"Tom Kush! There you are!" the voice cried out. Holding two quarters in one hand, the receiver in the other, he wheeled around. It was Donna Birnbaum, looking frantic and out of breath.

As if in a premonition of things to come, John's words flashed through his mind:

Disappeared. 

Insurrection.

Eastern Standard Time.

Donna was an old friend from Brookline who had been a babysitter when Adam was young. Now in her late thirties, she was still a leggy ash blonde, with a serious, intelligent face. The sort of woman who can wear a little leather jacket unzipped to reveal some milky cleavage, yet still seem tough enough to prevail in a knife fight.

She looks terrific, Kush couldn't help thinking.