“You tell Detective Decker that I’m taking Baby Sally to the doctor’s tomorrow,” Sophi said. “And I’ll get what he asked for.”

“I’ll do that,” Marge said. “Let me help you, Mrs. Palmer. Lean on me.”

Benko whispered into Marge’s ear, “Please, Detective. Please! Find me that sunnabitch!”

Decker woke up at six, let the dog out, showered, shaved, dressed, then said an abbreviated version of Shacharit—the morning prayers. He’d once recited the entire service and had even wore phylacteries, but lately that seemed like an awful lot of bother for very little spiritual enhancement. So he settled on saying the Shema—the essence of Judaism—and eighteen verses of silent devotion. When he finished, he put down his siddur, then studied himself in the mirror. He patted his flat stomach, flexed his biceps. The body wasn’t the problem, it was the face. Those bags! It made him look like the big four-oh had stepped on his face years before. A pisser, since he just entered his fifth decade of life a year ago.

What would Rina think?

Shit.

Gorgeous Rina. Gorgeous young Rina. Not yet thirty, she could still pass for a high school student if she dressed simply. As Decker stared at his face, he knew he looked old enough to be her father.

“Fuck it,” he said.

He went to the kitchen, slipped four pieces of bread into the toaster, and pulled out a quart of milk. The kitchen window faced his back acreage—flat dirt fields that disappeared into mountainside. The morning summer sun was strong, pouring its thick honey into the crags and rocky crevices. The window was open, the air was dry and dusty. As he drank from the carton, he heard Ginger yapping excitedly. The barking was followed by the steady blows of a hammer, and the noise was coming from his property. From his barn.

“What the hell?” Decker said. He went out the back door and stopped short at the entrance to the barn. Abel was in the middle of the room, kneeling on his prosthesis, ripping up a rotted plank of flooring. At his side were a tool chest and a box of nails.

Ginger barked at the sight of a stranger. Decker quieted the dog and said, “Abel, what are you doing?”

“Your barn and stable are a stack of cards, Doc,” Abel said. “Floorboards warped, the stalls are coming apart at the seams. The beams weren’t fit properly. Y’all put ’em up yourself?”

“As a matter of fact, I did,” Decker said.

“Getting sloppy, Doc.”

“Abel—”

“And your barn wall is Swiss cheese,” Abel said. “Full of bullet holes. Shoot-out time at the O.K. Corral, Pete?”

Decker ignored the remark. “How’d you even get here?”

Abel pointed to a motorcycle leaning against the wall.

“You biked here?”

“No, Doc. I carried it on my shoulders.”