paid one dollar for each adult citizen. If noon passes without that promise, I will make my own promise: one dead citizen by 12:01. And that is only the beginning.’”

There the letter ended. When the announcer stopped reading, the crowd didn’t budge, either waiting for more or too stunned to move. Jack put his hand against the small of my back and prodded me out. We were in the parking lot before I spoke.

“One dollar for every adult? That’s…hundreds of millions.”

Jack nodded and reached for his keys.

“How would he transport that much money? You can’t just pack it in a suitcase.”

“Doesn’t matter. Two hundred dollars. Two hundred million. Same thing. Can’t be paid.”

It took a moment to realize what he meant. “Because the U.S. government has a policy of refusing to bargain with terrorists. He must know that. Does he expect them to make an exception?”

“Maybe. Could just be a game.”

“Asking for money he knows he’ll never see? What kind of game is that?”

“Helter Skelter,” Jack said, and pulled open the car door.

As we drove to see Little Joe, I remembered what Lucy had said at the lodge, about a hitman turned serial killer, and how tough that would make things on the investigators. We’d dismissed that possibility. These were cold, clean kills, with none of the earmarks of random serial killings.

But, in setting up his calculated plan to hide the murder of Leon Kozlov, the killer must have encountered something he’d never experienced as a contract killer—the thrill of fear, the power that came with chaos and the chance to play God.

Jack said it did happen. Usually it was the new hitmen who succumbed and, even then, they didn’t fit the textbook definition of a serial killer, picking and hunting down victims, acting on some inner urge. They just didn’t give a shit who they killed.

If you’re willing to kill five innocent people to eliminate one potential problem, then what’s to stop you from killing umpteen more to get what you want? “What you want” could be two hundred million or it could be the thrill of playing Death. Or it could be a last burst of glory before you slide into your golden years. Doesn’t matter. You’re just shifting pieces around a board, patiently moving toward your endgame while the rest of the world holds its breath and awaits your next move.

* * *

Lyndsay

“So he comes home last night with this wrapped box,” Moira said as she plucked a brownie—her third—off the plate. “He hands it to me, and he’s all puffed up, proud as can be—”

“Aren’t they always?” Beth cut in. “As if they deserve a medal for being thoughtful.”

“Not a medal,” Lyndsay said. “A blow job.”

The other women snickered their agreement. Moira settled back in her chair and waited for silence, obviously miffed at the interruption of her story. That was enough. The others fell in line like trained show dogs.

As they fawned over their queen, Lyndsay bit into her brownie. The first rush of chocolatey sweetness filled her mouth. As it settled, the aftertaste came through, the faintly bitter chemical taste of store-bought baked goods. Revenge is like that, she thought. Everyone called it sweet, and it was, at first nibble. Then the aftertaste kicked in.

“—picked up the box, and it’s too heavy to be jewelry,” Moira was saying. “So I think maybe Ted’s trying to be cute again, putting something in the box to make it seem heavy. Then I open it up, and you know what I find?”

Lyndsay took another bite of her brownie. Why the hell am I eating this thing? she thought, even as she chewed it. It tastes like crap, and I’ll pay for the extra calories, but I keep on eating. Just like revenge.

“It was a gun,” Moira said.

Tina screwed up her nose. “Are you serious? What for?”

“To protect myself, in case this Helter Skelter killer comes calling.”

The women let out a collective burst of laughter, and eased back in their chairs, all shaking their heads. Even Lyndsay, who rarely shared any opinions in common with her neighbors, had to agree. The thought of needing protection was preposterous.

They were safe here, and their husbands paid very well to keep them safe in their security-system–armed homes, in their ultraexclusive gated community, in this remote suburb, isolated from Seattle, and its big-city evils. Some of their husbands had guns, of course, but the women didn’t need them. They lived here, socialized here, sent their children to school here, secure within the