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“This dude Laumann is a bureaucrat,” Toby concludes. “He’s got no say whatsoever over the wild horses—that’s policy out of Washington, D.C. He can’t do anything about it, so why are you busting his chops?”

“Laumann is a symbol,” Stone replies testily. “Symbols are important in political work.”

“To hell with politics!” Toby smiles and waves a spidery hand. “Right, Darcy? Tell me, what do you think of boats?”

I used to live in Marina del Rey, California, with a view of three thousand sailboats.

“Never thought much about them.”

Toby slaps his knees conclusively. “Doctor? What do you say we initiate this young lady in the pleasures of cruising our beautiful river?”

Death by drowning. In those rapids, all it would take would be a nudge over the side.

“No thanks, Toby. I get seasick. It’s embarrassing.”

Dick Stone stretches out his legs and leans back in the reclining chair. “The boat looks fine.”

“‘Fine’?” Toby clowns, popping his eyes. “How can you tell?”

“Saw it in the driveway. It’s fine.”

Toby shakes his head. “Julius, my friend, you are full of surprises.”

“Always.”

I’m looking around, sniffing the air. It is a comfy masculine nest, with a worn leather couch in front of a river-stone fireplace, kindling neatly stacked in a brass pot, driftwood and candles arranged on the mantel. A homosexual liaison between these two is not out of the question. A maple bookshelf holds magazines in plastic holders: Western Gunsmithing and Guns & Ammo.

“Quite a collection.”

“I don’t like guns,” Toby jokes. “I love them.”

“Well then, you’re the one to tell me—what kind of a gun would you use to shoot somebody?”

“Why would you ask that?”

“Because I’m going to kill that guy, Herbert Laumann. I said I’d do it for Julius.”

Toby: “He’s one convincing dude.”

“She can use my Colt .45.”

To Toby: “Is that a good choice?”

“It’ll do the job. Just make sure you’re close.”

“Contact shot.” Stone nods, eyes closed.

“Well then, no problem.”

“How do you know so much about guns?”

Toby grins charmingly. “I’m an old soldier. A tired old soldier.” He sits slowly on the leather couch. “Hear those old bones crack?”

Dick Stone gets up and goes into the kitchen.

Toby leans forward and confides: “He doesn’t like me to talk about Vietnam. He flips out, like he’s back in the jungle with us, which he never was. Julius has a way of appropriating other people’s stories.”

“What do you mean by ‘us’?”

“Me and his little brother, Colin. The boy died over there.”

“Julius has a brother who died in Vietnam?”

Toby nods. “There’s a park back east, named for his brother and his battalion.”

I fumble, trying to assess what this means. Stone must have joined the FBI at the same time Colin enlisted. Both young men were patriots—too young to imagine such a thing as death by idealism, or the bitter, vengeful burden for the one who survives.

I need air.

“Nice view of the river.” I crane toward the windows. “Mind if I go down and look?”

“You go on. I’m gonna see what our friend is up to in the kitchen.”

I smile nicely and pull on the back door a couple of times until it becomes unstuck. Outside, the breath of the river is humid and fresh. My shoulder blades are tight as screws. Despite the coziness, there is a stale repression in Toby’s cottage. I look back at the pumpkin trim and perfectly pruned impatiens. What is going on in the kitchen? A gravel walk leads to a garage. There’s a stylish lantern mounted above a side entrance, indicating use. I open the door and wander in.

The sharp smell of cordite grabs me like an old friend. I am back in the basement shooting range at Quantico; in the gun vault at the L.A. field office. Toby’s shop is basically a Peg-Board and a bench, but at a glance, it has everything the recreational gun owner might need, including the wardrobe, all the clothes neatly hung: camo jacket, wind vest, rain togs, and polished black patrol boots.

There’s a rack of common hunting rifles—7-mm ones and .308s, like the one Sterling