They ended as they began: “Do we tell Brooke what Fat Gandhi said?”

Win pondered that. “It’s your call.”

That surprised Myron. “Mine.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t get it. Why?”

“Simple.” Win put down the snifter and steepled his hands. “You’re better at this than I am.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Don’t feign modesty. You are more objective. Your judgment is sounder. You and I have been doing this a long time—helping those in trouble, finding missing people, rescuing those in need—have we not?”

“We have.”

“And in every situation, you have been the leader. I’m the support staff. I’m your muscle, if you will. We are partners, a team, but to keep within this quick metaphor, you are the captain of the team. I’ve made mistakes.”

“So have I.”

Win shook his head. “I didn’t have to kill all three of those men that first day. I could have kept one alive. I could have offered them money to back off. The fact is, I’m objective enough to know I cannot be objective. Did you see Brooke’s face?”

Myron nodded.

“You know,” Win said, “that I care about very few people.”

Myron did not reply.

“You know that when I care, I care with a ferocity that doesn’t always make me rational. We have had success in the past with you taking the lead.”

“We’ve also messed up,” Myron said. “We’ve lost a lot of people.”

“We have,” Win agreed, “but we win more than we lose.”

Win waited for Myron to continue.

“Brooke would want to know,” Myron said. “We should tell her.”

“Okay, then.”

“But first,” Myron said, “let’s confront Patrick with what we know.”

* * *

You don’t get anywhere on the phone, so Myron and Win took the drive out to the Moore home in New Jersey. There was no answer at the door. Myron took a peek in the window of the garage. No car. Win spotted the FOR SALE sign in the yard.

“You saw this?” Win asked.

Myron nodded. “They’re all moving to Pennsylvania to be closer to Hunter.”

“Do you have Hunter’s address?”

“I do.”

Myron took out his mobile phone and brought up a map. “According to this, we can make it in an hour and fifteen minutes.”

“Perhaps,” Win said, “I should drive.”

Less than an hour later, they reached a dirt road deep in the woods. There was a chain blocking access. A rusted sign read:

LAKE CHARMAINE—PRIVATE

Myron got out of the car. There was a padlock on one end of the chain. Using his heel, Myron kicked down on it. The lock broke. The chain fell to the ground with a heavy clunk.

“We’re trespassing,” Myron said.

“Let’s live on the edge, old friend. That’s where all the goodies reside.”

As they drove up the dirt road, Lake Charmaine in all its splendor rose before them. The sun glistened off the water. Myron checked the GPS. It instructed them to circle to the other side of the lake. They veered to the left and drove past the kind of log cabin you thought existed only in old movies. A car with an MD license plate was parked in front of it. On the dock, a man about Myron’s age cast out his fishing line slowly, gracefully, like poetry in motion. He then handed the rod to a small boy and put his arm around a woman’s waist. They stood there, this idyllic family of three, and Myron thought about Terese. The man on the dock turned at the sound of the car. The woman kept her eyes on the little boy with the fishing rod. The man’s eyes narrowed as Myron and Win cruised past. Myron waved to show him that they meant him no harm. The man hesitated and then waved back.