"And go all the way to Atlanta to do it?" Bolinger asked incredulously.

"It's possible, Detective. It's really possible," she said.

Lipton's own confession was ringing out all the while, clear and keen in the back of her mind. Casey wanted desperately to be right. The idea that Lipton's confession was anything but a sick joke was too horrible to admit without a fight.

Bolinger frowned. "If I could get his records, we'd know. If I could find out where he's been over the past five or ten years, I could check those places for this kind of crime. If we find one that's connected to Lipton, we'll know it's not the father. Lipton didn't know Marcia Sales until she came to school. Sales couldn't have killed someone five years ago to set him up."

"Well, even if you're right," Casey said, "I can't help you. Even if I could help you, I don't have his computer, and when I did have it I didn't even look at it. He just asked me to hold it."

"When did he get it back?"

"The day after the trial," she said.

"Goddamn!" Bolinger struck his palm with a fist. "I knew it. He wanted it back!"

"Of course he wanted it back," Casey snapped. "Anyone would want their computer back."

"No, but right away?" Bolinger said. "First thing you do is get your computer back and disappear?"

"You said he was gone, now you're saying he disappeared," Casey said with concern.

"He has."

"Maybe he's afraid of Sales," Casey suggested hopefully.

"I won't lie to you. I know Sales," Bolinger said, looking at her hard. "He's a dangerous man. I like him, but he's dangerous. I think this trial, what you… what happened to him and to his daughter put him over the edge. He killed Frank Castle, and I'm pretty sure he was the one who shot Lipton. I could never prove it, but it was him. To be honest, I didn't care all that much about what he did to Lipton because I know Lipton killed Marcia Sales and that girl in Atlanta and probably a lot more. Unlike you, I figure sometimes justice needs a little shove. But Lipton lived and now he's free and he's out there and I'm going to get him."

"And Sales?" Casey said.

Bolinger shrugged. "I'll get him, too, if I can."

"If you can?" Casey asked incredulously. "If he killed Frank Castle and shot Lipton, he could be the one that's behind everything."

"You mean the girl in Atlanta, too?" Bolinger scoffed.

"Yes," she urged. "You're right about one thing. There's a killer loose somewhere, a serial killer if that's what you say. And you can go on all you want about Professor Lipton, but it's every bit as likely that Donald Sales is the man you want."

Bolinger looked at her long and hard before saying, "You're trying awfully hard to be convincing… But I wonder…"

He paused, then said, "Are you trying to convince me? Or are you really just trying to convince yourself?"

By the light of the moon, Donald Sales crept out of the trees and up to the golf course maintenance shed. Along its side lay an eighteen-foot aluminum ladder. Sales spun his shoulders around and swept the area one more time completely with his bloodshot eyes. He then shouldered the ladder and hurried back into the shadows.

Picking his way carefully along the course, it took him nearly thirty minutes to get from the shed to Casey's house. He knew where the cover was and where the open places were. He also knew from two nights of reconnoitering that people sometimes walked along the cart paths at night. At three A.M., however, he doubted he'd run into anyone. But Sales was thorough. So thorough, in fact, that in his mind he'd already formulated a sequence of events once he was inside the house.

The first thing he'd done when he eluded Bolinger three days ago was make his way to a shopping center with a Wal-Mart and a nearby grocery store. He had known that he had only a small amount of time before his face would hit the news, and he wanted to take advantage of his short-lived anonymity to get supplies. Living in the hills wasn't a problem. He knew of a multiplicity of hidden caves that would provide him with shelter. But having a sleeping bag, a flashlight, some food, clothes, and ample ammunition, among other things, would make his existence that much easier. They would also afford him the time he needed to carry out his mission.

If he'd had to worry about hunting for food, he wouldn't have been able to sneak around the shrubbery surrounding Casey's home reconnoitering the situation. After more than a day of watching, he knew her husband was gone. It wasn't that her husband was a particularly imposing obstacle, but his absence made things that much easier.

At the edge of Casey's property, down near the golf course lake, was an ornate little wrought-iron fence. Sales set the ladder down inside the fence, gently felt for the roll of duct tape on his hip, and vaulted over the fence with remarkable agility for a big man in his late forties. With the ladder over his shoulder, he waded through the low bushes toward the house. After skirting the pool, he gently poised the ladder against the small balcony that jutted out from the master bedroom. He knew from the way the lights went out that this was where Casey slept. He had already wrapped the ends of the ladder in rags, so the only sound was the quiet complaint of aluminum as he lifted his two hundred sixty pounds hand-over-hand up toward the balcony. When he got to the edge, he stopped to listen.

His heart pounded steadily in his chest. Otherwise, the night was silent. He could feel a thrill not unlike what he had felt in warfare in the marrow of his bones. With unusual stealth he went over the railing and stood at full height in the doorway that led into the bedroom. The sliding glass door was open. Only a screen stood between him and Casey Jordan. The moonlight at his back was strong enough for him to see her lying there, sound asleep under the thin film of a soft, white sheet. He smiled grimly at the sight of the small black automatic on the table beside the bed. That wouldn't help her. From the back of his belt, he removed the same long, cruel blade that had been used to gut Frank Castle.

After three deep breaths for total clarity, Sales inserted the point of the knife into the corner of the screen. Quickly, he slashed along the bottom of the door frame and then upward so he could pass easily into the room. Before Casey could awake, Sales was on top of her, bearing down with his full weight and with one hand clasped tightly across her mouth.

Casey's eyes shot open as the shocking bolt of panic swept through her entire frame, rending her from a confusing dream. She bucked twice, but the overwhelming pressure on her face and the sharp point of a knife at the base of her throat left her wide-eyed and paralyzed with fear.

Knowing that she was completely subdued, Sales rolled her over on her stomach and swiftly covered her mouth with duct tape by wrapping it around the back of her head. With the back of her T-shirt twisted in his hand, he lifted her off the bed and forced her over to the alarm panel that was above the light switch just inside the bedroom door. With the long knife pricking the back of her neck, Sales commanded her to disarm the system.

Casey's knees were shaking. She looked hopelessly at her gun on the night table. It was only a few feet away, but it might have been a million miles. Slowly she began to punch in the numbers. But instead of the last digit, she stabbed the panic button and held on, triggering the alarm. She heard the wail of the sirens inside the house. She saw stars. Then everything went black.

Sales had struck Casey in the back of the head with the handle of the knife that was grasped tightly in his fist. Even with the alarm shrieking in his ears, he looked coolly around the room. As quickly and as neatly as possible, he pulled the covers up and made the bed, finishing just as the phone stopped ringing. He knew after getting no response to their call, the alarm company would now call the police. That gave him at least five minutes, maybe more. He tossed Casey's little automatic into the nightstand drawer, then crossed the room and slid the screen door all the way open. That would hide the tear he'd made from anything but the most careful examination. He then slid the glass door shut and locked it.