Zeb looks at him and shakes his head.

Rory’s lips tremble. ‘My mom and dad fight almost every day. Mom keeps telling Dad that his work is too dangerous. I know some kids whose Moms and Dads don’t live with each other anymore, and I don’t want to be like them.’

He sniffs, wipes a tear, takes out some books from his school bag and does his homework. Seven years old, the weight of the world on his shoulders, and he has the presence of mind to do his homework in a park on a sunny New York evening.

Lauren spots them from her bedroom window as they approach the mid-rise entrance. She hasn’t been able to figure Zeb out; none of them have been able to. She’s not sure a loner, a self-contained person like Zeb is the right company for Rory. As they come closer, she observes Rory skipping and smothers her protective instincts. Do nothing for now, she thinks.

Andrews hasn’t much to tell Zeb when he calls him. The FBI will come back to Andrews when they have something – exactly like Broker said it would pan out.

The next day, he decides to check out Holt’s last known address, Jackson, New Jersey, home to Six Flags Great Adventure and about an hour away from New York. He knows it’s probably a long shot, but he’s already weary of inaction. He leaves a message for Cassie that he’s going out and heads for the nearest Enterprise to rent a car.

An hour later he’s in a Cherokee on I-78, heading toward New Jersey via Garden State Parkway. With the wind in his hair, his Glock, knife, and ankle gun with him, Zeb is ready. He reaches Jackson close to noon and checks out the town by first stopping for a bite at the Jackson Diner. With its retro look, the diner is representative of many such small towns, where time goes slower and the world is confined to the neighborhood.

After lunch, he tours the town, searching for realtors, and chooses a smaller one.

Zeb poses as an investor from New York looking to get away from the big, bad city. He has his cover complete with business cards, a fancy title at a venture capital firm in Manhattan and pictures of a happy, smiling family. Any calls to the firm will get routed to Broker or Andrews. Zeb has many such covers.

The realtor is too happy to help Zeb. Business is slow, ‘For Sale’ signs dot the town, and homes are not moving. The realtor drives him across the township spread across a hundred miles. It’s a nice oasis away from New York. They spend a couple of hours looking at a few choice properties within Zeb’s budget.

Zeb asks him to drive past Chesterfield Drive. The agent looks at him, a question in his eyes. Zeb shrugs and says some of his friends were looking at houses there, so he wanted to see the area.

Chesterfield Drive is not far from I-95 at one end, and the Metedeconk Golf Club is close by the other. Zeb spots Holt’s house easily. It’s a single-family home and is the only house that appears deserted. The windows are bare, newspapers piled on the porch.

The realtor notices Zeb’s glance. ‘It’s been deserted for a long time. Family home owned by some guy in the army who hardly comes back to it. No one else stays there. I left a note a year or so back, to see if he wanted to sell. Didn’t hear a peep out of him.’ Shakes his head at the injustice of a world unwilling to help him sell a house.

Zeb ignores him. He notes the single garage, the spacing between the house and its neighbors, possible entry and exit points. They come to the end of the road and turn onto Colchester Drive and head back. More viewings, more monologues from the realtor, and they’re done for the day. Zeb pays him the earnest money, promises to be back next week for a second viewing on a house, and makes his escape to his Cherokee.

Zeb enters Chesterfield Drive again and parks his vehicle a few houses away. He walks to Holt’s house, as if seeking directions, and rings the bell. He waits a while and then walks around the house, peering through the windows.

Through the kitchen windows at the back, he can make out thick layers of dust on the sink and kitchen counter. He circles the house fully, but there’s no sign that anyone’s been there recently.

He goes back to the Cherokee and prepares to drive away, but turns the engine off as a thought strikes him.

He walks back to the house and slips a note under the door. It’s a simple message – ‘I am coming.’

On the way back, he calls Broker. Broker tells him that Holt and the other two are definitely back in the USA. ‘They flew out of the Congo the second day after you left, under assumed identities. I have their biometrics coming in at JFK. I have put an alert on their debit and credit cards, and have put the word out in my network. Let’s see what bites.’

Broker hears silence from Zeb’s end, just the muted sounds of traffic. Then, ‘Pass the word to your network that I’m hunting them. Let them know I’m coming.’

‘Why? That will alert them, won’t it? Oh, I get it. You want them to be always looking over their shoulder. Dude, I like your style.’

He calls Broker again as he nears Hamilton Heights.

‘Two calls in one day? If you don’t watch out, you’ll use up your conversation quota for the whole year.’

‘Senator Hardinger,’ Zeb says.

‘What about him?’

‘His family company has mining interests in Africa and South America. Who manages them? Who all are employed there?’

‘That’s a different shark you’re going after, Zeb. You think there’s a connection? A little far-fetched, don’tcha think?’

Silence.

‘Right. I’ll dig into his background and let you know. Give me a few.’

Zeb reaches Cassandra’s apartment late in the evening and finds Rory playing on his PSP.

‘Aunt Cassie said you went out. I was hoping to get in some baseball practice. Will you be staying a few days, Zeb?’

Zeb shakes his head. ‘No, I have to go back to my apartment tonight.’

Rory’s face falls, but he doesn’t say anything.

‘Next time I come, maybe we can go camping.’

Rory lets out a shrill whoop, pumps his fist, and zips out of the room to tell his mom.

Cassandra looks at Zeb. ‘Do you have any idea what you’re getting into?’

Zeb smiles his rare smile. ‘Not really, but when has that stopped me? I need to go back to my apartment.’

‘I think Connor will want to meet you when he’s back from Africa. I’ll call you when he’s home.’

The subway carries him back to Jackson Heights, tubes full of people moving from light to dark and then light.

Chapter 5

Andrews pays him a visit a week later. They meet at a bar in downtown Manhattan, Andrews looking tired and disheveled.

‘I don’t have good news for you. I’ve been asked to back off by the FBI.’

Silence fills the space.

‘Holt is doing a deal with those bastards. In return for immunity, he’s offering a mother lode, their words, of information on Al Qaeda recruitment in the Congo.’

Zeb sits immobile, watching Andrews.

‘He contacted them as soon as he returned from Africa. He said he had vital intel on Al Qaeda in Africa.

‘Terrorism, Al Qaeda, those are the magic budget words, Zeb. Try to understand. The Feds have given him immunity in return for whatever information he can give them. What threatens our country is more important than what happened over there.’

Zeb walks away without a word.

‘You know backing off applies to you too,’ Andrews calls at Zeb’s back.

He walks a long time, seeing nothing and hearing nothing. The rage makes the city disappear, the landscape barren and shrouded in dark.

He emerges from his dark fog a few hours later to find himself sitting on his favorite bench in Central Park, near Springbanks Arch. He wonders briefly which other lost souls have sat there in the interim.