Her eyes filled again, but she blinked her way back from the edge. She grabbed a lock of hair and started breaking off split ends again, then threw it aside. "Okay. I'll call my cousin, send out the pigeon. Tonight at midnight, meet at the place he told me to bring you. Who knows if the guy'11 get the message, but I'll try. That it?"

"You'll need to move again. Out of town this time. I'll pay for-"

"No. No. I won't have you pay for anything. But with my aunt… How long do I have to stay gone?"

"Follow the news. You'll know if it's safe to come back."

I got up and walked to the door. She followed close behind. "I didn't know. I didn't know what any of it would lead to. You think I'm awful. You think I'm horrible."

"No," I said.

She grasped my elbow at the door, gently, as if afraid of setting me off. She was a woman accustomed to men with tempers. She said, "I just needed to make a little extra money. I had no idea where it would go. And then I didn't have a choice. I was terrified. They threatened me. I had a little girl to raise."

I thought, So did Jane Everett.

I gave her a little nod, and she stayed in the doorway, watching me leave.

Chapter 45

Still raw from Tris's tale, I crossed the parking lot, heading toward the Brentwood Inn. Behind me midday traffic blasted by on Sunset, a head-numbing rotation of squealing brakes and bleating horns and rap music throbbing from open windows. Alan Lambrose had called with the not-so-covert location for my meet with Caruthers, the glorified motel a few blocks west of the 405. I'd left the Jag around the corner in front of a condo building to keep Induma's plates out of sight.

I found the room toward the back of the humble, single-story sprawl and knocked. The door opened to reveal Alan, in full bow-tie glory, and another aide I didn't recognize but who shared the same debate-team sheen. An athletic man, but he belonged to the political realm, not to the Service. James, the agent I'd first met in Caruthers's conference room, stood at the back of the room. His meaty features fixed on me for a moment, unpleased. Then he removed his hand from the stock of his pistol and returned his gaze dutifully to the windows. Caruthers sat in a chair before a narrow stone fireplace, wrapping up a call. He stood, throwing the still-open cell phone to Alan, and greeted me warmly as Alan murmured closing sentiments into the receiver.

Caruthers looked wiped out-I imagined that six flights a day could do that to you-and his jaw worked the nicotine gum in a sawing motion, almost side to side.

I glanced nervously at James-I didn't like his being here-and Caruthers took the hint. He nodded at the others. "Give us some privacy?"

The athletic aide went out front, and James stepped onto the tiny back patio. A man at each visible exit. The closing sliding glass door seemed to suction the noise of traffic from the room.

Alan was in a scramble in the kitchenette, bringing a cup of coffee to the little table by Caruthers's chair. "Sorry, Senator. Fred forgot to bring the Sweet'n Low."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Alan, any fake sugar'll do."

Alan set down the coffee and withdrew to the bedroom, already jabbing at his BlackBerry. I remembered Frank telling me that they brought their own food for the principal wherever they went, to reduce the risk of poisoning.

Caruthers ran a hand through his renegade hair, and it settled back however it wanted. He muttered, "Sweet'n Low," with disgust, then added, "They like to believe you're more high-maintenance than you are. It makes them feel more important. What kind of sweetener. How many packets. What news channel the TV is tuned to when you check in to a hotel. You have to be careful or you'll start believing it."

"It does get tiring."

He laughed heartily, and I felt that I'd accomplished something. Then his green eyes grew serious. "You're all right?"

"So far."

"Have you found out anything on Jane Everett's daughter?"

"I have to tell you a story," I said, "about your opponent."

He read my face and knew not to press. Instead he sat and gestured to the facing chair. I caught him up on everything I'd learned since we'd spoken. When I got to Tris's story, his hand formed a fist, and he pushed the top knuckle against his lips, as if reining in fury. How the baby stopped crying. The trunk of the sedan closing. The empty crib. I told it as Tris had, and the words held the same horror. When I finished, Caruthers shook his head in disbelief, and his brilliant green eyes were filmed with tears.

He sipped his coffee. His cheeks glittered. I stared into the fireplace. Propane flames licking at a cast-concrete log.

He retrieved a handkerchief from a pocket and blew his nose. Then he folded it thoughtfully and returned it. "I bet Bilton didn't even know any of this. All he knew was that there was this volunteer staffer who he spent some quality time with, maybe she was starting to make a fuss, and that was it. Bilton had people to handle this for him, and they did."