“Since the violins are so woefully in need of the practice, we’ll start with the Wagner,” he announced. Abby sighed and flipped through her folder to locate the dog-eared sheet music. Naturally, since she’d broken laws to get here, he’d start with something for which she had to count eighty-four measures of rest before her entrance. She settled herself more comfortably and listened to the violins hack their way through the first forty measures.

  “Again.”

  It was going to be a long evening, she saw that already. She reset her mental measure counter to zero, and back to zero again. The violins practiced twelve measures, over and over.

  The woodwinds were getting restless. The brass section looked like they’d gone to sleep. She stared at the dots of sixteenth notes on the music until they spun into a tiny black whirlpool, sucking her down to the accompaniment of distant unhappy violins.

  “Hey!” A sharp pain in her side as Harris nudged her. She blinked and looked up just as the conductor motioned with his baton to bring them into the music.

  She’d missed the entrance. She fumbled her clarinet and came in late, making up for it with round, full tones, precisely in time with Harris’s.

  The conductor cut them off with a slice of his baton and pointed its thin white tip at her. She watched him warily.

  “You,” he snapped, “will bloody well pay attention. Measure ninety, everyone.”

  She concentrated on coming in precisely right, playing every note correctly, aligning herself with the almost inaudible heartbeat of the music and blending into the shifting sounds and textures. In measure 198 she had a short solo in tandem with the oboe. She skated into it with perfect confidence.

  The oboe was late and out of tune. She stopped when the conductor cut them off, waiting for him to jump the oboe’s boxcar, but he continued to stare directly at her.

  “You were late,” he said. In the stillness, she heard the oboe player breathe a sigh of relief. “Again. Play the entrance.”

  She felt a sting of resentment and terror but she obediently put the instrument to her lips and played the entrance, got two notes into it before the baton sliced like a razor.

  “Late! Again.”

  She did it again. He let her get four notes in before cutting her off. By now she felt light-headed, aware that she wasn’t coming in late but that for some reason she’d become his particular punching bag for the evening. His handsome, hateful face pinked with swelling rage.

  “Again!” he shouted, brought her in and cut her off three seconds later. “We will do this until you get it right. Again!”

  She put her instrument down and stared at him. He waved his baton at her. Everyone was staring, eyes crawling over her like slugs. Strangely, she wasn’t afraid.

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “Sir.”

  The pink in his cheeks turned bright red. He threw his baton down on the stand with a clatter.

  “What did you say? You won’t? Do you think I’m asking your opinion, you brainless little twit? Play the entrance or get out!”

  She froze for a second, then opened her folder and put the music back inside.

  “Don’t bother to take the music, you won’t be coming back!” he screamed. “Out! Get out!”

  She stood, instruments balanced in her arms, and said, “Go to hell.”

  As she turned to make her way past the dumb-founded, amazed violinists, something hit her in the back, a pinpoint of pain in her right shoulder. A gasp went up from the orchestra. She turned back to see his baton rolling on the floor at her feet.

  The concertmaster stood slowly, holding his violin by the neck as if he might choke it, and said, “I think that’s quite enough, sir.”

  He pushed his chair back and stalked offstage. The second- and third-chair violinists hesitated and then hurried to follow, and then the entire section rose en masse, whispering nervously. All around the orchestra, people got up and made their way out. The conductor watched, openmouthed, as they left him standing alone on the podium.

  Harris grabbed her elbow and dragged her back into the darkness behind the curtains.

  “Hold still,” he said, and leaned over and planted a warm, wet kiss on her mouth. She flinched backward and wiped her lips with the back of her hand. “Goddamn, you’re something! What are you, nuts?”

  “I wasn’t late on the entrance,” she said flatly. “And he’s a complete fuckhead.”

  “Fuckhead or not, you’d better go lick the concertmaster’s shoes because if he hadn’t backed you up you’d be riding the musical rail out of town, if you get my drift. And you still may be facing the little old ladies’ brigade.” He squeezed her shoulder, too hard. “Too bad we don’t have a union here.”

  “We couldn’t afford one. I guess I’d better get it out of here before he beats me up in the parking lot.” She found her instrument case and started tearing down the clarinets, slotting the pieces in their soft velvet cradles. “Thanks for reminding me to show up.”

  Harris grinned. “Yeah, like it mattered. Peace.”

  She split her fingers in his direction and made her way over to the concertmaster, Stephenson, who was holding court near the soda machines. He accepted her thanks gracefully, promised her he’d stick by her, and even appointed a burly cello player to walk her out to her car.

  Another educational evening of fine arts.

  At home, after accepting Carlton’s happy greeting, she stored the instruments and sat cross-legged on her rumpled bed, staring off into space. After a while, she reached over and rescued a large artist’s sketch pad from the floor. She opened it to the first page.

  She’d sketched two crude likenesses of John Lee’s mother, scars and all—one as she looked now, faded and softened, and one as she had looked in the cellar, strong and bony and battered. On the next page she’d sketched John Lee. She lingered over that one, tracing the rough pencil lines with her fingers. The next page—the last one filled in—had a floor plan of the Jordan house.

  She reached for a pencil, chewed on the eraser for a few seconds, and drew in a small square in Pearl Jordan’s bedroom. In neat tiny letters, she labeled it window.

  Now that she had her car back, she could go for a little drive.

  She passed the pale dirt road to John Lee’s workshop with a sense of longing that was almost like the pull of a magnet; she hadn’t seen him in two days, and her body was starved for his comfort. She continued on, keeping her eyes firmly on the road as she passed the Jordan house, and drove on into unknown darkness, until weak lights on the horizon indicated some kind of town. The billboard on the right side of the road—half-eaten by sun and age—had a fresh-faced white family looking hopefully into the setting sun. The caption said FALL CREEK: A GOOD PLACE TO BE. Some wit had marked out BE and substituted LEAVE in uneven thick letters underneath. Somebody else had painted GEV + JEAN’82, which was a pretty good indication of how long it took for the town to fix things. Even after the sign, there was nothing to indicate Fall Creek really was a town—a run-down gas station with round-shouldered pumps, the name whited out and plywood over the windows, followed by more desert road, and then suddenly a brightly lit 7-Eleven, parking lot empty, with a darkened video rental store next door. Abby slowed the car as the highway turned to a street and a sign informed her the speed limit was thirty miles per hour.

  If downtown Midland was seedy, downtown Fall Creek was devastated—empty stores with shoe-polished FOR LEASE signs, broken windows, a very few stores that looked, if not prosperous, breathing. Among those was Josie’s Restaurant, a long expanse of dusty windows. Abby pulled her car into an angled space in front of it and sat staring at it, pulling in deep breaths of cold air that tasted metallic as blood.

  Not Josie’s Restaurant, not all those years ago—it had been the Fall Creek Diner then—but the Formica tables looked the same, the serving counter, the peeling wallpaper. She remembered eating there once, shoving food in her mouth as quickly as possible, aware of everyone staring at her like a freak in a sideshow. It was after Daddy’s funeral, that was it. It had been the last time she’d come to town.

  Someone with her, she remembered now, sitting on the other side of the sparkled Formica, eating a thick steak and potatoes. Just a shadow, a suggestion of a voice.

  She flinched out of the past and looked at the sign in the window, CLOSED. The diner closed at six p.m. The only thing that seemed to be open in the darkness was the gaudy glow of the 7-Eleven and, at the far end of the street, a Dairy Queen.

  There used to be a dress shop down there, on the left where the windows were broken. Hilda’s? Helga’s? She remembered her mother grimly trying on dress after dress one hot Saturday afternoon, perspiration shining on her face.

  There were lights in one other place, at the very end of the street. Abby pulled out and drove in that direction.

  A police cruiser was parked in the angled spaces in front of the door that said FALL CREEK POLICE DEPT., and through the windows she saw a tired-looking fat woman in a khaki uniform behind a microphone, and in a chair opposite her another cop, a man, wearing a ten-gallon white straw cowboy hat. He had his feet propped up on the desk, revealing point-toed boots. Abby quickly turned her head and made a right turn into the Dairy Queen for a cold drink. The teenager who took her money looked monumentally bored with the entire event, but the Dr Pepper was good, thick and sweet.

  Better not to take any chances with Terry if she could help it. Abby made a left out of the Dairy Queen back through town again, past the billboard and into the dark.

  The Jordan house had its lights on. She pulled over to the side of the road and watched it for a while, the warm inviting glow of it, and felt sick with tension. Go home, part of her advised. Call Dr. Urdiales.

  But she’d never learn anything that way, never know. She wasn’t going to hurt anyone, after all. All she wanted was a little information.

  She left the car on the side of the road with its emergency flashers on and darted across to the other side. Even with the flashlight she kept pointed low and ahead of her feet, it seemed like a long walk in the cold with only the whine of the wind in her ears to keep her company; the night had a bite of snow, and the clouds looked pregnant. It seemed so empty out here, so dark. She thought she caught a whisper of voices, but when she turned her head it was gone. Her heart thudded faster and so did her feet, and when the flashlight caught the pale white glow of the house itself she shut it off and continued slowly and carefully, feeling her way with sweeps of her hands in front.

  A television was playing inside the house, the jolly theme music of a Christmas special. Abby put both hands flat against the cold smooth wood of the house and eased up until she was even with the windowsill. Through the pale lace curtains she saw the living room, empty but brightly lit.

  She slid around the corner to another lighted window, this one at the kitchen. She glanced in and quickly dropped, because the old woman was standing just a few feet away, stirring something in a pot on the stove. Around back, then, to the darkened windows. Both had screens on them. She took her car keys out of her pocket and pried carefully at one, freezing whenever it made a squeak, and the screen popped out with a rattle that nearly made her scream. She held on to it, breathing quickly, but no lights came on, no voices called. She eased the screen to the ground and propped it against the wall. The window wasn’t latched. She slid it up, one careful inch at a time.

  An alarm went off, lights flaring, sirens honking. Abby squawked in surprise and lost her balance, fell on her back in the dirt while the halogen lights drilled into her head. Of course, she thought stupidly. Of course she’d have an alarm.

  And then she scrambled up and ran headlong into the darkness, stumbling over invisible obstacles, arms flailing. In the distance, the emergency flashers on her car blinked out a message: Hurry, hurry, hurry. The woman would call John Lee, of course. John Lee would make it in five minutes, maybe less. Maybe she’d call the police, too. The prospect’ of being at Officer Terry’s mercy was terrifying. Abby fumbled the flashlight out of her coat pocket and flicked it on to light her way as she ran, while behind her the alarms continued to shriek.

  She stumbled across the highway and collapsed against the door of her car for a second, chest aching with fear. Her hands were shaking so much she could hardly get the key in the lock to open the door.

  Headlights burned down the road that led from John Lee’s workshop. She froze, watching them, and jammed the key in the ignition.

  It cranked stubbornly. She screamed in frustration and slapped the steering wheel, tried it again.

  The engine roared. She released the brake and floored it, heading for Midland and safety, and behind her headlights made a turn from John Lee’s road to the highway. Would he follow her?

  No. He turned off at his mother’s house—making sure she was all right. Abby swallowed an almost chewable lump of fear and willed her muscles to relax, heard tendons creak in her hands as she succeeded.

  He didn’t need to follow her, of course. He’d know who it was, or he’d have a pretty damn good idea. She’d been wearing gloves, so there wouldn’t be any fingerprints, but John Lee wouldn’t need a fingerprint to connect her to it.

  Christ, what had she been thinking? It had seemed like the right thing to do, the only thing to do, but what good would it be if she got arrested? Who’d believe her? No, she was going to have to be smarter about this. More careful.

  She needed information.

  More than that, she needed allies.

  As she blasted past the last billboard at the edge of Fall Creek, blue and red lights popped and swirled. She gasped and hit the brakes hard enough to make her balding tires slip, but it wouldn’t do any good; he had her, had her good. She looked down at her speedometer. Sixty-five miles an hour—okay on a Dallas freeway, not okay outside a small town. The patrol car pulled in behind her. The chances of her ancient Toyota outrunning the cruiser were so laughable they weren’t even worth considering. She pulled over to the gravel shoulder and hissed to a stop, swallowing convulsively, over and over. The Dr Pepper she’d bought at the Dairy Queen bumped her hand when she reached down for her purse, and she grabbed it and took a big sip to quiet her lurching stomach.

  Behind her, the police car was a black, menacing shadow, painted red and blue in alternating sweeps. She fumbled her wallet open and pulled out her driver’s license, remembered with a sinking heart that she’d need her proof of liability insurance, too. She began combing through the folded scraps of paper stuffed in with the few dollars.

  A brilliant flashlight beam blinded her, and the cop knocked loudly on her window. She rolled it down and held out her license before he’d said a word, squinting to see him.

  “Ma’am,” he said. She didn’t know him, was overwhelmingly relieved. His name tag said his name was WILSON. “Going a little fast there.”

  “Yes. Yes, I’m sorry, Officer. I lost track—”

  “This your current address?”

  “Yes.” She hesitated. “Uh, no. I mean, I moved.”

  “You know you’re required to update your license when you move?” He clipped the license to a board and began writing.

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”

  “Okay, you make sure you do that next week. I’ll need to see your insurance.”

  “Yes—” She looked back down at her wallet and pulled out papers, one after another, dumping them on the passenger seat. Old grocery receipts, gas receipts, receipts with no explanation at all—

  “Ben.” Another voice, from outside the car. Officer Wilson looked up and around. “C’mere a minute.”

  Wilson gave her a warning look and disappeared from the window. She kept her head down, diligently searching, fingers sweaty and trembling. What a completely stupid fuckup this had been, beginning to end. And now to have lost her insurance card on top of everything—

  No, wait, there it was. She snagged it and unfolded it, breathed a sigh of relief. The flashlight reappeared in her window and she turned toward it, holding up the paper.

  “I found it …” Her voice died. It wasn’t Officer Wilson.

  It was Terry Bollinger. He smiled at her and took the proof of insurance from her numbed fingers.

  “Well, if it ain’t the nice schoolteacher,” he said, and looked down at his clipboard. “Speeding. That’s a real pisser.”

  “I want to talk to Officer Wilson,” she said.

  Terry maintained his smile. “Oh, I’ll just bet you do. Trouble is, he’s busy calling dispatch right now. Why? You got something against me, Miss Teacher?”

  She stared at him and slowly lowered her hand to her lap. He concentrated on the clipboard, checking things off, writing descriptions. He handed it back to her.

  “Sign this.”

  “What’s the ticket for?”

  “You want to argue with me?” He raised his eyebrows. “Out of the car.”

  “But—”

  “Get out of the car, ma’am, now.” Terry opened the door. She unlocked her seat belt—thank God she’d remembered that, at least—and stepped out.

  At the cruiser, Officer Wilson straightened to watch. “Trouble?” he called.

  Terry shrugged. “Naw, not really. Gonna give this lady a sobriety test, that’s all.”

  “I’m not drunk,” she said, looking up at his face. The flickering bubble lights made him by turns cold and blazing. “You know I’m not. Why are you doing this?”

  “I smelled alcohol on your breath.”

  There was no arguing with him, not really. She walked the line for him, stood on one foot, touched her nose. She could tell it amused him to see her perform like a trained seal, and he made her go through the entire process, including the field breathalyzer, which of course registered negative. At the end of it, even Officer Wilson was bored. Terry gave her a ticket for ten miles over the speed limit.

  Behind them, headlights came from Fall Creek. A car slowed—maroon sedan, late model. She saw the shadow of John Lee’s face as he turned toward them, but he kept driving, and she was glad. Bad as things were, they’d have only gotten immeasurably worse if he’d stopped. Terry would have had a whole new play toy.