The shower area was directly behind him, and the security mirror offered Theo a panoramic view. Lots of naked bodies, lots of tattoos. Surely the inmate-by-inmate search during lockdown had turned up the O-Town Posse tattoo, but Theo was a skeptic when it came to authority, particularly in prisons. Maybe the guards had missed it. Maybe they'd found one, quit the search, and missed a second or a third inmate with the same tattoo. Or maybe a cool bribe had persuaded some guard to overlook it altogether. Theo couldn't trust corrections officers – not when it appeared that at least one of them had helped Isaac Reems escape. He had to check for himself.

Theo remained under the dome mirror, pretending to examine his stitches. He used the mirror to search for the tattoo. It was more difficult that way, but less risky than prowling through crowded showers and eyeing the backs of naked inmates. He shifted strategically from left to right, working the reflection to his full advantage. No matter how he maneuvered, however, he couldn't quite get a direct view into the deepest recesses of the shower area, where he seemed to recall seeing that O-Town Posse tattoo the other night. He tried standing on the balls of his feet, closer to the ceiling mirror and farther to his right – so far that he almost lost his balance.

"You're doing a lot of looking around tonight," said Charger, as he stopped at the sink beside Theo.

Theo caught himself and quickly resumed the pretense of examining the stitches in his head.

Charger leaned over the basin and splashed water on his face – delicately, the way a personal trainer might spritz a client's face with Evian. Then he removed his towel and said, "You know what they say: The ass is always greener…"

Theo ignored him as he sauntered away.

Steam from the hot showers was soon fogging the mirror. Theo's search was turning up nothing anyway, so he abandoned it and took a quick shower, looking at no one. He was on his way back to his cell before 9:00 p.m., but he didn't feel like dealing with Charger. Lights-out was still more than an hour away, so he decided to pay Moses a visit. The cell door was open, and Moses' cell mate was reclining in the lower bunk, alone in the cell when Theo arrived.

"Where's Moses?"

"Gone/' he said, never looking up from his magazine.

"TV room?" said Theo.

"Uh-uh. He's outta here."

Theo glanced at the top bunk, and only then did he notice that the bedding had been removed. An image flashed through his mind – the O-Town Posse tattoo on the muscular back of a black man, his identity obscured in the crowded, steamy shower.

"Are you saying they took him away during the lockdown search?"

"Uh-uh. He left this morning."

"So he got reassigned to another cell?"

He lowered his magazine, as if Theo's interrogation was getting on his nerves. "Moses had a court hearing to reduce his bail a week or so ago. Judge's decision came down this morning. He's a free man, dude. Outta here. Get it?"

It took a moment for the words to register. Theo looked away, speaking more to himself than to Moses' old cell mate. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I think maybe I do."

The orange and yellow swirl of police beacons led Andie Henning through the darkness. Rural crime scenes tended to be large, and this one stretched almost the entire length of dirt road that jutted from the main highway Andie flashed her credentials to the deputies working perimeter control, ducked under the yellow tape, and headed up the dusty road for a closer look. It was one of those lonely trails to nowhere in the middle of a pasture. On the other side of the barbed-wire fence a herd of cattle slept while standing, which made Andie think of high school and late-night adventures in "cow tipping" back in her home state of Washington. Little mental diversions like that helped her cope with the grim side of her job.

Homicides were always a priority, but even off-duty law enforcement volunteered their services when a state trooper was murdered. Andie also noticed more gray hair than usual, a sign that a few retired officers were kicking in their time as well. They worked in the glow of portable vapor lights that all but turned night into day. A long line of uniformed officers and volunteers paced across the surrounding prairie, searching methodically for a murder weapon or other evidence that the shooter might have tossed or dropped. The suspect's vehicle was long gone, but investigators were making a cast of tire tracks that had been left: behind. The center of activity was the Florida Highway Patrol vehicle. The driver's-side door was open, and Trooper Stratton's body was still in the front seat, slumped over the steering wheel. His face happened to be turned away from Andie, which was just as well. Blood was everywhere, telling of a grievous wound, and glass pellets from the shattered windshield glistened beneath the spotlights. An investigator was snapping photographs as Andie approached. The lead homicide detective stopped her before she got too close, introducing himself as Lieutenant Peter Malloy. They had already met by telephone, so he dispensed with the pleasantries.

"You should see the videotape," said Malloy.

All FHP vehicles were equipped with dashboard video cameras, and Andie was eager to see the tape. "Do you have a copy for me?"

"Techies will have some extras ready in thirty minutes or so. You can watch mine."

He led Andie to his unmarked car, took a video camera from the front seat, and held it at eye level. Andie watched the three-inch LCD screen as the action unfolded in silence, the image shaking from the vibration of a high-speed chase up the turnpike. The trooper blew past one car, then another, before making a quick exit. He didn't slow down a bit on the county highway, but the red car was nowhere in sight as the trooper cut a sharp turn onto a dark, dusty road. Suddenly, he came over a small hill and the red car was right in front of him. The patrol car skidded to a halt. In a split second, a gun emerged from the driver's side window, and the trooper's windshield exploded. Tires spun and the red car spit dust as it pulled a one-eighty and sped away.

Lieutenant Malloy turned off the camera.

Andie said, "Looks like the shooter sat there and waited for him with the driver's-side window open. Probably kneeling in the front seat and facing backward when he fired his gun."

"I've watched it half a dozen times, and I agree," said Malloy. "Even so, that was one hell of a shot."

"The file on Moses tells me that he knows how to handle a firearm," said Andie. "That's just one more factor that points toward him as the shooter."

"Unfortunately as you just saw with your own eyes, there's no clear image of the shooter's face, and the license plate is completely covered in dust and cow manure. I've got our tech people trying to work through that crap, literally"

"I can get the FBI to help with that."

"I'll let you know if we need it," said Malloy.

Her phone rang. She recognized the incoming number. It was Jack. She excused herself and stepped away from Detective Malloy to take the call.

"Where are you?" said Jack.

"In the middle of nowhere," she said.

"You were supposed to call me an hour ago with an update."

"Sorry. I got diverted." She paused to remind herself that all dealings with Jack had to be on a need-to-know basis. This, she decided, was something he needed to know. So she told him.

Jack said, "Any doubt in your mind who the shooter was?"

"We're waiting to confirm some things."

"Did the lockdown search for the O-Town Posse tattoo turn up anything?"

She knew he wasn't changing the subject – just coming at her from another angle to get a response to his original question. "No," she said, just answering his question.