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had seemed amused by the idea that he might be setting off fireworks. People around here, he had told the deputy, tended to be a little dotty. ‘It’s the air. Too pure for some, not pure enough for others.’
    The deputy had drunk one cup of good strong coffee poured by one of the tired women from an iron pot. Two kids, a boy and a girl, both about nine, had sat quietly side by side in a big rocking chair near the fireplace.
    To be polite, the deputy had eaten a sourdough biscuit slathered with homemade jam and fresh sweet butter. He had found it very tasty.
    The woman and the kids had let the old man do all the talking. The deputy was welcome to come back any time. His presence made everyone feel protected, watched over. ‘The Lord God provides for those who heed the necessity of strong arms,’ the old man had said.
    The deputy had paid his respects and returned to his car. He could not begin to figure why a stern but hospitable old man with a Biblical grip on his large family would be lobbing starburst fireworks in the early morning darkness.
    But something had stuck up in the deputy’s memory like a log rising in a smooth river. Back at the office, he had looked up the NCIS and NCIC files on one Robert Cavitt Chambers, AKA Bob Cavitt, AKA Charles Roberts. Chambershad last been seen in Texas in 1995. A computer artist at FBI headquarters had updated an ATM security photo taken that year to show Chambers in his sprightly eighties.
    The aging trick had worked.
    The deputy had recognized the biblical old man at the farmhouse.
    ‘We lost track of Chambers years ago,’ Levine said. There was only one folding chair in the fire tower. He did not want to occupy the one chair, not with Cap Benson watching him like a hawk. Levine smiled, showing large, even teeth, lightly speckled. He had been raised in Texas on naturally fluoridated water and his teeth were colored like turkey eggs, but strong. ‘You sure this is him?’
    ‘Positive ID from the deputy,’ Benson said.
    ‘Too good to be true,’ Levine said. ‘But if it is true, we could be in a world of trouble.’
    ‘Why is that?’ Benson asked.
    ‘Who do you think we have down there?’ Levine asked. Now it was Levine’s turn to give Benson a look, and slowly shift that look to Griff, then to Rebecca. At that moment, Levine owned the fire tower.
    ‘Bank robber. Abortion clinic bomber,’ Benson said.
    ‘Ah.’ Levine pressed his lips together. ‘That’s all?’
    ‘That’s enough for me,’ Benson said. Griff let Levine have his fun.
    ‘Well, I wouldn’t want you to underestimate him. If it is him. Because the Patriarch has lived a life of almost uninterrupted criminal activity since 1962. Before that, he was an altar boy for St. Jude’s in Philadelphia, a predominantly Irish parish. In the seventies, he committed at least five bank robberies in Oklahoma and Arizona. One arrest and trial led to a hung jury. The Oklahoma County prosecutor’s office refused to try Chambers again. I quote the DA, “We will always have some trailer-trash slattern with damppanties sitting in the jury box. Just get him the hell out of my state.”’
    They all looked to see if Levine had offended Rebecca. He hadn’t. Levine continued.
    ‘Chambers moved to Ireland in 1979. He became an expert in IED—improvised explosive devices. His specialty was nasty booby traps. Don’t hold me to it, but he may have been the guy who actually set the charge in Margaret Thatcher’s toilet in a Brighton hotel in 1986. He returned to the United States later that year, when things got too hot in the UK, but he couldn’t stay out of trouble. In 1988, Nevada State Police caught him at the tail end of a barroom brawl, drunk out of his mind, with a broken pool cue in one hand and a perforated buddy bleeding out on the floor. Chambers was convicted of manslaughter and sent to prison in 1989. Sometime the next year, he broke from his Irish roots, swore off drink, and converted from Catholicism to