"You were a guest of the Brooksteins?"

"My friend was. It's actually a little awkward, but this friend of mine, he's been going through a hard time recently."

Jan Beerens looked sympathetic. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Thanks. He took off a few weeks ago and no one's heard from him since. I know he made it as far as Madagascar. I wondered if maybe, out of nostalgia or whatever, he'd stopped by the house." She pulled out a picture. "I don't suppose you've seen him?"

Beerens studied the picture for a long time. Grace's hopes soared, then plummeted when he handed it back to her.

"Sorry. I feel as if I recognize him from somewhere. But he hasn't been here."

"You're quite sure?"

"Positive, I'm afraid. You're my first visitor in over a year. That's partly why I decided to sell. I adore the house and the island, but it's too isolated. I'm only here now to sign the papers, and to say my farewells. You're lucky you caught me."

"Oh." She didn't know why, but it made Grace feel sad that this kind, thoughtful man would be leaving Le Cocon. "Who's the new owner? If you don't mind me asking."

"Actually, it's all rather mysterious. I was approached by a lawyer in New York, and he's handled everything, but he's never divulged the name of his client. Whoever it was clearly knew the house intimately. This lawyer made a number of requests for specific pieces of furniture, carpets, that sort of thing. He's moving in on Monday, I believe."

Grace's breathing quickened. She felt the hairs on her arms p.r.i.c.k up. Whoever it was knew the house intimately. Whoever it was knew the house intimately.

Jan Beerens walked her to the door. "I'll say this for Lenny Brookstein. He may have been a crook, but he'd have made a h.e.l.l of an interior designer. I'm gonna miss this place. As for your friend, I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help."

Grace shook his hand. "Actually, you've been very helpful. Good-bye, Mr. Beerens. Good luck."

HARRY B BAIN AND M MITCH C CONNORS DECIDED to split up. Madagascar was the size of Texas, and all they had to go on was what Jonas Ndiaye had told them. to split up. Madagascar was the size of Texas, and all they had to go on was what Jonas Ndiaye had told them.

Harry said, "I'll stay in Antananarivo. I can interview staff at the airport, taxi drivers, real estate brokers. I'll talk to the managers of all the good local hotels. If he was here, someone'll remember him, especially with that stammer."

Mitch took a small plane to the north of the island. Nosy Tanikely was a tiny atoll in an extensive archipelago off Madagascar's northwest coast. A diver's paradise, there was nothing there but beach and ocean. For a roof over their heads, divers and sightseers alike had to go to nearby Nosy Be. It amused Mitch that the capital of Nosy Be was called "h.e.l.lville." If anywhere truly lived up to the brochure fantasy of paradise, with white sandy beaches and tranquil turquoise waters, it was this place. If you were going to spend the rest of your life on the run from U.S. authorities, this was the place to do it, all right. John Merrivale was n.o.body's fool.

Mitch went to every five-star hotel on the island. Every supermarket, drugstore, bar and car rental office.

"Have you seen this man?

"Are you certain? Look again. If we find him, there's a substantial reward."

In Mombasa, that approach was bound to yield a response of some sort, even if not the truth. Here, nothing. The locals had not seen John Merrivale. As for the divers, Mitch got the impression that they saw themselves as a community, and that they might have protected one of their own from the police even if they did did know something. Either way, after three days, the tan on Mitch's forearms had deepened from b.u.t.terscotch to mola.s.ses, but he was nowhere nearer finding John, or Grace. know something. Either way, after three days, the tan on Mitch's forearms had deepened from b.u.t.terscotch to mola.s.ses, but he was nowhere nearer finding John, or Grace.

Harry Bain called. "You got anything?"

"Nope. You?"

"A little. Jonas wasn't bulls.h.i.tting. Two witnesses at the airport confirm seeing him. It looks like he spent two nights at the Hotel Sakamanga, then moved on. He was talking about going diving. Said he was 'meeting a friend.'"

"I'll stay up here till Monday," said Mitch.

Harry Bain didn't ask the obvious question: And then what? And then what?

Pretty soon they would both have to head back to New York. It was a minor miracle that neither Grace's escape nor John Merrivale's disappearance had yet been reported in the media. But at some point, a statement would have to be made. There was music to be faced, and while Mitch could probably hope to be reinstated at the NYPD, Harry Bain knew that if he returned home empty-handed, his career was over.

"Keep me posted." He hung up.

GRACE'S HEART STOPPED.

Coming out of a grocery store, she saw him across the street. The guy from the FBI! Gavin Williams's boss, the one who worked with John. The guy from the FBI! Gavin Williams's boss, the one who worked with John. She ducked back into the store. She ducked back into the store.

"Vous avez oublie quelque chose, madame?"

Is he looking for John, or for me?

"Madame?"

Grace blinked at the shopkeeper.

"Me? Oh, non, j'ai toutes mes affaires. non, j'ai toutes mes affaires. I'm fine, thank you." I'm fine, thank you."

She peered through the window.

The man had gone.

I must lay low. All I have to do is make it through the weekend. After Monday, I won't care anymore. He can haul me back to Super Max in leg irons.

HARRY B BAIN RECEIVED AN ANONYMOUS TIP. A note was left at his hotel. A note was left at his hotel.

The man you are looking for is no longer in this province. He is in Toliara. Talk to the rangers at Isalo National Park.

Harry tried to reach Mitch but his cell phone was switched off.

I'll go tomorrow.

WHEN M MITCH WOKE UP ON S SUNDAY morning, he thought his head was going to explode. He wasn't sure whether to blame the whiskey, or the fact that during the night someone had surgically implanted a church bell into his cranium and was now ringing the d.a.m.n thing at a hundred decibels. morning, he thought his head was going to explode. He wasn't sure whether to blame the whiskey, or the fact that during the night someone had surgically implanted a church bell into his cranium and was now ringing the d.a.m.n thing at a hundred decibels.

He got up, staggered to the bathroom, threw up, felt better. Opening the white wooden shutters in his bedroom a crack, he flooded the room with laser-bright light. Must be later than I thought. Must be later than I thought. He winced, closing the shutters and crawling back into bed. He winced, closing the shutters and crawling back into bed.

This would be his last day on the archipelago. He ought to have been up at dawn, turning over every rock he could think of in hopes of one sighting of the elusive John Merrivale. But he knew it was hopeless.

He fell back to sleep, but his dreams were disturbing and fitful.

Church bells ringing. He was marrying Helen. "Do you take this woman?" "I do." "Do you take this woman?" "I do." He lifted Helen's veil, except it wasn't Helen; it was Grace Brookstein. He lifted Helen's veil, except it wasn't Helen; it was Grace Brookstein. "Forget about me." "Forget about me."

He was on a beach, chasing John Merrivale. John turned a corner and disappeared. When Mitch reached the corner, it changed into Detective Lieutenant Dubray's office. Dubray's voice: "This is not your case, Mitch. If it weren't for Celeste and Helen..." "This is not your case, Mitch. If it weren't for Celeste and Helen..." Then Harry Bain walked in. Then Harry Bain walked in. "He spent two nights at the Sakamanga. He said he was meeting a friend." "He spent two nights at the Sakamanga. He said he was meeting a friend."

Mitch woke up with a start.

He said he was meeting a friend.

Could it be?

He picked up the phone. "Harry Bain, please. Room sixteen."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Mr. Bain checked out early this morning. He'll be back on Tuesday, same room. Can I leave a message?"

The bells in Mitch's head were still ringing, but the pitch had changed. They weren't church bells anymore. They were alarm bells.

I have to get back to the city.

GRACE WAS ALREADY AWAKE WHEN THE alarm went off. alarm went off.

Four A.M A.M.

She pulled back the curtains in her cheap hotel room and looked down at the deserted street. According to weather.com, dawn would break in less than ten minutes. Right now it was pitch-dark outside, the buildings slick with the blackness of night, gleaming-dark, as if they'd been dipped in tar.

Grace dressed hurriedly. The backpack was light, but it contained everything she needed. She looked in the mirror.

For you, Lenny my darling.

It's all been for you.

Silently, she slipped out of the hotel and into the shadows.

THIRTY-SIX.

THE STREETS WERE DESERTED. ANTANANARIVO SLEPT. In a week's time, the dry season would begin and cold, mountain winds would once again grip the town. Tonight, though, the air was as thick as soup, heavy with threatened thunder. Grace moved like a wraith through the empty city, as silent and deadly as a virus. In a week's time, the dry season would begin and cold, mountain winds would once again grip the town. Tonight, though, the air was as thick as soup, heavy with threatened thunder. Grace moved like a wraith through the empty city, as silent and deadly as a virus.

Yesterday, she'd panicked. What if he isn't there? What if it's not him, this mystery buyer? What if it isn't John? What if he isn't there? What if it's not him, this mystery buyer? What if it isn't John?

But now, as she climbed up the hill toward Le Cocon and the first rays of dawn pierced the stormy April sky, her doubts evaporated. He was here. John Merrivale was here. Her whole body was alive to his presence, like a shaman sensing an evil spirit.

She reached inside her jacket and touched the gun.

The time had come.

"I'M SORRY, SIR. THE EARLY FLIGHT to Antananarivo has been canceled." to Antananarivo has been canceled."

The girl at the check-in desk gave a careless little shrug of the shoulders, as if to say, What can you do? What can you do? Mitch fought back the urge to vault over the desk and throttle her. Through gritted teeth, he asked, "When will the next flight be?" Mitch fought back the urge to vault over the desk and throttle her. Through gritted teeth, he asked, "When will the next flight be?"

She looked at her computer screen.

"Nine o'clock. But everything will depend on the weather. If these storms continue, they might close the airport."

You don't have to look so d.a.m.n happy about it.

Why had John Merrivale come to Madagascar? Mitch and Harry had a.s.sumed it was because the island had no extradition treaty with the United States, that he'd be safe from the long arm of federal law. But what if that wasn't the only reason? He'd told the manager at his hotel that he was meeting "a friend." Perhaps John had a personal connection with the island? And who was this friend? Mitch's first thought was that it might be Grace herself. Had she contacted him somehow and persuaded him to meet? Perhaps, as two criminals on the run from the U.S. justice system, she'd convinced John that she was prepared to let bygones be bygones. If so, Mitch was certain, she was luring him into a death trap.

Mitch had called Caroline Merrivale. Woken her up.

"Has John ever been to Madagascar? Does he have any acquaintances there?"

Caroline's answer had hardened Mitch's hunch into a certainty. He knew where John was. He knew where Grace was headed. But could he get there in time to prevent the inevitable?

"I'd like a ticket for that flight, please. The nine o'clock."

She looked at her screen again. "Oh, dear. I'm afraid it's fully booked. Shall I put you on standby?"

Breathe deeply. Count to five.

"Sure."

Mitch tried Harry Bain again.

ON THE FLOOR NEXT TO H HARRY Bain's sleeping bag, his cell phone vibrated quietly. It was five Bain's sleeping bag, his cell phone vibrated quietly. It was five A.M. A.M. at the Isalo National Park campsite. Outside, hikers were already warming cups of coffee over the breakfast campfire and checking the settings of their cameras. The big thing at Isalo was the birdlife. You could never get up too early to watch birds. at the Isalo National Park campsite. Outside, hikers were already warming cups of coffee over the breakfast campfire and checking the settings of their cameras. The big thing at Isalo was the birdlife. You could never get up too early to watch birds.

Unlike his fellow campers, Harry Bain had no interest in snapping a crested coua or catching a rainbow-plumed coraciidae feeding its young. He'd come to Toliara in search of the lesser-spotted Merrivale, but the whole thing had been another wild-goose chase. Whoever left him that note was either deliberately playing games with him or had gotten his signals crossed. The rangers at Isalo had the combined IQ of a dung beetle. None of them had seen John.