Twisted: The Collected Short Stories of Jeffery Deaver

Eye to Eye

I'd help you if I could," the boy said. "But I can't."

"Can't, hmm?" Boz asked, standing over him. Peering down at the top of the brown cowlick. "Can't? Or don't wanta?"

His partner, Ed, said, "Yup, he knows something."

"Don't doubt it," Boz added, hooking his thumb around his $79.99 police baton, genuine imported and gleaming black.

"No, Boz. I don't. Really. Come on."

An engine-block-hot dusk. It was August in the Shenandoah Valley and the broad river rolling by outside the window of the sheriff's department interview room didn't do anything to take the edge off the temperature. Other towns, the heat had the locals cutting up and cutting loose. But Caldon, Virginia, about ten miles from Luray — yeah, that's the one, home of the cave — was a small place, population 8,400. Heat this bad usually sent most of the bikers, trash and teens home to their bungalows and trailers, where they stared, groggy from joints or Bud, at HBO or ESPN (satellite dishes being significant anticrime measures out here).

But tonight was different. The deputies had been yanked from their own stupors by the town's first armed robbery/shooting in four years — an honest-to-God armored-car stickup, no less. Sheriff Elm Tappin was grudgingly en route back from a fishing trip in North Carolina and FBI agents from D.C. were due later tonight as well.

Which wasn't going to stop these two from wrapping up the case themselves. They had a suspect in the lockup and, here in front of them, an eyewitness. Reluctant though he was.

Ed sat down across from Nate Spoda. They called him boy behind his back, but he wasn't a boy at all. He was in his mid-twenties and only three years younger than the deputies themselves. They'd all been at Nathaniel Hawthorne High together for a year, Nate a freshman, the other two seniors. Nate was still skinny as a post, had eyes darty and sunken as any serial killer's and was known throughout town for being as ooky now as he was in high school.

"Now, Nate," Ed said kindly, "we know you saw something."

"Come on," the boy said in a whiny voice, fingers drumming uneasily on his bony knee. "I didn't. Really."

Boz, the fat cop, the breathless cop, the sweaty cop, took over when his partner glanced at him. "Nate, that just don't jibe with what we know. You sit on your front porch and you spend hours and hours and hours not doing diddly. Just sitting there, watching the river." He paused, wiped his forehead. "Why d'you do that?" he asked curiously.

"I don't know."

Though everybody in town knew the answer. Which was that when Nate was in junior high, his parents had drowned in a boating accident on the very river the boy would gaze out at all day long while he read books and magazines (Frances at the post office said he subscribed to some "excruciatingly" odd mags, about which she couldn't say more, being a federal employee and all) and listened to some sick music, which he played too loud. After his parents' deaths an uncle had come to stay with the boy — a slimy old guy from West Virginia no less (well, the whole town had an opinion on that living arrangement). He'd seen the boy through high school and when Nate hit eighteen, off the kid went to college. Four years later Ed and Boz had served their stint in the service, becoming all they could be, and were back home. And who showed up that June, surprising them and the rest of the town? Yep, Nate. He booted his uncle back west and took to living by himself in that dark, spooky house overlooking the river, surviving, they guessed, on his folks' savings account (nobody in Caldon ever amassed anything that lived up to the word inheritance).

The deputies hadn't liked Nate in high school. Not the way he dressed or the way he walked or the way he didn't comb his hair (which was too damn long, scary long). They didn't like the way he talked to the other kids, in a sick whisper. Didn't like the way he talked to girls, not healthy ways, not joking or gossiping, but just talking soft, in that weird way that kind of hypnotized them. He'd been in French Club. He'd been in Computer Club. Chess Club, for Christ's sake. Of course he didn't go out for a single sport, and just think about all those times in class when nobody could answer Mrs. Hard-On's question and Nate — the school'd advanced the nerd bone-whacker a couple years — would sashay up to the board to write the right answer in his fag handwriting, getting chalk dust all over himself. Then just turn back to the class and everybody'd stop snickering, 'cause of his scary eyes. Got picked on some, sure. Got his Keds boloed over the high-tension wires. But who didn't? Besides, he asked for it. Sitting on his porch, reading books (probably porn) and listening to this eerie music (probably satanic, another deputy had suggested)… Well, sir, he was simply unnatural.

And speaking of natural: Every time a report of a sex crime came in, Boz and Ed thought of Nate. They'd never been able to pin anything on him but he'd disappear for long periods of time and the deputies were pretty sure he'd vanish into the woods and fields around Luray to peer through girls' bedroom windows (or more likely boys'). They knew Nate was a voyeur; he had a telescope on his porch, next to the rocker he always sat in — his mother's chair (and, yep, the whole town had an opinion about that too). Unnatural. Yep, that was the word.

So the Caldon Sheriff's Department deputies — Ed and Boz at least — never missed a chance to do their part to, well, set Nate straight. Just like they'd done in high school. They'd see him buying groceries and they'd smile and say, "Need a hand?" Meaning: Why don'tcha get married, homo?

Or he'd be bicycling up Rayburn Hill and they'd come up behind him in their cruiser and hit the siren and shout over the loudspeaker, "On your left!" Which'd once scared him clean into some blackberry bushes.

But he never took the hints. He just kept doing what he was doing, wearing a dark trench coat most of the time, living his shameful life and walking out of Ed's and Boz's way when he ran into them on Main Street. Just like in the halls of Hawthorne High.

So it felt pretty good, Ed had to admit, having him trapped in the interview room. Scared and twitchy and damp in the summer heat.

"He had to've walked right by you," Boz continued in his grumbling voice. "You must've seen him."

"Uhm. I didn't."

Him was Lester Botts, presently sitting unshaven and stinking in the nearby lockup. The scruffy thirty-five-year-old loser had been a sore spot to the Caldon Sheriff's Department for years. He'd never been convicted of anything but the deputies knew he was behind a lot of the petty crimes around the country. He was white trash, gave the nasty eyeball to the good girls in town and wasn't even a lip-service Christian.

Lester was currently the number-one suspect in this evening's robbery. He had no alibi for five to six p.m. — the time of the heist. And though the armored car's driver and his partner hadn't seen his face, what with the ski mask, the robber'd carried a nickel-plated Colt revolver — exactly the type of gun that Lester had drunkenly brandished at Irv's Roadside not long ago. And there'd been a report last week that somebody with Lester's build had stolen a half pound of Tovex from Amundson Construction. Which was the same explosive used to blow the door off the Armored Courier truck. At six-thirty tonight they'd picked him up — he was sweating a storm and acting plenty guilty — hitching home along Route 334, even though he had a perfectly good Chevy pickup at home, which fired up the first time Ed turned the key, just to test out if Lester's claim that it "wasn't runnin' " was true. He'd also been carrying a long hunting knife and fumbled the answer when they'd asked him why ("Well, I just, you know, am.")

The sheriff's department Procedure Manual had explained all about motive, means and opportunity in investigating felonies. Boz and Ed had scoped all that out in this case. It was sweet and simple. No, there was no doubt in their minds that Lester had done the job. And because Nate's property was on a direct line from the heist to where they picked up Lester, there was also no doubt that Nate could place him near the scene of the crime.

Boz sighed. "Just tell us you saw him."

"But I didn't. That wouldn't be the truth."

Nerd then, nerd now. Christ…

"Look, Nate," Boz continued, as if speaking to a five-year-old. "Maybe you don't get how serious this is. Lester whacked the driver of that armored car over the head with a wrench while he was peeing in the men's room at the Texaco on Route Four. Then he went out to the truck, shot the driver's partner in the side —"

"Oh, no. Is he okay?"

"Nobody's okay, they get shot in the side," Boz spat out. "Lemme finish."

"Sorry."

"Then drives the truck to Morton Woods Road, blows the back door off. He loads the money into another car and takes off, heading west — directly toward your place. We pick Lester up on the other side of your property a hour ago. He had to go past your house to get to where we found him. What d'you think about that?"

"I think it… Well, it seems like it makes sense. But I didn't see him. I'm sorry."

Boz reflected for a minute. "Nate, look," he finally said, "we just don't see eye to eye here."

"Eye to eye?" Nate asked uncertainly.

"You're in a different world from us," the deputy continued, exasperated. "We know the kinda man Lester is. We live in that sewer every day."

"Sewer?"

"You're thinking you'll just clam up and everything'll be okay," Ed filled in. "But that's not how it'll work. We know Lester. We know what he's capable of."

"What's that?" Nate asked. Trying to sound brave. But his hands were clenched, trembling, in his lap.

"Using his damn knife on you, what d'you think?" Boz shouted. "Jesus. You really don't get it, do you?"

They were doing the good- and bad-cop thing. The Procedure Manual had a whole section on it.

"Say you don't finger him now," Ed offered gently. "He gets off. How long you think it'll take for him to find you?"

" 'Cause he thinks I'm a witness, you mean?"

"Find you and gut you," Boz snapped. "Why, it'll be no time at all. And I'm beginning not to care."

"Come on," Ed said to his partner. "Let's go easy on the poor kid." Then looked at Nate's frightened face. "But if we get him for armed robbery and attempted murder… He'll go away for thirty years. You'll be safe."

"I want to do the right thing," Nate said. "But…" His voice trailed off.

"Boz, he wants to help. I know he does."

"I do," Nate said earnestly. And scrunched his eyes closed, thinking hard. "But I can't lie. I can't. My dad… You remember my dad. He taught me never to lie."

His dad was a nobody who couldn't swim worth shit. That's all they knew about his dad. Boz plucked his shirt away from his fat chest and examined the black patches of sweat under his arms. He walked in a slow circle around the boy, sighing.

Nate cringed faintly, as if he were afraid of losing his gym shoes again.

Finally Ed said in an easy voice, "Nate, you know we've had our disputes."

"Well, you guys used to pick on me a lot in school."

"Hell, that? That was just joshing," Ed said earnestly. "We only did it with the kids we liked."

"Yeah?" Nate asked.

"But sometimes," Ed continued, "I guess it got a little out of hand. You know how it is? You're fooling around, you get pumped up."

Neither of them thought this little salamander had ever been pumped up (for Christ's sake, a man does at least one sport).

"Look, Nate, will you let bygones be bygones?" Ed held out his hand. "I'll apologize for all of that stuff we done."

Nate stared at Ed's meaty hand.

Burning bushes, Ed thought, he's gonna cry. He glanced at Boz, who said, "I'll second that, Nate." The Procedure Manual said that after the subject has been worn down, the bad cop comes around and starts to act like a good cop. "I'm sorry for what we done."

Ed said, "Come on, Nate. What d'you say? Let's put our differences behind us."

Nate's spooky face looked from one deputy to the other. He took Ed's hand, shook it cautiously. Ed wanted to wipe it after they released the grip. But he just smiled and said, "Now, man to man, what can you tell us?"

"Okay. I did see someone. But I couldn't swear it was Lester."

Ed and Boz exchanged cool glances.

Nate continued fast. "Wait. Let me tell you what I saw."

Boz — who of the two had worse handwriting but could spell better — opened a notebook and began to write.

"I was sitting on my porch reading."

Porn, probably.

"And listening to music."

"I love you, Satan. Take me, take me, take me…"

Ed kept an encouraging smile on his face. "Go ahead."

"Okay. I heard a car on Barlow Road. I remember it because Barlow Road isn't real close but the car was making a ton of noise so I figured it had a bad muffler or something."

"And then?"

"Okay…" Nate's voice cracked. "Then I saw somebody running through the grass, heading down to the river across from my place. And maybe he was carrying some big white bags."

Bingo!

Boz: "That's near the caves, right?"

Not as sexy as Luray's maybe, but plenty big enough to hide a half million dollars. Ed glanced at him and nodded. "And he went into one of 'em?" he asked Nate.

"I guess. I didn't see exactly 'cause of that old black willow."

"You can't give us any description?" Boz asked, smiling but wishing oh so badly that he could be a bad cop again.

"I'm sorry, guys," Nate whined. "I'd help you if I could. All that grass, the tree. I just couldn't see."

Pussy faggot…

But at least he'd pointed them in the right direction. They'd find some physical evidence that would lead to Lester.

"Okay, Nate," Ed said, "that's a big help. We're going to check out a few things. Think we better keep you here till we get back. For your own protection."

"I can't leave?" He was brushing at the cowlick. "I really wanta get home. I got a lot of stuff to do."

Involving Playboy and your right hand? Boz asked silently.

"Naw, better you stay here. We won't be long."

"Wait," Nate said uneasily. "Can Lester get out?"

Boz looked at Ed. "Oh, hey, be practically impossible for him to get outa that lockup." Ed nodded.

"Practically?" the boy asked.

"Naw, it's okay."

"Sure, it's okay."

"Wait —"

Outside, they walked to the squad car. Boz won the toss and got in the driver's seat.

"Oooo-eee." Ed said, "that boy's gonna sweat up a storm every time Lester rubs his butt on his chair."

"Good," said Boz and sped out onto the road.

They were surprised.

They'd been talking in the car and decided that Nate had made up most of what he was telling them just so he could get home. But, no, as soon as they started down Barlow Road, they spotted fresh tire tracks, even in the failing evening light.

"Well, lookie that."

They followed the trail into the grove of low hemlock and juniper and, weapons drawn, as the Procedure Manual dictated, they came up on either side of the low-riding Pontiac.

"Ain't been here long," Boz said, reaching through the grill and touching the radiator.

"Keys're inside. Fire it up, see if it's what the boy heard."

Boz cranked the engine and from the tailpipe came the sound of a small plane.

"Stupid for a getaway car," he shouted. "That Lester's got wood for brains."

"Back her out. Let's take a look."

Boz eased the old car into a clearing, where the light was better. He shut off the engine.

They didn't find any physical evidence in the front or back seats.

"Damn," Boz muttered, poking through the glove compartment.

"Well, well, well." Ed called. He was peering into the trunk.

He lifted out a large Armored Courier cash bag, plump and heavy. He opened it up and pulled out thick packets of hundred-dollar bills.

"Phew." Ed counted it. "I make it nineteen thousand bucks."

"Damn, my salary without overtime. Just sitting there. Lookit that."

"Where's the rest of it, I wonder."

"Which way's the river?"

"There. Over there."

On foot, they started through the grass and sedge and cattails that bordered the Shenandoah. They searched for footprints in the tall grass but couldn't find any. "We can look for 'em in the morning. Let's get to the caves, have a look-see there."

Ed and Boz walked down to the water's edge. They could clearly see Nate's house overlooking the bluff. Nearby were several cave entrances.

"Those caves right there. Must be the ones."

They continued along the riverbank to the spindly black willow Nate had mentioned.

This time Boz lost the toss and dropped to his hands and knees. Breathing heavily in the hot, murky air, he disappeared into the largest of the caves.

Five minutes later Ed bent down and called, "You okay?"

And had to dodge another canvas bag, as it came flying out of the mouth of the cave.

"Lordy, whatta we got here?"

Eighty thousand dollars, it turned out.

"S'the only one in there," Boz said, climbing out, panting. "Lester must've planted the bags in different caves."

"Why?" Ed wondered. "We find one around here, we'd just keep searching till we found the rest."

"Wood for brains is why."

They poked through a few other caves, feeling hot and itchy-sweaty and sickened by the stink of a dead catfish, but didn't find any more money.

They looked down at the bag. Neither said a word. Ed glanced up at the sky through a notch in the Massanuttens, at the nearly full moon, glowing with brilliance and promise. Standing on either side of the bag the two men rocked on their heels like nervous boys at a junior high dance. The shoal beneath their feet was smooth and black and soft, just like a thousand other banks along the Shenandoah, banks where these two had spent so many hours fishing and drinking beer and — in their daydreams — making love with roadhouse waitresses and cheerleaders.

Ed said, "This's a lot of money."

"Yeah," Boz said, stretching a lot of syllables out of the word. "What're you saying, Edward?"

"I'm —"

"Don't beat around the bush."

"I'm thinking, there's only two people know about it, 'side from us."

Nate and Lester. "Keep going."

"So what would happen… I'm just thinking out loud here. What would happen if they got together — accidental, of course — in a room back at the station? If, say, Lester had his knife back."

"Accidental."

"Sure."

"Well, he'd gut Nate and leave him like that catfish over there."

" 'Course, if that happened," Ed continued, "we'd have to shoot Lester, right?"

"Have to. Prisoner gets loose, has a weapon…"

"Be a sad thing to have happen."

"But necessary," Boz offered. Then: "That Nate, he's dangerous."

"Never liked him."

"He's the sort'd go postal in a year or two. Climb up to the South Bank Baptist Church tower and let loose with an AR-15."

"Don't doubt it."

"Where's that knife of Lester's?"

"Evidence locker. But it could find its way back upstairs."

"We sure we want to do this?"

Ed opened the canvas bag. Looked inside. So did Boz. Stared for a time.

"Let's get a beer," Boz said.

"Okay, let's."

Even though alcohol on duty was clearly prohibited by the Procedure Manual.

An hour later they snuck in the back door of the station.

Boz went down to the evidence room and found Lester's knife. He padded back upstairs, made sure that Sheriff Tappin hadn't returned yet and slipped into the main interview room. He left the knife on the table — under a folder, hidden but not too hidden — and stepped innocently back into the corridor.

Ed brought Lester Botts up to the door, hands cuffed in front of him, which was definitely contrary to procedure, and escorted him inside.

"I don't see why the hell you're holding me," the tendony man said. His thinning hair was greasy and stuck out in all directions. His clothes were muddy and hadn't been washed in months, it looked like.

"Sit down, shut up," Boz barked. "We're holding you 'cause Nate Spoda ID'd you as the one stashing Armored Courier bags down by the river tonight."

"That son of a bitch!" Lester roared and started to rise.

Boz shoved him back in his seat. "Yep, ID'd you right down to that tattoo of yours, which is the ugliest-looking woman I have ever seen, by the way. Say, that your mother?"

"That Nate," Lester muttered, looking at the door, "he's meat. Oh, that boy's gonna pay."

"Enough of that talk," Ed said. Then: "We're going downstairs for five minutes, see the Commonwealth's Attorney. He's gonna wanta talk to you. So you just cool your heels in here and don't cause a ruckus."

They stepped outside and locked the door. Boz cocked his head and heard the shuffle of chains moving toward the table. He gave Ed a thumbs-up.

At the end of the corridor, thick with August heat and moisture, they found Nate Spoda by the vending machines, sitting at a broken Formica table, sipping Pepsi and eating a Twinkie.

"Come on down here, Nate, just got a few more questions."

"After you, sir," Ed said, gesturing with his hand.

Nate took another bite of Twinkie and preceded them down the hall toward the interview room. Ed whispered to Boz, "He'll scream. But we gotta give Lester time to finish it before we go in."

"Okay, sure. Hey, Ed?"

"What?"

"You know I never shot anybody before."

"It ain't anybody. It's Lester Botts. Anyway, we'll shoot together. At the same time. How's that? Make you feel better?"

"Okay."

"And if Nate's still alive, shoot him too, and we'll say it was —"

"— accidental."

"Right."

Outside the door, Nate turned to them, washed down the Twinkie with the soda. There was Twinkie cream on his chin. Disgusting.

"Oh, one thing —" the kid began.

"Nate, this won't take long. We'll have you home in no time." Ed unlocked the door. "Go on inside. We'll be in, in a minute."

"Sure. But there's something —"

"Just go on in."

Nate hesitated uncertainly. He started to open the door.

"Nate," a man's voice called.

Boz and Ed spun around to see three men walking up the hall. They were in suits. And if they weren't federal agents, Boz thought, I'm Elvis's ghost. Shit.

"Hi, Agent Bigelow," Nate said cheerfully.

He knows them? Ed's heart began to race. They interviewed him while we were gone?… Okay, think, goddamnit. What'd he tell 'em? Whatta we do?

But he couldn't think.

Wood for brains…

The agent was a tall, somber man, balding, his short blond hair in a monk's fringe just above narrow ears. He and the others flashed IDs — yep, FBI — and asked, "You're deputy Bosworth Peller and you're deputy Edward Rankin?"

"Yessir," they offered.

Boz was thinking: Lord, failure to secure a prisoner is a suspendable offense.

Ed, thinking pretty much the same, turned to Nate and said, "Tell you what, Nate, let's us go back to the canteen. Get another soda?"

"Or Twinkie. Those're good, ain't they?"

"It's cooler in here," Nate said and pushed inside the room where Lester and his well-honed knife awaited.

"No!" Boz shouted.

"What's the matter, Deputy?" one of the FBI agents asked.

"Well, nothing," Boz said quickly.

Both Boz and Ed found themselves staring at the door, behind which Nate was probably being stabbed to death at this moment. They forced their attention back to the federal law officers.

Wondering how they could salvage it. Well, sure… if Lester came out in a rush, all bloody, holding the knife, they could still nail him. The agents might even join in.

Damn, it was quiet in there. Maybe Lester had slit Nate's throat real sudden and was trying to get out through the window.

"Let's go inside," Bigelow suggested, nodding toward the door. "We should talk about the case."

"Well, I don't know if we want to do that."

"Why not?" another agent said. "Nate said it was cooler."

"After you," Bigelow said and motioned to the two deputies.

Who looked at each other and kept their hands near their service revolvers as they stepped through the door.

Lester was sitting in a chair, legs crossed, cuffed hands in his lap. Sitting across the table from him was Nate Spoda, flipping through a battered copy of the sheriff's department Procedure Manual. The knife was just where Boz'd left it.

Thank you, Lord in heaven…

Boz looked at Ed. Silence. Ed recovered first. "I suppose you're wondering why this suspect's here, Agent Bigelow. I guess there was a mix-up, don't you think, Boz? Wasn't the Commonwealth's Attorney supposed to be here?"

"That's what I thought. Sure. A mix-up."

"What suspect?" Bigelow asked.

"Uhm, well, Lester here."

"You better charge me or release me pretty damn soon," the man barked.

Bigelow asked, "Who's he? What's he doing here?"

"Well, we arrested him for the robbery tonight," Boz said. His tone asked, Am I missing something?

"You did?" the agent grumbled. "Why?"

"Uhm" was all that Boz could muster. Had they jeopardized the case with sloppy forensics?

A fourth FBI agent came into the room and handed a file to Bigelow. He read carefully, nodding. Then he looked up. "Okay. We've got probable cause."

Boz shivered with relief and turned a slick smile on Lester. "Thought you were off the hook, huh? Well —"

Bigelow nodded his shiny head and in a flash the other agents had relieved Boz and Ed of their weapons and belts, including the overpriced, made-in-Taiwan billy club Boz was so proud of.

"Officers, you have the right to remain silent…"

The rest of the Miranda warning trickled from his somber lips and when it was through they were cuffed.

"What's this all about?" Boz shouted.

Bigelow tapped the folder he'd received. "We just had an evidence response team go through the getaway car. Both your fingerprints were all over it. And we found dozens of footprints that seem to be police-issue shoes — like both of yours — leading down to the water near Mr. Spoda's house."

"I backed the car out to search it," Boz protested. "That's all."

"Without gloves? Without a crime scene unit present?"

"Well, it was an open-and-shut case…"

"We also happened to find over ninety thousand dollars in the back of your personal car, Officer Rankin."

"We just didn't have a chance to log it in. What with all —"

"The excitement," Boz said. "You know."

Ed said, "Check out those bags. They'll have Lester's prints all over them."

"Actually," Bigelow said as calm as a McDonald's clerk, "they don't. Only the two of yours. And there's a chrome-plated thirty-eight in your glove compartment. Tentative ballistics match the gun used in the robbery. Oh, and a ski mask too. Matches fibers found in the armored truck."

"Wait… it's a setup. You ain't got a case here. It's all circumstantial!"

"Afraid not. We have an eyewitness."

"Who?" Boz glanced toward the corridor.

"Nate, are these the men you saw walking by the river near your house just after the robbery this afternoon?"

Nate looked from Boz to Ed. "Yessir. This's them."

"You liar!" Ed cried.

"And they were in uniform?"

"Just like now."

"What the hell is going on here?" Boz snapped.

Ed choked faintly then turned a cold eye toward Nate. "You little —"

Bigelow said, "Gentlemen, we're transferring you to the federal lockup in Arlington. You can call attorneys from there."

"He's lying," Boz shouted. "He told us he didn't see who was in the bushes."

Finally Bigelow cracked a smile. "Well, he's hardly going to tell you that you're the ones he saw, is he? Two bullies with guns and nightsticks standing over him? He was terrified enough telling us the truth."

"No, listen to me," Ed pleaded. "You don't understand. He's just out to get us because we picked on him in high school."

The agent beside Bigelow snickered. "Pathetic."

"Take 'em to the van."

The men disappeared. Bigelow ordered the cuffs taken off Lester Botts. "You can go now."

The scrawny man glanced contemptuously around the room and stalked outside.

"Can I go too?" Nate asked.

"Sure can, sir." Bigelow shook his hand. "Bet it's been a long day."

Nate Spoda put on a CD. Hit the "play" button.

Mostly, late at night, he listened to Debussy or Ravel — something soothing. But tonight he was playing a Sergey Prokofiev piece. It was boisterous and rousing. As was Nate's mood.

He listened to classical music all day long, piped out onto the front porch through $1,000 speakers. Nate often laughed to himself, recalling the time he'd overheard somebody in town mention the "satanic" music he listened to. He wasn't sure what the particular hail-the-devil piece was but the timing of the comment suggested that what the grain salesman had overheard was Rachmaninoff.

Sorry it ain't Garth, fellas…

He walked through the house, shutting out lights, though he left on the picture lights illuminating the Miro and the Jackson Pollock — his mood, again. He had to get to Paris soon. A dealer friend of his had acquired two small Picassos and had promised Nate first pick. He also missed Jeanette; he hadn't seen her in a month.

He wandered out onto his porch.

It was nearly midnight. He sat down in his mother's JFK rocker and gazed upward. This time of year the sky above the Shenandoah Valley was usually too hazy to see the heavens clearly — the local joke was that Caldon should've been named Caldron. But tonight, where the black of the trees became the black of the heavens, a brilliant dusting of stars spread out in a hemisphere above him. He sat this way for some minutes, taking pleasure in the constellations and moon.

He heard the footsteps long before he saw the figure moving up the path.

"Hey," he called.

"Hey," Lester Botts called back. He climbed the stairs, panting, and dropped four heavy canvas bags on the gray-painted porch. He sat, as he always did, not in one of the chairs but on the deck itself, his back against a post.

"You left over ninety thousand?" Nate asked.

"Sorry," Lester said, cringing, ever deferential to his boss. "I counted wrong."

Nate laughed. "Probably was a good idea." He'd thought Boz and Ed would fall for the scam if they'd seeded as little as thirty or forty thousand in the cave and getaway car. You wave double a man's annual salary, tax free, in front of his face and nine times out of ten you've bought him. But a job this big, it was probably a good idea to have a little extra bait.

Nate and Lester would still net nearly $400,000.

"We've gotta sit on it for a while, even if it's cash?" Lester asked.

"Better be real careful with this one," Nate said. As a rule they never operated in Virginia. Usually they traveled to New York, California or Florida for their heists. But when Nate learned from an associate in D.C. that the local Armored Courier branch was moving a cash shipment up to a new bank in Luray, he couldn't resist. Nate knew the guards would be lightweights and had probably never handled anything but check-cashing runs on paydays at the local plants. The money was appealing, of course. But what tipped the scale was that Nate figured that in order to make the scam work they needed two unwitting participants, preferably law enforcers. He didn't have any doubt whom to pick; adolescent grudges last as long as those of spurned lovers.

"You have to shoot him?" Nate asked. Meaning the guard. One of his rules was no gunplay unless absolutely necessary.

"He was a kid. Looking like he was going to go for that Glock on his hip. I was careful, only tapped a rib 'r two."

Nate nodded, eyes on the sky. Hoping for a shooting star. Didn't see one.

"You feel sorry for them?" Lester asked, after a moment.

"Who, the guards?"

"Naw, Ed and Boz."

Nate considered this for a moment. The music and the fragrant late-summer air and the rhythmic symphony of insects and frogs had turned Nate philosophical. "I'm thinking about something that Boz said. About how I didn't see eye to eye with him and Ed. He was talking about the heist but what he was really talking about was my life and theirs — whether he knew it or not."

"Most likely didn't."

"But it makes sense," he reflected. "Sums things up pretty well. The difference between us… I could've lived with it if those boys'd just gone their own way, in school and afterwards. But they didn't. Nope. They made an issue out of it every chance they could. Too bad. But that was their choice."

"Well, good for us y'all didn't see eye to eye," said Lester, introspective himself. "Here's to differences."

"Here's to differences."

The men clinked beer cans together and drank.

Nate leaned forward and began to divvy up the cash into two equal piles.