Dead Sleep

10

Unable to find my voice, I lean closer to the photograph on the French expatriate’s wall. My father is wearing a Leica on a neck strap and carrying a Nikon F2 in his hand, the same camera I own today. That means the photo was shot in 1972, the year that camera was released and also the year he supposedly died.

“Where did you get this?” I finally whisper, pointing with a shaking finger.

“Terry Reynolds shot that in seventy-two,” says de Becque. “Before he himself disappeared in Cambodia. I knew your father well, Jordan.”

He says my name with a soft “J.” I straighten up and try to maintain my composure as I speak. “You did?”

De Becque takes me by the elbow and leads me to a table, where a bottle of wine and three glasses have been placed. He pours a glass of white wine, which I drink in two swallows, then offers one to Kaiser, who declines. De Becque pours for himself and takes a small sip.

“Only in moderation,” he says. “My liver is trying to tell me something.”

“Monsieur-”

He stops me with an upraised hand. “I’m sure you have a thousand questions. Why don’t you photograph my paintings first? Then you may return here and satisfy your curiosity.”

My face feels hot, my throat unable to open.

“Please,” says de Becque. “There is time.”

“Tell me one thing first. Is my sister alive or dead?”

He shakes his head. “Je ne sais pas, ma cherie. That I do not know.”

Photographing de Becque’s paintings is a simple exercise, technically speaking. Before we left New Orleans, I made a list of equipment, which Baxter sent FBI agents out to procure. The main piece was a Mamiya medium-format camera shooting 5 x 5 film negatives, which gives superior image quality without compromising portability. The difficulty is the human factor. Kaiser does his best to follow my orders in setting up the lighting, but it’s clear to Li – whom de Becque sent along to make sure we don’t get too close to the canvases – that my “assistant” has never handled a softbox or barn door in his life.

I’m not in top form myself. The prospect of picking de Becque’s brain about my father is so tantalizing that it pushes my concern for Jane almost out of my mind, and makes the simplest tasks – like attaching strobe heads to poles – difficult. Kaiser is soon distracted by other things. The bulk of de Becque’s art collection is displayed in three large museum-style rooms, and his Sleeping Women are merely part of it. The rest date from several different periods, according to Kaiser, who has apparently given himself a crash course in art history over the past two days. The majority date from about 1870 to the present, and include several pieces by the Nabis. Kaiser moves methodically through the rooms, memorizing what he can, once returning to me to whisper that some of the paintings might have been stolen by the Nazis during the Second World War. He asks Li if we can photograph the entire collection, but she demurs, saying that de Becque specifically restricted our activities to the Sleeping Women.

I shoot the paintings with a thoroughness bordering on compulsion, but I try not to look too hard at them. In one sense, each of these women is Jane to me. Yet there’s no denying their remarkable power. Unlike the painting I saw in Wingate’s gallery, the women in these canvases are saturated in color rather than surrounded by it: vivid blues and oranges highlighted with whites and yellows. Two are lying in bathtubs, posed much like the woman in the first painting I saw in Hong Kong, but their faces are less defined than hers. If I didn’t know these women might be dead, I would believe them asleep, for their skin fairly hums with light.

But I do know.

The man who painted these images sat or stood before petrified human beings, absorbing the hard metallic odor unique to sweat produced by terror. Unless the women were already dead when he painted them. How long could he have stood that? Staying in the room with dead women while they decomposed? I’ve photographed a lot of corpses, and close proximity with them isn’t something easily endured. But perhaps for some people it’s no hardship. Perhaps for some it’s actually pleasurable, though after a while, even a necrophiliac would have to be driven off by the smell alone. Or is even that a naive assumption?

“How long would it take to paint these?” I ask Kaiser, sotto voce.

“Experts say two to six days. I don’t know what they’re basing that on. I read in a book last night that the Impressionists believed you should start and finish a painting at one sitting.”

“If the women are dead, do you think he could be preserving them somehow before painting them? Embalming them?”

“It’s possible.”

I fire off two more shots of the last painting. “Look at this picture. What do you see? Is this woman dead or alive?”

He walks closer to the canvas and studies the woman.

“I can’t tell,” he says at length. “There’s nothing obvious that says death to me. Her eyes are closed, but that’s not conclusive.” He turns back to me, his face thoughtful. “I mean, where’s the line between sleep and death? How far apart are they, really?”

“Ask the dead.”

“I can’t.”

“There’s your answer.” I cap the Mamiya’s lens and remove the last exposed film. “I’m done. Let’s go see de Becque.”

Li appears silently in the archway to my left, like an escort to some other world.

The old Frenchman is waiting in the glass-walled room. He stands with his back to us, a wineglass in his hand, and watches a yacht sail out of the bay into the Caribbean.

“Hello?” I call.

He turns slowly, then gestures toward a matched pair of sofas that face each other before the great window. Li pours wine for us, then vanishes without even a sound of slippers on the granite floor.

“You wish your ‘assistant’ to join us?” de Becque asks, one eyebrow arched.

I turn to Kaiser, who sighs and says, “I’m Special Agent John Kaiser, FBI.”

De Becque walks forward and gives Kaiser’s hand a light shake. “Isn’t that a relief? Deception is a wearying art, and foolish deception the most wearying of all. Please, sit.”

Kaiser and I take one sofa, de Becque the one facing us.

“Why have I brought you here?” the Frenchman says to me. “That is question number one?”

“That’s a good place to start.”

“You’re here because I wanted to see you in the flesh, as they say. It’s that simple. I knew your father in Vietnam. When I learned you were involved in this case, I took steps to meet you.”

“How did you learn Ms. Glass was involved?” asks Kaiser.

De Becque makes a very French gesture with his opened hands, which I translate as Some things we must accept without explanation. Kaiser doesn’t like it, but there’s not much he can do about it.

“How did you meet my father?”

“I collect art, and I consider photography an art. At least when performed by certain people. I owned a tea plantation in a strategic part of Vietnam. It provided a good base for those journalists whom I allowed to use it. My table was famed throughout the country, and I enjoy good conversation.”

“And access to information?” Kaiser asks bluntly.

De Becque shrugs. “Information is a commodity, Agent Kaiser, like any other. And I am a businessman.”

“What do you know about my father’s death?”

“I’m not at all sure he died when and where the world believes he did.”

There it is. Spoken by a man in a position to know.

“How could he have survived?”

“First, he disappeared in a very embarrassing place. Embarrassing for the American government, I mean. Second, while the Khmer Rouge generally killed journalists out of hand, not all Cambodians did. I believe Jonathan was shot, yes. But he could well have been nursed back to health. And like you, I’ve heard reports over the years that he has been sighted.”

“If he survived,” says Kaiser, “and he considered you a friend, why wouldn’t he seek you out?”

“He may have. But I had sold my plantation by the time he went missing. If he went there in search of me, he would not have found me. But there’s a simpler answer. By late 1972, Vietnam was not a place anyone would want to return to.”

“Neither was Cambodia,” I point out. “If he didn’t get out before Pol Pot started his genocide, he couldn’t possibly have survived.”

Another shrug. “It is a mystery. But I’ve heard Jonathan was twice sighted in Thailand, and by reliable sources.”

“Do you think he could still be alive?”

A smile of condolence. “That would be too much to hope for, I think.”

“How recent were the sightings you mentioned?”

“The first around 1976. The last in 1980.”

More than twenty years ago. “We’re here for another reason, of course. But would it be all right for me to telephone you later for specifics?”

“I’ll make sure you have my numbers before you go.”

Kaiser leans forward, his wineglass between his knees. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Of course. But I may be selective about my answers.”

“Do you know the identity of the artist who paints the Sleeping Women?”

“I do not.”

“How did his paintings first come to your attention?”

“I was acquainted with Christopher Wingate, the art dealer. I’m in the habit of buying new artists whose work catches my eye. It’s a risk, but all life entails risk, no?”

“Is this purely a business endeavor?”

De Becque’s eyes shine with humor. “It has no connection whatever to business. If I wanted to make money, there are much surer ways.”

“So Wingate introduced you to the Sleeping Women, and-”

“I told him I would buy all he could get me.”

“And he got you five?”

“Yes. I made the mistake of letting certain Asian acquaintances see my paintings. The price skyrocketed overnight. After the fifth, Wingate betrayed me and began selling to the Japanese. But” – de Becque turns up his hands – “who expects honor from a Serb?”

“What initially attracted you to the paintings?”

The Frenchman purses his lips. “Hard to say.”

“Did you have any idea that the subjects might be real women?”

“I assumed they were. Models, of course.”

“Did you have any idea that they might be dead?”

“Not at first. I assumed the poses were of sleep, as everyone else did. But after I saw the fourth, I began to get a feeling. Then I saw the genius of these paintings. They were paintings of death, but not in any way that had been done before.”

“How do you mean?”

“In the West, the attitude toward death is denial. The West worships youth, lives in terror of age and disease. Most of all in terror of death. In the East it’s different. You know. You were there.”

This statement throws Kaiser off his rhythm. “How do you know that?”

“You’re a soldier. I saw it when you first came in.”

“I haven’t been a soldier for twenty-five years.”

De Becque smiles and waves his hand. “I see it in your walk, your way of watching. And since you’re American, your age tells me Vietnam.”

“I was there.”

“So. You know how it is. In America, someone gets bitten by a rattlesnake, they move heaven and earth to race to the hospital. In Vietnam, a man gets bitten by a krait, he sits down and waits to die. Death is part of life in the East. For many it’s a sweet release. That is part of what I see in the Sleeping Women. Only, the subjects aren’t Asian. They’re Occidental.”

“That’s interesting,” says Kaiser. “No one’s mentioned that interpretation before.”

De Becque touches the corner of his eye. “Everyone has eyes, young man. Not everyone can see.”

“You know that at least one of the subjects in the paintings is missing and probably dead?”

“Yes. This poor girl’s sister.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“I’m not sure I understand the question.”

“Morally, I mean. How do you feel about the fact that young women may be dying to produce these paintings?”

De Becque gives Kaiser a look of distaste. “Is that a serious question, mon ami?”

“Yes.”

“Such an American question. You fought in a war that cost fifty-eight thousand of your countrymen’s lives. A million Asian lives beyond that. What did those deaths buy, other than misery?”

“That’s a separate discussion.”

“You’re wrong. If nineteen women die to produce eternal art, then in the historical sense, the price was cheap. Laughable, really.”

“Unless you loved one of those women,” I say quietly.

“Quite so,” concedes de Becque. “That’s another matter entirely. I merely point out to Monsieur Kaiser that many human endeavors are begun with the knowledge that they will cost human lives. Bridges, tunnels, pharmaceutical trials, geographic exploration, and of course wars. None of these goals even approaches the importance of art.”

Kaiser’s face is reddening. “If you knew for a fact that women were being murdered to produce these paintings, and you knew the identity of the murderer, would you report him to the authorities?”

“Happily, I do not find myself in that dilemma.”

Kaiser sighs and puts down his wine. “Why wouldn’t you send your paintings to Washington for study?”

“I am a fugitive. I don’t trust governments, particularly the American government. I had many dealings with it in Indochina, and I was always disappointed. I found American officials naive, sentimental, hypocritical, and stupid.”

“That’s something, coming from a black marketeer.”

De Becque laughs. “You hate me, young soldier? For the black market? You might as well hate rainfall or cockroaches.”

“I’m no fan of the French, that’s for sure. I saw what you did in Vietnam. You were a lot worse there than we ever were.”

“We were brutal, yes, but on a small scale. The American infantry handed out chocolate bars while their air force killed civilians by the tens of thousands.”

“You were glad enough when we did it in Germany.”

“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” I cut in, giving Kaiser a sharp look. After years of traveling the world, I’ve learned to avoid conversations like this one. Most Europeans will never understand the American point of view, and even when they do, they’ll loudly condemn it. At the bottom of their fervor, I believe, lies jealousy, but there’s nothing to be gained by arguing with them. I would have thought Kaiser knew that.

“You’ve seen me in the flesh now,” I tell de Becque. “What do you think?”

His blue eyes twinkle like Maurice Chevalier’s. “I would love to see you au naturel, cherie. You’re a work of art.”

“Would naked be enough? Or would naked and dead be better?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I am a libertine. I celebrate life. But” – he holds up his glass in a silent toast – “death is always with us.”

“Did you commission the painting of my sister?”

His humor vanishes. “No.”

“Did you try to buy it?”

“I never had the chance. I never saw it.”

“Would you have known who she was?”

“I would have thought she was you.”

Kaiser says, “When did you first become aware of Ms. Glass’s existence?”

“When I saw her name beneath a photo in the International Herald Tribune. The early 1980s, it would have been.” De Becque chuckles. “I nearly jumped out of my skin. The credit read ‘J. Glass,’ same as her father’s.”

“I did that as an homage to him.”

“And a fine one it was. But a bit of a shock to those who knew him.”

“That happened to a lot of people. After a few years, I started using my full name.” Unable to focus on the task at hand, I steel myself and ask de Becque the question foremost in my mind. “What kind of man was my father?”

“In the beginning? A wide-eyed American, like a thousand others. But he had eyes to see. You only had to tell him a thing once. He had tasted little of Asia, but he was open to it all. And the Vietnamese loved him.”

“I presume that included women.”

Another Gallic gesture, this one I translate as Men will be men.

“Was there one woman in particular?”

“Isn’t there always? But in Jon’s case, I don’t really know.”

“Don’t you? Did he have a family over there, Monsieur de Becque? A Vietnamese family?”

“How would you feel if he did?”

“I’m not sure. I just want to know the truth.”

“You saw Li?”

“Yes.”

“She’s French-Vietnamese. They’re the most beautiful women in the world.”

“Did my father have a woman like her?”

“He was certainly exposed to them.”

“At your plantation?”

“Of course.”

De Becque is a man who speaks between the lines. I’m normally good at reading such men, but in this case I’m lost. If my father had a Vietnamese family there, why not tell me outright?

“Have you considered this?” asks de Becque. “The year your father disappeared, Look and Life folded.”

“And?”

“They were the great picture magazines. That was the end of an era. Jonathan never had to live through shrinking markets, the dominance of television, the humiliating transformation of the industry in which he made his name.”

“Are you saying he had nothing to come back to?”

“I merely point out that, professionally speaking, the best years of photojournalism were in the past. Jon had won all the awards there were to win. He had experienced life on the razor’s edge, with a rebel band of brothers. They photographed the horrors of the century, then moved on to the next before the last could crush their spirits. They were glorious in their way. They owned nothing, yet they owned the world. They were a cross between young Hemingways and rock-and-roll stars.”

“But their day was over. That’s what you’re telling me?”

“The world changed after Vietnam. America changed. France, too.”

Kaiser puts down his wine and says, “I’d like to return to Ms. Glass’s sister.”

“I would, as well,” says de Becque, his eyes on me. “What exactly do you hope to gain by being part of this investigation, Jordan? Do you have some fantasy of justice?”

“I don’t think justice is a fantasy.”

“What would justice be in this case? To punish the man who has painted these women? The man who stole them from their homes to immortalize them?”

“Is he one and the same?” I ask. “Is the kidnapper the painter?”

“I have no idea. But is that your desire, to punish him?”

“I’d rather stop him than punish him.”

De Becque nods thoughtfully. “And your sister? What are your hopes along that line?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Do you think she might be alive somewhere?”

“I didn’t until I saw her painting in Hong Kong. Now… I’m not sure.”

When de Becque makes no comment, I ask, “Do you think the women are alive or dead?”

The Frenchman sighs. “Dead, I would say.”

For some reason, his opinion depresses me far more than that of someone like Lenz.

“But,” he adds, “I would not assume all these women share the same fate.”

“Why not?” asks Kaiser.

“Things happen. No plan is perfect. I wouldn’t think it absurd to hope one or more out of nineteen is alive somewhere.”

“Is it nineteen women?” Kaiser asks. “We’ve been trying to match the paintings to the victims, but we’re having trouble. There are only eleven victims in New Orleans. If each painting is of a different woman, then there are eight victims we don’t know about.”

“Perhaps those seven are simply common models?” de Becque suggests. “Paid off long ago and forgotten. Have you thought of that?”

“We’d like that to be true, of course. But the abstract nature of the early paintings has made it impossible for us to match the faces to victims. We haven’t even matched them to the eleven known victims yet.”

“The early paintings aren’t abstract,” says de Becque. “They were done in the Impressionist or Postimpressionist style. This involves using small drops of primary colors in close proximity to produce certain hues, rather than blending colors. It produces an effect much closer to the way the human eye actually perceives light. He probably painted them very quickly, and merely meant to suggest their faces, rather than to clearly depict them.”

“Or he may have meant to conceal their faces,” says Kaiser.

“This also is possible.”

“If any of these women are still alive,” I ask, “where could they possibly be? Why wouldn’t they have come forward by now?”

“The world is very wide, cherie. And full of people with strange appetites. I’m more concerned with you. I think this is an unstable time for the man painting these pictures.” De Becque’s eyes burn into mine. “I also think your involvement with the FBI may bring you to his attention. I would not have anything happen to you.”

“She’ll be protected,” says Kaiser.

“Good intentions aren’t enough, Monsieur. She should consider staying here with me until this thing is over.”

“What?” I ask.

“You would be free to come and go, of course. But here I can protect you. I haven’t much confidence in the FBI, to be frank.”

“I appreciate your concern, Monsieur, but I want to remain part of the effort to stop this man.”

“Then take a word of advice. Be very careful. These paintings show an artist in search of himself. His early work is confused and derivative, important only for what it led to. The recent paintings give us a certain view of death. Where is this man going? No one knows. But I would not like to see you come up for auction anytime soon.”

“If I do, buy me. I’d rather hang here than in Hong Kong.”

A white smile cracks the Frenchman’s tanned face. “I would top any price, cherie. You have my word upon it.”

De Becque stands suddenly and looks through his great glass window at the bay. I have photographed several prominent prisoners in my life, and something in the Frenchman’s stance throws me back to those occasions. Here in his multimillion-dollar mansion, with a fortune in art hanging on his walls, this expatriate shares something with the poorest convict pacing out a cell in Angola or Parchman.

“I think it’s time to go,” I tell Kaiser.

I wait for de Becque to turn back to me, but he doesn’t. As I walk to the door, he says in a melancholy voice: “Despite what your friend says, Jordan, remember this. The French know the meaning of loyalty.”

“I’ll remember.”

“Li will show you out.”

“Merci.”

At last de Becque turns to me and raises a hand in farewell. In his eyes I see genuine affection, and I’m suddenly sure he knew my father far better than he claimed.

“Your numbers!” I call. “I never got them.”

“They’re waiting in your plane.”

Of course they are.

The Range Rover hums steadily toward the airport. Bright sunlight glints off the hood and the road signs, chasing a blue iguana beneath a green roadside bush. As the reptile vanishes, the Sleeping Women I saw in de Becque’s gallery flash through my mind, and a minor epiphany sends a chill along my skin.

“I just realized something important.” Before I can continue, Kaiser grips my thigh behind the knee and nearly cuts off the circulation to my lower leg. I remain silent until we reach the plane, where our escorts load the equipment cases for us, then vanish without a word.

“What is it?” asks Kaiser. “What did you think of?”

“The paintings. I know where they’re being done.”

“What?”

“Not exactly where, but how. I told you, I don’t know anything about art. But I do know about light.”

“Light?”

“Those women are being painted in natural light. It’s so obvious that I didn’t notice it in Hong Kong. Not even today, not at first. But a minute ago it registered.”

“Why? How can you tell?”

“Twenty-five years of experience. Light is very important to color. To the natural look of things. Photographic lights are color-balanced to mimic natural light. I’ll bet artists are even pickier about it. I don’t know how important that is to the case, but doesn’t it tell us something?”

“If you’re right, it could help a lot. Is light shining through a window natural light?”

“That depends on the glass.”

“If he’s painting the women outdoors, that would mean a really secluded place. There’s lots of woods and swamp, but getting there with a prisoner or body could be tough.”

“A courtyard,” I tell him. “New Orleans is full of walled gardens and courtyards. I think that’s what we’re looking for.”

Kaiser squeezes my upper arm. “You’d have done well at Quantico. Let’s get on board.”

I don’t move. “You know, you weren’t very helpful back there. What was all that crap about France?”

He shrugs. “You don’t learn anything about a man in a short time by having a polite conversation with him. You push buttons and see what pops out.”

“De Becque just wanted to stroll down memory lane.”

“No. It was more than that.”

“Tell me.”

“Let’s get on board first.”

He hustles me onto the Lear, then goes forward to confer with the pilots. After a moment, he walks back to my seat.

“I’ve got to call Baxter. It may take a while.”

“Tell me about de Becque first.”

“He was making some kind of decision about you.”

“What kind of decision?”

“I don’t know. He was trying to read you, to understand you.”

“He knows a lot about my father, I know that.”

“He knows a lot about more than that. He’s in this thing up to his neck. I can feel it.”

“Maybe the women really aren’t being killed. Maybe they’re being held somewhere in Asia.”

“Moved there on de Becque’s jet, you mean?”

“Maybe. Have you traced its movements over the past year?”

“We’re having some trouble with that. But Baxter will stay on it. He’s a bulldog with that kind of thing.”

Kaiser walks forward, takes the seat by the bulkhead, and in moments is holding a special scrambled phone to his ear. I can’t make out his exact words, but as the conversation progresses, I see a certain tension developing in his neck and arm. The jet begins to roll, and soon we’re hurtling north toward Cuba again. After about ten minutes, Kaiser hangs up and comes back to the seat facing me. There’s an excitement in his eyes that he can’t conceal.

“What’s happened? It’s something good, isn’t it?”

“We hit the jackpot. The D.C. lab traced those two brush hairs they took from the paintings. They’re unique, the best you can buy. They come from a rare type of Kolinsky sable, and the brushes are handmade in one small factory in Manchuria. There’s only one American importer, based in New York. He buys two lots a year, and they’re sold before he gets them. He has specific customers. Repeat customers. Most are in New York, but there are several sprinkled around the country.”

“Any in New Orleans?”

Kaiser smiles. “The biggest order outside New York went to New Orleans. The art department of Tulane University.”

“My God.”

“It’s the third order that’s gone there in the past year and a half. Baxter’s meeting with the president of the university right now. By the time we land, he’ll have a list of everyone who’s had access to those brushes in the past eighteen months.”

“Wasn’t one of the victims kidnapped on the Tulane campus?”

“Two. Another from Audubon park, near the zoo. Which is very close to Tulane.”

“Jesus.”

“That’s only three out of eleven. The grid analysis alone didn’t point to Tulane. But this definitely changes things.”

“Where was the next closest order of these brushes to New Orleans?”

“Taos, New Mexico. After that, San Francisco.”

My stomach feels hollow. “This might really be it.”

Kaiser nods. “Lenz told us the paintings would lead us to suspects. I was skeptical, but the son of a bitch was right.”

“You were more right than he was. You told me yesterday you thought the killer or kidnapper was based in New Orleans. That the selections were being made there, and that the killer might be the painter. Lenz had the painter in New York.”

Kaiser sighs like a man whose premonitions are often borne out but bring little pleasure when they are. “You know something?”

“What?”

“De Becque lied to us in there.”

“How?”

“He told us he never saw the painting of Jane. This is a guy who can get on his private jet and fly to Asia anytime he wants. He’s pissed at Wingate for selling the later Sleeping Women out from under him, to Asian collectors. Even if he didn’t see those paintings when they were offered for sale, you think he didn’t fly to Hong Kong the minute they went on exhibition there?”

“It’s hard to imagine him not doing that.”

“And did you notice that he sent Li with us to see the paintings? He didn’t come himself?”

“Yes. You’d think he would have wanted to show off his collection.”

“And to watch your reaction. He’s got a thing about those paintings. And a thing about you. De Becque is a different breed of cat. I’ll bet he’s got a streak of kinkiness that’s off the chart. And he may have watched your reactions. I didn’t see any obvious surveillance cameras, but that doesn’t mean anything these days.”

“So, what are you saying?”

Kaiser looks out the porthole window, his face blue in the thickly filtered sunlight. “This is like digging up a huge statue buried in sand. You uncover a shoulder, then a knee. You think you know what’s down there, but you don’t. Not until it’s all out of the ground.” He cuts his eyes at me. “You know what feeling this gives me? The conspiracy angle, I mean. What it makes me think of?”

“What?”

“White slavery. Women kidnapped from their home-towns, sent far away, and forced into prostitution. It still happens in various ways, even in America. But it’s big business in Asia, especially Thailand. Crime syndicates steal young girls from the mountain villages and take them down to the cities. They lock them in small rooms, advertise them as virgins, and force them to service dozens of clients a day.”

I close my eyes and press down a wave of nausea. The mere mention of this horror forces me to accept that it is one of Jane’s possible fates. But even if it isn’t, the image created by Kaiser’s words makes me shiver with fear and outrage. I can walk through a corpse-littered battlefield and hold in my lunch, but the thought of a terrified young girl locked in some cubicle of hell until she contracts AIDS is too much for me.

“I’m sorry,” Kaiser says, lightly touching my knee. “My head is full of stuff like that, and sometimes I forget.”

“It’s all right. It’s just… of all the bad things, that’s the toughest for me.”

Though he tries to conceal it, the question in his mind shines through his eyes.

“Don’t ask. Okay?”

“Okay. Look, we’re a lot closer to finding him. Closer to stopping him. Focus on that.”

“Okay.”

“Can I get you some water or something?”

“Yes… please.”

He gets up and goes forward, and I snatch up a copy of the jet’s safety card from the seat back across the aisle. Anything to focus on, to keep my mind from following its own dark course. What’s the worst thing that ever happened to you? Lenz asked his patients. What’s the worst thing…