It was a lonely life, but it suited him. He was making progress on his long-delayed master’s thesis, and he actually liked being alone. Maybe it was a monk’s life, but maybe he was a monk.

Sure, Graham, I could do this forever, he thought.

Instead, he asked, “What’s the job?”

“It’s chickenshit.”

“Right. You didn’t come all the way over here from New York for a chickenshit job.”

Graham was loving it. His filthy little harp face shone like the visage of a cherub whom God had just patted on the back.

“No, son, it really is about chickenshit.”

That’s when Neal made his next major mistake: he believed him.

Graham opened his suitcase and took out a thick file folder. He handed it to Neal.

“Meet Dr. Robert Pendleton.”

Pendleton’s photo looked as if it had been taken for a company newsletter, one of those head-and-shoulders shots that sit above a caption reading, MEET OUR NEW VICE-PRESIDENT IN CHARGE OF DEVELOPMENT. He had a face you could cut yourself on: sharp nose, sharp chin, and sharp eyes. His short black hair was thinning on top. His gallant effort at smiling looked like an unnatural act. His necktie could have landed airplanes on a foggy night.

“Dr. Pendleton is a research scientist at a company called AgriTech in Raleigh, North Carolina,” Graham said. “Six weeks ago, Pendleton packed up his research notes, computer disks, and toothbrush, and left to attend some sort of dork conference at Stanford University, which is near-”