"What were you doing in Delaware?" Steinberg asked.

"Following a lead on our nun's identity."

"You think she's from Delaware?"

"No." Loren quickly explained about the implants' identification code, the initial cooperation, the stonewalling, the connection to the feds. Steinberg stroked his mustache as if it were a small pet. When she finished, he said, "The SAC in the area is a fed named Pistillo. I'll call him in the morning, see what he can tell me."

"Thank you."

Steinberg stroked his mustache some more. He looked off.

"Is that what you needed to see me about?" she asked. "The Sister Mary Rose case?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"The lab guys dusted the nun's room."

"Right."

"They found eight sets of prints," he said. "One set matched Sister Mary Rose. Six others matched various nuns and employees of St. Margaret's. We're running those through the system, just in case, see if anybody had a record we don't know about."

He stopped.

Loren came over to the desk and sat down. "I assume," she said, "you got a hit on the eighth set?"

"We did." His eyes met hers. "That's why I called you back here."

She spread her hands. "I'm all ears."

"The prints belong to a Max Darrow."

She waited for him to say more. When he stayed quiet, she said, "I assume this Darrow has a record?"

Ed Steinberg shook his head slowly. "Nope."

"Then how did you get a match?"

"He served in the armed forces."

In the distance, Loren could hear a phone ring. Nobody answered it. Steinberg leaned back in his big leather chair. He tilted his chin to look up. "Max Darrow isn't from around here," he said.

"Oh?"

"He lived in Raleigh Heights, Nevada. It's near Reno."

Loren considered that. "Reno's a pretty long way from a Catholic school in East Orange, New Jersey."

"Indeed." Steinberg was still looking up. "He used to be on the job."

"Darrow was a cop?"

He nodded. "Retired. Detective Max Darrow. Worked homicide in Vegas for twenty-five years."

Loren tried to fit that into her earlier theory about Sister Mary Rose being a fugitive. Maybe she was from the Vegas or Reno area. Maybe she'd stumbled across this Max Darrow sometime in the past.

The next step seemed pretty obvious: "We need to locate Max Darrow."

Ed Steinberg's voice was soft. "We already have."

"How's that?"

"Darrow is dead."

Their eyes met and something else clicked into place. She could almost see Trevor Wine pulling up his belt. How had her patronizing colleague described his murder victim?

"A retired white guy… a tourist."

Steinberg nodded. "We found Darrow's body in Newark, near that cemetery off Fourteenth Avenue. He was shot twice in the head."

Chapter 21

IT FINALLY STARTED to rain.

Matt Hunter had stumbled from the Landmark Bar and Grill and headed back up Northfield Avenue. Nobody followed him. It was late and dark and he was drunk, but that didn't matter. You always know the streets near where you grew up.

He made the right on Hillside Avenue. Ten minutes later he arrived. The Realtor's sign was still out front, reading UNDER CONTRACT. In a few days this house would be his. He sat on the curb and stared at it. Slow raindrops the size of cherries pounded down on him.

Rain reminded him of prison. It turned the world gray, drab, shapeless. Rain was the color of jail asphalt. Since the age of sixteen Matt wore contact lenses- was wearing them now- but in prison he'd stayed with glasses and kept them off a lot. It seemed to help, making his prison surroundings a blur, more unformed gray.

He kept his eyes on the house he'd planned to buy- this "saltbox charmer" as the ad had called it. Soon he'd move in with Olivia, his beautiful, pregnant wife, and they'd have a baby. There'd probably be more kids after that. Olivia wanted three.

There was no picket fence in the front, but there might as well have been. The basement was unfinished, but Matt was pretty good with his hands. He'd do it himself. The swing set in the back was old and rusty and would need to be thrown out. While they were two years away from purchasing a replacement, Olivia had already located the exact brand she wanted- something with cedar wood- because they guaranteed no splinters.

Matt tried to see all that- that future. He tried to imagine living inside this three-bedroom abode with the kitchen that needed updating, a roaring fire, laughter at the dinner table, the kid coming to their bed because a nightmare had scared her, Olivia's face in the morning. He could almost see it, like one of Scrooge's ghosts was showing him the way, and for a second he almost smiled.

But the image wouldn't hold. Matt shook his head in the rain.

Who had he been kidding?

He didn't know what was going on with Olivia, but one thing he knew for certain: It marked the end. The fairy tale was over. As Sonya McGrath had said, the images on the camera phone had been his wake-up call, the reality check, the "It's all a joke on you!" moment, when deep down inside, he'd always known that.

You don't come back.

Stephen McGrath was not about to leave his side. Every time Matt started to pull away, Dead Stephen was there, catching up from behind, tapping him on the shoulder.

"I'm right here, Matt. Still with you…"

He sat in the rain. He idly wondered what time it was. Didn't much matter. He thought about that damned picture of Charles Talley, the mysterious man with the blue-black hair, his mocking whispers on the phone. To what end? That was what Matt could not get around or figure out. Drunk or sober, in the comfort of his home or heck, outside in the pouring rain, the drought finally over…

And that was when it struck him.

Rain.

Matt turned and looked up, encouraging the drops now. Rain. Finally. There was rain. The drought had ended with a massive fury.

Could the answer be that simple?

Matt thought about it. First thing: He needed to get home. He needed to call Cingle. Didn't matter what the time. She'd understand.

"Matt?"

He hadn't heard the car pull up, but the voice, even now, even under these conditions, well, Matt couldn't help but smile. He stayed on the curb. "Hey, Lance."

Matt looked up as Lance Banner stepped out of a minivan.

Lance said, "I heard you were looking for me."

"I was."

"Why?"

"I wanted to fight you."

Now it was Lance's turn to smile. "You wouldn't want to do that."

"Think I'm afraid?"

"I didn't say that."

"I'd kick your ass."

"Which would only prove me right."

"About?"

"About how prison changes a man," Lance said. "Because before you went in, I'd have beaten you with two broken arms."

He had a point. Matt stayed seated. He still felt pretty wasted and didn't fight the feeling. "You always seem to be around, Lance."

"That I am."

"You're just so damn helpful." Matt snapped his fingers. "Hey, Lance, you know who you're like now? You're like that Block Mom."

Lance said nothing.

"Remember that Block Mom on Hobart Gap Road?" Matt asked.

"Mrs. Sweeney."

"Right. Mrs. S. Always peering out the window, no matter what time it was. Big sourpuss on her face, complaining about the kids cutting through her yard." Matt pointed at him. "You're like that, Lance. You're like a great big Block Mom."

"You been drinking, Matt?"

"Yup. That a problem?"

"Not in and of itself, no."

"So why are you always out and about, Lance?"

He shrugged. "I'm just trying to keep the bad out."

"You think you can?"

Lance didn't reply to that.

"You really think that your minivans and good schools are, what, some kind of force field, warding off evil?" Matt laughed too hard at that one. "Hell, Lance, look at me, for chrissake. I'm the poster boy proving that's a load of crap. I should be on your warn-the-teens tour, you know, like when we were in high school and the cops would make us look at some car smashed up by a drunk driver. That's what I should be. One of those warnings to the youngsters. Except I'm not sure what my lesson would be."