Mackenzie pulled into the shadow of a large pickup truck at the far end of the unlit resort parking area. Earlier, she had deactivated the Subaru’s interior lights, so opening the door she moved from one area of darkness to another. She stood for several minutes listening carefully and allowing her eyes to adjust. Then she started out along the narrow road that ran down to Lake Michigan. Skirting the steel barrier at the end of the road, she climbed over a small dune and moved toward the shore.

The trek along the beach in heavy boots proved to be more tiring than she had anticipated, but she was relieved that even without maps or GPS, her destination would be easy to find. The creek that emptied from Lost Lake was the only interruption on the shoreline for miles.

Mackenzie looked at her watch when she arrived at the stream. She was running 10 minutes behind schedule. In the dull, watery light, she peered up and down the shore, then sloshed across the shallow stream and climbed the embankment. Catching a boot, she lost her balance, her outstretched hands bracing the fall. She brushed the sand off her hands and paused again to take in her surroundings. The area appeared to be a small burial plot. With increased caution, Mackenzie moved higher on the dune to get a view of the whole area. Used to the steady hum of an urban environment, she had been working on developing her awareness to the sounds and shapes of darkness. She stood for many minutes absorbing the scene. Her thoughts then shifted to her brother, wondering where he had died, and how he had died; wondering how his body had ended up on this strip of sand.

Her attention was suddenly drawn to lights moving rapidly along the beach from the north. Three separate beams were quickly closing in on her position. Sliding back into a tamarack swamp at the edge of the dunes, she found cover behind the roots of several overturned trees.

The drone of small, high-pitched engines increased, then abruptly stopped. She could hear voices. She stayed low and waited. The voices moved closer as flashlight beams swept the area, and then they moved away.

Mackenzie waited for several minutes before slipping out of her hiding place. In a crouch, she climbed up the dune to where she could better see the lights and perhaps catch bits of conversation. Unholstering her Glock, she crept closer, taking cover behind a large cedar. She was sure she could feel Sabotny’s presence.

“So where am I supposed to dig?” whined a male voice.

“Right where I told you, asshole. Near the big headstone in the snow.”

“Which one?”

“That’s the only big marker, fuck-head.”

“But there’s no snow.”

“You were supposed to be here two weeks ago. There was lots of snow then. That was the deal.”

Mackenzie could see the shape of a man on his knees, arms flailing. He lifted an arm and held it out to the shape of a standing figure. “It’s empty,” the kneeling man said.

“I know. Some old broad walked with it. Ended up taking it to the police.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’ve been watching.”

“Why didn’t you do something then?”

“I didn’t want the police involved. Now it looks like they are anyway.”

“I was drunk that night,” whined the kneeling man again. “I came the next morning. The jar was empty, just like now.”

Mackenzie heard a scream as the two shapes collided. Sabotny was kicking a man on the ground. Bluish LED beams washed over the area, and Mackenzie noted a third man on the edge of the shadows. She looked back to see the man on the ground had pulled himself into a ball. The attacker stopped, and there were only the sounds of wind and whimpering. “Get up,” Sabotny demanded. When the man pushed himself back to his knees, she saw that his face was covered with blood.

“Why did you drag me out here?” he cried.

“I’m trying to make a point, asshole. I sent you out here to pick up some money. I was testing your honesty. You failed.”

“I couldn’t come that night. I was drunk. When you called, I told you. I told you I was drunk, and you said, ‘Go anyway.’”

“When I give an order, I expect you to follow it. So what if you were drunk? That’s never stopped you before. You got to get the drinking under control. I got big plans, and I need people I can trust. I’ll give you one more chance. Clean yourself up and let’s get out of here.”

Mackenzie watched them move away from the cemetery, their lights dancing. They climbed onto their ATVs and drove back north along the shore. She held her position for 10 minutes by her watch to make sure that they were totally away from the scene, that they weren’t coming back. Then she secured her pistol and walked south. An hour and a half later, still shaking, she was back in her car.

In the security of her home, the bowl of a wine glass in her hand, its delicate stem threading between her middle and ring finger, she slowly swirled the scarlet liquid as she recounted the events of the evening with Ken Lee.

“I was wondering why you took so long,” he said after she had described what happened. “I was beginning to get concerned. I’m glad you were armed.”

Mackenzie sat for a long time without responding. “It bothers me that I need a gun.”

“After this is all done with, you may never need one again,” Ken Lee reassured her. “But right now you’ve chosen to deal with some killers, people who wouldn’t hesitate to take you out. It’s the old fight fire with fire. If they had spotted you—and people like that don’t go around unarmed—could you have stopped them before they killed you?”

Another long silence followed. Finally Ken Lee asked, “Could you identify them?”

“The one was Sabotny. I think the guy he was beating on was Jim Moarse. The third man was silent. I never really saw him.”

“So this deal with the money, what do you think that was about?”

“I have no idea.”

“Sabotny, what was it like to see him again?”

“Frightening, almost paralyzing.”

“Are you sure that you don’t want me to fly out? I could probably be there by dinner time.”

“Not now, not yet. This is my problem. I’d like to solve it myself. I did okay tonight. And you’re giving me plenty of support as it is.” She paused. “What I’d like to do now is get in the shower, go back to my natural color, and then sleep for about 10 hours.”

“The face paint is designed to wash off. I’ve included a special soap. Just follow the instructions.”

“You think of everything.”

“What can I say?”

“Always be more prepared than your adversary?” she quipped.

23

When Hannah emerged in fleece pants and a jacket many sizes too large for her small frame, she found Ray hunched at the kitchen table, staring at the screen of his iPad.

“I like your costume,” he said, sitting up and smiling.

“Best I could find in your closet,” she responded, pulling out a chair. As if on cue, Simone appeared from the bedroom, leapt onto Hannah’s lap, and started inspecting the contents of the tabletop.

“The women are hungry,” said Hannah.

“I can see that,” said Ray.

“What’s going on?” she asked, noting Ray’s attention returning to the screen.

“The downside of technology,” he responded. “In the old days when you requested a forensic autopsy, it would take days to get the preliminary results. It went something like this: After the body arrived in Grand Rapids, a pathologist would do the post mortem during normal weekday working hours, then dictate his or her findings. The dictation would go to someone in the secretarial pool, who also worked normal business hours. He, or most likely she, would send a typed copy back to the pathologist for revision and approval. Any changes would be made on a paper copy and returned to the typing pool. The secretary would make a final copy and return it to the pathologist again for review and signature. This alone would take days. A week after this back and forth, we might get a fax with the preliminary findings, followed in another week or so by an official signed copy with photos via snail mail. Then, a week or two later, we’d get the final toxicology.”