Enough: she hadn't failed, not yet. Identification alone wouldn't have put Baulman on a plane back to Germany anyway. An obstacle had been placed in their way, and they'd simply have to find a way around it.

But it wasn't just about Isha. There was also her daughter, and Bruno Perlman, and the Tedescos. Perlman remained connected to Isha through Lubsko, and although doubts were now being raised about whether the mark on his...o...b..tal socket had actually been made by a blade, Demers was still convinced that he'd been murdered, if only because Lenny Tedesco, who appeared to be one of Perlman's few friends, had also been killed, along with his wife, and Demers wasn't about to buy that many coincidences.

Now there was Baulman, and another potential Lubsko link in Maine, even if it had been almost severed by Isha Winter's inability to identify him as Kraus. No, this wasn't over. Pieces were missing, but they would find them.

On the drive to Bangor, the ticking of her watch grew so loud that she took it off and placed it in the glove compartment.

Yet still she thought she could hear it.

47.

The ride from Bangor to Burlington, Vermont was about six hours or more, since Louis was doing most of the driving.

'You drive like you got Miss Daisy in the back,' said Angel, as they made stately progress west. 'I feel like I'm in a f.u.c.king funeral cortege.'

'And you know why I drive this way?'

'Because you're frightened?' suggested Angel. 'Because someone put a limiter on the car? Why?'

'Because I'm black. That's why I'm careful.'

'You're not careful: you're just slow. The internal combustion engine is wasted on you. You want me to get out and walk in front with a red flag?'

'Yeah, would you? Then I could run you over.'

'You couldn't accelerate fast enough to run me over. By the time you got up to speed, I'd have died of old age.'

'Why don't you just count the number of black men you see driving cars between here and Vermont? It's like a white supremacist road race. And while you're counting, go find me a black state trooper. Around here, they see a black man doing fifty and they already writing his name beside a cell door.'

'At least if you get arrested in Vermont they might give you ice cream, try to rehabilitate you.'

Parker listened to them bicker. His back was against the door on the pa.s.senger side, his feet stretched out before him. He'd taken a painkiller just some Tylenol, not the prescription stuff they'd given him before he left the hospital. He wanted to keep a clear head.

He'd called Rachel shortly after they left Bangor, and told her he was on his way to see Sam, with Angel and Louis in tow. He a.s.sured her that they wouldn't stop by until the morning, though. By the time they reached Burlington it would be nine p.m. at least, and he didn't want her to keep Sam up on his account. Rachel didn't sound too pleased to hear that he was heading to Vermont without giving her more notice, but he didn't care. Relations between them had been even tenser since Ruth Winter's murder. Rachel had driven from Burlington to Maine as soon as the call came in from the police informing her of what had happened on the beach at Green Heron Bay. She'd arrived at the Bangor Medical Center to find her daughter in the care of a female officer, and Parker's internal injuries being treated on an operating table. She'd then stayed with Sam while she gave her statement to the police, and they'd both been present when Parker had come out of the anesthetic. He hadn't been able to say much to either of them, but he could feel Rachel's anger, even through his drug-induced daze. He'd only spoken to Rachel once since then, when he'd called to check on Sam. She'd been pretty curt. He couldn't blame her.

Parker's side began to hurt after a couple of hours in the car, so they stopped at a Dunkin' Donuts to get some coffee and let him stretch his legs. He felt like a dog being exercised. They then drove on for a time before deciding to break up the ride at St Johnsbury, where they checked into a chain motel and ate at Bailiwicks on Mill.

Over coffee, Louis told them the story of The Man Who Died Twice.

'You remember Bart Freed?' he asked Angel.

'No.'

'Yeah, you do. He was a shylock out of Ocean City. Had a piece of some arcades far south as Cape May.'

'Bodybuilder? Looked like someone had amputated his neck and stuck his head straight back on his shoulders?'

'That's him.'

'Yeah, I recall him now. He died a couple of years ago, right?'

'Burst a blood vessel while bench-pressing four hundred pounds. Caved in his chest. So way back, there's a guy called Minimum Mike got the name because he only ever pays the vig on his loans without ever denting the princ.i.p.al. But then Minimum Mike becomes Below-Minimum Mike, and crosses so many people who shouldn't be crossed that he's like a map of chaos, and these people decide it's time something was done about him. So they hire two guys out of Maryland to take care of him, and Bart Freed sets him up. Minimum Mike comes to Bart's house to talk about his debts, the two Maryland shooters are waiting inside for him, they quiet him down, and then they take him away. They don't drive him too far because, you know, n.o.body wants to be pulled over with some guy weeping in the back seat. They already have the hole dug for him in the woods so they shoot him, watch him fall in, then cover him up and drive off. They take the car to an all-night wash, get the full treatment for it inside and out, go have a burger and a beer, and figure they've done a good night's work. They crash at a motel and sleep like babies.

'Then, about four a.m., they get a call, and it's one of the guys who's picking up the tab for the night's work. He tells them that there's some problem at Freed's place, and to get their a.s.ses over there and sort it out, because Freed's hysterical, and it doesn't pay to have people hysterical after the event.

'So they drive back to Ocean City, and Freed answers the door. He's calmed down some, but he still doesn't seem happy. He doesn't even let them into the house, not immediately. He keeps them on the doorstep, and he says, '"So, Minimum Mike."

'"Yeah?"

'"You did what you were supposed to do, right?"

'And the hitters say, yeah, of course they did, and they explain about the hole in the ground, and the gun, and covering up the body.

'"So he's dead?" says Freed.

'"Yeah, he's dead."

'"Well, if he's dead, why the f.u.c.k is he sitting at my kitchen table?"

'So the two hitters look at Freed like he's dropped a couple of screws, and he steps aside to let them in. They go to the kitchen, and just like the man said, Minimum Mike is sitting there. He doesn't look good. He's, like, covered in earth and dirt and s.h.i.t, and when they make a closer examination they see that he has a hole in the back of his head and another close to his right eye, but it's definitely him. He's also got a gla.s.s of milk in front of him, and a cookie, although he hasn't touched them. They ask Freed why he has the milk and the cookie, and Freed tells them that he didn't know what else to give him.

'They figure what happened was that the bullet entered his skull, damaged his brain, came out under his eye, but didn't kill him. Somehow he woke up in the grave, managed to claw his way out, and had some vague memory in what was left of his lobe of being at Freed's, so that was the first place he went to.'

'What did they do?' asked Angel.

'They put him in the trunk of the car, drove him back to the grave, shot him again, and buried him. The second time, he didn't come back. The hitters, they didn't come back either. They retired. I think one of them had a breakdown.'

Angel thought about it all.

'Is that true?'

'What I heard.'

'Wow.'

'Was a time,' remarked Louis, 'when you'd have said more than "Wow" after a story like that.'

'I guess it takes a lot to surprise me now,' said Angel.

'Yeah,' said Louis. 'Takes a lot to surprise us all. We splitting the check?'

'No,' said Parker. 'I got it.'

'Wow,' said Angel. 'That is-'

'Don't,' warned Parker. 'Just don't.'

48.

Baulman returned home from walking his dog. He was soaking wet, and the animal, an aging Weimaraner named Lotte, was shivering. Baulman had always had Weimaraners, and he credited them with keeping him relatively youthful until recent years. They needed a lot of exercise, and he had to be wary of walking them in the woods in case they caught the scent of deer, and their hunting instinct kicked in, but they were intelligent, highly trainable, and immensely loyal. Lotte rarely left Baulman's side, but her muzzle was gray now, and he had fewer concerns about her running off after deer stumbling off, maybe, but not running.

He removed her wet collar, and rummaged in the shoe basket for the towel used to dry her on such occasions, but Lotte was already gone, her tail wagging while she emitted uncertain little woofs of interest.

A light was burning in the kitchen, and Baulman was certain that he had only left on the lamp in the hall before leaving. He could see Lotte's tail wagging, and her rear end wiggling with delight. Someone was seated at the kitchen table, just beyond his line of sight someone whom Lotte recognized, but who had no qualms about making his own way into a man's house while he was out walking his dog.

Baulman hung up his wet coat and scarf, removed his damp shoes, and padded to the kitchen. Sitting in one of the pine chairs, facing the door, was the Jigsaw Man. Baulman glared at him for a moment before making his way to the stove, where he filled a pot with milk and set it to boil for hot chocolate. The damp was in his bones. Maybe later he would permit himself a Scotch, but for now chocolate would suffice.

'You might have made a less dramatic entrance,' said Baulman.

'You're marked,' said the Jigsaw Man. 'I chose to be careful.'

'Pah! Now you choose to be careful. You should have been careful when you killed Perlman. You should have been careful before you went off burning houses and murdering children.'

The Jigsaw Man pointed out the irony of someone like Baulman objecting to the killing of children.

'It was not necessary,' said Baulman.

'I deemed it necessary.'

'Why, becaue you couldn't manage to make Perlman disappear? You, of all people, should have known about the tides.'

Baulman found the jar of hot chocolate at the back of one of the kitchen closets. He'd bought it at the Trader Joe's down in Portland when he'd last visited the city. It was organic, and fair trade not that these things particularly mattered to him, but it had performed well in taste tests, and Baulman was something of a connoisseur of hot chocolate. When Kathryn was alive, they preferred to make their own from scratch, but it didn't seem worth the effort for just one person.

'It wasn't meant to happen that way,' said the Jigsaw Man. 'I thought he was unconscious, but I'd tied his shoelaces together, just in case. He was lying on the ground, and I was preparing to put him in the trunk of the car, and when I looked back he was standing. Standing! I'd taken out one of his eyes. Who knows what damage I did in there, yet he was on his feet. I approached him, and he simply stepped back and was gone, lost to the sea. I hoped that I might be lucky with the tides. I was not.'

Baulman took the milk from the stove before it came to the boil, poured it into the cup of mix, and added a little cold milk to take off some of the heat. He took a seat opposite the Jigsaw Man. Lotte, knowing where her loyalties lay, came to join her master. Baulman dipped his finger into the cup, and allowed Lotte to lick the mixture.

The Jigsaw Man was an amateur a gifted one, but an amateur nonetheless. He had provided good service in the past, but now, like all of them, he was getting old. Yes, he was still decades younger than Baulman, but what did that matter? He was losing his edge, perhaps even his sanity. That business with the family over at the lake: what kind of sane individual would consider that an appropriate response to the problem of Perlman's body washing ash.o.r.e?

'Aren't you going to offer me something to drink?' asked the Jigsaw Man.

'If you want hot chocolate, make your own.'

'I'd prefer something stronger.'

'You know where it is.'

The Jigsaw Man rose. Lotte followed him with her eyes. When he returned, he'd poured himself a snifter of brandy. He swirled it before he drank. It didn't make much difference. It was poor stuff.

'Tell me about the Demers woman,' he said.

Baulman went through the details of both encounters with Demers. He left nothing out, and resisted emphasizing what he perceived as his own cleverness.

'She visited Isha Winter,' said the Jigsaw Man.

'I thought she might.'

'So what does Demers do now?'

'She has nothing,' said Baulman. 'The doubtful word of a man trying to save his own skin, that's all. Without proof, she can't act.'

'And yet they still haven't deported Engel.'

'They will. He's of no use to them now.'

'Not unless he tries naming more names. And a shadow still remains upon you.'

'I have always had a shadow upon me.'

'Not like this one.'

'I told you: she has nothing to tie me to Kraus.'

'But you say that she mentioned a discrepancy in paperwork.'

'She was bluffing, trying to frighten me.'

'You're sure?'

'The paperwork was good.'

'Those were difficult times. Mistakes could have been made. A detail might have been missed.'

'No, you must listen to me,' said Baulman. 'There is no problem with the paperwork, or nothing that would cause this kind of fuss. And let me remind you that we all received our doc.u.ments from the same source. If there is a problem with one, there may be a problem with the rest, so why are you only giving me this Scheisse? I wasn't the reason Perlman ended up in the sea! It wasn't because of me that you thought you had to kill that family!'

'No, but you are the one to whom Demers has come. You're the one they're looking at.'

'Ah!' Baulman waved a hand in dismissal. 'It's done. By now she has gone back to Washington with her tail between her legs.'

The Jigsaw Man looked into the depths of his cheap liquor, like a fortune-teller on the skids.

'Who else can Engel name?'

'What?'

'Who else can he name?'