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Washington D.C. One could not help but be inspired in this city of symbols and monuments to war and sacrifice, freedom, justice, and determination against all odds. From where she stood the White House looked otherworldly, lit up as it was against a blue/black sky. The Washington Monument watched over the National Mall. A wise and weary stone Lincoln sat in perpetual contemplation. The black wall of the Viet Nam Memorial glistened, the names of the fallen etched in ghostly white on Death’s marble ledger.
    It was October. Thanksgiving would come too soon and Christmas on the heels of that. Time was running away with her and even the inspiration to courage and wisdom that this city offered could not erase the emptiness she felt. Josie would never despair of finding Hannah, but she was sad that the future wasn’t clearer. Archer admitted that the trail he followed was sometimes more intuition than anything else and that Hannah was proving more resourceful than he expected. He conceded that they might have to wait for the girl to come home in her own good time. Josie had been ready to accept that until now.
    She wiped at her eyes, shook off her self-pity, and let her melancholy go on the fog of her breath. Longing for something was never productive. If it were, her mother would have come back long ago.
    Josie walked until government buildings gave way to restaurants and stores. Those melted into brownstone neighborhoods and then apartments. Soon she would be out of the mainstream altogether. She paused to look at a menu posted in a restaurant window but the place was too lively for her to concentrate properly. She had already checked out of her hotel, but her bag was still there. She could work in the lobby while she waited for the shuttle, yet for some reason she didn’t want to be predictable. Josie settled on the familiar and walked into the first Starbucks she came upon. Grateful for the blast of warmth, she peeled off her gloves, unbuttoned her coat, and waited in line.
    “Coffee,” she ordered when she reached the counter.
    “Just coffee?” The barista seemed disappointed.
    Moments later, Josie’s coat was draped over a chair at a table in the back corner of the L-shaped room. The coffee was good, her phone was charged. She took a drink and then Googled Ian Frances.
    The first page listings brought up a racehorse’s website, a few guys who had written novels, an artist in Australia, and a reference asking her if she meant Francis of Assisi. She cleared the phone and typed again: Ian Francis .
    More authors.
    She typed Ian Francis, Canada. She got a haberdasher and a mathematician.
    The next time she tried Ian Francis, A&M University and found what she was looking for. Ian Francis was a professor of forensic neurology and imbedded in the article Josie found was a formal headshot showing a much younger and very much healthier man. He was intelligently posed, his gaze honest, and his demeanor temperate. The accompanying article was dated 1981 and entitled Effects of Sleep Deprivation on Neural Functioning . She found references to his published writings in 1978, 1983, 1989, and 1994. That didn’t mean other information didn’t exist, it only meant she was eager to get on with the real task at hand. Josie took the thing Ian Francis had thrust into her hands out of her pocket before it burned a hole through it.
    It was a piece of white plastic, cylindrically rolled and secured with a thick blue rubber band. It was no bigger than a stogie and wrapped with origami precision. She ran her fingers up and down the length. She couldn’t feel anything inside; there were no wires along the skin and there was no discernible smell. She peeled off the rubber band. The plastic was so tightly wrapped that it didn’t immediately come apart. She picked at the triangular end with her nail, unrolled it, paused to pull out the folded ends, and rolled again.
    When she was done, Josie was staring at a cheap plastic bag measuring