Peter's expression turned feral. "Eager. Her daddy not quite as much, but he'll come round when I'm governor-and the grandchildren start arriving."

Stern joined him by the window.

"Grandchildren. Interesting concept. Course, you'll have to curb your...appetites to make it work. The press isn't as careless as they used to be about politicians-...hobbies."

Peter's face lost its complacency, his gaze shifting away from Stern. "I am aware of the need for discretion."

"The question isn't do you know it, but can you do it?"

"Yes." He'd give up what he must to get Audrey and her father?s political clout. If need pressed, there were ways to get ...sustenance on the side. "I have my memories to sustain me."

"Stick to memories they'll be calling you Governor."

"Yes." Peter smiled. Governor. That all-important next step toward more power over lives, land, people. A different kind of lust sent an electric charge across his newly tightened skin. When that power was his, he could do whatever he wanted. And Audrey? He'd do what he wanted with her elegant body, highborn face and powerful connections. In time, after he'd properly schooled her, her life itself would be his to do with as he pleased. Her life and those of her daughters. He smiled, thinking of the smaller, perfect versions of their mother.

Were they strong enough for his love? He didn't know. He hoped so. He wanted them to be strong-though not as strong as Nadine who'd gotten away from him and Kerry Anne who almost hadn't. The surprise was when he'd realized they were both stronger than their drunken slut of a mother who'd taken a voluntary dive down her oh-so-elegant stairs. Two suicides in two months turned out to be too much, even for the laid back small town cops of his former home. Immediately after her funeral, he'd retired his Montgomery Justice identity. It was in the interim between that one and his present life as Peter Harding, that he'd met Stern, who had also been someone else.

"You slip up, Peter, you'll be getting a number and strip searched instead of sworn in," Stern said, breaking into his side trip down memory lane.

"I know what's at stake." Peter shifted irritably at the tiny cloud of old business that shadowed his vision of the future. Where was Nadine? Could she have found him? Was she the one-?

"It hasn't stopped," he admitted abruptly. "I'm still getting the messages."

"He might have left something behind to foul up our computer systems. I'll check it out." Stern looked at Peter. "Unless there's something You're not telling me?"

"I got a note," Peter admitted. He unlocked a drawer and extracted a folded sheet of cheap notepaper.

Stern took the sheet and opened it. Letters cut out of a newspaper formed the words: I know.

"Cryptic." He was quiet for a moment. "If someone is pulling your chain-"

"How could they know to pull that chain?" Peter heard the rising panic of his own voice and reined it in. "How could anyone know?"

"We don't know they're pulling that chain. Relax. I made damn sure that no part of your past can be traced to this present."

"Unless it's Nadine."

Stern shrugged. "What if it is? She has no proof. The person you were is permanently missing."

"The press feed on innuendo like piranhas on flesh. All it would take is a whiff of suspicion to end my political career."

Stern turned, walked back around the desk and dropped into Peter's own chair. He stretched out his feet; his hands unnaturally still on the armrests, that look of pleasure coming back to his eyes.

"Not if I take care of her before she gets to the press. The same way you took care of her big sister."

The sun was hanging low on the horizon by the time they hauled Ollie out in his body bag. Outside the window, the low-rent district where Oliver Smith met his end looked sad under the fading August sun. Inside, the light was equally merciless as found its way through the dirty windowpanes. It bumped up the smell of garlic, old deer meat, and onion and outstripped the pitiful air conditioning, putting beads of sweat on poor Mac's face. The detective was already showing stress at being caught between the immovable FBI agent and the hard-as-a-rock Deputy Marshal, Jake noted, with amused sympathy.

The techs faded away in a discreet hurry, leaving Jake to finish up with Bryn, who was seated in front of the computer. Mac went out, too, muttering something about getting them all something cold to drink.

"How long has it been since we've had a whiff of a trail on Hyatt?" Jake stood in the middle of the room, turning in a slow circle. In one corner, shoved up against the peeling green paint of the wall, was a rumpled bed, in another a lumpy chair and crooked floor lamp. But it Wasn't the place he was straining to pick up on. It was the people who'd been there. Even in the most generic of settings, it was hard not to leave some traces of your personal taste behind.

He stopped turning when he got to Bryn and the sturdy desk tucked in a kind of alcove next to the closet. She'd been sitting there for what seemed an hour, like a virgin trying to make up her mind, while the crime scene slowly cleared.

"Two years, almost to the day. The Interplex Technology heist," she said.

"I remember that one. Damn near perfect piece of work. Like to meet the guys who plan their heists."

"You and half the law-enforcement agencies in the country."

Something in the way she said it triggered Jake's instincts. Jake walked over to her, propping a shoulder against the doorjamb. "It's not one guy, is it?"

She hesitated, then nodded. "I had my hands on one of Phagan's kids for a very short time. He let slip a nickname."

Jake arched a brow questioningly.

After another hesitation she said, "The kid called him Pathphinder. Apropos, isn't it?"

"Almost, too." Pathfinder. More modest than mastermind. And more clever, Jake mused. It was, according to the file Bryn had reluctantly shared with him, about all the FBI knew about the notorious hacker who called himself Phagan. They knew a little more about Dewey Hyatt, his second in command and the fugitive Jake now had his sights set on, and that their operation somehow involved teenage runaways. Precious little, unless Bryn was still holding out on him, which was possible, since interagency cooperation was a contradiction in terms.

"Kid Could've been blowing smoke up my skirt, but it didn't feel like it," Bryn said. "As usual, Phagan spirited the kid away before I could find out more."

There was something in her voice that told Jake she'd let this particular hunt get a tad personal. Big mistake, but she already knew that. Bryn was as strict with herself as she was with colleague. It was what made it both pleasure and pain to work with her.

"Fagan?" The question came from Mac, who had returned bearing soft drinks. He handed them out while Jake looked at Bryn for direction. She gave a slight shake of her head. No reason to make Phagan more of a legend than he already was. Besides, if the locals smelled a big fish, they'd start withholding information, hoping to make a big collar on their own. Why make it easier for Phagan to elude them? Not that he was having any trouble now.

"The thief in Oliver Twist," Jake said.

Mac rubbed his forehead as if it hurt. "Oh."

Jake hid a grin with a long, cool drink from his cup, not too surprised Mac Wasn't into classic literature or musicals.

Bryn took a drink, then a deep breath, one that seemed weighted with purpose, and turned back to the computer. Her hands hovered above the keyboard as if it were a bomb that might go off. The screen was dark, but the green cursor glowed in the lower right-hand corner.

"Anyone touch the computer while securing the scene?" Bryn asked with a reluctance that was out of character.

"No, ma'am," Mac said, "except to dust for prints."

She wriggled her fingers, like a maestro, then lowered her hands and tapped a few keys. Nothing happened. The computer Wasn't going to give up its secrets that easily. She frowned fiercely. Mac shifted, dabbing at the sweat on his brow.

Jake leaned across her and picked up a plastic wrapped sheet from the clutter of evidence bags. It was a simple flyer advertising a country-western bar called JR's located near Estes Park, Colorado. Though Jake was assigned to DC and had an apartment there, he called Denver home. He'd been born and raised in Denver and his mom and brothers still lived there. He knew Estes, too, and thought he remembered the bar. His family had a cabin just outside Rocky Mountain National Park. It took him a bit of thinking to pull up a memory of a log structure east of town on 34. Good music. Better beer.

The flyer was an odd thing to find so far from its home. Even odder, the series of numbers and letters written down one side.

"Any idea what this is?" he asked, distracting Bryn from her attack on the computer.

She seemed relieved at the distraction, rather than annoyed as she took it. "It?s an Internet address for a MUD."

Jake blinked. "A mud?"