Bergen Community was a commuter school. There were tons of cars driven by carefree coeds. Security was almost nonexistent. Matt began his search. It took almost an hour, but as Saul promised, Matt eventually hit pay dirt in the form of a white Isuzu with a quarter tank of gas. Not bad. The keys had been hidden in one of those magnets above the front tire. Matt got into the car and drove toward Route 17. He didn't know Bergen County all that well. It might be smarter to go north over the Tappan Zee but he chose the route he knew over the George Washington Bridge.

He was on his way to Westport, Connecticut.

When he reached the GWB, he worried that the toll booth operator would recognize him- he even went so far as to rip the bandage off his head and replace it with a New York Rangers cap he found in the backseat- but that didn't happen. He switched on the radio and listened to the news- first, 1010 WINS for twenty-two minutes, then CBS 880. In the movies they always interrupt for a special bulletin when a man is at large. But neither station said anything about him. In fact, there was nothing on any of it- nothing about Max Darrow or Charles Talley or a fleeing suspect.

He needed money. He needed a place to sleep. He needed some meds. The pain had been held in check by the flow of adrenaline. That was ebbing now. He'd only slept about an hour in the past twenty-four, and the preceding night, what with the pictures on his camera phone, hadn't brought him much slumber either.

Matt checked the money. He had thirty-eight bucks. Hardly enough. He couldn't use his ATM or credit cards. The police would be able to track those down. Ditto with getting help from close friends or relatives, not that he had many he could really depend on.

There was, however, one person Matt could go to whom the police would never suspect.

When he got off at the Westport exit, he slowed down. He had never been invited here, but he knew the address. When he first got out of prison, he actually drove past this particular road several times, but he never had the courage to turn onto the block.

Now he took a right and then another and pulled slowly down the quiet, tree-lined street. His pulse started kicking up again. He checked the driveway. Her car was the only one there. He considered using his cell phone, but no, the police would be able to access that too. Maybe he should just knock. He thought about it, but in the end he decided to play it safe. He drove back toward town and spotted a pay phone. He dialed the number.

Sonya McGrath answered on the first ring. "Hello?"

"It's me," he said. "Are you alone?"

"Yes."

"I need your help."

"Where are you?"

"I'm about five minutes from your house."

Matt pulled into the McGraths' driveway.

There was a rusted basketball hoop near the garage. The shredded netting had not been replaced in a very long time. The hoop didn't fit in with the surroundings. It was old and unkempt where the rest of the house was so posh, so updated. For a moment Matt stopped and stared at the basketball hoop. Stephen McGrath was there. He was shooting with nice form, his eyes locked on the front rim. Matt could see the backspin on the ball. Stephen was smiling.

"Matt?"

He turned around. Sonya McGrath stood on the front step. She looked over to see where he'd been staring and her face fell.

"Tell me," Sonya said.

He did- but as he did, he noticed the devastation in her face did not fade. He had seen her take blows like this before. She always came back, if not all the way, then enough. That wasn't happening now. Her face maintained that horrid pallor. It wouldn't change. Matt saw it, but he couldn't stop himself. He kept talking and explaining what he was doing here and somewhere along the line Matt had an almost out-of-body experience where he rose above them and actually heard what he was saying and how it must sound to her. But he still did not stop. He just kept talking while a small voice inside his brain urged him to shut the hell up. But he didn't listen. He'd trudged on, figuring that he'd somehow make it through.

But in the end, when you cut through it all, his words sounded like this: Another fight, another death.

When he finally wound down, Sonya McGrath just watched him for several seconds. Matt could feel himself wither and die under the glare.

"You want me to help you?" she said.

And there it was. So simply stated. He could hear it now, how not only ridiculous it sounded, but how outrageous. How obscene.

He didn't know what to do.

"Clark found out about our meetings," she said.

He was going to say I'm sorry or something similar, but it didn't feel appropriate. He kept quiet now and waited.

"Clark thinks I'm after comfort. He has a point, I guess, but I don't think that's it. I think I needed closure. I think I needed to forgive you. And I can't."

"I should go," he said.

"You should turn yourself in, Matt. If you're innocent, they'll-"

"They'll what?" he said, his tone edgier than he'd wanted. "I've tried that route already, remember?"

"I do." Sonya McGrath tilted her head to the side. "But were you innocent then, Matt?"

He looked back at the basketball hoop. Stephen had the ball in his hand. He stopped mid-shot, turned, and waited for Matt's answer.

"I'm sorry," Matt said, turning away from them both. "I have to go."

Chapter 45

LOREN MUSE'S CELL PHONE RANG. It was Max Darrow's widow calling back.

"I found something," she said.

"What?"

"It looks like an autopsy file on Candace Potter," Gertie Darrow said. "I mean, it is an autopsy. It's signed by the old medical examiner. I remember him. He was a very nice man."

"What does it say?"

"It says a lot of things. Height, weight. You want me to read it all to you?"

"How about a cause of death?"

"It says something here about strangulation. It also says something about a severe beating and trauma to the head."

That fit in with what they already had. So what had Max Darrow noticed after all these years? What had sent him to Newark, to Emma Lemay as Sister Mary Rose? "Mrs. Darrow, do you have a fax machine?"

"There's one in Max's office."

"Could you fax me the file?"

"Of course."

Loren gave her the fax number.

"Investigator Muse?"

"Yes."

"Are you married?"

Loren held back a sigh. First Yates, now Mrs. Darrow. "No, I'm not."

"Ever been?"

"No. Why do you ask?"

"I believed the other investigator. Mr. Wine, is it?"

"That's right."

"What he said about Max being in the car with, well, a woman of questionable morals, as we used to say."

"Right."

"I just wanted to let you know."

"Know what, Mrs. Darrow?"

"See, Max, well, he wasn't always a good husband, you know what I mean?"

"I think so," Loren said.

"What I'm trying to say is Max had done that in the past. In a car like that. More than once. That's why I was so quick to believe. I thought you should know. Just in case this doesn't pan out."

"Thank you, Mrs. Darrow."

"I'll fax it over now."

She hung up without saying anything more. Loren stood and waited by the fax machine.

Adam Yates came back with two Cokes. He offered her one, but she shook him off. "Uh, what I said before, about not having kids-"

"Forget it," Loren said. "I know what you were trying to get at."

"Still stupid of me to put it that way."

"Yeah. Yeah, it was."

"What's going on here?"

"Max Darrow was looking into Candace Potter's autopsy."

Yates frowned. "What does that have to do with this?"

"Not a clue, but I doubt it's a coincidence."

The phone rang and the fax machines began their mating screech. The first sheet churned out slowly. There was no cover letter. That was good. Loren hated the waste of paper. She grabbed the sheet and started searching for the conclusion. In truth she read very little else in autopsy reports. Weights of livers and hearts might interest some people, but she was only interested in what they meant to her case.