I considered Charlie's words. "If that's the case, how do you think he's made it nearly thirty years without coming to police attention?"

"I don't know"

"But you must have some ideas."

Charlie stroked Bella's head, considering. "Eola came from money, so maybe he's tapped into those resources. A little bit of money can cover a lot of messy tracks."

"True."

"And he's smart, which helps. Mostly, however, I think he relies on his appearance."

"You described him to the detectives as effeminate."

"Yes, ma'am. He's strong, though-all muscle and sinew, that one. But he appears-appeared, I guess, when I knew him-quite aristocratic. For some reason, no one ever suspects the cultured academic."

"Academic?" I heard myself say.

"It's not like he actually had a degree or anything. But it was an image he cultivated. Several of our female nurses actually thought he was a Ph.D. until we broke the news he'd never even gone to college."

"What kind of degree did he pretend to have?"

Charlie pursed his lips. "Oooh, that's a long time ago. A degree in history? Master of fine arts? Maybe it was literature. I don't remember now. Just that he led some people to believe he taught courses at MIT. I don't know why I would've guessed him a Harvard man myself."

Charlie flashed his friendly grin, but I was no longer smiling. Something niggled at me. Too many coincidences.

"Do you have a picture of Christopher?" I asked.

"No, ma'am."

"But there should be something on file. A yearbook? A mug shot? Something."

"I'm not sure, to tell you the truth. Maybe Bridgewater took a photo."

I nodded slowly. Foot starting to tap in agitation. If Eola was loose in '78… Still exiled from his family, with no place to go…

Would someone like that drift out to Arlington? Maybe make himself at home in the attic of a little old lady? And given that he had money, if the target of his interest disappeared, would he be inclined to run, too? Maybe the Boston police had never known about Christopher Eola for the same reason they didn't get to know about me. Because we both vanished and spent the next twenty-five years on the road.

The hour was growing late. Lost in my own thoughts, I hadn't realized that Charlie was already standing, ready to go. Belatedly, I rose, then dug in my purse until I found one of my cards.

"If you think of anything else," I told him, "I would appreciate any help you have to give."

"Oh, not a problem. Pleasure's all mine." He glanced at my card, frowned, and asked, "Tanya?"

"My middle name. I use it for business. You know, a girl can never be too careful."

We shook hands one last time. Charlie headed off toward Faneuil Hall. Bella and I headed for the North End.

Right at the edge of the park, as I was set to cross Atlantic Avenue, something made me turn around. I spotted Charlie, under the trellis now, studying Bella and me intently. An aging gentleman making sure I made it home okay Or something else?

He saw me staring, raised a hand in acknowledgment, smiled softly, then turned on his heel.

I started running with Bella then, under the streetlights, on the main streets, with my Taser in my hand and my demons chasing me once more.

BOBBY SAT THIRTY feet off the ground, cradled in the bare branches of an enormous oak tree. He wore black BDUs, topped with soft body armor. A pair of night-vision goggles rested on his forehead. A Sig Sauer 3000 rifle, outfitted with a Leupold 3-9X 50mm variable scope and loaded with Federal Match Grade.308 Remington 168 grain slugs, was in his arms.

He should be thinking of the good old days. When he'd been able to run faster than a speeding bullet and leap tall buildings in a single bound. When he'd been the best of the best, the baddest of the bad. When he'd had a mission, a team, and a sense of purpose.

Mostly, he wanted to wring D.D.'s neck.

The note on D.D.'s car had contained explicit instructions. At 3:33 a.m., the locket should be delivered to the former site of Boston State Mental, outside the ruins of the admin building. D.D. was to bring the locket herself. She should wear it around her neck. She should come alone.

Bobby might be a rookie detective, but he'd served on a tactical unit for seven years. He understood strategy, was comfortable with special ops.

D.D. read the note and saw an opportunity He read the note and saw bait.

Why D.D.? Why alone? Why, if the whole point was to return the necklace, should she be wearing the locket around her neck?

Then there was the site itself. One hundred and seventy acres of woods. Two crumbling ruins, one construction site, and one subterranean crime scene. There weren't enough SWAT teams in New England to secure that much real estate, particularly in such a tight time frame.

D.D. had countered that there were only two access roads onto the property, not hard to monitor. Bobby had pointed out that while there were only two legal entrances/exits to the site, the locals had been digging under the fences, cutting holes, and running amok across the grounds for decades. The site was Swiss cheese, boundaries compromised and fencing worthless.

They needed tactical units. His former team, for one, which would bring thirty-two men to the party. He'd even consider working with the city's SWAT team, as long as they promised not to touch his gun. Bodies were bodies, training was training, and truthfully the Boston guys were pretty good, even if the state guys didn't like to say such things out loud.

He'd also like choppers, dogs, and night-vision security cameras deployed at strategic intervals.

D.D., of course, had decided to deploy one man on-site: him. The rest would form a discreet perimeter, ready to close in around the subject the moment he appeared. Too many bodies might scare the subject away. Ditto with air support. Security cameras weren't a bad idea, but they didn't have the time to get something that sophisticated in place.

Instead, she'd gone with the basics: Bomb-sniffing dogs had made the rounds three hours ago while two dozen officers combed the woods in the immediate vicinity. Then tech support had hastily installed sensors that shot infrared beams of light from point to point, forming a perimeter around the designated meeting area. First time a beam was broken, the signal would be sent to Central Command, providing Bobby and D.D. with advance warning of the subject's approach.

D.D. was wired beneath her boron-plated Kevlar vest. She wore an earpiece to receive, with the transmitter built into her vest. This enabled her to communicate with him as well as with Command Central, deployed in a van across the street at the cemetery.

D.D. was a fool. A stubborn, pigheaded, tunnel-visioned sergeant who honestly thought she could save the world in a single evening.

Bobby didn't think it was a matter of ambition. He thought, more frighteningly that D.D. was curious.

She believed the subject would show. And when he did, she hoped to determine if the man was Christopher Eola or Annabelle's long-lost father. Then she would keep the child killer so occupied with her dazzling beauty and witty repartee, he wouldn't think to abduct another little girl. In fact, he'd tell D.D. everything she needed to know, right before the task force descended and led him away in metal bracelets.

D.D. was a fool. A stubborn, pigheaded, tunnel-visioned…

Bobby leaned down. Adjusted his Leupold scope. Did his best to block out the sound of the wind, rustling through the skeletal trees.

His hands didn't shake. He was grateful for that much.

After the shooting, in that moment when he was still seeing Jimmy Gagnon's head snap back, blood and brain exploding from the skull, Bobby hadn't been sure he'd ever be comfortable with guns again. Hadn't been sure he'd want to be comfortable with guns again.