Talk to me," Betsey said into her Handie-Talkie. "What's happening in there? Mike? What the hell is wrong?"

"Rice is down. I'm outside the master bedroom on the second floor. Macdougall and his wife are inside."

"How is Rice?" she asked, very concerned.

"Chest wound. He's conscious. Wound is sucking bad, though. Get an ambulance here now! Macdougall shot him."

Suddenly a window on the second floor opened. I saw a figure come out of the window and run in a low crouch across the attached garage roof.

Betsey and I sprinted toward the man. I remembered that she'd been a good lacrosse player at Georgetown. She could still move.

"He's outside! Macdougall's up on the roof over the garage," she reported to the others.

"I got him," I told her. He was angling toward where the garage roof intersected with a row of feathery-looking fir trees. I couldn't see what was beyond the trees, but I figured it had to be another yard, another house.

"MacDougall!” I yelled at the top of my voice. "Stop! Police! Stop or I'll shoot!"

He didn't look back, didn't stop, and didn't hesitate. Macdougall jumped down into the trees.

Chapter Eighty-Si

XI ran with my head down, right through a barrier of thick bushes that scraped and cut my arms until there was blood. Brian Macdougall hadn't gotten very far into the yard next door.

I raced for a dozen steps after him, and then I tackled him. I aimed my right shoulder at the back of his knees. I wanted to hurt Macdougall if I possibly could.

He went down hard but he was as loaded up with adrenaline as I was. He rolled and twisted out of my arms. He popped up fast and so did I," You should have stayed down," I told him," You're not supposed to make mistakes. Getting up was a mistake."

I hit Macdougall with a hard, straight overhand right. It felt very good. His head snapped back about six inches.

I bobbed a little. Macdougall threw a wild hook that missed me completely. I hit him again. His knees buckled but he didn't go down. He was a tough street cop.

"I'm impressed,” I told him, taunted him. "You still should have stayed down, though."

"Alex!" I heard Betsey yell as she entered the yard.

Macdougall threw a pretty good punch, but he telegraphed it a little. It glanced off the side of my forehead. I could have taken the punch if it had connected. "That's better," I told him. "Get the weight off your heels, Brian."

Alex! "Betsey called again," Take him down, goddammit! Now!"

I wanted the physical contact with Macdougall, the release, just another minute in the ring. I felt I'd earned it and he deserved whatever got doled out here. He threw another looping punch, but I sidestepped the hit. He was already tired.

"You're not beating up on your wife or your little girl now," I said," You're dealing with somebody your own size. I fight back, Macdougall."

"Fuck you," he snarled but he was gasping for a breath. His face and neck were coated with sweat.

"Are you the man? Are you the Mastermind, Brian? You kill all those people?"

He didn't answer me, so I hit him hard in the stomach. He doubled up, his face tight with pain.

Betsey had come up to the two of us by now. So had a couple of other agents. They just watched; they understood what this was about. They wanted it to happen too.

"Balls of your feet." I gave Macdougall a fight tip. "You're still fighting back on your heels."

He mumbled something. I couldn't make it out. Didn't much care what he had to say. I hit him in the stomach again," See? Kill the body," I told him. "I teach my kids the same thing."

I threw another uppercut into his stomach. He wasn't flabby, and the punch felt good, like hitting a heavy bag. Then a sharp uppercut right on the tip of Macdougall's chin. He went down hard, face-first on the lawn. He stayed there. He was out.

I stood over him, panting a little, sweating some. "Brian Macdougall. I asked you a question. Are you the Mastermind?"

Chapter Eighty-Seven

The next two days were draining and wildly frustrating. The five detectives were being held at the Metropolitan Correctional Center at Foley Square. It was a secure place where mob informants and other crooked policemen were sometimes kept for their own safety.

I interviewed each of the detectives, starting with the youngest, Vincent O'Malley, and ending up with Brian Macdougall who appeared to be the leader. One after the other, the detectives denied any involvement in the Metro Hartford kidnapping.

Hours after my initial interview with Brian Macdougall, he asked to see me again.

When the shackled detective was brought into the interrogation room at Foley Square, I had a feeling that something had changed. I could see it in his face.

Macdougall was visibly upset when he spoke. "It's different than I'd thought it would be. In jail. Sitting here on the wrong side of the table. It's more a defensive game, you know. You try and hit the ball back over the net."

"You want anything?" I asked him. "Cold drink?"

"Cigarette?"

I called for cigarettes to be brought into the interrogation room. Someone popped in with a pack of Marlboros, then immediately left. Macdougall lit up and he puffed luxuriously, as if smoking a Marlboro were the greatest pleasure the world had to offer. Maybe it seemed like it now.

I watched his eyes drift in and out of focus. He was obviously bright, thoughtful. The Mastermind? I waited patiently to hear what he wanted from me. He wanted something.

"I've seen a lot of detectives do this," he said then he blew out a cloud of smoke. "You know how to listen. You don't make mistakes."

There was a brief silence. We both had all the time in the world. "What do you want from us?" I finally asked.

"Right question, Detective. I'll get to that soon. Y'know, I was a decent enough cop in the beginning," he said. "It's when those first ideals go that you have to be careful."

"I'll try to remember," I said, smiling faintly, trying not to condescend.

"What keeps you going?” MacDougall asked. He seemed interested in my answer. Maybe I amused him. More likely, he was playing with me, though. That was okay for now.

I looked into his eyes and I saw emptiness, maybe even remorse. "I don't want to disappoint my family, or myself. It's just the way I'm built. Maybe I don't have much of an imagination."