17
Randall Lenz had eventually gone to sleep after his phone call with Agent Dawson ended, mostly because he’d realized that it didn’t matter how long he sat there and beat on his recalcitrant brain — the information about Jake Wilcox’s residence would surface when it wanted to and not a moment sooner. He might as well get some rest while waiting for that all-important piece of data to emerge from his gray matter.
“Rest” was a relative term, unfortunately, as he’d tossed and turned for most of the night, sleeping in fits and starts, twenty minutes here, a half hour there. When his eyelids flared awake in the pale gray light of pre-dawn and he saw it was barely five-thirty in the morning, he knew there was no point in continuing the charade any further.
He got out of bed and showered and
