SEVENTEEN

Connie Evingson was my favorite jazz diva after Ella, Sarah, Billie, Etta, and maybe Shirley, and she was singing “The Girl from Ipanema” from the CD player as the Lexus crossed into Minnesota. So many lesser talents have covered the song over the decades that it has been transformed into the blandest of elevator music clichés. Yet she somehow managed to infuse it with the same sensuality, melancholy, and longing that could be heard in the original 1964 recording by Antônio Carlos Jobim, Astrud Gilberto, and Stan Getz. Which is why I was miffed when my cell phone interrupted the song.

I answered it the way I always do. “McKenzie.”

“McKenzie,” Victoria said in reply.

“Hey, sweetie.”

Nina mouthed, “Who is it?” and I told her.

“Put it on speakerphone.”

I did, raising my voice so I could be easily heard over the traffic. “What’s going on, Vic?”

“I found him,” she said.

“Found who?”

“Juan Carlos Navarre, who do you think?”

“What do you mean, you found him?”

Nina leaned forward as she listened to the conversation.

“Remember,” Victoria said, “you told me to see if I could find out who shot up the kidnappers that grabbed whoever it was that Felipe Navarre paid ransom for that one time?”

“Vaguely,” I said.

“They were killed in ambush by the Guardia Civil. It’s Spain’s military-style police force, okay?”

“Okay.”

“While looking for that, though, I found something else. What do they call that? There’s a word…”

“Serendipity,” Nina said.

“Oh, hi, Nina.”

“Hi. How’s your parents?”

“Better, now that Mom’s cutting me some slack.”

“Victoria,” I said.

“Oh, yeah. Serendipitously, I found an article printed seven years ago in El Mundo, El Mundo del Siglo Veintiuno—The World of the Twenty-first Century. Anyway, these guys are like Sixty Minutes; they have a reputation for investigative reporting. One of their more frequent targets is the Guardia Civil. They busted the commander for embezzling, among other things.

“About nine years ago, El Mundo printed a story that accused members of the Guardia Civil of acting as mercenaries in the employ of Felipe Navarre, who, it claimed, had paid them a reward for hunting down and killing the ETA guys that supposedly kidnapped his son—Juan Carlos Navarre.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, no, no—now listen. According to El Mundo, it was all one big giant hoax. The ETA had nothing to do with the kidnapping. Instead, the paper claimed that Juan Carlos had staged the kidnapping to rip off the old man, and the old man used the Guardia Civil to kill the co-conspirators.”

“You’re kidding,” I repeated.

“I’m really not.”

“What happened to Juan Carlos?”

Nina was listening so intently that she moved across the seat, straining against her shoulder harness.

“He disappeared,” Victoria said. “The paper said that Felipe disowned Juan Carlos when he learned the truth about the kidnapping. Cut him off, cut him out—never spoke about him after that; wouldn’t even acknowledge that he had a son. There was speculation—at least a columnist at El Mundo speculated—that Felipe might have had his son killed, too. I don’t believe it, though.”

“Why not?”

“The ransom money was never recovered. I think Juan Carlos took the cash and ran like hell and Felipe let him. Just let him go.”

“How much was the ransom?”

“Ten million euros.”

“How much is that in real money?”

“I looked it up—just over thirteen million dollars. McKenzie, what if he came to America?”

“Victoria—please tell me that you have a photograph.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t.”

“Find one.”

“You already owe me one hundred dollars.”

“Find a photograph and I’ll pay your college tuition.”

“Whoa, Harvard, here I come.”

Nina leaned back in her seat after Victoria hung up. She smiled brightly.

“There might be a happy ending after all,” she said.

“What are you talking about?”

“For Riley and Juan Carlos.”

“No.”

“Why not? If he really is Juan Carlos…”

“He’s not.”

“If he really is…”

“Not a chance. Nina, the man who’s stalking Riley—”

“Stalking?”

“He rented the house across the bay so he could stare at the purple flag at the end of her dock through a telescope, for God’s sake. He’s not Juan Carlos Navarre, the real Juan Carlos Navarre. He can’t be. He has to be Jax Abana. I showed his photograph to his mother, to his sister, to Collin Baird’s mother, to two of his former lovers, to Cesar Nunez, to the police detective who worked the case—they all identified him. Jax Abana.”

“They identified a man they hadn’t seen in seven, eight years from an image on a cell phone.” Nina pointed her finger at me. “You told them what to expect before they actually saw the picture.”

“That’s not entirely true.”

“Confirmation bias, I think they call it—you see what you expect to see, what you want to see. You also told me that what’sisname, the detective, Ihns—he said that Abana looked different back then. He had a mustache.”

“So what?”

“He doesn’t now. McKenzie, you’re the one who’s told me many times that eyewitness testimony is notoriously unreliable.”

“His mother would know who he is, his sister would know, don’t you think?”

“Maybe Navarre looks just like Abana. Maybe they’re doppelgängers.”

“Impossible.”

Nina cleared her throat and gave her voice a professorial tone. “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,” she said.

“You’re quoting Sherlock Holmes now? Nina, there is no doubt in my mind that Jax Abana alias David Maurell is pretending to be Juan Carlos Navarre. I believed it when I was sure there was no such person. Now that I know there is, I believe it even more. The only question is—what happened to the real Juan Carlos?”

“Confirmation bias.”

“Stop it.”

“There’s only one way to settle the argument.”

“Find the sonuvabitch, I get it.”

*   *   *

We were on Highway 52 in Inver Grove Heights and fast approaching St. Paul when my cell phone started playing “Summertime” again.

“Don’t you think it’s time you found a new ringtone?” Nina asked.

I pulled the phone from my pocket and handed it to her. “Answer that for me.”

She did.

“Bebe’s Peanut Shop, Bebe speaking,” she said.

Serves you right, my inner voice told me.

I’m guessing the caller must have apologized for dialing the wrong number, because Nina quickly said, “Not necessarily,” and added, “Who’s calling, please?” When she had an answer, she told me, “Lieutenant Pelzer?”

“Put it on speakerphone,” I said. After she did, I raised my voice again. “LT?”

“Bebe’s Peanut Shop?”

“Little something I have on the side. What can I do for you?”

“There are a couple of things I want to talk about. Meet me at the Casa del Lago.”

“Any particular reason you want me at the restaurant?”

“That’s where we found the Soñadora this morning.”

“It might take me ninety minutes to get there from where I am.”

“Sooner would be better.”

“I’m on my way.”

Nina deactivated my smartphone.

“The entrance ramp to Interstate 494 is just up a ways,” she told me. “This time of day, traffic will be light. We can be in Lake Minnetonka in forty-five minutes.”

“I’m taking you home first.”

“Oh, c’mon, McKenzie.”

“How’s your temple? A little sore? A little puffy? I must say, that’s a becoming shade of purple. Really sets off the stitches.”

“Don’t be like that.”

“Besides, I like Pelzer. He’s been very good to me so far. I don’t want you beating him up.”

Nina folded her arms across her chest, and for a moment she looked just like her daughter when Erica was young—and she was pouting.

“I promise to call and tell you everything that happens,” I said.

“It’ll be quicker if you take me to the club. You can borrow my car if you want.”

“Thank you.”

“You break it, you buy it.”

*   *   *

The hull of the Soñadora was white with a thin flaming-red racing stripe running from the bow to the stern. Its cockpit upholstery and carpet were white, and so was the sundeck pad. Inside a white 32-inch LED TV, two-burner stove, microwave oven, refrigerator, and stereo system were surrounded by white handcrafted cabinetry, white leather upholstery, and birch floors. Even the innerspring mattress inside the private stateroom was hidden beneath crisp white covers. It was so clean it looked as if it had just come from the showroom.

“I don’t suppose you found anything when you searched it,” I said.

Lieutenant Pelzer’s brow knitted as if he were considering the many different ways he could respond to the question and finally said, “No signs of life, if that’s what you mean.”

“The wastebaskets weren’t just empty,” Special Agent Matthew Cooper said, “they were polished.”

We stood watching as the boat strained gently against the springlines that secured it to the pier that accommodated customers of the Casa del Lago. Three thoughts came to mind—first, this is a damn expensive toy, and second, I should get one. The thought I gave voice to, however, was “Who reported it?”

“Ms. Mulally,” Pelzer said. “She said it was here when she arrived this morning to let the workers in. She seems upset.”

“Why?”

“She won’t tell me. Maybe she’ll tell you.”

“I’ll talk to her.”

Pelzer had been carrying a small package that he switched from one hand to the other. I didn’t ask what was inside.

“While you’re at it, old man Muehlenhaus won’t answer my questions, either, with or without an attorney present,” he said.

“I’ll try to talk to him, too.”

“Good, since that’s the only reason you’re not sitting in jail right now.” He raised and lowered his eyebrows Groucho Marx–style like he wanted to tell me something without actually speaking the words.

“I did thank you for that, right?” I asked.

“I don’t remember.”

We left the dock and started moving toward the restaurant’s patio. We could hear the noise of construction inside the restaurant yet couldn’t see what was being built. Special Agent Zo’ Marin intercepted us.

“You boys get it figured out yet?” she asked.

“We were hoping you would explain it to us,” Cooper said. “Feminine intuition and all that.”

She grinned as if she had heard it before.

“I just got off the phone.” To prove it, she slipped a smartphone into the pocket of her black jacket. I don’t know if she and Cooper intended to dress like Men in Black, yet they did. “A federal judge has agreed to temporarily freeze all of Navarre’s assets in the Lake Minnetonka Community Bank under Title Eighteen, Section Nineteen Fifty-seven.”

“Section Nineteen Fifty-seven?” I asked.

“It’s illegal for anyone to move the proceeds of a specified unlawful activity through a financial institution—or a merchant such as a boat dealership, for that matter—in an amount greater than ten thousand dollars. Navarre could appeal. He would probably win, too. This is a blatant violation of his rights; the man has yet to be formally charged with a crime. To appeal, though, would require that he appear in a federal court of law, and that would give us the chance to prove he’s actually David Maurell. In the meantime, FinCEN is backtracking the deposits. So far, we know they came from Banco Central de España in Madrid. Beyond that…”

“How much of Navarre’s money is in Minnetonka Community?” I asked.

“Thirteen million.”

“That’s ten million euros.”

“So it is.”

For a moment I felt a thrill of panic that started below my heart and spread outward.

“Jeezus,” I said. “What if we’re wrong? What if he really is Juan Carlos Navarre?”

“Then the United States government will apologize profusely.”

“Yeah, well, that’s your problem,” I said. “Right now my big concern is Riley Brodin. If she’s with Navarre, then she’s in danger.”

“What are you talking about?” Pelzer said.

“Didn’t Greg Schroeder call you?”

“I don’t know him.”

“Dammit. Schroeder’s a PI who works for Mr. Muehlenhaus. He was supposed to tell you—I don’t believe it.”

I explained what Schroeder was supposed to tell Pelzer.

“Now I know why Muehlenhaus won’t answer my questions,” he said. “He thinks he’s protecting his granddaughter.”

“His granddaughter or the Muehlenhaus legacy?”

“What’s that mean?”

“It’s complicated. Listen, we need to assume that Baird is still after Navarre and that Navarre is now traveling with Riley.”

“Legally,” Pelzer said. “They’re traveling legally, so you know there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“I know,” I said, and for a moment I felt the frustration of all those people who had asked for help when I was police, only to be told that “nothing could be done,” that we couldn’t search for someone unless there was clear evidence that a crime had been committed

“We’ve sent out e-briefs on Baird,” Pelzer said. “But…”

“Yeah, I know.”

“What?” Cooper asked.

“There’s no system set in place that we can use to alert law enforcement statewide, let alone nationally,” Pelzer said. “We have a system called the e-brief to spread information, which is just that—e-mail briefings that target specific local and county police in the areas where we think the suspect might be. Any suggestions on where Baird might be?”

“What about the FBI?” I said. “They must have a better system.”

Marin chuckled at that.

“We’ve had an FBI Crime Alert on Baird for thirty-one months now,” she said. “We wouldn’t even have known for sure he was in the country if not for McKenzie.”

There was some communal headshaking.

Pelzer said, “You’d think we could do better.”

Cooper said, “You’d think.”

Pelzer handed me the package.

“This is yours, by the way,” he said.

I peaked inside. It was my SIG Sauer. I left it in the bag.

“Thank you,” I said.

“You’re welcome.”

“Listen, I want you all to know that I appreciate it very much that you guys have allowed me to stay involved in this.”

“Why not?” Marin said. “So far you’ve done most of the work.”

“Speaking of which…” Pelzer threw a thumb at the restaurant.

I locked the bag inside Nina’s Lexus before I went inside.

*   *   *

Mary Pat Mulally was drinking. I found her sitting alone on a stool at her own bar, a glass and a half-filled bottle of Grey Goose vodka in front of her. I wondered if the bottle had been half full when she started, but the glassy look I saw in her eyes when I sat next to her told me that it hadn’t.

“Hey,” I said.

Mary Pat’s response was to stand on the rung of the stool, lean over the bar, grab a glass, place it in front of me, and slide the Grey Goose in my direction. I caught the bottle and poured a shot just to be polite.

“I promised the deputies I would call if Navarre showed up, and he must have because there’s his goddamn boat,” she said. “The Soña-fucking-dora.”

“No sign of Riley?”

“Screw Riley. She’s where she wants to be.”

“Where’s that?”

“With Navarre, where do you think?”

Mary Pat drained her glass of vodka and poured some more. At the rate she was going, I knew she wouldn’t last much longer, and I wanted to speak to her while she was still coherent. I took the bottle, poured a little more vodka into my glass, and set the bottle where she’d have to reach across me to get to it. If she noticed, she didn’t let on.

“You gave me the impression that Riley was getting ready to kick Navarre to the curb,” I reminded her.

Mary Pat snorted at the remark.

“That’s the impression she gave me,” she said. “Riley’s such a…”

“Such a what?”

“Confused woman. One day she wants one thing. The next she wants something else. She can be so smart, so mature, so understanding of the world and her place in it. Then she behaves like an eight-year-old.”

“The girl can be infuriating.”

“Don’t insult her,” Mary Pat said. “Who are you to insult her? She’s not a girl. She’s a woman.”

The rebuke should have told me something, yet it didn’t.

“I’m so frightened,” Mary Pat added. “Riley can take care of herself better than most people except—except when she can’t.”

“Where would Riley go if she was in trouble?”

“She used to come to me. I’ve called her, McKenzie—sent texts. She won’t pick them up. What the hell do you want?”

I didn’t see Maria approach until Mary Pat called her out.

“The carpenter wants to know—” the young woman began.

“Can’t you make one goddamn decision on your own? What do I pay you for?” Mary Pat raised her hands as if she were surrendering. “You know what? Who gives a damn?” She slid off the stool, reached past me to grab the Grey Goose by the neck, and stumbled toward her office.

“What’s wrong with her?” I asked.

“You really have no idea, do you?” Maria said.

“If I knew…”

“She’s in love with Riley.”

“Oh.”

How the hell did you miss that? my inner voice wanted to know.

“Oh? Is that all you have to say, McKenzie? For a minute there I actually thought you were smart.”

“I can’t imagine what gave you that impression.”

“Me, neither.”

I took a pull of the vodka, hoping it would restore my powers of observation. I don’t think it did. Maria sat next to me.

“Will you do me a favor?” I asked the young woman. “Will you keep an eye on Mary Pat for me?”

“I’d do that anyway.”

“Let me know if she hears from Riley?”

“Why not? McKenzie—thank you for not telling her about the fire; for not telling Mary Pat about Arnaldo and the rest of them.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Everything is all messed up. Cesar is furious with Arnaldo about the T-shirts and trying to bring back the Nine-Thirty-Seven. He says if he was here, he’d beat Arnaldo’s ass. At the same time, he despises Jax Abana and wants to see him dead. I don’t know what’s going to happen. Nothing good, probably.”

“Whatever happens, you need to stay out of it.”

“That’s what Cesar said.”

Good for him, my inner voice said.

“Does Arnaldo know where Navarre is?” I asked aloud.

Maria shook her head slowly.

“He’s waiting for you to tell him,” she said.

*   *   *

I found Lieutenant Pelzer leaning against his car when I left the restaurant. Greg Schroeder was arguing with him, waving his hands as he spoke. Pelzer didn’t look too happy about it. In fact, he looked like he was thisclose to expressing his displeasure when he saw me crossing the parking lot.

“So you two have finally met,” I said. “Are you besties now? Going to have matching bracelets made up?”

“No,” Pelzer replied in a voice that made me believe that he didn’t appreciate the joke. “Not even close. Did you get anything?”

I shook my head.

“Keep in touch,” he said. He made to open his car door. Schroeder stopped him.

“Wait a sec, LT,” the detective said.

Pelzer pointed at him yet looked at me. “Is this shamus a pal of yours?” he asked.

“I never saw him before in my life,” I said.

“Then you won’t mind if I jail his ass for obstruction if he opens his mouth one more time.”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Lieutenant.” Schroeder’s voice was low and calm. “Look at it from my point of view.”

“No,” Pelzer said. “You look at it from my point of view, because that’s the one that matters.”

With that, the lieutenant slid into his car, started it up, and drove off.

“What a hard-ass,” Schroeder said.

“Yeah, I’m liking him more and more, too. So what did you do, Greg? Draw Muehlenhaus’s name and point it at him like a gun?”

“Something like that.”

“You could always go over his head—Major Kampa runs Hennepin County’s Investigative Division.”

Schroeder stared at me for a moment, maybe wondering if I was joking, and then began to chuckle. “That could only be good for me,” he said. “I know Kampa and he is so much more reasonable.” He laughed again.

“What did you want to know that Pelzer wouldn’t tell you?” I asked.

“Everything.”

“What did you offer Pelzer in return?”

“Nothing.”

“Yet you two can’t get along. I just don’t understand it.”

“McKenzie…”

“Cops work on a strict quid pro quo basis. You know that even better than I do. If you want this, you have to give ’em that and plenty of it.”

“I’m just following instructions.”

“I bet.”

“What can you tell me?”

“What do I get in exchange?”

“My undying gratitude.”

“Greg, everything is about the same as it was yesterday when we spoke on the phone.”

“Does Pelzer know that Riley is probably traveling with Navarre.”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell him?”

“I did.”

“Do me a favor—explain that to Mr. Muehlenhaus.”

“Why don’t you?”

“I’d rather you tell him.”

“All right, I will.”

“Come with me—in my car.”

“Excuse me?”

“Probably I should tell you—the old man’s orders were to bring you to the Pointe. Forcibly, if necessary.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

Schroeder paused a moment before he said, “You don’t think I can bring you—forcibly?”

“No, I don’t. Even if you could, though, the price would be too high.”

“How high?”

“No more free drinks at Rickie’s.”

“That would be a tragedy.”

“I think so, too.”

*   *   *

I wanted to follow Schroeder, but he obviously wanted to follow me, so we sat in the parking lot of the Casa del Lago staring at each other through the windshields of our vehicles for about five minutes before he finally flipped me the bird and drove off. I gave him a healthy head start.

Eventually I found myself on Shadywood Road going north through the tiny town of Navarre and wondering, not for the first time, if it had just been a coincidence that Juan Carlos chose that name. I hung a right at the intersection of Shadywood and North Shore Drive and drove east across the bridge. It was another place on the lake where the road came between the homes and their docks. It’s also where Arnaldo and the Nine-Thirty-Seven wannabees made their move.

I admit they caught me by surprise. The black Cadillac came up hard on my rear bumper and blew its horn before I knew it was there. I kept driving and the horn kept blowing—I was startled, yet not particularly afraid. I just wanted a moment to think it through before I did anything rash.

I took my foot off the accelerator and let the Lexus slow on its own. The Caddy pulled around me. I could see Arnaldo’s face through the passenger window. He didn’t look happy. On the other hand, I’d never seen him look happy. He jabbed his finger more or less toward the shoulder of the road as the Caddy sped past.

We weren’t terribly far from the house where Juan Carlos Navarre had lived, where Mrs. Rogers had lived, and it occurred to me that Arnaldo had staked it out in case Navarre returned. He wasn’t actually following me; he merely saw me driving past and jumped on my tail—he must have recognized Nina’s Lexus from when he saw it during our trip to Galena. None of this was important, of course, yet knowing it somehow made me feel better.

When the Caddy slid in front of me and slowed down, I followed its lead and pulled onto the shoulder. On one side of the road was a brown house with huge windows that was built to resemble a Swiss chalet. On the other side was a long wooden dock. A blue and white canvas canopy had been erected at the tip. There was a boat beneath it.

I sat in the Lexus for a moment before deciding it would be rude of me to wait for Arnaldo since he had the broken leg and all. So I left the vehicle—after first checking the load in the SIG Sauer and shoving it between my jeans and the small of my back. I slipped my sports jacket on as I exited the car, walked around the back bumper, and approached the Caddy from the passenger side. The window had been rolled down. I noticed that Arnaldo wasn’t wearing his seat belt and the door was unlocked—facts that I kept to myself.

Arnaldo gestured toward the driver. It was the same man who had been driving when they had followed me to Dunn Bros.

“We’re getting better,” Arnaldo said.

“So you are,” I said.

The driver grinned at the compliment.

“To what do I owe the pleasure this time?” I asked.

“You made promises…”

“We’ve had this conversation before, Arnaldo.”

“We’re having it again. We’re gonna keep having it until you do what you said you were going to do. You think you can make promises to the Nine-Thirty-Seven and not keep ’em, McKenzie? Is that what you think?”

“It’s not what I think.”

“Why didn’t you call us, then? Huh? Navarre, whatever Abana calls himself, his boat was docked at the restaurant, wasn’t it? When were you gonna tell us about that? Huh? Huh? We hadda find out on our own.”

Maria, my inner voice said. Remember what Cesar told you—don’t get involved.

“I promised to find Navarre, not his boat,” I spoke aloud.

“Don’t fuck with me, McKenzie. You think you can fuck with me? I will cut off your balls and feed ’em to you.”

“Arnaldo, when you say real stupid shit like that you ought to smile so a guy knows you’re joking, otherwise bad things could happen,” I said, although the man had a legitimate point. It would be dangerous to break my word to the Nine-Thirty-Seven. Arnaldo was as frightening as a summer cold. If Cesar should take offense, though …

One problem at a time.

“Where is he?” Arnaldo asked. “Where is Jax Abana? You said you’d deliver him up. Where the fuck is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? You don’t know? It’s been three fucking days.”

“How long have you been looking for him? Hmm? Back off, Arnaldo.”

“You fucking telling me what to do?”

“Arnaldo…”

“No one fucking tells me what to do. ’Specially some white-ass motherfucker. I’m tired of waiting. I am fucking tired of you. You know what I’m gonna do? You don’t deliver Abana right fucking now, I’m going to pay your woman a visit. Yeah, that’s right, Nina Truhler. Think I don’t know her name? Think I don’t know where she lives? Lives in fucking Mahtomedi. Yeah, I’ll go pay her a visit. She’ll love a visit from us. Won’t she?”

Arnaldo glanced at his driver and hit him playfully on the arm. The driver didn’t appear happy. I think he realized that his buddy had gone too far over the line, even if Arnaldo did not.

“Yeah, she would,” he added. “Give her some dark meat…”

You did warn him, my inner voice said.

I yanked open the Caddy door and grabbed Arnaldo by the throat.

I dragged him from the car and threw him into the ditch between the road and the shoreline.

He hit the ground and rolled down the modest hill, the cast on his leg bouncing off the rocks, dirt, and tuffs of grass.

I slammed the car door shut and pulled the SIG Sauer out from under my sports jacket. I pointed it through the open window at the driver.

“Get out of here,” I said.

The driver stared at the gun as if he had never seen one before.

I put a round through the driver’s-side window. The safety glass shattered into a thousand tiny shards that flew all around him.

The driver quickly started the Caddy and drove off.

I turned toward Arnaldo. He was trying to stand but was having a tough time managing it with the cast.

I used my shoe to push him back down onto the ground.

He cursed me until I pressed the barrel of the SIG Sauer against his cheek. The muzzle was still hot and burned a small circle into his flesh that I knew would probably disappear in a few days. He whimpered at the pain just the same.

“I’m going to say this slowly in words that you’ll understand,” I told him. “If you go near Nina I will kill you. I will kill your sister. I will kill your driver and every one of you Nine-Thirty-Seven pukes. I will kill your mother. I will kill your father. When your brother gets out of stir, I’ll be standing on Pickett Street waiting, and then I’ll kill him, too. You go tell Cesar I said so. Be goddamn sure you tell him why I said so. Go ’head, Arnaldo. Make him proud.”

I stood over him. Arnaldo looked frightened, yet not nearly frightened enough as far as I was concerned. I fired two rounds, one on each side of his head. He screamed as if the bullets had hit him. Dirt exploded upward, soiling his face and throwing debris into his eyes. He covered his face with his hands and screamed some more.

I returned to the Lexus. I set the SIG on the seat and started the car. My hands were shaking as I drove away.