Then she crumpled, gasping. Then she was still.

He pulled the surgical mask away and carefully folded it to keep the powder she hadn't inhaled from going all over his car seat. Wouldn't want to make a mess, after all.

He drove away. The night was still very, very young. He patted Alev's cheek. So was she.

Thursday, October 6, 5:45 A.M.

Sheriff Rogers put a large brown bag and a thermos on the hood of Steven's car. "My wife made nut bread," he said. "And coffee. Help yourself."

Steven looked at the burly man with as much of a smile as he could muster on the fifteen minutes' sleep he'd had the night before. "Thanks, Sheriff," he said. "It smells great."

Rogers settled himself against the car and looked toward the horizon where the sun would start peeking up sometime in the next fifteen minutes. "Your boy get home all right last night?"

Steven felt his face heat and busied himself by pouring coffee into one of the foam cups provided by the thoughtful Mrs. Rogers. "Yeah. Thanks."

"I got a kid that age," Rogers said, still studying the horizon intently. "Pain in the ass."

"I know the feeling," Steven returned dryly.

"Wife keeps tellin' me he'll come around." Rogers's tone said he was clearly unconvinced.

"Women are optimistic souls," Steven said.

Rogers glanced over at him with a grimace. "Good thing they make good nut bread."

Steven's mouth quirked up. "How long have the two of you been married?"

"Twenty-five years next summer. And yourself?"

Steven took a large gulp of coffee, wincing as it scalded his throat. "I'm not married."

Rogers's brows went up in surprise. "Then who-" He looked away. "Sorry, not my business."

It really wasn't, but for some reason Steven didn't seem to mind. "It's okay. Truth is, I'm really not sure myself."

Rogers looked as if he were digesting this information along with his nut bread. "She seemed like a nice woman."

Steven took another gulp of coffee, this time knowing full well how much it would burn on its way down. Maybe it was a form of self-punishment, Mike's hair shirt and flogging strap, as it were. "Yes, she is. She really is."

Rogers chewed his nut bread contemplatively. "Nice women who look that good in Wall Street business suits don't come along every day."

Sheriff Rogers appeared to be a master of understatement. "No, I don't suppose they do."

Rogers pushed himself away from the car, brushing the crumbs off his broad barrel chest. "My boys should be gettin' here any minute, now. I'll get the radios ready."

"Thanks, Sheriff," Steven murmured, looking up at the still-dark sky where the chopper would appear to take aerial photos as soon as day broke so that they could get on with their search for Samantha Eggleston. Trying to wipe from his mind the picture of Jenna's concerned face, her Wall Street business suit, and the sound of her voice whispering, "Have courage." Knowing he'd ultimately be unsuccessful. Jenna Marshall was in his mind to stay.

And his heart? She'd insinuated herself there, too. Down deep he knew it was true. What other woman would care enough to intercede on his behalf with Brad after being treated so callously? He'd left her Tuesday night without a word. And still she cared. Steven blew out a sigh.

So did he.

Thursday, October 6, 6:15 A.M.

Neil readjusted his body to fit inside the tiny Dodge Neon.

What had he been thinking, renting a soup can this small? He'd been trying to stretch his budget, that's what he'd been thinking. His salary had been sufficient when pooled with Tracey's. But without Tracey's salary and with the alimony… He shook his head and blindly reached for the cup of coffee that was growing cold in the cup holder. That alimony was a real kicker.

But, just like every time he thought of his ex-wife, he couldn't seem to dredge up any emotion other than regret. No malice, no hatred. She was a nice woman who just couldn't seem to deal with the fact her husband was a jerk obsessed with a mistake that had cost four young girls and their families justice. She couldn't deal with his sleeplessness, the dreams when he did manage to sleep. She couldn't deal with the fact that the man she'd married was changing before her very eyes.

So she left. It was really very simple. He couldn't say he blamed her. He couldn't say he even really missed her and he supposed that's why he felt no hatred or rage. Just regret.

Barrow never understood that. A loyal friend, Barrow usually had a few choice things to say about Tracey's lack of loyalty, but Neil could never find it in himself to agree. Then Barrow would make that harrumping noise of his and say, "Well, at least you two didn't have any kids."

Neil would always say, "Yeah, you're right." And he believed that. He'd make a lousy father with the hours and the "Parker obsession" as Tracey called it. So it was good he didn't have kids. He'd never really regretted that part. Not really.

Well, maybe sometimes. He would have enjoyed watching his kid play baseball. Or soccer. His mind went back to Monday night, to the look on Thatcher's face when his son made that goal. Thatcher was a good dad. Made his kids' soccer games. Cheered from the sidelines.

But it distracted Thatcher from his job. Neil thought about last night, when from his hiding spot in the trees he'd watched Thatcher leave the search area to get his kid, watched him hand the kid over to the woman with the long black hair. A different kid. Another distraction. He thought about the articles he'd read about the abduction of Thatcher's little boy and wondered if Thatcher worried it would happen again. Neil knew he couldn't live that way, always worrying if his kids were at risk. That would be the biggest distraction of all. So it was good he and Tracey hadn't had any kids. Thatcher would probably be a better cop if he didn't have any either.

A light came on in the Parkers' upstairs window. That would be Mrs. Parker's bedroom. Running true to style, she had her own room, just like she'd had in Seattle. He wondered if Mr. Parker was also running true to style. Back in Seattle, Parker kept a mistress in a posh apartment around the corner from his downtown office building. Convenient for the sono-fabitch.

Another light came on, then another as the household roused itself for the day.

Neil shifted in the tiny little seat and prepared to wait. He'd wait until William emerged, then follow him again. Sooner or later William would choose his next victim. He'd have to leave his house to meet her. And Neil would be ready.

At that point, he'd call Thatcher and give him the damn road map showing him where to find his killer. There'd be an arrest and news media and fanfare. Thatcher might even get a promotion.

Neil smiled without feeling an ounce of mirth. Who knew? Maybe that's how he got the last one. Maybe they'd promote Thatcher to a desk job where he could go home to his kids and the woman with the long black hair every night at five.

And leave the real investigating to the guys who weren't so distracted.

Neil sipped at the coffee, now stone-cold. Although, he thought, watching the Parkers' downstairs lights come on one at a time, he wouldn't mind the distraction of Thatcher's woman. He frowned. With his binoculars he'd seen her face. She had a classic beauty, haunting somehow. For a moment he'd been simply mesmerized. And when he'd closed his eyes that night in the privacy of his hotel room, it was her face he'd seen. It had been a relief, a comfort, for it was the first time in a very long time he'd dreamed of someone other than the teenaged girls William Parker had robbed of life. Instead he'd dreamed of her, of Thatcher's woman. He could still see her face in his mind, even now as he sat, fully awake and waiting for Parker.