"No, I don't," the man said as he stepped inside. "Did she leave you here…?"

In silence, the ax began to swing through the stale, cigarette- and skanky-sex-smelling air that lived in all rooms like this one. But the trucker was quick on his feet, alert and ready. He spun around, as if sensing someone was behind him, lurking behind the door. For one second, it appeared the blow would glance off a beefy shoulder, and then there would be serious trouble.

But fate decided otherwise. The newly sharpened blade, originally meant for the broad, flannel-covered back, instead kissed Frank Addison's throat, slicing across it as delicately and precisely as a scalpel. It really was surprising, a complete accident, certainly not the result of a carefully aimed blow. The blade could easily have swung across nothing but air, and then they'd be fighting to the death.

Instead, though, the sharp metal cut through layers of skin and clumps of sinew and cartilage as though they were blobs of congealed gravy. When the ax blade emerged from the other side, it took a good inch of the man's windpipe and most of his Adam's apple with it.

Blood immediately gushed out, spewing wildly. That hadn't happened before. The more typical blow, to the lower back, was neater, less messy, with a shirt or pants often sopping up the initial spurts of blood.

This was raw, violent, and explosive. Warm, viscous blood flew everywhere, hitting both their bodies, both sets of hands and feet and everywhere in between. Having taken the precaution of stripping down to bare skin, as always, and wearing only thin gloves and equally thin surgeon's booties, that wouldn't be a problem. Just a bit more to wash up in the mildew-stained bathroom when this was all over.

And it would be over soon. Addison gurgled, lifted his bloody hands to catch the larynx hanging out of his open throat. Finally, after what seemed an age but was probably less than thirty seconds, he fell to his knees, landing hard, his eyes widened in shock and pain. His mouth twisted, moved to try to form words, undoubtedly to ask the same question all of them asked.

Why? Why me?

"It's nothing personal."

Frank didn't reply. Couldn't reply, of course.

"You really should be glad it turned out this way."

"Gaaahh…"

"You see, chances are that you're going to bleed to death long before I cut your cock off and shove it into that hole in your throat."

Funny, for a nearly dead man without a voice box, Frank Addison still managed a sort of scream.

Not so funny, at least not for Frank Addison, was the fact that it took him a few minutes longer to bleed to death than he'd probably have liked.

Wyatt reached Williamsburg by two thirty on Tuesday afternoon, well in time for his three p.m. appointment with Dr. Angela Kean. He'd called the office first thing this morning, telling her it was urgent, and she'd offered to fit him in between other appointments.

The timing couldn't have worked out better. Throwing himself back into the case would help keep his mind off what had happened Sunday night, off the image of Lily, sitting up in that damned house with her computer, clicking away and reading about his past.

She wouldn't.

The thought calmed him. Because he knew it was true. She wouldn't pry. She would wait for him to tell her the truth.

"You're going to be waiting a very long time," he muttered before thrusting thoughts of that whole situation out of his head. As he always did when the memories threatened to arise.

Armed with the digital file he wanted Dr. Kean to hear, he parked outside the expansive, new-looking offices of Eastern Virginia Plastic Surgery, a few spaces down from the row of Mercedes-Benzes, BMWs, and Lexuses that filled all the Doctor Parking Only spaces. Most of them had cutesy personalized tags containing messages like drs-toy, and none appeared to be more than a year old.

Nearly every space in the lot was filled. It appeared that, despite the economy, the plastic surgery business was booming. Possibly because, from the research he'd done, this particular practice, staffed by Dr. Alfred Underwood and several members of his family, was among the most renowned in the state. The rich women of Virginia trusted no one else with their lifts, rhinoplasties, implants, and ever-so-discreet liposuction procedures.

Before he even exited his own government-issued sedan, he saw a man, probably around thirty, bound out of the office doors. Dressed in khaki pants and a golf shirt, he also wore an expression of lazy self-indulgence. His clothes, though casual, screamed old money. Though he might have been one of the practice's own clients, the man headed instead for the reserved lot. He hopped over the driver's-side door of a hot red convertible, parked in a space reserved for Dr. Philip Wright.

Gunning the engine, the young doctor backed out of his space as though he were launching a rocket. As he threw the car into drive, grinding the transmission, he hesitated, staring at Wyatt from across the parking lot. He grinned slyly, then pointed one index finger in Wyatt’s direction. The tires squealed as he hit the gas, but above the sound, Wyatt heard him call, "Don't let them touch the face. It's perfect."

A doctor warning away the patients. Amusing.

The car sped away. "Doctor's hours," he murmured, glancing at his watch. He couldn't help wondering if Dr. Wright would have gone zero to one hundred if he'd known an officer of the law was in the vicinity.

Probably. The wealthy didn't always acknowledge that such mundane things as laws applied to them. Having come from such old money himself, he knew that to be true, even if he disagreed with the philosophy.

Heading inside the building, he noted the obvious elegance and atmosphere of the lobby and the waiting area. The place seemed more high-end spa than doctors' office, with plush carpeting, tasteful artwork on the walls, and massive bouquets of fresh flowers. A large silver punch bowl filled with ice and stocked with bottles of Evian water stood just inside the door, and the seating areas in the waiting room were separated into distinct alcoves, offering privacy in a nonprivate setting. Even the underlying music, emerging from some hidden speakers, was soft and classical, no canned Muzak or local radio station blaring tire ads or traffic updates.

Several of those semiprivate alcoves were occupied, and he drew the attention of every waiting client as he approached the receptionist's desk. Most of the women were well dressed, their faces smooth, with a faint sheen that said this was not their first visit to the center. But there were also a few male clients, a couple of businessmen types, probably looking to tighten up the paunch of middle age.

"Good afternoon," he murmured as he reached the front desk, where a young, attractive brunette greeted him with a smile. "I'm here to see Dr. Kean."

The woman leaned forward slightly. Keeping her voice low, she asked, "You're, uh, Mr. Blackstone?"

Obviously the "Supervisory Special Agent" part was to be their little secret. "Yes."

The woman rose. "This way, please. Dr. Kean asked me to bring you right back."

Following, he made a point of moving slowly, taking stock of his surroundings. He surreptitiously counted the number of exam rooms, and peered into offices with large, executive desks visible through open doorways.

On the walls between the offices were a number of framed photographs and articles. These pictured Alfred Underwood and various members of his family/staff with the rich and famous. Politicians. Actors. Many of whom had probably received their perfect noses and chins in this very building.

He did, however, also note the number of plaques and civic awards. Most of them honored Dr. Underwood for his good works, his donations to charities, especially those involving children. Wyatt paused before one particular photo, a large framed shot of a crowd of at least twenty people standing and sitting outside a lofty, beachfront house. Underwood stood in the center, several beaming adults surrounding him. One or two sullen, bored teenagers appeared on the fringes, and a few young children were rolling on the lawn. A big family photo shoot, apparently.