Where was Sara? Carrie could hear men's voices in the hallway, and she couldn't reach the call button. She was about to shout when the door opened and a young doctor dressed in blue scrubs and a white lab coat came inside. He was holding a chart in his hand.

His name was Dr. Bridgeport, and he looked as if he hadn't had any sleep in a week. That can't be good, she thought. Then she noticed his hands. They were huge, as though he'd had them transplanted from a bigger body, along with the new row of dark

hair plugs in his scalp.

"Are you my doctor?"

"I'm a neurologist. I've reviewed your X rays and CAT scan," he began.

"I had those tests?" she interrupted.

He nodded. "You suffered a mild concussion. I'm going to keep you overnight for observation. I didn't see anything alarming

on the scan," he added.

"What about my arm?"

"You broke it."

"Obviously," she said.

He was writing in her chart and, without looking up, said, "Your primary physician will be in to check on you in a little while. Meanwhile, you've got quite a few eager law enforcement officers waiting to talk to you. I'm going to allow two in the room…

if you're feeling up to it."

"My head hurts. May I have something for pain?"

"In a little while," he promised.

She knew what that meant. When Avery was little and wanted something Carrie didn't want her to have, she used the very

same phrase. It hadn't worked on Avery then, and it wasn't working on Carrie now.

"I want something."

"You've suffered a concussion, Mrs. Salvetti, and I would rather-"

She cut him off. "Oh, never mind. Doctor, a friend of mine rode with me in the ambulance. Her leg was all torn up. Where is she? Do you know?"

The doctor nodded. "Judge Collins is in surgery," he explained.

There was a hard rap on the door. The doctor closed the chart, smiled at her, and turned to leave. "You need to rest," he said

as he opened the door and let two men in dark suits rush inside. "Ten minutes," he said to the agents, "then she needs to get

some sleep."

They moved like soldiers on parade, arms stiff, heads high. They were also dressed alike, except for the choice of tie colors.

One wore a gray-and-black-striped tie, and the other had on a muted plaid.

An agent named Hillman was in charge. There was a sharpness about his eyes she found comforting. She didn't think he would miss much.

The other, younger agent pushed the burton to elevate her back, poured her a glass of water, and hovered at her side while Hillman questioned her. He led her through the sequence of events, rarely interrupting when she paused to collect her thoughts. She wanted to tell him everything at once, impatient to ask questions of her own, but Hillman was tenacious and made her keep

to his agenda.

She turned to the more cooperative agent and asked him to find her jacket.

"The letters are in the pocket."

Hillman found the jacket hanging in the built-in closet. He pulled on a pair of gloves and dropped the envelopes into a Ziploc bag the other agent held out for him.

"Anne gave a letter to me. I want to read it."

"We'll let the lab dust it for prints," the sidekick told her.

She'd thought he was more malleable than Hillman, but now she realized he was just as tenacious.

"I want to know what that sick bastard of a husband wrote to her. He hired Monk to kill her, you know. You have to arrest him."

Ignoring her demand, Hillman resumed his questions. Carrie had had enough. "No, it's my turn. I want to know where my niece is."

"We're searching for her…"

"Find her."

Seeing how distraught Carrie was, sidekick offered her a sip of water by holding the straw under her nose. She turned her head.

"Tell me what you know about…" Hillman once again tried to get her back on track.

"I want an update on Judge Collins, and I want it now."

The agents exchanged a glance, and then Hillman answered. "She's out of surgery and in ICU."

"So far, so good," the other man said.

She glared at him. "What's your name?"

"Bean, ma'am. Agent Peter Bean."

No wonder he hadn't introduced himself. Saddled with a name like that, she wouldn't have told anyone either. Bet they called him string bean in grade school, she thought.

Hillman started the questions all over again. For an hour he kept it up, grilling her, going over the same facts again and again

until she began to feel as if she were the criminal they were trying to get to confess.

Her head was pounding. "That's it," she said. "I can't answer any more questions now."

Hillman looked disappointed, but he agreed to let her rest for a little while. She wasn't in the mood to be cordial. She told them

not to come back until they had news about Avery. To calm her down-she was shouting now-Hillman let her call her husband. Bean dialed the number for her. The second she heard Tony's voice over the phone, she burst into tears.

" Ineed you, Tony. You have to come to Aspen."

His voice shook with emotion as he replied, "Sweetheart, they told me I couldn't. They said as soon as you're discharged from

the hospital they're going to move you and the judge to a safe house somewhere. Carrie, love, are you all right? I wish I could

be there with you. I wish… I'm sorry you're going through this alone."

"Have you heard from Avery?"

"No," he answered. "I didn't know she was planning to join you at the spa. One of the agents who came to talk to me told me she missed her flight."

"I don't know where she is," she sobbed.

"We'll find her," he promised. "Nothing's going to happen to her. I promise you. And I'm keeping the line open. She'll call. I know she'll call."

"Tony, I didn't realize… I'm so sorry about everything. You can have Star Catcher. You can run it any way you want. I don't care about any of that anymore. I should have trusted you. I've been such a fool."

She was sobbing now and angry because the agents were listening to every word.

"I love you," she whispered. "I do, Tony. I love you very much. Please… tell me it isn't too late."

"No, no, it isn't. I can… I love you too," he stammered. "I'll get on the next plane. We'll make our marriage work again. Anything is possible with your love. Anything."

Any hope that the FBI would be able to keep the names of the survivors out of the papers and off the television had been squelched when a news crew filmed Carrie and the judge being carried into the ambulance near the site of the explosion.

Avery heard about it on the radio as she and John Paul were driving through the mountains. As soon as they'd left the sleepy town, she'd climbed in front, clipping him on the shoulder with her left foot when she fell into the passenger seat. Her shoe fell

in his lap. Shaking his head over her awkwardness, he handed her the shoe while she apologized.

They continued to listen to the broadcast until the signal faded. "Does everyone in the United States carry video cameras now?" he asked. He sounded disgusted. "Some people just love invading other people's privacy."

"Film crews from television stations usually carry cameras," she said.

"No need to be sarcastic, sugar."

"I wasn't being sarcastic. I was simply pointing out a fact. Carrie must have hated having a camera in her face. Someone from

the FBI should have grabbed the film. The crime-scene investigators must not have gotten there in time."

"Should've, could've," he drawled. "That's the Bureau's motto."

"You're not going to rile me."

He laughed. "I wasn't trying to."

She rolled the window down and let the cool night air in. "Yes, you were," she said. "I've finally gotten you all figured out."