FORTY-SIX

After Marianna retired, Jack went to the window again. The police cruiser was stationed halfway up the driveway, its headlights like a pair of benign yellow eyes in the darkness. He pulled up the number that Dirkens had texted him and notified the officers in the car that he was going out to make sure Tony had locked the barn door.

Outside, the air was still and frigid. The door was secure. He thought about waking Tony to warn him, then decided against it. Tony would never get back to sleep. What was the point? Back inside, he checked the doors and windows, and also decided against waking Zoë for the same reason. It might keep her up all night for no benefit. He eased into Julia’s bedroom. She was sleeping soundly. A line of light still filtered beneath Kaitlyn’s door. He thought of knocking. But it was late. He’d talk to her first thing tomorrow.

In his own bedroom, he lay down fully dressed and picked up the book on his nightstand. It was The Nutmeg of Consolation, the fourteenth book in the Aubrey–Maturin series by Patrick O’Brian. He opened it but his concentration drifted away after a few words. Slipping in the bookmark, a birthday card made by Julia in preschool, he closed his eyes and reviewed the strange events of the day. Marianna’s idea to enter the Witness Protection Program here was a stroke of genius. She was a remarkable person—her resilience, her courage, her integrity, even her singing. The melody of the lullaby she’d sung for Julia replayed in his mind.

Then something she’d said that evening resurfaced. Potemkin used car hacking as a tool of assassination, planting malware in a vehicle’s computer to take control. What would it feel like for your vehicle to develop a mind of its own and try to kill you?

His eyes shot open and a cold chill ran up his back.

Sitting up, he switched on the nightstand light as memories from several years ago came flooding back. A week or so before Zellie’s accident, something strange had happened to the Ford Escape’s steering. The mechanism had frozen momentarily as he was rounding a corner. Then it had suddenly overcorrected. If he hadn’t slammed on the brakes, he would have been off the road and down an embankment. He drove slowly the rest of the way home, and everything had seemed back to normal.

But the experience had rattled him and he called the garage. His mechanic gave him an appointment for the following week and suggested he not drive the Escape until the hydraulics had a good checking out. He’d parked it in the garage and used his old F-150.

His heart began pounding and his scalp prickled. He hadn’t told Zellie about the Escape’s steering issue. She had her own vehicle, her Jeep. It hadn’t seemed necessary. But why hadn’t he at least mentioned it to her in passing? And even worse, several days later, a Saturday, with him sitting there concentrating on tying a goddamned trout fly, thinking about the hospital, Zellie had decided to run some errands. Julia, just a baby then, was taking a nap. She came back in the house, said her Jeep wouldn’t turn over, could she use his Escape? “Sure,” he’d called to her. Sure. Why hadn’t he set aside what he was doing and stopped to think? It was the most horrific mistake he’d ever made in his life. She knew that the keys to the F-150 were hanging in the kitchen—right there next to the keys to the Escape. He just assumed she would take the truck. But why had he assumed that? He should have checked, should have used his goddamn brains. But no. He hadn’t thought. He hadn’t thought. It wasn’t until half an hour later when the police called to notify him of the crash that he’d looked to see which keys she’d taken, and when he saw the F-150 keys still hanging there, he knew she’d taken the Escape—and that it was his fault. But by then she was dead. He might as well have killed her himself.

He was sitting rigidly upright in the bed now, sweat dripping into his eyes, his fists gripping the sheet. She deserved so much better. She had loved him and trusted him. She should have had a more caring and intelligent life partner. If he’d been less careless and not so self-involved, Julia would still have a mother. He would still have the love of his life. The police said there had been no skid marks, no indication of why she’d veered off the road. The hydraulic system was too damaged in the crash to assess for flaws. The only demonstrable flaw was his negligence—and he still could not bear to share his shame with another soul because he was a coward. It should have been him who died.

But maybe it was supposed to have been him who died. And who would have wanted that?

He jerked his legs off the bed and shot to his feet. The world went gray. He reached for the nightstand and steadied himself as nausea and lightheadedness receded. He trudged into his home office, sank into the chair, opened a browser, and on the same line he typed the names Bryson Witner and, guessing at the spelling, Mikhail Potemkin.

It didn’t take long. Less than a few seconds. The first link led to photos of the annual gala of the Boston Numismatics Society, 1987. There were about thirty individuals, all standing in three rows. He easily picked out the young Witner in the first row, dapper in a tuxedo. Using the legend in the caption, he found Mikhail Potemkin a row behind and to the left of Witner. Potemkin had longish hair and an unusually large head with prominent cheekbones.

The way dye spreads in hot water, a bitter sensation billowed throughout his core. He called the officers in the driveway and let them know he was going out to his brother’s apartment. The sky was clear, the air frigid. He clumped up the stairs. It was one thirty in the morning. He knocked, waited, and knocked again. The door swung open. Tony was in plaid pajamas. “What’s the matter, Jack? You don’t look good.”

“We haven’t had much of a chance to talk in a couple of days,” Jack said, his throat raspy. “Are you feeling better?”

“Starting to,” Tony said. “I’ll never have a friend like Chad again, but I have other things to be thankful for.”

The news that Chad may have been murdered was not something Jack was going to share yet. Tony offered him something to drink. He declined. Jack informed him of Witner’s escape and the police protection. “Whenever you need to go outside, give me a call and I’ll let the officers know. Best if you stay with us in the main house starting in the morning.” Jack stopped as a shiver passed through him. “But the main reason I came over is to ask you a computer question.”

“Why now?”

“Just listen to me. If a car computer gets infected with a virus so that it can be controlled remotely, would you be able to find it?”

“Should be able to, yes.”

“The Escape has been sitting outside for three years. Could you analyze it for a virus?”

“I think so. The hardware’s sealed and the ports are all standard. You sure you don’t want something to drink? Orange juice?”

“Please check the computer out there first thing in the morning. I need to find out if it was infected.”

“What makes you worried about it?”

Jack opened and closed his mouth. Nothing came out.

Tony tilted his head and drew in a deep breath, a look of understanding flashing in his eyes. “You think that’s what happened to Zellie?” Jack exhaled. “How about a cup of tea?” Tony urged.

“No. It’s late. You get some rest.”

“That’s what Zellie used to make when I was concerned about something. Tea. Are you sure?”

Jack closed his eyes. They were burning, had started flowing. “Okay.”