Decker was annoyed, but an inner voice stopped him from shutting the kid down. He looked at the cab’s license. The driver’s name was A. Plunkett. “Why? What’s it to you?”

Plunkett scratched his nose. “Just that… for the forty bucks you’re gonna pay me for transportation… I can do better than Tattlers for you. Know what I’m sayin’?”

Decker knew what he was sayin’.

Plunkett sniffed and looked in the rearview mirror. “You know the girls who work there… at Tattlers… some of ’em like places where there’s a little more privacy.”

Even better, Decker thought. Get them alone and who knows what they’ll admit to. He counted to twenty. “And you know a place like that?”

“Sure, I know all the good spots.”

“Local girls, Plunkett?”

The kid stiffened at the sound of his name. “Is that a problem? Someone local?”

“I wouldn’t want things getting around.”

“But you’re not from around here.”

“I have friends in Quinton. You can’t be too careful.”

“What kind of friends?” Plunkett asked.

“Now, I really don’t think that’s any of your business.”

No one spoke.

Then the driver said, “Why don’t you tell me what you want?”

Decker thought a moment. “So it’s forty to you and then I fork out for whatever else I want, right?”

“A quick learner.”

“Round trip?”

“Make it fifty and you got a deal.”

Decker took out a fifty-dollar bill and held it so it was visible in the rearview mirror. “So… what would I get over there for… let’s say a hundred?”

“What do you expect for a hundred?”

The kid was clever, waiting for Decker to speak first. “I’d like something nice.”

“For a hundred, I could find you something very nice.”

He drove a few more minutes, then took a turnoff, the cab bouncing through the hillside as thunder cracked through the air and lightning webbed across the sky. Nothing around except shivering woodland as fierce winds shot through the empty branches. The taxi continued its journey, going deep into the forest. Five minutes later, it started to slow, and Decker saw it—a three-story white clapboard house, complete with tar roof and peeling paint.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Decker said. “This looks pretty seedy. I got a wife. I can’t afford to risk anything.”

The cabbie was vexed. “Whatddaya mean? You gettin’ cold feet? Cause I don’t need this shit—”

“I mean, Plunkett, do they take precaution in there? I’m not carrying anything with me.”

“Ah…” Plunkett was relieved. “They got all kinds of protection.” He pulled up alongside the house, missing a tree by inches. He parked. “You wait here. I gotta clear this, okay?”

The driver opened the door, got out, and slammed it shut, leaving Decker in that awful metaphysical silence. Rain slammed onto the vehicle, suddenly blasting it with machine-gun volley. Decker leaned forward and looked out the windshield. Hailstones were streaming from the clouds. Involuntarily, he felt himself sweating, felt his heart beating too rapidly to be considered healthy. It stank inside. It reeked of bacteria and mold. It smelled rotten.