This is pertinent because my tour of Horseheads was characterized by a whiff of ineffable rottenness that came and went with the breeze. The sensation reminded me of that house of the dead, and more recently, the unpleasant vibes at the Jeffers collider site. A stark fact stared hard at me—the universe didn’t send me to coincidentally weird, inimical, fucked-up locations; nope, I was finally noticing how fucked up the universe and its various biomes are as a general rule.

■■■

Sean Pruitt’s therapist listened to my pitch for confidential information over the phone. I laid it on thick: Mysterious circumstances, a mother haunted by doubt, corrupt businesses, a possible cover-up, I only have a couple of easy questions, and so forth. Everything but Connie Chung’s why-don’t-you-whisper-it-to-me gambit. To no avail. The shrink apologized sincerely, performed the ritual disclaimer regarding patient-therapist privilege, and told me to go fly a kite, albeit more professionally.

Elementary, middle, and high schools; I made the obligatory course of teachers and coaches who’d agree to an interview. Survey said, Sean was a decent student when he applied himself, and a solid if undistinguished athlete. Middling popular due to aloofness, a team player in academics and sports and that paid for a lot.

Imperfect, yet no troublemaker. Exempting the occasional scuffle, truancy, or belligerent hormonal attitude, Sean was a relatively typical student. Teachers were unaware of the extent of his depression. Sean successfully kept his therapy and medication under wraps with the exception of the school counselor, who, predictably, wouldn’t divulge details. Adults are patently oblivious when it comes to the secret lives of children. Sean’s classmates might tell a different story were I to get them on the record.

The officers at the Horseheads police station knew the Pruitts. An off-duty sergeant graciously came in to answer my questions. He was a craggy no-nonsense cop who’d been on the scene for a while. We sat in a spare office the size of a broom closet and talked. Yeah, he’d rousted little Sean for smoking a joint at the quarry with a bunch of other kids. Let him slide with a warning. Quiet, polite. Scored that last-second touchdown against Elmira. Damn shame how he went. Damned shame we lost that atom smasher project. Real money for this town. Damn, damn shame.

Did the sergeant suspect anything amiss regarding Sean’s death? He said no, although he understood why the family might find it difficult to accept. The Redlick Group had steamrolled opposition to the Jeffers Project, helped the government ram through eminent domain, and brought in tons of outside labor. RG tactics divided opinion even during the prosperous early days; once the project cratered, everybody united in an angry front. People were eager to believe the worst, outlandish rumors, and that went double for those who were most hard-done, such as the Pruitts. Damned shame all the way around.

Gonna tell ya, kid, the Redlicks have owned the heart of this town since they were stringing witches from trees. I’m old and I can level with you. This isn’t the same as other places. You be as careful as you can.