�He�s going to die in there. I mean, it�s only a matter of time. My boy...� The man�s voice choked. �There�s a gang inside. Friends of the man that got killed.�

Listening on his mobile, Colter Shaw noted the passive construction of the sentence. He didn�t say: Friends of the man that Jude was convicted of killing. Though that was what had happened.

�They�re out to get him. I know it! He�s afraid to walk outside in the prison yard. He�s afraid to eat meals.�

�Can�t they segregate him?�

�No. Or they won�t.�

�Has anyone else called about the reward?�

�A couple people,� Arnie Sterling told him. �They didn�t know anything about the case. They were just wanting the money and were making up something about Jude. Alibis, but they weren�t right.�

�You�ve tried private eyes?�

�One or two. They weren�t interested. And I can�t afford them anyway, not the good ones. It was all I could do to scrape up the reward. I mean, it�s nothing, I know. But it�s all we could think of to do.�

�Let�s get together. I can be there day after tomorrow.�

�Really?�

�Give me your address.�

�Oh, thank you, sir! Bless you.�

Shaw was spending this muggy June evening at his house in Florida. It was his fixed residence, though he spent little time in the place. It was a large, rustic craftsman home, on a lake: wormwood walls, leaded glass windows � several were stained glass. Gables. The siding was natural shake shingles. It featured four bedrooms, a study, a kitchen built for someone who was a far better and more eager cook than Colter Shaw. Eclectic assortment of furniture. Ancient maps were his main decorations � he collected them.

The favorite feature was a long lake-facing porch for sipping coffee in the a.m. and beer ten hours later (where he presently was, and what he was presently drinking). People envied him, having such a homey, stylish place. He thought he should appreciate it more. Shaw was known in his family as �the restless one,� and his abode tolerance was about thirty days, tops. It was then time for the road.

Shaw walked into the den, which was awash with brilliant light; the June sun was low in the west. He Googled �Jude Sterling� and was surprised that only three brief articles in the county newspaper, The Valley Register, came up. One was about his winning a long-distance foot race for his high school last year. The other two were about the shooting. To Shaw, it seemed odd there were no other articles.

Colter Shaw arrived in Hanson Valley, Ohio, at ten in the morning, after fourteen hours on the road. He�d made the journey in his gray, thirty-foot-long Winnebago, whose odometer registered just over 139,000 miles upon his arrival.

Shaw had owned four other RVs, similar to this one, over the past ten years. Two he traded in, according to his own admittedly arbitrary rule of thumb: when the odometer reached a quarter-million miles � ten times around the circumference of the earth at the equator. One camper was totaled in a crash in Colorado, in which he was injured, though not badly. The fourth was destroyed in Oklahoma City when a man threw a Molotov cocktail at it. The improvised explosive device didn�t breach the windshield, but the flaming gasoline flowed into the body and burned the vehicle to the rims in twenty minutes.

Shaw, who was inside the RV at the time, escaped with most of his belongings. Six feet tall, and with a muscular build, he had been a champion wrestler at the University of Michigan and learned grappling � also known as street wrestling � from his father. When he located the bomb-flinger in his mobile home, it took only five minutes to convince the man to turn himself in, which he did, though only after a brief stop in the emergency room to treat the man�s dislocated shoulder.

In Hanson Valley, Shaw parked outside of the Sterlings� bungalow, located in a tattered section of town. They obviously weren�t a family that could easily spare the twenty-six hundred dollars they were offering to anyone who could prove Jude was innocent of the murder. Arnie worked for the power authority doing line maintenance work; Jewel was a checker at Foster�s, a local grocery store that had been in business for sixty-two years, a mom-and-daughter operation.

Shaw always met offerors � his term for those posting a reward � in person. This gave each party a chance to size the other up. He�d need their cooperation and that meant they�d have to be comfortable with him. He, too, always made sure the offerors were people he wanted to do business with. Once, he�d declined a forty-thousand-dollar reward for a runaway teen. He�d walked into the father�s living room, noted the Nazi flag dominating one wall, and turned around and left, thinking to the teenager: Keep running, son, and good luck.

Arnie Sterling was a wiry man in his forties, with thinning flyaway reddish hair. His wife was heavy and her face was pinched, as if fraught with constant worry. They warmly welcomed Shaw into their cluttered kitchen and Jewel poured coffee. He declined baked goods.

�He got into a fight last night. This prisoner was baiting him. They finally broke it up but the guards don�t really care.�

Jewel added: �And there was a knifing yesterday, he told us.� She was tearing up.

Shaw said, �Let me tell you how this�ll work. You don�t pay a penny of expenses. That�s out of my pocket. If I find proof Jude is innocent, and he�s released, then you owe me the money. But not until then.�

The husband and wife regarded each other. He said, �Seems fair.�

�More than fair.�

Arnie said, �We might be able to add to it, the reward, I mean. A cousin of mine is��

�No, the reward�s fine. Twenty-six hundred�s what you offered. That�s what�s on the table.�

The husband gave a perplexed look. �You got a funny way of running a business, mister.�

Shaw smiled. He produced a notebook and his favorite fountain pen, an Italian model, black with its trademark three orange rings.

For an hour the parents talked about their son and the case, and answered Shaw�s questions, during which time Jewel kept the coffee mugs filled and Arnie would step outside every so often for a smoke. Shaw took copious notes, writing in small elegant letters, with each line perfectly horizontal although the notebook was not ruled. This was not a skill he worked at; he�d inherited it from his father. Curiously, his sister, Dorion, and brother, Russell, did not get the calligraphy gene.

Slowly a picture of the young man emerged.

Jude didn�t do well in school. He suffered from attention deficit disorder. �He was hyper a lot of the time,� Jewel said. �Just going, going, going. All the time. It could be exhausting to be around him. Of course, this frustrated him too and made him angry. He�d tend to act out a lot.�

The school counsellor recommended therapists, but the Sterlings were unable to afford anyone other than a strip-mall psychopharmacologist, who saw Jude once every two months to prescribe and monitor his various medications. Success with the drugs was hit-or-miss.

Jude got into some fights in school. �Like we all did, like everybody did,� Arnie said defiantly. He was suspended a few times because of it. Only once, in the ninth grade, were the police called. It was bad fight and the other boy was bloodied. But the prosecutor declined to take the case to trial and Jude was let go. He faced several trespass and shoplifting charges but there was never the evidence � or maybe the energy � to pursue those cases either.

While his grades were not good, he showed talent in art and talked often about creating a superhero comic book series or graphic novels. (English and art were the only courses in which he ever received a grade as high as a B.) He didn�t do well at team sports but competed successfully in track and field; his sport was long-distance running, and for a year he held his school�s record for the ten-thousand-yard run. He still jogged regularly.

Shaw could only imagine what living in a ten-by-ten cell was like for a fleet-footed young man like Jude.

After graduation, Jude worked at a series of odd jobs � landscaping, fast-food, sorting packages at an international parcel delivery warehouse, stocking at an auto-parts shop.

When he was between jobs, which was often, he�d just sit home, watching horror and superhero films, sketching in notebooks, smoking pot.

His father told Shaw, �Never meth or coke, anything like that. It�s just that pot�d calm him down. He gets... Okay, I�ll be honest, Mr. Shaw. He gets angry. He�s got that side to him.�

�Angry about what?�

The mother shrugged. �Stuff. Can�t get a job, not a good one. And the ones he gets, he gets laid off. Not just him, but everybody around here.�

Hanson Valley, Arnie explained, had been a busy mill and dairy farming town in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, but as had happened in countless locales of similar sizes and economies, the fortunes of the town plummeted with the loss of industrial work overseas and the edging out of local producers by mega-farms. �Unemployment in his age group? Was thirty percent last year.�

Jewel said, �And he gets mad about what happened to his brother.�

The Sterlings� younger son, Frank, fifteen, was disabled. Eight years ago, the car in which he was riding was struck by a pickup that crossed the centerline, the driver hotdogging and passing on a curve. No one else was badly injured but Frank Sterling�s resulting brain trauma left him emotionally and cognitively disabled. The boy was in the public school�s special needs program. The driver was a county official�s son and got only a ticket. This continued to infuriate Jude.

�But whatever you hear people say, he�s not so mad he wants to hurt anybody.�

Finally, Shaw capped the pen and rose. �I think I have enough to get started with.�

Arnie walked Shaw to the door. �Bless you, sir. You�re the only one listening. We just couldn�t believe he was convicted of murder. We tried to talk to the lawyer, the police, the press, the parents of the kids who were at the quarry that day. They wouldn�t pay us any mind. Nobody cares about him. Just like that� � he snapped his fingers � �the whole world forgot about him.�

Over the next few days Shaw approached nearly forty people in and around Hanson Valley, about one half percent of the population of Steuben County, looking for information from friends of Jude and his family, classmates, coworkers, teachers, other family members.

The majority of them declined to speak with him, but fourteen people were willing to talk, some over coffee or a beer or, in several instances, a meal Shaw paid for. The interviews were largely nonproductive; the folks he spoke with offered opinions like, �Oh, I couldn�t believe he�d do it.� Or: �He has a temper, I�ve seen it. He gets all scary.�

Colter Shaw�s father, a former professor turned survivalist in California, had compiled a lengthy list of rules, most of which began with Never.

Never assume October ice is thick enough to walk on.

Never assume a mother bear is more than ten seconds away from her cubs.

Ashton Shaw formulated some more general rules too, one of which was: Never make decisions based on opinion, only facts.

And it wasn�t opinions about Jude Sterling�s character that Shaw was presently after. He wanted facts: details, even if secondhand, about what might have happened on January 12 at the quarry, the days leading up to the events, and the days following.

He spoke � by phone � with the author of the Valley Register pieces but the man couldn�t offer any other details. Arnie and Jewel had spoken to him and asked if he could look into their son�s arrest, but he wasn�t, he explained, an investigative journalist.

He spent a half hour with Jude�s attorney. Harold Cummings was a fifty-year-old general practitioner in Hanson Valley who � Shaw had learned from his private eye � was the town�s main criminal lawyer, though he handled mostly DUI, domestic abuse and minor drug possession offenses.

Cummings, a big man wearing a rumpled seersucker suit, was clearly overworked and distracted. His desk was piled high with folders. When Shaw explained about the reward the lawyer was, curiously, not defensive that someone was revisiting the conviction. Shaw�s impression was that Cummings believed he�d done an adequate job for the fee he�d been paid � probably bargain basement. The case was done, and he had no more interest in the forgotten boy.

�What�re you, a private eye?�

�Like that.�

�And they offered a reward... Well, it�s a waste of your time and their money. He did it,� Cummings said. �Classic case. Kids, not working, hanging out, drugs, guns.�

�Did he admit it?�

�No, but who does?� The man swept off his glasses and cleaned them on the tail of his blue and white sport coat. �Tough about the sentence, have to say. But Judge Walker�s a hard-ass. I�d�ve thought you whack a drug dealer, you�re doing a community service. Ten to twelve would�ve been good. But the back-of-the-head thing was a problem for him, I guess.�

�You have a copy of the transcript?� Shaw asked.

This was public information, not subject to the attorney-client privilege.

�You can get one at the courthouse,� Cummings muttered, then looked coyly at Shaw. �Course, they�ll charge you fifty cents a page.� He cocked his head. �From me, it�ll only cost you a quarter.�

Back in the camper, which was parked in a Walmart lot, Shaw brewed a cup of Kenyan coffee and, after adding some milk, sat down at the banquette and reviewed the trial transcript and his notes. He reconstructed what had happened on that freezing cold day in mid-January.

The story began about 2:30 p.m. on January 12. Jude was planning to pick Frank up at school, as he often did if their parents were working. But an accident on the Klamath River Bridge stopped traffic. His brother did not have a cell phone, so Jude called the school to say he�d be late, and a secretary said she would tell Frank that his brother was on his way.

When Jude arrived, though, he learned the message hadn�t been delivered and Frank had taken a ride with some students. They were a sophomore, Erik; two seniors, Travis and Carli � all attending Frank�s high school; and a freshman at a nearby community college, Michael.

In her statement to police, Carli said that the four students had told Frank they would take him home but had to run an errand first. That errand was driving to the Mason Gravel quarry to meet Daryl Williams to buy drugs.

�Michael, it was stupid, but he had this idea we could say we had this sick kid we were taking care of and Daryl�d maybe give us a better deal on the stuff.�

When Jude arrived at the school and learned who it was that Frank had left with, and where they were going, he �stone-cold freaked.� He thought about calling the sheriff�s office but if his brother was arrested it would have been a disaster for Frank to be held in detention even briefly.

Jude sped to the Mason Gravel quarry and he arrived there about 4 p.m.

The students told investigators that when they got to the quarry they knew Daryl Williams was there too; they�d been in touch with him on their mobiles. But they weren�t sure exactly where he was. The grounds were huge; the deep, shadowy pit was surrounded by thirty-five acres of forests and fields.

Carli said, �It was like, �We�re under these three big trees and there�s a hill on the right, and a rock.� And he�s like, �It�s all fucking trees and hills and rocks.��

The students split up into two groups to look for him. Carli, Michael and Frank went in one direction. Travis and Erik went in another.

�We found Daryl first,� Carli testified. The dealer was in one of the clearings, angry because he was cold and that the students were by then a half-hour late. The deal couldn�t be completed yet, though, because Travis had the money. Carli called him and told him where they were. He said he�d be there in five minutes.

At that moment Frank Sterling had a panic attack, which wasn�t uncommon when the boy was in stressful situations. He began screaming and grappling with Michael and the dealer, who shoved him away and stepped back, shouting for them to calm down, which only made Frank more upset. That�s when there was a gunshot from the trees and Williams dropped to the ground. The two students, Carli and Michael, fled, leaving Frank curled in a ball, still hysterical, staring at the dealer�s body and screaming.

A few minutes later, Michael crept past the clearing again, looking for Erik and Travis. As he did, he saw Jude holding the gun. Michael found the two other students and they hurried to the car � it was Michael�s � and left. Travis and Erik had seen nothing. They were near the two-hundred-foot-deep quarry pit itself, which wasn�t fenced, and were walking carefully, paying attention to where they stepped.

Jude Sterling�s account was this:

After he arrived at the quarry he drove over the truck paths until he noticed a car. He drove to it and parked. The car was a Subaru Outback, Williams�s. He saw no one inside the vehicle. After walking the grounds for about five minutes he heard voices in a clearing thirty or so yards away. Jude started in that direction. A moment later he heard screaming � his brother. Then he heard the gunshot. Panicked, he ran toward the sound. On a path that led into the clearing, he found the pistol on the ground and picked it up.

�I, like, didn�t know what was going on. Maybe somebody else had a gun.� He didn�t see anyone else around him, though that would have been difficult, as the woods were quite dense in that spot.

In the clearing, Jude was shocked to see Williams lying there, he said, but concentrated on calming Frank down. He was about to leave but he rummaged through the dealer�s pockets and took a half-dozen bags of marijuana and four hundred dollars in cash. �I shouldn�t�ve, I know. I just, I was pissed Frank was upset and I didn�t want those assholes from the school to get the weed and the money.�

He and his brother returned to the pickup and drove home. On the way he told Frank not to say anything to their parents about what had happened. The brother said he wouldn�t.

The actual crime was much more complicated and nuanced than the tale contained in those two brief newspaper articles he�d found online, which made it sound that Sterling meant to murder Williams for his money and drugs.

But this did not surprise Shaw, who had been press fodder on a number of occasions in the reward-seeking business.

Never accept any story on its face...

He wondered how many jurors had been predisposed to the boy�s guilt before settling into their chairs in the courtroom.

Shaw assessed the trial, which seemed to him to have proceeded very quickly; the transcript was brief for a criminal trial.

On the prosecution side, the convenience store clerk testified about seeing Jude�s truck. He had in his possession the murder weapon and drugs and cash traceable to the victim. The D.A. conceded that the gun was not Jude�s � there was testimony that he�d never owned a weapon, had no interest in them � but he told the jury that Jude had found the Smith & Wesson in Williams�s Subaru; it held traces of Williams�s DNA.

As for motive the D.A. offered the theory that Jude believed Williams was threatening his panicking brother. �The defendant simply lost control.� One prosecution witness testified that he had seen Jude lose his temper in the past, especially when his brother was in jeopardy. He�d once badly beaten a student who was bullying Frank. This was the assault that got Jude arrested.

Another student testified that Jude had once said if anybody �hurts my brother, they�re dead.�

Michael testified that he�d seen Jude with the gun in the clearing.

The defense case wasn�t stellar.

Attorney Cummings pointed out there was no gunshot residue on Jude�s gloves or hands, but that was countered with: he�d thrown the gloves out and had plenty of time to scrub.

He argued that the shooter could have been one of the other four students, robbing the dealer. But the D.A. pointed out the absence of their DNA and fingerprints on the gun and of gunshot residue on their hands or gloves � though his same argument about pitching the gloves and washing hands would apply to them too. This rebuttal, though, Cummings did not offer. Besides, if the motive was to rob him, why was it that Jude had ended up with the drugs and money, and not any of them?

One witness who did not testify was Frank, Jude�s younger brother. The prosecutor understood the boy�s disabled condition and both sides stipulated that he need not appear at trial but be deposed. The boy said that he didn�t remember anything of the shooting. He had a �bad moment,� apparently his term for a panic episode. He recalled lying on the ground, curled up, trying to picture his �safe space.�

It took the jury three hours and twelve minutes to convict Jude.

In the morning, Shaw sipped coffee as he looked over an email from Mack McKenzie, his PI. It contained attachments: a dozen images � surveillance and mug shots � from some of the more powerful organized crime figures in the Canton-Akron area. He transferred these to his phone.

Then, he fired up the camper and went in search of the four students who�d been at the quarry on January 12.

It didn�t take much time to find them. Their names were in the transcript, and Hanson Valley was a small town. He first tracked down Carli Trent and Michael Wilborn, who happened to be together at the place where she worked.

Carli was a slim blonde, with a tasteful tat of a porpoise on her neck. There was undoubtedly more ink elsewhere but maybe in keeping with today�s fashion, she was in layers of garments, the outer a long-sleeved. Michael was a good-looking jock, with longish hair, also blond. A blue jeans and T-shirt kind of guy. This particular garment was printed with a tour poster of a band Shaw had never heard of, which was most of them in the history of pop and rock music. Michael seemed pleasant enough, though Shaw recalled it had been his idea to exploit the disabled Frank to try for a discount from Williams.

Carli was behind the counter of a dingy coffee shop on a side street in downtown Hanson Valley. Michael was hanging out between summer-session classes. It wasn�t a coincidence they were here together; from their conversation Shaw could tell they were dating.

He asked for a cup of �South American Import.� Given that the place smelled more of Lysol than rich, roasted beans, he was expecting stale Folgers, but in fact, it turned out to be pretty good brew (though he identified it as Guatemalan, not from the lower hemisphere, as the chalkboard menu promised).

He added some milk and, when she was between customers, said to both of them, �I�m in town helping out Jude Sterling�s parents. I�m looking into the case about a possible appeal. Can I ask you a few questions?�

Shaw was in a sport coat and dress shirt; they probably put him down as a lawyer or legal assistant.

�I guess.� From Michael.

Carli said, �I never liked him, Jude, I mean. His brother was sweet, poor kid. But Jude, always kind of weird.�

�Freaky,� Michael said.

Again, no interest in opinions. �You didn�t actually see him shoot Daryl Williams, right?�

Michael shook his head. �No.�

�Uh-uhn.� Carli was enthusiastically wiping down the cappuccino machine.

Shaw said to Michael, �I understand you came back to the clearing, looking for Travis and Erik.�

�Not in the clearing. I walked past it.�

�But you saw Jude cock the gun and point it at Daryl.�

�Yeah. I thought he was going to shoot him again but he didn�t. Then I found Trav and Erik, and we booked out of there.�

�You don�t know how long it was between the shot and when Jude walked into the clearing.�

With a glance at her boyfriend, Carli said, �Man, after the shot, we just ran.�

�I want to show you some pictures. These are some dealers from Canton and Akron. Did you happen to see any of them around town on January twelfth?�

He turned his phone so they could see the pictures he�d downloaded that morning. �I�ve got this idea that one of them followed Williams to the quarry and killed him. Then left the gun to make it look like it was a deal gone bad. Jude just picked it up.�

They examined each shot carefully as Shaw scrolled through the images.

At the end, Carli shook her head and tugged at one of her � hard to count � dozen or so earrings. Michael said, �Nope. I mean, I guess somebody else could�ve done it. But we didn�t see any other cars there.�

Shaw thanked them and said, �Good coffee by the way.�

Carli gave a whatever smile.

And Shaw returned to the camper.

Because Erik Summers was under eighteen, Shaw contacted his father and asked if he could have a conversation with the boy � in the parents� presence. The man said, �What, you think Jude�s innocent?� He gave a cold laugh.

�I�m just looking into the case, for his parents.�

�Erik didn�t do anything wrong. He got sucked in by those older assholes.�

�I just want to show your son some pictures. See if he recognizes anyone. They�re men who might�ve had a motive to kill Williams.�

From the phone there came another harsh laugh, raw, almost unhinged. �You crazy? Jude Sterling�s a psycho. Of course, he killed that dealer. You stay out of my way. You try to talk to my son, you don�t know the crap you�ll be in.�

The tone suggested he kept a shotgun near the door.

Shaw asked if he could at least leave a number in case he changed his mind.

The father hung up on him.

The fourth student, Travis Lanford, was willing to talk. Shaw met the lanky blond young man outside a Lions Club, where he�d just attended an NA meeting.

The boy � a star football player, Shaw had learned � said, �The quarry, what happened there, it fucked me up. I started meetings the next day.� He explained that he�d been hooked on meth for more than a year. He was ruining his life but he couldn�t do anything about it � until the �wake-up call�: the shooting. He�d been sober since then.

Shaw asked if he�d seen Jude in the clearing.

�No. Erik and me, we didn�t even know it was Jude with the gun until we were in Mike�s car and booking out of the place. We heard the shot and it was like, shit, and we just took off.�

Shaw explained his theory that another dealer might have killed Daryl. He showed him the pictures of the dealers, and Travis looked them over closely. �No, never seen any of them. Sorry.�

�Appreciate you looking.�

�You don�t think he did it?�

�I couldn�t really tell you. Just have a gut feeling he�s innocent.�

�Gotta say, Jude always had this side. Angry. And weird. But I was weird too when I was using. It�s too easy to judge, you know.� He nodded back to the Lions Club. �I�m not really into God so much but I think there is a Greater Power, you know, like they say in the program. Maybe you�re the answer to his prayers.�

The next day, in a brown leather baseball cap and sunglasses, Shaw followed Trimbeaux, again on foot, from his house to a dive of a pizzeria, where the dealer met once again with the Latino from the night before.

Even in new clothes and the shades, Shaw didn�t want to risk getting made as the suspicious man in the bar last night, so he waited across the street, sipping coffee in an outdoor caf�, from where he could watch the men through the pizza place�s large, smeared plate-glass windows. They split a large pie and halfway through the meal, when the counterman and other patrons weren�t looking their way, Trimbeaux slid the Latino a thick envelope and received in return a slip of paper, which the dealer pocketed without glancing at.

Shaw knew transactions like this. The supplier � the Latino � had received cash in the envelope and, in return, he had given Trimbeaux the address of where the product he�d just purchased was hidden and ready for pickup. Maybe a safe deposit box or a locker at a local bus station.

The two men left. Shaw didn�t follow them. As soon as they turned the corner on a side street, he entered the pizzeria and sat on an unsteady chair at the table next to where the two men had been seated.

The counterman moved in with a gray bin to bus the dishes.

�Hold on there a minute, will you?� Shaw stopped the sweaty, heavyset man, who blinked in surprise.

�Yeah?�

Shaw said in a low voice, �You have two options.�

�I�m sorry?�

�One, call your lawyer and tell him you�re about to be arrested on a conspiracy and RICO charge for using your place of business for illegal organized crime transactions.�

He blustered, �The hell you talking about? I��

�Shhh. Listen to option number two.�

The blustering stopped.

�You take this three hundred dollars.� Shaw proffered the bills. �And tell me the name of Trimbeaux�s friend. Latino. Wearing a black and gray shirt.�

�I don�t get what you�re playing, mister, but you�re looking for trouble.�

Shaw had heard some bad lines flung his way from time to time. This was one of the worst.

The man was big, yes, but not muscle big, fat big. Anyone can bluster, anyone can threaten. The danger is in the five percent who don�t, the five percent who simply look you over and silently proceed to hurt or kill.

The counterman was squarely in the ninety-five percent.

Shaw continued, �Option one or option two?�

The eyes filled with dismay. �You don�t know what you�re doing, buddy. Nobody fucks with Orin Trimbeaux.�

Another bad line.

Shaw cocked an eyebrow. �Two hundred more if you give me the Latino guy�s address... Or I call the organized crime division of the county sheriff�s office.�

Shaw wondered if they actually had one.

He looked around, as if there were anybody here to come to his rescue. Nope. He was on his own. Finally, a whisper, �Eduardo Garcia.�

�And he lives where?�

�I don�t know! Not his address. I think, Miller Street, near Eberhardt Square.�

It was good enough. Shaw gave him the full five. �I need something else too.�

�What?�

�A to-go bag.�

�You have a gun. I saw it.�

�I do,� Shaw told him.

�Take it out and give it to me... No, I don�t trust you. You probably know karate or something.�

�I don�t.� Which was true, though of course Shaw had been a champion wrestler in college.

�I don�t care.� Travis looked up and down the road. It was deserted. �Take it out and throw it on the ground.�

He did as instructed. The gun landed in a clump of grass. Travis picked it up and pocketed it.

Shaw said, �You were following me. I knew there was someone. I thought it was one of Trimbeaux�s crew.�

�You�re just full of bad decisions, mister. I saw that reward. Twenty-six hundred? You risk everything for that?�

�How�re you going to explain the shot-out tire?� Shaw nodded at the front end.

He laughed. �Trimbeaux�s crew did that. Yeah, I followed you � and saw you following them. They got suspicious and came out here to have a talk with you. Shot your tire out.�

�And then shot me?�

Travis said nothing. He was sweaty and his mannerisms twitchy. Shaw understood that the NA was for show; he was still a tweaker.

�Why�d you kill Williams?�

�Shut up. I�m not here to talk. You are. I saw you take something out of that pizzeria. I want it. What is it? Evidence? A video or something?� When Shaw didn�t respond, he said, �And I want to know where those fucking notebooks are. All the stuff you were writing down that I told you. You talked to Mike and Carli too, and Erik. Right? I know you did.�

�Travis. Things like this have a way of unraveling. Sooner or later. It�s best if you just give yourself up. You make a plea deal, help the D.A. make a case against Trimbeaux and Garcia for weapons dealing? That�ll go a long way. I know how these things work.�

�Notebooks. Are they in that camper of yours?�

�No. I learned a long time ago that�s the first place people look. I keep them hidden somewhere else.�

�Where?�

Shaw didn�t reply.

His edgy voice rose in volume as he said, �I�ll start shooting! Your foot, your knee.� He raised the gun.

Colter Shaw was a man who lived to rock climb, to ride his motorcycle just at or over the edge, who, on reward assignment occasionally grappled with escaped felons or murderous suspects. The idea of a catastrophic injury like a shattered knee or ankle was horrific.

�You really should think about my offer,� Shaw told him.

Travis glanced at the gun in his unsteady hand. �And you should think about mine.�

It was then that a loud electronic bleat filled the night and a voice on the loudspeaker called, �You, with the weapon, drop it now! Or you will be fired upon!�

Instinctively Travis turned, giving Shaw just enough time to lower his center of gravity and charge forward. He dropped low and gripped Travis�s left ankle, then executed a simple John Smith single-leg takedown, a classic wrestling maneuver. In a matter of seconds Travis was on his back, the breath knocked from his lungs and his gun ripped from his hand. Shaw tossed it aside fast.

Never a good idea to hold on to a weapon when the police are training theirs on you.

This wasn�t one of his father�s rules but, to Colter Shaw, it just seemed to make sense.

He looked down at the young man in the hospital bed.

Jude Sterling looked up at him groggily. Weariness defined him.

�How�re you feeling?�

�Got cut bad. They use glass. �Cause of the metal detectors. You�d think the guards�d, you know, figure that out.�

�You�d think.�

�Gets infected. I�ve got an infection.�

Not surprising. The hospital ward was wretched. There were a few too many bloodstains on the walls and yellow stains on the floor. The lighting was as green as the tile and the pallor of the patients and the medicos alike.

�You�ll be okay?�

�They say so. Scar. They don�t do plastic surgery here.�

�Women like scars.� Some did. Shaw knew this for a fact.

He noted that Jude was shackled, hand and ankle, to the sturdy metal frame. He wondered why both were necessary.

�You said you found who really shot Williams.�

�Travis Lanford.�

He blinked. This intelligence took a moment to settle. �How�d that work?�

�I�ll tell you about it later. You should get some rest. But a question I have to ask.�

He nodded.

�Did you cock the gun in the clearing and point it at Daryl, after he�d been shot?�

�Yessir, I did.�

�Why?�

Jude shrugged. �It might sound funny, but I thought of things I�ve seen in movies. The killer, whoever, he looks dead. But then you get close and he jumps up and has a knife or something, or axe. You know now I didn�t shoot him to save my brother. But I would have. I�d do that in a minute.�

Shaw nodded.

�You really think I�m getting out?�

Shaw explained there would be procedural issues and the fact that he�d stolen drugs and money � even if from a drug dealer � might mean continued time in the system. But his lawyer would be working hard to get him absolved of the most serious crimes.

Jude appeared grateful, but at the word lawyer his face fell.

�I�ve got somebody better than Harold Cummings.�

They shared a smile.

�Can I see my parents?�

�I don�t think so. Not yet.�

A guard approached and whispered something to Shaw, who nodded. He said to Jude, �I have to go. But get some rest. People will be in touch. You�ll be looked after here.�

After Tom Pepper had spoken to a captain at the Ohio State Highway Patrol, he had spoken to the director of the Bureau of Prisons. Jude was now probably the safest prisoner in the Watkins Correctional Facility.

Shaw turned and followed the guard out of the hospital wing, through a half-dozen corridors, as gray as the medical facility was green, and finally out of the lockdown portion of the prison to the general public reception room. The massive door clicked shut behind him. He handed his ID badge to the receptionist and received back his gun.

He turned to Sonya Malloy, who frowned deep furrows into her attractive face and said, �So?�