After bedtime?

  Part of her wanted to stay put, but the thought of being alone in the big house was too much for a nine-year-old. She let out a shrill scream and exploded out the back door, into a cold autumn night that felt more like winter’s first blast. She kept screaming, kept right on running until she passed her father’s car and reached the garage at the end of the driveway. With both fists, she pounded on the garage door.

  “Daddy, are you in there?” Her little voice was even more fragile against the cold, north wind.

  She tried the latch, but it was locked, and she was too small to raise the main door anyway. She ran to the side door and turned the knob. It, too, was locked. On her tiptoes she peered through the window. The light inside was on, but she didn’t see any sign of her father. The angle gave her a view only of the front half of the garage.

  “Daddy, are you-”

  Her words halted as her eyes fixed on the dark patch on the floor. It wasn’t really a patch. It moved ever so slightly, back and forth. A spot with a gentle sway. Not a spot. A ghostlike image with arms at its side. Feet that hovered above the ground. A rope around its neck.

  And a hunter’s cap just like her father’s.

  She fell backward to the ground, pushed herself away from the garage door, and ran back toward the house. Except she didn’t want to go back inside, didn’t know where to run. She ran in circles around the big elm tree, crying and screaming, the sound of fallen leaves crunching beneath her feet.

  •

  A pounding noise jostled her from her memories. She blinked hard, trying to focus. It sounded like the footsteps in the hall she thought she’d heard earlier, but it was louder, like galloping horses. Another round of pounding, and she realized it wasn’t footsteps at all.

  Someone was knocking at the front door.

  Her heart raced. She couldn’t even begin to guess who would come calling at this hour, and she didn’t want to think about it. She had yet to clear her mind of the memories she’d stirred up. That unforgettable image on the garage floor. The one that looked so much like the dark spot in her photograph of that little girl and her dog. The shadow that had never existed.

  Or that had disappeared.

  With the third round of knocking, Cindy’s feet were on the floor. A voice inside her told her not to answer the door, exactly like her dream. And just like the dream, she found herself ignoring the warning, putting one foot in front of the other as she slowly crossed the bedroom.

  A light switched on at the end of the hall. Her mother peeked out of her room and said, “Cindy, what the heck is going on?”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll get it.”

  23

  •

  Jack woke to a shrill ringing in his ear. His pillow felt hard as concrete, and then he realized it was concrete. His cheek was pressed against the sidewalk, exactly where he’d fallen.

  At first, he had no memory of where he was. Dawn was just a sliver of an orange ribbon on the horizon. Jack tried to sit up, but his body ached all over. It was as if he’d been hit by a truck. Finally, he forced himself onto his knees. The ringing in his ear was gone, but he felt nauseous. Probably a concussion. He closed his eyes and tried to stop the spinning. He opened them and strained to focus on something, anything, in the middle distance. Slowly, he began to get his bearings, and the memory of last night came back to him. The footsteps behind him. The blow to his back that sent his cell phone flying across the lawn. His chin banging on the sidewalk.

  He touched his jaw. It was definitely sore. His gaze drifted toward the fence, and he spotted a little orange light blinking in the darkness. He squinted, then realized what it was: his cell phone emitted that light whenever he had a message. He tried to stand up, then yielded to the pain. He rolled like a dog and grabbed the phone, then dialed Cindy at her mother’s. She answered after just three rings.

  “Hi. It’s me.”

  “Jack, where have you been? I’ve been calling your cell, but you didn’t answer.”

  His head was pounding. “What time is it?”

  “Almost five.”

  “In the morning?”

  “Yes, the morning. What’s wrong with you? Have you been drinking?”

  “No. I got beat up.”

  “What?”

  The simple act of talking made him short of breath. He groaned lightly and said, “Somebody beat the holy crap out of me.”

  “Are you okay?”

  Jack forced a yawn in an effort to loosen his jaw. A sharp pain ran though his head like a railroad spike. “I think I’ll be okay.” In about a month, he thought.

  “Who did this to you?” she asked, her voice quaking.

  He started to explain, but it hurt too much to talk. “Don’t worry. It’s going to be okay.”

  “It’s not okay! They just left, and you weren’t even here. I had no idea what to do.”

  He sat bolt upright, concerned. “Who came?”

  “The marshals.”

  “Federal marshals?”

  “Yes. They had a search warrant.”

  “What did they want?”

  “Your home computer.”

  That spike was back in his head. He grimaced and said, “Did you give it to them?”

  “Yes, of course. Rosa said I had to.”

  “You spoke to Rosa?”

  “Yes, I couldn’t find you. They wanted your office computers, too. Rosa’s going ballistic.”

  “What’s the federal government doing in this? Did you ask Rosa?”

  “No. But she did say something about the IRS.”

  Jack was silent. Three little letters no one liked to hear. “You sure that’s what she said-IRS?”

  “No. She said ‘Internal Revenue Service.’”

  He took a deep breath, which was a big mistake. All it took was a little extra air in his chest cavity to press against the spine and send him reeling with pain. It was as if he were being kicked in the back all over again.

  “Cindy, I’m going to call Rosa now. But as soon as I talk with her, we all need to talk.”

  “You and I need to talk first. Alone.”

  Between last night’s beating and now the IRS, he’d almost forgotten about the Jessie sex tape. “You’re right. We need to talk.”

  “Sooner rather than later.”

  “That sounds good to me.”

  “Okay. Just call me as soon as you finish with Rosa.”

  “I will.”

  “Jack?”

  “What?”

  “What’s going on with the IRS?”

  “I’m not sure. Listen, I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

  They said good-bye, and Jack switched off the phone. His mouth hurt, partly from having talked too much, mostly from having kissed the sidewalk last night. He spat a little blood into the grass and slowly pushed himself up onto two wobbly feet.

  “Wonderful,” he said as he tried to straighten his back. “The IRS.”

  24

  •

  Macon, Georgia, was a good place to die. And that was exactly his plan.

  He called himself Fate, the favorite word of Father Aleksandr, the priest in his native Georgian village-the other Georgia, the lands beyond the Caucasus Mountains-who’d told him since boyhood that everything happened for a reason. The concept had always overwhelmed him, the very idea that every thought and every deed, every action and every inaction, was part of a bigger plan. The problem was, he didn’t know what the plan was, couldn’t fathom what it should be. What if he made a decision that somehow managed to screw everything up? He preferred to lay that kind of ultimate responsibility on somebody else, even when doing the very thing he did best.

  That made him a peculiar killer indeed.

  He was seated behind the wheel of his rented van, parked on the street corner a half-block away from the chosen household. The sun had set several hours earlier behind an overcast sky. The nearest street lamp was at the other end of the street, leaving him and his van in total darkness. Frost from his own breath was beginning to build inside his windshield. No matter how cold it got, he didn’t dare start the engine for fear of drawing attention to himself. He didn’t need the heater anyway. He had his own source of warmth, a fifth of slivovitz, a potent vodka made from plums. “Peps you up, colors the cheeks” was a slogan known to millions of Eastern Europeans. At seventy-percent alcohol, it was also the ultimate insurance against the inhibitions of conscience. The Budapest whores knew it well. So had the snipers in Chechnya, who’d dosed themselves heavily on the devil’s drink before potting away at women and children caught in their crosshairs. On occasion, Fate had known it to make him braver too, though he drank it simply because he liked it even more than chacha, a grape vodka popular among Georgians. So long as he followed his own rules, he enjoyed his work; he didn’t need any vodka to ease his conscience.

  He poured another capful of slivovitz and then lit it with his cigarette. The genuine stuff burned a pretty blue flame. He watched it flicker for a moment, then tossed the flaming cocktail down the back of his throat.

  It was a ritual he’d performed since his teenage years, when Fate had found his first victim-or, more appropriately, when his first victim had found Fate. He and the other hoodlums in his gang never selected a target. Victims identified themselves. The boys set the criteria and waited for someone who fit the bill to come along. The next guy to walk by wearing sunglasses. The next woman with brown eyes. The next kid on a bicycle. Back then, it was just for fun, perhaps an initiation or other gang-related right of passage. That kind of silliness was behind him. His work now had a purpose. He murdered only for hire.

  It was the perfect arrangement for a killer who didn’t want his work to upset the larger plan. Victims were preselected, not by him but by someone else. He didn’t even have to choose the manner of execution. His victims did. It could be a complete surprise, the sleeping victim never regaining consciousness. Or death could be days, even weeks in the offing, a protracted path of suffering punctuated by sharp, futile screams. The decision-making process was deceptively simple. He’d follow his targets home at night and watch them go inside. If they left the porch light on, death would be quick and painless. Porch light off, not so quick-and definitely not painless. The choice was theirs. They sealed their fate without effort and without even knowing it.

  Everything happens for a reason. Not even the smallest act is meaningless. It all determines one’s fate.

  He took another hit of slivovitz and turned his eyes toward the front porch. Jody Falder was standing outside her front door. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, apparently trying to stay warm. A cold wind had kicked up at sunset, transforming a mild afternoon into a dark, cold reminder that the South did indeed have winter. She wore no coat. Obviously, she hadn’t anticipated the drastic change in temperature, or maybe she hadn’t expected to return home so late.

  Peering through night-vision binoculars, he watched her fumble for her house key, unlock the door, and disappear inside. Patiently he waited, his eyes glued to the porch light. Two minutes passed, and it was still burning brightly. He gave her more time, careful not to rush things. He couldn’t actually see her moving about inside the house, but it was easy enough to monitor her movement from room to room. Kitchen light on, kitchen light off. Bathroom lit, bathroom dark. Finally, the bedroom light came on and remained lit for several minutes. Then it switched off.

  He narrowed his eyes, as if peering into the bedroom window, though he was merely imagining the scene unfolding behind drawn curtains. The unexpected cold front had surely left her bedroom colder than usual. Nipples erect, for sure. She’d shed her clothes quickly, slipped on a nightgown, and jumped beneath the covers. At that point, only a lunatic would jump out of a warm bed, run downstairs, and flip off the porch light. It appeared as though she’d made her decision. Porch light on. Quick and painless.

  Lucky bitch.

  He lowered his binoculars, then did a double take. The porch light had suddenly switched off. A twist of fate. It was apparently controlled by electronic timer. Arguably, it wasn’t her decision, but rules were rules. Porch light off: No more quick and painless. A sign of the times. We are all slaves to our gadgets.

  Doesn’t that just suck?

  A perverse smile crept to his lips as he slipped on his latex gloves, like the hands of a surgeon. It was a real source of personal pride, the way he managed to inflict all that suffering and still make death look like anything but homicide. He grabbed his bag of tools and pulled a black knit cap over his head, the same cap he’d worn on every job since his first mission as a mercenary soldier, a sneak attack on a rebel camp-six women, three old men, and two teenage boys, the first in a long line of noisy amusements for his knives. This job would be much cleaner and quieter, but the hat was still his lucky charm of sorts.

  He moved quickly across the yard and toward the darkened house, yearning for that look on her face when she’d look up into his eyes, unable to move, unable to scream, unable to do much of anything but accept the fact that Fate had found her.

  25

  •

  I’m back,” said Rosa as she entered Jack’s conference room. “That was quick,” he replied.

  There was nothing like the government overplaying its hand to set off a career criminal-defense lawyer, and the morning raid by the IRS had propelled Rosa into orbit. She’d insisted that he go to the emergency room while she marched off to an emergency hearing to block the IRS from accessing his computers. Thankfully, his tests had ruled out serious injury. A mild concussion, at worst. He was discharged with some Tylenol and a sheet of preprinted instructions about things he should avoid over the next few days-loud noises, sudden movements, general stress and aggravation. A trip to Disney World seemed out of the question.

  “I still can’t believe those sons of bitches took your computer,” she said. “You’re a criminal defense lawyer, not a hardware store. There’s privileged information in there.”

  “What did the judge say?” asked Jack.

  “He wouldn’t invalidate the warrant. But I persuaded him to appoint an independent special master to examine your hard drive.”

  “So the government won’t see anything that’s on my computers?”

  “Not unless the special master determines that there’s something the government should see.”

  “What exactly are they looking for?”

  “I’m glad you asked that question. Because we need to talk.”

  Jack grimaced. No matter what the context, the words “we need to talk” could never be good. “Okay, sure.”

  “Basically, the government wants anything that shows money flowing back and forth between you and Jessie Merrill. Particularly, they want to know if you ever accessed that Bahamian account that named you and Jessie as joint account holders.”

  His head was suddenly hurting again. “Oh, that.”

  “Is there something you forgot to tell your lawyer, Mr. Swyteck?”

  “I just found out about that last night from the PR of Jessie’s estate, Clara Pierce.”

  “She obviously told the IRS, too. But let’s go back to what you just said: What do you mean, you just found out about it? Your name’s on the account.”

  “I don’t know how it got there.”

  “Well, think hard. Because I don’t want to walk into a courtroom ever again without an explanation for it.”

  Jack went to the window, shaking his head. “I didn’t share this theory with Clara, but I’m pretty certain it ties in with Jessie’s threats.”

  “What threats?”

  “I told you before. After I figured out she’d scammed me, she threatened me. She said if I told anyone about it, she’d make them believe I was part of it from the beginning.”

  “So she put your name on her bank account?”

  “Sure. You know how some of these Caribbean banks are. Most of them never meet their customers. Adding a name is a snap.”

  “But why would she do it?”

  “It makes sense,” he said, convincing himself as he spoke. “It was the only way she could give teeth to her threat. If I leaked the scam, I’d take myself down with her. The joint account would make it look as if we were splitting the pie, fifty-fifty.”

  “Pretty risky on her part. As a joint account holder you could have cleaned out the entire account.”

  “Not if I didn’t know about it. It’s an offshore account. No tax statements, no IRS notices to tip me off that it even existed.”

  “What about bank statements?”

  “Mailed to her address, I’m sure. Probably a post office box in Katmandu. Assuming a bank like Grand Bahama Trust Company even issues bank statements.”

  “So you say this was her little secret?”

  “Her secret weapon. Something she’d spring on me if I ever threatened to expose her scam. It makes me look like I was part of it.”

  “Now that she’s dead, it also has a way of making it look as if you killed her.”

  Jack knew that the conversation was headed in that direction, but her words still hit hard. “The million-and-a-half-dollar motive. With no more Jessie, I’m the sole account holder.”

  “Murder among coconspirators. That’s about the size of it.”

  “You think that theory flies? That I killed her for the money?”

  “Not with me it doesn’t.”

  “Thanks, but you’re not the jury. Honestly, what do you think?”

  “I think we just take this one step at a time. Right now, we have the IRS breathing down your neck. The ugliest beast in the bureaucratic jungle. So let’s talk philosophy.”

  “By ‘philosophy,’ I assume, you don’t mean the great thinkers-Hegel, Kant, Moe, Larry, Curly.”

  “I mean my own philosophy on how to deal with the IRS. I put criminal tax investigations in a class by themselves. I want to be completely upfront about this, because not everyone agrees with my views.”