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But what if they fail?

I have to think like Ilkovic. Is he just going to show up on Wednesday and wander around?

Of course not. He’ll assume the police are there. He’ll change his appearance or hide or watch from a distance.

And what’s the safest way for him to figure out where to hide?

The answer felt like an electrical jolt. In a rush, Coltrane sat up. My God, he’ll want to get to the cemetery a day ahead of time so he can scope it out and make sure he protects himself.

A day ahead of time meant . . .

Today.

“THREAT MANAGEMENT UNIT,” a crisp voice said.

“Give me Sergeant Nolan. It’s urgent.”

“Who’s calling?”

Coltrane quickly gave his name. He and Jennifer were at a pay phone on Hollywood Boulevard.

“Well, well. Just the man I want to talk to.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“This is FBI Special Agent James McCoy.” The voice became crisper. “I want you and your friend to report here at once.”

“Why? What’s the—”

“We’re taking you into protective custody.”

“But I already told Sergeant Nolan I think we’re safer on our own.”

“When
he
offered protection, he was making a suggestion. In
my
case, I’m giving you an order.”

“You remind me of my father.
He
liked to give me orders.”

The special agent seemed not to have heard. “We’re going to guard you around the clock.”

“Sure, right. And how long is that going to last?”

“Until we catch Ilkovic.”

“Three months? Six months? A year?”

“I certainly hope we’ll have caught him in a matter of days.”

“Is that a fact? And how many leads do you have?”

The special agent didn’t answer.

“You’ve got
one
lead — you’re hoping he’ll show up at the cemetery on Wednesday.”

The special agent still didn’t respond.

“And if I’m not there,” Coltrane said, “he’ll never tip his hand. He’ll go to ground and wait until the bureau runs out of money and patience guarding us and puts us back on the street.”

“I’m afraid I don’t agree with your assessment.”

“Well, since it’s not your life at risk, I don’t much care
what
you agree with.”

“In that case, you leave me no choice. There’s been a new development you need to know about.”

“What’s happened?”

“It’s better if I inform you about it in person rather than on the phone.”

“Tell me now.”

“It would be more humane if we discussed this in person.”

“
Humane
?”

“It’s about your grandparents.”

THE THREAT MANAGEMENT OFFICE HADN’T CHANGED MUCH since Coltrane had last been there two years earlier — an additional desk, a couple of new computers — but it could have been painted scarlet instead of white and have had a pool table instead of filing cabinets for all he noticed when he stormed into the room. Two detectives, their jackets draped over the back of their chairs, peered up from monitors they were studying. A third man, his blue suit coat neatly buttoned, crossed the room.

“Mr. Coltrane?”

“I want to see Sergeant Nolan.”

The rigidly postured man was slender, with thin lips and narrow eyes. He held out his hand. “I’m Special Agent McCoy.” He glanced toward Jennifer, who was standing behind Coltrane.

Coltrane didn’t shake hands. “I said I want to see Sergeant Nolan.”

McCoy reached for his shoulder. “Why don’t we go over to the Federal Building and—”

“Stay away from me.”

“Mr. Coltrane, I realize you’re under a lot of stress, but—”

“Get your hand off me, or I’ll break it.”

The room became still. The two detectives braced themselves to stand. McCoy’s mouth hung open in surprise. As Coltrane’s face reddened, Jennifer stepped between them.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor. Nolan appeared at the entrance to the office, his tan blazer slightly oversize to compensate for his weight lifter’s shoulders. “Getting acquainted?”

McCoy stood straighter. “More like threatening a federal officer.”

“You implied something terrible had happened to my grandparents. You refused to tell me over the phone. You forced me to risk my life by coming here.”

“I hardly think coming to the police qualifies as risking your life,” McCoy said.

“If it was just a ploy to get me here, if there’s nothing wrong with my grandparents—”

“Time out, gentlemen.”

“
Did
something happen to my grandparents?”

“Yes.” Nolan glanced toward the floor. “I keep giving you bad news. I’m sorry.”

Coltrane felt as if a cold knife had pierced his heart.

“Did you phone the New Haven Police Department yesterday evening?” McCoy asked.

Coltrane directed his answer toward Nolan. “I called my grandparents several times, but I kept getting their answering machine. So I got worried and asked the New Haven police to send a patrol car over to their house to make sure everything was okay.”

“Your call was logged just after eight P. M. eastern time,” McCoy continued.

“Not you.
Him
.” Coltrane pointed toward Nolan. “If I’m going to hear something terrible about my grandparents, I want it to be from somebody I know.”

“There was a major freeway accident in New Haven shortly after your call,” Nolan said. “Most patrol cars were called in to sort out the confusion. By the time a car was free to go to your grandparents’ house, it was after eleven at night.”

“Quit stalling and tell me.”

“They found newspapers for Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday on the front porch. The mail hadn’t been picked up, either.” Nolan paused, uncomfortable. “They broke in and searched the house. . . . Your grandparents were in the basement.”

Coltrane could barely ask the next question. “Dead?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Nolan clearly didn’t want to say it. “Ilkovic hanged them.”

Coltrane wanted to scream.

“The reason we’re sure it was Ilkovic,” Nolan said, “is that Federal Express tried to deliver a package to your town house yesterday. When there was nobody to receive it, the driver delivered it to a secondary address that the sender had specified.”

“Secondary?”

“Here. It arrived at the station in midafternoon, but because it was addressed to you, it went from office to office, after an all clear from the bomb squad, until someone in the Threat Management Unit recognized your name.”

Coltrane sounded hoarse. “What’s in the package?”

“A videotape.”

THE ROOM BECAME SMALLER. Coltrane glanced from Nolan to McCoy to Jennifer to Nolan. He felt as if he was spinning. “Videotape?”

“Like the audiotape of . . .” Jennifer’s voice trailed off.

“I want to see it,” Coltrane said.

“No,” Jennifer said. “Take their word for what happened.”

“I
have
to see it.”

“What will that accomplish?” Jennifer asked. “You know how devastated you felt when you heard Daniel on the audiotape. That’s exactly what Ilkovic wants. Don’t give him the satisfaction.”

“She’s right,” McCoy said.

“Why don’t you sit down?” Nolan said. “Can I get you a cup of coffee or—”

“Let me understand this,” Coltrane said. “Are you telling me you
refuse
to show me the tape?”

“No, but—”

“Then where
is
it?”

The group exchanged glances.

McCoy shrugged fatalistically. “A man ought to know what he wants.”

Nolan shook his head in frustration. He opened a desk drawer and removed a videocassette. “There’s a room down the hall that has a TV and a video player.”

Coltrane waited for him to lead the way.

“But I want to emphasize—” Nolan said.

“That you don’t think this is a good idea,” Coltrane said. “Fine. Now let’s go.”

Jennifer held back.

“You’re not coming?”

“No.”

“I understand,” Coltrane said. As she sank into a chair, he placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed reassuringly. “Take it easy. I won’t be long.”

He considered her another moment, his emotions in chaos, then followed Nolan and McCoy out of the office.

In the corridor, Nolan said, “You might be wrong about how soon you’re going to be back.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Ilkovic set this tape for a six-hour recording speed.”

“So?”

“All six hours are full.”

THE SHADOWY ROOM WAS NARROW. It had no windows. The TV was a battered nineteen-inch with a video player on a shelf underneath it. As Nolan put the tape into the player, Coltrane shifted a metal chair in front of the screen.

Solemn, McCoy shut the door.

Although the image, recorded on slow speed, was grainy, it struck Coltrane with horrifying vividness. The yellow glare of an overhead bulb in his grandparents’ basement — how well Coltrane remembered the time he had spent down there in his youth — showed his grandmother and grandfather standing on tiptoes on a bench. Their hands were secured behind their backs. Their mouths were covered with duct tape. Their aged eyes bulged from panic and from the rope that was tied around each neck, secured to a rafter in the ceiling. Coltrane’s grandfather was wearing pajamas, his grandmother a housecoat. Both had slippers, their bare heels angled upward as they braced themselves on their toes.

“My grandmother has asthma.” Coltrane could hardly speak. “That duct tape on her mouth must be agony. Look at her chest heave.”

A guttural voice with a Slavic accent spoke from behind the camera. “Are we comfortable? Are the ropes too tight? I hope I haven’t cut off your circulation.”

Coltrane’s grandfather strained to speak through the duct tape.

“Please,” the guttural voice said. “My instructions were clear. Don’t make any unnecessary motions.”

Coltrane’s grandfather stopped trying to speak. He closed his eyes and seemed to concentrate on controlling his breathing.

“Good,” the voice said. “Now I’m going to have to be rude and leave you alone for a moment. I haven’t had breakfast. I’m sure you won’t mind if I go upstairs and make a plate of those waffles you didn’t have a chance to eat. Blueberries are my favorite. I’d bring you some, but you’re occupied.”

Wood creaked, the sound diminishing, as if someone was climbing stairs.

Coltrane’s grandfather and grandmother exchanged looks of desperation. And other emotions: determination to survive, sorrow for what the other was suffering, most of all love.

The image blurred. Tasting salt, Coltrane realized that he was crying. He wiped his shirt sleeve across his eyes, one of the most effortful things he had ever done. But not as hard as the effort his grandparents were making to stand on their toes. Their posture wasn’t exaggerated. They weren’t in the extreme stance of ballet dancers on their toes. The space between their heels and the bench they stood on was only about an inch and a half. Nonetheless, Coltrane inwardly cringed at the thought of the effort they would have to make to stand in that position for any length of time, especially because each had arthritis.

Wood creaked, but this time the sound grew louder, someone returning down the stairs. Coltrane’s grandfather and grandmother tensed.

“There,” the guttural voice said. “I hope you didn’t get into mischief while I was gone.”

Coltrane identified the sounds of a plate being set onto something, then a knife and fork scraping on it, food being cut.

“I can’t recall when I ate waffles this delicious,” the voice said. “You’re a lucky man to have a wife who’s such a good cook.”

From behind the duct tape on his mouth, Coltrane’s grandfather made a sound that might have been “Please.”

“Six hours of torturing them like this?” Coltrane’s emotions tore him apart.

“I’m afraid so,” Nolan said. “I told you this would be rough. I think it would be best if I turned it off.”

“Give me the remote control.”

Coltrane aimed it toward the video player and pushed a button that fast-forwarded the tape while still allowing him to see the image. The picture quality became more grainy. Streaks ran through it. But Coltrane was still able to see his grandparents. What disturbed him was that normally, when a tape was fast-forwarded, the motions of the people on the screen became frantic and jerky. In this case, there was virtually no movement at all. His grandparents were struggling to stand perfectly still on their toes.

The counter on the tape machine showed that the elapsed time was forty-six minutes. Coltrane released the button on the remote control. The picture returned to normal, if that word could possibly be applied to what Coltrane was seeing. At first, nothing seemed to have changed, but as he looked closer, concentrating on his grandparents’ feet, he could see that their heels were lower. The effort of standing in that position, combined with the pain of arthritis, had weakened his grandparents. They were lowering their weight, and as they did, the rope that stretched from their necks to the rafter became tighter. Not taut. Not yet. Ilkovic had made sure to leave enough slack that the process would be prolonged.

In dismay, Coltrane fast-forwarded the tape again. Except for the increased grain and the streaks, nothing seemed to change on the screen. At an elapsed time of one hour and forty-eight minutes, he again released the button.

Now his grandparents were standing flat on their feet and the rope was tighter and their breathing was more labored. But by comparison with the fast-forwarded image, everything seemed to be in torturous slow motion. Coltrane could barely imagine what the passage of time must have felt like to his grandparents. An eternity. The force of the rope made their eyes bulge. Their faces, which had been gray with fear, were now red from the pressure around their throats.

“Mr. Coltrane, I really think,” McCoy started to say.

“Shut up.” Coltrane pressed the fast-forward button. When the indicator on the tape machine showed two hours and fifty-one minutes, he returned the tape to normal speed and saw a urine stain on his grandfather’s pajamas.