We Know

We reached the second-floor hall, and she pointed at the hatch and disappeared into her room. I took a moment to collect myself; I was still a bit jumpy from the cell-phone exchange. The Mystery Caller had sent the second Nokia from a different location and paid cash again. No one at that store had remembered him either. Both of the Nokia accounts had been prepaid and were equally unsourceable. Whoever I was up against knew the steps of this particular dance.

I climbed into the attic, squinting in the faint light, at first unsure of my eyes. The boxes containing Frank's possessions were gone. I searched the space to see if they'd been moved behind a beam or to the far side of the air-conditioner unit. Bewildered, I kept looking around as if the boxes were going to warp back into existence. Who the hell was shuffling through the darkness like a stagehand between acts, leaving telltale photographs, speaking cryptically over delivered phones, stealing boxes out of attics? Finally conceding reality, I climbed back down and knocked on Emily's door.

"What?"

"Can I come in?"

"I guess."

I opened the door. She was lying on her belly, facing away, playing Space Invaders, using one of those new joysticks that holds a thousand retro games right inside it.

"Do you know what happened to the moving boxes in the attic?"

"Yeah, I keep LoJack on all your mom's junk. Let me pull up the GPS screen right now and we'll track 'em in real time."

"This is important," I said. She ignored me, so I crossed and unplugged the joystick.

"You're an asshole."

She looked genuinely hurt. Her eyes were tearing-I'd violated her trust after she'd done me a favor by letting me in. I'd been there myself. How had Frank always known how to handle me?

"Listen, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. I know it must be hard being uprooted like this-"

"You don't know anything. Spare me your condescension."

"Em, I need to find out if someone came and took those boxes. This isn't a game. This could be dangerous. For you, your dad, and Callie."

She studied my face a long time, deciding if she could believe me. Then she said, "I don't know anything about any boxes. I swear. If they're gone, someone could've come this morning and taken them when I was at school and my dad and Callie were at work."

"I want you to lock all the doors and windows after I leave, okay? I'm gonna look into some stuff and then come back tonight and talk to your dad and Callie."

She sat up, cross-legged, pushing the fringe of her sweater down nervously with both fists. "Okay."

"Promise me you'll lock up everything. I'm gonna give you my cell-phone number-"

"I have my dad's cell phone. He's a cop. Unlike you."

She followed me down and closed the door behind me. I waited on the front step, listening for the metallic thunk. I waited some more. I was just stepping toward the doorbell when Emily called out, "Kidding" and threw the dead bolt.

My pseudo-martial-arts class, taught on sticky blue mats in the basement of my gym, finally moved on to aikido throws, my favorite part of the session. I like aikido because it doesn't focus on punching and kicking, the crass offensive. Instead it teaches you to use your opponents' energy and momentum against them. The quick sidestep, the locked joint, the tug-and-throw that sends your off-balance attacker hurtling by. I had the skills and the reflexes for it. Fat lot of good they'd done me last night.

After, I ran on the treadmill, hoping that the pounding would clarify my thoughts, separate the specks of gold from the silt. But my troubles pursued me even here, staring out from the mounted TVs. Occasionally misspelled closed captions gave to-the-minute poll coverage. President Bilton was still trailing, but he was closing the gap. His running mate, Ted Appleton, a labor-and-farm guy from Pennsylvania, was hardworking and almost as bland as Bilton himself. But he had the same old-boy skills-the deflection, the dismissive chuckle, the snide implication-that wore overloaded voters down into submission, like besieged prom dates who'd run out of excuses not to put out. Watching Bilton and Appleton waving to filled Mountain State bleachers, I was struck by the dangerous complacency of their calculated campaign and know-better personas. Even from my own apathetic viewpoint, Caruthers's energy seemed a possible antidote.

I showered, and dressed in front of my locker, ignoring the usual guys who liked to walk around naked and pretend that no one noticed because we were all so grown-up.

In the rooftop parking lot, I chirped my auto-unlock and climbed into my pickup. Before I could get the key into the ignition, the passenger door opened and Wydell slid into the seat. He held a notepad on his knee on which he'd written, Don't talk. Your vehicle is wired.

He said, "I suppose you're wondering why a special agent in charge would bother to pay you a personal visit."

I stared at him, and he gestured impatiently.

I said, "I'm wondering why you're harassing me." On his pad I wrote, Who?