“I don’t want Jeremy surrounded by a bunch of thugs.”

I shrugged.

“Would you at least meet with them?” she asked. “With Jeremy and my niece? At least meet them and then make a decision about whether you want the job? I’m sure once you spoke with them, you’d realize they aren’t the caricatures they’ve been made out to be. They’re real people, Mr. Weaver. And they’re frightened.”

I got out my notepad and pen from the inside pocket of my sport jacket. I uncapped the pen.

“Why don’t you give me their address in Albany?” I said.

“Oh, there’s no need for that,” Ms. Plimpton said. “They’re here. They’ve been here for a few days now. They’re out back, on the porch, waiting to talk to you.”

FOUR

BARRY Duckworth wanted Brian Gaffney to get checked out at the hospital, so he offered to drive him to Promise Falls General. That would also give the detective an opportunity to ask the man more questions about what might have happened to him. Any thoughts Duckworth had that Gaffney’s two-day blackout was alcohol-induced vanished when he had a look at the words inked into his back.

IM THE SICK FUCK WHO KILLED SEAN did not sound like the kind of tattoo any remotely rational person—or even a blind-drunk person—would choose to have permanently etched into his skin.

If Gaffney had any notion of what was on his back, he gave no indication. So Duckworth took a photo while he still had his shirt pulled up to his neck, and showed it to him.

“Jesus,” he said. “That . . . that doesn’t make any sense to me.”

“I think,” Duckworth said gently, “this rules out your theory of what happened to you.”

Gaffney had the look of a four-year-old trying to grasp a Stephen Hawking lecture. “I don’t . . . That doesn’t seem like the kind of thing the aliens would do.”

“Yeah,” Duckworth said. “We’re looking for someone more earthbound here.”

Gaffney, still stunned by the photo, nodded slowly. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“I must seem crazy. I’m not crazy, you know.”

“Sure,” Duckworth said.

“I mean, I’m a little off. That’s what my dad says. But not crazy. You know what I mean?”

“Sure.”

“I just couldn’t think of any other explanation. Maybe I’ve been reading too many books about UFOs.” He took another look at the photo on the detective’s phone. “Are you sure that’s a real tattoo? It’s not just marker or something that’ll come off?”

“I don’t think so.”

“It’s on there permanent?”

“I’m no expert on tattoos,” Duckworth said. “Maybe there’s something you can do.” But he had his doubts. “Any idea who’d do that to you?”

Gaffney looked away from the image, allowing Duckworth to put the phone into his pocket. Tears welled up in his eyes. He bit his lip. “No. I mean, the alien thing would actually have made more sense. That they’d grab some random guy and do tests on him. But this, this is totally crazy.”