“I remember Cal,” Phil said.

“Did you know him well?”

“No. He was a couple years older than us. I never heard about a crucifixion, though. He was stabbed.”

Bolton shook his head. “Again, a story leaked to the media to buy time and eliminate nutcases who’d confess to killing Hoffa and both Kennedys before breakfast. Morrison was crucified. Six days later, Hardiman went berserk and did the work of ten psychotic men on his partner, Rugglestone. No one knows why, except that both men had large quantities of PCP and alcohol in their systems at the time. Hardiman went to Walpole for life, and twelve years later he took Arujo and turned him into a psychopath. Arujo was relatively innocent when he went in, but now he’s anything but.”

“You see him,” Devin said, “you run, Phil.”

Phil swallowed and gave a small nod.

“Arujo’s been out for six months,” Bolton said. “We believe Hardiman has a contact on the outside, a second killer who either fosters Arujo’s need to kill or vice versa. We’re not positive about this, but we’re leaning that way. For some unknown reason, Hardiman, Arujo, and this unknown third man are pointing us in one direction only—this neighborhood. And they’re pointing us toward certain people—Mr. Kenzie, Diandra Warren, Stan Timpson, Kevin Hurlihy and Jack Rouse—but we don’t know why.”

“And these other people—Stimovich and Stokes—what’s their connection to the neighborhood?”

“We believe they might just be random. Thrill kills, no motivation outside of the kill itself.”

“So why are Angie and me being targeted?”

Bolton shrugged. “Could be a ruse. We don’t know. Could be they’re just trying to rattle Ms. Gennaro’s cage because she’s involved in tracking them. Whoever Arujo’s partner is, they both intended for Mr. Kenzie and Ms. Gennaro to be in this from the start. Kara Rider’s role was specifically designed for that purpose. And then, maybe,” Bolton said, and looked at me, “he’s trying to force Mr. Kenzie to make that choice Hardiman spoke of.”

Everyone looked at me.

“Hardiman said I’d be forced to make some kind of choice. He said, ‘Not everyone you love can live.’ Maybe my choice is between saving Phil or saving Angie.”

Phil shook his head. “But anyone who knows us knows we haven’t been close in over a decade, Patrick.”

I nodded.

“But you used to be?” Bolton said.

“Like brothers,” Phil said and I tried to detect bitterness and self-pity in his voice; I only heard a quiet, sad acceptance.

“For how long?” Bolton said.

“From the crib ‘til we were, like, twenty. Right?”

I shrugged. “Around there, yeah.”

I looked at Angie but she stared at the floor.

Bolton said, “Hardiman said you’d met before, Mr. Kenzie.”

“I never met the man.”

“Or you don’t recall it.”

“I’d remember that face,” I said.

“If you saw it as an adult, sure. But as a kid?”

He handed Phil two photos of Hardiman—one from ’74, the other from the present.

Phil stared at them and I could see he wanted to recognize Hardiman, to have this make sense, for there to be a reason this man had targeted him for death. Eventually he closed his eyes, exhaled loudly, and shook his head.