Epilogue—FishFox

ERIC CHRISTIANSEN could remember his last family cookout before this one, but he didn't like to and wouldn't now. This one, he decided, could stay in his memory, a picture of what such things were supposed to look like.

He'd hold it up often, he suspected, as a template, a paint-by-numbers guide of what he wanted for his life postretirement.

But tonight, with his couch folded out into a bed—because it meant he could see out the windows, which he couldn't from the actual bed in the back—and the kittens curled up on their cushion next to him, he just wanted to live it again and again and again.

It was a family. He hadn't known that when he'd set out from Tahoe. Hearing Rivers confirm its existence was enough to send him tilting after it, like a windmill. When he'd run into Cotton, he'd been clueless. After his discussion with Ernie, he'd thought "mafia."

He'd only been partly right. It was a family, but it was not a criminal enterprise. Jason's frank talk about where everybody got their money, and Ace's solitary dedication to cleaning the blood off his favorite work boots, had been like ice water on his assumption of what kind of family it had been. Nobody eating chicken that night had been there for the money.

They were there, he suspected, for the same reason he'd been there, only not as naked. Companionship. Camaraderie. Courtship?

Apparently, Eric thought, blowing a disgruntled sigh, most of them had courted —wasn't that always the way?

God, he missed Jules. Not so much as a companion. Jules had been, quite frankly, arrogant and irritating and condescending. Jules had been born into the upper classes, he hadn't made himself into one. Eric thought about Jason Constance's (and there had to be a title or a rank there) analogy between junkyard dogs and Malinois.

Eric Christian had worked hard to be that Malinois, but he knew himself for what he was.

A cringing cur in Malinois clothing.

And for the first time in his life, he was in the company of people who wouldn't care what kind of dog he was, as long as he was loyal and didn't bite when he didn't have to.

Again, he thought of Ace cleaning the blood off his boots. After Eric had parked his trailer by the vacant house with the full range of water, sewage, and power hookups, then set about hooking himself up, he'd gone into his RV and changed into sleep pants and a T-shirt, opened the ceiling fan, and turned it on low, letting some of the chill of the desert January into the living space, blowing out any exhaust or sweat or travel into the night.

Then he'd gone surfing, thinking that one of the three occupied houses on the block, at the very least, must have a hell of an internet source, because his own tablet had effortlessly piggybacked on the hookup without hardly searching. He'd paused for a moment before joining a provider, looking at the IDs to choose from. Crullers? Clean Linen? Little George Inc? There was a story behind every ID, he thought, but all three were stronger than the legit provider he'd been planning to hook up to.

Then his phone had buzzed—Jason Constance had taken his number before leaving him to hook up to the house. All obvious coms are monitored. Choose one, but be aware.

Password ? he'd texted back.

Clean Linen. Password: Cotton 3701

Eric had stared at the information, thinking that there had to be layers of encryption underneath the basic stream. This was what the angel-eyed boy used to research his school subjects, Eric realized. Six hundred passwords on was what the smooth and confident (although equally sloe-eyed) military operator used should he need to contact whomever.

Fair, he thought.

He just wanted to surf the web a little. Scroll up local accidents. Maybe the police blotter….

There.

Grisly Preacher's Death Related to Pedophile Ring. Dead Deputy Involved .

Oh yes, Eric thought, skimming the details with increasing admiration. This was what he'd been looking for.

This man is wanted for questioning in connection with….

And there was… well, Eric assumed it was Ace, wearing the OD green T-shirt and jeans he'd been wearing when Eric had picked him and the giant Russian up in the middle of the desert. But under the hat and the laughable blond curls, not even Ace's boyfriend would know who he was. An outside camera had picked up two pairs of boots fleeing the scene—one barely glimpsed by the toe.

Two people. One of them male.

That's all the police had. A possible connection to what even Eric knew would be an untraceable vehicle. He skimmed to the bottom. Ah yes, there it was.

The vehicle, a late model sedan of indeterminate make, had no identifying features.

Eric read between the lines there—the VIN had been filed off, the parts, body, and engine had been used interchangeably, and the license plates were fake and/or from a stolen vehicle that didn't match the sedan. Eric had noticed a number of vehicles on the garage property surrounding the auto bay, most of them under a carport extension from the building to keep off the terrible sun. Some of the vehicles had been customer vehicles, Eric assumed. Nobody at that get-together had seemed the minivan type. Some had been personal—the bright yellow Ford SHO had obviously been built for the racing used to supplement Ace and Sonny's income. But the others?

Well, Ace and Sonny obviously helped their friends out.

And had a nice supply of unmarked, unregistered vehicles to choose from.

Eric had been recruited for Corduroy, an assassin's guild, right out of the military. They'd helped him build himself into a stainless steel Malinois, a sleek killing machine, using all the latest bells and whistles technology had to offer. When Corduroy had been taken over by an unscrupulous military commander—Karl Lacey—Eric had simply left the corporation, no harm no foul, and struck out on his own.

He'd never seen a more invisible operation, with such raw talent, in all that time.

But it wasn't a business. It was… what? A hobby? A calling? A social club?

Eric couldn't label it. Couldn't put his finger on it. In fact, the only thing he did know was that everybody took it seriously. And nobody wanted to make a habit of it.

This could be as safe as the man known as Eric Christiansen ever got.

He would not be expected to kill here unless it was to protect himself. Or, perhaps, some of the people in the group who might not be as good at self-defense, if he was in a position to do so. But nobody would come to him with cash or blackmail and say, "We need you to do us a favor."

His eyes burned.

He had not lived this long by getting ahead of himself, by growing complacent, by counting his chickens before they hatched. He knew that he and his new friends had a whole lot of "getting to know you" to come.

But maybe—just maybe—he had found a place where he could make a home.

He'd rigged the RV with all sorts of alarms, cameras, bells, and whistles, which he activated almost without thinking. Still, as he closed his eyes under the sage-scented breeze, he thought he might actually sleep for the first time since he'd left Tahoe… and his lover bleeding in the snow.

Far off, he heard a coyote calling and another one answering, and his kittens purred in his ear.

For the first time in years, he felt hope.