"Stinkballs? Right."

"Saltwater or fresh?"

"Well, fresh. Of course."

"And the kerosene – boats run on that, right?"

"White gas," Ben said. "Small outboards do."

Rhyme said, "How's this for a thought? He's going west by boat on the Paquenoke River?"

Ben said, "Makes sense, Lincoln. And I'll bet there's so much kerosene because he's been refueling a lot – making runs back and forth between Tanner's Corner and the place he's got Mary Beth. Getting it ready for her."

"Good thinking. Call Jim Bell in here, would you?"

A few minutes later Bell returned and Rhyme explained his theory.

Bell said, "Water bugs gave you that idea, huh?"

Rhyme nodded. "If we know insects, we'll know Garrett Hanlon."

"It's no crazier than anything else I've heard today," Jim Bell said.

Rhyme asked, "Have you got a police boat?"

"No. But it wouldn't do us any good anyway. You don't know the Paquo. From the map it looks like any other river – with banks and all. But it's got a thousand inlets and branches flowing into and out of marshes. If Garrett's on it he's not staying to the main channel. I guarantee you that. It'd be impossible to find him."

Rhyme's eyes followed the Paquenoke west. "If he was moving supplies to the place where he's got Mary Beth that means it's probably not too far off the river. How far west would he have to go to be in an area that was habitable?"

"Have to be a ways. See up there?" Bell touched a spot around Location G-7. "That's north of the Paquo; nobody'd live there. South of the river it gets pretty residential. He'd be seen for sure."

"So at least ten miles or so west?"

"You got that right," Bell said.

"That bridge?" Rhyme nodded toward the map. Looking at spot E-8.

"The Hobeth Bridge?"

"What're the approaches to it like? The highway?"

"Just landfill. But there's a lot of it. The bridge's about forty feet high so the ramps leading up to it are long. Oh, wait… You're thinking Garrett'd have to sail back to the main channel to get under the bridge."

"Right. Because the engineers would've filled in the smaller channels on either side when they built the approaches."

Bell was nodding. "Yep. Makes sense to me."

"Get Lucy and the others there now. To the bridge. And, Ben, call that fellow – Henry Davett. Tell him we're sorry but we need his help again."

WWJD…

Thinking once again of Davett, Rhyme now offered a prayer – though not to any deities. It was directed to Amelia Sachs: Oh, Sachs, be careful. It's only a matter of time until Garrett comes up with an excuse for you to take the cuffs off him. Then to lead you to someplace deserted. Then he'll manage to get a hold of your gun… Don't let the passing hours lull you into trusting him, Sachs. Don't let your guard down. He's got the patience of a mantis.

Garrett knew the waterways like an expert river pilot and steered the boat up what seemed to be dead ends yet he always managed to find creeks, thin as spiderweb strands, that led them steadily west through the maze.

He pointed out river otter, muskrat and beaver to Sachs – sightings that might have excited amateur naturalists but left her cold. Her wildlife was the rats and pigeons and squirrels of the city – and only to the extent they were useful in helping her and Rhyme in their forensic work.

"Look there!" he cried.

"What?"

He was pointing to something she couldn't see. He stared at a spot near the shore, lost in whatever tiny drama was being played out on the water. All Sachs could see was some bug skipping over the surface.

"Water strider," he told her then sat back as they eased past. His face grew serious. "Insects're, like, a lot more important than us. I mean, when it comes to keeping the planet going. See – I read this someplace – if all the people on earth disappeared tomorrow the world'd keep going just fine. But if the insects all went away then life'd be over with way fast – like, one generation. The plants'd die then the animals and the earth'd turn into this big rock again."

Despite his adolescent vernacular Garrett spoke with the authority of a professor and the verve of a revivalist. He continued, "Yeah, some insects're a pain in the ass. But that's only a few of them, like one or two percent." His face grew animated and he said proudly, "And the ones that eat crops and stuff, well, I have this idea. It's pretty cool. I want to breed this special kind of golden lacewing to control the bad ones, instead of poisons – so the good insects and other animals don't die. The lacewing'd be the best. Nobody's done that yet."

"You think you can, Garrett?"

"I don't exactly know how yet. But I'm gonna learn."

She recalled what she'd read in his book, E. O. Wilson's term, biofilia – the affection people have for other types of life on the planet. And as she listened to him telling her this trivia – all proof of a love of nature and learning – foremost in her thoughts was this: anyone who could be so fascinated by living creatures and, in his odd way, could love them couldn't possibly be a rapist and killer.

Amelia Sachs held on tightly to this thought and it sustained her as they navigated the Paquenoke, escaping from Lucy Kerr and from the mysterious man in the tan overalls and from the simple, troubled town of Tanner 's Corner.

Escaping from Lincoln Rhyme too. And from his impending operation and the terrible consequences it might have for both of them.

The narrow boat eased through the tributaries, no longer black water but golden, camouflaged – reflecting the low sunlight – just like that French cricket Garrett had told her about. Finally the boy steered out of the back routes and into the main channel of the river, hugging the shore. Sachs looked behind them, to the east, to see if there were police boats in pursuit. She saw nothing except one of the big Davett Industries barges, headed upstream – away from them. Garrett throttled back on the motor and eased into a little cove. He peered through an overhanging willow branch, looking west toward a bridge that ran across the Paquenoke.

"We have to go under it," he said. "We can't get around." He studied the span. "You see anybody?"

Sachs looked. She saw a few flashes of light. "Maybe. I can't tell. There's too much glare."

"That's where the assholes'd be waiting for us," he said uneasily. "I always worry about the bridge. People looking for you."

Always?

Garrett beached the boat and shut the motor off. He climbed out and unscrewed a turn-bolt securing the outboard, which he pulled off and hid in the grass, along with the gas tank.

"What're you doing?" she asked.

"Can't take a chance of getting spotted."

Garrett took the cooler and the water jugs out of the boat and lashed the oars to the seats with two pieces of greasy rope. He poured the water out of a half-dozen of the jugs and recapped them, set them aside. He nodded toward the bottles. "Too bad about the water. Mary Beth doesn't have any. She'll need some. But I can get some for her from this pond near the cabin." Then he waded into the river and gripped the boat by the side. "Help me," he said. "We've got to capsize it."

"We're going to sink it?"

"No. Just turn her upside down. We'll put the jugs underneath. She'll float fine."

"Upside down?"

"Sure."

Sachs realized what Garrett had in mind. They'd get up underneath the boat and float past the bridge. The dark hull, low in the water, would be almost impossible to see from the bridge. Once they were past they could right the boat and row the rest of the way to where Mary Beth was.

He opened the cooler and found a plastic bag. "We can put our things in it that we don't want to get wet." He dropped his book, The Miniature World,inside it. Sachs added her wallet and the gun. She tucked her T-shirt into her jeans and slipped the bag down the front of her shirt.