The combination lock had three digits. She tried the easy combinations: all the 1s, all the 2s . . . People were still streaming up the hill and into the clearing. The metal of the box felt cool against her lap; the edges dug into her thighs. On 555 the latch flicked up. The inside was lined on both sides with dense gray foam, custom-cut. In the lid was a row of flattened gray metal boxes. She turned one on its end, saw the bullet readied at the top, the brass casing and the jacketed tip. Pistol magazine, she guessed. In the bottom of the case the magazines were larger, wider, and longer, recently painted green.

Her thoughts stopped her in her tracks. Because the boat, the uniforms, the guns, the travel bags  . . . She snapped the box shut, slid it into her backpack, left the pack standing at the side of the path, turned toward the main building. So much here that wasn’t right  . . . Those were not police uniforms; that was not a police boat: She was sure. She could not believe she had not realized sooner.

She began to walk in the direction of the main house. There were marshals on the path, guiding people toward it. She could see through the bay windows the people thronging the front room.

“Come on,” said a boy in a slogan T-shirt. “Come on!”

Important not to panic. Don’t arrive out of breath.

“Please,” she said, as soberly as she could. “Stop people from going in.”

“But the police—”

“They are not police,” she said.

“They have come to speak about the explosion—”

“Those men are not policemen,” she said. “Stop people. Tell the other marshals. Everyone must leave. Call the real police.”

The boy smiled at her blandly.

“But the police are—”

She stifled the urge to scream at him. She was running now, at the side of the path, overtaking the people who were making their way toward the house. She was at the steps. The front door led directly into the main room. She pushed abruptly into the room, found herself standing beside the men in their too-new uniforms.

The shorter one looked directly at her. “Take your place.” He motioned toward the people crowding the back of the room. “Don’t block the door.”

For a moment she felt compelled to obey. It took all her strength to pause, to stand tall, to shout.

“No!”

The policeman heard her. The crowd did not.

“No!” she shouted again, louder now.

“What did you say?” said the man quietly.

She looked toward the faces at the back of the room. “These are not the police!” she shouted.

The room fell silent. All faces, all staring. Where was Leela?

“You are mistaken,” said the shorter officer. The tone of his voice was reassuring, friendly almost. For a moment she doubted herself.