Hodges did notice, but doesn’t say so. He doesn’t want to interrupt.

“Once he walked right up the lawn to look in the bay window—this was before the last big snowstorm. I think he was window shopping.” She gives a watery laugh. “Although my mother would have called it window wishing, because he surely didn’t look like the sort who could afford a house like that.”

“No?”

“Uh-uh. He was dressed in workman’s clothes—you know, green pants, like Dickies—and his parka was mended with a piece of masking tape. Also, his car looked very old and had spots of primer on it. My late husband used to call that poor man’s polish.”

“You don’t happen to know what kind of car it was, do you?” He flips his pad to a fresh sheet and writes, FIND DATE OF LAST BIG SNOWSTORM. Holly reads it and nods.

“No, I’m sorry. I don’t know cars. I don’t even remember the color, just those spots of primer paint. Mr. Hodges, are you sure there hasn’t been some mistake?” She’s almost begging.

“I wish I could tell you that, Nancy, but I can’t. You’ve been very helpful.”

Doubtfully: “Have I?”

Hodges gives her his number, Holly’s, and the office number. He tells her to call if anything occurs to her that they haven’t covered. He reminds her that there may be press interest because Martine was paralyzed at City Center in 2009, and tells her she isn’t obliged to talk to reporters or TV news people if she doesn’t want to.

Nancy Alderson is crying again when he breaks the connection.

9

He takes Holly to lunch at Panda Garden a block down the street. It’s early and they have the dining room almost to themselves. Holly is off meat and orders vegetable chow mein. Hodges loves the spicy shredded beef, but his stomach won’t put up with it these days, so he settles for Ma La Lamb. They both use chopsticks, Holly because she’s good with them and Hodges because they slow him down and make a post-lunch bonfire in his guts less likely.

She says, “The last big storm was December nineteenth. The weather service reported eleven inches in Government Square, thirteen in Branson Park. Not exactly huge, but the only other one so far this winter dropped just four inches.”

“Six days before Christmas. Around the same time Janice Ellerton was given the Zappit, according to Alderson’s recollection.”

“Do you think the man who gave it to her was the same one looking at that house?”

Hodges snares a piece of broccoli. It’s supposed to be good for you, like all veggies that taste bad. “I don’t think Ellerton would have accepted anything from a guy wearing a parka mended with masking tape. I’m not counting the possibility out, but it seems unlikely.”

“Eat your lunch, Bill. If I get any further ahead of you, I’ll look like a pig.”

Hodges eats, although he has very little appetite these days even when his stomach isn’t giving him the devil. When a bite sticks in his throat, he washes it down with tea. Maybe a good idea, since tea seems to help. He thinks about those test results he is yet to see. It occurs to him that his problem could be worse than an ulcer, that an ulcer might actually be the best-case scenario. There’s medicine for ulcers. Other things, not so much.