In the interim, a doctor had examined me at Bayshore Hospital, a pair of patrolmen standing ten feet away the whole time. He cleaned up my wounds and gave me antiseptic to ward off any further infections. His X ray revealed a clear fissure in my shoulder blade, but not a full break. He applied a fresh set of bandages, gave me a sling, and told me not to play football for at least three months.

When I asked him about the combination of the cracked scapula with the wounds my left hand had received from my battle with Gerry Glynn last year, he looked at the hand.

“Numb?”

“Completely,” I said.

“There’s nerve damage to the hand.”

“Yes,” I said.

He nodded. “Well, we don’t have to amputate the arm.”

“Nice to hear.”

He looked at me through small, icy glasses. “You’re taking a lot of years off the back end of your life, Mr. Kenzie.”

“I’m beginning to realize that.”

“You plan on having kids someday?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Start now,” he told me. “You might live to see them graduate college.”

As we walked down the steps of the police station, Cheswick said, “You messed with the wrong guy this time.”

“No kidding,” Angie said.

“Not only is there no record of Cushing or Clifton working for him, but that jet you told me you took? The only private jet to leave Logan Airport between nine in the morning and noon on the day in question was a Cessna, not a Gulfstream, and it was bound for Dayton, Ohio.”

“How do you silence an entire airport?” Angie said.

“Not just any airport, either,” Cheswick said. “Logan has the tightest, most admired security system in the country. And Trevor Stone has enough pull to bypass it.”

“Shit,” I said.

We stopped at the limousine Cheswick had hired. The chauffeur opened the door, but Cheswick shook his head and turned back to us.

“Come back with me?”

I shook my head and instantly regretted it. The majorettes were still practicing in there.

“We have a few loose ends down here to tie up,” Angie said. “We also have to figure out what to do about Trevor before we return.”

“Want my advice?” Cheswick tossed his briefcase into the back of the limo.

“Sure.”

“Stay away from him. Stay down here until he dies. Maybe he’ll leave you alone.”

“Can’t do it,” Angie said.

“I didn’t think so.” Cheswick sighed. “I heard a story once about Trevor Stone. Just a rumor. Gossip. Anyway, supposedly this union organizer was causing trouble down in El Salvador back in the early seventies, threatening Trevor Stone’s banana, pineapple, and coffee interests. So Trevor, according to legend, made a few phone calls. And one day the workers at one of his coffee bean processing plants are sifting through a vat of beans and they find a foot. And then an arm. And then a head.”