The First Commandment

Roussard’s rental property was bordered on three sides by thick wood? Harvath decided to approach from the far side, opposite the road.

He moved as quickly as he could without making too much noise. Nothing moved save for a cloud of gnats that seemed to follow him every step of the way.

At the edge of the woods, Harvath stopped. From where he sat, he could make out the entire rear and one side of the French château-style home.

Roussard had registered a Lincoln Mark VII with the real estate office, but the driveway was empty.

There were no interior lights and none of the windows were open. Only the hum of the air conditioning unit hinted at the possibility of human life inside. It was time to make his move.

Maneuvering through the woods to a spot nearest the garage, Harvath located the side door off the garage and removed the set of keys the realtor had given him from his pocket.

Crouching low, he pulled his H amp;K, counted to three, and made a break for it.

He moved fast, making sure his approach wouldn’t be seen from any of the windows. At the door, he slid the key into the lock and opened it slowly.

The first thing he noticed was Roussard’s Lincoln. Harvath walked over and placed his hand on the hood to see if it had been driven recently. It hadn’t.

Skirting a collection of brightly colored beach toys, he headed for a short flight of steps and the door that led into the house. He didn’t expect it to be locked and it wasn’t. Roussard was like most people who trusted the overhead garage door to be a sufficient line of defense.

The air inside the home was much cooler than that in the garage. It washed over Harvath as he slipped inside and silently shut the door behind him. He was in a mudroom area just off the kitchen.

He stood for what felt like an eternity and quieted his breathing to focus solely on listening. His ears strained for any sound that would tell him where in the house Roussard might be, but no such sound came.

Tightening his grip on his pistol, Harvath began to systematically clear the structure. He moved with practiced efficiency as he swept into each room with his H amp;K at the ready.

Room after room was empty. There was no sign of Roussard anywhere on the first floor. Reaching a grand staircase, Harvath took the carpeted steps two at a time as he raced upward, eager to confront Roussard and end the chase that had begun the moment Tracy had been shot.

Harvath buttonhooked into each bedroom, checking closets, bathrooms, and under beds. Nothing, no sign of Roussard anywhere.

Harvath reached the master bedroom and finally began to see evidence that Roussard had actually been staying in the house. The bed was unmade and the bathroom sink and shower were slightly wet. As recently as that morning, Roussard had been there, but the walk-in closet was empty, not a suitcase, backpack, or bag to be seen anywhere. Roussard was already prepared to disappear, but it didn’t make any sense, the wedding wasn’t until tomorrow. Why pack up your clothes, your toiletries, and everything else a day early?

Looking out the French doors that led to the master bedroom’s private balcony, Harvath had an unimpeded view of the lake. His eyes were immediately drawn to the pier and the conspicuous absence of the Cobalt speedboat Nancy Erikson had arranged for Roussard.

A bad feeling was growing in the pit of Harvath’s stomach.

He backtracked the way he’d come, rechecking everything along the way. When he got to the garage, he opened the driver’s-side door of Roussard’s Lincoln and popped the trunk.

Smiling back at him was a bright blue Kiva duffle. “Gotcha,” said Harvath.

But after opening it and sifting through all its mundane contents, he realized he hadn’t gotten anything. Clothes, toiletries, it was all run-of-the-mill stuff. Not only was there nothing incriminating inside the bag, there was nothing at all pointing to what Roussard was planning to do.

Harvath slammed the trunk closed and was about to go back inside when he noticed a large plastic garbage can by the garage door.

He ran to it and threw back the lid. At the bottom was a white garbage bag. Harvath pulled it out and took it back inside the house.

Clearing off the dining-room table, he ripped open the bag and emptied its contents. Illuminated by the shafts of waning afternoon light, he picked through the few bits and pieces of trash that had accumulated over Roussard’s short stay.

There were empty mineral water bottles, microwavable entrée packages, ashes, butts, and a couple of empty packs of Gitanes. Mixed in among everything was a brochure for the grand yachts of the Lake Geneva Cruise Line company.