"How could you send him into something like that without proper backup? What kind of half-a.s.sed office are you running? What kind of superior would let his subordinates do something like that?"

"A lousy one," he said. "Might be as few as three days if his lung holds. He's in good shape, good condition. That's in his favor."

"Bet you were hoping it killed him."

Walt jerked in her direction and she flinched, tilting away from him, but at the last moment he controlled himself and kept himself in check.

"You think?" he said, between clenched teeth. He stood, turned and faced her. She looked afraid of him. "I know you probably won't, but I'd like it very much if you would let him know that I was out here when you got here. That I'm thinking of him."

She hung her head. After a long moment she whispered, "I told him to wear the vest."

He thought she might be crying. "If Tommy started listening to someone else, that would be a first."

She cracked a smile and looked up at him through welling tears. "No kidding."

"He got lucky. We all got lucky. Believe it or not, this is one of the good days."

She nodded self-consciously. "How weird is that?"

"Tell him h.e.l.lo. I'll drop by later. I've got some stuff to do."

He walked toward the doors. They slid open automatically.

"I'll tell him," she called after him.

It caused him to catch a step. He stood there for a moment, his back to her. Then he continued on through the double set of automatic doors and into the chorus of frogs and night insects, switching on his BlackBerry, turning on his radio, and walking stiff-legged to the Jeep as incoming messages and e-mails began to light up his phone.

"My name is Michael." It was the third of seven voice mails Walt was set to retrieve. "I understand you want to talk to me. I am-was, whatever-Martel's sponsor. His NA sponsor, down here in New Orleans. Gimme a shout, you want to talk to me." The man recited a number that Walt scribbled into his notebook. Bea nudged him from behind, wanting Walt to drive. But the Jeep idled in the hospital parking spot. He faced four large framed photographs of happy, healthy people mounted to the hospital's brick wall. They were an illusion and he resented their presence.

"Back!" he commanded. Bea retreated, whining in protest.

He slogged through the remaining voice mails, making notes, his patience wearing thin by the time he returned the call.

"Sheriff Walt Fleming," he informed the man who answered.

"Michael. We go by first names only." He had a p.r.o.nounced Louisiana drawl.

"I respect that," Walt said.

"I understand you were asking after me, Sheriff."

"I have some questions pertaining to Mr. Gale's visit to Idaho. Was hoping you might . . . illuminate some of this for me."

"What's shared in the program is of a confidential nature. That is never more true than between sponsor and sponsee."

"I have nothing but respect for twelve-step programs. But in this case, given Mr. Gale is dead, and that you may possess information vital to the investigation, I have to ask you to drop the confidentiality."

"I'll tell you what I can tell you. I am not going to harm others, or put them at risk. That goes against the steps."

"If there's a killer loose, we're all at risk."

"Your point is taken, Sheriff."

"One of your members up here believed Martel," he switched to his first name to try to make Michael more comfortable, "was ninth-stepping."

"I have no reason to contradict that."

Walt then understood: Michael would rather deny or confirm something Walt said than offer information directly himself.

"There are two individuals in the Sun Valley area who are part of professional football and we believe may have been the intended recipients of Martel's goodwill."

"Is that so?"

"A team owner, and an agent. Martel's former agent."

"Interesting."

"Were you given any reason to believe one or both of these men might have been who Martel intended to visit?"

"He may have."

"You don't sound convinced."

"You have a good ear," Michael said.

"Somebody else then?"

"Could be."

"A teammate?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"Not a football teammate."

"Very good."

"A different team: someone in the program."

"You're colder."

"You could just tell me," Walt suggested.

"We, those of us in the program, do not break the law, Sheriff. But nearly all of us have had contact with law enforcement. I'm not exactly a fan, if you'll pardon me. We cooperate with law enforcement when required. When asked. Volunteering is another matter, at least for me."

"So it's twenty questions." Walt hadn't meant to say that. It came out viciously.

"Something like that. Ball's in your court, if you want to look at it that way."

"Coming up here. That was about his atoning, his working the ninth step."

"That was my understanding. Yes."

"A different kind of team," Walt said, thinking aloud. "A relationship. Women, not men. Caroline Vetta."

"You see? You're good at this."

"Can you confirm Caroline Vetta?"

"I can confirm it was women, not men. I don't have names for you."

Plural, Walt thought. Caroline Vetta and at least one other.

"He mentioned Seattle and Sun Valley," Walt stated.

"Not exactly."

"Seattle and Idaho."

"Yes."

"Nothing to do with football."

"Everything in his life had to do with football."

"Did he see Caroline Vetta? Did he contact you?"

"He contacted me. We spoke every day. This was a big deal for him. An important trip. It's one of the hardest things we do. Also one of the most rewarding."

"And he told you how it went with Caroline," Walt stated.

"He never saw his Seattle friend. Nor did he mention a name. It was my impression he may have spoken with her, presumably by phone, but that their face-to-face meeting never took place." The man's drawl put emphasis on his verbs, making his speech sound foreign to Walt.

"Because she was killed."

"I can't confirm that."

"He called you after she was killed."

"When he called me the second time, he was in a panic. What you're saying would make sense, wouldn't it?"

"He panicked. He knew he'd be implicated."

"Once you've been part of it, you understand the mechanics of the legal system."

"That he'd be a suspect. That it was weighted against him."

"He never said that exactly, but that was my impression, yes."

"Michael, did he commit that crime? Did he do harm to Caroline Vetta?"

"They never met face-to-face. He wouldn't have lied to me. Especially about that."

"He was afraid."

"I believe he understood it was bad timing."

"You advised him to get out of there."

"I did."

"To move on."

"Correct."

"Did he suggest to you who might have done Caroline Vetta?" He heard the man's steady breathing over the sound of the idling car and Bea's raspy panting from the backseat.

"Not . . . directly, no."

Walt considered the careful nature of the man's answer.

"He wasn't scared," Walt said, guessing, "he was angry. He thought he knew who killed her."

"He was emotional. It's true."

"He did suspect someone?"

"That would be speculation on my part. I can't do that."

"Sure you can. I'm asking you to speculate. Believe me, I filter all all of this." of this."

"I believe his anger was directed at someone, at a particular person, yes. But I caution you, I do not know the ident.i.ty of that person, nor did he give me any indication of who it might be."

"The trip to Sun Valley, a woman or this person?"

"Or both? I'm not sure I can answer that accurately."

"A woman," Walt said. "Like Seattle. He was ninth-stepping a woman, a former lover or at least someone he'd harmed in some way, something that required atonement."

"Idaho was mentioned in his original plans. So, yes, I'm sure you're right."

One of the four photographs on the side of the hospital showed a Hispanic child, several of her teeth still coming in, wide-eyed and smiling. For an instant that photograph bled into another: a black kid on a porch with nearly the same smile. The two photos were surprisingly similar. Then he recalled where he'd seen the photo of the black kid, and his hand holding the phone went out to the wheel and he pushed himself back against the headrest. "Oh, h.e.l.l," he gasped aloud.

Michael's voice came thinly from the BlackBerry and Walt returned it to his ear.