"That's what we're reading, sir," Neale said.

Corde punched the air with a fist. He winked at Kresge.

"You have a hidey-hole for him?" Kresge asked.

"Holiday Inn Eastwood near the river. Checked in as Sayles."

"He hasn't checked out?"

"No, sir. But we don't know whether he's in or not at the moment."

"Okay," Corde said, "We've got a warrant. Deputy Kresge and I'll be up there in about two hours. You'll keep surveillance on him? Ill fax you the warrant. If he heads out before we get there pick him up, will you?"

"Yessir, it'll be our pleasure. What'd his risk status be?"

"How's that?" Corde asked.

"He armed, dangerous?"

Corde looked at Kresge and said, "Extremely dangerous."

The hardest part was lying to him.

It wasn't so difficult to tell him that his father couldn't be at the wrestling match after all. And it wasn't so hard to see Jamie take the news with heroic disappointment, just a nod, not even a burst of temper (which she would have preferred, because that's what she felt). But making up her husband's words just stabbed her through. Your father said to tell you, Diane embellished, that this killer's on the loose and they've got a real solid chance to catch him. He tried to arrange it different but he's the one's got to go. He's sending all his thoughts with you.

"And," Diane said, unable to look into her son's eyes, "he promised he'll make it up to you."

What in truth happened was that Corde had simply left for Fitzberg and hadn't even bothered to call home or tell Emma to do it for him.

What a long long wait it had been! The time had crept past the hour when Corde was due home. Cars passed but no New Lebanon Sheriffs Department We Serve and Protect cruisers hurried up to the house. The minutes dropping away as Jamie and his teammate Davey sat on the couch fidgeting, joking at first as they talked about whupping Higgins High School's butt then looking out the window anxiously then falling silent. As six-thirty came and went Diane had decided she was going to insist that Corde break procedures and take the boys in the cruiser itself, siren blazing and red light going like a beating heart.

At six-fifty Diane had made the call. It was much shorter than she let on. Emma the dispatcher told her Bill and Deputy Kresge had hurried out the door and would be spending the night in Fitzberg.

Diane thanked her then listened to the dial tone as she continued her fake conversation at a higher volume. "Oh, Bill, what happened?… No, really? You've almost got him… Oh be careful, honey… Well, Jamie's going to be good and disappointed and here you were already a half hour late… Okay… Okay… Ill tell him…"

Then she delivered her improvised monologue and asked the deputy to step inside to baby-sit Sarah.

"Let me get another deputy to go with you, Mrs. Corde. Your husband said there's -"

"My husband caused this mess," she growled. "And we don't have time to wait."

Diane and the two boys piled into the station wagon for a frantic ride to the Higgins High School gym. She ran every red light en route and was spoiling for a fight with any uniformed trooper foolish enough to pull her over.

Bill, you and me've gotta talk.

Diane Corde sat on hard bleachers, sipping a watery Coke. She watched the crowds and thought of the smell, the peculiar aroma of school gyms, which a girlfriend had told her years ago came from boys' jockstraps. She wanted to tell this story to someone. She wished Ben Breck were here, sitting next to her.

After ten matches there was a staticky announcement, the only words of which she discerned were "Jamie Corde." She set the Coke beside her and finger-whistled at a hundred decibels. The visiting spectators cheered New Lebanon.

Diane watched her son striding out onto the mat, brooding and engrossed and fluid in his step. She whistled again, bringing fingers to the ears of nearby fans. She wailed for New Lebanon and pummeled the bleachers with her feet – the current fad to show support. Jamie was so focused, so single-minded in his efforts. He ran five miles every day, pumped weights every other. He trained and trained. And he had recovered so well from the tragedy of Philip. He was even taking his father's inexcusable neglect tonight in his stride. Diane felt a huge burst of pride for her son, sending it telepathically out to him as he pulled on his head protector and shook his opponent's hand.

Jamie looked up into the bleachers. She waved at him. He acknowledged her in the only way that a competitor could respond to his mother here – by looking at her once, nodding solemnly then turning away. She didn't mind; she knew he was telling her that he had received her psychic message.

Jamie strapped the blue cloth marker on his arm, then reared his head back and breathed deeply.

The whistle blew and the boys exploded into frenzy. Jamie's legs tensed then uncoiled as he leapt at his opponent – a tall blond sophomore – like a striking snake. They gripped arms and necks, heads together. Spinning, spinning, feet snagging the spongy blue mat, inching like grappling crabs. Limbs confused with limbs. Dots of sweat flew. Faces crimson under foam protectors, tendons rising thick from their necks. Furious scrabbling around the mat, hands were claws, gripping at knees and wrists.

Diane shouted, "Go, go. GO! Come on, JAMIE!!"

A brutal take-down, Jamie lifting the boy off the mat and driving him down onto his back. His head bounced and the boy gazed upward, momentarily stunned. Face glistening, Jamie pressed him hard into the mat furiously, his opponent's arms flailing. Several blows struck Jamie on the back. They were solid strikes but they rebounded without effect.

What was happening?

Diane was frowning, aware suddenly of the quiet of the crowd around her. Then people in the bleachers were on their feet, shouting at the coaches and at the two boys. The blond opponent tried to muscle himself away from Jamie, a centimeter at a time, toward the out-of-bounds line, twisting onto his side, shouting. He'd given up and was bent on pure escape. Several people shot Diane shocked glances as if she were responsible for her son's brutal attack.

She shouted, "Jamie, stop!"

His opponent's arm was turning blue-gray under Jamie's relentless grip, his legs kicked in despair. The referee's whistle blew shrilly. Jamie didn't let go. He kept driving the boy into the ground and twisting his arm, from which the red marker fluttered like a distress signal.

"Jamie!" she called. "Honey…"

The referee started forward. The sports-coated coaches were on their feet, shouting, red-faced, running toward the mat. The referee dropped to his knees and slapped both hands on Jamie's shoulders. Jamie spun toward him and hit him hard in the chest. Off balance, the referee rolled onto his back.

Diane screamed her son's name.

Jamie rose on one knee. Using all his leverage he bent his opponent's forearm up up up… Thock. Diane heard the noise of the break all the way up in the bleachers. She froze where she stood and raised her hand to her mouth, watching her son standing, smiling and triumphant, over the unconscious figure of his vanquished enemy. Jamie turned on the coaches and they froze. Then the boy held his arm out straight and high then closed his fingers into a fist. Diane saw him glance toward her as he ran out the open double doors to the football field, his arm still lifted in the macabre salute of victory.

Detective Frank Neale was pretty much what Corde expected. Crew cut, blond, beefy, smooth ruddy skin. Too professional to put an If we outlaw guns then only outlaws will have guns sticker on his Fitzberg police cruiser but dollars to doughnuts there'd be one on his (American) 4X4.