He nodded and stood from the table.

On the porch, he sat down on the cracked tile of the topmost step and rested his head in his hands. I hadn’t sat on these steps since I was a child, but I seated myself at a comfortable distance beside him. I offered him a cigarette and he took one. I lit it for him and then lit one for myself.

“I’m sorry I’m not more help to you,” I said.

“What are you supposed to do? What am I supposed to do?” He shrugged. “You know, I have a hard time believing it’s really happening. I read the newspaper and I say, ‘This is what’s real.’ But a part of me can’t make myself believe it.” He looked at me and his expression softened from the hard look to one of complete bewilderment. “What can I do? I don’t have the money and the State Department knows the situation.”

No one in the Philippines would help to pay the ransom for the same reason that governments hesitated to get involved. Raising the money supported the system of kidnapping. It made targets of your family members. What we hoped is that Laird could be located and a raid made on the camp. But Abu Sayyaf moved quickly, their headquarters always changing.

“Is there anything you can tell me about Laird, what he might have been up to in Mindanao? I don’t know if it will help, but sometimes a little information like that adds up to something when you put the facts together.”

“What do I know about Laird?” He had addressed the question to himself. “I’d never met his in-laws until this week. I’d never even met his fiancée.”

I studied the man’s face—lined, dark. Laird had gotten his cheekbones from his father, but Bontotot pére was a more horizontal being, broad shoulders, thick legs.

“Richard,” I said. “When was the last time you saw Laird?”

He grimaced. “They said you were the smart one.”

In my family there could be only one smart one, one pretty one, or one nice one.