Bethie had fought in the end. She'd seen her attacker and she'd tried desperately to escape. What did a woman feel in those last moments? Did the mind give you the luxury of feeling betrayed? Or was the terror only physical? Adrenaline and testosterone. Pure animal instinct to fight, to live, to breathe?

When she was younger, she'd watched wild cats stalk field mice. The cat would catch the mouse in its mouth, then let it go. Then scoop it up, then let it go. And the mouse would squeak and squeak and squeak, first shrill, then, as the game wore on, with less and less volume. Until finally, even after being released, the mouse rolled over on its back and very clearly surrendered. Dying had become preferable to living. Maybe that was nature's way of taking pity on the smaller members of the food chain.

She thought of Mandy, willing to get drunk again even after those hard-fought months of AA, then willing to get behind the wheel without a working seat belt. She thought of Bethie and how after years of isolation she'd agreed to allow a strange man through her front door.

Dying becomes preferable to living.

Rainie got off the bed. She threw the last of the toiletries in her bag. Eleven P.M. Seven hours until liftoff, and two hours left to drive. Life's a battle, she thought. Time to rejoin the war.

Quincy's House, Virginia

Special Agent Glenda Rodman was curled up on the floorin a corner of the cologne-smelling office. Outside the wind howled. Rain scoured the windows. Trees beat against fellow trees. Thunder still growled ominously, but the lightning struck further and further apart.

The alarm had shrieked five times, power punching in and out. Apparently, the backup system had not been properly wired. Every time the power failed, so did the alarm. She had the security company on speed dial now. Special Agent Montgomery was still nowhere to be found.

While in the kitchen, the phone began to ring again and the answering machine picked up.

"Death, death, death, kill, kill, kill, murder, murder, murder," a voice sang. "Death, death, death, kill, kill, kill, murder, murder, murder. Hey Quincy, check your mailbox. I disemboweled that puppy, just for you. Death, death, death, kill, kill, kill, murder, murder, murder. Death, death, death, kill, kill, kill, murder, murder, murder. Death, death, death…"

Glenda wrapped her arms around her knees. On the floor of the office, she rocked back and forth as the power went out again, and the state-of-the-art alarm system once more began to shriek.

Greenwich Village, New York City

"Mace."

"Mace."

"Firearms?" Quincy asked.

"I carry a Glock forty," Rainie replied. "I have to check it, though. Private investigators don't qualify to carry onboard."

Quincy nodded, then turned toward his daughter who was standing over her open suitcase, having just handed her father her canister of Mace.

"I have a Glock, too," Kimberly said, which caused her father to do a double take.

"You have what?"

"As long as you're armed, you might as well be well-armed," she replied seriously. "What can you really accomplish with a twenty-two?"

Quincy raised a brow. He brought out his own pistol, a stainless steel 10mm Smith amp; Wesson, standard FBI issue. The Smith amp; Wesson held nine cartridges in the magazine plus one in the chamber. Clipped to his belt in a brown leather holder, he carried two additional magazines, giving him total access to thirty rounds. Firepower would not be a problem.

"As the only person in this room qualified to carry on a plane," he said, "I'll cover us during transit. I'll also take the Mace. Otherwise, pack up, Thelma and Louise. Upon arrival in Portland, I want you carrying at all times."

"I have to meet with Luke Hayes once we get to Portland," Rainie said. "I can ask him if any of the deputies would like to moonlight as bodyguards. That would give us more coverage."

Kimberly's face brightened at this suggestion, but Quincy shook his head. "Too conspicuous. Plus, I don't think bodyguards will do us any good. He's not going to strike long distance. Drive-by shootings, sniper fire, isn't his style. He'll create an elaborate ruse, something to get up close and personal. Bodyguards can't protect you when you're the one letting the UNSUB through the front door."

"Dr. Andrews said he'll be someone I know," Kim-berly said quietly. "The man… the UNSUB, works on identifying what the victim needs or wants. Mandy always wanted someone to take care of her. Mom wanted Mandy. Me… I have an instinctive trust of anyone wearing a badge."

Quincy had been folding one of his daughter's shirts. Now his hands stilled. He looked down at the blue-and-white-striped top as if he didn't see it.

"Kimberly…"

"It's not your fault, Dad. It's not your fault."

Quincy finally nodded, though both Rainie and Kimberly could tell he didn't believe her. He finished placing the shirt in the single duffel bag. It was a little after one in the morning. None of them had slept much in the last two days and they were working off a list to keep their minds functioning through a sleep-deprived haze.

"What's next?" Quincy asked.

"Toiletries," Kimberly announced. She went into her bathroom, and a moment later, they heard the clatter of the medicine cabinet as she started throwing things into a waterproof bag.

"Did you meet with the private investigator?" Quincy asked Rainie under his breath, his gaze on the open bathroom door.

"Yes. Nothing. You?"

"They don't know about the note yet. It's a big crime scene; it will take the technicians several days to process everything. If I'm lucky, they'll get to the note last."

"How can it be your handwriting? You didn't write it!"

"I don't know, but that's my handwriting. The loops, the slant, the dot over the I's… He's obviously been practicing."

"Isn't there a way of telling that it's forgery? Hesitation marks, something like that?"

"Depends on how good he is. Depends on how good the handwriting analyst is. In all honesty, I doubt the forgery is perfect, but I also doubt that will help me in the end. All the UNSUB needs is an initial report that the handwriting appears to be mine. The Bureau will follow up, but by then I will also have been arrested, disarmed and discredited. This UNSUB is not only clever, but efficient. He knows just how half-assed he can be, and still get the job done. In a perverse way, I admire that."

Kimberly walked back into the bedroom. She tossed the plastic bag into the suitcase. "What's next?"

They didn't have any items left on the list. They zipped up the small collection of bags and piled them by the door. In three hours, Rainie would drive them all to JFK airport where they would return her rental car and board the six A.M. flight to Portland. Outside the storm still raged and from time to time Quincy glanced nervously at the window. Rainie knew he didn't care about thunder and lightning. He was extremely concerned, however, about their flight possibly being delayed.

They huddled around the small kitchen table. Kimberly poured fresh cups of coffee, though they were already twitchy from too much caffeine. The roommate Bobby was gone. Quincy had suggested it might not be safe for him to be in the apartment either. Given the option between being terrified of every sound in his apartment or having unlimited sex at his girlfriend's place, Bobby had decided to stay at his girlfriend's. Bobby was a smart guy.

Rainie drank more coffee, her hands wrapped around the steaming mug. She'd gotten a chill running around in wet clothes, and now nothing she did made her warm.