“Good.”

Bett listened to Amy again. She frowned in concern. “Tate… She said that Megan told her somebody’d been following her.”

“Following? Who?”

“She doesn’t know.”

Okay; hard evidence. The latent prosecutor in Tate Collier awakened a bit more. “Let me talk to her.”

Tate took the phone. “Amy? This is Megan’s father.”

A pause. The girl finally said, “Urn, hi. Is Megan, like, okay?”

“We hope so. We just want to find out where she is. What’s this about somebody following her?”

“She was, like, pretty freaked.”

Not real helpful, he thought and asked, “Tell me exactly what happened.”

“I mean, her and me, we were sitting around watching this movie, I don’t know, on Wednesday, I guess, and it was about a stalker and she goes, ‘I don’t want to watch this.’ And I’m like, ‘Why not?’ And she’s like, ‘There’s this car with some older guy in it and I think he’s been following me around.’ And I go, ‘No way’ But she’s like, ‘Yeah, really.’”

‘Where?” Tate asked.

“Around school, I think,” Amy said.

“Any description?”

“Of the guy?”

“Or the car.”

“Naw. She didn’t tell me. But I’m like, ‘Right, somebody following you…‘ And she’s like, ‘I’m not bullsh-I’m not fooling.’ And she goes, ‘It was there yesterday. By the field.’”

“What field?”

“The sports field behind the school,” Amy answered.

“That was this last Tuesday?”

“Um, yeah.”

“Did you believe her?”

“I guess. She looked pretty freaked. And she says she told some people about it.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. Some guys. She didn’t tell me who. Oh, and she told Mr. Eckhard too. He’s an English teacher at the middle school and he coaches volleyball after school and on the weekends. And he said if he saw it he’d go talk to the driver. And I’m like, ‘Wow. This is totally fuck-totally weird.’”

“His name’s Eckhard?”

“Something like that. I don’t know how to spell it. But if you want to, like, talk to him there’s usually volleyball practice on Saturday afternoon, only I don’t know when. Volleyball’s for losers, you know”

“Yeah, I know,” Tate said. It had been the only sport he’d played in college.

“You think something, like, happened to her? That’s way lame.

“We’d just feel a little better knowing where she is. Listen, Amy; we’ll be around to pick up her book bag in the next couple of hours. If you hear from her give us a call.”

“I will.”

“Promise?” he asked firmly.

“Yeah, like, I promise.”

As soon as Tate pushed the End button on Bett’s phone it buzzed again. He glanced at her and she nodded for him to answer it. He pushed Receive.

“Hello?”

“Urn, is this Megan’s father?” a man’s voice asked.

“That’s right.”

“Mr. McCall…

“Actually it’s Collier.”

“That’s right. Sure. Sony. This is Dr. Hanson.”

“Doctor, thanks for calling… I have to tell you, it looks like Megan’s run away.”

There was a pause. “Really?”

Tate tried to read the tone. He heard concern and surprise.

“We got some… well, some pretty angry letters from her. Her mother and I both did. And then she vanished. Is there any way we can see you?”

“I’m in Leesburg now. My mother’s had an accident.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. But if Bett and I drove up could you spare a half hour?”

“Well…

“It’s important, Doctor. We’re really concerned about her.”

“I suppose so. All right.” He gave them directions to the hospital.

Tate looked at his watch. It was noon. “We’ll be there in an hour or so.”

“Actually” Hanson said slowly “I think we should talk. There were some things she told me that you ought to know”

“What?” Tate asked.

“I want to think about them a little more. There are some confidentiality issues… But it’s funny-I’d expect any number of things from Megan, but running away? No, that seems odd to me.”

Tate thanked him. It was only after hanging up that he felt a disturbing twist in his belly. What were the “any number of things” Megan was capable of? And were they any worse than her running away?

His precious cargo was in the trunk. But while Aaron Matthews would have liked to meditate on Megan McCall and on what lay ahead for both of them he was instead growing increasingly anxious.

The fucking white cat

He was cruising down I-66. He’d planned to stop at the house he’d rented last year in Prince William County -only two or three miles from Tate Collier’s farm-and pick up some things he wanted to take with him to the mountains.

But he couldn’t risk leading anyone to that house, and this car was just not going away.

It was raining again, a gray drizzle. In the mist and rain he couldn’t see the driver clearly though he was now certain he was young and black.

And because he followed Matthews so carelessly and obviously he sure wasn’t a cop.

But who?

Then Matthews remembered: Megan had a black boyfriend. Josh or Joshua, wasn’t it? The boy that Dr. Hanson had suggested she leave-if Megan had been telling the truth about that bit of advice, which he suspected she might not have been.

What was going through the young man’s mind?

As a scientist, Matthews believed in logic. The only time people acted illogically-even psychotics-was when they were having seizures. We might not be able to perceive the logic they operated by and their actions might be illogical to rational observers hilt that was only because they were not being empathetic. Once we climb into the minds of our patients, he wrote in his well-received essay on delusional behavior in bipolars, once we understand their fears and desires-their own internal system of logic-then we can begin to understand their motives, the reasons behind their actions, and we can help them change…

So, what was this young man thinking?

Maybe Megan had planned to meet him at the office after the appointment. Maybe he’d just happened to see her car, being driven by a man he didn’t recognize, and followed it.

Or maybe-this accorded with Matthews’s perceptions on the frighteningly powerful dynamics of love-he’d been waiting at the office to confront the doctor about the breakup. Maybe even attack him.

Thanks for that, Dr. Hanson, he thought acerbically. Should have broken your hip, not Mom’s… Rage shook him for a moment. Then he calmed.

Did the boy have a car phone? Had he called the police and reported the Mercedes’s license number? It was a stolen plate but the number didn’t belong to a gray Mercedes and that discrepancy would be reason enough for the cops to pull him over and look in the trunk.

But no, of course, he hadn’t called the cops. They’d be after him by now if he had.

But what if he’d called her parents? What did Tate Collier know? Matthews brooded. What was the man thinking? What was he planning to do?

Matthews sped on until he came to a rest stop then he pulled suddenly into the long driveway, weaving slowly through the tractor trailers and four-by-fours filled with vacationers. He noticed that the white Toyota had made a panicked exit and was pulling into the rest stop after him. Fortunately the rain was heavy again. Which gave Matthews the excuse to hold an obscuring Washington Post over his head as he ran to the shelter.