Comeback

close it again.'

'I don't know where they are,' Tom insisted. 'And that's the truth.'

Archibald and Dwayne shared a glance. Tom knew they were trying to decide whether or not it was the truth, and he knew Archibald didn't really and truly care whether Tom believed all that stuff about the money, all that face-saving garbage about lunch programs and counseling and of course his own work with former convicts. There's a laugh; the work with former convicts. How do you like your social programs now, Reverend Archibald?

Archibald turned his attention back to Tom. 'I hope to do what I can to help you,' he said, 'in your difficulties with the law. And I equally hope you will—'

A knock at the door interrupted him. Archibald frowned at Dwayne, the unctuous mask slipping slightly, and Dwayne silently crossed to the door, opened it, spoke briefly in a low voice with someone outside, accepted a sheet of paper, and shut the door again.

While Archibald and Tom watched, Dwayne came back to the bed, reading the sheet of paper, which was white but flimsy, curling at the edges. Archibald, tension at last apparent in his voice, said, 'Dwayne? What is it? Do they have the rascals?'

'No,' Dwayne said, and extended the sheet of paper for Archibald to take. The paper curled like parchment as it changed hands, so that for one instant there was something almost Biblical in the transaction.

Archibald unrolled the paper, read it, and the blood drained from his face. That expression of shock wasn't false. Tom stared at the soft clean hands holding the sheet of paper; he burned with both fear and curiosity, wondering if they would even tell him what the paper was all about. And then Archibald looked at him with something new and incomprehensible in his eyes. Sympathy? The genuine article?

Extending the rolled-up sheet of paper, Archibald said, 'You should see this, Tom. And I am truly sorry.'

What in God's name could it be? Fear clenched Tom's chest as he took the paper and fumblingly unrolled it. A fax, on the letterhead of the Memphis police. It was addressed to Detective Second Grade Lewis Calavecci, and the body of the message read:

'Mary Quindero discovered dead in her apartment. Preliminary medical exam suggests death by drowning. Body found in a closet. Under the circumstances, we'd appreciate more particulars regarding your interest in this person. Please forward your response to—'

'NO!'

'I'm sorry,' Archibald said, and this time he sounded as though he really meant it. 'Do you have any idea why they would do such a thing?'

'No.' Tom gestured vaguely with both hands, too distracted to think. 'No! They didn't have to— They didn't even know about her until... I didn't think they knew about. . . There's no reason.'

Softly, almost whispered, Archibald said, 'Who are they, Tom?'

Tom let the paper go, and it curled into a tube on the blanket covering his legs. 'The first one,' he said, in a dead dulled voice, 'is called George Liss. I met him in the parole program ...'

Around midnight, one of the night nurses foiled Tom's suicide attempt. He'd been trying to slit his wrists with the IV needle torn from his forearm. The tool was inefficient, making a number of shallow gashes, painful and disfiguring but not in any way fatal.

A doctor from emergency was called, who oversaw the cleaning and bandaging of the wounds. Tom spent the rest of the night strapped into the bed, horribly awake, thinking unwillingly about Mary and the people who had killed her. Why? Why?

George Liss. Let them find him, please, God. Let them find George Liss.

7

When George Liss ran across the dark parking lot away from the construction trailer, he expected a bullet in his back at any second. He had no idea what had gone wrong, why Parker and Mackey weren't dead right now and he on his way with the four hundred thousand, but Liss was not a man to gnaw at the past. All he would do now was run, as fast as he could, bent low to make a smaller target but nevertheless expecting that bullet every step.

Which didn't come. He hadn't run directly toward the lights flanking the entrance, not wanting to silhouette himself, but had angled off toward the darkness along the perimeter fence, and when he reached that fence with neither a bullet in his body nor even the sound of shots having been fired behind him, he began to believe he might be still alive. And with work to do.

Hunched over, Liss trotted along the straight chain-link fence, and slowed when he got near the brighter illumination around the entrance. Looking all around as he moved, he decided there was no one there, no one watching, nothing to worry about, at least not in this particular spot at this particular moment, so he sprinted on through and out to the public road.

And now what? He still wanted the money, that was the whole purpose, but Parker and Mackey were alerted now, would be harder to deal with. And right this minute, this town was a dangerous place to be wandering around in, alone and unarmed and with no good explanation for his presence. There were going to be cops all over the neighborhood tonight. Somehow he had to go to ground, get out of sight.

What were the choices? He couldn't get to the motel and Brenda and the station wagon before Mackey called to warn her what had happened. And if he went to the empty house where they'd planned to stash the goods once they'd left the construction trailer, Parker and Mackey were sure to show up eventually, cautious and armed.

But if he just hid out in some alley or parked car for the night, Parker and Mackey could clear out entirely, find some other place to wait for the heat to grow less intense, and Liss would never get his hands on that money. There had to be a way to stay out of sight, and yet keep an eye on those golden duffel bags.

Across the road from the stadium parking lot was a row of old three-story houses, with small shops downstairs and apartments above. Shoe repair, deli, dry cleaners, all shut down solid for the night, with heavy gates closed