"If he's going to blow himself up, I hope he's already got a reservation. Bonaventure's pretty full up."

"He's the hostage," she snapped back as she pulled on clothes. "He's claiming to be, and he claims whoever strapped the bomb on him ordered him to call nine-one-one at a specific time, and ask for me by name. If I'm not there by one, whoever's holding the trigger pushes it, and he goes up."

"Only another reason I'll be driving. You don't know the car, I doand I know the roads better. I'll get you where you need to be. When's the last time you drove a six-speed?" he demanded when he saw the argument in her eyes.

Phoebe dragged on her shoes, nodded. "You're right. Let's go."

It made more sense to have him driving the Porsche like a hellhound over the island roads toward the bridge. She had her hands and mind free to contact Dave, to take notes.

"He claims he can't give his name, not until you get here," Dave told her. "He's saying he's wired for sound as well as the bomb, and the person behind it can hear everything. He's wearing an ear bud and a mike."

"Is he lying?"

"I don't think so. I'll be there inside five minutes myself, but from the sound of it, my professional assessment would be he's scared shitless. On-scene reports there are a lot of fresh bruises on his face, his torso, arms and legs. So far, he hasn't told us who did it, how, when, why. He can't, he says. He can only tell you."

"The way we're moving, I'll be there inside fifteen. What grave is he chained to?"

"Jocelyn Ambuceau, 1898 to 1916."

"Unlikely that's random. It or she means something."

"Having it run."

"Tell me more about the unidentified man."

"White, mid-thirties, brown and brown. Solid build. Accent sounds local. No jewelry, no tats. Arms and legs in shackles, shackles hammered into the ground with posts. He's in his boxers, barefoot. He's broken down twice since officers arrived. Just cried like a baby. He's begging us not to let him die. Begging us to get you here. Get Phoebe."

"My first name? He calls me by my first name, like he knows me?"

"That's my take, yeah."

"Tell him I'm nearly there." As they roared around a turn, she I braced a hand against the dash. "Make sure if anyone is listening, they can hear I'm nearly there." She looked at her watch. "I know it's nearly deadline, but we'll make it. Make sure they know I'm coming in. Ten minutes, Captain."

"I'm turning in now. I'll hold things until you get here." She clicked off, looked at Duncan.

"You'll make it." His eyes stayed on the road as he took the car down the little two-lane road at a hundred and ten. "Have you ever dealt with something like this before?"

"No. Not like this." She spotted the lights up ahead, got Dave back on the phone. "I see the radio cars. Let them know we're not stopping at the gate. Have one lead us in."

The Porsche fishtailed on the turn, grabbed road and lunged forward again. It was a blur of moss-draped trees, ornate statuary that gleamed under the moon. Heat put a shimmer on the air, on the thin spit of ground fog. Then there were lights up ahead, through dripping arches of trees. The Porsche slammed to a halt behind the radio car, and Phoebe jumped out.

"You have to stay back," she shouted at Duncan as she dashed through gravestones and winged angels.

Dave moved toward her quickly, gripped her arm. "The bomb squad's marked off the minimum safe distance. Nobody goes beyond it. Not negotiable."

"All right, okay. Situation changes?"

"I just got here two minutes ago."

"Let me get started."

She went forward slowly now. Even with the lights there were pockets of dark. Someone handed her a vest, and she shrugged it on as she studied the weeping man sitting on the grave.

An angel looked out over him, her face serene, her wings spread wide. There was a lute clutched against her breasts.

Below, the man hunched with his face pressed to his updrawn knees, the sound of his weeping raw and harsh against the insect buzz. Pink roses-fresh to her eye-were scattered around him. "I'm Phoebe MacNamara," she began, and his head jerked up.

She froze, stopped in her tracks well before reaching the tape strung out by the bomb detail. Everything in her turned to ice, then thawed again in a sudden gush of hot panic.

"Roy."

"Jesus." Beside her Dave clamped a hand on her wrist. "I didn't see his face. I didn't recognize him." Wasn't entirely sure he would have. "Phoebe, you can't approach," Dave said over Roy's wild shouts. "You cannot approach."

"Understood. Understood." But panic sweat sprang onto her skin.

"Roy, be quiet now. You have to calm down. Take a breath and calm down. I'm here now." While she spoke, she wrote quickly on her pad. Check on myfamily! Cop on the door. Carly here. She dashed down Phin's address. "We're going to be all right."

"He's going to kill me. He's going to kill me."

"Who?"

"I don't know. Oh God, I don't know. Why is this happening?"

"Can he hear us, Roy?"

"He says he can hear. Yes, he can hear. You… you fucking bitch. I have to say what he tells me or he'll blow it up."

"It's all right. If he can hear me, can he tell you what he wants?"

"I… I want you to shove some of this C-4 up your twat, you useless cunt."

"Do we know each other?"

"You cost me," Roy said with tears running down his cheeks. "Now I cost you."

"What did I cost you?"

"You're going to remember. Phoebe, help me, for God's sake, help me."

"All right, Roy. All right. Let me keep talking to him. You must be angry with me. Will you tell me why?"

"Not… not time yet."

"You called me out here, and I came. There must be something you want from me, something you want to tell me. If you'll explain to me why-"

"Fuck you," Roy said on a hitching sob.

"I feel as though you don't want to talk to me yet. Is it all right if I talk to Roy? Can I ask Roy questions?"

"He's laughing. He's laughing. He… Go ahead, have a nice chat. I need a beer."

"Roy, how did you get here?"

"He… drove." Eyes swollen from weeping and blows darted around the graveyard. "I think. In my car."

"What kind of car do you have?"

"M-Mercedes. E55.1 just got it a few weeks ago. I just…"

"All right." She scribbled down the make of the car. Find, she wrote. "He drove your car from Hilton Head?"

"I was in the trunk of my car. I couldn't see. Blindfold, gag. Coming home, driving into the garage. In the garage. Gun to the back of my head." He pressed his battered face to his knees again. "Came up behind me. Then, I don't remember. I don't know until I woke up and I couldn't see or talk. Hard to breathe. In the trunk, tape over my mouth. Couldn't find air."

She took one relieved breath when Dave stepped back and wrote All safe. Cop on doors. "How long ago?"

"I don't know. "

"Okay, it's okay. How did you get here, where you are now?"

"Heard the trunk open." He lifted his head again, shivering. Phoebe could see the insects feasting on him. "Something over my face-got dizzy, tried to fight. Hit me, hit me in the face. I woke up, and I was here, like this. He was talking in my head. In my head. I screamed and I shouted, but nobody came. He talked in my head, told me what to do. My phone, he left me my phone, told me to call nine-one-one, what to say. Only that one call, he said, only say what he told me to say, or he'd push the button."

"You never saw him," Phoebe said as she scribbled down Roy's full name, address, telephone number, and wrote How long missing? under it, circled it twice before passing it to Dave.

"Roy…"

But he was sobbing now. "I didn't do anything. Why is this happening?"

"That's not helping, Roy. Roy!" She sharpened her voice enough to get through. "You need to try to stay calm. The important thing is for us to work together so we can resolve this. I'd like to talk to him again, if he's ready. I wonder if he could give me a name-it doesn't have to be his name, just any name he's comfortable with. So I'd have a way to address him."