Griff looked through the thick plastic plate at Rebecca Rose. Her quiet anger comforted him.

'You're my good luck charm, Becky,' he said.

'Screw you,' Rebecca said, not unkindly.

In the twilight, the bombot approached the barn door, rammed a metal arm against the edge, dug in, and pushed the door back so they could enter. Wheels on the rusty track squealed in protest and the door shivered as it slid open, but that was all.

Through his face-plate, Griff could see nothing in the gap. Just a dark and empty yawn.

'What if there is no little girl?' Alice Watson asked as they waddled toward the barn. Her voice came through his earnode like a buzzing fly. 'Wouldn't that be a hoot?'

The bomb truck kicked on a floodlight and trained the intense blue beam into the entrance. A row of stalls and the cart with its strange, bundled pipe sculpture stood revealed in the harsh light. Beyond, like serried paper cutouts against velvety blackness, stood workbenches, cylinders, hanging ropes-a hoist and pulley.

Griff turned and surveyed the farmhouse, the yard, the nearly black ridgelines hackled with trees, the deep blue of the dusk sky with cottony rips of yellow and orange cloud. He tried to find the gap where the fire tower now stood revealed. He could not. It was late, and his eyes were not sharp enough.

No doubt he was missing other things as well.

'Me first,' he told Watson. 'Stay out of my spray line.'

Below glossy nested plates and front pads, the Ang-Sorkin suits were jacketed with water-filled micro-piping that networked around the exposed front surfaces and exited through sealed blow holes along the back. The shock front of an explosion, as it met the smooth plastic curves of the front pads, would find little purchase. Particles carried by the blast, including shrapnel, would dimple the plates and possibly even pierce them-but all but the largest and sharpest pieces would be stopped by an underlying layer of monocarbon fiber. What gaseous force-and force from shrapnel-did not flow around the suits and faceplate-still a major proportion of the blast pressure-would compress the micropiping beneath those layers and heat the water to steam, which would then jet from the rear of the suit in hundreds of gaseous needles. Within six or eight inches, those water needles would be sharp enough to cut holes in human skin or pierce another suit. You always stayed out of someone's spray line.

Bomb suits had become very sophisticated. But entering the barn at a deliberate plod, Griff did not feel much safer. He might as well have wrapped himself in Kleenex like a Halloween mummy. Or faced a howitzer in a brown paper bag.

Suit cameras-two mounted to face fore and aft, and a third focusing exclusively on a point less then a meter in front of their breastplates-conveyed some of what they were seeing back to the bomb squad truck and the bombnet viewers. Gimbaled lamps mounted above their face-plates silently played beams of light wherever their eyes were looking. A small heads-up display mounted below the chin projected data abstracted from the video the bot had captured before being fried. The bomb squad computers in the truck had already used enhancement techniques to outline and identify the objects recorded during the bot's few minutes inside the barn, and marked them on a floorplan.

Griff found the white and pink map distracting and switched it off using his tongue mouse. Once inside, he could see well enough. The barn had been converted into what looked like a basic engineering shop. A metalworking lathe and drill press covered a wooden workbench behind the pipe sculpture. He was starting to think of the weird shape on its cart as the Calliope, just for reference. 'We're pa.s.sing the Calliope now,' he said. 'Looks like it might have been made to disperse powder or water-sort of like a big sprayer or fountain.' He was thinking of the powder on the trees. 'Maybe they used it for pesticide.'

'Pipes are too big,' Watson said. 'They're more like mortars. It could be some sort of hedgehog-a launcher. Could take out a city block if it was lobbing sh.e.l.ls.'

Griff made sure to pause before each area. 'Alice is right. Not a sprayer.' If he didn't make it, someone could use the video to figure out what had killed him. They advanced to the workbench, then turned. The bench was littered with tools-wooden and rubber mallets, split tube-shaped molds lying open, tamping implements, sc.r.a.ps of foil and paper, brushes.

'Not very tidy,' Watson said.

'They didn't get a chance to clean up everything,' Griff observed. 'Maybe we moved in faster than they expected.'

But they had been burning trash in barrels all week...

The power outlets had been masked off with duct tape and gummy spark-stop plastic. They would inspect all this in detail later, after they had found the girl. Watson took the lead down the broad aisle between the rows of stalls. She called out, 'If there's anyone in here, you need to come out. We got to evacuate this barn, honey. It could be dangerous, you hear me?'

The bot stood frozen in the middle of the aisle. Mounted to posts on each side, at knee level, were two fryers. Watson bent to inspect the bot. Griff put his hands on his knees and stooped to look at the fryer mechanisms. His helmet light played over them. They resembled wind-up toys with burned heads. The posts had been charred by the heat of their small charges. They were home-made, possibly with German or Italian parts. The whole world was mad against authority.

He rose and said, 'You got that?'

'Got it,' said Andrews' voice in his ear. 'Are there any more?'

'I don't see any.' Griff nudged the bot with the toe of his boot. It slumped like a freshly killed spider.

Watson stood gingerly, hands pushing on her thickly padded knees. 'He's dead, Jim,' she said.

Griff's heel sc.r.a.ped aside some straw. Beneath the straw, a thin strip of metal tape had been stretched between the posts. He pushed aside more straw. Not only did the tape connect the posts-and the fryers-but a longer strip almost certainly ran the length of the barn. He continued sc.r.a.ping for a few feet to make sure. The tape took a zig-zag course between the stalls.

'Got this?' he asked Andrews.

'Simple enough,' Andrews said. 'Bot crosses the tape, sets off the fryers.'

'And what else?' Rebecca asked.

The stalls were the right size for horses, with metal gates that provided good views of the interiors. One contained large bales of straw wrapped in what looked like oil cloth or some sort of rubberized fabric.

Buffers for observing explosives from a safe distance.

'You thinking what I'm thinking?' Watson asked.

Griff nodded. 'Tell the boys back home.'

Watson explained what she thought the bales might be.

'Right,' Andrews said.

Everything they did here was chancy. If the barn was 'alive'-if any more devices carried sound or motion sensors-then they were probably already dead, though still walking around.

The possible presence of the little girl lent some small a.s.surance. Unless, of course, she had entered the barn against express orders. Children were capable of that. Griff wondered what sort of punishment the families meted out to their kids. Perhaps they were caring and gentle. He hoped so. Even bigots loved their children.

He could feel his t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es drawing up, his s.c.r.o.t.u.m shrinking as they approached the last of the stalls. They had found little so far. Maybe the Patriarch and his sons had wired things in the hayloft or up in the rafters. High above, birds flew in and out through the beams and struts, their cheeping faint through his helmet.

Maybe the little girl had come to the barn to watch the birds, to spy out nests. Griff sc.r.a.ped aside more straw to confirm that the tape ran the entire length of the building. It did, in slow, loping curves. Very clever.

Griff pictured taking long lines of clever people with many different faces and expressions, and whacking crowbars over their pointy little heads. Oddly, he included Jacob Levine in that lineup, just because he had ID'd the Patriarch, thereby confirming their suspicions and placing them right here in this barn.

Alice Watson once more called out for the little girl. He could hear Watson's breath in one ear, slow and steady. 'I don't think there's any little girl,' she said. She had an odd, appealing accent caused by the stiffness in one side of her face. Funny he hadn't found it appealing before now. 'I think we're chasing spooks.'

'We'll see,' Griff said. He was looking ahead three or four meters to a trap door half-covered with old straw, at the end of the aisle in the back of the barn. To the left was a rustic wooden Dutch door leading into what at one time might have been a feed or tack room. To the right, a vestibule that still held an old tractor. Behind the tractor was another door, shut and padlocked from the inside.

'Want to start up that tractor, Alice?' Griff asked.

'I ain't going near it,' she said.

'They could use the tractor to haul that Calliope outside,' Griff said. 'I'm wondering why, though.'

'Fireworks,' Watson said. They slowly turned to face each other. 's.h.i.t,' she added, grinning.

'I should have thought of that.' Griff held up a thickly gloved thumb. 'Hey, listen up, guys. Alice just set off a little light bulb.'

'We heard,' Andrews said. 'Watch for devices triggered by bright ideas.'

'Well, why didn't we think of it earlier?' Watson asked. 'Portable fireworks launcher. Atta girl,' she added quietly. Then, 'Why?'

'Any theories, Becky?' Griff asked.

'Keep looking,' Rebecca said.

Griff had reached the trap door. It was off its hinges, if it had ever had hinges, and was pushed to one side, leaving open a knife-shaped triangle. He estimated that the door was light enough he could push it aside with one boot if he had to.

At this end of the barn, and probably the other end as well, the floor was made of wood. In the middle, he had been pretty sure he was walking over concrete. At some point, no doubt many years ago, the barn had been expanded on both sides.

Beneath the trap door Griff could make out a wooden ramp leading down into the darkness under the floor. The long strip of metal tape had been glued to another strip that ran down the middle of the ramp.

A small child could have crawled through the gap. But a small child would not have needed a piece of metal tape to guide her.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

Temecula, California.

The trip west into the hills lasted several hours. Sam drove smoothly and steadily. Tommy slumped in the pa.s.senger seat wearing a fixed look of light concern. He chose his faces with care and often wore them for some time.

They approached the winery by a gravel road as the sun dropped below the oak-crowned hills. The air was hot and dusty and smelled of dry brush. The old vineyards stretched to their left, undulating rows of stakes and dead gnarled vines almost covered with gra.s.s and weeds-well over eighty acres, left to rot.

Sam turned the El Camino up the long, tree-shaded drive. Half-dead ivy covered the northeast side of the single-story, Spanish-style stucco house. Recent rains had greened some of the overgrown front lawn. Tommy's aunt had placed plaster gnomes out front and they grinned amid the gra.s.s and weeds like happy dwarf guerillas. The house's big picture windows were marked by rivulets through a thin layer of dust.

Behind the house rose three winery warehouses and equipment sheds, their gray steel sides catching the last of the daylight.

Tommy turned to look at Sam. 'I'm sorry. I overreacted, Sam. I didn't "think" "think".' He fingered quote-marks in the air. 'I was taught to be polite, really, but I've been alone for so many years. You know that.'

'I know, Tommy.'

'I'm supposed to ask, "were you hurt?"'

'Not really. I skinned my knuckles.'

'That's good. If you're okay, then we don't have to go to a hospital. That will save us some time. I'm sorry.'

'We're fine, Tommy. Both of us.'

'We'll figure out another timetable, won't we?'

'I doubt we'll even have to worry about that.'

'Good.' Tommy sighed dramatically. 'Well then, that's over.' He opened the door and got out. Sam pushed the b.u.t.ton on the remote clipped to the visor. The garage door swung up with a creaking song of coil springs, revealing a bright red Dodge truck and a double-wide horse trailer.

Sam remained in the El Camino with the engine running, considering how close to failure they actually were. He watched Tommy walk around the side of the house and up the step to the front door. The man-boy's shoulders were slumped but he was doing much better. He was lost in thought. lost in thought.

It was, after all, a nutty idea, from start to finish-the kind of idea a disappointed man might dream about, tossing and winding up sheets in the dark of the night. The kind of plan a grieving man might consider when his life seemed pointless and the hours dragged on, and then got lost-time that simply vanished in large chunks, day after day, irretrievable.

Tommy was not the only one who could go Dipsy-Down.

Sam took his foot off the brake, slipped the El Camino in gear, and slowly pulled forward to the right of the horse trailer. The garage door closed and he sat in the dim orange light of the opener's single low-watt bulb.

He could not shake the memory of the cone-shaped explosion of blood and the officer spinning to the side of the road.

People had paid a severe price. The gears were turning. This wasn't just about Sam and Tommy.

'They have to listen to G.o.d,' Sam murmured as he opened the door to the house. 'They have to forget their hate and listen.'

Near the end of his other life, five years ago, Sam had first met Tommy. He had driven out to the house and knocked on the front door and announced that he wanted Tommy's help.

Tommy had been desperate for company. The time for confession, it seemed, had arrived. Tommy had wanted to explain himself and all that he had done and why.

Sam had accepted Tommy's offer of a tour of the winery. It could have been the biggest break of Sam's career. Tommy had been pitifully vulnerable, telling his story with hyperactive enthusiasm...and then, without warning, as they drank orange juice in the big kitchen, Tommy had crashed and burned.

Utterly terrified by what he had revealed to a stranger, Tommy had fled and hidden under a blanket in his smelly, crowded bedroom. Sam had followed the man-boy, had seen the walls covered with bookshelves, posters, and magazine pictures of Jennifer Lopez-J-Lo, the queen of Tommy's inner sanctum.

Around his twin bed, Tommy had piled stacks of texts and magazines, their edges bursting with color-coded Post-it notes.

Sam had watched the man-boy cower and a switch had turned on in his head. He had followed the path between the bedroom stacks and put his hand on Tommy's shoulder. 'What a brave, brave man,' he had soothed. 'Do I ever ever understand. A brilliant guy like you. They all want a piece of you, don't they? Let's go back to the living room. Let's talk. I bet that together, you and I can work this out.' understand. A brilliant guy like you. They all want a piece of you, don't they? Let's go back to the living room. Let's talk. I bet that together, you and I can work this out.'

Tommy had pulled back the covers and peered out at Sam like some pink, wet-faced gargoyle. 'Not really,' he had said.

'Really,' Sam had said.

Tommy had sat up. 'You believe me?'

'What's not to believe?'

'You want to see more?' Tommy had asked, wiping away the slicks of moisture below his eyes and nose.

Sam had realized he had the power. Tommy was his. This was the find of a career-something that could change everything for him.

Or it was the find of a lifetime. Something that could change everything, for everybody.

'Show me as much as you like,' Sam had said. 'I'd like to see it all.'

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

Quantico.

'They're going down.'