By the time he reached the library, he realized his encounter was really not proof of anything except that the man had a wife. The question he’d asked and the answer the man gave could mean a million different things. It didn’t necessarily indicate that his neighbor’s wife was relegated to bed, every breath perhaps her last. Maybe she simply had a cold or her mother had passed away or their dog had died. Owen would still have to make his way to the cemetery that afternoon to check the tree near Helen’s grave. For the time being, he put the thought out of his head.

It turned out to be a beautiful spring day, and at lunchtime he went outside and sat on the bench. There were no patrons inside, and he’d finished his important work. The calm stillness of the afternoon was suddenly broken by a sound like an asthmatic demon. “What the hell is it?” he thought, and turned to look up the road in the direction of the din. He saw Mrs. Hultz’s dilapidated 1990 maroon Cadillac Brougham. The car was in about the same shape as its owner. He was beginning to wonder if Mrs. Hultz’s longevity, seventy-five years, had something to do with the gin.

She pulled up in front of the building and her front right tire went up on the sidewalk. Parking the car like that, she turned it off, then opened the door, hinges crying out. Owen waved and she approached him, waddling along in a blueberry-colored skirt and jacket, white corsage pinned to the lapel. Her shoes were flats and her hat was a pillbox type he’d not seen worn since he was young and his parents would take him to church. Mrs. Hultz was radically bowlegged. Without saying hello to him, she walked up and took a seat on the bench.

“I see you’re goofing off on the job,” she said.

“Just too nice out today. What are you up to?”

“I came to see you.”

“To what do I owe the honor?”

“I’ve got a secret to share.”

“Well?”

“I was at the gas station, and the attendant was filling my tank—a young guy—big and burly with a long beard and a rat’s nest of long hair. Anyway, when he brings me back my credit card and the receipt to sign, the cuff of his shirt rides up a little and I see he has a small black tattoo of a circle with a cross in it on his wrist.”

“So, you’re thinking he’s part of the gang you told me about the other day?”

“What else?”

“And?

“We need to know what these people are up to.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re dangerous. The one who shot the poor Roan girl was obviously on drugs of some kind.”

“Did the police report that?” asked Owen.