Agent Cadwaller had been dismissed, but kept looking back over his shoulder as he walked away. Dale Berman waved one hand to move this man along a little faster. The escorts remained, sensing hostility. Hostile was Mallory’s o t her name. And now he faced the young cop from New York City, admitting to her that she had guessed right about his moles, the two agents embedded in the caravan. “But that’s all the manpower I can spare.”

“Two agents on Dodie Finn? That doesn’t w o rk for me,” said Mallory. “You need more guns riding point and rear.”

He could try denial. No-bad idea. This cop was not fishing or bluffing. She knew things about the humming child. “Okay, Mallory. I’m spread thin, but I could send maybe two more warm bodies for the protection detail.”

“You’re not protecting anybody,” she said. “You’re stringing a little girl out as bait. Either you send a real security detail or I organize state troopers for the next two thousand miles. Then I call out the media.”

He shook his head. “I know you won’t do that. It’s just what this freak wants.”

“You think I care? It’s more pairs of eyes on those people. Less chance of another one getting killed. Other parents are joining up with that caravan all the time. That should make it easier to work in new agents. I’ll tell the old man to back up their cover stories.”

“All right. Done,” said Dale Berman. “I’ll have agents riding point and rear.” He held up both hands in surrender. “See? I’m perfectly happy to be extorted. Anything else you want? My wallet?” He turned his eyes to his audience, Agents Allen and Nahlman.

Mallory took a step closer, saying, “One more thing.”

He never saw it coming. One moment he was smiling, and then he was bent over with the explosion of pain from his crotch. Mallory had smashed his testicles with a lightning kick. Agent Berman never saw the second shot, either. Her kneecap connected to his jaw and sent him sprawling backward. He was on the ground and tasting blood on the tooth that had split his lip.

Agent Barry Allen was only reacting with wide eyes, but this youngster was new to the job. Agent Nahlman had no such excuse; she was a veteran with eighteen years of experience. And yet there was ample time for Dale Berman to prop himself on one crooked arm and look up at Mallory, yelling, “Are you nuts! ” Now-finally -his agents were stepping forward- a bit late in his view-when he held up one hand to stop them. Teeth clenched, he said to them, “Just walk away.”

They did as they were told.

When his people were out of earshot, he was still on the ground at Mallory’s feet. Standing up to her was important enough to work through a world of pain, and he did. Gaining his feet, he dusted off his suit jacket. “I guess your old man had good reason to take a shot at me, but what did I ever do to you?”

Mallory gave him half a smile and a look of utter satisfaction that only payback can bring. She turned away from him and walked toward the road with a casual stride, as if decking a federal agent might be an everyday thing with her.

Riker lay beside his duffel bag on the lumpy motel mattress. He was too tired to hunt for his toothbrush.

Charles Butler sat tailor fashion on the other bed. He was examining the contents of Savannah Sirus’s purse and a suitcase recently pulled from the trunk of the car. Riker’s o w n Polaroids of the dead woman were lined up in a neat row. This was all the physical evidence for the psychological autopsy of a suicide victim. And while the psychologist sorted these items, he spoke to the detective from some other compartment of his giant brain where he dealt with the more current problem. “Kronewald’s very tight with his information. You’re sure that Mallory knows the name of the FBI agent in charge?”

“Maybe not,” said Riker, “but he’s not the reason she’s on this road. Dale Berman is one coincidence I can buy. He was always ambitious. No sur- prise he’d worm his way into a major case.” Riker pinned his hopes on coincidence, for Mallory was not in any shape to settle old scores with that fed. Her foster father was dead and in the ground, beyond all pain and regret, so what would be the point of going after Dale? He had no desire to talk about this anymore-any reminder of that FBI agent depressed him. “So what can you tell me about the little girl from the caravan?”

“Dodie? She belongs in a hospital.” After gathering up all of Savannah Sirus’s clothing, Charles returned it to the suitcase. Then he laid out the remaining items on different squares of the bedspread pattern, patiently working on a suicide while discussing serial murder with his friend. “Dodie’s missing sister won’t fit the victim profile. Ariel Finn was a teenager.” He looked up at the detective on the next bed. “But you knew that, didn’t you? Of course. Sorry. The sheriff told you, right? Ye t you’re still interested in that little family.”

Charles began to move the items around, departing from his patchwork grid to create orderly piles. Savannah’s lipstick was paired with a checkbook, and a folded envelope shared a patchwork square with a black-and-white snapshot. “So you’re wondering if Dodie Finn might’ve been the real target. Maybe her sister Ariel got in the way.” And, in answer to a question that Riker had just thought of, Charles said, “If Dodie saw her sister’s murder, that would be consistent with her present condition. But I can’t t e ll you that’s what happened. I can’t w o rk magic.”

“Right.” The detective continued to watch his friend’s methodical sorting process. Savannah Sirus’s postmortem photos, all but one, were cast aside. The groupings of her personal effects made no sense to him. A driver’s license now kept company with the round-trip plane ticket.

“This woman wasn’t s u icidal before she met Mallory.” Charles picked up the plastic card. “Just look at her in this license photograph.”

Rolling on his side, Riker squinted at this picture the size of a postage stamp.

“This driver’s license is more interesting,” said Charles, “if you know it was renewed ten days before Miss Sirus arrived in New York. In this picture, her hair is styled. You see? She’s well groomed-eye makeup, rouge and lipstick.”

“The works.” Riker nodded, pretending that he could actually make out these details on the tiny photograph. There was no need to see it clearly. Charles had just described the war paint worn by a middle-aged woman who had a life worth living-until she stepped off a plane in New York City. It was easier to read the larger, more recent photograph in Charles’s other hand. This was the close-up of a dead woman with lank, dirty hair, and no makeup at all. “Mallory did all that damage in just three weeks?”

“Tell me you don’t b e lieve that Mallory deliberately drove this woman to kill herself.”

“Naw, o f course not,” said Riker. First he would have to know what Savannah had done to deserve it.

Charles held up a checkbook. “Miss Sirus was planning another sort of trip when she was interrupted.”

“I saw that,” said Riker. “The check entry for a cruise line.”

“This woman wanted to see the world. Thirty thousand dollars would buy stops in a great many ports. The check is recent, and this sort of trip would be booked and paid for months in advance. A woman with suicidal ideation wouldn’t be able to plan that far ahead. She wouldn’t see any future at all. And, apparently, Miss Sirus-I should say Dr. Sirus-had no money worries.” Charles held up a business card. “She was a dermatologist. Judging by her other checkbook entries, she was very successful. Mallory’s mother was a doctor, too.”

“But not so successful,” said Riker. Mallory’s natural mother had been a general practitioner in a tiny town. “Cassandra was probably paid in dead chickens and sacks of potatoes.”

“But there’s more,” said Charles. “Savannah’s from Chicago. Did you know that Mallory’s mother interned at a Chicago hospital?”