“Sit,” he said. “I won’t look.”

I slithered to the table and busied myself refolding the newspaper. When Jack shoved the cocoa and sugar back into the pantry, I got up and returned them to the cupboard, in the same places they’d been, labels forward.

As I sat down again, the dogs padded into the kitchen. They glanced at Jack, then slipped around the table, Scotch stretching out at my feet, Ginger pushing her nose under my hand for a petting.

“Snuck out of Evelyn’s room.” Jack laid a mug at my elbow, then pulled out the chair beside mine. “You should get one. A dog. For the lodge.”

I shook my head. “I’d love to, but I have to consider my guests. I could get someone who’s allergic and they wouldn’t appreciate a house filled with dog dander.”

“You have dogs? Growing up?”

Another shake. “My mom loved cats. Personally, I can’t see the attraction. You feed them, pamper them, clean up their crap, and they still act like they’d be gone in a second if they got a better offer. Call me needy, but I want a pet that wants me back. I brought a puppy home once but…It didn’t go over too well, so we had to get rid of it.”

According to Brad, my mother had shipped the dog off to the pound while I was at school, though she’d told me it ran away.

“How about-?” I began, then stopped.

“How about me?” Jack said. “Pets, you mean?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Wouldn’t ask anything I minded answering myself.” He stretched out his legs, earning a grunt from Scotch as he invaded her space. “Had barn cats. Don’t really count as pets. Found a dog once. Should say, my older brothers found it. Gave it to me.”

“That was nice of them.”

“I thought so. Till I realized they just wanted someone to do the work. Feed it. Brush it. Take the blame if it caused trouble. Dog played with all of us. Didn’t care who ‘owned’ it.”

I laughed. “Smart brothers.”

“Yeah.” He smiled, then went quiet, traced a finger around the circle his mug had left on the table. “Yeah, they were.” Jack swiped away the condensation mark with his hand, then waved at Ginger, who was still sucking up my attention. “No reason you can’t get a dog. Build a good outside kennel. You’re outside most of the time anyway.”

“I suppose.”

“Should have one. At least for protection. That caretaker you’ve got? He’s, what, seventy? Not much help. No security system. Fuck, I tried the front door once. Two a.m. Wasn’t even locked. Then there’s your jogging. You take a gun along?”

“Where I live-”

“Doesn’t matter. You need to be careful. Those deserted roads? I remember-” Jack shook his head. “Wouldn’t believe what guys can pull off.”

“Such as?”

He lifted his brows.

“Come on. You set up a story, now carry it through. You’ve still got”-I glanced in his mug-“half a cup left. Tell me half a cup’s worth of story and we’ll call it a night.”

And, to my surprise, he did.

HSK

He pecked at the keyboard with his index fingers. Slow but steady. His philosophy for all things, or so it had been…

What was the cliché? You can’t teach an old dog new tricks? Of course you could, so long as you provided the twin keys to change-motivation and desire. He’d never be a sixty-word-a-minute typist, but his two-fingered method suited his purposes just fine.

Five years ago he didn’t even know how to turn on a computer. But then someone showed him how useful a tool it could be and so, with motivation and desire, he’d taught himself how to use it. Now he couldn’t imagine how he’d survived all those years in the business without it.

There were places down there, deep in the Web, that most Internet-savvy criminals scorned and mocked. Places inhabited by interlopers in the criminal world. Wannabes-that’s the word they used these days. Computer geeks who set up shop in the underworld and tried desperately to be part of it.

He could picture them, caffeine-hyper beanpoles with bad skin and thick glasses, surrounded by pizza boxes and Coke cans, fingers flying across the keyboard, ferreting out every bit of underworld gossip and lore, endlessly searching for some tidbit that maybe, just maybe, would impress someone in the business, someone who’d seen dead bodies that weren’t just video game carnage. They lived in that hope, so they worked ceaselessly, improving their network of contacts, their data banks of information.

Ego being what it is, no success is a success unless it can be admired and envied by others. Lacking the audience they desired, these moles of the underground found another forum for their braggadocio. They talked to one another.

Tonight, as he sat in the Internet cafe, nursing a coffee, he’d prowled through three such chat rooms, ostensibly to get a heads-up on the investigation, hear the leaks, the rumors, the speculation. Perhaps, if he was being honest with himself, he’d admit to the thrill that came each time he saw his alter ego appear on the screen, each time someone typed the words “Helter Skelter killer.”

In one of the chat rooms they’d been debating some esoteric angle of the crimes, something about the randomness of good and evil. A doctoral dissertation in the making. He’d snorted, and glided from the chat room unnoticed. In the fourth one, though, he’d entered in the middle of a conversation that made his fingers freeze on the keys.

He read slowly, deciphering their cyber-shorthand as he went.

DRAGNSLAYR: …getting together and going after this guy.

RIPPER: Going after HSK?

The three initials were what made him stop. His acronym. The Helter Skelter killer.

DRAGNSLAYR: Who the fuck else are we talking about?

REDRUM: You mean other assassins are going after this guy?

DRAGNSLAYR: Isn’t that what I said? Fuck, maybe I should go find people who can read.

RIPPER: Who’s your source?

REDRUM: Hey, guys, wouldn’t that make a cool movie? Assassin versus assassin.

RIPPER: Been done.

REDRUM: When?

DRAGNSLAYR: Heard it from 22TANGO. Said those twins-Shadow and Sid-were going around to the brokers, asking questions, seeing if anyone hired this guy.

REDRUM: Shit. So why are they going after him?

DRAGNSLAYR: Who cares? It’s a great fucking story.

REDRUM: Bet it’s a job. HSK whacked the wrong guy. Now they’re going to whack him. Man, that would make a great movie. You sure it’s been done?

RIPPER: How about you go start writing it now?

REDRUM: Piss off.

He turned away from the monitor. His colleagues coming after him? There was something vaguely cannibalistic in that, something unfair, even treacherous. Yes, he had to admit, something hurtful. Why come after him? He hadn’t trodden on any toes, hadn’t stolen a job or offed a colleague. His attitude and behavior toward his fellow pros had always been respectful.

And yet…

True or not true, he’d have to take it into account. Maybe it was time to change gears. Consider the possibilities. Savor the power of choice.

One choice niggled at the back of his brain. The most intriguing of the lot.

In this game he’d created, he’d allotted himself a number of special moves. His trump cards. Perhaps it was time to play one of them, an ace he’d been saving in case things went wrong. The game had changed now, though, and it made no sense to play the card. And yet…

His father had been a gambler. Lost everything they owned. Yet his father always swore that Fortune had deserted him when he’d stopped trusting her, when he’d become nervous and started holding his cards too long. A smart gambler, he’d said, knows how to make a surprise play pay off.