But had a stop to make first.

I slowed when I saw the mailbox embedded in the steel rims, pulled slowly down the dirt road to minimize b.u.mps and dust. The sun was just rising behind me, and as I rolled into the Beets' clearing I noticed that for the first time, the G.o.dd.a.m.n dog behind the main house wasn't howling and going nuts.

I looked to my left.

Black Escalade, Quebec plates. All four tires and wheels were off, the SUV sitting on half-a.s.sed jack stands of cinder blocks and wood. Best of all, the rear portion of the roof had been hacksawed off to turn the thing into a huge four-door pickup truck.

For all I knew, the dog out back wasn't howling because he'd finally been fed a decent meal.

I backed out. Didn't feel as bad as I'd thought I would.

Heroin.

As I pa.s.sed Dot's Place in Rourke, a block and a half from Mechanic Street, the thing I'd forgotten, the piece that prevented everything from clicking into place, hit me. It hit hard, the way those things always do. Hard enough so that I pulled over in front of a real-estate storefront with yellowing poster board in its window, the poster board covered with edges-curling snapshots of homes that would never sell.

I called my house. Waited, three rings, glanced at my Seiko, not yet seven o'clock, four rings, come on, don't let it go to voice mail....

"Yes?"

"Trey?"

"Yes."

"It's Conway. Get Patty Marx. Hurry."

She'd slept on the family room couch, basically our prisoner though n.o.body said so, Randall and I nervous over what she'd do if we sent her away. It took Trey forty-five seconds to wake her and get her to the phone, me staring at my watch, clicking possibilities.

"'Lo," she finally said.

"You researched Josh Whipple," I said. "The Utica killing happened when he was seventeen, and next thing you told us a Vermont newspaper profiled him."

"The tragic orphan. Right. So?"

"Where in Vermont?"

"What do you mean?"

"What paper? What town?"

"Jesus, I don't know. Want me to look it up?"

"Yes."

I waited some more as the laptop was fired up, the folder and Word doc.u.ment found, the link followed. What had Josh said at Purgatory Chasm? I'll tell Fred you said h.e.l.lo! I'd a.s.sumed it was bulls.h.i.t talk, that Josh had somehow learned Fred was missing and was shooting me a little f.u.c.k-you-very-much look.

Could it have been more than that? As I listened to Patty walk back to the phone, my belly prepped me for the worst, the way it always does.

"Brattleboro Reformer," she said.

It was the town I didn't want to hear. But knew I would.

"Brattleboro Reformer," she said again. "Got it? You there?"

"Have Trey put Randall on."

"You're welcome," Patty said. I heard grousing.

Trey got back on the line. "Isn't Randall with you, Conway?" he said.

"What?"

"He left shortly after you did. He said he was backing you up. I a.s.sumed you had arranged it."

Jesus Christ, that was a bad move. If I was right, and my belly told me I was, Fred was with Josh-and could lead him right to the house. And Josh had every reason to believe there was at least seventy-five grand there.

"Listen up, Trey," I said, keeping my voice calm. I needed him steady. "Wake everybody now and get the h.e.l.l out of that house."

"But-"

"Now, Trey. Pile in cars, pajamas and all, and drive to a police station, okay? Wait for me to call with an all clear. Now."

Spun my truck around, buried the throttle, dialed Randall. "I know you followed me," I said when he picked up. "Bad move. Worry about it later. Right now, let's make tracks for Framingham."

"Why?"

"Josh can find my house."

"How?"

I looked at my speedometer. Eighty-six and climbing.

"How, Conway?"

"I think Fred's working with him."

"Oh, Jeez-"

I clicked off and drove.

Brattleboro f.u.c.king Vermont. A hippy-dippy town, b.u.ms welcome. h.e.l.l, in the summer the whole town common turned into a big homeless camp, Panhandling Central.

Fred spent summers there for fifteen years at least. Somewhere along the way, he must have met Josh Whipple. Must have spewed hate about his son, the big NASCAR driver who never did a G.o.dd.a.m.n thing for him. The son who didn't even offer him a lift when they saw each other at a toll booth.

Before Fred took off, Charlene had heard those mystery phone calls.

When he took off, we a.s.sumed he'd gone on a bender.

Maybe he had.

But maybe he'd visited Josh and pitched revenge.

I prayed I wasn't too late.

But knew I was.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX.

Forty minutes later in Framingham, I stepped from my truck into a nightmare, the kind where you run and run through hip-deep mud. I knew right away Trey hadn't cleared the house in time. Why the h.e.l.l not? He should've had time.

I had to park thirty yards up the street because an ambulance and three Framingham Police Crown Vics clogged my driveway. One cop squatted behind his open door, service automatic in one hand, microphone in the other. He looked fourteen years old. He was scared s.h.i.tless. I ran past him, turned up the driveway, saw Trey's rented Dodge blocked in by the ambulance.

Nightmare sound track, the three types of sirens you hear at these things: cops, ambulance, and coming up the road a Framingham Fire Department truck, blatting looky-loos aside. They always send a fire truck, and n.o.body ever knows why.

There was something else in the sound track. Something buried in the mix, something I couldn't ID yet.

"The f.u.c.k outta the way!" It was an EMT, pulling the crash cart from the ambulance. I let him pa.s.s, then followed him across the brand-new deck and into the kitchen. He left the crash cart on the deck. On the kitchen floor, another EMT was working on something that looked like a b.l.o.o.d.y pile of bath towels.

It wasn't bath towels. It was Kieu Phigg, all hundred pounds of her. Barefoot, cotton pants, cotton top the color of an unripened banana, straight dark hair.

There wasn't much of a face left. There was blood and pulp and one eye that may or may not be aware of what was going on.

As both EMTs worked on Kieu, I finally ID'd the buried part of the nightmare sound track. Trey Phigg stood in the doorway leading to the stairs and living room. He pressed his hands to his head, a fistful of hair in each. His eyes were perfect circles. His mouth, too.

He was screaming.

Not screaming anything in particular. No words. He was making a howl that went on and on, and each time he ran out of wind he took a deep breath and screamed again. There was no comprehension in his eyes. He didn't recognize me. He just screamed and tried to pull his hair out.

Trey would have to wait. I stepped past him and turned to go upstairs. But I heard heavy footsteps and a cop-belt rattle, heard a voice say, "Upstairs clear."

I was lucky. It was Matt Bogardis clomping down the stairs, clipping his radio mic to his shirt pocket. I've known Matt a long time, since before he got on the cops. He said, "What the h.e.l.l, Conway?"

"It's my house."

"I know. What the h.e.l.l?"

"I don't know. My cats okay up there?"

"Didn't see 'em; must be hiding," he said, and took a left into the kitchen. "Stick around, okay?"

I said nothing. Walked into the living room as Matt and one of the EMTs tried to calm Trey.

And there he was. He was so still, so quiet, a couple cops might have walked past without noticing him for all I knew.

Tuan Phigg.

He sat on the floor a few feet from the TV, watching a blue puppet try to pogo-stick.

In the kitchen, Trey's scream wound down. When the last one died he switched to something else: He said, "Ow." Like he'd b.u.mped his knee on a table. Then he said it again. "Ow." His voice was hoa.r.s.e: He'd screamed his throat raw. "Ow," over and over.

Tuan stared, sitting cross-legged, rocking a little at the waist.

I knelt. I stroked his hair. I said his name.

He eye-locked the TV.

I picked him up. He didn't resist, but as I carried him out he stared at the TV until he couldn't see it.

A voice said, "Who the f.u.c.k are you?" As I turned to face the voice I heard fumbling, then "Freeze!"

It was another cop, stepping from the smaller first-floor bedroom. Like the guy out front, he looked very young. "Got one out here, Matt!" he hollered, his gun shaking. "Release the child! Release the child, motherf.u.c.ker!"

They watch cop movies, cop TV shows. They think it's how they're supposed to talk.

Matt Bogardis stepped through the doorway. "Settle down," he said to the other cop. "He's the home owner. He's okay."

I watched the other cop's Adam's apple bob as he gulped, relieved. He nodded toward the bedroom he'd just left. "Get an EMT in there," he said to Matt. "Got another vic, an old lady."

Jesus. I'd forgotten about Myna. And where the h.e.l.l was Patty?

While Matt hollered for an EMT and stepped into the bedroom, I went to the kitchen, making sure my body blocked Tuan's view of his mother. Trey sat in a kitchen chair, an untouched gla.s.s of water on the table in front of him. Two EMTs worked on Kieu, not giving up, but the way her face looked ... there couldn't be a lot of urgency anymore.

"Trey," I said. "You don't need to be in here. Come to the living room."

Nothing. He stared dead ahead. I saw dots of blood at his temples where he'd torn his hair.

"Trey," I said, rocking his shoulder with one arm, blocking Tuan's view as the boy squirmed.

Nothing.

I got p.i.s.sed. "Trey Phigg!" I punched his right bicep-harder than I meant to. "Be a man!"

The way I said it made the EMT turn to look at me. "Easy, bro."

"His kid needs him!"

The EMT made an okay-okay-back-off gesture and turned away.

Trey Phigg stood. I pa.s.sed him Tuan. "Your boy needs you," I said. "Get him out of this room."