“My money’s on Talia,” Susannah said. “I think she can make them talk.” She settled into her seat, frowning. “Why won’t Darcy’s killer talk? What’s he so afraid of?”

“Maybe he’ll talk once we catch Bobby. Maybe she’s threatening him, just like she did Jennifer Ohman.”

“Maybe. But… I’ve been thinking. Bobby Davis isn’t that much older than I am-maybe a year or two. I was twenty-two when I met Darcy and twenty-three by the time she died. Barbara Jean wouldn’t have been more than twenty-four or so herself. It’s hard to believe she could have pulled all those details together at twenty-four.”

“Not so hard to believe. I investigated a fourteen-year-old who had a Web site and was exposing his seven-year-old sister. We caught him, but it took some doing. Even he knew how to set up the servers so that he couldn’t be easily found.”

“Is he redeemable?” she asked softly. “Or at fourteen, is he beyond help?”

“The second one,” Luke said. “And at seven, the little girl’s life is over.”

Susannah frowned. “No, it’s not,” she snapped. “Just because she was…” She stopped and looked at him. “You think you’re pretty clever.”

“And engaging.” He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, relieved her frown had smoothed from irate to thoughtful. “I told you that you wouldn’t accept a victim thinking her life was over. Why should you be any different?”

“Maybe I’m not,” she said and hope surged inside him.

“Damn straight you’re not. You’d be arrogant to think you were.”

“Don’t push your luck, Papadopoulos,” she said, quietly serious.

He nodded, satisfied he’d made his point. “Sleep. I’ll wake you when we get there.”

Dutton, Sunday, February 4, 3:55 a.m.

Charles answered on the first ring. He’d been waiting for the call from Paul. “Well?”

“Bobby killed the nurse in front of about ten witnesses,” Paul said in disgust.

“Did they catch her?” Charles asked, bitterly disappointed. He’d hoped Bobby would have more finesse.

“No, they hid for a while. I led the cops away so that they could get away.”

“Then where did they go?”

“Jersey Jameson, the drug runner.”

“Bobby told Rocky to hire him to move inventory from the bunker. Jersey’s dead?”

“Very. Bobby’s out of control, Charles. You need to stop her.”

“Simon was smart, but so unstable. I was hoping Bobby had the Vartanian brains without the insanity.”

“With all due respect, sir, I don’t think so.”

“I know. I’ll deal with Bobby. Be on call in case I need you.”

Ridgefield House, Sunday, February 4, 3:55 a.m.

One last push. Ashley Csorka put her face against the hole she’d created in the wall, feeling the cold air on her hot face. She rested as she sucked in more fresh air. The hole in the wall was small, but Ashley didn’t think her hands could chip away at the wall any longer. She’d used the second brick she’d loosened to pound the nail into the mortar. It was louder than the nail alone, but she was growing desperate enough that she risked discovery by the creepy butler. She’d loosened a third brick, then two more together, and he never came.

If she angled her head, she could see dim light. Moonlight, maybe. That meant a door or a window on the other side. She tensed. A car was coming, crunching up the drive and around the house. Doors slammed and she heard laughter, low and mean.

“I think we’ve had a good night, Tanner.”

“I concur.”

It was the woman they called Bobby, and the creepy butler.

“Jersey Jameson shouldn’t have tried to tell me what he would and wouldn’t do. I might have let him go painlessly otherwise.”

“I’d say he’ll serve as an example. So are all of our ends now snipped?”

“I think so. Oh, but I’m beat. I think I could sleep through the second coming.”

Ashley hoped so. Their voices faded as they rounded the house toward the front. Good. That means I’m at the back. That’s the side the river was on.

Ashley frowned. They hadn’t spoken to the guard. Where was he? She couldn’t wait. She’d been lucky to have had all this time to break out. Now it was time to act.

She sucked in her breath and stuck her head through the hole. It was the other half of the room and there was a window. Hurry. The sharp edges of the brick cut into her skin as she tried to force her shoulders through the opening. She angled her body, grateful for the yoga her swim coach had made part of their workout. She was flexible.

She was in pain. Biting back the whimper, she shoved through, her shoulders and upper arms burning. Her skin was scraped raw.

It didn’t matter. If you don’t hurry, you’ll be dead, then some scraped skin won’t mean anything. She wriggled her hips as if she were doing the breaststroke and her hands hit the floor on the other side. She slid the rest of the way out until she knelt on the floor, breathing hard, then looked around her. She nearly laughed out loud. On this side of the wall were all the tools she’d needed to break free. On a table she saw about a hundred doorknobs, some glass, some marble, some still assembled in the old-fashioned cast-iron plate that fit into the door. She lifted one with a marble knob, hefted it in her hand. It fit her hand better than a brick. From the table of tools she chose an awl with a wicked-looking point.

Then she pulled on the door. It creaked loudly and she froze.

“Who’s there?” It was the sleepy, slurred voice of the guard.

Run. She darted into the night, appalled to see the moon so bright. She was completely visible. Vulnerable. All this and she was going to be caught.

“Stop!” The thundered order was followed by the crack of gunfire.

It was the guard. He’s shooting at me. Run. Her feet flew across the back lawn, the footsteps and heavy breathing of the guard getting louder and louder as he got closer.

She grunted in pain when she hit the ground, two hundred pounds of man on top of her. “I got you, baby. I’m going to have you for free,” the guard said, and she could smell beer on his breath. That’s how she’d been able to work undetected. He’d been drunk. He wasn’t so drunk now and really strong. “Then I’m gonna kill you.”

I’m going to die. No. No. With a desperate cry she wrenched her hand free and drove the awl into his shoulder.

He howled in pain and she skittered back.

“Tanner!” It was the woman. From the corner of her eye she saw the butler come around the house, a rifle in his hands-just as the guard lunged. Ashley brought her arm around in a hard arc, striking the guard with the doorknob.

For a moment he was stunned motionless.

The moment was all she needed. Go. Go. Go. She made it to the woods that separated the house from the river. God, help me. The sticks and rocks shredded her feet, slowing her down. They were coming. Coming. Uttering a hoarse cry she ran. She could see the water. It would be cold.

Ready. Ready. Big breath. Brace yourself. Now. Jump.

God. She hit the cold water and dove deep. Go. Go. Go. She surfaced a few seconds later, the water too cold for her to hold her breath any longer, and she flinched at the sound of the rifle. It had hit the water, somewhere behind her.

Behind her. They were behind her.

But they had no boat. And I am going to the Olympics.

Move. She forced her arms to move, to stroke, to work with the current. It was working. I’m getting away. I’m coming, Dad. I’m coming home.

Dutton, Sunday, February 4, 4:10 a.m.

Susannah woke with lips on hers, unable to breathe. Panicked, she shrank back, her fist connecting with something solid and warm. That smelled like cedar.

“Ow.” Luke pulled back, rubbing his jaw. “That hurt.”