The judge could be heard explaining some basic legal principles to the patient, who held a black marker and moved it awkwardly across a whiteboard propped on his stomach.

The U.S. Attorney leaned in a bit lower and said, “Now, Mr. Patterson, I’m going to ask you some questions, all of which have been approved by your lawyer. Please take your time. We are in no hurry.”

No hurry, Bob thought to himself. Two leaky brain hemorrhages and a broken neck and the man is dying by the minute.

“Were you involved in the planning and murders of Linda Higginbotham and Jason Jordan?”

He wrote the word yes, and the U.S. Attorney repeated it for the record.

“Did you in fact kill both of them?”

Yes.

“And you were paid for these killings?”

Yes.

“How much?”

Two.

“Two million dollars?”

Yes.

“Who paid for the killings?”

A long pause as Patterson slowly scrawled the words: Don’t know. His lawyer said, “He says he doesn’t know.”

“All right, more about that later. And did you act alone?”

No.

“How many accomplices did you have?”

One.

“And his name?”

Without hesitating, Patterson wrote the name: Karen Sharbonnet.

“And where was this person during the killings?”

No response.

Van Cleve said, “Guy goes still for about five minutes here and they thought he had croaked. He rallied later and admitted that his partner was close by and found him on the ground. Instead of trying to help, she tried to finish him off. Two pops to the head. Anyway, enough of that. Here’s the next video, the one that might interest you. This is inside a high-end gym in Laguna Beach. Obviously, we have it under surveillance.”

Eight women in two rows of four were gyrating and sweating to the beat of loud music and the screeching commands of their leader. All were young, toned, California tanned, and attractive. The camera zoomed in on one with short red hair.

Bob smiled and said, “Oh boy. I’d recognize that body anywhere.”

Van Cleve said, “I think you knew her as Ingrid. Real name is Karen Sharbonnet, former Army Ranger, former contract killer, former partner of Rick Patterson.”

“Former?”

“Yes, we grabbed her. After Patterson ratted on her we tracked her down and followed her for three days. She got suspicious and tried to make a run for it. Picked her up at LAX as she was boarding a flight to Tokyo. On a German passport, one of at least six she used.”

Van Cleve clicked again and there was the mug shot.

Bob said, “The short red hair is a nice touch, and effective, but the eyes never lie. That’s her all right. Has she said anything?”

“Not a word. And we have yet to tell her about Rick. She thinks she left him dead in the woods, doesn’t know we found him, and damned sure doesn’t know he’s communicating.”

“How much do you know about her?” Bob asked.

“Well, as I said, it’s slow going because Patterson is hanging on by his fingernails. He says that they have been working as a team for about five years, high-end contract killings. They got two million for the Higginbotham job. We tracked her bank accounts, she has about a dozen in at least four countries, and, sure enough, the money arrived on St. Kitts two days ago. Two million bucks.”

“Anything about Nelson Kerr?”

“Not yet. As of yesterday, Patterson was still talking.”

“Make him talk faster.”

“Sorry, but I think he’s fading.”

7.

Leaving Jacksonville, Bob impulsively turned off Interstate 95 and drove to the international airport where he bought a ticket. He flew to Newark and connected to Boston where he boarded a small commuter for Martha’s Vineyard. Seven hours after taking off, he was on the ground and called Bruce’s cell phone. Bruce was surprised to hear from him and asked, “What brings you to the Vineyard?”

“You invited me, remember? What time is dinner?”

Bruce most certainly did not remember inviting Bob but immediately realized something was up. He said, “Meet me in the bar at the Sydney Hotel in Edgartown in an hour.”

Bruce was waiting, alone, an hour later when Bob strolled in grinning from ear to ear. They huddled in a corner and ordered drinks. Bob began with “You will not believe who the FBI has in custody.”

“Tell me.”

“Ingrid. Real name is Karen Sharbonnet, lives in Laguna Beach, California.”

Bruce was almost too stunned to respond. He gazed away and began shaking his head. Their drinks arrived, and after a long pull on his wine Bruce said, “Okay, let’s hear it.”

“It’s beautiful. You won’t believe it.”

8.

They watched him closely as he parked his massive SUV in one of the parking lots around the perimeter of the park. He popped the lid and withdrew a large duffel filled with all manner of youth baseball gear. His son, Ford, an eleven-year-old all-star, was with him, dressed for the game, with his own personalized batting bag holding more equipment than any professional owned forty years earlier.

Slowly, they trudged along the walkway between two fields, one of a thousand father-and-son teams ready for action on this perfect Saturday for baseball.