Amy Carrick said, “I’m not leaving the children—”

He cut her off. “I’m not asking a favor here.”

Jeeter said, “Mother.”

The man said, “That’s right, Mother. Listen to your husband.”

Jamie spoke then. “I don’t see the need to leave my car at Franconia. Just carry it on to where we’re going, I can take it home from there.”

The man smiled at him. “Well, there. That makes sense. But Mister Pompelli don’t like too many cars cluttered around his place. He don’t like the attention.”

They drove in caravan up the Easton valley, one of the men driving the Dodge, the other two with Jamie between them in the backseat. Some distance behind followed one of the Carricks with the Chrysler and behind that the other Carrick driving their old Ford. His brain working now, trying to settle, seeking the angle, the hook to spread for Pompelli. He didn’t have much: Pompelli already had Carrick; this left Jamie with some distribution. Not much, given that Pompelli could easily, might already, be duplicating it. His local contacts, those glad-handed receivers of monthly cash, Pompelli would have those also. Pat Jackson. There was nothing he could give Pompelli of Pat Jackson. Jackson would get him killed he guessed. So what he had. Not much. Just to wait and see. See Pompelli.

In Franconia they turned east and he began to think they might be headed south through the Notch, down to Lincoln, North Woodstock. Some part of him had always guessed this might be where Pompelli was. Only because he did not go that way much himself. He’d always worked north of the Notch.

Then they turned again and went up the hill toward the Forest Hills and it was here that they idled roadside while the Carricks left the Chrysler in one of the lots but then they continued on, going toward Bethlehem on the Agassiz road. And Jamie knew he knew nothing. There was a bad moment when he thought they might be going back to his own house where there would be others waiting. With Foster. And then stopped thinking. He tilted his head back a little to watch the sky. His arms hurt and his wrists were sore behind him. He wanted a smoke but wouldn’t ask for one. The August summer sky a sheet of light, cut by the bright sudden flare of the meteors. Leaving a faint trace on the eye, the reverse of a shadow.