CHAPTER ELEVEN

A large bedroom early on a Friday morning, dark inside, plush sound-dampening carpet and the curtains tightly drawn. The family-sized house is on a cul-de-sac. Not even traffic sounds intrude.

The digital clock on the nightstand ticks over to 6:00 AM—there’s a single discordant bleat before a hand reaches, touches the button. Anthony Hoyt, white male, six-two, brown and brown, no identifying marks, woke before his alarm and has been lying in bed contemplating the day to come. Now the alarm is his signal that events are starting, that life is moving in the direction of his choosing, so he flings off the sheets and gets up.

He showers and dries in the bathroom and pads back out to the bedroom. The built-in wardrobe opposite the bed has sliding doors on a long runner, and one door is entirely mirrored. Standing in front of it naked, Hoyt does a thorough check: His hair is glossy, his face is good, the skin over his cheekbones firm and tight. His whole body is nicely toned. Overall, the results of the treatments have been outstanding.

He slides open the wardrobe and selects his clothes, gets dressed. Feeling a tremor, he takes out the bag with the other clothes in it. Then he goes into the kitchen to make breakfast.

At exactly 7:15, Hoyt leaves the house through the garage door, tucks everything in the back seat of his Mustang Ghia—a present from his grandparents—and clicks the switch to open the garage to the outside. It’s a two-hour drive, and the weather is fantastic: sunny and becoming warm. Hoyt slips his sunglasses on as he drives out of Annandale, merging with outbound traffic, humming along to Hall & Oates on the radio until news time. He listens to the news with interest, finally reaches Charlottesville by 9:10.

In the bathroom of an underground parking garage, he changes into the clothes from the bag: a white undershirt, loud Hawaiian shirt, jeans, and loafers. The wig is new, and he practiced putting it on a few times at home in his room until he was comfortable with it. He puts a ball cap—GO HURRICANES!—over his now longish blond hair. The blond makes him look even younger. He returns the bag to the car, collects his alternative identification, and walks to the real estate agency, enjoying the sun.

Burt Wagner, the agent, meets him at the door of the office, and banter is exchanged about the weather and how it’s almost too nice a day to drive to the site.

“But we’d be a while walking,” Wagner admits, “and you’re probably keen to see the place, right?”

They take Wagner’s Ford. The drive is about forty minutes and Hoyt keeps up inane conversation about the state of the town and the local climate compared to Miami, maintaining the illusion that he actually lives in Miami. State Route 810 winds out of Boonesville, past an old Methodist church, then uphill along Tabletop Mountain Road, toward the more marginal wilderness area abutting Shenandoah National Park.