CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

At nine-twenty-two pm, a man who was identified as Landon Guthrie watched Faith Bold and Michael Prince disembark from the airplane six rows ahead of him. Their dog, a handsome German Shepherd who was just beginning to show signs of aging, turned and fixed him with a pleasant smile.

Guthrie found it fascinating that dogs could smile. It amazed him the power that humans held over the rest of the world, power they didn't even realize. There were killer whales that would flee humans on sight, even though they had never seen humans before. They fled because their parents taught them to flee, how, scientists were still unsure. Killer whales, by far the most powerful marine predator the world had ever seen, would flee on sight from weak, hairless terrestrial apes.

And they had good reason to. Those apes had learned thousands of years ago how to refine metal out of ore and how to forge that metal into large pointy sticks that could with one well-guided throw—or, a few thousand years later, be shot from another tool humans had forged—could overcome their eight thousand pounds of muscle and a bite force many times greater than any creature alive, even when there were dozens of such animals and only a few of the weak little apes.

And wolves, among the most successful of terrestrial predators, smaller than orcas but just as cunning, had been bred by those same medium-sized apes into fiercely loyal slaves that actually mimicked their masters.

Humans truly were evolution's greatest achievement. And they were still so stupid that it sickened him.

Faith had made eye contact with him twice, once when he sat across from her in the boarding area and once when he passed her to take his seat. Michael had even smiled and nodded at him. What on Earth did Ellie see in him?

Well, Ellie wasn't any smarter than they were. She had lived for twelve years with him and had never suspected what he was. Even when she left, she hadn't suspected.

He was more worried about the dog. Turk might be a fiercely loyal slave, but he retained a larger helping of his ancestors' cunning than most slaves. He had gone to great lengths to alter his appearance, scent and mannerisms, but the man once known as Franklin West wasn't sure if that would be enough. Turk was, in many ways, even more dangerous than his master.

But the dog had only smiled before allowing Faith to lead him from the plane, his happy little subservient tail wagging cheerfully as they descended the jetbridge.

He stood, taking care to move slowly as a man of his age would. One of the flight attendants smiled at him as she stood on her tiptoes and handed him his luggage. "There you go, sir," she said, "have a safe trip home."

He smiled at her. "Thank you, sweetheart," he said.

She gave him the tolerant smile that young women give sweet old men who aren't aware that their word choice is problematic and said, "Good night, Mr. Guthrie."

"Good night, sweetheart," West replied.

***

Two hours later, West parked kady-corner to a quaint little Georgian-style rowhouse owned by one Dr. David Friedman, DVM. He eased himself out of the front seat of his small crossover SUV and walked tiredly up the steps to his own rowhouse, a rental unit that Landon Guthrie had reserved for the week. He walked inside and just as slowly took a seat on the easy chair in the living room. The curtains blocked the view from outside, but the small camera placed on the sill had a clear view of David's house and fed the image to West's cell phone.

The light was on in David's window. That was good. It meant he could stay where he was and receive the answer to his question without putting himself at risk.

As he waited, he wondered who would be watching David. He had seen the FBI van when he arrived. They had put only a token effort into camouflaging it, painting it a shade of white and tinting the windows far past the legally permitted twenty percent.

But who was inside it? That was the question. Not Faith, obviously, nor her partner. Probably not Chavez or Desrouleaux either. They would be floating and overseeing. Rosa? Probably. Not alone, though. A more experienced agent would be supervising.

West wished he had spent more time studying Faith's field office. He was familiar with the major players and he knew about Chavez and Rosa from Faith, but there was a crowd of agents with whom West was unfamiliar, mediocre agents who would never do anything of real consequence as investigators but who were perfectly well suited to the job of looking at something.

Well, it didn't matter. West wouldn't be coming in through any entrance that the FBI could see, and when he did enter, he would make sure to wait until the light was off in David's window.

The FBI's response was admirable but entirely predictable. They had done exactly as he intended. They had requested a list of every name Faith had mentioned to him during their sessions, and Faith had dutifully provided that list.

Then the FBI had followed procedure. It was a good procedure. They would offer surveillance to everyone on the list. If West showed his face anywhere near one of them, he would be immediately apprehended.

It was a good plan except for one fatal flaw. They expected him to show his face. It never occurred to them that he could make his way into someone's house without showing his face.

But first, he had to make sure that David was alone. It was Faith's first night back from a case, and there was a greater than even chance that she would spend the night here. If so, he would simply wait until a night when he was alone.

He waited, and after twenty minutes, got his answer. A shadow—a male shadow—passed in front of the window and sat in front of the tv. Twenty more minutes passed, and the man didn't move, and West was now sure that David was alone in the house.

West placed his cell phone on the table and headed to the kitchen to make dinner. Tonight was the night, then.

Two hours later, David shut his tv off and got up. He walked out of view of the window and switched the light off. West waited one hour more, then removed his prosthetics and dressed in a black shirt and dark jeans. He pulled a black beanie over his head and left through the back door.

It took him fifteen minutes to make the journey around the neighborhood to end up behind David's house. He saw no sign of additional surveillance, which made sense. The FBI was always busy, and a lot of resources were being devoted to finding him. They didn't have enough manpower to station eyes at every corner.

But why would they? Even if West went in through the back door, he would have to walk down the street to get to David's house.

Except he didn't. He scanned the neighborhood as he walked and saw dark, shuttered windows. No one was on the street, and the dogs—if there were any—were sleeping.

He stopped in front of the small gap between buildings and shimmied into it. This would be the most difficult part.

He stopped behind the fence that walled off David's modest backyard from the equally modest backyard of the rowhouse directly behind it. West glanced toward David's street to make sure the FBI van was out of view, then starfished his way up the fence, pressing his back against the fence behind him and working his way up the fence in front of him. When he reached the top, he dropped quietly to the turf beneath.

He didn't bother being careful anymore, other than to quietly force the lock on David's back door. The FBI couldn't see him, and David would be dead before they could hear him.

He made his way up the stairs to David's bedroom. He smiled at the man's sleeping form and imagined how Faith would feel when she realized that she would never again feel that form next to her own.

He switched on the light.

David frowned, then stirred. He opened his eyes, blinking in confusion at the lighted room. His eyes drifted toward West. They hung on him for a moment, then suddenly focused.

David sat bolt upright and opened his mouth to cry out, but West reached him first.