The table was covered. Mark wanted to vomit but clenched his jaws and tried to shrug. So what?

McGregor said, “Pretty impressive. We’ve checked them out and we know you’re really Mr. Driscoll, address uncertain because you move around.”

“Is that a question?”

“No, not yet.”

“Good, because I’m not saying anything. I have the right to a lawyer, so you’d better find me one.”

“Okay. Odd that in all these photos you got plenty of hair, even some whiskers, and always the eyebrows. Now everything’s gone. You hiding from something, Mark?”

“I want a lawyer.”

“Sure thing. Say, Mark, we haven’t found any papers for Professor Neville Manchin, from out at Portland State. Name ring a bell?”

A bell? What about a sledgehammer to the head?

Through one-way glass, a high-resolution camera was aimed at Mark. In another room, two interrogation experts, both trained in the detection of untruthful suspects and witnesses, were watching the pupils of the eyes, the upper lip, the muscles in the jaw, the position of the head. The mention of Neville Manchin jolted the suspect. When Mark responded with a lame “Uh, I ain’t talking, and I want a lawyer,” both experts nodded and smiled. Got him.

McGregor left the room, chatted with his colleagues, then entered Jerry’s room. He sat down, smiled, waited a long time, and said, “So, Jerry, still not talking, huh?”

“I want a lawyer.”

“Sure, right, we’re trying to find you one. Not very talkative, are you?”

“I want a lawyer.”

“Your buddy Mark is far more cooperative than you are.”

Jerry swallowed hard. He was hoping Mark had managed to leave town on the Amtrak. Guess not. What the hell happened? How could they get caught so quickly? This time yesterday they were sitting around the cabin playing cards, drinking beer, savoring their perfect crime.

Surely Mark was not already singing.

McGregor pointed to Jerry’s left hand and asked, “You got a Band-Aid there. Cut yourself?”

“I want a lawyer.”

“You need a doctor?”

“A lawyer.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll go find you a lawyer.”

He slammed the door as he left. Jerry looked at his wrist. It couldn’t be possible.

16.

Shadows fell across the pond, and Denny reeled in his line and began paddling toward the cabin. As the chill off the water cut through his light jacket, he thought about Trey, and, frankly, how little he trusted him. Trey was forty-one years old, had been caught twice with his stolen goods, served four years the first time before escaping and two years the second time before going over the wall. What was so troubling about Trey was that in both cases he’d flipped, sang, ratted on his buddies for lesser sentences. For a professional, that was a cardinal sin.

Of the five in their gang, there was no doubt in Denny’s mind that Trey was the weakest. As a Ranger, Denny had fought in wars and survived the gun battles. He’d lost friends and killed many. He understood fear. What he hated was weakness.