As I’m saying this, the indicator light above Manning’s icon goes dark.

RACHEL

What just happened? Why did that light go out?

The light, I tell her, is Manning.

ME

He’s gone into his shell.

The gale booms louder outside. My floor-to-ceiling windows rattle like thunder. The whole building shudders.

BEN-DAVID

What’s happening with Manning? Is he all right?

I describe Manning’s room to Rachel and Ben-David. The narrow bunk. The single chair. The crucifix on the wall, the framed photo of his dead wife and son . . .

Manning, I tell them, has already self-administered a hundred milligrams of Imitrex. He may inject himself again. He’s already taken five hundred milligrams of Cafergot, on top of his naprocene skin patch.

He’ll be alone, I say.

He’ll have shut off all phones.

He’ll lock the door.

He’ll turn out the lights and draw the blinds against any streetlamps or sounds. He’ll lie on his back on the bed. He’ll put a wet towel over his eyes.

Manning’s skull, I tell Rachel and Ben-David, will feel like an iron spike has been driven through it. He’ll try to think but he won’t be able to. When the pain hits he’ll be too stricken to speak.

Rachel asks how I know this.

ME

I’ve watched him. Not in his room. He doesn’t know I’ve even been there. But I’ve watched him go through this, in the office, on the road . . .

RACHEL

Are you in love with him?

I laugh.

ME

He’s my boss.

RACHEL

Don’t bullshit me.

I tell them more about Manning’s state.

He’ll be on his back in bed. Still fully clothed. Shoes on. He’ll have forgotten to take them off and now he’ll be in too much pain to make the effort.

His weapon in its holster will be hanging over the bedpost.

I know Manning disciplines himself to breathe.

I know he can feel the drugs when they kick in.

I know they never work soon enough, and they never take away the pain.

Here’s what I don’t know, and won’t until the next frantic hour:

Manning is indeed on his bed, lights out, fully clothed, forcing himself to breathe, when . . .

He senses another presence in the room.

He feels fear.

Fear because he knows he’s incapacitated.

Fear because he can’t move.

With excruciating effort Manning elevates his head off the pillow. Even three inches takes all his strength. To tug the towel off his face is like hauling a sheet of lead. He forces his eyelids apart . . .

A man is sitting in the single chair across the room.

INSTANCER

I’m sorry, Detective. Did I wake you?