I wont be back today, he told her as he hurried through the reception area. I hope I will someday. And not in a coffin, he added silently.

All right, Mr. Rider, you take care.

He almost laughed at her remark. He had phoned his house before leaving the office, but his wife wasnt in. As he drove along, he had already made up his mind what he was going to do. The two had kicked around the idea of taking a late fall vacation, maybe down to the islands, one last dose of sun and water before the ice set in. Only they might stay awhile. Hed prefer to pour his savings into staying alive than into securing the view of a Florida sunset he might never get a chance to see. They could drive to Roanoke, hop a commuter flight and take it into Washington or Richmond. From there they could go anywhere. He would explain it to his wife by saying he was just being spontaneous, something she had said he never was and never could be. Good old steady, reliable Sam Rider. Did nothing more with his life than work hard, pay his bills, raise his kids, love his wife and try to catch a few strands of happiness along the way. Lord, Im already writing my obituary, he realized. He wouldnt be in a position to help Rufus, but he figured the man was probably dead anyway. Im sorry, Rufus, he thought. But youre in a much better place, far better than the one those bastards saddled you with on this earth. A sudden thought made him almost turn the car around. He had left the copies of the filing he had made for Rufus back at the office. Should he go back? He finally decided that his life was worth more than a few pieces of paper. What could he do with them now anyway? He concentrated on the road. There wasnt much between his office and his home except windy roads, birds and the occasional deer or black bear. The isolation had never bothered Rider until now. At this moment, it terrified him. He had a shotgun at home that he used for quail hunting. He wished he had it with him. He rounded an elbow-shaped bend in the road, a rusted guardrail the only thing standing between him and a five-hundred-foot drop. As he tapped his brakes to slow down, his breath caught in his throat. His brakes. Oh, my God, Ive lost my brakes! He started to scream. But then the brakes held. Dont let your senses run away from you, Sam, he cautioned himself. A few minutes later he turned the last corner and saw his mailbox. A minute after that he pulled the car into his garage. His wifes car was next to his. As he passed by her car, he glanced at the front seat. His feet seemed to sink right into the concrete floor. His wife was lying facedown in the front seat. Even from where he was standing, Rider could see the blood pouring from the head wound. That was the next to last memory Rider would have. The hand came around and clamped across his face a large cloth that had a sickening medicinal odor. Another hand slipped something into Riders hand. As the lawyer looked down with eyes that were already beginning to close, he saw and felt the still-warm pistol as his fingers were wrapped around it by a pair of latex-gloved hands. It was Riders pistol, one he used for target shooting. The one he now also knew had been used to kill his wife. From the heat left in the metal, they must have done it as soon as he turned into the driveway. They must have been watching for him. He arched his head and stared into the cold, clear eyes of Victor Tremaine as his face was thrust deeper and deeper into the clutches of unconsciousness. This man had killed her, but Rider would be blamed for it. Not that it would matter much to him. He was dead too. As he finished this thought, Samuel Riders eyes closed for the last time. ["C34"]CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Driving down the George Washington Parkway south of Old Town Alexandria, Fiske glimpsed a bike rider as he flitted, phantomlike, among the line of trees that ran along the asphalt bike path paralleling the river. Fiske nudged Sara awake and she told him where to turn off the parkway. She glanced quickly at him. The encounter with his father had not been mentioned on the drive back. It was as though they had silently agreed not to discuss it. With Sara directing, Fiske pulled down another blacktop road, and then turned right onto a gravel lane that ran steeply down toward the water. He stopped the car in front of the small, wood-framed cottage, which stood there prim and dour among the untidy backdrop of tree, bramble and wild-flower, like the preachers wife at a church picnic turned rowdy. The clapboard was layered with fifty yearsworth of white paint; the structure also had black shutters, and a wide brick chimney the color of terra-cotta. Fiske watched as a squirrel sprinted across the phone line, leaped to the roof and corkscrewed up the chimney. Anchoring one corner of the property was a crape myrtle in full bloom, its bark the texture and color of deerskin. Wedged against the other side of the cottage was a twenty-foot holly, red berries peeping out, ornamentlike, from among the dark green leaves. In between was a hedge of burning bush, the ground underneath it sprinkled with cardinal-red leaves. Behind the house Fiske noted the stairway angling down to the water. From there he thought he saw the bob of a sail mast. From the back seat, he grabbed the clean clothes he had gotten from his apartment. They got out of the car.

Nice place, he commented. Sara stretched and yawned deeply. When I got the clerkship at the Court, I flew in to look at housing. I thought Id just rent at first, but found this place and fell in love with it. So I went down to North Carolina, sold the farm, and bought this.

Must have been hard selling the homestead.

Sara shook her head. The two reasons it was important to me were dead. All that was left was a bunch of dirt that I couldnt do anything with.

Still stretching, she headed to the house. Ill get the coffee going. She looked at her watch and moaned. Im going to be late for oral argument. I should call in, but Im afraid to.

Im sure theyll understand, given the circumstances.

Youd think so, wouldnt you, she said doubtfully. Fiske hesitated. Do you have a map around here?

What kind?

Eastern half of the United States.

She thought a moment. Check the glove compartment.

He did so and pulled out the map. As they went into the house she asked, What are you looking for?

Ive been thinking about the eight hundred miles that were on Mikes car.

You want to see whats eight hundred miles from here?

No, four hundred. Sara looked puzzled. Four hundred miles out, but he, or someone else, had to drive back to D.C.

Although it could be a number of smaller trips, a hundred miles here and there.

Fiske shook his head. Human remains inside a trunk on a hot day arent real pleasant to be around. Ive found a couple that way, he added grimly. While she fixed coffee in the kitchen, Fiske looked out the window that faced the river. From this vantage point he could now see the pressure-treated lumber dock and the sailboat tied up to it.

You get to sail much?

Black or cream?

Black.

She got out two cups. Not as much as I used to. Where I lived in North Carolina was pretty landlocked. Some fishing with my dad, swimming at a pond a few miles down the road. But out at Stanford, I really got into it. You never know how big something can be until you see the Pacific Ocean. It dwarfs everything else Ive ever experienced.

Never been there.

Let me know if you ever decide to. I could show you around. She wiped the hair out of her eyes, poured his coffee and handed him his cup.

Ill put that on my list, he said dryly.

Ive only got one bathroom, so well have to take turns showering.

You go first. I want to check out this map.

If Im not down in twenty minutes, pound on the door; Ill probably have fallen asleep in the shower.

Fiske was looking at the map, sipping his coffee, and didnt comment. Sara paused on the stairs.