“Or else he switched back to being Haris Haranovic.”

“We thought of that, too. We’re checking it.”

“Or he had a third set of documents, and he’s somebody else now.”

“Mitch, we’re trying our best.”

“But where’s he getting the electronic-surveillance equipment? Damn it, what kind of explosive did he put behind my furnace? Where would he have gotten-”

“I told you we’re working as fast as we can.”

A jarring crash made Coltrane whirl. When he saw that it had been caused by a tray of food that a nervous-looking woman with two pouting children had dropped, he still had trouble controlling his breathing. “Greg, tell me how to have a nice day.”

“We’ll keep trying to find out where he got the microphones and the explosives. We’re also trying to find out where he got those photographs of you developed. That many eight-by-ten enlargements aren’t common. We’re hoping somebody will remember the order.”

“I’m getting that cold, sinking feeling again,” Coltrane said.

“We’re also pursuing another angle. A profiler from the FBI says somebody as twisted as Ilkovic often feels compelled to go back to where he terrorized his victims. It’s a compulsion to reexperience the thrill of what he did to them. That would explain why he went back to the mass grave in Bosnia, where you took his picture.”

Coltrane stared harder at Greg across the smog-hazed, traffic-cluttered street. “So what does that mean? He’s going to go back to where he tortured Daniel? We don’t know where that happened.”

“But we know where Daniel’s going to be buried.”

The statement made Coltrane feel as if a fist had been driven into his stomach. He tasted coffee, french fries, and chunks of hamburger, and he fought the urge to throw up. Daniel’s funeral. He had been so fixated on what had been done to his friend that he hadn’t considered what would happen next.

“Daniel’s ex-wife went out of her mind when she found out he’d been murdered,” Greg said. “For being divorced, she sure seems close to him.”

“They were talking about getting back together.”

Greg didn’t say anything for a moment. “Well, she’s making all the funeral arrangements. The visiting hours are tomorrow evening. A closed casket.”

Coltrane wanted to weep.

“Then Wednesday afternoon at one, there’ll be the funeral, and the burial around two-thirty. The FBI profiler thinks Ilkovic won’t be able to resist coming around to relive his triumph. All those grieving people. It’ll give Ilkovic a thrill to see how much power his actions have.”

“There’s another reason Ilkovic won’t be able to resist going to Daniel’s funeral,” Coltrane said.

“I was wondering if you’d figure it out.”

“A sociopath like him will automatically assume I can’t control my emotions enough to stay away. He’ll want to be somewhere at the funeral because he’ll count on me to be there. It’s his best chance to follow me.” Coltrane mustered the strength to make a decision he absolutely did not want to make. “So let’s give him what he wants.”

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“Nobody I’m close to is safe. Who will he go after next? My grandparents?” Coltrane suddenly realized that he had to warn them. “I’m sick of letting him control me. It’s time I controlled him. Where’s the funeral?”

“It’s too risky for you to-”

“Fine. Don’t tell me. I’ll look it up in the newspaper.”

“St. John’s Church in Burbank. Daniel’s ex-wife lives over there. The burial’s at Everlasting Gardens.”

“God, I hate the names of cemeteries… Two days from now,” Coltrane said. “Does that give you and the FBI enough time to button down those areas without making it obvious to Ilkovic?”

“It’s a lot of space to cover. Especially going from the church to the cemetery.”

“Then let’s forget about the church. I’ll show up only at the cemetery. It’ll be more believable to Ilkovic. By avoiding the church, I’ll look as if I’m trying to be cautious.”

“And then what? We can’t cover every building that surrounds the cemetery. Suppose he decides to blow your head off at three hundred yards with a sniper’s rifle?”

“No,” Coltrane said. “That’s one thing I’m sure he won’t do. He loves to do his work up close and personal.”

“You still haven’t answered my question. Then what?”

“I let him follow me.”

12

COLTRANE HUNG UP, returned to Jennifer at the table, and helped her study the intersection.

“Nobody attracts my attention,” she said.

“I don’t see anybody, either.”

In the distance, Greg remained at the Pizza Hut window, the phone pressed to his ear.

“He’s making another call,” Jennifer said.

“Pretending to. I finally told Greg I was where I could see him. He did a good job of hiding his surprise and not staring in this direction. He suggested he pretend to stay on the line a little longer, to give us a longer chance of spotting Ilkovic if he’s around here.”

“Good idea.”

“But it doesn’t seem to be helping. If Ilkovic is in the area, he’s blending well,” Coltrane said.

“For all we know, he shaved his mustache, got his hair cut, dyed it light brown, bought a decent suit, and looks like a businessman.”

“Or he went in the opposite direction, made himself scruffy, and looks like he’s homeless,” Coltrane said. “In that case, for a lot of people, he would be invisible.”

“Greg’s hanging up.”

Ten seconds later, Greg came out of the Pizza Hut and headed around to the parking lot at the side of the restaurant.

“I still don’t see anybody who looks suspicious,” Jennifer said.

“Let’s see if anybody follows Greg when he drives away.”

“In this traffic? Everybody will seem to be following him,” Jennifer said. “Even if we do see a car go after him, we won’t be able to get to our car in time to do anything about it.”

“We can try to get the plate number.”

Coltrane watched Greg take out his key and unlock his car.

Which disintegrated.

13

THE FIREBALL SPEWED ACROSS THE PARKING LOT AT THE SAME time the shock wave shattered windows in every direction. The force of it threw Coltrane and Jennifer backward out of their chairs, slamming them onto the floor, glass spewing over them. For a dazed instant, his ears ringing but not enough to shut out the wail of children, Coltrane felt jolted back to when he had been photographing a violence-torn village in Northern Ireland and an IRA bomb had blown a school bus apart. Straining to clear his mind, he sensed Jennifer squirming next to him and reached for her.

“Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

“Don’t know.” Chunks of glass had cut Jennifer’s hands and forehead.

“Greg,” Coltrane moaned. He struggled to his feet, then helped Jennifer up. “Greg,” he said with greater force, turning toward the glassless windows. The intersection was in chaos. Cars had slammed into one another. Horns blared. Drivers peered around in a daze. Pedestrians lay motionless on the sidewalk. Beyond, in the restaurant’s parking lot, the explosion that had devastated Greg’s car had blown apart other cars, igniting their fuel tanks, sending numerous fireballs roaring into the sky. Black greasy smoke topped the area like a curse.

“Greg,” Coltrane said a third time, the word coming out as a sob. He struggled around a table, lurching, trying to go through a gaping window. Have to get to the parking lot. Have to help Greg.

Someone grabbed Coltrane’s shoulders, dragging him backward. “What are you doing?” Jennifer blurted. “You can’t show yourself!”

“My friend needs…”

Wavering, Coltrane saw the astounded expression in Jennifer’s eyes and realized that he must sound insane. Save Greg? How in God’s name was he going to do that when his friend was in a million pieces? “Oh Jesus.”