Proctor heard his name called as he was walking back toward the kitchen, and promptly turned in his tracks. The voice, quiet as always, came from the study. But there was just the slightest tone in that voice. Revealing none of the misgivings that had risen in the short distance between the rooms, Proctor pushed the door open and entered. “Yes?”

His employer sat at his desk, idly twirling a dry sprig of mistletoe between his long, pale index finger and thumb, occasionally brushing it thoughtfully against his chin. His eyes, normally a blue so faint as to almost appear silver, had a darker cast about them. “Proctor, do you remember the woman who gave me this mistletoe last December?”

“Of course.”

“Describe her to me.”

“Medium height. Athletic build. Dark brown hair, thick, worn loose but tucked behind her ears. Bright brown eyes. A scarf in shades of green and gold about her neck. Lined camel-colored trench coat and black leather gloves. Her slacks, visible beneath the hem of her coat, were black, as were her shoes. She carried no purse. She smiled at me, a very pleasant smile. The woman is quite attractive. I would place her age in her thirties.”

“And would you recognize this woman again if you saw her?”

“I believe so.” He put the slightest inflection into the reply, somehow implying a question, and was rewarded with a wan smile.

“Pack us both, Proctor. We leave for the wilds of Illinois as soon as you are finished. We are going hunting.”

Proctor was too well trained, not to mention completely confident in his employer’s decisions, to raise a question. Nonetheless, several of them had already formed even as he turned to follow his orders.

“You have questions?” There was a hint of humor in the voice.

“The woman we have been discussing. She has come to harm?”

“She is missing.”

Proctor inclined his head, thinking. “But surely Lt. D’Agosta—”

“The woman in question is an FBI agent out of the New York office. If the circumstances were normal, certainly the forces of the FBI and perhaps even the intrepid Lt. D’Agosta himself would be brought to bear. However, she has disappeared during the course of a leave of absence. No one suspects anything as of yet. She has been known to disappear into places unknown and then return again, none the worse for wear and with no explanations offered.” He smiled slightly. “I know you what you are thinking and you are correct. She and I have a great deal in common. However, there was this...” He opened his cell phone, the private one that had nothing to do with his tasks as a special agent of the FBI, pushed some buttons, and then placed the phone on the desk.

There was a hissing sound through the speaker of the phone, two short pops, and then a woman’s voice, soft but clear. “Your choice of light reading material at an inopportune time. We grappled that day, remember? Let me know that you understand at your first opportunity, with no crowds around. I’ll wait for you.” There was the sound of a gunshot and the line went dead.

Proctor cleared his throat after a silence. “I suppose that leaves no doubt.”

“None whatsoever. ‘No crowds’ means she doesn’t want the FBI brought into this. ‘First opportunity’ and her ‘waiting’ for me mean that we must rush, Proctor. The number she called from was blocked and unusually tangled when I went to locate it. Mime traced it for me to Illinois, a rural area due west of Chicago, and I obtained an exact location with GPS. Then I checked her apartment and found what she bade me find in her copy of Medea.” He took a slip of paper from his pocket and handed it across the desk to his employee.

Proctor glanced at it. “Case files?”

“I have read all of them. They appear to point to one particular man, someone I assume Cady has been dogging for years. He seems to be on the periphery of some rather unsavory activities, yet somehow is never charged with any crimes. She must have uncovered something before she went on leave. And that has undoubtedly gotten her into her current situation.”

“I shall pack.”

They were on their way fifteen minutes later, taking a cab to the small airport east of New York City and leaving the Silver Wraith nestled in its garage. Proctor had packed the clothing bags lightly and the other bags quite heavily, as directed, and he sat in silence, watching the city skyline slip past the grimy windows of the cab while his companion pushed buttons swiftly and efficiently in his palm pilot.

The plane was a private hire. Proctor helped the pilot stow the bags from the cab and they were airborne in a matter of minutes. Once they were in the air, the two of them leaned back in their seats in unspoken agreement and closed their eyes. There was no telling when they would have the opportunity again, and Proctor was grateful for a chance to gather himself. He had been hunting with his boss before: he knew what that entailed. As for the boss himself, whether he actually slept during the flight was another question. Proctor had serious doubts that the man ever slept at all, save for those rare occasions when he was actually ill or perhaps recovering from some grievous injury.

Illinois was gray with clouds and presented a rather dismal countenance to the two men who disembarked at an air strip far west of Chicago. The ground appeared as if it had been raining for days. They divided up the bags and carried them to the hangar.

“I’ve arranged for a car to be delivered here. Ah, there it is.” The car was a Sierra Denali which was parked on the narrow strip of tarmac just to the left of the hangar. “I’m afraid it will not have all the amenities of the Wraith, but we will make do.” They both sat in the front, Proctor behind the wheel and the other scanning maps. “For now we will set up a base. I have also arranged for a rental house. Let’s go there first and prepare.”

They arrived at the rented house without incident. It was at the far edges of a far-flung Chicago suburb, in a small subdivision that was still surrounded by fields that were surely to be eaten up by development in short order. For the time being, they found themselves in a comfortable two-story mock-Tudor style home that felt cold and empty, all the furniture swathed in sheets, and the air smelling slightly dusty and very unused. After putting the clothing bags into two of the bedrooms at the top of the stairs, Proctor located the thermostat and set it to his employer’s preferred room temperature. Additionally, there was a fireplace in the study, and he immediately built and started a fire.

His employer, in the meantime, stripped off his outer coat and tossed it carelessly over the arm of the sofa. The fire in the study had drawn him as Proctor had known it would, and before long, the gentleman was seated, one leg crossed over the other, in an easy chair, staring into the flames, his maps close by, his private cell phone, closed, in one hand. There was no expression on his face as he stared at the fire. Proctor glanced at the time and withdrew into the kitchen to see about meals.



It was dark, continually dark, endlessly dark, where she huddled into herself. How long since she had last seen daylight? She wasn’t certain—days, perhaps. The dark was not a concern. The cold, however, was becoming one. It was not so cold that she would freeze to death in hours. But it was not warm, and without anything to eat, with the small but deep wound in her leg and the other in her side, the possibility of hypothermia was becoming a nagging worry. She tried not to think about it, tried to imagine herself in New York in July, the streets hot and humid under the sun, her camisole and blouse sticking to her as she walked from the office to her apartment. She forced herself to remember the smell of the exhaust from hundreds of cars snarled in traffic, the beef and onion smells from the hot dog vendors, the stale musty air that emanated from every street grate she passed along her route, even the smell of over-roasted coffee that wafted in nearly visible streams from the diner at the corner down the block from her building. Sometimes the imagery worked and she didn’t feel quite so cold. Sometimes the pain distracted her too much to concentrate and she shivered, arms folded around herself, knees tucked tightly against her chest.

She had memorized the phone number years ago and had managed to make the one call before being wounded and chased into this hell hole. How often did he check that phone, anyway? He was fastidious, obsessive even. She had to believe he checked it at least daily. And would he know what she had meant? She had to believe that, too. If he didn’t, there was no hope. She would not allow herself the luxury of despair, not yet. There was always hope. It was just a matter of time, of holding on. He would come after her. And she would be there when he arrived. Maybe even needle him about how long it had taken. The thought brought a small smile to her lips, and then she groaned. The wound in her side had begun to bleed again. She clamped her hand against it as tightly as she could. Hurry, she thought. Please hurry.

“You can’t hide from me,” a familiar voice said then, and she automatically bent double, hiding her face within the dark material of her jacket, willing herself invisible in the shadows. She shivered at how close he sounded to her and she made herself as still as possible. “I can find you anywhere. And I’m going to.”

Cady didn’t move. After several tense seconds of dead silence, she heard a quiet whispery sort of rush, like air streaming through a vent. And then she realized that she was breathing some sort of gas. No! she had enough time to think before she disappeared into darkness.



“The tracks continue past this stand of trees.” Pendergast shielded the glow of his penlight as he studied the ground. The night was cloudy and damp but the rain held off for the time being, and the markings in the dirt and mud were still visible. “Her gait is irregular.”

Proctor nodded at what the other indicated. “She was hurrying. And probably hurt.”

Pendergast snapped off the light and they both allowed their eyes to adjust to the dark. “This way,” he said, resuming the lead. Proctor wiggled his shoulders under the straps of his pack and hurried after his companion.

After another five minutes’ hiking in silence, the ground began to slope downward at a good pitch. Pendergast held up a hand and Proctor stopped immediately several steps to the rear. “Guard,” Pendergast murmured. “Assault rifle.”

“Night vision?” Proctor asked, speaking just as softly. He had moved closer and was already reaching for his Beretta.

Pendergast stayed him with a brief touch. “No night vision. Past, not through,” he muttered.

Proctor nodded and snugged the gun back into its holster. He took a deep breath, ready to move when ordered. Getting past someone on guard without contact required a high level of stealth. It had been some time since he had been called upon to use the skill. They stayed hidden in the dark of the trees watching, and Proctor felt relief as they did. The guard was patrolling, not standing as a sentinel. They should have no problem. His circuit seemed to take less than five minutes: presumably he was one of numerous others, each patrolling a small area around the circumference of the facility? building? tunnel? they faced. In the dark the place looked like a shapeless mound, perhaps a structure built into the side of a hill. Speculation ended when Pendergast gave the signal and the two men slipped down the trail and past the guard’s path. They were in the mouth of what seemed to be a tunnel, with steel doors ahead of them. Proctor stopped just within the shelter of the entrance to keep watch while Pendergast went to explore the lock and security system. Proctor knew from years of experience that he wouldn’t have to keep his employer apprised of their time constraints as the guard reached the end of his walk and turned back. The man apparently had a clock in his head. Proctor waited.

In barely any time at all, Pendergast had eased the door open. They slipped inside it and pulled it shut.

The inside was nearly as dark as the outside, although there were dim lights up ahead. They moved cautiously along the wall, anticipating being found out and stopped at any moment. But nothing happened and they were soon at the end of the entrance ramp and facing a large open area that led to numerous other tunnels and doorways. They stood on a dirt floor and their movements made little noise. There seemed to be no one around and the two men separated in silence, Pendergast choosing clockwise, Proctor moving counter--as they explored the various doorways and ramps. When they had completed the circuit and met again, Pendergast pointed up a narrow, dark ramp. “That seems to be the best way out,” he said softly. “It should put us closest to the trees. Clear the way and I will find Cady and meet you at the top of the ramp, assuming that is feasible. If it is not—”

“Thirty yards minimum into the trees,” Proctor finished. “Done.”

They nodded at each other and again separated. Proctor took the ramp in a crouch, Beretta in one hand, Pendergast’s bag in the other, and met no resistance. The door at the top was locked, but the lock was simple and he opened it in a matter of seconds. He favored a lock rake over the picks, although he was proficient with those as well. But he was in a hurry. He glanced back once to see Pendergast vanishing down the one ramp that led to a lighted chamber, then turned away resolutely to stake out and set up a staging area.



The lights were too bright. Cady, flat on her back, squinted her eyes open against the glare, saw the outline of a man leaning over her. She forced herself not to react, difficult to do as she grew aware that her wrists and ankles were tied down and something filthy-tasting had been shoved into her mouth and fastened there. Her head ached with the last remnants of the gas, and she was cold. Her jacket had been taken away and she was bound to some sort of table in her shirt and jeans.

“Ahh, awake, I see,” a voice purred. “This will be ever so much more fun with you awake.”

She didn’t recognize the voice. It wasn’t him, the man she had been seeking for so long. But as her awareness grew, so did her realization of what she faced. If it wasn’t him, it meant she no longer mattered and had been handed off to someone else for disposal. And probably recreation, judging from the way the man who had materialized at her side was studying her. Predatory, even eager. As she looked at him, he pulled a scalpel from an inner pocket and once again she forced herself not to react, although her fingers contracted into fists without conscious thought. Not information, but disposal. Not torture, but pure sadism. She couldn’t help but remember the first victim from so many years ago. Had she been wrong all this time? Was the killer actually someone other than the man she had sought so actively?

He leaned closer and let the light glint off of the blade so that she could see it. “And we’re going to have so much fun, aren’t we, Agent Cady?” He stroked the side of her face with a gloved hand. “My dilemma, though, is where to start? Those brilliant eyes? Those wonderfully shaped ears? Or maybe a bit lower.” His hand traced from her ear past her jaw and down her neck, then stopped at the top button of her shirt. “So much to explore. It’s like Christmas!” He giggled. “So kind of Bernie to turn you over to me. But then he’s always turned them over to me. All of them. When they were no longer of use to him. No need to worry. I’ll take the best care of you. For hours, my darling. Hours on end. Just like the others. Have you ever known anyone to give you such exclusive attention, ever? Aren’t the possibilities just endless?”

Cady turned her gaze up into the darkness where the ceiling should have been, refusing to look at him, refusing to give him any kind of satisfaction. Pain? Hours of it? So be it. Sooner or later Pendergast would figure it out and even if she were dead, well, Bernie and this creep would become so much worm fodder once the man in black caught up to them. She clung to that, physically keeping her fingers curled into a tight grip. If she had figured it out, so would Pendergast. It was the only hope she had. She stared grimly upwards, trying to control an involuntary shiver that had seized hold of her.

The man was holding his breath in delight now, using the scalpel to cut the first of the buttons from her shirt.

She closed her eyes, concentrating on her breathing, trying to remember everything she had ever studied about dealing with fear, dealing with pain. She felt the first button give and knew that he was cutting the second one free, humming as he worked.

“A camisole!” he breathed. “Agent Cady, you are indeed a lady. A fine lady. I cannot wait—”

And then his humming stopped and he fell prone across her. She heard the quiet whhzzzz and a muffled thwip! even as he fell upon her. In a matter of seconds, the weight of him was dragged away and she heard his body hit the floor. Her eyes flew open in confusion and again she tightened her fists reflexively.

A quiet voice said, “It’s me, Cady. Don’t move.”

The soft tone, the drawl, was the most welcome sound possible and she wanted to cry out in relief and belated panic when the familiar, pale face filled her vision from above, eyes glittering with concern. But she held still as something cold touched her face. His knife. A second later, the cloth was taken from her mouth and she took in a huge breath of air as he moved around to her side, placing his signature Les Baer down beside her. He cut her right wrist free, then her left, and progressed down to her ankles, intent on what he was doing.

A sudden movement caught her eye. “Down!” she croaked, voice rusty and weak. She pulled him by the shoulder, picking up the Les Baer in her right hand, and he obediently ducked his head under her chin as she fired three shots past his ear. There was a moment of silence, and then she said, “Clear.”

He raised his head and glanced behind him.

“I’ve always got your back, Pendergast,” she said.

“And I, yours.” They stared at each other, his expression so solemn that she felt something warm expand inside her and she needed to look away.

He stepped around the body of her second would-be assailant, and cut her ankles free. Then he came back to her side, slipping the folding knife into an unseen pocket. He picked up the Les Baer, removed the silencer, and tucked the weapon back into its holster. The silencer disappeared as if by magic. “Where are you hurt?” he asked.

“How do you know—”

“From the way you pulled me down and the way you held your arm when you fired. Can you walk? The tracks I followed seemed to indicate an injury of the lower extremity.” He busied himself pulling first one dead body and then the other to a far corner and placing them as obscurely as possible between a rough wooden support post and the corner of some sort of work area. For good measure, he located an empty cardboard box and placed that in front of the bodies as well.

She closed her eyes and moved her limbs gingerly as he was working. “On the left side, just below the ribs,” she answered, voice still hoarse. “And I have a gash on my leg. I think I can walk.”

“There’s no time,” he said softly. He bent over and lifted her up, cradling her, and she wrapped her arms around his neck without thinking. He felt strong and warm and so safe that she buried her face against his shoulder, willing herself not to break down and just start weeping. If he noticed, he didn’t say anything, just concentrated on bearing her away to safety. “We can hope that whoever sent those two men to you expects them to be about their business for a while and that no one will realize you’ve disappeared until it doesn’t matter. However, I need to learn exactly what we’re up against. So I’m going to leave you with—”

She raised her head. “Did you bring an army with you?” she asked.

“You specified no crowds.” He smiled down at her. “Proctor is with me,” he said.

“Proctor’s here?”

“Indeed. And it is in his very capable hands I will leave you while I go and learn what we must know.” He had been carrying her through alternating gray shadow and darkness and Cady had no sense of where he was going, although he didn’t once hesitate. She closed her eyes against him and held on. His steps slowed and she opened her eyes again. The dim gray within the interior of the facility was giving way to total darkness and soon they were at the mouth of a tunnel. He carried her through a door, putting her down gently first to unlock it. He picked her up again, took a quick glance around once out the door, and then slipped silently through the dark of early morning to a large stand of trees. Not breaking his stride, he carried her through brush and under branches, deeper and deeper into the woods. At last he stopped and placed her down upon some blankets. “Two injuries,” he said aloud. “Flank and leg. I’ll be back shortly.”

Cady looked up in time to see the lithe, dark figure melting back into the shadows. And then a strong, gentle hand touched her shoulder. “Proctor?” Her voice was raspy and strained.

He held a penlight shaded by his hand so that she could see him. His smile was as warm as his employer’s and his eyes were as concerned. “I don’t mean to hurt you, but I must see what we’re dealing with.” He handed her a cup of water. “In the meantime, drink.”

She took the cup with a groan and guzzled the entirety of it, sighing with relief when she had finished. “More,” she pleaded.

He shook his head. “You hold that down, first. There will be more later. I would guess you’ve been dehydrated for some time, so we need to take it slow.” He looked down the length of her, but not in any way that made her uneasy. His expression was serious and thoughtful. “Are you ready?”

She tried to smile hopefully at him. “I guess we’d better get started,” she said, and hissed as he lifted the bottom of her shirt gently to examine her. The fabric had stuck to the blood and to the wound itself and he was as careful as possible as he removed it gently from the site and shone his flashlight on her side, his fingers prodding tenderly across her skin. “Bullet wound,” he said. “Straight across, not even as deep as an in-and-out. This will do for now with a thorough cleaning and dressing.” He moved further down and stopped. “I’m afraid I will have to cut through your pants leg.”

She shook her head. “Do it. Don’t even worry about it.”

She felt the tug as he pulled the cloth taut and began to cut it from her leg. Again, the fabric had stuck to the wound, and this one felt like it was on fire when he removed it. She grunted slightly against the pain, trying not to make any noise, well aware that he was being as gentle as he could under the circumstances.

There was a moment of silence as he studied her injury. “This is not good,” he said quietly. “Infection is already setting in. I can clean this as well as possible and we have some very good antibiotics with us, but you’re going to have to get to Feversham as quickly as possible.”

“Feversham,” she repeated. She had been there once before, after an injury on the Announcement Killer case. Pendergast, with his everlasting propensity for guilt and self-recrimination, had brought her there and taken care of everything. She never saw anything remotely resembling a health care bill. She had never forgotten about it and still felt somewhat awkward when she thought of it. He would never deign to discuss it.

“You know Feversham,” Proctor said. “They can fix anything.” He gave her a wry smile and opened the bag beside him, began sorting through his inventory. “For now we will do what we can.” He took several small lanterns from the bag first, turned them on, and placed them strategically to focus the light on her injuries without them shining too obviously in the dark. He spread a towel on the ground beside him, then he pulled out a pair of scissors, another two packets of swabs, gauze, tape, and several tweezers in varying lengths.

She stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Whatever you do, I have to be able to get up,” she said. “To run, if need be.”

“Agent Cady—”

“No, I’m serious. This is personal to me. I know you understand what that means, Proctor. It’s very personal.”

He didn’t answer, but simply rearranged her on the blankets so that the liquid he poured into her wounds would drain into the ground and not soak her resting area. He treated her side wound first, rinsing repeatedly, sometimes gently probing or scraping with cotton swabs. When he was satisfied he produced two packets of antibiotic cream, which he applied liberally, and then wrapped the area tightly with gauze and tape.

After he was finished her side felt so much better she grinned at him. “Proctor, you’re a miracle worker.”

“I know someone who would very much disagree with that assessment,” he said. But he smiled back as he said it. Then he moved on to her leg. “This is a completely different kettle of fish, however.”

“But I need...”

“Yes, I did hear you before, Agent Cady. I am very well-versed in the concept of something being personal.” There was an ironic undercurrent to his voice and she could only wonder at everything he had seen and done during his years of service to Pendergast. She thought about Pendergast himself, his behavior, his actions, his motivations, and nearly shivered. Proctor’s job could not be an easy one.

“Just do your best,” she said. “I trust you.”

He looked at her and his eyes actually twinkled at that. “I will do what I can. The rest is in your judgment.”

“Then that’s enough.”

Gentle as he was, the treatment was an ordeal. Cady pressed her hand down over her eyes and tried to focus on something else. Anything else. She thought about the children she had seen, the young girls, and the anger re-awoke within her. It didn’t matter if her leg fell off, she would see this through.

Proctor rinsed and bathed until she thought she would need to scream. Surely the injury hadn’t been that bad. She had walked for hours afterward, even run. The later wound to her side had been so much more problematic. As if in answer to her thoughts, he said, “This one is deep. Narrow and deep. Whatever punctured you carried all manner of dirt and foreign matter into the tissue, and it has all been festering there for some time. The entire area is fevered, Agent Cady. I’m surprised you were able to walk at all.”

“I haven’t been on my feet in a while,” she conceded. “He gassed me down there in the tunnels where I was hiding and dragged me out, then threw me onto that surgical table where your boss found me. Maybe I wouldn’t have been able to keep walking, even if I hadn’t been caught. But I need to be able to walk now.” Her teeth were beginning to chatter and he looked at her with some concern.

“Be that as it may, all I can do is what I’m doing. Whether you can run or walk or even stand will remain to be seen.” He was applying packet after packet of antibiotic, blanketing the area and pressing still more of the gel into the wound with the gauze. At last he wrapped the leg and taped it. “You’re chilled,” he said. He picked her up, blankets and all, and placed her away from where he had cleansed her wounds, someplace dry. Then he procured a sleeping bag and settled it over her, lifted her head and placed several folded towels under her as a pillow. After giving her one more cup of water and a tablet for the pain he said, “Get some rest, if you can. He’ll be back soon.”

She nodded, still shivering, and shut her eyes. She was still thirsty, and if she stopped to think about it, her stomach was inside out with hunger. How long had it been, anyway? But it seemed to be too much work to keep her eyelids open any longer, and in the middle of that thought, she fell asleep, feeling warm and safe for the first time in forever.

She awoke to soft voices, unsure how long she had been asleep but feeling surprisingly rested.

“I only saw him once. He keeps himself well away from what is happening down at the transport area.” The soft drawl was present even as he gave his report to his employee. “Cady was right. I counted at least seven children being held in a barred room toward the back exit, all of them girls, probably between the ages of seven and thirteen. I know there was at least one other barred room, but I didn’t have the opportunity to look inside. I would consider that there are more children present than I was able to count. I saw five armed guards. There are three small trucks, maybe the size of an armored car, each with a driver and an assistant. That makes at least eleven that we are up against, all of them undoubtedly armed. I do not know if there are more, but I suspect there are.” There was a pause and she heard something scratching, realized he was drawing some sort of map. “We are currently situated here on higher ground, approximately halfway around the structure from where we will need to be. The trucks are parked back here, in a clearing that is close to a gated exit. That exit is electrified. Beyond the gate is a dirt track that must lead back to the main road in a loop that is further down than the entrance we used to gain access. This is open land, Proctor. No one is going to notice three trucks that make their way onto the road off of a dirt track, especially at night.”

“You’re assuming the trucks are for transporting the children? And soon?”

“Correct. I was able to get a look at one of them. The insides are blanketed, but there are no windows, even to the truck cabs. I heard only scraps of conversation, but they do seem to be making preparations to leave, and soon. I know definitely that it will happen at night, so we will need to be ready for this evening. It’s nearly dawn, now. We can make our plans during the day.”

Cady cleared her throat and the two men looked at her as she struggled to get into a sitting position.

He was there immediately to help her. “Proctor told me about your wounds, Cady. I don’t believe you need to involve yourself further—”

“I don’t believe I asked your permission,” she cut him off. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Proctor suddenly bow his head and turn away. Was he laughing? “This is personal. What part of personal do you not understand?”

He stared at her, pale eyes glimmering in what little light came from the small lanterns that still glowed against the dark. “As you like,” he said unexpectedly. He pulled something from his pocket and handed it to her. It was a small packet of jerky and a bag of peanuts. “Start eating, then. We will need you to be ready by tonight.” He gave her a bottle of water and then left her alone to eat while he and Proctor went through their weapons cache.

Cady chewed mechanically and fought to swallow. Despite the water, the jerky was dry and tough, and her throat was sore and unyielding after so long without anything to eat or drink. “Were you expecting to go to war?” she asked, watching as Pendergast pulled clip after clip from a bag, sorting them for various weapons.

“We were expecting everything and nothing,” he replied, not slowing his pace. After a moment he stopped and looked at her. “But I did bring you these.” He came back to her side and handed her a Glock 20. “It’s already loaded with one in the chamber. Here are extra clips. And I thought you might like this as a back up.” He placed an identical gun next to her along with still more clips and she looked down at the set.

“They’re the same,” she said.

“The ammunition,” he began.

She nodded. “Got it.” She fingered the gun she held. “Standard 10 mm. This should stop anyone I hit.”

“It should.”

She placed it beside her and picked up the back-up piece. “And this one should obliterate him.”

He smiled coldly. “Proper back up is crucial. How personal is this, Cady?” He went back to the stack of clips that Proctor was checking, leaving her to sort out her own weapons logistics.

After a few moments of watching them work, Cady took a sip of water and called Pendergast’s name.

He stayed his hand and looked at her. “Is there something more you need?”

“You asked me how personal this is. I think you both have the right to know, considering...” She didn’t finish the sentence but let her eyes dwell for a moment on the small armory between the men. “Bernard Foster is a sick, psychotic, son of a bitch that once went to the same college I did.”

Pendergast looked surprised, and Proctor simply stopped moving.

Now that she had their attention she knew she would have to finish the story. “I even dated him once or twice. He was rich, good-looking, totally outside my limited experience at the time. But even back then I realized something wasn’t right with him. He had a temper when he didn’t get his own way. One might have said he was a spoiled brat, but it was more than that. After our two or so dates he moved on to a friend of mine. Her name was Jessica French. About a month into the relationship, I realized he was abusing her. There were no physical bruises, but he was a complete control freak, and his verbal rantings when he was angry, which was pretty frequently, were plenty abusive. I tried to get in between them. She refused to hear anything against him and stopped talking to me because of it. But one afternoon she came to me and said that her younger sister Emily had gone missing. Emily was maybe eleven years old, a cute kid, sweet, shy. You know the type. She disappeared and no one ever saw her again, at least not alive.” Cady stopped a moment, remembering when the body was found, remembering the condition. “It turned out that the last person she was seen with was Bernard. But of course no one could connect him to any wrong-doing. There was never any evidence. But I knew he had something to do with it. Deep inside, I knew.

“I started keeping an eye on him, secretly. For every college girl he dated, there were nearly as many times I saw him with someone younger, much younger. Sometimes the girls would disappear, weeks after I had seen them together. I took my suspicions to the police. I don’t know if they thought I was crazy or what. I’m sure they thought I was a jilted girlfriend. Bernard was wealthy and that seemed to be all that mattered. Eventually I transferred out, finished undergrad and then law school. But I kept an eye out for him, always. After I joined the Bureau, I began to notice certain sorts of cases seemed to include his name in the files. Usually missing persons, almost always involving children. Sometimes the bodies were found. More often than not, they weren’t. You read the files?”

Pendergast nodded.

“Last month, a young girl vanished off the streets of Chicago. There was an Amber Alert, of course. The Chicago office was called into it. They haven’t found her. What bothered me, though, was that she was the third in as many months. In an area the size of Chicago, perhaps that wouldn’t have seemed like much to connect them, but all three girls came from well-to-do families and there were never any ransom calls. To me, all the disappearances had a certain feel about them. Bernard always went for young girls of certain, well, status. As if he were looking for a particular kind of quality. Out of curiosity I started looking specifically into his activities, and discovered he had an import-export business. And that triggered some kind of alarm in me. I knew then why they couldn’t find most of these girls. And I knew why they all had to be a certain type. He’s found others with appetites as sick as his own. And it’s making him even richer. He’s taking girls and selling them, probably overseas. He has to be. And so when I tracked him to a facility in Illinois, I knew I’d have to come out and see for myself. My timing was great. He’s holding children here.”

Again, Pendergast nodded.

“I knew I had to stop him. I got into the structure and was nearly caught in his control center. It’s where I called you from, to give you the location. I needed to verify what I was looking at and the invoices I found while I was in there were good enough for me. Then he discovered I was in the building and tried to kill me, so I knew I was right. He wounded me when I made that call and that was the one time we saw each other face to face. He knows I’ve figured him out and he knows I intend to shut him down. The Chicago office is looking into the missing girls, but no one is looking at Foster. I knew he’d slip away again if I didn’t do something about it. The only thing I didn’t guess was that he didn’t do his own killing.”

“Do you know who the second man was?” It was the first time Proctor spoke.

“No. From the few things he said to me in there, he and Bernard have known each other a long time. He meant to use a scalpel on me.” She swallowed against the lump that rose suddenly in her throat. “I knew as soon as I saw it that he had been the one who killed Emily French all those years ago.”

There was a brief silence. Proctor rose and brought Cady a cup of hot tea from the thermos. “You’re shivering again,” he chided. He handed her the cup, rearranged the sleeping bag over her.

“Thank you.” She looked into Proctor’s kind eyes, glanced over at Pendergast who had gone back to loading one of several clips. “I didn’t stop him all those years ago. I need to stop him now.”

Proctor looked at her, then turned to look at his employer.

Pendergast racked a round into the chamber of the gun he picked up, slipped the clip out to replace the bullet, and then reloaded the weapon. “And so you will,” he said quietly.

Long hours later, when the last of the weapons had been checked and rechecked, when the packs had been reloaded, when they had all eaten a small meal, and when afternoon was passing into evening, Cady began to feel the evening’s work upon her and she grew nervous in anticipation. It was a feeling that never left her, no matter how long she worked in the field. The first stirrings of adrenaline were making her jumpy and she wondered how the other two could remain sitting so calmly. If she hadn’t been trying to rest her leg as much as possible, she probably would have been pacing.

Proctor smiled at her suddenly, then looked at his employer and said, “So what exactly is your plan?”

Pendergast raised a brow. “Have we ever gone forward without one?”

Proctor smirked. ‘You mean like that time in Nevada when the plan was several Hail Mary’s and running like hell?”

“It seems to me that that particular incident had more to do with unforeseen interference than an actual lack of planning.” There was just the slightest undercurrent of humor in the low drawl, and Cady watched, speechless. She had never seen them interact before, and had certainly never seen Pendergast make light of an apparently grim situation.

“Nevertheless, I would feel better with a plan.”

“My dear fellow, of course I have one. We are outnumbered approximately eleven of them to three of us. Perhaps there are more of them that I missed in my count last night.”

“You? Miss someone in your count? Impossible.” The tone was droll and just this side of insolent.

“Proctor, about that bonus check ...”

“I’ll wager it, how about that? I will bet you that I can put two trucks out of commission before you finish disabling the first.”

There was a moment of silence during which Pendergast genuinely seemed to be considering. Then he cleared his throat. “I cannot consent to that. It would be like taking advantage of a small and rather dull child.” Proctor actually laughed out loud and Pendergast favored him with the rarest of heartfelt smiles. Then he said something in a language Cady didn’t understand. “Never jest with God, death, or the Devil,” he translated, and added, “O ye of little faith. I have been coordinating with both local authorities and the Immigration/Customs Enforcement people. We should all be good to go after dark. Should we miss the trucks, the license plates and descriptions are in the right hands. There will be back up. There will be ambulances on stand-by for the children. But we initiate the operation by neutralizing as many of those who would oppose us as possible, and by deactivating that gate. We all need to keep our heads down.” He looked at Cady with gimlet eyes. “Agreed?”

They set out when daylight had faded to a glow, as Pendergast had directed. Cady, who had nearly been too cold to crawl out from under the blankets, was now fortified with a meal, as much water and hot tea as Proctor deemed sensible, pain killers, repacked dressings, and as further protection against a recurring chill, one of Proctor’s sweatshirts and an extra jacket of Pendergast’s. She was swimming in the clothing: Pendergast was well over six foot, Proctor not much shorter, and Pendergast particularly was long of arm. But she had tucked and tied off and rolled up and was ready to go. There were children that needed help. And at least one SOB that needed killing. Her side and her leg would be just fine.

But five minutes into it, she realized she had to be totally honest and take herself out of the game, wanting to gnash her teeth in frustration. “I’ll be more a hindrance than anything,” she said in a hurried meet with the other two. “What do you want to do?”

They were huddled close to the edge of the trees. The original plan called for them to make their way to the area where the trucks were parked and disable all three vehicles, including the drivers and other personnel who might disagree with them. At that point Pendergast would deactivate the gate, open it, and make contact with the other law enforcement agencies, while Proctor and Cady kept an eye on what happened in the transport area, particularly if the drivers were discovered to be missing before Pendergast’s reinforcements arrived.

“My two to your one,” Proctor suggested with just the hint of a smile. “You take the truck furthest from the facility and then disable and open the gate so you can coordinate with our colleagues. I will take out the other two trucks, and Agent Cady can watch my back.”

Without a word, Pendergast handed his beloved Les Baer to Cady. “Laser sight,” he said shortly. He nodded at the other two and slipped away down the path. Several breaths later, Proctor followed, then angled off to the right, Cady a little ways behind him. Further along she found a clump of bushes that were close enough for her to cover Proctor as well as provide her a clear line of sight. She dropped off of Proctor’s trail and settled herself down, putting her Glock into the pocket of her jacket. The Les Baer was beautifully weighted and she found herself understanding Pendergast’s choice of pistols.

A movement at the far left caught her eye. It was Pendergast taking someone down, movements as swift and sure as a cat. She watched as the agent choked out his opponent and dragged him away into the scrub. He reappeared in a matter of minutes, and Cady realized he must have restrained the unconscious man to keep him out of the equation. The agent slid under the truck and she didn’t see him again. She assumed he had pulled whatever wires or parts he needed to pull and then made his way through the shadows to the gate up ahead.

Proctor had melted into the darkness and she saw him reemerge briefly. She saw him glide up to a man standing next to one of the trucks and tap him on the shoulder. She put the gun at the ready, finger poised to train the laser if needed. When the man turned, Proctor put a hand over his mouth, shoved him back into the shadows, and Cady lost sight of both of them momentarily. She heard a muffled grunt, and then Proctor reappeared, hauling an unconscious body with him. He glanced around, then pulled the man into the brushy area on the passenger side of the truck. Like his employer before him, he was hidden for several minutes, and Cady knew that Proctor also was immobilizing his prey. When he came back into view, he crawled under the truck. She didn’t see him again until he emerged on the other side and headed for the third vehicle.

At that moment, she saw a man coming around the hood of the truck and in a moment, he and Proctor stood face to face. The man had a gun and he leveled it at Proctor’s chest. Cady steadied her arm on her knee, gripped the Les Baer, and put the dot of the laser between the man’s eyes.

“Who the hell are you?” the man demanded.

“I’m going to save your life,” Proctor answered. He sounded positively cheerful.

“You what? Turn around, hands on your head.”

“Seriously, friend. If you’re not careful, my partner back up the hill is going to put a bullet between your eyes.”

“Shut up. Turn around.”

“The only reason you don’t believe me is because the dot is showing up on your forehead and you can’t see it.” Proctor turned his head slightly. “Can you lower that a little so this fool will understand what I mean?”

Obligingly, Cady lowered the sight until the dot was dead center over the man’s sternum.

Proctor shrugged. “See?”

The man’s gun wavered off-center as he looked down in disbelief at the bright red dot on his chest and Proctor was on him like a cougar, controlling the weapon hand and palm-striking him twice in rapid succession, then once more for good measure. Then he picked him up in a fireman’s carry, turning once to give Cady a thumbs-up and a grin, and disappeared into the brush.

There was a sudden burst of light as the doors of the facility began to glide open. Cady saw Proctor reappear and pause, then slip backward into shadow. She looked over at the building and watched as a group of children was herded out by three men with rifles. For a moment, a wave of anger washed over her, and her gun hand began to shake. She stopped herself, fought for control.

The children were being led to one of the trucks. She wondered what would happen when the men with the rifles discovered there were no drivers to be found. One of the men opened the back of the truck and picked up the first little girl to place her inside. The girl shrieked and fought against him. Cady half-rose, gun at the ready. Where the hell were Pendergast and the cavalry? The man yelled something in the child’s face and threw her onto the back of the truck before turning to the next. If this didn’t stop soon, Cady would have real difficulty not taking some sort of action, and action this early would be suicide. She settled back into a restless crouch. Come on, Aloysius. Where are you? There were three girls in the truck already, and the man was turning to pick up the fourth. Cady chewed her bottom lip in aggravation and impatience. And then she heard the sound of numerous vehicles.

There was an explosion of light, blazing light, and the familiar sound of the law announcing its presence over a loudspeaker. Everybody in the little area froze momentarily and then two of the men with rifles raised them, looking for a target. Cady rose again and aimed the Les Baer at the closer of the two, then saw uniformed local authorities swarming through the gate with their guns drawn. With them came the men and women in the dark clothes and the ICE jackets. She saw Pendergast directing them to the various doors into the facility. The rifles were lowered and the sound of shouted orders and hurried footsteps filled the night. It was over. She closed her eyes gratefully, and found that she was shaking. No one had been killed. No one had been shot. It had been a good operation, and she knew Pendergast would be pleased.

He came for her a few minutes later after being pointed in her direction by Proctor. She rose as he got closer and handed him back his gun which he accepted and placed into his holster. “They are clearing the area,” he said looking out over the scene before them. The place was positively milling with police and agents, and Cady felt thankful to be away from the entire process. “Are you all right?”

“Sure. I didn’t do anything.”

“Cady, you did all of this.” They watched in silence for some time as a stream of men in handcuffs were led away. Then the ambulances arrived for the children, and they saw Proctor directing them to an area beside the second truck where the children had been sequestered by the county sheriff. The whole scene, played out as it had been played out over and over in her mind’s eye, was surreal, improbable. She crossed her arms to keep out the chill and continued to watch. Pendergast stayed with her, silent and unmoving although his eyes remained alert.

“Agent Pendergast? A word when you can?” The sheriff called to them from about ten feet. The last of the truck drivers was loaded into a squad car. Proctor was at one of the ambulances, picking up little blanket-wrapped child-bundles and placing them in the back of the vehicle for paramedic examination. Cady smiled at the sight.

“Certainly.” He turned to her and she turned so that the smile included him.

“You better go. You coordinated this party.”

He stared hard at her. “You’re going in after him, I know this.”

“I didn’t see anyone bring him out. Did you? I know he’s in there somewhere.” She checked both of her guns and looked at him defiantly.

He touched her arm. “But if we cannot get the information any other way, you know you must spare him. If there is to be any hope of finding out about the other children from all these past years...”

“We’ll get the information,” she said grimly. “And then I’m going to kill him.”

“And then there is the matter of the official report.”

She stared at him. “I know you won’t turn me in.”

“What you do when I am not there to see is most certainly your choice. But for what you are suggesting, there must be at least some plausibility.”

“He’ll attack me. You know that. He already handed me over to his pet psycho earlier.”

“Are you certain about this?” he asked at last. “You must think it through carefully because once something is done, it cannot be undone.” He looked away for a moment, his eyes troubled. “Among other things, it can bring troublesome nightmares at bedtime.” His expression was as grave as she had ever seen.

Cady, having witnessed some of his nightmares from the outside, knew and understood what he was telling her. “I’m sure, Pendergast. And trust me, I’ll never have any trouble sleeping over this one.”

She walked away from him and he turned a moment later, striding down to meet with the sheriff.

In the dark of that cloudy night, Cady paused for one last look at the flashers of the police cars and ambulances. She could make out more children being led by the hand to the paramedics, draped in blankets, stumbling and a little hesitant, but on their way to home and recovery. Most of the work was done, and for that she was grateful. But there was still one big obstacle to her happy ending. She turned away from the scene, noting that Pendergast, flashlight in hand, was now talking earnestly with the sheriff. She blinked once or twice, letting her eyes adjust to the gloom of the tunnel once more before going back down into the dark, limping as she moved. He was in there somewhere, that son of a bitch, and she was going to flush him out and kill him.

Foster’s control center was deserted, musty-smelling even, as if no one had been there recently. She shuffled through various papers on the desk. There were all the inventories and invoices she had seen before. The simple titles on the documents with their black and white recordings of “eight units to New York” or “six units received from Los Angeles” made her want to set the place on fire, even though she knew they needed the evidence. Units. Children. She sat down at the console desk and went through the invoices more thoroughly, trying to find the information she would need to make Foster expendable. She could not stop thinking back to college, to the Bernard Foster she knew back then, and how she had suspected, how she had guessed, and how she had never followed through. All those years. She wanted to tear her hair out.

“Jemimah, you bitch. I knew you were trouble the first time I dated you.” The voice was hard and mocking. It was not the one person on the planet she allowed the use of her birth name. This was a voice from years back, one who knew her from campus mixers and lecture halls in the innocent time before she reinvented herself.

Her head came up as he spoke and she stared hard at the inner doorway that led back up into the network of tunnels. “Show yourself, you sick psycho.”

“Tsk, tsk. And with your degrees and all that Quantico training. Is that the technical term for what ails me?” There was an oily laugh implied in the voice.

Cady took the Glock from her waistband and gripped it tightly. This was not her primary piece. This was the back-up weapon. She kept her hand behind her back as she faced the doorway. “I can fix what ails you. Come out and see.”

“You think you can take me, Jemimah? You never could in college.”

“I’ve come a long way since college, Bernard. Wanna find out for yourself? Especially since that useless little wimp with the scalpel couldn’t get the job done?”

“You killed my little cousin,” he said. “My little cousin and his friend.”

“Your cousin? See what happens when brothers and sisters marry?” His voice had seemed somehow closer, although she still couldn’t see him, couldn’t pinpoint a location with the echoes in the vast chamber. She squeezed the Glock for reassurance.

“Just for that last insult, I’m going to slap the shit out of you before I kill you. You have no idea who you’re dealing with.” The voice was closer still in the dark.

“Bernard Foster,” she said mockingly. “Power fraternity. Jock. Celebrated party boy. Crummy, pathetic little bully who resorts to victimizing children to embellish the family fortune. How sad for you. Did Mummy keep baby dearest locked in the closets all those years before university?”

There was a pause and she knew she had hit home. Even back then, Bernard had been sensitive about the subject of his mother. Cady smirked and decided to drive the lance a bit deeper. “Or did I get that wrong? Maybe only loved him when he was a good little boy? Good in that dark and twisted way mother sociopaths sometimes crave?”

“Shut up. Let’s talk about your parents, Cady. Your drunk of a father and all those Sunday afternoon naps—”

“We’re not discussing my family, Bernard. Yours is so much more interesting.” She brought the gun to her side, moving slowly, circling away from the desk and edging toward the closest wall. She wanted her back protected. “So tell me in detail, Bernie. I’m all ears. Did she pimp you out to the social circle? Maybe turn you into a professional cabana boy at the old country club when you were a pretty little fifteen-year old?” She had her back to the wall now and was bringing her gun to the fore when he rushed her from the dark, launching himself against her with a cry that reverberated through the shadows.

Cady was smashed back against the wall with the impact, breath crushed clean out of her. The wound in her side so carefully tended by Proctor turned into a morass of fire and lightning. She barely had the presence of mind to bring the gun up or to struggle to move her arm against his weight and place the opening of the barrel flush to his side, just below his ribs and angled upward. “I should have done this years ago, you son of a bitch.” Her voice was rough, brittle, as she fought for enough air to speak. “This is for Emily—” She pulled the trigger and simultaneously felt a piercing burn that took her voice.

They leaned into each other for just a second and she was aware of a warm gushing that covered her right hand, covered the gun. At the same time, as he began to slide down and away from her and as she gulped precious air back into her slowly-expanding lungs she felt a searing pain that drove her to her knees.

“Cady!” The shout came from the outer entrance, and she had just enough time to see Pendergast, outlined in the light of the doorway, sprinting toward her, closing the distance in a remarkably short time with his long strides, quick enough to catch her before she collapsed entirely.

“I did it, Wish,” she breathed against him. “I ended it.”

He ignored that, settling down onto the ground beside her and examining her wound. “Knife thrust,” he said tersely. “I can’t see how deep. The damage—”

“It’s okay.” She fell back against him, felt his arms come around her, felt his hands press firmly against her stomach. “I did what I wanted. But the information—”

“Don’t talk. For once in your life, don’t say a damn thing.”

She wondered at the use of the four-letter word. Pendergast never swore. But she was too dazed to wonder at it any more. She felt him turn away briefly, knew he was calling out for Proctor, calling for medical care. Good old Wish, she thought. He always knows how to take care of... take care of... The thought was dissolving even as she tried to hold it.

“I’m really cold, Wish,” she managed to croak aloud, not caring if anyone else heard the name she used for him. He was holding her to him, her back against his chest, arms around her, hands clamped firmly over her belly.

“Hold fast, Cady,” he whispered back. Then, almost conversationally, “You never play any for me, but I know music is a very big part of your life. I have seen your CD collection. I have seen your vinyl LP’s. Music is more than important to you. “

“Yes.” She nearly whimpered with the pain and caught herself. “Why?”

“I would venture you thrive on it. Immerse yourself in it. Live in it. Am I wrong?”

“No.” She gasped and felt his hands tighten against her.

“Then think of the strongest piece of music you know. What is it?”

Her thoughts were even more scrambled now, confused, but she tried to focus on his words. “One of my soundtracks, maybe. I don’t know...”

“Shhh. Pick a CD, Cady. Take it out of the case and put it on the player. Can you see yourself doing that?”

She squeezed her eyes closed against the pain and managed a slight nod.

“Good. Now listen to me. You’re pushing the play button. Can you see it? Now the first of the music is flooding the room. It washes over you, takes you with it, takes you someplace safe and protected. Can you hear it, Cady? Can you feel it?”

She didn’t have the capacity to answer.

“Listen to it, with everything in you. Float on it. Submerge yourself in it. It’s so substantial you can rest in it. And it is restful for you, carrying you along, keeping you warm.” His voice was so quiet it was like the words he spoke were but her own thoughts.

She relaxed against him slightly, no longer so guarded against the burning waves that radiated from the wound in her mid-section, listening to the music in her head, holding fast as he had told her.

“The paramedics are coming and they’ve put the call through to the trauma center. They can take her in one of the ambulances already here.” Someone else spoke over the swell of music. Cady didn’t open her eyes.

“Proctor...” There was a break in his voice, an unevenness in the usual soft tones. Was that emotion? That was impossible. Even as the jumbled thought occurred to her it disappeared. Pendergast would be, as always, totally in control. She needed him to be. She was losing her own control rapidly despite her game attempts to listen to her music.

“It will be all right.” There was no such weakness in Proctor’s reply. The words were spoken in solid iron. “We will do what we can and everything will be all right.”

“It must be.” The answer was hushed. He leaned closer to her, whispered in her ear. “Hold tight, Jemimah. You hold on tight.” And then Cady, floating away on a bright orchestral tide, heard nothing more.



Feversham Clinic was as pleasant a healthcare facility as could be found, but it was still a healthcare facility. Cady progressed from partial awareness to full-blown pain to gradual recovery, and then to boredom. Pendergast visited her exactly once, turning up at her bedside in the middle of the night, his back to her as he stared out the window. She wasn’t exactly surprised to see him when she opened her eyes, not even at that late hour, but she had hoped for a bit more than the short, sterile conversation he had with her before he slipped away again into the night.

“You are recovering nicely,” he said, speaking to the darkness beyond the glass.

“So they tell me. It doesn’t feel that nice.”

He half-turned to her then, a small smile on his face. “It never does, does it?” He looked at her. “You look infinitely better than when I last saw you.”

“How long has it been?”

“Several weeks. I was on a case at the time you called, you see. I had some loose ends to wrap up. As it is, I have been summoned back to Tibet on family business and I fly out in a matter of hours.”

She nodded. “Fly by night has always been your M.O., Pendergast.”

He ignored the observation. “You’re going to undergo some rather tedious questioning once you are away from here and the office can find you again. Despite Mr. Foster’s demise, it seems quite a lot of information is being found about his business, in addition to the fact that some of his coworkers are being cooperative. A great deal of the workload was picked up by the state and local authorities, as well as the ICE. And so was the credit. But I had the feeling that making the arrests, filing all the tiresome reports, and basking in glory were not necessarily included in your original objective.”

“I met my original objective.”

He inclined his head. “Quite so. No bad dreams, then, Cady?”

“I sleep like a baby, now.”

He nodded. “Understandable.” He was silent for a time, apparently contemplating his hand-made English shoes, but soon he looked up again and fastened her with that familiar pale gaze. “You will be discharged when the doctors and staff agree it is time. Proctor will see to it that you arrive safely at your home, should I be otherwise engaged.” He picked up her hand in his long cool fingers and gave it a slight squeeze.

Bile suddenly burned in her throat and she knew she needed to ask him the one thing that had weighed so heavily on her since she had come back from the land of surgery and morphine, remembered everything that had happened to her. “Did you hear what he said?”

Pendergast shifted slightly, his hand still on hers. “Did I hear what who said?”

“Bernard Foster. Before he attacked me. Did you hear what he said about...my father?” She was watching carefully and the expression on Pendergast’s face, in his eyes, did not change.

“I heard nothing until the gunshot, Cady. Whatever was said between you and Bernard died in the dark with him.”

She closed her eyes gratefully and gave his hand a squeeze of her own. The fingers were cool, nearly lifeless in her grasp. She looked at him as openly as possible, no smirk, no hardened expression, none of the usual barriers they kept so well against each other. “Wish, I don’t know how to—”

He shook his head and she felt him withdrawing from her even before he stepped away from the bedside. “Be well, Agent Cady.”

There was no time for anything she might have wanted to say and she bit down on the words that were right on the tip of her tongue. “Watch your back, Agent Pendergast,” she replied instead.

He nodded again and strode swiftly from the room, jacket flapping behind him.

Approximately two weeks later, Proctor arrived alone to take her back to her apartment. She had come in to Feversham wearing nothing but the hospital gown and covering from an Illinois trauma center, and was gratified when he gave her a bag containing jeans, a black tee shirt with matching camisole and thong, trouser socks, a pair of New Balance running shoes, and a hooded jacket. “How did you—”

“I was given very explicit instructions along with sizes,” he answered before she completed the question. He grinned at her. “I will be waiting outside in the hall for you, Agent Cady.”

She had long ago tried to get him to call her Anna or even simply Cady, but he had never complied with that, and since he seemed hell-bent on the formality she let it go. She smiled back at him and slipped into her washroom to change.

The staff refused to let her walk down to the front door, instead trundling her down in a maroon wheelchair and parking her by the front door while Proctor brought the car around. He had the Wraith, of course, and Cady smiled to herself when he came around to open the door and hand her into the back.

“This feels good,” she murmured, leaning back against the seat and closing her eyes.

“Are you quite sure you are ready to be on your own?” He was looking at her in the rear view mirror when she opened her eyes at his inquiry.

“I’ll be fine, Proctor. It will be absolutely lovely to sleep in my own bed and shower with my own soap and shampoo.”

He nodded and lapsed into silence.

In the back, cuddled against the warm and buttery leather, Cady reflected on her last meeting with Proctor’s boss. Distant, as always. Calm, controlled, completely emotionless. She should have expected it and when she thought about it honestly, she knew she hadn’t been surprised by his behavior. Intimacy with Pendergast did not lie between the bedsheets, no matter how exciting or even unusual— she had to smile a little at that— their activities became. Intimacy for him was a dark and perilous ocean of unguarded emotion, of putting treacherous words to even more treacherous feelings, of allowing himself to be seen in entirety. The possibility of commitment would and could never be broached. She had seen actual glimpses of him from time to time, but not often. The only emotion he ever seemed to allow was a very quiet and rigidly guarded anger. As for the softer feelings... Still, he had told her that he would always have her back, as she would always have his. That thought also caused her to smile. Rotten luck for you, Wish, she thought. Iron-clad obligation, that. Lulled by the purr of the motor, Cady was rocked to sleep in spite of her best efforts to remain alert. She didn’t awake until Proctor laid a hand on her arm. “Here we are,” he said softly.

She pushed herself upright and stretched, groaned a little at how stiff and

sore she was, but glad to be home. She followed Proctor into the building and was surprised when he waited with her at the elevator. “I’m okay. Really.”

“I understand, Agent Cady. I was instructed to walk you to your door.”

She could picture Pendergast giving those instructions explicitly as he sipped at his green tea and dabbed his lips like a fastidious cat. “All right. But then you really should feel free to take off. I’m fine.”

“Yes.” He rode the elevator with her in silence, then followed her down the hall to her door.

“This is it,” she said.

He watched as she opened the door and stepped inside, then bowed slightly. “Take care of yourself, Agent Cady.”

“You, too, Proctor. Thank you for everything. What an inadequate phrase. I owe you so much—”

He seemed embarrassed. “You owe me nothing,” he said. He looked at her thoughtfully. “For certain circumstances, there is no owing.”

“Then please accept my humble gratitude. And do give my best to your boss.”

He smiled at her once more but did not reply beyond a brief nod.

Cady watched him onto the elevator, then closed her front door with a sigh. Home again. It had been weeks. Weeks since she had taken that leave of absence, weeks since she had left the copy of Euripides in her night stand with the list of case files between the pages. And weeks since she had made that desperate phone call.

The apartment looked exactly as she had left it. There were no piles of mail waiting for her—she groaned slightly when she thought about having to collect all of it at the manager’s office. But that could wait. In the meantime, curling up on the sofa with a cup of tea and some music would be divine. She worked her feet out of her new shoes and went to her entertainment center. She felt a momentary chill when she remembered Pendergast prompting her to visualize choosing a CD and putting it into the player, a technique aimed at both relaxing and strengthening her as she grew weaker from her wounds. For all she knew it had worked. She chose the same CD she had chosen back in that dark tunnel office as Pendergast tried to staunch her bleeding, and pressed ‘play’ and ‘pause.’ The opening measures of Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto #3 could wait until she had her tea. Then she went to the kitchen and prepared a mug of Earl Grey, padded back to her living room, hit ‘play’ and sank into her couch.

She listened to Bach and was content to do nothing more than drink her tea. She listened to Corelli and Vivaldi, segued into E.S. Posthumous and then to Garbage, and simply luxuriated with being at home and listening to anything she wanted. She knew what she was really doing was reveling in the fact that she was still alive. If it hadn’t been for Pendergast and Proctor...

She thought idly about the events of the past weeks, watching the worst bits on the movie screen in her head and wincing. Then she replayed the Pendergast portions of her mental tape, how he had freed her and saved her life, how he had cross-examined her about her decision to rid the world of Bernard Foster, how he had come to see her at Feversham already showing signs of discomfort in her presence. She wondered how long it would be until she saw him again. A year? Eighteen months? He had disappeared every time in the past that they seemed to get a fraction of an inch closer to—what? A relationship? An understanding? She shook her head. It was all beyond her. They didn’t have any kind of relationship she could begin to explain to anyone else. As for understanding, well, she understood that sometimes he was there and most of the time he was not. He was available for the annual or so bedroom romp and unavailable for much else. Except saving her life. The thought brought her up short. As for saving her life, he would always be available. Somehow she knew that to be true. Damn you, Aloysius, she thought. Analyzing anything was a waste of time. Tibet, he had said. Maybe she would see him some time before the decade ended.

And then her phone rang.

Cady frowned. Should she pick up? Caller ID simply said “Blocked.” Telemarketer. Something more nefarious. Or maybe...

On impulse she picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“May I come in?”

She blinked in surprise at the voice, at the question. “Of course. But you never call about this.”

The door was unlocked and opened a moment later, and Pendergast put his head into the apartment. Cady hung up the phone and stared at him as he entered, black suit impeccably fresh, tie knot tight against his collar, hand-made English shoes shined to perfection. Only the one lock of white-blond hair had drifted down across his brow, but he paid it no mind.

“You called,” she said again, still surprised.

He shut the door behind him. “After everything you’ve been through, I feared that simply picking your lock would cause you untoward distress.”

“Not to mention earn you a bullet.”

“That had crossed my mind as well,” he conceded.

“Tibet?” she asked after a moment.

“Settled.” He studied her. “You look well.”

“I’m doing much better, thanks.”

“And you slew the beast.”

She tilted her chin up at him. “But I couldn’t have done it without you and Proctor.”

He inclined his head, but whether to acknowledge what she said or to break eye contact, she wasn’t sure. He remained standing awkwardly in her foyer until she gestured at the couch. After a moment, he crossed the room and sat down, movements uncharacteristically stiff. He was ill at ease, something he did not wear well. She couldn’t help thinking how much more relaxed he had looked when the odds against them had been at least eleven to three.

“Pendergast.”

He looked at her, brows raised slightly in inquiry.

“What are you doing here?”

He looked down, picked invisible lint from the cuff of his suit coat. “I fear ...certain misunderstandings,” he ventured slowly. The words came with hesitation, apprehension even, and Cady felt an uncomfortable level of tension from him.

“You mean between us? I don’t think there are any misunderstandings, Wish.”

He raised his head and there was a conflict of hope and hopelessness in his pale eyes. “All these years.” It was all he said. He raised a hand and then let it drop, as if that would sufficiently explain what he did not say.

But Cady caught the meaning well enough. “All these years, and nothing’s changed,” she said, voice light.

He frowned slightly. “But there have been changes. There have been...developments.”

“And have you ever acted on any of them? Have I?”

“No,” he conceded.

“Then nothing has changed between us. Forget the years. Forget developments.” She mimicked his hand gesture, made it dismissive.

He looked down at his knees, growing very still, and said nothing.

Cady sat down at the other end of the couch. “What misunderstandings?” she asked.

An indefinable expression crossed his face for a moment. “Cady, why did you call me all those weeks ago?”

“Because I needed your help. Or I needed you to solve my murder. One or the other.”

He looked at her, serious and apprehensive. “I have never called you,” he said quietly.

“No shit, Sherlock.”

He blinked. “But—”

“But what? Did you think if you called me, ever, that I wouldn’t come for you?”

“It’s not that I believe you would ignore such a call from me.”

“I’m glad you realize that. So what is it, Wish? What are you trying to say here?”

He looked at her and made motions to rise from the couch. “Perhaps I should leave. I am sorry to have disturbed you.”

“Yeah? Wait’ll you see how disturbed I get when you try to walk out of here.”

That stopped him. He gathered his thoughts and tried once more. “We once said we had no expectations, Jemimah.”

“I remember.”

“But when you called, you expected me to come for you. True?”

“Expected would be the word for it, yes.”

“But then—”

Was he actually trying to broach the talk? The thought popped into her head unexpectedly and the shock of it almost made her burst out laughing. Instead she smirked at him. “I think I’m beginning to understand why you’re alone so much of the time, Wish.” He stared at her without saying anything and she felt a twinge of pity. She wasn’t making it any easier for him. She took a deep breath and let it out with a sigh. “If I were to ask you to read me Euripides in the original Greek, you could do it, couldn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And if I were to ask you about genetically engineered crops, the construction of a Stradivarius violin, the history of modern art, or the relative similarities and differences between, say, Kant and Hegel, you could answer at length, couldn’t you?”

“Yes, of course, Jemimah. But what—”

“Bear with me here, Wish. And when I call you and leave a message that means my life is in danger and I need your help, you will obviously answer that as well. Right?”

“Obviously.”

“But if I were to ask you anything about the two of us, about feelings, about plans, or maybe the future, there would be no answer, would there?”

Silence.

She grinned at him in spite of herself. “So you saved my life, Wish. Probably in more ways than one. Certainly more than once. Are you afraid I’m going to do that old world thing where I tell you that after saving me you’re now responsible for me? Are you afraid I’m going to move into your house, make an announcement about us, and start asking for a pre-nup?”

Had he stopped breathing? His pallor suggested hypoxia and the look in his eyes suggested she had gone insane. Or perhaps rabid.

Cady had to clench one hand into a fist, nails digging into her palm, to keep from laughing. She realized in that moment how often he made her laugh, especially when he didn’t mean to, and especially when she most needed it. Like after nearly dying. Twice. And somehow that made everything between them quite all right. Right as rain, she thought. Possibly even perfect. Aloud, she said, “You know me better than that. You know us better than that. Except that would mean assuming there is an ‘us.’ I assume nothing, and I am correct to do so, right?”

He took a deep breath. “Agent Cady—”

“Oh, here it comes. We’ve gone from ‘Jemimah’ to ‘Agent Cady.’ But do go on.” She tried hard not to smile at the look on his face.

“We agreed to no expectations.”

“We did. No expectations. None whatsoever. That was what we said. It’s not like I forgot.”

“But in view of all that has happened since that time, I feared...” He stopped and looked at her, pale eyes blank as silver, face completely expressionless.

“Pendergast, since you’re clearly worried about this, let’s review expectations, all right? Here are mine. Wait, wait, stay calm and listen. I think you can live with these. You already have.” She began to tick them off on her fingers. “I expect that from time to time, we will enjoy each other in the way a man and a woman should, because as I’ve always said, you are all that in bed. I expect that if I’m in trouble and I call you and ask for help, you will show up, as you already have. I expect that you know you can call me as well, although I also expect you never will. And lastly, I expect that most of the time I won’t see you, hear from you, or even know you’re still on the planet. Does that sound about right?”

His face relaxed by centimeters as she spoke. “What you describe is how we have always been in the past.”

“And I see no reason to change. Do you?”

The tension was visibly leaving his shoulders. “I would prefer to keep the status quo.”

“I prefer that myself.” Cady could not have been more honest with him when she spoke, but that wicked little voice in her whispered that she could still have a little fun. When she was a child, she had frequently heard the admonition just because you can, doesn’t mean you should. A noble sentiment, to be sure. Too bad she didn’t always follow it. “Want some tea? I’d love another mug of it.”

He followed her into the kitchen and brought out the cream, sliced the lemon, set the sugar bowl on the table while Cady heated the water and got a mug from the rack and a spoon from the drawer for him. They worked in companionable silence, relaxed, content, comfortable with each other. And then when she couldn’t stand it any longer, Cady looked at him and knew it was time to pounce. She gave him a wicked grin.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“You know all that stuff I just said to you back in the living room? About expectations and the status quo?” She backed him up against the sink, moving closer until they were face to face.

“Yes?” He had no clue what was coming.

“I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings between us. So I think you need to know that I was crossing my fingers the whole time,” she said. “Nothing I just told you counts for anything.” She laughed out loud at his sudden consternation, even alarm, and she let him suffer for a couple of long seconds before she whispered “Gotcha.” She laughed once more at the new storm of expressions that crossed his face, then pulled him down by the lapels and kissed his warm lips over his protests, kissed him fierce, kissed him deep, until neither of them heard the kettle begin to whistle.



Author’s note:
The author would like to express gratitude and appreciation to C. Allen Reed, Deputy U.S. Marshal, and William Ernoehazy, MD, Emergency Medicine specialist, for technical advice and information. Any errors are the sole responsibility of the author.

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