“Understood,” Mercer said.

He let go of the radio and wiped the rain from his forehead with the back of his hand.

His skin looked gray under the yellow beam of his patrol car’s headlights.

“You’re Arthur Hale,” Mercer said, more to himself than to me.

“I was,” I said.

“The file on you,” Mercer started, his voice trailing off. “There isn’t one.”

“That is the point,” I said.

The deputy, Thomas, was still holding his shotgun at his side, his fingers twitching against the metal trigger guard.

“Put the safety on, Thomas,” I told him.

The deputy looked at Mercer.

Mercer nodded once, a sharp, jerky movement.

The deputy reached down and clicked the safety into place.

The sound was a dry, plastic snap in the wet silence.

The black SUV’s engine rumbled behind them.

Charles Whitmore took three steps forward, his leather shoes sinking into the mud of the driveway.

“What are you doing, Mercer?” Charles demanded. “I pay for your department’s vehicles. I pay for your house.”

Mercer did not look at him.

“Charles, shut up,” the Senator said.