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  "No," he admitted.

  She put the money back onto the table and leaned toward him. "Then let's keep going. You got problems in Rutland, I'm a problem solver. You want to keep baby-sitting me with a partner? Fine. Manuel and I got along pretty good, but give me whoever floats your boat and let me have a shot at it." She got even closer, bending at the waist, fixing his eyes with hers. "I can make us a fortune up there, you know I can. To hell with the boy-girl, Latino-white shit. You broke the mold when you went independent and took turf away from Torres. Keep showing how smart you are by putting me to work."

  She tapped the pile of money he'd given her with her fingertip. "I'll even invest in the business. Take two thousand back and buy some more product with it. I'll trust you to keep honest books."

  He smiled and reached out to stroke her cheek. "You're quite the little firecracker, aren't you?"

  But she straightened and pulled away. "Maybe, and maybe you'll get to find that out. But not now. This is business. We make a bundle, we can talk again." She smiled to cushion the rejection. "By then I might be up for a little R and R—on a sandy beach with no bulletproof windows." She stuck out her hand. "Deal?"

  He glanced at Manuel, if not for approval, then simple confirmation. Manuel stayed as he was, smoking his cigarette.

  Rivera shook her hand. "Deal."

  * * *

  Not expecting more success than he'd had the last few times he'd tried, Joe dialed Gail's cell phone number.

  "Hello?" Her voice sounded almost eager.

  "Hi, it's me. I've been trying to find you—see if you were all right."

  "I'm fine."

  He was disappointed the eagerness had clearly not been for him. "I was just worried, given all you've been through. How's Laurie doing?"

  "The same."

  "Your sister come up yet to be with her?"

  Gail's tone turned bitter. "Yeah. She carved out some time from her schedule. She'll be arriving this afternoon. God knows how long that'll last."

  "She staying with you?"

  "That's the plan. I don't know if it'll work out, given our past history."

  "You can stay at my place if you want."

  Her response came almost too quickly. "No, that's okay. You're sweet, but I ought to tough it out. Maybe if things fall apart."

  There was an awkward pause, which Joe filled with, "Are you sure you're okay? You don't sound like yourself."

  Her reaction surprised him with its hard edge. "Well, I wouldn't, would I? At least I hope not. It's not every day you have your niece lying in a coma because of your own inattention."

  He was surprised she was still stuck there. And worried. "Gail, you know that's not the way it is."

  She almost cut him off. "I know, I know—that's the same crap I tell people, too. Look, Joe, I appreciate the call, but I gotta go. I'll talk to you later, okay?"

  The phone went dead before he could respond.

  He and Gail had shared some rough roads and not just when she'd been the one in a jam. But he was starting to wonder about this one. He couldn't get his hands around it—it lacked a cause-and-effect lineage he could track, her concern with Laurie's condition notwithstanding. He sensed there was more at work here, perhaps an accumulation of past ghosts: the rape, the alienation between her and her sister, his and her peculiar relationship, at once solid but noncommittal. Even her restless pursuit of a variety of professions and causes through the years. Laurie Davis's influence on Gail's state of mind was real and profound, but he didn't think it told even half the story.

  But he didn't know how to read the rest if Gail wouldn't share it with him. And he was saddened by her unwillingness to do so.

  Gail snapped her cell phone closed and stared at it, aware of the hurt she'd just meted out. It was a truism that you routinely wound the ones you love—they are, after all, usually close enough to get caught in the crossfire. But there was also something about Joe specifically—much as she genuinely loved him, as she never had any other—that occasionally put her on edge. His stolid, dependable, trustworthy style, while great in a crisis, hardly made him the brightest star in the galaxy. Which wasn't a fault, of course. And most of the time, their contrasting styles were a perfect fit—she the type A careerist, ambitious and tough-minded; he no weaker of character, but less aggressive, a man more interested in being in the world than leading it. But there were times she felt like screaming at him to do more, be more, and to live up to his real potential. He had the brains, the ability, and the people skills to be the commissioner of Public Safety, for example, if he'd set his mind to it. But the thought never occurred to him.

  She got up and started pacing, pulling away from the phone conversation and toward the real source of her frustration. With Debbie Holton's lack of response to her ministrations, Gail had begun questioning what she'd been hoping to achieve with the girl in the first place.

  The phone rang again.

  "Gail?" It was Debbie—tearful, weak, sounding very far away.

  Gail instinctively bent over the phone, pressing it tighter to her ear to hear better. "Yes. What's wrong? Where are you?"

  "Home. I messed up."

  "Do you need an ambulance? Should I call for one?"

  "No, no. I'm okay that way. I just . . . Can you come over?"

  "I'll be right there."

  All self-doubt gone, her energy back where she found it most comfortable, Gail grabbed her keys and headed for the garage.

  * * *

  Gail found Debbie curled up in a ball on the bare mattress, wadded into a tangle of blankets, smelling of body odor and vomit, her hair a knotted clot. Her eyes were red, her nose runny, and she looked up like a beaten child as Gail entered the room.

  "Help me."

  Gail went to her knees beside her, cradling her head as the young girl began crying more openly. "It's okay, it's okay. I'll take care of you. We'll get you better."

  She looked around them at the stained walls and bare floor, the single grimy window filtering a dim shaft of daylight, and added, "For one thing, we're getting you out of here."

  Debbie pulled her face from Gail's stomach and peered up at her, confused. "What do you mean?"

  "You're coming to live with me for a while, kiddo."

  Chapter 13

  Susan and Lester Spinney were still up waiting for their son when he quietly slipped into the house through the kitchen door. They heard him lock the door behind him and open the fridge before walking into the darkened living room, where they sat side by side on the couch, having killed the TV when they'd heard him drive up.

  As Dave was halfway to the staircase, Lester turned on the table light by his side.

  Dave jumped and staggered backward, his eyes wide with surprise, almost dropping the soda in his hand. "Jesus. You scared me."

  "Where have you been?" Lester asked.

  Dave's eyebrows furrowed. "What? Out with friends."

  "The Shermans?"

  "Yeah—some."

  "What were you doing with them?"

  "Listening to music. Talking. What's going on?"

  "We're worried about you," Susan said. "We don't want you making a mistake that could ruin your life."

  Abandoning the soda on the side table, Dave approached them, his face blank. "What are you talking about? That thing at the Zoo? I told Dad nothing happened, and I haven't seen Craig or the others since, like I promised."

  "I know you've been at the Sherman place, Dave," Lester said. "And I know the Shermans use weed like other people eat Twinkies."

  Dave straightened as if he'd been slapped. "So that means I'm using it, too? You hang around criminals all the time. What's that make you?"

  Lester stood up, taller and broader than his son by far. "We're not picking a fight with you, David. We both work goddamn hard to give you and your sister a fighting chance in a tough world. We just don't want you to screw that up."

  "We're not accusing you of anything, honey," Susan added. "We just want to know what yo
u're doing."

  Dave turned away and retreated to the foot of the staircase. "Right. My whole life I live up to your expectations, doing everything right. First time I get caught—not even doing anything wrong—you guys think I'm like some junkie or something. Thanks a lot."

  With that, he ran up the stairs. They heard him slam his bedroom door moments later.

  Lester looked down at his wife. "That went pretty well, don't you think?"

  Susan got up and kissed his cheek. "I'll go talk to him."

  She went upstairs slowly, hearing her husband turning on the TV, and proceeded to David's door. She knocked briefly and walked in. He was lying on his bed, pretending to be reading a magazine.

  "What?" he asked, not looking up.

  She sat next to him and gently removed the magazine from his hands. He didn't fight her.

  "I don't believe you guys," he said.

  "Can you believe we love you very much?" she asked, resting her hand on his knee.

  "I know that, but it's like I'm guilty with no questions asked. Child rapists get more respect than that. I mean, what happened to innocent till proven guilty?"

  Susan smiled and shook her head. "Dave, nobody's comparing you to a child rapist. Don't blow this out of proportion. Your father and I see what drugs do to people every day. Can you blame us for not wanting any of that to touch the two people we love most in the world?"

  "I'm not doing drugs," Dave said in a frustrated outburst. "Why is that so hard to believe?"

  "It's not that we don't believe you, and we're not accusing you of anything . . ."

  "That's not how Dad sounded."

  "Sweetheart," she said, squeezing his leg, "think of what he does for a living."

  "I know that."

  "Do you? Really? If you did, I think you'd cut him some slack. He lives in a world of horrible people—people who act on the first impulse that enters their heads. It's not that he thinks you're like that, but he's worried what might happen if you get too close to them."

  "The Shermans aren't horrible people."

  She sighed. "I'm not saying they are . . ."

  "He is."

  "How would you deal with a son you were worried might be getting interested in drugs?"

  He rolled his eyes. "I'm not, Mom."

  "How would you deal with it?"

  "I'd ask him, and then I'd believe him when he told me."

  "Isn't that what your father did in the car when he picked you up at the police station?"

  David hesitated. "Yeah."

  "It shook him up when he saw you at the Sherman place, Dave," she explained. "Just like it shook him up when we heard you'd been picked up with those other boys. It's a scary world. He was concerned, and so am I. We'd be lousy parents if we weren't. Maybe we didn't do it just right tonight. If we hurt your feelings, we apologize. But can you see what made us do it?"

  David made a face, as if tempted to argue the matter further, but then conceded, "I guess."

  His mother leaned over and kissed him, as she had his father earlier. "I love you. We both do. Very much."

  He kissed her back and gave her a grudging smile. "I love you, too. But tell Dad to lighten up, okay? I know right from wrong."

  * * *

  Sammie Martens opened her eyes and looked around, trying to orient herself, only slowly remembering that she was still in Holyoke, in Johnny Rivera's urban fortress, behind the locked door of a bedroom she'd borrowed to catch a few hours sleep.

  She threw off the dirty blanket covering her and sat on the edge of the bed—a sagging mattress resting on a tired, metal spring frame. Whatever success Rivera might already be enjoying was clearly not being spent on decor. Not that it ever would be. TV and the movies showed drug kingpins routinely enjoying hideaways worthy of Louis XIV, and from what Sam had heard, a few such places really did exist. But not in northern New England. It was true the money wasn't what could be generated in Miami or Colombia, or even Boston, for that matter, but still, the extravagance rarely went beyond owning some real estate and a few flashy cars. In a surreal parallel to the region's Puritan past, even the crooks seemed to tone down the excess.

  Nevertheless, she thought as she got up to stretch and rearrange her rumpled clothing, a trip to the mall for a decent mattress wouldn't hurt.

  She went into the bathroom, used the toilet, washed her face, and stripped to the waist to give herself a cold water bath at the sink, using some paper towels to dry off. This operation had been put into play so fast, she hadn't had time to set up an alternate apartment to her real one in Brattleboro and therefore had nowhere she could safely go for a shower and a change of clothes.

  She knew undercover work would be dangerous. She hadn't thought about the lack of hygiene. You're back in the army now, she thought, replacing her clothes.

  There was a knock on the door. She crossed the room, flipped the lock, and found Manuel standing in the hallway outside.

  "Hey," she said. "Get some sleep?"

  "Johnny wants you upstairs."

  She tapped his chest with her fingertips as she walked past him. "Hello to you, too, tough guy."

  Johnny Rivera was standing before a large wall map of Vermont, put up since her last visit to this room.

  "Supervising your kingdom?" she asked as she entered.

  He looked back at her, his entire attitude more open and friendly than during their previous encounters. "Yeah—the land of milk and honey, right?"

  "If we do it right," she conceded, standing next to him and looking at the familiar terrain. It was a colorful topographical map, showing the spine of the Green Mountains running down the state's center in shades of brown, the blue of the Connecticut River on the right and Lake Champlain to the upper left. Seeing it like this stimulated a surprising pang of emotion inside her, as if she were about to enter into combat against this man for the preservation of her home. It looked so small up there, so insignificant—undeserving of this kind of malevolent attention.

  "You said you could get Rutland going for me," Rivera continued. "How?"

  "Run it like a business," Sam said simply. "Up to now, either mules or dealers drive up there with some product, unload it through a phone tree or a pager alert, and hightail it back for more, like we did last night. But most of the mules and dealers are users, too, so any profits go straight up their noses—or whatever. Business is good, demand is high, but that's where it stops. It's like sex without commitment— just a bunch of fast fucks."

  Johnny burst out laughing. "God, girl. You do have a mouth. Tell me more."

  "It's been catch-as-catch-can—a grab bag approach with no real organization. You want to change that, you have to do a few things different." She held up one finger. "First, be the sole supplier—besides a few freelancers who you don't need to worry about. Put a business manager you can trust up there and either make deals with the local competition or force 'em out. Right now it's like you're shipping product without having a retail outlet to draw in customers. Crack houses work on that principle, which is why they're tough for the cops to bust—it's a controlled environment. I can set that up for you."

  She held up another finger. "Second, the people you send up there stick out like sore thumbs—we already talked about that. They're junkie-city-flatlanders from a mile off, and they're unreliable to boot. They drop out of sight, they get busted, they die, or they rat you out to the cops. I can give you stability there. A lot of local people who aren't junkies will deal for us for old-fashioned cash. I can find them and put them on the payroll."

  A third finger went up. "Last but not least, you don't know anyone up there who isn't either a customer or a buyer with customers—people in the business. By living in the community, I'll get to know more, including how the cops do what they do and who their snitches are. That was the mistake the gangs like Solidos made when they tried to move into Rutland way back when. They didn't pay attention to how the locals work, which is way different from city people."

  "What about the
money?" he asked. "How're you gonna handle that? I'm supposed to trust you with everything just 'cause you say so?"

  She shook her head. "I told you that before, too. Pick out a banker for me. Like an accountant or a treasurer. Someone you trust. I don't care who it is. I can set up the business, he can run the books and the inventory. I don't care if I don't see the dope or the money." She smiled suddenly. "Well, I want to see the money, but at the far end, as part of the profits."

  Johnny scratched his head, obviously a little overwhelmed. "Why so complicated?"

  She stared at him wide-eyed. "What're you in this for?" She pointed at the barricaded windows. "You're risking your life here. Why did you piss off everybody grabbing this turf?"

  His eyes narrowed, as if confronting a trick question. "The money?"

  She rewarded him with a laugh. "Right." She slapped the map with her palm. "We're talking Rutland now, 'cause that's what's hot and that's where you need help, but remember those freelancers I talked about? The ones you don't have to worry about yet? Well, them and Torres and the Canadians and some upstate New Yorkers are selling in Barre and Burlington and around St. Johnsbury and a dozen other places. We want to know who they all are. We want to either work with them or take them over, or just knock them off. Look at that map, Johnny. We do this right, maybe you can get hundreds of thousands out of Rutland every year—maybe. We do the same thing to the whole damn state, and we're talking millions. You can move out of this dump and live like a real man—make the rest of these so-called Holyoke bigwigs look like losers.

  "But," she added, dropping her voice, "if you want to do that, you're gonna have to think big. Maybe it sounds complicated now, but you need a good foundation to make a business work."

  He looked back at the map, shaking his head as if he were seeing it for the first time, which in a way he was. "Sounds good."