reading

1

Whenever Karen woke up – night or day, violently or peacefully, or simply kicked awake by her constant nemesis, insomnia – she reached under her pillow for the handgun she had affectionately nicknamed Baby G: a subcompact 9-millimetre Glock 43 sold to her by a smug, twenty-something gun-store owner in Ohio who had called it ‘the perfect little sidearm for ladies in your age group’. She’d been fifty at the time – not exactly old, as far as she was concerned, but not exactly young either.

The punk kid had been correct in calling the G43 the perfect little sidearm. It was little, just over six inches long, and surprisingly light and easy to shoot. Grabbing the handgun whenever she woke up was as much a habit as it was a ritual: she needed to hold it long enough to calm herself down, to remind herself that she was safe, that the man who had killed her family and tried to kill her hadn’t found her.

Only that wasn’t strictly true any more. She had finally found him.

Karen sat up, the nightmare she’d just had already on its way to a fast exit. A dull square of moonlight splashed against the end of her patchwork quilt, and she saw the neon-blue numbers glowing from her alarm clock: 1.32 a.m. She was alone in the bedroom because she lived here alone and, most importantly, her bedroom door was shut and locked, the deadbolt she’d installed the day she moved in firmly in place. The windows were cracked open to let in the cold air; she loved sleeping with the windows open, even during the winter – especially when, like tonight, she felt hot, like she was coming down with a fever. Had she caught that virus that was going around? Or had the stress from the past few days taken its toll, screwing up the hormone levels in her body and placing her in what her doctors called adrenal fatigue?

Get up, her mind screamed. Grab your keys and leave.

But there wasn’t any reason to leave – not now. Not yet. The house was locked up, secured. She was safe, and she was armed.

She eased herself into a sitting position and her heart rate, which was already spiked, seemed to crank itself up to an alarming level, leaving her feeling lightheaded. There was a brief moment where she thought she was going to pass out. That had been happening a lot these past three days, her heart jackhammering so hard against her breastbone that it reminded her of the old Bugs Bunny and Tom and Jerry cartoons she had watched in hospitals and psychiatric wards. She pictured her heart exploding out of her chest, grabbing the car keys and getting in her truck and driving off, leaving her here.

Running away was the smart thing to do – the right thing to do. But the governing principle these last seven or so years had had nothing to do with what was right or smart but rather what was needed. And she needed to stay here in this oddball town in northern Montana, because now, after thirty-eight years of searching and praying, she had found him. The man who had killed her family and had almost killed her was living right here in Fort Jefferson. The Red Ryder.

Karen ran a forearm across her eyes, feeling the damp and greasy slickness of her skin. She grabbed the bottle of water she kept on the nightstand and polished it off.

Going back to sleep was off the table; she felt wired from head to toe. She was afraid, yes (okay, terrified), but there was some excitement too. The culmination of her life’s work – her life’s purpose, mission, whatever you wanted to call it – wasn’t coming to an end, but she was finally going to get some closure. Finally, she would be accepted back into mainstream society. Finally, she would no longer need to hide or sleep with a gun under her pillow and a deadbolt installed on her bedroom door – that is, if she played her cards right. If she could remain vigilant and patient.

Holding Baby G was delivering the jolt of comfort she needed. Karen pulled back the warm but damp flannel sheets and got to her feet, groaning. The surgeon had removed all the slugs except for the one still lodged near her spine, the man afraid of paralysing her if he removed it. And, despite the multiple surgeries to repair her muscles, all the years of physical rehabilitation, she still walked with a slight limp. During the winter and before a thunderstorm, she experienced a dull but debilitating pain throughout her body, as though it were trapped inside a vice and slowly being squeezed.

When she reached the other side of the bed, Karen lifted up the mattress and removed a Colt .45 that had belonged to her father. She carried it back with her to bed, where she gathered up the pillows and propped them against the headboard. Then she got comfortable and, tucked back under the warm covers, held the Colt against her stomach. Its reassuring weight, the feel of the cold steel seeping past her T-shirt and touching her skin, always did the trick on nights like this.

She closed her eyes.

Thought, I want to be thirteen again.

Thirteen had been a magical year for her. Not Disney fairytale magical with unicorns that crapped rainbows, but something close to it. The year she turned thirteen she became a straight-A student for the first time. She ran for class president – and won. She became one of the top five long-distance runners in New England and, at the school’s winter social the week before Christmas, she kissed the cutest boy in her class, Duncan Monroe, a tall, comic-book-loving nerd from Australia all the girls called Duncan the Delicious and then simply Mr Delicious, a nickname that was fully justified later in high school, when that great purveyor of youth culture and taste, Abercrombie & Fitch, selected him as a model the summer before his senior year, his perfectly chiselled chest and ripped stomach not only featuring on a big black-and-white poster at the local store but also on all the A & F shopping bags.

The best part about the year she turned thirteen, though, was her father, who had returned home – again, miraculously, in one piece – from yet another overseas secret mission he couldn’t discuss. This time, he came back with some great news: he had officially retired from the Navy. His new job? Full-time dad. That year, he shuttled her back and forth to school, to her field hockey and soccer games, and at least once a week the two of them went to Bluey’s Diner for lunch or an early dinner, where she talked to him about the music, movies, books and TV shows she liked – they even talked about Delicious Duncan and ‘the kiss’. The year she turned thirteen she learned she could talk to her father about anything, no subject off limits.

She wished she could talk to him now.

In a weird way, she still could. After he died, the calm but extremely cautious voice within her, the one reminding her to look both ways before crossing the street, to be a good and kind person who said ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ – the voice she assumed was her conscience – that inner voice had taken on the blunt, no-BS tone of Lieutenant-Commander Samuel Decker, a SEAL Team Six sniper awarded two Purple Hearts. That voice spoke to her now:

Pick up the phone and make the call.

She couldn’t. She had a solid and well-documented history as the girl who’d cried wolf. The FBI wouldn’t take her seriously unless she had concrete proof – which she believed she finally did, now that she was sober. She wouldn’t know for sure until the Bureau’s lab geeks tested the evidence she’d mailed out yesterday.

Now came the hard part: waiting. The Federal lab was backlogged, always. Even with her connections, she was looking at at least a couple of weeks. No more than a month. She didn’t want to wait that long – no one in their right mind would – but she could because she had been careful. The Red Ryder didn’t know she was here.

If the Red Ryder really is here, Karen, he may come after you.

Prudent advice. Sage advice. She might have said those exact same words to her own child if the roles had been reversed. But she didn’t have any kids, thank God, because she’d had her tubes tied. She had never married or gotten anywhere close to it, because she had never been in a serious relationship. She was alone by choice but not lonely – an important distinction.

The Red Ryder had no idea who she was. She wasn’t using her real name, and she looked nothing like the thirteen-year-old he’d seen that night or anything like the photos of her as a teenager posted all over the Internet, on the Red Ryder fan sites and, at last count, in the eighteen crime books published on America’s favourite unknown psycho. Leaving Fort Jefferson was not an option. Do that now and everything she had worked and suffered for – had literally bled for – could and would vanish. At fifty-one, she didn’t have another thirty-eight years to devote to her cause. She didn’t have –

The bedroom exploded with light.

2

Shit, Karen thought, slamming her eyes shut against the sudden light. She had forgotten to draw the light-blocking shades before turning in, and now her bedroom glowed like a searchlight, courtesy of the insanely bright halogen bulbs the rangers from Montana Fish, Wildlife and Parks had installed in the backyard’s motion-sensor lights to help scare off the black bears and grizzlies. Animals had started making their way down here, to a lower elevation, looking for food. It was a big problem this time of year, she’d been told, from mid-September all the way to December, thanks to global warming; and yet locals like Gina Miller, the Bible-thumping old bird who lived up at the top of the road, kept feeding bears from her back porch despite several warnings from the rangers. The only saving grace was that Miss Miller hadn’t had any children to carry on her stupidity.

Karen was way too comfortable and way too warm and cosy to get up and draw the bedroom shades – and she should, because if some animal were moving around out there, the backyard lights would continue to shine on, preventing her from getting a good night’s sleep. She thought about getting up as she stared out the window, at the trees lining her little stretch of backyard and beyond them, the seemingly never-ending stretch of forest packed with massive pines and other trees (the names of which she did not know, having lived in cities most of her life) that blocked out the sun on even the brightest of days, casting the hiking and, in the winter, snowmobile trails in perpetual gloom.

Her father said, You’re in danger.

No, Karen told her father. I played it nice and cool yesterday. He didn’t notice a thing. No one noticed a thing.

You don’t know that.

I do. I’m in the clear.

Then explain to me why you’re sitting in bed with not one but two loaded handguns.

You’re forgetting about the Mossberg in my bedroom closet and the other shotgun stored inside the closet by the front door. I’ve got handguns hidden in just about every room inside this house, Pops. I’ve been living this way for years.

Because you’re scared.

After what happened to us that night? You’re goddamn right I’m scared.

Then, as if to prove her point, her mind replayed the nightmare that had just woken her up – only it wasn’t a nightmare but a home movie, and it always began with her, at thirteen, sitting in the back seat of the family station wagon, with its plastic blue seats and fake panelling along the sides. They were parked in a dirt lot in Vallejo, California – the site of a campground. Her father, an avid outdoorsman, had decided to take them hiking and camping along the California coast. They were eating burgers and drinking milkshakes and sharing thick steak fries from a white bag splotched with grease when a car driving fast across the dark and quiet road suddenly pulled into the dirt lot and came to a sharp stop behind them – an unmarked cop car, she guessed, like the one she’d seen on her favourite TV show, ChiPs, because a searchlight exploded through the station wagon’s rear window. The piercingly bright, white light began to move and come closer, and she thought it was the portable kind the police used to check vehicles for alcohol and drugs, just like on TV. Her suspicion was confirmed moments later, when her father told everyone to relax, that it was just a cop checking to make sure they weren’t riffraff up to no good. It was the start of the long Fourth of July weekend.

Karen did relax, because she’d seen the driver’s licence and registration pinched between her father’s fingers. She turned to her two-year-old brother, Paul, with his gap-toothed grin, and was about to feed him a French fry when the shooting started.

The first shot hit her father – it was like a cherry pie had exploded inside the car – and, by the time the man who would later become known to the world as the Red Ryder turned his silenced 9-millimetre Luger on her mother, she had already draped her body over her brother’s, her shaking and red-slicked hand covered with her parents’ blood reaching for the car door.

Now she was sitting in a bed in another state thirty-eight years later. Was she scared? No. She was terrified. But on the subject of terror, what people generally forgot about was how it could sharpen the mind. How it cleared away the bullshit and focused your attention so you could zero in on the heart of the matter, which was this: no matter how scared she felt, no matter how much she wanted to leave (and there was certainly a part of her that did), she had to stay here and keep an eye on him until the evidence came back. Once it did, then she could decide what to do, and only then.

The outside lights clicked off, plunging the bedroom back into its gloom, and she thought she heard the snap of dry branches from the backyard – an animal moving through the woods, searching for food, maybe. It alarmed her for a reason she couldn’t explain, and for a moment she felt as though someone – or something – was sitting on her chest.

Make the call, her father said. At least do that.

No. Not until I have some more information. Besides, talking isn’t going to change anything, and you know it.

Do you want to end up like the others?

That wasn’t going to happen. She’d been living here for four months as Melissa French. Before coming to Fort Jefferson, Montana, she was Cindy Otto, living in Cheyenne, Wyoming. Before Cindy she was Sandra Jane Healey, and before Sandra she had been someone else – the list of names went on and on, every one of them with bland back stories. And, while all roads led back to Karen Lee Decker, that life – her first life, as she called it – had been successfully erased. Karen Lee Decker was, for all intents and purposes, dead and buried. She had hired trained professionals – erasers, as they were called in the businesses – who could turn you into a ghost as long as you followed the rules, the first of which was you were never to contact anyone from your former life, for any reason. No problem there. She had followed the rules, so no one, not even the FBI, could find her. She had made certain of it.

You can never be certain of anything, Karen. That’s why you –

I’m not asking for your advice, she told her father. But, since we’re on the subject of putting one’s life in danger, let’s not forget that you willingly signed over your life, not once but several times – and left your family, not once but several times – all to help the good ole US of A. I love you, but you don’t get a say in this one. Sorry.

It was then Karen noticed she had traded the comfort of her dad’s handgun for the comfort of the second and last item from her first life: the St Christopher medal that hung from a gold chain as thin as a piece of thread. The oval, gold-plated medal, not the chain, had belonged to her father, a gift from his parents for his first Communion. Lieutenant-Commander Samuel Decker, he of great religious faith, had carried it with him during his secret missions, believing it would protect him. And it had.

The backyard floodlights came to life again. This time she whipped back the covers, thinking about how no one could be protected forever, no matter how many saints or angels were on your side. Good ole Saint Chris was the perfect example. After carrying little baby Jesus on his back across a swollen river (and almost drowning in the process), Chris went off to spread the good word, and how was he rewarded for his devotion? Decapitation.

Karen had her fingers pinched on the shade, listening to the snap, crackle and pop of dry twigs and small branches, when she was struck with a new thought: Whatever animal is coming this way, please don’t let it be a baby cub. When a cub appeared, the mother wasn’t too far behind, and momma bears were extremely vicious and –

A girl stumbled out of the woods.

Karen slammed her eyes shut, sure she was hallucinating. Yes, that’s it, she told herself. It had happened before, a handful of times – one of the not-so-common but very real side effects of extreme exhaustion brought on by adrenal fatigue. Another common symptom was an elevated heart rate. She had that too; her heart was jackhammering furiously inside her chest.

But when she opened her eyes she saw the girl running across the backyard – and not just any girl but someone she recognized and knew well: Miriam, the daughter of her next-door neighbour. Karen had babysat for Miriam and the older daughter, Tricia, a number of times, and now the eight-year-old was in her backyard – in the middle of the night – wearing her knee-high green boots and lavender winter jacket with a Dora-the-Explorer patch on her breast pocket.

‘Let me in,’ Miriam screamed. She banged on the back door with her fists, her long, stringy blonde hair blowing in the wind and scattering across her pale, chubby face. ‘Let me in right now!’

Karen was turning away from the window, frightened, a greasy sweat breaking out across her skin, when she saw the deadbolt on her bedroom door slowly turn then stop with a soft click. Again she had a moment where she wondered if she was hallucinating, but that thought quickly vanished when she saw the doorknob turning.

Her father’s Colt .45 was still gripped in her hand. She brought it up as the door swung open and there he was, the Red Ryder, dressed in the exact same clothing she’d seen him in over thirty years ago: the dark-red hoodie covering his head, the chino slacks and dark military boots.

He didn’t come into the bedroom, just stood in the dark hallway, his head bent slightly forward and his face covered in the gloom. Miriam was still kicking the back door and screaming to be let in when Karen pulled the trigger and heard a dry click.

3

As Darby hustled through Logan Airport’s bright and noisy corridors – shit, she was late, so late – she found herself thinking about how this seemed to be the only way they saw each other these days – airport layovers or by driving to some randomly picked chain restaurant or bar that was a halfway point between them. They were either in the air or on the road for their jobs, and, while talking on the phone, texts and emails were great for keeping in touch, no technology – not even a video-conferencing program like Skype – could ever replace or even come close to replicating the feeling you got sitting next to someone, talking and sharing beers. Which was why, when Coop told her about his layover at Logan, she told him she’d meet him there.

It wasn’t a long drive from Hartford, Connecticut – a little over an hour and a half, according to Google Maps. She was meeting him at night – shortly before ten – so she wasn’t expecting to hit any significant traffic. Still, she gave herself an extra forty-five minutes, because she didn’t want to risk being late. She had a lot of things she wanted to discuss with him during his hour-plus layover. Personal things.

By the time she reached Logan, she figured she had fifteen, maybe twenty minutes before Coop had to catch his flight.

One of their favourite meeting spots inside the airport was a retro-lounge called Lucky’s. It had stucco walls, dark mahogany furniture and cherry-red leather chairs and stools and lots of mood lighting – the sort of place you’d see Frank Sinatra and the Rat Pack hanging out back in the fifties. Coop was sitting at the bar, his back to her. His arms were crossed and resting on the bar top, and the fabric of his thin grey sweatshirt was stretched over his massive back, shoulders and biceps.

The tall man standing beside him, in tight jeans and an even tighter white T-shirt, had to be one of the most perfect-looking men she had ever seen: Mediterranean skin, thick black hair, all chiselled features and perfectly sculpted. The type of guy you’d see in an ad for cologne or underwear. Men and women paused to look at him, but right now the guy only had eyes for Coop.

The guy tucked a business card under Coop’s glass, smiling. He picked up his ski jacket, and by the time she reached Coop the man had already walked away.

‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ she said, slipping out of her jacket. ‘There was a major accident on Route 26, and the main garage next to this terminal is closed for repairs.’

‘It happens.’ Although she thought he looked sad when he said it. ‘I ordered you a drink,’ he said, sliding the glass to her. ‘Knob Creek, double neat.’

Darby pulled out the chair next to him and picked up a black down jacket resting on the seat.

‘Patagonia,’ she said, and whistled. ‘Aren’t we moving up in the world?’ She was about to hand it to him, but stopped when she saw the inside collar. ‘Why is there a black X on the label?’

‘To let the world know you bought it at a heavy discount at an outlet. You’re a girl, you’re supposed to know these things.’ He took the coat from her and then, before she could sit, stood and hugged her.

She loved the way he smelled. Like home.

‘Way, way too long,’ he said, and, when he kissed her cheek, the personal feelings she kept buried (mostly) came to the surface. It didn’t take much effort to push them away; she’d had a lot of practice over the course of their fifteen-year friendship.

‘I saw that you made a new friend tonight,’ Darby said, and removed the business card from underneath the glass. She waved it playfully.

‘I most certainly did.’ His eyes were shiny with alcohol. Mischievous. ‘His name is Andy and he owns a yoga studio.’

‘That explains the body. You mind if I keep this?’

‘Sure. But I’m pretty sure he’s more interested in my equipment than yours.’

‘How sure?’

‘Well, he told me he lives in the South End.’

‘Gay clue number one. What else?’

‘He also told me, “I’d really like to see how you look when I’m naked.” ’

‘Confident. I like that in a man.’

‘The final clue came when he told me I had a great ass. Asked me what time it opened.’

Darby laughed, realizing just how much she’d missed him – how deep her feelings for him ran.

Tell him.

‘Then he slipped me his card, you know, just in case I changed my mind,’ Coop said. ‘But, seriously, keep it. I’m sure he’d make an exception for someone as beautiful as you.’

Darby felt warm under her clothes. ‘Why, thank you, Mr Cooper.’

‘I like the hair, by the way. That shade of brown looks good on you. When’d you do it?’

‘Last month.’

‘Why?’

She shrugged. ‘Wanted a change.’

‘Well, you look stunning. As always.’

‘Okay, what’s going on?’

‘What’s going on with what?’

‘All the compliments.’

‘Just stating the obvious.’ Coop glanced at his watch, frowned.

‘How much time have we got?’ she asked.

‘About five minutes.’

‘Five?’ Her heart sank a bit.

‘They bumped up my departure time,’ he said. ‘I was going to call and tell you to turn around and go back, when you texted me that you had just parked. But I’m glad you’re here, even if I only get to see you for a few minutes. It’s been, what, four months?’

‘Almost six.’

‘Math was never my strong suit.’ Coop sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose and massaged the skin there – Darby was amazed, as always, at how slowly he seemed to age compared with other men. Maybe the crow’s feet around his eyes were a bit more pronounced, and there was no question he looked tired, but his hair was still that same shade of brown and blond, not a single grey, and he looked as fit and trim as a guy in his thirties.

She pointed to the two empty glasses on the bar and said, ‘Bad week?’

He shook his head. ‘Just felt like tying one on before my flight,’ he said. ‘Helps me sleep.’

‘Where you heading?’

‘Big Sky, Montana.’

‘Ski country.’

‘So they say.’

‘Only you don’t ski.’

‘I do not.’

‘Vacation?’

‘That’s what the Bureau is officially calling it.’

‘And unofficially?’

‘That consulting gig you’re doing in Hartford, for their Special Victims Unit,’ he said, staring into his glass. ‘Could you get away for a few days?’

‘For you? Sure.’

‘Don’t you have to check with people?’

‘Just tell me when you need me.’

‘Well,’ he said, smiling and turning his attention to her, ‘I’ll always need you, Darb.’

His smile felt forced, his normally playful words empty. She glanced at the empty highball glasses, then leaned closer to him and said, ‘How about you tell me what’s going on?’

Coop sighed. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘it may be nothing. In fact, it probably is.’

‘I’ll be the judge. Let’s hear it.’

She saw something inside him relax. Then it vanished and turned to anger when he heard his flight called. Boarding had started.

Coop got to his feet. ‘I need to get moving,’ he said, taking out his wallet. ‘I’ve still got to go through airport security.’

‘I’ll walk with you.’

She did, wondering if she should bring up what she needed to tell him. No, she thought. There wasn’t enough time, for one, and she needed his full attention – his full sober attention. She had never seen Coop drink so much before a flight.

‘Just answer me one question,’ she said.

‘Yes, it’s true.’

‘What’s true?’

‘What they say about the size of a man’s foot being a good measure for penis length. I wear a size fourteen shoe, which means that I’m exactly –’

‘Is there a problem?’

‘With my penis size? No. Girth? I’d say I’m a little above average in that department.’

‘Coop, I’m being serious.’

‘So am I.’

They reached the back of the security line, which was surprisingly long, given the hour. She leaned in close to him, smelling the bourbon on his breath as she said, ‘Are you in trouble? Danger? What?’

‘No, no, and no.’

She said nothing, stared at him.

‘Honest,’ he said. ‘If I was, I’d tell you.’

Darby saw that this was true.

‘Reason I asked if you’d be willing to come to Montana is …’ He looked up at the ceiling for a moment and then his gaze scattered around the sea of faces coming and going, before settling back on her. He sighed. Looked embarrassed.

‘This is going to sound stupid,’ he said, ‘but the truth is I would simply feel better having you around. We’ve always worked well together, and you’re maybe one of three people in my life I trust to have my back.’

‘So let me go book a ticket and I’ll come with you.’

‘Flight’s full.’

‘Then I’ll take the next one out.’

They had reached the first security checkpoint. Since Darby didn’t have a boarding pass, she had to step out of line, and did.

‘Give me a couple of days and I’ll call you,’ Coop said. ‘Just don’t call me, okay? My employers will be watching every single phone call, text and email I make on both my business and personal cell phones.’

He handed his licence and boarding pass to the bored and slightly pissed-off-looking TSA agent sitting behind the raised desk. Then he turned to her, Darby expecting him to say goodbye, when he hugged her again, fiercely, his body tensing against hers.

He kissed her fiercely on the cheek. ‘Thanks for coming,’ he said.

‘Whatever you need, I’ve got your back.’

‘I know.’ He sounded so sad when he said it.

Coop walked away, into the security line feeding into the adjoining room, with its X-ray machines and body scanners. Something told her to call out to him, to tell him to come back so they could talk here or back at the bar or at a hotel room, any place he wanted. He could take a later flight, or, if there wasn’t one available, he could take the first one out tomorrow morning, the afternoon or evening, whenever. The important thing is that they should talk. He needed to tell her what was bothering him, because something clearly was; and she needed to share some long overdue things with him.

No more waiting, a voice told her. Do it now.

But the moment had passed. Coop had already moved through the security checkpoint and stepped into the adjoining terminal. He stood there with his back to her, looking at the signs for the gate numbers and the flat screens announcing the arrival and departure times for hundreds of flights, and when he finally turned and walked away she saw his face and thought he looked like a man who had willingly entered a familiar building and yet had no idea where he was.

4

Coop contacted her three days later, by text, while she was taking a much-needed long lunch with a couple of the Hartford officers from the Special Victims Unit: NEED TO TALK. YOU AROUND?

Darby texted back: GIVE ME HALF AN HOUR.

OKAY. BATTERY ALMOST DEAD. WILL CALL FROM PAYPHONE.

Darby insisted on walking back to the station, despite the cold. She needed the fresh air.

She had spent a good part of the morning trapped inside an interview room with a female social worker and a ten-year-old girl who had been repeatedly raped by her uncle. The girl pulled her sweater over her head – it was the only way she would answer their questions.

Her desk in the squad room was too busy and loud, so Darby fixed herself a paper cup of coffee and carried it with her through the back of the station and into the small parking lot. She was watching a pair of pigeons fighting over the picked-over remains of a half-eaten candy bar when her phone rang. ‘Fort Jefferson, Montana’ flashed across her Caller ID.

‘Your offer to come to Montana,’ Coop said. His voice sounded casual to her; she detected no undercurrent of urgency or concern. ‘Does it still stand?’

‘Tell me when and where.’

‘You’ll want to fly into Bozeman. There’s a motel in town called the Rose Courtyard. Place looks like a dump from the outside, but it’s neat and clean and cheap. I’ll meet you there.’

‘When do you want me to fly out?’

‘Tonight or tomorrow, latest. Don’t worry about the cost. I’m picking up the tab.’

‘I’ll check flights and call you back.’

‘Don’t call me on my business phone. Bureau keeps track of everything.’

‘What about your personal phone?’

‘I’d rather keep the lines clear, just in case.’

‘Just in case of what?’

‘I’d rather not let the Bureau know I’m bringing you into this. You two still don’t play well together.’

That was true, but that wasn’t the issue. The issue was she had embarrassed the Bureau too many times, especially in the media, which was a mortal sin. The FBI would never forgive her for it, and Coop had to tread carefully in order to protect his career.

‘Contact me through the email account we set up back when we worked together in Boston,’ he said. ‘You know the one I’m talking about?’

‘The Gmail account.’

‘You remember the password?’

‘The unfortunate name of your high-school chemistry teacher, a Mr Richard Fingerhut.’

‘Or, as we called him, Dick Finger.’ Coop snickered like a twelve-year-old boy.

‘I’ll see if I can get a flight out tonight.’

‘Book everything on your credit card and I’ll reimburse you.’

‘Done. You need anything else?’

‘No,’ Coop said. ‘Just you.’

Darby wanted to fly out that night. Problem was, every single flight out of Hartford, New York, Boston or Rhode Island had at least two layovers, and every flight was ridiculously expensive. She wanted a direct flight, and there wasn’t a single one to be found until early the following week.

She didn’t want to wait that long, so she booked a flight leaving that night out of Hartford, at eight. It had two stops. If everything went according to plan, she would touch down in Bozeman early tomorrow morning. Thursday.

You didn’t have to go to Alcoholics Anonymous to practise their best-known motto, which was to live one day at a time. And you didn’t have to be Jewish to appreciate the Yiddish expression ‘Man plans and God laughs.’ These two philosophies had not only kept her sane and her anger in check during the tough spots in her professional and personal lives, but they had also proved especially useful when dealing with what she considered was the single most disorganized and frustrating bureaucracy on the planet: the Federal Aviation Administration.

When she reached her first layover in Atlanta, Georgia, she was told that the second leg of her flight had been accidentally overbooked; she didn’t have a seat on the plane. Darby told the woman she had urgent business in Montana and flashed her ‘special investigator’ badge, which was essentially meaningless. Fortunately the woman working the counter didn’t know that, and with a few keystrokes a seat suddenly became available.

But, in the end, Mother Nature made the final call. A major thunderstorm that had been waffling through the day decided to move into Atlanta with a vengeance, shutting down the airport. All flights were cancelled.

Darby flew out to Seattle the following morning, Thursday, after a fitful sleep at a nearby airport hotel; but her next flight had been cancelled because of mechanical problems. By the time she touched down at Bozeman on Saturday, fifty-nine hours had passed since she’d left Hartford. Using her iPhone, she logged on to the private Gmail account she and Coop shared and sent him a message saying she had arrived.

Darby rented a Jeep Grand Cherokee. It took her a few minutes to familiarize herself with the SUV’s on-board navigation system, and then she was on her way, the land flat and covered by snow.

The Rose Courtyard was a squat, brick building that had a decrepit sign planted high on a pole by the side of the road, the floodlights pointed at the writing advertising FREE HBO AND WI-FI!!! Darby was given a room out back, the only one that didn’t face the street. It had beige walls and smelled of carpet cleaner, and sitting on top of a cathode-ray TV set was a tented placard advertising free HBO, just in case she’d failed to notice the sign out front.

Darby dumped her suitcase and then went outside, to the Jeep, and drove to the downtown area. Everything was closed except for a handful of restaurants and bars. She parked and then started walking around the area, ducking down side streets and through alleyways, before entering a pub called the White Tail. She picked a spot at the bar where she could see the front door and a good part of the dining area.

She was halfway through her burger and drinking a beer when she took out her smartphone and, for what seemed like the hundredth time that day, checked the Gmail account. Still no word from Coop.

5

She was great to look at, even on the computer monitor. The wireless camera he’d set up on a tree branch across the street from the Rose Courtyard offered HD-quality video and night vision. Fortunately, there was still enough light in the afternoon sky for him to take in her striking features.

What he didn’t understand was why she had on the exact same clothes he’d seen her in since Saturday: tight-fitting jeans, leather harness boots and a white collared shirt worn underneath the kind of stylish black motorcycle jacket the late, great actor Steve McQueen had favoured. After she zipped up her jacket almost to the top of her neck, she put on her sunglasses, a pair of Ray-Ban Caravans with dark-green lenses and gold frames, completing her badass vibe.

Only she was the real deal, if the stories posted on the Internet were true. Not only did she have a Ph.D. in deviant criminal behaviour from Harvard, she had killed fourteen people, the majority of them men, who, like a rabid dog, needed to be put down, the sooner, the better. The other strange thing about her? She loved to fight. This good-looking and slightly muscular woman who had the body of an Olympic volleyball player, all cut muscles and chiselled features, had no problem getting into fistfights with guys.

And winning.

Repeatedly.

She shut the door to her room and then tested the knob to make sure it was locked. She walked down the steps and got into her rental car, a Jeep Cherokee, and, as she drove out of the parking lot, the stars already visible in the late-afternoon sky, he switched his attention to the second monitor, the screen showing a satellite map of the area. Her first night in Bozeman, he’d placed a GPS tracker on the engine block of her SUV, and the device was still broadcasting perfectly.

The man yawned, shivering beneath his winter jacket. He had killed the van’s engine, so there wasn’t any heat – which was good. He wouldn’t be tempted to fall asleep. He’d been at this for three straight days, catching catnaps whenever he could.

He threaded his fingers behind his head and, leaning back in his chair, watched the GPS screen while thinking about where he should take his next vacation. He knew he should try someplace new, like Italy or France, take in a few museums and shit. But that wasn’t him, and he always wanted to spend his vacation – his retirement, God-willing – in Mykonos, a Greek island where every day felt like a summer party, the beaches made of golden sand and the water crystal clear.

Twelve minutes later, he watched the Jeep slide into one of the parking lots in front of the Happy Cup diner. Except for her first night in town, she’d eaten all her meals there. It was a great place, with a big menu, but why not go a little crazy and explore some of the other restaurants? His father had been like that, a creature of routine, and it always mystified him why his old man insisted on going to the same places and ordering the same food over and over again.

The man got up and made his way to the driver’s seat. The van was parked on a quiet road less than a mile away from the Rose Courtyard. As he drove, he answered a couple of phone calls.

Her room was Number Eleven, along the east corner of the building, practically around the back. You couldn’t see it from the motel’s front office, which would make what he had to do much easier.

The winter sky had grown even darker by the time he pulled into the parking lot. He scanned the area to see if anyone was outside, maybe grabbing a smoke, or on their way out for an exciting night on the town in cow country. The only sign of life came from a truck for the local power company, Western Grid. He drove past it and didn’t see anyone sitting inside, but the driver had left the headlights on and the engine running.

The man parked in the back of the hotel. He killed the lights and engine and stepped out with his toolbox. He pulled the Western Grid cap he was wearing a bit lower across his forehead out of habit, just in case someone on the road drove by and saw him. He didn’t have to worry about security cameras. The motel didn’t have any, inside or out.

He heard music, some hillbilly country shit, coming from inside the room, the music growing louder with each step.

Why had she left the radio on?

It was a simple lock. Eighteen seconds and he was in – and that music, Jesus, it was awful. All the shades were drawn, so he turned on a light.

The room was rustic and surprisingly homey: queen bed with thick quilts and pillow, a fireplace that had been recently used, the room smelling pleasantly of ash and pine. The music wasn’t coming from a radio but from the MacBook Air sitting on an oak desk, the screen on, tuned to one of those online music services like Pandora.

He left the music on even though the guy singing sounded like he had recorded the song while receiving a prostate exam. His work required what was called ‘minimum disruption’, which was a fancy way of saying touch only the things that absolutely needed to be touched, because you never wanted the target to have even the slightest inkling that someone had been inside his or her room or home. And before you moved anything, you took multiple pictures first, so everything was back in the exact same spot it had been originally.

He decided to work on the computer first, while he waited for his partner, Billy, to join him. Not only was it the most important item but also the easiest to tackle. He slid the disk key into a USB slot and the sleeper software on it came to life and began to install itself on the Mac. The software would allow him to read her emails and view her browser history, and also to see whatever she typed in the search boxes from here on out, because the software provided him with root access. As a side bonus, the software also turned the MacBook’s camera into a surveillance device – full video and audio, all of it streamed to the equipment inside his van.

Next and final stop: listening devices.

He placed one underneath the bedframe – a ‘quick-and-stick’ bug the size of a pencil eraser equipped with a battery that would last seventy-two hours. A second bug, this one with a battery-operated ‘peeper’ camera, went inside the bathroom vent. He cleaned up the dust that had fallen to the floor, and after he flushed it down the toilet he left the bathroom and came back with a can of spray dust to replace clumps that had fallen from the vent, because you never knew when or if someone would notice such a small thing – and the McCormick woman had been trained to notice the smallest things.

The quick-and-stick bugs often failed, so he had to leave behind a hardwired listening device. The best locations for those were electrical outlets. He decided on the one beyond the front door, as it offered the best acoustical coverage. He got the battery-operated screwdriver with the silent motor from the toolbox and went to work.

Kevin had removed the faceplate, his gloved fingers moving deftly to hardwire the bug into the motel’s electric system, when the front door swung open. Darby McCormick wasn’t wearing her sunglasses any more, but she was still wearing leather gloves and already swinging her arm. Kevin registered her smile and the look of delight on her face, like a kid who had stumbled upon a hidden Christmas gift, just as the police baton gripped in her hand exploded against his temple.

PENGUIN BOOKS

EVERY PRETTY THING

By the same author

Chris Mooney

EVERY PRETTY THING

PENGUIN BOOKS

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