Walt smiled. “Me too. But I guess there’s an unwritten rule in the FBI that after an agent takes two bullets through the heart, his services are no longer required.”

“It was just one through the heart. The other was through your neck. I’m good, but I’m not that good.”

“Thanks for the correction.”

“What’s been occupying your free time as a retired man?”

Rum, surf, guilt, and regret.

“I haven’t quite figured out the retirement thing yet,” he finally said. “But I’m working on it.”

“You’re young. You’ve got your whole life in front of you.”

Walt didn’t bother mentioning that that was exactly what he was worried about.

Dr. Marshfield’s phone buzzed and she looked at the screen. “I was hoping to stay longer. I’ve only spoken to a few of my past patients, but I’ve got to run over to the hospital. It was great seeing you, Walt. I’m glad you’re doing well.”

“Thanks, Doc. I’m glad you found me.”

She smiled. “See you next year?”

“If I’m still alive.”

“You will be. Just don’t run into any more bullets. And maybe take it easy on the alcohol.”

He watched her leave and took a sip of rum before he returned to scanning the crowd. He spent thirty minutes looking for her, his eyes fooling him a number of times—thinking he’d spotted her only to be disappointed when the woman turned, allowing Walt to see the face of a stranger. He ordered another rum.

“Walt. Freakin’. Jenkins!”

Walt looked to his left. The face that materialized was from his distant past. Scott Sherwood was his former staff chief when he was working for the New York State Bureau of Criminal Investigation back in the nineties.

“Scott?” Walt shook his head and smiled. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I came with a friend. She said she needed moral support, but since the moment we walked through the door she’s been talking with the doctors and nurses who helped her. I was about to take off when I thought I recognized my old friend at the bar. Damn! How long has it been?”

“I don’t know. Twenty years?”

“Has it been that long?” Scott shook his head. “Where does it go?”

“You tell me.”

“What have you been doing for the last few years? I ask around about my old friend Walt Jenkins, but nobody knows a thing?”

“Yeah, I’ve been out of the loop. I had to ditch New York to get myself straight. Never really found my way back.”

“You know I reached out a few times after you . . . you know. After you were shot.”