Ferris noticed that her hands were clenched tightly, as if holding on to something precious, or merely holding on. After scribbling a line of shorthand in his notebook, he lowered his reading glasses. "Did the boys get along well?"

"They did. Oren had a few years on his brother, but that didn't matter. In some ways, Josh was a hundred years older. That little boy listened to people like he really cared about what was going on in their lives. I miss that child. I didn't see much of him after he turned ten-except from a distance… the way I see everyone now."

And this must be the marker for the year when life had soured for the librarian.

There was no need to consult his old notes. By the time Joshua Hobbs turned ten years old, Mavis Hardy had evolved into the monster of the public library. Ferris remembered that year very clearly. The librarian was the one who had drawn him to Coventry in hopes of covering a sensational murder trial. Her homicide case had ended too soon and too softly, a few words spoken in open court for the public record and a quiet dismissal of charges.

And five years later, she had not figured as a suspect when a young boy disappeared.

Now that Ferris had become accustomed to her body odor, he could at least endure it, and he leaned toward her in the manner of inviting a confidence. "When Josh first disappeared, did you think he was a runaway- or did you suspect foul play?"

As if she were a perfectly rational person who had never done a murder of her own, Mavis Hardy paused to give this some thought. "Well, that's what kids do in this town. They run off as soon as they're able-usually older kids right out of high school. They just can't leave Coventry fast enough. My own son ran off. But Josh Hobbs was barely fifteen-way too young. No, I don't suppose I ever saw him as a runaway."

"So other teenagers have disappeared?"

"A few, but it's not like they dropped off the face of the earth. They packed bags. Josh didn't. And most kids drift back to town after a while, like my son, Dave-he came back."

"I heard a rumor that there was more than one set of bones found yesterday. Can you think of anyone else who might have gone missing around the same time?"

"Mr. Monty, you've lived here for a good long while." She pointed to the window with a view of the foothills. "You know what we've got out there in the woods-people nobody wants to keep track of. I imagine they disappear all the time, and who'd ever know?"

"You think one of those people could've murdered Josh? Maybe someone with a criminal background?"

"Not likely," she said. "Not one of our criminals. In my experience, outlaws make the best citizens. They pay their bills on time-in cash-and they never get speeding tickets."

Her eyes took on a crafty look as she rose from her chair. Ferris feared that the interlude of sanity might be drawing to a close.

She loomed over him. "You think I've got an inside track? I know what they say about me around town. Parents tell their children to behave or they'll be sent to the library, and I bet those kids don't sleep well at night. Do I figure into your nightmares, too, Mr. Monty?" She leaned down and placed both hands flat on the table. "If you've got a question to ask-ask."

"You haven't attended a birthday ball since the Hobbs boy disappeared." He looked up at her with expectation.

The librarian coughed up a mouthful of mucus and let it fly. So good was her aim that she hit one lens of Ferris's spectacles on the first try. He rose from his chair and fled the library.

Oren stood beside Hannah at the laundry table in the cellar. He rolled a pair of socks and added them to the pile, having already amazed her with his skill in smoothly folding T-shirts. "So you still go to the library."

"At least once a week. Mavis taught me how to work the computer, and sometimes she special-orders books from other libraries."

"Then you weren't kidding yesterday-when you told Dave you could get his mother over here to ream him out."

"Oh, I wouldn't have done that. I just wanted Dave to drop that damn shovel. You know how the judge feels about his flower garden."

"So nothing's changed. Mrs. Hardy still-"

"Everything has changed," said the judge from the top of the basement staircase. He walked briskly down the steps and joined them at the folding table. One hand ran back over his bald scalp in a loving memory of a time when he had hair.

Back in the days of the old man's long ponytail, most people would have taken him for an aging hippie. But Oren knew the judge's favorite poet was Ferlinghetti, and there was more evidence to date his father back to the Beatnik generation-medals of the Korean War stored in the pacifist's attic. The judge must sometimes wonder if joining the Army had been Oren's idea of teenage revolt-or revenge. The question would never be asked by this quintessential gentleman.

The judge picked through a pile of unmatched socks. "So what's this about Mavis Hardy? You think the press is going to dredge up that old business again?"

Oren rolled another pair. "You mean her murder case?"

The judge did not rise to this old bait. He placidly hunted the sock pile for a match to the one he held in his hand.

"Premeditated murder." Oren smiled.

And the judge countered with, "Justifiable homicide."

Murder.

Oren leaned closer to his father. "How long do you think it took Mrs. Hardy to lay her plans? I'd say a year at least."

The judge turned his full attention on a hole found in the toe of one sock. "I came down here to tell you that your trunk arrived. I had the deliveryman haul it up to your room. Did you pack a good suit in there?"

"Yes, sir. I packed everything I own."

"Good. Sarah Winston's birthday ball is only a few days away."

"I'm not going," said Oren. And this should have ended the conversation by the old man's own rules of debate. His father would never resort to the obvious question. It would diminish the twin arts of conversation and manners to ask, Why not?

"Why not?" Hannah stepped between them as the judge's foil. "What is it with you and Isabelle Winston? The pharmacist told me that girl kicked you all the way down the sidewalk yesterday. Now why would she do that?"

Oren shrugged to tell her that he didn't know and "she didn't say."

Why ruin a perfectly good rumor by trimming it back to a single act of minor violence? In the next telling of this story, it was predictable that Isabelle would have shot him once and stabbed him twice.

Collecting gossip was sometimes a trial of endurance. Ferris Monty pretended to take notes on the postmaster's lecture, which-if there was a God in heaven-was winding to a close.

"I bought these three pictures from Josh and framed them with my own money-not one dime from the taxpayers' pockets," said Jim Web. "I intend to leave them behind when I retire next year. My gift to the town.

Ferris nodded absently as he studied Joshua Hobbs's triptych. The boy had taken shots of postal patrons in a waiting line. The people appeared to move as the viewer's eye made the jump from one frame to the next. He stepped closer, the better to study the primary subject, the one at the center who posed with a silver-handled cane. Though Ferris had seen this person around town, he had only registered the scar and a peculiar limp in memory. But Joshua had focused upon the undamaged, unmemorable side of the man, and that was curious. A view of the wrack-and-ruin side would have been a more worthy angle.

Pointing to this image, he said, "I don't recall this man's name. He's lived in Coventry for a long time, hasn't he?"

"Yeah, but not as long as I have. I started as a clerk thirty-five years ago," said the postmaster in the mistaken belief that his interviewer might care. "That's Mr. Swahn. I can't say I actually know him. He's a hermit. Hasn't been in here since we started rural delivery, but he does show up for all the birthday balls. Will I see you at the Winston lodge this year?"