"You've been lying there for an hour. You should come out and eat something. I'll make some soup and sandwiches…"

"I'll be out in a while," he snapped.

"I'll call you when the soup's ready."

Her horror of the moment, and her astonishment, were real, for the most part. But there was a part of her, a small kernel at the edge of her mind, that had known that Burt was a spy, that there were other spies connected to him, and that Roger had, when he was young, done some spy things. Had been involved.

She hadn't known when she married him-hadn't known for a few years, after Carl was born, but small parts and pieces of it started to come out when Roger began drinking. He would talk to relieve stress-and then say he couldn't talk about why he was stressed. He began hinting of bigger forces, of untellable but important issues.

She thought of it simply as self-aggrandizement in the face of a life that had started sloping downhill after his junior year in college, when it became obvious that he wouldn't be the big hockey star at UMD.

But more pieces kept coming out, and then one night, thoroughly in the bag, he simply told her: we're a family of spies. She hadn't really believed him, and had gone to Burt, and Burt had simply sat in his chair, smiling at her, and Melodie had twinkled, and they'd said, "That was all a long time ago. Best not to think about it anymore."

She'd bought that-even when it turned out that it probably hadn't been so long ago…

Roger had continued to drink, the divorce had followed, and Burt and Melodie had come to her rescue. The previous owner of the frame shop was about to give it up and suggested that Jan, who was working the counter and enjoyed it, might want to buy the place. "It makes just about enough to support a family of two," he said. "If you work your butt off."

Burt helped with a down payment, and for the next ten years, all through elementary and junior high school, Burt and Melodie provided Carl's day care. She'd get him off in the morning, and they'd pick him up in the afternoon, be ready with snacks and dinners on nights when she had to work late. They'd take him to after-school activities, keep him busy.

They were, she thought, as much Carl's parents as she was; and that was why, she realized, Carl was lying on his bed like a log. The boy was in serious shock, the kind of shock you experience when a parent dies…

She hurried with the soup and sandwich.

The next few hours were a jumble.

The television never left. Maisler was all over the place, and not just local television, but on Fox, CNN, the major networks. She was afraid to leave the house, and instead, parked in front of the TV, nervously eating anything she could find. Other families were being interviewed, the talking heads said: the Spivaks, the Svobodas, the Witolds.

The FBI called, and made arrangements for an interview, tomorrow, first thing.

Grandma's and Grandpa's bodies were taken away from the house-she saw it all on TV, the bodies coming out on gurneys, in black bags-and the police didn't know when they would be released for burial.

The house was sealed, Roy Hopper told her. Nobody in, nobody out.

She took so many calls, talked to so many people, that she lost track of time. When she noticed that it was eleven o'clock, she realized that she hadn't talked to Carl for an hour or more. She went back to Carl's bedroom. "You've almost worn that bed out," she said.

"Yeah."

"I don't think you should go to school tomorrow," she said. "I think we can forget that."

"I'm going. If I don't go, it's like we're guilty of something."

"The TV people, Carl, I think it'd be-"

"I'm going," he said, stubbornly. "I can take it."

"We'll talk about it in the morning," she said.

He pushed himself up on his elbows. "Are you going to reopen the store?"

"I don't know. We've got to eat, so… we'll see."

"If you can open the store, I can go back to school."

She kissed him on the forehead. "You've been a good boy, Carl."

Chapter 30

‹l› ‹l› ‹l›

They were on the outskirts of Duluth when the call came in. Lucas took the car to the side of the street and stopped as he answered the phone: "Lucas Davenport."

"This is the person who called you at your hotel in Duluth. I have some more information."

"You're a little late. We broke things out this afternoon. We haven't got him yet, but we know who he is-"

"No, no. You mean this Roger person? You're chasing the wrong man. The man who killed the Russian-he's a boy, really-I saw him on television tonight. He was outside the house, the spies' house, where they committed suicide."

"The house?"

"Yes. Outside the house. If you get the video they had on Channel Three tonight, he's the blond boy who is hugging the blond woman. He conies into the camera scene and she gives him a hug. He's wearing a dark jacket, but it's open, he had a T-shirt underneath. He's handsome."

Nadya whispered, "What?"

Lucas shook his head at her, then said, "Look, I'm sorry, but you're going to have to come in. You can't just tell me…"

"I'm not coming in. But I will tell you two things. The first thing is-"

"I don't think that'll work," Lucas said, interrupting.

"Then the killer will get away with it, because I'm not coming in. Two things, and then I've got to run, because I'm afraid you're tracing this. First, when he tried to shoot me, I cut him on the arm with my knife. Left arm. He should still show the cut, because he bled a lot and I think I slashed him pretty good. Second, I've sent you the knife in the mail. It's still got some blood on the blade and in the grooves, and it's his blood. That should get you somewhere. I mailed it this evening at the main post office, right after the five-o'clock news, so you should get it tomorrow. I sent it to your name at the criminal apprehension office."

"I don't-"

"Good-bye." Click.

"Goddamnit," Lucas said.

"What?" Nadya and Andreno asked simultaneously.

Lucas dropped them at their hotel. Nadya said that she would cancel her flight: she would be there until they found the killer. Lucas said that wouldn't be necessary, but she insisted.

Andreno offered to cancel his flight, but had a problem-his ticket was nonrefundable, and it would cost six hundred bucks to cancel and get another.

"Take off," Lucas said. "If this is something, we pick up the kid. If it isn't, we don't. It's all over but the shoutin'."

"Well, shit, I feel like I'm running out on you," Andreno said uncertainly.

"There's not much to do," Lucas said. "If we go after him, which is still a big if, it might not be for a couple of days. We'll have to take local cops with us, and if I'm there, and Nadya… it's already overkill."

"All right. I'll take off. If you need me to cancel, call me on the cell phone."

"I think we're good," Lucas said.

Lucas went home. He hurried through the dark, pushing ninety the whole way, his flasher on top of the car. The Public Safety Department cleared him through the two highway patrol troopers still working I-35. On the way, he made phone calls:

He called Rose Marie Roux, to update her. "I'm going to need to talk to a lawyer. Tonight, if possible. See if you can get one to call me. I need to know how to handle this, if it turns out to be true." He called Del: "You working early tomorrow?"

"Three to eleven. I think I cracked the McDonald's thing."

"Three to eleven? Meet me at my office at seven o'clock. I'm gonna want you to handle something for me. Take an hour or two."

"See you then."

He took a call from John McCord, the BCA superintendent. "Why do you need a lawyer?" McCord asked. "What'd you do?"

"I haven't done anything, yet. But I gotta figure out a maneuver, and I need a guy."