Tom looked Jack in the eye. "How many accountants do you know who're worth three million bucks?"

Jack sat stiff and silent, stunned. "Three million? Dad? But how?"

"A major reason was Microsoft. He wasn't in on the IPO, but he got in shortly after. You know how he was about computers—way ahead of the crowd. He saw the future and bought into it. He was also one of the first home-computer day traders." Tom tapped his fist twice on the table. "Wish to hell he'd clued me in."

"Would you have listened?"

Tom's drink arrived. "Probably not. Moot point, anyway. With kids and family and living high, who had spare cash?"

"You must have a retirement account."

He nodded. "Yeah, but I left that in the care of a reputed whiz kid who royally fucked it up. Shit, if I'd wanted it to crash and burn, I could have done that myself." Tom stared into his drink. "What're you going to do with your million?"

A million… the number whacked him across the back of the head like a blackjack. Dad had left him a million bucks.

"I… I'll have to think about that. How about you?"

"By the time the estate's settled—and it'll be a while—I hope to be long gone." He gave a disgusted grunt. "Otherwise I'll be a rich jailbird. But even if I hung around I wouldn't see much of it. With two rasorial ex-wives—the Skanks from Hell are both well practiced at deficit financing—and a third who spends like the Hilton sisters, and three kids with college funds, what do you think?"

Jack had a sudden idea. "Is there any way to split my share between your kids and Kate's?"

Tom's drink stopped halfway to his lips. He stared wide eyed and open mouthed.

"You're shitting me."

"Nope. Just made up my mind."

"No, you're out of your fucking mind."

He couldn't accept the money. Not that it wouldn't give Gia and him a nice, fat financial cushion, but a man who doesn't exist can't inherit money.

"I have my reasons."

"What? You don't seem the superstitious type. You think it's somehow tainted because Dad was murdered?"

That had never occurred to Jack, but he decided to run with it.

"Yeah. It's blood money. I don't want it."

Tom shook his head. "Well, as much as I'd like to see the kids get an extra half a mil, it can't be done."

"Why not? You're the executor, aren't you?"

"Yeah, but I won't be around. And an executor can't change the terms of the will."

"You could hang around long enough to find a way."

"But it's not necessary. Once you claim the money you can divvy it up any way you please."

That was just the point—he couldn't claim the money.

Another idea: "Okay, have me declared dead."

"What?"

"Look, I disappeared more than seven years ago—twice that. Isn't that enough to have me declared dead?"

"But you're not."

"I am—at least as far as officialdom is concerned."

There—he'd said it. Hadn't wanted to, but there was no other way. He didn't want his inheritance moldering in some account when the other people in Dad's will could use it.

Tom grinned and slapped the tabletop. "Knew it! I knew it!"

"Knew what?"

"You're running around under a false identity. That's why you couldn't claim Dad's body. And—of course! You can't claim the inheritance for the same reason." He leaned forward. "What's the story? Who are you hiding from?"

"You know all you need to know, Tom. Back to the subject at hand: Can you have me declared dead?"

"But everybody at the wake and the funeral… they know you're alive."

"Yeah, but do they have to know I've been declared dead? Nobody knows how much they were slated to inherit in the first place. If you don't tell and I don't complain, who's going to be the wiser?"

Tom leaned back. "I don't know. It might be possible. I'll hang around long enough to look into it."

"Do that. And no funny stuff."

Tom looked offended. "You think I'd gyp Kate's kids?"

"After what you've told me? What do you think?"

"I'd never—"

"Good. Because if I ever find out you've shorted those kids, I'll hunt you down and chop off your right hand."

Tom started to laugh but it died aborning as he looked in Jack's eyes.

"You—you're kidding, right?"

Their food arrived then. Jack sniffed his fish and chips—fresh from the fryer, all hot, crisp, and greasy.

"Let's eat."

6

When the check arrived, Tom said, "You mind getting this? I mean, I could charge it, but I don't want to leave a trail to Bermuda and back."

Jack reached for his wallet. "Good thinking."

Jack didn't mind. John Tyleski didn't exist.

"How much cash did you bring?"

"I've got plastic."

"You do? How?"

Why was he acting so surprised? Tom knew he'd reserved that hotel room for him. Can't do that without a credit card.

"There are ways."

"You and I need to talk about rebirth real soon. But for now we have to find us a place to spend the night."

"Why not the boat?"

"Too far. Doesn't make sense to go all the way back to Somerset tonight, then come all the way back in the morning. Besides, lights and activity on the boat might draw attention. Better to stay here."

He was probably right.

"I saw a big pink hotel as we got off the ferry."

Tom made a face. "The Princess? Uh-uh. No can do."

"Why not?"

"That's where I honeymooned with the first Skank from Hell. No thanks." He shook his head. "I stayed at Elbow Beach my last few times here." Another head shake. "We'll find some other place. You'll have to cover the rooms."

"Figured that. And everything else, I guess."

"Not at all. We'll settle up tomorrow as soon as I withdraw my money."

"After which we head home, right? As in right away."

Tom gave a thumbs-up. "You got it. I want to get that money back and stashed in the States ASAP. And then you can show me how to disappear."

WEDNESDAY

1

Tom glanced at his watch as he paced the marble floor of the Bermuda Bank and Trust Limited, waiting for Hugh Dawkes. Nine thirty. He wanted to get back to the Sahbon.

He wore a wrinkled shirt and slacks—the best clothes he'd brought along—and had his backpack slung over his shoulder. The backpack probably wasn't a good touch, but its contents were too precious to leave in the truck.

The BB&T occupied a pink stucco building on the uphill side of Reid Street in Hamilton. The idea of a pink bank had put Tom off at first, but then this was Bermuda where it was no strange thing to see businessmen—bankers included—dressed for work in a jacket, tie, short pants, and knee socks.

Dawkes appeared, a slim, silver-haired gent in dark blue jacket and matching Bermuda shorts and knee socks. Tom had made a point of dealing with the same man on every visit he'd made to BB&T. He'd also made a point of calling the Gosling Brothers' store on Front Street and having them send Dawkes a bottle of their 150-proof rum every Christmas. Never knew when you were going to need a favor.

As they shook hands and exchanged greetings, he sensed tension in Dawkes. Maybe he was having a bad day.

Tom didn't have much time so he got right to the point.

"I'll be relocating to the West Coast soon, so I'm afraid I'll have to close out my account."

Now Dawkes looked even more troubled. "I'm sorry to tell you this, sir, but at this time that will not be possible."

Tom's stomach did a flip. "Why not?"

"Your government has been in touch with the hank and… I…"

With his knees going soft under him, Tom reached for a chair.

"May I sit down?"

"Of course, sir."

"What do you mean 'my government'?"

"I'm not sure, sir. Some agency approached the bank. The president, Mr. Hickson, dealt with them. He has not seen fit to inform me of the details."