Horst had told Henri that the job he had done had been well received, but there were issues.

Had he chosen the right victim? Why was Kim McDaniels's death the sound of one hand clapping? Where was the press? Had they really gotten all they'd paid for?

“I delivered a brilliant piece of work,” Henri had snapped. “How can you deny it?”

“Watch the attitude, Henri. We're all friends, yes?”

Yes. Friends in a strictly commercial enterprise in which one set of amigos controlled the money. And now Horst was telling him that his buddies weren't quite happy enough. They wanted more. More twists. More action. More clapping at the end of the movie.

“Use your imagination, Henri. Surprise us.”

They would pay more, of course, for additional contracted services, and after a while the prospect of more money softened the edges of Henri's bad mood without touching the core of his contempt for the Peepers.

They wanted more?

So be it.

By the time his second cup of coffee was finished, he had mapped out a new plan. He dug a wireless phone out of his pocket and began making calls.

Chapter 9

That night snow fell lightly on Levon and Barbara McDaniels's house in Cascade Township, a wooded suburb of Grand Rapids, Michigan. Inside their efficient but cozy three-bedroom brick home, the two boys slept deeply under their quilts.

Down the hall, Levon and Barbara lay back-to-back, soles touching across the invisible divide of their Sleep Number bed, their twenty-five-year connection seemingly unbroken even in sleep.

Barbara's night table was stacked with magazines and half-read paperbacks, folders of tests and memos, a crowd of vitamin supplements around her bottle of green tea. Don't worry about it, Levon, and please don't touch anything. I know where everything is.