Just one friggin‘ hour to go, though why he cared was a mystery. Nothing to come home to. Grace had taken Sandy and Micky Junior to her parents’ condo in Florida for their two-week holiday break. He was supposed to join them later on in the week, hopefully for Christmas, but if not then, he’d go for New Year’s. In any case, no one was home right now. Nothing living in the house except a couple of plants.

Sally had died three months ago, and he was still in mourning for her. The one-hundred-fifty-pound Rottweiler bitch had been his best friend, staying up with him nights when the rest of the family went to bed, stinking up his den with her flatulence. Man, she could fart. Had to put her on Beano it was so bad. Congestive heart failure had finished her. Three weeks of fading away.

He missed her like crazy. Lately, he’d considered getting a new Rottie but finally decided against it. It wouldn’t be Sally. Besides, the breed didn’t live too long, and he didn’t know if he was up to another protracted mourning where his eyes hurt a lot and he couldn’t tell anyone how he felt.

Maybe one of those countertop Christmas trees would help-something to cheer up the place-but who had time?

Rubbing his neck, McCain stretched once again, staring across a dark street at the dark house. Nice bones to the place. Ripe for renovation. Somerville had lots of old trees and parks, and on the part that bordered Med-ford, near Tufts, there were lots of cutesy college cafés. Still, wherever there were college students, bad dogs moved in and did their business.

McCain peered through the binocs. The house remained inert. Fritt’s girlfriend lived in the top bedroom, first decent break the police had gotten since the APB came down from Perciville. But not everything pans out.

Fifty minutes to go.

McCain suddenly realized that he was lonely. Picking up the cell, he punched AutoDial 3. She picked up on the second ring.

“Hey,” he said into the receiver.

“Hey,” Dorothy answered back. “Anything?”

“Nothing.”

“No movement at all?”

“As dark as a witch’s tit.”

A pause over the line. “Exactly how dark is a witch’s tit?”

“Very dark,” McCain answered.

“You think he skipped?”

“Yeah, it’s possible. In which case, I think we should be a little concerned about the girl. True, she’s a moron, a dumb college girl swept off her feet by this psycho, but she don’t deserve to die because of it.”

“How nice of you to acknowledge that. Did she show up for class today?”

“Dunno. I’ll check it out and get back to you. I sure hope she didn’t go with him.”

“Yeah,” she said. “That would be bad. How long you got to go?”

“At the moment”-McCain squinted as he checked the dials of his luminescent watch-“forty-five minutes. You’re taking over?”

“Feldspar’s covering for me.”

“What?” McCain snarled. “Why him?”

“‘Cause Marcus got a game tonight and Feldspar was next on the catch list, so that’s why him!”

“Jesus, Dorothy, I got a headache, a backache, and my friggin‘ legs are numb. Stop bitchin’ at me.”

“You’re the one who’s bitching. I just answered your question.”

Silence.

Then McCain said, “Have fun at the game. Talk to you later-”

“Stop that!”

“Stop what?”

“Getting all pissy. It happens every time Grace leaves you alone.”

“I can take care of myself, thank you very much.”

“Sure you can.”

“Bye, Dorothy.”

“Why don’t you come with me to tonight’s game?”

McCain thought a moment. “Fergetit. You’d just bitch the whole time that I was bad company.”

“You’re always bad company. Come anyway.”

“I heard it was sold out.”

“I got an ”in.“”

McCain didn’t answer.

“C’mon, Micky! They’re twelve and one-a shoo-in for the regional NCAA, and with Julius, they’re aiming even higher. You should see them when they get it all going. It’s like ballet.”

“I hate ballet.”

“Yeah, that’s why I said it’s like ballet. Stop moping. You’ll feel better if you get out of the house.”

McCain remained silent.

Dorothy said, “Your loss, Micky.”

“What time?”

“Eight.”

Again, McCain checked his watch. “That’s gonna be real tight for me.”

“You’re not that far from Boston Ferris. Even though you don’t deserve it, I’ll leave a ticket for you at the box office.”

“What do you mean I don’t deserve it?”

“Self-explanatory.” Dorothy hung up.

McCain cut his line and threw the cell on the passenger seat. He picked up the binocs again.

Still nothing.

Ah well, maybe Feldspar would be the lucky deuce.

As much as he hated to admit it, he felt better, his spirits lifted ever so slightly.

It was nice to be wanted.

Boston Ferris College had been founded fifty years ago, but its campus had stood a century before that. The place was set carefully in New England forest; the Brahmin architect who’d designed it had been mindful of sylvan growth that had taken yet more centuries to root.

The brick Georgian Revival buildings were graced by towering trees and ringed by cobbled walkways. Campus center was a large natural pond, now frosted with ice. Through autumn, there was no prettier place to sit than on a bench under a fanning elm, tossing bread at the ducks. But in winter, especially at night, when the pathways had frozen over, the rolling lawns were blanketed with snow and a sharp wind whipped through the trees and the breezeways.

Tonight the damn place was colder than a meat locker.

By the time McCain arrived, the only parking available was a distance from the stadium, forcing him to play slip-and-slide in the dark, hoping his butt was sufficiently padded to survive one of those sudden falls that hit you like a fist to the face. He slogged forward, feeling clumsy, cursing the cold and his life. And Dorothy for dragging him out here.

Not that she really had. He’d come voluntarily because his home was no great shakes and he was sick to death of lolling around in an overheated bedroom stripped down to his underwear, surfing cable.

The stadium came into view. Decorated with Christmas lights, greeting him like a welcoming beacon. McCain made it inside, got his ticket, went to the concession stand, and bought grub for himself and the others. The scoreboard clock said he’d arrived ten minutes into the first half. The Boston Ferris Pirates were playing Ducaine’s Seahawks, and already their lead was in double digits. An electric buzz zipped through the crowd. The air of excitement that came along with a winning team.

As he made his way down the aisle toward courtside, holding a gray paper tray of coffee, soft drinks, and hot dogs, he took back all the curses he’d flung at Dorothy. With his fingers defrosted, he was glad to be here. This was college ball, but tickets for Boston Ferris games were scarce. He needed to get away from his life even for a few hours. McCain was always blue when Grace was gone. Though he hadn’t always been the most loyal of husbands, he did value his family. If you didn’t give a crap about your family, why bother getting up in the morning?

The Pirates were playing their bench. Giving Julius Van Beest-the team’s star six-ten power forward-a chance to rest. The Beast sat calmly, wiping his profusely sweating face with a towel. McCain checked the electronic board as he made his way down the steps. Ten minutes of play and already Van Beest had twelve points and six rebounds. Only one assist, but that was one more than Van Beest usually got per game. It wasn’t that the young man was a ball hog… Yeah, that’s exactly what he was. But who cared? Most of the offense was run through his hands.

Marcus Breton was on the floor, bringing the ball down the court just as McCain made it to his seat-seventh row center. Dorothy barely acknowledged McCain’s presence, she was so focused on her son. He handed her a hot dog. She took it, held it, but didn’t eat, eyes fixed on the court.