It was a few minutes to one. Lenore, who tended bar at the Four Leaf Clover, a horseplayer watering hole in h.e.l.l's Kitchen, ought to be home now, hopefully alone. He'd been to her apartment three nights ago. The visit lasted only as long as the nightcap that occasioned it. He left without much sense of whether he wanted to call her or whether she had any interest in hearing from him. They hadn't spoken since. So his showing up now and asking to stay the night would strike her as peculiar, to say the least. That he'd brought along his father would be off the charts. On the flip side, who would think to look for him there?

There was little activity on her block. The bodega on the near corner had no business. A middle-aged Asian man sat outside in the tent that protected the fruit and cut flowers from the elements. The portrait of boredom, he dipped a soup spoon into a small bowl. There was some movement on the other side of the blinds of the chess club on the second story. Farther down the sidewalk, a shopping cart lady had parked her cart and slept on a stoop by a heating grate. Otherwise the residential block was dormant.

Still, as Charlie drove onto it, his pulse doubled. Probably due to exhaustion, he thought. Also his blood sugar was on Empty.

No, it was the soup.

Like they say at the track, believe nothing that you hear and half of what you see. He shouldn't have been able to see the boredom on the man's face at all. There ought to have been vapor in the way, rising from the bowl. h.e.l.l, a night this cold, there ought to be a shaft of steam. Maybe Smith or MacKenzie or whoever learned about Lenore from one of the horseplayers at the Four Leaf Clover: Most of them would sell their mothers for the price of a two-buck ticket.

Or maybe the poor bodega guy's soup simply had gotten cold.

Drummond slept in the footwell. He might have a sense of whether the bodega man was something other than he appeared. But rousing Drummond risked drawing the man's attention, and more than likely Drummond would not have a sense. So Charlie simply drove past, watching the bodega in the rearview mirror.

The man shifted his position. He was was watching the Buick. watching the Buick.

But did that necessarily mean he was up to no good? What else did he have to do? He was bored*so bored, he probably had nodded off, allowing his soup to cool.

There was an empty parking s.p.a.ce by Lenore's building. Charlie tapped the brake pedal.

The red taillights set aglow a circle, the size of a quarter, at the end of something the bodega man held to his right eye.

He was watching through some sort of night scope!

Shock nearly turned Charlie to stone. He fought an impulse to heave his foot at the gas pedal; he maintained the car's moderate pace. As he drove the remainder of the block, to his surprise, no bullets smashed into the Buick.

At the end of the block, he turned onto Delancey. The bodega man shifted his scope to the shopping cart lady.

While driving west on Delancey, Charlie felt regular sensation return to his body, but any sense of relief was negated by fear of what lay ahead, as well as uncertainty over which way 'ahead' was. The fact that Smith, MacKenzie & Whoever knew about Lenore's apartment turned Manhattan into an awfully tiny island.

And they were everywhere Charlie looked. Like the squeegee man on the corner. Didn't the city get rid of squeegee men last century? Or the electric company repair crew on the other side of Delancey, a common enough sight anytime. But how about the broad-shouldered guy sitting idly by the pneumatic drill while his coworkers were neck-deep in the manhole? Wouldn't he catch h.e.l.l for gunning that monster in the middle of the night? Was it one disguise element too many?

Charlie turned uptown at the Bowery, only because he had no reason to, so theoretically there was no reason for anyone to suspect he would.

Hoping the ten minutes of rest made a difference, he roused Drummond. 'Dad, I need some help,' he said.

'My pleasure,' Drummond said. In no way on the ball.

'Have you remembered, by any chance, who you work for?'

'Perriman Appliances*you know that.'

Perriman was a perpetually debt-ridden Argentine manufacturer of third-rate washing machines, dryers, and refrigerators. Its early-'70s venture into automotives, a sedan named the Chubut Chubut for the southern Argentine province that was home to the factory, was greeted with wild enthusiasm and national pride. But reports of poor quality control*some Chubuts left the line missing parts*resulted in the nickname for the southern Argentine province that was home to the factory, was greeted with wild enthusiasm and national pride. But reports of poor quality control*some Chubuts left the line missing parts*resulted in the nickname Chupar Chupar (Spanish for 'to suck'), total sales of just 366 cars, and debt that nearly suffocated the company. (Spanish for 'to suck'), total sales of just 366 cars, and debt that nearly suffocated the company.

Perriman had had to move its midtown Manhattan office, where Drummond supposedly worked, to Morningside Heights, inconvenient to clients and prospective clients. But s.p.a.ce there was ten to fifteen dollars per square foot cheaper than midtown. Charlie had always thought that Drummond had the brains for better; his issue was people skills.

'Tell me again what it is you do there?' Charlie said.

'You know: I demonstrate the appliances in the showroom, then go on-site with building owners and property managers to ensure that their specifications and measurements are met.'

'Right, but that's just your cover, right?'

'Cover?'

Charlie exhaled in an effort to dispel his exasperation. It didn't work.

'How about this? When you're on all your sales trips, do you ever do any work on the side for, like, the CIA?'

'Not that I'm aware.'

Which didn't rule it out.

'The NSA?'

'Not that I'm aware.'

'I could get a list and call every place in Washington with a clandestine operations division, but if what we've seen so far is any indication about the resources of who or whatever's after us, odds are it'd probably be a case of the mouse calling the cat. So it would be really swell if you could remember anything.'

Drummond sat up. 'I think there is something about Washington.'

In his excitement Charlie found himself mirroring his father's posture. 'Yeah?'

Drummond ma.s.saged his temples, trying, it seemed, to stimulate the works within. 'Something.'

'You did go there on an awful lot of sales trips.'

'A good percentage of North Atlantic Division's building owners and property managers are there. I go on-site to ensure that their specifications and measurements*'

'Oh, right, of course,' Charlie said. But he was willing to bet that building owners and property managers had nothing to do with Drummond's trips.

'And nothing compares with the cherry blossoms.'

There would be no cherry blossoms for months. The four-hour drive was worth it anyway, Charlie thought. D.C. was to spy agencies what Milwaukee was to breweries. And, if nothing else, as each pair of approaching headlights seemed to be saying, it was a good idea to get away.

5.

The Fairview Inn was the type of motel once predominant on American roadsides, two stories of bricks, shaped like a brick itself, each upper-level room with an iron-railed balcony and each room on the ground floor opening onto a parking s.p.a.ce. There were only four cars in the parking lot now, including a beat-up Toyota Cressida in the Reserved: Management spot behind the office. The Motel 6 on the other side of the New Jersey Turnpike had just two cars. And the Best Western Charlie and Drummond pa.s.sed before that had had only a solitary RV. Evidently the holiday crowd had gone home, and business travel had yet to recommence. It was possibly the worst night of the year to be a fugitive, Charlie thought. Inn was the type of motel once predominant on American roadsides, two stories of bricks, shaped like a brick itself, each upper-level room with an iron-railed balcony and each room on the ground floor opening onto a parking s.p.a.ce. There were only four cars in the parking lot now, including a beat-up Toyota Cressida in the Reserved: Management spot behind the office. The Motel 6 on the other side of the New Jersey Turnpike had just two cars. And the Best Western Charlie and Drummond pa.s.sed before that had had only a solitary RV. Evidently the holiday crowd had gone home, and business travel had yet to recommence. It was possibly the worst night of the year to be a fugitive, Charlie thought.

He brought the Buick to a stop beside the beat-up Toyota, out of sight of the Fairview Inn office. Over the rumble of the highway, he begged a sleepy Drummond, 'Hang here for just a minute?'

Against his better judgment, he left the engine running so Drummond might stay warm, then he climbed into the stinging seventeen-degree night.

He rounded the corner to the side of the building that faced away from the highway. At the head of the row of ground floor rooms was a tiny office. The lights were on, but no one appeared to be inside.

Charlie rapped on the sliding window. Up popped a squat, middle-aged man, his doughy face flattened from sleeping against his desktop. His small eyes snapped to alertness, he smoothed the stripes of hair into place across his balding pate, straightened a clip-on tie bearing the Fairview's mountain peak logo, and slid the gla.s.s open an inch.

'Good evening, sir,' he said. With a glance at his antique pocket watch, he added, 'Technically, I should say, Good morning.''

According to the letters packed into the placard, this was NIGHT MANAGER A. BRODY. Although other managers shared this desk, Charlie had no doubt that the meticulously trimmed miniature Christmas tree on the sill was A. Brody's work. Charlie usually felt a kinship to the A. Brodys of the world, miles below the station in life befitting their intellect. Now Charlie was far more interested in getting out of the cold.

'Hi, I'd like a room, please,' he said. To diminish the chance of his being identified, he stayed at the outermost limits of the office's fluorescent haze.

Brody plucked a registration card from atop a neat stack, set it on his desk blotter, aligned it, and then tweaked it until it was exactly parallel to the edge of the desk.

'May I have your name, please, sir?' he asked finally.

'Ramirez,' Charlie said, and, as soon as he did, cursed himself. His friend Mickey's last name, the first that had come to mind, was common enough around here. But even in the dark, with the bill of a Yankees cap pulled down to his eyes, Charlie was no Ramirez.

Indeed, Brody raised an brow. 'And how many adults in your party, Mr. Ramirez?'

Charlie considered that the FBI bulletin might have reached the furthest outposts of civilization by now. 'Just me.'

Brody's brow stayed put, quieting Charlie's anxiety. 'That will be fifty-nine dollars and eighty cents, please, sir.'

Charlie paid with three twenties and received two dimes and a key card.

'Have a wonderful stay,' Brody said with, Charlie thought, inordinate cheer.

Room 105 smelled of bathroom cleanser in combination with the flowery spray used to mask worse smells. The walls trembled each time a truck pa.s.sed. Although worn, the beds were clad in crisp, clean sheets that promised sleep. And Charlie was starved for sleep.

'But how can we go to bed?' he asked as he paced the frayed carpet, careful to stay away from the window. Drummond lay on the less concave of the two beds. 'Any second they could burst through the door with guns drawn. Then what?'

Drummond sagged against his headboard. 'That would be trouble?'

Charlie recognized that danger had preceded both of Drummond's episodes of lucidity. Hopefully the threat alone would do the trick now. 'How about this? Say a sharpshooter takes a crack at us from out there?' He waved at the window. The spotty vinyl shade filtered pa.s.sing headlights so that they appeared on the inner wall of the room as giant, spidery shadows.

Drummond was captivated by the shadows.

'Dad, if you could just remember a name. Even a phone number could make a difference in whether or not we have a tomorrow.'

Drummond fluffed his pillow. 'Maybe if we got some sleep?'

'I don't suppose you've remembered who you work for?' Charlie asked, on the remote chance that his tactic had had some effect.

Drummond yawned. 'Perriman Appliances.'

'And what's your job?'

'Deputy district sales manager for the North Atlantic Division. I demonstrate the appliances in the showroom, then go on-site with building owners to*'

'So you said.' Charlie sighed.

He turned away from Drummond, continuing to pace in hope that the motion would stir up a new idea. Helen might have one. He yearned to call her*apart from his predicament. He had long accepted the horseplayer tenet that all of life is six-to-five against*until the moment she asked him out for a beer. The problem was that almost certainly he and Drummond had been followed after meeting her: In all likelihood, Drummond was right about the Department of Housing worker on the sidewalk outside the senior center. And if Lenore was under surveillance *

In any case, Helen already had told Charlie that there was no sure way to stimulate lucidity. Back at the senior center, she likened lucidity's random occurrence to a basketball player of middling ability sinking four consecutive shots from three-point range. If there were an explanation, no one knew it. Sometimes, however, strong mental a.s.sociations triggered latent memories. In this respect the Alzheimer's sufferer was like the Vietnam veteran with post-traumatic stress disorder*show him a helicopter, he's back in Saigon. Because the Alzheimer's sufferer's memory could be damaged, inoperative, or gone, however, finding such a precise mental a.s.sociation was a c.r.a.pshoot, at best.

But a c.r.a.pshoot was far superior to Charlie's other idea*doing nothing. He resolved to reel off the names of every United States president in office since Drummond's birth, the major events in history during that time, and anything else Drummond might a.s.sociate with government work.

Charlie took a deep breath, spun back at Drummond, and exclaimed, 'Franklin Delano Roosevelt.'

Drummond was fast asleep.

Frustration joined the exhaustion and angst already blackening Charlie's mind. He wanted to fly at Drummond and shake his memory back into operation.

Rest at least had a track record, he reminded himself.

Drummond was curled into the fetal position. Charlie would have bet that the old man slept on his back in the cla.s.sic coffin pose, arms crossed at right angles over his chest. Careful not to jostle him, he slid the comforter out from beneath him. Close proximity to his father had always given Charlie something of a full-body itch. But no longer, for some reason, or at least not now. Gently, Charlie covered him. He twisted the k.n.o.b on the nightstand lamp in slow motion so the snap wouldn't wake him, then he tiptoed to his own bed. The springs whined as he lowered himself onto it, but not so loud that Drummond could have heard.

Drummond sat bolt upright, eyes bulging with terror.

'What is it?' Charlie asked, catching the panic himself.

'Beauregard!' Drummond cried.

'You mean the dog?' After Charlie left home, Drummond took in two retired dog track greyhounds, John-Paul Jones, who lived two or three years, and Beauregard, who lasted about a year longer.

'We forgot to get someone to look after him while we're away!'

'No, no, it's fine. Beauregard is*' Charlie stopped short of saying, 'dead,' seeking to soften it. He was clumsy with euphemisms. 'Beauregard's with Mom.'

Drummond's face twisted in mystification. 'Now how would Beauregard have gotten all the way down to Monroeville?'

It sounded awfully Alzheimer's-y, but Charlie had a feeling it was a major clue. The envelope with the first of his mother's Social Security checks had borne a forwarding label; originally the check had been mailed to Monroeville, Virginia.

He got up and paced some more, trying to make sense of it.

He'd been a month shy of four when she died. He remembered a woman with the grace of a princess, the grit of a tomboy, and a whimsy all her own. She liked rain. No matter how cold the water was at Brooklyn's Brighton Beach, she let out a whoop and plunged in. The two of them never went on mere errands, they went out in search of adventure. And found it*at the time, Charlie believed riding in the shopping carts at FoodLand compared to the Paris-Dakar Rally.

He couldn't recall her funeral*just Drummond sitting him at the kitchen table and soberly relaying the details of the accident. Charlie's theory was either time had eroded the recollection or he'd blocked it out.

Tonight he developed a new theory: She never had a funeral.

'She's still alive, isn't she?' he asked Drummond.

'Who?'

'Mom.'

'How could that be?'

'If she didn't in fact die.'

'She was. .h.i.t by a bus in San Francisco in eighty-three, killed instantly,' Drummond said. His delivery was pat, much the same as when he detailed his duties at Perriman Appliances.

6.

In a dark bedroom only slightly larger than its full-sized bed, Mickey and Sylvia Ramirez slept. a dark bedroom only slightly larger than its full-sized bed, Mickey and Sylvia Ramirez slept.

The telephone changed that.