Flash

First Prologue
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    Eight years earlier

    J asper Sloan sat in front of the fire, a half-finished glass of whiskey on the arm of the chair beside him, a thick file of papers in his hand. Page by page he fed the incriminating contents of the folder to the ravenous flames.
    It was midnight. Outside a steady Northwest rain fell, cloaking the woods in a melancholy mist. The lights of Seattle were a distant blur across the waters of Puget Sound.
    In the past his Bainbridge Island home had been a retreat and a refuge for Jasper. Tonight it was a place to bury the past.
    "Watcha doin', Uncle Jasper?"
    Jasper tossed another sheet to the flames. Then he looked at the ten-year-old pajama-clad boy in the doorway. He smiled slightly.
    "I'm cleaning out some old files," he said. "What's the matter, Kirby? Couldn't you get to sleep?"
    "I had another bad dream." There were shadows in Kirby's intelligent, too-somber eyes.
    "It will fade in a few minutes." Jasper closed the half-empty file and set it on the wide arm of the chair. "I'll get you a cup of warm milk."
    The dozen books on parenting that Jasper had consulted during the past several months had given conflicting advice on the subject of warm milk. But the stuff seemed to be effective on Kirby's bad dreams. At least there had been fewer of them lately.
    "Okay." Kirby padded, barefoot, across the oak floor and sat down on the thick wool rug in front of the hearth. "It's still raining."
    "Yes." Jasper walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. He took out the carton of milk "Probably stop by morning, though."
    "If it does, can we set up the targets and do some more archery practice?"
    "Sure." Jasper poured milk into a cup and stuck it into the microwave. He punched a couple of buttons. "We can do a little fishing, too. Maybe we'll get lucky and catch dinner."
    Paul appeared in the doorway, yawning hugely. He glanced at the file on the chair. "What's goin' on out here?"
    "Uncle Jasper's getting rid of some old papers he doesn't want anymore," Kirby explained.
    Jasper looked at his other nephew. Paul was a year and a half older than Kirby. Instead of the overly serious expression that was Kirby's trademark, Paul's young gaze mirrored a hint of his father's reckless, aggressive approach to life.
    Fletcher Sloan had bequeathed his deep, engaging blue eyes and his light brown hair to both of his sons. In the years ahead, when the softness of youth would give way to the harsher planes and angles of manhood, Jasper knew that Paul and Kirby would become living images of the dashing, charismatic man who had fathered them.
    He also had a hunch that, given the strong forces of their two very different personalities, there would be problems as both boys entered their teens. He could only hope that the parenting books he was buying by the pallet-load these days would guide him through the tricky years.
    Jasper was relying on the books because he was only too well aware of his inadequacies in the field of parenting. His own father, Harry Sloan, had not been what anyone could call a strong role model.
    Harry had been a devout workaholic all of his life who had had very little time for his sons or anyone else. Although ostensibly retired, he still went into the office every day. Jasper sensed that the day Harry stopped working would be the day he died.
    Jasper poured a second cup of milk for Paul. He would have to take things as they came and do the best he could. It wasn't like there was much choice, he reminded himself. Fortunately, there were a lot of books on parenting.
    He watched the digital readout on the microwave as it ticked off the time. For a disorienting moment, the numbers on the clock wavered and became years. He counted backward to the day, two decades earlier, when Fletcher had entered his life.
    Flamboyant, charming, and slightly larger-than-life, Fletcher had become Jasper's stepbrother when Jasper's widowed father had remarried.
    Jasper had few memories of his mother, who had died in a car crash when he was four. But his stepmother, Caroline, had been kind enough in a reserved fashion. Her great talent lay in managing the social side of Harry's life. She was very good at hosting dinner parties at the country club for Harry's business associates.
    It had always seemed to Jasper that his father and stepmother lived in two separate universes. Harry lived for his work. Caroline lived for her country club activities. There did not appear to be any great bond of love