"Well, as I told you both at the time, it positively wasn't for sale. Even in the declining real estate market, you authorized me to make an offer that was incredibly generous-but they never batted an eye."

"Yeah, now I remember," said Paul.

"Well, the unfortunate thing is-or fortunate, depending on how coldly you want to look at it-the husband lost his job a couple weeks ago. He feels he's priced out of the job market here, and the Michigan economy being what it is, they're thinking about cashing out and moving."

"We're so sorry," said Darby, as though it were somehow their fault.

"Yes," said Savannah. "But the reason I bring it up is that they remembered how you'd shown interest and they called me out of the blue. I took the liberty of quoting a price that was just a few thousand dollars higher than what we'd offered before, and they sounded very interested. Now, obviously that wasn't a firm offer since I hadn't first approached the two of you. But with what I think I can get for your place here..."

Paul watched the woman. Studied her lips for the smile that must eventually break through. Glancing away momentarily, he saw that Darby was studying their guest with equal intensity. Savannah gave no hint of noticing their disbelief as she prattled on about interest rates, declining market values, tax bases and financing options. No, she didn't seem to be joking.

"Hold it, hold it, Savannah," Paul said, finally stemming the flow of words with an arm extended like a traffic cop. "If I'm hearing you right, you're suggesting..."

He looked at his wife for help, but she seemed to be waiting for Paul to make some sense of the matter.

The real estate agent laughed, a gracious tinkle of a sound. "I know how it sounds," she said, "and I'm not trying to get you to sign anything this very moment. But you'll recall that I was pulling for North Shores right from the beginning. Darling little community, much friendlier than Babylon. But then, what town isn't?" Savannah tittered merrily. "We have a sort of unwritten rule at our office to ignore Babylon altogether. And you've got to admit, I never encouraged you two to take your search here. But once you did, I could hardly dissuade you. There are housing laws, you know. But I did my best."

As her voice rose higher, she sounded desperate to avoid blame-but for what?

Paul and Darby exchanged quick glances before Darby said, "Tell me, Savannah, is there anything wrong with the town? I mean, beyond it being a bit aloof."

"Absolutely not, dear," came the reply, too quick, too loud, too emphatic.

The Highsmiths had not only discovered Babylon without their real estate agent's help-but also without her support, as Paul now thought about it. The town, as Darby said, "looked like home." It wasn't "picturesque," "quaint" or "postcard-perfect," and it wouldn't ever be referred to as a "village." But it was authentic and, with few of the national chains seen in every other town large and small in America, it didn't look like any other place. That was a selling point.

And don't forget the town's obscurity.

"It's home," Darby had said during that first drive-through as they passed clean, tree-lined neighborhoods and new schools.

In one particular pocket to the north of the business district could be found scores of comfortable-looking homes on large lots. None had for-sale signs in front, but Paul figured there must simply be local ordinances against signage and he'd found what he wanted on the Internet. A home privately listed.

"If you recall," Savannah was saying, "I only showed you this place as a last resort. It was less expensive than many of the homes along the coastline though I warned you it might not hold its value nearly as well."

Darby held up a hand. "Savannah, we're not blaming you for putting us out here. We love our home."

Paul watched the other woman's face as she worked over whatever was really on her mind. After a long, uncomfortable silence, Savannah said, "Okay, here's the thing. I have a very interested buyer."

Paul noticed that both he and Darby had leaned forward as their visitor's volume dropped. Like all three were in on the conspiracy.

"I know, I know," Savannah said, her voice rising as if to ward off objections both of her listeners had apparently raised with their stiffened body language. "You just moved in and the last thing you want to do is even think of leaving. I quite understand."

"I don't think you do," Darby said softly. "Or you wouldn't even suggest such a thing."

Paul watched his wife with new respect. She rarely showed annoyance, but when she did, people listened.

"Darby, dear, I wish you'd just hear me out. My buyer is quite prepared to pay for your relocation costs. And the opening offer he quoted me was forty thousand dollars more than you paid. But I don't think I'd have any problem getting him to boost it another ten thousand. How about that? A fifty-thousand dollar profit for a few weeks of aggravation."

Paul stared at the woman. Her makeup seemed to glisten over a thin sheen of sweat. Her smile was still in place, but it didn't reach her eyes.

He cleared his throat. "Savannah, we all know what the housing market's like. My Detroit area home is still on the market. So I'm, well, surprised at the very least, that we'd get such an offer."

"Yes, it's quite amazing," she said.

Her hand went for her coffee mug. She brought it to her lips before seeming to discover it was empty. Just something for her hand and eyes to do.

"Who's your buyer?" Paul asked quietly.

Her hand returned the mug to the table. She revolved it a quarter-rotation. "I don't know if I can divulge that information."

"Paul, what are you doing?" Darby asked. "What difference does it make who the buyer is? We just moved here. This is crazy."

"There's a possibility I could get more," Savannah blurted. "I said another ten thousand, but it's entirely possible-"

"No," Darby said.

Paul stared into those violet eyes, now holding his gaze as though she were afraid to let go. He thought about his car payment on the Lexus and Darby's on the Jeep. He thought of their unsold home in St. Clair Shores and Meredith's new condo in Grosse Pointe Woods and seven-figure lawsuits. He thought about his thirteen-month-old son and two daughters still in college and potentially three weddings to be paid for at some point in the not-too-distant future. He thought about alimony payments and about being fifty-two years old and potentially unemployable.

"Paul, tell her," Darby said, obviously aware of the faraway look that had crept into his eyes.

He shook his mind clear and said, "Thank you, Savannah, for continuing to work on our behalf, but we really have no problems with the house or the town. Even if we did, we'd be unlikely to move after such a short time. You can check with us again in a few years, but-"

"What if I could get seventy-five?"

"What?" Paul asked. Almost dreading the answer.

"A seventy-five-thousand dollar profit."

"Why?" he asked, sounding every bit as befuddled as he felt.

"It doesn't matter," Darby warned.

But the real estate agent's violet eyes were only on him now. He was the weak link here, not Darby.

"The house," the woman said, "is worth much more than you paid for it. The sellers were highly motivated, and there were no local buyers. I now have a buyer who's extremely anxious to own your home, and he's willing to pay a much higher price.

Anxious to own it. A curious choice of words, Paul thought.

"Think what you could do, Paul," she went on. "You really wanted the lake and now you can afford it."

"Crazy, just crazy," Darby mumbled.

Paul looked hard into those desperate violet eyes. "Once more, Savannah, who's the buyer?"

He thought at first that she was returning eye contact, but her intense gaze was actually focused miles through and beyond him. "I should have followed my instincts," she said dully. "Sometimes you get greedy in this business."

Now there was a concept Paul could buy into. He waited for more, but she continued to stare, glassy-eyed, at something or nothing.

"It's not a person," Savannah finally replied, her focus now reined in to the sunroom.

Paul became suddenly aware that his fingers could no longer feel the chair armrests he'd apparently been clenching. "What could you possibly mean by that?" he asked as he pried his fingers free.

"It's not a person who wants you two out," she repeated. "It's the entire town."

Chapter Nine.

He'd done this many times in the past. Park in a gravel lot and walk more confidently than he ever felt toward a tumbledown building that either looked like it had been there forever or got prefabbed and plopped down there yesterday and would be carried away with the next strong wind.

Todd liked working with tools and machines, the smell of lubricating oil and diesel engines. It was always being the new guy he didn't treasure. Always the temp, checking in for a day or a week or a month of employment. Sometimes just getting into the routine, making a tentative friendship and learning the best places to eat, when the boss calls him into his office. Sales have died, the work's caught up, the budget's blown. Whatever the case: out on the street again. Bills piling up, landlords threatening, kids whining. Helluva life.

Before getting out, Todd observed the Corwin Corrugated Company from the cracked windshield of Kathy Lee Dwyer's borrowed boat of an Impala. She'd insisted on him taking it after he first dropped her off at the Old Time Cafe. He'd practically watched the gas needle drop. If his usual luck held, he'd owe Kathy Lee more for fuel than he'd make for the day. Then get told not to report back tomorrow.

Sales died, work's caught up, budget's blown.

There was no lobby, just a single-file row of battered metal desks piled high with paper crap. Behind the desks he could see ten-foot stacks of cardboard and hear a forklift sputtering into action, its propane tank filling Todd's nostrils. Just light a match, he thought.

A fat girl sat behind a computer at one of the desks.

"Uh huh," she said, as though confirming a fact Todd hadn't raised. He asked her for Jack Traynor, and she wordlessly pointed. "Jack," she said.

She'd pointed to a cubical that seemed to be the equivalent of a corner office, the only thing here with walls. When he got to the doorway and saw the thin, balding man sitting at a desk that faced the back wall, Todd cleared his throat to start some kind of greeting that wasn't readily coming to mind.

The balding man heard him. He swiveled his desk chair to face his doorway and Todd and offered a smile that looked equal parts guilty and confused. "Yes?"

Todd said, "The cop, er, police officer-Marty?-he told me to see you." Nothing. "That you'd have a job for me." He stared at the blank face, then thought of a much better starting point, one that he should have used from the get-go. "I'm Todd Dunbar."

"Oh. Marty. Yeah, he said something."

Jack Traynor shoved his glasses back up his nose and shot so quickly out of his office chair that it wheeled backward and crashed into the back wall of the rattly metal office cubicle, shuddering the entire flimsy structure to the point that Todd was sure it was going to collapse. Fine way to begin his first day.

But the thin man hardly seemed to notice. His shoulders were boyishly narrow, the arms coming out of his short-sleeved shirt hairless and stick-like. Standing, he stooped like a man covering up excess height, but went five-seven stretched out. He gestured with a flick of his head for Todd to follow him deeper into the building.

"Marty said something," Traynor mumbled as he led the way down a poorly lit hall and into a break room with two vending machines against a water-stained wall. A countertop held a coffeemaker, stacks of styrofoam cups, stir sticks and a powdered cream container. The company boss motioned Todd to a rickety table where they took opposing seats.

Traynor leaped up almost immediately, muttering, "Forms. I gotta...you gotta fill out..." He left, and returned seconds later. "Forms," he repeated, dropping tax forms, insurance forms and God-knew-what-else on the table.

When Todd pawed his shirt front for a pen he knew wouldn't be there, the new boss waved him off. "Don't worry. Fill 'em out...whenever. Come on."

And that was, apparently, the end of the interview.

"Um, aren't there any other, um, details?" Todd asked as he followed the other man out of the break room.

"Let's see," Jack through over his shoulder. "Work hours are eight-thirty to five. Be prompt. Pay's eleven-fifty an hour to start. Overtime if you get called in weekends."

"Eleven-fifty?" Todd asked stupidly. Hardly a fortune, but frankly more than he was expecting to make at the decrepit-looking building.

Traynor stopped in the dark hallway and made eye contact for what seemed like the first time. "I think that's the rate," he said slowly. "But if Marty McConlon promised you more we could...I could check..."

"No. No, that's not it," Todd said. "It's just...nothing. Everything's fine."

There wasn't as much noise as he'd expected in the cavernous work space. The cement floor sharply echoed what sounds there were: loud radio music and conversational male voices under the rumble of a forklift and two or three machines. The air smelled dry and dusty with cardboard accumulation and sharp with engine oil.

"We're not as busy as we'd like, but wait here," Jack said. "I'll see where we can fit you in."

Todd felt foolish, holding up the concrete block wall just inside the large room. He watched Traynor approach a bearded man in a big-ass cowboy hat with jean-clad legs wrapped around a metal stool. He was wrestling flat cardboard panels into the back of growling machinery. The man's back was to Todd. From that view, his beer belly hung so low as to resemble round ears on either side of his hips.

The two turned and stared openly at Todd, then Beerbelly shook his head. Traynor said something into the man's ear, the machine still roaring. Beerbelly shook his head again, sharper this time. Traynor shrugged-obviously not worth arguing about-and walked away. Beerbelly didn't need or want help, and he wasn't shy about it.

A yellow diesel forklift whined into view and wheeled to a stop not ten feet from Todd. The man glaring down at him from the driver's seat had a face that looked like it had been rubbed raw with steel wool. Trying to cover it, he'd added a scraggly beard and attitude. Lava Face fluttered the accelerator pedal, gunned the engine.

"Mark."

Lava Face, aka Mark, twisted in his seat to turn his glare upon Jack Traynor before releasing the clutch and pealing away without a word.

Traynor sighed, shook his head and said to Todd, "Follow me."

Men of few words. About a dozen feet from Beerbelly's machine stood another. Long and narrow and yellow, it seemed held together by conveyor belts. At the head-or the back-of the machine, a man in a ball cap stood on a short platform. His job seemed to be to feed die-cut cardboard from a flat stack into the works. When it came out the other end it was picked up and restacked by another man on the opposite end of the conveyor belt. All Todd could see of the man in the ball cap was his back and the silver chain that dipped into his back pocket, no doubt keeping his wallet in check.

Traynor broke into his thoughts with another barely heard comment, and Todd had to cup one ear to get it repeated.

"It's a taper," Traynor screamed against the twin rumble of machinery. "One guy holds the ends together and sends the cardboard through, and it comes out taped."

The machine made a rhythmic snap of a sound as it automatically cut lengths of tape and slammed them onto the boxes shoved through by Ball Cap.

Traynor indicated with the twitch of a finger that Todd should follow. "The second guy," his new boss was saying, "takes the cardboard off the belt and ties them in stacks of twenty. The third guy-that's you-takes and piles the stacks on top of this pallet here."

Todd turned his attention to the second worker, who currently seemed to be having no problem handling both of those last tasks by himself. He was easily accepting the taped panels off the conveyor, stacking them, counting off twenty, looping twine around the stacks, and filling the pallet.

Jack stooped over the second guy and spoke. A round-faced man who'd managed to keep most of his baby fat, this second man glanced over his shoulder at Todd, then lowered his head and moved away from the pallet.

"Okay, you can get started," Jack called to Todd.

Time crawled. Chain Pocket kept stopping to get Lava Face on the fork lift to bring him more die-cut stacks or to refill the taper when it ran dry of water for sealing. It seemed the only practical way to know that the taper was dry was to wait till it started spitting out a bunch of unsealed panels, at which point Chain Pocket would let loose with a string of oaths and kick the machine in its ass before calling a temporary halt to matters.

But even when production ran smoothly, there was simply too little work. To pass the time, Todd tried making a comment or two to the round-faced man sweating and wheezing next to him, but got nothing. So he did like everyone else and, despite the floor to ceiling stacks of dust-dry flat cardboard, smoked to fill the empty time.

He also had a chance to figure out Beerbelly's machine across the room. The man in the cowboy hat was feeding it long, flat cardboard panels which came out scored for folding and tabbing, and printed. Similar to the working arrangement of the taper crew, Beerbelly had two co-workers at the end of the machine stacking and loading pallets that Lava Face, in his rumbly forklift, picked up now and again and exchanged for empty pallets.

One more similarity between the two crews: neither needed three workers.

The third wheel on the printer-slotter seemed to be one of the black guys Todd had seen at the Sundown. Seeing the man carefully stacking panels that didn't need his attention, Todd recalled Kathy Lee Dwyer's words about getting overpaid for waitressing. There'd been something else she'd been about to say. Something about what had drawn her to the town, but that's when Melanie had screamed, and Kathy Lee had never finished.