was eighty million dollars by the time the oldest turned forty. When Cameron celebrated his thirtieth birthday, they were already halfway there.

Nothing could stop them. Over the years, the bond between the friends had strengthened, and they would do anything, anything

at all, to protect the others.

While each of them brought his own special talents to the club, Cameron and Preston and Dallas knew that John was the mastermind, and that without him they would never have gotten this far. They couldn't afford to lose him, and they became increasingly alarmed over his deteriorating state of mind.

John was in trouble, but they didn't know how to help. And so they simply listened as he poured his heart out. The topic of his beloved wife would inevitably come up, and John would fill them in on the latest horrific developments. None of them had seen Catherine in years because of the illness. That was her choice, not theirs, for she wanted them to remember her the way she had been, not the way she was now. They sent gifts and cards, of course. John was like a brother to them, and while they were genuinely sympathetic about his wife's condition, they were much more concerned about him. In their collective opinion, she was, after all, a lost cause. He wasn't. And they could see what he couldn't, that he was headed for disaster. They knew he was having trouble concentrating while at work-a dangerous tendency given his occupation-and he was also drinking too much.

John was getting roaring drunk now. Preston had invited him and the others over to his new penthouse apartment to celebrate the success of their latest venture. They sat at the dining room table in plush upholstered chairs, surrounded by a panoramic view of the Mississippi. It was late, almost midnight, and they could see the lights twinkling outside in the inky darkness. Every few minutes the sound of a foghorn would hum mournfully in the background.

The noise made John melancholy. "How long have we been friends?" He slurred the question. "Does anybody remember?"

"About a million years," Cameron said as he reached for the bottle of Chivas.

Dallas snorted with laughter. "Man, it seems that long, doesn't it?"

"Since high school," Preston said, "when we started the Sowing Club." He turned to John. "You used to intimidate the hell out of me. You were always so smooth and self-assured. You were more polished than the teachers."

"What'd you think of me?" Cameron wanted to know.

"Nervous," Preston answered. "You were always… edgy. You know what I mean? You still are," he added.

Dallas nodded. "You've always been the cautious one in the group."

"The worrier," Preston said. "Whereas Dallas and I have always been more…"

"Daring," Dallas suggested. "I never would have been friends with any of you guys if John hadn't brought us together."

"I saw what you didn't," John said then. "Talent and greed."

"Here, here," Cameron said as he raised his glass in a mock salute to the others.

"I think I was just sixteen when we started the Sowing Club," Dallas said.

"You were still a virgin, weren't you?" Cameron asked.

"Hell, no. I lost my virginity by the time I was nine."

The exaggeration made them laugh. "Okay, so maybe I was a little older," Dallas said.

"God, we were cocky little shits back then, weren't we? Thinking we were so clever with our secret club," Preston said.

"We were clever," Cameron pointed out. "And lucky. Do you realize the stupid risks we took?"

"Whenever we wanted to get drunk, we'd call for a meeting of the club," Dallas said. "We're lucky we haven't turned into alcoholics."

"Who says we haven't?" Cameron asked, and then laughed again.

John held up his glass. "A toast to the club and to the tidy profit we just made, thanks to Preston's oh-so-sweet insider information."

"Here, here," Cameron said as he clinked his glass against the others. "I still can't figure out how you got that information, though."

"How do you think I got it?" Preston asked. "I got her drunk, fucked her brains out, and after she passed out, I went through her computer files. All in a night's work."

"You boinked her?" Cameron howled.

" 'Boinked'? Who uses that word these days?" Preston asked.

"I want to know how you got it up. I've seen the woman. She's a pig," Dallas said.

"Hey, I did what I had to do. I just kept thinking about the eight hundred thousand we'd make, and I…"

"What?" Cameron asked.

"I closed my eyes, okay? I don't think I can do it again, though. One of you guys will have to take over. It pretty much… sucked," he admitted with a grin over his pun.

Cameron emptied his glass and reached for the bottle. "Well, too bad. You're stuck with the job as long as the women go crazy over those bulging muscles and that movie-star face of yours."

"In five more years we'll all be set for life. We can walk away, disappear if we have to, do whatever we want. Don't lose sight of the goal," Dallas said.

John shook his head. "I don't think I can hold on five more years. I know I can't."

"Hey, you've got to keep it together," Cameron said. "We've got too much to lose if you fall apart on us now. You hear me? You're the brains of this outfit. We're just…"

He couldn't come up with the right word. Preston suggested, "Coconspirators?"

"We are that," Dallas said. "But we've all done our part. John's not the only one with brains. I'm the one who brought Monk in, remember?"

"Oh, for God's sake, this isn't the time for an ego tantrum," Preston muttered. "You don't need to tell us how much you do, Dallas. We all know how hard you work. As a matter of fact, that's all you do. You've got nothing outside of your job and the Sowing Club. When's the last time you took a day off or went shopping? I'm guessing never. You wear the same black or navy suit every day. You're still taking a brown bag for lunch-and I'll bet you even take the bag home to use again the next day. For that matter, when have you ever picked up a tab?"

"Are you saying I'm a cheapskate?" Dallas countered.

Before Preston could answer, Cameron interrupted. "Knock it off, you two. It doesn't matter which one of us is the smartest or works the hardest. We're all culpable. Do you know how many years we'd get if anyone ever found out what we've done?" Cameron asked.

"No one's going to find out anything." John was angry now. "They wouldn't know where to look. I made sure of that. There aren't any records except on my home computer disks, and no one's ever going to have access to those. There aren't any other records, no phone calls, no paper trail. Even if the police or the SEC gets curious, they wouldn't find a shred of evidence to pin on us. We're clean."

"Monk could lead the police to us." Cameron had never trusted the courier, or "hired help" as John called him, but they needed someone reliable, an implementor, and Monk fit the bill. He was every bit as greedy and corrupt as they were and had everything to lose if he didn't do what they wanted.

"He's worked for us long enough for you to start trusting him, Cameron," Preston said. "Besides, if he goes to the police, he'll take a much harder fall than we will."

"You got that right," John muttered. "Look, I know we said that we'd keep going until Cameron turned forty, but I'm telling you I can't last that long. Some days I think my mind… oh, hell, I don't know."

He got out of his chair and crossed to the window, his hands clasped behind his back as he stared at the lights. "Did I ever tell you guys how Catherine and I met? It was at the Contemporary Arts Center. We both wanted to buy the same painting, and somehow, during our heated argument, I fell in love. Man, the sparks between us… it was something to see. All these years later, and that spark's still there. Now she's dying and I can't do a damned thing to stop it."