He rehearsed everything that would happen next. Walk two blocks to the estate. Head for the lights of the sunroom, where they would be waiting for him, unaware. That was the most important part of what he needed to do, and yet it would take the least time. The hood. The explosions of the gun. The bodies falling. All of that would be over and done in seconds, and he would be on his way. He knew how it would go, because he had done it before.

Back to the foreclosure house for the last time. Take the car. Drive. Drive south, through the storm, on the deserted highways; drive all the way to the Everglades, the wilderness where bodies became food for the alligators. He could dump him there, and it would be over. His work would be done.

He stared at the newspaper articles thumbtacked to the bulletin board. His collection of greatest hits.

FAIRMONT TO ENTER GOVERNOR’S RACE

ONE YEAR LATER, MORE TRAGEDY: FAIRMONT STUNNED BY SON’S SUICIDE

FRANK MACY GETS EIGHT YEARS ON MANSLAUGHTER PLEA

COMMON WAY FOUNDATION INFLUENCE GROWS – AND SO DOES CONTROVERSY

He’d thought about leaving the articles behind to taunt the police, but he didn’t think it was necessary now. They would know where the trail led. They would know, but just like ten years ago, they would find only roads that led nowhere.

He shoved the gun in his belt and removed a cigarette lighter from his pocket. With a flick of his thumb, he lit a flame, and then he yanked the first article from the wall, leaving behind a torn scrap of paper. He held a corner to the flame and watched the fire catch, running and spreading, incinerating the pulp to gray ash. As the fire neared his fingers, he let it fall to the floor, where he kicked at the ash with his toe and watched the fragments float. He pulled another article and burned it, and then another and another, and finally, the garage was redolent of smoke and fire, and the bulletin board was empty except for the one article on which he’d scrawled a single word.

Revenge.

‘Ashes to ashes,’ said a voice from the doorway.

43

Peach clenched the wheel as she flew across the Gandy Bridge.

She felt as if the wind under her tires would lift her like a Cessna and pitch her into the bay. Despite her efforts to keep the car straight, the heavy Thunderbird zigzagged back and forth between the lanes. She was alone heading west, with no more than a few stray headlights shining in the opposite direction as people escaped the Gulf. The rain belched from the sky, looking like a tsunami carrying the sea into her face. Individual drops sped like fleeing dots of light across her windshield. The normally placid bay surged with white foam, and waves as high as houses spewed across the low-lying bridge.