LAYNE CHANGED HIS CLOTHES IN THE hotel room and began to admire himself in the mirror. He was getting excellent use out of this suit. But the reflection of himself from the side prompted memories of Fabiola. He remembered her brushing his shoulders with her hand, and meticulously examining the garment’s fit from head to toe when he had tried it on. She had directed him where to find one on his budget, and she had combed the racks to select the right color. He put his duffle bag on the bed. He attempted to shake off the memory as he removed his shaving kit and the clothes he would need for the next two days.

      Remorse was a useless emotion, but he was powerless to extinguish it. He would have to wait for the prodding to slowly wear off. It was peculiar what his mind chose to focus on, memories woven with guilt from long ago, always being supplemented by new regretful memories he couldn’t cease creating. He wished he could be selective with his recollections. They got in the way of what he was doing and caused his mind to wander away from productivity. He could recite song lyrics or Spanish vocabulary spontaneously but became confused by simple verbal instructions. Only distress and anxiety focused his mind on the present.

      He looked at his watch. The mailer said that he was supposed to be in the lobby at 10 a.m. He thought it best to be at least a half-hour early. Perhaps immersion into the unknown would expel Fabiola from his conscience.

      The elevator settling on the bottom floor disarranged the emptiness of his stomach. It was impossible to eat in this nervous condition. The elevator bell dinged and the doors opened to the drop zone of the ground floor lobby. He was met with the smell of patterned carpet and the murmur of conversations. This hotel was much larger than the Rocky Mountain Hotel where he made it through the Oral Board interview by the skin of his teeth. The lobby here was a wide-open arrangement of multiple banquet rooms and auditoriums and a dance floor-sized lounge with multiple sets of tables and chairs. Scattered among the snowbirds and families on vacation, he immediately noticed young men in suits—some sitting alone, others standing or wandering about the lobby—who resembled those at the Oral Board Interview. He did not see familiar faces. He wondered what had happened to the other applicants at the Oral Board, most of whom seemed so much more qualified than he.

      Feeling self-conscious and not knowing what to do, he forced himself to move away from the elevator. It was like holding a cafeteria tray, trying to decide whom to sit alongside at the lunch table on the first day at a new school.

      As he wandered aimlessly, hoping no one noticed that he was adrift, he reminded himself to proceed with caution. Experience had taught him that he could expect to gain new enemies each and every time he was immersed into a different work atmosphere—it was inevitable that there would be people who were apt to try to eliminate those whom they perceived as competition. Maybe this time would be different. He truly wished he could feel brotherly with each of his cohorts. But he could bet that he would be swimming with sharks in due time. It was only a matter of how long it would take to identify those he would end up hating; they were usually the ones who initially flew a false flag of amiability.

      A group of three he was studying seemed like obvious Border Patrol new hires. One of them was holding court, a shorter, slightly overweight Southerner, judging from a voice that could be heard from a considerable distance. Layne approached them with as much confidence as he could muster and said, “Are you guys here for Border Patrol?”

      The Southerner responded, “No, we are here for the A.A.R.P. Convention.”

      The other two snickered, and Layne responded with a scowl.

      The Southerner quickly extended his palm and said, “I’m just kidding. I’m Chad Runyon. We’re here to EOD.” Layne immediately wondered what EOD meant, but he forced himself to not ask. He didn’t want to seem naïve and figured he would find out eventually.

      Runyon was the only one not wearing his jacket, just a shirt and tie. The other two introduced themselves. Layne looked them over briefly as they shook hands. Carlos Dos Santos was an atypical example of someone who was genuinely good-natured. He was a pudgy Mexican and seemed slightly self-conscious about his appearance, but exuded a stoic quality and poise derived from a life of fending for himself. He looked to be within a year or two of Layne’s age, and he said he was from Tucson. Ryan Schneider looked to be about five years younger and said he was from Minnesota; his enunciation of the letter “O” confirmed his origin. He was tall and blond with chiseled facial features and hair painstakingly molded with defining paste. He looked like he wanted people to recognize that he was adamant about health and fitness.

      The attention shifted back to Runyon, who resumed where he had left off. “So, anyway, I figure this job will be a nice resume piece for my application to the F.B.I. They don’t take anybody without prior law enforcement experience. The time I spent in the intelligence community chasing terrorists in Afghanistan doesn’t count for much with them, I guess.”

      Schneider asked, “What did you do in the military?”

      “I was in Army Intelligence. I was at Fort Huachuca in Sierra Vista for a couple of years; I’m familiar with this area.”

      “Did