Thomas's stomach tightened. They were purposefully denying him context, anything that might prepare him for what he was about to see. They were going to be watching him closely, he knew, looking for small, telltale cues in his reaction…

Just what in the hell was going on?

The FBI, here in his office. Surreal. He suddenly relaxed, even smiled as he turned on his computer. The kids were going to freak when he told them about this. 'The FBI, Daddy? No way,'

It must be some kind of mix-up.

They waited for Windows to load—always an awkward moment, it seemed to Thomas, even when alone.

'Bible,' he heard Agent Gerard say behind him. 'What kind of name is that?'

He was trying to rattle him, Thomas supposed, using oblique antagonism to make it more difficult for him to conceal any potentially incriminating reaction. But they had no idea just how hungover Thomas was. He doubted a muzzle-flash next to his ear could make him jump.

Thomas turned in his swivel and looked Gerard dead in the eyes. 'Grab those chairs,' he said, motioning to the far side of his office. 'We should all sit.'

Agent Gerard glanced nervously at Agent Atta, then did as he was told. One down. Two to go.

Thomas dropped the disc in the tray. They were all sitting now.

The screen was black.

'Do those work?' Agent Atta asked, pointing at his desktop speakers. Thomas clicked through a couple different windows.

'YOU LIKE THAT?' blared from the speakers.

The voice sounded male, but it was electronically distorted—deep, as though gurgling through a synthesizer's version of the ocean bottom. Thomas's skin pimpled. What was this?

'What are you doing?' A female voice, breathless and undistorted. She sounded confused, as if she wanted to be terrified but…

'DO. YOU. LIKE?'

'Nnnngha… Oh God, yesssss.'

But was too aroused.

There was a tussle of lights on the screen, then Thomas saw a home video shot of a woman's torso. She was sitting in some kind of black leather chair, and wearing a patterned-pink shift so soaked in water or sweat that it clung to her like a semi-translucent condom. She was panting like a dog, her back arched, her nipples hard. Her face remained off camera.

'YES… YOU LIKE,' the rumbling voice declared. Whoever was speaking, Thomas realized, was also holding the videocam.

'What… Wha-what are you doing?'

'MAKING AN ARGUMENT.'

'Oh, Jeeeeesussss…'

The camera dipped, and Thomas glimpsed her naked thighs swaying. She seemed to be grinding her hips, but nothing was touching her. Nothing he could see.

'MAKING LOVE.'

'Mmmm… Mmmm,' the faceless woman moaned, her voice curiously childlike.

'MORE?'