I LEFT MY GUN BENEATH THE SPARE TIRE in the trunk of the Mustang before walking to the granite masonry bulk of the Edward T. Gignoux Courthouse at Newbury and Market. I passed through the metal detector, then climbed the marble stairs to courtroom 1, taking a seat in one of the chairs at the back of the court.

The last of the five rows of benches was filled with what, in less enlightened times, might have been referred to as the cast of a freak show. There were five or six people of extremely diminished stature, two or three obese women, and a quartet of very elderly females dressed like hookers. Beside them was a huge, muscular man with a bald head who must have been six-five and weighed in at three hundred pounds. All of them seemed to be paying a great deal of attention to what was going on at the front of the courtroom.

The court was already in session and a man I took to be Arthur Franklin was arguing some point of law with the judge. His client, it appeared, was wanted in California for a range of offenses, including copyright theft, animal cruelty, and tax evasion, and was about as likely to avoid a jail term as mayflies were to see Christmas. He was released on $50,000 bail and was scheduled to appear later that month before the same judge, when a final decision would be made on his extradition. Then everybody stood and the judge departed through a door behind his brown leather chair.

I walked up the center aisle, the muscular man close behind me, and introduced myself to Franklin. He was in his early forties, dressed in a blue suit, under which he was sweating slightly. His hair was startlingly black and the eyes beneath his bushy brows had the panic-stricken look of a deer faced with the lights of an approaching truck.

Meanwhile Harvey Ragle, who was seated beside Franklin, wasn't what I had expected. He was about forty and wore a neatly pressed tan suit, a clean, white, open-necked shirt, and oxblood loafers. His hair was brown and curly, cut close to his skull, and the only jewelry he wore was a gold Raymond Weil watch with a brown leather strap. He was freshly shaven and had splashed on Armani aftershave like it was being given away free. He rose from his seat and extended a well-manicured hand.

“Harvey Ragle,” he said. “CEO, Crushem Productions.” He smiled warmly, revealing startlingly white teeth.

“A pleasure, I'm sure,” I replied. “I'm sorry, I can't shake hands. I seem to have picked up something unpleasant.”

I lifted my blistered fingers and Ragle blanched. For a man who made his living by squashing small creatures, he was a surprisingly sensitive soul. I followed them both out of the courtroom, pausing briefly while the old ladies, the obese women, and the little people took turns hugging him and wishing him well, before we crossed into attorney conference room 223 beside courtroom 2. The huge man, whose name was Mikey, waited outside, his hands crossed before him.

“Protection,” explained Franklin as he closed the door behind us. We sat down at the conference table and it was Ragle who spoke first.

“You've seen my work, Mr. Parker?” he said.

“The crush video, Mr. Ragle? Yes, I've seen it.”

Ragle recoiled a little, like I'd just breathed garlic on him.

“I don't like that term. I make erotic films, of every kind, and I am a father to my actors. Those people in court today are stars, Mr. Parker, stars.”

“The midgets?” I asked.

Ragle smiled wistfully. “They're little people, but they have a lot of love to give.”

“And the old ladies?”

“Very energetic. Their appetites have increased rather than diminished with age.”

Good grief.

“And now you make films like the one your attorney sent me?”

“Yes.”

“In which people step on bugs.”

“Yes.”

“And mice.”

“Yes.”

“Do you enjoy your work, Mr. Ragle?”

“Very much,” he said. “I take it that you disapprove.”

“Call me a prude, but it seems kind of sick, besides being cruel and illegal.”

Ragle leaned forward and tapped me on the knee with his index finger. I resisted breaking it, but only just.

“But people kill insects and rodents every day, Mr. Parker,” he began. “Some of them may even derive a great deal of pleasure from doing so. Unfortunately, as soon as they admit to that pleasure and attempt to replicate it in some form, our absurdly censorious law enforcement agencies step in and penalize them. Don't forget, Mr. Parker, we put Reich in jail to die for selling his sex boxes from Rangeley, in this very state. We have a record of penalizing those who seek sexual gratification by unorthodox means.”

He sat back and smiled his bright smile.

I smiled back at him. “I believe it's not only the state of California that has strong feelings about the legitimacy of what you do.”

Ragle's veneer began to crumble and he seemed to grow pale beneath his tan.

“Er, yes,” he said. He coughed, then reached for a glass of water that was resting on the table before him. “One gentleman in particular seems to have serious objections to some of my more, um, specialized productions.”

“Who might that be?”

“He calls himself Mr. Pudd,” interjected Franklin.

I tried to keep my expression neutral.

“He didn't like the spider movies,” he added.

I could guess why.

Ragle's façade finally shattered completely, as if the mention of Pudd's name had finally brought home the reality of the threat he was facing. “He wants to kill me,” he whined. “I don't want to die for my art.”

So Al Z knew something about the Fellowship, and Pudd, and had seen fit to point me in Ragle's direction. It seemed that I had another good reason for going to Boston besides Rachel and the elusive Ali Wynn.

“How did he find out about you?”

Ragle shook his head angrily. “I have a new supplier, a man who provides me with rodents and insects and, when necessary, arachnids. It's my belief that he told this individual, this Mr. Pudd, about me.”

“Why would he do that?”

“To divert attention away from himself. I think Mr. Pudd would be just as angry with whoever sold me the creatures as he is with me.”

“So your supplier gave Pudd your name, then claimed not to know what you were planning to do with the bugs?”

“That is correct, yes.”

“What's the supplier's name?”

“Bargus. Lester Bargus. He owns a store in Gorham, specializing in exotic insects and reptiles.”

I stopped taking notes.

“You know the name, Mr. Parker?” asked Franklin.

I nodded. Lester Bargus was what people liked to call “two pounds of shit in a one-pound bag.” He was the kind of guy who thought it was patriotic to be stupid and took his mother to Denny's to celebrate Hitler's birthday. I recalled him from my time in Scarborough High, when I used to stand at the fence that marked the boundary of the football field, the big Redskins logo dominating the board, and get ready to face a beating. Those early months were the hardest. I was only fourteen and my father had been dead for two months. The rumors had followed us north: that my father had been a policeman in New York; that he had killed two people, a boy and a girl-shot them down dead, and they weren't even armed; that he had subsequently put his gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. They were made worse by the fact that they were true; there was no way of avoiding what my father had done, just as there was no way of explaining it. He had killed them, that was all. I don't know what he saw when he pulled the trigger on them. They were taunting him, trying to make him lose his temper with them, but they couldn't have known what they would cause him to do. Afterward my mother and I had run north, back to Scarborough, back to her father, who had once been a policeman himself, and the rumors had snapped at our heels like black dogs.