“She’s missing,” Patrick told him. When Bradley furrowed his eyebrows, Patrick went on, “The bad guys got her, and they took her to a place where a lot of people were killed. We haven’t found her yet.”

“Mommy was killed?”

“I don’t know, buddy....”

“Mommy’s dead?” Bradley asked, louder this time. Patrick’s mother rushed over and grabbed Bradley in her arms. The suddenness of her movements startled him, and he started to cry. Patrick’s sisters looked at their brother with a strange, painful mixture of pity and contempt as they followed their mother out to the parking garage.

That was a few days ago. They had gone back up to Sacramento for Paul McLanahan’s memorial service and interment beside their father in City Cemetery in downtown Sacramento. His sisters offered to take Bradley, but Patrick insisted on bringing his son home with him to their high-rise condominium on Coronado Island, That did not please them at all.

Patrick also did not offer any explanations to his family on what happened to Paul or to Wendy. That made them even angrier. His mother and sisters hugged Bradley tightly as they got on the plane to San Diego, but Patrick could have hugged pieces of plywood that had more warmth or tenderness than he felt from them.

He had an entire day by himself with Bradley. They made their usual stops: out to North Island Naval Air Station to watch the Navy planes come and go and to see if they could spot any submarines over at Point Loma; a visit to the Star of India, the old sailing barque on the San Diego waterfront, standing on deck pretending to be pirates; out to the Windsock Grill at San Diego-Lindbergh Airport to have lunch and watch the airliners as they seemingly threaded between the high-rises of the downtown district and skimmed the top of the parking garage on their way to the runway; then out to the lawns on Shelter Island where they tossed a Frisbee around and watched the Navy warships, yachts, and tour boats head out to sea. By then Bradley was ready for a nap; Patrick carried him to his room, as he usually had to do after all-day outings like this.

While Bradley napped, Patrick checked his e-mail—no messages. That meant they had been dumped or erased by Sky Masters Inc., or intercepted by the feds. He checked his cell phone—no service, which meant either that service had been cut off or the secure system was detecting eavesdropping and deactivated itself. He tossed the phone onto his desk—frankly, he was glad to be rid of it.

The phone calls started shortly thereafter. The first one, which Patrick let the answering machine pick up, was from former President of the United States Kevin Martindale. “I heard you were back in town, Patrick. Call me right away.” The second call was also from Martindale just ten minutes later; Patrick again did not answer. By the third call, Patrick had shut off the ringer.