“But she did. How long do you think it will take Hall to get the juvie records for Ewan Copeland?”

“Roddie said that would be his second call. He’ll have to get the district attorney’s office involved. He’s on it. Told you he was a good cop.”

“I’m glad you have friends in high places. You know, it’s only 7:00.”

He took her hand. “I assume by your tone that’s not an invitation?”

“It’s never too early to go to bed.”

“Hmm. We do have that reservation. Or we could just head back to Nashville instead.”

She was getting interested in what Baldwin was doing with her hand.

“Tempting. On both counts. There’s nothing like a Holiday Inn to get my juices going. But heading home’s not a bad idea either. We could trade off driving so you could get a nap.”

“I’m up for it if you are.” He showed her that was certainly the case, tossed her a crazy, silly grin that she couldn’t help but respond to. They were like disaster survivors, giddy in the knowledge that they’d come through okay. She recognized the feeling, she had it every time a case turned her way. She reached over and ran her free hand through his hair, smoothing it down. He’d been fussing with it, and it was sticking up in all directions.

“You know, on second thought, I’m wondering if we should stay in North Carolina, just in case. Raleigh is only a couple hours north of here. We could head up there instead. Hall could use another couple of trained agents, couldn’t he?”

“Taylor, we’d just be in the way. Hall knows what he’s doing.”

“True.” She sighed heavily and looked out the window. “Well, Chief Morgan gave us the address of the old Copeland place. What about we go over there and take a look, see if Hall calls us back in the meantime?”

He sighed dramatically and released her captive hand. “All right. You win. We’ll go put a place to the face.”

“Thank you, sweetie. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“Oh, yes, you will,” he said, then put the car in gear.

Within five minutes, they arrived at the address the chief had given them.

The Copelands’ old house was off a side street, tucked into a neighborhood that was probably nice in the forties or early fifties, but now just seemed tired of putting on airs.

It was fully dark; the single streetlight’s meager illumination didn’t penetrate the houses’ front yards. They had to dig the Maglites out of the trunk to get an idea of the scene. Equipped with the powerful lights, they started toward the little house.

A cracked concrete walk littered with weeds and trash led to the tiny front porch. The house was a small single-story clapboard affair, smaller than its neighbors, with what looked like five rooms—the kitchen up front, and two tiny bedrooms that overlooked the dingy gray porch. Taylor played the flashlight’s beam into the darkness. She could see a hallway off what was most likely the bathroom, and a living room beyond. The master, if you could call it that, would be in the back.

They scrambled around the side of the house, shining their lights into the desolate landscape and murmuring to each other. The backyard butted up to the train tracks, with a chain-link fence separating it from the endless black iron. There was a small storm cellar beside the house, the doors painted what used to be blue.

A dog began to bark two houses over and the porch lights on either side of them came on.

“Who’s there?” a deep, hurt female voice whispered. “Allen, is that you? You’re late.” Someone was expecting a date.

“Time to split,” Baldwin said, sotto voce.

Taylor nodded and turned off her light. They slunk back around the side of the house as quietly as they could, Baldwin leading in the dark, Taylor following him back up the slope into the front yard.

Another female voice rang out, this time more authoritative, from their right. “I see you moving around over there. I’m calling Chief Morgan. You no good little brats better stay out of my yard. I’ve got a gun and I know how to use it.” A door slammed and the dog stopped barking.

Feeling silly, Taylor turned to yell that she was the police and stumbled over something hard. She went down on her hands and knees, the breath going out of her in a whoosh. Baldwin was right there, helping her up, shining the light around in a circle so they could see what she’d tripped on.

It was a metal stake. The kind you hammer into the ground to tie a dog’s chain to. She limped the last ten feet to the car and let Baldwin look at the offending shin.

He rolled up her pant leg gently, his palm warm against her sore skin. “You scared me. Don’t go falling down like that.”

“Then tell these people not to put stakes in the middle of their yard.”

The voice from next door spoke again, this time much closer. “Serves you right, sneaking around like that.”

Baldwin moved like lightning, his weapon out in a heartbeat and his Maglite shining square in the woman’s face, effectively blinding her. She was an older woman with a frazzled gray bun and a white terry housecoat covered in small brown cartoon puppies. True to her word, she carried a Remington 12-gauge shotgun, which she had pointed at them. Taylor hadn’t heard the shell jacked into place, either the woman was waiting to impress them—there was nothing like the sound of a pump action shotgun going live, it was unmistakable and threatening enough to stop any smart person in their tracks—or she didn’t have it loaded, and the gun was just for show.

Taylor bit her lip so she wouldn’t laugh. This was absolutely ridiculous.

“Please don’t shoot, ma’am. We’re law enforcement. We have identification in our pockets. I’m John Baldwin, FBI, and this is Lieutenant Jackson, from Nashville.”

The woman grinned at him. “Well, that’s a damn good thing.” She lowered the shotgun, stuck out her hand. “Sharon Potts. I’m a nurse, over at the hospital. Let me see if she’s okay. Can’t help but feel that was my fault, spooking her like a spring horse. You’re a jumpy thing, aren’t you?”

Taylor just sighed and stuck out her leg. Baldwin shined the light up and down it while the old woman ran her fingers along the broken skin. She hissed in a breath when the woman grabbed her leg and twisted. The nurse stood and brushed her hands down the front of her housecoat, smoothing it out over her hips.

“Nothing’s broken. You barked it pretty good, that’s a deep scratch. You’re bleeding all over this fine young gentlemen’s car. You don’t need stitches, but some peroxide and a Band-Aid might come in handy. Probably need a tetanus booster, too. You folks have a first-aid kit in this fancy vehicle?”

“Not one that has fancy tetanus boosters,” Baldwin said. Taylor could hear the smile in his voice. He thought this was funny, too. Then she drew a breath and sobered. If the Pretender had been lurking around instead—no, she’d have been alerted by her guards. He wasn’t going to be able to sneak up on her.

“Smarty pants. Well, you can take her on over to the emergency room. Won’t be too busy this time of night,” Sharon said. She started back to her own yard, coughing deeply, the Remington slung up over her shoulder, almost longer than she was tall. Taylor felt like she’d stepped into the pages of Li’l Abner.

“Wait, Ms. Potts?” Taylor called out.

“Yes, yes, you’re welcome,” the old woman called back, hand fluttering up in a backward wave, still moving toward her front door.

“No, I…well, yes, thank you. But I was wondering. How long have you lived here?”

She stopped walking and turned around. “Long enough. Why?”

“Did you know the folks who used to live next door to you? The Copelands?”

Potts stared at her for a long moment, the darkness making her face look like a Janus mask, grotesque and unyielding. Then she smiled, and the face turned.

“Hell, you’d best come in. I’ll make you some tea.”