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Paulie mulled, gears turning slowly in his mind, the machinery grinding out an answer.

“Chasers,” he said.

“That’s it.”

“Why?”

“The old lady down there, the one with the binoculars, she’s got a bird book and a pencil, but she don’t show no interest in birds.”

“So what’s she looking at?”

“Same thing we are: Triton’s house.”

“You want I should go talk to her?”

“What would you say?”

“I could ask her about birds.”

“You don’t know nothing about birds.”

“If you’re right, she don’t either.”

“Then what would be the point?”

Paulie figured his brother was right. Tony often was. Nevertheless, and without consulting him further, Paulie took out his cell phone, thumbed through his contacts, and stabbed the call button. This was what Paulie understood as “showing initiative,” and was generally considered a good thing, so long as only the right people got hurt.

“Mr. Parker? Oh, sorry.” Paulie paused. “We thought you should know we’re not the only ones watching the house.”

He explained about the woman by the water, listened for a while, said thank you, and hung up.

“What did Mr. Parker say?” asked Tony.

“It wasn’t him. It was Mr. Louis. Mr. Parker’s resting.”

“So what did Mr. Louis say?”

“He told us we should feel free to drown her.”

Tony took this in.

“Not unless we have to,” he said.

And they returned to observing the house and the old poindexter. Chaser. Whatever.

CHAPTERLXXXI

Seeley’s preparations for disappearing were virtually complete. Soon, funds would be transferred, old accounts closed and new ones opened, companies shuttered and assets disposed of. A clean identity would be activated, one known only to a handful of financial advisors, their discretion assured by relationships stretching back decades and generous commissions, because nothing said “I care” like a little douceur.

They would strike at Triton that night. Seeley would have preferred to wait, giving them more time to establish the routines at the property and assess the capabilities of Triton’s security team, but retrieving the final child had become a matter of terminal urgency for la Señora.

In a vacant Freeport condo building rented for them by Seeley’s Maine contact, Urrea’s men were suiting up in full-body bulletproof armor: Level 3A+ equipment that covered the chest, shoulders, upper legs, groin, and neck. Seeley reflected that had Aldo Bern and his colleague invested in protection a grade or two higher, they might have suffered fewer injuries from the Claymore. They’d still be dead, of course—Seeley was always going to be better than them—but their suffering would have been lessened.

Urrea’s Mexicans had prepared a big jug ofmichelada—beer mixedwith tomato juice, lime, and hot sauce—and were consuming it from disposable cups while they worked. On the same table lay cold cuts, cheap sliced bread, and a selection of salads and fruit. Whatever the men discarded was placed in a black garbage bag, and they wore lightweight full-finger gloves that allowed a touchscreen to be operated without their removal. They had also brought a handheld vacuum fitted with a dust bag. Before they left the condo, one of them would don a surgical hair cap and clean the rooms, leaving as few traces of their occupancy as possible.

La Señora was sitting alone on the patio. Seeley thought she might be conserving what was left of her strength. He was reluctant to disturb her, but he had a final question he wanted answered before they went after Triton. It might have been attributable to curiosity had la Señora’s impact on Seeley’s beliefs not been so overpowering. He had caught a glimpse of the numinous, had entered its presence, and now required more: a confirmation, a revelation.

Seeley pulled up a chair beside her, in front of an empty swimming pool hardly big enough for a small child to complete more than a dozen strokes. The pool covering had come away to reveal dead leaves and the corpse of a bird. La Señora did not look at him, he did not look at her, and the afternoon sun barely warmed them both.