“Why do you suppose Juan Alvarez lives at the hotel Taj instead of getting himself a swell condo at One Charles or someplace more befitting his image?” I said.

“Somehow a hotel more loose,” said Hawk. “You come, you go. No one notices or cares. Plus he got this fine farm.”

“Good point,” I said. “Why have a place in Boston at all?”

Hawk yawned. “Pied-à-terre, babe,” he said. “All rich white boys got a pied-à-terre in the big city. Place to do the things you don’t want no one to know about back on the farm.”

“And somehow he became Father Flanagan and Santa Claus and a prince of Boston high society all rolled into one. In most big cities, all you need is money to give to the key charities. They have to put you on the board. Before you know it, as long as you don’t eat your peas with a knife, you’re invited to all the best parties,” I said.

“I prefer my peas on a knife,” Hawk said.

“They tend to frown on switchblades at fancy dinner parties,” I said. “You’d probably feel out of place.”

“Not the only reason I’d feel out of place,” Hawk said. He looked out toward the Alvarez house. “We have a plan here? Or we just gonna sit here till we run out of gas.”

“No plan,” I said. “But we do have choices. One, we sit and watch, or two, move and stir things up. Right now we’re sitting and watching.”

“How ’bout I take a nap till we get to the move-and-stir-things-up part of the program?”

“Suit yourself,” I said. “But don’t expect me to share all the important clues with you if I find them while you’re asleep.”

“Already know what you gonna learn. Gonna learn when the mail gets delivered. Gonna learn how long it take that icicle on the roof gutter to melt. Ain’t gonna learn nothin’ we need to know, like what goes on over there and how many guns they got on the place. They could be building weapons of mass destruction in the side yard and we ain’t gonna learn that, sittin’ where we are.”

I sipped my coffee and looked at the big colonial house. There was a Jeep parked off to the side of a long circular driveway. I could see the Christmas wreath on the front door. I could see the icicle hanging from the roof gutter. I couldn’t see any signs of life or activity. Knowing when the mail got delivered wasn’t going to help me. And that icicle wasn’t going to melt for a long time.

“Okay, you win,” I said. “Saddle up, Kemosabe. Let’s go look at some horses.”

I drove slowly down the road that led to the smaller houses on the property, where I supposed employees lived. At the end of the road I could see a large barn and what looked like a long, low stable. There were fences with those three black slats you see in photos of Kentucky horse farms. Maybe all horse fences had them. An emblem.

It was early afternoon and no one was at home.

The snow was thick now, and blurred my vision. I squinted.

In front of us in the middle of the dirt road, looking like a snow bunny, was a short, squat man holding a rifle. It was pointed at my head. I stopped the car, pulled the Beretta from my shoulder holster, and dropped my gun hand to my side. I knew Hawk would be doing the same.

The man held his rifle on me and approached my side of the car. I rolled down the window.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Is this the way to Pottery Barn?”

It took a bit longer than I would have expected for him to comprehend what I was saying. I could see him almost mouthing the words until they sunk in.

“There’s no fucking Pottery Barn out here, asshole. This here is private property, and you’re trespassing.”

“That’s what I thought,” I said, “but try telling that to Clarabelle.”

The man leaned in to look into the car and squinted at Hawk. Hawk slowly turned his head toward the man and flashed an even smile.

“Who the hell is Clarabelle?” the man said.

“The navigation system in my car,” I said. “I like to give a name to the voice that gives the directions. Makes it more personal, don’t you think?”

Rifle Man was mouthing the words again. I waited.

“Listen, smart-ass. This here is private property, and you’re trespassing.” He repeated the lines, as if he had been trained to say them, which was probably the case. Those words, backed up by the gun, were probably enough to scare off most interlopers.

“Okay,” I said. “So it’s not a Pottery Barn. What goes on out here? Bird sanctuary?”

He brought the gun back up level with my head. I pulled the Beretta up to my lap.

Someone came out of the cottage to my left. A short, dark woman with a child. She spoke in Spanish to the man with the rifle. I understood enough to know her child was sick and that she needed a ride to the emergency room.

Rifle Man became flustered and annoyed. He tried to keep his gun trained on me while he barked back at the woman. Clearly, multitasking wasn’t his strength. I couldn’t understand all that he was saying, but his tone didn’t convey sympathy. The woman started to cry, and there was desperation in her voice that required no translation.

“You understand this?” I said to Hawk.

“Woman’s baby be really sick. She say he need to get to the hospital right away. He say that too bad, he ain’t bringing them to the hospital, don’t care if the baby live or not.”

The woman rushed closer to the man, pleading and wailing and trying to show him her sick child. He pushed her away, and she and the baby fell to the ground.

Hawk opened his door and got out of the car.

“Hey! Hey!” Rifle Man swung his rifle over the top of the car toward Hawk. “Stop right there or I’ll shoot. This here’s private property and you’re trespassing.”

Hawk ignored him and walked around the car to the woman and her baby. As Rifle Man swiveled to train his gun on Hawk, I pushed open my car door and slammed it into his left side. He collapsed with a grunt and the rifle flew from his hands, landing a few feet away. I stepped from the car. As Rifle Man tried to stand, I leaned in and kicked him in the stomach. He fell to the ground and rolled onto his back. I stood over him with my Beretta pointed at his nose.

“Okay,” I said. “Here’s the deal. We’re taking this young woman and her baby to the hospital. You’re going to pull yourself together, and in two hours you are going to drive to the hospital and pick them up. Do you understand me?”

Rifle Man was having an even harder time with comprehension. I waited for him to mouth the words and then digest them. Finally, he nodded.

“You have dented my car door, and worse than that, you’ve annoyed us. Being men of goodwill in this holiday season, we’re willing to forgive you. But if you try to stop us, or if you cause any harm to this woman or her child, I am going to come back here and extract my insurance deductible from you. Do you understand that?”

Again he mouthed the words. He seemed to have problems with “extract.” I tried again.

“If you shoot at us, or if you harm the woman or her baby, I will come back here and hurt you. Do you understand?”

Fear materialized on Rifle Man’s face, and this time he nodded without having to do much thinking. He shouted something in rapid-fire Spanish to the woman.

“Hawk?” I said.

“He tell our new friend here that he’ll come by the hospital in two hours to check on her and the bambino. He also tell her he hope the baby be okay.”

I holstered my Beretta, walked over to the rifle, cracked open the barrel and collected the shells and put them in my pocket. Then I grabbed the rifle by the barrel with both hands and flung it over the car and far into the trees.

Hawk had led the woman and the baby over to my car and put them in the backseat. I got back in the car, did a three-point turn, and drove slowly back out the dirt road. In my rearview mirror, I could see Rifle Man slowly getting to his knees and looking dumbly at our taillights.

We reached the open highway, and she said, “A la derecha.” I could see in the rearview mirror that she was young, maybe twenty. She wore her hair in a kind of bun, and her winter coat was patched and threadbare. The baby wore a good-quality parka and was nestled down in it, asleep.