Charter Hills was a mental-health facility in Charlotte, one of the best in the state. It was where Ezra had finally committed Jean after her second suicide attempt. Even now, I saw it in stark clarity. Warm colors and fresh flowers did nothing to hide the pain of those condemned behind its tall brick walls; and condemned they were, whether their presence was voluntary or not. I’d visited Jean there many times; she’d never spoken to me, and her physician had told me that was normal. I hadn’t believed him. How could I? She was my sister.

She’d been long months in that place. It was where she’d met Alex Shiften.

“Look, Hank…” I began.

“They have no record of a patient named Alex Shiften,” he said, cutting me off.

“What?”

“No record at all.”

“That’s not possible,” I said. “It’s where they met.”

“I don’t think so, not unless she was there under a different name.”

I tried to concentrate, but it was hard. “What are you saying?”

Hank sighed. “I don’t know what I’m saying. That’s the trouble. It doesn’t add up and I don’t have enough information to even speculate; but something stinks. I can smell it.”

My mind was still so full of Mills that I had trouble focusing, but none of this would matter if Jean survived the investigation only to be left alone with Alex. She was trouble. Somehow I knew that, and I needed to handle this one detail. Before it was too late. Unfortunately, I was at a loss.

“What do you suggest?” I asked.

“I need a picture of Alex,” he said without hesitation.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going back to Charter Hills. Then we’ll see.”

I felt a wave of gratitude. Hank would not cross the police, fine; but he’d go through with this, for me and for Jean. That made him a stand-up guy in a world that suffered from a lack of them. Somehow I’d make it up to him.

“Thank you, Hank.” I paused because I had to.

“Forget about it. It’s a little thing.”

“Do you want me to mail you the picture?” I managed to ask.

“Too slow. Put it in your mailbox once the cops leave. I’ll drive up to Salisbury sometime tonight. It could be late. If you’re home, you’ll see me. If not, I’ll take it and go. Either way, I’ll call you if I learn anything.”

“That’s awesome, Hank. I’ll take care of it.”

On the other end, Hank started to say something, then stopped. For a long second, I heard his breathing. “You understand? Don’t you, Work?” He wasn’t talking about Alex or Jean.

“Hey. Life’s a bitch. I appreciate what you’re doing.”

“Okay. I’ll call you.”

Then he was gone, and I hung up the phone. I looked at Bone, but he was asleep on the seat next to me. How could so much happen at once? How could the world be normal one day and a smoking pit the next? I closed my eyes and pictured grass that bent in a wind from some faraway place. When I looked up, there was a man at my window, staring through the glass. I was too drained to be startled. It was Max Creason-same hunting cap, same sublime ugliness. He wore a bright red poncho, as if he, too, expected rain. I rolled down the window.

“Hey, Max,” I said. “How are you?”

He studied me intently, his eyes bright behind his thick, filthy glasses. Then he gestured at my house. “There’re cops at your house.” His tone was more questioning than definitive, but I didn’t take the bait. It seemed to anger him, for his lips pulled up over his stained teeth, and he made a strange sound deep in his throat. He leaned closer. “When I met you, I didn’t know who you were. Didn’t know you were the son of this murdered lawyer that’s in the paper every day.” It sounded like an accusation. He looked at the house and then back at me. “And now the police are in your house. They think you did it? You’re a suspect?”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Max. It’s complicated.”

“Talk is good.”

“No. Talk is painful. It’s good to see you again, but this is a bad time.”

He ignored me. “Come on,” he said, stepping back from the truck. “Let’s walk.”

“Thanks, but no.”

It was as if he didn’t hear me. He opened the truck door. “No, this’ll be good. Just let the dog lie. You come on and walk with me.” He gestured for me to get out of the truck, and I gave in. I had nowhere to go anyway.

So I left Bone to sleep in the truck and fell in beside Max. He led me down the hill to a narrow dirt footpath that ran beside the lake, away from my house. I didn’t look back. He took long strides, and his poncho flapped around his legs. We walked for nine or ten minutes, past the lake, the public tennis courts, and across a gravel parking area. Neither of us spoke until the park was lost behind a small hill. We were on a narrow side street, lined with modest homes. Children’s toys littered some of the yards. Others were immaculate. It was a transitional neighborhood. New-lyweds and nearly deads. But what did any of that matter?

“I’m gonna tell you a story,” Max finally said. He rolled his eyes at me. “It’s an important one, so listen up. I’m gonna tell you about my hands.” He lifted them from his sides and then let them drop; they were dirty but pale against the red poncho, and his fingers were long.

“You remember. You asked me before. Now I’ll tell you.”

“Why?”

“I’ve got my reasons. Now shut up. No one in this town has heard this story and it’s not easy for me to talk about.”

“Okay.”

“I got these in Vietnam,” he said, and I knew he meant his hands. “I was just a guy, no different from anybody else, halfway through my second tour. We got caught, out on patrol, and we lost just about everybody. A few got away. Not me, though. I took a round through the leg and ended up in an NVA prison camp. There was a colonel running the place who thought I knew more than I did.”

I saw his hands twitch.

“Either that or he was just plain mean. In the end, I guess it don’t really matter. He worked on me for a few weeks, messed my hands up pretty good, then tossed me in a hole for five years. I almost died in that place.” His voice seemed to trail off. “Five damn years,” he said again, then fell silent. I could tell his mind was far away.

“Five years in jail,” I said into the emptiness, trying to imagine it. His voice, when he replied, was bitter.

“Wasn’t no jail, damn it. It was a dirt-floor cage eight feet wide. Five years, man. They let me out twice a month. Rest of the time, all I could do was sleep, shit, or pace. Mostly, I paced. Four steps and turn. Four and turn.” He looked at me. “I can’t handle closed spaces, Work. That’s why I walk. When the walls close in, I just get out. You know, because I never could before.” He gestured with his whittled-down hands-at the trees, the sky, everything. “You’ll never know what this means.” He closed his eyes. “This space.”

I nodded, but I thought I might damn well find out one day.

“But why are you telling me this?” I asked him.

He opened his eyes and I saw that he was not crazy. Tortured and tormented, but not crazy.

“I have a problem with authority,” he said. “You understand? I can’t stand the sight of a uniform. And the cops round here have done nothing to make me feel any different. They don’t exactly treat me with love and respect.” A grin split his lumpen face. “I can’t talk to the cops. I won’t. You see?”

I understood, but I didn’t get it. What did any of this have to do with me? I asked him. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he turned and walked. I hurried after him.

“You see how I walk,” he said. “All the time. Anytime. Day or night. Don’t matter. The walls close in and I walk ’cause I have to.”

We turned right, onto a neat street, where the houses all had an individual charm. Max stopped in front of one, a small cottage with green grass and a hedgerow that separated it from its neighbors on both sides. The house was yellow, with blue shutters and a pair of rocking chairs on the front porch. Roses snaked up a trellis that bordered a stone chimney. I looked up at Max, suddenly realizing how tall he was.