The converted Gulfstream IV-SP heaved into an oblique ascent as soon as the front landing gear left the ground, then shot upward, generating a respectable amount of G-force. Marty felt the momentary twinge of fear that even the veteran air traveler experiences from time to time; the fear associated with the realization that these things sometimes did fall from the sky like rocks, burst into the most volatile of flames and incinerate all aboard. This was exacerbated now by the fact that this was a very small jet - statistically speaking, far more likely to fall prey to such a fate. "Jesus," Marty whispered. She didn't think anyone heard her.

Marty studied the feeling she was having like a new sensory experience. It was a primal fear; a prudent one provided it wasn't taken to extremes. What interested Marty was that she was feeling it at all. Earlier in the day - it seemed like it had been such a long day - when she was standing atop the lava dome, she hadn't felt any fear at all. In fact, she thought, she'd probably come pretty close to jumping from that morbid curiosity she'd developed regarding death. Pretty twisted, she thought.

"Haven't you flown before?" Tom asked her. He was sitting next to Fisher, in the seat in front of Marty and to her left across the narrow aisle. Calm concern registered on his face as he awkwardly leaned toward her. Momentarily annoyed, she had to stifle a laugh at the picture she must have presented to the agent: eyes wide, lips tight and colorless, hands gripping the armrests. White Knuckle Syndrome. There were only two seats in each of the two rows; Marty was in the aisle, with her pack on the window seat. Three rows ahead, the floor opened up into a conference area with two banks of chairs arranged around a Formica-finished table. Marty had seen Millard, the DEA field supervisor seated there poring over paperwork when they boarded. Whether he'd gotten aboard first, or recently flown in was not evident.

Smiling, Marty relaxed almost completely. "O-only a couple of commercial flights," she confessed.

"Yeah, these babies can make you lose your lunch," Bob said, craning his neck over the back of his seat. "It's real embarrassing when you're new and trying to make an impression in the Administration."

Tom smiled. "We can get you something when we level off. If you still need it."

"I'll be fine," she said. Marty looked at the agents around her, studied them. I wonder what he did this time, she thought. This is a whole lotta juice for one guy, even with Evers' background. A whole lotta juice. There did seem to be a sense of urgency about this; considering the agents obvious intentions to involve her, Marty was ambivalent about the fact that she'd been told nothing as yet save their destination. Presently, Bob Fisher got on the GTE Airfone attached to the back of the seat in front of him. Shortly after that, when the aircraft had leveled off, Tom took two calls, made one, then disappeared into the rear of the aircraft. Another agent was sitting in the conference area alternately speaking to Millard and someone on the phone in hushed tones. It came to her suddenly; a conversation Paul and Dave had once over a little too much Corvoisier. Both men had been among those who agreed that Vietnam War veterans had taken a first class dicking courtesy of Uncle Sam. Although this made them somewhat cynical, neither man regretted having served. They'd both been angry for a long time after their return to the U.S. - but Paul had had a harder time reconciling the cavalier nature of policies implemented during the war, preferring to ascribe "bad decisions" on the government's part to the plight of the veterans, rather than machinations of the military-industrial complex. It had been a lot harder for him to accept the fact that some of the men responsible for the suffering were not only irresponsible and misguided... but evil as well.

"...Are you kidding?" Dave had said. "I worked with those cocksuckers. It's hard to believe that some of them were of woman born. They're sorry little peckers with sorry little minds who get these phony-tough ideas of expedience and loyalty drilled into them by some twisted old military queen. Then, of course they go power-mad. Anything goes. 'All for the good of the country.'"

Marty had never heard Dave sound quite so bitter, though she had known about his post-service crackup. She stole closer to the doorway of the Anders' den where her husband and brother-in-law drank their cognac and smoked cigars. She remembered Dave leaning close to Paul across the cherrywood card table... "A twenty-eight-year-old mother of three dies in a car accident on the way home from the grocery store in a suburb of a major American city," he almost whispered. "A tragic thing - her poor kids motherless. Her husband devastated. You know.... The connection no one will ever make is this: She had a brother with the SEALs that got aced during a botched covert op one year earlier. One of those places we were but weren't supposed to be - like Cambodia, the Falklands, Libya... Places I used to fly guys like that into from time to time - back in 'Nam. Well, it was all the Navy brass could do to keep a lid on it, and they did pretty well. But there were a few loose ends. Our mother of three was with an intelligence outfit before she quit to raise a family. She'd been real close to the brother. They used to talk a lot on the phone. No one has any reason whatsoever to think he told her anything he shouldn't have - but they don't want to take chances. So she gets run off the road. The first 'witness' on the scene -" here, Dave raised his hands and hooked his fingers in a visual for quotation marks "- was the same CIA dickhead who ran her off the road in the first place. He runs up to the car to help, and scratches her neck with a small needle. The needle contains one of those curariform poisons with a DMSO chaser. The cocktail hits her heart like a hammer. DOA. Shock, then cardiac arrest, the poor thing. All for the good of the country. Now, is that what we fought for?" What kind of a motherfucker does something like that? What kind of a motherfucker orders something like that? Marty looked toward the front of the plane.

Guys like that? she thought. She looked over at the black canvas backpack on the seat next to her. She'd never have gotten on a commercial flight with that, she thought, but no one had even dreamed of looking into it. Did the FAA have jurisdiction over these flights? she wondered. A change of clothes, the Beretta in a shoulder rig, two extra magazines, two boxes of ammo - one all hollow points. Her wallet, her Gerber Parabellum lockblade, and her Ray-Bans. Where do you think you're going, sister? she thought.

About fifteen minutes later, Tom returned and seated himself next to Marty. He spoke only loudly enough for her to hear him above the jet noise. "A couple of hours ago, the FBI in Houston got an anonymous call informing them about a murder in an upscale area outside of Houston. Agents sent there found three bodies. Between the call and the MO used at the scene, we're pretty sure it was Evers."

"Who are the victims?" Marty asked.

"The owner of the home, his daughter, and a domestic," Tom said. "I'm sure Millard is getting it all together now. The FBI will be waiting for us at the airport."

"Motive?"

"Nothing yet."

"No connections? Dopers?"

"Doesn't look like it..."

Dry Texas plains heat blasted Marty's face as she emerged from the jet. The part of her that felt wild abandon enjoyed it; it was disorienting, a welcome feeling. She'd have found it hard to believe if she hadn't been to Texas before. She slid her Ray-bans onto her face and followed Tom out onto the endless tarmac. A tan late-model Chrysler sedan was parked perpendicular to the aircraft off of the right wing. Approaching Marty and the DEA agents were Three Definite Feds. Mid twenties, tall, white, dark to sandy hair, nondescript but clean-cut, dark suits despite the heat, and dark steel-rimmed shades. One of them was actually on the ball. Introducing himself as Special Agent Stuart Cook, the agent shook the hand of everyone who came off of the plane first. Millard had stayed on the plane, and this meant that Tom and Bob were the senior agents on the case. Cook was a big guy with sandy hair and blue eyes, reasonably intelligent, polite, and personable. He looked like he might have played some football. Cook deferred to Tom in particular: they'd be riding with him, he'd brief them, if they needed anything, just let him know.

Fed Number Two was Baker, a stocky, wrestler-type with a blond crew-cut who smiled too much and actually looked a bit unbalanced. He shifted his weight from foot to foot constantly as though he might have to go to the bathroom. This is something that Marty would notice during the entire encounter, later discounting the latter supposition, as Baker would have every opportunity to relieve himself. Fed Number Three - six feet, dark hair and dark eyes - was altogether unremarkable; should Marty meet him again in life, she wouldn't remember him. Accompanying the Three Definite Feds was an ever-so-slightly heavy-set brunette in her late twenties. Her dark brown highlighted hair was cut in a neat page boy, and she wore a navy blue knee-length skirt and suit coat. Pert, rounds breasts suggested a poor fit of her white poly-cotton blouse, as the top two buttons were open; Marty surmised that this was probably owing to the Texas heat. At second glance, Marty decided that the woman was not really heavy, but might be battling it. Her stature - next to the self-important, aspiring Secret Service agents - lent her an almost squat appearance, although she was approximately Marty's height. Possessed of a pretty, sharp-featured face with ice-blue eyes and meticulously-sculpted brows, she wore modest understated lipstick and eyeliner only. Cook introduced her as Special Agent Ellen Danning, and she, like some of the DEA people Marty had met recently, seemed to be having some trouble sizing Marty up. Marty obviously did not fit the insecure "green federal agent out to make an impression" image, nor did she convey the confidence of Tom or the FBI agents who were with Danning herself - guys who might fuck up from time to time, but who had already made their mark. Marty looked like neither, in dress nor comportment. By now, Marty had the concealment of her feelings down to a fine art, particularly in front of strangers. It was obvious that Special Agent Cook - judging from the statements he made and his manner - had been briefed on her. Consequently, there was an unspoken acknowledgment among the FBI men that she was welcome as dangerous company. Cook and the other men spoke directly to her. This seemed to unsettle Danning even more.

Danning shook Marty's hand when Tom introduced her as "a representative of the Denver Police Department who is assisting us in our case." Danning's hand was small and soft and slick with sweat. She registered mild embarrassment with a helpless look and cocked her head self-consciously when Marty wiped her palm on her black fatigue pants. Between the heat and the venue, Danning looked decidedly uncomfortable. Neither were bothering Marty too much as yet, but she was grateful when she wound up beside Tom in one of the three long, air conditioned Fedmobiles that abruptly rolled up to the party. Marty slouched in the back seat, unaccountably relieved that the female FBI agent had gotten into one of the other cars.

The car was huge, so the back seat easily accommodated Marty, Tom and Bob Fisher. Cook was in the front passenger seat. "The tip came in from a pay phone," he said.

"Local?" asked Tom.

"No," Cook said. "It was made from a roadside stop in West Virginia."

"That doesn't tell us much," Tom said.

"Sorry," Cook said with a shrug. "We got down there and found three bodies. We're going to the place right now. The house was owned by Russell T. Ohlenmeyer."

"The name's familiar," Tom said.

"Should be," Cook said. "They used to call him 'Rusty O'."

"The oilman," Fisher said.

"Heard of him?" Cook asked.

Marty knew the name. "Oh, yeah," she said. "The guy's a billionaire."

Cook chuckled. "Well - he was," he said. "Right up there with Perot and Walton."

"He had a daughter, if I remember correctly," Marty said. "A model?"

"Uh-huh," Cook said. "Body Number Two."

"Oh, shit," Marty said.

"Her name - her professional name was Cindy Meyer," Cook went on, "and she was right up there with the Cindy Crawfords and the Christie Brinkleys."

It was dark by the time they got to the mansion on the thirty-acre estate. The place was massive; whoever lived here, Marty thought, had to be worth at least a few billion. An enormous, multi-level conceptual Spanish hacienda that seemed to reach toward the sky, the main house featured a two-storey volume entry, recessed blind arches and ornate eaves in the Mediterranean fashion. Windows upon windows, and countless terraces graced many of the suites within. The roof was finished with tens of thousands of red ceramic barrel tiles. From what she could tell from the layout, Marty surmised that the back of the main house probably opened up into at least one courtyard. Bright floodlights shone up from the manicured lawn, and down from the underside of the entry.

"Some place," Marty said.

"Yeah," Cook said. "Too bad they couldn't take it with them."

Two government cars were parked out front, as well as two county vehicles that looked like they were probably from the coroner's office. An agent conversed with a middle-aged man next to one of these.

"I thought there were three bodies," Marty said.

Cook turned around again. "There were," he said. "We had them take the servant's body into town already. He wasn't in the main house, so the body wouldn't have kept."

Marty frowned. "'Kept?' Why -?" she began.

"You'll see," Cook said. There were two agents conversing just outside the front door; one, dressed in SWAT gear, headed down the path toward party and past them as they approached. The other, an agent in an off-white suit, strode forward to meet them. He was about forty-five, and had thick salt-and-pepper hair and a deep tan.

"Hi, there," he said with a medium-thick Texas drawl. "I'm Special Agent Carl McCallister. I'm from the Houston office. If you'd all step this way..."

A big FBI man in SWAT gear waited just outside the front double doors, which he closed when the last of the party was inside. Danning pulled her jacket as closely around her as she could and looked at Marty, as though seeking some acknowledgment of solidarity. The foyer fit the fa�ade in expenditure if not style; a sprawling black and white tiled floor, enormous chandelier, and red carpet on a sweeping staircase. There were several areas of the floor that had been spattered with blood. Although a light on the upstairs landing was on, the foyer itself was dark. The most noteworthy thing the party would acknowledge was that the temperature was hovering under forty degrees.

"It's a fucking icebox in here," Fisher. "I didn't know you could get a place this cold."

McCallister turned to Fisher. "We figure your guy did that before he left - turned up the AC, I mean," the agent said.

"He wanted to preserve the scene," Tom said.

"Righty-O," said McCallister. "He had no idea how long it'd take for someone to find 'em, since he whacked everyone here."

"Unless he made that phone call," Marty said. "Then he'd know."

"Yeah," McCallister said. "But it'd still have taken awhile. Particularly if he waited 'til he got to West Virginny."

"How many victims were there, Agent McCallister?" Danning asked.

"Three in all," he said offhandedly, starting toward the main stair. "The old man, the girl, and a servant. The servant was out at the back when your guy showed up." McCallister led them up the winding staircase with Danning on his heels. Marty gently took hold of Tom's elbow and slowed as Fisher followed the two FBI people up. Tom discreetly slowed and turned just his head toward her.

"What's with this Danning?" Marty whispered.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean why's she here?" Marty hissed. "She's green - it doesn't even look like the others want her around."

Tom chuckled; looked toward the top of the stair. "I think she's here to offer moral support," he said.

"Who to?"

"To you, of course," Tom whispered. "I guess they figured you might need another woman around."

"Are you serious?"

"They don't know you, Marty," Tom said, and picked up his pace.

The bedroom was to their left at the top of the stairs. McCallister was waiting for them. "I told you it was bad," he said. "We had an incident with a couple of the local cops and one of our forensics people. I decided to clear them all out 'til after you all left. I mean - all jokes aside - with the temperature in here, they'll keep."

"Incident?" This was Fisher.

"Yeah," McCallister said, "- they threw up. We couldn't have them contaminating evidence."

Marty took a deep breath. He had been here, and it had only been a matter of hours. She wondered how she'd feel when they met again. When...

McCallister turned on the light to the bedroom as he slipped through the doorway. Fisher went in next, then Tom, then Marty. Danning hugged herself as she followed, taking tiny steps. The suite had very obviously belonged to the young woman. Modern compared to the rest of the house, the furnishings consisted of Neiman prints - possibly originals - a Cosmopolitan cover blown up to frightening proportions; brass and Italian marble in the full bath to the right of the entry. The carpet had been an immaculate white medium-pile shag, but now it was stained with bloody footprints, half-prints, ugly smears and thickly congealed mats of blood and gobbets of gore. It looked as though a roomful of people had been butchered.

"That was her," McCallister said, jerking a thumb toward the Cosmo reprint.

"The girl?" Tom said.

"Yeah," the agent said. "Cindy Meyer. She was real straight - a home-town girl. She had a number of residences - L.A., New York, a ranch in Texas - but she called this place home. The girl and the old man were real close, I understand. Always had been, and seemed to lean on each other since the mother died."

"What did the old man do?" Danning asked.

"Oil, of course," McCallister said. "The girl grew up with it all, then made her own mark in the modeling biz."

"Shall we get on with it, then?" Danning asked, her voice shaking from the cold.

"If you insist," McCallister said, looking disdainfully at her.

The lights were all on in the main room. The walls were high , the ceiling vaulted. Marty heard a strange sound ahead of her and to the left. As they cleared the doorway, she saw the 150-gallon marine aquarium from which the hiss and rush of filter noise issued. There were streaks of blood on the front of the tank. As she crossed the floor, something caught her eye and she looked down. There amidst the bloodstains, bloody footprints, and broken pottery was the body of an elongate striped brown-and-tan fish with lush finnage which looked as if it had been removed from the tank and crushed underfoot.