"You chose to fight."

"No, I mean I really didn't have a choice. You see, after he escaped from prison, I knew I had to hunt him down. Gabriel, my colleagues at Boston PD, they all tried to keep me out of it, but I couldn't be sidelined. I knew that killer better than anyone else did. I'd looked into his eyes, and I'd seen the beast. I understood him-what thrilled him, what he craved, how he stalked his prey. The only way I'd sleep soundly again was to hunt him down. The problem was, he was also hunting me. We were two enemies locked in mortal combat, and one of us had to go down." She pauses, takes a sip of scotch. "He struck first."

"What happened?"

"I was cornered when I least expected it. Taken to a place where no one would ever find me. The worst part was, he wasn't alone. He had a friend."

Her voice is so soft I have to lean in to hear her. Outside, insects sing in the night garden, but in my kitchen it is quiet, so quiet. I think of all my fears multiplied by two. Two Johnnys hunting me. I don't know how this woman can sit here so calmly and tell me her story.

"They had me where they wanted me," she says. "There was no one to rescue me, no one who'd swoop in to save the day. It was me against them." She took a breath and straightened in her chair. "And I won. Just like you can, Millie. You can kill that monster."

"Is that what you did?"

"He might as well be dead. My bullet severed his spinal cord, and now he's trapped in a place he'll never escape-his own body. Paralyzed from the neck down. And his friend is rotting in a grave." Her smile is weirdly at odds with what she's just described, but when you've triumphed over monsters, you deserve a grin of victory. "And that night, I slept better than I had in a year."

I hunch at the table, saying nothing. Of course I know why she's told me her story, but it doesn't work on me. You can't force a person to be brave if they don't already have it in them. I'm alive merely because I was too terrified to die, which makes me a coward, really. The woman who kept walking and walking, past elephants and crocodiles, the woman blessed with a st.u.r.dy pair of legs and more than her share of luck.

She yawns and stands up. "I think I'll head back to bed. I hope we can talk more about this tomorrow."

"I won't change my mind. I can't come to Boston."

"Even though you could make a difference? You know this killer better than anyone else does."

"And he knows me. I'm the one who escaped, the one he's searching for. I'm his unicorn, the creature doomed to be hunted into extinction."

"We'll keep you safe. I promise."

"Six years ago, in the bush, I found out what it's like to die." I shake my head. "Don't ask me to die again."

DESPITE ALL THE SCOTCH I downed, or maybe because of it, I dream once again about Johnny.

He stands before me, reaching out to me with both hands, begging me to run to him. All around us are lions closing in for the kill, and I must make my choice. How I want to trust Johnny, as I trusted him once before! I never truly believed he was a killer, and now he stands before me, broad-shouldered and golden-haired. Come to me, Millie. I'll keep you safe. In joy I run to him, hungry for his touch. But just as I step into his arms, his mouth transforms into jaws that open wide, baring b.l.o.o.d.y teeth ready to devour me.

I lurch awake, screaming.

I sit up on the side of the bed, my head in my hands. Chris rubs my back, trying to calm me. Even as the sweat cools, chilling my skin, my heart is still hammering inside my chest. He murmurs, "You're fine, Millie, you're safe," but I know I am not fine. I am a cracked porcelain doll ready to shatter apart with the lightest tap. The pa.s.sage of six years has not made me whole again, and it's clear to me that I will never be whole. Not until Johnny is in prison-or dead.

I lift my head and look at Chris. "I can't go on like this. We can't."

He gives a deep sigh. "I know."

"I don't want to, but I have to do this."

"Then we'll all go with you to Boston. You won't be alone."

"No. No. I don't want Violet anywhere near him. I want her right here, where I know she's safe. And you're the only one I trust to take care of her."

"But who'll take care of you?"

"They will. You heard them say they won't let anything happen to me."

"And you trust them?"

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Because you're just a tool for them, a means to an end. They don't care about you. They only want to catch him."

"That's what I want, too. I can help them do it."

"By letting him catch a whiff of your scent? What if they can't capture him? What if he turns the tables and follows you back here?"

That's a possibility I hadn't considered. I think of the nightmare I just awoke from. Johnny beckoning, promising safety, just before his jaws open wide. It's my subconscious warning me to stay away. But if I do stay away, nothing changes, nothing heals. I will always be that cracked porcelain doll.

"I have no choice," I say. "I have to trust them."

"You can choose not to go."

I reach for his hand. It's a farmer's hand, large and callused, strong enough to wrestle sheep to the ground and gentle enough to comb a little girl's hair. "I need to finish this, darling. I'm going to Boston."

CHRISTOPHER HAS A LIST of demands, and he presents them to Detective Rizzoli and Agent Dean with the glow of brimstone in his eyes.

"You will check in with me every day, so I know she's fine," he orders them. "I want to know that she's healthy and safe. I want to know if she's homesick. I want to know if she sneezes."

"Please, Chris." I sigh. "I'm not going to the moon."

"The moon might be safer."

"You have my word, we'll look after her, Mr. DeBruin," says Detective Rizzoli. "We're not asking her to strap on a gun. She's merely consulting with our team of detectives and our forensic psychologist. She'll be away for a week, maybe two at the most."

"I don't want her sitting alone in some hotel room. I want her to stay with someone. A proper home, where she won't feel isolated."

Detective Rizzoli glances at her husband. "I'm sure we can come up with some sort of arrangement."

"Where?"

"I need to make a phone call first. Find out if the home I'm thinking of will work out."

"Whose home?"

"Someone I trust. A friend."

"Before Millie gets on that plane, I want you to confirm it."

"We'll have all the details arranged before we leave Cape Town."

Chris studies their faces for a moment, searching for reasons not to trust them. My husband is innately skeptical of people; it comes from growing up with an unreliable father and a mother who abandoned him when he was seven. He always fears he'll lose the people he loves, and now he's afraid of losing me.

"Everything will be fine, darling," I say, sounding more confident than I actually feel. "They know exactly what they're doing."

BOSTON.

MAURA SET A VASE OF YELLOW ROSES ON THE DRESSER AND TOOK one last glance around her guest bedroom. The white duvet was freshly laundered, the Turkish rug thoroughly vacuumed, and the bathroom supplied with fluffy white towels. The last time anyone had slept in this room was in August, when seventeen-year-old Julian Perkins had visited during his summer break from school. Since his departure, she'd hardly stepped into this room. Now she gave it a critical once-over, to confirm that all was ready for her houseguest. The window had a view of her back garden, but on this late-November afternoon, what she saw was a dreary landscape of bare perennials and brown gra.s.s. At least there was a bright touch of spring in the painting of luscious pink peonies hanging over the bed, and on the dresser with that vase of yellow roses. A cheerful welcome for a guest on a grim mission.

Jane had emailed to explain the situation, and Maura had read Millie's file, so she knew what to expect. But when the doorbell rang and she laid eyes on Millie for the first time, she was taken aback by how haggard the woman looked. It was a long journey from Cape Town and Jane looked bedraggled as well, but Millie appeared frail as ectoplasm, her eyes hollow, her thin frame almost lost in her oversized sweater.

"Welcome to Boston," said Maura as they came into the house, Jane carrying Millie's suitcase. "I apologize for the weather."

Millie managed a wan smile. "I didn't expect it to be so cold." She looked down sheepishly at her enormous sweater. "I bought this at the airport. I think I could fit another woman in here."

"You must be exhausted. Would you like a cup of tea?"

"That would be lovely, but first I think I need to use the toilet."

"Your room's down the hall, on the right, and you have your own bathroom. Please, take your time to get settled in. The tea can always wait."

"Thank you." Millie took her suitcase. "I'll be a few minutes."

Maura and Jane waited until they heard Millie's bedroom door close. Then Jane said: "You sure this is okay? I tried to come up with another solution, but our apartment's too small."

"It's perfectly fine, Jane. You said it's only for a week, and you can't stick that poor woman in a hotel."

"Well, I do appreciate it. The only alternative was my mom's house, but it's a loony bin these days, with Dad driving her nuts."

"How are things with your mother?"

"Besides her being psychotically depressed?" Jane shook her head. "I'm waiting for her to get up the nerve and kick him out. The trouble is, she tries so hard to make everyone else happy, she forgets all about herself." Jane sighed. "My mom, the saint."

Something my mother will never be, thought Maura. She thought about the last time she'd visited Amalthea in prison. Remembered the woman's soulless eyes, her calculating gaze. Even then the tumor must have been incubating inside Amalthea, evil within evil, like poisonous nesting dolls. With cancer now consuming her, had she come to feel remorse? For such a creature, was redemption even possible? In a few months, six at the most, those eyes would go dark forever. And I will always wonder.

Jane looked at her watch. "I've got to go. Tell Millie I'll pick her up around ten tomorrow, for the team meeting. I've asked Brookline PD to send a cruiser by your house every so often, to keep an eye on things."

"Is that necessary? No one knows she's here."

"It's all about making her feel safe. It was a struggle just to get her here, Maura. As far as she's concerned, we've brought her straight to the beast's lair."

"It may be true."

"But we need her. We just have to keep her comfortable, so she doesn't jump on a plane home."

"I don't mind a houseguest," said Maura. She glanced down at the cat, who chose that instant to jump onto the coffee table. "Although this particular houseguest I'd love to get rid of." She plucked up the cat and dropped him back on the floor.

"You two still not bonding, huh?"

"Oh, he's bonded all right. To my can opener." In disgust, Maura clapped cat hair from her hands. "So what do you make of her?"

Jane glanced toward the hallway and said quietly: "She's scared, and I can't blame her. She's the only one who walked out alive, the only one who can ID him in court. Six years later, he's still giving her nightmares."

"It's not hard to understand. You and I have been in her shoes." She didn't need to elaborate; they both knew what it was like to be hunted, to lie sleepless in your own bed, listening for the shattering of a window, the turn of the doork.n.o.b. They were part of the same unfortunate sisterhood of women who have been stalked by killers.

"She's going to face a lot of questions tomorrow, be asked to relive some painful memories," said Jane. "Make sure she gets a good night's sleep." As she stepped out the front door to leave, her cell phone rang and she paused on the porch to answer it. "Hey, Tam, we just got in. I'm heading over to catch up on ..." She halted on the porch. "What? Are you sure?"

Maura watched as Jane hung up and stood staring at the phone as if it had just betrayed her. "What is it?"

Jane turned to face her. "We have a problem. Remember Jane Doe?"

"The bones from the backyard?"

"You had me convinced she was killed by Leopard Man."

"I still believe it. The claw marks on her skull. The evidence of evisceration. The nylon cord. It all fits the picture."

"The problem is, she's just been identified, and it's confirmed by DNA. Her name was Natalie Toombs, twenty years old. She was a coed at Curry College. White female, five foot three."

"That's all consistent with the skeletal remains I examined. What's the problem?"

"Natalie vanished fourteen years ago."

Maura stared at her. "Fourteen years? Do we know where Johnny Posthumus was then?"

"Working at a bush lodge in South Africa." Jane shook her head. "He couldn't have killed Natalie."

"THIS SHOOTS YOUR ALL-POWERFUL Leopard Man theory all to h.e.l.l, Rizzoli," said Darren Crowe. "Fourteen years ago, when Natalie Toombs vanished in Boston, this guy was working in Sabi Sands, South Africa. It's all doc.u.mented in the Interpol report. His employee records from the bush lodge, a log of his hours and pay stubs. Obviously, he didn't kill Natalie. Which means you brought that witness all the way here from South Africa for nothing."

Still groggy from a bad night's sleep, Jane tried to focus on her laptop. She'd awakened disoriented that morning, had downed two cups of coffee to kick-start her brain before this team conference, but the deluge of new facts left her struggling to catch up. She felt the other three detectives watching her as she clicked through pages that confirmed what Tam had told her yesterday over the phone. Natalie Toombs, formerly referred to as Jane Doe, had been a twenty-year-old English major at Curry College, barely two miles from where her bones were found buried. Natalie had lived in an off-campus rental house with two other coeds, who described her as outgoing, athletic, and a nature lover. She was last seen on a Sat.u.r.day afternoon, her backpack full of books, leaving for a study date with someone named Ted, whom neither housemate had ever met.

The next day, the housemates reported her missing.

For fourteen years, the case had languished in the national missing persons database, along with thousands of other unsolved disappearances. Her mother, who'd since pa.s.sed away, had provided the FBI with a DNA sample, in the event her daughter's remains ever turned up. It was this DNA that confirmed the bones dug up in the backyard construction site were indeed Natalie's.

Jane looked at Frost, who gave an apologetic shake of the head. "It's hard to argue with the facts," he said, sounding pained. It always hurt to admit when Crowe was right.

"You wasted a nice chunk of Boston PD change, flying that witness here from South Africa," said Crowe. "Good job, Rizzoli."

"But there's physical evidence linking at least one murder to Botswana," she pointed out. "That cigarette lighter. We know it belonged to Richard Renwick. How did it get from Africa to Maine, unless the killer carried it?"

"Who knows how many hands it's pa.s.sed through in the last six years? It could've gotten here in the pocket of some innocent tourist who picked it up G.o.d knows where. Any way you look at it, it's clear that Natalie Toombs wasn't killed by Johnny Posthumus. Her death predates all these other cases by nearly a decade. I'm calling it quits on our joint investigation. You keep looking for your Leopard Man, Rizzoli, and we'll look for our perp. 'Cause I don't think there's any connection between our cases." He turned to his partner. "Come on, Tam."

"Millie DeBruin came all the way from Cape Town," said Jane. "She's waiting with Dr. Zucker right now. At least listen to her."

"Why?"

"What if there is only one killer? What if he moves across states, across international borders, by a.s.suming other ident.i.ties?"

"Wait. Is this some new theory?" Crowe laughed. "An impostor who kills under other people's names?"

"Henk Andriessen, our contact at Interpol, was the first person to suggest the possibility. Henk was bothered by the fact that Johnny Posthumus had no criminal record, no history of violence. He had a reputation as a top-notch safari guide, respected by his colleagues. What if the man who took those seven tourists into the bush wasn't Johnny? None of these tourists had ever met him before. The African tracker had never worked with him before. Another man could have taken the real Johnny's place."

"An impostor? Then where's the real Johnny?"