Joe stared at her in astonishment, his hand frozen on the doork.n.o.b and his mouth half open in a generic greeting he didn't deliver.

He knew her, but not from around here. It was from a case a couple of years ago, when they'd met in Gloucester, Ma.s.sachusetts, and he'd interviewed her in her capacity as a local bartender. She'd been helpful, aiming him toward someone who proved useful later on, but more importantly, in giving him a single kiss after a conversation laced with a subtle and meaningful subtext. That gesture had filled his head with thoughts, questions, yearnings, and possibilities that he'd retained ever since. By then, he and Gail had begun their slide away from each other, if only in small increments, and the woman now standing before him had loomed as an occasionally comforting fantasy to ease the transition.

But he'd never called her, had never thought of her except at odd moments, and had certainly never expected to lay eyes on her again. He didn't even know her last name.

At his stunned befuddlement, her nervousness yielded to an embarra.s.sed smile. She stuck her hand out. "Joe Gunther . . ."

"Evelyn," he blurted, interrupting her.

She wrinkled her nose, the smile expanding. "You remember. I never figured how that got out. It's my real name-Evelyn Silva-after my grandmother." She added with a laugh, "But I don't like it much. Wasn't too crazy about her, either. Most people just call me Lyn."

He was still processing her appearance. Names could come later. "What are you doing here?" he asked, the host in him hoping it didn't sound too hostile, while the cop wondered if maybe it should.

"I read about your family's accident in the paper," she explained. "I wanted to see if you needed any help."

He stared at her. "In the Gloucester paper?"

She shook her head, her cheeks flushing. "No, no. The Brattleboro Reformer Brattleboro Reformer. I live in Brattleboro now. I moved."

"Who is it, Joe?" his mother asked from behind him.

Joe stepped aside to reveal his mother rolling up to them. Lyn broke into a wide smile. "You're all right," she exclaimed. "They said you were in the hospital." She hesitated only a moment and then took one step forward and stuck her hand out. "I'm Lyn Silva, Mrs. Gunther. I'm really just an acquaintance of your son's, but I wanted to see how you were doing."

Joe's mother looked at her son. "I'm freezing. You're heating the whole state." Then she smiled brightly at their unexpected guest and shook hands. "He's still in training. I'm happy to meet you."

Joe removed his fingers from the k.n.o.b as if it had been electrified. Like most locals, he was usually compulsive about open doors and drafts. He reached out and gently steered Lyn across the threshold. "I'm sorry," he said. "Wasn't paying attention."

"Come into the living room," his mother said, preceding them. "We have a fire going in the woodstove. Where are you from, Miss Silva?"

"Brattleboro now," Lyn told her, entering the cluttered, homey living room, adding, "Oh, I love love this room. When was the house built?" this room. When was the house built?"

"Eighteen-thirties," Joe told her, bringing up the rear. "And we haven't done much to it since, except for the modern amenities."

He studied the back of their guest as if she might suddenly pull a gun. He kept retrieving fragments of the one time they'd met, and coming up with only good memories. She was a single mother of a then twenty-year-old girl, a bookkeeper by day and a bartender at night, and at the time, at least, she'd been genuine, smart, s.e.xy, and remarkably appealing-just as she appeared today.

But what was she doing here? When they last parted, he'd felt they had forged a definite connection, one that he would have pursued in Gail's absence. He'd even thought of locating her after his breakup, but had been stalled by both geography and a general emotional inertia.

On that level, therefore, he was astonished and pleased to see her again. But at his core he remained a cop and, as such, wary and watchful. Once the social niceties were dealt with and he found a quiet moment, he planned to inquire about the details behind this visit.

His mother parked her chair in her docking station of tables before asking, "What brought you to Brattleboro? And did I overhear that you came from Gloucester?"

"Yes, ma'am," Lyn answered. "I was a barkeep there, and I just bought a bar in Brattleboro-I found it through the Internet, if you can believe that."

"And how did you two meet? Have a seat in that armchair."

Joe glanced up at that question, trying to read between the lines. His mother's face was cheery and her eyes bright, but he knew her well and had clearly heard the interrogator's edge in her voice.

Lyn sat carefully in the old leather armchair. "Your son came to Gloucester to investigate a murder-a man who lived over the bar where I worked." She looked over at Joe with a smile. "He sat at the end of my bar drinking c.o.kes for a couple of nights before he said anything, just watching the crowd. It was fun seeing him study people." Again she reddened slightly, adding, "Including me. He's quite an observer. And when we finally did talk, he had me remembering things I didn't know I could." She touched her forehead with her fingertips. "You had me close my eyes and slowly redraw the scene in my head, detail by detail, until I could see that guy you were after-the one with the scar on his hand. Did you ever catch him?"

Joe nodded. "We did, thanks to you. It was a good description."

With her reminiscence, he, too, was recalling that trip, and how he'd spent those many hours, in part surveilling the crowd she served-and in part admiring her.

"That must have been fascinating," his mother interjected. "I've never actually seen Joe at work. But what are you doing way up here? Brattleboro's a long drive."

Lyn laughed. "I know. That must seem a little weird. No, I promise, I had to be up here anyhow, to get some supplies for the bar-I'm totally renovating it-and like I said, the newspaper was full of what happened. I figured I'd kill two birds with one stone."

"But how did you find the farm?" Joe asked.

Her expression brightened. "That was good, huh? I knew the accident happened near here; I figured you must live nearby, so I asked around. I felt a little like Dorothy asking directions to Oz-'Could you tell me where the Gunthers live?' Good thing your last name isn't that common. The young woman at the Mobil station knew all about you. Is your brother named Leo? The paper just said he was your brother."

Both her companions burst out laughing.

"Sorry," Joe explained. "Leo's pretty popular with the local ladies."

"Especially those who are supposedly interested in cars," his mother added.

Lyn nodded in comprehension. "She did seem to know him pretty well."

"He's also the local butcher," Joe continued, "which adds to his appeal. Not," he said quickly, catching a warning glance from across the room, "that he isn't also a very skilled and professional guy. I don't want him to sound like a stud or anything."

The source of the glance explained, "The two of them have this running gag about Leo and his women. I can attest to his being more of a braggart than a pract.i.tioner. Either Joe doesn't know or won't admit it, but his little brother is a virtual homebody."

"How is he doing, by the way?" Lyn asked. "The paper said you were both in serious condition."

"Mom was in a deep sleep for a couple of days," Joe told her. "But she woke up good as new. Leo's pretty beaten up. He's conscious and can talk, but he's in the ICU. He's getting better, though."

This part of the conversation created an awkward silence, which prompted their hostess to push away from her tables and offer, "Anyone for tea or coffee?"

Both Lyn and Joe asked for the latter, allowing the old woman to escape to the kitchen and her own thoughts.

In her absence, the two of them remained silent, not looking at each other, groping for something to say. In Joe's case, the inhibition was compounded by a wary curiosity struggling with his pleasure.

Lyn spoke first. "I'm sorry I barged in like I did. I didn't really expect anyone to be here. I just sort of yielded to impulse." She finally looked up at him. "When you opened the door, I couldn't believe my luck, but your mom being home just makes me embarra.s.sed. This is not when I should be here."

"Not true," he said candidly. "I'm sorry I was such a dope at the door. I figured I'd never see you again."

She nodded silently, back to studying the rug.

"Not that I didn't want to," he added.

That brought her head up. "Really?"

He thought back to one of the few short conversations they'd shared in Gloucester, when, prompted by his observations of her at work behind the bar, she'd admitted to being at once forthright and shy with others, especially men.

"The reason we met may have been a little offbeat," he understated, "but it left a lasting impression. A really good one."

He was tempted to expand but resisted.

She smiled slightly, more with her eyes than with her mouth. "Yeah," she said. "For me, too."

SNOWGIRL: how old r u? how old r u?THUMPER: 18. U? 18. U?SNOWGIRL: 14. feel lik 100 14. feel lik 100THUMPER: im sorry. Bad day? im sorry. Bad day?SNOWGIRL: bad life bad lifeTHUMPER: me 2 me 2SNOWGIRL: y? y?THUMPER: sister died. Luvd her a lot sister died. Luvd her a lotSNOWGIRL: so sorry so sorryTHUMPER: U? U?SNOWGIRL: sucky mom, p.i.s.sy x-bf sucky mom, p.i.s.sy x-bfTHUMPER: He brok up with u? Y? He brok up with u? Y?SNOWGIRL: same ol, same ol same ol, same olTHUMPER: Guys dont get it Guys dont get itSNOWGIRL: u do? u do?THUMPER: U want a hug, he wants s.e.x. Rite? U want a hug, he wants s.e.x. Rite?SNOWGIRL: ya yaTHUMPER: I get it. I get it.SNOWGIRL: ur cool ur cool

Chapter 7.

Steve's Garage, unsurprisingly, wasn't far from where Leo had his butcher shop in East Thetford. Suitably for a small village, the garage, unlike Mitch's car-corralled, straightforward cinder-block house of wrecks, was of evolutionary design, having begun life as a small barn. That said, it still wasn't quaint or neat. Rather, like so many of its brethren across this pragmatically minded state, it was a place where labor overruled aesthetics and where, if you needed to place an engine block temporarily in the dooryard, on top of two truck tires, you did just that.

Joe arrived as a pa.s.senger in Rob Barrows's cruiser, playing a role somewhere between investigator and representative of the injured party. They'd agreed beforehand that Barrows would do the talking, although, as a strategy, that would have been considered less than a fig leaf by any competent lawyer. But such were the agreements occasionally made by rural cops sniffing around the edges of barely definable cases.

The ambivalent tone was about right for Joe, who was beginning to feel that limbo had become a near permanent state. His mother's advancing years and frailty, his brother's precarious physical condition, Gail's proximity and yet distance-she'd called that morning to get a report-and now the reappearance of the very appealing, previously unavailable Lyn Silva, had all helped to make him feel totally easy about trespa.s.sing into an investigation based on a lost nut and involving two relatives.

Not that he minded Lyn resurfacing. She'd departed for Brattleboro shortly after finishing her coffee, but what she left behind-which Joe even heard in his mother's voice afterward-was a suggestion of positive intrigue. Not a bad thing, all other things considered.

The two men swung out of the car and eyed the garage's bland frontage, b.u.t.toned up tight against the cold.

"D'you call ahead?" Joe asked.

Barrows stayed watching the building. "I thought we'd surprise 'em."

It didn't take long. In most rural areas, it is less a door knock or a ringing bell that draws attention from inside a building-simply showing up usually does the trick. Sure enough, moments later the wooden door under a hand-lettered sign reading "Office" opened, and a small, narrow man in a soiled baseball cap and a T-shirt stepped partway out.

"Rob," he said neutrally.

Barrows didn't move. "Barrie," he answered loudly enough to carry across the distance.

"How're ya doin'?"

"Good. You?"

"Great."

Barrie looked from one of them to the other. Barrows allowed the silence to stretch out, forcing the mechanic to ask, "So, what's up?"

Only then did the deputy approach the building, Gunther in tow. Rob smiled as he drew near, sticking his hand out in greeting, abruptly offsetting his slightly threatening initial tone. Joe took note of the tactic and didn't offer to shake.

Rob jerked his thumb in his direction. "Barrie McNeil, this is Joe, from the Vermont Bureau of Investigation." He and Rob had agreed beforehand to use his last name discreetly, if at all.

For a split second, McNeil froze. Enough time had elapsed since the Bureau's inception for the initials "VBI" to carry an ominous meaning among those who might have reasons to care.

McNeil forced a small smile. "Just keeping the deputy company?"

Joe looked him straight in the eyes. "No."

Rob picked up the cue. "So, Barrie, we were wondering. There was a car crash a few days ago-the Subaru on Route Five?"

Barrie was already nodding. "Leo's car. He all right?"

"He's a mess. In the hospital. Intensive care."

"d.a.m.n."

"Yeah." Rob pointed at the doorway Barrie was filling with his slight frame. "You want to let us in?"

McNeil bobbed his head and stepped backward awkwardly. "Oh, yeah. Sure. Come on in."

They entered a waiting room of sorts, certainly a room with three mismatched office chairs lining a wall, facing a card table with a pile of ancient and bedraggled magazines strewn across its surface. There were posters hanging about advertising young, semi-clad women holding automotive products, and rows of shelves sagging under stacks of oil filters, brake pads, boxed sparkplugs, and the like. It was all beyond a restorative cleaning, aside from the gleaming spare parts themselves, and all illuminated from a single slightly flickering fluorescent light overhead, whose plastic enclosure showed off the shadows of generations of dead insects. An open door to the side revealed the garage proper and a car with no wheels, perched high atop a lift.

The entire place was uncomfortably hot, explaining how the T-shirted Barrie had so easily loitered within the open doorway without complaint.

"Barrie," Rob began, strolling around the room, looking at the posters, "tell us about tie rod nuts."

Barrie hesitated, again nervously switching his attention from one of them to the other.

"They hold the tie rods together?" he guessed.

"Just like that? You screw 'em on and they hold on tight?"

"Pretty much . . . There's a cotter pin."

Rob turned to face him, as if responding to a poke in the ribs. "A cotter pin? Why?"

"So it don't back off. Is that what happened to Leo's car?"

Rob tilted his head to one side. "Is it?"

Barrie pursed his lips, clearly not wanting to flunk whatever test this was.

"Probably, if it failed. That happens," he said tentatively.

"A lot?"

"No . . . Sometimes."

"What about Leo's car?"

McNeil scrunched up his face in confusion. "Jesus, Rob. That's what I just asked."

"And what did you come up with, Barrie? Could the nut have come loose in Leo's car?"