Cameron glanced at Preston and Dallas, who both nodded, and then said, "We know how much you love Catherine."

"Don't make her a saint, John. She isn't perfect," Dallas said.

"Jeez, that was cold," Preston muttered.

"It's okay. I know Catherine isn't perfect. She has her quirks, just like we do. Who isn't a little compulsive about something?" he said. "It's just that she worries about being without, and so she has to have two of everything. She has two television sets, identical ones, sitting side by side on the table by her bed. She has one of them on day and night, but she worries it might break, so she makes sure she has a backup. She does the same thing when she's ordering something from a store or a catalog. Always buys two, but what's the harm in that?" he asked. "She isn't hurting anyone, and she has so little joy these days. She puts up with me because she loves me." Bowing his head he whispered, "She's my entire life."

"Yes, we know," Cameron agreed. "But we're concerned about you."

John whirled around to confront them. His face was twisted with anger. "Hell, you're worried about yourselves. You think I'll do something to screw it all up, don't you?"

"The thought crossed our minds," Cameron admitted.

"John, we can't afford for you to go crazy on us," Preston said.

"I'm not going to go crazy."

"Yeah, okay," Dallas said. "Here's the way we're gonna play it. John will tell us if he needs help. Isn't that right?"

John nodded. "Yeah, sure."

His friends let the subject drop and spent the rest of the evening plotting their next project.

They continued to meet on Friday afternoons, but they kept silent about John's mounting depression. None of them knew what could be done about it, anyway.

Three months passed without a mention of Catherine. Then John broke down. He couldn't bear to watch Catherine suffer anymore, and he told them he was worried about money all the time now, which he thought was ludicrous given the fact that they had millions tucked away in the Sowing Club account. Millions they couldn't touch for five more years. He told them that insurance covered a pittance of the treatment Catherine needed, but not nearly enough, and if his wife continued to linger, her trust would eventually be gone and he would be financially ruined. Unless, of course, the others agreed to let him dip into the Sowing Club account.

Cameron protested. "You all know how I'm hurting for money, what with my divorce pending and all, but if we make a withdrawal now, without closing out the whole account, we could create a paper trail, and the IRS-"

John cut him off. "I know. It's too risky. Look, I shouldn't have brought it up. I'll figure out something," he said.

The following Friday afternoon, they met at their favorite bar, Dooley's. While it thundered and poured outside, and Jimmy Buffett sang about Margaritaville over the speakers, John leaned across the table and whispered his dark wish aloud.

He wanted to kill himself and end the torment.

His friends were appalled and outraged. They admonished him for even thinking such crazy thoughts, but it didn't take them long to see that their rebukes were not helping. On the contrary, they realized they were adding to his misery and his depression. Their harsh words quickly turned into solicitous ones. What could they do to help him?

Surely there was something.

They continued to talk, huddled around a table in the corner of the bar, putting their heads together to come up with a viable solution to their friend's untenable situation. Later, near midnight, after hours and hours of discussion, one of them was bold enough to suggest what all of them were thinking. The poor woman was already under a death sentence. If anyone should die, it should be his pathetic, long-suffering wife.

If only.

Later none of them would be able to remember who had voiced the proposal to kill her.

For the next three Friday afternoons, they discussed the possibility, but once the debate had ended and the vote had been taken, there was no going back. The decision, when it was finally made, was unanimous. There were no second thoughts, no nagging doubts on the part of any of the members of the club.

It was as absolute as dried blood on white carpet.

They didn't consider themselves monsters or admit that what they were doing was motivated by greed. No, they were simply white-collar overachievers who worked hard and played harder. They were risk-takers, feared by outsiders because of the power they wielded. They were known as real ball breakers-a term they considered flattery. Yet, despite their arrogance and their audacity, none of them had the courage to call the plan what it really was-murder-and so they referred to it as "the event."

They did have balls of steel, considering that Dooley's was located just half a block away from the Eighth District station of the New Orleans Police Department. While they planned the felony, they were surrounded by detectives and policemen. A couple of Federal Bureau agents assigned to PID occasionally stopped by as well, as did the up-and-coming attorneys hoping to foster connections. The police and the courthouse lawyers considered Dooley's their personal watering hole, but then, so did the overworked and underappreciated interns and residents from both Charity Hospital and LSU. The groups rarely mingled.

The Sowing Club didn't take sides. They sat in the corner. Everyone knew who they were, though, and until the serious drinking got under way, they were constantly interrupted by greetings from coworkers and ass-kissers.

Oh, yes, they had gall and nerve, for in the midst of New Orleans's finest, they calmly talked about the mercy killing.

The discussion would never have gotten this far if they hadn't already had the connection they needed. Monk had killed for money, and he certainly wouldn't have any qualms about killing again. Dallas was the first to see the potential and to take advantage by saving Monk from the judicial system. Monk understood the debt he would have to repay. He promised Dallas that he would do anything, anything at all, as long as the risks were manageable and the price was right. Sentiment aside, their killer was, above all else, a businessman.

They all met to discuss the terms at one of Monk's favorite hangouts, Frankie's, which was a dilapidated gray shack just off Interstate 10 on the other side of Metairie. The bar smelled of tobacco, peanut shells that customers discarded on the warped floorboards, and spoiled fish. Monk swore that Frankie's had the best fried shrimp in the south.

He was late and made no apology for his tardiness. He took his seat, folded his hands on the tabletop, and immediately outlined his conditions before accepting their money. Monk was an educated man, which was one of the main reasons Dallas had saved him from a lethal injection. They wanted a smart man, and he fit the bill. He was also quite distinguished looking, very refined and shockingly polished considering he was a professional criminal. Until he was arrested for murder, Monk's sheet had been clean. After he and Dallas had struck the deal, he did a little bragging about his extensive resume, which included arson, blackmail, extortion, and murder. The police didn't know about his background, of course, but they had enough evidence to convict on the murder-evidence that was deliberately misplaced.

The very first time the others met Monk was at Dallas's apartment, and he made an indelible impression upon them. They had expected to meet a thug, but instead they met a man they could almost imagine as one of them, a professional with high standards— until they looked closely into his eyes. They were as cold and as lifeless as an eel's. If it was true that the eyes were mirrors to the soul, then Monk had already given his to the devil.