Though (of course) Hannah knows, everything he has told her is probably a lie, haphazardly and cynically invented on the spur of the moment, yet at the same time she cannot believe that it is, or might be, a lie. No.

  … come to dwell in my heart.

  At last, Mommy has finished reading The Littlest Hedgehog. Both the children are asleep.

  Such a solace, children’s stories! You can count on them to always end happily, often children are pictured snug in bed asleep on the final page.

  Hannah switches off the bedside lamp, slips from the children’s room.

  Resolved not to call Y.K. at midnight. No more.

  Wes wants to tell Hannah the latest news—“not pretty”—of the Rusch murders but Hannah presses her hands over her ears.

  “No! Please.”

  Trying not to think of the murders. Trying not to think of poor Christina Rusch struck down in her own bedroom, stabbed to death only a few miles away.

  While Hannah was adrift in an erotic daze thinking of her lover. While neighbors of the Rusches in Bloomfield Hills were oblivious of the nightmare taking place behind the six-foot fieldstone wall next door.

  But Wes wants to talk; he has just come upstairs from watching the eleven o’clock news and is excited, agitated.

  In fact, Wes has been following the investigation into the Rusch murders closely. He has made calls to friends and acquaintances who might have some connection to Harold Rusch, even to relatives in his own family.

  Though Wes still seems to believe that the murders of the Rusches and their housekeeper, like the child abductions, are preliminary assaults in an imminent “race war,” he has had to concede, based on new developments in the case and rumors racing like wildfire through Bloomfield Hills and adjacent suburbs, that Harold Rusch might have been the targeted victim, and the wife and housekeeper collateral victims, of “organized crime.”

  Hannah has no idea what this could mean. Mafia?

  Nothing has been stated outright, everything is speculative. News broadcasters only know what has been released to the media and have to be circumspect in their commentary but it does seem, Wes says, that Harold Rusch might have had investments in questionable real estate deals as well as in a possible shell company in Wyandotte.

  Hannah believes that she knows what a “shell company” is, in theory. Money laundering? A business that deals in cash?

  “Of course, everyone is denying it. Everyone associated with Harold. It seems to be a total surprise. My uncle Edmund, who knew Harold since college, says it’s a ridiculous charge. The poor man is no sooner dead, murdered in such a terrible way, than his reputation is under attack. All the detectives are saying is that they ‘have to follow all leads.’”

  If Harold Rusch had been involved in illegal business practices, Hannah thinks, Christina wouldn’t have known about it. A suburban wife, like Hannah herself is on a smaller scale, ignorant of her husband’s complicated financial ties.

  “What kind of ‘shell company’ is it, in Wyandotte?”—Hannah tries to sound knowledgeable, she can’t help trying to impress her husband even now.

  “Something related to cars. Maybe a car wash. Body shop.”

  Wes speaks with an air of regret, as of one who has missed an opportunity.

  Hannah has overheard Wes on the phone: shocked that the Rusches have been murdered, grieving, he and Harold Rusch were getting to be friends, Harold was a kind of mentor to Wes, and his wife, Christina, was “very fond” of Hannah …

  Hannah says in defense of the murdered man: “He probably just owns properties. Owned properties. Like your father, and my father. You know—‘investments.’”

  Wes turns a blank face to Hannah, as if one of the children had spoken. The novelty being not what has been said but that anything at all has been said, from such an unlikely source.

  Humoring her: “Yes. That’s right.” Then, adding: “The surprise seems to be, Harold’s estate is something like forty million dollars. If you count GM stock, properties in northern Michigan and in Sarasota.”

  Hannah feels a moment’s vertigo. The smirking pinpoint eyes, the spiteful mouth, the murmured cunt.

  He will inherit. The only child.

  At last Hannah is ready for bed. Yet reluctant to be the first to actually slip into the bed, to lie horizontal beneath bedclothes while the other remains vertical, on his feet, moving about the room. Is Wes reluctant, too, to slip into bed beside Hannah?

  Bizarre nakedness of sleeping in the same bed with another, inside flimsy nighttime clothes.

  An awkward shyness, discomfort between them as in the earliest days of their marriage when neither quite trusted the other not to see too clearly, to judge.

  Hannah hopes that Wes will lose interest in the one-sided conversation. She feels an ache in the region of her heart, the loss of Christina Rusch, the (possible, dreaded) loss of Y.K.

  In her bathroom before bed, taking a twenty-five-milligram barbiturate to assuage heartache, to assure sleep.

  As Wes, downstairs watching TV news for much of the evening, has had a succession of beers, after two glasses of red wine with dinner. His breath is beery, boozy. He has been belching, hiccupping. Hannah will feign early sleep, to avoid even the simulacrum of a good-night kiss.

  Sitting heavily on the edge of the bed, on his side of the bed. Wes in nighttime attire, T-shirt and pajama bottoms.

  Hannah hates it, that Wes can’t resist, every night, easing open the drawer in the bedside table to determine that yes, the short-barreled Smith & Wesson Magnum is inside, exactly as he’d left it. No one has touched it. No one has dared. Yes, and it is loaded. Wes has seen to that.

  “Suicide”

  A Glock .45-caliber revolver equipped with a “silencer,” Hawkeye is providing Ponytail.

  Instructing how Ponytail will use the heavy gun: Just a single shot. But a very particular shot.

  Then, contrary to what you’d expect, leave the gun at the scene where it falls.

  Because it’s untraceable, no history. And even if the (scraped) serial number can be recovered, still no history except as a “stolen” weapon.

  No connection with the suicide victim, no way to establish that he’d purchased it, but also no way to establish that he had not purchased it.

  No way to establish that the fucker didn’t blow out his own brains with his own gun at point-blank range.

  Fuck yes! Never say no to Hawkeye.

  Can’t say no to Hawkeye.

  Can’t say Jesus!—what the fuck or Let me think about it, man.

  Can’t say I guess I don’t want to …

  Trying not to panic. Mouth so dry he can’t swallow. Instead of speaking words he’s moving his mouth just to shape words. Like his tongue has lost all sensation.

  Summoned to meet with Hawkeye on neutral territory: parking lot at the corner of Cass and Howard, desolate at this time of night.

  Wishing to hell he hadn’t answered the phone ringing on a chair beside his bed, not a good hour for a call. Not good when wakened from a deep sleep and his brains are scrambled. And before this, high on coke he hadn’t slept for like a night and a day. Goddamn!

  But he’d answered the phone, half hoping it was Hawkeye—(Ponytail is in serious need of cash)—and half dreading because … Hawkeye.

  Hissing in Ponytail’s dazed ear Get up, get dressed, get in the Firebird and get your ass over to Cass and Howard. Something has come up that needs to be expedited, fast.

  Jesus! Last time Hawkeye was needing something expedited fast was that drive out to Bloomfield, rescuing the boy from Mister R__. Ponytail is still having bad dreams about that.

  Knows better than to ask what this is. Hawkeye provides information on his own terms.

  And how much he’s paying, you don’t ask, either.

  Trying not to show shock in his face when he learns what the instruction is, Hawkeye wants to send him back to Bloomfield. Again!

  Mister R__, now needing to be expedited himself.

  Never mind saving some kid tied up with wire. Never mind trying to come to an understanding with the cokehead fucker pervert.

  This mission is: Blow out the fucker’s brains and make it look like suicide.

  Hawkeye will provide Ponytail with the gun, gloves, oversized nylon jacket with deep pockets, a pair of oversized rubber boots he can get rid of afterward. And a “suicide note” to leave someplace where it will be seen.

  And no camera this time!—he can leave the Leitz Leica at home.

  Ponytail grimaces, as if this is a joke.

  The “suicide note” is a sheet of plain white paper folded in half, block letters in pencil that look as if they’ve been executed with a ruler by an earnest child:

  GOD FORGIVE ME ALL THERE BLOOD IS ON MY HANDS

  Ponytail reads this two, three times before he understands—their blood.

  A confession to murder, as well as a suicide note. Could be the parents but also Babysitter’s victims.

  He’d wanted to murder Mister R__, last time he’d seen him. Badly wanted to crack the skull of the pedophile-pervert for the terrible things he’d done to the Hayden boy and to the other children, but now, not so much.

  Cold blood. Premeditation. He isn’t so sure.

  Ponytail is rattled, has to ask Hawkeye to repeat the instructions. Too much to absorb.

  You repeat it, Hawkeye says. You’re the one going to expedite it.

  Seeing the sick look on Ponytail’s face, Hawkeye has to laugh. Mean mirthless laugh like breaking glass. The kid is always good for a laugh, eager and earnest and aspiring to more than just a punk kid, a street hustler, what’s special about Mikey Kushel is Hawkeye knows he will follow instructions and he can trust him.

  Problem is, Hawkeye isn’t himself tonight, Ponytail is noting. Usually cold-cobra-calm but tonight his voice betrays indignation, rage. There’s a tic in his left eyelid, his jaws are stubbled. Something has upset him plenty.

  All these years Hawkeye has been extracting money from the rich man’s pervert son out in Bloomfield. Some kind of sniveling dependency on Hawkeye, needing help from him when he’s been in trouble, like other pervert friends of Father McKenzie, Hawkeye has come to their rescue, they are damned grateful, desperate to be kept out of the newspapers. Cops paid off, social workers. Judges? Wouldn’t be surprised. All Ponytail knows for sure, they keep one another’s secrets. And how they’re connected with Father McKenzie and the Mission, that isn’t clear.

  What Ponytail guesses is that Rusch has had enough. No more blackmail.

  Rusch’s parents have been murdered, that’s the signal. Crazy fuck-all Rusch is out of control.

  Showing Hawkeye what he’s capable of doing, is that it? Or—he’s a cokehead, crazy?

  He’s in line to inherit the estate unless he’s arrested for murder. Even then, unless he’s convicted, he will inherit. Some of this “estimated forty million dollars” Hawkeye might reasonably expect to come to him in normal times. But Rusch has indicated, these are not normal times.

  You don’t cross Hawkeye. You don’t make Hawkeye think you’re threatening him.

  All this Ponytail is speculating. Sick, slipping-down sensation in his guts. You don’t say no to Hawkeye.

  Also by this point, Ponytail knows too much. Hawkeye has told him too much. That Glock in Hawkeye’s (gloved) hand, with the silencer. Hawkeye could shoot Ponytail in the head, leave his body in the Firebird in the parking lot, no one would give a damn.

  No going back, Ponytail thinks, swallowing hard. Only himself to blame, Mikey Kushel had so badly wanted this, or something like this, in the employ of someone like Hawkeye who’d acknowledge that he exists.

  Someone, something that would impress his mother. If she could know, and (maybe) she could. Maybe someone would tell her. Maybe she makes inquiries.

  You can’t know God’s design for you, Father McKenzie said. He’d held out his hands to the sniveling boy, palms up to signal openness, frankness.

  Whatever you think now, my son. Think again.

  So, tomorrow morning: Hawkeye is explaining that he’d had a talk with Rusch, and he’s arranged a (final) meeting with Rusch. So far as Rusch knows Hawkeye has agreed to Rusch’s demands.

  Rusch is making a “final payment” of what he owes Hawkeye this month. And not a full payment, just a fraction. This payment Hawkeye’s emissary will receive in exchange for a packet of photograph negatives and two tapes to be handed over to Rusch.

  After this, the deal is: Payments to Hawkeye end, and these are the last of the negatives and tapes.

  Deal is: No more connection between the men. Nada.

  Hawkeye instructs Ponytail: When you hand Rusch the manila envelope, let it slip through your fingers like it’s an accident, let Rusch stoop to pick it up like he will be eager to do, you have the Glock out of your pocket, place the barrel against Rusch’s head at his right temple, repeat: right temple, pull the trigger immediately and let the gun fall.

  Just—let the gun fall. However it falls, don’t move it.

  Retrieve the manila envelope (containing negatives and tapes, but not negatives and tapes in which Bernard Rusch appears), take the envelope with the payment, place the “suicide note” on some surface near the body like a table.

  Walk away, get in the car, drive, and don’t look back.

  It will happen fast. Don’t think, just act. Expedite.

  (No one will see. It’s a private place Hawkeye has rented back from the street, with which Rusch is familiar because he’s been there before, he’s kept children there probably, for purposes of his own. His lawyers had been told by Rusch he’s got a dentist appointment he can’t postpone.)

  (Later, they plan to take Rusch to Bloomfield police headquarters to continue being questioned. But that’s later.)

  Ponytail is listening. Ponytail is very quiet.

  Where’s this happening?—Ponytail asks finally.

  In Bloomfield, but not the house. You’re not returning to the house, it’s a crime scene. There’s this place a few miles away, I told you it’s been arranged, it’s “neutral” territory.

  Still Ponytail is very quiet. Peering at the slip of paper, the address means nothing to him, 1182 Lasher Road.

  Is this clear?—Hawkeye asks.

  Ponytail nods yes. Absolutely clear.

  Okay, repeat it.

  Ponytail repeats it. His tongue isn’t so numb now, he’s okay.

  Just like, when he’d been Mikey Kushel, on his knees in the sacristry, or in Father McKenzie’s quarters at the Mission, kneeling on the thick-piled carpet beside Father McKenzie’s bed he’d repeated the prayers with Father McKenzie leading him tenderly but firmly—Our Father Who art in Heaven, Hallowed be thy Name.

  Lone Lake

  At last, after five days of no calls, no contact, no sleep (except the dry-mouthed headachy barbiturate sleep that Hannah hates), he calls her.

  He calls her.

  Hearing his voice, Hannah feels as if she might faint. Awash with relief, yet the ignominy of such relief.

  Of course, he has an explanation. Not an apology exactly, for Y.K. isn’t the kind to apologize, but an explanation hurried and vague, a family crisis, financial, legal, no choice but for Y.K. to return, involve himself in matters he’d vowed he would not be involved in, ever again.

  Hannah stifles tears, she is so relieved to hear her lover’s voice.

  Hannah stifles outrage, she suspects that her lover is lying to her, she is too cowardly to confront him.

  They must see each other soon, he says. Too much time is passing.

  He speaks rapidly, yet distractedly. Hannah has the idea that someone else is in the room with him, listening. Smirking?

  But no, her lover is sincere. He clears his throat, he sounds as if he is half sobbing. His visit with his family has exhausted him, Hannah is made to realize.

  My darling. I have missed you so.

  Hannah? Did you miss me?

  He has returned to Detroit, he tells her. He’s at the hotel. Tomorrow morning is business meetings but in the afternoon, after three …

  “But I thought you wanted to meet Conor and Katya,” Hannah says. “Weren’t we planning that?” Trying not to sound reproachful, hurt, that Y.K. seems to have forgotten what has meant so much to her. “If we want to plan for our future together …”

  Y.K. hesitates a moment, then agrees: “Yes. Of course.”

  “You don’t want me to tell Wes. You’ve said.”

  “No, not—not yet.”

  Something is wrong, Hannah thinks, dismayed. He is distracted, his mind is elsewhere.

  Wistfully Hannah says, “You do want—you’ve said—for us to be together …”

  “Yes! Of course, dear Hannah. But—not immediately. From what I know of your husband, he could make things very difficult for you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Jarretts—the family. What I’ve heard of them.”

  Hannah’s heartbeat quickens. Does Y.K. mean, Wes might win complete custody of the children? Or—Wes might punish her somehow, for betraying him?

  “I don’t understand. How do you know Wes’s family?”

  “How do you not know his family if you do business in Detroit?”

  Hannah hesitates. She is uneasy discussing her husband or his family with her lover; she has seen in her lover’s face, when the subject is raised, something covert, sidelong.

  “I—I know them as my in-laws … I don’t know much about them in the business community. Is that what you mean?”

  In truth, Hannah doesn’t know the Jarrett family well. Her in-laws (who live in Grosse Pointe) have been friendly enough but at a little distance. As a young wife and mother Hannah hadn’t flattered Wes’s mother as much as the older woman had wished to be flattered, perhaps—Hannah had been too preoccupied with her own life, and her small children, and had missed that opportunity.

  She has only a vague idea of the Jarrett family’s reputation in the business community. One of Wes’s father’s brothers had been the Detroit city planner during the 1950s when interstate highways were constructed in a complex network gouging through urban (Black) neighborhoods, leaving behind a ravaged cityscape subsequently rearranged in brute symmetry to prevail through decades well into the next century. Property owners, major investors in the post-riot Detroit “renaissance” of the late 1960s, the Jarretts and their close relatives.