It was 6 AM, and Marina's voice was Morrow's wake-up call. The words were ambiguous, but the meaning was clear, and Morrow was up as soon as they were spoken, jamming his feet into his shoes, shrugging into his jacket. It was daylight by the time he crossed the Key Bridge, heading toward Georgetown, a postcard morning. Down on the Potomac a single scull slid fluidly upstream, the rower moving with machinelike precision. Sweep, dip. Sweep, dip. Legs gliding forward and back, hands crossing and uncrossing. Body sexless from this distance, transformed entirely by the singular concentration the task required. It's time, Dick, he could hear Susan say. Another morning like this one, another hurried drive. Years earlier, and the details of it were still fresh in his mind. Susan's dress: red with yellow flowers. Her hair pulled back into a neat bun. Her face filled out, softened by the pregnancy. The memory was so vivid that when he pulled into the driveway now he half expected to see her waiting for him as she'd been that day, her red leather suitcase in one hand, her other hand on her belly.
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