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He brought them up on a secondary screen. “These faces are close. Twin close.”

“We’ve agreed on that. Most likely brothers, but Kirkendall’s got no bro. Hirelings maybe.” But she didn’t like it. Where was the rush if you paid someone to do the job?

“Well, thinking twins, identical faces—but not identical heights. That’s not a stretch, but what don’t you see when you look at them?”

“Humanity.”

“Besides. I spend most of my time with faces. What you don’t see, Dallas, are lines or scars, bumps, flaws. You said they’d had strong physical training, most probably military. Seen action. But you don’t see action on their faces. You don’t see wear. She’d have given it to me,” he said almost to himself. “Ophelia would, because you nudge them along there instinctively. You want identifying marks when you can get them. But other than the one favoring his leg, they were perfect.”

“I considered droids, but the probability’s low. Two of that caliber would cost, and it’s difficult to program one for wet work, for covert and assassinations. That’s why the military doesn’t use them for intricate work.”

“I’m not thinking droids. I’m thinking sculpting, surgery. They could look so much alike, so unmarked and identical, if they paid for it.”

“Shit. Shit. The height, the weight of the first one runs with Kirkendall’s data. The coloring’s close.”

“The face isn’t,” Yancy continued. “But if he had it built up here . . .” He pulled out a copy of Kirkendall’s ID photo and began to change it. “Widen, square off the jaw, plane down the nose. Build up the lower lip. It would take a top guy, mucho dinero, but you could do it. I know the eyes don’t match, but—”

“They were wearing shades, you were going with probables.”

“You can have the shape changed, too, and the color.”

“I got a friend changes her eye color as often as she does her underwear.” She paced away, paced back. “It makes more sense to me. Why go through all the years of planning, the perfecting, the anticipation, then not be in on the kill?”

“If we’re right, who’s the other one?”

Eve studied the twin images. “Good question.”

16

LEAVES, GOING CRISP, SKITTERED ACROSS THE sweep of the drive as Eve drove through the gates. New sets of possibilities, probabilities, and the action required for both circled in her mind.

“Wind’s coming up,” Peabody observed. “Rain’s coming in.”

“Thank you for the forecast.”

“It’s going to strip the trees. I always hate to see that happen. Then they’re all naked out there, at least until we get the first snow.”

“You’re that worried, maybe you and some of your Free-Ager relations can knit them some sweaters.”

“I’m better at weaving.” Peabody’s voice remained placid while Eve parked in front of the house. “Haven’t hit the loom in a good long while, but I bet I could pick it up again. I should think about that, with Christmas right around the corner.”

“Oh, stop. It’s fricking October.”

“Nearly November. I’m not going to let it get away from me this year. I’ve already started picking up gifts. Easier to afford it now because—hey, I made detective.”

“The fact of which you never forget to remind me, and anyone else within hearing.”

“I added time in due to being injured in the line. Still, I’ve cut it back to once or twice a week.” She climbed out, drew in a deep breath. “Don’t you love the way it smells?”

“What smells?”

“The air, Dallas. The it’s-almost-November-and-the-rain’s-rolling-in-on-the-city air. All brisk and damp. And you got those mums and asters going over there—just a little spicy. Makes me want to rake up a big pile of leaves and jump in them.”

That put a hitch in Eve’s stride, enough for her to stop and stare. “Christ” was all she could think of, and she strode to the door and in.

Summerset was there, the specter of the foyer, with his stark black suit and thin, disapproving face.

“I see you’ve decided to make an appearance.”

“Yeah. And for my next act I’ll boot your ugly ass out of my way.”

“You brought a child into this home, who needs and expects some of your