CHAPTER ONE

When the telephone rang that night I was sitting in my study, printing out the first draft of my latest novel. The shrill tone startled me, but my hand reached automatically for the handset.

"Tony, it's Kyle Burgess."

            There were only four houses up on our hill, and Kyle's was the one property that could look down on mine. I rolled my chair back a couple of feet and looked out of the study's tall vertical window. His porch light shone like a beacon, and I imagined him sitting in the spare bedroom he had converted into a large office, staring down at me as he held the phone to his ear. A gentle, soft-spoken man, though he stood six-four and had a body that seemed as if it had been hewn from burnished oak, Kyle Burgess was a retired steelworker who now made a comfortable living from property development. His face was long and oval, creased like leather by the sun, and though he sported a luxurious beard there was not a single hair on his scalp. He had a slightly crooked left eye, and it always seemed as though he was looking both at you and beyond you at the same time.

            "What can I do for you, Kyle?" I checked my watch, puzzled by the intrusion. It was rare for him to call during the week, though we occasionally got together to shoot some pool or drink beer while ruining perfectly good meat over an inadequate barbecue. But it was now eleven-twenty, and no one called my number at this time of night.

            "Don't want to worry you," he said, in his soft southern drawl, "but did you know there was a car sitting out on your driveway?"

            There were many things he could have said to me that night, I guess, but none that could have taken hold of me and terrified me more. All manner of scenarios and possibilities seemed to flood my mind in less time than it took me to form a response, but not a single one gave me any comfort.

            "No, I didn't, Kyle." My tongue felt thick and dry. I swallowed a couple of times. "A car, you say?"

            "Yep. Engine's idling. Driver just sitting there. No passengers that I can see."

            "Okay. Thanks for letting me know. Do you have any idea how long he's been there?"

            "Sure. First saw him about twenty minutes ago. Noticed the lights sweep up the hillside. Didn't think too much about it until I realised I hadn't heard the sound of a car door. Anyhow, I figured I'd take a look, just to settle my mind. That's when I saw the car, driver just sitting there, sucking on a coffin nail."

            "All right, Kyle. I appreciate the call."

            He must have sensed the anxiety in my voice. "You want me to come on down?" he asked. "Bring O Lordy with me?"

            Kyle was in his mid-sixties, a good twenty years older than me, but he was as game as they come. Back in Kentucky where he grew up, it was acceptable for a man to protect his kin and his land in pretty much any way he saw fit. Kyle had been taught to shoot at the tender age of six, by his brother who was just four years older. One night up at Kyle's place, after we'd put away perhaps too many cold ones, he took me into his spare bedroom and showed me a shotgun with a barrel the size of a Buick exhaust. He told me he'd had to produce it in anger on several occasions, each time resulting in wide-eyed terror and two simple words of acceptance: 'O Lordy'.

            "No, you're okay, Kyle," I said, my mind still churning out the possibilities. "I'll handle it." If this was what I thought it was, I didn't want to involve the only man with whom I had become close over the past few years. Death was too high a price to pay for friendship.

            I knew he'd spotted my uninvited guest through his telescope. Kyle liked to look at the stars, for the night sky up here in the northern California mountains was mostly clear and bright. I'd often teased him about his stargazing, but I was grateful now that it had been put to good use at last.

            I thanked him again and hung up, wondering if he might sneak down the hillside anyway. I could imagine him ordering the visitor off my driveway, O Lordy wedged against his heavy shoulder, the barrel glinting purposefully in the moonlight. I knew for certain one thing: Kyle's eye would be glued to that telescope right now.

            I uncapped a bottle of water on my desk and took a sip, my hand shaking just a little as I tilted it to my lips. I suppose I'd always known such a moment might arise, but the passing years had caused the possibility to recede in my mind. Now I had to figure out what to do. My house, nestling comfortably in the Sierra Nevada foothills, a hundred and fifty miles or so east of San Francisco, is not the kind of place you drive to and then just sit outside. If someone was out there, they were out there for a purpose. I could think of only one, and it scared the hell out of me.

            I'm fairly well built, keep myself in shape, and consider myself an active person. I know the old Samurai warriors used to believe that whoever made the first move in any battle would ultimately lose, but I like the notion of pre-emptive strikes, getting my retaliation in first. It's always been my way. So I took a deep breath and slipped quietly into my bedroom (remembering not to put on the light), and fetched down my .357 Colt from the top shelf of my closet. I'd practised shooting the weapon in the woods a couple of times, but had never held the gun with the intention of using it against another human being. Firing a bullet into an unyielding tree was one thing, but could I fire one or more into something that could bleed? I guess I was about to find out.

            I figured I could sneak out of the door that led to the side decking, creep around the pool behind the boulders, up to the rise where my well is located, and around the hillside to the rear of the car without the slightest chance of being observed by whoever was sitting behind the wheel. Only the last ten yards or so were over open ground without cover. I thought about it for less than five seconds: I had to take a chance.

            The night air was warm as usual. October days were often eighty degrees in the shade, the nights dropping only by twenty or so. In my T-shirt and shorts and bare feet I followed the path my mind had created for me. I had to take the chance that I wouldn't step on a snake, or run into a wildcat, but to be honest these things were not uppermost in my thoughts.

            I made good time, and my grip in the loose soil was firm as I made my way up, around and back down the rise, emerging behind and to the right of the vehicle. From my position crouched low behind a small pile of boulders I could hear the low rumble of a well-tuned engine. I saw an arm snaking in and out of the car window, the faint glow as the driver took a drag on his cigarette, knocking the ash off after every second pull. I timed it, deciding I wanted to get to him while that arm was still out of the window.

            Glow.

            Glow.

            Arm.

            Glow...glow...

            I sprang up from behind the boulders and ran, feet slapping on the warm cement of the drive that led to my double garage, automatic pistol extended in both hands. I reached the car just as the arm started arcing back inside. When I got to it I let go of the gun with my right hand and clamped on that arm as hard as I could, yanking it back down, thrusting the gun forward into the car as I did so. There was a yelp of pain, and the cigarette tumbled to the floor in a shower of sparks. It all happened in a blur of motion and thudding heartbeat.

            "Tell me who you are and what you want or I'll pull the trigger now and ask the question again afterwards."

            I couldn't believe I'd actually said that. It wasn't prepared, there'd been no rehearsal. It was just like a script from a movie. Perhaps a bad movie.

            There was a brief moment of silence. Then came a soft, throaty chuckle. Followed by a voice I recognised immediately, though I had not heard it in almost two decades. "You don't change, do you? A middle-aged man and still you think you're a fucking superhero."

            Stunned, I let go of the arm and took a step back. "John? Uncle John?"

            I suppose I ought to have been relieved to find a relative on my doorstep instead of the man I thought it might be. But the truth is, of all the people who might want to see me dead, my uncle has the very best of reasons.