"Sure is," Dalesia said. "We know he works over at that motel, so we didn't know if we should look for him here or there. What is it now?" He looked up at the round clock on the wall above and behind her. "Almost seven-thirty. I think he works days, doesn't he?"

"Lemme call him," she said, "see is he in."

"Thanks."

She had to look up the number in a ledger book from under the counter, then dialed it, listened, and perked up when she said, "Oh, Jake! There's a couple fellas here for you."

Dalesia said, "Tell him it's Nick."

"He says it's Nick."

Dalesia said, "Could I talk to him?"

"Hold on, Jake, he wants to talk to you."

Dalesia, full of good-fellowship, said into the phone, "Whadaya say, Jake? We're in the neighborhood, we thought we'd come by, say h.e.l.lo. If this isn't a bad time? Great. Nah, we'll come back to you, we're just driving through. See you in a minute." Handing the phone back to the woman, he said, "Thanks."

"Any time." She put the phone away and said, "You can't drive back there, though, we don't have room for cars inside. Even the residents, they park out here and walk in. Some keep little wagons behind here to carry their groceries."

"We don't mind walking," Dalesia a.s.sured her.

She turned and pointed at the wall behind her. "You go out there and walk straight, you're on Cans Way. First you cross is San Tropays Lane and the next is Nice Lane." She p.r.o.nounced it like "a nice day." "Nice Lane is what you want," she said. "Go down there to the right, Jake's house is second on your left, a very nice pea green."

"Thank you," Dalesia said, and they went back out the door they'd come in, around to the back of the onetime trailer, past a bunch of rusty red wagons chained to a long iron bar fastened to concrete blocks in the ground, and past an ordinary street sign, white letters on green, reading Cannes Way. Cannes Way.

The road was not much wider than the mobile homes parked to both sides. Dalesia said, "They must get themselves a river pilot to bring these things in and out."

"Maybe so."

"Or airlift them."

They pa.s.sed a cross street signed St. Tropez Way, St. Tropez Way, then turned right on then turned right on Nice Lane, Nice Lane, and there was Jake Beckham waiting for them, standing in the open doorway of his pea-green mobile home. and there was Jake Beckham waiting for them, standing in the open doorway of his pea-green mobile home.

"I know what you're gonna say," he said as they approached. "And don't say it."

Dalesia went on inside, but Parker stopped in the doorway, looked at Beckham, and said, "I was going to say, the job works just as good with you dead."

Beckham blinked, and Parker walked past him into a long, narrow living room with dark paneled walls and, on the small windows, red and white checked curtains like tablecloths in a French restaurant.

Dalesia had gone off to the right, to look in the bathroom and both bedrooms, while Parker turned left, to look at an empty small galley kitchen, the brushed-chrome built-ins neat but the dirty dishes piled on them not.

Dalesia and Parker both returned to the living room, shook their heads, and turned to Beckham, who had shut the door and stood with his back to it, warily watching them. Parker said, "Tell us about it."

"You didn't have to say that," Beckham told him. The usual boyishness that was such a misfit on him had been rattled now. He was acting his age. "That was unnecessary," he said, "you didn't have to say it."

"So far," Parker told him, "you're putting yourself at risk, and you're putting the job at risk. Is there any way you can put me me at risk? I don't think so, but now I'll wait and see." at risk? I don't think so, but now I'll wait and see."

Pursuing his own thought, Beckham said, "And it isn't even true, what you said. You don't need me? Of course you need me. If I'm dead, Elaine gives you nothing. If Elaine doesn't give, what've you got?"

"Jake," Dalesia said, sounding sad for his friend, "what Parker was saying was, you disappointed us. You disappointed me me, Jake, and I'm the one told Parker you were all right, the job was all right. He counted on me, Jake, and I counted on you."

"It's all figured out," Beckham said. Still with wary looks toward Parker, he took a step into the room. "Why don't we all sit down?" he suggested, and fluttered a hand at the plaid-and-maple furniture.

"Not yet," Parker said. "It was all figured out that you had to take yourself out of the job in a way the law would believe, or they'd be all over you and then all over our backtrail. That was what was figured out."

"It still is," Beckham insisted. "Dr. Madchen-"

Exasperated, Dalesia said, "Back with that, that, Jake? We already know that doesn't work." Jake? We already know that doesn't work."

"I can't do prison again," Beckham said. "I don't care if it's just a county jug somewhere, I can't do it, I can't go back, not again."

"Then there's no job," Parker said.

"There is. is. Will you listen to me about the doctor? We worked it out, I went to him, we got it worked out. Jesus Christ, fellas, come on, will ya? Sit down, we'll all sit down, let me tell you what we got, and if you don't like it, you don't like it, but no matter what happens, me being dead doesn't help, you know that." Will you listen to me about the doctor? We worked it out, I went to him, we got it worked out. Jesus Christ, fellas, come on, will ya? Sit down, we'll all sit down, let me tell you what we got, and if you don't like it, you don't like it, but no matter what happens, me being dead doesn't help, you know that."

"Maybe it relieves our feelings," Dalesia said, but he sat down, and so did Parker, and then so did Beckham.

Parker said, "You went back to this doctor."

"Yeah, I needed something except jail, I needed-"

"What does he know, this doctor?"

Beckham took a deep breath. "He knows I'm on my way to a score, so when I can retire. He knows the guys he saw in his office are in it."

"Does he know what the score is?"

"Yes, but he's all right, he isn't a problem for us, he's a help. I'm gonna give him a piece out of my share and you guys don't have to have anything to do with him. And in the meantime, he's solved this problem here."

Dalesia said, "How did he solve it, Jake?"

"The first change is," Beckham said, "I stay in the hospital." Now that he was getting to tell his story, the irrepressible kid inside him was beginning to emerge again, giving him more animated gestures. In that chair, his feet touched the floor, but he acted as though they didn't. "You remember," he said, "the original idea was, I was gonna sneak out of this private room, be part of the operation."

"That was never going to fly," Parker said.

"Okay, I've accepted that," Beckham said, moving his arms and his shoulders around. "I'm away from it, but I still get my taste."

"If you're locked up," Parker told him, "as a parole violator."

"This is just as good," Beckham insisted. "See, I go to the doctor about these stomach cramps, he does tests, he can't find the problem, it could be a bunch of things. Believe me, he knows what to put down for the diagnosis."

"We believe that, Jake."

"Fine. He puts me in the hospital for tests and observation, I'm going in next Monday, he's doing all the paperwork now, all the stuff to show the law, if anybody comes around-I even told my parole lady about it this morning. See, this was a long-term medical problem, the time was right to put me in the hospital, do the tests. If they don't find anything, fine, it was nerves, still shook up from being inside and then outside. Bring on all your second opinions in the world, n.o.body's gonna find a thing."

Dalesia said, "Parker? What do you think?"

Parker said, "Beckham, he was your doctor before you went inside, right?"

"Oh, yeah, we already knew each other, I was already his patient."

"Still a private room?"

"No! An eight-bed ward, man, it's all I can afford with the insurance I get at the motel."

"You're going in Monday."

"And today, in fact," Beckham said, "the doctor's started making the appointments for me, the date, the bed, the tests. I mean, the alibi's already started. started."

Dalesia said, "Parker? Okay?"

Parker shrugged. If it was going to happen, this would have to be the way. "It sounds good," he said.

"It is is good," Beckham insisted. good," Beckham insisted.

"And not wanting to go back inside . . ." Parker spread his hands. "I can understand that."

11.

When Parker got back to the lake a little before noon the next day, Claire was in the living room, reading a shelter magazine. She tossed it aside, got to her feet, and said, "Oh, good, I was hoping you'd be home before lunch. Take me someplace nice, with a terrace. There won't be many beautiful days like this left."

"We can drive over to Pennsylvania," he said. "There's some places along the river there."

She looked doubtful. "With good food?"

"You want good food and and a terrace?" a terrace?"

She laughed. "You're right. Come with me while I look at my hair. We got a very strange wrong number this morning."

"What kind of strange?" He stood in the bedroom doorway and watched her poke at her trim auburn hair, which had been flawless when she started.

"He asked for somebody called Harbin."

Harbin was the guy in Cincinnati who'd worn the wire. Parker said, "Then what?"

"I said wrong number, he said why didn't I ask around the people here, and I said there wasn't anybody to ask, not at the moment. He said he'd call back. There. All right?"

"Perfect," he said.

The guy called again the next day, Thursday. Claire took the call and brought it to Parker, looking at New England maps in the living room. "It's him again."

Parker took the phone, and she went away to give him privacy as he said, "Yeah?"

"I'm looking for Harbin." The voice was gravelly and a little false; not as though he were trying to sound tougher, but softer.

"Which Harbin would that be?"

"The Harbin from Cincinnati."

"Don't know the guy, sorry."

"Well, wait a minute, I think you can help me."

"I don't."

"From your phone number, I got a pretty good idea your general geographical location. I can get up into that northwest corner of New Jersey in, say, an hour. Give me directions to your place, we can talk it over."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"I just don't want to leave a stone unturned here," said the gravelly voice, sliding back and forth between menace and gentleness. "I'm the kind of guy, I'm dogged, I just keep coming."

"Then I tell you what," Parker said. "What kind of car you driving?"

"Oh, you wanna meet somewhere else. Sure, that's okay, I'm in a dark red Chevy Suburban, Illinois plates. What about you?"

"On Route Twenty-four," Parker told him, "eleven miles from the Delaware Water Gap, there's a Mobil station, north side of the road. I could be there in two hours."

"So could I, pal. What kinda car am I looking for?"

"I'll recognize you," Parker said.

Of course he didn't show up, but neither did Parker. The voice had said he could make it to this neighborhood in an hour, so forty-five minutes after the call, Parker took up a position at the diner across the road from the Mobil station and a little farther on toward Pennsylvania. From where he sat, he was un.o.btrusive, but he could see everything that drove by the Mobil station, and after two hours not one red Chevy Suburban had done so. There were no pedestrians out here along this country road through pine woods, so there was nothing for him to watch for but a car, and none showed up.

Had the guy lied about his car, or was he hanging even farther back somewhere behind Parker or down the other way, eastward, toward New York?

Who had the other people been at that meeting? Parker had never met any of them before except Nick Dalesia. What were their names? Stratton, their host, was the one Dalesia had known, who had invited Dalesia in. McWhitney was the one who'd brought the wired Harbin, but had sworn he hadn't known about it. The other two were Fletcher and Mott.

This gravelly voice on the phone was none of those, but he had to be connected to one of them. At this point, he could represent either side of the law.

But whatever he represented, Parker wanted nothing to do with him and didn't want to have to spend a lot of time on him. This week wasn't so bad, but after this week the bank job could happen on any day. He needed to find out who this guy was, who he was connected to, and what he wanted. And then he needed, one way or another, to make him go away.

Two hours and fifteen minutes outside the diner. It was now three hours since the call. Parker started the Lexus and drove away from there, not seeing any sudden activity in his mirrors.

He drove to the turnoff at the lake road, made the turn, and then drove very slowly, watching the intersection back there. He was almost around the first curve to the left, which would block the view, when a small black car made the turn into his mirror.

He accelerated around the curve, then slowed again. This road went all the way around the lake, partly straightaways and partly left-leaning curves, and then came back out onto the state highway two miles farther west.

Because he'd accelerated into the curve, then slowed, the small black car was closer when it next appeared, but it immediately braked, its nose dipping, then came on more slowly, trying to hang farther back.

It was the stutter that said this was no civilian. Parker drove on past his own driveway, with the mailbox marked WILLIS WILLIS, the name Claire used around here. Behind him, the black car kept pace, well back.

At the far end of the lake was a clubhouse Parker had never entered. The summer people used it for a number of things; then it was open weekends only, in fall and spring. It was closed now, the vehicles of a few maintenance workers cl.u.s.tered up against the low clapboard building. Parker turned in there, stopped among the other parked cars, and watched the black car, a Honda Accord with the mud of many miles on it, stream steadily by. The driver, alone in the car, was a woman. It was hard to see her face, because she was talking on a cell phone.