"Good point. Think there's any chance we can get Vince to fill in the blanks?"

"Yeah, fat chance. Same as they always are with him."

"Well, right now we've got the Plainsville police canva.s.sing the area; we've got tests being run on the bullets. Guess we'll have to wait and see what turns up from either source."

"Let me know what you hear." She sighed. "This is really crazy, isn't it? For just a split second, I felt relieved. Like I can stop looking over my shoulder. Archer's not coming after me. Then up pops the specter of some unknown someone who might be keeping the game going."

"Let's see what ballistics comes back with."

"Right. Thanks. Keep in touch."

Will slid his walkie-talkie into his hip pocket and walked to the kitchen. He stood at the window and slowly pulled the curtain back enough to allow him to look outside. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just another cold fall night. Leaves lay scattered across the lawn and part of the sidewalk. A car door slammed across the street, and a young couple got out and walked to a front porch. At the bottom of the steps, the boy waited while the girl searched her pockets for keys. Feeling a bit like a voyeur, Will watched them kiss hastily, then the girl ran up the steps and unlocked the door. She turned back toward the street and waved before going into the house and closing the door behind her. The boy gunned the engine before he pulled away from the curb, then disappeared around the first bend in the road.

A few more moments of silence, then a car or two pa.s.sed. Someone out for a walk strolled by, then crossed the street and disappeared down the driveway of the house at the end of the block. Silence again.

Will opened his cell phone and checked his messages. He returned one call immediately, listened to the information he was given, voiced his thanks, and hung up.

He began pacing again, not sure what to do with the information he'd just been given, or what it meant. He'd only known that all of his senses had gone on alert when he'd seen that black truck drive past Mara's house two days ago. There'd been a truck just like it parked outside the prison when he and Miranda had come out after visiting Giordano. The driver's face had been hidden behind a map, which in itself had aroused Will's interest. Who could read something that was right in their face like that?

No one he knew.

And when an identical truck pa.s.sed by shortly after he and Miranda had arrived here in Lyndon, Will's keen eye had picked up the license plate number and called it in to Evan at the county detectives' bureau and asked him to run a trace.

Now he had a name, but it wasn't one he recognized.

Burton Connolly. Who the h.e.l.l was he?

Will was counting on Evan to find out.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE.

He walked along the back of the properties, counting over four from the end, observing the changes that had been made while he was gone. He stared at the fence that carved out the backyard of number 1733. Seven years ago, there had been no fence. From the other side, he heard a long low growl.

Seven years ago, there had been no dog.

It occurred to Jules Douglas that perhaps she'd moved, but then, he knew better. Mara would never leave this house. She'd stay here, weeping and mourning her loss, until the day she died. He'd bet she'd made a shrine out of Julianne's room.

He paused. Odd, how quickly he'd lapsed back into thinking of his daughter as Julianne. After seven years of being so strict with himself, of never permitting himself ever to refer to her as anyone other than Rebecca, now that he was here, she was Julianne once again. Strange.

On the other side of the fence, the dog continued to growl. d.a.m.n nuisance. He never did like dogs.

He stepped back into the shadows and moved along the outside of the fence, walked cautiously behind first his old garage-noting that it sported a new coat of paint-then slunk behind the garage belonging to the next-door neighbor. He was met by a fence there, too. What was it with all these fences?

He poked around and was surprised to find that a portion of the fence closest to the garage could be moved aside quite easily. Poor construction, or had someone deliberately snipped the wire that held the end piece to the corner post?

He shrugged, not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, so to speak, and slipped between the post and the garage, then paused to review his surroundings. The grape arbor the old lady had planted years before had really taken off since he'd been gone. The vines were a thick tangle, and the last of the brown and yellow leaves clung halfheartedly to the branches.

"Great shelter," he murmured as he eased between the arbor and the side of the garage. A man could hide here for hours and never be seen from the house.

Or, he realized, from the house next door.

He worked his way to the front of the arbor, then studied the house he'd shared with Mara for eight years. It seemed like a lifetime ago. He barely remembered what it had been like, living there. Over the past few years, he realized how totally unimportant his life with Mara had been. Teaching advanced math at Miller College there in town-now that had been a plum gig, he snorted. He wondered how he'd ever tolerated it. Mundane students, mundane salary, mundane life. And a wife who just couldn't hold his attention for all that long.

The only thing that had made that time in his life tolerable was that endless line of ladies, all who were willing to play with a handsome professor. Of course, once Mara caught on to that and demanded a divorce, his hand had been pretty much forced.

It still rankled that she had told him how it was going to be. That she had called the shots.

She'd never cheated on him, she'd told him, and she wasn't going to accept his cheating on her. The fact that she'd accidentally run into him while he was in the middle of romancing a fellow professor had made it pretty difficult to deny. Still, all in all, he was supporting her, wasn't he? He was the one who went to work every day so that she could have the luxury of being a stay-at-home mom. You'd have thought she'd have shown a little more grat.i.tude.

But no. It was, "Jules, it's over. I've already talked to a lawyer. He's filing the papers on Monday. . . ."

He'd begged and pleaded, of course he had. Who wanted to get booted out of the house he'd worked so hard to buy? But in the end, it had turned out to be a blessing in disguise.

The best day of his life had been the one on which he'd decided to walk away from it all. He'd gone along with Mara's request that the divorce be amicable, agreeing to share custody of Julianne, agreeing that the best thing for her would be to have both parents in her life, parents who were friendly and respectful of each other.

Like that that was going to happen. was going to happen.

He'd had his game plan completely laid out right from the start. Phony identifications, in a mult.i.tude of names. Phony credentials. Stock certificates cashed in. Bags packed. A car purchased in the name of one of his new aliases, credit cards in the same name. He'd been planning for months to leave Mara and take Julianne with him, knowing there was nothing, nothing, he could do to Mara that could possibly hurt more than taking her daughter from her.

So that was what he did.

The hardest part had been the tears he'd felt obligated to make himself shed when he told his daughter about how her mommy had died and gone to heaven.

The easiest part was. .h.i.tting the open road with his adoring daughter and traveling around, seeing the country.

Stumbling onto the Valley of the Angels five years ago had been the icing on the cake. The reverend had needed a man who was very adept with numbers. Jules had needed a place to lay low. It had been a marriage made in heaven. He'd been permitted to try out the ladies who'd flocked to the reverend's side, but he'd never touched the underage ones. Uh-uh. Personally, he'd thought that whole thing was sick, but as long as they kept their hands off his daughter and paid him as handsomely as they did, well, he didn't really give a d.a.m.n. Most of those girls were on the skids when they were brought in anyway, hooking and using drugs and putting their lives in danger every day. At least the reverend offered them a safe haven, one where they could get themselves cleaned up and off drugs, get fed and clothed. Okay, so after a while they were turned over to some old geezer with money to burn and a desire for s.e.x with a girl young enough to be his granddaughter. They were still off the streets, weren't they?

Frankly, Jules didn't give a d.a.m.n about any of it. He was getting his. Money and a fine young new wife who never questioned him, who never seemed to care how often he spread his handsome talents around. It had been one sweet life, until Mara had pushed herself into it, sent whoever it was she'd sent to grab Julianne and split.

He shook his head. That was all Prescott needed to hear, that Jules didn't know who had spirited her away. When the reverend had asked, Jules had told him it had been a private detective hired by Mara. Prescott hadn't pressed it, but in his heart, Jules wasn't 100 percent certain himself. He a.s.sumed Mara was behind it. Who else would care enough to go to all the trouble of getting someone into the compound, waiting patiently while the whole scheme was set up? It had to be Mara. Jules had known better than to show any sign of doubt when discussing it with Prescott. The reverend had been incensed that he'd been duped by Miss Ruth-whoever she really was-and that there was now someone on the outside who knew what really was going on inside the Valley of the Angels.

Thinking about Prescott made Jules feel just a little bit edgy. He knew that the reverend would make good on his threat to come after the girl himself if he had to. If it came to that-if it looked as if Jules couldn't control his own child, his own life-well, just where would that leave Jules?

No one who'd ever left the compound had surfaced to talk about what had gone on there. Prescott wasn't about to take the chance that Julianne would be the first. That she was the daughter of one of his most trusted financial counselors meant nothing at all. Jules knew that, and it bothered him, but it merely strengthened his resolve to find Julianne and take her back himself.

Then there was the question of Miss Ruth. Jules knew that Prescott would go to the ends of the earth to track her down. He didn't want to be around when Prescott found her.

Mara, of course, was the key to finding Ruth. It was Jules's plan to take Mara with them in order to turn her over to the reverend. He might as well make points where and when he could. He figured Prescott would have his men take Mara to one of his many homes that were scattered throughout the country, and would, more likely than not, send Jules and Julianne to a different location.

a.s.suming, of course, that Prescott didn't have other plans for the two of them. Jules's mouth went dry at the thought of what Prescott could do to them, if he wanted. He could easily kill Jules, and send Julianne to one of his clients. Handing over Mara, which hopefully would lead to finding Ruth-if in fact that was her name-would go a long way toward rectifying the problem. A speedy return of Jules and his daughter would further placate Prescott.

So, if he was to survive, he was going to have to take care of business now. They would have to leave, the three of them, and they would have to leave soon. Prescott had lent him his private plane, and he'd had someone meet him at the airport with a car and a .38. But he'd also only given Jules forty-eight hours before he sent in someone to finish the job for him, and those forty-eight hours were almost gone. Jules got sick to his stomach every time he thought about what finishing the job might mean.

From his shelter beneath the arbor, Jules kept his eyes on the house. Mara would have someone keeping watch, wouldn't she? Surely she couldn't possibly think that he'd let her get away with a stunt like this, could she? She couldn't possibly be that stupid.

He was just beginning to think that perhaps she was indeed that stupid when the back door of the neighbor's house opened and a figure emerged. He stood for a long time on the top step, his arms folded across his chest. Finally, he raised one hand and gave some kind of a sign. Jules's eyes followed the gesture. It took him a while, but finally he saw the second figure, also dressed in black, near the corner of Mara's garage.

More than one private investigator?

Cops?

Nah, he mentally smacked himself on the forehead.

FBI.

That would explain all those Virginia "Friends of the Chesapeake" license plates he'd seen when he'd driven past the house earlier.

Sure. Annie. FBI Annie, he used to call her. She'd have brought in the troops for this, wouldn't she?

And wasn't that just dandy, he thought sourly. Just what the Right Reverend Prescott was going to want to hear.

He watched the man on the porch finish smoking his cigarette, then toss it onto the gra.s.s. He stepped on it and the small dot of red disappeared.

Next door, the kitchen lights were turned out. The first floor of the house lay in darkness now. If he was going to make his move, he couldn't wait much longer. The sooner he got in and out of there and away, the better off he'd be. He started to sweat just thinking about how Prescott was going to react to hearing that the FBI had been behind Julianne's disappearance from the compound.

He'd worry about what to say to Prescott later.

Right now he had two FBI agents to deal with-at least two.

He paused. Could there be more? Inside, maybe, might be another. Three cars with Virginia plates, three agents?

He watched for another half hour but saw no one, other than the two agents he'd previously spotted. The one on the porch never ventured farther than the end of the house, while the agent closest to Mara's house wandered toward the front every fifteen minutes or so, blending into the shadows.

Jules patted his leg for the knife he had strapped there. He could take out the agent on the porch silently the next time the agent closest to the house made his round out front. Then, when the second agent returned to that spot near the garage he seemed to like so much, Jules would be waiting for him. He could get into the house through the window in the den. He could cut out the gla.s.s, slice through the screen. . . .

Yeah. That would have to be the plan. He was way too close to being out of time . . . this would be his best chance. His last chance.

Then the agent on Mrs. West's porch went inside the house. Jules froze. Should he wait for the man to return, or should he go in after him?

Several minutes pa.s.sed before he realized he would have to make a move. He'd have to go inside, hope that with the element of surprise on his side, he would be able to overtake his quarry. He was trying to recall the layout of Mrs. West's house-was there a laundry room off the back hall, or a door to the bas.e.m.e.nt?-when he heard a distinct rustle from the open end of the arbor. Flattening himself to the wall, he watched as a tall figure eased backward into the cover of the thicket. Silently Jules drew his gun and extended his arm so that the newcomer backed into the muzzle.

"Not a sound," Jules whispered over the taller man's shoulder. "Don't say a word."

The man froze.

"Now, how many?" Jules demanded.

"Wh-what?" the man stuttered.

"How many more of you are there?" Jules whispered.

"It's just me."

"Liar. I know you've got one man in the house here, and one man outside next door. How many more?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know who is inside that house or who is outside over there. I swear. . . ."

"Shhhh. Keep it down. Turn around and face the garage and put your hands on your head." Jules continued to hold the gun to the middle of the stranger's back. "Hands on your head. Come on, you've arrested how many people, you don't know where to put your hands when you're going to be frisked?"

"Arrested . . . ? Hey, I ain't no cop-"

"No. You're no cop. You're FBI."

"FBI?" Burt Connolly was incredulous. "Buddy, I don't know what the f.u.c.k is going on here, or why you think I'm FBI-"

"Shut up."

"Listen, you've got me confused with someone else. I swear. . . ."

"Oh, right, you were just pa.s.sing through the neighborhood and decided to take a shortcut through the grape arbor." Jules sneered softly and jabbed the gun into the middle of the man's back. "And keep your voice down. Don't make me tell you again."

"Listen, I can explain-"

"Where's your ID?" Jules demanded.

"Only ID I got is my driver's license."

"That in your wallet?" Jules asked after he'd finished patting down his captive and finding only one weapon, which he confiscated and stuck down his belt.

"Yeah. Left back pocket."

Jules retrieved it, but he couldn't see the name on the license. It was too dark. There was nothing there that even vaguely resembled an FBI identification, though. He'd seen a few of those over the years, when they first started looking at Prescott for tax evasion. He knew that no agent would go on a job without his ID.

"If you're not FBI, and you're not a cop, you must be private security or private investigation. Which is it?"

"Neither."

"Who do you work for?"

"I don't work for anyone." The man started to turn and Jules jammed the b.u.t.t of the gun into his back again.

"Then what are you doing here? The truth."

"I'm watching the house next door."

"Why?"

"Because I think there's someone in there I want to see."

"Who?"

"Woman named Miranda Cahill."