Riptide
Catherine Coulter

First published in Great Britain in 2001 by Orion,
an imprint of the Orion Publishing Group Ltd.

Copyright  2000 by Catherine Coulter

The moral right of Catherine Coulter to be identified as
the author of this work has been asserted in accordance
with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both
the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is
available from the British Library.

ISBN 075284 609 4 (hardback)
ISBN 075284 610 8 (trade paperback)

Set in Bembo

Printed in Great Britain by
Clays Ltd, St Ives pic

All the characters in this book are fictitious,
and any resemblance to actual persons, living
or dead is purely coincidental.

The Orion Publishing Group Ltd
Orion House
5 Upper Saint Martin's Lane
London, WC2H 9EA


My ongoing love and thanks to

Iris Johansen and Kay Hooper,

and a big special hug

to Linda Howard

for a terrific twist.

CC







Chapter 1

New York City
June 15
Present

Becca was watching an afternoon soap opera she'd seen off and
on since she was a kid. She found herself wondering if she would
ever have a child who needed a heart transplant one month and
a new kidney the next, or a husband who wouldn't be faithful
to her for longer than it took a new woman to look in his direction.
Then the phone rang.
She jumped to her feet, then stopped dead still and stared over at
the phone. She heard a guy on TV whining about how life wasn't
fair. He didn't know what fair was.
She made no move to answer the phone. She just stood there
and listened, watching it as it rang three more times. Then, finally,
because her mother was lying in a coma in Lenox Hill Hospital,
because she just plain couldn't stand the ringing ringing ringing,
she watched her hand reach out and pick up the receiver.
She forced her mouth to form the single word. "Hello?"
"Hi, Rebecca. It's your boyfriend. I've got you so scared you
have to force yourself to pick up the phone. Isn't that right?"
She closed her eyes as that hated voice, low and deep, swept over


her, into her, making her so afraid she was shaking. No hint of an
Atlanta drawl, no sharp New York vowels, no dropped R's from
Boston. A voice that was well educated, with smooth, clear diction,
perhaps even a touch of the Brit in it. Old? Young? She didn't
know, couldn't tell. She had to keep it together. She had to listen
carefully, to remember how he spoke, what he said. You can do it.
Keep it together. Make him talk, make him say something, you never know
what will pop out. That was what the police psychologist in Albany
had told her to do when the man had first started calling her. Listen
carefully. Don't let him scare you. Take control. You guide him,
not the other way around. Becca licked her lips, chapped from the
hot, dry air in Manhattan that week, an anomaly, the weather forecaster
had said. And so Becca repeated her litany of questions, trying
to keep her voice calm, cool, in charge, yes, that was her. "Won't
you tell me who you are? I really want to know. Maybe we can talk
about why you keep calling me. Can we do that?"
"Can't you come up with some new questions, Rebecca? After
all, I've called you a good dozen times now. And you always say the
same things. Ah, they're from a shrink, aren't they? They told you
to ask those questions, to try to distract me, to get me to spill my
guts to you. Sorry, it won't work."
She'd never really thought it would work, that stratagem. No,
this guy knew what he was doing, and he knew how to do it. She wanted to plead 
with him to leave her alone, but she didn't. Instead,
she snapped. She simply lost it, the long-buried anger cutting
through her bone-grinding fear. She gripped the phone, knuckles
white, and yelled, "Listen to me, you little prick. Stop saying you're
my boyfriend. You're nothing but a sick jerk. Now, how about this
for a question? Why don't you go to hell where you belong? Why
don't you go kill yourself, you're sure not worth anything to the


human race. Don't call me anymore, you pathetic bastard. The cops
are on to you. The phone is tapped, do you hear me? They're going
to get you and fry you."
She'd caught him off guard, she knew it, and an adrenaline rush
sent her sky-high, but only for a moment. After a slight pause, he
recovered. In a calm, reasonable voice, he said, "Now, Rebecca
sweetheart, you know as well as I do that the cops now don't believe
you're being stalked, that some weird guy is calling you at all
hours, trying to scare you. You had the phone tap put in yourself
because you couldn't get them to do it. And I'll never talk long
enough for that old, low-tech equipment of yours to get a trace.
Oh yes, Rebecca, because you insulted me, you'll have to pay for it,
big-time."
She slammed down the receiver. She held it there, hard, as if
trying to stanch the bleeding of a wound, as if holding it down
would keep him from dialing her again, keep him away from
her. Slowly, finally, she backed away from the phone. She heard
a wife on the TV soap plead with her husband not to leave her
for her younger sister. She walked out onto her small balcony
and looked over Central Park, then turned a bit to the right to look
at the Metropolitan Museum. Hordes of people, most in shorts,
most of them tourists, sat on the steps, reading, laughing, talking,
eating hot dogs from the vendor Teodolpho, some of them probably
smoking dope, picking pockets, and there were two cops on
horseback nearby, their horses' heads pumping up and down, nervous
for some reason. The sun blazed down. It was only mid-June,
yet the unseasonable heat wave continued unabated. Inside the
apartment it was twenty-five degrees cooler. Too cold, at least for
her, but she couldn't get the thermostat to move either up or
down.


The phone rang again. She heard it clearly through the half-closed
glass door.
She jerked around and nearly fell over the railing. Not that it
was unexpected. No, never that, it was just so incongruous set
against the normalcy of the scene outside.
She forced herself to look back into her mother's lovely pastel
living room, to the glass table beside the sofa, at the white phone
that sat atop that table, ringing, ringing.
She let it ring six more times. Then she knew she had to answer
it. It might be about her mother, her very sick mother, who might
be dying. But of course she knew it was him. It didn't matter. Did
he know why she even had the phone turned on in the first place?
He seemed to know everything else, but he hadn't said anything
about her mother. She knew she had no choice at all. She picked
it up on the tenth ring.
"Rebecca, I want you to go out onto your balcony again. Look
to where those cops are sitting on their horses. Do it now, Rebecca."
She laid down the receiver and walked back out onto the balcony,
leaving the glass door open behind her. She looked down at
the cops. She kept looking. She knew something horrible was going
to happen, she just knew it, and there was nothing she could do
about it but watch and wait. She waited for three minutes. Just
when she was beginning to convince herself that the man was trying
new and different ways to terrorize her, there was a loud explosion.
She watched both horses rear up wildly. One of the cops went
flying. He landed in a bush as thick smoke billowed up, obscuring
the scene.
When the smoke cleared a bit, she saw an old bag lady lying on
the sidewalk, her market cart in twisted pieces beside her, her few


belongings strewn around her. Pieces of paper fluttered down to
the sidewalk, now rutted with deep pockmarks. A large bottle of
ginger ale was broken, liquid flowing over the old woman's sneakers.
Time seemed to have stopped, then suddenly there was chaos
as everyone in view exploded into action. Some people who'd
been loitering on the steps of the museum ran toward the old lady.
The cops got there first; the one who'd been thrown from his
horse was limping as he ran. They were yelling, waving their
arms--at the carnage or the onrushing people, Becca didn't know.
She saw the horses throwing their heads from side to side, their eyes
rolling at the smoke, the smell of the explosive. Becca stood there
frozen, watching. The old woman didn't move.
Becca knew she was dead. Her stalker had detonated a bomb
and killed that poor old woman. Why? Just to terrorize her more?
She was already so terrified she could hardly function. What did he
want now? She'd left Albany, left the governor's staff with no warning,
had not even called to check in.
She walked slowly back inside the living room, firmly closing
the glass door behind her. She looked at the phone, heard him saying
her name, over and over. Rebecca, Rebecca. Very slowly, she hung
up. She fell to her knees and jerked the connector out of the wall
jack. The phone in the bedroom rang, and kept ringing.
She pressed herself close to the wall, her palms slammed against
her ears. She had to do something. She had to talk to the cops.
Again. Surely now that someone was dead, they would believe that
some maniac was terrorizing her, stalking her, murdering someone
to show her he meant business.
This time they had to believe her.


Six Days Later

Riptide, Maine

She pulled into the Texaco gas station, waved to the guy inside
the small glass booth, then pumped some regular into her gas tank.
She was on the outskirts of Riptide, a quaint town that sprawled
north to south, hugging a small harbor filled with sailboats, motoroats,
and many fishing boats. Lobster, she thought, and breathed in
deeply, air redolent of brine, seaweed, and fish, plus a faint hint of
wildflowers, their sweetness riding lightly on the breeze from the
sea.
Riptide, Maine.
She was in the sticks, the boondocks, a place nobody knew
about, except for a few tourists in the summer. She was sixty-four
miles north of Christmas Cove, a beautiful small coastal town she'd
visited once as a child, with her mother.
For the first time in two and a half weeks, she felt safe. She felt
the salty air tingling on her skin, let the warm breeze nutter her
hair against her cheek.
She was in control of her life again.
But what about Governor Bledsoe? He would be all right, he
had to be. He had cops everywhere, brushing his teeth for him,
sleeping under his bed--no matter who he was sleeping with--
hiding in his washroom off his big square office with its huge mahogany
power desk. He would be all right. The crazy guy who had
terrorized her until six days ago wouldn't be able to get near him.
The main street in Riptide was West Hemlock. There wasn't an
East Hemlock unless someone wanted to drive into the ocean. She
drove nearly to the end of the street to an old Victorian bed-and-breakfast
called Errol Flynn's Hammock. There was a widow's walk



on top, railed in black. She counted at least five colors on the exterior.
It was perfect.
"I like the name," she said to the old man behind the rich mahogany
counter.
"Yep," he said, and pushed the guest book toward her. "I like it,
too. Been Scottie all my life. Sign in and I'll beam you right up."
She smiled and signed Becca Powell. She'd always admired
Colin Powell. Surely he wouldn't mind if she borrowed his name
for a while. For a while, Becca Matlock would cease to exist.
She was safe.
But why, she wondered yet again, why hadn't the police believed
her? Still they were providing the governor extra protection, so
that was something.
Why?


Chapter 2


New York City


June 15


whey had Becca sit in an uncomfortable chair with uneven legs.
She laid one hand on the scarred table, looking at the woman and
two men, and knew they thought she was a nut or, very likely,
something far worse.

There were three other men in the room, lined up against the
wall next to the door. No one introduced them. She wondered if
they were FBI. Probably, since she'd reported the threat on the
governor, and they were dressed in dark suits, white shirts, blue ties.
She'd never seen so many wing tips in one room before.

Detective Morales, slight, black-eyed, handsome, said quietly,
"Ms. Matlock, we are trying to understand this. You say he blew up
this old woman just to get your attention? For what reason? Why
you? What does he want? Who is he?"

She repeated it all again, more slowly this time, nearly word for
word. Finally, seeing their stone faces, she tried yet again, leaning
forward, clasping her hands on the wooden table, avoiding the
clump of long-ago-dried food. "Listen, I have no idea who he is. I
know it's a man, but I can't tell if he's old or if he's young. I told
you that I've heard him many times on the phone. He started calling
me in Albany and then he followed me here to New York. I
never saw him in Albany, but I've seen him here, stalking me, not



close enough to identify, but I'm sure it was him I saw three different
times. I reported this eight days ago to you, Detective Morales."
"Yes," said Detective McDonnell, a man who looked like he
sliced and diced criminal suspects for breakfast. His body was long
and thin, his suit rumpled and loose, his voice cold. "We know all
about it. We acted on it. I spoke to the police in Albany when we
didn't see anything of him here in New York. We all compared
notes, discussed everything thoroughly."
"What else can I tell you?"
"You said he calls you Rebecca, never shortens your name."
"Yes, Detective Morales. He always says Rebecca and he always
identifies himself as my boyfriend."
A look went between the two men. Did they think it was a
vengeful ex-boyfriend?
"I've told you that I don't recognize his voice. I have never
known this man, never. I'm certain of it."
Detective Letitia Gordon, the only other woman in the room,
was tall, wide-mouthed, with hair cut very short, and she carried a
big chip on her shoulder. She said in a voice colder than McDonnell's,
"You could try for the truth. I'm tired of all this bullshit.
You're a liar, Ms. Matlock. Sure, Hector did everything he could.
We all tried to believe you, at first, but there wasn't anyone around
you. Not a soul. We wasted three days tagging you, and all for
nothing. We spent another two days following up on everything
you told us, but again, nothing.
"What is it with you? Are you on coke?" She tapped the side of
her head with two long fingers. "You need attention? Daddy didn't
give you enough when you were a little girl? That's why you have
this made-up guy call himself your boyfriend?"
Becca wanted to punch out Detective Gordon. She imagined
the woman could pulverize her, so that wouldn't be smart. She had





to be calm, logical. She had to be the sane adult here. She cocked
her head at the woman and said, "Why are you angry at me? I
haven't done anything. I'm just trying to get some help. Now he's
killed this old woman. You've got to stop him. Don't you?"
The two male detectives again darted glances back and forth.
The woman shook her head in disgust. Then she pushed back her
chair and rose. She leaned over and splayed her hands on the
wooden tabletop, right next to the clump of dried food. Her face
was right in Becca's. Her breath smelled of fresh oranges. "You
made it all up, didn't you? There wasn't any guy calling you and
telling you to look outside your window. When that bag lady got
blown up by some nutcase, you just pulled in your fantasy guy
again to be responsible for the bomb. No more. We want you to
see our psychiatrist, Ms. Matlock. Right now. You've had your fifteen
minutes of fame, now it's time to give it up."
"Of course I won't see any shrink, that's--"
"You either see the psychiatrist or we arrest you." A nightmare, she thought. 
Here I am at the police station, telling them
everything I know, and they think I'm crazy. She said slowly, staring
right at Detective Gordon, "For what?"
"You're a public nuisance. You're filing false complaints, telling
lies that waste manpower. I don't like you, Ms. Matlock. I'd like to
throw you in jail for all the grief you've dished out, but I won't if
you go see our shrink. Maybe he can straighten you out. God
knows someone needs to."
Becca rose slowly to her feet. She looked at each of them in
turn. "I have told you the truth. There is a madman out there and
I don't know who he is. I've told you everything I can think of. He
has threatened the governor. He murdered that poor old woman in
front of the museum. I'm not making anything up. I'm not nuts
and I'm not on drugs."



It did no good. They didn't believe her.
The three men lined up along the wall of the interrogation
room didn't say a word. One of them simply nodded to Detective
Gordon as Becca walked out of the room.
Thirty minutes later, Becca Matlock was seated in a very comfortable
chair in a small office that had only two narrow windows
that looked across at two other narrow windows. Across the desk
sat Dr. Burnett, a man somewhere in his forties, nearly bald, wearing
designer glasses. He looked intense and tired.
"What I don't understand," Becca said, sitting forward, "is why
the police won't believe me."
"We'll get to that. Now, you didn't want to speak with me?"
"I'm sure you're a very nice man, but no, I don't need to speak
to you, at least not professionally."
"The police officers aren't certain about that, Ms. Madock.
Now, why don't you tell me, in your own words, a bit about yourself
and exactly when this stalker first came to your attention."
Yet again, she thought. Her voice was flat because she'd said the
same words so many times. Hard to feel anything saying them
now. "I'm a senior speech writer for Governor Bledsoe. I live in a
very nice condominium on Oak Street in Albany. Two and a half
weeks ago, I got the first phone call. No heavy breathing, no profanity,
nothing like that. He just said he'd seen me running in the
park, and he wanted to get to know me. He wouldn't tell me who
he was. He said I would come to know him very well. He said he
wanted to be my boyfriend. I told him to leave me alone and
hung up."
"Did you tell any friends or the governor about the call?"
"Not until after he called me another two times. That's when he





told me to stop sleeping with the governor. He said he was my
boyfriend, and I wasn't going to sleep with any other man. In a
very calm voice, he said that if I didn't stop sleeping with the governor,
he'd just have to kill him. Naturally, when I told the governor
about this, everyone licensed to carry a gun within a ten-mile
radius was on it."
He didn't even crack a smile, just kept staring at her.
Becca found she really didn't care. She said, "They tapped my
phone immediately, but somehow he knew they had. They
couldn't find him. They said he was using some sort of electronic
scrambler that kept giving out fake locations."
"And are you sleeping with Governor Bledsoe, Ms. Matlock?"
She'd heard that question a good dozen times, too, over and
over, especially from Detective Gordon. She even managed a smile.
"Actually, no. I don't suppose you've noticed, but he is old enough
to be my father."
"We had a president old enough to be your father and a woman
even younger than you are and neither of them had a problem with
that concept."
She wondered if Governor Bledsoe could ever survive a Monica
and almost smiled. She just shrugged.
"So, Ms. Matlock, are you sleeping with the governor?"
She'd discovered that at the mention of sex, everyone--media
folk, cops, friends--homed right in on it. It still offended her, but
she had answered the question so often the edge was off now. She
shrugged again, seeing that it bothered him, and said, "No, I haven't
slept with Governor Bledsoe. I have never wanted to sleep with
Governor Bledsoe. I write speeches for him, really fine speeches. I
don't sleep with him. I even occasionally write speeches for Mrs.
Bledsoe. I don't sleep with her, either.
"Now, I have no clue why the man believes that I am having sex





with the governor. I have no clue why he would care if I were.
Why did he pull the governor, of all people, out of the hat? Because
I spend time with him? Because he's powerful? I just don't know.
The Albany police haven't found out anything about this man yet.
However, they didn't think I was a liar, not like the police here in
New York. I even met with a police psychologist, who gave me advice
on how to handle him when he called."
"Actually, Ms. Matlock, the Albany police do believe you are a
liar. At first they didn't, but that's what they believe now. But do go
on."
Just like that? He said everyone believed she was a liar and she
was just to go on? "What do you mean?" she said slowly. "They
never gave me that impression."
"That's why our detectives finally sent you to me. They spoke to
their counterparts in Albany. No one could discover any stalker.
They believed you were disturbed about something. Perhaps you
had a crush on the governor and this was your way of getting him
to acknowledge you."
"Ah, I see. I have, perhaps, a fatal attraction."
"No, certainly not. You shouldn't have referred to it like that. It's
much too soon."
"Too soon for what? I'm still trying to get the hang of it?"
Anger flashed in his eyes. It made her feel good. "Just go on, Ms.
Matlock. No, don't argue with me yet. First tell me more. I need
to understand. Then we can determine what's going on, together."
In his dreams, she thought. A crush on the governor?Yeah, right.
What a joke that was. Bledsoe was a man who would sleep with a
nun if he could get under her habit. He made Bill Clinton look as
upstanding as Eisenhower, or had Ike had a mistress, too? Men and
power--the two always seemed to go with illicit sex. As for Bledsoe,
he'd been very lucky thus far, he hadn't yet run into an intern





as voracious as Monica, one who wouldn't just fade into the
woodwork when he was done with her.
"Very well," she said. "I came to New York to escape that maniac.
I was--I am--terrified of him and what he'll do. Also, my
mother lives here and she's very ill. I wanted to be with her."
"You're staying in her apartment, is that right?"
"Yes. She's in Lenox Hill Hospital."
"What's wrong with her?"
Becca looked at him and tried to say the words. They wouldn't
come out. She cleared her throat and finally managed to say, "She's
dying of uterine cancer."
"I'm sorry. You say this man followed you here to New York?"
Becca nodded. "I saw him here for the first time just after I arrived
in New York, on Madison near Fiftieth, weaving in and out
of people to my right. He was wearing a blue windbreaker and a
baseball cap. How do I know it was him? I can't be specific about
that. I just know. Deep down, I recognized that it was him. He
knew I saw him, I'm sure of that. Unfortunately I couldn't see him
clearly enough to give more than a general impression of what he
looks like."
"And that is?"
"He's tall, slender. Is he young? I just don't know. The baseball
cap covered his hair and he was wearing aviator glasses, very dark,
opaque. He was wearing generic jeans and that blue windbreaker
that was very loose." She paused a moment. "I've told the police all
of this, many times. Why do you care?"
His look said it all. He wanted to see just how specific, just how
detailed her descriptions were, how much she'd embellished her
fantasy man. And all of the marvelous particulars were from her
imagination, her very sick imagination.
She kept it together. When he hesitated, she said mildly, "He





ducked away when I turned toward him. Then the phone calls
started again. I know he's keeping close tabs on me. He seems to
know exactly where I am and what I'm doing. I can feel him, you
know?"
"You told the officers that he wouldn't tell you what he
wanted."
"No, not really, other than to tell me if I didn't stop having sex
with the governor, he would kill him. I asked him why he'd do that
and he just said he didn't want me to have sex with any other man,
that he was my boyfriend. But it sounded funny, like it was just
something he was saying, not something he really meant. So why
is he doing this, really? I don't know. I will be frank with you, Dr.
Burnett. I'm not crazy, I'm terrified. If that's his aim, he's certainly
succeeded. I simply don't understand why the police think I'm the
bad guy here, that I'm making all of this up for some crazy reason.
Perhaps you could believe me now?"
He was a shrink; he hedged well. "Tell me why you believe this
man is stalking you and making these phone calls to you, why you
don't believe that he wants to be your boyfriend, that it really all
just boils down to an obsession and his possession of you?"
She closed her eyes. She'd thought and thought about why, but
there wasn't anything. Nothing at all. He'd targeted her, but why?
She shook her head. "At first he said he wanted to know me. What
does that mean? If he wanted that, why wouldn't he just come over
and introduce himself? If the cops wanted a nutcase to send to you,
they should find him. What does he really want? I just don't know.
If I even had a supposition about it, I'd throw it out there, believe
me. But the boyfriend thing? No, I don't believe that."
He sat forward, his fingertips pressed together, studying her.
What did he see? What was he thinking? Did she sound insane?
Evidently so, because when he said very quietly, gently even, "You





and I need to talk about you, Ms. Matlock," she knew he didn't believe
her, probably hadn't believed her for a minute. He continued
in that same gentle voice, "There's a big problem here. Without intervention, it 
will continue to get bigger and that worries me. Perhaps
you're already seeing a psychiatrist?"
She had a big problem? She rose slowly and placed her hands on
his desktop. "You're right about that, doctor. I do have a big problem.
You just don't know where the problem really is. That, or you
refuse to recognize it. That makes it easier, I guess."
She grabbed up her purse and walked toward the door. He
called after her, "You need me, Ms. Matlock. You need my help. I
don't like the direction you're going. Come back and let me talk to
you."
She said over her shoulder, "You're a fool, sir," and kept walking.
"As for your objectivity, perhaps you should consult your ethics
about that, Doctor."
She heard him coming after her. She slammed the door and
took off running down the long dingy hallway.








Chapter 3

Becca kept walking, her head down, out the front doors, staring at
her Bally flats. From the corner of her eye, she saw a man turn away
from her, quickly, too quickly. She was at One Police Plaza. There
were a million people, all of them hurrying, like all New Yorkers, focused
on where they were going, wasting not an instant. But this
man, he was watching her, she knew it. It was him, it had to be. If
only she could get close enough, she could describe him. Where was
he now?
Over there, by a city trash can. He was wearing sunglasses, the
same opaque aviator glasses, and a red Braves baseball cap, this time
backward. He was the bad guy in all of this, not her. Something
hit her hard at that moment, and she felt pure rage pump through
her. She yelled,"Wait! Don't you run away from me, you coward!"
Then she started pushing her way through the crowds of people to
where she'd last seen him. Over there, by that building, wearing a
sweatshirt, dark blue, long-sleeved, no windbreaker this time. She
headed that way. She was cursed, someone elbowed her, but she
didn't care. She would become an instant New Yorker--utterly focused,
rude if anyone dared to get in her way. She made it to the
corner of the building, but she didn't see any dark blue sweatshirt.
No baseball cap. She stood there panting.
Why didn't the cops believe her? What had she ever done to
make them believe she was a liar? What had made the Albany cops
believe she'd lied? And now, he'd murdered that poor old woman





by the museum. She wasn't some crazy figment in her mind, she
was very real and in the morgue.
She stopped. She'd lost him. She stood there, a long time,
breathing hard, feeling scores of people part and go around her on
either side. Just two steps beyond her, the seas closed again.
Forty-five minutes later, Becca was at Lenox Hill Hospital, sitting
beside her mother's bed. Her mother, who was now in a near-coma,
was so drugged she didn't recognize her daughter. Becca sat
there, holding her hand, not speaking about the stalker, but talking
about the speech she'd written for the governor on gun control,
something she wasn't so certain about now. "In all five boroughs,
handgun laws are the same and are very strict. Do you know that
one gun store owner told me that 'to buy a gun in New York City,
you have to stand in a corner on one leg and beg.'"
She paused a moment. For the first time in her life, she desperately
wanted a handgun. But there was just no way she could get
one in time to help. She'd need a permit, have to wait fifteen days
after she'd bought the gun, and then hang around for probably another
six months for them to do a background check on her. And
then stand on one leg and beg. She said to her silent mother, "I've
never before even thought about owning a gun, Mom, but who
knows? Crime is everywhere." Yes, she wanted to buy a gun, but if
she did finally manage to get one, the stalker would have long since
killed her. She felt like a victim waiting to happen and there was
nothing she could do about it. No one would help her. She was all
she had, and in terms of getting a hold of a gun, she'd have to go to
the street. And the thought of going up to street guys and asking
them to sell her a gun scared her to her toes.
"It was a great speech, Mom. I had to let the governor straddle
the fence, no way around that, but I did have him say that he
didn't want guns forbidden, just didn't want them in the hands of





criminals. I did pros and cons on whether the proposed federal
one-handgun-a-month law will work. You know, the NRA's opinions,
then the HCI's--they're Handgun Control, Inc."
She kept talking, patting her mother's hands, lightly stroking her
fingers over her forearm, careful not to hit any of the IV lines.
"So many of your friends have been here. All of them are very
worried. They all love you."
Her mother was dying, she knew it as a god-awful fact, as something
that couldn't be changed, but she just couldn't accept it down
deep inside her where her mother had always been from her earliest
memories, always there for her, always. She thought of the years
ahead without her, but she simply couldn't see it at all. Tears stung
her eyes and she sniffed them back. "Mom," she said, and laid her
cheek against her mother's arm. "I don't want you to die, but I
know the cancer is bad and you couldn't bear the pain if you stayed
with me." There, she'd said the words aloud. She slowly raised her
head. "I love you, Mom. I love you more than you can imagine.
If you can somehow hear me, somehow understand, please know
that you have always been the most important person in my life.
Thank you for being my mother." She had no more words. She sat
there another half hour, looking at her mother's beloved face, so
full of life just a few weeks ago, a face made for myriad expressions,
each of which Becca knew. It was almost over, and there was simply
nothing she could do. She said then, "I'll be back soon, Mom.
Please rest and don't feel any pain. I love you."
She knew that she should run, that this man, whoever he was,
would end up killing her and there was nothing she could do to
stop him. If she stayed here. Certainly the police weren't going to
do anything. But no, she wasn't about to leave her mother.
She rose, leaned down, and kissed her mother's soft, pale cheek.
She lightly patted her mother's hair, so very thin now, her scalp



showing here and there. It was the drugs, a nurse had told her. It
happened. Such a beautiful woman, her mother had been, tall and
fair, her hair that unusual pale blond that had no other colors in it.
Her mother was still beautiful, but she was so still now, almost as if
she were already gone. No, Becca wouldn't leave her. The guy
would have to kill her to make her leave her mother.
She didn't realize she was crying again until a nurse pressed a
Kleenex into her hand. "Thank you," she said, not looking away
from her mother.
"Go home and get some sleep, Becca," the nurse said, her voice
quiet and calm. "I'll keep watch. Go get some sleep."
There's no one else in the world for me, Becca thought, as she walked
away from Lenox Hill Hospital. I'll be alone when Mom dies.
Her mother died that night. She just drifted away, the doctor
told her, no pain, no awareness of death. An easy passing. Ten minutes
after the call, the phone rang again.
This time she didn't pick it up. She put her mothers apartment on
the market the following day, spent the night in a hotel under an assumed
name, and made all the funeral arrangements from there. She
called her mother's friends to invite them to the small, private service.
A day and a half later, Becca threw the first clot of rich, dark
earth over her mother's coffin. She watched as the black dirt mixed
with the deep red roses on top of the coffin. She didn't cry, but all
of her mother's friends were quietly weeping. She accepted a hug
from each of them. It was still very hot in New York, too hot for
the middle of June.
When she returned to her hotel room the phone was ringing.
Without thinking, she picked it up.
"You tried to get away from me, Rebecca. I don't like that."
She'd had it. She'd been pushed too hard. Her mother was dead,
there was nothing to stay her hand. "I nearly caught you the other





day, at One Police Plaza, you pathetic coward. You jerk, did you
wonder what I was doing there? I was blowing the whistle on you,
you murderer. Yeah, I saw you, all right. You had on that ridiculous
baseball cap and that dark blue sweatshirt. Next time I'll get you
and then I'll shoot you right between your crazy eyes."
"It's you the cops think is crazy. I'm not even a blip on their
radar. Hey, I don't even exist." His voice grew deeper, harder. "Stop
sleeping with the governor or I'll kill him just like I did that stupid
old bag lady. I've told you that over and over but you haven't listened
to me. I know he's visited you in New York. Everyone
knows it. Stop sleeping with him."
She started laughing and couldn't seem to stop. She did only
when he began yelling at her, calling her a whore, a stupid bitch,
and more curses, some of them extraordinarily vicious.
She hiccuped. "Sleep with the governor? Are you nuts? He's
married. He has three children, two of them older than I am." And
then, because it no longer mattered, because he might not really
exist anyway, she said, "The governor sleeps with every woman he
can talk into that private room off his office. I'd have to take a
number. You want them all to stop sleeping with him? It'll keep
you busy until the next century and that's a very long time away."
"It's just you, Rebecca. You've got to stop sleeping with him."
"Listen to me, you stupid jerk. I would only sleep with the governor
if world peace were in the balance. Even then it would be a
very close call."
The creep actually sighed. "Don't lie, Rebecca. Just stop, do you
hear me?"
"I can't stop something I've never even done."
"It's a shame," he said, and for the first time, he hung up on her.
That night the governor was shot through the neck outside
the Hilton Hotel, where he was attending a fundraiser for cancer





research. He was lucky. There were more than a hundred doctors
around. They managed to save his life. It was reported that the bullet
was fired from a great distance, by a marksman with remarkable
skill. They had no leads as yet.
When she heard that, she said to the Superman cartoon character
playing soundlessly on the television, "He was supposed to go
to a fundraiser on endangered species."
That's when she ran. Her mother was dead and there was nothing
more holding her here.
To Maine, to find sanctuary.

Riptide, Maine

June 22

Becca said, "I'll take it."
The real estate broker, Rachel Ryan, beamed at her, then almost
immediately backpedaled. "Perhaps you're making this decision
too quickly, Ms. Powell. Would you like to think about this for a
bit? I will have everything cleaned, but the house is old and that includes
all the appliances and the bathrooms. It's furnished, of
course, but the furniture isn't all that remarkable. The house has
been empty for four years, since Mr. Marley's death."
"You told me all that, Mrs. Ryan. I see that it's an old house. I
still like it, it's charming. And it's quite large. I like a lot of space.
Also it's here at the end of the lane all by itself. I do like my privacy."
Now, that was an understatement but nonetheless the truth.
"A Mr. Marley lived here?"
"Mr. Jacob Marley. Yes, the same name as in A Christmas Carol.





He was eighty-seven years -when he passed away in his sleep. He
kept to himself for the last thirty years or so of his life. His daddy
started the town back in 1907, after several of his businesses in
Boston were burned to the ground one hot summer night. It was
said his enemies were responsible. Mr. Marley Senior wasn't a popular
man. He was one of those infamous robber barons. But he
wasn't stupid. He decided it was healthier to just leave Boston and
so he did, and came here. There was already a small fishing village
here, and he just took it over and renamed it."
Becca patted the woman's shoulder. "It's all right. I've thought
about it, Mrs. Ryan. I'll give you a money order since I don't have
a bank account here. Could it be cleaned today so I can move in
tomorrow afternoon?"
"It will be ready if I have to clean it myself. Actually, since it's
summer, I can round up a dozen high-schoolers and get them right
over here. Don't you worry about a thing. Oh yes, there's the most
adorable little boy who lives not far from here, over on Gum Shoe
Lane. I'm not really his aunt but that's what he calls me. His name
is Sam and I watched him come into this world. His mother was
my best friend and I--"
Becca raised her brow, listening politely, but evidently Rachel
Ryan was through talking.
"All right, Ms. Powell, I will see you in a couple of days. Call me
if there are any problems."
And it was done. Becca was the proud renter of a very old Victorian
jewel that featured eight bedrooms, three spacious bathrooms,
a kitchen that surely must have been a showplace before
1910, and a total often fireplaces. And as she'd told Rachel Ryan,
it was very private, at the end of Belladonna Drive, no prying
neighbors anywhere near, and that's what she wanted. The nearest





house was a good half mile away. The property was bordered on
three sides by thick maple and pine trees, and the view of the ocean
from the widow's walk -was spectacular.
She hummed when she moved in on Thursday afternoon. She
even managed to work up a sweat. Even though she wouldn't use
them, she cleaned the bedrooms just because she wanted to. She
wallowed in all the space. She never wanted to live in an apartment
again.
She'd bought a gun from a guy she met in a restaurant in Rock-land,
Maine. She'd taken a big chance, but it had, thank God,
worked out. The gun was a beauty--a Coonan .357 Magnum automatic,
and the guy had taken her just next door, where there was
a sports shop with an indoor range, and taught her how to shoot.
He'd then asked her to go to a motel with him. He was child's play
to deal with after the maniac in New York. All she'd had to do was
say no very firmly. No need to draw her new gun on the guy.
She gently laid the Coonan in the top drawer of her bedside
table, a very old mahogany piece with rusted hinges. As she closed
the drawer she realized that she hadn't cried when her mother
died. She hadn't cried at her funeral. But now, as she gently placed
a photograph of her mother on top of the bedside table, she felt the
tears roll down her cheeks. She stood there staring down at her
mother's picture, taken nearly twenty years before, showing a beautiful
young woman, so fair and fine-boned, laughing, hugging
Becca against her side. Becca couldn't remember where they were,
maybe in upstate New York. They'd stayed up there for a while
when Becca was six and seven years old. "Oh, Mom, I'm so sorry.
If only you hadn't locked your heart away with a dead man, maybe
there could have been another man to love, couldn't there? You had
so much to offer, so much love to give. Oh God, I miss you so
much."





She lay down on the bed, held a pillow against her chest, and
cried until there were no more tears. She got up and wiped the
light sheen of dust off the photo, then carefully set it down again.
"I'm safe now, Mom. I don't know what's going on, but at least I'm
safe for the time being. That man won't find me here. How could
he? I know no one followed me."
She realized, as she was speaking to her mother's photo, that she
also ached for the father she'd never known, Thomas Matlock, shot
and killed in Vietnam so long ago, when she was just a baby. A war
hero. But her mother hadn't forgotten, ever. And it was his name
that her mother had whispered before she'd fallen into the drug-induced
coma. "Thomas,Thomas."
He'd been dead for over twenty-five years. So long ago. A different
world, but the people were the same--both good and evil,
as always--mauling one another to get the lion's share of the spoils.
He'd seen her before he'd gone, her mother had told her, seen her
and hugged her and loved her. But Becca couldn't remember him.
She finished hanging up her clothes and arranging her toiletries
in the old-fashioned bathroom with its claw-footed bathtub. The
teenagers had even scrubbed between the claws. Good job.
There was a knock on the door. Becca dropped the towel she
was holding and froze.
Another knock.
It wasn't him. He had no idea where she was. There was no way
he could find her. It was probably the guy to check the one air-conditioning
unit in the living room window. Or the garbage man,
or--
"Don't be paranoid," she said aloud to the blue towel as she
picked it up and hung it on the very old wooden bar. "Do you also realize you've 
been talking out loud a whole lot recently? Another
thing, you don't sound particularly bright." But who cared if she





sang to the towel rack, she thought, as she walked down the old
creaking stairs to the front entrance hall.
She could only stare at the tall man who stood in the doorway.
It was Tyler, the boy she'd known in college. She'd been one of his
few friends. He'd been a geek loner and hadn't managed to make
more than a few non-geek friends. Only he wasn't a geek anymore.
No more heavy-rimmed glasses and pen protector on his
shirt pocket. No more stooped shoulders and pants worn too high,
his ankles showing his white socks. He was wearing tight jeans that
fit him very well indeed, his hair was long, and his shoulders were
wide enough to make a woman blink. He was buff, in very good
shape. Yes, he was a good-looking man. It was amazing. She had to
blink at him a couple of times to get her bearings.
"Tyler? Tyler McBride? Is it really you? I'm sorry I'm gawking.
You look so very different, but it's still you. Actually, to be perfectly
honest about this, you're very sexy."
He gave her a huge grin and gripped her hands between his.
"Becca Matlock, it's good to see you. I came over to see my new
neighbor, never dreaming it could be you. Is Powell your married
name? I can't imagine why you're here of all places, the end of the
world. But whatever. Welcome to Riptide."





Chapter 4

She laughed and squeezed his hands and said, "Goodness, you're
not a nerd anymore. Listen,Tyler, it's because of you that I'm here.
I would have called you. I just haven't gotten to it yet. Can I really
be so lucky to have you for a neighbor?"
He gave her a very nice smile and just stood there, waiting. Had
he had braces? She couldn't remember. It didn't matter, he had
gorgeous teeth now. What a difference. Incredible.
"Oh, yes, everyone's a neighbor in Riptide, but yes, I live just
one street over, on Gum Shoe Lane."
She let go of his hands although she didn't want to, and stepped
back. "Do come in. Everything, including the furnishings, is ancient,
but there aren't any springs sticking up in the sofa, and it's
fairly comfortable. Mrs. Ryan sent an army of teenagers here to
clean the place. They did a pretty decent job. Come in,Tyler, come
in."
She managed to make two cups of tea on the ancient stove while Tyler sat at the 
kitchen table watching her. "What do you mean
you came here because of me?"
She dipped a tea bag in and out of the cups of hot water. "I remembered
your talking about your hometown, Riptide. You called
it your haven." She paused a moment and stared down into her
teacup. "I'll never forget your saying that Riptide was in the boondocks,
near nothing at all, so private you nearly forgot that you
Were even here. Just out on the edge of the world, nearly falling





into the ocean, and nobody knew where it was, or cared. You also
said that Riptide was the place where the sun first rose in the U.S.
You said for those moments, the sky was an orange ball and the water
was a cauldron of fire."
"I said that? I didn't know I was such a poet."
"That's nearly word for word, and, as I told you, that's why I
came. Goodness, I can't get over how you've changed,Tyler."
"Everyone changes, Becca. Even you. You're prettier now than
you were back in college." He frowned a moment, as if trying to remember.
"Your hair's darker and I don't remember you having
brown eyes or wearing glasses, but otherwise, I'd know you any-where."Well
damn, she thought, that wasn't good. She pushed the
glasses higher on her nose.
He accepted the cup of tea, not speaking until she sat down at
the table across from him. Then he smiled at her and said, "Why do
you need a haven?"
What to tell him?
That the governor had been shot in the neck because of her?
No, no, she couldn't feel responsible. That madman shot the governor.
She stalled.
He backed off and said, "You went to New York, didn't you? You
were a writer, I remember. What were you doing in New York?"
"I was writing speeches," she said easily, "for bigwigs in various
companies. I can't believe you remember that I went to New
York."
"I remember nearly everything about people I like. Why do you
need a haven? No, wait, if it isn't any of my business, forget it. It's
just that I'm worried about you."
She wasn't a very good liar, but she had to try. "No, it's okay. I'm
getting away from a very bad relationship."
"Your husband?"





No choice. "Yes, my husband. He's very possessive. I wanted out
and he didn't want to let me go. I thought of Riptide and what
you'd said." She didn't want to tell him about her mother dying. To
mix that with a lie was just too much. She managed to shrug and
raise her teacup to click it against his. "Thanks, Tyler, for being at
Dartmouth and talking about your hometown to me."
"I'm glad you're here," he said, his eyes serious upon her face. "If
your husband is after you, how do you know he didn't follow you
to the airport? I know New York traffic is nuts, but it's not all that
hard to follow someone, if you really want to."
"It's a good thing I've read a lot of spy novels and seen lots of police
shows." She told him how she'd changed taxis three times on
the way to Kennedy. "When I got out at the United terminal, I was
sure no one had followed me. My last driver was one of a vanishing
breed--a native New Yorker cabbie. He knew Queens as well
as he knew his ex-wife's lover, he told me. No one followed me, he
was sure of it. I flew to Boston, then on to Portland, and bought
myself a used Toyota from Big Frank's. I drove up here to your
haven, and he'll never find me."
She had no idea whether or not he believed her. Well, all that
about her escape from New York was the truth. She'd only lied
about who she was running from.
"I sure hope you're right. But I plan to keep an eye on you,
Becca Powell."
She managed to get him to talk about himself. He told her he
was a computer consultant, a troubleshooter of sorts, and he designed
software programs for major accounting and brokerage
firms, "to track clients and money and how the two come together.
I'm successful, Becca, and it feels good. You know, you were the
only girl in college who didn't look at me and giggle at what a jerk
I was. You called me a nerd and a geek, but that was okay, it was the





truth. Do you know we've got a gym in Riptide? I'm there three
days a week. I find that if I don't work out regularly, I get all skinny
again, lose my energy, and want to wear a pocket protector."
"You're sure not skinny now, Tyler."
"No," he said, grinning at her, "I'm not."
When she showed him out some fifteen minutes later, she wondered
again if he'd believed her reason for coming to Riptide. He
was a nice guy; she'd hated to lie to him. She was glad he was here.
She wasn't completely alone. She watched him get into his Jeep.
He looked up and waved at her, then executed a sharp U-turn. He
lived just one street over, on Gum Shoe Lane, but it was a good distance
away.
Her house. That felt good. She slowly closed the front door and
turned to look at her ancient furnishings. Her mother, the antiques
nut, would have shuddered. When Marley Senior had furnished
this house, she wondered if he'd ordered anything out of the turn-of-the-century
Sears catalogue.
Now that she was settled in, her two suitcases emptied and
tucked in the back of her bedroom closet, she decided to explore
the town. She locked up the house and got into her car and drove
down West Hemlock past one of Riptide's half-dozen white-spired
churches. It was a charming town, isolated, and unspoiled. Just being
in such a quaint village made her feel safe.
When she turned her Toyota onto Poison Oak Circle ten minutes
later, she spotted the Food Fort. Everyone there was friendly,
including the produce woman, who handed her the best head of roaine
lettuce in the bin. Since it was a fishing town, there was lots
of fresh fish available, mainly lobster. Becca was eager to give everything
a try.
Her evening was peaceful. She spent the twilight time leaning
over the railing of the widow's walk, staring out at the ocean. The





water was calm; waves crested gently against pine-covered rocks
that she could barely make out from where she stood. But Marley
Senior had named the town Riptide. Was there a vicious tide that
pulled people out to sea? She'd have to ask. It was a scary thought.
She'd been caught in a riptide once when she was about ten years
old. A lifeguard the size of Godzilla had managed to save her,
telling her to swim parallel to shore until she was free of the strong
current.
She wasn't being sucked out now, dragged under to die a horrible
death. She'd escaped, just as she had when she was ten. Only
this time she'd saved herself. Like the ocean on this beautiful
evening, her life was calm again. She was safe.
She looked to the left at the dozen or so fishing boats coming
back into the harbor. Since it was summer, some tourists were out
in their white-sailed boats, enjoying the last bit of the day. The
deep scent of brine settled around her. She quite liked it. Yes, she
was going to be safe here.
The phone installers were coming the next day. She'd changed
her mind at least a dozen times as to whether or not she would
even have a phone. In the end, she'd decided in favor of getting
connected, perhaps as a gesture of confidence that her stalker
would fail to track her down.
The next morning just after nine o'clock, Tyler appeared again
at her door, a little boy at his side, holding his hand.
"Hi, Becca. This is my son, Sam."
His son? Becca looked down at the solemn little face looking up
at her. He didn't look a thing like Tyler. He was sturdy, compact,
with a head of very dark hair and eyes a beautiful light blue. Sort
of like hers, she thought, and smiled. He looked all boy. He didn't
seem happy to be there. She opened the screen door and stood
back. "Do come in,Tyler, Sam."





He was so wary, she thought. Distrustful. Or was it more than
that? Was there something wrong with this precious little boy? Was
this Rachel Ryan's Sam, the little boy she obviously adored? She
smiled down at him, then slowly came down on her knees. "I'm
Becca. It's a pleasure to meet you, Sam." She held out her hand.
"Sam, say hello to Becca."
There was a slight edge to his voice. Why was that? She said
quickly, "It's all right, Tyler. Sam can do what he wants. I don't
think I was all that talkative, either, when I was his age."
"It's not that,"Tyler said, frowning down at his son.
The child just stared up at her, unmoving, so very still. She didn't
stop smiling. "Would you like a glass of lemonade, Sam? Mine's just
about the best east of the Rockies."
"All right." His voice was small and wary. Thank goodness she'd
bought some cookies. Even wary little boys had to like cookies.
She sat him at the kitchen table, saying, "Do you have an aunt
Rachel, Sam?"
"Rachel," Sam repeated, and he gave her a huge smile. "My aunt
Rachel."
Sam said nothing more after that, but he ate three cookies and
drank nearly two glasses of lemonade. Then he wiped the back of
his hand over his mouth. All boy, she thought, but what was wrong?
Why didn't he speak? And he looked so blank, as if his mind wasn't
focused on the here and now.
"Do come back, Sam. I'll make sure there are always cookies
here for you."
"When?" Sam said.
"Tomorrow," she said, giving him a big grin. "I'll be here all
morning."
"What are you doing tomorrow afternoon?" Tyler said as he
took his son's small hand.





"I'm going to The Riptide Independent to see if they need a reporter."
"Then you'll be seeing Bernie Bradstreet, he's the owner and
the main contributor. A really nice older guy who has his finger in
every pie in this town. He'll probably be very impressed with you.
Hey, it seems like you're going to stay for a while."
"Yes, I just might."
"Ah, maybe I'll see you later when Sam's with his aunt Rachel.
She's not really his aunt, she's just a really good friend and his babysitter."





Chapter 5

Becca pulled the brush through her brown hair. It was long now,
to her shoulders. She pulled it back in a ponytail, then stared at
herself in the mirror. She hadn't worn a ponytail since she was thirteen
years old. Then she hadn't known -what evil was. No, don't
think about him. He would never find her. She looked back at herself.
The glasses changed her looks quite a bit, as did her darkened
eyebrows.
She looked over at her small portable television and knew that
during the news they'd soon show another photo of her. They did.
It was from her driver's license. She was grateful they hadn't gotten
a more up-to-date shot. She didn't much resemble that photo, except
maybe on an excruciatingly bad day. With the slight alterations
she'd made to her looks just before coming to Riptide, she
felt reasonably sure that none of the townspeople would find her
out. Only Tyler would make the connection, and she felt she could
trust him. Now that her story was being flashed on CNN, she'd
have to tell him the truth. She should have told him right away, but
she couldn't, just couldn't, not then, not at first. Now there was no
choice.
But Tyler beat her to the punch. Not fifteen minutes after her
story aired, her doorbell rang.
"You lied to me." It was Tyler. He stood on the front porch, stiff
all over, so angry he nearly stuttered.





"Yes, I know. I'm sorry, Tyler. Please come in. I need to throw
myself on your mercy."
She told him the whole story, and was amazed at how relieved
she was to confide in him. "I still don't know why the cops didn't
believe me. But I'm not hiding because of them. I'm hiding because
of the madman who's been terrorizing me. Maybe he wants
to kill me now, I don't know." She kept shaking her head, saying
over and over, "I can't believe he actually shot the governor. He
really shot him."
"The cops could protect you." Tyler wasn't standing so stiffly
now, thank God, and his eyes had calmed. Just a minute before
they'd been flat and very dark.
"Yes, probably, but they would have to believe I was in danger
first. They would have to believe there really was a stalker. There's
the rub."
Tyler fell silent. He pulled a small wooden carving of a pyramid
out of his pants pocket and began fiddling with it. "This isn't good,
Becca."
"No. Is that Ramses the Second's tomb?"
"What? Oh this. No, I won it in a geometry competition when
I was a senior in high school. You changed your name to Powell."
"Yes. You're the only one who knows the truth, about everything.
Do you think you can keep it quiet?"
"You're not married, then?"
She shook her head. "No. Also, I would have run sooner but I
couldn't leave my mother. She was dying of cancer. After she died,
there was nothing holding me back."
"I'm very sorry, Becca. My mom died when I was sixteen. I remember
what it was like."
"Thank you." She wasn't going to cry, she wasn't. She looked
toward an ancient humidor that sat in the corner and jumped to





her feet. She just realized what she'd done. "Oh God, I can't believe
this. I'm a jerk. This is a big mistake. Listen,Tyler, you've got to forget
all of this. I don't know what's going to happen. I don't want
you in harm's way. And I just thought of Sam. I can't take a chance
on anything happening to him. It's too risky. Whoever this maniac
is, he'll do anything, I'm convinced of it. Then there's the cops. I
don't want them to arrest you for keeping quiet about me. I'll just
go somewhere else that isn't on the map. Jesus, I'm so sorry I spilled
my guts to you."
He stood, taller than she by a good five inches. No more anger
in him, just determination. It calmed her. "Forget it. It's a done
deal. I'm now up to my neck in this with you. Don't worry, Becca.
I don't think they'll ever find you." He paused a moment and
looked down at the pyramid lying in the palm of his left hand.
"Actually, I've already told a few folks in town that my old college
friend Becca Powell has come to live here. Even if someone thinks
you look like this Rebecca Matlock they saw on TV, they won't
make the connection. I've already vouched for you, and that makes
a difference. Also those glasses really alter your looks. You don't
wear them usually, do you? And your eyes aren't really brown."
"You're right on both counts. I'm wearing brown contacts. The
glasses are just window dressing; they're not prescription, just plain
glass. I also darkened my hair and my eyebrows."
He nodded, then suddenly he grinned. "Yeah. I remember you
as a blonde. All the guys wanted to go out with you, but you
weren't really interested."
"I was only a freshman, too young to know what I wanted, particularly
in guys."
"I remember there were some bets in the frat houses on who
would get you in the sack first."
"I never heard about that." She shook her head, wanting to





laugh and surprised by it. "Guys are immensely focused, aren't
they?"
"Oh, yeah. I was, too, only it never did me any good, at least not
then. I remember wishing somehow that it would be me you'd go
out with, but I was too chicken ever to ask. Now, we'll get through
this, Becca. You're not alone anymore."
She couldn't believe he'd do this for her. She threw her arms
around him and hugged him tight. "Thank you, Tyler. Thank you
very much." She felt his arms tighten around her back. She felt safe
for the first time in a very long time. No, not safe. She didn't feel
alone anymore. That was it.
When she finally stepped back, he said, "It might even help if you
go out with me, be seen with me around town. You know, lull any
suspicions, if there are any. You'll fit in if you're seen with me, since
I'm a native. I'll always call you Becca, too. That's a very different
name from Rebecca. I believe that's the only name the media has
used."
"To the best of my knowledge it is."
Tyler slid the wooden pyramid back into his jeans pocket and
hugged her once more. He said against her left ear, "I wish you'd
trusted me right away, but I understand. I think it'll be over soon.
A three-day news hit and then it's gone."
As she pulled away from him, she devoutly prayed he was right.
But how could it be? The man had tried to murder the governor
of New York. He was still at large. They couldn't just forget about
it. The thing was, there was simply nothing more she could tell the
authorities. What if she called Detective Morales and told him she
didn't know anything more, that she'd already told them everything?
Immediately after Tyler left, she went back into the living
room and picked up the phone before she could second-guess herself.
She had to try to make him believe her. She didn't know the





sophistication of their tracing equipment. Well, she'd just have to
get it over with, quickly, before they could get a lock on her location.
She got through very quickly to Morales, which had to be a
miracle in itself. "Detective Morales, this is Becca Matlock. I want
you to listen to me now. I'm well hidden. No one's going to find
me, nor is there any reason for anyone to find me. I'm not hiding
from you, I'm hiding from the stalker who terrorized me and then
shot the governor. You do believe me now, don't you? After all, I'm
sure not the one who shot him."
"Look, Ms. Matlock, why don't you come in and let's talk about
it? Nothing's for sure right now, but we need you here. We have a
lead you could help us with--"
She unclenched her teeth and spoke very slowly. "I can't tell you
anything more than I already did. I told you the truth. I still don't
have any idea why none of you ever believed me, but it was the
truth, all of it. I can't help you with any so-called lead. Oh, that's a
lie, isn't it? Anything to get me back. But why?" She paused for a
moment. Time was passing, he didn't answer her. She said, "Listen,
you still don't believe me, do you? You believe I shot the governor?"
"Not you yourself, no. Ms. Matlock--Rebecca--let's talk about
it. We can all sit down and work this out. If you don't want to
come back to New York, I can come wherever you are to talk."
"I don't think so. Now, I don't want you to be able to trace this
call. I will say it once more:The madman who shot the governor is
out there and I've told you everything I know about him. Everything.
I never lied to you. Never. Goodbye."
"Ms. Matlock, wait--"
She hung up the phone, aware that her heart was pounding deep
and hard. She'd done her duty. There was nothing more she could
do to help them.
Why didn't they believe her?





She had dinner that night with Tyler McBride at Pollyanna's
Restaurant nearly at the end of West Hemlock, on a small curved
cul-de-sac called Black Cabbage Court.
She said over their appetizer, "What's with the names in this
town?"
He laughed as he speared a cold shrimp, dipped it in horseradish,
and forked it into his mouth. "Are you ready for this? Okay, there
was this rumor that began floating around in 1912 that Jacob
Marley Senior found out his wife was sleeping with the local dry-goods
merchant. He was so upset that he poisoned her, and
that's why he renamed all the central streets after plants that are
toxic."
"That's amazing. Any proof of it?"
"Nope, but hey, it makes for a good tale. Maybe he was a closet
Borgia, who knows? I think my favorite is Foxglove Avenue. It
runs parallel to West Hemlock."
"What are some more?"
"There's Venus Fly Trap Boulevard, which runs parallel to West
Hemlock to the north, Night Shade Alley, that's where my gym is,
and Poison Ivy Lane, just to the south of us."
"Wait, isn't the Food Fort on Poison Oak Circle?"
"Yes. Since I live outside the center of town, it's just Gum Shoe
Lane for the likes of me. However, since you're in Marley's house,
you get his piece de resistance--Belladonna Drive. Even better,
you're not in a big house next to all the peasants, no, you're out
there all by yourself, surrounded by all those beautiful trees and just
that narrow driveway to get to you."
She was laughing as she said, "Why did he name his own street
Belladonna Way?"
"That's supposedly what Marley Senior used to poison his unfaithful
wife. Pollyanna's Restaurant is on Black Cabbage Court.





That's the name for this plant in Indonesia that'll kill you with a
single lick. It evidently has this sugary-sweet smell and taste, and
that's how it gets its victims."
She was laughing when a man came up to their table and said,
"Hello,Tyler. Who's this?"
Becca looked up at the older man, who had lots of white hair, a
good-sized belly, and a big smile. He said, frowning down at her,
"Hey, you look familiar, you--"
"I've known Becca for nearly ten years, Bernie. We were at
Dartmouth together. She got tired of the rat race in New York City
and decided to move here. She's a journalist. You want to hire her
for the Independent?"
She hadn't gone to see Bernie Bradstreet for the simple reason
that it had dawned on her that she didn't have any legitimate ID
and now her face was plastered all over TV. She just sat there, smiling
stupidly, not knowing what to say. She'd forgotten to say anything
to Tyler. She was a fool.
Very sharp gray eyes focused on her. He held out his hand, with
large, blunt fingers. "I'm Bernie Bradstreet."
"Becca Powell."
"You write what? Crime coverage? Weddings? Local charities?
Obits?"
"None of those things. I mainly write human interest articles
about strange and wonderful things that are all around us. I try to
amuse people and perhaps give them a different perspective on
things. I'm a luxury for a newspaper, Mr. Bradstreet, not a necessity.
I'm the last sort of frill a small newspaper needs."
She'd whetted his appetite. Just great. He said, a brow arched,
"Like what, Ms. Powell?"
"Why feta cheese and glazed pecans taste so delicious in a
spinach salad."





"I suppose you went into all sorts of folklore, nutrition information,
stuff like that?"
"That's right. For example, with the feta, pecans, and spinach, it
all has to do with a chemical reaction that zings the taste buds."
Bernie Bradstreet looked too interested. She drew back, lowered
her eyes to the napkin Tyler had tossed beside his plate.
Tyler said, "Dessert, Becca?"
She said, grinning up at Mr. Bradstreet, "Yep, that's what I am,
dessert for a newspaper. I'm low on a priority list, very low."
"No," Tyler said. "I mean real dessert. Coffee and dessert for
you, Bernie?"
Bernie couldn't stay. His wife was at the far table with one of
their grandkids. "They make special hot dogs for kids here," he
said; then, "Why don't you drop by with some of the articles you've
written, Ms. Powell? Actually, bring me the feta cheese article."
"I didn't bring any of them with me, sir, sorry."
Tyler gave her a look but didn't say anything. But his eyes had
widened just a bit. He'd finally realized that this was the last thing she
needed. Good, she thought, she was out of it. But no, he just ruminated
awhile, looking at her, then said, "All right, write me up one--
whatever topic you like--not over five hundred words, and we'll see.
She nodded, wishing the guy was more hard-nosed. She
watched him walk back to his table, stopping at three more tables
on the way. She looked at Tyler and raised her hand to stop him.
"No, I can't work for him. I don't have any ID I can use. I doubt
he'd want to pay me in cash."
"Damn," he said. "I didn't think of that. I just finally realized that
the more he saw you, he just might put you together with the Rebecca
on TV."
"It's okay. I'll write up an article or two and give them to him,





tell him to see how the readers like them, then we can talk. He
shouldn't get suspicious then. I don't need the money. I'm not going
to starve. It's just that I do need something to keep my mind
busy."
"Are you any good with computers?"
"I guess I'm what you'd call a functional genius, but a technological
moron."
"Too bad. Since I'm a small-time consultant, I don't need any
frills, either."
The night was clear and warm, with just a slight breeze off the
Atlantic. The stars were brilliant overhead. Becca stood by Tyler's
Jeep, staring up at the sky. "Nothing like this in New York City. I
could get used to this real fast, Tyler. Too bad you can barely hear
the ocean from here. The briny smell is fainter, too."
"Yeah, I found I missed it so much I had to move back, and so I
did just a couple of years after I finished my master's degree. But
you know, more and more young people leave and stay gone. I
wonder if Riptide will still be here in another twenty years or so."
"There are lots of tourists to boost the economy, aren't there?"
"Yes, but the entire flavor of the town has changed over the past
twenty, thirty years. I guess that's progress, huh?" He paused a moment,
staring up at the Milky Way. "After Ann went away, I thought
I wanted to leave Riptide and never come back--you know, all the
memories--but I realized that all of Sam's friends are here, all the
people who knew Ann are here, and memories aren't bad. I can
work anywhere, and so I stayed. I haven't regretted it. I'm glad
you're here, Becca. Things will work out, you'll see. The only thing
is winter. It's not much fun here in January."
"It's not much fun in New York, either. We'll see what's happening
by January. I don't understand about your wife, Tyler. Did she
die?"





She wanted to take it back at the look of pain that etched lines
around his mouth, made his eyes look blank and dead. "I'm sorry,
I shouldn't have asked."
"No, it's all right. Of course you're curious. Everyone else in
town is."
"What do you mean?"
"My wife didn't die. She just up and left me. She was here one
day, gone the next. No word, no message, nothing at all. That was
fifteen months, two weeks, and three days ago. She's listed as a
Missing Person."
"I'm very sorry,Tyler."
"Yeah, so am I. So is her son." He shrugged. "We're getting by.
It gets better as the time passes."
What an odd way to put it. Wasn't Sam his son, too?
"The townspeople are like folk everywhere. They don't want to believe that Ann 
just up and left Riptide. They'd rather think I did
her in."
"That's ridiculous."
"I agree. Now, Becca, don't worry. Things will get better. I'm an
expert at things eventually getting better, particularly when they
can't possibly get any worse."
She sure hoped he was right. They made a date to go to the gym
together the following day. His wife had just walked out--on him
and on her own little boy? That had to be incredibly tough for both
of them. Why did folks want to believe he'd kill her?
Three nights later, on June 26, Becca was watching TV, not to
see if she was still a footnote in Governor Bledsoe's ongoing story,
but to check in on the weather again. The most violent storm to
hit the Maine coast in nearly fifteen years was surging relentlessly
toward them, bringing with it forecasts of fifty-mile-per-hour
winds, torrential rains, and the probability of immense property





damage. Everyone was warned to go to shelters, which Becca considered
doing for about three minutes. No, she wasn't about to
leave. Being with other people up close and personal as one would
be in a shelter would put her at greater risk of being recognized.
She didn't think many of the Mainers would even consider leaving
their homes. They were incredibly tough, only nodding philosophically
when discussing the incoming storm.
Becca paced the widow's walk as the storm approached, watching
the skies, the now disappearing stars as clouds blanketed them,
the boats in the harbor, bobbing about in the rising waves. Then
the winds suddenly increased and tore through the trees. The air
turned as cold as a morning in January. When the rain finally hit,
crashing down hard and fast, she was driven inside. It was just before
ten o'clock at night.
The lights flickered. Becca had bought candles and matches and
she set them on her bedside table. She paused to listen as the storm
bludgeoned the shoreline. She heard a newscaster predict great destruction
of lobster boats and pleasure craft if they hadn't been
thoroughly secured. She could imagine what the harbor looked
like now, waves frothing high, whipping against the sides of the
boats, probably sending water crashing over the sides.
She shivered as she pulled on a sweater and snuggled down into
her bed. She kept the TV on nonstop weather coverage and looked
at the light show outside her bedroom window. The thunder was
deafening. The house rattled with the force of it.
The meteorologist on channel 7 said that the winds were
strengthening, nearly up to sixty miles per hour now. He said
people should go to official shelters away from the coast for protection.
Oddly, he sounded excited. Becca still had no intention of
leaving. This old house had doubtless seen its share of comparably
violent storms in its hundred-year history just as the Piper Light




house had up the road. Both had survived. Both would survive another
storm, she didn't doubt that, although she couldn't help but
cringe as the house groaned and creaked.
Suddenly, with no warning, thunder boomed, lightning streaked
through the sky, and the lights went out.





Chapter 6

It wasn't dark for long. The lightning and thunder kept the sky lit
up for a good five minutes, without a break. She could easily read
her clock. It was just after one in the morning. She finally couldn't
stand it any longer and reached for the phone, to call Tyler, but the
line was dead. She stared at the receiver, then looked out her bedroom
window as a huge streak of lightning lit up the sky. She felt
the thunder deep in her eardrums as it boomed, almost simultaneous
with the flash. It would be all right. It was only a storm.
Storms in Maine were just another part of life, like the hordes of
mosquitoes that occasionally blanketed a town. This was nothing
to get alarmed about.
As Becca lay in the darkness, looking out the bedroom window,
she swore that the winds were growing even stronger as they ravaged
the land. She felt the house literally shudder around her. It
shook so hard, she briefly worried that it would pull free of its
foundation. A loud wrenching sound had her bolt upright in bed.
No, it wasn't anything, really. Had she come here just to be killed
in a ferocious summer storm? She had wished earlier that she was
closer to the ocean, listening to the waves hurling themselves
against the high cliffs covered with pine trees bowed and bent from
the winter winds, or beating against the clustering speared black
rocks that lined the narrow cluttered beach at the end of Black
Lane, a narrow, snaking little dirt road that went all the way to the
ocean.





But not now. It was just as well that crashing angry waves
weren't added to the mix. She watched the lightning continue to
tear through the sky, making it bright as day for long moments at a
time. She felt the scoring of the thunder to her toes. It was impressive,
utterly dramatic, and she was getting scared.
Finally she couldn't stand it any longer. She lit the three precious
candles, stuck them in the bottom of coffee mugs, and picked up
the Steve Martini thriller she'd been reading until the storm had
really gotten serious.
Was the storm easing up? She read a few words, then realized
that she couldn't remember the story line. This wasn't good. She
put the novel back on her nightstand and picked up the New York
Times, carried only by a small tobacco shop off Poison Ivy Lane.
She didn't want to read about the attempted assassination, but she
did, naturally. Page after page was devoted to the governor's attempted
murder. She was mentioned too many times.
Thunder rolled loud and deep over the house as she read: There
is a manhunt for Rebecca Matlock, former speech writer for the governor,
who, the FBI says, has information about the attempt on the governor's life.
Former speech writer now, was she? Well, since she'd left without
a word or any warning, she supposed that was fair enough.
It was nearly two o'clock in the morning.
Suddenly, with no warning at all, the wind gave a howl that
made the hair bristle on the back of her neck and set her teeth on
edge. A flash of lightning exploded, filling the sky with a bluish
light, and a crack of thunder seemed to lift the house right into the
air. She nearly bit her tongue as she stared out her bedroom window.
She watched the proud hemlock weave once, then heard a
loud snap. The old tree wavered a moment, then went crashing to
the ground. It didn't hit the house, thank God, but some upper
branches crashed into the window, loud and so scary that she leapt





from the bed and ran to the closet. She crouched between a yellow
knit top and a pair of blue jeans, waiting, waiting, but there was
nothing more. What had happened was over with. She walked
slowly back into the bedroom. Tree branches were still quivering as
they settled just above a pale blue rag rug on the floor. The window
was shattered, rain slithered in around the beautiful green
leaves, dripping onto the floor. She stood there, staring at the huge
tree branch in her bedroom, listening to another loud belt of thunder,
and thought enough is enough. She didn't want to be alone,
not anymore.
She dressed and ran downstairs. She had to find something to
block up the window. But there wasn't anything except half a
dozen dish towels with lighthouses on them. She ended up stuffing
all her pillows around the tree branch. It worked.
She closed the front door behind her and stepped into the howling
wind. She was wet clear through before she'd taken three
breaths. No hope for it. She ran through the heavy rain to the Toyota
and fumbled with the lock even as her hair was plastered to her
head. Finally she got the door open and climbed in behind the
wheel. When she turned the key in the ignition, the car growled at
her, then stopped. She didn't want to flood it so she didn't turn the
ignition again. No, give it a rest for a moment. Again, finally, she
turned the key, and Lord be praised, the engine turned over, started.
Tyler's house was just about a half-mile down the road, the first street
to the right, Gum Shoe Lane.
At a loud crack of thunder, she looked back at Jacob Marley's
house. It looked like an old Gothic manor in the English countryside,
hunkered down in the rain filled with lost and ancient spirits.
It looked menacing even without billowing fog to shadow it in
more gloom. A sharp lightning flash streaked down like a silver
knife. The house seemed to shudder, as if from a mortal wound. It




looked like the gods wanted to rip it apart. She was very glad she
was leaving. Maybe Jacob Marley Senior really had poisoned his
wife and God was just now getting around to some punishment.
"Thanks a lot for waiting until I was here," she yelled heavenward.
She waved her fist. "I come here and you decide, finally, to mete
out divine justice. You're a little bloody late!"
The huge hemlock that could have so easily smashed right into
the side of the house lay on its side nearly parallel to the west wall.
That one very full and long branch that had crashed through her
bedroom window looked like a hand that had managed to reach
into the house. She shuddered at the image. Everything suddenly
seemed alive and malevolent, closing in on her, like the man who
had called her and stalked her and murdered that old woman and
shot the governor. He was near, she felt him.
Just stop it. She drove very slowly down the long narrow drive,
no choice there. Debris filled the road, wind bent trees nearly to
the ground. The boughs glanced off her windshield. Branches
whipped toward her, rain hammered against the windshield,
pounded against the car, making her wonder if she'd come to
Maine only to be done in by a wretched storm. She had to get out
of the car twice to pull fallen branches out of the way. The wind
and rain slammed hard into her, making it impossible to stand
straight and nearly impossible to walk. She knew there had to be
dents in the car fenders. The insurance company was going to love
this. Oh dear, she'd forgotten, she didn't have any insurance. That
required being a real person with real ID.
Suddenly headlights cut through the thick, swirling sheets of
rain, not twenty feet from her. They were coming toward her, fast,
too fast. Damnation, to get killed on Belladonna Way. There had to
be some irony in that, but she couldn't appreciate it right then.





She'd come to hide herself and be safe, a tree branch came into her
bedroom, and now she was going to die because she couldn't bear
to stay in that old house, knowing it would collapse on her, swallow
her alive. She smashed down on the horn, jerked the steering
wheel to the left, but these headlights kept coming inexorably, relentlessly
toward her, so fast, so very fast. She threw the car into reverse
but knew that was no good. There was so much debris
behind her that it was bound to stall her out. She slammed on the
brakes and turned off the engine. She jumped out of the car and
ran to the side of the road, feeling those damned headlights crawl
over her, so close she wondered if the stalker hadn't found her and
was now going to kill her. Why had she ever left the house? So
there was a tree branch in her bedroom dripping on a rag rug. It
was still safe, but not out here, in the middle of a wind that was
whirling around her like a mad dervish, ready to hurl her into the
air, and a car that was coming after her, a madman at the wheel.
Then, suddenly, miraculously, the headlights stopped about eight
feet from her car. Rain and lightning battered down, blurring the
headlights, turning them a sickly yellow. She stood there, the wind
beating at her, breathing in hard, soaked to her bones, waiting. Who
was going to get out of that car? Could he see her, huddled next to
some trees that were nearly folding themselves around her from the
force of the wind? Did he want to kill her with his own hands?
Why? Why?
It was Tyler McBride and he was yelling, "Becca! For God's sake,
is that you?" He had a flashlight and he pinned her with it, the light
diffused from all the rain, pale, blue-rimmed, and it was right in her
eyes. She brought up her hand.
She opened her mouth to yell back at him and nearly drowned.
She ran to him and clutched his arms. "It's me," she said, "it's me. I





was coining to your house. A tree branch crashed through the bedroom
window and it sounded like the house was going to collapse."
If he wanted to smack her because she was teetering on the edge
of hysteria, he didn't let on, just gripped her shoulders in his big
wet hands and said very slowly, very calmly, "I thought I saw some
car lights but I couldn't be sure. All I thought about was getting to
you. It's okay. That old house won't fall down. There's nothing to
be afraid of. Now, follow me back home. I left Sam alone. He's
asleep but I can't count on him staying that way. I don't want him
to wake up and be scared."
She got herself together. She wasn't helpless, not like Sam was.
The wind tore at their clothes, the rain was coming down so hard
it hurt where it struck. Her jeans felt stiff and hard and heavy. But
she didn't care. She wasn't alone. Tyler wasn't the crazy man from
New York. She took a deep breath and -watched as he drove at a
snail's pace back to his house on Gum Shoe Lane. It took another
ten minutes to get to the small clapboard house that sat back in a
lovely lawn that was planted heavily with spruce and hemlock.
She jumped out of the car and yelled as she ran to the front door,
"Gum Shoe, what a wonderful name." She began to laugh. "Gum
Shoe Lane!"
"It's okay, Becca, we're home now. We made it. Jesus, this is one
of the worst storms I can remember. As bad as the one back in '78,
they said on the radio. I remember that one, I was a little kid and it
scared me shitless. I've got to say that your timing is wild, Becca,
coming to Riptide just before this mother of all storms hits." He
gave her another look, then added, slowly, his voice calm and low,
"It's sort of like the Mancini virus that came along last year and
crashed every computer in this small software company called
Tiffany's. They called me in to fix it. That was a job, I'll tell you."





Becca stood dripping in the small entrance hall, staring at him.
He was trying to talk her down and doing a good job of it. "Computer
humor," she said, and laughed after him when he fetched
some towels from the bathroom. A slash of lightning came through
the window and lit up the pile of newspapers on the floor beside
the sofa. "I'm okay," she said when Tyler began to lightly rub his
palm over her wet back. He drew back, smiling down at her. "I
know. You're tough."
Sam "was still asleep, curled on his side, his left hand under his
cheek. The world was exploding not ten feet away and Sam was
probably dreaming about his morning cartoons. She pulled the
blanket over him, paused a moment, and said quietly to Tyler, who
was standing just behind her, "He is precious."
"Yes," he said.
She wanted to ask him why Sam didn't talk much, was so very
wary, but she heard something in his voice that made her go still and
keep her question to herself. There was anger there, bitterness. Because
his wife had left him? Walked away without a word? With not
a single regret? Well, it made sense to her. Her own mother had left
her, and she felt sick with rage at being left alone. Not her mother's
fault, of course, but the pain of it. She looked down at Sam one last
time, then turned and left the small bedroom,Tyler on her heels. He
gave her one of his wife's robes, pink and thick and on the tatty side,
well worn, and she wondered what sort of woman Ann McBride had
been. Why hadn't she taken her robe? She couldn't ask Tyler now. The
robe fit her very well. It was warm, comfy. She and Ann McBride
were of a size.
They drank coffee heated on a Coleman stove Tyler got out of
the basement. It was the best coffee she'd ever tasted and she told
him so. She fell asleep on the old chintz sofa, wrapped in blankets.
The sun was harshly bright, too bright, as if the storm had





scrubbed off a thick layer of dust from all the trees and streets and
houses, even given the sky a thorough shower. Becca's jeans were
soft, hot from the drier, and so tight she had barely been able to zip
them up when Tyler had tossed them to her.
Sam said, his small voice unexpected, startling her, "Did you
bring cookies, Becca?"
An entire sentence. Maybe he was just very frightened and wary
of strangers. Maybe he didn't think of her as a stranger anymore.
She hoped so. She smiled at him. "Sorry, kiddo, no cookies this	ft
time." She'd awakened with a start, frightened, tingling, to see Sam
standing beside the sofa, holding a blanket against his side, his
thumb in his mouth, just staring at her, saying nothing at all.
Sam said now, "Haunted house."
Tyler was pouring cereal into a small bowl for his son. He
looked over at Becca.
She said, "You could be right, Sam. It was a bad storm and that
old house shook and groaned. I was scared to my toes."
Sam began eating his Cap'n Crunch cereal his father put in front
of him.
Tyler said, "Sam's too young to be scared."
Sam didn't look up from his cereal bowl.
It was nearly eleven o'clock that morning when Becca drove
back to Jacob Marley's house. It no longer looked frightening and
menacing. It looked bedraggled, very clean, and the hemlock with
its branch sticking through her second-floor window no longer
looked like a ghostly apparition, but like a tree that was dead now,
nothing more. She smiled as she walked around the house, assessing
damage. Not much, really, just the branch in the window.
They'd have to haul the tree away.
She called the real estate agent, Mrs. Ryan, from a working public
phone in front of Food Fort, who told Becca she would notify





the insurance company and the tree-removal people and not to
worry about a thing, everything was covered.
Becca went back to the house and toured for the next twenty
minutes, not seeing any damage anywhere inside. The electricity
flickered on, then off again. Finally, when it was nearly noon, the
lights came on strong and bright. The refrigerator hummed loudly.
Everything was back to normal. Then, with no warning, the hall
and living room lights went off. The circuit breaker, she thought,
and wondered where the devil the box would be. The basement,
that was the most likely place. She had to check down there anyway.
She lit one of her candles and unlatched the basement door,
which was at the back of the kitchen. Steep wooden stairs disappeared
into the darkness. Great, she thought, now to top it all off,
maybe I can fall and break my neck on these rickety stairs. They were
wide and felt sturdy and strong, not so dangerous after all, a relief.
There were a dozen steps. The floor was uneven, cold and damp
concrete. She raised the candle and looked around. There was a
string hanging down and she gave it a pull. The bulb switch clicked
but nothing happened. This light must be on the same circuit. She began
at the right of the stairs, lifting the candle to light up the wall.
It was dank down there, and she smelled mildew. Her toes sloshed
in a bit of water. Yep, leaks from the storm. On the wall facing the
stairs she finally found the circuit breaker box. Beside it were stacks
of old boxes, everything dirty and damp. She flipped the downed
circuit breaker switch and the bulb overhead blossomed into one-hundred-watt
light. Stacks of old furniture, most of it from the forties,
perhaps some even earlier, were piled against the far wall. So
many boxes, all of them very large, labeled with faded and smeared
spidery handwriting.
She started forward to look at the writing on one of the labels
when there was a low rumbling noise. She stopped cold, fear spiking





through her. Where was it corning from? Where? All the nightmares
from the night before tore through her. Sam's words--
"haunted house." Shadows, the damned basement was filled with
shadows and damp and rot.
She whipped around at the crash not thirty feet away from her,
in the far corner of the basement. She watched as the wall heaved
and groaned and spewed brick outward onto the basement floor,
leaving a jagged black hole.
She stood there a moment longer, staring at the hole in the wall.
She was surprised. The house was very old, sturdy. Why, suddenly,
would this happen? The storms over the years must have gradually
weakened this particular wall and now, finally, the one last night
was the final blow. Perhaps all the damp contributed, as well.
She walked to the corner, dodging crates and a huge steamer
trunk that looked to be from the nineteen twenties. The light
didn't reach quite that far. She raised her candle high and looked
into the black hole.
And screamed.





Chapter 7

That black gash in the basement wall had vomited out a skeleton
mixed with shards of cement, whole and broken bricks, and thick
dust that flew through the air to settle slowly, thickly, on the basement
floor.
The skeleton's outstretched hand nearly touched her foot. She
dropped the candle and jumped back, wrapping her arms around
herself. She stared at that thing not more than three feet from her.
A dead person, long dead. It--no, it wasn't an it, it was a woman
and she couldn't hurt anybody. Not now.
White jeans and a skimpy pink tank top covered the bones,
many of which would have been flung all over the basement floor
were it not for the once-tight jeans holding them together. One
sneaker was hanging off her left foot, the white sock damp and
moldy. The left arm was still attached, but barely. The head had
broken off and rolled about six inches from the neck.
Becca stood there, staring down at that thing, knowing that at
one time, whoever she was, she'd breathed and laughed and wondered
what the future would bring. She was young, Becca realized.
Who was she? What was she doing inside a wall in Jacob Marley's
basement?
Someone had put her there, on purpose, to hide her forever.
And now she was just shattered bones, some of them covered with
moldy white jeans and a pink tank top.
Slowly Becca walked back upstairs, covered with dust, her heart





still pounding. In her mind's eye the skeleton's skull -was still vivid,
would probably remain terrifyingly vivid for the rest of her life.
Those eye sockets were so empty. Becca knew she had no choice.
She phoned the sheriff's office on West Hemlock and asked to
speak with the sheriff.
"This is Mrs. Ella," came a voice that was deep as a man's, and
harsh--a smoker's voice. "Tell me who you are and what you want
and I'll tell you whether or not you need Edgar."
Becca stared at the phone. It certainly wasn't New York City.
She cleared her throat. "Actually, my name is Becca Powell and
I moved into Jacob Marley's house about a week ago."
"I know all about you, Miss Powell. I saw you at the Pollyanna
with Tyler McBride. What'd you do with little Sam while you two
were gallivanting around, enjoying yourselves at one of Riptide's
finest restaurants?"
Becca laughed, she couldn't help herself, but it soon dissolved
into a hiccup. She felt tears pool in her eyes. This was crazy. Still,
she said only, "We left him with Mrs. Ryan. He's very fond of her."
"Well, that's all right, then. Rachel and Ann--she's the dead
Mrs. McBride--well, they were best friends, now weren't they?
And Sam dearly loves Rachel, and she him, thank God, since his
mama is dead, now isn't she?"
"I thought that Ann McBride disappeared, that she just walked
away from her family and from Riptide."
"So he says, but nobody believes that. What do you want, Miss
Powell? Be alert now, and concise, no more going off on tangents
or feeding me gossip. This is an official office of the law."
"There's a skeleton in my basement."
For the first time in this very strange conversation, Mrs. Ella was
silent, but not for long. "This skeleton you're telling me is in your
basement, how did it get there?"





"It fell out of the wall in the middle of a whole lot of rubble
when the wall collapsed just a while ago, probably weakened by the
big storm last night."
"I believe I will transfer you to Edgar now. That's Sheriff
Gaffney to you. He's been very busy, a lot of storm damage, you
know, a lot of people demanding his time, but a skeleton can't be
put off until tomorrow, now can it?"
"You're right about that," Becca said, and had an insane desire to
laugh her head off. She wiped the tears out of her eyes. She realized
she was shaking. It was the oddest thing.
A man came on the line and said, "Ella tells me you've got a
skeleton in the basement. This don't happen every day. Are you
sure it's a skeleton?"
"Yes, quite sure, although, to be honest, I've never seen one before,
at least lying at my feet on the basement floor."
"I'll be right there, then. You stay put, ma'am."
Becca was staring down at the phone when Mrs. Ella came
back. "Edgar said I was to keep talking to you, not let you go all
hysterical. Edgar tends to get tetchy around women who are crying
and wailing and carrying on. I'm surprised that you fell apart
on him, given the way you were talking to me about this and that."
"I appreciate that, Mrs. Ella. I'm not really hysterical, at least not
yet, but how could the sheriff have possibly known that I was wavering
on the edge? I never said a word to him."
"Edgar just knows these things," Mrs. Ella said comfortably.
"He's very intuitive, now isn't he? That's why I'll keep talking to
you until he gets there, Miss Powell. I'm to help you keep your wits
together."
Becca didn't mind a bit. For the next ten minutes, she heard
how Ann McBride disappeared between one day and the next, no
explanation at all, just as Tyler had told her. She learned that Tyler





wasn't Sam's father but his stepfather. Sam's real father had just up
and disappeared from one day to the next, too. Odd, now wasn't it,
the both of them, just up and out of here? Of course, Sam's father
had been a rotter, whining and bitching about how hard life was,
and he didn't want to stay here, so his leaving made some sense,
now didn't it? But not Ann's, no, she couldn't have just up and left,
not without Sam.
Then Mrs. Ella began with all her pets, and there were a bunch
of them, since she was sixty-five years old. Finally, Becca heard a car
pull up.
"The sheriff just arrived, Mrs. Ella. I promise I won't fall
apart." She hung up the phone before Mrs. Ella could give her
own mother's tried-and-true recipe for stretched nerves. And she
wouldn't fall apart, either, because by Mrs. Ella's fifth dog, a terrier
named Butch, there were no more tears in her eyes and the bubbling,
liquid laughter was long dried up.
Sheriff Gaffney had seen the Powell girl around town, but he
hadn't met her. She looked harmless enough, he thought, remembering
how she was squeezing a cantaloupe in the produce department
at Food Fort when he first saw her. She was pretty enough,
but right then, she was as white as his shirtfront last night before
he'd eaten spaghetti. She'd opened the front door of the old Marey
place and was standing there staring at him.
"I'm the law," he said, and took his sheriff's hat off. There was
something odd about her, something that wasn't quite right, and it
wasn't her too-pale face. Well, finding a skeleton could put a person
off in a whole lot of ways. He wished she'd stop gaping at him
like she didn't have a brain or, God forbid, was hysterical. He was
afraid she would burst into tears and he was ready to do just about
anything to prevent that. He threw back his shoulders and stuck





out a huge hand. "Sheriff Gaffney, ma'am. What's this about a
skeleton in your basement?"
"It's a woman, Sheriff."
He shook her hand, pleased and relieved that now she appeared
reasonably under control and her lower lip wasn't trembling. Her
eyes looked perfectly dry to him, from what he could tell through
her glasses. "Show me this skeleton who you believe with your untrained
eye is a woman, ma'am," he said, "and we'll see if you're
guessing right."
I'm in never-never land, Becca thought as she showed Sheriff
Gaffney down to Jacob Marley's basement.
She walked behind him. He was nearing sixty years old, and was
a walking heart attack. He was a good thirty pounds overweight,
the buttons of his sheriff shirt gaping over his belly. The wide black
leather belt tight beneath his belly carried a gun holster and a billy
club, and nearly disappeared in the front because his stomach was
so big. He had a circle of gray hair around his head and very light
gray eyes. She nearly ran into him when he suddenly stopped on
the bottom step, stood there, and sniffed.
"That's good, Ms. Powell. No smell. Gotta be old."
She nearly gagged.
She kept back when he went down on his knees to examine the
bones.
"I thought it was a woman, maybe even a girl, since she's wearing
a pink tank top."
"A good deduction, ma'am. Yep, the remains look pretty old, or
maybe not. I read that a dead person can become a skeleton in as
little as two weeks or it can take as long as ten years depending on
where the body's put. It's a shame that it wasn't airtight, you know,
a vacuum back behind that wall. If it had been, then maybe some




thing would have been left of her. But critters can get in most
places and they were looking at a whole bunch of really good
meals with her. Lookee here, the person who put her down here
hit her on the head." He looked up at her, expecting her to see
what he'd found. Becca forced herself to look at the skull that had
snapped, probably during the upheaval, and rolled away from the
neck.
Sheriff Gaffney picked up the skull and slowly turned it in his
hands. "Look at this. Someone bashed her but good, not in the
back of the head but in the front. Now, that's mean, really vicious.
Yep, violent, real violent. Whoever did this was mad as hell, hit her
as hard as he could, right in the face. I wonder who she was, poor
thing. First thing is to see if any of our own young people went
missing a while ago. Thing is, I've been here nearly all my life and
I don't remember a single kid just up and disappearing. But I'll ask
around. Folk don't forget that. Well, we'll find out soon enough. I
think she was probably a runaway. Old Jacob didn't like strangers--
male, female, it didn't matter. Probably found her poking around in
the garage or maybe even trying to break in, and he didn't ask any
questions, just whacked her over the head. Actually, he didn't like
people who weren't strangers, either."
"You said the blow looks violent, and it's in the front. Why
would Jacob Marley be enraged if she was a runaway, or a local kid,
just hanging around his property?"
"I don't know. Maybe she back-mouthed him. Old Jacob hated
back talk."
"The white jeans are Calvin Klein, Sheriff."
"You're saying this is a guy now?"
"No, that's the designer. The jeans are expensive. I don't think
they'd go real well on a runaway."
"You know, ma'am, many runaways are middle-class," Sheriff





Gaffney said, and heaved himself to his feet. "Strange how most folk
don't know that. Very few of em are poor, you know. Yep, the storm
must have knocked something loose," he said, bending over to examine
the wall closely. "Looks like old Jacob stuffed her in there
pretty good. Not such a good job with the concrete and bricks,
though. It shouldn't have collapsed like that, nothing else in here
did."
"Old Jacob was a homicidal maniac?"
"Eh?" He spun around. "Oh no, Ms. Powell. He just didn't like
nobody hanging around his place. He was a real loner, once
Miranda up and died on him."
"Who was Miranda? His wife?"
"Oh no. She was his golden retriever. He buried his wife so
long ago I can't even remember her. Yep, she lived to be thirteen,
just keeled over one day."
"His wife was only thirteen?"
"No, his golden retriever, Miranda. She just up and died. Old
Jacob was never the same after that. Losing someone you love, so I
hear, can be real hard on a man. My Maude promised me a long
time ago that she'd outlive me, so maybe I'd never have to know
what it's like."
Becca followed the sheriff back up the basement stairs. She
looked back once at the ghastly pile of white bones wearing Calvin
Klein jeans and a sexy pink tank top. Poor girl. She thought of the
Edgar Allan Poe tale The Telltale Heart and prayed that this girl had
been dead before she was stuffed in that wall.
Sheriff Gaffney had laid the skull on top of the skeleton's chest.
An hour and a half later, Tyler stood next to her, off to the side
of the front porch. Dr. Baines, shorter than Becca, whiplash thin, big glasses, 
came out nearly at a run, followed by two young men in white coats carrying the 
skeleton carefully on a gurney.





"I never thought Mr. Marley could murder anyone," Dr. Baines
said, his voice fast and low. "Funny how things happen, isn't it? All
this time, no one knew, no one even guessed." He pushed his glasses
up on his nose, nodded to Becca and to Tyler, then spoke briefly to
the men as they gently lifted the gurney into the back of the van.
The unmarked white van pulled away, followed by Dr. Baines's
car. "Dr. Baines is our local physician. He got on the phone to the
medical examiner in Augusta after I called him about the skeleton.
The ME told him what to do, which is kind of dumb, since he's a
doctor and I'm an officer of the law, and of course I'd be really
careful around the skeleton and take pictures from all angles and be
careful not to mess up the crime scene."
Becca remembered him carefully setting the skull on the skeleton's
chest. But he was right, with a skeleton, who cared?
Sheriff Gaffney said on a shrug, "In any case, Dr. Baines will take
the skeleton into Augusta to the medical examiner and then we'll see.
Sheriff Gaffney looked out at the two dozen people who were
hovering about and shook his head and waved them away. Of
course no one moved. They continued talking, pointing at the
house, maybe even at her.
Sheriff Gaffney said, "They'll go on home in a bit. Just natural
human curiosity, that's all. Now, Ms. Powell, I know you're upset
and all, being a female with fine sensibilities, just like my Maude,
but I ask that you keep yourself calm for just a while longer."
He had to be about the same age as her father would have been
had he lived, Becca thought, and smiled at him then, because he
meant well. "I'll try, Sheriff. You don't have any daughters, do
you?"
"No, ma'am, just a bunch of boys, all hard-noses, always back-talking
me, and covered with mud and sweat half the time. Not at





all the same thing for little girls. My Maude would have given anything
for a little girl, but God didn't send us one, just all them dirty
boys.
"Now, Ms. Powell, Dr. Baines will be talking to the folk in the
medical examiner's office in Augusta--that's our capital, you
know--once he gets there. They'll do an autopsy, or whatever it is
they do on a mess of bones. The folk up there have lots of formal
training, so they'll know what they're doing. Like I told you, they'll
document that old Jacob or somebody hit her right in the forehead,
smashed her head in. They'll determine that it was real mean,
vicious, that blow. In the meantime we gotta find out who she is.
There wasn't any ID on her. You got any more ideas about it?"
"Calvin Klein jeans have been popular since the early to mid-eighties.
That means that she wasn't murdered and sealed behind
that wall before 1980."
Sheriff Gaffney carefully wrote that down. He hummed softly
while he wrote. He looked up then and stared at her. "You sure do
look familiar, Ms. Powell."
"Maybe you saw me in a fashion magazine, Sheriff. No, don't
even consider that, I'm just joking with you. I'm not a model. I'm
sure I would have remembered you, sir, if I'd ever met you before."
"Well, that's likely enough," he said, nodding. "Tyler, you got any
thoughts about this?"
Tyler shook his head.
Sheriff Gaffney looked as if he would say something else, then
he shut his mouth. However, he gave Tyler another long look. "I'll
be in touch," he said, snapped out a sharp salute, and walked to his
car, a brown Ford with a light bar over the top. At the last moment,
he looked back at them, and he was frowning. Then he managed to
squeeze his bulk into the driver's side. He hadn't been interested in
her background, a blessing. Evidently, he realized that she could





have had nothing to do with this and so who she was, where she
was from, and what she did for a living simply did not matter.
"He's amazing," Becca said as he drove away. "Too bad he didn't
have a daughter to go with all those dirty boys."
She looked to see that Tyler was staring down at his feet. She
lightly touched her fingers to his arm. "What's wrong?You're afraid
I really am going to be hysterical about finding that poor girl?"
"No, it's not that. You saw the sheriff. Even though he didn't
really say anything, it was clear enough what he was thinking."
"I don't know what you mean. What's wrong,Tyler?"
"I realize it occurred to him, just before he got into his car, that
the skeleton might well be Ann."
Becca looked at him blankly, slowly shaking her head back and
forth.
"My wife. She wore Calvin Klein jeans."





Chapter 8

Becca walked into the Riptide Pharmacy in the middle of Foxglove
Avenue the next morning and found, to her horror, that she
was the center of attention. For someone who wanted to fade into
the woodwork, she wasn't doing it very well. Everywhere she
went, she was stared at, questioned, introduced to relatives. She was
the girl who'd found the skeleton. She was even given special treatment
at the Union 76 gas station at the end of Poison Oak Circle.
The Food Fort manager, Mrs. Dobbs, wanted her autograph. Three
people told her she looked familiar.
It was too late to dye her hair black. She went home and stayed
there. She got at least twenty phone calls that day. She didn't see
Tyler, but he'd been right about what the sheriff had thought, because
everybody else was thinking it, too, and was talking about it
over coffee, to their neighbors, and not all that quietly. Tyler knew
it, too, of course, but he didn't say anything when he came over
later that evening. He looked stoic. She had wanted to yell at
everyone that they were wrong, that Tyler was an excellent man,
that no way could he have hurt anyone, much less his wife, but she
knew she couldn't take the chance, couldn't call attention to herself
anymore. It was too dangerous for her, and so she listened to
everyone talk about Ann, Tyler s wife and Sam's mother, who had
supposedly disappeared fifteen months before without a word to
anybody, not her husband, not her son. Ann had had a mother until
two years before, but Mildred Kendred had died and left Ann all





alone with Tyler. She'd had no other relatives to hassle Tyler about
where his wife had supposedly gone. And just look at poor little
Sam, so quiet, so withdrawn, he'd probably seen something,
everyone was sure of that. That he wasn't at all afraid of his stepfather
just meant that the poor little boy had blocked the worst of
it out.
Oh, yes, it all made sense now to everyone. Tyler had bashed his
wife on the head--she probably wanted to leave him, that was it--
and then he'd bricked her in the wall in Jacob Marley's basement.
And little Sam knew something, because he'd changed right after
his mother disappeared.
Tyler remained stoic during the following days, saying nothing
about all the speculation, ignoring the sidelong looks from people
who were supposedly his friends. He went about his business,
seemingly oblivious of the stares.
He was in misery, Becca knew that, but there was nothing she
could do except say over and over, "Tyler, I know it isn't Ann.
They'll prove it was someone else, you'll see."
"How?"
"If they can't figure out who she was, then they'll check for runaways.
There are DNA tests. They'll find out. Then there are going
to be a whole lot of folk apologizing to you on their hands and
knees."
He looked at her and said nothing at all.
Becca went shopping at Food Fort at eight o'clock the next
night, hoping the store would be nearly empty. She moved quickly
down the aisles. The last item on her list was peanut butter,
crunchy. She found it and picked up a small jar, saw that it had a
web of mirrored cracks in it, and started to call out to one of the
clerks, only to have it break apart in her hands. She yelped and
dropped it. It splattered all over jars of jams and jellies before





smashing onto the floor at her feet. She stood there staring down
at the mess.
"I see you buy natural, not sugar-added. That's the only kind I'll
eat."
She whirled around so fast she slid on the peanut butter and
nearly careened into the soup. The man caught her arm and pulled
her upright.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. Let me get you another jar.
Here comes a young fellow with a mop. Better let him wipe off the
bottom of your sneaker."
"Yes, of course." The man not two feet from her was a stranger,
which didn't mean all that much since she hadn't met everyone in
town. He was wearing a black windbreaker, dark jeans, and Nike
running shoes. He was careful not to step into the peanut butter.
Her first impression was that he was big and he looked really hard
and his hair was on the long side, and as dark as his eyes.
"The only thing," he continued after a moment, "it's a real pain
to have to stir the peanut butter before you put it in the refrigerator.
The oil always spills over the sides and on your hands." He
smiled, but his eyes still looked hard, as if he looked at people and
saw all the bad things they were trying to hide, and was used to it,
maybe even philosophical about it. She didn't want him looking at
her that way, seeing deep into her. She didn't want to talk to him.
She just wanted to get out of there.
"Yes, I know," she said, and took a step back.
"Once I got used to it, though, I found I couldn't eat the other
peanut butter, too much sugar."
"That's true." She took another step away from him. Who was
he? Why -was he trying to be so nice?
"Miss Powell, I'm Young Jeff. Ah, Old Jeff is my pop, he's the assistant
manager. Just hold still and I'll clean off your sneaker." He




picked up her foot, nearly sending her over backward. The man
held her up while Young Jeff wiped a wet paper towel over the
bottom of her sneaker. He was very strong, she could feel it since his
hands were in her armpits. "I'm sure glad you're here, ma'am. I
wanted to know if that poor dead skeleton was Mrs. McBride.
Everyone is talking about how it can't be anybody else, what with
Mrs. McBride just up and disappearing like she did not all that
long ago. Everyone says you know it's Mrs. McBride, too, that you
were sure, but how could you be? Did you meet Mrs. McBride?"
He finally released her foot. She pulled away from Young Jeff
and the man, a good two feet. She felt cold, very cold. She rubbed
her hands over her crossed arms. "No, Jeff, I never met Ann
McBride. I didn't know anything about her. No one said a single
word to me about her. Also, everybody is being premature. Now,
I'll just bet that we'll be hearing very soon that the poor woman I
found can't be Ann McBride. You tell everyone I said that."
"I will, Ms. Powell, but that's not what Mrs. Ella says. She thinks
it's Ann McBride, too."
"Believe me, Jeff, I was there, and I saw the skeleton; Mrs. Ella
didn't. Hey, I'm sorry about the mess. Thanks for cleaning off my
shoe."
The man stuck out his arm and helped her over the shards of
glass. "Young Jeff is a teenage boy with raging hormones," he said,
very aware that she had pulled away from him again. "I'm afraid
you're now the object of his affection."
She shuddered. "No, I'm the object of everyone's curiosity,
nothing more, including poor Young Jeff." She stopped. The man
couldn't help it that she was spooked. She drew a deep breath, gave
him a nice big smile, and said, "I've got a few more things to buy,
Mr.--?"
"Carruthers. Adam Carruthers." He stuck out his hand and she





automatically shook it. Big hand, hard, just like the rest of him.
She'd bet the last dime in the bottom of her purse that even the
soles of his feet were hard. She knew without being told that he
was very disciplined, very focused, like soldiers or bad guys were
focused, and that made her so afraid she nearly ran out right that
minute. Which was silly. Only one thing she really knew for sure--
she didn't ever want to have to tangle with him. Actually, if she
never saw him again, it would be just fine by her. "I haven't seen
you around town before, Mr. Carruthers."
"No, I just got here yesterday. The first thing I heard about was
your finding that skeleton. The second thing I heard was it was the
missing wife of your neighbor, Tyler McBride, and that you were
seeing him and now wasn't that interesting?"
A reporter, she thought. Oh God, maybe he was a reporter or a
paparazzo, and they'd found her. Her brave new world in the
boondocks was going to be over just as it was beginning. It wasn't
fair. She began backing away from him.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes, of course. I'm very busy. It was a pleasure to meet you.
Goodbye." And she was nearly running down the aisle lined with
different kinds of breads, hamburger buns, and English muffins.
He stared after her. She was taller than he'd expected, and too
thin. Well, he'd be skinny, too, if he'd been under as much pressure
as she was. What mattered was that he had found her. Amateurs, he thought, even 
very smart ones, couldn't easily disappear. He
thought about how he had managed to misdirect the FBI, and
grinned at the jars of low-fat jams and jellies. They had more procedures,
more requirements, more delays built into the system, a
system that could have been designed by a criminal to give himself
the best shot at escaping. Another thing they didn't have was his contacts. He 
was whistling when he carried his can of French roast





drip coffee to the checkout counter. He watched her climb into
her dark green Toyota and drive out of the parking lot.
He went back to his second-floor corner room at Errol Flynn's
Hammock, booted up his laptop, and wrote a quick email:

I met her over a broken jar of peanut butter in Food Fort. She's fine,
but nervous as hell. Understandable. You won't believe this, but now
she's embroiled in a mess here in Riptide. A skeleton fell out of her
basement wall. Everyone in town believes it's a neighbor's wife who
disappeared over a year ago. Who the hell knows? Will keep you informed.
Adam

He sat back in his chair and smelled the coffee perking in the
Mr. Coffee machine he'd bought at Goose's Hard-ware when he'd
gotten into town.
She was wary of him, maybe even afraid. Well, he couldn't blame
her, a big guy trying to pick her up in Food Fort after she'd
found a skeleton in her basement, while already on the run from
the FBI, the NYPD, and a murderous madman. He didn't think
she'd been amused by his peanut butter wit, which meant she
wasn't a dolt.
He poured a cup of coffee, sipped it, and sighed with bone-deep
satisfaction. He leaned back in the dark-brown nubby chair, which
was surprisingly comfortable. The TV played quietly on its stand
against a far wall, providing background noise. He closed his eyes,
seeing Becca Matlock again.
No, now she was Becca Powell. Under that name she'd quickly
rented the Jacob Marley place and promptly had a skeleton fall out
of her basement wall after that incredible storm that had battered
the Maine coast.
The woman had pretty sucky luck.





Now all he had to do was make her come to trust him.
Then, just maybe, he would have a very big surprise for her.
But first he had some reconnaissance to do. It never paid to rush
into things.
So Adam kept his distance the next day, watched her house during
the morning and saw Tyler McBride and his little boy, Sam, pay
her a visit around eleven o'clock. The kid -was really cute, but he
didn't yell and jump around like other kids his age. Was everyone
right? Had the son witnessed McBride killing his mother, or was it
just talk?
Adam wondered what was going on between Tyler McBride
and Becca Matlock Powell. He watched Sheriff Gaffney pay her a
visit, even overheard the sheriff speaking to her outside the front
door, on the big wraparound porch. He heard them clearly.
"Nothing yet from the medical examiner's office, Sheriff?"
"They say hopefully tomorrow. I just wanted to go over the
basement again, see what I could sniff out. My boys didn't find any
fingerprints, but just maybe there's something there that we all
missed. Oh, and another thing, Rachel Ryan asked me to tell you
that some boys would be arriving to remove the tree and fix the
window for you."
The sheriff left after an hour, a chocolate chip cookie in his
hand. Adam knew it was chocolate chip. He could smell the
chocolate from twenty yards and was salivating.
He sent an e-mail after lunch and within an hour knew all about
how Becca Matlock had met Tyler McBride at Dartmouth College.
Had the two of them been college sweethearts? Lovers? Perhaps.
It was interesting. And now everyone believed the skeleton
was Tyler McBride's missing wife, Ann. He'd find out everything
he could about Tyler McBride. He supposed there was a certain
possible irony at play here. What if she'd managed to get away from





one stalker only to stumble upon a man who'd done away with his
wife?
Yep, her luck sucked, big-time.
He still wasn't ready to approach her, she was too spooked. So
he kept an eye on her that evening as well. She didn't leave the
house. Since it stayed light so late in Maine during the summer
months, five guys, all armed with chain saws, came to take care of
the old fallen hemlock that lay along the west side of the house.
They pulled the limb out of the upstairs window and sawed it up.
They cut off and sawed up the branches from the tree, then
wrapped thick chains around the trunk and dragged the tree away.
Through all of this, Becca read outside on the wraparound
porch, sitting in an old glider, rocking back and forth until he was
nearly nauseated watching that slow back and forth, that never-ending
back and forth, and hearing the small creaking sounds that
went with every movement in between the loud grating bursts
from the chain saws.
She went to bed early.

Around noon the next day, Becca was thanking the windowpane
guy for replacing the glass in her bedroom window. Not half
an hour later,Tyler and Sam were there, eating tuna fish sandwiches
at her kitchen table. She said, "We should be hearing from Sheriff
Gaffney soon,Tyler. It should be today, that's what he said when he
came yesterday. They're sure taking their time. Then all this nonsense
will be over."
He was silent for the longest time, chewing his sandwich, helping
Sam eat his, then said finally, some anger in his voice, which
surprised her, "You're quite the optimist, Becca."
But she wasn't thinking about the skeleton at that moment. She





was wondering why that man--Adam Carruthers--was watching
her house. He was standing motionless just to the right, in amongst
the spruce trees, not twenty feet away. He wasn't the stalker. It
wasn't his voice, she was sure of that. The stalker's voice was not
old, not young, but unnervingly smooth. She knew she would recognize
that voice from hell anywhere. Carruthers's voice was different.
But who was he? And why was he so interested in her?

Adam stretched. He went through a few relaxing taste kwon do
moves to ease his muscles. He was just in the process of slowly raising
his left leg, his left arm extended fully, when she said from behind
him, "Your arm is a bit too high. Lower your elbow at least an
inch and extend your wrist, yeah, and pull your fingers back a bit
more. That's better. Now, don't even twitch or I'll shoot your head
off."
He was faster than she could have imagined. She was a good six
feet behind him. She had her Coonan .357 Magnum automatic,
chambered with seven bullets, aimed right at him, and in the very
next instant, his whole body was in motion, moving so fast it was
a blur, at least until his right foot lightly and gracefully clipped
the gun from her hand, and his left hand smacked her hard enough
in the shoulder to send her flying backward. She landed on her back.
Becca grabbed the gun, which lay on the ground two feet to her
left, and brought it up only to have him kick it out of her hand
again. Her wrist stung for a moment, then went numb.
"Sorry," he said, standing over her now. "I don't react well to
folks holding guns on me. I hope I didn't hurt you." He actually
had the gall to reach out his hand to help her up. She was breathing
hard, her shoulder was aching and her wrist was useless. She
scooted backward, turned, and tried to run. She wasn't fast enough.





He grabbed her and hauled her back against him. "No, just hold it
a minute. I'm not going to hurt you."
She stopped cold and became very, very still. Her head fell forward
and he knew in that moment that she had simply given up.
He knew her shoulder had to hurt, that her wrist was now probably
hanging numb. "It'll be all right. You'll get feeling back in
your wrist soon. It'll burn a bit but then it'll be okay again."
Still drawn in on herself, she said, "I didn't think he could be
you--your voice is all wrong, I would have sworn to that--but I
obviously was wrong."
She thought he was the stalker, the man who had murdered that
poor old woman in front of the museum, and then shot Governor
Bledsoe. Automatically, he let her go. "Look, I'm sorry--" He was
speaking to the back of her head. She'd taken off the second he'd
let her go. She was off at a dead run, through the spruce trees, back
toward her house.
He caught her within ten yards, grabbed her left arm, and jerked
her around. She moved quickly. Her fist hit him solidly on the jaw.
His head snapped back with the force of her sharp-knuckled blow.
She was strong. He grabbed both her arms, only to feel her knee
come up. His fast reflexes saved him just barely, thank God, and her
knee got him in the thigh. It still hurt, but not as bad as if she'd gotten
him in the crotch. That would have sent him to the ground,
sobbing his guts out. He whirled her around and brought her back
against his chest. He clamped her arms at her sides and simply held
her against him. She was breathing hard, her muscles tensing, relaxing,
then tensing again. She was very afraid but he knew she'd
act again if he gave her the opening. He was impressed. But now
he had her.
"I don't know how you found me," she said, still panting. "I did





everything I could think of to hide my trail. How did you track me
down?"
"It did take me two and a half days to track you to Portland, actually
longer than I'd expected."
She twisted her head to look at him. "You bastard. Let me go."
"Not just yet. I want to hang on to my body parts. Hey, you
didn't do too badly for an amateur."
"Let me go."
"Will you stop with the violence? I can't stand violence. It
makes me nervous."
Her look was incredulous as she chewed her bottom lip. Finally,
she nodded. "All right."
He let her go and took a quick step back, his eyes on her right
knee.
She was off and running in a flash. This time, he let her go. She was
fast, but he knew that from her dossier. She'd spotted him watching
her house. It amazed him. He was always so very careful, so patient,
as still as one of the spruce trees. In the past, his life had depended on
it more times than he cared to remember. But she'd cottoned on to
the fact that someone was out there, with her in his sights.
Well, the stalker had been after her for more than three weeks in
New York. That had sharpened her senses, kept her alert. There was
no doubt she was afraid, but it hadn't mattered. She'd come out and
confronted him anyway. He whistled as he walked over and bent
down to pick up her Coonan automatic. It was a nice gun. It had
a closed breech that gave it very high velocity. His brother had one
of these babies, was always bragging about it. It was steady, reliable,
deadly, and not all that common. He wondered how she handled
the recoil. He dumped the seven rimmed cartridges into his hand,
then dropped them into his pocket. He paused a moment, won




dering if he shouldn't leave the gun in her mailbox or slip it just inside
her front door.
He imagined she wouldn't feel safe without it.
He saw Tyler McBride and his son leave about ten minutes later.
He saw her wave from the front porch. He saw her looking over
toward where he quietly stood, surely not visible through the trees.
She went back into the house after Tyler McBride and his son
drove off. He waited.
Not three minutes later she was back, standing on the front
porch, looking toward him. He saw her thinking, weighing, assessing.
Finally, she trotted toward him.
She had guts.
He didn't move, just waited, watching her. He realized when she
was only about ten feet from him that she had a big kitchen
butcher knife clutched in her hand.
He smiled. She was her father's daughter.





Chapter 9

Slowly, he pulled her gun out of his pants pocket and aimed it in
her general direction. "Even that big honker knife can't compete
with this Coonan you managed to get off that guy you met at the
restaurant in Rockland. He was, however, pissed that you wouldn't
go to bed with him." He grinned at her. "Hey, you got what you
needed. You did good."
"How did you know about that? Oh, never mind. My knife can
certainly compete with the Coonan now. I watched you take the
bullets out."
He grinned at her again, he just couldn't help it, and held the automatic
out to her, butt first.
"What good is it?You've got the bullets. Give them to me now."
He scooped the seven bullets out of his pocket and handed them
and the automatic to her.
She eyed the gun and the bullets, then backed up another step.
"No, you want me to come a bit closer and then you can kick my
knife away. You're fast, too fast. I'm not stupid."
"All right," Adam said, and he thought, Smart woman. He laid
the bullets and the gun down on the ground and took a good half
dozen steps back.
He said easily, "It's an effective weapon, that Coonan, but if I
have to carry one of those things, I prefer my Colt Delta Elite."
"It sounds like some western debutante."
He laughed. "Aren't you going to pick up the gun?"




She shook her head at him and didn't move. She was holding
the butcher knife like a mad killer in a slasher movie, her arm
pulled back, the point out and arched. The sucker looked really
sharp. He could get it from her, but one of them could easily get
sliced up. He stayed put. Besides, he wanted to see what she'd do.
"Tell me what you're doing here. Why did you come up to me at Food Fort? Why are 
you watching me?"
"I'd really rather not tell you just yet. I hadn't expected you to
see me. When I've wanted to stay hidden in the past, I've managed
it quite well." He suddenly looked pissed off, not at her but at himself.
She almost smiled, then tightened her grip on the knife.
`Tell me, now.'
"All right, then. I'm here to do research on why women dye
their hair."
She very nearly ran at him with the knife. She was so mad she
nearly forgot the bone-grinding fear. "All right, you jerk, I want
you to lie on the ground and fold your hands underneath you. Do
it now."
"No," he said. "The windbreaker is new. It looks good on me,
hey, maybe it even looks dangerous and sexy. What do you think?
Women like black, I've heard. Nope, I don't want it to get dirty."
"I called Sheriff Gaffney. He should be here any minute."
"Nah, you can't bluff me on that. The last person you want here
is the sheriff. If I spilled the beans, he'd have to call the New York
cops and the FBI."
She was so pale he thought she'd pass out. Her hand trembled a
bit, but then she got ahold of herself. "So you know," she said. "I
don't think you're the stalker--your voice is all wrong and you're
too big--but you know all about him, don't you?"
"Yes. Now listen to me, Becca. I'm not here to hurt you. I'm
here to--Think of me as your own personal guardian angel."





"You're so dark, you look more like the devil, but you're taller
than I think the devil is. What's more, unlike the devil, I'll bet you
don't have a lick of charm. The last thing you are is a guardian angel.
You're a reporter or a paparazzo, aren't you?"
"Now you've offended me." She nearly laughed. But she had to
remember that he was dangerous, fast and dangerous. No, she
couldn't afford to forget that, not for an instant. She would still
have laughed if her gut hadn't been frozen with fear for nearly as
long as she could remember. He was trying to disarm her, at least
figuratively this time. Thank God he didn't have use of her gun.
And he was too far away to kick out at her. But he was fast. He had
long legs. She took another step back, as insurance.
She waved the knife at him. "I've had it. Tell me who you are.
Tell me now or I might have to hurt you. Don't underestimate me,
I'm strong. No, it's more than that. I'm beyond frightened. I've got
nothing to lose now."
He looked at her--too pale, her flesh drawn tightly over her
bones, too thin, so stressed out he could nearly see her insides quivering.
He said slowly, his voice as unthreatening as he could make
it, "To hurt me you'd have to come closer. You know better than to
do that. Yeah, you're strong, maybe I wouldn't even want to run
into you in a dark alley. But there's a big something you're wrong
about. Everyone has something to lose, including you. Things have
just gotten a bit out of hand for you, that's all."
"A bit out of hand," she repeated slowly, then laughed, an ugly,
raw sound. "You have no idea what you're talking about." She
waited, just stood there, the knife up and arched, her hand starting
to cramp, her muscles starting to protest, staring at him, wondering
what to do, wondering if she could believe him and knowing she'd
be a fool even to consider it.
"Actually, I do. What I wanted to say was that the media and the





press are after you in full force, that's a fact, but you should be safe
here."
"You found me."
"Yeah, but I'm so good I occasionally even surprise myself."
She raised the knife even higher. She felt the sun warm between
her shoulder blades. It was a beautiful day and everything was a
mess. He was her guardian angel? Her arm muscles were burning.
He started to say something more, then stopped. It was the look
on her face that kept him quiet. It was like they were both frozen
in time and place. Then she surprised the hell out of him. She
dropped the knife to the ground and walked straight up to him.
She stopped a foot short, looked up at him thoughtfully, then stuck
out her hand. He shook hers, bemused, as she said, "If you're my
guardian angel, then get on the phone to the medical examiner's
office in Augusta and find out how long that poor woman who fell
out of my basement wall was buried in there."
He didn't release her hand. She was tall. He didn't have to look
down that far. "All right."
She snapped her fingers in front of his nose. "Just like that?
You're so powerful you can find out something just that fast?"
"In this case, yes, I can. You don't look much like your mother."
The hand stiffened, but she didn't jerk free. She said calmly,"No,
I don't. Mom always told me that I'm the picture of my dad. My
dad--his name was Thomas--he died in Vietnam. He was a hero.
My mother loved him very much, probably too much."
"Yes," he said. "I know all about that."
"How?"
"It's not important right now. Believe me."
She didn't, of course, but she was -willing to put it on hold for the
moment because she said then, "I saw a really old snapshot of him.
He looked so young, so happy. He was very handsome, so tall and





straight." She paused a moment, and he heard the hitch in her
voice. "I was too young to remember him when he died, but my
mom said he'd seen me born, held me and loved me. And then he left
and didn't come back."
"I know."
She cocked her head to one side, and again she let it go, saying,
"When I first saw you in Food Fort, I thought you looked hard, like
you didn't smile very often, like you ate nails and hot salsa for
snacks. I thought you could be mean if you had to, maybe even
cruel. You still look mean. I can sense that you're dangerous; actually,
I just know it, so don't even bother trying to deny it. Who are
you, really?"
"I'm Adam Carruthers. I told you that at Food Fort. That really
is my name. Now, take me to your house and I'll get on the phone.
We won't find out who the skeleton is, but we'll find out at least
how long she was in that wall. They'll have to do DNA tests; that
takes a while. First things first."
He watched her pick up her Coonan and stuff the bullets in her
jeans pocket. He picked up her kitchen knife and followed her
back to Jacob Marley's house.
It took him eleven minutes and two phone calls. When he laid
down the phone the second time, he looked over at her and smiled.
"It shouldn't take long." In no more than three seconds, the phone
rang. He motioned her away and picked it up. "Carruthers here."
He listened, wrote something down on a sheet of paper. "Thanks
a lot,Jarvis, I owe you. Yeah, yeah, you know I always pay up. It just
might not be tomorrow. You know how to reach me. Okay, thanks.
Bye."
He carefully laid the phone back into the cradle. "It isn't Ann
McBride, if that's what you're worried about."
"No, of course it's not Tyler's missing wife. I never thought it





was. I've known him since I was eighteen. I've never met a more
decent man. Really." But she was nearly shaking with relief, and he
saw it. However, it was his turn to let it go.
But then she said, "I couldn't have stood it if Tyler had been a
monster instead of a really nice guy. I guess I would have just hung
it up."
"Yeah, your boyfriend is off the hook. The skeleton was buried
inside that wall for at least ten years, possibly more. She was probably
in her late teens when she was killed by a hard blow right in the face,
the forehead actually. Whoever did it was really pissed, enraged, totally
out of control. Jarvis said it was a vicious blow, killed her instantly."
"It looks like Jacob Marley really might have killed her, then."
He shrugged. "Who knows? It's not our problem, thank God."
"It's certainly mine, since she tumbled out of the wall onto my
basement floor. I can't believe anyone would kill a teenager for
wandering across his yard, and with such viciousness."
A second later the phone rang. It was Bernie Bradstreet, owner
of The Riptide Independent, wanting to know what she could tell
him. "I know the sheriff wants to keep a lid on this, but--"
She told him everything, omitting only what Adam Carruthers
had just found out from the medical examiner's office. She didn't
think the sheriff would like to be cut out of that particular loop.
Then Bernie Bradstreet asked her to dinner, with his wife, he hastened
to add when she didn't say anything. She put him off. When
she hung up the phone, Adam said, "Newspaper? You handled it
well. Now you need to call the sheriff. Don't tell him you already
know the answers just encourage him to call the medical examiner's
office. Jarvis told me they're not ready to release the information
yet, but if the sheriff calls, he might be able to pry it out of them.





Oh, yeah, when the sheriff comes, tell him I'm your cousin from
Baltimore come to visit. Okay?"
"Cousins? We don't look anything alike."
He gave her a crooked grin."Thank heaven for that."

Sheriff Gaffney didn't like the news from Augusta. He liked tidy
conclusions, puzzles where all the pieces finally locked cleanly into
place, not this: an old skeleton, identity unknown, that had been
bricked inside Jacob Marley's basement wall after her gruesome
murder. He didn't really want Ann McBride to be dead, but it
would have made things so much cleaner, so nice and straightforward.
He glanced at Tyler McBride. The guy looked calm, but relieved?
He just couldn't tell. Tyler had always managed to keep
what he was feeling close to his vest. He "was good at poker, nobody
liked to play against him. Funny thing, though, the sheriff
would have sworn that Tyler had killed his wife. He still kept his
eye on Tyler, hoping to see him do something strange, like visit an
unmarked grave or something. Well, he'd been wrong before. He
guessed maybe he was wrong again. He hated it, it wasn't pleasant,
but sometimes it happened, even to a man like him.
Sheriff Gaffney looked over at Ms. Powell's cousin, a big, tough-looking
guy who looked like he could take care of himself. His
body was hard and in good shape, but he seemed like a man who
could be patient, as if he was used to waiting in the shadows, like a
predator stalking its prey. Gaffney shook his head. He had to stop
reading those suspense novels he liked so much.
He looked over at Becca Powell, a nice young woman who
wasn't, thank God, so pale now, or on the verge of hysteria. Hopefully
her cousin would keep her that way. After finding that skeleton,





just maybe she would be glad to have him around for a while. He
found himself studying Carruthers again. The guy was dark, from his
black hair--too long, in the sheriff's opinion--to his eyes, nearly
black in the dim late-afternoon light in Jacob Marley's living room.
He had big feet in scuffed black boots, soft-looking boots that looked
like he'd worn them for a good decade and waited in the shadows
with those boots on his feet, not making a whisper of a sound. He
wondered what the hell the man did for a living. Nothing normal
and expected, he'd bet his next meal on that. Just maybe he didn't
want to know.
The sheriff looked around the living room. Jesus, the place
looked like a museum or a tomb. It felt old and musty, although it
smelled like lemons, just like at home.
He knew, of course, that everyone was looking at him, waiting.
He liked that. It built suspense. He was holding them in the palm
of his hand. Only thing was, they didn't look all that scared or worried
or ready to gnaw off their fingernails. A real cool bunch.
Becca said finally, "Sheriff, won't you be seated? Now, you have
news for us?"
He took the old chair she was waving at, eased down slowly,
then cleared his throat. He was ready to make his big announcement.
"Well now, it does appear that this skeleton isn't your wife,
Tyler."
There was a sharp moment of silence, but not the surprise he'd
expected, that he'd wanted, truth be told.
"Thank you for telling me so quickly, Sheriff. I'm pleased that it
wasn't, because that would have meant that someone had killed her
and it wasn't me. I hope that wherever Ann is, she's very much alive
and well and happy."
But Tyler hadn't acted surprised. He acted like he already knew.
Well, damn, if Tyler hadn't killed Ann, then he would certainly





know that the skeleton wasn't her, or if it was, then someone else
had put her there. That logic made the sheriff's head ache.
"Humph, I wouldn't know about that. I've contacted all the local
authorities and they're going to check on runaways from between
ten and fifteen years ago. There's a good chance we'll find out who
she is. She was young, probably late teens. That makes it even more
likely that she was a runaway. She was murdered, though. Now, that
makes it a big problem, my big problem."
"It's not possible that it's a local teenager, Sheriff?" Becca asked.
The sheriff shook his head. "Nobody just up and disappeared in
the town's memory, Ms. Powell. Something like that, folk just
wouldn't forget. Nope, it's got to be a runaway."
Adam Carruthers sat forward, his hands clasped between his
knees. "You think this old man, Jacob Marley, did it?" He was sitting
in a deep leather chair that old Jacob had liked. He looked like
he was the one in charge and that burned the sheriff a bit. Fellow
was too young to be in charge, not too much beyond thirty, about
the same age as Maude's nephew, Frank, who was currently in
prison out in Folsom, California, for writing bad checks. Frank had
always had soggy morals, even as a boy. Maybe the fellow was shiftless,
like Frank. But hell, the last thing this guy looked was shiftless.
"Sheriff?"
"Yeah? Oh, it's possible. Like I told Ms. Powell here, old Jacob
didn't like people poking around. He had a mean streak in him and
no patience to speak of. He could have bashed her."
Adam said, a dark eyebrow raised a bit, "Mean streak or not, you
believe he actually bashed a young girl in the face with a blunt instrument
and walled her in his basement because he was pissed to
see her trotting across his backyard?"
Sheriff Gaffney said, "A blunt instrument, you say. Well, the ME
didn't know what the murderer struck her with, maybe a heavy





pot, maybe a bookend, something like that. Did Jacob do it? We'll
just have to see about that."
"Nothing else makes much sense," Tyler said, jumping to his
feet. He began pacing the room. His -whole body was vibrating
with tension. He had good muscle tone, the sheriff thought, remembering
his own buffed self that the ladies had stared at when
he was that young. Tyler whirled around, came to a stop, nearly
knocking over a floor lamp. "Don't you see? Whoever killed her
had to have access to Jacob's basement. Surely Jacob would have
heard someone knocking away bricks, then putting them back up.
The killer had to have cement to do that. Also, he had to haul the
body into the house and down the basement steps. That would be
quite an undertaking. It had to be Jacob. Nothing else makes
sense."
Adam said, leaning back in that old leather chair now, his legs
crossed at his ankles, his fingers steepled, the tips lightly tapping together,
"Now, wait a minute. You're saying that Jacob Marley never
left his house?"
"Not that I remember," Tyler said. "He even had his groceries
delivered. Of course, I was gone four years when I was in college.
Maybe he used to be different, went out more."
"Two things were always true about old Jacob," Sheriff Gaffney
said slowly. "Two things you could always count on. He was here and
he was mean." He heaved himself from his seat. He froze when the
button right above his wide leather belt up and popped off. He
watched, paralyzed, as the damned button rolled across the polished
oak floor to stop at the big toe of Carruthers's right boot. He sucked
in his belly, but he still felt that wide leather belt of his continue to
cut him something fierce. He didn't say anything, just held out his
hand.
Adam Carruthers tossed him the button. He didn't smile. The



sheriff clutched that damned button close. Jesus, maybe he should
think about that diet Maude was always nagging him about.
Becca pretended not to see anything. She rose and stuck out her
hand to the sheriff. "Thank you for coming and telling us in person.
Please let us know when you find out who that poor girl is."
"Was, ma'am, was. I will. I'm glad I called them. I had to worm
it out of them, but I finally got to speak to the main guy, a hard-nose
named Jarvis, and he finally coughed up the info." He nodded
to Tyler McBride, who looked hollow-cheeked, as if he'd been put
through a wringer, and then to Adam Carruthers, a cocky bastard
who hadn't laughed when his button had popped off.
"I'll see you out, Sheriff," Becca said and walked beside him out
of the living room.
Adam said to Tyler, "Becca told me what was going on. I'm glad
I was nearby and could get here to help."
Tyler eyed the man. There hadn't been time to question him before
the sheriff had arrived. He said slowly, suspicion a sharp thread
in his voice, "I didn't know Becca had a cousin. Who the hell are you?"




Chapter 10

Adam said easily, "Becca's mom was my aunt. She died of cancer,
you know, very recently. My mom lives in Baltimore with my step-dad.
A great guy, loves to fish for bass."
Thank God she heard that before she came back into the living
room. The man was quick and smooth. He was a very good liar.
She would have believed him herself if she hadn't known better.
Actually, her mother was an only child, both her parents long dead.
Her father had been an only child as well. His parents were also
dead. Who was Adam, anyway?
Tyler turned toward Becca and said in a warm voice that was far
too intimate, "Well, just maybe Sam can have a stepmom, just like
you got yourself a stepdad, Adam."
Becca felt a jolt that landed a lump in her throat. She couldn't
breathe for a minute. Tyler was looking at her like that? A future
stepmom for Sam? She cleared her throat twice before she could
speak. Well, she'd known him forever and he hadn't killed his wife,
but he was a friend, nothing more than a very good friend, which
was quite enough, given what her life was right now. "It's getting
late. Adam, how about--"
He interrupted her smoothly, standing, stretching a bit. "I know,
Becca. I'll be back over in a little while. I've got to get my stuff
from the Errol Flynn Hammock. It's a great B-and-B. That guy
Scottie is a hoot. You want to eat out tonight?"
Becca and I were going to go to Errol Flynn's Barbecue this


evening," Tyler said, and now he was standing perfectly still, his
shoulders back, his chin up, ready for a fight, Adam thought, like a
cock ready to defend the henhouse against the fox.
Adam grinned. "Sounds good to me. I like barbecue. You bringing
Sam? I'd like to meet him."
"Of course Sam's coming," Becca said, her voice firm as that of
a den mother faced with a dozen misbehaving ten-year-olds.
"What street is Errol Flynn's Barbecue on,Tyler?"
"Foxglove Avenue, just across from Sherry's Lingerie Boutique.
I hear that Mrs. Ella loves Sherry's lingerie, always in there on her
lunch hour." He shook his head. "It's rather a scary thought."
"I haven't met Mrs. Ella yet," Becca said, then to Adam,"She's the
sheriff's dispatcher, assistant, protector, screener, whatever--but I
know about every one of her pets for the last fifty years. Her job was
to save me from hysteria while I was waiting for the sheriff to come."
"Did it work?" Adam said.
"Yes, it did. All I could think about was the beagle named Turnip
who died by running right off a cliff when he missed the corner
chasing a car."
Both men laughed, and the male pissing contest that had nearly
made her take a kitchen knife to both of them was out of sight, at
least for the moment. She would have to speak to Tyler if it turned
out he was getting the wrong idea, and evidently he was. But didn't
he realize that being her first cousin meant that Adam was no
threat? She didn't need this. She could eat barbecue with them, she
supposed. Thank God Sam would be there.
Sam didn't have much testosterone yet.

It was just after midnight. Tyler McBride was still hanging about
at the front door, and Sam was asleep in the car, his bright-blue





T-shirt and black kid jeans covered with the sauce from the pork
barbecue spareribs. The kid hadn't said much--shy, Adam supposed
--but he'd eaten his share. He'd finally said Adam's name
when he'd taken a big bite of potato salad, then nothing more.
Would the guy never give it up and leave? Adam took a step
closer to get him out of there when he overheard Tyler saying
quietly to Becca at the front door, "I don't like him staying here
with you, alone. I don't trust him."
And then Becca's voice, calm and soothing, and he could practically
see her lightly touch her fingers to Tyler's arm as she said, "He's
my first cousin, Tyler. I never did like him growing up. He was a
bully and a know-it-all, always pushing me around just because I
was a girl. He's grown up into a real sexist. But hey, he's here and he
is big. He's also had some training, something like army special
forces, I think, so he'd be useful if someone came around."
"I still don't like it."
"Look, if something happens, he's an extra pair of hands. He's
harmless. Hey, I heard from his stepdad that he is probably gay."
Adam nearly lost it then. The laughter bubbled up. He practically
had to slap his hand over his mouth to contain it. The laugher
dried up in less than a second. He wanted to leap on her, close his
hands around her skinny neck, and perhaps strangle her.
"Yeah, right, sure," Tyler said. "A guy like that? Gay? I don't believe
it for a minute. You should stay with me and Sam, to be on the
safe side."
She said very gently, "No, you know I couldn't do that, Tyler."
Even after that, it took her another couple of minutes to get
Tyler out of the house. She was locking the door when he said
from behind her, "I'm not a sexist."
She turned around to grin at him. "Aha! So you were eavesdropping.
I thought you were probably lurking back there. I





was afraid that you were going to try to throw Tyler out of the
house."
"Maybe I would have if you hadn't finally gotten a grip and
pushed him out. I wasn't a bully or a know-it-all, either, when I
was growing up. I never tortured you."
"Don't become part of your own script, Adam. I can also write
whatever I want to on that script, since it involves me."
"I'm not gay, either."
She just laughed at him.
He grabbed her by the shoulders, jerked her against him, and
kissed her fast and hard. He said against her mouth, "I'm not gay,
damn you."
She pulled away from him, stood stock-still, and stared at him.
She wiped the back of her hand over her mouth.
He streaked his fingers through his hair, standing it on end. "I'm
sorry. I don't know why I did that. I didn't mean to do that. I'm
not gay."
She started shaking her head, then, just as suddenly, unexpectedly,
she threw back her head and laughed and laughed, wrapping
her arms around herself.
It was a nice sound. He bet she hadn't laughed much lately. She
hiccuped. "You're forgiven for trying to enforce your manhood.
Got you on that one, hmmm?"
He realized he'd leapt for the bait. How could that have happened?
He looked down at his fingernails, then buffed them lightly
against his shirtsleeve. "Actually, what I should have said is I'm not
at all certain yet that I'm gay. I'm still thinking about it. Kissing you
was a test. Yeah, I'm still not certain one way or the other. You
didn't give me much data." Not much of a return hit, but it was
something.
She walked past him into the kitchen. She started measuring out





coffee. When she finished, she turned the machine on and stood
there, staring at the coffee dripping into the pot. Finally she turned
and said, "I want to know who you are. Now. Don't lie to me. I
can't take any more lies. Really, I just can't."
"All right. Pour me that coffee and I'll tell you who I am and
what I'm doing here."
While she poured, he said, leaning back in his chair, balancing it
on its two back legs, "Because you're an amateur I looked at the
problem very differently. But like I already told you, you didn't do
badly. Your only really big mistake was your try at misdirection
with the flight from Dulles to Boston, then another flight on to
Portland. Another thing: I reviewed all your credit card invoices.
The only airline you use is United. Since you're an amateur, it
wouldn't occur to you to change."
She said, "Trying another airline flicked through my brain, but I
wanted out as fast as I could get out and I feel comfortable dealing
with United. I never thought, never realized--"
"I know. It makes excellent sense, just not in this sort of situation.
I didn't even bother checking any of the other airlines."
"However did you get ahold of my credit card invoices?"
"No problem. Access to any private records is a piece of cake, for
anyone. Thankfully, law enforcement has to convince judges to get
warrants and that takes time, a good thing for you. Also, I've got a
dynamite staff who are so fast and creative that it sometimes surprises
even me.
"No, don't stiffen up like a poker. We're talking absolute discretion
here. Now, there were only sixty-eight tickets issued to
women traveling alone within six hours of the flight you took to
Washington, DC. I believed it would be three hours, but we all
wanted to be thorough. It turned out you called the airline to
make reservations only two hours and fifty-four minutes before the





flight, as a matter of fact. You moved very quickly once you made
up your mind to get the hell out of Dodge. Then you had to buy a
ticket to Boston, then on to Portland, Maine, when you arrived at
Dulles in Washington, D.C.You didn't want to buy it in New York,
for obvious reasons. You ran up to the ticket counter, knowing full
well that the next flight to Boston was in a scant twelve minutes.
You wanted out of the line of fire and to get where you were going
as quickly as you could. There was a flight from Dulles to
Boston leaving only forty-five minutes after you landed in Dulles,
but you turned it down. You didn't have any checked luggage, too
big a risk with that, which was smart of you. The woman at the
check-in counter recognized your photo, said she realized you
might miss that plane, but you insisted even though she tried to talk
you out of it. She didn't understand at the time, since there was another
flight so soon. She told you the chances were very high that
you'd miss the first plane to Boston."
"I nearly did miss it. I had to run like mad to catch it. They'd already
closed the gate but I talked my head off until they opened it."
"I know. I spoke to the flight attendant who greeted you at the
door when you came rushing onto the plane. She said you looked
somewhat desperate."
She sighed, but didn't say anything, just crossed her arms over
her chest and stared at him, still as a stone. "Come on, let's hear the
rest of it."
"It didn't take long to find you on that flight to Portland. Your
fake ID was pretty amateur. I'll bet they were really busy at the
check-in counters in New York and Dulles for you to get passed on
through. At least you were smart enough not to use that driver's license
again to get yourself a rental car. You waited an hour for a
flight from Boston to Portland, then you took a taxi into Portland
--yes, one of my people found the driver and verified that it





was you--and went to Big Frank's Previously Owned Cars on
Blake Street. You wanted your own car. That told me that you had
a definite destination in mind, a place where you were going to
burrow in for the long haul. I got all the particulars out of Big
Frank, including your license plate number, the make, model, and
color of your Toyota. I called a friend in the Portland PD to put out
an APB on you and it didn't take more than a day and a half to net
you. Remember when you got gas at the Union 76 station when
you were first coming into town?"
She'd paid cash. No trail. No record. "I didn't make any mistakes."
"No, but it turns out that the guy who pumped your gas is a police
radio buff with an excellent memory for numbers. He heard
the APB, remembered your car and license plate, and phoned it in.
It got to me really fast. Don't worry, I canceled the APB. Needless
to say, I owe a good-sized favor to Chief Aronson of the Portland
PD. Also I spoke to the kid who pumped your gas, told him it had
all been a mistake, thanked him, and slipped him a fifty. Oh yes, I
got a good laugh over the name on the fake ID--Martha Clinton
--a nice mix of presidential names."
"I did, too," Becca said, wondering why she'd bothered at all.
"At least Martha was young and had blondish hair. Did you buy
it off a street kid in New York?"
"Yes. I had to try six of them before I could find an ID that
looked anything remotely like me. I liked the name. When did you
get here to Riptide?"
"Two days ago. I went immediately to the only bed-and-breakfast
in town and of course you had stayed there for one night.
Scottie told me you'd taken the old Marley place." He splayed his
fingers. "Nothing to it."
"Why didn't you come to see me right away?"





"I wanted to get the lay of the land, watch you awhile, see what
was happening, who you spoke to, things like that. It's an approach
I've always used. I've never believed in rushing into things, if I have
a choice."
"It was so easy for you." She sighed, her arms still crossed over
her chest. "That means that the FBI should be ringing the doorbell
at any minute."
"Nah, they're not as smart as I am."
She threw her empty coffee cup at him.
He snagged the cup out of the air and set it back on the table.
His reflexes were good. He was very fast. She said, "I'm awfully
glad I didn't come any nearer to you. You could have nailed me in
a flash, couldn't you?"
"Probably, but that's not the point. I'm not here to hurt you. I'm
here to protect you."
"My guardian angel."
"That's right."
"Why don't you think the cops and FBI will be here any moment?"
"They have to follow all sorts of legal procedures to get to the
goodies." He paused a moment, grinning at her. "And I also sent
them on a wild-goose chase. I'll tell you about it later."
"All right. Let's cut to the chase. If you're not a cop, then who
are you and who hired you to help me?"
He shook his head. "For the time being I'm not at liberty to tell
you that. But someone wants me to clean up this mess you've gotten
yourself into."
"I didn't do anything at all. It was that demented man stalking
me who's responsible. Oh, maybe like the cops in New York and
Albany, you don't believe me, either?"
"I believe you. Would you like to know why the cops in New





York and Albany didn't believe you? Thought you were a screwed-up
fruitcake?"
She nearly fell out of her chair. "I don't believe this. You know
something the cops don't? They thought I was crazy or malicious
or infatuated with the governor. Come on, what do you know?"
"They believed you were a fake because someone close to the
governor told them that it was all a sick sexual fantasy. When the
cops called from New York, that's what the Albany police told
them. However, the threat to the governor was quite real, no question
about that, since someone shot him. They had to refocus,
think things over again."
"Who in the governor's office said that about me? Don't you
dare just sit there staring at me. Damn you, I deserve to know who
betrayed me."
"Of course you do. I'm sorry, Becca. It was Dick McCallum, the
governor's senior aide."
She nearly fell over in shock. "Oh, no, not Dick McCallum. Oh,
no, it doesn't make any sense. Not Dick." She looked stricken and
he was sorry for it.
She was shaking her head at him, not wanting to believe him but
afraid not to. "But why? Dick has never said anything mean to me
or acted like he had it in for me. He never asked me out, so there
wouldn't be any sort of rejection involved. I didn't threaten him in
any way. I was sure he liked me. I wrote most of the governors
speeches, for God's sake. I didn't head up strategy sessions or conduct
policy meetings or have anything to do with spin or scheduling
or anything that would be in his bailiwick. Why would he
do it?"
"That I don't know yet. But to be realistic about it, it will probably
come down to money. Someone paid him a lot of money to
do it. Now, one of the cops in Albany told me he'd come to them,




supposedly feeling all sorts of guilty, but swearing he had no choice
because he was afraid you'd go after the governor. I promise you I
will find out why he did it. He's got to be the key to this." Actually,
he thought, Thomas Matlock was going over everything in
McCallum's background, including where he got the small knife
tattoo on the back of his right shoulder blade.
She said slowly, thinking aloud really, "If Dick McCallum said
those things about me, then he must know about the stalker, maybe
even who he is and why he picked me to terrorize. Maybe Dick
even knows who is trying to kill the governor."
"Yes, all of that is possible. We'll see."
"Do you mean 'we' as in you and me?"
"No."
"Let me call the cops again. I'll tell them I know about what
Dick McCallum told them. I can tell them he's lying. Won't they
have to question him more thoroughly?"
"No, Becca, it's too late. I'm really sorry about this."
"What do you mean, it's too late? I know I can get ahold of Detective
Morales."
"We'll have to go another route to find out why Dick McCallum
did "what he did, and who probably paid him a whole lot of
money to do it."
She became very still. She shook her head. He said very gently,
"I'm sorry, Becca, but someone ran Dick McCallum down in front
of his apartment building in Albany. He's dead."
There -wasn't a single thought in her mind just numbing horror.
"They think you could be involved. Everyone's gone nuts. Actually,
they were nuts the moment the governor was shot. No one
could believe the distance on that shot. Now they're very serious
about finding you and finding out what you know, if you're in




volved in any way. I planted information for them to find and got
them off on a wrong track, so you're safe for a while."
He sat back in his chair and cradled his head against his arms. He
gave her a big fat smile. "They're not going to find you anytime
soon, trust me on that."





Chapter 1 1

He could only stare at him. "All right, you're the greatest. Now,
tell me how you fooled them."
"Thank you. Actually, I had nearly everything in place before
Dick McCallum was killed. To be very precise, I did it right after
the governor was shot. I had to shut the spigot off before they had
the chance to really turn it on.
"They immediately mounted quite a manhunt. FBI offices all
over the country are on the lookout for you. They were just beginning
to track you from New York, just like I did, but then--a
wonderful thing happened. They became convinced that you'd
climbed on a Greyhound bus and had gone all the way down to
North Carolina, probably disguised in a black wig, maybe even
brown contacts. All they had to work on was your driver's license
and that was pretty scary. They searched your mom's apartment, but
you'd cleaned it out really well. They're still looking for a storage facility 
for more information about you, photos and stuff like that.
I assume you rented a storage locker. Where?"
"In the Bronx. Under an assumed name. To be honest, I didn't
have time to go through my mother's stuff. I just piled everything
into boxes and hauled the stuff to the Bronx. Now, Adam, where
would they come up with the idea that I'd be in North Carolina?"
He smiled sweetly at her. "Fiddling. I enjoy it and I'm good
at it."

"By 'fiddling' you mean you scammed them?"





"Right. Sometimes con men use it to express that they got
something over on their marks. Ah, sometimes law enforcement
uses it, too."
She shook her head at him. "I don't want to know which you
are. You're kidding about this, right? You yourself didn't feed them
that information, did you?"
"No. I got one of their best snitches to feed it to them. That way
they wouldn't have any doubts at all. I even planted some evidence
in your apartment in Albany to show that you knew all about
North Carolina, that you'd even vacationed on the Outer Banks,
your favorite town, Duck. Agents were swarming all over Duck
within four hours of the FBI getting the information."
"I have been to Duck. I've stayed at the Sanderling Inn."
"I know, that's why I selected it."
"But I don't think I kept any souvenirs or books or anything like
that."
"Oh yeah, sure you had souvenirs. There were a couple of
T-shirts, some shells with 'Duck' etched on them, a couple of Duck
pens, and a cute little candy dish showing ducks marching. Now the
Feebs will scour the Outer Banks all the way down to Ocracoke.
Did you hear about the Cape Hatteras lighthouse being moved?"
"Yes. Do you want more coffee?"
"Please. Oh, yes, Becca, give me the name of the storage locker
and the assumed name. I'll get all your stuff out of there and to a
safe place."
She snapped her fingers at him. "You can get things accomplished
just like that?"
"I can but try." He tried to look modest, maybe even humble,
but he couldn't pull it off. "What's the name you used and what's
the storage locker name?"
"P and F Storage in the Bronx, and the name is Connie Pearl."





"I don't think I want to know where you got that name."
He watched her walk to the sink with the empty coffeepot and
rinse it out. When she turned to reach for the coffee, her head
slanted in a certain way. He blinked. He knew that certain set of
the head very well. He'd seen her father do that not six days before.
He watched her closely and saw that her movements were economical,
graceful. He liked the way she moved. She'd inherited that from her father, too, 
one of the smoothest, most elegant men
Adam had ever known. He clasped his hands behind his head,
closed his eyes for a moment, picturing Thomas Matlock clearly in
his mind's eye, and thought back to that meeting between the two
of them on June 24.

Washington, D.C.

The Suffer Building

"She still believes you're dead."
He nodded. "Of course. Even when Allison knew she was dying,
we decided not to tell Becca about me, it was just too dangerous."
At least, Adam thought, Thomas had been in close contact with
his wife since e-mail had come along. They were online every
night, until his wife had gone into the hospital. Adam said, "I don't
agree with that, Thomas. You should have contacted her when her
mother fell into a coma. She needed you then, and the good Lord
knows, she needs you now."
"You know it's still too risky. I haven't known where Krimakov
is since right after I shot his wife. I realized soon enough that I
would have to kill him to protect my family, but he simply disap





peared, with the help of the KGB, no doubt. No, I can't take the
risk that Krimakov could find out about her. He would slit her
throat and laugh and then call me and laugh some more. No. I've
been dead to her for twenty-four years. It stays that way. Allison
agreed with me that until I know for certain that Krimakov is
dead, I stay dead to my daughter." Thomas sighed deeply. "It was
very hard for both of us, I'll be honest with you. I think if Allison
hadn't slipped into that drugged coma, she might have told Becca,
so that she'd know she wasn't really alone."
The pain in his voice made Adam silent for a long time. Then he
said, all practical again, "You can't stay dead to her now and you
know it. Or haven't you been watching CNN?"
"That's why you're here. Stop frowning down at me. Pour yourself
a cup of coffee and sit down. I've done a lot of thinking. I've
got a favor to ask."
Adam Carruthers poured himself some coffee so strong it could
bring down a rhino. He stretched out in the chair opposite the
huge mahogany desk. A computer, a printer, a fax, and a big leather
desk pad sat in their designated spots on top of the desk. No free
papers stacked anywhere, no slips or notes, just technology. He
knew that on this specific computer there were no deep, dark secrets,
just camouflage. Even he would have a hard time getting
through all the safeguards installed to protect any hidden files on
the machine, if there had been any, which there weren't. Thomas
Matlock had stayed at the top of his game by being careful and
smart.
Adam said, "The governor of New York was shot in the neck
two nights ago. The man was lucky to be surrounded by doctors
and that he'd promised more big state bucks for heart research,
otherwise they might have let him bleed to death."
"You're cynical."






"Yeah, well, you've known that for ten years, haven't you?"
Adam took a drink of the high-test coffee and felt a jolt all the way
to his feet. "Everyone is after her now, particularly the Feebs. She's
gone to ground. They've pulled out all the stops, but no sign of her
yet. Smart girl. To fool everyone isn't easy. She's your daughter, all
right. Cunning and sneakiness are in her genes."
Thomas Matlock opened a desk drawer and pulled out a 5x7
color photo set in a simple silver frame. "There are only three
people alive who know she's my daughter, and you're one of them.
Now, her mother got this to me just eight months ago. Her name's
Becca, as you know, short for Rebecca--that was my mother's
name. She's about five feet eight inches tall, and she's on the lean
side, not more than one hundred twenty pounds. You can see that
she's in good shape. She's athletic, a whiz at tennis and racquetball.
Her mother told me she loves football, not college but professional.
She'd kill for the Giants, even in their worst season.
"You've got to find her, Adam. I don't know if Krimakov will
connect her to me. It's very probable he's known all along that I
had a wife and a daughter, no way to bury that, and we didn't want
to do the witness protection program. But you know something? I
still don't have a clue where he is or what he's been doing the past
twenty years. I've got tentacles all over the world but no definite
leads on his whereabouts. Now I've upped the ante, but still nothing.
"But you know he's on top of American news, all of it. The instant
he hears the name 'Matlock,' he'll go en pointe. She's in deep
trouble. She doesn't even realize how deep, that the cops and the
FBI are the least of her worries."
"Don't worry, Thomas. I'll find her and I'll protect her, from
both the stalker and Krimakov, if either of them shows up."
"That's just it." Thomas sighed. "This stalker bothers me. What





are the odds that a stalker would go after Becca? Too great, I think.
What I'm thinking is that just maybe Krimakov already found her,
just maybe he's the stalker."
"Jesus, Thomas," Adam said. "I guess it's possible, but unlikely, I
think. If he's the stalker, then that means he found her even before
your wife died."
"Yes, it scares me to my toes."
"But there's no proof at all that it's Krimakov. Now, first things
first. I've got to get the locals and the Feds off her trail once and for
all."
"You've already begun to track her, then?"
"Sure. The minute I heard her name, I got all my people working
on it. What would you expect? You're the one who always has
to look at the big picture. I don't. Let me make a phone call right
now, let Hatch know you've approved everything, get all my people
on this."
"And if I hadn't called you?"
"I'd have taken care of her anyway." Adam turned to pick up the
phone. "She's your daughter."
Adam knew that Thomas Matlock was looking at him as he
lifted the receiver of the black phone and punched in some numbers.
He knew, too, that Thomas had worried and worried, tried to
figure out the odds, determine the best thing to do, but Adam had
simply stepped in and begun protecting his daughter from a stalker
who could be, truth be told, Krimakov, although to Adam the odds
were that Krimakov was long gone. But it was a lead. It was something,
the only thing they had.
Thomas should have known that he didn't have to even ask.
Adam also imagined that Thomas Matlock felt a goodly amount of
relief.
As he spoke quietly on the phone, he saw the jolt of pain cross



Thomas Matlock's face, and he knew it was because Thomas would
never again see Allison. And more than that. Thomas Matlock
hadn't been with his wife when she died. He'd wanted to be, but
Becca was there, always there, and he couldn't take the chance. The
pain and guilt of that had to be tearing him up inside.
Oh yeah, he'd try to save Thomas's daughter.
Only one mistake in the seventies, and Thomas Matlock had lost
any chance at the promising life he'd begun. He'd had to hold himself
private. He'd kept his position in the intelligence community
so he would know if Krimakov ever surfaced. But he'd had to remain
alone.

Jacob Marley's House

Adam slowly opened his eyes. He was in the same room with
Allison and Thomas Matlock's daughter, and she was looking at
him with an odd combination of helplessness and wariness. Damn,
she looked so very much like her father. He couldn't tell her yet.
No, not yet. He said on a yawn, "I'm sorry, I guess I just sort of
flashed out for a while."
"It's late. You're probably exhausted what with all your skulking
around spying on me. I'm going to bed. There's a guest room at the
end of the hall upstairs. The bed might be awful, I don't know.
Come on and I'll help you make it up."
The bed was hard as a rock, which was fine with Adam. His feet
didn't hang off the end, another nice thing. He watched her trail off
down the hall, pause for just a moment, and look back at him. She
raised her hand. Then he watched her close the door to her bedroom.
He'd wondered about Becca Matlock for a very long time, won




dered what she was like, how much she'd inherited from her father,
wondered if she was happy, maybe even in love with a guy and ready
to get married. He discovered he was still wondering about her as
he lay on his back and stared up at the black ceiling. All he knew for
sure was that someone had put her in the center of his game and
was doing his best to bring her down. Kill her? He didn't know.
Was it Vasili Krimakov? He didn't know, but maybe it was time
to consider anything that put even a shadow on the radar.
He woke up at about four A.M. and couldn't go back to sleep.
Finally, he booted up his laptop and wrote an e-mail: I told her about
McCallum, She really doesn't know anything. I don't either, yet. You know,
just maybe you're right. Just maybe Krimakov is the stalker and the one
who shot the governor.
He turned off the compact and stretched out again, pillowing his
head on his arms. To him, Krimakov was like the bogeyman, a
monster trotted out to scare children. To Adam, the man had never
had any substance, even though he'd seen classified material about
him, been briefed about his kills. But hell, that was over twenty-five
years ago. Nothing, not even a whiff of the man since then.
Twenty-five years since Thomas Matlock had accidentally killed
his wife. So long ago and in a place that was no longer even part of
the Soviet Union--Belarus, the smallest of the Slavic republics independent
since 1991.
He knew the story because once, just once, Thomas Matlock
had gotten drunk--it was his anniversary--and told him about
how he'd been playing cat and mouse back in the seventies with a
Russian agent, Vasili Krimakov, and in the midst of a firefight that
never should have happened, he'd accidentally shot Krimakov's
wife. They'd been on the top of Dzerzhinskaya Mountain, not
much of a mountain at all, but the highest peak Belarus had to offer.
And she'd died and Krimakov had sworn he would kill him, kill





his wife, kill anyone he loved, and he'd cursed him to hell and beyond.
And Thomas Matlock knew he meant it.
The next morning,Thomas Matlock had simply looked at Adam
and said, "Only two other people in the world know the whole of
it, and one of them is my wife." If there was more to the tale,
Thomas Matlock hadn't told him.
Adam had always wondered who the other person was who
knew the whole story, but he hadn't asked. He wondered now
what Thomas Matlock was doing at this precise moment, if he, like
Adam, was lying awake, wondering what the hell was going on.

Chevy Chase, Maryland

It was raining deep in the night, a slow, warm rain that would
soak into the ground and be good for all the summer flowers. There
was no moon to speak of to shine in through the window of the
dimly lit study. Thomas Matlock was hunched over his computer,
aware of the soft sounds of the rain but not really hearing it. He had
just gotten an e-mail from a former double agent, now living in Istanbul,
telling him that he'd just picked it up from a Greek smuggler
that Vasili Krimakov had died in an auto accident near Agios Nikolaos,
a small fishing village on the northeast coast of Crete.
Krimakov had lived all this time in Crete? Since Thomas had
found out about his daughter's stalker, after the man had murdered
that old bag lady, he'd put everyone on finding Krimakov. Scour
the damned world for him,Thomas had said. He's got to be somewhere.
Hell, he's probably right here.
Now after all this time, all these bloody years, he'd finally found
aim? Only he was dead. It was hard to accept. His implacable en




emy, finally dead. Gone, only it was too late, because Allison was
dead, too. Far too late.
Was it really an accident?
Thomas knew that Krimakov had to have enemies. He'd had
years to make them, just as Thomas had. He'd gotten messages from
Krimakov back in the early years, telling him he would never forget,
never. Telling him he would find his damned wife and daughter
--yes, he knew all about them and he would find them, no
matter how well Thomas had hidden them. And then it would be
judgment day.
Thomas had been terrified. And he'd done something unconscionable.
He escorted a very pretty young woman, one of the assistants
in his office, to an Italian embassy function, then to a
Smithsonian exhibit. The third time he was with her, he was simply
walking her to her car from the office because the skies had suddenly
opened up and rain was pouring down and he had a big umbrella.
A man had jumped out of an alley and shot her between the
eyes, not more than six feet away. Thomas hadn't caught him. He
knew it was Krimakov even before he'd received that letter written
in Vasili's stark, elegant hand: "Your mistress is dead. Enjoy yourself.
When I discover your wife and child, they will be next."
That had been seventeen years before.
Thomas had considered seeing Allison that weekend. He had
canceled, and she'd known why, of course. He sat back in his chair,
pillowing his head on his arms. He read the e-mail from Adam. Consider Krimakov.
But Krimakov was finally dead. The irony of it didn't escape
him. Krimakov was gone, out of his life, forever. It was all over. He
could have finally been with Allison. But it was too late, just too
late. But now someone was terrorizing Becca. He just didn't un




derstand what was going on. He wished he could learn about Dick
McCallum, but as of yet, no one had seen anything out of the ordinary.
No big deposits, no new accounts, no big expenditures on
his credit cards, no strangers reported near him, nothing suspicious
or unexpected in his apartment. Simply nothing.
Thomas remembered telling Adam how there were only two
other people--besides Adam--who knew the real story. His wife
and Buck Savich, both dead now. Buck had died of a heart attack
some six years before. But there was Buck's son, and he was very
much alive, and Thomas realized now that he needed him, needed
him very much.
The man knew all about monsters. He knew how to find them.

Georgetown

Washington, D. C.

Dillon Savich, head of the Criminal Apprehension Unit of the
FBI, booted up his laptop MAX and saw there was an e-mail from
someone he didn't know. He shifted his six-month-old son, Sean,
to his other shoulder and punched up the message.
Sean burped. "Good one," Savich said, and rubbed his son's back
in slow circles. He heard him begin to suck his fingers, felt his small
body relax into his shoulder. He read:

Your father was an excellent friend and a fine man. I trusted him
implicitly. He believed you would change the course of criminal investigations.
He was very proud of you. I desperately need your help.
Thomas Matlock.





Sean reared back suddenly and patted his father's whiskered
cheek with his wet fingers. Savich stroked his son's small fingers
and dried them on his cotton shirt. "We've got a neat mystery here,
Sean. Who the hell is Thomas Matlock? How did he know my father?
He was an excellent friend? I don't remember ever hearing
my father mention his name.
"MAX, let me get you started on this. Find out about this man
for me." He punched in a series of keys, then sat back, Sean bouncing
from foot to foot on his stomach, watching MAX do his thing.
Savich reached up and flicked the drool off Sean's chin. "You're
teething, champ. It's not going to be a pretty sight for the next several
months, so that book says. You don't seem like you're feeling
any pain. Believe me, that's a relief for both of us."
Sean gurgled very close to Savich's ear.
He held his son back and smiled into that splendid little face that
looked more like him than Sherlock. Sean had his dark hair, not
Sherlock's curly red hair. As for his eyes, they were as dark as his father's,
not that sweet, soft blue of his mothers. "You want to know
something? It's four o'clock in the morning and here we are wide
awake. Your mama's going to think we're both nuts."
Sean yawned then and stuck three fingers into his mouth.
Savich kissed his forehead and stood, gently laying his son over his
shoulder. "Let's see if you're ready to pack it in again."
He went to his son's room and dimmed the light. He laid him
on his back and pulled a yellow baby blanket over his light diaper
shirt.
"You go to sleep now, hear? I'm even going to sing you one of
my favorite songs. Your mama always laughs her head off when I
sing her this one." He sang a country-and-western song about a
man who loved his Chevy truck so much that he was buried with
the engine and all four hubcaps, special edition, all silver. Sean





looked mesmerized by his father's deep, rich voice. He was out after
just two verses. One good thing about country-and-western
music--there was always another verse. Savich paused a moment,
smiled down at the precious human being that still jolted him
when he realized that he was, indeed, his very own child, part of
him. Just as Savich had been his father's child. He felt a sharp pull
somewhere in the region of his heart. He missed his dad, always
would.
Who was this Thomas Matlock, who claimed to have known his
father?
He went back to his study.
MAX beeped as he walked in. "Good for you," Savich said, sitting
back down. "What have we got on this Thomas Matlock
guy?"





Chapter 1 2

Adam said, "You mean they're giving up trying to find her on the
Outer Banks?"
Adam knew that Hatch, his right hand, was sitting crouched in a
phone booth somewhere, his dark sunglasses pressed so close to his
eyes that his eyelashes got tangled, got into his eyes, and sometimes
caused eye infections. "Yeah, boss. Since they have no leads at all,
they're counting on Becca knowing something, maybe even knowing
this guy who shot the governor. That's why they're searching
high and low for her. Agent Ezra John is the SAC running the show
down there. I hear he's cursing up a blue streak, wondering where
she could have hidden herself. Says they looked everywhere for her
and she just ain't anywhere, just like smoke, he says, and the others
grin behind their hands. Oh yeah, you'll love this, boss. Old Ezra believes
that Ms. Matlock is a lot smarter than anyone gave her credit
for, keeping out of sight like she is. If he knew it was you that duped
him, he'd want to put your head on a pike and find some bridge to
stick it on."
"Thanks for sharing that, Hatch."
"Knew you'd like it. You and old Ezra go back a long ways, don't
you?"
That wasn't the half of it, Adam thought, and said only, "Something
like that. Okay now. In other words, Ezra's finally come to
the conclusion that she conned him? That she isn't anywhere near
the Outer Banks?"





"That's it."
"I don't think I need to fiddle them anymore. Too much time
has passed for them to find her now. I think we're home free--
well, at least for the moment."
Silence.
"Hatch, I know you're lighting a cigarette in a closed phone
booth. Put it out right now or I'll fire you."
Silence.
"Is it out?"
"Yeah, boss. I swear it's out. I didn't even get one decent puff."
"Swell news for your lungs. Now, what about the NYPD?"
"They're talking to their counterparts all over the country, just
like the Feebs are. But hey--nothing, nada, zippo. This Detective
Morales is a wreck, probably hasn't slept for three days. All he can
talk about is how she called him, repeated to him that she'd told
him everything, and he wasn't able to talk her in. There's this other
detective, a woman name of Letitia Gordon, who evidently hates
Ms. Matlock's guts. Claims she's a liar, a nutcase, and probably a
murderer. Old Letitia really wants to bring her down. She's pushing
everyone to charge her with the murder of that old bag lady
outside the Metropolitan Museum. You know, the murder Ms.
Matlock reported? The one the stalker did to get her attention?"
"Yeah, I know."
"Well, they told Detective Gordon to pull her head out of her
armpit and try for a bit of objectivity. The woman's really got it in
for our gal."
Adam made a rude noise. "Let Detective Gordon get hives over it
for all we care. Neither Thomas nor I ever believed they were going
to charge her with murder. But a material witness? That's possible.
And you know as well as I do that the cops couldn't protect her from





this stalker. Nope, that's our job. Now, what do you have on McCallum?"
Adam wasn't expecting anything, so he wasn't disappointed
when Hatch sighed and said, "Not a thing as of yet. A real pro
spearheaded this operation, boss, just like you thought."
"Unfortunately, it can't be Krimakov because Thomas finally got
him tracked down. He was living on Crete, and as of a week ago,
he's dead. I'm not sure of the exact date. But it was before McCallum
was run down in Albany. I guess Krimakov could have been
involved, but he certainly wasn't running the show, and that's not
his MO. Anything Krimakov was involved in, he was the Big
Leader. Thomas is willing to bet his ascot on that. But if Krimakov
was somehow involved, it means he knew about Becca being Matock's
daughter. Jesus, it makes me crazy."
"Nah, the guy's dead. This is a new nutcase, fresh out of the
woodwork, and he's picked Becca."
Adam scratched his head and added, "No, I don't think so,
Hatch. It's got to be some sort of conspiracy, there's just no other
answer. Lots of folk involved. But why did they focus on Ms. Matlock?
Why put her in the middle? I keep coming back to Krimakov,
but I know, logically, that it just can't be. Someone,
something else, is driving this. How's the governor?"
"I hear his neck is a bit sore, but he'll live. He doesn't know a
thing, that's what he claims. He's very upset about McCallum."
Adam sat there and thought and thought. The same questions
over and over again. No answers.
Silence.
Put out the cigarette, Hatch. I know about your girlfriend. She
loves silk lingerie and expensive steaks. You can't afford to lose your
job."





"Okay, boss."
Adam heard some papers shuffling, heard some mild curses, and
smiled. "Anything else?"
"Yeah, of course there's no positive ID on that skeleton that
popped out of Ms. Matlock's basement wall. For sure it was a
teenage girl who got her head bashed in some ten or more years
ago. I did find out something sort of neat, though."
"Yeah?"
"It turns out there was an eighteen-year-old girl who just up
and disappeared from Riptide, Maine. Now ain't that a neat coincidence?"
"I'll say. When?"
"Twelve years ago."
"No one's heard from her since?"
"I'm not completely sure about that. If she's still unaccounted
for and they decide she's a good bet, then they'll do DNA tests on
the bones."
Adam said, "They'll need something from her--like hair on a
brush, an old envelope that would have her saliva, barring that, then
a family member would have to give up some blood."
"Yeah. Thing is, though, it wouldn't be admissible in court if it
ever came to it. It'll take some time, a couple of weeks. No one
sees any big rush on it."
"I don't like the feel of this, Hatch. We've got this other mess
and now this damned skeleton falling out of Becca's basement wall.
It's enough to make a man give up football."
"Nah, you've always told me that God created the fall just for
football. You'll be watching football when you throw that last
pigskin into the end zone in the sky, if they still have the sport that
many aeons from now. You'll probably lobby God to have pro football
in Heaven. Stop whining, boss. You'll figure everything out.





You usually do. Hey, I hear that Maine's one beautiful place. That
true?"
Adam stared at the phone for a moment. He had been whining.
He said, "Yeah. I just wish I had some time to enjoy it." He suddenly
yelled into the receiver, "No smoking, Hatch. If you even think
about it, I'll know it. Now, call me tomorrow at this same time."
"You got it, boss."
"No smoking."
Silence.

Becca said very quietly, "Who is Krimakov?"
Adam turned around very slowly to face her. She was standing
in the doorway of the moldy-smelling guest room where he'd
spent his first night in Jacob Marley's house. She'd opened the door
and he hadn't heard a thing. He was losing it.
"Who is Krimakov?"
He said easily, "He's a drug dealer who used to be involved with
the Medellin cartel in Colombia. He's dead now."
"What does this Krimakov have to do with all this craziness?"
"I don't know. Why did you open the door without knocking,
Becca?"
"I heard you on the phone. I wanted to know what was going
on. I knew you wouldn't tell me. I also came up to get you for
breakfast. It's ready downstairs. You're still lying. This doesn't have
anything to do with drug dealing."
He had the gall to shrug.
"If I had my kitchen knife, I'd run at you, right this minute."
"And what? Slice me up? Come on, Becca, why can't you just
accept that I'm here to do a job and that job is to make sure that
you don't get wiped out? Get off your high horse."





He stood up then and she backed up a step. She was afraid of him
still. Hell, after seeing him all civilized that entire evening with
four-year-old Sam, it surprised him. "I told you I wouldn't hurt
you," he said patiently. He realized at that moment that he didn't
have a shirt on. She was afraid he might attack her? Well, after his
teenage attempt last night to prove to her he wasn't gay, he supposed
he couldn't blame her. He moved slowly, deliberately, and picked up
his shirt from where it was hanging over a chair back, then turned
his back to put it on. He faced her again as he buttoned it up.
"Who are you?"
He sighed and tucked in his shirt. Then he nipped the sheet and
blanket over the bed. He straightened the single too-soft pillow
that smelled, unexpectedly, of violets.
When he finally turned to face her again, she was gone. She'd
heard Krimakov's name. It didn't matter. She'd never hear it again.
The bastard was dead. Finally dead, and Thomas Matlock was free.
To come and finally meet his daughter. Why hadn't Thomas said
anything about that? He combed his hair, brushed his teeth, and
headed downstairs.
She fed him pancakes with blueberry syrup and crispy bacon,
just the way he liked it. The coffee was strong, black as Hatch's fantasies,
the fresh cantaloupe she'd sliced, ripe and sweet.
Neither of them said a word. She ate a slice of dry toast and had
a cup of tea. It looked like she was having trouble getting that
much down.
He said, a dark eyebrow arched, his mouth full of bacon, "What
is this? No questions right in my face? No bitching at me? By God,
could it be that you're sulking?"
That got her, just as he hoped it would.
"How would you like that nice sticky syrup down the back of
your neck?"





He grinned at her and saluted with his coffee cup. "I wouldn't
like that at all. At least you're speaking to me again. Look, Becca,
I'm just trying to find out what's going on. Everyone is floating a
lot of ideas, a lot of names. Now we have this skeleton."
He was so slippery, she'd bet if he were a pig in a greased pig
contest, no one could hold him down, but she was tenacious.
"Who were you telling not to smoke?"
"Hatch. He's my main assistant. He has more contacts than a
centipede has legs, speaks six languages, and is real smart except
when it comes to cigarettes and loose women.That's the way I
can control his smoking. I pay him very well and threaten to fire
him if he lights up."
"But I heard you tell him to put out the cigarette. Obviously he's
still smoking. And he knew you were on the other end of the line."
"Yeah. It's more a game now than anything else. He lights up
just to hear me blow."
"Did he find out anything about the skeleton? What's this about
DNA testing? They think they know who that poor girl was?"
He stretched, drank down the last of his coffee, carefully set the
cup on the table, then stood up.
She was on her feet in the next instant. Two fast steps and she
was in his face. She was fast, he'd give her that, and she was mad.
He was grinning down at her when she slammed her fist in his
belly. Becca felt her face turning red. "Damn you, you will not treat
me like a cipher, like I'm a moron who isn't even important
enough to talk to. Who are you?"
He grabbed her wrist. "That was a good shot. No, don't hit me
again or I'll have to do something. I want to keep those pancakes
happy."
'Yeah, what?" She just didn't care anymore. She smashed her
other fist into his left kidney.





He held both her wrists now. He knew she'd bring up her knee
next so he jerked her around so her back was pressed against his
chest. He held her arms pressed to her sides. "You'd look better as
a blonde. Usually a woman's roots are darker than her hair. In your
case, you've got all this baby-light hair at the roots."
She kicked back, grazing his shin. He grunted. He sat back
down on the chair, holding her on his lap. She was pinned against
him and couldn't move. "Now," he said, "I'm sorry that we're playing
only by my rules, but that's the way it's got to be unless I'm told
otherwise."
"You need to shave. You look like a convict."
"How do you know?You've got the back of your head to me."
"You've got as much hair on your face as you do on your chest."
"Oh yeah? Well, you did get an eyeful in the bedroom."
"Go to hell."
Adam's cell phone rang. "Well, shit. Will you let me answer this
without attacking me again?"
"Actually, I don't want to be anywhere near you."
"Good." He dropped his arms and she jumped off his lap.
He flipped open the small narrow phone. "Carruthers here."
"Adam, it's Thomas Matlock. Is Becca there with you?"
"As a matter of fact, yes."
"All right, then, just listen. I sent an e-mail to Dillon Savich, a
computer expert here at FBI headquarters in Washington. I knew
his father very well. Actually, Buck Savich was the only other person
who knew about all the mess with Krimakov. He's been dead
for a while. I e-mailed his son for help. His job is finding maniacs
using computer programs. He's good. He managed to track me
down before I could even get back to him. That's beyond good.
He's agreed to a meeting. I'm going to see him. We need all the
help we can get."





"I think that's a mistake," Adam said, thinking of the logistics. "I
don't think we need anyone else in on this. I'm worried about
maintaining control here."
"Trust me on this, Adam. We do need him. He's got lots of contacts
and is very, very smart. Don't worry that he'll talk and expose
Becca's whereabouts if he comes on board. He won't. Have you
learned anything more of value?"
"There's nothing at all to be found in any of McCallum's
records. The governor says he doesn't know a thing. I assume
you've come up dry as well?"
"Yes, but I think that Dillon Savich will be able to help us there
as well. Word is he's magic with a computer and gathering information."
Adam said, "We don't need anyone else, Thomas." The instant
the name was out of his mouth, Adam jerked his head up. Becca
was looking at him, her eyes narrowed, intent. He cleared his
throat. "We don't want more hands stirring this pot. It's too dangerous.
Too much chance of cracks and leaks. It could lead to
Becca."
"You slipped, Adam. Is she listening?"
"No, it's okay." At least he hoped it was. She was now simply
looking wary and interested, both at the same time.
Adam said again, "Maybe you could just have this guy do some
specific searches for you."
"That, too, but he's a specialist just like you are. All right. We'll
see. I'm meeting with him to see what he has to say. Maybe he
won't want to join up with us, or maybe he won't have the time. I
just wanted you to know. Keep her safe, Adam."
"Yeah."
Becca shook her head at him when he closed his cell phone. She
knew there'd be downright lies or at the very least evasions out of





his mouth. She was furious, frustrated, but, surprisingly, she felt
safer than she had in weeks. When he looked like he would say
something, she smiled at him and said, "No, don't bother."

The Egret Bar & Grill

Washington, D. C,

Thomas Matlock rose very slowly from his chair. He didn't
know what to say but he didn't like what he saw. Damnation, Savich
wasn't alone.
Savich smiled at the man he'd never heard of before receiving
the e-mail at four A.M. that morning. He extended his hand. "Mr.
Matlock?"
"Yes. Thomas Matlock."
"This is my wife and my partner, Lacy Sherlock Savich, but
everyone calls her Sherlock. She's also FBI and one of the best."
Thomas found himself shaking the hand of a very pretty young
woman, on the small side, with thick, curling red hair, the sweetest
smile he'd ever seen, and he knew in his gut, knew without even
hearing her speak or act or argue, that she was tough, probably as
tough as her hard-faced husband, a man about Adam's age, who
looked stronger than a bull. Meaner, too. He didn't look like a
computer nerd. Whatever that was supposed to mean nowadays.
"So,"Thomas said,"you're Buck's son."
"Yes," Savich said and grinned. "I know what you're thinking.
My dad was all blond and fair, a regular aristocrat with a thin
straight nose and high cheekbones. I look like my mom. You can
bet that my dad was always pissed about that. I never had my dad's
smart-ass mouth, either. That pissed him as well."





"Your dad could charm the widow's peak off a fascist general and
outwit a Mafia don. He was an excellent man and friend,"Thomas
said, eyeing the man. "I wasn't expecting you to bring anyone else."
He found himself clearing his throat when Savich didn't immediately
respond. "This is all rather confidential, Mr. Savich. Actually,
it's all extremely confidential, there's a life at stake and--"
Savich said easily, "Where I go Sherlock goes, sir. We're a package
deal. Shall we continue or would you like to call this off?"
The young woman didn't say a word. She didn't even change
expressions. She just cocked her head to one side and waited, very
quietly, silent. A professional to her toes, Thomas thought, just like
her husband.
Thomas said then, "Is your name really Sherlock?"
She laughed. "Yes. My father's a federal judge in San Francisco.
Can you imagine what the crooks are feeling when they're hauled
in front of him--Judge Sherlock?"
"Please sit down, both of you. I'm grateful that you came, Mr.
Savich."
"Just Savich will do fine."
"All right. I understand you head up the CAU--the Criminal
Apprehension Unit--at the FBI. I know you use computers and
protocols you yourself designed and programmed. And with some
success. Naturally, I really don't fully understand what it is that
happens."
Savich ordered iced tea from the hovering waiter, waited for the
others to order as well, then leaned forward. "Like the Profiling
Unit, or ISU, we also deal with local agencies who think an outside eye just 
might see something they missed on a local crime. Normally
murder cases. Also like the ISU, we only go in when we're asked.
"Unlike the ISU, we're entirely computer-based. We use special
programs to help us look at crimes from many different angles. The






programs correlate all the data from two or more crimes that seem
to have been committed by the same person. We call the main program
PAP, the Predictive Analogue Program. Of course, what an
agent feeds into the program will determine what comes out.
Nothing new in that at all."
Sherlock said, "All of it is Dillon's brainchild. He worked on all
the protocols. It's amazing how the computer can turn up patterns, weird 
correlations, ways of looking at things that we wouldn't have
considered. Of course, like Dillon said, we have to put the data in
there in order to get the patterns, the correlations, the anomalies
that can point a finger in the right direction.
"Then we look at the possible outcomes and alternatives the
computer gives us, act on many of them. You said Buck Savich was
an excellent friend. How did you know Buck Savich, sir?"
"Thank you for the explanation. It's fascinating, and about time,
I say. Technology should catch crooks, not let the crooks diddle society
with the technology. Yes, Buck Savich was an incredible man.
I knew him professionally. Tough, smart, fearless. The practical
jokes he used to pull had the higher-ups in the Bureau screaming
and laughing at the same time. I was very sorry to hear about his
death."
Savich nodded, waiting.
Thomas Matlock sipped his iced tea. He needed to know more
about these two. He said easily, "I remember the String Killer case.
That was an amazing bit of work."
"It wasn't at all typical," Savich said. "We got the guy. He's dead.
It's over." Then he looked at his wife, and Thomas saw something
that suddenly made him aware of the extraordinary bond between
them. There was a flash of incredible fear in Savich's eyes, followed
by a wash of relief and so much gratitude that it went all the way to
Thomas's gut. He should have had that bond with Allison, but one





stray bullet in a woman's head had put an end to that possibility forever.
Thomas cleared his throat, his mind made up. These two were
bright, young, dedicated. He needed them. "Thank you for explaining
more about your unit. I guess there's nothing more to do
except tell you exactly what's going on. My only favor--and I
must have your agreement on this--if you don't choose to help
me, you will not inform your colleagues about any of this conversation.
It all remains right here, in this booth."
"Is it illegal?"
"No, Savich. I've always believed that being a crook requires too
much work and energy. I'd rather race my sailboat on the Chesapeake
than worry about evading the cops. The FBI is, however, involved,
and that does make for some conflict of interest."
Savich said slowly, "You're a very powerful man, Mr. Matlock. It
took MAX nearly fourteen minutes to even find out that you're a
very well-protected high-ranking member of the intelligence community.
It took him another hour and two phone calls from me to
discover that you are one of the Shadow Men. I don't trust you."
Sherlock cocked her head to the side and said, "What are the
Shadow Men?"
Thomas said, "It's a name coined back in the early seventies by
the CIA for those of us who have high security clearance, work
very quietly, very discreetly, always out of sight, always in the background,
and frankly, do things that aren't sanctioned or publicized
or even recognized. Results are seen, but not any of us."
"You mean like the 'Mission Impossible' team?"
"Nothing so perfectly orchestrated as all that. No, I've never
burned a tape in my life." He smiled then and it was an attractive
smile, Sherlock thought. He was a handsome man, well built, took
care of himself. A bit younger than her father, but not much. Ah,





but his eyes. They were filled with bleak, dark shadows, with secrets
huddled deep, and there was pain there as well, pain there for so
very long that it was now a part of him, burrowed deep. He was a
complex man, but most important, he was alone, so very alone--
now she saw that clearly--and he was afraid of something that
went as deep as his soul. She didn't think that being a Shadow Man
was the reason for all that bleakness in his eyes.
She said, "It sounds like cloak-and-dagger stuff, sir, like it should
have gone out of business when the Cold War ended."
Thomas said, "Perhaps there's a bit of cloak-and-dagger still in
the mix. Actually, before the end of the Cold War things were a lot
simpler. We knew the enemy. We knew exactly how the enemy
operated, what to expect. However, now the projects we're involved
in are rarely so clean, so splendidly satisfying and clear-cut
as that 'Mission Impossible' TV show.
"In my area, there is rarely an obvious and clean line between us
and the bad guys, although Saddam and Gaddafi look like they're
going to be long-timers. An enemy of yesterday is a confederate of
today. Unfortunately, the opposite is also true.
"This is more true today, of course. So many petty tyrants and
greedy despots who want to rule, if not the world, then a larger
portion of it than they do currently. China is the giant fist, more
frightening than the USSR ever was. So many people, so many
natural resources, such endless potential. Somehow we have to deal
with all of them."
Thomas looked off over Sherlock's left shoulder, seeing into the
past, into the future, she didn't know. Then he said quietly, "There
are always failures, mistakes, lives lost needlessly. But we try, Mrs.
Savich. More often than not, thank God, we do succeed and perhaps
make the world a bit safer. For the most part we re not allowed
to be nice people, so your husband is smart not to trust me.





However, this is something entirely different. This isn't business.
This is entirely personal. I need help badly."
She lowered her head and began weaving a packet of Equal
through her fingers. Finally, she looked straight at him, picked up
her iced tea glass, raised it toward him, and said, "Why don't you
call me Sherlock."
Thomas clicked his glass to hers. Somehow, he knew, she and
her husband had communicated, had agreed to hear him out.
"Sherlock. It is a charming name. It goes very well with Savich."
Savich sat forward then. "Let's cut to the chase, Mr. Matlock. We
give you our word that nothing you tell us today will go beyond
this booth. We will accept the possibility of a conflict of interest, at
least for the moment."
Thomas felt the same sort of loosening in his gut that he'd felt
when Adam had told him he'd already begun to protect Becca. He
smiled at the two of them and said, "Why don't you call me
Thomas."





Chapter 13

Sheriff Gaffney said, "Well now, what we got was an anonymous
tip, Mr. Carruthers."
"That's rather odd, don't you think, Sheriff?"Adam had his arms
folded over his chest and was leaning against Jacob Marley's
screened front porch. Sheriff Gaffney looked tired, he thought, a
bit pasty in the face. He wanted to tell the sheriff to lose fifty
pounds and start walking the treadmill.
"No, sir, not odd at all. Folk don't like to get involved. They'd
rather tattle in secret than come smartly forward and tell you what
they know. Sometimes, truth be told, folk are just shits, Mr. Carruthers."
That was true enough, Adam thought. "You said the girl's name
is Melissa Katzen?"
"That's right. It was a woman with a real whispery voice who
said it was Melissa. She didn't want to tell who she was. She said
everyone believed at the time that Melissa was going to elope right
after high school graduation. So when she up and was just gone,
everyone figured she'd done it. But she thinks now, what with the
skeleton, that Melissa didn't go anywhere."
"Who was the boyfriend?"Adam asked.
"No one knew, since Melissa wouldn't tell anyone. Her folks didn't
know what to think after she was gone. They didn't know about
any elopement talk, came as a shock to them. I'm thinking that
maybe one of Melissa's family called in this tip, or a friend and that





friend is afraid she's in danger if she tells us who she is. Now, if that
skeleton is Melissa Katzen, then she didn't elope. She stayed right
here and got herself murdered."
"Maybe," Becca said, "she decided she didn't want to elope after
all and the boy killed her."
"Could be," said Sheriff Gaffney, shaking his head. "A bad way
to end up."
He got no argument.
The sheriff adjusted his thick leather belt that was digging into
his belly and said on a sigh, "As the years passed, most folk just forgot
about her, figured she was in another state with six kids now.
And maybe she is. We'll find out. We're talking to all the people
who remember her, went to school with her, things like that."
"You don't have any idea who called this in, Sheriff?"
"Nope. Mrs. Ella took the call, said it sounded like someone
with a doughnut in her mouth. Mrs. Ella believes it's a relative, or
a chicken-shit friend."
"You'll do DNA tests now?"
"As soon as we can locate Melissa's parents and see if they have
anything of hers we could use to get her DNA to match against
what they have in the bones. It's going to take a while. Science--
all this newfangled stuff--it's all iffy as far as I'm concerned. Just
look at how poor OJ. was nearly sent away because of all that flaky
so-called DNA evidence. But the jury was smart. They didn't believe
any of that stuff for a minute. Well, it's something to do. We'll
know in a couple of weeks."
"Sheriff," Becca said mildly,"DNA is the most scientifically solid
tool that law enforcement has going for it today. It's not flaky at all.
It will clear innocent people and, hopefully, in most cases, put
monsters in jail."
"So you think, Ms. Powell, but you force me to tell you that





yours is an Uninformed Opinion. Mrs. Ella doesn't like all this
fancy stuff, either. But she thinks it's real possible that the skeleton
is poor little Melissa, even though she remembers Melissa as being
all sorts of shy and sweet and so quiet you'd have thought her a little
ghost. Who'd want to kill a sweet kid like that? Even old Jacob
Marley, who didn't like anybody."
Adam shook his head. "I don't know, Sheriff. I go for the
boyfriend. Hey, at least there's something to go on now. Won't you
come in?"
"Nah. I just wanted to fill in you and Ms. Powell. I gotta go talk
to the power company, hear they accidentally cut a sewage pipe.
That'd be no good. You pray the wind doesn't blow in this direction.
Now, Mr. Carruthers, you going to hang around with Ms.
Powell much longer?"
"Oh yeah," Adam said easily, looking over at Becca, who hadn't
said a single word since Sheriff Gaffney, button sewn back on, bemoaned
poor O.J.'s treatment. "She's still real jittery, Sheriff, jumps
whenever there's a sound in this old house. You know how women
are--so sensitive it makes a man want to coddle them until the
sun's shining again."
"That was well said, Mr. Carruthers. We got us one of our perfect
summer days. Just smell the air. All salty ocean and wildflowers,
and that sun smell. Nothing like it.
"Ah, here's Tyler and little Sam. Good morning. Just running
down possibilities on Ms. Powell's skeleton. Could have been
Melissa Katzen. Don't suppose you disguised your voice like a
woman's and called in the tip?"
Not me, Sheriff," Tyler said, raising an eyebrow. "Who did you
say? Melissa Katzen?"
Yep, that's right. You remember her, Tyler? Didn't you go to
school with her? Your ages are about right."





Tyler slowly lowered Sam to the porch and watched him wander
over to a low table that held a stack of books, some of them
very old indeed.
"Melissa Katzen." Tyler frowned. "Yes, I remember her. A real
sweet kid. I think she might have been in my high school class, or
maybe a year behind me. I'm just not sure. She wasn't really pretty,
but she was nice, never said a bad thing about anybody, as I remember.
You really think she could be the skeleton?"
"Don't know. Got an anonymous call about her."
Tyler frowned a bit. "I think I remember hearing that she was
going to elope, yeah, that was it. She eloped and no one ever heard
from her again."
Sheriff Gaffney said, "Yep, that's the story. Now DNA will tell
us, at least if what those labs claim is true. Well, it's time for me to
see the power company. Then I'll call that Jarvis guy in Augusta, see
what they're doing."
Sam was holding a small, thick paperback in his hands.
Adam dropped down to his knees and looked at the little book
with a fancy attack helicopter on the cover. He said, "It's Jane's Aircraft
Recognition Guide. I wonder what Jacob Marley was doing with
one of Jane's publications?"
"Jane?" Sam said.
"Yeah, I know, that's a girl's name. Hey, they're Brits, Sam.You've
got to expect them to do weird things."
Becca said,"Hey, Sam, you want a glass of lemonade? I just made
some this morning."
Sam looked up at her, didn't say anything, but finally nodded.
Tyler said, his chin up, a hint of the aggressor in his voice, "Sam
loves Becca's lemonade."
"I do, too," Adam said. "Now, I'm out of here. I'll be back
tonight, Becca."





She wanted to ask him where he was going, who he was going
to talk to, but she couldn't say a blasted thing in front of Tyler.
"Take care," she called out after him. She saw Adam pause just a
moment, but he didn't turn back.
"I don't like him, Becca," Tyler said in a low voice a few minutes
later in the kitchen, one eye on Sam, who was drinking his lemonade
and looking for the goody in the box of Cracker Jack Becca
had handed him.
"He's harmless," she said easily. "Really harmless. I'm sure he's
gay. So you knew this Melissa Katzen?"
Tyler nodded and took another drink of his lemonade. "Like I
told the sheriff, she was a nice kid. Not real popular, not real smart,
but nice. She also played soccer. I remember once she beat me in
poker." Tyler grinned at some memory. "Yeah, it was strip poker. I
think I was the first guy she'd ever seen in boxer shorts."
"Rachel makes good lemonade," Sam said, and both adults
looked at him with admiration. He'd said four whole words, strung
them all together.
Becca patted his face. "I'll bet Rachel does lots of really good
things. She rented me this house, you know."
Sam nodded and drank more lemonade.
After they'd left ten minutes later to go grocery shopping, Becca
cleaned up the kitchen and headed upstairs. She made her bed and
straightened the bedroom. She didn't want to have anything to do
with Adam Carruthers, but she sighed and walked down to his
bedroom. The bed was neatly made. Nothing was out in plain
sight. She walked over to the dresser and pulled out the top drawer.
Underwear, T-shirts, and a couple of folded cotton shirts. Nothing
else. She pulled his dark blue carryall out from under the bed. She
lifted it on top of the bed and slowly started to pull back the long
zipper.





The phone rang. She nearly leapt three feet in the air. The
phone rang again.
She had to run downstairs, as that was the only phone in the
house. Her cell phone had run out of power and was recharging.
She picked it up on the sixth ring. "Hello."
Breathing. Slow, deep breathing.
"Hello? Who's there?"
"Hello, Rebecca. It's your boyfriend."
Her brain nearly shut down on her. She stared at the phone, not
believing, not wanting to believe, but it was him, the stalker, the
man who murdered that poor old woman, the man who shot the
governor in the neck.
He'd found her. Somehow he'd found her. She said, "The governor's
alive. You're not so great after all, are you? You didn't kill
him. You were so ill informed, you didn't even know there would
be a bunch of doctors around him."
"Maybe I didn't want to kill him."
"Yeah, right."
"All right, so the bastard is still breathing. At least he won't be
climbing into your bed anytime soon. Hear he's having a tough
time talking and eating. He needed to lose a few pounds anyway."
"You killed Dick McCallum. You made him tell those lies about
me and then you killed him. How much did you pay him? Or did
you threaten to kill him if he didn't do as you asked?"
"Where did you get all this information, Becca?"
"It's true."
Silence.
"Nobody could have found me. The FBI, the NYPD, nobody.
How did you find me?"
He laughed, a rich, mellow laugh that made her want to vomit.
How old was he? She couldn't tell. Think, she told herself, listen





and think. Keep him talking. Use your brain. Is he young or old?
Accent? Listen for clues. Make him admit to murdering Dick.
"I'll tell you when I see you, Becca."
She said very deliberately, very slowly, "I don't want to see you.
I want you to go someplace and die. That or turn yourself in to the
cops. They'll fry you. That's what you deserve. Why did you run
down Dick McCallum?"
"And just what do you think you deserve?"
"Not this bullshit from you. Are you going to try to kill the governor
again?"
"I haven't made up my mind just yet. I know now that he isn't
sleeping with you, but only because he doesn't know where you
are. An old man like that. You should be ashamed of yourself, Rebecca.
Remember Rockefeller croaking when he was with his
mistress? That could be you and the governor. Best not do him
again. But you're a little slut, aren't you? Yeah, you'll probably call
him so he can come sleep with you some more."
Why hadn't she had the phone tapped? Because neither she nor
Adam dreamed he'd find her here in Riptide and call her.
"You murdered Dick McCallum, didn't you? Why?"
"You're all confident again, aren't you? You've been away from
me for only a couple of weeks, but you're all pissy again. Too confident,
Rebecca. I'm coming for you very soon now."
"Listen, you bastard. You come anywhere near me and I'll blow
your head off."
He laughed, throaty, deep laughter, indulgent laughter. Was he
young? Maybe, but she couldn't be sure. "You can try, certainly. It'll
add some spice to the chase. I'll see to you soon. Real soon, count
on it."
He hung up before she could say anything more. She stood
there, staring blankly at the old-fashioned black phone, staring and



knowing, knowing deep inside her that it was all over. Or it soon
would be. How could anyone protect her from a madman? She'd
done the best she could and yet he'd found her, nearly as easily as
Adam had.
How had he found her? Did he have as many contacts as Adam?
Evidently so. No, she wasn't going to give up and let him come to
kill her. No, she would fight.
She laid the phone into the cradle and walked slowly from the
living room. She was tired, infinitely tired. She couldn't just stand
there in the middle of Jacob Marley's house, she just couldn't. She
felt itchy from the inside out, and cold, very cold. Nearly numb.
She loaded her Coonan .357 Magnum automatic, slipped it in
the pocket of her jacket, and walked to the woods where she'd
confronted Adam two days before. Had it really been only two
days? She sat down in front of the tree where he'd been doing his taste kwon do 
exercise. She looked at the spot where she'd stood,
pointing her gun at him, so afraid she'd thought she'd choke on it.
But she hadn't had time to shoot or to choke. He'd kicked the gun
out of her hand before she could draw two breaths. She closed her
eyes and leaned back against the tree. Would the stalker have just as
easy a time with her as Adam? Probably so.
She closed her eyes and let her mind shut down. She saw her
mother, laughing down at her--she couldn't have been more than
seven years old and she was trying to do a cheerleading chant. Then
her mom had showed her how to do it and it had been so wonderful,
so perfect. Her mother's laughter, so sweet, filling her, making
her warm and happy. She rubbed her wrist where Adam had
kicked the gun out of her hand. It didn't hurt, but there was memory
of the cold numbness that had lasted for a good five minutes.
Where was he? Why had he left?





Adam was back at Jacob Marley's house and he was so scared for
a moment he couldn't think. She was gone. The door was open but
she was gone. There were even two lights on but she was gone. The
stalker had gotten her. No, no, that was ridiculous. He was the only
one who had found her.
He searched every damned room in the house. He saw his
carryall lying on top of his bed. It looked like she'd started unzipping
it and then, for whatever reason, had just walked out of the
room, leaving it there for him to see.
Why? Where had she gone?
Don't panic. She'd gotten a call, something of an emergency.
She'd gone to Tyler's house. It had to do with Sam. The kid was
sick, yeah, that was it.
But she wasn't there, no one was home. He drove by the Food
Fort, the gas station, the hospital. Jesus, he could drive all over this
dammed town and not find her.
He drove slowly back to the house. He cut the engine and sat in
his black Jeep, his forehead against the leather-wrapped steering
wheel.
Where are you, Beaa?
He didn't know why he raised his head and twisted around to
look toward the woods. He just did it. And in that instant he knew
she was there. But why? It took him three minutes to find her.
She was asleep. He came up on her very quietly. She didn't stir.
She was leaning against the tree trunk, her right hand in her lap.
She was holding the Coonan, its polished silver stock gleaming
from the slashes of sun through the tree branches.
Had he seen that flash of silver? He didn't know how he could
have, yet he'd known she was there. Why couldn't he have had this
marvelous intuition before he'd scared himself spitless?





He came down on his haunches. He looked at her, wondering
what had made her come out here. He saw dried tear streaks down
her cheeks. Everything had gotten to be too much for her, and no
wonder. She looked pale, too thin. He looked at her fingers curled
around the trigger of the Coonan, at her nails, short and ragged.
He touched his fingertips to her cheek. Her flesh was soft to the
touch. He lightly stroked her cheek. Then, slowly, he shook her
shoulder.
"Becca. Come on, wake up."
She came awake instantly at the sound of a man's voice, the Cooan
up and ready to fire. She heard him curse, then felt the gun fly
out of her hand. Her wrist was instantly numb. "Not again."
"Shit, you nearly shot me."
It was Adam. She looked up at him and smiled. "I thought it was
him. Sorry."
His heart began to slow. He eased down beside her. "What's up?"
"What time is it?"
"Nearly four o'clock in the afternoon and I couldn't find you
and I nearly lost my mind trying to figure out where you were. You
scared me, Becca. I thought he'd taken you."
"No, I'm here. I'm sorry. I didn't think. So how'd you find me?"
He shrugged. He didn't want to tell her that he just knew very
suddenly exactly where she was. He would sound nuts. She didn't
need anyone else around her sounding nuts.
"How long will my wrist be numb this time?"
"Not more than five minutes. Don't whine. Did you expect me
to let you shoot me?"
"No, I guess not."
"You look tired. Better if you'd taken a nap in your bed than
come out here to snore beneath the tree. It just might, not be all





that safe." That was one of the best understatements out of his
mouth yet.
"Why? The only one who was ever lurking outside here was
you, and you're not lurking out here anymore. You've moved right
into the house." She sighed. "I don't know why I came out here. I
just couldn't stand to stay in the house alone anymore."
He said again,"You scared me, Becca. Please don't take off again
without leaving me a note."
She looked up at him, her face so pale now it was nearly as white
as winter sleet, and said in a dead voice, "He's found me. He called."
"He?" But he knew. Oh yeah, the stalker had found her and he
hated it, had dreaded it, but he'd known it would happen. This guy
was good. Too good. He had contacts. Whoever he was, he knew
people, knew how to use them to get what he wanted. Adam was
sure he'd been on her the minute she'd left New York. Still, it surprised
him. More than that it scared him to his soul. He hated that
surge of fear, deep and corroding. He could almost smell the
flames. The fire was coming closer.
"All right, so he called. Get a grip." He stopped, grinned at her.
"Oh yeah, I'm talking to myself, not you. Now, what did he say?
Did he tell you how he found you? Did he say anything that would
help us pinpoint him?"
He'd said "us." She had felt utterly frozen inside, then he'd said
"us." Slowly, she began to feel a shift deep inside her. She wasn't
alone anymore.
She looked up at him and smiled. "I'm glad you're here, Adam."
"Yeah," he said. "Me, too."
"Even though you're gay?"
He looked at her mouth, then jumped fast to his feet. A man did
better when temptation wasn't one inch from his face. He looked





down at her, then offered his hand. "Yeah, right. Now come on
back to the house. I want you to write down everything you can
remember him saying. Okay?"
She got a look on her face that was hard and cold and determined.
Good, he thought, she wasn't going to lie down and let this
guy kick her like a dog.
"Let's do it, Adam."
They walked side by side up the steps to the veranda. They were
nearly to the front door, and he was thinking that he needed to
show her again that he wasn't gay, when a shot rang out, and a
knife-sharp chunk of wood flew off the door frame not two inches
from Becca's head and slammed into Adam's bare arm.





Chapter 1 4

Adam twisted the doorknob, pushed the door in, and shoved
Becca into the entrance hall in an instant, and still it seemed too
slow. Another bullet struck the lintel right over his head, spewing
splinters in all directions. None struck him this time. He twisted
about and slammed the front door, then grabbed Becca's arm and
dragged her out of the line of fire.
He came down on his knees beside her. "Sorry to throw you
around. Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm okay. That bastard, that horrible man. He's a monster,
crazy. It's got to stop, Adam. It's got to." He watched her jerk her
Coonan out of her jacket pocket and crawl to one of the front
windows. He was right behind her. "Becca, no, wait a minute. I
want you to stay down. This is my job."
"He's after me, not you," she said calmly and, slowly, very cautiously,
leaned up to look out of the corner of the window. He
thought he'd collapse of fright right then.
Another two shots came at heart level through the front door,
spewing shards of wood into the entrance hall. Another shot.
Becca saw the flash of light. She didn't hesitate, just fired off all
seven rounds. He heard the dick click click when there were no
more bullets in the clip.
There was dead silence. Adam was on his knees right behind
her, furious with himself because his Delta Elite was in his carryall





in the guest bedroom. "Becca? I want you to stay right here. Don't
move. I've got to get my gun. Stay down."
She gave him a quick look. "Go ahead and don't worry. We're
not helpless. I hit him, I know it, Adam."
"Just stay down."
"It's okay." He watched her pull another magazine out of her
jacket pocket. He stared at her as she slowly, calmly shoved it into
the Coonan.
"Go get your gun," she said, looking out the window, her back to
him. "If I didn't hit him, I can at least keep him away from the
house."
He couldn't think of anything else to say. He was up the stairs and
to the bedroom in three seconds flat. When he came back downstairs,
his pistol in his hand, Becca hadn't moved. "I haven't seen a thing," she
called out. "Do you think maybe I -was lucky enough to hit him?"
"I plan to find out. Keep a sharp lookout. And don't shoot me."
And then he was gone before she could draw a breath. She heard
him walk quickly through the kitchen, then the back door opened
and closed very quietly. She prayed she'd hit him. Maybe right in his
throat, where he'd hit the governor. Or in the gut. He deserved that
for killing that poor old bag lady. She waited, waited, not moving,
watching for Adam, for his shadow, anything to show her he was all
right.
Time passed so slowly she thought it would become night before
anything more happened. Suddenly, she heard a shout.
"Come on out, Becca!"
Adam. It was Adam and he sounded all right. She was through
the front door like a shot, her hair tangling in her face, realizing
only then that she was sweating and cold at the same time, and
laughing. Yes, she was laughing because they were safe. They'd
beaten the monster. This time.





Adam was standing at the edge of the woods, waving toward her.
It was in the exact same direction where she'd fired off all seven
rounds. He waited until she was right in front of him. He smiled
down at her, then wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her
hard. "You got the bastard, Becca. Come take a look."
Blood on fallen leaves. Like Christmas decorations--rich dark
red on deep green.
"I got him," she whispered. "I really got him."
"You sure did. I've looked but I can't find a trail because once
he realized he was out of the game, he stanched the wound and
carefully brushed ground cover over his tracks so he wouldn't leave
any kind of a trail."
"I got him," she said again, and she was smiling. "Oh God,
Adam, no!"
"What is it?"
"Your arm." She dropped her Coonan back into her jacket
pocket and grabbed his hand. "Don't move. Look, this splinter of
wood is stuck in you like a knife. Come back to the house and let
me get it out. Oh God, does it hurt really bad?"
He looked down at the shard of wood sticking like a crude knife
out of his upper arm. He hadn't even felt it. "It didn't hurt before
I knew about it. Now it hurts like the very devil. Well, shit."
Thirty minutes later, they were arguing. "No, I'm not going to a
doctor. The first thing the doctor would do is call Sheriff Gaffney.
You don't want that, Becca. I'm fine. You've disinfected me and
bandaged me up. You did a great job. No problem. Let it go. You
even pushed three aspirin down my gullet. Now, how about a big
jigger of brandy and I'll be ready to sing opera."
She thought of Sheriff Gaffney coming here and asking questions
about a guy who shot at them. "My my, who'd want to do that,
folks?"





She gave him another aspirin for good measure, and since she
had no brandy, she gave him a diet Dr Pepper.
"Close," he said and downed a huge drink.
They both froze when there was a knock on the front door.
Then they heard the front door slam open, voices low and muffled.
Becca grabbed her Coonan and crept toward the kitchen door.
"Stay put, Adam. I don't want you to get hurt again."
"Becca, I'll be all right. Just hold it a second." Adam was right on
her heels, his voice low, his hand on her gun arm.
"Who is it?" he called out.
A man yelled out, "You guys all right? This door looks like an
army tried to shoot its way in."
"I don't know who it is," Adam said. "Do you recognize his
voice?"
She shook her head.
"Who the hell is out there? What are your damned names? Tell
me or I'll blow your heads off. We're a bit on the cautious side
here."
"I'm Savich."
"I'm Sherlock. Thomas sent us. Said we needed to meet Adam
and Becca, talk to them, get all the facts straight and together. Then
maybe we can nail this stalker."
"I told him not to," Adam said and slipped his gun back onto the
kitchen table and walked out into the hallway. A big man stood
there, a 9mm SIG pistol held snug in his hand. A woman stood just
behind him, as if shoved there for protection. She stepped around
the man and said, "Don't be alarmed. We're the good guys. As Dillon
said,Thomas sent us. I'm Sherlock and this is my husband, Dillon
Savich. We're FBI."
It was the man Thomas wanted to save his daughter's butt. His





friend's son, the computer hotshot at the Bureau. Adam didn't like
it, any of it. He stood there frowning at the two of them. A man
brought his wife to a possible dangerous situation? What kind of an
idiot was he?
Becca stepped forward. "You've got a neat name, Sherlock.
You're Mr. Savich? Hello. Now, I don't know who this Thomas is,
but he's probably Adam's boss, only Adam refuses to tell me anything
about who hired him and why. I'm Becca Matlock. The man
who's been stalking me and shot the governor, he was just here. He
called me and then he tried to kill us. I hit him, I know it. Adam
found some blood, but he's gone, covered his trail, and I had to
bandage Adam up and so--"
"Now we understand everything," Sherlock said and smiled at
the young woman facing her. Sherlock thought she was pretty, but
she looked like she'd been ground under for a long time now. She'd
been pushed over the line. She said to the big man, Adam, who was
standing beside Becca, "Dillon here is great with wounds. Do you
want to have him look at your arm?"
Adam was pissed and he felt like a jerk for feeling pissed. If the
guy really was a genius with computer tracking programs, or whatever
it was he did, maybe it could help. He shook his head. "No,
I'm fine. I hope to heaven the sheriff doesn't show up here, what
with all that gunfire."
"This place is set way back from its neighbors," Savich said.
"And all those thick trees, it's doubtful anyone heard the shots unless
he was real close."
Becca blinked up at him, then said, "I hope you're right. This is
Adam Carruthers. He's here as my cousin. He's here to help clean
up this mess, and to protect me. As I said, I guess he works for this
Thomas character. I told the guy down the street that he's gay because
I'm afraid he's jealous of Adam, but he's really not."



Sherlock said, "He's really not jealous?"
"No, Adam really isn't gay."
Savich, that big guy who'd been standing very still until this instant,
looking solemn and mean, began to laugh. And laugh.
The woman with the beautiful bright red curly hair looked up
at her husband, cocked her head to one side, sending all that hair to
bouncing around her head, and began laughing herself.
"I'm glad you're not gay," Savich said. "What? You really think
this other guy is jealous of Adam here?"
Becca nodded. "Yes, and it's so stupid really. This is a life-and-death
situation. Who would ever think of jealousy or sex at a time
like this? That's just nuts."
"That's right," Sherlock said. "No one would. Right, Dillon?"
"That's exactly what I would have said," Savich said.
Adam watched Savich slip the SIG back into its shoulder holster.
Well, shit. All right, maybe the two of them could help. He'd wait
and see what they did before he said anything more.
Becca said, "Adam is drinking a diet Dr Pepper since I don't
have any brandy to help him get over the shock of being wounded.
Ice or lime in yours?"
Savich grinned at her. "Give me a goodly amount of lime and
then Sherlock and I will go out and buy some brandy." He then
looked long at her. He wanted to tell her that her father was worried
sick about her, that she looked a lot like him, that, when this
was all over, he would come into her life for the very first time. But
for now, Savich couldn't say anything at all. They'd promised
Thomas Matlock that they'd keep him in the shadows until the
mess was all cleared up. Thomas had said, "Until I can be certain
that Krimakov is really dead, I just can't take the chance. And for
me to believe that, really believe it all the way to my gut, I've got
to see a photo of him lying on a slab in a Greek morgue."





Sherlock had said, "But if he's not dead, sir, and he is orchestrating
all this, then he already knows about Becca and is trying to terrorize
her with the ultimate goal of getting to you through her."
Thomas had said, "I know only enough to scare myself spitless,
Sherlock. I just want to keep a lid on all of this until I'm certain. In
the meantime, I want to keep her hidden from all the cops and the
FBI because I'm certain that they can't protect her from this stalker."
Becca said over her shoulder as she led them into the kitchen,
"Before anyone comes over, you've got to tell me who you are and
why you're here. As I told you, Adam's cover is that he's my gay
cousin."
Adam said as he cocked the soda can at Savich, "You want to be
her other gay cousin?"
"Then what would that make me?" Sherlock said. "I can't keep
my hands off him. That would blow the cover right off."
"Maybe we'll be your friends, Adam. I know quite a bit about
you and your background. You and I went to school together, how
about that?" Savich said.
"Then what the hell are you doing in Riptide, Maine?"
Sherlock took a glass of soda from Becca, sipped it, and said,
"We're here because of that skeleton that fell out of your basement
wall, Becca. You guys wanted some help, and since we live in
Portsmouth, it wasn't tough for us to get up here."
"How do you know where I went to school?" Adam said, his
eyes dark and hard on Savich's face.
MAX gave me most of your particulars. It took him a while
longer to find out about all your other activities. You went to Yale.
No problem. Did we crew?"
Well, damn, Adam thought, it was a good idea. "Yeah," he said.
We did crew. We also beat Harvard, that bunch of pissy little
wimps."





Sherlock wondered why Adam Carruthers didn't want her or
Dillon there. Didn't he realize that they could help? The stalker was
here in Riptide, he'd tried to kill them.
Sherlock gave Adam a sunny smile. "Why don't we go look in
the woods and try to uncover a trail for this guy?"
"Yeah," Savich said, rising. "Then we need to figure out why he
would want to kill Becca like this. It doesn't make sense. He's into
terrorizing her. Why just shoot her and end it all? He'd have no
more fun."
"Good question," Becca said. "We haven't had time to think
about anything since it happened. Me, I don't think he wanted to
kill either of us, just scare us real bad, just announce that he was
here and ready to play again."
Becca sucked in her breath. "Oh dear, we need to get the front
door repaired before our neighbor, Tyler McBride, or the sheriff
come to visit. I don't want to try to explain bullet holes in the
door."
"Let's check for a trail first," Sherlock said. "Then, Becca, you
can tell us what the stalker said to you this time while we all repair
the door."
"You're good," Savich said some thirty minutes later to Adam.
"You said there was no trail and there isn't."
Adam grunted. "Let's go out a bit farther. Maybe we'll see some
tire tracks."
"No way," Sherlock said. "The stalker is a pro, which means that
he isn't really a stalker. That's just a cover. A misdirection."
Savich nodded. "I agree. He isn't a stalker."
Becca said, "What do you mean, exactly?"
Adam said, as he slowly lifted leaves some ten feet away, "It
doesn't make sense, Becca. Usually stalkers are sick guys who, for





whatever strange reason, latch on to someone. It's an obsession.
They're not pros. This guy's a pro. This was well thought out."
And Savich thought: Krimakov is alive, then it's a terror campaign,
and Beaa's just the means to the end. Thomas Matlock is right to be afraid. And 
the ending Krimakov planned wasn't good for either father or
daughter.
Becca was shaking her head. "But he sounds nuts whenever he's
called me. He called a couple of hours ago. He said much of the
same things. He sounded all sorts of excited, very pleased with
himself, like he couldn't wait. I know he's toying with me, getting
a real kick out of my fear, my anger, my helplessness." She stopped
a moment, looked at Adam, and added, "The thing is, I can't help
but feel that inside, he's just dead."
Sherlock said,"Maybe he's dead on the inside,but it's the outside
we've got to worry about. On thing we know for sure is that he's
clever; he knows what he needs to do and he does it. He found
you, didn't he? Now, could we go back to the house and Becca can
tell us everything? You said he called you again. Tell us exactly what
he said. Then we can put all our brainpower together and solve this
mess."
"Another thing," Savich said as he brushed his black slacks off, "I
don't want us out in the open like this. It isn't smart."
And Sherlock, her brilliant red hair shining brightly in the fading
afternoon light, led them back to Jacob Marley's house.
They found caulk, an electric sander that worked, and some
wood stain in the basement, on some shelves near the hole in the
brick wall.
They took the front door off its hinges and brought it inside.
While Savich sanded it down and Adam caulked in the bullet
holes, Becca and Sherlock kept watch, their guns in their hands,





watchful. Very soon, Sherlock had Becca talking and talking.
". . . and when he called me just a while ago, he said the same sorts
of things, like I would contact the governor as soon as he was well
enough again and have him come to me."
"You know," Adam said, "he doesn't believe you've slept with
the governor. It is just part of a script. He needed something so that
he could claim you needed punishment."
"You're right," Sherlock said, giving Adam his first look of approval,
for which he didn't know whether to be pleased or snarl.
"Yes, you're perfectly right. Go ahead, Becca, what else did he say?"
"When I asked him about Dick McCallum, he wouldn't admit
that he killed him, but I know that he did. He said I'd gotten all
pissy, that I'd gotten too confident, that he was coming for me
soon. I tell you, when I hung up, I was ready to throw in the towel.
He calls himself my boyfriend. It's beyond creepy."
"Yeah," Adam said, raising his head to look at her, "she was ready
to throw in the towel for about three minutes." Then he said
toward Savich, "Then she put her Coonan in her pocket and went
out into the woods. Why'd you go out there, Becca? It wasn't real
smart, you know."
She looked inward for a moment, all of them saw it--and the
sanding and caulking stopped. Not one of them was surprised
when she shrugged. "I don't know, really. I just wanted to go there,
alone, and sit under the sunlight against that tree. Jacob Marley's
house was getting to me. There are ghosts here, the air is filled with
remnants of the people who lived here, residue, maybe, not all of it
good."
"Before I finally found her, I nearly croaked," Adam said, realizing
he was grinning at Savich. Well, hell, why not? He was here and
he did seem competent, at least so far. Maybe he'd still fall flat on
his face.





"Listen, I've got to contact my men," Adam said. "The stalker--
or whatever he is--is here. He tried to kill us, or maybe he was just
after me--that's more likely. We've got to close this town down.
And we need to finish with this damned door before he just walks
right up and shoots us."
"He won't even get close," Becca said and raised her Coonan.
"Agreed," Savich said. He winked at Sherlock. "You want to tell
Adam about how we've got everything covered?"
"Yep. A half dozen guys from Thomas are on their way here."
She looked down at her wristwatch. "In about an hour, I'd estimate.
And here we were worried that there wouldn't be enough
for them to do. We were really wrong on that one."
"The timing's perfect," Savich said as he wiped all the sawdust
off his hands. "Don't anyone fret that they'll all be piling into town
and staying at Errol Flynn's Hammock. Nope, they won't stick out
at all, but they'll have this place well covered. Now, we need to get
busy as soon as we're done with this door. We need to bug the
phone. He'll probably call again, soon. Also, we need protection
around the house. The guys will be calling in and we'll set up a
guard rotation. Also, Adam, you can show them where the blood is
and they can get it analyzed. We'll at least verify that it's human."
"I know I hit him."
Savich nodded to Becca. "Yes, I'm sure you did. We'll see if anything
interesting shows up in the blood work. Now, it would probably
be a smart thing if you stayed inside, Becca."
Sherlock said, "If he was trying to kill Adam, to make things easier
for him, then that makes all of us open season. It would be wise
if this Tyler McBride kept himself and his kid away from here. It
isn't safe."
And Adam thought, Where's my brain? I should have thought and
said all of that.





Becca said, looking Sherlock straight in the eye, "No, I don't
want Tyler or Sam in any danger, either. Now, who's this Thomas?"
"He's Adam's boss," Savich said, well aware that Adam was on full
alert, "or he used to be. Now Adam is on his own. Actually, as I understand
it, Adam is doing Thomas a favor. Hey, don't worry about
it, Becca, you don't know him. Adam, you did a good job of filling
in all the holes. A bit of stain and the door will look perfect again."
Becca jumped up. "I left it in the kitchen."
"I'll go with you," Sherlock said. "I think I'd like to look at that
gash in the basement wall again."
"Of course he was after you," Savich said easily, once Becca was
out of hearing. "He wanted you out of the way, wounded or dead,
it didn't matter to him. It still doesn't."
"Yeah, I know."
"He wants her. He wants to take her so he figured he'd have to
knock you out of the way."
"That's what I figure."





Chapter 1 5

Becca held the can of stain in front of her.
Adam, instead of taking the can, found himself just standing
there staring down at the too thin, formerly pale young woman
who was now flushed red to her eyebrows.
"I'm really mad now," she said, and he believed her, and smiled.
"He shot up Jacob Marley's damned door. That's beyond the line."
He couldn't cut off his smile, because her eyes were glowing. Her
soft blue eyes were hard and pulsing with rage. Her dyed hair was
nearly standing on end. "I heard the two of you talking. He tried
to kill you, Adam, to get to me. That's beyond the line, too." She
was panting now. She was major-league pissed, and she wanted to
protect him. He took her face between his big hands. His mouth
was nearly touching hers. He immediately straightened and took
the damned can of stain. He didn't want this, but he couldn't help
it. An enraged Becca Matlock who still wanted to protect him did
something to him, something strange and wonderful that seared
him to the soles of his scuffed boots.
He looked at her mouth again, but instead of kissing her, he started
to laugh. And he kept on laughing, he wanted to kiss her that bad.
She blinked at him and then took a step back. "Don't get stain in your clothes. 
I'm not going to wash them for you."
When it's necessary, I'll wash my own clothes," Adam said, then
added on a grin, "if you'll show me how to work the washing machine."





"Mechanical things defeat you, do they? No, don't say it, only
mechanical things that involve work could defeat a guy."
Adam eyed Savich's outstretched hand, grunted, and handed
him the stain. His arm burned and ached and Savich knew it, the
damned interloper. He said, "You know something? I'd really like
to rearrange your pretty face when this is all over."
Savich stared at him, then laughed. "If you think my face is pretty,
then you've got a big problem, because that's what I think about
yours."
"Bullshit."
Savich shook his head. "You want to play at the gym? Fine by
me."
Becca stood by the front window as Savich stained the front
door, her Coonan held loosely in her right hand, looking all
around, just like a pro. After a bit, Adam couldn't stand it and took
the brush from Savich.
Savich grinned at him. Sherlock said, "I love to see a real macho
guy in action."
Adam brushed on the stain, slowly, carefully, gritting his teeth
because his arm hurt. But he wasn't about to whine. He whistled
low, between his teeth, hoping Savich heard it.
Tyler showed up with Sam an hour later. "Hey, what's that smell?
Who are these people?"
Becca went blank for a moment, then said, "I didn't like the stain
on the front door. It was looking tatty and old. I just finished re-staining
it." She waited to see if Tyler would say anything about
hearing bullets, but he didn't.
Sam stared up at her, sniffing, but as usual he didn't say anything.
"Smells weird, huh, Sam? Hey, here are some friends.of Adam's.
This is Sherlock and her husband, Savich."
Sherlock went down on her knees in front of the little boy. She





made no move at all toward him, just said after he'd studied her for
a bit, "Hi, do you like my name?"
Sam didn't step back, but he did lean his head back a bit. He
gave Sherlock a bit of a smile and eyed her hair. He reached out
two fingers and patted the top of her head.
Savich came down beside her. "We've got a little kid, Sam, a lot
younger than you are. His name is Sean and he's only six months
old. He can't pat the top of his mania's head yet. He doesn't even
talk yet. But he is growing teeth."
"Teeth are good," Sherlock said, "but all that drool is a pain."
That drew Adam up really fast. These two had a kid? Well, why
was he so surprised? Most men his age were married and had children.
He'd been married once, and he'd wanted a kid, lots of them
as a matter of fact, but Vivie hadn't been ready yet. A long time ago
now, five years, nearly long enough to forget her damned name, if
it hadn't sounded like a song out of Cabaret.
Becca said easily, "Sam doesn't talk much, Sherlock. I think it's
because he's always thinking so hard."
"I like a kid who thinks a lot," Savich said. "Do you want to
come to the kitchen with me and we'll find you a goody to eat?"
Sam didn't hesitate, just lifted his arms. Savich scooped him up
and carried him away on his shoulders. "I don't think I'll even have
to burp you, Sam. I'm really good at that. Sean likes to burp a lot."
Sam grabbed Savich's hair, and Becca saw the smile on his face.
Then he turned his head and looked at Adam, at his bandaged arm.
He shook his head, frowning, looking confused, then afraid.
Adam said, "It's okay, Sam. I didn't hurt my arm bad, just a little
bit. Becca fixed me right up."
"Yep, and I did a good job, Sam, don't worry." Then Sam and
Savich were gone, and Tyler said, "What the hell happened here?
No, Becca, don't try to lie to me."





She thought of Tyler and Sam and the two of them accidentally
being in the line of that madman's fire, and said, "The stalker found
me. He fired at me and Adam. I shot him, but he got away. We're
okay, but I'm worried about you and Sam coming here. It's not a
good idea, Tyler."
He shook his head at her and said, "He shot the door?"
"He fired through it a couple of times, really messed it up. I
don't want the sheriff to see it. He'd ask too many questions."
"Don't worry, Mr. McBride," Sherlock said. "Things will be under
control, but you know Becca's right. It's best if you keep Sam
away from here until we bring this guy down. It could be dangerous
until we catch him."
Tyler looked both angry and determined. "Yeah, I'll go but I
want Becca to come with me and Sam, either to my house or away,
maybe to California. I want her kept safe."
"No, Tyler," Becca said, lightly touching her fingertips to his
arm. "We've got to clean it up. There are lots of people here now
to help me."
Tyler turned to Adam. "Who the hell are you, really? And you?"
he added to Sherlock.
"Savich and I are FBI, Mr. McBride. Adam here is on special assignment
to protect Becca." That sounded like he was with the Bureau
as well, Adam thought, which was probably for the best. An
independent security consultant didn't sound like he'd know what
to do with a madman. FBI did.
"You never told me," Tyler said to Becca, his voice low. "You
didn't trust me. You let me think he was your cousin. Why the hell
did you do that?"
Becca couldn't think of a thing to say that wouldn't make everything
worse. She hadn't meant to hurt him, to keep him in the
dark, to make him feel unimportant to her, but--





"Get over it,Tyler," Adam said. "This isn't fun and games. It's serious
business. You're not trained to do this sort of thing. We are.
Besides, you've got Sam. He's got to be your first priority."
"You bastard," Tyler said, his hands fisted at his sides. "You're not
gay, are you?"
"No, not any more than you are."
"You want to seduce her, to take advantage of her. She's scared
and you just want her to depend only on you. You're afraid to have
me here."
"Look, McBride--"
But Adam didn't have time to calm the man down. Tyler leapt at
him, knocking him over on his back in the entryway. Adam landed
on his hurt arm, grunted, then bounded back up. He wasn't seeing
red this time, he was seeing a very sharp and clear target--right in
the middle of Tyler's kidney. Hellfire, no, he couldn't. It wouldn't
be fair. He could seriously hurt the guy. Well, damn.
Tyler, breathing hard, out of control, was about to jump at him
again when Sherlock calmly tapped him lightly on the shoulder,
and when he turned, distracted, she clipped his jaw. His head flew
back and he stumbled. He regained his balance and stood there,
feeling his jaw. He looked at her, stupefied, as Sherlock said, "I'm sorry, Mr. 
McBride, but that's enough. Listen to me. Becca's life is
what's important, not your wounded feelings. Adam didn't even
know Becca until a couple of days ago. He's here to protect her.
Now, get a grip on yourself or I'll flip you over my shoulder and lay
you out."
Tyler looked like he didn't doubt her for an instant. He turned
slowly to face Becca. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to hit him, well, I 
did, but it's just that I'm so scared for you, and this guy shows UP pretending 
to be your cousin and I knew he wasn't. I didn't
know what to do. I'm worried about you, Becca, real worried--"





Becca walked to Tyler and slowly stepped against him, clasping
her arms loosely around his back. "I know, Tyler, I know. I really
appreciate you being here for me, but these folk are all pros. They
know what they're doing and there are even more people coming
now. We've got to catch this maniac. Now that he's here I can't
pick up and run. We've got to get him. He found me, how, I don't
know, but don't you see? If I run, he'll just find me again. I've got
people here to help me now. Please, Tyler, tell me you understand
why I kept quiet about Adam."
He was pressing his cheek against her hair, squeezing her so
tightly Adam thought he'd crush her damned ribs. Adam wanted to
pull him off and give him one good shot in the jaw.
Becca slowly pulled away. He was afraid for her, she knew that,
and she didn't want to hurt him. Her voice was very gentle when
she said, "You do understand, don't you,Tyler?"
"Yeah, I do, but I just want to help." Then he lightly traced his
fingertips over her cheek. "I've known you for a long time, Becca.
I want to help. This is a real creepy business."
"You're telling me." She managed something of a laugh, which
was closer to a cry, really.
Tyler said when Savich came back to the entryway, "Thank you
for taking care of Sam." He lifted Sam into his arms and squeezed
him nearly as hard as he'd squeezed Becca. "Sam, I'm sorry I lost my
temper with Adam. I didn't mean to frighten you. You okay?"
Sam nodded. "I heard you yelling."
"I know," Tyler said, kissing Sam's temple. ''You're not used to
that, are you? Everyone loses his temper sometimes. I'm sorry I did
it and sorry you were close by. Now, you and I need to go over to
Goose's Hardware and get some washers for the bathroom faucet.
Would you like to do that?"





Sam nodded. He looked relieved. Tyler hugged him again.
"What's the name of the street Goose's Hardware is on?" Savich
asked as he looked at his wife rubbing her knuckles, an eyebrow
arched.
"West Hemlock,"Tyler said. "It's the main street."
When Tyler McBride finally left, Adam turned to see Sherlock
and Savich speaking quietly. Adam said, "Are you guys going to
stay here?"
"That's probably best," Savich said. "First thing, we're going to
put a tap on this phone. Sherlock said we should bring our goodies.
She's right a lot of the time." Savich picked up what looked like
a very small aluminum suitcase. "This is a dual redundant tape.
We're going to set it right beside the phone recorder. Now, I'm going
to patch it into the phone line via the recorder starting switch.
Okay, now let's plug that puppy in between the phone and the outlet
in the wall."
"Goodness," Becca said. "That's quite a gadget."
"Yeah," Adam said. "You can get it at RadioShack for about
twenty bucks."
"The recorder will start when the phone rings," Savich said.
"Now for the slammer," Sherlock said. She pulled out a small
case that looked about the size of a laptop. "See this, Becca? It's an
LED--light-emitting diode. When our boy calls his number, the
name and address of the person who's registered as the phone
owner will appear here on this green screen. It's like the automatic
phone display for 911."
"All done, Sherlock?" Savich said, then nodded when she
pressed a couple of buttons. "Good. Now I'm going to go meet
with the guys, set up a surveillance schedule, tell them about the
tap and the trace."




"Fine," said Adam. "I'm coming with you. I want to meet them.
I don't want anyone shot by accident. Also, we need to start tracking
down our boy. He's somewhere close."
"Three of the guys are already on that. They're checking all the
gas stations within fifty miles, all the bed-and-breakfasts, motels,
inns. They've already gotten a list of every single guy between the
ages of twenty and fifty who arrived in Bangor and Portland
within the past three days."
Sherlock yawned. "Becca and I will guard the fort. You guys be
careful. Hey, a nap sounds good, what with all the excitement. Is
there another usable bedroom in this grandiose monstrosity?"
The men got back to Jacob Marley's house two hours later. It
was dark, nearly nine o'clock in the evening. The house was lit up
from top to bottom, all the outdoor lights on as well. The newly stained front 
door both looked and smelled great.
Sherlock was drinking coffee in the living room, studying a file
she'd brought with her from Washington. The shades were drawn
tight, which was smart. Becca wasn't anywhere around. They'd already
checked with Perkins. There had been no phone calls.
Adam found Becca in her bedroom. She was lying flat on her
back in the middle of the bed, her hands crossed over her stomach.
Her eyes were closed but he knew she wasn't asleep. Her shoulders
were locked stiff.
"Becca? You okay?"
"Yeah."
She felt the bed give when he sat down beside her. "What do
you want? Go away. I don't want to have to look at your pretty
face. Has anyone seen him?"
"I don't have a pretty face. It's Savich who's got the pretty face.
No, there's no sign of him yet, just that blood in the woods we
found. The guys took samples to be analyzed."





She cracked her left eye open. "Did everything go all right?
Were all the men there? Have they found anything out yet?"
"Yes, all six of them are here, each of them well trained. I know
four of them, even worked with a couple of them in the past, so
that's good. They're all top-notch. It's just a matter of time until we
track him down. All of us have favors owed. We'll call them all in if
necessary. You know, the reason I was here was to protect you from
the cops and the Feebs because we knew they couldn't protect you
from the stalker. But things have changed now. The guy's here and
there's just no choice. We've got to get him or you'll never be safe."
"Who is this Thomas, Adam? He must be very powerful to be
able to have all this guy power up here for one insignificant person,
namely me."
"You're not insignificant." He sounded too harsh, too intense,
and he clamped his teeth together. "Look, don't worry about
Thomas. He's doing what he's got to do. Now, why are you up
here, lying down?" He paused a moment. She was dull-eyed, pale
again, and it worried him. He looked at his fingernails and said,
"But first things first. I'm getting hungry. Any ideas for dinner? It's
nearly nine o'clock. It's nearly time to go to bed. Oh yeah, that was
a good idea to have all the lights on."
She opened both eyes then and stared up at him. "Sherlock did
that. Now let me get this straight. You're worried about food?
Now?"
He nodded. He'd distracted her. Her eyes were narrowed on his
face, her lips were seamed into a thin line. Good.
"Of course I'm hungry. What about dinner?"
"Well then," she said, rolling to the other side of the bed to stand
and streaking her hands through her hair, "let me get my little self
downstairs and see what I can whip together."
She stalked out of the bedroom, Adam on her heels, grinning at





the back of her head. She was keeping it together. Being pissed was
good. He was pleased and inordinately relieved. He was afraid,
though, that being an asshole was a bit too easy for him. He noticed
again that the tilt of her head was just like her father's.
"So," Sherlock said some thirty minutes later at the kitchen table
after she'd chewed a bite of tuna salad that Savich had whipped up,
"this Tyler McBride seems hung up on you, Becca, and he's wildly
jealous of Adam. Could he be a problem?"
"He already is a problem," Adam said, waving a dill pickle. "The
guy attacked me. I wasn't doing a single thing and he attacked me."
"You held back from hurting him," Sherlock said. "That was
smart. Mr. McBride is not only very afraid for Becca, he also feels
threatened because another male showed up. It's strange. Here he
knows that Becca's in trouble. You'd think that the more folks to
help, the better."
It was just the way he should have felt the entire time, Adam
thought. Bottom line, just like Tyler, he'd felt threatened. And the
women knew it.
"I'm glad you didn't hit Savich," Sherlock said, seeing quite
clearly what he was thinking. "I would have done more than clip
you on the jaw if you had, Adam." She then gave him a sunny smile,
raised the plate, and said, "Anyone want another tuna sandwich?"
Becca said, "Or would you prefer raw meat?"
"That's really quite enough, Becca," Adam said, finally annoyed.
"I'm going to take another sandwich and go talk to the guys, see
how they're doing. The moon's nearly full tonight. It's quiet. Don't
worry about the boyfriend being out there to shoot me. I'll take
my gun. Oh yeah, if I had attacked Savich, I would have cold-cocked
him before you could have hurt me, Sherlock."
He left the kitchen.
Sherlock couldn't help herself; she laughed. Savich looked back





and forth between the two women, stood slowly, nabbed a sandwich,
then said, "I think it's a little thick in here. See you later,
Sherlock. I'm going to go give my mom a call and see how she's
faring with our boy."
"Call me when you've got him on the phone," Sherlock said,
then took a big bite out of an apple.
Savich walked to the living room, where the only phone in the
whole house was. He heard Adam whistling outside.
He hated to lie to his mom when she asked him exactly what he
and Sherlock were doing, but he did, and cleanly. "It's a background
check on someone very important who's being considered
for the Supreme Court. All very hush-hush and that's why Jimmy
Maitland asked me and Sherlock to take care of it. Don't worry,
Mom, we'll be back in a couple of days. I met a really cute little
boy today. It seems his mother abandoned him and his father over
a year ago and he hasn't said much since then. Is that Sean gurgling
in the background? I'd sure like to speak to him, Mom."








Chapter 16

The phone rang sharply at midnight. Everyone heard it, but Becca
"was the fastest. She was on her feet, running down the front stairs
to the living room by the second ring.
It was him, she knew it, and she wanted to talk to him. There
wasn't the need to keep him on for any specified length of time.
The slammer was instantaneous, the identification there in a flash.
Her hand shook as she picked up the phone. "Hello?"
"I don't know if I want to be your boyfriend anymore. You shot
my dog, Rebecca."
Shot his dog? "That's a lie and you know it. Besides, no animal
would have anything to do with you. You're too crazy and sick."
"His name was Gleason. He was very fat and you shot and killed
him. I'm really upset, Becca. I'm coming to get you now. Not long.
Hey, honey, you want to send flowers to poor Gleason's funeral?"
"Why don't you bury yourself with him, you murdering psycho?"
Adam heard his hitching breath, the flutter of rage. She'd gotten
to him. Good.
He saw Savich write down the name and address from the slammer
and sit down on the sofa, opening his laptop. He pressed close
to Becca.
"You got that big guy there with you, Becca? Listening to me?"
"Yeah, I'm here listening to you, you pathetic piece of shit.
Cheer up, you killed the front door, but we're so good we even
brought it back to life. It probably looks better than you do."


Becca could feel the black fury in the silence that flooded over
the phone line. She could nearly feel the stench of it--hot and rancid,
that fury. "I'll kill you for that, you bastard."
"You already tried, didn't you? Not much good, are you?"
"You're a dead man, Carruthers. Soon. Very soon now."
"Hey, where are you holding Gleason's wake? I wanna come.
You want me to bring a priest? Or isn't your kind of crazy into religion?"
The breathing speeded up, rough and harsh. "I'm not crazy, you
bastard. I'll have Rebecca watch you die. I promise you that. I see
you got two more folk there with you. I also know they're FBI.
You think they're going to do anything to help? No one can catch
me. No one. Hey, Rebbecca, the governor call you yet?"
Adam gave her a cool nod, a thumbs-up sign. She said, "Yeah, he
called me. He wants to see me. He told me he loves me, that he
wants to sleep with me again. He said his wife is such a bitch, she
doesn't understand him, and he wants to leave her for me. The dear
man, do you think he's well enough yet for me to tell him where I
am?"
Cold, dead silence, then, very gently, they heard the phone line
disconnect.
She stared at the phone. The slammer was showing "501-4867,
Orlando Cartwright, Rural Route 1456, Blaylock" in black letters
on a bright-green screen.
Sherlock said, "Everyone stay still for a moment. Savich will
have all the information in just a moment. He sounded healthy
enough, didn't he?"
"Yeah," Adam said.
"Then it was only a flesh wound, more's the pity," Sherlock said,
and scratched behind her left ear. Her curling red hair was all over
her head. She was wearing a sleep shirt that said across the front: I





BRAKE FOR ASTEROIDS. Savich had pulled on a pair of jeans.
He was bare the rest of the way up. So was Adam.
"That dog bit," Adam said, "it was an excellent ploy on his part.
All right, let's head out of here and go get the bastard. You got our
directions, Savich?"
"In a second," Savich said.
Adam took Becca in his arms. "You did great, Becca, really
great. You rattled him. Now, let's get dressed and go nail that little
bastard."
"We're all going," Becca said.
Savich looked up and grinned. "It's a farmhouse some six miles
northwest of here, outside a small town called Blaylock. Let me call
Tommy the Pipe." He got him quickly on his cell phone.
"Yeah,Tommy, call all the others and head on out there, but don't
go in. This guy is very dangerous. Just keep him under wraps until we
get there. I'll find out everything I can on the way there. Yeah, on
MAX."
While Savich worked in the backseat of Adam's Jeep, Savich kept
up a running commentary. "Here we go. The farmhouse belonged
to Orlando Cartwright, bought the place back in 1954. He's dead
now. Oh yeah, that's good, MAX. He had one daughter, she was
with him until he died three weeks ago at Blue Hills Community
Hospital. Lung cancer, Alzheimer's. Oh, no, she's still there, alone."
"Shit," Adam said.
"What's her name?" Becca asked, turning in the seat to look at
him.
"Linda Cartwright. Just a minute here, okay, good hunting,
MAX. She's never been married, age thirty-three, and she's on the
heavy side, one hundred and sixty-five pounds, but she's really
pretty, even on her DL photo. She's a legal secretary for the Billson
Manners law firm in Bangor, been there for eight years. Hold on a





second, let me get into her personnel file. Yes, she's got very good
evaluations--in 1995 she complained about sexual harassment.
Hmmm, the guy was eventually fired. Her work record is clean.
Her mother died back in 1985, a drunk driver killed both her and
Linda's younger sister. No, MAX, there's no need to go into police
files, probably a waste of time."
"She's single and she's alone," Sherlock said. "Not good at all.
Hurry, Adam."
"She's alone," Becca said. "She's alone, just like I was."
At one o'clock in the morning, beneath a nearly full, brilliant
summer moon, Adam pulled his black Jeep next to a dark-blue
Ford Taurus parked on the side of a two-lane blacktop road. They
were some fifty yards from the old farmhouse with its peeling
white shutters and sagging narrow front porch.
There was no need for introductions.
Two men, both in their thirties, fit, one wearing glasses, the
other smoking a pipe, were leaning against the side of the car.
Savich said, "The guy in there?"
"The lights are still on, but we haven't seen any movement at all.
No one left since we got here. Chuck and Dave are around the
back." He took out his walkie-talkie. "You guys see anything?"
The answer was clear and loud. "He hasn't come out this way,
Tommy. You and Rollo haven't seen anything?"
"Nothing."
Dave said, "There's no movement in the house that we can see.
Chuck wants to go up close and look through the windows."
"Tell Chuck and Dave to stay put," Adam said. "Here's Savich,
he'll give you the rundown on what we're facing."
Savich was concise, his voice clipped.
"I don't like this," Tommy said and puffed frantically on his pipe.
"Damn, a woman living way out here, all alone, no neighbors for a





couple of miles. I'll bet he scoped her out really fast and that he's
been here with her. God, this doesn't look good. We've seen nothing
of either of them. Maybe she's not here. Maybe MAX is wrong
and she was never here."
"Yeah, right, Tommy," Rollo said, and he sounded depressed. He
was short, dressed all in black, and he was perfectly bald, his head
shining brightly beneath the summer moon.
Tommy the Pipe said, "Maybe he left before we got here. It
could be that he took her with him, as a hostage."
Linda Cartwright was a woman alone, and Becca knew he'd
been in there, with her.
Damn the bright moon, Adam was thinking, it lit them up as
clearly as daylight from the front of the farmhouse. But there were
thick pine trees crowding the eastern side of the small farmhouse.
Folk grew potatoes in this area, and so much of the land was cleared, open just 
occasional random clumps of pines and maples dotted here
and there, but no place to hide. There was a big mechanical digger
sitting in the middle of an open field. There was a small sagging
porch in front of the house, a naked lightbulb burning over the front
door.
On the eastern side of the house, he could get to within twenty
feet of the structure before the pine trees played out. It would have
to be good enough. He pulled out his Delta Elite, thoughtfully
rubbed his temple with the barrel. Then he said, a feral gleam in his
eyes, "I got a plan. Gather round."
"I don't like it," Savich said after Adam had fallen silent. "Too
dangerous."
Adam said, "I was thinking that all of us could go in guns blazing,
raising hell, but the woman might still be alive. We can't take
the chance he'd pop her then and there and then kill two or three
of us, what with all this damned moonlight."





"All right," Savich said after a moment, "but I'll go with you."
"Bullshit," said Adam. "I don't care if you're a damned FBI agent
and your goal in life is to catch bad guys. You're still married and
you've got a kid. What I need from you and everyone else is good
cover. I hear you're a pretty good shot, Savich. Prove it."
"I'm coming with you, Adam," Becca said. "I'll cover your back
from right behind you."
"No." He held up his hand. "I'm the professional here. Just say
some prayers, that's all I ask."
"No," Becca said, and he realized then that if he wanted her to
stay put, he'd have to have one of the men tie her down. He didn't
like it, but he understood it. It could be dangerous, too dangerous.
He just didn't know what to do.
"I'm coming," she said, and he knew she was committed. "I have
to, Adam, just have to."
He wished he didn't understand, but he did. He nodded. He
heard Savich snort. "Becca will cover me from the woods," he said.
"No, no arguments, Becca. That's the deal."
Sherlock took the walkie-talkie and spoke to Chuck and Dave
at the back of the house, told them what was going to happen.
Becca's heart was pounding hard and fast. The night was chilly
but she was sweating. She felt faint nausea in her stomach. This was
real and it was scary and she was terrified, not just for Adam and
her, but for that poor woman inside the house, that poor woman
she prayed was still alive. Sherlock and the men looked calm, alert,
ready. Tommy put his pipe back in his pocket and handed Becca a
Kevlar vest. "It's the smallest one, after Sherlock's." He shrugged.
"Let me help you with it. You're going to stay under cover in the
woods, remember. You'll be out of the line of fire, but hey, it always
pays to be careful."
Once she was strapped into the vest, she pulled her Coonan, and





checked the clip three times. Adam took one look at her and didn't
say a thing, just mouthed at her to stay a bit behind him. Her heart
was pounding harder and faster than it had just five minutes before.
Her hand was shaking, no good, no good. She stuffed her left hand
in her pocket. Keep steady, she thought, as she looked down at her
right hand, which held her pistol. She looked over at Sherlock,
who was frowning at one of the Velcro fastenings on her Kevlar
vest. No one was taking any chances at all.
"Show time," Savich said after he checked his watch. "Go,
Adam. Good luck. Becca, you keep down."
Adam, with Becca on his heels, made a wide berth to the east
side of the house. He walked slowly, quietly, Becca just as quiet,
through the pine trees. When they got to the edge of the woods,
Adam pulled up. Twenty feet, he thought, not more than twenty
feet. He looked through the window at the other end of those
twenty feet, right in front of him. There were curtains, thin, see-through
white lace, but they weren't drawn over the single wide
window. It was probably a bedroom. He turned to look at Becca,
her face as pale as the fat moon overhead. He cupped her neck in
his hand and pulled her close. He whispered against her cheek, "I
want you to stay right here and keep alert. You stay hidden, do you
hear me? You see him, you blow his head off, all right?"
"Yes. Please be careful, Adam. Your vest is on correctly? You're
protected?"
"Yeah." He touched his fingertips to her cheek, then dropped
his arm. "Stay alert."
It seemed to Adam that it took him damned near an hour to run
those twenty feet. Every step was long and heavy and so loud it
shook the earth. It seemed to him that every night sound, from owls
to crickets, stopped in those moments. Watching, he thought, they
were all watching to see what would happen. Nothing from the





house, no movement, no sound, not a single quick shadow. He flattened
against the side of the house, his pistol held between both
hands, then slowly, slowly, he looked around into a bedroom filled
with old white rattan furniture with cheap faded red cushions, a
dim-watted bulb shining from an old Lava lamp on a nightstand
next to a single bed. He saw nothing, no movement, no one. The
cover on the twin-size bed barely covered the top of the mattress.
He could see that there was nothing beneath the bed except big-time
dust balls. No, no one in the room. If anyone was in there, he
was in the closet, on the far side, the door closed. He saw that the door
to the bedroom was also shut. He quietly tested the window, paused,
listened intently. Still nothing. The window wasn't locked. He raised it
slowly, the sounds of creaking and scraping against old paint as loud as
thunder in his head.
The window was some five feet off the ground. Because he had
to, he stuck his pistol in the waistband of his jeans. He'd always
hated doing that ever since he'd heard the story some decades back
that an agent had stuck his gun in his pants and hit against a car
fender in some weird way that pulled the trigger. He shot off the
end of his dick. Damn, no, he didn't want to do that. He pulled
himself up and eased his leg over the windowsill. He waved back at
Becca, motioning for her to stay back and keep hidden. But, of
course, she didn't. She trotted right up to the house and stuck out
her hand for him to help her through the window.
"Only if you stay hidden in here while I check the rest of the
house."
"I promise. Pull me up, hurry. I don't like this, Adam. She was
alone here. I know he's done something bad."
A lone owl hooted fifty feet away, from the safety of the woods
and a tall tree. The moon glistened down on her face. Adam pulled
her over the ledge and she swung her legs to the floor.





She watched him walk toward the closet door, listen intently,
then jerk it open. Nothing. Then she watched him walk to the
closed bedroom door, staying to the side, never directly facing the
door. He slowly turned the knob, then smashed the door open,
sending it banging back, and stepped into the hallway, his pistol up.
Then he was gone. She stood there shaking, wishing she wasn't, listening
to that owl, loud and clear, sounding from the forest.
Where was he? Time passed as slowly as it did in the dentist's office.
Maybe even slower.
Finally, she heard him shout, "Becca, go back out the window
and tell Savich it's okay for everyone to come in. He's not here."
"No, I want to come out--"
"Out the window, Becca. Please."
When he was sure she was outside, Adam stepped out onto the
sagging front porch with its scarred and peeling railing and said,
"He's gone. Savich, come here a moment. The rest of you just stay
outside and keep watch, okay?"
"Yeah, we'll keep watch, but this is nuts," Tommy said and pulled
out his pipe. "No one moved after we got here and we converged
on the place not ten minutes after you called, Adam."
Savich said slowly, "Then he knew, of course, that we'd tapped
the phone."
"Yes," Adam said. "The bastard knew, all right. In the kitchen,
Savich."
"I don't like this," Becca said to Sherlock as she pressed toward
the front door. "Why can't we go in the house?"
"Just stay there for the moment, Becca."
Several minutes passed. No one said anything, but one by one
the men walked into the farmhouse through the open front door.
Becca didn't know what to do. Sherlock, who was standing on
the small front porch, her 9mm SIG drawn, sweeping in a wide arc





around her, scanning the perimeter, said, "I'll go check. Becca, why
don't you wait out here just a while longer?"
Becca stared at her. "Why?"
"Just wait," she said, her voice suddenly sharp. "That's an order."
Becca heard the men talking, knew all of them but her were in
the house. Why didn't they want her in there? She ran around to
the back of the house and slipped in behind one of the men who
was standing in the middle of the back door. The kitchen was
painfully bright with two-hundred-watt bulbs hanging naked from
the ceiling. The kitchen was small, the appliances were harsh white,
clean, and very old. There was an old wooden table, scarred, a beautiful
old vase holding dead roses in the center. It had been pushed
against the wall. Two of the chairs were overturned on the floor.
The refrigerator was humming loudly, like an old train chugging
up a hill.
She slipped around the man in the doorway. He tried to hold
her back, but she pulled free. Tommy, Savich, and Sherlock were
standing in a near circle staring down at the pale-green linoleum
floor. Adam rose slowly.
And suddenly Becca could see her.





Chapter 1 7

The woman had no face. Her head looked like a bowl filled with
smashed bone, flesh, and teeth. He'd struck her hard, viciously, repeatedly.
There were two broken teeth on the floor beside the
woman's head. There was dried blood everywhere, congealed and
black on her face and on the worn linoleum, streaks of blood, like
lightning bolts, down the white wall. Her hair was matted to her
head, blood-soaked dark clumps falling away onto the floor. And
there was dirt mixed in with the dried bloody hair.
"She's young," she heard a man say, his voice low, calm, detached,
but underlying that voice was a thick layer of fury. "Jesus, too
young. It's Linda Cartwright, isn't it?"
"Yes," Adam said. "He killed her right here in the kitchen."
Linda Cartwright lay on her back on the floor wearing a ratty
old chenille bathrobe that had been washed so many times it was
nearly white rather than pink, except for the dirt that clung to the
robe, dirt everywhere, even on her feet, which were bare, her toenails
painted a bright, happy red. Becca eased closer. It was real, it
was horrifyingly real, in front of her, and the woman was dead.
"Oh, God. Oh God, no, no."
She watched Savich bend down and unpin a note that was fastened
to the front of Linda Cartwright's bathrobe. She saw for the
first time that the woman was heavy, just as Savich had read off her
driver's license. "Don't let Becca come in here," he said to Sherlock,




not looking up as he read the note. "This is too much. Make sure
she stays outside."
"I'm already here," Becca said, swallowing again and again
against the nausea in her stomach, the vomit rising in her throat.
"What is that note?"
"Becca--"
It was Adam and he was turning toward her. She put up her
hands. "What is that note?" she asked again. "Read it, please."
Savich paused, then read slowly, his voice firm and clear:

"Hey, Rebecca, you can call her Gleason. Since she didn't look
like a dog, I had to smash her up a bit. Now she does. A dead dog.
She's nice and fat, though, just like Gleason, and that's good. You
killed her. You and no one else. Give her a good wake. This is all for
you, Rebecca. I'll see you soon and it'll be you and me, from then to
eternity.
Your Boyfriend.

"He wrote it in black ink, a ballpoint," Savich said, his voice flat,
emotionless, as he carefully eased the paper into a plastic bag he
pulled out of his pants pocket and closed the zipper. "It's just a
plain sheet of paper torn out of a notebook. Nothing at all unique
about it."
"Do you think he's out of control?" Sherlock said to no one in
particular. Her face was pale, the horror clear in her eyes.
"No," Adam said. "I don't think so. I think he's really enjoying
himself. I think at last he's discovering who he really is and what he
really likes. I can practically hear him thinking,'I want to scare Rebecca
shitless, prove to her I'm so bad that when I call her again I
won't hear any more cockiness from her. No, I'll hear fear in her





voice, helplessness. Now, what can I do to really make this happen?'
" Adam paused a moment, then said, "And so he decided to
kill Linda Cartwright and make her into his fictional dog."
"Yeah "Tommy said, "I think Adam is right. There's nothing but
control here. Too damned much of it."
"I need to make some calls," Savich said, but he didn't move, just
stared down at the note and at what had been Linda Cartwright.
There was silence in the small, bright kitchen and the harsh
breathing of six men and two women, one of them drawing hard
on a pipe that wasn't lit. Then Becca broke free, ran out the back
door, and fell to her knees, vomiting until her body was jerking and
heaving and there was nothing more in her belly. Still she crouched
there, holding her arms around herself, shuddering, wanting to die
because she'd brought death to Linda Cartwright, just as she had to
that poor old woman standing outside the Metropolitan Museum,
just as she'd nearly brought death to the governor of New York.
She felt him coming up behind her, knew it was Adam.
"Her face--he obliterated her face, Adam, for a sick joke that
only he thought was funny. He murdered her and smashed her face
so--"
"I know." Adam fell to his knees behind her, pulling her back
against his chest. "I know."
She felt him begin to rock her, back and forth. "I know, Becca."
"I'm responsible for her, Adam. If I hadn't shot him, if I hadn't--"
Adam pulled her around to face him. He handed her a handkerchief,
waited for her to wipe her mouth, then said, "Now, you
will listen up. If you feel any guilt about that poor woman, I'm going
to deck you. None of this is your fault. He's the evil one. This
guy will do anything to terrorize you, to hear you whimper, beg,
plead with him to stop. Anything."





"He's succeeded."
"Yeah, you've got to stop that as well. You can't let him crawl
under your skin. That means he wins. That means he's got the control,
he's got the power. Do you understand me?"
She pulled away from him and began kneading his arms with
her hands, not even realizing what she was doing. "It's hard, Adam.
I know he's evil. I know there must be a reason he's doing all this,
a reason that makes perfect sense to him, but in my gut, it feels like
I smashed in that poor woman's face. Oh, God, if I hadn't fired at
him, hit him--"
"Stop it," he said and shook her good. "Now, here's the bottom
line. We're going to leave her just as she is in the kitchen and make
an anonymous call. No, don't argue." He lightly tapped his fingers
against her mouth. "Listen, I know this is very hard to do, given the
fact that we're breaking the law and she's not going to get the attention
she deserves right away. Even Savich and Sherlock are having
a real problem with it.
"Even though they're part of the highest police force in the land,
they realize that nothing good would be served if the world suddenly
found out that you're here and you're up to your ears in another
murder. The cops and the Feds would fight to see who could
hold you and question you. On the other hand, you'd be protected,
and that's something, but not enough. All of us agree that you
would be charged with murder and accessory to murder. It would
be a nightmare and it would continue even if they ever let you go.
Why? Because he would still be there, just waiting, and it would
start all over.
"So, Savich and Sherlock have agreed to keep our connection under
wraps for a while. He's getting the woman's phone records right
now. We'll find out how long he's been here, holding her prisoner.
We'll find out who he called besides you. All the guys are going over





the house, top to bottom, right now. They're pros. If there's anything
to find, they'll find it. If there are fingerprints, and I'm willing to bet
there are, they'll pull those up, too. But it's going to take time because
we'll have to clean up after ourselves. The last thing we want is to
have the police notice some stray fingerprint powder. So we can't
call in her murder for another couple of hours."
"He knew the phone was tapped."
"Oh, yes, he knew, and that's why he had the surprise all ready for
you. He can't be far away now. He's close. Real close. It's possible
he's watching all of us right this instant, hiding in the pine trees, but
I don't think even he is that reckless. We'll get him, Becca. You have
to believe that. He'll pay for what he did to Linda Cartwright."
"Oh, God," she said suddenly. "You're right, Adam, he is watching.
Maybe he's a goodly distance away and using binoculars, but I
don't think so. I'll bet he's just over there, somewhere in those
trees, and I think he watched you climb through that window,
watched me come out here and puke up my guts. You said he was
finally realizing who he is, what he likes, and this is it."
Her eyes went blank, then she said, "He's seen Tyler and Sam.
Oh God, he knows I'm close to them and doesn't that make them
targets, too? What if he goes after them?"
"He could, but I doubt it and here's why. He knows we're not
fools. He knows there are a lot of us. He wants you. He's made his
point. I can't see him veering off course to kill Tyler or Sam. Why?
He wants to nail me, but I'm with you, staying with you, taunting
him. That's why he wants me. Now, Dave and Chuck will start
looking around here when they finish in the house."
"He'll be gone by then."
"Probably."
"Do you think he killed her in those short minutes between
when he called me and all the men got here?"





Adam hesitated, then shook his head. "No, she'd been dead for
several hours, at least."
"But her face, Adam, her face. It looked--fresh, even though all
the blood looked dried and clotted."
"He did that after he called you, after he realized the phone was
tapped. She was already dead, Becca."
"How did he kill her?"
Adam didn't want to say anything more about it, but he knew
she wasn't going to let it go, she couldn't let it go. "He strangled
her."
"Why was there dirt all over her? God, it was even on her feet,
in her hair."
Oh, shit, he thought. He didn't want to say it but there was no
choice. "There was dirt on her because he dug her up to smash her
face." There, it was said, and he thought she was going to vomit
again. She closed her eyes, her arms fell to her sides, and her head
dropped forward against his chest. But she didn't vomit, she cried,
making no sound at all, just cried, her hands fists against his Kevlar
vest.
"Oh, God, Becca," he said and squeezed her hard. "I swear I'll
get him, I swear it."
She said nothing for a very long time. His knees were starting to
hurt when she finally whispered against his neck, "Not if I can get
him first." She shuddered, then he felt her stiffen and slowly, slowly
pull back from him. She said, "He was through with her, probably
planning on leaving here, and so he killed her and buried her and
then decided it would be fun to play this big joke on me."
"Yeah, that's about the size of it."
"He's still here, Adam. He's close. I can feel him. It's like something
very black and heavy crawling over my skin."
He said nothing.





"But why? I just don't understand why he picked me. Why is he
doing this to me?"
Again, Adam said nothing, but he thought, If Krimakov is really
dead, then there isn't a motive, and I don't have the foggiest idea, either,
why he picked you.

Becca couldn't get Linda Cartwright out of her mind, she kept
picturing her, lying there, her face smashed, and no one to take care
of her for hour upon hour.
Sherlock handed her a cup of coffee, steam rising from the mug
like cigarette smoke. "You only slept a couple of hours, Becca.
Here, drink this."
"None of us slept for more than a couple of hours," Becca said.
"Where are Adam and Savich?"
"Adam is out talking to Dave and Chuck. They just took over
outside patrol. He's going to get some other people here, some of
his own people, to free up these guys."
"Maybe Hatch is coming." At Sherlock's raised eyebrow, Becca
added, "I heard Adam talking to him on the phone. Yeah, I was
eavesdropping, so Adam had to tell me. He said Hatch speaks six
languages, has lots of contacts, is really smart, and smokes. Adam is
always trying to get him to stop smoking by threatening to fire
him."
Sherlock laughed and lifted her mug to toast Becca's. "I want to
meet this guy. If he dares to light up a cigarette, Savich won't
threaten to fire him, he'll take his head off."
"So Adam doesn't work for Thomas?"
"No, not now. They've been friends for a very long time. Adam is
sort of like a son to Thomas. No, I won't tell you any more about
him."





Becca didn't say anything.
"Listen, Becca, it doesn't matter right now. Now, my husband is
concerned that the local cops won't be able to do a thing about
Linda Cartwright because they're going in completely blind. But
we agreed this is the way we'll play it for a while. The cops have
been there for a while now, Becca. They're taking care of her. But
they won't be able to figure anything out because we're holding
back. That really sticks in everyone's craw, probably always will."
"Sherlock, do you know who Krimakov is?"
Sherlock couldn't help it, her eyes gave her away before she
could pull down the automatic blinders, and she wanted to kick
herself. She shrugged. "Yes, I know; But it would have to be his
ghost who killed Linda Cartwright. Evidently, Thomas got information
that he was killed in an auto accident just a short time ago
in Crete, where he supposedly lived. So it's all academic. If he's
dead, then he can't have anything to do with this."
"And Thomas has double-checked that this guy is really dead?"
"I would assume so."
"If this Krimakov were alive, and he were behind this terror,
why would he be doing it to me in particular? He's what--Russian?
What could he possibly have against me? Why would Thomas
think it was him?"
"I don't know," Sherlock said, lying cleanly now because she'd
had time to slip her mask into place.
"Who is Thomas, Sherlock? Please, you've got to tell me."
"Just forget him, Becca," she said over her shoulder. "Drop it.
Give it time. Now, I want some more coffee. Can I make you some
toast or something?"
"No, nothing." Who was this Thomas person? Becca wondered. Why all the secrecy? 
It made no sense to her. She looked over at the
single telephone. It was nearly nine o'clock on Thursday morning.





Nothing from. him. Maybe he was scared now, maybe he knew
they were getting close, maybe he would go away. Still, she sat there
staring at that damned black phone like it was a snake about to bite
her.
The last person any of them wanted to see arrived midmorning.
"The door looks good," Sheriff Gaffney said when Becca
opened it. "What with all this mess, I didn't think you'd worry so
much about how your front door looked."
Becca said, "You just never know, do you, Sheriff? Would you
like to come in? Is there any news about who the skeleton is?"
"Yeah, I'd like to talk to you a moment, Ms. Powell. I believe
now that the skeleton that fell out of your basement wall is Melissa
Katzen." He rubbed his forehead. "I didn't think old Jacob was that
vicious. Bashing a young girl in the face--now that just isn't right."
"Sheriff," Adam said, coming up behind Becca, "I was thinking
about that. You said she was supposed to elope. Any leads on her
boyfriend?"
"Nope, nobody remembers her ever dating. Isn't that weird?
Why would she keep it secret? That doesn't make any sense to me
or to my wife, Maude. She thinks that a young girl would be really
proud to show off a boyfriend."
"Maybe the boyfriend didn't want her to show him off," Becca
said. "Maybe he told her to keep quiet."
"But why?"
"I don't know, Sheriff. I wish I did."
"Rachel Ryan remembers her, said she was really nice, nothing
new there. She also said that Melissa didn't ever dress in sexy
clothes. She was surprised when I told her about the Calvin Klein jeans and that 
skimpy pink top. She couldn't remember Melissa
ever wearing anything suggestive. Maybe you're right, Ms. Powell.
Maybe it was her boyfriend. But you know? I can just see a cute





young girl waltzing over into Jacob Marley's yard, him seeing her
and getting all het up. Did he smash her?"
Becca said, "Maybe she was off to meet her boyfriend and coming
into Jacob Marley's yard was a shortcut."
"Ain't no shortcut to anywhere," said Sheriff Gaffney. "The back
of the Marley property trails off into thick woods and finally stops
at the ocean."
"Maybe," Sherlock said, "the jeans and top were her cute traveling
clothes. Maybe she did intend to elope, maybe she decided at
the last minute that she didn't want to and this boy got mad and
killed her."
Sheriff Gaffney said slowly, "Who are you?" "Oh, sorry, Sheriff," Adam said. 
"Sherlock and Savich here are
friends of mine. They just stopped in for a while to visit the town."
"Nice to meet you, ma'am. Now, that's not a bad idea. I guess
I'd have to say that for a woman you deduced that real logically,
probably better than most other women."
Savich, who heard that, wondered if Sherlock was going to take a flying leap at 
the sheriff's throat.
"Yeah," Sherlock said thoughtfully, "I'm a lot better than poor
Becca here, who can barely find her way to the Food Fort without
some guy explaining the poisonous plant streets to her."
"That was sarcasm," Sheriff Gaffney said after a moment. "I
know that was sarcasm. I've never believed women should have
smart mouths."
Before Sherlock could leap on the sheriff, Adam said, "Are there
DNA tests being done?"
The sheriff shook his head. "Still trying to track down her
father. No luck yet. Mrs. Ella remembers an aunt, lives in Bangor
now. Maybe she read about the skeleton and was the one who
made the anonymous call. I've got to track her down." Sheriff





Gaffney sighed and patted the gun at his wide leather belt that was
really cutting into his gut today. "But we can't count on the skeleton
being Melissa, even though I've made up my mind that it is, so
we're looking into other things as well." Sheriff Gaffney leaned his
considerable weight back on his heels. "Now, folks, the reason I'm
here is to ask about these guys I've seen on and off around Riptide.
No, don't lie to me. I know they're with you, Mr. Savich. Would
you like to tell me what's going on?"
At that moment, the phone rang.
Tinny, sharp, and too loud, and Becca dropped her coffee cup.
"Becca didn't get much sleep last night," Adam said easily, and
picked up the phone. "Hello?"
"Hello, fuckhead. You found my present?"
"Why, yes, I did. Where are you now?"
"I want to speak to Rebecca."
"Sorry, she's not here. It's just me. What do you want?"
The phone went dead.
"It was a salesman," Adam said, all smooth and easy. "The jerk
wanted to sell Becca some Venetian blinds." He shrugged. "What
was it you wanted to know, Sheriff?"
The sheriff had not taken his eyes off Savich. "Those guys
around town. Who are they, Mr. Savich?"
"You found me out, Sheriff," Savich said. "Actually, my wife and I
are here because we're representing a big resort developer who is seriously
interested in this section of the Maine coast. It's true that
Adam is a friend of ours and he, well, he gives us some cover. Now,
the guys you're seeing around are supposed to be very discreet,
which means that you've got a very sharp eye, Sheriff. They're doing
all sorts of things, like talking to folk, surveying, checking out soil and
other flora and fauna, seeing who owns what and how profitable the
businesses are now. This is a lovely section of coastline and Riptide is



a real neat little town. A resort not too far away--can you imagine
what would happen to your local economy? In any case, we won't be
here for much longer, but I would ask you a favor. Could you please
keep this under your hat?" Savich said immediately to Sherlock, "I
told you the sheriff was too sharp not to catch on to us, honey. I told
you he was real smart and he knew everything that went on in his
town."
"Yes, Dillon," Sherlock said,"you told me that. I'm sorry I didn't
see him as clearly as you did. Yeah, he's pretty smart, all right." She
gave the sheriff a brilliant smile.
"So, you want me to keep my mouth shut about this, Mr.
Savich?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, all right, but if any of them cause any trouble, I'll be back.
This resort of yours--it wouldn't go spoiling any of the natural
beauty around here, would it?"
"No way," Savich said. "That's the prime goal of the group I
work with."
Becca eyed Savich after she let the sheriff out the front door,
which smelled, he said on his way out, really nice and clean.
"You're something, Savich. I really believed you there for a minute.
Goodness, I wanted to ask you the name of the planned resort."
Savich said, "The phone call gave me time to come up with a
decent story."
"It was him, wasn't it?" Becca said as she turned to Adam, who
was still standing by the phone.
"Yes, it was him. He wanted to speak to you but I told him you
weren't here. He always calls you Rebecca, not Becca?" At her nod,
Adam said,"He was calling from a public phone booth in Rockland.
Tommy the Pipe just tracked it down, so there's nothing we can do."
Sherlock said slowly, studying a bruised knuckle she'd gotten





when she'd clipped Tyler McBride's jaw, "We've got to get him
back. We've got to set up a meeting somehow."
"Next time I'll speak to him," Becca said. "I'll set one up."
"You won't be bait," Adam said, his voice sharp as a knife. "No
way."
"Look, Adam, he wants me. If you made yourself the bait, he'd
just shoot you and walk away. But not so with me. He wants me
up close and personal. Only me. Help me figure out a way to do
this, please."
"I don't like it."





Chapter 18

Hatch, short, built like a young bull, sporting a large mustache,
pulled off a tweed Sherlock Holmes hat to show his shaved head.
For some reason she couldn't quite fathom, Becca thought he was
so impishly cute she wanted to hug him. She thought from the
cocky grin on Sherlock's face that she wanted to hug him right
along with her.
This guy was potent. He had more charm than a person deserved,
she was thinking a few minutes later when Adam held out
his hand and said to him, "Give me the pack of cigarettes in your
right pocket, Hatch, now, or you're fired."
"Yeah, sure, boss." Hatch obligingly handed Adam a nearly full
pack of Marlboros. "Just one, boss, no more, and I didn't inhale
much. All I had, just one. I don't want to smoke anywhere near
sweet Becca. I wouldn't want to ever take a chance of hurting her
lovely lungs. Now, tell me what to do to catch this creep so Becca
can go back to writing speeches and smiling a lot." Then he turned
those dark-brown twinkling eyes on her and said, "Hi."
Becca grinned and pumped his hand. "Hi, Hatch. Listen, I'm
ready. The next time he calls--I'm ready. We're going to set a trap
for him. I'm going to be the bait."
"Hmmm. I don't think the boss likes that. His jaw is all knotted
up."

Adam unknotted his jaw. "No, I don't like it. It's crazy. I don't





want her to take this kind of risk. Ah, shit, I can tell by the look on
your face, Becca, that you're going to do it regardless of what I
think."
"Look, Adam," Savich said, "if I could think of another way, I'd
dive on it, but there are enough of us to keep her protected. Now,
Hatch, according to Adam, you have a pretty awesome reputation
to maintain. Tell us what you've found out."
Hatch took a slim black book out of his jacket pocket, licked his
fingers, and ruffled some pages. "Most of this is from Thomas's
guys, who've been working their butts off trying to verify Kriakov's
death. Thomas got everyone working on it right away.
Now, the CIA has actually spoken to the cop who was the one
who poked around his body. Apollo--no shit, that's his name--said
Krimakov went over a cliff on the eastern end of Crete, near Agios
Nikolaos, died instantly, one would suppose from the injuries. It
could have been murder, he allowed, but nobody checked into it all
that much for the simple fact that no one really cares. Nothing obvious
about it, so they closed the case until our agents flew in and
spread out and wanted to see and examine everything."
"So he's really dead," Becca said.
Hatch looked up and gave them a big grin. "Nope, not necessarily.
Here's the kicker. Krimakov's body was cremated. You see,
for the longest time, our people were stonewalled by the locals,
who wouldn't allow them to view the body. It was only after the
Greek government got involved that they let it out of the bag that
they'd cremated him right away. Why? I don't know, but there was
a payoff, somewhere."
No one said a word for a very long time.
"Cremated?"Adam repeated, disbelieving.
"Yes, burned to ashes, poured in an urn. Thing's still sitting on a
shelf in the morgue."





Sherlock said, "So there is no definitive proof because there's no
body to examine."
"Right," Hatch said. "Now, while we all chew on that, let's go
back a bit. Krimakov moved to Crete in the early eighties. Just
showed up and stayed. He was into bad things, but not bad enough
so anyone would dig and find out exactly who and what he'd been
in Russia. Actually, the impression is they never tried really hard to
do any nailing. He probably paid everyone off."
"Damn," Adam said. "Okay. Now we've got to search his house,
top to bottom and under the basement. If he ever was involved in
this, there will be something there."
"Our agents have gone over his house, didn't find anything. No
clues, no leads, no references at all to Becca. We heard that he had
an apartment somewhere, but we don't know where it is. That
might take a little time. There aren't any official records."
Savich said, "If he had an apartment, I'll find it."
"Just you?" Adam said, an eyebrow raised.
"Didn't Thomas tell you I was good?"
Adam snorted, watching Savich plug in MAX.
Hatch said, "More will be coming about his personal activities.
But as yet, there isn't anything out of Russia. It seems that way back
when, all Krimakov's records were purged. There's little left. Nothing
of interest. The KGB probably ordered it done, then helped
him go to ground, in Crete. Again, though, they'll continue searching
and probing and questioning all their counterparts in
Moscow."
"Krimakov isn't dead," Adam said. And he believed it like he'd
never believed anything in his life.
Having said that, Adam sat back and closed his eyes. He was getting
a headache.
"Well, yeah, we have something else. I was the one who did all





the legwork on this." Hatch licked his fingers again and flipped
over a couple more pages. "The Albany cops just found a witness
not two hours ago who identified the car that ran down Dick Me-
Callum. It's a BMW, black, license number--at least the first three
numbers--three-eight-five. A New York plate. I don't have anything
on that yet."
"I'll have it run through," Savich said. "It'll be quicker, more
complete. I don't want to know how you got that information so
quickly."
"I'll just say that she loves my mustache," Hatch said. "Please do
call the Bureau, Agent Savich. I didn't have the chance to check
back with Thomas and have him do it. Oh yeah, a guy was driving. No clue if it 
was an old guy or a young guy or in between,
really dark windows, like windows on a limo. Fairly unusual for a
regular commercial car, and that's probably why he stole that particular
car."
Savich was on his cell phone in the next ten seconds, nodded
and hung up in three more minutes. "Done. We'll have a list of
possibles in about five minutes."
Tommy the Pipe knocked lightly on the front door and came in.
"We got a guy buying Exxon supreme at a gas station just eight
miles west of Riptide. The attendant, a young boy about eighteen,
said when the guy paid for his gas, he saw dirt and blood on the
cuff of his shirt. He wouldn't have thought a thing about it except Rollo was 
canvassing all the gas stations, asking questions about
strangers. It's him."
"Oh, yeah," Adam said and jumped to his feet. "Please say it,
Tommy. Please tell us that this kid remembers what the guy looks
like, that he remembers the kind of car he was driving."
"The guy had on a green hunting hat with flaps, something like








mine but with no style. He also wore very dark glasses. He doesn't
know if the guy was young or old, sorry, Adam. Hell, anyone over
twenty-five would be old to that kid. But he does remember clearly that the guy 
spoke well, a real educated voice, all smooth
and deep. The car--he thought it was a BMW, dark blue or black.
Sorry, no idea about the plate. But you know what? The windows
were dark-tinted. How about that?"
"Surely he wouldn't have driven the same car up here that he
used to kill Dick McCallum in Albany," Sherlock said.
"Why not?" Savich said. "If it isn't dented, if there isn't blood all
over it, then why not?"
Savich's cell phone rang. He stood and walked over to the doorway.
They heard him talking, saw him nodding as he listened. He
hung up and said, "No go. He stole the license plates. No surprise
there. He'd have been an idiot to leave on the original plates.
However, those heavily tinted windows, I have everyone checking
on New York cars stolen within the past two weeks with those sorts
of windows."
Savich's cell phone rang again in eight minutes. He listened and
wrote rapidly. When he hung up the phone, he said, "This is something.
Like Hatch said, few commercial cars--domestic or foreign
--are built with dark-tinted windows. Three have been stolen.
The people are all over the state, two men and one woman."
Becca said with no hesitation,"It's the woman. He stole her car."
"Possible," Sherlock said. "Let's find out right now."
She called information for Ithaca, New York, and got the phone
number for Mrs. Irene Bailey, 112 Huntley Avenue. The phone
rang once, twice, three times, then, "Hello?"
"Mrs. Bailey? Mrs. Irene Bailey?"
Silence.





"Are you there? Mrs. Bailey?"
"That's my mother," a woman said. "I'm sorry, but it took me by
surprise."
"May I please speak to your mother?"
"You don't know? No, I guess not. My mother was killed two
weeks ago."
Sherlock didn't drop the phone, but she felt a great roiling pain
through her stomach, up to her throat, and she swallowed convulsively.
"Can you give me any details, please?"
"Who are you?"
"I'm Gladys Martin with the Social Security Administration in
Washington."
"I know my husband called Social Security. What do you
want?"
"We're required to fill out papers, ma'am. Are you her daughter?"
"Yes, I am. What kind of papers?"
"Statistics, nothing more. Is there someone else I can speak to
about this? I don't want to upset you."
There was a moment of silence, then, "No, it's all right. Ask the
questions. We don't want the government to go away mad."
"Thank you, ma'am. You said your mother was killed? Was this
an auto accident?"
"No, someone hit her on the head when she was going out to
her car at the shopping mall. He stole her car."
"Oh, dear, I'm so very sorry. Please tell me that the man who
did this has been caught?"
The woman's voice hardened up immediately. "No, he wasn't.
The cops put out a description of her car, but no one has reported
back with anything as yet. They think he painted the car a different
color and changed the license plates. He's gone. Even the New
York City cops don't know where he is. She was an old woman, 


too, so who cares?" The bitterness in the daughter's voice was bone-deep in 
pain, disbelief, anger still raw.
"Was there anything distinctive about the car the man stole?"
"Yes, the windows were tinted dark because my mother had
very sensitive eyes. Too much sunlight really hurt her."
"I see. What was the color of the car?"
"White with gray interior. There was a small dent above the left
rear tire."
"I see. Did you say that there were other than just the local cops
there?"
"Oh, yes. Of all things, they were from New York City. They
should have caught this guy. We don't know why the New York
City police are involved. Do you? Is that really why you're calling?
You want to pump me for information?"
"No, of course not. This is simply statistical information that we
need."
"Are there any more questions, Ms. Martin? I'm sorting through
my mother's things and I have to be down at St. Paul's charities in
a half hour."
"No, ma'am. I'm very sorry for your loss. I'll take care of everything
here." Sherlock turned to see all eyes focused on her. "The
killer painted a white car black and stole another license plate. The
New York City cops were there. They know. Oh, yeah, the windows
are tinted dark because Mrs. Bailey had sensitive eyes."
"Son of a bitch," Hatch said and groped in his pocket for his cigarettes.
"How come nobody told me that the cops knew about that
damned car?"
Adam just gave him a look and said, "They've got a real lid on
that one. My guess is they're keeping it from the Feds, don't want
to get aced out. And the victim loses. What the New York cops
don't know is that our killer is here in Maine. Shall we tell them?"



Savich said, "Not the New York cops, but I can call Tellie Haw-ley,
the SAC of the office in New York City. He'll see that it gets to
where it needs to go."
"Yeah," Adam said, "why not? Anyone think of a good reason
why not?"
"How specific should we be?" Becca asked. She was wringing
her hands, and Adam frowned.
Savich rolled it around in his brain and said, "Let's just tell him
the guy's been seen on the coast. How's that? It's the truth."
"We've got to get him," Becca said. "If we don't, then we have
to call this Thomas person who seems to know everyone and direct
everything, and tell him to bring in the Marines."
"He hasn't called," Becca said, and took a bite of her hot dog.
"Why hasn't he called?"
Adam said as he chewed a potato chip, "I think he's going to lie
low for a while. He's not stupid. He's going to dig in somewhere
else, give you some time to chew your fingernails, make all of us
jumpy as hell, then jump back into the game--his game."
They were all eating hot dogs with relish and mustard, the team
of guys outside coming in one at a time. Special Agent Rollo
Dempsey said to Adam, "I knew your name but I couldn't remember
where I'd heard it. Now I do. You saved Senator Dashworth's
life last year when that crazy tried to stick a knife in his ribs."
Adam didn't say a word.
"Yeah, it was you. You saved Senator Dashworth's life. Pretty impressive."
"You shouldn't know about that," Adam said finally, frowning at
Rollo. "You really shouldn't."

202



"Yeah, well, I'm an insider, I can't help it if people tell me everything."
"I never heard anything about that,"Becca said, her antennae up.
"What are you talking about?"
Rollo just grinned at her and said, "Did you find out who tried
to off him?"
"You don't know about that, too?"
"Hey, I'm an insider, but the spigot was off when it came to the
particulars."
Adam shrugged. "Well, who cares now? The guy who wanted
the senator dead was his son-in-law. Irving--that's the guy's
name--had sent him threats, all the usual anonymous bullshit. The
senator called me. It turned out that Irving had become a heroin
addict, didn't have any more money, and wanted the senator's inheritance.
The senator managed to keep it from the media, to protect
his daughter, and so we got the guy into a sanatorium, where
he belonged, where he's still at. I guess there are only a few insiders
who know anything at all about it."
"You run some sort of a bodyguard business?" Becca said,
frowning at Adam over a spoonful of baked beans. "I thought you
did security consulting."
"I like to keep my hand in on a lot of different things," Adam
said.
"What I'd like to know," Sherlock said, handing Rollo another
hot dog with lots of down-home yellow mustard slathered on it, "is
why you didn't find out who it was right away. The guy was an addict?
That kind of thing isn't easy to hide."
Adam actually flushed. He played with his fork, didn't meet her
eyes. He cleared his throat. "Well, the thing is that the son-in-law
wasn't around for those three days I was checking things out. His wife

203



was protecting him, said he had the flu, that he was really contagious,
et cetera. She swore to me and to her father that Irving wouldn't even
consider doing something like that, no, it had to be a crazy, or a left-wing
conspiracy. She was so--well--damned believable."
"Good thing you were there to deflect the guy's knife," Rollo
said.
"That's the truth," Adam said.
Rollo sat down at the kitchen table, squeezing in between
Savich and Becca. Adam said on a deep sigh, "I just heard that the
wife is trying to get the husband out of there. It could start all over
again."
"Well, shit," Rollo said. "Not much justice around, is there?"
Then Chuck came in and Rollo, still half a hog dog left, saluted
and went back outside.
"It won't be long now," Savich said. "I feel it. Things will happen."
He took a last bite of a tofu hot dog, sighed with pleasure, and
hugged his wife.

Things didn't happen until later.
They were all in the living room drinking coffee, planning, arguing,
brainstorming. There was no activity outside. Everything
was buttoned down tight, until at exactly ten o'clock a bullet shattered
one of the front windows, glass exploded inward, carrying
shreds of curtain with it.
"Down!" Savich yelled.
But it wasn't a simple bullet that came through the window to
strike the floor molding on the far side of the living room, it was a
tear gas bullet. Thick gray smoke gushed out even before it struck
the molding.
"Oh, damn," Adam said. "Back into the kitchen. Now!"

204



Another tear gas bullet exploded through the window. They
were coughing, covering their faces, running toward the back of
the house.
They heard men's shouts, sporadic gunfire, sharp and loud in the
night. The front door burst open and Tommy the Pipe ran in, his
face covered with his jacket. "Out, guys, quick. Through the front
door, the back's not covered well enough."
"He shot tear gas bullets," Adam said between choking coughs.
"He's probably using a CAR-15, behind our perimeter. Come
on out."
They coughed their heads off, tears streaming down their faces.
Savich found himself with Becca's nose pressed into his armpit.
"We've got to get him," Adam shouted, coughing, choking, his
eyes streaming tears. "Just another minute to get over this and we'll
start scouring."
It took another seven minutes before they headed out in the
general direction of where the tear gas bullets must have been shot
toward the front windows.
They found tire tracks, nothing else, until Adam called out,
"Look here."
Everyone gathered around Adam, who was on his haunches. He
held up a shell casing that was four inches long and about an inch
and a half in diameter. "Tommy the Pipe was right. He used a
CAR-15--that's a compact M16," he added to Becca, "stands for
carbine automatic rifle."
Savich found the other shell casing and was tossing it back and
forth.
"But how can tear gas come from a gun?" Becca said. "I thought
they were canisters or something like that. That's what I've always
seen in movies and on TV."
"That's real old-hat now," Adam said. "This smaller Ml6 is real

205



portable, you could carry it under your trench coat. It's got this
telescoping collapsible barrel. The SEALs use this stuff. What you
do is simply mount an under-barrel tubular grenade launcher and
fire away with your tear gas projectiles. It's wicked."
Sherlock said, "He's obviously connected and very well trained.
Got all the latest goodies. And just where would he get all this
stuff?"
And Adam thought: Krimakov.
No one said anything.
They got back to the house forty-five minutes later. It was late,
and everyone was hyped. Adam said, as he shrugged into his jacket,
rechecked his pistol, "I'm going to take one of the first watches."
"Get me up at three o'clock," Savich said.
"I'm outta here," Adam said. He looked over at Becca, saw that
she was white-faced and couldn't help himself. He walked to her
and pulled her tight against him. He said against her hair, "Sleep
well and don't worry. We're going to get him."
Becca didn't think she'd be able to slow her heart down enough
even to consider sleeping, but she did, deeply and dreamlessly, until
she felt a strange jab in her left arm, just above her elbow, like a
mosquito bite. She jerked awake, her heart pounding wildly, and
she couldn't breathe, just pant and jerk. She was blind, no, it was
just dark, very dark, the blinds drawn because nobody wanted him
to be able to see into the house. She saw a shadowy figure standing
over her, gray, indistinct, and she whispered,"What is this? Is it you,
Adam? What did you do--?" But he said nothing, merely leaned
closer and finally, when her heart was slowing just a bit, he whispered
right against her face, "I came for you, Rebecca, just like I
said I would," and he licked her cheek.
"No," she said. "No." Then she fell back, wondering what the

206



silver light was shining just over her face. It seemed to arc toward
her, a skinny silver flash, but then it just wasn't important. A small
flashlight, she thought as she breathed in very deeply, more deeply
than usual for her, and eased into a soft warm blackness that relaxed
her mind and body, and she didn't know anything more.





Chapter 1 9

Her heart beat slow, regular strokes, one after the other, easy,
steady, no fright registering in her body. She felt calm, relaxed. She
opened her eyes. It was black, no shadows, no hint of movement,
just relentless, motionless black. She was swamped with the black,
but she forced herself to draw in a deep breath. Her heart wasn't
pumping out of her chest now. She still felt relaxed, too relaxed,
with no fear grinding through her, at least not yet, but she knew
she should be afraid. She was in darkness and he was close by. She
knew it, but still she breathed steadily, evenly, waiting, but not
afraid. Well, perhaps there was just a tincture of fear, indistinct, nibbling
at the edges of her mind. She frowned, and it slipped away.
Odd how she remembered perfectly everything that had happened:
the jab in her left arm, the instant terror, she remembered all
of it--him licking her cheek--with no mental fuzz cloaking the
memories.
The nibblings of fear became more focused now, she could
nearly grasp it. Her heart speeded up. She blinked, willing herself
to know fear, then to control it.
He had gotten her. Somehow he'd gotten into the house, past
the guards, and he'd gotten her.
There was suddenly a wispy light, the smell of smoke. He'd lit a
candle. He wasn't close by now, he was here, just inches from her.
She calmed the building fear, it was hard, probably the hardest thing
she'd ever had to do, but she knew she had to. She remembered,


very suddenly, her mother telling her once that fear was what hurt
you because it froze you. "Don't ever give up," her mother had told
her. "Never give up." Then her mother had gripped her shoulders
and said it one more time: "Never give up."
It was so clear in her mind in that moment, her mother standing
over her telling her this. She could even feel her mother's fingers
hard on her shoulders. Odd that she couldn't remember what
had happened to make her mother tell her this.
"Where are we?"
Was that her voice, all calm and indifferent?Yes, she'd managed it.
"Hello, Rebecca. I came for you, just like I said I would."
"Please," she said, and then she laughed, choked, "please don't
lick my cheek again. That was really creepy."
He was dead silent, affronted, even pissed, she realized, because
she was laughing at him.
"You gave me a shot of something. What was it?"
She heard his deep breathing. "Just something I picked up in
Turkey. I was told that a side effect is a temporary sense of euphoria.
You won't feel like laughing for much longer, Rebecca. The effects
will fade, and then you'll be heaving with fear, you'll be so
scared of me."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah."
He slapped her. She didn't see his hand, it was just there, connecting
sharply against her cheek. She tried to leap at him, but she
realized she was tied down, her hands over her head, her wrists tied
to the slats of the headboard. So she was lying on a bed. Her legs
were free. She was still wearing her nightgown, a white cotton
nightgown that came up to her chin and went down to her ankles.
He'd smoothed it over her legs.
She said with a sneer in her voice, "Hey, I liked the slap better
than you licking me. You're really brave, aren't you? Would you like





to let my hands free, just for a minute, and then we'll see how brave
you are?"
"Shut up!"
He was standing beside her, leaning down, breathing hard. She
couldn't see his hands, but she imagined they were fists, ready to
bash her.
She said very quietly, "Why did you kill Linda Cartwright?"
"That fat bitch? She was bothering me, always begging, pleading,
whining when she was thirsty or she wanted to pee or she
wanted to lie down. I got tired of it."
She said nothing at all, beyond words, wondering what had
made him into a madman or had he been born like this? Born evil,
nothing to blame but screwed-up genes.
She could hear him tapping his fingers, tap, tap, tap. He wanted
her to say something, wanted it badly, but she held quiet.
"Did you like my present to you, Rebecca?"
"No."
"I saw you puking your guts out."
"I thought you probably did. God, you're sick. You get off on
that?"
"Then I saw that big guy, Adam Carruthers, there with you. He
was holding you. Why did you let him hold you like that?"
"I probably would have even leaned against you if I didn't know
who you were."
"I'm glad you didn't let him kiss you."
"I had just vomited. That wouldn't be fun for anyone, now
would it?"
"No, I guess not."
He didn't sound old, not the age of this Krimakov character. But
was he young? She just couldn't tell. "Who are you? Are you Krimakov?"





He was silent but just for a moment. Then he laughed softly,
deeply, and it froze her. He lightly ran his palm over her cheek,
squeezed just a bit, made her flinch. "I'm your boyfriend, Rebecca.
I saw you and I knew that I would have to be closer to you than
your skin. I thought about actually getting under your skin, but
that would mean I'd have to skin you and then cover myself, and
you're just not big enough.
"Then I thought I wanted to be next to your heart, but again,
there'd be so much blood, fountains of it. Too many hands ruin the
stew, too much blood ruins the clothes. I'm a fastidious man.
"No, don't say it or think it. I'm not crazy, not like that Hannibal
character. I just said that to make you so afraid you'd start begging
and pleading. Already the drug's wearing off. I can see how
afraid you are. All I have to do is talk and you're scared shitless."
He was right about that, but she'd give about anything not to
show him, not to let him see that she was boiling white hot inside,
nearly burned to ashes with fear. "But then when you're all done
talking, you'll strangle me like you did Linda Cartwright?"
"Oh no. She wasn't important. She wasn't anything."
"I'll bet she disagreed with that."
"Probably, but who cares?"
"Why me?"
He laughed, and she bet that if she could see his face, he'd be
smirking, so pleased with himself. "Not just yet, Rebecca. You and
I have got lots of things to do before you know who I am and why
I chose you."
"There's a reason, naturally, at least in your mind. Why won't
you tell me?"
"You'll find out soon enough, or not. We'll see. Now, I'm going
to give you another little shot and you'll sleep again."





"No," she said. "I have to go to the bathroom. Let me go to the
bathroom."
He cursed--American curses mixed with English-sounding
curses, and an odd language thrown in that she didn't recognize.
"You try anything and I'll knock you silly. I'll strip the skin off
your arm and make it into a pair of gloves. You hear me?"
"Yes, I hear you. I thought you were fastidious."
"I am, about blood. There wouldn't be all those fountains of
blood if I just peeled the skin off your arm."
She felt him untie her hands, slowly, and she supposed that the
knots must have been complicated. Finally she was free. She
brought her arms down and rubbed her wrists. They burned, then
eased. She was very stiff. Slowly, she sat up and swung her legs off
the bed.
"You try anything and I'll put a knife into your leg, high up on
your thigh. I know just the place that won't show much, but the
pain will make you wish you were dead it's so bad. There wouldn't
be hardly any blood at all. Yeah, forget about skinning your arm.
Don't try to see me, Rebecca, or I'll have to kill you right now, and
that's the end of it."
She didn't know how she managed to walk, but she did. Then as
the strength came back to her feet and legs, she wanted to run, run
so fast she'd be a blur and he'd never catch her, never, never.
But she didn't, of course.
The bathroom was just off the bedroom. He'd removed the
doorknob. When she was through, she paused to look at herself in
the mirror. She looked pale and drawn and gaunt, her hair tangled
around her head and down to her shoulders. She looked vague and on the edge, 
like a woman who had been drugged, knew it, and
also realized, at last, that she might very well die.





"Come out now, Rebecca. I know you're through. Come out or
you'll regret it."
"I just got here. Give me some time."
There was nothing in the bathroom to use as a weapon, nothing
at all. He'd even removed the towel racks, cleared everything from
beneath the sink. Nothing.
"Just a moment," she called out. She raced back to the toilet and
fell onto her knees. It was old. If the big screw that held the toilet
down had ever had a cap on it, it was long gone. She tried to twist
it, and to her utter surprise, it actually moved, just a bit. It was
thick, the grooves deep and sharp. She was choking, sobbing deep
in her throat, praying.
She heard him, just outside the door. Was he touching the door?
Was he going to push it inward? Oh, Jesus. "Just a second," she
yelled. "I'm not feeling too well. That drug you shot into me, it's
making me nauseous. Give me just another minute. I don't want to
vomit all over myself." Turn, damn you, turn. Finally, finally, it came
free in her hand. It was thick, about an inch and a half long, deeply
grooved, and those grooves were sharp. What to do with it? Where
to hide it?
"I'm coming," she called out as she gently pulled some thread
loose in the hem of her nightgown. "I feel a bit better. I just don't
want to vomit, particularly if you're going to tie my hands again."
If he'd been standing by the bathroom door, he wasn't now. He
was back in the shadows when she came out. She couldn't make
out a thing about him. He said, his voice deep, ageless, "Lie back
down on the bed."
She did.
He didn't tie her hands over her head.
"Don't move."
She felt the sting in her left arm, right above her elbow again,





before she could even react. "Coward," she said, her voice already
becoming slurred.
"Filthy coward."
She heard him laugh. And again, he licked her, her ear this time,
his tongue slow, lapping, and she wanted to gag, but she didn't because
her mind was beginning to float now, and it was easy and
smooth and the fear disappeared as she just fell away from herself.
No time, she thought, as what she was and what she thought
were slipping away, like grains of sand scattering in a wind. No
time, no time to stab him with that screw. No time to ask him
again if he was this Krimakov who'd been cremated. No time for
anything.

Adam stood there in her open bedroom doorway. She was gone,
simply gone. "No," he said, shaking his head. "No. Oh God, no!
Savich!"
But she was gone, no sign of her, nothing at all.
It was Sherlock who said as she sipped a cup of black coffee, "He
used the tear gas as a diversion. While we were all outside looking
for him, he simply slipped into the house and hid in Becca's bedroom
closet. Then he probably drugged her. How did he get her
out? Our guys were back in position by the time we came back inside.
Oh, no, get everyone together! We weren't exactly organized
when we were looking for him outside. Dillon, who was assigned
to the back of the house?"
"Jesus,"Adam said. "No, damnation, no!"
They found Chuck Ainsley in the bushes twenty feet from the
back of the house. He wasn't dead. He'd been struck down from
behind, bound and gagged. When they peeled the tape off his mouth, he said, "I 
let him creep up on me. I didn't hear a thing. He





was fast, too fast. Oh God, what the hell happened? Is everyone all
right?"
Savich said matter-of-factly, "He took Becca. Thank God you're
not dead. I wonder why he didn't just slit your throat, Chuck? Why
waste time tying you up?"
Sherlock said, as she hunkered down next to Chuck and untied
both his wrists and ankles, "He doesn't want the police here yet.
He realized that if he killed one of us, that's what would happen. It
would force his hand. He would lose control. We're really glad
you're okay, Chuck."
Adam said, "He must have knocked you out before he shot tear
gas into the house. We came roaring out, everyone trying to find
him, and we didn't miss you. There was too much confusion.
Damnation."
Sherlock gave Chuck a drink of cold water and a couple of aspirin
once they got him into the kitchen. "If you won't have a headache,
you should," she told him, then hugged him. "Thank God you're all
right. Since you weren't at the back of the house watching for him,
he must have just slipped out with Becca over his shoulder."
"We didn't miss you," Adam said slowly. "I can't believe we
didn't have the brains to get everyone together and count heads before
we settled back into the house for the night. Hell, we didn't
even think to search the damned house."
Everyone was rattled as what happened sank in. There was nothing
to say, no excuses to make. He'd made fools of them all.
An hour later, Sherlock and Savich found Adam in the kitchen,
his head in his hands. Savich lightly laid his hand on his shoulder.
"It happened. We've all flagellated ourselves. No thanks to us,
Chuck is all right. Now we've got to fix it. Adam, we'll find her."
"I was supposed to keep her safe," Adam said, staring at his clasped





hands. "I've got to be the biggest fuckup in this damned world. He's
got her, Savich. He's got her and we have no idea where."
"Yes, he's got her," Savich said, "and he's probably going to take
her to Washington. That's it, isn't it? He wants her with him when
he confronts Thomas? She's his leverage. Thomas would do anything
to save her, including giving himself up to this maniac."
"We're talking like Krimakov is alive, like we don't have any
doubts about it at all," Sherlock said.
Adam said slowly, "Forget the reports, forget what the operatives
said. The body was cremated. That's all I need to know. It's Krimakov.
Now, he must not have found out where Thomas is. Thomas
owns a house in Chevy Chase, but it's a well-kept secret. The location
of his condo in Georgetown is also a secret, but anyone could
discover its location if they really wanted to. MAX could probably
ferret it out in ten minutes flat. But not the Chevy Chase house.
He's very careful. I kid you not, I don't even think the president
knows where his house is. So then Krimakov wouldn't know, either.
That's why he got Becca. She's his leverage. He'll take her to Washington,
to the condo."Adam stopped cold. "We've got to leave now."
Savich said, "I think you should call Thomas first, tell him what's
happened. We've put it off long enough, don't you think? He's got
to know."
Adam cursed under his breath at the sound of Tyler McBride's
angry voice. Tyler came into the kitchen, three agents right behind
him, one holding his arm, and yelled, "What the hell is going on
here? Every light in the place is on? Who are these guys? Let me
go, dammit. Where's Becca?"
Let him go, Tommy," Savich said, nodding to one of Thomas's
men who was guarding the front of the house. "He's a neighbor
and a friend of Becca's."





"What the hell is going on here, Adam?"
"He took her," Adam said." We think he's heading to Washington,
D.C., with her. We're going to have to clear out soon."
Tyler paled, then yelled, "You were supposed to protect her, you
bastard! You really screwed up big-time, didn't you? I wanted to
help but you just kissed me off, I was a civilian, of no use at all.
What about you? All these big Fed cops, none of you could protect
her. None of you were of any help at all!"
Savich said as he closed his fingers around Tyler's arm, "I understand
your anger. But all these accusations aren't going to help anyone,
particularly Becca. Believe me, we all know what's at stake
here."
"You're damned incompetent bastards," Tyler yelled even
louder, "all of you." He jerked away from Savich.
"Tyler," Adam said quietly, "don't go to Sheriff Gaffney. That
would be the worst thing you could do."
"Why? How much more could things be fucked up?"
"He might kill her," Adam said. "Don't tell anyone anything."
After Tyler McBride was escorted from the house by three
agents, Sherlock said, "Why not tell everyone now?"
Adam shoved his hand through his hair. "Dammit, because if
some cop happens to see them, then you know our guy would kill
her and take off. We can't take the chance. No, we've got to get to
Washington, fast."
"First you've got to call Thomas, Adam."
Adam didn't want to, he really didn't.
Savich and Sherlock listened to Adam flail himself on the
speakerphone.
There was silence on the other end. Finally, Thomas said, "Get
over it, Adam. We've been dealt new cards now, we'll play them.
I'm very relieved that Chuck is all right. His wife would roast me





alive if he'd been killed. Now, if this is Krimakov, then he at least
knows I'm in Washington, probably knows about the condo. I'll
stay here. I'll be ready for him. Get back here as quickly as you can,
Adam. Savich? Can you and Sherlock stick with us?"
"Yes, Thomas."
"Now, I've got to get myself ready for Krimakov. It's been so
many years. Many times I thought he'd finally given it up, but it appears
that he's just been biding his time."
"He could really be dead," Sherlock said.
"No," Thomas said. "Adam, you, Savich, and Sherlock hang
around there for a while. Try to get a line on this guy. He's got to be
somewhere. He's got to be traceable. Find him. Oh, and Adam?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Stop beating yourself up. Guilt just slows down your brain. I
want that brain of yours sharp. Get it together and find my daughter."
They finally rang off. Thomas Matlock looked at the phone for
a very long time before he slowly eased it back down. Then he
leaned his head back against the soft leather of his chair. He closed
his eyes to blot out the feeling of helplessness, for just a moment,
an instant, but instead, he felt a deep, soul-corroding fear that a man
should never have to feel in his damned life. It was fear for his
child, and the knowledge that he was helpless to save her.
It was Krimakov, he knew it, deep in his gut, he knew, and they
had cremated the body. No, Krimakov wasn't dead--maybe he'd
staged his death, murdered another man who resembled him. He'd
somehow found out about Becca and he had begun his reign of
terror. There was no doubt at all in Thomas's mind now. Krimakov,
a man who had sworn to cut Thomas's heart out even if he had to
chase Thomas to hell to do it, had his Becca.
He lowered his face in his hands.





Chapter 20

He was aware of ear-splitting noise--men's and women's voices
yelling loudly, car tires screeching, horns blasting, and movement, she
could feel the blur of movement everywhere, pounding feet, running
fast. She was moving as well, no, she was flying, then she hit hard and
the pain ripped through her. She lay on her side, smelling the hot tar
of the street, a light overlay of urine, hot and sour, whiffs of food, of
too many bodies, feeling the unforgiving cement beneath her. Cement?
People were yelling, coming closer now, and there were men and
women shouting,"Stay back! Let us through!"
She tried to open her eyes, but her muscles were too weak,
wouldn't obey her, and the pain was boiling up inside her. She was
so very tired, nearly blown under with it. Then she felt a hideously
sharp stab of pain somewhere in her body, fierce, unrelenting, and
she knew tears were leaking out of her eyes.
"Miss! Can you hear me?"
She felt his hand on her shoulder, felt the sun beating down on
her, hot on her bare skin--what bare skin? Her legs were bare, that
was it. But he was over her, a shadow blocking the sun.
"Miss? Can you hear me? Are you conscious?"
She opened her eyes then because he sounded so very afraid.
Yes," she whispered, "I can hear you. I can see you. Not clearly, but I can see 
you."
"My God, it's her! It's that Matlock woman!"


More shouting, yelling, some curses, and so much heat, the press
of bodies, the running thuds of shoes and boots.
A woman lightly tapped her cheek. "Open your eyes for me.
Yes, that's right. Do you know who you are?"
She looked up into Letitia Gordon's grim, incredulous face.
Maybe there was also a touch of worry in those unforgiving
eyes. Becca whispered to that hard face over her, "You're the cop
who hates me. How can you be here, right over me, speaking to
me? You're in New York, aren't you?"
"Yes, and so are you."
"No, that's not possible. I was in Riptide. You know, I never
could figure out why you hated me and believed I was a liar."
The woman's face contorted. Into anger? What?
"He drugged me," she whispered, her mouth so dry she nearly
swallowed her tongue. "He drugged me. I hurt so much but I just
can't tell where."
"All right. You'll be all right. Hey, Dobbson, is the ambulance
here yet? Get off your butt, usher them through. Now!"
Letitia Gordon's face was really close to hers now, her breath
minty on her cheek. "We'll find out what's happening here, Ms.
Matlock. You just rest now."
She felt hands pulling cloth down over her legs. Why were her
legs bare? She realized then that there was pain in her legs. But it
wasn't as bad as the other pain. Where was she? In New York? But
that made no sense. Nothing made sense. Her brain nestled back
into the shadows. The pain faded away. Becca sighed deeply and
closed down.

She heard them speaking, soft, quiet voices not four feet away
from her, talking, talking. Then they were closer, much closer, talk




ing above her, which meant what? She opened her eyes. Blinked.
She was flat on her back. The people speaking were on the left, and
one of the people was Adam.
She wet her lips with her tongue. "Adam?"
He whirled around so fast he nearly lost his balance. Then he
was at her side and he lifted her hand and held it hard between his
two large ones. She felt the calluses on his palms.
"What's going on? Where are we? I dreamed I saw Detective
Gordon, you know, that cop who hates me?"
"Yes, I know. She left just a little while ago. She'll be back, but
later, when you've got it together again. You're going to be all right,
Becca. There's nothing to worry about. Just take it easy and breathe
nice shallow, light breaths. That's right. Does your head hurt?"
She thought about that. "No, not really, it's just that I'm all fuzzy.
Even you're kind of fuzzy, Adam. I'm so glad to see you. I thought
I was going to die, that I'd never see you again. I couldn't bear it.
Where are we?"
He lightly touched his fingertip to her cheek. "You're at New
York University Hospital. The guy who took you from your bed in
Jacob Marley's house, the guy who was holding you, he shoved you
out of his car right in front of One Police Plaza."
"It was Krimakov?"
"We believe so. At least it's a strong possibility."
She said, "I asked him if he was Krimakov but he wouldn't answer
me. We're in New York City?"
"Yes. You did see Detective Gordon. She was one of the cops
who came running. It was early in the afternoon, bunches of
people around, lots of cops heading out for lunch. Detective Gordon
was there because she had some meetings with the Narcotics
Division."
"My lucky day," Becca said.





"Damn, I'm sorry, Becca, so sorry. I really fucked up and just
look what happened."
She heard the awful guilt in his voice, the fear, and finally, overlaying
all of it, the relief that she was alive. He couldn't be as relieved
as she was. "It's okay, Adam, really."
"Hi, Becca."
She smiled up at Sherlock and Savich, one on either side of her
hospital bed. "We're sure glad to see you."
"Me, too. I thought you were in Riptide."
"We can move quickly when we have to," Sherlock said, lightly
patting Becca's shoulder. "Dillon got a call from Tellie Hawley, the
SAC at the New York City office. Tellie told him what happened.
We got here three hours later."
"What happened to him? Did they get him?"
Sherlock said,"Unfortunately, no. There was mass confusion. He
shoved you out of the car, then jumped out while the car was still
rolling and disappeared into the crowd. The car hit three other
people before it smashed into a fire hydrant and drenched another
fifty people. It was a zoo. We've gotten some descriptions, but no
one agrees with anyone else so far."
He was still out there, free. She felt flattened. "So he got away
again," she said, and wanted to shriek with the helplessness that
flooded her.
Adam was clearing his throat. "We'll get him, Becca. You've got
to believe that. Now, there's someone here for you to meet."
Her head came up, fast. "Please, no doctors, Adam. I hate doctors.
Oh, God, so did my mother." And she started crying. She
didn't know where all the tears came from, but they were there,
swamping her, and she was sobbing, tears streaming down her face,
and she wanted her mother desperately. "My mom died in a hospital,
Adam. She hated it, then she just didn't care because she was





in a coma. No one could do anything. She died in a hospital just
like this one." The tears kept coming, she couldn't stop them.
Then suddenly someone was holding her, drawing her close, and
a man's dark, smooth voice said next to her ear, "It's all right, my
darling girl. It's all right."
And she stilled. Strong arms were around her. She felt his heart
pounding rhythmically, powerful and steady against her cheek.
"I'm sorry, I don't mean to carry on like this. I miss my mother. I
loved her so much and she died. There isn't anyone else for me."
"I miss your mother, too, Becca. It's going to be all right. I swear
it to you."
She pulled back just a bit and looked up at an older man who
looked oddly familiar to her, but that was impossible, wasn't it?
She was sure she'd never seen him before in her life. The drugs
were still affecting her, holding her brain back, scrambling things,
making her cry. "I'm nobody's darling girl," she whispered, and
raised her hand to lightly touch her fingers to the man's cheek. He
was so handsome, his face lean, his nose thin, straight, his eyes a soft
light blue, dreamy eyes. Now that was strange. Her mother had
told her that she had dreamy eyes, summer dreamy eyes. "I don't
understand," she said, frowning up at the man's face. "Who are
you?"
The man looked as if he would cry with her, but he swallowed,
several times, and cleared his throat. "I'm your father, Becca. I'm
Thomas Matlock. I can't bring your mother back, but I'm here
now, and I'll stay."
"You're Thomas? You're the man Adam and Savich are working
for?"
"Well, let's say they're helping me out."
She didn't say anything then, just frowned a bit, trying to assemble
things in her mind, in her memory, to make some sense of





them, realizing suddenly that she recognized his eyes because he'd
given them to her, realizing-- "When he slipped the needle into
my arm that second time," she whispered, looking directly into his
eyes, "just before I went under, he said right against my ear, 'Tell
your daddy hello for me.' "
His face paled and he grew vague, indistinct, his arms loosening.
She grabbed his shirt with her fist, trying to pull him closer. "No,
don't leave me, please."
"Oh, God, I won't." Thomas looked up at Adam. "I guess that
says it all."
"Yes," Adam said. "At least now we know for bloody sure."
"Amen to that," Sherlock said. Then she added, "Why don't we
all go out to get a cup of coffee while Thomas gets to know Becca
a bit better?"
When she was alone with the man who'd said he was her father,
she looked up at him and said, "Why did you leave us? I don't even
remember what you looked like I was so young when you left.
There is this old photograph of you and Mom, and you looked so
young and so handsome. Carefree. It's a wonderful picture."
He held her very close for a long time, then slowly he said,
"You were all of three years old when it happened. I was a CIA operative,
Becca, and I was very good. There was this other KGB
spy--"
"Krimakov."
"Yes. I was sent over to what is now Belarus, to stop him from
killing a visiting German industrialist. Krimakov had brought his
wife, as if they were there on some sort of vacation. It was in the
mountains. There was a gunfight and she tried to save him. I hadn't
seen her, hadn't even known she was there." He paused a moment,
memory stark and alive in his eyes. He said simply, "I shot her in





the head and killed her. Krimakov promised me he would kill not
only me but my family. He vowed it. I believed him.
"He managed to escape me. I decided that I would have to kill
him to protect you. When I tried, I found out that he'd simply disappeared.
There was no trace of him. The KGB helped him, obviously,
and he stayed buried until very recently, when I was told he
was killed in an auto accident in Crete. You know the rest."
"You left us to protect us?"
"Yes. Your mother and I discussed it. Matlock is a common
name. She took you and moved to New York. I saw her four,
maybe five times a year. We were always very, very careful. We
couldn't tell you. We couldn't put you in danger. It was the hardest
thing I've ever had to do in my life, Becca. Believe me."
All of a sudden she had a father. She stared at his face, seeing
herself in him, seeing also a stranger. It was too much. She heard
him say something, heard Adam arguing with someone just inside
the door, sharp and loud, then she didn't hear anything at all. That
was a good thing, she thought as she slipped away, back where there
were no dreams, just seamless darkness, without him, no worries or
voices to tear her apart. Her father was dead, dead since she was
very young. It was impossible that he was here, there was just no
way. Maybe she was dead, too, and had seen what she wanted to
see. Dead. It wasn't bad, truly it wasn't. She heard a sound, like a
wounded animal. It had come from her, she realized, but then there
was nothing at all.
When she awoke, it was dark in her room except for a small
bedside lamp that was turned to its lowest setting. The small hospital
room was filled with shadows and quiet voices. There were needles
in both of her arms connected to bags of liquid beside both
sides of her bed. There were two men sitting in chairs next to the





window, in low conversation. One was Adam. The other was her
father--oh yes, she believed him now, perhaps even understood a
bit--and he'd called her his darling girl. She blinked several times.
He didn't fade back into her mind. He remained exactly where he
was. She saw him very clearly now, and she could do nothing but
stare, breathe him in, settle his face, his features, his expressions, into
her mind. He used his hands while he spoke to Adam, just like she
did when she was trying to make a point, to convince someone to
come around to her way of thinking. He was her father.
She cleared her throat and said, "I know I'm not dead because I
would kill for some water. And I don't believe that if someone is
dead, she's particularly thirsty. May I please have some water?"
Adam was on his feet in an instant. When he bent the straw into
her mouth, she closed her eyes in bliss. She drank nearly the entire
glass. She was panting when she finished. "Oh goodness, that was
delicious."
He didn't straighten, just placed one large hand on either side of
her face on that hard hospital pillow. He was studying her face, her
eyes. "You okay?"
"Yes. I realize I'm not dead, so you must be real. I remember
you told me that he threw me out of the car. Is there anything bad
wrong with me?"
"No, nothing bad. When he shoved you out of the car yesterday
right there at Police Plaza, you were still wearing your nightgown.
You got a lot of scrapes, a bruised elbow, but that's it. Now it's just
a matter of getting the drug out of your system. They pumped your
stomach. Nobody seems to know what the drug was, but it was
potent. You should be just about clear of it now." He had to close
his eyes a moment. He'd never been so afraid in his life, never. But
she would live. She would be fine. He said, "Do the scrapes hurt?
Would you like a couple of aspirin?"





"No, I'm all right." She licked her lips, looked over into the
shadows, clutched his hand, and whispered, "Adam, he really is my
father, isn't he? That story he told me, it's the truth? It happened that way?"
"Yes, all of it is true. His name is Thomas Matlock. He never
died, Becca. There is probably a whole lot more to tell you--"
"Yes," Thomas said, "a lot more. So many stories to tell you
about your mother, Becca."
"My mom said I had dreamy eyes. You do, too. I have your eyes."
Thomas smiled and his eyes twinkled. "Yes, I guess maybe you
do have my eyes."
Adam said, stroking his chin,"I'm not sure about that. The thing
is, Becca, I've never before looked at his eyes in quite the same way
I look at yours."
Suddenly, all her attention was on Adam. She said, "Why not?"
"Because--"Adam stopped dead in his tracks. She was actually
coming on to him, teasing him. He loved it. He cleared his throat.
"Now's not the time. We'll talk about that later, you can count
on it. Now, are you up to telling us about this guy who took you?"
"You mean Krimakov."
Yes.
"Just a moment, Adam. Sir, you sent Adam to protect me, didn't
you?"
"Yes, he did, but I screwed up, big-time."
Becca said, "Sorry, Adam, but you can't take all the credit. What
that monster did was very clever. None of us would have ever
guessed that he came back to the house while we were out looking
for him. How'd he get me out of the house without being seen?"
"Sherlock figured that one out really fast. Also he knocked out
Chuck and tied him up. That's how he escaped with you." He saw
the worry in her eyes and quickly added, "He's okay---just a





headache for a while. I'm sorry, Becca, so sorry. Did he hurt you?"
God, it hurt to say it, but he did: "Did he rape you?"
"No. He licked my face. I told him not to do it again because it
was creepy. That made him really mad, but you see, that drug he
shot into me, it also calmed me, made me all loose, so when I woke
up that first time I wasn't afraid of him. I don't think I was afraid of
anything. It was a side effect of the drug, he said, and he didn't like
it. He wanted me to be real afraid, he wanted me to beg and plead,
just like Linda Cartwright did." She shuddered as she said the
name. "He said she didn't matter. She was just his present to me."
"Did he tell you his name?"
She shook her head. She said to her father,"! can't even describe
him. He never let me see him. When he had me tied down to a bed, he always stood 
in the shadows, just beyond what I could
make out. I don't think he was old, but I can't be one hundred percent
certain. Was he young? I just don't know. But when he cursed,
he used a mixture, some American, some British, and some in a
language I didn't recognize. Isn't that strange?"
"Yes, but we'll figure it out."
Thomas was standing beside her bed, opposite Adam. He was
wearing a dark suit, the dark-red tie loosened. He looked tired and
worried and, oddly enough, happy. Because of her? Evidently so,
and that pleased her very much. He picked up her left hand and
held it. His hand was strong, lightly tanned. He was wearing a
wedding ring. She stared at that ring, just stared and stared, touched
her fingers to it, then said finally, "My mother gave you that ring?"
"Yes, when we got married. I wore it all our married lives. I plan
to wear it until it finally dissolves off my finger sometime in the
distant future. I loved your mother very much, Becca. Like I said, I
had to leave both of you so you wouldn't be killed. I know it's all





still very confusing. There are lots of facts and details, but the bottom
line is exactly what I already told you. I accidentally killed a
man's wife and he swore he would kill my family, and then he
would kill me, but only after I saw, firsthand, how he had killed
everyone I loved. I had no choice. I had to leave my family in order
to protect them."
Adam said, "We believe this man who is stalking you, who murdered
that old bag lady, who shot the governor, we believe it's Krimakov
and somehow he found you and began terrorizing you." He
paused for a moment, nodding to Thomas.
Thomas was looking down at this lovely young woman who
was his only child. It took him a moment before he said, "Vasili
Krimakov was one of the KGB's top agents back in the seventies,
as I was for the CIA. Again, there's a whole lot more, but it can wait
for a while. Right now, what's important is that we find him, that
we neutralize him once and for all."
"You're sure it's Krimakov."
He smiled then. "Oh yes, I'm very sure, particularly after what
he told you."
" 'Say hello to your daddy.' "
"Yes. No one else would know that."
"My mom wore a ring just like yours. When she died--" She
couldn't speak, the tears clogged her throat, burned her eyes. He
said nothing at all, just held her hand, squeezed it a bit more tightly.
She swallowed, looked away from him toward the window. It was
black out there, no sign of stars from her vantage point. "--I
wanted desperately to have something to connect me to her and I
almost took that ring, but then I remembered how much she loved
you, and I just couldn't take it from her.
"Sometimes when she spoke to me of you, she would start




crying and I hated you for leaving us, for leaving her, for dying. I
remember when I was a teenager I told her she should get married
again, that I would be going off to college, and she needed to put
you in the past. She needed to find someone else. She was so
young and beautiful, I didn't want her to be alone. I remember
she'd only smile at me and say she was just fine." Then, suddenly,
Becca said, "Oh God, he came after me so he could get to you."
"Yes," Adam said. "That's exactly right. But he didn't know
where Thomas was, so he came up with a way to flush Thomas out.
He dumped you right in front of One Police Plaza."
"What I don't understand," Thomas said, "is why he didn't simply
announce all over the media that he had her, threaten to kill her
if I didn't show myself in Times Square. He must have known that
I would be there. But he didn't."
Adam said, "Who knows? Maybe a cop saw him, saw an unconscious
woman in the backseat, and he was forced to dump Becca in
order to escape. However, it's far more likely that he planned this
down to the exact spot he'd leave her. I think it's gamesmanship.
He wants to prove he's better than you, smarter than all of us, and
he wants you to suffer big-time in the process."
"He's succeeded admirably," Thomas said. "He has flushed me
out. I guess maybe that's why he didn't let you see him, Becca. He
wants to keep playing this insane game. He wants to terrorize you
and now he can continue the terror, with me squarely in the game
with you."
"And only he knows the rules," Becca said.
"Yes," Adam said. "I wonder if he's been living on Crete all this
time."
"Probably so,"Thomas said.
"Wait," Becca said, chewing on her bottom lip. "Now I recognize
those curses--they were Greek."





"That settles that," Thomas said. "We've got all the proof we
need that the ashes in that urn in the Greek morgue aren't Krimakov's"
He leaned down and kissed Becca's forehead. "I won't leave you
again. Now we'll find Krimakov, and then you and I have a lot of
catching up to do."
"I'd like that," she said. Then she smiled over at Adam, but she
didn't say anything.





Chapter 21

Detective Letitia Gordon and Detective Hector Morales of the
NYPD looked over at the woman who lay in that skinny hospital
bed, looking pale and wrung-out, IV lines running obscenely into
her arms, her eyes shiny with tears.
Detective Gordon cleared her throat and said to the room at
large, "Excuse me," and flashed her badge, as did Hector Morales,
"but we need to speak to Ms. Matlock. The doctor said it was all
right. Everyone out."
Thomas straightened and looked at them, assessing them,
quickly, easily, and smiled even as he walked forward, blocking their
view of his daughter. "I'm her father, Thomas Matlock, detectives.
Now, what can I do for you?"
"We need to speak to her now, Mr. Matlock," Letitia Gordon
said,"before the Feds get here and try to big-foot us."
"I am the Feds, Detective Gordon,"Thomas said.
"Damn. Er, a pleasure to meet you, sir." Detective Gordon
cleared her throat. "It's important, sir. There was a murder committed
here in New York, on our turf. It's our case, not yours, and
your daughter is involved." Why had she said all that? Because he
was a big federal cheese, and that's why she'd tried to excuse herself,
tried to justify herself. What was he going to do?
Detective Morales smiled and shook Thomas's outstretched
hand. "Hector Morales, Mr. Matlock. And this is Detective Gordon.
We didn't realize she had any relatives other than her mother."





"Yes, she does, detectives," Thomas said. "There's still some drug
in her system, so she's not really completely back yet, but if you
would like to speak to her for a couple of minutes, that probably
wouldn't hurt. But you need to keep it low-key. I don't want her
upset."
"Look, sir," Detective Gordon said, pumping herself up, knowing
that she should be the one giving the orders here, not this
man, this stranger who was with the government. "Ms. Matlock
ran away. Everyone was looking for her. She is wanted as a material
witness in the shooting of Governor Bledsoe of New York."
Thomas Matlock merely arched a very patrician brow at her and
looked intimidatingly forbearing. "Fancy that," he said mildly. "I
can't imagine why she would ever want to leave New York what with all the 
protection you offered her."
"Now see here, sir," Detective Gordon said, and tried to shake
off Hector Morales's hand on her arm, but he didn't let go, and she
looked yet again into that man's face, and she shut up. There were
words bubbling inside her, but she wasn't about to say them. He
was a Big Feeb, and she saw the power in his eyes, something that
flashed red warning lights to her brain, an ineffable something that
shouted power, more power than she could imagine, and so she
kept her mouth shut.
"There is a lot we do not understand, Mr. Matlock," Detective
Morales said, his voice stiff, with a slight accent. "May we please
speak to your daughter? Ask her a few questions? She does look
very ill. We won't take long."
The thing of it was, Letitia Gordon thought as she walked to the
bed where the young woman lay staring at her with dread, her
dyed hair tangled and dirty about her face, she wanted to stand very
straight in front of that man, perhaps salute and then do exactly





what he told her to do. And here was Hector, acting so deferential,
like this guy was the president or, more important, the police commissioner.
Whatever he was, this man wore power like a second
skin.
"Ms. Matlock, in case you don't remember, I'm Detective Gordon
and this is Detective Morales."
"I remember both of you very clearly," Becca said, and concentrated
on clearing the sheen of tears out of her eyes. These people
couldn't hurt her now, Adam and her father wouldn't let them.
And she wouldn't, either. She'd been through enough now that a
couple of hard-assed cops couldn't intimidate her.
"Good," Detective Gordon said, then she caught herself looking
over at Mr. Matlock, as if for approval of her approach. She cleared
her throat. "Your father said we could ask you a couple of questions."
"All right."
"Why did you run, Ms. Matlock?"
"After my mother died and I'd buried her, there was no reason
for me to stay. He found me at the hotel where I was hiding, and I
knew he would get me. None of you believed me, and so I didn't
think I had a choice. I ran."
"Look, Ms. Matlock," Detective Gordon said, coming closer,
"we still aren't certain there was a man after you, calling you,
threatening you."
Adam said mildly, knowing until he and Thomas had discussed
it, Krimakov's probable identity would remain under wraps to the
NYPD, "Then who do you think kicked her out of a moving car
at One Police Plaza? A damned ghost?"
"Maybe it was her accomplice," Detective Gordon said, whirling
on Adam, "you know, the guy who shot Governor Bledsoe."





Becca didn't say anything. Thomas saw she was pulling away,
even though she hadn't moved a finger, trying to draw into herself.
She looked unutterably tired.
"Also," Detective Gordon added, not looking at Mr. Matlock,
"our psychiatrist reported that he believed you have big problems,
Ms. Matlock, lots of unresolved issues."
Adam raised an eyebrow. "Unresolved issues? I love shrink talk,
Detective. Do tell us what that means."
"He believes that she was obsessed with Governor Bledsoe, that
she had to have his attention, and that was why she made up these
stories about this guy calling her and stalking her, threatening to
kill the governor if she didn't stop sleeping with him."
Adam laughed. He actually laughed. "Jesus," he said. "That's
amazing."
"I'm sure that old woman who was blown up in front of the
Metropolitan Museum didn't think it was funny," Detective Gordon
said, her jaw out, not ready to give an inch.
"Let me get this straight," Adam said mildly. "You now think she
blew up that old woman to get the governor's attention?"
"I told you the truth," Becca said, cutting in before Letitia Gordon
could blast Adam. "I told you that he phoned me and told me
to look out my window, which happens to face the park and the
museum. He killed that poor old woman, and you didn't do anything
about it."
"Of course we did," Detective Morales said, his voice soothing
and low. "It's just that there were a lot of conflicting stories coming
in."
"Yes," Becca said. "Like the ones Dick McCallum told the cops
in Albany that made all of you disbelieve me. This guy probably
paid off Dick McCallum to lie about me, and then he murdered
him, too. I don't understand why it isn't clear to you now'





Detective Gordon said, "Because you ran, Ms. Matlock. You
wouldn't come in and speak to us, you just called Detective
Morales from wherever you were hiding. You're at the center of all
this. You, only you. Tell us what's going on, Ms. Matlock."
"I believe that's enough for the time being," Thomas said, and
calmly moved to stand between the two New York detectives and
his daughter. "I am very disappointed in both of you. Neither of
you is listening. You are not using your brains. Now, let's get this
perfectly clear: Since you're having difficulties logically integrating
all the facts, I want you to focus on catching the man who kidnapped
my daughter and shoved her out of his car right in front of
cop headquarters. I trust you people have been trying to find witnesses?
Questioning them? Trying to get some sort of composite
on this guy?"
"Yes, sir, of course," Detective Morales said. As for Detective
Gordon, she wanted to tell him to go hire his damned daughter a
fancy lawyer, that Dick McCallum had been murdered, that she
could have had something to do with that, too, maybe revenge,
since McCallum had blown the whistle on her. She opened her
mouth, all worked up, but Thomas Matlock said quietly, "Actually,
detectives, I am a director with the CIA. I am now terminating this
conversation. You may leave."
Both detectives were out of there in under five seconds, Detective
Gordon leading the way, Morales on her heels, looking both
apologetic and scared.
Becca just shook her head, back and forth, back and forth.
"They didn't even want to know anything about him. Don't they
have to believe me now that Dick McCallum was murdered, too?"
"One would think," Adam said, his eyes narrowed, still looking
at the now-empty doorway. "New York's finest aren't shining in
this particular instance. Now, not to worry, Becca."





"I think Detective Gordon needs to be pulled off this case,"
Thomas said. "For whatever reason, she made up her mind about
you early on and is now refusing to be objective. I'll make a
call."
"I want to leave this place, Adam. I want to go far away, forever."
"I'm sorry, Becca, but there's not going to be any forever
yet," Thomas said. "Krimakov got what he wanted. I'm out in the
open now. The problem is that you still are, too. Now I'm going to
make that call." Thomas walked out of the hospital room, his head
down, deep in thought, as he pulled out his cell phone.
The Feds arrived forty-five minutes later.
The first man into the room came to a fast stop and stared. He
cleared his throat. He straightened his dark blue tie. He looked as
if he wished his wing tips were shinier. "Mr. Matlock, sir, we didn't
know you were involved, we had no idea, didn't know she was related
to you--"
"No, of course you didn't, Mr. Hawley. Do come in, gentlemen,
and meet my daughter."
He leaned over her and lightly touched his fingertips to her
cheek. "Becca, here are two guys who want to talk to you, not batter
you like the NYPD detectives, just talk a bit. You tell them
when you're tired and don't want to talk anymore, okay?"
"Yes," she said, her voice so thin Adam swore she was fading
away right before his eyes. If he hadn't been worried sick, Adam
would have enjoyed watching Thomas turn his power onto the FBI
guys, but he didn't. Now Adam wondered how Thomas knew Tel-lie
Hawley, a longtime FBI guy who had a reputation for eating
crooks for breakfast. He never cut anyone any slack. He was sometimes
very scary, sometimes a rogue, admired by his contemporaries
and occasionally distressing to his superiors.





"Hey, Adam," Hawley said. "I guess I'll find out soon enough
why you're here. Where's Savich?"
"He and Sherlock will be in a bit later." Adam nodded then to
Scratch Cobb, a tough-looking little man who wore elevator shoes
that brought him up to Adam's chin. He got his nickname years
before, when it was said that he scratched and scratched until he
found the answers in a high-profile case. "Scratch, good to see you
again. How's tricks?"
"Tricks is good, Adam. How's it going, my boy?"
"I'm surviving." Adam took Becca's hand and lightly squeezed
it. He leaned close and whispered in her ear, "The guy standing to
the left has hemorrhoids. The big one with the mean eyes, Hawley,
will want to cross the line, but he doesn't dare try it, not with your
dad here. Actually, he has five dogs and they rule his house. Now,
go get 'em, tiger."
If she were a tiger, she thought, she was a very pathetic one, not
worthy of the name, but still-- She smiled, she actually smiled.
"Hello, gentlemen," she said, and her voice wasn't as paper-thin
now. "You wanted to speak to me?"
"Yes," Hawley said, stepping forward. Adam didn't move, just
smiled a feral smile at him that could make a person's teeth fall out.
"Adam, I'm not going to bite her. I'm a good guy. I work for
the United States government. You don't have to stand guard."
"I'm supposed to be protecting the lady, Tellie. The thing is, I
screwed up, and the bad guy got her, drugged her, and dumped her
right in front of One Police Plaza."
Hawley nodded, then said, "Okay, so you're not going to
budge." Hawley continued smoothly, coming one step closer,
watching Adam from the corner of his eye. "This guy who kidnapped
you and drugged you and put you out of his car, who is he?"





"First thing," Adam said, "is for Savich to find that apartment
Krimakov rented. Then -we send our own people over to Crete and
take the place apart."
"Agreed," Thomas said. "Let's do it. Now, Becca,Tommy the Pipe,
Chuck, and Dave will all be here to protect you until we get back."
"No," Becca said, coming up on her elbows. "I'm coming with
you."
"You can barely walk," Adam said. "Lie back and calm down.
No way our people will let him get near you again."
"No more orders, Adam. Now, sir, there's no way you're going
to face this alone." Becca calmly pulled the IV lines from her arms.
She pushed back the hospital sheets and swung her legs over the
side of the bed. "Give me another drink of water, ask Sherlock to
buy me some clothes, and we're out of here. An hour. That's all I
need."
"I think," Thomas said slowly, stroking his long fingers over his
chin, "that there is perhaps a bit too much of me in you."
Becca grinned at him. "That's what Mom told me, many times."
"Then I'd best clear your leaving town with our local cops,"
Thomas said, and wanted to pat her cheek, but didn't because she
wasn't a little girl anymore and she barely knew him. The thought
of that made him clear his throat.

Washington, D.C.

The Eagle Has Landed

There weren't any leaks. None of them could believe it. Their
short flight to Washington, then the drive to Georgetown to a small
restaurant called The Eagle Has Landed didn't raise any curious





eyebrows. There wasn't a single TV van in front of the restaurant,
not a single reporter from The Washington Post.
"I don't believe it," Thomas said as he ushered Becca into the
foyer of the small British pub. "No flashbulbs."
"Glory be," said Adam.
Andrew Bushman, appointed director of the FBI six months
previously after the unexpected retirement of the former director,
stood tall even with his rounded shoulders, his gray hair tonsured
like a medieval monk's, and beautifully suited, when Thomas
walked to the small circular table at the back of the restaurant.
Bushman raised an eyebrow. "Mr. Matlock, I presume? You have
pulled me away from some very important matters. I came because
Gaylan Woodhouse asked me to, told me it had to do with the attempted
assassination of the governor of New York. My people are
directly involved in this. I will be interested to hear how the CIA
could possibly be involved, what they could possibly know that's
pertinent."
Gaylan Woodhouse eased around the back of a shoji screen. He
was a slight man of sixty-three who had come up through the
ranks of the CIA and had been known in the old days as the best
spy in the world because no one--absolutely no one--ever noticed
him, and still he was. paranoid, staying in the shadows until
there was no choice but to come out. He had been the director of
the CIA for four years now. Thank God, Thomas thought, Gaylan
had a long memory and a flexible mind.
"Thank you," Thomas said and shook first the FBI hand and
then the CIA hand. "Now, this is my daughter, Becca, who is very
closely tied to this matter, and my associate, Adam Carruthers.
Gaylan, thank you for putting in a good word for me with Mr.
Bushman."

Gaylan Woodhouse merely shrugged. "I know you, Thomas. If





you say something is critical, then it's critical. I hope by that you
think it's time to bring the FBI up to speed on this thing."
"Yes, it's time," Thomas said.
The two directors eyed each other and managed affable smiles and
civil greetings. Andrew Bushman cleared his throat. "Mr. Hawley
and Mr. Cobb won't be joining us today, but I suspect you knew
they wouldn't. I will have any information needed by them sent to
New York when and if it's appropriate. Now, I need a martini.
Then we can nail this thing down."
Becca would have killed for a glass of wine, but she was taking
medications that didn't allow it. She would even have accepted
Adam's beer. She suffered through approximately four and a half
minutes of small talk. Then Gaylan Woodhouse said, "What have
you got that's definitive on Krimakov,Thomas?"
Mr. Bushman's eyebrow shot up. "Does this have to do with the
attempted assassination of the governor?"
"Indeed it does," Gaylan said. "Thomas?"
Thomas launched into the story of a CIA agent, namely himself,
who was playing cat and mouse with a Russian agent in the mid-1970s
and accidentally killed that agent's wife. And that Russian
agent had promised that he would get revenge, that he would kill
both Thomas and his family. As Thomas spoke, Becca thought
about what her life, her mother's life would have been like if her father
hadn't been in that godforsaken place, trying to get the best of
a Russian agent named Vasili Krimakov. "Of course, Gaylan knows
all of this already. The reason the FBI needs to be involved is because
we are trying to prove whether or not Krimakov is still alive
and thus was the one who tried to assassinate the governor of New
York. Actually, now we're very certain that it's him."
FBI Director Bushman was lounged back in his seat, holding the
nearly empty martini glass in his hand. "But this guy is after you. Why





would he shoot the governor of New York? I'm not getting something
here. Oh my God, Matlock--you're the Rebecca Matlock, the
young woman who escaped the police and went into hiding?"
"Yes, sir, I am."
Andrew Bushman sat forward, his drink forgotten. "All right,
Thomas, tell me everything, even stuff that Gaylan doesn't know. I
need to have a leg up on him somewhere."
"Krimakov wanted to flush me out. Somehow he found out
that I have a daughter--Becca. We don't know how he found out
about her, but it appears that he did and he came after her. That's
why he's been terrorizing her, that's why he kicked her out of his
car in front of One Police Plaza in New York."
"To get you out in the open."
"Yes, that's it exactly. It's not so complicated when you cut right
to the chase. He wants to kill me and he wants to kill my daughter.
All the rest is window dressing, it's drama, giving him the spotlight,
showing the world how brilliant he is, how he's the one in
control here." And Thomas thought, He can't kill Allison because she's
dead already, and I wasn't there with her.
It was Adam who ended things, saying, "So that's it, gentlemen.
We found out that Krimakov was cremated, thus leaving doubt that
it was indeed he who was killed. However, the man who kidnapped
Ms. Matlock whispered in her ear before he shot a drug
into her--"
Becca interrupted. " 'Say hello to your daddy.' "
So now there's simply no doubt," Thomas said. "The man cremated
wasn't Krimakov."
Gaylan said,"We've been spending hundreds of hours on this because
there was the possibility that it could be Vasili Krimakov. Now
that we know it's him, you need to stick your oar in, Andrew. Get a those 
talented people of yours involved in finding this maniac."





"I've got a man trying to track down an apartment we understand
Krimakov owns somewhere in Crete, in addition to his
house. When we find it, we want agents to go over it."
Gaylan nodded. "As soon as we know, I've got a woman in
Athens who can fly down and check it out for us. She's good. She's
also got contacts among the local Greek cops. She won't get any
problems from them."
"It's Dillon Savich who's finding the apartment," Thomas said.
Andrew Bushman raised an eyebrow. "Why am I not surprised?
Savich is one of the best. I gather you're telling me now so that I
can cool down before I bust his balls?"
"That's right," Thomas said. "I knew Savich's father, Buck. I
asked the son for help. He and Sherlock have been in the thick of
things."
Andrew Bushman sighed and took the last sip of his martini.
"All right. Now, I've got lots of stuff to do, meetings to hold,
people to assign to get this off and running. What about the
NYPD?"
Thomas said, "Hell, why not tell the world? Have Hawley in
New York interface with the local cops."
Bushman said, "Hawley is good, very good. He's tough and he
deals well with the locals. Talk about bigfoot. He's a Mack truck
when he needs to be. All right, gentlemen, we now tell the world."
"Well, then--" Gaylan Woodhouse broke off as his stomach
growled. "We forgot to order lunch. I want a hamburger, lots of
red meat, something my wife, bless her heart, doesn't allow."
Andrew said even as he was reading the menu, "I want everything
to clear through the FBI before it goes to the media. We want
our spin on things."
"For sure," Becca said.





Chapter 22

The black government car moved smoothly onto the Beltway. It
was still too early for rush-hour traffic to gnarl things to the
screaming point. It didn't help, though, that the temperature "was
hovering at about ninety degrees. Inside the big car it was thankfully
very cool. Their driver had said nothing at all since picking
them up at The Eagle Has Landed. There was still no sign of the
media. So far so good, Thomas had said. There would be a media
release soon now.
Adam was humming as he flipped off his cell phone. "Thomas,
the photo you asked Gaylan Woodhouse to dig out for you is coming
over right away. He's sorry that he couldn't immediately put his
finger on it."
Thomas turned from studying his daughter's profile to look at
Adam. "I'm glad they finally located it. I was afraid I would have to
use an artist and re-create him."
Adam said to Becca,"It's a photo of Krimakov from over twenty
years ago. We'll age it and both can go to the media to plaster
everywhere."
"Sir,"Becca said, "are you really a CIA director?"
"That's not my title. I just used it because it would be familiar to
the New York detectives. Actually, I run an adjunct agency that's
connected to the CIA. We do many of the same things we did during
the Cold War. I'm based here now, though, and don't travel
much abroad anymore to the hot spots."







"This photo of Krimakov," Becca said after nodding to her father,"!
want to see it, study it. Maybe I'll see something that could
help. Did he speak English, sir?"
If Thomas noticed that she hadn't called him Father or Dad,
he didn't let on. He had, after all, been a dead memory that had
suddenly come alive and was now in her face. He'd also brought
terror into her life. He also hadn't been around when her mother
was dying, when her mother died. She'd been alone to handle all
of it. The pain was sharp and so bitter he thought he'd choke on it.
Soon he would tell her how he and her mother had e-mailed each
other every day for years. Instead, he managed to say, "Yes, he did.
He was quite fluent, educated in England. He even attended Oxford.
Quite the ban vivant in his younger days." He paused a moment,
then added, "How he despised us, the self-indulgent children
of the West. That's what he called us. I always enjoyed locking
horns with him, outwitting him, at least until that last time when
he brought his wife with him to Belarus. The fool was using her
as cover--picnics, hikes, pretending it was a vacation, when all the
time he planned to kill the West German industrialist Reinhold
Kemper."
"Krimakov," she said, as if saying his name aloud would help her
remember more clearly, picture him standing in the shadows, "he
had a very light sort of English accent, more so on some words than
on others. He was fluent in English. I don't think he sounded particularly
old, but I just can't be certain. Krimakov is your age?"
"A bit older, perhaps five years."
"I wish I could say for certain that he was that old but I just
can't. I'm sorry."
Thomas sighed. "I've always thought it unfair that nothing's easy
in this life. He's had years to plan this, years to think through every
move, every countermove. He knows me, probably now he knows





me better than I knew him back then. When he finally found
you--my child--then he was in business."
"I wonder where he is," Becca said. "Do you truly believe he's
still in New York?"
"Oh yes," Adam said, no doubt at all in his voice. "He's in New
York, planning how he's going to get to you in the hospital. He's
licking his chops, absolutely certain that you'll be there with her,
Thomas. He's got to believe that he's trapped you now. He's flushed
you out and now he's got his best chance to kill both of you."
"It was an excellent idea, Adam," Thomas said, "to let everyone
in the media believe that Becca is still at NYU Hospital, recovering
from internal injuries and under close guard. I pray he disguises
himself and tries to get in."
"I have no doubt he'll want to. I just hope he doesn't smell a
trap. He's smart, Thomas, you know that. He might have figured
we'd do exactly what we have, in fact, done."
"I'm worried about the people at the hospital who are playing
us," Becca said. "He's--" She paused a moment, trying to find the
right words. "He's not normal. There's something very scary about
him."
"Don't be worried about the agents," Adam said. "They're professionals
to their toes. They're trained, and their collective experience
probably exceeds the age of the world. They know what they're doing.
They'll be ready for him to make a move. Another smart thing
done--the FBI has installed security cameras to record everyone
who goes in and out of that room. They've scheduled doctors and
nurses to go in there at given hours. Our guys will stay alert. Our
undercover agent who's playing you, Becca, Ms. Marlane, won't take any chances 
if he does show up. She's got a 9mm Sig Sauer under her
pillow."

Thomas said, "Then there'll be that black government car




pulling up and a guy who looks remarkably like me getting out and
going into the hospital."
Adam said, "Yep. Twice a day. I hope Krimakov does try to get
in. Wouldn't that be something if it all ended there, in the hospital,
in New York? That would be a hell of a thing."
Becca said, "He managed to down Chuck with no one the
wiser. So far he hasn't failed at anything he's tried."
"She's right, Adam," Thomas said. "Like I said,Vasili is smart; he
improvises well. If there aren't any leaks, it's possible he'll sniff
out the trap. But even if he's fooled into thinking she's there,
perhaps believing that I'm there with her, under guard, for just
twenty-four hours, it'll give us time to try to come up with some
sort of strategy."
Adam nodded and said, "If he doesn't go down in New York,
then he'll go down here." He sighed. "Strategy is all well and good,
Thomas, but I can't think of anything at the moment that isn't already
being done."
Thomas said, "I keep wondering if the agents playing our parts
should be told that it's a former KGB agent who might come
there. Maybe it would make them sharper."
"No, knowing that a killer is coming is all they need," Adam
said. "Besides, they'll know who they're dealing with quick
enough. I believe that Krimakov will make a move real soon now.
Maybe he'll even make a mistake." Adam looked at Becca, whose
hands were fisted in her lap. She was too pale and he didn't like it,
but there was nothing he could do about it.
She said, more to herself than to either of them, "If they don't
get him, then how do you come up with a strategy to catch a
shadow?"
Thirty minutes later, their driver pulled up in front of a white
two-story colonial house, set back from the street on a gently slop




ing grass-covered yard, right in the middle of Bricker Road in the
heart of Chevy Chase. It looked like many of its neighbors in this
upper-middle-class neighborhood, lots of surrounding land, lots of
oak and elm trees, and beautifully landscaped lawns.
"Your house, sir. No one followed us."
"Thank you, Mr. Simms. You took excellent evasive action."
"Yes, sir."
Thomas turned to Becca, who was staring out the car window.
He took her hand. "I've lived here for many years. Adam probably
told you no one knows about this house. It's a closely guarded secret
to protect me. Given Krimakov's actions, he hasn't discovered
this house. Don't worry. We'll be safe here." Thomas looked over
at the oak tree just to the side of the house. He and Allison had
planted it sixteen years before. It was now twenty feet taller than
the house, its branches full and laden with green leaves.
"It's lovely," Becca said. "I hope it does all end in New York. I
don't ever want him to find out where you live. I don't want him
to hurt this house."
"No, I would prefer that he didn't, either," Thomas said. He
gently took her hand to help her out of the car.
"Mom and I always lived in an apartment or condo," she said,
walking beside her father up the redbrick steps to the wide front
porch. "She never wanted a house. I know there was enough
money, but she'd always just shake her head."
"When your mother and I were able to meet, she usually came
here. This was her house, Becca. You'll see her touch everywhere,
and I'm sure you'll recognize it as hers."
His voice was low, so filled with pain, with regret, that Adam
turned away to focus on the rosebushes that were blooming wildly
beside the brick stairs up to the front porch. He saw two agents in a car half a 
block down the street. He wondered if Thomas would





tell his daughter that this house might look like just a home-sweet-home,
but the security in and around the place was state-ofthe-art.
"It'll be dark in about three hours," Adam said, looking up from
his watch. "Let's make our phone calls, talk to the guys in New
York, get the status on everything, make sure they stay alert. I have
this gut feeling that Krimakov is going to try to get into NYU
Hospital soon. Now -we can tell them exactly who they're up
against. As you said,Thomas, there are always leaks. Detective Gordon,
for example. I can see her telling everyone in sight. If he
doesn't act in the next twenty-four hours, then he won't, because
he'll know it's a trap."
Adam looked down at Becca, who was staring intently at the
house. He knew she was trying to visualize her mother there, perhaps
standing next to her father, smiling at him, laughing. Only she
wasn't there, had never been a part of the two of them. He said,
"Get rid of that ridiculous hair dye, will you, Becca?"
Thomas turned at his words. "That's right. Your hair is very
blond, just like your mother's."
"Mom's was more blond than mine," she said. "But all right,
Adam, but I'll have to go to the store. Who wants to go with me?"
"Me and about three other guys," Adam said. The look on her
face had changed, lightened, and he was pleased.
At seven o'clock that evening, Savich and Sherlock,Tommy the
Pipe, and Hatch arrived at Thomas's house for pizza and strategy,
pizza first. Adam doubted there would be much helpful strategy,
but it was good to have everyone together. Who knew what ideas
might pop out after hot, cheese-dripping pizza?
Savich was carrying a baby draped over his right shoulder. The
kid was wearing only diapers and a little white T-shirt. Adam





looked at Savich, checked out the baby's feet, and said, "You're this
little guy's father?"
"Don't act so surprised, Adam." He lightly rubbed his hand over
his son's back. "Hey, Sean, you still awake enough to punch this guy
in his pretty face?"
The baby sucked his fingers furiously and poked out his butt,
making Savich grin.
"He's nearly down for the count," Sherlock said, lightly touching
the baby's head, covered with his father's black hair. "He sucks
his fingers when he doesn't want to be disturbed and he knows
you're talking about him."
"What do you think, Adam? Six-ounce free weights for my
boy?"
Adam stared at the big man holding his kid who was madly
sucking his fingers, then threw his head back and laughed. "This is
not good. Jesus, I can nearly see him lifting three envelopes in each
hand." And he laughed and laughed. "Maybe he can even handle a
stamp on each envelope."
There were ten pizzas spread around Thomas Matlock's living
room an hour later. Hatch was hovering over the large pepperoni pizza., his 
shaved head glittering beneath a halogen floor lamp, talking
even as he stuffed a big bite into his mouth. "Yipes, this sucker's
really hot. Oh boy, delicious. But hot, real hot."
"I hope you burned your tongue," Adam said as he pulled the
hot cheese free of a slice of pizza from another box that was closer
to him than to anyone else, and reverently lifted it up. "Serves you
right for being a pig. God, I love artichokes and olives."
"Nah, my tongue isn't burned. It's just a bit of a sting," Hatch said,
and pulled up another piece. After he took another big bite, he said,
Now, just to make sure everyone's on the same page. All federal





agencies are up to date on Krimakov. The New York Bureau guys are
going over the car the guy dumped you out of, Becca, with every
high-tech scan, every piece of sophisticated equipment they have.
Haven't found anything yet. I was really hoping they would find
something, but this guy Krimakov is careful, real anal, one of the
techs said. He didn't leave anything helpful. Rollo and Dave, who
just left Riptide yesterday, sent the FBI all the fingerprints we got in
Linda Cartwright's house, all the fibers we bagged. No word yet.
The woman he killed in Ithaca, and stole her car--they've combed
the hills for witnesses but came up empty. All that boils down to
nada, nothing, zippo." And then he cursed in some language Becca
didn't recognize. She lifted her eyebrow at him. Hatch said, flushing
a bit,"That was just a bit of Latvian. A nice set of words, full-bodied
and pungent, covers a lot of the hind end of a horse and what one
could do with it."
There was laughter, lots of it, and it felt so good that Becca just
looked around at all the people she hadn't even known existed until
very recently. People who were friends now. People who would
probably remain friends for the rest of her life. She looked over at the
baby lying in his carryall, sound asleep, a light-blue blanket tucked
over him. He was the image of his father except for his mother's
blue, blue eyes.
She looked at Thomas Matlock, who was also looking at the
baby and smiling. Her father, who hadn't eaten much pizza because,
she knew, he was so worried. About her.
My father.
It still felt so very strange. He was real, he was her father, and her
brain recognized and accepted it, but it was still too new to accept
all the way to the deepest part of her that had no memories, no
knowledge of him, nothing tangible, just a couple of photos taken





when he and her mother were young, some when they were even
younger than she was now, and stories her mother had told her,
many, many stories. The stories were secondhand memories, she
realized now. Her mother had given them to her, again and again,
hoping that she would remember them and, through them, love
the father she'd believed was dead.
Her father, alive, always alive, and her mother hadn't told her.
Just stories, stupid stories. Her mother had memories, scores of
them, and she had stories. But she kept quiet to protect me, Becca
thought, but the sense of betrayal, the fury of it, roiled deep inside
her. They could have told her when she was eighteen or when she
was twenty-one. How about when she was twenty-five? Wasn't
that adult enough for them? She was an adult, a real live independent
adult, for God's sake, and yet they'd never said a thing, and now
it was too late. Her mother was dead. Her mother had died without
telling her a thing. She could have told her before she fell into
that coma. She would never see them together now. She wanted to
kill both of them.
She remembered many of those times when her mother had left
her for maybe three, four days at a time. Three or four times a year
she'd stayed with one of her mother's very good friends and her
three children. She'd enjoyed those visits so much she'd never really
ever wondered where her mother went, just accepting that it was
some sort of business trip or an obligation to a friend, or whatever.
She sighed. She still wanted to kill both of them. She wished
they were both here so she could hug them and never let them go.
Savich said, "I've got the latest on Krimakov. A CIA operative
told me about this computer system in Athens that's pretty top-secret
and that maybe MAX could get into. Well, MAX did invite
himself to visit the computer system in Athens that keeps data on




the whereabouts and business pursuits of all non citizens residing in
Greece. It is top-secret because it also has lists of all Greek agents
who are acting clandestinely throughout the world.
"Now, as you can imagine, this includes a lot of rather shady characters
that they try to keep tabs on. Remember, there was nothing
left in Moscow because the KGB purged everything on Krimakov.
But they didn't have anything to do with the Greek records. This is
what they had on Krimakov. Now, recognize that we've already
learned most of this, that it was pretty common knowledge. However,
in this context, it leads to very interesting conclusions." Savich
pulled three pages from his jacket pocket and read:"Vasili Krimakov
has lived in Agios Nikolaos for eighteen years. He married a Cretan
woman in 1983. She died in a swimming accident in 1996. She had
two children by a former marriage. Her children are dead. The oldest
boy, sixteen, was mountain-climbing when he fell off a cliff. A
girl, fifteen, ran into a tree on her motorcycle. They had one child, a
boy, eight years old. He was badly burned in some sort of trash fire
and is currently in a special burn rehabilitation facility near Lucerne,
Switzerland. He's still not out of the woods, but at least he's alive."
Savich looked up at all of them in turn. "We've had reports on some
of this, but not all of it presented together. Also, they had drawn conclusions,
and that's what was really interesting. I know there was
more, probably about their plans to act against Krimakov, but I
couldn't find any more. What do you think?"
"You mean you have those programs encoded so well you
couldn't get in?"Thomas asked.
"No. I mean that someone who knew what he was doing expunged
the records. Only the information I just told you was left,
nothing more. The wipe was done recently, just a little over six
months ago."
"How the hell do you know that?" Adam said. "I thought it





would be like fingerprints. They'd be there but there was no clue
when they were made."
"Nope. I don't know how the Greeks got ahold of it, but this
system, the Sentech Y-2002, is first-rate, state-of-the-art. What it
does is hard-register and bullet-code every deletion made on any
data entered and tagged in preselected programs. It's known as the
'catcher,' and it's favored by high-tech industries because it pinpoints
when something unexpected and unwelcome is done to relevant
data, and who did it and when."
"How does this hard register and bullet code work?" Becca said.
Savich said, "What the system does is swoop in and retrieve all
data that the person is trying to delete before it can be deleted. It's
funneled through a trapdoor into a disappearing 'secret room.' That
means, then, that the data isn't really lost. However, the person who
did this was able to do what we call a 'spot burn' on the information
he deleted, and so, unfortunately, it's really gone. In other words,
there was no opportunity to funnel the deleted data to safety.
"Now, the person who supposedly wiped out the bulk of Krimakov's
entries was a middle-level person who would have had no
reason to delete anything of this nature, much less even access it. So
either someone got to him and paid him to do it or someone stole
his password and made him the sacrificial goat in case someone discovered
what he had done."
"How long will it take you to find out this person's name,
Savich?"Thomas asked.
"Well, MAX already did that. The guy was a thirty-four-year-old
computer programmer who was in an accident four months
ago. He's dead. Chances are very good that he was set up as the
goat. Chances are also good that he knew the person who stole his
password. I wouldn't be surprised if the guy talked about what he
did to someone who took it to Krimakov, who then acted."





"And just what kind of accident befell this one?"Thomas asked.
"The guy lived in Athens, but he'd gone to Crete on vacation,
which is where Krimakov lived. You know the Minoan ruins of
Knossos some five miles out of Iraklion? It was reported that he
somehow lost his footing and fell headfirst over a low wall into a storage
chamber some twelve feet below where he was standing. He
broke his neck when his head struck one of the big pots that held
olive oil way back when."
"Well, damn," Adam said. "I don't suppose Krimakov's former
bosses in Moscow have any information at all on this?"
"Not that MAX can discover," Savich said. "If they have any
more, and that's quite possible, they're holding it for a trade, since
they know we want everything they've got on Krimakov. You
know what I think? They've got nothing else useful. There hasn't
been a peep out of them in the way of exploratory questions."
"You found out quite a lot, Savich," Thomas said. "All those accidents.
Doesn't seem possible, does it? Or very likely."
"Oh, no," Savich said. "Not possible at all. That was the conclusion
their agents drew. Krimakov murdered all of them. Hey, wait
a minute, when you knew him, there weren't any computers."
"There wasn't much beyond great big suckers, like the IBM
mainframes," Thomas said.
Sherlock said, "I wouldn't even want to try to figure out the
odds of all those people in one family dying in accidents. They are
astronomical, though."
"Krimakov killed all those people," Becca said, then shook her
head. "He must have, but how could he kill his own wife, his two
stepchildren? Good grief, he burned his own little boy? No, that
would truly make him a monster. What is going on here?"
"He didn't kill his own child," Adam said.
"No, he didn't," Sherlock said. "But the kid won't ever lead any





kind of normal life if he survives all the skin grafts and the infections.
Was his getting burned an accident?"
Thomas said, "Listen, all of this makes sense, but it's still supposition."
Savich said, "I've put Krimakov's aged photo into the Facial
Recognition Algorithm program that's in place now at the Bureau.
It matches photos or even drawings to convicted felons. It compares,
for example, the length of the nose, its shape, the exact distance
between facial bones, the length of the eyes. You get the drift.
It'll spit out if there's anyone resembling him who's committed
crimes either in Europe or in the United States. The database isn't
all that complete yet, but it can't hurt."
"He was a spy," Sherlock said. "Maybe he was a convicted felon,
too. It's just possible he's done bad stuff other places and got
nabbed. If that's so, then there'll be a match and just maybe there'll
be more information available on Krimakov."
"It's a long shot, but what the hell," Adam said. "Good work, you
guys." Adam paused a moment, then cleared his throat. "Maybe it
wasn't such a lame idea for Thomas to bring you guys on board.
Hey, you've even got a cute kid."
The tension eased when they heard Sean sucking his fingers.
Sherlock said as she lightly rubbed her son's back, "Hey, Becca, I
like your hair back to its natural color."
"I don't think it's quite the right color," Adam said, stroking his
fingers thoughtfully over his chin. "It still looks a little fake, a bit on
the brassy side."
Becca got him in the belly with her fist, not hard, since he'd
eaten at least four slices of pizza covered with olives and artichokes.
Of course he was right and she just laughed now. "It will grow out.
At least it's not a muddy brown anymore."
Thomas thought she looked beautiful, her hair, just like Allison's,




straight and shiny to her shoulders, held back from her face with
two gold clips.
Becca cleared her throat and said in a short lull in the conversation,
"Does anyone know how Krimakov found me?"
The chewing continued, but she could nearly feel the strength
of all that IQ power, all that experience, turned to her question.
Her father took a drink of Pellegrino, then set the bottle down
on the Japanese coaster at his elbow. "I can't be certain," he said.
"But you're more in the public view now, Becca, what with your
speech writing for Governor Bledsoe. I remember several articles
about you. Maybe Krimakov read the articles. Naturally he knows
the name Matlock very well. He must have checked into it, found
out about your mother, seen her travel plans to Washington. He's a
very smart man, very focused when he wants to be."
"It makes sense," Sherlock said. "I don't have another more
likely scenario."
Sherlock was looking very serious, but one eye was on her small
son. Becca remembered Adam saying something about Sherlock
taking down an insane psychopath in some sort of maze. It was
hard to imagine until she remembered Sherlock clipping Tyler on
the jaw with no fuss at all.
"No matter how he finally managed to find out who she was,"
Adam said, "he did find out and then he set up this elaborate
scheme."
"Krimakov was always so straightforward," Thomas said, "back
then. No deep, murky games for him." Then he sighed. "People
change. It's frightening in this case. He's taken more turns than a
byzantine maze."
Hatch, just a bit of mozzarella cheese clinging to his chin, rose
and said, "I'm going to go out and see what our guys are doing.
They were eating their way through three large pizzas the last time





I saw them." His pepperoni pizza box was empty, not even a cold
thread of cheese left.
"If you smoke out there, Hatch, I'll smell it on you and I'll fire
your butt. I don't care what you've found out, your butt's on the line
here."
"No, Adam, I swear I won't smoke."Then Hatch sighed and sat
down again.
Adam, satisfied, turned to Becca. "As for you, Becca, eat. Here's
my last piece of pizza. I even left three olives on it. I didn't want to,
but I looked at your skinny little neck and restrained myself. Eat."
She took the pizza slice and sat there holding it, even as the
cheese cooled and hardened. She picked off an olive.
Savich said, smiling at everyone, perhaps preening a bit, "Oh, yeah, I've got 
something that's not supposition. MAX found Krimakov's
apartment. It's just a small place in Iraklion. Mr. Woodhouse
knows about it. He's sent agents in."
Everyone stared at him a moment, gape-mouthed.
Savich laughed. He was still laughing when the phone rang
minutes later. "That's on my public line," Thomas said as he rose.
"The tape recorder will automatically kick on and it will tell me
who's calling." He saw Becca blink and smiled. "Just habit," he said
as he picked up the phone.
He didn't say a word, just stood there, listening. He was pale as
death when he nodded and said to the person on the other end of
the line, "Thank you for calling." Becca jumped to her feet to go to
him. He held up a hand and said in a very low, contained voice,
"The two agents guarding Becca's room are dead. Agent Marlane
is dead. The agent posing as me is dead, shot through the head,
three times. I shot Krimakov's wife through the head," he added
unemotionally. "The security cameras are smashed. There's pandemonium
at the hospital. He got away."





Chapter 23

Adam came into Becca's bedroom at just after midnight to see
her sitting up in bed, her arms wrapped around her knees, staring
blankly at the wall. A single lamp was turned on and in the dim
light he could see that she was pale, her face strained. She looked
over at him and said, guilt weighing her down, heavy in her voice,
"I still can't believe it, Adam. Four people dead and it's because of
me."
He quietly closed the bedroom door and leaned back against it,
his arms crossed over his chest. Her feelings weren't unexpected
but it still made him angry. "Don't be a damned fool, Becca. I'm
the one who carries most of the blame because it was my fucking
plan in the first place. What no one can figure out is how the bastard
managed to walk right up to the guards outside the room,
close enough to see the color of their eyes, and shoot them. Of
course he used a silencer. Then he waltzed into the hospital room
and kills the other two agents before they can react. To top it all off,
he shot out the security camera. And poof--he's gone, escaped, and
no one can figure it out.
"Jesus, everyone knew he was coming, it was a trap, contingencies
all covered, and sure enough he walked right into it, only it
didn't stop him. We lost. Whatever his disguise, it must have been
something. My God, four people are dead." He snapped his fingers.
"Just like that, they're gone. Damn him, how did he do it? What did
he look like to make them lower their guard?"





She shook her head numbly. "Tellie Hawley still doesn't know
anything?"
Adam shook his head. "They've been studying all the security
cameras all over the damned hospital, and they've spotted some
men who might be possibles. I told him that didn't make sense.
Track down the little old ladies, track the folk on the cameras who
no one in their right mind would take for Krimakov." He moved
away from the door and walked to the side of her bed. He leaned
over and lightly touched his fingers to her cheek. "I came to check
on you. I imagined you would be blaming yourself, and I was
right. Stop it, Becca, just stop it. It was a good plan, a solid plan.
Any fault for its failure comes right to my door, not yours."
She turned her face into the palm of his hand. She whispered
against his skin, "He doesn't seem human, does he?"
"Oh, he's human enough. I want him very badly, Becca. I want
to kill him with my bare hands."
"So does my father. I've never seen anyone so enraged, and yet
his voice remained calm and controlled. But it was so cold, so
deadly. I wanted to shriek and yell and put my fist through a wall,
but he didn't."
"Control is very important to your father. It's saved his life on
several occasions and other people's lives as well. He's learned not
to let emotion cloud his thinking." He cupped her face in his hand.
"I haven't learned it yet, but I'm trying. A terrible thing happened,
Becca, but please believe me, it wasn't your fault. We'll catch him.
We have to catch him. We've both got to get some sleep." He kissed
her mouth, then immediately straightened. It was hard because he
wanted to kiss her again, and not stop. He wanted to ease her back
down and pull up that virginal nightgown of hers and get his
mouth on every bit of her he could get naked. He wanted to make
both of them forget the horror, for just a little while. But he knew





he couldn't. He took a step away from the bed. "Good night,
Becca. Try to get some sleep, all right?"
She nodded mutely. The pain in her eyes, the god-awful guilt
that was still burrowed deep inside her--he just couldn't stand it.
He kissed her again, hard and fast, and before he lost his head, he
was out of her bedroom in a flash.
In the hallway, he was frowning, wondering how the hell to do
that when he was supposed to protect her, rage at Krimakov roiling
away in his belly, when he walked straight into Thomas, who
was just standing there, watching him, a thick dark brow arched.
Adam came to a dead stop. "Dammit, I didn't touch her."
"No, of course not. I never thought you did. You were in there
to ease her guilt, weren't you?"
"Yes, but I doubt I was successful."
"There's enough guilt for all of us to wallow in," Thomas said.
"I'm going downstairs for a while. I've got some more thinking to
do."
"There isn't any more thinking to do, there's just worrying and
second-guessing, all sorts of worthless shit like that. Wait a second
--it just occurred to me that he's got to be pissed, rattled. After
all, he was expecting to find both you and Becca in that hospital
room, but you weren't there. He has to doubt himself now, his
judgment, his take on things. He's been meticulous up until now,
but this time he wasn't able to be thorough enough. He screwed up
big-time. He was wrong. I don't know what he's going to do next,
but whatever it is, he might make another mistake. He's also got to
contend with the fallout of his cold-blooded murder of four federal
agents. They'll mount the biggest manhunt in a decade. He
can't believe he's so good he can just walk away from this, that he's
somehow immune from capture. We're not alone in this anymore.
Everyone and his aunt knows about him and what he is."





"I know that, Adam." Thomas shoved his long fingers through his
hair. "You know how quick he is, how clever. Look at how he
flushed all of you out of that house in Riptide and then snuck in and
hid in Becca's closet. That took balls and cunning. And luck. It is
possible that you could have missed Chuck when you were all scouring
the area for him, possible that you would have found Chuck tied
up and gagged, but you didn't. He was lucky there and he got her.
"I hate to say this, but I firmly believe he'll evade capture. He
knows I'll be at the center of things, trying to figure out how to get
him. He'll come to Washington. He's going to try to find Becca
and me. He's got nothing else to do."
"I still can't figure out why he threw Becca out of his car in
New York. He had her. He could have announced it and had you
knocking on his door to try to save her. But he let her go. Why?
Shit, I'm making myself crazy. But if he's as smart as you say he is,
he won't come down here, at least not yet, not until things cool
down a bit."
"There's one thing I am sure about now, Adam. I'm his reason
for living, probably his only reason now. That's why he's leaving a
trail of death. He doesn't care about himself anymore. He just
wants me dead. And Becca, too. I'm thinking that Becca should
head out to Seattle or maybe even Honolulu."
"Yeah, right. You be the one to convince her of that, okay? She's
just found you. You believe for a single second that she'd just pull
out now, be willing to say sayonara to the father she just met?"
"Probably not." Thomas sighed. "She's still so wary of me. It's
like she can't make up her mind whether to hug me or shoot me
for leaving her and her mother."
"I'm thinking she wants to do both. At least now you two are
together. The rest will come, Thomas, just be patient. For God's
sake, she's known you for twenty-four hours."





"You're right, of course. But--never mind. Jesus, Krimakov just
went right in there and killed everyone," Thomas said. "Everyone,
without hesitation. To flush me out that first time, he released
Becca. I can't imagine what he'd do to her now that she's with me.
Well, yes I can. He'd kill her with no more remorse than when he
killed all the others. And yes, there's no doubt in my mind that he
believes she's with me now. Damnation, he had a silencer on the
gun, Adam."
"Yes."
"Agent Marlane had six shots pumped into her. He saw that the
male agent wasn't me, knew he'd been set up, and went berserk.
Dell Carson, the agent playing me, had his gun out, but he didn't
have time to fire. Neither did Agent Marlane."
"Yes. I know."
"How the hell did he get away? Hawley had undercover folk
stationed all over that floor and the exits."
Adam shook his head. "His disguise must have been something
else. Maybe he even dolled himself up as a woman. Who knows?
Do you remember if Krimakov did disguises back then?"
Thomas leaned against the corridor wall, his arms crossed over
his chest. "No. But it's been so many years, Adam, too many. What
troubles me, and I know I can't let it, is that Becca just can't be sure
that the guy who took her, the guy on the phone to her, was
older." Thomas shook his head. "Another thing. Vasili was fluent in
English, but I've read the transcripts of the conversations he had
with Becca. It sounds so unlike him. And what he wrote, what he
said to her, what he did. Calling himself her boyfriend, murdering
Linda Cartwright, then digging her up, smashing her face, all as a
sick joke to drive Becca over the edge. That's the behavior of a psychopath,
Adam. Krimakov wasn't a psychopath. He was supremely
arrogant, but as sane as I was."





"Whatever Krimakov was back then, he's changed," Adam said.
"Who knows what's happened to him during the past twenty years?
Don't forget all those killings: a second wife, two children, the guy
whose password he used to get into the computer system to expunge
all his personal data, killing someone to fake his own accidental
death in that car accident. How many more we don't know
about? And that brings up another question. You said that you believe
you're now his only focus, his purpose for living. What about
his son? He's in that burn clinic in Switzerland. He doesn't care
about him anymore? Or maybe that wasn't an accident, either, and
he tried to kill him, too?"
"I don't know."
Adam said, "Hell, maybe he was always over the top and he's just
gotten more so, and maybe that goes to explain why he appears not
to be worrying about his son. No, Thomas, don't argue with me.
He's now here--in a foreign country to him--no longer in Crete.
He's on our turf, and he probably hasn't been here for all that long."
"Listen, Adam, we don't know that. Officially, Vasili Krimakov
hasn't come into this country in the past fifteen years. He was here
once back in the mid-eighties, checking around, trying to sniff me
out. That was when he killed that assistant of mine simply because
he'd seen her with me and decided that she was my mistress. But I
got away that time and he left, returned to Crete. We've learned he
went to England a number of times, but he hasn't gone back there
recently. Unofficially, he could have bounced in and out of the
United States with a dozen different phony passports. Who in
Greece would catch on to that? Or if they did, even care?"
"Still, we have to assume that he was in Crete most of the time.
For God's sake, he was married. He eventually had a kid with this
woman. So he simply can't know his way around here all that
well."





Thomas said, "Becca is right. He's a monster, no matter the excuses
I make for the man I knew more than twenty years ago. Of
course I didn't really know him. He was just a target to me, always
on the opposite side, the black king to checkmate. Now we're
forced to wait, to gnaw our elbows. Krimakov will find us, count
on it.
"Oh yeah,Tellie Hawley and Scratch Cobb are coming tomorrow
morning to speak to Becca. Maybe that'll be good. I think she
liked them both when she met them in New York. Maybe she'll remember
more talking to them. They're pretty desperate, as you can
well imagine. Hawley is eating himself alive with guilt. They were
his agents, all four of them, and now they're dead."
"Yes," Adam said, and streaked his fingers through his hair, sending
it on end. "Since Savich found Krimakov's apartment in Iraklion,
our people will go in. Just maybe they'll find something."
Becca leaned her forehead against the closed door, listening to
their voices as they moved off down the hall. She turned then and
leaned back against the door, her arms crossed over her chest, just as
Adam had done when he'd first come into her room. She closed her
eyes.
He'd murdered four more people. Like Thomas, she knew Krimakov
would find them. It was as if he were somehow programmed
to find Thomas and kill him. And her, too, of course. He
would do anything, go anywhere, kill anyone in his way, to gain his
objective.
How could he have killed his wife and her two children, his
stepchildren? And his own son was in a burn hospital in Switzerland.
Had that one truly been an accident? No, there were no accidents
when it came to Krimakov. It was beyond terrifying.
She returned to her bed, curled up, hugging her arms around
her knees. It was warm, very warm, but she was cold all the way to


her bone marrow. Suddenly, she heard her mother's voice, sharp
with impatience, telling her that if she even considered going out
with Tim Hardaway--that juvenile delinquent--she would lock
her in a closet for a month. Now she smiled with the memory;
then, at sixteen, she had believed her life was over. She wondered
what her mother would think of Adam. She smiled, then shivered
a bit, remembering that hard, fast kiss. Her mother, she thought,
would love Adam.
Suddenly, she heard a whispery sound. She jerked up in bed, her
heart pounding, and looked toward the window. Again, that whispery
brushing sound. Her heart pumping fast and faster now, she
walked over and forced herself to look outside. There was an oak
tree there, the end of one leaf-laden branch lightly brushing its
leaves over the windowpane.
But he was close, she knew that. On her way back to bed, she
kept looking over her shoulder out the bedroom window. She
didn't want to speak to any more agents. Oh God, just how close
was he?
How close?

Now everyone in the world knew about Krimakov. Adam
watched the old photograph of him flash on CNN and all the major
networks. Then it was set beside the photograph the CIA artist
had aged, showing what Krimakov would probably look like today.
It was a fine job. With luck, it matched enough so he could be recognized.
Becca hadn't remembered anything more, however, when
she'd looked at the photos.
Everyone wanted to interview Becca Matlock, but no one knew
where she was.





The New York cops wanted to talk to her, but this time, she
didn't have to put up with Letitia Gordon. The FBI had told them
to stuff it after the murder of the four FBI agents in NYU Hospital.
There was a lot of name-calling, a lot of rancor, but at least she
wasn't in the middle of it now. She'd been lost in the shuffle. She
was safe.
As for Thomas Matlock, his identity had leaked quickly enough,
but at least no one knew where he was, either. If there had been a
leak, they knew media vans would be parked in the yard and microphones
would be sticking through the windows of the house.
As it was, everything was quiet. The agents posted all around the
house and the neighborhood checked in regularly, reporting nothing
suspicious.
Ex-KGB agent Vasili Krimakov--who he was exactly, where he
was at present, what his motives were, anything and everything that
could possibly be tied to him--was discussed fully, exhaustively, on
every news show, every talking-head show. Ex--CIA operatives,
ex--FBI antiterrorist agents, and three former presidential aides spoke
authoritatively about him with Sam Donaldson and Cokie Roberts,
Tim Russert, and William Safire. The question was: Why did he
want Thomas Matlock so badly? The question remained unanswered
until there was some sort of anonymous release from Berlin about
how Thomas Matlock had saved Kemper's life and in the process accidentally
killed the wife of the Soviet agent,Vasili Krimakov, who'd
been sent to present-day Belarus to assassinate Kemper. The press
went wild. Larry King interviewed a former aide to President Carter
who remembered perfectly and in great detail the incident when
CIA Operative Thomas Matlock had a face-off with Krimakov in
the faraway land, killed his wife by accident, and the resulting
brouhaha with the Russians. No one else could seem to recall any of





it, including President Carter himself, and everyone knew that President
Carter remembered everything, including the number of rubber
bands in his Oval Office desk drawer.
An ex--United States Marine who had served with Thomas Matlock
back in the seventies spoke authoritatively about how Thomas
had refused to be intimidated by the enemy. Which enemy? Didn't
matter, Thomas would go to hell and back before he'd ever break.
This wasn't at all relevant, but nobody really cared. The bottom line
was that all the folk interviewed were ex-or
former somethings.
The current FBI and CIA directors had put a seal on everything. The
president and his staff weren't saying a word, at least officially.
Everything was working as it had always worked. Speculation was
rife, theories were rampant, but nothing could be proved.
As for Rebecca Matlock, the governor of New York was quoted
as saying, "She was an excellent speech writer with a flair for humor
and irony. We miss her." And then he'd rubbed his neck where
Krimakov had shot him.
NYPD continued with their "No comment" when there was
any question from the press about her. There was no more talk
about her being an accomplice to the shooting of Governor Bledsoe
Thank God, Becca thought, that no one had found out about
Letitia Gordon. She'd bet Detective Gordon would be glad to
trash-talk her.
Every murder Krimakov had committed was brought out and
examined publicly and exhaustively. There was public outrage.
But no one knew where Rebecca Matlock was.
No one knew where or really who Thomas Matlock was, but
the world was coming to believe that he was a dashing, quite romantic
James Bond sort of guy who had kept the world safe from
the Russians and was now being hunted by a former KGB agent
who didn't hesitate to murder people to draw him out.





Becca wondered aloud later to Adam about what the United
States Marine had said about Thomas on TV. Adam, who was
cleaning his Delta Elite at the kitchen table, said,"It means that this
ass got paid maybe five hundred bucks to say something so the ratings
would spike."
"The guy said Thomas would never break. What does that mean?"
Adam shrugged. "Who cares? I just hope that Krimakov is
watching. Talk about misdirection. Maybe he'll come to believe that
Thomas is invincible." Adam snorted, then buffed the handle of his
pistol. "We couldn't do it better if we scripted it ourselves."
"I wonder if Detective Gordon still thinks I'm somehow responsible
for all of it."
"I think once she makes up her mind, it'd take an avalanche to
change it. Yeah, she still thinks you're a big part of it. I spoke to Detective
Morales. I could see him shaking his head over the phone.
He's depressed, but glad you're safe now."
"It was the murder of Linda Cartwright that got everybody
going."
"Yes. She was an innocent. A very nice middle-class woman.
Everyone wants him to fry for what he did to her. Don't forget that
older woman in Ithaca. Another innocent. Krimakov has a lot to
answer for."
"Does anyone know yet how Dick McCallum was involved
with him?"
"Yeah. Hatch found out that McCallum's mother had an extra
fifty thousand bucks in a checking account."
"That doesn't seem like so much money if you have to die to get
it. Did she tell the police or Hatch if Dick told her anything?"
Adam shook his head, lifted his gun, looked at a face that needed
a shave in the reflection of the barrel. "Nope. She was upset about
it, but he wouldn't tell her anything, except to keep the money





quiet, which she did until Hatch tracked her down and got her to
talk."
"The FBI are coming soon."
"Yeah. Don't worry, both Thomas and I will be there."
She smiled at him. "That's nice, Adam, but unnecessary. I'm not
a child or helpless, you know. And I do know Mr. Cobb, and poor
Mr. Hawley, who's got hemorrhoids."
He grinned up at her. "Nope, it's Cobb with the hemorrhoids.
Now, you were helpless, don't try to rewrite the past, and I don't
care what you say, I'll be there."
"I should probably go dig out my Coonan and buff it."
"I'd just as soon never see that pistol anywhere near you again."
"Scared you but good, didn't I?"
Thomas appeared in the kitchen doorway, frowning. "This is
odd, but a man named Tyler McBride called Gaylan Woodhouse's
office with the message that you, Becca, were to call him immediately.
Nothing more, just that instruction."
"I don't understand," Becca said, "but of course I'll call him.
What's going on?"
Adam was on his feet in an instant. "I don't like this. Why the
hell would McBride call the director of the CIA?"
"I'll find out, Adam. He's probably really worried and wants to
make sure I'm okay."
Adam said, "I don't want you to call Tyler McBride. I don't want
him anywhere near you. I'll call him, find out what the hell he
wants. If he wants reassurance, I'll give it to him."
"Look, Adam, you told me he was really scared for me. He just
wants to hear my voice. I'm not going to tell him where I am.
Now, I'm calling him. Let it go."
"Why don't you two stop bickering?" Thomas said. "Call the
man, Becca. If something's wrong, Adam, she'll tell us."





"I still don't like it. Another thing: I've been thinking that maybe
you would be safer at my house. At least you could stay there some
of the time."
Her left eyebrow went up. "Where do you live, Mr. Carruthers?"
"About three miles down the road."
She stared at him. "Then why are you staying here? Why aren't
you going home at all?"
"I'm needed here," he said, studiously rubbing the barrel of his
Delta Elite to an even higher shine. "Besides, I do go home. Where
do you think I get clean clothes?"
"Get over it, Adam," she said, and went to get her small address
book.
"Use my private line," Thomas said. "It's untraceable. Adam,
your gun looks good."
"You'll like my house," Adam called after her. "It's a showcase,
it's the prettiest place you've ever seen. Plants don't like me, but
everything else does. I have a housekeeper come in twice a week
and she even makes me casseroles."
Becca turned to face him. "What kind?"
"Tuna, ham and sweet potato, whatever. Do you like casseroles?"
"You bet," she said.
He heard her laugh as she walked away.
He wanted to hear what she said to Tyler McBride, he really did,
but he didn't move. Neither did Thomas, who stood there leaning
against the refrigerator, his arms crossed over his chest.
"I'm giving her privacy," Adam said. "It's tough."
"Yeah, and you want her to think about your house, don't you?"
"It's a very nice house--an old Georgian brick two-story, lovely
yard that I pay a big chunk to keep looking good. Remember I
told you how my mom talked me into buying the property some
four years before, told me it was a good investment. She was right."





Thomas said, "Parents usually are."
Adam grunted and looked at his reflection in the gun barrel.
"McBride wants her, that's why he's called. He wants her to know
that he's still laying claim. Damn, I don't trust him, Thomas. He'll
use Sam if he has to. He can't have her."
Thomas said, grinning now, "I can see your scowl on your face
in the barrel of the gun. No, more than a scowl."
Adam grunted. "How about seriously pissed off?"
What the hell was she saying to Tyler McBride? Worse, what was
he saying to her?





Chapter 24

In her father's study, the door closed, Becca was leaning on the big
mahogany desk, so pale, so off balance that she felt transparent. She
knew that if she looked in a mirror, she wouldn't see anything at
all. "No, Tyler," she said again. "I can't believe this."
"No, Becca, it's happened. Sam is gone. Gone from his bed
when I looked in on him this morning. There was this note pinned
to his blanket that said I had to call you, that I could get to you by
calling the office of the CIA director. So I did. And now you've
called."
"No, Sam can't be gone," Becca said, but she knew that he was,
she just knew it.
"He wrote in the note that I wasn't to say a word to anyone, not
the local cops, not anyone, just you. He wrote that he'd kill Sam if
I said anything."
She heard his breathing hitch before he said, "Thank God you
called, Becca. Jesus, what am I going to do?"
Becca heard the awful deadening fear in his voice, the anger, the helplessness.
"Don't call Sheriff Gaffney,Tyler. Don't. Let me think."
He nearly yelled,"Of course I won't call Sheriff Gaffney. Do you
think I'm nuts?"Then he added, more calmly now, "He wrote that
you had to come to Riptide."
Oh, God, she thought, and said, "Just a second, Tyler, let me get
Adam."





"No!" She nearly dropped the phone he'd yelled so loud. Then
she heard him draw a deep breath. "No, Becca, please, not yet.
He says if you tell anyone--including your father--he'll kill Sam.
Dammit, I didn't even know you had a father until the media went
nuts over you and him. Jesus, Becca, the guy's just murdered four
more people. He's got Sam. Do you hear me? That maniac's got
Sam!"
"I know, I know. Read me the entire note,Tyler."
"Oh God, all right." He was breathing hard, and she knew he
was trying to get control. Finally, his voice more steady, he read:
" 'Mr. McBride, you will speak as soon as possible to Rebecca Matlock.
To find her, call the office of the director of the CIA. Tell
them to inform her that she is to call you immediately, that a life is
at stake. Then you will tell her to come to Riptide. You will tell her
not to tell anyone, including her father, or else your son is dead. You
don't want him to end up like Linda Cartwright. You have twenty-four
hours.' "
"How did he sign it?"
"He didn't sign any name at all. Just what I read to you, that's it.
Oh God, Becca, what am I to do? You know what he did to Linda
Cartwright, what he's done to all those other people. Look at what
he did to you. All of Maine is up in arms about Cartwright's murder."
He waited a beat, then yelled, "Aren't you listening to me? A
fucking Russian agent has got my son!"
"I wonder why he doesn't want my father to come? It's my father
he's after. It just doesn't make any sense."
"I've listened to everything on the news,"Tyler said, calmer now.
"It doesn't make any sense to me, either. Please, Becca, you've got to
come. If you hadn't called me, I don't know what I'd have done."
"If I come, he'll hold me to get my father. Then he'll kill both





of us." She didn't add that he would also kill Sam. Why wouldn't
he? She was afraid that Sam was already dead, but she wasn't about
to say it aloud. Just the thought nearly brought her to her knees.
Not Sam, not that precious little boy. No, she couldn't fall apart.
Think. There had to be something she could do.
"Oh shit, I know he'd try to kill both of you. Yes, I know that.
What are we going to do?"
"I don't know,Tyler."
"Please don't tell that Adam character or your father, please."
"All right. Not yet, anyway. If I do decide to tell them, I'll call
you first, warn you. I'll get back to you in three hours, Tyler. Oh
God, I'm so sorry. It's all my fault. I should never have come to
Riptide. The man's crazy, obsessed."
He didn't disagree with her, on any of it. "Three hours, Becca.
Please, you've got to come. Maybe you and I together can trap
him. Somehow."
When Adam came into Thomas's study five minutes later, he saw
her standing at the front window, staring out over the fine green
lawn. She was rubbing the bridge of her nose with her fingers, her
shoulders slumped. She looked defeated, beaten down. He frowned.
"What's going on? Why did McBride have to speak to you?"
She shrugged. "It was just as you thought. He was worried
about me, very worried, what with all the stuff on TV."
"I don't believe that's all, is it?"
Then she turned slowly to face him. "Of course it is. The FBI
people have just pulled up." The car was black, the two men were
wearing black, their hair was cut short. And Krimakov had taken
Sam. He moved fast, too fast, faster than any of them could have
imagined. What to do?

"What's wrong, Becca? You look white around the gills."




"Not a thing, Adam. It's Agent Hawley and Agent Cobb. Let's
see what they have to say. I suppose they're sworn to secrecy about
where they've come from?"
Adam said as he walked toward the front door, "They would be
drawn and quartered if they ever opened their mouths."
Adam shook the two men's hands and stepped back. Tellie Hawley
said, "It's good to see you again, Adam. Mr. Matlock, Ms. Matlock.
Bet you're wondering how we got ourselves assigned to this."
"It did cross my mind," Thomas said, as he waved them toward
the living room.
"Boy, it's hot out there," Scratch Cobb said, gave Becca a big smile,
and unbuttoned his black suit coat one button. "A very nice house,"
Scratch added to Thomas as he walked beside him into the living
room. He was looking at a particularly lovely old Tabriz carpet.
"Thank you,Agent Cobb," Thomas said. "Won't you be seated?"
After everyone was settled, Agent Hawley said, "Since we were
the ones who initially spoke to Ms. Matlock in the hospital, and
since I knew you, sir, Mr. Bushman decided we should stay on as
the leads. Of course Savich and Sherlock are on it as well, and he
approves of that. It doesn't mean, of course, that the folk here at
FBI headquarters are sitting on their hands. They're not."
Thomas nodded. "No, they never do. I'm very sorry about the
agents Krimakov murdered in New York, Hawley. It's got to be an
awful blow."
Tellie Hawley turned pale, then just as suddenly he flushed red
with anger. "The bastard killed four more people in cold blood.
He just waltzed into the hospital--God knows how he was disguised
--and he killed the two agents guarding her room, then
went inside and put six shots in Agent Marlane and three more
shots in Dels head. How did he get away? We don't know. Damnation,
it's driving everyone nuts. His aged photo is plastered every




where. We've got dozens of agents walking around a mile radius of
NYU Hospital showing' everyone his photo. Nothing yet." He
stopped and Becca could feel the pain, the guilt, the rage, radiating
from him, spilling out in waves. He'd been the one in charge, the
one giving orders. She wouldn't want to be in his shoes. She felt
guilty enough in her own shoes.
Sam. Oh God, Sam. What to do?
She watched Tellie Hawley get himself together. He cleared his
throat, looked directly at her, and said, "Now, Ms. Matlock, we're
here to speak to you in detail about your time with him."
"I'm very sorry, Agent Hawley, but I've told you everything I
know. I wish there were more but I just can't come up with anything
else, even irrelevant."
Agent Hawley sat forward in his chair, his hands dangling between
his legs. "The mind is a marvelous instrument, Ms. Matlock.
It takes in stuff you're not even aware of. We're betting you do
know more about Krimakov. You just don't remember it on a conscious
level. We're hoping it's lurking in your subconscious. Ah,
Agent Cobb here is an expert hypnotist. He'd like to take you under,
really get at what this guy was like, maybe even what he looked
like. You know, stuff you've blocked out or you're not even aware
that you know, stuff you just can't bring up to a conscious level."
Agent Cobb handed her the old photo of Krimakov. "You've
seen this?"
"Yes, of course. My father showed it to me immediately, the
aged photo as well. I've studied and studied it. I'm sorry, but I just
don't know if it's him. I never saw him. He was always in the
shadows."
"Look again at the aged photo."
She took it, studied it yet again. She still saw an older man,
whose face was lean and deeply tanned from years of living on the





Mediterranean. His hair had receded, leaving two deep slashes of
tanned scalp on either side of a spear of gray hair. His eyes were
dark, his features Slavic, wide, flat cheekbones. He looked like he
could be a very nice grandfather. And she wondered: Is that you?
Are you the one who took me from Jacob Marley's house? Did you
lick my cheek? She handed Agent Cobb back the photo. "I have
thought and thought. I really don't consciously remember anything
more. I'm willing to go under."
"Are you sure, Becca? You don't have to."
She glanced toward her father, who was standing behind a chair,
looking at her intently. She didn't know that very handsome man
with all those expressions on his face that she didn't understand,
but then, she realized that she did know him; on a very deep level,
she knew him quite well. It was a very strange feeling. "Yes, sir"--
her voice was steady--"I'm sure."
"All right, then," Agent Cobb said, looking directly at her.
"There's nothing to be concerned about. I don't go for the couch
thing. I prefer the traditional face-to-face method.
"Now, there are also many different ways to hypnotize someone.
I use the fixation object method." He pulled a shiny pocket watch
out of his vest pocket. For a moment he looked embarrassed, then
shrugged. "It belonged to my grandfather. I've always worn it, just
discovered a couple of years ago that it was the perfect object for
me to use to relax people. Now, I want you to sit back and look at
this watch, Becca. Just listen to the sound of my voice." He started
talking, nonsense really, his voice low and smooth and never rising,
never falling, always the same. She stared at the watch that was
swinging gently back and forth, back and forth. "You will find that
your eyelids have a tendency to get heavy," he said in that singsong
soft voice. "That's right, just look at the watch. See how it's moving
so slowly right before your eyes?"





Agent Cobb continued reciting a familiar litany to everyone in
the room. His voice stayed low and smooth and very intimate. That
damned watch kept swinging back and forth, shiny, gold, swinging.
Adam had to shake his head and look away. He was getting drawn
under.
Five minutes later, Becca was still staring at the shiny gold
pocket watch, listening to Agent Cobb's voice telling her about
how her eyes were going to close now, how she felt good, and
comfortable, how she could just let herself drift. But she didn't. She
tried desperately to relax, to get with the program, but she
couldn't. All she could see was Sam, that sweet little boy, holding
out his arms to her, smiling but hardly ever saying anything. Krimakov
had him. He would kill him, kill him without hesitation,
without a qualm of regret, if she didn't do something. An innocent
child, it didn't matter to him, any more than Linda Cartwright had
mattered. She had to--
Agent Cobb knew it wasn't working, but he kept swinging the
watch as he said calmly, in an easy, deep voice, "You were sound
asleep, right, Becca, the night he took you?"
"Yes, I was," she said, her voice slow, mimicking his. "I remember
knowing that I wasn't dreaming, a very good thing. Then I felt
this prick in my arm and I jerked awake. It was him."
"But you couldn't make out his features? Could you make out
anything? Surmise anything from the way he was standing, the way
he held his arms? His body?"
She shook her head. "No, I'm sorry."
"You're not going under, Becca." Scratch sighed. He lowered
the beautiful gold watch, slipping it easily back into his vest pocket.
I don't know why it's not working. Usually someone very intelligent,
very creative, like you are, goes under right away. But you
didn't."





She knew why. She couldn't tell him, couldn't tell anyone.
He said in that same easy voice, hitting it right on target, "Something's
holding you back. Perhaps you know what it is?"When she
didn't say anything, he looked over at Thomas Matlock. "No go.
For whatever reason."
Tellie Hawley nodded. "Okay, then, we ask questions and you
answer as best you can."
She nodded and talked. And there wasn't anything at all new or
earth-shattering. Except--
"Adam, did anyone find anything in the hem of my nightgown?"
He shook his head.
"Then he must have found it," she said. "He let me go to the
bathroom. I knew I had to do something. I managed to unscrew
one of those enamel bolts that hold the toilet to the floor. I pulled
open the hem in my nightgown and worked it in. He must have
found it."
"Yes," said Hawley, "he found it. He left the toilet bolt in the
room, on Agent Mar lane's bed. The techs found it and I read it on
the collected evidence sheet--'one toilet bolt'--and I just forgot
about it in all the chaos. Actually when the techs found it, they
thought some nurse's aide had dropped it and they were laughing
about it. Well, it wasn't any joke. That proves conclusively it was the
same guy." He shook his head. "A toilet bolt, a damned toilet bolt."
"He was taunting us," Thomas said. He got to his feet and began
pacing the long living room. "I wish to God I knew where he
was. I'd just put an end to it. Face him, just the two of us."
Becca said, her voice overloud, too sharp, "No." And everyone
stared at her. "I will not let you face him alone, Father. No way."
They took a break in the kitchen, drinking coffee. Then Thomas
took them to his office to see some of his high-tech goodies. Then





they went back to the living room. It was then that Agent Cobb said to Becca, 
"May we try one more time to put you under?"
She agreed. What else could she do?
This time, though, Agent Cobb handed her a small white pill.
"It's a Valium, to help relax you, to keep you from focusing on
something else that might be holding you back. Nothing more
than that. You game?"
She took the Valium.
And ten minutes later, when Agent Cobb said, "Are you completely
relaxed now, Becca?" she answered in an easy, light voice,
"Yes, I am."
"You're aware of everything going on here?"
"Yes, Adam is over there staring at me as if he'd like to wrap me
into a very small package and hide me inside his coat pocket."
"What is your father doing?"
"It's still hard for me to think of him as my father. He was dead
for so very long, you know."
"Yes, I know. But he's here now, with you."
"Yes. He's sitting there wondering if he should let you continue
with this. He's afraid for me. I don't know why. This can't hurt me."
"No, it can't."
"She's right," Thomas said. "But I'll deal with it. Continue,
Agent Cobb."
Agent Cobb smiled and patted her hand. "Now, Becca, let's go
back to that night when you awoke to that prick in your arm."
She moaned, then jerked.
"It's all right," Agent Cobb said quickly. "Listen to me now. He's
not here. It's okay, you're safe."
"No, it's not okay. He'll kill him. I know he'll kill him. What am
I going to do? It's all my fault. He'll kill him!"





Just a slight pause, then Agent Cobb said, "You mean that he'll
kill you, Becca? You're afraid that he injected some long-waiting
poison in your arm?"
"Oh no. He'll kill him. I've got to do something. Oh God."
"Do you mean he'll kill your father?"
"No, no. It's Sam. He's got Sam." And then she started crying,
deep, tearing sobs that jerked her wide awake. "Oh, no," she said,
staring at all the appalled faces. "Oh, no."
"It's all right, Becca," Agent Cobb said. "You'll be just fine now."
Thomas said very slowly, "So that's what McBride had to say to
you. Krimakov kidnapped Sam and had McBride call the director
to find you and have you call him."
"No," she said. "No. I don't know what you're talking about."
Valium, she thought. She'd just killed Sam, just killed her father,
God knew who else, all because of one damned Valium.
Adam was on his feet. "Where's your address book? I'm going to
call McBride, find out what the hell's going on here."
"No," she said, jumping up to grab his arm. "No, you can't,
Adam."
"Why the hell not?"





Chapter 25

The room was dead silent.
"No, you can't have my address book."
"Fine. I'll call information." Adam walked toward the phone.
"We've got to know exactly what's going on here."
Becca didn't say another word. She ran out of the living room,
grabbed her purse from the table in the entryway, and made for the
front door.
"Becca! Dammit, come back here!"
She heard Adam yelling but didn't pay any attention. She heard
her father's voice, then Special Agent Cobb's voice. She didn't slow.
She was out on the narrow front porch before Adam reached the
entryway.
She heard all of them shouting at her, running after her, but she
knew she had to get away. No one else was going to die. Not Sam.
Not her father. She had to stop it. She didn't know how she was
going to do it yet, but she would think of something. She should
have thought of something before--maybe even been a bit on the
subtle side. Yes, you fool, you should have just calmly left the living
room, pretending to go upstairs or go to the bathroom, whatever.
But no, she'd lost it--here she was running away with people chasing
her, FBI agents everywhere. But that didn't matter, either. She
had no choice. If she could prevent it, no one else was going to die.
She ran.

There were no sidewalks in this very nice neighborhood, just





big lawns, thick curbs, and the road. She hit the road. She was fast,
always had been since she was on the track team in high school.
She put her head down, turned off all the voices, and ran. She felt
the breath pumping in and out of her lungs, felt herself filling with
energy, with power, expanding, moving faster, faster. Her feet in
Nikes -were unbeatable.
She ran right into Sherlock. Both women went down.
Becca was on her feet in an instant. "Sorry, but I've got to go."
"Stop her!"
Sherlock grabbed her ankle and pulled. Becca went down on
the edge of a lawn, hitting her hip on the curb. A shaft of sharp pain
went through her, but she ignored it. She was ready to fight, ready
to do whatever she had to, but Sherlock had somehow managed to
straddle her, how she didn't know, but she'd been fast, too fast, and
now she was holding her arms down. How could she be so strong
when she was so small, hardly anything to her at all? How did she
get her in this position so quickly? Sherlock was leaning over her,
her curly red hair bouncing against Becca's face. "What's going on
here, Becca?"
"Get off me, Sherlock. Please, you've got to let me go. I don't
want to hurt you."
"You can't hurt me, so don't even try. Tell me what's happened."
Becca started struggling, but then it just didn't matter, and she
stilled because Adam was there, not even panting hard, standing
over them, staring down at her, his hands on his hips. "Thanks for
bringing her down, Sherlock. That wasn't very smart, Becca."
Sherlock didn't like this one bit. She looked at all the men running
to the scene, even the two dark-suited FBI guys who'd been
parked discreetly down the street. "What's going on, Adam? Oh
yeah, given that I could have hurt Becca dragging her down, I'd





really better like the answer." She pulled herself off Becca and
slowly got to her feet. She held out her hand.
Becca looked at that slender white hand that was surely too
strong, but she didn't move. She just rolled over away from them,
grabbed her purse, and was off again. A sharp pain went through
her hip but she ignored it.
She got at least ten feet before two arms went around her waist
and she was picked up, twirled around, and thrown over a man's
shoulder. She hit her chin against his back, damn him. "Hold still,"
he said, and his voice was calm and quiet. Too calm, too quiet.
Sherlock was one thing. Having a big guy haul her over his
shoulder was another. It was humiliating. "Bullshit," she yelled, and
jerked and pulled and kicked. "All right," he said, and pulled her
down. He brought her back up against him, wrapped his arms
around her, and held on tight. No matter what she did, she couldn't
get free. He'd pinned her arms to her sides but good.
Three hours, she thought. Time was running out. "Oh God,
what time is it?"
"I'll tell you after you promise not to run away again."
She leaned down and bit his hand, hard. He didn't make a single
sound, just jerked her around to face him and said, "I'm sorry,
Becca," and lightly tapped his fist against her jaw. It was the
strangest feeling. It didn't really hurt, but she saw a whole skyful of
white lights, popping all over her brain, then it was as if someone
switched off the lights. Just nothing. She slumped against him.
"She's a fighter," he said to Sherlock, who was standing beside
him as he picked Becca up in his arms. He looked at the back of his
hand. At least he wasn't bleeding, but he could see the row of even
teeth marks. That had been close, too close. But now he had her,
thank God. She was too thin, he thought, as he carried her back.





She didn't weigh enough; well, he'd see to that. He'd force food
down her gullet if he had to. He frowned as he realized she was a
fast runner, very fast. He wasn't certain if he could have caught her
if Sherlock hadn't been there. He didn't like that thought, not one
bit. He saw Thomas striding toward him, looking frantic.
"What's going on here, Adam?" Suddenly Sherlock was right in
his face, and she wasn't going to move. He couldn't very well clip her
on the chin. She'd probably flatten him. Since she was married to
Savich, he wouldn't be surprised if she had a black belt, maybe two.
He said,"Krimakov kidnapped Sam McBride. Come on back to
the house and we'll let everyone know what's happening. Hell, she
promised McBride that she wouldn't tell anyone. However, when
Agent Cobb gave her some Valium to relax her so he could hypnotize
her, she inadvertently spilled the beans. She did go under.
Then it all came out."
"This is insane," said Sherlock. "That maniac kidnapped Sam? Let
me get ahold of Savich. I can't believe this. Is that guy everywhere?"
She stepped away and pulled the cell phone out of her purse.
The agents who'd been watching the house were now standing
next to Thomas and agents Hawley and Cobb.
They parted from his path and Adam carried Becca back into
the house, not saying another word. He hoped no neighbors in this
lovely neighborhood had seen this bizarre action and called the
cops.
"I hope you didn't hurt her," Thomas said, right on his heels.
"She nearly bit my hand off," Adam said.
"Yeah, but you brought her down."
"No, that was Sherlock. I just clamped my arms around her."
"You weren't gentle enough."
"Damn, Thomas, what did you want me to do, lie down and let
her stomp on me before she ran another four-minute mile?"





"Yeah, Adam," Agent Hawley said. "She got you good, but it's
not bleeding. Good straight teeth. Put her down on the couch."
Thomas covered her with an afghan Allison had given him
some seven years before. He didn't realize it was quite hot, since
they'd left the front door wide open and all the cold air had seeped
out.
"I was careful," Adam said, but he -was sitting beside her, lightly
touching her jaw where he'd hit her. "She shouldn't even bruise.
Listen,Thomas, she was going to run and run until we brought her
down. She would have fought me until I might have hurt her by
accident. She wasn't thinking."
"Yeah, I guess I understand." Thomas raised his eyes to Hawley
and Cobb. "We're in deep trouble now."
Becca moaned and opened her eyes. She lurched up only to
have two hands push her back down, and Adam's voice close to her
face saying, "If you try anything again, I'm going to lock you in
your room. If you bite me again, I'll lock you in your closet and
feed you moldy bread and water."
Her hair was hanging in her face, her jaw felt swollen and sore,
and she was so mad she wanted to spit. More than that, she was
desperate. She was tired of failing. All she'd done since Krimakov
had come into her life was fail. She raised her head and looked him
squarely in the eye. "That wasn't funny. Go to hell."
"No, I won't do that. What I want to do is help you if you'll just
let me."
The three hours were up, she knew it. She had to do something.
She had to do something right this minute. But it didn't matter. It
was too late. All of them knew now. She said, trying to control her
misery, her deadening fear, "I've got to call Tyler. I promised to call
him in three hours. If I don't, I don't know what he'll do, probably
go to the media. Don't you understand? Krimakov has Sam. He





wants me to come to Riptide, doesn't want me to tell you or Dad.
Tyler is desperate."
Adam came down on his knees in front of her. "Becca, look at
me."
"I was looking at you. You're trying to lighten things up. You
can't. You can't help me. Only I can do something here. I don't
want to look at you. Just because you're stronger, well, never mind
what you are, Sherlock got me first. It doesn't matter. I've got to
call Tyler. You can't help."
"All right." He rose and offered her his hand. A big hand, she
thought, a strong hand, and she wished she could take it and bite it
again, then flip him over the back of the sofa.
"You all right, sweetheart?" Thomas said, handing her a cup of tea.
Sweetheart? He'd called her sweetheart and it seemed to have
come out naturally, not a fake endearment. It nearly made her
cry. No one had ever called her sweetheart before. Her mom had
always called her honey, or when she was a little girl she'd been
Muffin.
She didn't let it touch her. She couldn't, not now at any rate.
"I've got to call Tyler, tell him that I'm coming right away to Riptide
and that none of you are coming with me. Do you understand?
Sam dies if anyone comes with me. No, Adam, just shut up.
I will not let that little boy die."
"But that doesn't make any sense," Thomas said slowly. "He
wants you, that's true, but he wants me more. Why doesn't he want
both of us to come to Riptide? The package deal he always
wanted? What's he up to now?"
Becca said, "I don't know. I agree that it doesn't make any sense
at all, but that's what he wrote in his note to Tyler. He told Tyler
how to contact me, and then when I did call,Tyler was to tell me to
come to Riptide alone. Not to tell either of you or Sam would die."





"Note?" Sherlock said. "What note?"
"The kidnapping note," Becca said. "Krimakov left it on Sam's
bed after he took him. Told him exactly what to do, told him that
if I didn't come, he'd kill Sam, just like Linda Cartwright."
"It might not even matter now," Sherlock said, "but if we can get
the note, I'll give it to our handwriting experts. Also, they can
compare the handwriting to other documents that you have,
Thomas, with Krimakov's handwriting on them."
Thomas said, "There are some samples of his handwriting, yes,
but what good would it do to analyze it? You're right, it probably
doesn't even matter now. We're coming down to the endgame
here." Thomas sighed and streaked his fingers through his hair. "I
wish to God I knew what kind of gambit Krimakov was playing."
Sherlock said, "I do, too, but since we don't, we have to keep using
the tools we've got. If he gives us the time, if he continues with
his delaying tactics, and more distractions, I can get the two samples
of his handwriting compared. Maybe they could tell us how far
over the edge he's gone, or maybe prove that all he's done is cold
manipulation and butchery, and he's as sane as you and I. Our
people are good, trust me. There's no reason not to do it."
"I've got to talk to Tyler," Becca said, rising, throwing off the
afghan. "Reassure him. Tell him what's going on here."
Sherlock said, "At the very least, if there's still time, the analysis
and comparison will let us know what we're up against. Trust me
on this. Get that note from Tyler, Becca."
"Yes, she will,"Thomas said. "Go make your call, Becca."
Becca nodded and walked to the phone, pulling the small address
book out of her purse as she walked. She looked up Tyler
McBride's number. She dialed.
After three rings,Tyler answered, his voice frantic. "Becca? Is that
you?"





"Yes, Tyler."
"Thank God. Where are you? What are you doing? What's happening?"
"Okay, Tyler, just listen to me. Here's the plan. It's the only way
to handle this, so don't yell at me. We're all coming up to Riptide,
but not together. No, just be quiet and listen. We're all going to
trickle in. He'll never know there's anyone else but me in Riptide.
I'll come directly to your house, we'll speak, he'll see me, then I'll
go to Jacob Marley's house. He'll come for me there. You know it.
I know it." She drew a deep breath. "He has no reason to kill Sam.
He'll have me, so he can keep his word and release him."
"The others will be hiding in Jacob Marley's house?"
"No, but they'll be close by. It will work,Tyler."
She was aware that all of them were staring at her, but she just
shook her head at them. It was the only way to go, and all of them
knew it. There'd been no reason to flail about and discuss any number
of options into the ground. She had to go and she knew no
one would let her go alone. Fine. They had a chance now. "Oh yes,
Tyler, I need you to give me Krimakov's note. Sherlock wants it.
Now, just go about your business. Don't say a word to anyone.
We'll be there in under four hours."
Slowly, she lowered the phone into its cradle. She looked up.
"Sam's not going to die."
"No," Adam said, walking to her, "no, he won't." Then he just
couldn't stand it. He pulled her against him and held her there, his
hand tight across her back, his other hand fisted in her hair. He felt
her heart beating against his chest, hard, fast strokes. He brought
her closer. He looked up to see Thomas staring at him, and slowly,
he loosened his fingers in her hair, smoothing it down, but he
didn't want to let her go.
Thomas said, "Agent Hawley and Agent Cobb, this kidnapping





will stay amongst us. It doesn't go to anyone else in the FBI. All
right?"
"No problem," said Tellie Hawley. "Hell, we're in this thing to
the end. That bastard butchered four of my people. I want him as
much as you do. If Savich and Sherlock aren't saying anything to
the higher-ups, why should we?"
"Let's get rolling," Sherlock said once Thomas had given her
several papers with Krimakov's handwriting. "We'll meet at Reagan
in an hour?"
"No," Thomas said. "We'll go over to Andrews Air Force Base.
I'll have a plane ready for us."
They were nearly out the door when Thomas's private phone
rang. He looked undecided, then said, "Hold on. It's got to be important
if it's on that phone."
Slowly, because she didn't really want to, Becca forced herself to
pull away from Adam. "I'm all right," she said.
"I'm not," he said, and smiled at her. "We'll get through this."
They all followed Thomas back to his study, watched him pick
up the phone on the edge of the mahogany desk.
"Yes? . . . Hello, Gaylan."
It was Gaylan Woodhouse, the CIA director. They all watched
Thomas's face stiffen, then slowly turn pale and set. "Oh no," he
said, his voice bleak. "You're absolutely certain of all this?"
They watched him lower the phone and stare over at them. He
looked shaken, dazed. "This is just too much," he said. "Just too
much."
"What the hell is it?" Adam was at Thomas's side in but a moment.
Thomas shook his head, his eyes dazed. There was a fine tremor
in his hands. "You're not going to believe this. CIA Agent Elizabeth
Pirounakis was blown up when she went into Vasili Kri





makov's apartment in Iraklion. Krimakov must have worked there,
left notes there, evidence of his plans.
"The whole building blew up. It's now rubble. Agent Pirounakis
is dead, the two other Greek agents with her dead as well. Gaylan
isn't certain yet, but given the time of the explosion, thankfully
very few people were in the apartment building."
"He did this before he left Crete," Agent Hawley said. "It's not
something he's just done."
Adam said, "At least now there has to be an inquiry about the
guy they buried. Surely now they can't hang on to the fiction that
the man in the car accident was Vasili Krimakov?"
Thomas looked at Adam. "It doesn't much matter now. There's
hell to pay over there, but that doesn't help us."
"Time," Adam said. "It's what he hasn't given us."
Thomas nodded, then paused another moment and looked over
at his daughter. "You're right. Let's go."
She gave him a smile filled with rage and said, "Yes. Lock and
load."





Chapter 26

It was hot that day in Maine, even by the water. Lobster boats
bobbed up and down in the inlets, fishermen, their hats pushed
back on their heads, lay in the shade of the awnings on their boats,
if they were lucky enough to have awnings.
The white spires of the Riptide churches shone beneath the
bright afternoon sun. There wasn't much movement anywhere. It
was just too hot. The tourists weren't wandering around taking
photos of the quaint Maine town, they were holed up in air-conditioned
pubs.
The hot weather didn't bother the birds. Osprey dove for fish off
the spruce-covered points. Gulls squawked and whirled over the
lobster boats. The smell of dead fish left too long in the heat sent
out odors that meant you had to take shallow breaths to survive.
Cumulus clouds in fantastic shapes dotted the steel-blue sky. There
was no breeze at all. Still, hot air blanketed the land.
Becca was so scared that all the beauty of the land and ocean, the
sound of the birds, the incredible blue of the sky--none of it penetrated
her brain. She felt frozen in the near hundred-degree heat.
She'd driven herself in a rented white Toyota from a private airfield
near Camden. It had taken her nearly an hour to negotiate the
tourist traffic on Highway 1 south to Riptide, just below Rock-land.
Her hands were clammy, her heart slowly thudding in her
chest. She tried to think of all that could go wrong, but her mind
just wouldn't slip into gear.





When a mosquito bit her as she was pumping gas, she was
pleased that she felt it. She wasn't even aware of being pissed off
that the rental agency hadn't filled her car before renting it to her.
When she arrived in Riptide at three o'clock in the afternoon,
she drove directly to Tyler's house on Gum Shoe Lane. He was
standing in the yard, waiting for her. He was quite alone.
Tyler held her very close, as if she were a lifeline, and so she
stood there, his arms locked tightly around her. Finally, she eased
back and looked up at him. "Any word at all?"
"Another note from Krimakov."
"Let me see it."
"This is all a huge mess, Becca."
"Yes, I know, and I'm so sorry for it, Tyler. It's all my fault. If I
could go back into the past, make the decision not to come here,
I swear I would. I'm so sorry. I swear that Sam will be all right. I
swear it to you."
He looked at her for a very long time, but he didn't say anything,
to either agree or disagree.
"Show me the new note. Then I'll take both of them with me,
okay?"
The note was handwritten, big strokes, black ballpoint: The boy
will be all right for another eight hours. If Rebecca isn't here, he's dead.
She folded both notes, put them in the pocket of her sundress,
and left for Jacob Marley's house twenty minutes later. Undoubtedly
Krimakov was watching Tyler's house, at least he should be. She
would call in another half hour just in case Krimakov hadn't been
watching. For sure he'd have a trace on Tyler's phone.
She unlocked the front door of Jacob Marley's house. It was so
still and hot inside, so very silent, nothing moving at all, not a single
sound, not even a floorboard. She opened all the windows and
switched on the overhead fans. The hot air stirred, nothing more,





until fresh air began creeping in. The curtains billowed ever so
slightly.
So quiet. It was so very quiet in the house. She went into the
kitchen and put on water to boil. She'd make iced tea, there were
still bags in the cabinet. She opened the refrigerator, saw that it had
been cleaned out, and wondered who had done it. Probably Rachel
Ryan, she thought. It was a nice thing for her to do. She had to
go to the Food Fort. Good, he could see her driving around,
know that she was here, know that she was alone. She hoped she
wouldn't see Sheriff Gaffney because surely he'd want to talk to her.
When she got into the Toyota, she pulled out the small button
on her wristband and said,"I'm heading out to Food Fort now. The
cupboard's bare. I'll be back in under an hour. I want to make sure
he knows I'm here. I'll leave the notes on the front seat of the car
at Food Fort."Then she pushed the button back in.
She was greeted at Food Fort like she was a celebrity. Everyone
knew who she was, impossible for them not to now, what with her
photo and her story on every news station in the United States.
People peered around corners to look at her, even stare at her, but
they really didn't want to get close enough to speak to her. She
smiled, nothing more, and put stuff in her shopping cart.
When she was checking out, a woman behind her said, "Well, finally
I get to see you. Sheriff Gaffney told me all about you, what
a pretty girl you are, how there was this big fellow there at Jacob
Marley's house who really wasn't your cousin. He didn't buy that
one for a minute. You really lied to him, didn't you, and he couldn't
do anything about it. But now everyone knows who you are."
"But I don't know who you are, ma'am."
"I'm Mrs. Ella, his chief assistant."
It was the Mrs. Ella who'd kept her from getting hysterical when
she'd called the sheriff's office to report the skeleton falling out of




the wall in the basement by telling her about all her dogs, every last
one of them. Mrs. Ella, who also shopped at Sherry's Lingerie
Boutique. She was a big woman, muscular, with a corded neck and
a mustache shadowing her upper lip.
"You're a liar, Miss Powell. No, you're Miss Matlock. You made
up that name when you came here."
"I had to lie. So nice to speak to you, ma'am."
"Ha, I'll just bet. Why are you back here?"
Becca smiled. "I'm a tourist now, ma'am. I'm going to go out on
a lobster boat." And she hefted her two grocery bags and left Food
Fort.
"The sheriff will want to speak to you," Mrs. Ella yelled after
her. "It's a pity he had to drive to Augusta on Official Business."
She heard Mrs. Ella say behind her, as she was supposed to,
"She's back here to do more bad things, you mark my words, Mrs.
Peterson. Here she was all nice and hysterical when she found
Melissa Katzen's skeleton in her basement wall, but it was all a lie.
If the skeleton hadn't been so old, I would have bet she'd done it."
Becca turned slowly in the half-open door, her arms aching
with the heavy bags, and said, "Melissa Katzen was murdered,
ma'am, and not by me. That isn't a lie. Does anyone know anything
yet?"
"No," called out Mrs. Peterson, the cashier, who had bright red
dyed hair. "We're not even one hundred percent sure that it is
Melissa Katzen. The DNA tests haven't come back yet. It takes
weeks, Sheriff Gaffney said."
"No, I'm the one who told you that," Mrs. Ella said. "Sheriff
Gaffney doesn't keep track of DNA sorts of stuff, I do. As for you,
Ms. Matlock, I'm going to tell the sheriff that you're here again just
as soon as I can raise him on his cell phone, which he usually doesn't
carry because he hates technology."





When Becca got back to the car, the notes in Krimakov's handwriting
were gone. She hoped the sheriff wouldn't get to her anytime
soon. She hoped that her little trip to Food Fort wouldn't
backfire. Surely Krimakov knew she was here now, surely.
Riptide, she thought as she got into the Toyota, her haven once
upon a time, with its Food Fort on Poison Oak Circle and Goose's
Hardware on West Hemlock. She drove slowly along Poison Ivy
Lane, then turned onto Foxglove Avenue, down two blocks to her
street, Belladonna Drive. She turned yet again on Gum Shoe Lane,
drove past Tyler's house, then turned back onto Belladonna Drive
to Jacob Marley's house. It was getting a bit cooler, thank God,
even though the sun was still high in the summer sky. Maine gave
you the earliest sunrise and latest sunset.
She was still wearing the light-blue cotton sundress that Sherlock
had brought back to New York with her, and she wished she
had a sweater. Fear seemed to leach the heat right out of her.
The house was cooler. She made iced tea, put together a tuna
salad sandwich, and sat out on the wide veranda, watching night
slowly fall. She wondered if anyone would slip into Jacob Marley's
house. The wristband was one-way.
Odd, but she didn't think about Krimakov. She thought about
Adam, his face now clear in her mind.
He'd snuck up on her, just as, she supposed, she'd snuck up on
him. She smiled. He was a good man, sexy as hell, which she
wouldn't tell him just yet, and he had a streak of honor a mile wide.
Even when she'd bitten his hand and cursed him, wanted to kick
him into the dirt, she'd known that honor of his was real and
wouldn't ever change to suit the circumstance.
And Adam knew her father a lot better than she did. And he'd
never said a word. What did that say about this mile-wide honor of
his? She'd have to think about that.





She took the last bite of her sandwich and wadded up the napkin.
It was nearly dark now. Surely Krimakov would do something
soon. Her Coonan was in the pocket of her sundress. She hadn't
told anyone about the gun, but she suspected that Adam knew she
had it. He'd kept his mouth shut, a smart move, or else she might
have bitten him again.
She hadn't seen a soul, at least not a soul who was here especially
for her. It would be soon, she felt it. Krimakov was close. Everyone
else was close, too. She wasn't alone in this. And she thought
of Sam and of Krimakov's note.
She waited and looked up at the sliver of moon in the dark sky.
She prayed that Sheriff Gaffney had decided not to come see her
tonight. Finally, she walked into the house, shut and locked the
front door. She closed and locked all the windows. She didn't want
to go upstairs to the bedroom where he'd hidden in her closet and
stuck a needle in her arm.
She was on the stairs when the phone rang. Her fingers clutched
at the oak railing so tightly they turned white. The phone rang
again. It had to be Krimakov.
It was. She pushed the small button on the wristband and
pressed her wrist close to the phone receiver.
"Hello, Rebecca. It's your boyfriend." His voice was playful,
filled with crazy fun. It scared her to death. "Hey, I hope I didn't
hurt you too badly when I threw you out of the car in New York?"
His voice was still mischievous, but now he'd pitched it lower,
maybe even put a handkerchief over the mouthpiece. She wondered
if her father would recognize his voice after twenty years.
"No, you didn't hurt me too badly, but you already know that,
don't you? You killed four people in NYU Hospital to get to me
and my father, but we weren't there. You failed, you murdering
butcher. Where the hell is Sam? Don't you dare hurt that little boy."





"Why not? He's worth nothing except that he did get you here
for me. I'll just bet the CIA director got ahold of you really fast.
Now you're here and you're alone, I see. You followed my instructions.
Hard to believe they let you come here all by yourself, all
unprotected."
"I ran away. I'm waiting for you, you bastard. Come here and
bring Sam."
"Now, now, there's no rush, is there?"
He was playing with her, nothing new in that. She drew a deep
breath, tried to be calm. "I don't understand why you didn't want
my father to come with me. It's him you want to kill, isn't that
right?"
"Your father is a very bad man, Rebecca, very bad, indeed. You
have no idea what he's done, how many innocent people he's destroyed."
"I know that he shot your wife by accident a long time ago, and
that you swore to get revenge. All the rest of it, it's a fabrication of
your own crazy mind. I don't think anyone has killed more people
than you have. Listen to me, please. Why not just stop it all now?
My father was devastated when he accidentally shot your wife. He
told me you had brought her with you, faking a vacation when you
were really there to assassinate that visiting German industrialist.
Why did you use your wife like that?"
"You know nothing about it. Shut up."
"Why won't you tell me? Did you really believe that she
wouldn't be in any danger if you took her with you?"
"I told you to shut up, Rebecca. Hearing you talk about that
wonderful woman dirties her memory. You're from his seed, and
that makes you as filthy as he is."
"All right, fine. I'm filthy. Now, why didn't you want my father
to come here with me? Don't you still want to kill him?"





"I will, never fear. How and when I do it is up to me, isn't it, Rebecca?
Everything is always up to me."
"What am I doing here alone? Why did you take Sam if you just wanted me to come 
here to Riptide?"
"It got you here quickly, didn't it? You'll find out everything in
time. Your father was smart. He hid you and your mother very
well. It took me a very long time to find you two. Actually, it was
you I found first, Rebecca. There was an article about you in the
Albany newspaper that was picked up in syndication. It talked
about you. I saw your name and got interested. I found out about
your mother, your supposedly dead father, and then I learned about
your mother's travels each year. It was then I knew. Most of her
trips were to Washington, D.C."
He laughed. Her skin crawled. "Hey, I'm real sorry about your
mother, Rebecca. I had hoped to get to know her really well, but
then she had to go so quickly into the hospital. I suppose I could
have gotten into Lenox Hill easily enough and killed her, but why
not let the cancer do it? More painful that way. At least I hoped it
would be. But as it turned out, your mother didn't have a lick of
pain, that's what a nice nurse told me. Then she patted my arm in
sympathy. She just went away in her mind and stayed there. No
pain at all. Even if I had come to her, she wouldn't have known it,
so why bother?
"But you're different, Rebecca. I have you now and I will have
your father, also. I will kill that bloody murderer." She heard the
rage now in his voice, low and bubbling, and it would build and
build. She heard his breathing, harsh but more controlled now, and
he said finally, "I want you to get in your car and drive to the gym
on Night Shade Alley. Do it now, Rebecca. That little boy is depending
on you."
"Wait! What do I do when I get there?"





"You'll know what to do. I've missed you. You have a lovely
body. I touched you with my hands, ran my tongue all over you.
Did you know I left that toilet bolt on that woman's bed at NYU
Hospital? It was for you, Rebecca, so that you would know that I
was all over you, looking at you, feeling you, rubbing you. You
hoped when you unscrewed that bolt that you could smash it in
my eye, didn't you?"
She was shaking with fear and rage, each so powerful alone, but
mixed together they quaked through her, making her light headed.
"You're an old man," she said. "You're a filthy old man. The
thought of you even near me makes me want to vomit."
He laughed, a deep laugh that was terrifying. "I'll see you very
soon now, Rebecca. And then I'll have a surprise for you. Never
forget, this is my game and you will always play by my rules."
He hung up. She knew in her gut that wherever he was hiding
this time, there wouldn't have been any way to trace the call, no
matter how sophisticated the equipment. All the others knew it,
too.
She depressed the button. They'd heard everything. They knew
exactly what she knew now.
She didn't take anything with her, except her Coonan. When
she got into the Toyota, she again pressed the small button, then
started the car. "I'm leaving for the gym now."
Her precious mother, she thought. She'd escaped him by falling
into the coma. He'd been in the hospital, asking about her. It was
too much, just too much.
She drove to Klondike's Gym in just over eight minutes. It sat
right at the very end of Night Shade Alley, a big concrete parking
lot in front, trees crowding in all around the rest of the two-story
building. There were windows all across the front, lights filling all
of them. There were at least two dozen cars in the big concrete lot.





She'd been here once with Tyler. That had been in the middle of
the day. Not nearly the number of cars there then. Perhaps since it
was so hot during the day, the Mainers waited until the evening
cool to work out. She drove in, picked a place that had no cars near
it, turned off the engine, and sat there. Five minutes passed. Nothing.
No sign of Krimakov, no sign of anyone at all.
She depressed the button on the wristband. "I don't see him. I
don't see anything out of the ordinary. There are lots of people
here."
Everyone should be here by now. They were ready. They all
wanted Krimakov. They would do absolutely nothing until they
had Krimakov. Everyone had agreed on that.
There was nothing to worry about. "I'm going in now." She got
out of the car and walked into the gym. There was a bright-faced young man at 
the counter, looking like he'd just worked out hard.
His clothes were sweated through. "Hi," he said, and looked at her.
She wasn't wearing workout clothes.
She smiled. "I was here once before and I rented a locker in the
women's locker room. My clothes are there. I need to pick them
up."
"I know you. You've been on TV, on every channel."
"Yes. May I please come in now?"
"That'll be ten dollars. What are you doing here?"
She opened her wallet and pulled out a twenty. "I'm here to
pick up my workout clothes." He didn't even look up. She watched
him for what seemed like forever as he got her a ten in change. He
pressed a buzzer and she went through the turnstile.
The room was large, filled with machines and free weights and
mirrors. The lights were very bright, nearly blinding. A radio
played loud rock, booming out from the overhead speakers. There
were lots of young people here tonight, thus the raucous music.





There were at least thirty people throughout the big room. Upstairs
were all the aerobic machines. She heard talk, music, groans,
the harsh movement of the machines, nothing else.
What was she to do?
She walked back to the women's locker room. There were three
women inside, in various stages of undress. No one paid her any attention.
Nothing there.
She walked out of the dressing room, and this time she walked
slowly, roaming through the big room, looking at all the men.
Many of them were young, but there were some older ones as well,
all of them different one from the other--fat, thin, in shape,
paunchy. So many different sorts of men, all there on this night,
working away. Not one of them approached her.
What to do?
A couple of young guys were horsing around, doing fake hits,
laughing, insulting each other. One of them accidentally backed
into the arm of an old chest machine. The big weighted arms
weren't clicked in to a setting. When the young guy hit it, it swung
out and hit her squarely on her upper right arm. She stumbled into
a big Nautilus machine and lost her balance. She went down.
"Oh shit. I'm sorry. You all right?"
He was helping her up, rubbing her shoulder, her arm, looking
at her now with a young male's natural sexual interest. "Hey, talk to
me. You okay?"
"Yes, I'm fine, don't worry."
"I haven't seen you here before. You new in town?"
"Yes, sort of."
He was lightly touching her arm now, as if assuring himself that
she was okay, and she tried to smile at him, assure him that she was
just fine. The other young man came up on the other side, vying
with the first for her attention.





"Hey, I'm Troy. Would you like to go have a drink with me? I
figure I owe you since I knocked you on your butt."
"Or maybe you'd like to go with both of us? I'm Steve."
"No, thank you, guys. I absolve you of all guilt. I have to leave
now."
She finally managed to get away from them. She turned once
and saw them looking after her, smiling, waving, looking really
pleased with themselves now that she'd looked back at them.
Neither of them was more than twenty-five, she thought. Well-built
boys. She was twenty-seven. She felt ancient.
Finally, because she couldn't think of anything else to do, she
went through the turnstile at the front of the gym. The young guy
who'd let her in wasn't there. No one was there. She felt a ripple
of alarm. Where had the kid gone? Maybe a shower. Yeah, that was
it. He'd really been sweating.
She thought she saw a shadow just outside the front door. It was
one of the good guys, she thought, it had to be.
Where was Krimakov? He'd said she'd know what to do. He was
wrong.
She walked slowly back to the Toyota. The lights weren't bright
in this part of the lot and that was why she'd elected to park here.
She hadn't wanted to park close by other cars, hadn't wanted to
take the risk of Krimakov hurting anyone else. Now she wished
she hadn't because no one seemed to be about.
She reached out her hand to the door handle. Suddenly, without
warning, she felt a sharp sting in the back of her left shoulder. She
gasped, whirled around, but there was nothing, no one. Just the dim
light from the lights overhead. No movement. Nothing. She felt
herself slipping. That was odd--she was falling, but slowly, just sort
of sliding down against the door of her car.





Chapter 27

"No" she said into her wristband. "Nobody move. I'm all right. I
don't see him. Don't move. Something struck me in the left shoulder,
but I'm okay. Stay where you are until he comes out."
She sat on the concrete, the unforgiving hard roughness against
her bare legs. She put her head back, listened to her heart pounding,
did nothing, unable to do anything. She wanted to cry out but
she didn't, she couldn't, Sam's life was at stake, and if she did cry
out, she knew Adam would come running. She couldn't allow that.
What had he done to her? What kind of drug had he shot into her
back? Had he killed her? Would she die here in the concrete parking
lot at the gym?
Now she felt only light pain in her shoulder. She pressed back
against the door and felt something sharp dig into her flesh. Something
was sticking out of her shoulder. She said quietly, because she
didn't know if Krimakov was near, "No, don't move. He shot me
with something, and now I can feel some sort of dart sticking out
of my back. Don't move. I'm all right. There's still no sign of Krimakov."
She reached both arms back and managed to grip the narrow
shaft. What was going on here? Slowly, because it seemed the
only thing to do, she pulled on the shaft. It slipped right out, sliding
easily through her flesh, not deep at all, just barely piercing the
skin. She leaned over, suddenly light headed. She believed she
would faint but she didn't. "I'm all right. Stay hidden. It's some
kind of small dart. Just a moment."


She looked at the shaft she'd pulled out of her shoulder. There
was something rolled tightly around it. Paper. She pulled it off, unrolled
it. Her fingers were clumsy, slow.
She was still alone, still sitting by her car. No one had come out
of the gym.
She managed to make out the black printing on the unrolled
piece of paper in the dim light. It was in all caps:

GO HOME. YOU'LL FIND THE BOY
YOUR BOYFRIEND

"It says that Sam's at home. Nothing more. He signed it 'Your
Boyfriend.'"
What was going on here? She didn't understand, and doubted
that any of the others did, either. She wanted to drive like a bat out
of hell to get back to Jacob Marley's house, to find Sam, but she
couldn't, she was too dizzy. Waves of light headedness came over
her at odd moments. She drove home slowly, watching for other
cars, headlights behind her. But nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
She knew they had to stay low. No one wanted to risk Sam's
life by showing themselves too soon.
She was clearheaded by the time she reached Jacob Marley's
house. She turned off the engine, sat there a minute, staring at the
house. Everything was silent. The sliver of moon shone nearly directly
overhead now.
There were lights on only downstairs. She remembered she hadn't
even gone upstairs, hadn't wanted to, and then the phone had rung.
Had Sam been locked in her closet upstairs all this time where
Krimakov had hidden himself waiting for her to get into bed?
She was into the house in under three seconds, racing up the
stairs, picturing Sam tied up, stuffed in the back of her closet, perhaps





unconscious, perhaps even dead. She yelled at the wristband, "Is
everyone still there? Oh God, of course you are! I think you'd better
still stay out of sight. I don't know what he's up to. You don't,
either. Stay hidden. I'll find Sam if he's here."
She dashed into her bedroom and switched on the light. The
room was still, stuffy, closed up for too long. She pulled open the
closet door. No Sam. She knew they could hear her footsteps
pounding up the stairs, hear her harsh breathing, hear her curse
when she didn't find Sam.
She went into every room, opened every closet, searched every
bathroom on the second floor.
"No Sam yet. I'm looking."
She called out to him again and again until she was nearly hoarse.
She was in the kitchen, pacing, when she saw the door to the
basement. Oh, Jesus, she thought, and pulled it open. She flipped
on the single light switch. The naked hundred-watt bulb flickered,
then strengthened.
"Sam!"
He was sitting on the concrete floor, propped against a wall,
bound hand and foot, a gag in his mouth. His eyes were wide, dilated
with terror. How long had the bastard left him sitting in the dark?
"Sam!" She was on her knees next to him, working the gag
loose. "It's all right, honey. I'll have you loose in just another second."
She got the gag off him. "You okay?"
"Becca?"
A thin little voice, barely there, and she nearly wept. "It's all
right," she said again. "Let me get you untied, then we'll go upstairs
and I'll make you some hot chocolate and wrap you up in a real
warm blanket."
He didn't say anything more, not that she expected him to. She
got his ankles and wrists untied and lifted him in her arms. When






she got back into the kitchen, she sat down with him and began
rubbing the feeling back into his wrists and ankles. "It will be all
right now, Sam. Do you hurt anywhere else?"
He shook his head. Then he said,"I was scared, Becca, real scared."
"I know, baby, I know. But you're with me now. I'm not going
to let you out of my sight." She carried him into the living room
and wrapped him in an afghan. Then she went back to the kitchen,
sat him down in a chair, the blanket firmly wrapped around him.
"Now some hot chocolate. You hungry, Sam?"
He shook his head. "I want Rachel. My tummy feels weird. She
knows what to do."
"Mine would, too, if I'd been through what you have. I'll tell
your dad that you want Rachel." While the water heated, she
poured the cocoa mix into a cup. Then she held Sam close again,
telling him how brave he was, how everything was all right now,
how she would call his father. While Sam was drinking the chocolate,
Becca, not taking her eyes off him, pulled out her cell phone
and called Tyler. "I've got him. He's safe."
"Thank God. Where are you?"
"At home. Krimakov put him in the basement. He's all right,
Tyler."
"I'll be right there."
Obviously they'd all heard her but had waited to see if Krimakov
was going to show himself. But no longer. Sam was safe. Still, there
wasn't a sign of Krimakov. She'd forgotten to tell Tyler to get
Rachel.
Adam came through the back door like an avenging angel. Then
he saw Sam's white face, saw that the little kid was all wrapped up
in a pale-green afghan. He wanted to kill Krimakov with his bare
hands.
He slowed down, pinned a big smile on his face. He came down





on his haunches beside him. "Hi, Sam. You're the youngest hero
I've ever known."
Sam stared at him for a minute, then he smiled, a really big smile.
"Really?"
Adam was surprised to hear even that one short word out of
him. "Really. The youngest. Boy, am I impressed. Do you think
you could tell Becca and me what happened?"
Tyler came running through the front door. He stopped cold
when he saw the three of them, but his eyes were on Becca first,
then slowly he looked at his son.
He didn't say another word, just scooped up Sam in his arms
and sat down with him. He rocked him back and forth. Becca
thought the contact was more for Tyler than to comfort his son.
Finally, he raised his head and said quietly, "Tell me what happened."
Becca told him, short, stripped sentences, no emotion in them,
stark facts, no details.
"But why did this Krimakov take Sam when all he did was get
you here then tell you he was here in the house?"
"I don't know. Adam, did any of you see him? Did you see anything
at all?"
Adam shook his head. "We've been looking, behind every
damned tree."
She wished then that she hadn't reminded Tyler that Adam was
here. His eyes narrowed, he hugged Sam more tightly to him. "You
bastard, this is all your fault."
"Get a grip, McBride. Your son is all right. Now, if you don't
mind, let's see if Sam can tell us anything about the guy who took
him. You know it's important. You don't want Krimakov to get
Becca again, do you?"
Tyler said, "Sam rarely says anything, you know that."





"He had a thick sock over his head. I never saw him. He gave
me potato chips to eat. I was real hungry, but he told me to be
quiet, that Becca would come for me soon enough."
Everyone stared at Sam. He looked quite pleased with himself.
He grinned at Becca.
"Sam, that's great." Becca came down on her knees beside him.
"I did come for you, didn't I? That's right, sweetie. Take another
drink of your hot chocolate. It's good, isn't it? Now, tell us what
you were doing when he got you."
But Sam didn't say anything more. He looked once at his father,
yawned, and shut down. It was the strangest thing she'd ever seen.
Sam just shut his eyes and went to sleep, slumping against Tyler's
chest. One minute smiling, then just gone.
"He's a very brave little kid," Adam said, rising. "If it's okay with
you, McBride, can we speak to him in the morning? At least try?"
Tyler looked like he wanted to shoot all of them, but in the end,
he slowly nodded. "I'm taking him home now."
Adam looked at Becca, then said, "Nah, forget about us talking
to him again. Sam probably doesn't have all that much more to tell
us that would be useful. It's done and over. Please don't tell the
sheriff about it. We're leaving right now. I guess whatever it was
Krimakov wanted, he got."
"But what the hell did he want?"
"I don't know, Tyler," Becca said. She kissed Sam's cheek. "He's
a very brave little boy."
"Will you come back to see him again?"
"Yes," she said. "I will. I promise. We just have to get all this business
resolved first."
When Tyler was out the front door, Adam said suddenly, "Hold
it right there, Becca. Your back. With all the excitement, I forgot
about your back. He shot you with something. Let me see."





But there wasn't much to see. A bit of blood, a small hole, nothing
more. "Why did he do this?"
"I don't know," Becca said to him over her shoulder, "but I
promise I feel just fine. Here's the dart he shot into my shoulder.
You see the rolled paper around it."
Adam unrolled the paper, frowned as he read it. "The bastard.
What is he thinking? What is his plan? I hate this. He's controlling
us. All we're doing is reacting to what he initiates. Damnation."
"I know. But we'll turn it around. Come on, Adam, let's get out
of here. I'm very relieved that Sheriff Gaffney hasn't found his way
here yet. Where is my father? Sherlock and Savich?"
"Sherlock went back to Washington with the handwriting samples.
Your father, Savich, Hawley, and Cobb are waiting for us. I'll
tell them to meet us at the airport; we're out of here."
They were driving away in her rented Toyota when she thought
she saw Sheriff Gaffney's car in the distance. She stomped down on
the gas.
She looked over at Adam's profile. He looked pissed and very
tired. Not physically tired, but a defeated tired. She understood because
she felt the same way.
Nothing made any sense. He'd gotten her here, he'd shot her
with a dart in the shoulder, and delivered Sam. Nothing else.
Where was Krimakov? What in God's name was he planning to
do now?

Dr. Ned Breaker, a physician whose son Savich had gotten back
safely after a kidnapping some years before, was waiting at Thomas's
house when they arrived.
All the men shook hands, Savich thanking him for coming. "She
refused to go to a hospital."





"No one you work with ever does," Dr. Breaker said.
"This is Becca, Thomas's daughter. She's your patient, Ned."
"Dr. Breaker," she said, "I'm really okay, nothing's wrong. Adam
already checked me out."
Adam said, "And now it's time for the real doctor to step up and
have a look at the wound in your shoulder. We have no idea what
was on that shaft that Krimakov shot into you. Be quiet, Becca, and
do as you're told, for once."
She'd honestly forgotten about her shoulder. It didn't hurt.
Adam had washed it with soap and water and put a Band-Aid over
it. She was frowning when Thomas said, "Please, Becca."
"All right then." She took off her sweater and lifted her hair out
of the way.
"Come into the light," Dr. Breaker said. She felt his fingers on
the wound, gently pressing, pushing the flesh together, perhaps to
see if any liquid or poison or God knew what came out. Finally, he
said, "This is very strange. You were actually shot with this dart in
the parking lot of a gym?"
"That's it."
She felt his fingers probe the area again, then he stepped away.
"I'm going to take some blood, make sure there's nothing bad going
on inside you. It looks fine, just a shallow puncture wound.
Why'd he do it?"
"I think it might have just been to deliver a note to us," Savich
said. "There was a note wrapped around the shaft."
"I see. Interesting mail delivery service this guy has. Well, better
to be careful." He took a sample of her blood, then left, saying that
he'd have results for them in two hours.
"A very good man to have as a friend," Savich said. "I wonder,
though, how many more favors he'll believe he owes me."





Thomas said to Savich, but his eyes were on his daughter, "You
got his kid back for him. He'll believe he owes you forever."
It was nearly one o'clock in the morning when Dr. Breaker
called. Thomas took the call, looked very relieved as he listened.
He was smiling when he turned to Becca and Adam. "Everything's
okay. Nothing there but your beautiful normal stuff, Becca. He
said not to worry."
Becca had rather hoped there might be something, nothing terminal,
naturally, but something. Otherwise, they still had not a single
clue about anything. Krimakov had kidnapped Sam to get her
back to Riptide. Then he'd shot her in the shoulder to deliver that
ridiculous note. In the gym parking lot. Nothing made sense.
That night Adam came to her. It was very dark in her room. She
was lying there, unable to sleep even though it was very late, staring
toward the window, looking at the slice of white moon just
above the maple treetops. The trees were silhouetted stark and
silent against the night, and they were perfectly still, no breeze at
all. Thank God the house was air-conditioned. It was cool in her
bedroom.
Her door opened, then closed quietly. His voice was soft,
pitched low. "Don't be afraid. It's just me. And I'm not here to
jump you, Becca."
She looked over at him, standing with his back against her closed
door.

"Why not?"
He laughed, a painful sound, and walked toward her, tall, strong,
and she wanted him.
He said, stopping beside her bed, looking down at her, "You
never say what I expect. I want to jump you, at least a dozen times
an hour, but no, this is your father's house. One doesn't do that un





der the parental roof -when one isn't married. But don't get me
wrong. If I could strip that nightgown off you, I would have it
gone in a second flat. But I can't. Not here. I just wanted to see
how you were doing. Oh hell, that's a big lie. I'm here because I
want to kiss you until we're both stupid with pleasure."
He was beside her then, drawing her up and against his chest, and
he kissed her, lightly, then with more pressure, and she opened her
mouth and didn't want him to stop. His breath was hot and sweet,
his scent rich, dark, and that mouth of his was delicious, and she let
herself enjoy him fully. She wanted more and more. It was Adam
who pushed her gently back after what seemed like only an instant.
"You're beautiful," he said and streaked his fingers through her
hair, pushing it behind her ears. "Even with your hair still a bit
brassy."
"I'm not stupid with pleasure yet, Adam."
"I'm not, either, but we've got to stop." He was breathing hard, his hands 
flexing and unflexing against her back.
"Maybe we could kiss just a little bit more?"
"Listen, if we don't stop right now, I'll start crying because I
know that sooner or later we'd have to stop. We'll stop now before
it kills me."
"All right, then. You be strong and let me mess with you just a
bit." She kissed his chin once, then again. She touched her fingers
to his cheeks, his nose, his brows, lightly traced over his mouth. She
looked at his mouth as she said, "I haven't told you this before,
Adam. So much has happened. We haven't known each other all
that long, and nothing we've done together has been remotely normal
or predictable. But here goes: You're very, very sexy."
He stared at her in the dim light as if he hadn't understood her.
"What did you say? You think I'm sexy?"
"Oh, yes, the sexiest man I've ever seen. And finally I've gotten





to kiss you. I like it, very much. I kissed your chin because it's sexy, too.
He looked inordinately pleased with himself, and with her. "I
guess being sexy is okay. Is that all you think of me,Becca? I'm just
a sexy hunk? Isn't there anything else, maybe, that you'd like to say
to me?"
"What else should I say? Your ego is big enough without my
saying more." Then she looked up at him beneath her lashes, a
provocative thing to do, and she knew it. For the first time in so
very long, actually, longer than she could remember, she allowed
herself to enjoy what was happening here.
He didn't say anything, then suddenly he pulled her tightly
against him again. He was rubbing his big hands up and down her
back. His breathing was sharp, ragged. "I was scared to death when
you were in that damned gym parking lot. When he shot that dart
at you, Savich had to just about sit on me. I knew I shouldn't move,
shouldn't yell like a banshee, but it was hard just staying still, watching
you, damned hard. In fact, it was about the hardest thing I've
ever had to do in my blessed life."
He pressed his forehead to hers, holding her loosely now.
His warm breath feathered over her skin. "Oh, yeah, I was married
once. It was a long time ago. Her name was Vivie. Everything was
okay for a while, then it just wasn't. She didn't want kids and I did.
But I'm not serious about anyone else. It's just you, Becca. Just you."
"That's nice," she said and yawned against his shoulder. Then she
bit his neck, then kissed where she'd bitten him. "I wish you were
naked." To his immense credit, he didn't do anything other than
shake a bit. "This is very close, Becca. My fingers are actually itching
they want to touch you so much. But this is your father's
house. We can't. Hey, how would you like to go out in the backyard,
maybe we could take a couple of blankets?"



"Out from under the parental roof?"
"That's it. Oh yeah, for sure we could wave to the FBI agents
that are scattered around." He sighed deeply, kissed her ear, and
sighed again. "My molecules are even horny."
Becca sighed and rested her hand on his chest. His heart was
pounding hard and fast beneath her palm. She arched up and kissed
his throat, then eased back in the circle of his arms. "Not fair at all.
I mean, the shirt you're wearing is nice but I would love to kiss
your chest, maybe even run my hands down over your belly."
He shuddered, drew quickly away from her, and rose. "I've been
feeling your breasts against me and it's driving me nuts. Now, since
we can't be wicked the way I would like, I've got to get out of here.
I just can't take any more. I'd like to try but I know it wouldn't
work. Good night. I'll see you in the morning. I might be a bit
late. I've got to go home and do some stuff." And he was gone. Her
bedroom door closed very quietly behind him.
She sat there on her bed, hugging her knees. So suddenly her
life had changed. And in all this nightmare, she'd found herself a
man she hadn't believed could even exist. His first wife, Vivie, had
had peas for brains. She hoped that Vivie--silly name--lived as far
away as Saint Petersburg, Russia. It was a good enough distance
away.
Soon enough, of course, Krimakov intruded. She wanted to
shoot him, just point a gun at his chest and fire. She wanted him
gone, into oblivion, so he couldn't ever hurt anyone again.

The next day, at precisely noon, when Governor Bledsoe of
New York -was walking his dog, Jabbers, in his protected garden, a
sniper shooting from a distance of at least fifteen hundred feet
nailed his dog right through the folds of his neck. Jabbers was





rushed to the vet and it looked like he would survive, just like his
master had.
Thomas turned slowly to his daughter, the two of them alone in
the house. "This is over the top. It's just too much. Damnation, he
shot the dog in the neck. Unbelievable. At least the sick bastard
isn't here."
"But why did he do it?" Becca said. "Why?"
"To laugh at us," Thomas said. "To make this big joke. He wants
us to know just how invincible he is, how he can do anything he
wants to and get away with it. How he's here and then he's there,
and we'll never get him. Yes, he's laughing his head off."





Chapter 28

Gaylan Woodhouse sat at an angle across from Thomas's desk with
his face in the shadows, as was his wont, and said,"I don't want you
to worry about your daughter,Thomas. Your whereabouts will not be leaked. As you 
know, the media is still in a frenzy over the shooting
of poor Jabbers. The country is primarily amused at his audacity,
titillated, glued to their TVs. Everyone wants to know about
Krimakov, this man who swore to kill you twenty-some years ago.
By shooting that damned dog, he's turned up the heat. He wants
the media to find you for him and then he'll come after you."
"No," Thomas said slowly, shaking his head. "I don't think that
was his motive at all. You see, Gaylan, he had me in Riptide. He had to know I 
would never allow Becca to go up there alone. He could
have easily shot me. He proved he was an excellent distance
shooter when he shot the governor of New York. From that kind
of distance, he could have nailed me with little effort. But he didn't
force anything after he kidnapped Sam McBride, except to shoot
Becca in the shoulder with a dart that had a piece of paper rolled
around the shaft. No, Gaylan, he shot the governor's dog because
he wanted to give me the finger, show me again that it was his
decision not to kill me and Becca in Riptide. He wants to show
me that he doesn't have to do anything until he decides he wants
to do it. He wants to prove to me over and over that he's superior
to me, that he's the one in control here, that he's the one calling all
the shots. It's a cat-and-mouse game and he's proving again and





again that he's the cat. Damnation, he is the cat. Adam's right. During
all of this, we've only been able to react to what he does."
Gaylan said slowly, "One of my people pointed out that Kriakov
certainly managed to get from one place to the next with
no difficulty at all, suggested that maybe he has a private plane
stashed somewhere. What do you think?"
Thomas said,"Makes you wonder, doesn't it? Heaven knows you
can't have much faith in the commercial airlines. But you know,
Gaylan, shooting that dog wasn't on a set timetable. You can check
it out, but I doubt it."
Gaylan sighed. "We still don't have any leads in New York. His
disguise must have been something. The security tapes showed old
folk, pregnant women, children--do we track all of them down to
question? Still no witnesses. Damnation, four good agents dead because
of that maniac."
Thomas said, "I've been thinking about that. I'm coming to
believe that Krimakov wants Becca and me together, to torment us
together, prolong our deaths. But yet he went right to New York
University Hospital, shot everyone, then ran. What if Krimakov
somehow found out it was a trap? What if he still did it, in fact
made a big production of it, all to tell us that he knew about our
plan and it didn't matter. Yes, he knew, and he thumbed his nose
at us."
"You're making him sound wilier than the Devil," Gaylan said, a
brow arched. "More evil, too."
"I would say certifiably insane," Thomas said. "But it doesn't
make him stupid. It doesn't really matter what the truth of his motives
was, four agents are still dead. Yet it fits into all the things he's
done since then. Over the top, frightening as hell."
"Yes," Gaylan said. He looked toward Thomas's bookshelves for
a moment. He seemed to shake himself, then took a sip of his cof




fee. He carefully set the cup back into the saucer. He crossed his
legs, then said, "There's another reason I came here, Thomas. The
fact is that the president isn't going to sit still much longer. He
called me over, paced in front of me for ten minutes, told me that
all this mess had to come to a close, that the media are totally focused
on it to the detriment of what he's trying to accomplish.
He's got this new tax increase he's trying to sell to the country, only
the media is ignoring him in favor of this. He said he'd even tried
to make a joke, but the media was still talking about Jabbers and his
sore neck."
"Tell the president that if he wants me to go public, challenge
Krimakov at high noon, I'll do it."
"No," Gaylan said,"you won't. I won't allow that. He could take
you out easily--his shot at the governor was from a distance of at
least fifteen hundred feet. You yourself pointed that out to me. He's
better than good, Thomas, he's one of the best." He held up his
hand when Thomas would have said something. "No, let me finish.
All I'm saying is that we've got to come up with something else.
Somehow, we've got to make him dance to our tune."
"A lot of very good minds are working on this, as you know,
since some of those minds work for you."
Gaylan nodded, picked up a pen from Thomas's desk, and began
rhythmically tapping it against his knee. "Yes, I know. But for now,
your whereabouts stays unknown. I'll tell the president that everything
will be resolved in a couple more days. Think it's possible?"
"Sure, why not?" And he thought, How the hell am I supposed to
make that come about?
"All right. We continue the silence. What about that incident
with Krimakov in Riptide?"
Thomas said, "Evidently, the media doesn't know about her visit
there yet. And Tyler McBride--you know, the man whose son





Krimakov kidnapped in Riptide--he isn't saying anything to anyone
about Becca. I think he's in love with her and that's why he
won't explode sky-high with all this. Becca, however, as much as
she cares for his little boy, isn't headed his way." He paused a moment,
looking down at the onyx pen set that Allison had given him
some five Christmases before. "It's Adam," he said, smiling briefly
as he looked at his old friend. "Isn't that nice?"
Gaylan Woodhouse grunted. "I'm too old," he said, then sighed
again. "Krimakov won't find you, Thomas. Don't worry. I'll deal
with the president. Let's say forty-eight hours, then we'll reassess.
Okay?"
"Again, Gaylan, maybe Krimakov needs to find me. Forget the
president's political agenda. Just maybe Krimakov's reign of terror
will continue until he knows where I am. Maybe we should let
him know, somehow."
"We'll all think about that, but not just yet. Forty-eight hours.
Jesus, next the guy might try to shoot off the mayor's wig." Gaylan
Woodhouse rose, dropped the pen back on top of the desk, shook
Thomas's hand, and stepped back through the door, where the
shadows were thicker. Three dark-suited men fell in beside and behind
him as he left Thomas's house.
Thomas stared after him. Shadows surrounded him. Thomas understood
shadows very well. He'd lived in the shadows himself for so
long he could see them even as they gathered around him, and wondered
if after a while anyone would actually see him or just the shadows.
Forget shadows, Thomas thought. Now wasn't the time to wax
philosophical. He thought about the meeting. Gaylan was a good
friend. He'd hold out against the president's whining about losing
the limelight for as long as he could. Forty-eight hours--that was





the deal. It wasn't a lot of time and yet it was an eternity. Only Krimakov
knew which.

The next evening, Sherlock and Savich arrived with thick folders
of papers, MAX, and Sean, who reared up on Savich's shoulder,
staring about sleepily at everyone, a graham cracker clutched in his
hand.
Sherlock looked at everyone in the living room. She didn't look
happy as she said, "I'm really sorry here, guys, but our handwriting
experts turned up something we didn't expect."
"What have you got, Sherlock?" Adam asked, rising slowly, his
eyes never leaving her face.
"We were hoping to learn whether or not Krimakov's mental
state had deteriorated, at least determine where he was sitting
presently on the sanity scale, in order to give us a better chance of
dealing with him, predicting what he might do, that sort of thing.
That's off now. We have no idea, you see, because the two new
samples of handwriting Becca gave me aren't Krimakov's."
Thomas looked like someone had slapped him. He said slowly,
"No, that's not possible. Admittedly I just looked at the ones from
Riptide briefly, but they looked the same to me. You're sure about
this, Sherlock? Absolutely?"
"Oh, yes, completely sure. We're dealing with a very different
person here, and this person's mind isn't like yours or mine."
"You mean he's not sane," Thomas said.
"It's difficult to say with absolute certainty, but it's possible he's
so far over the edge he's holding on by his fingernails. We could
throw around labels--psychopath comes readily to mind--but
that's just a start. The only thing we're completely certain about--


he's obsessed with you, Thomas. He wants to prove to you that
you're nowhere near his league, that he's a god and you're dirt. He
sees himself as an avenger, the man who will balance the scales of
justice, the man who will be your executioner.
"It's been his goal for a very long time; it could at this point even
be his only reason for living. He's rather like a missile that's been
programmed for one thing and one thing only. He won't stop, ever,
until either he's killed you or you've killed him."
"So it was never Krimakov," Adam said slowly. "He really was
killed in that auto accident in Crete."
"Probably so. Now, not all of this is from our experts' analysis.
Profiling had a hand in it, as well." Sherlock turned back to
Thomas. "Like you said, the two different sets of handwriting look
close to a layman's eye, which probably means that this guy knew
Krimakov, or at least he'd seen his handwriting a goodly number of
times. A friend, a former or present colleague, someone like that."
"We're sorry, guys," Savich said. "I know that Krimakov's former
associates have been checked backwards and forwards, but I guess
we're going to have to try to do more. I've already got MAX doing
more sniffing around Krimakov's neighbors, business associates,
friends in Crete and on mainland Greece, as well. We already know
that he had a couple of side businesses in Athens. We'll see where
that leads."
"No, all that has already been checked," Thomas said.
Savich just shook his head. "We'll have to do more, try anything."
Sherlock said, "We've also inputted everything we know into
the PAP to see what comes out. Remember, the computer can analyze
more alternatives more quickly than we can. We'll see."
Thomas said, "All right. What exactly did the profilers have to
say, Sherlock?"
"Back to a label. He is psychotic. He has absolutely no remorse,





no empathy for any of the people he's killed. None of them mean
anything to him. They were detritus to be swept out of his way."
"I wonder why he didn't kill Sam," Becca said.
"We don't know," Savich said. "That's a good question."
"It just doesn't seem possible," Adam said. "Just not possible.
Why would a colleague or some bloody friend--no matter how
close to Krimakov--go on this rampage? Even if he is a psychopath,
always has been a psychopath, why wait more than twenty
years after the fact? Why take over Krimakov's mission as his own?"
No one had an answer to that.
Adam said, "Now we've got to find out who would follow up
on Krimakov's vendetta once Krimakov himself was dead. What's
his motivation, for God's sake?"
"We don't know," Sherlock said, and she began rubbing Sean's
back with her palm. He was cooing against his father's shoulder,
the graham cracker very wet but still clutched tightly in his hand.
"There are graham cracker crumbs all over the house," Savich
said absently.
Becca didn't say anything. There were few things she'd ever been
absolutely sure were true in her life. This was one of them. It simply
had to be Krimakov. No matter how infallible the handwriting
experts usually were, they were wrong on this one.
But what if they weren't wrong? A psychopath obsessed with
finding and killing her father? He'd called himself her boyfriend.
He'd blown up that poor old bag lady in front of the Metropolitan
Museum. He'd dug up Linda Cartwright and bashed in her face.
No empathy, no remorse, people were detritus, nothing more.
God, it was unthinkable.
She looked over at Adam. He was looking toward Savich, but
she didn't think he really saw him. Adam was really looking inward,
ah, but his eyes--they were cold and hard and she wouldn't




want to have to tangle with him. She heard her father in the other
room, speaking to Gaylan Woodhouse on the phone.
Sherlock and Savich left a few minutes later, leaving Adam and
Becca in the living room, looking at each other. He said, his hands
jiggling change in his pockets, "I've got stuff to do at my house. I
want you to stay here with Thomas, under wraps. Don't go anywhere.
I'll be back tomorrow."
"Yeah, I want to do some stuff, too," she said, rising. "I'm coming
with you."
"No, you'll stay here. It's safe here."
And he was gone.
Her father appeared in the doorway. She said, "I'll see you later,
sir. I'm going with Adam." She picked up her purse and ran after
him. He was nearly to the road when she caught up with him.
"Where are you going?"
"Becca, go back. It's safer here. Go back."
"No. You don't believe any more than I do that some colleague
or friend of Krimakov's from the good old days is wreaking all this
havoc. I think we're missing something here, something that's been
there all the time, staring us in the face."
"What do you mean?" he said slowly. She saw the agents in the
car down the street slowly get out and stand, both of them completely
alert.
"I mean nothing makes sense unless it's Krimakov. But just say
that it isn't. That means we're missing something. Let's go do your
stuff together, Adam, and really plug in our brains."
He eyed her a moment, looked around, then waved at the
agents. "We've got to walk. It's three miles. You up for it?"
"I'd love to race you. Whatcha say?"
"You're on."
"You're dead meat, boy."





Since they were both wearing sneakers, they could run until
they dropped. He grinned at her, felt energy pulse through him. He
wanted to run, to race the wind, and he imagined that she wanted
to as well. "All right, we're going to my house. I have all my files
there, all my notes, everything. I want to scour them. If it is someone
who knew Krimakov, then there's got to be a hint of him in
there somewhere. Yes, there must be something."
"Let's go."
She nearly had his endurance, but not quite. He slowed in the
third mile.
"You're good, Becca," he said, and waved his hand. "This is my
house."
She loved it. The house wasn't as large as her father's, but it sat
right in the middle of a huge hunk of wooded land, two stories, a
white colonial with four thick Doric columns lined up like soldiers
along the front. It looked solid, like it would last forever. She
cleared her throat. "This is very nice, Adam."
"Thanks. It's about a hundred and fifty years old. It's got three
bedrooms upstairs, two bathrooms--I added one. Downstairs is all
the regular stuff, including a library, which I use for a study, and a
modern kitchen." He cleared his throat. "I had the kitchen redone a
couple years ago. My mom told me no woman would marry me unless
the stove would light without having to hold a match to a
burner."
She smiled. She nearly had her breathing back to normal.
"I had one of the two upstairs bathrooms redone, too," he said,
looking straight ahead. They climbed the three deep steps to walk
across the narrow veranda to the large white front door. He stuck a
key in the lock and turned it. "My mom said that no woman wanted
to bathe in a claw-footed tub that was so old rust was peeling off the
toes."





"That does sound pretty gross. Oh my, Adam, it's lovely."
They stood together in a large entryway, with a ceiling that
soared two stories, a chandelier hanging down over their heads and
a lovely buffed oak floor. "I know, you redid the floors. Your mom
told you no woman would marry you if she had to be carried into
a house across a mess of old ratty linoleum."
"How did you know?"
He'd preserved all the original charm of the house--the deeply
carved, rich moldings, the high ceilings, the lovely cherry wood
carved fireplaces, the incredible set-in windows.
They prepared to hunker down in the library, a light-filled room
with built-in bookshelves, beautiful oak floors, a big mahogany
desk, and lots of red leather. She looked around at the bookshelves
stuffed with all kinds of books--nonfiction, fiction, hardcovers,
paperbacks--stuck in indiscriminately.
Adam said as he handed her two folders, "My mom also told me
that women liked to read all cozied up in deep chairs. It was just
men, she said, who preferred to read in the bathroom."
"You've even got women's fiction here."
"Yeah, it seems a man can never stack the deck too much in his
favor."
"I want to meet your mama," Becca said.
"Undoubtedly you will, real soon." Then he couldn't stand it.
He walked to her and pulled her tightly against him. She looked up
at him and said, "I want to forget Krimakov for just a minute."
"All right."
"Have I told you lately that I think you're really sexy?"
He smiled slowly and kissed her lightly on the mouth. "Not
since last night." She wrapped her arms around his neck, stood on
her tiptoes, and kissed him back, thoroughly.





"I don't want you to forget it," she said after several minutes had
passed. "You've gotten me a bit breathless. I really like it, Adam."
"We're in my house now," he said, and this time he kissed her,
really kissed her, no holding back, letting himself crash and burn,
letting himself burrow into her. He brought her tightly against
him, feeling all of her against him, and he wanted to jerk down her
jeans, he wanted to devour her, take her until both of them shattered
with the pleasure of it. He wanted to kiss her breasts, touch
and kiss every inch of her, and not stop until he was unconscious.
And then there was her mouth. Jesus, he was making himself crazy.
It was so good he really didn't want to stop, and why should they
stop?
His hands were on the buttons of her jeans when he felt the
change not only in himself but in her. It was Krimakov and he was
there, just over their shoulders. Waiting. He was close, too close.
Krimakov was out there, only it wasn't really Krimakov now. Whoever
he was, he was a madman. Adam sighed, kissed her once more,
then once again, and said, "I want you very much, but now, at this
moment, we've got to solve this thing, Becca."
"I know," she said when she could speak. "I'm getting myself
back together. I'm getting myself focused now. You're quite a distraction,
Adam, it's hard." She pulled away from him, stiffened her
legs. "Okay, I'm ready to think again."
'I promise there'll be more," he said, grabbing her and giving
her one last kiss. "How about a lifetime full of more?"
She gave him a dazzling smile. "Given that gorgeous modern
kitchen and how I believe, without a doubt, that you're about the
best kisser in the whole world, I think bunches of years might be a
wonderful thing." Then she looked at his groin and he nearly expired
on the spot.


"Good," he said finally, just a slight shiver in his voice, and she
loved the way those dark eyes of his were brilliant with pleasure in
the afternoon light shining in through the windows. "Now, let's do
it."
Two hours, three cups of coffee, a demolished plate of Wheat
Thins and cheddar cheese later, Adam looked up. "I was going
over my notes on Krimakov's travel out of Greece over the years.
It's been here all the time, just staring up at me, and I didn't see it
until now." He gave her a mad grin, jumped up, and gathered her
beneath her arms and lifted her, then swung her in a circle. He
kissed her once, then again, and set her back down. He rubbed his
hands together. "Hot damn, Becca, I think I've got the answer."
She was laughing, stroking her hands over his arms, so excited
she couldn't hold still. "Come on, Adam. What is it? Spill the
beans."
"Krimakov went to England six times. His trips to England
stopped about five years ago."
"And?"
"I never stopped to wonder why the hell he went to England all
those times, until now. Becca, think about it. Why did he go? To see
a former colleague, to see a friend from the good old days? Not a
woman, he'd remarried, so no, I don't think so."
She said slowly, "When he moved to Crete, he was alone. No
relatives with him. Nobody."
"Yeah, but his files had been purged. Remember, there wasn't
even anything about his first wife. It was like she never existed, but
she did. So why did the KGB purge her?"
Becca said slowly, "Because she was important, because--" Suddenly,
her eyes gleamed. "Oh my God. Sherlock is right. It isn't
Krimakov, but neither is it a friend or a former colleague. It's
someone a whole lot closer to him."





"Yep. Somebody so close he's nearly wearing his skin. We're
nearly there, Becca. The timing of his visits--they're in the early
fall or very late spring. Every one of them."
"Like the beginning or the ending of school terms," Becca said
slowly. "And then they stop like there's no more school." Then she
remembered what had happened in the gym in Riptide, and it all
fell together.
When they got back to Thomas's house, only Thomas and Hatch
were there, their conversation desultory, both of them looking so
depressed that Adam nearly told Hatch to go smoke a cigarette.
Becca heard Hatch cursing. It sounded like Paul Hogan and his
sexy Aussie accent.
"Cheer up, everyone," Adam said. "Becca and I have a surprise
for you. One that will get you dancing on the ceiling. All we've got
to do now is have Savich turn on MAX and send him to England.
Now we've got a chance." He bent down and kissed Becca, right in
front of Thomas. She raised her hand and lightly touched her fingertips
to his cheek. "Yes, we do," she said.
The doorbell rang, making everyone suddenly very alert and
very focused. It was Dr. Breaker. "Hello, Savich." He nodded to
everyone else. "We've found something none of you is going to
believe." And he told them about the very slight abnormalities in
Becca's blood that a tech had caught. Then he checked Becca's
shoulder, and finally he checked her upper arm. It wasn't long before
he looked up and said, "I feel something, right here, just beneath
her skin. It's small, flexible."
Adam nodded. "The visit to Riptide makes sense now. You
know what's in your arm, don't you, Becca?"
"Yes," she said. "Now all of us know." She raised her hand when
her father would have begun arguments. "No, I'm not leaving. No
more people are going to die in my place, like Agent Marlane. No





one is going to be bait in my stead. No, no arguments. I stay here
with you. Hey, I've got my Coonan."

For the first time in more nights than she could count, Becca
wanted to stay awake, stay alert, keep watch. He was close. She
wanted to see him with clear eyes and a clear mind and her Coonan
in her hand. She wanted to shoot him between the eyes. And she
wanted to know why he was doing this. Was he really mad? Psychotic?
Oh damn, she didn't think she'd be able to hang on. She was
nearly light headed she was so tired. She'd been so hyped up the
past couple of nights, she'd just lain there and blinked at the rising
moon outside the bedroom window.
Adam had insisted on tucking her in. She wanted him to stay
just a little longer, but she knew he couldn't. He kissed her, just a
nibble on her earlobe, and said against her ear, "No, I don't want
another cold shower. But dream of me, Becca, okay? I've got the
first watch. It starts soon."
"Be careful, Adam."
"I will, everyone will. Try to sleep, sweetheart. He knows the
house. He knows which room is Thomas's. We've got Thomas well
guarded." He kissed her once again and rose. "Get some sleep."
She didn't want to. After he eased out of her bedroom door,
closing it quietly behind him, she sat up in bed, thinking, remembering,
analyzing. She was asleep in under six minutes. She
dreamed, but not of the terror that was very close now, not of
Adam.
She found herself in a hospital, walking down long, empty corridors.
White, so much white, unending, going on and on, forever.
She was looking for her mother. She smelled ether fumes, sweet





and heavy, the ammonia scent of urine, the stench of vomit. She
opened each white door along the corridor. All the beds were
empty, the white sheets stretched military tight. No one. Where
were the patients?
So long, the hallway just went on and on and there were moans
coming from behind all those doors, people in pain, but there were
no nurses, no doctors, no one at all. She knew the rooms were
empty, she'd looked into all of them, yet the moans grew louder
and louder.
Where was her mother? She called out for her, then she started
running down the corridor, screaming her mothers name. The
moans from those empty rooms grew louder and louder until--
"Hello, Rebecca."





Chapter 29

Becca lurched up in bed, sweaty, breathing hard, her heart pounding.
No, it wasn't her mother, no, it was someone else.
Finally he was here. He'd come to her first, not to her father. A
surprise, but not a big one, at least to her. She lay very still, gathering
herself, her control, her focus.
"Hello, Rebecca," he said again, this time he was even closer to
her face, nearly touching her.
"You can't be here," she said aloud. He'd gotten past everyone,
but again, that didn't overly surprise her. She wouldn't be surprised
if he'd gotten both the house plans and the security system plans.
And now he wasn't even six inches from her.
"Of course I can be here. I can be anywhere I want. I'm a cloud
of smoke, a sliding shadow, a glimmer of light. I like how frightened
you are. Just listen to you, your voice is even trembling with
fear. Yes, I like that. Now, you even try to move and I will, very simply,
cut your skinny little throat."
She felt the razor-sharp blade against the front of her neck,
pressing in ever so slightly.
We knew you would come," she said.
He laughed quietly, now not even an inch from her ear. She felt
his hot breath touch her skin. "Of course you knew I'd find you. I
can do anything. Your father is so stupid, Rebecca. I've always
known it, always, and now I've proved it the final time. I figured out
now to find his lair, and poof--like shimmering smoke--I'm here.




You and your bastard father lose now. Soon, you and I are going
down the hall to his bedroom. I want him to wake up with me
standing over him, you in front of me, a knife digging into your
neck. Even with those hot shot FBI guards he's got positioned all
around this house, I got through with little effort. There's this great
big oak tree that comes almost to the roof of the house. Just a little
jump, not more than six feet, and I was on the roof, and then it was
easy to pry open that trapdoor into the attic. I took care of the security
alarm up there, cut it off for all of the upstairs. No one saw me.
It's nice and dark tonight. Stupid, all of you are stupid. Now, get up."
She did as he said. She felt calm. He kept her very close, the
knife across her neck as he opened her bedroom door and eased
her out into the hallway. "The last door down on the right," he
said. "Just keep walking and keep quiet, Rebecca."
It was nearly one o'clock in the morning; Becca saw the time on
the old grandfather clock that sat in its niche in the corridor.
"Open the door," he said against her ear, "slowly, quietly. That's right."
Her father's bedroom door opened without a sound. There was a
night light on in the connecting bathroom off to the left. All the
draperies were open, beams of the scant moonlight coming in
through the balcony windows. There was no movement on the bed.
"Wake up, you butchering bastard," he said, one eye on the balcony
windows.
There was still no movement on the bed.
She heard his breathing quicken, felt the knife move slightly
against her neck. "No, you don't move, Rebecca. Just one little slice
and your blood will spew like a fountain all over the floor." Suddenly,
he said, nearly a yell, "Thomas Matlock! Where are you?"
"I'm right here, Krimakov."
He whirled Becca around, facing Thomas, who was standing,





fully dressed, in the lighted doorway of the bathroom, his arms
crossed over his chest.
"It's about time you got here," Thomas said easily, his eyes on the
knife that was pressing into Becca's neck. "Don't hurt her. We've
been waiting for you. I was starting to believe you'd lost your
nerve, that you'd gotten too scared, that you'd finally run away."
"What do you mean? Of course I got here quickly, at least as
quickly as I wanted to. As I told Rebecca, your defenses are laughable."
"Get that knife away from her neck. Let her go. You've got me.
Let her go."
"No, not yet. Don't try anything stupid or I'll cut her throat. But
I don't want her dead just yet."
Thomas saw that he was dressed in black from the ski mask that
covered both his face and his head to the black gloves on his hands.
"You're the one who's lost," Thomas said, and he saluted him.
"There's really no need for you to wear that black mask over your
head anymore. We all know who you are. As I said, we've been
waiting fourteen hours for you to finally show up."

Adam spoke quietly into the wristband. "He can't see me. I'm
only a shadow at the corner of the balcony door. I can't get him.
He's got Becca plastered against the front of him, a knife against her
throat. I can't take the risk, even this close. They'll keep him talking.
Thomas is good. He'll keep control."
And he prayed with everything that was in him that it would
be so.
"Just keep alert," Gaylan Woodhouse said. "The minute he
makes a move toward Thomas, he'll ease up on her. Then you take
him down."





"Damn," Adam said, "now the bastard's pulled a gun out of his
jacket pocket. It's small, looks like a Colt, the Compact .45. He's
pointed it straight at Thomas. Oh God." And he concentrated,
readied himself, saying over and over, Let Beccago, you crazy fuck. Just
twitch.

"Turn on the bedside light, Matlock."
Thomas walked slowly into the bedroom, leaned over, and
switched on the light. He straightened.
"Now, don't move. Those draperies are open. There's probably a
sniper out there, and I don't want the bastard to have a clean shot.
He'll get you, Rebecca, if he pulls the trigger."
Thomas said, "I wanted very much for you to be my old enemy,
but you aren't. You're something far more deadly than Vasili, something
deadly and monstrous that he spawned. Perhaps after he
brainwashed you, he realized what he'd produced, realized that he'd
unleashed uncontrolled, unrelenting evil, and that's why he kept
you away from his new family. He didn't want the evil he'd
spawned and nurtured to live in his own house, to be close to all
those innocent, pure lives. Pull off the mask, Mikhail, -we know
who you are."
Stone-dead silence, then, "Damn you, you can't know, you can't!
No one knows anything about me. I don't exist. No records show
me as Vasili Krimakov's son. I've covered everything. It isn't possible."
"Oh yes, we know. Even though the KGB tried to erase you, to
protect you, we found out all about you."
"Damn you, pull those draperies closed, now!"
Thomas pulled them closed, knowing that now Adam was blind
to what was going on in the room. He turned and said slowly,





"Take off the mask, Mikhail. It really looks rather silly, like a little
boy playing hoodlum."
Slowly, his movements jerky, furious, he pulled off the black
mask. Then he shoved Becca over toward the bed. Thomas caught
her, held her close to his side. But she moved away from him. She
sat down on the bed, drew her legs up.
Thomas stared at Vasili Krimakov's son, Mikhail. There was some
resemblance to his father in the high, sharp cheekbones, the wide-set
eyes, the whiplash-lean body, but the dark, mad eyes, those were
surely his mother's eyes. Thomas could still see her eyes, wide, staring
up at him.
Becca knew Mikhail had wanted shock, but it was denied him
when he realized they knew who he was. Still, he threw back his
head and said, "I am my father's son. He loved me. He molded me
to be like him. I am here, his avenger."
His dramatic moment got nothing except a laugh from Becca.
"Hi, Troy," she said, giving him a small wave. "Cute, preppy
name. Tell me, what if I'd decided to go out with you that night after
you planted that little micro homing chip in my upper arm?
How would you have gotten out of it?" She said to her father, "I
told you how he managed to have the arm of that big old chest
machine swing into me as I was walking by, and then he was right
there, patting me, making sure I was okay, flirting with me. That
was when you planted that little chip in my arm, isn't it, Troy? You
were good. I didn't feel a thing, just the sting from that machine
arm hitting me. It hurt a little longer than it should have, but who
would really notice?"
"No," he said, shaking his head back and forth. "This isn't possible.
You couldn't have found that chip. It's plastic mixed with
biochemical adhesives, almost immediately becomes one with
your skin. After just a few minutes, no one could even tell it was





there, least of all you. No, you weren't even aware of it. You and
everyone else were just worried about that dart in your shoulder. I
fooled you, I fooled all of you. You were all so worried about that
ridiculous dart in her shoulder, about that stupid note I wrapped
around it."
"For a while, that's right," Thomas said. "But actually, it was an
analysis of handwriting by some very smart FBI agents that started
your downfall. I had samples of your father's handwriting. They compared
yours to his. Remember the notes you wrote to Mr. McBride
in Riptide? There was no comparison, of course, so it couldn't be
Vasili.
"Then Adam remembered that your father had traveled to England
quite a number of times. He wondered why, particularly
since the visits were always at the beginning of the school term or
at the end. He knew your father had remarried, so it probably
wasn't a woman he was visiting. He'd purged files, even your
mother's name, and we wondered why he would do that. After all,
who cared if he had a wife, now dead, or any children?
"It wasn't tough then to track you down, the son whose father
had sent him to England to be educated, so that one day he could
avenge the murder of his dearest mother. You were at that private
boys' school at Sundowns."
Thomas continued, "Your father molded you, taught you to hate
me, to hate everything I stood for, programmed you for this."
"I was not programmed. I do this all of my own free will. I am
brilliant. I have won. Even though you found out about me, it is I
who am standing here in control. It is I who run this show."
Thomas said, "Fine. You run the show. Now tell us how you got
into NYU Hospital without being stopped by the FBI agents."
He laughed, preened. "I was a young boy, so sorry-looking in
my slouchy clothes, my pants halfway to my knees, and my baseball





cap holding my broken arm, and everyone wanted to help me, to
send me here, to send me there, and I came up to those stupid
agents, crying about my arm, and then I shot them both. So easy,
all of it. In the room when I saw neither of you were there, I just
killed them, too, but with the woman, it was very close, too close.
But I escaped. I was out of there before anyone realized what had
happened."
Thomas said, "Why, Mikhail? What did your father tell you to
make you want to do this? What?"
"He didn't make me do anything. He simply told me how you
butchered my poor mother, went through her to get to him. You
shot her in the head and laughed as my father held her until she
died. Then you tried to kill him but he managed to get away. He
told me that, and he began teaching me to prepare myself to avenge
her. And I'm here now. I'll kill you just as you killed my mother."
"You killed your stepmother, didn't you, and her children?"
Becca said.
He laughed, actually laughed. "Yes, I hated her as much as she
hated me. She didn't want me ever to come back during my vacations.
And her spawn--they weren't all that surprised when I killed
them because they had guessed that I hated them. As for her, she
pleaded just like her pathetic daughter."
Becca said, "And your own little brother? Your father's other
son?"
I tried to kill him, burn him out of existence, just to leave ashes,
but he survived. My father sent him to Switzerland, to this clinic
that specializes in burns. He knew then what I'd done. I called him
a coward, told him he'd let that wretched woman, those children,
distract him from killing the man who butchered my mother. You
know what he said? He said it over and over, tears in his eyes,
wringing his goddamned hands--it had been an accident, he'd lied





to me all those years. I didn't believe him. He wanted it soft and
easy--a woman in his bed, children around him--but I wasn't going
to let him forget my mother, just erase her memory, and turn
away like you would turn away.
"Now I've got you both and I'm going to kill you, just as you
killed my mother. It's justice. It's retribution." He smiled as he
raised his gun, aiming right at Thomas.
"No!" Becca yelled. "I won't let you!" She hurled herself in front
of her father.
Mikhail Krimakov gave a scream of rage when Thomas shoved
Becca to the floor. But he didn't have time to cover her with his
own body. Mikhail shot him in the chest, knocking him backward.
Mikhail dropped to the floor, grabbed Becca's ankle, and jerked
her hard toward him. He slammed his arm around her neck, and
pressed the gun against her ear even as the balcony glass door shattered
inward and Adam leapt through the billowing draperies and
the broken glass into the bedroom. He stopped dead in his tracks.
Mikhail smiled at him. "You try to kill me and the little bitch is
dead. You got that?"





Chapter 30

Mikhail said, the gun pointed in Becca's left ear, "That bastard
shot my mother in the head. He's paid for it. You move and I'll
blow her head off. You won't even recognize what's left."
Adam couldn't believe it, just didn't want to accept what he was
seeing. "I should never have let you stay here. Damn me, I should
have drugged you, Becca, and hidden you away."
But Becca didn't hear him. Mikhail's arm had tightened until she
couldn't breathe, until everything turned black and she heard voices
in the distance, but they didn't reach her, not really.
Mikhail eased up on Becca's neck as he waved his gun at Adam.
"Drop that gun and do it slowly and very carefully."
Adam let the gun fall to the floor. It came to a stop, he saw, about
thirteen inches beyond his left foot.
"I dropped the gun. You've killed Thomas. No one else is near.
Let her go, damn you, you've already choked her unconscious."
"Yeah, right, you asshole."
Thomas felt as if his chest was frozen, a good thing, he knew,
because soon enough he would be in such pain he probably
wouldn't be able to think, much less move. Krimakov's son was
pressing a gun against Becca's throat. Adam stood not four feet away,
helpless, frozen in place, shattered glass all around him. Thomas
knew he was trying desperately to figure out what to do. Becca's
eyes were closed, Mikhail's hold against her throat was too strong,
far too strong. She'd passed out. He had to do something, anything.





He couldn't let her die, not like this, not after she'd hurled herself
in front of him, to save him, to take the bullet herself. He felt the
pain pulsing deep in his chest, but with it, he felt such an intense
surge of love for her that gave him a burst of strength. He managed
to ease his hand down to his pants pocket, to the small derringer.
Just a bit more strength, that's all he needed, strength.
Mikhail saw the slight movement from the corner of his eye.
"Damn you, you're supposed to be dead. Don't move!" His hold
against her throat lightened and almost immediately he saw that
Becca was coming out of it. He clouted her hard on the side of the
head, and shoved her away from him. He leaped to his feet, pulled
a Zippo lighter from his pocket and set it to the bedding. In an instant,
the blanket and sheets burst into flame.
Thomas fired the derringer. Mikhail yelled and grabbed his arm
as the bullet punched him backward. He hit the wall but didn't fall.
Adam dove for his gun. Thomas fired again, but Mikhail had
twisted low and the bullet just grazed the side of his head.
Thomas fell back, the derringer falling from his hand. Adam
twisted about, his gun raised, but Mikhail was out of the bedroom,
and when Adam fired, the bullet hit the door frame. Mikhail
slammed the door behind him and the flames gushed higher with
the sudden rush of air, igniting the pillows, the thick brocade
drapes that were ripped from Adam's run into the bedroom.
"Damnation," Adam shouted. "Becca, are you all right?" He
leaned over and slapped her face. "Come on, we've got to get out
of here. Damn, the drapes are on fire now." He scrambled on his
knees to where Thomas lay on his back. He shook him. "Thomas,
open your eyes. That's it. Now, can you make it?"
Thomas just smiled at him. "No, unfortunately not, Adam. I
think this is the end of the line for me. Get Becca out of here. Tell
her I love her."





"Don't be a jackass," Adam said. "We're all getting out of here.
Come on, you can do it." He wrapped an arm around Thomas and
jerked to his feet, pulling Thomas with him. He started to lift him
over his shoulder.
"No, not yet," Thomas said, the pain flooding over him now,
drawing at his brain, making everything darken, darken. "No,
dammit, we'll get out of here. Becca, get yourself together! I'm not
going to lose you now."
Becca was sitting now, shaking her head, trying to breathe. She
heard agents yelling outside, prayed they wouldn't try to come into
the burning room, prayed they'd be ready to pump a hundred bullets
into Mikhail when he came out of the house. She said, "I'm
okay. Just give me a second, just a moment." She stared at her father.
"Mother left me. There's no way you're going to leave me
now. I'll help you, Adam." Together, one of them on each side of
him, they managed to get the door open and drag Thomas into the
hallway. The flames were whooshing up high behind them, thick,
incredibly hot, smoke gushing out of the room. No time, Adam
thought, just no bloody time to put it out.
All of them were coughing now from the smoke. "Let's move,"
Adam said. He pulled the bedroom door closed after him, but
it was too late. The fire was already eating away at the hallway carpeting.
"If he isn't dead yet," Adam said, "they'll get him the instant he
gets out of the house."
Becca was panting with effort and coughing at the same time. "I
had my gun strapped to my leg, but it didn't matter," she said,
coughing. "Are you all right, Daddy? Don't you dare talk about dying
again. Do you hear me?"
hear you, Becca," Thomas said, and his chest was on fire, just as the fire raged 
around them, it raged inside him. He knew he




couldn't last much longer. He didn't want to leave her, not yet,
please God, not yet.
"Just a little farther."
They heard a whoosh of flames behind them. The smoke was
dense and black now. "We've got to hurry," Adam said. He didn't
ask, just picked up Thomas and eased him over his shoulder.
"Becca, get downstairs. I'm right behind you."
A shot rang out in the thick smoke. Adam felt the punch in his
arm, sharp, hard. He didn't loosen his hold. "Jesus, Becca, get down,
crawl. I don't want him to shoot you."
But Becca had her Coonan in her hand. She stepped behind
Adam and fired back through the smoke in the direction of the
shot. There were three more shots. Then silence.
"He must be back near the bedroom, Adam." And she fired off
another shot. "That'll keep him away. Get my father out of here.
Oh God, the walls are on fire. It's bad, Adam. Hurry! Save my
father!"
Adam felt his arm pulsing with raw pain, weakening as he carried
Thomas down the front stairs. He felt an instant of dizziness,
then shook his head, coughed, and kept moving. He felt a strange
pulling in his back, weird, but nothing really. Thomas was now unconscious.
He prayed he wasn't dead. He heard another shot, then
another, but nothing all that close.
"I'm right behind you, Adam. Go, quickly!"
He didn't realize Becca wasn't with him until he was out the
front door and two agents had lifted Thomas from his shoulder.
"Jesus, a chest wound. Get the the paramedics over here!"
"The fire department is on the way," Gaylan Woodhouse said,
running up, his gun still at the ready. "My God, you're shot, too,
Adam. Hey, Hawley, get over here. We need some help." Adam





stood there holding his arm, his teeth gritted. And now, of all
things, that pulling in his back, it was bringing him down.
"Where the hell is Krimakov?" Savich shouted.
"Becca," Adam said, looking around wildly. "Becca?"
"Jesus," Hatch said, running to Adam. "He got you in the back,
boss. Did you know you got shot in the back? Oh God, hurry, let's
get him down."
"Becca," Adam said, frantic now, and he knew he was barely
hanging on. "Where's Becca?" He saw the flames billowing out of
the upstairs windows. The beautiful ivy that nearly covered that
side of the house was on fire.
"Thomas shot Krimakov," Adam said to Gaylan Woodhouse and
Hawley, who were bending over him. "He's got to still be inside.
Maybe he's unconscious or dead. Jesus, where's Becca? Please,
you've got to find her."
The walkie-talkie boomed out, "No one has tried to come out
of any windows or the back of the house."
"Get Krimakov," Gaylan shouted. "Dammit. GET HIM!"
Becca, oh God, where was Becca? He wanted to go back into
that house to find her. He had to, had to, but he just couldn't move.
The fire wasn't only in the house now, it was inside him and it was
eating its way out. The pain in his back held him utterly locked in
place. He couldn't move.
"Oh my God," an agent shouted. "Up there!"
"It's Becca," Gaylan Woodhouse whispered. "Oh, no."
Adam did move, suddenly, with a spurt of strength he didn't
know he had. He roared to his feet. He followed everyone's eyes to
the roof of the house and felt his heart drop to his feet. No, please
Jesus, no. But it was Becca, on the roof of the burning house.
"Becca!"





There were at least a dozen people standing in the front yard,
looking upward. Then everyone was silent, still.
There, highlighted in flames, stood Becca, in her white nightgown,
her bare feet spread, holding the Coonan between her hands.
"Becca," Adam shouted,"shoot the fucker!"
But she didn't. She just stood there, pointing the Coonan at
Mikhail Krimakov. He was holding his arm, blood dripping
through his fingers. Blood also dripped down his cheek from a
head wound. He was leaning over, as it was nearly beyond him to
straighten. What had happened to his gun? Oh God, Adam
couldn't believe what he was seeing, would have given five years of
his life if he could have changed it, if he could even have moved, at
least tried to save her. But there was nothing he could do. He saw
an agent raise a rifle. "No," he said, "don't try it. He's off at an angle.
Don't take the chance of hitting her. Where are the firemen?"
Flames had caught the roof on fire now, licking out of the balcony
off Thomas's bedroom. It wouldn't be long now until the
flames ate the roof and sent it crashing into the house, until it was
too hot on the roof for her to stand there, barefoot.
He heard her then, speaking loudly, very clearly.
"It's over," Becca said to the young man not eight feet from her.
"Finally, it's over. You lost, Mikhail, but the cost was too high. You
killed eight people, just because they were there."
"Oh no, I killed many more than that," he said, raising his head,
panting with the pain. "They didn't count, any of them. I used
them, then of what possible use were they to me?"
"Why didn't you stop when your father died in that car accident?"
He laughed, he actually laughed at her. "It wasn't an accident,
you stupid bitch. I killed him. He wanted me to stop this, said
I'd already done enough, that this was just too much. He'd turned





soft, he'd become a coward. I killed him because he'd become a
weakling. He wasn't worthy any longer. He betrayed my beloved
mother's memory. Yes, I clouted him on the side of the head and
drove him in his car over a cliff."
There wasn't a sound from anyone standing below. Then, the
sound of sirens in the distance. The flames were licking up over the
edge of the roof now. She had to get out of there. Adam stood
there, impotent. Becca, please, please. Get the hell out of there.
Becca said, her voice still strong, still clear and loud, "It ends
here, Mikhail. Since I knew you'd try to escape back through that
roof trapdoor, you had to know I wouldn't let you get away. It ends
here."
"Yes," he said. "It ends here. I killed the bastard who murdered
my mother--your beloved father. I've done what I promised to do.
And I took pleasure along the way, cleaning out the vermin that
had invaded my life."
He was standing very still, this handsome young man she'd spoken
to in the gym in Riptide. He was slowly straightening now,
standing tall.
"My father isn't dead, Mikhail. He'll survive. You failed."
"The roof is going to collapse beneath us, Rebecca. It's getting
hotter. You're barefoot. It's got to be burning your feet now, isn't
it?"
Fire trucks pulled up to the curb, men jumping out, going into
action. Becca heard a man yelling, "We've got a two-story residential
fully involved structure fire! Jesus, what's going on here?"
"Oh shit, there are people standing on the roof! That woman has
a gun!"
"We can't ladder the building, it's too late. Get the life net!"
Becca heard them, felt her feet now, the heat burning them,
wondered if the roof would collapse under her. "We're going





down, Mikhail," she said. "Look, they're bringing one of those
safety nets. We'll jump."
"No," he said. "No." Then he pulled the lighter out of his jacket
again and lit his sleeve. He rubbed it on his shirt, his pants, even
while she watched, so horrified she froze. Then he smiled at her,
nearly ablaze now, and ran at her, yelling, "Come away with your
boyfriend. Come, let's fly together, Rebecca!"
She pulled the trigger, once, and still he came, a ball of flame
now, running toward her, nearly at her, his arms outstretched. She
fired again, then again and again, fired until the Coonan was empty.
He fell forward, nearly into her, but she jerked away just in time
and he rolled over and over, a flaming ball of fire, off the roof to the
ground below.
She heard people yelling. A jet of flame caught the sleeve of her
nightgown. She ran quickly to the side of the roof, stood there for
just an instant, slapping down the flames on her arm even as the fire
inched closer and closer, and at last the firemen had the safety net
in place.
Adam yelled, "Jump, Becca!"
And she did, without hesitation, her nightgown billowing out
around her, her long legs bare, the white sleeve of her nightgown
smoking. She hit the white safety net, her nightgown tangling
around her. It closed over her for just an instant, and then a fireman
yelled, "We've got her. She's okay!"
He watched her scramble out of the confines of the safety net,
shake off the firemen. She ran toward him, and he saw the shock in
her face, the blindness in her eyes, but he couldn't think of anything
to say to her. Then there was simply nothing. He collapsed where
he stood. The last thing he heard before the blackness closed over
him was the huge roar of the collapsing roof and Becca's voice, saying
his name over and over.





Chapter 41

He was buried in pain, so deep he wondered if he'd ever climb
out, but he knew he could deal with it, even appreciate it, because
it meant he was still alive. Finally, after what seemed like beyond
forever, he managed to gain a bit of control and forced his eyes to
open. He looked up at Becca's smiling face. Ah, but the worry in
her eyes, her pallor, it scared him. Was he going to die after all? He
felt her fingers lightly touch the line of his eyebrow, his cheek, his
chin. Then she leaned down and kissed where her fingers had
touched him. Her breath was sweet and warm. His own mouth felt
like he'd dived mouth-first into a box of dried manure.
"Hello, Adam. You'll be just fine. I'll bet you're really thirsty, the
nurse said you would be. Here's some water to drink. Take it slow,
that's it."
He drank. It was the best water he'd ever tasted in his life. He
managed to say, "Thomas?"
"He'll live. He told me so himself when he came out of surgery.
The doctors say it looks good. He's in great shape, so that's a big
help."

"Your arm?"
"My arm is okay. Just a bit of a burn, nothing serious .We all survived.
Except for Mikhail Krimakov. He's very dead. He'll never
terrorize anyone again or kill another person. I know you're in bad
pain, the bullet went through your back, broke a rib. The other
bullet went right through your arm. You'll be okay, thank God."





He closed his eyes and said, "It nearly killed me watching you on
the roof with him. The flames kept getting closer and closer, the
wind whipping your nightgown around your legs, whipping the
flames higher. I wanted to do something, but I just stood there
yelling at you and I nearly lost what sanity I had left."
"I'm sorry, but I had to go after him, Adam. That's how he got
into Thomas's house, from the end of a very long oak branch; then
he jumped onto the roof and managed to get the trapdoor open and
made it into the attic. When I saw him going down to the end of
the hall where those pull-down steps to the attic are, I knew he
would escape. I just couldn't let him do it. He got in that way, the
chances were he'd get out. I had to stop him." She paused a moment,
looking inward. "Then he wanted to die. And he wanted me
to die with him. But I didn't. We won." She kissed him again, and
this time he managed to smile just a bit through the god-awful pain.
"Now, no more about it. I've done nothing but answer question
after question for the FBI. Mr. Woodhouse keeps coming back again
and again, but it's mainly to see Dad, not for any more questions. Do
you know what Savich is doing? He's sitting in the waiting room,
checking out churches on MAX to find one for us to get married in.
He said he did that for another FBI agent who'd been shot, and sure
enough, the other agent got married on the date and in the church
that Savich picked. He said it was a special calling of his."
"My folks?" Adam said. The pain was getting worse, that
damned broken rib was digging into him like a sword, dragging
him under, and he wanted to howl with it. The novelty of having
himself distracted was losing its touch and wearing thin. But he
knew he had to hold on, just a bit longer. He wanted to look at
Becca, just look at her, hear her voice, perhaps have her kiss him
again. He wanted her to kiss him all over, that would be very nice.
He tried to smile up at her but it was a pathetic effort. Thank God





she was safe. He wanted to lie very quietly and keep knowing that
she was safe and she was here and that was her hand on his face.
"But Becca, I have to ask you to marry me before Savich can
find a church. What if you say no?"
"You already sort of asked me when we were at your house. But
I want the real words now. Ask me, Adam, and see what I say."
"I hurt real bad but will you marry me? I love you, you know."
"Yes, of course I will. I love you, too, more than even I can
imagine. Now, Savich has already spoken to both your mother and
your father. In fact, the last time I checked in, they were sitting on
either side of him. Ah, I like them, Adam, very much. There are
brothers and sisters and all sorts of second and third cousins coming
in and out. They seem to be on some sort of rotation schedule.
Oh yes, everyone is sticking his oar in about church locations and
dates. I didn't know you had such a large family."
"Too large. They refuse to mind their own business. Always underfoot."
He coughed and it hurt his rib so badly he thought he'd
expire on the spot. He couldn't control it any longer. The pain in
his rib and in his arm was slicing right through him, pulling him
down and down. He -was going to sink under and never come up.
Then he heard the nurse say, "I'm going to give him some morphine.
He'll be okay in just a moment. I guess he forgot it was
there. Then he needs to rest." He hadn't forgotten, he just knew he
wouldn't have been able even to push down the button because he
was just too bloody weak. His arms were limp at his sides. He
hated needles and there were two of them sticking out of his arms.
Jesus, he was a mess but he'd be okay. Becca loved him. He said, his
voice slurred, "I'm glad you love me. That makes two of us now."
He thought he heard her laugh. He knew he felt her palm
against his cheek.

And then he drifted away, the pain pulling back, like a monster's





fangs pulling out of his flesh, and it felt blessedly wonderful. Then he
was asleep again, deeply asleep, and it was black and dreamless and
there was nothing there to hurt him and that was a very good thing.
Becca slowly straightened over him.
The nurse smiled at her from the other side of his bed. "He's doing
great. Please don't worry, we're taking really good care of him.
I hope he'll sleep now. He should, since the pain has lightened up.
You need to get some rest, too, Ms. Matlock."
Becca gave Adam one last long look, a last kiss on his mouth, then
walked out of his room, down the corridor to the small sitting room
with two windows looking onto the parking lot, pale yellow walls
dotted with Impressionist prints. That small room was filled with the
latest batch of relatives. There was Adam's mom, Georgia, playing
with Sean, while Sherlock and Savich were laughing, taking turns
announcing yet another church and yet another possible date for
Becca and Adam's wedding, only to have a boo from one relative
who had to go salmon fishing in Alaska, or another who had to go
to Italy on business, or yet another who had an appointment with
her lawyer to cut her husband out of her will. On and on it went.
Becca said from the doorway, "I'm happy to announce that
Adam asked me to marry him and I accepted. However, he was
hurting a lot. Maybe he won't remember when he wakes up. If he
doesn't, why, I'll just have to ask him."
"My boy will remember," his father said, a man Adam resembled
closely. He grinned at her. "One of the first things Adam told us
when he could talk was that he is going to have that second bathroom
on the top floor of his house redone so you wouldn't turn
him down due to ugly green tile on the counters."
"Well, that certainly shows commitment," she said. "Tell you
what, I'll pick out the new tile and then we'll see how fast I can get
him to the altar."





She left them laughing, a very nice sound, and now they could do it more easily 
since their son would be all right. They seemed to
like her, which was a relief. His mom was something else. She
owned a Volvo dealership in Alexandria and was an auctioneer on
the side. His father, she'd been told by one of Adam's older brothers
owned and operated a stud farm in Virginia.
Well, her father was alive, but that was all he needed to be, thank
you very much. Actually, she wasn't at all certain what he did for a
living, but who cared? She thought briefly of his house, where her
mother had spent time. Now it was gone, just a shell left. It didn't
matter. Her father was alive.
She took the elevator up to the sixth floor, to the ICU. She
could make that trip in her sleep, she'd gone back and forth so
many times now.
Thank God the hospital administration had managed to keep
the media away from this area. The doctors and nurses nodded to
her. She walked into the huge room with its hissing machines, its
ever-present mixture of smells that was overlaid with a sharp antiseptic
odor that reminded her of the dentist's office, and the occasional
groan from a patient.
An FBI agent sat by her father's cubicle.
"Hello, Agent Austin. Everything all right?"
"No problem," he said and a grin kicked in that was positively evil.
You'll like this. One enterprising reporter managed to get this far,
and then I nabbed him. I decked him, stripped him naked, and the
nurses and doctors tossed him in a laundry cart and wheeled him
down to the emergency room, where they left him, his hands and feet
tied with surgical tape, his mouth gagged. Ah, since then, no one else
has tried it."
"I just heard about that," she said, rolling her eyes. "One of the
doctors told me he'd never before been surrounded with such




laughter in the emergency room. Well done, Agent. Remind me to
stay on your good side."
He was still chuckling when she eased around the light curtain
surrounding her father's bed and sat down in the single chair. He
was asleep, not unexpected, and it didn't matter. He was on powerful
medications and even when he was awake, his mind couldn't
focus. "Hello," she said, watching him breathe slowly, in and out
through the oxygen tubes in his nostrils. "You're looking wonderful,
very handsome. I might have to give your hair a trim though,
maybe in a couple of days. Adam will be all right as well, but maybe
he's not quite as good-looking as you are. He's sleeping right now.
Oh yes, I'm sure you'll be pleased to know that we're going to get
married. But you won't be surprised, will you?" White bandages
covered his chest. Tubes stuck out of him, and like Adam, he
seemed to have a score of needles in his arms. He lay perfectly still,
but he was breathing evenly, steady and deep.
"Now, let me tell you again what happened. Mikhail shot you in
the chest. You have a collapsed lung. They did what's called a thoacotomy.
They cracked open your chest to stop the bleeding and
put a chest tube in between your ribs. It's hooked up to suction.
That thing's called a pleuravac and you'll hear bubbles in the background.
Now, when you wake up the tube will hurt a bit. There
are two IV's in place and you'll have this oxygen tube in your nose
for a while longer. Other than that, you're just fine."
He was breathing slowly, smoothly. The bubbles sounded in the
background. "The house is gone and I'm very sorry about that,"
she said. "They couldn't save anything. I'm sorry, Dad, but we're
alive, and that's what's really important. I just realized that not
everything is gone, though. After Mom died, I put all of her things
in a storage facility in the Bronx. There are photos there, and a lot





of her things. Maybe there are even letters. I don't know, because I
couldn't take the time to go through her papers. We'll have those.
It's a start."
Did his breathing quicken a bit?
She wasn't sure.
What was important was that he was alive. He would get well.
She laid her cheek against his shoulder. She stayed there for a
very long time, listening to the steady sound of his heart beating
against her face.
She got the call at the hospital at eight o'clock that evening.
She'd just left her father and was going back downstairs to be with
Adam when a nurse called out, "Ms. Matlock, telephone for you."
She was surprised. It was the first call she'd gotten, or rather, it
was the first call they had put through to her.
It was Tyler and he was talking even before she could say hello.
"You're all right. Thank God it's all over, Becca. Jesus, I've been
frantic. They had footage of your father's burning house, for God's
sake, with this huge safety net in the front yard. They said you'd
nearly died, up there on that roof with that maniac, that you shot
him finally. Are you truly all right?"
"I'm fine, Tyler. Don't worry. I'm spending all my time at the
hospital. Both my father and Adam Carruthers were shot, but they'll
both survive. The media is outside, waiting, but it will be a long wait.
Sherlock is bringing me clothes and stuff so I don't have to try to
sneak out of here and take the chance the media might nab me.
How's Sam doing?"
There was a bit of silence, then, "He misses you dreadfully. He's
really quiet now, won't say a word. I'm worried, Becca, really worried.
I keep trying to get him to talk about the man who kidnapped him,
to tell me a little bit about him and what he said, but Sam just shakes





his head. He won't say a word. The TV said that man was dead, that
he set himself on fire and hurled himself at you. Is that true?"
"Very true. I think you should take Sam to a child psychiatrist,
Tyler."
"Those flimflam bloodsuckers? They'll start psychoanalyzing
me, claiming I'm not a fit father, tell me I need to lie on a couch
for at least six years and pay them big bucks. They'll say it's about
me, not Sam. No way, Becca. No, he just wants to see you."
"I'm sorry, but I can't leave here for another week, at least."
Then she heard a little boy's wail, "Becca!"
It was Sam and he sounded like he was dying. She didn't know
what to do. It was her fault that Sam was having problems, all her
fault. "Put Sam on the phone,Tyler. Let me try to talk to him."
He did, but there was only silence. Sam wouldn't say a word.
Tyler said, "It's bad, Becca, really bad."
"Please take him to a child shrink,Tyler. You need help."
"Come back, Becca. You must."
"I will as soon as I can," she said finally, and hung up the phone.
"Problem?" a nurse asked, a thick black brow arched.
"Nothing but," Becca said, and lightly touched her fingers to her
right arm. The burns were healing and were itching a bit now.
"Problems are like that," the nurse said. "It rains problems, and
then, all of a sudden, it's a sunny day, and the problems have just
evaporated away."
"I hope you're right," Becca said.
The next day, Adam was much improved, even managed to joke
with his nurse, who patted his butt, and her father came down with
pneumonia and nearly died.
"It's nuts," Becca said to Agent Austin. "He survives a bullet to
the heart and gets pneumonia."





"There's got to be some irony in that," Agent Austin said, shaking
his head, "but no matter, it still sucks."
"He'll pull through," the doctor said over and over again to
Becca, taking her hands in his. Maybe the doctor didn't like the
irony, either, Becca thought, lightly touching her father's shoulder.
It was odd, when she touched him--settled her hand on his arm,
laid her hand over his, lightly touched his shoulder--his breathing
calmed, his whole body seemed to relax, to ease.
And when he was finally awake, his mind alert, and she touched
him, he smiled at her, and she saw the pleasure in his eyes, deep and
abiding. And when she whispered, "I love you, Dad," he closed his
eyes briefly, and she knew she didn't 'want to see his tears. "I love
you," she said again, for good measure, and kissed his cheek. "We're
together now. I know you love Adam like a son, but I'm very
pleased that he isn't your son. If he were, then I couldn't marry
him. Now you'll get him anyway."
"If he ever makes you cry, I'll kill him," said her father.
"Nah, I'll do it."
"Becca, thank you for telling me about all your mother's things
safely in storage in New York."
He'd heard her, actually heard her speaking to him. And since
he'd heard her speaking to him, just maybe her mother had heard
her as well, maybe she did have a final connection with her. "You're
welcome. As I said then, it's a start."
"Yes," Thomas said, smiling up at his daughter. "It's a very good
start."

Adam was now walking up and down the corridor, ill-tempered,
his back throbbing, his arm throbbing, feeling useless,





wanting to hit someone because he felt so damned helpless. At least
the damned catheter was out.
He was carping and carrying on when Becca laughed and said,
"All right, you've finally driven me away. My father is doing fine,
the pneumonia is kicked, and I'm going to Riptide to see Sam."
"No," he said, leaning against the hospital corridor wall, utterly
appalled. He wanted to grab her and tuck her under his arm. "I
don't want you going there alone. I don't trust McBride. I don't
want you out of my sight. I'd really like it if you would sleep in my
bed with me and I could hold on to you all night."
She realized she'd rather like that as well, but she said, "There's
no danger, Adam. How could there be? I'm not going to see Tyler.
I'm going to see what's going on with Sam. Don't forget, Adam, it's
my fault that Krimakov even took him, my fault that Sam got traumatized.
I've got to fix it. Tyler has nothing to do with it."
"Dammit, it was Krimakov's fault. Give it another couple of
days, Becca, and I'll go with you."
"Adam, you can barely get to the bathroom by yourself now.
You'll stay here and just concentrate on getting well. Spend time
with my father. And maybe you could work on all those church
dates as well. None of your family can come to an agreement."
"Well, are you still going to marry me?"
"Is that your final offer?"
He looked both pissed and chagrined. Suddenly he laughed. "I
swear I'll change that green tile. Do you mind moving from New
York, living down here? We're really close to your dad. Is he going
to rebuild?"
"We haven't discussed it yet. Yes, Adam, I'll marry you, particularly
if you change that bathroom tile. Consider it a done deal.
I have no real ties to Albany. Goodness, there are so many folk
around here who need good speechwriters. I'll make a fortune.





Now, you can't flirt with any of the hospital staff anymore, you got
that? I'm considering that we're now officially engaged.
"Ah, good, here's Hatch. Is that cigarette smoke I smell, Hatch?
Adam won't like that. He'll probably take a good strip off you for
that, maybe hit you with his walker."
She watched the two men argue, smiling. Sherlock came up behind
her and said, "Everything nearly back to normal, I see. Let's
watch CNN. Gaylan Woodhouse is going to be on in about a
minute. He's speaking for the president, and you're going to love
this spin."
Good grief, she thought, "watching the TV, she was now a heroine.
Someone, she had no idea who, had somehow taken a photo,
very grainy, showing her facing Krimakov on that burning roof,
her white nightgown blowing around her legs, her Coonan held in
front of her in both hands, pointed straight at Krimakov. Gaylan
Woodhouse wouldn't shut up. "Oh dear," Becca said. "Oh dear."
"It's been a long haul, and you came through," Sherlock said, and
hugged her tightly. "I'm really glad to have met you, Becca Matlock,
and I like your being a heroine. I have this feeling that you,
Adam, and your father will be coming to lots of barbecues over at
our house, beginning when they get out of this joint. Did I tell you
that Savich is a vegetarian? When we barbecue, he eats roasted corn
on the cob. We won't know about Sean and his preferences for a
while yet. Have you agreed to the date and that marvelous Presbyterian
Church your in-laws have been members of for years and
years?"
"Not yet," Becca said. "Hey, I'm so famous maybe I'll ask if the
churches want to place bids for our ceremony."
You're a writer, you could write a book, make a gazillion
bucks."

'She'll have to make it fast," Savich said, coming up and squeez




ing his wife against his chest, "fame is fleeting nowadays. Another
week,Becca, and you'll be a last-page footnote in People magazine."

The next day, Becca flew to Portland, Maine, rented a Ford Escort,
and drove up to Riptide. It was cooler this trip, the breeze sharp
off the ocean. The first person she saw was Sheriff Gaffney, and he
was frowning at her, his thumbs hooked in his wide leather belt.
"Ms. Matlock," he said, and gave her his best intimidating cop look.
"Hi, Sheriff," she said, grinned at him, and went up on her tiptoes.
She gave him a big kiss on the cheek. "I'm famous, at least for
a week, that's what I was told. Be nice to me."
For the life of him, Sheriff Gaffney couldn't think of a thing to
say except "Humph," which he did. "I'll want to speak to you
about that skeleton," he called after her. "I'll come to Jacob Marey's
house this evening. Will you be there?"
"Certainly, Sheriff, I'll be there."
Then she ran into Bernie Bradstreet, the owner and editor of The Riptide 
Independent. He looked very tired, as if he'd been ill.
"My wife's been sick," he said, then he tried to smile at her. "At
least all your troubles are over, Ms. Matlock." He didn't mention
how she'd lied to him that long-ago night when Tyler had taken
her out to dinner at Errol Flynn's Barbecue on Foxglove Avenue.
He was a good man, bless him.
And then she was knocking on Tyler's front door just as the sun
was setting. The insects were beginning their evening songs. She
heard a dog bark from a house farther down on Gum Shoe Lane. She
wished she'd brought a cardigan. She shivered, rang the bell again.
Tyler's car wasn't in the driveway.
Where was he? Where was Sam?
She didn't understand it. She'd told him when she'd be here and





she was only ten minutes off. She got back in her rental car and cut
over to Belladonna, to Jacob Marley's house. She'd paid the rent
through the end of the month, so the place was still hers. She planned
to use this time to pack up the rest of her things, have the place
cleaned, and return the keys to Rachel Ryan. Surely Rachel was
spending a lot of time with Sam, helping him. She hoped Rachel was
also trying to convince Tyler to take Sam to a child shrink.
She turned the key in the lock and shoved the door open.
"Hello, Becca."
It was Tyler, standing there, Sam in his arms, smiling really big. "We
decided to wait for you here. I left the car just down the road. We
wanted to surprise you. I've got champagne for us and some lemonade
for Sam. I even bought a carrot cake; I remembered that you liked
it. Come in." He set Sam down, and Sam stood there staring at her.
Tyler walked to her and wrapped his arms around her back. He
kissed the top of her head. "I like your hair. It's natural again. God,
you're beautiful, Becca." He kissed her again, pulled her more
tightly against him. "I thought you were beautiful in college, but
you're even more beautiful now."
She tried to ease away from him, but he didn't let her go.
He gently pushed her chin up with his thumb and kissed her. It
was a deep kiss, and he wanted to make it deeper, he wanted her to
open her mouth. Sam was standing there saying nothing just looking
at them.
"No, Tyler, please, no." She shoved hard against his chest and he
quickly stepped back.
He was still smiling, breathing hard, his eyes bright with excitement,
with sex, lust. "You're right. Sam is standing right here. He's
four, not a baby anymore. We shouldn't do this in front of him." He
turned to smile down at his son. "Well, Sam, here's Becca. What do
you have to say to her?"






Sam didn't have anything to say. He just stood there, his small
face blank of all expression. It scared her to her toes. She walked
slowly to him and went down on her knees in front of him. "Hello,
Sam," she said, and lightly touched her fingertips to his cheek.
"How are you, sweetie? I want you to listen to me now. And believe
me because I wouldn't lie to you. That bad man who kidnapped you, who tied you 
up and put you in the basement, I swear
to you that he's gone now, forever. He'll never come back, ever, I
can promise you that. I took care of him."
Sam didn't say anything, just suffered her touching his face.
Slowly, she brought him against her even though his small body
was stiff, resistant.
"I've missed you, Sam. I would have come sooner, but my father
and Adam--you remember Adam, don't you?--they were both
hurt and I had to stay with them in the hospital. But now I'm here."
"Adam."
One word, but it was enough. "Yes," she said, delighted, "Adam."
She turned her head when she heard Tyler say something, but he
shook his head at her. "Sam's okay, Becca. I also brought some barbecue
from Errol Flynn's for our dinner. All the fixings, too. Would
you like to have dinner now?"
And so they drank champagne, Sam drank his lemonade, and
everyone ate barbecue pork ribs, baked beans, and coleslaw in Jacob
Marley's kitchen. The carrot cake from Myrtle's Sweet Tooth
on Venus Fly Trap Boulevard stood on the kitchen counter.
After she'd answered countless questions about Krimakov, she
said, "What about the skeleton, Tyler? Have the DNA results come
in yet? Is it Melissa Katzen?"
Tyler shrugged. "No word yet that I know of. Everyone believes
it is. But that's not important now. What's important is us. When
do you want to move up here, Becca?"





Becca was handing Sam another rib. Her hand stilled. "Move
back here? No,Tyler. I'm here to see Sam and pack up my things."
He nodded and tore meat off the rib he was holding. He
chewed, then said, "Well, that's all right. You've just reconnected
with your dad, so you need to make sure he's okay, get to know
him and all that, but we need to set our -wedding date before you
go back to see him. Do you think he'll want to move up to be near
you after we're married?"
She set down her fork near the coleslaw. Something had gone
terribly wrong. She didn't want this, but there was no hiding from
it now. She said it slowly, calmly, aware that Sam was now very still
again, not eating, listening, but she had no choice. She said, "I'm
truly sorry if you've misunderstood, Tyler. You and Sam are my
very dear friends. I care about both of you quite a lot. I've appreciated
all you've done for me, the support you've given me, the
confidence you've had in me, but I can't be your wife. I'm very sorry, but I 
just don't feel about you the way you want me to."
Sam continued to sit there on two thick phone books, still and
silent, the half-chewed pork rib clutched in his small fingers.
She forced a smile. "We should probably have this talk after
Sam's gone to bed, don't you think?"
"Why? It concerns him. He wants you for his mother, Becca. I
told him that was why you were coming back. I told him you were
going to fix everything and you'd be here for him forever."
"We should speak of this later, Tyler. This is between us. Please."
Sam looked down at his plate, his small face drawn, pale in the
dim kitchen light.
"All right then," Tyler said. "I'm going to put Sam down with a
blanket in the living room, on that real comfortable sofa. What do
you think, Sam?"
Sam didn't tell them what he thought.





"I'll be right back, Becca."
He scooped Sam up off his phone books and carried him out of
the kitchen. She shivered. The house felt uncomfortably cool. She
hoped Sam would be warm enough with just one blanket. She
hoped Sam had gotten enough to eat. She wished Tyler had wiped
Sam's fingers off better.
What was she going to do? Was she the one off base here? Had
she given Tyler the wrong impression? She'd known he was jealous
of Adam, and that's when she had pulled back from him, even cooling
her friendship toward him. But still he'd misunderstood, still
he'd come to believe that she wanted to be his wife. How could it
be possible? She'd said nothing, done nothing, to give him that
idea. And he was using Sam, which was despicable of him.
Sam. What was she going to do? There was something very
wrong, triggered, she supposed, by Krimakov's kidnapping of him.
She heard Tyler walking back toward the kitchen. She had to clear
this up, quickly and cleanly. She had to think what she could do to
help Sam.
She'd gotten the name of a really good child psychologist in
Bangor from Sherlock. She would start there.
But she didn't have a chance to start anything because Tyler said
from the doorway, "I love you, Becca."





Chapter 32

to, Tyler, no."
Tyler just smiled at her, an intimate smile that chilled her to the
bone. "I've loved you from that first time I saw you in Hadley's
freshman dorm at Dartmouth. You were looking lost, wondering
where to find a bathroom."
She smiled at that, no recollection at all of that meeting. "You
didn't love me, Tyler. You dated lots of girls in college. You married
Sam's mother, Ann. You loved her."
He came into the kitchen and sat down across from her. "Sure I
loved her for a while, but she left me, Becca. She left me and she
didn't plan to come back. She was even going to take Sam, but I
didn't let her."
What was he talking about? Of course things couldn't have been
smooth between them, since Ann had ended up leaving him.
They'd faced off about it? There'd been a confrontation? But that
didn't concern her now. She said, "I'm really sorry if you've gotten
the wrong idea, Tyler. Please believe me. I am your friend and I
hope I always will be. I would like to see Sam grow up."
"Since you're going to be his mother, of course you'll see him
grow up. You'll make him well again, Becca. He's been silent and
withdrawn ever since his mother left."
"Would you like some coffee?"
'Sure, if you're going to make some." He watched her measure





the coffee into the machine, then pour in the water. He watched
her press the switch, watched it turn red.
"Tell me about Ann," she said, wanting him to remember the
woman he'd loved, distract him from her. Why had Ann left him?
Had there been another man? Why hadn't she taken Sam with her?
So what if Tyler had tried to fight for custody? Sam was still her
child, not his. But she had just run away without him.
Tyler was still watching the coffeemaker. She watched him
breathe in the aroma. Finally, he said, "She was beautiful. She'd
been married to a guy who left her the minute he found out she
was pregnant. We hooked up kind of by accident. She couldn't get
the gasoline cap off her car. I helped her. Then we went to
Pollyanna's Restaurant." He shrugged. "We got married a couple
months later."
"What happened?"
He said nothing for a very long time. "The coffee's ready."
She poured each of them a cup.
He took a drink, then shrugged. "She was happy and then she
wasn't. She left. Nothing more, Becca. Listen, I swear I'll make you
happy. You won't ever want to leave. We can have more kids, yours
and mine. Sam was Ann's kid anyway."
"I'm going to marry Adam."
He threw the coffee at her. He roared to his feet, sending the
wooden chair crashing against the wall, and shouted, "No, you're
not going to marry that goddamned bastard! You're mine, do you
hear me? You're mine, you damned bitch!"
The coffee wasn't scalding anymore, thank God, but it hurt,
splashing on her neck, on the front of her shirt, soaking through to
her skin.
He leapt toward her, his hands out.
"No, Tyler." She ran, but he was blocking any escape out the





back door. There was no place to go except down to the basement.
But she'd be trapped down there. No, wait, there was another small
entry on the far side of the basement where long-ago Marleys had
had their winter cords of wood dumped. She saw it all in a flash,
and ran to the basement door, jerked it open, then pulled it closed
behind her. She locked it, flipped on the light, saw the naked bulb
dangling from the ceiling by a thin wire, even as she heard him
pulling on the knob on the other side, yelling, calling her horrible
names, telling her that he would get her, that she wouldn't leave
him, not ever.
She ran down the wooden stairs. She looked at the wall where
she'd found Sam propped up, bound and gagged, then at the far
wall that still gaped open from when the skeleton had fallen out of
it after that storm.
She heard the basement door splinter. Then he was on the stairs.
She pulled and jerked at the rusted latch that held the small trapdoor
down. It was about chest high. Move, move, but she was
shrieking it in her mind, not out loud. What the hell was going on
with him? It had happened so quickly. He had snapped, just
snapped, and turned into a wild man. Oh God, a crazy man.
She heard his feet clattering to the bottom steps. The latch
wouldn't give. She was trapped. She turned to see him running
across the concrete floor. He came to a stop. He was panting. Then
he smiled at her.
"I nailed that trapdoor shut last week. It was dangerous. I didn't
think we should take the chance that a kid could open it and fall
through. Maybe hurt himself. Maybe even kill himself."
"Tyler," she said. Be calm, be calm. "What's going on here? Why
are you acting like this? Why this rage? At me? Why?"
He said, all calm and serious, and he actually waved his finger at
her, like a lecturing teacher, "You're like the others, Becca. I hoped





you would be different, I would have wagered everything that you
were different, that you weren't like Ann, that faithless bitch who
wanted to leave me, wanted to take Sam and go far away from me."
"Why did she want to leave you,Tyler?"
He shrugged. "She thought I was smothering her, but that was
just in her mind, of course. I loved her, wanted to make her and
Sam happy, but she started pulling back. She didn't need all those
other friends of hers, they just -wasted her time, took her away from
me. Then she told me that night that she had to leave me, that she
couldn't stand it anymore."
"Stand what?"
"I don't know. I tried to give her everything she wanted, both
her and Sam. I just wanted her for myself, wanted her to commit
herself only to me, and all I asked was that she stay close to me, that
she look to me for everything. And she did for a while, and then
she didn't want to anymore."
"She left?"
In that instant, Becca knew that Ann McBride hadn't gone anywhere.
She was still here in Riptide.
"Where did you bury her, Tyler?"
"In Jacob Marley's backyard, right under that old elm tree that
was around when World War One began. I dug her deep so no animals
would dig her up. I even gave her a nice service. She didn't
deserve anything, but I gave her all the religious trappings, the
sweet and hopeful words. After all, she was my wife." He laughed,
remembering now and said with a smirk, "Old Jacob had been
dead by then nearly three years so I didn't worry about getting rid
of him that time."
He started laughing then. "I killed that ridiculous old dog of
his--Miranda--a long time ago. The bitch didn't like me, always
growled when I came near. The old man never knew, never."





She remembered the sheriff telling her how much Jacob Marley
had loved that dog, how she'd just up and died one day. Her heart
was pounding, slowly, painfully. Somehow she had to reach him.
She had to try. "Listen to me, Tyler. I didn't betray you. I would
never betray you. I came here to Riptide because of what you'd
told me about it. I was here to hide out. This was sanctuary for me.
You helped me, so very much. You don't know how much I appreciate
that." Were his eyes calmer now? Maybe, but he frowned
and she tried to still her fear, said quickly, "That madman was trying
to kill both me and my father. The last thing I wanted to think
about was falling in love with anyone. I never meant for you to believe
there was more to it than friendship."
His eyes were darker now, a barely leashed wildness that scared
her to her soul. He said, his voice sarcastic, "You didn't want to fall
in love, Becca? Then why are you marrying that bastard Carruthers?"
For a moment, her brain refused to work. He was right, oh God,
he was right. She had to think, she had to do something. She was
alone in the basement with a man who wasn't sane, a man who was
somehow twisted, a man who had murdered his wife and buried
her in Jacob Marley's backyard. Sheriff Gaffney had been certain
that Tyler had murdered his wife. Everyone believed that the skeleton
that fell out of the basement wall had been Ann McBride. But
it wasn't.
She couldn't bear it, just couldn't. She had to know, all of it.
"Tyler, the girl in the wall. Was it Melissa Katzen?"
He said, his voice indifferent, bored, "Yes, of course it was."
"But she was young, not more than eighteen when someone
killed her. That was more than twelve years ago. Did you kill her,
Tyler?"
He shrugged. "Another faithless bitch, little Melissa. Everyone





thought she was so sweet, so giving, so yielding. And she was with
me, at first. I gave her attention, small presents--lots of them, all
clever, imaginative. I told her how pretty she was and she soaked it
up until one day she turned down my latest gift to her. It was a
Barbie, all dressed to travel, ready to elope.
"She didn't want to tell anyone about us, and that was okay by
me. I was going to laugh my head off when we came back married.
She called me that night, asked me to meet her. She gave me back
the Barbie, then told me she didn't want to run away with me after
all. She whined that she was too young, that her parents would
be hurt if she ran off with me. I told her that she had to marry me,
that no one else would, that I was the only one who really loved
her." He shook his head then, frowning at something he was remembering,
at what he was seeing. He said slowly, "She became
afraid of me. She tried to get away from me, but I caught her."
She could see him with Melissa in her Calvin Klein white jeans,
the cute little pink tank top, see him, hear him trying to convince
her, then screaming at her, then killing her. She knew she had to
keep him talking. She couldn't let him stop now. When he stopped
talking, he would kill her. She didn't want to die. She remembered
then that Sheriff Gaffney was coming over, at least he'd told her he
was. Sometime during the evening. Dammit, it was evening, right
in the middle of evening. Where was he? What if he just left when
no one answered the door? She was so afraid, she stuttered. "B-but
Jacob Marley was here, wasn't he?"
"True enough." He shrugged. "I put her in the shed out back,
and then the next day, I got Jacob Marley out of the house with
a phone call. He had a very old sister who lived in Bangor. I
called and told him she was dying and asking for him, begging
him to come to her. The old jerk left and I dug out the wall and





put Melissa behind it. Then I bricked it back up. My dad was in
construction before he fell off a building and he taught me a whole
lot. I knew all about bricklaying. Then I left. You want to know
something funny? Jacob Marley's ancient sister died the very day he
showed up at the old folks' home in Bangor. He never even realized
that it had been a fake call."
"Tyler, why did you bury Melissa in the basement wall? Why Jacob
Marley's house?"
He laughed, and that laugh chilled her. "I was thinking maybe
I'd call in an anonymous tip, tell everyone I saw Jacob Marley kill
Melissa, then saw him with cement and bricks."
"But you didn't."
"No. Maybe I'd left fingerprints somehow on her. I couldn't
take the chance." Then he slashed his hand through the air. His
voice lowered, his eyes darkened, became as intense as a preacher's
in a revival tent. "I wanted you to marry me, Becca. I would have
taken care of you all your life. I would have loved you, protected
you, kept you close forever. You could have been Sam's mother.
But once you were with me, you wouldn't have spent all that much
time with him. Sam would have understood that you were mine
first, that he really had no claim on you, not like I did."
She was cold, so cold her teeth would soon be chattering. This
lovely man who'd seemed so kind, so gentle--he was crazy, probably
he'd been born crazy.
"Melissa was only eighteen, Tyler. Both of you were too young
to run off."
"No," he said. "I was ready. I believed she was. She was faithless.
She would have left me, just like Ann did."
How many other women had he believed to be faithless? How
many others had he killed, then hidden their bodies? Becca looked





around for some sort of weapon, anything, but there was nothing.
No, she was wrong. There were about half a dozen bricks stacked
against the gaping open wall, about six feet away from her.
She took a step sideways.
He said thoughtfully now, "I think I'll bury you close to Ann. Out
under that elm tree. But you don't deserve a nice service, Becca, not
like the one I did for Ann. She was Sam's mother, after all."
"I don't want to be buried there," she said and took another step.
"I don't want to die,Tyler. I haven't done anything to you. I came
here to be safe, but I wasn't ever safe, was I? It was all an illusion.
You were just waiting, waiting for another woman to love, to possess,
to imprison so she'd want out and then you could kill her, do
it all over again and again. You need help, Tyler. Let me call someone."
She took another step toward the bricks.
He began walking toward her. "I would rather have held you
close, Becca. If only--"
There was the sound of a car pulling up outside.
"The sheriff's here," Becca said quickly. "Just listen. It's over,
Tyler. The sheriff won't let you hurt me now." She took another
quick step to the side. Three feet, just another three feet. Tyler
looked up and frowned when he heard a car door slam. He cursed
even as he ran toward her, his hands outstretched, his fingers curved
inward.
Becca leapt toward the pile of bricks, went down on her knees,
and grabbed one. He was on her then, his hands around her neck,
and she slammed the brick against his shoulder. His fingers tightened,
tightened, and his face was blurring above her. She raised the
brick again, brought it upward slowly, and he twisted just as she
heaved it toward him. It struck his face and he howled with agony,
and his fingers loosened for just a moment. She gulped in air and
struck again. He sent his fist against her head, and she saw blinding





flashes of light, felt the pain sear through her head, knew she
couldn't hold on. She was losing and she would die because she
wasn't strong enough. She tried to raise the brick again but she just
couldn't.
"You faithless bitch, you're just like all the rest of them!" His fingers
tightened around her neck.
Sheriff Gaffney yelled, "Let her go,Tyler! Let her go!"
Tyler was heaving now, his fingers strong, so strong, tighter and
tighter now and she knew she would die.
Then there was a shot. Tyler jerked over her. His hands fell away.
She blinked and saw him turn slowly to face Sheriff Gaffney, standing
in a cop's stance, his Ruger P85 pistol held tightly between his
hands. "Get away from her,Tyler. Now! MOVE!"
"No," Tyler said and lunged for her again. Another shot rang
out. Tyler fell on top of her, his face beside her head. Dead weight,
oh God, he was now dead weight.
"Hold on, Ms. Matlock, and I'll get him off you."
Sheriff Gaffney pulled Tyler away. He'd shot him once in the head
and once in the back. He gave Becca a hand up. "You okay?"
She was shaking, her teeth chattering, her throat burning, Tyler's
blood all over her, and the healing burn on her arm was throbbing
fiercely. She smiled up at him. "I think you're the most wonderful
man in the whole world," she said. "Thank you for coming in the
house. I prayed and prayed that you would see all the lights on and
come in."
"I heard little Sam crying," Sheriff Gaffney said.
"Hello?"
A small, thin voice. It was Sam and he was standing at the top of
the basement stairs.
"Oh, no," Becca said. "Oh, no."
"I told him to wait in the kitchen for me. Damn. Okay, I'll get




Rachel over here. Can you pull yourself together, Ms. Matlock?
We'll go upstairs and you can take care of little Sam until Rachel
comes. He loves Rachel a whole lot, you'll see. Just keep hanging
in there, ma'am." He shook his head, then said, "Jesus, I knew Tyler
killed his wife, just knew it in my lawman's gut, you know? But he
also killed poor little Melissa twelve years ago. I wonder how many
other women he's killed who rejected him."
Becca didn't want to know.

Adam was stretched out on the sofa in his living room, a soft pillow
under his head, a light afghan pulled to his waist, so relieved
that Becca was back safe and sound, staying in his house, her stuff
scattered around, all at home now, that all he could do was grin. He
didn't want her to leave, not ever. He heard her moving about in
his wonderful, fully equipped, very modern kitchen, making him a
healthy snack, she'd said.
The house was cool since he'd had the good sense to install central
air conditioning when he'd moved in. Soon, he thought, he'd
get that ugly green tile out of that second-floor bathroom. Another
four days and his energy would come roaring back and he'd head
right down to the tile store. The master bedroom was sort of stark
though, with just a big black lacquer bed and a matching black lacquer
dresser, a couple of comfortable black and white chairs, and a
good-sized closet, nearly walk-in, he'd said to her, lots of room for
both of their clothes.
He'd had big plans for the bed the night before, about two hours
after she'd gotten back from Riptide, and even though he couldn't
move a whole lot and his flexibility was nearly nil, and he'd tended
to moan from pain as well as pleasure, it hadn't mattered. She'd
simply taken charge. He nearly shook the afghan off now just





thinking of how she'd looked astride him, her head thrown back
when she'd screamed out his name. And then she'd just fallen over
on him and the pain had nearly made him yell again. But he'd just
lain there, silent, holding her against him as best he could, stroking
her smooth back, and then she'd slowly straightened, frowned at
the sight of his rib, all yellow and green now, and said, "I nearly
killed you, didn't I? I'm sorry."
"Kill me again," he'd said, and she laughed and kissed him and kissed him again 
and again, and loved him until he'd yelled again,
this time not from any pain in his damned ribs.
He felt good. He had plans for that bed again today, maybe in
just about an hour from now. He was stronger today, maybe he'd be
able to do a bit more moving around. He hadn't been able to get
his hands and mouth everywhere he'd wanted to last night. Ah, but
today. His fingers itched, his mouth sort of tingled. And what
about tomorrow and the next day? Maybe he'd just keep her in the
bedroom until they had to leave for the church to get married,
then right back here again. It sounded really fine to him. He wondered
what Becca thought about mirrors everywhere.
She brought him some iced tea and a plate of celery stuffed with
cream cheese. She sat beside him and fed him between kisses.
He realized suddenly that there was something different about
her, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. Then he realized
what it was--she was hiding something from him. And her
eyes, something different there--he realized, finally, that it was
shock. Well, he supposed that nearly burning to death on the roof
of her father's house would leave its mark. Or realizing that a man
she'd really liked was in actuality a madman. Or just maybe, he
thought, his mouth tightening, that madman, Tyler McBride, had,
in fact, hurt her or tried to, and she hadn't seen fit to tell him.
He ate another celery stick, eyeing her, then said, his voice all





suspicious, his brows lowered, "You swear you didn't lie to me? You
swear that there was no real trouble up in Riptide?"
She lightly stroked her fingers over his cheek. She loved to touch
him. She particularly liked him naked so she could touch all of him,
kiss all of him. She leaned down now and kissed his mouth, then straightened 
again. She said, all easy and blase, "Nothing that couldn't
be handled. Sam's all right. I can't tell you how wonderful Rachel is
with him. I knew they were close, but when she came running into
the house, Sam left me in a flash and went right to her. I thought she
would fall apart, she was so relieved that Sam was all right. Sheriff
Gaffney told me that since there are no relatives, Rachel and her husband
would very likely adopt Sam. I called up this morning, and
she's already got him an appointment with that child psychologist
Sherlock recommended up in Bangor. Oh yeah, I also told Rachel
she was probably a very conscientious great real estate agent, but I
would never ever rent another house from her again." His frown was
still in place. "Rachel laughed." The frown lightened.
Adam said, "Yeah, I'm relieved about Sam, too. But wait a
minute, Becca. Back up here. You're telling me that McBride didn't
try to hurt you when you told him you didn't love him?"
She stuffed another celery stick in his mouth and kissed him all
over his face as he chewed. She whispered in his ear before he
could talk again, "Nothing to worry about, really, Adam. It's all
over and done with. Hey, you do like the celery sticks?"
"Yeah, they're good. All three dozen that you've stuffed down
me. Now, tell me about how Sheriff Gaffney had to shoot Tyler
once he knew the skeleton was that girl Melissa Katzen. I'm not
really all that clear on any of it. I want every little detail, Becca. No,
no more celery sticks. Yeah, a kiss is all right, but hold off now.
You're not going to distract me anymore."
But she just kept kissing him until he was nearly heaving him




self off the sofa. She said against his ear, "I used low-fat cream
cheese, better for your arteries."
"Becca." He grabbed a fist of her hair and pulled her close to his
face. "Tell me the truth. What the hell happened up there?"
"Adam, it wasn't all that big a deal. Really, nothing worth mentioning
except that Sheriff Gaffney really came through. He was
the hero. I've probably forgotten lots of it because it just wasn't that
memorable. Really, the sheriff had everything under control. I didn't
even count. I wasn't even important. Would you please stop your
worrying and just forget it? I'm home now." He felt her hand on
his belly and he nearly lost it, but he didn't. He let her go but his
frown deepened. Before he could say anything, Becca smiled and
said as she got up from the sofa, "Oh, my, just look at the time. Not
enough time for me to have my way with you. But I do have a
couple of minutes. Do you want me to give you a nice rubdown
before I go to the hospital to see Dad?"
He thought about her hand on his belly, moving south, and he
nearly went enpointe. He said on a big sigh, "No, but how about an
apple, Becca? I love apples."
She knew exactly what he was thinking. "I love you, Adam.
Maybe when I get back from the hospital, we can play a game of
Monopoly, or something, okay? But that means you've got to rest
while I'm gone. Now, you just sit tight and I'll get you that apple."
The phone rang. Adam stared after Becca, then picked it up.
"Hello."
"Is this Mr. Carruthers?"
"It is."
"This is Sheriff Gaffney, from Riptide."
"Hello, Sheriff. What can I do for you?"
"I just wanted to speak to Ms. Matlock, make sure she was all
right."





"Well," Adam said slowly, staring toward the door, "there's still
some shock, you know, from what happened."
The sheriff sighed. "Understandable, of course, poor girl. I don't
mind telling you that it was pretty hairy there for a while, Mr. Carruthers
I'm sure it's made your hair stand on end, hearing about
her lying on the basement floor with McBride straddling her,
choking the life out of her. She was hitting him with a brick, but
it wasn't working, she was getting too weak. The guy was strong,
really strong. As you know, I had to shoot him, but even that didn't
stop him. He was over the top, completely whacked out, as my
boys say, and all he wanted to do was kill her. I had to shoot him
again and the guy fell right on top of her, covered her with blood.
But it's over now. All the questions answered. Ms. Matlock didn't
get hysterical, thank the good Lord. She's a strong girl. As a man of
the law doing my duty, I really appreciated that. And now she's
home, and I hear the two of you are going to get married. You're a
lucky man."
"Yes, Sheriff. Thank you."
"Anytime. Well, do give my best to Ms. Matlock."
"You can be sure that I will, Sheriff." Adam heard her breathing.
She was on the line in the kitchen. She'd listened in, heard everything,
hadn't said a word. His heart was pounding slow, heavy
strokes. He was so furious he couldn't think of anything to say.
Then he opened his mouth and shouted into the receiver at the
top of his lungs, "BECCA!"
She cleared her throat. "Ah, Adam, I've got to go to the hospital
now."
He breathed deeply, got hold of himself, and said, "Not just yet.
Bring me my apple. I'll even give you a bite before I wash your
mouth out with soap for those whoppers you told me."





"Sorry, Adam, the apples aren't ripe enough. You know Sheriff
Gaffney, he exaggerates, really, he--"
"After I wash your mouth out, I'm going to maybe shave your
head. Then if I'm still pissed off, I'm going to make you change
that green tile in the bathroom, then--"
"I'm outta here, Adam. I love you. Er, I'll buy ripe apples while
I'm out."
She hung up the phone.
"BECCA!"






