A minute later, one did stop.

Someone opened a door and shut it. He heard footsteps on pavement and then gravel, someone circling a car, as if checking for a flat tire.

"Where are you?" Jamie asked quietly.

He moved to the culvert's edge. "Look up and down the road. Anybody watching?"

"Not a soul."

"Get back in the car. Wait until I slip into the rear seat. Then drive away."

Cavanaugh listened to Jamie's footsteps returning to the driver's door. His heart pounded faster. The moment he heard her open the driver's door, he left the culvert, rose from the ditch toward the dark Taurus, opened the door, threw in the Kevlar vest, and climbed in after it. Lying flat on the seat, he closed the rear door.

Jamie wore a tan linen jacket. Her glossy dark hair was silhouetted against the windshield. As she put the Taurus into gear, she glanced back. Her green eyes widened at the sight of the dried blood all over him, at his torn clothes, the dirt, the soot, his singed hair, and the duct tape on his shoulder. "Oh Christ," she said.

She made him proud by overcoming her shock, turning forward, and stepping on the accelerator, keeping the vehicle at a speed that was reasonable enough not to attract attention.

"How bad?" Tense, she kept her gaze on the road.

"It looks worse than it is." His words were like stones in his throat.

He saw a flat of bottled water on the floor. Shrink-wrapped plastic covered it. Mouth dry, tongue swollen, he yanked at a tab that allowed him to peel off the plastic.

"Are you"-she took a breath-"shot?"

"Yes." He grabbed a bottle and untwisted its cap.

"Then how could it be worse?"

"It wasn't center of mass. Only my shoulder." Staying low, Cavanaugh dumped water into his mouth, some of it spilling over his lips, then onto his jacket and the seat. His tongue was like a sponge, absorbing it.

Jamie's voice became agitated. "Is that like saying 'It's only a flesh wound'? What is that? Duct tape?"

"Don't leave home without it."

"You patched yourself up like you're a leaky pipe? For God's sake, you could die from infection. I'm taking you to a doctor."

"No," Cavanaugh said quickly. "No doctor."

"But-"

"A doctor would have to report a gunshot wound to the police. I don't want the police involved. I don't want the authorities to know I'm alive."

"Doesn't Protective Services have doctors?"

"Yes."

"Then-"

"I can't let anybody there know I'm alive, either."

"What the hell is going on?"

Cavanaugh gulped more water. He was so parched, he could feel it flow down his throat and into his esophagus. Next to the flat of bottled water, he saw a small Styrofoam cooler. His wounded shoulder aching, he pulled off the cooler's top and looked inside.

"Pastrami on rye," Jamie said. "Potato salad and coleslaw. There're a couple of dill pickles in there, too."

Cavanaugh bit off a chunk of sandwich and chewed it hungrily. With the first swallow, though, he suddenly felt ill. He lay back, staring at the ceiling, which seemed to waver as he felt the smooth vibration of the car.

"You're serious? No doctor?" Jamie asked.

"No doctor."

"Where do you want me to take you?"

"Back to the highway. Head north. Albany's about an hour away. Check us into a motel, one of those places where you can park outside the room."

"Let me guess-nothing fancy, right?"

"On the seedy side. Where it's not unusual to pay cash and people don't like to phone the police."

"I can tell this is going to be charming."

"Did you bring a first-aid kit?"

"Something in your voice made me think I should get a big one. It's with those bags of clothes on the floor."

Cavanaugh sorted among the bags and found a plastic first-aid kit the size of a large phone book. His wound aching more, he pried the kit open and sorted among bandages, ointments, a pair of scissors, finding several two-capsule packets of Tylenol. He tore a couple of packets open and swallowed their contents, downing them with water. Drink slowly, he warned himself.

Don't make yourself sick.

"I've been patient," Jamie said. "I've asked you only once."

"You want to know what's going on."

"Gosh, how did you guess?"

"I've never told you about my assignments."

"That's right." Jamie kept driving. "But this time you will."

"Yes," Cavanaugh said. "If you're going to risk your life to help me, you have a right to know what you're getting into. This time, I'll tell you."

5

The Albany motel, called the Day's End Inn, was on a side street five blocks off the highway, in a cut-rate district away from the Holiday Inns and Best Westerns. Two bars, a transmission-repair shop, and a hamburger joint were typical of the adjacent buildings. With the lowering sun casting shadows, the transmission shop was closed. A few men got out of pickup trucks and went into one of the bars. Otherwise, there was hardly anybody on the street.

En route, Cavanaugh had used some of the bottled water to rinse blood and soot from his face. He'd put on the sport coat, jeans, and pullover that Jamie had bought for him, concealing the duct tape on his shoulder. A baseball cap that Jamie had thought to include covered his singed hair, allowing him to sit up without attracting attention. He studied the drab street while Jamie went into the office to rent a room.

Holding a key attached to a large yellow plastic cube, she returned to the car.

"You paid cash?" he asked.

"Yes. I told the clerk our credit card had been stolen." "As good an explanation as any."

"He's probably used to couples paying cash. Maybe he thinks we're having an affair." Jamie drove off the street, heading toward the back of the motel. "I understand why you don't want me to use a credit card. No paper trail. But in theory, no one knows about me, right?"

"In theory," Cavanaugh said. "I never told anybody at Protective Services, not even Duncan." In a flash of memory, Cavanaugh saw Duncan's mutilated face. His grief and rage intensified.

Jamie parked near a Dumpster at the next-to-last unit. "Then aren't you being more careful than necessary?" She shook her head. "I know what you're going to say. There's no such thing as being too careful."

Despite how he felt, he managed a smile. Jamie got out of the car, went over to the motel unit's door, and unlocked it.

Simultaneously, Cavanaugh opened the car's rear door, picked up several packages, which would distract anybody glancing in his direction-people love looking at packages-and walked as steadily as he could into the shadowy unit.

Two regular beds had faded covers. A table had scratches. A small television was bolted to the wall. The carpet was thin. The mirror over the bureau had a crack in one corner. "You said you wanted seedy," Jamie said. The room smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. "There weren't any nonsmoking units," Jamie said. "It's fine." Cavanaugh set the packages on a table, eased onto the bed, and sank back, closing his eyes, hoping for the unsteadiness in his head to lessen. "A good place to hide. You did great."

"I'll get the water and the rest of the stuff from the car." After Jamie finished, she shut the door and locked it.

On the bed, keeping his eyes closed, Cavanaugh sensed her studying him.

"Should I leave the lights off?" she asked. "Yes."

"What can I do for you?" "Bring me more water. Give me more Tylenol." "Is the wound infected?"

He swallowed the capsules and the water. "I guess"-he man-| aged to rouse himself-"we'd better find out."