Before Lou exited Vaill’s sedan, the agent gave him his business card with a mobile phone number written on the back, adding that at least they could count on him remembering that Lou had put the card in his wallet. Lou’s smile in reply held little mirth. Not being able to predict when Vaill might suddenly go blank was a bit like playing Russian roulette.

Last, Vaill tried to give Lou his pistol, promising to pick up another one at the field office. Over his life as a doc, Lou had treated many more gunshot wounds than the number of times he had actually held a gun.

“They give me the creeps,” he explained, refusing. “Chances are I would end up shooting myself or some innocent bystander before I hit anyone I was actually aiming at.”

“Suit yourself,” Vaill replied. “I don’t have time to talk you into it, or to give you an in-service lesson.”

“Believe me, Tim, the world will be a better, safer place.”

After the careful search of his room, Lou called to confirm all was well.

“Okay,” Vaill said. “Now flip on a James Bond marathon and watch how he handles a gun.”

“I thought Bond films were all Hollywood bogus.”

“They are, but he never misses.”

Finally able to stretch and relax, Lou plugged in his cell, stripped down, and fell onto his back on the bed, tired, hot, and sweaty from what was probably the worst twenty-four hours in a life that gave them stiff competition. The thought of a quick dip in the pool began to wriggle its way into his mind, but that simply wasn’t going to happen.

Survey says: shower.

As if placing an exclamation point on the result of his one-man audience poll, there was a volley of lightning nearby, followed by resounding thunder. Lou peeked out between the balcony drapes. Sixty feet down, the pool was emptying out, as it should have been.

The shower won high marks in the hotel category by only twice shifting without warning to icy cold. He dried off, changed into jeans and a knit polo, and by habit shifted his wallet to his left front pocket. Moments later, another flash and a booming clap of thunder announced the rain.

The sound of the kids racing into the lobby or back to their rooms made Lou realize that he had not spoken with Emily in two days. One or two was their average when he was in D.C., closer to one those rare times when he was away.

“Keep a close watch on her,” his father, Dennis, had warned when Emily was a newborn. “You blink, and they’re driving. And sometimes, like the day your brother Graham drove my Plymouth through the garage door, they’re only twelve.”