He can hear running on the dock, two pairs of feet beating it out of there, and he figures it’s Mouse Junior and Travis.

Absolutely.

Frank makes himself wait for thirty seconds before he crawls out from under the table.

The would-be strangler is dead, two bullet holes and a bunch of plywood splinters in his face. And the guy is enormous-four bills easy. Frank checks out what’s left of the guy’s face. He recognizes him from someplace but can’t quite remember where.

Vince is still breathing, sitting with his back against the bulkhead, his hands trying to hold his guts in.

Frank squats down beside him. “Vince, who sent you?”

Vince’s eyes stare out into space. Frank has seen the look before-Vince isn’t going to make it. Whether he’s looking at the white light, or whatever, he’s already checked out ofthis motel, and whatever sound he’s hearing now, it isn’t Frank’s voice.

Frank gives it one more try, though. “Vince, whosent you?”

Nothing.

Frank puts the pistol barrel against Vince’s heart and pulls the trigger. Then he sits down to catch his breath, surprised and pissed off that his chest is pounding. He makes himself take a few long, deep breaths to slow his heart rate.

It takes a minute.

You’re not getting any younger, he thinks. And you almost weren’t getting anyolder, either. And don’t deserve to, either, being so stupid and careless.

Letting a punk kid like Mouse Junior set you up.

And that’s what he did. How do the kids say it these days? He “played” you. Worked on your ego and set you up.

Frank gets up and takes a long look at the dead guy on the table.

The wire garrote is still clutched in his hands. Old-school, Frank thinks, using a wire. But they probably didn’t want to risk the noise of a gun unless they had to. Use a silencer, then. Unless the garrote was meant to make it slow and painful, in which case this hit waspersonal.