Billy parked his SUV outside his cabin and switched off the engine.
The sound of crickets cluttered the warm night air. Walking up to his front door, he looked back.
Regan’s cabin was dimly lit, the blue flicker of a TV on inside. He saw a curtain flutter and a head appear, then it disappeared and the curtain settled. The kid, probably up watching TV, and checking out the engine noise.
Billy noticed no extra vehicles parked outside Regan’s place.
He turned the key and let himself into his cabin. He opened his suitcase. The .45 Kimber automatic was there, and the silencer, along with the hollow-point ammo he bought on the way. Next to it was a brown bag with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He took out the bottle, grabbed two glasses from the bathroom, then moved out onto the veranda and sat at the wooden table.
The dusky Milky Way glittered, the water glassy calm. A faint sound of laughter and music drifted, someone having a party in one of the houseboats.
He sat on the veranda a few minutes, smoking a Marlboro Light, thinking things through.
A hundred yards along the boardwalk the dock office loomed, its pale vinyl siding a blob of gray in the darkness. Stubbing out his cigarette first, he removed his boots and socks, and stood up in his bare feet.
Easing himself over the veranda, he padded toward the office.
• • •
The door was locked.
A sign stuck on the paintwork said: NO CASH KEPT HERE. He moved around the back, where he’d noticed the second entrance. Halfway there he stood on a sharp pebble and recoiled, shuffling around on one leg until the jolting pain in his foot eased.
He tried the back door. Locked, too.
He took a lock-pick set and pencil flashlight from his pocket. It was one of those fancy tactical flashlights with different settings. He switched it to the dim blue ultraviolet light. He got the door open in less than a minute.
He hesitated before entering the darkness.
The office had no hardwired alarm—he’d checked when he stepped in that afternoon. But he shone the blue light about to make sure there were no motion sensors or battery-operated devices that he might trigger. His practiced eyes saw none.
He inched over to the desk and filing cabinet. No need for the picks this time; the top drawer slid open with a squeak. He searched, found nothing except a few filed letters from a veteran’s organization—interesting, Ronnie Kilgore was ex-military, special forces. But he hit pay dirt when he slid out the second drawer.
The guest book was inside, the brown covered one he’d filled in that afternoon. He sat at the desk, the ultraviolet light hard on his eyes as he flicked back through the pages.
It took a him a few minutes but then he grinned as he saw the signature, the name and address in block letters.
“Hey, baby, looks like we’re in business.”