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“My wife says he looks like me. Maybe that’s why he’s been in and out of trouble since before that photo was taken.” Bennett watches Sara tilt the portrait my way, then place the frame carefully on the table, faceup. “Drugs especially.”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “That must be very difficult.”

“For the past five months he’s been serving time in a youth offender program in Colorado. One of those boot camps for teen agers. A last chance before prison, in Eric’s case. He’ll be eighteen soon, and I’ve pulled all the strings I can reach. Be lieve me.”

Sara glances at me, but I’m watching Douglas Bennett. Won dering why he’s chosen this moment to tell us about his son.

“Hard as nails,” Bennett says. “This place where we sent him. He wrote us hate letters for weeks.”

Sara nods politely. “Those couldn’t have been very pleasant to read.”

Bennett acknowledges Sara’s kindness with a nod. “Cheryl cried for two months straight. But we’re past that now. These last three months… We visited in September. He seemed to stand a little straighter. Look us in the eye. The instructors say he’s been studying, volunteering for things. Talking about college when he comes home. I don’t know.” He looks again at the outdated photo of the young boy with braces on his teeth. “Maybe they got him in time.”

I’m honestly glad for Eric Bennett. I’m not unhappy to listen to this story, which sounds like it has a chance to move into happier chapters. But I’m still waiting.

“Despite innumerable ways in which I may have failed as a parent,” Bennett says, “and in spite of whatever impressions I may have given the two of you in court this morning, the fact remains that I’m among the two or three highest- paid defenders in Clark Falls.”

Sara says, “Mr. Bennett—”

He holds up a hand. “Doug. And don’t mistake my meaning. I’m not sounding my own horn. I’m only providing context.”

Just then he seems uncomfortable with the photo staring up from the table in front of him. He returns it to its place on the corner of his desk. Then he comes back and sits down again.

“Being the son of a highly paid defense attorney, in a town the size of Clark Falls, Eric’s troubles are well- known in the legal circle here, as I’m sure you can imagine. The cobbler’s children go without shoes, et cetera.”

“I don’t mean to seem uncaring,” I finally say. “But why are you telling us this?”

“Twenty years ago—before Eric was even born—I successfully defended a client. The details of the case aren’t important, but during that trial, a patrol officer named Van Stockman delivered
what was considered to be key testimony for the prosecution. Unfortunately for the prosecution, I was able to turn Stockman’s own procedural mistakes during the arrest, and the handling of evidence, into an acquittal for my client.” He waves his hand. “I only tell you this to explain how I first came to know Van Stockman. And how I know that Van Stockman’s training officer, in those days…”

“Was Roger Mallory.”

Bennett seems impressed to hear me say this.

Sara seems shocked. She looks at me.
How did you know that?

At the mental image of Roger in his former life, decked in his patrol gear, just like the young cop who handcuffed me in front of my house last night—the skin tightens at the back of my neck.

“I’ve met him,” I tell her.

“When?”

I leave it there for now, except to explain that Stockman had been Clair Mallory’s maiden name. That Roger had married his patrol partner’s big sister, making Van Stockman not only his subordinate, but also his brother- in- law. Eventually, his son Brandon’s uncle.

“That’s right,” Bennett says.

“What does Stockman have to do…”

“Last night, after meeting with you at the jail, I was followed to within a mile of my home by a Clark Falls patrol unit.”

“Followed?”

“And eventually pulled over. On North River Road, where there are no streetlamps, and very little traffic at that hour. The officer who approached my window held a light in my eyes and asked for my license and registration.”

“You were followed.”

“After reviewing my license he apologized for the inconvenience. He indicated that he recognized me. He speculated that perhaps I’d just come from a late- night meeting with a
client. He told me to drive home safely.” Bennett leans back in the chair. “Then, as I was raising my window, he asked about my son.”

I feel Sara pull her hand away and sit up a little.

“He turned off his flashlight, at which point I recognized him. Sergeant Van Stockman, now. He’s put on twenty years and forty pounds, and apparently he’s never moved out of a radio car in twenty years’ time, but I recognized him. Which I believe was his intent.”

“Jesus.”

“He said that he’d heard Eric would be home soon. He said, ‘I hope he doesn’t run into any more trouble.’ ”

“Jesus.”

“He told me that it would be a shame if some kiddie raper— his words—managed to end up roaming free while a young man like Eric somehow ended up in the state penitentiary.” Bennett folds his hands in his lap. “Then he asked me to have a good evening and strolled back to his car.”

“Jesus.”
I look at Sara. All the color seems to have drained from her complexion. “You’ve got to be…”

“I was angry at first. Not angry. Enraged.”

“What happened when you filed the complaint?”

“The complaint?”

Is he kidding? “Jesus, Bennett, you can’t just let—”

“Let me ask you,” Bennett says to me. “What happened when you called the police after you found your personal documents in Roger Mallory’s house?”

I don’t bother answering the question. Bennett knows the answer already.

“So we agree,” he says, “that in spite of our respective educations, we understand the way the world actually works.”

This is unbelievable. “But you’re telling me that…”

“What I’m telling you is that I hadn’t had a drink in two years,” Bennett says. “Two years and twenty- seven days, to be accurate. But I keep a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black in my office at home. A gift from a client that I’ve never opened.

Sentimental reasons.” He looks at me. “The truth, Paul, is that in spite of my anger at being openly threatened—at this threat against my son, a mile from my home—I’d already decided to drop your case before I cracked the seal on that bottle. The truth is that I hadn’t planned to come to court this morning at all.”

Now he looks at Sara.

“And my point,” he tells her, “is that from this moment forward, you don’t have to worry about how crazy anything you tell me about Roger Mallory will sound.”

For the first time since the police showed up on our door step last night, Sara looks genuinely frightened. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen this look before. Not even the night a stranger came into our house and attacked her in our bed. Not quite like this.

“My God,” she says.

I can’t think of a thing to add.

Bennett says, “Tell me how you came to find your credit card statement in Mallory’s house.”

I feel numb.

“Paul?”

“That’s not what started this,” I tell him. I want to beg Sara’s forgiveness before I say another word.

“What happened?”

My turn.

INSTEAD OF “HELLO,” Charlie Bernard said, “Let me see if I heard this correctly.”

“Hey, Charlie.” I held the phone with my shoulder while I tied my shoes. “Heard what correctly?”

“When I phoned last evening, I was told that you were unavailable.”

“Sorry I missed you, buddy. Sara said you called.”

“Specifically, that you were—again, I’m confirming—out on patrol?”

It sounded funny even to me. But what could I say?

“I wonder,” he said. “What in holy hell does that mean?”

“I joined the neighborhood watch. Didn’t Sara tell you?”

“The neighborhood watch.”

“I’ve got a vest and everything.”

“Surely you must be shitting me.”

“A vest and a walkie- talkie. And a hell of a nice flashlight.” Before our break- in, I’d have been right alongside Charlie mocking the idea of patrolling a suburban cul- de- sac with a picture of a badge printed on my chest.

Even after our break- in, it still felt vaguely absurd. But after our new neighbors had rallied to make us feel welcome, it had seemed awkward to not join the neighborhood association. And after joining, I could either join the volunteer patrol or commit to being the only jerk in the circle who couldn’t be bothered to serve like all the other husbands. After moving halfway across the country, I’d found that I didn’t have enough energy left over to be a worthwhile jerk.

“One day,” I told Charlie, “I hope to make shift leader.”

Silence. Then: “This is Dr. Charles Bernard. I’m calling for my friend Paul. Callaway. Has he been at this number recently?”

I laughed. “Okay. I admit it. I go for a walk and smoke a cigar a couple nights a week.”

“With your walkie- talkie close at hand, I presume.”

“It’s not so bad. We check in on the older folks, run the teenagers out of the park after ten. If it’s midnight and somebody left their garage door open, we ring the doorbell, let them know.”

“Paul Callaway,” Charlie said. “Is he there?”

“Hang on, I’ll see.” I took the phone away from my ear, then put it back. “He says to call back when your wife’s been assaulted.”

“I keep no wife.”

“Oh yeah.”

“It was that woman you married who ruined me.”

“She can be pitiless,” I agreed. “You probably shouldn’t have slept with her grad assistant.”

“I had no choice in that instance. My hands were tied.”

“Some things can’t be helped.”

“Handcuffed, to be accurate.” His voice grew wistful before returning to the point. “Speaking of which, tell me, do you get to carry special neighborhood watch handcuffs?”

“I don’t know, I’m still in training.”

“How about a firearm? Surely you’ll need to shoot someone eventually.”

“I think we’re just supposed to hit them with the flashlight and call the authorities,” I told him. “We’re only volunteers.”

“You joke now,” Charlie said. “What happens when you go up against some scumbag all hopped up on Frappuccinos, refusing to cut his grass? What’s a fancy flashlight going to do for you then?”

“They tell me every situation is different, Charlie.”

There came a long sigh from the other end of the line. “And every man is surrounded by a neighborhood of voluntary spies.”

Quotations. With Charlie, always the first sign of a conversation in decline. “Who said that?”

“Jane Austen.”

“I thought you hated Austen.”

“Which only emphasizes my point.”

I checked myself in Sara’s mirror and felt completely ridiculous. Khaki shorts, a polo shirt, a pair of beat- up sneakers. I’d had to go out and buy the shorts and the shirt. My legs hadn’t seen sunlight since the Dixson English department softball team disbanded six years ago. “Well, this has been compelling,” I said. “But I’ve got a tee time in half an hour.”

“Did you just say that you have a tee time?”

“At the club.” I couldn’t help myself. “Couple guys from my patrol unit are members. I’m playing as a guest.”

Another pause.

“Sweet Christ,” Charlie finally said. “You’ve drunk the fucking Kool- Aid, haven’t you?”

“Call you back,” I said, and hung up grinning.

For the past three weekends in a row, Roger Mallory had attempted to convince me that I should come play golf with him, Barry Firth, and Pete Seward. The three of them held memberships at Deer Creek Country Club, a ten- minute drive
from Sycamore Court, where they played eighteen holes together every Saturday. Apparently, Ben Holland, Michael Sprague’s partner, had been their fourth up until he’d taken the contract job in Seattle.

So far, each weekend, I’d declined the invitation. While recent events had left me more or less thankful that I’d never gotten rid of my clubs, I’d given up the actual game of golf— my parents’ and their parents’ game—as futile in my twenties. The last time I’d played, my own mother, a beautician by trade, had cleaned out my wallet in a friendly two- dollar Nassau round in which she’d fronted me, because it was my birthday, sixteen strokes per side. Hole after dispiriting hole, my father had convinced me to press the bet. They’d laughed together afterward.

When I told Roger this story, he laughed and said, “Hell, don’t worry about that. Barry needs a little competition.”

Partly as a joke on me, partly because she liked our new neighbors and wanted me to try harder to be sociable, Sara had been encouraging Roger while my back was turned.
He’s been dying to play again. He just won’t admit it.
A ridiculous lie.

Partly out of nostalgia, partly in hopes that my performance on the golf course would end the invitations once and for all, I’d finally relented. And so I met Roger in his driveway that morning, a few minutes before noon.

“There he is,” Roger said, scratching Wes between the ears. Wes, Roger’s ailing German shepherd, swatted Roger’s leg feebly with his tail. As I reached the driveway, the old pastured watchdog limped over to take the cold ballpark frank he couldn’t smell, and could no longer see, but knew I’d bring.