That’s when one of the two, the one nearest Gurney, finally turned his head in Gurney’s direction. He was wearing a black hoodie that concealed his hair and much of his forehead and shadowed his eyes. His face was painted a bilious yellow. A painted rust-colored smile obscured the contours of his mouth. Only one feature was plainly discernible. But that one riveted Gurney’s attention.

It was the nose—small, sharp, slightly hooked.

He couldn’t swear it was a perfect match with what he’d seen on the videos, but he felt the similarity was close enough to qualify this individual as a definite possible. More would be needed, however, to move the needle to probable. And he still hadn’t had gotten a decent view of Black Hoodie’s companion at the rail.

As Gurney was about to shift his position, that young man simplified the situation by turning his head sufficiently to eliminate himself (and his broad, flat face) from further consideration. He was saying something to Black Hoodie, which Gurney only partially overheard. He wasn’t sure, but it sounded like “You got any more shit?”

Black Hoodie’s response was inaudible, but there was nothing ambiguous about the disappointment on the other’s face. “You got any more coming?”

Again the answer was inaudible, but its tone was not pleasant. The questioner was obviously taken aback, and after an awkward hesitation, he backed away, then turned and hurried into the concourse nearest Hardwick. After a brief hesitation, Hardwick followed him, and they were soon both out of sight.

Black Hoodie was alone at the railing. He had turned back toward the carnival rides and was gazing now, with a kind of dreamy speculation, at the gaudy array of Ferris wheel lights. There had been a measured smoothness in his movement, and now there was a stillness about him that Gurney deemed far more adult than childlike.

Black Hoodie (as Gurney mentally called him, unwilling to give him the assassin’s name prematurely) was keeping his hands in the front pockets of his sweatshirt—which could be a convenient way for him to keep his hands hidden, as the skin on one’s hands is a powerful revealer of age, without the oddity of wearing gloves in August. His height—no more than five feet—was consistent with Peter Pan’s, and he appeared to have the same sort of slim body that left its gender an open question. There were specks of mud on his black sweatpants and sneakers, consistent with racing an ATV down Barrow Hill and across the soggy pasture bordering the fairgrounds. The suggestion in that snippet of overheard conversation with his companion at the rail that he may have been supplying drugs that evening would explain how a stranger might have been accepted instantly into the shabby little circle.