I shook my head no.

He laced his fingers over his ample stomach and gave me the most sympathetic look I'd ever experienced. "Then tell me how I can help you."

Haltingly, I explained about Kate and Jason.

Payne nodded. "I read about it in the newspapers and saw the stories on television. A terrible thing."

"My attorney says you're the best private investigator in Denver."

"Maybe he doesn't know a lot of private investigators."

"He says you used to be with the FBI. He says you tracked down a serial killer."

"That's right."

"He says you predicted where a team of interstate bank robbers was going to hit next."

"True."

"And when they were going to do it. He also says you blocked a domestic-terrorist attempt to-"

"But that was only on the weekends."

The joke caught me unprepared.

"Please. All that flattery just makes my cheeks get redder," Payne said. "I was part of a team. We each did our share."

"My attorney says that you did more than your share."

"Did he also tell you that it cost me my first marriage, not to mention a bullet in my knee that forced me to leave the Bureau? I finally got the wisdom to stop having undue expectations of myself. You shouldn't have undue expectations either, Mr. Denning. I'm good, but only because I often see patterns others don't. For something like this, it's important to your emotional health that you don't count on the impossible."

With nowhere else to turn, I swallowed my disappointment. "Fair enough."

"So let me ask you again: How do you think I can help you?"

"The FBI and the police have given up." I tried to keep my voice steady. "It's been six months. I heard somewhere that in missing persons' cases, the more time drags on, the less chance there is of finding the people who are missing." I could barely add, "Finding them alive at least."

"It depends. Every case is different. Statistics are a record of the past, not a prediction of the future."

"In other words, you've got an open mind. You're exactly the person I need. Name any fee you want. Money isn't an issue."

"Money isn't an issue with me, either. I charge the same fee to everyone," Payne said. "But what do you expect I can do that the police and the FBI couldn't?"

"At the moment, they're not doing anything."

"Possibly because there isn't anything to be learned."

"I refuse to believe that."

"Understandably." Payne spread his hands. "But you have to realize that I can't duplicate the resources available to the FBI."

"Of course not. You can listen to new ideas, though. You can… I don't think I've made myself clear. I don't want to hire you just to continue the investigation."

"Oh?" Payne looked mystified. "Then what do you want?"

"I want you to teach me so I can continue the investigation."

"I need a handgun," I said.

"What kind?" The clerk had a beard and a pony tail.

"Whatever's the most powerful and shoots the most bullets."

"Rounds," the clerk said.

"Excuse me?"

"They're not called bullets. They're called rounds. The bullet's the part that blows away from the casing and hits the target."

"Fine. Whatever shoots the most rounds."

"Is this for target shooting or home defense? The reason I ask is, some people believe a shotgun's the best way to deal with a burglar."

"How about one of those?"

"A revolver? It only shoots six. These semiautomatics shoot more. But you'll need to decide which caliber you want: nine-millimeter or forty-five."

"Which is the biggest?"

"The forty-five."

"I'll take it."

"Just so you know your options, biggest isn't always best. The forty-five holds seven rounds in the magazine and one in the firing chamber. But this nine-millimeter over here holds ten rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber. A lot of power with eight rounds, versus somewhat less power but eleven rounds."

"How much less power?"

"With the nine-millimeter? Let's put it this way, it gets the job done. Actually, the only reason the magazine in this nine-millimeter holds only ten rounds is that in the mid-1990s, Congress passed an anti-assault weapon law that limits the capacity of handgun magazines. But before the law…"

"Yes?"

"There's a gun show in town Saturday. I'll introduce you to a friend who's willing to sell a prelaw Beretta nine-millimeter that holds fifteen rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber."

"That's a lot."

"You bet. Don't misunderstand. There's nothing illegal about him selling the weapon. The law only forbids manufacturing or importing magazines that hold more than ten rounds. But because my friend bought his before the law was enacted, it's legal. That model doesn't come on the market often, so I expect you'll have to pay extra."

"Naturally."

"But after that…" The clerk looked uncomfortable.

"After that?"

"No offense. You're obviously new to this. So you don't shoot your foot off, you might want to take some lessons."

In the darkness beyond my window, the first snowstorm of the season gusted, but I hardly paid attention, too busy using Internet addresses that Payne had given me: sites that he said the FBI favored for researching places. Next to my new laptop computer, I had dictionaries and thesauruses to help me find words associated with redemption. Most weren't promising. I couldn't imagine anyone calling a place Atonement, Propitiation, Mediation, Intercession, or Judgment, for example. As it turned out, a village in Utah was called Judgment.

On the wall to my right, I'd attached a large map of the United States. Periodically, I got up and stuck a labeled thumbtack where a place's name had a religious connotation. After several hours, there were tacks all over the country, but no pattern. None was in Montana. I was beginning to understand why Gader hadn't wanted to investigate my theory.

My discouragement increased when I suddenly realized how many places had been named after saints. More thumbtacks got added to the map. I soon didn't have any more.

"How does a person create a false identity?"

Payne considered my question while tapping fish food into the tank. His chair creaked when he settled his weight into it. "The way it used to be done, first you pick a city where you've never lived."

"Why?"

"To prevent your real identity and your assumed one from contaminating each other. If you were raised in Cleveland, you don't want the character you're creating to have come from there, too. Otherwise, someone investigating your new identity might go there, show your photograph around, and find someone who remembers you under your real name."

I nodded.

"So you go to a different part of the country. But avoid small communities where everybody knows everybody else and can tell an investigator immediately whether someone who looks like you ever came from there. Pick a city; there's less continuity; memories are shorter. Let's say you choose Los Angeles or Seattle. Go to the public library there and read newspapers that came out a few years after you were born. You're looking for disasters-house fires, car accidents, that sort of thing-in which entire families were killed. That detail's important because you don't want anyone left alive to be able to contradict your story. Study the obituaries of the victims. You're looking for an ethnically compatible male child who, if he had lived, would be the same age you are now."

"And then?"

"Let's say the victim you choose to impersonate was named Robert Keegan. His obituary will probably tell you where he was born. You send away for a copy of his birth certificate. Not a big deal. People lose copies of their birth certificates all the time. Public-record offices are used to that kind of request."