Thuck-thuck-thuck.

Merl opened his eyes to get away from the dream, and had just a moment to savor the irony: he was fifteen hundred miles away from that bullying asshole, fifteen hundred at least . . . and still as close as any night’s sleep. Not that he’d gotten a full night; he rarely had since running away from home.

Thuck-thuck-thuck.

It was a cop, tapping with his nightstick. Patient. Now making a cranking gesture with his free hand: roll it down.

For a moment Merl had no idea where he was, but when he looked through the windshield at the big-box store looming across what seemed like a mile of mostly empty parking lot, it snapped into place. El Paso. This was El Paso. The Buick he was driving was almost out of gas, and he was almost out of money. He had pulled into the Walmart Supercenter lot to catch a few hours’ sleep. Maybe in the morning he would have an idea of what to do next. Only now there probably was no next.

Thuck-thuck-thuck.

He rolled down the window. “Good morning, Officer. I was driving late, and I pulled in to get a little sleep. I thought it would be all right to coop a little here. If I was wrong, I’m sorry.”

“Uh-huh, that’s actually admirable,” said the cop, and when he smiled, Merl had a moment of hope. It was a friendly smile. “Lots of people do it. Only most of them don’t look fourteen years old.”

“I’m eighteen, just small for my age.” But he felt an immense weariness that had nothing to do with the short sleep he’d had over the last weeks.

“Uh-huh, and people are always mistaking me for Tom Hanks. Some even ask for my autograph. Let’s see your license and registration.”

One more effort, as weak as the final twitch of a dying man’s foot. “They were in my coat. Someone stole it while I was in the restroom. At McDonald’s, this was.”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh, okay. And where are you from?”

“Phoenix,” Merl said without conviction.

“Uh-huh, so how come that’s an Oklahoma plate on this beauty?”

Merl was silent, out of answers.

“Step out of the car, son, and even though you look about as dangerous as a little yellow dog shitting in a rainstorm, keep your hands where I can see them.”

Merl got out of the car without too much regret. It had been a good run. More, really; when you thought of it, it had been a miraculous run. He should have been collared a dozen times since leaving home in late April, but he hadn’t been. Now that he had been, so what? Where had he been going, anyway? Nowhere. Anywhere. Away from the bald bastard.

“What’s your name, kiddo?”

“Merl Cassidy. Merl, short for Merlin.”

A few early shoppers looked at them, then went on their way into the round-the-clock wonders of Walmart.

“Just like the wizard, uh-huh, okay. You got any ID, Merl?”

He reached into his back pocket and brought out a cheap wallet with frayed buckskin stitching, a birthday present given to him by his mother when he was eight. Back then it had just been the two of them, and the world had made some sense. Inside the billfold was a five and two ones. From the compartment where he kept a few pictures of his mom, he brought out a laminated card with his photo on it.

“Poughkeepsie Youth Ministry,” the cop mused. “You from New York?”

“Yes, sir.” The sir was a thing his stepfather had beaten into him early.

“You from there?”

“No, sir, but close by. A little town called Spuytenkill. That means ‘a lake that spouts.’ At least that’s what my mother told me.”

“Uh-huh, okay, interesting, you learn a new thing every day. How long have you been on the run, Merl?”

“Going on three months, I guess.”

“And who taught you to drive?”

“My uncle Dave. In the fields, mostly. I’m a good driver. Standard or automatic, makes no difference. My uncle Dave, he had a heart attack and died.”

The cop considered this, tapping the laminated card against one thumbnail, not thuck-thuck-thuck now but tick-tick-tick. On the whole, Merl liked him. At least so far.

“Good driver, uh-huh, you must be to get all the way from New York to this dusty puckered asshole of a border town. How many cars have you stolen, Merl?”

“Three. No, four. This one’s the fourth. Only the first one was a van. From my neighbor down the road.”

“Four,” the cop said, considering the dirty child standing in front of him. “And how did you finance your southward safari, Merl?”

“Huh?”

“How did you eat? Where did you sleep?”

“Mostly slep in whatever I was driving. And I stole.” He hung his head. “From ladies’ purses, mostly. Sometimes they didn’t see me, but when they did . . . I can run fast.” The tears began to come. He had cried quite a bit on what the cop called his southward safari, mostly at night, but those tears had brought no real relief. These did. Merl didn’t know why and didn’t care.

“Three months, four cars,” the cop said, and tick-tick-tick went Merl’s youth ministry card. “What were you running from, kiddo?”

“My stepfather. And if you send me back to that sonofabitch, I’ll run away again, first chance I get.”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh, I get the picture. And how old are you really, Merl?”

“Twelve, but I’ll be thirteen next month.”

“Twelve. I will be dipped in shit and spun backwards. You come with me, Merl. Let’s see what we’re gonna do with you.”

At the cop shop on Harrison Avenue, while waiting for someone from social services to show up, Merl Cassidy was photographed, deloused, and fingerprinted. The prints went out on the wire. This was just a matter of routine.

11

When Ralph got to Flint City’s much smaller cop shop, meaning to call Deborah Grant before picking up a cruiser for the run to Cap City, Bill Samuels was waiting for him. He looked sick. Even the Alfalfa cowlick was drooping.

“What’s wrong?” Ralph asked. Meaning what else?

“Alec Pelley texted me. With a link.”

He unbuckled his briefcase, brought out his iPad (the big one, of course, the Pro), and powered it up. He tapped a couple of times, then passed it to Ralph. The text from Pelley read, Are you sure you want to pursue a case against T. Maitland? Check this first. The link was beneath. Ralph tapped it.

What came up was a website for Channel 81: CAP CITY’S PUBLIC ACCESS RESOURCE! Beneath it was a block of videos showing City Council meetings, a bridge re-opening, a tutorial called YOUR LIBRARY AND HOW TO USE IT, and one called NEW ADDITIONS TO THE CAP CITY ZOO. Ralph looked at Samuels questioningly.

“Scroll down.”

Ralph did, and found one titled HARLAN COBEN SPEAKS TO TRI-STATE ENGLISH TEACHERS. The PLAY icon was superimposed over a bespectacled woman with hair so arduously sprayed it looked as if you could bounce a baseball off it without hurting the skull beneath. She was at a podium. Behind her was the Sheraton Hotels logo. Ralph brought the video up to full screen.

“Hello, everybody! Welcome! I’m Josephine McDermott, this year’s president of the Tri-State Teachers of English. I’m so happy to be here, and to officially welcome you to our yearly meeting of the minds. Plus, of course, a few adult beverages.” This brought a murmur of polite laughter. “Our attendance this year is particularly good, and while I’d like to think my charming presence has something to do with it”—more polite laughter—“I think it probably has more to do with today’s amazing guest speaker . . .”