"Found 'em?" Wade slowed for the speed trap just inside the Pa.s.samaquoddy Indian reservation.

"Drifted there, maybe. There was a slick on the water by the fishing boat, a gasoline leak. So maybe a fuel line came loose, Chip lost power? And that's right where you would end up, if you just let the current take you."

Just before the causeway sat the Indian police squad car, waiting for drivers who didn't know or had forgotten that the speed limit sign meant business. Wade lifted an index finger from the wheel as he went by, and the cop returned the salute.

"None of this is in any way your fault," he added evenly. "If Randy Dodd hadn't seen you, he'd still have seen the copter and hightailed it."

"Yeah," Jake said glumly, hoping her dad felt that way about it, too. Keeping Bella out all night, putting her in danger, and soaking her to the skin ... oh, he was not going to be happy about this.

"We'll just get home, get that ankle looked at and everybody present and accounted for again, and then see what happens," Wade said comfortingly.

But the expression on his face wasn't comforting. It said things were bad, and that they might be about to get worse.

"Bob's sending a car up to Saint Stephen," he added. "To check your vehicle."

In case of evidence, he meant. In case Randy Dodd had made it that far inland before returning to his boat.

"It's a big ocean," Wade added quietly.

As if he was thinking it, too: that all Randy wanted was to get away with the money. That his simplest, best move was to kill all three of his captives.

And that he could dispose of their bodies most easily just by throwing them overboard.

"I CAN MAKE YOU FAMOUS," CAROLYN RATHBONE SAID quietly to Randy Dodd. She sat near the stern of the small boat Chip Hahn had come in. The dory, he'd called it.

Up front, Sam Tiptree lay crumpled and motionless; Randy had gotten Sam from the larger boat into the small one by the simple method of dumping his limp body over the transom.

Chip sat near Sam, sullenly silent. A huge purple bruise was swelling on his cheekbone where Randy had hit him.

Randy himself looked straight ahead, one hand on the tiller of the engine he'd gotten started simply by tinkering with it and one on the little gun he'd gotten from somewhere. It was daylight now; as he piloted the boat, he kept scanning the sh.o.r.e.

But nothing moved there. They'd heard engines for a while, and voices; Randy had tucked the dory into a cove between high boulders and a deadfall, dark as a cave, and from outside just as invisible. When the voices went away and the engine sound faded, they'd emerged.

And now here they were. Rocks, trees, cliffs ... once she saw an eagle swoop, seize a fish out of the shallows in its talons, then sail away with its silvery prey still wiggling and gleaming.

And once, only a dozen or so yards distant, a whale breeched, its vast, dark, gleaming shape like something in a science-fiction movie. But since then, nothing.

"I mean it," she said, keeping her voice low. The sound of the engine probably covered it, she thought, but there was no sense letting Chip hear.

No sense in depending on him to save her. "I write crime books. I sell millions of them. You could be in one, and then-"

Then everyone would know how smart you are, she'd meant to finish. Because they all wanted it, didn't they? Everyone did. To be famous. To be special.

As if being a b.l.o.o.d.y monster wasn't special enough. It was all she could do just to talk to this guy at all without throwing up or screaming. The girls, though; the girls in their graves.

You're one of us, they seemed to intone yearningly as they gazed at her with hollow eyes. You're one of us ... almost.

The girls sounded confident. She wanted them to be wrong. She took another breath of the salt air, let it steady her, and tried again to make what they were saying untrue.

"People would understand how important you are," she said to Randy. "How ... interesting."

Right. Like a tumor is interesting, she added silently. She tried keeping those thoughts off her face, though. Because if she was going to get out of this, she had to offer him something.

Something he wanted. And he would have to believe her, that she could deliver. "I'd let you talk to my editor," she bargained. "You'd stay entirely hidden, though. Completely anonymous. They might," she added, struck by a burst of inspiration, "even help you get out of the country."

Not b.l.o.o.d.y likely. The only thing Siobhan Walters would do if she heard from this creep would be to hire security guards, and with her next breath she'd demand her own bazooka. Because Siobhan was no fool; she knew she didn't need the real people that most nonfiction got written about. And especially not the criminal ones; a photograph, maybe, just to show readers he really did exist and wasn't the product of some fool's fake memoir.

But nothing more. Most nonfiction subjects were nothing but trouble anyway, with their new prima donna att.i.tudes and their demands to have their pasts fixed up to their satisfaction, their good deeds magnified and the bad ones papered over like so much rough plaster. And it was the same with true-crime books.

Forcing herself to gaze at Randy Dodd's surgically altered features, she knew for a fact that she could bring his dead body home strapped to the hood of the Volvo, write about him as if he were alive, and barely anyone would even know the difference.

Dead guys didn't open their big yaps to contradict anything the writer said about them, either. They didn't give interviews, or sue.

In other words, he'd be perfect, and for Carolyn herself it would be a coup. "You'd be famous," she said confidently again.

Interviews with a serial killer that the author had escaped from herself ... G.o.d, it would be beautiful. All just as a way of getting free from him, and saving Chip and Sam, too, of course.

She told herself that once more as the dory pulled between the sh.o.r.e and some more large rocks. "Famous, huh?" he said.

Tonelessly, his eyes still roving back and forth. In the pale morning light, she examined his face, the scars at his temples and in front of his ears where some clumsy surgeon had made a tuck here, loosened a little there.

Reddened ridges revealed where st.i.tches had been. What a botch job, thought Carolyn, who had done a teensy bit of preemptive research into cosmetic surgery herself, just to be ready when the time came.

Still, what he'd done had been enough to let him venture into Eastport, to pa.s.s for a stranger as long as it was dark and no one looked too closely.

"Yes," she said, forcing herself to sound enthusiastic when what she wanted was to puke on his shoes. His b.l.o.o.d.y shoes ...

She looked away. "You could be," she went on, keeping her voice even, "a star. Go on TV. They'd probably make a movie about you."

Randy Dodd laughed humorlessly. "That what you think I want? Lots of people knowing about me?"

He turned his gaze on her. The surgeon had gotten something about the corners of his eyes wrong. His nose, too, trimmed to a hawklike beak, looked like a plastic piece stuck above his lips, which had been plumped out cartoonishly.

"Well," she amended smoothly, sensing something going wrong but not knowing quite what, "not really about you in detail. Not so anyone could ever-"

Find you, the girls chorused spookily. Find you and catch you and- "Kill you," he said flatly, his eyes searching the sh.o.r.e for anyone who might be watching from there. "That's what I want."

Anyone who might see her and save her. "That's the plan," he added. "And there is no other plan."

He met her gaze, which was when she realized how hopeless it was, talking to him. Arguing, trying to persuade.

Because there was n.o.body in there. He might have been a real person once, with rational thoughts, feelings, empathy for anyone else.

But not anymore. Now he was just a walking, talking, deadly compulsion. Sick, twisted, and getting more grandiose-convinced he could do anything and get away with it-with each pa.s.sing minute.

"That's what I want. That's what I'm going to do," he said, his voice calm and hideously matter-of-fact. "I'm just waiting for the time to be right. So do yourself a favor: Don't get your heart set on anything else."

CAROLYN PROBABLY THOUGHT CHIP HAHN WOULDN'T BE able to hear her trying to bargain with Randy Dodd, but he could. Typical, he thought. She would try to get herself out of this first.

Not that it would work. Wherever Randy was going, it would be a place he could hide three bodies and get away.

Out of the country, carrying a million bucks, or so Randy still thought. It wasn't all in the sc.r.a.pbook, but Randy had the rest somewhere, and that was all he wanted: freedom and cash.

And the pleasure of doing with Carolyn whatever bad deeds he could devise. Chip thought there were probably plenty.

Beside him on the floor of the boat, Sam Tiptree breathed in and out. His color wasn't too bad, and from the way the stain on his shirt had stopped spreading, he wasn't bleeding the way he had been.

But overall he still looked terrible. Lips dry and cracked, his face drawn and creased deeply with pain, the young man who in his childhood had thought Chip was the next best thing to a comic book hero now hovered close to death.

A doctor, preferably a surgeon, was what he needed. And if he didn't get one soon, Chip thought Randy might as well have dumped Sam into the waves and been done with it.

Sam opened his eyes. "Hey, guy," Chip said, trying to sound encouraging.

Sam didn't look fooled. "Check my pockets," he managed, and when Chip did, he came up with a small leather case containing a fire kit: matches, flint, and steel.

He tucked these into his own pocket. Sam watched, nodding approvingly.

In the stern, Carolyn was still trying to sell Randy on the idea of being famous. With her indispensable help, of course ...

A burst of impatience flooded Chip. Didn't she know they were past that now, that if something didn't change soon, it was all over?

Because it was daytime, and even a big risk-taker like Randy wouldn't want to be out here where anyone could see them for very long. He had some destination in mind, and it wasn't far. And when they got there ...

Sam was trying to say something more. Chip leaned in so he could hear, caught a sweet, familiar whiff of something chemical on Sam's breath. Searching his memory for where he'd smelled it before, he realized: The Old b.a.s.t.a.r.d had smelled like that after his kidneys started failing, and he'd had to go on dialysis.

True to form, the Old b.a.s.t.a.r.d had refused to be treated at even the finest Manhattan clinic. Instead, he'd had a guest suite in the Fifth Avenue apartment turned into a dialysis treatment room complete with full-time professional staff, and repaired to it three days every week to have his blood cleansed in patrician splendor.

Chip wondered worriedly if Sam's organs were failing, too, on account of all the blood he'd lost. Sam's head fell forward. He was asleep again, or unconscious; Chip didn't know which.

Then he felt the boat swerve as Randy pulled hard on the Evinrude's tiller arm. It had taken him about ten seconds to find and fix the loose fuel line Chip hadn't been able to diagnose. Now he turned the small boat into a narrow inlet and cut the engine.

Dry reeds and beach roses suddenly pulled up close on either side of the tiny waterway. The rose thorns hung into the boat, tearing at Chip's scalp. A branch appeared, low enough to knock Chip's block off; he ducked just in time and shot an angry look toward the man in the stern.

"Hey," he protested, unable to help himself. And what did it matter, anyway? Randy couldn't kill him any deader than he already meant to. "Can't you call out a little warning when-"

Randy didn't answer, or even bother to look at him. Carolyn, either, slumped over with her head against the transom seat. She had given up trying to talk to their captor, apparently.

Trying to convince him that she would be more useful to him alive, that he should let her introduce him and his exploits to the big world.

Like Jack the Ripper, or the Boston Strangler. Because if he let her do that, then he'd be Somebody.

And she'd get to live. But Carolyn had misjudged. Chip could tell by the look on her face, thwarted and petulant, as if someone had just told her that Chip Hahn wouldn't be lugging her satchel around for her anymore.

Or writing her books, or schlepping her carry-ons through airport security. Funny how clear things get when you're out here in trouble, Chip thought. Alone and at the end of your rope. He'd have done those things in a heartbeat now; all of them and more. He wondered if he would ever again get the chance to.

Probably not. He shivered inside his topcoat, glad for even the minimal protection that it and the life jacket he still wore provided in the icy autumn weather.

Randy let the boat drift up the channel, the brush on either side giving way first to small saplings and leafless bushes, then to ma.s.sive trees. The biggest one, an enormous old white pine, stuck up from the rest like a giant peering over the shoulders of the smaller trees, from deep in the forest.

A tan carpet of pine needles spread between the tree trunks. Here and there a ma.s.sive, moss-encrusted boulder jutted. No bird sang. Everything was silent.

Chip thought that if it wasn't for Sam, he would jump out and run, take his chances on Randy being able to catch him. He'd let Carolyn try some more to make it on her own, let her see just how well her powers of persuasion worked when push really came to shove.

But Sam was here. Chip couldn't just leave him. And anyway, Chip wouldn't have any idea which direction to go, even if he did get out of the boat before Randy shot him.

The boat bottom sc.r.a.ped rocks. Randy pulled the outboard up and stood. "Get out."

He had the gun in his hand as he stepped past Carolyn and over Sam, then across to the stony sh.o.r.e where small waves moved. He waved the gun at Chip.

"Out," he repeated flatly.

Chip bent and shook Sam's shoulder, trying to rouse him, while Carolyn hesitated. Do something, he thought at her. Put that supposedly fabulous mind of yours to work and- Drop the engine, push the starter b.u.t.ton, ram that sucker into reverse, and get us out of here, he urged her silently. Try, for G.o.d's sake, just do it. But she didn't know how.

"Sam," Chip said softly. But Sam didn't rouse at all, only muttered something Chip couldn't make out, and then Randy stepped back aboard.

Blank-faced, he lunged at Carolyn, grabbed her, and threw her out into the shallows. Carolyn uttered a breathy scream and began struggling clumsily up onto the stony bank, weeping.

Then Chip felt himself being lifted. The world turned upside down and when it stopped he was on sh.o.r.e, too, flat on his back. Stunned, he lifted his head. He spotted Carolyn scrambling away on her hands and knees as fast as she could.

But not fast enough. Randy fired a shot past her head. The sound clapped itself to Chip's ears, deafening him. Granite bits flew as Carolyn fell facedown, covering her head with her hands.

Randy took Sam by his collar and belt, heaved him overboard into the water, stepped out and took Sam's hair in his fist, and dragged him up onto the beach, dropping him there.

He walked over to Chip and looked down at him. Chip had the sudden unpleasant realization that he was about to be shot. This cold beach, water, and sky were the last things he would see.

Looking up, he met Randy's gaze. The gun didn't waver. Time seemed to stretch out as Randy's finger tightened.

Do something. ...

Chip kicked out, hard, connecting with Randy's knee. At the same time he glimpsed Carolyn, miraculously on her feet, rushing at Randy. She leapt, hurling herself onto his back, her red nails clawing at his eyes.

Those eyes ... blank and empty, like there was nothing in them but smoke. Randy howled, whirling around on one leg in an attempt to dislodge Carolyn, but she hung on tight as Chip struggled up to try to help. Grabbing a rock, he hurled it at Randy's head and missed. He found another and flung that, too.

It connected just above Randy's left ear. Blood streamed down the side of his face as he battled to get rid of the furious woman who had attacked him so suddenly, clinging to him like a mad thing.

Which she was. Hang on, Chip pleaded silently as he advanced on Randy through the stones and seaweed. Both Randy's hands were on the gun now, but he couldn't see to fire it.

Don't let go. ... Over Randy's shoulder, Carolyn's face was a mask of pain and terror. Her hands, even the one that was swollen and discolored, scratched like savage talons. Even in his terror she reminded Chip of someone, and then he realized: The girls, the ones in the first crime that he and Carolyn had ever worked on together, for their first book. Their faces, so hurt and ruined they hardly looked human. Their eyes ...

Chip s.n.a.t.c.hed up another rock and charged Randy, raising the rock over his head as he ran. Aiming for the nose, because he knew that would hurt the most- Gripping the gun in both hands, Randy Dodd brought his fists straight back over his right shoulder, slammed the barrel of the weapon into the center of Carolyn's forehead. Her arms loosened abruptly on impact; she dropped off him like an empty sack.

Turning, Randy Dodd swung his arms like a scythe, his fists smacking Chip's head as if it were a baseball, Randy the cleanup batter. Chip staggered backward, his legs suddenly insubstantial and his vision gone blurry.

He tried stepping forward again, thought about the boat. He could get it running, he could ...

Randy yanked Chip upright. Carolyn lay still. Sam too. Chip felt his legs moving as if from a great distance as Randy marched him roughly up a short, steep embankment.

At the top Randy let go and began urging Chip forward with short, sharp jabs of the gun into his back. Once, Chip nearly fell but caught himself; once, he thought he heard a cry from somewhere behind him.