apply for a position. Maddox's mother, newly pregnant at the time, was won over by the bucolic setting of northern Mitchum County, and three months later the Maddoxes moved from a tiny apartment in the Boston neighborhood of Readville to a three-bedroom house in Black Falls.
At a little after ten on that February morning, Pintopolumanos and Maddox came upon a white Cadillac parked under a thin sheet of snow just off the shoulder at the eastern end of Main Street, less than one hundred yards from where the road crossed into neighboring Brattle. Snoring in the driver's seat was a man named Jack Metters, a lower-echelon hoodlum from East Boston transporting a trunkful of life sentences in the form of two dozen stolen army machine guns.
Metters awoke to Officer Maddox's window knock, emerging from his Caddy with a yawn and a smile. He asked the name of the town he was in, and before Maddox's father could even answer, Metters fired a .38 Special five times with his right hand deep in the pocket of his pea jacket, dropping both policemen into the day-old snow.
Metters shed his burning coat, climbed back into his car, and continued on toward Boston, meeting his end less than one hour later in a roadblock shootout with state police.
Officer Maddox alligator-crawled back to his patrol car with two holes in his chest and one in his thigh, and died talking into the dash radio.
Pinty dragged himself off the road, where responding officers found him sitting against a young oak on a blanket of red snow, reporting no pain, only a low-voltage tingling in his toes.
Two rounds had shattered Pinty's hips. The doctors who performed his surgeries told him he would never walk again. Pinty sought a second opinion?his own?and in the summer of 1975 returned to the same tree he had been found under, stepping from the car under his own power and chopping down that young oak with an ax. He milled the wood himself, fashioning his walking stick and topping it with a smooth, silver English grip ordered from a catalog.
Looking at the walking stick now, the nub of it tapping against the toe of Pinty's boot as he sat deep in a big-armed, mission-style chair, Maddox was reminded of Pinty's determination, of the man's strength and pride. The police department was his life's work, as was, by extension, Black Falls itself, and the prospect of bequeathing his legacy to a band of brigands was eating him up inside.
'Cancers,' Pinty said, after Maddox's recap. 'Got to carve them out with a knife. Cut them right out of our own goddamn belly.'
Maddox sat facing him on a skirted, powder blue sofa. Mrs. Pinty's China dolls smiled from their display shelves in the formal living room, the collection untouched since her death. Maddox had stopped by after his shift, early enough to find Pinty with his breakfast napkin still tucked inside his collar, but not so early that he didn't have his hairpiece in place. Pinty's modest fluff of vanity was a decade old now, a shade or two darker than his existing silver fringe.
Pinty was in the process of converting his house for first-floor living. Maddox saw the folded wheelchair hidden behind the sofa.
'Ever heard the term 'formication'?'
Pinty scowled. He was not in a learning mood. 'That's when a man and a woman?'
Maddox smiled. 'It's the sensation of insects creeping beneath your skin.'
'That's something they need a name for?'
'Causes you to pick at your own flesh. People get obsessed, they wind up tearing apart their face, their arms.'
'It was probably just the shock of the crash.'
'That's what Bucky said.'
Pinty didn't like that, jabbing at the rug with the rubber nub and twisting the handle, as though screwing the cane into the floor.
'Look,' Maddox said. 'I know you don't want to believe it.'
Pinty gripped the fat arm of his chair, Maddox knowing better than to help him get to his feet. Stiff from sitting too long, Pinty hobbled over to the China dolls, as though presenting himself before their glass-eyed innocence. 'So, this guff about the schnapps?'
'Cover story. Kids drunk, and now dazed from the crash. He doesn't want them drug tested.'
Pinty sagged a bit before the display. 'If you're right about all this, Donny?'
'It's not about me being right. It's about Bucky going down.' Maddox frowned, remembering Bucky's attempt at intimidation at the accident scene, then summarizing the exchange for Pinty. 'He basically outlined the Ibbits crash scenario to me.'
In October of the previous year, a man living out of a 1989 Ford Escort had died in a fiery, one-car crash way up in the hills above town. By the time the Rainfield Good Samaritan ambulance arrived to take over for Black Falls Fire and Rescue, the blaze had long since burned through the Escort, its driver, and all his belongings.
The wrecking company recovered enough of the VIN number to trace the car back to a California fugitive named Hugo Ibbits, which occasioned a visit to Black Falls from a U.S. Marshal. It turned out that Ibbits was a former chiropractor who, six months before his death, skipped out of Fresno while awaiting trial on malpractice and insurance fraud charges. He had been a prominent player in a complex automobile insurance scam set up to finance the mass production of crystal methamphetamine, of which the ex?Dr. Ibbits was an addict.
After some initial confusion over the exact time line, the marshal was informed that Ibbits had not been held in the Black Falls lockup on a vagrancy charge over the long Columbus Day weekend, as was initially thought, but was released following a traffic stop late Friday afternoon. Witnesses who had claimed to see Bucky Pail handcuff and arrest the driver of a beat-up Ford Escort outside the Falls Diner three days before the late-Monday-night crash later changed their stories. Once the fugitive's remains were proven conclusively to be Ibbits's, the matter was considered closed.
Maddox said, 'And another thing. I don't know where Bucky was when his beeper went off tonight. But when I got up close to him, there was this smell.'
'Yeah?' grumbled Pinty. 'Like corruption?'
'Like ammonia. Or cat piss. Same smell I got when the Zoo Lady pulled open the front door of Sinclair's building.'
Pinty turned to him. 'You're saying?'
'Well, I finally got a call back this morning from the probation office. Sinclair's caseworker is away on vacation for two weeks. That's why we haven't heard anything about him missing his court-ordered group sessions.' Maddox briefly considered telling Pinty about the footprints in Heavey's backyard, the hand-rolled cigarette he had found in the trees. He decided Pinty was red-faced enough as it was. 'Zoo Lady hasn't seen him. Says she heard him upstairs. But then again?'
'Then again she's the goddamn Zoo Lady.'
'The woman sings to her dogs to help them urinate in the street. And she's one of the least crazy people in town.'
Pinty discovered his breakfast napkin and pulled it from the neck of his loose-collared, Cuban-style shirt. 'You think they got onto him somehow? Maybe decided to finish what they started before that kook Frond got in their way?'
Maddox scowled at the mental image of that fidgety freak Sinclair, reminded once again that the future of the town and Pinty's legacy rode on that skinny pervert's shoulders.
18
FROND
NOISES BROUGHT HIM BACK. Like a knuckle tap-tap-tapping on his consciousness. Randall Frond's eyes fluttered open, only to have his forehead, brow, and lids slam down immediately again like a crash gate.
A smashing headache. He was hurt. He didn't know how, yet?maybe badly?but he was not paralyzed.
He was restrained.
He heard the protest of the old mattress as he moved. He was tied up, facedown, on the bed in his spare room.
Okay. He was being robbed.
He had maybe forty dollars in cash in the kitchen downstairs. No television. No consumer electronics, other than his computer. Nothing thieves
His arms were pulled behind him, wrists bound by something cutting like wire or twine, also his ankles. He tried to twiddle his fingers, to see if he could get loose, but without circulation they were dead.
In T-shirt and boxers, he had just come out of the bathroom. He was taking quick little showers three times a day to keep the humidity from driving him mad?he owned only one window fan, no air conditioner?but it was a losing battle. Sweat popped from his pores as soon as he toweled off, which was when he had heard the loose board on the stairs. The third step from the top: he knew exactly where it was. Artists would occasionally drop by for him to take pictures of their wares, which he fronted for them on eBay, but unlike most others in town, Frond locked his doors. A real-world habit he had been unable to shake. He'd said, 'Hello?' and stepped into the hallway with a stick of deodorant in his hand.
Rummaging. He heard that now. Near, on the other side of the wall. The bathroom? What were they looking for in there?
Water ran through the pipes. You could hear it wash all the way down into the basement.
Burglars who washed their hands?
