Secret of the Seventh Son

JULY 30, 2009

T heir room overlooked Rodeo Drive. Mark stood at the window in a hotel bathrobe and through parted curtains mournfully watched luxury cars take the turn off Wilshire onto Rodeo. The sun wasn’t high enough to burn off the morning haze, but it looked like it was going to be a perfect day. The suite on the fourteenth floor of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel cost $2,500 for the night, paid for in cash to make it a little harder for the watchers. But who was he kidding? He looked into her handbag to check Kerry’s mobile phone. He had switched it off while she was driving and it was still off. She would be on their radar already, but he was playing for time. Precious time.

They arrived late, after a long drive through the desert during which neither of them spoke much. There wasn’t time to plan things but he wanted everything to be perfect. His mind drifted back to when he was seven, waking up before his parents and rushing to make them breakfast for the first time in his life, pouring out cereal, slicing a banana, and carefully balancing the bowls and cutlery and little glasses of OJ on a tray that he proudly presented to them in bed. He’d wanted everything to be perfect that day, and when he succeeded, he solicited their praise for weeks. If he kept his wits, he could succeed today too.

They had champagne and steaks when they arrived. More champagne was on its way for brunch, with crepes and strawberries. A Realtor would meet them in the lobby in an hour for an afternoon of house-hunting. He wanted her to be happy.

“Kerry?”

She moved under the sheets and he called her name again, a bit louder.

“Hi,” she answered into the pillow.

“Brunch is coming, with mimosas.”

“Didn’t we just eat?”

“Ages ago. Want to get up now?”

“Okay. Did you tell them you weren’t going into work?”

“They know.”

“Mark?”

“Uh-huh?”

“You were acting kind of weird last night.”

“I know.”

“Will you act normal today?”

“I will.”

“Are we really going to buy a house today?”

“If you see one you like.”

She propped herself up and showed her face, which was brightly illuminated by her smile. “Well, my day’s starting pretty nice. Come over here and I’ll start yours off nice too.”

Will drove all night and now was cruising on flat land through Ohio, going for broke, driving fast into the dawn and hoping he’d skip through unscathed, avoiding speed traps and unmarked staties. He knew he couldn’t make it all the way without sleeping. He’d have to pick his spots, Motel 6 kinds of places near the highway, where he’d pay cash and pick up four hours here, six there-no more than that. He wanted to be in Vegas by Friday night and ruin this motherfucker’s weekend.

He couldn’t recall the last time he’d pulled an all-nighter, especially an alcohol-free one, and it didn’t feel good. He had cravings for booze, for sleep, and for something to squelch his anger and indignation. His hands were cramped from gripping the wheel too hard, his right ankle sore because the old Taurus didn’t have cruise control. His eyes were red and dry. His bladder ached from the last large coffee. The only thing giving him any solace was the red Lipinski rosebud, succulent and healthy, stuck into a plastic water bottle in the cup holder.

In the middle of the night, Malcolm Frazier left his Operations Center and took a walk to clear his head. The last piece of news was unbelievable, he thought. Un-fucking-believable. This abomination happened on his watch. If he survived this-if they survived this-he’d be testifying at closed Pentagon hearings till he was a hundred.

They’d gone into crisis mode the moment Shackleton switched his cell phone off and the beacon was lost. A team converged on the Venetian but he was gone, his Corvette still in the valet lot, the bill unsettled.

What followed was a very dark hour until they were able to turn things around. He had been with a woman, an attractive brunette whom the concierge recognized as an escort he’d seen around the hotel. They accessed Shackleton’s mobile phone records and found dozens of calls to a Kerry Hightower, who fit the woman’s description.

Hightower’s phone was pinging towers along I-15 westbound until the signal went dead fifteen miles west of Barstow. It looked like L.A. was a likely destination. They fed the description of her car and its tag number to the CHP and local sheriff departments but wouldn’t know until an after-action investigation that her Toyota had been in the shop and she was driving a loaner.

Rebecca Rosenberg was eating her third postmidnight candy bar when she suddenly blasted through Shackleton’s encryption and almost choked on a gob of caramel. She peeled out of her lab, ran clumsily down the hall to the Operations Center, and burst into the scrum of watchers, her white-girl version of a sixties Afro bouncing on her shoulders.

“He’s been passing DOD’s to a company!” she gasped.

Frazier was at his terminal. He swiveled toward her and looked like he wanted to throw up. This was as bad as it got. “The fuck you say. You sure?”

“Hundred percent.”

“What kind of company?”

It got worse. “Life insurance.”

The corridors of the Primary Research Lab were empty, which magnified the echo-chamber effect. To relieve tension, Malcolm Frazier coughed to play with the acoustic bounciness. Shouting or yodeling wouldn’t have been dignified even if no one was listening. During the day, as Chief of NTS-51 Operational Security, he roamed the underground with a cocky swagger that intimidated the rank and file. He liked being feared and had no regrets that his watchers were universally hated. That meant they were doing their jobs. Without fear, how was order to be maintained? The temptation to exploit the asset was simply too great for the geeks. He had contempt for them, and always felt a rush of superiority when he saw them in the strip ’n’ scan, fat and puffy or thin and weak, never fit and well-muscled like his lot. Shackleton, he recalled, was one of the thin and weak ones, snappable like a plank of balsa wood.

He gravitated to the special elevator and called it up with an access key. The descent was so smooth it was almost imperceptible, and when he emerged he was the only soul on the Vault level. His motion would trigger a monitor and one of his men would be watching, but he was permitted to be there, he knew the entry codes, and he was one of the few authorized to pass through the heavy steel doors.

The power of the Vault was visceral. Frazier felt his back straighten as if an iron rod had been rammed through his spine. His chest swelled and his senses heightened, his depth perception-even in the subdued cool-blue light-so acute he was almost seeing in 3-D. Some men felt tiny in the vastness of the place, but the Vault made him feel large and powerful. Tonight, in the midst of the most serious security breech in the history of Area 51, he needed to be there.

He stepped into the chilled dehumidified atmosphere. Five feet, ten, twenty, a hundred. He wasn’t planning to walk its full length; he didn’t have the time. He went far enough to fully experience the magnitude of its domed ceiling and stadium dimensions. He let the fingertips of his right hand brush one of the bindings. Strictly speaking, contact was not allowed, but he wasn’t exactly pulling it off the shelf-it was just an affirmation.

The leather was smooth and cool, the color of mottled buckskin. Tooled onto the spine was the year: 1863. There were rows of 1863s. The Civil War. And Lord knew what else was going on in the rest of the world. He wasn’t a historian.

At one side of the Vault a narrow stairway led to a catwalk where one could take in the full panorama. He went there and climbed to the top. There were thousands of gunmetal-gray bookcases stretching into the distance, nearly 700,000 thick leather books, over 240 billion inscribed names. The only way to get your mind around these numbers, he was convinced, was to stand there and take it in with your own eyes. All the information had long been stored on disks, and if you were one of the geeks, you were impressed with all the terabits of data or some such bullshit, but there was no substitute for actually being in the Library. He grabbed the railing, leaned into it and breathed slow, deep breaths.

Nelson Elder was having a pretty good morning. He was at his favorite table in the company cafeteria tucking into an egg-white omelet and the morning paper. He was energized from a good run, a good steam shower, and renewed confidence in the future. Of all the things in his life that affected his mood, the single biggest factor was the Desert Life stock quote. In the last month the stock was up 7.2 percent, rising a full 1.5 percent the day before on an analyst upgrade. It was too early for this craziness with Peter Benedict to affect his bottom line, but he could predict with mathematical certainty that denying coverage to life insurance applicants with an impending date of death, and risk-adjusting the premiums for those with an intermediate death horizon, would turn his company into a cash machine.

To top that off, Bert Myers’s walk on the wild side with his Connecticut hedge fund was turning the corner, with double-digit yields in July. Elder translated his bullishness into a new, more aggressive tone with investors and research analysts, and the Street was taking notice. The sentiment on Desert Life was shifting.

He didn’t care how this odd-duck Benedict had access to his magical database or where it came from or how it was even possible. A moral philosopher, he wasn’t. He only cared about Desert Life, and now he had an edge that none of his competitors could ever match. He had paid Benedict $5 million out of his own pocket to avoid his auditors picking up a corporate transaction and asking questions. He already had enough worries about Bert’s hedge fund adventure.

But it was money well spent. The value of his personal stock holdings had appreciated by $10 million, a damned good return on investment in one month! He would keep his own counsel on the Benedict business. No one knew, even Bert. It was too bizarre and too dangerous. He had enough trouble explaining to his head of underwriting why he needed to receive a daily nationwide list of all new life insurance applicants.

Bert saw him eating alone and came by grinning and wagging a finger. “I know your secret, Nelson!”

That startled the older man. “What are you talking about?” he asked sternly.

“You’re ditching us this afternoon and playing golf.”

Elder exhaled and smiled. “How’d you know?”

“I know everything around here,” the CFO boasted.

“Not everything. I’ve got a couple of things up my sleeves.”

“You got my bonus up there too?”

“You keep the high yields coming and you’ll be buying an island in a couple of years. Want to join me for breakfast?”

“Can’t. Budget meeting. Who’re you playing with?”

“It’s a charity thing over at the Wynn. I don’t even know who’s in my four.”

“Well, enjoy yourself. You deserve it.”

Elder winked at him. “You’re right. I do.”

Nancy couldn’t concentrate on the bank robbery file. She turned a page only to realize that none of it registered and she had to go back and read it again. She had a meeting with John Mueller later in the morning, and he was expecting some kind of briefing. Every few minutes she compulsively opened the browser and searched the Web for new articles on Will, but the same AP story was being recycled around the world. Finally, she couldn’t wait any longer.

Sue Sanchez saw her in the hall and hailed her from a distance. Sue was among the last people Nancy wanted to see but she couldn’t very well pretend she hadn’t noticed her.

The strain on Sue’s face was remarkable. The corner of her left eye was twitching and there was a quaver in her voice. “Nancy,” she said, drawing so close it made her uncomfortable. “Has he tried to contact you?”

Nancy made sure her handbag was closed and zippered. “You asked me last night. The answer’s still no.”

“I have to ask. He was your partner. Partners get close.” The statement made Nancy nervous, and Sue picked up on it and backtracked. “I don’t mean close in that way. You know, bonding, friendship.”

“He hasn’t called or e-mailed. Besides, you’d know if he had,” she blurted out.

“I haven’t authorized a tap on him or you!” Sue insisted. “If we were doing a tap I’d be aware of it. I’m his superior!”

“Sue, I know a lot less than you do about what’s going on, but would you really be shocked if some other agencies were calling the shots?”

Sue looked hurt and defensive. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Nancy shrugged, and Sue recovered her composure. “Where are you going?”

“To the drugstore. Need anything?” Nancy said, moving toward the elevator bank.

“No. I’m fine.” She didn’t sound convincing.

Nancy walked five blocks before reaching into her bag for the prepaid phone. She checked one more time for tags and punched the number.

He picked up on the second ring. “Joe’s Tacos.”

“Sounds appetizing,” she said.

“I’m glad you called.” He sounded bone weary. “I was getting lonely.”

“Where are you?”

“Someplace as flat as a pool table.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Sign says Indiana.”

“You didn’t go all night, did you?”

“I believe I did.”

“You’ve got to get some sleep!”

“Uh-huh.”

“When?”

“I’m looking for a place as we speak. Did you talk to Laura?”

“I wanted to see how you were first.”

“Tell her I’m fine. Tell her not to be worried.”

“She’ll be worried. I’m worried.”

“What’s going on in the office?”

“Sue looks like shit. Everyone’s got their doors closed.”

“I heard about me on the radio all night. They’re playing this large.”

“If they’ve got a dragnet out on you, what are they doing with Shackleton?”

“I guess the chances of finding him with his feet up on his porch aren’t too high.”

“What then?”

“I’m going to use my years of skills and resourcefulness.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’m going to wing it.” He went quiet and then said, “You know, I was thinking.”

“About what?”

“About you.”

“What about me?”

There was another long pause, the whooshing sound of an eighteen-wheeler passing. “I think I’m in love with you.”

She closed her eyes, and when she opened them she was still in lower Manhattan. “Come on, Will, why are you saying something like that? Sleep deprivation?”

“Nope. I mean it.”

“Please find a motel and get some sleep.”

“That’s all you have to say?”

“No. I think I might love you too.”

Greg Davis was waiting for the kettle to boil. His relationship with Laura Piper was only a year and a half old and they were facing their first significant crisis as a couple. He wanted to step up to the plate and be a great guy and a supportive boyfriend, and in his family you dealt with a crisis by brewing tea.

Their apartment was tiny, with minimal light and no views, but they’d rather have a garret in Georgetown than a nicer place in a soulless suburb. She had finally fallen asleep at 2:00 A.M., but as soon as she awoke, she turned the TV back on, saw the crawl on the screen informing that her father remained at large and began crying again.

“Do you want regular or herbal?” he called out.

He heard sobs. “Herbal.”

He brought her a cup and sat beside her on the bed.

“I tried calling him again,” she said weakly.

“Home and cell?”

“Voice mail.” He was still in his boxers. “You’ll be late,” she said.

“I’m calling in.”

“Why?”

“To stay with you. I’m not leaving you alone.”

She wrapped her arms around him, and his shoulder got wet from her tears. “Why are you so good to me?”

“What kind of question is that?”

His cell phone began to vibrate and move on the bed table. He lunged for it before it fell off the edge. It read: UNKNOWN CALLER.

A woman was asking for him.

“This is Greg.”

“It’s Nancy Lipinski, Greg. We met at Will’s apartment.”

“Jesus! Nancy! Hello!” He whispered to Laura, “Your dad’s partner,” and she sat bolt upright. “How’d you get my number?”

“I work for the FBI, Greg.”

“Yeah. I see that,” he said. “Are you calling about Will?”

“Yes. Is Laura there?”

“She is. Why’d you call me?”

“Laura’s phones could be tapped.”

“Christ, what did Will do?”

“Am I talking to his daughter’s boyfriend or a journalist?” Nancy asked.

He hesitated then looked at Laura’s pleading eyes. “Her boyfriend.”

“He’s in a lot of trouble but he didn’t do anything wrong. We got too close to something and he’s not backing down. I need you to promise me you’ll keep this confidential.”

“Okay,” he assured her, “you’re off the record.”

“Put Laura on. He wants her to know he’s all right.”

The Realtor was a platinum blonde entering her Botox years. She talked a mile a minute and bonded with Kerry in an instant. The two of them were yapping away in the front of the big Mercedes while Mark sat in the back, anesthetized, his legs straddling his briefcase.

He was aware on some level that there was chatter going on and that they were passing cars and people and shops along Santa Monica Boulevard, that it was cool in the sedan and hot and sunny outside the tinted windows, and that there were two clashing perfumes in the cabin and a metallic taste in his mouth and a throbbing behind his eyes, but each sense existed in its own dimension. He was no more than a series of unlinked sensors. His mind wasn’t processing and integrating the data. He was somewhere else, lost.

Kerry’s squeal penetrated his veil. “Mark! Gina’s asking you a question!”

“Sorry, what?”

The Realtor said, “I was asking about your time frame.”

“Soon,” he said softly. “Very soon.”

“That’s great! We can really use that as leverage. And you said you wanted a cash deal?”

“That’s right.”

“I mean, you guys are so totally with it!” the Realtor gushed. “I get out-of-towners coming in and all they want to see is Beverly Hills or Bel Air or Brentwood-the three B’s-but you guys are so smart and focused. I mean, did you know that the Hollywood Hills in your price range with your aggressive attitude is the single best luxury value in L.A.? We’re going to have a great afternoon!”

He didn’t respond and the two women picked up their conversation and left him alone again. When the car began its climb into the mountain range, he felt his back pushing against the seat. He closed his eyes and was in the rear of his father’s car, driving into the White Mountains to their rental cabin in Pinkham Notch. His father and mother were droning on about something or other and he was on his own with the numbers swimming in his head, trying to arrange them into a theorem proof. When the theorem yielded and QED started flashing in his mind, he was suffused with a gush of joy he wished he could summon now.

The Mercedes snaked up narrow winding roads and houses hidden by gates and hedges. It came to a stop behind one of the ubiquitous landscaping trucks they had been passing, and when Mark opened his door he was blasted by furnace heat and the roar of a leaf blower. Kerry sprinted to the gate clutching a listing sheet, looking like a skipping child.

The Realtor told Mark, “She is so cute! You guys better pace yourself. I’ve got a lot of appointments lined up!”

Frazier was motoring on black coffee and adrenaline, and if he could persuade someone in medical to give him amphetamines, he’d throw those on board too. The facility was in normal day-mode, filled to the gills with employees doing their regular geek jobs. He, on the other hand, was doing something irregular and unprecedented, juggling an internal investigation and three field ops simultaneously while briefing his masters in Washington every few minutes.

One field team was in New York, pursuing the Will Piper angle; the second was in Los Angeles, in if-and-when mode, in case Mark Shackleton materialized in California; the third in Las Vegas, working the Nelson Elder situation. All his men were ex-military. Some had served in CIA field ops in the Middle East. All of them were effective sons of bitches, performing coolly despite the impotent panic in the Pentagon.

He was feeling better about Rebecca Rosenberg, although her eating habits disgusted him and spoke to a lack of personal discipline. He watched her gorge on nougat and caramel all night, and she seemed to be getting lumpier in front of his eyes. Her trash bin was filled with wrappers and she was ugly as hell, but he was concluding with grudging admiration that she wasn’t just a geek supervisor but a damned good geek in her own right. She was breaking through Shackleton’s defenses stone by stone and laying it all out in the open.

“Look at this,” she said when he swung by. “More Peter Benedict stuff. He used to have a credit line under that name at the Constellation Casino, and there’s a Peter Benedict Visa card.”

“Any interesting charges on it?”

“He hardly used it but there were a few transactions with the Writers Guild of America. For screenplay registration or something.”

“Jesus, a fucking writer. Can you get ahold of them?”

“You mean hack them off their server? Yeah, probably. There’s something else.”

“Hit me.”

“A month ago he set up an account in the Caymans. It got kicked off with a $5 million wire transfer from Nelson G. Elder.”

“Fuck me.” He needed to call DeCorso, the Las Vegas team leader.

“He’s probably the best programmer the lab’s ever had,” she marveled. “A wolf watching the chickens.”

“How’d he get the data out?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Every employee’s going to have to be rescreened,” he said. “Forensically.”

“I know.”

“Including you.”

She gave him a sour-ball look and handed him a dollar. “Be a dear and get me another candy bar.”

“After I call the goddamn Secretary.”

Harris Lester, Secretary of the Navy, had an office suite at the Pentagon deep in C Ring, about as far removed from fresh air as any of the complex’s interior spaces. His path to the highly political position was fairly typical-navy service during Vietnam, years in the Maryland Legislature, three-term congressman, Senior VP Northrop Grumman Mission Systems Division, and finally, a year and a half ago, appointment by the newly elected President as Secretary of the Navy.

He was a precise, risk-averse type of bureaucrat who disdained surprises in his personal and professional life, so he reacted with a mix of shock and irritation when his boss, the Secretary of Defense, personally briefed him on Area 51.

“Is this some kind of fraternity initiation, Mr. Secretary?”

“Do I look like a goddamn frat boy?” the SecDef had barked. “This is the real deal, and by tradition it belongs to the navy, so it belongs to you, and God help you if there’s a leak under your tenure.”

Lester’s shirt was so starched it crackled when he sat down at his desk. He smoothed his black and silver striped tie, then ran his hand over what was left of his hair to get the strands all going in the right direction, before reaching for his rimless reading glasses. His assistant came over the intercom before he could crack his first folder. “I’ve got Malcolm Frazier calling from Groom Lake, Mr. Secretary. Do you want to take him?”

He could almost feel the acid squirting into his stomach. These calls were killing him but they couldn’t be delegated. This was his issue and these were his decisions. He glanced at the clock: it was the middle of the night out there. The usual time for nightmares.

The Mercedes arrived at their last appointment in the late afternoon, pulling into a semicircular drive at a Mediterranean-style property.

“I think this is going to be the one!” the Realtor exclaimed with boundless energy. “I’ve saved the best for last.”

Kerry was dazed but happy. She checked her hair with her compact and said dreamily, “I loved all of them.”

Mark dragged himself behind them. A prissy looking listing agent was waiting, tapping his watch in admonition.

Mark was reminded to check his own.

Nelson Elder was making the loop with a marketing VP from the Wynn organization, the city fire commissioner, and the CEO of a local medical device company. He was a fair golfer, a fourteen-handicapper, but he was having an outstanding round, which was tipping him toward elation. He made the turn at forty-one, the best nine he’d shot in years.

The freshly sprinkled Bermuda fairways were the color of moist emeralds in the brown desert. The bent-grass greens were rolling true, and blessedly, he could do no wrong. Even though there was water galore on the course, he was keeping the ball straight and dry. The sun was dancing off the glassy surface of the Wynn Hotel, which towered over the country club, and as he lounged in his cart sipping a bottle of iced tea, listening to an artificial brook flowing and gurgling, he felt more satisfied and tranquil than he had in a very long while.

The Mediterranean villa on Hollyridge Drive was making Kerry crazy. She ran from room to glorious room-designer kitchen, step-down living room, formal dining room, library, media room, wine cellar, huge master suite with three other bedrooms-saying, “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” and the Realtor at her heels cooing, “Didn’t I tell you! It’s all redone. Look at the details!”

Mark didn’t have the stomach for it. Under the suspicious gaze of the listing agent, he headed for the patio and sat down beside the sparkling water of the vanishing pool. The patio was flanked by manzanita bushes, and hummingbirds flitted on delicate baby-blue flowers. The vast canyon stretched below, the grid of streets indistinct in the afternoon light.

Over his shoulder, above the roofline, high on a distant ridge, the tops of the letters of the Hollywood sign were visible. This is what he’d wanted, he thought ruefully, what he dreamed he’d be doing when he made it as a writer, sitting by his pool, in the hills, under the sign. He just thought it would last longer than five minutes.

Kerry rushed out the French doors and almost wept at the view. “Mark, I love this one so much. I love it, I love it, I love it!”

“She loves it,” the Realtor added, coming up behind.

“How much?” Mark asked woodenly.

“They’re asking three-four, and I think that’s a good price. There’s a million-five in renovations…”

“We’ll take it.” He was expressionless.

“Mark!” Kerry screamed. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him a dozen times.

“Well, you’ve made two women extremely happy,” the Realtor said greedily. “Kerry tells me you’re a writer. I think you’re going to write a lot of great scripts sitting right beside this gorgeous pool! I’m going to submit your offer and call you tonight at your hotel!”

Kerry was snapping photos with her cell-phone camera. It didn’t sink in right away, but when Mark realized what was happening he sprang up and snatched it out of her hand. “Did you take any pictures before?”

“No! Why?”

“You turned the phone on just now?”

“Yes! What’s the big deal?”

He hit the off button. “You’re low on power. Mine’s dead. I’m trying to conserve in case we need to make a call.” He handed it back to her.

“Okay, silly.” She looked at him reproachfully, as if to say: Don’t be acting weird again. “Come and look inside with me! I’m so happy!”

Frazier was dozing at his desk when one of his men tapped him on his shoulder. He awoke with a thick snort.

“We got a ping from Hightower’s phone. It was on and off, real quick.”

“Where are they?”

“East Hollywood Hills.”

Frazier clawed his unshaven cheek. “Okay, we caught a break. Maybe we’ll get a second one. What’s DeCorso’s status?”

“He’s in position, waiting for authorization.”

Frazier closed his eyes again. “Wake me up when the Pentagon calls back.”

Elder was lining up his drive on the eighteenth hole. Back-dropping the green was a thirty-seven-foot-high waterfall, a magnificent way to finish a round. “What do you think,” he asked the Wynn exec. “Driver?”

“Oh yeah, let the big dog play, Nelson. You’ve been crushing it all day.”

“You know, if I par this, it’ll be the best round I ever shot.”

Hearing this, the fire captain and the CEO edged a little closer to check out the ball path.

“For Christ’s sake! Don’t jinx yourself!” the Wynn guy yelped.

Elder’s backswing was slow and flawless, and at the top of the arc-a moment before a bullet ripped through his skull, splattering the foursome with blood and brains-it occurred to him that life was extremely good.

DeCorso confirmed the kill through his sniper scope, then efficiently broke the weapon down, tossed it in a suit bag, and exited the eleventh floor hotel room with its desirable view of the pristine golf course.

When they got back to their suite, Kerry wanted to make love, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He begged off, blaming the sun, and retreated to take a shower. She kept nattering through the door, too excited to stop talking, while he let the powerful shower drown out the sound of his crying.

The Realtor had told Kerry that Cut, the restaurant in their hotel, was to die for, a comment that made him wince. She pleaded to go there for dinner, and anything she wanted, he was going to give her, though his fervent desire was to hide in their room.

She looked stunning in her red dress, and when they made their entry, heads turned to see if she was a celebrity. Mark carried his briefcase, so the betting-man scenario was an actress meeting her agent or lawyer. This skinny fellow was surely too homely to be her date, unless, of course, he was filthy rich.

They were seated at a window table under a massive skylight, which by dessert time would bring the moonlight flooding into the room.

She wanted to talk of nothing but the house. It was a dream come true-no, more than that, because, she exclaimed, she never dreamed such a place even existed. It was so high up it felt like being in a spaceship, like the UFO she’d seen as a girl. She was like a kid with her questions: when was he going to quit his job, when were they going to move, what kind of furniture would they buy, when should she start acting lessons, when was he going to start writing again? He would shrug or answer monosyllabically and stare out the window, and she’d race to the next thought.

Suddenly she stopped talking, which made him look up. “Why are you so sad?” she asked.

“I’m not.”

“Yes you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

She didn’t look convinced but let it pass and said, “Well, I’m happy. This is the best day of my whole life. If I hadn’t met you, I’d be-well, I wouldn’t be here! Thank you, Mark Shackleton.”

She blew him a kittenish kiss that broke through and made him smile. “That’s better!” she purred.

Her phone rang from inside her bag.

“Your phone!” he said. “Why is it on?” He scared her with his panicky expression.

“Gina needed a number if they accepted our offer.” She was fumbling for it. “That’s probably her!”

“How long has it been on!” he moaned.

“I don’t know. A few hours. Don’t worry, the battery’s fine.” She clicked ANSWER. “Hello?” She looked disappointed and confused. “It’s for you!” she said, handing it to him.

He caught his breath and held it to his ear. The voice was male, authoritative, cruel. “Listen to me, Shackleton. This is Malcolm Frazier. I want you to walk out of the restaurant and go back to your room and wait for the watchers to pick you up. I’m sure you checked the database. Today is not your day. It was Nelson Elder’s day and he’s gone. It’s Kerry Hightower’s day. It’s not your day. But that doesn’t mean we can’t hurt you badly and make you wish that it were. We need to find out how you did it. This doesn’t have to be hard.”

“She doesn’t know anything,” Mark said in a pleading whisper, turning his body away.

“It doesn’t matter what you say. It’s her day. So, stand up and leave, right now. Do you understand me?”

He didn’t respond for several heartbeats.

“Shackleton?”

He shut the phone and pushed his chair back.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“It’s nothing.” He was breathing hard. His face was twisted.

“Is it about your auntie?”

“Yes. I’ve got to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.” He fought to keep himself together, unable to look at her.

“My poor baby,” she said soothingly. “I’m worried about you. I want you to be as happy as me. You hurry back to your Kerry-bear, okay?”

He picked up his briefcase and walked away, a man to the gallows, small shuffling steps, head bowed. As he reached the lobby he heard the sound of breaking glass followed by two full agonizing seconds of silence, then piercing female screams and thunderous male shouts.

The restaurant and lobby were a whir of bodies, running, scrambling, pushing. Mark kept walking like a zombie straight out the Wilshire entrance, where a car was idling at the curb, waiting for the valet. The parking attendant wanted to see what was going on in the lobby and made for the revolving doors.

Without giving it any thought, Mark automatically got in the driver’s seat of the idling car and drove off into the warm Beverly Hills evening, trying to see through his tears.