“This isn't right,” she told Libby and Toppi, though they had probably grown bored with her tirade by now. “Tom and Laurie need us. Meg needs us. We should be doing something!”

“Jillian,” Toppi said firmly, patiently, “we're not professionals. Sometimes the right thing to do is to wait.”

“But David Price is getting exactly what he wants! Surely there's got to be another way! God, why can't I think of another way?”

Libby sighed. Toppi stared at Jillian.

“How do we even know he will give up the rapist's name?” Jillian quizzed them. “Griffin is right. After meeting with Molly, Price can say anything he likes. It's too late to do anything about it then.”

“They could send him to Super Max,” Toppi said. “Or punish him with this LFI thing.”

“Oh, like David Price cares about that. It's games he likes, getting the upper hand, controlling all the moves on the board.” She stopped abruptly, frowned. “Huh.”

“What?” Toppi asked.

“David likes to control everything,” Jillian said slowly. “But this meeting… He let the police pick the place and the route for getting there. He only set the time. If he were planning something, you'd think he'd want to choose the location. Someplace he knew well, or had an opportunity to booby-trap. Or have the College Hill Rapist booby-trap. That would make sense. David helps the College Hill Rapist come up with the perfect crime. In return, the rapist helps David get out of jail.”

“Maybe he's not planning anything,” Toppi said firmly. “You heard Lieutenant Morelli. The police are focusing all of their resources on this meeting. Price can hardly just exit the van and keep walking.”

Jillian glared at her irritably. “Of course he's planning something! If he really wanted to see his daughter, he would've pressed the issue before going to jail. So this isn't about Molly. It's about getting out of prison.” She paused, still thinking out loud. “And it's about revenge. Arranging things so that Meg would be the first victim, then setting up the assassination of Eddie Como so it would bring Griffin onto the case. His actions are personal, almost autobiographical-same victim, same detective. But he didn't pick the place. Why didn't he pick the place?”

And then, her eyes flew open. “Oh no!”

“What?”

“It's not going to be at the location! Don't you get it? All the snipers, the lieutenant and Molly… That's just a cover, something to distract the police. He didn't pick a place, because he has no intention of getting there! Whatever he's going to do, it's going to be en route. Quick, where's the phone, where's the phone? I've got to call Griffin!”

Driving down Route 2 in Cranston, State Marshal Jerry Atkins urgently radioed the state police cruiser in front of him. “Something's wrong with Price. He's foaming at the mouth. Jesus Christ, I think he's going into convulsions! What do you want us to do?”

Pause.

“Well we can't just let him die… He's supposed to give up the damn rapist. Wait a sec. Whooooa! He's out. He's on the floor. Jesus, I think he's choking on his tongue. He needs immediate medical attention. Quick, pull over!”

Up ahead, the police cruiser abruptly turned right, heading into a restaurant's parking lot. This part of Route 2 was nothing but an endless strip mall, not a great place for an emergency stop with a violent felon on board. But then, from the back of the van, came another loud crash as Price's shackled ankles jerked violently.

A second police cruiser pulled in behind them and tried to fashion a barricade in the back of the lot. The parking lot wasn't crowded. It was the best they could do.

Jerry jumped down from the driver's side of the van. He had a small first-aid kit, and only the faintest idea of how to proceed.

“Radio for an ambulance,” he yelled.

“We're talking to the lieutenant!”

“Does she know first aid?”

“Don't unshackle him!”

“Jesus Christ, do I look like an idiot?”

Jerry threw open the side door. His partner was right behind him. Apparently, the state police did think they were idiots and their escorting officer, Ernie, shoved them both aside. He peered in first with his holster unsnapped and his hand on the butt of his firearm.

“Holy shit.”

Jerry and his partner pushed past Ernie and promptly drew up short. David Price's scrawny body seemed to have folded in on itself, a jumbled tangle of shackled arms and legs that could not be natural. As the three men stared in shock, his body spasmed again and his head lolled back, giving them an eerie image of a man trying to stare out through the whites of his eyes.

Jerry was galvanized first. “Quick, quick, get him straightened out. We gotta get a stick in his mouth before he bites off his tongue.” He jumped into the van, grabbing at David's shackled feet. Ernie went for his shoulders.

Jerry had a strange thought. Price's hands-they weren't where they should be. What had happened to the thick belt that should be shackling his hands to his waist? His gaze fell to the floor, he saw a small wooden sliver. Almost like a lock pick. And then…

Jerry's head came up.

David's magically freed hand grabbed Ernie's Beretta.

Jerry yelled, “N-”

The bullet slammed into his brain.

Crackle, confusion. In the cordoned-off park in Cranston, Lieutenant Morelli strode away from the Pesaturo family with her cell phone in one hand and her radio in the other. She was sweating heavily beneath the weight of her Kevlar vest, and her gaze kept going to the surrounding rooftops, checking on her snipers.

“What do you mean Price is having some kind of fit?

“No, don't pull over. What? You've already pulled over? Whose dumb idea was that?”

Her cell phone rang. She flipped it open first ring and while still listening to Brueger's muddled explanation on the radio, barked, “Morelli.”

“He's going to do something on the way,” Griffin yelled over the phone. “He was never planning on meeting Molly. It's a ruse. Viggio was going to tamper with his getaway car!”

“Griffin…” And then to the radio, “I know you can't let him die!”

“Lieutenant, where is the transport van? Tell me where to find the transport van.”

“Dammit, Brueger, where are you? Griffin's yelling that Price has some kind of escape plan. Don't touch him. You hear me? Nobody touches David Price. Brueger?”

Shots. Sudden, sharp, coming over the airwaves. Lots of them. And then men swearing, and more gunfire, and then a gurgle. Close. In the receiver. A man choking on his own blood.

“Brueger? Brueger, do you hear me? Brueger, what is happening?”

“Where is the van, where is the van?” Griffin was yelling.

“Brueger!”

Silence. Total silence. Even Griffin had finally fallen quiet. Seconds ticked away. The sweat trickled hot from Morelli's forehead to the tip of her chin. She turned around slowly. She stared at Tom and Laurie Pesaturo, who were watching her with shocked, frightened eyes. Her gaze fell. She looked at Molly. Pretty little Molly, who, if there was any justice in this world, would never know her real father.

And then. A voice.

“Send Griffin my love,” David Price said over the radio. “Oh, and somebody might want to send an ambulance. Wait, on second thought, I believe the coroner will do.”

Griffin swore once, stunned, as the radio clicked off.

Lieutenant Morelli hung her head.

Griffin shut his cell phone. It promptly rang again. For a moment, he simply stared at it. Waters did, too. They had heard everything coming over Morelli's radio into Griffin's phone, and now their faces were white, drained. Fitz appeared shell-shocked. The assembled officers were shattered. Sometimes life was like being submerged twenty miles beneath the sea. All sounds were muted. Your limbs felt too heavy to move. You drifted in the dark, the surface too far away, the pressure about to collapse your chest.