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startled him. Anne Ayers stood inside the door frame, her gray hair scattered like detached spider webs. She had aged right in front of her husband, grown heavy and wrinkled. Was that why he had sought Hannah? Ayers had asked himself this question a hundred times. Was it a shallow need for younger, more vibrant company? He knew the answer was no. Hannah represented much more. He needed to help her, love her, and take care of her and her son. If he had been able to do so, he would have made a first installment on his debt to Matthew Neil. Now, everything he had attempted had turned deadly. And surely things were bound to get worse before they got better, if they ever got better.
    He looked at the wall clock. The hands blurred on their way to three o’clock.
    Why, God, am I such a weakling?
    “You shouldn’t drink so heavily,” his wife said.
    “Yes. You are right, dear.” Ayers continued to sip.
    “Come get something to eat, Jason.”
    He couldn’t know how long Anne had stood in the library. Had they been talking? “No. No thank you. I, uh . . . I think I’ll watch some news. Take my mind off of . . .”
    At three o’clock, you will turn on your television and wait. We have a message for you.
    Carlos Nuñoz had spoken those words to Ayers late last night. It was now five minutes before the appointed time. Suddenly, time slowed, then crawled. The television voices droned on—talking heads saying nothing important. Three o’clock came and went. Nothing. Five more minutes passed and still no news. He flipped channels. Could this be a cruel hoax? He prayed yes but believed no .
    At 3:20, he felt hopeful. Then, in the middle of a boxing match, came a news flash. A reporter’s excited voice filled the room, but Ayers absorbed the images, not the sound.
    TV crews captured live the frantic movements of a lunatic with explosives strapped to his body. As one camera focused on the word DEATH scrawled twice across his chest, the TV anchor identified the man as Stanley Drucker.
    Ayers knew Drucker, the same way he knew Cannodine. Hannah Neil had also known Drucker, just as she had known Cannodine. She also knew their crimes.
    The newscaster’s words found their way into Ayers’ brain:
From what we have been able to gather, Drucker is an aggressive stock fund manager who’s apparently distraught over the loss of millions of dollars in investors’ money over the past several days.
    The deep voice then mentioned the tragedy at Jackson Securities just days earlier. The newscaster concluded by saying:
Psychologists believe that with the current volatility in the markets, these sorts of mental breakdowns could become all too common—much like people jumping out windows during the Great Crash and Depression of the 1920’s and 30’s.
    Without warning, Ayers felt himself pressed against his chair-back. Drowning out all other sounds, the explosion vibrated the television. The video caught what appeared to be shards of brick hurtling from the disintegrating building next to where the man identified as Drucker had stood.
    The commentator’s voice first turned hoarse, then went silent.
    A moment later, Anne re-entered the study. Ayers’ white face must have unnerved her because her voice trembled. “Let’s go someplace,” she said. “You need to get out of the house.”
    She took her husband’s hand and pulled him up and out. Without a will of his own, it was a simple thing to do.

    The forty-nine dollar a night hotel room came furnished with cold linoleum tiles and ragged towels that scratched skin but couldn’t absorb water. The dump also had battered walls, and the overhead lights flickered and hummed. All night long, the sounds of connubial banging in the room next door infiltrated the fabric-thin walls. Sleep had not been an option.
    The stooped man with thick glasses tapped his bony fingers on the bedside table while pressing the phone against an ear. SEC Agent Oliver Dawson was small enough to shop in the