"Undercover?"

Doe shakes her head. This is not something Jay should waste much time thinking through, she tells him. "Its not a black-and-white world," she adds. "We do bad things to get good results, we do good things that go horribly wrong. Were human, you know? Not perfect. We do the best we can."

"Why did you bring me back here?"

Doe doesnt answer right away. The skinny jeans and faded black Chuck Taylors make her look like somebodys Melrose Avenue hipster mom. Jay wonders if shes older than he thinks. "Dunn wasnt the shooter," she says.

"I know," Jay says. "But he was buying the list."

"Buying, trading, brokering. He was a middleman."

"And the end buyer?"

Doe smiles sardonically, says nothing. Still out there, is the unspoken answer.

"So you pretended to believe me, and I became the bait?"

Doe wont confirm or deny it.

"And the one guy who can isnt talking."

"Ever," Doe agrees. "RIP John Q. Its not optimal, but what can you do?" She tugs at the ends of her hair. Her nails are ragged again from where shes been biting them. Polish chipping off.

Jay has to ask, "Are you protecting me, or protecting yourselves from me?"

Doe looks at him candidly and tells him that hes free to leave, whenever he wants. Its not a bluff.

This is what he remembers: A small girl he unlocked.

A duplicitous woman who unlocked him.

An invented island life.

Weight lifting from his heart.

"I need to use the bathroom." He doesnt, but has to say it.

Doe gives no knowing reaction, though; shes playing this awfully straight. She takes up and triggers the remote, and the whole bed changes shape, lifting him to another level of muzziness and pain. He discovers that his other arm is taped and strapped to his chest, immobilizing that side of him. And just as well: it feels like somebody has pounded a spike through his shoulder, impaling him on the mattress.

"You could, you know . . . bedpan."

"No," Jay says. He wants to ask about Ginger and Helen, but hes afraid of the answer.

"Okay. Ill send someone in to help you," Doe says. She stands and starts to walk out. Her shoes scuff tile, "Oh-" she adds, slowing, but not completely turning around, "youre gonna need to let us know if you want your family with you." And then shes gone.

Jay thinks, aloud, "Family?"

"Okay, well, I was watching?" Mouse squeak of sneakers and the rustle of a cotton jumper, and a small voice, coming from under the bed. "And they were filling you with all that intervenious water and stuff? And I thought maybe youd puff up like a water balloon and pop . . ."

Jay shifts his body in stages, the stabbing pain coursing along his side from his neck to his hip; leans over the bedrail and looks down to where Helen is on her back, on the floor, just her head exposed, peeking up at him with the gravity of all her eight years.

". . . so I crawled under here, in case. h.e.l.lo." She wriggles out. "And fell asleep." Helen stands up and looks at Jay soberly. And as his eyes rise to meet hers, he sees, behind her, in the open doorway to his empty hospital room, Ginger, hair in rebellion and still mascara-challenged, approximating the awkward posture of an eighth-grade girl at her first all-school dance.

"Well, not exactly asleep, though," Helen is saying. "Just sort of like with my eyes closed and resting?" She thinks about it. "But there were some dreams."

Ginger crosses from the doorway to the bed, all business, avoiding Jays gaze. She lowers the bedrail for him to hold on to as he sits up and slides his legs off the edge.

"Marshal Doe said you needed some help."

"Helen was on the list," Jay says.

Ginger tugs at Helens jumper, straightening it, as if she isnt listening.

"Im talking about the list of names your husband was going to sell to Dunn."

Now she looks at him. Her eyes asking: Where does this go? And its funny, because Jay is wondering the same thing. Helen is up on her feet, arms out, spinning. "Mommy said her old husband went away with a mermaid. She cried a lot."

Ginger allows that she did, but adds, pointedly, to Jay, "For the mermaid."

Jay reaches out, but Ginger leans away. Nothing is certain yet. Needing more from him.

Helen puts her hands over her face. "Go ahead. Im not watching."

Common knowledge among behavioral biology fanboys like Vaughn, according to Vaughn: in a wide range of mammals, including monkeys, bears, cats, dogs, and, yes, mice, mothers are incredibly protective when their offspring are young and vulnerable. As part of this behavior, female mice will attack any threat against their offspring in what is variously called maternal aggression or maternal defense, depending on the researcher and the experiment.

Jay says, "It was you."

A mother mouse will even kill the intruder to her nest if she thinks her pups are in danger.

Ginger says nothing. Her eyes search his.

"They wanted me to remember you," he says.

Almost imperceptibly, Ginger nods. "Did you?"

Jay takes a moment before answering, mostly for show. The weight is gone. He remembers all that matters: his sisters viral giggles, his brothers sly wit, his fathers sure hands, his mothers grace.

And the rest?

"Ive never seen you before in my life," Jay says.

Gingers smile is everything.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

I wish I could say I sat at the feet of famous scientists for all the mouse stuff, and spent a year on Catalina on a genius grant from some sw.a.n.ky foundation, living in a hut on the sea cliffs, writing with a pen made from California quail quill, but no, it just sprung out of my head, a jumble of experience, research, facts and fiction, that I wrestled to make sense of whenever I found the time; dont trust any of it but believe it all. Thanks are overdue to Scott Shepherd, my longtime friend and sometime coconspirator, who has once again renovated and reinspired me. Benee Knauer deserves all the credit for pushing me to be a better, better, and better writer; also Victoria Sanders and Bernadette Baker-Baughman for their peerless guidance and support. David Rosenthal I thank for believing in me; Phoebe Pickering and everyone at Blue Rider Press for their hard work and collaboration. Julia Gibson and Aaron Lipstadt gave needed notes and encouragement on the earliest draft. Michael Convertino dug up more memory science than I knew what to do with, and my sister, Dr. Susan Pyne, helped me understand it. Susan Ruskin and Philip Seymour Hoffman saw in this story a movie that we nearly made and their thoughtful feedback as we pursued that dream had a subtle but profound impact on the novel.

And then theres Joan, who is my rock and my muse, and Katie and Joe, who make it all worthwhile.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

Daniel Pynes screenwriting credits include the remake of The Manchurian Candidate, Pacific Heights, and Fracture. He made his directorial debut with the indie cult film Wheres Marlowe? Pynes list of television credits (creating, writing, and showrunning) is vast and spans Miami Vice to Alcatraz. His two previous novels were Twentynine Palms and A Hole in the Ground Owned by a Liar. He lives in Southern California.

ALSO BY DANIEL PYNE.

A Hole in the Ground Owned by a Liar.

Twentynine Palms.