“No, but she asked me to tell you that she’s cured.”

“Oh, really? She’s into self-diagnosis now?”

“I don’t know, but let me tell you what she did while she was here.” The nurse quickly explained about Barry and Sandy, Witness Protection and the drug bust.

“She did all that in the time I was away? Hell, I wasn’t gone that long!”

“That lady doesn’t let grass or apparently anything else grow under her feet. I heard she kicked Barry’s butt pretty good. You know, I never liked him.”

“Isn’t hindsight wonderful,” Horatio grumbled as he walked away.

“Good night to you too, Mr. Harley-Davidson,” the nurse muttered. Horatio thought things over. He had to make deductions about what

Michelle would do now. Actually, it wasn’t that difficult. She would without a doubt want to hook up with Sean. She might be headed there right now. Legally, there was nothing Horatio could do to stop her. But he also knew that the woman was not cured. The incident that had happened at the bar could happen again, manifesting itself in a different and more deadly form.

He was debating whether to alert Sean when his phone rang.

“Speak of the devil, I was just about to call you,” Horatio said.

Sean chuckled. “I’d make that quip about great minds, but I’m actually surrounded by big brains down here, so I’ll forgo the opportunity. I’m on my way to meet with the head of Camp Peary but I wanted to ask you something.”

“Camp Peary? As in the CIA Farm?”

“The one and only. I’ve got a favor to ask you.” He explained about Viggie. “I know it’s a pain wanting you to come down because you’re busy with Michelle and the rest of your practice.”

Horatio cut in. “Actually, I’m not. My favorite patient went AWOL on me.” He brought Sean up to date on both Michelle’s adventure at the facility and her checking herself out.

“Damn, leave it to her to find trouble wherever she goes,” Sean said, but there was a touch of pride in his voice at what she’d done.

“And my best guess is she’s on the way to see you.”

“Me? I told her a little about the case, but not where it was.”

“Did you leave anything back at the apartment?”

Sean groaned. “Oh, hell, I left a file copy there because I don’t have an office.”

“Your organizational instincts are commendable, but that means she’ll probably be there by morning if not sooner.”

“Joan will pitch a fit. They don’t really get along.”

“Astonishing. I’ll head down tomorrow. Is there a place to stay nearby?”

“I can probably get you a bunk at Babbage Town. So what do I do when Michelle shows up?”

“Act normal, she certainly will seem to be.”

“Have you made any progress on her case?”

“I had an interesting trip to Tennessee that I’ll fill you in on when I see you. I have to thank you for bringing me in on what has been a fascinating case. This Viggie sounds interesting too.”

“Horatio, this whole place is interesting. And more than a little dangerous right now, so if you want to respectfully decline I won’t hold it against you.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“Is Michelle any better?”

“We need to help her clean up her soul, Sean, so she won’t have to worry about a bomb ever going off again. And I’m not letting go until we get her to that point.”

“I’ll be right there with you, Horatio.”

“Good, because from what I’ve seen of that woman, there’s not a man alive who can take her by himself.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

AS THEY PULLED THROUGH the college town of William and Mary and its neatly laid out brick buildings, Sean glanced over at Hayes. The good sheriff was hunched forward gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were the color of an eggshell.

“Sherriff Hayes, if you break the steering wheel in half we won’t be able to get back.”

Hayes’s face reddened and he loosened his grip. “Just call me Merk, everybody does. I guess I’m not acting like a proper law enforcement officer, am I?”

“Most cops don’t get summoned to meet with the big bad wolf in the middle of an investigation.”

“What do you think he’s going to say?”

“I doubt anything we really want to hear. And I can tell you straight out, the C does not stand for cooperation.”

“My day just keeps getting better and better!” Hayes exclaimed.

“So did you talk to Alicia?”

Hayes nodded. “After you told me she was seeing Rivest, I had to.”

“Was it serious between them?”

“She seemed to think so.”

They parked in front of the address Hayes had been given. It was a three-story brick building that appeared to Sean to be made up of residential units.

A man dressed in a polo shirt and khaki pants met them inside the lobby area. Sean sized up the fellow as Ian Whitfield’s security. The guy wasn’t as tall as Sean, and lacked bulging muscles, but there wasn’t an ounce of fat on his body; the man’s six-pack abs were visible through the shirt. And to Sean’s informed eye, the guy carried himself with the air of someone who could kill you a dozen different ways without breaking a sweat.

The first thing he did was show them his ID, then confiscate Hayes’s sidearm. He next frisked Sean, all without saying a word.

They rode the elevator up to the third floor and were soon seated in comfortable chairs around an oval table inside one of the corner units. Six-Pack disappeared for a moment and then returned with another gent. This guy also wore a polo shirt and khakis and was in nearly as good condition as the other, even though he had close-cropped gray hair and was probably nearing sixty. However, Sean noted the man limped. There was something wrong with his right leg.

A flick of a gaze by the man at Six-Pack and a manila file folder appeared in Whitfield’s hand, for this was Ian Whitfield, Sean assumed.

There followed a few minutes of silence while their host methodically read through the file. Then he finally turned his attention to them.

“There have been four confirmed suicides in the vicinity of our installation over the last twenty-seven months,” Whitfield said.

Sean hadn’t expected this opening line and obviously neither had Hayes.

Whitfield continued: “For some reason we’ve become the whipping boy for the depressed and suicidal. I don’t know why, but it seems there could be many reasons, including wanting notoriety or causing trouble. It goes without saying that I’m growing a little tired of these stunts.”

“Someone dying hardly qualifies as a stunt, does it?” Sean asked while the blood drained from Hayes’s face. “The circumstances of Monk Turing’s death have not been fully uncovered yet. Suicide, murder, we don’t know yet.”

Whitfield tapped the file. “All facts point to suicide.” He looked at Hayes.

“Don’t you agree, Sheriff?”

Hayes stammered, “I guess you could say that.”

“There was no evidence that Monk had been depressed enough to take his own life,” Sean pointed out.

“Aren’t all geniuses depressed?” Whitfield answered.

“How do you know he was a genius?”

“When people move into my neighborhood I like to get to know them.”

“You’ve been to Babbage Town, have you?” Sean pressed.

Whitfield turned back to Hayes. “I trust I’ve made my position clear. Four suicides and now five. My patience is at an end.”

“A man has died,” Hayes said, apparently screwing up his courage in the face of the other man’s patronizing tone.

“Anyone can jump a fence and blow his brains out.”

Sean said, “Just because you say it doesn’t make it true.”

Whitfield kept his eyes on Hayes. “I’m assuming this man is associated with you somehow.”

Sean piped up. “Sorry, I’m Sean King. I guess we missed the introduction phase of the conversation. I am associated with Sheriff Hayes on this matter. And we’re assuming that you’re Ian Whitfield, head of the CIA’s Camp Peary? If not, we’re wasting a lot of time.”