"Can't breathe," he moaned.

I didn't want to hit him anymore. My knees trembled; I felt sick. I reached out and pulled the mask up and off his head.

His eyes were closed.

Cormier's buddy.

Libby.

"Why?" I said, panting.

He groaned and bent over again. His nose was bleeding into his mouth.

"Tell me, you son of a bitch," I said. "You do this for Cormier? For him?"

He shook his head.

"He wimped out," he said. "Everybody. Everybody wants you out."

"LeMaire? Vigue?"

He closed his eyes. Too fast, it seemed.

"Did you bother Roxanne?"

"Didn't touch the bitch."

"I'm telling you. You go near her and you're gone. State cops. Kidnapping. You'll like it in prison. They like little boys down there."

He was standing with his hands on his knees. I thought of kicking him in the groin. But I didn't. I walked up the driveway to the Volvo and when I drove out onto the street, he was gone.

When I got home, I started a hot tub. As it ran, I went in the kitchen and called the AP in Portland. Woodbury, the bureau chief, answered. For once something had gone right.

"I've got a problem and I'm hoping you can help me with it," I said.

"You all right, Jack? You don't sound too good."

It hurt to breathe too deeply. It hurt to breathe at all.

"This problem is serious. I need somebody in the AG's office. Somebody I can trust."

"Most of them are all right," he said. "Some are jerks, but I wouldn't call them untrustworthy."

"No. I mean somebody completely straight. Somebody who will take my word against a cop's. Somebody who will listen."

"God, Jack. What'd you get yourself into?"

"Can't tell you now. Maybe later you can have an exclusive. But I need a name. Tonight."

He thought for a moment.

"There's a couple guys I have a lot of respect for. But one, Dave Olin-I'd go to him with just about anything. Is there anything I can do, Jack? Anything to help you on this end?"

"Not now," I said. "But thanks. I'll let you know. Where's Olin live?"

"Cape Elizabeth. Scarborough. Somewhere down there. Got a Portland book?"

"All set," I said.

I went and turned off the water and took off my dirty clothes. My legs were bruised and my neck was covered with scratches. My ear was swollen and throbbing. I took two aspirin from the bottle in the medicine cabinet and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. When I came back to the bathroom, I brought two butcher knives. I put them on the floor beside the tub and covered them with a towel.

The hot water helped. I stretched out and looked at the ceiling. As my muscles relaxed, I wondered if I was overreacting. These punks would get tired of this game. And the St. Amand story would blow over. I wouldn't make any friends, but over time, I'd survive. The paper would continue and the rest of it- "Who are you kidding, Jack?" I said aloud. "It's not going away."

I couldn't sit on what I knew. They wouldn't let me keep pushing without pushing back.

It was almost seven. I stood up and picked up the towel, uncovering the knives. When I was dry, I took one knife and put it on the counter. The other I took with me to the bedroom.

When I was dressed, I looked up Olin's number in the phone book and dialed it on the phone with the shotgun pellet marks in it. A woman answered and I asked for Mr. Olin. She said he wasn't home and could she take a message. I left my name and number, at home and at the paper. I asked her to have him call me at any hour.

"May I tell him what this is about?" she asked politely.

"It's a long story," I said. "But it is important."

I called Roxanne's apartment and she didn't answer. Working late? Out for a drink? Out with someone else? Someone who didn't work in a town like this, this damn vicious place. I slammed the receiver down and went to find something to eat. There wasn't anything. Wobbly celery. Bread and cheese. Beer. I considered the beer and changed my mind. There would be no time for that now.

On the way back to the office, I stopped at a store downtown and bought some plastic and duct tape. Standing in the parking lot, I sealed the broken window. I didn't need frostbite on top of everything else.

Paul and Marion were gone, but Cindy and Vern were still at the paper. Vern would be there most of the night, and Cindy said she had to finish her accounts for the week and dummy a couple of display ads she'd taken over the counter.

She looked at me closer.

"What happened to you?" she said. "My God, Jack. Have you been in another fight?"

Vern looked up.

"Not really," I said vaguely. "I just got bumped up a little."

It wasn't much of an answer and Cindy knew it.

"Is it the same people with the, you know, the picture?" she whispered.

I shrugged and walked to my desk.

The St. Amand / Quinn-Hillson file was right where I had left it. I moved it aside and slid the typewriter out from under my desk. I plugged it in and grabbed a stack of copy paper. Vern came over and stood over me.

"What's up?" he said solemnly.

"Same old crap," I said.

"You need some help?"

"Not right now. What you can do is give me an hour and then read something for me. It's important."

Vern nodded and walked slowly back to his desk. I put the date on the top of the first page and started typing.

It took five single-spaced pages, but I got it all down, or at least most of it. I started at the beginning, with Arthur's drowning. I listed all the things I'd found at the studio, the threats and photos Roxanne and I had received. Cormier's tips went in, without his name. So did Pauline's visit and subsequent visit, the bar fight, the abduction and Arthur's notebook. I ended with the fight outside Cormier's. I named Jimmy Libby and LeMaire, J. and Vigue. I didn't name Joy the waitress, but I would if I was asked.

A week in the life of a country editor.

When it was done, I went to the copier and made three copies. I put one in a folder and put one on Vern's desk. He picked it up and started reading. I heard him whistle softly.

"Quite a little story when you see it in writing."

The phone rang. Cindy said it was for me.

"Jack McMorrow," I said.

"It's me," Roxanne said weakly.

"What's happened?"

She hesitated. My stomach did a roll.

"Another picture," she said.

"A picture in the mail. To my home."

I took a deep breath. "What is it? The same?"

"No. Not the same."

It was her turn to breathe.

"Take it easy," I said. "Just take it easy."

"Oh, Jack. It's me. Walking down the street in Androscoggin. I look like I'm going to get something at the store."

She paused and I waited for the punch line.

"Jack," she cried. "They cut my hair off and stuck holes in me with scissors. It says ... It says 'Too late' in big letters. That's all it says."

"The bastards," I muttered.

25.

Cindy left at six, teetering down the sidewalk in her tight jeans and high-heeled boots. I stood in the office window and watched her. When she'd driven away in her father's pickup, I watched the street. It had started to snow again and everything looked serene, even idyllic. Main Street Scene by Norman Rockwell. Don't mind the psychos and crazies waiting in the dark.

Vern banged out and banged back in. He got on the phone and said "Hey, big guy" to somebody and started talking basketball. I went back to my desk and sat. Put another piece of paper in the typewriter. Typed an addendum to my notes.

Roxanne. Clothed but defaced. More obscene than the first.

I looked at my watch. Call Roxanne. No, don't. Let her get settled. Let her have a glass of wine. Calm down.

The minutes passed. I didn't want to go home. I couldn't work. Vern was taking notes, grunting into his phone. I grabbed my parka and left to get the Globe. The street was deserted and the store was closed. God forbid that you would want to buy a paper in this burg after six o'clock.

I decided I'd given Roxanne enough time and turned back, snow like flies against my face. Vern was still there. Just sitting at his desk, holding the phone.

"For you," he said. "Guy says he has information."

I took it at my desk. A man's voice. Raspy like a smoker.

"You don't need my name," the caller said. "I used to drive cab and this might be nothin', but I don't know, I thought I'd just call over there in case you might be interested in finding out more about Arthur Bertin, the guy who died."

I had a pad out. I wrote down every word, his and mine. Every sound.

"Sure, I'm interested."

"Hey, I mean, this might be nothin'."

"Try me anyway."

"You could check it. That's what I thought. You can check stuff. And it might not check out to be anything. But I just thought-"

"I'll check it out. Don't worry."

"Well, hey, it's not that big a deal. I don't know. It's just that I knew the guy 'cause he took the cab quite a lot. You get to know people driving them, you know? You talk. They talk. They tell you lots of things. All the old ladies. Hey, I know their life stories."

"So what'd Arthur talk about?"

"Like I said, I don't know if this is that big a deal, you know? But a month ago, maybe more, maybe less. No, it was a month anyway."

"Yeah."

"He's in the cab and he rides in the front-he used to ride in the front. Regulars like to sit up where they can talk, and I don't mind, 'cause it keeps you from stretching your neck around, you know? So whatever, he's sitting up front and he's got something eatin' him. I don't know. Not saying much, not that he chewed your ear or anything."

"But he's quiet."

"Right. Something's not right."

"Yeah."

"So I said to him, 'You sick or something?' These are not exact words, but it was something like this. He looks over and says, 'I got a question for you.' I said, 'Yeah?' He says, 'You ever hear of a guy named Reggie Lockman?' Lockman. I said, 'Nope, why should I?' Arthur says, I think it was something like this, 'Yeah, well I wish I never heard of him either. 'Cause this is the worst mess I ever got myself into.' Maybe it wasn't mess. Maybe it was problem. But something like that, you know?"