Persuader

had chained the gate because he was heading on down to join us.
    But I was wrong.
    I made it to the hallway and met Beck coming out of the kitchen. His coat was spotted with rain. He was looking for me. He had a sports bag in his hand. It was the same bag he had carried the guns to Connecticut in.
    "Job to do," he said. "Right now. You need to catch the tide."
    "Where?" He moved away. Turned his head and called over his shoulder.
    "The guy in the Lincoln will tell you," he said.
    I went through the kitchen and outside. The metal detector beeped at me. I walked back into the rain and headed for the garage block. But the Lincoln was parked right there at the corner of the house. It had been turned and backed up so its trunk faced the sea. There was a guy in the driver's seat. He was sheltering from the rain, and he was impatient. He was tapping on the wheel with his thumbs. He saw me in the mirror and the trunk popped and he opened his door and slid out fast.
    He looked like somebody had dragged him out of a trailer park and shoved him in a suit.
    He had a long graying goatee hiding a weak chin. He had a greasy pony tail held together by a pink rubber band. The band was speckled with glitter. It was the kind of thing you see on drugstore carousels, placed low down so little girls will choose them. He had old acne scars. He had prison tattoos on his neck. He was tall and very thin, like a regular person split lengthwise into two.
    "You the new Duke?" he said to me.
    "Yes," I said. "I'm the new Duke."
    "I'm Harley," he said.
    I didn't tell him my name.
    "So let's do it," he said.
    "Do what?" He came around and raised the trunk lid all the way.
    "Garbage disposal," he said.
    There was a military-issue body bag in the trunk. Heavy black rubber, zipped all along its length. I could see by the way it was folded into the space that it held a small person. A woman, probably.
    "Who is it?" I asked, although I already knew the answer.
    "The government bitch," he said. "Took us long enough, but we got her in the end." He leaned in and grabbed his end of the bag. Clamped both corners in his hands. Waited for me. I just stood there, feeling the rain against my neck, listening to it snapping and popping against the rubber.
    "Got to catch the tide," he said. "It's going to turn." I leaned down and took hold of the corners at my end. We glanced at each other to coordinate our efforts and heaved the bag up and out. It wasn't heavy, but it was awkward, and Harley was not strong. We carried it a few steps toward the shore.
    "Put it down," I said.
    "Why?"
    "I want to see," I said.
    Harley just stood there.
    "I don't think you do," he said.
    "Put it down," I said again.
    He hesitated a second longer and then we squatted together and laid the bag on the rocks.
    The body settled inside with its back arched upward. I stayed squatted down and duck- walked around to the head. Found the zipper tag and pulled.
    "Just look at the face," Harley said. "That part's not too bad." I looked. It was very bad. She had died in extreme agony. That was clear. Her face was blasted with pain. It was still twisted into the shape of her final ghastly scream.
    But it wasn't Teresa Daniel.
    It was Beck's maid.

CHAPTER 9
    I inched the zipper down a little more until I saw the same mutilation I had seen ten years previously. Then I stopped. Turned my head into the rain and closed my eyes. The water on my face felt like tears.
    "Let's get on with it," Harley said.
    I opened my eyes. Stared at the waves. Pulled the zipper back up without looking anymore. Stood slowly and stepped around to the foot of the bag. Harley waited. Then we each grasped our corners and lifted. Carried the burden over the rocks. He led me south and east, way out to a place on the shore where two granite shelves met. There was a steep V-shaped cleft between them. It was half-full of moving water.
    "Wait until after the next big wave," Harley said.
    It came booming in and we both ducked our heads away from the spray. The cleft filled to the top and the tide ran up over the rocks and almost reached our shoes. Then it pulled away again and the cleft emptied out. Gravel rattled and drained. The surface of the sea was laced with dull gray foam and pitted by the rain.
    "OK, put it down," Harley said. He was out of breath. "Hold your end." We laid the bag down so the head end was hanging out over the granite shelf and into the cleft. The zipper faced upward. The body was on its back. I held both