Tremaine and Rayfield jerked around and stared at him. What two black guys? they said in unison. Fiske stopped what he was doing and looked at them. We were coming in the building and they ran by us, almost knocked Susan down.

Whatd they look like? Rayfield asked, his voice strained as he edged closer to Fiske. Tremaine quickly moved away from the bathroom door.

Well, they were black, like I said. Now, one of them looked like he was ex-NFL or something. You remember how big he was, Susan? She nodded and then started breathing again. I mean, he was huge. And the guy with him was pretty big too, six-two, six-three at least, but a lot leaner. They were running like the devil and they werent young either. Forty-five, fifty if they were a day.

Did you see which way they went? Tremaine asked.

They jumped in some old car and took off on the main road heading north. Im not good with cars, I dont know the make or anything, but it was an old model. Green, I think. He suddenly looked frightened. You dont think it was the escaped prisoner, do you?

Tremaine and Rayfield didnt answer because they were rushing out the door. As soon as they heard the outer door open and the boots running down the hallway, Fiske and Sara looked at each other and then they both, as though tied together with string, collapsed onto the sofa. They reached for each other and huddled together.

Glad I didnt have to shoot you. You think fast on your feet.

They looked up at the grinning face of Josh Harms as he jammed his pistol into his pants. Were both lawyers, Fiske said hoarsely, still clutching Sara tightly.

Well, nobodys perfect, Josh said. Rufus appeared behind his brother. Thanks, he said quietly.

I hope you believe us now, Fiske said.

Yeah, but I aint gonna take your help.

Rufus

Everybodys tried to help me up till now, theyre dead. Except Josh, and we all almost bought it tonight. I aint having that on my conscience. You two get back on that plane of yours and stay the hell out of this.

I cant do that. He was my brother.

Suit yourself, but youre gonna do it without me. He went to the window and watched as the Jeep sped off, heading north. He motioned to Josh. Lets get going. No telling when they might get the itch to come back.

As the two men started to turn away, Fiske reached in his pocket and took out something, which he held out to Rufus. This is my business card. Its got my office and home numbers on it. Rufus, think about what youre doing. By yourself, youre not going to get anywhere. When you finally realize that, call me.

Fiske looked surprised as Sara lifted the card from him and wrote something on the back. She held it out to Rufus. Thats my home and car phone numbers on the back. Call either one of us, day or night.

Slowly, the huge hand reached out, took the card. Rufus slipped it in his shirt pocket. In another minute Sara and Fiske were all alone. They again stared at each other, completely drained. A full minute passed before Fiske broke the silence.

Well, I have to admit, that was pretty close.

John, I never, ever want to do that again. Sara walked unsteadily to the bathroom.

Where are you going?

She didnt bother to look back at him. To the bathroom. Unless you want me to throw up out here.

["C46"]CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

An hour after his conversation with Warren McKenna, Chandler climbed out of his car and walked slowly to his house. It was a comfortable brick and siding split-level set in a neighborhood of like structures. A nice, safe place to raise kids at least it had been twenty years ago. It wasnt as safe or as nice today, but then what was? he thought. Many years ago, when he wanted to unwind after work, he would shoot a few hoops in the driveway with his kids using the basketball net he had hung over the garage doors. That net had long since rotted away and the hoop and backboard had been removed. Now he went into the small backyard, where he sat down on a weathered gray cedar bench, situated near a spreading magnolia and in front of a small in-ground fountain. His wife had pestered him into putting in the fountain and he had bitched and complained the whole time. It was only after he had finished the project that he had understood her insistence. Building the thing had been cathartic for him: the planning, the measurements, the selection of materials. It was a lot like detective work, meaning a jigsaw puzzle where, if you were equal parts competent and lucky, all the pieces fit. After ten minutes of quiet he finally lurched to his feet, his coat thrown over his shoulder, and ambled into the house. He looked around the quiet, dark kitchen. It was well decorated, the whole house was, due entirely to the efforts of his wife, Juanita. Kids raised, doctor visits made, bills paid, flowers tended to, grass clipped, beds made, clothes washed and ironed, meals cooked, dishes cleaned she did all those things while he worked horrendous hours on his way up. That had been their partnership. After the kids were gone, she had gone back to school, become a nurse and worked at a local hospital on the pediatric wing. Married thirty-three years now and still going strong. Chandler had no idea how much longer he could continue being a detective. It was all getting to him. The stench of the work, the feel of his hands in rubber gloves, the taking of tiny, measured steps for fear of trampling a bit of evidence that might cost somebody his life or let a butcher go free. The paperwork, the slick defense attorneys asking the same questions, plotting the same verbal traps, the bored judges reading off the sentencing guidelines like they were parceling out test results. The robotic looks of the defendants who said nothing, showed no emotion, went to prison with all their buddies, their institution of higher learning, coming out much more accomplished criminals. The ringing phone cut short these depressing thoughts.

Hello? He listened for a couple of minutes, gave a series of instructions and hung up. A slug had been found in the alleyway where Michael Fiskes body had been discovered. It apparently had ricocheted off one wall and gotten wedged in some trash that had fallen behind a Dumpster. From what Chandler had been told, the slug was in very good shape with little projectile deformity. The lab would have to confirm that it was actually the bullet that had killed the young clerk. That would be fairly easy to determine for a sickening reason: The slug would have blood, bone and brain tissue residue on it that could be linked pretty much conclusively to the head of Michael Fiske. With the bullet in hand, they could now search hard for the murder weapon. Ballistics could match the slug to the gun that had fired it with the reliability of matching fingerprints to a human hand. Chandler rose and went into the living room, purposely leaving his own gun behind. He sat down in a recliner that matched his bulky proportions. The room was dark and he did not move to turn on a light. He had too many lights around him at work. Lights in his office beating down on him every day. Harsher lights in the autopsy room, that made every piece of flesh enormous, ominously raw, memorable to the point of Chandlers excusing himself every once in a great while to go to the mens room, where his stomach showed its appreciation for the polished skill of official dismemberment. The popping lights of the photographers at a crime scene or a courthouse. Too many damn lights. Darkness was quiet, darkness was soothing. Darkness was how he wanted his retirement to be. Cool and dark. Like his fountain in the backyard. Warren McKennas words had disturbed Chandler, though he had tried hard not to show it. He couldnt bring himself to accept that John Fiske could murder his own brother. But, truth be known, wouldnt that be exactly what Fiske wanted Chandler to believe? But then he had something else to think about. Michael Fiskes phone calls to Fort Jackson. And now Rufus Harmss escape. Were they connected? Fiske was covering for Sara Evans, that was clear. Chandler shook his head. He would have to sleep on it, because his old brain was running on empty. He started to get up and then stopped abruptly. The arms suddenly encircled his neck, startling him. His hands gripped the persons forearms as his eyes popped huge. His gun where the hell was his gun?