"Do you have a family?" she asked.

Knox snapped back. "What else can you tell me? His last few days with you? Anything that might show where he went?"

"If he did kill Gray and Simpson they probably deserved it."

"That's not what I asked, and, by the way, talk like that could wind you up in jail."

"I owe Oliver my life."

"That's you, not me."

"So when you find him are you going to kill him?"

"I work for the federal government. I'm not a hired killer."

"So you're telling me that if you do catch him he'll end up being tried, in a court of law?"

Knox hesitated. "That's not my call. A lot of it depends on him."

"Yeah, I thought that might be what you'd say."

"We're talking about a killer, Ms. Hunter."

"No, we're talking about my friend who was pushed past all human limits."

"You know that to be a fact?"

"I know him. That's how he's built. Was he capable of violence, of killing? Sure. Was he a cold-blooded killer? No."

"I have information that says otherwise."

"Then your information is wrong."

"What makes you so sure?"

"My gut."

"Your gut? That's it?"

"Yeah, the same gut that's telling me you really don't want any part of this job. I'm betting you have a family and a dream of being retired. But you got called into this shit and now you don't know which side is playing you for a fool."

It was a testament to Knox's iron-hard nerves that he didn't even blink in the face of this spot-on observation.

"Unless you have anything to add, I'll drop you back off."

"So am I in trouble?"

"You'll be the first to know."

Back in Georgetown she climbed out of the Rover. Before she closed the door he said, "With something like this, Ms. Hunter, everybody needs to watch his back."

He drove off.

Annabelle pulled her coat tighter around her and watched, stone-faced, as Reuben's truck edged past her and took up the tail on Joe Knox.

The fox had now become the hunted.

A minute later an ancient Chevy with a stuttering tailpipe stopped at the curb, Caleb at the wheel. Annabelle climbed in and they drove off in the opposite direction.

Annabelle glanced at Caleb and he looked at her.

"We're being followed too, you know," Annabelle said.

"Story of my life," Caleb replied without a trace of a whine.

STONE HUSTLED DOWN a clay-packed path, really no more than two truck tire tracks wide, as he followed the cries. From out of the darkness loomed a long shape. The double-wide trailer was no longer "mobile" since it had a cinderblock undercarriage. The hulks of old cars and trucks, like the skeletons from faded battlefields, flew past as Stone hurried to the trailer. It had long strips of vinyl siding dangling off and the front steps were blackened railroad ties nailed together. Stone went from the bottom to the top step in one leap as the screams picked up.

The door was locked. He pounded on it.

"Hello, what's going on? Do you need help?" He suddenly wondered if the frantic calls were coming from a TV set turned up far too loud.

A moment later the door was thrown open and an old man stood there, his body trembling as though he was in the throes of a Parkinson's meltdown.

"What's going on?" Stone exclaimed.

The next moment Stone was knocked aside as a young man burst past his trailer mate and sprang into the air, landing hard on the ground. Stone recovered his balance and stared after him.

Aside from the fellow's obvious agitation, he was remarkable for having no clothes on. He stopped next to one old wreck in the yard, moaned and fell to the ground, writhing in the dirt like he was being Tasered.

The old man grabbed Stone's arm.

"Help him, please!"

"What's wrong with him?"

"He's got the DTs. Coming off the pills or something. Went crazy. Ripped off his clothes. Tearing up the place."

Stone raced to the fallen man's side. His breathing was shallow, his eyes unfocused. His skin was cold and clammy.

Stone yelled over his shoulder, "Call the ambulance."

"Ain't none up here."

"Where's the hospital?"

"Hour drive."

"Is there a doctor around?" Stone was holding on to the stricken man, trying to calm him.

"Doc Warner's place is on the other side of town."

"You have a car?"

"Truck right there." The old man pointed to a battered old Dodge. "Is he going to be okay?"

"I don't know. Who are you?"

"His grandpa. Come to check on him. Then this happened."

"Can you help me get him in the truck?"

Together they lifted the young man into the cab and Stone covered him with a blanket. The old man was still shaking so badly he couldn't drive. Stone took the wheel and followed his directions to the doctor's place.

"What's your grandson's name?"

"Willie Coombs. I'm Bob Coombs."

"Where are his parents?"

"My son-his daddy-is dead. His momma ain't much good."

Stone glanced at Willie. He'd stopped thrashing and screaming and was now lying quite still. Stone again checked his pulse, slammed on the brakes and grabbed a flashlight off the dash to look at his pupils. They were pinpoints.

"Shit!"

"What is it?"

"He's not in withdrawal. He overdosed. And his heart's stopped."

Stone pulled Willie out of the cab, set him on the ground and started doing CPR. He checked his pulse and then looked desperately around while he continued to push down on the man's chest. There was nothing but woods here, not even the wink of a house light in the distance.

"Come on, Willie. Come on! Don't die on me. Breathe."

Stone checked his pulse.

Bob Coombs looked at him. "Is he okay?"

"No, he's not. He's technically dead. And we've got maybe sixty seconds before there's brain damage."

Stone ran to the truck and threw open the hood. The battery didn't throw off the juice he would need, but something else in the engine did. He ran to the cargo bed and started tossing items around there. His hands seized around a set of battery cables, masking tape and a nail.

He turned to see Bob staring at him anxiously. "Whatcha gonna do with that stuff?"

"I'm trying to get his heart restarted."

Stone ripped out a spark plug wire leading from the distributor cap and jammed the nail in the end of it, securing it there with the tape. He attached the positive end of the battery cables to the nail while he grounded the negative clamp onto a metal part of the engine. He knelt next to Willie and placed the other ends of the battery cables onto his right and left fingers respectively.

He called out, "Bob, fire the truck up!"

Bob looked at the cables leading from the truck to his grandson. "You gonna fry him!"

"We're out of time, Bob. This is our only shot. Just do it! Now! Or he's dead."

Bob jumped in the truck.

Stone looked down at Willie, reached over and made sure the connections were solid. The young man was already turning blue. They only had seconds left.

Stone had done this once in Nam with a fellow soldier who'd gone into cardiac arrest when a massive round had sheared a chunk of his torso off. Stone had gotten his heart going again, but the man had bled to death on the way to the field hospital.

The truck started.

"Rev the engine," Stone screamed out.

Bob smashed the gas to the floor and the engine roared.

Even though he wasn't touching Willie, Stone could feel the surge of current. The effect on the young man was far more intense.

His legs and arms came off the ground and Willie sucked in an enormous breath. He sat up and then fell back, choking and coughing.

"Cut the engine," Stone yelled and Bob instantly did so. The only sound now was a miraculous one. A dead man was breathing.