The bend in question was deep and arching, forming a sixty-degree curve complete with dense brush, thick trees, and a single telephone pole. Off to one side there was a small unpainted cross. Recently decorated with plastic flowers, probably by Oliver Jenkins's widow.

Rainie parked her car. She got out and for a long time, she simply stood there, feeling the wind on her face. The road was quiet, no other cars in sight. The trees rustled overhead, and in her current frame of mind, the sound reminded her of dry, clicking bones.

She had to walk seventy feet to the telephone pole. A long enough distance to stop a car, she thought, or at least start to brake. She put her hand on the telephone pole. Then she ran her fingers down the violent scar slashing into the wood. Splinters stood straight out, the raw wood of the wound still lighter than the weathered exterior. She pressed the shards of wood gently back into place, as if that would somehow make things right.

The wind rose. The trees rustled and for a moment, it was very easy to believe she'd just heard someone laugh.

Rainie's heart was thumping loudly. She was suddenly keenly aware of how alone she was in this place. And just how thick the underbrush, and just how dark the depths of the wood.

Five in the morning, Mandy had hit this post. Five in the morning, the trees barely kissed by sun, and the wind still cool. Five in the morning, dark, isolated, and terribly, terribly deserted.

Rainie had to get back to her car. She got in the driver's side and locked the doors with shaking hands. Her shoulders were hunched. She could feel her heart loud and insistent in her chest.

She sat there. She wondered how many times Quincy had come to this mournful place. And then she started to drive because she didn't care what anyone said. Standing next to that telephone pole, she'd been certain she was not alone.

PennsylvaniaDutch Country

Bethie was having a marvelous time. The sun was bright, the sky was blue, the wind was cool against her neck. She loved the feel of the car beneath her hands. She loved the sound of Tristan's voice as he regaled her with story after story. And she liked telling him her stories, of her mother, her daughter, even her ex-husband, Pierce, whom she now suspected had a girlfriend in Portland, Oregon.

Time rolled by as easily as the miles. They headed west at first, no location in mind, then, on a whim, shifted south and drove into southern Pennsylvania with its lush expanse of verdant fields and the beautiful old farmhouses. They spotted women walking down dusty roads wearing quaint white bonnets. They passed horse-drawn carriages. They saw a man in his stone barnyard, bent over a woodpile and raising a blunt ax.

Tristan told her the histories of the various Germanic religious groups who'd settled here. She nodded, inhaling the scent of fresh mowed hay and thinking this was the most alive she'd felt in years.

They came to a narrow, twisty road shooting off into the fields.

"Let's take it!" Tristan declared. So she did.

The road turned to gravel, then dirt. It grew narrower and the crop grew taller. A mile later, sheafs of wheat flowed along the side of the bright red car like a golden river.

"Keep going," Tristan urged her eagerly. So she did.

The tide of wheat broke. They emerged into the low grass of a riverbank and Bethie hit the brakes right before they hit the water. She laughed breathlessly. Tristan clambered out of the car.

"Get out," he told her. So she did.

"Come on, we're going to have our picnic," he informed her. "Look, I also brought champagne."

They drank champagne. They ate caviar. They devoured the rich old cheese. Bethie sat in the curve of his body, with her arm pressed against his right side and the scar she thought of so protectively. He brushed bread crumbs from her knee. Then he lowered her down into the sweet-smelling grass, and covered her mouth with his as his fingers found her breast.

Afterwards, she stroked his right side tenderly. Then they both got up and without speaking, got dressed.

"Isn't it wonderful out here?" she murmured. "So peaceful and isolated. I wonder how many cars must whiz by on the highway without ever thinking of taking this turn. There's probably not anyone around for miles. Think of it: it's our own special little place."

Tristan turned back toward her. In the aftermath of making love, his blue eyes seemed especially fierce.

"Let's go for a walk," he told her. So she did.

Virginia

Rainie was in trouble. She was thinking dangerous thoughts. And she was in the middle of doing a very dangerous thing. She wasn't heading back to the Motel 6. Instead, she was driving to Quincy 's.

He would want a full report of her investigation, and she had news at this point, or maybe not really news, more of a feeling that she didn't want to deliver by phone. He would want to analyze everything. That was his way. And she did not want to picture him sitting in the dark again, contemplating horrible things all alone like his daughter's murder.

Then there were all the questions. Maybe Mary Olsen was simply a little batty, a high-strung gold-digger desperate for attention. Perhaps the torrent of phone calls to Quincy 's house were purely coincidence, a bunch of bored felons looking for sick entertainment. And maybe Mandy's accident was still an accident, and everyone else was merely seizing the opportunity to mess with a reputable FBI agent's mind.

Or maybe there was a mystery man. Maybe he'd helped Mandy get drunk that night, guessing from her past behavior where that would lead. And maybe he understood what Mandy's subsequent death would do to Quincy. Leave him feeling off balance, distracted, alone. Leave him vulnerable as the real plan began to unfold, the real threat to emerge…

There had been a time when Rainie would have dismissed such a theory as outlandish. Too cold, too callous to be possible. But that was before what had happened in Bakersville last year. Now she had the same fundamental training Quincy did. She understood the worst men could do, and she no longer considered anything to be too cruel to happen. Most people thought murderers killed out of some sort of necessity. Those were the easy cases. Far worse were psychopaths who considered murder to be not only a hobby, but a recreational sport.

Quincy had been there for her once. She planned on returning the favor.

Rainie consulted her map again, blew by her turnoff, and after thirty-six hours of practice, executed a perfectly brilliant and highly illegal U-turn. She went down the desired street.

The road was wide here, boasting a gracefully curving sidewalk and tons of freshly planted magnolia trees. New neighborhood, she decided. New money. She turned into a cul-de-sac and tried to keep her eyes from popping out of her head. Huge brick colonials sat up on vast expanses of emerald lawn. Big houses. Big yards. Fenced-in properties and gated drives.

She had figured Quincy 's security-conscious nature would place him in some type of gated community, but she hadn't planned on this. She followed the house numbers down to the end, where a smaller, more discreet brick house was tucked back from the road. Rainie knew it was Quincy 's without having to check the address; it was the only home where every single bush had been removed, eliminating places for the discriminating intruder to hide.

She looked at his denuded lot and sighed. "Quincy, Quincy, Quincy," she murmured. "You have got to take a vacation."

She pulled up to the black, wrought-iron gate and pushed the intercom button. It was only four P.M. and she really didn't expect Quincy to be home, so she was surprised when someone answered her buzz. She was even more surprised that it was a woman's voice.