The thought of his London flat brought back wonderful memories for the Spook. When he had first gone to London almost fifteen years ago, after quietly leaving the CIA and going freelance, he’d immediately set out for Keith’s childhood neighborhood. He was supposed to have been scouting out his target, some ambassador from Libya who his client had deemed it was necessary to terminate.

Instead, the Spook had gone sightseeing. He had gone down to Corningwall Road. Found the ramshackle little house where Keith had spent his first ten years.

The Spook had soaked it up. Had imagined young Keith running around, his wicked smile and nasty vibrations welling up inside him. It had been a truly glorious, happy time for the Spook. On his own, free of the rules and regulations the CIA had imposed upon him. A free agent. Gun for hire.

Now, back in his hotel room, The Spook bowed his head and slipped into the rhythmic chords of “Beast of Burden.”

As he played, his boots tapped the thick carpet of his hotel room. He lost himself in the beauty of the evocation. In his mind, he was on stage at Wembley. Mick was in front, strutting across the stage. Ronnie was to his right, smiling, strolling. Wyman was in the back, trying not to be noticed. And Charlie was playing with intensity, his face a mask of indifference.

The Spook’s fingers slid carelessly along the strings. His right hand tamped the strings, creating a playful syncopation.

What a thing, the Spook thought. To be born to do something. That was the ticket. Keith had been born to write and play music. God had opened his brain and poured in all the ability he could handle.

The Spook had a born talent. Killing people was his reason for existence. Each and every one had been a virtuoso performance. He knew this instinctively. It wasn’t arrogance or boastfulness. He was the best there was. He knew it. And those who were in the know knew it too.

In the middle of the song’s bridge, the phone rang, but the Spook kept playing. If it was important, they’d call back.

Besides, he had an inkling what the phone call was about.

Or, more accurately, who it was all about.

He smiled at the thought.

I’m just waitin’ on a friend.

The Spook closed his eyes and felt the music in him while his mind raced ahead to the thought of who he would most likely kill next.

His old friend.

John Rockne.

Chapter Fourteen

My plan was to be like a desperate prostitute: loud, aggressive, and unwilling to take no for an answer. How’s that for a positive self-image?

Nevada Hornsby clearly wasn’t interested in talking to me. After all, what kind of guy would have no interest in nude native island girls and a year’s supply of Turkey Jerky?

I pulled up in front of St. Clair Salvage. A quick visual survey showed that Nevada Hornsby’s business was made up of three parts: the factory, the office, and probably out back, the boat.

I got out of the Taurus and walked over to what I assumed was the factory or the main shop area. It was a relatively narrow, but long, aluminum shed. I peeked in the windows and saw power equipment inside, as well as stacked logs. There were giant fans on each side of the long room, I imagined for sucking sawdust out of the building and blowing it into the air like one long, constant sneeze.

I walked over to the office area, which looked even less impressive. It was a weather-beaten structure made of old wood—appropriate, at least—with a cedar shake roof, dirty windows, and a beat-up door. You could pay top dollar at Pottery Barn for that distressed wood look. But here, you just wanted to slap a coat of paint on it.

The door rattled under my knock, but when I listened for an answer, all I heard was the howling of the wind off the lake.

The soot on the windows smeared under my rubbing, but soon I’d cleared a space small enough for a small glimpse into the place. It looked pretty much vacant. A couple chairs here and there, some cardboard boxes, and pieces of wood. There was a doorway that led somewhere, but I couldn’t see far enough. Maybe the real office was back there.

I walked around to the rear of the building and saw a long pier that branched off into a T. At the end I saw perhaps the ugliest boat of my life. It was a rusty tub, maybe thirty or forty feet long, with an enclosed cabin and a thin stream of black smoke coming out the back.

Two men were on the pier, untying the thick ropes, and preparing to cast off.

I jogged over, jumped onto the dock, and hustled down to the end of the pier. Looking at the water on either side of me, I saw that it was dark brown. Not exactly snorkeling territory here.

I got the attention of one of the men, a reddish-haired guy with a red flannel shirt, jeans, and a wad of chewing tobacco that distended the entire right side of his face.

“Nevada Hornsby?” I asked.

He motioned with his thumb toward the cabin of the boat. It was like a little cubicle that someone had placed in the middle of the boat. It had a little door and little windows that were black with grime.

In the back of the boat was a giant hook-and-pulley system, I assumed to help haul logs out of the lake. There was other equipment scattered around the deck: blocks and pulleys, hooks, big, odd-shaped pieces of steel. Most of it looked entirely unfamiliar to me. Then again, I majored in criminology not mechanical engineering.

The man to whom I’d spoken made no move to get Hornsby for me, but merely went to a different part of the ship and began fiddling with some levers.

I hesitated. The water next to the dock looked cold and unforgiving. I thought briefly of my car, still warm from the heater, a stainless steel coffee mug still half full, nestled in the driver’s side cup holder.

Life is full of tough decisions.

I jumped on board.

I made way across the deck and peeked inside the ship’s cabin. Nevada Hornsby sat at the small Formica table that jutted out from the side of the cabin’s wall.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a thick black sweater, blue jeans, and black boots. His thick, dark hair and beard were neat and smooth. The only sign of age and a hard life were the wrinkles around his eyes.

There was a knife in his hand, a long, crude thing that he was using to cut an apple. He looked up at me, the deep blue of his eyes seeming to leap from the weathered face and dark hair.

“Nevada Hornsby?” I asked.

He looked me up and down, and the look in his eye wasn’t flattering. He seemed to contemplate the knife in hand for a moment. I got the feeling the knife had gutted a lot of fish and that it could do the job on a private investigator just fine. But his expression didn’t come across as anger or violence. It seemed more like . . . weariness.

“My name is John Rockne,” I said. “I’m a private investigator. I’d like to ask you a few questions about Jesse Barre.”

He got to his feet smoothly, and I quickly saw that he was bigger than I’d imagined. At least six feet four inches. His shoulders seemed bigger too. Fuck, he was just plain big.

I pictured the man who had attacked me at Jesse Barre’s apartment. I suddenly had doubts that it could have been Nevada Hornsby. The guy in front of me was too damn big. If he’d wanted to saw my hand in two, he could have done it. Easily.

“Who you workin’ for?” he said. He still had the knife in one hand, the apple in the other.

I sort of scrolled through my typical responses, the ones I’ve spouted maybe a few hundred times in my career. That’s confidential. An interested party, etc. They suddenly seemed like they would sound hollow and flimsy in this man’s presence. So I went with the truth.