How had she let her life come to this? It was like a nightmare from which she couldn’t awaken. Had she become just as monstrous as the people she studied?

Maybe so.

And while she had been sure no one knew of her involvement with these deaths—other than Drake—she was now forced to question everything. Maybe others did know, after all. Which meant going to the police might be a very bad idea. Especially since she had been the one who had just assaulted two men, used a tranquilizer gun on these two and one other, and hijacked a helicopter.

This had all been in self-defense, but it would be her word against a wealthy organization, and she had no doubt whom the police would believe. Even so, she doubted Steve Fuller’s people would report what had happened to authorities. She imagined the helicopter pilot would invent a story to cover up his landing at Cedars-Sinai. An accident. Wrong coordinates. He felt dizzy and needed to land before he passed out. Something like that.

Upon arrival in Tucson, Erin took a cab to the Saguaro Inn on the outskirts of town and checked in under an assumed name, paying cash in advance for the room. The motel was a one-story structure in the shape of a large L, with a small lobby at one end and a rectangular parking lot offset twenty or thirty yards from the inn. It was fairly cheap, but not seedy. The rooms were good sized, didn’t smell of mildew as could happen at the bottom of the lodging food chain, and were otherwise clean.

The saguaro cactus, pronounced with a w—sa-whar-oh—was native to Tucson, and could grow to over seventy feet tall. True to the motel’s name, two impressive specimens of the cactus, which looked like green, prickly telephone poles with arms pointing skyward, abutted each end of the L, rising three stories into the sky.

Erin loved the giant saguaro, but on this night she was in no mind to notice them, or to care. The bed in her room was comfortable, but she still tossed and turned until three in the morning before finally managing to fall into a fitful sleep.

When she awoke she took a long, hot shower and tried to clear her head. Too much was going on and no matter how hard she tried to use her considerable powers of reason to solve the puzzle, the big picture continued to elude her. The small picture did, too, for that matter. She just didn’t know enough. But she decided not to mention anything about Steve Fuller to Drake until she knew more; her gut instincts, hit-or-miss as they had proven to be, guiding her once again.

She still had the GPS tracking device she had purchased in San Diego, but nothing else. She couldn’t risk returning to her apartment for her gun, and she couldn’t possibly complete the purchase of one before her meeting with Drake. She thought for a few minutes and then used the motel phone to call a few pawn shops. The second one she called had a Taser in stock. It wasn’t much, but she’d feel far less naked with this in her pocket—along with a phone.

She took a cab to the pawn shop and then to Walmart, where she bought a prepaid, disposable cell phone, before grabbing a bite to eat and returning to the motel. She told the desk clerk she would be staying for a second night, paid, and then set off in a cab for the university grounds to meet Drake.

The cab dropped her off on a circular road that abutted the University of Arizona Student Union, the absolute center of campus both physically, socially, and sustenance-wise, since the school had a large undergraduate population and no cafeterias. The union had a large food court, spread out over several stories, and teemed with students at all hours of the day and night, especially since most were on meal plans, paid for in advance by their parents, and every eating establishment in the union accepted a preloaded plastic CatCard, which could be debited for meals with a single swipe.

Erin stood outside the door to the bookstore, which was open to air but shaded from direct sunlight. It was nearing one thirty, the tail end of lunch hour, and the place was less a madhouse than it had been. Still, it was teeming with throngs of students carrying backpacks and wearing clothing of all types emblazoned with Wildcat logos and the familiar red and blue of the university.

She had only been waiting a minute or two when a man, about five eleven in height, broke from the crowd and approached her purposefully. She tensed and realized she had never had the chance to look at the photos of Drake he had sent over, and probably wasn’t in possession of her phone when he had. She couldn’t imagine whoever was after her could have tracked her here. Even so, she wasn’t prepared to let down her guard no matter what. It wasn’t as though she could trust Drake any more than she could trust Fuller.

The man approaching appeared to be about thirty years old and was handsome, not in a rugged way, but in a friendly, approachable sort of way. He had sandy hair and deep set, expressive blue eyes.

“Erin Palmer?” he said when he was within a few feet of her.

She was about to say something like, “You must be Drake,” when she realized with a start that this wasn’t him. The voice was all wrong—again. She tensed even more and examined him for weapons, although it was unlikely he would do anything that would attract attention with this many people around.

“Who are you?” she demanded in low tones.

“I’m Kyle Hansen,” he said matter-of-factly, just stopping short of adding, of course, as if his name was supposed to mean something to her. He looked confused by her blank stare.

“Drake couldn’t make it, so he sent me instead,” he added, as though reminding her of this rather than explaining it for the first time. At her continued blank stare he winced. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Drake told me he texted you about this several hours ago, and even sent my picture.”

Erin nodded. That would explain a lot. “Yeah, well … I had a little trouble with my phone,” she said, as her mind leaped ahead to try to assimilate this unexpected development.

What new game was this? Who was this Kyle Hansen and what could sending him to meet with her possibly accomplish?

The man she had known as Hugh Raborn had insisted he would explain his multiyear ruse to her. Since she and he were the only ones in existence who knew about the psychopathy cure and her work testing inmates—at least she continued to cling to this supposition—a surrogate would be useless.

“Sorry again,” replied Kyle Hansen earnestly. “We didn’t mean to surprise you.”

“Look, I’m sure you’re a very nice guy. And I’m sorry that you had to make the trip for nothing. But I came here to meet with, um … Drake. At his suggestion. He wanted to clear up a personal matter between the two of us. So sending a substitute isn’t going to cut it.”

“Just give me ten minutes,” said Hansen. “If at the end of ten minutes you still think meeting with me instead of Drake is a waste of your time, I’ll leave. But I really can clear up everything.” He sounded sincere and nonthreatening—although this could just be an act.

Erin took a deep breath and nodded. “Ten minutes,” she said.

“I’m told there’s a food court around here.”

Erin gestured to the long building that paralleled the bookstore across a twenty-foot-wide concrete walkway. “Closer than you think,” said Erin.

“Have you had lunch?”

She shook her head no.

“Then I’m buying,” he said in a friendly tone.

“Look, I’m leaving after ten minutes, so you might want to get our food to go,” she said pointedly.

He grinned, an easy, unself-conscious smile. “I’m willing to take that chance,” he said, and there was undeniable charm in the way he said it. “Look … Erin … Drake filled me in, and I know you’re confused. I also know he’s given you plenty of reason not to be trusting. But if you just give me the chance, I’ll explain everything to your satisfaction.”