"Exactly. War of the crackpots."

"So they think someone from this hunting lodge place killed him?" Earl asked.

Meyerson flipped his hand dismissively. "No. Green Tomorrow's gone on to bigger pastures. Now they're involved in trying to stop old growth logging out in Oregon. They've deployed a bunch of hippie chicks to sit up in trees.

"The logging company claims it'll go bankrupt if they can't cut these trees, the loggers are all up in arms over their jobs, and the locals are equally divided and going after each other every day. The FBI figures Green Tomorrow's opponents in Oregon sent someone to kill Golding here to deflect suspicion from them."

"Doesn't seem to have worked," Frank observed. "The FBI must have some evidence to back that theory up."

"They probably do, but they're not sharing it with me," Meyerson complained. "Just to make sure they've got their a.s.ses covered, they've got me checking out Mrs. Golding and the sidekick, Barry Sutter."

"And do they have alibis?" Frank asked.

"Ironclad. Sutter was still on the Thruway at the time of the murder, on his way up here to meet Golding. Several employees at the Malden rest area remember him-apparently he got into a rather loud debate about the environmental implications of fast-food packaging. And Mrs. Golding was with her sister in Saratoga Springs."

"The sister could be lying to cover for her," Earl pointed out.

Meyerson twisted in his seat and stared at Earl for a full five seconds before replying. "Three neighbors saw Mrs. Golding out walking the sister's dog at 6:30 A.M. It takes two hours to get from Saratoga to here. Golding was killed before 8:30."

Frank spoke up before Earl could dig himself in any deeper. "So what did you need my help with?"

"Apparently Golding was seen talking to a woman from Trout Run the day before he was killed." Meyerson paused to consult his notes. "A Beth Abercrombie. She's not at that craft shop she runs. Any idea where I could find her?"

Frank had been meaning to call Meyerson to tell him what he'd learned from Beth. "Actually," he began, "I happened to run into her yesterday afternoon. She hadn't heard about the murder yet, and when I told her the news she was shocked. Seems she knew Golding from her college days." He glanced up to see if Lew was ready to start bl.u.s.tering, but he looked only vaguely interested.

Frank resumed his story. "Beth said Golding looked her up recently. The day she was seen with him in Malone's, they were discussing his plans to try to shut down Raging Rapids."

"Raging Rapids? Why would he care about that?" Meyerson asked.

"That's what I wondered."

Frank and Meyerson locked eyes for a moment; then Meyerson shrugged. "It's probably nothing. According to the Feds, Green Tomorrow and a lot of these other environmental groups are just a bunch of loosely organized cells. The way they work is, the leaders go around rabble-rousing and getting the locals worked up about something; then they step back and let the locals take over the protests. That way the left hand never knows what the right hand is doing and they can't rat each other out. For instance, Golding claimed he knew nothing about the bombing in Colorado. Said he couldn't help what his followers do."

"Yeah, but why has Green Tomorrow chosen Raging Rapids as the next project?" Frank asked. "It's small potatoes."

"The hunting lodge was no big deal, either," Meyerson said, "until the bombs went off. I think his strategy is-was-to sow his seeds far and wide and see what sprouts."

"What's sprouting here on Wednesday is a demonstration in front of Raging Rapids by Katherine Petrucci. She runs the nursery school at the Presbyterian Church. I don't know if Beth will be involved in it or not."

Meyerson sighed. "I'm sure it's another dead end, but I better go talk to her."

"It couldn't hurt," Frank agreed.

"I'll let you know what I find out."

"Thanks, Lew." Frank smiled as he watched Meyerson trudge across the Green toward the church. He liked Lew a lot better when he was the FBI's gofer than when he was running his own show.

"There's a Mrs. Finn for you on line one," Doris announced.

Frank pressed the blinking b.u.t.ton eagerly. Maybe Sheltering Arms had contacted the Finns again.

"Hi, Mrs. Finn-what can I do for you?"

"I-I'm sorry to bother you..."

"No bother. Do you have some new information for me?"

"No...I was hoping you might have some news. Have you discovered anything more about Sheltering Arms?"

"No, ma'am. I'm afraid your husband was right. They were very good at covering their tracks. We'll keep trying to recover your money for you, but it doesn't look promising."

"Oh, the money. I don't care about...I mean, I do care, but that's not why I called. I wondered if you had any news about Sarah?"

"No, we haven't been able to locate the baby."

"Oh." Her voice sounded tiny and crushed. There was a long pause, then she began to speak in a rush. "I'm sick about this, just sick. I just want to know that Sarah is okay. I've accepted that she'll never be ours, but I have to know that she's with a good family and not some, some..."

Horse traders. Frank spoke gently to Mrs. Finn. "I know it's upsetting, ma'am. I'll be sure to let you know when I have some news."

"Okay. Thank you."

She hung up, just as Earl came in looking forlorn. "After I sent the e-mail, Edwin made me a snack, and then we checked just to see if they had answered yet. But the message bounced. It came back 'not a known address.' "

Frank didn't bother to look up from what he was doing. "That doesn't surprise me. They're covering their tracks. Close one account, open another."

"What did you make me go over there for, if you knew it wasn't going to work?" Earl sulked.

"Never take anything for granted, Earl. Do you want to work on the next lead, or do I have to promise you it's going to pan out?"

Earl sighed. "What?"

"Do a search-see if you can find any references to Sheltering Arms on the Internet."

"Any luck?" Frank asked, after Earl had been working quietly for half an hour.

"Not yet. The top hit for 'Sheltering Arms' is the Web site for some romance writer named Aneliese Dupree. Then you get a lot of hits for animal shelters, battered women's shelters, injured wildlife shelters. Now I'm going to search on 'independent adoption'-see what that turns up."

"That's why you're better at this than me, Earl. I would've given up already."

Earl smiled, pushed his lank hair out of his eyes, and reapplied himself to the search. Frank watched him for a moment. Paying the kid a compliment worked wonders on his productivity-he ought to do it more often.

They worked in companionable silence for more than an hour. Finally Earl glanced up. "What are you doing?"

"I've been making a list of papers in a hundred-mile radius of here. When you're done with what you're doing there, call them all and see if an ad like the one in The Herald has run recently."

The "Why?" was written on Earl's face, although he didn't speak it.

"After what happened to Mary Pat, they're not going to try to recruit again in Trout Run," Frank explained. "But I figure the Adirondacks are too good a territory for them to give up. A rural, white population, not far from their buyers-couples with money in Albany, Westchester, New York City. It beats getting the babies from West Virginia, or Arkansas."

"I may as well start calling now. All I've found so far are lots of chat rooms and newsgroups and discussion lists about independent adoption. It'll take forever to visit them all."

"All right. Save the notes on what you found. It might still come in handy."

13.

"WHAT DO YOU HAVE in the pipeline?"

"Nothing. You said to stop running the ads for a while."

"I know, but I was hoping-"

"What?"

"Those d.a.m.n Braithwaites are making trouble again. I told them it would be months before we could find them another baby, but they're not willing to wait. Chip says he paid his money, and we didn't hold up our end of the bargain when we offered them Mary Pat's baby. As he put it, 'clearly not what we specified.' "

"Specified! Does he think he's ordering a new BMW? Tell him to get lost."

"Believe me, I'd like to. But he's threatening to expose us if we don't produce a nice WASP baby for him right away."

"How can he expose us without getting in trouble himself? No one would believe he didn't know what he was doing was illegal."

"He knows politicians. He knows high-priced lawyers. He'll act like a pathetic victim and get out of it with a slap on the wrist, and we'll be screwed. We have to give him what he paid for."

"Can't you just give him back the money?"

"The money is long gone."

Frank had left a message on the Pennimans' answering machine, saying he wanted to schedule a time to come out and talk to them both. Judy Penniman, sounding none too friendly, had called back to say he could come at seven. He'd learned from Walter Carruthers, owner of the Stop'N'Buy, that Anita Veech would be working tonight, so he figured he'd swing by and see her after he finished with the Pennimans. By the end of the night he ought to know what Mary Pat was doing on Harkness Road.

When he pulled into the Pennimans' driveway, he noticed the cab of Doug's eighteen-wheeler parked beside the garage. From its size it had a sleeping berth behind the driver's seat, so Doug must make long-distance hauls. Maybe that explained why the yard looked so overgrown and the paint on the front door was peeling. With Doug away, most of the work around the house must fall on Judy's shoulders.

He rang the doorbell and immediately heard heavy footsteps pounding and a male voice yelling, "I'll get it! I'll get it!" A female voice replied in a softer tone, and when the door opened, it was Judy Penniman who greeted him. A good-looking, broad-shouldered boy stood behind her. Frank didn't recall ever seeing him hanging around town with the other local kids.

"Come on in," she said. "Doug's in here." She led the way to the dark-paneled living room, where Doug Penniman was stretched out in a plaid recliner before a blaring TV. A rack full of guns stood in the corner. He sat up and pressed the Mute b.u.t.ton on his remote, but let the baseball game continue to flicker across the screen. The boy had followed them in and was pacing around the room, running his fingers through his wiry dark hair.

"Do you like baseball?" he asked, before his father could even say h.e.l.lo. "Do you like the Red Sox? I love the Red Sox, but they never win the World Series. It's the curse of the Bambino. Do you know what that is?"

"Yes, I-"

The boy steamrolled over Frank's attempt to answer. "Back in 1920 the Sox got rid of Babe Ruth and-"

"All right, Bill. Chief Bennett didn't come out here to talk about baseball," Doug said.

Bill kept talking, as his pacing became more agitated. "They should never have gotten rid of the Babe. Once the Babe went to the Yankees-"

"Bill!" The muscles in Doug's powerful arms flexed as he made to get up from his chair. "That's enough."

Frank watched as Judy shot her husband a dirty look. "Billy, you need to go to your room now and finish your handwriting a.s.signment." She spoke to Bill in a low, patient voice, like a horse trainer soothing a high-strung Thoroughbred. "If you don't go, I'll have to take away your baseball cards for the evening. I'll count to three. One. Two."

"No, no! No three!" Bill shouted and he ran out of the room.

Frank's amazement at seeing a kid who looked to be high school age act like this must have been written on his face.

"Sorry about that." Doug clenched and released his big hands. "Bill's got Asperger's syndrome. He-"

"You don't have to apologize for him," Judy snapped. "He's doing great, and he'd be even better if you-"

Frank, who had taken a seat between the two parents, extended a hand toward each. "Look, don't worry about it." He smiled at Judy and used a deescalation ploy he'd learned as a beat cop. "Could I trouble you for a gla.s.s of water? I don't know why I'm so thirsty today."

Judy stamped off toward the kitchen and Doug sat in his recliner, ma.s.saging his temples. Each finger had a tuft of thick, black hair, but there was no wedding ring. As the tension dissipated, he seemed to remember he wasn't alone. "So what was it you wanted to talk to us about?"

"Mary Pat Sheehan."

"I just heard about her dying when I got home yesterday. That's a shame."

"You were away all week?" Frank inquired.

"Yeah, New York to California, to Texas, and back home again."

"Did you know Mary Pat well?"

"The Stop'N'Buy sells diesel, so I fill up there a lot. You know how friendly Mary Pat is. Was."

"Did she ever visit you here at home?"

"Visit us?" Judy asked as she came back. "Why would she visit us?" She handed Frank the water, sloshing some out of the hazy, jam-jar gla.s.s.

"I'm trying to determine who she was with right before she died. You may have heard, she didn't die because of the crash."

"We heard," Judy said.

"What do you mean?" Doug asked simultaneously.

"She was pregnant and she died of complications from the birth." Bitterness, not the force of gravity, had tugged Judy's features toward the floor. "I told you. You never listen." Then she turned her irritation on Frank. "I don't see what it's got to do with you, anyway. Her parents don't want you stirring things up. You oughta respect that."

"I'm trying to find out what happened to her baby," he said, then focused on Doug. "Any idea what brought her out here that day?"

"She must've been dropping something off, doing someone a favor. Once Bill left his baseball cards in the Stop'N'Buy, and she brought them back here. She was that kind of a person-she'd go out of her way for you."

"Your neighbor, Nyquist, says he saw Mary Pat out here on a regular basis."

Judy snorted. "That senile old fool. He talks just to hear himself."