"Let me get this straight," said Walker. "Are these the reasons why you shouldn't have done it, or why you did it?"

"I was twenty-two. I'd finally gotten out of school, and was going to have the great American adventure of going off to work, independent and free. After two months at it, I could see the future: all of it, from then until I turned sixty-five. It wasn't that nothing exciting had happened yet, but that it could never happen."

"So Gochay was an adventure."

"Part of what an adventure is, is throwing in your cards for a reshuffle. It wasn't that I wanted to stay with Gochay forever, but that if I was there, anything could happen. As for him, he had much more work than he could do. He didn't think he could turn his best customers down. So he offered me a deal. I would pick the jobs I wanted to do. I would get seventy-five percent of the pay. He would get twenty-five to cover all of the overhead and his risk. I thought about it for a week, and then gave two weeks' notice. I dreamed up the name Serena because it seemed to fit. You weren't surprised that Constantine Gochay would have a girl around named Serena, were you?"

"No," he said. "I guess not." He thought for a moment.

"It was fun. Being in a school and then a job with mostly men was a lot of trouble. When I'd walk into a room, I'd feel stares like laser beams moving across various body parts. I guess in my own small way, I'm kind of an exhibitionist-but I like a limited audience. Working with Constantine, I wasn't a girl, I was a revenue center. I could be anybody at all, and when I wanted to, I was anybody I felt like being."

"Why did you terminate your agreement with him?"

She looked down at him, and he could see amus.e.m.e.nt in her eyes. "You want me to say it's because I've changed my ways, my heart is in your hands, and I would crawl across the continent to nuzzle up to you in a cheap hotel, don't you?"

Walker knitted his brows and made a thoughtful face, as though he were having trouble deciding. "It's not so cheap."

"Admit it."

"Well, yes. I was hoping it was something like that," he said. "It would be a sound basis for a relationship, certainly."

"Did I say I wanted one?"

"Don't you?"

She said carefully, "I left the company-decided to be a bad girl-because I never got to decide before. It felt good. When I met you that night, I thought, 'Why not? What's stopping me?' and decided that whatever had stopped me before, I shouldn't let it. That turned out to be a good idea, because it felt even better. Yesterday I left Gochay because what you're doing seemed to be the most interesting thing that was going on."

"But what you're interested in isn't really me?"

She shrugged. "You're a man. What you do is look at somebody you find attractive, somebody you don't know at all, and decide you'd like to have s.e.x with her. You aren't deciding you're in love with her. You're not thinking that far ahead, and you don't feel guilty about it. You did that when you met me. Why can't I do that with you?"

He said, "I guess I can't think of a logical reason."

"Well, if I had stopped being interested in you, I wouldn't have come," she said. "What I know so far, I like. I haven't thought about more than that. I'm enjoying doing as I please."

She flopped backward on the bed and lay still, staring at the ceiling. He crawled over and looked down at her, but she shut her eyes.

Walker said, "Well, that's fun. But let's get back to this nuzzling business. I liked talking about that." He lowered himself and began to brush her neck with his lips.

She shivered and pushed him away. "That tickles."

"I'm not sure, but I think that's part of the point of it. Not much after your crawl across the continent, but-"

"I didn't say that was true," she interrupted. "I said it was what you would like to believe." She sat up and pulled the covers up to her neck. "Actually, I took a plane, and the rest of the nuzzling can wait ... for now." She couldn't keep the corners of her lips from turning upward a bit, but she said, "I have something to tell you. I've been trying to find out who James Scully was, and who his distant cousin was."

"How are you doing that?"

"I figured that the FBI is doing all of the routine, likely, logical things. So I have to do something else. The lab report I intercepted made me think of genealogy."

"You mean you're doing his family tree?"

"It had to be something I could do on a laptop and a phone in an airplane. Genealogy is America's second-biggest obsession, after their lawns. So there's plenty of information available. You always start with the Mormons."

"You do?"

She sighed. "Yes. It's an article of the Mormon faith to try to find out who their ancestors were, and baptize them retroactively to get them into heaven. They've been at it for a long time, and they share. So you start with the Family History Library in Salt Lake City. They also have the International Genealogy Index, the Social Security Death Index, and the Military Index."

"Those guys didn't seem religious, foreign, or retired, and if they'd been in the military, wouldn't their fingerprints have-"

"It's not for them," she said. "Their common ancestor is at least a generation back. So I tried the Library of Congress Local History and Genealogy Index."

"Did any of this get you anywhere?"

"Everywhere, and that's not where I need to go. It got me quite a few Scullys, and if you add in their cousins, it's an astronomical number. It hasn't gotten me a sure way to know which one is yours."

Walker lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. "Another dead end."

"It isn't," she said. "I just need a shortcut. I've got thousands of Scullys: maybe a hundred families in New Hampshire, and an unknown number of others on the list whose recent locations aren't given. By 'recent' I mean this century."

"What's the shortcut?"

"Coming here. I think your James Scully didn't move to a rural village in New Hampshire from Chicago or New York."

"Why not?"

"It doesn't feel right," she said. "If you want to be invisible, small towns are poison. If he was some kind of nut-say, an extreme survivalistracistmad bomber type-he probably wouldn't pick Coulter. Those guys move to the south or west, where there's more real estate that's really empty and less concern about gun laws. I suspect that he felt safe here because he was born around here. That would mean his relative probably was too."

"And coming here is the only way to find out?"

"What I want isn't available any other way. The Health and Welfare Building in Concord has a Bureau of Vital Records. They've kept track of every marriage, birth, and death in the state since 1640, and every divorce since 1808. If you give me the right lead, I can find not only James, but any relative who was born here-meaning the other dead guy."

"It sounds as though it could take months."

"It could," said Mary. "If you go into those places acting like a skip-tracer-or an insurance investigator-it would. You just have to endear yourself to somebody who knows the system and get them interested in helping. I've already started being endearing, and it's gotten me my first introduction." She squinted at the clock, then looked a second time. "I'd better get going."

Walker sat on the bed and watched her with the same sense of bereavement that he had felt while he'd watched her prepare to leave his hotel room in Los Angeles. Seeing her pull clothes over that smooth, white body was like watching the moon being obscured by dark clouds.

She said, "Don't sit there ogling. Get up and get dressed so you can buy me breakfast."

When they left the hotel room they walked past Stillman's door. It opened and he emerged. He nodded to them without a change of expression and said, "Morning, Serena."

She answered in the same tone, "Always a pleasure, Max." She was Serena again.

He walked with them to the restaurant, then selected a booth along the far wall. As soon as they had menus in their hands, he looked over the top of his and stared at Serena. "Did you bring something to the party?"

She said, "I'm trying to find out who the cousin was, so you can see what's in his house. Is that what you want?"

"That's what we want," said Stillman.

"I've made a contact, and that should speed things up."

His eyebrows b.u.mped up, then down again. "A contact?"

"Yes," she said. "I called the Bureau of Vital Records and talked to a lady. She knows another lady who lives on a farm outside Jaffrey. She's an amateur historian who knows about the families and the little towns around here. I called her, and I'm going to see her this morning."

Stillman said, "Take your boyfriend with you."

She smiled and glanced at Walker, then back at Stillman. "I don't think so. Night with the girls, day with the boys."

"Take him," said Stillman. "He has his limitations, but he's big and strong, and if anything's after you, he'll throw himself in front of it."

Walker glared at Stillman, then looked at Serena to find that she was studying him speculatively. She made a decision. "All right. Just let me do most of the talking."

32.

The farm had not seen a plow in at least a generation. The fields surrounding the small rise where the old white house had been built had settled into a man-smoothed, gra.s.sy expanse of lawn. A long fieldstone fence had been laid along the edge of the farm beside the road. Walker imagined the first farmer stopping his horse each time his plow turned up a stone, then prying it up with a pole and staggering with it to the edge of the field to add to the fence. Here and there big, stubborn rocks had been left in place, undefeated by the farmers, and now a few trees had grown tall in the middle of the field.

There was no gate anymore, just a gap in the fence and a concrete driveway that extended only twenty feet in, then changed to a gravel strip leading up to a small barn that had been converted to a garage.

Walker turned Mary's rental car into the driveway and then let it crawl onto the gravel and up to the house. As soon as it reached the wider turnaround near the barn, he parked.

"Silvertop alert," muttered Mary. "Smile a lot. It may not be enough, but it will be something."

He could see that she was already working her face into a demure smile that went with the modest blue summer dress she was wearing. He glanced toward the house, and he saw that the front door was open. A woman appeared in the shade behind the screen door. She was wearing a dark suit and a white blouse, as though she were on her way to work at a bank. Her hair was white, like spun floss, and she was staring at them expectantly.

Walker got out and opened Mary's door. As she got out, she whispered, "How gallant."

"I'm just afraid to go first," he whispered back. "Kick your way in, grab the tea, and run."

They approached the door along a flagstone walk between rows of tall purple irises that all seemed to Walker to be full of bees buzzing ominously. The woman pushed the screen open a little, and Mary said, "Mrs. Thwaite?"

"Who else?" called the woman. "Come in." Her voice was a resonant soprano that sounded as though she might have once been a singer. She swung the door wide as they reached the porch, and they stepped over the threshold.

Mary was already busy impersonating herself. "I'm Mary Catherine Casey, and this is John Walker." As she fell into character, her smile warmed.

Mrs. Thwaite shook Mary's hand and then Walker's. "I'm delighted to meet you both," she said. "We'll have tea in the sun room." She led them through a parlor. The ornate wallpaper was obscured by heavy antique furniture, and gilded frames with big paintings of dark mountains under brooding c.u.mulonimbus clouds, then under an arch into a white sun porch with walls that were rows of windowpanes looking out on a rose garden. In the middle was a table set with teacups and silverware.

Walker waited through the elaborate, leisurely tea ritual. Mrs. Thwaite was not inclined to abbreviate it, or to forgo any of the antiquated formalities. Mary Casey seemed to have prepared herself for this. She sat with a perfectly straight spine that never touched the back of her chair and responded with fierce, immovable correctness. She saw everything Mrs. Thwaite did, and heard whatever was behind the voice, things not said but simply understood by women of a certain sort. Mary was helpful without actually doing much helping, because only certain motions could be performed without presuming upon the prerogatives of the hostess, who must do the steeping, pouring, and serving. She moved delicate china objects into her reach, but never too soon or too late, then made them glide to their proper places. Always, she kept up a fluttery patter about the garden outside the windows, the china, the tea, the tablecloth and napkins, and even the angle of the sun, as though Mrs. Thwaite had cunningly contrived to plant the giant oak two hundred years ago to shade the windows today.

When the tea and cookies and pastries had been distributed and all formulaic utterances exchanged, Mrs. Thwaite's face a.s.sumed the contented softness that indicated her G.o.ds had been appeased. She said, "How do you know Myra Sanderidge?"

"I don't, really," said Mary. "I was just doing a little research and I talked to her on the telephone. She said that if I wanted to know anything about this part of the state, I should ask you."

Walker surmised that this Myra person must be the one at the state archives. How could Mary know her? He couldn't imagine that this had been anything but a purely formal trap-an opportunity for Mary to claim a false legitimacy, but Mary had effortlessly converted it into a compliment.

"Well, you should know Myra," p.r.o.nounced Mrs. Thwaite. "I like her, and you would too." Walker could tell that this was her announcment that Mary was one of us, us, not one of not one of them. them.

Mary gathered in her winnings gracefully. "I'm hoping to meet her in a day or two. I'm driving to Concord to do a little research. Mrs. Thwaite, I was-"

"Ivy," interrupted Mrs. Thwaite. "Call me Ivy. Now, what are you doing research for?"

Mary's smile grew to a grin. "I suppose it's because that's what I do best, so I always fall back on it when I'm in a new situation. John was already here on a trip with a business friend. He liked it, and I had nothing to do, so he talked me into joining them for a few days. I couldn't do much reading at the last minute, so I used my computer on the plane to see what I could find out, and now I'm hooked."

Ivy's eyes strayed to Walker. "What did you like about it?"

Walker began to sweat. "Well, I ... the country, mostly. I came into Keene, and I liked the look of it. Then Mary told me she'd found interesting facts about the area-scenic routes, history-and so my friend and I drove around a bit to look at some of the small towns around here. We went up the Old Concord Road through East Sullivan, Munsonville, South Stoddard, a few other places."

Mary prompted, "But the place you liked best was Coulter, wasn't it?"

"Oh?" said Ivy. "You were in Coulter?"

Walker struggled to make as many of the lies coincide with the truth as he could. "It seemed like such a peaceful little place. I was curious about it because it seemed kind of remote, so far off the highway. Then, when we got there, it seemed active, friendly, and-"

"Wealthy?"

Walker smiled. "Well, yes. It seemed to me that all the houses were pretty nice. I wondered about the people who live there."

Ivy looked at Mary, and some understanding pa.s.sed between them. It was only a second before Mary revealed what it was. "It sounded like a nice place for children."

Ivy's face looked thoughtful. "It's an interesting place. It always has been."

"It has?"

"I gather that Myra told you local history is my weakness. I was a history teacher in Jaffrey for thirty-two years. But I didn't start out to be that. I met my husband in Manhattan, only it was Manhattan, Kansas. I was fresh out of KSU, and he was a young second lieutenant stationed at Fort Riley. You know how those things go."

Walker caught himself nodding in exactly the same rhythm as Mary. "Was this where he was from?"

"Yes," she said. She looked wistful at the memory of it. "When he told me about this place, I secretly thought he must be some kind of aristocrat. His family came to this part of New Hampshire with William Pynchon in 1636. They ended up precisely here a little later. After they'd sold off the trees for lumber, they became farmers, probably by default. They stayed put a long time, but the Thwaites were never rich."

"Did any of them settle in Coulter?" asked Mary.

"Never," said Ivy quickly. "Never in Coulter."

Walker was surprised by the certainty, the finality. He ventured, "It seemed like a pleasant place, but so is this."

"Yes, Coulter probably always was pleasant. But it had an odd reputation. After Randolph and I had been married for a short time, I began to hear a peculiar tone when it was mentioned." She put her hand on Mary's forearm and said, "I'm just like you. I hear something, and I want to know all about it." She withdrew her hand and looked at them knowingly over her teacup. "Well, people implied that it had sort of a racy reputation."

"Racy?" Mary raised her eyebrows. "That would get my attention."

"Me too. I was a Kansas girl, from the rough-and-ready West, and I'd been to college. When I heard that, I thought it must be houses of ill repute, at least. I wasn't used to the New England sensibility yet. I was from a place where you talked with your mouth wide open, and used your finger to point at what you saw. When I couldn't get anything much out of anybody, I went to look for myself."

"You went there alone?" asked Mary.