I went to the desk and pressed Play on the answering machine. Special Agent Parker squinted with surprise as the strange question-and-answer recording echoed through the room.

I clicked it off when it was over.

“Parents confirmed the person being questioned is Jacob,” I said. “Have you ever heard anything like that before?”

Parker shook her head.

“Not even close,” she said. “Sounded like an odd game show or something. Have you?”

I let out a frustrated breath.

“Sort of,” I said. “About a year ago, there was this guy who called himself the Teacher. Like this guy, he would blather on about our unjust society. Right before he blew holes in people.”

“Of course. The spree killer. The plane that crashed in New York Harbor, right? I read about that,” Parker said.

I nodded.

“Wait! The cop in the plane! Bennett, my God, that was you?”

I nodded again as she took that in.

“So, you think this is some sort of copycat?” Parker said.

I took a breath, remembering how hard I’d knocked on death’s door.

“For this family’s sake,” I said, shaking the last drop of coffee from my cup, “I hope not.”

Chapter 8

EVERY TWO MINUTES or so, Armando came in to refill our china cups from a polished silver coffee urn. I’d told him twice that he didn’t need to go to all the trouble, but he’d turned a deaf ear to us. He seemed as concerned about Jacob as his parents were.

The whirring sound of a mixer started in the kitchen. From the study, I saw Jacob’s mother, tears pouring down her cheeks, her hair mussed, her evening gown covered in flour, open the fridge and go back to the island, carrying eggs.

Armando made the sign of the cross.