A match: the office was situated within a five-minute walk from one of Fort Worths busiest railroad lines. Finally, I repeated the address of Edward Luca.s.s extravagant beach house, but even before James plotted the exact location, we knew wed hit a snag.

"Doesnt work," said David, pointing at the map. "Not a single track extending that far down the island."

Pausing for a moment, I recalled the afternoon Id been called to the scene. It seemed like a lifetime ago, not less than two weeks. Something nagged at me, something Id noticed that first day. Where was it?

"Give me the address for Knowless apartment," I told the captain.

"Bingo," said James, when hed located it on the map. "Cant be half-a-dozen blocks from the main Galveston freight yard."

"So, he originally targeted her, not Lucas," David said.

"This answers a lot of questions," I said. "Especially, why no one at any of the scenes has reported a strange car."

Yet suspecting that the killer circulated via the railroad brought up as many questions as it answered. Who was he? And there were still those fifteen months between the murders in Bardwell and Galveston. Where was he then?

"What kind of records have you got on your employees?" David asked. "We need to at least explore that possibility."

"Regular employment histories including fingerprints," said James. "But weve got more than six thousand employees, and none of the prints are on computer."

"What if we just checked your employees in South Texas?"

"Thats doable," he said. "That cuts it down to twenty-six hundred. We bring in enough help, we could have something for you by day after tomorrow."

"No," I snapped. Both men looked at me, perplexed. "Thats too late. By then well have another body. This guys pace is building, and we dont have long before he kills again."

For all we knew, while we stood speculating with Roger James, our guy was targeting his next victim. "Lets a.s.sume that our earlier ideas are right and that our guy would have a hard time holding down a job," I reasoned. "What if we concentrate on former employees, anyone who worked for South Central and left in the last two years?"

"You bring in some extra help for me, and with my people we can scan them into the computer," said James. "Were talking a few hundred at most. We can have that by morning."

"Okay, and at the same time we need to investigate our other possibility, that this guys not an employee at all, that hes jumping trains, like Resendiz."

"Our guys not Hispanic," said David. "Hed stand out like a sore thumb."

"Weve got an agent who specializes in keeping track of whats going on in that population," said James. "In fact, hes infiltrated a white gang weve been tracking."

"A white gang?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said. "People have the wrong idea about whos riding the trains. We dont have hobos anymore. There are really only two populations. The illegals you got an education in last time around, Lieutenant. Theyve got their bad apples. h.e.l.l, Resendiz is proof of that. But for the most part theyre folks looking for work, migrant workers, sometimes whole families looking to start a new life. The other group, theyre white and dangerous. The core is made up of a gang, maybe five-hundred members, who call themselves the Freedom Fighters," said James. "Like the illegals, they circulate throughout the country riding the trains. But theyre not riding to get anywhere. They see the rails as their territory."

"What do they do?" David asked.

"Steal mostly, shipments of anything they can sell, especially electronics," he said. "You know, this could be something. Weve never been able to prove it, but weve speculated for the past five years that theyre behind many of the dead bodies found along the tracks. The victims are usually poor illegals, mostly men, but even some women and children, murdered, their bodies thrown off a train. At least, thats what weve always a.s.sumed."

"How many bodies are we talking about?" David asked.

James shrugged. "Riding the trains is a risky business these days. Seems like there are more all the time, maybe twenty last year. But we dont know if were hearing about all of them. Since the trains cross city, county, and state lines, theres no way to tell if the local agencies are tying the deaths to the trains and contacting our office."

"How are they killed?"

"All different ways. Some shot, some beaten to death. Weve had a rash in the past couple of years, bodies thrown off trains with their throats slashed."

I felt Davids eyes on me.

"How soon can you get your guy here?" I asked.

James looked at his watch. "Ill have to track him down. Give me a few hours. Say nine P.M., here in my office. Ill tell him to bring along his file. Hes put together a notebook. Its sketchy, but it has all the information theyve collected on the individual gang members."

"Well be back here at eight-thirty. In the meantime, Ill get my office to fax you the Fort Worth fingerprint," I said. "Ill also ask the captain and Houston P.D. for staff to help compare our print with those in your former employees files."

"Yeah," said James. "Send me help, and Ill get it done."

"Come on," I said to David. "Theres someplace I need to be."

Twenty-one.

Science Fair always brought out the ma.s.ses, and this night the gym at Maggies middle school bustled with murmuring parents and teachers. I searched until I spotted Moms bright white mane in the crowd, near the center of the gym, standing next to Stringss mom and dad. Alba had her youngest, Teesha, in her arms, and six-year-old Keneesha held on to the billowing sleeves of her mothers flowing turquoise dress. Strings once told me that his mother planned to name him Kantigi, which means a faithful person. Fred Sr. objected, wanting his son to share his name. Of course, now no one ever calls the kid anything but Strings.

To get to Mom, David and I inched our way through a particularly dense circle of parents, kids, and teachers. As I nudged in beside her, I saw Maggie and Strings standing side-by-side in front of their science projects. Preoccupied, Maggie didnt notice my arrival. An older student was asking her questions, while another was taking photos for The Armadillo, the middle schools student newspaper. I figured Maggie had probably placed again, no great surprise since she always did well in math and science contests. Still, I couldnt understand why there was so much excitement, until I saw there were two ribbons. Maggie had a second-place ribbon, but Strings had won first place.

"Both of them?"

"Uh, huh," Mom said.

Id been gone so much, I hadnt seen Maggies completed project. Now it glittered behind her. A computer-generated mock-up of a black hole, with a whirling vortex at the center: marked SINGULARITY in bright red. Every few seconds a wayward star got within sucking distance, and it exploded and vanished. On the compulsory three-panel display behind the computer, Maggie had dissected such complex issues as worm holes, tunnels through s.p.a.ce that led to, well, no one knew, but maybe a parallel universe. Real celestial mysteries.

Eager to see Stringss project, I slipped in behind Maggie to get a better look. Usually not as inclined toward academics as guitar practice, hed done an outstanding job. On his laptop computer screen, an animated dinosaur trudged through a tropical setting. No T-Rex, as hed originally described, the dinosaur in question was smaller, its presence more easily concealed. A birdlike raptor with jagged awful-looking teeth, it stalked through a tropical rain forest, at the right of the computer screen, stopping to rear back on its haunches and emit a screeching howl. For some reason, the dinosaurs surroundings reminded me of the honeymoon trip Bill and I had taken to Hawaii.

"Is that...?"

"Yup, your old video. I dont know how they did it, but Maggie and Strings fed it into the computer and then inserted that dinosaur," Mom whispered. "Remarkable, isnt it?"

"Remarkable," I agreed. "Bill would have loved this."

"Yes. He really would have," Mom said. Then she whispered, "Look at the examples Strings found to make his argument."

On the poster board behind his computerized dinosaur, Strings had drawn a map of the earth, with unexplored territories, mainly tropical islands and dense rain forests, colored a bright red. Where could they be hiding? hed written above it.

The two side panels backed up his theory that somewhere on the earth dinosaurs might still roam without necessarily being encountered by man. REDISCOVERED: PYGMY MADTOM AND PHASMID DRYOCOCELUS AUSTRALIS, read the panel to the left. According to Stringss research, the Pygmy Madtom, a diminutive catfish, was thought to have disappeared from Tennessees Clinch and Duck Rivers in the mid-nineties, a victim of erosion and fertilizer pollution. The other reference was to a type of prehistoric walking stick with long hooked legs that hadnt been seen on its native Lord Howe Island, off Australias east coast, in nearly a hundred years. The insects were preyed on by rats that arrived on the island after a shipwreck. Strings ill.u.s.trated the walking sticks apparent demise in a comic book drawing, the hungry rats, saliva dripping from their mouths, devouring the fleeing insects. Yet despite the presumption that both species were extinct, specimens of each had recently been found alive. If they can be mistakenly declared extinct, why not the dinosaurs? his project asked.

Just then, Strings, grinning wider than Id have imagined possible, stared up at me.

"Pretty cool, Mrs. A?"

"Very cool."

"Mom, we both won," Maggie, whod finally noticed me standing next to her, called out above the noise in the gym.

"I know, Magpie," I said, leaning down to give her a hug. "Congratulations. You and Strings should be very proud."

I felt someone tap me on the shoulder and turned to find Mrs. Hansen at my side.

"Did you get my message?" she asked.

"Yes, I did. Thank you," I said.

"I think Maggie just needs rea.s.surance that youre there for her," she whispered. "I feel better about her these last few days, but Ill keep you posted."

"Thank you," I said. "More than I can say."

The Science Fair so satisfactorily completed, Maggie didnt seem displeased to find David waiting in the crowd as we collected her things.

"Are you two still looking for that serial killer together?" she asked him.

"Yes, we are, Maggie," he said.

"I wish youd get him soon," she said, wrinkling her nose in a ball. "Mom promised wed go ice skating again when she has a day off."

"Itll happen soon," David said.

"Unfortunately, Agent Garrity and I have to go back to work tonight. Were following a lead." Maggie looked instantly disappointed, until I added, "But we have time for a celebration first. Where would you and Strings like to go?"

Strings looked at Maggie, and Maggie looked at Strings.

"Saigon," they said in unison.

Minutes later, we sat in a booth along the back wall of our favorite Vietnamese restaurant. In between sips of his Sprite, Strings enthusiastically recounted the moment the blue ribbon became his.

"I coulda fainted, Mrs. A," he said. "I figured Maggie had it. She always wins."

"I wasnt surprised at all," said Maggie. "I knew you were going to win."

"For real?" he challenged. Maggie nodded.

"Howd you know?" Strings asked, looking more than a little doubtful.

"Because the judges kept smiling while they looked at your project," said Maggie. "And I heard that man judge tell the two women judges that you had real imagination."

Intermingled with conversation, we dunked thin-skinned spring rolls packed with rice noodles, mint, and shrimp into thick, sweet peanut sauce. Usually, I insist Maggie and Strings eat lemon chicken or cashew shrimp along with their favorite delicacy. Tonight, there was no such rule. In fact, when the first platter disappeared, I ordered a second.

Finally satisfied, the doings of the night fully recounted and celebrated, Strings turned to David.

"Are you a real FBI guy?" he asked, looking somewhat skeptical.

"Yes, I am."

"I watch a lot of those shows on TV, where cops are looking for bad guys," Strings said, one brow arched, his dark eyes curious, as if concerned about what he planned to say next. "You know, on TV, sometimes the bad guys are smarter than the cops."

"Frederick, that isnt nice," Mom chastised.

"Well, my moms smarter than any bad guy," Maggie said, defiantly. "Arent you, Mom?"

"We hope we are," I said. "Sometimes we even pray we are."

Twenty-two.

Ive been riding the rails on this job for the past six years," said Mick Keitel, an unlit cigarette dangling from his thin lips. On the table before him, next to his black leather jacket, lay a loose-leaf binder, dictionary-thick with sheets of battered white paper. "A white guy would stick out like a prost.i.tute in a convent if he rode with the illegals. Plus, the illegals dont turn on their own, never let us in on Resendiz and what he was up to, although Id bet some of them knew, but theyd turn in your guy in a heartbeat. Guaranteed."

"We agree," I said. David and I had discussed the possibilities on the way back to the South Central offices. We knew our blond, blue-eyed killer would stand out among the sea of illegals jumping trains. Hed be likely to try to blend in, to become an anonymous member of the white gang subculture.

"So in your opinion our most likely scenario pegs our guy as traveling as part of this gang," confirmed David.

"Yeah. Hed feel right at home. Theyre all real thugs," Keitel said. "Let me show you."

Although Roger James sat nearby, he let Keitel, clearly the authority when it came to this band of criminals, control the meeting. Just down the hall, Scroggins and Nelson had arrived to lead more than a dozen hastily gathered agents and technicians from Houston P.D., the rangers, Galveston P.D., and South Central as they compared former employee photos with the composite drawing. Theyd been ordered to scan the fingerprints of anyone who looked even vaguely similar into a computer and e-mail it to ranger headquarters in Austin, where the departments top fingerprint expert waited to compare it to the Fort Worth fingerprint.

As we watched, Keitel, his dark hair rubber-banded in a ponytail, brandishing a tattoo of a grinning skull on his muscular left arm and a marijuana leaf on his right, swung his binder open to the first page, a copy of a grainy drivers license photo of a forty-something man, long dirty blond hair, a beard, wild eyes, and a missing front tooth. Underneath the photo, Keitel had detailed all he knew about this guy, a hoodlum who operated under the nickname Pilgrim.

"Pilgrim is unusual, simply because we know a lot about him," said Keitel. "When he was arrested last year on a rape charge, we got access to his record. Guy has a twenty-page rap sheet, going all the way back to elementary school."

"How longs he been riding trains?" I asked.

Here James took the lead. "Near as we can figure, about fifteen years," he said. "Many of the Fighters go back a long way. Ive been hearing about them since I started in this job eighteen years ago. This is a way of life for them, traveling around the country. They want a change of scenery, they just hop the next train. Most dont care much where they end up."

Keitel had compiled a long list of suspected offenses under Pilgrims name, which culminated the previous year when he entered a Louisiana penitentiary.

"Most of the Fighters we dont know much about," explained Keitel. "Like Pilgrim, they all go by handles or nicknames. Without a real name, its tough to know where they come from."

"How well organized is this gang?" I asked.

"Not well," he admitted. "Pilgrim, for instance, is a relatively minor player. No real power. Theres a loose hierarchy, but its meaningless. About all that sets this gang apart is that they have a uniform of sorts. They always wear all black. And they have a symbol."

With that, Keitel pulled a small flag out of his pocket, a replica of the original U.S. flag, thirteen stars in a circle. "They allege that theyre patriots, living the freedom the founding fathers guaranteed," he explained. "They say that government has corrupted American ideals and invaded personal freedoms."