Stone Barrington 06-11

producing heat. “Make yourselves at home,” he said. “I have to make a couple of phone calls.”
    He called his office first.
    “The Barrington Practice,” Joan said.
    “Hi, it’s Stone. I’m at the Connecticut house, and I expect to be here for a few days.”
    “Okay, I have some things I can work on.”
    “No, I want you to take a few days off, too. Put an announcement on the answering machine saying that I’m away but that I’ll pick up my messages. You can check it a couple of times a day and call me about anything important.”
    “Okay, boss.”

    “I’ll call you when it’s time to come back to work.”
    “Okay, I’ll just do a few things this morning, then go home.”
    “Joan, I want you to lock up and go home right now, and I don’t want you to come back, even for a minute, until I call you.”
    “Uh, oh,” she said. “What’s up?”
    “A bad guy is looking for me, and I don’t want him to find either of us.”
    “I’m out of here,” she said. “ ’Bye.”
    Stone called Dino.
    “Bacchetti.”
    “Hi, it’s Stone.”
    “What was that little dance you and Lance were doing last night, and why was there a bullet hole in your pants?”
    “Lance picked up Billy Bob, but he managed to escape. It appears that killing me is high on his to-do list.”
    “Billy Bob’s or Lance’s?”
    “Billy Bob’s. Lance was just trying to get me to come with him.”
    “I guess it worked.”
    “I guess it did. But listen, Billy Bob might be mad at you, too.”
    “Why?”
    “He doesn’t seem to need a reason, but I want you to watch your back for a few days.”
    “I’ll do that.”
    “Maybe even assign a man to watch it for you.”
    “You think Billy Bob’s that dangerous?”
    “Last night, he killed two of Lance’s best people with a knife.”
    “In my precinct?”
    “It’s been dealt with; it won’t come to your attention.”
    “Good.”
    “I’m at the Connecticut house, but don’t tell anybody, not even Elaine. You can reach me here if anything happens.”
    “Okay, take care of yourself. Is Arrington pissed off at you again?”

    “No, she and Peter are here with me.”
    “How cozy.”
    “Oh, shut up, and as I say, watch your back.”
    “And you watch your ass.”
    Stone hung up and went into the living room, which was warm now. Peter was expertly hooking up his game machine to the television.
    “You can do that with the sound off,” Arrington said.
    “Don’t worry, Mom, I brought my earphones.”
    Stone sat and watched, fascinated, while the little boy played his computer games.
    LATER THAT NIGHT, when Peter and Ilsa were asleep, Stone showered, then slipped into bed with Arrington. She was not wearing a nightgown. He touched her shoulder. “You’re very warm.”
    “Come closer, and I’ll warm you, too.”
    They came together as if they had never been apart.

39
    FOR THREE DAYS, they lived quietly, dining at the Mayflower Inn or cooking at home. They drove the country roads, gazing at the Connecticut winter. It snowed. Peter and Stone made a snowman in the front yard.
    Late in the afternoon of the third day, while Arrington and Peter were napping and Ilsa was helping to get dinner started, Stone drove down the hill toward Washington Depot, the little business district, to get some wine for dinner. His cell phone vibrated, and he pulled into the empty parking lot of the Episcopal church, remembering that this was a place where cell-phone reception was possible.
    “Hello?”
    “It’s Lance.”
    “Hello, Lance.”
    “Where are you?”
    “Out of town.”
    “Where out of town?”
    “I don’t think I should say on the phone.”
    “I’ve been trying to call you.”
    “Cell-phone reception is dicey here.”
    “Don’t you ever check your voice mail?”
    “Not since I left the city. What’s up?”

    “We identified Billy Bob from a single thumbprint found in the Hummer.”
    “And?”
    “It’s not good news.”
    “Tell me.”
    “His real name is Jack Jeff Kight.”
    “You mean, Knight?”
    “Without the n. Kight.”
    “So, who is Jack Jeff Kight?”
    “Born in Plainview, Texas, thirty-nine years ago, son of a used-car dealer and a waitress mother. Attended the local schools, barely got out of high school. Juvenile delinquent, of a sort—joyriding in other people’s cars, fights at the local roadhouses, that sort of thing. Got a local girl pregnant, stole some money to buy her an abortion in Juarez, got caught. He was given a choice—two