Sherlock said, “Since there have been no calls to kill you, Natalie, even from the most radical imam in London, we think this is personal.”

“Then did he kill his father as well? Or does he think I did? Does he think I was responsible for driving George to kill himself? He wants revenge? By killing me?”

“Think back, Natalie,” Davis said. “Think back to when you were talking to George about his son. Did he look devastated? Did he look like he hated his son? What?”

Natalie’s world had turned upside down. She dashed her fingers through her hair, trying to come to grips with the thought that George’s son had tried to kill her. She drew in a deep breath. “All right. Not hated, no, but sure, I saw the disappointment on his face, the devastation. I mean, there had to be, hadn’t there? George felt he’d failed his son, failed to realize he needed help, and then he left, became something his father couldn’t begin to understand.”

Savich set MAX on the table beside the hospital bed, lifted the lid, typed a few strokes. “Hamish Penderley of Scotland Yard uncovered a number of cellular communications between George McCallum and his son over the last two years.” He typed a bit more. “Come look.”

Savich said, “Calls between George McCallum and William’s cell phone in Hamburg stopped only for a few months. George flew to Hamburg two years ago and William started accepting his father’s calls again. They talked about once a week, for about ten minutes, on average. I imagine George tried to convince his son to return home, or at least accept his help. William had a new wife in Hamburg by then, with a family of refugees from Lebanon. I don’t know why George failed to tell his family or you about William’s marriage, but perhaps William insisted. I doubt his new family and community knew who he was, that is, heir to an English title. It’s very probable William didn’t want anyone to know.

“About eight months ago, George started making calls to a satellite phone registered to his own name, first in Turkey, and then in Syria. The dates match William’s movements. Then, six weeks ago, after William’s picture surfaced in the press, the calls were more frequent.”

Perry walked to her mother, who looked shell-shocked as she stared down at MAX’s screen at the steady flow of calls from a man she’d believed she knew to her soul. Perry pulled her mother against her. “Did George show you photos of Billy?”

Natalie pulled back, shook her head. She said, “I visited Lockenby Manor maybe two dozen times and I remember seeing some pictures of Billy as a child. Of course, I saw the picture of him the papers were showing.”

Davis held up a photo. “Here he is at eighteen, Natalie, and this is the more recent photo you saw in the press. It’s magnified and a bit blurry, but he looks more or less like this now. He’s thirty, hardened and seasoned by eight months of combat in Syria. Why does he want to kill you? I’d say he believed the rumors that you were responsible. He isn’t likely to give up, so we’ve got to find him before he comes back at you. They say he goes by the name Khalid now.”

Natalie looked down at the photo of a handsome, fresh-faced eighteen-year-old, happy and excited, starting out a life filled with promise. Odd, he didn’t look a thing like his father. Then she looked closely at the photo of the grown man. He was no longer fresh-faced; he looked gaunt, resolute, his skin etched by the sun, his eyes opaque, hardened, she thought, by the savagery and death around him. She handed the photo back to Davis.

Savich said, “He took a big risk coming into the country. His passport was flagged, both here and in England, and there’s no record of him coming through customs. Homeland Security is all over that now, as you can imagine. We’re scouring the area for where William—Billy—Khalid—could be holed up, probably in an out-of-the-way motel somewhere locally.

“According to the surgeon who took care of his bullet wound, he’ll be down for only a couple of days, if he’s lucky.”

Perry still held her mother. She said, “If he took such a risk coming here, he must not have a single doubt in his mind that Mom caused his father’s death.”

Natalie said, “George’s son believed the tabloids? Why didn’t Billy simply call me, ask me what happened? He’s not a boy, he’s an adult. Why?”

“He’s a disturbed man, Natalie,” Savich said. “George knew that very well. He called his son three times the week before he died, probably trying to convince Billy to come home. Once that picture came out, it became dangerous for Billy in Syria. I’m thinking it was easier for Billy to blame you rather than himself.”