Theo and Ike were sitting with their backs to a wall in the spacious waiting area when Frye and Mr. Tom Carson exited the walkway. Carson was either angry or frightened; obviously, he was not very happy. As they were joined by other agents, he saw Theo across the way and shot him a look of murderous hatred.

They took him to an airport office for questioning.

As Theo and Ike waited, they began to worry about their flight. They couldn’t leave until they knew for sure if Carson was Duffy/Packer; nor did they want to leave.

Frye, though, was a veteran, and Duffy was an amateur. After fifteen minutes of interrogation, his story crumbled and he finally admitted who he was. His brand-new papers — Maryland driver’s license, Social Security card, passport — were all fake. He had a ticket on United from Miami to São Paulo, Brazil, and he had nine thousand dollars in cash in his pocket. He came within fifteen minutes of getting away.

After Frye informed him he was under arrest, he demanded a lawyer and stopped talking.

Theo and Ike were standing on the concourse near the office when they led Duffy away in handcuffs. As he walked past them, he once again glared at Theo.

Special Agent Daniel Frye walked over, as did Slade, Ackerman, and another agent. Frye put his hand on Theo’s shoulder and said, “Nice work, kid.”

It was raining hard when Theo awoke in his own bed early Sunday morning. He said good morning to Judge, who slept under the bed, or sometimes beside the bed, and occasionally even on the bed, but the dog did not open his eyes. Theo opened his laptop and went straight to the Strattenburg morning newspaper, online edition. The headline screamed across the page: PETE DUFFY ARRESTED AT DC AIRPORT. Theo read the story faster than he had ever read anything. He knew the facts — he was searching for his name. His and Ike’s. Nothing.

He took a deep breath, and read it again. Acting on an anonymous tip, a team of FBI agents had cornered Duffy after he had boarded a flight to Miami, and so on. He was bound for São Paulo, Brazil, with fake paperwork and a pocketful of cash. According to an unnamed source, the FBI picked up his trail last week. It was believed that he had been living in the Cleveland Park area for a few weeks. The company that provided the false identity for a Mr. Tom Carson was also under investigation. Duffy was being held in jail in Arlington, Virginia, and was expected to be returned to Strattenburg in the near future. Phone calls to his attorney, Clifford Nance, went unanswered. The local police and prosecutors had no comment.

The story then went on to describe the murder charges against Duffy, details that virtually everyone in town had known for over a year. There was a photo of Myra Duffy, the victim, who had been found strangled in the living room of her home one Thursday morning while her husband, Pete, was playing golf on the course where they lived, at Waverly Creek. There was a photo of Mr. Duffy as he was walking into the courthouse during his trial, a trial that ended when Judge Henry Gantry abruptly stopped things and sent the jury home for good. It was rumored at the time that a mysterious witness had come forward late in the trial, a witness who could place Mr. Duffy inside his home at the time of the murder. This witness has never been identified. Just as his second trial was starting, Duffy disappeared.

Theo knew all this; he’d been in the middle of it. Now, he was in the middle of it again, and this made him nervous. No, it scared the daylights out of him. Duffy had some dangerous friends. The FBI, though, had assured him and Ike that they would be left out of the official version of the story. So far so good, but Ike didn’t trust the local police to keep secrets.

The story went on to say that Duffy not only faced another trial for murder, but an escape charge as well. That carried a maximum sentence of ten years. Theo asked himself how in the world could Duffy wiggle around the fact that he skipped town.

He woke up Judge and went downstairs. His parents were at the kitchen table, still in their pajamas, reading the same newspaper and sipping drinks, black coffee for his father, a diet soda for his mother. After a few sleepy good mornings, Mrs. Boone asked, “Have you seen the newspaper?”

“Yes, I just read it. Didn’t see my name.”

Both parents forced smiles and nodded. They, too, were worried sick about Theo’s involvement. What was he supposed to do? He saw Duffy on the train. The man was wanted for murder. Wouldn’t any good citizen do what Theo did?

Yes, they agreed that he had done the right thing, but it sure didn’t feel like it. He almost wished he had done nothing.

Theo said, “Looks like he’s facing at least ten years in the pen, right?”

Mr. Boone grunted and said, “Sure looks that way. I don’t see how he can claim he’s not guilty of running away.”

Mrs. Boone said, “He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t get the death penalty.”

Theo fixed two bowls of Cheerios, one for him, one for Judge. His parents were lost in the newspaper and seemed worried. “Are we going to church?” Theo asked after a bite.

Mrs. Boone said, “It’s Sunday morning, Theo. Why wouldn’t we go to church?”

“Just asking, that’s all.”

Fine, let’s play the quiet game.

After church and lunch, Theo wanted to get out of the house. He told his mother he was going for a bike ride, with Judge on a leash. She told him to be home before dark. He took off, flying along the shaded streets of his quiet neighborhood. He waved at Mr. Nunnery, an old guy who never left his porch, and he called “Hello” to Mrs. Goodloe, another neighbor but one who couldn’t hear.

Once again, Theo was thankful that he lived in a town where kids could ride their bikes anywhere they wanted, with no worries about heavy traffic and a million people on the sidewalks. He could never live in a place like Washington. It was a cool city, a nice place to visit, but Theo needed space. With Judge galloping beside him like the happiest dog in the world, he zigzagged here and there, avoiding downtown where a bored policeman might yell at him for running stop signs. Theo knew many of the policemen in town and they were generally nice guys, but there were a few who felt as though kids on bikes should follow all the rules of the road. One of his favorite places was the campus of Stratten College, where students were always tossing Frisbees and killing time on the wide, green lawns. He liked the college but wasn’t sure he would go there. It was very close to home and, at the age of thirteen, he was already thinking about getting away.

The Delmont neighborhood was near the school and a lot of students lived there, in older duplexes and apartment buildings and run-down houses. There were coffee shops, bars, used bookstores — a more rustic version of downtown. He found the street he was looking for, then the small house where Julio Pena and his family had been living for a few months.

The Penas had once lived in the homeless shelter on Highland Street. Theo had met Julio there and had helped him with his homework. He was a seventh grader at Strattenburg Middle School, and Theo saw him occasionally on the playground. His cousin, Bobby Escobar, was the prosecution’s star witness against Pete Duffy.

On the day Myra Duffy was murdered, Bobby was working at the Waverly Creek golf course. He had been there for about three months. He had been in the country for about a year, after he entered illegally from El Salvador. Some would call him an “illegal immigrant.” Others, an “undocumented worker.”

Theo had read in the newspaper that there were about eleven million people like Bobby working and hiding in the country.

At any rate, Bobby was having a quiet lunch under some trees when he saw Pete Duffy suddenly appear in his golf cart, hustle into his home, stay about ten minutes, then hop back into his golf cart and speed away. It was eleven forty-five a.m., the approximate time Myra Duffy was strangled to death. Bobby was afraid to come forward for the obvious reason — he did not want to be deported — but Theo had convinced him to talk to Judge Gantry. This was after the trial had started, and it was the reason the judge declared a mistrial. Since then, the police had promised to protect Bobby and make sure he didn’t get into any immigration problems. Mr. and Mrs. Boone were attempting to sponsor him and help him get his citizenship, but that process was moving slowly.