When the last taillight disappeared, Marcus checked the phone. Ferreira had heard the exchange and asked the men whether either had been physically injured. She directed them to preserve the incident report and avoid any further contact until legal counsel had reviewed their options. Elias agreed, though his eyes remained on the road where the cruisers had gone.
The motel manager, a thin woman named Joan Pritchard, brought them fresh towels and admitted she had recognized Knox's cars the moment they pulled in. She apologized for not going outside, saying her husband had once challenged a deputy over parking tickets and had spent months trying to get their licenses renewed. Marcus told her she had already helped by preserving the security footage. She looked relieved to learn that quietly keeping a record counted as doing something.
Before they slept, Marcus asked again about Pell Hollow. Elias sat on the edge of his bed, removing the dust from his work boots with an old towel. For a moment he considered telling the truth, then pictured his father's name being dragged into the official file and himself being removed before he could discover who had taken the money. He said he had visited the area when he was younger, turned off the lamp, and left Marcus staring into a darkness that no longer felt friendly.
At eight fifty the next morning, they parked outside the police department. The building was an old brick rectangle whose entrance had been renovated to include a polished granite sign with Chief Bertram Sloan's name. A young receptionist escorted them down a narrow hall lined with framed commendations and awards. Through the frosted office door, Elias heard the slow measured voice of the man who had once ruined his father's life.
Sloan stood when they entered. He was white-haired, elegantly groomed, and possessed of the relaxed manner of a man who could make most strangers feel immediately welcome. Behind him were photographs with state officials, charity directors, and politicians, and on a side table sat three glasses of sweet tea. He insisted they sit, spoke warmly of the Bureau's difficult work, and apologized for what he called Knox's unfortunate enthusiasm.
"Your sergeant pointed weapons at us after we verified who we were," Marcus said. "That's not enthusiasm."
"A young man gets carried away protecting his town," Sloan replied. "We'll have a conversation about it. I invited you here because responsible men should be able to talk before lawyers turn every misunderstanding into a war."
Elias left his glass untouched. He watched Sloan's hands, recognizing the familiar gesture with which the chief folded his fingers as though considering a neighbor's problem. Thirty-one years had passed, but some habits remained unchanged. Sloan noticed the attention and tilted his head.
"There's something about you," the chief said. "Your shoulders. That look around the eyes. I spent half the night trying to remember it."
Marcus glanced at Elias, suddenly alert.
"Walter Thornberry," Sloan said softly. "That's whose face you've got. His boy was called Eli, wasn't he? Young man from the feed store on Alder Road."
The room narrowed for Elias. He could hear the faint scrape of Sloan's chair and a telephone ringing somewhere down the hall. Marcus had stopped moving altogether. Across the desk, Sloan smiled like a man who had found an old coin behind a bookshelf.
"Your father gave this town a real headache," Sloan continued. "County money disappeared, and there he was with the cash in his store. The court gave him twelve years. Sad thing, what happened to him in prison."