Of course, if any of them was seated in that chair in an interrogation room, everything that they had ever hoped for was already lost.

They had to do whatever they were going to do completely anonymously. It had to appear, even to someone looking hard at it, that it stemmed from something other than Ashley.

The more Sally considered it, the harder it seemed. And the more impossible the task, the more desperate she felt. She could sense things unraveling around her; not just her job, which she’d neglected, but her relationship and ultimately her entire life. It was as if the uncertainty over Ashley’s safety made everything else impossible.

Sally shook her head. She looked down at the paper in front of her. She was abruptly reminded of taking tests in law school. In a way, this was the same. The only difference was this time failure wasn’t about a grade. It was about their future.

She made a note: Purchase multiple sets of surgical gloves.

That would at least limit their DNA and fingerprint exposure, whenever they figured out what they were going to do.

She made a second note: Go to the Salvation Army store and purchase clothing. Don’t forget shoes.

Sally nodded to herself. You can do this, she told herself. Whatever it is.

The distasteful man that Catherine and Ashley were going to meet was standing by the door of his battered Chevy sport utility vehicle, puffing on a cigarette and pawing the gravel of the parking lot with his right foot, like an impatient horse. Catherine immediately spotted his red-and-black hunting jacket, and the NRA stickers adorning the back of the SUV. He was short, with a receding hairline and a barrel chest, a beer-and-a-shot sort of guy, Catherine thought. He once worked in a mill or a manufacturing plant, but had discovered a far more consistent source of income.

She pulled her car across from his and told Ashley, “Stay here. Keep your head down. If I need you, I’ll give a wave.”

Ashley, for her part, wasn’t sure what to make of the situation. She nodded and pivoted about, so that she could keep her eyes on Catherine.

Catherine got out of the car. “Mr. Johnson, I’m guessing?”

“That’s right. You must be Mrs. Frazier?”

“Indeed.”

“I don’t usually like coming out like this. I prefer to do my business at regular shows.”

Catherine nodded. She doubted that this statement was true, but it was part of the charade.

“I appreciate your taking the time,” she said. “I wouldn’t have called if the situation weren’t pressing.”

“Personal use? Personal protection?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“You see, I’m a collector, not a dealer. And usually I merely trade and sell at authorized gun shows. Otherwise, I’d have to have a federal permit, you understand.”

She nodded. She recognized that the man was speaking in a sort of code, to skirt the law.

“Again, I’m appreciative,” she said.

“You see, a regular gun dealer has to fill out all sorts of paperwork for the Feds. And then there is the three-day waiting period. But a gun collector can swap and trade without those requirements. Of course, I’ve got to ask: You are not planning anything illegal with this weapon?”

“Of course not. It’s for protection. You can’t be safe enough these days. So, what do you have for me?”

The gun dealer moved to the back of his truck and opened the hatch. Inside there was a steel-sided suitcase with a combination lock, which he rapidly opened. On a bed of black Styrofoam there was an array of handguns. She stared down at them with little comprehension. “I’m not much of a gun person.”

Mr. Johnson nodded. “The forty-five and the nine-mill are probably way more than you need. It’s these two that you want to consider: the twenty-five automatic and the thirty-two revolver. The thirty-two short barrel is probably what you’re searching for. It’s more, ah, feminine-sized. Six shots in the cylinder. Just point and shoot. Very dependable, reliable, small, not heavy, anyone can handle it. Fits in a purse. A real popular gun with the ladies. Drawback is it doesn’t pack the biggest punch, you know? Bigger gun. Bigger payload. That’s not to say that a shot from a thirty-two won’t kill you. It will. But you see what I’m saying?”

“Of course. I think I’ll take the thirty-two.”

Mr. Johnson smiled. “Good selection. Now, I’m required by law to ask you whether you plan to take this gun out of state.”

“Of course not,” Catherine lied.

“Or transfer it to another person.”

Catherine didn’t even glance toward Ashley waiting in the car. “Absolutely not.”

“Nor do you intend to use the weapon for any illegal purpose?”

“Again, negative.”

He nodded. “Sure.” He stared at Catherine, then over at her car. “I already have your contact information. And I’ve got the serial numbers. If someone, like an ATF agent, were to come asking questions, you know they would find answers with me. I wouldn’t be pleased to provide them, but I would. Otherwise it would be me looking at doing some time. You understand what I’m saying? You got a husband you want to shoot, well, that’s your business. I’m just saying that-”

Catherine held up her hand. “My husband passed away some years ago. Please, Mr. Johnson, be reassured. This is merely protection for an older woman who lives alone in the countryside.”

He smiled. “Four hundred dollars. Cash. And I’ll throw in a box of extra shells. Find some place to practice. It can make all the difference in the world.”

He took the weapon and placed it in a cheap leather case. “That’s free,” he said and handed the gun to Catherine as she handed over the money.

“One other thing you might want to keep in mind. When you decide to pull that trigger,” he said slowly, lifting his own hands into a shooter’s position, “make sure you use both hands to steady yourself, assume a comfortable stance, take a deep breath, and then one more thing…”

“Yes?”

“Empty it. All six. You decide to shoot something, or someone, Mrs. Frazier, well, there’s no such thing as going halfway, you know. It’s only in Hollywood that the good guy can shoot a gun out of some bad dude’s hand, or wing ’em in the shoulder. Not in real life. You make that choice, aim dead center in the chest and then make sure you don’t leave any questions behind. You want to shoot something? Then you kill it.”

Catherine nodded. “Words to live by.”

The assistant dean of the Art History Department only had a few moments, she told me. It was her regularly scheduled office hours, and there was usually a backlog of students outside her door. She grinned as she outlined the panoply of student excuses, complaints, inquiries, and criticisms that awaited her that day.

“So,” she said, leaning back in her chair, “what is it that has brought an actual adult to my door this day?”

I explained, in the vaguest terms I thought would manage to keep her talking, what I was interested in.

“Ashley?” she said. “Yes. I do remember her. A few years ago, no? A most curious case, that one.”

“How so?”

“Excellent undergraduate grades, a real artistic streak, a hard worker-she had an excellent part-time position at the museum-and then it all seemed to fall apart for her in a most dramatic fashion. I always suspected some sort of boy trouble. Usually that’s the case when promising young women suddenly go into a tailspin. In most cases, these sorts of problems can be solved with copious amounts of tissue for the tears, and several cups of hot tea. In her case, however, there was all sorts of talk, rumors mostly, throughout the department, about how she got fired from that job, and the integrity of her academic work. But I’m not comfortable speaking about these things without her authorization. In writing. You don’t by any chance have a document such as that with you, do you?”

“No.”

The dean shrugged, a small, wry smile on her lips. “I am limited then in what I can tell you.”