“Sorry, pal,” said the detective, though he knew he could take credit only for the shot to the breast. The bullet that had taken out one blue eye was the one that felled the wolf. Riker turned to see Agent Nahlman, his appointed backup, holstering her gun. Beyond her, he saw a gang of agents on the run, guns out and ready, and Dale Berman was leading them-from the rear.

Riker put his gun away and raised both hands, yelling, “Settle down. The animal went a little nuts. That’s all that happened.” No reporters had turned out yet, and he wondered if gunfire could be heard above the sound of jackals noshing in the buffet room at the top of the road.

Dale Berman stepped to the front of the pack, pushing his people aside, as if they were suddenly in his way and not acting as human shields. He glared at Nahlman and then pointed at the tall thin man with the startled eyes. “Tell me you didn’t s hoot this poor man’s dog.”

Riker shouted, “She saved his life !” And why did this good news seem to disappoint the FBI man?

Turning on his heel, Dale led the posse back up the hill to the restaurant. In that same moment, Jill’s D ad slumped to the ground in a pile of skinny sticks bent at the elbows and knees. “He didn’t e ven know who I was.”

Nahlman knelt down beside him. “I didn’t recognize you, either, Mr. Hastings. The last time we met, you didn’t have that beard. I think you wore a suit and tie that day.”

“It was a brand-new suit,” said the man Nahlman knew as George Hastings. “I bought it for the funeral.” His eyes welled up with tears, and his head moved slowly from side to side. “It wasn’t fair. I had all my paperwork in order.” He reached into his pants pocket and brought out his wallet. Opening it, he produced a folded piece of paper and handed it to Riker. “That’s the permit to bring Jill’s body home on the plane. We bought the plot and the coffin, my wife and me. The stone was ordered. The funeral was all arranged. But that bastard wouldn’t let Jill go. My wife’s still waiting for me to bring our baby home.” He turned to Nahlman. “You people are driving us crazy.”

Riker could guess the rest of the story. Apparently young Jill Hastings had been buried twice. After digging up her body, the feds had interred her under the avalanche of a giant bureaucracy. The detective leaned down to reach inside the other man’s j acket and found the source of the suspicious bulge-not a gun-a plastic catsup bottle. But it smelled like bacon. He squeezed, aiming the nozzle at the ground. “Bacon grease?”

He had to admire George Hastings’ ingenuity, though the plan was full of flaws, entirely too risky and seriously insane. Spattering a federal agent with bacon grease was only a crime in dry cleaners’ circles, but sudden death by starving wolf was an original attention getter. Or maybe the man had never intended to escape the penalty. Riker could see that the father of Jill Hastings was only minutes away from a full confession, and plotting to assassinate a federal agent was worth five years in prison.

“Hey, Nahlman? You don’t w ant to hear any more of this,” he said, as if she had better things to do with her time-as if she did not know what was coming next.

Her head inclined a bare inch to acknowledge her part in an upcoming crime, a conspiracy of silence. The agent walked back up the hill alone.

Riker stared at the dead wolf 's o ne blue eye. “It was a beautiful plan. If you kept your mouth shut, at worst, you’d have to pay a fine.” He nudged the animal with one foot. “No dog tags.” He spoke softly now, going gently with this man. “The target was Dale Berman, right?”

Jill’s D ad nodded. “I’d like to break this to my wife-if that’s all right- before you arrest me.”

“Naw.” The detective waved this idea away with one hand. “Stupid me, I forgot to read you your rights.” He hunkered down because he needed to see this man’s e yes. “So here’s the deal, George. You forget about Dale Berman, and I’ll find your daughter’s body. I’ll send Jill home.”

An hour later, the wolf-the evidence-was buried among the tall pines. Riker locked up the pickup truck, slapped the fender of a state trooper’s car, and sent George Hastings into protective custody for the duration of this hunt for a serial killer. Much as he liked Jill’s D ad, the detective did not trust crazy people to keep their promises.

The caravan was getting underway. He slid into the passenger seat of the Mercedes, and Charles Butler leaned over to ask, “When do you plan to tell Mallory about Savannah Sirus’s suicide?”

“It never seems like the right time,” said Riker. “This morning, I told her April Waylon was dead. She already knew, and she wasn’t taking it well. I think she blames me, and she’s right. April wandered off on my watch.”

“I believe in the car,” wrote Peyton Hale. “Break it down to all the parts and lay them on the floor of a garage. Let’s say that no one has ever seen a car all put together. So what would people make of these separate pieces? There’s some who’d latch onto the battery; it’s familiar, and they know it can power their electric lights. The battery people are not even close to the idea of an automobile; they’ve seen the light, and they’re in the dark. Others would pick up the tires and run them downhill-and lose them that way. They only see a tire’s potential to go somewhere without them. The fenders and the hood, all the exterior metal belongs to the unbelievers; they can see how these parts fit together for a fact, and all they ever see is a shell. Useless, they say.

“Blessed are they who can see the whole car because they’re looking at the road ahead instead of all this crap on the floor of the garage.”

Mallory put the letter back in her knapsack, too distracted to read any more. She started up the car and pulled back onto the old road, Route 66.

The late April Waylon had come to ride in her car for a while. The dead woman was missing one hand, yet she seemed cheerful. “It’s a bright day,” said April’s corpse. “You should be wearing your sunglasses, dear.”

Ah, but Mallory had lost her dark glasses. She had laid them down on the motel reception desk alongside her car keys while checking out this morning. That was the last time she remembered seeing them, and now they were lost. And her mind-lost.

Dead April prattled on as they drove down the road.

Click.

The Volkswagen convertible was far away now, reduced to a small silver dot in the dark eye of a camera. The photographer held a pair of aviator sunglasses with gold rims. A tongue flicked in and out, as if it were possible to taste Mallory by licking the lenses. The sunglasses were folded away in the glove compartment to join the young detective’s stolen cavern brochure, a pen and a napkin that she had once used. A long-range plan was forming, piece by piece of her.

Mallory entered the state of Texas miles and hours ahead of the caravan. Stopping in the small town of Shamrock, she made her duty call to the U-Drop Inn, but it was too early in the day to find this landmark saloon open for business. She only stayed long enough to make a checkmark on her list of things to see. She had greater hopes for the next stop.

She traveled westward toward the map coordinates for a patch of dirt, then pulled off the road and stopped the car on a flat Texas prairie “-with a vista that went to the end of the world.” She stepped out and walked toward the horizon line. Every sign of life on earth was behind her and out of sight.

And she waited.

“There is only one way to see America,” wrote Peyton Hale. “An airplane or a train won’t do. You have to feel the earth underfoot. You must be alone and in danger of losing your way. Oh, the sheer size of this country can send a man to his knees. This prairie, this great expanse of open space has that power. It’s the overwhelming sense of emptiness you feel. Only a few steps away from the road and you’re lost-and then you’re changed.”