The old man was looking over his shoulder, then he turned back, and said, “We’ll talk later.”

For one moment she actually, blissfully, thought he was going to leave her, but he lifted his arm. She tried to scream again, and then it was blackness.

Chapter 28

Then

Killing Bill had been easy.

Jake Richter, going by John Richards now, had asked him where he’d been walking recently, and Bill, ever the explainer, told him how most days he walked down to Kennewick Beach then followed the cliff path along to Kennewick Harbor, then back home.

“You see the same people every day?”

“No, I hardly see anyone. Except in July and August, but then I usually do a different walk.”

A few days later, on a Wednesday, Bill asked Jake if he minded staying a little longer and doing the closing up. He was going to try to get a walk in before it got too dark. Jake had told him it wasn’t a problem, then followed Bill outside into the cool evening and watched as he made his way down toward Kennewick Beach. Jake locked the front door and left out the back—in case anyone was looking, even though it was highly doubtful—and took Captain Martin Lane down toward Kennewick Harbor. He walked casually—just out for some fresh air, he kept telling himself—then passed by the Kennewick Inn, its east wing covered by scaffolding while it got a fresh coat of paint before tourist season began.

He found the southern starting point of the cliff walk, realized he was breathing heavily, and slowed his pace. If he timed this right, he’d meet Bill coming from the opposite direction. While walking he fiddled with the homemade cosh in the pocket of his suit pants. He had made it a few days ago by putting a handful of quarters into one of his nylon socks. He hadn’t learned much from his father, but he’d learned how to make a cosh, something his father insisted on carrying in his jacket pocket at all times. His father’s had been filled with ball bearings, but quarters worked almost as well.

The path ascended, views opening up, so that all of York Harbor and even some of Buxton Point to the north were visible in the grey, dusky light. He stumbled slightly on a slick rock and looked down, noticing that the laces were loose on one of his walking shoes. He was about to bend down (never an easy thing to do these days) and rectify the situation when he realized that he could use the untied laces to his benefit.

He walked another quarter mile—the path had reached its highest point, and decided to wait for Bill to arrive.

He’d killed before, of course.