Germ

"A Vega. Seventy-four. Hope it's good enough for you."

"What color?"

"Maroon . . . and orange and gray. The passenger-side door is blue. The hood's kinda reddish, pinkish—"

"Corner of McCallie and Dodds."

"Gotcha."

"And, Stephen?"

"Yeah?"

"Bring some extra clothes. You know, shirt, slacks, shoes. Some underpants."

"This I gotta see."

Stephen Parker cradled the phone slowly. Spontaneity was out of character for his brother. So what was this? Had he been robbed? Carjacked, more likely these days. But why not call the cops? Or one of his friends? Stephen hadn't been one of them for years.

He probably had been with someone he shouldn't have—the wife of a colleague maybe—and had to keep her involvement quiet. Or the husband had done the damage, and now all Allen wanted was for the situation to go away.

He sat on the edge of his rumpled bed and pulled on an equally rumpled flannel shirt.

He stood and walked into the two-room cabin's main living area, dropped his hulking weight into a nappy old chair, and grabbed his well-worn cowboy boots. Physically, Stephen was more bear than man: His bones were big and broad, arranged to a height of six foot five—all of it wrapped in thick bands of muscle. His body was nearly covered with a dark pelt of thick, curly hair; it exploded from his face and hung like an animal that had latched on and died. His face, as much as it showed, was bearish, too, with thick features and kind, heavily lidded eyes.

He moved into the area of his home that served as a kitchen, duly designated by the floor's pocked and stained linoleum; no covering at all protected the rest of the cabin's plywood floors from the feet that trod on it, or in turn protected the feet from it. From the cupboard under the sink he withdrew a paper grocery sack. In the bedroom again, he packed the bag with clothes and rolled the top closed.

He snatched a ring of keys from a nail by the front entrance and vent out, pulling the door shut but not locking it. He bounded over the crumbling wood step that he kept meaning to repair.

Heading to his car parked between the narrow space between the small church he led and his cabin, his thoughts returned to his brother. They hadn't even spoken in eight, nine months. They had nothing in common except their parents.

Allen thought Stephen had betrayed the family name by rejecting a career in medicine. Following the path forged by their father and grandfather was not only a privilege; it was expected.

Oh well, Stephen thought for the thousandth time. He'd tried being philosophical with his family, then pragmatic and pleading; in one end, it always came down to disappointed resignation: Oh well.

He reached the car door and stopped, throwing his big, hairy head rack to look toward the sky. "Lord," he said out loud, "whatever's happening with Allen, let me do right by him. And more important, let me do right by You. I thank You, Lord, for giving me this chance."

He folded his body into the small seat of the Vega. He used it mostly to pick up supplies in town and visit parishioners; otherwise, he didn't stray too far from the church. The starter chattered and whined before finally turning over and spurring the engine into action. A cloud of black smoke erupted from the tailpipe and engulfed the vehicle. Stephen punched the accelerator to escape the fumes, spewing sand and pebbles back at the smoky beast as it disappeared into the woods along the thin dirt drive.

twenty-six

The bar's windows were dark, its door shut, blocked by yellow crime scene tape. A police cruiser was parked directly in front of the entrance. Of course the place was guarded; the daylight massacre of a federal agent and his charge made it a red-ball case.

As Julia drove past, she saw a single patrolman behind the wheel. The dome light was on and he was reading a paperback. Smart, she thought. Destroy your night vision and make it easy for perps to see you before you see them.

She drove a few more blocks, turned left, and parked on a dark residential street behind an abused pickup. She popped the trunk lid and got out. From a metal bin in the trunk, she selected an assortment of rusty tools and a tire iron.

Traffic on Brainerd Road was light; she darted across unnoticed. She made her way to the trash-strewn alley that ran behind the businesses and turned toward the bar. The grungy backs of buildings towered above her on the right; an alternating cycle of tall pine and chain-link fencing lined her left. Tree limbs leaned over the boards, and leafy shrubs pushed through the fence. Purple Dumpsters hulked like sleeping bison at regular intervals. Where it wasn't pitch dark, it was deep gray. She trotted toward the bar.