K ing listlessly cast his line into the water and slowly reeled it back in. He was standing on his dock, the sun up barely an hour. The fish weren't biting, yet he didn't care. The spread of mountains seemed to be watching his uninspired efforts with a brooding focus.

Joan undoubtedly had several complex motives in making her offer. Which ones favored him to any degree other than the financial compensation? Probably none. Joan's schemes tended to only advance her interests. At least he knew where he stood with the woman.

With Jefferson Parks, King was less certain. The marshal seemed sincere, but that could simply be a facade; it often was with lawmen, King knew. He'd played that game in his investigative career at the Service. King didn't doubt that whoever had killed Howard Jennings would feel the full wrath of the big man. King just wanted to make certain that he didn't become that target.

The ripple of water gently touched one of the pilings on his dock, and he looked up to see its source. The scull slid across the lake's surface, the woman pulling hard on her paddles. She was close enough that King could see the muscled definition of her shoulders and arms revealed by her tank top shirt. As she slowed and coasted toward him, something about her looked very familiar.

She glanced around in surprise, as though unaware she was close to shore.

"Hello," she said, and waved.

He didn't wave back, only nodded. He cast his line again, purposely close to her.

"I hope I'm not interfering with your fishing," she said.

"That depends on how long you're going to stay."

She drew her knees up. She was wearing black Lycra shorts, and the thigh muscles were long and looked like cable under skin. She pulled her hair out of its ponytail and wiped her face with a towel.

She looked around. "Boy, it's beautiful here."

"That's why people come," he said warily. "And where exactly did you come from?" He was trying hard to place her.

She pointed south. "I drove over to the state park and put in there."

"That's seven miles by water!" he exclaimed. The woman wasn't even winded.

"I do this a lot."

Her scull drifted closer. And King finally recognized her. He could barely contain his astonishment.

"Would you like a cup of coffee, Agent Maxwell?"

She looked surprised for a moment and then seemed to sense that such a pretense was both unnecessary and even silly under the circumstances.

"If it's not too much trouble."

"One fallen agent to another, no trouble at all."

He helped her dock the scull. She eyed the covered boat slips and the storage sheds attached to each. King's jet boat, kayak, Sea-Doo and other vessels were sparkling clean. Tools, ropes, gear and other items were neatly stacked, hung or otherwise arranged.

"A place for everything and everything in its place?" she said.

"I like it that way," replied King.

"I'm sort of a slob in my personal life."

"I'm very sorry to hear that."

They walked up to the house.

Inside he poured the coffee, and they sat at the kitchen table. Michelle had put on a Harvard sweatshirt over her tank top and slipped on a pair of matching sweatpants.

"I thought you went to Georgetown?" said King.

"I got this sweat suit when we did some rowing on the Charles River in Boston while we were training for the Olympics."

"That's right. The Olympics. Busy woman."

"I like it that way."

"Not so busy now, though. I mean you have time for early morning water sports and paying visits to ex-Secret Service agents."

She smiled. "So you won't accept my being here as just a coincidence?"

"The real tip-off was the sweat suit. Sort of tells me you hoped to get out of your boat at some point before you got back to your car. On top of that, I doubt you would have rowed seven miles, Olympian or not, unless you knew I was home. I had several phone hang-ups this morning about thirty minutes apart. Let me guess, you have a cell phone in your scull."

"Once an investigator, always an investigator, I guess."

"I'm just glad I was home to greet you. I wouldn't have wanted you to wander around. I've had people doing that here lately, and I don't really care for it."

She lowered her cup. "I've been doing some wandering lately."

"Really? Good for you."

"Went down to North Carolina, a little place called Bowlington. I believe you've heard of it." He put down his cup too. "The Fairmount's still standing but it's closed up."

He said, "In my opinion they should just shoot it and put it out of its misery."

"I've always wondered about something. Maybe you can enlighten me?"

"I'll sure do what I can," King said sarcastically. "I mean I don'thave much else to occupy my time, so by all means, let me helpyou out."

She ignored his tone. "The agent configuration with Ritter. You had low manpower, which I guess I understand. But the way you guys were laid out was a disaster. You were the only agent within ten feet of the man."

King took a sip of coffee and studied his hands.

"I know this is a huge imposition," Michelle said apologetically. "I just show up and start asking questions. Just tell me to leave and I will."

Finally King shrugged. "What the hell. You're getting a taste of what it's like with the Bruno kidnapping. That sort of makes us blood brothers, in a way."

"In a way."

"Meaning what?" he said testily. "That I screwed up more than you and you don't want to be lumped with me?"

"Actually I think I messed up a lot more than you did. I was detail leader. I let a protectee out of my sight. I didn't have anyone shooting. I didn't have to kill anyone while pandemonium was breaking out all around me. You lost your focus for a few seconds. Unforgivable in a Secret Service agent, probably, but I blew it all along the way. I think you shouldn't want to be lumped with me ."

King's expression softened and his voice grew calmer. "We had barely half the usual complement of agents. That was partly Ritter's choice and partly the government. He was not well liked, and everyone knew he had no chance to win."

"But wouldn't Ritter want as much security as possible?"

"He didn't trust us," said King simply. "We were representatives of the administration, insiders. Even though he was a member of Congress, he was an outsider. Way outside with a screwball platform and radical supporters. He even thought we were spying on him, I swear to God. Consequently they kept us in the dark oneverything. Changing schedules at the last minute without consulting us, it drove the detail leader, Bob Scott, crazy."

"I actually can relate. But that wasn't really reflected in the official record."

"Why would it be? They had their responsible parties. End of story."

"But that doesn't fully explain why the security layout was so poor that day."

"Ritter seemed to get along with me. Why, I don't know. Our politics were certainly not the same. But I was respectful, we joked some and I think to the degree he trusted any of us, he trusted me the most. Consequently, when I was on duty, I always covered his back. Other than that, he didn't like agents around him. He was convinced that the people loved him. That no one would want to hurt him. That false sense of security probably came from his days as a preacher. His campaign manager, guy named Sidney Morse-now, he was supersharp, and he didn't like that setup very much. He was a lot more realistic about things. He knew that there were people out there who might take a pop at his guy. Morse always wanted at least one agent right next to Ritter. But the rest of the guys were always strewn around the perimeter, way in the background."

"And pretty much useless when the shot was fired and the crowd panicked."

"You've seen the tape, I take it."

"Yes. Now, the layout of the agents wasn't your fault. I would have thought the detail leader would have pushed harder on that."

"Bob Scott was ex-army, fought in Vietnam, even was a POW. He was a good guy, but for my money he tended to pick the wrong battles to fight. He had a lot going on in his personal life at the time. His wife had filed for divorce a couple months before Ritter was killed. He wanted out of protection to go back into investigation. I think he regretted ever leaving the military. He fit in betterin a uniform than a suit. Sometimes he'd even salute people and he always used military time, while as you know, the Service used the standard clock. He just preferred that life."

"Whatever happened to him?"

"Resigned from the Service. I took most of the heat, but as you found out, the buck stops with the detail leader. He'd pulled his time, so his pension was secure. I lost track of him. It's not like the guy would be sending me Christmas cards." He paused and then said, "He was also a bit of a barrel sucker."

"Gun-happy? Not so unusual for a former soldier. Most law enforcement agencies have their share of those."

"It was a little unhealthy with Bob. He was a real Second Amendment poster boy."

"Was he at the hotel when it happened?"

"Yes. Sometimes he'd go ahead with the advance team to the next city, but he decided to stay put in Bowlington. I'm not sure why. It was a real one-horse town."

"I saw Sidney Morse on the video; he was right by Ritter."

"Always was. Ritter had a bad habit of losing track of time, and Morse kept him on a tight leash."

"I heard Morse was quite a force."

"He was. When the campaign started, a guy named Doug Denby was Ritter's chief of staff and also his de facto campaign manager. When the campaign started gaining momentum, Ritter needed someone full-time who was really seasoned. Morse fit that bill. The whole campaign was energized when he showed up. He was a fat guy with a motor that never quit, really flamboyant and theatrical. Always munching candy bars with his left hand and talking on a cell phone with his right, barking orders, working the media. I don't think he ever slept. Denby played second fiddle to Sidney Morse. Hell, I think even Ritter was intimidated by him."

"How did Morse and Bob Scott get along?"