Due Preparations for the Plague. Janette Turner Hospital

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      “I didn’t call to talk about my mother.”

      Samantha suddenly wonders if Lowell’s mother was one of those who caressed her as she passed, when the hijackers were pushing the children along the aisles, when the children were being herded, prodded with rifles, when the rough hands of gunmen slapped them, when the gunmen stuffed rags into sobbing mouths. Samantha finds herself wondering which hands might have belonged to Lowell’s mother, because hands had come from everywhere as the children passed, hands stroking them, touching, giving blessing, sending messages that she bears in her body still.

      “I’m really calling,” Lowell says more calmly, “because you said you had information about my father—”

      “It may not be the kind of information that you want.”

      “I’m sure it won’t be,” Lowell says. “But you said there was a woman in Paris who knew my father, who claims to be—you said I have a half-sister.”

      “I think so, yes.”

      “Is she claiming this, or are you?”

      “She is. But she claims she has proof. You didn’t know about her?”

      “No. And I don’t believe her, but I’m curious.”

      “I’ll understand if you’re not ready for this,” Samantha says, but Please, she is thinking, please stay on the line, please give me something, another crumb, two crumbs, I can wait for the trail.

      “My father’s first wife died,” Lowell says. “And they never had children. My mother was his second wife and I was an only child.” He pauses, assessing possible evidence, pro and con. “But he was stationed in Paris for several years,” he concedes. “During his first marriage.”

      “He had an affair with a Frenchwoman. I’ve semi-confirmed this from declassified documents. The CIA kept files on a woman who worked at the American Embassy because they considered her a security risk. She had a daughter by an American, a diplomat or an agent, it isn’t clear which. Françoise claims that was your father. She says she has photographs to prove it. You can make contact with her through our website if you want.”

      “I have to think about it.”

      “She seems to know a lot about your father. She says he’s in Intelligence.”

      “He was.”

      “Was?”

      “He died in a car crash two months ago. September.”

      “Oh,” Samantha says. She feels winded. She can feel a red-hot trail fizzle out. “What date?”

      “Four days before the anniversary,” he says. “So you don’t know everything.”

      “There’s way too much I don’t know.”

      “You hadn’t been hounding my father the way you hounded me?”

      “I apologize for hounding you. I guess I was obnoxious. I’m sorry.”

      “Well, not obnoxious,” he says. “But relentless, yes.”

      “I’m sorry. I get like that every September.”

      “Yeah,” he says, softening. “I freak out too. Every year.”

      “I’m obsessive-compulsive about it, I guess. About anything to do with the hijacking.”

      “I am too, but in the opposite way. Compulsive avoidance. But if you’re, you know, so obsessive, how come you didn’t hound my father?”

      “I only just found out about him, from Françoise. People like your father aren’t listed in the telephone book.”

      “How’d you find out about me?”

      “The passenger list’s always been available. Each passenger listed one next-of-kin with the airline for notification. Your mother listed you.”

      “Yes, I suppose she would. How’d you find this Françoise?”

      “I didn’t. She contacted me. On the website for Flight 64.”

      “I avoid anything like that,” Lowell says.

      “So. Do you want to meet me and talk?”

      “I’m not sure. Where’s this area code? D.C., isn’t it? Is that where you live?”

      “Yes. But I could come up to Boston for a weekend. Or we could pick somewhere in between, like New York.”

      “Maybe,” he says. “I’m not sure. I have to be careful.”

      “Why? What do you mean?”

      “Nothing,” Lowell says nervously. “I don’t mean anything.”

      A hole-in-the-wall café in Penn Station is not where Samantha would have picked, but Lowell insists. He has a soft-sided overnight bag with him and he keeps it on his lap. He looks around.

      “Are you expecting someone?” Sam asks.

      “What? No. No, no. Just checking the joint. It’s like lead in paint.”

      “Lead in paint?”

      “Old paint. Before they banned lead. Once you know about it, you see it everywhere. I’ve had medical problems,” he says. “Even walls become dangerous, know what I mean?”

      “Uh-huh,” she says doubtfully, trying to follow.

      “I paint houses,” he explains. “Lot of old houses in Boston, peeling paint. I have to strip them. Lead levels are up in my blood.”

      “Uh-huh. I don’t know much about—”

      “Heart problems. Nervous system. I get tested every month. You live with it.” Eyes darting, he checks each stream of New York commuters spilling into the concourse at Penn. “You get to expect danger. Could come from any direction.”

      “Got you,” she says. “But, ah, it’s not lead poisoning you’re checking for here.”

      “No.” Their eyes meet for a moment, then skitter away.

      “Message received,” she breathes. She suddenly wants to call Jacob. She wants to check in with him, make sure he is okay. “I could order us a bottle,” she says to Lowell. “I need a drink, don’t you? But I wouldn’t trust the house wine here. Sweetened cleaning fluid.”

      Lowell blinks at her. “Wine? No, not my poison. Whatever’s on tap,” he tells the waiter.

      “Your father was in Intelligence.” Sam’s voice has dropped to a whisper.

      Lowell says warily, “If you were hoping for information about that, I don’t have any.”

      “Your half-sister thinks—”

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