Her concern took Mary by surprise. "I am," she admitted.

"Try to get some sleep."

"As soon as I wrap this up." Her voice was once again distantly polite.

"I'll let you get back to work," Gillian said, sounding rebuffed.

"Gillian?" Mary paused. "If Tate comes around, call the cops."

"I am a cop."

"You know what I mean. Don't try to deal with him by yourself. He could be dangerous." Mary disconnected.

The ice in the plastic bag had turned to tepid water; Mary dropped it and the towel on the floor. Would Gillian follow her advice about Tate? Probably not. Mary shouldn't have said anything about her being careful around the guy. Gillian had a history of doing the opposite of whatever her sister suggested.

For the next two hours Mary fine-tuned the killer and victim profile, adding the finishing touches before shutting off the computer and lying back in bed.

She was almost asleep when the doorbell rang.

She kept her eyes closed, trying to pretend she hadn't heard anything. The doorbell rang again. It was probably some sweet-faced kid selling something she didn't want to buy but would anyway. Dressed in navy blue cotton pajamas, she made her way downstairs, leaning forward to peer through the peephole.

Anthony Spence stood on her mother's front porch.

She blinked. He was still there.

She opened the door, the chain lock catching. She slammed the- door, undid the chain, and opened it again.

Instead of a greeting, he got directly to the point: "You look like hell."

On the other hand, he looked great. But when didn't Anthony look great? He was dressed in the FBI black he was so fond of, complete with trench coat.

"Nice to see you too."

The pain was making her dizzy. She turned around and plopped down on the steps, wincing as she jarred her arm. "What are you doing here?"

"Are you sick?" He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

"A headache." It was the first thing that popped into her mind. It seemed childish and immature-always evading everyone-but she hated to be fussed over.

Anthony put a hand to her forehead. She closed her eyes for a moment, enjoying the coolness.

"You feel warm."

"Think so?"

"How's the shoulder?"

"A little sore," she admitted reluctantly.

"A little?" From his expression of disbelief, it was apparent she hadn't fooled him for a second. "I know your definition of 'a little.' Like the time you had a little pain in your side and ended up having an emergency appendectomy."

She gave him a weak smile, then tried to steer the attention away from her. "What are you doing here?"

"I thought you might need some help."

"You should have told me you were coming. I'd have met you at the airport."

"Let me see your shoulder."

"No."

"Come on."

"For some reason, you seem to think you own me now. That you own my shoulder." She was uncomfortably aware that she was in pajamas while he was fully dressed.

"Is that so unreasonable? I'm partially responsible for that shoulder."

Without asking permission, he unbuttoned the top button of her shirt. He slipped his hand inside, under the fabric. His touch felt wonderfully cool.

He frowned. "Hot."

Her heart sank, and then began to beat rapidly. What did that mean?

"Do you have your doctor's phone number?"

"Upstairs. In my data book." She started to get up.

"Stay there." His voice held urgency. "I'll get it."

"Take a right at the top of the stairs."

He disappeared, then quickly returned with a small leather booklet. Anthony flipped through the pages and located the number. He sat down near her on the stairs, pulled out his mobile phone, and dialed.

Dr. Farina was in surgery, but the problem was relayed to him and he insisted that Mary get to a Minneapolis physician immediately. "It could be one of three things," his nurse explained. "Inflammation due to overexertion, infection that has been incubating since the surgery, or staph." The nurse gave them the name of a reputable physician and added that Dr. Farina would call Mary that night.

Staph. Mary and Anthony looked at each other, and she saw her own fear reflected back at her. The best possible staph scenario might mean weeks in an isolation room while they pumped antibiotics into her veins in an attempt to kill the resistant bacteria. A bad scenario could mean a lost limb. It could mean death.

It took thirty minutes to get to the Edina office where Mary's doctor suggested they go.

Once there, she was put through a series of tests. She had blood drawn, cultures taken, and was sent to an adjoining hospital for an MRI. When that was completed, she met with Dr. Tabora. Anthony insisted on being in the room when the verdict was announced.

"You have quite a bit of inflammation," he said, "but the preliminary quick test didn't show any evidence of staph."

No staph. Mary wilted in relief and looked at Anthony. He was leaning against the wall, head tipped back, eyes closed, sending up his own thank-you.

"I'm going to put you on an anti-inflammatory drug. That should take care of the problem. Come back and see me in two weeks unless you're in Virginia. In that case, see Dr. Farina. I'll be sending him a copy of my report."

He handed Mary the prescription order. "Rest and take it easy. Try not to use your arm for the next few days; then begin exercises gradually, much the way you did after surgery. There are some excellent physical therapists in the building. I'll have the receptionist set up an initial visit."

At the front desk, Mary was handed a card that gave the date and time of her therapist appointment.

She would cancel it later.

At the pharmacy Mary turned in the script, then moved away from the counter to wait. She was sensing a strong, negative energy coming from Anthony, and it put her on the defensive.

"I can tell you're thinking about having me pulled from the case," she said as soon as they were in his rental car. "Well, I'm not leaving." Which seemed weird when she thought about it, since she hadn't wanted to come in the first place. But it was like that first plunge into cold water. Once you were wet, you might as well stay in and swim.

"The doctor told you to take it easy."

"Anthony, I want to remain on the case. If you have me pulled off, I'll continue to investigate on my own."

"Why are you being so hardheaded about this?"

Anthony didn't know about Fiona. Once, he'd asked her why she'd wanted to become an FBI agent, and she'd mumbled something vague about the challenge and the desire to help people.

Pain stabbed through her shoulder, redirecting her thoughts. "You need to get in the right lane so you can get on 494 East. Oh, and Anthony? My mother doesn't know about my being shot, so don't mention it to her."

He pulled away from a green light and then cut to the right lane. "You're a little old to be hiding things from your mother, aren't you?" He sounded puzzled and slightly annoyed.

"She worries about me enough as it is," Mary explained. "So please don't say anything."

He shrugged, but didn't press the issue.

It was late afternoon, and traffic was heavy, adding fifteen minutes to their return trip. Once home, Mary took her pills, retrieved her laptop from her room, and handed it to Anthony, determined to get back to business as usual. "The profiles are finished. Would you mind going over my notes before I present them to Detective Wakefield and Quantico?" Every breath made her shoulder hurt. "I'm going upstairs to lie down for a while. The kitchen is that way, the bathroom over there." She pointed. "My mom should be home in a couple of hours."

After she left, Anthony wandered around the living room. Over the years he'd conjured up a mental image of Mary at her childhood home in Minneapolis. The place he'd put her was nothing like this living room with its red walls, framed artwork, exotic rugs, wild plants, and strange sculptures. This wasn't at all the landscape he'd expected the rigid, unbending Mary Cantrell to come from.