"He got parole early November, went missing from the halfway house after Thanksgiving. The asshole couldn't even give me the exact date. But he's wanted down there on an assault charge that could go up to something else if the victim succumbs. That's what he said. The asshole, I'm talking about. Succumbs. A social worker."

"They never sent us anything?"

"Nope."

He'd always known Whitey would be free someday, had even wondered at one time what he'd do if he saw him on the street. But as the years went by, he'd thought less and less about Whitey, and after hearing of the transfer to Florida, almost nothing. Hadn't forgotten him, more a case of reclassifying him as one of those bad accidents that can happen to people. Now, with Anne Franklin at the medical examiner's, it was all fresh again, and personal.

They pulled up at 97 Carp Road, jumped out, took aim, summoned Whitey on the bullhorn. Nothing, of course. Savard walked up to the duct-taped front window and did what he'd been about to do the night before: looked through.

"Goddamn it," he said. No one's stupidity bothered him like his own. He strode to the front door and broke it down. They went into the lousy little place and stood around the body of Mrs. Truax. The cat came in the open doorway and rubbed itself against Lisa's leg.

Whitey drank the last can of Pepsi, tossed it out the window. Late afternoon, deep in the woods on an old lumber road, maybe into Maine, running the engine from time to time to keep warm. The cold had never bothered him before, but it did now. Last can of Pepsi, and the gas-down to what? A quarter of a tank, although he could see space between the quarter line and the needle, a hair below. But call it a quarter. And on the radio, zip. Nothing but static-proving how deep in the woods he was.

What else? He felt like shit, hurt all over, chest and face especially. And that face in the mirror: nasty. Hungry, too, and nothing to eat. He counted his money: $542. Not bad-had he ever had more in his pocket?-but he couldn't figure out how to make it help him.

Whitey saw his breath, smelled it, too. When was the last time he'd had pickles? He thought of the stripper bar where he'd had lunch before . . . whatever had gone down went down. Those silicone tits or whatever they were-was that the same stuff they made computer brains out of?-seemed a lot more appealing now, out here in the cold. Too fucking cold. He switched on the engine again, cranked the heat up full blast, lay down on the bench seat. From there he could gaze up at the trees, all bare and spiky, pressing down from high above. He didn't like that at all, and closed his eyes.

When Whitey woke up, it was dark and the needle on the lit-up dash was down, way down, almost on empty, dropping closer and closer as he watched. Not that empty meant empty-he knew his car. Then the warning light went on. He switched off the engine. Metal popped for a minute or two, and by then it was getting cold again, much too cold already. A man, even a man like him, could freeze solid in the woods on this sort of night. Without gas in the tank, he would die. He turned on the light, counted his money again. Five forty-two: piss. Seventeen years and that was what he had to show for it. Made him mad.

And millions, or at least a million, had been in reach. He remembered how it felt to be a giant, capable of ripping trees out of the ground. He didn't feel like that now. Master of puppets I'm pulling your strings. Those words meant something, contained some message for his ears alone, but he didn't know what. And then there was the girl in the miniskirt, sucking on grapes. Sounded good. Worth a million or more, meaning it was painted by a famous artist, such as Picasso, or others, who didn't come to mind at that moment. Had Roger ever mentioned the name of the artist? No. Just one more of his fuckups. Whitey went over the fuckups-no Brinks truck, no painting, no mention of a woman who would try to kill him. No mention either that Roger would park on the wrong side of the river, would be lurking around the cottage with an ax. What had Roger been planning to do with that ax? Whitey knew the answer to that, had seen it on Roger's face under the porch light, had smashed in the window of Roger's car because of it, but still it made no sense. Did Roger blame him in some way for the fuckups? Whitey wasn't able to think his way through that one. Could have been killed, twice, and didn't even know why. Someone owed him an explanation. And what about benefits, like his medical expenses, and danger pay? He realized that everything had changed the moment Roger stepped on his toe.Why hadn't he done something then and there? He dwelled for a while on the memory of what had happened to an inmate down in Florida who'd just brushed against him in the chow line, spilling Whitey's pudding. This was a democracy. No special treatment for anyone. So what did Roger deserve now?

But he was cold, hungry, weak, deep in the woods: all on the bad side.Was there anything on the good side, anything going for him? Only the fact that he knew where Roger lived. And the night. Night was his friend. Whitey fired up his truck.

He nosed his way back out of the deep woods, out of the darkness, silence, long shadows, the chains taking him safely to the first plowed country road. A plowed road, but no sign of life, nothing but whiteness outside and the red of the warning light in the cab. By the time he saw the glow of the first crummy village, the needle had sunk far below the empty mark, almost the width of his baby finger. The engine stuttered once, twice, and died-just as he rolled up to a one-pump station at the cross-roads. He got the feeling it was meant to be.

A kid appeared.

"Fill it," Whitey said.

The kid didn't move for a moment, staring at Whitey's face in the glare of the pump lights.

"Hockey game," Whitey said.

The kid nodded. "Sell Band-Aids inside."

Whitey went in, bought Band-Aids, sandwiches, candy bars, a shake, said, "Hockey game," to the woman at the cash before she could even ask; he was coming back.

"You guys," she said.

He was in Maine, all right, could tell by the way they talked. He got back in the pickup, stuck the Band-Aids over his stitches, tried a chicken sandwich. That hurt too much to eat, so he just downed the shake-had to keep his strength up for what lay ahead-and headed south.

Night is my friend. Sounded like a line from a song, a good one, a Metallica song. Whitey tried to think of what could come next. End rhymed with friend, but what went in between? He couldn't get from friend to end, soon gave up, tried the radio instead. Now a few stations came in, but unsteady and playing shit. He switched it off.

Whitey stopped in the last town before the turnpike, filled up again, bought two quarts of chocolate milk, drank them in the 7-Eleven parking lot, felt better right away. He worked his way through a candy bar, taking little bites, chewing carefully, then started on the chicken sandwich: yes, getting stronger-he was something else. A bus pulled in, BOSTON in the destination box, and a woman stepped down, followed by the driver. The driver went into the store; the woman got into a waiting pickup, almost as old as Whitey's, put her arms around the man behind the wheel, and gave him a big kiss. Then she saw Whitey watching and sat back in her seat; they drove away.

Whitey hit the radio button again. Plenty of stations now. He turned the dial, heard bits of this and that: oldies, folk, jazz, commercials, "-nald 'Whitey' Truax," "down to minus twent-"

His name? Had he heard his name on the radio? He twisted his way back up the dial, failed to find the station, or if he did, it was playing music now. His name on the radio? He thought ahead to the turnpike with its toll-booths, its speed traps; and his truck, all white with that REDEEMER shit on the side.

And got out fast. He walked across the parking lot to the bus, waited outside the closed door. After a minute or two, the driver came out of the 7-Eleven, scratching at instant tickets. "One," Whitey said to him, getting out his money.

"All the way?"

"Huh?"

The driver gave him a look, took in the Band-Aids and his fucking hair. "Boston," he said. "End of the line."

"Yeah," said Whitey.

Whitey sat at the back, the only passenger at first, one of only a few by the end. It was warm on the bus, and with the winter night gliding by outside and what he'd been through, Whitey should have fallen asleep right away. But he couldn't sleep, not with the flashing blue lights he saw from time to time, not with his name out there on the radio, not with things so uneven between him and Roger. He was back on a bus, didn't even have his truck-would never have it again. Would never have it again: he stopped thinking about the future right there, at least of any future beyond evening things up with Roger. What did he have? The night, and knowing where Roger lived. What did he need? A hat for one thing, to hide the hair he saw glowing back at him from his window at the back of the bus.

He bought one at the pushcart stand in South Station, red wool with Holy Cross written on the front. In the bathroom, he pulled it low over his ears and forehead, turned up the collar of his leather jacket, hunched down inside. He checked himself in the mirror: could have been anybody. Anybody nasty. Whitey walked out into the city.

And lost the night right away. The sky seemed to brighten almost at once, as though everything was speeding up, black rushing to turn blue, a cloudless icy blue with a cold wind whipping through the downtown streets and pain on the faces of all the well-dressed people walking fast to wherever. No one looked at anybody. Whitey walked fast, too, tall in his cowboy boots, trim in his leather jacket, anonymous in his wool hat. Daytime, but safe for now.

He was hungry, craved doughnuts, soft and sweet, hot chocolate, coffee with lots of sugar, but passed by every restaurant; couldn't go in, not with his name out there on the radio. He came to the statue of George Washington; an icicle hung from the end of his saber. A saber would make a decent weapon, much better than what he had, which was nothing.

Whitey went through the Public Garden, following the path around the frozen pond. He crossed a street, climbed the hill past all the big brick houses with their fancy grillwork, doors, knockers, turned left on another street, climbed higher. And there he was, standing outside Roger's door, a tall and massive door, black with gold numbers and fixtures. He noticed that Christmas wreaths hung from the doors of the neighboring houses but not from Roger's. That didn't help him with the next step. What was it? Whitey didn't know.

The mailman was coming up the street, red envelopes in his hand. No way he could just stay there, waiting outside the door. Whitey kept going, rounded the next corner, came to an alley. An alley, he realized, that backed against Roger's house, where Roger might keep his car, for example. Whitey walked down the alley.

He didn't see Roger's car in the alley, no cars at all, just garage doors lining both sides. No numbers on them either: how was he supposed to know which garage was Roger's? He thought for a while, wondered about going back around to the street, counting the houses on the block, or maybe trying to identify them by their rooftops, then coming back and- A garage door slid up, three or four garages down the alley from where he stood, on the right. A car backed out. The rear wheels hadn't even appeared before Whitey recognized Roger's four-by-four, the window replaced already. All neat and tidy. Whitey ducked behind a trash barrel.

Over the top of the barrel, he watched the car emerge, caught the profile of a woman in the passenger seat, and Roger beyond her at the wheel, checking his mirrors. The front wheels angled out, the car backed toward him a few feet, then straightened and drove forward, off down the alley.

Safe.

But the woman! Had he ever seen a woman like that? Yes, as a matter of fact, but he couldn't think who at the moment. Could she possibly be Roger's? What a thought. Then it hit him: she was a grown-up version of Sue Savard, but oh so much better. A perfect Sue Savard, the way Sue Savard would have looked with an actress playing her.Whitey was so knocked out, so distracted by these unusual thoughts, that he almost didn't notice the garage door sliding back down, almost didn't realize that Roger had triggered some sort of remote control from his car, almost didn't grasp the significance of it all. He charged out from behind the trash can, flew toward that closing door, skidded the last few yards across icy bricks, jammed the toe of his cowboy boot-fucking toe stepped on by Roger-under it just in time. Yes: he was in; and got that old, old feeling.

33.

"Not a cloud in the sky," said Roger, driving west on Storrow, hands at the proper ten-minutes-to-two position on the wheel. "My suit satisfactory?"

Had he ever asked her opinion of what he wore? Not that Francie remembered. She glanced at the suit: black wool, perhaps blended with cashmere, probably from Brooks Brothers. "It's fine," she said, recalling that they'd discussed this particular suit once before, her mind about to zero in on the occasion when he did it for her.

"Doesn't make me resemble a luncheon companion of the godfather?"

"What are you getting at?"

"Why, nothing. Quite a funny joke you made about this suit, that's all. Perhaps I'm just fully appreciating it now." He smiled at her. "You always had that sense of humor, Francie, come what may."

His teeth shone, his shave was close, skin smooth, color high. He might have just returned from a spa weekend. She decided to leave him.

Decided at that moment, regardless of Roger's situation, of whether the Lauderdale job came through, or whether the timing suited Ned. She would start searching for an apartment tomorrow-perhaps moving into a hotel for now. Why spend another night in the house? He could have the house, keep whatever he wanted; there'd be no trouble from her.

A decision that had nothing to do with Ned. But what about him? She had planned to end their relationship the night Anne died. Would she have been able to do it? Had it ended anyway? If so, if Anne's death should have ended it, her own will having failed, what was the reason? Was there a reason, precise and definable, more than lace-curtain niceties? Yes. She felt that reason in her throat, a hard lump of guilt that wouldn't go away. To put it as baldly as she could, to lacerate herself with it, she had been fucking Ned and it had killed his wife. But even punishment like that didn't make the guilt go away. And worse, that new apartment of hers-she could already picture Ned knocking on the door. What was wrong with her?

"Something troubling you, Francie?" They'd stopped at a traffic light and Roger's eyes were on her. "You seem preoccupied."

"We're on our way to a funeral, Roger."

"Yes," he said, as the light turned green, "it's emotional, I know."

They parked outside the church, five or six spaces behind a hearse and a black limo. The wind blew out of the west, driving snow off the ground, spinning it in various shapes. "I thought you had a warmer coat," Roger said, taking Francie's arm as they walked down the sidewalk, the wind in their faces.

"I'm not cold," she said, and was starting to pull her arm away when a car door opened in front of them and Savard got out. He hadn't shaved closely, hadn't shaved at all, and his color was bad.

"A quick word with you, Mrs. Cullingwood?" he said. "If you'll step into the car for a moment."

Francie saw Nora climbing the steps of the church. "About what?" she said.

"The investigation."

"Will you be needing me, too?" said Roger.

Savard shook his head. "This is only for those with some connection to the cottage."

"Of course," Roger said. "I'll save you a place, Francie."

Francie sat in the back of Savard's car, not the old Bronco this time but a police cruiser; a worn heel from someone's shoe lay upside down on the floor mat, rusted cobbler's nails showing. Savard got in beside her, opened a manila envelope, took out some photographs. "Have you ever seen this man?"

She examined a police photograph, full face and profile, with numbers at the bottom. "No," Francie said.

"Take your time."

She did, and gave him the same answer.

"Have you ever heard the name Whitey Truax? Or Donald Truax?"

"No."

"Anne never mentioned that name?"

"No. Is that him?"

"Yes."

"What's his connection to Anne?"

"Probably none," Savard said. "I'm almost certain they met for the first time late Monday afternoon."

"I don't understand."

"He broke into your friend's cottage. Your other friend was there. He killed her. He's done it before-is on parole at this moment, in fact."

"For killing someone?"

"Yes."

"A woman?"

"Yes."

"Did she have some connection to Anne?"

"No." Savard was staring at the photograph. There was a silence, a strange one; she had the crazy notion that he was about to start crying. He did not, of course, but looked up at her with dry eyes and said, "There's no connection at all."

"How do you know it was him this time?"

"Normally I ask the questions." Their eyes met. Did he expect her to apologize for asking questions? She remained silent. "But yours are good," he said at last. "The answer is he left his prints all over the place. He also killed his mother a little while later, down in Lawton Ferry."

"Why? I don't understand any of this."

Savard put the photographs back in the envelope. "I'll fax you the testimony of the psychiatrist from his trial, if you're interested. Thanks for your time, Mrs. Cullingwood."

Francie reached for the door handle, understanding one little part. "This means that all those questions you asked me before . . ."

"What questions?"

"The ones that seemed to be leading to . . ."

"The husband?"

"Yes."

"Are irrelevant now," Savard said. "They were before we had the prints, actually." Pause. "It turned out that Mr.Demarco-or is it doctor-"

"I'm not sure which he prefers."

Another pause. "-had an explanation for his whereabouts."

"I'm not surprised," Francie said, a loyal remark, almost wifely.

"Why is that?"

"He has a private practice, as well as the radio show."

"So?"

"It must raise issues of patient confidentiality."