Weir had been right up-front. He'd told them that he'd picked the Mexican because of Barnes's views on immigrants but he personally didn't believe in their extreme causes—his interest was only in making money with his very special talents. Which suited everybody just fine. Over lunch, Magic Man Weir had laid out his plan about Charles Grady then he shook their hands and left. A few days ago Barnes and Stemple had shipped off the skippy, girl-lovin' Reverend Swensen to New York with instructions to kill Grady on Saturday night. And he'd bobbled the job as predicted.

Hobbs was supposed to "stay on call," Mr. Weir had said. "In case he was needed."

And apparently now he was. He punched in the number of the cell phone Barnes used, the account in someone else's name, and heard an abrupt "Yeah?"

"S'me."

Because of the state police all over the county looking for Barnes they'd agreed to keep all conversations over the phone to a minimum.

Barnes said, "You gotta do what we talked about at lunch."

"Uh-huh. Go to the lake."

"Right."

"Go to the lake and take the fishing gear with me?" Hobbs said.

"That's right."

"Yessir. When?"

"Now. Right away."

"Then I will."

Barnes hung up abruptly and Hobbs changed his omelette to a coffee and a bacon-and-egg sandwich, extra Kraft, to go. When Jeddy Barnes said now, right away, now and right away was how you did whatever you were supposed to do.

When the food was ready he pushed outside, fired up his pickup and drove fast onto the highway. He had one stop to make—his trailer. Then he'd pick up the old junker Dodge registered to somebody who didn't exist and speed down to the "lake," which didn't mean any kind of lake at all; it meant a particular place in New York City.

Just like the "fishing gear" he was supposed to take with him sure didn't mean a rod and reel either.

———«»———«»———«»———

Back in the Tombs.

On one side of the floor-bolted table sat a grim-faced Joe Roth, Andrew Constable's pudgy lawyer.

Charles Grady was on the other side, flanked by his second, Roland Bell. Amelia Sachs stood; the pungent interview room, with its jaundiced, milky windows gave her a renewed sense of claustrophobia, which had been receding only slowly after the terrible panic at the Cirque Fantastique. She fidgeted and rocked her weight back and forth.

The door opened and Constable's guard led the prisoner into the room, recuffed his hands in front of him. Then he swung the door closed and returned to the corridor.

"It didn't work," was the first thing Grady said to him. A calm voice, oddly dispassionate, Sachs thought, considering that his family had nearly been wiped out.

"What didn't . . . ?" Constable began. "Is this about that fool Ralph Swensen?"

"No, this is about Erick Weir," Grady said.

"Who?" A frown that seemed genuine crossed the man's face.