Charles smiled. His theory was panning out for the author of Savannah’s coveted letters, and now he finally had a name for Mallory’s father. “I never met Peyton Hale. I gather you knew him quite well. He’s from around here?”

“No, he was a California boy the first time he came through. Then he settled in Chicago. Went to school there. But he drove Route 66 every summer for years and years. So he’d stop by twice, coming and going. Always wanted pie. That’s all he ever ordered. They’re fresh baked every morning.”

Riker’s voice was blunted, and his smile was gone. “When did you see this man last?”

“It was a long time ago.” Fran took a knife to the pie tin. “I’m sure his daughter hadn’t been born yet. He would’ve mentioned that.”

“So it’s been at least twenty-five years, maybe longer,” said Riker. “But you remember her father’s e yes? His car? There’s gotta be more to it.”

“He was a charmer,” said Fran. “Charmed me out of twenty dollars once. Gave me an IOU. Peyton was driving west to California that time. Said he’d pay me back on the way home to Chicago. And that was the last time I ever saw him.” Fran slipped another wedge of pie onto Riker’s plate. “Peyton’s daughter was even more suspicious than you are. She wanted to see the IOU. Well, of course, I didn’t have it anymore, but she settled up anyway.” Fran dipped one hand into an apron pocket and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. “The girl’s a big tipper.”

“Yeah, she is.” Riker, seduced by the bribe of a second slice of pie, was acting less the policeman now. “Did you find out what happened to Mallory’s d ad?”

“I never asked.” Fran was staring at the window on the road. “I like to think he’s still on that road-driving like a maniac. My God, that little car of his could go. Well, like father, like daughter. One second Mallory’s car was out there in the lot, and then voom-gone.”

Another day, another travel plaza.

Finding the caravan was a simple thing; Mallory only had to listen to the parents’ radio interviews being conducted on the other side of Adrian, Texas. When she entered the lot, she found it choked with more cars than parking places. She created her own space on a patch of sidewalk that ran around the restaurant. The young FBI agents on guard duty did not object; they even opened the car door for her, celebrity treatment, and they all but saluted as she passed them by and entered the restaurant.

Mallory favored tables near the window, and she picked one out, unconcerned that it was occupied. It was only necessary to hover a moment or two before the agents seated there decided that they had eaten enough for one day. And now she sat down alone, another preference, and opened her notebook of landmarks and murder suspects. In the manner of a schoolgirl at her lessons, she bowed her head over the list and crossed off the MidPoint Café.

She was done with her meal when she saw Charles Butler’s Mercedes pull into the lot with Riker at the wheel. He parked it behind her own car on the sidewalk, and FBI agents hurried across the room to hold open the door to the restaurant. This sudden anxiousness to please might be the work of Harry Mars.

Good.

Riker deposited Kronewald’s laptop on the table by her knapsack. “You keep walking off without this thing.”

Mallory never looked up, and her partner melted away, slouching off in search of a cheeseburger. He passed near a corner table perfect for conspiracy, but failed to catch a word of the conversation between the two FBI agents.

Agent Barry Allen was doing his best to talk his partner back onto the right path following the Bureau’s strict chain of command. “You can’t cut Dale Berman off at the legs that way.”

“I needed those results on my soil samples,” said Agent Nahlman. “The bastard never even ordered the tests. I checked with the lab.”

“You can work around it.”

“No, I can’t. It’s an oddball element. Two different kinds of soil in three of those graves-think about it. The perp dug up his kills and reburied them. If I can pinpoint the original burial sites, I can get names and dates- real leads. But Dale Berman doesn’t c are when we wrap this case. What’s one more death to him? He all but offered up Dodie Finn on a plate.”

“That’s cold.”

“And at least a hundred kids are dead. Mallory was right. This case could’ve been wrapped a long time ago. But people keep dying.”

“And that’s Dale’s fault? So now he’s a killer?”

Nahlman sat back in her chair, surprised that this rookie agent was now on a first-name basis with the SAC. “You really like him, don’t you?”

“He’s a great guy,” said Allen. “So promise me this crazy idea just dies right here, right now.”

How absurd was this? A baby-faced boy assuming the mantle of wise man and doling out advice for her own good.

“All right,” she said, lying. “I’m done with it.”

Or was this the truth? She was so tired of breaking her fists on all the barriers Berman had placed in her way. And she had yet to answer Agent Allen’s question. Did she take Dale Berman for a killer? Oh, yes.

In the neutral territory of a center table, Charles Butler had been waylaid by Agent Cadwaller, and he was doing his best to explain to this man why Joe Finn might want to kill him. “Don’t go near the children one more time. Your people have already done too much damage to Dodie.” He put up one hand. “Please don’t deny that. She was just a little girl, severely traumatized, but she was still talking when she went into FBI custody. Not anymore.” Did this come as a surprise to the federal agent?

“The Finns have to leave this road,” said Cadwaller.

Well, now that was interesting. This man was the only member of Berman’s t e am to share in that belief. However, he was arguing a case for federal custody.

“You know that little girl needs counseling,” said the FBI man. “It would help if I could talk to her. Then I could make arrangements for-”

“No!” Charles had estimated Cadwaller’s credentials as something of a joke, and he had tried every polite way to say that a little dangerous knowledge did not a psychologist make. Having failed in that, he decided that good manners were overrated. “Rather than push Dodie into a psychotic break, I suggest you just pull out your gun and blow her little head off. No, really. Shoot her. It’ll set a good example for the others.”

A broadcast reporter and her cameraman passed Cadwaller’s t able in pursuit of Riker, who warded them off with a New Yorker’s o ne-fingered gesture for love and friendship. And now the detective joined Dr. Magritte, pulling up a chair at the old man’s t able. He wasted no time with pleasantries.

“Okay, Doc, we’re hunting a nutcase and you’re leading a parade of ’em. You gotta have a few favorites who aren’t covered with doctor-patient confidentiality. You said these people came from a lot of different therapy groups.” With a nod, he gestured to the Pattern Man’s t able. Horace Kayhill was sitting alone with his spread maps. “Horace keeps coming back to the caravan. He likes being close to you, doesn’t he? This trip must be nutcase heaven-a doctor who can’t get away from his patients.”

Dr. Magritte gave up a smile of apology and a wave of the hand to say that Riker would get nothing helpful from him, not even the admission that Horace Kayhill was his patient.

Riker watched the doctor’s face, hoping to see something useful there if he should hit upon the right question. “You know who the killer is, don’t you? Do you talk to this freak on the phone? Are you Internet pen pals or what?”

And now the doctor, somewhat surprised, said, “You and your partner don’t communicate very well. I bet you’re wondering how I know that.” He smiled. “Your cheeseburger is getting cold, Detective.”

Special Agent Dale Berman was basking in camera light and sharing a table with a celebrity anchorwoman. This prime-time personality seemed disappointed in his basic profile for a serial killer. She pulled back the microphone to say, “Isn’t t hat sexist? Why not a woman suspect?”