"Your impressions of them?"

"Mainly impatient that such an old case had been revived. Nothing that made me suspicious."

"I'd like that list this afternoon."

"Why that case?"

"It just interests me."

"Well, you're a h.e.l.l of a lot better than me if you get anywhere." He changed the subject. "You married?"

"No."

"Smart guy. I'm in the middle of a divorce. She couldn't take the hours."

So that explained the approach. Wagner was probably lonely.

Gage finished his sandwich and rose. He didn't want any more confidences. "Time to get back."

"If I can help ..."

"Thanks," he said, his mind already going back to the pages in the Prescott file. He wanted to study the case files more thoroughly, then make a list of possible interviews. One particular name had emerged from the file. Charles Rawson. He'd been the last person known to see Prescott alive.

Charles Rawson. Prominent attorney. And father of Meredith Rawson.

'KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI'.

THREE WEEKS EARLIER.

Holly held her son's hand tightly as she roamed among the sentiments engraved on plaques in Baby Land.

Although the section was only a small part of the cemetery in Kansas City, it had to be the most heartbreaking. What must it be like to lose a child?

All her emotions seemed to pound against the dam that had held them back during the week since she unbelievably killed a fellow human being. It didn't matter that he apparently had intended to kill her. She felt as if she had lost a part of her soul.

She was going to lose even more now. She was about to steal the ident.i.ty of the most innocent of victims.

But she had to elude her husband and his resources. She needed a completely new ident.i.ty. She hoped--prayed--she could find one here.

A dead child left behind a bronze marker, a birth certificate and little else but love in the hearts of those who mourned. Nothing that could be traced. She could request a birth certificate and use it to get a Social Security card and other forms of ident.i.ty, including a badly needed driver's license. It would take weeks, but she 'had' to have those doc.u.ments. In the meantime, she would obey every speed limit sign in the country.

She'd grabbed her son that horrifying night and little else: a few clothes, what money she had saved from the small sculptures she loved creating, two sculptures, and a few of her sculpting tools. She hadn't taken them all. She didn't want Randolph to notice she had taken any. Randolph called it her "little" hobby. He'd had no idea that she'd secretly sold her works to a craft shop and had been h.o.a.rding the money they brought.

She'd wanted to leave him long before, but knowing his power and his alliances, she'd been terrified of losing her son. She knew Randolph would find a way of getting custody. He had warned her over and over again that he would.

She could never leave her son under his control and influence.

He had threatened her into inertia. Still, she had been saving and hiding money. She'd built a fantasy escape, had researched places to go.

'Bisbee, Arizona'. That had been her Mecca. She'd read about it in a magazine, then researched it on the Web at the library. A haven for artists. She could lose herself there and make a living for herself and her son.

She never would have had the courage to do it, though, if not for the intruder. Then she'd had no choice.

She made herself look at the small bronze markers. She couldn't linger here. She'd carefully laid a trail to Florida, having driven east for four hours. She had cashed out her credit card in Mobile, then continued across Alabama. In Pensacola, a navy town, she'd abandoned the Mercedes in a bad-looking section of town, hoping it would be stolen or looted of parts. She didn't dare try to sell the car. It was in her husband's name, not hers.

She'd hocked her engagement and wedding rings for a fraction of their worth and bought bus tickets to Miami, then cut her long, blond hair and dyed it a dull brown. She dyed Mikey's sandy hair the same brown color.

The dye and ragged haircut made a difference. Randolph had always wanted her to look her best. She'd been what so many called a trophy wife, always impeccably groomed and dressed. She couldn't change the high cheekbones, the heart-shaped face or the wide blue eyes, but she could downplay them by scorning makeup and wearing a pair of cheap gla.s.ses.

After the transformation, she purchased two more bus tickets from a separate ticket agent for Mobile. In Mobile, she bought bus tickets for Chicago. They had been wandering since. No, not wandering. Running in sheer terror.

Until they'd reached Kansas City. She felt they were far enough away from New Orleans and had taken enough twists and turns to throw off the most determined follower. Despite all her precautions, though, traveling with a child on a bus might be traceable. She couldn't go farther before getting a car and starting work on a new ident.i.ty.

She planned to search the auto ads in the local paper. Cars for sale by private individuals. They wouldn't require identification, not if she offered cash.

But first...

She continued her search, among the small graves. She finally found one that met her needs. 'Elizabeth Baker'. It even had the day of birth and death. And a sentiment: 'Our Little Angel'.

Everything she needed. She felt like the worst of villains. An opportunist benefiting from a death.

But then she looked at her son and knew she would do anything for him, anything to protect him.

She wrote down the dates from the plaque, said a small prayer for the child, then took a city bus back to the small motel where they were staying.

Once there, she settled Mikey down for a nap. "Why did we go there, Mommy?"

"To visit a friend," she said, giving him a tight hug.

"Do I know her?"

"No," she said.

"Was it a girl or a boy?"

"A girl."

"Is she in heaven?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

For once, she wished he wasn't so precocious, so curious. "I don't know, love. I think she was sick. Now I want you to go to sleep for me."

"I'm not sleepy."

"But Henry is," she said, putting his battered and much beloved stuffed dog next to him.

" 'Kay," he finally acquiesced.

She waited until he was asleep, then started to call the sellers who'd listed cars in the cla.s.sifieds. She explained that her own car had died on the road and the mechanic said it wasn't worth saving. She needed a car. Would he be interested in bringing it to her?

On the third call, the seller agreed to bring the vehicle to the motel. The car was dark and eight years old. But she drove it around the parking lot and, though not smooth like her Mercedes, it appeared to run well. The seller swore by its condition. New tires. Recent tune-up. The odometer said a little over eighty thousand miles. It was a lot, but it convinced her he hadn't turned it back.

Desperate people couldn't be choosy. She couldn't stay here.

"You said it was forty-five hundred. Will you take thirty-seven hundred in cash?"

"It's worth every bit of my price," the seller said.

"I don't have that much. And I compared that model to other advertised cars. I think my offer is fair." Desperation was making her stronger.

He eyed her speculatively. "Would you like to talk about it over supper?"

"My son is with me, and my husband is overseas in the army."

He looked down at her hand. No wedding ring. 'd.a.m.n'.

"I sold it to buy the car. I have to get home. My mother is ill." She felt as if her nose was growing longer.

He looked as if he saw it, too. She wondered if he saw, or felt, her desperation. Perhaps he did, for after a moment, he nodded. "You can have it," he said simply.

She smiled for the first time in three days. "I have the money with me. Do you have the bill of sale?"

He looked at her curiously. "You don't want a mechanic to check it out?"

"Do I need to?" She opened her eyes wide.

"No, but most people--"

"I really do have to get home," she said. She was using every acting skill she had, even forcing--or perhaps not forcing--a tear.

"Are you sure I can't take you and your son to supper?"

"We'll be leaving very early in the morning," she said. "But thank you."

In minutes, she had the bill of sale and had given him half of her money. She felt both victorious and apprehensive. She had accomplished something on her own. But her money was very short. And once it was gone ...

She had a glimmer of satisfaction that Randolph paid for her escape. The sale of her rings had made it possible.

If only the fear didn't linger inside like some deadly snake ready to strike.

*Chapter Three*

'BISBEE, ARIZONA'.

Holly and Mikey reached Bisbee three days after leaving Kansas City.

She found a cheap but clean motel where she paid cash. She explained that she was a new widow and had not yet had time to get her own credit cards.

This time she was prepared. She'd bought a ring at a discount store along the way. A ring was protection. A ring verified her story of being a bereaved widow.

Bisbee was everything she'd expected, and more. She and Mikey walked through the old town and Brewery Gulch, a once blue-light district now filled with funky restaurants and craft shops, the kind that might carry the type of work she hoped to sell.

Mikey was obviously bewildered and delighted by the odd town, where houses perched on hills and tiny lanes meandered among them. "Mommy, look at that funny house," he kept repeating.

She stopped in a small cafe where he happily ordered tacos and she started to order a salad. Then she changed her mind. Her husband had always noticed when she gained a pound and let her know about it. She had lived on salads and skinless chicken.

"Three tacos," she said. She felt like a kid playing hooky, but this was a moment's indulgence that she could, and would, enjoy.

After they finished, she wandered into a real estate office. Bisbee, she already knew, was where she wanted to stay.

The agent on duty was a loquacious middle-aged man dressed casually in blue jeans. She soon learned he was a California banker who'd migrated to a simpler life in Bisbee.

She quickly caught his enthusiasm for the area. "Bisbee is a way of life," he explained. "Once you've been here awhile, you'll never want to leave." He rattled on. "Bisbee was a thriving mining town--billed as the largest town between St. Louis and San Francisco. It all but became a ghost town when the mines closed in the fifties."

Then what he termed "the aging counter-culturalists"-- hippies, she thought with a smile--discovered it and quickly moved into homes they bought for a song. "Now it's attracting craft people and retirees, along with us Californians looking for something more relaxed and inexpensive.

"Unfortunately," he added as he showed her some listings of rental properties, "it's not as inexpensive as it was even two years ago. Newcomers are moving in, transforming old homes into bed-and-breakfasts and deserted buildings into art galleries."

Still, compared to most places, Bisbee offered cheap housing. The real estate agent showed her a tiny furnished frame house for four hundred fifty dollars a month. Best of all, it had a fenced yard and the landlord allowed pets.

Worst of all, it was little more than a slum. Even her son looked dubious as they were shown the two small bedrooms, the small bathroom, the small living room and the even smaller kitchen. The furniture was cheap modern.

But it was the only property within her budget that allowed pets. And that was one promise she'd made to her son. "Can I paint it?" she asked.

The agent grinned at her. "I'm sure the owner will be delighted at any improvements."

"He lives here?"

"She," he corrected. "Marty Miller. She owns Special Things, a gallery off Main Street. She'll probably come over to see if you need anything."

Holly paid two months rent in advance. She did not want any credit checks.

She used the name from the cemetery--Elizabeth Baker--on the application. She'd used another alias when she'd purchased the car. She'd also asked Mikey to pick a name he liked. A game they were playing, she told him. What was his favorite name in the world? After long deliberation, he'd decided on Harry, from Harry Potter. Harry went on adventures, too.

An adventure. She had been able to convince him thus far that this was a grand adventure. But eventually he would start asking about his father. He would want his toys and his preschool and his friends.

She tucked that thought away as she checked out of the motel, purchased some groceries and moved them both into the tiny house. Then, following the agent's directions, she took her son--now Harry--to the animal shelter. That, she knew, would both distract and cheer him.

There were twenty dogs. Harry went from one cage to another, enchanted by all of the mostly nondescript mongrels who eyed him longingly. "I want them all," he said.