“What the . . . ?” Big Jake stopped, got his bearings. “You always do this?”

“Do what?”

“Stop by uninvited?”

“It’s the only way people will have me,” Myron said.

Big Jake squinted a little more. He wore tight jeans and a silk shirt that had one too many buttons open. There was a gold chain enmeshed in chest hair. “Stayin’ Alive” wasn’t playing in the background, but it should have been.

“Wild stab in the dark here,” Myron said. “The red Corvette. It’s yours, right?”

He glared some more. “What do you want?”

“I’d like to speak to your son, Randy.”

“Why?”

“I’m here on behalf of the Biel family.”

That made him blink. “So?”

“Are you aware that their daughter is missing?”

“So?”

“That ‘so’ line. It never gets old, Jake, really. Aimee Biel is missing and I’d like to ask your son about it.”

“He has nothing to do with that. He was home Saturday night.”

“Alone?”

“No. I was with him.”

“How about Lorraine? Was she there too? Or was she out for the evening?”

Big Jake didn’t like Myron using his wife’s first name. “None of your business.”

“Be that as it may, I’d still like to talk to Randy.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want Randy mixed up in this.”

“In what?”

“Hey,” he pointed at Myron, “I don’t like your attitude.”

“You don’t?” Myron gave him the wide game-show-host smile and waited. Big Jake looked confused. “Is this better? Rosier, am I right?”

“Get out.”

“I would say, ‘Who’s going to make me,’ but really, that would be sooo expected.”

Big Jake smiled and stepped right up to Myron. “You wanna know who’s going to make you?”

“Wait, hold on, let me check the script.” Myron mimed flipping pages. “Okay here it is. I say, ‘No, who?’ Then you say, ‘I am.’ ”

“Got that straight.”

“Jake?”

“What?”

“Are any of your children home?” Myron asked.

“Why? What’s that gotta do with anything?”

“Lorraine, well, she already knows you’re a little man,” Myron said, not moving an inch, “but I’d hate to beat your ass in front of your kids.”

Jake’s breathing turned into a snort. He didn’t back up, but he was having trouble holding the eye contact. “Ah, you ain’t worth it.”

Myron rolled his eyes, but he bit back the that’s-the-next-line-in-the-script rejoinder. Maturity.

“Anyway, my son broke up with that slut.”

“By slut, you mean . . . ?”

“Aimee. He dumped her.”

“When?”

“Three, four months ago. He was done with her.”

“They went to the prom together last week.”

“That was for show.”

“For show?”

He shrugged. “I’m not surprised any of this happened.”

“Why do you say that, Jake?”

“Because Aimee was no good. She was a slut.”

Myron felt his blood tick. “And why do you say that?”

“I know her, okay? I know the whole family. My son has a bright future. He’s going to Dartmouth in the fall, and I want nothing getting in the way of that. So listen to me, Mr. Basketball. Yeah, I know who you are. You think you’re such hot stuff. Big, tough basketball stud who never made it to the pros. Big-time All-American who crapped out in the end. Who couldn’t hack it once the going got tough.”

Big Jake grinned.

“Wait, is this the part where I break down and cry?” Myron asked.

Big Jake put his finger on Myron’s chest. “You just stay the hell away from my son, you understand me? He has nothing to do with that slut’s disappearance.”

Myron’s hand shot forward. He grabbed Jake by the balls, and squeezed. Jake’s eyes flew open. Myron positioned his body so that nobody could see what he was doing. Then he leaned in so he could whisper in Jake’s ear.

“We’re not going to call Aimee that anymore, are we, Jake? Feel free to nod.”

Big Jake nodded. His face was turning purple. Myron closed his eyes, cursed himself, let go. Jake sucked in a deep breath, staggered back, dropped to one knee. Myron felt like a dope, losing control like that.

“Hey, look, I’m just trying to—”

“Get out,” Jake hissed. “Just . . . just leave me alone.”

And this time, Myron obeyed.

From the front seat of a Buick Skylark, the Twins watched Myron walk down the Wolfs’ driveway.

“There’s our boy.”

“Yep.”

They weren’t really twins. They weren’t even brothers. They didn’t look alike. They did share a birthday, September 24, but Jeb was eight years older than Orville. That was part of how they got the name—having the same birthday. The other was how they met: at a Minnesota Twins baseball game. Some would claim that it was a sadistic turn of fate or ridiculously bad star alignment that brought them together. Others would claim that there was a bond there, two lost souls that recognized a kindred spirit, as if their streak of cruelty and psychosis were some kind of magnet that drew them to each other.

Jeb and Orville met in the bleachers at the Dome in Minneapolis when Jeb, the older Twin, got into a fight with five beer-marinated head cases. Orville stepped in and together they put all five in the hospital. That was eight years ago. Three of the guys were still in comas.

Jeb and Orville stayed together.

These two men, both life-loners, neither married, never in a long-term relationship, became inseparable. They moved around from city to city, town to town, always leaving havoc in their wake. For fun, they would enter bars and pick fights and see how close they could come to killing a man without actually killing him. When they destroyed a drug-dealing motorcycle gang in Montana, their rep was cemented.

Jeb and Orville did not look dangerous. Jeb wore an ascot and smoking jacket. Orville had the Woodstock thing going on—a ponytail, scruffy facial hair, pink-tinted glasses, and a tie-dyed shirt. They sat in the car and watched Myron.

Jeb began singing, as he always did, mixing English songs with his own Spanish interpretation. Right now he was singing the Police’s “Message in a Bottle.”