Arlene stopped her typing. "I haven't heard you say 'ahah' since the old days, Joe."

"It's a specialized term known only to professional private investigators," said Kurtz.

Arlene smiled.

"Only this time, you're the investigator. I didn't do a damned thing to dig up this information. It's all you and that computer."

Arlene shrugged. "Have you read the file labeled 'Neola H.S. yet?"

"Not yet," said Kurtz. He opened it.

Dateline The Neola Sentinel, The Buffalo News, and The New York Times, October 27, 1977. A high-school senior, Sean Michael O'Toole, 18, entered Neola High School armed with a.30-.06 rifle yesterday and shot two of his classmates, a gym teacher, and the assistant principal, before being wrestled to the ground by four members of the Neola football team. All four of the shooting victims were pronounced dead at the scene. It stated that Sean Michael O'Toole is the son of prominent Neola businessman and owner of the Cloud Nine amusement park, Major Michael O'Toole and the late Eleanor Rains O'Toole. No motive for the shooting has been given.

"Wow, pre-Columbine," said Kurtz.

"Do you remember when that happened?" asked Arlene.

"I was just a kid," said Kurtz. Although it would have been the kind of news item he'd have taken an interest in even then.

"You were already in Father Baker's then," Arlene reminded him. The court sent kids to Father Baker's Orphanage.

Kurtz shrugged. The last thing in that file was the January 27, 1978, court hearing for the Major's kid. Sean O'Toole had been judged by a battery of psychiatrists to be competent to stand trial. He was remanded to a psychiatric institution for the criminally insane in Rochester, New York, for further testing and "continuing evaluation and therapy in secure surroundings." Kurtz knew about the Rochester nuthouse—it was a dungeon for some of New York State's craziest killers.

"Did you read the last bit of the Cloud Nine file?" asked Arlene.

"Not yet."

"It's just a Neola Sentinel clipping from May of nineteen seventy-eight," said Arlene, "announcing that the Cloud Nine Amusement Park, already beset by financial difficulties and low attendance, was closing its gates forever."

"So much for the youth of Neola," said Kurtz.

"Evidently."

"But if her uncle was running this business and park in Neola, why wouldn't Peg O'Toole know about it?" Kurtz mused aloud. "Why would she show me those photos of the abandoned park—assuming it's Cloud Nine—and not know it's her uncle's old place?"

Arlene shrugged. "Maybe she knew the photos weren't from her uncle's abandoned park. Or maybe she didn't even know that Cloud Nine existed. Her father, Big John, didn't move to Buffalo and start his cop job here until nineteen eighty-two. Maybe the Major and his cop brother were estranged. I didn't see the Major and his wheelchair in the photos from Big John's funeral four years ago. You'd think the uncle would be right there next to Ms. O'Toole since Peg's mother was dead."

"Still…" said Kurtz.

"Remember you telling me that one of the overturned bumper cars in the photo you saw yesterday had the number nine on it?"

"Cloud Nine," said Kurtz. "It's all there. It just doesn't make sense. I'll be right back."

Kurtz got up quickly, hurried to the tiny bathroom back by the purring computer server room, knelt next to the toilet, and vomited several times. When he was done, he rinsed his mouth out and washed his face. His hands were shaking violently. Evidently, the concussion didn't want him to eat yet.

When he came back into the main room, Arlene said, "You okay, Joe?"

"Yeah."

"Do you need any other searches related to mis?"

"Yeah," said Kurtz. "I want to find out what happened to this kid, the shooter. Did he stay caged up in Rochester? Is he out now? And I need some details of the Major's specific history in Vietnam—not just his medals, but names, locations, who he worked with, what he was doing when."

"Medical records and military records can be two of the hardest things to hack into," said Arlene. "I'm not sure I can get any of this."

"Do your best," said Kurtz. His cell phone rang. He turned to answer it.

Daddy Bruce's voice said, "You wanted to know when that Big Bore Indian came back to the Blues hunting for you again, Joe."

"Yeah."

"He's here."

Big Bore Redhawk was a born-again Indian. That is, he'd been born Dickie-Bob Tingsley and hadn't really paid attention to the little bit of Native American ancestry his mother had told him he had until he was arrested for fencing jewelry at age twenty-six and discovered—through a sarcastic comment made by the judge at his hearing—that he could have been selling jewelry legally without being taxed because of his reputed Indian blood.

Big Bore Redhawk had chosen his Tuscarora name with care—even though he wasn't a member of the Tuscarora tribe. Always a fan of huge firearms, Dickie-Bob had admired the Ruger Big Bore Redhawk.357 Magnum pistol more than any other heavy-caliber weapon he'd ever owned. He'd killed each of his first two wives with a Big Bore Redhawk—having to toss each weapon away and knock over some liquor stores to earn enough money to replace it each time—and it was while trying to rob a liquor store (with a totally inadequate.22 Beretta) to replace that second beloved weapon, rusting in the Reservation soil not far from his second wife, that he was arrested and sent to Attica.

Big Bore's one legal request before being sent up was to change his name. The judge, amused, had allowed it.

Big Bore had known who Joe Kurtz was in the years they were both in Attica, but he'd stayed away from the smaller man. (Most men were smaller than Big Bore Redhawk.) Big Bore had considered Kurtz a crazy fuck—any man who would kill that Black Muslim mofo Ali in a shower shiv fight and get away with it, fooling the guards but drawing a fifteen-thousand-dollar death price on his head from the D-Block Mosque was a crazy fuck. Big Bore didn't want any part of him. Big Bore hung out with his A.B. buds and let his lawyer work to get him out early based on the premise that he, Big Bore Redhawk, was a victim of anti-Native American discrimination.

Then, last winter, Little Skag Farino, still serving time for murder in Attica, had sent word to Big Bore through Skag's sister, Angelina Whatsis Whosis, that he'd pay Big Bore ten thousand dollars for whacking Kurtz.

It had sounded good. Little Skag's sexy sister had paid him two thousand dollars in advance and Big Bore had done a week of serious drinking while making his plans. It shouldn't have been too hard to kill Kurtz, since Big Bore had his new Big Bore Redhawk.357, an eight-inch Bowie knife, and Kurtz didn't know he was coming for him.

But somehow Kurtz had found out, driven up to the Tuscarora Reservation just north of Buffalo in a fucking blizzard, surprised Big Bore and challenged him to a fair fight. Kurtz had even tossed his gun aside for the fight Big Bore had grinned, pulled his giant knife, and said something like, "Okay, let's see what you got, Kurtz." And Kurtz had said something like, "I've got a forty-five," and pulled a second pistol out from under his jacket and shot Big Bore in the knee.

It really hurt.

Because Kurtz had threatened to reveal the bit about where his two wives were buried—Big Bore had done a lot of bragging in stir—the Indian had told the cops he'd blown his own knee off while cleaning a friend's pistol. The cops hadn't been impressed with this story, but they also hadn't really given a damn about Big Bore's ruined knee, so they'd left it alone.

At first, Big Bore had considered leaving it alone as well—Kurtz was a mean little fuck—and the wounded man had planned to just move out west somewhere, Arizona or Nevada or Indiana or one of those states where real Indians lived—and maybe he'd grow his own peyote and live in an air-conditioned tipi somewhere and sell tourists fake rugs or something.