The voice sounded hesitant and nervous. He sounded much older now. He’d looked much older too.

“We’ve all felt panic at one time or another, from getting lost in a supermarket as a child to losing one’s house keys. Or perhaps you have faced a more serious threat, illness, physical danger, or emotional damage, the loss of a friend or family member . . .”

Did she hear his voice crack?

“. . . Many things give us reason to panic, and for most of us it is causal and we understand why we feel this way. Finding ourselves lost in a strange place is real. Identifying a threat to our life is real. But for some, panic emerges for no apparent reason. There seems to be no cause, and often no escape. This tape will talk about that sort of panic and will give some strategies for dealing with it. I hope it will be of some use.”

Cody didn’t think it would be any use at all.

She didn’t think anything her father ever said was any use.

709

Dr. Frankburg left a message with the pilot Johansson.

“Graham, Frankburg here. Just checking that everything’s okay. I imagine you got held up somewhere. If you would like to reschedule, please give me a call. Thanks.”

As an afterthought: “I’m afraid I’ll have to charge you for the session as I didn’t receive a cancellation call within twenty-four hours. Bye.”

Frankburg put the phone down and immediately criticized himself for being petty.

He criticized himself further for ringing at all. Perhaps Johansson lived with a partner who didn’t know he was seeing a therapist. He could have caused all sorts of difficulties.

Frankburg wished he’d brought Johansson’s notes home to check if he was attached. Sometimes he behaved like a student.

He drank a bottle of wine and went to bed.

708

John Heron sat in the interview room at the airport, drumming his fingers.

“Okay, you can go,” the policeman said as he reentered the room.

The police had checked out his story and confirmed the gun was real, but unloaded and used only for theatrical purposes. A prop. The license was authentic.

John’s records indicated a minor traffic offense but nothing to suggest he was anything other than what he claimed: a comedian.

The policeman was interested to note that this sort of misunderstanding had happened before to John Heron, when officers were called to investigate a claim that he was presiding over a diabolical slaughterhouse. But that incident had been cleared up. And as far as he was concerned, so had this one.

“Thank God.”

“Don’t bring guns to the airport, sir. It makes us edgy.”

“I appreciate that. I’m sorry.”

707

Less than a hundred meters away from John stood his wife, Emma Heron. Near but still missing.

She went straight to the ticket desk and asked to be put on the next available plane bound for New York.