The thing was, he didn't know how to contact Ben. There had been a mailing address at Fort Bragg, but four or five years earlier, the estate stuff he'd been sending to the address had started coming back to him unopened. Apparently, Ben had been posted somewhere new and hadn't bothered to mention it to Alex. And Alex was damned if he was going to ask.

Jesus, was Ben even still in the army? He seemed to love it; it was hard to imagine him leaving. But…

He went to the army's Web site and followed the links to something called militarylocator.com, which apparently enabled you to find anyone in any branch of the service. You had to register to use it. Alex started to type in his name and e-mail address, then hesitated. Probably he was being paranoid, but it couldn't hurt to be careful. He typed in John Smith, with a made-up e-mail address. A search box popped up: first name, last name, branch of service. He entered Ben Treven, Army and hit the return key. A new screen came up: Ben Treven. Army, active duty. E-8. Bio, not available. Conflicts and operations, not available. Interests, not available. Unit affiliations, not available.

Well, two things seemed clear. First, Ben was still with the army. Second, whatever he was doing, the army wasn't inclined to say.

There was an 800 number for something called Military OneSource. He punched it in and waited. After a single ring, a woman answered.

“Cherine Nelson, how may I help you?”

“Hi, my name is Alex Treven,” he said, feeling uncertain. “I'm trying to contact my brother, Ben. He's in the army, but I don't know how to get in touch. It's kind of an emergency.”

Cherine gave him the 800 number for the army personnel center. Alex called the number. A man there told him he didn't have precise information about Ben's whereabouts, but could see that he received a message.

“If you don't know where he is, how are you going to get him a message?” Alex asked.

“Would you like to leave a message, sir?” the man responded, as malleable as a brick wall.

Alex hung up. He'd call back later if he had to.

There was one more possibility. Ben had an e-mail address their mom had used to stay in touch with him. Alex had used it, too, to keep him apprised of their mom's worsening condition, and of estate matters after she died. It had been over six years, and even if it was still an active account, he didn't know whether Ben still checked it, and if he did, how often. But it was worth a try.

He opened a new message and typed Ben's Yahoo address in the To box. He thought for a moment, then typed “Emergency” in the subject line. He tabbed down and wrote:

Ben, last night someone broke into our house and tried to kill me. Two people I'm connected with have also been killed. I'm not paranoid and I'm not making this up. I need y our help. Please call me as soon as you can. Alex.

He included his mobile phone number, then hit the send button. He waited a moment, then checked for new mail. No bounceback. Okay, the account was still active. But would Ben check it? And would he call even if he did?

Ben was watching CNN in his Ankara hotel room when his mobile phone buzzed. He checked the readout, expecting a message from Hort. Instead, it was an e-mail. From… Alex?

He frowned, wondering what it could be about. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd heard from his brother. The estate stuff was long since done. He couldn't think of a reason they needed to be in touch. There were some cousins, an aunt… maybe someone had died?

He opened the e-mail and read the message, then read it again. He closed the phone and shook his head.

It was exactly like the shit in high school, the same old shit. Alex had done something he should have known better than to do, and now he needed his big brother to bail him out. Amazing. Déjà fucking vu.

Or more likely, it was nothing at all. To Ben, Alex's claim not to be paranoid was evidence of the opposite.

So fuck him. If Alex really wanted his help, he should have sent a different message. It would have read, “Hey, Ben, sorry I've been such a self-righteous asshole all my life. I had no right to blame you for everything that happened to our family. Oh yeah, I'm an ingrate, too.”

He stood up and looked at the phone. “You hear that?” he said aloud. “Here's a life lesson for you, little brother. Don't bite the hand and then ask it to feed you.”

He started pacing. Who did the little hotshot think he was, anyway? Not a word for six years, and then he e-mails to ask a favor? Not even a Hey, how you doing, Ben, just a straight-up I need your help, so call me. What was Ben, a servant? Some kind of housekeeper, kept on call to clean up after the messes his prick brother made?

“Tell you what,” he said. “I'll help you. You just pay me for it. Yeah, pay me. Servants get paid, don't they? Or do you think I'm your slave, is that it? You think I'm your slave now?”

He kept pacing. “Oh, and our house?” he said, wheeling and staring at the phone. “So it's still our house? Yeah, when you want to suck me into something, it is. You think I'm stupid, Alex? Is that what you think?”

He was breathing hard and he felt that crazy, joyous urge to fuck someone up, an urge that had gotten him penalized so many times for unnecessary roughness during his one season at Stanford that only his father's connections with the Board of Trustees had kept him on the team.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd been in a fight, and he supposed that was good. Fighting was the antithesis of anonymity, especially with a camera and even video on every cell phone. But more than that, he didn't really trust himself to fight anymore. He wasn't sure he'd remember how. Fighting was essentially consensual. There were implicit rules, unspoken limits. But at this point, Ben was so conditioned to lethality he was afraid that in the face of even amateur violence he'd do what these days he did, without pausing to think about it until after.

It wasn't a happy realization. Fighting had been a good outlet for him, and he'd enjoyed it in a sick way. Not being able to anymore-it felt like he'd lost a part of himself, a part that, in retrospect, seemed oddly innocent. Maybe because most of his fights had been in high school. Maybe because high school was mostly before Katie died.

He'd been at a party that night, thrown by two popular girls from his class, Roberta and Molly Jones. The Joneses lived in an Atherton house with a huge backyard, and had parents tolerant enough to indulge their daughters’ periodic desire to throw a big high school bash. No one had planned it, but after the tournament, this one had turned into a kind of unofficial victory party for Ben.

Of course, alcohol was forbidden. And of course, the kids always found a way to drink anyway.

Ben had a couple of beers, but he was taking it easy. He hadn't had a drink since wrestling season had begun four months earlier; he'd needed to drop ten pounds to compete at 171; and as giddy as he was, he was also beat from the tournament. With a combination like that, a couple of nursed beers was about all he felt he could handle. Besides, a lot of girls were giving him the look. He was more interested in hooking up than he was in drinking down.

At some point a major hottie named Larissa Lee told Ben she'd just broken up with Dave Bean, the guy she'd been going out with for as long as anyone could remember. It was past time, she said. She was glad. She wanted a change. The only problem was, she didn't have a ride home, but maybe…

“Uh, yeah,” Ben told her. “Just tell me when you want to leave.”

“How about right now?” she said, looking into his eyes.

Right.