There were also, on the same bottom shelf, a number of textbooks that Cory must have hung onto from his high-school or college days, most of them chemistry-related. It was looking to Duckworth as though Cory might have the smarts to keep someone unconscious for a couple of days.

And if the books didn’t supply enough information, there was always the Internet. All you had to do was google it. Which was why Duckworth was sorry he wasn’t going to be able to immediately get into Cory’s computer, if at all.

He went to the closet and opened it.

“Whoa,” he said.

Instead of clothes on hangers, the entire closet had been turned into shelving, but not for socks or shirts or underwear. The compartments were neatly stuffed with boxes—some empty, some not—ranging from the very small to briefcase-sized. The packaging labels indicated that most of this stuff was electronic equipment.

Alastair, standing behind Duckworth, said, “He saves the packaging for everything he gets. And all the instructions and the manuals.”

Duckworth read the labels. Modems, chargers, cables. But more interesting things, too. Surveillance-type equipment. Listening devices. Microphones.

“Why would Cory have stuff like this?” he asked.

Alastair looked. “I don’t know.” His face grew dark.

Duckworth closed the door to the closet. He got down on his knees and lifted the bed skirt, preparing to peer beneath it. But kneeling in the closet, standing, and now getting down again had made him momentarily light-headed. He rested his elbows on the bed and took a moment to ask Cory’s father another question.

“Where does he get the money?”

“Money for what?”

Duckworth tipped his head toward the closet. “All the electronic goodies.”

Alastair swallowed and said, quietly, “I give it to him. I give him what you’d call an allowance, I suppose.” He looked ashamed. “It’s just easier sometimes to let him have what he wants.”

“Sure,” Duckworth said.

His head feeling back to normal, he went down on his hands and knees and peered under the bed. There was almost nothing there, not even dust. But there was something up near the head of the bed, tucked against the wall by the baseboard. Whatever it was, it seemed to reflect the tiny amount of light that was getting under there.

Duckworth shimmied his body along the floor to get closer, and reached his hand under. His arm wasn’t long enough, but he was able to get a better look at the item. It was a jar. About six or seven inches tall, with a metal cap on top. It carried no label, but it appeared to be something spaghetti sauce might have come in.

“Do you have a stick or a ruler or something?” he asked Alastair Calder.

“What is it?”

“Something under here I can’t quite reach.”

“What does it look like?”

“A jar.”