"Not quite. Just like the collectors, The Monarch operated anonymously, but he used surrogates to collect finder's fees from museums and insurance companies. Huge fees."

"How huge?"

"Over the years? Hundreds of millions."

"Of dollars?" Wagner said.

"Yes."

"The collectors must have loved him," he said.

"Like a plague," she said. "They started offering rewards for The Monarch, some of them higher than the value of the works he'd taken. They were, to put it mildly, enraged. But it didn't work. For sixteen years The Monarch, well, reigned over them. And then about five years ago, poof. He stopped. No one knows why. A few collectors apparently tried to take the credit for stopping him, but their claims never checked out. And to this day, no one knows The Monarch's true identity."

"Amazing," Wagner said, turning the book over in his hands. He realized he wasn't going to get any sleep tonight. "But why did they call him The Monarch?"

"It's in reference to the monarch butterfly."

"Of course," Wagner said, tapping the book's cover art.

"He left it on the walls of the private vaults after each theft. But they got it wrong," she said, catching Wagner off guard. He looked up into Emily's eyes and for the first time he saw a strength in them. She'd been through some sort of ordeal to find out what she was about to tell him.

"How so?" Wagner asked.

"The Monarch's symbol is actually an African symbol."

"African?" Wagner said in surprise. He hadn't seen that coming. "What does it mean?"

"The one who burns you, be not burned."

"What does-"

"It's a symbol of forgiveness."

"Forgiveness?"

"There's no way to know for sure, but I like to think that before The Monarch became The Monarch, he did something he thought was terrible. Being The Monarch was his way of seeking forgiveness. And rather than punishing the collectors and the thieves, he'd forgive them and give them another chance. But it's all in my book."

Wagner shook his head and decided it was his turn to tell her something.

"Miss Burrows, I have something to tell you, which may shock you," Wagner said. He beat the newscast by a few minutes, giving her an overview of what he was already starting to think of as The Monarch case, including the distribution of her book to the media. Through it all she nodded quietly, only seeming taken aback by the distribution of her book, not the murders themselves. But there was nothing conclusive in her behavior. He didn't have a baseline for her so for all he knew she reacted the same way when asked for directions.

He said, "Does it concern you that the subject of your book-the only book on the subject-is a killer?"

"He's not a killer," she said too fast.

"If what you just told me is true, then you don't know that. You don't even know if The Monarch is a he or a she," Wagner said.

"Let's just say it's a hunch. Regardless, I spent two years getting inside The Monarch's head. I may not have discovered his true identity, but that doesn't mean I don't know him. Believe me. And I can guarantee you he had nothing to do with these atrocities," she said. Wagner noted the defensive tone in her answer. She's actually offended.

After a quick double knock on the conference room's door, Evans stuck his head in.

"It's starting. Just the prelim stuff, but it could be important."

"I'll be right there," Wagner said, closing his notebook and suppressing a sigh. He took one of his business cards out of his pocket and handed it to her. "I'd like you to come downtown tomorrow so we can continue our conversation, if it's not too much trouble. Say ten o'clock?" Wagner said. Of course, it wasn't an option, but he wanted to see what she'd say, given a choice.

"Oh, um, sure. That would be fine," she said, standing up. She wrapped her scarf around her neck and waited for him to dismiss her. She wants out of here. At least that's normal. Wagner made a decision then that went against all protocol, but with her reactions throughout their brief interview, he needed to see her reaction to one more thing.

"If you have another minute, I'd like your impressions on something that just turned up. We're not sure what to make of it, but maybe you'll have some ideas," Wagner said.

Emily agreed and he led her down the hall to the Crime Scene Reconstruction Room, nodding to a few people along the way. A couple of NYPD uniforms stood outside the door while they waited for the armored car to transport the painting to FBI Headquarters at 29 Federal Plaza.

"It's not a body, is it?" Emily said with obvious revulsion.

"No, no. Nothing like that," Wagner said.

Wagner yanked the sliding door open and watched Emily's face. For a terrible moment, he thought she was going to pass out. She steadied herself, but her pupil dilations, nostril flares, and the rapid rising of her chest told him all he needed to know.

She turned toward him, eyes moist, and said, "What is it?"

He let her off the hook for the moment and walked her out of the building without making her get closer to the ruined Just Judges painting. He was short on time, and he preferred to let what she saw percolate in her mind overnight.

"There you are," Evans said, coming down the stairs to the lobby. "Matthews is looking for you. Did you really show Burrows the painting?"

"Don't worry about it," Wagner said, watching Emily on the sidewalk outside through the lobby's giant windows.

"So what's the verdict?" Evans asked as they headed up the stairs.

"I don't know, yet. She's hiding something. When the newscast is over, send a car over to sit on her apartment. Make sure she can see them."

"You got it," Evans said.

EMILY HALF EXPECTED to see someone following her when she looked back. There were a few people on the sidewalk behind her, but most of them faced the other way. She was being paranoid, but the realization did little to abate the tension she felt.

Thoughts bounced around her head like ricocheting bullets. It can't be him. It just can't. He wouldn't do that . . . would he? NO! Maybe? But there was no denying what she'd seen in that room. Wagner had been fishing or she'd still be answering questions. The Just Judges painting was indeed associated with The Monarch. It was one of the cases she'd seen cross her desk back at Interpol. But she left it out of her book. It was one of the only times The Monarch was not greeted with open arms by a museum and she thought leaving it out made him look better. She was protecting him, because of how she felt about him-how she felt and the fact that all evidence pointed to The Monarch still having the painting in his possession. Until now.

When Wagner slid that door open, she'd felt like someone had ripped her soul out the bottom of her spine and replaced it with broken glass. At least he hadn't asked her to get any closer. If that had happened, she didn't know what she would have done.

At the corner, she waited with a few other people at the bus stop, trying not to look like a jilted lover. She went over her conversation with Wagner while she waited, trying to remember everything she'd said. But it was all a blur. She couldn't focus on anything except that bloody painting.

The cell phone the man in the limo had given her tweedled in her purse and she almost jumped into the street. Ignoring the odd looks she was getting from the people around her, Emily dug in her bag and took out the phone.

"Miss Burrows." It was the same voice from the LCD screens in the limo, but it sounded different. Tired. I know how he feels.

"It didn't work," Emily said, turning away from the other people at the bus stop. "They treated me like a suspect. I didn't get a chance to suggest anything and I got the distinct impression they wouldn't have listened even if I had. And you didn't say anything about the FBI. We probably shouldn't even be talking on the phone."

"Relax, Miss Burrows. It's an encoded phone, completely untraceable. Even if they somehow managed to pick your signal out of the thousands of signals online right now, they'd only hear gibberish."

Emily tried to relax but it was impossible with everything that was happening. She didn't even have the case she'd been shown in the limo. They promised she'd get it when she got home, since it would have been hard to explain sitting in front of Wagner, but she still thought that was asking for a lot of faith in a man who wouldn't even show his face to her, never mind tell her his name or what his interest in The Monarch truly was. For all she knew, he was the one responsible for the killings, though she wouldn't let herself think about that, yet. She doubted any of this was about the missing chapter from her book. The book had been left open-ended, and would stay that way until the identity of The Monarch was revealed to the world. Something she wasn't sure she would ever let happen.

"But I can't just-"

"We talked about this. It's not going to be easy. You can't just walk in and expect them to listen to you. You need to earn their trust. Just like you earned the trust of the sources for your book. You can do this."

By this, he meant inject herself into the investigation even deeper than she already was and report back to him. In return he promised to help her find The Monarch's true identity, finishing the missing chapter and-though still unsaid-protecting her father. But at that particular moment, the only sure thing she had was the phone pressed to her ear.

"I can't. How can I possibly convince them-"

"Miss Burrows!" The shout was so loud and abrupt she almost dropped the phone. She fought blossoming tears she knew had more to do with what that painting meant than a mystery man's bluster and after a long pause he spoke again, calmer this time. "Remember the endgame. It's what we both want. It's all that matters."

But why does it matter to you?

"I know. You're right," she said, knowing playing along was the only move she had right now.

"Have they shown you anything? Told you anything, yet? About the murders?"

She told him what Wagner had said and what he'd shown her in that terrible white room. It seemed to please him.

"They want to meet with me again tomorrow morning. He seemed a little, well, wobbly."

"Wobbly?"

"Unsettled. Like someone had dropped him into the middle of something he didn't understand. He'd obviously never seen my book before today, but I have no doubt that when we meet tomorrow he'll have read it from cover to cover. He seems very much like a man who doesn't like unknowns." She knew how he felt.

"The fact that Wagner is dealing with you personally is an excellent sign. I'll send you a file on him. Tomorrow, I want you to know him as well as he will know your book."

This man has access to FBI personnel files?

"He's going to know more than my book. My pen name identity has some documentation behind it, but nowhere near enough to fool a government agency. They're going to detain me the second I walk through that door tomorrow morning."

"Let me worry about that," he said. "For now, just go home and get some rest. Read Wagner's file and get some sleep. Tomorrow it's our turn."

He hung up before she could say anything. She put the phone away and turned around to see all the other bus patrons were gone. She'd been so preoccupied with the call she hadn't even heard the bus come and go. She sighed and slumped down on the empty bench to wait for the next bus. As she did, she wondered about the convenience of the murders and the mystery man's requests, but the ramifications were too overwhelming. She pushed the thoughts away as the next bus approached.

"WATCH HER," NATHAN'S voice said from the satellite phone held against Thomas Ranger's square head.

Thomas was sitting behind the wheel of the limo. He kept his eyes on Emily Burrows as she waited for a bus.

"Yes, sir," Thomas said.

"She may not be as solid as we'd hoped," Nathan said, sadness tingeing his voice. "We may need to change tactics if she doesn't perform as expected tomorrow."

"That would be unfortunate, sir." Thomas got the message. Nathan rarely explicitly asked him to kill.

"Don't misunderstand, Thomas. We need her alive. But you may need to extract her sooner than planned. Did you get Wagner's file?"

"Yes, sir," Thomas said, glancing at the folder sitting on top of the metal case on the passenger seat. "Our man inside is performing well."

"Good. Deliver the case and file and then put someone on her. You have men on site, yes?"

"Yes, sir, but I can just-"

"I want you back here, Thomas. At least for a little while. You'll be back in New York in time for the event," Nathan said.

"Yes, sir. See you soon," Thomas said signing off. He knew there was no real reason for him to head back to the island. No reason except that Nathan just felt better with his big dog by his side.

He put the satellite phone away and dialed a cell phone. He smiled when he thought about what he could do while back on the island. Lara. He wondered what she was doing right then but his fantasy was interrupted by a voice on the phone.

"Go for Bill," the voice on the phone said.

"Change of plans, mate," Thomas said in a less official but still commanding voice. "I'm going to need you to babysit a package for me until I get back into town."

"Roger."

7.

Tallahassee, Florida 11:30 P.M. Local Time THE SANDWICH AND coffee crashed to the ground at Jonathan's feet. The graphic of the butterfly symbol twisted and turned on the television screen until it landed up to the left of the announcer. And there was no mistaking what the symbol really was.

"Hye wo nyhe," Jonathan whispered into his empty house. This is impossible. It's just . . . impossible.

"According to the FBI, at any given time there are twenty to fifty unidentified active serial killers at large. Eighty-five percent of those are in America. Today, that number, whatever it may be, is plus one.

"Good evening, I'm Robert Kilpatrick with a late night special report.

"A sign of rebirth and renewal, this delicate creature has been chosen as a gruesome calling card by an unidentified killer calling himself The Monarch.

"Our reporter Jan Halton has the story from New York. Jan?"

The image of a well-dressed thirty-something female reporter appeared where the symbol had been. She had one hand to her ear and the other held a microphone. She was standing on what looked like a busy city street, a huge sandstone structure behind her.

"Thank you, Robert. I'm standing just outside Central Park in midtown Manhattan where six weeks ago The Monarch's first alleged victim was found . . ."

Jesus, they've even got the name?

The Monarch. Jonathan hated that name. He thought it made them sound like some kind of jumped-up potentate. But to be honest, he wasn't really thinking about how they were viewed. Right now, as with everything in his life now, he was thinking about Natalie. He needed to insulate her from this. But before he decided to dig in or pull a Casey Jones, he needed to speak to someone.

A very specific someone.

LEW WATCHED THE silent images swirl and shift. Scenes snapped from here to there; all of them interspersed with the spinning butterfly symbol as big as his fist on Warden Quinn's giant TV.

As the story progressed, chyron text scrolled across the bottom of the images with the highlights of each segment.

First victim, local artist, found by teens.