He patted the dirt down with his fingers, one bulb at a time, allowing the coolness of the earth to calm his nerves, and used the peaceful moment to remember his mother. As he finished the final bulb he sensed he was not alone.

Keeping his head down, he scanned the area and saw nothing. He turned around. No one was there.

He was alone and nerve-shot. Deep Blue was right to make him take a week away. He was off his game, sensing enemies where there were none. He placed his hand on the soil, whispered a good-bye, and stood up.

Standing, he now had a clear view beyond his mother’s headstone. Thirty feet away, a man stood in the shadow of a maple tree. This alone wouldn’t be enough to raise King’s hackles, but when the man saw King stand, he started and took a step back. Not a casual step. It was the kind of step a man took when he was about to make a run for it. King took a step toward the man, testing the theory.

The man ran.

King was after him in a heartbeat. He had no idea who the man was. It didn’t really matter. That he was running told King everything he needed to know. One, the man was guilty of something—only guilty men run. Two, he knew King was dangerous, someone to run from. And three, he was at his mother’s gravesite, which meant he knew King’s personal identity as well.

None of this was acceptable.

As King rounded his mother’s headstone and gave chase, he took in everything about the man he could. His black hair was slicked back neat. His trench coat covered most of his body. His shoes were shiny. Fancy. Not great for running. The man hadn’t planned on being chased down.

Then why is he running? King thought.

After entering a clearing lined by two rows of headstones, King broke into a sprint and cut the distance between him and the man in half. The man wasn’t fast, and as King closed in he could see streaks of gray on either side of the man’s head. Must be between fifty and sixty, King thought.

The man followed a paved path that King knew wrapped down and around a steep drop. Rather than follow the man around, King continued straight on, pounding up the rise. When he reached the top, the man passed directly below him. King jumped, landed with a roll, and grabbed a fistful of trench coat.

The coat pulled from King’s hand, but the sudden jerk made the man stumble. He toppled forward, fighting to right himself, but lost his balance and fell into the grass next to the path.

In no mood for a fight or a second chase, King drew his Sig Sauer and cocked the hammer.

The man must have recognized the sound because as he got to his knees he raised his hands and said, “D-don’t shoot!”

King approached the man, weapon raised, but he slowed when something about the man, the shape of his head, his ears, struck a chord. He knew this man, but couldn’t place him. The distraction slowed his reflexes.