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They swung into the circular drive of a beachfront condo. Two ladies—undoubtedly Mary Worth’s chums—were waiting there.

“Would you give me your phone number?” Dixon asked.

“What? So you can call me? Or so you can pass it on to your boss? Your facilitator?”

“The latter,” Dixon said.

She paused, thinking. The chums-in-waiting were almost dancing with excitement. Then Mary opened her purse and took out a card. She handed it to Dixon. “This is my cell number. You can also reach me at the Boston Public Library.”

Dixon laughed. “I knew you were a librarian.”

“Everyone does,” she said. “It’s a bit boring, but it pays the rent, as they say.” She opened the door. The chums squealed like rock show groupies when they saw her.

“There are more exciting occupations,” Dixon said.

She looked at him gravely. “There’s a big difference between temporary excitement and mortal fear, Craig. As I think we both know.”

He couldn’t argue with her on that score, but it wasn’t exactly a no. He got out and helped the driver with her bags while Mary Worth hugged two of the widows she had met in an Internet chat room.

7

Mary was back in Boston, and had almost forgotten Craig Dixon, when her phone rang one night. Her caller was a man with a very slight lisp. They talked for quite awhile.

The following day, Mary Worth was on Jetaway Flight 694, nonstop from Boston to Dallas, sitting in coach, just aft of the starboard wing. Middle seat. She refused anything to eat or drink.

The turbulence struck over Oklahoma.

LAURIE

1

Six months after his wife of forty years died, Lloyd Sunderland’s sister drove from Boca Raton to Rattlesnake Key to visit him. She brought with her a dark gray puppy which she said was a Border Collie–Mudi mix. Lloyd had no idea what a Mudi was, and didn’t care.

“I don’t want a dog, Beth. A dog is the last thing in the world I want. I can barely take care of myself.”

“That’s obvious,” she said, unhooking the puppy’s toy-sized leash. “How much weight have you lost?”

“I don’t know.”

She appraised him. “I’d say fifteen pounds. Which you could afford to give, but not much more. I’m going to make you a sausage scramble. With toast. You’ve got eggs?”

“I don’t want a sausage scramble,” Lloyd said, eyeing the dog. It was sitting on the white shag carpet, and he wondered how long it would be before it left a calling card there. The carpet needed a good vacuum and probably a shampoo, but at least it had never been peed on. The dog was looking at him with its amber eyes.

“Do you or do you not have eggs?”

“Yes, but—”

“And sausage? No, of course not. You’ve probably been living on Eggos and Campbell’s soup. I’ll get some at the Publix. And I’ll inventory your fridge and see what else you need.”

She was his older sister by five years, had mostly raised him after their mother died, and as a child he had never been able to stand against her. Now they were old, and he still could not stand against her, especially not with Marian gone. It seemed to Lloyd that since Mare went there was a hole in him where his guts had been. They might come back; they might not. Sixty-five was a little old for regeneration. The dog, though—against that he would stand. What in the name of God had Bethie been thinking?

“I’m not keeping it,” he said, speaking to her back as she stalked on her stork legs into the kitchen. “You bought it, you can take it back.”

“I didn’t buy it. The mother was a pure-bred Border Collie that got out and mated up with a neighbor’s dog. That was the Mudi. The owner managed to give the other three pups away, but this one’s the runt and nobody wanted her. The owner—he’s a small-patch truck farmer—was about to take her to the shelter when I came along and saw a sign tacked to a telephone pole. WHO WANTS A DOG, it said.”

“And you thought of me.” Still eyeing the puppy, who was eyeing him back. The cocked ears seemed to be the biggest part of her.

“Yes.”