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cameraman down…and ultimately learn about the warehouse. That much seemed certain.
    Right then the cameraman froze.
    Through the lens, in the distance, amid the huddle of FBI agents and sheriff’s deputies, a gap had formed between two beefy investigators, and all at once, Ulysses Grove became visible in all his Burberry and pinstriped glory—and he was glancing this way, as though he were gazing through the cameraman’s own lens!
    Like a drill penetrating the bone of the cameraman’s skull and burrowing into his brain!
    The cameraman lowered his camera, turned away, and trundled back toward his four-wheeler. He had to get out of there. He could not take it anymore. He couldn’t breathe. He climbed into his truck, slid the camera across the passenger seat, then fired up the engine.
    The SUV lurched, and he almost ran over one of the reporters as he roared back toward the two-lane. He didn’t even look back. He was shaking as he sped away into the overcast afternoon. Something had to be done. Something had to be done about this genius from the FBI.
    Something drastic.

FOUR
    Henry Splet, ace cameraman and father of four, drove through the gated entrance of Pinehurst Meadows with an ash pit of worry smoldering in his stomach. He drove past the flower beds and flagstone ramparts, with his windows rolled down, despite the rain. He couldn’t breathe with the windows shut. He needed the cold, wet air on his face in order to think.
    A thin, stooped man with a translucent pale complexion, Henry was one of those types who always looked like his clothes were too big, his skinny neck swimming in his collar. Today was no exception. He looked so wan and fragile in his WJID windbreaker that he appeared almost spectral, ghostly. It wasn’t just his advanced age—which, at fifty-seven, was ancient for a news camera operator—it was also his demeanor, the way he carried himself, his expression. In the rearview mirror, he saw his sunken, haunted, gray eyes, his emaciated cheeks. He looked like death.
    He steered the SUV onto Elderberry Court, and headed for the last driveway on the right. Home sweet home. Time to put on his good-Christian-husband-and-father mask. Henry wore many masks, but this one was his favorite. It almost made him forget his secret compulsion. He grinned as he turned in to the driveway of the tidy little split-level ranch house.
    He parked and turned off the SUV as the rain drummed against the vehicle’s roof. Through the windshield, which was quickly beading with raindrops, he could see his cozy little domicile: its gabled roof pitches and pale blue siding accented by lushly planted flower boxes. The flower boxes were Helen’s handiwork. Helen Splet insisted on a cheerful, herbaceous home. She grew up in the Pennsylvania hinterland, the daughter of an Amish dairy farmer, and she still clung to many of the old ways, despite her conversion to evangelical Baptism in her early adulthood. From the butter churn on the porch, to the Early American antiques throughout the house, Helen wore her country roots on her sleeve.
    â€œDaddeeeeee!”
    Henry was getting out of the SUV when his youngest came toddling across the porch, the screen door slamming. The three-year-old was named Ethan, and he was a carrottop with perpetual tracks of green snot under his little pug nose. “Daddeeee—Daddeee—I make poopoo in the toi-wet.”
    â€œAttaboy!” Henry scooped the redhead off the steps and hugged him. “I knew you could do it!”
    The little boy jabbered about getting a sucker for his good work as Henry carried the child through the front door and in to the fragrant living room. The air smelled of pot roast and lemon wax. Helen Splet, her dishwater blond hair pulled back in a severe bun, her once-luminous blue eyes now getting a little creased around the edges, came striding in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. “Daddy’s home,”