Richard sat in the second armchair beside the fire and watched the boy sleep until the dawn came. Detective Marsh called at 7:18 in the morning. Howard Henley had been arrested at his home in the wealthy hillside neighborhood north of the city as he walked out his front door in a charcoal overcoat carrying a briefcase. He had not resisted. He had asked for his attorney before the lead officer finished reading him his rights.
His mechanic, a man named Vincent Doyle, a former Army combat engineer who had been dishonorably discharged in 2009, had been picked up at a motor inn on the south side of the city at approximately the same time. Mr. Doyle, faced with a cracked phone whose call records had already been pulled, had begun cooperating within the hour. He had named two other clients of Mr. Henley's whose fatal crashes he had been paid to arrange, and he had named a third name that the federal field office had been hoping to hear for nearly 2 years. Richard listened to the entire report standing at the window of the cabin with the phone pressed to his ear, watching a thin gold mist rise off the surface of the lake.
"Thank you, Detective."
"Don't thank me, Mr. Caldwell. Thank the boy." In the armchair behind him, Elijah stirred. He sat up. He blinked at the unfamiliar room. For half a second, his face did the small frightened thing that the faces of children who have woken up in too many unfamiliar rooms learn to do. Then he saw Richard at the window.
He saw the fire still burning low in the hearth. He saw the gray blanket tucked around himself and the stuffed elephant in the crook of his arm. His face settled.
"Good morning, Mr. Caldwell."