He dropped the paper on the bureau top, then took out the card. He wasn’t sure why he’d brought it with him. But he felt it again, the momentum, the energy. The world arranging itself around him, things falling into place. Fate now, or something like it.

  21

  They were in one of Ray’s company cars, an old Ford station wagon Harry had used before. It was innocuous enough for surveillance work, but had a big 400 four-barrel engine that ate up the road.

  They were parked behind an abandoned gas station, with a clear view of the trailer park. Separating the properties was a trash-strewn slope, a frozen-over creek and a stand of bare trees. Every once in a while, Errol turned the engine on, let the wagon warm up.

  Harry took his field glasses from the dashboard, had another look down at the trailer. Unlike most of the others, it had no Christmas decorations, and its trim was eaten with rust. A broken Big Wheel lay in the small side yard.

  “How’s the chest?” Harry said.

  “Hurt for a while. Then it itched more than anything. Bruise is gone, though.”

  “Good.”

  “First time I’ve ever been shot.”

  “Hopefully the last.”

  “Makes you look at things a little differently, though.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How easy it can happen. I guess that’s what I’ve been trying to get my mind around ever since.”

  “Don’t bother. It won’t get you anywhere.”

  “You think about it much anymore? What happened to you?”

  He put the glasses back on the dashboard.

  “Only every night.”

  He brought up the thermos of coffee from the floorboard, unscrewed the cap.

  “How sure are we that’s the right place?” Errol asked.

  “That’s the address the phone company gave Ray. Bill’s in the name of a Mitchell Sweeton.”

  “Different last name.”

  “Yeah, but the first name’s the same as the brother’s. Too much of a coincidence.”

  “Heads up,” Errol said.

  Harry looked down, saw a young black woman leave the trailer, walk the twenty feet to a bank of mailboxes along the road. He put the thermos back down, raised the glasses again.

  “You think it’s possible this brother’s a brother?” Errol said.

  Harry watched the woman take a small stack of letters and circulars from the mailbox.

  “Or we’ve got the wrong trailer,” he said.

  “One way to find out.”

  Errol opened his cell phone.

  “What’s that number again?”

  Harry gave it to him.

  He punched in the numbers, waited. Harry saw the woman lift her head, look toward the trailer, then close the mailbox. She went back up the trailer stairs.

  After a moment, Errol said into the phone, “Sorry, I misdialed,” and closed it.

  “Bingo,” he said.

  The woman pulled the door shut from within.

  “I’d like to have a look at that mail,” Harry said.

  “Think you missed your chance. And above and beyond the fact it’s a federal crime, from the looks of that place I think all you’d find are some bills and maybe a couple termination-of-service notices.”

  Harry put the field glasses down.

  “What now?” Errol said.

  Harry shrugged. Errol’s phone rang. He answered it.

  “Yeah?”

  He listened for a moment, nodded.

  “It’s for you.”

  He handed it over.

  “It’s me,” Nikki said.

  “How did you get this number?”

  “Ray gave it to me. I tried your house but there was no answer.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Sherry called me.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Not much. She said she was sorry and that was it. Then she hung up.”

  “She was sorry? That’s all she said?”

  “When I called her back, she didn’t answer.”

  Errol was watching him now.

  “What do you think it means?” she said.

  “I don’t know. But I guess I should get over there, try to find out. Do you know where she lives?”

  “No. All I have is her phone number.”

  “Give it to me again. I don’t have it with me.”

  She read it off to him.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll call you back, let you know what I find out.”

  He closed the line, dialed the number she’d given him. It rang ten times, no answer. He let it go six more, ended the call.

  “Shit,” he said.

  “What’s up?”

  “I don’t know.” He closed the phone, handed it back. “But I don’t like the way it sounds.”

  “The way what sounds?”

  “Everything.”

  Errol dropped him off at Ray’s office, headed back to the trailer park. Ray had designated a small room off the main office for their use, and Harry sat at a desk there, pulled a Monmouth County phone book into his lap, looking for an address that matched Sherry’s number and name. She wasn’t listed. He called Nikki back.

  “No luck,” he said. “Ray can get the address, but it’ll take a while. I’ll try her back later, then swing by the Heartbreak tonight, see if she’s there.”

  “I don’t like this.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “What happens if you can’t find her?”

  “I’ll find her.”

  “Do you want me to go with you, to the Heartbreak?”

  “Do you want to?”

  A pause, then: “No. I don’t think I ever want to go there again.”

  “Then I’ll take care of it.”

  “Be careful, Harry,” she said.

  He gave that a moment.

  “I will,” he said.

  When he got there, the bar was less than half full, a single dancer on the stage. She was barely out of her teens, short blonde hair and a cut-off T-shirt that read I TALK TO STRANGERS.

  He took a stool, nodded at the hard-eyed barmaid, asked if Sherry was in.

  “No. Later maybe. What are you drinking?”

  He ordered a Corona, looked around the bar while he waited. Wondered if he would know Harrow on sight, if he’d changed much since that last photograph had been taken at Glades.

  When he was done nursing the beer, he ordered a Coke, looked at his watch. Ten after ten. Two more dancers had shown up, one tall and black, the other a skinny Russian blonde. They worked the bar, smiled at him, but after their third time around, when he hadn’t offered any bills, they ignored him.

  He was coming out of the men’s room when he saw her walk in the front door, dressed in street clothes. She greeted the barmaid quickly, headed for a door in the back. He followed her.

  She left the door ajar behind her. It was a small dressing room, a mirror on one wall, lockers on the others. She was working the combination padlock on a locker. When she got it open, he watched her take out a gym bag, fill it with clothes and items from the locker, tampons, two packs of cigarettes.

  “Sherry,” he said from the doorway.

  She turned, saw him, went back to what she was doing.

  “What are you doing here?” she said.

  She closed the locker, zipped the bag up.

  “Where are you going?” he said.

  “Away.”

  “Did Harrow come back?”

  She hefted the bag.

  “Listen,” she said, “I don’t have time for his bullshit. I have a life. I have a child.”

  “We can help you.”

  “You can?” She looked at him. “And where have you been so far? Forgive me if I don’t believe you. But I don’t think anyone around here gives a shit about me anymore, except myself.”

  The short-haired blonde ducked by him into the room, went to her locker.

  “Think about this,” he said. “We can protect you. And you can help us find him.”

  “Find him? You’re having trouble finding him? Every time I look over my goddamn shoulder, he’s standing there. And you can’t find him?”

  “We will. We—”

  “Off-limits, partner. I have to ask you to leave.”

  Harry turned, saw a broad-shouldered bouncer in a yellow STAFF T-shirt behind him.

  “We’re talking,” Harry said.

  “Leave or I’ll carry you out.”

  “Just go,” Sherry said. “Just fuck off, please. All of you. And leave me alone.”

  “I’m telling you, we can help.”

  “Okay, let’s go, pal.” The bouncer reached for his arm and Harry shrugged it off, turned to look at him. The bouncer saw something in his eyes, stopped.

  “You have to go,” he said, not touching him now.

  The blonde was getting dressed, as if oblivious to their presence. She pulled her T-shirt off, tossed it into the locker, stood there topless as she got out her street clothes.

  He turned and went back into the bar. The barmaid was watching him. His seat was taken, and the singles he’d left on the bar were gone.

  He went out the door into the parking lot, sat on the hood of the Mustang and waited. She came out a few minutes later, saw him, walked to an old Honda parked on the edge of the lot. He started toward her.

  “Sherry,” he said. “I’m sorry for all this.”

  She put her bag in the backseat of the car, looked at him.

  “Are you really? You expect me to believe that? Do any of you—Nikki, Johnny, you, anyone—care about what happens to me, really?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  She looked at him, shook her head slowly, then opened the car door, got behind the wheel.

  “Keep that card,” he said and she looked at him for a moment, then shut the car door.

  He walked back to the Mustang, watched her drive away. As he got his keys out, he saw the bouncer was standing outside the front door, arms folded, watching him.

  Harry cupped his crotch, said, “Right here, pal,” and got in the car. The bouncer was still watching him when he pulled out of the lot.

  Jack answered the door.

  “What do you want?” he said.

  “Spare me the attitude,” Harry said. “Is she home?”

  He turned away from the door.

  “Nikki,” he called out. “That man’s here.”

  He opened the door wider and Harry came in. Reggie was doing shirtless bench presses in a small area off the living room. He looked at Harry, sat up, rubbed a towel over his chest.

  She came down the stairs.

  “What happened?” she said.

  He looked at the kitchen.

  “Let’s go in there,” he said. “Where we can talk.”

  Jack watched them, hands on his hips. In the kitchen, Harry told her about his visit to the Heartbreak.

  “Where is she going?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “But maybe it’s not such a bad thing after all. Might be safer for them.”

  “This is exactly what I didn’t want to do. Turn everyone’s life upside down with my problems. She’s got a four-year-old daughter. Where are they going to go?”

  “Whatever. It’s done. We know more than we did, though, about Harrow. We found where the brother lives. I was out there today.”

  “Did you see him?”

  “Harrow? No. We’re watching the place, though. I have the feeling he’ll show up sooner or later. We’ll follow him back to wherever he’s staying, sit on him. He won’t be able to do anything, go anywhere without us knowing about it.”

  “You hope.”

  “It’s more than that.”

  She looked off into the living room.

  “Thank you,” she said finally.

  “I’m sorry it worked out this way.”

  “You did your best.”

  “I should get going,” he said. “It’s late. But I wanted you to know.”

  “Hang on,” she said. “I’ll walk you out.”

  Jack and Reggie watched them as they went out onto the porch. Nikki closed the door behind them.

  “You should go back inside,” he said. “It’s cold.”

  “I will. Thank you for coming by.”

  He shrugged.

  “Poor Sherry,” she said. “She was a good friend to me, but she never got anything out of it but trouble.”

  “I’ll call her again tomorrow, try to talk to her.”

  She looked at him.

  “What?” he said.

  “Nothing.” And she raised up and kissed him lightly on the lips.

  He felt himself flush.

  “You’re a good man, Harry Rane,” she said. “Don’t let anybody tell you different.”

  At the wheel of the Firebird, parked a half block down, Johnny watched her go back inside. At first, he hadn’t recognized her. Her hair was shorter, her movements more confident. But it was her.

  He watched the man in the leather jacket kiss her, get into the old Mustang. He’d followed Sherry to the Heartbreak, waited there, seen the man come out. He’d trailed the Mustang then, not sure why. And this was where it had led.

  He let his breath out slowly, looked at the house, saw figures moving behind the windows. She wasn’t alone. But he knew where she lived now; she would keep. As he watched, a second-floor light went on. He looked up at it, saw a shadow behind the shade, knew it was her.

  22

  When he pulled the Firebird up next to the trailer, Mitch was standing outside in the cold, waiting for him. He rolled to a stop and Mitch pulled open the passenger-side door, got in.

  “Keep going,” he said. “Don’t stop.”

  Johnny pulled away again, looked in the rearview.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Mitch turned, craned his neck.

  “Keep driving. Swing around toward the exit.”

  Johnny made a circuit of the trailer park, headed back out onto Route 9.

  “Go up here and turn around,” Mitch said.

  “Tell me.”

  “There was someone watching the trailer.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. They were parked up by that old Sunoco station. All day. Old man who lives one trailer over called the cops. Sharonda saw them up there, talking to some black guy in a station wagon.”

  “What Sunoco station?”

  “Behind the park. It’s out of business. I’ll show you.”

  They turned around and headed back in the other direction on 9. Mitch pointed out the turnoff to him. He slowed at the boarded-up station. All that was left of the pumps were bolts sticking out of the concrete.

  “They’re gone now,” Mitch said. “Drove off with the cops.”

  Johnny pulled into the station lot, parked on the gravel.

  “What are you doing?” Mitch said.

  He got out of the Firebird, walked around to the rear of the station. Graffiti covered the back wall. He saw the tire tracks in the snow, where they ended. He stood at the top of the slope, looked across the creek. He had a clear view of the front of Mitch’s trailer.

  He heard Mitch come up behind him.

  “What do you think?” Mitch said.

  “Someone was here. Looking for me, I expect.”

  “Who knows you’ve been here? Who could have told them?”

  Johnny got his cigarettes out, lit one.

  “Only one person I can think of,” he said.

  The sky was clear, the moon out, when he eased the Firebird up the dirt driveway. He killed the lights, wondered if the old man had heard the muffler. He shut the engine off, sat there in the darkness. The moon cast the snow-covered ground in a bone gray light.

  The Sig was on the seat beside him. He took it as he got out of the car, shut the door quietly behind him. The gun went into his belt in the small of his back, cold against the skin.

  There was a single light on in the house, throwing a square of yellow into the side yard. The living room. Johnny couldn’t remember the last time he’d been here. This was the house he’d grown up in, had slept in every night until his first time in Jamesburg.

  There was a car up on blocks in the backyard, its doors gone, the interior white with snow. Frazer’s pickup was parked at an angle near the back door, one tire in a stone-circled area of bare ground that had once been a flower garden.

  He waited, listening, heard the low drone of a TV inside. There were trees on three sides of the house, but he could hear the traffic on Route 18 in the distance. Somewhere, a dog began to bark.

  He stubbed his boot on a discarded wheel rim, half-frozen in the dirt. He tugged it free with one gloved hand, dragged it over to a window and stood on it. He looked into the mudroom, the kitchen beyond. There were wet footprints on the floor of the mudroom, two white recycling buckets full of Budweiser cans, more cans on the floor. Frazer’s heavy red hunting jacket hung on the wall.

  He went to the mudroom door, tried the knob. The door was loose in its frame, but held when he pulled. He took the Buck out, sliced an inch-thick sliver of rotted wood from the frame. It opened easily then, creaking on its hinges.

  He put the knife away, stepped through. He could still hear the TV inside. He pulled the door closed behind him.

  The kitchen smelled of grease and staleness, with the faint undercurrent of rotting food. The lidless trash can was overflowing, the sink full of dishes, faucet dripping.

  He didn’t need a light in here, knew every step by heart. He crossed peeling linoleum, floorboards creaking beneath, and stood in the doorway to the living room.

  The old man was asleep in front of the TV. He wore the same clothes Johnny had seen him in last time and his breathing was labored, a wheezing, tubercular snore. There were two empty beer cans on the coffee table, one on the floor. On the television, a black-and-white documentary, bombs falling, the camera pointing straight down out of the bay, following their flight.

  The room was warm, close, and smelled of the old man. He coughed, stirred, then slipped back into sleep. Johnny watched him. The only father he’d ever known.

  He settled into an overstuffed chair across from the couch, got his cigarettes out. Only one left. He lit up, blew smoke toward the old man. It drifted around his face. Frazer sneezed, coughed, opened his eyes, saw him there.