"I don't know anyone named Fingaard."

"I think you know me better by the tattoo I have on my neck."

Bowman.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE.

I DRAGGED A kitchen chair to the window, watching the car at the end of the road.

"What do you want?" I said.

"To help you."

"That so?" The last time I'd seen Erik Bowman, Fingaard, whatever his real name was, he'd been flexing muscle as Adam Lombardi's right-hand enforcer, swiping a CD that contained incriminating photos from my truck. This a few weeks after sucker punching me in the dark, roughing up junkies at the Maple Motor Inn, and in all likelihood killing Pete Naginis. In other words, about the last guy I'd expect help from. Or be willing to take at his word.

"I get it," he said. "You're leery. I would be too. But you're going to want to hear what I have to say. It's about Lombardi."

"Which one?"

"Both of them."

I watched the car down the block. "I'm listening."

"This isn't something we can do over the phone. We have to meet. In person."

"Yeah, I'm doing that, Erik. Tell you what. Head over to the McDonald's on Addison. Grab a Big Mac and fries. Order a shake too. Wait for me. Even if it takes twelve, eighteen hours, I swear I'm coming."

"We can pick somewhere public, if you want. I have nothing to hide. But I ain't coming up to your house."

"Good. 'Cause I'm not letting you in."

"I'd be more worried about the men in that car. You don't have any choice right now other than to trust me."

"I'd think I have a lot of other choices. The first being to tell you to f.u.c.k off."

The car down the block didn't move. I could feel its attention fixate on me.

"Whatever choices you think you have, you won't have them long."

"And why's that?"

"You remember that other night up in Longmont? That was a warm-up. You don't want those two cops getting another crack at you."

I thought about the timing of the phone call, how I'd had one foot out the door. "How did you know I was walking out of my house?"

"I'm parked in the cul-de-sac behind your place. Past the vacant lot. I can see your house."

I walked across my kitchen, into the half bathroom, peeking through the window. Too many branches on dead winter trees. "Flash your headlights or something. I can't see you."

"Can't do that, Jay. Then they'd see me. And I don't want them finding me any more than you do you. I don't work for them anymore."

"Them?"

"Adam and Michael."

"Falling out?"

"Something like that. Listen, we're wasting time. I'm telling you, you're not safe. I'm not sitting here much longer. You're going to have to make the call, and you're going to have to make it fast. So what's it going to be?"

Like going to Atlantic City and laying it all on black. Or walking out on a good-paying job you hate. Never the smartest bet, but "f.u.c.k it" always feels freeing. And I didn't see anyone else offering answers.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Flip on your kitchen and living room lights."

I turned on both.

"Good. Go switch on the TV, and then kill the lights in the living room. Like you're settling in for a long, quiet night in front of the tube with easy access to beer and the bathroom. It'll buy you a few minutes."

How long had he been watching me? I did what he said. "Now what?"

"Grab everything you have on Lombardi-"

"How do you know-"

"Grab everything you have on Lombardi, including anything your buddy Fisher and the girl gave you. Especially the girl. Don't make any judgment calls, Jay. If it pertains to Adam or Michael, bring it. Got it?"

"Yeah, I got it."

"Good. Then sneak out the side door of your garage. Stealth. Don't let them see you. They see you, we're both dead. You'll see my car once you get on the other side."

"Why are you doing this?"

"Those two hung me out to dry. I'm not taking the fall. I'm going to help you nail the sons-a-b.i.t.c.hes."

He clicked off.

Peering out the kitchen window, I didn't see Nicki's Jetta, just the empty spot where it had been. She must've gotten away free, unless there had been a second car. What would they want with her? What did they want with me? What were they waiting for? I called to warn her. She didn't answer. No surprise. I didn't even know where she lived. I left a quick message telling her to be careful.

I stood in the glow of my television. Was I really about to trust the same guy who'd broken into my apartment last year and knocked me out cold, the same thug who murdered my brother's friend? I stared at the car lurking down the block.

The devil you know is always better than the devil you don't.

Moments like this I wished I had a gun. After last year, I'd thought about getting a permit for one. But I wasn't going to be that moron whose son accidentally blows his brains out.

I slinked back into the kitchen and gathered everything I had on the Lombardis, sweeping all the intel into a paper bag, a sacked lunch for the late shift. When I was sure no window compromised my position, I slipped a knife from the cutting block. Then I crept outside through the side door of the garage.

Our house rested at the bottom of a shallow dale, submerging the lower half from street view. Peering over the hill, I could still see the car, engine swirling fumes into the fog that drifted in. On this side of the house, you couldn't see much through the woods. Once I got far enough across the cul-de-sac, whoever was in that car would have a clean shot. If they were looking to take it. The set up, a real possibility.

I inched along the outside of my house and took a deep breath. It was now or never.

I took off through scrub brush, kicking at the p.r.i.c.ks and dead, tangled weeds aiming to ensnare me, hold me captive until whoever wanted me most could claim his prize. Spiny branches from winter-starved oaks stabbed me; p.r.i.c.kers snagged my coat, hooks holding up the carrion. The more I thrashed, the more entangled I became, which only made me thrash more. I had to rip roots from the soil to break free from their grasp, hauling a couple small trees with me into the clearing on the other side, where a car and the devil I knew waited.

"Smart move," Bowman said when I ducked inside blowing on my fingers, sc.r.a.ped and bleeding from the thorns. He didn't say anything more as he started driving, checking his rearview. I kept one hand on the paper bag containing the research and the other tucked inside my coat.

Beneath pa.s.sing streetlights, I could see Bowman wore his hair longer than he had last year, and there was the start of a beard, but I'd recognize him anywhere. No mistaking that tattoo on his neck. Giant yellow star. Thing was huge. Was he really offering to help? How big of an idiot was I to trust him? Like poking a dead dog with a stick, I was desperate to believe.

"Where you taking me?" I asked.

"Somewhere we can talk."

I contemplated where that somewhere might be. Secluded, out of earshot, a permanent resting spot where bodies aren't found until the thaw of spring?

"Don't worry," Bowman said. "You can stab me with that knife you keep patting in your pocket if you don't like where this goes."

"If you don't shoot me first."

"Yeah," he said. "Guess there's always that chance."

We drove east, veering off the main road, venturing farther into the unchartered wilderness. Dead blackberry plants brambled quiet country ponds. All the natural cover you'd need. Cut a hole.

Drop in the fish food. Call it a day. Nothing I could do but sit and wait.

Soon a soft glow illumined in the distance. As the light grew brighter, I saw the familiar logo.

"I don't know about you," Bowman said, "but I could use some coffee and donuts."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO.

THE TWENTY-FOUR-HOUR Dunkin' Donuts was part of a Mobil gas station on the side of the Merrick Parkway, extra small with only a few booths and tables. b.u.t.ted against the base of the Lamentation range, the mountain rose up, overhang of bedrock so steep even snow couldn't stick.

I stood outside the car a moment, looking through the donut shop gla.s.s, weighing luck against providence.

Bowman held open the front door.

"Come on, Jay. What do you think I'm gonna do? Cap your a.s.s and dump your body in the cruller batter? Let's go. I'm freezing my nuts off."

Besides the acne-riddled cashier, who also wouldn't be getting laid anytime soon, the only other person inside the donut shop was a hobo who'd wandered in from the forest. Wrapped in a padded puffer, duct-tape-stuffed at the seams, he sat at a table and sniffed his fingers, a gooey white substance I prayed was egg.

Bowman ordered two coffees. I reached for my wallet.

"On me," he said, unwrapping a thick roll of rubber-banded cash from his jeans. "How you like your coffee?"

"Light and sweet."

"A real man's man. And a half dozen donuts," he said to the clerk. "I'm f.u.c.king starving. Mix 'em up. Anything but Boston Cream. I hate Boston."

At the table Bowman clamped down on a jelly. He pointed at the donuts in the bag. "Eat up, Jay. They're good for you. Fried sugar and bread. Everything a growing boy needs."

Bowman kept his back to the wall so he could keep an eye on the door. I'd never seen him this up close before. Deep crags and crow's feet rivered his face, the burden of a hard-lived life etched and unforgiving. Forty-eight or fifty-eight, neither would've surprised me.

I snared a glazed and gobbled up half in one bite. I was running on fumes.

"Okay, let's see it," Bowman said, licking jam off his thumb.

"What?"

"You got in a car with me, drove the darkest dirt roads, and now you want to play it safe? You're clutching that paper bag like a purse." He held out his hand. "Come on, man, let's have it."

"First, tell me what's in it for you. No offense, but I have a tough time buying you'd want to help me do anything."

Bowman leaned back. "You're right. I don't give a s.h.i.t about you. But I do care about breaking free of Adam and Michael. More like the enemy of my enemy. I know for a fact you've been poking around."

"Poking around?"

"Xeroxing courthouse doc.u.ments. Visiting former guests of North River. Hanging around construction sites. Asking too many questions. You're making the Brothers nervous. This Roberts thing is no joke."

"Judge Roberts?"

"Whatever your little girlfriend-"

"She's not my girlfriend."

"I give a s.h.i.t. She made a photocopy up in Longmont. They want it back."

"They send you to break into her apartment too?"

"If I wanted to f.u.c.k you over, I'd pick a better spot than a donut shop."

I pa.s.sed the bag, which comprised everything I had-my own clippings, charts and graphs from Fisher, Nicki's contribution to the cause. I couldn't imagine what he was looking for. Even the supposed cla.s.sified court doc.u.ments were part of a public archive.