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the Myst book I sent him?”
    “The what ?”
    “The Myst book.”
    “What’s a mist book?”
    “The video game. Myst. M-y-s-t. It’s a little booklet Randall found very useful in deciphering Myst. ”
    “Oh. No, it hasn’t arrived yet.”
    “I sent it United Parcel, Jamie should be getting it any minute now.”
    “No, not yet.”
    “How is he, Alice?”
    “He’s fine.”
    “Is he… honey, is he talking yet?”
    “No, not yet.”
    “Poor darling.”
    “Yes.”
    “Why don’t you bring him up here for a while? Being with the boys might work wonders.”
    “Maybe so. Maybe when school lets out.”
    “I’d love to have him here, Alice.”
    “Thanks, sweetie, I appreciate that.”
    There is a silence on the line.
    “When did Rafe leave?” Alice asks.
    “Two days ago. What’s today?”
    “Wednesday.”
    “So he left Monday.”
    “Where’s he off to this time?” Alice asks.
    “Down your way, actually, was the first stop. Then it’s over to Louisiana, Texas, Oklahoma, Arkansas, and back home.”
    “You say he’s down here now?”
    “Probably been and gone by now.”
    “Here? In Cape October?”
    “No, did I say the Cape? He was heading for Jacksonville. Then Tallahassee and Mobile. I think is what he said.”
    “Have you spoken to him?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Well… has he called you?”
    “He never calls when he’s on the road. He drives practically day and night, all he has time to do is sleep and grab a bite to eat. Anyway, he should be home by the weekend.”
    “That’s good.”
    There is another silence, longer this time.
    “Honey?” Carol says. “Is something wrong?”
    “No, no. What could be wrong?”
    “You sound… I don’t know… funny.”
    “I’m just tired. I had a long day.”
    “You selling many houses down there?”
    “Oh, scads.”
    “Maybe I’ll come buy one.”
    “Be a good idea.”
    “Honey, I got to go now,” Carol says. “I hear Michael screaming about something. We’ll talk soon.”
    “Right,” Alice says.
    There is a click on the line. She hands the phone back to Sloate.
    “Where is he?” Sloate asks.
    “Mobile by now.”
    “Was he here on the Cape?”
    “No. Jacksonville. Mr. Sloate, I don’t think he came here to steal my kids. My sister would kill him, he ever did something like that.”
    “How about one of his jailbird pals? You think he might have mentioned to one of them that there’s this beautiful widow in Florida, has two kids, and has just come into two hundred and fifty grand?”
    “You’re scaring me, Mr. Sloate.”
    “I don’t mean to be doing that. I’m just trying to figure out who could’ve got it in his head that kidnapping your kids might be a way to get at those big bucks you’re supposed to’ve come into. Which you haven’t come into yet, by the way. But they don’t know that, do they?”
    “No, they don’t.”
    “Come on, let’s take you home. Get this thing rolling. Find out who these damn people are,” he says, and rises briskly from behind his desk.
     
    If anyone is watching the house on Oleander Street, he will see only a dark-haired woman driving a black Mercedes ML320 up the street. He will see the car pulling into the driveway and stopping to wait for the garage doors to go up. The dark-haired woman is Alice herself. The Mercedes is the car supplied to her by Lane Realty, one of the perks of being a real estate broker.
    If anyone is watching the house, he will see the garage doors going up. He will see Alice driving the car in. To anyone watching, Alice seems to be alone in the car. The garage doors roll down again. After a short interval, anyone watching the house will see lights coming on in the living room. He will see the dark-haired woman—Alice again—approaching the windows, looking out at the street, and then drawing the drapes.
    In the garage, Wilbur Sloate gets up from where he is lying on the floor in the backseat of the Mercedes, climbs out of the car, and comes around to