He'd returned to the kitchen for another beer, when Ellen Jansen, their housekeeper, returned; she'd been out having dinner with a new beau, and Weather asked, "Well, did he kiss you good night?"

"Jesus Christ," Lucas said. "I'm going for a walk."

At seven, Weather and Nadya left for the Megamall, and didn't make it back until ten. Nadya looked at Lucas and said, "Hooters," and laughed.

At bedtime, Weather took Nadya to the guest room and showed her how to plug her laptop into the phone jack and then came back downstairs and asked, "I'm sorry; have I been neglecting you?"

"You guys…" But he was mildly amused. They went around and checked doors and turned off the lights, made sure Sam was okay, both kissed him and headed down the hall to their bedroom; and then Nadya called, across the house, "Lucas, are you there?"

"Yeah…"

He walked back toward the guest room, Weather a step behind. Nadya came around a corner, still dressed. She held a finger up, and said, "I must tell you, I have not been completely truthful."

"What?" Lucas looked at Weather, who shook her head.

"Truthful. I have not been completely."

"What, uh…" Weather stepped up to Lucas and put her hand on his biceps.

"I have a shadow; this I knew."

Lucas shrugged: "So did everybody else."

"This shadow, I do not know him. He was assigned by the embassy, and he was investigating beside us. This morning, I told you, a man telephoned the embassy and asked to speak to a man in intelligence. I didn't tell you that he mentioned some… items… that told us he was genuine. He spoke in Russian. He arranged to meet the shadow this evening at the Greyhouse Bus Museum in the town of Hibbing. You know this museum?"

"Never heard of it, but it's probably the Greyhound Bus Museum. So what happened?"

"The shadow is missing. His cell phone rings, he doesn't answer. He always answers. There is a strict rule that he call back every half hour with information about destination and names and he had one of these, eh, photographic telephones, but his telephone now rings without answer and he took no photographs…"

"When was the last time they heard from him?" Weather asked. "The last moment?"

"Tonight, as he arrived at the bus museum. Since then, nothing."

"Let me make a call," Lucas said.

She was anxious, twisting her hands. "Could you hurry? People are very worried. This shadow has a daughter, but his wife died three years ago, and everybody is worried for this man and especially the daughter."

Chapter 13

Jan Walther had honey-colored hair with a few streaks of gray, a round, pink-cheeked face, and worried green eyes. She worried about everybody and everything. She worried that her son, Carl, might be gay, or into drugs. She worried that her mother would have to go to a nursing home, and about where the money would come from. And she worried most of all that she wouldn't make the weekly nut at Mesaba Frame and Artist's Supply, her store in downtown Hibbing.

The one thing she hadn't worried about much was her sex life, for, though the men came around at regular intervals-some nice, respectable guys, too-she'd firmly pushed them away and focused on the business. If a thousand dollars didn't come through the door each week, she'd be out of it.

Now the whole sex thing was coming up again. A guy who owned a steel-fabricating business, a three-year widower with a couple of kids, had come in to get a watercolor framed-a whitetail deer standing in a forest glade, its front feet in a leaf-dappled pool. He'd chatted awhile when he came back to pick it up, and then he'd stopped a couple of times, passing by, he said, just to see how things were.

She'd known him most of her life-he was three grades ahead of her in school-so they were comfortable. He hadn't asked her out yet, but he was edging up to it, and she liked him. She even liked his kids, and she wouldn't mind, after this long hiatus, getting laid again.

Which brought her back to worrying about Carl. Bill, she thought, wouldn't be too happy about a gay stepchild, if that was the situation. On the other hand, she had no reason to think Carl was gay. Maybe he was just a little slow with girls. From what she read in the papers and saw on TV, half the girls Carl's age were already sexually active, and Carl had never been on a date. He was certainly good-looking enough to attract girls, but he had that tall, willowy, clear-complected look that she'd associated with homosexuality-TV homosexuality, anyway. And something sexual was going on with him; she'd been bleaching the semen stains out of his shorts since he was twelve.

She was in that questioning mood when she saw the cut on his arm. She'd come home late-she kept the place open late two nights a week, trying to make that thousand-dollar nut-and she'd heard him in the shower. A strange time to take a shower, she thought; had he been up to something?

She unpacked a sack of groceries, then heard the pipes bang as the shower was turned off. She headed into the back hall a minute later, just as Carl came out of the bathroom in Jockey shorts, carrying his clothes. He jumped when he saw her, and shied away, and that's when she saw the cut.

"Carl," she began, then frowned. "What's that on your arm?"

"Where?"

"There on your arm. What happened?"

"Oh…" He hid it, slid sideways into his bedroom. "We didn't want to worry you. I was helping Grandpa wash some storm windows, and one was cracked, and it broke on me and I cut myself. It's all right now."

"Let me see…"

"Mom, jeez…" But he turned his arm.

The cut was clean, but the stitch holes were still evident. "Oh, God, Carl…" He didn't tell his mother about a cut like this? It made her feel like a failure.

"Mom, this is what we thought would happen," Carl said. "That you'd worry. But don't worry: it's all taken care of. It's almost healed."

"You should have told me." A little angry with him.

"You'd just worry more. You already worry too much."

She knew she did. She sighed, and changed directions. "Are you taking somebody to the homecoming dance?" And if so, would your date be female?

"I don't know," he said. He edged deeper into the doorway, trying to escape into his room. "I don't know who to ask."

"You've got ask somebody sooner or later. You've got to bite the bullet. Don't worry, girls are never insulted by being asked. You're so good-looking, that won't be a problem anyway, believe me. You're the age where you should start."

"Well, I thought about asking Jeanne McGovern," Carl said. "She talks to me in choir quite a bit, and her brother said nobody's ever going to ask her out because she's too smart."

Jan tapped her son on the bare chest: "That's exactly the kind of girl, uh, woman, person, you know, you should ask. Smart women are a hell of a lot more entertaining than the stupid ones."

"I'm thinking about it," Carl said. "But I've been helping Grandpa out a lot…"

"You're over there all the time. What's going on?"

"I don't know. We just like to talk, and Grandma's so messed up, that I feel like I oughta help Grandpa out."

"You're a good boy, Carl," Jan said. "I just want you to be happy. Do ask this Jeanne girl, okay?"

"Okay, Mom."

He eased the door shut and left her standing in the hall. After a moment, she turned away, worried that something about him was being left undone; but also relieved. He wasn't gay. Probably. She'd have to check out the McGovern girl.

Carl got on the walkie-talkie. He'd worked out a routine with Grandpa, both of them a little excited about the small black radios: this was like the Resistance in World War II, calling from the Underground. He beeped him, beeped him again, listened.

Grandpa picked up-"Yes"-and Carl said, "Mom came home before I got out. Call and ask if I can come over. Tell her the car's got a flat."