The phone number on the form was similar to the one on the Six Pines Self-Storage form. Same prefix, but she’d scrambled the same last four numbers. There was no North Carolina street address for Lee Hamden. The space had been left blank except for the notation “In transit—no permanent address.”

“‘Course now, there’s a lot of that going around,” said the clerk.

Shaw University on the south side of Raleigh had its beginning in an 1865 Bible-study class immediately after the Civil War. Despite integration during the civil rights movement, however, its student body has remained predominately black.

Even though Deputy Jack Jamison passed the school every time he drove into Raleigh, he’d never actually set foot on the campus, and in his sleep-deprived state, he was glad to tag along after McLamb, who seemed to know his way around. They found the dorm where Lamarr Wrenn and Eric Holt shared a room, but neither was in. The kid next door thought Holt might be at his job in the library and that Wrenn was probably in his modern art–appreciation class.

Since classes wouldn’t change for another thirty-eight minutes, they headed for the library, homed in on their prey, and were soon crowded together in one of the small soundproof study rooms deep in the stacks.

Of medium height and sturdy build, with light brown skin, closely trimmed hair, and a small gold stud in one ear, Eric Holt was the picture of earnest helpfulness. His eyes met theirs with innocent candor. Hide something? those eyes seemed to ask. Me? Collude with my friends? Cook up a story together? Certainly not.

“Okay, yeah, it was dumb of Steve and me not to leave our names,” he admitted forthrightly, “but hey, Lamarr’s our friend. We didn’t want to rat him out just because he lost his temper and hit that dude. Besides, the guy was fine when we pulled Lamarr away.”

“Fine’s not the way we heard it,” McLamb growled.

“Well, no,” Eric agreed. “He was bleeding pretty bad. I guess Lamarr might even’ve broken his nose. But he was definitely able to sit there on the top step of that game wagon and cuss us to hell and back. Nothing wrong with his lungs.”

“And your friend Lamarr didn’t go back later and finish him off?”

“You’ll have to ask him that,” Eric said earnestly. “He says he went home and I believe him, but the last time Steve Knott and I saw him that night, he was leaving the carnival, heading in the opposite direction from the Dozer.”

“Why’d he pop Hartley?” asked Jamison.

“Oh, they got into it about the game. Lamarr said it was rigged. Called the guy running it a thief. One thing led to another. You know how it goes,” he said, appealing to them man to man.