His death was fast.

Was it murder?

Or just an accident?

Book wanted Nathan's death to be something more than an accident-just as he had wanted his father's death to be something more than a drug-addicted homeless man grabbing his service gun and shooting him. Perhaps that was the human ego at work: his father had been important in his life; ergo, his life should warrant an important ending. Nathan had saved his life; therefore, his life should warrant a more important ending than a car accident.

But that was not life.

Life seemed to be one continuous accident. Birth-where, when, and to whom-is just an accident of fate, a genetic lottery. Win that lottery, and you're born in a first-world country with opportunities in life and a life expectancy of seventy-eight years or more. Lose, and you're born in a third-world country with no opportunities and a life expectancy of forty-eight years or less. Death-early, late, natural, violent-no matter your station in life, death would come to you. Would it come at age five, thirty-five, or seventy-five? Would it come by crime or disease or old age? Was that destiny or luck? G.o.d's will or man's mistake? In the end, it didn't really matter. It is what happens between birth and death that matters. That makes us matter. As Ms. Roberts had said in cla.s.s, 'Do we matter? Or are we just matter?' And so Book was left to wonder: Had Nathan Jones's life mattered?

Had Ben Bookman's life mattered?

Would his own life matter?

Book entered the hotel and stopped at the front desk.

'Another night, please.'

'Yes, sir, Professor,' the desk clerk said. 'But Miss Honeywell won't be happy.'

He took breakfast back to Nadine-a large coffee, sandwich baguette (scrambled eggs, Swiss cheese, and ham on a toasted demi-baguette), and a waffle with chocolate syrup and whipped cream. He figured that would hold her until lunch. He had granola and more yogurt.

But she wasn't in her room.

Fear shot through him like a bullet. Perhaps the bald guy she had clocked at Padre's had come looking for her. Book had promised to protect her. He ran back downstairs and checked the Giant museum; she wasn't there. Or in Jett's Grill. Or in the small library. Or in the ballroom. Or in the- She was in the pool.

It had been built just off the ballroom where an outdoor patio had once stood, surrounded by thick adobe walls but open to the sky. The sun was now shut out by a plastic corrugated cover, which created a sauna-like atmosphere at pool level. Steam rose off the water; it was a heated pool. The s.p.a.ce smelled of chlorine. Nadine Honeywell was alone in the pool, swimming laps. He breathed a sigh of relief. When she swam back his way, she saw him and stood. Her skin looked like a sheet of white paper against the blue water.

'Ms. Honeywell, has your skin ever seen the sun?'

'I don't think so. I use sunblock with a two hundred SPF rating.'

'They go that high?'

'No. I put on two coats of a hundred.'

'Why?'

She gave him a puzzled look. 'Hel-lo? Melanoma?'

Book pointed up. 'The pool is covered. And it's still morning. The sun's not overhead yet.'

'Can't be too careful.'

She climbed out of the pool.

'I found this suit in the gift shop.'

The snug one-piece suit revealed a lean body he hadn't noticed before with her baggy clothes. She caught him appraising her.

'I have a swimmer's body. Might be why lesbians are attracted to me.'

She wrapped a green-and-white striped towel around herself. They sat in patio chairs around a small table. She dug her sanitizing materials out of her canvas bag and went through her standard routine. Then they ate breakfast.

'You're a good swimmer.'

'I trained when I was a teenager.'

'Is that why you eat so much, your swim training?'

'You should've seen what I used to eat. Four hours a day in the pool burns some calories. And I have a high metabolism.'

'Did you compete?'

'No.'

'Why not?'

'Afraid.'

'Of drowning?'

'Losing.'

'So you never won?'

'Story of my life.'

She finished the last of the waffle and drank the coffee.

'Thanks for last night,' Book said. 'That pool cue wouldn't have done my head much good.'

'I guess that means if I ever get into trouble, you'll have to help me.'

'Ms. Honeywell, you've earned a lifetime pa.s.s.'

She pondered that prospect a moment then smiled.

'Okay,' Book said, 'what have we learned since the last quiz?'

'A, I know you can protect me now, that kung fu fighting.'

'Taekwondo.'

'B, I like to hit bad guys with beer bottles.'

'Do you now?'

'I do. And C, Nathan didn't show his proof to that Carla girl either. Which makes me question if there ever was any actual proof. Maybe Nathan just wanted there to be proof.'

'Very good, Ms. Honeywell. You're questioning every a.s.sumption and every supposed fact. You'll make a good lawyer.'

'Chef.'

She sipped her coffee.

'Professor, can I ask you something?'

'Of course.'

'So far you've shown Nathan's letter to everyone we've met in town except the desk clerk. Why?'

'Bait.'

'Bait?'

'See if anyone bites.'

'Fish. You told Carla you were here to fish. Funny. So who do you want to catch?'

'Whoever killed Nathan.'

'What if no one bites?'

'Then it was just an accident.'

She considered that through several sips of coffee. Then she said, 'You're kind of sneaky, aren't you?'

'Comanche.'

Chapter 14.

'Professor, I've heard "fracking this" and "fracking that" ever since we rode into town, but I don't even know what fracking is.'

'You're about to find out.'

'From whom?'

Book unfolded the funeral photo and pointed at the big man with the bald head.

'The big fish.'

A four-wheel-drive maroon Cadillac pickup truck with a Gig 'em, Aggies decal on the back window sat parked at the curb outside the Barnett Oil and Gas Company Building on Highland Avenue just down from the hotel. They walked inside. On the floor was maroon carpet; on the walls were photos of the Texas A&M University football field, the foot-ball team, and the male cheerleaders. The school's colors were maroon and white. Book stepped over to the receptionist-a broad-shouldered young woman who looked a bit manly-and asked to see Billy Bob Barnett.

'And you are?'

'Professor John Bookman, from UT.'

'A professor?'

'Is that a problem?'

'The UT might be. Billy Bob hates the Longhorns.'

'The cattle or the people?'

'Funny. What do you teach?'

'Const.i.tutional law,' a deep male voice behind them said.

Book turned to the same big man in the funeral photo. He had a bald head-not bald with fuzz on the sides but shaved-to-the-bare-skin bald, as if a white bowling ball sat atop his shoulders-and a black goatee streaked with gray. He wore jeans, a maroon cowboy belt with a fancy silver buckle, maroon boots, and a maroon A&M golf shirt. He looked to be in his late forties, stood six-two, and weighed two-fifty or more.

'He's the famous law professor, Earlene. He's on TV d.a.m.n near every Sunday morning, making those senators look stupid. Course, that ain't exactly man's work.'

He sniffled and swiped the back of his hand across his nose then walked over, stuck out the same hand to Book, and flashed a big smile.

'Billy Bob Barnett.'

Book hesitated then shook hands.

'John Bookman.'

'Professor, it's an honor. Course, you didn't have to dress up for me.'

He hadn't. Book wore jeans, boots, a blue Tommy Bahama T-shirt, sungla.s.ses on a braided cord around his neck, and his black running watch. No rings.

'And my intern, Nadine Honeywell.'

She wore shorts that revealed her swimmer's legs. Billy Bob's eyes roamed her body with lascivious intent.

'Well, honey.'

He had amused himself with his play on her name. Book gestured at the photos on the wall to divert Billy Bob's leer from his intern.

'Did you play football at A&M?'

'Yell leader.'

Unlike the University of Texas, which offers gorgeous coeds in leather chaps, biker shorts, and torso-revealing fringed cowgirl shirts as cheerleaders at football games, Texas A&M offers five male students in white shirts and trousers as 'yell leaders.' The former Aggie yell leader standing before Book abruptly threw his arms out and broke into a yell.