In the meantime, he kept his rod in the water and his eyes on the house at the shoreline, waiting for his gut to tell him it was time to move.

The fishing gear was the cheapest he’d been able to find, at an Outdoor World near Savannah. The boat had been even easier to procure. Shellman Bluff wasn’t the kind of place where folks locked up their stuff at night, much less a dinged-up old aluminum dory like this one.

On the floor of the boat was a black-market M16. The detachable night scope sat on Guidice’s lap. In the pouch pocket of his gray hoodie pullover, he also had a small Kahr 9mm with six rounds in the magazine. If everything went to plan, that was four more rounds than he’d need.

The only real variable here was time. The lights in the house had gone out at eleven o’clock. They’d come back on briefly at twelve thirty, and then again just after two. Such was life with a newborn baby.

Finally, when the house went dark a third time, Guidice set down the rod and pulled the M16 onto his lap. He could feel the adrenaline sharpening his focus as he raised the rifle to his shoulder and pressed his cheek against the hollowed-out stock.

Through the green and black night-vision lens, the cop’s face came clear. He was sitting behind the wheel of his McIntosh County cruiser, looking bored and drumming his fingers on his jaw while he watched the house.

Guidice took a deep breath. He centered his main targeting chevron over the man’s forehead. Then he squeezed off one fast round.

The rifle’s suppressor allowed a small pop of sound, nothing more. Simultaneously, to the eye, a snowflake-shaped hole opened in the cruiser’s windshield. The man inside stiffened for a fraction of a second, before his head lolled softly to the side. It looked like he’d fallen asleep as much as anything else.

For another count of thirty, Guidice kept his eye pressed to the scope. When the cop didn’t move, he lowered the rifle and let it slip over the side of the boat, into the water. Finally, he took up his oars and started in toward shore.

It wasn’t far to row. Within a minute, maybe two, the little dory was scraping across soft sand and gravel at the water’s edge. Guidice stepped over the bow and onto the property, keeping his boots dry as he pulled the 9mm out of his pocket.

He went straight for the police cruiser first. The cop inside was no issue, that much was clear. Instead, he went to the passenger side and took the man’s hat off the seat, as well as the uniform jacket folded neatly over the headrest.

He slipped both of them on as he rounded the house toward the back. The front door had a line of sight to the neighbors, but the only view from the rear deck was out toward the yard, and the dark tidal marsh beyond that.

Guidice paused at the back kitchen door, just long enough to pull the cop’s hat a little lower over his eyes, and to check the pistol’s magazine—a quick tap with the butt of his hand. Then he rapped hard, several times on one of the door’s small glass panes.

Almost right away, a light went on from somewhere inside. The Reillys were sleeping light these days, no doubt.

A moment later, another light came on, in the kitchen this time. Through the sheer curtain hanging over the glass, Guidice could see Tommy Reilly tying the belt of a plaid bathrobe around his considerable middle as he came around the corner.

“Mr. Reilly?” he called through. “Sorry to disturb you, but we’ve got a bit of a problem out here. Would you mind opening up for a second?”

CHAPTER

40

JOSH BERGMAN KEPT IT SIMPLE TONIGHT. JUST A DARK PAIR OF JEANS, a long-sleeved tee, and an excruciatingly boring Gap blazer. It was important to look presentable, but there was no sense in spending major cash to get it done. It was all going in the incinerator by the end of the night, anyway.

He kept his change of clothes—his real clothes—in the trunk. Ian Velardi dot-print shirt, Armani trousers, and the custom Italian slip-ons from Vicenza, along with a change of underwear, and his Rolex Submariner.

For after.

Just before ten o’clock, he pulled his silver Audi A7 off Water Street and into the fenced waterfront parking lot. As he came around to the back, he spotted a single silhouetted male figure standing against the chain link and looking out at the Potomac.

Bergman came to a stop and lowered the passenger window.

“Travis?” he said.

The boy turned around and came closer. “Are you Bill?” he asked.

“I sure am,” Bergman said. “Get in.”

He pointed at the bank envelope on the seat as the young hustler opened the door. There were two one hundred dollar bills inside, but the kid didn’t check. He just stuck it in his back pocket and sat down.

“Nice car,” he said.

“Isn’t it?” Bergman said.

He was thin. Maybe a little too thin, but cute, with a sexy little gap in his smile. His clothes were preppy-slouchy, a half-tucked oxford in ripped jeans. But it was the bright green limited edition Nike kicks that gave him away. This boy was obviously pulling down more cash than his friends with their little jobs at Abercrombie and Pizzeria Paradiso.

Bergman pulled out of the lot and headed north, toward MacArthur. He had Elvis Costello on the stereo. “Pills and Soap.” A bit of vintage gold to go with his great mood.

For a while, he drove upriver and they played small talk. The boy was from Maine. He hadn’t seen any good movies lately. He thought Mumford and Sons were just awesome.

Eventually, the kid took a breath and looked around.

“Where are we going?” he said. “This is like, practically Maryland.”

“It is Maryland,” Bergman said. “I know a place. How do you feel about outside? Your profile didn’t really say either way.”

The kid shrugged. “I like outside,” he said. He put a hand on Bergman’s knee as he leaned in to bump up the stereo’s volume. “Whatever you’re into.”

“Awesome,” Bergman said.

At the little one-lane stone bridge, he took a left off MacArthur, crossed over, and doubled back, half a mile down Clara Barton Parkway. The parking lot was just off the road, but low enough to offer some privacy. The only time anyone used it was during the day, and not even that much then.

“Here we are,” he said, killing the engine. “Let’s go for a walk.”

If the kid had any second thoughts, he was keeping them to himself. Probably thinking about his next pair of kicks instead.

They got out and headed down into the woods. Bergman walked just behind him on the little footpath, his hand in his pocket, touching himself through the cloth.

“Down here?” the boy asked.

“Actually, stop right there,” Bergman said. They were at the midpoint in the woods, between the lot and the canal down the hill. “This is good.”

The boy turned around in the dark and stepped up toward him. He reached out and ran a hand over Bergman’s crotch.

“Dude. You’re ready to go, aren’t you?” the kid asked.

“I am,” Bergman said. “I really am.”

It was likely the boy never even saw the gun. Bergman took one quick step back to avoid any splatter, and pulled the trigger.

The kid’s shadow dropped to the ground unceremoniously, like a sack of whatever. Bergman dropped, too, onto his knees.

The knife was out next. He drove it in—once, twice, three times, fast…then again—four, five, six…seven…eight…

He lost count somewhere after that, as the rising swirl of it all caught him up, and then seemed to reverse direction, funneling back down into a final, excruciating explosion of pleasure—literal and figurative.

It was done. Again.

Bergman fell back onto his elbows. His breath was ragged. The inside of his pants was wet.

One by one, his senses seemed to float back into place. There was the boy on the ground. The sound of traffic on the highway. A slight metallic taste in his mouth.