Freeboot and Taxman would ride in the trunk to a rented storage unit in Atlanta. There they would switch vehicles and clothes, and head separately for home-clean-cut, respectable business people, invisible among millions of others like them. The stolen Mercedes would be picked up and chopped for parts. Their bikes, guns, and gear would be safely hidden or destroyed. Any video cameras that had taped the assault would show only two men dressed in black from scalp to toe.

Freeboot kicked his bike to life, toed it up into first gear, and popped the clutch, spinning the rear wheel and raising the front one, surging forward in a long, fierce leap of triumph. They had brought it off, the toughest and wildest operation yet. Within hours, this would be headline news, its implications plain:

The only way the necks were going to stay safe was to build maximum-security prisons.

And live in them.

BLOODBATH LINKED TO “CALAMITY JANE”

By Harold B. Lorenz

The Atlanta Journal-Constitution

Published on: 11/21/03

Atlanta -A multiple homicide that shocked the nation two days ago has taken a bizarre new twist.

Early this morning, police broke up a fight in a homeless camp near Atlanta’s Peachtree and Pine area, where a man was using a golf club as a weapon.

It has since been confirmed that the club was one of a rare collection stolen from the house of Eurolon CEO David C. Bodewell. Bodewell, his wife, Paula, and four security guards were murdered last Tuesday in what appeared to be a carefully planned raid on the exclusive community of Sapphire Mountain Estates, north of Atlanta.

The golf club was identified as a “Calamity Jane” putter-one of only a half-dozen that were handmade for golf legend Bobby Jones in the 1920s. A search of the homeless area turned up several more clubs from Bodewell’s collection. Apparently, they had been tossed in a Dumpster.

“We can’t speculate at this time on why the golf clubs were taken, or how they ended up where they did,” Atlanta police spokesman Charles Richardson said. Richardson also declined to comment on a possible motive for the murders. But another source, speaking on condition of anonymity, said that nothing else of value appeared to have been taken from the house.

The community’s residents, shaken by the murders, expressed deep concern at this new development. “You’re telling me they killed six people for some golf clubs, then threw them away?” said an outraged neighbor, who also asked not to be identified. “That’s crazy.”

Police gave assurances that the investigation was being pursued with every available resource.

Carroll Monks was planning a trip to Ireland. His grandfather had grown up near Kilrush, on the west coast, before emigrating to the States. Monks had seen a photo of the place-a stone hovel in a barren field, miles from the nearest tiny village.

But Monks himself had never set foot on Irish soil. Why that was so was a puzzle even to him. The only answer he could give was that his life for the past thirty-odd years seemed to have been one long struggle to stay on top of whatever he was doing, while stumbling toward the next goal-college, medical school, five years in the navy, getting established in practice. Then marriage, children, divorce, and the thousands of vicissitudes that went with all that. Most of the traveling he had done had either been out of necessity, or vacations that were aimed at pleasing his children.

But the lapse was still inexcusable, and he was going to rectify it, come next March. He was not in search of his roots-he intended to make that clear to everybody he met. Mainly, he hoped to drink in some good pubs, walk on deserted beaches, and listen to a lot of rain, while he was warm and dry inside.

He was warm and dry right now, inside his own living room. It was early December, getting toward dusk, and the northern California winter was starting to settle in. A fire crackled in his woodstove, with cats sleeping in front of it, waiting for him to break out the slab of fresh salmon that they knew was in the refrigerator, ready to broil on a charcoal grill. Meanwhile, to get himself in shape for the journey, Monks had put aside the vodka that was his usual preference and taken up an apprenticeship with John Power whiskey, a working-class Irish malt with a good rough edge. He liked to sip it neat, slowly, sampling various stouts as chasers. The effect was like nectar and ambrosia combined.

He had been reading up on Irish history and had a pile of maps and guidebooks that he consulted while plotting his course. His main focus was a leisurely trip up the west coast, through Galway to Donegal, staying as close as he could to the ocean. He had no fixed schedule. In early spring, lodging should be easy to find. He would be traveling alone. Ideally, he would have a female companion along, but there was no one on the radar just now. He was starting to wonder if there ever would be again.

Monks decided to pour one more short splash of whiskey before starting the charcoal for the salmon. He was getting to his feet when a knock came at the front door.

This surprised him. His house was a good hundred yards off a little-traveled county road, surrounded by redwoods, all but hidden from view. He would have heard a car coming up his gravel drive. So the caller was on foot-but there were no near neighbors, and no one in the habit of dropping by.

He stepped to a window that gave a view of the deck outside the front door. His surprise deepened. A young woman was standing there. The evening darkness was closing in, but he was quite sure she wasn’t anyone he knew. She was looking around, in a way that suggested she might be nervous at approaching a stranger’s house at dusk.

Monks walked to the door and opened it.

She was in her early twenties, tall and full-figured; not really pretty but attractive, with olive skin and strong Mediterranean features. Her black hair was pinned with a clasp and worn long down her back. She was dressed as if for business, in tailored slacks and a silk blouse. She smiled but that looked nervous, too.

“I saw your lights,” she said, with a slight stammer. “I got a flat tire, down on the road.”

Monks’s heart sank a little. Changing a tire, in the dark, on a vehicle he didn’t know anything about, was not an enjoyable prospect.

“I’ll come take a look,” he said.

She murmured thanks.

He was wearing jeans, a flannel shirt, and well-worn Red Wing work boots-clothes that would do. He got a powerful Mag flashlight out of the front closet and put on a wool-lined Carhartt jacket. Then, seeing that she had crossed her forearms and was rubbing her upper arms with her palms, he said, “You’re welcome to stay here and warm up while I go check it out.”

She shook her head. “That’s okay.”

“You want a coat?”

“That’s okay,” she said again. “I’ve got one down there. I didn’t think it was this cold.”

Monks switched on the flashlight, illuminating their path down the gravel drive toward the county road. The woods were still. A few brave tree frogs emitted hopeful croaks in the chilly damp air, trying to strike up the usual evening chorus, but apparently most of their comrades were bedded down in amphibean comfort, exercising selective deafness.

“I can’t promise I can do this,” Monks warned. “Is there somebody around here who could come pick you up?”

“No.”

She didn’t live nearby, then, and wasn’t visiting someone who did. He wondered what she was doing on a narrow, outof-the-way road that ran from noplace to noplace else. Probably she was just lost.

“Do you know where the jack and spare are?” he asked.

“No.”

“Do you have an owner’s manual?”

“I’m not sure.”

His lips twisted wryly. There was nothing like traveling prepared. But he reminded himself that at her age he had been pretty feckless, too.