It looked like the kind of place where you'd expect to find throwbacks.

It looked exactly like the kind of place where Lane expected to find Riley Benson.

I must be out of my mind.

She grabbed the strap of her bag and dragged it behind her as she climbed from the car. She lifted the strap onto her shoulder. On wobbly legs she made her way around the front of the car, stepped onto the curb, crunched over gravel, and climbed a few stairs to the front door.

She thumbed the door-bell button, but no sound came from inside.

So she knocked.

"Yeah?" A woman's voice. "Who is it?"

"A friend of Riley's she called.

The door opened. The woman standing on the threshold looked too young to be Riley's mother. Maybe in her late twenties. Her blue eyes seemed too pale for the deep tan of her face. Her blond hair, neatly brushed, hung to her shoulders and draped her brow. Her tank top, tie- dyed pink, was cut off to leave her midriff bare. Lane could see her nipples through the fabric. She wore cutoff blue jeans low on her hips.

Her feet were bare.

She doesn't look like anybody's mother, Lane thought. Maybe Riley's sister. Or maybe he'd already found himself a replacement for Jessica.

"Don't just stand there gawking," she said. "Come on in."

"Is Riley home?" Lane asked, climbing the steps.

"You say you're a friend of his? You sure don't look it."

"Well, I knew Jessica."

"That poor thing."

Inside, the mobile home smelled good-a coffee aroma blended in with hints of perfume and maybe floor wax.

"Have a seat, darling. I'll tell him you're here."

Lane sat at a table in the kitchen area and watched the woman stride down a harrow passageway. The jeans were frayed where the legs had been cut off, and strands of ragged denim dangled against the backs of her thighs. Her right thigh was smudged with a nasty bruise that reminded Lane of those she'd seen on herself today.

Near the far end of the corridor she rapped gently on a door. Then she rolled it open and stepped out of sight.

"You've got a visitor, honey." Though she spoke in a hushed voice, Lane easily heard her.

"Huh?"

"Well, take the blessed headphones off."

"What?"

"You've got a visitor."

"The cops?"

"No, it's not the cops. It's a nice young gal who says she's a friend of Jessica's."

"Oh, Jesus." "You watch your tongue."

"I don't wanta see nobody, Mom."

She was his mother?

"Put on your shirt and go on out and talk with her. And try to keep a civil tongue in your head."

As Riley's mother came out of the room, Lane turned her eyes away.

The salt shaker on the table was a little plastic dog, the pepper shaker a red fireplug.

"He'll be right along," she said. "I ought to warn you, though, he's been in a mighty foul mood lately. First it was Jessica's murder, then the police bothering him, and then he got into trouble with some gal at school and got himself expelled. This has been a mighty bad week for him, the poor kid."

"I'm really sorry," Lane said. "Some of it's my fault, I guess. I'm the one who got him kicked out of school."

Riley's mother frowned. "I hope he didn't hurt you. I heard what he did, and-"

"You!"

The mother looked around. "Be nice, honey."

Riley stepped around her. "What're you doing here, Dunbar?"

"I just want to talk a minute."

"Whatever you've gotta say, I don't wanta hear it."

The mother turned on him, scowling and shoving her fists against her hips. "Did you hear what I said about being nice?"

"Mom, for godsake!"

"I just want to talk to you a minute," Lane said. "It's really important."

"Maybe the two of you should step out front. There isn't much privacy in this place." She fixed her eyes on Riley. "You be a gentleman, or you'll be sorry."

He wrinkled his nose. Glaring at Lane, he said, "Okay. Let's go out.

But make it quick."

Lane stood up. "It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Benson."

"Nice to meet you, honey." She held out her hand. "The name's Melanie. You can call me Mel."

Lane shook the woman's hand. "I'm Lane Dunbar."

"Hope to see more of you around here."

"Don't hold your breath," Riley told her.

He led the way outside. Lane followed him to the road. He sat down on the hood of her car. "Okay, what's the fuckin' idea?"

"Your mom's nice."

"Yeah, sure, a sweetheart. She's probably got an eye on us, or I'd take you apart, you fuckin' cunt."

"I came here to tell you who killed Jessica." He sneered. "Yeah, sure."

"Kramer did it."

The sneer fell away. He stared at Lane. He said nothing.

"Kramer got me alone last night. He beat me up and raped me."

Riley's eyes narrowed. "You don't look beat up." His voice came out quiet, uncertain.

"He didn't hurt my face."

"How do I know he did anything to you?"

Lane checked the area ahead. On the other side of the street was empty land, a barren hillside. Keeping her back to Riley's home, she fumbled open three buttons. She spread the front of her blouse wide enough for him to see her breasts. "That's just some of it," she muttered, closing the blouse.

"Kramer did that to you?"

"And plenty more. And he had a razor with him. He said he'd use it on me if I talked. He said he'd kill me and my family. I think that's what happened to Jessica and her parents."

Riley slumped forward and clutched his knees. His head lowered. For a while he just sat like that on the car's hood, staring down. Then he raised his head and met Lane's eyes. "Jessica looked like that. After she got herself pounded. She said it was a gang of spies got her behind the mini-mart."

"It was Kramer."

"I'm gonna kill him," Riley said.

"I'm gonna help you."

Lane swung the denim bag forward. Clutching it to her belly, she reached inside and took out a revolver. "It's my dad's," she said. "It's just a twenty-two, but-"

"That'll do just fine," Riley said.

Lane waited in the car while Riley went back inside his home. A few minutes passed. Then he came out and climbed into the passenger seat. "I told the old lady we're going to a matinee."

Lane took the paper out of her blouse pocket. She checked the second address.

"What's that?"

"It's where Kramer lives."

"All right."

She put the paper away and started to drive.

"I've got something for him," Riley said. He tugged up a cuff of his blue jeans, reached down and came up with a knife. Lane glanced at it. The thing looked wicked. Its blade must've been eight inches long.

"Here's how we're gonna work it," he said. "You keep the motherfucker covered with the gun. I'll do him. Don't you go shooting him up unless he makes a break for it."

"We'll be each other's alibis," Lane said, her voice shaking.

"Fuck alibis. I don't care if they get me for it."

"I do. And I'm sure your mother does. If we're caught, we might not get charged with anything, or end up with suspended sentences. I mean, I don't think a jury's going to put us away for this. But let's try to work it so the cops don't come looking."

"Oh yeah? How do you figure we can manage that?"

"Why don't we make it look like suicide?"

"Fuck that. I'm gonna cut his dick off. I'm gonna cut his head off."

"Maybe we can make him write a suicide note. Make him confess what he did to Jessica. On paper. Then we hang him. Right there in his house."

"You read too many fucking books."

"It's worth a try."

On Kramer's street, two blocks from where his house should be, Lane swung the car to the curb. She faced Riley. He had the knife in his right hand, rubbing its blade along the leg of his faded jeans.

"Why don't we walk from here?" she said. "That way, nobody's likely to connect the car with what happens to Kramer." She paused and tried to catch her breath. She hadn't been doing anything, but she felt as if she'd just finished dashing up a few flights of stairs. "I'll go on ahead first. Give me a couple of minutes head start."

"You'll be alone in there with him."

"Don't I know it," she muttered. She lifted the bag onto her lap and dropped the keys inside. After a quick look around to make certain no one was in sight, she took out the revolver. She set the bag on the floor. Leaning back against the seat, she untucked her blouse, lifted its front, and slid the muzzle under the waistband of her skirt. It only went down an inch before pushing against her pubic mound. Lowering the blouse, she held the gun against her belly. She opened the door and climbed out.

"Good luck," Riley said.

"Thanks." She shut the door. Facing the car, she slipped the revolver farther down until it was snug between her skirt and body. She glanced down at herself. The hanging front of her blouse concealed the bulges.

The back of the blouse was glued to her skin. She peeled it away, but as soon as she let go, it stuck again.

There was no sidewalk in this neighborhood, so she walked along the edge of the road. The barrel pressed her groin. The front sight sometimes scraped the inner side of her left thigh, so after a while she nudged the gun butt sideways. Then the muzzle was stroking her right thigh with each step she took. But it was smooth, and didn't scratch her the way the sight did.