The Sky over Arizona - June 28, 1995 - Morning

There wasn't a cloud in the brilliant orange sky as the air traffic controller in Kingman, Arizona, handed off the Beechcraft Bonanza to the guy at McCarran International in Las Vegas. Sam Goodrich's plane was cruising at 8,000 feet as he followed Highway 93 toward Lake Mead between the Black Mountains and the Cerbats. He could see Mt. Tipton to his right. No snow on that baby this time of year.

There were quite a few cars and 18-wheelers on the road for that hour, but it would be another scorcher so everybody was leaving early before their tires melted. Sam felt an intractable ray of sun glinting through the opposite window as it started to sizzle his arm like a laser beam while he tried to beat the heat to Vegas. He'd turn west in a few minutes and cross over the Black Mountains below Hoover Dam. Maybe the sight of the Colorado River would cool him off. He popped open his side window to get a little fresh air.

Something caught his eye and he turned his head. He saw the small plane coming up fast on his left flank. It was a little Cessna 337 Super Skymaster. Real cute. This guy must be in a big hurry to throw his money away. Sam wasn't about to put his arm out the window and wave him on. Slow traffic keep right, and all that crap.

"It's a big sky, go the hell around," yelled Sam

The twin-engine plane was gaining and, by God, it looked like it was coming right at his Beechcraft.

Sam was an Air Force pilot in Vietnam. He may have flown reconnaissance missions in an RF-4C Phantom and not strike missions in the F-4D Phantom, but he knew a few evasive maneuvers. He quickly dropped 1500 feet, looking for vertical separation and hoped the S.O.B. would fly on to his own destination. The Cessna followed him down. Not good, thought Sam.

The Black Mountains were under him. Not really wanting any funny business in that terrain, Sam pointed his plane eastward. His flying buddy didn't like that. He rolled behind Sam's plane and came up on the right side, forcing Sam back into the mountains. This really isn't good, thought Sam.

The other plane was flying over Sam's right wing about fifty feet away. The sun was rapidly rising in the sky and the Cessna cast a long shadow over the Beechcraft. Sam wasn't taking his eyes off that other aircraft. The Cessna dropped a few feet and came in closer. Sam kept watching him. The guy dipped his left wing just a fraction and Sam shot his plane downward another 500 feet. He was now getting way too close to the mountains around him and no matter how soft they look at 30,000 feet, at that altitude they looked pretty rough.

Meanwhile the other plane had disappeared. Sam looked around the sky frantically. He searched the terrain below thinking his nemesis bit the dust just as it came hurtling over the top of his fuselage, dropping down in front of him.

Sam had to get his plane on the ground. If he were still near Highway 93 he would have landed right in the middle of it and flagged down a trucker, but he was some ten miles away by then. Whoever was in that other plane wanted him alone. The Colorado River was swiftly coming into view. Too bad he didn't have pontoons on that crate. His air speed was slowed considerably so he couldn't do a loop and get out of that pocket. But he could drop again. He saw a cut in the mountains and dove for it. He gained speed and slid through like a greased pig.

At that point Sam really didn't care if the other plane was following him or not. All he wanted was a patch of ground to land on. All he saw were more hills. He had to pull up. It was now or never. He hit the throttle and went skyward. He could see the Cessna coming over the top of the mountains he just cleared.

Sam was up high enough to see the other side of the mountain range. He aimed straight for an area that looked like it had no deep crevices. He figured flat sand cast no shadows. He dropped as close to the barren hills as he could manage and hoped God was his co-pilot.

The Super Skymaster Cessna was picking up speed. It could do 192 MPH and the Beechcraft maxed out at 180. It was closing in on Sam's plane but it was gaining a little altitude, too. Either the throttle jockey wasn't as comfortable riding that close to the deck or he wanted to get on top again and force Sam's plane into the ground.

Sam started slowing his aircraft, dropped the gear, flaps full down, trimmed nose up to take the load off the controls. His slow flight set-up for a rough field landing was the best he could do. He was going in. Wind speed on that side of the mountains was nil. He eased the throttle up a little to check his rate of descent. He had seen a dark patch northwest of his location that looked like a house. If he lived, he'd head in that direction on foot.

He got within spitting distance of the last foothill and reached for the throttle to cut power for the last time. That's when the two BOOMS shook his plane.

Las Vegas - June 29, 1995 - Mid-morning

Elaine Barton hadn't seen most of these people in thirty years. What did she expect? Class reunions are supposed to be an adventure. Just knowing these people existed after all that time was like finding a time capsule full of treasures. But some treasures come with a curse.

She steered the rented car across the desert in the early morning hours to avoid the heat, but that was nearly impossible in Nevada in June. Her little sports car might have made the trip without overheating, but the air conditioner was about as efficient as a wet rag in the window during hot weather. So, she opted for a big Buick with a V8 engine. She cranked up the air conditioner, had the pedal to the metal and figured with her lead foot and no cops in sight, she could make the four-hour trip in a little over three hours.

She popped another Randy Travis cassette in the tape deck. With no audience on the road she could belt out a duet without anybody calling for the hook. She rewrote a couple of notes and totally butchered a few others, but she didn't care. She hadn't moved to Los Angeles to become a singer.

"Then I went through the jewelry and I found our wedding rings. I put mine on my finger and I gave yours a fling. Across this lonely bedroom of our recent broken home. Yeah, tonight I'm sittin' alone diggin' up bones. I'm diggin' up bones. I'm diggin' up bones. Exhumin' things that's better left alone. I'm resurrectin' mem'ries of a love that's dead and gone. Yeah, tonight I'm sittin alone diggin' up bones"

Barely into the third stanza, the CD player clicked a few times then whirred and finally she heard the distinctive sound of the tape deck chewing up Randy Travis. Elaine punched the eject button several times until the plastic cartridge backed out. Grabbing hold of the edge, she pulled it free. The cassette and several feet of tape came with it. The rest was jammed in the player.

"Oh, fine," she said.

Elaine punched on the radio and tried finding a channel she liked. The long ride to Vegas was boring enough. No signs. No billboards. No Randy Travis. No nothing. Just sand. And the dead bodies everybody said the Mob stashed along the way.

The radio was still picking up stations out of Los Angeles. Rock. Old Rock. Very Old Rock. Mexican Roca. New Wave. She fiddled with the channel selector until a familiar song came on. She sang along until the announcer interrupted, cutting off the last two bars.

"This is K-M-I-X, K-Mix, Los Angeles. I'm your host, Charlie Bell, ringin' out the tunes on another hot and sunny California morning. Stay cool LA and stay tuned for your favorite songs of yesterday, today and tomorrow. That was the BeeGees singing Stayin' Alive from their "Saturday Night Fever" album. There's a song that brings back memories. What were you doin' in 1977? I think I was in the backseat of my dad's Chevy withWhoa, that's Lawsuit City if I go there." Charlie laughed.

"If you're looking for something to do this weekend, you might want to head for Las Vegas. That's right, Sin City. But it won't be this weekend. The annual 'For the Children' benefit is being staged at the magnificent MGM Grrraaaand. That charismatic and always inspirational Peter Manning will be there with the usual host of celebs from Tinsel Town. Star-studded events are scheduled all during the weekend extravaganza. Tickets are still available at ticket agencies here in L.A. and at the box office at the Grand. Manning's fantastic career has touched...."

The announcer was going to wax eloquent about Peter Manning, but Elaine had heard it all before from his annual telethon for the children's charity to his smarmy info-mercials. In fact she could quote chapter and verse. They already did a Biography episode on him and he was a guest on the Barbara Walters Special after the Oscar's just a year ago. From Manning's own press kit, he had performed all three miracles needed to push Mother Teresa out of the way on his quest for sainthood.

Everybody in America knew about Peter Manning and his crusade. Elaine thought she remembered when he was touting endangered species and the rain forest instead of children, but this was the latest cause celeb and he'd been getving a lot of mileage out of it, literally. Manning had his own fleet of planes that flew around the world delivering supplies to needy children. There shouldn't be a starving kid left in the world with all the money that guy raised. And they each should have their own lap top computer and cell phone, too.

Elaine was actually getting a little tired of Manning's phony hype along with his plastic smile. Not that he wasn't good looking. Peter Manning was about her age, tall and trim and tan, with jet-black hair and an air of mystery about him. His acolytes, all a little too buff by strictly orthodox standards, wore white suits and bow ties but they looked like they'd break your arm if you didn't cough up a sizeable enough contribution.

But Manning was a man of the 'pipple, the little pipple'. He wore tattered jeans and cotton shirts with the sleeves rolled up like he might be doing some work. Yeah, sure. What do you think those acolytes were for? No doubt a highly paid P.R. firm manufactured the Manning mystique. It was like too much incense in a closed room. Sometimes you just had to get some fresh air.

Elaine turned off the radio.

The sun was getting hotter and the tape deck was jammed and to top it off she was driving into Las Vegas, Sin City, Convention City, and the Manning Money Marathon was cranking up there, too. She was glad she made reservations early and it wasn't at the MGM Grrraaaand.

Elaine saw the skyline of Sin City rising like an apparition from hell, shimmering in the heat rays radiating from the molten pavement that stretched before her car. She turned up the air conditioner full bore and started singing to herself.

She got through most of her repertoire by the time she was seeing the first exit signs...and billboards and neon signs and come-ons and arrows and....WELCOME TO LAS VEGAS. Interstate15 went right through the city but she was looking for Flamingo Road. Every other sign in town was promoting the charity bash with the Manning Bird of Peace logo.

There was valet parking at the hotel. Elaine gave the sunburned lad in a flowered shirt the extra car key and strode into the lobby with the bellhop and her luggage in tow. The reservation clerk handed her a packet of information on the reunion and a bunch of free stuff and sent her on her way. Elaine looked around the lobby to see if anyone else had the same packet of information. She had called a few of her old classmates from the alumni list and knew several would be there with bells on. She didn't see anybody she recognized.

Once in her room, Elaine gave the bellhop a couple of dollars for doing nothing extraordinary and he grunted something she was glad she didn't quite hear. She'd cut the tip down to a dollar when she left. He tossed her the key on the dresser and walked out.

The room felt slightly cramped with its huge bed, long dresser and a plethora of boring earth-tone paintings of Native-American activities. For all she knew, Indians owned that casino and their Native-American activities were dealing Blackjack and dancing the Bugaloo on the Strip.

Changing out of her driving clothes and into a black sundress with white polka dots, Elaine looked at herself in the long, tall mirror. She actually had a tan. That was a first. This one came out of a bottle from the drug store. She tried that fresh air everybody was talking about, once, but the extension cord wasn't long enough for her computer so she stayed inside.

Elaine Barton was a writer living in Southern California. She had done the publicity thing every time one of her books was published, hated it, but this was the first time she decided to sport a tan and there weren't even going to be any cameras around. She felt kind of silly but she couldn't scrape it off at that late date. She rubbed absentmindedly at the dark amber color on her skin.

Why was she so nervous? Was it the reunion? She had gone to boarding school with those people. Two years in France. They lived together, ate together, grew up together. Had they changed? Had she changed?

Elaine decided to head down to the bar. There was one near the lobby where she could sit quietly and watch as people passed by. She wanted to catch a glimpse of just one of her old classmates. What time was it? Noon! A little early to be hitting the bottle, she thought. Aw, hell. There's no such thing as time in Las Vegas. And she could use a drink.

She fiddled with her hair and put on more lipstick. She looked pretty good for forty-seven, taller than most of her friends and well endowed by her Creator, as they say. Wrinkles hadn't taken up permanent residence on her face, yet, and she still had only one chin. She did color her hair, but with the newly acquired tan her golden blonde locks looked natural. She had been a strawberry blonde in high school and thirty years later, she still was. No, she hadn't changed.

A strand of hair had slipped from its comb. Tucking it back, she adjusted her left earring and checked out the sunflower pinned on her dress for the eighth time.

"You're going stir crazy," she said to her reflection in the mirror.

She had arrived a day early. The first activities weren't scheduled until Friday night. The digital clock on the television said it was still noon. There were thirty hours to kill. She decided to re-read the opening day's agenda.

"Oh, for crissake! Just get out of the damned room!" she told herself, tossing the agenda on the bed.

Slipping her high-tech electronic room key in her pocket along with a wad of folding money, she left.

Elaine walked down the unbelievably long hallway. It looked like an optical illusion but there wasn't a tall blonde in a polka dot dress walking toward her so it was really that long. She trekked to the elevators in the central core.

The plush carpet muffled the sound of her high heels as she passed each door. She couldn't hear any sign of life and thought for a moment she was the only person left in the hotel. No one else seemed to be on the floor and she rode down alone.

The contrast as she stepped out of the elevator was overwhelming. The monastic tranquility of the hotel's sleeping tower was shattered by the din of bells and whistles and the dropping of large sums of money into little Black Holes studded with colored lights beckoning that hard earned cash to throw itself down yet another rat hole.

The hall leading from the bank of elevators was lined with one-armed bandits. There's an appropriate name. Most of the chairs were filled. The first dining room on that side of the building could only hope to do half that much business.

In deference to the one-armed bandits, there was no longer an arm to pull. No doubt political correctness found that moniker too crass. The taking of money from the gullibly challenged human by a physically impaired machine was to be done by means of a push button. Now it required little skill from either party to remove money from one person and give it to another. Sort of like paying taxes.

The cavernous main gambling room hung with gigantic brass chandeliers was teeming with people. Most of the gaming tables were jammed with players. Elaine didn't know what they were playing, but a rainbow of plastic chips was being laid down and swept away with regularity. Ladies with trays of drinks were maneuvering through the multitude, providing liquid solace to the losers while other ladies wearing large money pouches were making change or directing eager players to a check-cashing booth.

Even in the middle of the day in the middle of the week a pack of people were eagerly dropping buckets of coins into the slots in front of them. With all the noise of the machines and the flashing lights and the general hum of the room, the players were singularly silent. Their diligence bordered on reverence.

Elaine ordered a gin and tonic at the bar and found a quiet table in a darkened section that wouldn't come to life until the resident mariachi band took up their guitars later that evening. She watched a steady parade of postulants as they made their way to the tables. She noticed a man in a wheelchair position himself next to a slot machine. Glancing around, she saw a woman in another wheelchair next to a card table. There was a man on crutches coming from the sports book section. How unusual. Now she knew where they did that study that professed every fifth person in America was handicapped.

My God! There was another wheelchair bound gambler. The place was starting to look like Lourdes. She shook her head and took a good long swallow of her drink.

Elaine watched the faces of people coming from the reception desk to see if she recognized any of her classmates. Everybody she saw was middle-aged. Wait a minute! She was middle-aged. Technically. But none of the faces looked the least bit familiar.

The drink was pretty good. The bartender must have liked her low cut dress with the sunflower because he actually put some liquor in the glass. Elaine was feeling its effect right away. She hadn't eaten anything since leaving L.A so there was nothing stopping it from entering her bloodstream. She needed food. There were plenty of places to eat in the hotel but she just didn't want to sit anywhere by herself. She decided to go back to her room and order room service.

After a solitary lunch in her room, Elaine switched on the TV. The Man Who Knew Too Much was playing on the movie channel so she kicked off her shoes, hopped onto the large bed and started watching. Looking around the room, she wondered if this was a preview of the next seven days? She gave only divided attention to the movie and drifted off to sleep before Jimmy Stewart figured out Ambrose Chapel was a place not a person.

A quarter after four there was a knock on her door. Elaine woke with a start. Stumbling out of bed, she looked through the peephole. She actually did a double take because she recognized the face. It was Robert Mackenzie. There was somebody else with him. Hurriedly opening the door, she ushered them inside, glancing up and down the hallway to see if anybody was watching.

Mac was literally holding up the other man who looked drunk. Mac got him to the bed and the man had no trouble falling into it. Gravity works wonders.

"Is he alright?" asked Elaine.

"For a guy who fell out of the sky, he's alright," said Mac.

"Does he need a doctor?"

"I've got one coming. Water would be good."

Elaine took a clean glass off the dresser, unwrapped it and filled it from the faucet in the alcove. She was going to hand it to the man who had rolled onto his back but the man indicated it was for Mac.

"It's been a busy day," explained Robert Mackenzie, taking the water, downing it in three large gulps.

Elaine looked back at the man now making himself comfortable in her bed. She kept staring at his face. The mystery guest gave her a lopsided smile.

"Sam?" said Elaine. "Sam Goodrich? What the hell happened?"

Sam looked up from the soft bed. "Hi, Elaine. It's been a long time." He grinned, closed his eyes and fell fast asleep.

She was about to speak to him, and then stopped. "I guess it'll be a little longer. What's this all about, Colonel?"

Colonel Robert Mackenzie was a retired spymaster. In his mid seventies, he looked like a trim sixty-two. His hair was completely silver, but that chiseled face still lurked under some well-earned wrinkles. And his steel blue eyes could spot a concealed semi-automatic under anybody's $1200 Giorgio Armani.

Elaine's father had done some work for Mac years before and recently Elaine helped him get to the bottom of an espionage case involving the deaths of half of Mac's first team of agents who were sent into West Berlin back in the Sixties.

"Sam's plane was reported missing earlier today, somewhere between Phoenix and Las Vegas," said Mac.

"Air traffic control wasn't watching him?" she asked.

"He wasn't flying a 747 for Delta. He was in his own Beechcraft out of a small airport near Dallas."

Elaine wrinkled her brow. "How did you find out? Did he work for you?"

Mac laughed. "It doesn't take you long, does it? Sometimes he worked for the CIA. Sometimes he worked for me, personally."

"If you were brought out of retirement, it mustn't be just an aviation incident."

"At nine o'clock this morning, CIA didn't know if the plane was down, missing or diverted."

"Diverted...as in skyjacked? But you said it was his plane."

"They didn't know if he was forced to land somewhere or if he was trying to skip the country."

"Skip the country?" Her voice went up half an octave.

"Anytime an agent goes missing, they have to assume he's been killed, compromised or defected."

"No trial?" she asked.

"Oh, sure. He'd get a trial...when they're through with him," said Mac.

"I take it, you don't want Sam interrogated?

"Not until I find out what happened."

"I thought CIA was pretty good at getting information," she said. Then she remembered, "Oh, this is in-house, isn't it? The FBI would be doing the asking."

"Only when I'm through. I want to know who the players are before I make my bet."

Elaine smiled. She had gotten to know Mac pretty well in the past five years. He knew about betrayal within very high ranks and wasn't going to take any chances.

"Was there a problem with Sam's plane?" she asked.

"Sort of. Only it was another plane giving it to him. A little Cessna buzzed him and, he thinks, tried to kill him. Sam managed to get his plane on the ground and then walked to a house about ten miles away. He called from there."

"Was he on a mission for you?"

"You know I'm out of the business."

"Yeah, and I'm a Democrat."

"It was partly government business. You remember Nick Rossi?" asked Mac.

"He went to school with us at Dreux. But I thought he died in Vietnam."

"He did. He'd been MIA since 1965. His remains were found and the Army was returning them to his parents. The Rossi's live here in Las Vegas. Sam asked them to come to the hotel and he made a special trip to pick up the body and fly it in during your reunion."

"Nobody would kill over somebody's dead body, would they?"

"That's what I want to find out," said Mac.

"Tell me, how'd you get onto this so fast?"

"My name popped up on a computer," Mac said, settling down in one of the big chairs in Elaine's hotel room. She pulled the desk chair closer to him so they could talk. "When Sam's plane went missing his name hit the FAA computer and then the CIA main board. A list of people he'd had dealings with in his capacity as a CIA agent came up. They cross-referenced him with foreign agents, agents entering and exiting this country, live operations to see if anything matched."

"I take it something did?" said Elaine.

"Sam's name, my name and another name"

Before Mac had a chance to mention the name there was another knock on Elaine's door. She looked at Mac. "Does anybody else know you're here?"

"Just Sam's wife."

Mac went to the door. He saw Jane's nervous face through the peephole and opened the door.

"He's okay, Jane. He's just asleep.

The dark haired woman was visibly shaken. She went immediately to the bed and looked at her husband. He was snoring by that time. She breathed a sigh of relief and turned to Mac.

"I didn't say anything to anybody, just like you told me, Colonel."

"Fine. We'll move your things down to Elaine's room. Do you two know each other?

"No. Hi, Jane. I'm Elaine Barton. Sam's going to be fine."

"You sure it won't be too much trouble?" she asked, forgetting whose husband just missed being the lead story on the five o'clock news.

Mac outlined the game plan. "Elaine, I'm putting you in a suite on the top floor. Sam will stay in your room. Nobody will look for him here."

A doctor showed up thirty minutes later, about the same time the surly bellboy from earlier that day appeared to take Elaine's things to a suite on the tenth floor. Mac tipped him that time. It must have been the right amount because the man bowed his way out of the suite like leaving the King of Siam. Mac stayed with Jane while the doc checked out Sam.

Elaine's new rooms were a marked improvement over the one three floors below. There was a very generous living room with a huge white couch that wrapped halfway around the room with a fireplace in the center. Just what they needed in Las Vegas, a fireplace. It was 104 degrees outside.

The kitchen area was in the far corner of the main room done in light colored woods, with stained glass cabinet doors and an enormous glass-topped dining table taking up the other half of the rear wall. There was also a well-stocked bar with a glittering array of polished crystal glasses suspended above it.

Three walls in the bedroom were swathed in rich burgundy draperies with wall-to-wall mirrors on the wall opposite the foot of the bed. One wall of drapes opened to a balcony facing the distant stretch of mountains at the edge of that giant sandbox.

It was almost six o'clock. Elaine was debating whether she would try one of the hotel's restaurants for dinner or call room service again when there was another knock on her door.

"Room service," said a familiar voice.

Looking through the peephole, Elaine saw Mac. She smiled as she opened the door. He pushed a serving cart through the door and closed it. That's when she noticed Mac was wearing a waiter's white linen jacket.

"Moonlighting?" she asked.

The fewer people who know I'm here, the better.

"Sam hasn't told you anything?"

"The doc sedated him and Jane. She's a wreck. No pun intended. I'll talk with him tomorrow.

"You really think somebody was trying to kill him?"

"In our line of work, we make enemies.

"And you think he's here? Whoever it was in that other plane?"

"He might be. We're tracking every plane that landed at McCarran around the time Sam had his trouble. Most of them are checking out okay. Our guy might have flown on to another destination or he's here under another name."

"Do you think he'd recognize you?" questioned Elaine, indicating the waiter's uniform Mac was wearing.

"Or I might recognize him," said Mac, just a touch ominously.

Elaine paused. "My God! You think it might be somebody at the reunion."

Mac didn't answer her question. "A lot of things have happened in the last thirty years. You have twenty-four hours before the reunion gets underway. Use it to catch up with old times. I put together some dossiers for you to read." He pointed to the skirted cart and lifted one end. "See if you can find anything. You did it before. And keep your door locked."

"You think the water's going to get this high?" she asked.

"I brought you a little something, just in case. I'm in the room next door. See you later."

Mac opened the door and started to leave. "Room service is available twenty-four hours a day, ma'am."

Elaine closed and locked her door. She put the double safety latch in place and stood there for a moment.

It had only been a few years earlier when Mac sent Elaine some old notebooks belonging to one of his dead agents. The man was going to write a spy novel but died before he had the chance. Mac thought Elaine might like his notes. While reading through them she saw something Mac and the surviving members of the team hadn't seen. It pointed them to the traitor who sold them out.

"I guess Mac thinks lightning will strike twice," she finally said out loud.

Just at that moment a bolt of lightning flashed over the mountains in the distance. Elaine saw its jagged cut rip the sky apart. The ba-boom followed. She hoped that wasn't prophetic.

She walked to the cart Mac wheeled in and looked at the array of goodies. A chilled bottle of Moët et Chandon stood in an iced silver bucket next to a cut crystal champagne flute. A red carnation grew from a slim crystal vase and three silvered domes were arranged on a pure white cloth bearing a white embroidered emblem of the hotel. She lifted the dome covering one of the plates. A Ruger .357 stainless steel revolver lay on the plate with a bit of parsley. She smiled at Mac's sense of humor. She lifted another one of the domes and found a box of ammunition and a speed loader. She stared at the last dome and thought about it for a moment. Finally she grabbed it. There on a bed of lettuce was a roast beef sandwich. She picked it up and lifted one end.

Sniffing, she said, "Horseradish. He never forgets anything."

Elaine snatched the sandwich from the plate and took a bite as she retrieved several folders. She dropped on the bed to begin her read of the dossiers. One was rather thick.

Ah, it was Mac's. That figures. She could write a book on him, herself. In fact she did. Elaine wrote about him in her first spy novel. Some stuff he told her, some she made up and some she guessed.

Elaine Barton had known Colonel Robert Mackenzie most of her life. Her father worked for him when his services were required both while he was in the Air Force and when he was a civilian. Elaine did him a few favors even before she knew what he and her father really did for the government, but she'd do anything for Mac. Thirty years her senior, she had always been infatuated with Robert Mackenzie.

"Let me see how much I got right," she said, opening the folder.

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