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whatever gets you through the day in this difficult business.
    “Can you get his picture to the state police? Have it sent to all the cars between here and West Virginia on an orange notice.” The officers on patrol would get a flash on their computers and they’d be on the lookout for light-colored cars and a driver who fit Loving’s description. The orange code meant he was dangerous.
    “I’ll do it but I know you’re a math wizard, Corte.”
    “And?”
    “Divide a million cars by forty troopers. Whatta you get?”
    “Thanks, Freddy.”
    We disconnected and I called Ryan Kessler.
    “Hello?”
    I told him who I was and that I’d arrived. I’d beat his door in a moment or two. I wanted him to call Freddy and check on my appearance. This was a good security measure but I also did it to increase his paranoia. I knew Kessler, as a cop—and a decorated street cop at that—would be a reluctant principal and I wanted him to sense the reality of the danger.
    Silence.
    “Are you there, Detective Kessler?”
    “Well, sir, I told Agent Fredericks and those men outside . . . I see you out there too, Agent Corte. I told them this isn’t necessary.”
    “I’d still like to talk to you, please. If you don’t mind.”
    He made no attempt to mask his irritation. “It’s really a waste of time.”
    “I’d appreciate it,” I said pleasantly. I tend to be overly polite—stiff, many people say. But a calm, structured attitude gets people’s cooperation better than bluster, which I’m not very good at anyway.
    “All right, fine. I’ll call Agent Fredericks.”
    I also asked him if he was armed.
    “Yes. That a problem?” Testy.
    “No,” I said. “Not at all.”
    I would rather he wasn’t, but as a police officer he was entitled, and asking a cop to give up his weapon was a battle rarely worth fighting.
    I gave him some time to call Freddy, while I considered the house.
    Nearly all single-family residences are indefensible.
    Visibility, permeable construction, susceptibility to fire. They’re naked to thermal sensors and have limited escape routes. Tactical cover is a joke. A singlebullet can take out the power. A proudly advertised five-minute response time by central station security companies simply means the lifter knows he has a guaranteed window for a leisurely kidnapping. Not to mention that the paper trail of home ownership, automobiles and financial documents will lead the perp directly to even the most reclusive citizen’s front door in no time at all.
    Principals, of course, always want the security blanket of their homes but I remove them from their beloved residence as fast as possible.
    Seeing Ryan Kessler’s house I was determined to spirit him and his family away from the insubstantial two-story colonial as soon as I could.
    I walked to the front door, checking windows. Ryan opened it. I knew what he looked like from personnel files and my other research. I glanced past him at the empty downstairs and moved my hand away from the small of my back.
    He moved his from the holster on his hip.
    I introduced myself. Shook his hand. I showed him my ID, which has my picture, name and a federal government logo on it, eagle included like the Justice Department’s but our own brand of bird. There’s nothing specific about our organization. I’m described simply as a “United States officer.”
    He took a fast look and didn’t ask the questions I would have.
    “Did you call Agent Fredericks to check on me?”
    “No.” Maybe he felt his cop’s intuition could verify my credibility. Maybe it didn’t seem very macho.
    Ryan Kessler was a solid man, broad shoulders and black hair, looking older than his years. Whenhe tilted his head down, which he had to do because I was shorter and a step below, a double chin rolled outward. A round belly above tapering thighs and hips. His eyes were inky and focused. It was as hard to imagine a smile on his face as on mine. He’d be good at interrogation, I