“Your brother realized before I did that they’d probably try something. You met Agent Colin Smith. Your brother got the SAC here in Eureka to send him to watch over us.”

She sighed and just stayed where she was. She was exhausted, doubted that any part of her would move, even if she begged. “Yeah, I realized he was a guard for us. I sure wish he’d caught them before they set the fire.”

“He does, too. He’s really beating himself up. He was calling in his boss, Clark Hoyt, last time I saw him. Hoyt will probably be here soon. I’ll bet you he’s already called Savich.”

“At four o’clock in the morning?”

“Good point.”

“It’s really cold, Simon.”

He was sitting on a lawn chair that a neighbor had brought over. He pulled her onto his lap, wrapping the blankets around both of them. “Better?”

She just nodded against his shoulder and whispered, “This really sucks.”

He laughed.

“You know, Simon, even Remus wouldn’t go so far as to do this sort of thing. Someone so desperate, so malevolent, they don’t care how many people they kill? That’s really scary.”

“Yes,” he said slowly, “it is. I didn’t expect anything like this.”

“You got mugged in New York so soon after you left Washington. These people work really fast. I’m beginning to think it’s Olaf Jorgenson behind all this, not the Frasiers, just like you said. How would the Frasiers have even known about you or where you were?”

“I agree. But you know, the guy didn’t try to kill me, at least I don’t think he did.”

“Probably a warning.”

“I guess. This wasn’t a warning. This was for real. We’re in pretty deep now, Lily. I’ll bet you that Clark Hoyt isn’t going to let us out of his sight for as long as we’re in his neck of the woods.”

“At this point I’m glad. No, Simon, don’t say it. I’m not about to leave you alone now.” She fell silent, and for a little while he thought she’d finally just given out. Then she said, “Simon, did I ever tell you that Jeff MacNelly was my biggest influence for Remus?”

Who was Jeff MacNelly? He shook his head slowly, fascinated.

“Oh, yes, he was. I admired him tremendously.” When she realized he didn’t have a clue, she added, “Jeff MacNelly was a very famous and talented cartoonist. He won three Pulitzer Prizes skewering politicos. But he never once said that they were evil. He died in June of 2000. I really miss him. It upsets me that I never told him how much he meant to me, and to Remus.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Lily.” He realized then that she was teetering on the edge of shock, so he pulled another blanket around her. It was too much even for her. Her life had flown out of control when she’d married Tennyson Frasier. He couldn’t imagine what she’d gone through when her daughter had been killed and she’d managed to survive months of depression. And then all this.

Lily said, “Jeff MacNelly said that ‘when it comes to humor, there’s no substitute for reality and politicians.’ I don’t like this reality part, Simon, I really don’t.”

“I don’t either.”

Washington, D.C.
Hoover Building

Savich slowly hung up the phone, stared out his window a moment, then lowered his face to his hands.

He heard Sherlock say, “What is it, Dillon? What’s happened?” Her competent hands were massaging his shoulders, her breath was warm on his temple.

He slowly raised his head to look up at her. “I should have killed her, Sherlock, should have shot her cleanly in the head, just like I did Tommy Tuttle. This is all my fault—that boy’s death in Chevy Chase, and now this.”

“She’s killed again?”

He nodded, and she hated the despair in his eyes, the pain that radiated from him. “In Road Town, Tortola, in the British Virgin Islands.”

“Tell me.”

“That was Jimmy Maitland. He said the police commissioner received all our reports, alerted his local officers, waited, and then a local pharmacist was murdered, his throat cut. The place was trashed, impossible to tell what drugs were taken, but we know what was stolen—pain meds and antibiotics. They don’t have any leads, but they’re combing the island for a one-armed woman who’s not in good shape. No sign of her yet. Not even a whiff. Tortola isn’t like Saint Thomas. It’s far more primitive, less populated, more places to hide, and the bottom line is there’s just no way to get to and from the island except by boat.”