Still, he hated to think she might consider the abbreviated version of the story a deception, even if he had done it for the right reasons. How relevant were the parts he left out anyway? His mind drifted back to when it had all begun. He decided to replay what had actually happened in his mind and compare it to what he had told her.

Hansen’s eyes were fixed on the motel television, on which a morning show was being broadcast. A plump, cheerful woman was teaching the audience how to whip up healthy desserts. But his mind’s eye was seeing the inside of a small apartment, furnished with IKEA furniture—all the rage in the underfunded graduate school community—and a woman named Morgan Campbell, whom he had dated for many months, but with whom he had never reached the level of infatuation he already felt for a woman named Erin Palmer.

25

“SO WHAT DO you have planned today while I’m killing myself changing bedpans and dealing with asshole doctors?” said Morgan Campbell, already knowing the answer. “Staying in?”

Kyle Hansen nodded. “Another brutal day of thinking.”

Morgan shook her head as she adjusted her white nurse’s uniform, which he had to admit she filled out quite nicely. “Well, don’t hurt yourself,” she said enviously.

Sitting around thinking about quantum physics and computer logic did seem like a cushy job, Hansen knew. But he really did find it brutal most of the time. Even so, it wasn’t wise to complain to someone who had to deal with a cranky boss or physical labor. The truth was that when he was engaged in physical labor, he was in heaven compared to the torture of trying to attack a problem mentally for hours on end. It was agony. And only the occasional epiphany made it all worthwhile. Not only did these come far too infrequently, but even after he had hit on an astonishing insight to move things forward, the next unsolvable problem would immediately present itself.

He had read a description of the life of a novelist, and decided his life wasn’t too far different. Writing is easy, Gene Fowler had famously observed. All you do is stare at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead. Kyle knew this was true of theoretical physics as well. But there was no way Morgan would ever understand this, and he couldn’t very well whine about staying home in his cushy apartment suffering all day.

“Dinner tonight?” asked Morgan.

He sighed. “Maybe. Let’s play it by ear. I’ll call you around three.”

Hansen planted a perfunctory kiss on her lips and closed the door to his apartment gently behind him. They had been dating for nine months now, and he suspected they both knew it wasn’t working all that well. He didn’t believe in love at first sight, but after nine months of dense dating, and spending maybe half of their nights together, no spark had ignited. He couldn’t imagine what might change. They knew each other very well, and either they were capable of falling madly in love with each other or not—in this case not.

Which actually was a good thing when he really thought about it. Morgan seemed pretty dead set against children. Not that they had had too many talks about their possible future—another telltale sign. Her not wanting to have children was a deal breaker as far as he was concerned.

When he had been fourteen, an aunt, much younger than his mother, had moved nearby with two toddlers in tow. Until that point he had had few experiences with kids, and those few had been negative, mostly involving sitting in airplanes while unruly toddlers kicked the back of his seat for an entire flight, or having them wail nearby and ruin his meal in a restaurant.

But these two kids, Michael and Jana, had visited often and spent the night frequently. He had forged an instant bond that only strengthened as they aged. They were adorable. Endlessly charming and amusing. He had always loved dogs, but he grew to love tiny ambulating humans even more, who were always saying adorable things and who saw the world in such fresh and interesting ways.

So it was good it wasn’t working out with Morgan, because in their hearts they both knew it was time to move on. He needed to find someone with whom he could settle down, and Morgan was a trap. Comfortable but not exciting. The sex and companionship were nice, so instead of having to spend time and psychic energy on the dating scene, he could focus on his work. But if he wasn’t careful, he could find himself waking up in three or four years without anything having changed in the relationship. He needed to grow some balls and end this. It was the humane thing to do for both of them, and he didn’t think this was just a rationalization.

A loud rap on the door broke Hansen from his thoughts. He pulled it open, certain he would find Morgan standing there, having forgotten to tell him something. Instead a tall, distinguished-looking man of about forty appeared, his short hair prematurely peppered with white. “Mr. Hansen?” he said, his voice soothing and confident. Not waiting for a reply he added, “My name is Steve Fuller.”

“What can I do for you?” said Hansen.

“I’m glad you asked that,” said Fuller smoothly, with an insincere smile. And then, too fast for Hansen’s eyes to follow, Fuller’s right hand darted from his side, where he had concealed a tiny syringe, and jabbed a sharp needle through Hansen’s slacks and into his upper thigh.

Hansen felt himself go wobbly and lowered himself to the carpet while he could still cushion his landing.

“As it turns out, you can do quite a lot for me,” said Fuller, and these last words were as ephemeral to Hansen as writing on water as he slipped into a dreamless oblivion.

26

INSIDE A ROOM at the Saguaro Inn, Kyle Hansen’s mind was wrenched back into the present and his heart leaped to his throat.

At first he couldn’t grasp why this had happened, searching for a cause for this sudden arrhythmia and panic. But an instant later he realized what his subconscious, and his racing heart, had realized already: a picture of Erin Palmer was on the television he had been facing. He grabbed the remote beside him and cranked up the volume.

Erin’s picture filled the entire screen, while the unseen female anchor of the local Tucson news station did a voiceover: “… and a reward of fifty thousand dollars has been offered for any valid information about the location of Miss Palmer, who is thought to be in Arizona or adjoining states. Authorities have also said that this is not a recent photo of Miss Palmer…”

Bull, thought Hansen. The photo looked as if it had been taken yesterday.

“… so she could now have a different hair color, style, etc. If anyone thinks they have seen this woman, or has any information as to her whereabouts, please call nine-one-one, or the number on the screen.”

The message ended and returned to the morning show where a short, balding man was now talking about his toy train collection—the largest in the country.

Kyle threw himself from the bed and began dressing. As he did he heard the shower stop. He rapped on the door and then opened it to find Erin toweling off. She looked self-conscious for just a moment, even though the towel was draped around parts he had seen very closely the night before, and in his opinion were far too flawless for any self-consciousness.

“Your picture was on TV,” he blurted out. “They’re offering a reward for any information that can help find you. Which means that every cop in the Southwest is looking for you as well.”

Erin’s jaw dropped. Kyle turned away to give her some privacy as she hurriedly finished toweling off and began to dress. “How is that possible?” she asked.

“Steve Fuller must be very well connected. And he’s pulling out all the stops. You’ve done worse than threaten his life. You’ve threatened his very being. His personality. His mind. Apparently he’s taking this personally.”