What destroyed the detective in this moment was the look in Joe Finn’s e yes.

And the tears.

If this reunion could happen for Darwinia, why not for him? And now it was clear that the boxer preferred his fantasy that Ariel was alive, for he could not live in a world where she had died. And nothing-not an act of God, not even Mallory-could take him off this road.

Charles Butler waved good-bye as Darwinia Sohlo and her family drove off in separate cars but in the same direction, for the woman had not only found a lost child but also a safe haven-a home.

“Shouldn’t t hey have an FBI escort?”

“No,” said Riker. “Those people aren’t part of the pattern. The biggest threat to Darwinia was that nutcase husband back in Wisconsin. And our freak likes to plan his murders around an isolated victim. Can you see him picking a fight with the son-in-law?”

“Yet Dodie’s father’s is a professional fighter, and you worry about her.”

“You bet I do,” said Riker. “Thanks to Dale’s little showdown with the boxer, Dodie’s a threat to a serial killer. There’s a safe house waiting for the Finns in Chicago, but I don’t think Joe can get there from here. Not unless I can reach him.”

Charles shook his head. “He won’t hear you. He’s not thinking clearly. Probably lack of sleep. It took him an hour just to assemble that little pup tent.”

And now, with his children safely tucked away, Joe Finn was too tired to unroll his sleeping bag. He laid his body down in the grass before the closed tent flap. The man’s t hick arms were his pillows, and his gaze was fixed upon heaven. The boxer’s lips moved, perhaps in an old custom of prayers before sleep.

Good night, sweet prince.

Charles raised his eyes to the stars and also bid goodnight to Ariel.

Though Assistant Director Harry Mars had lived most of his life in the east, a Texas drawl was creeping back into his voice as he stood upon the land where he was born. He turned to the young woman beside him. “I won’t be going back to Washington just yet. Tomorrow morning I’ve got a meeting with Kronewald in Chicago. I think that old bastard’s holding out on me.” Oh, but that was the game they all played. It was an easy guess that Kathy Mallory had not disclosed half of what she knew-and neither had he.

The sun had been up for hours when the two sightseers stood on the old road, just beyond Amarillo, Texas. The FBI man was feeling some wear after a long night in Dale Berman’s Nursery. The soil samples had been located, and he planned to ram the tests through the crime lab within the hour. As a final order of business, he had offered a Bureau job to the young detective from New York City, and she had turned him down-much to his relief.

He remembered the year she had joined the NYPD and the toll that had taken on her foster father. “The kid’s not a team player,” Lou Markowitz used say, “but what a kid.”

The old man had proven to be a grand master of understatement. It was a singular cop who could extort the FBI in the upper echelons. Over a morning meal, he had caved in on the last of her demands, only stopping short of giving her a key to the men’s room, and he was damned tired. But now Lou’s daughter also wanted his promise that, following a speedy examination of the remains, one of the dead schoolgirls would be sent straight home.

“It’s a favor to Riker.” She handed him a sheet of paper. “This is the undertaker who’s going to bury George Hastings’ daughter in three days. So Jill’s body is your number one priority. When she’s in the ground, I’ll send you her father’s correspondence with Washington-with you-all those crummy little form letters you signed-and dated.”

It was too late to run a bluff; his jaw had already dropped. Those dates would kill the Bureau’s chance to crucify Dale Berman and then claim clean hands. With this final bit of blackmail, Kathy Mallory was giving up way too much for too little in return-a sack of bones.

After a breakfast of steak and eggs, Harry Mars, native son of the Texas Panhandle and a graceful loser, had offered to play tour guide this morning. “That’s it,” he said, pointing to a far-off row of falling-down dominoes in a cow pasture. That neat line of slanted shapes in the distance was actually a collection of upscale cars that were partially buried nose-first in the ground. “That’s the Cadillac Ranch. I’m not surprised you overshot the field. You were looking for a big sign, right?”

“So that’s it ?”

Could Kathy Mallory be less impressed?

“Well, I always liked it,” he said. “I remember back when those Caddys were new and the local teenagers hadn’t gotten round to the graffiti yet. Damn kids. Sorry, I can see you’re disappointed. I guess it’s not much to look at from the road, but you can’t get any closer. There’s a bull out there with the cows.” And now, because he had some history with her, he added, “Kathy, it would just be wrong to shoot a man’s livestock.”

“Mallory,” she said, correcting him for the third time this morning.

“Right.” Harry Mars watched her check the Cadillac Ranch off her list. He noticed another Texas attraction, the halfway marker for Route 66. “So your next stop is the MidPoint Café.” He waited for some enlightenment, even a simple yes or no, but he did not wait long; he knew her that well. Still staring at her list, he asked, “You plan to tell me how those landmarks figure into this case?”

He had his answer when she closed her notebook, slipped it into the back pocket of her jeans, and said, “Good-bye.”

“Kathy-sorry-Mallory, I could never see you as a damn tourist.” He well remembered their first meeting soon after she had gone to live with Lou and Helen Markowitz. Kathy had been much shorter then, but her eyes had never changed. One look at her, all those years ago, and Harry Mars knew that she had seen it all, whatever the world could find to throw in the path of a child.

The list in her notebook would continue to nag at him. Kathy Mallory would sleep tonight, and he would not. But that was fine by him. He did not care to dream of forty-seven little girls lying upon wooden pallets in a cold warehouse-so young-unfinished when they died.

The detective was ready to leave him now. She sat behind the wheel and revved her engine. There was still one matter that tethered him to her, a question he could never ask; it was a giant rubber band, stretched between them and about to snap as her car rolled away:

Was Dale Berman a major screwup or a very sick man?

Charles Butler parked the car in front of the MidPoint Café in Adrian, Texas. It was as inviting as a private house, small and homey, painted white with black trim. “So is this the way you remember it?”

Riker shrugged. “I was just a kid when I stopped here. And I killed most of my road-trip brain cells with booze. What makes you think Mallory’s gonna show?”

“I saw the name listed in her notebook.”

Once inside, Charles, who loved every old thing, approved of the place immediately. An early model kitchen appliance served as decoration, and all about the dining room were other artifacts of a bygone era. As he joined Riker, taking a stool at the counter, he averted his eyes from the next room, a gift shop stocked with more modern wares.

The woman who waited on them had a long history with the café and a good memory. By the time they were on a Charles-and-Fran footing, Riker had demolished his pie, and now he was ready for business.

The detective’s description only got as far as, “Tall, real pretty, blond hair. She drives a Volkswagen convertible.”

And Fran said, “Peyton’s kid? You just missed her.”

“Peyton,” echoed Charles.

The woman nodded. “The minute she walked in the door, I said, ‘You’ve got to be related to Peyton Hale! Or maybe I just think that because you’ve got his strange green eyes and you’re driving his car.’ ”