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thing. My debts are paid!”
    “Remember, it was me who picked you up at the airport eighteen, nineteen years ago from the last trip you made to Mexico.” Pres thumped his chest for emphasis. “I haven’t forgotten! But I’ve watched this thing eat at you for all that time. It’s rotting your insides. Now you have a chance to wipe the slate clean. Wipe it clean! Do the right thing! Get on with your life!”
    “You think that by simply going down there, I’ll wipe the slate clean?” The sarcasm was heavy in Jackson’s voice. “I wish it was so easy!”
    “It’s a start, that’s for damn sure! You sure won’t make matters any better if you don’t see him before he dies. The man’s on the brink of meeting God or the devil. What the hell else can you do for him or to him, except forgive him?”
    “I don’t see what’s so earthshaking about forgiving him!”
    “How do you expect to build emotional bridges if you can’t forgive those that love you? Plus, you’re not forgiving him for himself, but for
yourself
. You are letting go of the anger and the resentment.”
    Another gust swept up from the estuary and Pres pulled his collar tighter around his neck. “Why do we always have to be outside before we talk?” As the two men shook hands Pres said, “If I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t even stick my nose into this. It’s easier not to argue with you, but I can’t help myself. I love you, man. You’re my friend and brother.”
    Jesse Tuggle and Fletcher Gilmore watched Jackson and his friend get into their respective cars. “Want me to follow him, boss?” Jesse asked, pointing to Jackson’s car.
    “Of course, follow him!” the older man snapped with exasperation. “Just let me write down his friend’s license number. And if you have to call me something, call me Mr. Gilmore.” He was tired of Jesse. Jesse was a fidgeter and an incessant talker, the worst two crimes for surveillance professionals as far as Gilmore was concerned. The essence of watching was unobtrusiveness, and inherent in that concept was stillness and silence.
    “If he goes home, do we have to wait around all night?” Jesse was not enthusiastic about the prospect of spending the evening in the car.
    “Just follow the car,” Fletcher answered tiredly.

Friday, June 11, 1982
    D r. William DuMont Braxton turned away from the balcony that jutted out from his hotel suite and waved to the three men at the table in his sitting room. He sipped his Bloody Mary and said, “We all have our drinks. Let’s begin.” He paused a moment to be sure he had their attention, then continued. “Let me bring you up to date on what has transpired since we last met.”
    One of the men, John Tree, elbowed the small, dark-skinned man to his left and asked, “You sure you don’t want nothing stronger than that soda pop?” It was not an act of politeness, it was more a taunt designed to increase the smaller man’s uneasiness. Tree was a big, barrel-shaped, brown-skinned man with thick, muscular arms, and when he grinned, gold-capped teeth glinted in his mouth. He had a mean-looking scar that angled from his right ear through the corner of his mouth down across his chin, which, in the process of healing, had tightened and pulled his lips and his eyebrows slightly to the right; it gave his face a sad smirk. But few were ever fooled by his expression, for he had the bearing of a large, dangerous animal.
    Delbert Witherspoon shook his head nervously and edged away from his tormentor.
    Tree elbowed Delbert more roughly and growled, “I thought a little drinky might calm you, huh?”
    Braxton suppressed a look of disdain and said, “Gentlemen. Gentlemen. Shall we go on and review the information that we have?” Hepassed thin manila folders to both Tree and Witherspoon as well as the third man, Paul DiMarco. Braxton took out his glasses from a soft leather case and placed them gingerly on his face. “The one piece of information that is not contained