"Okay," Casey said, forcing a smile. "See you Sunday."

Their arrangement was that Allison stayed with her father one week a month, leaving Monday and returning the following Sunday.

"Sunday." Jim nodded curtly. "Same as always."

"Sunday at six."

"Oh, Christ."

"I'm just checking, Jim."

"No, you're not. You're controlling, the way you always do - "

"Jim," she said. "Please. Let's not"

"Fine with me," he snapped.

She bent over. "Bye, Allie."

Allison said, "Bye, Mom," but her eyes were already distant, her voice cool; she had transferred her allegiance to her father, even before her seat belt was fastened. Then Jim stepped on the gas, and the Lexus drove away, leaving her standing there on the sidewalk. The car rounded the comer, and was gone.

Down at the end of the street, she saw the hunched figure of her neighbor Amos, taking his snarly dog for a morning walk. Like Casey, Amos worked at die plant. She waved to him, and he waved back.

Casey was turning to go back inside to dress for work, when her eye caught a blue sedan parked across the street There were two men inside. One was reading a newspaper; the other stared out the window. She paused: her neighbor Mrs. Alvarez had been robbed recently. Who were these men? They weren't gang bangers; they were in their twenties with a clean-cut, vaguely military appearance.

Casey was thinking about taking down the license plate when her beeper went off, with an electronic squeal. She undipped it from her shorts and read:

She sighed. Three stars signaled an urgent message: John Marder, who ran the factory, was calling an IRT meeting for 7 a.m. in the War Room. That was a full hour before the regular Morning Call; something was up. The final notation confirmed it, in plant slang-BTOYA. Be There Or It's Your Ass.

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