Nonetheless, she walked back as quickly as she could, while bushes grabbed her with their thorns. When she reached the street, she was a little out of breath.

At the Portman house, the shades were drawn.

Mary pulled out her cell phone and dialed a number she remembered from childhood.

Mrs. Portman answered.

It was probably a little silly, standing in front of the Portman house, talking to Abigail on the phone, but Mary didn't feel up to another face-to-face meeting at the moment.

"Do you know who put a cross in the woods?" Mary asked.

"A cross? For Fiona?"

"Yes. And also a stuffed animal-a bear, along with a bouquet of roses."

There was a pause as Mrs. Portman digested the information. "How odd," she finally said.

"Can you think of anyone who may have done it?"

"I haven't the vaguest idea. I mean, most people leave things at the cemetery."

"Thanks, Mrs. Portman. Sorry to bother you."

Mary hung up and crossed the street to her house.

Gillian went for a five-mile jog. By the time she was on the return path, it was almost dark. Approaching her apartment, she noticed an unfamiliar car parked in the driveway, a man standing beside it. She slowed to a walk and kept her eye on him.

"Oh, shit," she said once she was close enough to recognize Sebastian Tate. She was thinking about swinging around to the back door when he spotted her.

"Gillian!" He gave her a big wave and headed in her direction, meeting her halfway.

"What are you doing here?" she said.

"I have tickets to the Dylan concert tonight." He pulled them out of his coat pocket and held them in the air. "Wanna go?"

She'd tried to get tickets months ago, but the concert was sold out. She continued walking. "No, thanks."

"Oh, come on." He fell into step beside her. "I'll bet you like Dylan. Everybody likes Dylan. Plus, the show's at Northrop Auditorium. We could walk from here. No need to fight traffic. What do you say?"

"Did you get the tickets from a scalper?"

"I made a trade. I had something somebody wanted."

"What?" Detective Wakefield was always telling her to ask questions.

"Some photographs." He shrugged. "I'm a photographer."

So he said. "I don't want to go to the Dylan concert, and I don't want you coming around here again."

He followed her up the front steps. Mary had told her to call the police if he bothered her, but Gillian felt sure she could handle him. "Leave," she told him, with no intention of unlocking the door while he stood so near, afraid he might force himself inside. "Now."

He struggled to control his mounting anger. "I don't even like Dylan," he finally said, raising a hand as if to strike her. "I got the fucking tickets for you!" He threw them in her face, strode to his car, and left.

"Asshole." She bent and scooped up the tickets. Inside her apartment, the door locked, she grabbed the phone and called Ben Collins, the talkative intern from work. When he answered she asked, "How would you like to see Bob Dylan? I managed to get my hands on a couple of tickets."

Chapter 9

The phone was ringing.

Mary struggled through the disorientation of awakening in the middle of a sleep cycle. Where was she? Her apartment in Virginia? A hotel?

With each possibility, her mind conjured up the locale, complete with furnishings, until she settled on the correct location-her mother's home in Minneapolis and her old room with the India print spread.

With ease of practice, she felt around on the floor for her cell phone and caught it on the fourth ring.

It was Anthony. "A teenage girl's been kidnapped south of here," he said. "At a place called Canary Falls. A little town off Highway 52, between Minneapolis and Rochester."

Mary scooted higher in the bed. "I know where it is." She was wide awake now.

"I'm heading south on 35 West and can be at your place in ten minutes."

"I'll be waiting outside." She disconnected and jumped from bed. She brushed her hair and teeth, splashed watef on her face, and then quickly slipped into a pair of jeans, a black shirt, her gun, and her trench coat. When she was ready, she gently woke Blythe to tell her she was leaving.

"Take an umbrella," her mother mumbled. "It's supposed to rain."

Downstairs Mary collected her laptop, notebook, and camera, grabbing an umbrella from the antique stand as she stepped out the door. Outside, birds were already up,1 singing like crazy. In the east the sky was beginning to lighten.

Anthony wasn't there, so she pulled out her phone and punched the single speed-dial number she'd recently entered for Gillian.

"Just getting ready to call you," Gillian said when Mary told her about the kidnapping. "My associate and I are already on our way."

Mary was impressed to find her sister sounding so professional and on top of things. "See you there." She disconnected and was slipping the phone into her pocket as Anthony pulled to the curb.

"You're going to have to give me directions," he said as she slammed the door and they sped away.

"Take 494 east. Crosstown will be a snarl right now."

"I picked up a coffee for you." He motioned to an unopened insulated cup resting in the drink holder.

"You're a lifesaver." She pulled back the plastic tab, and the smell of coffee filled the small compartment. Anthony knew her addictions.

As they drove, the sky darkened. The rain began with a few warning drops that quickly turned into a deluge that swamped the highway. The windshield wipers beat madly, but couldn't keep up with the downpour.

Anthony slowed the car to forty and turned the defroster on high, trying to fight the condensation building on the glass. "There won't be any evidence left by the time this stops," he said, tension and frustration in his voice.

"They would have sent for a crime-scene team from the Twin Cities," Mary said. "I doubt they'll get there much ahead of us."

Thirty miles north of Rochester, they turned west. By the time they reached Canary Falls, the rain had stopped and the sun was out.

The town was split by a small river. Main Street was three blocks long and contained what looked to be the only stoplight. Along the edges of town were run-down fairgrounds, abandoned grain elevators, and the requisite forlorn Dairy Queen amidst a stand of weeds. The population was one thousand, and for those one thousand people there were several churches and even more bars. A farming community, it was the kind of place kids spent their childhoods dreaming of leaving.

"Seems to have drawn a crowd and then some," Anthony commented as he pulled up in front of a two-story, navy-blue-trimmed house. They had to park several blocks away from the area of concentrated activity and walk past clusters of loitering people. Upon reaching the crime scene, they flashed their IDs and ducked under the yellow tape.

"The missing person is a seventeen-year-old girl named Charlotte Henning," the officer in charge said, handing both of them a flyer with photo and description. She had a sweet face, Mary noted. Like the other girls, she was blond.

"National Guard is combing the area by foot, and they've got two helicopters in the air," the man continued. He had a Minnesota accent stronger than Wake-field's. "We'd hoped that the lab technicians would be able to lift some impressions, but it started rainin' before they could get here." He shook his head. "Tire tracks are soup now."

"Any other clues?" Mary asked.

"Charlotte closed up Gibby's-the pizza shop where she worked. We found a pizza that she must have dropped on the ground next to where her car would have been parked. He must have attacked her, driven her here in her car, then switched vehicles."

Mary nodded. It made sense.