"Was he?" she muttered, distracted again.

"History."

"What?"

"That's what Kincaid's dad taught. History."

More silence.

Lukas finally said, "I just need some phony conversation, Cage, not matchmaking."

He responded, "Am I doing that? Would I do that? I'm only saying you don't meet a lot of people like Kincaid."

"Uh-huh. We've got to stay focused here, Cage."

"I'm focused. You're focused. He doesn't know why you're pissed at him."

"Very simple. He wasn't being part of the team. I told him that. We settled it. End of story."

"He's decent," Cage offered. "A stand-up guy. And he's smart-his mind's a weird thing. You should see him with those puzzles of his."

"Yeah. I'm sure he's great."

Focus.

But she wasn't focusing. She was thinking about Kincaid.

So he had his own capital I Incidents-deaths and divorce. A hard wife and a struggle to raise the children by himself. That explained some of what she'd seen before.

Kincaid…

And thinking about him, the document examiner, she thought again about the postcard.

Joeys postcard.

On the trip from which they'd never returned, Tom and Joey had been visiting her in-laws in Ohio. It was just before Thanksgiving. Her six-year-old son had mailed her a postcard from the airport before they boarded the doomed plane. Probably not a half hour before the 737 had crashed into the icy field.

But the boy hadn't known you needed a stamp to mail postcards. He must have slipped it into the mailbox before his father knew what he was doing.

It arrived a week after the funeral. Postage due. She'd paid for it and for the next three hours carefully peeled off the Postal Service sticker that had covered up part of her son's writing.

Were having fun mommy. Granma and I made cookys

I miss you. I love you mommy…

A card from the ghost of her son.

It was in her purse right now, the gaudy picture of a sunset in the Midwest. Her wedding ring was stored in her jewelry box but this card she kept with her all the time and would until she died.

Six months after the crash Lukas had taken a copy of the card to a graphoanalyst and had her son's handwriting analyzed.

The woman had said, "Whoever wrote this is creative and charming. He'll grow up to be a handsome man. And brilliant, with no patience for deception. He also has a great capacity for love. You're a very lucky woman to have a son like this."

For ten dollars more the graphoanalyst had tape-recorded her comments. Lukas listened to the tape every few weeks. She'd sit by herself in her dark living room, put a candle on, have a drink-or two-and listen to what her son would have been like.

Then Parker Kincaid shows up at FBI headquarters and announces with that know-all voice of his that graphoanalysis is nonsense.

People read tarot cards too and talk to their dear departed. It's bogus.

It's not! she now raged to herself. She believed what the graphoanalyst had told her.

She had to. Otherwise she'd go insane.

It's as if you lose a part of your mind when you have children. They steal it and you never get it back… Sometimes I'm amazed that parents can function at all.

Dr. Evans's observation. She hadn't let on at the time but she knew it was completely true.

And here was Cage trying to set her up. So, she and Kincaid were similar. They were smart (and, yes, arrogant). They were both missing parts of their lives. They both had their protective walls-his to keep the danger out, hers to keep herself from retreating inside, where the worst danger lay. Yet the same instincts that made her a good cop told her-for no reason that she could articulate-that there was no future between them. She had returned to a "normal" life as much as she ever could. She had her dog, Jean Luc. She had some friends. She had her CDs. Her runners' club. Her sewing. But Margaret Lukas was emotionally "plateaued," to use the Bureau term for an agent no longer destined for advancement.

No, she knew she'd never see Parker Kincaid after tonight. And that was perfectly all right-

The earphone crackled. "Margaret… Jesus Christ." It was C. P. Ardell, stationed downstairs.

Instantly she drew her weapon.

"You have the subject?" she whispered fiercely into her lapel mike.

"No," the agent said. "But we've got a problem. It's a mess down here."

Cage too was listening. His hand strayed to his own weapon as he looked at Lukas, frowning.

C. P. continued. "It's the mayor. He's here with a dozen cops and, fuck, a camera crew too."

"No!" Lukas snapped, drawing the attention of a cluster of partyers nearby.

"They got lights and everything. The shooter sees this, he'll take off. Its like a circus."

"I'll be right there."

"Your honor, this is a federal operation and have to ask you to leave right now."

They were in the parking garage. Lukas noted immediately that there was a controlled entrance and exit-to get in you needed to take a ticket. That meant that license plates were recorded and that in turn meant that the Digger would probably not come in this way-the unsub would have told him not to leave a record of his visit. But Mayor Kennedy and his damn entourage were headed for the main entrance to the hotel, where he and his uniformed bodyguards could be spotted in a minute by the killer.

And for God's sake, a camera crew?

Kennedy looked down at Lukas. He was a head taller. He said, "You have to get the guests out of here. Evacuate them. When the killer shows up let me talk to him."

Lukas ignored him and said to C. P., "Any of them get into the hotel itself?"

"No, we stopped 'em here."

Kennedy continued. "Evacuate! Get them out!"

"We can't do that," she said. "The Digger'll know something's wrong."

"Well, tell them to go their rooms at least."

"Think about it, Mayor," she snapped. "Most of them aren't guests. They're just locals-here for dinner and parties. They don't have rooms."

Lukas looked around the entrance to the hotel and the street outside. It wasn't crowded-the stores were all closed for the holiday. She whispered fiercely, "He could be here at any minute. I'm going to have to ask you to leave." Thought about adding "sir." She didn't.

"Then I'm going to have to go over your head. Who's your supervisor?"

"I am," Cage said. No shrugs now. Just a cold glare. "You have no jurisdiction here."

The mayor snapped, "So, who's your supervisor."

"Somebody you don't want to call, believe me."

"Let me be the judge of that."

"No," Lukas said firmly, glancing at her watch. "The Digger could be in the building right now. I don't have time to argue with you. I want you and your people out of here now!"

Kennedy looked at his aide-what was his name? Jefferies, she believed. A reporter was nearby, filming the entire exchange.

"I'm not going to let the FBI risk those people's lives. I'm going to-"

"Agent Ardell," she said, "put the mayor in custody."

"You can't arrest him," Jefferies snapped.

"Yes, she can," Cage said angrily now, with the most minute of shrugs. "And she can arrest you too."

"Get him out of here," Lukas said.

"Lockup?"

Lukas considered. "No. Just stay with him and keep him out of our hair until the operation's over."

"I'm call my lawyer and-"

A flash of anger burst inside her, as bright as the one that made her explode at Kincaid. She looked up at him, pointed a finger at his chest. "Mayor, this is my operation and you're interfering with it. I'll let you go on your way with Agent Ardell or, so help me, I'll have you detained downtown. It's entirely up to you."

There was a pause. Lukas wasn't even looking at the mayor; her eyes were scanning the parking lot, the sidewalks, the shadows. No sign of anyone who might be the Digger.