He saw Savich write down the name and address from the slammer and sit down on the sofa, opening his laptop. He pressed close to Becca.

“You got that big guy there with you, Becca? Listening to me?”

“Yeah, I’m here listening to you, you pathetic piece of shit. Cheer up, you killed the front door, but we’re so good we even brought it back to life. It probably looks better than you do.”

Becca could feel the black fury in the silence that flooded over the phone line. She could nearly feel the stench of it—hot and rancid, that fury. “I’ll kill you for that, you bastard.”

“You already tried, didn’t you? Not much good, are you?”

“You’re a dead man, Carruthers. Soon. Very soon now.”

“Hey, where are you holding Gleason’s wake? I wanna come. You want me to bring a priest? Or isn’t your kind of crazy into religion?”

The breathing speeded up, rough and harsh. “I’m not crazy, you bastard. I’ll have Rebecca watch you die. I promise you that. I see you got two more folk there with you. I also know they’re FBI. You think they’re going to do anything to help? No one can catch me. No one. Hey, Rebecca, the governor call you yet?”

Adam gave her a cool nod, a thumbs-up sign. She said, “Yeah, he called me. He wants to see me. He told me he loves me, that he wants to sleep with me again. He said his wife is such a bitch, she doesn’t understand him, and he wants to leave her for me. The dear man, do you think he’s well enough yet for me to tell him where I am?”

Cold, dead silence, then, very gently, they heard the phone line disconnect.

She stared at the phone. The slammer was showing “501-4867, Orlando Cartwright, Rural Route 1456, Blaylock” in black letters on a bright-green screen.

Sherlock said, “Everyone stay still for a moment. Savich will have all the information in just a moment. He sounded healthy enough, didn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Adam said.

“Then it was only a flesh wound, more’s the pity,” Sherlock said, and scratched behind her left ear. Her curling red hair was all over her head. She was wearing a sleep shirt that said across the front: I BRAKE FOR ASTEROIDS. Savich had pulled on a pair of jeans. He was bare the rest of the way up. So was Adam.

“That dog bit,” Adam said, “it was an excellent ploy on his part. All right, let’s head out of here and go get the bastard. You got our directions, Savich?”

“In a second,” Savich said.

Adam took Becca in his arms. “You did great, Becca, really great. You rattled him. Now, let’s get dressed and go nail that little bastard.”

“We’re all going,” Becca said.

Savich looked up and grinned. “It’s a farmhouse some six miles northwest of here, outside a small town called Blaylock. Let me call Tommy the Pipe.” He got him quickly on his cell phone.

“Yeah, Tommy, call all the others and head on out there, but don’t go in. This guy is very dangerous. Just keep him under wraps until we get there. I’ll find out everything I can on the way there. Yeah, on MAX.”

In the backseat of Adam’s Jeep, Savich kept up a running commentary. “Here we go. The farmhouse belonged to Orlando Cartwright, bought the place back in 1954. He’s dead now. Oh yeah, that’s good, MAX. He had one daughter, she was with him until he died three weeks ago at Blue Hills Community Hospital. Lung cancer, Alzheimer’s. Oh, no, she’s still there, alone.”

“Shit,” Adam said.

“What’s her name?” Becca asked, turning in the seat to look at him.

“Linda Cartwright. Just a minute here, okay, good hunting, MAX. She’s never been married, age thirty-three, and she’s on the heavy side, one hundred and sixty-five pounds, but she’s really pretty, even on her DL photo. She’s a legal secretary for the Billson Manners law firm in Bangor, been there for eight years. Hold on a second, let me get into her personnel file. Yes, she’s got very good evaluations—in 1995 she complained about sexual harassment. Hmmm, the guy was eventually fired. Her work record is clean. Her mother died back in 1985, a drunk driver killed both her and Linda’s younger sister. No, MAX, there’s no need to go into police files, probably a waste of time.”

“She’s single and she’s alone,” Sherlock said. “Not good at all. Hurry, Adam.”

“She’s alone,” Becca said. “She’s alone, just like I was.”

At one o’clock in the morning, beneath a nearly full, brilliant summer moon, Adam pulled his black Jeep next to a dark-blue Ford Taurus parked on the side of a two-lane blacktop road. They were some fifty yards from the old farmhouse with its peeling white shutters and sagging narrow front porch.