Page 1 of The List

PROLOGUE

K ILLING OLD PEOPLE WAS LIKE SHOOTING BOTTLES OFF A LOG.

So little to hold one’s attention.

Even worse, the Priority was late.

Like clockwork, the old man arrived every Friday between 6:00 and 6:30 A.M. , as the file expressly noted. Predictable as the squadron of yellow flies that had swarmed in half an hour ago and had been aggravating him ever since.

But not today.

Of all Fridays, the old coot decided to be late today.

Of course, if there had been any real anticipation—that thrill-of-the-hunt-ecstasy-of-success bullshit—the hour just spent in sweltering August heat wouldn’t have been so bad.

He lowered the binoculars and focused on the quiet, pastoral scene. The woodbine bushes, palmettos, and sand pines of the lake’s northeast shore provided thick cover for him, his camouflage fatigues blending perfectly. Brooks Creek meandered ahead, Eagle Lake beyond.

Hopefully, just a few more minutes and this would be over.

T HE OLD MAN GRIPPED THE THROTTLE AND POWERED THE SKIFF across Eagle Lake.

His wife called the fourteen-hundred-acre basin his meandering mistress.

Apt. It’d been nearly thirty years since he watched bulldozers and front-end loaders carve its banks, soil that once supported pine trees and soybeans carted all over Georgia for fill dirt.

The remaining massive borrow pit eventually filled with water, becoming a readily identifiable blue splotch on the state map.

He’d been one of the first to test its virgin expanse, hooked from the start, and he hoped one day the last sight for his tired hazel eyes would be the comforting taupe of Eagle Lake’s tranquil water.

He inspected the early-morning sky. It would be at least another hour before the sun crested the tallest pines rising from the eastern shore.

No clouds lingered in sight, a tight clammy blanket of humidity the only reminder of the nasty thunderstorms from the past couple of days.

But the birds and tree frogs didn’t seem to mind. Nor the insects.

Nor did he.

Ahead, he spotted the familiar break in the shore.

He released the throttle.

The outboard wound down, slowing the skiff to a crawl. He knew most Woods County fishermen avoided Brooks Creek for four practical reasons. Limited space—only fifteen feet from bank to bank. Full of mosquitoes and yellow flies. Unbearably hot and sticky most of the year.

And the gate of limbs.

Thick water oak branches corkscrewed a barricade over the entire expanse. The space between the bark and water was limited, about four feet, yielding only to a certain size and shape of boat, like his flat-bottomed skiff, bought three years ago specifically for Brooks Creek.

He allowed the outboard to die, then inched ahead using a half-horsepower trolling motor mounted to the bow.

The limbs approached.

Thirty years of visits had taught him precisely when and for how long to duck. Beyond the barrier, the creek snaked inland another twenty yards until bulging into a secluded pool, where he knew the best fishing in central Georgia waited.

H E SPOTTED THE OLD MAN.

About damn time.

Miserable heat. Bugs. Poison ivy. At least yesterday there’d been air-conditioning, though that seventy-year-old pain in the ass squirmed the whole time.

He liked it, though, when they resisted a little.

It added to the sport. Made for a challenge.

But not too much. Bruises, cuts, blood, DNA, fingerprints.

All were evidence that could definitely ruin a good thing.

He shook his head.

People were so damn predictable.

Living their whole life by precise agendas, never realizing the risks associated with regularity.

Take this Priority. Every Friday, no matter what, he plopped his boat into the water at the county ramp and powered straight for Brooks Creek.

Even his path across Eagle Lake was never in doubt.

Like an invisible highway to the northeast, always right after dawn, staying till lunchtime.

Usually, he’d take back four or five bass.

Sometimes a catfish. It looked like he’d vary the routine once in a while.

Maybe try the southwest shore or the east bank.

No. If it’s Friday, then this must be Brooks Creek.

Damn how he loved creatures of habit.

T HE OLD MAN CUT ANOTHER GLANCE AT THE EARLY-MORNING SKY. Orange and yellow hues were being rapidly replaced by azure. What a great-looking summer day. Nothing beat morning fishing, weekdays, just after dawn, all alone.

He reached over and gripped his favorite jigger pole.

Years ago he’d taken a month to whittle one from cane.

Now they could be bought anywhere, professionally manufactured out of lightweight flexible nylon.

Slowly, he tied the special double-reverse spinner knot learned from his father, assuring that the sinking Rapala at the tip was tightly secured.

It was shaped and colored like a small bream, the perfect temptation for a near-blind, greedy-gut bass.

He tested the treble hooks fore, aft, and abeam.

Sharp. Ready to snag.

He extended the black pole from the boat and ever-so-gently lowered the plug beneath the quelled surface.

Brooks Creek was best fished early. By midday, after the sun steamed the tepid water, warmth drove the fish into the cool lake bottom.

Right now, just after dawn, the environment was perfect and he stared hard at the black crevices in the creek’s east bank.

Twice, when he’d won the Golden Angler award from the Woods County Bass Association, the snagged bigmouth bass came from those crevices.

The plug submerged.

Ever so gently he added to the allure by jiggering the pole up and down, the splashing piece of plastic now appearing like a fingerling bream casually investigating the surface.

It wouldn’t take long. Never did. The trick was knowing how to splash.

Too hard would scare the bass off. Too soft would never get any attention.

The line knocked hard.

He tightened his grip and hung on, allowing the hooks to tangle deep. Jerk too soon and all he’d have left was an empty lure. When he sensed the hooks were set, he swung the frantic fish up and into the boat.

Hell’s bells he loved jigger fishing.

He pinched his boot down on the thrashing bass and thrust a finger into the gills. Carefully, he removed the hooks and admired the catch. Four pounds. Maybe five.

It would make excellent fillets.

H E WAS READY.

Occasionally he wished he could simply snap their necks. It’d be so much simpler and a thousand times less trouble. Unnoticed deaths took imagination, thought, and creativity. A flair for the expected mixed with the unexpected.

Like an art form.

The scene needed to be set perfectly in the Priority’s mind.

T HE OLD MAN DROPPED THE BASS INTO THE CATCH COOLER, THEN leaned over the side and rinsed the fish coat off his hands. He then reached into another Igloo for an apple. He’d overslept and left home in a hurry, not taking time to have his usual bowl of shredded wheat and coffee.

Overhead, swallows and mockingbirds twittered from tree to tree in search of their own breakfast. A welcome waft of honeysuckle accompanied bees filching nectar.

He should have bought a lot here years ago, back before the price of lakefront property skyrocketed.

But even now the lack of adequate water and sewer lines and paved roads kept the number of dwellings to a minimum.

Especially here, on the northeast shore.

Nothing but loblolly pine all around for miles.

He gnawed on the apple and, as always, tossed the spent core into the pool where he was about to replace the lure.

It never failed to draw a fish.

Pole in hand, he extended the lure back over the water.

H E SEARCHED HIS JUMPSUIT POCKET AND FOUND A PACK OF Doublemint. He folded a stick into his mouth and rejuvenated his palate. It was almost a conditioned response. Death and dry mouth.

A habit?

He grinned at the irony.

Then he relocked his eyes on the old man sitting in the boat fifty yards away. A minute went by. He flicked his wrist and the associate standing beside him understood what to do.

Timing was so important.

Nothing unusual except—

T HE OLD MAN HEARD THRASHING AHEAD IN THE DENSE SCRUB ON the far bank, beyond the point where the creek left the pool snaking inland.

People rarely frequented those woods, so he wondered if the visitor might be a deer, hog, or brown bear.

Fifty feet past the pool the foliage thinned to a tiny beach.

He gazed into the woods beyond and saw the orange of a hunter’s vest.

“Hey,” a male voice said. “You there. I need some help.”

He whirled the jigger pole back into the boat.

“Please don’t go,” the voice said.

A man emerged from the thickets cursing after becoming entangled on a thorny dewberry vine at the water’s edge.

“What’s the problem?” he asked.

“It’s my friend. We were huntin’ hogs and he tripped. Damn palmetto root. I think his foot’s broken. I can’t carry him all the way back to the truck. I was thinkin’ maybe you could take him in the boat and I could meet you wherever you put in.”

He studied the hunter. Mid-thirties, square jaw, clean-shaven.

A stranger. But a lot of people traveled from all around south and middle Georgia to hunt Woods County.

He was certainly dressed appropriately. Crew-neck shirt beneath a fluorescent-orange vest. Camouflage pants covering stumpy legs. Mud-encrusted boots. Black gloves.

“Can he walk?” he asked.

“Barely,” the hunter said, panting, trying to catch a breath. “But I think I can get him here if you’ll help me get him into the boat.”

“Go ahead. I’ll come over.”

The hunter retreated into the woods.

He shifted the two coolers, tackle box, and spare gas tank toward the stern, then reached for the paddle and inched the boat toward the clearing where the hunter had just stood.

He beached the bow and climbed out to wait on shore.

A couple of minutes later the hunter he’d just talked with approached, supporting another man dressed almost identically.

The other man appeared older, larger, and even with the first man’s help he had a tough time walking, crying out several times as they plowed through the underbrush.

He waited by the boat until they emerged from the thickets, then moved forward to help.

The hunter with the bad foot seized him by the hair.

His neck arched back.

Pain seared down his spine.

Another hand came across his face. He felt cold cloth and smelled something sickening, like fish guts dried in the sun.

His eyes locked onto the hunter’s. Steel-gray with a swirl of indigo, casting a gaze of pleasure that terrified.

The grip tightened. The smell turned dizzying.

His knees softened, then buckled. He crumpled to the soft soil and stole a final glance upward.

Then the light faded.

H E FISHED THE WALKIE-TALKIE FROM HIS BACK POCKET AND reported, “Got him. Move in.”

Though it wasn’t visible, at the mouth of Brooks Creek he knew another boat was drifting into position, its occupant there to keep watch with an unbaited line cast into the brown water, walkie-talkie ready in case a warning was needed.

He yanked off his black leather gloves, exposing latex ones.

His associate did the same. Together they lifted the old man and placed him in the skiff.

Then they splashed water on the bank, the sodden soil smoothed with dead palmetto fronds erasing any trace of their presence.

He climbed over the old man’s body into the skiff and sat astern.

His associate followed but stayed near the bow.

He paddled the skiff into the pool and, using the landing net, scooped the apple core from the water.

He looked fleetingly to see if a good bite might be left, but the old fool had devoured the pulp down to the seeds.

He stuffed the core into the old man’s mouth, then maneuvered the skiff into the creek toward the lake.

He negotiated the protruding limbs and drifted toward the creek mouth. His other associate was now in sight and he stared toward the boat. A discreet signal confirmed that everything was fine. He tossed the paddle aside and cranked the skiff’s fifty-horsepower outboard.

The engine shot to life. Rpms increased.

Oil billowed out in a noxious cloud.

Another hand signal ordered his associate toward the bow to prop the old man upright on the center seat.

To keep the limp body high his associate supported the old man’s head from under the chin, crouching down in front.

He looked behind once more, again assured by his other associate that no eyes or ears were nearby.

Seeing all at the ready, he twisted the outboard into gear.

The boat shot forward toward the pool.

His associate supported the old man, keeping him steady.

The outboard hummed at full throttle.

The limbs rapidly approached, the old man’s head directly in their path. In the instant before the two met, he popped the throttle to neutral and rolled out of the stern.

The tepid water felt good.

A welcome rinse for the sweat and grime that had cooked his camouflage fatigues since dawn.

He surfaced shoulder-deep and swept back his gray-streaked hair.

His eyes dried and focused just as his associate released the old man’s skull, which slammed into the overhanging branches, the body pounding into the transom, reverse momentum sending what was a few seconds before somebody’s husband, father, and grandfather tumbling into the creek.

Which was exactly where he wanted it.

If the blow to the head didn’t kill, the water certainly would.

Drowning, boating accident, or any combination would each be an acceptable cause of death.

It really was like shooting bottles off a log.

His associate rolled out of the boat into the pool. The skiff settled into a slow cruise, finally lodging in thick brush farther down Brooks Creek, motor humming in neutral.

He surveyed the scene.

Everything was according to the processing criteria.

He signaled his associate, who treaded water until finding the shallows of the creek beyond the limbs. The old man’s body floated facedown in the murky water, apple core nearby. He waded over and laid his fingertips on the carotid artery.

No pulse.

Confirmation.

He and his associate pushed through the creek toward the lake.

Approaching the mouth, an increasing depth forced them to swim the remaining distance to the other boat.

Their clothes quickly turned to anchors, but the distance was only a few yards.

Once there, they climbed in, jerked off their gloves, and then sped away as the old man’s body floated farther down Brooks Creek.