John Kvichak’s house had started life as a dugout, a pit with sod walls and roof, and over the intervening hundred and fifty years had migrated up and out. One wall was log, another plywood with tar-paper shingles, the third and widest of round river rock that rose into a chimney that, however unsteady in construction, appeared to be functional, if the smoke pouring out of it was any indication. The fourth was a bright blue vinyl siding Liam tried to convince himself wasn’t the same shade as the new siding Seafood North sported across from the small boat harbor. On a drive-through of the dock area the day before, Liam had noticed that part of one wall of the cannery was still bare except for the Tyvek house wrap. Probably, he told himself, Seafood North had ordered short. Probably.

“Don’t look now; it’s Delinquentville,” Diana Prince said. “That’s Teddy’s Ranchero, isn’t it? And Kelley MacCormick’s Dakota? And Paul Urbano’s Cherokee Chief. What’s with those tires, anyway? He could drive over a moose without grazing the rack, the body sits so high.” She released her seat belt and looked at Liam. “The gang’s almost all here. You think they’re planning their next heist?”

“I hope not,” Liam said, and he meant it. He didn’t know Paul that well, but Teddy and John were the sole support of their families, and pretty good at it so long as they stayed sober. Mac MacCormick was fresh out of the hospital and was in no shape to do more time. “Might as well get it over with.”

He got out of the Blazer just in time to see Brewster Gibbons haul his Eddie Bauer Ford Explorer to a halt and bounce out. Gibbons must have been behind them the whole way and Liam had been so preoccupied that he hadn’t spotted him, which did not improve his temper. “Brewster,” he said, his voice very different from the irritating drawl he had used before, “what are you doing here? We don’t need you. Go home.”