"Is it here?"

The fingers stopped. Or almost stopped. They still moved slightly. But there was clearly an effort being made.

"Can you control your fingers?" Evans said.

They started, then stopped again.

"So you can. Okay. Now: is the thing you wanted me to see here?"

Fingers moved.

Then stopped.

"I take that as a yes. Okay." Evans stepped back. In the distance, he heard an approaching siren. The ambulance would be here in a few minutes. He said, "I am going to move in one direction, and if it is the right direction, move your fingers."

The fingers started, then stopped, as if to signal "yes."

"Okay," Evans said. He turned and took several steps to his right, heading toward the kitchen. He looked back.

The fingers did not move.

"So it's not that way." He now moved toward the television, directly in front of the man.

The fingers did not move.

"All right, then." Evans turned left, walking toward the picture windows. Still the fingers did not move. There was only one direction remaining: he moved behind the investigator, heading toward the door. Since the man could not see him, Evans said, "Now I am walking away from you, toward the front door amp;"

The fingers did not move.

"Maybe you didn't understand," Evans said. "I wanted you to move your fingers if I was heading in the right direction amp;"

Fingers moved. Scratching the couch.

"Yeah, okay, but which direction? I went in all four directions and"

The doorbell rang. Evans opened it, and two paramedics rushed in, bringing a stretcher. And now there was pandemonium, they were asking him rapid-fire questions, and loading the guy onto the stretcher. The police arrived a few moments later, with still more questions. They were the Beverly Hills police, so they were polite, but they were insistent. This man was paralyzed in Evans's apartment, and Evans did not seem to know anything about it.

Finally, a detective came through the door. He wore a brown suit and introduced himself as Ron Perry. He gave Evans his card. Evans gave him his own card. Perry looked at it, then looked at Evans and said, "Haven't I seen this card before? It looks familiar. Oh yeah, I remember. It was at that apartment on Wilshire where the lady was paralyzed."

"She was my client."

"And now it's happened again, the same paralysis," Perry said. "Is that a coincidence or what?"

"I don't know," Evans said, "because I wasn't here. I don't know what happened."

"Somehow people just become paralyzed wherever you go?"

"No," Evans said. "I told you, I don't know what happened."

"Is this guy a client, too?"

"No."

"Then who is he?"

"I have no idea who he is."

"No? How'd he get in here?"

Evans was about to say he had left the door open for him, but he realized that was going to be a long explanation, and a difficult one.

"I don't know. I, uh amp;Sometimes I don't lock my door."

"You should always lock your door, Mr. Evans. That's just common sense."

"Of course, you're right."

"Doesn't your door lock automatically, when you leave?"

"I told you, I don't know how he got in my apartment," Evans said, looking directly into the detective's eyes.

The detective returned the stare. "How'd you get those stitches in your head?"

"I fell."

"Looks like quite a fall."

"It was."

The detective nodded slowly. "You could save us a lot of trouble if you'd just tell me who this guy is, Mr. Evans. You've got a man in your apartment, you don't know who he is, you don't know how he got here. Forgive me if I feel you're maybe leaving something out."

"I am."

"Okay." Perry took out his notebook. "Go ahead."

"The guy's a private detective."

"I know that."

"You do?" Evans said.

"The paramedics checked his pockets, found a license in his wallet. Go on."

"He told me he had been hired by a client of mine."

"Uh-huh. Which client is that?" Perry was writing.

"I can't tell you that," Evans said.

He looked up from his pad. "Mr. Evans"

"I'm sorry. That's privileged."

The detective gave a long sigh. "Okay, so this guy is a private investigator hired by a client of yours."

"Right," Evans said. "The investigator contacted me and said he wanted to see me, to give me something."

"To give you something?"

"Right."

"He didn't want to give it to the client?"

"He couldn't."

"Because?"

"The client is, uh, unavailable."

"I see. So he came to you instead?"

"Yes. And he was a bit paranoid, and wanted to meet me in my apartment."

"So you left the door to your apartment open for him."

"Yes."

"Some guy you'd never seen before?"

"Yes, well, I knew he was working for my client."

"How did you know that?"

Evans shook his head. "Privileged."

"Okay. So this guy comes into your apartment. Where are you?"

"I was at my office."

Evans quickly recounted his movements during the intervening two hours.

"People saw you at the office?"

"Yes."

"Conversations?"

"Yes."

"More than one person?"

"Yes."

"You see anybody else besides people in the law firm?"

"I stopped to get gas."

"Attendant will recognize you?"

"Yes. I had to go in to use my credit card."

"Which station?"

"Shell on Pico."

"Okay. So you were gone two hours, you come back here, and the guy is amp;"

"As you saw him. Paralyzed."

"And what was he going to give you?"

"I have no idea."

"You didn't find anything in the apartment?"

"No."

"Anything else you want to tell me?"

"No."

Another long sigh. "Look, Mr. Evans. If two people I knew were mysteriously paralyzed, I'd be a little worried. But you don't seem worried."

"Believe me, I'm worried," Evans said.

The detective frowned at him. "Okay," he said finally. "You have a client privilege you're invoking. I have to tell you that I've gotten calls from UCLA and from the CDC on this paralysis thing. Now that there's a second case, there are going to be more calls." He flipped his notebook shut. "I'm going to need you to come by the station and give us a signed statement. Can you do that later today?"

"I think so."

"Four o'clock?"

"Yes. Fine."

"The address is on the card. Just ask for me at the desk. Parking is under the building."

"Okay," Evans said.

"See you then," the detective said, and turned to leave.

Evans shut the door behind him and leaned against it. He was glad to finally be alone. He walked around the apartment slowly, trying to focus his thoughts. The television was still on, but the sound was turned off. He looked at the couch where the private investigator had been sitting. The indentation of his body was still visible.

He still had half an hour before he was supposed to meet with Drake. But he wanted to know what the PI had brought to him. Where was it? Evans had moved in every direction of the compass, and each time the man had indicated with his fingertips that it was the wrong direction.

Which meant what? He hadn't brought the thing? It was somewhere else? Or that whoever paralyzed him had taken it, so it was no longer there?

Evans sighed. The critical questionis it here?was one he hadn't asked the detective. Evans just assumed it was there.

And suppose it was? Where would it be?

North, south, east, west. All wrong.

Which meant amp;

What?

He shook his head. He was having trouble concentrating. The truth was, the private investigator's paralysis had unnerved him more than he wanted to admit. He looked at the couch, and the indentation. The guy couldn't move. It must have been terrifying. And the paramedics had lifted him up bodily, like a sack of potatoes, and put him on the stretcher. The cushions on the couch were in disarray, a reminder of their efforts.

Idly, Evans straightened up the couch, putting the cushions in place, fluffing them amp; He felt something. Inside a slit in one cushion. He stuck his hand deeper into the padding.

"Damn," he said.

Of course it was obvious in retrospect. Moving away in every direction was wrong, because the investigator wanted Evans to move toward him. The guy was sitting on the thing, which he had slipped inside the couch cushion.

It turned out to be a shiny DVD.

Evans dropped it in the DVD player, and watched as a menu came up, a list of dates. They were all in the last few weeks.

Evans clicked on the first date.

He saw a view of the NERF conference room. It was a side angle, from the corner of the room, waist high. It must have been from a camera hidden in the speaker's podium or something, Evans thought. Undoubtedly the investigator had installed the camera the day Evans had seen him in the NERF conference room.

At the bottom of the screen was a running time code, numbers flickering. But Evans stared at the image itself, which showed Nicholas Drake talking to John Henley, the PR guy. Drake was upset, throwing up his hands.

"I hate global warming," Drake said, almost shouting. "I fucking hate it. It's a goddamn disaster."

"It's been established," Henley said calmly. "Over many years. It's what we have to work with."

"To work with? But it doesn't work," Drake said. "That's my point. You can't raise a dime with it, especially in winter. Every time it snows people forget all about global warming. Or else they decide some warming might be a good thing after all. They're trudging through the snow, hoping for a little global warming. It's not like pollution, John. Pollution worked. It still works. Pollution scares the shit out of people. You tell 'em they'll get cancer, and the money rolls in. But nobody is scared of a little warming. Especially if it won't happen for a hundred years."

"You have ways to play it," Henley said.

"Not anymore," Drake said. "We've tried them all. Species extinction from global warmingnobody gives a shit. They've heard that most of the species that will become extinct are insects. You can't raise money on insect extinctions, John. Exotic diseases from global warmingnobody cares. Hasn't happened. We ran that huge campaign last year connecting global warming to the Ebola and Hanta viruses. Nobody went for it. Sea-level rise from global warmingwe all know where that'll end up. The Vanutu lawsuit is a fucking disaster. Everybody'll assume the sea level isn't rising anywhere. And that Scandinavian guy, that sea level expert. He's becoming a pest. He's even attacking the IPCC for incompetence."

"Yes," Henley said patiently. "That's all true amp;"

"So you tell me," Drake said, "how the hell I'm supposed to play global warming. Because you know what I have to raise to keep this organization going, John. I need forty-two million dollars a year. The foundations will only give me a quarter of that this year. The celebrities show up at the fund-raisers, but they don't give us shit. They're so egotistical they think showing up should be payment enough. Of course we sue the EPA every year, and they may cough up three, four million. With EPA grants, maybe five total. That still leaves a big gap, John. Global warming isn't going to cut it. I need a fucking cause. A cause that works!"

"I understand," Henley said, still very calm. "But you are forgetting the conference."

"Oh, Christ, the conference," Drake said. "These assholes can't even get the posters right. Bendix is our best speaker; he's got a family problem. Wife is having chemo. Gordon was scheduled, but he's got some lawsuit about his research amp;Seems his notebooks were faked amp;"

"Those are details, Nicholas," Henley said. "I'm asking you to stay with the big picture"

At that moment, the phone rang. Drake answered it, listened briefly. Then he put his hand over the phone and turned to Henley.

"We have to continue this later, John. I've got an emergency here."

Henley got up, and left the room.

The clip ended.

The screen went black.

Evans stared at the blank screen. He felt as if he were going to be ill. A wave of dizziness passed over him. His stomach churned. He held the remote in his hand, but he did not press the buttons.

The moment passed. He took a breath. On reflection, he realized that what he had seen wasn't really surprising. Perhaps Drake was more explicit in privateeveryone wasand obviously he felt under pressure to raise money. But the frustration he expressed was perfectly understandable. From the beginning, the movement had had to fight apathy in the broader society. Human beings didn't think in the long term. They didn't see the slow degradation of the environment. It had always been an uphill battle to rouse the public to do what was really in its own best interest.

That fight was far from over. In fact, it was just beginning.

And it was probably true that it wasn't easy to raise money for global warming. So Nicholas Drake had his work cut out for him.

And environmental organizations were really working with very small funds. Forty-four million for NERF, the same for the NRDC, maybe fifty for the Sierra Club. The big one was the Nature Conservancy, they had three quarters of a billion. But what was that compared with the zillions of dollars that could be mobilized by corporations? It was David and Goliath. And Drake was David. As he had said himself, on every occasion.

Evans glanced at his watch. In any case, it was time to go see Drake.

He took the DVD out of the player, slipped it into his pocket, and left the apartment. On his way, he reviewed what he was going to say. He went over it, again and again, trying to make it perfect. He had to do it carefully, because everything Kenner had told him to say was a lie.