Addis did not reply.

“Okay, then. I’m sure Stephanie has some hot milk or something like that for you. So you’ll get some rest tonight. And we’ll fucking deal with this in the morning.”

“How’s Clarence?” Addis asked.

“In and out,” McGreer said. “Can’t talk. Fucking doctors say it’s going to be a day or two before he’s stable. All that fucking excitement today probably didn’t help. The police haven’t been able to ask him much. We still don’t know what he was doing the fuck there. It’s just like—”

McGreer didn’t finish the thought. Addis could guess: … we don’t know what the fuck you were doing in the canal.

“But he asked for you today.”

“He did?”

“That’s what I was told. But the doctors say no visitors except family.”

Addis stared straight at the moving spot where the headlight beam struck the ground. He was silent.

“Wonder why he asked for you.”

Addis watched the light rush across the road.

“Of all people … . Not that you wouldn’t be on my fucking mind if I was fucking fighting for my life.”

Addis said nothing.

“But it did strike me as somewhat fucking odd. Doesn’t it strike you as fucking odd, Nick? The same man who gave you a gun for god-knows-fucking-what is calling out your name from his near-fucking deathbed.”

McGreer steered the car on to his street, and they both saw two news vans in front of his California-style home. He drove past them, and harsh lights illuminated the car. McGreer pushed a button and the garage door opened; he pulled the Volvo in and pressed the button again.

His wife, Stephanie, was waiting at the door to the garage. She was wearing an oversized Tulane T-shirt and gym shorts. She held a bathrobe. She hugged Addis and led him to the kitchen. She had made hot cocoa. She picked up a piece of paper from the counter. Nine reporters had called so far, she said. So had Alter, Wenner, O’Connor, Palmer, and others. Ken Byrd had phoned to ask about the press statement. The White House was receiving queries from around the world. The lead question: Who’s the woman? McGreer picked up the phone to call the police. He wanted those vans gone.

“And Jake Grayton,” Stephanie McGreer said. “He’s on his way over.”

McGreer was on the phone with Byrd when Grayton rang the bell. Stephanie let him in. The news vans were gone.

“Nice porch,” he said.

She brought Grayton into the living room. Addis was in the bathrobe and sitting in a rocking chair. He was looking at the photographs of sadeyed, brown-skinned children hanging on the wall, shots Stephanie had taken while traveling in Central America.