Amy was waiting at the door and she walked past me and got into her car without speaking. I went to the window and watched them working, not paying attention to the house or me, knowing they hadn't seen the cab. I called for Tommy, my voice shaking, but got no answer. He was downstairs, playing Xbox. I tousled his hair and asked if his mom had called. He said no without looking up. I pulled the plug on the TV and told him to come on. Now.

  He helped me stuff a suitcase with his clothes. While I zipped it up, he went to the window.

  "Cool," he said. "What are they doing?"

  I looked out. The machine was clawing at the foundation.

  "Come on," I said, grabbing Tommy by the arm.

  "Can I bring the Xbox?" he asked.

  "You got two seconds," I said.

  He dashed for the stairs and I went into our bedroom and grabbed the bag of money. Our payoff from the project. Most of the half million in cash was still there.

  We piled into the H2 and I burned up the driveway, half expecting to see police lights in my rearview. I drove Tommy to my mom's house. I was like a man with a tick, dialing her number on my cell phone, getting no answer, and snapping it shut, only to open it again a minute later. As I pulled down the street, I realized it had been nearly a year since I'd been there to see her. Last Christmas. It hadn't changed. It never would. A single-story, white aluminum box squeezed into a row of houses whose only difference was the make of the car in their tiny driveway. She was in there, her hair gray, bent over, TV too loud, waiting for the end. There was the recliner I bought her in the corner. Still stacked with books. The plant long dead. I finally got the volume turned down on the TV. She sat scowling up at me from the musty couch.

  "I need you to take Tommy for a while, Mom," I said.

  "Where's the mother?" she asked, her eyes unwavering and cold.

  "Ma, I need you."

  Her chin trembled a bit and her eyes moistened.

  "He can stay in your room," she said. "Come here, Tommy. Give Grandma a kiss. That's it. Take that to your father's old room.

  "Now put that on," she said to me.

  I put the TV on and took Tommy by the hand and down the hall. My old room was smaller than my closet at home. I moved some dusty trophies off the bureau and set down his suitcase. The bed still had that old blue NY Giants cover on it, although it seemed to sag even more in the middle. Tommy clutched a gym bag to his chest. Inside was the Xbox.

  "It's not for long," I said, squeezing his shoulder.

  He looked up at me, shaking his head.

  "No, Dad," he said.

  "Don't 'no' me, son. I don't want to do this, but I have to," I said.

  "Where's Mom?" he said, looking at his sneakers and starting to cry.

  "Now look it," I said, kneeling down, pulling him to me, and squeezing him. "Don't you do this. You're my man. You're my little man, right?"

  When he stopped, I sat him on the edge of the bed and went out into the hall. I crossed through the living room and into my parents' room, taking the dusty TV off the bureau and carrying it back past my mother with the cord dragging between my feet.

  "That's your father's TV," she said, glowering.

  "Oh, he needs it?" I said, glaring right back at her. "You be nice to Tommy, Mom. God damn it, I need this. Please."

  "Where is the mother?" she said, softer this time, her eyes darting toward the door.

  "I'll call you, Ma," I said.

  I set up the TV in my old room and helped Tommy hook up his Xbox. He asked me to play Ghost Recon. Just one game. I told him I was sorry, kissed his head, messed up his hair, and left him. I got two grocery bags out of the kitchen, took them to the car, and filled them with half the money. A lot. More than two hundred grand. That's what I handed to my mom when I asked her again to be nice.

  "Buy him some things, Mom," I said. "For that game if he wants it. Some clothes."

  "Are you in trouble?" she asked, glancing at the money and raising her voice above Judge Judy. I looked down the hall and softly said, "I don't know, Ma. Maybe."

  67

  ANTON REACHED DOWN and took the last of Jessica's cash. It was a small pharmacy on the hill in downtown Secaucus. The seams between the faded linoleum floor tiles were black with dirt and it smelled like formaldehyde and rubbing alcohol. In her hand was the bag containing six vials of Vicodin. That would last her a while.

  Before Anton could give back her change, the phone behind the counter rang. He picked it up, answering in his thick Italian accent.

  "For you," he said, handing her the phone.

  She raised her eyebrows and put the receiver to her ear.

  "That was nice," Johnny said in a rough voice. "Real nice. So I thought I'd do you a favor."

  "I thought we couldn't talk on the phone," she said.

  "Not on yours, or his," Johnny said. "The two of you are red-hot. That's my favor. Don't go home, and be careful what you say on your phone. The phones are tapped and they got transponders on the cars. I told your husband it's not smart to run off to the sunshine when there's work to be done. Watch your credit cards too, they can be on you in a couple of minutes."

  "Where am I supposed to go?" she asked.

  "What am I, a fucking guidance counselor?" he said. "I'm you, Switzerland looks good. You got some money there."

  The bell on the door in the front of the pharmacy tinkled and Jessica spun around. It was just two teenagers.

  "I need some to get there," she said, her voice small.

  "Yeah," he said. "You do."

  "Will you help?"

  "I'm no fucking bank."

  "I need a car," she said.

  "It'll cost you," he said. "Everything will, and I don't need another blow job right now, so you better think. I gave you a bagful of Franklins a couple weeks ago."

  "Thane," she said.

  "There you go."

  "Can you get me a car right away?"

  "For a hundred grand, sure."

  She thought and then said, "Give me five hours, say, eight o'clock. Can you have someone take it into Central Park? Go in on Sixth Avenue, take two rights, and pull over at the light at the beginning of the Literary Walk."

  "The fuck is that?" he asked.

  "There's some statues," she said. "Shakespeare in that circle of flowers. For a hundred thousand dollars your guy can buy a map."

  "You're a pain in my ass."

  "What kind of car?" she asked, staring at Anton until he looked away.

  "I'll see what I can come up with."

  "So I can look for it."

  "Hang on."

  He covered the phone and she heard him talking to someone.

  "I got a 1986 El Camino. Kind of a gold. It'll make it to Canada, no problem."

  "Eight o'clock. Thanks, Johnny."

  "You owe me," he said, and hung up.

  68

  PETE WATCHED JOHNNY while he stared at the phone, then looked over at him and said, "Kill them both."

  "For a hundred grand?"

  "Not for the fucking money," he said, a look of disgust on his face. "Get the money if you can, but I don't want these two yokels trying to outrun the feds. They get snatched, they'll turn. This thing is a fucking mess."

  "Women always fuck things up," Pete said.

  "What's that supposed to mean?" Johnny said, his eyes blazing.

  "I didn't mean nothing," Pete said. "Just women in general."

  "Well, this one's smart," Johnny said, "so don't fuck it up."

  Johnny picked up the phone and poised his finger over the buttons without dialing.

  "Well," he said. "Go."

  Pete heard him punching in a number as he closed the door. Out on the street, the day was turning cold. Pete pulled his leather coat close and patted the .357 under his arm. He'd need a throwaway and he knew where to get it. His green Excursion was parked on the sidewalk and he climbed in. The El Camino was out back of a garage in Paterson. Two stupid Guatemalans drove it up from Atlanta with some stolen slot machines they intended to put in the back room of a truck stop off of I-95. Pete waited for the garage guy to move a couple cars blocking the El Camino, then he got in and headed for the G.W. Bridge. There was another guy with a pawnshop on 117th Street who owed him a favor. In his rearview mirror the sun melted into a blood-red pool beneath the horizon of dark clouds. Pete stared at it and almost swerved into a tractor-trailer.

  The guy at the pawnshop had three guns to choose from. One had a homemade silencer, a can of hair mousse, packed with glass and painted black. It had been welded onto a .380 and he broke it down so he could hold the barrel up to the light and check the seam. It looked good, so he snapped it back together and put it in a bag with a box of hollow-point shells.

  Retail was two grand. The guy took five hundred for it. Not a bad investment. He knew that for a job like this, Johnny would give him half the cash.

  He looked at his watch and knew he had time for a rack of ribs. There was a place a couple blocks away near the Columbia campus. Dinosaur Bar-B-Que. Pete licked his sore, weighing the pain of the spices for the taste of meat that fell off the bone. He decided to take the pain and he headed uptown a few blocks, parking on the street and sitting down in a small booth by himself with a napkin tucked into the collar of his shirt.

  The idea of killing that bitch and her stupid husband made him hungry as hell. He ordered a pint of beer and the Big House Special with a full rack of ribs.

  "Hungry, aren't you?" the waitress said.

  "Goddamn right."

  69

  ONE OF THE COPS had ahold of an arm. He pulled the body out of the dirt pile and it rolled over, face up. Clods of earth spilled down the cheeks and out of the ears and the wide vacant eyes. Bucky cleared his throat and swallowed.

  "That's him," he said.

  After a minute of standing there, he felt something warm trickle down his chin. He'd bitten right through his lip.

  He turned away from his son and watched the dark blue Crown Vic racing its way down the construction road, trailing a cloud of dust. The women agents got out and stopped in front of him.

  "Is it?" Agent Lee said, nodding toward the dirt pile.

  Bucky nodded.

  "I'm sorry," she said, and her cell phone rang.

  Bucky turned away. He opened the door to his truck and stopped before climbing in. Agent Lee was talking loud enough for him to hear. She was telling her people she thought they had another one and to stay right with him. She snapped the phone shut and started toward the Crown Vic.

  "He's taking the back roads, heading to New York," she said to her partner across the hood. "She called him from someplace in Secaucus. I guess he's got a bag of money and she's got a plan. She told him to meet her at their special place in Central Park, whatever that is."

  "We'll give them something special," Agent Rooks said.

  "It's a big place."

  "Only about a thousand acres of woods, tunnels, and ponds."

  The car doors slammed and the two of them drove off. Bucky waited until they were out on the road before he started his engine. Before he put the Suburban in gear, he reached into the backseat, gripping his deer gun with its red laser sight and rattling the box next to it. It was full of twelve gauge slugs. One stop he wouldn't have to make.

  He drove out to the road and made a left on Route 41A, heading toward New York. He knew the story of how they met.

  70

  I KNEW THEY WERE BEHIND ME. It was a feeling more than anything else. I never really caught them in something stupid, just headlights that always seemed to be about a quarter mile back, no matter how fast or slow I went. The notion of a transponder someplace on the H2 hit me and I considered whether or not I could stop and find it. Where would it be? Under the chassis? Behind the bumper?

  Anywhere.

  I needed a different plan. They could have pulled me over at any time, but they didn't. They wanted something more. Her? Whatever it was, I had the sense that I didn't have much time. I pulled over and rechecked my map, finding the fastest way to I-84. There was no sense in crawling along like this if they knew where I was anyway.

  I needed to get to her. I had the money. She had the plan. If I couldn't lose them between here and there, I didn't deserve to get away. I took the G.W. Bridge, marveling at the universe of lights. A universe of possibilities. The perfect place to get lost. I shot down the Henry Hudson Parkway and got off at Seventy-ninth Street. It was on Amsterdam I made a quick left on a yellow light. I shot north three blocks until the lights turned on me, then pulled over and ran out of the Hummer. It was still running.

  I took off, through the smell of hot food and people walking to and from the spate of streetside restaurants, then checked behind me quick and ducked down Eighty-fifth Street. I sprinted full-out until I crossed Central Park West and disappeared into the black shadows of the trees. I crouched down behind a big maple and watched, my hands clinging to the rough bark, catching my breath while I scanned the street corner.

  People in long coats came and went. Cabs. Limos. A few cars. No one running. No one following. After fifteen minutes, a black Town Car with two men in suits drove slowly down the street, their heads searching the sidewalk. Agents. They had no idea and I felt giddy with my success. I turned toward the heart of the darkness and headed toward where I knew she was waiting. 71

  THERE WAS AN ARMY-NAVY STORE in Binghamton and a Home Depot just down the street. Bucky stopped to buy a long green overcoat, an officer's coat stripped of its rank. Thick wool that could hide a firearm. At Home Depot he purchased a hacksaw and a ten-inch half-round file. In his truck, he sawed off the black synthetic stock of his shotgun at the grip, then used the file to smooth the edges. The barrel of the gun was short enough, a slug barrel specially made for deer hunting, short and easy to maneuver.

  With his knife, he cut through the pocket of the coat so he could grip the gun beneath it without looking the least suspicious. He got back out onto the highway and called Judy, telling her he wouldn't be home.

  "Did you find him?" she asked, crying since she'd picked up the phone. Bucky didn't answer.

  "Oh, God," she said.

  "We'll talk when I get back," he said.

  "Bucky, what're you gonna do?"

  "Just what I can," he said. "I'm hanging up now."

  And he did.

  He stroked his mustache and rode in silence, cracking the window for some fresh air, keeping pace with the faster traffic, but not wanting to get pulled over with the gun. When he got to the big city, he found a parking place on the street toward the north end on the west side of Central Park. Leaving the gun on the floor of the backseat, he found a drugstore with a tourist map. He bought a bottle of water and a package of beef jerky that almost made him throw up. He wasn't sure if it was the beef or the stink that came up at him from a subway grate. Back in the truck, under the dome light, he cursed at the map. The Literary Walk was a big damn place. Maybe a tenth of a mile. Maybe two. There were statues all up and down it. He knew Thane said something about a statue, but never which one.

  There was nothing for it. He pulled on the big green coat, slid five shells into the shotgun's magazine, and tucked it under the flap of the coat. He packed another five rounds into the good pocket and slid out onto the sidewalk. Under the streetlamp, he held the map up to get his bearings, then looked around before hopping a low stone wall. He wanted to stick to the woods where he could take a leak like a man.

  It was eerie, the smell of the trees and the leaves and the night rustlings of raccoons with the artificial glow of lights and the concrete buildings towering over the tops of the leafless trees. He heard a waterfall and headed toward it, marveling at the clear flow of water in the middle of a rancid city. He checked his watch. It was just past seven, and he allowed himself a minute to stand there on the edge of the stream and say a prayer regarding his son.

  He approached the long colonnade of elms, four deep they were, from the west. It was there he came upon a statue that made him stop again.

  Eagles and Prey, it was called.

  He looked up at the bronze birds. Two of them, their awful talons ripping at the half-dead body of a goat. He said a second prayer then, asking God for him to shoot well and take the eyetooth from the man who took his.

  To his figuring, the walk stretched from the edge of a pond, past a massive fountain and through a brick tunnel beneath the road, then up some steps and down the long colonnade, forty feet wide, that ended at another, smaller circle where the statue of Shakespeare looked down on the lesser human souls. Bucky walked its length entirely, then positioned himself in what he determined to be the middle. He marched there, back and forth, occasionally going most of the way down its length, one way or the other, according to the instincts that rarely failed him.

  72

  OF COURSE I THOUGHT ABOUT the fact that we had come full circle, meeting there like that. But from the dark of the trees, I saw that the bench where I'd first seen her was empty except for the shadows of the twisted branches above. I crossed the path and saw a dark figure to the north, heading away. Still, I hurried and kept low and to the shadows.

  I found her well off the path, sitting on the crest of a spine of black rocks. She was clutching herself and swaying in a slow uneven manner. As I got closer, my eyes scanning the darkness for danger, I heard her singing softly to herself.

  I traveled the length of the rocky spine, climbing to her, and saw why she was clutching herself. Under her thin coat she was wearing a dress and already there was a layer of white frost on the grass. I called her name and she rose and, weaving her way toward me, opened her arms. I hugged her tight and we kissed each other. I felt the icy chill of her hands on my face as she separated from me.

  "The money?" she said. "You have it?"