Part One
Sunday/Monday

Genesis 39: 20–23

Joseph’s master took him and put him in prison, the place where the [Pharaoh’s] prisoners were confined.

But while Joseph was there in the prison, the Lord was with him; he showed him kindness and granted him favor in the eyes of the prison warden. So the warden put Joseph in charge of all those held in the prison, and he was made responsible for all that was done there. The warden paid no attention to anything under Joseph’s care, because the Lord was with Joseph and gave him success in whatever he did.

 

It’s two thirty in the afternoon when I finally force myself from my bottom bunk. Feel gross from sleeping too much, as usual. Moths fluttering around in my skull.

The other seven bunks are empty. Bright-eyed kids backpacking through Europe, shooting out the front door with that miraculous optimism that accompanies waking up in a new city. They considerately left the shades drawn on the lone window in the dorm room; didn’t want to disturb the token “guy who’s way too old to be staying in a youth hostel.”

I shuffle barefoot to the window and open the curtain. Rather than a full pane panorama of scenic Budapest, I’m treated only to the stuff that will never make the brochures: A decrepit prewar apartment building across the alley that looks like a clothing rack commercial—it’s like air-drying rags is a passion project for these people. The fire escape that runs down the side of the building ends about twelve feet off the ground, and every morning (read: afternoon) that I see it I imagine a growing pile of broken-limbed lemmings fleeing a fire caused by spontaneously combusting piles of laundry.

On the ground level of the apartment is a closed metal grate covered in Hungarian graffiti and a spray-painted mural of Tupac. I can’t read the faded letters above the grate, but after countless mornings of observation I’ve decided this shop used to be a bakery, based on what appears to be a cartoon muffin baked into an e on the defaced lettering over the entranceway.

Frank Lamb and the case of the abandoned store: solved.

Might not sound like much, but lately the old sense of deduction has been employed exclusively to decipher the alcohol content of foreign beers. In any case, this storefront now seems to be a favorite evening hangout for prostitutes.

I leave the window. Tread over bags spewing T-shirts and city maps. The walls in here are orange and brown with water damage. The wood of the bunk beds is warped and moldy. Faintly salty smell of urine and strong disinfectants.

This place is about as low as you can go, which makes it even more surprising that one of my bunk mates left his laptop case on his bed, concealed halfheartedly by a thin yellowing sheet. Does this kid think the simple fact that we’re sharing a room in a hostel is enough to foster mutual trust? Does he not realize that the only requirement for a bed here is a face and the same quantity of Hungarian Monopoly money that buys two vacuum-packed cheese and eggplant sandwiches? Indeed, this kid would probably wet himself if he knew he was sharing a dorm room with me—a suspected murderer on Interpol’s watch list. Based on the smell in here, maybe he was tipped off last night.

Nobody is in the hall. I enter the bathroom and flip on the lights. Take a deep breath of mildew. Sweet privacy in here, finally. Coed bathrooms, much like the fugitive life, aren’t nearly as exciting as they sound. Freezing, cloudy water gurgles from the rusty spigot. I splash some water on my face. As has become a near daily ritual, I inspect my beard in the mirror and vow to buy a razor today on the way to Voci. It won’t happen.

I steal a squeeze of toothpaste from someone else’s tube, and am brushing my teeth halfheartedly when the best part of my day ends abruptly: The few moments before I start worrying about my daughter.

And now I’m back to thinking about how stilted our last phone call was; me consulting the notes I’d prepared, worried (justifiably it turns out) that another call might alienate her even further. Me refusing to tell her where I was—to protect her—then asking about school as if there’s no outrageous subtext to this conversation. Hanging up after five minutes sweating and shivering. Sadie’s getting old enough to question whether Dad is just a serious fuck-up; whether it might be in her best interests to cut her losses now and stop answering my monthly scripted calls.

That was three months ago, and I haven’t dared call her since.

The toothbrush is dangling from my mouth, the head clenched between my teeth like leather during an old-time amputation. I spit a wad of toothpaste foam. Some gets caught in my beard.

My eyes feel droopy. I already want to go back to sleep. Sleep another few hours, pass another day. My brain again replays my conversation with Sadie, as it surely will dozens of times today, until I shut it up with booze. The last few years have been like sitting on a lounge chair that’s resting on a tar pit. Can’t feel the imperceptible changes day to day, but every time I bother to put down my Pilsner and look over the side I see I’ve sunk a little bit deeper.

That’s the worst part. Being aware that my mind is fogging over, underperforming, and not doing anything about it. Used to be that picking up and moving hostels or cities would excite me a little bit, but now the routine is a well-worn groove. Still, assuming self-preservation remains a priority—that there’s any self still worth preserving—I gotta force myself to move periodically. And I’ve already been in this hostel for six weeks, and Budapest for ten months, which is definitely too long.

I walk back to the dorm room, only now noticing how much it absolutely reeks of unwashed man. I’m sure I deserve at least a little credit for that.

I pull my Velcro fanny pack out from under my pillow and count how much money I have left. Two thousand dollars, a little over a thousand Euros and about a hundred thousand in Hungarian funny money, which is only worth about three hundred bucks. Getting down there. I’ve probably got four more months before I have to do something drastic.

I pull on my only pair of jeans, a Pink Floyd T-shirt on its last legs and clip my money belt around my waist.

Voci for a few hours, then I’ll come back here, pack and go to the train station.

The bunk across from mine has a few cans of cheap lager half hidden behind a suitcase. I grab two and head out.

 

Per routine, I stroll around the city for a few hours before Voci. I tell myself it’s for exercise, but really it’s because Voci doesn’t open until six. I’ve already done all the museums; spent a few hours in each pretending like I was enjoying myself, picturing myself at some cocktail party a decade from now, recalling the entire Greta case and ensuing years for a rapt crowd of beautiful women. And when the women inevitably ask what Frank Lamb, professional hero, did in Europe, as he was hiding from the law, I’ll casually explain that I actually took the time to really get to know art.

I’d divide my days between modern and classical, usually modern in the morning because it can be so stimulating that I find sleeping after it difficult. I guess I just figured . . . as long as I’m here in Europe, I should make the most of it, you know? Really be the best person I can be . . .

I descend the concrete steps on the Pest side of the Megyeri bridge, and find a shadowy place to add a few ounces of Lamb-processed lager to the great blue Danube.

The shallow climb back to the bridge leaves me embarrassingly out of breath. I pull my knockoff Ray-Bans down over my eyes and start the march over the bridge. A lot of families out; kids on summer break I guess. Some Scroogey part of me wishes for a spontaneous heavy rain, driving all these happy nuclear families indoors, where they can’t remind me how far I am from being a healthy, productive member of society.

Instead the sun has no choice but to reluctantly bathe me in the warmth and light meant for everybody else. Parents chide kids spitting over the side of the bridge into the river. A young couple, of one mind, stops walking and embraces.

I wish I’d taken three beers.

I arrive at Voci ten minutes before it opens, and sit on a bench across the street. Someone left the sports page and I pick it up and pretend to read. I consider that since Hungarian uses more or less the same alphabet as English, I’ve always assumed that I knew how the words on the page sounded, even though I couldn’t understand them. But what if a Hungarian T sounds like an English B? Or some sound that doesn’t even exist in English? Hell, for all I know this newspaper is total gibberish, a joke that only locals are in on, and every time they see some schmuck pretending to read they elbow each other knowingly and snigger.

That’s some seriously high level paranoia, Frank.

I wait another couple minutes, so I’m not the first one into Voci, and then drop the paper and cross the street. Spirits slightly aloft with the promise of distraction. Comfort washes over me as I push through the heavy oak doors. Return to the womb type sensation. Familiar musk of tobacco, old leather and spilled beer.

The gorgeous waitress who’s here every day besides Saturday smiles at me.

“Hi Ben, welcome, yes,” she says with a thick accent, the kind that used to make my heart flutter. Her hair is so black that it’s almost tinged blue.

“Hi Ruth.” I smile weakly, appreciating her pretending I don’t smell awful from the walk over here.

“One here for you now,” she says, pointing to a balding septuagenarian, head pecked with liver spots, sitting across from a backgammon board expectantly. I think we’ve played before, but I can’t remember his name or his skill level.

“Thanks,” I say, sitting down across from the man. He left me the booth, so I get to watch Ruth over his shoulder as we play.

“Ötszáz frankot pontonként,” the guy says, half to himself, as he arranges the pieces. He’s got enough ear hair to knit a small blanket.

“Angol?” I reply. “English?”

He snorts and picks something out of his eye.

“One point five hundred forints,” he says.

“Right, right. Sorry,” I respond. Pretty standard stakes.

“Hmf.”

He doesn’t make eye contact with me once. Joylessly shakes his dice, rolls and moves. Collects his dice and readies himself for his next roll.

I move. Ruth brings me an espresso and double vodka without me asking, and grins in a way that’s probably supposed to be flirtatious. Then swivels and retreats to the bar, hips seemingly swaying on their own accord, like they’re their own distinct organism.

So why don’t I feel anything?

This isn’t the first time I’ve noticed this. If I’m being objective, she’s absolutely gorgeous. Her blue eyes are the kind that inspire men to write symphonies. Her skin is like cream. But I only seem capable of appreciating her beauty in an abstract way. I feel nothing in my flesh, and this has increasingly concerned me.

“Eh?” my opponent grunts with impatience, as he studies his yellow fingernails.

“Sorry,” I say, and roll.

We play for two hours or so. He’s an automaton. Only time he betrays any emotional investment whatsoever is when I get outrageously lucky. He’s up a few thousand francs when he looks at me for the first time. We’re in the midgame, and he’s slightly ahead. It’s my turn to roll, and I’m shaking the dice, trying to think what roll I’m hoping for.

“Zugzwang,” he says, smiling cruelly.

“Gesundheit,” I respond.

“Zugzwang,” he repeats. “You have Zugzwang.”

I squint at him. “I don’t understand.”

“You also do chess?” he asks.

“No.”

“Zugzwang . . . it mean every move you make . . .” He gesticulates moving pieces around. “Any move fuck you. Better not to move.”

I stare at the board and suddenly understand what he’s saying. My current position is decent. But any move I make will compromise it, leave me horribly vulnerable. My best strategy would be to pass—to not roll at all.

“Okay,” I say, without rolling. “Your turn then. I pass.”

He shakes his head slowly, a yellow-toothed grin.

“No, no. You must.” He pantomimes rolling the dice.

I sigh, and oblige, ending up with a roll that’s particularly bad. He takes an impish glee in my reluctant move.

“Every morning.” He smiles to me. “Every morning, another Zugzwang.”

That’s the last time he acknowledges that I’m anything other than a backgammon piñata filled with Hungarian currency. We play another half hour. Eventually, after handing me a particularly bad beat down, he wordlessly collects his cash and tobacco pouch, sidles out of the booth and out the door.

I linger in the warm depression in the booth my ass has been working on the last couple hours. I’m four vodkas and two espressos deep; about halfway toward a little fleeting bliss. I stare at Ruth, who’s grinning and tossing her hair for another customer, and feel my forehead start to burn. Lower my gaze to my hands, shaking slightly from the caffeine.

I got exactly zero joy out of my backgammon session, and not just because I lost. Usually a game is accompanied by at least a little human interaction. But with this guy, I might as well have just played on the computer.

I sit up straight in my seat.

That kid’s laptop. He left his laptop lying in the dorm room.

I haven’t checked my legal status at the library for at least a month; started getting paranoid about someone looking over my shoulder. But if that laptop is still there, I could check in private.

I’ll check, then pack and leave right away, just on the off chance it raises red flags on the hostel’s IP address.

I pay, ignore Ruth’s wave good-bye, and half jog past glitzy casinos, goulash depots, ads for bathhouses, currency exchanges . . . back over the bridge.

It’s only eight thirty. The kids might still be out partying.

I force a smile to the pimply girl at the hostel’s check-in desk, and in a frenzy I’m up the stairs and into the dorm room. Looks exactly as I left it this afternoon, including the carelessly concealed laptop. The door doesn’t lock, so I throw a few of someone’s bags in front of it, just to give me enough notice.

I pull the laptop out of its case and open it. I grin. Login doesn’t require a password. Only bad news is everything is in French, but I find a browser easily enough. I lick my dry lips. This feels exactly like sitting down against a very good backgammon player, for very high stakes.

First I Google “Frank Lamb Interpol Wanted.”

My heart sinks. I’m still there, one of about 300 American fugitives on the watch list. There’s no good reason why that would change; no statute of limitations on shooting a woman to death in an NYC hotel room.

Even if she was a serial killer who kidnapped your daughter and—

I stop myself before running—for the thousandth time—through the events of that night five years ago. I know how that ends: Me pounding vodka until my eyes tear up, blacking out until I come to on the floor of the shower, some brave hostel employee kneeling beside my whimpering form, politely explaining that I’m going to have to check out.

My driver’s license photo on the Interpol site looks as convincingly criminal as ever; easy to mistake that morning’s fury at the incompetence of the Brooklyn DMV for murderous intent. Only good news is that the site still says that I’m thought to be in France.

I Google “NYC Murder Tower Hotel 32nd floor.”

Old NY Post article I’ve read countless times. The details are correct, but taken—if I do say so myself—somewhat out of context. Yes, I shot Greta Kanter three times in the chest in a hotel room. They have a blurry picture of my face from the hotel hallway to prove it. And yes, I boarded a flight to Paris a few hours later with my daughter. But the Post gets the motive wrong. They speculate it was drug-related. In fact, Greta Kanter had hired me a few weeks before. Offered me 350k dollars to find a cassette tape for her. And when my partner and I weren’t finding it fast enough, she decided to kidnap my daughter to speed things up. Throw in the fact that it seems pretty clear she murdered at least two people, and that she was practically pleading for me to pull a Kevorkian in that hotel room, and I think my actions are a little more understandable.

I briefly flirt with the idea of Googling Sadie’s name, but refrain just in case these searches are enough to draw Budapest’s finest to this room. I can’t imagine they would be, but am not confident enough in my knowledge of Internet surveillance to draw even the slightest attention to my daughter.

I Google “Frank Lamb Cassette Tape.” Want to know if anybody’s figured out the true nature of that tape, or that it’s in my possession.

I raise an eyebrow. Here’s something new. I glance at the door then back to the laptop. It’s a real amateurish site. behindthecurtain.com. A sidebar reveals that older articles are rather inconsistent in their reputability. It’s some kind of public forum that allows anybody to upload their stuff. Earlier entries include an “exposé” on a military complex in Alaska that can control the weather, a detailed explanation of how 9/11 was both perpetrated by the Bush administration and predicted by the Bible, and several articles concerning extraterrestrial life. But there’s also some stuff that sounds at least potentially plausible. Timothy McVeigh’s ties to a well-respected Cardinal in the Catholic Church; a fuzzy video of what might be Vladimir Putin receiving fellatio; hacked email accounts of politicians.

The relevant entry was posted about four months ago (did I not Google “cassette tape” last time?), and was submitted by a journalist from a small-time online pub—the intro explains that his employer refused to print his “revelatory true crime piece” for fear of “ruffling feathers.”

His investigation is the first to tie some things together about the tape. He figured out that I and an as-yet-unidentified partner were in Beulah, Colorado, just a few days before I killed Greta in New York. He speculated—correctly—that we were asking questions about the Beulah Twelve—the group that ritually sacrificed a kid and then disappeared. And he also caught up with enough people we’d badgered along the way to learn that we were after “some kind of tape that may explain why those twelve men became satanic murderers overnight.”

But for every detail he nailed, he got at least three completely wrong. And then, to my great relief, the whole thing goes off the rails by the end as he tries to extrapolate meaning from various anagrams of “Beulah,” “Satan” and “Tape” and combinations thereof.

I’ve been searching and reading for almost an hour. Pushing my luck. And now I’m locked into leaving tonight; if anybody out there still cares about finding me, this sequence of searches will surely raise some eyebrows.

I’m about to close the laptop when I remember there’s one more place to check. I don’t like to log into my old email account—it seems like a sure tip-off of my identity—but it’s really the only way to get in touch with me. And lately I’ve been entertaining the wholly irrational fantasy of receiving an email from Helen Langdon, ex-flame and NYPD Detective, both offering me hope for exoneration and a couch to crash on.

And since I’ve decided to leave tonight anyway . . .

Before I can really think through the consequences, I log into my email for the first time since arriving in Budapest.

Fifteen new emails in ten months. I’d be depressed if I wasn’t so nervous. They’re all trash. Promotions. Except one. From Leonard Francis. The alias of Courtney Lavagnino, my partner from the Greta case.

Fingers trembling, I open it. It says simply:

We’re in the same city. I want to talk but can’t find you. Nice work. Every night from 9–10 I’ll be in the lobby of the hotel named after the spot where we once enjoyed some repulsive nachos. If you don’t show by July 15 I’ll try to find you wherever you go next.

My first thought is that I have no idea what month it is now. The French kid’s laptop says it’s July 11th.

My second thought is that this could quite conceivably be a trap. They found out that Courtney was an accomplice to the sundry crimes committed five years ago, but they’ll let him walk if he delivers me.

My third thought is that Courtney figured out long ago that I have the tape, and a buyer contacted him because they couldn’t find me.

I shut the laptop and put it back in its sleeve. It’s nine fifteen. Within five minutes I’m out the front door of the hostel, duffel bag containing all my worldly possessions on my shoulder. I don’t even have to rush to make it to the Ritz-Carlton Budapest before ten.

 

I survey the revolving doors of the hotel from behind the safety of a parked car across the street. Watch people walking in and out for five minutes before accepting that if this is a setup, there’s really no way I’m going to be able to detect it beforehand. Muscle memory has me reaching for my Magnum in the back of my jeans, feeling naked at its absence. Not that it would be particularly helpful against an Interpol sting anyways.

I close my eyes and massage my temples. Try to think this through reasonably.

If it is a sting, I’ll be extradited to the States and sit in jail for a year while they get the trial arranged. From there I’ll have little more than a puncher’s chance of proving who Greta Kanter really was, thanks to the lack of witnesses, and the fact that it went down five years ago. So, likely looking at something like twenty years in the slammer.

But if I just walk away I’m going to run out of money in a few months and more importantly, Sadie’s boarding school is only paid for another year and a half. And the options for ameliorating that situation are pretty stark. I can’t work here legally for obvious reasons, which leaves some unsavory prospects like armed robbery or running drugs.

And if I get myself killed in the process of either of those ventures I’ll leave Sadie even more screwed.

I grab a handful of beard and tug on it urgently. It’s strangely reassuring to think that no matter what I do here, I’ll probably be filled with remorse and guilt in a few months.

Zugzwang.

Ultimately, it’s curiosity that pushes me across the street, through the revolving door, and into the softly lit lobby of the Ritz-Carlton Budapest. Everything is white and gold, including the chandeliers, plush carpet and concierge uniforms. Someone is tickling a creamy grand piano behind a row of Roman columns. Groups of business travelers, European tourists, people on laptops sit on broad white couches and around Parisian-style café tables. I feel horribly conspicuous. I’m underdressed, undergroomed, underarmed . . . equipped only with what little buzz remains from that double espresso.

I proceed warily across the ballroom-sized space. The light bouncing off every spotless polished surface makes me feel dizzy. I can’t tell if I’m just imagining that every person I pass breaks away from their conversation for a moment to steal a glance at me. Are they all cops? Half expecting to be tackled and cuffed, read my rights in barked Hungarian, maybe kicked in the gut a few times . . . I’m breathing very hard.

Then I spot Courtney. He’s sitting toward the far corner of the room, to the side of the reception desk, enveloped in a white armchair, reading a paperback. As soon as I see him something melts in my chest. I immediately feel guilty for even suspecting that he’s here to turn me in. This is the guy who apologizes profusely when he accidentally grabs your water glass. He once chastised me for failing to tip a hotel maid. These people live off of tips, Frank . . . He cares about fruit being organic for philosophical reasons. He explained to me once that he doesn’t drink coffee because he doesn’t like to “lose control.”

He’d never be able to live with the guilt of betraying me.

I can’t help myself from grinning as I walk toward him. I wind around the lobby to approach him from behind, clamp a firm hand on his boney shoulder and grunt in his ear:

“You have the drugs?”

Instead of spazzing, flailing out of his seat, as I’d hoped, Courtney Lavagnino takes a half second to finish whatever he’s reading, calmly lowers his paperback to his lap and looks up at me. Immediately his long face contorts in shock.

“Oh geez, Frank,” he says in a low voice. “You look awful.”

I snort and plop down into the chair across from him, trying desperately to stop myself from smiling; don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how glad I am to see him.

That’s the first time anybody’s used my real name in years.

But he’s not smiling at me. His thin eyebrows are furrowed in concern, giving me the look you give a terminally ill kid who tells you he wants to be an astronaut when he grows up.

“Good to see you too.”

“Have you been sleeping and exercising? You look exhausted.”

“Yeah. I sleep plenty, and I’ve been jogging like twice a day. But actually you don’t look so hot yourself,” I lie. Or rather, he doesn’t look any less hot than usual. He’s always borne an uncanny resemblance to Morticia Addams, but five years have barely changed him: long, cruel chin; hollow cheeks; broad pale forehead. His hair is shorter, that’s the big change. He used to have a ponytail—now he has a buzz cut; a sad dusting of grey and black pinpricks.

“I cut my own hair now,” he says, noting my gaze. “I finally decided, why should I pay someone to do it? It’s not sensible. I don’t pay someone to cut my fingernails or brush my teeth.”

“Cool,” I say. “This is exactly how I always imagined an Interpol sting going down.”

Courtney’s eyebrows shoot up in disbelief, as the rest of his face crumples.

“Frank, I would never—”

“I know. I’m kidding. I’m here right?”

Courtney’s skeletal shoulders relax beneath a wrinkly white polo shirt that’s way too big for him. A montage of him at some outlet mall flashes through my head, an upbeat pop song playing over his carefully calculated attempt to assemble a touristy, seasonally-appropriate wardrobe for his Eurotrip.

“So you’re too cheap for a haircut, but you’re shelling out for one of the nicest hotels in the city?”

“I’m not staying here, Frank.” Courtney seems insulted by the suggestion of decadence. “Just costs me one tea to sit here in the evenings.”

“And wait for me.”

Courtney nods.

“You couldn’t find me? Really?”

Courtney shrugs. Marks his page in his book and closes it, as if finally resigning himself to a long conversation.

“I probably could have, but thought it was better this way. Didn’t want to see you if you didn’t want to see me.”

“How did you know I was in Budapest?”

He shakes his head at me, almost disapprovingly.

“You’ve been traveling on the same fake passport for years. You should change at least biannually.”

“If I’m so incompetent, why am I still a free man, hotshot?”

Courtney claws his unshaved cheek.

“You’re not a high priority obviously. Because, I stress, you’ve been very sloppy. You didn’t change your appearance at all. If your picture had made it onto the news for five seconds it would have been over.”

“I grew a beard.”

“Right, the beard.” Courtney nods to himself. “Brilliant. The beard has been confounding facial recognition software and law enforcement officials for decades. Perhaps someday technology will be able to simulate—”

“Alright, alright,” I snap. “Fine. I look awful and I’m a terrible fugitive. Why did you want to talk?”

“Mmm.” Courtney sits back in his chair and folds one boney leg over the other. “First, tell me about Sadie. Is she okay?”

“She’s fine,” I sigh. “In a fancy shmancy boarding school that’s more like a country club. Called ‘The Farm’ or something, but they’re not fooling anybody. Used a good chunk of the Greta money to set her up with phony papers, tuition and room and board.”

Courtney frowns seriously—which usually means he’s either happy or deep in thought. He only smiles when he’s being a wiseass; when he’s figured out something before I have.

“Good to hear, Frank.”

“So?”

Courtney clears his throat. Glances quickly around the hotel, presumably to make sure nobody’s eavesdropping. As if any of these put-together, purpose-driven-life, let’s-meet-up-for-cocktails-and-catch-up people give a shit about us.

Satisfied, Courtney makes a steeple with his fingers and says:

“Somebody would like to hire us.”

I narrow my eyes.

“Hire us? Don’t they know that I’m wanted?”

Courtney nods slowly. He takes a sip of iced teas and stares at me seriously.

“He does. In fact, one part of our compensation package is fixing that for you. He had to, so you could come back to the States.”

From the pocket of his faded blue jeans, Courtney removes an American passport and hands it to me. I bite my lip as I open it. It’s my picture with a new name, new birthday, new everything. I leaf through, inspecting the watermarks, the edges . . .

I look back up at Courtney, heart fluttering.

“This is a hell of a forgery,” I say.

“It’s not a forgery,” Courtney says. “It was printed in the American passport office. But the details belong to someone else. You have to burn it once we get through security, too risky to use it more than once. However, should we complete the job, the Senator has promised to get you a real one. New details in the database. A new identity. New Social Security number, new credit rating . . .”

I put the passport on the table between us, shaking my head.

“This is already too good to be true.”

His eyes twinkle in amusement as he takes another long sip of tea, slurping up the bottom of it.

“It’s not a hard job,” he says softly. “And it pays quite well. But if your schedule is too full . . .”

I lower my head into my palms. Grind my eyelids until I see stars.

“Of course it’s a hard job. They’re all hard jobs.”

“I did my due diligence. Followed up on all the odds and ends I could, didn’t want to waste your time, and everything seems quite legitimate. Plus he’s very impressed by us. He was initially referred by a woman I did an excellent, discreet job for some time ago who really talked me up. And of course I pulled some strings to arrange a stellar lineup of references for both of us—”

“Real ones?”

Courtney winces.

“I mean, we really did crack the Beulah Twelve case, succeeded where thousands failed. By all rights we should have amazing references. But of course I couldn’t exactly mention anything related to the Greta case. Let’s say, the references were real in spirit.”

“Who is he?”

Courtney taps the rim of his glass with a spidery index finger.

“James Henry Sampson. Ring a bell?”

“Nope.”

“He’s a two-term Senator. Independently wealthy. Owns Sampson Dairy. It’s huge in the Southwest. Or, used to. He sold it when he went into politics.”

“So the passport—”

“He’s a Senator. Connections out the wazoo. He got this thing printed and shipped to me in one afternoon.”

“Wait,” I say. “That name does sound familiar. Is that the guy with that crazy sex scandal? He was cheating on his wife with super young girls or something?”

Courtney clears his throat.

“They were all of age, but yes. That’s him.”

“And he’s still a Senator?”

“Actually, he won his first election a few years after that story. But since being in office, his record has been astonishingly clean. Not a single blemish. I’m fairly certain that having this fake passport printed is the shadiest thing he’s done in years.”

I can’t stop staring at the blue passport on the table between us. Once I’m in the States I could go see Sadie face-to-face. Hell, with a new identity maybe I could get a place close to her school in North Carolina so we could see each other regularly.

“What’s the job, Court?” I grit my teeth. “What’s this easy job?”

“I don’t have all the details yet—”

“Oh great.” I throw up my hands. “Everything’s easy when you don’t have all the details.”

“Patience, Frank,” says Courtney calmly. “I understand his thinking. He can’t fill us in on all the details until we commit. But the bottom line is this: One of Sampson’s ex-employees—a guy named Rico Suarez—stole some very valuable books from him four years ago. He’s been patiently demanding ransom. And now, Sampson has finally agreed to pay.”

“Why doesn’t he call the cops, Court? He’s a Senator and knows who the guy is—”

Courtney sighs. “Can you please let me explain, Frank?”

“Sorry.”

“So the job is this: Rico wants an outrageous amount of money. Sampson has finally managed to gather the exorbitant sum. I think he’s had to sell property and liquidate tons of assets. But he has the cash, and is ready to pay. Our job is to get in touch with Rico, tell him we have the money, and put an end to this. Swap the money for the books and put the fear of God into him to make sure he stays away from our client.” Courtney coughs. “The only leverage Rico has over Sampson is the books. If it wasn’t for the books, you’re right, Sampson would have called the cops straightaway. But Sampson stressed to me: Nobody can find out that he has these books in his possession. Says it would ruin his reputation and political career. But that he needs these books back . . .”

I exhale through pursed lips.

“So let me get this straight: Sampson has the money and is ready to pay the ransom. All we have to do is call Rico and convince him we’re serious about swapping and then maybe putting a tough face on while we do it?”

Courtney nods.

“Yes. The job itself might only take a few days. Arrange location and date, meet up, swap, collect three hundred grand.”

My pulse jumps at the thought of my half of that money.

“Sounds like he’s overpaying.”

“Maybe. But you should read this guy’s emails Frank. He’s been destroyed by this ordeal. And he’s wealthy. He’ll pay what it takes to make it end. Also, as I mentioned, he holds the arguably misguided belief that we’re highly competent private investigators.”

“You’ve only communicated with him by email?” I ask.

“Well, yes. You know . . .”

Courtney has never owned a telephone. If pressed, he’ll explain that he doesn’t like being traceable—the more he figures out how easily a person can be tracked through technology, the more frightened he becomes of being tracked himself. I tend to suspect his reasons have more to do with either shyness, or paranoia that the person on the other end is an impostor. Whatever the case, as long as I’ve known him, he’s only been reachable through one of several heavily encrypted email accounts he maintains, and checks a few times a week at Internet cafés or the library. It’s a neat system, because he can generally figure out where his referrals are coming from, based on which email address he’s contacted at. It also gives him an air of mystery, a sort of initial upper hand with clients. But—most importantly—he avoids turning off clients with that unsavory personality of his, that demeanor that’s somehow intertwined with the bitter sprigs of root vegetables and flavorless vegan fig bars he’s always eating. Those foul foods that we generously refer to as “acquired tastes.”

I think for a second.

“Well . . . Sounds like Rico’s been pretty patient, eh? Stuck to his guns for what, four years? Impressive.”

“Oh yes.” Courtney nods and waves his hand at the bar to signal that he’d like another tea. “Very professional. Gave his price and never budged. I admire his patience.”

I rub my neck.

“This guy Rico is obviously pretty serious. This already sounds like it could get ugly.”

“Alright.” Courtney reaches to take back the passport. “Sorry for wasting your time. You obviously have a lot on your plate.”

I slam my hand down on top of his, pinning the passport to the tabletop. I glare at him, rage tickling some spot behind my eyes.

“Don’t fuck with me,” I growl, suddenly feeling stone cold sober. “I’ll snap these little fingers off and make you swallow them.”

To my increasing fury, he just cocks his head at me, like he’s disappointed with the banality of my threat.

“So you’d like to hear more then?” he asks, as nonplussed as a waiter listing the evening’s specials. His refusal to even acknowledge my threat badly makes me want to follow through on it.

He just smiles smugly at me until I have no choice but to withdraw my shaking hand, and take a few deep breaths.

“So.” Courtney clears his throat. “What you’re wondering, surely, is what are these books? Why does Sampson think it would ruin his reputation if this got out? We’re obviously not talking about first edition Melville manuscripts or something.”

“And,” I add, “why is he willing to pay . . . How much is he giving Rico to return them?”

Courtney scratches a stubbly cheek.

“Forty million.”

“What?” I jump in my seat. “How rich is this guy?”

“Rich,” Courtney says. “But by my estimation, this is well over half of his total worth.”

“I see.”

A waiter with a towel draped over a cuffed wrist brings Courtney his tea on a tray.

“Van egy barátom ma este.” He smiles.

“Igen,” replies Courtney. “Beszélnem helyett olvasni.”

They both laugh.

“What the hell?” I ask as the waiter delicately accepts Courtney’s payment and returns to the bar. “You speak Hungarian?”

“A bit,” says Courtney. “I mean, I have been here over a month. Couldn’t help picking up a few words.”

I decide not to admit that I’ve been here nearly a year and have no idea what they just said. “So I guess the three hundred grand makes sense now. It’s a big deal, handling that much money.”

“Yes.” Courtney nods. “As a percentage of the total transaction, it’s obviously negligible.”

“Paid up front?”

“Upon completion. Didn’t push him on that yet. Maybe we can negotiate.”

Before drinking, he takes the glass of tea and holds it up the light, swirling and squinting like it’s a fine wine. Finally satisfied, he lowers his glass to his lips and takes a tentative sip.

“I got one two weeks ago that tasted a little funny. Noticed a little layer of film on the top. Means either it had been sitting for a while or—more likely—somebody sneezed into it.”

“You can’t taste sneeze,” I snort, as he continues to drink warily, like the speed of germ intake will mitigate chances of infection. “But Court. What are these books? Are they coated in platinum?”

Courtney shifts in his chair. Finally having made peace with his tea, he squeezes his lemon slice into it and takes a healthy slurp.

“I won’t lie to you Frank. I have no idea. I asked, obviously. He refuses to tell us until we’re there on his property, face-to-face. He’s—justifiably I suppose—rather paranoid these days. But of course” —a little fire flashes in Courtney’s eyes and for just a second I catch sight of the insatiable curiosity that is ultimately the only reason he’s in this line of work, instead of teaching at a university or writing long form journalism—“I’m sure we’d have the opportunity to find out what makes these among the most valuable books in the world.”

For a moment we just listen to the woman playing Chopin across the lobby, the clink and clatter of highballs and real silver, the thick soup of conversations in dozens of different languages.

“Why did you come here?” I ask. “Why not do the job yourself.”

Courtney sniffs a little too quickly.

“I need your help.”

“I thought it was an easy job.” I flash my nastiest grin.

“It will be easy for two of us.”

I smile to myself. It sounds like Courtney has finally discovered the gaping holes in his skill set, that have been obvious to me since we first met. He’s quite possibly the smartest person I’ve ever met—speaks like eight languages; once wrote a paper on game theory just for kicks that was picked up by some renowned mathematics blog; somehow managed to hunt down a ninety-year-old Nazi hiding out in New Zealand, based only on a water-damaged black-and-white photo of him from the war—his ability to complete clearly defined cognitive tasks is unparalleled. But being a successful private investigator requires much more than solving abstract logic puzzles; there is, of course, the human element. And poor Courtney must just now be realizing that humans don’t behave like the rational actors in his economics textbooks.

“Well, I’m flattered that you think I can help, Court.”

Courtney attempts to compose himself. He bites down on a piece of ice and sucks it down.

“We would fly to Colorado tomorrow.”

My stomach knots.

“Colorado?” I ask. “Shit. I hate that place.”

Courtney nods knowingly. I’m sure he’s thinking the same thing as me: Last time we were there five years ago we were looking at bloodstains on an altar, a woman who’d had her head bashed in, and sat in the front yard all day, mostly brain dead, tied to a post so she didn’t wander off. I wonder if she’s still alive. Don’t exactly have fond associations with that particular flyover state. Reading my mind, Courtney says:

“It’s nowhere close to Beulah really. He lives in Aspen. Very bougie. Plus we were there in winter last time. Colorado summers are supposed to be beautiful.”

I clench my teeth.

“If we go check it out, he fills us in on the details, and we don’t like it, can we still walk away? Realistically? I mean, where would I go from there? Back to Europe?”

“You could go visit Sadie in North Carolina,” suggests Courtney. “I’d drive down with you.”

I mull this.

Wait.

“When did I tell you she was in North Carolina?” I ask.

Courtney’s face freezes. He clears his throat.

“I suppose I misled you a bit when I asked how she’s doing,” he says, and then lowers his voice. “I’ve actually visited her a few times.”

“You what!?” I half shoot out of my seat.

“Frank, please. You emailed her school email address to yourself so you wouldn’t forget it. You might as well have posted her Social Security number on a billboard. Don’t worry, I deleted the email.”

“Why the fuck would you go see my daughter?”

“To make sure she’s okay. Figured she would be lonely without you. I was going to tell you, really.”

I’m feigning anger, but actually feel mostly gratitude: that he’s doing my job for me, that he cares enough about us to shlep all the way down there to check on her.

“And how long have you been checking my email?”

“Frank, you know I keep tabs on everyone I’ve ever worked with or for. It’s just smart business.”

I could milk this; twist the knife and earn some upper-hand morality points, but he’s just too pathetic. I can tell he’s in an even worse place than he’s letting on. He needs to work, needs some purpose and focus. Probably as badly as I do.

“I was just trying to help, Frank, I swear.”

I glare at him.

“If I say yes, there will be absolutely no more deceptions. Even if you think it’s for my own good.”

“Yeah.” Courtney nods seriously. “Of course.”

I take a few deep breaths.

“Bottom line Court: What does your gut tell you about Sampson? What are the odds this is some kind of a ruse?”

Courtney chews his lip. He feels awful about his minor betrayal of my trust.

“Nil,” he says. “Seriously, Frank. He’s a Senator who knows what bad press is like. He wouldn’t risk getting a fake passport made unless he desperately needed help. I’ll show you these emails where he’s pleading for me to consider the job. And it’s just a swap, Frank.” He bites a few fingernails. “I’d be shocked if it takes more than a weekend.”

“If you believe that, I know a Nigerian prince who needs some help making a bank transfer. Senators don’t get passports forged for easy jobs.”

I stand up and snatch the passport off the table, glaring at Courtney as he chugs the rest of his second tea.

“But, as you surely anticipated,” I sigh, “I can’t say no to this.”

A wide, genuine grin spreads over Courtney’s normally dour face. It’s like watching the sun rising over the tundra.

“We’ll fly tomorrow morning,” Courtney says, instantly energized, rising to his feet, limbs unfolding like a spindly marionette being gently pulled from above. He stretches his thin arms toward the ceiling, pulling up his polo shirt to momentarily reveal his pale midriff—could belong to a teeny bopper were it not for the tufts of dark black hair emanating from his belly button. This guy—this spindly goblin—is the closest thing I have to either a work colleague, friend or, hell, spouse for that matter.

Now that’s depressing.

“In the spirit of full disclosure, I think Sadie might have a boyfriend,” Courtney says absently as we talk over marble floor, toward the front entrance. “I could smell aftershave.”

“Appreciate your honesty, Court, but please don’t—”

“Of course I have no reason to believe it was serious. Guess it could have just been a one time kind of thing . . .”

 

I spend the entirety of the trans-Atlantic flight white-knuckled, waiting for a grinning sky marshal to pistol-whip me. It’s only on the second leg of our trip, after passing through passport control at JFK without incident, that I settle down enough to get to work.

We spend the flight from New York to Aspen poring over news clippings about Sampson, as well as reviewing the insane nondisclosure agreement he emailed Courtney.

Sampson ran the family dairy business uneventfully, until about twenty years ago he started getting contracts with some big groceries—scaled up dramatically and within a year or two he was a multimillionaire running an enormous dairy operation. Ran for mayor of a nearby town, won handily, then sold the business to run for Senate. A few months into the campaign, his opponent uncovers a history of some serious floozing around; he’s got a very bad habit of screwing girls young enough to be his daughter, visiting erotic massage parlors, posting lewd Craigslist personals and following through on them . . . This is political death, especially with a conservative constituency like his. His wife is too ashamed to be seen in public. He drops out of the race, a laughingstock.

But then the interesting part—after disappearing from the public eye for a year or so, he reemerges, claiming he’s a “changed man.” Well, maybe that’s not so surprising. What’s so surprising is that it works. He runs again and this time, he kills it. And now he’s totally beloved—polls through the roof. When the sex scandals are occasionally mentioned, everyone talks about them like they were a sickness which infected poor James Henry Sampson, and now he’s recovered, all the stronger for overcoming.

So I guess the contract he wants us to sign makes sense. He’s been burned by his secrets getting out before. But some of these nonstandard terms seem a bit overboard, considering that the job could conceivably take us only a few days: For twenty years we basically can’t mention his name to anyone in any context, zero photos of his property, he wants us to work without documenting anything in writing or taking any photos.

Hard to imagine what this guy is hiding . . . Has he fallen back onto the canoodling wagon? But Courtney and I finish poring over the contract and by the time we deplane, decide to just sign without fussing over any terms.

Five years of tension melts away as we make our way out of the terminal. I’m on the same continent as my daughter, and I can speak to the locals. Aspen-Pitkin County airport is a particularly welcoming environment. Unlike JFK, there are no drug dogs, or cops with machine guns. Seems to be an understanding between all the smiling travelers and airport staff: We’re all rich, and nothing bad ever happens here.

I convince Courtney to split the cost of an iPhone and burner SIM card at a Verizon kiosk—we’ll need a phone for the job, and it’s not exactly professional to ask Sampson to borrow his. We snap pictures of every page of the contract and email it to Courtney’s account.

Someone’s at baggage claim holding a sign that says Courtney.

The woman waiting for us is probably early thirties, and looks like she just rolled out of bed. Her brown hair—interspersed with strands of premature grey—is strewn like a pile of spilled spaghetti. Thick-rimmed black glasses, loose white wifebeater and red corduroy pants. Despite her best efforts, she’s pretty. Has a cute kind of squirrely look.

“Hi, I’m Mindy Craxton,” she says. She forces a smile, like introducing herself is some awful chore. She has an accent I can’t place and a dead look in her almond eyes. She seems so exhausted, you’d think she’s the one who just finished a double-legged transatlantic flight. “You two have bags?”

“This is it.” I gesture to the duffel bag that I carried on. Courtney has only a black attaché that looks like it’s been through a world war.

“Alright.” Mindy throws the scribbled sign in the recycling bin, and plucks two bottles of water from a plastic bag.

“James asked me to give these to you. It’s always important at this altitude, but the air is especially dry now—the whole state has been in borderline drought for months. This happens here every couple years. Make sure you drink copious amounts of water. James doesn’t want you getting sick, yeah?”

“Thanks.” I smile, taking the two bottles from her. We stand there for an awkward beat. She doesn’t move.

“Well?” she says, agitated. I think her accent is blended British and South African. “Drink them.”

Courtney and exchange a look, then open our bottles and chug while Mindy watches impatiently.

When we finish drinking she wordlessly turns, and we follow her out of the sliding glass doors, into the slightly brisk Colorado morning. She walks fast, with the frantic strides of a musical theater major who forgot her anxiety meds.

Courtney’s eyes scan the panoramic view as we cross the parking lot, as if scoping out escape routes. He’s frowning, perhaps wary of the foothills rising on either side of us; some primordial instincts telling him that the low ground is where you’re vulnerable.

“The air is thin,” he says to her corduroy-clad backside. “What exactly is the altitude here?”

She pretends not to hear the question. I try to decipher the frown of almost comic proportions creeping down Courtney’s face as we follow Mindy in silence, her purposeful pace like she wants to get this over as soon as possible.

Who the hell is she? Sampson’s employee?

I do already feel the thin air. I’m out of breath after our short walk to the car. A black Humvee. Mindy climbs into the front, and it seems implied that neither of us is meant to sit shotgun. The back seats are spotless, and the interior smells of leather and freshly printed money.

“So you work for the Senator?” I ask. The words feel dumb as soon as they leave my mouth. In fact, just being around her makes me feel dumb.

“Not really,” Mindy responds.

“So . . . girlfriend?” I ask.

She doesn’t respond.

“Mistress?” I joke.

She turns to glare at me from the driver’s seat. I see that the hand she’s perched on the upholstery is splotched with white eczema. “Cute. But don’t say anything like that around James. He doesn’t have much of a sense of humor.”

Courtney fidgets, his tiny butt struggling to find a groove in the spacious seat.

“So you’re just like his chauffeur?” I press.

The silence before she answers indicates that she’s really losing her patience.

“I’m a postdoctoral student in linguistics,” Mindy says slowly, the timbre of her voice shifted down an octave. I notice that her lips are badly chapped.

This stirs Courtney to speak.

“Linguistics? What’s your area of specialization?”

She doesn’t reply, turns back to start up the car.

I shoot Courtney a wide-eyed look: She’s a little loopy, eh? He shrugs: I’ve seen worse.

“I’m just curious why the Senator would send a linguistics student to pick us up from the airport,” Courtney says.

It’s immediately clear Mindy’s a terrible driver—the kind that’s so bad she doesn’t even realize she’s bad, and probably wouldn’t believe me if I mentioned it.

“I’m sure James will want to explain everything to you himself,” she finally answers. “He’s a tad anal sometimes. Especially when it comes to anything related to the books.” There’s an obvious twinge of resentment in her voice. Decide to follow it—I can tell she’s a natural talker; wants to talk. Shouldn’t be hard to coax a little more info out of her.

“Anal eh?”

“Yes . . . well I mean. It’s an honor that he chose me to show them to. It’s absolutely the opportunity of a lifetime, really—” She’s suddenly speaking very rapidly, words gushing out before she can judge their prudence. “But now I have hundreds of pages of research that I can’t show anyone—let alone publish—until James is out of office. Not to mention we could have had them back years ago if he wasn’t so bloody terrified. Hardly leaves his property unless he absolutely has to fly to DC.”

I kick Courtney in the shin, like to make sure he’s getting all of this.

“Terrified?” I ask “Of Rico?”

“Among others.”

“What do you mean?”

Mindy takes an exasperated breath, then jerks the Humvee over to the shoulder and puts the hazards on. Turns around and gives us an exhausted look—like a burned-out librarian who’s about to confess that the Dewey Decimal system is all a scam.

“Listen, I know you two are curious. You seem like nice blokes, so I’ll just tell you now. You’re wasting your time here. There’s not going to be a swap, yeah?”

Courtney chews on his pinky. Mindy continues:

“It’s too much money. James has gotten close before, but couldn’t pull the trigger. He couldn’t bring himself to pay forty million three years ago, he’ll back out of it again this time. James will cancel at the last minute, and that will be that. What’s more, Rico is doing just fine as is. Every couple months he calls up James and demands a couple hundred thousand immediately, or he’ll burn the books. And of course James pays. Rico is in no hurry. James has horribly mishandled this from the start.”

“But—” I start.

“It’s better that way, trust me,” she sighs. It’s like she used up all her energy with her little rant about James, and the world is now just a series of obstacles preventing her from taking a nap. “You don’t want to get involved in this. It’s not worth whatever he’s offered to pay you. And you certainly don’t want to spend time in that house. I refuse to even go in there anymore.”

I’m about to ask her to clarify, when she turns back around and revs the Hummer back onto the highway and turns the radio on loudly, precluding any follow-up questions.

I glance over at Courtney, whose brow is furrowed in deep concentration, as he stares at the back of the seat in front of him.

I close my eyes and try to sleep. But the jerky driving and excitement of being back in the States, having a job, prevents me from shutting off my brain. Not to mention the jam-band type music Mindy is blasting over the car’s sound system.

I open my eyes as the car pulls to a stop, at the entrance to a driveway, blocked by a tall white gate. Mindy rolls down the window and buzzes in.

“It’s me, James. I have them.”

After a moment a baritone voice crackles back.

“Did they sign everything?”

Mindy looks back at us like Told you he’s anal.

“Tell him we signed them.”

She does, and the gate creaks open. Mindy eagerly gives us some gas, nearly clipping the retracting gate with the side mirror.

The estate is unbelievable. Set on some kind of plateau, above the valleys but below mountain peaks . . . I wonder if this whole property was terraformed in order to create a flat parcel of land. Granite statues of nude figures adorn the perfectly trimmed green grass on either side of the driveway.

Once a perv . . .

The lushness of the property seems especially decadent given what Mindy said about there being a drought. He must spend a fortune watering all of this.

She jerks the car forward, and then slams to a halt right at the front door.

I was so enraptured with the rows of flowers, rock sculptures and pine trees that I hadn’t noticed the house. But when I first take it in through the tinted window I’m physically jarred.

“Wow,” whispers Courtney.

To say that the Senator’s house is beautiful would be both to undersell it, and to mistakenly describe it as pleasing to the senses. In fact, my first reaction to the house—despite some objectively phenomenal craftsmanship—is nausea. It’s beautiful in the same way as a Magic Eye 3D picture—impossible to imagine how it was made, but the shock to your visual system makes you dizzy and want to throw up a little.

We exit the car and Courtney and I just stare at it for a moment.

From a bird’s eye view, the house would appear as a giant V, and the front door is at the vertex. It feels as if we’re standing in the gaping jaws of the house and are about to enter her throat.

It’s three stories high, and the exterior is roughly half glass, half some kind of polished orange stone, all held in place by a slick steel exoskeleton. The roof is opaque, but through the glass you can see the beams and columns that support it. It’s like seeing a house with half its skin pulled off. The effect of the half-transparency is that various rooms and objects inside appear to be suspended in midair.

It’s phenomenal, but—like some kind of insane amusement park ride—I’m totally content just observing from the outside.

We see what must be the Senator on the first floor, through a transparent wall. He doesn’t wave, even though it’s obvious that we can all see each other. He opens the front door and steps outside. He approaches us, brown leather Oxfords clicking against flagstone. He walks like a politician; slowly, thoughtfully, erect. He’s wearing khakis and a light wool sweater despite the heat. He’s holding a can of Diet Pepsi.

“Hi Mindy,” he says with a booming voice. “Could you please order groceries for all of us? What do you two like to eat?”

Courtney says: “I’m a vegan. So just stuff like fruit and vegetables for me please.”

“Alright,” Mindy says. “I’ll see if I can find a place that delivers twigs and dirt. And you?” She turns to me.

“I don’t mind vegan stuff,” I say.

Courtney looks at me with wide wary eyes, as if suspecting me of ulterior motives.

“I eat less meat than I used to, champ,” I explain, patting him on the boney shoulder and smiling. “You helped me see the light.”

James Henry Sampson turns to us as Mindy disappears around one jutting wall of the house.

“Contracts, NDAs and the passport?”

I hand him the temporary passport, and Courtney removes what’s practically a bound manuscript from his attaché and gives it to Sampson. He leafs through it, alternately sipping Pepsi through a straw and checking that every page is initialed. When he reaches the end and sees the date and signatures he can’t contain a sigh of relief.

“Please excuse the legal formality. Courtney, good to finally meet you in person.” He tucks the contract under his arm and gives my partner a well-practiced handshake. His voice is resonant, warm and reassuring. “And Frank Lamb”—he doesn’t quite smile, but conveys pleasure with a slightly upturned lip, like we’re sharing an inside joke—“I’m glad you decided to come. God bless.”

He’s about three inches taller than Courtney. Lean but with a wide chest, thin salt and pepper hair, round spectacles, slightly ruddy face, cheeks so smooth it’s hard to believe he even needs to shave. It’s tough to get a read on him based on this first impression—he’s very reserved and has excellent control over his facial expressions; typical of someone who spends a lot of time on camera and in the public sphere. It’s not hard to see why he’s a successful politician; if there’s one thing he conveys unequivocally it’s competence. This is a man who’d surely be able to roll up his sleeves and change a flat tire in a cinch, help his son with his calculus homework, or whip up a killer lemon meringue pie in a jiffy. I remember that his origins were as a dairy farmer.

He’s wearing just a bit of very tasteful cologne.

“Courtney explained the confusion which resulted in your current legal problems, and it sounds like you’ve been the victim of a terrible injustice,” the Senator tells me. “I want you to know, it will be my sincere pleasure to right this egregious wrong. I’ve already requested your new documents, and they should be ready by the time you complete the job.”

“I appreciate that,” I say, wondering just how much Courtney bended the truth, and how much of it Sampson really believed. Bottom line is, the Senator probably doesn’t care what I’ve done, as long as Courtney and I get his books back for him.

Sampson picks up his empty soda can and says, “I’ll show you fellas to your rooms so you can put your bags down, and then if it’s alright with you I’d like to get started immediately.”

“Do you think it would be possible to shower first?” I ask, a private shower in a clean proper bathroom suddenly all I can think of. I’ve been bathing in communal, grimy hostel bathrooms for years—the kind where you have to wash all of the crowd-sourced hairs off the bottom of your feet afterwards.

“Of course.” Sampson again gives an almost smile. I think for a moment his face betrays signs of extreme fatigue. “I’m just very eager to have the matter settled. I’ll show you to your rooms.”

“Your house is very unusual,” says Courtney, as we approach the front door, trying to match the Senator’s brisk steps. “Beautiful, but unusual. I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

“Thank you. I think you’ll find the interior even more distinct than the exterior.”

“I think I recognize this architecture from somewhere,” Courtney says. “Is this an Oliver Vicks?”

We’re on the cusp of the front door, but this innocuous observation stops Sampson in his tracks. When he turns to look at us, he’s struggling to maintain his poise.

“I don’t recall asking you to look into that,” he says softly.

This is why Courtney and I work well together. In these critical moments, we’re usually on the same page. In this case, where neither of us have any clue what the hell is going on, the clear dominant strategy is to remain silent, coax him into betraying more information.

We both meet the Senator’s level gaze, trying to keep our faces totally neutral. Sampson’s face doesn’t reveal much, but you can tell there’s something bubbling under the surface. A bit of a twitch in his left eyelid; totally involuntary.

His eyes dart between Courtney and I.

“How did you find out?” he asks.

“I read occasionally about modern architecture,” Courtney replies coolly, obviously just as confused as I am as to why any of this is a big deal. “Just general interest. Thought this looked familiar.”

Sampson taps two of his beaming white teeth with the tip of his index finger, like he’s worried they’ve fallen out, and the fact that they’re still there appears to comfort him somewhat. He takes a deep breath.

“Well, onwards and upwards,” Sampson says and forces a smile. “All part of God’s plan, I’m sure.” He turns and leads us inside. I see that the empty Pepsi can in his hand has been crushed by his grip.

Courtney and I exchange a quick glance behind Sampson’s back. I ask him with my eyes:

Do you know what the hell that was about?

Courtney shrugs.

No clue.

 

The shower is better than I’d imagined. I spend twenty minutes in there, another ten shaving off my beard, and then a moment I wish could last forever just rubbing the soft towel against my cheeks.

My and Courtney’s rooms are in the north wing of the house. I was wrong about the shape of it. It’s actually a complete X; more or less symmetrical from the outside. From any given location outside on the ground, it’s only possible to see two of the wings.

My room is, mercifully, not transparent, and I have accommodations that wouldn’t be out of place in a five star bed and breakfast: sparkling clean surfaces, fresh linens, my own enormous bathroom with a Jacuzzi tub, entire thing paneled with dark stained oak, floored in polished yellow stone.

The pink-tinted window in my room looks out onto an outdoor tennis court and lap pool, with stadium lights for nighttime use. The house and sports complex are surrounded by rows of pine trees that seem deliberately arranged to maximize privacy. And the whole estate is bordered by a twelve-foot brick gate. Also visible is a guesthouse, which, if Mindy refuses to step foot in this main house, must be where she went off to.

I pull on a pair of ratty white Jockey shorts and my jeans. Would have loved to go shopping in town before stopping here; these rags have long since reached the point of permanent soiling. Also asking Sampson to borrow some underwear and pants is clearly out of the question. I’m about to attempt a nap when there’s a knock on my door.

“Just a sec,” I call, pull on the same T-shirt I was wearing before, and stride to the door, savoring the fluffy beige carpet on my bare feet. Courtney’s standing there, on a floor of pink-tinted glass, frowning. He doesn’t appear to have showered. Wordlessly, he pushes past me, and sits on my still made bed. I close the door.

“Nice digs, eh?” I say.

“Mmf,” he mumbles. He’s fidgeting with his long fingers.

“What?”

“It seems . . .” Courtney scratches his scalp and exhales loudly. “Wait.”

Courtney removes a little box from his pocket that looks like a radio and places it on the nightstand.

“That will jam any recording devices,” he explains.

“Oh come on.” I roll my eyes. “Why not wear tin foil hats in case he has a brainwave monitor?”

Courtney brushes off my skepticism.

“Well. I know what was bothering the Senator. It seems this house was designed by a felon. A murderer.”

I try to process this unexpected sentence.

“What are you talking about, Court?”

“The guy who designed this house—Oliver Vicks—he’s a fairly well known architect. I remembered seeing pictures of one of his houses some time ago. But I just Googled him. And it turns out that, after designing a host of quite interesting buildings around Colorado he murdered a family. Quite odd circumstances, too, I might add.”

Courtney hands me the phone. I scan the article. Oliver Vicks—prominent architect—killed two parents and their son. Five hours later he was arrested at the restaurant where the daughter of the family worked. He had called the cops on himself.

“Why did he turn himself in?” I furrow my brow.

“Well, it gets a bit more odd. I read a few other articles. The parents were shot in the head. But the son, fourteen years old, they think was killed with the screwdriver Oliver had on him at the café.”

“They think? Couldn’t they tell?”

“Right, well.” Courtney clears his throat.” They never found the son’s body. His blood was everywhere. But no body. Like he’d been, ahem, drained.”

“So he took him somewhere?”

Courtney presses the tips of his long fingers together.

“Apparently.”

“Motive? Did he know them before?”

“Doesn’t sound like it.”

“Bizarre.”

“I know,” Courtney says. “If he had a gun on him already, switching to the screwdriver is a lot of extra, unnecessary work.”

I raise an eyebrow at him, in disbelief.

“I meant it’s bizarre that we’re currently inside of a house that this guy designed. And that Sampson is keenly aware of it.”

Courtney shrugs.

“I guess he just doesn’t want his name in the same sentence as the guy who carried out a grisly murder. He is a politician, after all.”

I hand the phone back to Courtney.

“But . . . how could Sampson be surprised that you knew? If this guy was really a famous architect, it must be well known that he designed this place.”

Courtney picks something out of his eye.

“You’d think so. However there are no photos or mentions of this estate in connection with Oliver Vicks anywhere online, at least that I could find.”

I look at Courtney.

“This is what I was trying to tell you in Budapest. There’s something nasty going on here. Senators don’t fly guys on the Interpol watch list in for holiday weekends—”

“Yeah. But listen Frank, I was thinking.” The tips of Courtney’s fingers start tapping the air, as if playing an invisible piano. “Mindy wouldn’t tell us what’s in the books, but she did mention she’s a postdoc in linguistics. How could a linguistics student keep herself busy with a book for this long? There’s only one possibility: They’re not written in English. In fact, there’s only one reason why Sampson would recruit a linguistics student as opposed to say, a Spanish student or something: They’re not written in any language we know.”

“Fine, but—”

“So they’re in an indecipherable, original language and worth forty million dollars to somebody. Think about that. What if—”

“Dude.” I cut off his increasingly manic ranting. “I don’t care about the books right now. Can we talk about the fact that we’re staying in a house designed by a serial killer?”

Courtney frowns in confusion.

“Why?” he says. “It’s a spooky bit of trivia. But if we’re going to be rational about it, it’s just really not a big deal. This architect designed dozens of buildings. There’s an office park in Denver that thousands of people work in every day that he designed. The buildings aren’t changed by the fact that he’s currently serving three consecutive life sentences.”

I snort.

“Well apparently Sampson thinks it’s a big deal,” I say. “He had all mentions of his home’s architect purged to avoid any negative associations.”

He shakes his head in that subtly demeaning way of his.

“Based on what we know about his political career, I find his paranoia somewhat justifiable.”

I stare at this creature sprawled on my bed. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever understand him. A knock on my door.

“Just a second!” I bellow, then whisper to Courtney: “Look, I know you’re curious what the hell is in those forty-million-dollar books. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t also. But screw your head back on, and let’s figure out what kind of mess we’re in. I don’t want to get caught in something ugly. I’m done getting played.”

Courtney’s grimace tells me I don’t need to spell it out: like we were five years ago.

“If he lies to us once, I’m bailing. I swear,” I say.

I shoot Courtney an I’m not fucking around look, and then walk to the heavy cherry door. Pull it open to reveal Sampson, sipping on a new can of Diet Pepsi.

“Enjoy the shower?” he asks.

“It was exquisite,” I admit.

“Glad to hear it. Fellas, I’m sorry to rush, but I’m very eager to get you two started. Would you like to join me in my office?”

I look back over my shoulder at Courtney, who has switched on his poker face.

“Sure,” I say.

“Okay. You’ll want to follow me. This place can be a little confusing at first.”

“I noticed,” I say.

Our guest rooms are on the third—and uppermost—floor of the house. On our way up we took a side staircase that was enclosed in stone walls, so we didn’t really get to see the second floor. But Sampson leads us down a different staircase into a second-floor hallway, which makes my head spin. The floors are the same pink-tinged glass, which is jarring to walk on—impossible not to imagine it cracking beneath your feet. Every couple meters there’s a small white carpet, little islands of sanity. Looking through several transparent walls, across the yard, to the perpendicular wing of the house, certain rooms appear to be floating off the ground, suspended only by a few thin steel beams. Others are walled in stone—creating a sort of vertical chessboard of alternating polished stone and pink or totally transparent glass. It’s not hard to imagine the same mind that conceived of this spatial madness suddenly burning a fuse and going postal.

Beside me, Courtney is also mesmerized by the view. I pat him on the shoulder and we tear ourselves away to catch up with Sampson. From behind him, half to get him to slow down, I ask:

“So you live here alone?”

“Yes. I’m divorced.”

“Your wife used to live here with you though?” Courtney prods. Sampson sips loudly on his soda to avoid answering the question.

There seems to be more natural light inside this hallway than there is outside, like the walls are partial mirrors that reflect and magnify every ray of Colorado sunlight. But it’s not dandy and breezy light—it’s way too much. It’s more like every wall is emitting the harsh glare of an interrogator’s lamp, designed to half blind, half disorient.

How the hell could you live in a place like this?

I’m feeling dizzy. I want to go back to my opaque bathroom and close the door.

I realize there are no doors in this hallway. The rooms that open on its sides are totally visible. We pass eight, four on either side. Again Courtney and I stop to stare. Sampson will just have to wait.

Each room is identical to the last: They’re all totally empty, and the floor is some kind of milky blue glass which gives the appearance of a lake surface on a windless day. But the ceiling of each room is lined with a maze of intricate transparent piping, all filled with streams of water. It’s beautiful, in a way. It’s like some kind of postmodern museum gallery, but without paintings. Just bare glass walls and a futuristic plumbing system.

“What do you use these rooms for?” I ask, as Sampson comes back to us, clearly impatient. He doesn’t say anything. “Did Oliver design these rooms?” I ask—really asking why Oliver designed them.

Sampson doesn’t respond immediately. Instead a powerful bicep raises his Pepsi to his lips and he turns and continues down the radiant corridor. I figure the question—like the one about his wife—is going to turn out to be rhetorical, but as we leave the hallway and start down a dizzying spiral staircase made of pink glass, Sampson surprises me with an explanation:

“It’s concept architecture,” he says over his shoulder, a hint of pride in his voice, as he bounds down the steps two at a time. “Inspired by a verse from Genesis which describes the creation of man. ‘And the Lord breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and Man became a living being.’”

The bottom of the staircase leads into a half-opaque living room. The floor is covered in a real bearskin, which elicits a flinch from Courtney. A fireplace as big as a bathtub, red metal bookcase packed with all white-covered books, a long white leather couch. There is no clutter, I note. The few objects are either out of sight, or arranged on shelves in what looks like the place they’ve been since the dawn of time. But at least on the first floor there are places to sit.

“The four branches of the house represent the four limbs of the body,” he continues. “And the pipes our veins and arteries. By shaping it like an inert man, the home draws in the holy breath of life. The layout creates a sacred space.”

I raise an eyebrow at Courtney like thanks for ending my Eurotrip for this.

“How do you know that’s what Oliver Vicks intended?” asks Courtney, failing to sound innocuous. Sampson doesn’t respond. Leads us through another mostly bare sitting room, and finally through a heavy oak door.

If the four wings of the house are limbs, then this must be either the brain or the spine. The center of the X is a kind of core, insulated from the insanity of the wings by the same orange stone some of the external walls are made of. If there were a war, you’d hang out in the Spine. The lack of glass walls initially sets you at ease, until you realize that there aren’t even windows in here, only chandeliers emitting soft orange light.

“I value privacy in my office,” says Sampson, outside a second smaller door that presumably opens to his office. “There are no windows, so God can’t see what I’m doing.”

Reflexively, I force a chuckle at this bizarre comment. But when I do, Sampson gives me a curious look.

Wait—was that not a joke . . . ?

Courtney and I enter the office first. It’s dark and smells like potpourri and cigar smoke. Sampson enters behind us, letting the door slam shut. As soon as we’re sealed off from the rest of the house, the Senator collapses on a brown leather couch and breaks into sobs.

 

Traditional paintings of boats and men with swords drape the wood walls. A stuffed and mounted twelve point buck hangs over a fireplace. Phenomenally stocked liquor cabinet in one corner. A huge desk with several phones and a big laptop. Stacks of loose files as tall as me form a minimetropolis of paper in one corner of the room. A few dampened bulbs in the chandelier struggle to reach the dark corners.

Courtney and I sit down on the couch across from Sampson. Between us is a frosted glass table atop a dark Persian rug. For perhaps three long minutes, Sampson just cries into his palms. Chokes on his own phlegm. It’s to the Senator’s credit, I suppose, that he doesn’t try to hide his tears from us. The display of raw agony certainly makes me uncomfortable, while Courtney seems more empathetic—just watches Sampson with wide sad eyes, chewing on his fingernails, like he’s upset that this kind of unhappiness exists in the world.

When Sampson finally runs out of steam and looks up at us, he’s a different person. There’s little trace of the gregarious politician remaining. His blue eyes are wide and desperate. His thinning grey hair no longer appears regal, rather, malnourished and prematurely dead. He’s a frightened little boy, quaking with post-sob hiccups.

“I need help,” he says. “I need help so badly. Please.”

I clear my throat.

“Of course,” I say gently. “That’s why we’re here.”

He nods.

“Help yourselves to a drink,” he says, and gestures to the liquor cabinet. I shove off immediately from the couch, eager to ease the tension.

“What do you want, Senator?” I ask, pouring myself five fingers of the most expensive looking bottle of rum I can find.

“Grab me a soda from the minifridge, thanks,” he says.

“I’ll take a soda too, Frank,” says Courtney.

The minifridge is stuffed exclusively with cans of Diet Pepsi. Probably 150 cans.

Guy knows what he likes.

I grab two of them and return to my seat. Place the cans and my lowball on the tabletop. Sampson snatches one of the Diet Pepsis, cracks it open, and takes a long desperate tug, like it’s the elixir of life. When he places it back down on the glass tabletop he seems instantly refreshed—he should do commercials for this stuff.

Courtney already has his notepad and pen out, perched forward eagerly like a little kid watching the classroom clock.

“So Senator. You want us to get some books back for you?”

For some reason, this comment causes Sampson to break out into a booming, anguished laugh that’s like Santa at a funeral.

“Yessirree,” he says. “Get some books back for me. Sounds so simple doesn’t it?” He gestures to Courtney’s notepad. “No writing. It’s in the contract.”

Courtney frowns.

“I know, but . . . it’s how I think best. You can keep the notes after I’m done.”

Sampson shakes his head.

“No. I’m sorry. Writing things down, it makes them realer.”

Frowning, probably as confounded by this comment as me, Courtney reluctantly slides his notepad back into the pocket of his jeans.

Sampson takes another long sip of soda, and stares at the nearly empty can, as if he’s having second thoughts about this whole thing. I notice how small the soda can is in his hands—they’re enormous but still dexterous. Farmer’s hands. I’m already making excellent progress on the dark-sans-stormy.

“I’m in a bad way, fellas. A very bad way. And I need those books back from the bastard that stole them from me.”

I nod, attempting to demonstrate sympathy.

“Tell us about the books,” Courtney says a little too quickly. “What are they?”

Sampson looks momentarily taken aback. He blinks.

“Kinda figured we’d keep that on a need-to-know basis, if you gents don’t mind.”

Courtney and I exchange a quick, knowing look. I put my hand on my partner’s knee to stop him from blurting out what we’re both thinking and to let me put it a little more politically.

“With all due respect, James”—decide to use his first name as a little power play—“you asked us to work for you. We’ll decide what we need to know and what we don’t. Any information you withhold could put us in danger, or reduce our chances of successfully executing the deal.”

Sampson doesn’t look up from his drink, but nods slowly.

“I get it. I do.” He sets down his can, sits back in his chair and crosses one long leg over the other. “I apologize fellas. You just have to understand that this situation . . .” He gestures vaguely. “I’ve been guarding this information very closely for some time. It can’t get out.”

I feel for my beard, wanting to stroke it thoughtfully, and am disappointed to embrace only my clean cheek.

“You have to remember the bottom line here,” I say. “We both want the same result. So help us help you.”

Sampson chuckles mirthlessly.

“Don’t try to out-politician me, Frank.” Then he sighs, takes off his circular glasses and wipes them clean with a little cloth. “Well. The reason I hired you two is that if I don’t get this situation taken care of I’ll soon have nothing left to lose anyways. So here we go. All chips on the table. I’m counting on you boys.”

He takes a deep breath.

“Where to begin. Eleven years ago? With a dream. I had a very vivid dream, and then it repeated itself. Again, and again. I was having it every night, but I couldn’t figure it out. I spoke to few friends about it, an acquaintance who’s a therapist but—”

“What was the dream?” Courtney asks.

Sampson’s poreless cheeks flush.

“The dream was this: I was swimming in the open sea. I felt strong and confident. And then something grabbed my heel and prevented me from swimming forward. It wasn’t scary, just frustrating. And when I glanced over my shoulder to see what it was on my heel, that was always just when I woke up. So, it wasn’t too difficult to think maybe it was about something figuratively holding me back in life, in my career, etcetera, but in my heart I knew there was more to this dream that I wasn’t understanding.

“I’d been having this dream for a month or so already when I happened to have an appointment at Saddleback Correctional Facility. It’s one of the largest prisons in the state.”

“Why were you visiting?” I ask.

“I don’t remember exactly . . . I think it was to speak to the directors about budgets or something. Anyways, as I was being given a tour, we walked past one of the prison yards. One of the inmates approached me and handed me a note through the fence. On a whim I accepted it and put it in my pocket. Nobody else saw, I don’t think. When I was alone in the restroom I read the note. It said simply:

“I can help you understand your dream. The one grasping your ankle is not who you think.”

“And then it gave his inmate number, and name, so I could find him.

“Well, perhaps you’ll think it was foolish of me, but I was so baffled about how some inmate knew about my dream, and of course, I was so desperately curious what he had to tell me . . . I had my secretary arrange some excuse to return to the prison the following week. And when I did, I mentioned that there was also a particular inmate I’d like to speak to.”

Sampson again takes off his round glasses and wipes them with the edge of his sweater.

“That was my first meeting with the man who was known around the prison as Sophnot, the man who wrote the books which were stolen from me—”

“But his real name?” Courtney asks, though if I’ve already intuited the answer I’m sure he has as well.

Sampson seems to have a hard time forcing his mouth to reply. In fact, he makes a little sound, a fraction of a syllable, and can’t continue. Instead he gestures to Courtney to hand him the pen and pad.

“The architect that you mentioned earlier. I’m not really comfortable . . .” he mutters to himself as he writes two words down on the pad, and then shows them to us.

Oliver Vicks

Sampson clears his throat, he looks ashamed—precisely why is not quite clear.

“And somehow . . .” I ask. “Somehow he knew what you’d been dreaming?”

Sampson clears his throat. “Yes. Including details that I myself hadn’t remembered.”

I narrow my eyes. Courtney asks, “How?”

“I believe God told him.”

 

Sampson’s cell phone rings. He answers quickly, maybe relieved by the interruption. Courtney and I exchange a look while he’s preoccupied.

This doesn’t smell good, I tell Courtney with a furrowed brow.

How was I supposed to know!? he responds with bewildered wide eyes.

“Hi Mindy,” Sampson says into the phone. “Yes. Yes. I’m speaking with them now. Perfect.”

He hangs up and gives us the tight-lipped apology face.

“Sorry for that. Mindy took off for a few hours. She’ll be back around late tonight or tomorrow morning to answer any questions that I’m not able to.”

“Does she live in the guesthouse?” asks Courtney. Sampson looks confused by this question. I quickly change the subject.

“So the dream?” I say. “What did Oliver say about the dream?”

“Oh.” Sampson seems to wince slightly when I say’s Oliver’s Christian name.

“Well, Sophnot, unlike everyone else I spoke to about the dream, explained exactly what it was that was holding me back, and what it was holding me back from.”

Courtney and I lean in expectantly.

“And?” I say.

Sampson mutters something to himself, maybe a silent prayer? Or no, it’s as if he’s having a quick argument with himself about something.

Is he nuts? Has he gone completely bonkers and is just a master at hiding it?

Finally Sampson says: “I’d just run for a Senate seat and lost. Badly. It was humiliating. There was a scandal which I’m sure you two are aware of. It wasn’t hard to deduce the goal I was seeking for myself. But the hand on my heel—I remember within three minutes of sitting down across from him, through that bulletproof Plexiglas—Sophnot calmly explained there were several factors holding me back from my professional ambitions. Many were counterintuitive. That to rid myself of them would not be easy, and would take time, but with his help, I would reach a level of career success and personal gratification that I never imagined possible.”

Courtney is chewing on his pinky. I attempt to appear unfazed.

So your life coach is a convict in a maximum security prison. What could go wrong?

Sampson rises and grabs another Diet Pepsi from the minifridge. The terrified little boy that overcame him the second he entered this office still hasn’t left. He brings Courtney a new can as well, plus the bottle of the rum I’d been drinking.

“But this man was a convict,” I say slowly, as Sampson sits back down. “He murdered three people. And you–”

“I didn’t bring you here to question my life decisions,” he says as he returns to his seat. Not angry, just matter-of-fact. “I understand why you’d be skeptical of my decision to listen to him at all. To not just stand up and leave immediately. But what can I say? Despite his crimes . . . something about him just drew me in. And as I came to learn, my initial instincts were correct. He is . . . brilliant. He understands things about the world, about God, that I’m not sure anyone else does. He truly, seriously helped me, fellas.”

It takes a lot of willpower to suppress an eye roll.

“So you returned to visit him after that first time?” Courtney asks.

“Many times.”

“How many times?” Courtney asks.

Sampson scratches his neck.

“Twice a week, whenever I wasn’t in Washington. For seven years. In secret, of course. The official story was that I was volunteering there in their civics education program. The warden was happy to go along with that story: It was easy enough letting me meet with a prisoner, and he probably figured I’d protect his state funding.”

I see Courtney’s eyebrows raise in my peripheral vision.

The Senator hastily adds: “I never promised him anything explicitly of course.”

This guy just can’t stay out of trouble.

“So—you took Sophnot’s advice?” I ask.

“Not right away, but eventually, slowly, I started trying out some of his suggestions.”

“What were his suggestions?” Courtney asks. “Is that what the books are? Suggestions?”

Sampson shakes his head slowly.

“I simply can’t tell you those things. And besides, they have no relevance to your task. They’re in the past. Done. What’s done is done is done, right?” He tries to smile like this is a joke, but none of us are fooled.

“Well, he instructed you to move into this house which he designed,” says Courtney slowly. “I assume that was one of them.”

Sampson is silent. Courtney either isn’t aware he’s treading on sensitive ground, or doesn’t care.

“And your divorce, I’m supposing that was also a result—though perhaps indirect—of Oliver’s advice—”

“Don’t try.” Sampson shakes his head. “Please, Courtney . . . don’t make me . . .”

“I’m simply trying to elucidate—”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you two with the information, it’s that you won’t understand.”

“My partner and I are simply—we’re just kinda sticklers about getting all the details is all,” I say. “Been burned before, you know. I urge you not to hold anything back. We need to know everything that Rico does.”

Silent, Sampson gazes long and hard at us.

“You’re correct,” he says quietly. “About the house . . .”

“And the divorce.”

Sampson’s eyes are wet again. He blinks back tears.

“I had a problem with women,” he says. “It was uncontrollable. Sophnot helped me . . .”

He trails off, shaking his head slowly.

“So?” Courtney tries to prod gently.

Sampson’s face is like a stone. He clears his throat and lifts his chin in the air.

“The biblical prohibition is against coveting your neighbor’s wife. That you shouldn’t even desire her. In order for me to fully repent for my sins, I had to embrace this stricture to the fullest.”

Wordlessly, Sampson stands up and unbuckles his belt.

My heart does a somersault. Courtney’s whole body flinches as the Senator lowers first his khakis to his ankles, and then his flannel boxers.

Bile rises in my throat, brain screams.

There’s nothing there but a mutilated nub. The room spins a bit. To avoid losing my airplane breakfast, I have to look away.

Sampson pulls his pants back and buckles the belt. Sits back down.

Courtney looks close to actual shell-shock. Hands shaking furiously on his lap. I’m gnashing my teeth together.

Oh my god. Oh. My. God.

“I’m cured,” says Sampson softly. “Sophnot, in his infinite wisdom, gave me the cure. I no longer desire the flesh of any woman, nor am I capable of causing her to sin. Perhaps you think me a naive fool. Worse, perhaps. But I swear: I would not be where I am today without him. My desire for sin was grasping my heel, holding me back.”

I think I’d rather just cut off my heel . . .

“Does Rico,” I ask weakly, “the guy who stole the books, know about this?”

Sampson nods slowly.

“And that’s why you can’t go to the cops? Worried this would get out?”

“It’s one reason,” Sampson says, composing himself. “But by no means the only one. Let me explain about the books.”

“Wonderful,” I gasp. Courtney is breathing fast. I myself am a little light-headed. I find the lack of windows more troubling after finding out that the guy sitting across from us is a self-made eunuch. Sampson, however, is acting like everything is more or less business as usual.

“Sophnot’s life’s work is a collection of twenty-four books. He showed me one after we’d been learning together for a year. He translated parts for me—” Sampson takes a deep breath. “It was exhilarating. It was like the rush on election day, as you’re watching yourself win, hearing your name on every channel . . . No, even that undersells it. Imagine that you’re the size of an ant, and your whole life you’ve been running around on this rug here.” Sampson gestures to the colorful tapestry underfoot.

“You understand only that sometimes the colors shift beneath your feet. And then suddenly you are lifted a foot off the ground, and you can see the pattern for the first time . . .” Sampson’s huge hand squeezes his soda can tightly, and he’s growing flushed. This topic excites him. “And after he read for me, he told me he wanted me to take and guard the books. Imagine! He had several books now complete, but was growing worried about keeping them in his cell. There’s a volume limit for inmate’s personal items. He said he trusted nobody more than me. That I was his loyal disciple, and when he left prison we would sit and read the books together . . .”

I find that my legs are shaking.

Okay. So he’s a nut. Doesn’t mean we can’t still make the swap for him and get paid, right? Ideally we can do this without ever having to confront him with the truth—that he’s been brainwashed by a murderer.

That’s what I’m thinking, but apparently this obvious path of least resistance is less self-evident to certain dour-faced autistics.

“Did Oliver ever ask you for money?” Courtney asks.

I almost smack him. I’m sure we’re about to be shown the door; replaced by PI’s who aren’t going to question the legitimacy of this wacko’s incarcerated guru.

I butt in.

“What Courtney is asking is, did he ask for some sort of collateral for these books? It would seem reasonable—”

“No Frank.” Courtney shakes his head at me, even as I try to shoot him the most obvious shut the fuck up look in my arsenal. I’d forgotten this guy is illiterate in subtext. “That’s not what I’m asking. I was wondering—”

“You were wondering if I was being taken advantage of.” Sampson nods. “Naturally. I don’t blame you for being skeptical, Courtney. That’s your job. But I’ll tell you right now, in seven years of meetings, Sophnot didn’t once ask me for a cent. Which is especially remarkable considering that his guidance helped me to quadruple my net worth, thanks to speaking fees and very wise investment advice.”

Silence hangs in the air. I keep trying to reconcile our newfound info re: what’s not dangling between Sampson’s legs, with his all-American public persona.

“I’m not mad at you for the implication,” Sampson says. “How could someone who’s never met Sophnot, or peered into his masterwork, understand? I’d probably be thinking the same as you.”

Courtney fiddles anxiously with what could only be called a beard in the loosest sense. I tap my toe against the carpet.

“Sophnot gave me the books, one by one, as they were completed. Eventually I had all twenty-four here, in the secure room right beneath our feet. The only times they left that room were when I took one volume with me to the prison to read it along with him. The only people who ever went in that room were me and Mindy. But then, just a few months after I’d received the final one, they were stolen from me. The culprit was Rico—my trusted live-in chauffeur, bodyguard and personal assistant. It was my fault, in a way. I trusted him too much. Apparently I badly misjudged his character. That his soul is certainly damned eternally for this is of little consolation. For four years he’s been demanding a fortune for the books.

“You are to give Rico forty million dollars in the untraceable bearer bonds he’s asking for. It’s an exorbitant sum of money, you don’t have to tell me. Just do it. I need this to be over. Rico has provided a phone number to call when I’m ready. I can’t take another second of this hell. Imagine again, to be the ant, lifted above, and then to come crashing down—denied the view of the tapestry you now know to exist. For years it’s been hell. Hell.”

Sampson’s lip quivers; there’s another dam of tears threatening to burst forth.

“So Mindy . . .” I ask. “Do you trust her?”

Sampson appears grateful for the topic shift.

“What do you mean?” he asks. “Of course. Mindy is like family.”

The only family he has left?

“Well, if I understand correctly, her role here was to study the books. So what’s she been doing since the books were stolen? Why is she still living in your guesthouse?”

“She has partial copies of the books to use in her research,” Sampson says. “She’s made a lot of progress. Once you get them back from Rico, once she has the whole set in front of her, she’ll hopefully be able to read them pretty seamlessly.”

“I’m just trying to get the whole picture,” I say. “You brought Mindy on to study the books, so you could understand them without having to go visit Oliver in prison, is that right?”

“No, no,” Sampson says. “No, no, no. Nothing could be further from the truth. I wanted to study at home to supplement my sessions with Sophnot. So that when I went to the prison to learn, we could make the most of our time together. He was so generous with his time, I wanted to show him I was really making an effort. But I just couldn’t grasp the nuance of the language on my own. I needed an expert.”

“Does Oliver know you hired someone to study them while you held them for him?” Courtney presses. “That doesn’t really sound like it was in the spirit of him entrusting them to you.”

Sampson’s grip tightens on his Pepsi can.

“I’m sure my teacher would admire my intentions,” Sampson replies weakly. “We’re all perfect in the eyes of God.”

“But just for argument’s sake,” Courtney says. “Is it possible Mindy was a little lax with security, and that allowed Rico to steal them more easily?”

Sampson’s right eye twitches.

“We’re all perfect in the eyes of God,” he repeats.

I sense we’ve exhausted this avenue of inquiry.

“What was your relationship with Rico like when he worked for you?” I ask.

The Senator shoots up and walks to his desk. Pulls a manila envelope out of one of the drawers and sets it on the glass tabletop.

“Here’s everything I’ve gathered about Rico. From the background checks I ran before hiring him, to the text message records between us over his entire employment.”

I frown at the bulky file.

“We’ll read this, obviously, but your own words would be helpful. Do you think this is only about money?”

Sampson thinks for a second.

“Our relationship was fine. Really. I think about that a lot: if I was upsetting him somehow without realizing it. But as far as I could tell, he was content. Professional. That’s how I’d describe him. He was in the Boston PD for fifteen years before I hired him, and as far as I could see he was thrilled with the cushiness of the job. Driving me around, maintaining the estate security systems, accompanying me on Washington trips . . . I treated him well. Really.”

“If he was your driver . . .” Courtney says. “He was driving you to the prison? To visit Oliver?”

Sampson nods slowly.

I say: “He must have known something secret and important to you was going on there, and that you were leaving with books.”

“Yes,” Sampson replies softly.

“And so, it wouldn’t have been hard for him to intuit their immense value to you,” I say. “You gave them their own room, and hired Mindy just to review them.”

Sampson nods slightly. I think about what Mindy said in the car: He’s badly mishandled this from the start.

“Have you given Rico any money already?” I ask, to confirm what Mindy told us in the car.

The Senator sips on his Diet Pepsi. “A couple times, yes. I had to,” he says. “Just to make sure he didn’t destroy them.”

I grimace. Rico has all the leverage here. This explains our hiring: Besides Sampson presumably not wanting to execute the physical handoff himself, he just doesn’t trust himself to negotiate with this guy any more.

“Okay then,” I sigh, snatching up the Rico file and grimacing at its weight. “I think Courtney and I understand the scope of the job. Let us discuss it, and tomorrow morning we’ll let you know if we’re prepared to proceed—”

“What do you mean, ‘prepared to proceed’?” Sampson suddenly jerks up from his soda, his voice deep and stony. He leans across the table and rips off his little round glasses. Fixes his bright blue eyes on me with the stillness and intensity of lasers. “I got the passport for you—at great risk to myself—and flew you out here. You signed my contracts, I shared everything with you . . .” He turns to my partner. “Courtney—I thought it was agreed that if I brought your partner here you two would begin immediately.”

I turn slowly to Courtney and glare at him, swallowing about a quart of concentrated rage: I don’t remember you mentioning that.

He avoids my stare.

“Of course, Senator,” Courtney says. “Obviously we’ll proceed as discussed. Frank just meant we would need the evening to discuss strategy with each other, figure out timing—”

“Tomorrow! You swap with him tomorrow.” Again, Sampson breaks into an inexplicable laugh. “I’m not sure you fully grasp the situation. I am trapped from every side. Sophnot is devastated—his life’s work is gone. He’s been in mourning for years, since I confessed they were stolen from me. Dressed in rags, sleeping on the cold floor. He’s forbidden me from visiting him in prison until I have the books back. He trusted me, and I lost what might be the most important work of religious scholarship since the Old Testament.”

Sampson shakes his head; he’s gasping for air.

“He calls me every Friday evening before the Sabbath. Asks me if I’ve gotten the books back. He never raises his voice . . . he’s so calm, understanding, even in this time of crisis. And every week, when I have to tell him no, I still don’t have them, he comforts me. Reminds me that everything is for the best, and wishes me a restful and pleasant Sabbath.”

Sampson’s voice is a whine now. His limbs are constricted horribly; this physically imposing, powerful member of Senate now resembling some kind of asphyxiating fetus fighting for life.

“But every night I see him in my dreams. Every night the exact same dream as before: I’m swimming in the sea when my heel is grasped. Except now when I look back I see Sophnot, my teacher, and I understand that if I don’t retrieve the books it will all come undone, everything we’ve made together . . . I love him so much. With all my heart and with all my soul. And there’s nothing more painful than failing him. Admitting my failure to him week after week, after all he’s done for me . . . no amount of money is worth this burden. I just can’t take it anymore. I just want things to be back like they used to. The two of us learning together.”

All three of us are silent for a moment. My mind is spinning frantically, trying to decide which part of this clusterfuck most urgently needs to be addressed. I settle for an extremely long sip of rum. Courtney is chewing on the tip of his pen with horrible urgency.

I clear my throat. I’m dying to get out of this room.

“The job is easy,” Sampson says. “You’re being overpaid because Courtney has a reputation for discretion. Call Rico, arrange a swap, bring Mindy with you to verify the books are real, and execute. That’s all.”

I stand up, and am relieved when Courtney and James follow.

“Alright Senator,” I say. “We’ll get some sleep and speak in the morning.”

He extends his smooth right hand. Squeezes Courtney’s limp fish, then takes mine, his smile suddenly the regal one we saw on his front porch.

“Thanks fellas. We’re counting on you.”

Wait.

“We?” I say, mouth dry. “You mean you and Mindy?”

Sampson looks confused.

“And Sophnot, of course,” he replies. “I asked his permission to bring in outside help, and you’ll be pleased to know you have his blessing. Once you retrieve the books from Rico, he’d even like to meet you in the prison, to thank you for your help in person.”

 

I slam the door to my bathroom, and don’t even give Courtney time to set up his stupid jamming device before letting it rip.

“You did not tell me that you committed to this job before even getting all the facts.”

“Keep your voice down!” Courtney hisses, on his knees fumbling with his paranoia pacifier. I rip the machine out of his hands, toss it in the bathtub and turn on the cold water.

Courtney dashes past me to fish it out. Tenderly dries it with one of Sampson’s fluffy towels. Looks up at me.

“Well that was just plain stupid, Frank. These are not easy to find.”

I jab his boney chest with my index finger.

“You very much implied that we were flying to Colorado to find out more about the job,” I growl. “That if we didn’t like how things shook out we could bail.”

“Come on, Frank. Did I need to spell it out for you? You think the Senator is going to get a fake passport just to bring someone in for a consultation? Besides, I knew you’d say yes. So what’s the difference?”

“I still haven’t said yes!” I shriek. “This guy is totally off his rocker! At the suggestion of a murderer, he cured his libido with a hacksaw.”

“Have some sympathy.” Courtney scratches his nose. “The poor man is in an awful situation.”

I sit down on the lip of the magnificent bathtub.

“I really can’t believe you,” I say.

Courtney slowly sits down next to me, clasps his hands and stares at the stone floor. He’s quiet for a moment, and when he finally speaks his voice is pained.

“I’d planned on explaining in Budapest, but at the hotel I got scared you’d walk away and I’d have to do the job alone. I couldn’t risk messing this up. These last five years Frank . . .” I watch his thumbs twitch wildly in his lap, little hatchlings anticipating their worms. “I haven’t worked. I mean, I was hired for two or three jobs, but butchered them. Screwed up really badly, word got out, and I stopped getting offers. The woman who referred Sampson to me was my client almost a decade ago.” Courtney takes a deep breath. “When I got the email from Sampson I was working in the kitchen at Long John Silver’s. Defrosting and deep frying seafood all day. It was all I could get. I had no real work experience and no usable connections . . .”

I wouldn’t let him work the register either.

“I thought I was doing you a favor!” he pleads. “I got you a passport. And look—if we do this right, we’ll be set! A hundred-fifty grand each and a new identity for you! He wanted me to commit fast. I was scared if I turned him down I’d lose the job. I told him if he could get you a passport and Social Security number we’d do it.”

“He wanted you to commit fast? Christ, it sounds like he was trying to sell you a used car.”

“Look—” Courtney returns the finger jab. “I saved you, Frank. If I hadn’t done this, you’d be on the run for the rest of your life. Who knows when you’d get to see Sadie again. I could have just tried to do this myself, but instead I risked losing the whole contract, and I’m splitting the money with you.”

I breathe out slowly through my nose. He’s not angry. Closer to the effect of an economics professor passionately expounding on the merits of fiscal responsibility. He always seems to make such perfect sense. I hate it.

“You want out?” he asks with infuriating calm. “If you really do, I could talk to Sampson. Take less money, and just put you on a plane back to—”

“Shut up,” I snap. “I’m already here. Obviously we’re just going to swap for these stupid books. But I’m still upset you lied to me.”

“Lied? Maybe I misled you . . .” Courtney trails off, fiddling with his still waterlogged jamming device. Mutters something under his breath about delicate circuitry, unsalvageable.

I’m suddenly aware of how exhausted I am. Can’t wait to go to sleep—haven’t had a private bed for years. This whole thing might be worth it just for the warm shave and one night in a king-size bed.

I stand up and yawn.

“I’m gonna crash. Go fiddle with that thing in your own room.”

Courtney drops the defunct device at his feet.

“Not yet Frank. We still have a lot to discuss.”

“Oh right,” I say. “So I’m pretty sure that Sampson’s not shtupping Mindy.”

“Frank, for heaven’s sakes. Please don’t be lewd.” He points at the manila envelope—the Rico file—resting on the vanity. “We have to know who we’re negotiating with tomorrow.”

I snatch the heavy folder, and reluctantly rejoin him on the edge of the tub. I open it up. It’s at least 200 pages.

“Let’s just split it up,” I say. “I’ll read my half in bed.”

One of Courtney’s wary eyes lingers on me.

“Fine. But read carefully. This is important.”

I hand him about two thirds of the pages.

“Okay?” I say. “Are we done here?”

In response, Courtney cracks his knuckles one by one. It’s horrible to listen to.

“Aren’t you curious what’s in those books?” Courtney asks. “Those books that Oliver wrote. A book is—fundamentally—information. What kind of information is worth forty million dollars?”

“It’s only worth that to Sampson, because he’s brainwashed. They can’t be worth forty million on the open market, or else Rico would have just found another buyer. This guy Oliver is clearly nuts. They’re probably twenty-four volumes of some kind of manic or schizophrenic raving.”

“Well, we’ll have to ask Mindy tomorrow. She’s been studying them for years.”

I yawn again. I don’t know if I’m going to be able to make it through more than a few pages of that file.

“I wonder about your premise,” I say. “That books are intrinsically just information.”

Courtney’s eyes sharpen.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean like . . . to people that believe the Bible was written by God, that book contains a lot more than just . . .” I trail off, as the glow in Courtney’s small black eyes suddenly intensifies. I know what’s coming. He’s been waiting for an opening since the Ritz in Budapest.

“What happened in that hotel room with Greta? Before you killed her? Did she play the tape?”

I breathe out slowly. Fortunately I’ve rehearsed this:

“I told you,” I say carefully. “I didn’t hear it all.”

Courtney arches one eyebrow so high it almost brushes his hairline.

“You don’t have to lie to me,” he says, his tone clinically neutral. “If you don’t want to tell me what you heard, just say so.”

I scratch the back of my neck.

“I’m not lying to you,” I lie. “I heard some stuff, but I don’t really understand what it meant.”

Courtney is quiet for a moment. Then, like a Jenga player surgically plucking out one more piece: “But was it what we thought? Did it tell you about what happens after we die?”

I stand up from the tub again and take my portion of the papers.

“Has it occurred to you that I’m not telling you everything to protect you?” I say.

Courtney stares up at me evenly.

“There’s no need to protect me.”

I bend over until my gaze is even with his. Shoot him a look that I hope conveys that he is not to raise this topic again. I say: “There is. You can’t unhear these things, Court.”

I let that hang for a second in the air, then straighten up. “I’m going to bed,” I say. “Happy reading.”

“So then . . .” Courtney starts.

“So tomorrow morning we’ll call this guy Rico and take it from there. Swap and get paid.”

Courtney frowns for a moment, clearly still processing the details of that exchange. He rubs a long index finger along his bottom lip.

“Yes,” he says. “Should be fairly straightforward.”