I mentioned terrorists? And did I know police from three jurisdictions wanted to talk to me? Make it four, if you counted New Solway’s finest! I sent him back a brief message saying it was nice to be wanted, I knew nothing about terrorists, I’d slept through the day in a motel, and I’d get back to him after all the fine men and women in blue had mauled me. I also typed a quick message to Morrell, shutting my eyes, trying to remember what he looked like, what he sounded like, but gray mist swirled behind my eyes when I said his name. “Morrell, where are you?” I whispered, but I exed that out. “I’ve had twenty-four unusual hours, upside down in a pond and squeezing out through mansion windows. Wherever you are, I hope you’re warm, safe and well fed. I love you.” Maybe.

Before leaving the machine, I pulled up my phone log, which only confirmed what Murray had said: DuPage sheriff Rick Salvi wanted me ASAP, in which he was joined by the Chicago police-which I couldn’t figure out-and Derek Hatfield from the FBI, who would appreciate my calling at my earliest convenience. Behind the bureaucratic formula, I could hear Derek’s baritone rumble with menace.

There were also two messages from Geraldine Graham. I hadn’t expected to hear from her again after Darraugh’s furious phone call, but I should have realized that his mother would want the inside story on what happened last night at her beloved Larchmont. She’d probably watched the helicopters and emergency vehicles from her living room. Darraugh had also called. I would get to the Grahams in due course, but I couldn’t feel excited by yelps from the rich and powerful right now. The only message I was really glad to get was one from Lotty, asking if I was all right and to please call.

As soon as the messenger service took my packet for Cheviot Labs, I got ten dollars in quarters from the cashier, and found a pay phone in a Laundromat up the street.

I didn’t think Benjamin Sadawi merited massive surveillance. I didn’t think I did. But we were living in paranoid times. Everyone in law enforcement was on edge, not just the hormone-crazed youngsters who’d fired at Catherine Bayard last night, but everyone.

My first call was to my lawyer. Just in case worst came to worst, I wanted Freeman Carter to know what was going on with me. To my amazement, I actually found him at home.

“Freeman! I’m glad you’re in-I thought you’d be in Paris or Cancun or whatever your usual weekend spot is these days.”

“Believe me, Vic, when I heard your name on the news, followed by the magic phrase `Arab terrorist,’ I tried to book a seat on the first flight out. Why can’t you get into trouble during normal business hours? And without pulling Homeland Security’s chains?”

“Like a real criminal, you mean? I’m at a pay phone, but even so, I think I should keep this simple. I’ve been out of circulation all day, catching up on my sleep, so I don’t know what DuPage or thefederales will have in store for me when I go home. Under this Patriot Act, if they think I have something they want-whether it’s a runaway kid or a library book-do I have a right to phone counsel before they hustle me away?”