Savich said, “Do you have anything else new for me? Other than Ceci. Oh, yes, I can hear her. Fine lungs.”

John laughed. “As for Ceci, she keeps Mary Ann and me at half-mast most days. The doctor assures us she’ll start to sleep through the night soon. I don’t believe it.” He sobered. “You know I’ll alert you right away if we find anything for you.”

Savich wished him and Mary Ann the best with Ceci, rang off, and settled back against the pillow. He remembered Sean blasting out earsplitting yells at least twice a night, remembered how he and Sherlock had dragged themselves around for the first couple months.

He thought of St. Patrick’s almost being gutted by a bomb, thought of the scores of mourners who could have died but didn’t, thanks to a little boy who’d been sick to his stomach. He pictured the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore, the incredible duomo in Florence, imagined it empty, in ruins.

He managed to shut it down, finally, and fell deeply asleep.

At five-thirty in the morning, Griffin called. “Savich, Brakey Alcott is on the move.”

OUTSIDE REINEKE, VIRGINIA

Early Saturday morning

Savich’s Porsche cruised past the light traffic on I-95, no need for flashers or a siren. Griffin sat next to him, adjusting the map on a tablet in his lap as they approached the flashing red dot that signaled Brakey’s ankle bracelet.

“I shouldn’t have trusted Brakey to stay put. It was a bad call.”

“I knew you’d think that, Savich,” Griffin said. “You’d be telling me to move along, to let it go, if it had been my decision.” He paused as Savich passed a huge beer truck, then said, “The signal is hardly moving now. Brakey’s on undeveloped land with very little around it, probably forest, about a quarter-mile from the nearest road, according to this map. There could be a dirt road or a fire road near there, though. It’s the boondocks, and guess what, the Abbott house is only about ten miles away, so he’s staying close to home. But why? What’s he doing in the woods?”

“Whatever Dalco wants him to.” Savich hoped that wasn’t to murder someone else.

“Get off at the next exit. Savich, Dalco had to know we were tracking Brakey, didn’t he? He knew we’d find him, knew we’d bring him back. Is he messing with us, showing he’s in control?”

“I don’t think that’s dramatic enough for Dalco, too pedestrian. He thinks highly of himself, Griffin. He likes to show off.”

“I’m worried it’s Brakey who’s in danger. Dalco could make him do about anything, even kill himself.” Griffin paused. “Or try to kill us.”

“He had Brakey wait until it was almost dawn so he could see what he was doing,” Savich said. “Not much need for that if he’d told Brakey to stab himself with an Athame.”

Savich slowed the Porsche as they turned onto a narrow country road that cut a winding path through the countryside. Houses were set farther and farther apart, mostly hidden by maple and oak trees. It began to rain. That was all they needed.

Savich turned the wipers on low, and they looked through the rain to the sound of that even metronome. “I hope we don’t find Brakey’s body in the woods, or anyone else’s.” Savich hit his fist against the steering wheel. “Why didn’t Brakey call me?”

“I guess he couldn’t.” Griffin looked down at the flashing red dot on the tablet’s screen. “Take that dirt road off to the left. We’re close now.”

The road ended at an open field at the edge of the forest. It was nearly seven o’clock in the morning, but it seemed earlier with the sky a pewter gray, spitting down a light warm rain. Savich pulled the Porsche as close to the edge of the field as he could.

They shrugged into rain ponchos and checked their Glocks. Savich looked over at Griffin. “Let’s go catch us a madman.”

The rain was coming down harder, warm against their faces, blurring the thick gray sky. It was weather for boots, not loafers. Thankfully, the ground wasn’t soggy yet. The field had looked flat from a distance, but it wasn’t. They had to cut around rocks, rises, and ditches that made the going slow. When they finally reached the edge of the woods, they saw a narrow overgrown trail ahead of them, weaving through a stand of tall pine trees pressed so closely together that very little rain got through.

“Brakey’s in the forest, no more than fifty yards away. He’s not moving, Savich.”

They unholstered their Glocks, moved to opposite sides of the narrow trail, and walked slowly forward. They heard only the rustling of the leaves as the rain spattered off them, the scurrying of squirrels or field mice. There was no sign of Brakey.