In another lifetime, when Hardy had been a prosecutor with the very district attorney’s office that he now despised, he sent people to jail all the time. Because his first wife, Jane, had been worried that some of his convicted and dangerous felons might get back to freedom with a chip on their shoulders, Hardy had applied for a CCW – carry a concealed weapon – permit. In the normal course of events, this would have been denied, but Jane’s father was a Superior Court judge, and it got approved and, through some combination of politics and inertia, got renewed every year.

Over the years, Hardy had had occasion to take one of his guns out with him twice. Neither time did he have to fire at anyone, although once he had enjoyed letting off a round for the immediate and gratifying effect.

Yet tonight, in a kind of cold fury, grabbing for a weapon didn’t feel strange at all. It was a little past dusk, and he was taking his Colt.38 Special out of the safe where he kept it since the Beck had been born. He hadn’t even held the damn thing in a couple of years, but when he’d last taken it to the range, he’d cleaned, oiled, and wrapped it carefully in its cloth before putting it away.

Now he lifted it out and unwrapped it. A wipe with the rag and the finish shone. He checked to make sure that it was unloaded, then spun the cylinder and worked the action several times.

On the way back from his visit with Frannie, he had decided – if that was the word; the impulse had been more spontaneous than cerebral – to carry the piece. He probably couldn’t have said why – surely not to shoot the man who might be sleeping with his wife. If he had a thought about it at all, he would have said that the gun might be persuasive in moving Ron to do what Hardy asked, whatever that might turn out to be.

So he wasn’t going to be home for long. Frannie had told him where Ron had once told her – she remembered after she found out he’d fled – where Ron’s first stop might be if he needed to run.

Hardy hadn’t told Frannie that he was going to confront Ron. No more impetuous promises. And his wife, perhaps having erroneously concluded that Hardy had been converted all the way to Ron’s side, hadn’t demanded any.

Wearing jeans, a blue shirt over a rugby jersey, and a pair of running shoes, he stood in the dim light in the back room behind the kitchen and slid the bullets where they belonged. He stuck the gun into his belt, pulling the blue shirt out over it. He put the rest of the box of bullets back into the safe, carefully closed the door, and spun the lock.

On the way out, he grabbed a jacket from the peg near the front door.

It hadn’t taken five minutes and he was back at his car. Ready.

Ron Brewster.

Now he was Ron Brewster. Frannie had explained it all to Hardy, thinking she was making points for Ron, showing her husband the lengths to which this great guy was willing to go to protect his children.

But the excuses and lies that he ran into every day in his criminal practice had honed Hardy’s natural cynicism into a sharp-edged and profound skepticism that cut a swath through normal human feelings, at least whenever the law was involved. Although he fought it in his home life and with his few close friends, he found that he didn’t take much at face value anymore. He tended not to believe interesting stories – there was always something else that didn’t get said.

Frannie’s explanations of Ron’s behavior – his easy skill with name change, for example; his successful kidnapping of his own children – only convinced Hardy that he was dealing with a very intelligent and resourceful criminal. One who had at the very least conned Frannie, and at the worst much more than that.

As if he needed more fuel to fire his rage.

They were at the Airport Hilton. Hardy had seen it before in people who were fleeing – the first instinct was to go to ground. Stay close. See which direction your pursuers took and then light out the other way.

Fifth floor, room 523. A ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign was affixed to the doorknob.

Hardy checked his watch. It was precisely nine sixteen. The sound of a television came from behind the door. Canned laughter.

He felt for the gun in his waistband, felt its reassuring presence, and left it where it was. He knocked.

Within a second, the television was turned off. And now behind the door there was only silence. He knocked again, almost tempted to call out, ‘Candygram.’ Instead, he waited, giving Ron every chance to do it in his own time.

Ron Beaumont held a finger over his lips, telling his children to make no sound. He crossed to the door of the hotel room. He, too, had a gun with him, but it was packed now in the false bottom of a suitcase.

He had to pray it wasn’t the police, or, if it was, that it was only one man. Then he might be able to talk himself a couple of minutes, enough time to get to his suitcase, do what he might have to do.

Hardy gave it another knock, harder. ‘Ron! Open the door!’ Another couple of seconds. Then, from behind the door, a firm voice, ‘We’re trying to sleep.’

Hardy leaned in closer, spoke with controlled urgency. ‘This is Dismas Hardy.’

Finally the door opened, but just a crack. Ron had turned off the lights inside the room and left the chain on. Hardy had to fight the impulse to slam his shoulder into the door and break the chain free.

Hardy spread his hands wide. No threat. Just open the door and let’s talk.

Ron Beaumont was a handsome man, though Hardy hated to admit it. Strong, angular features and clear, brown eyes set in cheekbones so chiseled that now, with his evening stubble, they looked like you could strike a match on them. An aquiline nose with a high bridge was perfectly centered over what Hardy supposed would be called a generous mouth. The full head of dark hair had a streak or two of gray at the temples, although the unlined face made that seem premature, or even dyed. Almost exactly the same height as Hardy’s six feet, he weighed at least ten pounds less, and none of it was soft.

The door was open and he moved to the side to let Hardy in.

All the way down from the Avenues to the airport, Hardy had indulged in fantasy, savoring the moment of confrontation when he, goddamit, made Ron ‘fess up to his responsibility to Frannie, to the damage he’d done. The other stuff, too, whatever it might have been – the true nature of their relationship, the alibi, whatever story they’d had to ’get straight.‘

Max and Cassandra skewed the dynamic immediately.

Ron’s kids as human beings in the center of this drama hadn’t made center stage before the lights went on in the hotel room. Before that, he was aware of their existence, of course, but they had been mere pawns in the chess game Hardy had been playing. The fact that they were here, now, taking up the same physical space as Ron whatever-his-last-name, changed everything.

Cassandra lit up when she saw him. ‘Mr Hardy. Hi.’ Natural as can be. Surprised and delighted at his appearance. Suddenly the name clicked with the face for Hardy, too. Cassandra was no longer a half-remembered presence in his daughter’s life, but one of the really good ones – polite, funny, able to speak in whole sentences.

He glanced at the boy, Max, now placing him as well. They’d both been to the house several times to play with his children, although Hardy hadn’t engaged either of them in meaningful dialogue.

It threw him to see it, but even now in this stressful environment, both remained obviously well-cared-for children, newly bathed and wearing pajamas.

‘Are you here to help us?’ Cassandra asked. She turned to her father, explaining. ‘Rebecca says that’s what her dad does. He helps people. He’s a lawyer.’