It appeared that Sondra Arsenault might have had a million words to say, but in the end only three words found her lips.

“Yes,” she said. “He did.”

Powell looked at the woman. It was the break she had been waiting for. She glanced at Fontova, who had been sitting quietly on a rather severe-looking Danish modern dining-room chair. He moved his head an inch to one side, then back. No questions.

Powell stood, walked to the front window. A had just led to B. It was on. She had never gotten past C in her career, had never needed to. When she got to C she had her killer.

There was a good chance that the man who had destroyed Viktor Harkov had broken into this house. Maybe he had left a fingerprint. Maybe an eyelash or a drop of saliva. Maybe he had been seen by one of the neighbors. They would begin a canvass.

But who were Anna and Marya? Was there another couple out there in jeopardy?

And if so, why? Why was a killer looking for two little girls?

Powell had one more question for the moment.

“Mrs Arsenault, this woman, the one you met at the medical conference, what was her name?”

Sondra Arsenault looked at her hands. “I never got her last name, but I remember she was a nurse,” she said. “An ER nurse. Her name was Abby.”

THIRTY-FOUR

Michael put his ear to the motel wall, listened. He could hear a muffled voice coming from the room next door.

He picked up the remote, turned on the television, all the while holding the volume down button. In seconds the picture came on. Ear still tight to the wall, Michael flipped through the channels. The service was basic cable, and soon he returned to the channel where he began. The sound from the other room did not sync with any of the TV channels. The sound was either a radio talk show or another motel patron talking on the phone.

He turned off the TV, cupped his ear to the wall once more, concentrated. The rhythm sounded like a man having a telephone conversation, like the man was agreeing with someone. A yes-man talking to his boss. Or his wife.

After five minutes or so, there was silence. Michael heard the water flowing through the pipe, but he could not be sure it was coming from the next room. He then heard the television click on, a few ads, then the unmistakable rhythms of a game show. After another five minutes the television was turned off.

Michael heard a door open then close. He stepped quickly to the window, inched over the vertical blind. He saw a middle-aged man in a wrinkled gray suit exit the room next to his, walk over to a red Saturn. He fumbled with keys for a moment, then opened the car door, slipped inside. Michael saw the man unfold a map, study it for a full minute. Soon the car backed up, drove out of the parking lot, pulled onto the marginal road, and head toward the avenue.

Michael glanced over at the motel sign. The blue Ford with the tinted windows was still in position.

He crossed the room, put his ear to the wall again. Silence. He held this position for a few minutes, listening. No sounds came from the room next door. He knocked on the wall. Nothing. He knocked louder. Silence. The third time he pounded on the wall, hard enough to dislodge the cheap framed print above the bed in his own room and send it crashing to the floor.

He listened again. Unless the world’s soundest sleeper was in the next room, it was empty.

He ran his hands along the wall. It felt like drywall beneath the cheap wallpaper, perhaps half-inch gypsum. There was vinyl cove base at the floor, no crown molding at the ceiling. He wondered if –

The phone rang. Michael nearly jumped out of his skin. He ran across the room, stumbling over the desk chair, and picked up the receiver before the phone could ring a second time.

“Yes.”

“Just checking in, counselor.”

It was the one called Kolya. Michael knew enough about the world to know Kolya was the accomplice, a lackey, despite his claims to be the mastermind. “I’m here.”

“Smart man.”

“I need to talk to my wife.”

“Not gonna happen, boss.”

Boss. Prison.

“I need to know she is all right.”

No response. Michael listened closely to the receiver. There was no background noise. It was impossible to tell where Kolya was calling from. After a few moments pause, Kolya said:

“She’s a good-looking woman.”

A sick feeling washed over Michael. He had not considered for a moment that this could get worse. It just did. He battled back his rage. He lost the fight.

“I swear to Christ if you fucking touch – !”

“Thirty minutes.”

The line went dead.

It took every ounce of discipline within him not to slam down the receiver. He did not need a broken phone on top of everything. He took a few deep breaths, then calmly set the phone in its cradle.

He set the timer on his chronograph watch. He started it. In an instant the readout went from 30:00 to 29:59. He did not have much time to do what he needed to do.

HE LOOKED AROUND THE room for something to use. Something sharp. He opened the drawers in the dresser. Inside one was a yellowed cash-registry receipt, a glossy slip for three pairs of men’s support hose from Macy’s. The other held only the fading scent of a lavender sachet.

The two nightstands were empty, as were the closets, save for a pair of wire coat hangers. He took them off the rod, then stepped into the bathroom.

He tried to pull the mirror off the wall. It didn’t budge.

He wrapped his arm in his coat, turned away his head, and slammed his elbow into the mirror as hard as he could. Nothing. He planted his feet, tried again. This time the mirror cracked. He wrapped his hand in a towel, and pulled off the largest piece.

ON THE WALL FACING the adjoining room there were two electrical outlets, spaced about six feet apart. When Michael was in high school he had worked three summers for a leasing company that owned three apartment buildings in Queens. He picked up a few skills, one of which was hanging drywall in newly renovated apartments. As a rule of thumb, the studs in the wall were sixteen inches on center. If a contractor wanted to skimp, he sometimes placed them twenty-four inches apart. In most residential structures waterlines ran through the basement or crawlspace, coming up through the floor plates to the sinks, tubs, and toilets, leaving only electrical wire or conduit to run behind the plaster or drywall.

Michael stood in front of one of the electrical outlets, and began to tap along the wall with the middle knuckle on his right hand. Outlets were always attached to a vertical stud, on one side or the other. Directly above the outlet it sounded solid. As he moved left a few inches, it sounded hollow. When he reached what seemed like sixteen or so inches, it sounded solid again. He thudded the heel of his hand eight or so inches to the right. Hollow.

The bathroom was on the other side of the bedroom, so the chances of there being a sanitary stack or waterlines on this side were unlikely.

He dug the sharp shard of mirror into the wall. He peeled back the wallpaper. Beneath the wallpaper, as he had thought, was drywall, not plaster and wood lath. He pushed on it. It felt thin. He set himself, reared back, lifted his leg at the knee, and kicked the wall. The drywall cracked, but did not buckle.

He checked his watch. The readout said 12:50.

He picked up the shard of silvered glass, and began to cut into the drywall. Because he could not get a firm grip on the sharp glass, it was slow going, but after five minutes or so he cut all the way through to the other side. After three more kicks he had a hole large enough to crawl through.

His watch read 3:50.

He walked back to the window, inched aside the blind. The blue Ford had not moved, nor had the red Saturn returned. He went back to the hole in the wall, looked through. The room was identical to his, save for the rollaway suitcase on the bed, opened.