A computer beeped. Cage leaned forward and read. "It's an AFIS report and VICAP and Connecticut State Police files. Here we go…" He scrolled through the information. A picture came up on the screen. It was Hardy. "His real name is Edward Fielding, last known address, Blakesly, Connecticut, outside of Hartford. Oh, our friend is not a very nice man. Four arrests, one conviction. Juvie time too but those records're sealed. Treated repeatedly for antisocial behavior. Was an aide and orderly at Hartford State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. He left after a nurse he was accused of sexually harassing was found stabbed to death.

"The hospital administration," Cage continued, reading from the screen, "thinks Fielding talked a patient, David Hughes, into killing her. Hughes was admitted two years ago. Christmas Day. He had severe brain damage following a gunshot wound and was highly suggestible. Fielding probably helped Hughes escape. The Hospital Board and the police were going to investigate Fielding but he disappeared after that. That was in October of last year."

"Hughes is the Digger," Parker announced softly.

"You think?"

"Positive." He continued, "And the Hartford newspaper shooting-what got Czisman started on Fielding's trail-that was in November." Recalling the clipping in Czisman's book. "That was their first crime."

A Chronicle of Sorrow…

"But why so much death?" the dep director asked. "It can't just be for the money. He must've had some terrorist leanings."

"Nope," Parker said definitively. "Not terrorism at all. But you're absolutely right. It has nothing to do with the money. Oh, I recognize him."

"You know Fielding?"

"No, I mean I recognize the type. He's like a document forger."

"Forger?" asked Lukas.

"Serious forgers see themselves as artists, not thieves. They don't really care about the money. The point is to create a forgery that fools everyone. That's their only goal: a perfect forgery."

Lukas nodded. "So the other crimes-in Hartford and Boston and Philly-they were just exercises. Stealing one watch, a few thousand dollars. It was just to perfect his technique."

"Exactly. And this was the culmination. This time he got a big chunk of money and's going to retire."

"Why do you think that?" Cage asked.

But Lukas knew the answer to that one too. "Because he sacrificed his errand boy so he could escape. He told us where the Digger was."

Recalling how Hardy had fired at the bus, Parker added, "He may actually have been the one who shot the Digger on the Mall. If they took him alive he might have talked."

"Hardy was laughing at us," Cage said, slamming his fist down on the table. "The whole fucking time he was sitting right next to us and laughing."

"But where is he?" the dep director asked.

Parker said, "Oh, he'll have his escape all planned out. He's outthought us every step of the way. He won't stumble now."

"We can get his picture off the video camera down in the lobby," Cage said. "Get it to all the TV stations."

"At two in the morning?" Parker said. "Who's going to be watching? And we've already missed the newspaper deadlines. Anyway, he'll be out of the country by sunup and on a plastic surgeon's operating table in two days."

"The airports're closed," the dep director pointed out. "He can't get any flights till morning."

"He'll be driving to Louisville or Atlanta or New York," Lukas said. "But well put out a bulletin to the field offices. Get agents to all the airports, Amtrak stations and bus terminals. Rental-car companies too. Check DMV and deeds offices for an address. And call Connecticut State Police." She paused, looking at Parker. He could see that she was thinking exactly what he was.

"He's thought of all that," Parker said. "I'm not saying we don't have to do it. But he's anticipated it."

"I know," she said and seemed all the more angry because of her helplessness.

The dep director said, "I'll authorize ten-most-wanted status."

But Parker wasn't listening. He was staring at the extortion note.

"Perfect forgery," he whispered to himself.

"What?" Lukas asked.

He looked at his watch. "I'm going to go see somebody."

"I'm going with you," Lukas said.

Parker hesitated. "Better if you didn't."

"No, I'm going."

"I don't need any help."

"I'm going with you," she said firmly.

And Parker looked into her blue eyes-stone or no stone?

He couldn't tell.

He said, "Okay."

They drove through the streets of the District, mostly deserted now. Parker was at the wheel.

A car paused at an intersection, to their right. In the glare Parker caught Lukas's profile, her thin mouth, her rounded nose, her sweep of throat.

He turned back to the street and drove deeper into Alexandria, Virginia.

Maybe she envies you.

How much he wanted to take her hand, sit with her in a bar or on his couch at home. Or lie in bed with her.

And talk. Talk about anything.

Perhaps about the secret of Margaret Lukas, whatever that might be.

Or just do what he and the Whos did sometimes-talk about nothing. Talk silly, they called it. About cartoons or neighbors or the Home Depot sale or recipes or vacations past and vacations planned.

Or maybe he and Lukas would share the war stories that cops-federal or state or crossing guards-loved to relive.

The secret could wait.

She'd have years to tell him, he thought.

Years…

Suddenly he realized that he was considering a connection with her that might last more than a single night or a week or month. What did he have to base this fantasy on? Nothing really. It was a ridiculous thought.

Whatever connection there might be between them-she the soldier, he the hausfrau-was pure illusion.

Or was it? He remembered the Whos in the Dr. Seuss book, the race of creatures living on a dust mote, so small no one could see them. But they were there nonetheless, with all their crazy grins and contraptions and bizarre architecture. Why couldn't love be found in something that seemed invisible too?

He looked at her once again and she at him. He found his hand reaching out tentatively and touching her knee. Her hand closed on his, nothing tentative about it.

Then they were at the address he sought. He removed his hand. He parked the car. Not a word said. Not a look between them.

Lukas climbed out. Parker too. He walked around to her side of the car and they stood facing each other. How badly he wanted to hold her. Put his arms around her, slip his hands into the small of her back, pull her close. She glanced at him and slowly unbuttoned her blazer. He caught a glimpse of the white silk blouse. He stepped forward to kiss her.

She glanced down, unholstered her weapon and buttoned her blazer once more. Squinted as she looked past him, checking out the neighborhood.

Oh. Parker stepped back.

"Where to?" she asked matter-of-factly.

Parker hesitated, looked at her cool eyes. Then nodded at a winding path that led into an alley. "This way."

The man was about five feet tall.

He had a wiry beard and bushy hair. He wore a ratty bathrobe and Parker had obviously wakened him when he banged fiercely on the rickety door.

He stared at Parker and Lukas for a moment then, without a word, retreated quickly back into the apartment, as if he'd been tugged back by a bungee cord.

Lukas preceded Parker inside. She looked around then holstered her weapon. The rooms were cluttered, filled to overflowing with books and furniture and papers. On the walls hung a hundred signed letters and scraps of historical documents. A dozen bookshelves were chockablock with more books and portfolios. An artists drawing table was covered with bottles of ink and dozens of pens. It dominated the tiny living room.