Each time I went to the blackboard I gave the most likely suspects a slightly bolder chalk mark. At the end of my first hour on checks, I found that I had seven candidates on my hot list.

A patient named James Gallagher was on the list simply because he roughly fit the physical description of the Mastermind. He was tall enough, thick-chested, and seemed reasonably alert and bright. That alone made him a suspect.

Frederic Szabo had full town privileges, but he was a timid soul and I doubted that he was a killer. Since Vietnam he'd been drifting around the country and had never held a job for more than a few weeks. Occasionally, he spit at hospital staff, but that was the worst offense he seemed capable of.

Stephen Bowen had full town privileges and had once been a promising infantry captain in Vietnam. He suffered from PTSD and had been in and out of veterans hospitals since 1971. He took pride in saying that he'd never held a 'real job' since he left the military.

David Hale had been a policeman in Maryland for two years, before he began having paranoid thoughts that every Oriental person he saw on the streets was put there to kill him.

Michael Fescoe had worked for two banks in Washington, but he seemed too spaced-out to balance his own checkbook. Maybe he was faking PTSD, but his therapist at the hospital didn't think so.

Clete Anderson fit the Mastermind's general physical description. I didn't like him. And he was violent. But Anderson hadn't done a thing to make me suspect he could actually be the Mastermind. Quite the contrary.

Just before shift change, Betsey Cavalierre reached me on the ward. I took the call in the small staff room at the rear of the nurses' station. "Betsey? What's up?"

"Alex, something very strange has happened," she said, and sounded rattled. I asked her what, and her answer gave me a nasty shock.

"Mike Doud is missing. He didn't come into work this morning. We called his wife, but she said he left at the usual time."

"What is the Bureau doing about it?" I asked.

"We don't think he was in an automobile accident. It's too soon to put out an APB. Except this isn't like Doud. He's a really straight guy, family man, totally dependable. First Walsh," she said. "Now this. What the hell is going on, Alex? It's him, isn't it?

Chapter One Hundred

Was he hunting us? Agent James Walsh dead, now Doud missing. There was no way to tell if the events were connected, but we had to assume they were. It's him, isn't it?

I had set up an interview with Dr. Cioffi at the hospital's administration building, so I kept the appointment. I'd done some background work on Cioffi and a few of the other psychiatrists at Hazelwood. Cioffi was an army veteran himself; he'd done two tours in Vietnam, then he'd worked in seven veterans' hospitals before this one. Could he be the Mastermind? He certainly had the background in abnormal psychology. But then again, so did I. When I was shown into his office, Dr. Cioffi was writing at a pine wood partner's table. His back was to the window. He sat in a cane-and-wood chair covered with a yellow striped fabric that matched the drapes.

I couldn't see him very well, but I knew he could see me. Oh, the games we play even us doctors of the mind.

Eventually, he looked up, pretending to be surprised that I was there. "Detective Cross, I'm sorry. I guess the time got away from me."

He shot his cuffs, then rose from his chair and indicated a general sitting area against the far "wall. "Dr. Marcuse and I were talking about you the other night. We realized we were pretty tough the day that you and the other detective arrived. I guess we found the idea of the police wandering around the wards a little troubling. Anyway, I've heard rumors that you're an excellent mental-health counselor."

I refused to rise to the bait. He was a doctor; I was a mental-health counselor. I told Cioffi about the list of suspects I had compiled. He took the list from me. Quickly looked over the names.

"I know all of these patients, of course. I'm sure that some are angry enough to be violent. Anderson and Hale have actually committed

murders in the past. It's still hard to imagine any of these men organizing a series of daring robberies. And then, of course, why would they still be here if they had all that money?" He laughed. "I certainly wouldn't be. "Is that so, Dr. Cioffi? I had to wonder.

Next, I spent nearly an hour with Dr. Marcuse, who had a smaller office right next to Cioffi's. I enjoyed his company and the time flew by. Marcuse was energetic, bright, and trying to be cooperative with the investigation. Or so he made it seem.

"How did you wind up here at Hazelwood?" I eventually asked him.

"Good question, complicated answer. My father was an army pilot. Lost both legs in the Second World War. I spent time around veterans hospitals from the time I was seven. Hated them with a passion, and with good reason. I guess I wanted to make them better places than what my father knew."

"You succeeding?" I asked.

"I've been here less than eight months. I took over from Dr. Francis, who transferred to another vets hospital in Florida. The money just isn't available for these places. It's a national disgrace and nobody seems to care. Sixty Minutes and Dateline should do a story every week on a veterans hospital until somebody does something about them. Alex, I don't know what to tell you about your killer."

"You don't believe he's here, do you?" I asked.

Marcuse shook his head. "If he is, he really is a Mastermind. If he's here, he's got everybody fooled."

Chapter One Hundred and One

I see you, Dr. Cross. I see you, but you don't have a due who I am. I could walk up and touch you.

I'm a lot smarter than you and also a lot smarter than you think I am. It's a simple fact. It's also verifiable. There have been batteries of intelligence tests. Lots and lots of the finest psychological tests. Have you seen my test scores? Were you impressed?

I was sitting exactly one chair away from you in the recreation room the other morning. I studied your face. My eyes rolled over your well-exercised body. I was thinking that maybe I was wrong and that you weren't really Alex Cross. We were so close I could have jumped up and grabbed you by the throat. Would that have surprised you?

I'll admit, your being here certainly surprised me. I'd seen your picture you're well known and then there you were. You made all of my paranoid dreams and fantasies come true.

Why are you here, Dr. Cross? Why, exactly? How the hell could you have found me? Are you that good?

That's the question I ask myself over and over, the litany playing inside my head.