“Bolton,” I said, “she’s not bait.”

“I know.”

“I want her buried so deep in protective custody the President couldn’t find her if he wanted to.”

“I understand.”

“Get Mae,” Angie said, “and stay in one room with the door locked. We’ll be there in three minutes. If someone tries to get through the door, go out the window and run toward Huntington or Mass. Ave., screaming your head off.”

We blew the first red light on East Berklee and a car swerved out of our way, jumped the curb, and smashed into the light pole in front of Pine Street Inn.

“There’s a lawsuit,” Bolton said.

“No, no,” Angie said anxiously. “Don’t leave the house unless you hear something inside. If he’s waiting outside, that would be just what he wants. We’re almost there, Grace. Which room are you in?”

The rear left tire ate the curb as we fishtailed onto Columbus Avenue.

“Mae’s bedroom? Good. We’re eight blocks away.”

The pavement of Columbus Avenue was buried under a quarter inch of ice so black and hard it looked like we were passing over a swath of pure licorice.

I punched the door with the side of my fist as the wheels spun and then caught and then spun again.

“Calm down,” Bolton said.

Angie patted my knee.

As the Lincoln turned right on West Newton, black-and-white images exploded in my head like flashbulbs.

Kara, crucified in the cold.

Jason Warren’s head swinging from a power cord.

Peter Stimovich staring out from a face with no eyes.

Mae tackling the dog in the grass.

Grace’s damp body rolling on top of mine in the heart of a warm night.

Cal Morrison locked in the back of that grimy white van.

The bloody red leer of the clown as he said my name.

“Grace,” I whispered.

“It’s okay,” Angie said into the phone, “we’re almost there now.”

We turned onto St. Botolph and the driver put on the brakes, caught more ice under his wheels, and we slid past Grace’s brownstone before the car jerked to a stop two houses up.

The rear cars were pulling to erratic stops behind us as I got out and ran toward her house. I slipped on the sidewalk and dropped to my knee as a man came charging out between two cars on my right. I turned, pointed my gun at his chest, saw him raising his arm in the dark rain.

My finger was depressing the trigger when he screamed, “Patrick, hold it!”

Nelson.

He lowered his arm, his face wet and frightened, and Oscar hit him from behind like a train, Nelson’s small body disappearing completely under Oscar’s bulk as the two of them hit the ice.

“Oscar,” I said, “he’s okay. He’s okay. He’s working for me.”

I ran up the steps to Grace’s door.

Angie and Devin came up behind me as Grace opened the door and said, “Patrick, what the hell is going on?” She looked over my shoulder as Bolton barked orders at his men and her eyes widened.