I COULD TAKE Aiden to dinner. Me. Alone. We weren't a family anymore. I'd pick up my son at the door and return him two hours later. I was grateful for the one-on-one time with my boy but couldn't ignore the implications. The prearranged visit felt like a court order granted to a f.u.c.k-up father. How did we end up here?

At the computer, I surfed the net for news on the Senate bill, the one designed to loosen regulations regarding privatization. I scoured the Monitor and Herald archives as well as New Hampshire's official state page-even listened to a podcast-all relevant info hiding in plain sight.

When Lombardi Construction leveled the TC Truck Stop and Maple Motor Inn last year, the plan was to build a new resort, the town looking to cash in on the ski craze up here. Or maybe I had been too quick to a.s.sume, inferring without due diligence. Words like "diversion program" and "juvenile prison" hadn't been on my radar, and now that they were, I saw them everywhere I looked. A necessary weapon in the fight against youth crime and teenage drug addiction, the need for privatization spelled out clear as the northern lights.

But why would Lombardi sell the rights to build the d.a.m.n thing? Toma.s.si was linked to the construction of the new detention facility, tentatively dubbed the uninspiring Coos County Center. You had to figure they'd come up with something s.e.xier before the grand opening. The amount of money bandied about was staggering, and hard to comprehend. Eighty-million-dollar budgets, another twelve slotted for requisitions, six more for advertising, few hundred thousand here, couple mil there. According to the experts, the bill's pa.s.sing was a formality, with the potential revenue projected to be in the billions. Ski resort. Juvenile prison. What did it matter? That much money only begets more of it.

Dinner in Burlington left me with a few hours to kill, and I wasn't going to spend them stewing in that house, scrounging around electronically, zooming in and out of satellite images, taking virtual walks in the dark. I set out to visit the old truck stop. I didn't know what I expected to find. Contact info for Bowman would be nice. Fat chance they stored that information in a trailer. I had no intention of hopping a fence like a lunatic, rooting around a private construction site to find out. But I needed something tactile, tangible to make this feel real again.

Ringing Charlie from the road, my call went straight to voice mail. I left a long-winded, rambling message about the Shaw boy and Bowman, my theory about Toma.s.si being another Lombardi subsidiary, or at least a link in the chain, friends with financial benefits, whatever, because no way Adam sells off a piece of the pie that big without securing a slice for himself, even if I wasn't sure how any of that const.i.tuted a law being broken. Lombardi had been awarded the contract to build the ski resort. Why would it matter if they also built the prison? Unless fostering the need, proposing the bill, winning the contract, and then also anointing yourself king of it all smacked of such overkill, even a bunch of greedy f.u.c.ks like the Lombardis had to cut some bait. Something sure as h.e.l.l was up. No way this planet contained two Bowmans.

Coming around the mountain, I sped up the Desmond Turnpike, all its degenerate glory on full display.

College papers and advocacy rags often ran features on the Turnpike. The place had become an infamous inst.i.tution, like Route 66, only less scenic and with more b.l.o.w. .j.o.bs and overdoses. No one pulled off the shoulder and snapped pictures of speed freaks going duckpin bowling. This was a stretch of road where you kept your eyes locked straight ahead, got to where you were going, which was anywhere but here. People didn't remain on the Turnpike. Not by choice, anyway. After Chris died, I saw this world in a different light.

I'd read an op-ed a while back, a rant from a landlord, b.i.t.c.hing about freeloaders. His prospective tenant, some woman who "couldn't speak a lick of English," wanted to rent one of his s.h.i.t rooms, and she'd had the nerve to apply using Section 8 housing vouchers. The landlord had done the math. Adding up the Section 8, the free medical care and SSI, the extra kids popped out to beef up payout, food stamps, incidentals, he had determined that everyone on this Turnpike was earning over one hundred thousand dollars a year, parasites sucking off the t.i.t of hard-working Americans.

I watched these welfare hobos, disheveled men and wispy women, hats in hand, shuffling along the side of the road, fistfuls of change to redeem at Taco Bell, because if they could make food any cheaper Lord knows they would, and wondered where they stashed the rest of that hundred grand. They could sure use some of it about now.

The old truck stop grounds clipped the northern edge of town. A chain-link fence, ten feet high, wrapped around the expansive property, protecting valuable construction equipment from scavengers. All the familiar landmarks had been obliterated. The restaurant, filling station, motel, showers, gone; in their place, the new machinations that would house New England's most dangerous teenage threats. Where the old Peachtree restaurant used to stand, steel beams now outlined what would become a laundry room or kitchen, solitary confinement where they'd stick the worst offenders. Where the police had dragged Pete Naginis' bloated body from the wastewater run-off, a giant billboard staked claim to brighter futures. White slate, red font. I tried to picture what the complex would look like when they finished building it. Right now, the scope was sprawling but shapeless.

No one walked snow-covered grounds. Which wasn't a surprise. I didn't imagine I'd find Bowman waiting for me. Construction up here halted during the winter months, and this project was on hiatus anyway. As blowing snow swirled at my feet, I let my eyes rove over the site, the loaders and drills and concrete, and I realized what I'd been searching for.

During the last few years of my brother's life, this demolished truck stop was Chris' base of operations. It was where he'd trade drugs, sell his body, p.a.w.n whatever he had left of value, anything for a fix. My old apartment was midtown, meaning Chris had to pa.s.s by my place to get here. Most nights he didn't stop in to say hi. The few times he did, he knew better than to ask for money, especially at the end. We could go months without seeing one another. So he'd end up here, doing what he had to. Thinking of my brother sucking off a trucker for twenty bucks killed me. I wasn't rich, but I always had twenty bucks. Who doesn't? Like Dr. Shapiro-Weiss and countless other substance abuse professionals had told me, I knew giving money to a junkie was enabling a habit. I also knew twenty dollars spared a little humiliation, might've let him know that his baby brother still gave a s.h.i.t about him. At least for one night. And now that he was gone, I'd give anything to have him know that.

Charlie's rust bucket pulled behind my truck. He and Fisher climbed out, Fisher looking riled up, p.i.s.sed off. Charlie walked toward me, but Fisher remained rooted, skulking in the background.

"Where's your coat, Jay?" Charlie kept his distance, like I were a rabid racc.o.o.n in his kitchen.

I stabbed a finger through the fence, in the general direction of steel and rivet. I wanted to say something meaningful. The words didn't come.

"Yeah," Charlie said. "It's a construction site. I can see that. What was up with your message? You sounded-are you okay, man?"

Fisher glowered at me, arms crossed, trying to act tough.

"What's his problem?" I asked.

Charlie seemed surprised by the question.

"f.u.c.k you, Porter," Fisher snapped. "If it was up to me, you could freeze your a.s.s off out here!"

I threw up my hands.

"Last night?" Charlie said.

"What about it? Sorry it didn't pan out." I said that last part to Fisher. Then to Charlie, "But Seth Shaw? The sick kid we saw at the house-"

"C'mon, Charlie!" Fisher shouted. "I told you coming out here was a waste of time."

I moved past Charlie, who protested with a feeble arm as Fisher charged forward.

"What is your problem, man?"

"I came up to Ashton to help you," Fisher said. "Drove all the way up from Concord to try and help you."

"And I appreciate it. You need me to throw you a parade? What the f.u.c.k?"

Charlie wedged between us, Fisher grabbing for my coat, trying to shove me. He looked ready to take a swing. Total joke. Little s.h.i.t was half my size. I never liked him anyway.

All I could do was turn to Charlie. "What is he talking about?"

"My house? After we got back to wait out the storm?"

"What about it?"

Fisher reached around Charlie, who pushed his friend back. Fisher held up his hands like he didn't want any trouble. Then he thrust both fists at me, middle fingers extended, jamming them right under my nose.

Charlie shoved him away. "Go wait in the car."

"Eat s.h.i.t, Porter," Fisher said turning his back to me.

Charlie walked me off toward the site.

"What is going on?"

"You really don't remember, do you?"

"Remember what?"

"f.u.c.k. Last night, you were pounding whiskey and beer. You polished off the Maker's. I tried to get you to ease up, but you were on a p.i.s.ser. Fisher and Nicki were . . . getting cozy . . . in a corner."

"Bulls.h.i.t. Nicki wouldn't go for Fisher." The thought of a girl like her making it with a cretin like him was laughable.

"Yeah. That's pretty much what you said when you called Fisher a 'big-eared ugly m.u.t.h.e.rf.u.c.ker.'"

"I said that?"

"And a lot more. You were vicious."

Charlie went on to detail my abuse, word for word, which I vaguely recalled the more he talked about it. I got fleeting images of Fisher hitting on Nicki and me getting jealous, if that's even the right word. I'd started out busting b.a.l.l.s, mildly funny ribbing growing increasingly meaner with each swallow of whiskey. By the end, according to Charlie, I had Fisher near tears. No wonder no one talked to me in the morning.

"s.h.i.t," I muttered, moving past Charlie, who told me not to bother right now, let Fisher cool off.

"Hey, man," I called out to Fisher. "I'm sorry. I was drunk."

"f.u.c.k you!"

"Jesus, I said I'm sorry." I walked toward him, feeling the need to explain. I hated acting like a d.i.c.k. "It's been a bad couple weeks, man. Jenny and I are having trouble. Work's been a nightmare. This s.h.i.t with Chris-"

"s.h.i.t with Chris? Your brother is dead, a.s.shole."

"I am aware of that."

"You're not aware of anything, besides your own little world. You're a selfish p.r.i.c.k. Always have been. Self-centered and mean. You think you s.h.i.t chocolate, like you're better than everyone else. Which is probably why your wife left you."

"You know what, Fisher? I take it back. You are a big-eared ugly m.u.t.h.e.rf.u.c.ker."

The little b.a.s.t.a.r.d sprang at me, an ornery honey badger attacking from its burrow, claws out, aiming to draw blood. Charlie threw himself between us, Fisher gouging air. He caught me with one of his ragged nails. I smeared blood off my cheek.

"You're nuts!"

"I'm nuts?" Fisher said, pretending to laugh. "That's a good one, Porter. I'm not the jacka.s.s running around in the freezing cold without a coat, making up stories about boogeymen."

"Okay, Fisher. Twelve hours ago, we had a conspiracy. Now we have nothing."

"I never used the word conspiracy. That's your paranoid horses.h.i.t. I told you UpStart's push for a private prison is connected to North River. That's all. I was doing you a favor. Charlie played me your crazy voice mail. Put it on speaker so we could both laugh at you."

I knew Fisher was doing his best to pay back the insults from last night, cut me where the blade would do the most damage. But Charlie would never betray me like that. I tried to stay on track, take the high road.

"Listen to me. Toma.s.si is paying-"

"Lombardi sold his company to Toma.s.si," Fisher said. "I explained that to you last night."

"I'm telling you. Bowman paid off-"

"Bowman, Bowman, Bowman," Fisher repeated the name like I'd said I'd seen a chupacabra or jackalope. "Toma.s.si is one of the oldest construction outfits in New England. They gobble up smaller companies all the time."

"Then why is Bowman delivering hush money?" I appealed to Charlie, who I could see wanted no part of this. "Tell him about that juiced f.u.c.k who broke into my apartment and knocked me out cold last year. The tattoo on his neck. How he works for Lombardi. Tell him about the motorcycle gang-"

"Motorcycle gang," Fisher scoffed.

Charlie didn't say anything.

"You were all gung ho last night."

"Yeah?" Fisher said. "Well now I'm not."

"Listen, man, forget last night. I'm telling you-"

"No, I'm telling you. I don't want to hear it. I thought we were friends. But friends don't do each other like that."

"Friends don't do each other like that," I singsonged. "What is this? High school?"

"Might as well be," Fisher said. "You were an a.s.shole then, too." He tugged Charlie's sleeve. "Come on, man, let's go."

Charlie looked torn, stuck between two friends.

"Fine," Fisher said, "I'll walk."

"No, hold on." Charlie turned to me. "Sorry, Jay. Call me later." He looked at my truck, ramped halfway up a snow bank. "Go home. Okay? Get some sleep. You're scaring me, man. You're not right."

I watched my friend walk away, leaving me in the cold.

The swirling winds of the valley kicked up ice, flinging tiny daggers back in my face, stinging my skin raw, fury enveloping me.

I waited until they drove off.

Then I ran straight ahead and leapt, scaling the chain-link fence.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

I WASN'T INSIDE the construction zone five minutes before I saw the sheriff's car pull up.

Back at the station, Rob Turley brought me to an interrogation room. He draped a coat over my shoulder, setting down a mug of hot coffee, brewed fresh from the break room dispenser. I'd been out there in nothing but a tee shirt, my teeth chattering with bone-rattling shivers.

Turley and I had never been close back in high school, but we spent a lot of time together last winter looking for my brother. Still didn't like him much. He seemed a lot older now, more grown up, carrying the responsibility of being lawman for a town of three thousand. The other night when Turley picked up Charlie and me wrestling outside the Dubliner, I had been wasted. Given the hour-after midnight, northern skies blunted, the moment blurred in a drunken haze-I'd tried to forget about how embarra.s.sed I'd been having Rob Turley, of all people, find me in that state. Now, under fluorescent precinct lights, I couldn't hide. I watched his terse expression morph into genuine concern, and I wanted to punch the patronizing f.u.c.k.

Turley nudged the coffee forward, like I was a meek, battered housewife who needed to be coaxed into giving a statement.

He hadn't cuffed me or read me my rights. I wasn't under arrest. Still, I resented the power play.

After a prolonged silence, I locked eyes with him, flexing my shoulders with a "what the h.e.l.l?" shrug. He didn't need to bring me down here. I hadn't broken any laws. How did he even know I was there? Did Fisher rat me out?

"You tripped the alarm," Turley said, as if hearing my thoughts. He pointed through the wall. "Security system runs straight to the police station switchboard. Toma.s.si's got about a million dollars' worth of equipment at the site. Can't let some enterprising criminal back up a U-Haul and cart off a Bobcat, y'know?"

"I'm not a thief."

"No one said you were."

"I wasn't trying to steal anything."

"What were you doing there, Jay?"

The question, straightforward and obvious, was one any cop would ask. I didn't have an answer. I couldn't explain how the voice inside my brain screamed, "Go!" How I'd had to obey. My plan to break into a trailer and rifle through employee records, bat-s.h.i.t crazy.

"Am I under arrest?"

"You were trespa.s.sing."