"Delusional disorder, subtype grandiose," Quincy said.

The man laughed. "As if to be Pierce Quincy is such a grand thing. Your daughter is dead, your wife is dead, and your father is no place to be found. You don't seem so powerful to me."

"I don't have a wife," Quincy said.

"Ex-wife then," the man granted graciously. "Still demoting her even after she's gone. You are a cold fish."

"What do you want?" Quincy shifted the phone to his other ear. He caught Rainie's eye and made a circular motion with his hand. She nodded immediately, and slid off the bed naked in search of a tape recorder..

"It's not what I want, Pierce, it's who I want. But all in good time. Would you like to speak with your father?"

"We both know he's dead."

"You don't know that. You're assuming he's dead so you won't feel guilty. I understand he raised you all by himself, served as both mother and father. And yet how quickly you let him go. 'My father has been checked out of his nursing home? Goodness gracious, let me run away and hide!' I expected more from you."

"I doubt it."

Rainie arrived with the tape recorder. Quincy held the phone out for better audio as she fumbled with the buttons, then began to tape.

"He's alive," the man said. "Well hidden from federal minions and quite querulous, but very much alive."

Quincy didn't answer.

"Maybe we can arrange a swap. You can exchange your daughter for your father. She's younger, but in his current state he's more of a child."

Quincy didn't say anything.

"Or maybe we should bring the lovely Lorraine into the mix. You can swap your lover for your father. Sure she has a nice ass, but we both know you don't keep women around for long. Does she moan for you, Pierce? Your wife moaned for me. So did your daughter."

"How is the weather in Texas?" Quincy asked. Rainie looked at him in confusion. Then she remembered. Mickie Millos lived in Texas. Quincy was fishing.

"Texas? You aren't on the right track."

"And what track would that be? The one where I ruined your career, destroyed your life? Interesting, that I could have such an impact on your life and not remember you at all. Guess it was all in a day's work. I have met so many incompetent criminals over the years." Quincys voice was light, goading.

In contrast, the man's voice gained an ugly edge. "Don't fuck with me, Pierce. There are plenty of people in your life left to kill, and I can make it better for them, or worse."

Quincy feigned a yawn. "Now you're boring me."

"Will I be boring when I touch your daughter? Will I be boring when I rip off her shirt and run my hands over her tomboy breasts? I'm much closer than you know."

"You won't touch my daughter."

"Going to protect her, proud papa?"

"I won't have to. Get within four feet, and she'll kick your balls into your throat."

The man laughed. "Funny," he said. "That's not what Bethie or Mandy did."

For the first time, Quincy's grip tightened on the phone.

"Pierce," the man said, "intermission is over. If you won't go back home for your father, I'll just have to find somebody else to kill. You have one hour to get on a plane headed to Virginia."

"I don't think so."

"Then I will make her death very long and excruciatingly painful."

"You can't touch my daughter – "

"It's not Kimberly I'm going to punish. Get to the airport, Supervisory Special Agent Quincy – you don't have many friends left. Oh, and please tell Ms. Conner that next time she hires a private investigator, she should find one who doesn't like chocolate."

The line clicked off. Quincy stared at Rainie. There was a fierceness in his expression she had seen only once before – the night Henry Hawkins had tried to kill her.

"He's coming after you," he said.

She shook her head. "No, not me. Think about his words, Quincy. He wants you home. He's obviously gotten to de Beers. That means East Coast. He's still somewhere around Virginia."

"But who…"

They got it together. "Glenda!" Quincy swore.

"We have one hour."

Quincy picked up the phone and dialed furiously.

Quincy's House, Virginia

"Get out of the house."

"Pierce? I don't think – "

"Glenda, listen to me. The UNSUB just called. He wants me back on the East Coast and he's prepared to kill someone to force me to return. He's targeting you. I'm almost sure of it. Now, please get out of the house."

Glenda's grip tightened on the phone. Alone in the middle of Quincy's office, she stared at the incriminating box of stationery – one sheet already sent to the document section of the science-crime lab – and she wished… She wished she had never taken this goddamn case.

"I don't think I should be speaking with you," she said quietly.

"Is Montgomery there?"

"That's none of your business."

"You're alone, aren't you? Dammit, how did he even qualify to be an agent? Glenda, the UNSUB knows where I live. He understands Bureau protocol, so he knows someone is manning my residence. Hell, for all I know, he also has knowledge of the layout of my home, the best way of scaling the fence, accessing the grounds… You cannot underestimate him."

"Your phantom stalker," she said.

Quincy fell silent. Good, she thought. Be surprised. I have lived in this house for three days, listening to nothing but hate, and now I have to wonder if it hasn't all been some horrible, twisted game. Are you the hunter or the hunted, Pierce? I don't know anymore, and I'm tired!

"What's wrong, Glenda?" Quincy asked. He sounded wary now, uncertain. She took pride in that.

"There's no such thing as a perfect crime, Quincy. You should know that better than most. For every little detail that is considered, there is always one or two more that slips through the cracks."

"The police report came back from Philadelphia, didn't it? They know the note found at the scene matches my handwriting."

"What?"

He fell silent again. She could practically feel his confusion across the phone line. It was nothing, however, compared to the sudden acceleration of her heart. She'd still maintained some small residue of doubt about Quincy's guilt. But now… That note, that dreadful note stuffed in Elizabeth Quincy's abdominal cavity, soaked in blood. He had written it. Pierce Quincy, a fellow agent, the best of the best. Oh sweet mother of God…

"You're a monster," she breathed. "Montgomery is right. You're a monster!"

"Glenda – "

She snapped her cell phone shut. She let it fall to the floor where she eyed it as if it were a coiled snake. She had goose bumps running up and down her arms. She hadgone nights without sleep and she could now feel it allcrashing down on her. She was cold, she was horrified.

She had believed in this man. Oh God, she was never going to feel clean.

On the floor, her flip phone started to chime.

She didn't answer it. She wasn't going to let him manipulate her like this. The musical ringing went on for ten seconds, then voice messaging took over and the noise stopped. She had just started to relax, when it started again. And went on and on and on.

Dammit! She snatched back up the phone.

"I don't believe you!" she cried. "You're making this up. And I am armed, Quincy, so you just stay the fuck away from me."

"I am in Oregon. I can't hurt you," he said.

"I don't know that!"

"Listen to me. We don't have much time, Glenda. I did not write that note. I know it looks bad, but I did not write that note."

"Of course you did. You just said so."

"Iknow my own handwriting! For God's sake, I recognized it the minute the ME's assistant brought the note into the room. But I did not write it, Glenda. This man, he got copies of my handwriting, he studied it, he did one hell of a superb impression. I don't know exactly how he did it. But he did it, not me."