“No,” she said.

“That’s amazing. I bought a new silencer and they say you can’t hear it past six feet. I guess it works.” He rose and she took a step back. “Don’t worry about Carl. You didn’t need him in any case.”

“No?”

“Of course not. I’ll take care of you, Kitty.”

“I bet,” she said. “Anyway, is good. Saves time.”

“See? You have an excellent attitude. Come and sit.”

She hesitated and he raised the front of his shirt over his muscled stomach and showed her the butt of a gun that was tucked into his waistband. She had the urge to throw her hand out and pull the trigger on that gun. But she sat instead, across from him in an upholstered chair.

“I know what you are looking for, Kitty. And I am going to give it to you.”

“Why would you do that?”

“To reward you. For all your effort. And, anyway, what am I going to do with it? I have to get rid of it. You might as well have it back.” He tilted his head at her, but nothing in his two tiny eyes showed the least hint of compassion. “Come here. Come to me, Kitty. Look, here it is.”

In his hand was the dark blue booklet with the crest of her country on it.

“Why didn’t you just go to the police, poor little Kitty? They would have taken you in, they would have brought you right to your warm cozy consulate in Toronto and they would have worked it all out for you. Now, instead, you are back with me,” he said, smiling. “And I am a little upset with you, you know.”

“Do you want to know why I do not go to police?”

“I do. I do very much,” he said, smiling warmly at her, as if he were proud of her.

“Because I get myself in this,” she said. “I get myself out.”

“I don’t see that happening” – he opened the passport and looked at the photo page – “Larysa Kirilenko. I almost –”

At the sound of her name in his mouth, she lunged without thinking and knocked him sideways off the couch and onto the floor. But he merely lifted her off of him. He had not defended himself or even gone for his gun. He just stood and straightened himself. He held the passport out again. “Do you want it or not?” he asked.

“I want it.”

She stretched her arm out and snatched it. She flipped through it quickly and saw that it was complete. Complete, but useless to her now. He would not have given it to her if there was any hope of her using it again. But she had it in her hands, this document that said she belonged somewhere, existed somewhere, had rights somewhere. She knew this would be the last victory she would ever have.

Bochko was studying the hole in Carl Duffy’s forehead. “Bullet’s still in there,” he said. “These things break apart like the instant they meet any resistance.” He looked back at her. “You’d think Carl Duffy’s head wouldn’t offer much resistance but –” He held his fists together in front of him and then pulled his arms apart, spreading his fingers wide. “You know? Boooomm! I bet it looks like pizza in there now.” He laughed and leaned down to kiss the top of Duffy’s head. A thin rill of red glugged out of the hole. Standing behind the dead man, Bochko looked over at her.

“So, Kitty. Where should we do this?”

She knew what he meant.

“It is up to you. Where you wish to die.”

He smiled at her again, a wide-open, devouring smile. And he was about to say something else when they both heard a woman’s voice coming from the street. It was small and tinny, but it was clearly saying a name. It was saying, “Lee Travers.” He retreated carefully to the window, walking backwards, and lifted a curtain a little. Then he crossed the room again and grabbed Larysa by the wrist. “We have some company,” he said. “Let’s go.”

] 32 [

Late afternoon

The burning in her cheeks and neck had subsided, and Hazel had suppressed the urge to smash the steering wheel with her fist. They’d been stupid; thorough but stupid, and the whole investigation had been tainted from the start. She tried to identify the point at which she could have seen the devil on her shoulder, but the case had been so opaque in places, and her life beyond the case so nerve-wracking … Had she been distracted? Had she dismissed a warning sign anywhere that might have drawn her attention back to the leak? Of course it had never occurred to her that Lydia Bellecourt had simply slotted Hazel into place in their plan, but that is exactly what had happened. It was shameful and horrifying. She had asked the questions What is the girl running from? and What is the girl searching for?, and these questions had been so worthy that at no point did she ever wonder if there was a fatal flaw in her point of view.

The sideroads swept past as she came closer to the Ninth Line.

What would she do now? Bellecourt had congratulated herself for staying one step ahead of them the whole way.

But now, finally, they were ahead. She knew where both the girl and Lee Travers were headed. She’d already dispatched cars. It had taken LeJeune less than five minutes to decipher the name Mr. Sugar. Everyone in high stakes knew him. He was a whale, not just to the casino, but in stature as well. He was allowed to eat at the tables because he bet a minimum of a thousand dollars a hand. He tipped well, too, especially the waitresses, who found him disgusting. He told them to call him Mr. Sugar. He’d made his fortune in energy drinks.

His name was Carl Duffy.

Now she didn’t have to fake having a plan. She could gun for Bellecourt and let the woman find out for herself what kind of rage Hazel was capable of. Nobody put a hand on anyone she cared for.

Bellecourt planned to keep Hazel occupied with the fate of her lieutenant; she was going to keep Bellecourt occupied with the fate of her fiancé. This was their endgame. Bellecourt would have to get to Lee, or wait for him in those fields. Hazel wasn’t about to let her choose, though.

She had to not care. The problem with a threat like the one that had been issued was that if you allowed yourself to be governed by the fear of the outcome, you might end up with nothing but the thing you feared. She had to push past it, keep Bellecourt in her sights. It was probably the only way to save Wingate and get Bellecourt and Travers into custody. She fumbled with her cell and dialled Ray Greene. “I’m not stopping,” she said to him. “In five minutes you’d better have half your hands on deck up near Duffy’s place and the other half on the Ninth Road. You’re going to need a heat sensor to figure out where James is.”

“Where are you going?”

“Straight through,” she said. “I’m going to go get her. Then you move in and get Wingate out, and anyone else who might be under there.”

“I don’t know, Hazel.”

“I don’t know, either, Ray. But the longer she’s roosting on top of them, the greater the chance of an outcome I don’t think either of us can live with.”

“Stay in touch with me. And be careful.”

“I will. Just get James out.” She ended the call as she passed the Eighth Line and continued up Sideroad 1 toward the grove. She might have been driving over the body of her detective constable; she focused herself on the task at hand and powered LeJeune’s dark blue Maxima over the hardtop toward her destination. As she crested a low rise, she saw, in the distance, the black Mercedes that she’d seen before, coming slowly toward her, and she reached for the radio. “Bellecourt? Come in. We’re alone on this frequency.”

She waited. The black car seemed to be slowing. Then it turned and blocked the road sideways.

“Bellecourt?” she said into the radio. “I’m not stopping on this road.”

“Hazel,” came the constable’s voice. “I thought I gave you my instructions.”

“I know where Lee is.”

“You don’t.”

“There are cars heading to his location as we speak.”

“Please do stop. I don’t want to have unnecessary blood on my hands. That’s Earl Tate up ahead in the car. Do you see him?”