THE SIXTY-FIVE-YEAR-OLD MAN led the two boys through the vestibule and living room, into his private library. He switched on some lights: the stained-glass Tiffany lamp on the desk he’d used in the governor’s mansion, the down-lighting above the floor-to-ceiling bookcases of law books.

  “Is your wife at home?” the one called Hawk asked him.

  “She’s had a very stressful day,” Campion said. “She couldn’t wait up. Can I get you boys something to drink?”

  “Actually, we brought you this,” Pidge said, handing over the bottle of Cointreau. Connor thanked the boy, slid down the foil bag, and looked at the label.

  “Thanks for this. I’ll open this for you if you like, or maybe you’d like something else. I’m having scotch.”

  “We’re good, sir,” said Pidge.

  Campion put the bottle next to Michael’s picture on the ornately carved mantelpiece, then bent to open the bowed glass doors of the vitrine he used as a liquor cabinet. He took out a bottle of Chivas and a glass. When he turned, he saw the gun in Hawk’s hand.

  Campion’s muscles clenched as he stared at the revolver; then he looked up at the smirk on Pidge’s face.

  “Are you crazy? You’re holding me up?”

  Behind Pidge, Hawk’s eyes were bright, smiling with anticipation, as he took a reel of fishing line out of his back pocket. Horror came over Campion as suspicion bloomed in his mind. He turned his back to the boys, said neutrally, “I guess I won’t be having this.” He made a show of putting the Chivas back inside the cabinet, while feeling around the shelf with the flat of his hand.

  “We have to tie you up, sir, make it look like a robbery. It’s for our own protecti............