NED MAHONEY AND I were in my car, headed east on I-66 toward Alexandria, when the call came in that we were too late. Virginia State Police were reporting that they'd found Nicholson's house empty. There were signs of a break-in and a struggle, two packed suitcases left behind, both of the Nicholsons' cars still in the garage.

An APB was in effect, but without a specific vehicle to look for, it didn't carry much hope of an apprehension.

The plan was still to convene at the Nicholson house. ADIC Hamel was calling in another Evidence Response Team right away. And Mahoney phoned someone at the Hoover Building to do some fast digging on Nicholson.

He also had one of the Bureau-issue Toughbooks in the car, which let him double up on research. He started feeding me information rapid-fire, the way Ned always does when he's keyed up.

"Well, our boy's never been arrested, naturalized, federally employed, in the military – no big surprises. He doesn't have any known aliases either. And he doesn't cross-reference in any Bureau file, under Tony or Anthony Nicholson."

"I don't think he's our killer," I said.

Mahoney stopped what he was doing and gave me his attention. "Because?"

"There're too many loose ends here," I explained. "Nicholson's obviously one of them, but that's all he is, Ned. It's like that old story about the five blind men and all the elephant parts."

"Which makes Nicholson what – the asshole?"

I had to laugh. Mahoney is never without a quick response, and he's at his best when the pressure's on.

"I think someone came after the same thing we're looking for, only they got to him first. Which just means they have more puzzle pieces to work with than we do."

"Or" – Mahoney held up a finger – "he staged his own disappearance. It wouldn't be hard – drop a few suitcases, bust up some furniture, and he's halfway over the Atlantic with his little snuff film collection while we're still dusting the house for prints."

We batted possibilities around some more, until another call came in. Whatever it was got Mahoney excited – again. He punched an address into his laptop.

A few seconds later, we were following the GPS onto the Beltway toward Alexandria – but not to Nicholson's house.

"Avalon Apartments," Mahoney said. "Nicholson came up on a tenant database. Guess he missed a payment or something."

"A rental?" I said. "In the same town where he already lives?"

Mahoney nodded. "Lives with his wife," he said, "who I'm betting is at least fifteen years older than whoever we find behind door number two. What do you say – twenty bucks?"

"No bet."

TONY NICHOLSON LEANED forward from the backseat, as far as the cuffs would allow. He could see that the lights on the second floor were on.

"We don't need to be here," he said. "She doesn't know anything. I promise you."

The one who had ruined Nicholson's leg opened the passenger door. "Who knows?" he said. "Maybe you talk in your sleep."

He got out and went to the front door. Then he used one of Nicholson's keys to let himself in.

Nicholson was thinking that he still might be able to save himself, and maybe Mara. He had a surreal image of her beautiful face trapped inside a plastic bag.

The driver was tall and blond – like him – with pale eyes and a square forehead. He looked more intelligent than the spic. Maybe he was more reasonable too.

"Listen," Nicholson said in a whisper. "I do know what you're looking for. I can help you get it, but not without some kind of exit strategy for me."

The man sat straight and still, staring out the windshield as if Nicholson hadn't spoken.

"I'm willing to make a deal, is what I'm saying."

Still nothing from the front seat.

"For the disk. Of Zeus. Do you hear me? I'll tell you where it is."

"Yeah," the blond guy finally said. "You will."

"So… why won't you make a deal? Now? Here? Why the hell not?"

The driver's fingers drummed lightly on the wheel. "Because we're going to kill you anyway. You and the girlfriend."

Nicholson felt a hollow beating in his chest, and he was finally feeling as if nothing mattered anymore. He laughed, a little desperately.

"Jesus, friend, I don't mean to tell you your job, but then why the hell would I -"

All at once, the driver turned, reached down, and squeezed the soft parts of Nicholson's mangled knee.

The pain was instant and stunning. His jaw dropped open even as his throat closed up. Nicholson couldn't breathe, much less scream, and in the strange silence, his tormentor's low voice was easy to hear.

"Because at some point, friend, you're going to stop wanting to live and start wanting to die. Understand? And if you haven't told us what we want to know by then – believe me, you will."

THE CAR DOOR opened and Mara slid in, thin hips first, with the other man's hand cupping her blond head of hair. Nicholson saw him tuck a.45 into his waistband before he slammed shut the car door behind her.

His girlfriend looked understandably freaked out. Hell, she was only twenty-three years old. Her arms came together in front, with a sweater draped over them to hide the cuffs. He'd given her that sweater as a present. Cashmere. From the Polo store in Alexandria. Happier days.

"You okay?"

"Jesus, Tony, what's going on? He told me he was the police. Showed me a badge. Is he?"

"Just don't say anything," Nicholson told her quietly. His injured leg felt as though it were going to explode. It was nearly impossible to focus, and Mara's being here only made matters worse. A whole lot worse, actually. Nicholson loved her.

She was the complete opposite of Charlotte. For one thing, she knew too much. For another, she was New York Irish Italian. Keeping their mouths shut wasn't exactly a strong suit for most New Yorkers.

"What do they want?" she pressed. "Where are they taking us? Tony, tell me."

"That's a bloody good question." Nicholson said, and kicked the back of the seat with his good foot. He shouted at them. "Where the fuck do you think you're taking us?"

That got him a backhand across the cheekbone with the.45. He felt the pain, but it was getting hard to care. In fact, pain could be considered a good thing – it meant he was still alive, didn't it?

"Whatever this is, I don't work for him anymore," Mara was already telling the two men in front. "You have to believe me. I'll tell you anything you want to know. I was the bookkeeper."

"Shut up, Mara," Nicholson said. "Won't do any good anyway."

"He's been shaking people down. Important people. For money. Taping them and -"

He leaned into her, which was about all he could do. "Mara, I'm warning you."

"Or what, Tony? It's a little late for warnings, isn't it? I shouldn't even be here."

Her dark brown eyes flashed fear and anger, the same things he was feeling, so it was hard to completely blame her. "I'm talking about big names," she rattled on. "Rich guys. Politicians, Wall Street, lawyers, that kind of thing -"

"Yeah, yeah." The driver cut her off. "Tell us something we don't already know. Otherwise, like the man said – shut up, Mara."