SLOWLY, CAUTIOUSLY, FARNSWORTH ROSE from a crouch to stand erect, his head and torso above the ridge of cut grass that fringed the top of the low-lying dune. How long had it been since the Escort, running without lights, had entered the landfill and disappeared among the mounds of debris? Two minutes? Three? Earlier, making his plans, he’d considered giving Kane a miniature walkie to carry in his pocket, a monitor, a bug. But if the police-issued walkie-talkie were found in Kane’s possession afterward it would—
From the landfill came a sudden flare of headlights, quickly gone.
A signal?
No, not a signal. If anything went wrong, their prearranged signal was the car horn: two quick blasts, then two more.
“Make him turn off his headlights,” he’d warned Kane. “In these dunes, you can see lights for a mile, even in the fog.”
Eyes fixed on the spot where he’d seen the instant’s flash of headlights, he glanced at his watch. He would allow exactly two minutes to elapse. Then he would decide.