“This is a back-channel kind of operation,” Shane explains as he passes out paper napkins. “It’s not like you can just call up ‘Special Ops’ and ask for a list of guys who might have insignia tattoos. All information about personnel is classified, and it takes more than a court order to pry it out of the army.”

“So who do we ask?” I want to know.

“A guy who knows a guy. In this case, a woman who knows a guy. Or to be even more specific, an FBI special agent who has a brother assigned to the Pentagon. The brother happens to be an officer and a lawyer, which is different from being an officer and a gentleman, apparently.”

Maria Savalo makes a face. “Randall, can I ask you a favor? Give me a break on the lawyer jokes for a while. I’m feeling, you know, vulnerable and all that crap.”

Even with a smudge of tomato sauce on her chin, the last thing Savalo looks is vulnerable. Petite, feisty, blazing with self-confidence, she’s everything that vulnerable is not.

“Okay, fine,” agrees Shane. “So this, ah, lawyer and gentleman is a high-ranking dude, works for the Pentagon equivalent of Internal Affairs. Which means he pretty much has unlimited access to a truly amazing amount of data. He’s been a willing source for years. At the agency, the feeling is his superiors are aware he’s a conduit to the FBI, and that he’s aware they’re aware, and that he’s allowed and maybe even encouraged to pass on certain types of information to another branch of the federal government.”

“Very cloak and dagger,” says Savalo, staring at him with her large and radiant eyes. The comment is not intended as a joke, she means it sincerely.

Shane shrugs—it’s all part of how he works, what he does. “It’s how things are done when you have to work your way around an enormous bureaucracy. For this source, at his level, a list of SOF personnel, active and discharged, is no big deal. Much easier than, say, requesting medical records for the same men.”

“Medical records?” I ask. “Why would you ask for medical records? Oh, wait, of course. The tattoo.”

“Correct,” Shane says approvingly. “Tattoos are noted in medical records for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is possible transmission of blood-borne disease. But they also like to have it on the jacket as a means of quick identification, which may or may not prove useful if every man in the unit has the same marking. What I’m going to do is wait for the first batch of names, cull through it, eliminating by age and height, race and so on, and then go back for medical records for the likely candidates.”

“How long will that take?” I ask.

One of the many things I like about this man is that he takes all of my questions seriously. No matter how obvious they may be to him, or even how silly or inappropriate. So he thinks about it before responding. “As long as forty-eight hours for the turnaround. That’s max. Could be much quicker if a name and location pops out. A Special Forces guy who lives in your town and banks at your bank, for instance. Or happened to be in a position to come into previous contact with your son. Could be a few steps removed from that and still have a connection.”

“The six-degrees thing,” Savalo offers.

“Yes,” says Shane. “Exactly. Once we know how this man chose you and Tomas, we’ll know who he is, where he is and where to find your son.”

“What if there’s no connection?” I ask. “What if he flew in from Idaho?”

Again, Shane takes his time considering the question. “I suppose there’s a remote possibility that Bruce responded to an ad in Soldier of Fortune, or the Internet equivalent. If that’s the case, then we’re not only looking for him, we’re looking for whoever hired him. But that still leaves us with a very specific connection to you, Mrs. Bickford. Why you? Why your son?”

“I’ve been asking myself that question ever since it happened. Maybe because I had money in the bank? He knew all about my bank accounts, down to the penny,” I remind them both.

Shane nods, then pauses to pat his mouth with a napkin before proceeding. “No doubt money was a factor,” he begins. “It may be possible that Bruce or one of his associates is a hacker and was trolling bank data, looking for a likely prospect, and happened to find you. But if I were planning a crime like that, I’d keep the child right in the home while I sent the mark—you—to withdraw or transfer the funds. That’s how it’s usually done.”

“You’ve seen cases like this before?”

“Not exactly like this one,” he says. “Every case is different. I wasn’t directly involved with the bank robbery unit at the Bureau, but they worked ten or twelve crimes a year that involved taking a bank manager’s family hostage in their own home, scaring the hell out of everybody, and then sending mom or dad off to get the dough and then hand it off to an accomplice. More than half the time the ploy was successful—nobody even knew what was going on until it was over. But if that’s all it is, a way to extract money from you, why go to the trouble of filing phony paternity papers? Why kill the local police chief and try to implicate you in the crime? Why keep Tommy? No, this isn’t just about the money. Bruce has an agenda.”

“What is it?” I ask. “What’s his agenda?”

Shane smiles grimly. “That’s the big question. A lot of what he’s done seems to be a diversion tactic. Trying to make sure the federal authorities aren’t involved, at least not right way. It’s as if he has a mission to accomplish. Something he needs to do that involves your son.”

What that might be remains unspoken. It’s simply too terrible to contemplate. Of course my mind has been wrestling with the possibilities, and when I start to settle on one—sick porno, for instance—it blares inside my head like a car alarm that won’t shut off. I think Shane knows what I must be thinking, what I have to be worried to a point of madness about, and has decided not to name the possibilities. Until we manage to find something concrete it’s all speculation, and anyhow, the only thing that matters is getting Tommy back. Whatever has happened to him, whatever he’s been exposed to, he and I will deal with it when the time comes. When he’s back home in his mother’s arms, safe from the evil things in the world.

“I’ve got to boogie,” Ms. Savalo announces, glancing at her wristwatch. “I’ll take you back to the motel, Kate.”

“When can I go back to my own house?” I ask plaintively. “When can I go back home?”

Savalo sighs. “Your home is still a crime scene. The state police detectives want it for a few more days. And even then, there’s that bottle blonde from Channel 6. She’ll be parked on your doorstep.”

Tears spill from my eyes. I hate this. I hate weeping like a weak sister when I need to be strong, but the urge to be home, to sit on Tommy’s bed and inhale the smell of him, is almost more than I can bear.

Shane clears his throat. “Here’s an idea. Stay here for a day or two. Use the guest room. We’ll cab over and pick up the rental car in the morning.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” says Savalo, her face betraying no expression whatsoever.

“Why not?” Shane asks.

Savalo shrugs. “It’s up to Kate.”

And so it’s decided. The great relief of not having to return to the fetid, lonesome motel room almost makes me cry again. Almost, but not quite.

The bed in the guest room is freshly made, which makes me think that Shane’s invitation wasn’t as spur of the moment as it sounded back there in the dining room. But who’s complaining, when a man changes the linen and takes the trouble to tuck in the corners? Maybe they teach that at the FBI, under self-sufficiency. Ted never made a bed in his life—what’s the point, he’d say, when we’re just going to mess it up all over again?—and Tommy thinks the idea is ridiculous, and worse, effeminate. Making beds and keeping your room tidy is something girls do. Starting short-stops are definitely exempted.