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felt born to solitude.
    Eleanor had patted his cheek, a rare show of affection. “My dear darling boy,” she said. “Has it taken you this long to realize?”
    â€œRealize what?”
    â€œKings are not merely born to rule,” his mother told him gently. “They are born to eternal isolation. It is their destiny.”

    Terrance made himself a drink, switched on the digital radio to a random channel, and pretended to read a book. Everything was merely theatrical moves for the hidden audience. Two hours later, his mother returned from the club. Eleanor tapped on the glass and waved him a goodnight. She did not ask if he was going to bed. Terrance had never needed much sleep.
    When the guesthouse went dark, he turned off the downstairs lights and proceeded up the central stairs. He padded down the hall to his study. Across from his desk was a narrow cupboard for storing his personal tax records. The rear of the bottom shelf now contained a set of all-black running gear. He dressed in the dark. He hefted a waist kit containing a black knit cap, a penlight, a screwdriver, two keys in a manila envelope, and three sets of surgical gloves still in their sterile packs. Silently he went back downstairs and let himself out the back.
    He left the house by the kitchen door. He stood by the property boundary and searched the night. When he was certain he was alone, he jogged across the golf course.
    He exited the gated community by way of the golf course’s maintenance entrance, which he knew from earlier reconnaissance was locked and empty after nine. The workmen’s gate was easily scaled.
    Don Winslow’s Escalade was parked just down the highway. Don greeted him with, “Look at this traffic. You sit here long enough, the whole world goes by.” Don wore a black sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off, black track pants, and black high-tops. A black headband held the graying hair out of his face. He looked like a killer ready for the night’s rampage. As soon as Terrance shut his door, Don slapped the Escalade into gear. “Where are we headed?”
    â€œVal’s.” Terrance did not need to think that one through. “We hit Val’s first.”

VAL LEFT THE INTERNET CAFÉ AND RETURNED TO THE HOTEL because he had nowhere else to go. He needed to retreat and work things out. But as he pushed through the outer doors and entered the lobby, memories buzzed about him like vultures over carrion. Retreating to his lonely room would only give them the chance to pick his bones.
    The lobby was empty save for the dark-suited desk clerk. “If it ain’t Mr. Smith. How we doing today?”
    The lobby’s only sofa was a brown as toneless as the clerk’s gaze. The clock behind the clerk’s head read a few minutes after midnight. Val could find no sense to the numbers. The hotel and the night had been divorced from life’s natural cadence. Val took a seat and replied, “Not so good.”
    â€œYeah? Sorry to hear that.”
    Val studied the ancient tiles at his feet. The hotel’s name was inscribed in a mottled design almost lost to the years. The air smelled of cleanser and time distilled to a futile blend. Val sighed his way deeper into the sofa’s lumpy embrace. What he needed was a way to shoot the mental vultures out of the sky before they could attack him again.
    He realized the clerk was watching him and asked, “You mind if I sit here?”
    â€œDo I mind?” The clerk showed genuine humor. “I been working this job, what, five years now. That’s the first time a guest ever asked me permission.”
    â€œYou’re the boss here.”
    The clerk’s reply was cut off by the ringing phone. He answered and began speaking in a low voice. But his gaze remained steady upon Val.
    The Internet search had taken Val from the blue-flagged headline to an article in that morning’s Orlando Sentinel. As soon as Val had seen the