The plane landed in San Francisco. My layover was an hour and change. I strolled the jam-packed concourse, briefcase in hand, and yes indeed, Ichabod kept pace. He was skilled; one of those ex-spook or FBI agent recruits Bellow mentioned as candidates for the Redlick Group. I wouldn’t have picked him up if I hadn’t known he was there. Mandibole had inducted him into his little cult, which was a chilling detail.

I bought a soda at a kiosk. He pretended to ponder magazines at a shop across the way. I walked into the men’s room, hoping he’d be stupid enough to follow. He wasn’t. Fine; I urinated in peace.

Happily, I controlled the field. I exited the main concourse and headed for ground transportation. What could I reasonably assume? Mandibole, and by extension Gerald Redlick and the Redlick Group were supremely interested in my movements. Ichabod might or might not have known about my connecting flight. Either way, unless he was part of a detail and able to execute a handoff, he couldn’t chance me slipping into the city. Which meant he’d be likely to stick close. A nice lady at the information desk relayed the news that all private car services were rerouted inside the domestic parking garage. I checked my watch—a windup—to gauge whether I had time to spar with my shadow. Frankly, there’s always time for yanking the chain of one’s opponents.

He tailed me into the massive central garage. I feigned answering phone calls, gesturing freely to convey the impression of distractedness. What was his plan were I to climb into a car and zoom into the sunset? Stop me? Too dramatic. Photograph the license plate and report the situation to his handler? More plausible. He’d expected me to either catch a connecting flight or beeline for a taxi. Now he wouldn’t be quite sure where I was headed. Off-balance and off his game. Vulnerable.

I dallied and phoned Lionel. After a quick rundown he promised to drop everything and keep a discreet eye on Meg and Devlin. Delia’s cryptic prediction that no one connected to Redlick would come after me or mine in the Hudson Valley was reassuring as far as it went. An ex-hitter turned private eye is expected to undergo hazards to his health. I was fair game for kidnapping, shooting, or getting run over in a parking garage. Conversely, messing around with innocent civilians tempted the fates and risked drawing heat that corporations, shadowy or not, preferred to avoid. Meg and the boy were, in my estimation, ninety-nine percent safe. One percent represents too great a number when it’s our beloveds. I was relieved that Lionel would assume the role of watchdog.

Foot traffic thinned as I crossed the garage and turned a corner and saw a bank of elevators opposite a descending stairwell. The stairs were blocked with construction cones and a sign: CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE. My shadow would be forced into his second fateful decision of the past few minutes—let me go, or sprint to catch up and join me on an elevator, hoping I wouldn’t make him in his fancy suit. He sprinted. The soft thump of his footfalls drew near, then slowed. If anybody stepped off the elevators, I’d smile and nod and abort the plan. But the timing was perfect.