Cooper made a sound that wasn't a laugh. "Yeah."

"You know what I do, these thoughts. .h.i.t me?"

"What?"

"I pour myself a stiff drink."

"Check."

"Good. Listen, I know you want to take this on. But all we can do is our job, one day at a time. I mean, at least we're in the game. We're trying. The rest of the world is just hoping things work out okay."

"He's out there right now. Somewhere. John Smith. He's out there, and he's planning an attack."

"You know what he's not doing?"

"Huh?"

"He's not calling his best friend to agonize over whether the world is going to s.h.i.t. That's how I know we're the good guys."

"Yeah."

"Get some sleep. For all we know, Smith's attack is coming tomorrow."

"You're right. Thanks. Sorry for the hour."

"No worries. And Coop?"

"Yeah?"

"Finish that drink."

He made himself jog the next morning as planned. Cooper did five miles twice a week, hit the gym opposite days, and sometimes enjoyed it, though not today. The weather was nice enough, warmish and bright for a change, and last night's insomnia c.o.c.ktails didn't affect him as much as he'd feared. But part of the pleasure of exercise was losing himself in the physical, offlining the a.n.a.lytical side of his brain for a while and just concentrating on his breathing and the rhythm of his muscles and the beat through his headphones. This morning, unfortunately, John Smith jogged with him. The length of the run, all Cooper could think about was something he had said yesterday. He may be a sociopath, but he's also a chess master. The strategic equivalent of Einstein.

The trick was to figure out how to beat a man like that. Cooper was the top agent at arguably the most powerful organization in the country. He had enormous resources at his disposal; he could access secret data, tap phone lines, command police and federal agencies alike, deploy black-ops teams on American soil. If an abnorm had been designated a target, Cooper could kill without legal consequence-and had, on thirteen occasions. He could, in short, bring incredible force to bear...but only if he knew where to focus it.

His opponent, meanwhile, could attack wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Not only that, but even a partial success was a victory for him, where for Cooper, anything less than complete triumph was a failure. Prevent half the casualties of a suicide bomber, and you still had a suicide bomber and a lot of dead bodies.

Brooding on it made a five-mile run seem like ten. And in one of those charming little ironic moments, when he pa.s.sed the convenience store at the end of his block, he saw that the locked security roll-door had been freshly graffitied: I AM JOHN SMITH.

What you are, pal, is an a.s.shole with a can of spray paint. And man, do I wish I'd rounded the corner as you were finishing up.

Inside his apartment, he peeled off the sweaty T-shirt, caught a whiff-yow, laundry time-and headed for the shower. When he was done he flipped on CNN as he toweled his hair.

"-a significant increase in the so-called Unrest Index, to 7.7, the highest level since the measurement's introduction. The jump is largely attributed to yesterday's bombing in Washington, DC, which claimed-"

In the closet he chose a soft gray suit with a pale blue shirt, open collared. He checked the load on the Beretta-it was full, of course, but army habits died hard-and then clipped the holster to his hip.

"-controversial billionaire Erik Epstein, whose New Canaan Holdfast in Wyoming has grown to seventy-five thousand residents, most of them gifted and their families. The twenty-three-thousand-square-mile area, purchased by Epstein through numerous holding companies, has become a polarizing factor not only in the state, where New Canaan's occupants comprise nearly fifteen percent of Wyoming's total population, but in the country at large with the introduction of House Joint Resolution 93, a measure to allow the region to secede as a sovereign nation-"

Breakfast. Cooper broke three eggs in a bowl, beat them frothy, and dumped them in a nonstick pan. He toasted a couple of slices of sourdough, poured a coffee big enough to dock a yacht, slid the scrambled eggs on the toast, and squirted sriracha on top of that.

"-culminating in an opening ceremony at two o'clock this afternoon. Developed to be impregnable to individuals like Mr. Epstein, the new Leon Walras Exchange will function as an auction house. Instead of the former NYSE's real-time trading of every stock, company shares will be offered in daily auctions with descending bid prices. Final prices will be locked in according to the average at which they are purchased, thus removing the possibility-"

He'd overcooked the eggs a little, but the hot sauce made up for it. Hot sauce made up for most everything. Cooper finished the last bites, licked his fingers, and glanced at the clock. Just after seven in the morning. Even with traffic, he'd be at headquarters early enough to review the highlights of the phone taps before the weekly target status review meeting.

Cooper set his plate in the sink, dusted off his hands, and headed out. He skipped the elevator and took the three flights to the ground. It really was a lovely morning. The air was warm and rich with that ionized smell he usually a.s.sociated with thunderstorms, but the horizon was clear and bright. As he reached the car, his phone rang. Natalie. Huh. His ex-wife was many things-sincere, clever, a wonderful mother-but "morning person" was not on that list. "Hey, I didn't know you could manage to dial a phone at this hour."

"Nick," she said, and at the sound of her voice and the sob that cut her off, all light vanished from the morning sky.

And that was before he heard what came next.

CHAPTER TEN.

Cooper's apartment in Georgetown was eight miles from the house he and Natalie had shared in Del Ray. Like most DC drives, it had moments of grandeur set among long stretches of drab ugliness, all divided into agonizingly short blocks with lights at every d.a.m.n one. Add city traffic, and the eight miles usually took twenty-five minutes, thirty if you skipped 395 and stuck to surface streets.

Cooper made it in twelve.

He opted for the Jefferson Davis, a distinctly unpretty street, but four lanes each direction. The transponder in his Charger broadcast a signal that marked him as a gas man to every cop within a mile, and so he treated speed limits as jokes and red lights as suggestions. When a cascade of brake lights bloomed before him, he downshifted to third and b.u.mped the car up on the median.

He slowed when he pulled down her street-lot of kids on the block-parked, flipped off the car, and climbed out all in one motion.

Natalie was already coming out to meet him. She was dressed for work, in boots, a gray skirt to the knee, and a soft white sweater. But even though her eyes were dry and her mascara unsmudged, to his eyes she was bawling. He opened his arms and she came into them hard, threw her own around his back and squeezed. There was a humid sense to her, as though tears were coming out her pores. Her breath smelled of coffee.

Cooper held her for a moment, then stepped back and took her hands in his. "Tell me."

"I told you-"

"Tell me again."

"They're going to test her. Kate. They're going to test her. She's only four, and the test isn't mandatory until she's eight-"

"Shhh." He ran his thumbs across her palms, squeezed in the center, an old gesture. "It's okay. Tell me what happened."

Natalie took a deep breath, then exhaled noisily. "They called. This morning."

"Who?"

"The Department of a.n.a.lysis and Response." She put a hand to the side of her head as though to brush her hair back, although none had fallen. "You."

His belly was cold stone. He opened his mouth but found no words eager to come out.

"I'm sorry," she said, glancing away. "That was s.h.i.tty."

"It's okay." He huffed a breath of his own. "Tell me-"

"Something happened. At school. There was 'an incident.'" She made the air quotes audible. "A week ago. A teacher witnessed Kate doing something and reported it to the DAR."

Gifts were amorphous in children, often indistinguishable from simply being bright, which is why the test wasn't mandatory until age eight. But people in certain roles-teachers, preachers, full-time nannies-were supposed to report behavior they found particularly compelling evidence of a tier-one gift. One of many things Cooper hated about the way things were going; for his money, the world didn't need more snitches. "What incident? What happened?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. The gutless bureaucrat wouldn't tell me."

"And so-"

"And so he asked whether it would be more convenient to test my daughter next Thursday or Friday. I told him that she was only four, that you worked for the DAR. He just kept saying the same thing. 'I'm sorry, ma'am, but this is policy.' Like he was the phone company and I had a complaint about my f.u.c.king bill."

Natalie doesn't swear. The thought drifted pointlessly through his mind. "Have you talked to her about it?"

"No," she said. Then a pause. "I'll-we'll-have to. Nick, she's gifted. We know she's gifted. What if she's tier one?" She turned away, eyes finally wet, the tears he had seen the moment he arrived now there for the world. "They'll take her from us, send her to an academy."

"Stop." Cooper reached out, took her chin in his hand, turned it back to face him. "That's not going to happen."

"But-"

"Listen to me. That is not going to happen. I'm not going to let that happen. Our daughter is not going to an academy." I miss my son, her sign had read. "Period. I don't care if she's tier one. I don't care if she's the first tier zero in history and can manipulate s.p.a.ce-time while shooting lasers from her belly b.u.t.ton. She is not going to an academy. And she's not getting tested next week."

"Dad!"

Natalie and he exchanged a look. A look older by far than either of them, a look that had bounced between women and men as long as they'd been mothers and fathers. And then they broke apart to face the children sprinting toward them, Todd in the lead, Kate right behind letting the screen door bang behind her.

He dropped to a squat and opened his arms. His children flew into them, warm and alive and oblivious. Cooper squeezed them both until they nearly popped and then made sure his face was innocent as he leaned back. "Uh-oh. Uh-oh!"

Kate looked up, concerned; Todd smiled, knowing what was coming.

"Uh-oh, I gotta go! I gotta go, who's coming with me?"

"Me!" Kate, all glee.

"Me too." Todd, caught between childish joy and the first hints of self-consciousness.

"Okay then." He stretched out his arms. "Take your seats. In the event of a sudden loss of cabin pressure, oxygen masks will drop from the ceiling. Please swing from them like monkeys. Ready?"

Kate was on his left arm, body wrapped around it like, well, a monkey. Todd had his right locked, their fingers gripping one another's forearms.

"Okay. Prepare for liftoff. Three." He rocked up, then back down. "Two." Again. "One!" Cooper lunged from a squat, using the force of his legs to send them into a spin and then half hurling, half falling into it. Todd was really getting too heavy, but screw that, he just cranked harder and planted his heels and then they were going. The world was the faces of his children, Katie giggle-screaming and Todd smiling pure and wide, and beyond them a blur of green lawn and brown tree and gray car. He pushed harder, feet moving like a dancer's, arms rising wide, the kids floating now, momentum doing the work for him. "Liftoff!"

Later, he would remember the moment. Would take it out and examine it like the faded photograph of a war veteran, the last relic of a life from which he was adrift. An anchor or a star to navigate by. The faces of his children, smiling, trusting, and the world beyond a whirl of green.

Then Todd said, "I want to fly!"

"Yeah?"

"I waaaannaa flyyyiyiyiyyy!"

"Oh-kay," he said, and gritted his teeth and spun faster, one more revolution, two, and then as he came around on the third he forced his right arm up, and Todd let go of it and he let go of Todd, and he had a stutter-second view of his son in midflight, arms up and back, hair wild around his face, and then momentum spun him out of sight. Katie clutched his arm as he slowed, one rev, Todd coming to the ground, two, Todd on his back laughing, three, touchdown, Cooper's world a little wobbly as the revolution brought Katie down to b.u.mp gently against him. When he stopped he let go of her arm but kept close, waited for her to catch her balance, the endless parental quest to make sure his baby girl didn't fall and crack her skull, didn't run into sharp things, didn't feel the rough edges of the world.

What if she's tier one? They'll take her from us. Send her to an academy...

Cooper shook his head and straightened his smile. He bent down, elbows to knees. His daughter stared at him with solemn eyes. His son lay on his back on the ground. "Toddster? You good?"

His son's arm shot skyward, thumb up. Cooper smiled. He glanced up at Natalie, saw her look, the happiness a veneer on the fear. She caught him, touched her hair again, said, "We were about to eat. Have you?"

"Nope," he lied. "Whatcha say, guys? Breakfast? Some of Mom's famous brontosaurus eggs?"

"Dad." Todd scrambled up and brushed gra.s.s off his pants legs. "They're just regular eggs."

Cooper started on the old routine-You ever seen brontosaurus eggs? No? Then how...and found he couldn't do it. "You're right, buddy. How about some regular eggs?"

"Okay."

"Okay." He gave Natalie a look no one else would have noticed. "Help your mom get started, would you? I'll be right in."

His ex reached down and took her son's hand. "Come on, flyboy. Let's make breakfast."

Todd looked briefly baffled but followed Natalie as she led him inside. Cooper turned back to Kate, said, "You want to fly again?"

She shook her head.

"Phew. You're getting so big, pretty soon you're going to be doing that to me." His shoelace had come undone, and he knotted it quickly.

Kate said, "Daddy? Why is Mommy scared of me?"

"What? What do you mean, honey?"

"She looks at me, and she's scared."

Cooper stared at his daughter. Her brother had been a restless baby, and many, many times Cooper had spent the ghostly hours of night rocking his son, soothing him, talking to him. Often he wouldn't want to move once Todd had finally fallen asleep, certain that any shift, no matter how gentle, might wake his infant boy. And so he had played a game with himself, looking at his son's thick dark hair-now faded to sandy brown-and the broad forehead and lips that looked like they'd been taken directly off Natalie's face, and the ears that belonged to Cooper's grandfather, big outward-facing things, and he had tried to find himself there. Other people said they could see it, but he never really could, at least not until Todd got older, started making expressions identical to his own.

Kate, though. He'd seen himself in his daughter since the day she'd arrived. And not just in her features. It was in the way she held herself, the way she observed things. It's like the world is a system, he'd said to Natalie, years ago, and she's trying to break it but knows she doesn't have all the data yet. Kate had mostly been calm, but when she wanted something, b.o.o.b or bed or fresh diaper, she had made it G.o.dd.a.m.n clear.

"What makes you think she's scared, baby?"

"Her eyes are bigger. And her skin is more white. It looks like she's crying but she's not crying."

Cooper put a hand on- Dilated pupils.

Blood diverted from the skin to the muscles to facilitate fight-or-flight.

Enhanced tone in the orbicularis oculi.

Physiological responses to fear and worry. The kind of stimulus you can read like a billboard.