Tears spilled from Seth’s eyes. It was the only sign he gave, and his wife dissolved. Hammer cried for half an hour as his vital signs weakened. Group A strep oozed toxins around his soul and did not give a damn about all those antibiotics and immunoglobulin and vitamins being pumped into its plump host. To his disease, he was a rump roast. He was carrion on life’s highway.

Randy and Jude entered their father’s SICU room at quarter of six and did not see him conscious. It was not likely Seth knew they were by his bed, but knowing they were coming had been enough.

West cruised past the Cadillac Grill, Jazzbone’s, and finally headed to Davidson, deciding that Brazil might be hiding out in his own house and not answering the phone. She pulled into the eroded driveway and was crushed that only the ugly Cadillac was home. West got out of her police car. Weeds grew between cracks in the brick walk she followed to the front door. She rang the bell several times and knocked. Finally, she rapped hard and in frustration with her baton.

“Police!” she said loudly. “Open up!”

This went on for a while until the door opened and Mrs. Brazil blearily peered out. She steadied herself by holding on to the door frame.

“Where’s Andy?” West asked.

“Haven’t seen him.” Mrs. Brazil pressed her forehead with a hand, squinting, as if the world was bad for her health. “At work, I guess,” she muttered.

“No, he’s not and hasn’t been since Thursday,” West said. “You’re sure he hasn’t called or anything?”

“I’ve been sleeping.”

“What about the answering machine? Have you checked?” West asked.

“He keeps his room locked.” Mrs. Brazil wanted to return to her couch. “Can’t get in there.”

West, who did not have her tool belt with her, could still get into most things. She took the knob off his door and was inside Brazil’s room within minutes. Mrs. Brazil returned to the living room and settled her swollen, poisoned self on the couch. She did not want to go inside her son’s room. He didn’t want her there anyway, which was why she had been locked out for years, ever since he had accused her of taking money from the wallet he tucked under his socks. He had accused her of rummaging through his school papers. He had blamed her for knocking over his eighteen-and-under singles state championship tennis trophy, badly denting it and breaking off the little man.

The red light was flashing on the answering machine beside Brazil’s neatly made twin bed with its simple green spread. West hit the play button, looking around at shelves of brass and silver trophies, at scholastic and creative awards that Brazil had never bothered to frame but had thumbtacked to walls. A pair of leather Nike tennis shoes, worn out from toe-dragging, was abandoned under a chair, one upright, one on its side, and the sight of them pained West. For a moment, she felt distressed and upset. She imagined the way he looked at her with blue eyes that went on forever. She remembered his voice on the radio and the quirky way he tested coffee with his tongue, which she had repeatedly told him wasn’t a smart way to determine whether something was too hot. The first three calls on his machine were hang-ups.