Recognizing the beach house from the air was more difficult than Ben had imagined. None of the coves around Rockport, Massachusetts, looked familiar from this height. It didn’t help that Ben hadn’t been here in more than ten years. He guided his jet pack north from town. He didn’t see anything. He doubled back and headed south. Nothing.

He glanced at his jet pack’s power reading. Almost out. Where is that blasted house? An overnight delay was the last thing he needed. He had no choice, however. He landed behind a sand dune bordering a deserted beach. He found some short grass to place the jet pack on and attached it to the recharger. Why can’t these things run on the recharger? It would take two hours to power up. It would be dark by then.

He glanced around him. The dune wouldn’t provide much in the way of comfort. Not that he’d get much sleep if the crabs found him. At least he had a full moon to provide some light.

If his plan in Rockport worked, he’d make it to Bryson Nichols’s estate in two days—one day after Creighton accessed the memory streams. If he could confront Nichols with information Creighton gleaned, Nichols would cave. His cover-up exposed, he’d have no choice but to accede to Ben’s demands.

One snag had arisen, however—a huge one. Ben had lost Grid access. Creighton couldn’t contact him, and he might have no way of contacting Creighton.

Ben unzipped his jacket and pulled out his electronic tracker. At least he could verify that Abby had arrived safely at Lauren Caldwell’s. When he turned on the tracker, a white dot flashed on its screen. He looked at the road grid indicating her location. The reading confused him. It was nowhere near the congresswoman’s house.

He zoomed out to a wider angle. A shoreline appeared. He pulled the image back some more. A series of islands materialized. These looked familiar. He pulled the image even farther out. He was looking at the Maine coast. He zoomed back in. The white dot was approaching Seal Harbor on Mount Desert Island.

Bryson Nichols’s estate was on Mount Desert Island.

At dawn Ben strapped on his jet pack and flew back up the beach. He found the house on the first pass, a mile south of town. He landed in soft grass between the house and the beach and unstrapped the pack. He glanced up and down the beach. It was empty.

“Ben, is that you?”

He whirled toward the house. Fifty feet away, on the edge of a covered porch ten feet off the ground, stood a man in his nineties whom he hadn’t seen in twelve years.

“Paul!”