5:56 p.m.

Tommy Pakula searched the bleachers, squinting against the sun and finally putting a hand up to his forehead. Claire was on the second row from the top, waving at him and at the same time yelling at their daughter to “use your head.” It looked as if he had missed most of the first quarter, but his team was ahead by one goal.

He climbed up the bleachers, and the pack of screaming parents automatically parted, allowing him to get to his designated seat. But because he was late he got only nods as greetings, no time for talk. The game was on.

This was the first year Pakula had sat in the bleachers instead of on the sidelines, wearing his sweat-stained ball cap with the tattered white COACH embroidered across the front. He missed it, but both he and Claire had decided something had to give. He was running himself ragged.

He barely sat down before Claire was pulling out a Pepsi and a sandwich from their beat-up mini-cooler. She handed him the drink while she unwrapped the sandwich, her eyes never leaving the field. He could already smell the spicy meatballs, last night’s leftovers that she’d managed to resurrect with mozzarella cheese, hot mustard and sourdough bread. His mouth started watering before she had it out of the wax paper. It was a running joke between them that he’d never be able to divorce her because he’d never be able to live without her cooking. Of course without it, he probably wouldn’t have to spend as much time and sweat every morning in their basement, slamming all those calories off with his punching bag.

“How’s she doing?” he asked, his eyes finding their eight-year-old with no problem. Jenna was the smallest one, a skinny little blonde who could dart in between the other players. He found her easily on the field.

“It’s so muddy,” Claire said. “They’ve all been sliding into each other. Oh, she did that thing you showed her.”

“Yeah? How’d it work?”

“Too hard. The ball flew out of bounds.”

“That’s okay. She had some power behind it. That’s good.”

He glanced over at Claire as he took a bite of the sandwich. She turned and looked at him, smiling. He automatically wiped at his mouth, thinking she must have spotted a wad of mustard. She shook her head, the smile still there when she turned back to the game, but she reached over to pat his knee and that’s where her hand stayed.

For some reason the gesture reminded Pakula of Andrew and their conversation out at the cabin. Andrew had given him a hard time about being an old married guy who couldn’t possibly advise anyone on romance. But this, watching their daughter on the soccer field on a glorious evening with the sun setting behind them, having a meatball sandwich and his wife’s hand on his knee, this was good, really good.

All he had tried to get across to Andrew was that he was missing out. He knew there was something in his friend’s past, some miserable breakup, some failed relationship that had happened before the two had become friends. Stuff like that happens. You shake it off. You go on and find someone else. But not Andrew. Andrew seemed to react by closing himself off. There were too many emotional barricades set up with that guy. Even as friends, Andrew had only allowed Pakula to see and know as much about him as he wanted, bits and pieces doled out little by little. From what he did know about Andrew, he guessed the guy’s father had really played a number on him, instilling in Andrew that he wasn’t worth much. Amazing how easily parents could fuck up their kids.

Claire was watching him again, only this time she looked concerned. “You’re worried about him,” she said and Pakula did a double take, wondering how the hell she could always do that. How did she always know what was on his mind?

“He’s not prepared for something like this.”

“My God, who is?”

“I should have checked on him sooner. Especially when I knew they were headed in that direction.”

“Tommy.” This time she squeezed his knee to get his full attention. “You can’t take care of all of us all the time.” When she could see he wouldn’t let her words exonerate him, she added, “Andrew’s going to be all right. He has to be or I’ll never forgive him.”

That made Pakula smile, as if her ability to inflict motherly guilt could overreach all boundaries. But before he could go back to his sandwich, his cell phone began ringing. Not an unusual occurrence, and yet everyone turned to scowl at him as if he had broken some rule. He had it out before the third ring.

“Pakula,” he said, twisting around as much as possible and turning his back to the crowd and the field. Claire reached for his sandwich and drink to free his hands.

“Detective Thomas Pakula?”

“Yeah. Speak up. I’m at a soccer game, so we might…” He was interrupted by the chants and applause before he could get off the warning. He waited then tried again. “Okay, go ahead.”

“Sheriff Grant Dawes down here in Nemaha County. Someone downtown told me I should be talking to you.”

“Yeah, okay.” Pakula didn’t know the sheriff, but he was quickly getting impatient with his slow, polite manner. “What is it you need to tell me, Sheriff?” There were about to be more screams and applause. Out of the corner of his eye he could see his team racing down the sidelines. He turned to watch, not wanting to miss another goal.

“We found…” The rest of the sheriff’s words were drowned out.

“What’s that?”

“We found the red Saab with the license plate A WHIM.”

Pakula froze. The noise erupted again around him, so that he couldn’t even ask the one question that came instantly to mind. Claire stopped cheering when she saw his face and met his eyes. He gestured that he couldn’t hear as he rose, shoving his way back down the bleachers, everyone too excited about their team scoring to bother being upset with him. He retreated to the parking lot, hoping he hadn’t lost the sheriff.

“Are you still with me?” he finally asked when he could hear again.

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“You said you found the car?”

“Yep, it’s sitting in a farmer’s garage. They took his Chevy, but not before slitting his throat.”

“Holy crap!”

“There’s more.”

Pakula leaned against his Explorer, bracing himself for the worst. Had Andrew Kane been left behind, too, with his throat slashed?

“Up the road in Auburn we’ve got a dead clerk in the Gas N’ Shop. Son of a bitch shot her right in the face, ripped her jaw wide open.”

Pakula waited. Finally he asked, “Any other victims?”

“Ain’t two enough?”

“No, it’s two too many.” Pakula ran his hand over his head, relieved and kicking himself for sounding like it. “Sheriff, how long ago were the bodies found? I’d like to get our mobile crime lab down there asap.”

“Actually, that’s what I was hoping you’d say. I’ve got my men isolating both scenes, but I don’t have the resources to tackle this kind of thing.”

“This a good number to reach you?” Pakula asked as he checked his cell phone to make sure the sheriff’s phone number got logged on his phone’s memory.

“Yeah, I’ll be here.”

“Give me a few minutes, and I’ll call you back. Hold on. I don’t suppose you have a license number for that Chevy?”

“Not yet. The wife’s not in much shape to be remembering such things, so I’m having someone look it up. I’ll have it when you call back.”

“Good.” Pakula ended the call, punching in the next number without hesitating. He needed to act and not dwell on Andrew. And he reminded himself of Claire’s words only changing them a bit and saying out loud, “Andrew will be all right. He has to be or I’ll never forgive myself.”