He didn’t call Conchita Crystal. Instead, he sent her a check returning her money, all except expenses, including the twenty thousand for the Isuzu Rodeo sitting in long-term parking at the Albuquerque airport. Although he wished he was, he wasn’t wealthy enough to forget the expenses. In addition to the car, travel alone had been more than thirty thousand dollars. He sent the check with a note explaining his refund and the embarrassing necessity for keeping the expense money. He really didn’t want any of it. She never cashed the check and she never called either.

Nothing was ever said between Billy and Walter about Tucker Poesy. Just a look, eye contact the first day Walter returned. He knew well enough if there had been any trouble Billy would have mentioned it. The trip home had taken its toll. The flight from Atlanta, the taxi to the ferry, the boat ride over to St. John, all of it was more than he counted on. Walter was tired and weak when he walked into Billy’s. Ike was shocked at Walter’s appearance, sunken eyes, thinner, older. He never expected to see his friend look like that. Billy was worried. God only knows what happened to Walter. He was a week late coming back and he looked like shit. What kind of a beating had he taken? Helen, however, could smell a hospital a mile away. She knew right off the bat. Heart attack. Had to be. He told his friends she was right and that he would be all right soon, that he was going to rest awhile at home and he would see them soon. “Maybe a few days,” he said. “Maybe longer.” They said they would check on him, if he didn’t mind. Of course he didn’t. St. John is a small island. Everyone knows everyone else. They were all family. “I’ll see you guys,” Walter said and then sat down to wait for Sonny to bring a car around, to drive him up into the hills, to take him home.

The bushwhackers thin out a little bit in March and a little bit more when April arrives. Rental prices go down—owners are more willing to take short-term guests, even for long weekends, instead of the two-week minimum at high season—and the room rates at the Westin and Caneel Bay are no longer scary. After February, Billy’s isn’t usually crowded before lunch. Walter recuperated quickly, as quickly as a man his age could. Dr. Willie knew what he was talking about. Walking was good for Walter. It was too hilly where he lived, so he drove down to the beaches and would trek across the sand from one end to the other, and back again. Sand walking was like water walking. Good for the stamina. Good for building up strength. As time went on, he took to doing it twice a day, in the morning before breakfast and again late in the afternoon. For her part, Denise showed a lot of her aunt in her. Even though she was more than thirty years his junior, she took command, asserted herself as she had not done before and assumed the mantle long worn by Clara before her. She cooked—she cared—she was there. And Walter was happy with it. He needed her. Dr. Willie had been right again. Six weeks. And all that time to think—think about what happened—think about who—think about the Cowboy.

As he saw it, there were three players—Devereaux, the Kennedys and the Georgians. Sure, he realized it wasn’t really the Kennedy family, probably none of them except Abby O’Malley, and yes, the Georgians were not really Georgians, strictly speaking. But that’s how he thought of them—Kennedys and Georgians. Devereaux was the easy one. He was out there all by himself, a guilty-looking sonofabitch.

He started with the Kennedys. Was he wrong about Amsterdam? Had the Kennedys simply made a mistake by sending the Irishman? Must they have been the ones who killed Sir Anthony and the American Ambassador in order to have killed Harry? Or, could they have killed Harry and not the others? Who wanted Lacey’s confession more than they did? Their motives were the most obvious, their need already demonstrated by Sean Dooley and by Abby O’Malley’s visit. If it was them, if the Kennedys killed Harry and took the document, how did they know about Leonard Martin? Whoever it was who intimidated Isobel already knew Harry had been taken to Leonard’s hiding place. And, they should have known, all along, that Harry had the document. If that was so, why did they have to kill Sir Anthony and Ambassador Brown? If they didn’t learn about Harry until later, how did they find out? Walter was confident he had been right in Amsterdam. Sean Dooley was no killer. Why send him if you had someone else, someone who had already shown he could kill a helpless old man and two naked homosexuals. Dooley didn’t do that, so why send him to Amsterdam? More to the point, how did Abby O’Malley discover them in Amsterdam in the first place? Tucker Poesy knew. Devereaux obviously told her and she was waiting. But, Abby O’Malley—who told her? The questions did overwhelm him. As he had been doing for decades, Walter lined them up, pieces in the puzzle waiting to be fitted properly.

Walter could not forget, it was him they found, not Harry Levine. He couldn’t bring himself to forgive his own stupidity. He led them to Harry, in Holland and in New Mexico as well. Christ! If Harry had just stayed on his own, who knows, maybe he’d still be out there hiding somewhere, still alive. Walter covered himself with a blanket of doubt. If he had not fallen for Conchita Crystal’s act—it was an act, wasn’t it? If he had just said no to her. If he never found Harry . . . Shit! What an asshole. Aat was right. He was an old fool. Devereaux made him in Atlanta. The girl had him down in Holland. Was it all gone, into the crapper? Did he have anything at all left? Ike was right. The old man had it cold. He should have stayed retired.

Leonard Martin had changed everything. Lost more than a hundred pounds. Cut his hair short. Grew a beard. Stopped wearing suits and ties and switched to jeans and down jackets, boots and a floppy, wide-brimmed hat. Yes, Walter thought, he made himself a better man, a different man. He became the Cowboy. Somehow Walter felt a need to do the same. He’d already hardened his body some and was in even better shape now, after his heart attack, after his bypass surgery. Sixty? Shit, he was feeling more like forty. He didn’t have a new heart, but he had the closest thing to it. Revascularization, they called it. Revitalization, as far as Walter was concerned. In much the same way as Leonard Martin, he thought of himself as a better man. Like Billy said, Walter was every bit as better as Tommy John. Transformed. Could he be the Cowboy? Why not?

Harry Levine wasn’t family, blood, kin. He didn’t really know Harry that well, although you can get quite close to another person traveling around the world with killers on your trail. No, he was not family. But Harry Levine was his responsibility, his charge. He had been hired to keep him safe, not get him killed. Things had turned out bad before. Not every client was satisfied, not every conclusion the right one. Still, he’d never had anyone killed—murdered—while in his care. And he’d never been played the fool at the cost of another’s life. He had a duty, an obligation. Walter took it upon himself to find whoever killed Harry Levine, and then . . . he would know, wouldn’t he. Could he be the Cowboy?