That gave me goose b.u.mps. "What do you mean?"

"He said he could turn the kids back into kids. He said he could cure them. He told me not to worry, that he was going to take care of it and that I didn't need to give everything away to stop... He said a lot of things about this town and our family. But he told me to leave it to him, that he could undo it. I believe him. Do you think he can do it?"

I suddenly felt sick. Could Charlie Three undo the transformations that had struck the town's children? If so, I'd made sure the little girl on the basketball court could never come back. If so, I'd killed her. "I don't know."

"Well, you can cure the Dubois brothers, can't you? Maybe Charlie can cure all those kids."

My fear and nausea turned into a hard little knot. I'd once tried to cure people of the predators inside them. I'd failed in the ugliest way I could imagine.

I looked into her eyes. Her face was full of hope that her problems were going to be fixed by someone else-someone with the power and authority to set things right. Mingled with that hope was the fear that she was pa.s.sing the buck. I wished there was something I could do for her. "Maybe."

"You don't believe it, do you?"

"I won't know what to believe until I talk to your brother." She glanced at the phone on the wall. I shook my head. "Face-to-face.

"Do you think this is his fault? I know you do. You're not that good a liar. But it's not his fault. It can't be. He would never do something like this."

"Cynthia, his company logo has fire on it."

"That's not... when he was a kid, he had nightmares all the time about a burning wheel, and it... he'd wake up screaming from them." She stopped talking and looked all over the table as if she expected to find a persuasive argument lying on it. "Can I tell you another story? About Charles?"

Hammer Bay seemed to be made of stories. "Go ahead."

"Charles wasn't the kind of kid to have a lot of friends, okay? He was a good kid, mostly, but it just didn't work out for him. He did have the latest, most expensive toys, though, so a lot of kids wanted to play with him. See what I mean?"

"Yeah."

"So he had these dreams, okay? And he and a couple of the kids who played with him got the idea to roll these old car tires down the hill behind our house so they'd bounce into the trees. Being a kid and kinda dumb, Charles tried to impress everyone. He put something flammable on them-I never found out what-and set a couple on fire before he rolled it down into the woods.

"I don't know if it was because of his dreams or if he was just being a dumb kid like every dumb kid, but he started a huge fire. Three families lost their homes, and Charles cried and cried. After that night, he became very sensitive to his place in this family. He understands what it means to be a Hammer in Hammer Bay. He put that burning wheel into the company logo to remind himself of his responsibilities. He would never do something to hurt the people in this town again. It just isn't in him."

"What if he thought he was doing more good than harm?"

She opened her mouth to respond, but no words came out. Her expression went far away for a moment, as if she was remembering something. When she looked at me again, she seemed less sure of herself. "He would never do something like this."

"Cynthia, what if you're wrong?"

She laid her hand over her mouth and her eyes brimmed with tears. I did not offer kind words or a gentle touch. There's no way to comfort a person who suspects someone they love is a killer. Her secret fear had been spoken aloud, and she needed to face the naked truth of it. Or maybe I'm just a b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

"Is that really what's happened?" she asked.

"I'm not sure yet. But I want you to help me put a stop to this."

She nodded. I was glad. If there was anyone who could get me close to Charles, it was her. I hoped she was ready.

The newspaper was lying on the table. I noticed the headline: TIME I DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT. The subhead read: HERO MAYOR VOWS TO TAKE ON CORRUPTION IN HAMMER BAY!

"Oh, h.e.l.l. That idiot!" I stood without thinking about it. "Have you read this?"

"No, I never read it. Why?"

I handed the paper to her. She glanced at the headline, then skimmed through the article. "I don't understand. Frank Farleton is going to 'do something' about Emmett? From his hospital bed?"

"I need Reverend Wilson's phone number." I rushed to the phone and held it in my hand.

"The phone book is right in there." Cynthia pointed at a drawer beside my hip. I pulled out the thin directory and flipped it open to W. There was only one Wilson in Hammer Bay: Wilson, Thomas. I called him.

The phone was answered by a woman who sounded elderly, probably his secretary. She seemed to be terribly upset. "He's busy right now. He can't come to the phone."

"It's an emergency. A real emergency."

She sighed. She probably thought I was tempted by drink or that I was coveting my neighbor's car. "Who should I tell him is calling?"

"Tell him it's Raymond Lilly."

I heard the phone clatter onto a desk. The wait seemed interminable.

"h.e.l.lo?" he said.

"Reverend, it's Ray Lilly. Listen-"

"Martha told me you didn't really hold a gun on her. In fact, she was surprised when I told her you had one." It took me a moment to remember what he was talking about. "You should know," Wilson continued in a slow, mopey tone, "that I'm composing my letter of resignation right now. It's for the best, I think. I love her, but my congregation-"

"Hey!" I shouted into the phone. "Reverend, I don't care. Understand? Don't tell me about it, because it doesn't matter. Have you seen today's paper?"

"Uh... well, no, I haven't."

"The mayor's life is in danger. Do you hear me? The mayor is going to die, if he isn't dead already. You can save him. Are you listening?"

I wished I could read his face. His voice was flat and steady as he said: "I am."

"This is what you're going to do. You're going to call four members of your congregation who own guns. They should be people with courage and faith in a reward in the next life, understand? Also, make sure none of them work for Phyllis Henstrick. You're going to send them to the hospital. Tell them to walk in the front door with their weapons in plain view. They are to walk all the way to the mayor's room. Two of them will stay inside the room and two will stay in the hall outside the door."

"I don't understand why-"

"You just told me, Reverend, that you're listening. Are you still listening?"

"Okay. I am."

"Get those people in position. No one, and I mean no one, is to go into the mayor's room with a weapon."

"Emmett Dubois is going to take a statement from Frank this afternoon-"

"Emmett is at the top of the list. If he tries to enter that room with his gun, your people are to shoot him. Understand me? This isn't a joke. No one who works for Henstrick should get in to see him, either."

I heard him rustle paper on his end of the line. "Lord preserve us," he said in a low voice. "Peter Lemly has thrown a rock at the beehive. But can't we just have Frank taken to another hospital? Emmett is-"

"We're going to have him moved, yes, but that's going to take time."

"But guns in a hospital..."

"Reverend, listen to me. Last night, you could have gone out that back door. You could have slipped away from all that trouble and run. You didn't. You stepped up and took charge. This is another opportunity for you. Dubois, Hammer, and Henstrick have been running this town into a s.h.i.+t hole; it's time for you to step up and take your place. Hammer Bay needs you, and to h.e.l.l with that letter you're writing. That's just another secret back door."

It was a corny pitch, but I could hear Wilson's breathing change. I had him hooked. I just needed him to follow through.

"You're right," he said. "Of course, you're right. I'll make some calls."

We hung up.

Cynthia gaped at the newspaper. "I should have realized right away-"

I took the paper from her. "Do you have another car?" I asked. "One that doesn't have bullets in the engine block?"

"Of course."

The other car turned out to be an Audi TT. It was smaller than I would have liked, but I didn't have a lot of choice.

Cynthia revved the engine. I slid the pa.s.senger seat back as far as it would go and climbed in beside her. I still had Cabot's gun in my pocket.

"Where to?" she asked.

"The mayor's house. You know where it is, right?"

She threw the car into gear and sped into town.

At the first red light, she turned to me. "Can I ask a stupid question?"

"Sure. I'll bet I have a stupid answer."

"Shouldn't Wilson's people have silver bullets?"

"Christ, I hope not."

"You don't know? What if they shoot Emmett and nothing happens? Won't Emmett kill them?"

"I'm hoping Emmett won't go that far into the open, but people do unexpected things when they feel cornered."

"What about the silver? Do we have to have it?"

"I don't know. And I'll bet Emmett doesn't know, either."

The light turned green, and Cynthia peeled into the intersection. "What do you mean?"

"He's probably never been shot with a regular bullet. I'm sure he knows all about the silver bullets and full moons and stuff, but that's the movies. I don't think he'd trust his life to something he saw in an old movie. I'm willing to bet he doesn't know if he's bulletproof."

"Not know? How could he not know?"

"You've had a tattoo on your back your whole life. What can you tell me about it?"

"Um, it's magic?"

"What's the spell called? What does it do? Where did it come from?"

"Okay. I don't know anything about it, except that it hurts when Charles has his seizures. But do you think Emmett is the same way? Just doing what he's doing in the dark?"

"We'll see."

Cynthia swerved her car suddenly and slammed on the brakes. We skidded to a stop next to the curb. There were a lot of cars parked behind us.

"Frank and Miriam's house is a couple doors back."

We climbed from the car and walked toward a modest two-story house with a tidy flower garden in the front. The bay window was blocked by cream-colored drapes. It looked like a little old lady's house. The car in the driveway was a huge Yukon that someone had painted tangerine orange.

I walked to the front door and rang the bell. Beside me, Cynthia sighed. "I'm not looking forward to this."

The door swung open, and I found myself looking down at a little woman with steel-gray hair and a pair of cheap, safety-goggle sungla.s.ses over her regular gla.s.ses. She s.h.i.+fted her position to bar my way.

Cynthia leaned toward her. "We need to speak to Miriam right away."

"Who is it, Ca.s.sie?" a woman called. Ca.s.sie took one look at me and started to close the door.

I hit it with my fist, thumping it open.

I walked into the living room. Miriam Farleton sat on a little chair at the far end of the room. Seated all around here were seven old women, all dressed in what looked like their Sunday clothes. Ca.s.sie, at the door, made eight. Miriam's eyes were red from crying, but her cheeks were dry. I guessed these were friends who'd come by to comfort her. Not one of them was less than thirty years her senior.

The ladies gasped as I bulled into the room, which was full of lace, delicate furniture, and little ceramic figurines. I was afraid to touch anything-I might have put a grubby manprint on it. "I'm sorry to barge in this way," I said, "but there isn't a lot of time."

She didn't respond. The woman sitting next to her struggled to her feet. She was a stocky little lady, and her hands were large and strong. She stepped between the mayor's wife and me. "I don't think you were invited here today," she said, glaring at Cynthia. "Either of you."

I tried to talk past her, acutely aware of the bullet hole in my s.h.i.+rt. "Have you seen today's paper? I think your husband is in danger."

"Threats, is it?" the stocky woman said. "If you don't leave right now, I'm going to call-"

"Who?" Cynthia asked. "Emmett Dubois? Emmett is going to kill Frank if you don't let us help!"

This time the gasp from the room was followed by a lot of whispering. Great. The whole town would know what was going on by dinnertime. I turned to Miriam again and held up the newspaper. "Can we please talk privately?"

Miriam stood. "Yes."

"Miriam," the woman said, "you shouldn't be alone with strangers right now."

"Why don't you join us, Arlene," Miriam said. "If that's all right?" I nodded. Arlene and Miriam led us through a swinging door.

The kitchen was pastel blue and decorated with duckling wallpaper. I wondered if there was a room somewhere in this house for Frank.

I showed the headline to Miriam and Arlene. "This," I said, "is essentially a declaration of war against Henstrick and the Dubois brothers. Lemly put your husband's neck in the guillotine. Yours, too."

Miriam held the paper, skimming over the story. "Oh, Peter," she said. She looked tired.