“Well, I’m not going to chew off my fingernails if I don’t find out, but yeah, I’d like to know.”

“It’s to pad your stomach.”

“What? To pad . . . oh goodness, I see now. You know, Dillon, big hair rollers are one thing, but being propped up on a wooden block is quite another. No, I don’t think so. Has Dr. Able been around to see you? I want to get you out of here.”

“Yes, he has. I’m fine, just need to sit forward for the next year or so. Stitches come out next week. You ready to break me out of this place? I was just waiting for you to get here.”

Sherlock said over her shoulder as she fetched him the clothes she’d brought from home, “Yes, but we’re in a bit of a pickle, aren’t we? We have no idea why Sam was brought to Jessborough and we don’t know yet who hired Clancy and Beau to bring him here. The investigation is just starting. Clancy’s still out there and we need to help. I think, too, that Sam and Miles probably need to remain with us. It’s dangerous for Sam and Miles to go back home alone, don’t you think?”

“Yes, we’ll stay,” Savich said, and got himself dressed. “Don’t worry about a few more days. Mr. Maitland called a little while ago, told me to take it easy, not to worry about the math teacher killings.”

He looked big and tough, much more like himself with his leather jacket slung over his arm. Sherlock beamed him a brilliant smile. “Can I kiss you?”

“Yeah, but don’t tease me, Sherlock.” He carefully put his arms around her, nuzzled her neck. “You know, I just might be ready for some hair rollers tonight. I wish we had time to check out what’s in that vial, just maybe it’s something we can use.”

At five minutes after three o’clock that afternoon, five FBI agents, one former FBI agent, one sheriff, and two children congregated in Sheriff Benedict’s living room.

If Butch Ashburn wondered why two young children were present during a meeting, he didn’t say anything, just watched the little girl for a moment—the sheriff’s kid—playing with a big-eared rabbit named Oscar. His own kid was now nearly twenty, but he could remember when she’d have been on the floor playing with a stuffed animal. The years just swept over you too fast, he thought, leaving you older and slower, and your little kid a grown-up.

“I’m thinking,” Savich said, “that I want to go to church. Does Reverend McCamy have a service this evening, Katie?”

“Yes, he goes all day on Sunday. The church is really nice, sort of like Paul Revere’s church in Boston. Sooner also does tent revivals—every June, out in Grossley’s pasture, about three miles west of Jessborough.”

Katie glanced over at Miles, who still looked dead on his feet. All his attention was on his boy. After she’d dropped Sherlock off at the hospital a couple of hours before, she’d taken Miles and the kids out to Kmart to buy some clothes. Miles was wearing the black jeans, boots, and plaid flannel shirt he’d bought. He looked, she realized, really good. As for Sam, he looked like a miniature copy of his father, down to the black boots.

“Papa forgot to pack clothes for us,” Sam had confided to her earlier in the truck. “He didn’t think about anything else, he just wanted to get to me as fast as he could.”

“I wouldn’t have packed anything either,” Katie said, smiling at Miles. “Not with a Kmart in the neighborhood.”

Of course, Keely had to have black jeans and black boots, and her mother, knowing when to throw in the towel, had given in.

Butch Ashburn said to Savich, “If you and Sherlock plan on staying in Jessborough for a while, I think Jody and I will head back to Washington. We’re still running checks and interviewing all neighbors and employees, and I want to check Beau Jones’s apartment myself. Also, since Miles is former FBI, we’re checking particularly violent cases he was involved in. I don’t buy the idea of revenge myself, but we’re checking everything.” He looked over at Sam, who’d just taken a big bite of fried chicken. “I’m more pleased than I can say, Miles, that you’ve got such a brave, smart boy.”

Miles swallowed, then nodded, and said sharply, “Sam, don’t wipe your greasy fingers on your new jeans. Use the napkin.”

Life, Butch thought, was always unexpected and even, sometimes, like now, not bad at all. He said, “You guys work on Clancy’s connection from this end and, like I said, I’ll work the other end. Hopefully, we’ll meet in the middle real soon.”

Katie smiled at Special Agent Butch Ashburn—no wing tips on my neck from this guy.