It was funny, I thought, how much first-time sex and battle have in common, the same air of tension and anxiety, where everybody's uncertain about the outcome or even whether they really want to be there.

The bathroom door opened, and out stepped Jennie wearing no more than a fluffy white towel and her birthday suit. She walked straight to a window, turned her back to me, and stared down at the street as she used a second towel to dry her hair.

Being a perfect gentleman, I naturally turned my head and averted my eyes, at least until the instant she had her back turned. Then I peeked. In fact Agent Margold was the pride of the FBI gym, had nicer legs than I had imagined, wider shoulders, and not an ounce of flab I could see. Her skin was creamy white, although I noted a number of small scars on her arms and legs, some of which appeared to be burn marks, others were abrasions. But all in all, Jennie had nothing to be ashamed of, and I felt a strange tingling sensation in my stomach, or perhaps a little lower. She looked over her shoulder and mentioned, "I left the water running for you." She threw the towel she'd used to dry her hair in my face. "Hurry."

I went into the bathroom, stripped out of my shoes, socks, ridiculously expensive Brooks Brothers dress shirt and pants, and stepped into the shower. A minute later, I was all lathered up when I heard the door open. Through the glass I saw Jennie step into the bathroom. I don't really like showering alone and said, "Can you do my back?"

She laughed. "The food's at the door. My wallet's in here."

"Then I'll do my own back."

"Maybe another time." She left with her wallet. Goodness.

I emerged from the bathroom three minutes later, with a towel wrapped around my midsection. Jennie was seated on the far bed, stripping the skin off a banana, which is always a little suggestive, and was still wearing no more than a towel, which is better yet.

The cart was parked between the two double beds, and I sat on the other bed and poured myself a cup of coffee. So there we were, two mostly naked people in a hotel room with four hours to kill, separated by nothing more than three feet, a foodcart and, possibly, differing intentions. But truly there is a Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, and food is higher on the list than sex, though not always.

Jennie pointed at the TV "Did you see any updates about the murders?"

"I saw some guy talking about something called sexual dysfunction."

"Is that a problem for you?"

"Absolutely not."

"You're sure?"

"I have the other problem."

She smiled." I meant a problem with commercials about sexual dysfunction, contraceptives, or feminine hygiene products?"

I smiled and dug into the fries.

She asked, "Does it make you nervous to talk about sex?"

I replied, "Have you seen any good movies lately?"

"It's a perfectly healthy topic, you know. Men can be a little strange about it. Adults should be open about these things."

"My thoughts exactly. So… are you a Democrat or a Republican?"

"You're weird."

She reached over and turned on the radio, moved the dial around a while, and settled on a station playing a romantic ballad by Pete Seeger.

I finished my omelet.

She said, "I love this song." She stretched and added, "I need to lay down."

So she lay back on her bed, I polished off the fries, and I lay back on mine. After a moment, I asked her, "Where did all those scars come from?"

"I was quite the tomboy when I was younger."

"You should've stuck to skirts and dolls."

"Yeah, well, you should see the other guy."

"Right."

Silence.

Eventually, Jennie said, "This is… a little uncomfortable, isn't it? Should we have gotten two rooms?"

"Well, what can I say? We're partners."

"I don't often do this… even with partners."

"I hope not."

Silence.

I said, "Why aren't you married?"

"Why should I be?"

"Elizabeth thinks you should be married. Elizabeth thinks you should have a house in a burb, and ten kids screaming in the back of a red stretch minivan."

"Elizabeth should mind her own business." After a moment she asked, "What about you?"

"Ask Elizabeth."

She laughed.

She turned on her side and faced me. "Look, I enjoy you as a partner. You're very smart and very quick. I also think we've become friends."

"Right. I think-"

"Shut up. Let me finish. We've only known each other a day. It's been a very long and tense day, and… both our emotions are running high. If we… well, if we take the next step… and I'll admit I'm thinking about it, too… Sean, I don't do this casually."

"That's not what Elizabeth told me."

A strawberry bounced off my forehead. "Cut it out."

"I always send flowers."

She smiled. I thought we were on the cusp of something. Maybe. So far, I had been the perfect gentleman. I had put down the toilet seat, and even taken the other bed. I don't believe in throwing myself at women, and she was telling me she didn't believe in throwing herself at men, which meant one of us had to get over it and make the first move, or we'd both walk out of here with our beliefs intact. So, going where no man had gone before-or I hoped very few-I stood up and took a step toward her bed.

Suddenly we both heard a loud bleeping sound.

We looked into each other's eyes a moment. She said, "It's mine."

"No-they're both going off."

"Shit." We raced back to our clothes and scrambled around for our cell phones. Jennie found hers first. "Margold."

I got mine. "Drummond."

Phyllis was on the line. "Where are you?" she asked.

"I'm… nearby."

"They… they struck again. It's very bad, Sean."

I had assumed so from her tone. In fact, her voice sounded shaky, and I thought she had been crying. "Tell me about it."

"Well, we… we should have considered… but we didn't. It's the one thing we weren't guarding against."

It suddenly hit me. "The families."

Phyllis said nothing, which said everything.

"Whose?"

"It's… they… Mark Townsend's wife."

"Shit." I felt really stupid. Worse, I felt terrible. Why hadn't I figured this out before?

Phyllis said, "Please, get there right away It's important for Mark to know, at this moment, that we in the Agency… that we.. ."

A long silence ensued while Phyllis discovered what she wanted to say. Eventually, she informed me, "I've known Mark and Joan nearly two decades. They have a daughter in college… Janice. I've… well, we're very…"

"I'm on my way. I will find these people, Phyllis."

"Do that. I mean it." She hung up.

I began dressing. Jennie was pulling up her pants with one hand, and with the other she held the phone to her ear and listened to the details of what had happened, and where.

I already knew what had happened. Literally and figuratively, we'd been caught with our pants down. Too late, I realized what had been gnawing at me. For Jason Barnes, this was a vendetta- both personal and borderless-like the Hatfields and McCoys, a blood feud with lines of vengeance that radiated beyond the government officials he believed had wronged his father. Barnes was a man of faith, a fundamentalist par excellence; he would subscribe to a biblical retribution, an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth; a mother for a father and a parent for an angry son.