"Reggie Lockman?"

"Yeah. Just like that. I look at him, we're pulling up to his place, and I say, like, 'Anything I can do to help you?' Hey, I liked the guy. If some punk was giving him a hard time, I'd straighten the guy out for him. Some dink bothering the guy or something. He was kind of a wimpy little guy, but he'd do anything for you."

"Is that what it was?"

"I don't know. It's like, I told you it might not be anything. That's all he said. Reggie Lockman. Like the guy had him by the short hairs. He didn't say that, but that's the way it sounded. You just get a feeling, you know? I do, anyway. So when I hear he's dead, drownded down there, I say, 'Hey. Maybe this Lockman did it.' I don't know that but, hey, it could be, right? I don't know."

"Did you tell the police this?"

"Oh, yeah. I told Vigue down there. He knows me. They all know me."

"What'd he say?"

"I don't know. Not much. Said he'd check it out. I figured, hey, I've done my civic duty or whatever. It might not be anything, like I said. Could amount to nothing."

"But you never know. Maybe it's something. What'd you say your name was?"

"Hey, I didn't. I just thought you might want to check this out. If you're doing a write-up on this."

"You have a number where I can reach you?"

He gave me a number. Androscoggin exchange.

"Ask for Earl," he said.

I said I would and hung up. I took a paper clip and fastened the sheaf of yellow pages together.

"So?" Vern said.

He looked at me as I went through the notes, filling in gaps, correcting the scrawled shorthand.

"Anything?"

"Could be," I said. "Ever hear of somebody named Reggie Lockman? Guy says he might have been bothering Arthur."

Vern shook his head.

"This guy, Earl something. A cab driver. He said Arthur told him this Reggie Lockman had him in the worst mess he'd ever been in. Or something like that."

Vern thought.

"Doesn't ring a bell. There was a Barry Lockman, used to play for Androscoggin. Must be six years ago now. Quick little guard. He moved to Massachusetts before graduation. I don't know. I can't think of any others."

I looked at my scribbled notes.

"Another piece for the AG. If I can't get ahold of somebody tonight, I'll get them first thing in the morning. What I should do is go down there to Augusta. Walk right in and drop all this stuff on somebody's desk. 'Listen. Do something, and do it now.' "

"Could save you a few hours on hold," Vern said, heading for the coffee machine.

"I don't know, though," he said, his back to me. "AG's office. State cops. These cops. These guys are so tight. It's like they don't want to touch something if another department has dropped it."

"Or never picked it up."

"Right. It's like some guy gets booted from baseball for bad attitude. Guy's blackballed. You know what I mean. These guys stick together."

"Screw them," I said. "I'll go to the goddamn governor. Hey, this is enough. Who the hell is Reggie Lockman? Jesus, that guy didn't make that up. All they have to do is punch it into the computer. No DOB, but it's a start. I can show them the pictures of Roxanne. Say, 'Look at this and tell me nothing is going on in this goddamn town.' "

Vern looked at me.

"Anything I can do to help ..."

"I know that. Thanks."

I was hungry. Vern said he wasn't. He'd have his coffee and a few cookies from the bag in his file cabinet. Ginger snaps.

It was snowing a little harder, wetter flakes that packed like mud on your boots. I kicked thick cakes off on the side of the car and drove a block to the store. The guy behind the counter was reading Midnight Star. A story about a movie star's wife who was sex-crazed. I read the story upside down.

I sat in the parking lot and ate the sandwich and drank a carton of orange juice that should have been a beer. Every few bites I flipped the wipers on and cut a new swath through the snow. I switched the radio on and off, once and then twice. The sandwich wrapper went on the floor in the backseat. I felt worse, and knew there would be no real relief until it was over.

The AG. Tomorrow.

When I pulled up in front of the office, Vern was standing in the window. He saw the car and came out and when I got to the sidewalk, the snow had made dark spots on his light-blue shirt.

"Jack, some guy just called and said he wants to meet you down at St. Amand, where-"

"The canal?"

'"Yeah. He said he had to talk to you about Arthur. 'Mc-Morrow,' he said. 'Where's McMorrow?' I said you went out to get something to eat and he said, 'You tell him I've got to talk to him about this. I've got something to show him, and he'll want to see it if he wants somebody to go down for drowning the photographer.' I took notes, Jack. I'm pretty sure that's exactly what he said."

We moved inside. Vern went to his desk and picked up a notebook.

"Was it this cab driver guy? Earl, or whatever the hell his name was?"

"I don't know. He wouldn't give me his name. I don't know. Voices are hard."

Vern showed me the notes. I couldn't read his handwriting, but I saw the number eight.

"Eight?"

"He said eight o'clock."

"What'd you tell him?"

"I said I'd give you the message as soon as I found you. You going down there?"

I thought for a minute. "I can't not go."

"We're both going then."

We left at 7:30. Vern asked me to swing by his car, around the corner on Mill Street. He got out and opened the trunk and I could hear things banging and clanking. The lid slammed down and he came back, flakes of fake-looking snow on his hair. He opened the passenger door of the Volvo and tipped the seat back to throw in a long rusty lug wrench and a silver-colored aluminum baseball bat.

"No guns?" I said.

"Short notice."

He slammed his door shut.

We drove in silence, the headlights picking up black ribbons of tire tracks in the snow-covered road. When I swung off Route 108 onto the mill road, there was only one set of tracks in front of us. When I pulled off and headed for the canal, the pavement was white, the area deserted.

"What time do you have?"

Vern held his watch to the window. "Twenty of."

"We should be able to see him coming, then."

"And he can just follow our tracks," Vern said.

I pulled up to the canal, right where they'd pulled Arthur out under the searchlights that night, and turned the car around to face back toward the road. I killed the lights and the motor. The snow fell heavily in the dark.

We sat for a minute. I turned the key to hit the wipers but the windshield was fogging up on the inside. We both wiped with our hands.

"Is this overtime or what?" Vern said.

We wiped some more. There was no sign of lights. No sound.

"Let's get out of the car and go stand in the dark," Vern said. "I feel like a sitting duck in here."

"You have your bat, don't you?"

"Well, let's get out so I can take a few practice swings. It's tough coming off the bench."

We climbed out and Vern left the bat in the backseat but brought the lug wrench. He held it close to his leg.

When we got to the edge of the canal we stood beside the wall and waited. The ice was white but there was a patch of open water in the middle. I thought of Arthur and stepped away from the edge.

Vern stood with his back to the canal and looked toward the darkness that stretched all the way to the streetlights on the mill road.

"Think it was a joke?" I said.

Vern didn't say anything.

"I can think of a few people around here who would like to give me a hard time, but this doesn't seem hard enough. Not so far."

I turned back toward the water.

"We've got better things to do than play these kinds of games."

"It's no game, Jack."

Vern's voice came from behind me, to my left. Different.

I turned. Tensed.

The wrench fell to the ground by his feet. The gun was in his right hand, pointed at my chest.

Vern grinned sheepishly. The gun aimed higher. I couldn't think of anything to say.

"Yeah, I know, Jackson. Low blow. Especially from a drinking buddy."

"Not you?"

"Hey, don't look so blown away. Life's full of surprises. I didn't want you to be on the receiving end of this one, but what can I say, buddy? No choice. No choice at all."

He looked at me. I blinked snow from my eyes.

"Arthur?"

"Yeah, I suppose. Jackson, you must think I'm a real psycho. Loony. Now I don't think so, but I'd be the last to know, wouldn't I. No, I just got backed into a corner and I had to consider all my options. With old Arthur, I didn't have any. I was trying to make some with you, but Jesus, you're such a tough old big-city newsman, you wouldn't take any of the outs I gave you."

"And now there aren't any more?"

Vern shrugged. The gun, a revolver with a six-inch barrel, pointed at my chest.

"The whole thing with Roxanne? All of that? The pictures?"

"Yeah, I know. Pretty sleazy. But it was for you, Jack. I like you. Hey, why do I feel like I'm in a bad movie? No, I do like you. All you had to do was take Roxanne and pack up that old car of yours and go. Anywhere. Just go and leave us here to our own devices. That's what I wanted you to do. Just go."

"I'll be glad to."

Vern shook his head, no.

"You say that, Jackson, but I know you better than that You can't do it, and I'll tell you why. Hey, I even considered it. I did. Right up until tonight, when this guy calls with the cab story."

"Reggie Lockman. You know him."

"Yeah, you could say that. I am him."

I felt sick. Weak. Short of breath.

"It's a long story. Gist of it is that Reggie Lockman did three years in a real nice place called Marietta Correctional Facility in the beautiful city of Marietta, Ohio. Three years. Problem was, he was supposed to do eight, minimum."

"For what?"

"For what? For something I don't even remember. Not at all. Funny, huh? No, I drove a car into this little VW Rabbit and killed a woman and put her kid in the hospital for about six months. Yeah. Nice guy. Stupid. And no way to make it better, you know what I mean? Had a few beers and went out and killed a perfect stranger. Lady was on her way to the grocery store or something. To get a gallon of milk. I went from being a respectable sportswriter to the worst scum on earth. Just like that. Everybody hated me. Oh, walking into that courtroom and feeling those eyes on you. All those people wishing you'd die some horrible slow death. Her husband really did want to kill me, which is understandable. Cops had to threaten him with a conspiracy-to-commit-murder charge to get him to back off. Wanted to hire somebody in prison to cut my throat. Some of 'em would have done it for a pack of cigarettes."

I was getting stiff.

"How'd you get out?"