"About a picture. I work for the paper. The Review. And I came across some pictures."

I paused.

"Well, these pictures are of women. One of them is of you."

Her eyes narrowed and the brush fell to her side.

"Listen, you goddamn weirdo. You've got five seconds to get the hell out of here or I'm gonna call Frank and he's gonna kick your head in. I don't need any-"

"I know, I know ... Easy."

"Easy nothing. You get the hell out."

"One minute. I need to talk to you for one minute. I'm Jack McMorrow. The editor of the paper. The guy who had these pictures worked for me. He's dead."

She looked at me. Her mouth gaped.

"That little weasely guy who took the pictures at the basketball games? Oh, my God."

"You knew him?"

"Who he was. He was a creep. I can't believe-that little creep."

"You never knew?"

"Hell, no. Buddy would have killed him."

She caught herself.

"I don't mean that. I mean, he might have beaten him up. Maybe not."

I waited.

"Well, there's a question about what he did with these pictures. His name was Arthur Bertin. It's sort of part of the investigation."

"But you're not a cop?"

I shook my head.

"We do our own sometimes. Investigative reporting and all that."

"You gonna put this in the paper?"

"No way. Nothing about it. I just want to ask a couple questions."

She looked at me.

"Ask," she said quickly, as if she wanted to get it over with before someone else came.

The photo came in the mail to her apartment on Alden Street, she said. I knew the neighborhood. Neat two-family houses with porches on the front. She said she remembered the mail came at noon, and she had to shove the envelope in a drawer before her daughter came in from kindergarten. She showed it to Buddy when he came home that night.

"He was ripped," she said. "He would have ... he wanted to have the paper traced or something and find the guy himself. I told him, 'Buddy, just call the cops.' He didn't want to. He's had some run-ins with the cops. He sued 'em a couple times 'cause they took his license illegally. He is not a popular guy down there, let's say."

"Anybody in particular?"

"All of 'em. Vigue on down. Especially Vigue. That's what made it hard."

She realized she was still holding the hairbrush and put it in the locker.

"Was there a note? Or just the picture?"

"A note. A bunch of crap. 'Slut.' Stuff like that. I didn't mind that as much as I minded the picture being taken at my house. Through the window. This guy was out there. And now he's dead."

She pulled a big leather pocketbook out of the locker and dug for cigarettes and a lighter.

"So what else can I tell you?" she said, ripping open a new pack. "I ended up going to the cops. Buddy burned the picture. I talked to Vigue and he asked me a few questions. Then he said something about having a feeling about who it was. You know, they'd gotten other reports. That kind of stuff. Buddy was pissed that they didn't arrest the guy. Figured it was some rich guy's kid or something. But I was just glad to have it stop. Where the hell did you find this picture?"

"With Bertin's stuff after he died. He drowned last week."

"I heard about it. So where is it?"

"It's locked up. It's part of the investigation. Nobody is going to see it, if that's what you're worried about."

She blew out smoke hard.

"Yeah, well, I am worried. I'm very goddamn worried. What'd you say your name is?"

"Jack McMorrow."

"I'll talk to Buddy when he gets back. He may want to talk to you about that."

"Fine," I lied.

She pulled a pink ski jacket out of the locker.

"So your husband doesn't care much for Vigue?"

"He's my boyfriend," Joy said, pulling the jacket on. "And he hates Vigue's guts. They met a long time ago and didn't hit it off."

Out on the street, it was snowing and the wind was blowing, cold and damp. I put my head down and walked back to the paper. As I walked, I tried to look at everything methodically. What would I tell the AG's office? That Vigue knew about Arthur's questionable activities months ago and never arrested him? That he pretended to be surprised when I showed him the photos I found. That Joy never got another photo after she went to Vigue and told her story.

I could also say that it may have been a cop who had arranged to have me beaten up and taken to a cabin. Would it be enough? I wasn't sure.

The Christmas lights were on early because it was so overcast. Bulbs were already burned out and the lights looked ragged, with Christmas three weeks away.

I nodded to people I knew, but didn't stop to talk. Pauline was still the hot gossip on the street, and I didn't feel like getting into it. I didn't feel like it at all.

When I got back, I went to the news files and pulled two yellowed folders, stuffed full of ragged clippings. One was labeled ANDROSCOGGIN POLICE DEPT. The other was labeled LT. JOHN v. VIGUE. I took them to my desk.

The Vigue file had a story on his promotion to lieutenant five years before. It was really more of a press release, all turgid prose and law enforcement jargon. Vigue looked stern in the head-and-shoulders shot. From there, the clips got yellower and Vigue got younger.

He was hired right out of the Marines, nineteen years back. He was a graduate of Androscoggin High, where he played varsity basketball. His wife was the former Susan Lake of Androscoggin. From what I could tell, they had no children.

Vigue was cited for bravery back when he was a rookie. The story said he pulled a man out of a burning trailer. When he was promoted to sergeant, he told the Review that he saw police work as more than just a job. "It's a duty to uphold," he was quoted as saying. "It's a responsibility to the good citizens of this community."

He looked good. Sounded good. And he seemed to do a good job. But there was a flaw there. Something had gone wrong. Very wrong.

"Jack," Cindy said, suddenly standing beside me. "I didn't know you were in. You got two calls from the same guy. I don't know who. He wouldn't leave his name. He said he needed to see you and I said you'd be right back."

"When was this?"

"Half-hour, forty-five minutes ago."

"Sound normal or nuts?"

"Hard to say. He didn't sound mad or anything. Maybe a little like he wasn't used to calling a newspaper. But I'm sure he'll call back if he really needs to talk to you. I told him you're in and out all day."

I forced myself to stay in for a couple of hours. It took me an hour to go through the St. Amand package, and when I was through reading, I got on the phone to people in some of the towns that were burned. I called Ohio and Louisiana and Oregon. Ohio was supposed to call back. Louisiana and Oregon were hits, with town officials saying they felt St. Amand had extorted tax breaks with the threat of moving out. Nice and bitter. Good stuff.

My mind wandered. I picked up the Vigue file and looked at the head shots. His "duty to the citizens of this community." Obligation was a better word, but people knew what he meant. And I was sure most of them believed him. If they believed him, they wouldn't believe me. Unless I had facts.

My best source was packing when I knocked on the door. The window had been replaced by a piece of cardboard. I wasn't sorry.

Cormier had piled tapes, sheets and blankets, towels, canned goods into cardboard cartons. He was drinking a beer.

"Hey," he said, stuffing clothes in a duffel bag.

He didn't offer a beer. I guessed he figured his debt had been repaid in full.

"Got a question," I said.

He zipped the duffel bag and threw it near the door, beside me.

"Is Vigue pretty straight that you know of? No kinks? Sex stuff, I mean."

Cormier paused and looked at me, bent over a suitcase.

"You aren't interested in living, are you?" he said.

"I am. That's why I'm asking."

He stuffed shirts into the suitcase.

"You're friggin' nuts. I'll tell you that."

I waited.

"No, he's a great guy. Love him like a goddamn brother. Trust him with my sister."

"You serious?"

"Nope. I don't know. How the hell do I know what he does? Maybe he's into sheep. Who cares?"

"I do."

"Maybe you're into sheep."

"Maybe."

I waited some more. He filled a paper bag with socks and underwear.

"Can't help you. Would if I could. I just don't know much about him. Just that he's a dink who would arrest his mother if he thought it would make him look good. He's a hard-ass, you know?"

"Nothing kinky. No going with girls or anything?"

Cormier shook his head. I'd struck out.

I let myself out, closing the cardboard door behind me. On the way down the stairs, I glanced in a window and saw a woman pulling on a brassiere. I looked away and hurried down the steps and didn't see the movement at the corner of the building until it was too late.

24.

The shadow moved to my right and I got my hands up. Something crashed into my ear and I fell.

Feet shuffled. A kick hit my side and I rolled. Another kick. The arm. Side. Thighs.

No pain. Burning. Grunts that weren't mine and boots and dungarees moving fast.

I got myself to a crouch and lurched toward the car. Somebody grabbed me and I fell back and rolled again, coming up to knit masks, three of them.

One dark and two orange.

The orange mask lunged in for a kick and I took it in the chest and grabbed boot and denim. I dug fingernails through the cloth and kicks were hitting my back and my knees. I fell with the leg still in my hands and bit as hard as I could near the knee.

He yelled. Fingers dug into my neck. I swung my hands blindly until I felt a mask and pulled down.

The face turned away but I saw enough. Dark. Mustache. I didn't know him.

Two stayed on me and I took a punch on the forearm. One grabbed my arms and the other pulled at me from behind. I lunged, inching down the driveway toward the street. He climbed on my back and I threw myself straight back. I hit the pavement with him underneath me. Something cracked. Not me.

I rolled off the curb into the street and two went by me, running to the edge of the building and turning the corner. One guy was struggling to his feet, his arms crossed, bent over. I lurched over and kicked him hard in the abdomen. It felt soft and he gasped and fell to his knees.

He knelt. I stood in front of him.