The Next Accident

25

Bakersville,Oregon

Sheriff Luke Hayes lounged against his patrol car outside of Martha's Diner, looking deceptively sleepy in the midday heat. Standing at five nine, with rapidly thinning hair and a featherweight's wiry frame, he didn't possess the kind of physical presence that immediately struck fear in a suspect's heart. It wasn't a problem, however. For one thing, he hit harder than most timbermen. For another thing, he moved three times as fast. Word generally spread pretty quick. See that bald guy? Don't go after him or he'll whip your ass. Hey, it was bad enough to go down in a bar brawl, let alone to be publicly dropped by a guy roughly half your body weight and possessing only a tenth of your hair.

By far, Luke's best feature was his eyes. He possessed apair of riveting baby blues that soothed enraged housewives, calmed rifle-toting drunks, and pacified screaming kids. A suspect had once accused him of practicing major mojo with his gaze. Luke didn't think he possessed any special magic. He was just a naturally calmguy with a solid, even temperament. You'd be surprised howmany women dug that.

Hiseyes weren't visible at the moment. They wereclosed against the white-hot sun, his face turned up slightly as if seeking a cooling breeze. The coastal air was flat today, however. Stagnant. He sighed heavily.

His head came down. He opened his eyes. And found Rainie standing in front of him.

"Another busy day in Bakersville," she said dryly. "Gonna be a fight by six. Probably two fights if this heat keeps up."

"Maybe you should give up law enforcement. Sell air-conditioning units instead."

"It's not half-bad an idea. I could start by giving myself one. Hello, Rainie. Good to see you again."

He held out his hand. She clasped it warmly and didn't immediately let go. He thought she looked tired. Her cheeks had that gaunt look she always got when she was pushing herself too hard. She was a beautiful vJoman, always had been in a striking sort of way. Wide cheekbones, full lips, soft gray eyes. But her body was slimmer now, rangy like a fighter's. And she'd cut off all her rich, chestnut hair, giving herself some spiky city do when he could've told her that half the men in Bakersville dreamed about that long, lush hair. The feel of it in their hands. The look of it, pooled on their pillows. Pipe dreams, of course. But nice ones during the gray Oregon winters.

"Sheriff uniform suits you," Rainie said.

Luke puffed out his chest. "I'm a stud."

She laughed. "All the nice Protestant ladies are lining up their daughters just for you?"

"Tough to be a hero, but somebody's got to do it."

"God, I miss this place."

"Yeah, Rainie. We've missed you, too."

They went into the diner. Carl Mitz wasn't due to show up for another hour. By mutual agreement, they, slid into their old booth and ordered a late lunch/early dinner.

"How's Chuckie?" Rainie asked after ordering the Friday special – chicken-fried steak with extra gravy and garlic-mashed potatoes. Guaranteed to add an inch to your waistline, or your money back.

"Cunningham has settled down," Luke answered. "Bit more confident these days. Plus, I think we've gone a whole month without him drawing down on some poor ciwie whose only mistake was daring to run a red light during Chuckie's shift."

"He's stopped attacking the taxpayers? That is progress. And the rest of the town?"

"One-year anniversary was tough," Luke said softly. "Still a lot of paranoia, some bad blood. I hate to say it, but it's probably a good thing Shep and Sandy moved away. I'm not sure folks could've handled it otherwise."

"What a shame."

"It's human nature, Rainie. We're all looking for something to believe in, and someone to blame."

"Still – "

"We're okay, Rainie. That's the joy of small towns – even when we change, we don't change. Now how about you?"

She didn't say anything right away, which he had expected. She had always been a private person, even when it had been just her, him, and Shep, a three-man sheriffs department united against the world. But then, that's what Luke liked about Rainie. She could be moody. She possessed one hell of a temper. But you knew she'd get the job done. She showed up, she delivered, and when things had gotten rocky, Luke had been proudto have her in charge.

He'd been sad – no, he'd been angry – when the narrow-minded town council had demanded that she go. He had thought she'd put up more of a fight, and likea lot of folks in Bakersville, he'd been surprised, maybeeven hurt, when she hadn't.

" Quincy 's in trouble," she said abruptly.

"I gathered that."

"It's… bad, Luke. Very bad."

"Accident wasn't an accident?" She nodded.

"Amanda was murdered by somebody out to get Quincy. Except it didn't end there. The man then used her death to target Quincy 's ex-wife. Befriended her, romanced her, and slaughtered her, Luke. Absolutely butchered her. That crime scene was barely twenty-four hours old, before he kidnapped Quincy 's father."

Luke arched a brow. "Bureau's got to be involved," he said tightly. He liked Quincy, seemed like a good guy. At least for a fed.

"Sure, the Bureau's involved. Any day now, we think they'll arrest Quincy."

"What?"

"He's been framed for the murder of his ex-wife. Did I mention that?"

"When G-men make enemies, they make enemies." Luke was frowning. "How's he holding up?"

"I don't know."

Luke's frown deepened. "I thought you'd know better than most. Or has something changed?"

"For God's sake, Luke, the man's family is being hunted. We're living Agatha Christie's And Then There Were None. Now is not exactly the time to put him on a sofa and say, Hey, Quince, tell me how you really feel."

"That's convenient."

"And what the hell is that supposed to mean?" Her voice had picked up. Color stained her cheeks. This was supposed to intimidate him. Instead it simply made him feel better. Rainie needed some color in her cheeks. He only wished that he'd brought a box of #2 pencils for her to snap. For old times' sake.

"I'm just saying – " he began mildly.

"Oh I heard what you were saying. Now I'm sorry I brought this up."

"I would've brought it up if you didn't," he assured her. "That's what friends are for."

"Speaking of which, thanks for telling some Virginia cop that I have the hots for a fed."

"You have the hots for a fed?"

"Luke Hayes – "

He was grinning and the sight of his amusement sent her temper spluttering. But then his grin faded, and he said a bit more honestly, a bit more gently, "Face it, you and Quincy have a genuine meeting of the minds. That's serious shit, Rainie. You can go an entire lifetime without finding anyone who matches like that. 1 know I have."

"Harumph," Rainie said. She scowled, but Luke wasn't fooled. He saw something in those wide gray eyes. Gratitude maybe. Or relief. Someone else thought she and Quincy could work out. Someone else believed the scrappy home-town girl was worthy of a fed.

You were bigger than this town, Luke wanted to tell her. You were too smart to spend your career patrolling Friday-night football games. Damn, I'm proud of you. But he didn't say those words because he understood that she wouldn't know how to take them.

The waitress came over with two Cokes. Luke accepted his with a smile. Rainie set hers on the table and proceeded to spin it absently between her hands.

"It's… it's insane," she murmured. "There's someone out there, Luke. We don't know his name. We don't have a clear description. We don't even know how he ties in with Quincy. We just know he's smart. Methodical. And at least twelve steps ahead of us."

"Plan of attack?" Luke asked quietly.

"Attack is a strong word. We have a plan of retreat. We fled here with Quincy 's surviving daughter, Kimberly. The man knows too much about their lives on the East Coast."

"You need manpower?"

Rainie shook her head. Then she ran a hand through her short-cropped hair. "It's hard to explain. This man… his system. He's not hit-and-run. This guy, it isn't just about the kill, it's all about the game. We know he's still-coming. We know he'll follow us here. But he won't strike out of the blue. Somehow, someway, he'll convince one of us to open the door."

"Carl Mitz," Luke filled in.

"You have to admit, the timing is suspicious."

"I see your point." Luke sighed. He spread out his hands on the table. "Well, I don't know what to tell you, Rainie. Mitz started calling four days ago. I checked with the law offices of Avery amp; Abbott in Portland and they confirm having him on staff. He's also on record with the Oregon State Bar. I don't like his timing either, but at this point…"

"Mitz checks out."

"Mitz appears to be a genuine vermin, er, lawyer."

"What about his client?"

Luke frowned. "His client?"

Rainie nodded. She leaned forward. "This guy – Tristan Shandling, for lack of a better name – he's been using each family member to learn about the other family members. Mandy tells him about Bethie who tells him about Kimberly. Shandling plays his game and conducts his recon all at once. Except Amanda, Elizabeth, and Kimberly don't know a thing about me."

Luke got it. "So assuming he's learned that Quincy has a friend in Portland – "

"Not a big assumption. He seems to know everything about Quincy 's life, plus he's stolen Quincy 's identity. All you need to check anyone's phone bill is a name and Social Security number."

"Then Shandling needs a source of information about you."

"He can't come himself." Rainie thought out loud. "He's been too busy with Bethie in Philadelphia."

"So he hires someone."

"Someone reputable. Just in case we get suspicious and check the person out."

Luke nodded thoughtfully. "You're right, he's smart and methodical. So how do you want to play it?"

"I'm thinking we stick to the basics. I sit in the booth behind this one with a newspaper in front of my face so Mitz doesn't see me when he walks in. You greet him, make him comfortable, and pretend to be willing to cooperate."

"Good cop," Luke filled in dryly.

"Exactly. I wait here, eavesdrop, and let you pour on the charm. Then, when he's nicely entrenched in his, 'we don't give out information on our clients' speech, I pounce and tear him to shreds."

"Bad cop."

"Yeah." She smiled wolfishly.

Luke shook his head, "Rainie," he said, "damn, it's good to have you home."

At exactly five P.M. Carl Mitz strolled through the doors of Marthas Diner. In a crowd of plaid western shirts and field-stained jeans, he stood out conspicuously wearing a tan linen suit and carting a behemoth brown briefcase. He identified Luke easily enough – maybe the sheriff's star gave him away – and proceeded straight to the booth.

Rainie opened the newspaper and ducked down against the red vinyl seat. The newspaper easily obscured her face, but she still felt vulnerable. Not that she had much to fear. Her first impression of Mitz was an oversized accountant with bad taste in glasses. Mussed-up hair, ill-fitting suit, pinched white features. Whatever kind of law he did, it wasn't criminal because there wasn't a jury in the world who would take that face seriously. He probably did taxes or corporate deals. Something with really big spreadsheets.

Luke shook the man's hand. Mitz winced.

Oh boy, Rainie thought. When your stalker cares enough to send the very best…

Mitz sat down. He slid his briefcase onto the seat beside him. It took up half of the booth, but he seemed determined not to let it go.

"Thank you for seeing me," he told Luke crisply.

"No problem at all," Luke drawled, his voice magically two octaves lower and eight beats slower. "You seemed like an earnest fellow. I figured it would be easiest to meet in person, shake your hand, and address all your questions at once."

"Well yes, of course. Face-to-face is always nice. I only hate to intrude…"

"Oh you know how it is in small towns. We got plenty of time and we're always happy to meet new folks."

Rainie rolled her eyes. She thought the Andy Griffith routine was laying it on a bit thick, but Mitz seemed to relax a fraction more, his spine actually making contact with the back of the booth.

"It's a simple matter really," Mitz said briskly. "I'm running a routine background check on someone who used to live in this town. Lorraine Conner. I understand she was a police officer here."

"Yes sir. I believe she was."

"She lived here?"

"Yes sir. I believe she did."

"For how long?"

"Oh… for a long time. Years. Yeah, definitely years."

"Mmmm, yes. And her mother was Molly Conner?"

"Yes sir. I believe that is correct."

"Do you know how old Lorraine is?"

"Oh no, sir. I'm much too smart to ask a woman her age."

"You must have it in the files, though. Personnel records, something like that."

"We might. But she left with our previous sheriff, Shep O'Grady. You'd have to ask him. He's not here anymore, of course. Lives somewhere else now."

"Shep O'Grady." Mitz made a note.

Luke said, "So what's this all about, sir? We don't often get lawyers asking about our former officers."

"Its a routine background check."

"She's applying for a job?"

"Uh… no."

"She's applying for a credit card?"

"I'm a lawyer, Sheriff. I assure you I don't get involved with credit card applications."

"Of course, pardon me. So when do you get involved?"

"That's confidential. Something I will share with Ms. Conner when the occasion arises."

"Fair enough. I would never ask a man to compromise his principles. Say, just out of curiosity, what is your specialty?"

Mitz, however, was no dummy. "That would also be something for me to share with her when the occasion arises. So Lorraine Conner served as a police officer for how many years?"

"Several," Luke obliged.

"I understand she resigned last year."

"Yes sir."

"A bit of scandal or something? About a fifteen-year-old incident?"

Luke shrugged. "Officer Conner resigned in good standing, Mr. Mitz. We're all real proud of her."

"Well," Mitz said briskly. "That's good to hear. Of course, as long as I'm in town, you won't be offended if I ask others the same question?"

"Ask away," Luke said graciously. "Yes, well. What about the rest of her family?"

"What about them?"

"She has other family?" Mitz sounded surprised. For the first time, Luke hesitated, clearly caught off guard.

"Not that I know of," Luke said hastily, abandoning the drawl. "But you asked the question."

"So she doesn't have an ex-husband, half-siblings, children?"

"Not that I know of. Why do you ask?"

"Line on the form," Mitz said curtly. He began to make a note again, but Luke caught his hand. The Andy Griffith routine had vanished. Luke's face was hard set, and his voice had grown stern.

"These are very personal questions for a routine background check, sir, and even if Rainie doesn't live here anymore, she's a good friend of mine. Now I'm asking you one more time, what is this all about?"

"And I'm telling you one last time," Mitz said stiffly. "I'm not at liberty to say."

Rainie decided that was her cue. The conversation was going no place, plus good cop was about to beat the crap out of Mr. Mitz, which would give her role a tough act to follow. She came around the booth. She gave the lawyer a big smile. "Hey, Mitz," she said. "Surprise." Then she slid into the booth and effectively trapped the man between her and Luke.

"What… what is going on?" Mitz had started stuttering. Perspiration dotted his upper brow and Rainie figured in the last ten seconds, he'd sweat through his tanlinen suit. She scooted in a little closer, letting her hand fall to his prized briefcase and stroking the leather almost lovingly.

"You've been trying very hard to meet me, Mr. Mitz," she said.

"Well, yes. I left several messages in Virginia. I didn't know… When did you get back in town?"

"Make you uncomfortable?"

"Well, yes. But, but, it's not bad either!" The lawyer perked up. "I mean, I wish you would've called first. I would've brought the whole file, been better prepared. Butyou are here now and I have wanted to talk to you."

"About my past," Rainie said knowingly.

"Oh, in all honesty, we know all details about your past. Even the, well, 'incident.' I assure you, he's not concerned about that. Doesn't bother him a bit."

"What?" Now it was Rainie's turn to feel confused. Sheglanced at Luke. He was shaking his head slightly, equally baffled. Shit.

"You've spoken to him, correct?" Mitz was saying in a merry rush. "I gave him your number in Virginia and he promised to call. After all, it seemed more appropriate for him to personally give you the news."

The hang ups, Rainie thought. Two days of hang ups she'd naively assumed were Mitz. Why is it wrong to assume? Because it makes an ass out of u and rne.

"What news?" she heard herself ask.

"The estate, Ms. Conner. The will. That's what I do, you know. Estate planning. I'm his attorney."

"Whose attorney?"

"Ooooooooh deeeaaaaarrrr." Mitz drew up short. He blinkedbehind his glasses. "He didn't call you, did he? He saidhe would, but he didn't. It's the wild card, you know.Estate planning, it is an intense, personal experience. Younever know how your client is going to react."

"Mr. Mitz, you start explaining now or Iswear I'm going to breakevery bone in your overly educated body.

Mr. Mitz ducked his head. He blinkedagain. And he said in a small voice, "I work for Ronald Dawson. Ronnie thinks- we think- that he's your father. Which would make you, Ms. Conner, his sole surviving heir."

26

Portland,Oregon

"You have a father?"

"Not bloody likely."

"You don't seem very happy about it."

"Happy about it? Happy about it!" Four hours later, Rainie stood in the middle of the one-bedroom deluxe hotel suite in downtown Portland and whirled on Kim-berly Quincy as if the girl didn't have a brain in her head. Rainie had made the two-hour drive back to the city in one hour and thirty minutes. She'd cut off two semi's, flashed half a dozen cars, and nearly rear-ended a police cruiser. Only the fact that the state trooper was a personal friend of Luke's had saved her from a speeding ticket or worse. She should've taken a deep breath then. She hadn't.

Now she started pacing the living room of the suite, where Quincy and his daughter were registered as Larry and Barbara Jones. Quincy was catching a badly needed nap in the bedroom. Kimberly had been staring blindly at some network's TGIF TV-lineup before Rainie hadburst through the door. Far from being wary of Rainie'smood, the aspiring psych student seemed gratefulfor the distraction. Rainie now understood how guinea pigs felt. If Kimberly gave her that deep, probing stare one more time, Rainie was going to start pushing brightly colored buttons in return for pellets. Then she was going to bounce said pellets off of Kimberly's blond head.

Rainie held up her hand. "One," she ticked off crisply. "Let's consider the father-to-be. Ronald Dawson, aka Ronnie. He's a thug. Better yet, a convicted thug. The man has spent the last thirty years incarcerated for aggravated murder. He was only paroled last year because at the age of sixty-eight, he's too arthritic to be considered a menace to society. In his thirties, however, he gutted two men in a bar fight with a hunting knife. Oh wait, I'm sorry. According to his lawyer, Carl Mitz, there were mitigating circumstances. Good ol' Ronnie was so damn drunk, he didn't know what he was doing at the time. Helloooooooo, Dad!"

"Still, he hired a lawyer to find you," Kimberly said mildly.

Rainie scowled at her. "Two," she continued. "Ronnie claims to be looking for an heir to his estate, but it's not like he did anything to earn the estate. His father had a hundred-acre farm in Beaverton. Ronnie didn't help on the farm. He drank, gutted, then went to jail. His father worked the farm. His father built the farm. And when the real estate boom hit Beaverton in the early nineties, his father sold the farm to a real estate developer for ten million dollars. Praise be to Grandpa Dawson. Ronnie still sucks."

Kimberly smiled sweetly. "As they say, you can't choose your family."

"To hell with Tristan Shandling," Rainie said seriously. "Keep talking, girl, and I will kill you myself."

"Come on, Rainie. This is exciting news. Your mother is gone. You don't have any aunts, uncles, brothers, or sisters. But think about it. You might have a dad! A real, live, anxious-to-meet-you dad!"

"There's no proof he's my father," Rainie snapped. "So he slept with my mother thirty-two years ago. Who didn't?"

"But you'll take the blood test, right?"

"I don't know."

"Rainie…"

"I don't know!" Rainie threw her hands in the air. "You want to know the truth? I don't like it. I just plain don't like it."

"Because he's a convict."

"Of course he's a convict. My mother didn't hang out with aspiring astrophysicists. Hell, I'm not surprised my potential sire was in jail. I'm just shocked he was ever paroled."

Kimberly frowned. "So… it's the money you don't like? Becoming an heiress to ten million dollars? You're right, that's tough."

"Kimberly, think about it for a moment. What do all children who don't have parents do? They dream about their missing parents, right? They make up exotic stories. 'My mommy and daddy are secretly eastern European royalty, forced into hiding to flee the communists. When it's safe, they'll come back for me.' Or, 'my father was a Nobel prize-winning scientist, killed by evil government agents who wanted to halt his impending discovery of world peace.' Kids create fables, caricatures of real life. No one's absent father is ever a thug, or drunken white trash who simply didn't want to own up to his responsibility. He's always handsome, dashing, and frankly, rich."

It took Kimberly a moment, then she got it. "You think this is all fake. It's too good to be true."

Rainie finally grew still. She looked at Kimberly and demanded bluntly, "What does Tristan Shandling do? He identifies who the victim wants more than anything in the world. And then he becomes that person. I've been without a family for fifteen years, Kimberly. As you said, no aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters. There's a loneliness in that I don't think other people can understand." "Rainie, you don't know that it's a ruse." "Think about the timing."

"Just because you don't like coincidences, doesn't mean they don't happen."

"And just because it walks like a duck and talks like a duck, doesn't mean it isn't Tristan Shandling in disguise." Rainie plopped down on the sofa, then hit a cushion. Hard.

"You're scared," Kimberly said softly. "Don't psychoanalyze me." "I'm not trying to. It's just… You're scared." "I was so sure he'd go with law enforcement," Rainie murmured. "Or maybe a fellow PI. Even knowing how he works, I didn't see this coming. God, he's good. I'm sitting here now, and half of me is warning, Don't fall for it, you're too smart for this. And the other half of me… Christ, the other half of me is already picking out Father's Day cards."

Kimberly took a seat next to her on the sofa. Her long blond hair was pulled back from her face in a rubber band. She'd slept through the long plane ride and she looked better than she had in days. Rested. More composed. It was interesting to Rainie that as their situation grew more dire, Kimberly seemed to actually grow stronger. Young, but rising up to the challenge. Inexperienced, but definitely determined.

"Let's think about this," Kimberly said. "What's the next step?"

"Blood testing. Mitz gave me the name of a lab. They'll take a blood sample from me and ostensibly test for a DNA match with Ronald Dawson's."

"That sounds reasonable."

Rainie smiled grimly. "Do you know how long it takes for DNA testing? We're talking at least four weeks, or more probably, a few months. If this is all a scam, it will be over long before then."

"We can do some checking first," Kimberly countered firmly. "You said that Dawson 's father sold a farm in Beaverton. Real estate transactions are public records. We can also search for the arrest record of Ronald Dawson."

"One step ahead of you. Luke already pulled Dawson 's rap sheet. That checks out. Now he's working on the real estate records."

"Well, there you go!" Kimberly clapped her hands. She seemed genuinely excited. Rainie shook her head. She wished she could share the girl's enthusiasm. There was a numbness inside her, though. A sense of dread she couldn't shake. Or maybe it was simply the stunning realization that she was more vulnerable than she'd ever realized. And even as she told herself she knew better, there was something new and soft growing in her belly. Not numbness. Hope.

Thirty-two years old. The last fifteen years with no plans for Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter. Always working the holiday shifts because what else was she going to do? Always watching other people go home to their families at the end of the day, moaning about their in-laws, bellyaching about the demands of another family gathering, joking about the bad presents on Father's Day. Sometimes the whole concept of a family seemed like an exclusive club to her. Other people were members. She was the perennial outsider, the guest who got the pity invite, but never really belonged at the table.

She wished Quincy was awake. She wished… She would like to talk to him right now. Maybe, she'd even like to lean her head against his shoulder and have him tell her it was going to be okay. You have to have faith, he'd told her. She wished it were really that simple.

"Eight months ago," Rainie told Kimberly softly, "a man started calling around Bakersville, trying to find my mother. Luke told me about it a few months later, but never gave me the man's name as it didn't seem important. The man was Ronald Dawson. Luke still had the name listed in his notes. A few weeks after Ronnie's first call, the assistant district attorney dropped the criminal charges against me. At the time, I thought Quincy had intervened. In fact, I was really angry with him for it. But I called the ADA after meeting Mitz this afternoon. Quincy never talked to him. The district attorney himself was the one who asked for the charges to be dropped. He's about to run for office again. And according to the ADA, his campaign recently received a healthy donation from a local citizen – otherwise known as Ronald Dawson."

"Well there you go, Rainie. The timing isn't coincidental at all. Ronald Dawson started looking for you nearly a year ago, and you have proof."

"Tristan Shandling's been active for at least twenty months. He could still be part of this."

"But he was focused on Mandy then, and after that, my mother. He can't be on both sides of the country at once."

"Sure you can. The magic of the telephone, Internet, cable. Plus, it's just an eight-hour plane ride. You can visit the West Coast for a day. It's not fun, but it's feasible."

"There are cheaper and simpler ways of targeting you than paying off a DA," Kimberly countered, "not to mention meddling in a criminal case."

"I don't think cheap or simple are particular concerns of Mr. Shandling right now. He's on the warpath. So what if he runs up the ol' Visa?"

Kimberly frowned. "Do you, or don't you, want this man to be your father?"

"I don't know. I just… I don't know."

Kimberly was silent for a moment. Then she said, "Rainie, I never realized you were so pessimistic."

"Oh God, we have to get you back to college."

"It's true! You may be on the verge of something wonderful, but you'd rather steel yourself for the downside than inspire yourself with the good. Oh…" Kimberly blinked. "You and my father, I get it."

"Oh, no. Don't you go there right now. I really don't need this right now."

She might as well have not spoken. "I was so sure my father was the holdout in your relationship," Kimberly declared. "I mean, given his distant relationship with his father, his reserve with his own children, his fears of intimacy with my mother. But this time around, it's not Dad, is it? It's you. You're the one who doesn't trust the relationship."

"Why do you people insist on speaking of trust as if life were a Disney movie? Kimberly, my mother beat me as a hobby. My father was basically a sperm donor, who fucked the town whore and moved on. Seventeen years later, my mother's current boyfriend decided she wasn't good enough and turned his attention on me. I have trouble trusting people? Hell yes, I have trouble trusting people. My mother was a mean, ill-tempered drunk. And I still loved her. That's not Disney; that's a complicated world."

"My father doesn't drink."

"Give him a few days," Rainie said sourly. "He also didn't curse or plot revenge until three days ago, and he's doing a fine job of that now."

"He would never hurt you," Kimberly said seriously.

Rainie groaned. "God save me from psych majors. Kimberly, look… I know your father is a good guy. I know he's different from the others. But knowing isn't always knowing, if that makes any sense. I mean, it's one thing to grasp something intellectually. To tell myself that Quincy 's different, that he's okay, that he won't hurt me. It's another thing to change a lifetime way of thinking. To emotionally, really… believe. To genuinely feel safe."

"I tell myself logically that my mother is dead," Kimberly said abruptly. "But emotionally, I don't believe it yet."

Rainie nodded slowly. Her voice softened. "Yeah, it's kind of like that."

"I tell myself it's not my mother's fault, or Mandy's fault, or my father's fault," Kimberly said. "But I'm mad at all of them. They left me. I'm the strong one and I'm supposed to take it, but I don't want to be this strong. I'm angry at them for that."

"I keep having this dream," Rainie said. "Two or three times a week, always the same dream. This baby elephant is running across the desert. His mother is dead; he's all alone and desperate for water. Then these other elephants come, except instead of helping him, they beat him into the ground because he's a threat to their own survival. He gets up though. He fights to live and staggers after them. Finally they find water. I relax. In my dream, I think the baby is going to be all right. His struggle has now paid off. He will live happily ever after. Then the jackals come and tear him apart. And I wake up with little baby screams still echoing in my head. I don't know why I can't stop dreaming it."

"We read this study last year," Kimberly said, "about how children go through phases when they will want to hear the same story over and over again. According to the scientists, there is an issue or theme in the story that the children identify with. When they have resolved the issue, they don't need to hear the story anymore. But until then, night after night, they'll request the same tale."

"I'm a four-year-old?"

"You identify with something in your dream. Probably the baby elephant."

"The baby elephant dies."

"But he fights to live."

"Nobody helps him. He's desperate to join the herd. He would've been better off alone."

"He's following instinct. It's everyone's instinct to be part of something. In evolutionary terms, we are stronger together than alone."

"But not in my story. In my story, the baby elephant's desire to be with other elephants kills him."

"No, Rainie. In your story, the baby elephant's desire for companionship keeps him alive. What's he running across the desert for? Why does he get up each and every time? He's not fighting to live simply to live. He's a herd animal. He's fighting to join the other elephants, he's living off the hope that if he keeps on fighting, he will get to belong. The drought will end and they will accept him. Or he'll prove his mettle and they will accept him. Either way, he'll end up with his herd. You did the same, Rainie. Your mother hit you, but you still kept believing it would get better. Otherwise you would've succumbed to alcoholism by now, or even committed suicide. You didn't. Why didn't you?"

"I'm stubborn," Rainie muttered. "And stupid."

Kimberly smiled. "But in your own way, you're also hopeful. You're just not comfortable with that part of yourself. I understand. I'm hopeful I will kill Tristan Shandling. I'm not comfortable with that yet either, but I figure I have a few days."

"Kimberly," Rainie said gently. "Word of advice – don't go there. Tristan Shandling is a piece of shit. You play by his rules, and you won't ever get yourself back. He will have molded the start of your career, and you'll never get to know the kind of officer or agent you would have become. You'll simply be what he made you."

"You don't know that."

"Yes I do. I'm a murderer, Kimberly. Thanks to Ronnie Dawson, I'm free and clear in the eyes of the law, but years ago I killed someone. I'm a murderer. And I'll never know what else I could've been. Yeah, I pretty much hate that. Then again, the other person's dead. That's gotta suck, too."

"I didn't… I didn't know."

Rainie shrugged. "Life's about baggage. Think twice before you hang a boulder around your neck."

"But he's going to keep coming," Kimberly insisted. "You know Shandling is going to keep coming and coming until either he, or us, winds up dead. The shark is in the water, Rainie. Now, we need a bigger boat."

Thirty minutes later, Kimberly was asleep on the sofa, her long blond hair pooled around her. The sun was beginning to wane, the white walls of the hotel room becoming washed in shades of gray. Outside the air was probably stifling. Inside it was cool and for a while Rainie simply leaned against the windowsill, six stories above, looking out at nothing in particular. Jet lag was catching up with them. Kimberly was probably down for the night. No sound came from Quincy in the bedroom.

The room was quiet. It hadn't occurred to Rainie until now how much she both craved and abhorred silence.

Maybe she had a father. It was hard to imagine. Her mother had told her once, with Molly's stunning indifference, that her dad could be any one of over a dozen men, and that she'd already forgotten all of their names. Men came, men went, Molly said. Don't be a fool and expect something more.

Thirty-two years later, Rainie's father remained a perfect blank in her mind. He had no eye color, no hairstyle, no distinguishing features. He was a black silhouette, like the mystery person with a white question mark in the middle they showed in magazines. I gave you life. Do you know who Iam?

No, she didn't.

Maybe she had a father. Or maybe it was a lie and this was all Tristan Shandling. She had to have faith. Cynicism was more likely to keep her alive.

Rainie pushed away from the windowsill. She crossed the room and opened the door to the bedroom. The blinds were drawn. The room was swathed in black intersected by faint beams of fading light. Quincy sprawled in the middle of the bed, his left arm flung across the dark floral bedspread, his right arm crooked over his head. He'd taken off his shoes and tie. His firearm and shoulder holster were positioned within easy reach on the nightstand. Otherwise he'd fallen asleep fully dressed.

Rainie entered the room. She closed the door behind her. Then finally, fully clothed herself, she crawled onto thebed. Quincy didn't stir.

Thecollar of his white dress shirt was unbuttoned. Shecould just make out the first whorls of dark, springy chesthair. She had once run her fingers through that light matting of hair. She had pressed her palm over his breastand felt the strong rhythm of his heart.

" Quincy," she murmured, so he wouldn't startle awakeand try to shoot her, "it's me."

He sighed heavily in his sleep. Then he rolled over on his rightside, away from her.

She sat beside him. She inhaled the faint, soapy scent of his cologne. A year later she still didn't know its name and she wondered why she'd never asked him. Back when they'd tried dating, she would return home with that scent still lingering in her nostrils. She'd fall asleep smelling Quincy, and burrow deeper into the covers like a contented cat. When she woke up the next morning, alone, fragrance gone, she'd always felt a stab of disappointment.

She reached out now and lightly touched his shoulder. His cotton shirt was soft beneath her fingers, his arm warm. He didn't jerk away.

Rainie lay down at his side. She kept waiting for something. Fear. Discomfort. Yellow-flowered fields. Smooth-flowing streams. The places she'd learned to escape to in her mind. Mostly she was aware of the heat of Quincy 's body, pressed against her side. And she remembered now what she'd felt that final evening with him. Desire. Real, honest to goodness desire. She hadn't known she was capable of such a thing.

Quincy would never hurt you, Kimberly had said. Rainie knew that. She probably even truly knew that. Maybe it was herself she still didn't understand.

People could hurt you. They could beat you with their fists and they could do worse; they could die and leave you all alone with no hope of ever making things right. And people could attack you. They could inflict great physical and emotional harm. And you could attack back. You could even kill them, inflicting its own kind of great physical and emotional harm.

And you could punish yourself then, because your mother was dead and someone had to play the role of the abuser. So you could punish yourself day after day, creating the very lifestyle that got you into this mess because you didn't know any other way to live.

You could do all that, or maybe you could try to change. You could give up drinking. You could stop sleeping around. You could try treating yourself better, even respecting yourself. Except sooner or later, you also had to try believing in yourself, and maybe she still wasn't so good at that. She'd always figured it was better to be hostile and belligerent first, then no one could ever accuse her of hiding her true colors. Truth in advertising, that was her policy.

Dying in the desert. Struggling to survive, desperate to belong, but still not figuring out how to live.

She rolled over on the bed. She pressed her cheek against the curve of Quincy 's back. She could hear his heartbeat here, too. It sounded slow, and steady, and strong. She wrapped her arm around his lean waist. He murmured in his sleep. And then his hand came up and clasped hers.

She waited for the fear to strike. Images of yellow-flowered fields and smooth-running streams. Nothing.

She inhaled his cologne. She felt the warmth of his hand. And she thought… She thought this spooning business felt very nice.

Rainie closed her eyes. She held Quincy and finally fell asleep.

27

Quincy's House, Virginia

"Where have you been?"

A little after six-thirty Saturday morning, Glenda Rodman stood blurry-eyed in Quincy's foyer, watching Special Agent Albert Montgomery finally walk through the front door. It had been forty-eight hours since she'd last seen her fellow agent. Her gray suit was hopelessly rumpled from sleeping fitfully in Quincy 's desk chair. Her face looked like death warmed over. Multiple days of listening to threatening phone call after threatening phone call did take its toll on a person.

Now, the gifts had started. Yesterday morning, a disemboweled puppy in Quincy 's mailbox. Yesterday afternoon, four rattlesnakes released outside the gate. Two had made it onto Quincy 's property. Two had gone to the neighbors, where they had garnered the attention of a pet cat and two-year-old boy. Fortunately, the child's mother had snatched him away and called animal control before anyone got hurt. Last night, Glenda had gotten to listen to a voice cackle with glee on the answerin machine, telling Quincy that when the rattlesnato were done with him, he'd personally come skin agent and make him into a belt.

When Glenda slept, she did not have pleasant dreams.

Now, she glared at Montgomery, who had managed to shower and change since she'd last seen him. Her resentment felt an awful lot like a wronged wife's.

"I've been in Philly, of course." Montgomery scowled at her, coming through the door and kicking it shut behind him. He shrugged off his stained overcoat.

"Your assignment was to help me stake out Quincy 's house."

"Yeah, but that was before he turned his ex-wife into a shish kabob. You think the local yokels know how to handle a scene like that? Christ, I had to teach 'em how to analyze the glass shards myself. They really thought the window was broken from the outside. Dipshits."

"Agent, your, assignment – "

"Hey, fuck assignment. The action isn't here anymore, Rodman. It's in Philadelphia. If we want to know what's going on, we gotta focus our attention there."

"There are still things happening here!"

"What, a bunch of harassing phone calls? Dead pets? Oh you're right, we've learned so much by being here the last three days." Montgomery gave her a dubious look. Glenda shifted uncomfortably.

Nothing much had happened here. Poor Bethie had been attacked and brutalized in Philadelphia. Yesterday, Glenda had received word from Everett that Quincy 's ailing father had been kidnapped from a Rhode Island nursing home. Three agents had immediately been assigned to look for Abraham Quincy; after seeing what hadhappened to Pierces ex-wife, however, no one was hopeful.

So yes, there was action. But none of it was here. Glendasimply sat. She listened to horrible, horriblehone threats. And she felt her nerves fray inch-by-inch, hour-by-hour. Still, this was her task. She believed in her assignment. And it bothered her that Montgomery hadn't had the decency to even consult with her, though he apparently knew as much about what was going on in Quincy's house as she did.

"It's important to learn the source of the information leak," she told Montgomery. "And the person might still show up. We can't rule that out."

"What person? Quincy 's phantom stalker? Come on, don't tell me you're still buying his little fairy tale."

"What do you mean?"

"Look, I'll do you a favor. As the agent who's spent the last forty-eight hours in Philadelphia, I'll give it to you straight. That was no break-in. That was no stranger-to-stranger crime. The whole fucking thing is so staged it could open as a Broadway show. Take the bathroom window, the supposed mode of entry. It was broken from the inside out and the glass shards moved to disguise the fact. Then we have the state-of-the-art home security system – deactivated with proper code a little after ten P.M., same time the neighbor swears she saw Elizabeth Quincy enter the home with a man matching Quincy 's description. Even the crime scene – it was a fast, brutal attack, no rape, no torture. Posing of the body, postmortem mutilation, all done for show. All done to make it look like a sexual sadist predator."

"You think Quincy did it."

"I know Quincy did it. But hey, I have no career track left in the Bureau, so I can afford to look honestly at the reigning golden boy. On the other hand, I'm sure the very notion makes you real uncomfortable. I mean, taking on the best-of-the-best and all – "

"Shut up." Glenda stalked away from him into the kitchen. Montgomery, however, followed.

"I know you don't like me," he persisted. "I know I dress wrong. I know I don't do politics well or play all the little reindeer games. I'm a fat, wrinkled slob. That doesn't mean I'm an idiot."

"True, your state of dress does not mean you're incompetent – your conduct on the Sanchez case does."

"Oh." He drew up short, his hands clasping selfconsciously in front of him. "Figured it was only a matter of time before you heard about that."

Glenda felt better now, as if she were gaining the upper hand. She had known there were problems with the Society Hill crime scene. Quincy had all but told her that he would end up as the prime suspect. It was still difficult to hear her own doubts pouring from Montgomery 's lips. She went on the offensive instead.

"You screwed up the Sanchez case – "

"I made a mistake."

" Quincy saved the day."

"I never said he was a bad profiler."

"Oh come on, everyone knows you blame him. It's bad enough to choke, let alone have another agent come along, get it right, and grab all the credit. How many times do you replay that in your head at night, Albert? How many times do you revisit every little nuance of that case, and feel your hatred for Quincy grow a little bit more?" She stared hard at Montgomery. The agent bowed his head.

"You wanted this, didn't you?" she challenged. "The perfect opportunity to come in and torpedo Quincy 's career."

"No."

"Yes!"

"No! Dammit!" Montgomery glowered. He looked trapped and cornered, shifting around his heavy bulk until he finally seemed to realize there was no place left to run. Then he planted his feet. "You want to know the truth?" he spat back. "Fine, I'll tell you the truth. Not that you'll believe me, not that anyone will believe me, but I took this goddamn case to save Quincy 's butt. I took it 'cause I thought, hey, if you can't be the hero, you might as well save the hero. That's gotta count for something."

"What?"

"Do I have to put this on a Hallmark card? I figured I could help Quincy. And yeah, I kind of thought that might jumpstart my career. Altruistic, I ain't. But I'm not a total jackass either. My career is in the toilet. Do a good deed, however, and I might escape the eternal flush. I'm fifty-two years old, Glenda. My ex-wife hates me and so do my kids. I got nine hundred dollars in the bank. What the fuck am I going to do if I'm no longer an agent?"

Glenda frowned, wanting to refute Montgomery 's argument, but coming up empty. She didn't know what to think anymore. She didn't like Montgomery. His ill-kept appearance did bother her. So did his disappearing act. But he had a point. In the patriotic world of the Bureau, there was no greater currency than saving a fellow agent's hide. If he did find Quincy 's stalker, Montgomery 's career would get a second chance. Probably, its only chance.

"But now you think Quincy murdered his ex-wife," she said.

"You bet I do."

"Because the scene is staged?" Montgomery shrugged. "Because of a lot of things. Frankly, the phone calls bother me. If you were out to get someone and you had his private telephone number, would you fool around with prank calls, or would you just go out and kill the man? I mean, we're saying this guy has some connection with Quincy 's career. So we're talking about a psychopath. Now, what kind of psychopath wants to talk about killing an agent, when he can attack the agent?"

"We discussed this. It's a ruse, a way of disguising the UNSUB's true identity by creating hundreds of other suspects with opportunity and motive."

"But it also alerts the victim," Montgomery countered. "Seems like a massive downside to me. Especially when you consider that in this day and age, the UNSUB can simply read articles on-line about how to conceal evidence. He has the element of surprise, then has all night to cover his tracks."

"Maybe the UNSUB didn't want an easy murder. Assuming vengeance is the motive, maybe he wanted to make sure Quincy suffered first."

"Maybe. Or maybe we're making this all too complicated. Look, from where I sit, there is another plausible theory to everything that's happened: Quincy made this whole thing up. Ran the ad in the prison newsletters himself. Then showed up in Everett 's office with his, 'The sky is falling, the sky is falling!' routine, knowing that Everett will follow protocol and assemble a case team. Now Quincy has four federal agents swearing to the Philadelphia police that someone is stalking him, and that mysterious person probably murdered his ex-wife and kidnapped his old man. But is someone stalking him? Or was this all a cover-up, so that he could kill his ex?"

"Listen to yourself, Albert. You're saying Pierce was willing to dupe the Bureau and harm his own father; simply to cover up an attack on his wife."

"We don't know that Quincy harmed his father."

"Abraham Quincy is a bedridden Alzheimer's patient. He's now been missing from the nursing home for over twenty-four hours. That's not good."

"Papa Quincy was checked out by Pierce Quincy, bearing proper ID."

"Anyone can get a fake driver's license."

"Yeah, and anyone can use a real one. Glenda, we got no body. For all we know, Abraham is tucked away at some nice posh resort, courtesy of his son. When the police buy Quincy 's story of the phantom stalker, Abraham will promptly reappear, having magically escaped his evil captor. Or maybe Quincy will phone in an anonymous tip and the searching agents can rescue his dad. Either way, no harm, no foul, and Quincy 's story is better all the time."

"It's too far-fetched!" Glenda protested. "Three more reasons: One, you saw Pierce in Philadelphia and there wasn't a mark on him."

"Quick kill. Plus, police have found blood in the drainpipes. Killer cleaned up at the scene."

"Two, you still have no motive. Quincy and his wife have been divorced for years. You're talking about a long, complicated scheme leading up to a particularly brutal murder. Why? The marriage is old business."

"I don't know that part," Montgomery conceded. "But it's still early. Maybe she never took him off her life insurance. Maybe he blames her for the daughter's death. Give me time. I'll work on it."

"Ah-hah," Glenda announced triumphantly. "Three, the daughter's death – Quincy has evidence that it wasn't an accident. She was murdered. Probably the stalker's first victim."

"What?" That brought Montgomery up short. "I thought the daughter was an MVA. Drunk driving. How does a DUI become murder?"

"Someone tampered with the driver's seat belt, rendering it useless. And there's evidence that someone else was sitting in the passenger's seat. The Virginia state police are investigating it now."

"Maybe the daughter tampered with the seat belt. Maybe it was suicide."

"Why tamper with the seat belt?" Glenda asked dryly. "Why not simply not wear it?"

"Oh." Montgomery was flummoxed. He shifted around his bulk, then grimaced. "I don't know," he said at last. "Have to think about it."

"It's a complicated case," Glenda said softly. "Three family members of a fellow agent are now dead or missing. We shouldn't be rushing to conclusions about Quincy, or anyone else."

"That's not what Everett said."

"You already presented this to Everett?" Glenda's voice raised a notch.

"Sure, I called him last night. If Quincy really is our killer, the Bureau is going to have a little bit of egg on its face.

"You shouldn't have done that. Dammit!"

"I can't speak to Everett? Christ, you really do hate my guts." Montgomery wandered over to the refrigerator.

Glenda remained poised in the middle of the kitchen. Her hands were clenched into fists at her side. Her heart was beating too fast. She was angrier than she'd ever been, angrier than she probably should've been. Except… Except Everett would now call Quincy back. The SAC would have no choice. He'd bring Quincy back and if there really was someone out to get him …

You asshole, Montgomery. Why couldn't you wait? What's one more afternoon, one more day of due diligence? Stupid son of a bitch.

The phone rang; the answering machine clicked on. Glenda raised a hand, and began to slowly and methodically rub her temples. It didn't ease the ache. She didn't know what to believe anymore. Montgomery raised in-; teresting points, and if Quincy had committed the mur-| der then it was her job to track him down.

And yet, if he hadn't. If he'd told the truth… Then they were doing exactly what the UNSUB.wanted. Three highly skilled federal agents were danc-i to a killer's tune. And Quincy, what could he do if Everett ordered him to come in? The minute he walked through Bureau doors, he would be forced to surrender his creds and his gun. He wouldn't be much help to his daughter then. But what was his other option? Become an outlaw to protect Kimberly? It would never work. The Bureau had long arms, particularly when faced with embarrassing situations such as policing its own.

Two scenarios and neither showing much promise. Jesus, she thought. Quincy was either the most brilliant criminal the Bureau had ever faced, or one truly unlucky son of a bitch.

The fax line rang in the office. A moment later, a faint whir sounded as the machine picked up. Glenda went to retrieve the message, leaving Montgomery alone in the kitchen.

The preliminary report on the hard copy of the ad that had run in the National Prison Project Newsletter was coming over the wire. The report was four pages long. Glenda scanned each page as it came through.

Latent found five fingerprints on the typeset ad, all of which matched with various staff members of the National Prison Project Newsletter. Serology found no hairs and fibers, but some dust residue that, again, was traced to the National Prison Project Newsletter. To complete the evidence-less trifecta, the DNA unit had also been unable to recover any samples from the paper or envelope.

At least the Document Examination Unit had had some fun. Their findings comprised the last three pages of the report, and were a welcome change from N/A, N/A, inconclusive. The ink on the paper was traced to a standard black laser-print cartridge commonly used in HP printers. That narrowed it down to millions of possible printers. Never fear, they were able to trace the font and graphics of the typeset ad. The UNSUB had used PowerPoint. Oh, the magic of desktop publishing.

Glenda sighed. Investigating crimes had been so much easier when people had no other choice but to write notes by hand. How the hell were you supposed to analyze a computer font? Where were the hesitation marks or angrily slanted T's in a typewritten ransom demand? And how the hell did you narrow the field when even serial killers were using Microsoft Office?

On the last page, she finally found some news. The paper was distinct. Not cheap grade white, but heavy-duty cream stationery, handmade with a watermark. According to the Document Examination Unit, the paper came from Britain where it was sold exclusively by a small store on Old Bond Street. Approximately two thousand boxes were sold worldwide each year. And it retailed for nearly one hundred dollars per twenty-five sheets.

Glenda set down the report. So, they had an UNSUB with computer access, PowerPoint savvy, and extremely expensive taste in stationery. Who in the world sent an ad to a prison newsletter on hundred-dollar stationery? It probably came in some kind of fancy gift box with pressed flowers and silk ribbons tied around the top. Maybe a gift. What a wife might give to a husband, or a boss to a colleague, or a daughter to a dad.

Glenda looked at Quincys desk. His beautiful, richly finished desk with the state-of-the-art fax machine, the fine leather chair. Everything perfectly matched, such as what a well-bred wife might select for her workaholic husband back when they were still married…

She grabbed the first desk drawer. Ripped it open. Pens, pencil, a Louis Vuitton check holder. She tried the drawer beneath that, then the one beneath that. Finally, in the bottom drawer, the location of a man who didn't write much, three boxes of stationery, all hardly touched.

She'd been wrong about the dried flowers and silk ribbons. The stationery came in a beautiful sandalwood box, tied with a leather thong. Geppetto's Stationery, imported from Italy, beautiful to behold, and now down to nineteen sheets.

"Oh Quincy," Glenda whispered, box in hand. "Oh Quincy, how could you?"

28

Portland,Oregon

When Rainie woke up, Quincy was gone. She glanced at the red-glowing alarm clock next to the bed. Seven A.M., making it ten eastern standard time. Quincy and Kimberly had probably been up for hours. She dragged a hand through her hair, caught her reflection in the mirror above the bureau and winced. She looked like she'd stuck her hand in a light socket. Then again, her mouth tasted like old socks.

Ah, another beautiful Saturday morning.

She rolled out of bed and into the adjoining bathroom. Toothpaste helped. So did a quick shower. She donned her three-day-old jeans and white T-shirt, wrinkled her nose with distaste, and bravely left the bedroom.

Quincy and his daughter sat at the brown circular tablein the tiny kitchenette that comprised the front; halfof the living room. Quincy was hunched over his laptopcomputer, while Kimberly leaned against his shoulder to get a better look at the screen. Both held cups of Starbucks coffee, and both were arguing vigorously. Rainie identified a third cup of coffee, probably hers. She scooped it up, while trying to come up to speed on their squabble.

They seemed to be working on the database. Kimberly wanted to focus more on Miguel Sanchez, Quincy thought it was a dead end – the man couldn't exactly do much from the confines of San Quentin. Well what about family, Kimberly argued. What family? Quincy countered. Sanchez's only living relative was a seventy-year-old oxygen-dependent mother, hardly a likely candidate for psycho of the week. "Touche," Rainie murmured.

They finally paused, Quincy glancing up from the computer. Something passed over his face, an expression she couldn't read. Then he said evenly, "Good morning, Rainie. There are croissants in the bag if you'd like."

She shook her head. "Been up long?" "A few hours." Quincy was avoiding her gaze. That was okay; she couldn't seem to meet his eye either. Had he been surprised to wake up and find her pressed against him on the bed? Pleased? Or had he considered it purely practical – Kimberly already had the sofa. Rainie studiously memorized the Starbucks logo on her cup of coffee.

"Where are you with things?" she asked. "Working the database."

Kimberly chimed in, "I think we need to reexamine the Sanchez case. Miguel's the one who reached Dad by phone, plus, his treatment of his cousin, Richie Millos, proves that he's big on revenge. Then there's the Montgomery factor – that Albert Montgomery also worked that case and happens to hate Dad because of it."

"That I personally took Sanchez's call was a random event," Quincy countered. "There were fifty-six other convicts on the answering machine, whose calls I could just as easily have caught in person. And while the 'Montgomery factor' is interesting, coincidence does not equal conspiracy. Bottom line: Miguel is securely behind bars in California. He has no opportunity, and frankly, I don't think he's that smart."

"What about the cousin?" Rainie asked.

"Millos? What about him?"

Rainie took a seat. Safe on the comforting topic of homicidal maniacs, she could face Quincy again. "Think of it this way: Your assessment of Richie and Miguel's partnership led the police to focus on Richie. And by focusing on Richie, the police guaranteed his death at the hands of Miguel. Ergo, someone could argue that you were responsible for Richie's death."

"Ergo, I killed Richie," Quincy murmured. "Not bad."

"Does Richie have surviving family?" Kimberly asked.

"I don't know. Grab the case file."

Kimberly began digging in the box next to Quincy 's feet. Apparently, they'd been through this drill a few times already, because she came up with the manila file in four seconds flat. "Millos, Richie. Let's see what kind of nuts are hanging from the family tree." She flipped it open, turned three pages, and began to briskly scan the background report. "Okay, we got a mother – fifty-nine years old and listed as a housewife. We have a father – sixty-three years old, former janitor, now on disability. Oh, condition is listed as rheumatoid arthritis. That probably rules him out."

"Any siblings?" Quincy asked.

"Two younger brothers and one younger sister. Jose is thirty-five and comes with his own rap sheet. A B amp;E guy, but not currently incarcerated. That's food for thought. Mitchell 'Mickie' Millos is thirty-three, and hey, no rap sheet. In fact, he's an engineer with a degree from the University of Texas in Austin. So apparently one of the men in the family made good. Finally we have Rosa Millos, the baby daughter, who is twenty-eight. We have no info on her, why is that?"

"Chauvinism," Rainie replied. "The feds have a history of underestimating women."

"I'm not going to comment on that," Quincy murmured, "given that I'm outnumbered, and outgunned, in this room. Now, for no good reason at all, tell me more about Mickie."

Kimberly flipped back through the background report. "I don't have anything more on Mickie. Once the investigating agent determined he had no criminal history, he seemed to have lost interest."

"Figures." Quincy frowned, mulling something over in his mind. Then his gaze rose to meet Rainie's. She'd been staring at the column of his throat, admiring his dark blue polo shirt and wondering why she hadn't gotten him out of a suit more often. The soft cotton fabric draped nicely over his chest, accentuating the hard planes of his runner's body, the deep color of his piercing eyes.

Why hadn't he woken her this morning? He could've taken at least one moment to brush her cheek and say… anything.

Belatedly she realized he was looking at her. A fresh flood of color rose in her cheeks. She looked away hastily, feeling not at all like herself. "Rainie?" he asked softly.

"Ummm, the youngest brother. Yes, let's look harder I at him."

Kimberly frowned. "Why Mickie? He's not even the right age. Our guy's much older."

"Age can be faked," Quincy said, his gaze still onI Rainie. "Plus, people are notoriously bad at estimati age. You put a man in T-shirt and jeans and people will! say he's early twenties. You put the same man in a d

suit, and people will say he's early thirties. While eyewitness testimonies remain the number one way of catching suspects, they are very easy to manipulate, especially by someone who's done any reading on the subject."

"But Mickie's an engineer," Kimberly protested. "Educated, no history of crime."

"Exactly," Rainie spoke up. "The UNSUB we're looking for is sophisticated. He has a complex plan, a gift for manipulation, confidence in approaching both a beauti-ful young woman – your sister – and a sophisticated older woman – your mother. Most likely he is educated, fairly worldly, and with a knack for problem solving."

"And he has money," Quincy added. "At the current pace of development, our UNSUB's most likely engaged in this pursuit full-time. So he must have a nest egg to live off of. He's also been traveling, demanding additional resources. Then there's this new development with you, Rainie. Kimberly told me about your meeting with Carl Mitz. If, as you suspect, your 'father' really is Tristan Shandling, then our UNSUB has paid off a DA and hired a lawyer as part of his plan, both actions requiring significant financial resources.

"Now, does a thirty-three-year-old engineer such as Mickie have that kind of money? Generally, I'd say no. But in this day and age of software millionaires and dot-com billionaires, who knows? Mickie could be a very wealthy young man."

Kimberly nodded slowly. "I hadn't thought of that. Okay, so we run a complete background check of youngest brother Millos, including his financial assets. One name down." She looked at the box of files. She sighed. "Fifty more names to go."

"With all due respect," Rainie spoke up, "I don't think this database project is going to get us anywhere." Quincy immediately frowned. He and his daughter swiveled to look at her. Rainie shrugged. "Think about it, Quincy. Is this guy's name somewhere in that box or in this database or in FBI files? Probably. Is it going to help us? No. Why not? Because he knows his name is in there, too."

She leaned forward, speaking intently. "What is the UNSUB's major vulnerability? Process of elimination. It's a personal case, not stranger to stranger, so given enough time and resources, he knows you'll be able to identify him. What's his strategy then? In the beginning, it's secrecy. He selects Mandy, the family member in the least amount of contact with the rest of the family. He disguises his appearance, he uses an alias, and he conceals her murder as an accident. And in the beginning, that works. He understands, however, that he can't hide his actions forever. The minute he attacks Bethie, you'll start connecting the dots. You'll start looking for him. And he prepares for that as well.

"Fourteen months after Mandys accident, he starts a fresh wave of maneuvers. First tactic: Diversion. He spreads around your address and telephone number to every psycho in the continental U.S. Next tactic: Confusion. He steals your identity, assumes your appearance, and begins to plant evidence that will get your fellow agents off his trail and on to you. Final tactic: Speed."

"Everything is now happening at once," Quincy said.

"Wednesday, Mom is murdered," Kimberly whispered. "Thursday, Grandpa is kidnapped. Friday, we're all on the run and Rainie is approached by some lawyer about her father. He's not going to give us time to think, anymore. He's not going to give any of us time to stop and consider and analyze. Because the minute we do, he knows he's in trouble."

Rainie was looking at Quincy. "This guy… he's a black hole, Quincy. We don't know who, why, how, when. He's not giving you any information. He's not making the mistake of underestimating you. Why?"

"Because I definitely know him."

She smiled. "Because he definitely knows you. You thrive on information, puzzles, games. It's your whole life. So step one was to keep his actions hidden for as long as possible. And step two is to keep you moving, instead of thinking. As long as you're reacting to him, you can't get ahead. Keeping you reacting is keeping you vulnerable. We have to break that cycle, Quince. We need an active game plan, a way of going on the offensive. And hiding out in Portland playing with databases isn't it. He'll find us here – probably a lot sooner than you think."

Quincy grew silent. Then his gaze rose slowly to meet hers. "What do you think of Carl Mitz's allegation that you have a father?" he asked.

"I don't know."

"Just because it's coincidence, doesn't mean…"

"I got that!" Rainie took a deep breath, then let it out. "I just… I have to be careful. Mitz seems legit. There are aspects of Ronald Dawson's background that also appear genuine. He was in prison for most of my life, we may very well find public record of the real estate deal that made his father a millionaire. On the other hand… Tristan Shandling's MO is to disguise himself as the person his victim wants most. And yeah, I am interested in Ronald Dawson. I'm desperately interested in Ronald Dawson, and frankly, that scares me to death."

"What if Mitz could arrange for you to meet Mr. Dawson in person?"

"No way." She shook her head adamantly.

That intent look was back in Quincy's eyes, and not his slow sexy look, but his all-knowing professional stare. "Active game plan," he murmured.

Rainie closed her eyes. She knew what he wanted. It hurt her, it killed her, but it didn't change the fact that once more, he was right. "Fine! I'll meet with Ronnie. I'll put my achy, breaky heart at risk. Never say I didn't do anything for you."

"But you can't meet with him," Kimberly blurted out. "If he's the UNSUB, he could attack you, or kidnap you, or worse."

"I don't think your father intends for me to meet with Ronnie alone," Rainie said dryly. "Not that he's opposed to offering me as some juicy little bait."

"I never – "

"Oh shut up, Quince. For God's sake, I'm the one who just said we needed to be proactive. If Dawson is our favorite stalker, then let's turn the tables on him. I'll contact Mitz and set up a lunch date, with Luke and the boys singing backup. I can drill Ronnie for additional information about his paternity claim. At the very least, I can get yet another description to add to our files. Tristan Shandling, the man of many faces."

"What if he tries something?" Kimberly protested.

"He won't," Rainie said.

"How can you be sure?"

"Because it's his MO," Rainie said flatly. "If Ronald Dawson is Tristan Shandling, he's not going to come out of the gate swinging. Oh no. Quite the opposite. He's going to sit across from me telling me how much he's always wanted a daughter. He's going to dazzle me with stories of what I could do with a ten-million-dollar inheritance. He's going to tell me that finding me is the single best thing that's ever happened to him." Her voice cracked. She caught it. "And I'm going to get to doubt every word he says. I'm going to sit there thinking this man is either the world's most perfect long-lost father, or someone who wants me dead. Hey, all in a day's work."

"Rainie – "

"I'll do it, Quincy."

"I've changed my mind. I don't want you to do it. I was wrong."

"You were right," she snapped crisply. "Don't grow soft on me now."

He fell silent. So did she. His eyes locked on hers. The moment drew out, grew long.

"This is very hard," Kimberly said at last.

Quincy nodded, his gaze not leaving Rainie's. "This is very hard."

"I mean, we don't even know who this man is, and look what he's doing to you. Mom is gone, and Mandy's gone, and now you have to fear for Rainie and me."

"I've always feared for the people I care about."

"But not like this. Not this active, immediate, horrible kind of worry."

"I always worry," Quincy said quietly. "It's the nature of my job. I know what can happen, and I do think about it late at night."

"We're going to be okay," Kimberly said fiercely. "We know what's going on now and information is power! We're going to be okay."

"We'll delve deeper into Mitchell Millos," Quincy said softly. "I'll try to come up with a list of five or ten other names. Then I'll check in with Everett, see if he has any new developments. Perhaps, my father…" His voice grew too wistful. He caught himself and said more firmly, "And we'll move on Ronald Dawson. One way or another, we're going to get a fix on him."

"We have one last ace in the hole," Rainie spoke up. "Phil de Beers in Virginia. He's still tailing Mary Olsen. Think about it. She's alone. She's betrayed her best friend, and she has no self-esteem or she never would've gotten into this mess in the first place. She's probably already reaching out to the guy. And as each day passes, she's only going to get more demanding about meeting him in person. When she does…"

"I want photos," Quincy said immediately. "Best quality Mr. de Beers can get. It's time we develop a better physical description."

"But he uses so many disguises," Kimberly protested. "The two descriptions we have don't match. How will a third help us?"

"He only seems to be good at disguise, because we're relying on accounts from laymen," Rainie pointed out. "Everyday people get bogged down with eye color, hairstyle, facial hair, clothing – alleasily altered elements. What people should look at are standard features such as the amount of space between the eyes, the location of the ears on the head, the shape of the jawline. Those features can't be changed, they're unique. If we can get a photo, then we could have it analyzed by a forensics artist for those elements and then we'd finally have something to work with."

"You'll contact de Beers?" Quincy asked. "Ill call him this minute," Rainie promised. She smiled thinly. "And then I'll call Mitz about setting up lunch with Daddy. We gotta get moving – thirty-six hours since Senor Psycho's last strike; I doubt we have much time left."

29

The Olsen Residence, Virginia

Curled up in the deepest corner of her walk-in closet, Mary Olsen cradled the cordless phone to her ear. Her dark hair was snarled. Mascara streaked her face. On her left shoulder was a fresh bruise she didn't want to talk about. Her icy blue silk robe hid the remains of many more. Her husband had come home this morning from an emergency surgery that had not gone well. Ten minutes after he tore back out of the driveway in his Jag convertible, she had grabbed the phone.

"I know I'm not supposed to call," she said in a rush, "but I can't take this anymore. You don't understand how bad things have been. I need to see you. Please, baby, please…"

"Shhh, take a deep breath. Everything will be all right."

"No it won't. No it won't!" Her voice rose to a frenzied pitch, then dissolved in a flood of tears. Her ribs hurt.She was going to have bruises between her thighs. Who ever would have thought that a man who looked so soft – could hit so hard? "I'm lonely," she sobbed. "It's been weeks of nonstop torment, and now I don't even have you to look forward to. I can't keep living like this!"

"I know, baby. I know it's been hard." In contrast to her high-pitched pain, he sounded calm, gentle, kind. She let the words wash over her bruised thoughts and strained emotions. She held the phone closer to her mascara-stained cheek.

She had always loved the sound of his voice. Mandy once had commented on his eyes, that it was the power of his gaze that drew her in. For Mary, however, not allowed to see him much, it had always been the sound of his voice. How he could seem to know her anguish from hundreds of miles away. How he could whisper in her ear across the telephone lines and lend her his strength in the middle of the night when her husband had finally fallen asleep but she knew it was only a matter of hours before he awoke and it would start all over again.

"He tells me what to say, what to do, what to wear," she whispered brokenly. "I didn't know it would be like this. Why did he want to marry me, if he hates me so much?"

"You're a beautiful woman, Mary. Not all men can handle that."

"But I never gave him anything to worry about!" she cried. "I mean… well, you know, not before. God, I'm tired! I miss you. I need you. I'd give anything just… just to hold your hand, see your smile. Make me feel beautiful again."

"I wish I could, honey," he said apologetically. "I really do."

"Why not? It's been days since the Conner woman showed up. Surely it's safe by now. We can meet anyplace you want. I'll take the precautions you showed me. Please, it'll be all right."

"But love, it's not all right. Don't you know? You're being watched."

"What?" She gasped, genuinely surprised.

"I tried to get a note to you two days ago," he explained. "But then I saw a small silver hatchback tucked inside the bushes with a clear view of anyone entering or exiting your property. I watched the car for hours, and it never moved. I'm sorry, baby, but I think your husband is having you followed."

"No! The goddamn jealous prick. I've never given him any reason… I mean not before. Oh, fuck him! What are we going to do?"

"What can we do? If he gets even one picture of us together… I know you don't want that to happen. Not after everything you've been through."

"I won't give him the satisfaction!" Mary vowed. "By God, when I leave the son of a bitch he's going to pay me every dime he's worth. I should leave him today, this instant. I'll just… I'll just do it!"

"The shorter the marriage, the less likely you are to receive half his assets," he said gently.

She started to cry again. "What am I going to do? I miss you. I am going insane!"

He didn't say anything right away. There probably wasn't anything to say, and she knew that even if she didn't want to admit it. She was a married woman. She did need her husband's money. Oh God, her shoulder hurt. So did her ribs. Some mornings she wasn't sure how she made it out of bed. The more her husband beat her, the angrier he seemed to be. Was it himself he hated for hitting her, or herself for never saying no?

How did my life come to this? I don't know, I don't know, I don't know…

"I have an idea," her lover said. "Yes. Anything. Please."

"This afternoon, a box of chocolates will arrive. Godiva, I think. The brand doesn't matter. Are you listening?"

"Yes." Her voice was breathless. "I want you to take the box and walk down the road until you see the silver car. A black man will be sitting behind the wheel." "Oh my God!"

"He's not going to hurt you, baby. He's a private investigator, no doubt the best your husband's money can buy. Tap on the window. Smile charmingly. Then, tell him you know what he's doing. He'll be chagrined, embarrassed about being caught. You become even more charming. Invite yourself to join him, tell him you just want to talk. Then pour out your heart about your evil husband, and while you're at it, offer him a chocolate. If he refuses, take one yourself. Eat it in front of him. Then offer him more. Make sure he eats two or three. That will do it."

"Are they poisoned?" she asked. A shiver ran down her spine.

"You think I would ask you to eat poisoned chocolates? What has your husband done to you?"

"I'm sorry, it's just – "

"The candies are doctored, love. A chocolate-flavored laxative, that's all, melted down and injected with a syringe. One truffle will have a minor impact on your system. Two or three, however, should, well, give the private investigator more pressing things to do with his time than watch you. When he drives off in search of proper facilities, you can get away."

"To meet you!"

"I've missed you, too, love."

"Tell me I'm beautiful."

His voice was generous. "You are beautiful beyond compare, particularly in black lace."

"I'll wear the garters," she said breathlessly.

"Perfect. I'll wear nothing at all."

"Oh God, I can't wait to see you!"

"One box of chocolates later, I'll be at your side." She smiled for the first time all morning. But then she remembered how she looked, and she hesitated. "I'm a little… sore," she said softly.

He understood instantly. "Then when I see you, baby, I will kiss all your pains away."

She started to cry again, quietly this time, genuinely. He would make her feel better. He always did. The first time she'd arrived with black-and-blue ribs, she'd told him that she'd fallen down the stairs. But he'd known. And instead of turning away, instead of looking at her with disgust, he had taken her in his arms and held her tenderly.

"You poor thing," he had said. "You are much too precious for this."

She had cried that night for hours. The whole time, he simply held her and stroked her hair. In her entire life, she had never had anyone touch her as gently as he did. In her entire life, no one had ever made her feel so special.

Briefly, for one instant, she thought of Amanda. Amanda who had never hurt her. Amanda who had been a good friend. Amanda who had been so excited to introduce her new man…

But you kept drinking, Mandy, she thought. You had the world's most perfect beau, and still you hit the bottle. After that, you deserved what happened. Besides, you always had plenty of men. And I… I needed him.

She replaced the phone, using the sleeve of her robe to wipe away the streaks of mascara and tears. One box of chocolates later on she would be with him again, she thought. One box of chocolates later. She hoped they came quick.

30

Pearl District,Portland

A little after eleven A.M., Quincy followed Rainie into her downtown loft. She flicked on the lights out of habit, though daylight streamed through the front bank of windows and the space was bright. The air carried the musty scent of a home that had been empty too long. Quincy knew that fragrance – it was how his own residence always greeted him.

"I should check on a few things," Rainie said nervously. He nodded, walking into the living area while she flitted about the open space. She had been like this all morning. Rarely meeting his eye, skittering away if he moved too close. Soft and still one moment. Nearly frantic the next. He thought he knew what was going on. Then again, his instincts weren't the best these days.

Shortly after their discussion that morning, Rainie had left a message on Carl Mitz's cell phone. She couldn't leave the number for Quincy's cell phone without revealing that he was with her, and she couldn't give the phone number of the hotel room without compromising that location, so she provided the number Mitz already knew – her loft in the Pearl District. Kimberly had opted to stay in the hotel room, where she was using Rainie's PI license number to access various law enforcement databases for background reports. Quincy and Rainie would wait for Mitz's response at her place. The division of labor made practical sense. If there were other motives, no one was mentioning them.

Quincy walked around the sofa, pausing in various sunbeams. He liked the feel of light and heat washing over his face. He closed his eyes and felt knotted muscles unclench. He took a deep breath and reminded himself that this, too, shall pass. He held on to that thought fiercely these days.

He had called Everett about his father. No news yet, and Quincy knew better than most what that meant. Each hour that passed without finding Abraham decreased the probability of ever seeing him alive. It had been thirty-six hours now. One moment, Abraham had been sleeping peacefully in his antiseptic-smelling bed. The next he was gone, checked out by a stranger posing as his son, not that Abraham would know the difference. A janitor reported seeing Quincy's father being led to a little red sports car, probably the same Audi TT the UNSUB had used to pick up Bethie.

No sign of the car since. No sign of Abraham. No big break in the case to ease the pain steadily building in Quincy's chest. His fathers kidnapping was the ultimate failure, worse somehow than Amanda's and Elizabeth's murders, because they had been independent adults. His father, on the other hand, had been vulnerable and utterly helpless. Once a proud man who had single-handedly raised his son, now a dependent. Quincy shouldve done more to keep him safe.

The realization left him in a strange place. At once bottomed out, yet fiercely enraged. Empty of all emotion, yet desperate to feel alive. Defeated. Determined.

Unbelievably angry. Unbearably sad. The academic searching for a reason. The man, knowing there was no such thing.

Why is my father gone? Because he is. Isolation is not protection. No amount of distance numbs the pain.

And then Quincy had a strange memory, a moment he hadn't thought about in years. Little Kimmy coming home from her fourth ballet lesson, walking into the living room where the family was gathered, and with her feet planted and her hands balled on her hips, announcing in her loudest voice, "Fuck ballet!"

Quincy remembered Bethie's stunned gasp, Mandy's awed expression, and his own desperate attempt to fight a smile. Fuck ballet. Such attitude. Such confidence. Such fearlessness. He had felt so proud.

Had he ever told his father that story? Abraham would've liked that. He wouldn't have said anything, but he would've smiled. And he also would've been proud. Each generation takes the next step forward. From a stoic swamp Yankee to a reserved federal agent to a brash aspiring criminologist, who obviously knew her own mind.

Isolation was not protection. He had lost his father, but maybe, just maybe, he was getting an opportunity to rediscover Kimberly.

"I'm going to grab some clothes," Rainie called from the walk-in closet. "If the phone rings, let me answer it."

"I am not here," Quincy promised her.

"Do you think Kimberly needs anything?"

He smiled faintly. "I think you would know that better than me."

"That's not true. You're not a total idiot savant."

"Coming from you, I take that as a compliment."

Rainie exited the closet. He could tell she was happy to be home because there was an extra bounce in her step, a spark of energy that had previously been missing. She'd changed from her T-shirt into a blue chambray button-down. As she walked toward the kitchen, he found himself studying how the soft, well-worn cotton flowed over the curve of her hips.

She is beautiful, he thought, and this time around, the realization stunned him. She was not just good-looking or attractive or sexy. She was beautiful. Beautiful in jeans and a cotton shirt. Beautiful in the way she burst past two homicide detectives at a Philadelphia crime scene simply because she knew that he needed her. Beautiful in the way she stood up to his fellow FBI agents even though she felt uncomfortable and outclassed. Beautiful in the way she was still beside him, when God knows that his life was disintegrating quickly and it would be so much easier to walk away.

She'd told him once that she didn't know anything about relationships or commitment. She was the most loyal, trustworthy person he knew.

"Rainie," he said quietly, "I messed up this morning."

That grabbed her attention. She froze with one foot in the kitchen, and the other in the bedroom. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said.

"I was having the best dream, probably the first good dream I've had in months. We were together, on a beach, curled up on white-hot sand. I remember I was playing with your hair. We weren't saying anything. We were simply… happy."

"That had to be a dream."

"Then I woke up and you really were beside me."

"Was I snoring?"

"You weren't snoring."

"Phew." She made an exaggerated motion with her hand as if wiping sweat from her brow. "Here I was sure that I'd been snoring so loud, you'd had to run for your life."

"You had your head on my shoulder," he said softly.

"And your arm around my waist. And your leg… it was curved over my thigh."

"I get cold when I sleep."

"It was… it was one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me."

"Oh, fuck you, too, Quince." He blinked his eyes in shock. Rainie stalked toward him. Her cheeks were flushed, her finger making dangerous, jabbing motions in the air. Somewhere along the way, his little speech had obviously pushed the wrong button because she was definitely pissed off. Run, he thought immediately. Where? The place had no walls.

"I am not nice!" she spit out. "Can we get this straight? I am never nice."

He watched her finger warily. "Okay."

"I did not crawl into your bed to be nice. I did not curl up beside you to be nice. And I did not fall asleep to be nice. Got it?"

"I didn't mean – "

"Yes you did. I reached out to you. I made a huge leap forward for me. And you not only took the cowards way out this morning, but you're taking the coward's way out now, by reducing my act of caring to an act of pity."

"Are you going to stab me with that thing?"

"With what?"

"Your finger!"

"Quincy!" she yelled, throwing both hands into the air. "Stop being a smartass. For God's sake, you're acting like me! Snap out of it!"

He fell silent. After a moment, so did she. "I might have panicked this morning," he admitted.

"There you go."

"You could be gracious about this."

"No, I couldn't. Keep talking."

"It's possible," he said softly, "that I fell back on old habits. I woke up, saw you there, liked having you there, and… Rainie, now is not a great time to be someone I care about. People I care about are suffering notoriously short life spans."

"Quincy, boyfriends apologize, shrinks analyze. Which are you?"

He blinked. "Damn, you're getting good at this."

"Come on. Mitz could call at any time and then well have to get going. So apologize and make it snappy."

"I'm sorry," he said dutifully.

She wiggled her fingers. "For… .?"

"For sneaking out of bed like a thief in the night. For not waking you up first. For pretending it didn't happen, when spending the night with me was a monumental step for you and I appreciate your growth – "

"Okay." She held up a hand. "Quit while you're ahead. Any moment now, they'll be giving you your own talk show."

"Rainie, I liked waking up with you by my side."

Her hands finally came to rest in front of her. She gave him a sideways glance. "I kind of… I kind of liked it, too."

"I didn't snore?" He couldn't help himself. He took a step forward. She didn't move back.

"You didn't snore," she said.

"No tossing and turning, stealing covers, keeping you awake all night?" He kept approaching. She still didn't move back.

"Actually, you were rather cuddly. For a fed."

He was now only an inch away from her. His nerve endings had flared to life. He could smell the faint scent of her soap, the apple-ish fragrance of her shampoo. He could see every nuance of her face, the direct line of her gaze, the firm resolve of her lips, the way her chin was up as if preparing for a fight. Now was not the time, he reminded himself. Carl Mitz could call at any moment. The world could end.

He wanted to touch her so badly, his fingertips burned. She challenged him. She pushed him. And more than all that… She made him dream of white-hot sands when for so long he'd been a shell of a man, methodically analyzing humanity and sacrificing his own somewhere along the way.

"I don't want to hurt you," he whispered.

"Bad things happen, Quince. Someone I respect explained it to me once. We can't stop all the bad things in the world. We can simply try to enjoy the good."

"If I lost you…"

"You would get on with life," she said bluntly. "So would I. We're practical people, Quincy. And we're tough, and we're going to make it through this. Now stop talking. Stop thinking, stop analyzing, dammit, and kiss me."

He obliged.

His first touch was light. In spite of her bold words, he knew she was nervous. He could feel the tension in her spine as his hand settled on the small of her back. He could feel the finite hesitation as she tilted back her head and offered her lips. She expected him to dive right in, and she had steeled herself for the attack. He wasn't interested in a stoic or a martyr, however. He understood her history. Sex for Rainie had been about pain and punishment. Even if she thought it would be easier that way, he wasn't going to rush.

He brushed the corner of her mouth with his lips. He raised his left hand, and feathered back her hair. Her eyes were squeezed shut. He ran the ball of his thumb over her silky eyelashes.

"That tickles," she murmured.

He smiled. "Open your eyes, Rainie. Look at me. Trust me. I won't hurt you."

She opened her eyes. The gray depths were wide, translucent. He had never seen eyes quite like hers, the color of smoky, midnight skies. He bent lower, his gaze still locked on hers, and kissed her left cheekbone.

"Have I ever told you how much I love your profile?" he murmured. "Such a stubborn jaw and then these dramatic cheekbones.…"

"I look like a Picasso painting," she said.

"Rainie, you're the most beautiful woman I know." His lips came down and found her mouth. This time her gasp was unmistakable. Her spine relented. Her hands curved round his head. Her hips connected with his.

She had full lips, he'd appreciated that the first time he'd seen her. And he'd been struck by the dichotomy of her hard-boned face coupled with an undeniably sinful mouth. Men dreamed about lips like these. Men paid money, wrote sonnets, and sold their souls for lips like these. She should never have gone thirty-two years without appreciating her own sexuality, he thought. And he was honored that she trusted him with it now.

She shifted restlessly. He felt the faint gyration of her body through his hand on her waist. He took that as a signal to move lower, his lips feathering across her jaw-line, then down the long, smooth column of her throat. Her breathing quickened. He felt her pulse flutter beneath the tip of his tongue.

"Tell me a story," he whispered as he dipped his head into the V of her soft chambray shirt and inhaled the fragrance of her skin.

"Ican't…talk."

"I don't want you remembering, Rainie. I want you in this moment with me." He picked up her left hand and placed her palm on his chest, where he knew his heart was racing. "Talk to me about anything you wish. You talk. Ill touch." His lips returned to her throat.

"Mmmmm, when I was a little girl" – her voice was husky – "I was… going to be… a gymnast. An Olympic athlete. Mmmm hmmmm."

"You have an athlete's body." He ran his hand down her side, appreciating the taut feel of her form. She was a runner, like him. He had a sudden image of their long, naked limbs intertwined on white cotton sheets and had to catch himself. Breathe deep. Take it slow.

"Did you take lessons?" he asked softly, his fingers finding the first button of her shirt and slipping it free.

"Lessons?"

"Gymnastics."

"Mmmmm…"

He kissed the base of her throat.

"No…"

"Watch competitions?" His lips whispered across her collarbone while his leg slipped between hers, supporting her weight and simultaneously making her gasp.

"I watched… the Olympics…"

"The Olympics are good," he said. He undid the final button on her shirt. The sides fell open. She shivered as the cooler air hit her skin, but didn't protest.

"Nadia Comaneci is my favorite," he said casually. He slid his hands inside her shirt. Her skin was warm and silky, stretched taut over her abdomen, tight around her waist. He stroked her sides, and she shifted restlessly against him.

"Favorite what?" she mumbled.

"Gymnast."

"Oh yeah… that. Mmmmm."

He didn't take off her shirt. Instead, he resumed kissing her mouth, which was opening now, meeting his own advance, and beginning to counter. He trailed more kisses along her jaw, then nuzzled the curve of her ear. Her head turned. She drew him back to her lips, her hips moving faster against his leg, her tongue finally, tentatively, wrapping around his own.

His hands stroked up her spine. They found the clasp of her simple white bra. He let it go, and the undergarment sagged forward.

"I thought you were supposed to do that with one hand," Rainie whispered against his lips.

"I'm out of practice. Remind me next time, and I'll show off."

"Quincy?" she said softly. "Maybe… maybe we should move to the bed."

He didn't need a second invitation. He scooped her up in his arms and headed for the queen-sized bed. At the last moment, he tripped over her shoes. They went down in a tangle of limbs, but managed to land on the down-covered bed. The comforter puffed up. The pillows went poof. Rainie laughed breathlessly. And Quincy found his face between her half-covered breasts. He had to kiss one, then the other. Then his mouth was on her nipple and far from pushing him away, her hands were urging him closer.

"Gymnastics," she was murmuring. "In this moment. Gymnastics, floor routines, balance beams. Quincy…"

Her sigh undid him all over again. He wanted bare skin against bare skin, moan meeting moan. No rush, take it slow. If he didn't get his shirt off now, he was going to die.

He got his shirt off. He stripped off her loose top and dangling bra, then somehow he was on his back and she was on top of him, her pale white breasts pressed against the tanned expanse of his chest.

"I'm not thinking about the Olympics anymore," she whispered.

"What?" he muttered thickly.

"Exactly." She'd found the scar on his left shoulder. She kissed it. Then the small pucker down his arm. The other above his collarbone. "Who did this?"

"Jim Beckett."

"Did you kill him?"

"His ex-wife did."

"I like her." Her head trailed down. She rained tiny kisses across his rib cage, down to his abdomen, and he sucked in his breath sharply. Her hair tickled him. The good kind of tickle. God, she was killing him.

"Quincy," she said solemnly, "I don't want to be like my mother."

"You're not like your mother."

"Night after night. Guy after guy."

"If there's a new guy tomorrow night. I'll shoot him."

"All right then."

"Rainie?"

She placed a finger over his lips. "Don't say it," she murmured. "Save something for afterwards."

She slid off her jeans. She helped him shimmy out of his pants. Then she was on her back and he was poised above her. Her legs parted. Her hips lifted. He couldn't take his eyes off her face, filled with both delicate hope and grim resolution.

"Rainie," he whispered. "It's all right to enjoy life."

"I don't know how."

"Neither do I. We'll learn together."

Her legs wrapped around his. He gritted his teeth and eased in slowly. He tried to be gentle, but immediately, her body stiffened. A spasm moved across her features. He stilled, wanting so badly for it to be good for her, trying so hard to make it good for her. Breathe deep. Don't rush. And then a heartbeat later, her expression changed. Her body eased, adjusted. Wonder lit up her face. She shifted beneath him. Then again, then again.

"Easy…"

"Please… Now. Please!"

He bowed his head. He gave himself over to her and the feel of her hands urging his body. No more control.

No more thoughts in his head. Rainie's cries. Rainie's body. Rainie's trusting gaze.

She cried out. Surprised. Ecstatic. He took one moment to enjoy the expression on her face. Then it was too much; he joined her in the dark, shuddering abyss.

Afterwards, Rainie fell asleep first. Quincy thought he would also doze, but found himself wide awake. The white down comforter was tangled around them. Sun streamed through the bank of windows. He lay on his back with Rainie's head resting upon his shoulder and her arm across his stomach. From time to time, he trailed his fingers down the bare curve of her shoulder and enjoyed the feel of her snuggling close.

He marveled at the sight of her sleeping. Her dark mahogany hair tousled around her pale face. Her long eyelashes like dark smudges against her cheeks. Her shell-pink lips slightly parted, as they uttered small, whispery breaths. Half woman, half child. All his.

His fingers brushed her arm again. She murmured something softly in her sleep.

"I'll never hurt you, Rainie," Quincy said quietly. Then his gaze went to the phone, which he knew would ring shortly. Back to the hunt, back to a psychopath's killing game.

He thought of his daughter, young and proud, sitting in a hotel room right now, diligently scouring financial records. He thought of Rainie, the tilt of her chin, the way she sparked a room just by sauntering through the door. He thought of himself, older, wiser, and determined to learn from his mistakes.

He reached a conclusion. Time to stop mourning the things he had lost. Time to start fighting for what he had left.

31

The Olsen Residence,Virginia

The chocolates arrived shortly after 3 P.M., marked for special Saturday delivery and borne up the steps by a bouncing, brown-suited UPS man with gorgeous hazel eyes. Mary signed for the chocolates, gave the man a wink, and felt even better when he blushed. She took the plain delivery box inside and eagerly opened it. A small dark green box sat nestled in a sea of gold foil paper. Not Godiva; she didn't recognize the name on the label.

She opened the inside box, and was immediately struck by the scent of bittersweet chocolate and almonds. Twelve truffles, she saw, four rows of three. Each one dusted in cocoa powder and topped with a candied nut. Beautiful box, beautiful truffles. She wondered if PIs got the munchies.

She put the lid back on while consulting her reflection in the mirror. The dark shadows beneath her eyes were now coated with a heavy layer of makeup. A pink silk cardigan covered her bruised arms. Hot rollers had done wonders with her hair. She looked fine, better than fine, actually. She looked lovely. The perfect doctor's wife, swathed in layers of Pepto-Bismol pink.

"Here goes nothing," she told her reflection. Then she grabbed the box of chocolates and headed out the door.

True to her lovers word, she found a silver hatchback two driveways down with a well-dressed black man sitting in the front. He appeared to be studying a road map. The minute he made eye contact with Mary, however, his gaze dashed frantically from side to side. She marched right up to the driver's side and rapped on the window.

"Howdy, darlin'," he said immediately, rolling down the glass. "I was hoping someone like you would come along. I have no idea where I am and could sure use some help." He held up the wrinkled map and flashed a helpless grin. She noticed, however, that his left foot was furiously kicking something beneath the driver's seat. Probably his surveillance camera.

"I know you're a private investigator," she said.

"I'm telling you, ma'am, you get on these windy back roads and suddenly everything looks alike – "

"Especially when you're seeing the same road for the second day in a row. May I?"

She gestured to the empty passenger seat. He blanched. "Now darlin', if you could just point out the quickest way to 1-95…"

"Fine, I'll show it to you on the map." She came around the front and climbed into the car before he could utter further protest.

Inside, the air was stifling. The cloth-covered seat pressed her dress uncomfortably against her skin; the dash was warm to the touch. Belatedly, she realized that she should've brought iced tea or lemonade. God knows who'd want candy in the middle of this kind of heat. Live and learn, she thought, and resolutely held up the green-wrapped box.

"I thought you might want a snack," she said, "so I brought you something."

"Ma'am – "

"I'm not an idiot. Please don't treat me like one. And for God's sake, it's only a box of chocolates."

"Chocolates?" The investigator's voice picked up in spite of himself. He shot her another wary look, then took the box from her hands. The minute he opened it, however, the odor of chocolate and almonds overwhelmed the tiny space. Too sweet, too strong for this kind of heat. He closed up the box immediately. Even she was grateful.

"Thank you, ma'am," he said politely. "I confess I have a bit of a sweet tooth, but maybe I'll pass for now. I had a big lunch." He stuck the green-wrapped box on the dashboard. They both stared at it.

"I'm Mary Olsen," she said finally, sticking out her hand, "but then, you must know that."

The man didn't seem to know what to do. "Phil de Beers."

"You work for my husband."

"Darlin', I'm just a man having a very bad day." He sighed heavily.

"My husband doesn't like me much," Mary volunteered. "When we first met, I was a lowly waitress, and boy was I flattered to meet him. He's a world-renowned neurosurgeon, you know. He saves lives, he helps young children. I'm very proud of his job."

Phil de Beers nodded miserably.

"When he asked me to marry him," she continued, "I thought I was the luckiest girl in the world. I didn't understand then, what it was he wanted. I didn't understand that he didn't like the way I dressed or talked or acted. I guess I was a little naive, Mr. de Beers. I thought my husband asked me to marry him because he loved me."

"I am so lost," de Beers said, and this time, he might have been telling the truth.

"He thinks I'm cheating on him, doesn't he?" Mary said. She turned in her seat, looking the man in the eye. "He thinks I'm sneaking around, dating other men behind his back. Why? Because he leaves me alone all the time? Because he's cut me off from my family and friends? I have no job, sir. No life, no hobbies, nothing to do but flit around some big ol' empty house waitin' for my big ol' doctor husband to come home. Or did he tell you everything?"

She let the pink silk cardigan slip from her shoulder. De Beers's gaze fell immediately to the darkening bruise. His lips tightened, a muscle twitched in his jaw. Surely he felt sorry for her now. They could be allies. She, not her husband, would win. De Beers didn't say anything, though. The silence dragged out, then grew unbearable. Mary turned away, feeling suddenly desolate and overexposed. She pulled back up her cardigan and buttoned it around her neck.

"Maybe… maybe I'll have one of those chocolates now," she said in a small voice.

He handed her the box. She took it without looking at him. And then she knew she had him.

"You must have a chocolate, too," she said briskly. "I won't feel so guilty if I'm sharing the box with you." She handed him a truffle, took one for herself, and then returned the box to the dash. He couldn't back out now. Welcome to southern courtesy. She held up her truffle. He had no choice but to do the same. "Cheers," she told him. She popped the chocolate into her mouth. A moment later, Phil de Beers reluctantly followed suit.

She steeled herself for the taste of chemicals or something related to laxatives. It never came. The chocolate was nice – soft and freshly made, melting on her tongue. It was definitely flavored, some kind of liquor maybe, mixed with dark chocolate and almonds. Not bad. She swallowed the candy down, feeling encouraged.

De Beers had also eaten his, but now he was frowning. "Who makes these?"

"They're good, aren't they? Want another?"

"It's… strong."

She nodded brightly, reaching for the box again, when she became aware of a slight burning sensation on her tongue. Her heartbeat tripled, her cheeks flushed. Suddenly, the car spun sickeningly, and she grabbed the dash for balance.

Across from her, Phil de Beers began to pant. As she watched, sweat burst from his pores. His dark eyes dilated, grew huge.

"Jesus, woman, what's in these things?"

She tried to answer, but her throat had caught on fire and she could feel moisture flecking across her face. Oh God, she was foaming at the mouth. Why? How? So dizzy. Not good. Not good.

"Hot," she whispered. "Hot…"

She fumbled for the door handle. Popped it open. And he was standing there.

No, she cried, but the word remained in her head instead of uttering from her spittle-spewed lips. She tried to wave him away with her hand. You mustn't be here. He'll see you and I already got him to eat a chocolate. Another hour, we'll be together. You'll kiss all my bruises away. You'll make me feel beautiful. Please…

Her lover didn't move, however. He was looking at her strangely. As if he'd never seen her before. As if he'd never held her in his arms or whispered sweet words of encouragement. His lips wore an icy smile. What had happened to his thick, dark hair?

She tried to speak again. She couldn't catch her breath. "Help," she tried to say this time. "Help." She reached out her hand to him.

Her lover turned away. She slowly followed his line of sight back into the car, where Phil de Beers now lay gasping over the steering wheel. He was looking at the man in horror while his right hand fumbled beneath the seat.

"Al – " the private investigator muttered. "Stupid bastard… Almonds… I gotta…"

His hand reappeared, his arm trembling convulsively. And then Mary saw… a gun. He held a gun.

No, Mary tried to yell to her lover, but couldn't. Move, run, get away. The warning never left her mouth. Her throat burned, burned, burned, the car spun, spun, spun. God, she had never felt such pain. Help me, help me.

Her hands wrapping around her stomach. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

Phil de Beers raised his shaking arm. His finger fumbled with the safety. He couldn't get it. He couldn't get it. His arm began to fall…

Mary stared at him, and in the spinning, churning, burning car, their gazes finally locked. Funny, how he looked so apologetic, as if he had somehow let her down. An odd gargling sound came from his throat. His eyes rolled back. He slumped over the steering wheel, his gun tumbling to the floor as a wave of white foam gushed from his mouth.

Mary stared at the gun. Stared at the gun. And…

Car… spinning. Hot. Can't breathe. Heart too fast. Her hands clenching her stomach. Almonds, almonds, why almonds? Hot. Makeup melting. Don't look at me. Don't look… Fading into the seat.

Her gaze rose to her lover's face. She stared at him, with his strange thinning hair, stared at him standing there and not making any move to help.

"It will be over soon." He checked his watch. "Another sixty seconds, I'd say. In all honesty, I'm surprised you've lasted this long. Then again, everyone reacts a bit differently."

Almonds, almonds, almonds…

"Oh, did I forget to mention it on the phone? I changed my mind about the laxative. I injected one hundred fifty milligrams of hydrocyanic acid into the center of each chocolate instead. The smell is a bit much, but boy is it quick."

Her lips moved. He leaned down closer to hear. "Praying? Praying? Why Mary Margaret Olsen, did you forget? You betrayed your best friend. God's not going to have anything to do with you."

He straightened, the bright sunshine blazing behind him and turning him from a glorious man into an even more glorious avenging angel.

Iloved you, she thought as her lungs froze up. And a heartbeat later, I should've known. What other kind of man would have loved me?

One last thought. The only thought she had left as her body began to convulse and her lungs fought for air.

"Yours," she whispered. "Y-y-yours."

He frowned. Then he followed the spasm of her hands around her belly and his eyes widened in stunned surprise. "No! No, no, no…"

"Yours," Mary Olsen whispered one last time. And then her eyes rolled back into her head.

The man jumped forward. He dragged her out of the car. Down on the hot asphalt, he shook her shoulders and slapped her face. "Wake up! Goddammit, wake up! Don't you do this to me!"

Mary's arms fell limply to her sides. Her pulse was gone, her heart silent in her chest. Cyanide induced a horrible death, but, as he'd promised, it was swift. The man stared at the tiny mound of her belly. Something she would have told him about that afternoon when they were finally together again. She would've looked at him earnestly, so meek and desperate for reassurance. And he would've felt…

After all this time. Years of being alone, decades of having no family left.

"Son of a bitch," he whispered. And then more gut-turally, "Pierce Quincy, goddamn son of a bitch! Look at what you made me do! You'll pay! You'll pay… Now,Now, NOW!"

32

Portland,Oregon

Kimberly reread the Miguel Sanchez file for the fourth time in two hours. Strands of fine blond hair kept working themselves loose from her hastily constructed pony tail and falling over her eyes. She impatiently brushed the strands back with her left hand. She should shower and change now that she had the hotel room to herself. She kept reading the file. Something was in here. She understood her fathers point that his personal conversation with Sanchez was purely random. She understood that Special Agent Albert Montgomery's assignment to the case was most likely coincidental. But something was in here. She had her own instincts, and they were screaming at her to revisit Miguel Sanchez.

An odd sound came from the hallway outside her room. Slow, squeaking wheels laboriously rolling down the hall. Most likely some rusted-out metal cart. Kimberly frowned. She continued to read the file.

As a death row inmate in San Quentin, Sanchez now lived alone in a six-by-ten-foot cell. That ruled out the possibility of him having a roommate who might have been released and taken up efforts on his behalf. On the other hand, some condemned prisoners spent up to four hours a day in the rec yard with sixty other inmates, lifting weights, shooting hoops, and doing God knows what.

Kimberly delved deeper into Sanchez's file. According to San Quentin corrections officers, prisoners were classified as two types: Grade A or Grade B. Grade A covered prisoners who had assimilated well to prison life. They followed the rules, didn't give the guards any hassles, and were seen as successfully "programming." These inmates were eligible for privileges such as daily rec time with their fellow deviants.

Grade B inmates, on the other hand, were men who hadn't taken to their cells like hens to a chicken coop. They threatened corrections officers, they threatened each other, they actually inflicted physical harm. These men spent lots of quality time in ad seg – administrative segregation, according to the staff, or the hole according to the inmates. Miguel Sanchez was familiar with the hole. According to his file, he'd started out as a Grade B inmate, managed to calm down to Grade A status for about six months in 1997, then went back to his Grade B ways. In other words, Miguel should not have had the opportunity to make many friends in San Quentin. Then again, Richard Millos wound up dead while Sanchez was ad seg, which seemed to indicate that even the most severe type of incarceration had not rendered Sanchez powerless.

That damn squeaking was driving her nuts. Room service should oil the wheels of its carts. Something. Sheesh.

In the good news department, she had found tons of press on the convicted serial killer. Partnerships for psychopaths were unusual, and Sanchez had carved out quite a niche as a professional guinea pig for criminolo-gists writing case studies on famous homicidal duos.

The interviews probably helped Sanchez ease the boredom of his now tedious existence. They also allowed him to gloat, reliving the glory of the kill under the guise of an academic exercise.

As Kimberly learned, there had been a couple of male-female sexual-sadist killing teams, but in those cases, the female was completely subservient, more of a live-in victim than a live-in partner. Most psychopaths were loners with no genuine ability to relate to others and thus little need for any kind of relationship. In Miguel and Richie's case, experts theorized that the partnership was based on Miguel's interest in having an audience for his actions and Richie's complete willingness to do as he was told. Plus, Richie Millos genuinely feared his cousin. Most likely, Miguel fed off that, perhaps even found that element even more appealing than an extra pair of hands.

One criminologist had written that Richie represented Miguel's latent homosexual desires. When that criminologist had tried to interview Miguel again, the convicted murderer waited until he was locked in the visitor's room with his shackles removed, then dove at the researcher over the table and tried to strangle the man with his bare hands. Miguel had to be forcibly dragged out of the room by four prison guards. Apparently, Miguel didn't care to be labeled a latent homosexual.

One thing was clean Miguel Sanchez was not a nice man. Kimberly had found a photo of him on-line. He had dark, wild hair only Charles Manson would love. His eyes were deeply sunk into his forehead, his cheekbones craggy. Tattoos riddled his shoulders, and according to one report, he continued to add to his body art while incarcerated with the aid of a needle and a ballpoint pen. He claimed to be a walking monument to his victims. Kimberly had stared at his photo three times before she realized what the elaborately scrolled design on his shoulder said. Then she had gone cold.

Amanda.

He had the name Amanda permanently etched into his body. Kimberly had to work on easing her heart rate again. She knew Miguel Sanchez's Amanda. A long time ago, she and Mandy had listened to the tape. One more link, however. One more link between a stone-cold psychopath and Kimberly's rapidly disintegrating family.

The squeaking was growing closer. Fuck, she couldn't think.

She got out of her chair, scowling at the door and the noise that was now right behind it. She didn't need this kind of distraction. She had a job to do. And as long as she kept focused, kept determined, she felt like her old self again. Capable, strong, self-possessed.

Funny how Mandy's death had sent her drifting, filled with too many conflicting emotions of rage and grief and fear. And ironic how her mother's murder had anchored her again, taking all of those same emotions and giving them a purpose. She was going to find this bastard. And she didn't care what Rainie said. She was going to kill him. Frankly, if he was anything like Miguel Sanchez, she wasn't going to feel bad about it either.

Darwinism, she thought. Survival of the fittest. You take on me and my family, you 'd better be prepared for the consequences. Because I've been training for this day since I was twelve, you son of a bitch. I won't go down easy.

A knock sounded on the door. Standing just three feet away in the kitchenette, Kimberly froze. And that quickly, her confidence left her. The color leeched from her face, her heart ratcheted up to one hundred and fifty beats per minute, and sweat burst from her pores.

"Room service," a high squeaky male voice called out.

Room service. Oldest trick in the book. Kimberly ran into the bedroom. She fumbled through her bag, pulled out her Glock, and sprinted back to the living area where she leveled her semiautomatic at the cheap wooden door.

"You got the wrong room, buddy," she yelled. "Back away from ray door!"

There was a pause. Her hands were trembling so badly, she couldn't sight her gun. She was thinking: Wednesday, my mom. Thursday, my grandpa. Friday, we're all on the run, and today? Not me! I won't go down easy!

"Uh, I got an order here for your room – "

"Get the fuck away from my door!"

"Okey dokey. I'll be going now. You want your, uh, champagne and strawberries, you can come downstairs yourself, ma'am. Sheesh."

Kimberly heard squeaking again. Then a moment later, the same high-pitched voice muttering, "Gotta be a fucking full moon tonight or something. Sheesh."

She slowly lowered her gun. Her body was still shaking. Sweat had plastered her T-shirt to her skin. Her heart hammered fast, as if she'd been running a marathon.

She took a deep breath. Then another. Then another.

And then, still not feeling good about things, she got down on her hands and knees and peered beneath the door. No dark shadow of feet standing outside her door. She collapsed into a sitting position on the carpet, her Glock cradled in her lap.

"Oh yeah," she murmured darkly in the empty room, "I'm doing just fine."

"I'm thinking, no sickening-sweet pet names. Phrases that have been used on nighttime soaps do not belong in the home. Plus, if it's been used on a Hallmark card, I don't really think it applies to me. I'm not a Hallmark sort of gal. Though, for the record, I could probably learn to like flowers now and then. Pink roses. Or that champagne color. Yeah, I'm pretty sure I would like that. Of course, that raises the whole issue of chocolates and other special-delivery sweets. I'm going to say yes to the chocolates, no on the heart-shaped box. Things that involve red velvet also do not belong in the home. What do you think?"

Rainie was sprawled next to Quincy in the deep-pile comfort of her bed. They hadn't bothered getting dressed yet. It was a little after twelve, the sun was high in the sky and at any minute, her phone was bound to ring. Screw it.

Her head was on his shoulder and she was doodling little designs on his chest with her index finger. She liked the feel of his chest hairs, crisp but silky. She liked the way he smelled, aftershave mixed with sex. She liked the way he looked, his broad, well-toned chest like a vast plane beneath her hand. She was thinking she'd soon be ready for more talk of Olympic-medal events.

"Green-light flowers and square boxes of chocolate," Quincy dutifully repeated. "Red-light sickening-sweet pet names." His hand was stroking her hair; he was obviously in no rush to get up either. He tilted his head down to see her better. "For the sake of argument, what qualifies as a sickening-sweet pet name? I'd hate to think I was being cute and adorable, only to wind up dead."

"Sweetheart, cupcake, sugar pie, honey bunch," Rainie rattled off. "Sweetie pie, cutie pie… You know, the kind of names that when other people use them, you want to give them a whopping dose of insulin… or a smack on the head."

"No terms of endearment that owe their origin to the glucose family?"

"That's my stance. You don't call me sweet cheeks and I won't call you stud muffin."

"I don't know," Quincy said mildly. "I kind of like stud muffin…"

She hit him on the chest. He pretended to be mortally wounded. She was just leaning over to kiss him back to life when the phone rang. She groaned.

"Carl Mitz," Quincy murmured.

"Gymnastics!" she countered.

"Later, I'm afraid."

"Spoilsport." Rainie reached over and grabbed the cordless phone off her nightstand. "Hello," she declared grumpily.

"Lorraine Conner. How nice to speak with you."

Rainie frowned. She didn't recognize the voice. Not at all. "Who is this?"

"You know who this is. I want to speak with Pierce."

Rainie looked questioningly at Quincy. If the caller wanted him, that ruled out Carl Mitz or her long-lost father. But hardly anyone called Quincy Pierce. So who…

Shit. She bolted upright, covers falling away as her heart began to thud furiously. She knew who this was. "How the hell did you get this number?"

"Directory assistance, of course. Hand the phone to Pierce."

"Fuck you, asshole. I'm not doing anything you want."

"How marvelously childish. Hand the phone to Pierce."

"Hey, you call my number, you get to speak with me. So if you have something to say, I suggest you start talking or I'm hanging up." Her words ended in a screech; Quincy had grabbed the phone out of her hands. She was ready to battle him for it, but then she saw the steely look in his eyes.

He put the receiver to his ear. "Hello," he said evenly. "Who is this?"

"Pierce Quincy, of course. Would you like to see my driver's license? Or perhaps a sample of my handwriting?"

"Delusional disorder, subtype grandiose," Quincy said.

The man laughed. "As if to be Pierce Quincy is such a grand thing. Your daughter is dead, your wife is dead, and your father is no place to be found. You don't seem so powerful to me."

"I don't have a wife," Quincy said.

"Ex-wife then," the man granted graciously. "Still demoting her even after she's gone. You are a cold fish."

"What do you want?" Quincy shifted the phone to his other ear. He caught Rainie's eye and made a circular motion with his hand. She nodded immediately, and slid off the bed naked in search of a tape recorder..

"It's not what I want, Pierce, it's who I want. But all in good time. Would you like to speak with your father?"

"We both know he's dead."

"You don't know that. You're assuming he's dead so you won't feel guilty. I understand he raised you all by himself, served as both mother and father. And yet how quickly you let him go. 'My father has been checked out of his nursing home? Goodness gracious, let me run away and hide!' I expected more from you."

"I doubt it."

Rainie arrived with the tape recorder. Quincy held the phone out for better audio as she fumbled with the buttons, then began to tape.

"He's alive," the man said. "Well hidden from federal minions and quite querulous, but very much alive."

Quincy didn't answer.

"Maybe we can arrange a swap. You can exchange your daughter for your father. She's younger, but in his current state he's more of a child."

Quincy didn't say anything.

"Or maybe we should bring the lovely Lorraine into the mix. You can swap your lover for your father. Sure she has a nice ass, but we both know you don't keep women around for long. Does she moan for you, Pierce? Your wife moaned for me. So did your daughter."

"How is the weather in Texas?" Quincy asked. Rainie looked at him in confusion. Then she remembered. Mickie Millos lived in Texas. Quincy was fishing.

"Texas? You aren't on the right track."

"And what track would that be? The one where I ruined your career, destroyed your life? Interesting, that I could have such an impact on your life and not remember you at all. Guess it was all in a day's work. I have met so many incompetent criminals over the years." Quincys voice was light, goading.

In contrast, the man's voice gained an ugly edge. "Don't fuck with me, Pierce. There are plenty of people in your life left to kill, and I can make it better for them, or worse."

Quincy feigned a yawn. "Now you're boring me."

"Will I be boring when I touch your daughter? Will I be boring when I rip off her shirt and run my hands over her tomboy breasts? I'm much closer than you know."

"You won't touch my daughter."

"Going to protect her, proud papa?"

"I won't have to. Get within four feet, and she'll kick your balls into your throat."

The man laughed. "Funny," he said. "That's not what Bethie or Mandy did."

For the first time, Quincy's grip tightened on the phone.

"Pierce," the man said, "intermission is over. If you won't go back home for your father, I'll just have to find somebody else to kill. You have one hour to get on a plane headed to Virginia."

"I don't think so."

"Then I will make her death very long and excruciatingly painful."

"You can't touch my daughter – "

"It's not Kimberly I'm going to punish. Get to the airport, Supervisory Special Agent Quincy – you don't have many friends left. Oh, and please tell Ms. Conner that next time she hires a private investigator, she should find one who doesn't like chocolate."

The line clicked off. Quincy stared at Rainie. There was a fierceness in his expression she had seen only once before – the night Henry Hawkins had tried to kill her.

"He's coming after you," he said.

She shook her head. "No, not me. Think about his words, Quincy. He wants you home. He's obviously gotten to de Beers. That means East Coast. He's still somewhere around Virginia."

"But who…"

They got it together. "Glenda!" Quincy swore.

"We have one hour."

Quincy picked up the phone and dialed furiously.

32

Quincy's House, Virginia

"Get out of the house."

"Pierce? I don't think – "

"Glenda, listen to me. The UNSUB just called. He wants me back on the East Coast and he's prepared to kill someone to force me to return. He's targeting you. I'm almost sure of it. Now, please get out of the house."

Glenda's grip tightened on the phone. Alone in the middle of Quincy's office, she stared at the incriminating box of stationery – one sheet already sent to the document section of the science-crime lab – and she wished… She wished she had never taken this goddamn case.

"I don't think I should be speaking with you," she said quietly.

"Is Montgomery there?"

"That's none of your business."

"You're alone, aren't you? Dammit, how did he even qualify to be an agent? Glenda, the UNSUB knows where I live. He understands Bureau protocol, so he knows someone is manning my residence. Hell, for all I know, he also has knowledge of the layout of my home, the best way of scaling the fence, accessing the grounds… You cannot underestimate him."

"Your phantom stalker," she said.

Quincy fell silent. Good, she thought. Be surprised. I have lived in this house for three days, listening to nothing but hate, and now I have to wonder if it hasn't all been some horrible, twisted game. Are you the hunter or the hunted, Pierce? I don't know anymore, and I'm tired!

"What's wrong, Glenda?" Quincy asked. He sounded wary now, uncertain. She took pride in that.

"There's no such thing as a perfect crime, Quincy. You should know that better than most. For every little detail that is considered, there is always one or two more that slips through the cracks."

"The police report came back from Philadelphia, didn't it? They know the note found at the scene matches my handwriting."

"What?"

He fell silent again. She could practically feel his confusion across the phone line. It was nothing, however, compared to the sudden acceleration of her heart. She'd still maintained some small residue of doubt about Quincy's guilt. But now… That note, that dreadful note stuffed in Elizabeth Quincy's abdominal cavity, soaked in blood. He had written it. Pierce Quincy, a fellow agent, the best of the best. Oh sweet mother of God…

"You're a monster," she breathed. "Montgomery is right. You're a monster!"

"Glenda – "

She snapped her cell phone shut. She let it fall to the floor where she eyed it as if it were a coiled snake. She had goose bumps running up and down her arms. She hadgone nights without sleep and she could now feel it allcrashing down on her. She was cold, she was horrified.

She had believed in this man. Oh God, she was never going to feel clean.

On the floor, her flip phone started to chime.

She didn't answer it. She wasn't going to let him manipulate her like this. The musical ringing went on for ten seconds, then voice messaging took over and the noise stopped. She had just started to relax, when it started again. And went on and on and on.

Dammit! She snatched back up the phone.

"I don't believe you!" she cried. "You're making this up. And I am armed, Quincy, so you just stay the fuck away from me."

"I am in Oregon. I can't hurt you," he said.

"I don't know that!"

"Listen to me. We don't have much time, Glenda. I did not write that note. I know it looks bad, but I did not write that note."

"Of course you did. You just said so."

"Iknow my own handwriting! For God's sake, I recognized it the minute the ME's assistant brought the note into the room. But I did not write it, Glenda. This man, he got copies of my handwriting, he studied it, he did one hell of a superb impression. I don't know exactly how he did it. But he did it, not me."

"Listen to yourself, Quincy. 'It's my writing, but I didn't do it.' Things are unraveling and you're not even lying very well anymore."

"Glenda, why would I use my own script? I am a professional. I've taken classes on how to analyze handwriting. If I'm so smart, why would I be so dumb?"

"Maybe you're not dumb. Maybe you're arrogant. Besides, it's not just that note. We've also traced the original newsletter ad. We know it was sent on your stationery."

"The bottom drawer," he murmured. "Christ, it's been years…" And then, "Dammit, then he's definitely been in my house. Glenda, I beg you, get out of there."

"I'm not listening to you." Her voice was rising hysterically. In spite of herself, her gaze had gone to the uncovered windows. She felt suddenly vulnerable, a lone woman standing in a fishbowl. What if Quincy was already out there? Or the phantom stalker or maybe more rattlesnakes? God knows. She was tired. She was so tired. Where was Montgomery? She was not herself.

"Think, Glenda," Quincy was saying relentlessly. "You are a bright agent, you are a brilliant agent. And so am I. So why would I create such an elaborate stalking story, then use my own stationery for the newsletter ads? Why would I stage such a brutal murder in Philadelphia, then use my own handwriting? Why would I even commit these crimes? What would I have to gain?"

"Showing off. Cracking up. Maybe the job has finally done you in."

"I haven't been out in the field in years."

"Maybe you resent that."

"So I butchered my own family? Fifteen minutes, Glenda. Please get out of the house. I'm begging you, get out of the house."

"I can't," she whispered.

"Why not?"

"I… I think someone may already be out there."

"Oh Glenda…" She heard him take a shaky breath. He was murmuring to someone at the other end of the line. She caught the distinct tones of a female reply. Lorraine Conner. So they were in this together.

For the first time, Glenda frowned. They were in this together? What together? Murdering his family? Threatening a fellow agent? It didn't make much sense. And who sent an ad on hundred-dollar stationery anyway? A criminal mastermind who was provocatively stupid?

Holding the phone, Glenda moved out of the office, into the kitchen where she had a better view of the entrance and was framed by fewer windows. She unsnapped her shoulder holster. Then she reached down to her ankle and checked on her backup piece. Quincy returned to the line.

"You're going to be okay, Glenda," he said firmly. "I'm going to get you through this. First, I'm going to play a tape for you. Rainie made this recording just twenty minutes ago, sitting beside me in her loft in Portland. This is the UNSUB, Glenda. If you still don't believe me, hear for yourself what he has to say."

Glenda heard a click. Then a fuzzy recording filled her ear. She needed about three minutes of the conversation. Somewhere about the time the man said, Then I will make her death very long and excruciatingly painful, she had had enough. Quincy was right, the evidence against him was too perfect and they had still uncovered no good reason for a highly respected federal agent to suddenly begin butchering his entire family.

Which meant the stalker did exist. A man who thought nothing of killing an agents young daughter. A man who had viciously slaughtered the agents ex-wife. And a man who had topped it all off by kidnapping, and probably murdering, the agent's sick, Alzheimer's-stricken father. Oh God…

"All right," she said quietly. "What do we do?"

"Do you have a car outside?"

"Not on the driveway. Down the street."

"How far away?"

"Three to four minutes."

"You can do this, Glenda. Think of it as a training exercise in Hogan's Alley. Take out your Smith amp; Wesson and run like hell. You'll make it."

"No."

"Glenda – "

"There's no cover, Quincy. He could be out there anywhere, behind a neighbor's bush, up a tree. Your property offers nothing. The minute I'm out of the front door, he has me. No, I'm safer in here than out there."

"Glenda, he knows the house. Inside you're trapped. Outside you have options."

"Outside he can pick me off. Inside I can at least see him coming. Besides, we changed the security system of your home. He has to have a fingerprint and an access code now. That will hold him up, buy me some time." Her eyes were on the kitchen window. She reached for her 10mm. Her hands were sweating badly. She fumbled the piece.

"He'll have a plan for the security system. He's had a plan for everything thus far."

Glenda finally got her pistol secure in her grasp. She forced herself to take a deep breath and steady her nerves. "Remember his MO," she told Quincy briskly. "The UNSUB relies on his gift for manipulating people. Well, the computerized system could care less. It has no deep dark secrets to exploit and it will not accept a severed digit."

"Call for backup." Quincy remained urgent.

"Fair enough."

"How long before they arrive?"

"Five to ten minutes. No more."

"If he gets there first… Remember his strengths. Do not let him talk. Shoot first, question later. Promise me, Glenda."

Glenda nodded into the phone as she reached for the radio to summon her fellow agents. Just as she was about to click it on, however, Quincy's home line began to ring. Another admirer, she thought. Just what her nerves needed at a time like this. But then the machine picked up, and the voice was not a stranger's. It was Albert Montgomery and he did not sound like himself at all.

"Jesus Christ, Glenda," he wailed. "Pick up the goddamn phone. I've been trying to reach you on your cellular… I was wrong. Not a phantom stalker. He's here, he's here, he's here. Oh God, he has a knife!"

She heard Quincy screaming something in her ear. She wasn't paying attention anymore. She dropped her flip phone on the marble countertop. She reached over with her right hand. She grabbed Quincy's white cordless phone and…

The pain was instantaneous and intense. Deep, searing heat as if someone had branded her hand with a red-hot iron. She cried out. She dropped the cordless phone on the floor. And in the next moment, she heard the beep beep of someone disarming the security system, followed by a click as the front door swung open.

She looked over at her 10mm, within easy reach. She looked down at her right hand, seared by some sort of acid, now bubbling up with blisters, her fingers impossible to move.

"I'm sorry, Quincy," she murmured.

Then she watched Special Agent Albert Montgomery walk into the kitchen holding his cell phone in one hand and his 10mm in the other.

"Surprise, baby! It's me!"

The last sound Quincy heard was gunfire. And then nothing but his own desperate voice, "Glenda, Glenda! Talk to me. Talk to me!"

Quincy hung his head. His breath came in ragged gasps. The disconnected phone had fallen from his fingertips and now lay on Rainies bed. He must stay in control, he thought. Now more than ever… Rainie's arms were around his shoulder. She had not spoken, but there were tears on her cheeks.

"I should call Everett," he murmured. "Get agents over there. Maybe…"

Rainie didn't say anything. Like him, she didn't really believe that Glenda was still alive.

Quincy took a deep breath, and reached for the phone just as it began to ring. He picked it up slowly, figuring he knew who this would be, and already steeling himself for the man's mocking tone.

"I shot Special Agent Montgomery," Glenda Rodman said without preamble.

"Glenda? Oh thank God!"

"He put… something on the phone. Last time he was here, I suppose. He thought it would disable me. Stupid bastard. He should have read my file more closely. My father was a cop – he believed strongly in being able to shoot ambidextrously. You never know which hand will wind up free under fire."

"You're okay?"

"Albert's shooting skills are equal to the rest of him," she said dryly. "My right hand needs immediate medical attention. Other than that, I'll live."

"And Special Agent Montgomery?"

"I aimed to kill."

"Glenda – "

"I disabled him with shots to his kneecap and his right hand instead; I know you need answers. Quincy, he says he'll only speak with you. He says he knows where your father is. You need to get back here ASAP. At least, before I change my mind and start shooting again."

"Glenda," he tried again.

"You're welcome," she said. And hung up the phone.

34

Portland, Oregon

Back at the hotel, Quincy swiftly threw his clothes into his travel bag. Rainie was in the living room, talking to Virginia state trooper Vince Amity on the phone. Kimberly, on the other hand, stood watching him from the doorway, her shoulders hunched as if preparing for a blow. She'd had a run-in with room service while he and Rainie had been gone. Apparently, an overworked bellhop had transposed two numbers and tried to deliver someone else's anniversary surprise to Kimberly's room. The bellhop had hoped for a good tip. Instead, he'd encountered a screaming woman who – fortunately unknown to him – was brandishing a loaded semiautomatic.

The hotel had explained the mixup to Quincy upon his return. He'd relayed the story to Kimberly. She'd smiled in an attempt to find humor in the situation, but Quincy could tell the incident had left her shaken, and news of Glenda's attack had only further frayed her nerves.

"So Special Agent Rodman is all right?" Kimberly asked for the third time. Her voice had taken on the anxious edge he remembered from two days ago. Nothing he'd offered in the last ten minutes seemed to change it.

"Special Agent Rodman is an extremely capable woman," Quincy said, trying a new tack as he rounded up his socks. "She took her training seriously, and when the moment came, that training paid off. She not only met the threat, but she took out Montgomery with two clean shots."

"She must be an excellent marksman."

"I believe she's won a few medals."

"I'm a good shot," Kimberly said. "I practice three times a week."

Quincy raised his head and met his daughter's eyes. He said firmly, "You're going to be fine, Kimberly. Rainie is staying here with you, and you're a capable young woman. You'll be safe."

Kimberly's gaze fell to the floor. She was gnawing on her bottom lip; he couldn't tell if he had reached her or not.

"What about Special Agent Rodman's hand?" she asked.

"I don't know. Montgomery confessed that he sprayed the phone with Teflon to protect the plastic, then applied hydrofluoric acid, which is an extremely corrosive chemical. The acid reacted with the moisture of Glenda's hand, burning her fingers and part of her palm. I'm not sure of the long-term prognosis."

"It's her right hand. She could be permanently damaged, or scarred."

"She's receiving the best medical attention you can get. I'm sure she'll recover."

"But you don't know – "

"Kimberly!" he said sharply. "Albert was going to kill her. You know that, I know that, she knows that. Instead, she controlled her fear and pain and disabled her attacker. This is a triumph. This is a lesson in the value of hard work and proper training. Don't give this victory away. Don't demoralize yourself like that."

"I don't want you to go," she whispered.

Quincy closed his eyes. The irritation drained from his body. He felt simply rotten instead. "I know," he said softly.

"It's just… So you have Albert in custody. So he went after Glenda. There's still something wrong… something else going on. If Albert looks the way you say he does, I can't see him getting anywhere near Mom. Plus, there's the matter of brainpower. If Albert was this clever, he wouldn't have had problems at the Bureau in the first place. Don't you think?"

"He fits the description of the man in Mandy's AA group," Quincy said, though he knew that wasn't really an answer.

His daughter knew it too. She gazed at him miserably, obviously needing more than he was giving. He wished he knew what to do at times like this. He wished he knew how to make his daughter feel safe and confident and strong. And then he really did miss his ex-wife, because Bethie had always been better at these moments than him. He held a doctorate in psychology. Bethie, on the other hand, had been a mom.

"I love you, Kimberly," he said.

"Dad – "

"I don't want to go. Maybe sometimes it seems that I do. Maybe we both mistake my sense of duty for desire. But it is duty. Montgomery has information about Grandpa that I need to know and he claims hell only give that information to me. It's been forty-eight hours, Kimberly. If we don't find Grandpa soon…" His voice trailed off. His daughter had taken law enforcement classes; he knew that she understood as well as he did how the probability of finding Abraham alive decreased with each passing hour. The UNSUB had claimed that Abraham was tucked away safely. Quincy, however, had subsequently learned a new detail. He'd called Everett after he'd gotten off the phone with Glenda. The red Audi TT convertible had been found by Virginia state police at four that morning. It had been left parked in the exact spot where Mandy had hit a telephone pole fourteen months before. Forensic technicians found traces of urine in the passenger's seat, probably from Abraham. Extra personnel had now been brought in to scour the surrounding woods. They were also using dogs – cadaver dogs.

"There's a good chance that Montgomery planned this whole thing," Quincy said now, his voice purposely firm. "He hated me because of the Sanchez case, he plotted revenge. If that's the case, then it's over, Kimberly. You're safe now. Everything will be all right."

"Then why won't you let us go with you?" she protested.

"Because I'm not one hundred percent certain, and I'm not going to risk you without being completely sure! Until we know everything, you're safer here than there."

"But what about you? You're returning to the East Coast, where some man knows all about you."

"I've also had a lot of training."

"Mom is gone!" Kimberly exclaimed. "Mandy is gone! Grandpa is gone! And now you're leaving, and, and, and…"

Quincy finally got it. His daughter wasn't seeking reassurance for her own safety. She was terrified for him. She'd already lost most of her family and now her good old dad was once again walking out the front door into the face of danger. Christ, sometimes he was an idiot about the most basic things.

Quincy came around the bed. He took Kimberly into his arms, and for once, his stubborn, independent daughter did not protest. "I'm not going to let anything happen to me," he whispered against the top of her head. "I promise you that."

"You can't make that promise."

"I am Quantico's best of the best. I can, too."

"Dad – "

"Listen to me, Kimberly." He pulled back enough to look her in the eye, to let her see how serious he was. "I'm a good agent. I take my training seriously; I do not underestimate my opponent. This is a game, but it's a game where the stakes are life or death. I never forget that. And because I never forget that, I'm better at this than most."

Her blue eyes were still watery. He could tell she was on the brink of crying, but she sniffed back her tears. "You won't let down your guard?" she pressed. "You won't be fooled by anything this Albert guy says?"

"I am going to keep myself safe so I can come home to my daughter. And you are going to take good care of yourself and Rainie, so I can come home to you."

"We'll look out for each other."

"Kimberly, thank you."

From the doorway, Rainie cleared her throat. Quincy looked up, and knew instantly from the expression on her face that she had bad news. He took a deep breath… Then slowly, reluctantly, he let his daughter go.

"I have an update from Virginia," Rainie said as Quincy and Kimberly turned to face her.

Quincy nodded. "Go ahead."

"Phil de Beers and Mary Olsen are dead. The police found their bodies an hour ago in a car just down the road from Mary's house. The car was registered in Phil's name. We'll need the medical examiner's report to be sure, but the police are guessing poison. The bodies have white foam around the mouth. There's a strong smell of almonds…"

"Cyanide," Quincy deduced.

She nodded grimly. "They found a box of chocolates in the car. Two are gone. The rest have that same bitter almond scent. According to the butler, Mary accepted a delivery shortly before leaving the house. He found the empty shipping box in the foyer, no return address."

"So someone sent Mary a box of poisoned chocolates and she took them to de Beers? But why did she eat one, too? That doesn't make any sense." Kimberly looked baffled.

"For the sake of argument," Quincy said slowly, "let's assume Montgomery spotted de Beers conducting surveillance on Mary. Mary probably knew Montgomery through Amanda, so now Albert has two loose ends. An accomplice who can connect him with the murders and a private investigator watching the accomplice. He doesn't have a lot of time, but he must do something."

"He poisons the box of chocolates," Rainie murmured, "sends them to Mary, and makes up some story that convinces her to share them with de Beers. Not bad really. Eliminates two people without burning a lot of time or resources. You're right, Quincy, this guy is an efficiency freak."

"Death by UPS," Kimberly said. Her shoulders sagged.

Rainie shot her a look. "Hey, Kimberly, if Montgomery is so good, why is he the one in FBI custody? He might be efficient, but we're the ones who won the war."

"Tell that to Phil de Beers."

Rainie's lips tightened. She turned on her heels and marched back into the living room. A second later, Quincy heard the sound of wood snapping. She had finally found his stash of #2 pencils in his computer case. From here on out, he would apparently be taking notes in pen.

"I guess I shouldn't have said that," Kimberly murmured after a moment.

"No, you shouldn't have."

"I'm sorry – "

"I'm not the one to whom you should be apologizing." His voice came out too harsh. Kimberly instantly looked stricken. Quincy repressed a sigh. He wasn't used to Kimberly being this sensitive. Then again, she had never lived under the threat of immediate death before.

"Kimberly," he said more patiently, "Rainie hired Phil de Beers. She met with the man. She gave him an important assignment, which means she trusted and liked him. She is not going to cry into her coffee right now because she knows the situation is still live and she can't afford that luxury. But don't think she doesn't have feelings. And don't lash out at her, just because you feel helpless."

"I'm sorry. I'm just… I don't know myself anymore!" Kimberly's voice rose, the full force of her anxiety now flooding to the surface. She stepped away from him, rubbing her arms compulsively and shaking her head. "I'm tense, I'm moody. One moment I feel strong and in control. I can meet this challenge, I can take this man! The next moment I'm shaking in my boots, drawing down on room service and mistrusting every noise I hear. I can't stand this level of uncertainty. I hate doubting myself, I hate worrying about what's going to happen next. I'm not supposed to fall apart like this, Dad. I'm supposed to be strong!"

"Are you having panic attacks again?" Quincy asked immediately. "Do you feel as if you're being watched?"

She drew up short. "No…" she said slowly. "In fact, I haven't felt that prickly sensation since we came here."

"Good." Quincy started breathing again. "You are strong, Kimberly," he said evenly. "You are doing remarkably well for everything you've been through."

"Do you feel like you're falling apart?" she demanded. "Are you swamped by anxiety, do you jump at shadows, are you tempted to open fire on room service waiters?"

"No, but I've been doing this kind of work for over fifteen years."

"Dad, does it frighten you?"

"What?"

"To feel so comfortable in the face of so much death?"

He bent down and kissed her cheek. "Yes, Kimberly. Sometimes it frightens me to death." He moved back to his duffel bag. "Help me pack, sweetheart. The only way out of this is to keep moving forward. So let's keep moving, one step at a time and then one step beyond that."

Kimberly nodded. She uncrossed her arms. She took a deep breath and picked up one of his shirts. And she looked so determined, it made Quincy's heart ache all over again. He lowered his head so she could not see his eyes.

He had lied to his daughter. He didn't think Albert Montgomery had masterminded this elaborate plan. He didn't think it was safe to head back East. Instead, he was absolutely certain he was once again being manipulated, but he didn't know what else he could do. Damned if he did, damned if he didn't. Fifteen years of being the best of the best and now he was being played like a toy violin.

There had to be another option. There was always another option…

"I couldn't uncover anything interesting on Millos," Kimberly spoke up. "He doesn't even have that much money in the bank. Most of the searches I did just kept bringing up Miguel Sanchez. The man has spawned even more case studies than Bundy."

"His partnership was unusual," Quincy said.

"Maybe not anymore," Kimberly murmured.

He didn't pretend to misunderstand her. His bag was full. He zipped it up, then finally met his daughter's waiting gaze.

"Maybe you could do me a favor," he said casually. "You have a good memory. Perhaps you could make a list of everyone you knew in your childhood, friends of yours, friends of the family. You know, the people we knew when your mother and I were still married."

Kimberly looked at him. He hadn't fooled her. After a moment, she nodded wordlessly.

"Hey Kimberly," he called softly. "Fuck ballet."

Her gaze remained somber, but then finally, slowly, she smiled.

Minutes later, Rainie and Quincy rode the elevator down to the lobby to hail a cab for the airport. Kimberly had tactfully agreed to stay upstairs in the room, seeming to understand that they might want a moment alone. Quincy figured there was something profound he should say to Rainie. All he could think was no sickening-sweet pet names.

In the lobby, Rainie glanced at her watch. "Two hours," she said, "not one."

"And yet I'm heading home."

"Intermission is over," she agreed.

"Rainie – "

"I won't let anything happen to Kimberly," she interjected quietly. "You have my word."

He nodded. He had figured that Rainie also realized that Montgomery was a long shot for a lone gunman.

Say something. Do something. Learn from your mistakes. Quincy heard himself murmur weakly, "Take care of yourself."

"I'm not the one walking into the lion's den." Rainie jerked her head toward a cab that had just appeared on the street. Quincy flagged it down, and before he was really ready, the driver was out of the car and taking his bag.

"I'll call you," he said.

"At my loft, not here. Just to be safe."

"Agreed." The cab driver had the back door open. He looked at Quincy impatiently. Quincy, however, was still gazing at Rainie. His chest felt tight. He knew now what he needed to say, then realized he couldn't utter the words. They would make the moment too final. They would reveal too much of his fear.

Rainie seemed to understand. She leaned forward and before he could react, she kissed him quick and hard on the mouth.

"Hey Quince. See you soon." She walked back into the hotel. A moment later, Quincy got into the cab.

"Airport," he told the driver.

Then, alone in the backseat… "Hey Rainie," he whispered. "I love you, too."

At three P.M., Rainie finally heard back from Carl Mitz on her home answering machine. She listened to it from the hotel room as she called in to check messages. Kimberly sat at the table in the kitchenette, hunched over Quincys laptop and rereading some report on Miguel Sanchez that was making her scowl. Rainie occupied the sofa in the adjoining living room, restless since Quincys departure, feeling not at all like herself.

Mitz informed her answering machine that he'd just gotten her message on his cell phone. He would be available for the next few hours if she wanted to call back. Rainie hung up, then glanced at Kimberly.

"What would you think if I arranged a meeting with Ronald Dawson for tomorrow?" Rainie asked quietly.

Kimberly looked up from the computer. "I think Special Agent Albert Montgomery is a putz," she said.

"Me, too."

"I think he couldn't have reached my mother with a ten-foot pole, which means while he might be an Indian, he's definitely not Chief."

"Agreed."

"And I think… I think if Ronald Dawson is the head honcho, well, if you invite him here, then he can't be there in Virginia."

"My thoughts exactly."

"Set up lunch," Kimberly said firmly. "Then call your sheriff friend and get out your gun."

Rainie grinned. "Girl," she said, "I like your style."

Three-thirty P.M., Rainie reached Carl Mitz. Three-forty P.M., Quincy arrived at the Portland International Airport. Three forty-five P.M., Sheriff Luke Hayes received a phone call. He spoke for approximately fifteen minutes, then hung up the phone, told Cunningham he was leaving him in charge, and got into his car. It wasn't perfect, but it was a plan.

35

Virginia

"Here's what you need to know, Quincy." Glenda snapped open a manila file, stuck a pen behind her ear, then resumed pacing the eight-foot length of the narrow conference room. He watched her restless movements without commenting. It was nearly 3 P.M. Sunday afternoon, almost twenty-four hours since Montgomery 's attack, and they were still denied access to the disgruntled agent. First Montgomery claimed he needed immediate medical attention. Given the state of his kneecap and right hand, that was hard to dispute. The trip to the emergency room had been followed by surgery to repair the damage to his leg. The doctors had then said he needed time to recover from the anesthesia. The anesthesia, however, had been followed by large amounts of morphine personally requested by Montgomery. He was in a significant amount of pain, he claimed. He needed drugs, he needed medical assistance, he needed rest.

He couldn't be properly interviewed while under the influence of medication and they all knew it. Even if they forced the issue, the first judge who heard the case would toss his comments out of court.

Albert Montgomery had an aptitude after all. He could stall like nobody's business. And as each hour passed, they grew increasingly nervous. Something big was brewing. They could feel it.

"Stop fidgeting," Glenda said.

He looked down to find himself methodically twisting the top button of his suit jacket, and instantly jerked his hand away. Glenda had met him with fresh clothes first thing this morning. As a general rule, wearing a nicely tailored suit made him feel polished, more in control. Not today. As hour grew into hour, he could've sworn the necktie was conspiring to strangle him.

He wondered how Rainie was doing. He wished it felt safe to call.

Glenda had returned her attention to the manila file. Her right hand was heavily bandaged. Late last night, she'd been treated for third-degree burns, then released. She couldn't move her fingers yet, and the doctors had warned her that the deep-searing acid might have caused permanent nerve damage. Time would tell and at this stage of the game, she didn't seem to want to talk about it.

"Albert first crossed paths with you fifteen years ago on the Sanchez case," she said briskly. "For the record, he'd already received a less-than-stellar review for his prior work, but it was his inept profile of Sanchez that officially torpedoed his career. He fought with the locals, pegged Sanchez as a lone gunman, then lost all credibility when you came aboard, identified the work as part of a killing team, and cracked the case. Albert's wife left him three weeks later, taking the two kids with her. Doesn't look like they were big fans of weekend visitation either."

"He fits the profile," he said hoarsely.

"The circumstances fit the profile," Glenda said. "Now let's look at the man. According to Albert's file, his IQ is a respectable one hundred thirty. The problem seems to be in execution. What do they call that these days? Why an idiot can build a successful business while a genius can't even find his socks?"

"EQ – emotional intelligence." His voice was still rough.

"Emotional intelligence." Glenda rolled her eyes. "That's it. Albert has none. According to four different case reviews, he lacks focus, diligence, and basic organizational skills. In his twenty-year career at the Bureau, he's been written up six times. In each case, he's written a counter opinion stating that he's not incompetent after all, Supervisor So-and-So is simply out to get him."

"Albert Montgomery, a walking advertisement for government downsizing."

Glenda finally smiled. "If you can get that made into a bumper sticker, I'll put it on his car." Her expression sobered. "Before we write off Albert completely," she said, "there is another factor to consider: While Albert may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, he has had plenty of free time on his hands. The estimated time of death for Elizabeth is ten-thirty P.M., Wednesday. Albert has no alibi for that time. Furthermore, he claims he spent Thursday and Friday in Philadelphia assisting the local detectives. Not true. I followed up with the detectives – they only saw him Friday morning. The rest of his time – basically Wednesday afternoon through Saturday morning – is an open question. Which means he could've visited Mary Olsen in Virginia or shown up at a Rhode Island nursing home, or flown to the West Coast for a Portland rendezvous. We simply don't know." "Travel records, plane tickets, hotel stays?" "Checked with his credit cards – nothing. Checked with the local airport, nothing. Of course, there are roughly half a dozen airports within a three-hour drive of here. He could've left from any one of those, paying cash and/or using an assumed name." Glenda smiled. "Welcome to the convenience of the Eastern Corridor."

"And even if he lacks focus, seventy-two hours provides plenty of time for misdeeds." He grimaced, then caught himself and said more crisply, "What about financial resources?"

"Albert is currently proud owner of nine hundred dollars in his bank account, so while he's had time to run around the country, financially I'm not sure how he could've pulled it off. On the other hand, if he has been traveling he's been paying in cash, so it's possible a second person has funded his venture with a briefcase of money. Without access to the second person's accounts, it's impossible to know."

"Smart, but lazy. Poor, but possibly funded by vengeful deviants-R-us. Wonderful."

"At the very least," Glenda said, "we know Albert has been actively involved in positioning you as a suspect. He called Everett Friday night, saying that he's convinced you killed your ex-wife. Then he made a point of visiting me first thing Saturday morning to let me know all his doubts about the Philadelphia crime scene."

"Poisoning the well."

"He was extremely persuasive," Glenda said quietly. " Everett was strongly considering calling you in. In fact, the only reason he didn't is that Albert's credibility is an issue. That wouldn't have mattered much longer, however. Albert got me wondering, which is what he intended. I found the stationery in your desk, messengered a sheet over to the lab… That report should come back any time now, confirming the original ad was sent on your stationery. Once that report arrived, Everett would have no choice but to ask you to turn yourself in. Plus, Albert's accusation and the subsequent finding of your stationery made me seriously doubt you, which set everything up for act two."

"You turning up dead."

"In your home, protected by a state-of-the-art security system to which you have access. And, if that wasn't damning enough, the casings from the two shots Albert fired both bear your fingerprints. It would appear Albert helped himself to your ammo during one of his visits to the house."

"What?" He was so startled, he momentarily forgot himself and exclaimed, "Son of a bitch!"

Glenda frowned. "You can't say that," she said sternly.

"I'm sorry," he said immediately.

"Stop fidgeting."

The button was getting to him again. He forced his hand away, then caught his reflection in the room's long mirror and felt even more discouraged. He looked tense and uncomfortable, not at all like a ruthlessly competent federal agent. When word came down that he could finally interview Montgomery, he needed to walk into that room appearing 100 percent calm and in control. You messed with us, Montgomery, now let me mess with you.

He did not look calm and in control. He looked like someone who hadn't slept. He looked like someone who was deeply worried. He looked like someone who was, for the first time in his life, out of his league.

Albert Montgomery is nothing, he reminded himself firmly. Not even the real deal. Just a hired hand.

"He wants to talk," Glenda said softly, as if reading his mind. "Don't forget, Albert is driven by his need to prove himself smarter than you. All you have to do is sound skeptical, and he'll hand you the keys to the city simply to prove he can. You hate him. You want to lean over the table and kill him. But other than that, Quincy, this interview shouldn't be too hard."

He nodded, then glanced once more at his watch. Three thirty-two P.M. Twenty-four and a half hours since the attack on Glenda… Enough time for someone to cross the country. Enough time for someone to assume any manner of disguises. He wished once more he could talk to Ramie. Goddammit he had to leave this button alone!

The door opened. A young agent poked his head into the room. "They're escorting Special Agent Montgomery to the interview room," he reported.

Glenda nodded. The agent closed the door.

He took a deep breath. Then, he squared his shoulders and ran a hand down his jacket. "Well," he said, "how do I look?"

Portland, Oregon

Twelve-eighteen P.M., Pacific standard time, Rainie and Kimberly were sitting side by side on the tiny sofa. From this vantage point, they could see into the adjoining bedroom on their right, or through the kitchenette area to the front door of the small suite on their left. They weren't doing anything. They weren't saying anything. They both simply stared at the phone.

"Why doesn't he call?" Kimberly asked.

"He must not have anything to say."

"I thought something would've happened by now!"

Rainie glanced at the hotel-room door. "So did I," she murmured. "So did I."

Virginia

Sitting in the dimly lit interrogation room, Special Agent Albert Montgomery looked pretty good for a man who'd been shot. He wore light-blue surgical scrubs in lieu of his customary rumpled suit. His mussed hair was combed, his face freshly scrubbed and slightly less jaundiced. His right hand, heavily bandaged, rested on the table. His left leg, with its recently repaired kneecap, was encased in a cast and propped up on a chair. All in all, he appeared quite comfortable and at ease.

They eyed each other steadily for the first thirty seconds, neither one of them wanting to blink first.

"You look like crap," Montgomery said.

"Thank you, I worked on it all night." He walked up to the table, but didn't sit. From this vantage point, he could look down on Albert Montgomery. He could cross his arms over his chest and stare at this man as if he were the lowest form of life on earth. Albert simply smiled up at him. He'd also attended interrogation classes and knew the tricks.

"You sound like shit, too," Albert said. "Catch a cold on the airplane, Quince? Those things are nothing but petri dishes with wings. And you've had plenty of time to incubate. East Coast, West Coast, East Coast. Tell me, Quincy, how does it feel to be a puppet on a string?"

His hands clenched. He almost rose to the bait, then remembered what Glenda had said. He couldn't afford to kill Albert. Too much depended on what the man had to say.

He pulled out a chair and took a seat. "You wanted me here: I'm here. Now speak."

"Still arrogant, huh Quincy? I wonder how arrogant you're gonna be when the Philly detectives get through with you. Have you checked out their prison system yet? Maybe you can get a tour of your future home."

"I'm not worried about the PPD."

Albert stared at him. He stared back. Albert broke first. "Son of a bitch," he rasped.

"What's his name, Albert?"

Albert didn't answer right away. His gaze flickered to the clock on the wall. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You acted alone?"

"Sure I did. You don't think that I hated you enough? You fucked my career, Quincy. You took my family, you ruined my life. Well hey, guess who has the last laugh. Where's your beautiful daughter, Quince? Where's the mother of your children? Where's your own dear old dad who desperately depended upon you? And I don't care what you say, when that report from Philly comes in, where's your precious fucking career? The bigger they are, the harder they fall."

"You didn't do this."

"Like hell."

"You don't have the brains."

Albert's face turned red. "You think you're so smart, Quincy, consider this: Revenge. Fifteen long years of desperately wanting revenge. I could try to get the same case as you, set you up to fail, but that would be risky. I could try to get on the same case as you and shoot you in the back, but that would be no fun. So one night it comes to me – "

"Comes to him."

"Comes to me. Why go for the direct attack? On the job is where you're in your element, where you do good. But you don't do everything right, Quincy. Hell no, you're not perfect. In fact, when it comes to being a husband, being a father, being a son, you pretty much suck. Once I realized this, I knew I had you."

"You approached Mandy at her AA meeting."

"I started looking up your father, your ex-wife and daughters. Didn't take me too long to figure out Mandy was the weak link. Shit, you must've done quite a head job on that kid, Quincy. She's a drunk, she's promiscuous. She's the perfect, insecure wreck. What do you have your Ph.D. in again?"

He thinned his lips. Montgomery smiled, happy to feel he had the upper hand and as Glenda predicted, now expansively verbose.

"Yeah, I approached Mandy, pretended to be the son of an old acquaintance of your dad's, Ben Zikka, Jr. That's the nice thing about AA meetings. They build a sense of camaraderie, allow even perfect strangers to bond. Three meetings later, I had her."

"You introduced her to him."

"I had her."

"Mandy had standards. You never so much as held her hand."

Albert scowled, so he'd struck a nerve. But the disgruntled agent quickly scrambled to make up lost ground. "Your daughter was a real friendly girl, Quince. Lunches, dinners, breakfasts. Didn't take any time at all to learn all about the rest of the family. And so many fascinating details about you, Pierce. Your habits, your home security system, your pathetic letters trying to keep in touch with your oldest daughter and build some kind of relationship."

"Handwriting samples," he deduced. "Material to copy as the UNSUB prepared the note for Philadelphia. For that matter, stationery."

Albert merely smiled. His gaze flicked once again to the wall clock.

"I was at Mandy's one night when you called," Albert said. "Got to hear one helluva stilted conversation, that was for sure. Really, Quince, you never did understand your own daughter. You ought to be ashamed of yourself."

"He milked her for information," he said softly. "And then he killed her."

"I came up with the idea. Get her drunk and behind the wheel of the car. It was a little risky. Maybe she didn't die right away. Maybe she regained consciousness. In the end, who cared? She was so damn drunk, she'd never remember what really happened, and we could always arrange a little accident in the hospital."

"We?"

"I," Albert said hastily. "I could arrange a little accident. I considered her murder a little test, Quince. Would you catch on? How good was Quantico 's best of the best? But, true to form, when it comes to your family your instincts are a complete zero. Hell, you didn't even stay at her bedside. Just showed up and agreed to pull the plug. You helped kill your daughter, Quince. Not that I mind, but how do you feel about that?"

He ignored the question. "You used her to approach Bethie."

"Sure. Mandy told us… me! all about her mom. Favorite restaurants, favorite music, favorite food. It's not rocket science after that. And I do have my charm."

"Bethie hates charm. He approached her as an organ recipient. He disguised himself as part of Mandy."

Albert's eyes widened. He clearly hadn't known they knew that much. His gaze dashed to the clock. The time seemed to soothe him. He took a deep breath and eyed his interrogator more warily.

"When I'm brilliant, Quincy, I'm brilliant," Albert tried.

Quincy merely shook his head. "He had to wait over a year for Mandy to die. Did that make him anxious? That couldn't have been part of his plan."

"Patience is a virtue," Albert said.

"No, he got nervous. He needed my attention for the game to be interesting. So he used Mary Olsen to raise my suspicion."

"I didn't want destroying you to be too easy," Albert said. "After fifteen years of planning, a guy's gotta have a little fun."

"Mary Olsen is dead."

That shocked him. Albert's gaze widened again and this time, he distinctly paled. "Ummm, yeah."

"How'd you kill her, Albert?"

"I…uh…"

"Gun, knife?"

"I shot her!"

"You poisoned her, asshole!" He felt a spark of anger, then checked himself, and said more sternly, "She received a care package in the mail, chocolates from her lover, laced with cyanide. Horrible way to die."

"Stupid bitch," Albert muttered. He was definitely uncomfortable now. His fingers drummed on the table.

"How do you think he'll kill you?"

"Shut up!" His eyes shot to the clock.

"Poison? Or something more personal? You're a liability, Albert. A big, fat liability who, thanks to Glenda, is in no shape to run and hide."

"Shut up, shut up, shut up!"

"Or did you forget that from the Sanchez case? Psychopaths can have partners, but partners are never equal. Miguel Sanchez lived. His partner, Richie, died on a prison floor with his balls crammed down his throat."

Albert shot up from his chair. The movement jarred the supporting chair from beneath his injured leg and his cast fell heavily to the floor, making him yelp. Albert gripped the edge of the table to keep himself from falling, then glared at him with a face mottled with rage.

"You just fucking blew it!" he roared. "I was gonna tell you where your father is. I was gonna take pity on the pathetic old man. But not now. Now he can rot where he is, tied up, starving, shitting in his own pants and getting bedsores from his piss. How do you like them apples, you arrogant prick!"

"My father is dead," he said quietly, though he really didn't know that and his heart had begun to beat hard in his chest. This was the big risk. The life-or-death gamble. If he was wrong… I'm sorry. Lord have mercy, because I cannot. "My father is dead," he repeated more forcefully. "We already found his body."

"Impossible!"

"Would you like to go to the morgue to see him?"

"But he shouldn't have washed up for days, not after all the weights we put on him." Albert suddenly heard his own words. He drew up short, then burst out, "You tricked me. Goddammit, you ice-cold son of a bitch, you gave up on your own dad!"

"All in a day's work," he murmured, though his throat felt tight now. He had an ache in his chest. Montgomery was a monster. The UNSUB was a monster. God, he was sick of all of this.

"It's over, Albert," he said hoarsely. "You're nothing but a liability now. You either talk to us, or you die for him."

"You don't know shit!"

"Tell that to Mary Olsen."

"Dammit, I'm the one in charge here."

"Then prove it! Tell us something we don't know. Dazzle me!"

Albert froze. He suddenly smiled. He drew himself up straight. His gaze was on the wall clock again, but this time he made no attempt to hide it.

"Hey Quincy," he said. "Here's something interesting. Mandy wasn't the first target. Mandy didn't give up her family. Kimberly did."

"What?"

"Oh, look at the time. Four-fourteen P.M. Why don't you call your daughter's hotel room, Quincy? Reach out and chastise Kimberly who's staying right where Everett told me she would be. Oh wait, I'm sorry, you won't be able to reach your daughter anymore. Four-fifteen P.M. Time's up, Agent. And your daughter is dead."

36

Portland,Oregon

When the phone on the coffee table finally rang, Rainie nearly jumped out of her skin.

"Shit," she said, then glanced hastily over at Kimberly.

"Shit," Kimberly agreed. One P.M. Much later than they had thought and they were both now wound too tight. Rainie scooped up the phone before it could ring again.

"Hello."

"Rainie? It's Luke. I got a problem."

"What problem?" she said without thinking. Then her eyes widened and she motioned furiously to Kimberly. The girl got the hint and ran for her Glock.

"I'm not convinced this afternoon's meeting is the way to go, Rainie," the man was saying. "Maybe too risky. Can we meet ahead of time and talk about it?"

"My God, you're a perfect mimic," Rainie murmured. "If I didn't know any better…"

"What's that?" He sounded friendly and still so much like Luke Hayes that even knowing better, one part of her kept thinking it was him. But it wasn't. He was simply a person with a superb aptitude for mimicry and an extremely cruel sense of humor.

"How did you get this number?" she asked.

"I looked up the hotel."

"I never told you where we were staying, Luke."

"Sure you did. When we met with Mitz."

"No, I didn't. And Luke knew better than to ask where I would be. Nice try. Super Freak. Wanna try again?"

The voice changed instantly, from an almost dead-on impression of Luke Hayes to the silky, smooth voice Rainie remembered from yesterday on the phone. "Why Ms. Conner, you don't trust your own friends. How interesting. You know Bethie surprised me, too. She actually requested a background check on me. What do you suppose it means that all the women in Quincy 's life are so suspicious?"

"That he values common sense. Where are you?"

"Now Rainie," the caller chided. "After all this time you wouldn't take this fun from me, would you? I truly deserve an A for effort."

"You did deserve an A for effort. But Glenda Rodman lived, and I got you pegged."

"Glenda Rodman was supposed to live."

"What, you got a weakness for stern gray suits?" He laughed. "Come now, we both know Albert Montgomery is incompetent. You were a police officer, Rainie, you know the importance of understanding your fellow officers' strengths and weaknesses. I let Albert have Glenda. He really has such a deep-seated rage for anyone in law enforcement. I think it goes back to his father, a washed-up security guard. A little too strict, Albert's father. He produced a son who desperately needed to prove himself better than his own dad, and yet despised himself all the more for following in his father's footsteps. But that's neither here nor there. Albert's conflicted, Albert's incompetent. Therefore, it stood to reason, Albert would fail."

"You bet against your own pawn," Rainie said.

"Of course, although it hardly matters. If Albert succeeded, Pierce would stand accused of Glenda's shooting and would have to return to Virginia. If Albert failed, Pierce would need to question Albert and he'd have to return to Virginia for that. Either way, I win my game."

"You lured Quincy back home so you could kill him."

"No, I lured Quincy away, so I could kill you."

"Oops, I'm sorry. But now that I've given it some thought, I don't feel like dying today." Rainie made another motion to Kimberly. The girl nodded, and headed straight for each window, cautiously raising the sash and inspecting the outdoor fire escape. Kimberly looked both up and down. When she was done, she left the windows open as they had planned, nodded to Rainie that the fire escape was clear, and headed for the bedroom to do the same with those windows there.

"Are you afraid of hell, Rainie?" the man asked. Rainie could hear static now. He was definitely calling from a cell phone, which meant he could be anywhere.Riding up the elevator. Creeping down the hall. He thought keeping her talking would keep her distracted. He would learn soon enough that talking was his mistake.

"I'm not afraid of hell," she answered. "I pretty much figure that's what life is for."

"Suffering here on earth? Come now, surely you have some notion of spiritual reward and punishment. Given everything you've done, that must make you wonder where you will spend your end of days."

"You're one to talk. Your whole life is about punishing Quincy. To do that you've killed how many people? It therefore stands to reason," she mocked him, "that you're not one for religion, since your eternal punishment is gonna be one helluva long suntan session."

Kimberly returned from the bedroom, shaking her head. So far, nothing on the fire escape. She started toward the door, but Rainie hastily waved her away. She'd read of people getting shot as they peered through the peephole. She didn't know if that could really happen, and she didn't want to find out. She gestured to the carpet. Kimberly got the hint and peered beneath the door instead. No sign of feet.

"Are you going to kill me, Rainie?" the man asked.

"I'm thinking about it."

"Oh, thinking's not good enough. You have to commit to the act, Rainie. Visualize the goal, imagine yourself as the victor."

"Wonderful, Chicken Soup for the Serial Killer. Just once, I'd like to be attacked by a mute."

Kimberly was looking at Rainie for new instructions. The girl was clearly nervous. Despite her cavalier tone, Rainie was increasingly nervous, too. He was close. He craved intimacy with his victims. He liked to be there for the kill.

"Is Kimberly with you?" the man asked.

"Why? I'm not good enough for you?" Rainie was desperately looking around the room. The fire escape was clear, the hotel-room door clear. Where else could he come from? What had they missed?

And then she got it. Simultaneously, she and Kimberly both looked up. Jesus Christ, there was the tip of a drill bit coming through their ceiling. How the hell had he done that?

"Go!" Rainie yelled.

Kimberly dashed for the front door just as the man said, "Thank you, Rainie. I'd love to come in."

Too late, she realized her mistake. If he'd been actively drilling, they would've heard it, so it had to have been sometime earlier. And peering beneath the door was never foolproof. All the person had to do was stand to one side. Rainie shot to her feet.

But Kimberly had already flung open the door and his gun was already pointed at her chest.

"Carl Mitz," Rainie snarled.

And Kimberly whispered shakily, "Oh my God – Dr. Andrews."

"I'll take your guns, please," Dr. Andrews announced, stepping into the hotel room and kicking the door shut behind him. He was dressed plainly today. Tan chinos, white-collared shirt. He looked like anyone walking down the street, except that in addition to a large black canvas bag slung over his left shoulder, he also carried a 9mm semiautomatic. The barrel was now four inches from Kimberly's heart. The girl couldn't take her eyes off of it. Her face had gone bone-white.

"You don't surrender your weapon," Kimberly told him in an unnatural tone of voice. "An officer should never surrender her weapon!"

"Hand over the gun, Kimberly," Rainie told her tersely. "For Christ's sake, this isn't the police academy's final exam and you're not bullet-proof!"

"One of us will live," Kimberly insisted in that same tone of voice. "He'll fire, but he can't kill us both."

"Kimberly – "

"It's all my fault. Look at him. Don't you get it? It's all my fault!"

Dr. Andrews smiled. He let the large canvas bag slide from his shoulder. It landed heavily on the floor. "Very good, Kimberly. I was wondering when you were going to figure that out. After all, I did tell you that I wouldn't be a stranger."

"But my anxiety attacks – "

"I tailed you. Just because I was willing to confess that you would know your own killer, didn't mean I wanted you to know that you'd already met him. Frankly, didn't it ever occur to you that you hardly saw me after your sister's funeral? You thought I was giving you time off to recover. But I was really buying myself time to destroy your family. We all have our priorities." He gestured to his sharply pressed pants and white linen shirt. "What do you think of my new look, by the way? The right wig, nicely tailored clothes, contact lenses… I wasn't always such a wreck as a professor, you know. I just thought you'd find me more comforting in tweed. So over the years, I became more and more dowdy, and you became more and more trusting. Interesting that for your mom and Mandy, I had to reverse the process. Now drop your gun and kick it over to me slowly."

"Ithought you were my friend! My mentor! I told you so much about my family. My father, my mother, my sister… And all along… All along…" Kimberly's body convulsed. She looked like she was going to be physically ill, yet she still didn't lower her Glock.

"Kimberly," Rainie growled. She was sweating pro-fusely, reluctant to let go of her own pistol and feeling. the situation spinning dangerously out of control.

Andrews looked at her. Kimberly noticed the change in his gaze and followed his eyes toward Rainie. No, Rainie started to yell, but she was too late. The instant Kimberly's focus left Andrews, he chopped his left hand down hard on her right forearm. The girl cried out, her gun slipping from nerveless fingers onto the floor. Rainie jerked up her own pistol, but found Andrews's weapon already trained at her body.

"I trust you'll be more reasonable," he said, twisting Kimberly's arm behind her back and positioning her as a human shield.

Rainie nodded. Slowly, she lowered her gun to the carpet, her gaze falling on the black canvas bag. Why such a big bag? What would he bring with him?

"Now, kick the firearm toward me."

Rainie complied, jabbing at her Glock.40 with her toe but not putting much effort into it. The heavy pistol stopped three feet away, under the glass coffee table. She made a show of shrugging helplessly, and waited to see if Andrews would push the issue. He frowned at her, but with his hands already full with one female, seemed content to let it go.

Rainie took a deep breath. Remain calm, she instructed herself, though her hands had begun to shake and her heart hammered in her chest. She'd kept him on the phone for a decent interval. Now if she and Kim-berly could stall him just a minute or two more. The open windows. The unwatched fire escape with easy access to their room. Come on, cavalry…

What was in that bag?

Kimberly was weeping. Trapped against Andrews, her shoulders had slumped, her spine was bowed. She didn't seem to have much fight left.

"Perfect," Andrews said. "Now that everyone is feeling more agreeable, we have a lot of work to do, ladies. Bombs to build, detonating devices to wire to telephones. Your father is going to call at precisely one-fifteen, Kimberly. I don't want to miss the opportunity for him to blow his own daughter and his lady love into tiny little bits."

Oh shit, that was what was in that bag. Rainie closed her eyes. Andrews had brought all the ingredients for a homemade bomb. God knows it wouldn't take much to blow up a room this size and who cares if Andrews took out a fair portion of the hotel and other unsuspecting guests with him? It would be the ultimate triumph for him. Restraining Kimberly and Rainie. Then rigging a bomb to the telephone, so that the first ring triggered the blast. Quincy would not only lose the only family he had left, but when the first forensics report came in, he'd get to learn that he'd basically pulled the trigger. He'd killed his own daughter. He'd murdered Rainie. Oh, Quincy. Oh, poor, poor Quincy.

Rainie's eyes came open. She felt the breeze from the open window on her face, but she no longer knew if they had enough time to wait. She and Kimberly could not let Andrews build that bomb. Under no circumstances could they let Andrews take out half a hotel simply to spite Quincy.

Rainie looked at Kimberly, trying to catch the girl's gaze. They needed some kind of plan. Maybe Kimberly could get the professor talking, keep him focused on exchanging banalities with his former student so Rainie might ease her way toward her Glock. Three feet. That wasn't much. Right?

Kimberly, however, had her head down. Her slender figure appeared despondent. She was so young, after all. And under such terrible stress.

"I blamed my father," Kimberly whispered, maybe to herself, maybe to Andrews. "AH along, I blamed my father, but in reality, I'm the one who betrayed my family." Another thought seemed to strike her. Her head jolted up, her eyes suddenly growing wide. "Oh my God, the Sanchez case. I've been going over it and over it, thinking there was more of a connection. Of course. Dr. Andrews's research work at San Quentin." She twisted toward Andrews, straining to see his face. "You knew Sanchez! You're the connection! How could I be so blind? Dammit!"

"You failed to ask the right question in the very beginning," Andrews said matter-of-factly, yanking Kim-berly's arm more savagely to quell her movements. Rainie saw her chance. She eased forward an inch.

"If this was revenge, why now?" Andrews postulated for his former student. "You could theorize that it was a felon who finally got out of prison, but I trust you already explored that option and found it to be a dead end. Then you could look at family of felons but again, why, after all this time? Interestingly enough, I think Quincy was finally getting on the right track, that it wasn't a past FBI case at all. So if it was from his pre-FBI days, then truly, why now?"

"Because you found me!" Kimberly spat at her captor.

"Because you fell into my fucking lap!" Andrews roared. "Nearly twenty years after that man took my own daughters from me, and here you are! Beautiful, smart, poised to become everything a father could want for his girl. Why should he be so lucky? Why should he have everything that I deserved? Goddamn interfering shrink!"

His gaze suddenly shot back to Rainie. She froze, having made it two steps closer to her gun, and wanting that to be progress, while knowing it wasn't enough. Andrews was frowning at her. Had he figured out that she'd cut the distance to her discarded handgun? He studied her hard.

"You were one of Quincy 's patients," Rainie said quickly, seeking to distract him again, and holding perfectly still now that his attention was back upon her.

"I was not!" Andrews replied indignantly. "My stupid ex-wife was. She went to him for help. She had all sorts of outlandish stories that I was an unfit father and that my children were terrified of me."

"You abused your kids?" Your turn, Kimberly, she thought frantically. I'll keep him talking, you think of something brilliant.

"I did not, I did not, I did not. They were my girls! I loved them, I wanted what was best for them. It was their mother who could not appreciate their potential. She wanted to coddle them, give them time to play, give them time to grow. For God's sake, you do not get anywhere in life by playing!"

" Quincy testified against you in the custody hearing, didn't he?" Rainie persisted. "His opinion helped sway the judge." Come on, Kimberly. We have to do something here. Fast.

"He told the judge that I suffered from severe personality disorder! He told people that in his professional opinion I was manipulative, egocentric, and totally lacking in genuine ability to empathize. In short, I exhibited psychopathic tendencies, I used my children as pawns to get what I wanted, and should they ever try to exert their own personalities, he couldn't vouch for their safety. And I never saw my children again. Do you realize what that does to someone? One day, I'm a highly respected family man. The next, I'm a name on a restraining order! If I so much as said boo, they would've taken my license from me. I would've been totally ruined!"

"You haven't done too badly since then." Rainie shrugged dismissively, working on prolonging Andrews's diatribe.

"After I moved from California to New York and started all over again," Andrews countered. "All alone. With no one. Having nothing. You know, I might have had a second chance with Mary Olsen. She was pregnant with my child, maybe we could've been happy. But Pierce fucked even that up for me. Forced me to kill her before I ever knew." Andrews's voice changed. "Son of a bitch. Everything I ever wanted, he's taken from me. No more! I'm the one calling the shots, I'm the one in control. He wants an expert opinion? I'll give him an expert opinion. An expert in explosives. Goddammit, it's time!"

He suddenly yanked on Kimberly's right arm. The girl had just raised her foot to stomp down on his instep. Now her foot fell to the floor harmlessly as he jerked her off balance. She grimaced and sagged despondently against him. Rainie grimaced along with her, her gaze going longingly to her Glock, so visible beneath the glass tabletop, and yet still so far out of reach.

They had to do something. No more time. Think, think. Come on, come on…

"Oh thank God! Luke!"

Rainie jerked her eyes to the space behind Andrews. It was a desperate act, a stupid gamble. Andrews twisted around, feeling the breeze for the first time and thinking he'd left himself vulnerable to a flank attack. No time for digging around under the coffee table for a gun. Rainie darted left and grabbed the best weapon she could find. One of the metal kitchen chairs.

"What the…?"

"Kimberly, now!"

The girl dug her elbow into Andrews's exposed side and lashed out with her foot. Twisted and off balance, Andrews released his hold on her instinctively, struggling to bring his gun up and around. Rainie whipped the metal chair into Andrews's neck and shoulder. He howled as his gun and the chair both went flying and he realized too late he'd been duped by the oldest trick in the book.

"Bitch!" he roared.

"Kimberly," Rainie cried out again. "Gun, now!" They needed to find a weapon. Now, now, now.

Her Glock, under the coffee table. Rainie scurried over on all fours. Andrews saw her movement, and cut her off with a brutal kick to her chin. Her jaw cracked. She collapsed on her back, seeing stars. Dimly she was aware of Kimberly diving across the room reaching for Andrews's fallen gun. Andrews saw her. He had the chair. Raising it over his head, towering above Kimberly.

The chair slammed down. Kimberly made a heavy, wet sound Rainie had never heard before.

Andrews smiled in triumph. Then he flung down the chair and crouched for the 9mm Rainie could now see it lying just inches from Kimberly's body. The girl had been so close…

One last chance. Rainie flipped onto her side, looking, looking, looking. The Glock, there against the brass leg of the table. Come on, Rainie. Dying is not preferable to living. Dying is not preferable to living! Damn, she'd be an optimist in the end. Reach!

The startling sound of a cartridge being ratcheted into a gun chamber. The sound of death.

"Bye-bye, Rainie," Andrews said.

And Quincy said, "Hey Andrews. Get your fucking hands off my daughter."

Virginia

Albert Montgomery was still feeling calm and controlled fifteen minutes later when Quincy returned to the dimly lit interrogation room. Four thirty-one P.M. The agent probably had just confirmed his daughter's death. Albert wondered if he'd get to see him cry. He would like that.

His interrogator stopped in front of him.

"Howdy Albert," the man said in a crystal-clear voice Albert had never heard before. "It's my turn to tell you some things you don't know. One, I'm sure Kimberly is just fine. And two, I'm not Pierce Quincy." The man reached up and ripped off the salt-and-pepper wig it had taken Glenda and an FBI makeup expert two hours to apply. Then he stepped out of special shoes with two-inch lifts. And he removed his navy blue suit jacket, custom-tailored to mirror Quincy 's taller, broad-shouldered build. "The name is Luke Hayes," the stranger said calmly. "And I'm a friend of Rainie's."

Portland

Andrewss face paled. He snapped around toward the bedroom door, the gun in his right hand dipping down toward the carpet, but his left hand still on Kimberly's shoulder. "Who? How? But you're in Virginia!"

Quincy stepped into the living room from the adjoining bedroom. He had his 10mm out, but down at his side. His gaze was locked on Andrews. He'd wasted fifteen minutes relentlessly searching the lobby for a man talking on a cell phone before he'd realized his mistake. The man was already upstairs. The man was already in his daughter's room. Plan B had always been the fire escape. Six floors up, rung over rung. Quincy should be tired. He should be exhausted.

He stood looking at this man who was heavily armed and crouched over his daughter, and he felt unbelievably calm. Time had slowed. All was manageable. The UNSUB finally had a face. And like so many killers before, the face wasn't even that impressive. He was just a man after all, average height, average weight, average age.

"You killed Mandy," Quincy said. He kept approaching. Andrews still hadn't brought his gun back up. He hadn't shot any of his other victims. Chances were that he wasn't that comfortable with guns, Quincy decided. An ambush was one thing. A genuine face-off, another.

"Easy pickings," Andrews snarled. But his voice wobbled. Behind him, Rainie was slowly extending her arm again, reaching for a pistol Quincy could just make out beneath the glass table. Quincy quickly looked away, not wanting Andrews to follow his line of sight. He focused his gaze on Kimberly instead, who was beginning to moan at Andrews' feet.

"You killed Bethie," Quincy said.

"More easy pickings." Andrews shifted suddenly, wrapping his arm around Kimberly's neck and dragging her up against him. Kimberly's eyes fluttered open. She looked disoriented, bewildered. Then her gaze met her father's and she simply looked heartbroken.

"It's okay," Quincy told her automatically. He wanted to comfort his daughter, erase the pain from her gaze. He kept his hands at his sides. Kimberly was strong. He would trust her strength to carry her through, just as he hoped she trusted his strength now. Believe in me, he willed his daughter. Iwill always take care of you.

Andrews smiled and jerked Kimberly closer. "On your feet, Sleeping Beauty. Time to say bye-bye to Daddy."

Andrews jerked them both upright. Quincy didn't make any move to stop them.

Out of the corner of his eye, he discerned another movement in the background, but once again he resisted the temptation to look. He homed in on Andrews, focusing now on narrowing the man's universe. There was just Andrews, Kimberly, and Quincy. Just one vicious predator, one daughter, and one father determined to keep his child safe. If he had eyes only for Andrews, Andrews would have eyes only for him. Rainie… The rest must be a leap of faith.

"How does it feel, Quincy?" Andrews demanded, twisting Kimberly's arm, bringing her even closer against him. "How does it feel to lose everything and never even understand why!"

"You're not a real person," Quincy said conversationally, moving slightly to the left, away from the living room, and drawing Andrews's gaze with him. "You're a shell of a man, lacking genuine feelings, connections, compassion. You've spent your whole life acting at being a human being, molding yourself into other people's images because otherwise you don't know how to be. You don't know who to be. The greatest justice in life was that your little girls never had to see you again."

Andrews jerked up his pistol. He pointed it at Quincy 's head. "Fuck you," he screamed, causing Kim-berly to flinch. "I'm going to kill you! I'm going to blow out your goddamn brains!"

"You can't," Quincy said, his voice as calm as Andrews's was angry. He looked at his daughter, willing her to remain strong, willing her to be all right.

"Yes I can!"

"You can't. Without me, your life has no purpose. When I'm gone, who will you be, Andrews? What will you do? What will you dream about at night? As much as you hate me, you need me even more. Without me, the game ends."

Andrews's face grew red. His eyes dashed from side to side. The rage was building inside him, the implosion imminent. From rational act to crazy reaction. This was what Quincy needed. For Andrews to finally lose control. For Andrews to unleash the monster he kept locked inside.

Andrews's finger wrapped around the trigger. Quincy kept his eyes on Kimberly. He tried to tell his daughter how much he loved her, and he tried to apologize for what she would have to watch next. Rainie. Kimberly. Rainie.

God give them both strength.

A movement out of the corner of his eye…

"Kimberly," Quincy murmured. "Fuck ballet."

On cue, she sagged heavily in her captor's arms. Andrews howled in surprise and pulled the trigger, but her unexpected movement had rocked him off balance. Gunfire spit low across the wall. Quincy dashed left. He brought up his 10mm to return fire but Andrews and Kimberly were too tangled together. He didn't have a shot. He didn't have a shot.

"Kimberly," he yelled, though he didn't know why.

"Daddy!"

"Hey Andrews," Rainie called. "Look here."

The man jerked around. Kimberly broke free and dove to the floor just as Rainie racked back her Glock.

"No!" Andrews howled. He pointed his gun at her -

And Quincy very calmly, very coolly shot the man point blank in the chest. Andrews dropped to the floor. He did not move again.

"Is it over?" Kimberly asked when the echoes of the gunshot faded away. She was trying to raise herself off the floor. Her left arm wouldn't bear her weight. Blood streaked down her long, fine hair.

Quincy went over to her. He took his injured daughter into his arms, feeling the tremors rocking her slender body. He cradled her against his chest, holding her as gently as he had when she was a newborn. Oh God, she was infinitely precious to him. He had saved her, but he had also hurt her, and he knew it would take them both years to sort out the difference between the two. All he could do was try. Isolation was not protection. No amount of distance kept you safe in the end.

His gaze went to Rainie, now bent over Andrews.

"He's dead," Rainie said quietly.

Kimberly clutched his shoulders more tightly. And then she began to cry. Quincy rocked his daughter against him. He stroked her blood-splattered hair.

"It's over," he said to Kimberly, to Rainie. And then more firmly, to all of them, "The game is over."

A loud knocking on the door. "Hotel security," a voice barked.

And the aftermath began.

Epilogue

Pearl District,Portland

Six weeks later, Rainie Conner sat hunched over her desk in her downtown loft, ostensibly trying to make her budget love her, but really eyeing the phone. Damn thing wasn't making a sound. Hadn't made a sound for days. She was really starting to hate that.

She picked up the receiver. "Well, what do you know, dial tone."

She set down the receiver. She went back to studying her Quicken file. It didn't do a thing to improve her mood.

Quincy had paid her. She'd yelled and screamed and put up a fuss. When they were both satisfied that she'd made all the appropriate noise, she'd accepted his check. A girl had to eat, and all those cross-country plane tickets had just showed up on her AmEx card. Conner Investigations got to have a profit. For about seven days. Then she started flying to Virginia again. She kept telling herself it was all for good reason.

First she had to join Quincy to finish picking Albert Montgomery's brain. The agent had finally admitted that the esteemed Dr. Marcus Andrews had approached him two and a half years ago. Andrews had wanted revenge against Quincy. His wife, Emily, had hired Quincy as an expert witness in the bitter child-custody hearing between her and her ex-husband. Quincy 's testimony had been pivotal in the judge's decision to deny Andrews access to his children permanently. While the case had been important at the time, Quincy hadn't thought about it now in years and the name Andrews had been too common to make Quincy think twice when Kim-berry began talking about her highly respected professor.

Funny how Bethie had always thought it was his career at the Bureau that would put Quincy 's family in jeopardy. None of them had considered that mental health professionals also faced dangers in the form of unbalanced patients and disgruntled families.

Andrews had interviewed Miguel Sanchez as part of his prison research study. As he became familiar with the killing spree and the officers involved in the Sanchez investigation, he'd identified Montgomery 's role and realized here was someone else who probably hated Quincy as much as Andrews did. Dr. Andrews tracked down Montgomery in Virginia, introduced his cause over dinner, and a few beers later, had enlisted Montgomery in a joint quest for revenge.

Montgomery had been playing the inside man ever since. First he helped Andrews understand how the Bureau worked. What would happen if an agent seemed in jeopardy? What if an agent's family was in jeopardy? How fast could the Bureau review past case files? What if an agent was suspected of a crime? From there, Montgomery had simply sunk in deeper. From introducing Mandy to Andrews to confiscating Quincy 's stationery to attacking Glenda because his hatred had festered and grown that insane.

Nine months ago, Montgomery had searched the Oregon corrections department data banks to find a good candidate for Rainie's father. Yes, Ronnie Dawson existed. He went to jail at the right time, he was paroled at the right time. And upon personal investigation, he was a five-foot-two aging redhead, who'd never heard of Molly Conner and was as shocked as anyone to hear that a fat donation had been made to a county DA in his name.

Easy come, easy go. Rainie dedicated three days to feeling kind of funky. Then she surprised herself by getting over it. It was hard to miss something you never had, and she hadn't even truly lost her dream. She did have a father. He was somewhere out there. You never knew.

Attorney-at-law Carl Mitz existed, too. A good lawyer, and as Rainie had learned over lunch, a genuinely nice guy. Just one more person who had the right credentials, so Montgomery got his Social Security number, mother's maiden name, and date of birth. Andrews took over from there.

Rainie was not feeling so good anymore about the electronic age. She'd ordered a copy of her credit report the other day. She found herself checking it compulsively.

Special Agent Albert Montgomery wasn't going to stand trial. Apparently, Andrews had left one last present for him: Cyanide in his blood-pressure medication, which some kindly agent retrieved for him from home. Shortly after Quincy 's final interview with him, Albert opened the bottle. Both he and his guard smelled the odor of bitter almonds immediately. The guard dived forward. Albert downed half the bottle. Sixty seconds later, Albert didn't have to worry anymore about how he was going to live with himself.

For Quincy and Kimberly it wasn't quite that easy. Kimberly spent forty-eight hours in the hospital with a broken arm and severe concussion. Fortunately, she was young and strong and recovered quickly from her wounds. The physical ones, that is. Quincy tried to get her to return to Virginia with him. She insisted on going to New York, however. She wanted her apartment back. Her classes, her routine, her life. Rainie and Quincy called her every day for the first week. Kimberly liked that so much she took her phone off the hook. She was an independent girl and as Rainie understood from personal experience, she needed to deal with things in her own way, in her own time.

Two weeks after Albert committed suicide, the Philadelphia police got the handwriting analysis back from their crime lab and tried to arrest Quincy for his ex-wife's brutal murder. Rainie definitely had to return to Virginia for that. She'd yelled at the detectives, yelled at the district attorney, and made a general nuisance of herself. Glenda, on the other hand, finally convinced the DA to send the incriminating note to the FBI lab, which promptly verified the presence of numerous hesitation marks – a classic sign of forgery. Quincy thanked Rainie for coming. Glenda got a promotion.

Rainie returned once again to Portland. She had her business, Quincy had the case to wrap up and his daughter to think about. Of course they spoke by phone. Rainie told him she understood he had a lot going on. She practiced being sympathetic, supportive, and all around undemanding. He couldn't be there for her, but she could be there for him. This is what relationships were about. Real, adult, mature relationships. If she became any more well adjusted, she was going to have to beat someone.

Two weeks before, a fishing vessel off the coast of Maryland pulled up Abraham Quincys body in its nets. Montgomery had already revealed that Andrews had ordered the body heavily weighted and dumped in such deep water that it would never be found. He wanted Quincy to never know what happened to Abraham, to always have to wonder if his father was still out there, maybe still alive, maybe still waiting for his son… Not even Andrews could control fate. A fishing vessel happened to be active in the area. The fish happened to eat through the ropes bearing the weights. Abraham Quincy was found.

Rainie heard the news from Kimberly, who called her sounding quiet and much too old. They were going to have a small family ceremony for Abraham later in the week. Perhaps Rainie could come?

Rainie bought a third ticket to Virginia. Then she waited to hear from Quincy and waited to hear from Quincy and waited to hear from Quincy. Finally, she picked up the phone. He didn't return her call.

Rainie had had enough. She drove to the airport, flashed a ticket that wasn't valid for another two days, told them she had a family emergency and boarded the plane. Eight hours later, she knocked on Quincys door. He opened it, looking tense, then shocked, then genuinely grateful. She jumped his bones before he ever made it to the bed. She decided she was getting pretty good at this sex thing.

Later, they went out to Arlington and simply sat next to Mandy's and Bethie's graves. Didn't talk. Didn't do anything. Just sat until the sun had sunk low and the air had grown cold. On the way back to the car, Quincy held her hand. Funny, she was thirty-two years old and she'd never walked hand-in-hand before. Then he opened her door for her, and by the time he got around to the other side she had this strange ache in her chest. She wanted to touch him again. She wanted to take him into her body and wrap her legs around his flanks and hold on tight.

Instead, when they were back at his house, she put his exhausted body to bed. Then she stayed awake for a long time afterwards, stroking the lines on his face, the ones that didn't go away, not even when he slept. She fingered the salt in his pepper hair, the scars on his chest. And she finally got it. All of it. The enormity of it. Why people sought each other out and formed families. Why baby elephants stumbled relentlessly through drought-stricken deserts. Why people fought and laughed and raged and loved. Why people, at the end of it all, stayed.

Because even when it hurt, it felt better to hurt with him, and when she was angry it was better to be angry with him, and when she was sad it was far, far better to be sad with him. And damn, she didn't want to get back on that plane. So silly. They were two adults, they had independent lives and demanding jobs, and it's not like there wasn't the telephone, and damn she didn't want to get back on that plane.

She stayed through the funeral. She held Quincy 's hand. She patted Kimberly's shoulder as the young girl wept. She met extended family and played nice with everyone. Then she went back to Quincy 's house where they came together as if they'd never touched before and would never touch again.

Monday morning he drove her to the airport. She had that tight feeling back in her chest. When she tried to speak, nothing came out.

Quincy said, "I'll call you." She nodded. Quincy said, "Soon." She nodded. Quincy said, "I'm sorry, Rainie." And she nodded, though she wasn't really sure what he was sorry for.

She got back to Portland. Five days, six hours, and thirty-two minutes ago. Her phone did ring. But when she picked it up, Quincy was never there.

"I can't be this well adjusted forever," she told her computer screen. "You know this isn't my style. Are women supposed to change everything for men? I mean, I was hostile, insecure, and stubborn before and he wanted to get to know me better. Now I'm honestly trying to be a mature, productive member of society, and I haven't heard from him since. On the one hand, the man is under enormous amounts of stress. On the other hand, that's just plain rude."

Her computer screen didn't reply. She scowled. "Do you think it was the sickening-sweet pet names? Maybe if I had called him stud muffin…"

Her buzzer sounded. Her head bobbed up, her gaze going to her TV/security monitor. A man was standing in front of the outside doors. He wore normal clothes, but she would've known that salt-and-pepper hair anywhere.

"Shit!" Rainie yelled. "Why doesn't he ever give me a chance to shower!"

Screw the shower. She buzzed him up, ran to the kitchen sink, and hastily splashed water on her face. Two sniffs. Hey, at least this time she'd done deodorant. He rang the doorbell of her loft just as she dragged on a clean white shirt. One last hand through the hair, and she was at the door.

"Hello, Rainie," he said.

She just stood there. He looked good in his Quincy-like way. A little uptight, a little too smart, a little too much weight of the world resting upon his shoulders. But he was wearing slim khaki pants with a navy blue open-collar shirt, the first time in weeks she'd seen him out of a suit.

"Hey," she said. She opened the door a little wider.

"Can I come in?"

"It's been known to happen."

She let him in. SupSpAg had something on his mind. He walked all the way to her family room where he promptly paced back and forth while she gnawed her lower lip. Six days ago they'd been so close. Why did they suddenly feel like strangers?

"I've been meaning to call," he said.

"Uh-huh."

"I didn't, though. I'm sorry." He hesitated. "I didn't know what to say."

" 'Hello' is always a good start. Some people like to follow that with, 'And how are you?' I find that works better than, 'Drop dead.'" She smiled.

He winced. "You're mad."

"Getting there."

"You've been very understanding."

"Oh God, are you breaking up with me?"

He finally stopped pacing, looking genuinely startled. "I didn't think so."

"You didn't think so? What does that mean? I asked if you were breaking up with me. If you're not, for God's sake say no, with authority!"

"No, with authority!" he said.

"Five days, six hours, and thirty-seven minutes!"

"What's that?"

"How long since you promised to call. Not that I'm counting or anything." Her hands flew up into the air. "Oh God, I've become one of those women who waits by the phone. I swore I would never be one of those poor saps waiting by the phone. Look at what you've done to me. You ought to be ashamed of yourself!"

"Rainie, I swear I haven't been trying to torture you. I swear, last week when you arrived, I've never been so happy to see anyone. I've never… needed anyone the way I needed you. When I drove you to the airport, all I could think was that I didn't want you to go. Then I had this image of us – driving to and from airports, the high of getting together, the low of splitting apart, trying to be a couple, but still leading separate lives and… And in all honesty, then I thought that I was much too old for this shit. There are so few things that make me happy, Rainie. There is so little I have left. So why was I driving you to the airport?"

"I had a ticket?"

He sighed. She could see the tightness around his eyes. He stood too far away, half of the loft looming between them, but she couldn't bring herself to close the gap. He had more to say. That was the problem. He'd said the good stuff, so if he still had more…

"I'm no longer an FBI agent," he told her quietly. "I tendered my resignation to the Bureau two days ago."

"No way." She rocked back on her heels; she couldn't have been more surprised if he'd suddenly announced that he could fly.

"I've decided to reinvent my life. Kimberly has returned to school and is saying she's perfectly fine, so we know she's going to need help. Even if she's too stubborn to let me hold her hand, I think it would mean a lot to her to know that I'm really there for her this time. Not out in the field where I could get hurt. Not running back to the job as I've always done. But close. Say in New York, somewhere by NYU, where she could drop in for dinner if she liked or simply show up to chat. I'm thinking I'll get a loft, put up a shingle and work as an independent consultant for law enforcement agencies."

"Profiler for Hire?"

He smiled. "You'd be surprised how many profilers retire to become consultants. You get to pick your cases, choose your hours, and best of all, ignore all the politics because they're no longer your problem. It's a good setup. Of course, there is one problem."

Rainie eyed him warily. "I'll bite. What problem?"

"I'd like to have a partner."

"You came all the way here to tell me that you're offering Glenda a job?"

He rolled his eyes. "No Rainie, I came all the way here to offer you a job. With full benefits I might add."

"What?" Far from being calmed, she became incensed. "Five days, six hours, and thirty-seven minutes later, this is what you're offering me? A dental plan?"

He finally appeared uneasy. "Well, maybe not dental. The company is a start-up."

Rainie stalked toward him. Her eyes had narrowed into slits. Her finger jabbed the air. "What are you doing, Quincy?"

"Apparently once again dodging your finger."

"You fly across the country, you come to my home, and you offer me employment? Do I look like a woman who needs a boss?"

"Not boss," he said immediately. "Oh no, 1 am not that dumb. I said partner, and I meant partner."

"It's a professional arrangement! Five days, six hours, and thirty-seven minutes later, I do not want a professional arrangement. I have not flown across the country three times in six weeks looking for a professional arrangement. I did not jump your bones just last week, looking for a professional arrangement. So help me God, Quincy – "

"I love you."

"What?" She drew up short. Her finger froze in midair.

"Rainie, I love you. You don't know how many times I've already said that because it was always after you'd fallen asleep or left the room. I didn't know if you were ready, or maybe I didn't know if I was ready. But I love you, Rainie. And while I need to stay on the East Coast for my daughter, I don't want to drive you to airports anymore."

"Oh."

"Now would be a good time for you to say something more than, oh."

"I get that."

"You're making me nervous."

"I have a mean streak. And you made me wait five days."

"All the casework you can handle," he offered quietly. "Never easy, nothing boring. You know how it is in my world. I've waited so long to be happy, Rainie. I've made so many mistakes. I want to do better this time. And I want to learn to do better with you."

She sighed. She had that tight feeling back in her chest. So that was what this was about. So this is what everything was about.

She leaned forward. She wrapped her arms around his neck. "Hey Quince," she murmured. "I love you, too."