"You make it sound like therapy."

"That's it! That's exactly what it is."

"But that means you're using whatever-his-name-is."

"Don't call him that. You know d.a.m.n well what his name is. You're jealous. I can hear it in your voice. I may be your younger sister, but you should listen to me. I'm experienced in these things. Cam is treating you p.o.o.py. You know it, and I know it. You've been b.i.t.c.hing around about it for the past six months. If it wasn't for his son you would have left him by now "

"That's not "

"Don't interrupt. Admit it: You're more in love with the son than you are with the father! You think that's something new? It's because you would make such a good mother. You come to it naturally unlike some of us. Maybe you should take over with Eric and the kids and I'll go back to being single. I like it out there. I like it when someone notices what I'm wearing and how I smell. Can I help it?"

Carrie wanted to protest, but who could protest the truth?

Anne filled any silence handed her, including this. "Listen, even if you don't do anything, if you just got someone interested, you wouldn't believe how much better you would feel about yourself. I know that sounds backward, but it's true. And you could use that with Cam. Believe me, you could. You let it slip. You drop a few hints. And then you find out what he's made of. If it's real between you two, then you're going to see a major att.i.tude change. If it isn't, well, then it isn't. Right?"

"I hate talking to you."

"Then why do we do it every morning?"

"Because I love it."

"I thought so."

"d.a.m.n. Then I suppose I'll call again tomorrow."

"No you won't. I'll call you. It's my turn."

"I thought Eric was upset about the phone bills."

"He was. He was upset about everything. But I'm happy. And when I'm happy, I put out. And when I put out, Eric's happy. And when Eric's happy he doesn't mention anything about phone bills or milk going sour or the kid's school plays. I'm telling you, kiddo make yourself happy. It's extremely contagious."

"So you'll call me."

"Absolutely. Besides, I want to hear how this flashy dress works out."

"The reception! Oh, G.o.d, I'd forgotten about it."

"No you hadn't. You couldn't possibly have. You spent a week picking out that dress."

"What are you, my conscience?"

"I try. I'd give a million bucks to see you in that dress. To see him see you. If I were you, I'd play it up all the way. And don't talk yourself out of the high heels. They're half the outfit. And you shouldn't stop there, for that matter. What goes on, comes off it's a rule of physics like what goes up, comes down. You've got to be thinking ahead, to later in the evening. Do you have a garter belt? A nice frilly teddy and a garter belt? That works every time."

"Are you happy?" Carrie asked, interrupting. "I mean, do you think you're really happy, or is this all some kind of justification thing?"

"Don't criticize that which you have not tried."

"Now you sound like Mom."

"Speaking of whom? You think she's all lily white? Don't tell me you never saw through that bridge-club-on-Thursday-afternoons business .. ."

"You're awful! That's disgusting! I don't believe that for a minute!" She heard laughing at the other end, as only Anne could laugh, and Carrie wondered what she would do without these daily calls. "Don't get pregnant," she said into the receiver, and Anne laughed all the louder. "I love you," she added as she gently placed the phone down.

She studied the way the sunshine played on her nakedness, the way the tiny hairs caught the light, giving her skin a kind of glow. It had been ages since Cam had said anything nice about her body. Ages, since she had been honestly happy. Tears blurred her vision. She felt a hopeless bundle of confusion. Anne, with answers for everything. What to do about it? How to get there from here?

She stuffed her face into the pillow and sobbed. For her, answers came hardest of all.

On his desk, in the bullpen, a small stack of pink message slips awaited Daggett. On the top was Lynn Greene's name and a Washington number. He didn't look at any of the others. He had hoped for a call, just as he thought about making a call, but had never expected to find her here in Washington. He dialed. This had trouble written all over it, and yet he felt the excitement of antic.i.p.ation as the phone at the other end rang. Seconds later, he heard her voice. "Lynn?"

"Speaking."

"It's me. What are you "

"We need to talk," she said harshly, cutting him off. "In private. Can you come downtown?"

The urgency in her voice intrigued him. Everything about her intrigued him. "Where?" he asked. "When?"

"You know the cafeteria at the National Gallery?"

"I thought you said private."

"About an hour?"

"I'll be there."

Daggett sat in the dining area of the National Gallery's subterranean cafeteria, facing the waterfall that flowed from outside in, mesmerized by it, hypnotized by its relentless song. A thin sheet of silver water flowed over the corrugated cement and collected in a small rectangular pool no wider than a flower box. It was at this moment he realized that his hearing was indeed improving, for it seemed to him he could hear all the frequencies, the percussive drumming of the body of water, the sparkling delicacy of the tiny droplets as they danced to their death. Three overhead triangular skylights admitted natural light, which explained the thriving existence of the abundance of potted plants. He pulled out his date book to make some notes, astonished to see it had been four weeks since Bernard and Backman had been killed in the explosion at National Airport. He shut the book just as quickly. Day after tomorrow was his last day to bring Pullman and Mumford evidence, or lose the case. He didn't need any reminders.

He drank some iced tea and watched the parade of tourists with their squeaky-clean running shoes and dogeared guidebooks. She was right: For such a public place, this was indeed a private spot. Like so much to do with Lynn, it seemed an excellent choice.

He saw her then: a lot of leg, linen, and a bouncing white cotton blouse. She acknowledged him with a wave and joined the beverage line. He rose for her when she approached a few minutes later, but she signaled him back into his chair. He wanted to kiss her h.e.l.lo, but she failed to offer him the chance. She took the chair opposite him and sat down.

"You look upset," she said.

"Surprised, is more like it."

"With my being here in Washington," she stated. She was like that: She knew what he was thinking before he did.

"You look good to me."

"Stick to the subject."

"What is the subject?"

"AmAirXpress flight sixty-four."

"What are you doing in Washington?"

"That's not the subject."

"It is to me," he said.

"You think I'm chasing you."

"Only in my wildest fantasies," he said.

She dismissed this with an oblique expression. "Ostensibly, I came as a delivery boy person," she corrected. "In fact, I think I was called out here because my superiors didn't like seeing my face plastered all over People. Did you see it? They wanted it to be their faces instead. We've al ready had a little talk about administration policy concerning publicity."

"And what's this all about? Why this?"

"This was my reason for coming. We turned up something in our sifting."

"Sifting?"

"The ashes. Hollywood Park."

He couldn't focus on her words. He was stuck on her face, and the sincerity in her eyes. On memories. Sifting the ashes, indeed. There was an energy to this woman. s.e.xual, intelligent, curious difficult to separate one from the other. Driven by her job, or by something just beneath the surface that she labored to control. He had felt that same eagerness toward his work once, that same sincerity. No longer. Now he wanted results. He wanted the people the person who had done this to his son. Kort? The truth if any existed out there had become a by-product along the way, a means to reach his end. Truth and justice were luxuries for people who had nothing personal at stake. They had faded from his vocabulary like a second language once learned but long forgotten. "Ashes," he echoed.

"Our investigators sift the ashes, grid by grid, square foot by square foot. Square inch by square inch. It's one of the reasons we take so long at crash sites. Fortunately for you, they started at the nose of the plane. They have an area roughly three acres to cover. You know how many square feet that is? How many square inches? You know how long that takes?" He didn't answer. "They started near the c.o.c.kpit, which, as I say, was a lucky thing. Yesterday their sifting screens caught a tiny piece of gla.s.s. To the untrained eye, it looks like nothing more than a broken Christmas light one of those little white twinkling ones."

"But to the trained eye?" His eyes had not left her face. They were trained eyes as well. He, too, was examining grid by grid. She had been spared both worry and time. What few lines appeared at the edges of her eyes with her expressions, characterized her as thoughtful and sincere. They caught the light like an artist's shading, adding depth and contrast, enhancing her intentions.

"Depends on who you ask. I think it may be part of a mercury switch," she said, deliberately attempting to rattle him. He refused to give in that easily. He continued to search her face. "Mercury switch as in sabotage." She waited for him to say something, but he continued to stare. He was beginning to think in terms of hotel rooms. "On hearing this, I suggested we notify you the FBI immediately. I hit resistance. "Not yet," I was told. "Let's wait for the lab report, shall we?" I didn't want to wait that long."

Neither did he. It seemed clear to him now. They had missed their chance back on that beach a few summers ago. The chemistry had been there obviously but the opportunity had been denied. An injustice.

She continued in her businesslike tone. He wanted this woman gone and the real Lynn back. He wanted the woman in the sungla.s.ses and the terry cloth robe. "To date, we have no proof of explosives on sixty-four. No suggestion of sabotage. Not by eyewitness reports, not by any of the lab work." She paused, allowing him to say something. When he failed to contribute, she continued, "The NTSB will continue to control this investigation until there is conclusive proof of suspicious causes. My people will continue to control the crash evidence as long as possible. The more agencies involved, the more paperwork, the more meetings, the more ha.s.sle. But ever since you told me about that guy getting killed at Duhning "

Daggett sat up squarely. Back to reality. "It's worse. We now know there were two detonators made. Everything points here to Washington for the next target."

"You put me in a h.e.l.l of a bind, by telling me all this, you know that?"

"That's the idea, isn't it? I'm working against the clock here." He checked his watch. "This same time two days from now, I'm off this case. That is, unless I bring the bra.s.s something convincing and win an extension. Tell me about this mercury switch. How certain are you?"

"Me or my superiors! and I use that term loosely. That's just the point. Not certain enough to give up the investigation and turn it over to you guys. That's what would happen if we were certain. This evidence was on the way to our lab. I was arguing for a priority rating, meaning it would be advanced to the top of the pile. To give you an idea, so far we've tagged one hundred and twenty-one items for lab tests. That's another reason these crash reports take so long. But they didn't agree with my request. The priority request was denied. They're p.i.s.sed off at me because of the People article. We're talking bruised egos here."

"Was?" he asked. "You said it 'was' on the way to the lab. What did you mean by that?"

"We'll get to that." She looked around cautiously.

"Tell me about mercury switches. Anything special, other than what I already know?"

"No. I doubt it. You tip the bulb; the mercury moves; an electronic connection is made. A crude detonating device. In the case of sixty-four."

Daggett interrupted. Moving his hand to demonstrate, he said, "We're talking takeoff. Nose goes up. Boom."

"Exactly."

"But no sign of an explosion. You just said so. Isn't that right?"

"No explosion, that's right."

"Something else then?"

"Maybe. First I'd like to know if this gla.s.s bulb is a mercury switch or not."

"And if it is?"

"There are other ways other than explosions to bring down a plane."

"Name one."

"Gas. I was thinking about gas."

"Zia?" he said.

"Yes."

"Oh, Christ."

On August 17, 1988, the president of Pakistan, Muhammad Zia ul-Haq, his chief of staff; the army's vice-chief of staff; the American amba.s.sador, Arnold L. Raphel; and General Herbert M. Wa.s.som, head of U.S. military aid to Pakistan, all died in the crash of Zia's C-130 Hercules transport plane. It had been a nightmare for Daggett and the FBI's foreign counterterrorism group, who, along with other criminal investigators and sabotage experts, had been excluded from the investigation. With such a prestigious pa.s.senger list, motive for murder abounded.

Based on Islamic religious law requiring burial within twenty-four hours of death, the bodies of the flight crew were cremated only hours after the crash. This eliminated the chance to autopsy the flight crew. As a result, speculation remained as to the actual cause of the crash. Lacking any evidence from the autopsies of the flight crew, nothing could be proven. After eighteen months of inquiry, after much supporting evidence, the most likely explanation for the crash was that poison gas hidden somewhere on the flight deck, or introduced into its air supply, had killed the flight crew, and perhaps the pa.s.sengers as well. With no flight crew in control, the plane had gone down. The fatal crash remained listed as "likely sabotage."

Daggett said, "Gas? We would have caught that in the autopsies."

"Would we have? That's out of my expertise."

"We should have. I've seen the autopsy protocols there's no mention of toxic gases in the blood or lungs. Now you make me wonder how reliable that is. With the oil wells burning and all that jet fuel going up ... well, there wasn't much left of the two in the c.o.c.kpit. I wonder how reliable those autopsies are?"

"Way beyond my expertise," Lynn said, blanching.

"We'll know a lot more once we've listened to the voice recorder."

"The voice recorder? It's here?"

"That's what I'm doing here. That's what I meant by me being a delivery boy. Our lab has it as we speak. We'll listen to it either late tonight or tomorrow. Depends on everyone's schedules."

"What about my schedule?"

"You're invited, of course. Have you ever been to one?"

"No," he admitted reluctantly.

"It's emotional. It's hard."

"I can imagine."

"No, you can't. Not really .. ." She said this softly, but he felt her pain as clearly as a strong gust of wind hitting his chest. He identified the emotion immediately: It was the same as when he told others about Duncan's disability. "No, I can't," he acknowledged. Then he remembered he had to be by Mumford's side this evening. "I have an obligation tonight. If it's going to be tonight, I'll need to be pulled away. Physically pulled away. My boss won't have it any other way."