48.

Kirsten’s hands were shaking as she keyed in the number.

“Yeah? Who is it?” His voice was thick and it struck her that she’d never pictured him sleeping.

“Cuffs?”

“Chrissake, Kirsten,” he managed, “it’s kinda fucking early.”

“Yeah, but it’s important.” She’d barely moved in the fifteen minutes since the call from Dugan. “Look, I know you’re on another job. But I have … a problem.”

“Uh-huh,” he said. “Do you know the Tree Top?”

*   *   *

The Tree Top Grill was a twenty-four-hour restaurant on Irving Park Road, a busy, old-fashioned place with big comfortable booths. Cuffs had assured her it wouldn’t be crowded yet by six o’clock on a Saturday, which proved to be true. He waved aside the menu the waitress offered and said he’d have a pot of hot chocolate, two three-egg Southwestern omelets with sourdough toast, and two grapefruit halves. Kirsten ordered coffee and a toasted English muffin.

“Jesus,” Cuffs said when the waitress left, “you look like hell.”

“I feel worse than that,” she said. She told him about Dugan’s trial workshop in Asheville, how she couldn’t reach him the night before, and then the phone call that woke her up. She said she was sure it was Debra Morelli with him on the phone, and that Debra was behind the postcards and the target on her front door and her punctured tire. “And,” she added, “I think she’s the one killing the priests, too.”

Cuffs stared at her. “I guess you already know how crazy that sounds,” he said, “so I’ll just ask. What the hell’s your proof Debra’s killing pervert priests?”

“I don’t have real proof. But I talked to a homicide dick in Detroit, and it looks like when Debra was a kid she was abused by a priest. The priest got transferred to Cincinnati, and a few years later he was murdered. I don’t have the details, but he was slashed and cut, like the priests here, and—”

“And it still sounds crazy,” he said.

“Fine, but I didn’t call you so we could debate it. I called because of Dugan. He—” She stopped because the waitress was there with their food. When she was gone Kirsten looked down at her English muffin and wondered why she’d ordered it.

Cuffs dug into his grapefruit. “So … go on,” he said. “Tell me about Dugan.”

“Just before I left to come here,” she said, “I called his hotel again. This time they said he’d checked out during the night, and left nothing in his room.”

“Probably some kind of express checkout,” Cuffs said, “so nobody actually saw him.”

She nodded. “The thing is, I’ve been focusing on the killer spelling out my name, and on which priest would be the next victim. That’s what she wanted me to be thinking about, and then she went after Dugan. And it’s my fault.”

“That’s bullshit. He’s off some place in North Carolina … why would you have been worrying about him?”

“The thing is, I’m the one who made him go. He’d changed his mind and wanted to stay here, and—”

“Christ, that’s bullshit, too. He probably wanted to go, and just let you think you talked him into it.”

“What?”

“Jesus, he’s your husband. Don’t you know him well enough to—”

“That’s not important,” she said. “What’s important is what to do.”

“My point, exactly.” He squeezed the juice from his two empty grapefruit rinds into one bowl and drank from the bowl. “You sure it was Debra Morelli on the phone? Because if she’s around, the cops would like to know it. Plus, her uncle Polly would, too. Polly Morelli. Fucking sadistic creep. He’d love to watch her die a slow and painful death.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Cuffs said. “When Debra was a teenager her old man—Polly’s brother—got his brain splattered and—”

“I know about all that.”

“Yeah? Well, Polly believed her when she said she didn’t know anything about who did it. But when her and Carlo tried to screw him in that drug deal, that got him to thinking over the whole thing again and he decided it was her—and probably Carlo, too—that whacked his brother.”

“That’s what the Detroit cops think, too,” she said. “But how do you know all this?”

“I know … well, shit, it’s well-known. I hear stuff from people. I mean, Debra and Carlo’s old man was Polly’s twin brother, for chrissake, and Polly’s not gonna—”

“His twin? Jesus, I never heard they were twins.”

“Well, twins is what they were, and if Polly gets hold of her he’ll slice off both her—” He dropped it. “That’s her problem. You’re sure it was her who called? I mean, how would she even know Dugan went to Asheville?”

“I don’t know, but I know she’s been watching me. Or us, I guess.”

“If she’s doing all you say, she’s a busy woman. Asheville’s pretty far away. Could it have been someone else? Someone working with her?”

“It was Debra on the phone,” Kirsten insisted. “Besides, she’s a raging psycho. Who’d work with her?”

“Some other psycho, I guess. Back when you and her had your last run-in, she sure had a partner.”

“Yes, but that woman had no idea how crazy Debra was.”

“Jesus, not her law partner.” Cuffs spoke through a mouthful of toast. “I mean her goddamn brother.”

“Oh.” Her mind wasn’t working. “Well, it sure wasn’t a man on the phone. Plus, the Department of Corrections has a Web site, and I looked Carlo up on it. He’s still in prison, down in—”

“I know,” Cuffs said. “In Pontiac. I wasn’t saying it was him on the phone. Although he’s set to get out in a week or two.”

Kirsten had seen that on the DOC Web site, too, but she wondered again how Cuffs knew so much. “Carlo got a pretty short sentence,” she said. “Do you think he opened up to the feds about his uncle Polly?”

“Carlo’s so damn stupid he—” He shook his head. “How the hell would I know if he did?”

“I don’t know,” she said, “but even if he didn’t, he better have a plan for when he gets out. If Polly’s after Debra, he’ll be after Carlo, too. Even if it’s just to see if he knows where Debra is.”

“A plan? The guy’s not real bright, y’know? And he’s got no friends. Just a sister who’s got the hots for him.” He shook his head. “Jesus, doesn’t that turn your stomach?” He crammed more toast into his mouth and poured more hot chocolate into his mug. “You know where we goin’ with this? I thought we were talking about Dugan, and what to do.”

“We are. I mean … I guess I’m just flailing around.” She leaned across the table toward Cuffs. “I’m scared to death,” she said, “of what she might do to Dugan.”

“Right.” He stirred up his hot chocolate. “I hate the way this shit separates out.” Then he looked at her and said, “You could call the cops, or the FBI. But…” He shrugged.

“I know. They’d say I have no proof that Debra kidnapped him. But I know it’s her, and I think I know where she might take him. It’s in Michigan.” She told Cuffs about Waterton, and the postmaster, and the farm she was sure was Debra’s. “The thing is,” she said, “wherever they are, if Dugan’s still alive and she smells cops closing in, she will keep her promise. She’ll peel off his skin. I know she will.”

“There’s always that,” he said. “So here’s what I think. A, she’ll keep him safe until she gets what she wants, because if she only wanted to kill him, she would have. B, she grabbed him last night and from Asheville it’s … what?… at least one long day to this place in Michigan if she’s driving. And she sure as shit isn’t gonna buy him a ticket on a plane.” He stopped and took a huge bite of toast.

“So … dammit,” she said, waiting, “what do I do?”

He took his time swallowing, and then said, “C, if you don’t wanna bring in the cops? All you can do is keep your cell phone on and wait for another call. See what she’s got in mind.” He returned to his meal, pushing a mountain of eggs onto his fork with his toast.

“I guess you’re right, except how can I—” But watching him stuff his mouth full, she finally couldn’t take it any more. “God damn it, Cuffs, how the hell can you sit there and shovel food in like that? I mean … while Dugan’s out there with—”

“Hold it.” He held his huge palm out to shut her up until he could finish chewing and swallowing. Then he said, “Dugan’s a decent guy. I like him. But I gotta tell ya.” He slurped hot chocolate from his mug. “My life doesn’t fucking revolve around his.”