“I’m okay. I’m thinking about a lot of stuff. I didn’t quite resolve the situation quite as I planned.”

He lowered his voice. “You saw Pop.”

“Yeah, I saw him. He basically wished me luck and told me to drop him a line from jail. Got to see the Sox play, though. That was a plus. Listen, I’ve been doing some thinking. About what you said. I have to talk to you, Dave.”

“I need to talk to you too, Neddie.” He sounded excited. “I’ve got something to show you, too. About this Gachet… But, Ned, the police have been to see me. They’re all over this, guy. I talked to a few people… Everyone knows you didn’t kill Mickey and the guys down there. It turns out there’s something called agitated capacity. Basically, it means when you resisted arrest, you weren’t in your right mind.”

“That’s my defense? That I’m a whack job?”

“Not wacko, Ned. That you were pressured into doing something you wouldn’t have if you were clearheaded. If it helps you to get a pass on some of this, why not? But you’ve got to stop digging yourself deeper. You need a lawyer.”

“You putting up a shingle, Counselor?”

“What I’m trying to do, you jerk, is save your life.”

I closed my eyes. It’s over now, isn’t it? I had to do the right thing. “Where can we meet, bro? I can’t risk coming by the bar.”

Dave thought it over for a few seconds. “You remember X-man?”

Philly Morisani. We used to watch the tube in his basement, on Hillside, in the same neighborhood where we grew up. It was like our private club. He was so into the X-Files, we called him X-man. I heard he was working for Verizon now. “Sure, I remember.”

“He’s away on business, and I’ve sort of been watching his place. The basement key’s where it’s always been. I’m at school right now. I need to finish up a few things here. How’s six? If I get there first, I’ll leave the door open for you.”

“I’ll use the time to practice putting my hands behind my back. For the cuffs.”

“We’re gonna get you out of this, Ned. I never told you, guy, I got an A in writs and statutes.”

“Jeez, everything’s coming up roses now! More to the point, how’d you do in litigation?”

“Litigation?” Dave groaned. “Nah, flunked that.”

We started to laugh. Just hearing the sound of my own laughter, feeling that someone was on my side, sent a little bolstering warmth through my blood.

“We’re gonna get you out of this,” Dave said again. “Stay out of sight. I’ll see you at six.”

I HAD A COUPLE of hours to kill, so I walked around Kenmore Square. I had a beer in an empty Irish bar and sort of watched the end of the game. The Sox actually came back with three in the ninth off Rivera to win. Maybe I should believe in miracles after all.

I sucked down the last of my beer – I figured it would be my last for a long, long time. Life as I knew it was about to end. I was definitely going to prison. I flipped down a ten for the bartender. Agitated capacity… Swell, Ned, your life’s been reduced to the hope that you were acting while completely out of your mind.

It was a little after five, and I found a cabbie who for forty bucks took me down to Brockton. I had him let me off on Edson and I cut over behind the elementary school to Hillside, where Dave was going to meet me.

The house was the third one down the block, a weatherbeaten gray Cape with a short, steep driveway. I felt a wave of relief. My brother’s black WRX was parked on the street.

I waited a few minutes by a lamppost, watching the street. No cops. No one had followed. Time to get this done…

I jogged around to the side of the house. As Dave had said, the storm door to the basement was open. Just like old times. We used to hang out there, watch some ball games, occasionally smoke a little weed.

I rapped on the glass. “Dave!”

No one answered.

I pushed open the door, and the musty mothball smell brought back a lot of good memories. Philly hadn’t exactly redecorated the place since I left. The same plaid, basket-weave couch and chewed-up recliner. A pool table with a couple of Miller Lite lanterns over it, a cheap barnwood bar.

“Hey, Dave!” I yelled.

I noticed a book opened on the couch. An art book. I turned it over: The Paintings of van Gogh. Unless Philly had somehow elevated his reading material since I’d been away, I figured Dave had brought it. There was a stamp on the inside flap from the Boston College library. He had said he had something to show me on Gachet.

“Davey, where the hell are you, man?”

I plopped down on the couch and flipped the book open to a page that had been marked by a yellow Post-it sticker.

There was a portrait of an old man leaning on his fist, wearing a white cap, with a melancholy look, piercing blue eyes. Those identifiable van Gogh swirls brilliant in the background.

My eyes focused on the text.

Portrait of Dr. Gachet.

I stared closer, my eyes magnetized to the small print.

Portrait of Dr. Gachet. 1890.

I felt a surge of excitement. The painting was done over a hundred years ago. Anyone could be using the name. But suddenly I had hope. Gachet was real! Maybe Ellie Shurtleff would know.

“Dave!” I called, louder. I looked up the stairs to the main floor.

Then I noticed the light in the bathroom, the door slightly ajar.

“Jesus, Dave, you in there?” I went over and rapped on the door. The force of my knock edged it open.

All I remember for the next sixty seconds or so was standing there as if I’d been slammed in the midsection by a sledgehammer.

Oh, Dave…oh Dave.

My brother was propped up on the toilet seat in his hooded BC sweatshirt. His head was cocked slightly to the side. Blood was everywhere, leaking out of his abdomen, onto his jeans, the floor. He wasn’t moving. Dave was just staring at me with this placid expression, like, Where the hell were you, Ned?

“Oh my God, Dave, no!”

I rushed over to him, feeling for a pulse I knew wasn’t there, trying to shake Dave back to life somehow. There was a large puncture wound through the sweatshirt on the left side over his ribs. I pulled the sweatshirt up, and it was as if the left side of Dave’s abdomen fell into my hands.

I stumbled backward, my legs buckling. I punched the bathroom wall and sort of slid, helpless to the linoleum floor.

Suddenly, the sweats started to rush over my body again. I couldn’t just sit there, staring at Dave any longer. I had to get out. I staggered to my feet, leaving the bathroom. I needed some air.

That was when I felt the arm wrap around my neck. Tight, incredibly tight. A voice hissed in my ear, “You’ve got a few things that belong to us, Mr. Kelly.”

I COULDN’T BREATHE. My neck and head were jerked back by a very strong man. The edge of a sharp blade dug into my rib cage.

“The art, Mr. Kelly,” the voice said again, “and unless I start hearing about the paintings in the next five seconds, that’s about all the time you have left in this world.”

Just to make his point, the guy let me feel the edge of the blade again.

“Last chance, Mr. Kelly. See your brother over there? Sorry about the mess, but he just didn’t know anything about you coming here. It’s just not gonna go so easy for you.” He stretched my head farther back and pressed the tip of the blade under my chin. “No one fucks the people I work for.”

“I don’t have any paintings! You think I’d lie about it – now?”

He scraped the serrated edge of the blade against my neck. “You think I’m a complete imbecile, Mr. Kelly? You have something that belongs to us. About sixty million dollars’ worth. I want to start hearing about the art. Now.”

What was I supposed to tell him? What could I tell him? I didn’t know a thing about the missing art.