iles believes he is turning in a bravura performance as The Man Who Can’t Unlock His Seat Belt when the lights go out. Not only the two lights of the loading dock. All of them: Office windows, sidewalk path, lawns, awnings, parking lots, they all blink shut. The guard steps back from the van, scans the building, reaches for his radio.

“This is Gibson, loading dock. Everything all right in there? Over.”

Elisa hadn’t said anything about the lights going out. Giles takes the opportunity to peer into the side mirror at the loading-dock doors. He wants her to emerge. He also hopes she doesn’t, not yet. This guard isn’t going away. He will need, then, to be distracted. Giles leans out of the window and clears his throat.

“Sir?” He curses softly; that’s not driver-speak. He tries again: “Buddy?”

The guard adjusts his transmitter. “This is Gibson, loading dock, over.”

“Terribly sorry about the ID card,” Giles says. “I’m afraid I’m a little sheepish about my age. See this? It’s a hairpiece. I’m afraid I’m a vain man, though I assure you it does not interfere with my laundry-toting capabilities.”

The guard turns on him, deftly unholstering his gun.

“I’m going to say this one more time, Mr. Parker. Get out of the van.”