She stood in front of him, waiting to receive new orders. She was dressed in a caramel-colored suit, her straight mahogany hair cut short. Pale skin, dark circles under her eyes, shadows beneath her cheekbones belied the tough, no-nonsense image she normally projected. It had been a month since she'd sustained a gunshot wound to the shoulder, and he could still detect lines in her face. Pain did that. Left its mark.

After receiving an injury like Cantrell's, most people would have jumped at the offer of a desk job. They would have at least taken a couple of months off. The day after the shooting, Cantrell had been on the phone, asking that someone bring her case files to the hospital, acting as if her injury were nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

That wasn't normal. He and Agent Spence were worried about her.

"I have an assignment for you," Roberts announced.

It was in Cantrell's hometown, and since she refused to take the temporary leave the Bureau recommended after suffering a gunshot wound in the field, he and Spence thought a trip home would be the next best thing.

"In Minneapolis," he said, watching for her reaction, not getting one. "Two young women have been murdered in a period of eight weeks. One was the daughter of a good friend of the governor of Minnesota. So far an unequivocal connection between the murders hasn't been established, and they don't know if they're looking for one killer or two."

"I'm not sure I could do any better than the local FBI. Minneapolis has an excellent field office."

"I agree, but their profiler retired four months ago, and they haven't replaced him. Budget cuts. Cheaper for them to call us."

"What about the child poisonings in Denver and the murders in Texas?"

"Agent Spence can handle those."

"With all due respect, sir, working in my hometown might be a bit distracting to me. Wouldn't it be better to send someone else?"

Her reluctance was obvious, and Roberts wondered if returning her to the site of her childhood tragedy was a good idea. "I've never known you to allow yourself to be distracted. And it's common sense to send an agent to a city he or she is familiar with. Everything's already arranged. You're to meet with Agent Elliot Senatra in Minneapolis day after tomorrow. Pack with the intention of staying awhile. They're requesting that you remain until the case is close to being solved or until there are no more leads."

As he leaned back in his chair, she continued to stand straight before him. "Don't you have family there?" he finally asked, although he knew the answer.

"My mother and sister."

"Minneapolis…," he said reflectively. "My brother was in the Olympic speed-skating trials there years ago. Coldest damn place I'd ever been. I seem to recall something about a famous sculpture…"

"The Spoonbridge and CherryT "That's it. Isn't there a strange story about it?"

"Not that I know of, sir."

He sensed she was hedging. "Hmmm. I could have sworn… Oh, well."

His phone rang. Reaching for the receiver, he dismissed her.

Mary Cantrell exited the building and slipped into her tan Camry. The interior smelled like french fries. On the passenger side floor was a rumpled fast-food bag: evidence of a meal she'd eaten… when? Two days ago. The molded plastic holder was overloaded with stacked, insulated cups, each containing an inch of forgotten sludge. She didn't usually leave as much as a receipt in her car, but ever since the shooting she seemed to have become a slob.

She pulled out of the parking lot, rolling down her window a couple of inches as she headed in the direction of the National Center for Analysis of Violent Crime, located a few miles from Headquarters and the Academy.

At the NCAVC building, she found her partner in his office, lolling in front of a computer.

She and Anthony Spence had begun their acquaintance while training together at the Academy. One day he'd made some chauvinistic remark about women and their physical limitations, and she'd never forgotten it. Months later she was able to admit to herself that if he hadn't been so good-looking, she probably would have given him another chance. Beauty could sometimes be a handicap.

By some odd string of events, they were thrown together on a child abduction case. Soon afterwards, their "temporary" partnership became permanent because, as Director Roberts had put it, they were "a perfect team."

"I'm being sent to Minneapolis," she announced.

Anthony shut off the monitor and turned around, hands on the arms of his swivel chair. He wore a white dress shirt and loosened tie. His hair was straight and dark brown, his eyes a gray that sometimes looked black. He was handsome, and women of all ages noticed him.

"But I have the feeling you already knew about that," she added, wondering why she needed to hear him admit to his involvement in the decision to send her home. "I have the feeling you're behind this whole thing. Am I right?"

"Minneapolis… Don't they have some famous sculpture there?" he asked, ignoring her question.

"Among other things." A flash of anger began to smolder. Anthony had a way of doing that to her. "I didn't come here to discuss art."

But Anthony appeared to be in one of his obnoxious, teasing moods. "The spoon and cherry. I think I heard that people have sex in it. Is that right?"

"It's just a rumor."

He dropped the attitude. "Come on, Mary. Can't you let me return the favor?" He picked up a pen and began tapping it against the desktop. Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap. "For chrissake." He paused. Then, without making eye contact he continued in a quiet voice. "You put your life in jeopardy. You shouldn't have done that."

He was talking about a botched raid on a child pornography ring. She and Anthony had been sent to Boston at the last minute-a move that caused deep resentment within the local departments.

It wasn't the FBI's job to go into the warehouse with guns blazing, but when they radioed for the SWAT team to take over, nobody came. Later the head of the squad reported that he never received the call, but both Anthony and Mary knew better. They were being put in their place.

By the time she and Anthony made the decision to abort, it was too late. Bullets were flying. When Mary saw her partner in danger, she stepped from the safety of a brick wall and shouted a warning, her weapon drawn.

The shooter got her instead of Anthony.

As she lay bleeding on the cement floor, the rhythmic clatter of the SWAT team rang out as they finally arrived, boots charging past her. And then Anthony was there, his shaking hands covered in her blood, frantically shouting for a trauma team, all of his cool gone.

They weren't going to allow him in the ambulance, but Anthony shoved a medic aside and jumped in at the last second as tires spun over rain-washed cobblestones. Mary wished he hadn't made it because all the way to the hospital he kept asking, "What the hell were you thinking?" He repeated those words now.

"Is that what this is about?" she demanded. "Are you ashamed that a woman saved your life?"

"If that's what you want to believe of me, go ahead."

This was familiar ground. One thing they did well together was argue. But for once words deserted her and she felt herself dissolving. Ever since the shooting, she'd been having these strange moments of emotional weakness. She hated the thought of coming undone in front of him.

This is not a good time to go home. I'm not strong enough.

An image flashed in her mind. Her best friend, murdered, lying in a pile of leaves, her face white, eyes empty. She hadn't thought about Fiona in years. The memory had been assigned to a cold case file in her mind. It was over.

"Are you okay?"

I'm afraid to go home.

She and Anthony had spent the last three years tracking down serial killers, pedophiles, and child abductors, and she was afraid to go home. It was weird how certain things, certain personal horrors, never faded.