One minute later we’re back on the road, heading north.

Cutter is starting to think that following Mrs. Bickford is a waste of time. Time that’s rapidly expiring, and that is starting to feel like small bubbles in his blood, spurring him on. Fortunately they’re all heading in the same direction—north on 95—and since Cutter doesn’t want to exceed the speed limit in his stolen Cadillac, he might as well remain behind his quarry, keeping an interval of five or six vehicles between them, for at least another few exits.

He assumes they’re heading to Pawtucket, to check out the adoption records. Which will prove to be another dead end for Supermom and her faithful sidekick.

So far as Cutter has been able to determine, all the bases had been covered. Assuming he hasn’t left behind any DNA or prints—and he’s one hundred percent certain he has not—there’s no way a solo investigator will be able to identify him as the culprit. Planning and execution have been meticulous. He’s used all of his skills, his training, his battlefield-honed instincts, and now he’s less than twenty-four hours from completion.

Between now and then he’ll do whatever has to be done to keep the enterprise on track. Kill, maim and terrorize as necessary. As he sees it, the primary challenge is managing the surgeon, Stanley Munk. At this point, control of Munk is strictly a psychological operation, and psych-ops are always dicey and unpredictable. At present Munk is cooperating, but that could change, and if it does, Cutter has to be ready. If threatening to expose the good doctor isn’t enough, he’ll find another way. Take Munk’s latest trophy wife hostage, if necessary. But abductions are inherently risky, requiring complicated logistics and timing and he hopes it won’t come to that.

Cutter doesn’t think of himself as a kidnapper. In his mind kidnappers are vile monsters, damaging children for money or depraved physical pleasures. His appropriation of Tomas is completely different, and necessary. The choice had been clear. He had to take Mrs. Bickford’s son so that his own son might live. And if that means his soul is damned to hell, so be it.

His foot knows something is wrong before he does. Why has he jammed on the brakes? Because five cars ahead, Mrs. Bickford has done the unthinkable. She’s supposed to be going to Pawtucket—he’d been absolutely certain that’s where she was heading—but instead she’s put her blinker on and is edging into the right-hand lane for the exit to Route 9, just south of New London.

The fact explodes like shrapnel in his hyperactive mind. Something is wrong, and for the first time in weeks, he has no idea what it means.

Our first stop is in Sussex, and as we wend our way up Route 9, Shane is explaining what happened to the adoption records.

“According to the Rhode Island attorney general’s office, Family Finders was a shady outfit, licensed but not always compliant with state laws on the adoption process,” he begins.

“We had no idea,” I tell him. “Ted would have told me if there was something wrong.”

“He couldn’t have known. It was a very slick operation. Their fees were anywhere from ten to fifty grand, depending on the client. They squeezed out as much as they could, apparently, after checking the financial statements that adoptive parents have to file. They were in the baby-selling business, plain and simple.”

Shane speaks in a just-the-facts-ma’am voice, but each word pounds into my head like an ice-cold spike.

“Are you saying Tommy’s birth mother might really be alive?”

He studies me with concern. “It’s possible. My best guess is that Bruce has his own agenda, but there could be birth parents involved. We might never know for sure because the records were destroyed in a fire six weeks ago.”

“What happened?”

“After Family Finders went out of business, the files were in file boxes in the basement at the county records office. Six weeks ago somebody doused the files with lighter fluid. That’s as much as the arson squad was able to determine. And the one employee at Family Finders who might know died at about the same time. Fell from a ladder, supposedly.”

“It was him,” I say. “Had to be Bruce.”

Shane agrees. “He found something, doesn’t want anybody else to know what it is.”

“I’m not sure it really matters now,” I say. “Not when we show up at his front door.”

36 tenpins in heaven

He’s not the one. That’s obvious to me the moment he opens the door. Too big, not the right age, and he doesn’t move like the man who abducted my son. And if there was any doubt, his voice confirms it. He’s not Bruce, not even close.

We’re in Sussex, which bills itself as “The Nicest Small Town In America.” No argument from me. It’s the sort of place I think of as Old Connecticut, far removed both in miles and mind-set from the towns and cities within commuting distance of New York. A quiet little riverfront village with a mix of lovingly restored colonial-era homes and a few quirky-looking buildings that had been patched together over the centuries, without help or guidance from Architectural Digest. That’s not to say that developers haven’t had their way here and there, among the slightly precious shops and inns, but I can’t imagine upscale destinations like Greenwich or Fairfax allowing a giant plastic groundhog to be featured in the main square. The locals apparently have great affection for Sussex Sam, and parade him around on Groundhog Day. It’s late in the month of June and Sussex Sam is still there in the square, wearing his jaunty plastic top hat and searching for his shadow.

A few crucial blocks from the waterfront, and thus far free from renovation, there stands a row of wooden, three-story tenement buildings, sheathed in dented aluminum siding. We’ve located Lieutenant Michael Vernon, U.S. Army (Ret.) on the third floor of the middle building, where he lives with his wife and son in a four-room apartment that smells of sour milk and boiled potatoes.

According to the information from Shane’s source at the Pentagon, Lieutenant Michael Vernon is forty-one years of age, but he looks ten years older, and his broad-shouldered, linebacker’s physique has sagged a bit over the years. Thinning red hair, close-cropped, and the kind of freckled skin that eventually shows serious sun damage. A big brawl of a man with forearms like Popeye. He’s not entirely clear on why we’ve sought him out, but seems glad to have company on a summer evening, and makes us welcome.

“Family Finders, huh? Yeah, I knew they went bankrupt or whatever. One time when things were bad Cathy and I talked to a lawyer about suing the bastards. Pardon me, miss. But you know what I mean. Anyhow, it was too late. Nobody left to sue.”

Shane and I have been offered seats on the plush green sofa, which is relatively new, unlike anything else in the apartment.

“Gift from my mother-in-law,” Lieutenant Vernon explains. “Couple months ago she plops down and a broken spring bites her in the butt. Next day a delivery truck pulls up. Hell, if I knew that’s all it took I’d have bitten her in the ass myself. Pardon me, miss. No offense intended.”

“None taken,” I respond.

His wife, Cathy, is a special-needs teacher at the local middle school, so he stays home to look after Mike Junior. “Not my idea to name him after me,” he says. “That was Cathy. You guys want some iced tea? ’Scuse my saying so, but it’s hot as a bitch in here.”

Iced tea would be great. There’s no air-conditioning and the windows are screwed shut because this is the third floor and Mike Junior has a habit of lurching out of open windows.