It didn't make sense. I knew he was there. The man was always in his office at five. He was proverbially punctual. The joke on the Hill was that the Naval Observatory set their atomic clocks by him.

Three a.m. After an hour of failed attempts to reach Ingraham, I called Christina. As I waited for her to pick up I could see her in my mind's eye frantically pulling on clothes and shoes while juggling the phone and working her way to the front door of her apartment.

Frantic. It's the only mode Christina knows. Here is a woman who was born mult.i.tasking. She places phone calls between bites of breakfast, lunch, and dinner. She doesn't sleep, she catnaps. And if rapid eye movement beneath closed lids is any clue, even then she's planning, arranging, prioritizing.

On the fourth ring Christina's answering service kicked in. I left a message.

At 3:10 a.m. I initiated a second round of calls with identical results. Ingraham, no answer. Christina, left message. This cycle continued every ten minutes.

At four a.m. I decided it was time for the big gun. Reaching into the inside pocket of my suit coat, which was draped over the back of the pa.s.senger seat, I located the number the president gave me at Camp David. He told me it was his family cell phone number. Fewer than a dozen people in the world had it. I was the only nonrelative.

How does one store the personal cell phone number of the president of the United States? I didn't want to risk keying it into my cell phone directory. Cell phones get lost and misplaced. I had visions of an insurance salesman finding my phone on an airplane and trying to sell the president a whole life policy. Neither did I feel comfortable recording his name and number in my scheduler, at least not under his own name. I resorted to using a code name.

My first thought was HH, for Head Honcho, but I settled on Doogie. It had been the president's nickname in elementary school. There weren't many people who knew that.

I punched the digits into my phone. My thumb paused over the send b.u.t.ton.

What was I going to say when he answered?

I gave it a practice run.

Ummm . . . Mr. President? Grant Austin here. Sorry to bother you, but I'm out in California and I was chatting with a former high school buddy . . . well, he's not exactly a buddy, more like a rival . . . but anyway, he happened to mention that there was going to be an attempt to a.s.sa.s.sinate you and . . . well . . . sir . . . he says you know about it. Do you?

For several indecisive moments I stared at the send b.u.t.ton trying desperately to think of nonlunatic phrases.

A moment of clarity dawned. This wasn't about me. Whether or not I came across as a lunatic wasn't the issue. The issue was national security. The issue was alerting the president regarding a threat to his life.

Immersed in a wave of patriotism, I pressed the send b.u.t.ton. The connection was made. I heard ringing at the other end of the line without knowing where the other end of the line was. The residence? The Oval Office? Air Force One? Poolside for the president's morning swim?

Keep it simple and straightforward, I told myself. Alert the president to the facts. Save the details-the unbelievable details-for the Secret Service to laugh at.

Three sharp tones sounded. A recorded message kicked in informing me that the number I'd dialed had been disconnected or was no longer in service.

I was certain I'd dialed correctly. I checked the display against the number in my scheduler. They were identical.

Myles Shepherd's voice haunted me. "And that cell phone number the president gave you at Camp David? Disconnected."

How had he known?

Seven a.m. The first students began arriving at the high school. Through tired eyes I watched as they drove into the senior parking lot. I recognized their kind. Overachievers. I could see it in their stride. School couldn't start early enough for them. A new day was another chance to shine, another day to add more flowery kudos to their already burgeoning bouquet. They were the student government leaders, the newspaper editors, the club presidents. The elite.

I never counted myself among them, though I a.s.sociated with them. Even now I continue to work with them. Washington, D.C., is populated by a national roll call of valedictorians, every one of them determined to prove themselves.

Christina is one of them. Graduated top of her cla.s.s at Midland High in Odessa, Texas, with a repeat performance at the University of Texas as a political science major.

Why hadn't she returned my calls?

I dialed again, having lost track of the number of messages I'd left on her answering machines, both cell and office.

"You've reached the desk of Christina Kraft, aide to Chief of Staff Ingraham. Leave a brief message and a number where you can be reached. I'll return your call at the earliest opportunity."

Straining to keep the frustration from my voice I left another message. "Christina . . . Grant. What's going on? I can't stress how urgent it is I talk to you. This isn't a personal call. Call me back . . . please."

A motorcycle blasted past me with an earsplitting roar, drowning out the last of my message. I repeated it.

As the sun broke over the mountains, I squinted against its glare. The flow of arriving students was increasing. I watched as broods of them-looking like Eloi marching blandly to their doom-filtered between rows of cars heading for their homerooms. That is, if they still had homerooms like we did in my day.

A breeze swept through the car. It didn't stink. I was acclimating to the odor of this world. In exchange, the memory of my brush with glory was dimming.

What hadn't dimmed yet was the terror I felt when I was curled up on the floor.

I am Semyaza. Tremble before me.

Reaching for the door latch, I got out of the car. Like it or not, I had to face the fear. I had to go back to that cla.s.sroom. I had to know if what I'd experienced was real.

I waited ten minutes after the buzzer for the hallways to clear, wanting to avoid the stir of odors of so many bodies, some of them pungent under normal circ.u.mstances. The reason for my delay was more than just personal comfort. I didn't want to risk retching in front of the entire student body. The run-in with the pole yesterday was enough embarra.s.sment for one visit.

Pa.s.sing open cla.s.sroom doors, I heard the familiar sounds of another school day-attendance-taking, calls for reports and homework a.s.signments to be pa.s.sed to the front of the room, chatter across the aisles.

The door to Myles Shepherd's cla.s.sroom was closed. I risked peeking inside the window.

At the front of the cla.s.s a middle-aged woman with premature streaks of gray clutched her hands and attempted to get the students' attention. She looked like someone's mother. "Cla.s.s? Cla.s.s?" Her voice had a cartoon quality to it, not quite Marge Simpson, but similar. It was obvious she didn't make her living teaching high school students.

"Cla.s.s? If I could have your attention, please . . . please, your attention . . . your teacher, Mr. Shepherd, has been delayed. Due to an accident on the freeway, traffic is backed up. Many teachers have called in. They'll get here as soon as they can. In the meantime, I've been instructed to tell you that you are to read the next chapter in your . . ."

None of the students was listening to her. As soon as they heard Shepherd was delayed, the room exploded with conversation.

High school cla.s.srooms are jungles. Survival depends on strength, cunning, speed, and wit. This poor woman had none of these qualities. They were eating her alive.

Leaving her to her fate, I made my way toward the administration building. The backed-up line out the door resembled a morning commute. Most of the kids clutched blue slips of paper, but not all of them.

"You don't have a blue slip?" I heard one of them say as I pa.s.sed. "You have to have a blue slip to get back into cla.s.s, dude. They won't let you back into cla.s.s without a blue slip."

Cutting through the line, I stepped inside.

A squat man in gray slacks, a white short-sleeved shirt, and with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair spied an unauthorized movement out of the corner of his eye. His head snapped up to challenge me.

I remembered him from yesterday. Vice Princ.i.p.al Benton, or Benson. It took him a moment to recognize me. When he did, his scowl transformed into a public relations grin. "Austin! Didn't expect to see you again so soon! To what do we owe the honor of this encore appearance?"

"Actually, I was just in Myles Shepherd's room and-"

"Ah yes! Come in! Come in!"

He took me by the arm and led me through a swinging gate into the restricted area of administration central, presumably so the students in line wouldn't overhear our conversation.

My long-dormant student senses tingled wildly. I'd seen students taken by the arm by the vice princ.i.p.al into the administration inner sanctum. Some of them were never heard from again.

"Several of our teachers are running late," Benton or Benson said in a hushed tone. "Big accident on I-8. Traffic is backed up for miles."

As though I needed proof, he led me to a portable TV sitting on top of a row of file cabinets. A square-jawed reporter wearing headphones was describing the situation from high overhead in a news helicopter. At the bottom of the screen a banner announced that this was BREAKING NEWS.

The reporter was shouting into his microphone in order to be heard over the noise of the helicopter. ". . . backed up all the way to the Grossmont summit. As you can see, all four lanes are blocked. Eastbound traffic is at a complete standstill."

While the reporter described every commuter's worst nightmare, the camera panned, providing a jittery view of three long lines of cars. At the front of the line a lone vehicle was engulfed in flames. The inferno generated a column of black smoke that stretched to the heavens.

". . . battling the fire. The flames have been so intense, the firefighters have had to back away. All they can do now is let it burn itself out. As you can see, a second crew is just arriving . . ."

A fire truck with flashing red lights could be seen inching its way up the emergency lane, slowed by onlookers who had gotten out of their cars to see what was going on.

"When we first arrived at the scene, we witnessed several bystanders attempting to fight the flames with handheld fire extinguishers in a valiant attempt to rescue the driver. The intense heat drove them back. (Ronny, see if you can zoom in on the men standing beside the truck.)"

The picture on the screen bounced crazily, then zoomed toward three men staring helplessly at the inferno. Their shoulders were hunched. "As you can see, they're still holding the spent extinguishers in their hands."

Zooming in closer, the camera swung toward the vehicle. Flames feasted hungrily on the car's interior.

"Poor devil . . . never had a chance," Benton or Benson commented beside me.

A few feet from us a large woman in a floral print blouse gasped loudly, then again, as though she was trying to catch her breath. Her hand flew to her mouth as she stared with disbelief at the television. "Oh . . . oh . . . oh!"

A coworker rushed to her side. "Roberta, what is it?"

Like a fish out of water the distraught woman gasped repeatedly. "The . . . the . . . plates!" she cried. "Look . . . look . . . at the . . . license plates!"

All eyes in the room squinted at the television screen, trying to see what Roberta saw. Gasps and wounded cries exploded across the room.

"One of your teachers?" I asked Benton or Benson.

The vice princ.i.p.al stood motionless. Tears ran down his cheeks, which was just downright scary. Vice princ.i.p.als don't cry, they make people cry.

The woman who had a.s.sisted Roberta now turned her attention to him. "Mr. Benson? Maybe you'd better sit down."

Stone monuments aren't easily moved. It appeared Benson hadn't heard her. He stood with his jaw slightly askew as though its hinge was broken.

I glanced again at the television to see what would have this kind of effect on him. Centered on the screen was the blackened license plate of the burning car. Even though it was charred, the raised letters were readable.

CA TCHR.

Benson was weeping openly now and it was painful to watch. "The Kiwanis gave him that license plate when he was voted teacher of the year," he said to me.

I felt a chill.

"Who?" I asked.

I already knew, but I had to hear it.

"Shepherd," Benson said. "Myles Shepherd."

CHAPTER 3.

The pillar of smoke from the burning car could be seen from the high school parking lot. Myles Shepherd dead. I couldn't believe it.

Usually when people say that, they haven't yet come to terms with reality. I really couldn't believe it. Not after what I'd seen yesterday in his office. I had to see for myself.

I started the car with one hand while the other checked my phone messages.

No messages. No missed calls.

I hit the steering wheel with the palm of my hand. Why wasn't anyone returning my calls? It was as though Washington, D.C., had been wiped off the face of the planet.

Heading west on Madison Avenue, I was in sight of the freeway overpa.s.s at Second Street within a few minutes.

I pulled into a gas station convenience store on the opposite side of the street as the off-ramp. Throwing the gearshift lever into park, I took off across the street at a dead run.

On any other day crossing Second Street this way would be suicide. But with no cars exiting the freeway, the road was so clear of traffic it was spooky.

I sprinted up the deserted exit ramp, drawn toward the black column of smoke. The smell of burned rubber stung my nostrils. I crested the ridge and entered the scene I'd viewed on the television minutes before.

No one paid attention to me. Crowd control focused on the side of the accident with all the cars.

I watched as firemen encircled the burning car frame, hoses shut off, but at the ready. The three would-be heroes stood off to one side holding spent fire extinguishers, their slumped posture unchanged.

Moving in as close as I dared, I did what I came to do. I peered inside the burning car, the driver's side. It took me a moment to sort out all the black-on-black shapes amid the smoke and flames, but eventually I made out the head of the driver. It was featureless and slumped to one side, as though he had nodded off. There was nothing to suggest a desperate attempt to get out of the car.

But was it Shepherd?

The body was burned beyond recognition.

The uncertainty of not knowing gnawed at me. I found it impossible to believe that the blackened corpse in that car was the same man who less than twenty-four hours earlier had burst into Technicolor.

Then again, as the effect of yesterday's fireworks dimmed, I was finding it increasingly difficult to believe it had actually happened.

I stared again at the blackened human form, almost daring it to prove me wrong, to do something unexpected, unexplainable, something supernatural like turning into a raven and flying away.

The blast of a horn nearly brought me out of my skin. Behind me a white news van was rumbling up the exit ramp. As I stepped aside bold letters scrolled in front of me-KTSD Channel 2 Today's News When You Need It Most. It rocked to a stop. The front cab doors flew wide and the side door slid open as the van disgorged its human contents.

A thin man in khaki shorts scurried up a ladder to the roof, where he began preparing a satellite dish for transmission.

A husky, red-bearded lumberjack of a man tumbled out swinging a video camera onto his shoulder like it was some sort of weapon. He began shooting as he advanced on the burning wreck.

From inside the van a foot appeared wearing stylish leather sling-back pumps. It was an attractive foot attached to an attractive leg. And then another.