Paul sank into an overstuffed chair. What did the town" know about him? Had someone Googled his name and not liked what they came up with? He closed his eyes and tried to imagine how bad it might get.

"Savannah, towns don't speak. People do." God, he sounded like the NRA. "Give me a name."

"No. I can't," she said, her voice breaking.

What was going on here?

He waited her out.

"Bill Sandy," she finally said in such a low monotone that he had to make her repeat herself to be sure he'd caught the name. "He's the police chief," she added, somewhat more helpfully.

Then her voice rose again, clutching at him like talons. "But you can't tell him I told you. Just sell your home, Paul. Please. It's for your own good."

The Drake Municipal Complex. Paul found himself in a colorless hallway with crayon art safety posters from an elementary school serving as wall decorations along with notices of senior programs and adult education classes and swimming pool hours and refuse collection schedules. He saw a big person and little person set of drinking fountains against one wall, and a handful of open doors.

He followed pleasant chatter to its source, through a corridor leading toward the back of the building. The closer he got to the voices, the more of them there seemed to be, until the corridor was filled with the hum of conversation.

Paul found a double set of doors standing wide, and a patch of light spilling into the hallway. He stood in the doorway and watched men, woman and children milling around or laying in cots flexing cotton-bandaged arms. Still others formed crooked lines, waiting patiently to be stabbed by sharp needles.

He recalled the long bus parked in front of his Lexus, and understood. It was a blood donor service. With the understanding came another thought to complement his fantasy of several nights ago when he'd thought of joining the locals in the diner. The way this thought went, he'd stroll in here, roll up his sleeve and donate a pint or two.

How could the town reject his blood sacrifice? He'd just take his place at the end of one of those ragged lines and- "Hey, what the hell?"

It was a uniformed cop who'd come up alongside him and now he braced Paul's arm in a painful grip. "Barry, get over here."

The second cop, Barry, was taller, slimmer and slightly younger than the first. He joined his partner on a dead run, gun belt flapping on his bony hip.

"Barry, goddamnit, you were supposed to-what the hell are you doing here?"

The question was obviously directed at Paul. Dozens of faces were now turned to him from the open doorway, conversations stopped. Pink-faced and sputtery with rage, the plump cop said, "Barry, you were supposed to watch the door. I said, what're you doing here?"

Even the younger cop seemed unsure who his partner was addressing from sentence to sentence.

"Let go of me."

There must have been steel in Paul's voice, for the pudgy cop unhanded him like he was a heated oven coil. "Sorry," the older cop said, chuckling weakly. "I just...we're supposed to...I got startled, that's all. It's kind of a private thing in there."

A private blood drive?

"Marty, I was helping Mrs. Oliver with her baby 'cuz she tole me to," Barry whined. "That's why I left the door for-"

"Shut up, Barry," his partner said. Chortling like the whole thing was a joke. "Now, Mr. Highsmith, what can I do for you?"

The cop knew his name, just like Purcell in the Winking Dog. That might not be unusual in a town of this size, but it was unnerving.

"I was looking for the police station," he said. "I only wandered in here by accident."

"Forget it, forget it," the plump cop said. "My problem? Too much coffee. " He laughed gustily, and his younger partner made a weak attempt to join in.

"Get back in there," the cop gruffly commanded Barry.

The older cop chatted amiably while he directed Paul, with only the lightest touch, back out into the sunshine. Now in back of the large complex, Paul could see a parking lot apparently full of the vehicles of blood donors.

"You know, they ought to make the sign more apparent," the cop was saying. "I mean, everyone in town knows where the police station is, so who needs a sign? Right? But someone like you comes along, what're you supposed to do-read minds?"

The plump cop babbled on, all the while leading Paul along a short brick path bordered by rose bushes. The walk ended at another door, an ass-backward entrance to one of the wings of the expansive building.

"Right here," the cop said. "We got PD, firehouse, city departments of all kinds in this monster of a building. When we need more space, we add on. It's crazy."

He stepped aside to let Paul enter first.

Most of the police station revealed itself in a single glance. The open space was painted a dull shade of white. Gunmetal gray desks occupied the floor, with old-fashioned metal and glass room dividers cubing off office space for the VIPs. A black and white framed photograph of a stern old-timer took up a significant portion of one wall. Stodgy prints of more doddering old men lined another.

"Hey, would you wait here?" the plump cop asked.

Paul sat in a cold plastic chair behind a display of news and sports magazines while the now friendly officer promised to return as soon as possible before disappearing behind a room divider.

Letting his gaze follow the low buzz of voices, Paul saw two heads bobbing in conversation behind the glass portion of one of the cubicles. The plump cop was waving his arms as he apparently explained the situation. Paul was fairly certain the younger cop, Barry, earned a mention. The second man had gray hair, a bushy mustache and a grim expression that showed itself every time he raised his head over the partition and glanced Paul's way.

Paul picked up a magazine and pretended to read it. When he heard a chair on wheels squeal, followed by slow, plodding footsteps, he innocently raised his gaze.

"Mr. Highsmith? Bill Sandy."

The chief carried most of his excess bulk right behind his gun belt. His holstered weapon, massive enough to singlehandedly end a coup, dug into the soft flesh. He wore a pained expression that seemed to speak of arthritis and career disappointment-not to mention the gun pressed deeply into his gut. His handshake was more of a touch than a grip. Both parties released quickly.

The chief nodded toward his cubicle. "Let's talk, can we?"

His voice was unexpectedly mild for someone Paul suspected of trying to bully his family out of town. Somewhat taken aback, Paul followed him past the oversize photos of long-dead civic leaders and into Chief Sandy's office. He no longer knew what to expect.

The space had been carved into a corner, so it featured two partitions and an equal number of plastered walls. There was a neat wooden desk, two shelves full of forms, a narrow bank of file cabinets and a fern. The nearly colorless walls carried the expected assortment of plaques and diplomas, but Paul's eye was immediately taken to two large photographs on a low cabinet behind the desk.

Where had he seen the white-haired gentleman before? It bugged him.

"Sorry. Got to get you a chair," the soft-spoken police chief said.

While he was gone, Paul approached the color photo and read the brass plate affixed to the bottom: Miles Drake. The name nagged him until he remembered he was in one wing of the Drake Municipal Complex.

Then: Drake. He recalled where else he'd heard the name.

"Oooh, Duane, you're gonna get us in trouble with Drake."

Chief Sandy came back, grunting softly with the weight of the metal chair he cradled. "Please, have a seat," he offered, patting the chair which he crashed in front of his desk.

"Thank you. I won't take much of your time," Paul said.

He sat and shot another glance at the white-haired man in the photo on the cabinet, just behind the chief. It was a formal portrait, the subject resplendent in a loud jacket and tie ensemble, the lapels looking to be half a foot wide. The resemblance to the huge photograph of the man in the lobby was startling. They had to have been relatives, though they looked identical. The photo in the lobby had the grainy, overly posed look of photography from the Forties, while this photo had obviously been taken in the Seventies.

"Mr. Highsmith, I'd like to apologize for the way you were treated by my young officers. Marty admitted that he came on a bit strong. He felt terrible about it, but that's no excuse. You'll get a written letter of apology."

Paul nodded. Now he really was off-guard. "It wasn't that big a deal," he said, the wind knocked out of his righteous anger. "I guess I was just taken aback that the police would be so protective of a blood drive. I was about to volunteer myself when we had the run-in."

"Well, thank you for your generosity," the chief said. "Now, how can I help you?"

The subject of the blood drive was obviously closed. Paul glanced once more at the photograph of Miles Drake. The old man was seated, back ramrod straight, both hands loosely clasping a bony knee. The pose was casual, but the subject made it look like it hadn't been any easy photo to get.

"Mr. Highsmith? Is there anything else I can help you with?" The police chief's desk chair squealed.

Paul refocused his attention and tried to gather his thoughts. "My real estate agent, Savannah Easton," he said, then paused to see if his listener gave any significance to the name. He didn't show anything. Paul continued, "She tells my wife and me that you've been pressuring her to get us to sell the home we just bought."

Only then did he recall the woman imploring Paul to keep her name out of it.

"I have suggested such a course of action," the chief corrected. "But I wouldn't characterize my remarks as undue pressure."

He might be a small-town cop, but he spoke like a big-city lawyer. Paul felt for the first time since meeting him that Chief Sandy might not be as soft as his voice.

"I'm just curious..." Paul let the sentence trail, waiting for the other man to pick up the slack.

The cop stared at his big hands. "People in other towns around here, if they go visiting out of state and someone asks where they're from, they might say Toledo. Or Detroit. Not because they're lying. They just consider themselves part of a larger metropolitan area, which technically they are." The chief glanced up suddenly, his eyes the weak blue of rain. "Mr. Highsmith, residents of our town don't think of themselves as living anywhere but Babylon. We're self-sufficient. We're no..." He sniffed the air as though hesitant to go on. "...bedroom community. And no one ever leaves."

"And yet," said Paul in something of a gentle tweak, "the McConlons sold us their home and moved away."

Bill Sandy leaned back, the air whooshing out of his chair. His jawline twitched as he stared Paul down. "Yes, that did catch us by surprise," he said. "Even Marty wasn't expecting his brother to move his family out like that."

Paul stared at the police chief. "Marty," he said. "You mean the cop who was hassling me? That Marty? He's Jeff McConlon's brother?"

Chief Sandy stared at Paul for several beats, managing to look at once both grim and expressionless. "Mr. Highsmith, as Detroit and Cleveland and all those other cities grow bigger and nastier, their citizens move farther and farther away. Unfortunately, they have a tendency to bring their problems with them, threatening to turn the peaceful little outlying towns into something not so peaceful, not so safe and clean. We don't want that to happen here, and that's why we're willing to pay good money to see that it doesn't happen. The McConlons should have known better than to sell to outsiders. It's something we just don't do."

Genuine shock held Paul without comment for half a minute. In his head he was explaining, At worst, I'm a white collar criminal. Not someone who's going to break into the neighbors' home and steal their DVDs.

When he could finally formulate a rational sentence he said, "Savannah Easton broke an unwritten law, didn't she?" He stood and planted the palms of his hands on the other man's desk. "Is that why she's so afraid, Chief?"

His chair squealed as the lawman rose. "Thanks for stopping by, Mr. Highsmith. I hope you realize that the town means you no harm. We just prefer that you leave."

Paul was stunned. There were fair housing laws prohibiting such treatment, weren't there? Before now, he'd never had occasion to wonder.

With a grim chuckle, he yanked out the orange slip hanging limp, trapped between the wiper and windshield of his Lexus, and got in. He wasn't even surprised at having been ticketed for parking in an unmarked but apparently illegal space. Seemed the town was full of unwritten laws. Paul made a show of tearing the ticket and releasing it to the muggy air. He watched the scraps sink like confetti to the flawless lawn.

It was well after six, the day's shadows starting to grow and flatten. But one more thought worked him over like an ulcer before he could head home. Not every stranger in this godforsaken town was as unwelcome as his family.

He'd take one more quick drive before calling it a night.

Chapter Twelve.

"Sure, it's good money," Denver Dugan was saying. "Good for these days anyhow, but I was making more than this twenty years ago at the GM plant in Cleveland. Didn't know how good I had it back then."

There were maybe twenty of them out there. Smoking, drinking, reminiscing under a fading sun by the brackish swimming pool. Todd and Joy sat side by side in borrowed lawn chairs, the kids having joined the Dwyer hooligans and a few others in whatever misdemeanors were being committed on the motel grounds.

"Hell, I owned Detroit back then," chipped in a man Todd didn't know by name. He was up there in age with big Denver, but as thin and worn as old socks. His teeth were cracked and uneven, his long hair tied back in a ponytail. "Me, I'd get bored working the same job, same shift, so I'd quit, stay away for a few months. When my money ran out, I'd get me another job at Chrysler or AMC or some supplier. They all paid more than the chickenshit wages we're taking home now and kissing this town's ass to get it."

"Hey, Denver," Jamey Weeks shouted, "what's the most you ever made?"

The big man tilted his cap back from his sweaty forehead and said, "Well, let me think about it."

It was obvious from his crooked smile that the former autoworker didn't need the thinking time. Todd figured that Denver probably reflected on those past paychecks every night while sacked out in his tiny motel room with the sweat crawling over him.

After the proper pause, the big man said, "In the late Eighties I remember a year when I booked seven twelves for six or seven months straight-eighty-four-hour work weeks. Ended up divorced over it, but I pulled in just over a hundred grand that year, pre-tax."

The pool area went silent as two dozen men and women studied the money like they could see it.

"Hundred grand," Jamey repeated softly.

"Course that was just before things went bad again," Denver added ruefully. "On top of the divorce, I didn't get any overtime the next year. I had to pay for her lawyer as well as my own, but I musta bought her a better one than me since she got the house and spousal support and child support. By that time, the automakers were all laying off again, not hiring."

Bringing them all down.

D.B. said, "Most I ever made at one time was twenty-eight an hour."

"Get outta here," snapped a muscle-bound kid with a crew cut and an attitude.

"It's true. I was working construction outside Boston just before the housing market went to shit. Bunch of us, we had more money than we ever seen, but we lived in trailer camps, some of us in tents 'cuz we couldn't afford nothing else. Most expensive town I ever been in."

"I made twenty an hour once," said a quiet guy of no more than thirty despite his shiny dome. "Made it in a lumber camp in Oregon, but the job only lasted through the summer."

"Shit," grumbled Carl Haggerty. "I ain't never took in more than eight, ten dollars an hour. Not even when times was good." Although he couldn't have been more than forty, he had the deepest forehead furrows Todd had ever seen. As he sat scowling into his beer can, the furrows dug even deeper. "Don't suspect race has anything to do with it, do you?"

"Jesus, now we get the lecture," Judd Maxwell said.

"Ain't no lecture. Just facts. Me and everyone I know been making minimum wage even during the so-called good times. And that's if we can get work at all. Which is why Doyle was so suspicious of this goddamn town. You spend your life getting shafted, then someone gives you the keys to the city. If you smart, you stop and ask why. That's what Doyle was tryna tell me, and I shoulda listened."

Judd snickered. "And right now your old buddy Doyle's standing in some unemployment line telling everyone who'll listen that he don't got no money 'cuz the white man shafted him. Not 'cuz he left a perfectly good job for worrying he's got too good a deal."

"Is that what happened?" Carl hunched in his lawn chair like he was trying to wrap his big shoulders around himself.

"Is it?" Todd asked. Every eye on him now, the first time most had seemed to notice him. "What happened to your friend? Why did he leave town?"

"Cuz he a fool, that's why." Carl grumbled as though reluctant to admit Judd Maxwell had been right in his appraisal of Carl's friend.

Todd caught several people stirring, like the conversation had gone off into uncomfortable territory.

"Todd was making good money outside of Parkersburg," Joy piped in. "He drove a Caterpillar loader for a coal mine." His wife nudged him in the ribs. "Todd, tell 'em how much you was making at the mine before it closed down."