Jim picked the dog up, hooked him over his arm, and went up the stairs to unlock the door. Inside, he did the petting thing while he found his cell phone in the messy bed.

Sitting down on the mattress and feeling Dog’s small, warm body curl up around his hip, Jim thought long and hard before dialing. It felt like a step backward, and the familiarity of it sickened him, which was kind of interesting.

Christ, had he been trying to make a fresh start of things here?

Looking around, he saw what Vin had seen: two piles of clothes, a twin bed that no one bigger than a twelve-year-old could be comfortable in, furniture that had Goodwill stamped all over it, and a single ceiling light with a crack through its cover.

Not exactly fresh-start material, but then again, compared to where he’d been and what he’d been doing, sleeping on a park bench would have counted.

As he stared at the phone, the ramifications of what would happen if that old, familiar voice came on the line were very clear.

Jim punched in the eleven digits and hit send anyway.

When the ringing stopped and there was no voice mail, he said one word: “Zacharias.”

The reply was nothing but the laconic laugh of a man for whom life held no more surprises. “Well, well, well…never thought I’d get that name again.”

“I need some information.”

“Do you.”

Jim’s grip cranked down hard on the cell. “It’s just a license plate trace and an identity search. You could do it in your fucking sleep, you piece of shit.”

“Yes, clearly that is the way to get me to do anything for you. Absolutely. You always were such a diplomat.”

“Fuck you. You owe me.”

“Do I.”

“Yes.”

There was a long silence, but Jim knew damn well that the call hadn’t gotten dropped: The kind of satellites that the government used for people like his former boss were powerful enough to beam a signal down into the center of the frickin’ Earth.

That low laugh came again. “Sorry, my old friend. There’s a statute of limitations on obligation and yours has passed. Don’t ever call me again.”

The phone went dead.

Jim stared at the thing for a moment, then tossed it back on the bed. “Guess that’s a deadend, Dog.”

Christ, what if Marie-Terese was some kind of con artist and Vin was just getting snowed?

Stretching out on the rumpled sheets, he arranged Dog on his chest before reaching over to the little table and snagging the TV remote. As he stroked Dog’s rough coat, he pointed the thing at the tiny TV across from the head of the bed, his thumb hovering over the red button marked POWER.

I could use some help, lads, he thought. Which way am I supposed to be going with all this?