As seen on 48 Hours —an explosive account of lethal greed and twisted desire, from the files of America’s #1 true crime writer, Ann Rule. They were best friends, four talented and charismatic young men who lived charmed lives among the evergreens of Washington state: Kevin, the artist; Steve, the sculptor; Scott, the nature lover and unabashed ladies’ man; and Mark, the musician and poet. With their stunning good looks, whip-sharp minds, athletic bodies—and no lack of women who adored them—none of them seemed slated for disaster. But few knew the reality behind the leafy screen that surrounded Seven Cedars, Scott’s woodland dream home—a tree house equipped with every luxury. From this idyllic enclave, some of these trusted friends would become the quarry for a vigilant Seattle police detective and an FBI special agent, who unmasked clues to disturbing secrets that spawned murder, suicide, million-dollar bank robberies, drug-dealing, and heartbreaking betrayal. When the end came in a violent stand-off, the ringleader of the foursome—the fugitive dubbed “Hollywood” for his ingenious disguises and flawless getaways; the persuasive talker who turned his friends into accomplices—faced a final chapter no one could have predicted. In a blast of automatic gunfire, the highest and lowest motives of the human heart were, at last, revealed. Along with four other true-crime tales, The End of the Dream is a masterful and compelling tour of the criminal mind from Ann Rule. John Saul [Ann Rule is] the undisputed master crime writer of the eighties and nineties. Ann Rule (1931–2015) wrote thirty-five New York Times bestsellers, all of them still in print. Her first bestseller was The Stranger Beside Me , about her personal relationship with infamous serial killer Ted Bundy. A former Seattle police officer, she used her firsthand expertise in all her books. For more than three decades, she was a powerful advocate for victims of violent crime. Chapter One In Seattle, Washington, Thanksgiving is only rarely celebrated under a brilliant blue sky and against a landscape rife with autumn colors. More often than not, the holiday seems to draw memorably violent storms to the Northwest. Many a turkey has been coaxed to semidoneness on an outdoor barbeque because power lines are down. Wednesday, November 27, 1996, was the day before Thanksgiving; the weather was wildly rainy and stormy, with gusts of wind stripping the trees of their last few leaves. Whatever smothered sun there had been that day had long since set, the streets were coils of shiny black, reflecting yellow streetlights and the red, green, and silver of Christmas lights. Late customers hurried into the Lake City Branch of Seafirst Bank only eighteen minutes before closing. More than a dozen people stood patiently in the long lines, most of them so intent on the errands they still needed to run that they were unaware of what was going on around them. The bank's automatic cameras kept clicking away as they always did, silent, mindless and mechanical. One camera snapped everyone coming in the door,another caught the bored or impatient faces of people waiting in line for a teller, while another scanned the entire bank. A fourth was aimed away from the tellers' cages toward a central island where customers stood writing out deposit and withdrawal slips. Each frame of the film noted the camera's number, the bank's ID number and name, the date, and the time to the second. Camera 1-06 recorded the time at 5:42:13 P.M. at the instant a figure appeared at the far right of the frame. From a distance, he seemed only slightly bizarre; he wore both a hooded rain jacket and a baseball cap. A casual observer saw a man past middle age with gray hair; a full, drooping gray moustache; and a prominent chin. His dark glasses seemed odd, considering that the sun had set more than an hour before, and his wide, garish necktie was in dubious taste. He wore cheap tennis shoes, the low black canvas type that predated Nikes and Adidas. A closer look revealed that the body beneath the bulky jacket was too toned to belong to a man in his fifties, and he moved with an almost pantherlike grace. He had to be either an athlete or a dancer. The camera clicked off seconds and the man approached a line of people. They looked at him with startled eyes and then averted their glances as considerate people do when they realize they are looking at someone with a handicap. Although the man's stride was confident, his face wasn't normal. He appeared to have suffered serious facial burns, and he was wearing either heavy makeup to cover scars or a rubbery mask to prevent additional scarring. Here, in this neighborhood bank, no one expected trouble. The robot lenses caught their expressions as the odd-looking man cut between customers waiting in line. One man had an embarrassed half-smile on his face, a woman's eyes shifted momentarily, and a girl covered her mouth with her hand. What they were feelin