'All right. What's on your mind?' he asked me suspiciously.

'I just wanted to make sure you understand that our differences of the past…'

He shook his head and would not let me finish.

'The past is past,' he said curtly.

'No, Kenneth, it isn't. And it's important for you to know that I don't harbor bad feelings about you,' I replied. 'That what's going on now is not related.'

When he had been more actively involved with the publishing of his newspapers, he had basically accused me of racism when I had released statistics about black on black homicides. I had shown citizens how many deaths were drug-related or involved prostitution or were just plain hate of one black for another.

His own reporters had taken several of my quotes out of context and had distorted the rest, and by the end of the day, Sparkes had summoned me to his posh downtown office. I would never forget being shown into his mahogany space of fresh flowers and colonial furniture and lighting. He had ordered me, as if he could, to demonstrate more sensitivity to African-Americans and publicly retract my bigoted professional assessments. As I looked at him now, with sweat on his face and manure on his boots, it did not seem I was talking to the same arrogant man. His hands were trembling, his strong demeanor about to break.

'Will you let me know what you find out?' he asked as tears filled his eyes, his head held high.

'I'll tell you what I can,' I promised evasively.

'I just want to know if it's her, and that she didn't suffer,' he said.

'Most people in fires don't. The carbon monoxide renders them unconscious long before the flames get close. Usually, death is quiet and painless.'

'Oh, thank God.'

He looked up at the sky.

'Oh, thank you, God,' he muttered.

I GOT HOME that night in time for a dinner I did not feel like cooking. Benton had left me three messages, and I had not returned any one of them. I felt strange. I felt an odd sensation of doom, and yet I felt a lightness around my heart that spurred me into working in my garden until dark, pulling weeds and clipping roses for the kitchen. The ones I chose were pink and yellow, tightly furled like flags before glory. At dusk, I went out to walk and wished I had a dog. For a while I fantasized about that, wondering just what sort of dog I would have, were it possible and practical.

I decided on a retired greyhound rescued from the track and from certain extermination. Of course, my life was too unkind for a pet. I pondered this as one of my neighbors came out of his grand stone home to walk his small white dog.

'Good evening, Dr Scarpetta,' the neighbor said grimly. 'How long are you in town for?'

'I never know,' I said, still imagining my greyhound.

'Heard about the fire.'

He was a retired surgeon, and he shook his head.

'Poor Kenneth.'

'I suppose you know him,' I said.

'Oh yes.'

'It is too bad. What kind of dog do you have?'

'He's a salad bar dog. Little bit of everything,' my neighbor said.

He walked on, taking out a pipe and lighting up, because his wife, no doubt, would not let him smoke in the house. I walked past the homes of my neighbors, all different but the same because they were brick or stucco and not very old. It seemed fitting that the sluggish stretch of the river in the back of the neighborhood made its way over rocks the same way it had two hundred years before. Richmond was not known for change.

When I reached the spot where I had found Wesley when he had been somewhat mad at me, I stood near that same tree, and soon it was too dark to spot an eagle or the river's rocks. For a time, I stood staring at my neighbors' lights in the night, suddenly not having the energy to move as I contemplated that Kenneth Sparkes was either a victim or a killer. Then heavy footsteps sounded on the street behind me. Startled, I whipped around, gripping the canister of red pepper spray attached to my keys.

Marino's voice was quickly followed by his formidable shape.

'Doc, you shouldn't be out here this late,' he said.

I was too drained to resent his having an opinion on how I was spending my evening.

'How did you know I was here?' I asked.

'One of your neighbors.'

I did not care.

'My car's right over there,' he went on. 'I'll drive you home.'

'Marino, can I never have a moment's peace?' I said with no rancor, for I knew he meant no harm to me.

'Not tonight,' he said. 'I got some really bad news and think you might want to sit down.'

I immediately thought of Lucy and felt the strength go out of my knees. I swayed and put my hand on his shoulder as my mind seemed to shatter into a million pieces. I had always known the day might come when someone would deliver her death notice to me, and I could not speak or think. I was miles beyond the moment, sucked down deeper and deeper into a dark and terrible vortex. Marino grabbed my arm to steady me.

'Jesus,' he exclaimed. 'Let me get you to the car and we'll sit down.'

'No,' I barely said, because I had to know. 'How's Lucy?'

He paused for a moment and seemed confused.

'Well, she don't know yet, unless she's heard it on the news,' he replied.

'Know what?' I asked as my blood seemed to move again.

'Carrie Grethen's escaped from Kirby,' he told me. 'Some time late this afternoon. They didn't figure it out until it was time to take the female inmates down for dinner.'

We began walking quickly to his car as fear made him angry.

'And here you are walking around in the dark with nothing but a keychain,' he went on. 'Shit. Goddamn son of a bitch. Don't you do that anymore, you hear me? We got no idea where that bitch is, but one thing I know for a fact, as long as she's out, you ain't safe.'

'No one in the world is safe,' I muttered as I climbed into his car and thought of Benton alone at the beach.

Carrie Grethen hated him almost as much as she hated me, or at least this was my belief. Benton had profiled her and was the quarterback in the game that had eventually resulted in her capture and Temple Gault's death. Benton had used the Bureau's every resource to lock Carrie away, and until now, it had worked.

'Is there any way she might know where Benton is?' I said as Marino drove me to my house. 'He's alone on an island resort. He probably takes walks on the beach without his gun, unmindful that there might be someone looking for him…'

'Like someone else I know,' Marino cut me off.

'Point well taken.'

'I'm sure Benton already knows, but I'll call him,' Marino said. 'And I got no reason to think that Carrie would know about your place in Hilton Head. You didn't have it back then when Lucy was telling her all your secrets.'

'That's not fair,' I said as he pulled into my driveway and came to an abrupt stop. 'Lucy never meant it that way. She never meant to be disloyal, to hurt me.'

I lifted the handle of my door.

'At this point, it don't matter what she meant.'

He blew smoke out his window.

'How did Carrie get out?' I asked. 'Kirby's on an island and not easily accessible.'

'No one knows. About three hours ago, she was supposed to go down to dinner with all the other lovely ladies, and that's when the guards realized she was gone. Boom, no sign of her, and about a mile away there's an old footbridge that goes over the East River into Harlem.'

He tossed the cigarette butt on my driveway.

'All anyone can figure is maybe she got off the island that way. Cops are everywhere, and they got choppers out to make sure she's not still hiding somewhere on the island. But I don't think so. I think she's planned this for a while, and timed it exactly. We'll hear from her, all right. You can bet on that.'