“He’s here,” the warden says, and Schroder can hear the phone being put down on the desk and then picked back up.

“Roger Harwick,” Tate says, getting right to the point.

“Roger . . . Hardwick?”

“Harwick. No ‘d.’ ”

“How do I know that name?”

“Everybody knows that name. You couldn’t have missed it. He was all over the news this year. He was a small-time newspaper columnist convicted of molesting teenage boys.”

“Oh yeah,” he says, remembering how much joy it gave the media, ripping one of their own apart.

“He’s served three months of a ten-year stretch. He’s been nothing but a sperm bank for everybody around him since he got his teeth knocked out his first night in the joint. I think he got offered protection to kill Hunter.”

“Any ideas who ordered the attempt?”

“I can keep asking around.”

“Yeah. I appreciate it,” he says, and hangs up.

“That was the prison you just rang, right?” Edward asks. “That about my father?”

“Yeah. We got a name.”

“That Harwick guy?”

“Yeah.”

“So you can spare resources to spend time at the jail, but you couldn’t spare them to look after my daughter? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“We’re going to find her,” Schroder says. “And no, we’ve got somebody on the inside working the angles.”

“What, you mean your friend you were telling me about who got arrested for drinking and driving? The ex-cop?”

“He’s reliable.”

“Who is he?”

“It doesn’t matter who he is,” Schroder says, “what’s important is what he learned.”

“I heard you talking with the warden this afternoon. I heard you mention a name. Tate. I recognized it. And the detective you spoke to a few minutes ago, I heard him mention it. He’s the guy you’ve been telling me about, right? Your buddy? Theodore Tate? The guy who got drunk and hurt somebody? Got people killed? He was in the news a lot last year. This the guy?”

“It doesn’t matter who it is,” Schroder says, dismissing the line of questioning.

“So why’d Harwick do it?”

“He was offered protection to do it. A murder like that this early on, Harwick would only get time served concurrently, maybe an extra year, but it increased his chances of living.”

The probation officer’s name is Austin Bracken. When they reach his house Schroder tells Edward to park up the driveway, but instead Edward pulls up two houses past.

“What the hell?”

“Just being cautious,” Edward answers, grabbing the shotgun.

“You won’t need that,” Schroder says, thinking that Edward looks more hopeful than cautious.

“You don’t know that.”

“We don’t know if he stole the money, and even if he did, this isn’t somebody looking for you. We question him, see what he knows, and if he has the money we take it. Then we do things both your way and my way—you get to deliver the money, but we call it in and get backup first—it’s safer for both you and your daughter.”

“He isn’t going to give up the money if he has it. What the hell are you expecting? Knock on the door and he’ll hand it over to you?”

“Something like that,” Schroder says fully aware that he doesn’t sound convincing. They’ll talk to Bracken, and if he gets a bad vibe he’ll call for backup. He’s not taking any more chances tonight.

“He deals with scumbags every day of his life,” Edward says. “You think you can break a person like that just by talking to him on his doorstep?”

“And you think pulling a shotgun on an innocent man will help? Let’s get a read on him first and take it from there.”

When they walk up to the front door, Schroder is still out of it, like he’s walking through a world slightly out of sync. He knocks on the door and there’s movement and voices and Schroder knocks again to hurry them up. A few seconds later a man answers the door, his shirt open and the large belt buckle on his pants hanging loose. He’s around Schroder’s age, but bigger. He has that slab look about him, the not-quite-fat-and-not-quite-muscle look. He has a handlebar mustache that’s about a hundred years out of date.

“What the hell?” he asks, as soon as he sees them.

Schroder holds up his ID. The badge has dried out but the wallet is still wet. Bracken doesn’t look at it, just stares at Schroder, and then at Edward, and Schroder is pretty sure he knows who each of them is.

“We have a couple of questions,” Schroder says.

“At this time of night?”

“You’re lucky we didn’t show up at two in the morning.”

“Questions about what?”

“Some routine stuff about Shane Kingsly.”

“Like what?”

“Background.”

“And you had to come to my house at this time of the night?”

“We’re chasing some leads.”

“With him?” he asks, and nods at Edward.

“Can we come in?” Schroder asks.

“I’m busy.”

“It’s important.”

“It’s Christmas Eve,” he says. “I don’t care if it’s important or not.”

“Actually . . . ,” Schroder begins, but Edward interrupts him.

“Shit,” Edward says. Both men look at him. “My phone,” he says, patting down his pockets. “It’s in the car. I know how to solve this.”

“What?” Bracken says.

“Edward . . . ,” Schroder says.

“Just a second,” Edward says.

“Edward, wait,” Schroder says.

“It’s important,” Edward answers, and Schroder watches him walk away for a few seconds before turning back to Bracken. His head is muggy and his thoughts are muddled, and he knows he’s probably making a mistake right now but he can’t seem to focus exactly on what that is. Edward saved his life before; and that aside, Schroder knows if he’d been better at his job, then Edward’s daughter never would have been taken tonight. Whatever happens to her will be on his conscience. So yeah, maybe he does owe Hunter some slack. He knows he does—it’s why he’s here. It’s why he hasn’t turned on Edward and tried to handcuff him.

Question is, how much slack is he prepared to give him?

chapter forty-two

Austin Bracken lives in a neighborhood the virus hasn’t hit yet. The houses are modern and well looked after and don’t have front yards made up from rusting mechanical parts. The dashboard clock on the car says we’re closing in on 10:30; it seems like the day has been about forty hours long. Most of the houses still have lights on inside them, people probably closing in on bedtime, watching the tail end of prime-time TV, waiting for the kids to have been asleep long enough so they can play Santa’s role and put the presents under the tree. It’s what I should be doing with Jodie. It’s such a magical moment and I don’t know if there’ll ever be any more.

I could tell in two seconds Bracken had the money. I didn’t even need the monster to help me out on that one. But Schroder couldn’t even get his foot in the door. I grab the shotgun because we don’t have time to play nice. We’re meeting the people who have my daughter in about forty minutes and I have nothing to exchange for her. I carry the gun behind my back, nice and easy, the same way I’d hide a bouquet of flowers. I bring it into view and Bracken’s eyes widen and Schroder sees his reaction and turns to face me, but he doesn’t turn quick enough to avoid what happens. I crash the butt of the shotgun into Schroder’s head, not as hard as the security guard got hit, but hard enough to make it count. His head rocks to the side and his eyes roll back and he drops real fast.

Bracken takes a few steps back as I take a few steps forward. Schroder stays slumped on the ground, doing what Schroder seems to be doing best lately.

“What do you want?” Bracken asks.

“The money.”

“What?”

“The money you stole. I’m here for it.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

We get into the hallway and I kick back and close the door. It’s a pretty nice house with a wide hall and modern furniture, and the outside looks nice, nice plants, nice paint job, garden gnomes in the garden and a policeman planted on the doorstep, not a Christmas decoration in sight. Bracken keeps moving down the hallway. I keep following.