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of residential properties, from two-bedroom bungalows and row town houses to sumptuous tenacre lots ringed with demilitarized-zone barriers of trees between neighbors’ houses. The Kesslers’ house, between these extremes, sat in the midst of an acre, half bald and half bristling with trees, the leaves just now losing their summer vibrancy, about to turn—trees, I noted, that would be perfect cover for a sniper backing up Henry Loving.
    I made a U, parked the Armada in the driveway, climbed out. I didn’t recognize the FBI agents across the street personally but I’d seen their pictures, uploaded from Freddy’s assistant. I approached the car. They would have my description too but I kept my hands at my sides until they saw who I was. We flashed IDs.
    One said, “Nobody paused in front of the house since we’ve been here.”
    I slipped my ID case away. “Any out-of-state tags?”
    “Didn’t notice any.”
    Different answer from “No.”
    One of the agents pointed to a wide four-lane road nearby. “We saw a couple of SUVs, big ones, there. They slowed, looked our way and then kept going.”
    I asked, “They were going north?”
    “Yeah.”
    “There’s a school a half block away. They’ve got soccer games today. It’s early in the season so I’d guess it was parents who hadn’t been to the field yet and weren’t sure where to turn.”
    They both seemed surprised I knew this. Claire duBois had fed me the information on the way over. I’d asked her about events in the area.
    “But let me know right away if you see them again.”
    Up the street I saw homeowners mowing late-season grass or raking early leaves. The day was warm, the air crisp. I scanned the entire area twice. I’m often described as paranoid. And I probably am. But the opponent here was Henry Loving, an expert at being invisible . . . until the last minute,of course, at which time he becomes all too present. Thinking of Rhode Island again, two years ago, when he’d just materialized, armed, from a car that he simply couldn’t have been inside.
    Except that he was.
    Hefting my shoulder bag higher, I returned to the Nissan and noted my reflection in the window. I’d decided that since Ryan Kessler was a police detective, what it took to win his confidence was looking more like an undercover cop than the humorless federal agent that I pretty much am. With my casual clothes, my trim, thinning brownish hair and a clean-shaven face, I probably resembled one of the dozens of fortyish businessmen dads shouting encouragement to their sons or daughters at the soccer game up the street at that moment.
    I made a call on my cold phone.
    “That you?” Freddy asked.
    “I’m here, at Kessler’s.”
    “You see my guys?”
    “Yes. They’re good and obvious.”
    “What’re they going to do, hide behind the lawn gnomes? It’s the suburbs, son.”
    “It’s not a criticism. If Loving’s got a spotter on site, I want him to know we’re on to him.”
    “You think somebody’s there already?”
    “Possibly. But nobody’ll make a move until Loving’s here. Anything more on his position or ETA?”
    “No.”
    Where was Loving now? I wondered, picturing the highway from West Virginia. We had a safe house, a good one, out in Luray. I wondered if he was driving near it at the moment.
    Freddy said, “Hold on, just getting something . . . Funny you asked, Corte. Got some details from the team at the motel. Okay, he’s in a light-colored sedan. No year, no make, no model that anybody saw.”
    Henry Loving stimulates the amnesia gene. But it’s also true most people are simply extremely unobservant.
    Freddy continued, “I say at least three hours before he’s even in the area. And he’s going to spend some time staging before he gets to the Kessler place.”
    I said, “Are you owed any favors—the Virginia State troopers?”
    “No, but I’m such a lovable guy, they’ll do what I ask.”
    I have trouble with Freddy’s flippancy. But