“And murdered children,” said Mallory. “You left that part out.”

“Yes,” he said, “forgive me.” Oh, what a foolish idea that was. Forgiveness would be anathema to the likes of her. “I have five therapy groups, twenty-eight patients all told.”

“I counted forty-two people when you stopped at the diner in Illinois.” Detective Mallory said this as if she had caught him in a lie. She turned to the window and the rows of parked cars to one side of the field. “How many more people have joined up since then? Twenty? More than that?”

“Parents have been joining us all along the road. Obviously, not all of them are my patients. The rest came from other Internet connections. A year ago, the FBI located the graves of a few children and told the parents where the remains had been found. The fathers of two of those children were in one of my therapy sessions. Now that got my attention, two children, both buried near roads. Odd behavior for a murderer-to risk being seen burying a victim. Most bodies are found in remote areas with more concealment and less-”

Oh, he could see she was losing patience with him. He was telling her things that she already knew, and he should not make that mistake again; that much was clear as she leaned toward him-just a touch of menace to train him properly.

A quick learner, he continued. “The graves were on different roads, but an acquaintance told me that they were both segments of old Route 66. He’s something of an expert on this road. And he has a gift for seeing connections and patterns. When he explained the odds of this happening to-”

“What’s his name?”

When he hesitated, she leaned in close-too close-saying, “Now we’ve established that ‘acquaintance’ and ‘gift’ are code words for ‘patient’ and ‘crazy.’”

Paul Magritte chastised himself and vowed to choose his words more care- fully. “I contacted psychologists with other Internet groups. I found more parents of murdered children with roadside graves. Some of the bodies turned up years ago-all Route 66 burials, all little girls, aged five to seven.”

“You knew you were dealing with a serial killer.” This was an accusation.

He nodded. “According to my sources, the FBI hasn’t c o ntacted any parents in the past ten months, but rumor has it that they’re still digging up the remains of children on this road. One grave was found not three miles from here.”

“Why would you bring all these people into a serial killer’s t e rritory?”

“Adults won’t fit his pattern.”

“Gerald Linden.” Detective Mallory wielded this name as a hammer.

“You can’t c o nnect that to-”

“Can’t I? You’re a shrink. You know the victim profile can change at any minute in a murderer’s d ay. So don’t e ven try to hide behind that. Now back to my question. Why would you put all these people in danger?”

“The parents were suffering too publicly. I wanted to get them off the Internet.”

“So you know he’s in one of the therapy groups,” said Mallory, “probably all of them. You had to know he was fixated on the parents.”

Though all her traps for him were laid with words, he envisioned Mallory digging a deep pit and covering it over with twigs and branches. “I’m not so talented,” he said. “I never foresaw a prolific child killer making the jump to murdering adults. But I could see the danger of the Internet. What an opportunity for someone who feeds off the pain of others.”

“You’re holding out on me. You’ve had contact with this freak.” She leaned closer to drive this point home. “You just diagnosed him.”

He turned to his windshield and the lights of the caravan city. Mallory’s hand was on his arm, and her grip was tight. No escape.

“Gerald Linden was part of your core group,” she said, “the people you met up with in Chicago.”

“Yes.” He watched the Finn children as they walked by, hand in hand. Dodie had been announced by her humming. Those four notes were almost a mantra to him.

Mallory’s e yes were also on Dodie Finn. “You have to get these people off the road before the next one dies.”

“They can’t go home. If the killer could find Gerald Linden before he ever joined the caravan-well, you see what that means.” He looked out over his flock, mindful of the humming child. She was always in his thoughts-his sights. “The killer knows their names and addresses.”

“Not all of them.” Mallory lost interest in Dodie Finn and turned her eyes back to him. “He knew Linden’s movements, where the man lived, what kind of car he drove. He would’ve learned all of that when he stalked Linden’s d aughter. The killer only knows the parents of his victims. And so do you.”

Dodie’s humming had stopped.

He looked around nervously, searching every window of his car. Ah, there they were. Peter and Dodie had wandered back to their own camp-fire, where their father still struggled to set up their tent. Paul Magritte’s interest in the Finn children was not lost on Mallory. She looked at him as if she had caught him in some obscene act. Did she take him for a child killer, or did she only share a suspicion about that insane little girl?

“Back in Illinois,” she said, “you told me Joe Finn had a missing daughter. How old was she?”

“A teenager. I really can’t s ay more than that.” But did he have to? She was nodding, adding this to her store of evidence against him. And now she turned back to look at that little family only yards away. Her interest should have waned with the information that Ariel Finn had not been a child. But no, her focus on the Finns was keener now.

Canny Mallory.

She pointed toward Joe Finn and his children. “So you’re not worried about them?”

As she searched his face for telltale furrows and maybe tics, he found her method of extrapolating information was something akin to vampirism. She had bled him until she was satisfied, and now he was almost certain that young Dodie’s secret belonged to Mallory.

“Tell me about April Waylon,” she said. “I know that woman was invited to the meeting in Chicago. When were you planning to tell me that she was missing?”

“Oh, but she’s here. April arrived an hour ago.” He observed a slight fault line in Mallory’s façade, a look of surprise, fleeting-gone now.

“Make a shortlist,” she said. “All the parents who make likely targets. Then get them off the road and off the killer’s radar.”

“By sending them back home? If the killer is targeting parents, they’re safer here. What chance would they have isolated in their own houses? You think they’d e ver see it coming?”

“It,” said Mallory. “You mean the killer, don’t you? Interesting word for a shrink to use. But then you know him better than I do.”

He shook his head, and the line of the detective’s mouth dipped on one side to tell him that denial was wasted on her. And just when he thought the inquisition was about to begin in earnest, she opened the door of the car, preparing to leave him.

“The sheriff will be back in a little while,” she said, one hand resting on the chrome door handle. “He’s arranging a guard of deputies to get you through the night. The locals have a personal interest in this case.” She stepped out of the car. “So maybe you’ll tell Sheriff Banner what you wouldn’t t e ll me.” The door slammed in anger.

He thought that she had vanished, but then her face appeared in the open window, startling him.

“Something else to think about,” she said. “What if it was the road trip that made him decide to kill one of the parents? If you’d left them on the Internet, he might’ve been satisfied with that-feeding on all their misery… but then you cut off his food supply.”

After so neatly slaying Paul Magritte with words, she wiped her hands together, seeming to shed his problems along the ground as she left him behind. And yet he was still hopeful as he watched her walk away. In this new century, he had regained his faith in gods and monsters-and she was both.