"And Xenia?"

"Same ones."

"Who are you talking about, Celeste? Which people?"

The girl stopped jumping and looked at them as if they were idiots. "The police, of course!" she said. Then, with a snap of the rope, she was off and bouncing again.

Adam and M. J. stared at the girl. "That's crazy," muttered Adam. "It's just the mentality around here. People are afraid of authority. Naturally they'd blame the police for everything."

"Fran was clearly afraid of something," said M. J.

"Of that fellow Jonah, no doubt."

By now Celeste was moving up the sidewalk, to make her second circle of the car. When she came around to Adam's side, he was ready to pose the next question through his window.

"Why does Jonah think the police killed Nicos?" he asked.

"Gotta ask him."

"How do I reach him?"

"Can't." She slapped rope in place. "He don't talk to outsiders."

"Well," sighed Adam. "That's that."

"Show her Maeve's picture," said M. J. "See if she knows her."

Adam took out the photograph and flashed it at Celeste. "Have you seen this woman?" he asked.

Celeste glanced at the photo and did a double take. She stopped jumping for a moment and bent forward for a closer look. "Sure looks like her."

"Like who?"

"Jonah's lady." With that, Celeste bounced off, away from the window.

Adam looked at M. J. in shock. "Dear God. Maeve?"

"Ask her to take another look."

They glanced back to see where Celeste was in her jump rope circuit around the car. To their dismay, the girl was halfway down the block, skipping swiftly away.

Instead of Celeste, it was Leland approaching their car. He bent to speak into M. J.'s window. "Time you got movin'," he said. "Like, right now."

"I want to talk to Jonah," said M. J.

"He don't talk to nobody."

"Tell him I'm on his side. That I only want to-"

"You want I should give your car a shove or what?"

There was a silence, heavy with the threat of violence.

"We hear you," Adam said, and started the engine. Swiftly he pulled into the street and made a U-turn. Leland was still glowering at them as they drove away.

"Not taking any chances, is he?" said Adam, glancing in the rearview mirror.

"Jonah's orders."

Just ahead, Celeste was jumping rope along the sidewalk. As they drove past, she stopped and raised her hand in farewell. Then, aware that she too was being watched, she grabbed both ends of the rope and continued her bouncing progress along South Lexington.

For two days, Dr. Herbert Esterhaus had avoided going home. Instead, he'd holed up under an assumed name at the St. Francis Arms and ordered all his meals delivered. It was a no-frills establishment, the sort of place frequented by traveling salesmen on tight budgets. The sheets were slightly frayed, the carpet well worn, and the water spewing from the faucet had a distinctly rusty tinge, but the room served his purpose; it was a place to hide while he considered his next move.

Unfortunately, he had few options to choose from.

That he'd soon be arrested, he had no doubt. The investigation into the Zestron-L theft had just begun; soon they'd be running background checks and polygraphing everyone in the lab, and he would fail the test. Miserably. Because he was guilty.

He could run. He could change his name, his identity. The way he had before. After all, it was a vast country, with countless little towns in which to hide. But he was weary of hiding, of answering to an assumed name. It had taken him ten years to feel comfortable with "Herbert Esterhaus." He loved his job. His work was valued and respected at Cygnus, and most important, he was valued and respected. Even by Mr. Q. himself.

Would they respect him when they learned what he had done?

He went to the window and stared down at the street. It was a blustery day, and bits of paper tumbled in the wind. Downtown Albion. All right, so it wasn't the city of his dreams, but it was home to him now. He had a house, a good paycheck, a job that kept him on the cutting edge of research. On Saturday nights he had his folk dancing club, on Sunday nights his water-color classes. He didn't have the woman he loved, but there was always the chance Maeve would come back to him. "This is my home now," he said to himself. The sound of his own voice speaking aloud was startling. "I live here. And I'm not going to leave."

Which led to his second option: confession.

It carried consequences, of course. He would probably lose his job. But once they understood the circumstances, understood he was forced into the act, they wouldn't be so hard. Not when he could name names, point fingers.

This time, by God, I'm not going to run.

He reached for the telephone and dialed Adam Quantrell's house. Confession was good for the soul, they said.

But Quantrell wasn't home, the man at the other end told him. Would he care to leave a message?

"Tell him-tell him I have to talk to him," said Esterhaus. "But I can't do it over the phone."

"What is this concerning, may I ask?"

"It's… personal."

"I'll let him know. Where can you be reached, Dr. Esterhaus?"

"I'll be…" He paused. This slightly seedy hotel? It would be proof he'd fled, proof of his guilty conscience. "I'll be at home," he said. He hung up, at once feeling better. Now that he had decided on a course of action, all the energy that had been sucked into the useless machinery of uncertainty could be redirected to pure motion. He packed the few things he'd brought-a toothbrush, a razor, a change of underwear. Then he checked out and drove home.

He parked in his carport and entered through the side door, into the kitchen. Familiar smells at once enveloped him, the scent of the Cloroxed sink, the fresh paint from the newly redone hallway. Here, in his house, he felt safe.

The phone rang in the living room. Quantrell? The thought set his heart pounding. Fully prepared to blurt out the truth, he picked up the receiver, only to hear a child's voice ask, "Is Debbie there?" He didn't hear the footsteps on the porch, or the wriggling of the doorknob.

But he did hear the knock.

He hung up on the kid and went to open the front door. "Oh," he said. "It's you-"

"Everything's fixed."

"It is?"

"I told you it would be." The visitor stepped inside, shut the door.

"Look, I can't deal with this! I never thought it'd go this far-"

"But Herb, I'm telling you, you don't have a thing to worry about."

"Quantrell's going to find out! It's only a matter of-" Esterhaus paused, staring at his visitor. At the gun. He shook his head in disbelief.

The gun fired twice, two clean shots.

The impact of the bullets sent Esterhaus jerking backwards. He sprawled against the couch, his blood sliding in rivulets across the Scotchgarded fabric. Through fading vision, he stared up at his murderer. "Why?" he whispered.

"I told you, Herb. You don't have a thing to worry about. And now, neither do I."

Thomas, as usual, was waiting at the front door to greet them. By now he seemed a built-in part of the house, as affixed to it as the mantlepiece or the wainscotting, and just as permanent. The difference was, Thomas actually wanted to be there. M. J. saw it now, in his smile of welcome, in the fatherly affection with which he helped Adam remove his coat. It was apparent they went back a long way, these two; she could almost see them as they must have been thirty years ago, the young man reaching down to assist the boy struggling out of his winter coat.

Thomas hung their jackets in the closet. "There were two calls while you were out, Mr. Q.," he said.