J.J. was furiously trying to s.n.a.t.c.h the pages from the tile.

"I miss you, son."

J.J. didn't look up. He was gone again.

"d.a.m.n IT!" he screamed.

Jess turned and walked away, the rain slashing him. He paused at his pickup and gazed back. J.J. kept his head down, picking up papers and dropping them like a demon.

Sunday, 7:16 P.M.

MONICA LOOKED up when the doorbell rang, and Swann scrambled to his feet from the couch. He had been on his cell phone with someone, another of his secret calls. Something about going back to his house again that night; Swann didn't seem to want to do it.

They had not spoken since Swann showed her that he had her keys. She was simply waiting now, biding her time. When he left the room, she'd be out the door. She could borrow a car from a neighbor. Or get a ride with someone. But she wanted him to think he'd talked her out of that idea, so she sat silently. Let him think she'd reconsidered.

"You expecting someone?" he asked as he neared the door.

"Of course not," she said, hoping it was news of Annie and William.

Swann bent and looked out the peephole. "Some man," he said, then opened the door.

Monica didn't recognize the wet cowboy on the front porch. He looked angry, though, the way he squinted inside like a gunfighter, like the sun was in his eyes.

"What can we do for you?" Swann asked.

"Are you Monica Taylor?" the man asked, shouting louder than he needed to, not acknowledging Swann. The rainfall was steady and loud behind him.

Intuitively, she knew it was about her children. She nodded.

"Then you must be Swann," the man said, reaching back for something that was out of sight. Then he strode into the house holding a rifle in both of his hands. Before Swann could reach for the pistol in his belt, the man clubbed Swann hard in the face with the b.u.t.t of the rifle. Swann staggered back, blood already gushing from his nose, his hands grasping at air, his feet tangling with her magazine rack. He fell into the wall, sliding down partway, taking a framed photograph of Annie with him. His elbow rested on the top of the couch and stopped him from falling all of the way to the floor. The man was in the living room now, straddling Swann, and to Monica's horror, he reared back and clubbed Swann again in the head with a short, powerful stroke. Swann went limp, and rolled with his face to the wall, his weight pushing the couch out, and he crashed behind it on the floor. All she could see of Swann were the soles of his shoes. The rest of him was wedged behind the couch.

The cowboy bent over and came up with Swann's pistol, which he shoved into the front pocket of his Wranglers. Then he looked up, caught his breath.

Monica had not screamed, but had withdrawn into her chair, her feet under her, her fists at her mouth.

"He'll live," the man said, nodding his hat brim toward Swann. Then he looked right at her. "I'm Jess Rawlins. I'm here to take you to your kids."

At the sound of his name, Monica felt her throat constrict. Jess Rawlins. She'd always known of this man. And here he was, in her own living room, there to rescue her.

Sunday, 8:21 P.M.

JIM HEARNE felt panic growing as the rain receded into cold mist and hung suspended in the air above the pavement of streets, and his tires sluiced through standing puddles. Something was going on in his town late on a Sunday night, but he hadn't yet been able to figure out exactly what it was, how big it was, or how many people were involved. As with the feeling he had had in his living room, when he suddenly felt like an imposter in his own home, he drove through Kootenai Bay under the strong impression that despite the recognizable buildings and layout, he was a stranger in this town.

He swung his Suburban into the county building lot and parked it next to Sheriff Carey's Blazer. He was grateful for locating the sheriff, since the two other men he had tried to find earlier had been gone. Lieutenant Singer was not at the task force room in the county building, or at his home. And Eduardo Villatoro had not been back to his hotel room since late afternoon.

Hearne got out of his vehicle and tried to calm himself by inhaling the moist air deeply into his lungs. He looked at his watch. He had accomplished exactly nothing for all of his running around, except to confirm that whatever was happening was happening someplace else, and he had no idea where that might be. Now he thought he might be in the right place, judging by the three network satellite trucks that took up most of the parking lot at the front of the building. There was a hive of activity. It was obvious they had all arrived within minutes of each other, and technicians were out on the pavement, jockeying for position. Some unfurled thick cables that snaked across the asphalt. Hearne recognized a celebrity reporter brightly lit by a portable bank of lights, and thought he looked shorter, thinner, and more frail than he did on TV. The man seemed to be waiting for somebody to tell him something in his earpiece. Looking at the trucks, the bustle of men and women, he feared for Kootenai Bay.

Avoiding the news crews, which had situated themselves so the front doors and sign on the county building would be visible in the background for camera shots, he walked around to the back, where the dispatcher was located. The door was open, as it should be, but the dispatcher-a heavyset woman with a bright red helmet of hair-looked up in alarm through thick lenses. She wasn't used to visitors walking into the building, and unlike most people in town, she didn't recognize him.

He said, "Is the sheriff in? I saw his vehicle out front."

"I think he's in for a minute," she said, looking around, her eyes winking like crazy behind the gla.s.ses, "but I think he's going to go home. Is this something that can wait until morning?"

Hearne felt a surge of impatience. "Do you think I would be here at this time of night if it was something that could wait? Where is he? In his office?" he asked, pushing through the batwing doors on the side of the reception desk, striding past her.

"Yes, but you should wait until I call him...." she said, her voice trailing off.

Sheriff Carey was in the act of hanging up his telephone. His office blazed with lights, even though the rest of the department was dark. When Hearne stepped into the doorway, Carey looked up slowly, without expression. It didn't seem to surprise him that the local banker was in his office late on Sunday night. He looked terrible, Hearne thought, completely unlike the confident man holding the press conference the day before.

"Sheriff, are you okay?"

Carey nodded slowly. His eyes seemed moist, oily. The dark circles surrounding them looked painted on. "h.e.l.lo, Mr. Hearne."

Hearne reached across the sheriff's desk to greet him. Carey's hand was chilly and without strength.

"Sheriff, you look like h.e.l.l."

Carey smiled slightly, sadly. "I'm real tired, Mr. Hearne."

"Call me Jim. I won't keep you. I'm just trying to figure a couple of things out, and I hoped you could help me."

"Pretty late for that."

"I know," Hearne said, not knowing if the sheriff meant the time of night or the situation in general. He looked hard at Carey and saw a man who was physically and emotionally spent. This was not the time to confess. That would have to be later.

"When I ran for sheriff, I really didn't think there would be nights like this," Carey said softly, looking at a place just above Hearne's left shoulder. "I don't think I'm ... equipped for this sort of thing. There's too much going on. I'm in over my head, Jim. I just want to go home and get into my bed and never wake up, you know?" Hearne didn't know what to say. He barely knew the man, and what he knew wasn't encouraging. He didn't expect to be witness to what appeared to be a breakdown in progress.

"Can I get you something? Coffee?" Hearne asked lamely.

Carey shook his head. "A bullet in the brain might help."

When Hearne's eyes widened, Carey held up his hand. "Just kidding," he said. "Sort of." He gestured outside with a nod. "Those people out there want a statement from me. Now, it's big-time."

Carey began to tell Hearne what had been happening for the last three days, from the missing Taylor children to the confession of Tom Boyd, from the creation of the task force, to the call he had just received from a deputy reporting the severe beating of Oscar Swann. Not only that, but Monica Taylor was missing from her house, taken by a man who fit the description of Jess Rawlins. "Fiona Pritzle suspects Rawlins as well," Carey said. Hearne was stunned by it all.

"How could this all be happening?" Hearne asked, finally. "It's like I don't know this place anymore."

Carey shook his head. "Me neither."

Hearne thought about it for a minute, his mind whirling, filled with possibilities, all of them dark. "Sheriff, do you know where Singer is right now? Or the rest of the task force, for that matter?"

Carey shook his head no. Like everything, he seemed to be saying, the task force was out of his control.

"How can they just be gone?" Hearne asked. "Are they at the hospital, with Swann?"

Carey shrugged. "Maybe. I don't know."

"What about Eduardo Villatoro? The detective? Do you know where he is?"

Carey shrugged again.

Hearne sat forward in his chair, angry. "Look, Sheriff, I realize it's tough right now. You probably haven't slept in two days. But d.a.m.n it, you're the sheriff. You can't just sit here."

Carey looked back, his eyes dead.

"And what you told me about Jess Rawlins. I don't believe it. I've known Jess all my life. There is no way-NO WAY-he's involved in the disappearance of those kids. Anybody who knows him knows that. Fiona Pritzle is a common gossip, the worst kind. Do you think Singer and the others believed her, for Christ's sake?"

The sheriff looked away. "Maybe," he conceded.

Hearne stood up. "You've got to set them right! Get ahold of them, and tell them Jess is a good man and Fiona Pritzle is crazy. Tell those reporters out there before they broadcast these allegations to the whole country. Look, I came here tonight because four years ago I opened an account at the bank I shouldn't have opened. It was right as the L.A. cops discovered us. I looked the other way at the time, I admit it. I should have asked more questions, but I wanted the business. But I didn't hand over the keys to this whole valley. None of us have. It's still ours, we just need to reclaim it. It's time to show some leadership. That's why the people elected you sheriff! "

Hearne heard himself yelling, something he rarely if ever did. But instead of getting through to Carey, waking him up, his shouting had the opposite effect. Carey seemed to withdraw further, saying nothing.

Hearne looked around. The red-helmeted dispatcher stood in the doorway, her mouth open, her eyes blinking so fast they blurred.

"Sheriff, I heard shouting," she said.

"It's okay," Carey said, so wearily even Hearne felt sorry for the man. "Just go back to work."

When the dispatcher left, Hearne tied to calm his voice. "So you don't know where anybody is?"

Carey shook his head. "Singer might be at the hospital, what I'd guess."

"Okay, then," Hearne said, standing. "Please, I'm asking you to get in touch with Singer. Tell him Jess Rawlins is a good guy. Don't let the press run with this. We can't have anything happen that shouldn't."

Carey nodded blankly.

Hearne turned toward the doorway.

"Jim," Carey said. Hearne looked over his shoulder. "I'm turning the whole thing over to the state and the Feds. I've called them, and they'll be here by morning. I know it's only been two days, but this thing is just too d.a.m.ned big for me."

"That's probably overdue," Hearne said. "I'm surprised you waited. And Sheriff, I'd suggest you get a grip on yourself. Go home and take a shower and shave. Try to act professional."

Carey looked up, his eyes far away. "I'll try," he said.

HEARNE TRIED to contact Jess Rawlins on his cell phone as he drove away from the county building toward the hospital. No one picked up, and Jess didn't have voice mail. He wanted to tell Jess what was happening, warn him what some suspected due to Fiona Pritzle's gossip. The thought of Jess Rawlins being suspected as a kidnapper or child molester turned Hearne's stomach.

On his way out of town he decided to stop by the hospital, see if he could locate Singer. Hearne felt a compelling need to tell Singer their business relationship was over, that it was time to let the chips fall where they may. Despite everything that was going on, and Singer's heroic role in the task force, Hearne desperately wanted to sever their relationship. It would be his first step back to respectability, even though it would also be an invitation to bank examiners to question his judgment, and the board of directors to discuss his continued employment.

He parked his car at the back of the hospital and left it running while he retrieved his cell phone to call Laura, to tell her he would be even later than he thought. While it rang, he looked at the way the word EMERGENCY from the red neon sign above the entrance reflected backwards and upside down on the hood of his car, the colors lighting up beads of rain.

"Hi, honey," she said by way of greeting. Her voice sounded tired.

"Sorry to call so late," he said, still looking at the reflection. "I'm going to run out to Jess Rawlins's ranch before I come home."

"Jess? Is he okay?"

"I think so," he said, and tried to briefly tell her what he knew. As he talked, and she listened sympathetically (she had always disliked Fiona Pritzle), he almost didn't notice the subtle change in the light reflection on his hood as a form pa.s.sed in front of his car. Looking out the rain-streaked side window, he continued to talk as the form-a man wearing what appeared to be hospital whites with a heavily bandaged head-staggered between the row of cars, reaching from car to car to steady himself and maintain his balance.

"My G.o.d," Hearne said suddenly to Laura. "You won't believe who just walked by the car and didn't even see me."

"Who?"

"That ex-cop I told you about. The one who was beaten. Oscar Swann."

"You're kidding."

"I'm not," he said distractedly, watching Swann lurch from car to car, now bending at each, looking inside. For what?

Hearne knew the answer when Swann opened the door of an aged red compact and the dome light came on. He watched the ex-officer painfully bend himself into the driver's seat and heard the rough whine of an out-of-tune motor start up.

"He's stealing a car," Hearne said. He heard Laura gasp.

"I'm following him," he said, knowing her protestation would be next.

SWANN APPEARED to be going home. Hearne held well back, and faded even farther when Swann drove the stolen car beyond the city limits onto the wooded state highway that led to his house. The banker could see taillights in glimpses as Swann cornered or there was a clearing in the dark trees.

Why would the man simply walk out of the hospital like that? And steal a car?

Hearne had his cell phone on his lap and watched as the signal bars decreased until the NO SERVICE prompt flashed. Wherever he was going, whatever he was going to do now, he would be out of touch unless he could find or borrow a land line. He wished he'd have asked Laura to call the sheriff, then thought how pointless that would have been given the condition the sheriff was in when he left the office.

It took half an hour for Swann's brake lights to flash before he began the turn from the highway onto the two-track that led to his house. Hearne saw the flash, pulled to the side of the road, and cut his headlights. He waited until Swann's car had vanished into the trees before turning his own lights back on and following.

HEARNE HAD never been to Swann's house, and he knew he was on legal thin ice the moment he entered private property and began to climb the drive. He had no intention of confronting Swann, or even of approaching the house. All he wanted to do was see where the road took him, see that Swann had settled in (he hoped), and proceed to Jess Rawlins's place.

Hearne felt equal parts thrilled and terrified by what he was doing. But the pure happenstance of seeing Swann in the parking lot and following him to his home had given him a purpose in a night where his ineffectiveness bludgeoned him blow after blow. Maybe following Swann would lead to nothing. In that case, only Laura would know.

When he could see a dull glow of lights through the trees, Hearne cut his own and pulled over. He didn't want to drive right to Swann's house.

He killed the engine and slid outside, careful not to slam the door. As he walked through the trees toward the lights, his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and the tree trunks he had not seen earlier emerged from the gloom. The forest floor was spongy with moisture, and he walked carefully so he wouldn't slip and fall.

He could hear movement, a drumbeat of footfalls, so he stopped and tried to see. A deer. His heart was racing in his chest, and he could actually hear it when he paused.

Seventy-five yards up the hill, Swann's house was bright with lights both inside and out. In addition to the red car Swann had stolen, Hearne recognized Singer's white SUV. There was also a shiny black pickup with chrome wheels. He immediately guessed the whole task force was there, at Swann's house. Hearne felt real fear. Swann's house seemed like a very odd choice for a meeting, when the group of ex-cops had the entire sheriff's department and all of the county's resources at their disposal. Something wasn't right.

Fright gripped him, seemed to make his legs heavy and his movements slow. He walked close enough to a large pen to see movement in there: pigs. A ma.s.sive hog false-charged him, grunting. Hearne jumped back, tripped over a tree root, and broke his fall with his elbows. While he lay in the mud he could hear the shallow, staccato breathing of the hog and smell its putrid hot breath.

His thighs were illuminated by a shaft of light from the house that slipped through the panels on the fence. As he scrambled back to his feet, his phone fell out of his shirt pocket and bounced off his knee and landed a few feet in front of him, in a pool of light.

As he stepped out of the shadows to retrieve it, the front door of Swann's house was thrown open. Hearne froze and watched as three men-he recognized the profiles of Singer, Swann, and Gonzalez-stepped out onto the front porch. Could they possibly see him?

Hearne couldn't breathe. He looked from the phone in the light to the men up on the porch. If he could see his phone in the light, they could too. They looked in his direction. He could see no weapons drawn.

Then Singer turned to Swann and said something he couldn't hear while gesturing in Hearne's direction. It was then Hearne realized the two men were looking down the dark road and not at him. Like they were waiting for someone. His breath returned, but it rattled in his throat.

Hearne backed up farther into the shadows but didn't take his eyes off Singer and Swann. He prayed he wouldn't step on a dry branch under the tree canopy, or trip again in the mud. He would leave the phone. He had no choice.

AS HEARNE felt his way through the trees toward his car, he thought about the accounts at the bank, the ones he had opened for Singer, the accounts that grew quickly with all-cash deposits, each deposit barely under the ten-thousand-dollar figure that would require the bank to notify the IRS. Hearne had advised his head teller not to worry about it, that the money came from donations all the way out in Los Angeles, that it was for a good cause. But he'd known from his first meeting with Lieutenant Singer and Tony Rodale that something didn't quite fit. An initial deposit for $9,780 in tens and twenties? An additional deposit of $9,670 the next day, and the next?