So far everything had gone according to plan. Each afternoon for the last few weeks, I had ridden my bicycle past the surveillance vehicles in front of our house. A mile or two later I had stopped at various neighborhood hangouts for a soda or a snack, wound through the familiar Massapequa streets, and then disappeared onto the bike trails that weave through the green woods along the Sound. Just a local thirteen-year-old on a bike. The trails were too narrow for a car to follow. My only company was other bicyclists and the occasional jogger.

Every day my route varied, and every day I emerged from the woods in a different location to stand vigil beside a different neighborhood pay phone. That afternoon the call had finally come. I was relieved to be taking action at last.

I had told my mother that I would be spending a few days with Dad. She knew he was away on business, had been for over a month. More than that, she neither knew nor wanted to know. It was safer that way -- safer for our family, safer for her sanity. She requested no details, and I offered none. She had long ago made peace with the fact that as the only son, I was the man of the family in my father's absence. I came and went as I chose. No questions asked.

After dinner that night I went to the cabinet in my father's study and removed the cash he'd asked for. Then I went to my room and began packing: enough clothes to last me for a couple of weeks, copies of the evening newspapers, and, of course, my gun. I'd been carrying it for months now, carefully concealed in my clothing. My father didn't like my carrying it, but as he'd explained to me, it was necessary. Our family couldn't hide in the house all day. So I hid the revolver from my sisters, and I hid the fear from myself. It's what a man does, my father had taught me.

I double-checked the items I'd packed, sealed them tightly inside a plastic garbage bag, slipped into my swim trunks, and lay down on top of the bed to wait. The alarm clock was set for 3:30 A.M., but I couldn't sleep. Instead I lay there in the warm darkness, damp with humidity, and watched the glowing dial on my bedside clock inch away the hours, millisecond by millisecond.

At 3:25 I turned off the alarm switch and rose silently, picking up the garbage bag from the carpet. I slipped down the hall in my bare feet, past my sisters' rooms, pausing only by the master bedroom to listen for my mother. I held my breath as seconds passed. Utter stillness. Good. Moving stealthily down the stairs, I made my way through the kitchen and down to the basement, past the target range and my sister's art studio to the boiler room.

The next part was tricky. I would need my flashlight. Turning on the small beam, I aimed it carefully at the windowsill. My hand did not shake. I slipped a flat clip onto the wire that triggered the alarm system; then, taking a deep breath, I unlatched the window and slid it open. To my great relief, the alarm did not go off. I climbed through the window, into the storage area under the backyard decking, and reached back through for the garbage bag filled with my belongings. I could smell the salt air on the wind. I closed the window, removed the clip, and crept toward the door. On the other side were the steps that led to the canal behind our house.

As I opened the door, I heard Major whine. Pausing for a moment, I whispered, "It's all right, boy," as he put his muzzle out to lick my hand. Ordering him to stay, I paused once more, searching the night air for signs of intruders. Nothing. Down the ramp in the darkness, to the floating dock at the back of our house. I sat down on the edge of the boards, my ankles dangling in the water, and began to tie the garbage bag around my body.

It was beautiful that night. The summer air was velvet and warm, the darkness broken only by occasional pinpoints of light, shining down on the water from neighbors' back docks. Yet I was immune to the beauty that surrounded me, focused only on the task at hand. Jerking on the rope to make sure I had tied the bag securely, I slipped silently into the chilly water. I made certain there was no splash.

I began to swim, my muscles warming quickly to the exercise. The only sounds disturbing the stillness were my own breathing, the parting of the water as I stroked, and the faint roar of the Atlantic, less than a mile away. My eyes adjusted rapidly to the darkness, and I focused on the empty shoreline three hundred yards ahead. As I drew nearer, the outline of vegetation came into view, illuminated faintly by the carriage lamp in a neighbor's yard. Not much farther.

Finally my fingers touched sand, and I staggered onto the dim shore, the stirring reeds ghostly in the darkness. I untied the bag, wrapped my arms around it like a sleeping child, and climbed carefully up the embankment through the shoulder-high grass. A few yards later I emerged onto a small residential street that dead-ended onto the canal. In the darkness a car was waiting, lights out and engine purring smoothly. I climbed wordlessly inside, tossing the dripping garbage bag into the back seat as I did so, then turned to look at the driver. He had grown a beard to disguise his appearance, but even in the gloom of the car, the profile was familiar.

"Anybody see you?"

"No."

Driving quietly into the night, he reached across the seat and patted me, his arm resting on my shoulders.

"Good job, Al."

I leaned my head back against the soft leather upholstery, breathed in the familiar aftershave, and closed my eyes.

I was safe. I was with my father.