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Barry hadn’t come clean initially with all the gory details. Jerome Clifford was as crooked and sleazy as his clients, and if they got blood on them he wanted to see it.
    “You remember what day Boyette disappeared?” Barry had asked.
    “Sure. January 16.”
    “Remember where you were January 16?”
    At this point, Romey had walked to the wall behind his desk and studied his badly scrawled monthly planners. “Colorado, skiing.”
    “And I borrowed your house?”
    “Yeah, you were meeting some doctor’s wife.”
    “That’s right. Except she couldn’t make it, so I took the senator to your house.”
    Romey froze at this point, and glared at his client, mouth open, eyes lowered.
    Barry had continued. “He arrived in the trunk, and I left him at your place.”
    “Where?” Romey had asked in disbelief.
    “In the garage.”
    “You’re lying.”
    “Under the boat that hasn’t been moved in ten years.”
    “You’re lying.”
    The front door of Clifford’s office was locked. Barry rattled it and cursed through the window. He lit another cigarette and searched the usual parking places for the black Lincoln. He’d find the fat bastard if it took all night.
    Barry had a friend in Miami who was once indicted for an assortment of drug charges. His lawyer was quite good, and had managed to stall and delay for two and a half years until finally the judge lost patience and ordered a trial. The day before jury selection, his friend killed his very fine lawyer, and the judge was forced to grant another continuance. The trial never happened.
    If Romey died suddenly, it would be months, maybe years, before the trial.

     3     
    RICKY BACKED AWAY FROM THE TREE UNTIL HE WAS IN the weeds, then found the narrow trail and started to run. “Ricky,” Mark called. “Hey, Ricky, wait,” but it didn’t work. He stared once more at the man on the car with the gun still in his mouth. The eyes were half-open and the feet twitched at the heels.
    Mark had seen enough. “Ricky,” he called again as he jogged toward the trail. His brother was ahead, running slowly in an odd way with both arms stiff and straight down by his legs. He leaned forward at the waist. Weeds hit him in the face. He tripped but didn’t fall. Mark grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him around. “Ricky, listen! It’s okay.” Ricky was zombielike, with pale skin and glazed eyes. He breathed hard and rapidly, and emitted a dull, aching moan. He couldn’t talk. He jerked away and resumed his trot, still moaning as the weeds slapped him in the face. Mark followed close behind as they crossed a dry creek bed and headed for home.
    The trees thinned just before the crumbling board fence that encircled most of the trailer park. Two smallchildren were throwing rocks at a row of cans lined neatly along the hood of a wrecked car. Ricky ran faster and crawled through a broken section of the fence. He jumped a ditch, darted between two trailers, and ran into the street. Mark was two steps behind. The steady groan grew louder as Ricky breathed even harder.
    The Sway mobile home was twelve feet wide and sixty feet long, and parked on a narrow strip on East Street with forty others. Tucker Wheel Estates also included North, South, and West streets, and all four curved and crossed each other several times from all directions. It was a decent trailer park with reasonably clean streets, a few trees, plenty of bicycles, and few abandoned cars. Speed bumps slowed traffic. Loud music or noise brought the police as soon as it was reported to Mr. Tucker. His family owned all the land and most of the trailers, including Number 17 on East Street, which Dianne Sway rented for two hundred and eighty dollars a month.
    Ricky ran through the unlocked door and fell onto the couch in the den. He seemed to be crying, but there were no tears. He curled his knees to his stomach as if he were cold, then, very slowly, placed his right thumb in his mouth. Mark watched this