John? He looked up. I hope you can forgive me for last night. She stopped, as though mulling over what she had just said. The problem is, I dont think I deserve to be forgiven.

Fiske put his cup down and stared at her. The sunlight poured through the window at a graceful angle, falling full upon her face, accentuating the sparkle of her eyes, the sensual margins of her lips. Her hair was limp from the river water, sweat and sleeping on it. The little makeup she wore had long since lost its life, staining her eyelids and cheeks, her entire body pushed to the point of exhaustion. This woman had been the source of a major, perhaps cataclysmic rift between him and his father, a man he worshiped. And yet Fiske had to fight the impulse to slip off her clothes and lie down next to her right there on the floor.

Everybody deserves to be forgiven, he finally said, and then looked back at the map. While Sara was showering, Fiske went into a room off the kitchen. She obviously used it as a home office of sorts, since it had a desk, computer, bookshelf full of law books and a printer. He spread the map out on the desk. He found the scale at the bottom, converting inches into miles, and rummaged around in the desk drawer until he found a ruler. Using Washington as the epicenter, he drew lines outward in north, west and southerly directions and then drew a line attaching the end points. He ignored the east, since four hundred miles out would put him well into the Atlantic. He made a list of the various states within this rough circumference, picked up the phone and called directory assistance. Within a minute he was on the phone with someone from the Federal Bureau of Prisons. He gave the name Harms to the person on the other end, along with the geographic radius he might be within. It had occurred to Fiske that his brother may have gone to visit Harms in prison. The call his brother had made to him seeking some advice would then make sense. John Fiske knew a lot more about prisons than his younger brother did. When the bureau representative came back on the line with the results, Fiskes face sagged. You sure theres no prisoner with that last name in any federal prison in the geographic area I gave you?

I even went out an extra couple hundred miles.

Well, how about state prisons, then?

I can give you the phone numbers for each state. Youll have to contact them separately. Do you know which ones are in that area?

Fiske looked at the map and rattled them off. There were over a dozen. Fiske wrote down the telephone numbers he was given and hung up. He thought for a moment and then decided to check messages at his home and office. One was from an insurance agent. Fiske returned the call to the agent, who was located in the D.C. metropolitan area.

I was very sorry to read about your brothers death, Mr. Fiske, the woman said.

I didnt know my brother had any life insurance.

Sometimes the beneficiaries arent aware. In fact, its not the insurance companys obligation to notify the beneficiaries even if were aware of the insureds death. Bluntly speaking, insurers dont go out of their way to pay out claims.

So why did you call me?

Because I was horrified by Michaels death.

When did he take the policy out?

About six months ago.

He had no wife or kids. Why did he need insurance?

Well, its why I called you. He said he wanted you to have the money in case anything happened to him.

Fiske felt a catch in his throat and he held the phone away for a moment. Our parents could use the money a lot more than me, he finally managed to say.

He told me youd probably give the money to them, but he wanted you to use some of it for yourself. And he thought youd know better than your parents how to deal with it.

I see. Well, how much money are we talking about?

A half million dollars. She read his address to him to confirm that it was still accurate. For what its worth, I write a lot of policies for people, for a lot of different reasons, not all of them good, but in case you didnt realize it, your brother loved you very much. I wished I was as close to my brother.

As Fiske hung up the phone, he realized that he was not on the verge of tears. He was on the verge of putting his fist through a wall. He got up, put the list in his pocket and went outside, down the stairway, past the vertical rise of cattail on one side, the sprawl of fern on the other, his feet taking him to the small dock. The sky was deep blue, with dabs of cloud, the breeze encouraging, the humidity vanished for now. He looked to the north, to the four-story reach of the million-dollar town houses on the outer ring of the Old Town Alexandria area, and then at the long, serpentine shape of the Woodrow Wilson Bridge. Across the water he made out the Maryland shore, a tree-lined mirror image of the Virginia side. A jet powered by, its landing gear down as it headed into National Airport a few miles distant. The fuselage was so close to the earth that Fiske almost could have hit it with a rock. As the plane passed by and the silence returned, he stepped onto the bow of the sailboat. The craft gently swayed under him; the sunlight stroked his face. He sat down and put his head against the mast, sniffed the canvas of the unfurled sail and closed his eyes. He was so damn tired.

You look awfully comfortable.

Startled awake, Fiske looked around before turning and seeing Sara standing there. She wore a black two-piece business suit; a white silk blouse peeked out at the neckline. Her neck was encircled with a small strand of pearls, her hair tied in a simple bun, a touch of makeup and pale red lipstick tinting her face. She smiled. Im sorry I had to wake you. You were sleeping so peacefully.

Have you been watching me long? Fiske asked, and then wondered why he had.

Long enough. You can take your shower now.

He stood up and stepped back on the dock. Nice boat.

Im lucky, the riverbank drops off steeply here. I dont have to keep it at one of the marinas. Ill take you out if you want. We have time left before it has to be winterized.

Maybe.

He walked past her toward the cottage.

John? He turned back. She put one hand on the stair rail and looked over at her sailboat, as though hoping to carve a wedge of calm from its tranquil frame.

If its the last thing I ever do, I will make it right with your father, she said.

Its my problem. You dont have to do that.

Yes, John, I do, she said firmly. *����*����* Thirty minutes later, Fiske drove the car out onto the private road leading to the parkway. The two black sedans flashing in front of their car made Fiske slam on the brakes. Sara screamed. Fiske jumped out of the car. He stopped as soon as he saw the guns pointed at him.

Hands in the air, one of the men barked. Fiske immediately put his hands up. Sara climbed out of the car in time to see Perkins emerge from one vehicle and Agent McKenna from the other. Perkins spotted Sara. Holster your weapons, he said to the two men in suits. McKennas voice boomed out. Those men are under my command, not yours. They will holster their weapons upon my order only. McKenna stopped directly in front of Fiske.

Are you all right, Sara? Perkins asked.

Of course Im all right. What the hell is going on?

I left an urgent message with you.

I didnt check my messages. Whats wrong?

McKennas eye caught the shotgun lying in the back seat. Now he pulled his own weapon and pointed it directly at Fiske. He studied Fiskes injured face. Is this man holding you against your will? McKenna asked Sara.

Will you stop with the dramatic crap? said Fiske. He lowered his hands and caught a sucker punch in the gut from McKenna. Fiske dropped to his knees, gasping. Sara raced to him, helping him lean back against the car tire.

Keep your hands up until the lady answers the question. McKenna reached down and jerked Fiskes hands up in the air. Keep your damn hands up.