year or so after he was deported, then did kind of a European tour before she finally settled in China.”
“Do you know where in Xinjiang she’s from?”
“It was unpronounceable. Kizl-something. It’s hard enough to piece together shreds of handwritten English, much less in transliterated Uyghur.”
“Children?”
“I didn’t see anything about kids, or parents for that matter. There were a few words that suggested that she may have been a hydrologist or an agronomist or something like that.”
Elaine thought for a moment, and then said. “I think Michael had written out the notes in order to figure out a route to travel in searching for Ibrahim. One scrap I found had Algiers, Marseilles, and Dublin listed, in that order.”
“And when he died in Marseilles? “
“I thought that Ibrahim or terrorists working with him had led Michael into a trap.”
Gage looked out through the French doors toward the backyard. The fog had finally reached in from the river, but the snowfall had stopped, leaving mounds on top of the woodpile, the toolshed, the rusted swing set, and the brick barbecue. He imagined that it hadn’t been too many years earlier that young families had gathered out there for children’s birthdays and Easter egg hunts.
Elaine sighed. “I’m bushed. Or maybe just beaten down by all of this.”
Gage turned toward her. “I didn’t mean to—“
“It’s not you. It’s the mess everything has become.”
Her brows furrowed and she shook her head. “It wasn’t supposed to turn out this way. Everything was once so perfect. It really was morning in America for us when Michael and I met in high school in the eighties, now it’s all a nightmare.”
Elaine closed her eyes again. Gage could see her pupils moving under her lids like she was searching through pictures of the past.
“The Tupperware Family. That’s what my mother called us.”
She paused, then looked at Gage.
“When she was growing up, Tupperware and Corning glassware and color television and KitchenAid all meant progress, people on the go, on the way up. The American dream. She saw us as an updated version of her generation. Earnest FBI agent, fresh-faced school librarian, kids, a house, two cars.” She pressed her lips tight for a few seconds, then said, “I’m glad she didn’t live to see what it turned into.”
Gage didn’t respond. He still didn’t know whether her life could’ve come out otherwise. But he did know that pretending that her life was different than it was would destroy the trust they’d developed.
And they both knew that their conversation had come to an end.
As he walked down the front steps a few minutes later, Gage’s peripheral vision caught a break in the pattern of snowbound cars parked along the street. The windshield of one had been wiped during the last few minutes of the blizzard. The passenger side was misted, the driver’s side clear, but there were no fresh tire tracks in the slush or fresh footsteps in the snow on the street or on the sidewalk bordering the car.
Gage came to a stop near his rental car, patted the breast pocket of his suit, then frowned and turned back toward the house.
When Elaine answered the door, he said, “Don’t look past me, but I think someone has your house under surveillance.”
“That’s ridiculous. Only the FBI would still be interested and they got everything.”
“Trust me on this one. I have thirty years in this business. I’ve learned to read the signs.” Gage pointed toward the interior. “Go back inside and bring me an envelope.”
Elaine kept her eyes fixed on his and said, “I don’t think you’re right, but I’ll play along.”
She returned a minute later and handed him a soiled letter-sized envelope. “These are my Price Chopper coupons.” She smiled. “They’re having a two-for-one special on crescent rolls and canned yams.”
“I’ll make up for your loss,” Gage said, sliding it into his jacket pocket, “and take
“Do you know where in Xinjiang she’s from?”
“It was unpronounceable. Kizl-something. It’s hard enough to piece together shreds of handwritten English, much less in transliterated Uyghur.”
“Children?”
“I didn’t see anything about kids, or parents for that matter. There were a few words that suggested that she may have been a hydrologist or an agronomist or something like that.”
Elaine thought for a moment, and then said. “I think Michael had written out the notes in order to figure out a route to travel in searching for Ibrahim. One scrap I found had Algiers, Marseilles, and Dublin listed, in that order.”
“And when he died in Marseilles? “
“I thought that Ibrahim or terrorists working with him had led Michael into a trap.”
Gage looked out through the French doors toward the backyard. The fog had finally reached in from the river, but the snowfall had stopped, leaving mounds on top of the woodpile, the toolshed, the rusted swing set, and the brick barbecue. He imagined that it hadn’t been too many years earlier that young families had gathered out there for children’s birthdays and Easter egg hunts.
Elaine sighed. “I’m bushed. Or maybe just beaten down by all of this.”
Gage turned toward her. “I didn’t mean to—“
“It’s not you. It’s the mess everything has become.”
Her brows furrowed and she shook her head. “It wasn’t supposed to turn out this way. Everything was once so perfect. It really was morning in America for us when Michael and I met in high school in the eighties, now it’s all a nightmare.”
Elaine closed her eyes again. Gage could see her pupils moving under her lids like she was searching through pictures of the past.
“The Tupperware Family. That’s what my mother called us.”
She paused, then looked at Gage.
“When she was growing up, Tupperware and Corning glassware and color television and KitchenAid all meant progress, people on the go, on the way up. The American dream. She saw us as an updated version of her generation. Earnest FBI agent, fresh-faced school librarian, kids, a house, two cars.” She pressed her lips tight for a few seconds, then said, “I’m glad she didn’t live to see what it turned into.”
Gage didn’t respond. He still didn’t know whether her life could’ve come out otherwise. But he did know that pretending that her life was different than it was would destroy the trust they’d developed.
And they both knew that their conversation had come to an end.
As he walked down the front steps a few minutes later, Gage’s peripheral vision caught a break in the pattern of snowbound cars parked along the street. The windshield of one had been wiped during the last few minutes of the blizzard. The passenger side was misted, the driver’s side clear, but there were no fresh tire tracks in the slush or fresh footsteps in the snow on the street or on the sidewalk bordering the car.
Gage came to a stop near his rental car, patted the breast pocket of his suit, then frowned and turned back toward the house.
When Elaine answered the door, he said, “Don’t look past me, but I think someone has your house under surveillance.”
“That’s ridiculous. Only the FBI would still be interested and they got everything.”
“Trust me on this one. I have thirty years in this business. I’ve learned to read the signs.” Gage pointed toward the interior. “Go back inside and bring me an envelope.”
Elaine kept her eyes fixed on his and said, “I don’t think you’re right, but I’ll play along.”
She returned a minute later and handed him a soiled letter-sized envelope. “These are my Price Chopper coupons.” She smiled. “They’re having a two-for-one special on crescent rolls and canned yams.”
“I’ll make up for your loss,” Gage said, sliding it into his jacket pocket, “and take
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