Without the right passbook, he had no business with the bank today. On his way out the door, he saw the yellow Rolls-Royce parked out front. The driver's bad hairpiece and pale skin completed the sheriff's description of Ferris Monty. Oren recognized this man as one of the players at the séance, but he had a less distinct memory of him from somewhere else and long ago-just a face in a photograph.

Monty was waddling up the walkway to the bank when their eyes met and the little man stumbled. Was he frightened? Affecting nonchalance in a pirouette, Monty spun around and hurried back to the Rolls-Royce.

And what was that about?

Only in Coventry was it possible to follow a car on foot. The Rolls turned a corner, and Oren strolled after it. He was only half a block behind when the yellow car parked in front of the post office. He gave Ferris Monty a minute of lead time before stepping up to the window. The little man stood in the lobby, studying Josh's three portraits of William Swahn, moving closer and squinting to see the details. Oren rapped on the windowpane and waved. Startled, Monty back-stepped onto another customer's shoes. Then he shot out the door and ran for his car.

Oren made no move to prevent this escape. He planned to allow Monty time for a little sweat, time to wait for the inevitable knock on the door. At the moment, he was more interested in his brother's old photographs of the Letter Man and why they so fascinated a gossip columnist. As Oren entered the small lobby, he remembered where he had seen Ferris Monty before. Josh's series of triptychs only pictured people waiting in lines. One such group of photographs had been sold to the town's only bank.

He stared at his brother's work on the post office wall, eyes moving from one picture to the next.

Josh, tell me a story.

He had always believed that the subject was William Swahn. He had forgotten that the insane librarian was also pictured here. She stood in line in front of the man with the cane, and there was no backward glance to show that she knew him. This picture might support Swahn's claim that they had never spoken.

No, the Letter Man had lied to him.

As this pair moved forward in the sequence of three photographs, a bulky envelope disappeared from a group of letters in Swahn's hand to reappear jutting out of Mavis Hardy's shopping bag.

The next stop on Dave Hardy's patrol route was a small roadside bar two towns over from the county seat. It was nearly time for a liquid lunch. He liked to spread out his drinking across the day. His beer was always served in a coffee cup, and he was never asked to pay a tab-a courtesy to law enforcement.

He loved his job. Even after hours and out of uniform, he could drink for free.

The deputy slid onto his favorite barstool, the one closest to the window, to keep an eye on the parking lot. He was always on the lookout for out-of-state plates, such easy targets for tickets, but all of these patrons were local people. He turned to watch the TV set behind the bar. It was early for a news show. The banner scrolling below the picture told him that this was a breaking story. On screen, only a few blocks away from the sheriff's office in Saulburg, the parking lot for the Highway Patrol was a mob scene.

He recognized the limping man as a recluse from Coventry. William Swahn was surrounded by reporters and swallowed up whole. The television camera cut to a shot of Sally Polk amid cameras and microphones. She was answering questions on the old Hobbs case-a case that was no longer hers. This woman did not know when to let go.

Dave broke with his tradition of one beer per bar and ordered another. Sally Polk reminded him of his mother, who could smile while she stabbed him with words in all the soft places.

Oren phoned home from the bank. While he listened to the rings at the other end of the line, he stared at Ferris Monty's three portraits on the wall.

His father answered the telephone, and Oren learned that Hannah had taken the car. And so, said the judge, he was out of luck if he needed a ride. However, the old man knew the address he wanted, adding, "It's not much of a hike, maybe a mile or so from town."

Walking along the narrow back roads, Oren called up a memory of Josh returning from Ferris Monty's house after dropping off an order of prints. Though this had been a big commission, the boy had not wanted to talk about it.

After studying the original photographs in the bank, Oren understood his brother's uneasiness, and now he considered the worst scenario for Josh's death. As a CID agent, he had dealt with predator soldiers, arresting more than a few in his career. He was so well versed in this crime that he could even name the freaks who specialized in the capture and rape of adolescents.

Something about a fifteen-year-old boy had called out to the strange little man with the black toupee. That much would have registered with Josh, and it would have placed the whole subject beyond the confidence of his older brother. In those days, Oren had an ugly word for Josh's stalking activities. Consequently, his little brother would never have mentioned any incident that involved Ferris Monty, the personification of creepy.

Oren wished that he had been more understanding then. Understanding now broke his heart.

Sarah Winston mimicked bright birdcalls as she filled the feeders all along the rail of the outside deck. A few steps away, her daughter adjusted a pair of binoculars to focus on the judge's old Mercedes as it turned into William Swahn's driveway and disappeared behind thick trees.

Isabelle circled around the deck for a better view, and the car was recaptured in her lenses when it reappeared in the small clearing in front of the house down on Paulson Lane. She anticipated Oren Hobbs, but it was Hannah who emerged from the driver's side to help William up the steps to the front door. His limp was worse today.

She wondered if he knew what they were saying about him on the news.

Sarah Winston was ignorant of the latest rumors. Isabelle had not wanted to spoil a day of rare good spirits. Her mother seemed so happy in her whistled conversations with the birds flocking to the feeders.

Leaning back against the rail, Isabelle watched wild things grow tame in the older woman's presence. After passing a few minutes this way, she noticed that one of the stationary telescopes was aimed downward. She looked through the eyepiece. It was already focused to give the clear view of a window framing a desk and chair. This was no accident. Every tension screw had been tightened to fix the position and keep the lens from straying off target. She was startled when William appeared in the window.

Which one of her parents was spying on him?