Glancing to make certain that Michael O’Connell had disappeared, Hope gestured toward the elderly woman. “Excuse, me, ma’am,” she said as gently as she could while still getting the old woman’s attention. “Excuse me…”

The woman turned warily toward Hope. “Yes?” she asked cautiously.

“I’m sorry,” Hope said rapidly. “I was on the other side of the street and I couldn’t help but overhear the words you had with that young man.”

The woman continued to eye Hope as she closed the distance between them.

“He seemed very rude and disrespectful.”

The old woman shrugged, still not sure what Hope was getting at.

Hope took a deep breath and launched her lie.

“My cat, a really cute calico, with two white front paws-I call him Socks-has been missing for a couple of days. He’s lost and I just don’t know what to do. It’s driving me crazy. I live just a block or two over.” Hope waved in a general direction indicating virtually all of greater Boston. “And maybe you’ve seen him?”

In truth, Hope didn’t like cats. They made her sneeze, and she disliked the way they looked at her.

“He’s such a cutie, and I’ve had him for years and it’s not like him to be gone this long.” The lies tripped easily off her tongue.

“I don’t know,” the old woman said slowly. “There are a couple of calico cats in my collection, but I don’t recall any new ones. But then…”

The woman’s eyes slipped off Hope and stared in the direction that Michael O’Connell had disappeared. She hissed, almost like one of her charges.

“I can’t be sure he hasn’t done something evil.”

Hope adopted a stricken look. “He doesn’t like cats? What sort of person…”

She didn’t need to finish. The old woman took a small step back and looked Hope up and down, sizing her up. “Perhaps, you would like to come in, have a cup of tea, and meet my children?”

Hope nodded as she reached down to carry the woman’s grocery bags. I’m in, she thought. It felt like being invited to stand next to a dragon’s lair.

Scott sighed and stared out at the faded cinder-block and redbrick, low-slung high school and imagined that the same person who had designed it probably also designed prisons. A line of yellow school buses parked in front, engines running, filled the air with a distinctly harsh diesel smell. A frayed American flag had twisted around the flagpole, tangling up with the state flag of New Hampshire. Both flapped spastically in the stiff breeze. To the side was a high, rusty chain-link fence. A marquee out front carried two messages: GO WARRIORS! and SAT/ACT TESTS SING UP NOW. No one seemed to have noticed the misspelling.

Scott, too, had a copy of Matthew Murphy’s report stuffed inside his suit coat. It only hinted at the bones of Michael O’Connell’s past, and Scott was determined to put flesh to those few words. O’Connell’s high school had been as logical a place as any to start, even if their information would be ten years old.

He had spent a depressing morning surveying the world where O’Connell had grown up. Coastal New Hampshire is a place of contradictions; the Atlantic Ocean gives it great beauty, but the industry that leeched near the land where rivers empty into the sea was stolid and heartless, all smokestacks and rail stations, warehouses and smelting plants that worked around the clock. It was a little like staring at a far-too-old stripper working a down-and-out club in the middle of the day.

Much of the area where Michael O’Connell grew up was dedicated to the construction of large ships. Huge cranes capable of moving tons of steel outlined the gray sky. Hot in the summer, cold in the winter, it was the sort of place where people wore hard hats throughout the day, coveralls, and sturdy, battered boots. The people who worked in the yards were sturdy and steady, as essential as the heavy equipment they operated. The place valued toughness over almost everything.

Scott felt completely out of place. As he sat in his car, watching the swarms of high school kids emerge from the shopworn school building, he felt as if he came from a different country. He lived in a world where his job was pushing students toward all the trappings of success that America likes to trumpet: big cars, big bank accounts, big houses. The teenagers he watched filing onto the waiting buses had lesser dreams, he guessed, and were far more likely to end up in a factory, working long hours and punching a time clock.

If I grew up here, I would do anything to get out, he thought.

As the loaded buses started to roll out, he emerged from his car and walked swiftly toward the school’s main entrance. A security guard hanging by the door pointed him to the main office. Several secretaries were behind a counter. He could see past them to where the principal was dully lecturing some female student with purple-spiked hair, a black leather jacket, and ear and eyebrow studs. “Can I help you?” a young woman asked.

“I hope so,” Scott replied. “My name is Johnson. I work for Raytheon; you know, we’re from the Boston area. We are about to offer a young man a position. His résumé says he graduated from this high school ten years ago. You see, we have some government contracts, so we have to double-check things.”

The secretary turned to her computer. “The name?”

“Michael O’Connell.”

She clicked some keys. “Graduated, class of 1995.”

“Is there anything else that might help us out?”

“I can’t give out grades and other records without written permission.”

“Yes, of course,” Scott said. “Well, thank you.”

He hesitated as the young woman turned back to filing papers electronically. Scott’s eyes caught a glance from an older woman, who had emerged from a vice principal’s office just as he’d spoken O’Connell’s name. She seemed hesitant. Then, with a little shrug, she walked over to where he was standing.

“I knew him,” she said. “He’s going to get a job?”

“Computer programming. Data filing. That sort of thing. It’s not crucial, but because some of the information is connected to Pentagon contracts, we have to do some routine background checks.”

She shook her head, surprised. “I’m glad to hear that he’s straightened his life out. Raytheon. That’s a big corporation.”

“His life back then. Was it that bent?”

The woman smiled. “You might say so.”

“You know, everybody has some trouble in high school. We try to look past the typical teenage things. But we need to be on the lookout for anything more serious.”

The woman nodded again. “Yes. Petty stuff.” She hesitated.

“O’Connell?”

“I’m reluctant. Especially if he’s turned things around. I wouldn’t want to mess up his chances.”

“It would be a help, really.”

The woman hesitated a second time, then said, “He was bad news, when he was here.”

“How so?”

“Smart. Far smarter than most. Significantly so. But troubled. I always thought he was a Columbine-type kid, except Columbine hadn’t happened yet. You know, quiet, but plotting something. The thing about him that always upset me was, if he got it into his head that you were a problem, or you were in his way, or if he wanted something, then that was the only thing he would focus on. If he got interested in a class, well, he’d get an A. If he didn’t like a teacher, well, then strange things would happen. Bad things. Like the teacher’s car getting trashed. Or his class records getting screwed up. Or a phony police report filed suggesting some sort of illegal behavior. He always seemed connected somehow. But never close enough so that anyone could prove anything. I was delighted when he left this school.”

Scott nodded. “Why-” he started, but the woman finished for him.

“If you came from that household, something would be wrong with you, too.”

“Where-”

“I shouldn’t.” She took out a piece of paper and wrote down an address. “I don’t know if this is still accurate. It might not be.”