“Hands,” the guard repeated.

David shrugged. He knew the drill. He stuck his hands through the slit in the cell door. The corrections officer slapped on the cuffs. David withdrew his shackled wrists, and his cell door was finally opened. The guard pulled him out by the shoulder and led him over to Processing.

“Can I stop by my cell?” David asked.

“Why?”

“I like that toilet better. You know, it's hard to relax in a new cell.”

“Eat more fiber,” the guard told him and pulled him down the hall. At the end was a room where three more guards waited. One saw him coming and snapped on a pair of gloves.

“Full cavity search?” David arched a brow. “Why this is just my lucky day.”

The guard regarded him stonily. David shrugged.

“Oh, the price of freedom.” He went into the room, where his favorite shirt and pants were stacked on the table. The clothes had probably already been searched. Now it was his turn.

David turned away from the stack of clothing, trying not to smile too brightly.

“Free at last,” he murmured as he raised his hands above his head, “free at last. O Lord Almighty, free at last.”

Five P.M.

David Price bent over.

Griffin and Waters pleaded their case before a judge.

Fitz stared at a half-dressed receptionist.

Tawnya fed a crying, fussy Eddie, Jr.

Meg swayed from side to side.

Carol's right hand started to twitch.

And Jillian sat in the Pesaturo home, thinking of Meg, thinking of Carol, thinking of her sister, thinking of Sylvia Blaire and then thinking of David Price's game plan. Something was wrong here, she thought, then rubbed her temples as she tried desperately, quickly, to think of what.

Molly sat on the floor of her bedroom and waited.

Chapter 40

“WE NEED A SUBPOENA-”

“We have probable cause-”

“The College Hill Rapist Case-”

“Como donated sperm to a Pawtucket sperm bank-”

“The rapist had to have access to those samples in order to plant evidence at the crime scenes-”

“We need to see some personnel records. Now!”

It wasn't the most elegant arguing Griffin and Waters had ever done before a judge, but it did the trick. At five-eleven, they received their subpoena. They promptly drove ninety miles per hour back to Korporate Klean, burnt some rubber making the hard right turn into the parking lot and squealed around to the front doors.

First thing they saw was Fitz, standing outside, hand on Mr. Green's arm, talking furiously. Green was obviously trying to make good on his threat to go home at five. Fitz was obviously making good on his vow to stand guard.

Griffin screeched to a halt directly in front of them, while Waters thrust the subpoena out his open window.

“We require access to your files, now!” Waters announced.

Sal Green sighed and shook his head at their persistence. Then he turned back toward the building.

Five minutes later, he kicked an old gray metal filing cabinet three times, jerked the lower drawer open, then gestured to the emerging row of files. “These are my current employees.”

Griffin eyed what appeared to be forty to fifty names. They didn't have that kind of time. “People who work the sperm bank,” he said curtly. “Past and present.”

“I rotate the crews-it keeps everyone on their toes.”

“Date of hire November through April, Mr. Green. Move it!”

For a moment, it looked like Green might protest. Griffin's hands started itching at his sides. He was trying to remember what Lieutenant Morelli had said. For that matter, what his therapist, his brothers and Waters had said. Mostly, however, he felt himself descending down, down, down into that dark basement with its neat rows of sad little graves.

Green started pulling files. Griffin figured it was the best decision the man had made all day.

He, Waters and Fitz began skimming. Ten minutes later, Fitz won the prize. “I know this man! Ron Viggio. I arrested him myself, several years back. A regular Peeping Tom. The woman was embarrassed though, and wouldn't press charges.”

“Peeping Tom,” Waters said. “That sounds like a budding rapist to me.”

“Hey, all I know about was an arrest for B amp;E,” Green protested immediately. “Viggio told me about it up front. It was all some misunderstanding, he was trying to plant a surprise in his girlfriend's apartment and a neighbor took it the wrong way.”

“He was caught breaking into a woman's home?” Griffin asked sharply.

Green shrugged. “He was charged, not tried. At least that's what I was told.”

Griffin was already dialing his cell phone. “Sergeant Griffin here. I need you to run a name through the system. Ronald Viggio.V-I-G-G-I-O. Yep. Uh huh.” And two minutes after that. “Current address?”

“All right.” He grabbed the file. “Let's go.”

“Hey now!” Green started to protest again, but no one waited around to hear.

Five-thirty P.M.

The state marshals appeared and led David to the waiting transport van. Courtesy of his lawyer's timely delivery, David was wearing his own clothes for the first time in a year and a half-a pair of tan khakis, a dark blue button-down shirt and dark brown loafers. The clothes had been searched and run through the metal detector, of course. So had he.

Now his hands and ankles were shackled. A state marshal walked on either side, both heavyset faces grim. David smiled at his escorts. He smiled at the assembled corrections officers. He smiled at the waiting blue van. He was in a good mood.

They loaded him up.

“Try anything, buster,” one of the state marshals said, “and we'll grind you into dust. Capisce?”

“I don't speak Italian, you English-challenged hump.”

The marshal growled at him. David smiled back.

The van doors closed. Soon the prison gates would open.

Five thirty-five P.M. So close to freedom, David could taste it on his lips. Five, ten more minutes, and the gates would open. Five, ten more minutes, and his real journey would begin.

Thank you, Sergeant Griffin, he thought. And of course, thank you, Meg.

“Apparently, Ron Viggio didn't feel the need to tell his employer about his entire criminal history,” Griffin said as he hurtled his car onto the interstate and Waters called for backup. “Turns out he wasn't arrested for B amp;E, but for first-degree sexual assault. He also spent three years behind bars in the mid-nineties for breaking into a woman's home.”

“So first he's a Peeping Tom, then he's breaking into women's homes, then he goes for assault. Wow, he's positively textbook.”

“Yeah. Unfortunately, the sexual-assault charge didn't stick. The woman had had a prior relationship with Viggio-they'd dated briefly-and since she'd slept with him willingly in the past, she got worried the jury wouldn't believe her claim. Or maybe she just got freaked out at the thought of the trial. It's not exactly a walk in the park.”

“Why try the defendant when you can beat up the victim?”

“Exactly. Viggio entered Intake in December, his accuser dropped the charges in January. His probation officer can probably tell us even more stories.” Griffin came to the Cranston exit, flashed his lights at the sluggish traffic, then whipped around them, cursing. Some jerk pulled out in front of him. He slammed the brakes hard and swore, and Waters grabbed the bullhorn. “To the right. NOW!”

That put the fear of God into the asshole. Of course the driver shot them a dirty look as they went barreling by. Civilians.

“Viggio had four weeks at Intake during the same time as David Price,” Griffin said, breathing hard, his palms dampening with a combination of adrenaline and anticipation. He found the proper side street, his speedometer over eighty and his attention focused on the wheel.