“Are you telling me something, sir?”

“I’m not a man to cross.”

“I figured that out.” Decker got up. “Thank you. You’ve been more than accommodating.”

Merrin rose, his belly straining the buttons of his shirt. From a wastebasket, he took out a pocket umbrella. “You might be needing this.”

“Great.” Decker took it, then extended his hand. “Thanks again.”

“Not a problem. Always happy to help out.”

They shook hands, extending the routine gesture just a little too long. Grip-to-grip and eye-to-eye, they were engaged in something more than a pissing contest, but hopefully less than mortal combat.

Tattlers wasn’t a bad idea. If he could catch a cab, Decker figured he’d be there around three-thirty-after the lunch trade but before the dinner hour. If he were patient and charming, maybe he could slip a few bucks to one of the girls for an interview. Not that they’d admit dealing, but things would come out if he were clever enough. And, if nothing else, it would eat up the time. Merrin had told him to check with him in a couple of hours. If he made it back to Quinton around five, perhaps the chief would have one of the boys waiting for him. Maybe both of the boys.

Or maybe neither.

Because there was something about Merrin that bothered Decker. Actually, there was a whole lot about Merrin that irked him, but specifically that one off-the-cuff comment-an obvious blooper: “If your dick needs attention with the wife out of town, go on over to Tattlers and tell them that Virgil Merrin sent you.”

If your dick needs attention with the wife out of town…

Now how had Merrin known that Rina had gone?

It was that kind of throwaway remark that made Decker stand up and pay attention, glancing over his shoulder, checking behind his back. It was that kind of wisecrack that made him wish he had a gun.

Cabs weren’t readily available in small towns: They had to be ordered. As Decker walked through the park, umbrella over his head, he found a phone booth under a pavilion and placed the call to the local dispatcher. Twenty minutes later, a taxi came by. Decker shook out the umbrella and slid inside the back. The interior was damp and slightly ripe, but the seats were whole and held workable seat belts. The windshield defogger was going full blast, stale air keeping the front window clear. Decker strapped in and told the driver the address. The cabbie-a thin young Caucasian with shorn hair, a pierced eyebrow, and a tattooed neck-turned around, his eyes dull and confused.

“Problem?” Decker asked him.

“It’s gonna cost about forty bucks.”

“That’s all right.”

“Okay, then.”

The driver pulled out onto the road, twisting through the rain-slicked streets of the main shopping district. Water was pouring off the awnings, rushing down the curbsides into the storm drains. Not a soul on the sidewalks, everything gray and deserted. Within minutes, Quinton was a dot in the distance. The cab was creeping down a two-lane highway sided by woodland foliage-heaping piles of naked brush, dripping pines and firs, and copses of leafless trees. Wipers, going full speed, were throwing water off the windshield as fast as the rain was dousing it. Decker felt his eyes closing, only to be yanked open at the sound of the cabbie’s voice.

“You going shopping or somethin’?”

“No. Why?”

“The address is a mall. I figured you was goin’ shopping.”

“No.”

A few moments passed.

“Tattlers?” the driver suggested.

Decker was annoyed, but an inner voice stopped him from shutting the kid down. He looked at the cab’s license. The driver’s name was A. Plunkett. “Why? What’s it to you?”

Plunkett scratched his nose. “Just that… for the forty bucks you’re gonna pay me for transportation… I can do better than Tattlers for you. Know what I’m sayin’?”

Decker knew what he was sayin’.

Plunkett sniffed and looked in the rearview mirror. “You know the girls who work there… at Tattlers… some of ’em like places where there’s a little more privacy.”

Even better, Decker thought. Get them alone and who knows what they’ll admit to. He counted to twenty. “And you know a place like that?”

“Sure, I know all the good spots.”

“Local girls, Plunkett?”

The kid stiffened at the sound of his name. “Is that a problem? Someone local?”

“I wouldn’t want things getting around.”

“But you’re not from around here.”

“I have friends in Quinton. You can’t be too careful.”

“What kind of friends?” Plunkett asked.

“Now, I really don’t think that’s any of your business.”

No one spoke.

Then the driver said, “Why don’t you tell me what you want?”

Decker thought a moment. “So it’s forty to you and then I fork out for whatever else I want, right?”

“A quick learner.”

“Round trip?”

“Make it fifty and you got a deal.”

Decker took out a fifty-dollar bill and held it so it was visible in the rearview mirror. “So… what would I get over there for… let’s say a hundred?”

“What do you expect for a hundred?”

The kid was clever, waiting for Decker to speak first. “I’d like something nice.”

“For a hundred, I could find you something very nice.”

He drove a few more minutes, then took a turnoff, the cab bouncing through the hillside as thunder cracked through the air and lightning webbed across the sky. Nothing around except shivering woodland as fierce winds shot through the empty branches. The taxi continued its journey, going deep into the forest. Five minutes later, it started to slow, and Decker saw it-a three-story white clapboard house, complete with tar roof and peeling paint.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Decker said. “This looks pretty seedy. I got a wife. I can’t afford to risk anything.”

The cabbie was vexed. “Whatddaya mean? You gettin’ cold feet? Cause I don’t need this shit-”

“I mean, Plunkett, do they take precaution in there? I’m not carrying anything with me.”

“Ah…” Plunkett was relieved. “They got all kinds of protection.” He pulled up alongside the house, missing a tree by inches. He parked. “You wait here. I gotta clear this, okay?”

The driver opened the door, got out, and slammed it shut, leaving Decker in that awful metaphysical silence. Rain slammed onto the vehicle, suddenly blasting it with machine-gun volley. Decker leaned forward and looked out the windshield. Hailstones were streaming from the clouds. Involuntarily, he felt himself sweating, felt his heart beating too rapidly to be considered healthy. It stank inside. It reeked of bacteria and mold. It smelled rotten.

It smelled like a freakin’ setup.

Decker took his umbrella, yanked on the door handle, and got out. He made a dash for the house, trembling under the eaves of a wraparound porch. Hail continued to fall, little perfect balls of ice bouncing on the dead ground.

Thinking about his options. Not too much to think about because he didn’t have many alternatives. He could stay put… or he could run.

Heart going a mile a minute.

Then he remembered his cell phone. Extracting it from his pocket, he pushed the speak button and the satellites sprang up a dial tone-albeit humming with static. Quickly, he dialed Jonathan’s number.

Seconds ticked by.

“C’mon, you son of a bitch, connect!”

Another second passed. Then it started ringing.

“Thank you, God!”

One ring.

“Answer, brother, answer!”

Two rings.

“Hello?”

Never had Jonathan’s voice sounded so good. “Hey, it’s me and I got a big problem.”

“What?” Across the line, crackle threatened to break communication any moment. “Can I call you back, Akiva? The connection’s bad.”

“Don’t hang up!” Decker shouted. “I’m out in no-man’s-land-somewhere up in the hills between Quinton and Bainberry, about ten minutes out of Quinton. As you’re going toward Bainberry, you turn left off onto some barely noticeable turnoff; it’s a side road-”