The Last Family

10

Joe McLean had been chain smoking cigarettes, and the small ashtray leaked gray ash onto the conference table’s laminated wood surface. He looked across at Thorne Greer, who rolled his eyes at the ceiling to let McLean know how he felt, working with kids again. Rookies for a job that clearly called for hard-core pros.

There were seven people sitting in the small conference room awaiting Paul’s arrival. The five younger agents were making small talk, sipping sodas or mineral water, and trading the war stories they had heard since they’d joined the DEA. Stories Thorne and Joe had told at the same stage in their own careers. Two of the five were women. McLean pegged all of them at between twenty-three and thirty tops; thirty-four was cutoff age for joining the DEA. A couple still had Quantico, Virginia, soil on their shoes. Only one of the women was attractive, to Joe’s way of measuring, the other looked like a lesbian to him.

Rainey’s secretary, Sherry Lander, had made sure everyone was offered coffee, soda, or mineral water. The agents fresh from the training academy or backwater outposts were excited. McLean and Greer were beyond being excited. The old pros were both wishing Paul had pulled in some freelance or dark-angel pros who’d run Martin to the ground and eat the meat off his bones.

The agents’ eyes followed as Paul appeared in the doorway, then limped to the table, carrying the cane like a shotgun in the crook of his left arm and a valise filled with files in the right. Rainey Lee followed like a tall shadow, carrying the slide projector and a box containing a carousel. Paul’s appearance brought the room to immediate silence. He could almost hear the smoke roll off the cigarette in Joe’s hand. Thorne and Joe got up and shook Rainey’s hand.

“Rainey!” Joe said. “God, it’s great to see you.”

“Hey, Rainey,” Thorne added. “We were planning to get out to see you this afternoon.”

Rainey nodded and smiled weakly. The two agents exchanged glances and took their seats.

“My name’s Paul Masterson. You new troops don’t know me, but I know all of you.” He reached into the valise, pulled six files and tossed them onto the table in front of him. “I wasn’t always this handsome,” he said, unsmiling. He pointed at his eye patch. “This is what can happen to you if you don’t stay on your toes. I assume you’ve heard the story of what happened in Miami a few years back. I understand you studied it at the academy under ‘don’t let this happen to you’ or something similar.”

He saw a flash of recognition in their eyes. Greer and McLean were smiling. He wished they had discussed his appearance with the new agents before he’d come in. He hated looking into the virgin mirrors of other people’s eyes.

“You weren’t briefed in any depth on this operation because I plan to keep everything I say within this group. Our quarry may have sources in the CIA, DEA, and other groups that give, trade, or sell him information. I have selected each of you from over fifty possible candidates recommended by Mason Anderson in personnel. You five are all fairly new, but enthusiasm and energy are as important as experience.” Paul saw the light go on in the older agents’ eyes. He had said it without saying it. He made the inexperience seem a plus instead of the minus it was.

“The man with me is Rainey Lee, who has been in Nashville for the past four years. He’s providing this conference room.”

Rainey nodded without looking them in the eyes.

“You should know that the four of us were together on that dock in Miami when this happened to me. We four have known each other for at least fifteen years, so forgive us our shorthand. Hopefully you’ll all catch up before we’re finished.”

Paul counted heads. “We’re missing someone.”

Thorne nodded. “A guy named Woodrow Poole is coming in any second from the airport.”

As if on cue the door opened and a baby-faced young man with white-blond hair bolted into the room. He was holding an overnight case. His hair was combed back over his ears, and he was built like a middleweight. He sat beside Sean Merrin, who was a dead ringer for the host of Wheel of Fortune, though a foot taller.

“Sorry I’m late,” the newcomer said nervously.

“Woodrow Poole?” Paul asked.

The man nodded and shook Paul’s hand.

“Your timing is perfect.”

“Flight was late, sorry.” He took a seat and nodded at the people around the table.

Paul opened a file. He had been prepared for someone who looked like Arnold Schwarzenegger and picked his teeth with a tenpenny nail. Woody would fit in. In fact, he didn’t look like much. But looks were often deceptive. Martin Fletcher himself had originally been nothing special to look at.

“Most of you don’t know each other. Hands up as I mention your names, please. Agents Stephanie Martin, Sierra Ross, Walter Davidson, and Larry Burrows…” The hands rose and fell. “You four will make up team Nighthawk under the command of Joe McLean. Each of you has surveillance training, and you will be able to put those skills to use.”

Joe straightened and looked at Paul. There was a smirk on his face.

Doesn’t like the idea of teaching, Paul thought to himself. “Your objective will be to conduct surveillance on the sole occupant of three twenty-one Tucker Court in Charlotte, North Carolina.”

Paul looked around the room. “Woodrow Poole and Sean Merrin.” Paul looked at each as they raised their hands. “You will accompany Thorne Greer to New Orleans, where you will be responsible for protecting three civilian family members. You will have the services of the local police and DEA agents to help, but each of you will be responsible for maintaining constant cover on the principals. If you need help, you will have contacts to call on. Need ten cops or fifty, they’ll be there.”

“Sorry, sir, but might I ask why this family is so important?” Sean Merrin asked.

“The family in New Orleans is our best and possibly only means of capturing the person responsible for murdering eight people. Those eight were family members of the three strike-force agents in this room. They were slain in the most cold-blooded fashion imaginable. We have every reason to believe the three people in New Orleans will receive the same treatment unless we can prevent it.”

Paul’s voice cracked under the sudden emotion. “The man responsible, one Martin Fletcher, is possibly the most dangerous individual any of you will ever face. He may not be working alone, and if he has an associate, that man or woman will also be extremely dangerous-and unknown, unless we can get lucky with our investigation here in Nashville.”

“Will we be bunking in with three civilians?” Sean asked.

There was nervous laughter scattered about the room.

“I mean, will we be with them twenty-four hours a day?”

“Yes and no,” Paul said. “They are not to be aware that you are there at all.”

“Why?” Sean asked. “I mean, how? Protect people from outside their house?”

“Stealth. I won’t risk the team being uncovered by the target. Everything has to appear normal. If the family knows you are there, they might telegraph it in their behavior. Under no circumstances are you to be seen by the family. Also, we will take for a given that they are under surveillance by the target. So you have to avoid being seen by them and Martin Fletcher.”

Sean Merrin shook his head slowly. “I’m new, but according to what I know, it’s not… I mean we can protect them better if…”

Paul’s hand stopped the agent’s voice. “I have thought this through. The family in New Orleans you’re protecting is mine. Believe me, if I could protect them from the inside, I would. If I could spirit them away to a safe place, I would. But I have to do this knowing that we will have one shot at Martin. We believe he will go to New Orleans to kill them. He might eventually come for them wherever we put them, but whatever plan he has in place is more than likely already in motion.”

“But won’t he assume there’ll be people watching your family?”

“Good thinking, Sean. Keep that up.” Paul nodded at Rainey, who switched the lights off. The slide projector came to life, blazing a white rectangle on the wall. The first image was of a man in a tough-guy pose wearing fatigues and a black beret cocked over one eye. He had dark hair cut against his skull, and dulled eyes.

“Ladies and gentlemen, meet Martin Fletcher. Martin was born in 1947. His father, Milton, was an eyeglass grinder in Charlotte, North Carolina. The father was a suicide-blew his head off with a shotgun. Martin was educated in public school in Charlotte, and in 1965 he went straight into the Marine Corps from high school. He was channeled to the SEALs after boot camp because of his special interests and obvious talents. In Vietnam he was decorated for valor on three separate occasions. Martin is cool under fire and fearless to the point of craziness. He’s an expert marksman, a whiz with demolition, and he has few equals at electronic surveillance. He has the conscience of a flashlight and the acting and cloaking skills of a professional performer.”

Paul changed to a shot of Martin in a suit and dark glasses taken in some pigeon-packed Italian plaza.

“Martin’s skills were such that he became a cleaner. He was involved in especially delicate work. He took difficult government assignments where his particular talents were needed. He worked with the Central Intelligence Agency and several other groups who won’t be named. He was what we call a dark angel. Dark by nature of deed, but an angel because they’re on the right side, our side.”

Paul looked around the room. “Factually speaking, this government does not, outside of national emergency or war, employ people like Martin Fletcher. I will say this once and never again. Martin Fletcher is one of a double handful of men we could accurately refer to as antipersonnel weapons.”

“Wet work?” Stephanie said. “A hit person?”

“Let’s just say he was a soldier under exclusive contract to certain of Uncle Sam’s representatives until ten years ago, when he was retired from the field and put into a training position. Normally people in Martin’s field do not retire as we think of retirement. They stay commissioned until they die. Sometimes they die at a rate well beyond the actuarial tables. Accidents without witnesses are not uncommon. Neither are mysterious disappearances. Martin Fletcher was made an instructor at the Democratic College at Fort Benning, Georgia, where he made good friends among some of the future leaders of Central and South America. Those connections have served him well.”

He lit another cigarette and inhaled twice before he went on.

“Let’s assume for a minute that Martin Fletcher was helping certain elements of the CIA move heroin from the Golden Triangle while he served in Nam. Let’s imagine he made some important friends and possibly millions of dollars toward his retirement. While he was working at Fort Benning, let’s say he made contacts within another set of important people. People who were interested in what the DEA knew. So Martin may have used his contacts to attach himself to the DEA in Miami as a member of the Green Team in the guise of field study and evaluation of our troops. He may well have used his position and clearances to sell certain drug lords information and a measure of protection. Let’s say he did help intelligence just to cover his bases.”

“In short,” Thorne added, “he played all sides against the middle with little regard for what tragedy befell anyone.”

“So he’s a real scumbag,” Sierra said.

“Rich scumbag,” Joe added.

“Would be if it were true, but we’re merely supposing here.”

“Why is he killing families?” Stephanie asked.

Paul lit a cigarette and paused while he thought.

“Martin was caught with stolen cocaine secreted in his house, and convicted of possession with intent to distribute. Stolen cash and drugs and a fifty-year sentence of which he would do every single day. Fletcher insisted he was framed.”

“He thinks we, the DEA, sold him out?” Sean Merrin said.

“We’re going to always tell the truth in this unit, and anything said between us is privileged information. Agreed?”

The heads nodded almost in unison.

“The agency suspected him of selling DEA field agents for cash and favors and taking drug profits through a network of Latin bank accounts.”

“Was he framed?” Sean asked.

Thorne’s eye met Paul’s for a split second. Nothing had ever been committed to paper on the operation designed to put Martin away.

“Of course not. He’s just crazy,” Thorne said. “Paranoia is his reality.”

Paul wanted to come clean, but that wasn’t the way it worked. Need to know. Fewer mouths to worry about down the road.

He cleared his throat. “Don’t ever make the mistake of thinking of our target as a human being. Martin Fletcher is an animal just as surely as a mountain lion is an animal. I arrested him and testified against him. I regret not putting one behind his ear and burying the carcass in a swamp. If I had, at least eight innocent people would be alive right now.”

Paul looked each of the new agents in the eye. “Martin, not being the forgiving sort, swore revenge and he has been getting it.”

“How did he get out of prison?” Stephanie asked.

“Friends of friends broke him out.”

“Broke him out?” Sierra said.

He nodded. “It was well planned and executed flawlessly. Out of prison and out of the country within hours. It is my understanding that he had a direct flight. Accompanied by his common-law wife and son.”

Rainey slammed his hand on the table, and all eyes went to him. He smiled nervously.

Paul cleared his throat and looked at Thorne and Joe. “There was an incident with renegade soldiers in the jungle in Guatemala. His wife, Angela, and his son were killed. Martin went off the deep end. We think elements of the CIA set him up.”

Thorne shook his head sadly.

“The attack on us in Miami happened a few days before he escaped.” Paul ran his hand along the side of his head, the bristles of hair foreign to his fingers. He had cut his hair back into a modified GI, and he felt naked without the additional cover. He reached up to twist his mustache and realized that he was clean shaven. “He left a note at the scene of his last killing with his fingerprints on it” Paul triggered the remote control, and a photocopy of a note appeared on the white wall.

Masterson,

We are even for Angela and Macon.

It’s over if you let it lay, and I am nothing more than a lingering aftertaste.

Come after me and I will present you with Laura, Adam, and Erin’s hearts in a bowl.

“What if he does know we’re there?” Sean repeated. “He’ll know you’re after him.”

“I expect him to know,” Paul said. “He knew I would come before he wrote that note. We’re going after Martin with everything we have, run him into a corner and neutralize him.”

They all understood.

Paul looked at the young agents, who were in turn looking at the older men.

“Sir, this all seems highly unusual,” Stephanie Martin said.

Thorne put his head in his hands and sighed loudly.

Paul said, “None of you should stay if you have any reservations about this effort. Although it has been authorized, I assure you that if anything goes wrong, if one innocent civilian goes down under any of our weapons, we will not find a roof over our heads or a net below us. I have no career to consider. You do.”

“But this is a murder investigation. We’re DEA,” she said. “How do we… I mean, what’s the cover?”

Paul smiled. “Officially, the agency is investigating someone dealing massive amounts of drugs, and we’re trying to gather evidence on that if possible. Our cover includes the capture of a federal fugitive if we run across him. In our capacity as bounty hunters our powers are expanded. We may pursue Martin Fletcher wherever we have reason to believe he has gone. We may search any premises where we think he may be hiding. We may use any necessary force to achieve our goals.”

The agents’ faces were hard to read, but Paul was prepared to replace the whole group if he had to. He sipped from a cup of coffee that had cooled. “This is not a training exercise. This is the real thing, and lives depend on your accuracy, stealth, and speed. You are all to follow my orders, and the orders of these men, to the letter. If you have a creative idea, they’ll want to hear it.”

“Are you… we going to kill him?” Stephanie asked.

Paul frowned as he weighed what he should tell them. He didn’t want to be haunted by the answer. “First off, you people on surveillance in Charlotte shouldn’t fret that one too much. It isn’t likely that your team will ever be faced with that decision. There is another group assigned to follow your target once she has left Charlotte and lands someplace else. They will be faced with that dilemma.”

Paul was aware of Thorne and Joe shifting in their seats and exchanging glances.

“You’ll be following her, monitoring her until she is off the plane at her destination,” he said.

She looked confused by his answer.

Don’t leave it there. “Ms. Martin, Stephanie, if we do somehow capture him, he’ll never make it to prison again. Kill him? Let me say this for all of you. If you can kill him and don’t, you will almost certainly be sentencing others to death. He cannot get away. Think of our Martin Fletcher as a mad dog who’s going to enter a playground filled with children unless you stop him. He will see you as a bug standing between him and freedom.”

Thorne Greer cleared his throat sharply before speaking.

“Do not engage Martin Fletcher one on one under any circumstances. Do not allow him to engage you in conversation. He is a master, and whatever you think of your own skills, remember that he can use anything at hand as a weapon. He has never been seriously hurt, but his adversaries have been-those who lived. Unlike imaginary monsters, however, he is as vulnerable to a lead bullet as any of us.” Thorne said.

Paul scanned the faces of the new agents. For a brief couple of seconds his mind flashed a clear memory of the faces of Hill and Barnett, the two agents who had been standing with him in Miami when the container was opened. He turned away and took a deep breath.

Paul remembered the two dead agents, the wives, the children of Joe Barnett, a Mississippi boy with an accent as thick as a gambler’s flash roll. Jeff Hill’s young wife had sent Paul the flag that had been taken off Jeff’s casket. Paul believed he knew what her message was: You killed those two boys. Did I? Maybe I did. I must have. Else why do they haunt me, wander about in my dreams?

Paul’s mind went back to the Miami office that had been, and still was, the nation’s epicenter of drug activity and the springboard for his promotion to deputy director of the DSF. God, he had been driven in those days. The dealers with their big houses, expensive cars, and women, the glitz and glamour-he had gone after them like a hellhound.

He realized that Thorne had finished his speech pertaining to the technology they would be using in the field. His eye met Woodrow Poole’s, and for a split second he read something disquieting in them.

“I’m sorry. Sometimes I…” He looked around the table. “I’m delighted with the team we have here. I asked for the best and brightest and most enthusiastic agents. There isn’t anything for me to add about Martin. Except one last bit of advice. If you have him identified, shoot to kill. You get a chance during a moment of weakness or vulnerability on his part, use it. I promise you… God will smile.”

The projector clicked, and the next picture on the wall was of a large, awkward-looking woman watering a bush.

“This is the surveillance team’s target in Charlotte, Eve Fletcher. This woman is Martin’s mother and his only known weakness. Learn this face.”

“How could you forget it?” Sierra said.

Laughter.

“Looks like Rod Steiger,” Thorne said. “I met him once.”

“I doubt that she knows where her son is most of the time. She may know where he is at the moment and surely where he will be in the near future, but she will never tell of her own free will, and we are not authorized to beat it out of her.”

Nervous laughter.

“This woman is an emotional anchor for Martin, and whatever has happened, or wherever he is, he contacts her and sees her on or around his birthday. We’re banking on it. The year after he escaped from prison, she made reservations for four separate flights and then flew to Heathrow. She was followed to her hotel but somehow got out of the hotel and disappeared. Interpol picked her up when she surfaced in Madrid four days later. That was how they knew Martin was in Europe. We believe he had reconstructive surgery and no one has a picture of the new Martin Fletcher. Intelligence is that every year they get together. Last year she took a bus tour through Mexico. The surveillance team, a group of professionals, lost her for an afternoon.”

He crushed out a cigarette and lit another.

“This time we will not lose her.” He held up a small plastic box with something that looked like dark nails inside. “These are the latest thing from the technological whiz kids. They are transmitters capable of sending a continuous signal that can be picked up for a range of fifty miles. By utilizing a plane or a helicopter the pickup team can triangulate her whereabouts. Once she lands, we will be able to follow her without having to be on her tail.”

“Do we put them in her pockets?” Stephanie asked.

“We have decided that the most effective place to plant them is in the heels of her shoes. There’s a gun that fires them in so the transmitter head is just below the surface. No matter what else she sheds, she’ll most likely keep her shoes on. She wears custom-made orthopedic shoes.”

“How are we going to get to her shoes?” Stephanie asked.

“Simple. She wears slippers unless she goes out, which is rare. So they’ll be in her closet or under her bed. One in each heel.”

“And how do we get into the closet?” Sierra asked.

“We have that worked out,” Joe said.

Paul took a tennis ball from a small black bag and began squeezing it in his left hand.

“Martin’s birthday, our target date, is October third. That is seven days from today. Now, he may meet her on the first or the fifth. So far, according to intelligence, these yearly visits have all fallen within two days of the third. The one variation was a missed visit six years ago.”

“Did he at least send a card?” a voice asked. There was more nervous laughter from the young agents.

Paul turned his eye on the source of the words. It was the female agent named Sierra. She shifted uncomfortably beneath his frosty gaze.

“McLean’s team is to be in place in Charlotte by seven hundred hours tomorrow. As unlikely as it seems, my sources believe Martin will arrange a rendezvous with her in spite of the murders hanging over his head. His psychological profile targets her as his one compulsion, and she may provide our only shot at isolating or at least identifying him before he strikes.”

Joe McLean stood. “Okay, if Larry Burrows, Stephanie Martin, Sierra Ross, and Walter Davidson will follow me, I’ll finish the briefing down the hall.”

Thorne, Rainey, Sean, and Woodrow sat until the others were gone. Paul leaned against the edge of the table and looked at the two young agents.

“You two were selected specifically for your skills. There will be others in support positions when you get there, but I am charging you to protect the family at any cost. Is that clear?”

They nodded.

Paul opened a file. “Sean, you had the highest score in your self-defense classes-marksmanship was exceptional. Whatever you have to do, you do. Of all the team members you two have the greatest chance of meeting Martin Fletcher face-to-face. Thorne and the two of you are best prepared to handle him. You know what I expect. Stay alert at all times. Rainey, you and Thorne take Sean to get something to eat. I’d like a word with Woodrow about his late arrival.”

Paul waited until the two had left the room. He stepped to the window, turned, and looked at Woodrow.

The agent returned the look. His hands were on the table, the fingers interlocked. “You were pressed on me,” Paul said. “Tod Peoples referred-make that insisted-that I use you.”

“I’m not familiar with anyone named Tod Peoples, sir.”

“No matter. Tod Peoples isn’t your boss on this. You will not report to anyone else while you are on this operation. The success of this operation is your one loyalty. Is that understood?”

“My orders were to that effect, sir.”

“I’m not going to ask what you did or who you did it for before you came here. As of now you are mine alone. There had better not be a hidden agenda.”

“Sir,” Woodrow started, “I’d like to… the truth is that I was asked to join your people because someone felt I’d be useful if it comes down to having to defend your family. I am, by trade and preference, a baby-sitter. It’s what I do. In my immediate group we have never lost a client, though there have been attempts to spoil the record. My word to you is that I will protect your family first and neutralize Mr. Fletcher secondarily only if it doesn’t compromise the family’s security. If I fail, it will be because I am dead. My loyalty to your family is absolute.”

Paul stared into the deep-set blue eyes, protected by light eyebrows. Despite the smile on the young man’s lips, his eyes were all business. Woodrow was there as someone else’s backup boy. He was the chief pit bull, the dog backed by the real money, and Paul suddenly felt comforted to have him on their side. He offered his hand, and Woodrow’s grip was remarkably gentle, though the tissue under the tight skin was as unyielding as ivory.

Paul showed the soldier his warmest crooked smile. “I believe you. You’ll go to New Orleans tonight with Thorne Greer and Sean Merrin. Your cover is…”

“DEA L.A.” Woodrow Poole smiled a goofy, childlike smile that beamed California free-wheeling beach boy.

“Good luck in New Orleans,” Paul said. “You’ll take orders from Thorne. If you find an order… well, if you have reason to disobey… I’ll back you. Don’t put me in a switch. Thorne knows that you are a specialist. That’s all he knows.” He smiled. “It’s all he needs to know.”

“No problemo.”

“Good.”

Woodrow got up. He lifted his suitcase and walked to the door. He started to say something but didn’t. He left abruptly as Rainey Lee stepped in.

“So, Chief, what do you and I do?” Rainey asked.

“You and I are going to track Martin from the other flank. Starting here because he was here last. We’re gonna try and pick up his trail. See if we can discover who’s helping him, if anyone is.”

“I want to be there, to be in on the kill,” Rainey said. “I’ll play detective, I’ll crawl through mountains of paper and wear out the soles of my shoes, but when it goes down, I have to be there.” Rainey’s lip quivered. “I have to see it ended.”

“That’s out of the question.”

“I can’t be there when he’s stopped?”

“It isn’t a good idea.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you are still listed as suspended until further notice. T.C. would have to reassign you. He won’t. This is too delicate. You can stay with me and help behind the scenes. Or you can go back into-”

Rainey turned and started out the door. “Then I resign. From all of it. Neither you or T.C. Robertson can keep me out of this. I’m gonna be there whether you like it or not. Martin is mine.”

“Fine,” Paul barked in irritation. “Find him on your own. If I see you, or if Thorne or Joe see you, you’ll be arrested and warehoused until it’s over.”

“My way or the… highway?” Rainey said, dropping the volume on the word highway. “This is a revenge exercise, Paul. Nobody deserves revenge like I do. Dammit, I paid for my ticket to the execution!” Rainey’s eyes lit up like bulbs, and he squeezed his fingers into a fist and rapped the conference table so hard, an electric pencil sharpener flew off and bounced on the floor. “This was all your doing. Just stay away from me, or I’ll kill you.” Rainey slammed the door as he left the room.

Off the fuckin’ wall. Rainey had no business whatever being out of the hospital, and the prospect of his running around with a loaded weapon sent a wave of chills up Paul’s neck. He ran a finger over his scar where the bullet had travelled. He knew what the promise of revenge tasted like. He couldn’t even force himself to think of taking Martin alive… It ain’t going to happen. Anyhow, Martin Fletcher would never allow himself to be captured by Paul-or by anyone else, for that matter. He would be carried off the field. They might all be carried off the field.

Paul walked to the elevator, and as he waited, he looked at his face reflected in the mirrored wall. He pushed his cigarette into the sand in the ashtray beside the elevator door and stepped in, fresh anger radiating in waves, his eye filling with hot tears.

Rainey’s Cherokee was gone from his slot. Paul climbed into his rented Taurus and drove out West End Boulevard. He ate a cheeseburger on French bread at a place near the replica of the Parthenon. It was a student hangout, and Paul took a booth with his wound toward the wall.

After he finished, around eight-thirty, he drove to Rainey’s house, parked across the street, and settled against the car door to wait He hadn’t felt tired, but he went out almost immediately.

When Paul woke, the sun was coloring the bottom edge of the night sky, and every muscle in his body felt as if it had been chewed on. He got out, stretched, and tried to put himself in Rainey’s head. Where would I go if I was Rainey Lee? Suddenly he knew. He started the car.

Paul sat in the car and watched his old friend perched like a vulture on a gravestone, reading his Bible. Rainey was facing the twin mounds of dirt that covered the caskets of his wife and son. Paul finished his cigarette and pressed the remains into the bottom of the ashtray. Then he stepped out, slammed the door, walked up, and stood beside him. Rainey didn’t turn his head so much as an inch from the Old Testament text he was open to.

The Bible was open in his lap. There was a third grave where the grass had grown over the remains of his daughter. Eleanor’s grave had a dark granite stone. The inscription said:

ELEANOR ANN LEE

O CT. 17, 1987-D EC. 12, 1995

SLEEP WITH THE ANGELS

Rainey closed the book and looked out over the graveyard and then turned back toward Paul.

“I came to a funeral here a few years back, and I liked the way this place felt. I could have buried them in the graveyard back home where my father is, but I decided we should all be here. You believe in heaven, Paul?”

“Did once, I guess.”

Rainey looked over at the graves. “I guess most deaths are senseless to someone. But none are as senseless as these three. I feel… I keep thinking if I had just paid closer attention.”

“You didn’t know,” Paul said. “Any man who could murder a child is a demon.”

“I’d feel better about it all if I could kill Martin myself. I know I would.”

“For a few minutes. Maybe like you’d been underwater struggling to get to the surface with your lungs about to explode and you get there and you take that breath. Then you look around and you’re in the middle of the ocean and for three hundred sixty degrees there’s nothing but the horizon and a few fins circling. No wind and no birds. You’re lost. Would you remember how good that breath felt for very long?”

Rainey smiled. “Christ, Paul. I’d forgotten. Where do you get those… analogies? You got a book somewhere with ’em listed out?” He looked at Paul. “Man wants to take revenge, see shark story page twelve. Man wants to poke the baby-sitter, page eight. God, I hate him,” Rainey said. “I hate him so… I didn’t know my emotions ran so deep. It’s like a fire in my chest.”

“I’m no grief counselor, Rainey. I’ve hated him because of what he did to me, and I realize it’s a speck of nothing compared to what he’s done to you and Greer and McLean.”

“The day George was killed, I just wanted to die myself. After Martin called, I forgot all about that. I started burning after that. All I could think about was my hands digging into his chest and jerking his heart out before his eyes went dark. I could take him. God would help me do it.”

“That’s no answer, Rainey. It won’t stop the pain.”

“I don’t think I can live without them, Paul. I can, maybe, but I just don’t know as I want to.” He looked at Paul, and tears ran down his cheeks. He nodded his head and wiped at his eyes. “The Bible says God will punish Martin-but I can’t be sure.”

“Help me, Rainey. I need you. The reason I agreed to let you in was the thought that the four of us are the only people who won’t mess up the chase-won’t give up until we have him in our hands. It’ll be four hundred percent with us. But I need you solid. I can’t do this if I have to keep my eyes on you, too. You’ve got to maintain.”

Rainey was silent for a long moment, and then he said, “Okay, Coach, it’s your game. You put me where you want me. God’ll make sure I get to see what I need to see.”

Paul looked at the three graves and wondered if three like them were in his future. The thought struck hard, making him shudder.

Then Rainey looked back down at the graves and smiled. “I believe in heaven. I know what heaven will look like.” He looked out over the cemetery as though he were seeing something beautiful in the distance.