The microwave clock tells me forty minutes have passed since I last spoke to Drew. Feeling a little anxious, I pick up the kitchen phone and call his cell phone. He doesn’t answer. I wait about a minute, then try again. Nothing. I hate to call his wife, given all that I’ve learned about their marriage, but I need to know that Drew is safely drunk somewhere, and not on his way to the St. Stephen’s football field with a bag of cash.

“Hello?” says a groggy female voice.

“Ellen? It’s Penn Cage.”

“Penn? What’s going on? Is Drew with you?”

I knew it.“No, I was actually calling for him.”

“Well”-loud snuffling, rustling of cloth-“I thought I heard him pull up outside a while ago, but then he didn’t come in. Maybe he’s out in his workshop. He goes out there sometimes when he’s feeling moody.”

“Is there any way to check without you having to get up?”

“Intercom. Just a sec.” There’s a burst of static. “Drew? Drew, are you out there?”

More static. “He’s not answering. He called a while ago and told me he was leaving the Townsends’ house. Maybe he got called to the hospital on his way home. I think he’s covering tonight.”

“That’s probably it. You get back to sleep, Ellen.”

“Sleep. God…I had to take a pill to even have a chance at sleep. I was really close to Kate, you know.”

“I knew you played tennis with her.”

“That girl was gifted, Penn. I think she would have made the team at Harvard. God, wouldn’t that have been something?”

“Yes, it would. I’m sorry, Ellen.”

I hear a sound I can’t identify. “We raise these children,” she murmurs, “we pour everything into them, all our hopes and dreams, and then something like this happens. If I were Jenny Townsend, I’m not sure I could handle it. I might do something crazy. I really might.”

“Well, I hope she finds the strength to deal with it.”

“It’s good to talk to you, Penn. We don’t see you enough. You should come by for a drink. I really liked your last book. I want to talk to you about some of the characters. I think I recognized a few.”

I give Ellen an obligatory laugh and ring off. Where the hell is Drew? I’m afraid I already know the answer. I start to dial my parents’ house, but it’s too late to ask my mother to come over. Instead, I dial Mia’s cell. She answer after two rings.

“Penn?”

“Afraid so. Is there any chance you could come back for about an hour? Annie’s asleep, but I need to go out.”

“Um, I guess so. Is it important? Of course it is. You wouldn’t call if it weren’t.”

“Are you with your friends now?”

“Such as they are. Everybody’s pretty freaked out. But I’m not far away from you, actually. I can be there in five minutes.”

“Thanks. I’ll pay you double your usual rate.”

“You don’t have to do that. I’m on my way.”

I hang up and walk back to my bedroom, the only one on the ground floor of the house. In the top of my closet is a nine-millimeter Springfield XD-9 with a fifteen-round clip. I carried a.38-caliber revolver in Houston, but recent experience taught me the wisdom of having a large magazine. I keep the weapon close, albeit with a trigger lock to protect Annie. Unlocking the guard mechanism, I slip the pistol barrel into the pocket of my jeans and grab a waterproof windbreaker from the closet.

Waiting on the front steps for Mia, I call Drew’s cell phone again. When he fails to answer, I consider calling the police for help-but only for a moment. The risks to Drew are too great. When Mia pulls up to the curb, I give her a wave and walk to my Saab, hoping to avoid any explanations.

“Everything okay?” she calls.

I turn back to her. “Fine. Annie’s still in bed. I just need to run an errand.”

Mia nods, but I see suspicion in her eyes. I’ve never called her on such short notice before.

“What else have the kids been saying?” I ask.

“All kinds of things. But it’s mostly bullshit. You know how people are. Like you said…Natchez.”

“I should be back in less than an hour, but if I’m not, you can stay, right?”

“I’ll be here when you get back.”

I move toward my car. “I really appreciate it, Mia.”

“Is that a gun in your pants?”

I look down. The butt of the Springfield is sticking up in front of my windbreaker.

Mia isn’t looking at the pistol but at me, her eyes questioning. I start to give her an explanation, but nothing would really make sense. As casually as possible, I pull the tail of the windbreaker over the gun.

“Penn, are you okay?”

“Yes. Mia, you-”

“I didn’t see anything,” she says, her face radiating assurance. “I’m sure you know what you’re doing.”

If only that were true.“Keep a close eye on Annie.”

“I will. Bye.” She turns and hurries into the house.

I climb into my Saab and start the engine, wondering what kind of insanity I’ll find when I reach St. Stephen’s.

Buck Stadium was called simply “the bowl” when I was a student at St. Stephen’s, and the reason was plain. Back then, the stadium was only an oval hole in the ground surrounded by pine and hardwood trees. Spectators sat on its grassy sides to cheer during Bucks games, until enough money was raised to build rudimentary bleachers. Tonight three new school buildings stand on the south side of the bowl, and wide concrete steps march all the way down to the field. The bleachers are massive prefab units like those at college football stadiums, and huge banks of overhead lights can turn night into day at the flick of a switch. Fancy dressing rooms and a workout center stand on a terraced shelf halfway down the hill, and a blue rubberized track surrounds the football field. The year we fought our way to the state football championship, Drew and I practiced in a cow pasture filled with holes and played under dim “security lights” like the ones in supermarket parking lots.

Despite all the improvements, there’s still only one narrow access road to the bottom of the bowl, which is probably why the blackmailer chose the football field to pick up his payoff. He can easily detect the approach of any police vehicles, and the surrounding woods offer infinite avenues of escape, once he crosses the Cyclone fence that surrounds the track.

I cut my headlights as I climb the main driveway of the campus, then park on the south side of the elementary school to remain hidden from the eyes of anyone in the bowl. With the Springfield weighting my right front pocket, I walk quietly along the side of the building toward the bowl.

Standing in the shadows beside the building is a Honda ATV, commonly called a four-wheeler in this area. The camouflage paint scheme, Vanderbilt bumper sticker, and gun boot mounted on the handlebars mark this four-wheeler as Drew Elliot’s. Like most men in and around Natchez, Drew is an avid hunter. The only good news is that the gun boot contains a Remington deer rifle, which means Drew probably didn’t go armed to deliver his payoff to the fifty-yard line below.

Twenty yards from the elementary school, the ground drops precipitously into the bowl. Transecting that space is the asphalt road that curves down to the track. Staying in the shadows by Drew’s four-wheeler, I try his cell phone one last time.

There’s no answer, but for a moment I think I hear the chirp of a ringing cell phone. Crouching low, I scuttle to the edge of the bowl and look down. It’s like staring at a bottomless black lake. The light from the security lamps mounted on the stadium’s press box dies after only a few yards. Whatever is happening on the floor of the bowl, I can’t see it.

As I stare into the blackness, the whine of a small engine rises out of the hole. The whine seems to be coming toward me. Then a single headlight flicks on, cutting a bright swath down the length of the football field. Sitting at midfield is a small gym bag.