A colored maid in her twenties, shy with a friendly smile but a beleaguered demeanor, collected my hat and Burberry—working in a place under siege was not an easy job. Within moments the missing boy’s father—no dressing gown now, rather shirt sleeves and tie—joined us in the expansive entryway and took me aside. No sign of the clinging young daughter now, or the adopted son.

Greenlease’s smile was a ghastly thing. “Nate, if you have the opportunity to…do something, I know you will. But I must insist you honor Will’s lead, if this ransom drop finally happens tonight. He’ll be representing me.”

“No offense, Bob, but then…why bring me in?”

“Because these people are unpredictable and matters could get out of hand. That’s where I’m counting on you—the unexpected. You’re going to be compensated, of course.”

“I didn’t ask for—”

He pressed something that crinkled into my hand. “If this isn’t sufficient, let me know. And your expenses’ll be on top of it, of course.”

Then he started down the hall and Letterman trailed after him. I’m human—before I fell in line, I had a glimpse at the check before tucking it away. Five thousand dollars with “Retainer” in the memo line. Well, sure—we would do things his way.

Our little party wound up in a rectangular study with a wall of leather-bound books at right and at left a mural of hunting dogs and their shotgun-wielding masters heading after game in the trees. Leaded windows behind a big mahogany desk at the far end looked out at real trees and leaded-window double doors adjacent surveyed a dark night not helped much by a crescent moon over which clouds drifted like the black smoke of a distant fire.

Down by the mural a well-stocked liquor cart awaited with a leather-cushioned chair arranged in front of a low-slung coffee table with a matching sofa running along the wall under the hunters and dogs and trees. The coffee table had two phones on it, one on a wire from nearby, the other stretched on its cord from another room.

Greenlease poured himself some bourbon while both Letterman and I declined. Our host gestured to the chair and I took it, while Letterman sat on the couch, the twin phones in front of us. Behind me Greenlease began pacing; he might have been walking guard duty.

“I’ve already told Will,” Greenlease said, his words coming in a rush that undermined his controlled businessman manner, “that you’ll be handling the call when it comes in.”

“Mr. Heller…” Letterman began.

I said, “Please, Will. Nate.”

Letterman leaned forward. His features seemed to be hanging off his already long face; his eyes were light blue peering from slitted pouches. “Nate. I’ve told Bob I think putting you on the phone is a mistake. I have a pretty good rapport going with this ‘M’ character. He’s talked to Stew, as well, and a couple of times to Virginia.”

“Where is Mrs. Greenlease?”

Pausing his pacing, her husband said, “Still sedated. Our family doctor has been quite good about all this. Ginny was upset earlier today, after taking that call. Paul is at her bedside. This…ordeal simply has to stop, Nate.” Some rage broke through the calm: “Has to stop.”