"Has to be, Jerry. We've almost nailed this guy once and he's gonna be skittish as a deer. He sees anything out of the ordinary he's going to bolt. I'll take responsibility."

"Okay, Margaret. I'll get on it."

She hung up.

She found Len Hardy staring at her. His face suddenly seemed older, tougher. She wondered if he was going to confront her again about his being on a tactical team. But he asked, "You're running the operation plainclothes?"

"Right. Is there a problem with that, Detective?"

"Does that mean you're not going to evacuate the hotel?"

"No, I'm not," she answered.

"But there'll be a thousand people there tonight."

Lukas said, "It's got to be business as usual. The Digger can't suspect a thing."

"But if he gets past us… I mean, we aren't even sure what he looks like."

"I know, Len."

He shook his head. "You can't do it."

"We don't have a choice."

The detective said, "You know what I do for a living-compile statistics. You want to know how many bystanders die in covert tactical operations? There's probably an eighty percent chance of significant fatalities among innocents if you try to take him down in a situation like that."

"What do you suggest?" she snapped back, letting him see a flash of temper.

"Keep your people plainclothes but get all the guests out. Leave the employees inside if you have to but move everybody else out."

"The best we could do is get fifty or sixty agents inside the hotel," she pointed out. "The Digger walks in the front door, expecting to see five hundred guests, and he finds that few? He'd take off. And he'd go shoot up someplace else."

"For Christ sake, Margaret," Hardy muttered, "at least get the kids out."

Lukas fell silent, eyes on the note.

"Please," the detective persisted.

She looked into his eyes. "No. If we tried to evacuate anybody word would spread and there'd be panic."

"So you're just going to hope for the best?"

She glanced at the extortion note.

The end is night…

It seemed to be sneering at her.

"No," Lukas said. "We're going to stop him. That's what we're going to do." A glance at Evans: "Doctor, if you could stay here." Then a glance at Hardy. "You handle communications."

Hardy sighed angrily. He said nothing else.

"Let's go," Lukas said to Cage. "I've got to stop by my office."

"For what?" Cage asked, nodding to her empty ankle holster. "Oh, another backup?"

"No, for some party clothes. We've got to blend."

"He's got something good for us." Wendell Jefferies, the sleeves of his custom-made shirt rolled high, revealing health-club-toned arms.

By "he" the aide meant Slade Phillips, Mayor Kennedy knew.

The two men were in the City Hall office. The mayor had just given another embarrassing press conference, attended by only a dozen reporters, who, even as he spoke, took cell phone calls and checked pagers in hopes of getting better news from other sources. Who could blame them? Christ, he didn't have anything to say. All he could report on was the morale of some of the victims he'd been to visit at hospitals.

"He's going on the air at nine," Jefferies now told the mayor. "A special report."

"With what?"

"He won't tell me," Jefferies said. "Somehow he thinks that would be unethical."

Kennedy stretched and leaned back in the couch-a fake Georgian settee his predecessor had bought. The finish was chipping off the arms. And the hassock on which his size 12 feet rested was cheap; a piece of folded cardboard was stuffed under one leg to keep it from rocking.

A glance at the brass clock.

Dear your honor, thank you very much for coming to speak with us today. It has been an honor to hear you. You are a very good person for us children and students and we would like to comment… commem… commemorate your visit with this gift, which we hope you will like…

The minute hand clicked forward one stoke. In an hour, he thought, how many more people would be dead?

The phone rang. Kennedy glanced at it lethargically and let Jefferies answer.

"Hello?"

A pause.

"Sure. Hold on." He handed the receiver to Kennedy, saying, "This is interesting."

The mayor took the receiver. "Yes?"

"Mayor Kennedy?"

"That's right."

"This is Len Hardy."

"Detective Hardy?"

"That's right. Is… Is anybody else listening?"

"No. It's my private line."

The detective hesitated then said, "I've been thinking… About what we were talking about."

Kennedy sat up, took his feet off the couch.

"Go ahead, son. Where are you?"

"Ninth Street. FBI headquarters."

There was silence. The mayor encouraged, "Go on."

"I couldn't just sit here anymore. I had to do something. I think she's making a mistake."

"Lukas?"

Hardy continued, "They found out where he's going to hit tonight. The Digger, the shooter."

"They did?" Kennedy's strong hand gripped the phone hard. Gestured to Jefferies to hand him a pen and paper. "Where?"

"The Ritz-Carlton."

"Which one?"

"They aren't sure. Probably Pentagon City… But, Mayor, she's not evacuating them."

"She's what?" Kennedy snapped.

"Lukas isn't evacuating the hotel She's-"

"Wait," Kennedy said. "They know where he's going to hit and she's not telling anyone?"

"No, she's going to use the guests for bait. I mean, that's the only way to say it. Anyway, I thought about what you said. I decided I had to call you."

"You did the right thing, Officer."

"I hope so, I really hope that. I can't talk any longer, Mayor. I just had to tell you."

"Thank you." Jerry Kennedy hung up and rose to his feet.

"What is it?" Jefferies asked.

"We know where he's going to hit. The Ritz. Call Reggie, I want my car now. And a police escort."

As he strode to the door Jefferies asked, "How 'bout a news crew?"

Kennedy glanced at his aide. The meaning of the look was unmistakable. It meant: Of course we want a news crew.

They're both standing awkwardly, side by side, four arms crossed, in the Diggers motel room.

They're both watching TV.

Funny.

The pictures on the TV look familiar to the Digger.

The pictures are from the theater. The place where he was supposed to spin around like he did in the Connecticut forest and send bullets into a million leaves. The theater where he wanted to spin, where he was supposed to spin, but he couldn't.

The theater where the… click… where the scary man with the big jaws and tall hat came to kill him. No, that's not right… Where the police came to kill him.

He watches the boy as the boy watches TV. The boy says, "Shit." For no reason, it seems.

Just like Pamela.

The Digger calls his voice mail and hears the woman's electronic voice say, "You have no new messages."

He hangs up.

The Digger does not have much time. He looks at his watch. The boy looks at it too.

He is thin and frail. The area around his right eye is slightly darker than his dark skin and the Digger knows that the man he killed had hit the boy a lot. He thinks he's happy he shot the man. Whatever happy is.

The Digger wonders what the man who tells him things would think about the boy. The man did tell him to kill anybody who got a look at his face. And the boy has gotten a look at his face. But it doesn't… click… it doesn't seem… click… seem right to kill him.

Why, it seems to me that every day,

I love you all the more.

He goes into the kitchenette and opens a can of soup. He spoons some into a bowl. Looks at the boy's skinny arms and spoons some more in. Noodles. Mostly noodles. He heats it in the microwave for exactly sixty seconds, which is what the instructions tell him to do to get the soup "piping hot." He sets the bowl in front of the boy. Hands him a spoon.