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  Dumb.

  There were still questions, of course. Why hadn't Ross Gunther's body been dumped down the well too? There were a few possibilities, but Broome didn't love any of them. The bodies in the well also didn't answer the question about who had killed Harry Sutton and why, but perhaps the timing had indeed been a coincidence. As for Lorraine seeing Stewart Green alive, that was an easy mistake to make. Even she had admitted that she had her doubts. It was probably someone who looked like Stewart. What with the shaved head and goatee and seventeen years of aging, even Broome could hardly say for sure that age progression was based on him.

  Unless, of course, Lorraine hadn't been wrong. Unless Stewart Green hadn't been the first victim but the perpetrator...

  He didn't think so.

  Another skeleton was brought up.

  "Detective Broome?"

  He turned.

  "I'm Special Agent Guy Angiuoni. Thanks for calling us."

  They shook hands. Broome was too old to play territory games. He wanted this crazy son of a bitch caught.

  "Any clue who's down there?"

  "My wi"--he almost said wife--"My partner, Erin Anderson, is still making up a list of men who vanished on or around Mardi Gras. We can get you that information so you can match it to the victims in that well."

  "That'd be very helpful."

  The two men watched the pulley and rope head back down.

  "I hear you may have a suspect," Angiuoni said. "A man named Ray Levine."

  "He's a possibility, I guess, but there's not much evidence yet. We already have a warrant being served on his place."

  "Great. Maybe you could help coordinate with our people taking over that?"

  Broome nodded and turned away. It was time to get out of the woods. There was nothing he could do here right now. It'd be hours, maybe days. In the meantime he'd find out what his people had uncovered, if anything, in Ray Levine's basement. He thought about Sarah Green and if he should wait until they had firm confirmation that he was in that well, but, no, the media would be all over this. He didn't want Sarah to hear about it from some pushy reporter.

  "I can meet your guys at Levine's," Broome said.

  "I appreciate that. I want to keep you involved in this, Detective. We do need a local guy to coordinate with us."

  "I'm at your disposal."

  The two men shook hands. Using his flashlight, Broome started back down the path toward his car. His cell phone buzzed. He saw that it was from Megan Pierce.

  "Hello?"

  But it wasn't Megan Pierce. It was a homicide investigator from Essex County telling him that someone had just tried to murder Megan Pierce.

  IT TOOK ERIN A WHILE, but she'd finally found the home number for Stacy Paris, the exotic dancer Ross Gunther and Ricky Mannion had fought and, in Gunther's case at least, died over. Stacy Paris had changed her name to Jaime Hemsley. She was single and owned a small clothing boutique in the tony suburb of Alpharetta, Georgia, half an hour from Atlanta.

  Erin debated making the call but not for very long. Despite the hour, she picked up the phone and dialed.

  A woman with a light Southern drawl answered the phone. "Hello?"

  "Jaime Hemsley?"

  "Yes, may I help you?"

  "This is Detective Erin Anderson from the Atlantic City Police Department. I need to ask you a few questions."

  There was a brief silence.

  "Ms. Hemsley?"

  "I don't see how I can help you."

  "I hate to call you out of the blue like this, but I need your help."

  "I don't know anything."

  "Well, Jaime, or should I say, Stacy, I do," Erin said. "Like, for example, your real name."

  "Oh my God." The Southern drawl was gone. "Please. I'm begging you. Please let me be."

  "I don't have any interest in harming you."

  "It's been almost twenty years."

  "I understand that, but we have a new lead in Mr. Gunther's murder."

  "What are you talking about? Ricky killed Ross."

  "We don't think so. We think someone else did it."

  "So Ricky is going free?" There was a sob in her voice. "Oh my God."

  "Ms. Hemsley--"

  "I don't know anything, okay? I was a punching bag for both of those psychopaths. I thought... I thought God did me a favor. You know--two birds, one stone? He got both of them out of my life and gave me a fresh start."

  "Who gave you a fresh start?"

  "What do you mean, who? God, fate, my guardian angel, I don't know. I had two men fighting over which one would eventually kill me. And suddenly they were both gone."

  "Like you were saved," Erin said, as much to herself as the witness on the phone.

  "Yes. I moved away. I changed my name. I own a clothing store. It's not much, but it's all mine. Do you know what I mean?"

  "I do."

  "And now, what, Ricky is going to get out? Please, Detective, please don't let him know where I am."

  Erin pondered what she was hearing. This situation again fit a certain profile that had been emerging in connection with the missing men--that is, most of these men were not exactly model citizens. Several of the wives or girlfriends had been equally up front, begging Erin not to find their missing partners.

  "He won't find you, but I need to ask: Do you have any idea who may have done this?"

  "Killed Ross, you mean?"

  "Yes."

  "Other than Ricky, no."

  Erin's cell phone sounded. It was Broome. She thanked Jaime Hemsley and told her that she'd call her if she needed anything else. She also promised to let her know if Ricky Mannion was released from prison.

  After they both hung up, Erin picked up the cell. "Hello?"

  "They're dead, Erin," Broome said in the strangest monotone. "They're all dead."

  Erin felt a cold stone form in her chest. "What are you talking about?"

  He told her about the photograph of the hand truck, the trip back to the ruins, the bodies in the well. Erin sat unmoving.

  When Broome finished, Erin said, "So that's it? It's over?"

  "For us, I guess. The feds will find the guy. But there are parts that still don't fit."

  "No case is a perfect fit, Broome. You know that."

  "Yeah, okay, and but here's the thing. I just got a call from an investigator up in Essex County. Megan Pierce was attacked tonight by a young blond woman who matched her description of the woman who was in Harry Sutton's office."

  "Is she okay?"

  "Megan? She has some injuries but she'll live. But she killed her assailant. Stabbed her in the gut."

  "Wow."

  "Yeah."

  "Definitely self-defense?"

  "That's what the county cop told me."

  "Do they have an ID on the blond woman?"

  "Not yet."

  "So how do you think it fits?"

  "I don't know. Maybe it's unrelated."

  Erin didn't think so. Neither, she knew, did Broome. "So what do you want me to do?" she asked.

  "Not much we can do about the Megan Pierce situation. When the local cops come back with an ID on this blond attacker, maybe we can go from there."

  "Agreed."

  "I also think we still need to figure out how exactly this Ross Gunther's murder is tied into all this."

  "I just talked to Stacy Paris."

  "And?"

  Erin filled him in on her conversation.

  "That doesn't help much," he said.

  "Other than it fits a loose pattern."

  "Abusive men."

  "Right."

  "So look harder at that angle. Abusive boyfriends or spouses or whatever. Mardi Gras is linked into this somehow. That day set this whole thing off. So widen the scope a little, see if there are any other Mardi Gras cases we missed."

  "Okay."

  "More important, though, the feds are up at the ruins right now gathering the bodies. They're going to need your help with the IDs."

  Erin had f
igured as much. "No problem. Let me work up the details and get the names to them. What about you?"

  "I'm going to stop by Ray Levine's, but then I have to talk to Sarah before the media contacts her."

  "That's going to suck," Erin said.

  "Maybe not. Maybe she'll welcome the closure."

  "You think?"

  "Nope."

  Silence.

  Erin knew him well enough. She moved the phone from one ear to the other and said, "You okay, Broome?"

  "Fine."

  Liar. "You want to come by when you're done?"

  "No, I don't think so," he said. Then: "Erin?"

  "Yes?"

  "Remember our honeymoon in Italy?"

  It was a curious question, totally out of the blue, but something about it, even in the midst of all this death, made Erin smile. "Of course."

  "Thank you for that."

  "For what?"

  But he'd already hung up.

  35

  LUCY THE ELEPHANT WAS CLOSED for the night. Ray waited for the last guard to leave. Ventura's Greenhouse, a rather happening restaurant and bar, was in full swing across the street from Lucy. It made entering from that side particularly difficult. Ray circled around to the usual spot by the gift shop and hopped over it.

  Years ago, when Cassie had lifted a key off an ex-boyfriend, she had made him a copy. He had kept it all these years. He already knew that it didn't work anymore, but that didn't worry him much. Lucy had doors in both thick hind legs. The visitors used one. The other had a simple padlock on it. Ray picked up a heavy rock and broke the lock with one swing.

  Using his key ring flashlight to guide him, Ray headed up the spiral staircases and into the belly of the mammoth beast. The "innards" were a vaulted chamber that gave off the feel of a small church. The walls had been painted a strange shade of pink that was purported to be the anatomically correct hue for an elephant's gastrointestinal tract. Ray would take their word for that.

  In the day, he and Cassie had hidden a sleeping bag in the bottom of the closet. It looked like the closet had been taken out during a renovation. Ray wondered if someone had stumbled across the old sleeping bag and what they'd made of that and what they ended up doing with it--and then he wondered why, when the world was caving in on him again, he was thinking of something so asinine.

  Silly to come back here.

  He hadn't been inside this six-story pachyderm in seventeen years, but if this stomach lining could talk.... He let the smile hit his face. Why not? Why the hell not? He had tortured himself long enough. That horrible night was all coming back now. There was no way to stop it. He was about to face some really bad times, so why not remember the glorious nights? As his father had always reminded him, you can't have an up without a down, a left without a right--and you can't have good times without expecting bad.

  Here he was, in the belly of the beast, waiting for the only woman he'd ever truly loved, and he realized that there had been virtually no good times in the past seventeen years. Just the bad. Pathetic. Pathetic and stupid.

  What would his father have thought?

  One mistake. One mistake made seventeen years ago and he--the intrepid photojournalist who had no issue with working the frontlines during firestorms--had let that mistake cripple him. But that was how life worked, wasn't it? Timing. Decisions. Luck.

  Crying over spilled milk. How attractive.

  Ray took the spiral staircase up to the canopy/observatory on Lucy's back. The night air was brisk now, the wind coming in hard off the ocean. It smelled wonderfully of salt and sand. The sky was clear, and the stars glistened off the Atlantic tonight.

  The sight, Ray thought, was breathtaking. He took out his camera and started snapping pictures. It was amazing, he thought, what you could live with and what you could live without.

  When he finished with that, Ray sat out in the cold and waited and wondered--another what-if--how telling Megan the truth would change things all over again.

  WHEN THE DOCTOR PUT THE bandage on Megan's arm he muttered something about working for a butcher in his youth and wrapping ground chuck. Megan got it. The arm was, to put it kindly, a mess.

  "But it'll heal," the doctor said.

  The arm still throbbed its way through the morphine. Her head ached too, probably from the aftereffects of a concussion. She sat up in bed.

  Dave had been made to stay in the waiting room while Megan was interviewed bedside. The cop--she had introduced herself as County Investigator Loren Muse--had been surprisingly reasonable. She had let Megan patiently explain what happened, never so much as raising an eyebrow, even though the story sounded crazy: "Yes, see, I was leaving an old folks' home when this preppy blonde jumped me with a knife.... No, I don't know her name.... No, I don't know who she is or why she tried to kill me, except, well, I saw her hanging around Harry Sutton's office last night...."

  Muse had listened with a straight face, interrupting rarely. She didn't ask condescending questions or look dubious or any of that. When Megan was finished, Muse called Broome down in Atlantic City to confirm the story.

  Now, a few minutes later, Muse slammed closed her notebook. "Okay, that's enough for tonight. You must be exhausted."

  "You have no idea."

  "I'll try to get an ID on the blonde. Do you think you'll be up for talking again tomorrow?"

  "Sure."

  Muse rose. "You take care of yourself, Megan."

  "Thanks. Would you mind doing me a favor?"

  "Name it."

  "Could you ask the doctor to let my husband come down now?"

  Muse smiled. "Done."

  When she was alone, Megan lay her back on the pillow. On the nightstand to her right was the cell phone. She thought about texting Ray that she wouldn't show up--wouldn't ever show up, in fact--but she felt too weak.

  A moment later, Dave rushed into the room with tears in his eyes. A sudden hospital memory surged through Megan, taking her back, making it hard to breathe. Kaylie had been fifteen months old, just starting to walk, and they'd taken her to Thanksgiving dinner at Agnes and Roland's house. They had all been hanging in the kitchen. Agnes had just handed Megan a cup of tea when she turned and saw the stumbling Kaylie lean hard against the baby gate at the top of the basement stairs. Roland, she would later learn, hadn't set up the gate correctly. As she watched in mounting horror, the gate gave way, and Kaylie began to tumble down the concrete steps.

  Even now, thinking about it some fourteen years later, Megan could still feel that maternal panic. She remembered that in that split second, she could foresee the inevitable: The basement steps were steep and dark with jagged edges. Her baby would land headfirst on the concrete. There was nothing Megan could do to stop it--she was too far away--but sit there, teacup in her hand, frozen, and watch her baby fall.

  What happened next would stay with her always. Dave, sitting next to her, dived toward the open door. Dived. As if the floor were a pool. Without any hesitation or even time for conscious thought. Dave was not a great athlete nor did he possess lightning reflexes. He was not particularly quick or agile, and yet he dived across that linoleum floor with a speed he could never duplicate if he trained for ten years. As Kaylie started to fall out of sight, Dave slid across toward the open door, stretched his arm out, and grabbed the falling Kaylie by her ankle. He couldn't stop his momentum, couldn't stop himself from falling down those harsh steps, but somehow he managed to throw Kaylie back toward the kitchen floor, saving her. Dave had no way to break his own fall now. He crashed to the bottom of the steps, breaking two ribs.

  Megan had heard about such heroics before, those rare spouses or parents who sacrificed themselves without thought. She read about shootings where husbands naturally stepped in front of their wives, saving them. They weren't always good men, by classic definition. Some were drunks or gamblers or thieves. But they also were on some base level congenitally brave. There was a selflessness within them, a purity of action. They made you feel safe and cared for and
loved. You couldn't teach it. You had it or you didn't.

  Even before that, Megan knew that Dave had it.

  He sat next to her and took her hand--the hand of the good arm--in his. He stroked her hair gently, as though she were suddenly made of porcelain and might break.

  "I could have lost you," Dave said, and there was a terrible sense of awe in his voice.

  "I'm okay," she said, and then because life can also be frighteningly practical in moments of abject horror, she asked, "Who's watching the kids?"