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JACKBOOT

A McCONNELL NOVEL

Book 1

Will Van Allen

Copyright © 2017 Will Van Allen

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

www.willvanallen.com

### Acknowledgements

No man an island; thanks to my editor Erica Ellis, Polgarus Studios for formatting, and cover design by Madeira James.

All errors are mine.
_

For my mother, who taught me right from wrong._

For my wife, who shows me every day why that matters.
Sometimes you have to pick the gun up to put the gun back down.

-Malcolm X

Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.

-Alexander Pope

Trust thyself.

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

### CHAPTER 1

JANUARY 2008

Spokane, Washington

Traffic sucked.

Twenty years ago, his tenth-grade English teacher Mrs. Graham, a devotee of Thoreau yet possessing no tolerance for the everyman's vulgarity, had emphatically reinforced how execrable she found the slang "sucks," and had—perhaps ridiculously—beseeched her students to use less crude terms of revulsion, going so far as to suggest the more creative yet arguably less pithy "inhales wind sharply". While her teaching had been enlightening, John McConnell had never fully appreciated her turn of sophistication in this regard. Afternoon traffic, for what it was in the convoluted mayhem of mediocrity that was the "City of Lilacs," clearly was _not_ sophisticated.

It just sucked.

The world was an ankle-turning winter wonderland; sullen, fuel-laced gray contaminant crowned once virgin white, powdery potential like a foul dessert topping, banking in the river of lethargic, insufferable bumper-to-bumper grind that sapped at his spirit; less than five miles to go, Lord, more than an hour to get there, would someone please testify.

His destination: a coral and salmon two-story neo-eclectic recombinant Spanish Revival touched by Tudor, or something; five bedrooms, three baths and the requisite three-car garage, nestled in the suburbia of Indian Trail, nipped and tucked between a winter-blanketed hillside and Aubrey White Parkway which followed the steep slope above the tame but frigid waters of the Spokane as it snaked clear of the city's clutches. The house a compromise; he had wanted to live on the lake, just off Charles Road, far enough from the city proper to breathe clean air, close enough to commute for work and Katie's school. Carrie had refused to "live in the woods with the bears, bugs and bees" and they had, ostensibly, agreed on the house just off the river, agreed being kind. The house could honestly be labeled his penultimate capitulation, in a series of such, delineating along the dysphoric descent to a final arrival of divorce. Carrie had picked the house, picked the things in it, picked the Pepto-abysmal colors and then, with a cagey yet whimsical dissolution, had picked up and left. The nuance of soured zinfandel she had doused the inside with just weeks prior had been a grudgingly admirable _coup de grace_.

Just him now and he couldn't bring himself to paint, let alone sell. Some said he was holding onto a broken past. Others that he was stuck in a rut. He was of a different mind.

Wasn't broke. Why fix it?

No one had ever misread John McConnell and said he wasn't hardheaded.

The automatic door rattled down behind the slate-colored Nissan Titan to shut him off from the world. He leveraged out, glanced at the mousetrap near the stairs that had been vacant that morning, not so much now. God and plans. Inside, he set his laptop bag in its customary place on the long slab of _Saigon Rose_ granite countertop in the kitchen. It was quiet save the hum of the oversized stainless fridge.

He got the mail tore open bills threw away junk turned on the news listened to someone bitch about the goddamned Mexicans who were crossing the goddamned border and taking our goddamned jobs changed into old sweats and a holey T-shirt nuked some Hot Pockets choked them down with a couple of beers got his laptop plopped back into the La-Z-Boy flipped channels looked over tomorrow's work sat on the toilet took care of business checked the news again felt impotent closed the drapes browsed some porn took care of other business showered ate some ice cream brushed his teeth.

Last, he checked to see if the Iraq War was still going on (it was) and if there were any reported casualties, in particular his brother (there wasn't). Then he went to bed.

It was a Tuesday. Much like the day before.

He had no plans for tomorrow to be any different.

Portland, Oregon

Forty-five futile minutes after her foray into the Portland nightlife was deemed an epic fail Angela Flynn capitulated to her Starbucks, where she whiled away weekend mornings over lattes and her laptop, observing young, happy couples pushing strollers past the window as her telltale biological clock tick-tocked away. No babies at this hour, the place dead save a glassy-eyed couple in the corner that might be hard at making one before the night was over. She pretended not to watch them kiss and grope, nibbling her own lip as she nursed a decaf because, pathetic as it sounded in her own ears, she had work in the morning. She should go home.

But no one at home, her cats notwithstanding, was why she was out in the first place.

As a homebody in Seattle her nights of leisure had consisted of a hot bath, the latest Nora Roberts, dark chocolate and a glass (or three) of Pinot. Portland lacked the deep, cast-iron tub she had grown so fond of, and bereft she had spent the last six months curled on her sofa with the cats and TiVoed reruns of Firefly and those garrulous Gilmores (wine and chocolate still abundantly at hand), all in all a tolerable but distant second to the escapism of those idyllic baths. And lately she wasn't so sure she liked being a homebody, a revelation to be blamed on her apartment's recalcitrant, off-white fiberglass shower insert. More specifically its staid but indifferent attitude. Had she a more amenable tub she might never have been so enlightened in the first place and gone about her homebodiness in bliss. Being lonely was one thing, being _aware_ that you were lonely quite another. Perhaps it was the vigor of her new job, filled with busier people busying about busier lives, but she was starting to think she might be missing out on, well, for brevity, call it life. And, if she was being honest, and not without wincing, (God forbid her mother hear her think it five hundred miles away) it wasn't just life—a ballgame with coworkers, drinks with the girls, movie with friends—it was the presence of _a man_.

Not that a man in her life would solve all her problems but she longed for masculine laughter tickling her ear, his smell on her pillow, the feel of a five o'clock shadow against her face as he leaned in for an evening kiss, sometimes soft, sometimes hot and urgent. And maybe it was just the accumulated wine and chocolate talking, or Nora's inexhaustible libidinous imagination stirring her own, but she yearned for sex, and not just sex, _good sex_ , panting throes of orgasm in tangled, sweaty sheets and it had been _too long,_ unless you count that drunken eight-second ride on cowboy-wannabe Ricky Mercer in the front seat of his Durango last year (which she did not).

A cry for help? No, a call to action. It had not started out well.

Evidently her going-out clothes had shrunk with disuse. Daunted but determined, she had boldly settled for blue jeans and a U-Dub sweatshirt, the Husky purple and gold never letting her down in college (college over a decade ago but no time for analysis). She then fretted at rarely worn makeup; powder and eyeliner in place, the lip gloss gave her trouble, her cats were no help so she opted for a shimmering crystal-pink like her younger sister preferred. A little product to her smart-bobbed hair and she was good to go.

New girl, new town, she had no idea _where_ to go. She settled for proximity, a bar ten minutes from her apartment that always seemed happening, tonight no exception.

Thirty painful seconds inside it was embarrassingly evident she had settled wrong. Severely under-dressed and ostentatiously over-aged she made a hasty exit, but not one to give up so easily, she tried the Irish pub down the street.

It wasn't happening at all. It was as un-happening as a morgue. She ordered a BV and Coke and took a booth. In the booth across, three women ten years her senior and eight sizes larger (score a few points for her body image) downed pitcher after pitcher of Coors Light between wings and nachos and step-outs to smoke. A couple couples raucously shoot pool. The only other patron was cranky guy seething into his cellphone to her left. The rest not much to look at but cranky guy was tall and handsome, well dressed in a yellow sweater and khakis, and likely gay. He caught her stare, glared in return, gave her his back, doubling up on the venom into his phone.

After the ice melted in her drink she called it quits, the Starbucks a last ditch before the dismal comfort of home. Frannie the barista was too busy—like the couple in the corner glued at the lips—closing up to see her wave through the window before tripping over her own feet. The earth tilted, the sidewalk careened crazily quick to meet her face—

Strong hands caught her around the waist.

"Whoa! In a hurry, are we?" purred from above.

She twisted to find cranky cell guy from the pub smiling.

"I'm, wow, I'm so sorry." Embarrassed, she put some space between them.

"Nothing to be sorry for." He adjusted her coat collar. That should have bothered her, a stranger reaching out like that, but he had saved her from smashing her face, and his smile was charming, his eyes warm, sparkling tropical seas. She must have been mistaken earlier about him being so angry.

"Seriously, I almost face-planted there. You saved me some extensive plastic surgery, not to mention the last of my pride. I really can walk." She shook her head at her lameness. "Thank you."

" _Seriously,_ thank _you_. I can't imagine anything damaging such a beautiful face. Miss...?"

Five minutes later they were back at the pub.

It wasn't that she was bad at meeting men, just bad at meeting the right ones, and when she did she failed to say the right things. She wasn't her sister, she lacked Marissa's boldness and quick wit, not to mention her mesmerizing "fuck me" eyes and legs that stretched to heaven. Some girls had all the perks. But tonight, she was feeling rather perky herself.

She talked and talked. About how she had arrived in Portland by way of Seattle, before that San Fran, and before that her college years back at UW, omitting starting out life in Eastern Washington because who needed that dreariness in their personal _bona fide_ s? Marketing for a web firm now but had earned her master's in design, what kind didn't really matter. She had cloudy dreams, although one particularly lucid one was paying off her student debt. Never married, no children, casually open to the idea, no hurry, really, no that wasn't a hint. No real hobbies to speak of—she confessed she was dreadfully boring, his earnest gaze saying that wasn't true as he waved for another round of drinks.

He was more masculine than anyone in a lemon chiffon button-down ever had a right to be and she chided herself for thinking he was gay, her bias against yellow sweaters patently unfitting. He was tall and attentive and she felt a warm wave wash over her, that long-neglected tightness between her legs tingling as his bright eyes keenly bore into her, his devil-can-care smile drawing her out more and more. She could feel the heat of his body as she carried on, like a busted faucet with no wrench in sight and it wasn't just her buzz after the third glass of wine. When she finally did calm her torrent of TMI she asked about him and his phone conversation earlier and he turned somber, his turn to share, about his brother, addicted to pills and booze, refused to go to rehab though let's be honest, the fifth time so what was the point? But you didn't give up on family, you know, and she did, she loved her sister, like crazy by her fifth glass of Kendall Jackson, even though they weren't speaking so much these days.

His hand found hers on the table and those eyes were really, really blue. When he told her she was the most beautiful girl he had ever had the courage to talk to she knew he was lying, and her laughter wounded him and she apologized. He leaned in and kissed her, and damn if at that moment she didn't feel beautiful. She was overwhelmed by his woodsy lavender cologne, or maybe it was his hand sliding up her inner thigh, and they made out like naughty teenagers until desire dampened her panties and the barkeep yelled "last call for alcohol!" and they came apart to find they were the only ones left in the place.

They made out against his black Porsche, and she invited him over for some wine and he said wine would be just fine and he followed her home. Hushing each other unsteadily up the stairs she fumbled with the key. Once inside she put on some Aimee Mann, did a quick mirror check and cracked open a bottle of Pinot. They talked on the sofa but soon were fooling around again.

Then a switch was flipped.

With a furtive impatience, his fingers jammed down the back of her jeans, pressed onward into the crevasse of her ass. Too fast, she stopped him, at least thought she had, but he kept driving his hand downward, fingers probing right above her rectum. She broke the kiss and smiled, pulled on his arm, cooing "slow down," but his other hand was already clawing down her pelvis, fingers digging painfully into the soft, sensitive mound of her vagina as the warm blue of his eyes turned to frigid ice floes and she knew she had been right before, he had been angry in the bar, crazily infuriated because that's what she saw now.

She told him firmly _STOP!_ but that wasn't a gear in his box anymore as an inhuman snarl eclipsed his debonair smile. There was confusion, and embarrassment, _she had wanted his hand down there._ That thought died as that hand pulled back and swung in a wide arc, knuckles mashing her lips against her teeth. Aimee Mann's haunting voice floated over her as she sprawled hard across the floor.

She wasn't what her mom would call a "sissy." Absorbing the blow enough to consider fight or flight that split second of indecision was her undoing. He took a lunging step, kicked her in the stomach and air _woofed!_ out of her. He followed up with a jab to her nose, then bashed her head against the carpet until she was stunned. Pushing at him with vague arms as he ripped down her jeans, she became aware he was calling her something, "a teasing little whore!" in some guttural language, and he knew she wanted it and hell if she wasn't going to get it, he was going to teach her a lesson and he would slit her throat if she kept fighting. _Jesus. Did he have a knife?_

A painful ache radiated throughout her abdomen but she tried to scream, and this only enraged him further. He became more unrestrained in slapping her, punching her, elbowing her thighs. She couldn't breathe, couldn't fend him off. Panties were ripped away and he fell on her, crushing what little wind remained from her lungs as he forced her legs apart, slid inside her with such ease, her earlier arousal making insidiously cruel the penetration, _the violation_ , which made the humiliation all the more unbearable. The sickening feel of him inside her made the wine sour and her stomach twist. Arms weakly but desperately clawed, legs tried to squeeze him out of her body as she attempted another scream that he smothered with his hand, chuckling malignantly as he grabbed her mousy hair with the other and banged her head against the floor until she fell into deep darkness.

She should've stayed there. Instead she reluctantly awoke on her stomach, a burning in her rectum, throbbing with every violent thrust. Blood caked her nose, had coagulated in her throat and she coughed a dark rouge clot onto the carnation carpet already covered in vintage red from her vomit. The cat hair was noticeable down here. Where were her cats? She heard something, the searing sensation in her anus accompanied by a hissing counterpoint.

" _Seven hundred and ten Mississippi...Seven hundred and eleven Mississippi..."_

Her fingernails dug into the carpet as horror and shame immobilized her. Frozen save the raging fire in her scalp, stomach and anus. Her mother and sister, _oh God_. She had brought this upon herself. She prayed for it to stop, to be over, let him kill her, and finally after a thousand years he gargled deep in his throat then lay on top of her panting into her ear, and she knew this was it, but it wasn't, God wasn't listening, and the devil wasn't going to kill her. Instead he kissed her cheek and whispered how good it was, how tight her asshole had been and "what a delight it was to wreck it."

He stated matter-of-factly: "Eight hundred and forty-seven. You're an 847, sweetheart."

He spat on her face as he pushed himself off and stood over her. He gave her a swift kick in the side that wheezed the air out of her again. "You bled on me, you cunt," he said in a bizarrely offhand fashion.

He reiterated his promise to kill her if she told the police but it was a bluff and she knew it, he wasn't a killer, not of life, just your soul, and wishing he was wouldn't make it so. He wiped himself clean with her grandmother's quilt from the back of the rocker the cats liked to sit on though they weren't anywhere to be found now. Whistling and grinning he zipped up his fly, straightened his shirt, gave her one more farewell punt for good measure and left, calmly pulling the door closed behind him.

She lay there among the cat hair and vomit for some time. She wasn't going to die.

All she could think was how badly she needed to vacuum.

### CHAPTER 2

JANUARY

Spokane, Washington

It was a Wednesday.

He got the mail tore open bills threw away the junk turned on the news listened to more bitching about the goddamned bankers who were robbing people of their goddamned homes and people losing their goddamned jobs changed into old sweats and a holey T-shirt nuked some Hot Pockets—

His cell rang. He checked the caller ID. "Hey, Anj. Happy New Year. How's the new gig?"

She whispered something.

"Didn't catch that." She said it again. Still not audible. "I can't hear—"

"I was raped."

Silence. As heavy as a house. He wanted to ask if he had heard right but knew he had.

"Hello?"

"I'm here. Are you—where are you?"

"I'm at the hospital."

"What hospital?"

"Legacy Emanuel. Don't come. I'm okay."

He was already heading for the door.

"Johnny!"

"What?"

She let out a ragged breath. "Don't—don't tell my mom? Okay? Or Missy. _Anyone_ ," her voice cracked.

"Anj—"

" _No!_ Promise me." A wave of cold nostalgia washed over him. No. _Déjà vu_.

"I promise."

Portland, Oregon

She couldn't get comfortable.

It wasn't the unyielding lumpy mattress, the dry, itchy sheets, the room's austere sterility or not having her cats curled up next to her. It was the four stitches they had sown into her tender, raw rectum. She tried fervently to ignore them (ignore many things), but they were an irritating, achy reminder (of many things) whenever she adjusted the slightest bit in the bed. Or if she breathed too deep. Coughed. Cried too hard. Who knew your rectum contracted when you cried? Now she knew all too well.

Emotional exhaustion had set in hours ago but she resisted sleep. As she should have resisted her rapist. The sutures kept her from being comfortable, the fear kept her from sleep, but the humiliation was the worst. She was now _a_ _victim_. _A victim_ who had lain there on her apartment floor in shock and terror. Choked on spoiled wine, her own blood and the impossibility of telling her mother and sister. Drowned in the shame of the damned.

Her cats had finally surfaced from hiding and meowed at her. G _et up and do something for Christ's sake!_ As death did not seem imminent enough to ignore them she crawled to the phone and tremblingly dialed 911 then hung up.

That was just what she needed; new girl in the complex being wheeled out to an ambulance amid an escort of police, a victim's parade for her neighbors' delight. _Been here just a few months, poor thing. What a horrible shame. Single girl with cats, says a lot doesn't it? Wasn't there another rape just down the street? What's this neighborhood coming to?_

Of course that was the shock thinking. Later she would be amazed at the amount of blood that had pooled in the seams of her Honda's leather seat.

Painfully aware of the need to preserve evidence, she pulled on her discarded jeans, stuffed her torn underwear into a pocket, filled the cat dish with food and, after carefully navigating down the rain-slicked stairs, gingerly drove herself to Emanuel.

She got the distinct impression that the young doctor _sans_ wedding band thought she was blessed that her rapist had ejaculated into her anus and not her vagina. _At least she didn't have to worry about getting knocked up, eh? One less thing!_

The lady with the rape kit was much more compassionate. She kept by her side even after her shift ended while Anj gave her statement to two sets of cops two separate times. Nothing like reliving horrible events while they are so vividly fixated in your mind. Not that they would ever go away.

Her rapist had been arrested that morning.

Even so, every time a shadow crossed the crack beneath the door or a nurse stepped in to check on her, she jerked wide-awake, which of course kept her anal stitches singing. She refused any sedation, screamed how lovely a case that would make if they tried to force her to take medication and her sister just happened to be a lawyer with the ACLU (Marissa did have aspirations). A rape counselor had been by twice but he was young and though well versed in the _Rape Counseling for Dummies_ manual he had never had another man's penis tear through his rectum while his head was pounded against the floor. She had asked. He had left her alone and not come back. She had insisted.

But that was the problem; she was all alone. She hadn't any friends, save a few nine-to-five colleagues at work and God knew she couldn't tell her mother or sister. She was all on her own. Except, maybe...

He arrived around 10:30 that night, his out-of-place heavy winter coat slick with rain. That god-awful beard—it made him look ten years older than his thirty-seven. The coat did little to hide that his six-foot-two frame had gained more weight.

"Anj," was all he could manage as he squeezed his eyes tight.

She knew she looked rough. Her lip a swollen mass of gashed plum, her puffy nose, purplish-black bruises beneath both eyes, the left fighting not to swell shut. Rug burn blotched her forehead and face like alien measles and a big piece of her hair was simply gone, revealing pale, irritated scalp.

All that would heal. It was the other stuff that would never be the same.

"Looks worse than it feels," she lied. Her mouth was chopped hamburger and talking made all those lacerations want to come alive.

"Anj—"

"No." She took a deep, ragged breath, sharp jabs in her side reminding her of her bruised ribs. "No, I'm not okay. And I don't think I'll ever be okay, again." She had decided she wasn't going to cry anymore but a tear trickled down her brutalized cheek. "But you're here now. I know you're so busy, Johnny, you didn't have to—"

"Shut up." His eyes brimmed with tenderness. Now _those_ were gorgeous eyes; the hazel so warm, sincere, so different from...How could she have been so blind? So stupid?

"You still haven't lost that heinous beard," she heard herself saying. Her eyes were so heavy from lack of sleep but that beard was undeniable. "You're too good looking to hide behind all that hair. Makes you look old."

"I am old." He scratched at his thickly covered chin. It came in with reddish highlights; she wouldn't have guessed that. The top of his head was still sandy blond.

"I'm older than you by two months," she said.

"I feel older. Who did this?" She sensed the change. It reminded her of high school. He was there for her, there was no doubt, but their familiar sparring was over. The wave of anger that was beginning at the tips of his toes and swelling exponentially with every inch it climbed up his body was palpable. His right hand kept clenching into a fist.

She shook her head.

"Who?"

She sniffed. "He seemed so nice."

She began to cry. There hadn't been any of the signs. Had there? She couldn't think straight anymore.

"They arrested him. He's in jail." As if that would placate him. "I don't need your anger, Johnny. I need you."

He sighed, nodded, sat down and simmered next to her. He took her hand. It felt good, feeling her small hand within his strong one. Johnny had always been so good at holding her hand.

All the cameras and security guards and doors and locks in the hospital, in the world, and all she needed was Johnny's hand. Only now did she feel safe.

"What can I do?"

"Nothing. Just...be here. I just needed someone...from home."

"You hate home."

"But I don't hate you." She squeezed his hand. The rain was really coming down now outside. Must be windy, the drops rat-a-tatting against the window though she couldn't see them for the darkness that pressed its peering face to the glass. They sat silently, each to their own thoughts, listening. _Rat-a-tat-tat-tat._

"I know how he felt," she whispered.

"Stop it."

"I know now. What he went through," she continued softly. "How horrible it must've been. How horrible he must feel _now_."

John cleared his throat. He was at a loss for what to say, like all those years ago.

"Anj, what can I do?"

She sighed. "Oh Johnny, always needing to do something. How's your daughter?"

"She's fine."

"And your brother?"

"He's fine."

"You rarely speak to her, he's in a warzone and they're both fine?" She arched an eyebrow and winced at the same time.

"He got extended with this surge bullshit. What do you want me to tell you?"

"Don't get snippety." She watched him remember where they were and why. She patted his hand. "How long are you here?"

"As long as you need me."

"That could be a long time."

He shrugged.

She smiled faintly. It hurt, but everything hurt. She needed sleep. She wanted sleep. Her eyelids wanted to close and she thought she could now let them. Johnny was there, keeping the darkness at bay outside the window, steadfast between her and the demons on the other side of the door.

With a lump of impotent fury in his throat John McConnell watched his first love and heartbreak sleep.

They had dated through high school. She had been there for him when his father was killed and he had become the man of the house, and they had endured almost through her first year of college. The distance taking its toll, it was no real surprise when she had left him for a communications major, and he had been there for her the following year when she was abruptly dumped for a pre-med. Though they had dabbled with the rare sexual rendezvous through the years, more out of familiarity than ardor, they had matured into simply old friends. The best kind.

The Anj of yesteryear had been serious, driven and overflowing with rambunctious perkiness.

She wasn't so perky now.

His foot was tapping an exigent beat. He willed it to stop. What could he do?

Déjà vu.

He stared out the window at the dark, watery world beyond. The adrenaline that had been building and burning finally exhausted itself, and him with it.

But he wouldn't sleep. He settled into the chair and watched her, their hands entwined.

What could he do? He could be there.

They left the hospital the next day, her gait stiff, baseball cap covering the barren patch on her head, oversized tortoise shell sunglasses hiding her bruises. She was still pretty under the cuts and scrapes and swelling and trepidation. Maybe she didn't know it. She couldn't hide it, though maybe she wanted to.

Going back to her apartment was out of the question. He had found her a new one on Craigslist that morning—a small, quiet twelve-unit complex in Hillsdale—with a big bathtub, one of those clawed, cast-iron monstrosities, Anj's only request—and he paid double for some movers to drop another job and with him leading the charge they had her packed and moved in by evening, cats included. His back groaned with every box but he didn't dare stop moving, a rage stirring every time his eye caught the garish stains on her old apartment's carpet.

He became caretaker, errand boy, nightmare chaser, night-terror soother, constant companion, cook, video renter, cat feeder—you name it, whatever she needed, in whatever capacity, he did it. Always positive and unflinchingly supportive. Smiled more than he could remember doing in years, so much so his face hurt at the end of each day. Despite his best efforts she dropped twenty pounds before rediscovering her appetite, or at least pretending to enjoy eating and not dispassionately pushing food around on her plate. They watched a lot of comedies, the occasional Meg Ryan rom-com, a plethora of nature documentaries. Sometimes she would fall asleep during an Obama speech or a Clinton rally. He slept on the sofa when she was having a good night; lay unmoving next to her fitful tossing on her bed during the bad ones. Often he sat awake in a chair by the window. All of this with a compassionate patience that surprised him.

Twice a week he drove her to a shrink, who was optimistic that Anj was improving, moving on, putting it behind her, whatever one did after being brutally sexually assaulted. Maybe she was. The bruises faded, the cuts healed. But she was different.

Testiness and mood swings were as common as periods of extended silence, but they subsided just as quickly as they erupted. They were usually predictable, no real fire in her, except when it came to her mother and sister. She adamantly refused to tell them. He didn't press it, not after the first time, the day he had taken her to the hospital to remove the sutures. It was the only time she had told him to leave her and go back to Spokane, she didn't need him. He had quickly apologized.

"And don't even think about being tricky, Johnny," she said catching him thinking about being tricky. "There's no guile in you."

Well. That could account for some things.

She needed her family, though. Support was an imperative, he knew that much without the shrink telling him. At least Anj had confided in her boss, Karen, who had told her to take all the time she needed.

His own work was less understanding. He had racked up vacation but that didn't mean the small network firm, IPFusion, wanted you to take it. Rich had wanted to knock John down a peg or two for years and here was his golden ticket to do so. He assured John that he would have to start at the bottom of the ladder when he returned, which better be sooner than later, it was only fair to the other technical consultants. "You make your bed," Rich said sagely.

Which wasn't true, not at the moment. He made Anj's bed. And he would keep making it until she told him to stop. And he wasn't sure if that would be ever.

Which was why he was surprised one evening when she came out of the bathroom freshly showered and humming, one peach towel wrapped around her, drying her hair with another. Van Morrison blared behind her, a nice reprieve from the usual songs of soulful sadness. How much Tori Amos could a man suffer?

John had been lying on the bed absently petting Crockett, both of them there to keep the demons at bay. He affixed his smile.

"I'm doing much better," she said.

"You are," he agreed, still smiling.

"Tubbs really digs you."

"Is this Tubbs?"

"Duh. I told you, Miami Vice? Tubbs is the black one, Crockett the white."

"Right. Yeah."

"What good are you if you don't remember the eighties?"

"Not much, I suppose," he smiled.

She dropped next to him on the bed, tucking the towel tight against her bosom, scratching at the cat's ears. "I'm doing better, Johnny. Seriously. Thank you." She leaned forward and hugged him. She was still damp. He could smell pear and coconut. Her skin was soft against his cheek.

She pulled back, smiled. "What I'm trying to tell you is—you can go home. I'm going to be okay."

Her positivity could be traced to the prosecution's assertion the day before that her case was a "slam dunk." Alan Cordell was being held on million-dollar bail. The prosecutor was confident with the weight of the physical evidence Cordell would cop a plea and he intended to put the bastard away for a very long time. Anj wouldn't be required to testify, a great relief, you could see the weight fall away as she breathed deep and straightened her shoulders in the prosecutor's office.

But John wasn't sure. He scratched at his beard. "I dunno, Anj."

She patted his hand. "I do. You worry too much. You've been wonderful, but it's time. You're needed back home. I've monopolized you enough." She smiled. It appeared to be the genuine article. Maybe it was time.

He did need to get home. His clients were agitated, not so much with his absence as with the shoddy service that had replaced him, and Rich was whining daily about it. And of course there was Katie. Her cold, mute disinterest spoke volumes. He hadn't seen her since Christmas Eve, when she wouldn't even look at him, grumbling a "thank you" for her presents that she casually tossed towards the tree. Things had soured the past year, and they weren't getting any better with his absence.

And then there was his brother. They had Skyped twice while he was here, both calls brief. Sean wasn't fine so much as "doing alright." It was true that John being back in Spokane wouldn't make much difference but it felt right to be there. Like fixing a broken compass. At least he could get his bearings.

"You sure?"

"I'm sure, Johnny. Go see your daughter." She took his hand and grew serious. "I want you to go. I _need_ you to. I have to be able to do it on my own. You've been a terrific crutch but if you stay any longer I'm afraid I'll make you permanent. And we both know I could do it."

He stayed a couple more days just to be sure. She did seem better. She drove herself to work, slept through the night, cracked jokes. He reassured himself that if there was a setback, he was only a five-hour drive or an eighty-minute flight away. His last night in town they went to dinner and as they nibbled at a rich, dark chocolate truffle cake for dessert she placed a small jewelry box on the table and slid it his way.

"Shouldn't you be down on one knee?" he asked.

"Shut up." She slapped at his arm. "I know you hate gifts, but don't worry, I didn't spend a dime."

"It's _not_ a diamond?"

Inside was an old French coin, indented in the middle, a hole drilled near its top with a silver chain strung through it. Though worn smooth by the many hands and years it had traversed, there was still visible the vague outline of a long dead king, and on the reverse a faint cross with "H"s in each quadrant.

"I can't take this," he said, sliding the heirloom back.

"Take it. Give it to your daughter." She sighed. "Lord knows I'll probably never have one. And Marissa—she's all about her career."

The story went that the coin along with its six brethren had saved the life of one of her ancestors while a young man in the Hundred Years War. He had been at the Siege of Orleans. The coins in the pouch tucked under his uniform over his heart had caught a primitive pistol ball, the deflection sparing the young officer's life. As these things tend to do the coins took on sacramental significance and had been dispersed to the soldier's seven children, on down through the centuries to their descendants, imbued with the belief that they provided mortal protection. Four of the coins were still known to exist. Angela's grandmother had given this particular one to her when she was fourteen, the day before the stricken woman had succumbed to cancer. This was no trivial thank you.

"I'll keep it for you for a while," he said. "You never know. Your sister, you should call her—"

"Don't start." She kicked him in the shin under the table, grinned and cocked her head. "Truth?"

"Truth."

"You really need to lose that beard. It makes you look ugly."

"Well," he sighed, "you look more beautiful than ever."

She smiled as if she believed it. And maybe that night she did.

"And start playing ball again. Being round doesn't suit you, either."

Wasn't quite the girl of old but her wit was encouraging.

As they said goodbye she cried a little, that odd amalgamation of sadness swirled with relief overwhelming them both, his presence now a reminder that something horrible had happened and that she had needed him and he had come. But his continued ministration would only serve to impede her progress and foil her return to self-reliance. It was time to toss away the crutch.

She hugged him, holding on a bit longer than necessary, squeezing him a little harder than intended, but pulling away with her smile intact, her eyes wet but sure.

He promised he would be back down as soon as possible and she said she couldn't wait but nudged him on his way nonetheless.

### CHAPTER 3

MARCH

Spokane, Washington

It doesn't matter where you go, there you are.

He had expected some numinous change upon his return to Spokane, believing things would be different somehow, he _felt_ different, a little, but nothing was really different here. He looked skyward for a revelation, a great, white light divining from the opaque heavens, but no enlightenment was forthcoming from that drab slate.

Routine beckoned and he took up step with the quotidian trudge. As expected Rich was more bark than bite and looked relieved to have him back on the team. John plugged along. Anj texted regularly, just to say hello or share a funny thought throughout the day, human contact for the new millennium. The brief communications were a flickering warm flame in the chilly, austere dungeons where he toiled among the server racks. They talked every evening, and he had to acknowledge that she had turned a corner, maybe wasn't going to ever be her old self, but maybe she would become something better, stronger even.

On a cold morning dusted with still-falling snow he was driving up the wind of freshly graveled Grande Blvd, running late (he had bullshitted too long with Judge Scolari at the law firm) when his cell rang.

"Hey, I was just thinking about you," he said.

" _They're letting him go! They're letting the bastard go!"_ Anj screamed.

"Who?"

She sighed in exasperation. "Alan Odom! Who do you think?"

_Alan Odom?_ "I thought his name was Cordell?"

"It's Odom. His grandfather's Andrew Odom!"

"The newspaper guy?"

Andrew P. Odom was something of a media mogul.

"The family didn't even know he'd been arrested. They thought he was sailing in the Caribbean or hiking in _fucking Peru!_ " Her voice cracked, then shrieked, _"They bailed him out!"_

"So who's Cordell?"

"It's a fake name, Johnny! Christ! Keep up!"

"Sorry. Anj, I know you're upset—"

" _Don't!"_

"The case is solid, the prosecutor said as much."

"That's not what he's saying now."

"What?"

"There are witnesses, they saw us kissing in the bar, saw us laughing and kissing, claim we were practically screwing in the booth! _Like that means he didn't rape me!_ "

"That's it?"

" _That's_ _it_? For fuck's sake, Johnny, you can be so damn infuriatingly dense at times! His lawyers are going to say that it was consensual! That he doesn't know anything about who beat me up, that I wanted it rough. _Begged for it!_ " She was crying. "They say I have a history."

"What the hell does that mean?"

Silence.

"Anj?"

A long, shuddering sigh. "When I was in San Fran at that dot-com, I met someone. He got me to try some stuff, you know?"

"Stuff?"

"S&M type stuff. Nothing crazy, but I did it. I was with him for like three months, but it just wasn't me, so I broke it off."

"That was what, a decade ago? That's not a history."

"...They say they have pictures," her voice broke.

"What? How?"

"I don't know. They're lying. Maybe."

"You need to talk to your sister."

" _No_ , and don't you either. Understood?"

"She's a lawyer for Christ's sake."

"She's a law student."

"Still—"

"It doesn't matter." She was crying harder. "I don't remember anyone taking _pictures!_ "

His anger was rising. Midmorning traffic wasn't helping. He pulled the truck over.

"The prosecutor said I'm going to have to give them a full list of all my ex-lovers. Like I have a freakin' Rolodex! They want to investigate so they can rebut when Odom's lawyers say I'm some crazy slut who asked for it, some whore!"

"They can't—"

"And I'm going to have to testify."

"Look, Anj—"

"The prosecutor said he's willing to drop the case."

"What?"

"It's up to me, he's _leaving_ _it up to_ _me_. He said the Odoms will fight dirty, they've got the money and the influence and they'll try and ruin me! God! I can't go through this! _I can't!_ I can't handle that he's _out!_ I can't!"

"What about the bruises? All of that?"

"He claims he left me that night at my front door with a _big shit-eating grin!_ I can't believe this. It doesn't matter." But it did. _"I can't fucking believe this!"_

"This can't be right, Anj."

But it was. The next day was worse, she was implacable in her incessant, distraught calls. He did his best but knew she needed more. He begged her to call her mom or sister but she refused and made him swear he wouldn't call them either. She was no longer seeing her "no-good fucking shrink." She was already feeling betrayed but he had to do something. He decided he would tell her tomorrow that if she didn't tell them he would tell her mother and sister. She would be furious but there was no other option.

The next day he called her cell several times but she didn't answer. He called her work and they told him she hadn't been in for days. He grew worried, was about to call the police when she finally answered her phone around eight that night. Her voice was a subdued monotone.

"It's going to be in the papers soon."

"Your name won't be."

"Just a matter of time. Look at that girl in Colorado with Kobe Bryant. Her name and picture were all over the internet."

"Anj, we'll do something. I promise." Though he had no idea what.

Silence.

"Anj?"

"I'm tired. So tired of being scared. I don't wanna stay here anymore."

"Come back here. You can stay with me."

"That's nice of you, Johnny. You always were so sweet to me." She went silent again.

"Anj?"

"I want to tell you. About that night."

"That's not a good idea."

But she needed to tell it. "Tell someone who really cares."

She spared nothing in her graphic depiction, or in describing the shame, the utter naked vulnerability that saturated her every waking moment and smothered her dreams. She had brought this upon herself was an unrelenting reminder during her somnambulant days and a constant companion in her sleepless nights, wearing away her mind. The raw, scathing fear had returned, the nerve-racking, everlasting, god-awful terror that sapped her spirit even while she did something as trivial as stepping outside to check the mail.

"I'm coming back down there."

"You get rid of that stupid beard yet?"

"No."

"Then I don't want you here. I don't. I want you...I want you to call your daughter. It's important."

"Angela—"

"You were here for two months. Nothing's gonna change if you're here for two more. Not now. Not ever. Call her. Tell her you love her." She let out a long sigh. "I think I was faking it, you know? That I was okay? I'm quite good at faking things."

"I think we should call your mom."

"No."

"Either I'm coming down or I'm calling them. Take your pick."

She was quiet for a long time. "Come down."

"I'll leave tonight."

"In the morning. The morning will be fine. But only if you promise me you won't tell my mom or sis. Don't ever tell them. Promise?"

"Anj—"

"Promise?"

He was holding his breath. He let it go. "Promise."

"You worry too much, Johnny. Things will be better in the morning."

"I'll be there by noon."

"Johnny?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you. You've always been so good to me."

"Don't worry, this'll all work out."

"You should really shave that damn beard. And call your daughter."

The knock on the door was insistent, and he answered in boxer briefs and T-shirt, semi-awake, semi-not, noting the time was still too damn early, the sky still too damn dark.

Two guys in rumpled suits and overcoats were impassively stomping on the stoop in the wintery predawn. It had snowed, was still drifting down large flakes. The dull lullaby of the river could be heard floating up from the slope beyond the street. Later, some profiteering writer would interview these cops and come away with describing that pivotal moment as serene; the "calm before the storm."

The men were all business. Spokane's finest, detectives, they said something about violent crimes and flashed a badge. One he knew from around, never caught his name, didn't catch it this time either. They didn't ask to come in. They knew better.

"Got some bad news, I'm afraid, McConnell."

At first he thought it was his daughter but they dismissed that readily enough. As far as they knew she was tucked in bed at her mother's, safe and snug from the Alan Odoms and other horrors of the world. For her, for now, the fates were still in flux.

But they weren't for Angela Flynn. Not anymore. She had known everything would work out, had told him so. Then she had slit her wrists and bled out in that monstrous bathtub.

She had sent a text to the Portland police around nine. A few thoughtful words. An apology for the mess. Nothing more.

What needed to be said she had done instead.

### CHAPTER 4

MARCH

Spokane, Washington

Drew Desmond chalked up his stick, tossed back the last gulp of his ESB (with a nod to Mace for another) before approaching the pool table with a practiced cocky yet fluid flow to the music as he appraised the pockmarked, burn-scarred felt. Tool's "Undertow." He had punched up all the CDs tracks on the juke because, well, he could.

The Quarterhorse, Quarterwhore or just The Whore as it was more affectionately known by both its patrons and detractors alike was dead tonight, not unexpected for a Thursday. That didn't stop Desmond from coming down to the downtown bar. It was, after a fashion, his home away from home.

While Spokane had plenty of dives, The Whore was a favorite of the young, raucous and disillusioned. Located on a corner just up from "First & J," where the seedier element—pimps, dealers, hookers and addicts—and their eternal adversary Johnny Law danced their nightly rhumba, the brick three-story bar wasn't much to look at, the top two floors in fire-blackened abandonment, the bottom with windows boarded up to protect the glass. It was not what one would label as welcoming. Yet the clientele was content with the draw of cheap drinks, cheap pool tables and an irrefutable reputation for quick, cheap sex. That trifecta won over the décor of sticky, faded maroon carpet, seventies mirrors and half-burned-out neon overwhelming smoke-tarred walls (Ol' Milwaukee, still as great as its name).

Wednesdays and Saturdays The Whore had live music and customers flocked in droves to rock and drink and flirt and fornicate in their escape from the conservative burg that was more small town than metropolitan, more mind-narrowing than mind-expanding. Some nights the noise on stage just stank to high heaven but not so much now that The SugarThumpers had become something of the house band. Drew was the band's lead singer and they were thankful for the steady two gigs a week. They'd been back east touring to promote their indie-label CD for the past few months, so broke again, anything to help them make the rent. Sunset Boulevard success it wasn't but it would make decent fodder for their VH1 _Behind the Music_.

He took a drag from his smoke, left it to dangle off his lip while he shot the seven into the far corner.

"Nice shot," said the kid leaning against the bar in a black Slipknot T-shirt with a chain keeping his wallet from wandering off his baggy jeans. He'd been marinating most of the evening in cheap, garishly green leftover PBR from Saint Paddy's day.

Desmond tossed his dreadlocks over his shoulder and shot again. One ball in the side. Then the three in the corner, followed by a bank of the five in the other side. He could feel the kid's eyes on the row of rings in his ear, the nose ring, the one poking out of his eyebrow. Looking at him like he was the king of cool, like he was a rock star, and he _should_ be a rock star, damn it, and Drew knew it. Even his ink said rock god; the colorful sleeves covering his arms up to his threadbare Vampire Lesbos shirt, his only regret the Kanji on the neck, supposed to represent spiritual ecstasy, bygone shit of a bygone era when he was seeking peace and harmony and all that bygone nonsensical bullshit.

Now it was all about the Benjamins. As long as that didn't entail actual work. Evolution was a real bitch. Times man. They be a changin'.

Drew drained the last few balls.

"'Nother one?" the kid asked.

"Rack 'em."

Drew broke, sending the thirteen down the far left rabbit hole. He was about to stroke the eleven to follow when the prolonged gust of cold, wet winter across his back didn't stop.

"Shut that door, asshole!" he barked over his shoulder. He shot and missed. The chill draft went unabated. He turned. "I said shut that fuckin'—" He stopped midsentence. "McConnell? That you? Jesus! Been forever, man. Damn, bro, you been hittin' the Twinkies or what?"

A fat, shaggy John McConnell sporting a dark suit and big winter coat stood in the doorway, his bleary eyes staring around but not seeing much.

"Johnny!" hailed Mace from behind the bar, his ugly mug split in an uglier grin.

McConnell's gaze slowly came into focus and he stepped inside, kicked shut the door behind him.

Desmond met him at the bar. "Whas' up, man?" McConnell was old school. They had kicked it in a band together but McConnell had lost his way. What can you do? "You come down here to jam?"

McConnell's look was as cold as the outside weather. "I don' even own a guitar anymo', you prick." He stumbled over to the bar. "'Coup' shots."

Mace gave McConnell the fisheye. He hailed back from the good ol' days, too. Had been a big high school baseball star; the Dodgers had farmed him out, then Cleveland, but he just hadn't the swing to make it to The Show so he opened up a bar instead, where no one knew his real name.

"You look like you've had a few already." Mace pulled down the dusty bottle of Jameson from the top shelf anyway. Not many drank the Irish there. Jack Daniels, well vodka and cheap tequila by the gallon, that demon Jägermeister, and beer of course, beer flowed like, well, like goddamn beer should in a barroom called The Whore.

Mace wiped the bottle clean and poured two deep shots of the blended malt.

McConnell tossed them back one after the other, wiped his mouth on his suit sleeve. His glazed eyes took in his surroundings as if remembering where he was. "Angela Flynn's dead."

Mace and Desmond looked at each other as Tool piped through the speakers.

"No shit, Johnny?" Mace finally said.

"When did this happen?" Desmond added.

McConnell gave a wobbly glare. "You eve' read the paper?" He shook his head. "Doesn' matter. Nothin' fuckin' matters." He threw a twenty on the bar.

"That's no good here," Mace said shoving it back but McConnell was already staggering back into the night. The Whore's door slammed shut behind him.

Drew looked at Mace. "What was with that beard, man?"

"Hell if I know." Mace shrugged. He looked at the door. "Go get a paper. And get that fucker's keys."

Drew stepped out into the wintry night. He looked up and down snowy Second Avenue.

John McConnell was already gone.

Marissa Flynn sat in her mother's silent kitchen, surrounded by leftover funereal food and dirty dishes.

It had gone as well as those things go. She had held her head fiercely high, gracious to wave after wave of condolence that gushed from the appropriately lugubrious. Then pretended not to hear the grievers, as they loaded their plates, spoke in hushed tones about the abstruse nature of her older sister's death, spinning speculative canards over coffee beneath gentle murmurs of truth sung by Simon & Garfunkel and the Beatles.

Her mother had been cordial enough. She had even been decent to John McConnell, her abrasive admonishment a few days before for failing to come to them about Anj's rape right after it happened having exhausted itself. Not a woman overly fond of emotion, when sentiment was spent it was time to do what came next, not dwell on what had come before. If her mother had a motto, it was simply this: Move on.

John had finally told them, his eyes on the floor, head hung low, voice even lower. Marissa had clung to every word like much-needed nourishment in an Angela-deprived diet but his revelations were lacking. Maybe they satisfied his male need to unburden itself but if she had him on the stand, he might not have been considered a hostile witness but certainly a reticent one. She had so many questions left unanswered.

Her mother was less satisfied with her eldest daughter's decisions than John's withholding of them. Whatever flaw Anj had initially made in judgment regarding her rapist, her utter lack of acceptance that life was unfair, replete with disappointment and, without equivocation, the inequitable soberness of justice never leaving a woman satisfied, Anj should've had the wherewithal to have called them. And the gumption to move on.

In the most existential sense, Anj had. It was a difficult motto to reconcile. But there it was again. _Move on._

The District Attorney in Portland was. Two days prior he had said over the speakerphone the case was regrettably lost without Angela's living testimony. To his credit the D.A. sounded as sick about it as they were. "Maybe if more evidence comes to light, or, as bad as this sounds, if he assaults someone else, but for now, the Odom's can claim anything, that Angela was beat by someone else after Odom left the apartment. Or after consensual sex she hurt herself to make him look bad because he had spurned her. And with their resources— "

"She was _raped!_ " Mrs. Flynn shouted with all the venom of a virago, slamming the phone on the table. Marissa was still finding little pieces of it around the kitchen.

As a future lawyer of America, Marissa found none of this shocking. The Odom patriarch had pulled ropes more than strings to quash the story, nothing to be found in the mainstream media regarding the rape or his grandson's consequent arrest. Nothing shocking there, either. Her mother said it was a mixed blessing; the murmurings by people who knew them were bad enough, but the public scorn and speculation imposed upon rape victims and the weight of defense would become an awful encumbrance for them to bear.

"One life's been destroyed by this madness. I will not allow another to succumb to it, as well," she had replied to Marissa's earlier suggestion they pursue a civil suit. She had then confessed she was tired, her affected welcoming demeanor all but exhausted, and Marissa had helped her up the stairs.

"In an hour, kick them all out. You have studying to do. Tell them to take their plates with them for all I care," her mom had added.

John was the last to stay. Or the last to go. He was a humble mess in a disheveled suit in the corner. She still couldn't decide what all she felt about him. He had nothing of substance to offer. They sat in a tense silence until she could no longer stand it. _"Dites quelque chose que vous connard,"_ she muttered not meaning for him to hear her.

He looked up, confused.

Great. "It's just French nonsense. Anj and I planned this trip to France when I graduated high school but never went. I kept practicing though. That's what I do. Practice and prepare. Kinda stupid."

He just nodded. Was it a nod that yep, that's pretty stupid or? It had been a long day and his being here was making it longer.

"How's your brother?" she asked trying to contain her irritation. It took him by surprise.

"He's...extended again. Hopefully coming home in May."

"Well that's good news." She let out a deep sigh and was about to ask one of her many questions about her sister when he abruptly stood. "I should go."

She wanted to fight him. Demand he stay and answer her.

Instead she showed him to the door.

Christmas flickered upon the snowy windshield. No, not Christmas. There was no green. Just blaring, accusatory red. Was this a dream? No. His hollowed insides felt all too real.

He blinked away the blur. He was sitting in his truck beneath the winking red stoplights at the intersection of Howard and Spokane Falls. It was still night, still snowing, and if his addled senses could be believed, he was still very drunk. He must have passed out; lucky his foot had kept weight on the brake. There was no traffic, not at this hour, not in this snow. How long had he been sitting there?

He powered down the window and inhaled deep drafts of winter air. The falling snow felt good against his face. It cleared his head enough to drive before a cop pulled alongside and put him in the pokey.

He made it home in one piece. Not like he hadn't driven drunk before. He stumbled through the door but not before checking the mousetraps and finding yet another dead mouse. It angered him, that small-snouted, dead rodent. Dead like that. He gathered up all the traps and threw them in the trashcan. Kicked it a couple times for good measure.

Inside he tore off his rumpled suit and fell into the cool leather of the La-Z-Boy. The room spun in far-reaching ellipses that tightened on erratic whim. Closing his eyes only made it worse. He did it anyway.

For some reason he remembered Marissa's watery, sea-green eyes that hadn't wanted him to go. He'd gone anyway. He had glanced over his shoulder and she had been there on the stoop, her arms wrapped about herself in her simple black dress, a warm halo of her breath shimmering in the light as he crunched in the snow, nowhere to go really, knowing only that he needed to get very drunk very fast.

A task in which he had succeeded swimmingly.

As was his wont when drinking he pushed up to his feet and weaved upstairs. He had to pause to catch his breath at the top. He hated being so damn fat. He peered into the empty bedrooms where Katie and her siblings were supposed to be sleeping in their beds, then on to the vast and vacant unfinished master bedroom where his wife was supposed to be. Neither children nor wife nor even beds were to be found. Just boxes and emptiness, in one room a dusty weight bench, its neglected weights lying around in uneven stacks like forlorn ruins. How he had made God laugh.

He came back downstairs, swished some Listerine and went to bed.

The accusatory blue numerals of the clock on the nightstand read 4:15 AM. He had to be at work in four hours. He closed his eyes, the silence damning. He found himself thinking about Marissa again. Beautiful and vulnerable in her funereal black. He thought of Anj, who would now only look beautiful in memories and dreams.

Wretched sleep finally overtook him but it seemed just a couple winks before his alarm pealed. He glared out the window—it was still snowing. Once more the world crystallized in virginal white, pristine and clean before the sullying onslaught of man. He thought about his daughter. There were Odoms out there aplenty.

Slightly sober he alternated hot and cold in the shower to clear his head, screaming with the icy interval, or his regrets, he couldn't be sure, but it felt good and he kept at it for a while.

At the office Rich was his usual prick self and John ignored the morning roundtable's bullshit and banter, barely muttering a hello. Grateful when released to the field he ran on autopilot. Installed some new Cisco gear, resolved some routing irregularities and at his final stop for the day, hunkered down in the chill of the server racks and let the harmonious white noise lull him to sleep until quitting time.

He stopped at a bar that wasn't The Whore (where everybody knew his name) and was daring in his drinking, even more so on the drive to his big, empty _fucking pink_ house.

For the next week that was his routine. He worked and drank and slept. Guilt and grief were replaced with labor during the day, drowned in whiskey in the evening, ignored with difficult sleep at night, sleep that never left him feeling rested.

The only aberration was his brother's call. They had talked for a good fifteen minutes one early morning.

"We should do Hells Canyon, like we did with dad," Sean had said, his voice taut. "Tackle some sturgeon, maybe fly-fish for steels up Orofino way. Make a real trip of it. Whattaya think?"

John had said cold beers and fishing sounded just this side of heaven.

"Got a hell of a surprise for you and mom," Sean's voice cracked. "Yeah, I'm rethinking the whole re-enlisting thing. I'll tell you about it later. I should. Love ya man."

He hung up before John could even think how to respond. They never said "I love you" to each other.

He hadn't mentioned Anj's suicide. It wasn't something a man at war needed to hear.

### CHAPTER 5

APRIL

Portland, Oregon

It was becoming a mantra.

_Traffic sucked_.

It was raining in the City of Roses, and no roses today, just the wet, dead asphalt between bumpers. The morning chill had given up as the afternoon brought a sluggish warmth that made the air thick and fogged the windshield. He could feel a trickle of sweat making its way down his spine despite the stir of breeze through the open window.

Mrs. Flynn had called: Would he mind driving down and bringing back Angela's belongings? Marissa was planning to go down to Portland after school ended, however her mother had other ideas, wanted John to handle it while her daughter remained immersed in finals. He had agreed, of course, not only out of obligation but because he was on the same page as Mrs. Flynn. For Marissa, down here, there were no roses either. Only plaguing questions with unhealthy answers.

Despite the uncomfortable clamminess he had sat in his truck awhile before knocking on the apartment manager's door. When he did he was greeted by Waldo or Wally, the goofy-looking guy who had first shown him the apartment.

"Here to see the two-bedroom?"

"I'm here about Angela Flynn's belongings." It was no cakewalk for him either. He wanted to be done and gone, the grill of his truck pointed back north.

"Oh. Yes." Waldo shook his head sadly. "I remember you now. Let me just get my keys."

He led John up the stairs to 306, unlocking and swinging the door wide. John entered tentatively, sniffing at the air as though it might be tainted. _By death? By her dying, here, alone and scared and goddamn it you should've known, should've known she was—_

But there was only the smell of fresh paint beneath the faint odor of carpet cleaner.

"As you can see, we packed everything as her mother requested."

Furniture was pushed against the walls, moving boxes stacked neatly in each room. He did a quick walk-through, excepting the bathroom.

"I want you to sell her car."

"Well, um..." Waldo pursed his lips. "I don't think—"

"Just do it. Sell it and send the money to her mom. It's what she wants. Do we owe you anything?"

"Oh no. We're just so sorry for what happened." He looked around the room. "I suppose I could sell it. Might not get best price." He shrugged apologetically.

"Didn't say anything about price. But don't disappoint me and make me come back down here. Now give me a moment."

When he was alone he nudged open the door to where Angela had ended her life.

The white walls had been repainted, the green tile regrouted. It was fastidiously clean. The monstrosity of a tub was starkly white and sullen and empty and shameless against the wall.

So this was it.

He waited for her answer.

This is where you said goodbye.

She didn't have one.

I messed up. I should've stayed, Anj.

He pictured her in that tub, naked, the water steaming (were there bubbles? Would you bother with bubbles if you were going to kill yourself? Probably not. Then again, Anj might have, she was fond of bubbles.) The inside of each arm facing heaven, gashes leaking out her life's claret. Desperate to leave this world, her face calm, serene even, eyes dimming, sublime in the moment, no longer frightened, life and death vague horizons, one embracing the other, no longer welcoming.

A life had taken its own here and you expected more; this is where you expected her spirit to speak, to convey something, some virtue to the deed, some explanation that made it all okay, some _meaning, damn it_. He willed something to happen, see her ghost flutter the new, white shower liner, a flicker of light in the corner near the ceiling, the faucet to turn on, the door to swing shut with resound. Her lost voice to call out his name.

Nothing.

No miracle, no voice from the grave granting insight or absolution.

Not here. Not today. Not ever.

Only the guilt and regret, loud waves of the stuff that wanted to drown him in that tub.

He found solace in loading boxes into the back of his truck. He huffed and puffed his way up and down the three flights of stairs, Waldo just watching. When the movers arrived he stopped and let the pros take over, caught his breath and confronted Waldo.

"You're sure this is everything? You didn't go and raid her panty drawer? I find out something's missing I'm coming back down here. You don't want me to come back down here."

It was evident that Waldo did not.

"No, no, no, everything's packed. Oh!" He clapped his hands together. "There is something else." He gestured for McConnell to follow him to his apartment. It was clean but the furniture all looked like an old lady had picked it out at a rummage sale. It smelled kind of like old lady, too.

"Here you go," the manager said with a flourish.

There, lying on an orange ottoman were Angela's black and white cats. He had forgotten all about them.

"I didn't want to see them go to the pound and be destroyed or anything," Waldo said. "I'm sure her mother would want them."

McConnell scratched at his jaw through his beard. He wasn't so sure. Mrs. Flynn hated cats. She hated dogs. Didn't much like most people either, come to think of it. Had she known about the cats?

He looked the felines over. They regarded him back.

He verified they had the correct address in Spokane and watched the movers drive away. Then he loaded the cats in their carriers and into the back seat of the Titan. They looked dolefully up at him but didn't say anything.

"So sorry for your loss. Anytime you're back in Portland, feel free to stop by," Waldo said.

McConnell frowned at him. "Not likely."

Thirty minutes into the drive the cats began mewling like the sky was falling. He tried to coax them quiet but they weren't having any of it. Vedder growls, Morello riffs, Peart polyrhythms, even some old school Halford screams were to no avail. Slipping in one of Katie's Avril Lavigne CDs only harmonized the angry caterwauling. Talk radio, still no luck. As a last resort he bought a tallboy, mixed some of the beer with their food. They lapped it up and minutes later fell into a heavy snooze.

He drove in silence. And finished off the tallboy.

Portland was a bitter atmosphere of doom and failure and fire. Alan Odom was there, living free. That sat like an angry, hot stone in the back of his throat, one he could not choke down. He thought dark thoughts, the kind best left behind. None of them would bring Angela back.

He was glad to see the city disappear in the fading afternoon light.

Some hours later he pulled up to the old blue Vic that sat off Corbin Park. Mrs. Flynn was as helpful as Waldo had been as he unloaded the boxes from his truck into the living room. His back ached, his legs ached, his stomach felt like he had pulled something. He knew tomorrow when the movers got there he would feel worse. He broached the subject of the cats. Mrs. Flynn was more than prepared.

"You're keeping them," she said matter-of-factly.

"You want me to find them a home?" he inferred.

"Is that what I said? You been sticking those computer cables in your ears?"

"No ma'am, I wasn't sure exactly what you meant."

"I meant what I said." The stout woman lifted a box and set it down before her old chair and began to open it. "You're keeping the cats."

"I don't want to keep any cats."

"What have we learned about what we want and what we get?"

"Maybe Marissa—"

"No. Marissa's got the bar exam; she can't be bothered about no cats. They're yours now."

He nodded, his wheels turning. Her look said they could turn all night, it wasn't going to change things.

"And don't you be thinking about giving 'em away behind my back, neither," she snapped slyly.

He sighed. He asked after Marissa, and the old shrew cocked her head and said that she was studying, and it was tough going and he shouldn't disturb her, and wasn't she a bit young for him, anyway?

"Yes ma'am. Have a good night."

He climbed back into his rig, glaring at his two new passed-out housemates.

### CHAPTER 6

MAY

Chula Vista, California

All the moppets; eager soubrettes giggling at every turn; blondes, brunettes, redheads; flighty little things that demanded a scene, a close-up, a slow dissolve...

He shook his oversized head. Here to shop for pants not a new ingénue. But that one there reminded him of little Lucy, four, up near Crescent City. And over there, blonde pigtails and pink jumper, she more than resembled Alyssa from Salinas, age seven. Sweet Alyssa who would always be seven.

Replays bobbed up and down in the mausoleum of his mind.

With a snort he scratched at his bushy beard, regained his purpose and perused the rack of Oshkosh jeans. He was a big man, forty-eight waist, inseam a good forty. The sign read that XXX-Large cost two bucks more and that seemed prejudicial. He snatched two pair off the rack, the injustice bearable, if only barely.

As he headed for the checkout fate took him by the hand.

Black hair in blue ribbons, her little pink tracksuit decorated with blue daisies, she was staring up at him. She knew him, she must have spoken to his other angels (his casting department), her little chink face all squinty and smiley, sloped, dark eyes lovingly nestled in exquisitely chubby cheeks. He felt an urge to pinch those fleshy mounds.

She waved at him like royalty—he best pay heed. Actresses! Lord have mercy!

He smiled back, his hands yearning in the folds of the denim jeans, his mind's eye picking over the roles, the scenes this eager starlet might steal.

Then came an awful, high-pitched screeching as a gook bitch strode over with her little important walk and pulled his auditioning actress away, lecturing the little angel in awful gookanese. He had a mind to tell her to teach her kid to speak American. She was robbing an artist of his work. Those cheeks. He just wanted to squeeze them.

He felt compelled by a Higher Power to follow the chink family around. It was gook mom, gook grandma and his future angel doing a bit of shopping, out for the day, probably loaded with cash but buying on the cheap like the gooks liked to do, taking over neighborhood grocery stores, raising prices, playing at being poor, they were sneaky. Pearl Harbor. Vietnam. Korea. Japs in the eighties. The commie job-stealing China-chinks of today.

Always observe, it's what the greats did, then they made their move, leaving their artistic mark. One had to give in to one's gift, to not was the sin, and Travis Parish was no sinner. He was an artist. A pioneer. He hadn't really understood at first. As a child his gift had been obscured by misunderstanding. It wasn't until his twenties that he began to grasp the nature of his talent, and even then not without tribulations.

At twenty-eight he had been arrested for fondling a little girl, two of them according to the courts, but the truth was he had touched dozens. As a custodian at the Children's Hospital in Bakersfield his lot had been the terminal ward. _Heaven's Gate_ the janitor's called it, and no one liked to work the graveyard shift save Parish. During his nightly duties of sweeping and mopping and buffing he would slip into many a sick little girl's room and fiddle about, making them feel better, easing their pain, giving them something to remember on their way to meet the Baby Jesus. It had been his Curious Period, and it had been easier to do back then without the cameras that were so ubiquitous now. Caught by a fluke, by laziness, by not bolting the door, a compassionate off-duty nurse had slipped in with a Cabbage Patch doll and a smile, both doll and smile dropping as she caught him with his fingers buried knuckle-deep inside a catatonic cookie jar. Tina Ramirez, age five. Brain cancer.

His goings-on at the hospital had been something of a scandal and the powers that be had needed to save face (and their funding). He agreed to keep his mouth shut for only two years in Avenal, the new medium security prison.

Prison provided Parish with an inordinate amount of time to explore just why his forays in the children's ward weren't completely satisfying. His Educational Period. Providence picked a book out for him from the prison library regarding filmmaking and it all became clear: like cinema before the "talkies" he was missing a pivotal element, sound. How juvenile his efforts had been on _Heaven's Gate_ , how poorly thought out, how amateurishly hollow. The hospital's atmosphere demanded a silent approach to his work but he would no longer be so silenced in the future. Not only that, he wanted to create something authentic and inspiring, have _production value,_ darn it, he had to think, plot, _storyboard_. He understood now that he wasn't a hobbyist, he was a gifted artist who had been reduced by circumstance. An artist had to grow, or his art died.

He left prison for Oakland and took up driving truck for a grocery chain, later driving for the city metro in the mornings. Afternoons he drove a school bus.

And in his off time he created movie magic. His Experimental Period. The introduction of his own "talkies" fulfilled a long empty yearning. Dolby and THX had nothing on his artistic resonance, on the raw power of his actresses' voices. It was during this period his choir began to take form, the noises within began to harmonize, it all came together in sweet song.

In '94 he slipped up again before he had even begun rolling. He had just cast Erin Garcia, three, enticed her with licorice to come into the alley behind her house. It wasn't her black lab that scrabbled over a gate and grabbed hold of his pants but a neighbor's. He had kicked it to death against the garage but not before the girl's cries had alerted her mother. This time he pled no contest, got three years and did a full eight months in county before overcrowding with real criminals sent him to a halfway house for rehabilitation.

His love of his art only matured. Upon release he expanded his scenes, occasionally with multiple actresses, some who made more than one film. This required a delicate touch and supreme patience, it was the culmination of his education, and he produced, directed and starred alongside his angels in countless masterpieces. This was his Prolific Period.

For the next several years he worked his way up and down the coast, registering religiously, filing his change of address dutifully. Taking whatever job paid the bills, money not important, never was for a real artist. He never auditioned in his town of residence, often driving inland, possessed of a natural ability of finding talent and sniffing out the dangers of casting it. He made so many beautiful starlets become angels. Let them shine in the limelight until they no longer sparkled onscreen and they joined his choir, each one remembered as vividly as celluloid.

He developed a fresh appreciation for spontaneity. His Improvisational Period, but it was short-lived. Older now he preferred storylines, and for the most part he stuck to script. He had matured as an artist, and the Lord loved those who accepted their limitations.

Rounding a corner there she was, his little slant-eyed debutante just too darned cute for words. The mom had tired of chasing her and had lodged her in the front of their cart. Oh, smiling at him again!

A man walked past with two little boys in tow. The smaller one said "hi" to the chink girl who turned her smile his way.

He had cast a few boys in his early days but he was no sissy faggot. Truth be told they just didn't perform as well, didn't possess the raw flair that his actresses did.

He was getting hard down there. The audition always made his whanger hard. He wasn't going to be buying pants today, after all. Tossing them onto a shelf of floor cleaner he feigned considering dish soap, biding his time.

The grandmother called the mother down the aisle and they left the cart, both harping at one another in nasal gook. The chorus of his angels rang in his head but this was much too risky. Timing was everything in the movie business.

But he bounded over anyway, his head bouncing side to side like a big, goofy bear. His actresses had often said he looked just like a big ol' teddy bear, and they just wanted to hug him, and he would let them, stroking their hair, running his hand down their bodies, patting their little fannies. He had a way with actresses that most filmmakers would envy.

She laughed and pointed at him. He beeped her nose while he glanced down the aisle. Mom and Grandma were on aisle five, in a serious discussion about Cheer vs. Tide. Go with Tide, they have the magic crystals, you gook bitches.

He winked and deftly for a man of his size plucked her from the cart, swung her around into the next aisle over, aisle four, greeting cards. The girl giggled and cooed. It had been a long time since he had a starlet that cooed.

The sun was just parting the clouds as he approached the automatic doors, and blindingly bright light lit his path. His angels guiding him, bless them. He made a show of eyeing the clearing weather, pulled his heavy jacket around the little girl, half-covering his face as well. It was poorly choreographed, no rehearsal to speak of and he knew the security cameras would catch him but it was too late, the singing of his angels carried him through, and there was no denying their call.

"You have a nice day, now." The old woman in the blue CAN I HELP YOU? smock smiled as his China doll started to cry. The old lady felt like crying, too. The wet weather made her joints ache.

By the time the code was called and the store locked down he was merrily humming and driving a mile away.

### CHAPTER 7

MAY

Al-Karmah, Al Anbar, Iraq

A tangerine melanoma hung obscured in the coarse haze, the air beneath it hot and thick with the stench of a witch's brew of death and shit and rot, all stirred upon the ancient, dry, gritty breath of the desert. Plastic bags ghosted on eddies among the drab buildings; danced above the raw sewage stewing in the middle of the streets; crawled across the rancid garbage to drift among the mangy, feral and half-dead dogs feeding ravenously on the full-dead people.

Al-Karmah's living citizenry had long since fled save those few souls who were incapable of leaving or had somehow convinced themselves to stay in the futile urban abattoir. They trudged the necropolis among its toppled tenements and sat aghast in its silent markets, their empty gaze not unlike the mutilated corpses that had been left to bake and bloat and stink in this Middle-Hell's oven. Wilted palms wept for their city amid the chaotic latticework of power lines that crisscrossed beneath the bland, uncaring sky, connecting empty house to empty shop, bunched in sporadic nests of electric snakes that once hissed and hummed with life but now were dreadfully quiet.

All was quiet, for a pregnant moment, as if of prayer. Then it wasn't.

The mongrels' meal was flagrantly disrupted as they were sent loping in a dyspeptic scatter.

For their part, the spiritless bags floated on, unperturbed, heedless of the gravitas of war and the men who were about to add their share to the butcher's bill.

" _They're goin' after the FNG!"_ Craig screamed and popped off a few shots.

He screamed back at Craig to settle the fuck down, rose and saw two _Muj_ with AKs running towards the alley where Nielsen had disappeared.

With a too comfortable ease he lined up his reticle and fired two bursts from his M4. The first took the stocky _Muj_ in the throat. He went down hard. The second found a gangly _Muj_ in jeans and a Michael Jackson Thriller T-shirt who was about to throw something. It tore into the Gloved One, ripping open the man's chest, a grenade falling from his hand, the _Muj_ on top of it.

"Nice shot, Gunny!" Sheik yelled.

The grenade exploded and the _Muj_ 's body flew in three different directions.

" _Motherfucker!"_ someone screamed. Out of fear. Surprise. Joy. It was hard to tell.

Twenty-nine. I've killed twenty-nine men. At least most of them were men.

It had been this way for thousands of years in the Cradle of Civilization. Hell, it had been this way everywhere. _Kill or be killed_. Wasn't something to politicize or philosophize over. Not here. Not now.

If not here, if not now, when?

He was tired but he tried hard not to show it. The marines who followed him into battle believed he possessed a preternatural wariness, that he was uncannily keen this tour. "McConnell's Mojo" they called it. He wondered what they'd call it when it failed them. "McConnell's Misery" maybe.

They had returned to the FOB after a forty-hour stint serving as security for the civilian trainers en route to the NTC in Hit, eager to rack out for a few hours, but a FRAGO to immediately rejoin their rifle platoon was waiting instead. RUMINT was they were going to finally delouse Fallujah and the surrounding cities of the insurgency. It was a mixed bag. The sooner they secured Al Anbar the sooner they went home. But Al-Karmah was no picnic.

He filed his SITREP at the TOC (negative SIGACT), swung by the DFAC (more water, more Gatorade, more Spunkmeyer muffins), let the Fobbits look over the Frankensteins, and as ordered picked up the new MP for his ride-along. The squad grumbled but no one complained. What was there to complain about?

Complaints made you think about the _whys. Why_ never got you anywhere. _Why_ evaporated like sweat in a hot, dry wind, leaving nothing but stagnant, sour reek behind it.

Fighting and protecting a people you couldn't relate to much less understand and who sure as shit didn't want to understand you had become an American pastime. _Why?_

_Because._ Now be a good patriot, boy, and get the fuck on over there.

He remembered the one thing his dad had ever told him about his own war.

"In war you bring your own moral compass. It is not standard issue."

A good many had forgotten theirs on this expedition. Some you wondered if they ever had one at all. Like Fullerton, who had sawed the three schoolgirls in half with the Fifty near Tikrit.

" _You see that shit?_ " he had crowed _. "Like slicin' cheese! Like Arab Swiss fuckin' cheese, man!"_

Fullerton was up in Mosul, now. Good goddamn riddance.

Not that his removal restored any sanity down here.

One day you're locking up Sunnis who blew up a hundred women and children in a market, the next you're releasing them with bricks of cash to keep them from blowing up a hundred more. He wasn't sure if that was the right way to fight a war but that only mattered if you still cared about the _why_.

He was just a dumb jarhead following orders, trying to keep his men alive. He wanted for nothing. He was a marine in war, exactly where he belonged, should be happy as a pig in shit. A part of him was. _Semper fuckin' Fi,_ just another Groundhog Day.

But another part of him, the one he kept private, refused the darkness and clung to a kernel of light that was a weekend in Myrtle Beach, cold beers at sunset, the swell of fair-skinned breasts and warm, wet places. Dirty-blonde hair and how it lay on a white pillow, and eyes as blue as the purest sea. Eyes that mattered. Eyes that had never seen the dust and death and shit but had seen him clean of it. That part of him could not let go of the _why._

Even the abandoned buildings leaning in close above them, admonishing their presence asked _why._

Why are you here? Leave! Leave now! You've done your worst! NOW GO!"

He couldn't agree more.

From his position near the second vehicle's open passenger door, McConnell scanned the rooftops, the gaping windows, returned his attention back to the ground as the desultory tattoo of Kalashnikov fire rattled against the hillbilly-armored Humvee.

In return his squad turkey-peeked and fired their own staccato at the _Hajis_ hunkered behind a wheel-less truck resting on its axles. The noisome nastiness of burning oil and hot metal saturated the already foul air.

They had followed their grids to Jinub Square before coming around a corner and surprising a swarm of _Hajis_ marching down the middle of the road like they owned it, which he supposed they did, but not today. Today it belonged to the United States Marine Corps.

Feeling especially _Allah Akbar!_ they had tossed a couple RKGs that went wide with more boom than bang but still bounced them around in their seats. As they rolled to a halt, the _Hajis_ had quickly taken up position behind the truck while a few had scrambled to the buildings to the south.

He remembered hearing his voice bark.

" _Out out out! Get the fuck out! Light 'em up!"_

Their three fire teams had taken position along the line of hummers back among the buildings and had dropped at least five of the insurgents before they made for cover.

Thirteen marines versus maybe thirty MAMs—Military Aged Males as the REMFs liked to denote them. Those Rear Echelon Motherfuckers had acronyms for everything. Probably ninety percent of their job, come up with some goddamn acronym for this or that or the other damn thing.

" _Hobbs! I don't hear the Fitty!_ " He craned his neck up to where Hobbs should be _lighting 'em up_ but there was no Hobbs.

" _Corpsman up!"_

Shit.

Hobbs's was down here propped behind some steps, his face covered in sweat and wrinkled in pain as Zilkowski fussed with the man's IPAK.

McConnell slid over, crouched down next to the corpsman.

"Won't be fingerbangin' his girlfriend anytime soon but he's alright!" Z-Pac confirmed, stuffing a baggy into his med bag and wrapping the big man's incomplete hand with gauze.

"Dino's been pumpin' her ass for weeks!" cackled Natterly.

"Shut the fuck up, Nads!" McConnell slapped Hobbs on the leg. "You done then? You want a dustout?" If they could even get a bird in this haze.

"Fuck no!" Hobbs grimaced. He fumbled for his M4. Z-Pac pushed him back down. "Not yet!"

McConnell thumped the medic on the dome. "Get him back in the fight!" he told the squid.

"Roger that, Gunny!"

A loud burst of fire shattered the air. Sheik had clambered up the spout and was laying a horizontal of fifty-cal into the _Hajis_ position.

Specialist Easmat "Sheik" Tariq out of Dearborn. Their sacred cow. McConnell had fought hard to keep their homegrown Terp—his language skills had proven invaluable, defusing deadly situations that were on their head only stupid miscommunication. The Echelon Above Reality wanted to possess him, stick him into a black hole of Intel translating pages of BOGINT but Colonel Stowe had put his size fourteen down on some Ivy League POG's neck and ended that bullshit.

McConnell had lost most of the hearing in his left ear but was comforted by the feel of muffled fire through his earplugs.

BOOM!

The sound rumbled through the city. Sounded to the south where the rest of the platoon was patrolling.

Time to go to work. "Chavez, Mossberg, nail those annoying fucks outta that goddamn window. Flick, Torres, grab some high ground!"

"What about the FNG?" Craig yelled around the rat-a-tat-tat of AK-47s.

Rifle snouts poking out of the windows on the second floor of a building started to retract. He spotted a gray tube being manhandled back in the shadows. They had an RPG. Well who didn't?

He heard a dull _da-tunk_ followed by another _da-tunk_ from Chavez's team to his right and the second story disappeared in a cloud of particles, showering debris on the _Hajis_ below.

Young and Cujo reloaded grenades into their underslung M203s.

"Das' Brooklyn baby!" Young trumpeted.

Young was from St. Louis. Whatever.

Screams of agonized Arabic hung in the air but no one paid much mind. That would come later.

" _What about the FNG!"_ Craig screamed over the Fifty as he popped a couple shots.

" _Keep your fuckin' head!"_ McConnell snapped. " _Reyes!_ Pass your traffic!"

"Blue-Two was blowed up at the Lollipop!" he called out from behind their lead vehicle. "Zero casualties!" he yelled anticipating his NCO's next question.

"Still mobile?"

"That's an affirm!" Reyes pressed the headset to his ear. "Oscar Mike to the CP...LT wants to know if you want him to call in a TIC?"

He slid back over to the Humvee, squinted at the Blue Force Tracker screen. The Lollipop was what they called the traffic circle near the market about a klick south. LT was on the far side, closer to the IP Station.

"I'd fuck a dead goat for a cold beer right about now," Reyes added.

McConnell snorted. "Negative on the TIC. We'll rendezvous at the IP Station."

"Roger that."

He let out a deep breath as the thinning stream of bullets whizzed and tinged.

_Da-tunk, da-tunk._ More explosions hit the building. Two walls collapsed. Screams died. What was left of the _Haji_ began to retreat.

" _Marsalama, bitches!"_ Natterly jeered.

Squirters today. Johnny Jihad tomorrow.

"Chavez, those are yours!"

To his right Chavez's fire team pivoted and let loose targeted bursts. To his left Craig was still screaming himself hoarse for the MP. Hobbs had taken position behind the steps. He gritted down on a smile and gave a thumbs up on the hand that still had a thumb and McConnell gave him a nod.

Time to un-fuck the stupid goddamn cherry.

Lance Corporal Nielsen, Military Police, fresh meat out of Pendleton. His mission? To instruct on the new and improved policing procedures for Iraqi civilians that Rummy's Dummies had conjured up during one of their morning circle-jerks. Went over as well as a shit sandwich considering they had been policing the sandbox for over a year, most of them on their third and fourth tours. And Nielsen was skittish which never went down well with a veteran squad. He had assigned Craig as babysitter. He had also given the FNG one standing order: "Shit hits the fan, stay close and do as I fucking say."

First _Haji_ fire Nielsen had panicked, abandoned his weapon and helmet in the Humvee and _ran straight in the direction of the enemy_. If McConnell had not seen it with his own eyes he would have called bullshit. Miraculously the MP avoided fire then slipped between buildings never to be seen again.

He bit down on his reservoir-valve and managed to suck up half a mouthful of tepid water. It tasted like camel shit and he spat it back out.

In his second Afghan tour they'd had the privilege of humping the Korengal. They had lost four, including Ron Raney whom he had known since boot. That had been hard. His third tour in Iraq the platoon had lost three and that had been hard, too. This go-round they had not lost a man. Gerardino had taken hot shrap in the face but they had saved his eye, and now Dino was home screwing his wife and, according to Nads, Hobbs's girlfriend as well, the bastard.

A part of him felt he should play the odds. The goddamn kid had made his own bed.

Shit.

But that part tended to forget his other part had brought along his moral compass.

Fuck.

The squad had the zone well in hand. All three fire teams were in good position.

He rolled his stiff shoulders under his battle rattle and was rewarded with a sharp crack. "I'm goin' for 'im!"

Craig finally shut up. "You goin' Gunny?"

"You heard me, goddamnit!"

"Want me on your six?"

"Negative. Hold position. And clear this damn street."

Someone threw a smoker and then another followed right behind it, clouding up the ten meters he would have to cross without cover. He gave the smoke a few seconds to stir and then sprinted into it.

He followed the MP into the narrow alley, rifle high-ready. It ran between buildings then widened and continued, dividing tall stone walls inset with metal gates and heavy doors, some opened, some locked. There were boot prints in the fresh Moon Dust and he followed them until they trailed into a tiled backyard then in an open door of a two-story house.

The gunfire behind almost all M4 now, the rare Fifty for punctuation. Good.

He sprinted over, took position next to the doorway.

" _Nielsen!"_ he whispered.

Nothing. He cautiously slipped inside.

The occupants had left in a hurry. Half the furniture was draped in cloth and there were gaps in the picture frames on the walls. Cupboards were thrown open, their contents spilled out upon the floor. Knick-knacks, linens, dishware. The sound of flies buzzed in his ears. He found the source: A bowl of rotten fruit on the counter in the kitchen.

Other than that it, it was still as death.

He cleared the downstairs, then the up, whispering the MP's name.

Nothing.

Fuck.

He paused at the foot of the short, dark stairway that led steeply up to the roof, its door slightly ajar. He would be a sitting duck for snipers out there.

Double-fuck.

He went up, pushed the door open with the snout of his carbine.

The roof was enclosed by a low wall beneath the wide-open miasma above. Plastic chairs and a table were stacked to one side beneath empty clotheslines. Just past them was a large water tank and huddled against its base was Nielsen, silently rocking back and forth, his dome-less red hair visible but his face buried in his arms. From the looks of it he had pissed himself.

He stepped out into the light, dropped to a knee, peered through his scope, pivoting in a steady circle. The only visible activity were Flick and Torres on a roof about two hundred meters back to the north. Torres was looking the other way but Flick was scoping back at him. They exchanged thumbs up.

He darted over to the distraught MP. "Nielsen!" he hissed. He reached for him just as he heard laughter from just beyond the far side of the roof that stopped him cold.

His first instinct was to haul Nielsen up and _yalla_ the hell out of there. But if the MP fought or screamed...He pulled his hand back. "Hold tight." He wasn't sure if Nielsen even heard him.

He wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, crouched low and scurried quietly over to the meter-high wall and peeked over the edge.

He exhaled in puzzled relief.

In the dirt street below were three white up-armored SUVs and a supply truck with "UN" in big black letters on its doors. A dozen non-mil in non-descript body armor were spread out, two standing at the back of the truck, one small and reedy, the other muscular and Latino with his foot on the bumper. Talking casually. The erratic fire caused a few to glance north but none of them looked like they were expecting trouble.

McConnell called down, "Hey! Incoming friendly! American!" He gave that a moment to register, then slowly revealed himself.

They were all looking at his position, their weapons in various states of ready.

"What the fuck are you guys doing out here?"

The closest, beefy and bearded with his eyes hidden behind mirrored Wiley's glanced over at foot-on-the-bumper who gave a curt nod. Beefy closed the few meters towards McConnell, his rifle Euro-ready. He gestured conspiratorially for McConnell to lean closer.

McConnell did and the man smiled, brought his rifle up and opened fire.

There was a burning in McConnell's thigh, then his abdomen, then the _crack-crack-crack_ of SAPI plates sprinted painfully up his chest.

If not for the wall he would've dropped to the ground. Not that it mattered.

" _What the fuck happened?"_

Someone was cradling his head. Smelled like Dentyne and Old Spice. Must be Mossberg. Mossy. _Fungu!_ they called him.

" _Shit!_ There's too much blood!"

"What happened, Nielsen?"

Z-Pac hovering now, removing his IBA. He knew without the corpsman's grave look it wasn't good. He wanted to tell them who shot him. They needed to watch their six. Instead he choked and coughed up thick dark red strands that said something else entirely.

" _Turn him over!"_ screamed Z-Pac.

Easy, Z-Pac.

They turned him over and something was pressed against the darkening, sticky wetness he knew was staining the MARPAT.

"Nielsen! Say something _you fuck!_ "

"We need that MEDEVAC _now_ , _Reyes!_ " Z-Pac yelled.

"Bird's eight minutes out!"

Eight minutes was forever in the sandbox.

He couldn't feel his legs. What was it he wanted to tell them?

His head lolled in Mossy's lap and he saw the FNG hunched discernibly apart from the warriors around him. Tear-streaks had wiped two tracks clean of the grit on his face.

His squad looked fatigued and pale. Even Mossy looked a little pasty in his upside-down, charcoal face.

Z-Pac was screaming directions, administering what little aid he could.

It's alright.

The feculent cantaloupe glow of Iraq began to fade as darkness crept in at the edges. He should have called his mother more. And his brother—no fishing trip now. He had really been looking forward to it. Just fish away a couple weeks with his big bro like the old days with their dad. Catch up, bullshit. Tell him...Johnny would shit himself! He should've invited Grandpa, although he doubted the old man would leave the ranch. Moot point now. He would miss him too. And the ranch. And Katie. Geronimo...

But mostly I'll miss those big blue eyes in Myrtle Beach.

He had never written a Death Letter. He was regretting that now. He'd thought he was ready for this day but now that it was here there was so much he wanted to say. So much he wanted to hear those eyes say.

He would've liked to have said goodbye to those eyes.

His mouth worked but if there were words in that saltiness they were lost.

" _What the hell happened, Nielsen?"_

It wouldn't go well for him. But there was nothing he could do about that now.

On to the next battle. _Oorah._

### CHAPTER 8

MAY

Spokane, Washington

Hobbling to the bathroom in his underwear, leaning his hand against the wall, he urinated in a glorious, seemingly never-ending stream.

"Ahhh..."

When it did finally stop he hobbled some more into the kitchen.

Stiff ankles popped below wobbly knees and the length of his vertebrae cracked as he lapped up water straight from the tap, staring first at the accusatory empty bottles of Jameson on the counter then past them at the pictures on the fridge that Katie had made so long ago. His favorite the big yellow sun smiling down on blue-leaved trees with orange trunks and a grinning, purple dog next to a happy little girl holding hands with her equally happy dad. She wasn't so happy now, neither was he, but they once were, apparently. He recalled that time. Vaguely. It was an age ago.

Out of the corner of his eye he spied that convenient innovation known as a glass, filled it and staggered into the living room, catching the two bastard cats staked out on the arms of his La-Z-Boy in triumphant repose.

"Move, you feline bastards," he rasped, falling into the chair, sending them to take up roost on the sofa.

He hadn't heard his cellphone ring in a while. Could be because he didn't know where it was. Or the batteries were dead. Dead like his brother.

It had been Phil who had called. It had been a Thursday.

"John? Did I wake you? I'm sorry. It's Phil. Phil Leland."

He had been grabbing up his keys, wallet, slipping his laptop over a shoulder. "Phil, what's up?" Phil never called. "Everything okay with my mom?"

"Yes, she's...fine. Doctor Rosenthal stopped by and gave her something, she's resting now, but she—she wanted you to know right away." He cleared his throat.

"What's she upset about now, Phil? Let's talk later, I gotta—"

"They came by this morning, John. Your brother was killed in combat yesterday."

He had been reaching for the door but now his hand couldn't turn the knob. A ringing filled his ears.

"John? Are you there? Do you understand what I just said?"

The ringing intensified. Then abruptly ceased.

"John?"

"What time?"

"What...time?"

"What time did he die?"

"I don't—I don't think they said. Is—is that important?"

When he pulled out of the garage and into the bright sunlight he noted the lawn needed mowing.

He took Aubrey L White Parkway, which wound along the spring-swollen river towards downtown. Grass widows, larkspur and skullcap were budding among the rabbitbrush and dogwood that canvassed the slope all the way down to the riverbank. He rolled down the window. There was a nip in the air. He couldn't breathe.

He walked into the building IPFusion shared with the accounting firm upstairs, sat at the table in the conference room. The others were laughing and bandying about the workday ahead. The smell of cheap coffee wafted like a defunct morgue. Sam offered him a Krispy Kreme. Rich priggishly prattled on about inconsequential things.

_Why?_ Why was he here?

He stood up. "I gotta go," he muttered to no one in particular.

Rich, a slim man with a slim moustache, frowned his thin lips. "Go? Go where?"

The joking, gulping, chewing and keyboard tapping stopped.

"Dude, what's with you today?" Sam asked. Twenty-four and making sixty-thou a year in an economy that had a median income of eighteen. Probably made more money than his brother Sean did.

Had.

He became aware that he was falling. And this was no place to land. He wanted to throw up.

"I think you've had more than enough time off of late," Rich said.

You were supposed to share about death. It's what people did. He didn't want to share, not with anyone and certainly not with these people. They weren't his friends. Maybe Steve, he was John's age, family man, balding, glasses, pudgy. All of them were rather round, even Sam. Save that peckerwood Rich.

"You don't look good, man," Steve said. "Maybe you should go home."

Home.

"That's not your call, Steve. John's needed out at Rycoh to clean up Sam's mess."

"My mess?"

"He needs to go home," insisted Steve.

Home. I don't really have a home. Just a big, empty house.

He headed for the door.

Well. I've got cats.

"John, you leave today, you can consider it your last," Rich assured.

He locked eyes with his boss until his boss swallowed and looked away.

"Go fuck yourself," he reassured. And left.

Nope. Probably didn't have a job anymore. Maybe that's why his cell wasn't ringing.

He asked Katie if she wanted to go to the funeral and she had balked, her voice wavering, finally handing the phone to her mom, shouting in the background how much she hated him through her tears.

Carrie said to just give their only daughter some time.

"You need to learn how to talk to people, John," she sighed. "Sean doted on her. You know that." It was true. He did.

Sean had spoiled his only niece with gifts and tales from faraway lands in his early military years. Katie had gravitated towards him, naturally. He was a lot more fun and cool than her old man, that was for sure. But as his time in war zones increased, the funny stories and ready smile weren't as plentiful and Sean had pulled away, not unlike her father. To Sean's credit, he at least had some justification.

His brother was dead. He was still a lousy dad.

He willed tears to flow but there were none. It had been the same with Anj. He had no tears. Not for them. Not for himself. Not for anyone. Maybe he was just broken.

He found his cell and recharged it. Took a shower, packed, wolfed down one peanut butter and honey sandwich and made another for the road and was out the door heading to his mother's. To bury his brother.

He popped back into the kitchen.

"Almost forgot about you two bastards," he said to the felines who had defiantly reclaimed their non-rightful thrones on the arms of the La-Z-Boy.

He ticked through his cell. Clients mostly. Hanging out with friends had become an elapsed pastime. Katie and her mother were out; he wasn't up to dealing with that again. Desmond? Contemplating that dreadlocked lunatic loose in his house did not induce confidence; he wanted the cats fed not grilled on the barbeque, and a house to come back to, preferably with the copper still in the walls.

There was no one else. Except...

He thumbed through his messages, took a deep breath and dialed.

"It's John. John McConnell."

Her voice was soft but surprised. "I've been calling and texting you."

"Really?"

" _Really_." Marissa took her own deep breath. "How are you?"

"I'm fine. I have your sister's cats."

"My mom told me. Sorry I couldn't take them, with school—"

"No, that's uh, look, I'm going down to Clarkston tomorrow and I wanted to know if you'd do me a favor."

She was silent.

"Marissa?"

Now she was crying. Sounded so easy, so natural. Damn.

"I'm so sorry," she sniffed.

Oh. "Yeah. Thanks."

"I didn't know Sean all that well, not really, he was a few years older, but he was a good guy. Great guy. Charming. Decent. Shit. I'm babbling like an idiot."

"No, no, you're fine." More than fine. She was warm and tender and vulnerable.

"You want me to go to the funeral with you?"

That was a thought. He wondered what that might be like.

"John?"

"I hadn't—no, I, uh, just wanted to know if you could feed the cats, you know, check in on them now and again? Be gone a week or so."

"Oh. Sure, no prob. But...I'll go with you if you like."

"No, uh, that's—thank you, though. I'll leave the key under the salt and pepper rock next to the steps."

"Okay." She paused. "John?"

"Yeah?"

"I really am very sorry about your brother."

"Me too. Thanks for the cat-sitting thing."

"My pleasure. Call me if you need anything. 'Kay?"

"Yeah, appreciate that. Thanks."

"Drive safe."

It was an hour down the empty highway before it hit him. He slowed down.

She had been riding down that dark sorrowful river of lost sibling grief in a raft all alone for some time. She had wanted to come with him. They were in the same boat now.

He sped back up and rumbled through the darkness.

Clarkston, Washington

The stars were bright chips of ice still awaiting the moon as the two-hour drive south through the dips and swells of Palouse Prairie wheat brought him as ever to the precipice that overlooked the Lewiston-Clarkston valley. Eponymously named for that manifestly destined duo, the two cities rubbed narrow shoulders on the Idaho-Washington border far below, conjoined at the confluence of the Clearwater River running east and the Snake coiling its way to the south.

Both cities sprawled up the opposite side of the valley, light trickling back and swallowed by the black horizon, but he knew the topography well. On the left, beyond the Lewiston Orchards were the low hills of the Nez Perce Rez; further lay the brief Idaho panhandle and then the vast stretch that was Montana. On the right he could just make out his mom's rural neighborhood in the Heights above the town proper, and further southwest rose the foothills of the Blues. Nestled in that rugged wilderness was his grandpa's ranch.

He stretched his legs along the rest stop. It was a long drive, or so he told himself. The wind swelled up and with it the unconquerable stench of the Potlatch Mill that bloomed pollution into the water below; it filled his nose with dank, warm air. It was always warmer down here. His eyes followed the Grade down a series of cutbacks that weaved and ducked with offshoot runaway truck ramps spaced judiciously along its seven miles of dodgy decline. Many truckers owed their lives to those still lakes of gravel. A few owed their deaths, too. A dozen headlights at the bottom crossed the river and lost themselves in a harbor of twinkling lights.

He got back in the truck and followed after them.

His mother greeted him at the door. "You're a day late, Johnny."

Dark circles lay claim beneath her watery, fatigued eyes as she glanced disapprovingly at his beard, and more gray streaked her hair. He offered up a neglectful son's apologetic smile and shrug and hugged her. Always a willowy woman, she felt fragile, like an old doll that threatened to fall apart in his arms. She held him tight as she whispered her ever-faithful blind optimism in his ear, that as sure as the sun would rise everything was going to be alright. Her buoyant words only illuminated more boldly his shame.

He followed her into the kitchen and felt his father's eyes. The man had never lived in that house. Even so, he was cognizant of his father's disappointment in his son: failure in marriage, fatherhood, in family. In life in general. It left him unsettled. He had the urgent compulsion to do something, _anything_ , but held no clue as to what. Not an unfamiliar feeling, but here around his mother mourning his dead brother its current was much more amplified.

He sat at the familiar, worn oak table as she put on tea while her second husband was cordial as always. Decent enough man, Phil, but there was always something about him that rubbed McConnell the wrong way. Probably his soft, safe and affable nature, so opposite the direct, rugged outdoorsman his father had been.

His mom made him a sandwich. It kept her hands and eyes busy, and soon after verifying her remaining son was alive and intact she retired to bed, offering him a sincere and exhausted, "I'm glad you're here, Johnny." Phil made his own kind words and followed after her.

It was 2:00 a.m. but a foregone conclusion that sleep wasn't coming anytime soon. He sat awhile picking at the crust of his sandwich, listening to the silence until it became as flagrantly hollowed out as he felt. He had to get out of there. Brewing a thermos of coffee, he hopped into his truck and went for a drive.

Lewiston-Clarkston had been much smaller when he and Sean had spent a considerable number of their formative summers down here. Now there was a community college, a Walmart, a Costco, a slew of hotels and Restaurant Row, the _nom de guerre_ of the road dominated by fast food franchises fighting for taco and burger supremacy. Behold! It had expanded its repertoire, now boasting an Applebee's and Red Lobster.

Before all this modern progress his father had met his mother here and had then been promptly drafted into Vietnam. Each perfumed letter he received from her had forged a link in the chain that kept him connected, kept him from falling into the abyss, however black and however far away he felt, and it was that chain that had enabled him to find his way home, out from the darkness, and eventually get on with a normal life unlike so many of his brothers in arms. It was a good story, and it was one of the few his father ever told about that war.

He drove south along the river and his memories were much louder. He remembered every river bend and jut of land though, unlike Sean, he had retreated from this Eden of bucolic youth, visiting rarely after their father died. It had been one of their many points of contention.

"You've forgot how to live, man. You want your daughter depending upon a man all her life? Men are assholes. I'm looking at the king of assholes right now." Sean had side-armed a beer at him and not kindly. He'd spent a year playing peacekeeper in Kosovo, eager as the rest of the country to go spill some blood in Kabul. "You know what dad would do? She should know how to take care of herself. Christ, when's the last time you breathed in fresh air, you lazy bastard?"

At least he hadn't called him fat. He wasn't then, not really, just a bit pudgy around the edges. And Sean had been right. Katie did deserve to know the childhood that they had known. He did introduce her to the woods among the bears, bugs and bees, and she was such a ball of boundless energy and infectious enthusiasm that he had enjoyed himself, too, on the water fishing, teaching her how to cast, how to shoot, how to survive, the nostalgia surprisingly more sweet than bitter. It had been good times.

What had happened to those times? They had disappeared. The divorce maybe. It had been rough on them both.

He headed out Riverside, navigating its twists and turns as it left the city. Pulling off the road, he walked down to the listless, black water and skipped stones by moonlight, watching the black flitter of bats as they screeched for insects. It was cooler here, fishy and earthy. He breathed deep as he took up a rock for a seat and sipped coffee, the coyotes howling their blues.

More memories sifted. Sean catching his first sturgeon, carving his initials next to the others on the tail and setting it free. Attempts one, two and three to row across the rapids because they were there, never mind the bikini-clad Ferrell sisters egging them on, McConnell nearly drowning twice. Tearing up the fire roads on their dirt bikes, Sean rolling the three-wheeler over the bluff and walking away with nothing more than a scrape and a smile. Sneaking beers and watching shooting stars until dawn while fooling around with the Deaverton sisters down by the creek, his cousin Blaine stealing Joy while he wasn't looking. His broken foot the next summer earned by jumping off the pier (trying to impress Rose, Joy's cousin) and landing on the damn rowboat instead of the water. His foot still ached when the weather was damp with cold.

The coming day began to leach the blackness from the sky and he returned to the truck. He reckoned his grandpa would be up. He kept on 129, through sleepy Asotin, hanging a right onto the winding gravel of Couse Creek Road, leaving the river behind.

Mostly cattle country now, family owned and operated, as long established as the sodbusters of the wheat fields to the north. His grandpa could boast he knew every family out here and they him if he had been the boasting kind. You had to drive with caution as there was nothing to keep the dumb beef off the dusty road for twenty miles of twists and blind turns around rustic ranches, small farms, big barns and clumpy pastureland that spread across splotchy-grassed plains when it didn't butt up against dry, steep hills.

The weathered farmhouse with its wraparound porch was visible about a mile away as the road straightened and paralleled one of the streams that wound across the parcel. Much of the land remained untamed with copses of virile woods and rough scrubland that hugged the toes of the Blues. It was still plentiful with deer, elk and turkey and when the thermometer rose hot enough you could spy the lone black bear poking about the berry bushes. Behind the house were several outbuildings: a barn, a workshop, the old stables and then pasture. Beyond rose a background of folds of brown foothills.

Passing under the simple sign carved out of larch he read: STEELHEAD RANCH and in postscript below: SHIRKERS NEED NOT APPLY!

He stopped in the middle of the wooden flat-bridge to peer down into the burbling creek. They were still there, fat rainbows with their tails wagging, awaiting their hapless breakfast.

More memories bubbled to the surface. His dad teaching them how to fly-cast, 10 and 12, 10 and 12; cleaning their catch before hungrily devouring a lunch of peanut butter and honey on whole wheat, apples plucked fresh, a slice of grandma's blue-rhubarb pie. Washing it all down with lemonade, fresh-squeezed and real sugar, none of that saccharin/sucralose bullshit, sour enough to pucker your lips as you sprawled out on the bank to let your clothes dry, the hot sunshine of high noon above, a full day's fishing behind. The day a rattler had slithered up behind Sean, he couldn't have been more than six. Their dad kicked it to death against the rocks in his steel-toed boots then cut the rattle off and gave it to his brother, who had kept it in his pocket, taking it to school every day, bragging about the encounter. The serpent must have been ten feet long by third grade, fangs as big as Bowie knives by fourth. Probably still in Sean's pocket now for all he knew.

Or it had been.

He clucked his tongue. "Not today fellas," he said, letting the trout off the hook.

He parked in the wide gravel driveway. His grandpa was already up and about feeding the chickens in the yard. Not feeding them as much as leading them clucking and pecking towards the henhouse.

"Morning, Grandpa."

The old man squinted into the sun at him. He was in his customary overalls. He looked perhaps a bit more stooped, maybe a little less of the cropped white hair on his head but his eyes were sharp as ever, and though not spry he moved with conviction.

"You talkin' to fish now?" The old man snorted and went back to his hens. "Thought maybe I was being bushwhacked by an Amish. You forget how a razor works? Guess they don't pay you enough to afford one up in the big city."

He shrugged.

"All talked out are ya? Maybe you should go back and conversate with the crick some more, bond with the frogs and crawdads. Prob'ly jealous of those trout now. Just look what you stirred up."

He smiled. It felt strangely out of place. "Chickens got out, huh?"

"Goddamn coyote," the old man said nearing the wire coop, chickens in tow. "Got a couple a hens. One of 'em a snack for later, I suspect."

"Where's your dog?"

"Good question. Prob'ly up the road humpin' that goddamn pug."

"Who has a pug?"

"Deavertons. Ugliest bitch I ever saw."

He recalled dry-humping a Deaverton himself a time or two.

"Beer?"

"Beer sounds good, Grandpa."

Never too early for a beer from the porch fridge at Grandpa's.

The unbreakable rule was three a day, didn't matter when, his grandpa attributing his good health to his strict drinking habit. His mom had told him another story. When the old man was young and drinking hard his grandma had given him an ultimatum, her and the kids or the whiskey and beer. After months of contested Irish will, threats to leave, packing and unpacking the old Buick, they had managed a compromise. He had stuck to three beers a day since, even after she had passed away fifteen years ago.

They took up chairs on the porch facing the dawn, listening to the roll of the creek as the sun lingered over the low trees of the horizon. Sparrows chirped among a contingent of rabbits nibbling on the bank while a few deer popped down for their morning drink. The air was rich, sweet with alfalfa and mint, and he inhaled deep gulps of the stuff.

"That coyote's up there plannin' his next foray." His grandpa eyed the dirt and scrub rising to their left, handing him another cold one. Binoculars rested on the porch rail but the old man still had eyes like a hawk. His worn Winchester 30/06, Model 70 with the original stock, rested across his knees.

"You going to shoot him?"

"Well I ain't gonna ask 'im to dance. You do that enough with the fish." He scanned the hills. "Might be I just scare him off a little. _If_ the sonofabitch shows himself, which he won't. Prob'ly underground by now, sleeping off that full belly." He took a pull from his Bud. McConnell did likewise. "How's your mom doing?"

"I dunno. I guess she's alright. We didn't talk much."

"She's had a rough go, that's for sure. Hard enough losing a husband. Losing a child...It just ain't the natural order of things."

"Yeah."

"Sean was a good boy, grew into a good man. Like your dad." The old man leaned his gun against the wall.

"Yeah."

"Stop yeah-ing me, boy. I'm not too old to kick your can around the driveway."

"Yes sir." He had really missed the ranch.

They sat in silence. Drinking beers. The morning sky lit into a tangerine glow.

"Too much early death in this family," his grandpa abruptly said. "Your uncle was killed in sixty-eight. Your dad had just gotten over there, didn't even know for a month."

He knew that story. His father stepped off the plane the day after his uncle John, his namesake, had been killed in action. He had been twenty-years old. "My dad never talked much about it."

"He wouldn't. He was smart that way. And tough, your dad. Tougher than most. But they were close. Like you and Sean."

He patted his knee like he was a little boy in need of comfort. Maybe he did need comfort but it wasn't because he and Sean were close.

Their dad's death had strained and stretched them apart, one bearing the responsibility for the family, the other all the anger he could muster, and both refusing to tolerate the other. He had been sixteen, Sean had been ten. When his little brother joined the Corps his correspondence went to their mother and on occasion Katie, John getting news secondhand with either mom's glowing approbation or stern disapproval for coloring. Sean's brief trips home for leave were just long enough for them to remember being brothers and dredge up ancient disputes and resentment that now seemed so damn pointless.

They drank beer. Sentimentality this early, if ever, uncomfortably uncharacteristic for McConnell men.

His grandpa said, "You're gettin' fat up there with that city living. Doesn't pay to be soft, boy. You doin' any huntin'?"

John shook his head. He hadn't hunted in hears.

His grandpa grunted. "Seen any of the family yet?"

His grandpa had begat five daughters besides his two dead sons and like good Irish Catholic lasses they had begat an army of their own. John had too many cousins and second cousins to count these days.

"Nope. Just mom and you."

"Well. You'll see 'em soon enough." He didn't sound enthused.

"Can't say I much care for funerals."

"Me neither," his grandpa agreed.

They mended the chicken wire and filled in the hole the coyote had dug in his hasty escape.

"Maybe we should go get Briar off that pug and hunt that chicken-thieving bastard down."

"What the hell for?" his grandpa grunted.

Around noon Blaine arrived and coaxed him into helping out with chores. The physical labor felt good though his back protested loudly. His cousin was a year older but harder, leaner and tanner, making him self-conscious of his soft, flabby paleness, and Blaine didn't shy away from making observations of his unhealthy state neither.

By late afternoon the beer and toil had caught up with him. Bidding goodbye, he left the way he had come, back to his mother's, to wait with her for the arrival of her dead son and his only brother.

### CHAPTER 9

MAY

Clarkston, Washington

His mom allowed the honor guard and the gun salute. Sean had lived and died a marine after all, she couldn't refuse him that, nor his dress blues, but she had declined Section 60 at Arlington. She wanted her son home. Next to his father. Despite his decade of service, he thought Sean would have wanted that, too.

A local priest, Father Keane, who had never known the fallen, gave a lofty sermon on the ultimate price of war but it was Spokane's Father DeCaro's softly spoken eulogy, humorous and poignant, of an angry youth bent on self-destruction and his subsequent heroic turn into the capable, well-loved and respected man the world was now achingly bereft of that made the pews fondly smile and gently weep.

Father D had coached both boys in church basketball league, a much-needed voice of authority. He had been a great succor for their mother when their father had died and once more stood ably by her, smiling warmly with a kind word for the grief-stricken, warding off local politicians, warily permitting Congresswoman Gordon an extended embrace when she gestured her handlers to shoo away the preying press in her entourage.

McConnell avoided the priest. Father D's heart was in the right place; his words were likely sound. But while the commiseration of strangers washed off him like water off a duck's back it was the sincerity of those who had known him and his brother as children he found strangely unendurable.

At the wake at his grandpa's he drank amid a platoon of relatives known and new, the latter whose names he would never remember. His mom and Phil made an appearance but left early and he wasn't long behind as his cousin Bobby started a fight with his ex-wife's new husband (no one had any idea why they were there) and he knew it was time to go. He was drunk and bellicose himself. Instead of destroying something or someone, he drove reckless along the river, stumbled into his mom's guestroom and finished the bottle he had brought along for the drive.

The next day was rough. He drank a quart of water and made it rougher by driving back out to the ranch.

"You should go out and help your grandpa," his mom had said as he downed a quart of water at the sink.

"Blaine's out there."

Her look said she was less than impressed with his state. "Blaine goes out there because forty years on the railroad and ten-thousand acres is a lot to leave in a will."

"I don't want nothing from Grandpa's will."

"Which is why you should go back out there."

His grandpa was fixing the chicken coop again. John gave him a hand and then they bandied the merits of shooting coyotes and the degrees of ugly pug bitches over bacon, biscuits and last year's blueberry jam.

When Blaine arrived John grunted and got off his fat ass and helped him with chores. It was not a labor of love. When he'd had enough he knocked off without a word, sat with the old man on the porch and enjoyed a proffered Budweiser. His cousin seethed quietly. He found that almost as satisfying as the cold beer.

And that's how it went for the next few days. No job to get back to, he did things.

He hammered up loose boards, fixed a roof, split wood, stacked wood, tended the horses, mucked out shit, bucked hay and dug postholes. One morning he got his dad's old green Dodge pickup, which had slept off the last decade under a tarp in the back of the barn, running again. Some needy soul had generously put it up on blocks after making off with its wheels but a trip into town for cheap tires and some tinkering with the carburetor and he and his grandpa were bouncing around the hills, beers in hand, rifle at the ready for late-to-bed coyotes.

There was consolation in the slivers, blisters, aches and sunburn earned in doing things. He was buffeted between industry and an increasingly pronounced awareness of loss, waking every morning both stiff and sore but with his spirit refreshed. There was no idleness, no blank-faced meetings, no VLANs, no empty house, no angry daughter or irritated ex-wife or bastard cats. Just the crick and woods and breeze and all the work one could ask for, and in that deliberateness the living tried to make peace with the dead, who were fine with being gone. It was letting them go that was taking so long.

A week later, the weather unseasonably warm, a SunWest deliveryman wheeled the last box into his mom's living room. He took off his hat and wiped his brow. His hat had a patch: "SunWest Transport" written in yellow beneath majestic mountains. The same mountains were on the truck above the words "Don't go wrong, go with the Best!"

"The dog is yours, too, I take it," the Best said, reading from his clipboard.

"I don't think Sean had a dog," McConnell said.

"Says so here." The Best thumped his clipboard like it was gospel.

"Mom, did Sean have a dog?" he yelled over his shoulder.

Only silence from where she was busying in the kitchen.

The Best spoke Spanish to two more of the Best who dollied a beige, hard-plastic dog crate to the front yard. Inside growled a very displeased German shepherd whose coat was covered with the stink of its own piss and shit.

McConnell wrinkled his nose. "Jesus, don't you let them out?"

The dog snapped at the wire window near the delivery guy's hand, which was quickly jerked back. "Would you?" The Best checked off his clipboard. "That'll do her."

After the Best pulled away McConnell squatted by the crate. The dog was good sized; he didn't have a lot of room to maneuver in there. It eyed him, gave a low, miserable growl.

"I didn't know he had a dog."

"He has for years," his mom confirmed from the doorway, drying her hands. "That retired marine's family he lived with in Lejeune, their daughter took care of him when Sean was away. Good people."

"Huh."

"You should get him out of there and clean him up."

"Huh."

She glared at him. He looked to her second husband who was peeping over her shoulder.

"Hear that Phil? My mom wants you to get him out of there and clean him up."

"Stop wasting time, Johnny." She never did like him or Sean razzing Phil.

"Yes, Mother."

"Don't sass me, either."

"You think he's safe to let out?" Phil asked safely behind his mom.

"No," McConnell grunted as he unlatched the crate door.

The dog bolted for freedom. McConnell tackled him, just barely. They wrestled for dominance, churning up the turf, he was wary of its jaws but it didn't try and bite him. Much. "Jesus he's strong!" It finally accepted the human had the upper hand for now and stopped resisting, but not before their thrashing covered McConnell in shit, leaving neither happy about the situation.

There was a collar with a golden arrowhead tag. McConnell wiped it clean.

"Geronimo, huh?"

The dog cocked his head.

"You going to bite me, Geronimo?" He reached out his hand. Geronimo sniffed at it then sneered.

"Look, we're both covered in it."

Phil found an old leash and joyfully manned the hose while McConnell lathered himself and the dog with soap. As he hosed out the crate his mom handed him a glass of lemonade which he drank down thirstily.

"Well done, son," she said. "What a day. You got yourself a dog."

"What? No. I can't. I just got two bastard cats."

She gave him a stern look.

"Well they are."

"We can't take a dog like that. He'd eat up all the kids in the neighborhood."

"Phil can handle him."

"With his hip?"

"Goddamn it."

"I hear that again and you're getting this for twenty minutes," she said, grabbing up the bar of soap.

"What about the pound?"

"Johnathon Liam McConnell, if you think your brother's dog is going to the pound—"

"He doesn't even like me."

"He's been caged up is all. You wouldn't like you much neither."

"Mom—"

"He's your brother's dog, Johnny. It's what Sean would've wanted, it's what I want, and that's the end of it."

He wondered if there wasn't some dark conspiracy afoot between his mother and Mrs. Flynn.

"You planned this," he accused. "Why didn't you say something before?"

"You would've badgered me with excuses on why you couldn't take him. And I haven't the strength to fight with you."

"I wouldn't have—" he began but stopped himself.

She patted his arm with a long sigh. "You are your father's son. Who knows? Maybe the dog will give you some joy in your life."

"I don't _want_ any joy."

"Like I said. Now go down to Ferguson's and get some dog food before they close."

Another tenant under his roof. If people kept dying he'd have to open up a damn petting zoo.

Geronimo was certainly his brother's dog. Clever, devious even, he feigned obedience to the leash most convincingly, knowing when to jerk and bolt. Surprisingly, the dog came back when called. Eventually. He was disciplined and after having the humiliation washed off he was even friendly. McConnell fed him hotdogs by hand then went down to Ferguson's, bought a bag of dog food, dishes and a couple boxes of treats. Wizened Mr. Ferguson deftly added toys, dog shampoo and a brush to the pile, grinning at the pot of gold he had found at the end of his day.

Back at his mom's the dog sniffed with disdain at the dry dog chow, looking expectantly at the fridge.

"Don't get used to it," McConnell said tossing a couple more hotdogs into his shiny new bowl.

That evening he and his mother unpacked Sean's boxed up life. He thought about Mrs. Flynn doing the same with her remaining daughter. That didn't make it any less somber.

Sean's life was rather simple if judged by what he owned in the world. There was a laptop and an Xbox with a dozen games, a digital camera, a watch, some books and magazines about hunting and warfare, Tom Clancy novels, several Playboys and Penthouses, and inexplicably, a dog-eared copy of _The Notebook_ , as well as clothes, civilian and military, his medals and awards and a hodgepodge of memorabilia.

"All for the articles, Mom," he assured her about the skin mags. She shook her head, managing a small boys-will-be-boys smile.

Last was a 5x8 framed picture of a pretty, young blue-eyed girl looking happy in Sean's arms by a beach campfire and a McConnell family picture, the same he had hanging on his wall. The four of them had made a good family. The three of them had gotten by as one. He wasn't sure what they would do now that they were down to two.

"Who's the girl?" he asked.

His mom frowned. "She looks young. Pretty though."

He looked through the pics on the digital camera. The life of a marine both abroad at war and at peace stateside, the latter drinking or fishing or barbequing with friends. He looked happy in some, fierce in a few, resolute and courageous in the rest.

"You sure were handsome young men." His mom was still stuck on the family photo.

"Were?"

"You still might be underneath all that." She gestured at his face. "Your dad always said beards were for the lazy."

She asked him if there was anything he wanted, excluding the skin mags—those were finding their way straight into the trash. He took the watch, an olive green Casio Pathfinder with electronic compass, barometer and altimeter. It might come in handy. It was something Sean had probably used often.

Geronimo grew on him. He left off the chores at his grandpa's, ignoring (and enjoying) Blaine's glower, and he and the dog took to roaming the ranchland. The dog chased the rabbits who were too quick by far, scared up fowl along the banks and they both took dips in the icy-cold creek as the afternoon sun hinted of a scorcher of a summer. One evening, magenta and gray tendrils stretching across the sky, the shepherd cornered the shifty coyote against the paddock fence.

"You wanna shoot him, Grandpa?"

The old man snorted and let the varmint go. "What the hell for?"

They returned to the porch and his grandpa tossed him a beer. They listened to the crickets compete with the frogs a while.

"I'm heading back to Spokane tomorrow."

"Got a daughter up there I hear."

He didn't disagree.

"Might be you pick up a razor on your way out of town since they're in such short supply. You line up work yet?"

McConnell men always worked. Food on table. Also idle hands and the devil's playground. He scratched at his beard. Damn itchy in the heat. "Working on it."

"Well, just don't be a shirker. Lord knows we have enough of those."

"Be taking your dog home, then?" his mom said the next morning.

He begrudged her a nod.

She patted his cheek, put a plate in front of him, sat across the table, folding her hands around a cup of coffee to watch him eat.

"You know, I prepared for this," she said. "Every time he went I prayed and prepared. And every time he came home I prayed and thanked God. If I told Sean I was worried he laughed it off. You know how he was." He did. "But there's nothing that can prepare you for your own child's death. There shouldn't be."

He chewed on a piece of bacon. He was shit for a father but he couldn't imagine losing Katie.

"I want to know what happened to him," she continued. "I _need_ to know, Johnny. 'He died a brave and true patriot.' What does that even mean?" She eyed him speculatively. "Think you could, you know, dig around in their computers a little?"

"That's a lot more complicated than movies make it look, Mom," he said around a mouthful. "Even if I could, if I was caught I'd go to jail. Probably for a very long time."

"Well, we don't want that." She got up and poured him a glass of orange juice.

"I'll see what I can do though," he said, not wanting to disappoint her.

She seized the opportunity. "Next time down you can bring me my granddaughter."

Probably more difficult than hacking the Pentagon.

"She _is_ the only granddaughter I have," she reminded him in an awfully obvious hint. "Speaking of which— "

"I don't wanna talk about it."

"We don't always get what we want, do we?"

There was no getting out of this conversation now.

"I've been busy. I go to work, pay the mortgage, pay child support. Not a lot of free time on my hands."

"Huh. So let me get this straight. There are no girls interested in a good-looking man who works, pays his mortgage and his child support. Well isn't that a shame."

"I told you I quit my job."

"So you _do_ have free time on your hands." She smiled. It warmed the kitchen. Then she sobered. "Did you want to talk about Angela?"

He stared at his plate. Not talking about Angela was a favorite pastime of his. Ask her sister.

"You always seem to have it all under control, and I guess a mom wants to believe when her kids grow up that they really do." His plate was growing more interesting by the second. She sighed. "Alright. I'm here if you want to talk." She came around the table and squeezed him. "Last thing?"

He couldn't help but sigh. "Yes, Mother?"

"Lose the god-awful beard."

### CHAPTER 10

MAY

Spokane, Washington

An unexpected, early heat wave had blanketed the city but cool air blasted through the house. Marissa was savoring every moment—the apartment she shared with Karla was as hot as a Holly Hobbie oven. And about as small.

" _Au revoir, mes amis à fourrure feline_." She scratched Tubbs beneath the chin, wondered for the umpteenth time if the departed didn't leave some part of themselves in the pets they left behind. Peering into cat eyes that were just this side of sedated she stopped scratching and he gave her an expectant glance then dismissively turned away.

Was there something of her sister in that glance?

_Get a grip,_ she chided herself, straightening out the pillows on the sofa. She had cat hair all over her skirt again.

John had texted her that he was returning today and Marissa intended not to be there when he did. She wanted to be. Wanted to corner him, _demand_ he answer her nagging questions, placate ruminations that drove her to distraction during the day and fed her mind as she stared sleepless at the cracked ceiling of her closet-sized bedroom at night. But interrogating the man over her sister's demise right after his own brother's death was despicable. Although, it might be argued, long overdue.

She missed her sister terribly. Just knowing she was there, that Marissa could pick up the phone and hear her voice, however disappointed or angry they were with each other—that feeling was gone. Vanished. Like it had been amputated. No, drastically severed. Without anesthesia.

When Anj had first left for college they had talked just about every other day. Marissa had idolized her older sister. It was just the past couple years that their need to share their lives with one another had mellowed and the last few months it had altogether abated. She had grown weary of defending their childhood. She got it. They had been subjected to a rigorous regimen of self-reliance and unrelenting ruthless encouragement by their mother. There were excessive expectations. Was that so horrible?

Their last Thanksgiving together Anj had called their mother "an overbearing, tyrannical man-hater" but the truth was she had never appreciated the sacrifices the woman had made. Marissa had been in the middle, tugged and pulled as the dialogue grew heated, caught fire and finally burned up, leaving nothing but the taste of bitter ash. She had been forced to take a side. No, that wasn't true. She had willingly chosen to take her mother's.

And why? What did she know? She'd been four years old when their dad hadn't come home from work one evening. She didn't even remember what he looked like.

She wasn't four now. Maybe she should have put down the books, closed her laptop and listened to her sister more. Listened better. Gone on that cruise on the Mediterranean. Anj had offered to pay for the whole thing last year. And what had been her reason not to go? She couldn't remember. Something asinine. She had worked at the mall and attended a half-baked summer course. How lame was that? Ditching your sister and the Med for minimum wage and lazy lectures on tort reform.

Why didn't you call me?

She had to be at the clinic by noon. Much-welcomed purpose washed over her.

Gonzaga University Legal Assistance dealt primarily with Medicare and Social Security issues, dabbling in labor law disputes. As a third-year volunteer she had attained a level of notorious seniority. No one lasted longer at the free law clinic than a year, two at max. Worse, Professor Lamont was attempting to lure her into staying after graduation with the glorious promise of two hundred bucks a week, selling her on the priceless, altruistic rewards which she would soon forget all about once she started her career as a hired gun for a big firm.

Whenever that happened.

Fifty resumes later GULA was the only one knocking on her door. There were too many law students clamoring for far too few jobs. Unless you wanted to work as a public defender and burn out before you were thirty. Between her pittance from the clinic and her abysmal wages toiling at the mall she was getting by, if just barely. Karla reminded her that they could probably make more money at the new Hooters off the interstate. Tempting, but working in too-short shorts and a too-tight top for tips with a law degree was just too damn cliché.

Something would come along. Eventually. Hopefully.

She did like the clinic. It was a public good and they had won some worthwhile battles. Maybe Anj was right. Maybe being a hotshot lawyer in her tight Ally McBeal Burberry miniskirt and silk Dolce blouse wasn't her dream but her mother's all along.

I hear you, sis. Mieux vaut tard que jamais, non?

But she did look damn fine in a miniskirt.

She took a final walk through the McConnell Manor. Clean for a bachelor, kept and orderly if rather bare of the items that made a house a home. She lingered at the portraits lining the pink hallway, in particular the one with John and who she assumed were his daughter and ex-wife. Father and daughter shared such serious eyes. He was considerably thinner then, unlike Anj's funeral where a good-looking man lurked beneath the weight and that atrocious beard. The platinum-haired, icy-eyed wife didn't quite compliment the other two. Marissa wondered how it had all gone wrong.

John McConnell's house—the place where pink dreams go to die...

She spied a quick peek into John's plain bedroom. She willed herself away. She wasn't the snooping kind but her sister had loved this man. It had been him she had turned to in her most terrible hour of need. Why? What made John so _special_ and deserving of her confidence? Was it the strength with which he carried himself? The earnest eyes and the large hands? Was it all physicality in the end that Anj had needed, a large, devoted man to ward off the small, cowardly brute who had raped her?

She sniffed, squeezed her eyes shut. It was time to go.

She scratched each feline's head, peered hard into their chartreuse orbs, sought out her sister, wishing for just one brief, magical Disney moment...but all she found were mild gazes of disinterest.

She wiped at her own eyes one final time.

" _Au revoir, bonne chats._ It's been real."

She left the house that longed to be more, entering the furnace of early summer, pulling the door firmly closed behind her.

### CHAPTER 11

JUNE

Spokane, Washington

The meet-cute between dog and bastard cats had been unexpectedly non-eventful. Obstinate until the end the bastard cats held their ground on the arms of the sofa. The dog, wisely distrustful of the felines, took to lying a good dozen feet away in case of the need for a quick getaway. Those bastard cuts were cunning.

It was true that McConnell men had always worked, that he had earned a wage since he was fourteen, so it was a surprise when he discovered not having a job disconcertingly tranquil. Still, he was no shirker and, like at his grandpa's, he found solace in the doing of things.

He repainted, recaulked, resealed whatever needed painting, caulking, sealing. Cleaned out the garage, washed the truck, washed the jilted boat that had not felt the kiss of waves against its bow in years. Rearranged the living room, rearranged it again, then rearranged it back to its original placement because, damn it, Carrie had been right about the damn room all along. He mowed, weeded, seeded the yard, the front a small exercise, the back a herculean task. He recalibrated the sprinkler system. Cleaned the gutters, de-mossed the roof, power-washed the house and driveway.

In the evenings he took the dog down to the river or out behind the house, walking the trails where life was just starting to return after the decade-old fire. He hadn't been out there in years. He considered the hill that led up to the cemetery and the sports fields but he wasn't scrambling up that daunting grade. Geronimo sprinted up and down it, a bolt of speed shaking the honeysuckle and wild aster. Show-off.

McConnell did the things he wanted but not the ones he didn't.

He didn't watch the news anymore. There was no cause for it, his brother was no longer in harm's way. He didn't pursue the Pentagon for answers to his brother's death; their hollow patriotic jingoism was neither refreshing nor inspiring. He didn't meet with Father DeCaro though both the priest and his mom had beseeched him to do so. And he didn't call Marissa despite her pleading texts. He had no good words for her, either. Death was disquieting, and his life had become quiet.

But even he could know too much quiet.

One day, no chores on the horizon, he decided to walk down to Doyle's Diner. It was midmorning and quite the field day for the heat; the streets shimmered in wavy premonition. A sheen of sweat was thick across his brow as he reached the doors, one opening and spilling Father DeCaro.

The balding priest sized him up. "John."

"Father D."

The priest nodded sagely, donned a baseball cap and carried on into the sun.

McConnell did likewise inside, the cool relief of AC hitting him like a welcoming wallop as he entered the familiar comforts of the converted old railcar.

"Good Lord! Look what the cat dragged in!" Rosie came around the counter, a hand on a huge hip. "Come on now! Give a fat woman a hug!"

She nearly squeezed the life out of him. She gestured to a booth, handing him a menu, offered the obligatory kind words for his brother, so sad, such a sweet boy, how's your momma taking it?

"You give her a big ol' hug from me next time you see her."

He had missed Rosie. One of those rare folk who never had a bad day. Her indomitable perk might not be contagious but it was damn hard to deny. "Coffee, sugar?" She winked.

Rosie's girth made its way down the aisle. The bank of booths along the windows and the stools at the counter were mostly empty.

"It's the heat, hon,'" she said returning and pouring the coffee. "So what'll it be? The usual?"

The usual was bacon breakfast with biscuits and gravy, over-medium eggs, hash browns, bit more gravy on top. Not the Slim-Fast shake.

She hung his ticket and busied about marrying ketchup bottles.

He took a drink of scalding hot coffee, reached over to the counter, grabbed up an abandoned copy of _The_ _Spokesman-Review_.

Housing market still dropping like a lead weight. The Spokane Indians earned eight runs in the ninth of the second game to win a double-header. A new school bond being tossed around, fuel prices climbing again, another cluster of meth labs raided down in Felony Flats. Nothing surprising—

"Didn't know you knew how to read, McConnell."

He glanced up. A navy blue suit with slim tie and a smug smile had roosted on one of the stools across the way.

"Fuck off." He returned to his paper.

"Whoa. Where's the love? The respect? We don't say 'fuck off' to the police now, do we?" Scott Boucher ran a hand through his slicked-back blond hair, grinned. "Just wanted to give my condolences."

"You love on any teenage boys, lately?"

Boucher's grin dropped. "You should let those asleep dogs lie. Might up and bite you, tear you a new asshole. Make your brother look like a fuckin' picnic."

McConnell ignored him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a heavy fellow in a cheap brown suit making his way from the cash register over to their unpleasant conversation. Rosie was coming up right behind him.

"You boys best not stir up no trouble in here!"

"Calm down, Rosie. We're all friends." Boucher raised his hands in apologetic innocence. "Just rappin' with Johnny-boy here." That cold grin had returned. "Lost his brother in Iraq a few weeks ago. You remember him? Sean McConnell."

The name rang a bell with brown suit.

"Fuck you," McConnell reiterated for good measure, eyes still on the sports section.

"Watch your mouth," brown suit said.

"Fuck you, too."

"Johnny!" Rosie exclaimed.

"Relax, Rosie." Boucher slapped his hand down on the table. "Sean was always stupid and froggy too, but he learned his lesson. McConnell boys always do."

McConnell rose from the booth and with him a barely contained fury. Boucher was about the same height, his partner short and wide. Both tensed but neither made a move.

"Best sit back down," brown suit warned.

"Best get out of my face, tubby."

"You _wanna_ be arrested, McConnell?" Boucher had a pair of eager, shiny handcuffs already in hand. "Cuz I'm more than willing to oblige and cuff you right here."

"Oh, I'm sure you're rearing to cuff any boy you can get your hands on. Just remember—I ain't no boy."

"Alright, you want it you got it. Turn around!" Boucher commanded, spittle flying.

The coffee cup was within reach, it would give him an edge, he could—

" _Knock that crap off! RIGHT NOW!"_

All three men looked to the rear of the railcar. Rosie stood next to a tan and green sheriff's uniform staring hard their way, another sliding out of the booth.

"This don't concern you, Anders," Boucher snapped. "This is _city_ business!"

"City's in the county. Meaning it concerns me and is my business."

Boucher's face was now a blotchy, livid turnip. He weighed his options.

"Get it outta park," barked the deputy.

"Better watch yourself," Boucher told him.

The burly cop smiled broad beneath his moustache. He placed his hands on his hips.

Boucher leaned into McConnell's space. "I'll be lookin' for you, lardass."

"Good. Won't be cruising the playgrounds then."

Boucher boiled out of there, his partner at his heels.

" _God almighty!"_ Rosie gasped, fanning herself behind the counter. "You boys! _You boys!_ "

McConnell breathed. "Sorry, Rosie." He leaned down and looked across the pass-shelf. "Sorry, Dobb." The old cook just shrugged, waved his spatula. Day in the life of River City. No blood no foul.

The sheriff's deputies made their way over as John sat down and picked up his paper. It shook in hands that raged to do something.

"You aching to see the inside of a jail cell?"

He ignored that patently rhetorical question.

"Go on ahead." Anders nodded to his partner. Kid looked green, full of good deeds and optimism. That would change.

"I get you're hurtin,' McConnell. But what the hell you thinkin'?" The cop slid into the seat opposite.

"Thinking of getting some breakfast. What the hell you thinking?"

"Quit being an asshole. You can't start shit with that prick anymore. Made detective, and he's got a lot of friends in blue. You wanna end up like your brother? Like Otto?"

Otto Zehm. He'd known him since grade school. A year ago he took a beating from six of Spokane's finest for minding his own business at the Zip-Trip. Beat the shit out of him, like they had John's own brother some years before. Only Zehm had been beaten to death.

"Couldn't stop that one either, eh?"

Anders scowled. "I know this bad blood between Boucher and you started long before the business with your brother. You wanna enlighten me?"

He levered out of the booth, dropped a twenty on the table.

"McConnell—"

"Yeah, yeah, you're really sorry for my loss, I know." He waved at Rosie. "Sorry again, Rosie. Left you something for the trouble."

"You don' hafta do that, sweetie."

"But I do."

### CHAPTER 12

JUNE

Spokane, Washington

The long walk back was marked with furious strides and fiery curses that left his shirt soaked and his head feeling thick from the heat.

First thing he did was grab the bottle and tumbler off the kitchen counter. Second thing was throw his shirt in the laundry room, where he stood in the dark with his hands on the cool metal of the washer until the heat and anger started to dissipate. He wasn't looking for answers, a futile exercise that led to mission creep of trying to make sense of things. He was just trying to _do things._ Yet here everybody was, dredging up the past. He snatched up the bottle, twisted off the cap and was about to start knocking it back when there was a knock at the door.

_Anders._ Or worse. Boucher had decided to carry on their conversation. Come to think of it, he welcomed finalizing that discussion.

He returned the bottle to the kitchen, drew on a clean shirt and swung the front door open wide.

No cop. Just a skinny redheaded kid in jeans and a blue button-up standing on the stoop. Selling Jesus in the heat dressed like that. "Yeah?"

"Mr. McConnell?" the kid asked through the screen. He was maybe twenty, though hard to tell with the dark circles underneath his eyes.

"Look, if you got that book of Mormon hidden somewhere—"

The kid attempted a smile but it faltered. He was struggling to make his pitch.

"Well, hell. Go ahead then," McConnell sighed, feeling sorry for him.

Nodding thankfully, he swallowed and started again. "Not selling Jesus, sir. I'm Lance Corporal Nicholas Nielsen?" He said his name as if it meant something. It didn't. "I served with your brother, in Iraq?" He looked at his feet. "I was there when he died. When he was killed, sir."

Well. This was a surprise. Some might think it was a welcome one but those would be wrong. To reiterate, contemporary John McConnell was into the _doing of things_ , not the knowing of things side of business. Why was this so difficult for people to understand?

Alas, his parents had instilled some manners that stuck. He invited the kid inside.

The kid waved at a Toyota down the street and whoever was in the driver's seat waved back.

John gestured towards the Morning Bark and Decaf Mocha sofa and loveseat. He knew they were Morning Bark and Decaf Mocha because Carrie had made him choose between those or Summer Wheat and Franjipan. The next day he had looked into finding a fight club.

"Something cold? Got iced tea or beer," he offered.

"Tea, sir. Please. Thank you, sir."

"John's fine."

The kid took the tea with nervous hands as he sat between the cats on the sofa. McConnell drank deep of his own tea on the loveseat, ignoring the bastard cats who were working hard at ignoring him. Geronimo, after a sniff of the weepy-eyed marine, took up his position on the cool floor before the slider in the dining room.

Nielsen sipped at his tea. The air hummed. McConnell waited. Nielsen squeezed his eyes shut. McConnell waited some more. Finally, "So. You said you were there?"

"Sir?"

"The day my brother was killed. I'd be interested in hearing about that." He was interested. He just wasn't ready.

Nielsen's eyes flashed open like his ears registered gunfire then found sanctuary staring into the lifeless fireplace as he set his glass on the coffee table.

"Yes sir. I was there. Your brother...he died because of me, sir," he croaked.

That was unexpected. McConnell set his iced tea down. "So you're here to tell me about it."

The kid nodded, sucked in a draft of air, and then he told him about it.

Nielsen had been in country for all of seventy-two hours. There had been the dust, the heat, booms that rattled walls on the base from IEDs out in town during the day, the mortar attacks at night, the fear that had twisted his gut into knots. It was that fear that had taken over once the bullets were flying. Bloated bodies in the streets, the stink of death and shit everywhere, he had to run away, his heart pounding, his head throbbing with the gunfire, eyes trying to squeeze shut the screams. He didn't know how he got there but he had taken refuge on a roof and hid like a coward, probably would have died there if someone hadn't found him. Gunnery Sergeant Sean McConnell had saved his life. And then someone had shot his savior dead.

"They tried to stop the bleeding...it was bad. He was shot in the leg, the stomach and chest...his lungs, he...it wasn't that long, he didn't suffer. I swear."

The marine set the glass down and clasped his hands in his lap, his head down.

McConnell let out a deep breath. This wasn't outside of the imaginable scenario scope. Good men died in war. It was its very nature.

"Well. I hope you got the bastards who shot him. Were they insurgents?"

Nielsen gave him a puzzled look, then something dawned. "No. No sir—"

"You didn't get them?" McConnell asked disappointed. "Well—"

"No sir. It wasn't insurgents. It wasn't _Hajis_ at all."

It was McConnell's turn to be confused. "I'm not following. Are you saying it was friendly fire?"

"No sir." Nielsen's eyes darted around the room as if looking for spies. Or cameras. Or microphones.

McConnell waited. He was very patient when he needed to be. Growing up hunting like it was a religion did that to a man. But Nielsen wasn't coming out of the brush on his own.

"Who killed him then?" McConnell finally asked.

"He heard a noise, I think I heard it too, and he went to investigate. From the roof, down on the street."

"Who?"

"It was so fast. He called down he was a friendly and stood up. I think he asked something—"

"Goddamn it, who killed my goddamn brother—"

"It was the UN, sir." Nielsen's posture seemed to rectify. Weight was being dropped from his narrow shoulders.

McConnell blinked. "The United Nations shot my brother?"

"Yes...no. I don't know, really. But, when they shot him, and I saw him fall, I snapped, and I knew I had to do something. I was so scared but I crawled over and checked his vitals and I peeked over the roof and saw the vehicles." McConnell's icy stare said to continue. "The UN vehicles, sir. I watched them drive off down the street. Three SUVs and a big truck."

"You're telling me the United Nations _shot and killed my brother?_ "

"Yes sir, but I can't be sure. I saw the same vehicles on the base the next day and I reported this to my CO and was taken to a room, where I waited until these guys came and interrogated me."

"These guys?"

"SF, maybe. Special Forces. They seemed like SF. They weren't in uniform. They asked a lot of questions."

"United Nations has Special Forces?"

"No sir, these were Americans. They had some serious weight." He cleared his throat. "I was instructed not to say anything to anyone about the event I claimed to have witnessed. I was told to simply forget it, if something had happened it was well above my pay grade, was highly classified, and if I did not comply I would face court martial. The SF left and ten minutes later my CO came in looking like he was about to shit himself—sorry sir—he told me to pack up. I was shipping home in twelve hours." Nielsen steeled himself. "It was my fault sir. He went up there after me. I ran. Like a coward. And he—" His voice faltered under McConnell's hardening gaze.

McConnell stood and walked out of the room. He poured himself two fingers of Jameson, tossed it back then poured, and then another. He still hadn't eaten anything and on an empty stomach the burn in his throat and belly felt good. Felt real. None of this kid's story felt real. Or even plausible. His brother killed by the UN. Then the US military covered it up. Really.

He returned to the living room where Nielsen sat staring at his hands. A part of him wanted to punch the corporal in the face. Another part wanted to know more about what the fuck happened over there. His better angels won out. "So what happened when you got stateside?"

"I was immediately served with ELS status and restricted to barracks. Entry Level Separation, sir," Nielsen explained off John's look. "A CID officer informed me that they had received a prelim conduct report from Iraq and I had two options; accept the ELS graciously or BCD—Bad Conduct Discharge—into prison. I took the ELS and was processed out in four hours."

"Four hours seems awfully quick."

"Yes sir, it is."

"So you said nothing to no one stateside?"

Nielsen licked his lips. "I'm not sure it would've done any good."

McConnell eyed him. The kid was spooked yet here he was in his house.

"Why'd you decide to come and tell me?"

"My dad. We talked it over and we agreed you deserved to know. He's waiting for me in the car. He wanted me to tell you he's very sorry for your loss."

"Seems to be the in thing to say these days."

"I wish it was me instead, sir. I really do."

"Me too," McConnell said heartlessly. Then he softened. "But it wasn't."

Nielsen stood up, dug a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it over. "That's a pic I took the night before I left. It's the truck and one of the SUVs."

It was a printout photo of the back of two dirty, white UN vehicles with black license plates. "You put yourself at risk."

"Even then I knew something was fishy. I hope it will be of some use to you." Nielsen wiped at his eyes. "I cannot say how sorry I am, sir."

"Stop calling me sir," McConnell snapped. "And stop saying you're sorry. Saying it more won't make it any better."

"Yes sir. Mr. McConnell." He swallowed and looked sullenly at the cats for consolation but those bastard cats weren't having any of it.

McConnell scrutinized the young man. Sean had probably done the right thing chasing after this kid. Even though it cost him his life. He sighed. "Wasn't your fault. Get over it."

Nielsen shook his head at the impossible.

"Doesn't mean you'll forget. You'll never do that. But you'll figure out how to keep going without it haunting you and without you haunting it back. That's life. The rest is fuckin' gravy," he snorted. "Or so my grandfather keeps telling me. It took balls coming here. I appreciate that you did."

"If you need me to make a sworn statement, or to testify, or—"

McConnell shook his head. "Start putting it behind you, Nielsen," he said, showing him to the door.

The marine smiled weakly. "Fuckin' gravy, sir."

They shook hands. With a last nod of grateful relief, the marine pulled the door reverently closed behind him.

### CHAPTER 13

JUNE

Spokane, Washington

After Nielsen left he had stood in the kitchen and hovered around the green Jameson bottle then willfully abandoned it, crossed Aubrey L. White, descended the clumpy slope in uneven bounds to the riverbank, Geronimo on his heels. The dog cooled himself in the turgid, green water, carefree, tongue lolling in that big, goofy German shepherd grin as his human hopped out along the archipelago that had surfaced now that the spring's torrent had receded and settled on flat stone worn smooth by time.

Afternoon waned. The dying light of the sun coruscated golden through the pines up on the ridge opposite as a welcome breeze stirred the thick air and Geronimo, who had taken up residence on a rock a couple hops away, lifted his nose to greet it. Short-lived succor as the mosquitoes came to life, a host of obnoxious demons out in force for the evening. The dog snapped in irritation but they were legion, not easily deterred. Vampires of the world were always more diligent than the victims.

McConnell ignored the bugs and they obligingly returned the favor. He was one of those queer folk whom the ruthless bloodsuckers did not like to bite. His plague was of a more internal persuasion though no less rapacious.

A waxing moon rose, painting the water quicksilver. He dismissed the goose bumps on his arms, the chill stiffening his legs. Didn't shift his unfeeling rear on the unsympathetic stone either, and disregarded the dog's cocked head and plaintive whines of concern that it was time to be indoors. His feet screamed pins and needles for the want of a good stomp but then what? Where should his tingling trudge take him? His thoughts were as sluggish and dark as the river beneath its moonlit surface; if only he could gather it up, hold on long enough for the waters to solidify and substantiate in his grasp. But he wasn't a thinker anymore. He was a doer. What to do? His head was fuzzy or hazy, maybe logy. His enervated brain adrift on an alien sea.

Perhaps the answers he sought lay in that bottle after all.

He creaked to his feet, stretched with a grimace, made his way across the archipelago, clambered up the slope, the dog taking the lead.

Back at the house he alternated glaring at the whiskey and the phone as he considered and reconsidered calling his mom and sharing Nielsen's story.

In the end the bottle won.

A landscape of purple mountains majesty and fields of flowery red and blue, parted by a rapid, frothy river. The sun high, the grass soft beneath his bare feet as his eyes followed the stream to where Sean finished baiting Anj's hook, wiped his hands on his BDUs and picked up his own pole with a wry grin. He watched them fish, Sean laughing at his own jokes, Anj giggling like she was sixteen, which she looked, neither holding on to a care in the whole damn world.

Sean waved him over. "Late as usual, old man. Fish ain't gonna bite forever!"

Anj smiled, her eyes full of bright life. His brother looked fit. He didn't though; he was his same old, corpulent, scruffily bearded self. He headed over to join them, eager to remember such lighthearted joy, to tell his brother they were a go on the fishing trip, he had booked the boat, reserved a camp spot, bought new tackle, rods and reels, got their fishing licenses. Good to go!

A cold presence materialized behind him and stopped him in his tracks. His throat went dry as frosty air sucked the warmth from the world. But it wasn't there for him. It descended along the bank towards the other two, an inky, cloudy darkness, palpably malevolent.

A figure stepped away from Anj and solidified into another girl, a smaller one, and his breath caught ragged in his throat.

" _Dad? Dad! Do something!" Katie stomped her soccer cleat, balled her hands into fists and rolled her eyes with incredulity._

Sean grabbed up his rifle, pulled the trigger. "I'm out!" the marine said giving his brother a rueful look as the ominous shadow bore down.

" _What do I do?" he cried out, desperate, frozen._

" _You know," Sean said._

" _You know," Anj echoed, an eyebrow arched expectantly._

" _Hurry, Dad!" Katie screamed. She was scared and he hated it, he hated himself for not being able to stop the cold blackness as it branched out three nebulous arms of icy gloom for the people he loved._

" _John, you can't just watch," his mother scolded from above the riverbank. "It's not polite to watch."_

Marissa stood beside her, her arms across her chest. "I'm so tired of waiting."

What was he to do? What would his dad do?

" _Dad's dead, John. Get the fuck over it," Sean said matter-of-factly._

" _Dad!" Katie raised her hands to ward off the menacing shade now inches away._

" _No one ever plowed a field by turning it over in his mind, Johnny," his grandpa spat solemnly beside him and then a shrill screech tore open the sky and swallowed him whole._

He was kicking at sheets like they were banshees holding his legs. He sat up, covered in sweat, his throat caught in a raspy scream. Geronimo leapt up and barked, hackles erect, sniffed the air.

But there was no one there but ghosts.

The clock read 3:38 a.m. McConnell rose, realized his brain was still whiskey-logged, fell back to the bed. Gathering his bearings, he tried again, padded into the bathroom, gave a much-needed pee and then leaned against the sink, wiping at the perspiration on his face. He peered blearily into the dimly lit mirror. A dubious, irresolute, unhealthy, marginalized fat man regarded him with contempt.

What the fuck.

He slipped off his boxer-briefs and stared at himself in the raw and it was then his stomach committed its betrayal. He collapsed to his knees over the porcelain throne, his big pale ass in the air and threw up a vile whiskey-soured gut concoction. When he was done he rolled onto his back, belly a knot of contraction, throat burning, his mouth acrid. He panted as the dog whined just outside the doorway. He wiped his mouth and with effort rose to his feet and braved his reflection again.

Who was this doughy doppelganger? The athletic, muscled physique of his twenties had gone to flab around the centerpiece of a stout potbelly and while he didn't quite have man-boobs they were in development, a teenage girl sprouting rosebuds. The love handles, sagging eaves over a circumference of waist fit for the Michelin Man, and Christ, had he lost an inch to his penis? He felt around; no, no, he was still all there, the root now buried in a layer of subcutaneous Jell-O.

Who was this man?

He took the stairs two at a time (having to touch his hand down twice to avoid tipping over) to the abandoned, dusty weight bench in one of the disused bedrooms on the second floor. It lay there like a foreign altar about to know a naked virgin sacrifice.

He strained, grunted, squirmed. Made hideous faces. Eyes teared as he lifted, curled, reverse-curled, pulled and crunched. From the doorway Geronimo watched the bizarre ritual with trepidation.

He stumbled back down the stairs in a dusty-sweat lather. Bowling balls tossed about in his head, his vision dimmed and he was sure he was stroking out. He reached out to the wall and the wall held, the world slowly ceased its wobbling and the darkness receded. He staggered into the kitchen, sucked down a quart of water from the tap, his eyes on two bottles of Jameson, one empty, one half-empty, or half-filled depending upon a man's habit. Jesus. When had he developed such a tolerance? If this was tolerance, what was intolerance? He straightened, locked eyes with the half-empty bottle and the wanton tumbler next to it. He stared hard. He could do it. He could drink it all away. Who would blink first?

He reached for the bottle. Unscrewed the cap. Tilted it back—

And poured its elixir down the drain. It wasn't the dead that compelled him. It was the living. He left it upside down in the sink and made for the shower.

Not bothering with light, leaning against the tile he let the shower's pressure beat down against the back of his head and neck. Tendons and joints eased though his arms and legs continued to lodge resounding protests against their earlier extemporaneous abuse. He ignored them. He let go of his mind; his weariness, his guilt, his shame. And there it was, a coalescing radiant purpose rising out of a current of black obscurity. Clearer now than by moonlight upon any river.

He stepped out of the shower, dripping before the mirror, wiping at its steamed surface.

That man looking back wasn't him.

Fumbling for tools long latent he cut and hacked at his face, a painful process demanding copious dollops of shaving gel and garnering a dozen nicks, but he proved relentless until the task was complete. He bade goodbye to the symbol of his unkempt sloth, its last hirsute gasp washed down the drain. In the darkness he let out a deep breath.

John McConnell turned on the light.

### CHAPTER 14

JULY

Spokane, Washington

Wiping at salty droplets that stung his eyes he ground to a halt, pressed a button on his brother's watch while bending and grabbing handfuls of his new, dark blue running shorts, his lungs gasping for air. His fifth gallop up the hill, he straightened and between gulps of air checked the watch.

"Twelve seconds...better...than...yesterday..." he panted.

Geronimo panted too but only congenially. The improvement in time meant nothing. This was unadulterated fun.

Debatable. But it was intoxicating.

Sweat dripped off the end of McConnell's nose as he squinted into the late afternoon sun that hung high over the basalt cliffs across the river. Directly below him was the barren landscape left after the fire, in stark contrast with the vivid demarcation of green and sun-dappled suburbia to the right, his house just a couple hundred yards beyond the fire-ravaged wasteland. A dusty moonscape, scraggly saplings were taking root along the interlacing trails. One day it would be green again.

Behind him on the top of the hill lay a copse of woods then Fairwood Cemetery and Joe Albi, the small, tired stadium where he had been starting defensive tackle in high school. Further on, the soccer fields where Katie had played when she was little, where she probably played now, though when he had jogged over she was nowhere to be found among the gaggling, bouncing ponytails, knee-high socks and shin-guards.

He was running eight miles a day, mostly along the river, but the running not enough anymore, and as a reward for his competence he had added wind sprints up the hill, earning scratches from the brushy buckwheat and sumac as he scrabbled and grunted up the rocky terrain that tended to give way with every other lunging step.

Rubbing at his smooth jaw he gazed through the evergreen boughs at the partially concealed homes below, the yards and pools and basketball hoops. The American Dream. Lots of young couples new to the neighborhood that last few years. How many of them were underwater on their mortgages? He didn't worry about that anymore.

The dog beat him home and was noisily lapping up water as McConnell reached the backyard gate. He joined in, guzzling from the gallon jug he had left on the deck.

He hit the weights, the new punching bag in the garage, showered, slipped on sandals, a pair of new shorts and T-shirt. His old clothes no longer fit. Cutting up Romas, cucumbers, chives he tossed them in olive oil, red wine vinegar and garlic while a New York steak sizzled on the gargantuan Weber grill Carrie had insisted upon in anticipation of all the fab parties she had planned. It was the same reason he had built the extravagant deck, poured the cement pad for the hot tub he'd been pricing when she had started screwing her boss. Or at least deigned to inform him of the aforementioned screwing. Not like the writing wasn't on the wall.

Eating on the patio (the eleven-piece, Saratoga Collection) he tossed a Frisbee to a still undiminished Geronimo. The dog's reserves were fathomless. His, not so much but he wasn't complaining. The fat had melted off—going from sedentary to an endurance trial it was bound to happen. Not that it was all deficit; he'd put on lean muscle, his arms and legs regaining definition. His shoulders had drawn back. His penis no longer rooted in blubbery tissue. Axed was the cardboard fare, the microwave no longer central to meal preparation. Gone were the Hot Pockets, greasy fast food and sugary carbs. Nixed were the Starbucks and Red Bulls that had kept him revved when he was a working man. Lean meats, protein shakes, fresh fruit and vegetable juice (courtesy of the Omega J8000 Carrie _had_ to have) were the victuals of the day. He even ate salads of all things. Drank as much cold water as he could stomach, the colder the better in the record-breaking summer heat. His only vice his regimen of beer, adhering to the strict rule of three that had served his grandfather so well. Though he never cracked one before noon.

His body had rejected the cleaner lifestyle at first. Kidneys ached from detoxification, the cold turkey cessation of caffeine, sugar and saccharin gave him throbbing headaches accompanied by nausea and the shakes. Malodorous poisons seeped out his pours, and he was plagued by either constipation or running for the toilet without the preservatives and oils so prevalent in the fatty junk that had been his daily staple. It wasn't pleasant. He felt urgent, constant cravings for fast food like it was deep-fried cocaine.

System shock subsided, his body recalibrated and came to appreciate the new discipline. His sweat no longer rank, headaches gone, bowel movements regular, like when he was a year-round athlete in high school. Something to be said for that. It was supremely, naturally satisfying shitting like clockwork.

Mental clarity followed. Like a bolt from the blue, neurons re-sparked. Pedantic routines used with moderate success, it was true, to plod his way through work, people, life, somnambulistic defense mechanisms ceased and he organically dismantled their defunct apparatus, torched what was left, scattered the ashes of what was once whirring and obstructive to the wind. His mind quieted. He became even more resolved.

And then there was the sleep. With more and more physical exertion and a forfeit of toxicity sleep transcended into a phenomenally satisfying nocturnal experience. It was sound and deep and above all restorative. When he awoke he was refreshed and invigorated. Even after his afternoon naps, which he took now on one of the ridiculously comfortable lounge chairs, Geronimo on another, the birds twittering and a light breeze lulling. As often was the case he half-dreamed half-fantasized about Mrs. Davis.

With restored health returned a robust libido; Mrs. Davis's inquisitive eyebrow and probing tongue lustily gliding along her upper lip as they jogged past each other every morning were not lost upon him. It was impossible not to admire his neighbor's wife's well-kept physique. Not an uncommon experience of late, the admiring. Be it jogging, driving or just buying milk his eyes frequently found the summer's scantily clad curves that had not been so interesting a few weeks ago and he reveled in that cloud-nine feeling of long-forgotten vigor of youth.

Not that he'd sleep with her. He'd been on the other end of that and it was an unkind end.

He awoke to a denim sky with the faint twinkle of the first early evening stars. Popping open a beer (his second) he grabbed up his laptop. He was resolved.

He loaded up an ancient messaging app, took a moment remembering the password, but he was in, browsing the list of contacts. There he was, online as always.

He double-clicked on "HAMMURABI," stared at the blinking cursor awaiting inspiration. None came.

" _Hey. How things?"_ he typed in the chat window. It wasn't Shakespeare, rather lame and there was no immediate response. He set the laptop down, went inside and did the dishes, cleaned the Weber grill, the stars now bright, the night air not quite cool but getting there. When he returned the chat window was blinking.

" _It lives. Been a while."_

McConnell typed _"I've been busy."_

" _For seven years?"_

" _You know how it is."_

" _Not really."_

There was a pause. Then: _"My condolences BTW. Anj, now your brother. Not your year, eh?"_ Another pause. " _Sorry. Shitty of me. Serious, must be rough. Anything I can do and all that."_

" _I'd like to see the farm."_

A longer pause. _"You know the way."_

" _When?"_

" _Like I won't be here."_

" _Tomorrow at three."_

" _Three it is. L8r."_

Scrolling through the chat he didn't know what to make of it but he would find out tomorrow. He stopped by the fridge for his last beer of the day and migrated to the La-Z-Boy. He took a long pull, then brought up what he had gleaned from the web on Alan Odom.

Not a lot out there on the heir apparent but Google kicked out over fourteen-thousand hits for the Odom dynasty and their vast holdings. The family owned a slew of ultra-conservative rags, four major newspapers, entertainment weeklies and some tabloids thrown in to make the company literarily respectable in its dying analog. Digitally there were television stations, radio, websites, a few satellites and a large stake in a major telecom. The grandfather had acquired the fortune, the later generations merely indulged in it. In acquisition mode the past few years, he'd gobbled up smaller magazines and papers and rebranded them, enthroning Odoms on their respective boards. There were several charitable affiliations. Seemed decent enough for aristocrats. Maybe Alan was just a bad seed. Happens in the best of families.

As he did every night he dragged the two JPEGs side by side. Anj and her rapist. The young woman just this side of being a girl, radiant in a flowery summer dress, long hair, no lines around the bright blue eyes, no fear in her smile. Her rapist in black tie on a red carpet, the picture from a function in Los Angeles a few years back, Odom's smirk of conceit and decadent glance of contempt at the camera extremely vivid.

After a while, as always, he closed the laptop and closed his eyes and pictured Anj in that bleak hospital bed crying, her face bruised and scraped, her hair ripped out, eyes furtive and frightened as they darted between the shadows and the door. He heard her tremulous voice disintegrating over the phone as she described her ordeal, the shame, the anguished self-loathing, the timbre of recalled terror. Saw her floating in the monstrous bathtub, inky crimson in the water, her wrists cut, half-lidded, dead eyes gazing unseeingly up at him forever.

He breathed. Then he went to bed. Sleep would come and it would be profound.

Still unclear about his brother. Anj would be easy.

### CHAPTER 15

JULY

Spokane, Washington

Had to make a stop before heading out to the farm. A gorgeous day but hot, the sun a solitary gem of fire in a field of azure, threatening to set aflame the insolent with blistering rays if they defied for long.

His savings was dwindling what with house payments and bills and child support taking large bites out of it every month. Down to a little over eleven thousand, maybe a thousand in checking. He had a rainy-day fund of forty-thousand in cash in a security box that he had saved up slowly over the years. Didn't look like rain but wait twenty minutes, and the weather could change.

Dressed in a simple T-shirt and khaki shorts with too many pockets, it was just before noon when he walked through IPFusion's front doors. As a kid he would have loved those pockets, now they were just an annoyance. Who could ever use them all? Damn waste of pockets.

The place was empty save a couple junior techs among the cubicles as he strode to Rich's office in the back. One tech waved. The other said, "Dude!"

Rich was finger-pecking at his keyboard. He looked up. "John."

McConnell sat in one of two chairs, put his hiking boots up on Rich's desk. "Seems my last paycheck got lost in transit."

Rich leaned way back in his chair trying hard to ignore McConnell's size twelves, his hands locking behind his head, the airs of a man about to expound at great length to a subordinate. "You quit. Without notice. I know you've had some family issues but that was unprofessional, it really hurt the company, and we lost a lot of money. We had to dock you. You weren't out billing, and management felt that paying for negligent work was unfair to the company."

McConnell scratched at his hairless jaw. "Let's not make this a thing. I just want what's owed me."

Rich sat forward, his fingers flat on the edge of his desk, his smirk rife with disappointment. "Truth is, John, we received some complaints. About shoddy work." His eyes flicked to the sweat-dampened front of McConnell's shirt, caught his leaner frame, his newly muscled arms. Took in the dark tan of his skin. He saw him for the first time since coming through the door and his mouth pursed.

"Shoddy? Really. Who complained?" Rich wasn't more forthcoming. "Yeah. Look, it's not my fault the rest of your monkeys can't find their dicks to fuck a hole in the ground."

Rich sighed regret. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

McConnell didn't leave. He didn't move at all. Just stared. Then he dug up and under the desk like an offensive lineman on fourth and nothing and pushed it over, the monitor sliding and crashing to the floor, pens and papers scattering as did a half-full (or half-empty, whatever was your habit) cup of coffee splattering all over Rich's berry-colored Oxford. Rich's chair wheeled backwards, smacked against the rear wall, and he let out a surprised squeak as he was pinned behind the desk.

" _Get off! Get off me!"_ he screamed, creamed coffee dripping from his rat-faced nose.

McConnell pushed on the desk and glanced out the window.

" _Aaah!"_ Rich screamed.

"My money."

" _You're done! Through!_ You're going to jail, _asshole!_ "

He pressed the desk with his boot. A bit more heft than his hand.

" _Aaah!"_

"Jesus Christ!" said one of the techs from the doorway.

"Dude!"

McConnell ignored them. He looked down his nose at Rich.

"You direct deposit my money. Today. Try any bullshit I'll tell all your clients to not to mention your wife about that weird-ass tranny porn you like to look at. What? You forget that you asked me to look into the proxy and check the cache to see who was looking for a new job a year ago? Yeah, that was me, and I may or may not have those logs on a flash drive somewhere."

He dropped his foot and the desk came down with a _bang_ and with it Rich's jaw soundlessly agape as his eyes darted to the techs in the doorway who made a big hole for McConnell as he whistled his way to the front door. He passed Steve, Burger King in hand.

Steve grinned. "Hey! Lost the beard! Looking good, John!"

He grinned back. Feeling good, Steve."

### CHAPTER 16

JULY

Elk, Washington

Most people would assume the cellar of a hundred-year-old farmhouse a poor place for a sixty-thousand BTU air-conditioning system roaring into the darkness. But then most people would be wrong.

The glow of three large LCD monitors illuminated his fingers as they glided over the keys like a piano virtuoso in a smoke-filled jazz bar, only he didn't play the piano, didn't smoke and didn't care for jazz. The music here the harmony of the AC and hum of the server racks lining one wall. Dell, HP, Hitachi, Cisco, EMC; these were his bards, their fans and drives whirring and clicking, their green, yellow and alarm-red lights blinking and beeping in alien code. A fifty-inch plasma TV showed CNN on an adjacent wall, an angry orange "mute" burned into the upper right corner. Beneath the idiot box were tables laden with the fallen, still as death, cases removed, guts of wires and cables and PCBs exposed; servers, Xboxes, iPods, GPS devices, smartphones. Two relic Intellivision cadavers were in a state of autopsy on the coffee table before posh, leather furniture.

A doorway led to the stairs that led to the house above. Before, the entrance to the cellar was through the storm doors outside, but it was now sealed with cement. Azure painted sheetrock covered the unfinished walls and was layered with cascades of chicken wire. It was exceptionally clean. Not a mote of dust stirred in the cold air of what might be considered a lair. He simply called it home.

" _The Force is strong with this one!"_ Darth Vader blasted from the surround sound hidden around the room and a bold reminder " _TANSTAAFL!_ " scrolled in big cobalt letters across the LCDs on his worktable. Not a desk. He abhorred desks. Desks were for slaves. Like ties.

He sipped at his Mountain Dew, washed it down with water. Passing kidney stones six years ago had been hell but he couldn't give up the Dew so he matched every glug of the sweet, emerald elixir with a swallow of water. He peed a lot, but peeing pee sure beat pissing gravel.

He verified the job; the crypto, hops, running procs, logs logged, logs marked for deletion. A quick transaction, erase the fingerprints, working backwards and twenty-two seconds and a disconnected, untraceable session later he was richer by eleven thousand euros. A paltry sum, but that was the point.

He had missed the golden era, when the esoteric art of sleight of binary hand was practiced by seminal if less gifted pirates plundering inconceivable booty, the best of them disappearing into wealthy obscurity, the miscalculating chaff fading into prison, or worse, an NSA gulag. That epoch of grand larceny had come and gone but the game, faster now and exponentially more complex, continued.

His preferred pilfering lay with dark accounts: ones and zeroes exchanged in secret between corporations, banks and governments, the lines often blurred. Transactions never posted in quarterlies; they would prove difficult to explain to a recession-drowning public so their raiding went unreported, too. This benefit of nondisclosure was offset by the measures intended to stop such theft. If mainstream corporate security was considered a hacker's wet dream the dark side was a labyrinthine nightmare.

Four years ago they nearly had him. A pot of gold, ripe, just a faint whiff of security. It had been a little too easy, a bit too neat. That whiff had smelled rotten. He had stopped mid-transaction, wiping the logs and counterfeiting them with a foreign IP address he "borrowed" on occasion. Next day a baffled couple running a florist shop in Uppsala, Sweden, were arrested for hacking. They were of course released, but for sleepless weeks he waited for the rush of black-clad commandos to kick down his door. He had been fortunate; he had avoided location if not detection. After that he had stuck to the standard corporate playground—less swag but far less risk. He played the odds, took piecemeal, patient and plodding.

He wasn't in a hurry.

He scratched at the old calico cat that lay beside the keyboard. Sometimes he poked her in the side to make sure she wasn't dead. Ms. Kitty and Ollie, his graying lab, boon companions. His parents long gone, moved to Utah to be closer to his normal siblings, all happily married with children, or so they said, but truth was they had moved away from their one weird, mutant offspring who wouldn't leave the cellar unless it was on fire and if he did wouldn't leave the farm even if it was engulfed in flames. The cat and dog filled their void quite well considering the last couple years before his parents left they had barely spoken to him. But he had survived. And life went on.

The farm hadn't. He tended a respectable organic garden but the Bullock property hadn't been commercially viable for years. His father had sold most of it off leaving only twenty-four acres deeded in the family name but it was plenty for him. More than plenty.

He was content being out here alone. People by design were unpredictable; selfish, corruptible, amuck with vagaries and the cream of the crop often predisposed to brutal savagery.

Now code...code was logical, routines methodical, results predictive. Code was soothing. Code was safe.

He was delightfully poring over a snippet from S8Nt8_Sp3rM right now. Their version of email chess, an ongoing battle of algorithm and syntax, they'd been at for a few years now. S8Nt8_Sp3rM was likely eastern European, knew his code, loved Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia. That's all he knew about him, if he was a him. He didn't care to know more.

He had foreseen this move, a bit of polymorphic, an impredicative parametric, and had already strung together his retaliating feint, a looping false System F variable. He replied with a snicker. If a friend had been around he might have raised his palm for a high-five.

That made him push up his glasses with a finger and glance at the clock. It was close to three.

He poked the cat. "I'm going up top," he announced.

She stirred in feline irritation, rolled over and faced the other way.

The basement opened like a dark mouth onto the kitchen upstairs. He did his customary walk through the house, checking rooms and doors and windows. Ollie was good about guarding the place but the dog had yet to tell him if a latch was unlatched or a door unlocked. Old dogs, new tricks.

He served himself up some fresh lemonade and sat in one of the weathered Adirondacks on the porch. The heat was pervasive; it saturated deep into his bones, most pleasant after the chill of the basement. The overhang kept the sun off his pale skin.

Ollie did his business by the old pine near the barn then plopped down in the shade beside the beat-up Chevy Cavalier where he had sat in his pre-Windows 98 navy suit that was too snug against his belly, his hands shaking, his throat dry, sat there until Angela Flynn's funeral service was well over, granting him a guilty reprieve.

Her suicide made no sense. He had weathered suicidal thoughts, a recurring pattern throughout much of his own life but he had never imagined her buoyant cheeriness could succumb to such dark clouds. It just made no sense. A marine's death made sense. That's what marines did, they died. It wasn't unexpected.

He closed his eyes and thought of something else. Of Angela alive. Of the man who was coming to see him. Of them all together. Good memories had become unburied.

Oh God...

But the bad ones had been unearthed, too.

They were beyond his control now. In the wild, free radicals in the system. They were consuming the idle cycles of his mind.

His mouth went dry. His heart thundered in his chest as he shivered in the chair and _oh God_ here he went. Horrified, he willed his half-lidded gaze open and scanned the yard, the barn, on down the drive between and where it turned right onto the private lane and then left down the main road.

No one there but Ollie dozing in the dirty shade.

Please. God.

He licked at the sweat on his upper lip. He could not stop the remembering.

### CHAPTER 17

FEBRUARY 1988

Spokane, Washington

"Hey, retard!"

He kept his anxious gaze on the wintry dusk outside the double glass doors. It was snowing. Thick powdery dander touching down where the school buses pulled in. He wished there was one there now.

"Yo! Faggot!"

Shifting his rump on the hard tile he dug into his book, all the more evident he couldn't hear them.

" _Mitchy-bitchy_?" followed by laughter.

He sighed and turned. Scott Boucher, Aaron Desmitt and Ronnie Mangiano leaned against the lockers down the hall.

"Watcha readin', faggot?" Boucher asked.

Mitch returned to his book, fervently hoping that if ignored they would burst into flame, turn to stone, be devoured by a roving band of kobolds or simply disappear to an alternate plane.

"I'm talkin' to you, _dweeb!_ "

"He's talkin' to you, dickweed!"

Nope. No random ethereal plane teleportation was happening here.

" _Consider Phlebas_ ," he said, his voice high, not atypical these days.

"' _Consider Pee-bus_?'" Boucher mimicked his squeaky voice. "Sounds like a book about buttfuckin'."

"It's science fiction."

" _Ohhh! Science fiction!_ Why the fuck you here, dork?"

They weren't going to leave him alone. "I helped Mr. Powell in the computer lab. We installed new modems. Fourteen-point-four baud, Trellis Code Modulation—"

"Jesus! I didn't ask for a play-by-play. Spaz." High fives on that one.

He turned back into his book.

"Powell go home? You waitin' for the activity bus?"

"Hey! He asked you a question, buttmunch! Powell leave or what?"

"Yeah. He left."

"Alright. Don't be dissin' me," Boucher warned.

Muttering to themselves the three swaggered down the hall in their 501s and North Central red and black letterman's jackets.

His first introduction to the Terrible Trio as they were known by the Computer Club, the two evil minions had dunked him headfirst into a cafeteria garbage can while Boucher rifled his wallet. He had gone hungry and worn pizza, taco salad and sour milk the rest of the day, barely holding back tears on the long bus ride home, nasty kids making nasty remarks and nasty smells before suffering his father's disgust when he walked through the door. He had survived, as he had his humiliating expulsion from Elk Creek High a few months back when they blamed a stash of M-80s and several blown-up toilets on the reticent nerd in the black Smith's T-shirt. Surviving meant life went on. Such as it was.

His Casio calculator watch read 8:32 p.m. Thirteen minutes to go but sometimes Brenda came early. She would park and walk across to the alley and grab a smoke before dealing with the last rowdy busload, although tonight it looked to be a quiet ride. He wouldn't complain. His book was really getting juicy.

He sucked down the last of his Dew, deliberated over peeing before the long ride or holding it until he got home (or at least until the bus dropped him at the highway mile marker where he would walk the final four miles to the house). His bladder just wasn't going to make it. Stuffing his book in his backpack and the backpack over his shoulders he braved the bathroom.

It was empty, thank God. He did his business, washed his hands and hopelessly checked the mirror. Floppy brown hair as lame as ever and there was a new outbreak of acne constellation across his chin. He wasn't growing into himself like his brothers had, dashing his dad's own hope with his scrawny defection, more brain than brawn, on the farm that counted next to nothing.

He puffed out his cheeks, splashed water on his face and headed back, hoping Brenda was now puffing away at her cancer stick and he could get on the bus. He wondered if the snow was sticking. That would make the ride twice as long not to mention the trudge to the house. The snow got deep out there. It was going to be a long night.

Something hooked his backpack and he backpedaled, struggling to keep his feet as he was pulled through a doorway, his startled scream cut off by something crammed into his mouth. He froze when the door was pushed shut from behind by the well-built Ronnie Mangiano, his pockmarked face acidic and wicked. A sinking feeling filled him and he pulled at whatever was in his mouth, horrified to find a nasty pair of men's underwear before arms wrapped around his backpack and small frame, locking his own useless against his sides. Someone reached from behind and pushed the gag back in place.

His eyes went wide, darted for escape. He had never been in this room before but knew it to be Mr. Canter's. Canter taught health and coached the wrestling team. There were pictures of skeletons and muscles and digestive tracts and sports posters on the walls: Adidas, Converse, and of course Nike. The words _"Just Do It"_ beneath a tired but determined runner all alone on the highway of her life on the closed door. Something about that poster made him panic, he let loose a muffled scream that cut off abruptly as he was punched in the ribs, all his air wheezing out through the sour gag.

" _Shut the fuck up, queer!"_ breathed Scott Boucher into his ear. "No one around to hear you."

He silently siphoned air back into his lungs.

"Better," Boucher commended but not loosening his grip any. "Now, we're just gonna have a little fun, _Mitchy-Bitchy_ , 'kay? Desmitt, get the lights." He nodded to Mangiano. "Get his backpack."

Mangiano tugged and pushed and dislodged the pack Boucher quickly closing the gap. His breath hot on his ear smelled of chocolate. Snickers, maybe.

"If we're gonna do it, let's do it." Desmitt appeared beside him, looking to the door.

"Chill. Everyone's gone for the weekend, dude. No one here but us ghosts," Boucher chortled.

They were going to humiliate him, rough him up a little, nothing he hadn't experienced before but the underwear was pushing it. A putrid smell flooded his olfactory.

Butcher wheeled him over to the teacher's wide metal desk and bent him over it, papers and stapler flying to the floor. _Great, a goddamn wedgie_. He took a deep breath, winced in preparation.

His pants and underwear were yanked down to his ankles. He rasped throaty umbrage. This was way beyond the pestering pale now.

"Shut. The fuck. Up." Desmitt hit him several times in the gut, each one sharper than the last, his delight growing more vividly evident with each jab.

"Easy," Boucher said. "You break it you buy it."

Mangiano cut a jump rope in half and he and Desmitt tied each of his ankles to a leg of the desk.

He squirmed and squealed but he was weak and they knew it. Boucher leaned his full weight down on him. "You know you want it, faggot." Boucher's sweet breath wafted across him.

"Yeah, he wants it." Desmitt's hungry eyes agreed.

Mangiano chortled.

His eyes darted for an escape that didn't exist.

"Hold his arms."

Desmitt fell into the teacher's chair, pulled him taut across the desk by his wrists as Mangiano tied them together with another piece of rope. The edge of the desk bit into the soft flesh of his stomach and his exposed penis brushed against the cold metal. There was shuffling behind him. Two hands grabbed his butt cheeks and pulled them apart. He squeezed his eyes shut against mortified tears. Something pressed against him, seeking, probing.

He cried.

There was a horrible, alien, reverse pressure that thrust inside him.

He screamed.

They took their turn. They took their time.

Unbearable agony ripped through him, hairy legs smacked his thighs, coiled pubic hair brushed against his own testicles with every searing thrust. He groaned into the sour gag now soaked with his own saliva.

"Wanna go again?"

"Fuckin A'..."

In enthusiasm Desmitt released his wrists too soon and where he found the strength, the courage he would never know, but a split second before Boucher could snatch them back up he ripped the slimy gag from his mouth and let loose a hoarse rasp that evolved into a primal scream. He screamed and screamed until his head was slammed hard against the desk.

Stars whirled about the chalkboard, and though he couldn't see it he heard the door handle jerk up and down behind him. Then the voice: "Hey! Open this door!"

Boucher shushed the other two to silence and cupped his mouth. He gave him a menacing look.

Quiet. You could hear a pin drop.

The door exploded inward, or so he imagined. It _THWACKED_ hard the wall. Light from the hall poured inside the room.

"What the fuck?"

"Get 'im!" Boucher tore around the desk.

Sounds of a scuffle. Swearing, grappling, the squeak of shoes on the floor, the smack of fists against flesh and grunts of pain. It seemed interminable then went coldly quiet after a series of blows punctuated by capitulating groans.

Boucher swung back into view, grabbed the scissors, raised the edge to his throat and said "I'll fuckin' kill him, McConnell!"

McConnell...yes! He knew him! Of him. Dating that nice, pretty girl that was in his physics class. She smiled at him once. _Oh please God please please—_

"Please..." he pleaded.

Boucher banged his head off the desk for silence. Out of his peripheral vision he glimpsed someone tall in the dark crimson warm-ups of the basketball team, blood leaking from above his eye as he spat out rich red on the floor.

"I'll kill him. I swear it. And we'll say you did it. Three against one," Boucher promised.

McConnell snorted, spat more blood. "Go ahead. Kill him. Then none of ya will leave this room alive."

That cold matter-of-fact tone scared the room. Was this his savior or another nightmare?

"Mangiano?" Boucher called out.

"I' done, man!" gasped a nasally challenged voice from somewhere in the dark. "Fawkin' dick broke ma' nose!"

Boucher hesitated but he could feel the boy's fear. "This ain't over. Not by a long shot." A punch goodbye in the abdomen, Boucher held up the scissors and glared at McConnell as he helped Mangiano up, the wrestler's nose a rubicund geyser. They dragged Desmitt to his feet who had one hand to his groin and the other over an eye and all three shambled out, slamming the door behind them. It creaked slowly on its hinges. _Just Do It!_

McConnell wordlessly untied his wrists and ankles and he slid down the desk into something sticky on the floor, a pool of his own blood and other's semen and he began to wail. McConnell tentatively reached out, pity replacing his previous cold. "It's okay. You're okay, man. We just gotta get you to a hospital."

He stopped mid-sob. He drew on his pants, wincing. "No. No hospital." His dad would never forgive him. He already hated him. And school, the other kids, it would be the end of him forever.

"There's a lot of blood—"

" _No! No fucking hospital!"_

Reluctantly, McConnell agreed, offered to take him to his house, get cleaned up and he nodded, eager to get out of there.

The halls were empty, Brenda and the activity bus long gone as he waddled painfully next to the bigger man who was bleeding himself but didn't seem to care. Outside the cold air hit him hard, the drifting flakes melting upon his hot face as they crossed the snow-choked parking lot. He sidled into McConnell's old pickup and had to adjust his weight from one cheek to the other to alleviate the stinging ache in the middle as they plowed through the snow in silence. What to say? But he needed to say something. He cleared his throat, wiped at tears that wouldn't stop leaking, started to say "thank you" but his psyche was already in full retreat and instead he croaked, "Nice truck," and, "Old but nice."

"It was my dad's." Silence. "He died a few months back."

"Oh."

"Motorcycle accident. Drunk driver hit him."

He didn't seem to be the only one struggling with what to say.

"Sorry," he said. And they returned to the silence.

McConnell's was warm and cozy but there was a palpable gravitas, an emptiness. He showered, delicately cleaning away the blood and semen and shit caked in the crack of his ass. He felt cautiously around his rectum expecting a three-inch gash but though tender and sore it seemed to be intact. The bleeding stopped, he sobbed, nauseatingly entranced at the rust-red trail disappearing down the drain. As he stood in a towel staring at his bloodied jeans and shirt there was a knock on the door and he graciously accepted a gray sweatshirt and sweats that belonged to McConnell's ten-year-old brother. They fit loose but smelled fresh and clean.

Bagging up his defiled garments McConnell took them out back and threw them in the trash, then they stood in the kitchen because it felt better to stand than to sit and they drank coffee.

"I'm not gay," he said.

"I never thought you were." McConnell's words were thick from a swollen lip. His face would be bruised, the cut above his eye requiring three stitches but he never complained. In the aftermath he would serve as proxy and meet the Terrible Trio that Sunday at Corbin Park where it was agreed to let dogs lie as long as everyone kept their mouths shut and they never bothered him again.

For his part, he survived, and life went on, but he retreated, gradually but steadily, and though high school was manageable he lasted only sixteen days at WSU before returning home, defeated, an ashamed wreck of nerves and dread before a once again disappointed and angry father.

"You know where Mrs. Graham's room is?" McConnell had asked as they bounced and slid over the snowy, ice-caked gravel, inexorably closer and closer to his home.

He knew.

"Right across, locker three-eighty-three, that's my locker. Meet me Monday morning, I'll wait for you. If I'm late my girlfriend, Angela, will be there."

"You won't tell her?"

"I'll tell her what happened. We were jumped outside of school by some Shadle guys. Gave as good as we got."

That night on his parent's porch, his behind a clamoring, stinging dirge, his throat sore, wrists raw, he built on that school rivalry story to explain why he was no longer wearing the same clothes as he had left in that morning, indeed no longer in possession of those soiled clothes at all.

Watching McConnell drive away in his dead dad's beat-up old pickup, the ruby taillights fading into snowy obscurity, his tear-blurred gaze took in the virgin white world around him.

The snow. It was sticking.

### CHAPTER 18

JULY

Elk, Washington

He was still whistling, Geronimo riding shotgun, nose in the wind, a good day for it, the warm country air rich with summer as they wound along the narrow roads up and down hills through wide-open grassland and swathes of fir and spruce. Confrontation did wonders for the right man.

When they turned onto the lane that ran by the Bullock farm he slowed. The two-story farmhouse looked a little older, a little sadder, a little more run down. Sun-bleached, scarred and peeling, it needed a coat of paint. Maybe two. As they came up the drive he peered down at a small, orderly garden. Off to the right Mitch's old lab rose from the dirt to offer a pathetic bark that died on the breeze. A figure in T-shirt and shorts with pasty-white sticks for legs poking out stood on the porch shielding his eyes.

McConnell couldn't open the passenger door fast enough for Geronimo to leap to the ground and make acquaintances. "Brought my dog," he said.

"So I see." The figure stepped down into the yard. "Ollie's still friendly enough, if he feels up to it."

The dogs did the usual sniffing and wagging and then took off down the path that led past the old barn into the woods beyond. It was a fine day, not to be wasted. God knew how many more they had left.

"They alright?"

"They're fine. Ollie knows his woods."

Mitch was thin save a protruding paunch and an aging roundness to his face. His pallor was too white and long hair more gray than brown. His movements were furtive and he glanced back at the porch more than once.

"I heard you were fat. And bearded," Mitch said, pushing up his glasses with his middle finger.

"Was." He rubbed at a belly and beard that were no longer there. "Glasses, huh? We that old?"

Bullock shrugged.

John extended his hand. "Good to see you, Mitch."

The hacker's grasp was weak, his limp hair hung in his eyes. Again he peered out at the road, at McConnell, behind him at the porch then back at the road again.

"You expecting someone?" McConnell asked.

"No. Why?" He blew out his cheeks, turned for the house, said over his shoulder, "Too hot out here. Let's get something to drink." Probably as good an invitation as McConnell was likely to get.

The house was mostly the same. A few differences. A constant hum vibrated into his boots from the old wood floor. Mitch's dad's old chair sat stern and silent near the fireplace watching a grand battle of Dungeons and Dragons miniatures, the old pewter kind on a map that covered the old dining room table. Bookcases lined every wall, filled with fiction, cookbooks, travel, physics, astronomy, languages, programming theory, programming languages, politics, histories and biographies.

The kitchen now boasted track lighting above a modern island topped with a butcher block full of Henckels and a deep double-sink. Above hung a medley of herbs, a who's who of copper pots and pans and their entourage of ladles and spatulas.

"Oh, the re-mod." Mitch dismissed it with a wave. "An old D&D buddy did the work. I'm taking a culinary arts course, I'll be an American Culinary Federation certified chef soon," he said, proudly pouring tea from a large glass pitcher he retrieved from the oversized stainless side-by-side refrigerator. Mountain Dew lined one shelf and the rest overflowed with a cornucopia of fruits, vegetables and meat, how the fridge was kept so well stocked a curiosity but not an overly wrought one. Mitch had always been resourceful. It's why McConnell was out here.

"Don't you need to take a test somewhere for that?"

The future ACF chef shrugged.

"Nothing like cooking the books, eh?"

"Is that supposed to be funny?" He was miffed. "I'm not cheating. I'm doing the course, just using my own venue and inputting the appropriate score for their convenience later. Lemon? Sweetener?"

"Lemon's fine."

Mitch grabbed a Mountain Dew and disappeared down the dark rectangle leading into the basement. McConnell sighed and followed after him. Again. It was likely to be a long day.

The hacker was already sitting before three large monitors and rattling away on a keyboard.

"Keeps out the bugs," he said, catching McConnell taking in the room. "There's no Wi-Fi to bleed out but the chicken wire prevents any grab of the CAT5 or fiber."

Paranoia had found a place to roost.

"It's a four-tier system. I basically own a DSLAM in a B-Box about seven thousand meters south. Wanted fiber but try explaining that to the Homeland Security." He slurped at his Dew. "You can sit."

"Is that a VSP? What on earth do you need that for?"

Mitch looked at him sideways.

"You don't have to tell me."

"No," he shrugged. "You're probably the only one I can tell." He smiled appraisingly at the Hitachi Storage Area Network. "Lessee, there's four TBs of BOA's transactions for twenty-nine million accounts. The donor list of the Republican National Party on a gig. DoE's national grid failover scenarios—pray _that_ never happens. Some FBI files on Fred Hampton that will never see the light of day, Skull and Bones initiation logs since eighteen-seventy. Brazil, Peru, Colombia's prisons rosters. PetroChina's unpublished internals for the past three years, Sega's scrapped answer to the Xbox, Blizzard's alpha of StarCraft 2, and some crazy Area 51 video I can't verify. My Morrowind mods. Other stuff. I call it my Trapper Keeper.

"Why?"

"'Cause it's shiny."

"No, why—"

"Someone wanted it. Or I was curious. It's completely encrypted."

"Your power bill's got to be ridiculous."

"Another D&D buddy works for Inland Power. He hooked me up."

Screens flashed on a monitor: _Dartmouth & Allegheny Financial Services_ followed by _Willkommen bei Gootenkrieg Bankengruppe_. Mitch worked the mouse, tapped the keys.

"What distro you running?"

His look said that was a stupid question. "Debian. An Open Solaris or two. How's your kid?" _Tap-tap-tap._

"Good. I think."

"And the ex-wife?"

"About the same as the kid."

Mitch nodded. And then they sat together silently in the dark, one slurping Dew, the other iced tea.

McConnell blinked. "I feel like an asshole."

Bullock pushed his glasses up his nose, met McConnell's eyes and didn't flinch away. He was comfortable down here among all the machines. Lord of his dark domain.

"Because you haven't talked to me in eight years and now you want something?" _Taptaptaptap._

The glow of the monitors flickered with scrolling data.

"Is this how it's going to be?" McConnell asked.

"It's however you want it, John."

He nodded. "I need information."

"Did you try the county library?"

"Fuck it," he said and stood to leave.

"Alright." The hacker's eyes glittered behind his glasses. "What type of information?"

He should walk away. He could come back and try to rekindle their friendship another time. This shadow of a man, whatever he was into, it wasn't anything like what McConnell had resolved to do.

And yet there was no one else he knew who could do it.

"You going to tell me or not? I don't have all day."

He tossed back the iced tea, sat down and told Anj's story. After that he told Nielsen's, handing over the printout of the white UN vehicles in Iraq. Mitch's recalcitrance disappeared and he sunk deeper into his chair, his glasses reflecting the glow of the monitors. When McConnell had finished, the hacker absorbed it all enveloped in the air conditioning roar.

"Did—did Anj know?"

"Know?"

"About me? What happened?"

McConnell let out a deep sigh. "Yeah. She did. It was a long time ago. She'd heard a rumor. Aaron Desmitt had been drinking and talking at a bar—"

Mitch's eyes grew as big as moons.

"I took care of it," he reassured him. "We had a little chat. Don't worry. He'll never say anything again."

"You sure? I mean—"

"I'm sure. I've never heard it spoken of before or since. But I had to tell Anj. She always knew our story was bullshit. You know she wanted to talk to you back then, and later, after what happened. To her. She just didn't know how. Mitch? You alright?"

"Just gimme a second." His head had drooped, he was panting, his fingers spread upon the arms of his chair. "God...she was so sweet...so sweet...Goddamn it!" he wiped at his eyes. "So what information do you—?" It dawned on him. His jaw slowly dropped. "What are you going to do?"

McConnell eyed the hacker levelly. "Justice."

"Revenge, you mean."

He waved a hand. "Words were always your thing, not mine."

"Revenge won't bring her back. And only God can mete out true justice."

"You don't even believe in God."

"I can't help you kill someone, John." But a war was raging behind those glasses.

"People kill each other all the time. Hell, the government does it every damn day."

"That's different."

"Is it? The government says 'they're evil, hate us for our freedom, go shoot em' and soldiers go and do the shooting, they don't really know why, or if the 'they' they're shooting are really evil. But these people, well, they're evil, and we both know evil, don't we, Mitch?"

"Murder is immoral. All murder."

"Yeah," McConnell nodded. "You got me there."

Mitch frowned. "You _do_ believe in God."

"I don't know what I believe, anymore. But I know if that fucker's dead he can't hurt anybody else." The hacker looked like he wanted to ask him to leave. "But I'm not here for Odom, well, not exactly. I'm here because of my brother."

Mitch waved Nielsen's printout. "If I help you with _any_ of this it makes me an accessory."

"Yep."

Mitch gave him a look.

"Look, I just need to know if Nielsen's story holds water. If you can verify that, anything about the UN license plates, from there..." He shrugged. "I know those are numbers on the plates, what the rest—"

"The black plate means they're temporary. It's standard with MNF-I and UN vehicles. The other is the province name in Arabic. These are Basrah plates, I think."

He was impressed. "You know Arabic?"

Mitch drummed fingernails against the table next to the keyboard. "How's your mom doing?"

"Been better. Yours?"

"Same." The hacker tossed the paper on the table, sat back and folded his hands across his potbelly, rocked in his chair.

"Revenge, justice, murder and moms. And here I thought you came out to make amends."

"Afraid not."

They watched an attractive, short-haired blonde in a blue dress silently mouth her story on the TV.

"I'll help you. But only because Angela didn't deserve what happened to her."

Had the room grown colder?

"I'll need one more thing," McConnell said.

"Of course you will."

"A rifle. Untraceable."

Mitch laughed. "And how am I supposed to get you a rifle?"

He glanced at the hardware along the wall.

Mitch sighed. "Alright. It won't come cheap. Want some fake IDs too? So when the shit hits the fan you can skip out and farm rutabagas in Borneo?"

"Good idea." He slid a paper across the table. Mitch flipped on a lamp and read it. "Never heard of this gun. Wait, five hundred rounds?"

"Been a while, I'll need practice."

"Anything else?"

"Anything else you think I missed?"

"No, but this killing people business is new to me," Mitch said dryly. He ran a hand through his graying hair, rubbed at downy stubble that never matured into anything remotely resembling a beard. "So, besides plotting murder what else is new?"

"Not much. Got the dog, two bastard cats."

"How's that working for you?"

"Dog's great. The cats, well, they just eat, sleep, shit. You?"

"I do the same, mostly."

"Still raiding multinationals?"

"We all have our peccadillos."

They sat and watched the blonde reporter silently wrap up her report.

"Well. This has been great. Should be great fodder for future father-daughter time. You can have the murder _and_ sex talks all in the same conversation."

"Is it just me that brings out the sarcasm in you?"

"It's not just you. I have to cook for my chef course. You can stay for supper if you like."

Supper was scrumptious. Chicken, crawfish, tasso, morels and onions tossed with farfalle and a spicy light cream sauce; mixed greens with shrimp, toasted almonds and mandarins in a zesty mint-raspberry vinaigrette; for the finale, a slice of cheesecake drowned in strawberries and ganache.

After, they sipped Turkish coffee and smoked Cubans on the porch. The sun took its sweet time sinking, leaving the sky a ponderous periwinkle.

"Nice." McConnell waved his _Cohiba_.

Mitch nodded beneath Saturnian rings of smoke. He slapped at his arm, walked to the other end of the porch where he plugged in a bug zapper dangling from the rafters. Livid, luminescent death came alive to await hapless passersby. He returned to lean against the railing, staring into the twilight.

ZAP!

Mitch jumped as the first victim went down. With a backwards glance at the zapper he returned to his chair. "Question. What if you get caught? They could trace you back to me. It wouldn't be hard."

"I'm not gonna give you up, if that's what you're worried about. All they'd find is a couple old friends bullshitting on the porch, smoking Cubans."

"Are we old friends?"

"I'm not perfect, Mitch. In fact, I fuck up personal relationships on a regular basis. So if you're feeling special about it, don't."

Harsher than he intended but he'd been taking crap most of the day.

"I do a lot of other things besides smoke illegal cigars, you know," Mitch said. "And what about this Nielsen? How can we trust he won't talk to someone? And say I do dig up something on the UN. Then what? Are you going to travel to Iraq and shoot some UN guys?"

ZAP! ZAP! Two more bugs bit the dust.

"I dunno. Don't have it all figured out yet." He tapped the ash off his cigar.

"What about going to the feds?"

"Are _you_ seriously advocating reaching out to the feds?"

"Alright, damn it. What about a congressman? Or the press?"

"And say what? Tell them a story told by an ineffective, cowardly marine that's already whitewashed?"

"You're being cynical," Mitch countered. "If I find something concrete, something irrefutable, if it _was_ the UN who was involved, people would listen—"

"Maybe. If you find something we'll talk about it but as far as Anj, what happens there is our secret. That doesn't ever leave this farm."

"No. Anj, that's different." Mitch sipped at his coffee. "How is her family?"

"Mom's the same. Sister's in law school."

"I've heard she's quite the catch."

"Anj's mom?"

"Shut up. Is she?"

McConnell puffed on his cigar. "Go into town and find out for yourself."

ZAP! ZAP! ZAP!

Casualties were mounting.

They savored their smokes. And the night. No moon, the stars popped bright in an inky blue as a band of crickets played a merry concert near the barn. A solitary coyote's howl went unanswered save a low growl from Geronimo, Ollie ignoring the lament altogether. Mitch brought out an expensive brandy but McConnell declined and settled for a Stella instead.

"How much money you got?" the hacker asked offhandedly. McConnell gave him a look. "Just answer the question."

"Around fifty-K if you must know," he begrudged him.

"Not enough. Gear and travel expenses alone will eat up most of that. And if you have to go on the run?"

"I'll manage."

"And did you think about your daughter in any of this?"

He might be worst father of the year material but he had. "Just more incentive to succeed swimmingly."

"I might be able to help you with money."

"I don't want a loan."

ZAP!

"Serendipity," Mitch muttered.

"What?"

"I know better than to offer you a loan. But getaways ain't cheap. I'm a year or two out from leaving the farm myself. Going to buy my island."

"Your island? Where?"

Mitch smiled conspiratorially. "You were doing mostly Cisco stuff at IPFusion, right? Got your CCIE down in San Jose."

"You giving me my CV or asking a question?"

"I don't get why you stayed in Spokane."

"Born and bred I suppose."

"I wouldn't brag about _that_ too loudly. You could've made three or four times more money in Seattle."

"I hate the rain. And traffic. Traffic sucks. And—"

"And your daughter's here."

"That's the second time you've mentioned her in less than a minute."

"Just trying to point to all the cards on the table. Bailing out that shitty little consulting firm all these years had to suck."

Mitch was surprisingly manipulative for a recluse. But they were getting along, sort of, so he played along. "It paid the bills."

"Not very well. That's why I'm telling you—"

"In a very roundabout way."

"—I have this project I'm working on. Interested?"

"What kind of project?"

"You won't have to do much."

"I'm assuming this is illegal. Might not be my thing."

"Yeah, right, killing people aside, you're a pretty stand-up guy when it comes to the law."

"Alright, let's say it's my thing."

"Shiny."

Mitch went inside for a spell, returned with a flash drive, slapped it into McConnell's hand.

"My latest version of my chat client, Grok. The large encryption requires some bandwidth but it's virtually impregnable. Take over two hundred million years to crack it." Mitch, the proud parent.

"Does it come in cornflower blue?"

"You'll have to wipe that shit-eating Windows and install a real operating system, of course."

"Okay."

"And don't try to read the code. If decompiled it releases a nasty data-eating virus that gobbles a gig a sec."

"Noted."

"So no more phone calls. No cell, no landline. No texts. Just Grok. Period."

"Got it."

"And you _do not_ browse the web regarding Angela or your brother anymore. That's all me now."

"Anything else?"

They made for his truck.

"How was the funeral?" Mitch asked, suddenly somber.

McConnell opened the passenger door for Geronimo. "Which one?" But he knew which one.

"I should've gone. I tried, you know."

"Funerals are for the living. She would've understood."

The hermitic hacker's grip firmer this time, McConnell nodded at him, clambered in, started up the engine.

"Wait!"

He stopped at the bottom of the drive as Mitch ran up, slapping at his arms. The mosquitoes wanted revenge over their electrocuted comrades. "What about me?"

"What about you?"

"Would you, uh, you know...If I asked you to?"

He breathed deep the indigo night.

Mitch misread it. "Not saying I want that. Over the years I've thought to hack their accounts, screw their credit, but..." He shook his head. "It was a long time ago."

"I dunno. Was it?"

A monument of naked, tortured teenage angst forever frozen in time fidgeted in the gravel.

McConnell waved down the road. "If it would help. Hell, I'd take care of those bastards tonight. But they're not the one torturing you, Mitch. They're not the one alone and bitter and angry."

Pot meet the kettle but it didn't make it any less true.

He bid goodnight and drove away.

### CHAPTER 19

JULY

Spokane, Washington

After a long run where he had admired Mrs. Davis's eye-magnet lime shorts conveniently ahead on the trail, ostensibly unplanned, he stared at his laptop screen, specifically, Mitch's chat client. It had been days and nothing. Grok was silent. He wondered if the hacker had changed his mind. He couldn't fault him if he did.

At least his conversation with Rich had paid off; his final paycheck, including vacation pay had been deposited that morning. Which made the appearance of an overripe-plum Lincoln Navigator blocking him in as he reversed down the driveway unsurprising. It was like she could smell money.

"Incoming," he muttered to the dog, exiting the truck.

"Mornin', Carrie," he said sweetly as she marched over in her stiletto heels. She was dressed for success—fuschia miniskirt and jacket, white nylons, platinum hair pulled back. Her chipped-topaz eyes flared like flecks of ice beneath an Antarctic sun.

"Still no check for June!" She waved a hand that demanded said check magically appear. She looked him up and down, cocked a hip and pushed out her cheek with her tongue. "So who's the girl?"

Something was new... _Oh._ "Are my eyes—did you get _another_ —"

"Don't change the subject."

"That Jer's one hell of a breast man."

She pressed out her new chest. Newer. "Where. Is. My. Check?"

"It's in the mail," he lied making a mental note to write her child support check and put it in the mail.

She gave him a long look. "Well? Are you going to ask after your only daughter?"

"How is my only daughter?"

"Stubborn as a mule and a brat besides. Why don't you come take her for a weekend and see for yourself? You know, follow the parenting plan?"

"She won't return any of my calls."

"Jesus Christ, John. Really? Who's the fucking parent, here? Just come get her. She's driving me crazy."

"Can't be that bad."

"I caught her with an older boy in her room the other night."

"What?"

"Josh Lyons. Snuck through her window."

"What?"

"He's sixteen. They were smoking pot."

" _WHAT?_ "

"Oh. Daddy finally upset?" she baby-talked.

"Did you have a talk with her?"

"No, I beat her with a spoon and locked her in the cellar. Of course I had a talk with her."

"What the hell's going on over there?"

"She's a teenager who needs her dad. You know what it's like to be a teen without a father."

He did. He just never imagined his daughter being one, too.

"Well...what about Jerry?"

"Jerry has his own kids, all grown and gone. One's a meth-head with dentures at twenty-three, the other has three kids by three different losers at twenty-two. You really want him giving advice to our daughter?"

"If he's so horrible then why'd you marry him?"

"Because he has lots of money and a big dick. Jesus. I don't have to answer to you anymore."

"Not like you ever did before," he said with bile.

She drew in breath, shook her head, bit off her retort. "Let's not. You have my check or not?"

"It's in the mail." She wasn't buying it. "It will be."

She rolled her eyes. "Then catch me up for July too. Katie's soccer uniform fees are due."

"That's good. She's still playing soccer." Something positive at least.

"She got kicked off the team. I'm trying to get her back on but she hasn't been much help."

"Why—"

"Cussed out her coach. They tend to frown on that in the thirteen-U division."

"I'll call her tonight."

"What you should do is just stop by and pick her up."

"I don't want to pressure her. I'll call her. Promise."

Carrie softened. She usually did when she got what she wanted, especially when that pertained to money. "How's your mom?"

"She's been better."

She gave him the up and down again.

"There's no girl," he said.

She snorted dubiously. "At least you _finally_ shaved off that fugly beard. Got a dog, huh?"

"He was Sean's."

That caught her off-guard. She sighed, hesitated, gave him a hug. "I'm sorry, Johnny. I know you two were close, in your way."

He shrugged it off. "How is ol' Jer?"

She looked down her nose at him. "Ol' Jer'?"

"Old enough to be your father, isn't he?"

She let out a sigh of exasperation. "I've got to get to work."

"Why? Isn't ol' Jer your boss?"

"We've had an _almost_ amicable conversation. Are you sure you want to ruin it?"

He blew out his cheeks and shook his head. He watched her click back to her SUV. Nice legs but that top heavy thing would be her ruin.

That evening after he hit the hill, then the punching bag, he checked the laptop on his way to the shower.

"Shit."

Mitch had come and gone.

" _Hello? You there?"_ read the first message. Then: _"You must be busy being an asshole to someone else somewhere. Open the attachment. Be out here on the 20_ th _. You owe me thirty-two K. American. L8er."_

Thirty-two thousand dollars. That would take a huge bite out of his finances. A bridge for another day. He opened the attachment, a zip file. It contained dozens of documents; articles, emails, bank statements, receipts, affidavits and JPEGs. None of it related to his brother. It was all Alan Odom.

Of course, for the hacker, Anj's rape touched all manners of nerves. Mitch had loved her, and remedying her injustice would never be secondary. McConnell grabbed a cold beer and dove into the files.

Right off the bat was a quashed _L.A. Times_ article detailing the exchange between Stanford University's campus security and the Palo Alto police department. Odom had been questioned and released for two similar date rapes during his sophomore year and security wanted the prick off their campus. One woman he had cut up, leaving her with some serious scars; it looked like money had been thrown at her to make her go away. What happened with the other victim was undocumented.

Next, an unpublished British tabloid article in the mid-nineties that claimed Alan Odom was an avid bisexual. He had been caught on a beach with another man and there were pictures to boot. Had to love those Brits. His granddaddy had bought up the pics for a disgusting sum.

Alan Odom was something of a dilettante. Yale, Stanford, Oregon State, he had yet to obtain a degree let alone maintain any position in the family business for longer than six months. He was known to disappear for months only to turn up in some dirty part of the world needing to be bailed out of one failed and/or illegal venture or another. The family hated him. The family lawyers had managed to keep him out of the US legal system but Anj's rape had been the last straw. Andrew P. had decided to put his black sheep grandson on a tight leash—if you considered a monthly five-thousand-dollar stipend tight. From credit card receipts it looked like Alan was still in Oregon.

McConnell sat back in the La-Z-Boy. The hacker was thorough if nothing else. With all this information, he wondered if the hacker was giving him license. It felt like it. It also felt like it was time. He wouldn't wait for the rifle. Odom was in Portland now—who knew when he might leave the country again? Waiting for the rifle was really procrastination, anyway. He was ready.

A farmer never plowed a field by turning it over in his mind.

He went into the bedroom, lifted up a corner of the mattress. There lay his father's dormant Desert Eagle, snug in its black paddle holster. A Hollywood favorite, in real life the Israeli-made .44 wasn't a common weapon of choice. Gas-operated, it featured polygonal rifling in the six-inch barrel to reduce obturation, allowing for better accuracy but requiring the right hand to be really effective. His dad had carried it on hunting trips as a safety for bear, cougar or the odd mountain lion. It had seen very little use and, most importantly, had never been registered.

There were two clips, loaded. And the silencer that Sean had made in ninth grade metal shop.

His brother had always had his eye on the pistol but it was John's by elder right and he had held onto it, it was America after all, violence and home intrusion as prevalent as crystal meth and unflattering carbs. The McConnell's were strong adherents of the principle better to have and not need and it was a good thing he had kept it because he needed it now. It was the only gun he owned, having given his brother his hunting rifles which were now likely lost. None had come back with Sean's personal things.

He checked the safety, locked a magazine and gave it a heft; not quite a boat anchor but not for the faint of heart, either. With the silencer it would be a bit cumbersome but manageable.

"What?" he said to the dog watching him from the doorway, his head cocked.

McConnell ignored him. He stuffed his leather travel bag full of clothes, tucking the pistol and clips and silencer between them. He took a shower, threw on shorts, cracked a beer and sat on the deck to watch the sunset. In between drinks he looked over Anj's picture and that of her rapist.

When in coaching mode for basketball or life Father D had been a big promoter of PMA—Positive Mental Attitude. He liked to espouse optimistic aphorisms to his young flock like an overzealous spigot: "make it happen," "belief creates the actual fact," "attitude not aptitude determines altitude" were some of his favorites. He had said it was far better to regret the things you did rather than the ones you did not. He also preached that sinning was sinning regardless of intent.

Geronimo was still watching him from just inside the slider.

"Sorry, buddy. You can't go."

The shepherd woofed and gave John his back.

### CHAPTER 20

JULY

Spokane, Washington

1:58 a.m. swore the serious blue LED beside the bed when Katie's mother called.

"Better be good," he yawned into the phone.

It wasn't. He held the phone away from his ear as Carrie screamed that Katie hadn't come home, wasn't answering her cell and was probably with that damn boy and it was all his fault.

"My fault?"

"Wasn't _someone_ supposed to call _his_ _only daughter_ tonight?"

_Shit._ "I got caught up—" _planning murder. It happens._

He threw on jeans and a T-shirt, laced up his Timberlands. Somewhere in between called and woke up his old coworker Steve who woke up his tenth-grade son, Tim.

"Yeah, there's a kegger. Tim doesn't know the address but it's near Longfellow and G St. Want some backup?"

He imagined Steve trying to look fierce peeping over his shoulder. "Thanks, I got it."

The party wasn't hard to find with the six cop cars parked in front. A corner house, the vacant lot next door was a haven for weeds, Big Gulp cups, Keystone beer cans. A rusted-out Nova was sleeping it off on blocks. Just the place you didn't want to go looking for your eighth-grade daughter.

He double-parked beside a patrol car, crossed the neglected lawn that led up to wide steps and an even wider concrete porch.

Spokane's finest were out in force; two bent a cuffed teen across the hood of a car hungrily rifling through his pockets for contraband while another postured over a group of too-young-to-drive-let-alone-drink teens in the yard. Doomed young souls dangled their Vans off the edge of the porch, looking like they would much rather be sitting on the dock of the bay (any dock, any bay) as another officer flicked his Maglite between each sullen expression and his new deck of IDs.

McConnell entered the house, scowled at the stairs, continued to the living room. His daughter wasn't among the acne- and fear-filled faces on the couch or leaning against the wall pretending to watch a muted TV like the police weren't even there. A female officer with her own ID collection looked up. "Can I help you, sir?"

He moved on to the dining room where two anxious boys sat rigid at a table, nodding in earnest as county deputies interrogated them. He pushed on, through a swinging door that led into the kitchen, past the keg and trail of red beer cups, hoping he wasn't going to have to go upstairs where there were bedrooms because that wouldn't bode well for anybody, not him, not Katie, and especially not for any boy who happened to be up there with her. The back of the house ended at a laundry room where three sneering girls leaned against a washer and dryer before a cropped-cut cop busily scribbling in his notepad. None of them were Katie, they were all at least sixteen. He frowned. He was dreading those stairs. One of the girls turned away as he turned to go—

Wait.

"Katie."

"Can I help you?" The cop didn't hide his irritation. Must be damn important scribbles.

"Do _not_ test me, Kaitlyn Marie," he reiterated.

The girl in the middle slowly pivoted, glaring at him.

Beneath the eyeliner, the rouge, the black cherry lipstick was his little girl. She was wearing—if you could call it that—black nylons, hooker boots, a short red skirt and a much-too-tight black T-shirt with green lettering that read _VOLCOM._ Whatever a VOLCOM was he didn't want it on his daughter.

"Move it." He thumbed brusquely over his shoulder.

Her eyes flashed defiance, flicked between him and the cop. Which was worse?

" _Now."_

She rolled her eyes and stomped madly towards him.

"You're not going anywhere." An assertive hand clamped down on her shoulder.

"Take your hand off my daughter," McConnell said.

He was young, all muscle and no brain, another Aryan know-it-all. Just what the SPD needed.

"I ain't asking."

The cop swallowed, withdrew his hand.

"You're her dad? She's going to be cited for possession of alcohol—Hey! Stop right there! Sir, I'm warning you—"

"Go fuck yourself," McConnell said, propelling Katie ahead of him through the kitchen.

Which was worse, the law or her father?

A no-brainer. At least tonight, because _this was_ _her father_. Not the lazy, deadbeat fatty with the ugly beard; he had finally killed and buried that freakin' thing. Had lost a ton of weight, too. _A ton._ He was looking good, a lot better than fat-ass Jerry but even as fat as her dad ever got he was a better catch than that asshole. How her mom could leave her dad for that gross pig was a fucking mystery.

Funny what you think about when you're drunk and up shit crick.

Storm troopers. That's what her dad called the Spokane police. This storm trooper, who couldn't take his eyes off Andrea's tits while pretending to write in his little book earlier, looked like he wanted to arrest her dad. Serve him right embarrassing her like this. The other girls' dads hadn't shown up, weren't dragging them away in front of all their friends. She was so pissed off but didn't want to stop and think about it because a part of her was happy to see him and that pissed her off even more.

They were into the dining room now and her dad pulled her up short next to Josh and Jeremy who were being lectured by two more cops. You could see the dim hope in their eyes that their parents in Vegas might not be bothered by a phone call.

"One of you Lyons?" her dad interrupted.

" _Dad!"_

"Shut it. Lyons?"

"We both are, sir," the younger confessed.

"Which is Josh?"

"He is." The older eagerly hooked a thumb at the younger.

Her dad leaned in close. "You come near my daughter again I'll cut your goddamn balls off."

Both went white.

She was so embarrassed.

"Jesus, McConnell, you can't say crap like that to kids these days, they'll shit themselves," a big cop with a moustache said. He was older than the others, old like her dad.

Her dad's eyes narrowed. "Anders. Didn't see you there."

They shook hands. _Whoa._ This was a storm trooper her dad actually liked?

Tit-cop bravely appeared.

"Good, you stopped him. This girl was drinking. I need to write her an infraction—"

Anders gestured her over. She looked to her dad who gave her a nod, so she went.

"You remember me?" Anders said to her. She shook her head. He snorted. "How old are you now?"

"Fourteen," she supplied boldly.

" _Thirteen,"_ her dad amended.

" _Almost_ fourteen," she snapped.

"I remember when you were five," Anders said to her, "you had that same look then, when your dad wouldn't let you ride a quad by yourself, as you do now."

"Hey!" Tit-cop wasn't getting the attention he deserved. "She's being cited for—"

"You got her ID?" Anders asked him.

"She didn't have one. She—"

"Well, I guess she ain't here then."

Tit-cop was city, wore dark blue. The one her dad liked wore the sheriff's tan and green.

"No. I was writing her up for—"

"Right. You _were._ But she ain't here now." Anders shook his head. Tit-cop just wasn't getting it. To her dad he said, "Take her home, McConnell." And to her, "Young lady, knowing your dad the way I do, I wish you the best of luck."

She muttered several nasty things as they paraded in full view of everyone on the porch.

"Watch your mouth, Katie."

"What are you going to do, embarrass me some more?" The audience on the porch cheered on her insolence.

One of the storm troopers paused smushing Tyler Jordan's face into the hood of a patrol car. "Hey, where you taking that girl?" Were any cops left in the city to fight real crime, like rape and murder, or was teenage partying now ranked with terrorism?

"Stop and identify yourself."

"Fuck off," her dad said. _Incredible._ Twice in less time than it took Amy Jones to lose her virginity her dad had told two cops to 'F' off.

"Hey asshole, turn around and step away from the girl!"

"Get in the truck, Katie," her dad ordered.

" _On the ground! Now!"_ The cop drew his Taser.

"Fuck you."

What came next happened unbelievably fast.

The Taser fired and in one motion her dad stepped aside, grabbed the wires mid-air and yanked backwards like he was hooking a fish. Launched from the cop's hands the Taser took flight, wires trailing after it into the night.

The cop's jaw dropped, his hands fumbled for gun and nightstick, coming up stick first. He took two steps forward and swung downward at her dad who lunged forward. The cop's outstretched arm smacked against his shoulder, nightstick harmlessly pointing up in the air, and faster than she could say _that's my dad_ he spun the cop around, placed him in a wicked-looking hold, wrist bent inwards towards the elbow. The cop squealed like a pig, the nightstick dropped and he followed it down to his knees.

The audience on the porch was now cheering even more raucously. Not so the cops, who were all running over, drawing their weapons. Whether Tasers or revolvers or laser pistols she couldn't see in the dark.

" _Dad!"_ she screamed.

The cop yipped as her dad jerked him up, holding him like a shield as the charging cops slid to a halt, weapons pointed, shouting all manners of violence they would visit upon him if he didn't drop to the ground.

Her dad dared them with his icy stare. The porch was near riotous. Katie herself was screaming, any moment the bullets would fly—

" _KNOCK THAT OFF! NOW!_ All of you, holster your side arm! I said _holster your side arm! That's an order!_ "

Everyone froze. Even the cheerers went silent mid-cheer.

Anders lumbered down the steps from the porch to stand between her dad and the gang of dark blue, barking again to put their guns away. They refused and he barked at them again. Slowly they complied. When the last one had, her dad shoved the immobilized cop away with a boot in his butt. He fell on all fours with a grunt before popping up and rubbing at his wrist.

"YOU'RE UNDER ARREST!" he screamed indignantly. The other cops were eager to make it so.

"Shut up!" Anders said. Cheering erupted anew. He swung his head at the porch. "You too!" His beet-red face turned on her dad. "Get on out of here, McConnell. Go cool off for Christ's sake!"

"Get in the truck," her dad said and she did without a word. Shaking from fear and still a little drunk though sobering up very quickly she was afraid she might barf so she powered down the window for air.

As they drove away she heard, "Why'd you let that bastard go? Oh shit! My gun! My gun's missing! He has my gun!"

"Shut up, Nate," Anders said. "He set it down in the street. I won't tell anyone if you don't."

The motherly joy reception at home was short-lived as Boobilicious squeezed her like she was four and then grounded her for the rest of the summer. It was all for show, as likely to happen as the original Nirvana getting back together. With a little wheedling her mom would relent in a couple days and liberty would be restored. Her dad was another matter.

"Drugs, drinking, older boys? You're dressed like a damn hooker. What the hell is wrong with you?"

Her earlier fear was quickly replaced with an all too familiar swelling sea of anger.

" _Me_? _Me?_ There's nothing wrong with _me!_ I'm not a kid anymore, but I guess you'd have to be around to notice! I'm a _woman_ , I make my own decisions!"

" _You're a spoiled little girl!_ " He was yelling now. They'd hear it from the neighbors tomorrow. Probably from as far away as Coeur d'Alene.

How totally fucking embarrassing.

"Katie, right now, I'm so angry, so disappointed in you—"

"You're angry and disappointed in _me_? _Go to hell!_ " she screamed and stormed into the house.

She had waited all day, told Mariah to go to the mall without her, hadn't gone over to the Willard's to swim in their pool, didn't go outside unless she had her cell _and_ the cordless and _he_ _never_ _called_. Her mom had said he would, but was that a surprise? No, it never was. So _fuck him_! He couldn't have it both ways! He couldn't be mad and tell her what to do and not do whenever _he_ wanted!

She cried herself to sleep, her makeup smearing its way across the pillow. In the morning her mom coddled her with blueberry waffles and bacon, she didn't rag on her or anything. When she finally got around to asking about her dad her mom looked up with a frown.

"He didn't tell you, did he?"

"What?"

"He's gone, honey. Some work in Boise. Won't be back for a week."

### CHAPTER 21

JULY

Portland, Oregon

He was running late but his date would wait, and he was a poet and he didn't even know it.

He caught his smile in the rearview mirror. There was no one there to appreciate its charming, impeccable quality other than the golden moon rising up ahead, and it was tacit in its admiration as he sped down the highway for one of the seedier pockets of the city.

How bittersweet freedom was. No more _boredrooms_ or monotonous _meatings_. Let his sister pretend to enjoy suffocating while grazing among the mundane—she probably did, the fat cow. Oh, he would dazzle the blue-blooded, Xanaxed skanks his sodden mother sent his way, even occasionally dicking their hand-me-down, re-engineered cunts but damned if he would enjoy it. Fucking women was such a tedious business and he despised business. But one did what one had to do. His allowance a pittance, it most certainly beat wasting time on common occupation.

He glanced at his Bulova. 11:43 p.m.

Time. That's all that life was really about. Measured. You could judge a man by the time he kept. Which was why _he_ was always late. A punctual man might respect time but wasn't respected in turn. Being late was power. Making others wait for you was robbing them of their time, demonstrating they were less than you, they knew it and there was nothing they could do about it. What greater gift could someone give anyone but their time? What greater power was there but to take others' time away when they didn't want to surrender it?

All the imbecilic waiting he had suffered through in life, staring at clocks, waiting, and more waiting, always for something, for someone, the light to turn red, his plane to board, a refill of his cocktail. More often than not it was for something to finish: tiresome lectures, his mother's soused discursions, Granddad's tirades, his sisters' twitting over closeted preppies or yet another ghastly gown for another god-awful cotillion. Waiting, waiting, waiting. He _loathed_ waiting. Yet he was exceptionally good at the _Waiting Game_. A master, really.

Tick-tock-tick-tock.

One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi...

Sometimes he'd improvise.

One eager beaver, two eager beaver...

A Portland police car raced by in the left lane in a hurry to arrest some unfortunate soul. His breath caught for a moment. He shook his head. That bitch. He still found the sight of police unnerving. _You suicidal bitch. Got what you deserved, didn't you?_

She had been an 847. A high number considering his need, stood up for the second time in as many nights, she had been a ripe, vulnerable contingency to punish for Franco's infuriating impudence. Arousing enough with her boyish hair and rounded bottom, her urgency to be shamed was irresistible. That damnable gash of womanhood always so unclean, so unsatisfying, he had plunged in and wrecked her other hole without even a courtesy wiggle of a pinky. Her insecurity, her _ingratiating need_ as a weaker creature to be fulfilled by his stronger self, her shy self-consciousness at the bar so easily exploitable—these were her most endearing qualities. He hadn't meant to knock her out. Where was the fun in that? Humiliation was just another word for foreplay. The filthy whore awaking to her nightmare, crying and puking and bleeding...Now that was memorable.

847. Fourteen minutes and seven seconds, not counting the hours spent lubricating her up with drinks, sitting on her lumpy, plebeian sofa, smelling her nasty cats, pretending he cared, what a mind-numbing bitch. What a waste of his fucking time. And then the accusations? The jail? His loss of _his time?_

We reap what we sow, sweetheart.

Taking the next exit, he glanced in the rearview, ran fingers through his hair, unbuttoned the top two buttons of his cream silk shirt. Smoothing his dark blue chinos, he pinched his penis with thumb and forefinger through the combed cotton. Whether it was the memory of Miss 847 or the Viagra kicking in he was in for a wonderful night. The bright face of the moon was still coldly indifferent, but what did it know?

He parked, dug into his front pocket, nudged the condoms out of the way and retrieved his snuff bullet. He took two quick snorts in each nostril, the coke far inferior to the blow in the Riviera or Ibiza. Portland was hell. But one made do. Like the Audi he was driving. It's dented, humdrum-gray abomination served as ride and occasional boudoir, his "slummer for the summer." Couldn't very well be out and about in anything proper and Italian. Not in this shitty neighborhood.

The area had seen better days but he had been in far worse, slums of the most wicked kind, where money bought anything imaginable. What was a rundown, boarded up, refuse-choked hood in America to him? Ah, the coke was working its magic. Vampires, demons and devils beware! A mightier monster prowled this night!

He was walking around the corner from the broken red neon of Checkers bar when Kevin stepped out of the shadows.

"You're late, Alan," he pouted.

"Sorry love, couldn't be helped. Make it up to you?"

His eyes roamed up and down his date. Kevin wasn't the usual ghetto-twink he picked up down here. Tall, he actually made his navy Dockers and dark jacket look less cheap than they were. His hands were deep in his pockets. He looked cold. Well, Alan would warm him up in no time. "Shall we get a drink?"

Kevin cocked his sunny-blond head and offered him that rugged smile. "A drink isn't going to make it up to me."

"Well, aren't _we_ the eager beaver?"

Kevin maintained that his wife was in the dark about her husband being queer but Alan had his doubts. More likely the whore tolerated his stepping out because he made decent bank as a lawyer in Forest Grove, the breeder probably getting her own strange on the sly. Or there was no breeder at all. Whatever.

"Shall we get a room? I could really make it up to if you'd like to get a room. My treat, of course."

"I was thinking something more...immediate. Then a few drinks. Maybe a room later? How about down there?" Kevin nodded down the dark street, smiling shyly.

"Lead the way, my pretty."

The coke and Viagra really humming now. At the mouth of an alley he grumbled, "We don't need to trek halfway across the state."

"Sorry. Nervous. Just down here," Kevin implored, his face beautifully suburban in the gray moonlight. He wanted to do unsavory things to it, to Kevin's tight ass in those 501 Blues, and that wasn't just the drugs talking. He was in a wrecking mood.

They ended up in an inner courtyard of an old bakery, bricked in by high walls. The air was rank with sluggish water. "This should do."

"Perfect. Ten points for Kevvy!" He moved in close, taking his shy date by surprise. The reek of damp and rot and garbage wrinkled his numb nose but he was beyond caring. "Unzip me," he commanded.

Kevin swallowed, slowly drew Alan's zipper down. "Like I said, I've never—"

"Yes, yes. Shut up. Just get on your knees and put my cock in your mouth."

Kevin slowly dropped to his knees.

He was rock hard. Just met the married dolt that afternoon and here he was about to blow him without a jollybag. He muffled a giggle as his chinos bunched down to his ankles and he was free as a bird in the breeze. He glanced at his watch in the pale moonlight, closed his eyes in sweet anticipation.

One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi...

Ppfffft!

He doubled over in agony as lancing pain struck his groin.

Warmth ran down his thighs. He drew in air to let out a shrill scream but a latex-gloved hand smothered it to silence as his feet were swept out from under him, thank God, he needed to lie down, the pain was excruciating. He landed hard, the hand still tight against his mouth. Dazed from the impact, the wind knocked out of him, he snorted air through his nose as Kevin's face filled his vision.

Seven Mississippi, eight Mississippi...

"Stay with me. You with me, Alan? Nod if you're with me." He was in pain but with him. He nodded. "Remember Angela Flynn? Remember raping her? Nod if you remember, you fuck." He nodded again. He remembered. It was then he realized this was _not_ Kevin. Kevin had been nervous, bashful. _This_ Kevin, this _Not-Kevin_ was way too cool by far, his eyes no longer so alluring, they were hard and cold flint from somewhere deep in the earth. Not-Kevin wasn't affable. He was very angry. Not-Kevin meant business.

"That's why you're dead, Alan," Not-Kevin said.

His eyes widened in cold fear. _Fifteen Mississippi, sixteen Mississippi..._ His hands began to explore the warm, thick gooey sensation below his waste.

Not-Kevin glanced down at his groin. "Yeah. That's right. I shot your dick clean off _,_ Alan. It's lying over there. Won't be wrecking any more assholes now, will you?"

Shock, he was in shock. His hands came away with a pasty rouge and tears started to well up in his eyes. Snot bubbled out his nose, he couldn't get enough air, he needed to scream, reached to pull Not-Kevin's hand from his mouth but Not-Kevin was strong.

Twenty-seven Mississippi...

Ppfffft!

Pressure filled his heart. Alan Odom stopped waiting.

Hillsboro, Oregon

Struggling family man/sales rep Tom Woodridge was up earlier than usual. He poured his cup of their acerbic lobby coffee and it looked like he needed it, like he hadn't gotten a wink of sleep. Job search must not have panned out. Too bad. She liked Tom.

The small family-run motel east of central Portland was run down but clean. The coffee bitter but cheap. The rooms outdated but comfortable. But Tom never complained.

"Checking out today, Tom?"

"Yep. Back to Butte. Thanks for everything, Connie."

Connie checked him out, which was quick since he'd paid cash up front for his week's stay. Normally they required a credit card but it was a recession, after all, and Tom Woodridge wasn't the only credit-ruined, broke soul out in search of work. Too bad he was already happily hitched; her oldest, on divorce number two, could really get her act together with a decent man by her side. Decent and handsome with those earnest hazel eyes. Tom was the kind of man you could trust to get things done.

"Take care, Tom. Good luck. Anytime you're back in the neighborhood—"

"This is where I'll stay. Thanks again, Connie."

Tom Woodridge threw his leather bag in the back seat of his Chevy Malibu, slid behind the wheel and headed east.

Tom Woodridge's Montana license read he was forty-two, six-one, two hundred pounds with blue eyes and blond hair. He was an organ donor. It rested comfortably in the wallet of the man driving into the glare of a glorious morning. Said license had been filched from a sleazy establishment known as The Whore, where he'd stopped in ostensibly to shoot the shit one morning. When the ugly barkeep slipped in to restock the walk-in Tom went behind the bar and ransacked the cigar box that held misplaced and confiscated IDs.

It had taken six days of finding, trailing, trapping and finally killing the rapist bastard Alan Odom.

Odom had been hanging his hat at the family manor, a sprawling sixty acres in Goose Hollow, secured by man, dog, and too many cameras and security systems to count. During the day Odom ate at bistros and cafes with the _haut monde_ who could stand him, then crawled and slimed his way through clubs, bars and pubs, some refined, many downright seedy at night. He gave nothing of value in return for his existence. More pathetic than decadent, Odom was a parasite.

At a gas station along the Columbia Gorge Tom tossed into a dumpster the bagged up clothes he had worn the night he had met Odom outside of Checkers.

It wasn't their first meeting. That had been in the day, at the same dusky bar, its shades drawn to encourage young ghouls to venture in and strut and hustle for a few bucks for their fix or a more permanent sugar daddy. The industrial neighborhood in decline for decades, the chance of running into someone you knew from the golf club or church was remote, which lured in a coterie of well-dressed men pretending not to know each other while they admired the parade of potential paramours with impressive disinterest. _Gay? Me? Please! I just stumbled in here. I have a wife at home, four beautiful children, thank you very much! I'm a monster on the racquetball court! I have an eight handicap! How could I possibly be a blazing butt pirate?_ The alley and hourly motel down the highway contrary to such hetero proclamations.

It was his carelessness and/or inexperience which made their introduction.

"Are you following me?" Odom stood at his table, lazily stirring a cocktail with affected boredom.

His blank look was not affected. For a split second he had been lost in thought, staring at his flat beer, and that was all the time needed for his quarry to reverse roles and sneak up on him.

"I saw you at The Silverado last night." Odom threw on his disarming smile and extended a hand. "I'm Alan. I don't believe we've had the pleasure?"

"I don't think we have, no."

"Love the hair. Care for a drink...?"

"Kevin. Sure."

Odom wrinkled his nose at the one before him. "Beer's so proletariat. You feeling Caribbean or Mediterranean?"

Kevin was struggling with his sexual identity and revealed as much after one daiquiri. By three they were flirting with the idea of carrying their conversation to more private quarters though Kevin was nervous, and excused himself by confessing his boss was going to have his balls in a jar for such a late lunch and he did love his wife. It wasn't so much his imagination as it was Odom's prejudice and assumption that crafted the narrative. Odom knew things and wanted to show he knew them. He had dimmed, then brightened when Kevin suggested they meet up later that night if he could slip the leash. Odom had tossed a hundred on the table and as he left drew two fingers along Kevin's cheek.

Kevin (Tom) had returned to the hotel and showered, scrubbing his skin and golden hair, gelling and spraying for added measure. Not because he felt dirty being touched by the man he aimed to kill but to reduce as much culpable DNA as possible. His prints weren't on file, but he had taken the precaution of wearing gloves anyway. There was always powder residue. Better safe than sorry seemed the apt motto of the trade.

A tryst turned robbery gone angry. He had cleaned out Odom's wallet, flung the sealskin billfold onto the body before gathering up the two spent casings. It had been bloody. He had expected his adrenaline to spike, it hadn't, though his emotions had. He had been wrong; there was a satisfaction in killing the sonofabitch after all.

Tom caught sight of his hair in the mirror. The reddish gold was still disorienting. Desert Sunrise, Clairol called it. His eyes were the same. Those eyes caught the glint of a wedding band on his finger. He tugged it off and into a pocket. He drove east.

In Boise he returned the Malibu to Alfredo's Good Deal Rentals, whose advantage over their chain competitors was they loved cash and didn't ask a lot of questions. Alfredo called him a taxi for the airport where Tom Woodridge took a shuttle to a Park 'N Fly, jumped into John McConnell's Titan, handed over a hundred to the kid in the booth and headed back up US-95.

It was hot. He drove with the windows down.

### CHAPTER 22

JULY

Spokane, Washington

He replayed the messages on the answering machine. The first from Marissa reminding him that he owed her. Geronimo whined, pawed at his knee.

"She's gone, buddy," McConnell said. But she wasn't. Vanilla, citrus and the sea still lingered. A paranoid part of him wondered if it was intentional.

The dog had warmed to her immediately and she had taken to him with a razz of his ears. She had been in form-fitting blue capris and a zip-up. _Adidas_ read the silvery label on one hip. Her cheeks were rosy, like her sister's had always been. She seemed a little bouncy.

"Sorry. Still got that endorphin buzz from kickboxing class. Just got out of the shower," she had explained, tossing her damp ponytail back and forth, filling the room with her fragrance. Like peeling a Jaffa orange for breakfast on an Andalusian beach.

She had cocked her head. "Wow. Your beard ran away. You call the Humane Society?"

He didn't remember her being funny as a kid. Honestly, he barely remembered her as a kid at all.

She cocked her head the other way. "And some weight ran away with the spoon, too."

"A little," he conceded.

"More than a little." Gold-flecks danced in her emerald eyes.

He remembered why she was there. "Should just be a week. Maybe ten days."

"Where you going again?"

Portland. To kill the man who raped and murdered your sister.

"Boise. For work."

Maybe he didn't murder her directly. But why split hairs.

" _Mon Dieu!_ Boise? _C'est dommage._ " She pretended to weigh it over. "Well, I'll watch your critters but on one condition: When you get back you owe me dinner."

"You don't mean a date?"

"No, John, I do not mean a _date._ " She rolled her eyes. "But a girl's gotta eat, right?"

"Right. Okay. Perhaps when I get back we'll do dinner."

She arched an eyebrow.

"Dinner sounds great. I'm looking forward to it," he amended.

He never had any intention of honoring that amendment. There were lines in this world he wouldn't cross, and some of those were the delectably curved of Anj's little sister.

Second message was Carrie's reprimand regarding his neglect of his only daughter and why the hell wasn't he returning _her_ calls?

He had left his cell of course; he wasn't going through all those precautions just to be tracked by cell towers.

Carrie was right about Katie's behavior needing to be nipped in the bud. If his mom or grandpa—Jesus, perish either thought—knew Katie was running wild dressed fit for a shoot for _teenvixens.com_ and smoking pot...? But how to start that conversation. He and Katie couldn't be in a room for thirty seconds without one chomping at the bit to tear into the other.

He took a morning run with the dog along the river, watched the sun turn lead into a ribbon of sparkling jade, contemplated what he had done, considered what he should do, and upon returning to the house was none the guiltier nor wiser.

He checked the TV news again. Still no mention of Odom. It had been three days. Maybe they hadn't found the body yet. Then again, maybe they had. Maybe the cops were quietly working the evidence, following some thread he had overlooked, leading them slowly, inexorably to his doorstep. He half-expected a knock on the door, if not SWAT just busting it down, but not a rap, not even a phone call. He went over it all again and couldn't find the other end of that thread. Anj was the only link, and she wasn't talking. If he had missed something he deserved what came.

He clicked the TV off. He had things to do today, and that's what he was good at, the doing of things.

He stopped by the credit union, emptied his security box into his laptop bag. _Easy come, easy go._

"One of us better get a job soon," he said to the dog as they cruised the sun-soaked highway towards Elk. The dog snorted. Wasn't going to be him.

As he approached the porch, Mitch rose from his seat, hand blocking his eyes as he staggered backwards.

"Good Lord. It's the eye. The eye of Sauron!"

"What?"

Mitch pointed to his own dull graying hair.

"Oh." McConnell had forgotten about his own dye job. "It's Desert Sunrise. All the kids are doing it. You looked in a mirror lately?"

Mitch wore a brown and blue striped bathrobe that dated back to when Brenda and Dylan were an item.

"It's my Thinking Robe. Lends clarity," the hacker confessed.

They talked some over Mountain Dew and iced tea on the porch.

"Didn't want to wait for the rifle, huh?" Mitch finally asked.

"Nope."

"You left your phone?"

Referring to today not Portland. He didn't want anyone tracking McConnell out to his house.

"Yep."

Mitch nodded, peeled at what was left of the paint on the railing. "Nothing on the web," he said mildly.

"Wouldn't know."

"Quit crying. You can still browse your Heather Thomas fan pages."

"What joy."

"By the way I fixed your alibi, or rather provided one. You're planning skills inhale wind."

They shared a look, toasted their drinks, said "Mrs. Graham."

Mitch handed him a green folder from under his chair. "Your road trip to Glacier."

"I went to Boise."

"Did you do accountable work there? Didn't think so. You needed to get away from it all, your brother's death, so Montana called. It's better. Bigger. More empty."

Inside the folder was a spreadsheet with an itinerary of stops; gas stations, fast food restaurants, steakhouses, motels, with fields for location, date, time and dollar amount.

"These won't hold up without receipts or proof of real charges."

"Who says they're not real charges?" Mitch shrugged. "There's gaps of course, we don't want to be too perfect. It's pretty easy to do, really. Card companies store at a central DB, it's usually a simple SQL injection. You'd be amazed—well, you probably wouldn't, but most people would be. About fourteen hundred bucks out of your pocket but not too steep a price to keep you out of the pokey."

Page two was a MapQuest printout of a route from Spokane across the panhandle of Idaho and into Montana, down through Glacier National Park and back. Mitch was thorough.

"Memorize that," the hacker said. He looked around the yard, leaned forward conspiratorially. "So it went okay?"

"Why are you whispering?" McConnell whispered back.

Mitch looked around again, offered a sheepish grin. "I don't know why. Subject matter I suppose. Did he suffer?"

"I'm not going into the details." But Mitch had earned the right to know. "Yeah. Not enough in my opinion."

"You okay with it?"

"I am. You?"

The hacker puffed out his cheeks, pressed his glasses up with a finger. "Oddly enough, I find that I am."

They sat quietly taking in the magnitude of what they had wrought.

"You still want the rifle?"

"You tell me."

"I'm still digging."

McConnell wasn't sure if he believed him. Mitch picked up on that but wasn't more forthcoming. He stood, laid his robe reverently across a chair and gestured to follow him. This time they took a walk to the barn. Mitch pulled open the wide, white doors on creaky hinges. Inside was an old U-Haul trailer, hitch laying in the dirt, the walls covered with lathes and saws and drills, dusty but in good condition, the blades and bits sharp and ready.

"Your dad left all this?" McConnell asked.

"He took what mattered. The table saw, that piece of shit old Mustang he never got around to fixing up. His guns. My brother has a better shop anyway, and he should, since I've paid for it, and no, my dad doesn't know. Your stuff's in the trailer."

McConnell rolled the trailer door up. In the shadows lay a long, dark olive case, five-foot by two-foot and two feet deep. Behind it were cardboard boxes stamped "M118LR" in declarative black lettering, and on top of those a smaller plain white box and a manila envelope.

"I didn't realize your ask was for a marine sniper rifle," Mitch said. "The M40A1 is discontinued, I got you the M40A3. Straight from the marine armory in Quantico, completely untraceable. That suppressor there is stock, it's a, uh, OPS INC. or something. No Unertl scope, they're being refitted, but that white box is supposed to be better anyway, a PVS-10 day/night gizmo, all the rage in Iraq these days, according to my MS-13 sources."

"MS-13?"

Mitch picked up a stick and poked at the dirt. "They're a gang, a large one, more a conglomeration really, based out of L.A. Mostly Salvadoran though really from all over Central America. FBI's been focusing so hard on terrorists that _Mara Salvatruchas_ grew like weeds in our own backyard. In thirty states and counting, mostly illegals. When they get deported to whatever third world hellhole they crawled out of they set up franchises. Business is mostly drugs, racketeering, kidnappings and of course the occasional gunrunning."

"And you deal with them?"

"Don't judge me. You're the one asking for a rifle and five hundred rounds of ammunition. Why'd you ask for a marine sniper rifle, anyway?"

"My dad said you couldn't go wrong with a M40A1. And I've never been in the military."

Mitch nodded approvingly. "Meaning they'll be looking for someone who has. Well played, sir. I'm sure since I asked for one MS-13 took the opportunity to steal twenty of the things. They have a lot of guys in the military. We do have the biggest Latino army in the world."

Sean had shared that same joke. "So why do they think you wanted it?"

"It's a goddamn sniper rifle, John. What else is it good for? Don't worry. We're three anonymous hops from MS-13." They stood a moment looking it all over.

"Well?" Mitch asked. "You gonna make sure it's what you wanted?"

"Yep," McConnell replied, flipping the latches and raising the gun case lid.

The rifle was assembled. Plain army-green fiberglass stock, the barrel black steel with the twelve-inch suppressor can at the end midnight blue. It boasted the reliable Remington 700 short action, and nestled into the soft foam beside it was a Harris bipod and a small plastic case with the words M40A3 DEPLOYMENT KIT USMC carved in relief.

"Looks deadly enough," Mitch observed dryly.

McConnell removed the weapon, hefting it for weight. The A1 model specked out around fourteen and a half pounds without scope but this one felt two to three heavier. He turned and sighted out across the garden and into the woods beyond the back of the house. It felt good. A little blocky—the cheek needed adjusting—but it was comfortable. Its craftsmanship gave the impression it was dependable.

He placed the rifle back in the foaming, made sure it was secure, then closed the case and latched it shut. "I can't believe they handed it over without the cash first."

"Of course they didn't. I paid up front, I knew you were good for it. The envelope's got the rest."

McConnell emptied the envelope contents into his hand: IDs from five different states and two passports, American and Canadian.

"It's not too late to turn back, you know."

"Tell me what you found."

"I don't know yet." The hacker pushed his glasses up in agitation. "I'm still aggregating the data."

"Aggregating the data?"

"This ain't _Sneakers_. The DOD aren't the simple nut they used to be."

McConnell wasn't buying that either. He eyed the contents of the trailer. "Just going to take a case of the ammo, leave the rest. That alright?"

"Sure thing, boss. You staying for lunch?"

They ate sun-dried tomato tortillas stuffed with basil chicken and Fontina cheese and a Greek cucumber salad amid the battle on the dining room table. Midway through rhubarb-strawberry pie McConnell set thirty-two thousand between a band of orcs and an elven war party.

"Perfect. I needed groceries," Mitch said.

Later they drank beer in the shade of the porch.

"You should come into town for a beer."

"That Luddite Desmond still around?" Mitch snorted. "Pass, thanks."

"I didn't say come have a beer with a Luddite. Come over to my pad. We'll throw some steaks on the barbie. I'll invite Mrs. Davis over."

"I'm not sleeping with a married woman."

McConnell shrugged. Neither was he. Though the temptation was growing.

"Will the body turn up?" the hacker asked abruptly.

He shrugged again. "It's not hidden. Just out of the way."

"You get rid of the file I sent you?"

"Ran a low-level format, zeroed out the drive, the whole bit."

The afternoon waned. Mitch replaced their empties with cold ones. "You were right, you know. It needed to be done."

Whether true or not, McConnell had nothing more to say about Alan Odom. He was doing things. He felt no compunction to dwell upon them. "Let's talk about something else."

The shadows began to creep from beneath the pines as the sun slipped into the west.

Mitch started to say something, thought better of it. He gave the bigger man a sideways glance. "Just one more thing."

"Yeah?"

"Stay golden, Ponyboy."

### CHAPTER 23

JULY

Elk, Washington

Mitch dropped unsteadily in front of his monitors. Not much of a drinker, really, McConnell had knocked down three beers before he had finished sipping the last draught of his first. The beer had been warranted; they had killed a man after all, well, McConnell had, though he had played his part. He wasn't proud of it. And yet he was. What did that say?

Not like we're the first two in the world to conspire upon murder.

And if he shared what he had discovered they were likely to conspire again.

He frowned. McConnell was no fool, not a complete one anyway. He had been holding back. Odom had been a localized evil, a wicked wrong that needed redress, an achievable imperative. Gunnery Sergeant Sean McConnell's killers, juxtaposed, were a distant mission impossible. They were at the Rubicon, and he was intently, warily peering from its bank. That big dolt McConnell would blindly splash in with his oversized, clunky clodhoppers if Mitch didn't keep him in check. Maybe that was unfair. But they weren't playing at Chutes and Ladders.

He blew out his cheeks, took a drink of Dew. He poked the cat. Grabbed a snack from upstairs. Turned on the TV, turned on the sound on the TV. The blonde was reporting again. She had cut her hair, was still damn cute. A nonsense story. She needed a scoop. He should send her something. Anonymously. He could send her something from his Trapper Keeper, lots of juicy newsworthy tidbits in there. Or he could send her flowers—

Stop procrastinating.

"Okay." Arguing with himself, now. Great.

He brought up the Visio that contained his flowchart and Venn diagrams.

He blew out his cheeks again.

Discovering what lay beyond the Rubicon had not been terribly difficult. There was a map of sorts if you knew where to look. And how. And, of course, he did.

He started his journey with a tweak of an Israeli facial recognition program to compare Nielsen's plates with license plates displayed across the web, focused primarily on photo sharing sites often used by soldiers. The crawl executed on some abandoned servers left running at the University of Oklahoma. It wasn't a very accurate program. But it was a first step.

That done, he prepped some _conchiglie ripieni._

Next, accessing the General Directorate of Traffic in Baghdad. It was child's play, Arabic translation aside. The UN had over eight hundred vehicles registered in Iraq. None of them matched Nielsen's plates. No surprise there.

He looked into Automatic Number Plate Recognition in Iraq. License plate scanning technology had been around since the seventies, was used stateside more than Americans knew—well, most Americans. Sure enough ANPR was in use at several bases and checkpoints by both US military and contractors, running weak security to boot, outside both NIPR and SIPR. A query of Nielsen's plates came away with several hits and one very lucky break. A checkpoint in the Green Zone tracked VINs as well as plates. He now had the plates and the correlating Vehicle Identification Numbers for both vehicles.

He gave himself a B+ on the _conchiglie;_ the fusion of shiitake, spinach, prosciutto and ricotta not as pleasurable to the palate as one might think.

Running a search for those VINs in the US and EU he found a white Toyota SUV manufactured in Princeton, Indiana, and a Volkswagen diesel truck out of Wolfsburg, Germany, both 2004 models. The SUV was registered that year commercially in Houston by Post, Green and Wooden. Everyone knew PGW, the defense arm subsidiary of big oil Norton Industries. He had perused their financials a time or two.

So how did these vehicles end up in Iraq, more specifically in service with the United Nations? Were they falsely marked as UN and using counterfeit plates? Or were they legit and just hadn't been registered in the Iraq DMV's database for any number of reasons?

If the vehicles were the only information he would have called up Occam, borrowed his razor and settled on the last option. Shit happens.

But there was a dead marine at the end of the equation. Murdered from the sound of it. And the military didn't care. They had silenced Nielsen. That didn't jibe with shit just happens.

Chewing it over he waited for his crawl to complete while working that lazy-brained McConnell's alibi one credit charge at a time. At least _he_ was no shirker.

His crawl came away with garbage, save one seventy-percent probable, the photo of the truck taken by a National Guardsman on walkabout in Basrah sometime in 2006.

Undaunted, he raided the PGW Houston office and came away with a blank. The purchased Toyota just fell off the radar. The truck out of Germany was disappeared, too.

He returned to the UN, an easy mark, everyone was doing it. Americans, Russians, Chinese, French, Israelis—anyone with internet and an interest, the United Nations was as insecure as a sophomore girl at the senior prom. Or so he imagined, having never been to a prom let alone saw a girl there. As inept as the UN was at security they were meticulous in recordkeeping. He held out hope.

He came away with nothing.

Now he was daunted. He had reached the edge of the map: _Hic sunt dracones._

Here be dragons.

The foreboding territory where dwelled defense and intelligence three-letter acronyms. They spread monstrous wings and breathed fire, immolating all who would dare steal their treasure. Enter that wilderness at your peril. If it wasn't a foreign agency—and Nielsen's story proved old Uncle Sam was involved—then it was either the heavy-handed, overwrought labyrinthine DoD or the CIA, and he would put money on the latter, as this kind of clandestine cynicism reeked of the Christians In Action network.

He didn't want to go after the CIA. Which of their thousand locks to pick, each attempt a risk? The dragon always won given a long enough timeline. He needed others more willing to chase this dragon.

Not dragons. Windmills. I need Don Quixotes.

Attack the flank. Go at them sideways. That's what the spooks did.

He browsed New World Order conspiracy sites, the surest access to the fodder of government collusion and corporate global domination if you could get past the illuminati and lizardmen. Using dummy accounts, he posted inquiries regarding false-flag UN vehicles or similar events on paranoid forums and ancient BBS boards where the cranks and whackos were most prolific.

The response was quick. And thorough. Those folks lived to show what they knew. For two days he sieved and dismissed and guffawed and grimaced at man's gullibility. And yet aggregated at the bottom of the barrel there were suspicious UN vehicle sightings in Afghanistan, Iraq, Pakistan, Sierra Leone and Somalia. There was a _Doctors without Borders_ discussion in Dutch that added Uganda, Nigeria and Sudan to the list. Largo Freight was repeatedly mentioned, a rumored front, its trucks observed in questionable circumstances all over Sub-Saharan Africa, the Ukraine, Venezuela, Mexico, and even in the United States.

Largo Freight appeared to be a quiet, international trucking company. It was also owned by the Easton-Riddle Corporation, who just so happened to be another Norton subsidiary.

Was he on to something?

The day McConnell was driving home from Portland he had received an anonymous message via IRC. Just the phrase "a little bird tweeted" and a link to an old Caltech gaming BBS that he knew to be dead only now it wasn't. He found nothing there except one solitary zip file. Downloading it required a password.

As intended he waited, only he did so upstairs in the warmth of the sunny kitchen where he made _paella_. He jumped at the doorbell; just FedEx with his dry-iced ostrich, bison and tuna sashimi. Upon his return to the cool gloom below he discovered a new response to a different one of his forum posts. Short and sweet:

WH8T d1d tWEEt1E s8Y?

Not terribly clever multi-factor authentication but it wasn't supposed to be. He typed the answer out in a text file, verified it looked correct and gave it a shot as the password:

" **1t8Wt1s8W8PuddYt8t"**

The archive began downloading.

His palms were sweaty. That hadn't happened in a long time. There was something here, but was he about to step onto a landmine. Maybe it was all an elaborate setup, a digital honeypot. Curiosity was what killed the cat.

Rocking in the chair, he poked Ms. Kitty. She rolled over, annoyed but alive.

His palms were damp again but not from excitement. What to share with McConnell, if anything at all? Would it be dissuasive? Or encouraging? Hard to tell with that ornery bastard.

He held no blind optimism about the world. He knew it to be a much darker place than his inner sanctum basement. He had always suspected the scenario unfolding on his screens, the details varied but not the narrative of malfeasance. History—wash, rinse, repeat.

Was that foulness more frightening than McConnell's impulsiveness wedded with his capabilities?

Hard to tell.

### CHAPTER 24

JULY

Asotin County, Washington

His grandpa was repairing the chicken coop as a brown and white German shorthaired pointer paced about the fowl, keeping them in line.

"Coyote again?" McConnell asked, stepping down from the truck. He wore a simple T-shirt, faded Levi's and his old, broken-in boots. There was still dew on the grass, though evaporating quickly. It was going to be a hot one.

"Sonofabitch is gettin' crafty."

"See Briar came back." The dog continued minding the chickens. A ranch dog, work to do, at least while the old man was watching.

The old man straightened and assessed his handiwork. "That should keep the bastard out."

"I don't know why you don't just shoot him."

His grandpa gave him a look. "What the hell for?"

They broke the fast with coffee, cold honey-baked ham and raspberry Danishes one cousin or another had baked. "Where's your dog?"

"Left him at home."

"See you lost that gut that was hangin' round your middle, finally shaved the beard, then went and let some girl color your hair like a fairy."

"Didn't quite happen like that."

"Down visiting your ma?"

"Yeah. Also need to sight in a rifle."

"A rifle." As surprising as his sunny hair, apparently.

"Thought I'd get back into hunting." As a boy he had hedged around the truth but never outright lied to his grandpa and he wasn't about to start now.

"That would do you good. Eat some real meat. Not that processed Mcburger crap." He rose. "Well, let's have a look at her."

"Oh. Yeah, okay. Wait here, I'll get it."

He jogged over to the truck, unrolled the Tonneau cover, opened the case and brought the rifle back. The old man squinted at the weapon.

"Military issue, huh?"

"Something like that."

"Your brother's?"

"Nope."

The old man looked down his nose at him, then the rifle, then cracked a Budweiser. "Hell of a weapon there." He sat back down, leaned back in his chair and drank. "Remember the way? Just up along the crick 'bout a mile." The old man waved west past the pasture.

"You wanna go?"

"Too damn hot for my blood. Take some cold ones with you." He gestured to the fridge on the porch.

"I'm good."

"Take Briar if you want."

"I'll be alright."

"Well. You know what you're doing."

The broad azure roof of the world was marred by a few high cumuli, beneath which soared a lone, patient hawk hunting up his morning meal. The air lazy, growing warmer by the minute, redolent of dry earth and the fishy smell of the creek as the truck bounced down the overgrown track that ran between the verdant riparian vegetation and the sporadic alder and cottonwood dotting the yellow and brown hills to his right. After a while the hills pulled back, yielding to an ancient flood plain dotted by bluebunch and yellow and purple forbs fighting for their claim in the sunbaked dirt.

A smattering of haystacks appeared ahead, and he could just make out the weathered targets covering their flanks. The bales marched towards him at intervals up to a solitary wooden shack with a couple forlorn wood benches in front of it.

He parked next to the old maple by the creek to shade the truck as long as possible from the sun, opened the tailgate and slid the gun case out. The night before he had mounted the 8.5x PVS-10 scope and the bipod. The scope had fought him until he figured out the built-on mount that fit right onto the rail, a smart contraption, which in the end made things very easy.

Slinging the rifle over a shoulder, his CamelBak over the other, he scooped up the box of ammo under an arm and made his way over to the weather-beaten shack.

The door opened onto dim, musky memories. He didn't dwell on them. He had things to do. An old stove sat in the middle with a piped-chimney that ran up to the corrugated steel above. A box of targets and a few fold-up camping chairs filled one corner; fishing poles, tackle boxes and a stack of sandbags another; and in a third, cases of bottled water next to shelves filled with a first aid kit, a rack of flashlights, boxes of matches, canned goods and PowerBars. Nothing much had changed since he was last here a decade ago save the PowerBars.

First thing was bore sighting the rifle. Some used a laser system but he trusted to the old, reliable method his father had taught him. Back outside in the blaringly bright sunshine he removed both the bolt action and suppressor, then sandbagged the rifle on the bench to promote a steady aim. He peered down the bore and adjusted the rifle and sandbags until the bore was dead-on with a sun-bleached bull's-eye on a haystack a hundred meters away. Then he adjusted the scope's azimuth and elevation until the reticle aligned, checking for possible parallax between the plane of the reticle and the plane of view, not expecting there to be any but you had to be sure.

He replaced the bolt but not the suppressor, threw two sandbags on his right shoulder, grabbed a couple boxes of shells and a few targets and marched out across the sod, his T-shirt already dark with sweat.

Ripping down the old targets he hung three new ones. He walked twenty-five meters back, dropped the bags on a haystack, loaded five of the three-inch rounds into the magazine and locked it into place. Pressing earplugs into his ears, he swiped at the sweat beading up his brow, dropped into a rested position. Using the sandbags to steady himself he listened to the wind, the faint sound of the creek, some sparrows far off in the brush. He willed his breathing to slow, felt the pounding of his heart and told it to relax, focused, poured himself through the scope, forgetting everything but the feel of the trigger guard, the firm fiberglass stock snug against his shoulder...

It wasn't feeling right.

He adjusted the end of the stock by a half-inch and moved the cheek up a little. He resettled. Better but not quite. He knocked one of the sandbags to the ground and turned the other one on its side, bending it a little. There, that was it, that felt perfect. Breathing, clearing his mind, pouring himself through the scope, just him and the target, the target in the middle of the duplexed reticle, thick crosshairs that tapered to thin lines at their intersection, he took in a breath, slowly released it, inhaled again, slow, steady, again, his heart beating, beating, then in between beats he squeezed the trigger.

The trigger had a light pull, the kick was solid and reassuring, the powder explosion overtly loud with the ballistic crack of supersonic thunder tearing away off up the hills. He fired a grouping of three into the first target and was pleased with the results. All three on paper, their center two inches to the right and two high. The MOA for the PVS-10 was half-inch azimuth and one-inch elevation at a hundred meters per, meaning at twenty-five meters he had to multiply everything by four. He made his adjustments, fired another grouping. Center was a half-inch right of a bull's-eye. Adjusted the windage again and this time he was dead-on, all three bullets leaving a large hole through the black.

Picking up the casings he dropped back to a hundred meters, screwed the OPS INC. suppressor back on, settled into position and fired another grouping.

The report was a minimized snapping, almost feminine compared to the rolling sonic boom that followed. He dropped back another hundred meters, pleased again as all three shots found the black of the next target with a minor adjustment for a welcome breeze.

It wasn't like riding a bike. But it was close.

Like most modern scopes the PVS-10 utilized Mil-Dots. He'd never used them before but understood the principle and spent the next couple hours dropping to the ground all over the field, calculating and testing the formula: size of target in meters multiplied by a thousand divided by apparent size of target in mils. It could get tricky because you had to be precise to the tenth of a mil but he started to get the hang of it, was hitting in the range of .5 MOA, accuracy considered a kill shot by most sportsmen and snipers alike.

Around one he broke for lunch, ate peanut butter and honey sandwiches and downed them with Gatorade. His clothes were covered in dusty soil. It coated his sweaty arms and face. The muscles in his neck and shoulders burned but he felt good being back in the country, beneath a wide-open sky, soaking in the sun and getting dirty. He felt young again. Younger anyway.

For a while he forgot why he was there, forgot what the rifle in his hands was to be used for when Mitch finally stopped playing games and told him what he'd found. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe he would never use it for that. Maybe he would just do some hunting this season. Maybe he'd bring Katie along. That would require them talking. Maybe hell would freeze over.

Pouring a pint of water over his head he gathered up his gear and made for the arid brown hills, sending gophers back to their holes and field mice scurrying for cover as he traipsed their domain.

The day was scorching by the time he reached some altitude. He huffed in hot air, took a sip of water and got back to work. Falling amid the dry, crackling bush, he fired off several more rounds, getting a feel for the mils with elevation. When he ran out of ammunition he gathered up the empties as before and, hot and sticky, his shoulder throbbing, dirt in his ears and nose, the back of his throat raw with the acerbic taste of gunpowder, slip-slided in large lunges back down the hillside, sending cascades of loose rock ahead of him.

He counted spent shells while he let the rifle cool then broke out the deployment kit, cleaned the weapon, careful not to mar the inside of the barrel. Then it was his turn. He stripped naked and jumped into the creek and rinsed off the earth, plunging beneath the sparkling surface to blow it out his nostrils and spit it out of his teeth. He stretched stiff muscles by splashing as much as swimming, then floated on his back, grinning in boyish defiance at the relentless, balled fist of flaming fury high above.

Afterwards he lay on the tailgate, one leg dangling over the edge, dozing beneath the broad cover of the maple's leaves, the hot blossomy wind drying him.

Evening was just thinking about making an appearance when he returned to find the old man on the porch working at a basket of huckleberries.

"Your cousins stopped by," the old man said.

"Which ones?"

"Tim, Blaine, Bobby. Just missed 'em. They wanted to come see if you could still shoot but I told them you wanted left alone. Said they'd catch you next time." He peered into the basket and found the berry he wanted. "So how'd you do?"

"Not bad," he said.

His grandpa snorted. "You ain't been 'not bad' since you were eight." His grandpa handed him a Bud and John cracked it, took a big swig, and while he did his grandpa said, "They brought their wives out. God almighty that Tanya will talk you to death. Still, your mom thinks you should get one."

He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "Had one. Didn't work out."

"Dime a dozen, get yourself another. It'll make her happy."

His face was starting to itch and the tops of his ears burned. He had forgotten sun block.

"Guess I got a bit of sun."

"A bit." His grandpa squinted into the sunset. "You gonna hunt woolly mammoths with that rifle?"

"You seen any around?"

His grandpa eyeballed him, spat out an ornery, large seed, gestured to the chair next to him. "There's aloe in the house. Help me with these berries while I go hunt it up."

His mom made him sit for more aloe and a lecture about melanoma then pivoted to Sean and the military's jingoistic "he died a hero" fable. It was eating her, too. Was their lie that pathetic or was she just being a mother?

"I wish we knew more," he said, and that was true. What he knew wasn't enough, not to share, not with her. Not now.

She nodded her agreement. She looked better but sadder. He let her cook and force-feed him two pork chops, mashed potatoes and gravy, and beets. He hated beets (Sean was the one who liked beets).

"Quit using Grandpa for your dirty work," he said.

"Stop your pouting, and finish your milk."

He pouted anyway but finished the milk all the same. She added another pork chop to his plate.

"Good God, Mom. No more."

"Why is it so difficult?"

"It just is."

"You go out, you see a pretty girl, you say hello, you ask her to dinner. That's it."

"The single women my age...they've seen behind the curtain. Know what I mean?" Her look said she did not. "They're jaded. Often bitter. Angry. Not all of them, but most. They've been used, abused, deceived. It's a story that I don't want to hear." He had his own story he didn't care to share. Maybe that was really it.

She nodded. Maybe she got it. And then she surprised him. "So date someone younger."

"Mom—" he began but wasn't certain what should follow. She helped him.

"I want more grandchildren, Johnny. I'm told I have one but I'm not so sure. I haven't seen her in ten years."

"It hasn't been ten years," he protested around a mouthful of chop.

"I'm serious. It's what we old people look forward to; why do you think your grandpa's lived so long? All you brats running around the place."

"I'll work on it."

She gave him a sharp look. "You look great. Like your old self. That beard finally gone, you should have no problem meeting a young woman and convincing her you're worth something."

"You want me to run out, pick up the first girl I meet and knock her up right now?"

He got up as if he would leave to do just that.

She pushed him back down, refilled his milk, ignoring his groan.

"By the way. We got another one." She set an opened blue envelope next to his plate.

It was postmarked North Carolina, no return address, just like the first. This one contained a similar Christian-themed Hallmark card inside, wishing peace and love, signed "God Bless" in girly pink writing.

"It's probably that girl in the picture with your brother," his mom said.

"What do you want me to do about it?"

"Well...find her. See what she wants. She obviously wants something."

He grunted. How was he to find a girl with no name out in North Carolina?

She poured coffee, sat down across the table. She watched him eat and smiled.

"What?" he asked, finally finishing his plate.

"What about that redhead, the chatterbox? What was her name? She wasn't _that_ bad."

### CHAPTER 25

JULY

Spokane, Washington

Naked save his black running shorts, his sweat-soaked shirt tossed to the floor next to his sweaty socks and shoes, McConnell crunched ravenously as he spooned in Fruit Loop after Fruit Loop. Blinds closed, curtains drawn, the living room was a cave of cool after he and the dog had braved the heat for an eight-miler, diving into a two-hour nap on the sofa afterwards from which he emerged with a rumbling stomach the likes of which only Toucan Sam could cure.

He was into his second bowl of sugary goodness when the front door rattled with insistent pounding. Geronimo jumped up and barked at the knob twisting furiously back and forth.

This is it. Shit. I don't even have a shirt on and I'm going to be on Cops. How fucking cliché.

Cereal bowl in hand, ready for judgment day, he unbolted and swung the door wide to excessive heat, blaring bright light. Someone rushed him—

No, she rushed _by_ him. It was an extremely well-dressed Marissa Flynn.

"It's on CNN," she said, snatching up the remote. "I texted you. Why won't you return my damn texts?"

Geronimo softened his bark to a happy yip of hello as McConnell stood mid-crunch.

When he went down south to sight in the rifle he had left the dog in the care of Mrs. Davis. She had offered, and despite ulterior reason he had taken her up on it. Avoiding Marissa had become as regular a pastime as avoiding his daughter. Women's equality, eat your heart out.

Geronimo hadn't taken to Mrs. Davis like he had Marissa. McConnell couldn't fault him for that.

He had never seen her dressed for work. At the funeral Marissa had been in mournful black but today, her shoulder-length, dark chocolate hair with its subtle highlights was slightly curled, framing her cheekbones perfectly. She wore a respectable cream blouse, top two buttons unabashedly undone, and a dark olive suede skirt revealing just enough toned, tan leg before disappearing into knee-high, sultry-black leather boots. And then there was that damn fragrance. Again.

She caught him staring, gave him a look. "Hello?" Reluctantly he eyes followed her nod to the TV.

An auburn-haired anchor was reporting on "BREAKING NEWS." Above the scroll next to the fat red logo read "Portland, OR-LIVE."

"—in an alley, Ben?"

Ben Santarro, in a blue shirt and dark tie matching the dark semicircles at his armpits still maintained priceless black hair. He was standing in front of Checker's bar. "That's right, Elena, the body was discovered this morning near Ray Street, about a half mile from the river. With the heat wave that's settled over the Portland area we'll have to await the coroner's report for definitive cause of death but unofficial police sources are saying they believe the body has been here for several days if not a week. That _would_ coincide with the time the family says he disappeared."

"Did they report him as missing?" Elena asked off camera.

"That remains unclear. Mr. Odom was known to travel the globe at a moment's notice both for business and pleasure. An official statement from the family is scheduled tomorrow morning, but one thing is for sure, this is a horrible tragedy for one of Portland's most beloved families."

"Ben Santarro, live in Portland, Oregon. Once again, Alan Andrew Odom, grandson of renowned media mogul Andrew P. Odom has been found dead in downtown Portland. He was forty-one years old." A picture of Odom smiling in a tuxedo flashed on the screen, the same one McConnell had stared at for months. "In other news, over seventy dead in Iraq today as a dozen bombs were detonated near the Green Zone..."

Marissa muted the TV. She pivoted towards him, her mouth agape. "Can you believe it?"

He could. He had watched news of bombings in Iraq twice a day for the last few years.

" _Can you believe that_?"

He could believe _that,_ too. Seeing is believing, after all. He stalled, chewed, pretended to digest. He was relieved they had finally found the body. That he and Marissa might have this conversation one day was no surprise. That it was occurring while he was half-naked with Fruit Loops in his mouth was.

"Hello? Earth to John?"

"That's—well. What is that?" he said vacuously.

"It's fucked up is what it is!" She fell onto the sofa between the cats. Geronimo came to sit at her feet. McConnell set the cereal bowl down on the coffee table, working out what to say.

Fortunately, she had lots. "Do you know how many times I've _wished_ that bastard dead? _Prayed for it?_ " Tears welled in her eyes. He started to speak but she wasn't finished. "I did. I prayed that God would kill him!" Her hand went to her mouth.

"I'm pretty sure praying wasn't what did him in."

"That's not the point," she mumbled from behind rose-quartz tipped fingers. "I don't want to be _that_ person."

"I think you're entitled."

She shook her head.

"What he did he would've done again."

"We have laws. Due process—"

"And that served your sister so well. Eye for an eye, there's your due process. Consider justice served."

She glared at him like he had revoked a woman's right to vote.

"You don't know what the hell you're talking about." She squeezed her eyes shut, shook her head. "My sister destroyed her case by doing what she did _._ "

"What the hell are _you_ talking about?" he said, heat in his voice.

Her eyes blazed back open. "She gave up! She quit like she always did! We could have fought that bastard!"

"Jesus Christ. You sound just like your mother. You weren't there. You don't know what it was like for her."

Her jaw dropped, snapped closed. She stood up and slapped him across the face. Her eyes, emerald bonfires, burned into him. "No, you're right, _I wasn't there_. Whose fault was _that?_ "

Geronimo gave him a critical woof and nudged the girl's hand.

She hadn't held back. His face stung. "It's what she wanted."

"She wasn't thinking clearly. Neither were you."

"Hindsight's wonderful, ain't it?"

"Why can't you just say you're sorry?" she asked, incredulous.

"I don't like that you're in pain. I didn't like that Anj was. But I like that the bastard that hurt her and you is dead. I'm glad he's gone. World's brighter for it and whether you believe that or not, want to worship the law that failed her, you shouldn't feel guilty that someone killed him."

She opened her mouth to retort but dismissed it, tried again, didn't like that one neither.

They stood there glaring at one another. She was naturally fierce, like her sister. Vulnerability did not fit her as well as her skirt and blouse and boots. Her sophisticated fragrance coated his faculties with its sensual, velvet touch, and he stepped back towards the fireplace.

"What are you doing?" she asked, even more vexed, as Belinda Carlisle uncannily swore that her lips were sealed from Marissa's small purse.

"My roommate likes to mess with my ringtones." She fished out her cell.

"Hello? I'm here, Momma. He's here, we were just...no, everything's fine. Until nine. Okay. Okay, see you then." She hung up, took a deep breath, looked directly at McConnell. "I don't want to fight with you."

"I don't want to fight with you."

"Why won't you reply to my texts?"

"I don't text."

She arched a delicate eyebrow. "You don't... _text?_ "

He shook his head.

She was dumbfounded. "John doesn't say sorry. John doesn't wear clothes. John doesn't text."

Now that she mentioned it, he was mostly naked. _This is why a man has a beard. You never feel naked with a beard._ He crossed his arms over his chest. "Better?"

"Much." But her eyes said differently. She glanced down. "Fruit loops, huh?"

"Problem with that?" Judging a man on his empathy was one thing. But his choice of cereal?

She narrowed her eyes. Then she laughed. It was small but rich. She sobered, cleared her throat. "So what do we do now?"

Hell if he knew.

"I always win, you know?" she assured him. "You're going to answer my questions, John."

"Why? What good would it do you?"

"You owe me."

"Dinner? I'll barbeque you a steak right now. Then we're even."

"You wish." She looked at her phone. "I'm late. Karla's probably well into mid-conniption."

But she didn't move. She just tried to stare him down. He had to admit, surrendering to this young woman wouldn't have been a bad notion if she wasn't Anj's little sister.

But she was. He gestured to the door.

She rolled her eyes. At the door she spun and said, "Not so sure about that hair."

"Well at least we agree on something."

"Hmm. Well. It's been..." She searched for the words. " _Vraiment révéler."_

_Au revoir_ for him, a goodbye ruffle for the dog.

He stood in the doorway lingering in her bouquet, his eyes following her to her blue Honda.

Then he closed the door on all that heat.

### CHAPTER 26

JULY

Spokane, Washington

All the wind sprints, weights and bag he could run, lift and punch had not assuaged his ill humor. It just left him spent; legs jelly, arms like over-stretched rubber bands. His brain was still chugging along though.

Marissa had stopped texting him. Two days now, not an SMS peep. What he had wanted; a discernable silence all the same.

He could call her. _Should_ call his daughter. Or he could ring up Mrs. Davis, take her up on her enticing offer and screw life's frustration out of the both of them.

Instead he drank beer in the dark and played FreeCell on the deck. He hated FreeCell. All his years of installing, optimizing and configuring, he had played way too much goddamn FreeCell. Minesweeper? Jesus.

Geronimo lay a few feet away, head on paw, eyes locked on John's tapping foot, tensed to pounce should it break free and sprint off like a jackrabbit.

Fuck it.

He picked up his cell. She had put her number in there somewhere—

The chat window blinked. His partner in crime finally online. He set the phone down, gave the hacker an earful, as much an earful as one can give through a messaging client.

" _Jesus, stop being such a crybaby,"_ Mitch typed back. _"So they found the body. We knew they would. I'm monitoring Portland Homicide's emails. They've got nothing."_

A window popped up asking if he wanted to accept a file. He clicked yes.

" _Read. Come out tomorrow."_ Mitch signed off.

Great. Reading. Wasn't exactly what he wanted to be doing but it was something.

Elk, Washington

"What the fuck?" McConnell said, approaching the porch.

Mitch's face soured as if he had downed half the pitcher of lemonade in his hand all in one gulp. He was wearing that eyesore of a robe over shorts and a T-shirt with Tux the Penguin looking smug above _"No I Will Not Fix Your Computer Again."_

"Jesus you're grouchy in the morning. Don't shoot the messenger. And you're welcome."

"Venns, Visios and PowerPoints? We building out a datacenter or—"

What? Plotting to avenge the dead? Plotting murder?

"It's complicated," Mitch said. He held up the glass pitcher. "Lemonade? Crepes?"

They sipped lemonade, ate crepes, watched the dogs roam the yard as Mitch uncomplicated _it_.

The Defense Distribution Depot in San Joaquin, California, was the second largest of twenty-six defense depots in the nation and, since the Base Realignment and Closure proceedings in 1995, had taken in over 2,700,000 pieces of inventory from dismantled depots in Utah, California, Texas and Louisiana. PGW was the primary contractor running it and every other military depot in the US. They were also the primary provider for essential support services in Iraq and Afghanistan. Billions of contract dollars were at stake, the political and corporate relationships convoluted and corrupt. But that wasn't the bad part.

In March a convoy of body armor, MREs, gas masks and M-24s left the Tracy Facility in California for the Sharpe facility just down the road, ostensibly to be shipped to Balad Airbase in Iraq. Instead it was reloaded into Largo Freight trucks and later stamped approved as engine parts by Mexican customs in Tecate, Mexico. The body armor and guns were taken to Guaymas, then flown out to Cartagena; the rest of the cargo was destined for a rebel group in Venezuela. Money moved byte-wise between banks in Panama. Three million, six-hundred thousand dollars. Pennies to a drug cartel. Gear meant to protect American soldiers' lives in Iraq was now protecting drug smuggling guerrillas in a Colombian jungle.

The zip file, a journal really of the past few years with a few pictures thrown in, detailed other instances of misappropriated equipment, final destinations in Paraguay, Bolivia, Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan, Georgia, the Ukraine, the Philippines, Nigeria, Somalia, Sudan. A cornucopia of weapons and equipment doled out like Halloween candy. The military diverting equipment intended for US troops to hotspots all over the world.

"Not the military. A _paramilitary_ ," Mitch corrected.

It didn't seem very American. Then again...And what did this have to do with the murder of his brother?

There were noted deliveries (mostly old Soviet hardware by way of Israel and a couple former Bolshevik states) destined for Al Qaeda affiliates, Shia death squads and Iranian dissidents known as the MEK in Iraq.

Sean was a marine in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"Which is worse," McConnell grunted.

"How so?"

"They just kill people."

"As opposed to the calculated murder we did?"

"So we don't know who killed my brother."

They were in the basement now so the hacker could go over his diagrams circle-by-circle, dot-by-dot.

"Saying it a third time isn't going to change my answer."

"You trust this source?"

"I trust motives," Mitch said. "And I verify a lot. What I could."

"So this is all about some guys out to make a buck?"

"Selling out your compatriot for silver is nothing new."

McConnell frowned. "So this Pete Jackson."

"The only name mentioned. He's real and he's rotten to the core. Raking in cash while teenagers get blown to bits and burned alive."

"And you don't think he knows who killed my brother?"

"For the love of God."

Mitch was exasperated. McConnell was frustrated. Jackson might be the devil but there were lots of devils in the world. This wasn't about them. This was about the bastard who killed Sean.

"You still want to go to the press?" McConnell asked.

"Yes, but it probably wouldn't do us any good. All we have is someone's diary. No real evidence. And did you see that Venn overlap on big media?"

He had. They were bought and paid. Maybe not as culpable as others in America's wars but sitting on their hands didn't make them any less dirty.

Mitch pushed up his glasses. "Another option of course is to do nothing."

"I'm not very good at doing nothing."

"No, you're not." Mitch looked at him sideways. He debated with himself, sighed and stood. "Here's another option. We have a cabal of big corporations and military running amuck in America. We don't know much but what we do know checks out. We could say something, but to whom? Show our hand, the story might never see the light of day." He let it hang there for effect. "Instead, we attack sideways. Pete Jackson didn't murder your brother but he certainly was one of the coconspirators who had a hand in it. And I can connect him to six other deals that led to other soldier's deaths."

McConnell wrapped his mind around that. Mitch paid no heed; he was on a roll.

"It would be a statement without being a personal one. That would protect you. And me. But it would pique the journos' interest. Make the Fourth Estate do their damn job. _Capiche_?" He conceded, "I know, not very satisfying in terms of your brother, but a proportional response nonetheless. No different than with Odom. He didn't literally murder Angela in that bathtub—"

"He raped her—"

"Hear me out. Yes, he did, and he got away with it, and _that_ was what killed her in the end." The hacker sat back down. "He deserved his fate, I'm not arguing that, but let's not forget your pretense of robbery in that fate. You had to do it that way, I'm not arguing that, either. What I'm saying is it doesn't really matter how it was meted out so much that justice was. I would argue the same holds true for your brother."

McConnell leaned back in his chair and pondered that. He glanced up at the muted TV as a massive head with a bushy, gray beard and eyes dark as obsidian floated above the bold yellow caption "COULD HE GO FREE?"

"Unmute that, will you?"

Mitch fumbled for the remote. "You been watching this too, huh?"

"— _the judge clearly agitated with the prosecution's mishandling of evidence..."_

Footage followed of the giant in a much too small bulletproof vest over a bright orange jumper in a courtroom with the caption "San Diego County Courthouse." The camera panned the room to show a crying Asian family, then the bearded behemoth, his lawyer, cut again to a grim prosecutor and settled on the judge, an angry, fiftyish black woman.

"With the prosecution's loss of evidence, then admission of its failure to disclose said loss to the defense, I find that the state's case is withering on the vine, Mr. Guitterez," the judge said. "In other words, rotten. This a correct assessment?"

"That is astutely correct, Your Honor." The prosecutor spread his hands in entreaty. "It has come to our attention that there were some careless mistakes and they are being addressed. Nonetheless, the state maintains the accused is a danger to society and should continue to be held without bail. Innocent lives are at stake, Your Honor. We're asking a week's extension, whereafter the state _will_ zealously produce evidence to demonstrably convict the accused of kidnapping, molestation, child endangerment and murder in the first degree."

"Innocent lives at stake is right, and your handling of this case has jeopardized those lives." The judge's brow wrinkled as she looked down her nose at the defendant. "Due to Mr. Parish's violation in registering as a sex offender upon his last relocation but also taking into account that he has registered"—she checked her notes— "eleven times punctually before, I will grant you one week to do _The People's_ work, Mr. Guitterez. Don't produce, however zealous you feel. _Prepare_ something more concrete to bring before this court." She turned to the defendant. "Travis Lee Parish you are hereby remanded back into the custody of the San Diego County correctional authority until one week from today"—she conferred with her clerk— "July thirtieth, 9:00 a.m. This court is adjourned."

The reporter who had shorn her long blonde hair was reporting again near a campground dumpster outside of Coronado. The screen flashed her name: Elise Hutchens.

"Aesha Yi's mutilated corpse was discovered here two months ago. She was three years old. Her parents, second-generation Korean immigrants—"

Mitch remuted the TV. "Horrific."

McConnell nodded. He had gutted his share of game—deer, elk, bear, countless fish and fowl—had slaughtered both pig and cow and had recently killed a man in cold blood, even shooting him first in the groin. But "Pincer" Parish's bloody handiwork made his stomach revolt.

"Did you see the leaked autopsy pics on _Rotten.com_?" Mitch asked.

"Hell no. Why on earth would I want to?"

"To see the evil that men do."

Mitch needed out of the basement. Get laid, walk his dog in a sunny park. Something.

"Think they'll release him?"

"Wouldn't surprise me." McConnell recalled Anj's stricken voice after learning Odom was back on the street.

Mitch nodded. It wouldn't surprise him, either. Not much evil in the world apparently did.

Maybe this was about devils after all.

### CHAPTER 27

JULY

Spokane, Washington

"Have a good evening," Karla purred sweetly, locking the glass doors of Mariposa behind the two teens and their mother with a roll of her eyes. "Finally. _Hello?_ Mall's closed for thirty minutes and you don't even buy? Snotty little bitches!"

Raven-haired, a slight bend in her nose and a wiggle in her Italian hips, Karla Kaluza, Jersey transplant, sauntered her way over to the counter topped with a messy mountain of trendy tops, jackets, pants, shorts and capris. She twirled in circles the last few feet, her short, black pencil skirt flying high, revealing an olive-skinned bottom.

"Where are your underwear?" Marissa inquired evenly.

"Gave them to Todd."

" _Pourquoi?"_

"He asked for them. Don't act all offended. It's not like you haven't seen my cooch before."

"Way more than I care to admit."

"But not up close." She smiled wickedly. "Want to?"

KK wasn't a lesbian, she just wanted to play one on YouTube. The insatiable tart, her roommate besides, contended her incorrigible nature was the providence of a resentment of her mother's repressed sexuality and her childhood development in Newark where she had charged the fifth grade boys a dollar each to feel her burgeoning bosoms behind St. Andrews.

"Did Todd offer you a job?"

"Why? You think my panties are worth a job?"

Marissa tossed a kitschy top at her, started the printout of the nightly sales.

"You know, it wouldn't hurt _you_ to have a little fun around here," Karla observed.

"I just want to get out of debt. Not everyone was born with a silver spoon up her butt."

Karla shrugged. Her college years had been paid, true, but her phlegmatic parents had cut her off after graduation. She picked up a flowery print with one disgusted finger. "Who buys this crap?"

Marissa grabbed it, folded it, conceding its garishness.

"Are you going out tonight or what?" Karla fell in half-heartedly beside her.

She shook her head, yawning.

"All work and no play makes Missy a dull girl."

She kept folding.

"Alright, what is it?" Karla poked her in the arm. "You've been a downer for two days."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"When has that ever been my problem?"

"Alan Odom was killed."

Karla's wide eyes widened. "Whoa. How? When? And why are you sad about it?"

"He was shot during a robbery. They found his body in an alley."

"And...? Not to be crass, but that's not exactly bad news. Is it?"

Marissa hadn't thought so that morning. Not so much now. But wait a while, the winds would change.

"It goes against my Catholic turn-the-other-cheek upbringing but good riddance. Hope the bastard burns in hell. You're coming out tonight. We're toasting that asshole's descent into the underworld proper."

"You're evil."

"How's your mom taking it?"

Marissa shrugged. Her mom's take was identical to Karla's. Why she still felt a repugnance about his death God only knew.

"Do they know who killed him?"

"No, not yet." She wondered if that would make a difference. Knowing who killed her sister's rapist. Probably not. "Holy shit," she said staring at the glass doors.

"What?" Karla said turning to look. "Holy shit."

He was standing there in jeans and T-shirt. He offered a weak wave, pointed to the locked glass doors.

"Wait! Don't—" But it was too late, Karla was already holding the door open for him.

She came around and leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "What are you doing here, John?"

Karla locked the door and came to stand beside her.

"I left you a message. Messages."

"I heard them. You don't always have to leave your last name."

"Well, I wasn't sure how many Johns you knew." Pause. "That sounded kinda bad, like, uh—"

"Like I'm a prostitute? What do you want?"

Karla crossed her arms. "Yeah. What do you want?"

He squirmed.

"I'm sorry I slapped you," she said.

Karla faced her, mouthed, _You slapped him?_

John said, "It's fine. I mean, I probably deserved it. Look, I hate asking, but—"

If you ask me to do you a favor I'm going to scream.

"I'm going out of town. Think you could watch the beasts again? I know we're not exactly seeing eye-to-eye, its last minute, but you're the only one I can ask. I'll pay you."

She didn't scream. She closed her eyes.

There were pluses to his request. Her sister's cats for starts. And she could study without listening to Karla bump boots with whatever flavor of the night she picked up.

"I'll probably regret it, but alright. I can hang with G-man."

"G-man?"

"That's what I call Geronimo. G-man. He likes it. How long are you going to be gone?"

"A week. Maybe a little longer. I really appreciate it. I know we're not, uh...anyway. You sure you don't want any money?" Pause. "I did it again, didn't I?"

"No. That's cool. So you don't mind if I bang a few guys in your bed." His look was priceless "Kidding. Is that it?"

"Yep. That's it." He looked about the room, likely for a quick exit. His eyes landed upon Karla who offered her deviant smile. "Nice hair."

He smiled that half-smile of his.

Marissa bristled. "You still owe me dinner," she said to John, followed by, "Call me from the road. You know. If you get bored." _Good God._

"Sure," he said slowly. "Yeah. Okay. Thanks."

She rolled her eyes as John McConnell finally found his exit and left.

Karla smacked her in the arm. "You _slapped_ him? When was this?"

She shrugged, returned to folding. A little mystery did Karla good.

The petite brunette narrowed her eyes. "You said he was fat. He's not fat at all."

"Not anymore. On some health kick or something." She had to admit, "He looks good."

"Uh-huh. So why did you slap your sister's good-looking ex-boyfriend?"

Marissa ignored her.

"Lighten up. I'm just busting your balls, Missy." Karla twisted a lock of her black hair. "In full disclosure though, you do know, I slept with his brother."

She stopped folding. "What?"

"Truth be told, we didn't do much sleeping," Karla corrected unabashedly, then cocked her head. "I wonder. The apple might not fall far from the apple."

Marissa headed her off at the pass. "He's too old for you. Divorced, has a teen daughter. Unemployed, so he can't buy you expensive pretty things."

"I can adapt."

"Not your type. And you're certainly not his."

"I'm _every_ man's type! Why do you even care?"

"I don't." She didn't. But he was Anj's ex. And... And what?

"I can't believe you slept with his brother." When in doubt, go on the attack.

"It was first year, I'd just gotten back from holiday break." Karla shrugged. "We were young, we were drunk, he was in uniform, there was mistletoe. Shit happens, what can I tell you?"

" _Oh, comment les choses ont changé."_

"It _would_ be a mistake for you to date him."

"We're talking about _you._ Why would it be a mistake?"

"Because you'd be doing it hoping that falling in love with the same man as your sister would bring you closer to her." Karla reached out, squeezed her hand. "She's gone, Miss. Sometimes we just have to let go," said the woman who had never loved and lost.

They righted the models and displays, took out the trash, turned out the lights and locked up.

One woman disappeared in what passed for Spokane's nightlife, intent upon "gulping down shots and playing tonsil-hockey" with strange, potential bedfellows.

The other found herself outside a pink house, ostensibly to check on the animals therein. And, if it so happened, to catch their owner before he left.

But she was too late.

### CHAPTER 28

JULY

Stockton, California

Pete Jackson had come a long way since receiving his first hummer from gap-toothed Marcee Collins, parked beneath the old trestle in his mustard-yellow Nova. He operated out of a slick, black 7-Series these days. Still reminisced about Marcee on occasion. The south, not so much.

It was a Sunday and he was feeling a bit self-indulgent, which he could because he was _The Man._ He had called up the blonde bubble-butt who wrote her number on a cocktail napkin next to a glittery lipstick kiss the other night he and Chad Lucas had torn it up some. What was her name? Lila? Lily? _Lita._ Lita what? Who gave a shit. On her way over; he was going to tap that ass.

He sucked in hot air thick as a blanket. His tempting pool not ten feet away but ten feet might as well have been a mile in that delta humidity. Sipping at his Jack and Coke he slid his chair further into the shadow of his big-ass patio umbrella. That unabashed sunlight was something else. Could be his hangover from last night. Or that he burned easy—whoever said niggas didn't burn didn't know jack shit. Or maybe it was a condition passed on, what with all those years his godforsaken ancestors had picked cotton all goddamn day beneath a goddamn sweltering sun. No direct sun for Mr. Jackson now. Or cotton. Unless it was Egyptian, eight hundred thread.

Two decades ago back in Tennessee Scrawny Pete had broken his cherry with simple B&Es, his last earning him a stint in Turney until the sheriff of Bedford County (his uncle and only living kin) had called in a favor to keep his scrawny ass out of prison then encouraged him to get the fuck out of Dodge.

No need to tell him twice. He put moonshine country in his rearview, sights set on California to be a rapper. Dre and Eazy-E, those niggas made it look easy. But he was no good at slinging rap or crack, and, conforming to cliché, took up with a crew moving truckloads of stolen goods. TVs, stereos, Walkmans. A grunt at first, making just enough to avoid real work, then Fat Larry choked on his pastrami on rye, and out of necessity he ran things until the higher-ups could find a more proficient criminal mind.

But he had a gift, took to logistics like a duck to water. Bumping up profits seventy-five percent by his second week, another fifty by month's end. Pete was made permanent, they expanded east, all the way into Texas. Life was good for a while.

Recuperating in his Inglewood condo after having his wisdom teeth pulled, doped up on Percs in front of Richard Pryor swearing like a motherfucker on fifty-two projected inches, he wasn't there when a rival outfit with more chutzpah and less brains killed most of Pete's crew and torched their warehouse.

The call was to sit tight and he did until he shat himself when someone pounded the fuck out of his door in the middle of the night. He didn't answer. Instead he stared at the walls and ceiling until morning, imagining some goon busting down his door and slitting his throat while he slept. A nigga knew when to light the fuck out and out his bathroom window he lit, leaving his life behind, moving in with his girl up in Redding he kept for just such an occasion. He went civilian at a distribution center for one of the big supermarket chains, worked his way up to foreman, was promoted warehouse supervisor. The hours hell but no one wanted to kill him. It was alright. For a while.

Late one afternoon a domineering presence in trousers, polo and Ray-Bans strode purposefully up the loading dock, workers shrinking back from its shadow stretching ahead of it.

"PETE JACKSON! Front and center, boy!" General Barringer only had two stars back then. He wanted Scrawny Pete to join the Army.

" _Enlist_?" Pete asked, nearly shitting his shorts for the third time in his life.

"No son, I mean as a civvy contractor."

"Why me?"

"Why not you?" the General barked. "I hear you got talent and you know when to zip your lip. That true?"

It was.

"You're gonna run my operation. Be all you can be. Be _The_ _Man_."

The General had a plan for _The Man_. And Pete wanted more out of life than predicting spoilage charts. Thirty-five around the corner when the General found him and what did he have to show for it? A pot to piss in, but not much of one.

Forty-five now, he had pots galore. Shiny, expensive motherfuckers, too.

Speaking of pot...He lit a blunt, made a quick call to Sergeant Clemente at the depot. The Army was swapping out M-16s for the new M-4s, the old to be serviced and stored, an absurd waste, they were perfectly good for perfectly killing someone somewhere. The serials sanded off, eight hundred perfectly good rifles were on their way to Fort Hood, from there to Louisiana and on to Darfur. Those Christians liked to shoot Muslims almost as much as the Muslims liked to shoot Christians.

"All on schedule, boss," Clemente assured.

Pete _was_ the boss. He had become _The_ _Man._ Nothing happened in that depot without his say. The field teams weren't shit without him. CID couldn't touch him. The General _needed_ him. He was one indispensable nigga. Life was good for _The Man._

He tossed back his JC, sucking the liquor off an ice cube as he gazed up at the Heights. Economy tits up they had stopped mid-construction up there. The view must be spectacular. He should look into what they were asking. Probably a steal. Did he need a bigger house? Fuck no. But that wasn't the point.

His eyes fluttered open. He'd fallen asleep. Bitch was late and he was sweaty, even under all that shade. Where was that ho?

He made a mental note to talk to Chad about Kosinski. Kid was poking his nose way above his paygrade over last week's medical supplies intended for an NGO in Afghanistan that had been rerouted to Nigeria where some warlord or another would sell them to another NGO to buy guns off the French. No crime in that. It was the free market; world made its spin around the sun powered on it. Stupid, fucking Polack. Time for that motherfucker to grow the fuck up. Else he was apt to have a discussion with the General. Or worse, a talk with Tan.

He shivered. Even in that heat, the thought of a talk with that crazy fucker made a man's balls shrivel.

He fumbled up his joint, took a couple puffs, fixed another drink, patted at his potbelly. Scrawny Pete wasn't so scrawny anymore. Drink in hand, Ray-Bans on, he left the safety of the shade and made that long journey to the pool. Damn that light was bright. He dunked under the water, holding his drink aloft, then clambered onto the gray air mattress. Quick adjustment of his shades, then his nut-sack, he tried to enjoy being in the open like that. How his ancestors had—

The doorbell rang.

"Finally, bitch. Damn."

A bee slammed painfully into his chest. His arm snapped up, Jack, Coke and ice flying and splashing behind him in the pool. There was a sharp rolling _"crack!"_ across the neighborhood.

He looked down for a welt, instead found a mini-geyser of ruby erupting from his solar plexus. "Fuuuuuck!" he exhaled in a froth of bloody spittle. His hand cupped the spurting jet of blood as he tried to scream. It gurgled and died in his throat.

"Hel'! _Hel' me!_ " he wheezed, coughed up thick strands of acrid, rouge phlegm. The doorbell rang again.

Another bee zipped into his heart and he splashed face first into the pool, a crimson cloud blooming in aqua as he struggled for one last breath of air. But there was nothing but water.

At least he'd been _The Man._ For a while.

### CHAPTER 29

JULY

Stockton, California

In boots, jeans and a dirt-streaked T-shirt soaked with sweat he made his way through sun-dappled woods, the beat-up, beige guitar case swinging against his knee. He had picked up the case at a pawnshop in Medford, Oregon, gutted the felt and then secured his instrument with two bungee cords taut around stock and barrel. Out of place here among the trees but not as much as a marine-issue gun case would be.

McConnell stopped, scanned the woods, glancing back up the hillside at the Mansard-roofed revivals and split-level ranchers abandoned in various phases of construction that festooned the ridge that rose over Pete Jackson's suburb. One of those future fascist communities that would probably have all those fascist rules; no fences, no basketball hoops, no large dogs, no charcoal grills. No American fun. Hell on earth, it had served his purpose.

All quiet, save the birds. No movement, not even a breeze. He continued to the rented Taurus further down the hill.

Mitch's schedule for Jackson was work-based and incomplete. McConnell had wanted to tail him for a few days but was on a schedule of his own, had to be further south sooner than later, that business likely much trickier. If opportunity presented itself, he would take the shot, if not he would leave it for his return trip back north. Or so he told himself. He still harbored misgivings, not that Mitch was wrong or Jackson was innocent of his brother's murder. But not being innocent wasn't equivalent to being guilty. Discernment illusive as it was elusive; he was in that no-man's shadowland between black-and-white belief and the grayscale world.

Around midnight last night he had parked and climbed up the hill to where the community gate should be, waited for security or vandals or kids looking for a place to party or park and was met with only silence save the faint sound of far-off highway traffic. Guitar case in hand and CamelBak over shoulder he humped the two hundred meters by starlight and took up residence on the second floor of a half-finished Craftsman just off to the left of line of sight of Jackson's. Quiet as a mouse he arranged stacks of sheetrock so that he would only be visible if someone climbed a ladder and looked directly at him. He retrieved the rifle, hid the case and wiggling back on elbow and knee into the pocket, settled in to wait. He had no idea that wait would be as long and uncomfortable as it was.

Jackson's house was dark until around two a.m. when a BMW pulled into the driveway, its driver exiting with what looked like takeout. McConnell watched the lights come on downstairs through the rifle scope. He couldn't see Jackson, but through the windows that opened onto the back deck of Jackson's house he spied the TV changing; SportsCenter, a cheesy Snipes action-flick, settling on some Skin-e-Max soft porn. The walls were covered in nightscapes and city walks, couples on the beach at sunset, O'Keeffe prints. Who knew war profiteers were such romantics? Mitch's info was that Jackson was a bachelor, and his house confirmed as much; no family pictures anywhere, no kid toys in the backyard pool. No wife, no kids, just two million ill-gotten dollars in a Panamanian bank account. And a much too large house. Why did one man need all that living space?

He remembered he was the sole occupant of over four thousand feet, himself. Excepting the dog. And two bastard cats. And for the moment their babysitter. Hadn't had a woman at the house in years and when he finally did he was a thousand miles away. He couldn't say who was more pathetic, him or the man he was about kill watching porn.

He never got the shot. At least not then.

After an hour the TV turned off, the drapes pulled closed. Lights came on upstairs and five minutes later the same lights went out.

As he stretched his back and drained his bladder, McConnell weighed going in through the glass slider and taking Jackson out while he slept with his silenced pistol. More than likely Jackson had a firearm of his own, not to mention a security system, he had spied a suspect sticker on a window. And there was a reason he had bought the rifle. It put distance between himself and the target, created more space for escape and eliminated possible DNA at the scene. Okay there were three good reasons.

He returned to the sheetrock bed and dozed fitfully until a murder of crows cawed at the sunrise.

Stiff and sore he surveyed the scene. A few lights here and there, mostly the burb was quiet. He considered calling it quits.

Was still considering it three hours later when the suburb came alive; dogs out for their morning glory, kids drifting into backyard and pool, road warriors taking up the mower, soccer moms hosing down the SUV, older folk toiling in the garden.

Jackson's residence remained still as death.

The morning chill graduated to warm then elevated to stifling as the day crept onward. The crows now nowhere to be seen, the air turned heavy and lifeless save for flies and hornets that buzzed as he lusted for the mocking blue pools and the cruel glee of sprinklers below. His CamelBak empty, he was parched, precious sweat seeping out his pores, his shirt clinging to his back and his feet burning in their boots. Ribs aching from lying on the hard sheetrock for so long he rolled over, checked his brother's watch, not for the first time wondering just what the hell he was doing there. He decided to pack it in. He rolled back over, took a quick look through the scope and changed his mind.

Some tweens in a backyard were playing in the pool. Next to the pool was a table and atop that table several Slurpees with a jolly fat kid contentedly sucking away at one. He remembered riding to 7-Eleven with Sean, first on their Mongoose BMX, later on their Yamaha 100s for Slurpees of their own. Good memories. The kids below would probably count this a good one, too. Might be the last good thing they thought of, all growed up, serving in yet another war—pick a spot, throw a dart at a map; killed because Pete Jackson or some other asshole sold them out for a big-screen fucking TV and cheap prints of flower vaginas. The world was colorful after all.

When Jackson stepped out onto the back deck in his swim trunks, drink in hand, rubbing his belly, McConnell allowed himself a moment of optimism that quickly dissipated as his target disappeared beneath an oversized umbrella, visible only from the knees down. He ran the math off a knee, anyway. Four hundred and fifty-one meters.

When Jackson slipped into the water like a lethargic gator, crabbed onto an air mattress, McConnell wiped the sweat from his eye, swallowed what saliva he had left down a dry, swollen gullet and ran the formula again: Jackson from crotch to head an eighth of a meter, times the constant of a thousand equaled eight hundred divided by one and eight tenths mils...Four hundred and forty-four meters.

It was a good shot. And he took it.

Jackson had shifted but the bullet found him anyway. He bolted another round into the chamber and fired again. When he was sure of the kill he pulled back and saw a red convertible parked in the driveway behind the black BMW. A visitor? He dug out the squirt bottle from his bag, squeezed bleach all over the sheetrock, secured the guitar case and made for the car.

At the Ford now, he checked his surroundings again before loading the guitar case and CamelBak in the trunk, sliding himself into the driver's and throwing it in drive while simultaneously pouring a bottle of water down his turgid throat. The winding road spilled him out at the bottom of the hill onto Alamar Boulevard. He took a right, merged with traffic, mindful of the speed limit. He had timed it yesterday. In forty seconds he was back on I-5. He saw no police, heard no ambulance.

John McConnell headed south.

### CHAPTER 30

JULY

Bandon, Oregon

Ely Barringer was having an off day. He couldn't do shit with the five, the seven was slicing into the trees, he'd probably have more luck with the putter if he shoved it up one of two bimbos' asses and had her wiggle around the goddamn green.

"I can't swing for shit today, Don," he confessed as he chipped away on the tenth. He walked over to the golf cart where the two girls in minidresses, fake tits at attention, were giggling about their nails or shopping or blowjobs and tossed back the rest of his Chivas on the rocks. He found the blonde attractive, well, the blonder blonde.

The tide was rolling back in with big, bold, booming waves, the breeze off the Pacific steady but light, a few puffy cumuli steering clear of the golden disc embedded in all that vivid refracted blue.

"Hell, Ely, you're up four strokes." Tombari grinned. Tall, blond, not looking a day over thirty-five though well into his fifties, Don Tombari, emperor of affluence, prince of prosperity, lord of the lobbyists and CEO of the Norton Corporation was also a golf fanatic, mountain climber, yachtsman, pilot, and fancied himself a Renaissance man who wrote mawkish poetry as bland as it was pretentious. If he had actually attended any classes before graduating Yale it was lost to mythos but, to give credit where due, Tombari was infamously shrewd and abhorrently greedy though not for money, born into plenty of that, he sought prestige and power and everything those two aphrodisiacs brought with them.

This little junket was his idea. Todd Whiting, Tombari's feudal lord of the energy division, was due in around noon on his Lear. Whiting was UCLA, an All-American, then Harvard Biz, had a governorship and possibly the Oval in his future. And with him came Danny Jones; Cornell, the token Jew of their foursome, the whiny prick knew his numbers, kept their little organization in the black with kid gloves, had proven he knew how to keep his mouth shut in front of a senate inquiry.

Ely knew all his people well. Their past that made them, their present problems, their dreams of the future. He made it his business to know. It helped to guide their behavior. Or, put another way, it curbed betrayal.

Tombari drew his nine, looking the quintessential golfer, his perfect broad-shouldered stance, his wrinkle-free pink golf shirt, powder-blue golf pants. Might've made a decent officer had some D.I. drilled his ass until he developed a spine. He drew back and glided through his swing. The ball arced, sailed through the coastal air, sure of purpose, fell back to earth and bounced lightly upon the green to rest not a yard shy of the hole.

"Nice goddamn shot," Barringer conceded.

Tombari and his damn grin.

"Why don't you girls go on up to the clubhouse."

The less blonde batted her baby blues. Wonderful little dimples, nice legs. He watched them bounce and giggle up the green until they were out of earshot. Maybe he'd tell Don Tombari to go fuck his Ivy League-self or better yet his wife and he would take both of them to his room. Of course, what he'd do with them then was another question.

"You sure know how to pick 'em, Don."

"My gift to you, Ely."

Barringer teed up his ball, stood straight and gave a few calculated swings at the air. "I recall a gift _I_ gave you. Forty-eight billion I convinced the Pentagon to send your way for drones."

"We're on schedule. What's eating you, Ely?"

"What's 'eating me' is that I can't properly fight a global war on terror if I can't find the goddamn terrorists in the first fucking place. What's bothering me is the fucking UN up America's ass every other goddamn week. What's irritating me is Amnesty International who'd just as soon cut their own daughter's head off than call a damn _jihadi_ a _jihadi_. But you know what, Don? What really gets my dander is when someone takes money from my pocket without even giving me a reach-around."

"Hold on, Ely—"

"Hold on to what, Don? My dick? 'Cause that's what I'm left with on this forty-eight billion."

"You know it has to go through channels. Danny's working it."

Donald Tombari, who fired people who made a hundred times in a lunch deal what the General took home in all his thirty-five-year military career, wilted beneath Barringer's glare.

He gave it a moment. Fifteen long ones. "Good to hear you're on top of things, Don."

"Jesus, Ely," Tombari said, visibly shaken. No one stared him down like that.

Barringer snorted satisfactorily.

Tombari's satellite phone rang. "Yeah." His tone went obsequious. "Yes sir, the General's right here, let me.... Uh-huh. I see. Repeat that last please? DCIS...sniffing...all over. I'll..." Whoever it was hung up. Tombari tossed the phone onto the golf cart and scowled at the seascape.

"Was that his Highness?" Barringer didn't really need to ask.

Tombari faced him. "He said someone shot your boy at the depot."

### CHAPTER 31

JULY

San Diego, California

It was just past the witching hour, when witches and magic came alive. Or so his mother had said. Witches were all long dead, the church had seen to that. Their magic the sin that led them to their painful, fiery end. Still burning in the lake of fire, he could hear their screams if he tried hard enough. Although he no longer heard his angels as he sat alone in the dark.

The wing of the jail was too quiet. Isolated from the other prisoners for his own safety, that's what his public defender had said. He had also told him he would be going home today, the lawyer as astonished at that turn of events as Travis Parish, though for much different reasons. He still couldn't account for why he blatantly risked the cameras at the Wal-Mart. Why he left his soiled pliers unsanitized. Why he had failed to register as a sex offender. It was _almost_ as if he _wanted_ to be caught.

But the Lord had other plans. How else to explain that out of eleven cameras not one caught him with his starlet tucked under his coat? Or that his unclean instrument had disappeared from evidence? The Lord worked in mysterious ways, yet there was no mystery here.

Travis Parish was to continue his good work.

And yet his choir remained silent. Why?

He prayed on it. Night after night, on his knees, beseeching revelation, whispering the name of every one of his angels who had sacrificed themselves in the name of holy art.

... _Vanessa, twelve. Mandy, nine. Consuela, five. Aesha, three..._

And tonight God revealed His will. Parish's angels had not abandoned him. Their sweet song had only gone silent because that choir was filled. Bless their little hearts, their song was for Him alone now.

He felt at peace with that understanding. No rest for the wicked, his mama had said that too. He began drafting his next script, his mind's eye already drawing storyboards.

He sighed. He had his work cut out for him. God always expected man to do better. This choir would have to be bigger. Grander.

Sergeant Alejandro Fuentes yanked hard on the prisoner.

Fuentes was good sized; six-one, one-ninety, well muscled, he worked out five times a week in the gym, ran a few miles with his boys when they didn't have baseball. He took pride in his fit condition not because of the bountiful looks the ladies threw his way, blessed as he was with a beautiful wife and four equally beautiful children at home, but because he wanted to be the best cop he could be, his twelve years of service distinguished by the highest marks. He loved his job, and loved protecting the people.

That made today hard. Hard to do. Harder to understand.

The hulk that frog-marched between them made him shrivel up inside and he marveled how it had gone so horribly wrong. He had prayed for a miracle, prayed for understanding. Receiving neither, he had been forced to accept the Lord's work performed as it was in His infinitely mysterious ways.

"Move your ass!" Sauce shoved The Pincer forward. Even Sauce looked small next to the plodding mountain, his push barely denting the elephantine mass, certainly not propelling it any faster forward.

Parish only smiled.

"Just keep moving," Kramer sourly spat, pushing up his glasses.

"What the fuck you lookin' at?" demanded Trujillo.

It was hard to ignore The Pincer's unsettling smile and black-as-plague eyes suffused with evil secrets. When you've been a cop long enough you recognize the crazy ones, which could save your life, and the evil ones, which saves your soul. Parish was the devil. There was no doubt about that. You could hear the shrill screams of tormented children brought to agony by his huge, malevolent hands.

Fuentes ordered the prisoner to stop. They were at the door to the back steps. A short drive to the jail to unlock the cuffs and the devil would be released to prey again upon the precious and innocent.

"Was' up, Fuentes?" Kramer was anxious to get to the bar and drink this day away.

"He needs the Kevlar."

"Fuck he does," Trujillo said, the vest in his hand.

"C'mon, it's protocol."

Trujillo unkindly shoved the vest over Parish's head.

Parish grinned. He liked to come across as dim but Fuentes knew better.

"You know we're gonna be watchin' you like a hawk," Fuentes said.

Parish gave a carefree shrug. Hadn't mattered in the past. Why would it now?

"He ain't lyin'," Kramer said. "People want you dead. Once you hit the street..." He shrugged. "Hell, you could fall down some stairs right now, break both legs, fuck up some ribs and bleed out."

"Enough," Fuentes said. Slipping into a stairwell and beating the life out of their prisoner was tempting but none of them were killers. None of the deputies were, anyway. "Let's just get this done."

"Where's his damn helmet?" Trujillo asked.

"I thought you had it," Kramer said.

"Shit. I'll run back and get it."

Fuentes was watching out the door windows. Some of the public and press had snuck through the barricades and were starting to gather on the steps, the deputies keeping them at bay growing outnumbered. Beyond were the two transport SUVs at the curb, Manny sitting in the driver's seat of the second.

"Forget the fuckin' helmet!" Kramer said.

"Fuentes?" Sauce asked.

Parish would only be on the steps a few seconds, but...

"Time's wasting, man," Kramer gestured towards the shouting outside. Maybe thirty or forty more were rounding the corner of the courthouse.

"Shit!" he swore. "Alright, move! Trujillo get the dang doors!" He hoped his "dang" would amend for his "shit." He spoke into his radio on his left shoulder. "Prisoner escort coming out!"

" _Put the pedal to the metal Fuentes, we've got a situation brewing!"_ the radio crackled back.

Fuentes took up Parish's right, Sauce on his left, Trujillo in the lead and Kramer bringing up the rear as they cleared the exit. The courthouse deputies with shotguns lining the wide steps looked anxious. Must be over a hundred in the mob and more coming. Someone was going to get hurt.

They hustled Parish down the stairs.

" _You sick fuck!"_ screamed a fat white woman with long braided hair.

" _Burn in hell!"_ shrieked an old man.

"Someone's gonna get you, Parish!"

"Fucking redneck rapist!"

" _Goddamn sicko!"_

Spit landed on Fuentes cheek.

"Get back!" Fuentes felt the current of panic in the guards' voices and it was flowing, starting to splash into his own detail. Sauce had a hand on his 9mm, so did Kramer.

" _Move, move, move!"_ he shouted, wiping at the spittle.

Trujillo raced ahead of them three steps at a time, opening the SUV's rear door, wheeling his arm madly to hurry them on.

They were halfway there when the big man abruptly stopped, the unexpected halt causing Sauce to take a spill and Kramer to run into his broad back.

"C'mon! What the hell are you doing!" Fuentes yelled.

Parish was peering up into the sky. No, he was looking west, out into the city, towards the PCH, the Pacific herself, God knew, ignoring their tugging and pulling like an elephant might ignore a child.

Fuentes screamed again. Sauce was back on his feet, angrily reaching for the big man's cuffed hands. Kramer pushed him from behind to no avail.

The fiendish giant turned on Fuentes with transfixed black eyes, his unnerving grin showing very white, very healthy teeth. Fuentes would always remember he had excellent teeth.

Parish's left eye socket exploded.

There was a sonic _crack!_ as flesh and bone and blood sprayed across the steps.

The big man fell back, sat down hard. People screamed, fell, scrambled for cover.

Fuentes wiped his hand down his face where once had been spit and it came away with blood and bits of God knew what as he screamed into his radio.

"MAN DOWN! MAN DOWN!"

He reached for their prisoner who stared at him from one good eye, a smoldering mess of red sinew and protruding bone for the other.

" _YOU'RE ALRIGHT! YOU'RE GOING TO BE ALRIGHT!_ " he declared.

Trujillo was running back up the steps, pistol in hand. Sauce, crouching, had pulled his own weapon while Kramer wiped gore off his glasses, gave up and dashed them to the ground for his Glock. Frenzy in every direction, some still trying to get at their downed prisoner, deputies dropping low and scanning the chaos, trying to get a fix on the shooter. Fuentes would have told them they were wasting their time, it was a long-range weapon, he knew a supersonic crack when he heard one but he was too busy trying to figure out what to do to save Travis Parish's life.

He grabbed at a kerchief he always kept in his pocket for crying mothers or fathers or lovers when their loved ones had been arrested or were bleeding to death at the scene.

"Roll the credits," Pincer Parish said, satisfied, as he fell away from Fuentes's outstretched hand to die on the courthouse steps, his head coming to lay against Kramer's leg.

Taking full responsibility for the debacle was Fuentes's choice. His superiors argued against his dismissal but someone needed to be blamed. Fuentes would take the fall because he believed his fellow deputies were good men, were needed on the street, but also because he didn't want to be a cop anymore.

Joining Uncle Eduardo, he would eventually run Fuentes Concrete himself, retiring at the age of seventy with the same loving wife and lots of grandchildren to keep him company throughout his remaining years. He and his two sons and then their sons would take trips down to Baja and fish and talk about women and children and God as they made their way to the bottom of coolers of ice cold beer. He would die gazing into Suzanna's warm brown eyes, her hand holding his as he drew his last breath, his family all around, their love buoying him to the sweet hereafter.

Alejandro Fuentes prayed the night Travis "The Pincer" Parish was killed, as he would every night thereafter, thanking Jesus and the Virgin for all his blessings. The rest of his life he would rarely think of Parish or his executioner. When he did, he would always remind himself his wasn't to question the mysterious workings of God.

And he would lose the will to try.

### CHAPTER 32

AUGUST

Ashland, Oregon

By midnight he had made the Oregon state line.

I have killed three men.

His eyelids were heavy. The adrenaline of exodus north long since spent had left only a wary weariness. Real sleep had been rare on his expedition into sunny California, and now that the deeds were done, he was hundreds of miles away, it was coming whether he was ready or not. He left I-5 for a rambling road paralleling the Rogue. Just past a little burg called Prospect he took a tree-lined, rutted dirt road down to the riverbank.

The Oregon evening a welcome respite after the blistering blanket that had smothered California. He washed the black dye and gel out of his hair in the cool current, scrubbed off eyeliner and tattoos until his skin was raw. He changed his clothes, and though his grandpa would have his hide (as if this was the worst thing his grandpa would have his hide over) he laid the black garments of his masquerade on the steady stream and watched them float away.

The river smell and sound brought back memories of his youth, of family, of happy times. Did the dead look down upon what he had done? Did they do so with praise? Understanding? Harsh judgment and condemnation? Did the dead care at all?

If they did they kept it to themselves.

Returning to the rented Ford Taurus, he leaned the seat back, rolled down the window so the cool night air could roll over his damp skin. Its chill would keep him from too deep a slumber. An hour nap was affordable, waking up in daylight could be very expensive.

If the radio was to be believed, the police had the shooter locked down in southern California, near the Mexican border, the obvious egress for a fugitive from San Diego, but for all he knew it was misinformation and they were hot on his trail. If an Oregon state trooper had suddenly shot him dead it would be a surprise but not unexpected, nor unwarranted. There were leagues of law enforcement out there and at the moment a respectable majority in this particular region of the world were on the lookout if not the hunt for him, or at least their idea of him.

I have killed three men. And I feel nothing.

That wasn't true. Self-recrimination manifestly absent, there was the fatigue of diligence. That damnable, ingrained, All-American working-class industry; raise a barn, plow a field, work the line, design a WAN. Kill people. It's been a hard day's night and he was ready to sleep like a dog.

But his mind had tricked him. Sleep not so inevitable after all.

He checked the radio. No new development on the radio regarding his latest endeavor, the atrocity that had been Travis Parish, but there was a brief snippet about Alan Odom. The Odom clan had offered a million dollars for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the murderer of their unfortunate son. They wanted blood.

He didn't blame them. He had wanted blood, too.

If I turn myself in would I get to keep the reward?

He hopped out and took a leak. Stood by the river's shore. Just him and the night, the river keeping time. Scooping up a handful of stones, he sent them skipping into little rippling disturbances across the water's surface as a lone cricket began playing its ballad.

### CHAPTER 33

AUGUST

San Francisco, California

"So what do we know?" Barringer asked.

"M118 Long Range, likely an M40. From a hide of sheetrock, up on a ridge in unfinished construction. Four hundred-sixty meters, give or take."

Four hundred and sixty meters was a respectable shot.

Neither man was in uniform, sitting at a little outdoor café just off the pier, overlooking the blue-green envy of the Pacific, they faced the stiff ocean breeze, letting it tear away their words before they could fall upon anyone else's ears, electronic or otherwise.

"No witnesses, no suspicious characters in the area, no physical evidence other than some bleach stains and the two slugs, one from Jackson's corpse, another in the pool concrete. No casings, no tracks. Someone did see a red or blue four-door parked off the road but that's not unusual with all the construction up there. Kids screwing, what not. No plate. Sounds like a pro, sir."

Barringer grunted. Of course it was a pro.

"You call me sir one more time and I'm shoving that napkin holder up your ass sideways."

"Yes..." Warrant Officer Lucas swallowed. His wavy blond hair and blue eyes irritated the General. He detested pretty-looking men, especially when they reminded him of a mini Don Tombari. He couldn't say who had the smaller spine. Lucas had managed to carry his weight, if barely, in his role at the CID but he'd never been an all-star, and Barringer liked all-stars. All-stars had ego, and that was something a man could grab hold of and use. Pete Jackson had been an all-star. Lucas was a family man. Those were often more unpredictable because they had a lot more to lose.

"What do the yahoos know?"

"Yahoos" were what he called law enforcement, though another favorite was "IFs" for "Ignorant Fucks."

"Other than the caliber and perch, not much," Lucas said. "Still looking at military as the probable perp."

"They'd be fools not to. So they know about the same that we do at the moment?"

"That's an affirm."

He snorted. "And Jackson?"

"Just a civilian working the depot, stellar record. They went pretty hard at the logs and soldiers he worked with but they'll come up empty."

"You sure of that?"

Lucas wanted him to think he was. "One bit of promise—the blonde bimbo that found him, a local sperm-receptacle. They're trying to locate her ex-husband as we speak. Seems he didn't care for her sleeping with the brothas, sir."

He saw where Lucas was heading so he let that "sir" go. "We looked at him?"

"Smoking meth in a rundown in Sacramento at the time of the shooting. A piece of shit junkie, no way he's our shooter."

The General grunted.

It had all the look and feel of a pro. Jackson may have fucked the wrong woman, someone's wife or girlfriend, but that optimism was for cheerleaders, and if it wasn't someone crying over a broken heart who was it and why? Was someone trying to sabotage the operation? Their shooter had known just the right target to strike. He needed that depot. Was there a conspiracy afoot or was this just some rogue actor?

_Blue Alpha_ always vetted the local staff. Those that didn't qualify wouldn't talk because they knew nothing to talk about, and those who did commit to their cause wouldn't shoot Jackson without considering the consequences. Jackson was known as his pet, _his boy._ The General was generous in compensation but _Blue Alpha_ had a well-groomed reputation for swift retribution for rule-breakers.

The more he thought about it, the more it made his stomach roil like the ocean at his feet.

They couldn't jump at shadows because they _were_ the shadows. But...

"Goddamn. We've got a breach."

"Think so?" Lucas surprised, the dolt.

"Someone's either off the reservation or we've got a leak."

"What? Who?"

"Isn't that you're fucking job to find out?" He gave Lucas a sharp look. "I want this shooter ASAP. Nip this in the bud. Understand?"

"Roger that."

"Get the yahoos onto the husband and keep them there."

"That's an affirm on the frame-job, then?"

"I'm in a foul goddamn mood, don't make me repeat myself."

"I'll take care of it."

"So where are we with the depot?"

He looked uncomfortable. "We're doing our best. Petey made it look so damn easy."

"Just keep the books clean and up to snuff 'til I get someone in there." Barringer leaned close. "And Lucas?"

"Yes?"

"We find this traitor, I'm going to fuck his children and murder his wife. In that order."

Barringer made his way down Stockton through the bustling throngs of little yellow people. He was wearing a simple fisherman's hat, sunglasses, a tan shirt and blue jeans. Casual in his interest of his surroundings, ostensibly oblivious like any other tourist strolling through humid and overripe Chinatown, he was well aware of the five spooks tailing him.

They were running a floating box, the in-front cheating. Worked well with vehicles, not so much afoot. Not rookies but certainly not the usual pros they sicced on him.

Ducking inside a café, he whistled his way through, out the back and down a narrow alley reeking of yesterday's catch, into the back of a produce market off Grant, out its front, back north. They would assume he was continuing south towards his destination rather than just passing it, a journeyman mistake, rookies catching it because they lacked trust in their abilities, a veteran leaving the possibility open because he knew tailing was only as good as knowing your target. These assholes were just confident enough to possess belief in their experience. They'd been around, been in the field, they had stories that had gotten them laid. They would realize their error eventually but it would be too late.

Engorged on post 9/11 fear-funding, the unwieldy apparatus of intelligence had been electronically cannibalizing its own HUMINT appendages which had served it so well since the Cold War. Human spycraft as a trade was fast becoming a lost art. It's why he had retained the best and brightest for his own team.

Ely Barringer was a realist, notoriously pragmatic to the core, his enemies would confide to you as much, in a whisper of course, in a bug-swept room, behind shuttered window and bolted door. He was not an adherent of American divinity as were many of the religious ideologues who espoused such, usually to rank, raucous applause. No atheists in foxholes certainly but he had always been first out of the trenches, as a soldier and patriot always doing what was needed. Long ago he had accepted as institutional the sacrifices that must be made and the earnest men who were compelled to decide who must make them, a white man's burden he had shouldered with great honor when it came his own time.

His colleagues would enthusiastically claim him as American Made, a Boy Scout through and through, and that was true. Had he not rescued his Beverly, rest her beautiful soul, from the clutches of mad flower-powered fantasists in this very city some thirty years ago? And decades later with her blessing remained vigilant at his post against enemies, foreign and domestic, as the goddamn cancer insatiably consumed her?

He slipped into Chow's Asian Market, redolent of pine oil and fish and spice that if he was a brooding man would have reminded him of darker times in darker jungles. Past the bins of rice and legumes, the dried seahorses and carp, towards the café in the back. A tall man sat alone among a thin lunch crowd, his back to the wall. Smooth dark hair, crisp, immaculate midnight suit, even in this humidity; he looked bored but don't let that fool you, he was as dangerous as they came. Cold eyes guided Barringer to a door.

He navigated down dark creaky stairs to a basement lit by a hundred candles along one wall. There were several doorways, most closed, one opened onto a game of Mahjong beneath a halo of smoke, the players all Asian and ancient, the girls beside them all Asian and young. One of the girls pointed down the hall. He nodded, went to the door there and opened it.

"You're late."

There were two folding chairs, one occupied beneath a naked dangling bulb. He took up the other one, nodded at the man opposite. "You're lucky I showed at all. I don't like basements. Reminds me too much of the old days."

"Laos or Buenos Aires? Or are you reminiscing over Beirut?"

"You trying to make a statement by telling me where I've been? Why'd you pick this shithole?"

The man across from him chuckled, a dry rattle of snake scales across sand. He was in his customary charcoal pinstripes, double-breasted, crimson tie. He sat back just out of reach of the pool of light, two sets of feet off to either side leading up to big men in the shadows.

"I had business in the financial district. This was convenient. And the dim sum is not to be missed. If the Beltway could ever get a decent Chinese restaurant...Then again, we would just bug and eavesdrop them to death. So it goes, eh General?"

"I don't know how it goes up there for you pencil-pushers. You going to get to why we're here?"

"You'll have to forgive the General here, Hasawi," he said mildly to the shadow to his left. "He lacks patience for the likes of me, only sees his equal in military men. He forgets that this country, _his country_ , won by war, codified by the Founders who, all well-educated men and many of military experience, held little inclination for the portentous mischief that breeds from a standing military. The General dismisses as passé the grandiose speeches by the Framers intended to deny his existence here today. Disregards as irresponsible their passionate elocution vehemently in opposition to the modernized machine he has helped engineer this past half-century. He does not accept that other sectors of America are as vital as his guns, tanks, F-16s and ICBMs. But do not hold that against him. The General is a good man, decent, a great American, and has served his country without fail, ever at the cost of his own peril and happiness. Is that not correct, General?"

He wondered how close Tan was, if he flicked his fingers like in the old days, would he burst into the room and end this affliction.

"Mr. Hasawi is on loan," the D.C. dissembler continued, his face just out of the light. "He would not tell you that he is distantly of the _Al-Sabah_ clan, but we are all good friends here, are we not, General? Mr. Hasawi's father, another good friend, has asked me to help with his son's education. The family has ambitions, as does their scion here. You would be pleased to discover that Mr. Hasawi has his sights set on the Kuwaiti Ministry of Defense, even as you are saying to yourself, 'fat chance,' no one outside the direct royals would be offered such a prestigious and important position. Fortunately for Mr. Hasawi you would be wrong."

"I'm two seconds from standing up and walking out that door."

He folded his hands across his lap. "Jackson's death is becoming quite the story. It's becoming an issue. Mr. Hasawi?" A tall Arab stepped into the light long enough to hand Barringer a manila envelope, and just as quickly stepped back to the shadows. "Some in the Doctrine have raised concerns."

It was an FBI file. He scanned it briefly, just the first page. Goddamn, that Lucas was a total fuckup.

"It's under control," he said, nonchalantly leaning back.

"My men can be of assistance if you're a bit shorthanded. Or overwhelmed."

_My men_. The man had consigned cold death with a pen from the warm comfort of a cozy office while sipping tea, had five deferments to show for it. What did he know of being a leader of men?

"This ain't summer camp. This is the majors. You keep _your men_ out of my AO."

"Some have voiced their concerns regarding _your AO._ You're no longer in the official chain of command, General."

"And you're no longer a director _or_ a secretary, Mr. Secretary."

Smoothing a pinstripe, "You will sacrifice Jackson to the wolves."

He ignored the implied subordination. It was a foregone conclusion, with the contents of that envelope that Petey—deceased or no—would now have to take a hit for the team. "Anything else?"

"His replacement." The pedantic prick leaned forward, the light shining on his balding pate, reflecting off his rimless spectacles. "I have suggestions."

"That must make you feel important. It's covered. That it?"

"I think that's more than enough on your plate for now, don't you?"

If this political hack had an inkling of the size of his plate, he would be shitting bricks in his four-thousand-dollar suit. "Next time give this to one of my people." He shook the FBI report. "Don't waste my fucking time with this dick-and-yardstick bullshit."

That dry chuckle again as the man rose to leave.

"Careful on your way out," Barringer said, "marked five of your spooks tailing me earlier. Might recognize you from the halls of infamy."

A haughty smile gleamed in the dark. "Not my spooks, General. If they were, most assuredly they wouldn't have been marked by you."

He and his two body men left out the back alleyway to a waiting car, Barringer following after. Tan slipped beside him and they watched the black Mercedes speed away.

"You know about this, Major?" Barringer handed him the FBI folder.

"As of this morning." Tan's face was impassive as ever.

"I want _Alpha_ to take over from Lucas, ay-sap. Make that story stick like glue to Petey, and get someone on the yahoos running that Pincer investigation."

"Yes sir. And that?" He nodded in the direction of the departing car.

"That? That was just a shot across the bow. That's all me. For now."

"And the shooter?"

"Find him, question him, kill the sonofabitch."

" _Hooah."_

### CHAPTER 34

AUGUST

San Diego, California

"You goin' to ween' the big wun' this week?" Maria asked from behind the register.

"Got the winner right here." He pulled his SuperLotto picks out of his breast pocket, handed them over and she punched them in. "How's school?"

"Got me three A's this summer," she beamed.

"Good for you. No surprise there. One more semester?"

" _Si_. Just the coffee?" She looked at him sideways.

He glanced over his shoulder at the mother with the baby and toddler in tow, cleared his throat and mumbled, "Throw in a pack while you're at it."

Maria tsked-tsked. "You know you need to quit, Agent Duffield. Shit is gonna kill you."

She pulled the Raleighs from above her head, dropped them next to the coffee on the counter.

Duffy tap-tapped the pack against the counter, met her eyes. "See you tomorrow, Maria."

"Get 'em before they get you, Agent Duffield," she said soberly.

The coffee awful, prices inflated, he had to make a U-turn at the light but every day he stopped on his way to work to suffer the twenty-four-year-old cashier's public castigation. Anybody else and Oral Duffield would have had their balls in a jar. Not that Maria had any, not literally anyway, but she had saved his life a couple years ago.

The ER doctor put it better when Maria finally left his side to call and check on her kids. "That girl sure has spunk. Broke two of your ribs. If she hadn't you'd be dead."

Fifty pounds lighter, more cardio, less scotch, he just couldn't give up his Raleighs.

On the way to the office he pulled his Ford in front of a 7-Eleven, got out and lit up a smoke. Absently rubbing at the scar over his temple that his thinning, graying hair did little to conceal he considered the old six-story theatre across the street, more specifically its roof. He liked to look over a crime scene with no one else around. Get a feel for it. The people were now going about their pre-lunch business as usual, indifferent to the killer that had hid up there on that roof. Reports to file. Croissants to serve. Smokes to sell. He glanced down Broadway towards the courthouse. From here he could just make out the steps.

"Helluva shot," he muttered. He crossed the street.

The roof was painted white, and blinding in the morning sun. Crime tape fluttered in the Pacific breeze, marking off several areas. He looked up at the surrounding buildings, many taller, offering a clear vantage of this roof and others and the streets below. Their shooter had not only avoided being seen here but had descended the building without a trace as well. Prevailing theory, he had wedged himself between a wall and cooling unit for the shot. But the escape? The top floors were all occupied office space, not a lot of security but still, someone should have seen someone who didn't belong. But they hadn't.

His Blackberry buzzed. It was the one technology he had mastered, if mastered meant knowing how to read the screen. He snorted at the message from Lind. Goddamn Goldwyn. Supercilious prick never let up.

Slipping the phone into his pocket he ducked under the yellow crime tape, crouching into the shooter's spot. Super tight. He held his hands like he was holding a rifle. At this angle, the steps were slightly more visible, but the shot, he couldn't have made it, not even on his best day in 'Nam.

"Helluva shot."

No DNA, no fiber, no hair, no latents, no smudges, no cartridge, no residue. Just dried bleach water beneath his feet. Smart. Detective Grohl of San Joaquin County confirmed the same up in Stockton. Clean, military firepower, disappears without a trace. Obviously a pro. Too obviously?

They had put The Pincer Parish and Pete Jackson deaths together when the RCFL had run the Parish slug fragments against NIBIN, earning a likely match to the killing up north, yet the dots linking Jackson's and Parish's lives remained unconnected. Jackson was black, had security clearance, was a known womanizer but preferred them full-grown, the fuller the better, and he had no known enemies. Parish was a redneck, convicted pedophile and who didn't want to shoot that sonofabitch. You couldn't find those two in the same bar.

"Helluva shot," he said impressed. It wasn't in a good way.

He finished his second smoke of the day in the field office garage, tossed the butt in the trash, popped an Altoid as he reached the elevator. The air thickened with the cloying haze of Polo as Rob Goldwyn materialized out of the shadows. "You get my email on the Islamic Center?"

"I sent the Wonder Twins to pay them a visit yesterday."

"Jesus, Duffy, at least send someone who knows a Shia from a Sunni."

"If I had more people I would. Wanna spare me a few of your forty?"

Goldwyn stroked his neat, dark goatee. He looked at the elevator button. "You going to push it?"

"I haven't decided yet."

Goldwyn glanced at it again. He took a breath, surrendered and punched the button. Twice.

"Ask me next time you want to rifle my office," Duffy said.

Goldwyn's eyes narrowed. How'd Duffy know? Who ratted on him?

"You don't want anyone in there, lock the door."

"You really need to learn to play well with others, Goldwyn."

"Your parting gift of wisdom on the way out?" Goldwyn grinned sardonically. "Happy birthday. Fifty-seven. My my. That's mandatory retirement, right?"

Duffy gave him his back.

"Well, if you want something done right. Guess I'll send some of my guys up to interview the Imams again," Goldwyn graciously offered.

"Hey, whatever floats your boat, we're a government agency; wasting man hours and taxpayer dollars is in our charter."

The elevator door opened. Duffy just stood there.

"You going in?" Goldwyn asked.

"I haven't decided yet."

Goldwyn continued to lurk until the door closed. Then he threw up his hands and left. "Try not to kill any Mexicans on your last days, old man," he said over his shoulder.

An older Latino janitor looked over at him. Duffy shrugged and the janitor returned to his sweeping.

A slender, sienna-skinned woman in a gray pantsuit glided by him, pushed the elevator button. She wrinkled her nose. "Goldilocks just here? What'd he want?"

"Remind me not to leave dead Mexicans lying about." Some things stuck to you no matter what you did.

She crossed her arms. "Good advice. What'd he really want?"

"What does every JTTF head want? Terrorists under every bed, popping out of Cap'n Crunch, shouting _'Allah Akbar!'_ Anything to validate his budget, not that anyone gives a shit. When's the last time JTTF nabbed anyone who knew how to tie his own shoes? Still makes the damn paper."

"No one reads the paper anymore, Duffy." He gave her a look. She shrugged it off. "And this isn't terrorism. At least not the Islamic kind."

The elevator door dinged opened. This time he entered. She joined him, pushed the button for the top floor and they settled into opposite corners. "Missed you this weekend."

"Don't start, Abbey."

"How's Colin?"

"Eating like a horse. Growing like one too. Pitched a no-hitter Friday in front of a couple recruiters."

"That's great. Wish I could have been there to see it," she sighed wistfully.

He wasn't taking that bait.

Was meeting his son too much to ask? Probably not. They had been sleeping together for months. Abigail Red Deer had replaced his longtime partner Tom Mazurski after he had retired last year to Corpus Christi to see if he and the wife could fish out the gulf. Maz had said they'd be bedded within three months. To Duffy's credit it had taken six. His first office romance. It would also be his last.

"I just don't want him distracted. He has a good chance at a scholarship," he said. Not to mention the last woman he dated, Colin hated her guts.

"We certainly don't want him distracted." She played with a loose strand of her pinned-up, black hair. To the young agents who incessantly flirted with her she was courteous, professional, often cold, pretending not to hear the squaw jokes, the "Pine Ridge Bitch" mutterings and the "I'd like to mount me a Red Deer!" running commentary.

"Stop that."

When it was just her and Duffy she dropped her strict agent façade to reveal a desirous woman in her sexual prime. Had he dated her before his heart attack at the Circle-K he'd have died the first night she had straddled him in the passenger seat of her car.

Abbey dropped her hand. "Quantico got back this morning. Judy agrees, a high-prob match, the markings good considering the deterioration of the Parish slug. Identical land impressions, same angle of twist of one-twelve. A Winchester maybe, possibly a military grade rifle with the M118 Long Range."

"Helluva shot," he said. Again. She could only nod.

The elevator door opened and they navigated the busy office cubicles to his office.

"Yo, Duffy." A tall balding black man waved him over and slapped a twenty into his palm.

"Now the Padres do know they were playing _baseball_ last night, right?" Duffy smiled.

"Anyone can kick the ball."

"Twice in one inning?"

"Oh, don't let me forget: Happy birthday, man."

Duffy gave him his back.

Abbey followed him into his office, plopped down in a chair.

"You're going to hear that all day." He ignored her. She smiled at him. "You still have the year."

"Let's stay focused on the case." He tried his email password on his computer. It wasn't working.

"San Joaquin PD requested assistance. They're not getting anywhere up there with the Army."

"Monty used to be an Army MP, let's get the Wonder Twins up there. And no leaks on this one," he added gruffly. "Make sure everyone's dotting their 'I's, crossing their 'T's on their 302s. I don't want any foul ups. What else?"

"Other than this guy can shoot and disappear like a ghost?" She blew out her cheeks. She started the hair twirling thing again, watching him with soft eyes. "Dugan's still on foreign assignment."

He rubbed at his scar. Duffy Potter they liked to call him behind his back, all but Jimmy Dugan. He liked to say it to his face.

"I know he's your friend—"

"Kamuri's fine." But Jimmy Dugan was better. "Goldwyn wants Lind for some pattern analysis, that's a negative if he asks." Everywhere Goldwyn looked, Muslims with magic bombs were materializing from puffs of terrorist hookah smoke but he never wanted to use his own agents, preferred to volunteer one of Duffy's ten directs instead.

Abbey pursed her lips. "Office is betting this'll go serial."

"Not if we do our job."

She didn't look optimistic as the Wonder Twins knocked on the door and entered without an ask.

That's what you got for promoting an open door policy.

He could never remember stocky Montgomery's first name. Everyone just called her Monty. She was just the opposite of their other New Agent Trainee, Andy Lind, who peered pensively over her shoulder. He was one of those who always looked stiff and uncomfortable in a suit. Slight, nervous, a computer whiz though Lind assured him that no one used the word "whiz" anymore.

"I'm locked out of my email again, Lind," he confessed.

"I changed your password this morning, sir, when I saw Agent Goldwyn enter your office."

"Good thinking. Thanks for the email. What is it?"

"I changed it back a few moments ago."

"How did you know—never mind." He typed in Colin's middle name and birthdate and it let him in.

"You know sir, if you had a laptop—" Lind began.

"What do you got?" Duffy cut him off.

Monty cleared her throat.

"Yes sir. We've eliminated fourteen of the original POIs. Three of the remaining four, the plumber from Horton Plaza, the homeless man—"

"Goes by Rayon," Lind chimed.

"The surfer fixing the flat on the highway, we're verifying their alibis. The goth is our one suspect that remains unaccounted for."

The two grainy images and the facial composite off of them were worthless, the pictures snapped from a bad angled, older traffic cam. Even blowing up the pixels hadn't given them much, the goth kid in the afternoon crowd always finding the pavement at his feet far too interesting. It could have been anyone, hell, the sketch could have been his son Colin. The canvassed witnesses weren't much better:

Caucasian, wait, he was mixed; white guy but from the islands, early to mid-twenties; just a high school kid; five-eight to six-foot-four, one-forty to two-ten; pot belly; skinny as a rail, black spiked hair with blue highlights; highlights but absolutely a blue bandana; black Lacuna Coil T-shirt; definitely a gray RATM T-shirt; gray Ministry sweatshirt, black baggy trousers; tight black jeans; tight blue jeans, dangling earrings; one post earring, possible eyebrow ring, definitely a nose ring; no way it protruded from his lip. Dark shades, no shades, tribals on the arms, Kanji on the neck, a skull all in black, some reddish color in the eyes, no tattoos whatsoever. Listening to an MP3 player, what's an MP3 player? Guitar case in hand, no he was toting a boogie board, surf was great that day. Obviously homeless. Seriously, I think he's that actor, you know, in that one thing?

"RATM?"

"Rage Against the Machine. More rock than goth, sir."

"Uh-huh."

"SDPD, LAPD and SFPD are checking the clubs but we're not holding our breath."

A rifle would fit neatly inside a guitar case. He looked at the pictures again. The kid's hands may have been holding something. Hard to tell with all those people.

"We've come up empty on other CCTV—city, security, ATM. Nothing for three miles," Lind said.

"Let's up the search radius to ten miles," Abbey said, "get SDPD and county to earn their overtime and do our legwork. We'll get this sketch up to Stockton. You two wrap up what you got here, you're heading up there too. Oh, did you wish Duffy a happy birthday?"

"Out," Duffy ordered, and when the rookies were gone, "What's your thinking?"

"Male, late twenties to mid-forties, possibly molested as a child. A pro, done it before, maybe for money, likely in a uniform. He's well trained."

"Anything else?"

"Just me waking up in bed this morning alone."

He wasn't taking that bait either.

She grabbed the sketch, slipped out without another word. That promised a conversation later.

He leaned back in his chair. The Parish-Jackson connection could be anything. Could be nothing. Could be one was a distraction to throw off the other. Could be their shooter poked his finger in a phonebook.

"Betty!"

Betty had been his assistant for twelve years. Her auburn head peeked around the door, notepad in hand.

"What time's the office brief?"

"Grouchy, are we? Eleven. SAC at eleven thirty, ADIC Arsenault after that—"

"Arsenault? What the hell does he want?" He had been passed over for ADIC after the Mexican debacle, the job going to someone less assertive and more unctuous.

"His secretary didn't deign to tell me. Elise Hutchens wants twenty minutes."

"Wish in one hand—"

"She says she has official 'unnamed' sources linking the Parish and Jackson killings."

"Goddamn it."

Les Miller's protégé, twenty-something, just getting her legs, Hutchens showed appreciation for facts, eschewed sensationalism unlike her ratings-ravenous rivals. It had earned her some cred with the Bureau, though the buzz was not so much with her network.

His Midwest attitude didn't care for leaks, however well intentioned. But if she just wanted his confirmation, he wasn't giving her anything she didn't already have. Better she got the story straight then someone else scaring the bejesus out of thirty-five million Californians. Plus, she'd think she owed him.

"She gets five. And no questions about the Circle-K. I also need an MOU drafted for San Joaquin. And somehow find out how I can get James Dugan on the damn phone." Betty nodded and left.

With Maz gone Dugan was the only old friend he had left in the Bureau. If this was his last hurrah he wanted Jimmy beside him when they nailed the bastard going around shooting people without permission.

He spun around in his chair, looked out at the passing traffic below. He could make out Maria's store from here, past the green and slate office parks and the ribbons of hot asphalt. One semester to go. Good for her.

Betty popped her head back in the doorway. "Forgot. Happy fifty-seventh, boss."

He sighed. It was going to be a helluva year.

### CHAPTER 35

AUGUST

Redmond, Washington

The rain drummed relentlessly upon the roof as it had the last two hours. He shifted in his seat, tried to stretch, tried to get more comfortable, surrendered. Nissan Maximas were not made for the long-legged.

The dog next to him whined.

Or German shepherds, apparently.

From the entrance of Chip's Topsoil, where the Maxima hugged a tree-covered, shadowy embankment, he was to watch for traffic, in particular police traffic, and watch the Millennium Campus across the road, in particular building F. The road glistened with pools of streetlamp gold, the drops on the windshield little reflective gems. Busy in the daytime, at midnight and with a steady Pacific Northwest downpour the four lanes of Union Hill Road were quiet save the rare traveler eastbound to one of the commuter towns, like Duvall where he had left his truck. Was that this morning? Time had slipped into a plodding blur.

Waiting. At least it wasn't for someone to murder. Tonight they waited for Hewitt's Security and Motorcade, route 47, truck number 19448.

"They call it 'The Indian Run' 'cause they pick up from a few casinos," Garrett had informed them as the four of them, stuffed into a Prelude, drove over the area that morning. Garrett's ponytail was blond, sideburns and goatee to match. He wore Dickie's overalls, forearms covered in artwork, the kind you get in prison. Jamal was black, wiry, couldn't be more than twenty-five. Jack was stocky, Asian, gray in his temples. He didn't say much. Last was Dave, who rode shotgun, tall, deep tan but white as rice beneath, medium-dark brown hair, light charcoal glasses.

"See there, Dave? Yeah?" Garrett pointed to the gap between the Millennium buildings. Beyond the gray asphalt parking lot a swath of green stretched a mile. "Keller Farm. 'Bout a hundred feet in, drops off sharp to the creek. Ain't visible from the road. Even if the GPS is up all they know is the truck's stopped and looks a bit off grid. Four minutes, in and out. Yeah?"

Dave nodded. Was that a Midwestern accent?

Redmond, pasture and orchard before Bill Gates made it the center of his software universe, still remained bucolic. Downtown urbanized, clean and personable, family-owned shops rubbing shoulders with the low-key mall the locals had allowed into their Shire. No high-rises, no homeless, no crime. Recession, what recession? It smelled of green. And money.

"Easy as cake," Garrett said, soaking his breakfast in syrup at a Denny's before his shift at Hewitt's, one arm guarding his plate, a hand cupping undrunk coffee like a plump breast.

"What happens when you don't turn up tomorrow?"

Garrett grinned around a mouth of hotcakes. "Don't know, don't care. Wanna stick around to find out, be my guest, Dave."

"You cool wit' it all, Dave?" Jamal asked.

"I'm cool," Dave said. And McConnell was.

"Sure glad you made it, man. We was fucked."

Jack grunted.

"Your boy a sharp motherfucker," Jamal added.

That earned a grunt from Jack as well.

"Don't worry. Easy as fuckin' pie. Yeah?" Garrett added.

Pie, cake. Hopefully as easy as one of them. Yeah.

Jamal was monitoring a police scanner about a mile west of where Union Hill Road began. Garrett and Jack sat in the tow truck in a dark corner behind building F while McConnell watched from the shadows. All waiting for the guests of honor to arrive so they could start the party.

Lights flashed and a brown SUV turned out of the parking lot.

"Last of the swing, just the grave now," Garrett assured. Graveyard shift at the Xbox Operations Center consisted of three guys watching monitors while working hard at staying awake.

They waited. Crime, it seemed, entailed an awful lot of waiting.

McConnell had driven straight to Idaho, returned the rental, picked up his truck from the provincial Park N' Fly then made that final, interminable six-hour drive back to Spokane where he collapsed upon the sofa between unperturbed bastard cats, the dog licking his hand, and was blissfully asleep all of ten minutes before the fax woke him. Christ, who still sent faxes? Why did he still have a fax machine at all?

One page, one word, all caps: WATERLOO.

Grumbling, he fired up his laptop.

"Took you long enough," HAMMURABI said, his new Grok voice feature fully operational.

"Why Waterloo?"

"I dunno," Mitch confessed, "it sounded cool."

"I'm going back to bed."

"No you're not."

It was after midnight when he reached the farmhouse. At least Mitch had the courtesy to grill him a Ribeye and eggs. He attacked it with vigor on the porch. He was starving.

"You look like shit."

McConnell nodded, washing down a bite with cold beer.

"Portland PD ran your credit card," the hacker added nonchalantly. He was sporting his magic robe and waving a spatula from one hand. "Relax. You were never a suspect, they just needed to show due diligence. There's an email thread about harassing you needlessly after your brother was killed, and a lot of general agreement that Odom had it coming."

"So I'm good?"

"You were never bad. I went ahead and did the same alibi for this last trip. Learn your Montana rivers. Like the back of your hand. Fishing. Lots of fishing." The hacker pushed up his glasses. "Did I say you look like shit? Seriously. I can get someone else to take the thingamajig."

"No you can't. And it's a lot of money."

Mitch didn't disagree. "You should have brought the dog out here. Still can if you want."

"No time." It was a four-hour turnaround to bring the dog back out.

"You really should've called her from the road."

McConnell gave him a look. Had he called Marissa from the road the hacker would've crucified him. He did try her a couple more times on the way back to his house but she still wasn't answering. What imagined slight was it this time? Beginning to feel like being married again. Without the carnal benefits.

The thingamajig in the backseat, Geronimo up front, they drove a beeline west. The sun was rising when he left the dog in the car and walked the half mile to a shack of a house in a rundown neighborhood in Renton. His newfound partners in crime were glad to see him, glad to see the thingamajig under his arm, despite the hour. They ran over the plan. At the end, Jamal asked, "You cool wit' it all Dave?"

"Cool as Vanilla Ice." And so tired that sounded funny.

The casino's money was camouflage for the real prize; next-gen Xbox chips, prototypes which were being sent back from Microsoft Game Studios to the Intel labs in Hillsboro, Oregon, the latter ironically where Tom Woodridge had failed to land a job. It really was a small world.

Garrett had worked the past couple months at the Hewitt depot as a mechanic, sneaking pictures and mapping the undercarriage of the rigs, especially the ventilation system. That morning he had gone in, installed Mitch's thingamajig alongside Jack's contraption and bid a silent adieu.

Somewhere along life's journey Jack had acquired some knowledge of chemistry. He had built a pressurized, battery-powered remote gas dispersal system that would release a non-lethal solution to render the guards unconscious and not dead. He didn't say much, but seemed confident about it.

Mitch's role had been threefold: Ensure Garrett's background check cleared; the thingamajig, which would scramble cell, radio, satellite and GPS signals; and disabling the armored car's operation center's main tracking system as a fallback if the thingamajig failed.

Besides lookout, McConnell was tasked to text-to-email Mitch via a prepaid burner. The hacker then would activate his botnet, "Atlas Shrugged," hiding in the wild for weeks, having infected thousands of devices around the world, unleashing a DDoS attack and flooding Hewitt's system with data requests.

The rest was simply the getaway. Easy as pie. Yeah?

"Quit breathing so much," he told the dog. "You're fogging up the windows."

His hands were sweating in their gloves. Jamal had "rounded up" the vehicles and he didn't want to leave any prints. His feet were sweating, too. He was wearing hiking boots, jeans, dark blue T-shirt. He should have worn his Adidas so his feet could breathe. And brought a sandwich. He was hungry. He had brought his pistol. It too waited, under the seat. No plan to use it but there was that whole God and laughing and making plans thing.

Waiting and sweating. Like the construction site in Stockton. The roof in San Diego.

At forty past midnight Jamal announced with enthusiasm, "Homerun comin' down the line."

"Copy first. Got him second?" Garrett's drawing out his 'O's this time. Minnesota dialect, maybe?

A maroon and gray armored truck with Hewitt's red shield and yellow lettering on the door rolled into the turn lane. McConnell's adrenaline burned away his fatigue. "Runner turnin' towards home," he said.

"Home has the runner in site."

The code was over the top, their radios encrypted, but some ham radio hobbyist or the police might get lucky. Just another level of security. And denial. He sent the SMS to Mitch's bogus email account.

"Throwin' the ball," announced Garrett, meaning they were releasing the gas and activating the thingamajig. McConnell held his breath at the thought of the compound of isoflurane and nitrous oxide. When the device received its command a fine-mist vaporizer would introduce the gas into the ventilation system and the truck's forced-air would act as the carrier. Several things could go wrong.

Long moments. He was still holding his breath when the radio crackled "Runner down, goin' for the tag," which meant they were hooking up the truck to be towed.

"Shit! Hot dog comin'!" Jamal shouted. "Repeat, hot dog comin' your way!"

"Fast?" Garrett asked.

"Nope. Looks routine."

"There's no patrol route down here at this hour."

"Want me to knock on his window and tell 'im that?"

"If they don't turn in we're good. You got eyeballs on, second? Yeah?" Was it New England?

"Got it," McConnell replied, spying the pair of oncoming headlights.

They waited. Watched. Hoped. Towed an armored truck full of gassed guards towards a creek.

The headlights turned in about one hundred meters away.

"Coming in at building A," he reported as the silver Dodge Charger made the turn, REDMOND POLICE in dark blue on the door.

"Is he flippin' a bitch?" Jamal asked.

"Looks like a drive-through. Disappeared between A and B."

"We're close. Can you distract him?" Garrett asked.

"With what?"

"Shit, I dunno mate, use your fuckin' horn."

Shit was right.

He pressed his palm on the horn. It made a dull click.

"The horn doesn't work."

"Can you pull 'em away?" Garrett asked.

"I'm in a stolen fucking car."

No one disputed that.

It was Katie that made him do it. Which didn't make a lot of sense but sense enough. He could always land a job, pay bills but this was real money, for her college, her future. His parental choices suspect of late at least he could provide that. "Finish it," he said.

"Thatta boy," Garrett said.

"Big balls, man," Jamal added.

He told the dog to hold on and bounced the suspension off the entrance into the parking lot. Peeling left he floored it along the chain of buildings, their dark windows reflecting the Maxima with the ghostly glow of monitors here and there.

Redmond's finest were coming up between buildings, spotted him, tried to reverse but it was too late as McConnell aligned his right headlight with the patrol car's front tire, braced Geronimo for impact with his arm and slammed into them, glimpsing two furious faces spinning away across the wet asphalt.

He gunned the engine, tires spinning up the exit, opting east, away from the city, away from more police, his best hope to get lost among the suburbs, farms and forest, fully aware that hope had never been an adequate plan.

"You okay, buddy?" He glanced at the dog. Geronimo gave him a look back that said no, he wasn't okay, but what could he do, he was a dog in the passenger seat.

The car pulled to the right as he checked the rearview. "C'mon, c'mon." He wanted to see headlights. He also wanted to put as much distance between them and those headlights.

Angry red and blue and an accusatory high beam filled the darkness behind them. He floored it, the motor grunting and growling as the streetlights were replaced by dark trees and even thicker darkness along the wet ribbon of road. There were homes, farmhouses, all dark at this hour. Some appeared to have horses. He could steal a horse...Jesus, _that_ was a stupid idea.

The police Charger ate up their lead with an appetite, growing ever fatter in the mirror.

He flew through a stop sign, glimpsed another sign, **PAVED IN 1913** , and the pavement abruptly gave way to red brick slick with rain. The road curved sharply right then back left and then sharper right again and he slid along, a hair's breadth from losing control. A hard left landed them on a narrow track, tires squealing on the brick now kicking up mud. Fighting the pull of the wheel he was certain he couldn't have picked a worse road but that went both ways. The unsettling rearview showed the cop slowing to make a more civilized turn and giving up a bit of ground. Rocks and earth dinged and dented the undercarriage as he pushed past fifty around tree-crowded curves, branches whipping off paint, brush raking what was left.

He broke into a clearing, was through it, through a barbed-wire fence and into a pasture, sliding as much as driving on the soft ground, willing the speedometer faster, the oil light on, the engine light too as a farmhouse and outbuildings rose up on the left. He flicked on the high beams; pasture and farmhouse might mean cow and horse and sure enough there was a herd of cattle a hundred meters ahead and to the right. As smoke began pouring from the hood he steered into the thickest part of them, pulling his foot off the gas, killing the engine and the lights and coasting to a stop. There was a perturbed mooing scatter. The light on the farmhouse porch came on.

The horse idea not so stupid after all, here on he was on foot. Once more he rued not wearing his Adidas. Running in boots in the dark would probably earn him a broken ankle or a broken neck, not to mention the subsequent prison term.

He reached for the radio but Geronimo already had it in his mouth.

"Good boy," he said. "Now quiet."

He flicked the dome light off, slipped his glasses into a pocket and slipped out the door into the rain, reaching underneath the seat for the pistol as he did. Burned clutch and manure filled his nose. The engine crackled and popped and at least two tires hissed as they deflated.

The dog wanted to chase that beef but obeyed. He had some awareness they were in it up to their eyeballs. McConnell glanced over the trunk of the Maxima. The cops had missed the hole he had put in the fence and were cautiously coming up the drive, their spotlight shining on the pasture and getting closer and closer to his position.

He bounded away from the farmhouse and police, the dog on his heels. He heard the car speed up then slide to a halt in the wet earth.

" _You! In the vehicle! Exit immediately_ _with your hands in the air!"_ shouted a serious female.

"He's ran, Sue!"

"Use your goddamn head, Roger! There might be three or four of the bastards in there!"

There was a gunshot. "Get yer ass off my land!"

"Christ! _Put that shotgun down!_ Get back inside your house, sir! We'll handle this!"

Arms pumping, gun waving, trying hard to avoid cow pies, his speed recklessly desperate, the mud sucked at his boots as he ran, Geronimo jubilant beside him. Best fun in days.

Sirens erupted from all directions but far away. Were they coming for him, the others or the downed armored truck? Behind, lights weaved among the cattle; they thought he was hiding in all that beef. He slipped, tried to stay on his feet, fell on his ass. He took a knee to catch his breath. The dog panted beside him. Covered in mud he wiped the rain from his face and assessed where he was.

Which was lost.

He glanced back the way he had come. The cops' flashlights were all over the Maxima. Shouldn't be long and they'd be on his trail. Not a high mark of difficulty finding his tracks in all that mud.

He turned his handheld on low. "Anyone there?" he gasped.

At first nothing. Then,

"Second! You make it out?" Garrett's voice crackled.

"Not yet. Some farm. Can anyone come get me?"

"The Filth are everywhere." Whatever that meant. "Losin' ya. Hittin' the limit on the radios..."

And Garrett was gone. So much for the comfort of accomplices. Cold comfort indeed.

He was on his own, which was the way he had planned his getaway all along, abandoning the Nissan a short walk from Duvall. All that had changed was the short walk had evolved into a longer run. And cops were swarming the area looking for him. A minor detail.

Duvall was north and east, but which way was that? Dense clouds reflected light pollution from all horizons. There were towns there, but which one was Duvall?

Geronimo growled. Not a threatening growl, more an impatient one.

"What?"

The dog whined, pawed at his left arm. The one wearing his brother's watch.

He spared a moment to look into the shepherd's eyes. The dog, unimpressed, looked away.

Keeping the face close to his body, he pressed the compass and light buttons. The face displayed a sea-green glow, and a mark indicating north solidified, pointing off to his right. He'd been running west, back towards Redmond. "Good boy," he said and started running again.

The sirens drew closer, then stopped as two more patrol cars arrived behind him. He could now hear the telltale rotors of a helicopter. The cavalry had arrived.

He ran faster, the ground flying by a mishmash of inky black and grayscale green. Gravity pulled at his heavy boots. Quads burning, glutes on fire, feet groaning he left a trail the blind could follow. They needed pavement. Pavement was their friend.

The helicopter broke over the trees, spotlight shining through the rain, a white halo riding up and down the topography. He found another gear. The burning in his legs went Chernobyl, spread to his lungs, his throat. His heart thumped in his ears.

The dog pulled up.

"What?" McConnell asked, looking at the helicopter and the police lights behind them, which is why he didn't see the barbed-wire fence. Where there was one there were bound to be accompanying sides, wasn't much of a fence without them. He crashed into it; barbs pierced his chest, abdomen, ripped into his thighs as inertia flipped him head over heels over the top wire. A few holes the worse for wear, a tetanus shot in his foreseeable future, painful but tolerable had not a sharp, rocky decline been on the other side of his flop. Dropping several feet through the air he smacked the slope with a solid thud, the wind leaving him, his senses with it, his body sliding, shirt riding up, gravel grating skin and embedding flesh. He clenched his jaw to stifle a much-warranted scream as he came to a halt.

He stared at the slate firmament. Breath returned. He should get up but not getting up at the moment felt as good as it was going to get. Willing himself to stand, he shook his legs and arms out. No major wounds, just his pride. Bruised, pierced, scraped, soaked, covered in mud, blood and sweat, but he was alright, more or less. His gloves had protected his hands as they deployed as brakes. He couldn't find his gun. He turned this way then that in the dark and found Geronimo with it dangling in his mouth.

Now where was the handheld? Not that it would do him any good. The rest of the "team" had ditched theirs by now, were slugging back beers, stuffing singles into strippers, laughing at that asshole Dave who had been dumb enough to lure the fuzz away while they made off with the loot.

The thrum of rotors grew louder. He had no idea how close the cops on the ground were. He didn't wait for them, instead staggering across an open field that ended at the foot of a steep hill, slipping among the trees just as the helicopter broke over the slope. Its light locked on a ragged swatch clinging to the fence and he felt at his shirt and found a slice of the hem missing. Nothing he could do it about it now. He scrambled and clawed upwards, hands yanking him up branch by branch, root by root, bush by bush. The helicopter's light danced in the no-man's land between hill and pasture, then it abruptly peeled off. Maybe the downed armored truck ranked higher than the idiot ramming a cop car and flipping over barbwire in the dark.

At the top of the hill, gasping for air, calves afire, hamstrings quivering, the dog grinning and panting, they watched flashlights reach the fence line where he had made his inelegant descent. Their lights flicked up in their vicinity but the beams were too dispersed to find them. He checked his watch, fixed their direction and loped onward. Soon a narrow dirt path exposed itself and they followed that until it merged with a bigger horse trail and they broke back into a steady if aching stride.

It rained harder. Of course. Not that it mattered much, soaked as he was, shirt plastered to skin, wet weight of muddied jeans clinging to fatigued legs. The trail ended at a paved country lane and they followed that until it widened onto a road. Cars could be heard on the other side of the woods, and when one came their way they waited it out in the dense woods.

They avoided the suburbs and housing tracts, keeping to the paths that carved through the hills, checking his watch now and then for bearing. He disposed of the glasses, gloves and burner phone in different dumpsters. They encountered several barks and growls behind fences or in the distance but Geronimo only huffed, his hackles up. They saw two people, a woman smoking on her back porch and a man drunkenly riding a bicycle.

"Howdo?" he mumbled and weaved on by.

Cresting a bluff that looked down upon a highway he kept the high ground and followed it north. There was an occasional truck or car below and once a couple State Patrol cars heading further south though whether looking for him, the others or just in need of coffee he couldn't say.

When he came to a bridge across a slow river he slid as much as fell down the hillside, weary knees buckling. They huddled in the bushes and waited. He tilted his head back and let the rain fall on his swollen tongue while Geronimo lapped at a puddle. When there was no sound of traffic they sprinted across the Snoqualmie, then followed along it north until he saw a weathered, white sign: **DUVALL** , **1913.**

1913 must have been a hell of a year.

The clouds to the northeast were a shade lighter as they trudged into the sleepy town. He had parked in a tavern lot but for the life of him couldn't find it. The town wasn't that big.

The dog woofed. Sitting on his haunches he gazed across the street.

Sure enough there it was, its silver hood gleaming wetly in the faint light of the sign, _Duvall Tavern_. Not known for their imagination, the Duvallians.

He shuffled over, looked around, dug out his key with shaky fingers and finally managed the lock, and with his last reserves pulled himself into the driver's seat.

The dog woofed again. McConnell leaned over and opened the passenger door and Geronimo jumped in, promptly got his seat all muddy. He finally looked spent.

They panted and fogged up the windows. Water dripped off his nose, his chin, his hands but he was so damn thirsty. He fumbled up his CamelBak from behind the seat and sucked it dry.

"Easy as pie. Yeah?" He ruffled the dog's ears. His brother's dog.

From Duvall north to Monroe, he stole east up Highway 2 into the mountains, leaving the gray and rain behind for the rising light in the east; wheeling twists and turns of 97 to Ellensburg, onto monotonous I-90, down the gorge and back up its other side, across the desert of Moses and his dowdy lake, to the yellow bluffs and azure skies of Spokane. A child of the sun returned. Exhausted. Bloodied. Undefeated.

### CHAPTER 36

AUGUST

Spokane, Washington

Marissa jerked to a halt as the door chain caught.

Great. He's home.

She hadn't thought the asshole would be back so soon. She was just there to collect her sister's cats, but when opportunity knocks, may as well tell him off while she was it.

She called out his name. Rang the doorbell. Knocked. No answer.

Pressing her face into the chained gap, she felt the cool breeze of AC as she spied her sister's two cats ignoring her on the sofa. "Hel-loh?" She knocked harder, heard a dog bark and Geronimo appeared.

"Hey G-man! Where's your jerk of a human? Huh?" She reached her hand through the narrow gap and the dog licked it with a whine.

"John? John McConnell!"

Nothing.

The sun beat against her back. It was too damn hot this side of the door, especially still sticky as she was with dried sweat after the workout that had done little to ameliorate her fury.

She went through the gate to the back, found the slider open. Geronimo met her on the deck. "John?" A tentative step into the cool air. Maybe he was out running? With Lori Davis in her ass-revealing shorts. That had been a revelatory meet and greet.

"Oh! Is Johnny here?"

"No," Marissa said, blinking away the sleep as she took in the petite pixie-cut blonde in her running bra and shorter than short shorts.

"Oh." The glossy mouth actually formed a perfect if very lascivious yet disappointed O. "I'm Lori. Lori Davis. I live just down the street. Who are you?"

"Just a friend. I'm housesitting. John's out of town."

"I see. Hey, Geronimo!" She crouched, reached out to the dog, her wedding ring glinting in the morning sun. "Can you come out and play?"

G-Man sniffed in disdain, retreated and looked up at Marissa.

It was when _Lori, Lori Davis_ rose back up that she saw her sister's French coin dangling just above the bimbo's cleavage.

Lori felt the heat of her look. Her brow wrinkled but she smiled sweetly. "Johnny and I usually run together in the morning. I haven't seen him in a while, thought he might be under the weather, need some nursing." She giggled. "That's funny because I'm really a nurse."

"That's sweet. I'll let him know you were concerned," Marissa said coldly.

"Okay. Tell him I miss us sweating it out on our trail."

"Oh, I'm sure he misses that, too."

She said hello to the kitties, scratched at G-man's scruff. He barked at her.

"Didn't care for her either, did ya'?"

If John wanted to sweat it out on the trail with Mrs. _O_ he was a grown man, but giving that bitch her family heirloom? The man went too far.

She would miss this place, this house wanting to be a home. She had taken to it while its master was away. Napping between the felines on the comfy sofa had become a daily gratification. Truth was, being there, for some reason, the cats, maybe the man, maybe just the place for some reason—she felt closer to her sister. But that was over now. John McConnell's house, where all dreams died.

She shivered. The AC was running on overdrive.

Geronimo barked from the hallway.

"Well come here and say goodbye."

The dog barked again.

"What is it?"

He turned and padded down the hall. She followed after him to John's bedroom, the door slightly ajar, the room dark. She grew nervous, her nose wrinkling as a pungent, earthy odor wafted from inside. Her hand fumbled for the light switch on the wall as the dog pushed past her into the room.

Someone was asleep in the bed, someone filthy, with dark brown hair, in boxer-briefs and a dark T-shirt. _Who the hell is that?_ Had some homeless person broken in?

Geronimo pawed at the bed. Why wasn't he barking up a storm? _Click._

"John?"

She knelt next to the bed and shook his shoulder. He was silent, unmoving. Was he dead? "John!"

His eyes slit, went wide and he jerked back, flew off the bed, landed with a thump, crab-walking backwards until he smacked his head against the wall next to the bathroom, a "hunnhh!" escaping his lips.

"Jesus! Are you okay?"

He squinted against the light. "Who are you?"

"It's Marissa."

He looked confused.

"I-I expected someone else," he rasped, his voice rough as sandpaper.

"Imagine that." He looked a mess but that wasn't her problem. "Look, you're obviously...well, you're obviously. That's your issue. I want our coin back."

He looked more confused.

"The French coin? What'd you do, steal it from my sister? Then you have the nerve to give it to your blonde hussy? Nice hair, by the way. The both of you."

He blinked. His face was haggard, needing a shave. There was dried mud everywhere—on his face, on the sheets, the floor, in his stupid brown hair. What was with him dying his hair? Midlife crisis come early?

"What day is it?"

Had he been on a bender? Anj had told her stories about him being a drinker.

"You should go," he said.

"I want my coin."

"Jesus. I didn't steal it; she gave it to me. It's right there." He pointed at the top drawer of his dresser.

She yanked it open, ransacked T-shirts. Just T-shirts. She glared at him.

"It's in there," he assured her.

"Don't play games with me, John, I'm not in the mood. We both know where it is."

He looked confused again.

"Lori?"

"Who the fuck is Lori?"

"Green shorts, blonde, fellatio-ready mouth?"

It took him a moment. "You mean Mrs. Davis?"

"You call her Mrs. Davis. That's not creepy. Call her up."

He really looked confused now. She was starting to buy it.

He slid up the wall, stepped over to the nightstand and picked up his cellphone.

Her hand went to her mouth. She couldn't stop staring at the blood smeared on the wall.

"What?"

"There's blood all over your wall." He looked and when he did she saw what was left of the back of his shirt. "And your back. It's covered in it." They both glanced at the bed. The blue sheets were dark with more of his blood.

He turned to face her. "It's nothing. I fell while fishing."

"You what? Take off your shirt."

"I thought you wanted your coin."

_Such an asshole._ "Want me to slap you again? I'm not leaving until you let me take a look at your back."

He let out a long sigh but took off his shirt, slowing as it peeled away from his skin.

Her jaw dropped.

" _Mon Dieu..._ Fell while fishing? You need to go to the ER."

"Looks worse than it is."

"John—"

"I'm not going to the ER."

He stared down at her. She stared back up at him.

"Fine. Mule. Then sit." She left him to ransack the bathroom, returned with gauze, tweezers and hydrogen peroxide.

John was still standing.

She glanced at G-man sitting by the door. "How come your dog knows sit and you don't?" She pushed him in the chest, not unkindly, just enough to get him to drop his butt onto the bed with a grunt. Getting behind him on her knees she took a deep breath and began tweezing. "This is going to hurt a little."

She felt a complex satisfaction as he sucked in air through his teeth.

He showered in the dark, the water cool, anything to mitigate, drown and/or snuff out the forest fire raging across his back. He had put up a solid front, or so he thought, but Marissa was no fool. He was in some pain. Complaints from legs stiff and sore, ankles swollen and wobbly, feet achy, he stood in the shower's spray until he no longer saw red in the water at his feet. It took some time.

Out of the shower, dripping cleanly upon the floor, standing before that portentous mirror, he turned on the light and assessed the damage.

Chest, arms, legs punctured in some perplexed stigmata. His body blotched in various hues of bruising; brown, black, blue and yellow. The gravel and debris embedded in puckered scrapes in his back, in a field of blood and caked-on dirt had been meticulously picked and plucked but maroon lesions would leave telling scars. His hands appeared to be the only undamaged, non-painful part of him. He looked them over, front to back. Hands of a thief of life, and now of treasure. They still seemed to work fine.

He drew on baggy khakis and T-shirt with minimal expletives, noting the soiled sheets had disappeared and been replaced with fresh linen. The icky residue had been wiped off the wall, leaving a garish stain that would require some paint. He vaguely remembered stumbling into the house, the pain raging up his back, through every sinew and bone, falling onto the bed, just a brief respite to catch his breath, get a second wind. A fifth. A tenth. He had only been out a few hours before Marissa had found him, his mind still as weary as his body was damaged. Had he said anything he shouldn't have? If he had, he'd always been suspect in her eyes, just fuel to the fire. Maybe the flames would finally scare her off.

He sniffed. What was that?

He sniffed again and his stomach violently rumbled. Following his nose, he heard music, his mouth watering from the enticing aroma exuding from the kitchen: roasted garlic, basil, oregano, rosemary. Was Mitch in there cooking? The hacker must have been worried about him, panicked when he hadn't heard anything and finally braved—

Nope. That _definitely_ wasn't Mitch.

Had she been wearing the short, powder-blue shorts and aqua-white striped tank top before? Her bare feet sashayed the tile, ruby toenails dancing between counter, sink and stove. Oblivious to his observation she bent over, shorts riding up in a delectable tease, then squatted, this too most admirably. Rifling through pots and pans in the cupboard, rising elegantly, up, up on tiptoes, his eyes followed her long stems curving into athletic hips, ascended the camber of her back to the fall and bounce of a pert ponytail that yearned to be pulled. She turned and his eyes lingered where the blue fabric disappeared between her thighs before running up her flat stomach, along the swells of her breasts, to caress her slender neck, brush against the pursed petals of her mouth only to be slain, drawn and quartered by her fiercely articulate emerald orbs as they drew him down. She arched a perfect eyebrow.

He looked away sheepishly to the sliced vegetables, the boiling pasta, simmering sauce, the open bottle of wine. "I take it we're having dinner."

She proceeded to chop and ignore him, then pointed above her with the chef's knife.

"Strainer."

He hobbled over, reached up and handed it to her.

"Your wife left quite the kitchen."

He grunted.

She picked up a glass of red wine, swirled and sipped, staring at him over the rim. "I can't keep up with the hair. Is there a shiny red sports car in your future? Or does the used-up neighborhood skank do the trick?"

He took a step back around the counter, putting space between them. "Malice doesn't really become you, Marissa."

"Oh, give it time, John."

"I didn't know I had all this in the fridge."

"You didn't." She returned to cooking. His dismissal. He took the offered exit graciously, grabbing a cold beer from the fridge, Geronimo following him to the living room. The dog seemed all but recovered from their rainy-night run. The show-off.

He glanced at his laptop and opted for the TV, sat rigid on the edge of the La-Z-Boy, taking a long pull of beer as he flipped the news channels. There he was. Or wasn't.

A reporter stood in a familiar looking parking lot before a stretch of western Washington farmland, detailing the events as known as footage showed helicopters hovering above a platoon of highway patrol, FBI and canine units working field and forest and a Hewitt truck on its side in a creek bed, a blackened hole in its roof.

"...rendered unconscious, two with minor injuries, all released this morning..."

"...a form of attack known as a Denial of Service disrupting the system for several hours..."

"...risking their lives in this usually peaceful community but were unable to apprehend the suspect before he escaped into the woods." There was the black Maxima, driver door still open, tires flat, surrounded by cops and crime tape.

"...between six and eight armed men..."

They were looking for a mechanic, had a poor security cam capture of him—the backup videos had all been erased. All they knew was he was _not_ Garrett Reed as Mr. Garrett Reed was a short, balding, retired copy editor in Tucson.

And the idiot who smashed into the police car and ran? And ran and ran?

"...a white male. Possibly wears glasses. Had a dog."

The reported take: Over three million in cash. No mention of the Xbox graphic chips.

The next story also caught his eye. "Murder link?" read the blatant red caption with "Elise Hutchens, San Diego, CA" in white above it. The perky blonde that Mitch seemed to salivate over patiently explained to the Botoxed, unblinking anchor how crime fighting worked.

"NIBIN is an acronym for National Integrated Ballistic Information Network. It uses IBIS, a software platform for ballistic comparison and identification. NIBIN has recently superseded the ATF Drugfire system to facilitate better law enforcement information gathering and sharing, part of a new Homeland Security—"

"Are there any leads?" Elena interjected testily. Nope. Elena again: "Does the FBI believe more killings are imminent? Is this the work of a serial killer? Or killers? It is California. Manson Family comes to mind, Elise. Should the public be afraid?"

Manson Family comes to mind? Christ.

For some reason Manson made him think of Odom. And when he thought of Odom he thought of Anj, and when he thought of Anj he thought of...

Turning the TV off he stepped outside, his sore feet carrying his spent legs down the block. He rapped on the door.

Mrs. Davis answered, a dish towel in her hands. Wasn't in her running shorts but a summer skirt and blouse. Looked good. Didn't hold a candle to the woman making him dinner. Or her sweet sister. If you were into holding candles up to women. She gaped at him, glanced over her shoulder, started to step out—

There it was, just as Marissa had said. He reached out and snatched it from her neck, turned and left.

Returning to his own house, Marissa was on the stoop, arms crossed, wine glass in one hand. "Grab a quickie, did ya?" she smirked, looking past him.

He followed her gaze to Mrs. Davis in her driveway, looking forlornly wounded in their direction, her hand on her throat.

McConnell held up the French coin by its chain. "She must've stolen it."

Marissa raised her free hand and he laid the coin over her fingers and carried on into the house.

"I'm starving. My dinner ready yet or what?"

Why had she stayed? Some kind of Nurse Nightingale fetish? An obligated decency? She had been hell-bent—righteous anger riding shotgun—on ridding herself of John McConnell. Instead she had uncorked some Pinot and cooked him a damn meal.

They were in the dining room, at the dining table, not that it saw much use. She alternated watching him shovel food into his mouth and staring at the French coin on its thin, broken gold chain running down her fingers.

"I'll replace it," he managed around a mouthful.

She shrugged. Of course he would.

"Your mom can't cook. Where'd you learn?"

Pasta with chicken and portabellas tossed in marinara, romaine hearts with cucumber and tomato in a basil vinaigrette, steamed broccoli drizzled with browned butter and garlic. All nearly inhaled and washed down with beer.

"My roommate. She's Italian. Cooking and fucking, those are her two great talents."

"I didn't screw Mrs. Davis. I wouldn't sleep with a married woman."

"Good to know. Not like I care." But she did. A little. She sat back. "You ogled me earlier."

He rolled his shoulders. "I didn't _ogle._ Just noticed you weren't wearing much in the way of clothes."

"What's wrong with my clothes?"

"Nothing, except you're barely wearing any."

She took a sip of wine, ran the stem between long fingers and smiled when she caught him ogling again. "I came straight from the gym, a bit sticky still, in need of a shower if you must know. I didn't think you'd be here, was just going to say goodbye to the cats."

"Still can," he said around a swallow of beer. "I would. They're bastards."

"They're not bastards."

"You want 'em?"

"That wouldn't go over well with my mother."

"What does? Why are you saying goodbye?"

"Why do you think, John?"

"I don't know, Marissa. If I did I wouldn't ask."

They stared at one another, matching wills. "Are you done then?" She nodded to his empty plate.

He shoved the dish away. "Couldn't eat another bite."

She rose, came around the table, bent down close enough to him to smell the spearmint shampoo he used and picked up his plate. "Room for pie?"

She noted his Adam's apple bob up and down as he struggled to meet her eyes. "Always room for pie."

These were Karla's tactics. She loathed them but didn't deny their efficacy. She wanted answers and wasn't leaving until she had them.

They had their pie in the living room. Peach with fluffy white whip on top. He sat at one end of the sofa and she took up the other, her legs drawn underneath her, all captivating curves and feminine wile.

"No, I didn't make the pie. It's store-bought," she read his mind. "Betty Crocker I'm not. And I didn't just make you dinner for the pleasure of your company."

"No? That's a shame."

"You're not going to keep avoiding me."

"Reading my mind?"

"It's not a terribly difficult thing to do." She dug up the stereo remote, hit play.

"Just make yourself at home," he said.

"I did."

He cocked his head. "Is this Aimee Mann?"

"Uh-uh," she said licking her fork. "Corinne Bailey Rae. You like Aimee Mann?"

"No...I mean.... Your sister played her a lot."

She pursed her lips. "Was that so hard?"

They nibbled. Something was changing between them. There was a crack of daylight. Were her flirtations working? Was he that easy? Her sister may have loved him, had looked to him to help her through hell but he was a man, after all.

"Why'd your wife leave you?" she asked, keeping him off-balance.

"Started screwing someone else."

"Someone you knew?"

"Her boss."

"How cliché."

He picked at a dirty thumbnail. "I don't blame her. Well, not often. We were both unhappy."

She watched him put a fork of pie in his mouth and he watched her do the same.

"Ogling again?"

"Don't act like you know me, Marissa. Just because your sister told you a kind word or two doesn't—"

"Kind word? Trust me, they weren't all kind. Drinker. Stubborn. Angry."

He set his pie down. Had she gone too far?

"You don't date much do you, John McConnell?"

He cleared his throat.

She giggled, wiped whip cream from the corner of her mouth and hated herself as she did it. "God. I can't keep doing this. I find you incredibly aggravating."

"You're not my cup of tea, either."

"What pray tell is your cup then? Because I've practically thrown myself at you and you don't know what to do."

He stood. "While I've enjoyed this flirty rapport, it's getting late."

"Is that your move? 'It's getting late'? Wow. I've heard some lame—"

"Be serious a goddamn minute, will you? Jesus. Don't you see that I'm trying to protect you?"

"Protect me? I'm not a child, John—"

"Now you sound like my daughter. Just let it go. Nothing good will come from your questions."

"You're sure of that, are you? You think you know me?" She set down her pie, stood and faced him. "I have bad days when I miss her like crazy. Truth is we hadn't been that close in a while, all that time lost because of my foolish pride and selfishness. I have good days too, remember fun times with her, like listening to our dad's old records, dancing all night and then pretending we were asleep when our mom got home from the late shift. I remember her happy, happiest most of all I think when she was with you, but maybe time or wishful thinking are coloring my memories. Probably. Mostly I try to keep an even keel, keep busy. But sometimes, when something really pushes me over the edge, or I'm just in a mood, I find peace in being really angry." Her green eyes lit up and lit into him. "Like today. With you. I don't want to fuck you. I just want answers to my fucking questions. And it might destroy me. Fine. Let it. Let it burn me up with rage, because my sister's dead, John, she was raped and she didn't reach out to me she reached out to you and then she slit her wrists and I'm still here, still breathing, still wanting, still feeling, and that's a way Anj can keep living too but really I just need to know, so let me be hurt by your answers, let me be angered by what happened just as you were, as you are now, please, let me _know_. If that takes me letting you carry me into the bedroom to rip off my clothes and fucking my brains out, then I'll do it. Just talk to me. Please."

"You know I would never do that."

"I know you wouldn't. I'm saying _I would_. Don't act like you haven't thought about it. That you're not thinking about it now. I can feel it every time you look at me. I can feel it in the goose bumps on your skin."

He walked away from her, spun and said "What the fuck are you doing to me?"

_Hell if I know._ "I need to go." And she did.

### CHAPTER 37

AUGUST

Spokane, Washington

The blanched apricot paint was peeling, like sallow flesh gone to rot. Someone had taken the courtesy of removing the round stool set in the cement floor, leaving old, dried urine stains in its place. Just a holding cell, he wondered if his brother had ever been an occupant of this particular one. He wondered what the color of real jail walls was. Wondered come fingerprinting if things would go badly, if he would find out just how good at being a criminal he really was.

At least they had removed the cuffs, let him wash the blood from his knuckles and face. He rubbed at his jaw. Someone had gotten in a good one. His ribs ached too. On top of the previous night's running from the police into a barbwire fence and falling down a hill thing, he wasn't batting too good an average this week. And nothing Mitch could do to improve his odds.

He wrinkled his nose. Those piss stains were fresher than they looked. A grimace crossed his face as he adjusted his back against the wall. Just the waiting now. The aching and wondering and waiting.

These days there seemed to be an awful lot of all three.

The call came as they always did of late—after midnight with him in deep sleep.

"Yeah," he growled into his cell, on his stomach on the bed.

"John McConnell?" A woman's voice with raucous music and laughter in the background.

"Yeah."

"You need to get down to The Whore. Missy's in a bad way."

_Missy?_ "Who is this?"

"It's Karla. Missy's roommate? Met you at the mall? Get your ass out of bed and hurry the fuck down here!" She hung up.

He had no intention of going down to The Whore. No intention of leaving the bed. Not for a day or two.

"Woof."

"Shut up, Geronimo. She's fine," he muttered.

"Woof, woof."

Fuck.

Second Avenue was muggy with languid summer air, the night quiet, save the rumpus of the bar.

"McConnell? That you?" Mace was working the door, taking cover from the gents, ladies a free pass of course. McConnell extended a hand but Mace pulled him in tight for a bear hug. His back raked with fresh fire.

"That's some fucked up shit about your bro, man. War's a motherfucker." Mace slapped him on the back and he winced back a growl of pain. The big man turned into the noise. "Yo, Dolan! _Dolan!_ He's on me!"

The tall, scruffy kid nodded, not losing a step in his over-service.

It was a Saturday, The Whore was a boisterous, noxious, sweltering zoo, the keepers having flung the cage doors wide and fled for their own safety. Twenty degrees hotter inside than out, humid with life as a maelstrom of bodies ebbed and flowed into one another, laughing, drinking, spilling, arguing, flirting, fondling, could be fucking in a dark corner or two for all he knew. A younger crowd now, or he was just older, and quite eclectic; the crew of tattooed metalheads ever-present, pierced goths and punks in full battle rattle accounted for, everyone trying to outwear each other with the color black, now rubbing elbows with clean-cut, collegiate types, the kind that would make it to class at least once a week come fall, for shame. The proletariat were there, always at home at The Whore; the restaurant workers and fast food crews; the platoons of mocha engineers and quick-lube technicians; cashiers of every stripe, the twenty-somethings-sans-future who eked out a debatable living trudging the service trenches with meth-piped aspirations and marijuana dreams for something better. Last, a small cadre of his contemporaries, some he recognized, out for a beer, reminiscing at the ol' watering hole, won't make that mistake again, and some he might have recognized once, the devoted dregs, the profligate zealots who had never surrendered the ghost, converting their youthful spirit to a less promising faithful daily mass. AKA, Mace's bread and butter.

Jostled about, adrift in a sea of people if that's what these creatures were, he decided to leave, he knew the way, was tired and wanted to go to bed, achingly so, this wasn't his scene anymore, wasn't his orbit, he didn't have one, not now, he was a killer now, he belonged in a cave, a shack in Montana, a dank basement, put that lotion on the skin else you get the hose again—

"Hey! You get lost or what? I called an hour ago!" Karla yelled, drink in hand, bouncing in front of him out of nowhere.

"What's wrong with Marissa?" he yelled back.

"She's in the back." She waved for him to follow her and he did, wondering if his daughter would ever wear a skirt that short and how he'd feel about it.

"Your buddy Drew's playing tonight," Karla screamed at him over her shoulder.

Drew? She mean Desmond? "RaspberryHead?"

"They're The SugarThumpers now. A bit gay, right?"

In the back was the row of pool tables and at their end the small dance floor. And that's where he found her. "She looks fine to me," he told Karla.

Marissa didn't wear ivory cargos so much as they rode blissfully low on her hips. A misty blue silk camisole revealing her smooth tummy and her hair in a braid evoked a girlish summer simplicity. She was part of a writhing mass of sexually charged feminine lines and arcs, a posse of salubrious jezebels dancing to a woman on the juke assuring the world that everything was going to be alright, no one no one could get in the way of what she was feeling. So many dangerous curves and dangerous looks, he didn't remember girls being so wiggly and jiggly in his day, then again these weren't girls. His daughter was a girl, he couldn't imagine her on that dance floor, thank God it was ten years away, plenty of time for her to consider the convent life.

Something burly and smelling god-awful bumped him hard in the shoulder and he sucked in air as pain shot his vision with snowy stellar phantoms.

A head tilted a slovenly, crooked-nosed face at him. "'Member me?"

"Not really," and not really caring to, just trying to get the stars to subside, the burn up his back even more so.

"Din't think so" the big man sneered and strutted over to a pool table, jerking his thumb back and scoring a high-five and laugh with his buddies.

"That guy's still a prick!"

McConnell turned. "Des."

"KK. Wanna go play carnival?"

"In your dreams, Drew."

The rocker cackled, extended a black-nailed hand to McConnell. "How's it hangin', man?"

"Little to the left."

"I feel ya, I feel ya." He sucked down half the mug of beer in his hand, nodded to the shapes and verve on the dance floor. "Damn, those honeypots own a room. Oh, hey, forgot, really sorry man to hear 'bout your bro. First Anj, then Sean. Jee-sus, what a fuckin' year." He raised his mug. "Here's to those who've gone ahead." He tossed the rest back. "Ahh. Yeah. So?"

"So?"

"How long you been tappin' that bodacious ass?" He nodded in Marissa's direction.

"Haven't been."

"That's not what Karla says."

He looked at the diminutive brunette. "Karla's full of shit."

She stuck her tongue out at him.

"Why the hell am I here?" he asked her.

"Hey Drew!" chorused a gaggle of girls.

"Ladies," Desmond replied, swarthy smile intact.

"John?" Marissa appeared at the end of the gaggle, a man vaguely familiar in tow. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Desmond tossed his dreads, draped an arm around her shoulder. "Missy babe! So how long you guys been bonin'?"

She lifted his arm, dropped it like a dead snake. She shared a look with Karla, then a glare.

"I'm too old for this shit," McConnell said and made for the exit.

Two steps into his exodus a hand grabbed his. Vivacious little gems of glittering kryptonite in sultry heat stopped him. "Karla said you were in trouble," he explained.

"She lied. She does that."

His eyes flicked to the rutting buck behind her. Something about his eyes, his sneer. _Yeah, I'm gonna bang your chick, what of it?_

Not much. Wasn't his chick. But he still didn't like that sneer.

He turned to leave again. _Click._

He turned back and faced Aaron Desmitt. One of Mitch's Terrible Trio.

"You with this guy?" McConnell asked Marissa.

Her confused look said no. "Who?" She glanced at Desmitt. "Do I know you?"

"C'mon," McConnell said, jerking her over to him. The crowd didn't care for that. Neither did Marissa.

She pulled back. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Desmitt saw his fifteen minutes light up. "Get your hands off her, McConnell." His nervous eyes settled down with the crowd's encouragement and he gave McConnell a shove. The crowd liked that. Desmitt shoved him again. He went for a third and McConnell grabbed his arm, put it in a hold. Desmitt dropped like a sack of whimpering spuds to the ground. McConnell released the hold and nudged Desmitt over with his knee.

The crowd enjoyed that. Marissa didn't. When he reached for her arm again she slapped at him. "I'm not your property, John."

"Jesus, what the hell—"

Desmitt's three compatriots were helping him up but that's not what made McConnell stop midsentence. He knew one of them from earlier now. Burly bump-the-shoulder guy. Could that really be Mangiano?

He looked rough, smelled worse; beer, sweat and stale shit. Six months of a dentist's house payments leered above a gray sleeveless shirt stained down the front, as if food and beer found his mouth so repulsive they chose to leap to their death instead. His jeans had seen better days a decade ago and he looked another decade older than he should; crow's feet raked downwards to sagging jowls, eyes bloodshot through yellow.

Behind him was a lanky redhead and a giant of man a good head taller than McConnell with a shaved head in a biker vest. Odd bedfellows. His immediate prejudice was they were a rape gang on the prowl. Maybe that was just his bias. Maybe that didn't matter.

"Nice fuckin' hair. Still think you're the shit, huh McConnell?" Mangiano's turn to shove him.

The music on the juke switched tracks. Rush, _Working Man._

Mangiano grinned a pumpkin's leer. "Playing my song. Wanna dance, motherfucker?"

"Only if you brush your tooth." He glanced at Marissa who was between them but off to the side. "Come over here. Please." He extended his hand but Mangiano knocked it down.

"You thinking of runnin', pussy? Nah, nah. I've been waiting for this payback for years. Gonna beat your ass like I did your brother's."

McConnell was too old for bar fights and much too sore. As his luck was going that probably didn't matter very much.

"Where's your ringleader? He out rustlin' Boy Scouts for you to bugger?" He turned to Marissa. "What's French for 'Boy Scout buggery'"?

Mangiano drew back but he was slow. McConnell cracked him hard in the face twice. He spun as Biker guy bore down on him. Marissa stepped in front of the big man and he batted her away like a rag doll. She fell to the floor, a hand to her face.

McConnell's world went red.

He put a size twelve into Mangiano's chest. Arms flailed as the fat man fell backwards to the floor. Out of the corner of his right eye he glimpsed movement and braced his arm just in time to take the brunt of a barstool that would've shattered ribs. His right arm tingled up to the shoulder as someone whacked him with something in the lower back and he fell against a pool table, his hand finding something round and nectarine and he winged it at Biker, the three ball hitting the big man's left eye socket with a meaty _Thock_! Biker roared, staggered against the wall, sending a mirror of those stalwart Clydesdales shattering to the floor.

Lanky swung a pool cue at him again, this time at his head. He caught it on his left arm, grabbed and yanked, and as Lanky came forward, snap-kicked him in the gut and was rewarded with a _whoosh!_ as the air left Lanky's lungs and he fell to his knees hugging his sides.

He sensed more than saw the barstool again and dropped to the ground and kicked out at Desmitt's knee. Desmitt screamed and dropped down next to him, the barstool too, but before McConnell could lay into him Mangiano was over him, jabbing him in the jaw. He arm-locked the follow-up right punch, used the leverage to pull himself up and in the same motion spin the fat man around, grabbing the back of his head and slamming his face against the felt-covered slate and with a squishy crunch broke Mangiano's nose for the second time in their lives. The once wrestling champion slid to the floor with a nasal wail.

Desmitt leapt on his back and McConnell sent him sailing over the next pool table to land with a hard thump and groan on the other side. The crowd scattered, men screamed, women cheered as McConnell looked for someone else to hurt.

Someone hit him in the back and head again. Lanky back for more and swinging away, tougher than he looked, but before McConnell could react a great weight plowed into him and Biker drove him across the floor with an enraged battle cry. They smacked against a wall, his back erupting in a mad funhouse of screams. Biker stunk almost as bad as Mangiano, the gash above his eye spilling a red cataract down his cheek as he wildly swung meaty fists, too furious to really connect, then flung McConnell back the way they had come. He landed at the feet of Mangiano, who, his face a bloody mess, kicked while Lanky swung his cue stick, both battering McConnell as he struggled to get his feet, hand fumbling on the felt and finding a plum, the four, made sense, he threw it, this time taking Biker in the kneecap who screamed in pain but McConnell was too busy trying not to get killed to enjoy it. Lanky missed wide, the cue smacking the felt and McConnell's hand grabbed and snatched the stick away. His turn at bat. In a wide arc he connected with Mangiano's neck, then swung back the other way to knock Lanky in the temple.

He shakily regained his feet, snapped the cue in two across a knee—why settle for one when you could have double the fun—brought both sticks down on top of carrot top's noggin, one-two, one-two, took a step towards Biker and gave him a couple good whacks then whacked Mangiano who had one hand holding the red mash of his face, the other at his throat, then drummed on Lanky again, back to Biker, back to Mangiano, Neil Peart in action, he raised up the splintered shafts to strike again and again—

Big, powerful arms slipped him into a full nelson and yanked him backwards off his feet.

" _Enough Johnny! Jesus Christ, enough!_ It's Mace! _It's Mace!_ " grunted the big man.

After a few moments of immobility, he began to calm as a crescendo of cheers exalted his bloodthirsty work. The broken cue fell from his hands to bounce on the floor next to men moaning, groaning and bleeding.

"I'm done," he whispered hoarsely as the roil left him, the ravaging sear up and down his back returning him to his senses. Mace held onto him anyway until his bouncers were present.

"Jesus! What the hell I pay you fuckers for?" Mace jerked his head. "Get this shit outta my bar."

The crowd eagerly assisted ushering the bloodied foursome out with jeers, common law at The Whore joyfully enforced.

"I'm done, Mace," McConnell repeated.

"Should hope so," Desmond said, taking in the carnage, rubbing his knuckles. "I was just getting started, myself."

Mace released him and McConnell caught his breath. "I'll pay for damages—"

"Get the fuck outta here before the cops get here," Mace scowled.

Marissa was studying him from the front of the crowd. Her left cheek was a ripe red.

"Are you okay?" he asked her.

She nodded, a bit adrift, as Karla appeared by her side.

He nodded back and for the third time that night he made for the exit through the riled up throngs, his body quaking from adrenaline, aching and burning from everything else. Almost through the stifling masses The Whore's door swung wide.

"Evenin', Mace." The barkeep swore. "Now that we're through with the pleasantries, mind explaining the four assholes bleeding on my goddamn curb?" Sergeant Anders glowered.

### CHAPTER 38

AUGUST

Spokane, Washington

The pea-green walls held no clock. Even the waiting room of the jail felt like jail. Just a long room with a long plastic bench opposite a sturdy door and long glass windows looking onto a few desks where Judge Scolari paced, one hand in his khaki shorts pocket as he motioned John to sit next to the lugubrious redhead icing a nasty blue and purple goose egg budding from his forehead. A young cop in the room sat on the edge of a desk next to the other three combatants who looked just as miserable. One had stitches above his eye, the other a bandaged nose, the last in pure dejection with his chin in his hands.

Scolari gave John a look, gave a look to heaven, gave Marissa a look and a wink through the glass then began moralizing. John's eyes met hers. Was he worried or apologetic? Maybe both. _You are such an asshole._

The side door opened.

"Judge's on it," Sergeant Anders assured, sipping at his cup. "Sure you don't want anything?"

She smiled politely and shook her head. The deputy, despite having hauled John to jail, which he most assuredly deserved, had been very attentive, bringing her an icepack and checking on her regularly.

"I still don't understand why he's here."

"Who? The judge? He's a friend." As if that explained it.

"Who's friend?"

He shrugged.

Nice guy but about as enlightening as a donut.

"You said you and John go way back'?"

He grunted. "Since we was eight. Beat me out for shortstop so I tried to beat him up after practice."

"How did that go?"

"Been second base ever since. How you think it went?"

"He beat up everyone he knows?"

The Sergeant grunted.

"I've never seen anything like tonight," she said. "I didn't know he could be such a hothead."

Anders grunted again. Must be a cop thing. "Nah. Now Sean, he was a hothead. John's more"—he searched for the word— "dangerous."

Oh. Well. That's encouraging.

The big cop cleared his throat. "So you're the reason he's lost all the weight, eh?"

She let him change the subject, this new one just as intriguing. "Come again?"

"Well, I figured it was a woman. What with his new hair and all. Been dating long?"

"We're not dating."

"Oh."

"Have you fixed a lot of trouble for him?"

She had learned more from this deputy in five minutes than John had shared about himself in, well, ever.

But Anders was no dummy. He just grunted again.

The judge's voice rose through the glass as his graying head jerked, finger pointing first at John, then the others, then God, then back to John, who winced as the other four took some comfort in the floor at their feet.

"He scared me tonight." And angered her. And excited her. And made her feel safe. A weird intoxicating concoction, an epiphany really. That's why she was there. Why she had asked for his keys and followed the police car in his truck.

"He'd never hurt you. He likes to beat up bullies, though." Anders sipped his coffee. She waited him out and he continued. "The McConnells learned to fight from their dad. Probably why they're so good at it. You know, hanging on to the old man."

John's phone rang again. She didn't answer. She had no idea what she would say.

Anders sat down next to her on the bench. "They used to spar in the backyard. Sometimes I'd go a round or two, never more than two." He smiled, stroked his moustache, his eyes far away. "Fun as kids, but caused some trouble for me when I took up the badge."

"You like him."

The judge paused for a call, paced, John's face relieved, the other participants too, though they all snapped to attention as the judge snapped his phone shut and returned to his harangue.

"Suppose that's the word. He's an anger ball. I can't blame him but that doesn't excuse it. Maybe you'll remedy that."

Remedy obstinately inaccessible John McConnell? Might as well ask her to fix the Hubble with a Q-tip.

She had witnessed the occasional bar fight but never such a demonstration of fierce brutality as John had put on tonight. His willingness, his readiness to mete out such violence had been horrific. And yet she couldn't just leave him.

"Bastard's lucky I do like him." The cop smoothed his moustache and rose to meet a tall man in a dark suit and tie, his blond hair slicked back, throwing wide the side door with aggressive authority.

"Where is he?" he demanded, triumphantly marching into the room.

"Calm yourself, Detective Boucher." Anders raised his beefy arm to block the way and gestured at her with his head.

"I want that fucker's head on a platter! He fucked up big this time!" His grin evaporated as he peered over the big man's shoulder. "Is that Scolari in there? What the—"

"Detective, this here's Marissa, Angela Flynn's little sister."

She stood up as his pale blue eyes swept over her. "How's she involved? Why's Scolari in there, Anders?"

"Let's step outside a moment," the deputy said.

"I _demand to know_ what the hell—"

" _Detective Boucher!_ May I please speak to you outside? Please."

The detective glared at him, then at her, at the assembly on the other side of the glass then spun on his heel.

She stared after them, then looked at John who was looking towards the door Anders and the detective had gone through, anger creasing his brow. The judge noticed, pointed and yelled at him again, but John never recovered his full attention, glancing at the side door. There was a bruise on his cheek. _I bet his back is hurting like hell now. Serves him right._ Was that, too, from a previous fight? Made sense. All kinds of things were starting to make sense.

Papers were passed around and the five would-be gladiators took turns signing them. Then they all reluctantly shook hands and the four limped out in their socks, Ronnie Mangiano with new red stains down his shirt. They dropped to the bench as a young cop slid a plastic bin along the floor filled with shoes and wallets and keys.

"I'm confident we won't see each other again under these circumstances" The judge raised his gray eyebrows, hands in pockets.

The four chorused their agreement.

"Good. Anders!" he called out, peering about the room, spying her sitting and smiling. "Ah, my manners, apologies Miss Flynn, yelling in government, it's the only way anything gets done. _ANDERS!"_

"I'm here judge." He strode through the door, the detective storming in after him.

"Judge, what the hell's going on? Anders says you worked out some deal! I'm not agreeing to any goddamn deal!" Detective Boucher was silenced by the judge's raised hand.

"Sergeant Anders, please see these four gentlemen get a ride home. Detective Boucher, if you have a moment, please."

John had been staring at her from the other side of the glass until the detective had entered the room. Now he scowled from the doorway, and as Anders led the others out, the room was filled with pregnant hatred.

"I don't know what's going on here—"

"No detective and I'm going to inform you"—the judge waved the papers—"but first, you ever speak to me like that again I'll have your balls in a jar so fast you can take them with you to set on your dash as you take up life as a meter maid. _Understand me?_ "

The detective's mouth opened to retort but smartly clamped shut.

The judge gestured and John padded out.

"Now, I don't know what's going on with you two and I don't care. It stops _right here, right now_! You want to kill each other, drive to the county line, but not in my district!"

John and the detective glared at one another.

"That understood?"

She had never seen that look in John's eyes. Pure loathing.

" _That understood?"_

"Yes sir."

"Yes, Your Honor."

"As for this foolishness tonight, it's settled. Mr. Mangiano, Mr. Simms"—he glanced at the papers— "Mr. Vandenburg and Mr. Desmitt have signed their declarations. The proprietor of The Quarterhorse is not wanting to press the issue, and as Mr. McConnell and Miss Flynn have also declined to pursue charges, none will be filed against any party." He raised his hand, cutting off the detective. "Mr. Mangiano and Mr. Simms both have an extensive record and are on parole. Both were made aware they would face serious jail time, and both felt that this agreement was in their best interests, along with their two associates. All parties have wisely agreed that this was a mishap of immaturity that will _never_ happen again, and all have agreed to move on. All that's required is the interviewing detective's signature."

The detective's jaw dropped. "You are out of your mind! I'm not signing nothin' that lets him walk!"

The judge frowned at the papers. "Mr. Mangiano and Mr. Desmitt stringently assured me that you would sign off on this deal. Were they incorrect in their assurances? Should I have Anders bring them back in?"

John snorted.

The detective's disgust mirrored John's, but it was masking something else.

The judge looked to John. "Am I missing something?"

I certainly am. What the hell is going on?

"Gimme the fuckin' papers," the detective snarled.

"No, no, let's talk it out."

"Fuck you, McConnell! You and your stupid asshole brother!"

He snatched the papers from the judge, sat down on the bench, fingering through them and furiously signing his name.

The judge turned on John.

"Knock that smirk off your face. You're in a lot of trouble. Stitches, a broken nose, bruised ribs—you could have seriously injured someone tonight. What were you thinking? You have a daughter, for Christ's sake! This young lady here, who, God only knows why, cares about you! Do you see her cheek? What would your mother say? Shall I call her up and ask? Is that what I have to do?"

"No, sir. It won't happen again."

"Come again?"

"It won't happen again, Your Honor."

"You think I like being woken up in the middle of the night? We're off to Whidbey in the morning, watch the whales and clam with the grandkids. I should make you go with and entertain them for the week, that sentence might straighten you out. But I won't do that to this sweet young woman who thinks you're worth waiting for." He gave her another sly wink. "To behave like this, on your first date, of all things. You don't deserve her."

"We're not dating, Your Honor," she and John said in unison.

The judge snorted as the detective stood. "Anything else, _Your Honor_?"

The judge looked over the paperwork. "You cross your I's, dot your T's?"

"Yes. Can I go now?"

"I should order you to shake hands, but I think it would end up with both of you in contempt."

Marissa agreed.

With a final baleful glance, the detective left, slamming the door behind him.

Judge Scolari appraised the door. "Do I want to know what I don't know?" he asked John.

"No, Your Honor."

"You wouldn't tell me anyway?"

"No, Your Honor."

"Huh. What's this business about work?"

"I quit."

"Uh-huh. So what are you doing now? That corner office is still open."

"I'll think about it."

"Miss Flynn, you come see me too when you pass the bar, yes? Good. I love talented people."

"Your Honor." She stood up. "Is this really how justice gets done?"

He smiled eruditely. "What do justice and comedy have in common?"

"Wha—?"

"Timing." He cast an apologetic glance at John. "No. No justice tonight. But think how much time and money we saved the taxpayers."

She opened her mouth but he cut her off.

"It's a messy profession we've chosen, you and I. Remember, it pays to have friends." He waved the papers and made for the door. "I'm off to the beach. Try and make it home without killing anyone, will you John?"

"He and Anders think they owe me," he told her as he retrieved his shoes and wallet from the bailiff.

"For?"

He ignored her.

"Am I talking to myself?"

"For beating my brother half to death."

The bailiff looked up.

"McConnell!" Sergeant Anders strolled over. "Judge square things?"

John grunted. What was it with these men and grunting?

"Something you want, Anders?" John sat down on the bench to put on his shoes.

"Yeah. Couple things. First, received a complaint you stole a necklace from Lori Davis."

McConnell glanced at Marissa who was now wearing the French coin on a silver chain around her own lovely neck.

Anders caught the glance, snorted. "I see this is complicated and I'm too damn tired for complicated tonight. Second, I know she's your little girl but you can't be manhandling cops out there. Makes me look bad, and they're liable to shoot you without caring what I say next time."

"Won't be a next time."

" _Next time,_ come see me first, we'll straighten it out."

"Hm."

"You need a doctor?" Anders asked.

"No."

"Bleeding through your shirt pretty good on your back there."

"Just some scrapes. I'll be fine."

The cop nodded, gave her a sideways glance. "Thought you mighta' switched teams, started battin' for the other side."

Anders could be funny. She was starting to really warm to this guy.

"Go on home, get this sweet girl outta' my jail."

"That's funny, she was just asking about my brother and your sweet jail."

Anders scowled. He reached out, shook her hand. "Pleasure to meet you, Miss Flynn. My condolences for your loss." He gave John a look and walked away.

When they were outside she said, "That was mean."

"I wouldn't even be down here if it wasn't for him."

She arched her eyebrow. "Really."

"Where's my truck?"

She nodded. "I thought it was just me, but you keep everyone at arm's length, don't you?"

She threw his keys at him and walked away.

### CHAPTER 39

AUGUST

Spokane Washington

But you only got so far without a car in Spokane at four AM.

McConnell held the truck's passenger door open. "You walking home then?"

Marissa looked all around him for other options. "There's a taxi over there."

He glanced at the dark yellow cab, then back at her, vulnerable and alone in the night. "You coming or not?"

They cruised through intersections beneath flashing yellow after flashing yellow in silence. If he thought he was sore before.... He just wanted to go to bed and forget this night. He'd been lucky. Luck eventually ran out. Marissa still seemed a bit bewildered, and angry of course, fuming quietly and pensively beautiful.

"We don't have to talk," she said, reading his mind.

"I thought that's all you wanted was to talk. Blah blah blah." She ignored him. "How's your cheek?"

She rubbed her middle finger against it. That's how it was. Lovely. "Even now, you can't apologize, can you?"

"They started it." That was incredibly juvenile. But almost the truth. He could've walked away.

"You're a vile, violent, ill-tempered asshole who asks for favors then spurns those who do them."

He thought about that. "I don't like violence."

"Could've fooled me."

"Being good at something and liking it are two different things."

She pivoted in her seat. "Really? That's your rationale? Next you're going to say 'I had my reasons.'"

His phone rang and she dug it out of her purse.

"Carrie's your ex-wife, right? She's been calling while you were ennobling yourself in jail." She handed him the phone.

He grunted, "Yeah," giving the fiery woman in the passenger seat an equally fiery glare.

Carrie's voice shrilled in his ear. "Yeah? _Yeah? Where the hell are you?_ _I've been calling all night!_ "

"It's so wonderful to hear that octave at this hour."

"Katie's gone again and won't answer her cell!"

"Calm down, already."

"You're just a wonder with women, aren't you?" Marissa commented quietly.

"This is all your fault!" Carrie yelled.

"Me? What did I—"

"You haven't talked to her in weeks then you call this morning out of the blue, leave that idiotic message? Do you know what you do to her when you call like that, John? _Do you?"_

Had he called Katie? The morning was an age ago. He vaguely remembered _thinking_ about calling on the drive home after doing a bit of skullduggery. _Damn it._ "She's at that boy's house, isn't she? Why didn't you—"

"Because you never gave me the address."

"I'll handle it."

He hung up and made a quick U-turn.

"Trouble in River City?" Marissa mused.

"Funny. Where am I taking you?"

"Oh, I wouldn't miss this."

He pulled up to the corner house, his aches and pains taking a backseat as he surveyed the scene. Another party, this one quieter than the last. Kids were learning every day. Made you proud.

Marissa unbuckled her seatbelt. "Wait here."

"This isn't your business."

"You are such an idiot."

He opened the door—

She put a hand on his arm, her voice a modicum less sharp. "Didn't your buddy just warn you when it comes to your daughter? You could call him and ask—oh wait, you pissed him off, just like everyone else in the world." He glared at her. "There's your way to do this, then the right one. The latter requires some tact, and I witnessed your tact at the bar." She glanced at his hands. "You going to strangle the kid like you are that steering wheel?"

He looked down. Battered knuckles were whitely wringing the leather to death. He released his grip. "Fine. Two minutes. Then I'm coming in."

"John—"

"She's the only daughter I got."

Marissa cocked her head. She bit her lip. Peered into him.

"What?" he asked. "What?"

She opened the door and slid out. "Katie, right?"

"Five feet, dark blonde, pretty when she's not scowling. Probably with that Josh Lyons kid. You'll know the one, he looks like he's two minutes from meeting his maker."

"Back in a jiff."

He watched her dismissive yet feminine walk up to the house, jaws dropping on the porch as she disappeared inside. Probably smiled and did her superciliary thing just because she could.

Thirty seconds later out she came, Katie in tow. The girl was wearing what he hoped were shorts and not underwear and a black shirt with a hot pink Playboy bunny logo. The girl clambered darkly into the backseat and slammed the door after her. McConnell regarded with a wince the interloper who might be his daughter, livid beneath thick black eyeliner and the glittery maroon lipstick caking her lips.

"What the hell are you wearing?"

Katie crossed her arms, her face contorting in furious indignation.

They pulled away and he tilted the rearview so he could see her glowering face.

" _Don't look at me!"_

"I'm your father. I'll look at you anytime I want."

"You _are not_ my father! My _father_ wouldn't be such an _asshole!_ " She turned her glare out the window.

"Wow," Marissa said. Katie reaffixed her glare on her but said nothing.

"Stop swearing," he said for lack of a better response. There were probably better but he didn't have them at the ready.

"Mom lets me swear."

"I'm not your mom."

"No shit, Sherlock."

He brought the truck to a screeching halt.

"What are you doing? We're in the middle of the street!"

"Yes," he said as he put it in park.

"Drive!"

"Are you having sex with that boy?"

"Just drive, asshole!"

Marissa smirked. He gave her a dark look and turned it on his daughter, whom there was no doubt was his, with her set jaw and cool eyes. "Katie—"

"What the hell do you care? What do you care what I do?" She swallowed back tears.

"I care."

"Whatever."

She faced the window, stubbornly wiping at her eyes.

Carrie paced the drive, lit cigarette in one hand, phone in the other. She wore a shimmery green robe over a white nighty. Before the truck rolled to a stop, Katie leapt out of the backseat and ran past her into the house, just making the door before breaking into a sob.

"Jesus. What took you so long?" Carrie hugged him then pulled back when she saw he had company.

"Oh. Sorry. You were on a date."

"No." He heard a door slam inside, watched Katie's light turn on.

"Ahem."

Maybe he should follow after her.

"John? Are you going to introduce me to your friend?"

"Yeah. Carrie, this is Angela Flynn's little sister, Marissa. Marissa, Carrie."

Marissa stepped out of the truck.

"Not so little," Carrie said.

"I've heard so much about you," Marissa said sweetly.

Both women smiled, Carrie dragging off her cigarette.

"Is she going to be alright?" he asked.

"Drama queen? She'll cry herself to sleep. But I'm telling you John I'm about to send her butt to boarding school."

"No we're not."

" _I am_. Or one of those boot camps."

He rubbed his jaw. "She's just angry. Mostly with me."

"Don't feel special, she's mad at the world. But it's your fault, I'll grant you that."

"He has no idea of the problems facing young women these days," Marissa chipped in. "I'd call him ignorant, but that's probably a bit kind. Retarded maybe? Not really very politically correct. But if the shoe fits..."

Carrie gave her a second look, then they both appraised him. He felt like a hock of ham.

"What if I start coming over every day?" he said. "It's still summer, I'm not working. We'll go fishing or something."

Carrie laughed. "What if you called her every day like you said you would? Every week even? What if you watched her soccer like you said? What if you just followed the damn parenting plan, John?"

"Alright."

Carrie sucked on her cigarette. "She's you all over. Stubborn, proud. _Rude_. Always been a daddy's girl.

You know it, I know it, she knows it." She exhaled smoke. "I don't know how many more times you can break her heart before it won't go back together." Her eyes narrowed. "Wait. You're not working?"

"You'll get your check. And I'll be here tomorrow. Today. Nine o'clock."

Carrie laughed again. "John, John, John. She's thirteen. Its summer, she's rarely up let alone functional before noon."

"Have her ready at nine."

They drove in silence. Again.

"She still wants you, you know," she heard herself say. "Your ex-wife, that is."

He gave her a look.

"You look good; you could probably get her back. Her tits can't be real?"

His look sharpened.

"Your daughter's dying for your attention, too."

"Could've fooled me."

"That's what daughters do. They work all their lives to fool their fathers."

"You going to play Dr. Phil the whole way home? Where is home, by the way? Hold on."

He pulled on the wheel and they squealed into the empty parking lot of a Chinese restaurant, the Peking House. "Wait here," he said, got out, walked over and unbuttoned his fly and, if she could believe her eyes, proceeded to urinate all over the doors. One late night traveler passed by and honked. John waved.

Returning to the truck he reversed, pulled back onto Division Street like nothing amiss had happened.

"You couldn't wait?" she asked. He grunted. "What the hell, John?"

He took a deep breath. "When my brother was nineteen he was angry—"

"Really."

"You want me to tell you or not? He was drinking, getting into fights, chasing girls. He used to _borrow_ my ID to hit the bars. One night he's back there having a good time but gets busted, the cops arrest him, only they're not after him 'cause he's underage, they're after him on account he'd screwed one of their wives in the parking lot, and it wasn't the first time. So they drag him outside, he puts up a fight, six on one, he takes a pretty good beating, but it's nothing compared to the one they give him down at the jail." He cleared his throat. "Anders stopped them, but not before Sean ended up with a broken nose, broken ribs, broken arm, stitches up the side of his head and a ruptured spleen. He was in intensive care for a week."

"My God."

"Anders brought Mace along to tell me, and called your sister who talked me out of doing something."

"Something stupid? Like tonight? How come I never heard about this?"

"You were four."

"I was not."

"The Peking security video showed Sean fighting the cops so it looked bad. Scolari worked a deal—"

"Like tonight."

"Like tonight. Everyone walks away, forgets the whole thing, the city pays the medical bills but accepts no culpability."

"So you pee on the restaurant's door?"

"That's a first. We were driving by, call it serendipity." He looked ashamed, if only a little. "That smelly fat guy at the bar? Mangiano? Used to be a cop. Among other things."

"He was one of them, huh?" McConnell nodded. "But who would marry that guy?"

"Who indeed. No, it was Boucher's wife, the prick detective down at the jail."

"Ahh...So that's why he hates you and your brother."

"It's one reason." He wasn't any more forthcoming. "Where am I taking you?"

As the garage door dropped he killed the engine and let out an exhausted sigh.

"You sure you don't mind?" she asked again.

"No. But you've seen the size of this house. We can sleep on opposite ends and pretend we're alone."

"That sounds terrible."

"Kinda, yeah."

"Still, better than listening to Karla's orgasms all night."

They looked at each other. Sighed. Got out.

He cleared his throat. "You can have my room. I don't mind the sofa. Or didn't before those bastard cats took over."

"It is a comfy sofa." She nodded. "Why are you being nice to me all of sudden?"

"I'm too tired to fight. We can pick up where we left off tomorrow."

While he rinsed off in the shower she picked through his T-shirts, selecting an aged one riddled with holes that was baby-soft against her skin. She checked herself out in the dresser mirror. Her cheek was still rosy-red but didn't look like it would bruise. Her French coin hung outside the shirt and she rubbed it between her fingers as G-man came over and nuzzled her hand.

"Just make yourself at home," John said, only this time without sarcasm. He dried his hair and threw the towel into the bathroom. Bachelors.

"Is that what you sleep in?" she said, noting his shorts and T-shirt.

"Not usually." He looked around the room. Looked for the right words. "So...You're alright?"

She nodded. He nodded back, headed for the sofa, glancing at the dog who settled down on his haunches. "Yeah, that's what I thought. Traitor."

He was halfway down the hall before she said, "John."

A long moment. He poked his head around the doorway.

She glanced at the bed, offered him a nervous half-smile. For his part he looked ready to bolt for Texas. He rallied, took a deep breath and closed the door.

They ended up naked, mostly, but there was no sex. She wrapped herself around his thighs, her hands about his neck, careful of his tender back. She dug fingers into hair still damp with spearmint, pressed her breasts against his chest, his urgent need hard against her panties. Their lips touched in tentative probes, cautious of going too far, both aware if they did forbear temptation there was no knowing what that would mean tomorrow. How they managed she would never remember. But one thing she would. When his muscular arms embraced her, she let out a shuddering sigh, and its hovering implication abandoned mystery.

Why had her sister called him after her rape? Leant upon him for succor, shared her last words as she departed, her life bleeding out and into that tub? Why did Marissa now feel so safe in this man's arms?

It was never the house. It was the occupants that drew her back over and over. Her sister's mystifying cats. The loyalty of G-man, at the floor beside her even now. And the man. Her sister had known him, his faults, his sins. Her sage sister had not been rash at all. She had known all along that when your need was so grave he was the only person to call.

He snored lightly, stirred, kissed her head.

She sighed. Nestled closer. Whispered, _"Vous savez toujours ce qu'il faut dire à une fille."_ And slept.

### CHAPTER 40

AUGUST

Spokane, Washington

Nine came early.

How he had been able to leave her in his bed—ripe, willing, unravished—was a miracle of moral fiber, an ineffable feat of willpower. Or so he kept telling himself.

The bastard cats on their sofa-arm thrones gazed accusations. He took the dog with him, just in case they had retaliatory notions. They were crafty those two felines.

He left the dog to pant in the passenger's as he yawned and exited the driver's, stretched and grunted his way to Carrie's front door. As he reached to knock, it opened.

"Be warned. She's of a mood." Carrie stepped aside to let him in.

An effort not to brush against her bosom. "Clive Cussler called. He needs your help. They're trying to raise the Titanic again."

"I've barely had any coffee or sleep. You sure you want to piss me off this morning?"

"No."

She gave him the once-over. He was in shorts, old T-shirt and running shoes.

"That girl let you leave the house like that?"

"She didn't stay over."

"Uh-huh."

"I'm taking Katie running, today."

She snorted. "Good luck with that."

He didn't need luck, not today. Well a little couldn't hurt.

A sign on Katie's door read "KEEP OUT!" and below it in angrily scrawled Sharpie "this means you MOM!!!" He knocked.

" _What?_ The asshole here already?"

"The asshole's standing right outside your door."

The door swung open as if possessed and Katie stepped out in a ruffled pink miniskirt and red T-shirt that read "Parents suck" in black. She had already labored at her makeup.

He put his hands up.

"What?"

"Clowns scare me." She glared. "Get back in there, wipe the Crayola off your face and change. We're going running."

"As if," she snorted.

"Oh we are," he assured.

"The hell I am!"

"Katie—"

She crossed her arms and stared at some invisible but apparently significant spot behind him on the wall. He slid down the same, using his rear because his back would have complained, his muscles groaning anyway. Katie turned for her room. "Uh-uh. You stand there."

She let out a loud sigh of most profound exasperation, pursed her lips and stared him in the eye.

Ten minutes later Carrie came around the corner, dressed for work. She looked at one then the other.

"Call CPS, mom! Dad's _forcing_ me to stand here!"

At least she acknowledged he was her dad.

"Why is he _forcing_ you to stand there?" her mom asked.

Katie went silent.

"John?"

He was silent, too.

"Peas in a pod," Carrie clucked. "I've got houses to show. You two have a most wonderful day together." She hummed a merry tune as she tapped her heels down the hall.

Ten minutes later, Katie harrumphed. "How long we going to stand here?"

"I'm sitting. You're the one standing."

"Why can't I sit down?"

"Parental privilege."

She rolled her eyes.

"Much longer and that sun is going to be a lot higher and a lot hotter."

Five more minutes went by.

"How's Jer?"

"I dunno."

"You guys getting along?"

"I dunno."

He took out his billfold and organized it.

"Why'd you do that to your hair?" she asked.

"No reason, really."

"For that girl?"

"No."

"I hate it."

"I'm not all that fond of the crap you got on your face, myself."

She popped her tongue. "You lose more weight? Are you sick? Dying, hopefully?"

Five more minutes. He could see the machinery ticking away. Finally, she stomped her foot down. " _Gawd! I hate you! This is child abuse!_ "

Silent another minute. He looked her over. He hadn't seen her in daylight in a while. Her shoulder-length hair was lighter from the summer sun. She had her mother's cheekbones, her slightly rounded nose but his eyes. The makeup and skirt were all wrong, she'd always been a tomboy at heart, but she was definitely not his little girl anymore, on the verge of womanhood. All sorts of trouble. It was his own fault. He should've knocked up an ugly woman instead of her mother.

"Alright! I'll change! _Jesus Christ!_ "

"And no more swearing. Your mother lets you get away with it, that's her business, around me you'll talk like you didn't just arrive at port." He pushed off the wall and labored back up to his feet. "Hurry up."

She slammed the door but it was superficial. He had won the battle. One down, a thousand to go.

Two minutes later she came out in orange running shorts and tank top with socks and running shoes in hand, hair in a quick knot. She had wiped off the makeup and looked like his daughter again.

"Wow. It's like magic. A clown goes in and my daughter comes out."

"You're cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs," she grumbled.

Carrie's second husband's cardinal-red Lincoln squealed into the driveway as they came out the door. He left it running, ambled over in his brown suit with his balding head gleaming in the morning sun, his compensating curly locks dangling in the back. He gave the impression of a tawdry salesman, who thrived on making "big" deals over happy hour hot wings at Hooters.

"Jerry."

"John." He swept by them, giving Katie a look.

Katie mumbled.

"What did you say?"

"I said he's a fucking fat fucker!" she blurted.

He opened his mouth then stopped as the "fucking fat fucker" returned with a file in hand, noted Katie's glower, snorted a dismissive "good luck!" as he dropped into his Caddy.

"They both work Sundays?" McConnell asked, watching him drive off.

"As if. They're screwing at the office then going to The Swinging Doors for cocktails and brunch." Her look could have shattered stone. "What do you care? You pussied out. Didn't even fight for us. You let mom go be with fat-ass Jerry and abandoned me." She turned and walked over to the truck.

He followed slowly after her. "Backseat, Geronimo." The canine obliged.

"When'd you get a dog?" Katie asked, the surly dropping momentarily as she reached her hand out and earned a wet Geronimo lick.

"He was your uncle's."

"Oh." She pulled her hand back.

"It's okay, Katie." He nodded. "There's Gatorade at your feet."

"It's blue." She made a face. "I hate the blue." She looked out the window. "I wanted to go to the funeral, I just..."

"Yeah. Well. Got a couple cats, too."

"Uncle Sean hated cats."

"Don't we all."

They drove out to the other side of the river, across the TJ Meenach Bridge, out along Government Way to the Centennial Trail, which was always a good run. He pulled in at the old cemetery.

"Let's stretch a minute."

"You that old?"

"It's not for me, it's for the dog," he whispered behind his hand. He stretched his violently weary muscles, popped aging joints, mentally grimacing at the run ahead. Geronimo cocked his head, Katie tapped her youthful foot, both eager to get on with it.

"You sure you're up to this, old man?"

"You scared?"

"Get real."

"Alright. First to the Bowl and Pitcher Bridge, that's about three miles. I win you come over and help around the house. You win and I buy you lunch first."

"I'm young not stupid. How about I win you buy me a new cellphone?"

"Ready?"

"Just a sec. I need to—Go!" She took off with Geronimo barking after her.

He gave chase, despite the aches and pains, long strides catching them quickly and he passed her and veered to the right along the rocky dirt path that followed high up on the hillside above the water.

"Hey! No one said cross country!" Katie yelled.

"Adapt, overcome!" That's what his dad had always told him.

His footfalls pounded the dirt as the trail dipped low along the water and rose back up again. His back burned with the rub of his shirt, more as he started to sweat, his ankles still a bit wobbly, but the sunshine was bright and warm, and it felt good to run. Katie lagged at first but was soon right on his heels. She put on a burst of speed at the end but he had her beat with a kick of his own and they both pulled up at the wooden footbridge, panting with the dog, both pacing around, hands on hips as the white water rushed by below.

"Dad, you're bleeding."

He pulled the shirt up and looked down his shoulder. There were rouge spots on the white fabric, but nowhere as bad as last night. "Just fell and scraped it up the other day. I'm fine, don't worry."

"I'm not worried," she assured him.

They caught their breath. The peace of the river, the warm sun through the trees, the smell of pine mingling with sumac. Being there with his daughter. He forgot for a while that he was a killer of men and a thief. He had forgotten all morning. Today, he was just—

"Dad?"

"What?"

"I'm starving. If I beat you back to the truck then you just buy me lunch, no chores, 'kay?"

"Tell you what. You win and I won't make you pick up the dog poop in the backyard."

"Dad!"

"Run!" he yelled and she did with him right behind her.

They had lunch at Doyle's Diner. He sat across from his daughter drinking coffee as his own father had across from him, in the same booth, served by the same Rosie, who smothered Katie with attention as she had him. Some things come full circle as they were meant to be.

"So that chick last night," she said around her strawberry waffle, "she's kinda bitchin'."

He grunted casually. His own thoughts had circled back to that "bitchin'" chick throughout the morning.

"When she found me I kinda told her off. She said if I didn't get my ass outside within ten seconds she was going to drag me out by my hair." She chewed on that. "I believed her. You guys friends with bennies, or what?" she probed.

"I'd say we're in the 'or what' category." He sipped at his coffee. "You okay with me dating?"

She shrugged. "Whatever floats your boat."

At the house he introduced her to Crockett and Tubbs who didn't bother to raise a paw hello or even their heads for a how do. The cats had been guests for months (he refused to acknowledge their permanent residence) and the fact this was Katie's first time to meet them only reemphasized the gap of time that she had been absent. He felt disgust at that, by it mostly being his choice. His father wouldn't have approved at all.

Whining that child labor was illegal and hadn't he heard of the Emancipation Proclamation she followed him up the stairs to the bedroom at the end of the hall. It was the master and quite the wreck. The walls were half-painted in periwinkle, Carrie's choice of course. The remodel never complete, the bathroom needed caulking, fixtures finished. Sunlight fell from the skylight upon dust-covered boxes of unwanted stuff too bothersome to take with her when she left, leaving for John to dispose of, a task he had willingly ignored as much as the room.

"This is your and mom's room," Katie said. "You still haven't done anything with it."

"It's your room now."

"What? I already have a room."

"Yeah, but this one goes to eleven. And has its own bathroom," he added.

"Are you're trying to bribe me?"

"Yeah. I want you to come over more. Like before."

She studied him. "Are you sure?"

"You're not a little girl anymore. That's what you keep telling me. You should have a big room with your own bathroom."

"No, I mean, are you sure you want me around? You seem awfully busy, going out of town, dating this new chick."

"Nothing and no one comes before you, Katie."

Her dark look returned. "I dunno if I can believe you."

"Yeah. I get that."

"Do I get an Xbox?"

"We can talk about it."

He sensed her teetering, afraid to forgive and move forward in their relationship, afraid to fall back and find him not there again. He wanted to reach out and steady her but she needed to make the decision on her own. It was the way his dad would have done it.

She sucked in air. "Okay." Looking around the room. She wanted more, needed more.

Screw it.

He grabbed her and pulled her close and she let him. When she did pull away she wiped at her nose, and for the first time in a long time her smile touched her eyes.

"Well? You going to finish that bathroom or what? We've got a lotta work to do."

After the dust had been dusted and the boxes had been moved, he had caulked the bathroom and installed the light fixtures while Katie painted the walls a _Calla Linen_ , then wearily collapsed on the sofa and fell asleep, her paint-smudged face peaceful. He let her sleep a while, then carried her out to the truck and drove her home.

Stumbling into her room and dropping onto her bed he covered her up, kissed her forehead and watched her from the doorway as she curled up in teenage exhaustion.

Carrie shook her head as she walked him outside and lit up a smoke.

"Guess there'll be a parade."

"Every weekend. I mean it."

She exhaled smoke. "We'll see. But you did good today." She hugged him. "That Clive Cussler comment was good this morning," she confessed over her shoulder as she went back inside.

"Been saving it up."

"Imagine that."

### CHAPTER 41

AUGUST

Spokane, Washington

McConnell gingerly nursed a beer in the La-Z-Boy. He had added to the list of physical damage received from his Marathon Man run: more bruises, a spectacularly dark one running up his right arm where it had met with the barstool. His jaw still clicked when he chewed. But he would heal. In time. Unless his spiraling luck continued. But that was a mixed bag. He wasn't in jail. Wasn't dead. And though the choppy voice coming from the laptop resting on his sore thighs sounded like admonishment, he sported an unrelenting erection in his shorts. After Marissa's call the damn thing just wouldn't subside.

"What...hell...thinking? Kings...marvel at...wisdom." Mitch's voice faded in and out.

"Why's there lag?" he said.

"...testing a.... I don't...hold..." A few moments later, "How's that?"

"Better."

"New relay algorithm compression needs work," Mitch continued. "No fingerprinting, cheek swab, no booking? Jesus, you're a lucky bastard. And an idiot."

He didn't disagree on either account. It paid to have friends.

"So Anj's little sister."

"Don't—"

"She as hot as they say? Got a pic?"

"Come into town and see her for yourself."

"You're too violent. I'm a lover not a fighter." Quiet a moment, Mitch finally said, "Thanks for...you know."

McConnell grunted. As he had twenty years ago. "Nothing on us getting paid?"

"In motion. Back to Anj's little sister—"

"Nothing's happened."

"Past tense noted. Is it going to?"

He couldn't say. And didn't.

"How long's it been?"

"A while." _But not nearly as long as for you, my friend._

They both left that unsaid.

"Damn. She's a keeper. Checking out her Facebook now."

"I don't use Facebook."

"Good. Don't. Kids call it FB, that's one letter from FBI. Trust me, the feds have total access. She looks like Anj a little. Is that weird?"

"Life's weird. So we're in the clear?"

"Parish threw them for a loop. It was a good, in more ways than one. Any regrets?"

"Plenty, but none over that."

"What if Anj is looking down, you know, when you and Marissa are—"

"Mitch."

"I'm just saying—"

"Mitch."

"Right. Well. I've got blueberry-lime pie in the oven. Probably not much of a comparison." The hacker abruptly logged off.

McConnell set the laptop down, took a pull on his beer. He didn't care for the overshare but the man had asked, and he had no other confidant. Pretty sure that went both ways. Problem was, he lacked the gab for engaging a man in arrested sexual development. He wasn't going to solve that tonight. He finished his beer.

Nothing to do but wait, stare at the perpetual tent of engorged ache in his shorts. Didn't help that he kept wondering what it would be like to be inside her, would it be wrong, was the wondering itself wrong. The hacker did have a point, but killing, stealing, fighting or fucking, if the dead passed judgment they kept it to themselves.

Waiting, aching and wondering. Seemed to be what his life was of late.

Slipping in quietly through the front door she rolled her eyes. _John McConnell, the only man I know that after I said, "Be naked in bed waiting for me" would not be naked in bed waiting for me._ Fast asleep in his recliner, her eyes dropped to his lap. _At least he's not_ all _asleep._

"You pulling a lame 'I'm too tired,' are you?" She unbuttoned her pink blouse, revealing a pink-frosting lace bra. Her hair was loose about her shoulders, her lips glossy wet; last she checked her luminous eyes were electrified with rapacious brilliance.

He roused. Did a double take. Pretty much her intended effect.

"Sorry I'm late." Cancelling regular Sunday dinner with her mother on account of long overdue sex wouldn't fly but usually she got out of there by eight-thirty. Of course tonight her mother had splashed brandy in her coffee, more gregarious as the evening lagged, ensnaring her in a mix of rapt daughterly attention and fidgety female lust as her brain (and more sensuous parts) hummed with desire. The ache between her legs that had developed the previous night had only intensified throughout the day as she waited impatiently, wondering how he would feel inside her.

Aching, waiting and wondering. Seemed like a lot of that going around.

Not bothering unzipping she just wiggled her skirt down her hips, revealing matching pink thong.

John managed a monosyllabic "Wow."

She pulled him to his feet, bypassed a kiss and led him directly into the bedroom. She shut the door with her foot as Geronimo tried to nose his way in. "Not tonight, G-man."

She lit the candles she had placed around the room that morning, hit the CD play button—Paula Cole, _Feelin' Love_ —pivoted on her toes, unhooked her bra and let it slip to the floor. His eyes flicked to her liberated breasts, the French coin hanging above them. She rubbed it between thumb and finger as she assayed him in return; he stood at almost-comical sexual attention in his cereal-eating blue shorts, no shirt, the muscles in his chest rising in the flickering candlelight. She could hear his breath, feel him breathing into her, his eyes gliding longingly over her skin _._ She felt sexy. Had never felt sexier in her life.

She raised her eyebrows at his erection. "Quite the Boy Scout."

"Marissa—"

"Don't say anything stupid."

"Your sister—"

She gave him a look. "Jesus! Like that."

"I just think—"

She nearly leapt over and kissed him hard on the lips. "No. Don't think. You suck at thinking. Tonight, we're just going to do. Like the rest of the world."

His lean, strong body smelled of warm sunshine and she wanted that light wrapped around her and deep inside of her at the same time. She kissed him again. He returned it, with vigor, and she fell on top of him on the bed.

He hissed and half-rolled over.

"Oh. Your back." She rolled and pulled him on top of her.

He held back reluctantly.

"I won't break," she promised.

He gasped as her hand slipped into his shorts and her fingers wrapped around him, hard and hot, her own ache a harmonizing urgency.

"You know," she breathed, "you're so easy...One date and—"

"Shut up already." His mouth stopped hers as he ripped her panties down her hips.

She did the same with his shorts. They were of one mind now. Hands locked together, his need found her ache, pressed inside, her turn to gasp, shudder, glaze over as she brought her knees up. She wanted more of him, as much as possible. All of him.

One last skirmish with John McConnell. And sweet surrender.

Elk, Washington

Queuing up _Firefly_ , check. Mountain Dew, check. Pie, check. He was in a mood most black, and the camaraderie of the _Serenity_ usually put him on a trajectory back to a more normal melancholy orbit.

"He's probably having sex as we speak," Mitch said to Ms. Kitty. She declined to answer. Declined to be bothered in any way.

"I bet he is. I bet...he...is." He wasn't jealous, not exactly, it was just Frustrated Incorporated had come to an end as he had always known it would. McConnell was of the world, and, well, he was McConnell. Their friendship shiny but brutally double-edged.

When he had his island, he would make up for it. Maybe more than one a night, heck, maybe more than one at a time. Absent McConnell's physique, his cool, piercing eyes, his I-can-do-anything-even-if-it-means-I'm-an-asshole rugged smile, money would be his lure, a most powerful aphrodisiac, and he was acquiring more of it every day. Money made a man interesting if not loved. Maybe he would be loved. Maybe he would meet a nice girl, she would fall for him, it wasn't entirely out of the question. He thought that reporter was probably a nice girl. Elise, that was a nice girl's name. But if not, if no nice girl ever happened, well, there were always the not-so-nice girls. Seemed to be a lot more of them in the world. And they loved money.

He glanced at the monitor and saw spots. He really needed to clean his glasses. Spatters of brandy cream sauce from making _petti di pollo_ hardened from earlier. He should just get damn Lasik. Maybe, now that McConnell was around, he might find the time to drive him to the eye clinic. When he wasn't screwing Anj's little sister.

There was a new email from S8Nt8_Sp3rM:

wat u lookn 4? found @ dutch govt consp grp. last code whacked-cleand it 4 u. enjoy:)

Hacker lingo, that mixed blessing. Efficient at circulating laziness, most modern technological advances were. He loaded up the code, nodded approvingly at an unusual snippet of a variant observed in buffer overruns on cold-boot RAM-Flash captures but never in a real-time environment. Interesting.

Glancing at the second attachment, the code was forgotten. An archive file, _PanPith_0001._ The Pete Jackson archive had been named _PanPith_0000._ More interesting. He cleaned his glasses.

The previous file had required a password to download. Different protocol here, it required a password to open. Trying the same password as before did the trick. PDFs, docs, spreadsheets, JPGs. Much more detailed data than the first.

By the time Mal, Kaylee and crew had discovered Jaynestown he had downed two Dews, a quart of water, three slices of blueberry-lime pie with whip. All in, probably a distant second to Anj's little sister.

But the new archive file? Borderline orgasmic, if you were into that kind of thing.

"We're gonna need a bigger boat," the hacker whispered to the darkness.

La Jolla, California

"Something ain't right," Duffy said, his pants around his ankles.

"You ain't right. Answer my question."

He put out his cigarette, sighed. "Put in an appearance if it makes you happy."

Abbey leaned back against the porch railing, offering him a splendid view of her body silhouetted against the midnight ocean. She slipped on his aqua blue Oxford. It hung to her knees. "You want to keep the Wonder Twins in Stockton, put them on the pedophile angle?" The downy, black V of her pubic region was stark between the unbuttoned shirt and he found it alluringly distracting, even after she had just worked him over.

"The pedophile angle's more bullshit."

"Probably."

She sat on his lap and they listened to the surf crash on the beach below. He supposed someone with good night eyes might spy them up here among the ivy but he was too old for caring and she didn't seem to mind either. Abbey's cottage just above the cove was her guilty pleasure—she couldn't afford it but that's what made the guilt so pleasurable. It was a sight better than the cupboard he called home. Alimony was hell. But his ex-wife had earned every penny of it.

"Clear it with Grohl first. We're already stepping on toes up there."

She ran a finger along his Harry Potter scar. "I'm excited to meet your son."

"Me too." Excitement not quite the right word.

"I'm off to the shower. Join me soon? And no more cigarettes tonight."

"Yes ma'am."

She left him to his mind. Kicking off shoes, pants, he pulled up his boxers and when he heard the water running did a quick look around the corner, double-tapped the pack and lit up another Raleigh. He fished his notepad out of his jacket pocket, went over his notes of his first call with Warrant Officer Chad Lucas a few days ago:

Lucas: _You're sure it was Pete Jackson?_

Duffy: _You interviewed him four times in the last two years, Mr. Lucas, and cleared him of all allegations._

Lucas: _Our AO covers all of western United States and Asia. We're pretty busy, lots of names, lots of faces._

Duffy: _So you don't remember Pete Jackson?_

Lucas: _Not that I recall. I'll get you what notes we might have. What isn't classified. By the way, thanks for Lind and Monty, their interviews of Jackson's associates on and off the base. A lot of hours put in by those two, you should know that. Unfortunate it didn't pan out._

Duffy: _Well, that's what we do until it does. Think whoever shot Jackson and Pincer Parish three days later from a roof five hundred and twelve meters away was military?_

Lucas: _Possible but unlikely. Military snipers are well disciplined, well trained and don't snap like that._

Duffy: _Ex-military, perhaps? The DC sniper, he was Army._

Lucas: _Not likely. But you never know._

Duffy: _We don't know until we do._

Lucas: _Right. Well, whoever it was, helluva shot. Both of them._

Both knew Lucas couldn't officially come out and say he believed there was a military sniper loose in California even if he officially believed there was a military sniper loose in California. The DC sniper had been a black kook, not to mention a fan of the Koran. If a Christian white boy off the farm had been trained to kill and was out and about assassinating folk, well, the fit would certainly hit the shan then, wouldn't it?

Even if this hypothetical rogue sniper was Army, Lucas avowed that they couldn't be faulted. They screened intensely to weed out the nut-jobs, but every outfit has a few bad seeds, even Jesus had his Judas. The Army's not perfect, you should know that.

Special Agent Oral Duffield did.

He closed his notepad, recalling their second conversation. Duffy had been mulling over a cigarette in the designated smoking area, the August sun smacking him like a sonic boom. He could just make out Maria's store shimmering in the heat.

Lucas called to share the disappointing discovery that Pete Jackson, who they believed had served the country so admirably in a civilian capacity,was not only into kiddie porn but had been stealing small amounts of non-lethal military provisions and selling them on the side. Jackson was a much darker character than anyone thought.

"Can you believe the sick fucks in the world today?" Lucas blurted.

Duffy could. He'd met his share.

The news spun. The irrepressible Elise Hutchens ceased using the word sniper, replacing it with the not-so-clever but catchy "vindictive vigilante," which he thought a bit redundant. And damn if the people were not praising the killer who had brought down not one pedophile but two, one of the sick bastards an unpatriotic, cowardly sonofabitch stealing from our troops, no less. Inciting cable news pundits proclaimed it about time some good soul cleaned the streets of "perverts," "sickos," "demons," and "vermin," and those were the kinder words.

With unheard of military cooperation Lucas sent along a file of some of the more incriminating evidence, including redacted documents detailing Jackson's theft of night-goggles, boots, wet-gear, MREs and a Panamanian bank account with fifty-thousand dollars in Jackson's name. Didn't that beat all? An American so despicably traitorous in a time of war?

It sure did, Mister Lucas. But only fifty-K? Small net for the risk.

"You know an Agent Goldwyn?"

Duffy did.

"He's been inquiring into Jackson's travel, possible mosque relationships. I'm not sure why he's not working through you."

"One last thing Mister Lucas. The shooter's rifle. A Schneider barrel with a one by twelve twist. That's the same as the new Marine M40A3, isn't it?"

"I'd have to get back to you on that."

"You're a busy man, as you said."

"Crime doesn't take summers off, as I'm sure you know." Lucas referring to the two dead Mexicans two years ago? "You like what you do, Special Agent?"

"Keeps me in Padres tickets. You like the service, Mister Lucas?"

Lucas chuckled. "What's not to like?"

Killing peasant-soldiers in a faraway jungle, shitting yourself from fear and dysentery for two years, that was something not to like.

Stubbing out his cigarette, stopping by the fridge for another beer, a glass of Chardonnay for Abbey, pleased to still hear running water, he was going to call it quits for the night when the bedroom TV caught his eye. Hutchens standing in front of his building in the daylight. He killed the mute.

"...Not only does the revelation of child pornography add more mystery to these murders but an FBI source has confirmed that a sniper rifle, used exclusively by the United States Marine Corps, was the weapon used to kill both men."

"Goddamnit!"

"What is it?" Abbey asked from the shower.

"Hutchens named the rifle. Said it was an FBI source."

He heard her turn off the water. She stepped from the bathroom in a towel, shaking out and drying her long dark hair with another. "Whoops," she said.

"Whoops? _Whoops?_ "

She stood in front of the TV, shrugged. "Oops?"

He made an effort to see around her. There would be some explaining to the ADIC in the morning. But it was more than that. This case was going to outlast him.

"Goldwyn's a pinhead. The bunch of 'em are, chasing their pinhead dicks, fabricating Ali Baba boogiemen while—"

"Oral."

"What?" he barked.

She let drop the towel, her body steaming in the cool sea breeze drifting through the open door.

"You want to talk about pinheads or go for round two?"

The light of the TV outlined her willowy curves. "Don't know why we can't do both," he grumbled.

"If you think you can." She smiled and he felt empowered and virile, like he was twenty again. Thirty. Thirty-five tops.

Powering off the TV she took her Chardonnay from his hand, drank deep, leaned up and kissed his mouth, then frowned.

"You had another cigarette. That's one less you get tomorrow."

Shrugging, his hand found her breast.

She curled into him. "The Viagra's on the night—Oh!"

"I don't think we'll need that tonight."

And they didn't.

### CHAPTER 42

AUGUST

Elk, Washington

"Texas."

"Yep."

"Two days' time?"

"Yep."

"Damn."

"Yep."

McConnell put a foot up on the porch rail, leaned back, took a drink of iced tea. "New flavor?"

"Added more ginseng. Figured you needed it."

He gave the hacker a look. It had been quite the sexually arduous week, attested by his rubbery legs. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it. It's what I do. Help you out, even if that means help you boink broads."

"Boink?"

"Broads." The hacker sipped his Dew, dribbling on his black shirt that read _I failed the Turing Test._

We all grow up in stages. Eventually. Hopefully.

A breeze kept the porch somewhere between pleasantly warm and uncomfortably hot as the sun set over the house, drawing the shadows out. It was a nice day. He wished the hacker thought so. "Texas."

"Yep."

He clucked his tongue. "She won't be happy. Neither will Katie. Damn it."

"No one said being Mr. Flynn would be easy."

"Any word on the others?"

"Free and clear as I understand. The good news, cash is king and it's already laundered. EFTs aren't as convenient as they sound; still got to get to it, move it around, and that creates records."

McConnell grunted. Drank more tea.

"One point two mil.' Not a bad payday," Mitch said. "The bad of course is it sounds a bit shady. You're going in there blind."

"You worried?"

"No. But I'll be here cooking up a nice _Vitello Tonnato_ just in time for Assumption Day. Chilled veal in tuna sauce, that's an A-plus final right there, you beer-swillin' heathen."

"I'll leave tomorrow morning."

"Good idea. Put some space between you and your second wife. I know how smothering and demanding you can be."

"Jesus Christ. Things change, Mitch."

"For you. Things have changed _for you_."

"I don't want to talk about this again."

"Oh, you just decide? If you _just_ looked at the new docs, you—"

"What we did was enough."

"Debatable. Highly debatable."

"If it's as big and bad as you say we should both walk away. You do that when you hack, right?"

"That's different."

"Mitch—"

"You got the girl, you got your kid, you got the money. I get it."

"I'm still gonna come out here."

"Sure you are."

McConnell stepped into the sunlight, stretched his healthy if sexually worn body. He had lost big this year. He had won big, too. "You're the closest friend I got. You know more about me than anyone else. You know what I did, what _we_ did. I'm not going anywhere, except Texas and back. I'll be out, _we'll be out_ to visit often. Katie and Marissa both want to meet you."

"Right. Meet the mad hermit!" He waved his arms around. "Aaah!"

"Aren't you leaving soon? You were just talking about your island not a half-hour ago."

Mitch sulked back into his chair, now doused completely in shade.

McConnell couldn't make everyone happy. There was only so much of him to go around. He sighed, sat back down, nursed his tea. The shadows ominously clingy now. He didn't care for it.

Mitch slapped a flash drive on the small table between them. "Texas."

"Yep."

"Leaving in the morning."

"Yep."

"Don't get killed."

Spokane, Washington

It could have gone better with Katie. She had answered the phone excited to finish up her room and settle in, thrilled she wouldn't be stuck for the week out at the lake with her mom and Jerry. When he explained something just came up, it was important, she screamed loud enough to make the phone speaker rattle.

" _I'm not important?"_

It charged swiftly downhill from there.

"Smooth, real smooth," Carrie said, adding her two cents. "No pontoon jokes now, huh?"

Marissa had been less loud but more skeptical.

"Really? I mean, _really?_ "

"It's just a retreat thing. Men beating drums, crying about their de-masculation, getting to know their feminine side."

" _Emasculation._ And I thought I was your feminine side? You said Mitch never left his house." Those lawyers, always paying attention to the details. The good ones.

McConnell shrugged. "He's trying to break out. Look, if you really don't want—"

"Don't do that." Her eyes narrowed. "So you want me to believe you're going to the woods with a bunch of sweaty, smelly men to cry like babies, with no phone access, and taking your hermit friend along?"

"Would I make up something that absurd?"

They were sitting on the sofa. She looked delicious in her cherry summer dress. "Cerise," she had corrected him. Whatever, the earth seemed to stop its spin.

She did her eyebrow arch thing, then shrugged. "You're a grown man, you want to go traipsing through the woods I can't stop you." Then she slapped him.

"Ow. What the hell was that for?"

"So you don't forget what you left. Now take me to bed or lose me forever."

They made it as far as the hallway.

"She can hang with me."

Naked now, leaning against the sink, she was flawless in the soft light from the open fridge as she nibbled on a strawberry, her eyes aglow.

"I don't think Carrie would be too amenable to that," he said, drinking down juice from the jug.

Marissa dismissed that obstacle with a wave. "It'll be good. Katie and I'll go out on the town, pick up boys. I'll get Karla to go. It'll be an educational field trip." She tilted her head. "What _are_ you looking at?"

She was flawless in any light.

She sucked on her strawberry. _"Tu vas regretter de me regarder comme ça."_

"You really think you can convince her to let you take Katie?"

She popped the berry in her mouth, fingering him to come closer. "Trust me. I've got tact."

He left early the next morning. Not much sleep but he wasn't complaining. The final leg of his criminal career, the sooner he started the better. Then he could return to not sleeping much and not complaining again.

Untangling himself from her arms, a kiss and untangling himself again, he took his bag, his pistol and a thermos of coffee. On the road again. Into the shining light of dawn.

Elk, Washington

In robe and sandals, Mitch gazed into the old trailer in the barn as the early sun warmed the morning chill and ate up the shadows and dew that dappled his toes. He kicked the foreboding gun case. "Don't get yourself killed, you stubborn bastard."

Mind if he left the rifle out here?

No prob.

Back him up with the men's retreat out in the woods as an alibi?

Of course.

Yes to finding out about his brother; yes to procuring the rifle; yes to helping him kill the people he wanted dead. Then McConnell had said _no_ and dumped him. Wouldn't even _read_ the new docs, just dismissed them and Mitch as irrelevant again. All McConnell wanted was the girl— _girls,_ don't forget the daughter. He shouldn't hate him for that. He didn't.

He wiped at the dew beneath his glasses, locked the trailer, shut the barn door and hurried to the porch. McConnell's melee with the Terrible Trio had revived memories anew, just when he was putting them to rest again. He wished McConnell had killed _those_ bastards. It's what the big dunce was good at—the only thing. He wished _he_ could kill them. _God hates a coward._ There was no God. So who hated him?

Safe on the porch, he caught his breath as Ollie moseyed up the pitted gravel drive next to the orderly garden, all subdued with a morning hush. Beyond the old, peeling rickets, and further, the road disappeared among the wheat around the bend. He saw himself stepping off the porch, suitcase in hand, taxi to the airport, the farmhouse receding into past, his future dangerously more material ahead. Dizzy as he checked his bag, people bustling around him. On the plane, a cocktail to settle his nerves, a smile from the cute blonde stewardess: What adventure was he embarking upon, now? Heart a flutter, the engines roared, leaving the ground, _leaving_ _home, leaving lightness_... _Light-headedness_...

He dropped hard on his butt, smacked his head against a porch beam. He had stopped breathing. Stars swam before his eyes as he gulped in air, his hand finding loyal Ollie. Ollie, his stalwart familiar, but how much longer? The lab grayed more every day. What would he ever do without Ollie, his boon companion?

What would he do without McConnell again?

Sanderson, Texas

Thirty hours and eighteen-hundred miles later the nation's arteries emptied McConnell at the end of civilization. The west end of Texas anyway, a tiny town, outpost really, twenty-two miles shy of Mexico, as the crow flies. A sign of a lone cowboy riding beneath a bluff read "Sanderson - Cactus Capital of the World."

The good folk of Sanderson had not given themselves an undeserved epithet. Saguaro sentinels certainly did stand tall over prickly pear and barrel cacti on the low drab hills overlooking the lower and drabber town, more populated with pinyon and pecan than people. He drove the silver Jeep Liberty from one end to the other, all of two minutes through the quaint and quiet, peering down streets lined with single-wides, depressed adobe and dehydrated shacks with beat-up old trucks and aging sedans in sunbaked dirt yards. The desert was everywhere. It sucked at the moisture of your skin, your mouth, your eyes.

He pulled into Uncle's convenience store and stepped out into the dry heat, cracking his back. Scabs mostly healed, sweat made it itch like mad. There was the payphone. Dialing the number per instructions, he said, "There's a chair and table in town." A click and the other end hung up. Stepping inside he bought some bottled water, then drove back the way he had come, eyes bouncing between the streets and the rearview, looking for trouble, looking for the antiquated Outback Oasis motel right where the instructions said it would be. The weathered woman in the office checked him in, not batting an eye, not in that temperature, conserving her strength.

They knew he was here. He was supposed to wait for what came next. Antsy, crossing the main drag that served as both highway and Oak Street, he walked around the truck stop, footsteps puffing up dust, stopping at the railroad tracks and taking in the hills, too far to walk to and too hot to stand there and sweat over it. He returned to the small room and its impotent, rattling air conditioner. Even now, the payoff; waiting, wondering, and now sweating. He catnapped restlessly until dinner time, took up a table outside the Roundhouse Cafe, gnawed a T-bone, sucked down a _Negro Modelo,_ sampled some Prickly Pear Sherbet (surprisingly good) and watched the sun languorously dip further west, and with it the town's malaise. He was being watched or so he thought. He looked around at the few others in the café, inside and out, glanced at the mildly increased traffic cruising slowly through the speed zone. He couldn't spy the spy. Maybe it was his nerves. Maybe.

As night came on so did the Border Patrol, eight trucks driving through town. He had a bad feeling. His pistol was under the passenger's seat, in boots, jeans and a T-shirt he had no way to conceal it. Even if he had it on his person what cold comfort that would be. He was a sitting duck.

He could just leave. A long drive to return empty-handed, not to mention the risk taken in the heist itself. But he could just roll on out of town, keep north and never look back, unless they followed him, found him on the open highway in all that wasteland in between. Killed him and buried him never to be seen again.

The desert breeze stirred his brownish-sandy hair. He was done with disguises. Hell, he was done with this shit altogether. Back onto Oak and headed west. He had his bag in the backseat, always ready for a quick getaway. Glancing at the Outback Oasis as it passed him on by, he glanced down and saw the white plastic keychain of his room key in the console and swore.

He had left something behind. Fingerprints. He U-turned.

Entering the room, the TV caught his eye. Taped to the dark screen was a folded note. A Google Map with a route from the motel to the middle of a football field to the northeast. It looked to be about half a mile away. 2300 was circled in bold black next to the words, "WALK DON'T DRIVE."

He glanced at his brother's watch. Ten past nine.

Maybe they were just playing it safe, by midnight he'd be cruising home with a couple million dollars. Maybe by midnight he'd be dead, left for the coyotes or lizards or whatever they fed people to down here.

He finished wiping down his prints. Whatever happened he wasn't coming back here. Leaving the key on the nightstand he returned to the Jeep. The highway was dark, the truck stop closed for the night. That was the great thing about small towns; everyone called it a night early.

Twenty minutes ago he'd been set to leave. Was he going to let a map to the treasure change his mind?

Tucking the pistol in the small of his back, reassured by the cool metal against his skin he left the SUV and walked towards the stadium. That money was the promise of a better life. For his daughter. For Marissa. At least that's what he told himself. Women. Always complicating things. Or was it money? Or was he just too damn obstinate for his own good, had to see the damn thing to the end?

Heading north along the foot of a looming ridge that blacked out the stars, a half-moon fresh in the sky, his back itched, slick with sweat that collected around the hard metal of the gun. A car passed going west, another east. He kept the ridge on his left with ragged, sand-choked yards of what might have once been a small trailer park on his right. Mostly quiet, he heard _Walker, Texas Ranger_ through an open window somewhere. Following the map, he took Mansfield left, up a gravel road, through the open gate, crested a hill. Below, the dark football field, two of them actually, the far one with a darker ring of track around it, nestled in a corner pocket of the low hills. Great place for an ambush.

He kept left to the road that ran between the first field and what looked like the gymnasium.

He was an easy kill out here. Any clown with a night scope could drop him from anywhere in that dark. He felt uneasy, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide and froze when two figures slipped free of the shadows ambling his way. At fifty feet he said, "That's close enough."

They slowed but didn't stop. In jeans and long-sleeves, one wore a baseball cap. Other than that it was too dark to make out much else. "The chair is against the wall." Mexican accent.

"It's too big for the table," he said, the return passphrase.

The two conferred in Spanish, still coming onward.

"Where's the money?" McConnell asked.

" _Mi amigo._ Come. Quickly, it's not safe."

It was wrong. "Stop."

They kept coming. He pulled his pistol as a shot blew up the night and whizzed by his left ear.

He dropped to the ground as the two split up, both running at angles left and right and shooting at him. He shot back, heard a shout and one dropped to the ground. The other was quickly closing. He swung to aim, not fast enough—

The world flooded with light.

He raised his hand to his eyes but it was too late, he was blinded. "Drop it! _Suelte el arma!"_ Several gunshots, a grunt of pain.

" _I said drop it, asshole, or you'll join 'em!"_

Phantom red after-image stained his vision.

"Last chance, boy."

He set his gun down.

"Get your dick in that dirt!" Footsteps, a boot in his back and he sprawled. An engine turned over and drove the spotlight closer as the boot was replaced with a knee. "Hands on your back. Move it fucker."

His eyesight returning. A door opened, closed and a dark uniform stood next to the glaringly bright light, hand at hip.

"Kill that fuckin' thing," said the knee in his back. He heard groaning. "And do something 'bout that."

"Cuff 'im first. I don't like the look in this _gringo's_ eyes."

"I said hands on your back! You gonna test me, boy? I'll put a bullet in your head right here!"

He felt something cold press against the back of his skull and stopped resisting.

Wrists bound, not by the cold metal of cuffs but plastic zip-ties. Hands patted him down. "Clean other than the firearm. Fucker's got himself a Desert Eagle."

"Don' say?"

Yanked up like a freshly cut barrow and propelled into the light, he was bent over the hood of a white SUV. Looking sideways he could vaguely make out the uniform. Border Patrol.

"You arresting me?"

"You a fuckin' illegal?"

"No."

"Then we ain't arrestin' ya."

More moaning. "Will you fix that already?"

Two shots. The moaning stopped.

They threw him in the backseat, headed back down the hill, then south out of town.

"Can I ask where we going?"

"No. You can shut the fuck up, tho."

### CHAPTER 43

AUGUST

Spokane, Washington

When Marissa came driving up the dirt road to rescue her from the past two days of living hell as she promised she would, her first thought was Marissa might not be so bad after all. Her second, her dad was still an asshole.

Jerry's cabin sucked. No other girls anywhere nearby, she had to suffer the constant bombardment of the insufferable Mackenzie brothers' whistles and appraisals of her burgeoning boobs (what was it with boys and boobs?) whenever she went out to sponge some sun. Inside the cabin was equally excruciating. Fat-ass Jerry, fat hanging out everywhere, always grabbing at her mom, the two of them dancing to music just this side of disco, drunk off daiquiris or whatever shit was in that annoying, never-ending blender; no internet or cable, no cellphone service, she was fairly certain she was being given a glimpse of what hell must be like.

But then came sweet salvation wearing a brown mini and a pricey striped top with spaghetti straps that Katie had seen at Nordies; the chick had style. Marissa left the Mackenzies speechless. As they drove away Katie left them a salutary middle finger.

"Art of negotiation," Marissa explained when asked how she had convinced her mother to let her go.

Whatever. It worked. "What are we going to do?"

"I thought we'd start with a little shopping."

"Oh. No. I can't let you spend money on me. My dad wouldn't like that."

Marissa gave her a strange look. " _Oh, mon cher enfant_ ," she laughed, "that's sweet, but I'm not spending a dime. This shopping expedition will be entirely financed courtesy of your father." Her eyes twinkled. "Seems only fair for abandoning us, no?"

It did seem fair. Shopping the rest of the afternoon, they ordered Chinese takeout from The Mustard Seed, her fave other than the diner, and returned to recuperate at her dad's, which entailed trying on her haul and stuffing her face with garlic chicken at the same time. Marissa's style was impressive, not to mention the great pleasure she took in spending her dad's money. Lots to learn from her dad's new girlfriend.

Weird to even think he had one. The last chicks he dated were trashy whores, especially that stupid redhead who wouldn't stop jabbering about vegan crap. He'd played the monk since, and that was like forever ago.

They had giggled over hair highlights at the mall at her dad's expense and after dinner Katie washed her hair and Marissa changed into a pair of bubble-gum pink shorts and one of her dad's T-shirts (even making that look awesome) and set up in the bathroom for a bit of a makeover.

"You've got great hair, Katie."

"Thanks," she smiled, enjoying being attended to. It felt rather adult-like. "You wouldn't rather be out partying it up with Karla?" She had met the vivacious KK at the mall. What a riot; every other word sexually active. Could probably learn a lot from her as well.

" _No, mon ami._ I like kickin' it here with you." When Marissa smiled it touched her gorgeous green eyes. Had to give it to the old man, her dad had taste.

"Isn't it weird dating my dad? I mean he's like twice your age?"

"Not quite." Marissa glanced at her in the mirror. "He doesn't come across as old to me."

"Speak for yourself."

"I thought I was."

"Karla kept hinting at it." Understatement. Karla had been hilariously blunt.

"KK's jealous."

"She's bi, right?"

Marissa laughed. "She'll bust a gut when I tell her you think so. Sorry, she's a bit much, she has no filter."

"I thought she was cool."

"She is cool. Bit risky sometimes."

She rolled her eyes. "My mom's given me the whole GHB/roofies lecture a thousand times already."

"Smart woman."

"Right. Boobilicious, the slutty secretary, most popular MILF on the block, who leaves my dad to marry a douche like Jerry."

" _Rude."_ Marissa thumped her on the head. "So your mom wants to feel and look young and sexy, so what? Is that a crime? You'll feel differently when you're her age. We all do. Cut your parents some slack." Marissa looked her coolly in the eyes via the mirror. "Your dad's worried you're having sex."

"Oh shit. Are we going to talk about this?"

Marissa did her eyebrow thing. She had to learn that, too. It was pretty tight.

"I'm _not_."

"I know."

"How do you know?"

"I'm not as dumb as I look."

"It's just...Boys get pissy when you say no."

"Tell me about it."

"Like when I wouldn't go down to Josh's basement for a Lipstick Party. Know what that is?"

"I've heard tell. In France they're called _Baisodromes._ "

"How come you're always speaking French?"

" _Practique, mon cheri_." She looked wistful.

"I'd like to go to France."

"Maybe you and I will go together, a girl's thing, tell your dad he's uninvited but we'll send him pictures."

"Effin' awesome!" She put her hand up and Marissa smacked it five. She thought it was time to lay down the law. "Missy?"

"Mmm?"

"If you hurt my dad I'll hurt you back." Their eyes met in the mirror. Marissa's were reflective green ice but Katie's held a cool promise of their own. She didn't blink until Marissa did.

"We're done," Marissa said, setting down the mascara-like wand thingy. "I want chocolate."

Her hair turned out awesome. Even Karla said so when she came over with even _more_ clothes for her. It was ridic! KK broke out a bottle of wine and convinced Marissa to let her have one glass, KK's dirty mouth making her blush, but informative, _so informative_. She was so cool, and it had to be said Marissa was too. Or maybe that was just the clothes, chocolate and wine talking.

Katie was out. A fireball awake, curled up on the sofa her face softened. Just like her dad's. And just like him in the bar that night her eyes had been full of fierce promise of retribution if Marissa ever hurt him. It had unsteadied her, but only momentarily. Looking at her now, she was just a young woman trying to figure it all out after having been provided with ample inappropriate suggestions from Karla.

"You can't say things like that around her," she whispered.

"Get real." Karla tossed her raven locks. "She's gonna find out eventually."

"Operative word, _eventually._ Not everyone was finger-banged in the broom closet at age ten."

"Can I help it if I had an edifying fourth grade?"

Marissa felt the sleeping girl's skin. Cool to the touch, she pulled the throw around her shoulders.

Karla snorted, took a sip of her wine.

They left the girl to sleep and refilled their glasses in the kitchen. Karla shook her head. "Wow _._ I figured I'd be married with two brats in tow behind my fat ass before you even thought about settling down. _"_

"Please."

"You please. You're falling all over yourself for his kid. You've fallen for his damn dog. His cats. That permaglow? You must be jumping his bones twice a day— "

"Sometimes three," she confessed.

"Good God, woman," Karla deplored, spilling her wine. "Even I don't fornicate three times a day."

"Sssh!" She reached for a paper towel and started padding the floor.

"You're so losin' it, _chica_. _Do you see_ _yourself_ _right now?_ Spill a little wine, you drop to hands and knees, the good lil' woman, cleaning it up before the man of the house gets home."

Karla's phone rang. She fingered a quick text and tossed back the last of her wine. "Kevin's here."

"Kevin? Shit. Which Kevin?"

Marissa saw her to the door.

"Seriously. _Lust, Caution_ , okay?" Karla hugged her. Her brow furrowed as she looked outside. "Whoa. Really? Camaro Kevin? I really need to clean out my phone contacts."

" _Bon soir. Ne pas faire ce que je ne ferais pas!"_

"That doesn't leave much these days."

"Shut up. Love ya."

"Love ya back."

She closed the door, returned to the sleeping girl, wondering if her sister had ever stood over her as she did now. A vastly different perspective fostering than being fostered. Had the hair been an overstep? Perhaps John's ex-wife wouldn't approve. That could be an issue.

She startled herself. _Good God, is Karla right? Am I losing it?_

But losing what? Solitary nights studying tort reform, eyes crawling over the dry legalese of social security fraud for the law clinic while KK boomed and moaned next door? She wasn't oblivious; she kept expecting panic, an alert of Spokane capitulation that had choked the life and dreams out of so many young women but no alarm ever rang. John didn't treat her like the lil' woman, in fact quite the opposite. He was the most uncontrolling man she had ever dated. She liked that, yet at times wished he was more...concerned? That wasn't it, and it was early days. He never treated her less than a sensuous woman who was smarter than he was, and that might change but it worked now. She was bizarrely happy, and one thing her sister's death had taught her that she worked to remind herself daily was that change was inevitable. That when the now was good, _really_ _good_ , it wasn't something to deny, dismiss or cheapen as ordinary.

What to tell her mother was another story. Maybe the same thing she kept telling herself; get over it. Yes, he was older, divorced, unemployed. Her mom would love all that. Her primary complaint would be he was Anj's boyfriend and a lousy one at that. But Anj wasn't here, and lousy wasn't a reasonable objection just an adjective. John shared the loss of her sister, the loss of an only sibling. If that wasn't a reasonable foundation for a relationship, what was?

She could hear sister's laughter mocking her rationale.

"Keep an eye on her," she whispered to Crockett who winked, _"On the job, sista'."_ Geronimo was more apprehensive: follow the woman who fed him or stay with the little one who was fresh with adoration? "You stay too," she settled it.

Slipping down the hall she lay on John's bed. Gone but three days, she would have gladly doubled her debt to Sallie Mae for a phone call, a poorly typed text, vague smoke signals. She still wasn't buying the whole retreat thing, not entirely, but she didn't disbelieve him either. John was an odd duck out of the gate. It was one of the things she liked about him. That and the smell of him on the pillow. She breathed deep. _God. Pathetic._ Yep, there was her sister's mirth again.

Spreading out across all that unproductive emptiness she was nearly asleep when she heard a light knock and looked up to see a blondish Katie groggily standing in the doorway. Definitely a bit much on the hair. At least it washed out in fourteen washes.

"It's kinda creepy here without my dad," Katie said diminutively.

"A lot of space, huh?" Marissa patted the bed next to her. "I miss him, too."

Katie rolled onto the bed, yawned. Geronimo took up his post by the door.

The younger was lost to sleep in seconds.

The older held on a little longer, lost to nostalgia.

### CHAPTER 44

AUGUST

Sanderson, Texas, or thereabouts

Winding their way up into the hills, bouncing along in the backseat along a dirt track, McConnell had caught a bullet-ridden sign: Dead Indian Road.

Held all the promise of a dirt nap.

The CB radio blathered, "Car nineteen, what's your 10-20?" The guy with his gun spoke into the mic, "We're 10-49 on McCue Road, over," turned off the radio and put on some country. Waylon, that old outlaw; three chords and the truth.

The road went deeper and higher, curved around a hillside. The half-moon cast the earth in different shades of dark. To the right fell a small valley populated with what looked to be a field of gray, piss-poor corn. Killing the engine both agents got out, crunched away into the night, leaving McConnell and the two dead Mexicans in body bags in back for company.

A few minutes went by. He looked over his shoulder at the black bags. Waited. Wondered. Sweated.

Make a break for it? Of course it's what these guys did, hunt people running from them out in the desert and dark. The lay of the land a vast unknown, just how many Border Patrol were out there? He had no water, not to mention his hands were bound and they still had his gun with his prints. Still, running away and being shot in the back beat being shot in the head while on your knees.

He heard footsteps and the door opened. "Get out."

He did.

"Nice _pistola_ ," the other agent said, turning the Desert Eagle over a few feet away. It glinted in the pale moonlight. He loaded a round into the chamber, pointed it at McConnell's head.

He blinked but refused to flinch. If it was his time so be it. Sweat rolled down the side of his face.

The agent snorted, gestured with the gun. "Move it, tough guy."

Back behind the SUV, the other whipped out a wicked looking cutter, spun him around and cut his hands free. "It's your lucky night." He spat into the dust, opened the rear door, jerked the body bags out to carelessly thud to the ground. "Start haulin', boy." He pointed down the slope towards the corn.

McConnell grabbed one of the bags and started dragging it, an agent leading the way. Where the lip of corn began at a less hostile slant, he heard, "That'll do. Go get the other one, and giddy up, we ain't got all night." When both body bags and the dead inside them were at the agents' feet, McConnell was told not to move. He was still allowed to sweat as he glanced at the straggly, thin corn.

"You think you could outrun me, boy?" the agent with his gun asked while the other unzipped the body bags.

"Wanna find out?"

The agent grunted. "Beat a cop car, can't beat a radio. Sure as shit can't outrun the bullet in this gun." Gospel, even down here. But McConnell had beaten cop cars and radios, even helicopters. It was the bullet thing that was getting in his way. "Don't move now." He admired the gun some more while the other agent rifled through the dead, swearing.

There was a low whistle from the corn or somewhere thereabouts.

The guard considered McConnell, considered the weepy cornfield, sighed. He shook his head wistfully, slid the action, caught the ejected round, then wiped the gun clean with a handkerchief and said, "Don' shoot no one 'til after you leave Texas." He tossed the gun, then the clip and the single bullet from the chamber over to McConnell. They were letting him go. Why out here? Who was the whistle?

"Can I get my wallet?"

The border agent hooked a thumb towards the cornfield. "Down there."

"Don't forget this, neither," the other said, his one hand holding a bloodied blade, the other a mushroomed bit of metal that had been wiped as clean as it was going to get out here. "That's your slug? You popped the leg?"

McConnell took the spent bullet and added it to his collection.

The agent returned to his grisly work.

"Go on now," said the other. "Remember what I said: No shootin' folk. Not in Texas."

Not locally permitted, apparently shooting folk was A-Okay outside the Lone Star State.

He proceeded to slide down into the corn, awaiting a bullet in the back all the same. None came. He kept walking simply because there wasn't anything better to do. The end of the maize approached, just beyond was a man leaning against the trunk of a car.

"Dave!" T-shirt, khakis, a Texas Rangers baseball cap; arms crossed, McConnell's wallet in his grip. He had no idea who this guy was. "Don't remember me?" British accent? Still no clue. The man found this amusing. He pushed off the car, a dark cherry Chevy Malibu LT, came closer.

"It's me, man. Yeah?" American that time. New England? He took off his hat revealing short-cropped dark hair. He chuckled.

Wait.

"Mornin', sunshine!" Garrett said, extending a hand attached to a non-descript arm.

"You seem to have lost your tats," McConnell observed.

"You seem to have lost your glasses and brown hair. Not to mention your way, mate." It was a comfortable Scottish brogue that time.

Garrett nodded back. He popped the trunk. "One point two each as promised. Cleaned and pressed." Inside were two large, blue luggage bags. Unzipping one, he pulled it open to reveal orderly stacks of cash. "Count it if you want. But be quick."

He glanced up at the agents on the road.

"Thought you were dead, did ya? Nah, not dead. Just in Texas."

McConnell snorted. "I knew you weren't right. Accent was bouncing all over the goddamn place."

"Hadn't needed to bother with one 'til you got there. Said fuck all at the garage, mumbled my bits through the interview. Christ, that job was work. Shant do that again." He rubbed at his bare jaw. "We all have our little secrets though, don't we Dave? Or should I say _Michael_?"

He handed McConnell his wallet but waved his fake ID. His real wallet with his real ID were safely hidden in his truck back north. "Who were the Mexicans?"

Garrett clucked his tongue. "Wankers who were supposed to deliver you your money, which is why it's in the trunk of their car here." He rapped said trunk for emphasis. "Had a change of heart they did, thought to disappear you then disappear with your bees an' honey. So bloody hard to find good help these days." He tossed him a set of keys. "Wouldn't drive it overly much. I'm sure they have _compadres_ here about. You feelin' bad for 'em?"

"Not particularly. And the BP?"

"I said hard to find, not impossible to hire. Can't be too careful in this wild, wild west of yours. You American blokes like to get pissed and shoot if a stiff wind strokes your prick funny. So, _Michael Bartczak,_ one-one-two-four Birch Street, Dearborn, Michigan. Now that's a right shithole there, eh mate?" He narrowed his eyes. "Nah...You're no Michael Bartczak. Are ya?"

McConnell said nothing.

"Well." Garrett flung back the fake license. "What do we do, here?"

"I could break your neck and drive off in my new car."

"You could. You do know how to make an exit. But why, mate?"

Why was right. Garrett didn't know him anymore than he knew Garrett, which probably wasn't his name, either. They could keep it that way, none the wiser, none the deader. He was done with killing. And he had what he came for: the money.

"Aye, seeing reason. All's well that ends well, eh? No blood no foul, we all keep our gobs shut, go our separates and enjoy our Guinness and Guineas. Enough dosh to keep you in running shoes for a while."

McConnell said nothing.

"Good talk." Garrett winked. "Caper for the books. I'm off." He glanced up at the sky. "Wouldn't dawdle, maybe twenty-minutes before the drones circle back. Cheers mate!" He tossed a casual salute and disappeared into the corn, reappearing at the far edge, scrabbling up the slope.

McConnell waited until the SUV reversed back the way they had come and he was alone, deep in the dark crotch of Texas, with keys to a dead Mexican's car with a trunk full of money. Almost as easy as pie.

An hour later, the Malibu wiped clean and ditched, he was heading back north.

Spokane, Washington

Twenty-five hours later he rubbed at aching eyes as he cleared Idaho and broke the Spokane County line, a blazing persimmon in the rearview striking the world a dusky orange. Another hour and he smiled at the sight of Marissa's Honda in his driveway. The garage door sealed itself and he hid the money in the boat cabin and went inside.

It was quiet. Clothes were everywhere, as were pizza and to-go containers. The bastard cats manned their posts. Didn't offer to divulge just what had transpired.

He found Marissa and Katie in his room, the bigger protectively around the smaller who now had blondish hair. That wasn't going to go over well with Carrie.

Geronimo woofed, saw it was him, wagged and yawned.

"Quiet," mumbled Katie, dreamily reaching out to his muzzle. The dog lay back down, Katie's hand following to rest upon his head. "Goo' dog."

With a contented sigh, Geronimo returned to his own canine dreams.

McConnell slipped gently behind Marissa and she stirred, sleepy eyes taking him in, nestling her pink-clad bottom back against him. The dark, dirty violence of the road was washed away by warm vanilla, soft seas, blooming citrus and passionate, sleepy emeralds.

" _Mon tigre... vous êtes à la maison,"_ Marissa Flynn whispered, nuzzling his unshaven face, pulling his arm tightly around them.

He touched his daughter's cheek and sighed.

"I'm home," he said. And John McConnell was.

### CHAPTER 45

AUGUST

Round Rock, Texas

Chad Lucas was "Drunk as a skunk" as his dad used to say. Never overly fond of spirits, the Lucases more teetotalers really, he had drunk more tonight than he had in the past ten years. Lying on the bar next to a beer chaser was his sidearm. Loaded, safety off.

"Bobby, you sumbitch, don' thing' I don' see you 'voidin' me. Hi' me again."

Bobby reluctantly poured another.

"Let me get you a cab, Mister Lucas, huh?" he asked for the fourth time.

"I can drive," Lucas snarled. He tossed back the shot of tequila, washed it down with the last of his beer, some of which actually managed to find his mouth. "Wasch' me."

Wiping his chin, he peered around the bar, rocking on his heels. It was empty save for a couple petting heavy in the back booth. Good for them. An ugly, brutal world. If you could get a handful of pussy before you left it then at least you didn't leave empty-handed.

"This worl's a fuckin' cisspool!" he announced. No one cared. Not even Bobby. Screw them; _he_ knew it was a cesspool. Petey Jackson had known it, too.

Grabbing up his gun he threw down all the cash he had. Shipping out to Tikrit, Bobby had four mouths to feed and another on the way. Reservists, bad luck of the draw in this war. But plenty of that to go around.

Today, he had sullied another man's reputation for all eternity. Not that the man was a particularly good man, but neither was he.

"You sure you don't want that cab, Mister Lucas?"

Lucas waved it away. He staggered outside, into the humid tang of a Texas summer night. Scanned the parking lot. An unfamiliar black Escalade idled across the street. He pointed his gun at it. The driver drove off. He watched it blearily, warily, hopped into his Chevy Avalanche and went home.

Home a gorgeous, pine-green monstrosity he shouldn't be able to afford. Couldn't on his Army salary. The color reminded him of the Army. When he came home he wanted not to think about the goddamn Army, wanted to just enjoy his twin daughters and little baby boy and still chubby wife. _Fuck the goddamn Army._

He pushed open the door into flickering darkness. He was late so she would be waiting up watching TV.

"Tanya?"

"Mhm?" mumbled a sleepy voice. "Late one, huh?"

"I uh, yeah, ya' know. I jus'-I ha' ta stop fo' a beer." He fell onto the couch beside her. She was sprawled out in a teddy, the hum of the air conditioning battling with the sound of _Nik at Nite_. Jack Trooper stumbling through trouble, Chrissy snorting her way right along with him.

Tanya sat up, rubbed at her eyes. She weighed him, weighed his troubles. Might never be the prom queen he had fallen for back in Michigan but still cute as a button, and he was in love with her as much as the day he had married her.

"Wanna talk it out?" she asked, rubbing his thigh.

"Can't," and he couldn't. Definitely shouldn't.

"Talk around it like you do."

He shook his head. "I di' somethin'."

"What? What did you do?" she asked sweetly.

"Can't tell ya.'"

"Why?"

He gave her a grim smile. "'Cause he'll kill us, baby. They'll kill us all."

San Diego, California

Duffy's first floor apartment left a lot to be desired but he did have access to a small yard in the back shared by Mrs. Corrado and her cat. Neither complained that he smoked, at least not to his face. He was doing so now, sitting on a cheap patio chair. He could just make out the TV in Mrs. Corrado's living room through her slider. Gloria Rosen was on—what was her show? _America in Focus._ He couldn't hear the sound through the glass, not with the _Tejano_ blasting from an apartment upstairs, but when they started rolling grainy Circle-K security footage he had a pretty good idea what the subject was.

He watched the two gangbangers bend over the counter, clawing up cash from the register. Six seconds in, each takes two shots in the back and crumples to the hard tile. At nine, one starts dragging himself towards the exit; eleven and a half seconds, two more rounds end his crawl, one taking a sizable chunk out of his skull.

"I thought I'd find you out here," Abbey said from behind him. Her hand massaged his neck then stopped when she saw the event of two years ago as they were rolling it again. Duffy imagined Gloria giving a play-by-play. Hell he could call in and do it for her—

The blinds were pulled. They danced to and fro as Mrs. Corrado's scowl peered between them, her cat in her arms, then she disappeared like her TV.

Duffy continued to stare at where its glow had been.

Abbey started to massage his neck again. "You were right. My place is better."

He looked up at her. She gave him her smile, tossed her long dark hair and stepped back inside the slider.

With a parting glance at Mrs. Corrado's, he snuffed out his smoke, double-tapped the pack of Raleighs and followed after her.

Denver, Colorado

"And this smear campaign against Jackson will obfuscate further speculation?"

"It should." Barringer's fist squeezed the sat-phone hard enough to make the plastic whine. Lucas or this prick, it was neck and neck as to who was more aggravating tonight.

"Should or will? Last we spoke, General, you made it clear that you had this well in hand."

Politics never his forte, neither were explanations.

"We suffered a setback," he replied. "The husband of the woman who Jackson was screwing disappeared." Apparently right before Lucas's inept eyes. All Tan tasked him to do was keep an eye on the broken junkie. "The kiddie porn was a quick contingency. It'll throw the yahoos for a loop while we root out the shooter," or he pops back up again. The latter more likely if they were to have a chance to find him.

"I would remind you we've many irons in the fire, and without wood to burn those irons will run cold, break, and so will our mission. Time is, as always, of the essence. We can ill afford to waste it playing hide and seek with the local bureaucrats."

"Things happen. It's a long war, Mr. Secretary."

"Indeed. Again, perhaps it is time we discuss alternatives." Alternatives meaning replacements for _him_.

"You can discuss whatever with whomever you want. I've got work to do."

"You'll brook no argument from me on that. But before you get to your work, some of the Doctrine are concerned about the news reports that they have identified the weapon as a Marine Corps rifle."

"It's a best guess by Quantico, and I mean guess. AR-15 knock-offs have the same barreling, same rifling as the M40A3. They're trying to spook the shooter. May be trying to rattle Lucas as well."

" _Is_ Mister Lucas rattle-able?"

How much to tell. "I have concerns. Competency, not loyalty. His responsibilities have been reassigned."

"So the FBI?"

"Remains in the dark."

"And your investigation?"

"Priority one for Tan's team."

"But in the dark as well. We're sure this shooter isn't in any part of our operation?"

"You read the report. All personnel accounted for, military or otherwise, and all those with special skills have been fully revetted. Your old company forthcoming?"

"Rest assured there was zero involvement of any domestic TLA, official op or otherwise. And nothing to indicate a recognized foreign agency either. Which leaves us with terrorism."

"Not with an agenda. No demands, no claims for the shootings. It's more the hallmarks of a lone wolf. Simple message: 'I know what you're doing.'"

"So you still believe this has to do with our operation?"

No proof yet, he was possessed of a nagging irritation that it was, like a rock in his boot on a hump without end.

"Jackson getting in a car accident? Falling down the stairs? Taking a knife in a bar fight, all possible. Credible. But this was blatant execution. Of the key player at the depot."

" _Blue Zeta_ is at your disposal, General. Utilize them."

He was. But their SIGINT team needed at least one electronic dot to connect to the rest. That dot was still in the wind.

"Keep me informed then, General. Enjoy your evening."

Barringer planned on it.

He tossed the phone on the bed, stepped over to the tall windows, scotch in hand. The city view from the exec suite atop the Westin Tabor Center might have been impressive during daylight, with the background of the Rockies to emphasize the diamond of civilization nestled in the rough but at night it was just typical high-rises with rows of light between. Safe and peaceful. America blissfully asleep.

Tombari had raised a flag. Danny Jones had gotten greedy. He was screwing the numbers up in Iraq and not in the usual screwy bookkeeping way that had netted them over eleven billion dollars this past year. PGW had found their way into the news again and certain people in Congress had taken an interest. Looked like Jones was going to have to fall on his knife. Or Fall on Tan's.

First Jackson, now Jew-boy Jones.

Jackson at least would be missed. All in all, a good boy, had done a good job, made them money and made Barringer laugh. Better class than the niggers and spics offing one another over drugs and whores. Greedy _and_ bloodthirsty. How would Jew-boy Jones fare in that seedy business? Or Tombari? He snorted. The jackals would tear them apart.

Speaking of predators, it was time to let Tan off the leash. If he couldn't find a crack in the wall he was going to have to make some of his own. Lucas was a fuck up, he hoped the boy knew it, because it was about to go wet and it was all his fault.

He tossed back the rest of his scotch. "You can come out now," he yelled.

The bathroom door opened and out slinked a blonde waif in cheap black lingerie. A crescent-shaped scar marred one corner of her mouth. A present from Tombari, swore the girl could suck golf balls through a garden hose.

"Blow's on the table, like you asked." He pointed to the glass coffee table where a small pile of pristine cocaine waited. She eyed the coke, licked her lips like a starved rat, eyes darting between him and the powder. "Go ahead."

She dropped to her knees, cut two lines and snorted. She rocked back on her heels. Rubbing a taste along her gums, eyes gleaming, she boasted, "Baby, I'm gonna make you come like a fire hydrant. Whattaya say ta' that, huh?"

He lit a cigar. He walked to the bar, poured another drink. "How old are you?"

"How old you want me to be?"

He turned and stared her down.

"I'm fifteen. Almost."

"I say dance for two hours. You do that, I'll give you a thousand bucks. And you say nothing to anyone."

She considered. "And the coke?"

"Take it, too."

She shrugged, turned on the TV with the remote, found some nigger reggae music.

He returned to his vigil at the window. He caught her reflection as she twirled, snorted a line, twirled even harder. Outside, America slept.

Austin, Texas

He pulled the Escalade inside, waited for the automatic garage door to drop down. He listened. Nothing but the tick of the hot engine, the low rasp of the AC winding down. The rancher was silent.

He grabbed the Home Depot bag from the passenger's and went inside to a typical working-class household, typical with one difference. Down the creaking steps into the half-finished basement, he approached a solid door, drew the bolt-locks and opened it on silent hinges. He liked that; a soundproof room should have silent hinges. He entered, closed the door and flicked on the fluorescents that ran the ceiling. The walls were smooth, so was the floor, with a half-food diameter drain inset next to the feet of Jeffrey Marburger, burger-flipper, junkie, former husband of Lita Marburger.

Jeffrey was strapped naked to a metal chair with duct tape over his mouth.

He slipped out of his jacket, hung it neatly on the back of another chair. Slid this chair to the far end of the room, drew yet another close to Jeffrey, who flinched, mumbled something unintelligible but obviously very important as he rolled up his sleeves.

He fished his switchblade out of a pocket and flicked the blade. Jeffrey's eyes went wide.

"No no," Tan assured, "this isn't for you."

He drew his purchase from the Home Depot bag. Like everything nowadays, it was encased in impossible plastic. "This is for this," he said, slicing through it to the prize within. " _These_ are for you."

Jeffrey's eyes went wider. Snot blew out his nose. He tried to slide the chair backwards as he had for hours but that particular chair was still bolted to the floor.

Tan sat down and brandished the shiny pliers with the red-rubber handle. "How do you think he started with that little girl?" he asked in earnest, opening and closing the pliers. They had a smooth motion. He liked the way the teeth clapped together. He wondered if Pincer Parish had felt the same way about his tool of trade.

Jeffrey moaned something crucially time sensitive but still garbled.

"I think he started with the face."

And that's where Tan started, too.

### Afterword

You've come this far. Care to come a little further?

Book 2, Trigger Effect, available now in the Kindle Store, continues John McConnell's vigilante odyssey through the American empire.

If you would like to stay updated on future releases, subscribe to my newsletter at www.willvanallen.com

