The first shot took Krieger behind the left knee and he went down. He cried out, but after a moment he gathered himself, got up, and limped hurriedly for the tall grass. Njovu opened the bolt, ejected the cartridge, and reloaded. The second shot took Krieger’s right knee and he understood. He lay at the edge of the grass looking up as Njovu approached. The father of the boy Krieger had killed knelt down to him, pulled up Krieger’s shirt and bulletproof undershirt so that Krieger’s arms were extended over his head, withdrew a fixed-blade knife, and began to gut him like a zebra.

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Catskill Mountains, New York

A golden vibration followed by an explosion, violent and white. Klay wet his hands in the cool water, reached down and removed the fly from the trout’s lip. He watched the fish swim off. It was enough for the day. He waded toward shore, sliding his feet carefully over loose river stones. As he approached the river’s edge, he gave a short whistle. A rustle began deep in a grove of rhododendron and then a missile sailed off the embankment, touched a fallen tree, and kept coming.

Klay had named the dog Rocket. Rocket was not the purebred Chesapeake Bay retriever he had always dreamed of, but he was definitely the incorrigible mutt he loved.

Barrow had come through. Jack Klay had been released. Klay offered to bring his father up to the Catskills, but the old man had refused. “You got your own life up there now, champ,” he said. “That clean mountain air will make me sick.” It was his way, they both knew. His father had decided to move to Florida, a community called the Villages. “Some FBI guys down there I might want to talk old times with,” he said.

Trout fishing in the Catskill Mountains was to die for, the brochures all agreed. He’d found a quiet stretch of river, a remote piece accessible only by walking through an old cemetery and then climbing carefully down a cliff of fallen pines and sturdy white oaks. At the bottom was a quiet pool below a riffling fall. The climb back up was the hard part. He wouldn’t be able to enjoy this spot forever, but for now it was more than worth the trouble.

He’d bought a cabin. It was a half an hour away. Everything was a half hour away in the Catskills. Out of milk? Half an hour. Mail a package? Half an hour. GPS reading 6.1 miles? That was still a half an hour. He liked it that way. The victory of time over distance.