Day 6 of 6 His knuckles glowed white around the phone. Again, he paced over and peered down the driveway. Nothing had changed. The van still sat facing the street. Lights on. Engine running. The tired yellow bulb over the front door carved the same deep shadows into the yard. “Come on,” he muttered to himself. Corso jogged back to the alley. Dougherty sat huddled against the north wall, her usually ruddy face now the color of cement. “What if they don’t come?” she wheezed. “They’ll come,” he said, with a good deal more conviction than he felt. He checked his watch. Sixteen minutes since he’d hung up on Densmore. Four since Defeo went for his tools. This time of night, if they were coming, it shouldn’t be long. He ran to the edge of the driveway and looked down. Status quo. On his way back to Dougherty, he heard the sound of studded tires snapping on the pavement. He turned. No lights. The snapping drew closer, until out of the darkness a dark blue Ford Crown Victoria rolled around the corner and pulled to a stop, with the front half of the car blocking the driveway.
