The Best American Mystery Stories 1999

Brendan Dubois Netmail from Playboy

By the time my guns were cleaned and the dinner dishes were put away, it was night. I went upstairs to the spare bedroom that I’ve turned into an office, carrying a glass of wine. The office is lined on all sides with bookshelves, and between the two windows is a metal desk I picked up at a yard sale last summer. I flipped on the computer and dialed into the Mycroft-Online computer service.

E-mail waited for me.

I sat back in the chair, wineglass in my hand. With my other hand I reached for the mouse. Something was wrong. I shouldn’t be getting e-mail. My phone number was unlisted, I picked up the mail — usually addressed to Occupant — at the post office once a week and no one at all had my e-mail address. But there was a little blinking icon in the center of the menu screen, showing a chubby mailman waving a letter at me.

I looked out the windows at the darkening fields and woods. Relax, I thought. It was undoubtedly spam, electronic junk mail sent to everyone who subscribes to my online service. I sipped from my glass and clicked on the icon, and after a confusing jumble of letters and numbers came this message:

A tingly feeling raced up my arms. Sopwith 12 was my online ID. This wasn’t an anonymous spam. I put the glass down and thought for a moment, then clicked on an icon shaped like a New England town hall, complete with white pillars. A message came up that said MEMBER DIRECTORY and I typed in ANON666. Within a second or two, the answer came back: No such member is listed on Mycroft.

I logged off, shut down the computer, and stared out the dark windows for a while.

It was spring in Pinette, Maine, and the next morning I was outside, working. I had chainsawed down a dead oak a few weeks back and had cut logs in two-foot lengths. I was now splitting each log for firewood. It was satisfying work, and I soon stripped off my sweatshirt and T-shirt, keeping on only my work boots, jeans, and the nine-millimeter Smith & Wesson, which was strapped to my side.

With each fall of the ax, I thought about my brief electronic message. I had been in Pinette for a while, and had gotten used to my new life. There was always work to be done on the dozen or so acres I owned, and I had the television and the public library and mail-order books. Still, I sometimes woke up at two or three in the morning, imagining I could hear the far-off sounds of Boston or New York or London or Tokyo.

It was the computer that saved me from turning into an unshaven recluse who cut paper dolls in his off-hours. Sitting in my tiny upstairs room with the computer linked to the Internet, I was wired to the whole globe. It wasn’t the real thing, but with me exiled to this little Maine town and forbidden from traveling, it was the next best thing. I explored colleges, universities, museums, and scientific laboratories. I saw the view from cameras set up in Bombay, Antarctica, and at the top of Mauna Loa in Hawaii. I visited the home pages of college students, X-rated film stars, and bagpipe players. It was intoxicating, traveling down those little bundles of fiber. But I had one hard-and-fast rule: Thou shalt lurk — thou shalt not contact.

There are chat rooms, discussion areas, and mail server lists along the tangled wires of the Internet, and while I poked my head into these areas every now and then, I never said hello. I’ve read enough amusing stories of frat boys pretending to be sex-crazed housewives on the Net to know that I should never trust anyone on the other end of a computer terminal.

So, no messages, no mail.

But now someone was contacting me, with a message that made me want to load every weapon in the house.

Later that day I went into town and picked up my mail at the post office, a counter in the Pinette General Store. The store is in a big rambling building that was built in 1825 and has wide floorboards, worn down in the middle by generations of Mainers. Everything from battery cables to soup mixes to motor oil is stocked on the sagging shelves. It’s owned by Miriam Woods, a woman with dark brown hair and even darker eyes lightly framed by wrinkles. She was widowed five years ago when Mr. Woods was downing a pine tree and misjudged the tree’s fall. Besides being the store’s owner, the postmaster (or postmistress, I can’t keep track of what’s what nowadays), and one of the town’s three selectmen (or selectwomen), Miriam is also my unofficial intelligence source for what’s going on in town.

She had on jeans and a University of Maine sweatshirt, both of which fit her nicely. The store was nearly empty of customers when she reached under the counter and handed over my thin collection of mail. After the usual chitchat of small-town happenings, I said, “I was wondering if I could borrow your son for a while.”

“Eric?” she asked.

“Well, yes, unless you have a couple of stealth sons living in your basement, that’s the one I’m talking about.”

She took a rubber band, snapped it in my direction, and asked, “How about tonight?”

“Tonight sounds good.”

“How does dinner sound?”

“Sounds better,” I said. “And dessert?”

Another snapped rubber band, this one striking my shoulder. “Hardly. This is a school night for Eric. He’ll be in.”

“Fine, then. Rain check?”

A wink. “Always.”

The mail took about a minute to flip through and dispose of, and I went home to shower and change. I had time to kill before heading over to Miriam’s, so I turned on the computer and logged onto Mycroft-Online. The chubby, cheery mailman waved his hand at me.

You Have Mail.

I double-clicked on the icon and up popped another message:

Some possible replies flitted through my mind, most of them containing words that the Catholic nuns had once said would tarnish my soul. So with thanks to the Sisters of Mercy, I sent a quick answer back:

I left it at that. I spent the next hour exploring the computers of the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena and downloading photographs of Jupiter.

Before dinner I was in Eric’s room as his mom hurled herself around the kitchen downstairs. Like most relationships, mine and Miriam’s is based on trust, friendship, and treaties. One treaty revolves around the kitchen. I stay out of it while she prepares dinner, and when I’m cleaning up she’s on the couch with a magazine or newspaper.

Another treaty — unknown to her but one I set up a while ago — dictates that I treat her fourteen-year-old son, Eric, as a real person, not as an impediment to my “getting lucky,” as some men tactlessly put it. In return, he speaks to me in whole sentences and doesn’t ask embarrassing questions about my future plans with his mother. He’s tall, almost as tall as I am, and slightly gangly, with his mother’s brown hair and eyes. His room is tiny and cluttered, the walls bedecked with posters of sports stars and space shuttles. But there’s a tidy place around the computer, which he bought a couple of years ago after working long hours at the local lumberyard.

He’s had far more experience exploring cyberspace than I have. I got right to the point when I sat down on his bed.

“I have a little computer problem, one I don’t want your mother to know about,” I said.

“Oh?” he said, smiling at being taken into my confidence. “With hardware or software?”

“Mailware, if there’s such a word,” I said. I pulled out two folded pieces of paper from my pocket, which were the first and second e-mails from Anon666, with the body of the messages cut away. I passed the papers to him.

“I got these messages this week, and I want to know where they’re from,” I said. “I don’t know anybody called Anon666.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, looking over the papers. “What online service are you using?”

“Mycroft.”

He looked at me, smirking. “Come on, Owen. Get out of the Steam Age. Upgrade yourself, why don’t you?”

“One of these days, but not now. What does this tell you?”

He looked over the papers and said “Hmm” a few times and then passed them back to me. “Black and deep.”

“Excuse me?”

“Look at the header.”

“The what?”

Eric, God bless him, was patient with his elders. “Just above where it says To and From. The header information, all those letters and numbers. That tells you how the message got from the sender’s computer to your computer. There are a number of systems and computers it passes through to get to your little computer, hooked up to your girlie-man online service. The header tells you how it got there.”

I looked back at the numbers and letters.

“And what does it tell you?”

“Third line down. Phrase there says ‘anon.service.se.’ That tells me that whoever sent this message sent it through a mail-forwarding computer system in Sweden. Message goes there and all other forwarding info gets stripped out, so when it pops up in your mailbox, you don’t know who sent it. Could be someone in Siberia, could be someone in Portland. Perfect way to send anonymous messages.”

“Any way of finding out more?”

He laughed and leaned back in his chair. “That’s what I mean by black and deep. This is serious spookland stuff. Even if you sniffed around in Sweden you wouldn’t find them. Maybe you could get the sender’s real ID from the National Security Agency folks down in Fort Meade — man, they’ve got computers you wouldn’t believe.”

A friendly voice from downstairs. “Hey, guys, come on down! It’s getting cold!”

“In a sec, Ma,” Eric said. He looked at me and said, “What’s the matter, Owen? Someone sending you death threats?”

I shrugged. “Just junk mail.”

After dinner Miriam walked me out to my truck. It was a cool night, but there was a warm smell of things growing and coming back to life that promised a long summer. We walked hand in hand and she turned to me as we reached my truck’s door.

“Thanks for a good night,” I said.

She squeezed my hand. “My pleasure, sir. And did you get what you needed from Eric?”

“Sure did,” I said. “I had a little bug with my computer and he fixed it for me.” Which was mostly true.

“And how long did it take him?”

“About thirty seconds.”

She laughed. “That’s my Eric.” And as quick as her laugh, her mood turned somber. “Computers will take him far, if I can ever afford to get him into college.”

“There are scholarships, you know, and grants.”

“You must not read the papers anymore, Owen,” she said bitterly. “We’re in an era of self-sufficiency. Every man, woman, and fatherless son for himself.”

“Don’t fret,” I said. “I’m sure something will come up.”

I moved closer and she whispered, “Just a quick kiss, all right? I don’t want my son seeing a man’s hands up my shirt.”

A soft kiss to her lips. She squeezed my hand again and whispered, “Next week he’s off visiting his uncle and aunt in Vermont. Come back for dinner then.”

I kissed her again. “I’m getting hungry already.”

I took a detour home, driving up Phelan’s Hill, the highest peak in town. On top is a fire tower, manned in the summertime. Two other cars were up there, so I parked on the far side of the dirt lot. Young love hates to be disturbed.

From the windshield I could make out the sparse lights of Pinette. I settled back into the seat of the truck. Off to the right, by the fire tower, was a collection of barbecue stands and wooden picnic tables. Two years ago, there had been nothing here except a gravel parking lot, and some townspeople asked the selectmen to purchase the picnic tables and barbecue stands to turn the fire tower into a picnic area. The board had refused. But a month or so later, an anonymous donor had given the necessary funds to the town, and the picnic area was built.

Below the hill, in town, was a new Little League field. Outstanding mortgages for three or four elderly residents had been discreetly paid. There was a well-stocked food bank at the Congregational church. All taken care of anonymously.

And in a couple of years, a certain young mother would find in her mailbox a hefty check made out to her son, from something called the Northern Maine Woods Scholarship Organization. In the cover letter, it would state that these scholarships were reserved for the sons and daughters of lumber workers killed in the woods, kids who had expressed a desire to study computers.

The thought made me smile. Maybe it should be called an association instead of an organization. That sounded better. From one of the cars I heard soft cries, and the honk of a horn as an arm or leg pressed against the steering wheel. Another smile.

Not a bad place to be. I had adjusted to exile in Pinette and liked being anonymous, especially anonymous with a fat bank account. That account helped with a lot of things, including odd guilt pangs from old times.

But now I had an e-mail buddy on the other end of the telephone wire. That would have to be taken care of, and soon. I started the truck and headed back home.

The next day I received a reply from my anonymous correspondent:

I looked at the screen, thinking of the complexity of computer systems and the men and women who have sweated to wire the world. The people who had placed me in this little town had made a number of promises; chief among them was the assurance that I would never be charged with anything, ever again.

But someone out there knew something. How?

I moved my fingers to the keyboard and sighed. I sent my reply.

Then I switched off the computer and went through the house, gathering my collection of pistols, rifles, and shotguns. In my backyard I set up targets and shot away all afternoon until my ears rang, even through ear protection, and the forefinger on my right hand developed a blister.

I ate grilled-cheese-and-tuna sandwiches over the kitchen sink and spent the evening in front of the fire, cleaning my guns. Usually the scent of gun oil and the precision of the cleaning process calm me down and bring everything into soft focus, but not tonight.

The next day I chopped more wood, set up a new bird feeder at the edge of the woods, and changed the wiper blades on my truck. But all day I kept glancing up at the office window on the second floor of the house, as if I half-expected to see a mailman there, waving at me.

After washing my hands for the fourth time, I trudged upstairs and flipped on the computer, smiling wryly. Surfing the Net was usually my reward for a hard day of work, something to look forward to. My not-so-friendly correspondent had changed that.

The icon popped up. Just for once, couldn’t the programmers at Mycroft make that mailman a mailwoman? Just for a change? I double-clicked.

My mailbox contained two pieces of mail. I called up the first, from Anon666. This one had a name, evidence, and it indicated that four files were attached to it. These were graphic files, with easy-to-understand instructions on how to view them, which I followed. The images scanned themselves into place on my computer screen. Each was a picture of young boys or girls, or both, involved in activities that would make the picture takers instantly eligible for ten to fifteen years in jail. I closed the files and trashed them, and then went out and washed my hands again. When I came back, I opened up the second message:

I was smiling as I typed my reply:

I whistled as I went downstairs. The idiot on the other end had undoubtedly screwed up the address. Sopwith 21 or Sopwith 11 would be getting blackmail notes next. If so, he would get what he deserved.

I decided to call Miriam.

The postmistress and first selectwoman of Pinette lay in bed with me, one foot idly tracing my leg. Her head was on my shoulder and the room smelled musky and warm, and she was gently interrogating me.

“We’ve known each other for a while, now, haven’t we,” she murmured.

“Uh-huh,” I said, staring up at the dark ceiling, my eyelids fluttering open and shut.

“And all I know about you is that you’re retired, you made some good investments at a younger age, and you’re living off that.”

“You’ve got a good memory.”

I winced as she turned her foot and started scraping my leg with an untrimmed toenail. “I want to know more.”

“What?” I said in mock anger. “And take the mystery and romance out of our relationship?”

She paused for a moment, then giggled and said, “I’m beginning to feel like one of those threatened women in dopey made-for-TV movies. You know, lonely woman falls in love with dashing stranger, and by the fourth commercial she’s being found in pieces in shallow graves in New Jersey.”

“Do you feel threatened?”

“Hmmm,” she said, burrowing into my shoulder. “Not yet. But I would like to know more about you.”

I stifled a sigh. Conversations like this inevitably end up losers. “Okay. Tonight and for one night only. Ask three questions and you get three answers. All right?”

“Really?”

“Yep, and to show you how fair I am, I won’t count that as a question. Go ahead.”

I could feel her body tense as she thought, and then she said, “Where are you from?”

“Valparaiso, Indiana.” True.

“Where did you work before you came to Maine?”

“A company called Seylon Systems. It’s now defunct.” Which was true, if the fact that its other founding members were now dead or in jail equaled defunction.

“And what did you do there, for Seylon Systems?”

“I solved problems.” Okay, that one was a stretch, but true enough.

“What kind of problems?”

I pulled the blanket over my chest. “Sorry, that’s question four.”

“Bastard,” she said, grabbing my nose and yanking it back and forth. We wrestled under the covers until we were both out of breath. I was resting on top of her when she said, “You know, I might go to Kyle Brewer one of these days.”

“And why would you be bothering the chief of police?”

She slapped my ribs. “Maybe I’ll have him do a trace on you and get the real skinny.”

I kissed her on the nose and said as gently as I could, “Miriam, please don’t do that.”

Instant defensiveness. “Why not?” Her voice lowered. “Are you in trouble?”

“Not at all,” I said. “And I want to keep it that way.” I wondered how this was going to go and what she was going to say, and she surprised me by holding me tight.

“Then I’ll stay quiet,” she said.

A few days later I started digging up ground to plant some corn, a rough and dirty job. After another over-the-sink meal and a long shower, I went up to the computer.

You Have Mail.

Tap-tap went my fingers on the keyboard. Up popped a new message:

The walls of the room seemed to close in about my shoulders, making me feel like I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. If Anon666 went through with his threat, I could expect a search warrant or two to be executed at my little house. Then questions would be asked, and re-asked, and after that... well, I wouldn’t have to worry about my freshly planted corn crop. The raccoons or woodchucks would get it. Not me.

I typed my reply:

Then I shut off my computer and proceeded to get drunk.

The next day I went down to the cellar, clicking on humming fluorescent lights. The workbench filled with tools and odd bits of junk stood in one corner next to a pile of cardboard boxes and a pegboard holding hammers, screwdrivers, and an awl. I inserted the awl into two of the peg holes and moved the board on well-oiled hinges to uncover a safe in the concrete wall. I unlocked it and reached inside, past souvenirs and odds and ends. I pulled out bands of money, fifties and hundreds. Mad money, so to speak.

I counted and separated the bills, put them back, and went upstairs. My computer sentinel was cheerful as ever. Today’s message was:

I rubbed at my jaw and sent the reply with a slap to the keyboard:

I stayed online for a while, digging around in the computers of the Department of the Interior, and was surprised when a chime went off.

You Have Mail.

Damn. Anon666 must have been sitting at his computer, waiting for a reply. What an eager fellow.

My reply was just as quick:

I went into town to have lunch with the postmistress. I dropped off a few envelopes, which included money orders to the local Girl Scout and Boy Scout troops, as well as to a convent of nuns up the road who were having problems with a leaky roof. The money orders were signed Mark Twain.

When I got back that night, I had an answer.

My reply was quick and to the point: See you there.

Then I went downstairs and got to work.

Saturday morning about 4:00 A.M., I swung out of bed and got dressed in the dark, shivering from the cold. The next several hours were going to be challenging, but not so challenging as they would be were Anon666 farther away. If he were in New York City or Dallas or Los Angeles, the risk would have been greater.

In my cold, dark kitchen I picked up the toolbox and went out to the rear porch. I waited in the night, listening to the crickets. A half-moon illuminated the backyard. My truck was parked off to the side by the barn. I wondered if my watchers were still, invisibly, on the job, and hoped I wouldn’t find out. Near the porch door I picked up a knapsack and slung it over my back. Something inside gurgled as I adjusted the straps. I went outside through the porch door and right past the truck, keeping the barn between me and the front yard, and then I was into the dark of the woods.

I started to jog along a path I had carefully cut through these woods. Though it was dark, I had placed at eye level little glowing dots that marked the trail. The knapsack bounced on my back and I heard a flurry of wings as I disturbed something in my path. After about twenty minutes I emerged onto a swampy bit of land that opened up to a well-lit parking lot and row upon row of cars — Powell’s Motors, in Fyfield, the next town over from Pinette. I knelt down and undid my pack. From the pack I took out a car battery, a small can of gasoline, a set of Maine license plates, and a hot-wiring kit. In another fifteen minutes I was on the road, heading south, the rising sun at my left shoulder.

Harvard Square, Cambridge. Noisy, with lots of cars. Downtown Pinette doesn’t even have a traffic light. I sat on a park bench near the entrance to the subway (they call it the T) and waited, the toolbox in my lap. I had on a Red Sox baseball cap, jeans, and a bright red windbreaker. Colorful. A trio of musicians was playing for spare change near the T entrance — trumpet, violin, and guitar doing something awful to Mozart. I looked at faces, wondering which belonged to the man — could it be a woman? — who had been torturing my life.

Then I knew. A man came up to me, grinning widely. He wore khaki slacks, heavy boots, and an Army jacket. His beard was about three steps beyond stubble and his hair was long. He looked like the kind of guy who puts his hair in a ponytail on dates. He sat down next to me and said, “Well,” in a cheerful voice.

“Excuse me?”

He looked straight ahead, still smiling. “Glad to see you’re on time. I take it the money’s in the toolbox?”

“It is.”

“So, why don’t you hand it over and we can both be on our ways?”

I rubbed along the metal edges of the toolbox. “You’ll get it, but I want some questions answered.”

“Huh,” he said. “Not part of the deal.”

“No, but it’s the deal that’s here. Some questions and answers, and then you’ll get the box.”

He shrugged. “Why the hell not. Fire away.”

“I take it you’re Anon666.”

He smiled again. “The same. But why don’t you call me... Tom, for now.”

“All right, Tom it is.” I shifted so I could look at him better. “This was all a scam, right? You probably sent out hundreds, maybe thousands, of those messages by electronic mail, trying to get a nibble. Right?”

He winked. “That would be giving up trade secrets, now, wouldn’t it?”

“But that’s what happened, right? You’re skilled in computers and you saw an opportunity. Send out untraceable threats to thousands of addresses and hope that someone who is feeling guilty or who likes privacy will pay up. Right?”

No answer, just a smirk. I went on. “So, why did you do it? Running low on funds?”

He laughed and put his hands in his jacket. “I did it because I could, that’s why. There are kids out there, two or three years out of college, who work at companies designing software. When the companies go public, the kids are millionaires before they’re thirty. Can you believe that? Ready to retire.”

He was still smiling but there was an edge to his voice. “I’ve worked eighty to ninety hours a week, in three start-up companies, and all three have gone bust. I’ve got enough stock options to paper a room with. So I saw a way of using my skills to make some extra income. New skills are taking over society, and I’m pleased to be able to use them. Now, that’s enough chitchat. Open that box, just a crack, so I can see the money.”

I lifted the lid and angled the toolbox around so that the bundles of $100 bills were visible, and his grin got even wider. “Nice, very nice,” he said. “How about handing it over?”

I closed the lid, snapped it shut, and said, “One more question and it’s all yours.”

The smile started to fade. “Make it quick.”

“You married, Tom? You got kids, maybe live with a girlfriend?”

He held out a hand. “I’m all by my lonesome, but that will probably change next week. Say, at Club Med?”

Another laugh and I passed him the toolbox. I said, “It’s all yours.”

He grabbed it and headed to the subway entrance without looking back.

I waited a few seconds, ditched the cap and windbreaker, and followed.

He lived one stop away, near Porter Square. Shadowing him was almost too easy. He was focused on the toolbox with that delighted smirk on his face. I kept him in view from an adjoining car and trailed him when he got off in a residential area with big Victorian houses that had been divided into apartments. I winked at a couple of kids scurrying by on bicycles.

He bounded up the front steps of a large white house and let himself in with a key. I waited up the street a bit, leaning against an oak tree. Cars were parked up and down both sides of the roadway. I stood there, hands tucked into my pants pockets, thinking of Tom and that little phrase he had used.

What was it? Something about new skills taking over society and his being pleased to have them. Yeah.

Even though I was expecting it, the explosion on the upper floor of the old Victorian made me jump.

Both windows blew out to the street with a rocketing blast that echoed a few times. Even a part of the roof, black shingles flying, was peeled away by the force. A ball of flame and smoke roared up through the roof, car alarms started blaring, and there were screams from people running on the sidewalk as pieces of wood and glass fell to the street and bounced off car roofs.

I smiled and walked away. There’s something to be said for old skills, too.

That night, safely back in Pinette, I was in Miriam’s arms when she said, “What is it with you? You’ve been grinning ever since you got here.”

“I’m a happy guy, that’s what.”

“Happy about what?” she asked, rubbing slow circles on my back.

“Happy that I took care of a job today, one that’s been bothering me for awhile.”

Her hands pressed deeper. “And what was the job?”

“Hmmm,” I murmured, burrowing underneath the blankets. “It’s a secret.”

“What?” she said, with mock dismay. “And you can’t tell me?”

“Well, I could...” I said, letting my voice trail off.

“And why not?”

I tickled her ribs and she jumped. “Because if I told you, then I’d have to kill you.”

She giggled and gently tapped my face. “Some joke.”

I kissed her. Some joke.

Three days later FBI agents knocked on my door. I had just finished washing the kitchen floor when I heard their strong rap-rap on the screen door to the porch. I went out, wiping my hands on a towel, and there were two of them, in dark blue business suits, holding up their badges.

“Federal Bureau of Investigation, Mr. Taylor,” the older one said. “I’m Special Agent Cameron, and this is Special Agent Pierce. Mind if we come in?”

“Not at all,” I said, and they walked in with me. “Sorry about the floor, guys. I just washed it.”

Agent Cameron’s hair was thinning on the sides and graying, and the younger one, Agent Pierce, wore his black hair in a crewcut. I understand they’re coming back into fashion.

“Can I get you guys anything to drink? Water? Soda?”

They both shook their heads and the older agent said, “Do you mind if I get to work, Mr. Taylor?”

“Not at all,” I said, sitting down at the kitchen table with that day’s Portland Press Herald. Agent Cameron left the kitchen and I heard him go upstairs as the younger agent sat across from me. I spread open the newspaper and said, “How do you think the Red Sox will do this year?”

No reply. I looked up to see him staring at me with disgust.

“Have I said something that offended you, Agent Pierce?”

“You and what you’ve done are offensive, Taylor,” he said. His hands were placed on the table in front of him, and his fingers were thick and stubby.

“All done in the service of my country, or so I was told,” I said as I turned a page.

“Don’t tell me you still believe that,” Agent Pierce said, nearly spitting out the words.

“Why not?” I asked.

Agent Cameron came back into the kitchen. “Upstairs is all in order. You still have the agreed-upon number of firearms?”

“I do.”

“If you don’t mind, I’ll go down to the cellar.”

“Be my guest.”

Agent Pierce and I glared at each other, then I went back to my newspaper. Agent Cameron came back twice, to announce searches of the barn and my pickup. A few minutes after that he and Agent Pierce stood in my kitchen, and the older agent said, “Everything appears to be in order. No violations. No evidence that you’ve left town. And how is life in this little town treating you, Taylor?”

There were a lot of possible answers to that question, and I chose one that seemed pretty neutral. “I’m getting used to it.”

For the first time, I saw Agent Cameron smile. “Just be glad we didn’t place you in upper Alaska or the Texas panhandle. At least the weather here is relatively moderate.”

I smiled back. “Ain’t it the truth.”

As they turned to leave Agent Cameron stopped and said something that made my knees lock: “Oh, if you have a moment, there is a matter we’d like to discuss with you. It concerns a bombing death in Cambridge.”

“Oh?”

The younger agent said, “Have you heard about it?”

“Something in the paper yesterday. Some computer worker. Right?”

“Very right,” Agent Cameron said. “A powerful blast. It was fortunate that the other two apartments in the building were empty at the time. The explosion made identifying the body... extremely challenging. We’d like to talk to you about it.”

I clasped my hands behind my back, ensuring that they wouldn’t shake. “Go right ahead.”

Agent Pierce frowned. “Not here, Taylor. Down in Cambridge.”

“Excuse me?”

Agent Cameron said, “We’d like your expertise. Look over the scene, check out the few fragments we found. Maybe you could offer us a few leads.”

The kitchen floor seemed to sag beneath my feet. “Do I have to?”

Agent Cameron shrugged. “Consider it a favor.”

I made a show of looking around my house. “Well, gentlemen, I did a favor for you folks some years ago that ended up with me being exiled to a town that doesn’t even have a bookstore. I’m afraid my favor quotient is used up.”

Agent Pierce glared some more and Agent Cameron merely shrugged. They left and drove away, and though I felt like dancing around the house with glee, I kept still.

You never knew who might be watching. Or for that matter, who might be getting a message.