“If I killed a man I should be punished for it, that’s what you believe, it’s what Dad believed. I’m going to find out what really happened.”

Sherlock said, “Mrs. Alcott, Dr. Hicks is an expert. He’ll help us find the truth. Let me say we have reason to believe Brakey may not be responsible for Deputy Kane Lewis’s death. Someone else is. Allow us to prove that. Brakey wants the truth. You should, too.”

“When can we do this?” Brakey asked, his voice thin as a reed.

“Tomorrow morning, Mr. Alcott, we will send someone to drive you to Quantico. We will meet you there.”

Ms. Louisa looked up at her daughter-in-law, nodded toward Savich and Sherlock. “Seems to me these pretty young people think something very strange is at work here. Sounds interesting, doesn’t it? If their shrink wants to dig into Brakey’s brain, let him. Who knows what he’ll find? Maybe a murderer, or maybe a boy who doesn’t know his elbow from his knee.”

SAVICH HOUSE

GEORGETOWN

Friday night

It was late. Sherlock was asleep, her hand over his heart, her breath warm against his shoulder. Savich kissed her hair, breathed in her scent, and closed his mind down. He fell asleep and into a cold so brutal his bones were going to shatter. Fast as snapping fingers, the cold was gone, and he was standing in a small, circular clearing in the middle of a thick pine-tree forest, the thick-needled branches spearing upward, nearly meeting overhead. It was full-on night, yet oddly he could see around him as if it was twilight, the darker night hovering indistinctly in the billowing shadows at the edge of the trees.

He was alone beneath the motionless sentinel pines with no idea of where he was. He was naked but he didn’t feel cold, and surely that was strange, because he could make out small patches of snow. He realized he didn’t feel the rocky ground beneath his feet, and he felt a stab of panic. He had to be dreaming, but why would he dream this? And if he was conscious of it, knew he was dreaming, surely he could change the dream. That’s what a conscious dream was, wasn’t it? Could he bring himself out of it? He willed himself back into bed, wrapped around Sherlock, pictured himself kissing her neck.

Nothing happened.

Another shock of panic. He calmed. Relax, go with it. It wasn’t as if he had a choice anyway.

He sniffed the air, smelled smoke. He couldn’t remember actually smelling anything in a dream before, but now he could. It was burning wood, off to his right. He walked toward it, along a wide trail through the trees and the undergrowth, noticed again that he didn’t feel the brambles on the trail under his feet, though he walked right over them. He reached out to touch a pine tree, but his hand went through it. He drew back, slashed his hand through the tree again, harder. Nothing there. He knew then this wasn’t a dream. His subconscious had nothing to do with this. No, it was something else. Was he in some sort of hologram?

Something or someone else was in charge of his spirit-walk thought these woods and toward the unknown. He felt a presence, a presence he knew he should fear. What do you want from me? Why am I here?

Savich stepped out of the pines and into another clearing. An ancient stone tower stood before him, lichen growing thick on the stones. He saw two rough-cut skinny windows covered with what looked like animal hides. Why this bizarre tower?

He raised his hand to push the knob on the large black door, paused. Slowly, he laid his palm against it. He was surprised. It was solid, the wood rough against his palm. Savich shoved and the door swung open. He stepped into a magnificent Moorish-tiled entryway with a soaring ceiling so high he couldn’t see the top. The smell of smoke was strong inside, as if the air itself were burning, making his eyes tear. The stone beneath his bare feet felt icy cold and as solid as the door. Very well, for whatever reason, inside this tower, he wasn’t insubstantial, he was real.

He felt a sudden blast of arctic air. What was that—a touch of the spurs? Had he broken a rule? Whose rule?

He slapped his hands to his arms for warmth and looked around. He had to admit it was an awesome illusion, a vast space replete with Gothic trimmings. There were rush torches fastened to the stone walls, but they weren’t lit. Couldn’t you manage that?

Some twenty feet beyond him, wide stone steps led upward, fading into the roiling shadows in the distance. They looked well worn, as if centuries of heavy booted feet had marched over them. There was a solid stone wall on his right and an arched stone doorway on his left. He walked through it and into a room from the past, filled with dark, heavy, richly carved furniture, like he’d seen in an old castle near Lisbon. There was a blazing fireplace large enough to roast a cow, which blew out blue puffs of smoke. He walked over and reached out his cold hands to the flames, but they held no heat, no warmth at all, like a moving picture of a fire. There were dark beams crisscrossing overhead, but no windows, only large faded tapestries of medieval hunting scenes on the walls.