He rented a car and drove northeast for two hours, into the heart of the Allegheny Mountains. Finding Reedsburg on the map was almost as difficult as finding it on a highway. As he crested a hill on the edge of town, he saw a mammoth plant in the distance.

a large sign said.

Two large smokestacks emitted a chalky dust that drifted slowly away with the wind. At least it’s still operating, Clay thought.

He followed a sign to downtown and found a parking place on Main Street. Wearing jeans and a baseball cap, with three days’ worth of dark stubble, he was not worried about being recognized. He walked into Ethel’s Coffee Shop and took a seat on a wobbly stool at the counter. Ethel herself greeted him and took his order. Coffee and a grilled cheese sandwich.

At a table behind him two old-timers were talking football. The Reedsburg High Cougars had lost three straight, and both of them could do a better job calling plays than the head coach. There was a home game that night, according to the schedule on the wall near the cash register.

When Ethel brought the coffee she said, “You just passing through?”

“Yes,” Clay said, realizing that she knew every one of Reedsburg’s eleven thousand souls.

“Where you from?”

“Pittsburgh.”

He couldn’t tell if that was good or bad, but she left with no further questions. At another table, two younger men were talking about jobs. It was soon clear that neither was employed. One wore a denim cap with a Hanna Cement logo on the front. As Clay ate his grilled cheese, he listened as they fretted over unemployment benefits, mortgages, credit-card bills, part-time work. One was planning to surrender his Ford pickup to the local dealer who had promised to resell it for him.

Against the wall by the front door was a folding table with a large plastic water bottle on it. A handmade poster urged everyone to contribute to the “Hanna Fund.” A collection of coins and bills half-filled the bottle.

“What’s that for?” Clay asked Ethel when she refilled his cup.

“Oh, that. It’s a drive to collect money for the families laid off out at the plant.”

“Which plant?” Clay asked, trying to appear ignorant.

“Hanna Cement, biggest employer in town. Twelve hundred folks got laid off last week. We stick together around here. Got those things all over town—stores, cafes, churches, even the schools. Raised over six thousand so far. Money’ll go for light bills and groceries if things get bad. Otherwise, it’ll go to the hospital.”

“Did business turn bad?” Clay said, chewing. Putting the sandwich in his mouth was easy; swallowing was becoming more difficult.

“No, the plant’s always been well run. The Hannas know what they’re doing. Got this crazy lawsuit down around Baltimore somewhere. Lawyers got greedy, wanted too much money, forced Hanna into bankruptcy.”

“It’s a damned shame,” said one of the old-timers. Coffee shop conversations were shared by all present. “Didn’t have to happen. The Hannas tried to settle the damned thing, made a good-faith effort, but these slimebags in D.C. had ‘em at gunpoint. Hannas said, ‘Screw you,’ and walked away.”

In a flash, Clay thought: Not a bad summary of events.

“I worked there forty years, never missed a paycheck. A damned shame.”

Because Clay was expected to say something to move along the conversation, he said, “Layoffs are rare, huh?”

“The Hannas don’t believe in laying folks off.”

“Will they hire them back?”

“They’ll try. But the bankruptcy court is in charge now.”

Clay nodded and quickly turned back to his sandwich. The two younger men were on their feet, heading for the cash register. Ethel shooed them away. “No charge, fellas. It’s on the house.”

They nodded politely, and as they left both dropped some coins into the Hanna Fund. A few minutes later, Clay said good-bye to the old-timers, paid his bill, thanked Ethel, and dropped a $100 bill into the water bottle.

After dark, he sat alone on the visitors side and watched the Reedsburg Cougars do battle with the Enid Elk. The home stands were filled almost to capacity. The band was loud, the crowd rowdy and eager for a win. But the football failed to hold his attention. He looked at the roster and wondered how many players listed there were from families hit by the layoffs. He gazed across the field to the rows and rows of Reedsburg fans and wondered who had jobs and who did not.

Before the kickoff, and just after the national anthem, a local minister had prayed for the safety of the players, and for the renewed economic strength of the community. He had ended his prayer with, “Help us through these hard times, O God. Amen.”

If Clay Carter had ever felt worse, he could not remember when.

Ridley called early Saturday evening, quite upset. She had been unable to locate Clay for four days! No one at the office knew where he was, or if they knew they wouldn’t tell her. He, on the other hand, had made no effort to call her. Both had more than one phone. Was this any way to advance a relationship? After listening to the whining for a few minutes, Clay heard something buzz in the line and asked, “Where are you?”

“St. Barth. In our villa.”

“How’d you get down there?” Clay, of course, had been using the Gulfstream.

“I chartered a smaller jet. Too small, actually, we had to stop in San Juan for fuel. It wouldn’t make it here nonstop.”

Poor girl. Clay wasn’t sure how she knew the number of the air charter service. “Why are you down there?” he asked, a stupid question.

“I was so stressed out because I couldn’t find you. You can’t do that again, Clay.”

He tried to link the two—his disappearance and her escape to St. Barth, but quickly gave it up.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I left town in a hurry. Patton French needed me in Biloxi. I was too busy to call.”

A long pause as she debated whether she should forgive him right then or wait a day or two. “Promise me you won’t do it again,” she whimpered.

Clay wasn’t in the mood for either whining or promising, and he found himself relieved that she was out of the country. “It won’t happen again. Relax, enjoy yourself down there.”

“Can you come down?” she asked, but without any feeling. Sort of a perfunctory request.

“Not with the trial in Flagstaff getting close.” He doubted seriously if she had an inkling about the trial in Flagstaff.

“Will you call me tomorrow?” she asked.

“Of course.”

Jonah was back in town, with many adventures to report from the sailing life. They were to meet at nine at a bistro on Wisconsin Avenue for a late and long dinner. Around eight-thirty, the phone rang, but the caller hung up without a word. Then it rang again, and Clay grabbed it as he was buttoning his shirt.

“Is this Clay Carter?” a male voice asked.

“Yes, who is this?” Because of the sheer number of disgruntled clients out there—Dyloft and Skinny Ben and, now, especially, those irate homeowners up in Howard County—Clay had changed numbers twice in the past two months. He could handle the abuse at the office, but he preferred to live in peace.

“I’m from Reedsburg, Pennsylvania, and I have some valuable information about the Hanna company.”

The words were chilling, and Clay sat on the edge of his bed. Keep him on the phone, he said as he tried to think clearly. “Okay, I’m listening.” Someone from Reedsburg had somehow acquired his new, unlisted phone number.

“We can’t talk over the phone,” the voice said. Thirty years old, white male, high school education.