"About what?"

"Karen," he said.

"In what way?"

"She wasn't weak. She was good."

"Yeah, she was."

"That might be why she died."

I didn't say anything.

"Maybe this is how G.o.d punishes the bad," he said.

"How's that, Doctor?"

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. "He lets us live."

35.

Christopher Dawe drove home to his wife with instructions to pack a bag and check into the Four Seasons, where I'd reach him when this was over.

"Whatever you do," I said before he drove off, "don't answer either your cell phone, your pager, or your home phone."

"I don't know if-"

I held out my hand. "Give me them."

"What?"

"Your cell phone and your pager. Now."

"I'm a surgeon. I-"

"I don't care. This is your son's life, not a stranger's. Your phone and pager, Doctor."

He didn't like it, but he handed them over, and we watched him drive away.

"The rest stop's bad," Bubba said once I climbed in his van. "There's no way to guess at his defenses. I like Plymouth."

"But the place in Plymouth's probably a lot more heavily fortified," Angie said.

He nodded. "Predictably, though. I know where I'd put the trip wires if I was in for the long haul. The rest stop, though?" He shook his head. "I can't deal with him if he's improvising. It's too risky."

"So we go to Plymouth," I said.

"Back to the bog," Angie said.

"Back to the bog."

Christopher Dawe's cell phone rang just as we pulled off the expressway into Plymouth. I held it to my ear as Bubba's taillights flashed red at the stop sign ahead, palmed the shift into neutral.

"You're late, Doctor."

"Scottie!" I said.

Silence.

I cradled the phone between my shoulder and ear, shifted up to first, and turned right behind Bubba.

"Patrick," Scott Pea.r.s.e said eventually.

"I'm kind of like bronchitis, don't you think, Scott? Every time you're sure you're through with me, I come back."

"That's a good one, Pat. Tell it to the doctor when his son's aorta shows up in the mail. I'm sure he'll have a good laugh."

"I got your money, Scott. You want it?"

"You have my money."

"Yup."

Bubba turned off the main drag onto the access road that cut through the edge of the Myles Standish forest and would eventually lead us to the bog.

"What sort of hoops do I have to jump through for it, Pat?"

"Call me Pat one more time, Scottie, and I'll f.u.c.king burn it."

"Okay, Patrick. What do I need to do?"

"Give me your cell phone number."

He gave it to me and I repeated it to Angie, who wrote it down on the pad held by a suction cup to my glove box.

"Nothing will happen tonight, Scott, so go home."

"Wait."

"And if you try to contact the Dawes, you'll never see a dime of this money. We clear?"

"Yeah, but-"

I hung up.