His leg hurt like h.e.l.l, once he was conscious again. It felt much worse than when he was shot, like a really hard punch that just wouldn't ease up.

There was a television set on a shelf high on the wall, and he tried watching it for a while, but everything he saw irritated him. So after a while he switched the thing off and just lay there, alone with his thoughts.

Alone. They'd told him, no visitors right after the operation; he'd be too woozy. But he wasn't woozy exactly; he was just uncomfortable, with the leg aching as if a dinosaur had just bit him there, and stuck up at an angle so he couldn't get comfortable even without the ache.

He spent a lot of the time thinking about yesterday's visit from Wendy. The amusing part was her meeting with Parker. It took a lot to knock Wendy off her pins, but Parker had done it. Jake wished he could have been there when Parker opened the candy box and showed her the gun. She was still a little green around the gills when she'd told him about it.

The other things she'd told him were more serious, and they all had to do with the fact that it was Elaine Elaine who had shot him, and she'd shot him so he'd be in the hospital at the time of the robbery and wouldn't be a suspect. Stupid Elaine; where did she ever get that bright idea? who had shot him, and she'd shot him so he'd be in the hospital at the time of the robbery and wouldn't be a suspect. Stupid Elaine; where did she ever get that bright idea?

If he'd known she was going to react this way, the h.e.l.l with it, he'd have skipped his parole officer meeting after all; he'd have gone to Vegas or someplace and checked himself into a county jug.

But the worst thing Wendy'd told him was that the woman detective, Reversa, thought thought maybe it was Elaine that had done it. Elaine or the useless husband-she was ready to go either way-but the problem was, she was already pointed in the right direction. maybe it was Elaine that had done it. Elaine or the useless husband-she was ready to go either way-but the problem was, she was already pointed in the right direction.

She didn't have any motive yet, not for Elaine, but thought maybe she had one for the husband. But when the robbery went down? Here she had a woman linked both to the bank and to the guy that was shot, her onetime and maybe still boyfriend. Here she had a woman whose gun was conveniently lost just at the right moment. Here she had a robbery of that bank just when all its a.s.sets were being transferred. And to put the cherry on the icing, the mysteriously shot guy was an ex-con with former a.s.sociates of the wrong kind, what Wendy yesterday had called his "bad companions."

Was that enough for Reversa? Would she look at what she had, and connect the dots? Jake might not remember those anesthesia-induced prison dreams, but he remembered prison, and he didn't want to go there again.

Maybe the job was no good. Maybe Elaine had screwed it up for everybody, and now it was nothing but trouble.

And if it was was trouble, some of the other people might take it on the lam, but Jake himself wouldn't get far, on his back in a hospital bed with his leg pointed at the ceiling. trouble, some of the other people might take it on the lam, but Jake himself wouldn't get far, on his back in a hospital bed with his leg pointed at the ceiling.

Come to think of it, the trouble was probably exclusively for Jake and Elaine. Parker and Dalesia could go ahead as planned. So far as they were concerned, nothing had changed.

Jake was beginning to feel desperate. This was some miserable bind he was in, all of a sudden.

What if . . . what if he could give Detective Reversa a different motive, one that didn't have anything to do with the bank? But what motive would that be? "Oh, yeah, Detective, I think you're right, Elaine shot me, because uhh . . ."

And then what? Yeah, we're seeing each other again? How does that get me away from the robbery? If Elaine is the one that shot me, then that ties me to the robbery.

But what if it was Jack? Oh, he's wrong about us, we aren't seeing each other any more. But if he's wrong, and there's no evidence, why would he suddenly turn into this violent guy he'd never been before?

It made Jake's head ache, along with all the other parts that already ached and itched and burned. It made him so frustrated, this unexpected problem looming down on him, that he did get woozy, and dropped off to sleep, and when he woke up, Detective Second Grade Gwen Reversa was sitting there in the chair beside the bed.

"Oh, good, you're awake," she said with a bright smile.

"I'm not supposed to have visitors," was the first thing he thought to say, because he wasn't ready to deal with all this, to deal with Elaine and this keen-eyed cop and the fact that Parker and Dalesia had nothing to worry about. They They had nothing to worry about. had nothing to worry about.

"Oh, I get special dispensation," Detective Reversa told him, still with that sunny smile he didn't trust for a second. "I promised I wouldn't stay long, and I wouldn't get you all upset."

"Well, good luck with that," he said.

She c.o.c.ked her head, smiling and alert. "Really? Why do you say that?"

"Because if you're here," he said, scrambling to keep his mind ahead of his mouth, and also feeling ridiculous because he was lying here in front of this fine-looking woman with his leg aimed upward like an antiaircraft gun, "if you're here, that means you think you know more about who shot me, and anything you want to tell me about that is going to upset me."

"Well, there is news, you're right," she said. "We now know more about the bullet that was used."

"Well, sure," he said. "It isn't in me any more, so you could look at it."

"It was a thirty-eight Special," she said. "Do you know anybody with a gun that uses that ammunition?"

"I don't know anybody with a gun at all," he said. "When I was in security, and before that in the police, I was around guns, but not any more."

"It's hard for me to remember," she said, "you used to be on the police yourself."

"Not like you," he said. "Not a detective. I was just the guy who waved at the traffic."

"But the fact is," she said, "you do know at least one person who owns a gun."

He frowned. "I do?"

"Your friend Elaine Langen."

"Oh, my G.o.d!" he said. "She told me that years ago!" I hope I'm not overdoing this, he thought, and then, trying to tiptoe his way through the right reactions, he frowned at her and said, "You don't think she she did it." did it."

"Not necessarily," she said. "We do know it was the right caliber. Unfortunately, Mrs. Langen has lost her gun."

"Lost? How do you lose lose a gun?" a gun?"

Detective Reversa's smile turned ironic. "That's a very good question, Mr. Beckham," she said. "But really there's another question first."

"There is?"

"Well, two people had access to that gun," she reminded him. "Both Elaine Langen and her husband."

"Oh, because it's in the house."

"Exactly." Leaning forward, being concerned, being on his side, on his side, she said, "If it turned out that Mrs. Langen's gun she said, "If it turned out that Mrs. Langen's gun was was the one that shot you, which of the Langens would you guess might have used it?" the one that shot you, which of the Langens would you guess might have used it?"

This was the nub, the hinge. This was the point where, if he was ever going to get out from under what Elaine had done to both of them, he would do it now. He would find the words. He would deflect the investigation, take it off somewhere far from the robbery.

She watched him, smiling faintly, in no hurry, and he thought, I can't put it on Jack Langen. I would love to, but no way. "No way Jack Langen would shoot me," he said.

She looked surprised. "You seem very positive of that."

"In the first place," Jake told her, "he's got no reason to be sore at me, not any more, not for years. And in the second place, that isn't what he'd do, it isn't the way he operates. If Jack Langen wanted me shot, he'd get somebody else to do it. And he wouldn't loan the guy his wife's gun."

"No, I don't suppose he would. So you think Elaine did it."

He turned away from those sharp eyes, that fake smile. Elaine did it; yes, of course, Elaine did it. They were going to know that, if they didn't already. They might not ever be able to prove it, but they'd know it. "I'd hate to think so," he said.

"Because you were very good friends."

Well, he didn't have to put up with that much irony. Facing the detective again, he said, "I had an affair with Elaine Langen. It was never going anywhere, we were never gonna run away together, and we both knew it. Then her husband must've found out the same time he found out I was stealing. He got his revenge, he pressed charges, he paid me back, it's all over as far as he's concerned."

"Is it all over? Between you and Mrs. Langen, I mean." it all over? Between you and Mrs. Langen, I mean."

"Absolutely," he said, and all at once he saw it. The road out of the woods. "She wanted to start up again," he explained, "when I got out, but I'm done with all all of that, every bit of it. I'm Mr. Staight-and-narrow. I told her, it can't pick up like before, it just can't." Then he allowed himself to get a bit wide-eyed. "Holy s.h.i.t." of that, every bit of it. I'm Mr. Staight-and-narrow. I told her, it can't pick up like before, it just can't." Then he allowed himself to get a bit wide-eyed. "Holy s.h.i.t."

Alert, she said, "Yes?"

"You're right. She did it." Hushed, he said, "Elaine took a shot at me."

"That's what you think happened."

"But, listen," he said. "Think about it. Look where she shot me," and he pointed up at his inclined leg.

"Yes?"

"She's a good shot, Elaine," he said. "She told me, she used to go to the firing range and practice all the time. So if she did shoot at me, and okay, maybe she did, but if she did, she wasn't trying to kill me."

Detective Reversa looked skeptical. "Why would she do that, Mr. Beckham?"

"She was trying to attract my attention," Jake said. "She really can't stand her husband, I can tell you that, but she's stuck with him, and for a while there I helped her sort of put up with the life she had to lead. I went into prison, I came out, I said no, she got desperate- I don't mean I'm some kind of fantastic lover or anything, I'm just the guy that made it easier for her to live her life, that's all. I was like, I don't know, like her Valium. And I said no. And she brooded about it, and she decided, let's attract his attention."

Looking and sounding honestly amused at the idea, the detective said, "And to let you know, next time it could be worse."

"That's it," he said. "Jesus, Detective Reversa, I bet you that's just what happened."

"You could very well be right."

"And she threw the gun away. At least she threw the gun away. Though she could buy another. Or maybe she just hid it. But I don't care, I don't want to press charges."

"She shot shot you, Mr. Beckham." you, Mr. Beckham."

"I understand that," Jake said. "But I understand why she did it, and I understand it was a felony for her to do it, and if you can catch her on your own, that's fine. But I don't want to help. I'm sorry I said as much as I did."

Detective Reversa considered the situation, then nodded. "For your sake, Mr. Beckham," she said, "I hope Mrs. Langen appreciates your gesture."

9.

Nelson McWhitney was a bartender to begin with, but the bar he bought from his former boss never did make much of a living. A few of the regulars in the place, though, were connected to another line of work that was certainly more profitable but also chancier. Still, when these guys began to invite Nels along, he was happy to go. At first, he was just brought in for the heavy lifting, or the muscle if muscle were needed, but after a while he got to know some things, like how to open certain safes, how to bypa.s.s certain alarm systems, and his value to his partners only increased.

Unfortunately, mistakes by a couple of those partners had led to two brief stints inside, where he'd picked up a wider acquaintance, so he could pick his future partners with better care.

One of the first things he'd learned, way back, was never to trust those partners for a second. A thief is a thief. If he's stealing anyway, he might as well steal from his partners, if he gets the chance.

It had been a long while since Nels had given anybody that kind of chance. With his mistrust of his partners had come a certain pragmatic wariness and a habit of protecting himself in certain ways. For instance, if he was going to be working with this fellow or that fellow, he liked to know where the fellow could be found later on, just in case.

Whatever the dental gold job with Al Stratton might have turned out to be, it had aborted before Nels could do that kind of homework on the rest of the group, including Nick Dalesia, but Al Stratton he could find, and Stratton would know how to put Nels together with Dalesia.

He hadn't expected such stupidity from Dalesia. A man had died at that meeting. You don't make jokes about it. You don't hint to strangers-and a bounty hunter, no less!-that Nels McWhitney could tell you where to find Mike Harbin. That's just stupid.

What was it for? Revenge maybe, because Nels had brought Harbin to the meeting? Whatever Dalesia's reason, it was stupid, and Nels was looking forward to asking the question in person.

Which meant going to visit Al Stratton, who in his straight life was a furniture refinisher in a small town outside Binghamton, New York. Stratton had taken what had originally been a dairy farm, sold off the grazing land, lived in the farmhouse, and converted one of the barns to a workplace where he had room enough for any piece of furniture a customer might want dealt with.

Like most people who live some distance from town, Stratton kept a couple of dogs on the place that would let you live once their master said you were okay. McWhitney drove in from the county road, and as he circled the old wood-shingled house, both dogs came tearing out of the barn, yelping and throwing themselves around, snapping at the moving tires as McWhitney crunched along the gravel to stop at the barn's open door.

He kept the car windows closed, and one of the dogs lifted his forepaws onto the driver's door, onto the ledge just under the window, and dared McWhitney with a snarl. The other dog, still on the ground, ranged back and forth, barking.

Until Stratton came out and yelled at them. Then they immediately turned away from McWhitney and went trotting over to Stratton, who came a pace closer to peer through the windshield. When he recognized McWhitney, he nodded, waved, and said something more to the dogs as he pointed at the barn. Obediently they went inside, not bothering to look back, and Stratton came over to the side of the car as McWhitney rolled his window down.

Stratton said, "You surprised me."

"I don't like to talk on the phone."

"No, I understand that."

Stratton could be seen trying to figure this out. He and McWhitney didn't hang out together, had only a work relationship and not much of that.

"I need to find Nick Dalesia," McWhitney explained. "I figured you know where he is."

"Well, I did, did," Stratton said. His eyes were watchful.

"The thing is," McWhitney said, "there's a fella has maybe a job, and if he does have it there's maybe a spot in it for me. But he doesn't know me, and he does know Nick, though not where he is. But I need Nick to tell this guy I'm okay, and also maybe see if he wants a piece in it."

Stratton nodded. "Any more pieces around?"

"It's not my pie, Al. Sorry."

"I understand. I think I got a phone number for Nick."

"The way I've been told, Nick never answers his phone."

"I think he lives over in Connecticut or Ma.s.sachusetts," Stratton said. "I may have an address. You wanna come inside?"

"I don't know," McWhitney said. "Do I?"

Stratton grinned. "Oh, don't worry about the dogs. Once I tell them you're all right, you're all right. Unless you start beating on me."

"I'll remember not to," McWhitney said, and got out of the car.

He followed Stratton into the barn, which looked mostly like a stage set for some upscale family drama. It was all clean, but not particularly neat. A couple of old-fashioned sofas stood around among armoires, dining tables and chairs, some smaller tables, and a dry sink. Some of the items looked very good; others were in several pieces. Toward the rear of the place, the dogs were lying on old, scuffed blankets. They watched McWhitney, but didn't move.

Stratton led the way to an old rolltop desk against a side wall. "Customer never paid me for this," he said as he rolled the top up out of the way and sat down. "So it's mine now."

"It's a beauty."

The desk's pigeonholes were full of notepads of various sizes, thick envelopes, some folders. Stratton reached into the jumble, pulled out a smallish address book with a dark red cover, and said, "I only do first names in here, so that's how they're alphabetized. Here we are. Nick." Pointing to a corner of the desk, he said, "Take a sc.r.a.p of paper there, and a pencil."

"Sure."