“She’s checking.”

Molly nodded. Amanda was now fast asleep in her arms.

“Yes, I’m still here. Really? Thanks. Thanks a million. And sorry to have disturbed you. Bye.”

“Well?” said Molly.

“Do the words ‘the Pacific Northwest’s leader in progressive health coverage’ mean anything to you?”

“Holy shit,” said Molly.

“Where’s that Condor annual report?”

“Down in the den, I think. In the magazine rack.”

Pierre left the dining room, hurried down the half flight of stairs — and tripped at the bottom, an unexpected movement of his left foot having caught him off guard. Molly appeared at the top of the stairs, holding Amanda, who, having been awoken by the crash, was now crying.

“Are you all right?” Molly called, her face contorted in fear.

Pierre used the banister to haul himself back to his feet. “Fine,” he said.

He continued on down the short corridor and emerged a moment later holding the annual report. He came up the stairs more carefully and sat down on the living-room couch. Amanda had stopped crying and was now looking around curiously.

Molly sat next to Pierre, who was rubbing his shin. He handed her the report. “Find that part you read aloud when we first got it — the part about how many policies Condor has.”

She folded back the yellow-and-black cover, flipped past the first couple of pages, then: “Here it is. ‘With foresight and a commitment to excellence, we provide peace of mind for one-point-seven million policy holders in Northern California, Oregon, and Washington State.’”

Pierre tasted bile at the back of his throat. “No wonder their stock is doing so well. What a great way to increase profitability: eliminate anyone who is going to make a major claim. Huntington’s sufferers, diabetics going blind, a superintendent about to have a kidney transplant…”

“Eliminate!”

“Eliminate — and for that, read ‘kill.’ ”

“That’s crazy, Pierre.”

“For me or you, maybe. But for a company that coerces abortions? A company that forces people to take genetic tests that might drive them to suicide?”

“But, look,” said Molly, trying to bring a note of reason back to the conversation, “Condor’s a big company. Think of how many people they’d have to get rid of to have any real effect on their bottom line.”

Pierre thought for a moment. “If they knocked off a thousand policy holders, each of whom were going to make claims averaging one hundred thousand dollars — the cost of a bypass operation, or a couple of years of at-home nursing — they’d increase their profits by one hundred million dollars.”

“But a thousand murders? That’s crazy, Pierre.”

“Is it? Spread them out over three states and several years, and no one would notice.”

“But how would they know who to go after? I mean, sure, they knew you were going to come down with Huntington’s because you told them, but they wouldn’t know in advance in most cases who was going to end up making a big claim.”

“They could get genetic reports from the policyholders’ doctors.”

Molly shook her head. “Not in this state. That’s part of the same law that prevents them from doing genetic discrimination: it’s illegal for an insurance company to request genetic data from a person’s doctor.”

Pierre got up and began pacing in a shaky fashion. “The only way to pull it off would be by doing their own genetic tests on all their policyholders, detecting in advance the ones who might file claims. After all, if you wait until the claims are filed before killing the person, someone would surely notice the connection.”

“But insurers don’t routinely take tissue samples. Lots of medical insurance is granted based on questionnaires, and if a checkup is required, it’s usually done by the family doctor. But, again, the law says the doctor can’t turn over genetic results to the insurer, at least here in California.”

“Then they must get tissue samples some other way — some clandestine way.‘’

“Oh, come on, Pierre. How could they possibly do that?”

“It would have to be during the initial interview with the customer — that’s the only time someone from the insurance company normally is physically close to the policyholder.”

“So what about your own interview? Did the salesperson touch you?”

“No. No, we didn’t even shake hands.”

“Are you sure?”

He nodded. “I don’t remember everyone I meet, but, well, I remember her.” He shrugged. “She was, ah, quite fetching.”

“Well, if she didn’t touch you, she couldn’t have taken a tissue sample.”

“Maybe,” said Pierre. “But there’s one way to find out for sure.”

“Hello, Ms. Jacobs. I’m Tiffany Feng from Condor Health.”

“Won’t you come in?” said Molly.

“Thank you — my, what a charming place you have.”

“Thanks. Can I get you some coffee?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Well, then, please, have a seat.”

Tiffany sat down on the living-room couch and removed a few brochures from her attache case, then placed them on the pine coffee table, next to the blue-and-white transmitter for the baby monitor. Molly sat down next to her, putting Tiffany inside her zone. “Maybe you can tell me a bit about yourself, Ms. Jacobs,” said Tiffany.

“Please,” said Molly, “call me Karen.”

“Karen.”

“Well, I’m divorced. And I’m self-employed. I’ve got a preschooler.”

Molly gestured at the baby monitor. “But she’s with a neighbor right now.

Anyway, I got to thinking I should probably have some health insurance.”

“Well, you can’t go wrong with Condor,” said Tiffany. “Let me start by telling you about our Gold Plan. It’s our most comprehensive package…”

Molly listened intently to everything Tiffany said. All of Tiffany’s thoughts were benign: how much commission she’d get for landing the policy (Molly was surprised to learn that it was more than an entire year’s worth of premiums), the other appointments she had for the rest of the day, and so on.

When Tiffany’s spiel was over, Molly said, “Fine, I’ll take the Gold policy.”

“Oh, you won’t be sorry,” said Tiffany. “I just need you to fill out a form.” She took a legal-size sheet from her attache case and placed it on the table. She then opened her jacket, revealing an inside pocket with a row of pens clipped to it. She selected one and handed it to Molly. It was a retractable ballpoint. Molly pressed on the button with her thumb, the tip clicked out, and she began filling in the form.

Suddenly, there was the sound of a door opening upstairs.

Tiffany looked up, startled. “I thought we were alone.”

“Oh,” said Molly, “that’s just my husband.”

“Your husband — but I thought… Oh, my!”

Pierre was staggering down the stairs; for once, he didn’t mind the monster-movie sight he made as he did so. His left hand was holding on firmly to the banister, and in his right, which was swinging wildly, he held the receiver for the baby monitor. “Hello, Tiffany,” he said. Tiffany’s lipsticked mouth was open in shock. “Remember me?”

“You’re Pierre Trudeau!” said Tiffany, her eyes wide in recognition.

“Not quite,” said Pierre. “It’s Tardivel, actually.” He turned to his wife.

“Molly, I want to have a look at that pen.”

Tiffany tried to take the pen from Molly, but Molly jerked it away.

Pierre closed the distance, took the pen, sat down on an easy chair, unscrewed the barrel, and spilled the contents out on the coffee table.

There was a refill in there, with a spring wrapped around it. But the components of the button at the top of the pen were unusual. Pierre held the chrome-plated button up toward the window. There was a tiny, almost imperceptible spike projecting from its rounded top. He turned it toward his eye and squinted at it. It was hollow.

Pierre made an impressed face. “Nice piece of work,” he said, looking over at Tiffany. “When the customer presses down on the button with his thumb, a small core of skin cells is dug out. He wouldn’t feel a thing.”