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“Who the hell is Toby Himes?”

Donnato takes my elbow, but I jerk away.

“Who is he? Is he an agent? He’s wired, he’s wearing a vest, and I’m playing it out. I’m for real. I’m involved with these people, and he’s—”

“I hear you.”

Which is difficult, because I’m blubbering and trying to keep my mouth clamped shut at the same time.

“It’s been tough on him, too.”

“Tough on him?”

Donnato maneuvers so he’s blocking my view; his face is all I see. “Toby Himes is a source.”

“A source?”

“He is Peter Abbott’s pocket source.”

“The deputy director of the FBI has a pocket source? He’s been off the street for years.”

“Toby Himes has been Peter Abbott’s unpaid informant, pretty much since they came back from Vietnam. We’ve known they were talking. We thought Abbott might be involved in a conspiracy. We ran an investigation under Galloway’s command. Abbott finally gave it up that Mr. Himes has been providing him with intel on criminal activity in the Northwest for years. Himes is nowhere on the books because he refuses to take money or be acknowledged. He’s an unsung hero. Doing the right thing for his country. When he told us Stone had recently acquired half a dozen cast boosters, we knew it was on.”

“What are you talking about?”

“High-energy explosives. They provide the initiation you need to ignite a major amount of Tovex. Do serious damage. We knew Stone was onto the Big One.”

Angelo approaches, having grabbed Toby Himes.

“A Highway Patrol officer picked up the APB on Jim Allen Colby, also known as Slammer, getting off a Greyhound bus in Cascade Locks. What does that mean, Mr. Himes?”

Toby replies, “That’s the Bonneville Dam.”

We should be running for the helicopters, but instead we are drawn to watch in respect as the paramedics strap Dick Stone’s heavy body onto a gurney.

Toby Himes’s face is tight. “Why did you wait and let him die?”

“We thought he might say something important. You did right,” Angelo assures him.

“It speaks to what we do to ourselves,” says the former Marine, and he walks away.

Sadness is rising. I swallow hard. An empty space is opening up, much like the empty space around my grandfather. Disappointment, mostly, in what might have been.

As for Darcy DeGuzman, without Dick Stone, she is lost.

Good-bye, soldier, Darcy thinks, and dies there, too.

Slammer gets off the fourth bus of the day at the Bonneville Lock and Dam, a National Historic Landmark. What a complete and total pain in the butt—but still, he is happy to have been chosen, back in the good graces. The old dude better appreciate this, hours and hours of waiting in stinky old bus stations in nowhere towns, and it’s late in the day and it’s cold and he’s starving.

Slinging the backpack, he crosses the parking lot toward the visitors area and picks up a brochure, as instructed. This thing is huge. It spans the river a mile wide, connecting the states of Washington and Oregon. The powerhouses are kind of scary, huge networks of high-tension wires and transforming stations that produce electricity from turbines deep inside the dam—enough to power the entire city of Portland, it says.

He opens the map and locates the Fish Viewing Building.

Two huge luxury tour buses have pulled up to the entrance, and quicker than you’d imagine, hordes of white-haired old folk have disembarked in a parade of walkers and wheelchairs, limping through the glass doors. Slammer holds the door politely for a chalk-faced living corpse attached to an oxygen tank, then heads for the elevators, totally freaked by the guy at the desk—an old fart from the Army Corps of Engineers wearing a black eye patch, who is staring directly at him with one lucid eye.

But it’s a great day for the fish. The Visitor Center is filled with tourists. The benches in front of the underwater window are crowded with kids and strollers, in a claustrophobic room that smells of old radiators and cafeteria lunch. Slammer stares through the glass at the silver forms