"That's not what I asked."

"No, you're not under arrest."

I stood up.

Turley motioned for me to sit. My threat, like the one I'd leveled at the Olympic last night, purely for show. The Ashton Police Department was a long haul from truck stop grounds.

"How are you doing?" Turley asked.

"How am I doing?"

"Yes. How have you been?"

"What do you mean? Like personally? What do you care?" Like we were two old pals meeting for coffee.

Turley's roly-poly face pinched up.

"You got something to say, man, say it." My actions may have rung irrational, hopping a fence into a restricted area a dumb move, but I wasn't playing heartfelt feels with Rob f.u.c.king Turley.

"People talk."

"I need to get to my truck," I said. "Can you, or one of your deputies, officers, subordinates, whatever the f.u.c.k you call them, give me a ride to get it?"

"Yes," Turley said. "Someone will give you a ride to get your truck. When you answer my questions."

"Answer your questions? So you're holding me hostage?"

"No one is being held." He pointed at the door, calling my bluff. "You are free to leave anytime. I'm sure you know the way to the truck stop. Long walk. Need to use the phone for a taxi? No problem. Might be able to get a cab to show up in about four hours. Want to try Finn? Have at it. But you want my help getting your truck, yes, you need to answer some questions."

"I'm only here because you drove me here."

"Yeah. I did. After you were caught trespa.s.sing. On private property. Stop playing the victim."

"I hopped a fence. Big deal. I didn't touch anything. You stop playing ball-busting heavy. I know what you are."

"And I know what you are, Jay."

"Yeah? And what am I?"

"A Porter." He let that sink in. "I seem to recall your brother breaking into a construction site last year, and me having to deal with the same bulls.h.i.t. I've sat in this same seat and had your brother run that same smart-a.s.s mouth. I sit here, I take it. I fake a smile because I am a nice guy. I've known you our whole lives. You think I'm a clown, don't respect this office or job. No problem. I understand sometimes people are sick and make mistakes because they don't know better. But I have better things to do than bail another one of the Porter boys out of another mess."

I stood to leave. I didn't care if I had to walk five miles in the ice and cold. This mouthbreather didn't know me. I made for the door. Turley stood to block my path. On reflex, I jabbed a quick right. Not a real punch. More a shove for him to move out of my way. Didn't hit square, more a glancing blow off his fat chin. In some tricky cop move they must teach at the academy, Turley let my motion carry me past, catching my arm. Planting an elbow in my back as he threw me into the table. He pressed me in place, twisting my shoulder behind my back. Huffing and out of breath, he pulled the handcuffs from his belt but didn't slap them on.

"Have you lost your mind? a.s.saulting a police officer? What is wrong with you?"

"Let me go!"

"You know how long I can lock you up for that?"

"Do it then! But let my arm go. You're hurting me!" Turley had my arm so wrenched, felt like the thing was about to snap off, tendons stretching past breaking points.

He snapped the cuffs back on his belt and let go of my arm.

"Sit," he said.

I rotated my arm, wincing.

"I'm trying to help you," Turley said.

"I don't want your help."

"You are acting crazy."

"I'm sick of people saying that."

"I'm gonna tell you something, Jay-and I know you ain't gonna want to hear this right now-but I dealt with your brother a lot over the years. I got stuck plenty listening to his rambling junkie nonsense. But I could still communicate with him. Could still carry on a conversation, get an answer at least, however wacky. You-you're-"

"What?"

"Everyone around here knows you ain't been the same since Chris died."

"Nice to know I'm still the talk of the town."

"Okay, we're all nuts. You're the only one who sees what's really going on. Let's go with that. So tell me, Jay. What's happening?"

"Don't play me like I'm some paranoid schizo you have to placate."

"No one is placating anyone," Turley said, calm as my therapist used to be when she'd ask me to explain about the contract killer sent to bury my brother in the ice. "Just want to hear it. In your own words."

I tried to explain. I started in the middle, and then traced back to the beginning, before I flashed forward, flashed back-I think I even flashed sideways at one point. I threw out everything I had. The thoughts coalesced in my head, but by the time the words escaped my mouth, logic had jumbled, timeframes eroded, and nothing made sense.

The entire time I talked about Judge Roberts, Brian Olisky, Andy DeSouza, Fisher's girlfriend from high school, Gina, who I'd hooked up with-while Jenny and I were on a break-Turley nodded with compa.s.sion, sipping his own coffee, reserving commentary. He let me spew about the Lombardis, Gerry, his sons, Adam and Michael, Toma.s.si, the teenagers locked up in North River; the police who kicked my a.s.shole up into my guts; Wendy, Seth, and Ken Shaw, reparation in exchange for incarceration; Nicki and the guilt I felt over nothing I'd done; Jenny and some soft-handed douchebag named Stephen; and lastly, my son, Aiden, who would surely grow up to hate his father because, after all this time, I still couldn't get it right. I talked about drinking more than I should; about an ex-biker named Erik Bowman, a boogeyman who should exist only in meth-fueled nightmares but who had somehow crossed netherworlds into my waking, walking consciousness.

And the entire time, fifteen, twenty minutes of nonstop blathering, alternating between gesticulating wildly with rapid speech patterns and flailing arms, and then slamming brakes to catch my breath-calm, cool, collected-intense deceleration making me sound even more unstable, Turley's expression never changed. I talked. He sat and listened.

Until, coffee gone, guts purged, we sat in silence. Of course he had no response to any of that. Hearing myself say these things aloud, jumbled, erratic, incoherent, I knew how preposterous I came across, how dangerous I sounded.

I'd learned a great deal from dealing with my junkie brother over the years. But no lesson greater than this: when authorities deem you a danger to yourself or others, they can-and will-lock you up. I needed to spin some serious damage control if I wanted to avoid a seventy-two-hour, court-mandated IEA in the local nut ward.

"Wow, Turley," I said, manufacturing a smile. "Thank you."

"Thank . . . me?"

"I didn't realize how much I had bottled up. I think I just needed to get it out. You know I have a therapist now."

"A therapist?"

"Yeah. Dr. Shapiro-Weiss. Over in Longmont. She prescribed me some anti-anxiety medication. I have the pills at home."

"Jay, I'm not sure you should be getting behind the wheel-"

"You can call her. It's . . . these outbursts are panic attacks."

"Panic attacks?"

"That's what happened, I think. Why I jumped the fence. Because of my brother. The pressure. All that s.h.i.t I just said."

"That was a . . . panic attack?"

"Yeah. Crazy, huh? Sorry about, y'know, pushing you."

"You took a swing at me, Jay."

"Panic attack," I said.

Turley studied me a moment, before pushing himself up. "Wait here."

He came back ten minutes later, and said he'd give me a ride back to my truck.

I didn't know if he'd called my psychiatrist and she'd backed my play or what. I a.s.sumed so, because he wasn't recommending I be committed. And I couldn't think of any reason on G.o.d's green earth why he should let me walk out of that station after I'd just tried to slug a cop.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

BY THE TIME I got back to my truck, there was no way I'd make Burlington by dinnertime. I had no choice but to call Jenny and reschedule.

At first she was very accommodating.

"No, I understand, Jay," she said. "These things happen."

I hadn't even offered an explanation.

"Is he there? Can I talk to him?"

"Of course. Hold on." I heard her say, "It's your Daddy." And then rustling on the other end as my son dropped whatever toy he'd been playing with to talk to me. Feels good as a dad when you win out over a piece of plastic.

"Hi, Daddy," Aiden said.

"I'm sorry, buddy. I wanted to come up and see you today. But I had to . . . work. We'll do it tomorrow, okay? Just me and you. Something real special. Like pizza."

"Daddy?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm eating pizza now."

"You are? Is it super tasty or regular tasty?" The two markers by which my son judged all cuisine.

"Super tasty."

"Pepperoni?"

"No," my son said. "Seeven doesn't eat peppewoni. He's a wedgatarian."

I heard the phone ripped from my son's hand.

"Okay," Jenny said. "Let me know when you want to come up. We'll talk soon."

"Where are you?"

"We're having a late lunch."

"Who's we?"

"Don't, Jay." My wife's voice hushed to a stern whisper.

"Who are you with?"

"I told you, he's just a friend. I'm allowed to have friends."

"Yeah, Jenny. We all need friends."

I was filling up the tank at the Qwik Stop when she returned my call.

"Where have you been?" I asked.

"Um, sleeping," Nicki said. "We were up half the night. When I dropped you off, I was a zombie. Surprised I didn't crash into a tree."

I jammed the nozzle in the hole. "Well, you're awake now."

"Yeah. Thanks to you. What's up?"

"I was thinking. We should check out some other names on that list. Find some kids who graduated the program. Other parents. The names we got from Fisher at the diner." I explained about Seth Shaw's call and Erik Bowman dropping off the bag of cash.

"What do you think it means?"

"My guess? The parents who don't initially sign off on North River receive an extra incentive. It's an investment."

"By whom?"