He leaned even closer. "And then there's me, the town crier on Willard's behalf. He goes free, you're hailed a hero, you go on TV to talk about it, and every felon in the South is begging you to be his defender."

Dawson could tell he liked the sound of that, but still he was wrestling with it. "That all sounds good, but-"

"What?"

"It might not work out that way."

"It for damn sure won't if you turn me down."

"I'm not turning you down flat. But caution is called for here."

"No time for caution. You've got to decide."

"But-"

"You gotta say yes and say it now."

"You-"

"I'm the only hope for your client."

"He-"

"Hasn't got a prayer and you know it."

"I-"

"Grant me the goddamn interview."

Dawson's imperious shout took him aback, but it also worked. He unfolded his arms. He licked his lips. "It'll be like a webcam."

"Fine."

"I'll be right there the whole time."

"Fine."

"I'll record the entire interview and have it transcripted afterward."

"Fine."

"If you slander him, I'll sue you and your magazine."

Dawson stood up. "Deal."

The short-notice meeting with the prisoner took time to arrange. It seemed interminably long to Dawson, who paced while Gleason dealt with staff who seemed to have nothing but time on their hands. Eventually, they were situated in a room that allowed them a video interview with Willard Strong.

In another part of the jail, Strong was led into a room, manacled and shackled. Radiating hostility, he slumped down into the chair in front of the monitor through which he could communicate. He regarded his lawyer with patent contempt. Then his belligerent gaze shifted to Dawson. "Who the fuck are you?"

Dawson gave him a lazy smile. "Be nice, Willard. I'm the guy who's here to save your sorry self."

Amelia and Headly were headed back toward the jail. She was driving. Headly was in the passenger seat, talking on his cell phone to Knutz. A minor collision on the expressway had slowed traffic to a crawl. The sheriff's unmarked cars were having as much difficulty switching lanes as she.

Headly ended his conversation. "Knutz is trying to buy us more time, using that phone call to Dawson's boss as leverage. Why would little ol' Bernie phone her in the first place? Why would he lie?"

"Unless he was Carl."

"Knutz is acting on that. Meanwhile the boat hasn't given up any clues."

Nor had the strongbox. Nothing useful was discovered: no map, property deed, lease, or paperwork of any kind.

That having proved fruitless, they'd divided the list of Jeremy's former friends that she'd compiled, and working on their separate cell phones, the two of them had placed dozens of calls. In preparation for the inevitable question Why are you asking me about Jeremy now? Headly had made up an explanation involving a fictitious tax return with a questionable deduction that was affecting the trust funds set up for Hunter and Grant. He'd advised Amelia on the buzzwords to use.

"Do you think they'll understand that gibberish?" she asked.

"No. And to avoid any further involvement, no one will ask for clarity. That's the point."

Many of the numbers they called were no longer in service. Some had been answered by voice mail, on which they'd left messages asking the individual to call them back on a matter of grave importance.

Of the few people with whom they'd spoken, all were reluctant to talk about Jeremy and were actually ill at ease for having been singled out as a former acquaintance. Most reactions were wary, some downright hostile.

Repeatedly both Headly and Amelia were told that the questions they were putting to them now had already been asked by police more than a year earlier, when Jeremy went missing and was presumed dead. They'd told everything they knew then.

She braked for a pickup truck trying to wedge its way in and looked over at Headly. "Where do we go from here?"

"Maybe Dawson got something out of Willard." He shifted in his seat and turned slightly toward her. "What do you think of him?"

"He gives me the creeps."

He laughed. "I meant Dawson. Or does he give you the creeps?"

"Oh. Dawson."

Headly waited her out, and she was the first to look away. Taking her foot off the brake pedal, she rolled forward only a few yards before having to stop again. "Dawson and I didn't get off to a great start. Did he tell you about our initial meeting?"

"He began playing with the boys on the beach. Things went from there."

"More or less," she murmured.

"Huh. More, I think."

When she said nothing, he chuckled. "Okay. Keep that story to yourselves. Back to my original question."

"What do I think of him? In what way?"

"In any way."

"He's good with the boys."

"Surprisingly."

"Why?"

"He has no former experience with kids. He was raised an only child. He was around our daughter, Sarah, a lot, but she's a few years older, so they squabbled as much as they played." He told her that Sarah was married and living in London.

"Children?"

"Not yet. My wife drops hints about as subtle as crashing meteorites."

Amelia laughed. "In the meantime Dawson receives parental doting from you and Mrs. Headly."

"Which he resists, of course."

Temporarily stopped in the logjam, she looked at him. "Why 'of course'?"

"The detachment that makes him a good journalist carries over into his personal life. He sets himself apart, sees himself only as an observer, a loner. That's why he's never married. Why he hasn't even come close."

She gave him an arch look. "Mind you, I didn't ask."

"No, but I figured you wanted to know." He grinned at her and winked. "Oh, there have been a few women who stayed on longer than others. A couple of them were lovely ladies, who met Eva's rigid standards. But even with them, once things got too warm and fuzzy, he called it quits."

"Commitment issues are common. Especially for a man who's a loner."

"I didn't say he was a loner."

She looked at him with puzzlement. "You just did."

"I said he sees himself as a loner."

"What's the difference?"

"His true nature. Would a natural-born loner have gravitated to your children the way he has?"

"Wait." She held up her hand, wanting to understand. "You're saying Dawson fights his natural tendencies?"

"With a vengeance."

"Why?"

"It's a defense mechanism."

"Against what?"

"You'll have to ask him." He held her gaze for several beats, then called her attention to the traffic. "You have an opening." Once past the fender bender, he continued. "When you've exhausted that subject, ask him what happened in Afghanistan."

"I have. He refused to talk about it. You?"

"The same."

"I witnessed him in the throes of a nightmare. We weren't sleeping together," she added hastily.

"Mind you, I didn't ask," he said, throwing her words back at her.

She gave him a smile of chagrin, then turned serious again. "I heard him crying out and went to check. He was in quite a state. Visibly tormented. He woke up screaming. Like Jeremy used to do. Except..."

"What?"

"Dawson was drenched with sweat and trembling. Even after he was fully awake and aware of his surroundings, it took him several minutes to recover. He experienced the horror of the nightmare physically and emotionally. After seeing him that way, I believe Jeremy was faking."

"The nightmares?"

"All of it. I think he was only pretending to suffer from post-traumatic stress. If so, that's yet another betrayal, isn't it? They're adding up."

"Amelia." Headly spoke her name quietly. When she turned her head toward him, he said, "Dawson isn't like Jeremy. Not in any respect."

That reassurance, coming from someone who knew him well, was what she'd needed and wanted. They drove the rest of the way to the jail without further comment. But as they approached the visitation center, she said, "He's not out front."

"That's a good sign. The longer he's able to talk to Willard, the better his chances of obtaining information. Park and let's wait inside, where it's cooler."

It was a full half hour before Dawson reunited with them in the lobby of the center. Headly reached him first. "Well?"

"Gleason was four square against it, but he finally caved."

"You saw Willard?" Amelia asked.

"Ten minutes on webcam, but I might have got something. He was all attitude at first, but when I told him I thought Jeremy was still alive, and that it was he, not Willard, who had killed Darlene, he grew considerably more cooperative." He smiled grimly as he crossed his index and middle fingers. "We're like this now."

"Congratulations," Headly said. "Skip to the good part."

"I don't know how good or reliable it is. It's not like Willard has won my unqualified trust. But when I asked him if he knew about a place that Jeremy might run to, he didn't even have to search his memory. Which lends credibility to what he told me. Once, when he and Jeremy were out at the dog pens, Jeremy made an unflattering comment about the shack. He said something to the effect that it made his look like a Hilton."

"His shack?"

Dawson shrugged. "Willard couldn't be more specific, because when he asked Jeremy for details, he blew it off. What he had meant to say was that if he had a place like that, it would be better than the shit hole Willard had.

"However, Willard is convinced that it was a slip of the tongue, something Jeremy hadn't intended to mention, but when he did, he tried to talk his way out of it. Do you know of any such place?" he asked Amelia.

She shook her head dejectedly. "If Jeremy owned anything like that, I'm unaware of it."

"Fishing cabin, deer blind, hut, boathouse, cowshed?"

"I don't know of anything."

Headly made a sound of disgust. "The whole thing sounds far-fetched. I think Willard is pretending to remember something that was never said. Or telling you tales to amuse himself."