She tapped an entry on the keyboard. "Never Never Land" produced no results. She thought about it and typed in "Never Land".

Three results. Never in Amur, Siberia; Never Delay, Belize, in Mexico; and the Never Sumner Mountains in Colorado. Siberia was right out. Mexico and Colorado were possibilities, but only if he'd been double-dealing back then, and she found it hard enough to accept that he was double-dealing now.

She searched her memory for the reference. Peter Pan. Never Never Land was supposed to be an island of some sort anyway.

She checked her watch, ten minutes left on the terminal.

"Second star on the right..." Staring at the watch's face till the hands blurred before her eyes. "And straight on till morning."

She typed in another entry and got a Peter Pan Park in Emporia, Kansas.

I'm going insane. Comet tails...

A smile dawned on her face and she typed in one last name.

"Morning Star" yielded nine results: one in Western Cape, South Afrika; the rest on American soil. There were two Morning Stars in North Carolina and another in Virginia and Mississippi. Four in Arkansas... She did a county search and came up with Garland, Greene, Phillips and Searcy. She wrote the names down in her notes. She looked up to see the operator beaming down at her.

"Found what you were after?"

The interrogation room, aka "the Box", took up a small corner of the floor. The rest of the room was partitioned off with low felt-lined dividers that might occasionally provide an agent with the illusion of privacy. A red light above the Box's door indicated that the room was in use. Malcolm made her way to the observation room next door.

"'Scuse me, sister. You lost?" An agent stepped up and took her arm firmly at the elbow. His jacket was off and his Colt slapped against his shirt within its holster.

She freed her arm with a deft motion and flashed her badge. She gave him her sweetest smile. "Get me a coffee, black and strong. One sugar. If anyone has updates on the wreck, I'll be in the obs room or the Box."

There was a murmur of laughter from the adjacent cubicles and the agent moved off sheepishly.

There were two more agents in the obs room. She showed them her badge before either could open his mouth and waited for them to leave.

On the other side of the two-way mirror, a man sat in the facing chair with his head slumped to the table on folded arms. His head was heavily bandaged. Tufts of singed brown hair protruded from gaps where the dressing had come loose. She watched as one of his hands snaked across the table to a bottle. He poured into a glass with shaking hands, downed the shot, and let his head fall back on his arms.

There was a soft footfall behind her.

Still staring at the glass, she asked, "How much has he had?"

"That'll be his second." Reid had a coffee cup in his hand. "I assume you're the 'witch-queen' that's taken up residence in obs, so I reckon this is for you."

"In the flesh." She accepted the cup with a small bow. "I get coffee and he gets bourbon."

"Whisky, actually. Working the case alone means I get to play good cop and bad cop. What do you think of his story?"

"I just got here," Malcolm replied. "But he's guilty. Has he called for a lawyer yet?"

Reid looked through the two-way and chuckled softly. "Asleep already? Bad for him. What makes you so sure?"

"If the perp's innocent, he's wide awake. He's looking at the doors, the ceiling ... the mirror. If he's asleep, he's already given up. He just doesn't know it yet."

"Our guy says he hasn't slept in three nights."

"Me neither." Malcolm gave the Box another glance. "Who is he?"

"Roy Newcombe. Says he's a flier with the 15th Bomber Group."

"Are they a local outfit?"

"Baton Rouge," Reid replied.

"He's a long way from home. What's his story?"

"Short version? He reckons he was on his way to New Orleans via the Shenandoah."

"Now where have I heard that name?" Malcolm spoke more to herself than to her colleague.

"That was the airship the japs impounded on its way out of New York City. He says that Kennedy was on board." Reid was smiling like the cat who caught the canary.

"Bingo."

"It gets better. He says he was offered a pay-off to help fly Kennedy's crew off the airship." Reid raised a hand to ward off any interruption. "There were two other confed pilots on board. They flew them off on some supply planes that the Shenandoah had in her hangar. They split into three groups. He took two characters named Hardas and Morgan, but doesn't remember the way the others paired off."

"David Hardas and Darren Morgan," Malcolm said softly. Morgan's prints had been lifted from the gun in New York. He certainly got around. Could he have been the shooter? Let's see now, the mild-mannered historian versus the soldier-king. She only clutched at the hope for a moment.

"There's this dogfight just off New York City," Reid continued, "japs and huns. The crew split up, and our guy makes for a German carrier group out in the Atlantic somewhere."

"Now think carefully, Agent Reid: did he tell you all this before or after you gave him the bottle?"

"German 5th is operating somewhere off eastern coastal waters." Reid shrugged. "I'm just telling you what he said. They spend two days with the group and then this guy-Hardas, right? He's ex-navy-somehow he steals the captain's gig off a carrier, for Christ's sake, and they head south."

Malcolm whistled through her teeth. "Did he have any of the cash on him?"

"He had nothing. Says he lost everything during the battle."

"Ah, the battle."

"They didn't have enough fuel to get to Savannah so Hardas was all for stealing another boat."

"And our guy?"

"Hell, our guy's a regular hero. He tried to call it off. But..." Reid held his hands out, palms up. "There were two of them. What could he do?"

Malcolm nodded and sipped the coffee.

Reid continued, "Thing is, the boat they tried to take was armed."

"They attacked a navy ship?"

"Uh-uh. Fishing boat. Newcombe reckons they might have been jap smugglers."

Malcolm put down her cup. "Do we have any corroboration from the coastguard?"

"Not yet. I've got some guys checking it out."

"Any other survivors? Any sign of Hardas or Morgan?"

"We've got five bodies in the morgue. Pretty badly burned. ME's working on them."

"What a terrible shame." Malcolm pursed her lips. "The snaps I've seen of their boat show some fairly rudimentary changes to the superstructure, an effort to make her silhouette less recognisable. A one-man job, which supports Hardas's presence on the vessel."

Reid's look was appreciative.

Malcolm turned back to peer through the two-way. Newcombe hadn't moved. "We need a positive ID on this guy."

"His file is being flashed up from Louisiana. It could arrive any time."

"It's good to know that at least one of us is having a productive day."

Reid cracked his knuckles. "Hell, I'm just getting started."

"Have you said anything to the director yet?" She made the question sound careless.

"You don't call the director till you have everything, Agent Malcolm. Words to live by."

"I'll keep that in mind, Agent Reid." Malcolm's brow creased momentarily before she continued. "Do you have any OPR up here, working the story?"

"National Security." Reid gave her a look. "And you."

"How does this sound? You said it was a Japanese fishing boat? The smugglers are Union boys, yakuza-linked, and moving weapons north out of Savannah. Hardas and Morgan, seeing the error of their ways, get wind of this somehow and with the help of a brave airman..."

"I like where this is going."

"I like it better than the story your guy is spinning us."

"It plays out. I'll have someone get to work on it."

"Let me know if you need a hand. I'm going to give it another couple of hours or so, but after that I'm moving on."

Reid's eyes flashed. "Got a lead?"

She wondered what to call the idea that was forming in her mind. She said, "I've got something."

"Tell you what, you can join me in the Box while you wait."

She gave him her smile and said, "Agent Reid, I don't want to interfere."

Reid smiled. "Truth of the matter is, I think the other agents might feel safer with you out of the office."

She laughed, saying, "I do hate causing a fuss."

"I'm starting to think that it's one of the things you do best."

She was thinking about Joseph, thinking about Arkansas. She let a slight blush rise to her cheeks and said, "Now who have you been talking to?"

He led her to the prisoner.

V.

April 25, 2012.

Nashville, Tennessee.

There had been fires to the south of the city. The sun was a low, brown smear on the asphalt sky. Rain was predicted, but the heavens offered no intimation of the future. Ash danced slow in the still air and Kennedy kept walking.

He'd spent an hour in Watanabe's room, taking advantage of the gangster's absence to make a thorough inventory of its contents. He'd found a printout of available flights to Memphis on the bedside table by the phone. He'd found the shreds of a hotel stationery envelope on the bed and a loaded Shingen automatic, its safety off, tucked between the mattress and the wall. The creases in the flight list didn't match the envelope.

Watanabe had said he'd be an hour or so, ninety minutes at the most. If he hadn't been late at the border station, Kennedy might have let it go. If he hadn't kept them waiting at the truck stop, Kennedy might not have been so curious about the missing letter. Watanabe had told them, "Wait till I get back," but sitting there in that empty room, watching the empty minutes slip past, Kennedy's wandering mind provided him with too many ways that things might have gone sour.

So he kept walking.

They were half a block behind him, the phone booth was just up ahead. They had to be Watanabe's men. Yakuza. He'd spotted them across the street from the hotel as he was leaving, unable to make any of them for the driver who'd brought him across the border. They followed him with shuffling steps, colliding with each other as they walked, laughing.

They couldn't touch him on the street. Not this far south. They stumbled to a halt as he pushed open the booth's door. He threw them a glance. Their awkward poses suggested a moment's uncertainty, then one of them drew a packet of cigarettes from his leather kimono and they all lit up, crowding around the thin licks of flame.

He picked up the phone and dialled Kobe's New Jersey number. The call timed out. He slotted more coins and dialled Chicago. No answer.

He started walking back to the hotel. Watanabe had chosen a shabby district of town for their sanctuary. There was a bar across the road. A series of dilapidated shopfronts lined the narrow concourse. Notices in faded script advertised businesses long gone. Anything of any value had shifted uptown. Nashville had grown up and away from these worn streets.

Watanabe's men were engaged in a heated discussion as he approached. Startled, they parted swiftly, each taking a sudden absorbed interest in a shop's display or the pattern of cracks in the sidewalk. He stopped and stood among them, letting their discomfort buoy his spirits. He followed the motion of their abruptly upturned faces and his eyes fell on Watanabe, standing before the hotel's facade. His face was a glowering mask.

Kennedy approached him, keeping his pace to a saunter now, his hands in his pockets jangling the remainder of coins and stolen bullets.

"I've heard many things about you of late, boss," Watanabe said, "but no one bothered to tell me that you'd become a fool."

"I don't need someone to tell me you've sold us out."

Watanabe made a complicated gesture with one of his hands. Kennedy heard three guttural replies from behind, but did not turn around.

"Where's the captain?" Watanabe asked.

"In his room, where I left him."

"Good." Watanabe scanned the street. "Shall we continue this inside, or do you want to stay out here in plain sight?"

Kennedy thought about Watanabe's goons. At least Lightholler was upstairs. He said, "After you."

They mounted the staircase in silence. Kennedy had made no attempt to disguise his search and Watanabe acknowledged the room's rearrangement with a grunt. Kennedy leaned against the far wall, his arms crossed loosely under his jacket. He watched as Watanabe picked up a bottle of rice wine from the dressing table and poured the pale liquid into two glasses. He offered one in Kennedy's direction.