.

realities. The half of me—let’s call it Part A—that believed I’d seen Anne, and that this was all part of some grand plan, clung doggedly to the conviction that I’d get a reply. Part B—the half that still resisted the idea—was equally certain that it was a lost cause.

      I decided to give it twenty-four hours. My rental car was due back at San Francisco airport the next day. If I’d heard nothing by then, I’d regretfully have to give up and take the next flight home. In the meantime, I should get a bit closer, so that I had less of a drive in the morning.

      I made my way back to the freeway and headed south. I turned on the radio, hoping for some company, but succeeded only in unleashing an unending stream of ads for things I didn’t want: divorce advice (too late, sadly); second-hand cars at give-away prices; a night to remember at the Win-River resort. Searching for a bit of meat among the bones, I momentarily took my eye off the road and swerved on to the hard shoulder. A huge bull-necked truck thundered past with a bad-tempered bellow.

      As I pulled back out into its wake, I glanced in my rear view mirror and saw a police motorbike a few vehicles behind me. The next time I looked, it had overtaken the intervening cars and was immediately behind me. I speeded up. It speeded up. I slowed. It slowed. Then it surged forward, blue lights flashing. I edged over and stopped. The motorbike followed. A burly cop dismounted and walked unhurriedly towards me. I rolled down my window.

      “I’m sorry,” I said. “I got distracted there for a second. I’m fine. Honestly.”

      He lowered his head and peered into the car. He was wearing a black helmet, with a microphone fixed in front of it like Bob Dylan’s mouth organ. His wraparound dark glasses made it impossible to gauge his expression.

      “Is this your vehicle, sir?” The gamey smell of his breath was half-disguised by a whiff of gum.

      “No, it’s a hire car.”

      “May I see your ID?”

      I started to reach for my wallet.

      “Uh-uh!” A gun suddenly appeared: a bulging black brute, like an outsized water pistol. He angled it towards me. “Hands where I can see them.”

      “My license is in my pocket.”

      “All right. Slow. No sudden movements.”

      I inched my fingers inside my jacket and extricated my driving license.

      “British, huh?”

      I nodded.

      “Passport?”

      “It’ll mean moving my hands again.”

      “OK. Real slow.”

      I took out my passport. He studied it, then—still keeping the gun on me—took a few steps back and recited the number into his microphone.

      “OK,” he said, after a few seconds. He lumbered over to me again. “Says your ESTA authorization expires in one week.”

      “I know. But I’m all right till then, aren’t I?”

      I held my hand out for the passport. He ignored it.

      “And the address you gave when you entered the country was in San Francisco.”

      “Yes. I’m on my way back there now. I just made a short trip up to Riddick.”

      “What you doing in Riddick?”

      “Visiting a friend.”

      “What friend?”

      “Look, can you tell me what this is about? What—”

      “Just answer the question please, sir.”

      “Mrs. Voss.”

      “Ginny Voss?”

      “Yes.”

      “You’re a friend of Ginny Voss?”

      “We know each other slightly.”

      “How’s that?”

      “Life’s rich tapestry. The warp and weft of destiny.”

      He sighed. Don’t try to bullshit me.

      “I heard about her daughter. I wanted to express my condolences.”

      He removed his dark glasses. His blue eyes were wide with incredulity.

      “I suffered a similar loss myself recently,” I said.

      He stood back and looked appraisingly at my clothes, like a parrot eyeing some oddity in its cage.

      “You going to a wedding someplace? Or a funeral?”

      I shook my head. “This, believe it or not, is how I usually dress.”

      He put his glasses back on. “I need to see your rental agreement for this vehicle.”

      “Why? Do you think I stole it?”

      “Please, sir—”

      “Or do I look like a terrorist?”

      “You should be careful what you say, sir. The rental agreement.”

      “It’s in the glove compartment.”

      “Put one hand on your head for me. Then nice and easy.”

      “Why don’t you just get it yourself?”

      “I can’t do that, sir.”

      It was a ridiculous exercise, like a children’s game—except that children’s games aren’t normally played at gunpoint. None of my previous visits to America—though admittedly most of them had only been to New York or Boston or New Orleans—had involved a run-in with the police. But I’d heard the usual stories, and they weren’t reassuring. Had I just been unlucky on this occasion, or had somebody reported me to the Riddick Police Department for some reason? And, if so, who? Corinne Ramirez? Ginny Voss? The people at the hotel? There was no one else who knew where I was.

      The policeman scanned the agreement, following the lines with his finger. “You only have one more day,” he said finally.

      Well-spotted. I nodded.

      “You have a plane reservation?”

      “Not yet.”

      “Well, my advice to you, sir, is that you return this vehicle and take the first flight you can get on.” He handed me my passport and the agreement. “And try to stay out of trouble till then. Have a good day.”

      He turned and sauntered back to his motorbike, stuffing the gun into his holster.

      “So what was that about?” I said, as I re-joined the traffic heading south.

      But Anne, if she had been there at all, had taken me at my word and made herself scarce. Even so, for the rest of the journey, I couldn’t help thinking how she would have graded my performance if she had seen it. I’d have been lucky if she’d given me five out of ten. I hadn’t been entirely craven—but I hadn’t distinguished myself by my courage, either. Why hadn’t I challenged the man more robustly? Said I’d show him nothing until he told me why he’d stopped me? Refused to answer questions unless there was a lawyer present? I made it back to the Bay Area without further problems—but the whole way there, the pall of humiliation slumped on my shoulders like a damp coat.

      I stopped at an-out-of-the way motel with a faulty Vacancy sign and a battered notice on a pole saying, C EAP RATES. I seemed to be the only guest, but the man behind the desk processed me as perfunctorily as if I’d been a delivery of Coke. On my way to collect my luggage I glanced back at him, just to make sure that he hadn’t waited for me to leave before picking up the phone to report my arrival. He was leaning back, hands behind his head, staring with a bored expression at his computer. Obviously, if someone was keeping tabs on me, they hadn’t bothered to alert him.

      I had just got to my room when I heard my phone ping. I