"Thanks. Look, I'm sorry about what happened in the bas.e.m.e.nt," Mason apologized, running one hand through his tousled hair. "It was a one-time thing. It'll never happen again. I swear."

"You expect me to believe that was really a one-time thing?"

"Huh?"

Gillette stepped toward Mason until they were close. "Have you had s.e.x with other women at the companies you chair for us?"

"No."

"You're a terrible liar, Troy." Gillette didn't know if Mason was lying, but it didn't matter. One indiscretion was enough. All it would take for a vindictive woman to drag Everest into a nightmare of a lawsuit.

Lefors had given Gillette the tip about Mason being in a bas.e.m.e.nt guest room with the young woman, but Gillette had been careful about using the information. Going on the Internet to confirm-on the company's website-that a woman with the name Lefors had mentioned really did work in the marketing department there. Then he'd pulled the woman's picture down off her bio and printed it out. Standing at the foot of the bed, he'd compared the face in the picture with the face of the woman beneath Mason before either of them knew he was there. Deciding, as the woman scrambled away, that she was, in fact, the one in the picture.

"You're a liar, Troy," Gillette said coldly. "I won't have a partner who's a liar."

"I'm not a liar. I'm telling you the truth."

Gillette shook his head in disgust and turned back toward the waiting car.

"Christian!" Mason trotted to the car as Gillette got in, prying the door open when Gillette reached for the handle. "Don't do this to me," he begged. "I've worked my a.s.s off to get to this point. We've been partners for ten years. Don't leave me with nothing because of one stupid mistake."

"I told you, Troy. You'll get a million bucks as severance. Cohen will make the arrangements next week."

"When my wife finds out I've lost my stake in the firm, she'll divorce me and take every penny the IRS doesn't."

"Sounds like she wouldn't believe tonight was an isolated incident either."

"I'm begging you," Mason pleaded desperately, sinking to his knees beside the Town Car. "Don't do this to me."

"You should have thought this through before."

"I'll be lucky to get a job washing cars."

"At least in New York," Gillette agreed.

"Christian." Mason was beginning to hyperventilate "Come on. What do I have to do?"

"There's nothing you can do."

Gillette slammed the door shut, the car lurched forward, and Mason tumbled to the asphalt.

"Here you are, Ms. Hays, 250 thousand dollars." The man placed the leather briefcase on the table in front of her. "The 25-thousand-dollar monthly payments will start once you get to the destination. Which shouldn't take long. We'll be monitoring you. You'll receive the monthly payments in cash, as agreed."

Kathy Hays gazed at the briefcase. Two hundred fifty thousand upfront, plus twenty-five thousand a month. And And their promise not to tell her family what had happened five years ago. A horrible chapter in her life she thought was closed forever. One she thought she'd hidden from everyone. But they'd found it-and so much more. their promise not to tell her family what had happened five years ago. A horrible chapter in her life she thought was closed forever. One she thought she'd hidden from everyone. But they'd found it-and so much more.

But they'd promised they wouldn't tell anyone what they'd found-as long as she stayed quiet about setting up Troy Mason.

4.

Conflict. Nation vs. nation. Neighbor vs. neighbor. And the most destructive conflict of all-self vs. self. The fuse of all evil. Nation vs. nation. Neighbor vs. neighbor. And the most destructive conflict of all-self vs. self. The fuse of all evil.

MARIA WAS THE BABY OF the family. But at five years of age, she already had more personality than most adults.

Gillette grinned at the little girl sitting on his lap. Admiring her jet black hair and the fire dancing in her mahogany eyes while she studied him with her serious look, tiny brows furrowed. Maria would have made something of herself even without his help. He'd come to recognize that fire in the eyes of all successful people.

She giggled, wrapped her small arms tightly around his neck, and kissed his cheek hard. "Te amo, Chreeees."

"I love you, too, Maria." Gillette liked coming here because he could completely relax. "I'm thinking of a number between one and ten," he said loudly so that Selma, Maria's mother, could hear, too. She was standing in front of the stove stirring a pot of stew. "You go first, Selma."

Selma stopped stirring for a moment and thought. "Um, three."

Gillette looked down at the little girl and raised one eyebrow.

"Four," Maria piped up.

"Very good," Gillette said approvingly. He had taught her how to play the game last time, and she'd learned fast. Always play the odds. A much better chance of the number being greater than three. "The number's seven."

Selma groaned. "I always lose at this."

"You go first this time, Maria," Gillette said.

"Six," the little girl answered quickly.

"I'll say four," Selma called as she began stirring again.

"Seven, again," announced Gillette.

"I'm not playing anymore." Selma laughed. "It's too hard on my ego."

"Why did you say six?" Gillette asked Maria, making sure of her strategy.

"If I go first, I should say five or six," she answered, looking toward the ceiling and putting a finger to her lips, remembering what he'd taught her. "That gives me the best chance. You used a big number the first time, and I thought you'd use a big one again."

Gillette broke into a huge grin. "Very, very good."

"I'll take her," Selma said, picking Maria up off Gillette's lap and setting the little girl on her wide hip. Selma had been slim as a younger woman, but having seven children had taken its toll. "How have you been, Chris?"

Gillette loved Selma. When she asked how you were, she meant it. She really wanted to know. It wasn't just some throwaway question as it was for most people. "I've been good, Selma." Bad grammar. "Well" would have been correct, but he wanted her to think he was a regular person.

She wagged her finger. "That's what you always say. You've done so many nice things for me and my family. I want to know more about you. Like what's going on in your life."

"It would take too long to tell you. Besides, my life is pretty boring."

"Oh, I bet."

"Could I get some water?" he asked, starting to stand up.

"Sit, sit," she ordered, moving quickly to the cabinet for a gla.s.s, then to the sink.

As she put the gla.s.s down in front of Gillette, eight-year-old Jose Jr. burst into the kitchen clutching a toy truck, his younger brother, Ruben, in hot pursuit. They raced around the table several times, shouting at each other in Spanish, then darted back into the living room.

"I don't know how you do it," Gillette muttered, taking a drink.

"I don't even hear them anymore." Selma shot him a sly look. "Someday soon you'll be doing it."

"Oh no, I won't."

"Oh yes, you will. Some young thing will melt your heart and you'll give in."

"Selma, I'll be a bachelor until the day I-"

"Buenas noches, Senor Gillette."

Gillette felt a hand on his shoulder and glanced up. Jose Medilla stood beside the chair, smiling down from beneath a bushy black mustache. Jose was short and wiry with leathery brown skin and a wide face. He was first generation Puerto Rican American. His grandparents still lived in a shack on the outskirts of San Juan.

"Buenas noches, Senor Medilla."

"Can you stay for dinner?"

"Thanks. I'd like that."

The spread at the funeral reception had been exceptional-long rows of sterling silver trays full of everything imaginable, catered by several five-star Manhattan restaurants-but Gillette hadn't had the time to sample any. Tom Warfield had wedged his way into Gillette's conversation with Faith and suddenly there were four more people involved. So Gillette had returned to Donovan's office to regain control.

"I'd never pa.s.s on Selma's stew." Gillette knew it was important for Jose to feel like he was giving something back. Even if it was just a meal. "Not even for a steak at Sparks."

"Selma's cooking is better than any Manhattan steak house's," Jose said proudly. He motioned toward a pair of French doors that opened onto a deck spanning the back of the four-bedroom home. "Can I show you the house?"

"Sure."

They moved out into the chill of the central New Jersey night. Princeton University, where Gillette had gone to school, lay only a few miles to the west.

"That's the one." Jose pointed across the back of his one-acre lot toward the brightly burning lights of another home. "The husband is a professor."

"When did it go on the market?"

"Yesterday."

"What are they asking?"

"Four hundred and seventy thousand."

"Offer five hundred Monday morning," Gillette instructed. "Let him see what he gets tomorrow, then move. Understand?"

"Si."

"Your brother is in the Bronx?"

"Si."

"How many children does he have?"

"Three."

"Will this house be enough?"

"This house will be like a castle for him, Christian. Alex lives in a two-bedroom apartment on top of a bodega and with many cucurachas. cucurachas."

"Call him tonight. Tell him we've agreed. And tell him to leave everything he has at that apartment. We'll get him what he needs down here. Furniture and clothes. The same way we did for you."

"Good. Cucurachas Cucurachas have a bad habit of hitchhiking." have a bad habit of hitchhiking."

"What about the neighbors?" Gillette asked, scanning the rooftops looming in the darkness. "How are they treating you?"

"They tolerate us."

Gillette grunted. "p.r.i.c.ks."

"You can't expect people here to accept us with open arms, Christian. They're all professionals. All gringos. gringos. When they bought in this neighborhood, I don't think they expected a Puerto Rican factory worker with seven children to move in." Jose pointed across the yard. "It'll be interesting to see what happens when my brother comes." When they bought in this neighborhood, I don't think they expected a Puerto Rican factory worker with seven children to move in." Jose pointed across the yard. "It'll be interesting to see what happens when my brother comes."

"If anything does," Gillette said, "let me know."

"I can take care of myself."

Gillette glanced at Jose. "Yeah, I'm sure you can."

"That's why nothing's happened so far. People are afraid of how well well I can take care of myself. Of how far someone like me would go." Jose twirled a finger beside his ear. " I can take care of myself. Of how far someone like me would go." Jose twirled a finger beside his ear. "Loco, you know?" you know?"

Gillette leaned against the deck railing. "Did you really kill a man?"

"Si."

"How?"

"I slit his throat."

"Why?"

"He was trying to slit mine. He wanted to be the father of Selma's children, too."

"How old were you?"

"Seventeen."