“We don’t know. Nor do we know what he’s now doing in Boston. All I’ve got on him is the rather sketchy biographical profile that New Haven PD has put together.” He pointed to his laptop. “And this. A shooting caught on camera. But that’s not the only thing you see in these photos.”

Gabriel focused on Roke’s vehicle. On the view through the rear window. “There’s a passenger,” he said. “Roke has someone sitting beside him.”

Moore nodded. “With image enhancement, you can clearly see this passenger has long dark hair.”

“It’s her,” said Maura, staring at the screen. “It’s Jane Doe.”

“Which means they were together in New Haven two months ago.”

“Show us the rest,” said Gabriel.

“Let me go to the last image-”

“I want to see them all.”

Moore paused, his hand on the mouse. He looked at Gabriel. “You don’t really need to,” he said quietly.

“Maybe I do. Show me the whole sequence.”

After a hesitation, Moore clicked the mouse, advancing to the next photo. The police officer was now standing at Roke’s window, looking in at the man who, in the next few seconds, would end his life. The cop’s hand was resting on his weapon. Merely a cautionary stance? Or did he already have an inkling that he was looking into the face of his killer?

Again, Moore hesitated before advancing to the next image. He had already seen these; he knew what horrors lay ahead. He clicked the mouse.

The image was an instant in time, captured in all its gruesome detail. The police officer was still standing, and his weapon was out of its holster. His head was snapped back by the bullet’s impact, his face caught in mid-disintegration, flesh exploding in a bloody mist.

A fourth and final photo finished the sequence. The officer’s body was now lying on the road beside the shooter’s car. It was just the postscript, yet this was the image that made Gabriel suddenly lean forward. He stared at the car’s rear window. At a silhouette that had not been visible in the three earlier images.

Maura saw it, too. “There’s someone in Roke’s backseat,” she said.

“That’s what I wanted you both to see,” said Moore. “A third person was in Roke’s car. Hiding, maybe, or sleeping in the backseat. You can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman. All you can see is this head with short hair, popping up right after the shooting.” He looked at Gabriel. “There’s a third associate we haven’t seen or heard yet. Someone who was with them in New Haven. That activation code may have been meant for more than one person.”

Gabriel’s gaze was still riveted on the screen. On that mysterious silhouette. “You said he had a military record.”

“That’s how we matched his prints. He served in the army, 1990 to ’92.”

“Which unit?” When Moore did not immediately answer, Gabriel looked at him. “What was he trained to do?”

“EOD. Explosive ordnance disposal.”

“Bombs?” said Maura. She looked, startled, at Moore. “If he knows how to disarm them, then he probably knows how to build them.”

“You said he only served two years,” said Gabriel. His own voice struck him as eerily calm. A cold-blooded stranger’s.

“He had… problems overseas, when he got to Kuwait,” said Moore. “He received a dishonorable discharge.”

“Why?”

“Refusing to obey orders. Striking an officer. Repeated conflicts with other men in his unit. There was some concern that he was emotionally unstable. That he might be suffering from paranoia.”

Moore ’s words had felt like blow after pummeling blow, pounding the breath from Gabriel’s lungs. “Jesus,” he murmured. “This changes everything.”

“What do you mean?” asked Maura.

He looked at her. “We can’t waste any more time. We’ve got to get her out now.”

“What about negotiations? What about going slow?”

“It doesn’t apply here. Not only is this man unstable, he’s already killed a cop.”

“He doesn’t know Jane’s a cop,” said Moore. “And we’re not going to let him find out. Look, the same principles apply here. The longer a hostage crisis goes on, the better it usually comes out. Negotiation works.”

Gabriel pointed to the laptop. “How the hell do you negotiate with someone who does that?”

“It can be done. It has to be done.”

“It’s not your wife in there!” He saw Maura’s startled gaze, and he turned away, struggling for composure.

It was Moore who spoke next, his voice quiet. Gentle. “What you’re feeling now-what you’re going through-I’ve been there, you know. I know exactly what you’re dealing with. Two years ago, my wife, Catherine, was abducted, by a man you may remember. Warren Hoyt.”

The Surgeon. Of course, Gabriel remembered him. The man who late at night would slip into homes where women slept, awakening to find a monster in their bedrooms. It was the aftermath of Hoyt’s crimes that had first brought Gabriel to Boston a year ago. The Surgeon, he suddenly realized, was the common thread that bound them all together. Moore and Gabriel, Jane and Maura. They had all, in one way or another, been touched by the same evil.

“I knew Hoyt was holding her,” said Moore. “And there was nothing I could do about it. No way I could think of to save her. If I could have exchanged my life for hers, I would have done it in a heartbeat. But all I could do was watch the hours go by. The worst part of it was, I knew what he was doing to her. I’d watched the autopsies on his other victims. I saw every cut he ever made with his scalpel. So yes, I know exactly what you’re feeling. And believe me, I’m going to do whatever it takes to get Jane out of there alive. Not just because she’s my colleague, or because you’re married to her. It’s because I owe her my happiness. She’s the one who found Catherine. Jane’s the one who saved her life.”

At last Gabriel looked at him. “How do we negotiate with these people?”

“We need to find out exactly what they want. They know they’re trapped. They have no choice but to talk to us, so we keep talking to them. You’ve dealt with other hostage situations, so you know the negotiator’s playbook. The rules haven’t changed, just because you’re on the other side of it now. You have to take your wife, your emotions, out of this equation.”

“Could you?”

Moore ’s silence answered the question. Of course he couldn’t.

And neither can I.

Mila

Tonight we are going to a party.

The Mother tells us that important people will be there, so we must look our prettiest, and she has given us new clothes for the occasion. I am wearing a black velvet dress with a skirt so tight that I can scarcely walk, and I must pull the hem all the way up to my hips just so I can climb into the van. The other girls slide in beside me in a rustle of silk and satin, and I smell their clashing bouquet of perfumes. We have spent hours with our makeup creams and lipsticks and mascara brushes, and now we sit like masked dolls about to perform in a Kabuki play. Nothing you see is real. Not the eyelashes or the red lips or the blushing cheeks. The van is cold, and we shiver against each other, waiting for Olena to join us.

The American driver yells out the window that we must leave now, or we’ll be late. At last the Mother comes out of the house, tugging Olena after her. Olena angrily shakes off the Mother’s hand and proceeds to walk the rest of the way on her own. She is wearing a long, green silk dress with a high Chinese collar and a side slit that reaches all the way to her thigh. Her black hair swings straight and sleek to her shoulders. I have never seen anyone so beautiful, and I stare at her as she crosses to the van. The drugs have calmed her down as usual, have turned her docile, but they have also made her unsteady, and she sways in her high heels.

“Get in, get in,” the driver orders.