I shook my head as I said, "I just don't think they're going to find her. She's a very smart lady. She won't be there and they're not going to catch her."

Dr. Coates listened to my chest again and Mrs. Himmel took my blood pressure. Then he said, "Oh, I nearly forgot. Dr. Paul Bartlett was here, pacing and upset, until finally we got him to go home. I'll call him and he can bring back the sheriff and some of your other friends who were trying to pile into your room. Maggie did tell me she was going to call the FBI and tell them what happened."

"Oh, no," I said. "I don't suppose you tried to talk her out of that?"

If Maggie did call the FBI, she would have gotten my supervisor, Big Carl Bardolino. I looked at the phone beside my bed. I didn't see much choice now. I made the damned phone call and got put on hold by his secretary. Big Carl was a man I respected, a twenty-five-year veteran, a canny team player but not a yes-man, and I really didn't want to talk to him about this.

"Yeah? Is this you, Mac? What the hell's going on? I get this call from a sheriff out there in boondocks U.S.A. telling- me about your getting yourself poisoned."

"Yes, sir, that's why I'm calling. I wanted to let you know that I'm fine. The local cops are on it. No need to worry."

"Damnation, you got yourself involved with a woman, didn't you? How many times have I told you young people that you've got to be careful about letting your hormones go on a rampage and getting you compromised. Or should I say poisoned?"

"Yes, sir, you've told all of us that at least half a dozen times. That isn't exactly what happened."

"Yeah, right. I can hear the truthfulness in your voice. You're a lousy liar, Mac. How many times have I told all of you that only vigilance conquers lust?"

"At least half a dozen times."

"Right. And none of you ever listens. I'm fifty-three years old, thankfully beyond all that sort of thing, but you're not. You're supposed to be on leave. You're supposed to be taking care of yourself, not getting poisoned. How are you feeling? How's your sister?"

"Well, she was in an accident and she's okay, but she's out of the hospital right now, and I'm not sure just where she is. I'm sorry the sheriff called you. I really don't think the drug I took was meant for me. There really wasn't any need to call you."

"Mac, I'm going to ream you if you get yourself hurt, you understand me? The FBI is a team, not a bunch of hotdoggers doing their own thing."

"I understand, sir. I'm not hotdogging. This is all about my sister, and where she's gone. It's not an official investigation. I'd appreciate it if you'd let me deal with it for now. I don't see any need to call in the cavalry."

He grunted. Finally, after I knew he'd chewed his unlit cigar nearly through, he said, "You will keep in touch with me, you understand?"

"Yes, sir. I understand."

I was so thankful I fell asleep, the oxygen still up my nose and the IV still dripping into my arm.

I woke up to see another man I didn't know staring down at me. His expression was thoughtful, and his long fingers stroked over his clean-shaven jaw. He had light hair, a narrow nose, and an obstinate look. He was dapper, no other way to say it, from his French-cuffed white shirt to his highly polished Italian loafers. I put him at about forty, on the lean side, probably a runner, with smart, dark eyes that had seen more than their share of the world. He didn't look at all like a doctor.

When he saw that I was back among the living, he said quietly, in a lazy drawl that shrieked Alabama, "I'm Detective Minton Castanga from the Salem Police Department. I understand that your name is Ford Mac-Dougal and you're an FBI agent here to find your now-missing sister.'

"That's it exactly."

"Well, not all of it. You're flat on your back because someone laced your coffee with phenobarbital."

"Laura Scott," I said. "Did you find her?"

"Oh, yes, I was at her condo within ten minutes of Dr. Coates's phone call. However, she didn't tell us a thing."

"She's very smart. I doubted you would find her."

"You don't understand, Agent MacDougal. Laura Scott was lying unconscious on the floor of her living room, a huge cat curled up on her back and a mynah bird squawking on the seat of a chair just a foot from her head.

I couldn't take it in. "No," I said, struggling up to my elbows. "She's not dead. She isn't dead, is she?"