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"We've dealt with forged documents before.

This'll get killed before you can blink. Look what happened to Dan Rather, and, Nick, you're a far cry from Dan Rather. My team won't permit me to get sullied by a false story concocted by a man on the run from the law. There's no fax-by-night solution, not in this day and age. It's a long way from a questionable document to the front page, with plenty of interference. I have editors at all the newspapers. I have people who own all the conglomerates. I have disaster-response teams and crisis managers and reputation polishers and flak catchers. I've got emergency funds with more digits than the inflation in Ecuador. You set this mouse loose in the labyrinth and we'll see who knows this game."

"Okay," I said.

"It's not about information. It's about who's holding it. No one will believe what you have to say. You're nobody they'll listen to, Nick."

"So much for a transparent campaign, huh?"

He'd exhausted himself and now just sounded drained. "Nick, it's complicated. It's all complicated."

"Not when you're a nobody, it's not." I rolled down the window and flipped the phone out. In the rearview I saw the pieces bouncing at different heights, pursuing the rear bumper like left-behind crickets.

I reached Santa Monica and pulled in to a gas station. I paid cash to fill up and found a new brand of prepaid cell phone on the rack behind the counter. The minutes plan sucked, but my cell phones had shorter shelf lives than Hollywood marriages. I added to the counter a convenience-store-priced box of Ziploc bags.

Sitting in the car as the pump ran, I called Callie and asked her to conference in Steve at the office. After some hesitations and an accidental hang-up, all three of us were on the line.

I said, "It's the other candidate."

Callie: "Caruthers? "

"Jane Everett worked on his campaign. He got her pregnant. He had them killed."

"Who did the killing?" Steve asked.

"People who worked for him." What else could I say? Mr. Pager? Two Eastern Europeans? The answer was likely whoever was in the dark sedan that drove away with Jane Everett, but I didn't have time to explain all that. If Tris's message got through, I'd find out at midnight. On the Glendale High pitcher's mound.

Steve's voice was muffled. "They just put out a citywide BOLO on you. Your face is all over. I guess the public is willing to believe anyone's a terrorist now."

"What are you going to do?" Callie asked.

I said, "I'm not sure yet."

"Will I see you again?"

"I hope so."

"You're not going to run?"

I could hear her breathing over the line, the click of the gas meter running up cents and dollars, the wax and wane of passing traffic. I said, "Not this time."

The pump clicked off. I said good-bye and hung up.

A few minutes later, I eased along that quiet residential slope in Santa Monica Canyon where I'd met Caruthers on his jog. The houses abutted the street-small setbacks, frosted windows, and abbreviated front steps. I parked right beside the spot where Caruthers and I had talked, then grabbed a Ziploc bag and a pen from the glove box. When I climbed out, the thud of my closing door echoed off the aloof facades.

I walked over to the gutter and crouched. There it was, preserved as I'd hoped. A beige dot, stuck to the mailbox post. Caruthers's nicotine gum, frozen where he'd thrown it. Using the pen, I pried the piece of gum off into the bag and sealed it.

Driving back to Induma's, I tried to listen to the radio, but all talk was on politics. A mediocre senator claimed the moral high ground after his opponent addressed a female reporter as "honey." A House rep pleaded for us to Vote for Change. Someone wanted to tax cigarettes to pay for gasoline, or gasoline to pay for levees. Finally I opted for silence. Pulling over a few blocks from Induma's house, I wanded down the Jag but found no transmitters. It was the hind end of dusk as I scaled the neighbor's fence and hurried through Induma's backyard. I liked coming here, as I liked Callie's kitchen and Homer's tunnel and the other little nooks of warmth I'd carved out of the insanity of the past week. Eight nights ago I'd been dragged off the floor of my condo and hustled onto that Black Hawk. Eight nights, but to me it felt like a third lifetime.

When she opened the back door, I held up the little plastic bag, letting the chewed ball of gum swing.

She said, "You know, some guys bring flowers."

"It's Caruthers's."

I watched the wheels turn behind her dark, intelligent eyes, and then she blinked once, long, and said, "DNA sample."

"You can get one from gum, right?"

"I've heard you can."

She stepped back and I came in, and the house smelled of caramelized onions. We stood just inside, facing each other like nervous prom dates.

"I got the bone-chip analysis," she said. "The sample in your cheek matched Charlie Jackman. I have the report upstairs."

"Can you run one more analysis?"

"Against the person on the paternity report? Unidentified Male?"

"Unidentified Male," I said.

"You've been busy."