"Listen to yourself, Quincy. 'It's my writing, but I didn't do it.' Things are unraveling and you're not even lying very well anymore."

"Glenda, why would I use my own script? I am a professional. I've taken classes on how to analyze handwriting. If I'm so smart, why would I be so dumb?"

"Maybe you're not dumb. Maybe you're arrogant. Besides, it's not just that note. We've also traced the original newsletter ad. We know it was sent on your stationery."

"The bottom drawer," he murmured. "Christ, it's been years…" And then, "Dammit, then he's definitely been in my house. Glenda, I beg you, get out of there."

"I'm not listening to you." Her voice was rising hysterically. In spite of herself, her gaze had gone to the uncovered windows. She felt suddenly vulnerable, a lone woman standing in a fishbowl. What if Quincy was already out there? Or the phantom stalker or maybe more rattlesnakes? God knows. She was tired. She was so tired. Where was Montgomery? She was not herself.

"Think, Glenda," Quincy was saying relentlessly. "You are a bright agent, you are a brilliant agent. And so am I. So why would I create such an elaborate stalking story, then use my own stationery for the newsletter ads? Why would I stage such a brutal murder in Philadelphia, then use my own handwriting? Why would I even commit these crimes? What would I have to gain?"

"Showing off. Cracking up. Maybe the job has finally done you in."

"I haven't been out in the field in years."

"Maybe you resent that."

"So I butchered my own family? Fifteen minutes, Glenda. Please get out of the house. I'm begging you, get out of the house."

"I can't," she whispered.

"Why not?"

"I… I think someone may already be out there."

"Oh Glenda…" She heard him take a shaky breath. He was murmuring to someone at the other end of the line. She caught the distinct tones of a female reply. Lorraine Conner. So they were in this together.

For the first time, Glenda frowned. They were in this together? What together? Murdering his family? Threatening a fellow agent? It didn't make much sense. And who sent an ad on hundred-dollar stationery anyway? A criminal mastermind who was provocatively stupid?

Holding the phone, Glenda moved out of the office, into the kitchen where she had a better view of the entrance and was framed by fewer windows. She unsnapped her shoulder holster. Then she reached down to her ankle and checked on her backup piece. Quincy returned to the line.

"You're going to be okay, Glenda," he said firmly. "I'm going to get you through this. First, I'm going to play a tape for you. Rainie made this recording just twenty minutes ago, sitting beside me in her loft in Portland. This is the UNSUB, Glenda. If you still don't believe me, hear for yourself what he has to say."

Glenda heard a click. Then a fuzzy recording filled her ear. She needed about three minutes of the conversation. Somewhere about the time the man said, Then I will make her death very long and excruciatingly painful, she had had enough. Quincy was right, the evidence against him was too perfect and they had still uncovered no good reason for a highly respected federal agent to suddenly begin butchering his entire family.

Which meant the stalker did exist. A man who thought nothing of killing an agents young daughter. A man who had viciously slaughtered the agents ex-wife. And a man who had topped it all off by kidnapping, and probably murdering, the agent's sick, Alzheimer's-stricken father. Oh God…

"All right," she said quietly. "What do we do?"

"Do you have a car outside?"

"Not on the driveway. Down the street."

"How far away?"

"Three to four minutes."

"You can do this, Glenda. Think of it as a training exercise in Hogan's Alley. Take out your Smith amp; Wesson and run like hell. You'll make it."

"No."

"Glenda – "

"There's no cover, Quincy. He could be out there anywhere, behind a neighbor's bush, up a tree. Your property offers nothing. The minute I'm out of the front door, he has me. No, I'm safer in here than out there."

"Glenda, he knows the house. Inside you're trapped. Outside you have options."

"Outside he can pick me off. Inside I can at least see him coming. Besides, we changed the security system of your home. He has to have a fingerprint and an access code now. That will hold him up, buy me some time." Her eyes were on the kitchen window. She reached for her 10mm. Her hands were sweating badly. She fumbled the piece.

"He'll have a plan for the security system. He's had a plan for everything thus far."

Glenda finally got her pistol secure in her grasp. She forced herself to take a deep breath and steady her nerves. "Remember his MO," she told Quincy briskly. "The UNSUB relies on his gift for manipulating people. Well, the computerized system could care less. It has no deep dark secrets to exploit and it will not accept a severed digit."

"Call for backup." Quincy remained urgent.

"Fair enough."

"How long before they arrive?"

"Five to ten minutes. No more."

"If he gets there first… Remember his strengths. Do not let him talk. Shoot first, question later. Promise me, Glenda."

Glenda nodded into the phone as she reached for the radio to summon her fellow agents. Just as she was about to click it on, however, Quincy's home line began to ring. Another admirer, she thought. Just what her nerves needed at a time like this. But then the machine picked up, and the voice was not a stranger's. It was Albert Montgomery and he did not sound like himself at all.

"Jesus Christ, Glenda," he wailed. "Pick up the goddamn phone. I've been trying to reach you on your cellular… I was wrong. Not a phantom stalker. He's here, he's here, he's here. Oh God, he has a knife!"

She heard Quincy screaming something in her ear. She wasn't paying attention anymore. She dropped her flip phone on the marble countertop. She reached over with her right hand. She grabbed Quincy's white cordless phone and…

The pain was instantaneous and intense. Deep, searing heat as if someone had branded her hand with a red-hot iron. She cried out. She dropped the cordless phone on the floor. And in the next moment, she heard the beep beep of someone disarming the security system, followed by a click as the front door swung open.

She looked over at her 10mm, within easy reach. She looked down at her right hand, seared by some sort of acid, now bubbling up with blisters, her fingers impossible to move.

"I'm sorry, Quincy," she murmured.

Then she watched Special Agent Albert Montgomery walk into the kitchen holding his cell phone in one hand and his 10mm in the other.

"Surprise, baby! It's me!"

The last sound Quincy heard was gunfire. And then nothing but his own desperate voice, "Glenda, Glenda! Talk to me. Talk to me!"

Quincy hung his head. His breath came in ragged gasps. The disconnected phone had fallen from his fingertips and now lay on Rainies bed. He must stay in control, he thought. Now more than ever… Rainie's arms were around his shoulder. She had not spoken, but there were tears on her cheeks.

"I should call Everett," he murmured. "Get agents over there. Maybe…"

Rainie didn't say anything. Like him, she didn't really believe that Glenda was still alive.

Quincy took a deep breath, and reached for the phone just as it began to ring. He picked it up slowly, figuring he knew who this would be, and already steeling himself for the man's mocking tone.

"I shot Special Agent Montgomery," Glenda Rodman said without preamble.

"Glenda? Oh thank God!"

"He put… something on the phone. Last time he was here, I suppose. He thought it would disable me. Stupid bastard. He should have read my file more closely. My father was a cop – he believed strongly in being able to shoot ambidextrously. You never know which hand will wind up free under fire."