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  Joe didn’t respond. He was too busy both processing and stifling a collection of mental outbursts.

  “Oh,” Sammie continued, either oblivious or, more likely, nervous for her partner, “Willy’s fine. Bellows Falls PD was there with him—at the end—so it looks pretty up-and-up.”

  “Willy’s solid on Nugent being the right guy?”

  “Absolutely, boss.” Sam’s emphasis betrayed her own initial misgivings. “E. T. gave it up first, a few days ago, and Willy really checked it out. I mean, nobody saw Nugent do it, of course—except Andy—but he was at the right place at the right time, has a history of doing that shit, to men and women both, and, finally, even bragged about it to some of his buddies. Willy got it all down—sworn statements, the works. That’s why he made the approach. He was going to bust him.”

  Joe checked the glowing clock on the night table. It was four a.m. “When did this happen?”

  “About ninety minutes ago. It’s been kind of a mess to sort out.” Sam suddenly stopped before adding in a guiltier tone, “I tried calling your home phone earlier. When you didn’t answer, I didn’t want to disturb . . . Well, you know, you’ve got a bunch of things going on. I didn’t want to . . .”

  Jesus, he thought, this’ll make the rounds. “That’s fine, Sam. Don’t worry about it. You still in BF?”

  “Yeah. We got VSP doing the investigation. We’re all hanging out at the PD.”

  “Was anyone else hurt?” he asked.

  “Nope—just Nugent. The gas station is half toast, but the owner says he’s insured. Nothing else caught fire, and the fire department had a blast putting it out—big-time war story material.”

  Joe shook his head slightly—the circles he traveled in. “Okay, Sam. I’ll be heading up soon.”

  He snapped the phone shut and rested his head against the pillow, staring at the ceiling.

  “That didn’t sound good,” Lyn said quietly.

  “Could you hear both sides?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Well, it could’ve been worse—if it turns out the way Sam just said. People bolt all the time when we get too close, and get into deeper trouble because of it. Let’s just hope there’s no surprise hiding in the bushes.”

  “Like what?”

  He immediately thought of Willy. “You know how it is,” he answered vaguely. “Just something you don’t expect.”

  He sighed and slipped his arm back where it had been, enjoying the way she slipped her thigh up over his leg and placed her warm hand on his stomach.

  “Mostly, I just hate to go,” he admitted. “Not the way I figured tonight would wrap up.”

  She kissed his neck. “Exactly how much time do you think you do have?” she asked, biting his earlobe lightly.

  He laughed. “A few more minutes than I thought I had?”

  She slid her hand down farther. “Good.”

  He only got to drop by in Bellows Falls, long enough to show a command presence to both the state police investigators and his own people. During the half-hour drive up the interstate from Brattleboro, he’d received a second phone call, this one from his mother, who told him that the hospital had called.

  His heart had dropped at the news. Given his profession and the surprises it often bore, he’d been dreading this call while expecting it, too.

  “It’s good, Joey,” she’d told him, however, falling back to a nickname she rarely used. “He’s coming out of it, just like the doctor said he might.”

  “I’m already heading your way, Mom,” he’d told her. “I’ll be there in under an hour.”

  Karl Weisenbeck looked as fresh at 5:15 in the morning as he always did—affable, neat, and completely focused on his patient’s mother.

  He was also overflowing with enthusiasm. “In a nutshell, Mrs. G.,” he said, crouching down to her level. “We hurt your son and he said ‘ouch.’ Best news in the world.”

  He laughed at her concern. “Remember what I told you?” he asked, supplying the answer. “That we were looking for the improved oxygenation to do the rest of the work for us? Well, that’s what’s happening—the paradoxical breathing has stopped, he was taken off positive pressure several hours ago, and he’s not only holding his own, but his O-two saturation has reached normal levels and his consciousness has surfaced to where he responded when we applied a painful stimulus.” He reached out and patted her hand. “That’s what I meant. I’ve been told I probably shouldn’t try to be funny in situations like these, but it’s just such great news.”

  She squeezed his hand in return, her eyes bright with gratitude. “No, no, Doctor. It’s quite all right. We’ll take humor any day. Would it be all right to see him?”

  Weisenbeck stood up. “Of course. Now, he’s not going to start up a conversation, you know. He is still asleep. But you can check out his improved breathing for yourself, and see how much better he looks without all that plumbing stuck down his throat. You might even get a response if you squeeze his hand.” He laughed and added, “especially if you use a little rough stuff.”

  A nurse came in to get her ready for her visit, and Joe and Weisenbeck stood side by side before the viewing window overlooking the rows of beds.

  “Straight?” was all Joe asked.

  Weisenbeck smiled without looking at him. “Straight. I’m not saying something can’t still go wrong—it definitely can. But the odds are hugely in his favor now. If his progress is any indicator, all he has left to do is wake up, get his strength back, and go home. All of which, I won’t deny, will take time, but still . . .”

  Joe patted his shoulder. “Thanks, and not just for the doctor stuff.”

  Weisenbeck glanced quickly at his watch, looking pleased, and then moved toward the door. “Happy to help, Mr. Gunther. Call me anytime, for any reason.”

  Joe waited until he saw his mother being wheeled into the ICU before going outside to his usual cell phone corner in the hallway. He dialed Gail’s number, got her answering machine, and said, “It’s Joe. Good news from the hospital. Leo’s not fully awake but he’s starting to come out of it. The doc’s pretty optimistic. Just thought you’d like to know.”

  He then called Sammie. “How’re things going?” he asked.

  “I should ask the same thing,” she answered.

  “Good,” he said. “He’s starting to improve.”

  She laughed. “I should probably say the same thing. The chief down here is being a little starchy about Willy not checking in before all hell broke loose, and the VSP is curious if we always run solo after suspects in major cases, but no one’s really faulting what happened. We got lucky with a bunch of realists, for once. I’m betting he gets a clean bill on this one.”

  “And there’s no doubt about Nugent being the guy? ’Cause I plan to tell Andy’s father that we got him.”

  “I double-checked, boss—promise. He did it. By the way, we got a hit on that long shot you asked Les and me to check out—the irate parental type who might go after people like Nashman and Metz? Lester found someone named Oliver Mueller. Lives in Bratt, heads up a bereaved-parents support group, writes letters to the editor all the time, rants at selectmen meetings, hassles the police chief for more action against child molesters. He’s been arrested for disorderly a few times, including once for resisting and assaulting a cop. His daughter’s death two years ago is about all he lives for anymore.”

  “I don’t remember that. What was her name?”

  “Didn’t happen here. He’s a New Jersey transplant. Kid died, and everything went with her—the marriage, the job, the house, you name it.”

  “What makes him homicidal?” Joe asked, unsure that his own reaction to a child’s murder wouldn’t push him at least a little off center.

  “Last year, there was an incident in Brattleboro. The cops thought a guy in the neighborhood might be going after kids. Mueller caught wind of it, bushwhacked the guy, and threatened to kill him. I won’t bore you with the details—I’ll be writing them all down anyh
ow—but, long story short, lawyers made it all go away. Point is, five months later, the guy wound up dead in Massachusetts, and Mueller had a bulletproof alibi. But the cop I talked to down there is convinced Mueller did it, or at least hired it out.”

  “Based on what?” Joe asked.

  “Pure gut,” Sam conceded. “When Lester was asking around, Mueller was the first name that the Bratt PD’s Cathy Eakins thought of—said we’d be dumb not to check him out, although she wasn’t as gung-ho as the Massachusetts cop.”

  “Still, better go for it,” Joe recommended.

  “You gonna stay up there awhile?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he told her. “I got a couple of loose ends I have to take care of. Let me know how you fare with Mueller.”

  “Roger that.”

  There was a café in Thetford, serving only breakfast and lunch, that was cheap, familial, offered good basic food, and had been long known in the neighborhood as E. T. Griffis’s home away from home. Joe timed his arrival there for about half an hour after E. T.’s usual appearance, when he hoped the man would be just nearing the end of his meal.

  He was sitting in a corner booth, beside the window and facing the door—the perfect place for the best view—in front of the remains of some spaghetti and meatballs.

  He and Joe spotted each other as soon as Joe entered, and exchanged the barest of nods. Joe walked down the length of the restaurant to stand before him.

  “E. T. How’ve you been?” They didn’t shake hands.

  The old man picked up a piece of bread and sopped up some sauce with it. “Fair.”

  “Sit down for a second?”

  He didn’t look up, concentrating on his task. “Free country.”

  Joe slid in opposite him. A waitress appeared, and Joe asked for coffee. E. T. made no comment.

  “I was sorry to hear about Andy,” Joe said.

  E. T. paused in mid-motion for several seconds, then resumed eating, as if alone.

  “I looked into what happened to him in prison,” Joe continued. “I know about Wayne Nugent.”

  E. T. stopped chewing. Joe remained silent. The waitress came with the coffee and silently placed it on the table, looking at the two men quizzically.

  “Good for you,” E. T. finally said, still stubbornly refusing to make eye contact.

  Joe sipped from his coffee before saying, “The reason I’m here is because you’ll be hearing about Nugent in the news today. He died while one of my men was trying to arrest him for what he did to Andy.”

  That did it. E. T. looked up and stared at Joe, his lips parted in surprise.

  “He was escaping at high speed in a stolen car. Lost control.”

  E. T.’s hand moved to his chest, seemingly on its own, and Joe wondered if he might not be having a heart attack. He certainly looked ripe for one.

  “You okay?” he asked. “You need anything?”

  The old man glanced around the table, saw his water glass, and grabbed hold of it for several deep swallows.

  Again Joe waited, nursing his coffee. Griffis finally put down the glass, hung his head, and sat there with his hands in his lap.

  “Fuck off,” he said at last in a quiet, slightly tremulous voice. “Leave me alone.”

  Joe stayed where he was, the blood pounding at his temples. “In a minute. I have one last thing to say to you. I also found out why Andy pleaded guilty to what I busted him for in the first place.”

  E. T.’s head snapped up and he slapped both hands onto the edge of the table, as if prepared to tear it off its moorings and throw it.

  Joe, just as fast, leaned forward so his face was inches from the other man’s. Behind him, he heard several voices questioning what was going on.

  “You made a choice, E. T.,” Joe said, barely above a whisper. “Then you stuck me with the blame. I did my job—twice now, counting Nugent. Don’t tell me to fuck off, asshole, because all I’ve done is clean up your messes. Talk to Dan about this, like you should’ve in the first place, when you had the chance to save the right son.”

  He slid out of the booth, dropped two dollars on the table for the coffee, and left E. T. staring at the empty seat across from him.

  Joe was halfway to Chelsea, approaching it from Thetford this time, when his pager went off. It was Beverly Hillstrom’s number. He pulled out his cell phone and watched its screen periodically as he drove, waiting for the reception indicator on the tiny screen to reach the level where he could have a decent conversation. It took him ten minutes before he could pull over, predictably at the top of a hill.

  “Hi, Beverly. It’s Joe.”

  “I tried calling you,” she said, “but the message said you were out of the area.”

  “I’m in Vermont,” he laughed. “So in their terms, I guess they’re right.”

  “I heard back from toxicology about Mr. Nashman. That is the current name you’re using, isn’t it? The ex–Ready Freddy? I received an update from your office.”

  “Yup, that’s it. The Freddy part turned out to be his first name. Anything interesting?”

  “Oh, you bet,” she said in a rare burst of exhilaration. “His system had a lethal dose of fentanyl.”

  He hesitated. “I’ve heard of it. An opiate? But I don’t know why it’s ringing a bell.”

  “Excellent. That’s exactly right. A synthetic opioid, fifty to eighty times more potent than morphine, patented in France in the late fifties or early sixties. I had to look it up—fascinating. It’s used in childbirth, to control cancer pain—anytime a truly heavy gun is required. The biological effect is identical to heroin but much, much more potent, and it’s metabolized at a much faster pace.

  “But the reason it probably sounds familiar,” she continued, “is because, in 2002, either it or something just like it was used by Russian security forces as part of an effort to take back a theater that Chechen rebels had seized, complete with some eight or nine hundred people.”

  “They put gas through the ventilation system,” Joe blurted out, his memory revived.

  “And killed over a hundred people in the process,” Hillstrom agreed. “All of the rebels died, but so did fifty hostages or so. I may be a little off with those numbers, but you get the idea.”

  Joe made a face. “What I’m getting, I don’t like.”

  “Oh, yes,” she reacted, “I see what you mean. You’re thinking of the terrorist angle. Well, that may be, although I think that’s a stretch. For one thing, I doubt that Nashman’s motel room was filled with fentanyl gas—sounds a little too James Bond, don’t you think?”

  Joe thought back to all the careful planning that had gone into the killing of these two men. James Bond didn’t seem like such a stretch.

  But he played along. “How else does it get administered?”

  “Any number of ways, including a lollipop. When we and the Mossad and a few others were considering it as a chemical weapon years ago, all sorts of delivery systems cropped up. I read that we used it in darts during the Vietnam War, since, in the right dose, it can knock you out in a snap.”

  He heard her fingers click over the phone.

  “If it doesn’t kill you first,” he muttered.

  Her mood was not to be dampened. “Right,” she said brightly. “That was the problem, and why we supposedly dropped its use for that purpose—the margin between effective and lethal was too narrow. But it does still work as a painkiller.”

  “In more ways than one,” he added.

  She chuckled. “True. But your question is directed at how this particular dose was delivered to Mr. Nashman.”

  “Do you know?”

  “I think I do. Did you find any food in his motel room—specifically cookies?”

  Joe thought back. “No.”

  “Well, there were recent remnants of a cookie in his stomach, which I also sent along for analysis. They found traces of DMSO—dimethyl sulfoxide—along with the fentanyl, mixed in.”

  “What’s that tell you?”

 
; “DMSO is a super carrier of other compounds through the skin and other membranes. By itself, it’s used as a topical analgesic and as a liniment for horses. It’s good for joint pain. But I think it was its first application that came into play this time. Whoever killed Mr. Nashman wanted to make sure the fentanyl really did its job and was taken deep into the body systems. Putting both it and the DMSO into a cookie guaranteed that the fentanyl would hit home like a bullet.”

  Joe gazed out onto the snow-covered hills around him for a moment, mulling the scenario over in his mind. It was so far removed from the run-of-the-mill, whack-’em-over-the-head murder that he was having a tough time accepting it.

  But he wasn’t moved to challenge Hillstrom’s findings. One thing she never did was stray too far into supposition. She always had the science to back her up.

  He did see one loophole, however. “Doesn’t it sound like overkill to you, using both?”

  She hesitated. “I know what you’re saying, Joe. I thought the same thing. You’re asking me to theorize, though, and I don’t feel comfortable doing that.”

  “Humor me. I won’t quote you.”

  He could hear her frustrated sigh in his ear. “It struck me like the belt-and-suspenders metaphor.”

  “He wasn’t sure of just the fentanyl, so he threw in the DS . . .”

  “DMSO.”

  “Right . . . For good measure.”

  “You asked what I thought,” she agreed halfheartedly. “But I have no evidence to back that up.”

  He laughed at her predictable discomfort. “I know, I know. That’s my job.”

  “Correct, Agent Gunther.”

  “Doctor, as usual, one hell of a job. I have no clue what to do with this, but it’s got to be a smoking gun somehow. I just need to find which hand it fits.”

  “Have fun, Joe. Glad I could help.”

  “Thanks, Beverly. As always.”