He saw on her legs inflated splints, and in her eyes a loving-kindness that confirmed in him this must be heaven, and he didn’t mind a bit.

Finally words did come, or at least he heard himself speak, and he would wonder in the days and weeks and months to come if he’d actually said anything to her. “She has your eyes,” he said.

Her hand twitched, its fingers stretched at the end of an arm bound by nylon straps. It reached for him, for his, and he too pushed with all his strength to move his index finger toward her. Her eyes brimmed with tears, which rolled down her cheeks, clearing tracks through the smudged dirt on her face.

Their fingers did not touch, only wiggled out in space toward each other as the helicopter shook and rattled and thundered as it lifted off. Larson tried to force the snarl of pain into something resembling a smile but didn’t know if it took.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

Larson pulled on the oars, working the stubborn tissue and tightness in his left shoulder to the point of pain, and then backing off to where it was manageable.

There was something about Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. The smell, maybe, or the darkness of the water. The way the forest crept right to the edge of both the mainland and the island, the trees reflected like tall soldiers.

There were bugs in the air and the smells of early summer-the perfume of fruit blossoms carried on winter’s freshened air spilling out of Canada. He heard a red-winged blackbird’s sprightly, lilting song, heard the rhythm of the oars carving into and scooping the lake’s mirrored surface, heard her joyous squeal and the thrashing of her feet on the island trail as she endeavored to keep pace with him. Penny was a fast little runner.

He looked to see her blond hair bouncing, her smart little body sprinting the trail in a pair of pink shorts and a white T-top. White sneakers and socks her mother had mail-ordered.

“Break… fast!” she called across to him when she knew he was looking.

He met her at the dock and she helped him stow the scull in the old boathouse and wipe down the oars and rigging. She told him of a dream she’d had in the night, spoken in one continuous monologue-of princesses and magic potions, and trees that could talk-that lasted from the boathouse clear up the trail to the sprawling log cabin known only as Baby’s Breath. As they approached the back deck, buttoned down with tubs of recently planted annuals, Hope was there to greet them, a pair of binoculars in hand. Larson slowed as he saw her. Penny rushed past, drawn by the scent of cooking bacon. Hope was clearly distressed.

“What is it?” he asked.

“The launch,” she said, pointing at the white dot of a distant boat approaching. Beyond it, the steady green of the mainland. Through the binoculars the launch carried a distinctive bright-blue flag. Hope knew of what she was speaking: The rules were strict concerning the waters around this island. “You ordered it, or it wouldn’t be coming here.”

“Yes,” he answered, “I called for it. But I’m not going anywhere. It’s not like that. Come with me?”

Rotem had convinced Larson and Hope to remain in protection through not only the trial of Ricardo Romero, but his sentencing as well. With the trial now less than ninety days away, pressure from Justice remained high for them to maintain the “zero profile” they’d kept over the past few months. The man driving the launch was on the federal payroll.

“It’s not time for a rotation,” she reminded.

The nearest town was across three miles of lake, around a bend to the southwest, about a twenty-minute boat trip. Provisions were delivered twice a week. Two marshals remained on the island 24-7, rotating in three shifts a day.

“Just bear with me, would you?” Larson asked.

She slung the binoculars around her neck, crossed her arms defiantly, and joined him in the walk down to the dock. “I thought you were leaving us,” she said.

“Yeah, right.”

Hope said nothing on the way down the path. Larson drank in the sounds, the sights, the smells. “This is a special place,” he said.

“Only because we’re sharing it,” she said.

“Damn right.”

“Are we going to talk about it?” she asked.

A pair of squirrels cackled and chased each other overhead, their running up the trunk scratching against the heavy bark.

She said, “Laena? Your all-important list.”

Sworn to secrecy, Larson nonetheless owed her an explanation, even if lacking in detail. He’d put it off until she’d asked; and now she had.

“The disk that was being auctioned took a bullet. It was in Philippe Romero’s breast pocket.”

“Seriously?”

“Swear to God.”

“The sheriff with the Bible in his coat?” she questioned skeptically.

“Only it didn’t save him,” Larson pointed out.

“But the list itself?”

“Katrina Romero’s computer was seized. She had compiled the list for Philippe. It was her e-mail that Markowitz had been sending it to. She was convicted on a number of counts, but to my knowledge hasn’t been sentenced.”

“And the witnesses?”

“We’ve lost some. Fewer than we’d feared. Justice has relocated something like five hundred prime targets. A huge undertaking. There have been some early retirements, transfers within WITSEC itself.”

The water came in and out of view. He never got tired of looking at it.

He said, “The computerization of the list is under review. There’s no way they’ll go back to paperwork, so it’s only a matter of encryption and how they prevent something like this from happening again. It’s the government, don’t forget. It’ll take them a couple years to come up with a plan, and by then it will be outdated. The list will always be vulnerable to some extent.”

“What about the children? Katrina’s children?”

He stopped on the trail, turned and faced her.

“I don’t have an answer for that,” he said.

“They shouldn’t end up the victims.”

“No. No one should end up a victim.”

“But children!”

“I understand.”

There was no mention of Paolo. No mention of Larson’s having attended the cremation because he had to see the man reduced to ashes. Seventeen members of Ricardo Romero’s former “family” had been captured and imprisoned. Like Paolo, Ricardo’s empire was ashes.

Larson led her down the trail to water’s edge.

They reached the dock and Hope used the binoculars to confirm the launch driver, passing the opticals to Larson so he could do the same.

“It’s Neville,” he said.

“I have to tell you I did not like it one bit. Seeing that launch.” She didn’t look at him as she said, “I don’t want to lose you, Lars.”

“We’re going to rejoin the world. You realize that, don’t you? Six months, a year? We’ve talked about this, I know, but don’t lose sight that it’ll be different when we’re shopping for our own groceries, and taking the dry cleaning, and driving Penny to soccer games. As awkward as it is to be this isolated, we’ve been pampered. It’s going to be a whole hell of a lot different.”

“And I, for one, can’t wait.”

The launch slowed, the wake lessening, and putted in toward the dock, taking longer than either of them would have wanted.

“So this is some kind of surprise, I take it?” she asked Larson.

He said, “A promise made is a promise kept.”

She viewed him curiously.

Neville, the boat’s driver, coaxed the vessel into reverse, foaming the water, as Larson snagged the bowline and tied it off to the dock.

“Special delivery,” Neville announced, as he then secured the sternline as well. He moved forward and opened the cabin and descended a steep set of steps, disappearing. He reappeared a moment later with a sand-colored puppy under his right arm.

“Oh, Lars!” Hope said enthusiastically.

“She’s a mutt. Part shepherd, part hound dog.”