The men ran down to the shore.

“Too far for the scattergun,” Lewis said, grimacing, disappointed. “And I’m not much of a pistol shot.”

But Hart was. He went to a range at least once a week. Now, holding his gun in one hand, he began firing, slowly, adjusting the elevation of the barrel as he did so. The sharp detonation rolled across the lake with each shot and returned as a pale echo. The first and second kicked up water in front of the boat; the rest did not. They were right on target. One shot every few seconds, the bullets pelted the canoe, sending fragments of wood or fiberglass into the air. He must’ve hit at least one of them-he saw her slump forward and heard a woman’s panicked scream filling the damp air.

More shots. The wailing stopped abruptly. The canoe capsized and sank.

Hart reloaded.

“Nothing’s moving,” Lewis said, shouting because of their numb ears. “You got ’em, Hart.”

“Well, we gotta make sure.” Hart nodded at a small skiff nearby. “Can you row?”

“Sure,” Lewis answered.

“Bring some rocks. To weigh the bodies down.”

“That was some fine shooting, Hart. I mean, really.” Lewis muscled the small boat upright.

But Hart wasn’t thinking about marksmanship. Shooting was just a skill and in this business you had to be good at it, just like you couldn’t be a carpenter without knowing how to plane or lathe. No, he was recalling his earlier thoughts. Now that the evening’s mission was finished he had to turn his attention to what came next: how to anticipate and prepare for the hard consequences that would flow from these women’s deaths.

Because, Hart knew, they surely would.

GRAHAM BOYD SAT forward on the green couch, frowning, looking not at the TV screen but at an antiqued table nearby, splotched in white and gold, under which sat a box containing the only knitting project he’d ever known Brynn to tackle-a sweater for a niece. She’d given it up years ago, after six inches of uneven sleeve.

Anna looked up from her own knitting. “I let it go for a while.”

Her son-in-law lifted an eyebrow.

She traded the big blue needles for a remote control, turned down the volume. Once again, Graham caught a glimpse of a tougher core within her than the spun hair and faint smile in her powdered face suggested.

“You might as well tell me. I’ll get it out of you sooner or later.”

What the hell was she talking about? He looked away, at some nonsense on the flat screen.

Her eyes didn’t leave him. “That call, right? The one from the school?”

He started to say something, then paused. But he went ahead finally. “Was a little worse than I let on.”

“Thought so.”

He explained what Joey’s section advisor had said-about the boy’s cutting school, the forgery, the ’phalting and even the suspension last fall. “And there were some other fights he got into too. I didn’t have the heart to ask his advisor about it.”

Well, which one?…

“Ah.” Anna nodded. “I had a feeling.”

“You did?”

She retrieved the knitting project. “What’re you going to do about it?”

Graham shrugged. He sat back. “Had an idea to talk to him. But I’ll leave that for Brynn. Let her handle it.”

“Been eating at you, I could see. You didn’t laugh once at Drew Carey.”

“If this’s happened once, it’s happened before. Cutting class? Don’t you think?”

“Most likely. My experience with children.” Anna was speaking from knowledge. Brynn had an older brother and a younger sister, a teacher and computer salesperson, respectively. Pleasant, kind people, fun people. Conventional. Brynn tended to swim upstream more than her siblings.

Anna McKenzie now dropped the Hallmark-Channel demeanor, which she donned like camouflage when needed. The tone in her voice changed, day to night. “What I want to say: You never discipline him, Graham.”

“After Keith, I never knew whether to do this or that.”

“You’re not Keith. Thank God. Don’t worry.”

“Brynn doesn’t let me. Or that’s the message I get. And I never pushed. I don’t want to undermine her. He’s her son.”

“Not just,” she reminded quickly. “He’s your boy too now. You get the whole package-even came with an ornery old lady you hadn’t bargained for.”

He gave a laugh. “But I want to be careful. Joey…I know he had a tough time with the divorce.”

“Who doesn’t? That’s life. No reason for you to be a shrinking violet when it comes to him.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

“I am. Go up and see him. Now.” She added, “Maybe it’s the best thing in the world Brynn went out on that call tonight. Give you two a chance to talk.”

“What do I say? I tried coming up with something. It was stupid.”

“Go with your instincts. If it feels right it probably is. That’s what I did with my children. Got some things right. And some things wrong. Obviously.”

The last word was heavily seasoned.

“You think?”

“I think. Somebody’s got to be in charge. He can’t be. And Brynn…” The woman said nothing more.

“Any advice?”

Anna laughed. “He’s the child. You’re the adult.”

Graham supposed that was a brilliant insight but it didn’t seem to help.

Evidently she could see he was confused. “Play it by ear.”

Graham exhaled and walked upstairs, the steps creaking under his big frame. He knocked on the boy’s door and entered without waiting for a response, which he’d never done before.

Joey’s round, freckled face looked up from his desk, dominated by a large flat-screen monitor. He’d put his knit hat back on, like a rapper. He was apparently instant-messaging with a friend. A webcam was involved. Graham didn’t like it that the friend could see him, see the room.

“How’s the homework coming?”

“Finished.” He typed away, not looking at the keyboard. Or at Graham.

On the wall was a series of still pictures from the Gus Van Sant movie Paranoid Park, about skateboarders in Portland. Joey must have printed them out. It was a good movie-for adults. Graham had protested about their taking the boy. But Joey had become obsessed with the movie and sulked until Brynn had acquiesced. As it turned out, though, they’d fled the theater after one particularly horrific scene. Graham had dodged the incident that a told-you-so would have bought, though he came real close to telling his wife that next time she should listen to him.

“Who’s that?” Graham asked, glancing at the screen.

“Who?”

“You’re IM’ing?”

“Just some guy.”

“Joey.”

“Tony.” The boy continued to stare at the screen. Graham’s secretary could type 120 words a minute. Joey seemed to be going faster.

Worried it might be an adult, Graham asked, “Tony who?”

“In my, you know, class. Tony Metzer.” His tone suggested that Graham had met him, though he knew he hadn’t. “We’re, like, into Turbo Planet. He can’t get past level six. I can get to eight. I’m helping him.”

“Well, it’s late. That’s enough IM’ing for tonight.”

Joey continued typing and Graham wondered if he was being defiant or just saying good-bye. Would this become a fight? The man’s palms sweated. He’d fired employees for theft, he’d faced down a burglar who’d broken into the office, he’d stopped knife fights among his workers. None of those incidents had made him as nervous as this.

After some fast keystrokes the computer screen went back to the desktop. The boy looked up pleasantly. Asking, What now?

“How’s the arm?”

“Good.”

The boy picked up his game controller. Pushed buttons so fast his fingers were a blur. Joey had dozens of electronic gadgets-MP3 players, iPod, cell phone, computer. He seemed to have plenty of friends but he communicated more with his fingers than with words spoken face-to-face.

“You want some aspirin?”

“Naw, it’s okay.”

The boy concentrated on the game but his stepfather could see he’d grown wary.