Young, male, greenish-gray, slack-jawed. Flat, clouded cellophane disks where eyes had once functioned.

What the techies call a "defect" was visible in the center of the corpse's unlined forehead.

Entry wound, small and neat, probably a .22.

The body nested in a cloud of white pellets that began vaporizing the moment they impacted with warm air.

"What the hell is that, dry ice?" said Brewer.

"It sublimates," said Milo, wielding his blade and lengthening the slit.

The pilot blinked, looked away. An unflappable man but something had finally perturbed him and I knew what it was.

No normal-sized human being could fit into either of the duffels.

Milo finished peeling back the plastic. Stared.

Rod Brewer crossed himself.

The body had been severed just above the hips.

Not a clean job; the edges of the separation were ragged, bone ends had shredded like used firecrackers, exposed muscle resembled marbled steak, viscera had been frozen mid-action as they tumbled out of the torso, coalescing as horrid, olive-green sausage.

Something serrated and high-powered; my guess was a chain saw.

Milo stared, marched to the second duffel.

Solved the jigsaw puzzle that had once been Trey Franck.

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER
38

The Gulfstream's cabin smelled of fresh flowers, apples, and tequila.

Tristram Wydette's long frame stretched the length of a brocade sofa on the plane's port side, a copy of Hustler tented over his face. Breathing slowly, evenly. One manicured hand brushed the carpet. Near his fingers sat a chrome-plated iPod.

Quinn Glover, larger and heavier in real life, with the bland good looks of a budding politico, sat with his feet up, wearing eyeshades, sucking from a bottle of Silver Patron and bopping in time to whatever tune-buzz his gold-plated iPod was offering.

Both boys wore camouflage cargo pants and tight black T-shirts that showcased muscular builds. Combat boots and dirty white socks littered the aisle.

Uniformed for a mission.

Milo yanked Quinn up first, had him cuffed, belted into his chair, eyes and ears exposed, before his mouth could close.

Tristram remained asleep. Milo flipped him like a pancake, yanked out his earbuds.

Both boys gaped.

Milo said, "You guys watch a lot of TV?"

Blank stares.

"I'm sure you know the drill, but here goes: Tristram Wydette, you are under arrest for murder. You have the right to keep your stupid mouth shut, whether or not you talk really doesn't matter squat to me..."

The evolution of each boy's facial expression was as uniform as their getup: drowsy surprise morphing to cornered-animal shock, upgrading to terror, then tears.

Milo called for backup and we watched them sob.

Worth the price of admission.

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER
39

Battalion One: high-priced lawyers.

Battalion Two: high-priced publicists.

An attempt to curry favor at the Times because Myron Wydette played golf with the publisher backfired and the resulting self-righteous indignation was borderline slapstick. Wags insisted the real problem was Wydette cheated at the game and his greens buddy finally had enough.