“Yep.”

“So he was around even less than the average dad?”

“I suppose so.”

“Was his mother detached?”

“Marge,” Hurley said, as his eyes became unfocused, as if trying to remember some distant memory. “She wasn’t exactly the warmest person.”

“Not very affectionate?”

“About as affectionate as that desk over there.”

Lewis nodded. “It all fits the profile. Adams has an overinflated sense of worth and that carries over into a sense of entitlement. The flip side is that his self-esteem is very fragile. It would be extremely difficult for him to take criticism. To deepen the problem, he lacks empathy, which enables him to be extremely exploitative of others. He feels that he is special . . . and can only be understood by brilliant people. That he should only associate with others whom he deems talented enough, while at the same time he needs their real talent to validate his underlying insecurities.”

“Martyr complex? Always thinks he’s getting screwed by someone and needs to let everyone know it?”

“Very common. When he comes across someone like Mitch, for instance,” Lewis gestured to Rapp, “someone who is strong-minded, independent, results-oriented, not prone to handing out compliments, someone who is acknowledged as being at the top of their game. When that happens,” Lewis winced, “he feels that person is the enemy and has to be knocked down to size. It is not uncommon for people with this disorder to become lawyers. It makes them feel smarter than most other people, and they can use their knowledge of the law to bully those who do not validate their imagined genius.”

Hurley thought back to some of the family trips they’d taken some forty years ago. He remembered his friend Mark getting mad as hell at the way his son would pout if he didn’t get his way. “Suicidal?”

“No . . . virtually unheard of. He’s too in love with himself. Might fake it or threaten it, but most certainly would not follow through.”

“Anything else?” Hurley asked.

“He’s asked for you.”

“He knows I’m here?” Hurley asked in surprise.

“No, he has no idea you’re involved in this. He claims you’ll understand what is going on.”

Hurley frowned. “Understand? How could he possibly think that of all people out there, I would understand what he’s doing?”

“I wouldn’t read too much into it. As I said, he has an overinflated sense of his own importance. Also . . . remember, it is extremely difficult for someone with this disorder to ever accept responsibility for his actions. There is always a rationalization.” Lewis looked at Rapp and added, “He’s scared to death of Mitch because he knows nothing that he can say or do will change his mind. With you,” he looked at Hurley and shrugged his shoulders, “he’s hoping that he’ll find some empathy from an old family friend.”

Rapp could see that Hurley was having a hard time with this new twist. He took no joy in seeing the tough old bastard like this, so he touched his arm and said, “Let me take care of it.”

“No.” Hurley shook his head and stood up as straight as his seventy-eight-year-old frame would allow. “I need to do this.”

WAPELLO, IOWA

TED White slid out of bed and grabbed the pile of clothes sitting on the chair in the corner. Through the gap in the shades he glimpsed the gray predawn morning. He picked up the bundle, looked over his shoulder at his wife, and began to carefully tiptoe out of the room. As he walked past the open door he grabbed the handle and slowly pulled it until the door closed with a soft click. Safely in the hallway, he allowed himself to breathe. He waited for a moment to make sure she didn’t stir, and then he took two steps and entered his son Hayden’s room.

The seventeen-year-old lay there twisted up in his sheets and blankets, two of his four pillows on the floor, one trapped under his body, and the last one on top of his head. He was due to graduate from high school in one month. White grabbed him by the shoulder and gently shook him. Nothing. He waited five seconds and tried again. This continued for another thirty seconds with increasing force until Hayden’s eyes snapped open with a dazed, crazy look.

“What?” he asked, still delirious with sleep. “What’s wrong?”

“Shhhh,” his dad said. “If you wake your mother up, there’s no way she’ll let you come with me.”

The kid didn’t reply, he just looked around the room and tried to figure out what was going on.

“Grab your hunting gear.”

“But Mom said I couldn’t go. I have an English test third period, and I have a game tonight.”

Hayden was headed to the University of Northern Iowa on a baseball scholarship. “You’ve worked hard enough over the past four years. I think you’re entitled to a little turkey shoot with your dad.”

“But Mom . . .”

“I know,” his father cautioned, shushing him with his hand. “As long as I have you back in school in time to take that test everything will be fine.”

“Coach doesn’t like it if . . .”

“I already talked to your coach. He likes to turkey hunt just like me, and he knows they’re randy as hell this week. He said it was fine just so long as I have you back in school in time for the test. We’ll head out to my uncle’s old place. Fifteen minutes out and fifteen back. If you get your butt in gear we should have no problem getting in a few good hours.”

Hayden untwisted himself and put his feet on the floor. He raised both arms above his head and groaned. “Mom’s going to be pissed.”

In a hushed yet forceful voice, White said, “I’m going to be pissed if you wake her up. Now get moving. I’ll make us a couple of fried egg sandwiches. We can eat them in the truck.” With that, White left his only child’s room and made it down the hallway to the kitchen. He started the coffee and warmed up the frying pan. Next came the hard part. He found a notepad and a pen and leaned over, placing his right elbow on the counter, and wondered how best to admit to the crime. Like most things in life he decided it would be best to be brief and hold his ground.

Honey,

I checked with Coach last night. He says it’s fine if I take Hayden hunting. I will make sure I have him back in school for third period. This is probably our last spring shoot. Next year he’ll be away at college. Where did all the years go?

Love,

Ted

TOOLESBORO, IOWA

HAKIM closed the door to the bedroom, and despite wanting to clear his mind, he began to think of the attacks. The lunchtime explosions, the bomb that had decimated the emergency personnel who were sifting through the rubble of the Monocle-a restaurant that was a favorite haunt of U.S. senators and lobbyists-and then the final bold move. Hakim considered it a stroke of genius. For all his recent disagreements with Karim, he had to admit that the audacity of the plan was impossible to ignore. Karim had asked Hakim to locate America’s National Counterterrorism Center-the nerve center for the Great Satan’s illegitimate war on terror, as he called it. Without telling any of the senior al Qaeda commanders, they put together a daring plan to assault the building. Karim wanted to turn the hunters into the hunted. They would hit the National Counterterrorism Center while the Americans were in disarray and focused on the initial attacks and the secondary explosion.

Hakim had been there with Karim when their six comrades, dressed in SWAT gear, burst into the building. Having spent a decent amount of time in Washington, Hakim knew it was not uncommon to see big black SUVs driving down the street loaded with menacing men armed to the teeth. With the confusion created by the initial blasts, they would drive right up to the gate of the counterterrorism facility and easily dispatch the light security.