The caravan was twenty miles behind her when she found the motel. This was the place Sheriff Banner had named as a federal rendezvous point.

The silver convertible rolled into the parking lot, and Mallory counted up the FBI jackets on people standing by their vehicles, twelve of them. This was not a typical task force. Every face was newly minted, unlined. And where were their mentors? These fledgling agents should be partnered up with senior feds. The youngest of them hurried to block her path before she could drive into the last remaining space.

And Mallory did not run over him.

This was to be expected of kiddy agents-they ran in front of moving cars.

“The motel’s full up, ma’am.” The young man pointed toward the access road. “If you get on I-44, it’ll take you to a-”

Mallory flashed her gold shield, but not long enough for him to read the city of issue by the poor light of the motel’s neon sign. “Who’s in charge of this operation?”

The young man hesitated too long.

“The SAC, the special agent in charge,” said Mallory, as if she needed to spell out the initials. “Give me a name.” She made this demand with all the authority of a woman who carried a bigger gun. She left her car to stand toe-to-toe with the rookie agent. “You don’t w ant to waste my time while people are dying. And I know you’ve got orders to play nice with cops. So give me a name.”

“Special Agent Dale Berman.”

Bad news-the worst. Why did it have to be Berman? But now she understood this playgroup of unseasoned agents without their mandated babysitters. When did Dale Berman ever pay attention to protocols? She supposed one or two rookies would have to die before someone in Washington realized that the wrong man was in charge.

“Where is he?”

“You just missed him.” The agent pointed to a field where a helicopter was spinning its rotors in a small cloud of dust as it lifted into the air. “Agent Berman’s destination is more than a hundred miles away, but he’ll be back tonight. If you can’t w ait, we can raise him on the radio.”

Mallory got back into her car, wondering what the air speed of the helicopter might be. A landing site on Route 66 was predictable, but the aircraft would not be hampered by traffic and winding roads. She would have to move back onto the interstate to catch it-and maybe even beat it. Her engine was a perfect machine, and FBI equipment was crap.

“Detective, you don’t w ant to drive that distance for nothing.” The young fed had to raise his voice, for she was revving the engine to drown him out as he yelled, “Agent Berman will probably just turn around and-”

He was talking to the air. Mallory was gone.

Riker blew smoke from the passenger window as the Mercedes pulled up to a field lit by campfires and the smaller flames of propane bottles. Spinning cherry lights flashed from the roof racks of cruisers parked out on the road, and officers in uniform patrolled the perimeter on foot.

“So that’s the caravan. Definitely worth a look.” Riker had gotten only a few steps from the car when he held up his badge for the inspection of a man with a deputy’s s t ar, who now turned his attention to Charles Butler.

“He’s with me,” said Riker. “Maybe you met my partner tonight, Detective Mallory?”

“Never heard of her, sir. I just got here.” The deputy pointed across the hood of his cruiser to an older man a few yards away. “You want to talk to Sheriff Banner. He’s in charge.”

Riker clipped his badge to the breast pocket of his suit before he approached the sheriff. The two men shook hands and moved in tandem toward a more secluded spot, talking cop to cop as they walked.

Charles looked out over the campsite. Some tents were no more than lean-tos. Others were dome-shaped and lit from within like glowing igloos. Small groups of men and women huddled by firelight and lantern. It was an end-of-the-world scenario peopled with survivors of an apocalypse, and he supposed that, given their loss, this was more than metaphor.

As he walked through the caravan city, dogs barked and then were hushed by their owners, and now he heard a small voice humming. It was a surprise to see two school-age children in this company. The little boy appeared to be on sentry duty, standing over the body of a prone man asleep by the fire. The child was so alert in his stance, so serious in his mission. He moved to one side, giving Charles a better view of the girl, the source of the music, albeit a limited repertoire of one refrain. She sat upon a blanket and rocked back and forth as she hummed, sometimes looking up as sparks flew out of the flaming woodpile. He took this as a startle response and nothing more. The child was not really among them. Her mind had gone elsewhere.

The boy stared at him with distrustful eyes that were far too old for a youngster who could be no more than ten. Charles smiled, and the boy was instantly amused.

Of course he was.

Though a height of six feet, four inches could be intimidating, Charles now presented himself as a hapless, harmless fool, and he knew it. Not his fault-it was all in the genes. He had been born with this great hook of a nose and bulbous eyes with a permanent aspect of surprise, and every time he smiled, he took on the look of a recent escapee from clown school.

He donned his travel-worn suit jacket and straightened his tie as he approached the children. Hunkering down beside their campfire, he spoke softly so as not to wake the sleeping man. “Hello, I’m looking for Dr. Magritte,” he said, pronouncing it Mahgreet and even screwing up his mouth for a funny French r. He presented his wallet identification to the little boy and won the child’s heart with this adult transaction. “I’m a doctor, too.”

“Dr. Magritte,” said the boy with uncertainty.

“Yes, Paul Magritte.”

“Oh, Dr. Paul.” The boy pointed toward the other side of the encampment. “You can see him from here. He’s the old man, the only one with white hair.” Cupping both hands around his mouth, the boy told him that Dr. Pa ul’s last name was pronounced Mahgrit. He whispered this with great good manners so that the visitor would not be embarrassed in front of nearby campers.

Ah, then Magritte was not a Frenchman, but a fellow countryman, whose citizenship dated back so many generations that his forbearers had ceased to resist the American mangling of the family name. Charles turned to the far campfire and saw one head of curly white hair in a group of other people standing and seated, all facing the old man with rapt attention.

So this was their shepherd.

The helicopter was hovering up ahead, preparing to land. Mallory had matched time with it all along the road, even outstripping its air speed to make up for the extra distance while the chopper flew in a beeline. Her car pulled over to the side of the road near a yellow van with an electric-company logo. The curtains strung up on poles advertised a crime scene disguised as a repair underway by a crew of utility workers. The use of the FBI helicopter was over the top in blowing the local cover story, and now she knew this was one body that Dale Berman needed to see-or steal- in a hurry.

The detective stepped out of her car and was immediately met by a man in his early twenties and a woman twice that age. Though neither of them wore FBI field jackets, they could only be feds. Mallory held up her gold shield for the senior agent. Back in New York, this badge was her crime-scene passport, and she was accustomed to people moving aside for her. But these two had obvious plans to annoy her. They were still blocking her way.

Standoff.

“Sorry, I didn’t get a good look at your ID,” said the younger agent.

It was the older one, the woman, who took the badge when it was shown a second time. After shining a flashlight on the wallet, she returned it, saying, “You’re a long way from New York, Detective.”