“I put your dwarf buddy in the hospital,” Oscar said, holding out his hands in apology. “Cracked six of his ribs. I’m sorry.”

I shrugged. I’d make it up to Nelson someday.

“I’ve sent a unit to Angie’s house,” Devin said. “I know the guy. His name’s Tim Dunn. You can trust him. Head back there.”

We stood together in the rain and watched them pull into the police and FBI car caravan and head down Massachusetts Avenue, and the patter of the rain against the ice was one of the loneliest sounds I’ve ever heard.

33

Our cab driver maneuvered the icy streets with a deft touch, keeping the needle around the 20 mph mark and rarely touching the brake unless he had no other choice.

The city was encased in ice. Great glassy sheets covered building facades, and gutters bent under the weight of cascading white daggers. Trees shimmered platinum, and cars along the avenues had turned to sculptures.

“We gonna have many blackouts tonight, man,” the cab driver said.

“You think so,” Angie said absently.

“Oh, you bet, pretty lady. That ice, she gonna pull all those power lines to the ground. You wait and see. Nobody should be out on this bad night. No.”

“Why’re you?” I said.

“Got to feed the little ones, sure. Little ones don’t have to know how tough this world is for their papa. No. Just got to know they get fed.”

I saw Mae’s face, scrunched in confusion and abject terror. The words I’d spewed at her mother echoed in my ears.

The little ones don’t have to know.

How could I have forgotten that?”

Timothy Dunn clicked his flashlight beam at us twice as we walked up Angie’s front walkway.

He crossed the street to us with careful steps. He was a slim kid with a wide, open face under his dark blue cap. It was the face of a farm boy or a boy whose mother raised him for the priesthood.

His cap was encased in plastic to keep it dry and his heavy black raincoat was slick with drizzle. He tipped the cap as he met us at the front steps.

“Mr. Kenzie, Ms. Gennaro, I’m Officer Timothy Dunn. How we doing tonight?”

“Been better,” Angie said.

“Yes, ma’am, I heard.”

“Miss,” Angie said.

“Excuse me?”

“Please call me Miss or Angie. Ma’am makes me feel like I’m old enough to be your mother.” She peered at him through the rain. “I’m not, am I?”

He smiled sheepishly. “I sure doubt it, Miss.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-four.”

“Whew.”

“And you?” he said.

She chuckled. “Never ask a woman her weight or her age, Officer Dunn.”

He nodded. “Just seems like, in either case, the Lord’s been awful kind to you, Miss.”

I rolled my eyes.

She leaned back, took a second look at him.

“You will go far, Officer Dunn.”

“Thank you, Miss. People keep telling me that.”

“Believe them,” she said.

He looked down at his feet for a moment, shuffled them slightly, and tugged on his right earlobe in such a way that I was sure it was a nervous habit of his.