IT MUST BE STRANGE TO BE MY NEIGHBORS thought. At the end of my driveway, where I’d ambled to pick up the morning paper, I waved at the FBI agent in the black sedan that was parked across the street. He raised an index finger an inch off the steering wheel—an extravagant gesture, in my experience with these guys—and I considered pushing my luck and striking up a chat.
To give the agents their due, most mornings—weekdays—I was in my truck when I picked up the latest edition of the News-Sentinel. Pausing at the end of the driveway, I would open the door, lean out—hanging practically upside down to snag the paper, like some modern-day cowboy leaning from his saddle—and snag the plastic bag, giving it a vigorous shake to remove most of the morning’s dew before straightening up, tossing the paper on the passenger seat, and closing the door. Then I would turn onto my street, make my way to Cherokee Boulevard, and wind along the foggy Tennessee River, an FBI car behind me, as the street curved uphill, away from the water, and toward the main artery of Kingston Pike. A mile east on Kingston Pike, I’d take a right onto Neyland Drive, following the river once more, wondering if the agent behind me was able to take in the beauty of the wispy fog spooling downstream, the herons wading and flying along the shore, the occasional tree trunk gliding along like some ghost ship or botanical submarine, its periscopic branches peering out from the secret emerald depths.
But today was Saturday, so I did not need to head to campus at daybreak. Today, I could relax at home—not that relaxing was something that came easily these days. And not that being at home was any great treat, either. Home was merely where I slept—or where I mostly failed to sleep, these days.
Today’s newspaper was half buried in the leaves—maples, mainly, though with a fair number of tulip poplar and a smattering of Bradford pear—that had accumulated over the past several weeks. The leaves had gotten so deep that it was difficult to tell where my driveway left off and my lawn began. It must be annoying to be my neighbors, I amended. I glanced skyward, saw abundant blue through the scattering of stubborn leaves still clinging to branches. The day was bright and crisp; cool, but not cold. A perfect day to rake.
I ventured across the street, approaching the unmarked car that screamed “law enforcement,” and the tinted window slid down. “Good morning,” I said.
“Morning,” replied the agent, a clean-cut, close-cropped, strapping young man I didn’t recognize.
“I’m Bill Brockton,” I said, offering my hand.
“Travis Joyner,” he said, reaching across his chest to give me the requisite manly vise grip.
“Thank you for watching my back,” I said. “My front and sides, too. I suspect this isn’t the most interesting assignment, but I appreciate you.”
“All part of the job,” he said, a study in politeness and impenetrability, as if his personality was wearing reflective sunglasses.
“Can I bring you anything? Coffee? Tea? A bowl of oatmeal?”
“No, sir, I’m fine. Thanks just the same.”
“Well, if you need anything—water, a restroom, whatever—just knock.”
“Thank you. I’ll be fine.”
So y’all are trained to hold your pee? I considered asking, but he didn’t strike me as a guy who’d see the humor in the question. “All right, then. Oh, I’m thinking about raking up some of these leaves, so the city doesn’t decide my property’s abandoned. That’s okay, right? It’s not a big risk for me to rake leaves, is it?”
“Rake away,” he said. “You just pretend I’m not here.”
“Right. Of course. I didn’t even know it was you till you rolled down the window. Have a good one.”
I turned back toward the leaf-covered driveway—I knew it lay just to the left of the mailbox—and I noticed that the mailbox was open, and a large manila envelope was curled inside. Strange: I had collected Friday’s mail when I arrived home that evening, and it was far too early for the Saturday mail delivery. I pulled the envelope from the mailbox and looked it over. No return address; no address of any kind, in fact, not even mine. I felt a surge of fear—I’d once received a sinister missive from Satterfield in this way—but I fought back, scolding myself for being paranoid.
I strolled back to the FBI agent’s sedan, and the window slid down again. “Agent Joyner, did you see who dropped this off?”
He nodded. “A kid on a skateboard—nine or ten, maybe. Friendly. Waved at me, but didn’t talk. Turned at that next corner.”