Charles turned to Mallory. “You know what’s going on, don’t you?”

She nodded. “Darwinia’s cut-rate plastic surgery-that’s a repair job.”

Of course. The history of a battered woman fitted so well with the camera shyness-a runaway woman hiding from an abusive spouse. “So, all this time,” said Charles, “she’s been living with the constant fear of discovery?”

“And now,” said Riker, “Darwinia can’t decide what she wants most- to stay alive or find her kid.”

“If she’s not a suspect, then maybe you two could persuade Cadwaller to leave her alone?”

Well, that was a waste of breath.

Mallory pulled out a chair at the table and sat down with Riker to watch the ongoing show. Charles turned in time to see Darwinia’s resolve fade and die. The woman was turning toward the door, walking in tandem with the FBI man. Oh, but now she saw Mallory, the boxer’s champion, and Darwinia’s e yes were begging. It was Riker who rose to the lady’s defense. He moved in front of the pair before they could reach the door. Apparently, this detective’s intervention was not in Cadwaller’s script for the day. The agent stopped short, all authority dissipating-so like an actor with no clue to his next line.

“Cadwaller, she can’t help you.” Riker waved him toward the window table. “But we can, me and my partner. Sit down, and we’ll fill you in.” Turning to Darwinia, he said, “Everything’s fine. Go finish your meal.”

The FBI man joined Charles and the detectives at their table. He sat down and opened a notebook, unaware that he was now the subject of an interrogation. Charles could see it coming as the two detectives smiled in unison and leaned toward the agent.

Lunchtime.

“I get the feeling,” said Riker, “that you don’t know your boss all that well. How long have you been posted with Dale’s field office?”

“Three months.”

Mallory leaned in. “But you don’t spend much time with him. He keeps you on the road a lot, doesn’t he? Away from the younger agents? They’re all out at the crime scenes, and here you are-running a fake errand.”

Understanding dawned on Cadwaller. His pale skin showed a slight flush of humiliation as he pulled out a pen and looked down at his blank notebook page. “So what’ve you got for me?”

“Twelve years ago, her kid disappeared,” said Riker. “The Wisconsin cops were looking at the father as the prime suspect, and they didn’t expect any help from the battered wife. There was a history of domestic disputes. Her jaw was broken twice, but the lady never pressed charges. Two years after her kid goes missing, Darwinia-Miriam, whatever-she disappears, too. And the cops knew they weren’t looking for a dead body-not that time. They just wished her luck. But Nahlman could’ve told you that. It was her catch, and she gave the whole story to Dale.” The detective leaned in closer, as if to impart a secret. “Now, we know you’re from the Freak Squad-”

“Behavioral Science Unit,” said Mallory, correcting her partner’s b ad manners and startling Charles. “This isn’t Cadwaller’s fault.” She turned to the agent, giving him her best rendition of sympathy. “The minute you saw that woman, you knew Dale was screwing up again, didn’t you? Wasting your time again.” And now she had saved a federal agent from looking like a fool.

Not her style.

The FBI man closed his notebook and slapped it on the table. Face saved, the agent raised his grateful eyes to Mallory’s. And now it was her turn to lean toward him into that close range of conspiracy, so confidential in her tone. “What if this isn’t a screw-up?”

“What?” Riker’s face was angry when he left his chair and took the one next to his partner. “You’re defending that idiot, Dale?”

Charles was confused by this new game of musical chairs and changing alliances.

Mallory’s e yes remained fixed on Cadwaller. “What if Dale’s playing you?”

The agent turned his face away from hers as he pocketed his notebook and pretended interest in invisible lint on his sleeve. “I guess we’re done, here.” Cadwaller rose from the table with no word of good-bye and left the restaurant.

Charles turned from one detective to the other. “What did I miss?”

“Not much.” Riker changed chairs again to sit before his tray of food. He pushed the laptop computer to Mallory’s side of the table, but she would not even look at it. He frowned, seeing this as an ongoing problem, like a failure to eat her vitamins. “I knew Cadwaller wasn’t D ale’s favorite agent. But if that guy’s got something on Dale, he’s not planning to share it.”

Charles edged closer to Mallory. “So you don’t think Agent Berman is just too incompetent to run a task force?”

“No,” she said. “Berman’s mistakes are really over the top.”

“Yeah,” said Riker, “very stupid mistakes.”

“You’re sure about that?” Mallory slung her knapsack over one shoulder. “Think about it, Riker. Dale was smart enough to fool Markowitz once.” She picked up her car keys, almost ready to leave. “The way I remember it, he fooled you, too.” She leaned close to her partner’s ear to deliver a parting salvo. “And he’s still doing it.”

Agent Nahlman had no idea where Barry Allen had gone. She guessed that he had been reassigned to the gravesite west of this one. Dale Berman effected these separations from her partner all too frequently. Today, he had loaned her out to the state police, demoting her to media control. News vehicles had been turned away from the crime scene and into an area where cameras and lights could be set up. Now came the procession of divas, male and female reporters, to take their positions and deliver live feed on a small grave that they would never be allowed to see. Next, she would be called upon to say “No comment” a hundred times, rephrasing it for the more witless interviewers. Wrangling these bottom feeders and their makeup artists-this was the only thing that Dale was truly good at, but he could not be bothered. No, this was a handmaid’s job.

Nahlman grabbed a passing rookie agent by his sleeve, promoted him to press liaison, and then walked back to the dig site surrounded by state troopers.

Oh, no.

This corpse had flesh. She had become so accustomed to bones, but this child had been mummified in arid ground. It was easy to make out a button nose, a delicate chin-a slashed throat.

Agent Nahlman looked down the road, as if she could see all the way to the restaurant where the caravan parents would be waiting for the news-the name of a little girl. Some had children to fit the victim profile. Many other parents were spread out all over the country, and they were no doubt following the broadcasts, never straying far from their television sets, as this body was unearthed, layer by layer of dirt.

Who would win the phone call today?

Unlike Dale Berman, the local authorities were not inclined to keep the parents in ignorance, and this child would have a decent burial. One of the diggers held up an object cupped in one hand. He was a burly local man and probably had children of his own, for his voice was hoarse when he said, “It’s a locket. Her name was Karen.”

This would not fit any child belonging to a caravan parent. Nahlman knew all their stories now-which missing girl hated asparagus and which one loved baseball more than God. The FBI agent stared at the corpse in the hole.

And whose little girl are you?

A laminated school-bus pass was gently plied from the child’s curled fingers. The bus pass held all the information needed to carry her home.

The caravan had been under way for twenty minutes, and Dr. Paul Magritte was at last feeling at ease. He was more centered now, with many cars between himself and the New York detective in the Mercedes. And the FBI moles were driving at the rear.

The doctor had total privacy.

Eyes on the road, he dipped one hand into his nylon knapsack, fishing blind until his fingers closed upon the photograph of dying April Waylon. He crushed it in his fist. Next, he knocked his pipe from the ashtray, replacing it with the wadded picture. He patted his shirt pockets. Oh, where were his matches? No matter. The car’s cigarette lighter would do as well. A few moments later, he held its glowing tip to the crumpled image of April.