Sam nodded.

“For the past six years, I’ve been on call to several of the Bureau’s top investigative units. That meant every time a child was found raped and murdered, every time a body was found and there appeared to be a pattern to the attack, every time serial crimes were identified, I was one of several people who could be called in to study the crime and try to interpret the behavior in a manner that would help our agents get a handle on the killer.” He hesitated momentarily while he debated with himself how much of his personal story to add, then decided to omit it. If he came on board with the Foundation, it would come up sooner or later. Right now, for the purpose of this interview, he decided he was more comfortable leaving it out.

He leaned forward, not liking what he was about to say, but knowing he’d say it anyway. “Miss Russo, the things I’ve seen over the past few years are the stuff of nightmares. When I say I’ve had enough, I mean I’ve had enough of children who have been tortured and degraded and had any sense of humanity stolen from them. I’ve had enough of young women who have been sold or slaughtered, of bodies that had been hacked beyond recognition as anything human. I’ve had enough of destroyed lives.”

Mallory held up a hand to stop him from continuing. “I was a cop for nine years,” she said softly. “I’ve seen my share. I understand.”

Sam hesitated, rethinking his decision to not bring up Carly. He suspected that Mallory, as a former cop, would understand. But before he could speak, Mallory went on.

“Your references are impeccable. The recommendations couldn’t be better. Your superior at the Bureau has made it clear that he’d take you back in a heartbeat. Very unusual for the FBI, I’d say.”

Sam nodded. His old boss was one in a million. If circumstances had been different, he’d have been happy to stay, and if he was ever inclined to go back, John Mancini would be the first person he’d call.

“What I need to know is, if we have a case that involves the type of victim you just mentioned, where we’d need those skills of yours-a child who has been abducted, a young woman who’s been tortured, maybe a particularly gruesome murder-are you going to be willing to do the job?”

Remembering Carly, the words came before he could think about what he was saying. “Not if I’m going to be sitting around waiting for a case like that to come in, no.”

She studied him for a long moment, then opened another file and turned it around.

“No wait necessary, Mr. DelVecchio.” She slid the file across the table to him. “Take a minute to read this over-the newspaper articles as well as the letter on top-then look me in the eye and tell me you wouldn’t be more than happy to be the one who finds this son of a bitch.”

By three thirty in the afternoon, Sam had seen just about all there was of Conroy, Pennsylvania. He’d driven back to the city from Robert’s plush suburban grounds, past vast fields of tall corn, and orchards where peaches were being picked and apples still ripened. The farms he passed, with their centuries-old farmhouses and red-roofed barns, reminded him of his Nebraska roots and the three-story clapboard home of his youth. He tried to remember just how long it had been since he’d gone back and couldn’t, which in itself told him that it had been way too long. He’d meant to go after he returned from what his mother and brother Tom referred to as “Sam’s wanderings” this past year, but from his hotel room near the Newark International Airport where he’d stayed after a mind-numbing flight from Turkey the week before, he’d seen an interview with Robert Magellan on CNN and was intrigued by the mogul’s new venture. Who’d have guessed a businessman of his stature would have such an altruistic streak that he’d personally bankroll a foundation set up specifically to help other people search for their missing loved ones?

Laid low by what he’d dubbed travel plague, Sam spent two days more than he’d intended in Newark, his time shared almost equally between sleeping and channel surfing before returning to his old apartment in Virginia. He spent most of one afternoon on his laptop, researching Magellan and his Mercy Street Foundation, and found himself wondering what it would be like to start over with a private investigative firm instead of a law enforcement agency. When he quit the Bureau to take some badly needed time off, he’d given little thought to what he’d do when he came back. Hell, he’d given little enough thought to when he’d come back. He’d only known that his life was killing him, and he had to walk away from it. He still wasn’t sure what had prompted him to submit an application to the Foundation, and hadn’t bothered to examine his motives for driving to Pennsylvania for the interview with Mallory Russo.

As he approached the city, the country road widened. In the distance he could see the smokestacks of factories that had once fueled Conroy’s economy. From his Internet wanderings, he’d learned that the factories had closed, one by one, back in the seventies and eighties, until the city’s unemployed outnumbered those who still brought home a paycheck every week. He drove over a metal two-lane bridge that crossed a stream feeding into the Schuylkill River about a half mile west, and on impulse, took the street that ran past the deserted factories. Empty water towers stood on spindly legs and flocks of pigeons roosted along shingled roofs. Cyclone fences wound their way around the now-silent buildings, and other than a stray dog that dragged part of a chain behind him, there wasn’t a living soul to be seen. The heat rose off the crumbling sidewalks and the streets had potholes large enough to hide a Hummer. All in all, it had been a depressing tour of the city he might find himself living in. He felt at loose ends and at odds with himself over why he was here in the first place.

The road bent sharply to the right, and Sam followed it, relieved to be heading back toward town. A sign for a diner a few blocks up reminded him why his stomach was grumbling. He’d had breakfast at a chain restaurant right off the New Jersey Turnpike around seven that morning, nothing since, and even his bottle of water was empty.

It was almost four in the afternoon when he parked in the steaming parking lot and walked through the glass door into the welcome cool of the diner.

“You by yourself?” The waitress sat on one of the red-leather-covered stools at the counter and turned completely around to look him over. She was in her late fifties, with hair a shade too strawberry to be considered a true strawberry blond, and eyeglasses trimmed with rhinestones hanging from a beaded cord around her neck. She wore a blue and white striped dress that zipped up the front and a name tag with NANCY written in red script.

“Yes,” he replied.

“Booth near the windows okay?”

“As long as it’s out of the sun.”

“Yeah, it’s blazing today, all right.” She led him to a booth on the shady side of the narrow building. “Nearly blistered my hands on my steering wheel. Swear to God.” She handed him a menu. “What can I get you to drink?”

“Water’s fine. Lots of ice.” Sam slid across the cool vinyl seat and took off his sunglasses. He placed them on the table and opened the menu.

“You missed the lunch specials,” the waitress told him when she returned with his drink, “and you’re too early for the dinner specials.”

“Can I just get a burger and fries?” he asked.

“Sure. Be right back with that.” She took the folded menu from his hands and walked into the kitchen through double swinging doors.

Sam stared out the window at the traffic, just beginning to pick up as the end of the work day drew closer. Two police cruisers passed with lights flashing but their sirens silent. A group of five or six young girls, laughing and pushing each other playfully, their hair wet, walked by in short summer cover-ups, each carrying a large tote bag.