“He’s already in a rage state. He’s lost his job, his wife, the children, the game he lives for. Worst of all, his freedom to come and go has been curtailed. Shafer doesn’t like having limitations put on him, hates to be boxed in. He can’t stand to lose.”

“So you think he’ll do something rash.”

“Not rash, he’s too clever. But he’ll make a move. It’s how the game is played.”

“And then we’ll mess with his head yet again?”

“Yes, we will. Absolutely.”

Late that night, as I was driving home, I decided to stop at St. Anthony’s. The church is unusual in this day and age in that it’s open at night. Monsignor John Kelliher believes that’s the way it should be, and he’s willing to live with the vandalism and the petty theft. Mostly, though, the people in the neighborhood watch over St. Anthony’s.

A couple of worshipers were inside the candlelit church when I entered, around midnight. There are usually a few “parishioners” inside. Homeless people aren’t allowed to sleep there, but they wander in and out all through the night.

I sat watching the familiar red votive lamps flicker and blink. I sucked in the thick smell of incense from Benediction. I stared up at the large gold-plated crucifix and the beautiful stained-glass windows that I’ve loved since I was a boy.

I lit a candle for Christine, and I hoped that somehow, someway, she might still be alive. It didn’t seem likely. My memory of her was fading a little bit, and I hated that. A column of pain went from my stomach to my chest, making it hard for me to breathe. It has been this way since the night she’d disappeared, almost a year ago.

And then, for the first time, I admitted to myself that she was gone. I would never see her again. The thought caught like a shard of glass in my throat. Tears welled in my eyes. “I love you,” I whispered to no one. “I love you so much, and I miss you terribly.”

I said a few more prayers, then I finally rose from the long wooden pew and silently made my way toward the doors of the vestibule. I didn’t see the woman crouching in a side row. She startled me with a sudden movement.

I recognized her from the soup kitchen. Her name was Magnolia. That was all I knew about her, just an odd first name, maybe a made-up one. She called out to me in a loud voice, “Hey Peanut Butter Man, now you know what it’s like.”

Chapter 106

JONES AND SANDY GREENBERG from Interpol had helped get the other three Horsemen under surveillance. The net being cast was large, as the catch could be if we succeeded.