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“Old Carl” was an infant with fat, unflawed cheeks and bright red hair. So it’s come down to this, has it? You bugged out on your pretty young wife, leaving her to handle Jeremy alone, and she couldn’t make a go of it without you.
    No, it wasn’t like that at all. We broke up because that’s what we both wanted. Jeremy had nothing to—
    The lie. Once again, the lie. The same one he had told his mother when his divorce became final, the one he had told himself so often. The same smelly, implausible falsehood he thanked God his father had not lived to hear.
    Jeremy had nothing to do with it.
    The ferry, engorged with motor vehicles and human beings, lumbered away from the docks, away from the sting of auto exhaust and the clamor of the city, into the blackness of the Puget Sound. The rain slackened, and strings of jewel-like lights popped through the mist from the opposite shore. Carl glanced at his watch: just thirty-five minutes to Bremerton.
    So it’s come down to this, has it, Old Carl? The big-shot political consultant—or whatever you call yourself these days—is coming home, wearing his fifty-dollar haircut and his oh-so-casual yachting clothes, to bury his pretty little wife, who killed herself because he deserted her.
    For the love of God, Dad, cut it out!
    For a horrible moment Carl worried that he had blurted the words aloud. A young couple had come through the doors of the passengers’ lounge onto the observation deck, carrying Styrofoam cups of hot chocolate, braving the weather for a little privacy. He stole a quick look at them: They were leaning over the rail, faces close together, cooing to each other, paying him not the slightest heed. The ferry slowed, honked its arrival, and insinuated itself into the pier, nudging the dock and halting. The ramp clanked into place; car engines gunned in anticipation of freedom; and the wave of a crewman’s hand caused the ferry to disgorge upon the floodlit shore. Greely’s Cove lay less than twenty-five minutes away, a leisurely drive northward on Highway 16.
    The night was velvety black, for the sky was without its moon. A new moon, Carl had read in the Minneapolis Tribune during the long flight from Washington, D.C., so the night would have been dark even without its thick blanket of rain clouds. The town of Greely’s Cove began to materialize from the darkness on both sides of the highway. Amberish streetlights peered through the dank branches of pines and cedars. Traffic signals flashed yellow in all directions, since traffic was nearly nonexistent despite the early hour. Neon signs announced Safeway, McDonald’s, and Gunderson’s Chevrolet-Subaru. Carl knew every streetlight, every sign, every crack in the cement sidewalks of Greely’s Cove, for here he had launched his life. Here he would make his new beginning.
    His plan began to form as he steered into the drive of the Old Schooner Motel, where a “Vacancy” sign shimmered in pink neon, and he felt better than he had all day.
    “I’m going to make a suggestion, Sonny Butch, so listen up.”
    Liquid Larry, who called nearly every man and boy he met “Sonny Butch,” leaned across the bar until his beefy face was mere inches from Mitch Nistler’s. “You go ahead and finish up that triple threat, you hear? Then you ease off that stool and get your ass down the road while you can still drive. What d’ya say?”
    Mitch raised his glassy eyes and tried to return the barkeep’s diplomatic smile, but his facial muscles weren’t cooperating. “You cuttin’ me off, Liquid? ’S that what I’m hearing?”
    “Like I said, Sonny Butch, just a suggestion. I don’t want to lose any of my best customers.” The diplomatic grin widened. “Besides, I expect your boss is probably waiting for you over at the chapel. I hear you boys got yourselves a suicide last night.”
    Mitch cringed at the mention of his boss, Matt Kronmiller. It was indeed likely that the old batfucker was waiting at the Chapel