We haven’t seen Dr. Elliot all day, Chief Kelly,” said the nurse. “And frankly, we’re starting to get a little concerned.”

“When did you last speak to her?”

“According to the day shift, she called around noon or so to check on Noah’s condition. But there’s been no word from her since, and we’ve been paging her for hours. We called her house, but all we get is her answering machine. We really think she should be here. The boy’s been asking for her.”

Something was wrong, thought Lincoln as he walked up the hail to Noah’s room.

Claire would not let so much time pass without a visit, or at least a call, to her son. He’d driven by her house earlier that evening, and her car was not there, so he’d assumed she was at the hospital.

But she had not been here all day.

He nodded to the state cop guarding the door, and walked into Noah’s room.

The bedside lamp was on, and caught in its brightness, the boy’s face looked pale, exhausted. At the sound of the door closing, he looked up at Lincoln, and disappointment at once clouded his eyes.

The rage is gone, thought Lincoln, and the difference was startling. Thirty-six hours ago, Noah had been beyond reason, possessed by such strength and fury it had taken two men to wrestle him to the ground. Now he looked like nothing more than a tired boy. A frightened boy.

His question was barely a whisper. “Where is my mom?”

“I don’t know where she is, son.”

“Call her. Please, can you call her?”

“We’re trying to reach her.”

The boy blinked, and looked up at the ceiling. “I want to tell her I’m sorry. I want to tell her He blinked again, then turned away, his voice almost muffled against the pillow. “I want to tell her the truth.”

“About what?”

“About what happened. That night..

Lincoln remained silent. This confession could not be forced; it had to spill out of its own accord.

“I took the truck because I had to drive a friend home. She walked all the way to see me, and we were gonna wait for my mom to drive her back. But then it got late, and Mom didn’t get home. And it started to snow really hard..

“So you drove the girl home yourself?”

“It was only two miles. It’s not like I haven’t driven before.”

“And what happened, Noah? On that drive?”

“Nothing. It was just a quick trip both ways. I swear it.”

“Did you drive to Slocum Road?”

“No, sir. I stayed on Toddy Point Road the whole way. I dropped her off at the end of her driveway, so her dad wouldn’t see me. And then I came straight home.”

“What time was this?”

“I don’t know. Ten o’clock, I guess.”

An hour after the anonymous witness had seen Claire’s pickup weaving on Stocum Road.

“This doesn’t fit the facts, son. It doesn’t explain the blood on the fender.”

“I don’t know how the blood got there.”

“You’re not telling the whole truth.”

“I am telling the truth!” The boy turned to him, his frustration building toward rage. But this time his anger was somehow different. This time it was rooted in reason.

“If you are telling the truth,” said Lincoln, ‘then the girl will support your story Who is she?”

Noah averted his gaze and stared once again at the ceiling. “I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Her father will kill her. That’s why not.”

“She could clear this up with one statement.”

“She’s scared of him. I can’t get her in trouble.”

“You’re the one who’s in trouble, Noah.”

“I have to talk to her first. I have to give her the chance to-”

“To what? Get her story to line up with yours?”

They regarded each other in silence, Lincoln waiting for an answer, the boy refusing to yield the information.

Through the closed door, Lincoln barely heard the page announced over the hospital address system:

“Dr. Elliot, extension seven-one-three-three. Dr. Elliot..

Lincoln left Noah’s room and went to the nurse’s station to pick up the phone.

He dialed 7133.

It was answered by Anthony, in the laboratory. “Dr. Elliot?”

“This is Chief Kelly. How long have you been paging Dr. Elliot?”

“All afternoon. I tried her beeper, but she must have it turned off. No one answers at her house, so I thought I’d try paging her on the overhead. Just in case she’s in the building.”

“If she does call you, could you tell her I’m trying to reach her too?”

“Sure thing. I’m kind of surprised she hasn’t called me back.” Lincoln paused.

“What do you mean, called you back? Did you talk to her earlier?”

“Yes, sir. She asked me to track down some information.”

“When was this?”

“She called about noon today. She seemed pretty anxious to get the answer. I thought she’d get back to me by now.”

“What information did she want?”

“About a company called Anson Biologicals.”

“What’s that?”

“It turns out it’s just the R and D branch of Sloan-Routhier. You know, the big pharmaceutical firm. But I have no idea why she wanted to know about it.”

“Do you know where she was when she called you?”

“Chief Kelly, I haven’t got a clue.”

Lincoln hung up. No one had spoken to Claire since noon-nine hours ago.

He walked out to the hospital parking lot. It had been a clear day, with no snowfall, and all the cars were lightly glazed with frost. Driving slowly in his cruiser, he searched the parking lot row by row for Claire’s Subaru. Her car was not there.

She left the hospital, then what? Where would she go?

He started back toward Tranquility, his apprehension mounting. Though the road was clear, the pavement free of ice, he took the drive slowly, scanning the snowy shoulders for any sign that a car might have slid off. He stopped at Claire’s house only long enough to confirm that she was not there.

By now his apprehension was turning to dread.

From his house, he made another flurry of phone calls, to the hospital, to Max Tutwiler’s cottage, to the police dispatcher. Claire was nowhere to be found.

He sat in his living room, staring at the telephone, the sense of dread growing, gnawing at him. To whom would she go? She no longer trusted him, and that was what hurt him most of all. He dropped his head in his hands, struggling to make sense of her disappearance.

She’d been distraught about Noah. She would do anything for her son.

Noah. This had something to do with Noah.

He reached for the phone again and called Fern Cornwallis.

She had barely picked up when he asked, “Who was the girl Noah Effiot was fighting over?”

“Lincoln? What time is it?”

“Just the name, Fern. I need to know the girl’s name.” Fern gave a weary sigh.

“It was Amelia Reid.”

“Is that Jack Reid’s girl?”

“Yes. He’s her stepfather.”

There was blood on the snow.

As Lincoln turned into the front yard of the Reid farmhouse, the beams of his headlights swept across an ominously dark blot in the otherwise pristine expanse of white. He braked to a stop, his gaze fixed on the stained snow, fear suddenly coiling like a serpent in his stomach. Jack Reid’s truck was parked in the driveway, but the house was dark. Was the family asleep?

Slowly he stepped out of the cruiser and aimed the beam of his flashlight at the ground. At first he saw only the one bright splash of red, a bleeding Rorschach butterfly. Then he saw the other splashes, a series of them, leading around the side of the house, accompanied by footprints, both human and canine. He stared at the footprints and suddenly thought: Where were the dogs? Jack Reid owned two of them, a pair of troublesome pit bulls who had the nasty habit of ripping apart any neighborhood cats they came across. Were these bloodstains left by some unfortunate creature who’d wandered into the wrong yard?

He knelt down for a closer look and saw that, mingled with the broken snow, was a clump of dark fur, bloodied flesh still attached. Just a dead animal-a cat, or a raccoon, he thought, his tension easing, but not entirely fading. Those pit bulls could still be loose somewhere in the yard, could even now be watching him.