Bevins shakes her head. “Sorry, no. Can’t, because I don’t know for sure. Just a rumor of interest, you might call it. Persistent questions about Keener’s connections to China—it was known that he had a Chinese girlfriend—but no actual evidence to warrant FBI involvement. Somebody in the community didn’t trust him, that’s for sure.”

“This ‘rumor of interest,’ did it mention the boy?”

Monica Bevins looks down, studying her large but somehow elegantly shaped hands. Elegant but for the fact that some of her nails are chewed to the quick. “There was a mention, yes, in the context of family vulnerabilities. It was noted that agents of the People’s Liberation Army are known to intimidate their targets by making threats, usually very vague, about the well-being of family members who still reside in China.”

“That’s it? No mention that Joey Keener was actually missing?”

Bevins shakes her head. “The circulated memo was a simple series of questions, the point of which was to stimulate an active response from interested agencies. Why had Professor Keener frequently emailed an address in Hong Kong? Why did he go there? What was he doing in mainland China? Who did he meet there? Was the mother of his illegitimate child an agent of the PLA? Was the child being used as leverage? Like that.”

“And you have no idea who circulated this memo?”

“I can guess, but sharing the specific source would be a felony, and I can’t go there, not even for Naomi Nantz.”

“Not even for Randall Shane?”

Bevins’s cold glare makes Dane feel like she’s been drenched by a bucket of ice water. “The Bureau looks out for its own,” the big woman says, hotly. “We’re now fully involved. There’s an FBI alert out for the missing child, as of this morning. That’s all you need to know.”

Before the young lawyer can apologize—testing and probing, that’s her job, nothing personal—the patient groans from his hospital bed. They both turn to see Shane attempting to sit up.

“Monica!” he cries in a ragged whisper.

A moment later the two old friends are embracing, faces wet with tears, and this time Dane Porter follows her best instincts and steps out of the room for a few minutes. Texting quietly as she goes.

Chapter Twenty-Four

The Bogie Man Says Boo

He always carries his own bag. No cart, no caddy, and the best part, today he’s playing alone. Not quite a scratch golfer, but close, and perfectly capable of birdieing this, the seventeenth hole. Salt water on two sides, as blue as the sky above. Seagulls wheel like silent drones in the high summer air. Unarmed, he hopes, chuckling to himself. On this course, with so many ducks and seabirds in the general vicinity, members wear hats to avoid the splat.

Taylor Gatling, Jr., finds himself in an excellent mood, savoring life. It helps that he owns the course, and that he’s arranged to have this part of it to himself. Nobody ahead, nobody behind. Could a man ask for more?

Oh yes, a chilled martini back at the clubhouse. That will make it a perfect day for bananafish, as his dad used to say, in reference to some silly story Taylor never bothered to read. Taylor has never cared for fiction. Why bother, when reality is so much more interesting?

With no other players pressing he can take his own sweet time, savoring the moment, imagining his triumph. Two hundred and fifteen yards to the pin, no problem, sir, consider it done. He selects his club, extracts it from the bag. An easy three-wood will impart the necessary backspin, placing the ball tight on the green.

Taylor can feel the birdie, has it firmly in his mind. He’s in the act of bending down to place the ball on the tee when he detects the putt-putt of an approaching tractor mower, and curses softly. He waits, assuming that the groundskeeper, upon seeing the owner himself poised to drive, will turn around and leave the area.

The tractor keeps coming, chugging up the slope. Oddly enough, the blades in the rig are not engaged. The damned fool isn’t even mowing. Taylor focuses on remaining calm. The man must be a simpleton, don’t let him ruin the moment. The tractor approaches a long bunker, one the machine can’t possibly traverse, but instead of swinging around to leave, the groundskeeper sets the brake and climbs down from the little green bucket seat and strides up toward the tee.

Taylor can’t quite make out the man’s face—the sun is behind him—but he recognizes the type of wide straw hat often worn by those who maintain the fairways and greens. And then, jarringly, he suddenly recognizes the jaunty stride of a man who is most certainly not one of the groundskeepers.

“Hey, boss, how they hanging?”

“What the hell are you doing here? I told you never to—”

“Yeah, yeah,” says the man who insists on calling himself Kidder. “Never speak to you in public. Well, this isn’t public, is it? This is a private course and you own it. Plus there’s nobody here but us chickens. Or ducks or seagulls or whatever.”

“Son of a bitch,” Taylor says, scanning the area to make damn sure they’re alone. “Are you out of your mind? What do you want?”

“I tried you at, what do you call it, your bad little boys club? Nobody home. And you won’t give me a cell phone number, which is just a tiny bit insulting.”

“You were at the boathouse?” Taylor hisses, throttling his three-wood. “Were you seen?”

“I’m sure your security cameras clocked me, but you can erase that, right? The point is, we need to have a conversation, so I made it happen.”

“This is beyond the pale!”

Kidder chuckles. “Really? Beyond the pale? I always wondered what that means. I mean, what is the pale, exactly, and how do you get beyond it? I’ll bet that’s one of the things your father used to say.”

“Leave my father out of this!”

“Hey, no problem.” Kidder zips his lips. “Total silence in the father department. I could care less about fathers, if you want to know the truth. My concern is mother and child.”

“You’re never to contact me. We communicate through an intermediary, that was the arrangement.”

“Yeah, well, there’s always an exception, and this is it. The situation is getting to be a problem and needs to be resolved. Permanently, would be my preference.”

Taylor walks in a tight circle, tapping the ground with the heel of his club. “Not yet,” he says, jaw clenching. “Absolutely not. Direct order.”

“I don’t get it,” Kidder says, as if bemused. “The operation is over. Time to tidy up.”

“What makes you think it’s over?”

“Looks over to me. The evildoers are dead, if not quite buried, and the target is in custody, with enough evidence to plant his bony ass in jail for life. Done and dusted. Over.”

“It’s not your call, damn it! And for your information the operation is not over. Not quite.”

“No? That’s fine. I’m always up for more. So what happens next? Give me a clue.”

“You’ll know when you get your orders.”

Kidder is amused. “My orders? We’re no longer in the field, Captain. I’m an independent contractor.”

Taylor glares.

Kidder remains affable. “Okay, fine. I’ll maintain status quo, await instruction. But I know what you’re thinking, Cap. I always knew what you were thinking back in the day, and I do now.”

“What am I thinking?”

“You’re thinking I need my ticket punched, once this is all over. Tie up the last of the loose ends. Bury me in a foxhole and move on.”

“You’re wrong. I’d never—”

“Yeah, you would,” Kidder interrupts. “I get it, a man in your position. So much to lose. Thing is, I’ve taken precautions. If I go down, you’ll be right behind me. That’s a certainty, Cap. I’ll be saving you a place in hell.”