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The wind had turned cold and was now whipping trash across the lot of the Stonehurst Foundation. Only Bobby’s Humvee and my car remained parked outside, Vickery and the secretary both having departed, presumably never to return.

“We could have inconvenienced him a great deal more than we did,” said Angel.

“He was ahead of us on that front,” I replied. “What were we going to do: Push him around, or burn the place down around his ears? It wasn’t about making ourselves feel better, but ensuring he and his people were clear about the importance of distancing themselves from the Clark case.”

I unlocked the car. I wanted to get away from there before someone decided to link me with fascism and earmarked my car for the graffiti treatment.

“But he remains a long-term problem,” said Angel. “For you, not to mention humanity in general.”

I took a last look at the miserable property, with its faded lettering and grim facade. It was a suitable outpost for the malignancy that Bobby Ocean represented, but he was the voice of the minority, whatever he might have believed to the contrary. The world was filled with better people than that. He and his kind would never utterly disappear, with an influence disproportionate to their numbers—because such was the way with loud, prejudiced men—but they would always be outnumbered by the rest, and fundamental decency had a habit of prevailing. Ultimately Bobby, like all his species, was a frightened creature: fearful of change; fearful of anyone whose color, creed, or language was different from his own; and most of all, fearful of those who refused to follow his path. Bobby Ocean was destined to die scared. But then, so were most of us.

“Time will take care of him,” I said. “It has a habit of it.”

Louis, I noticed, looked doubtful.

“Anyway,” I added, “the visit wasn’t a total washout.”

“Why is that?” asked Angel.

“I got to take a look at the maps on Bobby’s wall.”

“And that helps us how, exactly?”

I started the car.

“Because Gretton was marked on one of them.”