Brodie was relaxed. He’d been planning for this moment for some time. He’d spent the last fifteen minutes making sure he was all set. He’d spoken quietly with Smith and Bentas, and told Tarver to round up the Mexicans and move them all into Bunkhouse B and stay there with them. There was to be no argument: if they resisted, even slightly, kill one to let the others know he was serious.

It went like clockwork: less than five minutes later, he heard the sharp crack of a pistol shot from somewhere in the bunkhouses—Tarver taking care of business. Where had Tony got to?

At every operation Brodie conducted, he had a five-minute exit strategy—a simple scorched-earth policy, involving explosive, a few blasting caps, a spool or two of det cord, and the remote detonator box. Which he needed to get from the farmhouse.

He rang the bell. Craine opened the door; he appeared surprised and unhappy to find Brodie standing there.

“Mr. Craine, sorry to bother you, but we have a problem.” Leaning slightly to his right, Brodie saw the ghostly little girl sitting at the dinner table.

“What’s that, Brodie?”

“Your pal Nash brought in the medical examiner and a female park ranger.”

“What?”

“He’s shot the ranger. He’s got them locked up down in the boat shed.”

“My God! He shot the ranger?” Craine looked like it was him who’d been shot.

“Yes, sir. I, uh, thought you’d want to know.”

“Why did he shoot a ranger?” He was standing at the window, staring out. Through the thin mist, the pale shape of the Taurus was a ghost next to the shed.

Brodie said, “Mr. Craine, you’ll have to ask him yourself. I’m sorry, but I’m dealing with a number of issues right now. I don’t know what the hell’s going on there, but it needs your urgent attention.”

“Yes, of course. You’re right. I’ll go down right away.”

Brodie nodded; he was thinking he should just kill Craine, just do it right now. Follow him down the hill, pop him once in the head. Come back up, send the girl somewhere safe, grab Craine’s cash, and just fucking go.

He’d give anything to see the look on Craine’s face when he got down to the shed to find that Tony had butchered Nash, the doc, and the cop.

“Sir, I just need to get down to the basement for a second—I need to pick up the remote detonator box.”

Craine’s eyes bulged, and he stammered, “Mr. Brodie, now’s not the best time. I tell you what, I’ll go down there for you, bring it right back up.” He was so flustered he didn’t even ask why the foreman wanted ordnance at this time of day.

“That’s mighty nice of you, Mr. Craine! It’s a yellow plastic box, about yay big, in the wall cupboard in the boiler room.”

Craine disappeared downstairs, leaving Brodie peering through the crack in the doorway at the girl. She was reading a book—the same Harry Potter book Tony was reading. It must be new.

He remembered his own daughter in her Brownies uniform, making some damn thing out of popsicle sticks and glue at the table in their condo in Santa Cruz. That summer, word leaked out that a boyfriend of one of the den mothers had done time for making child pornography; one Sunday in early August, the boyfriend set out for a stroll on the boardwalk and was never seen again. Not that the police looked for him very hard.

But if Brodie felt he’d done some things right, he’d screwed up in the end—you can’t count yourself a good dad if your daughter’s doing a fifteen-year bit for distribution of a Schedule 1 narcotic. Particularly if she was busted while she was working for you.

Well, it might be a little too little, too late, but at least tonight he’d be curing her of her Tarver problem, which counted for something. Even if she might not see it that way.

Craine’s steps sounded on the stairs. Lucy straightened, then flipped the page. Brodie realized she wasn’t really reading the book: she was just looking at the same page over and over again. She’d read it, turn the page, then a couple of seconds later jump back to start over again.

The girl wasn’t as calm as she looked. Brodie shook his head.

When Craine handed him the yellow box, Brodie said, “A word of advice: you should probably think of getting the little girl out of here soon. Word is, we may be raided. And the feds have started poking around.”

Craine blanched. “When?”

“Within the hour. If I were you, I’d get out of here as soon as you’ve taken care of your little problem.”

Brodie nodded, said, “Evening,” then set off toward the bunkhouses at an amble, leaving Craine gaping in the doorway.