Rockys back, eased back on my knees so I wasn't touching
him. I saw him dig his sneakers into the snow, like a
sprawled sprinter awaiting the start.
"Down, or I gut her, McMorrow," Rusty said, just eight
feet away. "Down, you wise-ass piece a shit."
"Okay, I'm going. But I want to ask you something first. why couldn't you just stay home? Why did you have to go
running around and causing all of this misery? Just give me an answer. I want to know how you think, Rusty. I really do."
They were closer. Roxannes head was pulled back, her
throat exposed. Rusty's teeth were bared.
"I'll cut her, McMorrow. I'll do it."
I leaned away from Rocky, saw his knees start to pull up,
his butt start to lift. I swallowed.
"And Rusty," I said, slowly and deliberately. "Is that why
you killed your wife?"
For a moment, it all was suspended. My words. Rusty's
mad stare. Roxanne in his arms. Rocky on the ground.
And then there was a shriek, a low, building bellow that
erupted from Rocky as he came off the ground, sneakers and
hands scrabbling at the snow, launching himself at Rusty,
still bellowing as he flew through the air. The knife slashed
out, Roxanne fell away and I flung myself toward her. Rocky
was bulling Rusty back, his legs pumping, his hands on
Rusty's throat and the knife was in the air and then it was
raised behind Rocky's back.
Rusty hit the hull of the boat, put both hands back to
keep from falling, and then the knife came up again and I
ran toward them, shouting "No! Don't!" and watching as
the knife made a half-hearted scrape at Rocky's back, and
then father and stepson fell backward and the knife fell, not
so much dropped as flung.
Rusty dove for it, scrambling in the snow and then there
was a boom and a puff of snow. Boom and another puff, like
smoke from a magician's wand. Rusty froze on his hands
and knees, wavered for a moment and then sagged back on
his haunches, like a wounded deer ready to die.
"It could have," Clair said quietly.
"But it didn't."
"I didn't," Rusty said, his hands still over his face. "I
didn't kill her. I didn't kill her then."
I started to answer, but Clair held his hand out to stop
me, and I realized Rusty was speaking, not to us, but to his
stepson, whose sobs had quieted.
"I didn't do it then. I did it a long time ago, without
even knowing it. She was nothing, just Kitty from the bar,
Kitty with the big--I mean, she wasn't important, but your
mother, she thought it was gonna be the end, but it wasn't
the end, I mean, I was still married, I was still around. It was
just one of those things, I tried to tell her. But she got all
wound up, went off the deep end and she followed us and
there was this thing in the road and them screaming and
everybody drunk and she's saying, 'You can have her, I'm
leaving,' and I'm saying, 'Go ahead, you . . . whatever,' and
it's this big goddamn scene and Kitty takes off and she's in
the road and I'm half in the truck and your mother's saying,
'You can have him' and I'm hanging on the door and I reach
in and I get the wheel and she hits the gas and there's this
sound, like this bumping, thumping noise, like you ran
over a raccoon or something. And it's her."
We stood still. Rusty paused. Shook his head under his
hands.
"But Rocky, I didn't kill her. I didn't kill your mother.
Hey, I paid that cocaine whore, I paid her, like, thirty thousand
bucks. And then she comes back after me, after three
years when we was supposed to be paid up, it's all over, and
she wants to start it up all over again."
Another long pause.
"Rocky, why the hell did you have to listen on the phone?
How many times have I told you? How many goddamn
times have I told you?"
To pick up your dirty clothes. Bring out your dishes. Put your bike away. And never eavesdrop on the phone when your parents are dealing with a blackmailer.

CHAPTER 62

It took minutes, but not more than three or four. The
police streamed in first, then the ambulances, the scanner freaks, and soon what had been the blackest of wastelands
was illuminated like a carnival.
They hustled us off, one by one: Roxanne in an ambulance,
because she was pregnant, and Rusty in an ambulance
with a policeman, because he was a murderer and kidnapper.
Juvenile cops, a woman and a man, took Rocky from the patrol
officers and drove off with him. Clair sat with Bruno
and another cop. A patrolman stood beside me while we
waited for Cobb to arrive.
He'd been waiting at the Clarion. Lori Child and a photographer
followed him down to the riverfront. Child tried to
talk to me but I just shook my head. The photographer took
my picture, with the patrolman looking grim beside me and
another cop in the background holding Clair's Mauser. The
patrolman told the photographer to get lost, but it was too
late. I could hear how it would play out at the news meeting:
"And we got strong art, with the gun and everything
McMorrow full face with the cop holding the gun."
"And Tippy liked the S.O.B. for some goddamn reason," Randall
would say. "I knew he was trouble. But let's run that two
columns on the left, so McMorrow's not looking off the page. What
else you got for one?"

Roxanne went to the hospital for observation, because of the
baby. I went with Clair and the cops to the Bangor police station.
They separated us and I was assigned to a small tile
floored room with Venetian blinds and pictures of historic
Bangor on the walls. I thought of Rocky at the history house
and then I recounted that part and the rest of it to the cops.
It was Cobb and an older Bangor detective, a guy from
the old school who hammered me pretty good. They didn't
like the story about finding Baker dead and the post office
box and the mail, and they turned it every which way to see
if it would twist and break. The tape recorders whirred, the
lights hummed, empty paper coffee cups piled up like poker
chips and my story stretched like taffy. But it held because
it was all true.
After three hours the cops left the room. When they
came back the tension was gone, like we'd just finished a
chess match. They said they needed a favor.
"What?" I said.
"The kid isn't talking," Cobb said.
"Not at all?"
"Not one word," Cobb said.
"Like he's a goddamn mute," the other cop said.
"We know you two got along good," Cobb said. "We'd
like you to talk to him, tell him it's only gonna hurt him in
the long run if he doesn't cooperate. If he didn't do anything
wrong, if it was Clement who was responsible for most of
this mess, then the kid should tell us what happened. Let
the asshole hang for it. Kid can maybe get on with his life."
Lots of ifs and maybes . . .
"I'd want Roxanne with me," I said. "She's better with
kids like him."
"Fine."
"When?"
"Morning."
"Where?"
"Here."
"I'm not wearing a wire or anything," I said.
"That's not what we're after," Cobb said. "We just want
somebody to get him started."
"It'll be like floodgates," I said. "Or it won't happen at
all."

CHAPTER 63

They put us in an interview room in the police station. It
had a window that looked out on a dirty snowbank and a
brick wall. Three chairs loitered around a blond-wood table
that had been inscribed like a high school yearbook. The
walls were painted pea green, broken only by a bulletin
board with nothing on it. The juvenile caseworker, a squarish
woman with a mane of dyed-red hair, was sitting at the table
with her hands folded and a grave expression. She looked at

us and gave her head a brief shake. Rocky was standing at
the window, staring out. There was a circle of fogged glass
in front of his face, like steam on a bathroom mirror. His
hands were crammed in his pockets. I was about to say hello
when I heard him. He was talking softly, but not to us.
"... Corinthian columns, as opposed to the Ionic out on
the porch," Rocky was saying, in an odd sing-song voice.
"This is all hand-carved wood, all the leaves and the scrollwork
.... Note the detail."
He reached out with one hand toward the window and
made a slow sweeping motion.
"Now, the black Italian marble fireplaces, who would
like to guess when they were put in? Eighteen-sixty? Good
guess, but the answer is we don't really know. Most experts
think Sidney removed the white marble because there were
four white marble fireplaces upstairs. As we said, Sidney
wanted to have the grande salon of Paris ..."
Rocky grinned to himself, and then laughed, a high
pitched laugh somewhere between a chuckle and a giggle.
It was like he was possessed.
"To understand this you must know the world of the
wealthy American of the early nineteenth century. They
felt--"
Roxanne moved past me and walked over to him. She
took him by his upper arm and gave him a little shake, like
he was sleepwalking and he needed to wake up.
"Rocky," Roxanne said. It was a command. "Rocky."

He turned to her and then to me, but he seemed to look
through us. He smiled and turned back to the window.
"--a tremendous inferiority when compared to the gentry
of their home country, namely England."
"Rocky," I said, moving to them. "You need to put all
that aside now. We need to talk, buddy. Come on."
He continued.
"All these years after the Revolution, Americans were
still the rabble in the eyes of the English. This led to--"
Roxanne turned him toward her and looked into his eyes.
"Rocky. You can talk about that later. We need to talk
about other things right now."
He peered at her like she'd dropped into his dream.
"You're pretty like my mom," he said.
"We need to talk about your mom," I said.
Rocky didn't answer. I said it again. He didn't answer
but after a minute he shook his head.
"Rocky," Roxanne said. "Your mom would want you to
talk about her."
His expression shifted from passive to puzzled and he
stared at the fogged-over window like it was a smoky crystal
ball. We waited. Waited some more.
"Rocky," Roxanne said, leaning close to him now, speaking
very softly.
"She was pretty," Rocky said, half to himself. "She said it
didn't do her any good to be pretty. It just made bad things
happen to her. She said she'd rather be ugly and have people
leave her alone."
I thought of the M.E. saying women didn't usually shoot
themselves. Maybe this was the exception--a woman who
wanted to destroy her pretty face.
"Who didn't leave her alone, Rocky?" Roxanne said.
"Guys," he said. "Bad guys. Because she was pretty."
His expression sharpened and he looked at me.
"The old days were better. In the eighteen-hundreds--"
"Rocky. We need to talk about this now."
"Rocky, honey," Roxanne said. She put a hand on each of
his shoulders and fixed her gaze on his. "Did you try to get
people to leave your mom alone?"
He turned his face away and Roxanne moved with him.
"Rocky, you can't turn away. Your mom wouldn't want
you to turn away. She'd want you to be strong and brave."
"No, Rusty would want me to be strong. And tough,
like him. But I could never do that. I just couldn't."
"That's okay," I said. "You're fine. You're a good guy. You
cared about your mom. That's the most important thing."
"I tried to look out for her," Rocky said, shaking his
head. "But I sucked at that, too."
"What makes you say that?" Roxanne said softly.
Rocky looked at her and then the gauze moved over his
eyes and he smiled. "To have gas lights in this era--that
alone was--"
"Rocky," I said. "No. Don't leave your mom now. She
needs you to talk about this."
"She would want you to," Roxanne said.
"It won't help her," Rocky said.
"It will help you," I said. "And that's what she'd want.
She'd want you to get through all this and have a good life.
You can't do that if you keep leaving. You tried to help her
before. Try to help her now by helping yourself."
"Nobody helped her," Rocky said. "She was all alone. After
I left--me leaving, that left her alone. That's what it did."
"And you think if you'd stayed she would be okay?"
Roxanne said. So that was it, I thought. Guilt at not being
there to prevent his mother's suicide.
Rocky shook his head and smiled but it was a sad, bemused
expression, like we just didn't understand.
"No," he said, his voice barely audible. "She would have
been okay if I never came back."
"When did you go back, Rocky," Roxanne said.
"It was at night. I don't know. I went back and I walked
in and she was just sitting there, being sad. All by herself."
"But she must have been glad to see you," I said.
"I guess. At first. And then she was sad again. Really, really
sad."
"Because you were leaving again?" Roxanne said.
Rocky didn't answer. He tried to smile but it was like his
face was holding a massive weight and his mouth began to
tremble. Roxanne took his hand in both of hers and said,
"It's okay, Rocky, it's okay to cry."
Tears welled in his eyes and then spilled onto his cheeks
and he wiped with his free hand while Roxanne held the
other tightly. Rocky tensed and then let out a wail and
started to sob.
"It's okay, Rocky," I said. "It's okay there, buddy."
He jerked his head around and bellowed into my face.
"It's not okay. I screwed up. I screwed it all up and I can't fix
it. I wanted to fix it and I wrecked it. It's what I always do.
I wreck everything. I wanted to help her and I--"
Saliva sprayed from his mouth and he wiped at his face,
his eyes and mouth. The caseworker rose from her chair.
Rocky turned back to the window and banged his forehead
on the glass. Once. Twice. Three times.
"I killed her."
It was a strangled whisper.
"What do you mean--" Roxanne began.
"I killed her," Rocky screamed, turning to us, his forehead
red and splotchy. "I killed her. I did it to help her but
I screwed up. Don't you see? Don't you fucking people see?"
"Rocky," I said. "The police say your mother wasn't
killed by somebody else."
"No," he shouted. "I killed her by going to see the other
lady. And when she said my mom and Rusty were murderers
and they killed her friend Kitty and they would pay for
it and if Rusty, if he didn't pay the money, she'd call the
cops and she'd call the TV and everybody would know what
my mom really was and I said, 'No, stop it,' and she laughed
and I was crying and she said I was a crybaby and I should
go home to my mommy and tell her."
"Kitty, Kitty, Kitty," I said. "How can you live--"
"--with yourself?" Rocky said. "It's what she said. It's
what the lady said."
"On the phone when you were listening?"
"Uh-huh. And I wrote it down. I'd look at it and try to
figure it out. What else could it mean? But I knew what it
meant. She was asking my mom. How can you live with
yourself after--"
Rocky paused. We waited and the room was still and
silent for just a moment and then he sniffed.
"So I grabbed her to stop her from talking and she
wouldn't stop and so I---" He paused. Swallowed. Wiped
his eyes and sniffed. "I held onto her, onto her throat. And
then she stopped. She just stopped everything."
I heard the caseworker breathe slowly in and out. Rocky
had stopped crying, like the admission had calmed him.
"But your mom, Rocky," I said.
"I did the alcohol and the pills, put them all around," he
said, in a voice that was sad and lost and broken. "I probably
got that wrong 'cause I didn't even look at the bottles.
Maybe they were, like, vitamins. That would be funny, huh.
And then I went home. I took a taxi and I used the cat lady's
money. Sorry. I'll pay her back."
"That's okay, Rocky," I said. "Just tell us what happened."
He leaned his head against the glass, let it rest there. He
closed his eyes.
"I did another thing that was all wrong, even though
everybody keeps saying it's what you should do."
No one spoke. I swallowed and took a deep breath.
Roxanne still was holding Rocky's hand. The caseworker took
a step toward us and then stopped as Rocky began to speak.
"I did what she always told me to do," he whispered,
more to himself than to us. "I told my mom the truth."

CHAPTER 64

Big, tough Rusty Clement tried to pin Tammy's murder
on his stepson. Then he tried to pin it on me. Then Cobb
lied and told him they'd matched Tammy's blood with the
stains on Rusty's jeans, even though the lab results weren't
in, and Rusty said Tammy had attacked him when he'd
tried to question her about Rocky. In the struggle she'd
stabbed herself in the throat.
I figured she'd told him to kiss off, said Rocky had told
her about Kitty and she was going to the cops. Cobb said
Rusty probably would get life. And Rocky? It depended on
which judge heard the case, but Cobb said Rocky most likely
would be in the youth center until he was twenty-one.
"He's going to need support," Roxanne said.
"We'll visit him," I said. "Bring him books."
"Yeah, and when he gets furloughs, he can come out to
the farm and stay," Clair said.
"Don't try to teach him to cut wood," I said.
"I was thinking we could talk history," Clair said.
"The gasoliers," I said, and I shook my head.
We were in the Hilltop Restaurant atop Knox Ridge,
eating a late lunch on the way home from Bangor. We sat by
the window and looked out at the hills, the dark swatches of
spruce against blocks of white, snow-covered pasture. The sky
was a pale blue with streaks of clouds riding above the horizon
and I thought of Rocky, locked up inside for months and
months, seeing the sky only through Plexiglas and chain
link. Maybe it was best that he was an indoor kid.
"You know, that's what started all of this," I said.
They looked at me over their coffee.
"Rusty getting hooked up with Kitty. He had to have his
way then. And then he couldn't stand Rocky not fitting his
idea of a boy."
"And that idea was shaped by his own father, silent and
controlling, beating the heck out of him when he did something
wrong," Roxanne said.
"What he should have done is taught him that you can't
control everything," I said.
"And you don't throw a tantrum when you don't get
your own way," Clair said.
"The big, strong macho guy was really just a spoiled
baby," I said.
"A weak man," Roxanne said. "And weakness leads to all
these evil things. That poor little girl, preyed on once, and
then having to be so tough and then this guy comes along."
"She didn't deserve any of it," I said. "Not one bit."
"And what he did to his wife," Roxanne said. "Even if he
didn't shoot her, he killed her, little by little, day by day.
And what he did to his stepson."
"Who's such a good kid in most ways," I said, "if only
he'd believe it now."
"Good people do a bad thing and that defines them,"
Clair said. "A whole life defined by a single moment."
"And they won't be able to put Rocky back together
again," I said.
"Kids never go back together," Roxanne said. "Not completely.
Not even close."
"But we patch them up, maybe even save a few. Like
Tippy and her animals."
"Then we send them back into the fray," Clair said.
We were quiet. I sipped my tea. Clair took a last swallow
of coffee and pushed the cup away from him. Roxanne
reached out and took my hand in hers.
"I hope life isn't a fight for our child," she said.
"We'll take good care of him, her," I said.
"Right," Roxanne said, and she forced a smile but she
looked like she might cry. "We'll keep this baby safe and
happy and healthy and--"
"All those things," I said.
"Because there are so many terrible things in the world,"
she said. "All of this tragedy. All of this awful sadness."
Roxanne looked away and took a deep breath and then I
could see her gather herself up, her back straight, her belly
and baby in front of her like some smuggled treasure. When
she looked back at me and Clair her expression had hardened
and she looked older, more resolute.
"We'll do what we have to do," she said.
"That's right," I said.
"Damned straight," Clair said.