"I will do so immediately."

As I stood by and watched, I could sense hope blossoming in her mind. Her daughter had cash, charge cards, and access to money in a checking account It did not appear that she had left her purse inside the Jeep, meaning she might still have it with her. Meaning she might still be alive and well and off somewhere with her boyfriend.

"Your daughter ever threaten to run away with Fred?"

Marino asked her bluntly.

"No."

Staring again at the Jeep, she added what she wanted to believe, "But that doesn't mean it isn't possible."

"What was her mood when you Marino went on.

"We exchanged words yesterday morning before my sons and I left for the beach," she replied in a detached, flat tone. "She was upset with me."

"She know about the cases around here? The missing couples?" Marino asked.

"Yes, of course. We have discussed them, wondered about them. She knew."

Gail said to Morrell, "We ought to get started."

"Good idea."

"One last thing."

Gail looked at Mrs. Harvey. "You got any idea who was driving?"

"Fred, I suspect," she answered. "When they went places together, he usually drove."

Nodding, Gail said, "Guess I'm going to need that pocketknife and pen again."

Collecting them from Wesley and Marino, she went around to the passenger's side and opened the door. She sped one of the bloodhounds' harnesses. Eagerly, he got up and moved in perfect accord with his mistress's feet, snuffling along, muscles rippling beneath his loose, glossy coat, ears dragging heavily, as if lined with lead.

"Come on, Neptune, let's put that magic nose of yours to work."

We watched in silence as she directed Neptune's nose at the bucket seat where Deborah Harvey was presumed to have been sitting yesterday. Suddenly he yelped as if he had encountered a rattlesnake, jerking back from the Jeep, practically wrenching the harness from Gail's hand. He tucked his tail between his legs and the fur literally stood up on his back as a dull ran up my spine.

"Easy, boy. Easy!"

Whimpering and quivering all over, Neptune squatted and defecated in the grass.

I woke up the next morning, exhausted and dreading the Sunday paper.

The headline was bold enough to be read from a block away: DRUG CZAR'S DAUGHTER, FRIEND MISSING - POLICE FEAR FOUL PLAY Not only had reporters gotten hold of a photograph of Deborah Harvey, but there was a picture of her jeep being towed from the rest stop and a file photograph, I presumed, of Bob and Pat Harvey, hand in hand, walking a deserted beach in Spindrift. As I sipped coffee and read, I could not help but think about Fred Cheney's family. He was not from a prominent family. He was just "Deborah's boyfriend."

Yet he, too, was missing; he, too, was loved.

Apparently, Fred was the son of a Southside businessman, an only child whose mother had died last year when a berry aneurysm ruptured in her brain. Fred's father, the story read, was in Sarasota visiting relatives when the police finally hacked him down late last night. If there were a remote possibility that his son had "run off" with Deborah, the story read, it would have been very much out of character for Fred, who was described as "a good student at Carolina and a member of the varsity swim team."

Deborah was an honor student and a gymnast gifted enough to be an Olympic hopeful Weighing no more than a hundred pounds, she had shoulder-length dark blond hair and her mother's handsome features. Fred was broad-shouldered and lean, with wavy black hair and hazel eyes. They were a couple described as attractive and inseparable.

"Whenever you saw one, you always saw the other," a friend was quoted as saying. "I think it had a lotto do with Fred's mother dying. Debbie met him right about that time, and I don't think he would have made it through without her."

Of course, the story went on to regurgitate the details of the other four Virginia couples missing and later found dead. My name was mentioned several times. I was described as frustrated, baffled, and avoiding comment I wondered if it occurred to anyone that I continued to autopsy the victims of homicides, suicides, and accidents every week. I routinely talked to families, testified in court, and gave lectures to paramedics and Police academies. Couples or not, life and death went on.

I had gotten up from the kitchen table, was sipping Coffee and staring out at the bright morning when the phone rang.

Expecting my mother, who often called at this hour on Sunday to inquire about my well-being and if I had been to Mass, I pulled out a nearby chair as I picked up the receiver.

"Dr. Scarpetta?"

"Speaking."

The woman sounded familiar, but I could not place her.

"It's Pat Harvey. Please forgive me for bothering you at home."

Behind her steady voice, I detected a note of fear.

"You certainly aren't bothering me," I replied kindly.

"What can I do for you?"

"They searched all through the night and are still out there. They brought in more dogs, more police, several aircraft."

She began to speak rapidly. "Nothing. No sign of them. Bob has joined the search parties. I'm home."

She hesitated. "I'm wondering if you could come over? Perhaps you're free for lunch?"

"After a long pause, I reluctantly agreed. As I hung up the telephone I silently berated myself, for I knew what she wanted from me. Pat Harvey would ask about the other couples. If I were her, it was exactly what I would do.

I went upstairs to my bedroom and got out of my robe.

Then I took a long, hot bath and washed my hair while my answering machine began intercepting calls that I had no intention of returning unless they were emergencies. Within the hour I was dressed in a khaki skirt suit and tensely playing back messages. There were five of them, all from reporters who had learned that I had been summoned to the New Kent County rest stop, which did not bode well for the missing couple.

I reached for the phone, intending to call Pat Harvey back and cancel our lunch. But I could not forget her face when she had arrived by helicopter with her daughters' sweatshirt, I could not forget the faces of any of the parents. Hanging up the phone, I locked the house and got into my car.

People in public service can't afford the accoutrements privacy demands unless they have some other means of income. Obviously, Pat Harvey's federal salary was a meager sliver of her family's worth. They lived near Windsor on the James in a palatial Jeffersonian house overlooking the river. The estate, which I guessed to be at least five acres, was surrounded by a high brick wall posted with "Private Property" signs. When I turned into along drive shaded by trees, I was stopped by a sturdy wrought-iron gate that slid open electronically before I could roll down my window to reach for the intercom. The gate slid shut behind me as I drove through. I parked near a black Jaguar sedan before a Roman portico of unfluted columns, old red brick, and white trim.

As I was getting out of my car, the front door opened. Pat Harvey, drying her hands on a dish towel, smiled bravely at me from the top of the steps. Her face was pale, eyes lusterless and tired.

"It's so good of you to come, Dr. Scarpetta."

She motioned for me to enter. "Please come in."

The foyer was as spacious as a living room, and I followed her through a formal sitting room to the kitchen. Furniture was eighteenth century, Oriental rugs wall to wall, and there were original Impressionist paintings and a fireplace with beechwood logs artfully placed on the hearth. At least the kitchen looked functional and lived in, but I did not get the impression that anyone else was home.

"Jason and Michael are out with their father," she explained when I asked. "The boys drove in this morning."