She tried to speak again. She couldn't catch her breath. "Help," she tried to say this time. "Help." She reached out her hand to him.

Her lover turned away. She slowly followed his line of sight back into the car, where Phil de Beers now lay gasping over the steering wheel. He was looking at the man in horror while his right hand fumbled beneath the seat.

"Al – " the private investigator muttered. "Stupid bastard… Almonds… I gotta…"

His hand reappeared, his arm trembling convulsively. And then Mary saw… a gun. He held a gun.

No, Mary tried to yell to her lover, but couldn't. Move, run, get away. The warning never left her mouth. Her throat burned, burned, burned, the car spun, spun, spun. God, she had never felt such pain. Help me, help me.

Her hands wrapping around her stomach. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

Phil de Beers raised his shaking arm. His finger fumbled with the safety. He couldn't get it. He couldn't get it. His arm began to fall…

Mary stared at him, and in the spinning, churning, burning car, their gazes finally locked. Funny, how he looked so apologetic, as if he had somehow let her down. An odd gargling sound came from his throat. His eyes rolled back. He slumped over the steering wheel, his gun tumbling to the floor as a wave of white foam gushed from his mouth.

Mary stared at the gun. Stared at the gun. And…

Car… spinning. Hot. Can't breathe. Heart too fast. Her hands clenching her stomach. Almonds, almonds, why almonds? Hot. Makeup melting. Don't look at me. Don't look… Fading into the seat.

Her gaze rose to her lover's face. She stared at him, with his strange thinning hair, stared at him standing there and not making any move to help.

"It will be over soon." He checked his watch. "Another sixty seconds, I'd say. In all honesty, I'm surprised you've lasted this long. Then again, everyone reacts a bit differently."

Almonds, almonds, almonds…

"Oh, did I forget to mention it on the phone? I changed my mind about the laxative. I injected one hundred fifty milligrams of hydrocyanic acid into the center of each chocolate instead. The smell is a bit much, but boy is it quick."

Her lips moved. He leaned down closer to hear. "Praying? Praying? Why Mary Margaret Olsen, did you forget? You betrayed your best friend. God's not going to have anything to do with you."

He straightened, the bright sunshine blazing behind him and turning him from a glorious man into an even more glorious avenging angel.

Iloved you, she thought as her lungs froze up. And a heartbeat later, I should've known. What other kind of man would have loved me?

One last thought. The only thought she had left as her body began to convulse and her lungs fought for air.

"Yours," she whispered. "Y-y-yours."

He frowned. Then he followed the spasm of her hands around her belly and his eyes widened in stunned surprise. "No! No, no, no…"

"Yours," Mary Olsen whispered one last time. And then her eyes rolled back into her head.

The man jumped forward. He dragged her out of the car. Down on the hot asphalt, he shook her shoulders and slapped her face. "Wake up! Goddammit, wake up! Don't you do this to me!"

Mary's arms fell limply to her sides. Her pulse was gone, her heart silent in her chest. Cyanide induced a horrible death, but, as he'd promised, it was swift. The man stared at the tiny mound of her belly. Something she would have told him about that afternoon when they were finally together again. She would've looked at him earnestly, so meek and desperate for reassurance. And he would've felt…

After all this time. Years of being alone, decades of having no family left.

"Son of a bitch," he whispered. And then more gut-turally, "Pierce Quincy, goddamn son of a bitch! Look at what you made me do! You'll pay! You'll pay… Now,Now, NOW!"

Portland,Oregon

Kimberly reread the Miguel Sanchez file for the fourth time in two hours. Strands of fine blond hair kept working themselves loose from her hastily constructed pony tail and falling over her eyes. She impatiently brushed the strands back with her left hand. She should shower and change now that she had the hotel room to herself. She kept reading the file. Something was in here. She understood her fathers point that his personal conversation with Sanchez was purely random. She understood that Special Agent Albert Montgomery's assignment to the case was most likely coincidental. But something was in here. She had her own instincts, and they were screaming at her to revisit Miguel Sanchez.

An odd sound came from the hallway outside her room. Slow, squeaking wheels laboriously rolling down the hall. Most likely some rusted-out metal cart. Kimberly frowned. She continued to read the file.

As a death row inmate in San Quentin, Sanchez now lived alone in a six-by-ten-foot cell. That ruled out the possibility of him having a roommate who might have been released and taken up efforts on his behalf. On the other hand, some condemned prisoners spent up to four hours a day in the rec yard with sixty other inmates, lifting weights, shooting hoops, and doing God knows what.

Kimberly delved deeper into Sanchez's file. According to San Quentin corrections officers, prisoners were classified as two types: Grade A or Grade B. Grade A covered prisoners who had assimilated well to prison life. They followed the rules, didn't give the guards any hassles, and were seen as successfully "programming." These inmates were eligible for privileges such as daily rec time with their fellow deviants.

Grade B inmates, on the other hand, were men who hadn't taken to their cells like hens to a chicken coop. They threatened corrections officers, they threatened each other, they actually inflicted physical harm. These men spent lots of quality time in ad seg – administrative segregation, according to the staff, or the hole according to the inmates. Miguel Sanchez was familiar with the hole. According to his file, he'd started out as a Grade B inmate, managed to calm down to Grade A status for about six months in 1997, then went back to his Grade B ways. In other words, Miguel should not have had the opportunity to make many friends in San Quentin. Then again, Richard Millos wound up dead while Sanchez was ad seg, which seemed to indicate that even the most severe type of incarceration had not rendered Sanchez powerless.

That damn squeaking was driving her nuts. Room service should oil the wheels of its carts. Something. Sheesh.

In the good news department, she had found tons of press on the convicted serial killer. Partnerships for psychopaths were unusual, and Sanchez had carved out quite a niche as a professional guinea pig for criminolo-gists writing case studies on famous homicidal duos.

The interviews probably helped Sanchez ease the boredom of his now tedious existence. They also allowed him to gloat, reliving the glory of the kill under the guise of an academic exercise.

As Kimberly learned, there had been a couple of male-female sexual-sadist killing teams, but in those cases, the female was completely subservient, more of a live-in victim than a live-in partner. Most psychopaths were loners with no genuine ability to relate to others and thus little need for any kind of relationship. In Miguel and Richie's case, experts theorized that the partnership was based on Miguel's interest in having an audience for his actions and Richie's complete willingness to do as he was told. Plus, Richie Millos genuinely feared his cousin. Most likely, Miguel fed off that, perhaps even found that element even more appealing than an extra pair of hands.