“Oh, I love you.” She leaned toward his face. “I understand why you didn’t tell me, really.”

He gripped her hard, kissed her neck. “Pam, I’m so-”

Which is when she eased back and clutched her book bag to her chest like a shield. “But no, Stuart.”

“What?”

Pam believed her heart was beating faster than it ever had. “When you get divorced call me up and let’s see. But until then, no. I can’t see you anymore.”

She’d said what she thought Amelia Sachs would say at a time like this. But could she behave the same and not cry? Amelia wouldn’t. No way.

She slapped a smile onto her face, struggling to control the pain as the loneliness and panic killed the comfort instantly. The warmth froze to icy shards.

“But, Pam, you’re everything to me.”

“But what are you to me, Stuart? You can’t be everything. And I’m not willing to take less than that.” Keep your voice steady, she told herself. “If you get a divorce I’ll be with you… Will you?”

Now the seductive eyes lowered. “Yes.” A whisper.

“Now?”

“I can’t just now. It’s complicated.”

“No, Stuart. It’s really, really simple.” She rose. “If I don’t see you again, have a nice life.” She began walking away quickly, heading for Amelia’s town house, which was nearby.

Okay, maybe Amelia wouldn’t cry. But Pam could no longer hold the tears back. She walked straight down the sidewalk, eyes streaming, and-afraid she’d weaken-not daring to look back, not daring to think about what she’d done.

Though she did have one thought about the encounter, which she supposed someday she’d consider pretty funny: What a sucky parting line that was. Wish I’d come up with something better.

Mel Cooper was frowning.

“The warehouse? Where Joe was killed? Some publisher rents it to store paper there for recycling, though it hasn’t been used actively for months. But what’s strange is that the ownership’s not clear.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’ve run all the corporate documents. It’s leased to a chain of three companies and owned by a Delaware corporation-and that’s owned by a couple of New York corporations. The ultimate ownership seems to be in Malaysia.”

But 522 had known about it and that it was safe to torture a victim there. How? Because he’s the man who knows everything.

The phone in the lab trilled and Rhyme glanced at caller ID. We’ve had such bad news in the 522 case, please let this be good. “Inspector Longhurst.”

“Detective Rhyme, just to update you. It’s looking rather productive here.” Her voice betrayed a rare excitement. She explained that d’Estourne, the team’s French security service agent, had sped to Birmingham and contacted some Algerians in a Muslim community in West Bromwich, outside the city. He’d learned that an American had commissioned a passport and transit papers to North Africa, traveling on to Singapore. He’d given them a large down payment and they promised the documents would be ready tomorrow evening. As soon as he picked them up he was heading for London to finish the job.

“Good,” Rhyme said, chuckling. “That means Logan’s already there, don’t you think? In London.”

“Quite certain of it,” Longhurst agreed. “Trying the shot tomorrow when our double meets the MI5 people at the shooting zone.”

“Exactly.”

So Richard Logan had ordered the papers, and paid a large price for them, to keep the team focused on Birmingham, while he hurried to London to complete his mission to kill the Reverend Goodlight.

“What do Danny Krueger’s people say?”

“That a boat will be waiting on the south coast to spirit him away to France.”

Spirit him away. Rhyme loved it. Cops don’t talk that way over here.

He thought again about the safe house near Manchester. And the break-in at Goodlight’s NGO in London. Was there anything Rhyme might’ve seen if he had walked the grid at either of those locales via the high-definition video? Some tiny clue that they’d missed that might give them a clearer idea of exactly where and when the killer was going to strike? If so, the evidence was gone now. He’d just have to hope they’d made the right deductions.

“What do you have in place?”

“Ten officers around the shooting zone. All plainclothed or in camouflage.” She added that Danny Krueger, along with the French security man and another tactical team, were making themselves “subtly visible” in Birmingham. Longhurst had also added an extra protection detail where the reverend was actually hiding; they had no evidence that the killer had learned the location but she didn’t want to take any chances.

“We’ll know something soon, Detective.”

Just as they disconnected, his computer dinged.

“mr Rhyme?”

The words appeared on the screen in front of him. A small window had opened. It was a webcam view of Amelia Sachs’s living room. He could see Pam at the keyboard, instant messaging him.

He spoke to her through his voice-recognition system. “Hello Pam owe are you dew in?”

Goddamn computer. Maybe he should have their digital guru, Rodney Szarnek, install a new system.

But she deduced the message just fine.

“Good,” she typed. “How R U?”

“I am good.”

“Amelia there?”

“No. She is how on a case.”

“:-(Bummer. Want 2 talk 2 her. Called but not picking up.”

“Any thing eye can dew-”

Damn. He sighed and tried again. “Anything we can do here?”

“No thx.” A pause and he saw her glance at her cell phone. She looked back at the computer. Typed, “Rachel calling. Back in minute.”

She left the webcam on but turned away, speaking into her mobile. She lugged a massive book bag onto her lap and dug through it, opened a text and found some notes inside. She read them aloud, it seemed.

Rhyme was about to turn to the whiteboards when he glanced at the webcam window.

Something had changed.

He frowned and maneuvered his chair closer, alarmed.

Someone else seemed to be in Sachs’s town house. Could it be? It was hard to tell for certain but as he squinted he saw that, yes, a man was there, hiding in a dark hallway, only twenty feet or so from Pam.

Rhyme squinted, moving his head as far forward as he could. An intruder, his face hidden by a hat. And he was holding something. Was it a gun? A knife?

“Thom!”

The aide wasn’t within earshot. Of course, he was taking the trash out.

“Command, dial Sachs, home.”

Thank God the ECU did exactly as instructed.

He could see Pam glance at the phone beside the computer. But she ignored the ringing; the house wasn’t hers-she’d let voice mail take a message. She continued speaking into her mobile.

The man leaned out of the hallway, his face, obscured by the brim of his hat, aimed directly at her.

“Command, instant message!”

The box popped up on the screen.

“Command, type: ‘Pam exclamation point.’ Command, send.”

“Pamex lamentation point.”

Fuck!

“Command, type, ‘Pam danger leave now.’ Command, send.”

This message went through pretty much unchanged.

Pam, read it, please! Rhyme begged silently. Look at the screen!

But the girl was lost in her conversation. Her face was no longer so carefree. The discussion had turned serious.

Rhyme called 911, and the operator assured him that a police car would be at the town house in five minutes. But the intruder was only seconds away from Pam, who was completely unaware of him.

Rhyme knew it was 522, of course. He’d tortured Malloy to get information about all of them. Amelia Sachs was the first on the list to die. Only it wouldn’t be Sachs. It would be this innocent girl.

His heart was pounding, a sensation registering as a fierce, throbbing headache. He tried the phone again. Four rings. “Hi, this is Amelia. Please leave your message at the tone.”