Nine

“Probably sleeping in after a long night in-” Cameron stopped himself before saying Lakewood. “Mit nummer neun,” he finished.

“Yes, fitting. And I said number nine would be the first, didn’t I?”

“Yes. And seven and eight next.”

“You have a perfect memory.”

Everett was pleased to see him blush at the praise. He studied Cameron, and decided something was bothering him. Cameron’s tall, broad-shouldered frame would have appeared relaxed to anyone else. He sat crosswise in a large leather recliner, his long legs dangling over one of its arms. He rubbed the palm of his hand over his short, dark brown hair, and kept his intense gaze on Everett. For a moment, Everett was distracted, wondering whether he had ever met anyone whose eyes were as dark as Cameron’s. Did the long lashes make them seem darker than they were? No, he decided. One could hardly tell where iris left off and pupil began. Large, gorgeous dark brown eyes.

It was the movement of one of Cameron’s hands, a stroking movement, back and forth through his hair, that Everett saw as a signal of Cameron’s anxiousness. He had learned to read him long ago, at first using this habit with the hair and even more subtle “tells” to defeat him in high school poker games. Later he used them to convince Cameron that he knew and understood him better than anyone else, which was undoubtedly true.

“Hast du nicht geschlafen?” he asked.

“No, I didn’t sleep,” Cameron admitted. “I wanted to make sure our prey was still here.”

“And he’s not.”

Cameron’s brows drew together. “No.”

“Any idea where he is now?”

“Mexico. He took the bait for Oaxaca.”

“That’s excellent.”

“But his watcher told us he was here.”

Everett didn’t bother to hide a bemused look. “Is P.T. still alive?”

The hand came down. Cameron smiled. “I told him not to worry.”

Everett laughed. “You were kind to do so.”

“I am the soul of kindness. I’m even kind to animals. I put that poor old mutt of Kit’s out of its misery.”

They both laughed at that.

“So,” Everett said, “give me a few details. Herr Majors-he is still calling himself Majors?”

“Yes.”

“Herr Majors received an invitation from one of his creepy friends to visit Castillo del Chapulínes Resort.”

“Right. Slick wrote to tell him that he found a safe haven there, free of harassment. Too bad Slick’s kid never found a safe haven.”

Everett’s smile faded. “Will this one be more difficult for you?”

Cameron went very still for a moment, then relaxed. “No. It will be easier. I’ll enjoy it more.”

Everett wondered if this were true. Catching Majors was an unsavory business, but perhaps Cameron was right. Ultimately, it might be more rewarding than most of the others. A trip down memory lane. The first man they had killed together was a child molester.

He was Cameron’s father.

In order to trap the man who now called himself Majors, they had made use of two sex offenders, men who used the chat room names “Slick” and “P.T.” on Internet sites that were popular with male children. Slick and P.T. pretended to be boys and invited potential victims to other, more private sites. These sites required the victims to give out identifying information, including addresses. From there, they would arrange meetings.

Everett and Cameron had unearthed Slick’s and P.T.’s real identities when researching a customer list their team had hacked into. The customer list belonged to the man who now called himself Majors. After careful study, they became certain that Majors had been in touch with them. Majors, they knew, sought assistance through the help of others of his kind-assistance he sometimes acquired by blackmailing his own customers. It wasn’t difficult to get them to extend such help. Few people wanted others to know they had purchased snuff films featuring children.

Everett and his friends offered relief from the blackmail. Relief that guaranteed privacy and a total absence of law enforcement involvement. For men who knew that Majors was on the FBI’s Most Wanted list, the chance to escape him was too good to pass up-as were the generous cash payments they received for betraying him.

One of the customers being blackmailed, P.T., was here in Frankfurt. Because he was frightened of Majors, P.T. was nervous about working with them. They had an easier time buying the help of the man who lured Majors to Oaxaca-Slick, an American just out of prison.

“Majors is still using the credit card?” Everett asked.

“Oh yes,” Cameron said, “the one we arranged for him to receive. The one for which he’s the only real customer, credit supplied by us. Which means the records are entirely accessible to us. He’s booked a room at the resort for two weeks.”

“Excellent. We become jet-setting German tourists in Mexico. What’s worrying you?”

“I don’t want this one to get away.”

“Cameron-”

“I know he won’t. I know we won’t fail.”

“Exactly.”

“It’s just-I don’t want him to have time to hurt anyone in Mexico.”

“He’s being watched, remember? You need sleep. Do you want to rest here or on the jet?”

“The jet.”

He stood up and began to gather his gear, items stored here in preparation for any work they might need to do here. Everett watched as Cameron paused to run his fingers along the strap of a daypack. The strap concealed a garroting wire. When he turned back to Everett, his eyes were bright with anticipation. “P.T.?”

Everett considered his friend. Tease him or indulge him? It was always a delicate balance with Cameron. He judged Cameron’s mood and smiled. “Have him meet us at the airport.”

10

Denver, Colorado

Monday, May 19, 5:13 P.M.

Kit was watching Spooky swim laps in the indoor pool of his Denver home when one of his two cellular phones chirped. He knew immediately that it was a business call. The other phone was set to vibrate silently when a call came in, and only one person had that phone number. Until last November, about once or twice every month, he had received a call on it. But over the last six months, it hadn’t rung at all. Nevertheless, he kept it with him at all times, even sleeping with it, and was especially cautious about having fresh batteries available for it.

It was the business phone that rang now, and he answered it.

“Mr. Logan?”

“Yes.”

“We’ve located the jet. It left Frankfurt several hours ago.”

“The passengers?”

“Two German businessmen. Young men. No names yet.”

“The names don’t matter. They won’t be using their real names. And the flight plans won’t be real, either-they’ll be changed at the last moment.”

“Yes, sir. As before.”

“Exactly. But it will be easier to keep track of a private jet than two men.”

“As soon as we have further information, we’ll let you know. Anything else we can do for you now?”

He put a hand in his windbreaker and touched the rabbit’s foot there.

“Check the German newspapers for any reports of homicides over the next few days. Especially strangulations.”

“But they aren’t there now-”

“It’s unlikely that any bodies will be found immediately. They aren’t stupid.”

“No, sir.”

“Neither is my staff. Thank you for the information.” He took a deep breath and asked about the caller’s children. He was not someone who found social interaction easy and had to remind himself to ask such questions, to make small talk. His grandmother had taught him how to proceed in these matters, but he did so as an anthropologist might, a man trying to fit into an alien culture, and never with any real ease. So it was with some relief that he reached the point in the conversation where he felt it would be all right to end the call.

Spooky came out of the water then and wrapped herself in a beach towel. “Was that your girlfriend?”