“It would be more humane if we discussed this in person.”

“Humane?”

“It’s about your grandparents.”

3

THE THREAT MANAGEMENT OFFICE HADN’T CHANGED MUCH since Coltrane had last been there two years earlier – an additional desk, a couple of new computers – but it could have been painted scarlet instead of white and have had a pool table instead of filing cabinets for all he noticed when he stormed into the room. Two detectives, their jackets draped over the back of their chairs, peered up from monitors they were studying. A third man, his blue suit coat neatly buttoned, crossed the room.

“Mr. Coltrane?”

“I want to see Sergeant Nolan.”

The rigidly postured man was slender, with thin lips and narrow eyes. He held out his hand. “I’m Special Agent McCoy.” He glanced toward Jennifer, who was standing behind Coltrane.

Coltrane didn’t shake hands. “I said I want to see Sergeant Nolan.”

McCoy reached for his shoulder. “Why don’t we go over to the Federal Building and-”

“Stay away from me.”

“Mr. Coltrane, I realize you’re under a lot of stress, but-”

“Get your hand off me, or I’ll break it.”

The room became still. The two detectives braced themselves to stand. McCoy’s mouth hung open in surprise. As Coltrane’s face reddened, Jennifer stepped between them.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor. Nolan appeared at the entrance to the office, his tan blazer slightly oversize to compensate for his weight lifter’s shoulders. “Getting acquainted?”

McCoy stood straighter. “More like threatening a federal officer.”

“You implied something terrible had happened to my grandparents. You refused to tell me over the phone. You forced me to risk my life by coming here.”

“I hardly think coming to the police qualifies as risking your life,” McCoy said.

“If it was just a ploy to get me here, if there’s nothing wrong with my grandparents-”

“Time out, gentlemen.”

“Did something happen to my grandparents?”

“Yes.” Nolan glanced toward the floor. “I keep giving you bad news. I’m sorry.”

Coltrane felt as if a cold knife had pierced his heart.

“Did you phone the New Haven Police Department yesterday evening?” McCoy asked.

Coltrane directed his answer toward Nolan. “I called my grandparents several times, but I kept getting their answering machine. So I got worried and asked the New Haven police to send a patrol car over to their house to make sure everything was okay.”

“Your call was logged just after eight P. M. eastern time,” McCoy continued.

“Not you. Him.” Coltrane pointed toward Nolan. “If I’m going to hear something terrible about my grandparents, I want it to be from somebody I know.”

“There was a major freeway accident in New Haven shortly after your call,” Nolan said. “Most patrol cars were called in to sort out the confusion. By the time a car was free to go to your grandparents’ house, it was after eleven at night.”

“Quit stalling and tell me.”

“They found newspapers for Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday on the front porch. The mail hadn’t been picked up, either.” Nolan paused, uncomfortable. “They broke in and searched the house… Your grandparents were in the basement.”

Coltrane could barely ask the next question. “Dead?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Nolan clearly didn’t want to say it. “Ilkovic hanged them.”

Coltrane wanted to scream.

“The reason we’re sure it was Ilkovic,” Nolan said, “is that Federal Express tried to deliver a package to your town house yesterday. When there was nobody to receive it, the driver delivered it to a secondary address that the sender had specified.”

“Secondary?”

“Here. It arrived at the station in midafternoon, but because it was addressed to you, it went from office to office, after an all clear from the bomb squad, until someone in the Threat Management Unit recognized your name.”

Coltrane sounded hoarse. “What’s in the package?”

“A videotape.”

4

THE ROOM BECAME SMALLER. Coltrane glanced from Nolan to McCoy to Jennifer to Nolan. He felt as if he was spinning. “Videotape?”

“Like the audiotape of…” Jennifer’s voice trailed off.

“I want to see it,” Coltrane said.

“No,” Jennifer said. “Take their word for what happened.”

“I have to see it.”

“What will that accomplish?” Jennifer asked. “You know how devastated you felt when you heard Daniel on the audiotape. That’s exactly what Ilkovic wants. Don’t give him the satisfaction.”

“She’s right,” McCoy said.

“Why don’t you sit down?” Nolan said. “Can I get you a cup of coffee or-”

“Let me understand this,” Coltrane said. “Are you telling me you refuse to show me the tape?”

“No, but-”

“Then where is it?”

The group exchanged glances.

McCoy shrugged fatalistically. “A man ought to know what he wants.”

Nolan shook his head in frustration. He opened a desk drawer and removed a videocassette. “There’s a room down the hall that has a TV and a video player.”

Coltrane waited for him to lead the way.

“But I want to emphasize-” Nolan said.

“That you don’t think this is a good idea,” Coltrane said. “Fine. Now let’s go.”

Jennifer held back.

“You’re not coming?”

“No.”

“I understand,” Coltrane said. As she sank into a chair, he placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed reassuringly. “Take it easy. I won’t be long.”

He considered her another moment, his emotions in chaos, then followed Nolan and McCoy out of the office.

In the corridor, Nolan said, “You might be wrong about how soon you’re going to be back.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Ilkovic set this tape for a six-hour recording speed.”

“So?”

“All six hours are full.”

5

THE SHADOWY ROOM WAS NARROW. It had no windows. The TV was a battered nineteen-inch with a video player on a shelf underneath it. As Nolan put the tape into the player, Coltrane shifted a metal chair in front of the screen.

Solemn, McCoy shut the door.

Although the image, recorded on slow speed, was grainy, it struck Coltrane with horrifying vividness. The yellow glare of an overhead bulb in his grandparents’ basement – how well Coltrane remembered the time he had spent down there in his youth – showed his grandmother and grandfather standing on tiptoes on a bench. Their hands were secured behind their backs. Their mouths were covered with duct tape. Their aged eyes bulged from panic and from the rope that was tied around each neck, secured to a rafter in the ceiling. Coltrane’s grandfather was wearing pajamas, his grandmother a housecoat. Both had slippers, their bare heels angled upward as they braced themselves on their toes.

“My grandmother has asthma.” Coltrane could hardly speak. “That duct tape on her mouth must be agony. Look at her chest heave.”

A guttural voice with a Slavic accent spoke from behind the camera. “Are we comfortable? Are the ropes too tight? I hope I haven’t cut off your circulation.”

Coltrane’s grandfather strained to speak through the duct tape.

“Please,” the guttural voice said. “My instructions were clear. Don’t make any unnecessary motions.”

Coltrane’s grandfather stopped trying to speak. He closed his eyes and seemed to concentrate on controlling his breathing.

“Good,” the voice said. “Now I’m going to have to be rude and leave you alone for a moment. I haven’t had breakfast. I’m sure you won’t mind if I go upstairs and make a plate of those waffles you didn’t have a chance to eat. Blueberries are my favorite. I’d bring you some, but you’re occupied.”

Wood creaked, the sound diminishing, as if someone was climbing stairs.

Coltrane’s grandfather and grandmother exchanged looks of desperation. And other emotions: determination to survive, sorrow for what the other was suffering, most of all love.