The boy was chewing tobacco and Ambler hoped he'd spit ugly so he could dress him down for it. But he just kept the wad in his mouth like a New York Yankee pitcher and looked happily across the lake.

"Catching anything?" Just a salutation. Snappers, snakes and algae were the only living creatures in this lake. Everybody knew that.

"Nope."

"I've asked around. Seems like it's right. About that guy."

"He's staying around."

"Yessir."

"What for?"

"Asking questions about his friend was killed."

"Goddamn."

"You don't have to worry, Wex."

"Any chance at all that somebody saw you?"

"No. I'm sure."

"How sure?"

Mark was completely patient. It was funny how calm and patient truly dangerous people could be. "No one saw me."

"When I heard the car burned up I thought it'd be destroyed."

"I wrapped the stuff in foil. It was in the glove compartment. That may have helped."

"Helped? What do you mean?"

"I don't mean helped in a good sense. I mean, that may have kept it from burning up. There was hash and some crack vials."

As if he didn't want to hear the details Ambler asked quickly, "When you called the sheriff there's no way to trace it? Maybe they could do a voice print."

"Tom doesn't have that kind of equipment, Wex. You know that. Anyway, he was out getting his haircut. I left the message with Gladys. She doesn't even know my voice. Said a couple of us had seen him."

"I shouldn't have told Moorhouse to plow the ground over."

Ambler thought of something else. "What about fingerprints?"

Mark didn't say anything, just stared at the band of colorful trees across the pond.

Ambler said, "I'm sorry. I'm sure you thought of that. I just thought Pellam would have left. It's upsetting."

The fly went wide and caught in some reeds. "Damn," Ambler said. He pulled out his complicated fishing knife, with a hook remover and sealer on it. He was going to cut his line but then thought maybe a Canada goose might get tangled. Ambler was wearing two-hundred-dollar L.L. Bean shoes. He had no idea where his wading boots were. He sighed and started walking into the lake to free the line. He felt soft muck under his shoes. Bubbles of soft air rose around his legs.

Mark said, "You want me to do that?"

Ambler said, "No."

He walked unsteadily to the weeds, unhooked the fly then returned slowly to the shore.

"I know the kind of man he is."

"Who?"

"The man from the movie company. He's not leaving till he gets some answers." Ambler sighed.

"You know him?"

"I know his kind" he said impatiently.

The young man looked out over the lake, squinting at a phalanx of geese coming in for a landing. It was a wistful look-as if he wished he were sighting down the barrel of a long ten-gauge shotgun, leading a bird by ten feet. "You want me to keep an eye on him?"

"Yes, I do."

A moment passed. A swan floated past. Ambler knew that however beautiful they were they were also mean sons of bitches.

Finally Mark said, "You want me to do anything else?" Ambler glanced at him then dropped to his knees and began to undo the tangled fishing line.

"You're the place rents cars?" Pellam asked the young man.

The kid wore dungarees and stood under a yellow Monte Carlo, which was head high on a lift. The garage had two bays and a small office, the whole place stinking of grease and gasoline and burnt coffee. Pellam's eyes watered from fumes.

"Yessir." He was changing the oil and apart from his fingernails there didn't seem to be a fleck of grime on his body anywhere.

"That's a good trick, staying that clean."

"I don't work that hard."

Pellam yawned. He was tired. Winnebago beds are small and Janine was a big girl. Also, she was an energetic lover. A bit desperate too. It unnerved him the way she kept promising him how much she liked sex with him, how good he was. He didn't believe women were capable of that many orgasms in a two-hour period. At least not in a Winnebago bunk.

He woke up once in the middle of the night and found her crying. He'd asked her what the matter was. She said angrily he wouldn't understand. He sensed he was supposed to pry an explanation out of her but he fell asleep and woke at seven to find her foraging in the small fridge and making a huge omelette she ate out of hunger and he downed from politeness.

Pellam now asked the well-kempt garage man, "You Sillman?"

"Nosir, just work here is all."

"Is there a Sillman?"

"Yessir, but he's down in Florida."

Pellam walked to the front of the bay and looked again for the wreck. He wasn't sure he wanted to see it. It didn't matter because, although he saw a lot of decrepit cars, he didn't see any burnt wrecks.

"I understand you rented that car that got burnt up. The one the other day?"

"Oh, yeah. That was terrible, wasn't it?"

"You know what happened to the car?"

"Was here yesterday. Out back. Then she got sold."

"Sold?"

"That's right, sir. For scrap."

That sir again… Pellam asked, "Didn't anybody from the insurance company tell you not to?"

"Me?"

"Well, somebody."

"I don't know, sir. Nobody told me not to do anything. I heard that Mr Sillman settled with the boy's family. Paid 'em some good money. I heard a hundred thousand."

Man, for a town where nobody seemed in a hurry, some things got done real fast.

"Why would Sillman settle? Everybody's saying it's the boy's own fault."

"I'm not a lawyer, sir. Just a mechanic."

Pellam asked, "You know who bought it?"

"Nope."

"Who would?"

"Sillman. He's the one who sold her."

"I thought he was in Florida."

"Clearwater."

"But you said-"

"Oh, he left at noon."

"And that's all you know about it?"

"That's about it, sir."

"And Sillman'll be back when?"

"Probably next month."

"It's a stupid question but I don't suppose you know where I could reach him?"

"Clearwater's a big town."

"Stupid, like I said. A month, hm? He always take a vacation that long?"

"Oftentimes he does."

Pellam said, "This garage business… must do pretty well, a man can take a month off."

"You'd be surprised, sir. By the way, that's a nice camper you got yourself. You wanta fill?"

"Not today," he said.

Pellam walked over to the three men playing poker, sitting in the back of the Hudson Inn's sour-mash- and beer-scented bar. "Mind if I sit in?"

A little uncomfortable at first, this crew. Then he bought a round of Bud, in the tall bottles. Then he bought another and things loosened up. Fred was the easiest to talk to. Close to seventy, with a red, leathery face. He hadn't been a farmer, which would have been the safest guess, but had worked railroads all his life, retiring early from Amtrak ten years before. Pete-in his mid forties-ran an insurance agency from his split-level a mile outside of town. Before the first hand was dealt, Pete started hanging on everything Pellam said. Agreeing too often, nodding broadly. He'd say, "Wait!" a lot and have Pellam repeat himself, to make sure he understood what was said. The other of the foursome was Nick. Twenty-one and as blasé as anything Cleary had ever produced. He'd roll his eyes, saying, "Shee-it!" and offered a sneer of a smile that Pellam came to decide wasn't as mean as it appeared. It was just part of the topography of his face. Pellam pegged him as a searcher. A successful high school linebacker going to fat as he cast about for a career.

Fred told the others that Pellam was descended from a famous gunfighter. "Wild Bill Hickok."

Pellam closed his eyes for a moment. "Now where the hell'd you hear that?"

Fred shrugged. Pete's eyes widened another few millimeters and said, "Holy Moly."