Mallory put all the weight of a gun in her voice. “And you thought I might be lost, maybe stopping to ask for directions?” Could she communicate any more clearly that she took these two for minions? “I’m here to see your boss, Dale Berman.”

“Special Agent Berman isn’t in this sector, Detective. And now I’ll have to ask you to wait in your car.”

Pointing at the helicopter settling to the ground, Mallory said, “That’s Berman. His business is urgent, and he’ll be leaving soon.” Gesturing toward the lighted curtains and the fake utility crew, she said, “Right after he takes a look at the kid’s grave. Now, is there anything else I can tell you about what’s going on at your own crime scene? No? Then back off.”

Neither of them made a move to stop her as she circled round them and crossed the open ground to the helicopter. Feds had standing orders never to lay one hand on a cop. And there was good reason for that: The police were not hampered by any such protocol. So, failing in a block, the tackle was not an option, and the two agents could only follow her-closely.

It was Riker’s turn to meet the Finn children, Dodie and Peter. He agreed with the sheriff ’s t heory, one arrived at after the Missouri lawman had placed a phone call to Kronewald in Chicago: It was no coincidence that a damaged youngster was traveling with this group.

Her bodyguard, a boy of ten, lurched forward as Riker reached out to gently touch the little girl’s d ark brown hair. The detective smiled at the older child, saying, “It’s okay, Peter. I would never hurt your sister.” He tapped the badge clipped to the pocket of his suit jacket, but this only added to the boy’s alarm.

Curious.

Now the father was awake-and angry. A police badge should be a magnet for everybody in this group, a source of news, good or bad, and one more cop to look at their posters. But Joe Finn clearly wanted him dead.

“Get away from my kids.” The big man was rising from the ground, muscles tensing, two fists ready. “You freaks have done enough damage.”

The man had gone from deep sleep to full alert in an instant. He had seen the flash of a badge but not clearly. Did they share a common enemy? The word “freaks” was a good clue.

Riker’s c hoices were few. He could not ask the sheriff for backup, not without losing face. So he could have his jaw broken by a younger man in better shape-and then there was reverse diplomacy. “I’m a cop, not FBI. If that’s what you thought-well, I’m insulted.”

This seemed to mollify Joe Finn. Fists relaxing, he rammed his hands into his pockets, thus putting away his only weapons.

And the only apology was extended to the little boy. “Sorry, kid,” said Riker. “I won’t bother your sister again.” The detective moved away from the campfire in company with the sheriff, a man much like himself; Sheriff Banner would also connect every odd thing with another. They watched the little family from a distance.

“So-you think I’m right?”

“Yeah,” said Riker. “Too bad. If that little girl saw something, she’s useless as a witness.” But she would make good bait for a child killer, and he looked around for evidence of this idea. Somewhere in this group, he should find at least two moles; FBI agents on this kind of undercover assignment would work in pairs, though many of these parents were solo. He turned to the sheriff for his best guess. “You’ve talked to most of the campers?”

“Oh, yeah, all of ’em, and I’ve looked at their posters. One’s a solid match for the little girl in our cemetery.” He pulled a folded paper from his pocket and clicked on his flashlight for the detective’s benefit. “See this line about the horseshoe key chain? It’s got engraving on the back. We found that in the dirt where the girl was buried. The FBI had to know whose child she was, but they never told the parents. Ain’t t hat cold?” His eyes were fixed on a couple who sat on campstools, drinking coffee in that companionable silence of husband and wife. “And now I have to tell them their kid is dead. Sometimes I hate my job.”

“Tell them in the morning,” said Riker. “I’ll be here if you want backup.” In truth, he would rather face a loaded gun than the parents of a murdered child. And now he had to wonder what had gone through Mallory’s mind when she visited the sheriff ‘s o ffice-when she saw the picture of the gravestone with her own name chiseled into the marble. What had that done to her? How close to the edge was she?

Catching up to her in the night might be a bad idea.

Yeah, daylight was best.

He wanted her to see him coming, slow and easy, smiling just like old times. Then she might be less inclined to shoot him, and this was not entirely a little joke he told himself.

The detective was distracted by the arrival of a newcomer in a pickup truck. A bearded man leaned out the driver’s w indow to open his wallet for a deputy, and then he parked among the other civilian vehicles. When the tall, skinny driver emerged, he was leading a large black dog on a leash made of heavy chain, and the other dogs were spooked. None of them barked to challenge this animal.

The dog was better fed than his master, a tall, thin man with long matted hair, one gold tooth and one tooth missing. His cracked-leather boots were rundown at the heels; his eyes were the color of dust, and he carried the ripe smell of clothing that had not been laundered in days and days.

However, Charles Butler’s first impression of him was not one of poverty, but of disregard for appearances and a loss of appetite for food and creature comforts. Among the parents of the caravan, there were others in this same sorry state. This man only breathed because he must; his body made him do it. But all the acts that were voluntary-these went by the board.

The tall stranger stood before Paul Magritte’s campfire, extending his hand and introducing himself as “Jill’s d ad-from Austin, Texas.”

Dr. Magritte smiled warmly as he stood up and shook hands, apparently recognizing this man by the mention of his child. “Of course, how are you?” He turned to Charles. “Jill’s D ad-that’s Mr. Hastings’ Internet name.”

Charles’s attention shifted to the Texan’s c anine companion; its fur was thick and black. Possibly a cousin to a malamute? No, that was wrong. He had attended many New York dog shows and possessed eidetic memory, but he could not recall a breed quite this strange. However, though he had never had a pet of his own, he always got on well with domestic animals, and now he reached out to stroke the beast’s head.

His hand froze in midair.

He was suddenly the sole focus of the dog’s attention; it fixed him with pale blue alien eyes, detached from all emotion-chilling. And Charles’s last thought was that this was not a dog.

“It’s a wolf, right?” Riker materialized at the campfire and quickly pulled Charles’s hand back before it could be bitten off.

Thank you, thank you.

“Mostly wolf,” said Jill’s D ad, “maybe one quarter mutt.”

The sheriff stepped into the firelight, one hand resting on his holstered sidearm. “Lock him up in your truck. If I see that animal out tonight, I’ll shoot him dead.”

Jill’s D ad nodded. Man and wolf walked away.

Riker watched the departing animal for a moment. Then he slapped Charles on the back. “It’s got weird eyes, huh? Real cold. Remind you of anybody we know?”

Dr. Magritte was first to respond to this, albeit silently with a look of surprise.

And now the detective turned to the old man and gave him a slow grin. “So you had a little talk with Mallory. Was that fun?”

Detective Mallory squared off against Special Agent Berman, and there was no other way for him to read her showdown pose. All that remained was the question of whether she intended to draw on him or deck him. As he recalled, she liked her old grudges; she kept them for years.