When he came out of the bank, Devlin checked on the Plymouth, parked under the el on Queens Boulevard, before ducking into a candy story to call the 914 number Anita Brennan had given him. He’d already called Sal, who’d said he would take care of the car. No trouble in the bank, if one thought signing seventy thousand dollars in traveler’s checks was no problem. He’d been asked why he was withdrawing his money. Moving, he’d answered truthfully.

He pushed the buttons to connect him with somewhere upstate, nervousness suddenly a hot ball in his belly. Ringing. At last it was picked up.

“Ann Elizabeth,” a woman said.

“Excuse me? My name is Frank Devlin and I’m calling from New York City. I’d like to speak to Maryellen Brennan Devlin, if that’s possible.”

“Mr. Devlin, I’ve been reading about your troubles this week in the newspapers—or rather, deducing your troubles from what I was reading.” She spoke in an even tone, controlled but not strained. “I was wondering if you’d call—”

“I was told to call. By an old Mafia don who said my wife would explain why he was framing me.”

“I don’t think she would know why he’s doing that to you.” A pause. “Yes, I do see what he means,” she said gently. “She can come to the telephone, but Mr. Devlin, the best thing would be for you to come here. Can you do that? It’s Dutchess County. Not far from Hyde Park.”

“Can we have confidentiality? Let’s not kid around. People are looking for me.”

Another pause. “I know that, Mr. Devlin. You’ll be safe. No one will know you’re here.”

Devlin hesitated. DiBennedetti—if Devlin understood that old man, a professional killer would be waiting at the front door. “All right,” he said.

“I’ll tell Maryellen to expect you after lunch. That way, you and I will have time for a little chat. It’s necessary.” She said good-bye.

His stomach churned. It was a long mile between suspicion and reality, between what Liz Becker had said about herself, and how he thought it might apply to Maryellen. Francis Xavier Devlin III didn’t really want to imagine what his Maryellen could be like, after all this time.

11:43 A.M. …

11:43 A.M. …

The Plymouth had been built for driving around town and on arrow-straight interstates, not for the curving roller coaster of the Taconic Parkway. Kevin was letting Devlin know he was still alive, kicking and yelling. Devlin was looking for an exit, not any exit, and not the exit Ann Elizabeth had given him. The parkway was slicing through Clarence E. Fahnestock State Park, in Putnam County, the featured amenity of which seemed to be the entry sign Devlin had passed minutes ago.