Vance shoved the gun into Schmeltzer’s chest and pulled the trigger, twice, the sound muffled, Schmeltzer’s torso flung back against the side window with a lung-emptying groan, his eyes glazed, staring at his hands smeared with blood.

“Solves it for me. Anyway, you were right on one thing, though . . .” Vance leaned over and jammed the gun into Schmeltzer’s mouth, the dealer’s eyes about three times their normal size and stunned, and drew back the action. “Nice car.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

Vance left Schmeltzer’s crumpled body on the floor of his car. He checked himself just to make sure he didn’t have blood all over him.

He had found what he was looking for and his search had pretty much come to an end.

Then he left the car and went to the door of the clinic.

He felt a stirring in his chest and his blood was all alive and buzzing, a voice deep inside him telling him that this was it. The end of the line. He had set out to prove that causes had effects and that you couldn’t escape the consequences of what you’d done. The sin from the sinner, the Bible said. The wheat from the chaff.

The Harvard Pain Remediation Centers.

This was where his little girl’s life got all caught up in the tide that ruined it.

Time to end it now.

Vance stepped inside and looked around. Blond paneling on the walls and a classy, almost Asian feel. All beige and white. In the waiting area, a heavyset black woman was in a chair with a metal walker in front of her. A video was running on a screen. Another woman was seated behind the counter. Pretty. In a blue nurse’s uniform. Her blond hair in a ponytail.

“Can I help you?”

The woman behind the counter was looking at him. Vance felt the emotions in his chest start to build. Can you help me? Can you make right everything that’s gone wrong in my life? Can you bring back my wife? My home? My job? Can you bring back my job on the force, which was the last time I felt like a man?

You can only take so much. Vance looked at this woman, his hand reaching into his pocket, wrapping around the gun handle.

“Just gimme a minute,” was all he could grunt.

The woman smiled at him. “First time here? I know it can be a bit unsettling. Here’s a brochure that describes the procedures we do here. They’re all doctor performed. Dr. Silva on staff is one of the foremost pain specialists in the area. But take your time.”

Vance nodded and took the brochure. His blood throbbed. The sweats had come over him. He could do it now. Do it! This was the source of it all. A sense of absolute certainty rushed through him.

“Or feel free to check out the video over there.” She pointed toward the overhead monitor in the waiting area. “It’s only three minutes, and it explains most of the procedures.”

“Thank you,” Vance said, taking his hand off the gun handle.

He went over to the screen, his heart drumming like a bass drum, boom, boom, and tried to listen, as best as he could, to a description of a bunch of procedures he didn’t give a damn about. Or could even pronounce.

Epidural steroid injection. Nerve root block. Pulsed radiofrequency neurotomy. Stellate ganglion block.

Electromyogram.

His head spun. The only thing you needed to become a drug dealer down here was to have an MD license . . . They were as bad as the ones who pushed the pills. Bloodsuckers. They were the ones who profited the most!

He gazed at the doctor who was narrating the video. He sounded smart, almost caring. Probably just some actor. All a sham! He looked at the woman behind the counter and wrapped his hand around his gun.

End it.

Vance’s chest felt like a furnace. Now.

The video came to an end. “Let us know how we can help you . . .” the doctor said, staring at Vance with those earnest eyes.

Help me?

He was about to turn back to the counter with the gun in his hand when he noticed the doctor’s name.

He wasn’t an actor at all. In fact, Vance now realized, he was the one person who should rightfully pay. Not these people here. They were just pegs, like him.

The one who had profited most from Amanda’s suffering.

Suddenly Vance felt uplifted, stronger, infused with purpose. He eased the gun back into his pants.

He stared at the earnest, smiling face, sure now where his rage should truly be directed.

The Harvard Pain Remediation Centers of South Florida.

Henry Steadman. M.D. CEO.

Part IV

Chapter Thirty-Five

The first place I went to in South Carolina was a town called Summerville, north of Charleston.

It was actually a pretty place, nestled among woods of tall pines and, I guess, well named, as the road map said it had been a kind of summer refuge in the 1800s from the stifling humidity and heat of Charleston.

The name I had was a Donald Barrow. 297 Richardson Avenue. The map said it was just outside of town. The plate number ADJ-496. According to the information I had, it was registered to a 2004 Buick Marquis.

I ordered a sandwich in a local shop on Main Street, which was ringed with budding azaleas, then took it back to my car and drove to the address—an old white clapboard house on a street shaded by tall pines—and ate it, looking over the house, in my car.

I really didn’t know what to do. How to handle this. I wasn’t exactly a pro at this. What if it was the right place? What if the Buick was blue, and I went up to that door and the face came back to me and I stared directly into the eyes of the person who had done these horrible things? Realizing my daughter was there!

And he recognized me! He had to know my face.

What then?

I’d been running that scenario over in my mind since I’d left Florida.

I wrapped up my sandwich and placed it on the seat next to me. I tucked in my shirt and took a breath. You have to do this, Henry. Never any time like the present, right?

I left the car and walked up the short walkway leading to the house and onto the porch, trying to calm my heart, which was beating fast.

Anxiously I rang the bell.

I heard footsteps inside, and a middle-aged woman with flecks of gray in her short, curly hair came to the door.

“Hello,” she said, and when she didn’t recognize me, she asked in a pleasant drawl, “Can I help you?”

“Hi.” I stepped forward. “Is Mr. Barrow at home?”

“Mr. Barrow . . . ?” The woman hesitated with a slight look of surprise. “May I ask why?”

I stepped forward. “I was sent by his insurance company. To take a look at his car.”

“His car . . . ?”

“A 2004 Buick Marquis? Plate number ADJ-496 . . . It was in an accident, I was told.”

The woman looked at me curiously and shook her head. “There must be some mistake. There hasn’t been any accident . . .”

“You’re sure?” I asked her again. “Maybe if Mr. Barrow is at home . . . ?” Here in the Deep South people were generally polite and unsuspicious. If I were in South Florida, she’d already be asking to see my ID.

“I’m afraid my father isn’t here. He’s . . . He’s been ill. He’s been living in a nursing home in Ladson for the past six months.”

“Oh.” I stared back, suddenly feeling foolish and intrusive. “I’m very sorry. Is it here? Mr. Barrow’s car. Any chance I could just take a look at it? I don’t understand the confusion. Just to be sure . . .”