"Ocean Spray."

"So," Rhyme summarized, "Garrett's holding Mary Beth in a moonshiner's cabin – presumably one that's been abandoned since the raid."

"What raid?" Mason asked.

"Well, it's like the trailer," Rhyme replied shortly, hating as always to have to explain the obvious. "If Garrett's using the place to hide Mary Beth then it has to be abandoned. And what's the only reason anybody'd abandon a working still?"

"Department of revenue busted it," Bell said.

"Right," Rhyme said. "Get on the phone and find out the location of any stills that've been raided in the past couple of years. It'll be a nineteenth-century building in a stand of trees and painted brown – though it may not have been when it got raided. It's four or five miles from where Frank Heller lives and it'll be on a Carolina bay or you'll have to go around a bay to get there from the Paquo."

Bell left to call the revenue department.

"That's pretty good, Lincoln," Ben said. Even Mason Germain seemed impressed.

A moment later Bell hurried back into the room. "Got it!" He examined the sheet of paper in his hand then began tracing directions on the map, ending at Location B-4. He circled a spot. "Right here. Head of investigations at revenue said it was a big operation. They raided it a year ago and busted up the still. One of his agents checked out the place a couple, three months ago and saw that somebody'd painted it brown so he looked it over good to see if it was being used again. But he said it was empty so he didn't pay any more mind. Oh, and it's about twenty yards from a good-sized Carolina bay."

"Is there any way to get a car in there?" Rhyme asked.

"Has to be," Bell said. "All stills're near roads – to bring the supplies in and get the finished 'shine out."

Rhyme nodded and said firmly, "I need an hour alone with her – to talk her out. I know I can do it."

"It's risky, Lincoln."

"I want that hour," Rhyme said, holding Bell 's eye.

Finally Bell said, "Okay. But if Garrett gets away this time it's gonna be a full-out manhunt."

"Understood. You think my van can make it there?"

Bell said, "Roads aren't great but -"

"I'll get you there," Thom said firmly. "Whatever it takes, I'll get you there."

Five minutes after Rhyme had wheeled out of the County Building, Mason Germain watched Jim Bell return to his office. He waited a moment and, making sure no one saw him, he stepped into the corridor and headed toward the front door of the building.

There were dozens of phones in the County Building Mason could have used to make his call but instead he pushed outside into the heat and walked quickly across the quadrangle to a bank of pay phones on the sidewalk. He fished into his pockets and dug out some coins. He looked around and when he saw he was alone he dropped them in, looked at a number on a slip of paper and punched in the digits.

Farmer John, Farmer John. Enjoy it fresh from Farmer John… Farmer John, Farmer John. Enjoy it fresh from Farmer John…

Staring at the row of cans in front of her, a dozen overall-clad farmers staring back with mocking smiles, Amelia Sachs' mind was clogged with this inane jingle, the anthem for her foolishness.

Which had cost Jesse Corn his life. And had ruined hers as well.

She was only vaguely aware of the cabin where she now sat, a prisoner of the boy she'd risked her life to save. And of the angry exchange now going on between Garrett and Mary Beth.

No, all she could see was that tiny black dot appearing in Jesse's forehead.

All she could hear was the singsong jingle. Farmer John… Farmer John…

Then suddenly Sachs understood something: Occasionally Lincoln Rhyme would, mentally, go away. He might converse but his words were superficial, he might smile but it was false, he might appear to listen but he wasn't hearing a word. At moments like that, she knew, he was considering dying. He'd be thinking about finding someone from an assisted-suicide group like the Lethe Society to help him. Or even, as some severely disabled people had done, actually hiring a hit man. (Rhyme, who'd contributed to the jailing of a number of OC – organized crime – mobsters, obviously had some connections there. In fact, there were probably a few who'd gladly do the job for free.)

But until this moment – with her own life now as shattered as Rhyme's, no, more shattered – she'd always thought he was wrong in that thinking. Now, though, she understood how he felt.

"No!" Garrett called, leaping up and cocking his ear toward the window.

You have to listen all the time. Otherwise they can sneak up on you.

Then Sachs heard it too. A car was slowly approaching.

"They've found us!" the boy cried, gripping the pistol.

He ran to the window, stared out. He seemed confused. "What's that?" he whispered.

A door slammed. Then there was a long pause.

And she heard, "Sachs. It's me."

A faint smile crossed her face. No one else in the universe could have found this place except Lincoln Rhyme.

"Sachs, are you there?"

"No!" Garrett whispered. "Don't say anything!"

Ignoring him, Sachs rose and walked to a broken window. There, in front of the cabin, resting unevenly on a dirt driveway, was the black Rollx van. Rhyme, in the Storm Arrow, had maneuvered close to the cabin – as far as he could get until a hillock of dirt near the porch stopped him. Thom stood beside him.

"Hello, Rhyme," she said.

"Quiet!" the boy whispered harshly.

"Can I talk to you?" the criminalist called.

What was the point? she wondered. Still, she said, "Yes."

She walked to the door and said to Garrett, "Open it. I'm going outside."

"No, it's a trick," the boy said. "They'll attack -"

"Open the door, Garrett," she said firmly, her eyes boring into his. He looked around the room. Then bent down and pulled the wedges out from the doorjamb. Sachs opened the door, the cuffs on her stiff wrists jingling like sleigh bells.

"He did it, Rhyme," she said, sitting down on the porch steps in front of him. "He killed Billy… I got it wrong. Dead-wrong."

The criminalist closed his eyes. What horror she must be feeling, he thought. He looked at her carefully, her pale face, her stony eyes. He asked, "Is Mary Beth okay?"

"She's fine. Scared but fine."

"She saw him do it?"

Sachs nodded.

"There wasn't any man in overalls?" he asked.

"No. Garrett made that up. So I'd break him out. He had it all planned from the beginning. Leading us off to the Outer Banks. He had a boat hidden, supplies. He'd planned what to do if the deputies got close. Even had a safe house – that trailer you found. The key, right? That I found in the wasp jar? That's how you tracked us down."

"It was the key," Rhyme confirmed.

"I should've thought of that. We should've stayed someplace else."

He saw she was cuffed and noticed Garrett in the window, peering out angrily, holding a pistol. This was now a hostage situation; Garrett wasn't going to come out willingly. It was time to call the FBI. Rhyme had a friend, Arthur Potter, now retired, but still the best hostage negotiator the bureau ever had. He lived in Washington, D.C., and could be here in a few hours.

He turned back to Sachs. "And Jesse Corn?"

She shook her head. "I didn't know it was him, Rhyme. I thought it was one of Culbeau's friends. A deputy jumped me and my weapon went off. But it was my fault – I acquired an unidentified target with an unsafetied weapon. I broke rule number one."