“Are we set?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am. Ready to rock and roll. I’ll take over when you give me the word.”

Mrs. Sigsby had been busy with her iPad on the flight from Erie. “We’ll be making a brief stop at Exit 181. That’s where I’ll turn command of the operation over to you. Are you good with that?”

“Excellent with it.”

They found the others standing outside. There were no black SUVs with tinted windows, only three more mom vans in unobtrusive colors: blue, green, and gray. Orphan Annie would have been disappointed.

16

Exit 181 dumped the Gold team caravan off the turnpike and into your basic Nowheresville. There was a gas station and a Waffle House, and that was the whole deal. The nearest town, Latta, was twelve miles away. Five minutes past the Waffle House, Mrs. Sigsby, riding up front in the lead van, directed Denny to pull in behind a restaurant that looked as if it had gone broke around the time Obama became president. Even the sign reading OWNER WILL BUILD TO SUIT looked desolate.

The steel case Denny and Louis had carried off the Challenger was opened, and Gold team gunned up. The seven members of Ruby Red and Opal took Glock 37s, the weapon they carried on their extraction missions. Tony Fizzale was issued another, and Denny was glad to see him immediately rack the slide and make sure the chamber was empty.

“A holster would be nice,” Tony said. “I don’t really want to stuff it down my belt in back, like some MS-13 gangbanger.”

“For now, just stow it under the seat,” Denny said.

Mrs. Sigsby and Winona Briggs were issued Sig Sauer P238s, petite enough to fit in their purses. When Denny offered one to Evans, the doctor held up his hands and took a step back. Tom Jones of Opal bent to the portable armory and brought out one of two HK37 assault rifles. “How about this, Doc? Thirty-round clip, blow a cow through the side of a barn. Got some flash-bangs, too.”

Evans shook his head. “I’m here under protest. If you mean to kill the boy, I’m not sure why I’m here at all.”

“Fuck your protest,” said Alice Green, also of Opal. This was greeted by the kind of laughter—brittle, eager, a little crazy—that only came before an op where there was apt to be shooting.

“That’s enough,” Mrs. Sigsby said. “Doctor Evans, it’s possible that we can take the boy alive. Denny, you have a map of DuPray on your pad?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then this operation is now yours.”

“Very good. Gather round, people. You too, Doc, don’t be shy.”

They gathered around Denny Williams in the simmering late-day heat. Mrs. Sigsby checked her watch. Quarter past six. An hour from their destination, maybe a bit more. Slightly behind schedule, but acceptable, given the speed with which this had been put together.

“Here’s downtown DuPray, what there is of it,” Denny Williams said. “Just one main street. Halfway down it is the County Sheriff’s Department, right between the Town Office and the DuPray Mercantile Store.”

“What’s a mercantile store?” This was Josh Gottfried, of Opal.

“Like a department store,” Robin Lecks said.

“More like an old-time five-and-dime.” That was Tony Fizzale. “I spent about ten years in Alabama, most of it on MP duty, and I can tell you that these small southern towns, it’s like you went back fifty years in a time machine. Except for the Walmart. Most of em have one of those.”

“Stow the chatter,” Mrs. Sigsby said, and nodded for Denny to go on.

“Not much to it,” Denny said. “We park here, behind the town movieshow, which is closed down. We get confirmation from Mrs. Sigsby’s source that the target is still in the police station. Michelle and I will play a married couple, on a vacation taking us through little-visited towns in the American south—”

“Crazy, in other words,” Tony said, which produced more of that brittle laughter.

“We will idle our way up the street, checking the surroundings—”

“Holding hands like the lovebirds we are,” Michelle Robertson said, taking Denny’s and giving him a coy but worshipful smile.

“What about having your local man check things out?” Louis Grant asked. “Wouldn’t that be safer?”

“Don’t know him, therefore don’t trust his intel,” Denny said. “Also, he’s a civilian.”

He looked to Mrs. Sigsby, who nodded for him to go on.

“Maybe we’ll go into the station and ask directions. Maybe not. We’ll play that part by ear. What we want is an idea of how many officers are present, and where they are. Then . . .” He shrugged. “We hit em. If there’s a firefight, which I don’t expect, we terminate the boy there. If not, we extract him. Less mess to clean up if it looks like an abduction.”

Mrs. Sigsby left Denny to fill them in on where the Challenger would be waiting, and called Stackhouse for an update.

“Just hung up with our pal Hollister,” he said. “The sheriff pulled up in front of the station five or so minutes ago. By now he’ll be getting introduced to our wayward boy. Time to get a move on.”

“Yes.” She felt a not entirely unpleasurable tightening in her stomach and groin. “I’ll call you when it’s over.”

“Do the deed, Julia. Bail us out of this fucking mess.”

She ended the call.

17

Sheriff John Ashworth got back to DuPray around six-twenty. Fourteen hundred miles north, dazed children were dumping cigarettes and matches into baskets and filing into a screening room where the star of that evening’s film would be a megachurch minister from Indiana with many powerful political friends.

The sheriff stopped just inside the door and surveyed the big main room of the station with his hands on his well-padded hips, noting that his entire staff was there with the exception of Ronnie Gibson, who was vacationing at her mother’s time-share in St. Petersburg. Tim Jamieson was there as well.

“Wellnow, howdy-do,” he said. “This can’t be a surprise party, because it’s not my birthday. And who might that be?” He pointed to the boy on the small waiting room couch. Luke was curled into as much of a fetal position as it would allow. Ashworth turned to Tag Faraday, the deputy in charge. “Also, just by the way, who beat him up?”

Instead of answering, Tag turned to Tim and swept out a hand in an after you gesture.

“His name is Luke Ellis, and nobody here beat him up,” Tim said. “He jumped off a freight and ran into a signal-post. That’s where the bruises came from. As for the bandage, he says he was kidnapped and the kidnappers put a tracking device in his ear. He claims he cut off his earlobe to get rid of it.”

“With a paring knife,” Wendy added.

“His parents are dead,” Tag said. “Murdered. That much of his story is true. I checked it out. Way to hell and gone in Minnesota.”

“But he says the place he escaped from was in Maine,” Bill Wicklow said.

Ashworth was silent for a moment, hands still on his hips, looking from his deputies and his night knocker to the boy asleep on the couch. The conversation showed no sign of bringing Luke around; he was dead to the world. At last Sheriff John looked back at his assembled law enforcement crew. “I’m starting to wish I’d stayed to have dinner with my ma.”

“Aw, was she poorly?” Bill asked.

Sheriff John ignored this. “Assuming y’all haven’t been smoking dope, could I get a coherent story here?”

“Sit down,” Tim said. “I’ll bring you up to speed, and then I think we might want to watch this.” He put the flash drive down on the dispatch desk. “After that, you can decide what comes next.”

“Also might want to call the police in Minneapolis, or the State Police in Charleston,” Deputy Burkett said. “Maybe both.” He tilted his head toward Luke. “Let them figure out what to do with him.”

Ashworth sat. “On second thought, I’m glad I came back early. This is kind of interesting, wouldn’t you say?”

“Very,” Wendy said.

“Well, that’s all right. Not much interesting around here as a general rule, we can use the change. Do the Minneapolis cops think he killed his folks?”

“That’s the way the newspaper stories sound,” Tag said. “Although they’re careful, him being a minor and all.”

“He’s awesomely bright,” Wendy said, “but otherwise he seems like a nice enough kid.”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh, how nice or nasty he is will end up being someone else’s concern, but for now my curiosity’s up. Bill, stop fiddling with that time clock before you bust it, and bring me a Co’-Cola from my office.”

18