The Eyes of Darkness

false passport, a counterfeit driver's license, or anything of that nature, you can pick and choose from several of the best document-forgery artists in the world, because this is where a lot of them live. If you're looking for a freelance hit man, someone who deals in carload lots of illegal weapons, maybe a mercenary who can put together a small expeditionary force for an overseas operation—you can find all of them here. Nevada has fewer state laws on the books than any state in the nation. Its tax rates are low. There's no state income tax at all. Regulations on banks and real estate agents and on everyone else—except casino owners—are less troublesome here than in other states, which takes a burden off everybody, but which is especially attractive to people trying to spend and invest dirty cash. Nevada offers more personal freedom than anywhere in the country, and that's good, by my way of thinking. But wherever there's a great deal of personal freedom, there's also an element that takes more than fair advantage of the liberal legal structure. Vegas is an important field office for any American spook shop."
    "So there really are eyes everywhere."
    "In a sense, yes."
    "But even if Kennebeck's bosses have a lot of influence with the Vegas police, would the cops let us be killed? Would they really let it go that far?"
    "They probably couldn't provide enough protection to stop it."
    "What kind of government agency would have the authority to circumvent the law like this? What kind of agency would be empowered to kill innocent civilians who got in its way?"
    "I'm still trying to figure that one. It scares the hell out of me."
    They stopped at another red traffic light.
    "So what are you saying?" Tina asked. "That we'll have to handle this all by ourselves?"
    "At least for the time being."
    "But that's hopeless! How can we?"
    "It isn't hopeless."
    "Just two ordinary people against them?"
    Elliot glanced in the rearview mirror, as he had been doing every minute or two since they'd turned onto Charleston Boulevard. No one was following them, but he kept checking.
    "It isn't hopeless," he said again. "We just need time to think about it, time to work out a plan. Maybe we'll come up with someone who can help us."
    "Like who?"
    The traffic light turned green.
    "Like the newspapers, for one," Elliot said, accelerating across the intersection, glancing in the rearview mirror. "We've got proof that something unusual is happening: the silencer-equipped pistol I took off Vince, your house blowing up. ... I'm pretty sure we can find a reporter who'll go with that much and write a story about how a bunch of nameless, faceless people want to keep us from reopening Danny's grave, how maybe something truly strange lies at the bottom of the Sierra tragedy. Then a lot of people are going to be pushing for an exhumation of all those boys. There'll be a demand for new autopsies, investigations. Kennebeck's bosses want to stop us before we sow any seeds of doubt about the official explanation. But once those seeds are sown, once the parents of the other scouts and the entire city are clamoring for an investigation, Kennebeck's buddies won't have anything to gain by eliminating us. It isn't hopeless, Tina, and it's not like you to give up so easily."
    She sighed. "I'm not giving up."
    "Good."
    "I won't stop until I know what really happened to Danny."
    "That's better. That sounds more like the Christina Evans I know."
    Dusk was sliding into night. Elliot turned on the headlights.
    Tina said, "It's just that . . . for the past year I've been struggling to adjust to the fact that Danny died in that stupid, pointless accident. And now, just when I'm beginning to think I can face up to it and put it behind me, I discover he might not have died accidentally after all. Suddenly everything's up in the air again."
    "It'll come down."
    "Will it?"
    "Yes. We'll get to the bottom of this."
    He glanced in the rearview mirror.
    Nothing suspicious.
    He was aware of her watching him, and after a while she said, "You know what?"
    "What?"
    "I think . . . in a way . . . you're actually enjoying this."
    "Enjoying what?"
    "The chase."
    "Oh, no. I don't enjoy taking guns away from men half again as big as I am."
    "I'm sure you don't. That isn't what I said."
    "And I sure wouldn't choose to have my nice, peaceful, quiet life turned upside down. I'd rather be a comfortable, upstanding, boring citizen than a fugitive."
    "I didn't say anything about what