A woman's calm voice then broke in. "This is Bellows Falls Dispatch. Do you have a description of the vehicle?"

With a small sigh at the inevitable reprimands to come, w.i.l.l.y rattled off the make, model, and registration of the car ahead, mentioned that it was stolen, and identified Wayne Nugent, knowing that his criminal record would pop up on the dispatcher's screen.

Nugent, in the meantime, was fast approaching a choice: to turn left at the bottom of the village's small square and cross the bridge into neighboring New Hampshire, or continue south to the village limits and select Route 5 into Westminster and the interstate's southern ramp, or west toward Saxton's River and the back roads beyond.

He skipped the bridge, eliminating New Hampshire for the moment, and led the way up and out of town, abandoning, among other things, its quaint and demure twenty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit-something w.i.l.l.y thought he'd include on the list of offenses he was mentally tallying up, for fun if nothing else.

"Eight-five-one-Dispatch," he heard over the radio from the car behind him, "we're proceeding south on Westminster toward Red Light Hill."

"Ten-four," was the laconic reply.

Westminster Street was merely Rockingham renamed, wider and flatter than it was in the village. Nugent took advantage of this to extend the gap between himself and his pursuers, apparently not knowing, as they did, what lay ahead. At the aforementioned Red Light Hill-actually a four-way intersection-his two easiest choices were either a hard left or a steep hill straight up, unless he opted for an even tougher right turn back onto Atkinson all over again. In all cases, the one common denominator was a need to slow down.

w.i.l.l.y didn't know if Nugent was too new to the area or too drunk and scared to care, but as they approached the junction, he began to realize that the lead car wasn't going to survive.

He eased off the accelerator and keyed his mike, "This is VBI two-four. I think we're looking at a ten-fifty in the making. I recommend we drop back."

The cruiser driver didn't answer, but he made no effort to pa.s.s w.i.l.l.y in the straightaway.

Now far ahead of them, the stolen car chose the left-hand turn, not surprisingly shooting for the distant interstate he'd been aiming at when the patrolman had changed his plans. w.i.l.l.y saw little puffs of smoke in the car's red lights as the rear end swerved and the tires burned with a sudden braking, and then the whole package yielded to simple physics. Nugent broke into an uncontrolled skid, his car slithered both sideways and to the right until it caught the edge of a concrete median, and then it flipped, vaulting spectacularly into the night air. It hung there for a split second, as if arrested by a movie projector glitch, before coming down into a gas station driveway, careening into both of the station's outermost pumps.

There was a flash, a flicker, a long and bated pause, and then, almost mercifully, a fireball explosion that made w.i.l.l.y drop onto the pa.s.senger seat for cover. A thunderous whump whump filled the air and compressed his lungs, even inside the closed car, followed by a showering of small, hard objects all around, including one that smashed his windshield. filled the air and compressed his lungs, even inside the closed car, followed by a showering of small, hard objects all around, including one that smashed his windshield.

With the patrolman's yelling on the radio as a backdrop, w.i.l.l.y got out of his car and surveyed the scene before him-a beautiful, constant fountain of flame, with the car and the mangled pumps at its heart.

"Guess there won't be a trial," he said to himself.

Chapter 21.

Joe heard about Wayne Nugent while he was lying in bed beside Lyn, shortly after his cell phone started vibrating from deep within his pile of clothes on the floor. He'd tried sliding his arm out from under her head in order to retrieve the phone and slip out into the hallway, but she'd heard it, too, and urged him to get back into bed with it in order to stay warm. It was an attractive offer, and not only because of her presence. She'd been right-the rest of the apartment had become uncomfortably cool.

"Gunther," he answered, pulling the covers back up over them both.

"Hey, boss," Sammie said. "Sorry to bother, but I thought you better get this hot off the presses. w.i.l.l.y was just in a ten-eighty in Bellows Falls with the guy he says raped Andy Griffis. Swears he was just going to talk to him, that he came on soft and gentle, but that he got knocked on his a.s.s for his efforts. Wayne Nugent's the dirtbag's name-did I mention that? Sorry. Anyhow, Nugent took off down the street, jacked a car at a stop sign, blasted off like a rocket, and then proceeded to lose control and blow himself up at that gas station on the south side of the village. He's dead."

Joe didn't respond. He was too busy both processing and stifling a collection of mental outbursts.

"Oh," Sammie continued, either oblivious or, more likely, nervous for her partner, "w.i.l.l.y's fine. Bellows Falls PD was there with him-at the end-so it looks pretty up-and-up."

"w.i.l.l.y's solid on Nugent being the right guy?"

"Absolutely, boss." Sam's emphasis betrayed her own initial misgivings. "E. T. gave it up first, a few days ago, and w.i.l.l.y really checked it out. I mean, n.o.body saw saw Nugent do it, of course-except Andy-but he was at the right place at the right time, has a history of doing that s.h.i.t, to men and women both, and, finally, even bragged about it to some of his buddies. w.i.l.l.y got it all down-sworn statements, the works. That's why he made the approach. He was going to bust him." Nugent do it, of course-except Andy-but he was at the right place at the right time, has a history of doing that s.h.i.t, to men and women both, and, finally, even bragged about it to some of his buddies. w.i.l.l.y got it all down-sworn statements, the works. That's why he made the approach. He was going to bust him."

Joe checked the glowing clock on the night table. It was four a.m. "When did this happen?"

"About ninety minutes ago. It's been kind of a mess to sort out." Sam suddenly stopped before adding in a guiltier tone, "I tried calling your home phone earlier. When you didn't answer, I didn't want to disturb . . . Well, you know, you've got a bunch of things going on. I didn't want to . . ."

Jesus, he thought, this'll make the rounds. "That's fine, Sam. Don't worry about it. You still in BF?"

"Yeah. We got VSP doing the investigation. We're all hanging out at the PD."

"Was anyone else hurt?" he asked.

"Nope-just Nugent. The gas station is half toast, but the owner says he's insured. Nothing else caught fire, and the fire department had a blast putting it out-big-time war story material."

Joe shook his head slightly-the circles he traveled in. "Okay, Sam. I'll be heading up soon."

He snapped the phone shut and rested his head against the pillow, staring at the ceiling.

"That didn't sound good," Lyn said quietly.

"Could you hear both sides?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Well, it could've been worse-if it turns out the way Sam just said. People bolt all the time when we get too close, and get into deeper trouble because of it. Let's just hope there's no surprise hiding in the bushes."

"Like what?"

He immediately thought of w.i.l.l.y. "You know how it is," he answered vaguely. "Just something you don't expect."

He sighed and slipped his arm back where it had been, enjoying the way she slipped her thigh up over his leg and placed her warm hand on his stomach.

"Mostly, I just hate to go," he admitted. "Not the way I figured tonight would wrap up."

She kissed his neck. "Exactly how much time do you think you do have?" she asked, biting his earlobe lightly.

He laughed. "A few more minutes than I thought I had?"

She slid her hand down farther. "Good."

He only got to drop by in Bellows Falls, long enough to show a command presence to both the state police investigators and his own people. During the half-hour drive up the interstate from Brattleboro, he'd received a second phone call, this one from his mother, who told him that the hospital had called.

His heart had dropped at the news. Given his profession and the surprises it often bore, he'd been dreading this call while expecting it, too.

"It's good, Joey," she'd told him, however, falling back to a nickname she rarely used. "He's coming out of it, just like the doctor said he might."

"I'm already heading your way, Mom," he'd told her. "I'll be there in under an hour."

Karl Weisenbeck looked as fresh at 5:15 in the morning as he always did-affable, neat, and completely focused on his patient's mother.

He was also overflowing with enthusiasm. "In a nutsh.e.l.l, Mrs. G.," he said, crouching down to her level. "We hurt your son and he said 'ouch.' Best news in the world."

He laughed at her concern. "Remember what I told you?" he asked, supplying the answer. "That we were looking for the improved oxygenation to do the rest of the work for us? Well, that's what's happening-the paradoxical breathing has stopped, he was taken off positive pressure several hours ago, and he's not only holding his own, but his O-two saturation has reached normal levels and his consciousness has surfaced to where he responded when we applied a painful stimulus." He reached out and patted her hand. "That's what I meant. I've been told I probably shouldn't try to be funny in situations like these, but it's just such great news."

She squeezed his hand in return, her eyes bright with grat.i.tude. "No, no, Doctor. It's quite all right. We'll take humor any day. Would it be all right to see him?"

Weisenbeck stood up. "Of course. Now, he's not going to start up a conversation, you know. He is still asleep. But you can check out his improved breathing for yourself, and see how much better he looks without all that plumbing stuck down his throat. You might even get a response if you squeeze his hand." He laughed and added, "especially if you use a little rough stuff."

A nurse came in to get her ready for her visit, and Joe and Weisenbeck stood side by side before the viewing window overlooking the rows of beds.

"Straight?" was all Joe asked.

Weisenbeck smiled without looking at him. "Straight. I'm not saying something can't still go wrong-it definitely can. But the odds are hugely in his favor now. If his progress is any indicator, all he has left to do is wake up, get his strength back, and go home. All of which, I won't deny, will take time, but still . . ."

Joe patted his shoulder. "Thanks, and not just for the doctor stuff."

Weisenbeck glanced quickly at his watch, looking pleased, and then moved toward the door. "Happy to help, Mr. Gunther. Call me anytime, for any reason."

Joe waited until he saw his mother being wheeled into the ICU before going outside to his usual cell phone corner in the hallway. He dialed Gail's number, got her answering machine, and said, "It's Joe. Good news from the hospital. Leo's not fully awake but he's starting to come out of it. The doc's pretty optimistic. Just thought you'd like to know."

He then called Sammie. "How're things going?" he asked.

"I should ask the same thing," she answered.

"Good," he said. "He's starting to improve."

She laughed. "I should probably say the same thing. The chief down here is being a little starchy about w.i.l.l.y not checking in before all h.e.l.l broke loose, and the VSP is curious if we always run solo after suspects in major cases, but no one's really faulting what happened. We got lucky with a bunch of realists, for once. I'm betting he gets a clean bill on this one."

"And there's no doubt about Nugent being the guy? 'Cause I plan to tell Andy's father that we got him."

"I double-checked, boss-promise. He did it. By the way, we got a hit on that long shot you asked Les and me to check out-the irate parental type who might go after people like Nashman and Metz? Lester found someone named Oliver Mueller. Lives in Bratt, heads up a bereaved-parents support group, writes letters to the editor all the time, rants at selectmen meetings, ha.s.sles the police chief for more action against child molesters. He's been arrested for disorderly a few times, including once for resisting and a.s.saulting a cop. His daughter's death two years ago is about all he lives for anymore."

"I don't remember that. What was her name?"

"Didn't happen here. He's a New Jersey transplant. Kid died, and everything went with her-the marriage, the job, the house, you name it."

"What makes him homicidal?" Joe asked, unsure that his own reaction to a child's murder wouldn't push him at least a little off center.

"Last year, there was an incident in Brattleboro. The cops thought a guy in the neighborhood might be going after kids. Mueller caught wind of it, bushwhacked the guy, and threatened to kill him. I won't bore you with the details-I'll be writing them all down anyhow-but, long story short, lawyers made it all go away. Point is, five months later, the guy wound up dead in Ma.s.sachusetts, and Mueller had a bulletproof alibi. But the cop I talked to down there is convinced Mueller did it, or at least hired it out."

"Based on what?" Joe asked.

"Pure gut," Sam conceded. "When Lester was asking around, Mueller was the first name that the Bratt PD's Cathy Eakins thought of-said we'd be dumb not to check him out, although she wasn't as gung-ho as the Ma.s.sachusetts cop."

"Still, better go for it," Joe recommended.

"You gonna stay up there awhile?" she asked.

"Yeah," he told her. "I got a couple of loose ends I have to take care of. Let me know how you fare with Mueller."

"Roger that."

There was a cafe in Thetford, serving only breakfast and lunch, that was cheap, familial, offered good basic food, and had been long known in the neighborhood as E. T. Griffis's home away from home. Joe timed his arrival there for about half an hour after E. T.'s usual appearance, when he hoped the man would be just nearing the end of his meal.

He was sitting in a corner booth, beside the window and facing the door-the perfect place for the best view-in front of the remains of some spaghetti and meatb.a.l.l.s.

He and Joe spotted each other as soon as Joe entered, and exchanged the barest of nods. Joe walked down the length of the restaurant to stand before him.

"E. T. How've you been?" They didn't shake hands.

The old man picked up a piece of bread and sopped up some sauce with it. "Fair."

"Sit down for a second?"

He didn't look up, concentrating on his task. "Free country."

Joe slid in opposite him. A waitress appeared, and Joe asked for coffee. E. T. made no comment.

"I was sorry to hear about Andy," Joe said.

E. T. paused in mid-motion for several seconds, then resumed eating, as if alone.

"I looked into what happened to him in prison," Joe continued. "I know about Wayne Nugent."

E. T. stopped chewing. Joe remained silent. The waitress came with the coffee and silently placed it on the table, looking at the two men quizzically.

"Good for you," E. T. finally said, still stubbornly refusing to make eye contact.

Joe sipped from his coffee before saying, "The reason I'm here is because you'll be hearing about Nugent in the news today. He died while one of my men was trying to arrest him for what he did to Andy."

That did it. E. T. looked up and stared at Joe, his lips parted in surprise.

"He was escaping at high speed in a stolen car. Lost control."

E. T.'s hand moved to his chest, seemingly on its own, and Joe wondered if he might not be having a heart attack. He certainly looked ripe for one.

"You okay?" he asked. "You need anything?"

The old man glanced around the table, saw his water gla.s.s, and grabbed hold of it for several deep swallows.

Again Joe waited, nursing his coffee. Griffis finally put down the gla.s.s, hung his head, and sat there with his hands in his lap.

"f.u.c.k off," he said at last in a quiet, slightly tremulous voice. "Leave me alone."

Joe stayed where he was, the blood pounding at his temples. "In a minute. I have one last thing to say to you. I also found out why Andy pleaded guilty to what I busted him for in the first place."

E. T.'s head snapped up and he slapped both hands onto the edge of the table, as if prepared to tear it off its moorings and throw it.

Joe, just as fast, leaned forward so his face was inches from the other man's. Behind him, he heard several voices questioning what was going on.

"You made a choice, E. T.," Joe said, barely above a whisper. "Then you stuck me with the blame. I did my job-twice now, counting Nugent. Don't tell me to f.u.c.k off, a.s.shole, because all I've done is clean up your messes. Talk to Dan about this, like you should've in the first place, when you had the chance to save the right son."