“As I told Agent Sherlock, the guy who lives here, his name’s Martin Thornton. He’s got a wife, Janet, two daughters, ages eight and ten, inside the house, and won’t let them come out. We got a call from a neighbor about an hour and a half ago. They’d heard a gunshot and some screams. We think the husband went nuts. Why, we don’t know. Joe Gaines, the one with the bullhorn, is from the Hostage Rescue Team. He’s trying to get the guy to talk to him again, establish a dialogue. So far the guy hasn’t talked much, except to yell out once that his name wasn’t Martin Thornton, it was Austin Douglas Barrister. That’s when we ran the name and found the alert to call you, Agent Sherlock.” He paused a moment, eyeing Savich. “Okay, you said this is personal too. I’ve told you the facts as I know them, now it’s your turn to fill me in.”

Savich said, “We need him as a possible witness in a murder investigation, and I know a great deal about his life. Give me a vest. I’ve got to be the one to speak to him. I may be the only one who can get through to him. His mother is the reason he cracked, and I’m the only one who knows her. She’s extraordinarily important to him. You’re going to have to trust me on this. It’s the best chance for his wife and daughters. Austin too.”

Chief Gerber had listened intently, listened to every inflection, then made a decision. “Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t be inclined to let a hot dog who drives up in a red Porsche anywhere close to that house.” He fell silent. Then he slowly nodded. “Guess these circumstances aren’t all that normal though. Joe, give Agent Savich the bullhorn, he’ll need it. Duncan, get Agent Savich a Kevlar vest. Keep your traps shut, I’ll take responsibility.” He studied Savich’s face. “You’re really sure about this?”

“As sure as I can be about anything.”

“I recognize you now. You’re the FBI guy heading the murder case at the Supreme Court, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

Officer Duncan handed Savich a vest. Savich stripped off his leather jacket, peeled off his leather gloves, and tossed them to Sherlock. He pulled on the vest over his shirt. When he put on his leather jacket, he zipped it over his belt holster. He said low to Sherlock, taking her hands in his, “Another day in Paradise, right, sweetheart? Pray a little.”

She wanted to wrap her arms around him and not let him go. She didn’t want him to step anywhere near that harmless-looking house with a gun-wielding maniac inside. She said, “I will pray, you can count on that.” Her mouth was dry with fear. She swallowed, but her voice still came out scratchy and hoarse. “Take care, Dillon.” She stepped back. She felt someone against her back, felt a man’s hand on her arm. It was Ben, with Callie beside him.

Savich took the bullhorn from Joe Gaines, and began his trek to the driveway. A large oak tree stood tall just off center in the front yard. He saw a basketball hoop set up over the double garage doors. The net was ripped, showing lots of use. There were a couple of girls’ bikes leaning against the closed left garage door. He walked past dormant rosebushes lining the front of the house. The curtains were drawn over the single large front picture window. He was aware of the low murmur of cop voices behind him, and farther away, the worried and excited conversation of the neighbors. He wondered if there would be another shot and he’d be dead before he hit the ground.

He stopped just before he stepped off the driveway onto the sidewalk that led to the narrow front porch. He raised the bullhorn. “Martin, Austin—my name is Dillon Savich. I’m an FBI agent. I know your mother. It’s because of her that I’m here. She’s really worried about you. If you talk to me I can tell you all about it.”

Dead silence.

“Your mother, Samantha Barrister, is worried about you, Austin. Let me come in and tell you what she said to me.”

Savich didn’t move, just held the bullhorn loosely at his side.

There was movement inside the house, then a woman’s low voice. The wife was alive, thank God.

Savich stood still as a stone, the cold seeping through his boots and gloves. He finally saw the front door crack open, saw a flicker of movement, and knew it was Martin Thornton—Austin Douglas Barrister—standing close behind the partially open doorway, out of the line of fire from the police at the curb.

He didn’t say another word, just waited.

“You’re a liar,” Austin said. “My mom’s been dead for thirty years. You hear me? Someone killed her! So who the hell are you? Why are you lying to me like this?”