From the intersection, he could see one of their cars parked at the curb. Someone was home. He crossed the street and continued along the top of the hill. To disarm them, he would enter from the alley.

His phone rang. It was Carol Shaw, his boss. He sighed and took the call.

“Bishop.”

“Tom, it’s Carol.”

“Nice to hear from you,” he said. “Curious to know how I’m enjoying my involuntary vacation?”

“I’m curious to know why your wife called here looking for you.”

He could picture Carol in her office. She would be standing — she rarely sat — and most likely gazing from her office window at the mountains to the west. Her status as Special Agent in Charge had earned her an office with a view of the Olympics.

“I’m sorry she bothered you,” he said.

“She didn’t bother anybody,” Carol insisted. “But she did leave a few of us wondering. Did you tell her about your time off?”

“No. And I didn’t tell her about Michelle’s disappearance either.”

A moment of pure silence passed. Once upon a time, when people on the phone stopped speaking, there was always still a buzz, or at least an ambient hum. Now? The other end completely dropped away.

“It’s that bad?” Carol finally said.

“It’s that bad.”

Up ahead, a gap in the row of storefronts. The alley.

“So this isn’t the call where you tell me you’ve found Michelle?” he said.

“This isn’t that call.”

It was a bright, cloudless day. The Olympics must’ve looked spectacular.

“You just want to make sure I’m not out causing trouble.”

“I’m just making sure you’re alright.”

From the top of the alley, he could see all the way down to Green Lake. The alley itself was clear. No people, no cars.

“I’m alright,” he said. “Give me a call when you know something. Until then, enjoy your view.”

***

Walker was sitting at the table on his back patio. A lit cigarette hung from between his lips, and John McPhee’s Uncommon Carriers sat open on his lap. When he heard footsteps on the stairs leading up from the alley, he raised his eyes and waited.

A man appeared and, seeing Walker sitting there, attempted a smile. It came off as morose, and Walker decided that this had to be Michelle’s father. Walker relaxed; he was prepared for this.

“Hi,” Walker said. “Can I help you?”

“I hope you don’t mind me coming up the back stairs–”

“Not at all.”

“–it’s just that I parked over there, and it seemed easier to come down the alley–”

“Of course.”

“–than to go around front.”

His excuse offered and accepted, the man didn’t seem to know what to do next. Walker extinguished his cigarette, stood and extended a hand.

“Walker Sheffield,” he said.

“Tom Bishop.”

The two men shook.

“I believe you know my daughter.”

Walker had a reaction ready. He’d used it once before with the police. First he let his expression falter, as if he were struggling to keep it together. But then his expression fell. Such a tragedy, it was impossible not to let it overtake you, even if it wasn’t your child. The capper was a shift of the eyes and a shake of the head. This world they lived in and its many horrors. It was beyond comprehension.

“I’m so glad you came by,” Walker said. “Michelle and Ryan are such good friends. I feel… I won’t say I know how you feel, but…”

He pointed at the chair opposite his.

“Please, sit down.”

Tom Bishop nodded and sat. He wore a simple black suit without a tie and a heavily-starched white dress shirt, and he was clean shaven. The only sign of imperfection was his fingernails: he’d been chewing them and the tips of several fingers were raw.

Walker sat and held out his cigarettes.

“No,” Tom said. “Thank you.”

Walker liked that. Tom didn’t smoke, but he felt no need to announce it and implicitly criticize the other person. Like when you asked someone if they’d seen the last episode of “Mad Men” and they felt compelled to announce, with their nose in the air, “I don’t watch television.”

“Have you heard anything?” Walker asked.

He injected his tone with a touch of discomfort, although not too much and not the wrong kind. He wanted to appear uneasy, but not guilty.

“No,” Tom said.

“How long has it been now?” Walker asked, even though he knew the answer. He always counted the days, comparing each new girl to the ones that had come before. Michelle was holding up well.

“Ten days.”

Walker frowned, and Tom nodded. Ten days was a long time without a ransom note. In the minds of many, she was presumed dead.

“How’s Ryan doing?” Tom asked.

“Not well,” Walker admitted. “He’s been pretty out of it. Not speaking much, not eating. I think he really likes your daughter.”

“I think so too. I gave him a bit of a scare when we met and he didn’t run off. That told me a lot.”

“He’s a good kid.”

“Sure.”

Now something in Tom Bishop shifted. Instinctively Walker braced himself. Perhaps he hadn’t been the only one putting on an act.

“The police came to visit you?” Tom said.

“Yes. A Detective Perry came by.”

“She’s good. We met at the school.”

“At the school?”

“Last Monday. There was a boy there. He’d been harassing Michelle.”

“Do you think…?”

Walker let his voice trail off.

“No,” Tom said, answering the implied question.

So much for Joe Downey taking some of the heat off. Walker took out a cigarette and lit it. It might’ve been a ‘tell’, but he needed it. Exhaling a cloud of smoke, he caught Tom Bishop watching him.

“They asked you about the calls?” Tom said.

“Of course,” Walker said. He couldn’t pretend otherwise. Only lie when you have to. He’d learned that years ago.

“She was looking for Ryan,” Tom said.

“I assume so, yes. It’s too bad he wasn’t home.”

“Do you know where he was?”

Walker had answered this question already. Ryan had still been at school when Michelle had called. There’d been a soccer game that evening, and those were usually recorded by the AV club. Ryan was a member of the club, and he’d hung around to help set up.

“Ryan was at school, for the soccer game.”

The next question came quickly.

“And where were you?”

Another question he’d already answered.

“At my store. I own a bookstore in Vandeveld. Maybe Michelle mentioned it?”

“She did, yes.”

Tom lowered his eyes, pursed his lips, nodded.

Walker stubbed out his cigarette.

“Is there something I can do for you?” he asked.

Tom looked up, back in the moment.

“I spoke to your man,” he said. “Kyle. I had the idea that if Michelle was looking for Ryan, she might try your store. But Kyle tells me she never showed up there. He also tells me that you were there in the afternoon, but that you left at around four-thirty.”

Yes. And by five o’clock Walker had been staking out Klein Faliszek waiting for Matt Pullman to appear. He couldn’t tell Tom Bishop that, but should he tell him anything? He hadn’t actually asked a question.

How would an innocent man react?

“I don’t know what to say.”

Again, the truth.

“Where’d you go after you left the store?” Tom asked.

Walker laughed, an attempt to diffuse the situation. It just made him seem nervous.

“This is starting to feel like an interrogation.”

“I’m just asking questions,” Tom said.

“The police are investigating Michelle’s disappearance.”

“So am I.”

“I understand that you’re upset and frustrated, but what can you do that they’re not doing already?”

“I’m better at it than they are.”

“But it’s their job–”

“It’s my job too.”

The next question was an obvious one, but Walker hesitated before asking it. When he did, he would know just how much trouble he was in. Right now he wanted to savor the tail end of his ignorance.

“You’re a cop?” he said finally.

“No–”

Phew.

“–I’m an F.B.I. agent.”

Holy fuck.

“Really,” Walker said.

Every part of him, body and mind, was in shock and on high alert, struggling not to let it show.

“So you probably are better at this than the police.”

“I’m sorry if it makes me sound superior,” Tom said, “but yes, I am. For example, the police didn’t confirm your alibi with Kyle.”

“I guess I’m not a suspect.”

“Everyone’s a suspect. I’m a suspect, but Detective Perry still doesn’t know where I was that evening.”

“You’re her father. And an F.B.I. agent.”

“Parents kill their children. And F.B.I. agents commit crimes.”

Tom sat back and his jacket fell open, revealing his gun. Walker’s gun — the one no one knew about, which he’d trained to use in secret — was far away in the basement of his store.

Silently Walker cursed Jane, whose selfish indiscretion had set off this whole chain of events. Damn her.

“I’ve learned not to be surprised by what people are capable of,” Tom said. “I’m not a cynic or a misanthrope. I just know that people, all people, are capable of anything.”

Walker lit another cigarette, his third since Tom had arrived. It was rare for him to smoke so much in one sitting, but Tom didn’t know that.

“It must be discouraging,” Walker said. “Working in law enforcement.”

Tom shook his head.

“Bringing a criminal to justice is always a pleasure. When you catch a criminal, there’s nothing else like it. Especially when you know that it was you that made it happen. That it was a thought that you had, your idea, your instincts. That if someone else had been on the job, maybe the criminal would’ve gotten away with it. But you were there and so they didn’t.”

Walker nodded. How strong was Tom? And how well trained? He had a gun strapped to his side, but if Walker was fast enough, and with the element of surprise–

But did Walker have the element of surprise? Tom Bishop was here for a reason, and maybe it was the right one. If Walker leapt at him now, it might be all Tom needed to know.

Tom checked his watch and stood up. Walker still hadn’t answered his question, but he appeared to be leaving.

“I’ve got to get going,” he said. “Got another appointment.”

“Another friend of mine?” Walker asked, an attempt at a joke.

“No, not a friend,” Tom said with a smirk, straightening his jacket.

Walker tried to recall the morose and awkward grieving father who’d appeared on his patio just a few minutes before. He couldn’t. That man was long gone. He’d been played.

“You remember a girl named Karen Wyler?” Tom asked.

It was hard to imagine a question that would’ve caught Walker more off guard, yet somehow he managed not to react. He looked to one side, careful not to answer too quickly. He was an innocent man, searching his memory.

“Karen Wyler…”

There was a girl. She complained.

“I don’t think so,” Walker said. “Why? Who is she?”

I’d moved too quickly. I’d been too sincere.

“She was a student of yours,” Tom said. “I guess ten years ago? I heard you quit your job because of her.”

Everyone was confused, and I was asked to leave.

“I quit teaching to open my store,” Walker insisted.

“Are you saying she wasn’t a student of yours?”

“I’m saying I don’t remember her. I don’t remember a lot of my old students.”

“Well, I’m going have a talk with her. She’s a student up at Seattle U. We’re going to meet for coffee.”

Tom stood there, his jacket now buttoned, his hands in his pockets. He was looking around idly, like he’d completely lost interest in Walker.

“I don’t understand,” Walker said. “I thought you were looking for Michelle.”

“I am looking for Michelle,” Tom said. “And I just found out that her friend’s father was once accused of inappropriate behavior by a girl who at the time was Michelle’s age. And on top of that, when Michelle went missing, no one knows where that friend’s father was.”

“You’re insane.”

“No,” Tom said. “But I’m getting there.”