"I know you will."

They were walking east on Mockingbird across from the stadium when a Highland Park police cruiser pulled alongside. They stopped. The officer spoke to them through an open window.

"You folks okay? Don't see many people taking a walk this time of night."

"I'm Judge Fenney."

The officer shone a flashlight in Scott's face then quickly averted the light.

"Sorry, Judge. Little cold for a walk. What brings you out so late?"

"With all the attention of the case, this is the only time I can walk in peace. And I'm not sleeping very well."

"You're not worried about getting abducted again?"

"This is Agent Pea. FBI."

Cat flashed her badge to the officer.

"Dedicated. Okay, enjoy your walk, Judge. And try melatonin. It'll help you sleep."

"They're dead, but they're still walking?" Carlos said.

"Yes," Bobby said. "That's the definition of zombies."

They turned east on Cornell Avenue.

"A series about zombies been on TV for six seasons?"

"No. A series about what happens to the world when zombies take over has been on TV for six seasons."

"Everyone dies."

"A lot do, but some humans learn how to kill zombies and survive."

"I'd kick their undead asses."

"Carlos, do you even know how to kill a zombie?"

It made no sense for them to be talking about The Walking Dead while searching the streets of Highland Park for two girls held hostage by Islamic terrorists. And not just any two girls, but Boo and Pajamae. Bobby and Carlos loved those two girls like their own; they would both gladly trade places with the girls. They would both die for the girls.

If the girls were still alive.

The human brain could not focus on something so evil and so awful-the image of Boo and Pajamae lying dead with their heads cut off-for very long and remain sane. So, in self-defense, the human brain switches gears to a lighter image-killing zombies-to ease the pressure of the moment. It was like people making jokes at funerals. You can't think about death for very long.

"A wooden stake in the heart."

"No, no, no, that's how you kill a vampire. With a zombie, you've got to kill its brain. You stick a stake in a zombie's heart, he'll still eat your ass for lunch."

"Shit, I would've fucked that up."

"I feel like I'm in a Shakespearean tragedy," Franklin Turner, famous plaintiffs' lawyer said to the bailiff.

"You read Shakespeare?" Louis said.

"Every word he wrote. You?"

"Just starting. Ms. Herrin, she's teaching me grammar and literature. Didn't get a lot of Shakespeare down in South Dallas."

"Just the tragedy."

Frank pulled out the flashlight and checked the map for their grid. They had walked west on Beverly and south on Hillcrest; now they would go east on Princeton. So far they had seen nothing suspicious. Of course, it was Highland Park. This wasn't a white-trash trailer park where every other resident cooked meth and pit bulls roamed the neighborhood.

"Is that a pit bull?" Louis asked.

"Where?"

Louis pointed east; Frank shone the flashlight that way. The light found the dog. It was a pit bull.

"A fucking pit bull in Highland Park," Frank said.

The dog obviously didn't know that it didn't belong in Highland Park. It broke into a run ... toward them!

"Shit."

Frank fumbled about his three layers of garments for his gun. He was scared, but Louis was apparently terrified. He stood frozen in place. He faced the dog with no attempt to evade it. Frank got the first layer unzipped and was working on the second layer when the dog growled and bared its teeth from only ten feet away, and Louis- -growled back. He spread his massive arms and growled at the dog.

"Graaaaaaa!"

The pit bull pulled up short. He eyed Louis, as if thinking, What the hell?

"Graaaaaa!"

The dog turned tail and hauled ass down Princeton Avenue.

"See," Louis said, "I don't need a gun."

Cat entered through the back door of her house just as the sky was brightening with the dawn. They had searched through the night and come up empty. But her kitchen was not empty; her parents sat at the table in their bathrobes. Her mother drank coffee; her father ate Oreos. She felt like a suspect caught in the act.

"So, did you and the judge make up?" her mother asked with raised eyebrows.

"Yes."

"Oh, that's nice."

"Did he rule on our case?" her father asked.

"No."

Cat sat at the table. Her father offered an Oreo, but she shook him off. He frowned.

"What is it, my child?"

She exhaled. "The Arabs that kidnapped Scott ... they took the girls."

"No! When?"

"Monday."

"Little Boo and Pajamae?" Her mother started crying then stood and ran down the hall. "I must light candles and pray for them."

Her father slowly set the Oreo on the table. He took her hand.

"Do you think you will ..."

"Yes. We will find them. Alive."

TWENTY-THREE.

Friday, 5 February 2 days before the Super Bowl "Damnit, Mr. President!" the director said. "The Super Bowl is Sunday. We've got to find those Arabs! These are desperate times. Desperate times require desperate measures."

Beckeman's phone rang at 7:15 A.M. It was the director.

"The president designated Omar al Mustafa as a Law of War detainee. He is now the property of the United States government. The president also authorized thirty minutes of enhanced interrogation techniques against the detainee in order to prevent an attack on the homeland. Just you, Beckeman. No one else is in the loop on this-or in the room. Understood?"

"I've done this before."

"So you have. Ground rules: No waterboarding. No pliers. No car batteries. No nail guns. No cigar cutters. No-"

"How about a Taser?"

"I didn't hear that."

Denny sat in the leather captain's chair in his command center. The travel pillow wrapped around his neck gave him spinal support. Rap music played on the boom box. Star Wars posters adorned the walls. A nice throw rug made the concrete cellblock feel warm. The little fridge was filled with Mountain Dew and ice cream sandwiches. Two flat screen monitors stared back at him. On one monitor he was playing League of Legends. On the other he was tracking the Arabs. He couldn't help thinking what he had thought since he was thirteen and realized he would always be the smartest person in the room: I'm the master of the whole fucking universe. He heard the guard named Buddy walking by his cell.

"Hey, Buddy, can I shower now?"

"No."

Buddy walked on. Okay, Denny was still the smartest person in the room, even if there was only one person in the room these days. Denny focused on the second screen. He was waiting for the asshole. He was a morning guy. And an every-other-day guy. This was the day.

Come out and play.

"Play time, Omar," Beckeman said.

The guard unlocked the cell door then locked it behind Beckeman.

"Get lost," Beckeman said to the guard.

He got lost. Mustafa lay on his cot with his eyes closed. Dreaming of killing innocent Americans, no doubt. His eyes opened.

"Did the judge send you?"

"The judge? No. The president did. He sends his regards. I need answers, Omar. Who are the Arabs?"

"I do not know them."

"They work for you."

"They do not."

Beckeman removed the Taser from his coat pocket and test-fired it. The electrical volt across the arc contacts crackled.

"You'll tell me."

Abdul read the message from Zaheed: The caliph sends his personal regards and prayers. He said he is honored by your martyrdom. You make him proud.

Abdul typed a response: Please give my regards to the caliph.

Zaheed replied: I will. Did you send the beheading video?

Abdul typed: Yes.

Denny sat up straight. The words were in Arabic, but he used translation software. In English, they read: "Beheading video."