“Do you think Pinky’s under there?” Dane had asked the obvious, brought it out in the open. Every agent standing there knew Pinky Womack was under that black dirt, but no one wanted to be slapped in the head with the gruesome reality they knew was waiting for them. No one answered. They all stood silently.

Savich realized they were waiting for him to direct them, but the thing was, he couldn’t get his mind off that old monster threatening Sherlock. He met her eyes over the grave.

“I’m so very, very sorry about this, Dillon. Poor Pinky.” Sherlock suddenly leaned down. “Would you look at this? It’s a ball of chewed-up gum.”

Savich remembered the small red bowl filled with chewed-up balls of gum on the counter at Hooter’s Motel—all that gum hadn’t been there because Raymond Dykes liked to keep his jaw moving. Moses Grace had deliberately left it there, just as he’d left the gum here.

Savich said, “He left it for us, to taunt us, some private joke perhaps. It probably won’t matter, but let’s do the works on it, run it for DNA.”

Savich watched Dane slip the gum into a Ziploc bag. Two of his agents led a crew of cemetery workmen forward.

They found Pinky Womack’s body in the coffin with his eyes wide open, a bit of shock his only recognizable expression. He was lying on top of the uniformed skeleton of eighteen-year-old Jeremy Willamette.

It looked from the bloodstains like Pinky had been stabbed in the chest, probably the heart, so his death had been fast, at least Savich prayed it had. He didn’t see any signs of torture, but it would take Dr. Ransom’s autopsy to be sure of that.

Savich called Ms. Lilly at the Bonhomie Club right away to tell her. After she had absorbed the news, she said to him, “Poor Pinky. He wasn’t bad, you know, Dillon? He could even make Fuzz the bartender laugh once in a while. Not often, mind. I’ll tell his brother Cluny myself, don’t you worry about that. Oh, Dillon, I hate this, I really do.”

As he slipped his cell phone back into his coat pocket, Savich knew it would take him a long time to get Pinky’s face out of his mind. He wondered where his wife had slipped off to.

He heard the sharp crack of a rifle, heard yells, saw agents running, guns drawn. He found Sherlock, once again surrounded by agents, kneeling over a fallen agent, her palms pressing hard into her shoulder. Savich shouted her name. She looked up at him, her eyes dilated, her face white as his shirt. “Connie wasn’t standing two feet from me, Dillon.”

She was all right. Thank God she was all right.

But Agent Connie Ashley wasn’t. He was relieved she was conscious. When he came down on his knees beside her, she whispered, “Don’t freak out on me, Dillon, I’ll survive.” Blood oozed between Sherlock’s fingers despite her pressure. He gently shoved Sherlock away and pressed his wadded-up handkerchief against Connie’s shoulder and put his weight on it. “Yes,” he said, “you’ll be fine. I’ll freak out until the ambulance arrives.”

Sherlock said, “I think the shot must have been fired from over there—the northeast, right through those trees, maybe from the second floor of one of those apartments.”

Savich had her go over the exact position of both her and Agent Ashley at the moment the shot was fired. He nodded. He put the angle a bit higher, but said, “Close enough. That’s quite a distance. Okay, let’s see if we can’t find them.” He gave out assignments and yelled as the agents dispersed, “Everyone be careful!”

He knelt down again beside Connie Ashley. “We’ll get him, Connie, don’t you worry about that.”

Sirens sounded in the distance. The snow began to fall more heavily.

Savich watched his wife wipe Connie’s blood off her hands on the fresh-fallen snow.

Tourists were gathering closer now. He knew the media would be there in force at any moment. He hoped the ambulance would get there first.

He watched his wife as she held Connie’s hand until they arrived.

CHAPTER 7

MAESTRO, VIRGINIA

SATURDAY AFTERNOON

RAFE CHUGGED DOWN half a glass of iced tea, swiped his hand over his mouth, and said to his father, “Madonna told me about this woman Rosalind Franklin who did a lot of the work on DNA and they gave her research away and she didn’t even get recognized or win a Nobel Prize.”

“Hmm.”

“She died when she was a little bit older than Mom when she left. Isn’t that something, Dad?”

“Yeah, Rafe, it sure is. You wonder what she would have done if she’d lived longer.”