As suddenly as it had appeared, the engine noise died.
Some part of Tom hoped that Drew or Melba had broken their promises and told Penn where to find him; another hoped that Lincoln had somehow run him to earth. At least then he could pose the questions he longed to ask the boy, with no one around to witness his pain upon hearing the answers. And yet, without any evidence, Tom knew that none of those people was at the top of the slope.
The men in that vehicle had come to kill him.
Tom was armed, but even as he felt the pistol in his pocket, cold against his skin, he knew he didn’t have the will to murder a stranger in order to remain free for a few more hours. What was the point? At bottom, he believed that Walt was already dead. Killed on a fool’s errand, trying to save a friend who had doomed himself.
Sure that he was living his last moments on earth, Tom did what Walt had warned him countless times not to do. He took out his cell phone and switched it on. If it connected with a tower fast enough, he might be able to call Penn and tell him he was sorry. Peggy, too, if he had time. Turning his back to the house on the hill, he cupped the glowing screen inside his coat to block the light, then watched the device strain to link with a transmission tower.
There! Two bars …
Tom was about to dial Penn’s number when a string of text messages appeared on his screen. Seventeen of them. He started to ignore them, but the most recent had been sent by Caitlin, and for some reason, he tapped on it. The message expanded to fill the tiny screen:
Tom. Whatever happened the night Viola died, you don’t have the right to sacrifice yourself, because I’m pregnant. Penn doesn’t know. I’m telling you because my child needs you in his life. It’s time for you to come home. This family can get through ANYTHING together. Caitlin Masters Cage ( your future daughter-in-law).
As Tom stared in dazed comprehension, he heard a wet compression behind him. Then another. Footsteps. On damp grass. He turned. Two shadowy figures were moving swiftly down the hill, toward the water.
With his heart pounding dangerously, Tom slipped the phone into his coat and shoved both hands into his trouser pockets.
Ten seconds later, they stood only a few feet away: two strangers in their thirties, their pale faces lighted by the moon. One pointed a pistol at Tom’s belly. As it glinted ominously in the moonlight, a nauseating flash of déjà vu went through him: two Chinese soldiers had confronted him exactly this way in Korea. Only it had been snowing then, and Walt had shot them both.
“Don’t shoot,” he said in a level voice. “I need to talk to your boss.”
“Just who do you think we work for?” asked the man on the left, the shorter of the two.
Tom’s life now depended on a fifty-fifty gamble. Was the answer Brody Royal? Or had Frank Knox’s son eclipsed the older man in power? After a moment’s hesitation, he said, “Forrest Knox.”
The two men looked at each other. Then the one on the right said, “You’ve got a syringe and some vials with Sonny Thornfield’s fingerprints on them. Where are they?”
“I’ll discuss that with Forrest when I see him.”
The man with the pistol shook his head. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere, Doc. This is the end of the road for you.”
Tom was sickened by the fear that surged through him. Only minutes ago he had resigned himself to death. But Caitlin’s message had resurrected the hope of something he’d given up expecting to live to see. Another grandchild. Maybe a grandson, this time. The realization that these two men meant to take that from him—to kill him on this lonely black shore—summoned a blast of adrenaline from his aging glands. Pain stabbed him beneath the left shoulder blade. He needed a nitro tablet, fast. But if he reached for one, the man holding the pistol would fire.
“That stuff isn’t here,” Tom said in a strained voice, closing his right hand around the pistol in his pocket. “Walt’s got it.”
“That Texas Ranger?”
“He’s lying,” said the taller man. “I’ll bet that junk’s right up there in the house.”
The shorter man was working up the nerve to pull the trigger—Tom could see it. The abstract thoughts that occupied his mind earlier had flown from his head like dandelion seeds. He was back in Korea, facing two captors who couldn’t understand a word he said. What he’d learned all those years ago was that speed didn’t matter that much in a gunfight. It was deliberation that counted. Deliberation and steady nerves.
Tom had already turned the gun in his pocket. For once he was grateful for the “geezer” slacks that did nothing to flatter their wearer. His vision telescoped down into a few square feet of the world: the shorter man’s eyes jumping from Tom’s face to his comrade’s, his gun trembling from the weight of the pistol and the knowledge of what he meant to do with it—
Tom fired as the taller man gave the order to execute him. The gunman staggered back and looked down at his belly, where a grapefruit-sized bloodstain was rapidly growing. As the short man tried to figure out where the bullet had come from, his partner grabbed for an ankle holster. Tom slowly pulled his pistol and aimed it at the man’s head.
“Be still, or I’ll kill you.”
When the man hesitated, Tom laid the barrel against the crown of his head. “Draw it slowly, with two fingers, then toss it into the water and stand up straight.”
After a couple of seconds’ hesitation, the man obeyed. After the splash, he rose slowly and gaped at Tom, clearly stunned by the sudden reversal of circumstances.
“Pick up your buddy and carry him up the hill,” Tom said, tensed against the pain in his shoulder and back.
“You’re not gonna shoot me?”
“I am if you don’t carry him up that hill.”