Jennifer grinned. "Aw, he won't want to do that. Might ruin his nice manicure or get blood on his shoes. If you lean on your acting talents and make like you want to dump it all in his lap, he'll probably make himself scarce for at least the rest of the week."

"It's a thought," Andy said, brightening.

Scott laughed, but said, "Well, we should have plenty to keep us busy. Even running into dead ends takes time."

"No sign of the rest of the files from 1934?" Andy asked.

"Nope. But I haven't stopped looking. If the damned things exist, I'll find them."

"In the meantime," Jennifer said, looking at Andy, "anything new in the search for Samantha Mitchell? Since we've been in here trying to get organized this morning, I hadn't heard."

"No, nothing new. I've got teams out canvassing the neighborhood and every patrol in the city keeping their eyes peeled for that lady. It's like she dropped off the face of the earth."

"What about Maggie's hunch? Did forensics get anything from the Mitchell's game room?"

"A couple of things, yeah. They picked up chemical traces of chloroform on one spot in the carpet not too far from the door, as well as a few strands of Mrs. Mitchell's hair. And there are some very faint signs that he got into that room through a window. There was a short in the security net that the system didn't pick up for some reason."

"A short he caused?" Scott wondered.

"Could be. The really interesting thing is that Mitchell insists his wife never-but never-stayed alone in the house without having the system on. So if the attacker knocked her out with chloroform-"

"Then who deactivated the system at the front door?" Jennifer finished.

Andy nodded. "Exactly. It was deactivated at the control panel by the front door, so he either knew or was somehow able to obtain the security code. And it wasn't one even a hacker could figure out just by using the predictable numbers-phone numbers, anniversaries or birthdays, and so on. Our resident electronics wizard says our guy is either very, very good or very, very lucky."

Jennifer said, "And since we already know he beat a top-notch system in order to snatch Laura Hughes, we can assume he's very, very good."

"That would probably be a safe assumption."

Scott said, "How come Maggie tumbled to it being the game room Samantha Mitchell was abducted from? I mean, how come our guys missed it the first time through?"

"I asked them that," Andy said. "They had lots of reasons, but what it all boiled down to is that they concentrated on the expected points of entry like the front and back doors. Needless to say, they won't make that mistake again."

Jennifer smiled slightly. "I'll bet. You can tear the bark off a tree with that temper of yours when you're really pissed, Andy."

"I was really pissed."

"I'm not surprised."

Scott said plaintively, "But how did Maggie know?"

"Instinct," Andy answered promptly. "And she's got enough sense to check the unexpected as well as the expected. Just like you two. Keep it up, will you?"

Scott nodded, faint puzzlement still lingering on his face.

Andy decided he'd make a lousy poker player.

Jennifer said, "The other victims were found within forty-eight hours of being abducted, so if it is our guy, we should know something by tomorrow."

"Yeah," Andy said. "Question is, will Samantha Mitchell be a living victim or a dead one?"

To say Maggie hadn't slept well was an understatement, and she was feeling unusually raw and edgy when she went to Beau's house on Tuesday morning. She let herself in and made her way to the studio, calling out hello as she went.

Beau glanced up from the portrait he was working on and said immediately, "Have some coffee."

The pot was already on the worktable, along with two cups and the milk Maggie preferred.

"So you knew I was coming," she muttered, pouring herself a cup and sitting down.

"I thought you might be, yeah."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Call it a hunch."

"Goddammit, Beau!"

He smiled slightly. "Okay, it was more than a hunch."

"I could really dislike you sometimes, you know that?"

"I know. I'm sorry, Maggie."

She sat in silence for some minutes, drinking her coffee and watching him paint. Then she sighed a bit raggedly. "She's dead, Beau. Samantha Mitchell is dead. And her baby with her."

He paused to wipe off one of his brushes, gazing at her soberly. "I'm sorry about that too. Have they found her body yet?"

"No. But they will."

"When?"

"You tell me." She stared at him challengingly.

He returned to his painting but after a moment said, "Tomorrow, I think. Early tomorrow. Or maybe late tonight. Hard to tell."

"Do you know where?"

Beau was silent.

"Maybe I was wrong. Maybe she's not dead yet. If we could find her as soon as possible-"

"It wouldn't make any difference," he said softly. "She's dead already, Maggie. You know she's dead already."

Maggie knew, but she'd been hoping… After a long moment, she said, "Yesterday at her house, while I was walking through, I felt her. And when he grabbed her… she was so scared. So scared. For herself. For her baby. She knew neither one of them would survive. From the instant he grabbed her, she knew."

Beau painted for a moment, then asked, "Did she know who he was?"

"The same way I know who he is. Not a face, not a name. Just evil. Just evil alive and walking around pretending to be human. I have to stop him. I have to."

"Yes."

"And there isn't much time left. I feel that too. More and more with every day that passes. If I don't stop him soon, it'll be too late. It's my last chance, Beau."

"You don't know that."

"Do you?"

"No."

She laughed without humor. "If you did know, would you tell me?"

"Probably not."

"Free will again."

"Yes. Free will." Leaving his painting finally, Beau cleaned his brushes and palette, then fixed himself a cup of coffee and joined her. "You're doing the best you can, Maggie. It's all you can ask of yourself."

"It isn't enough."

"It will be. Trust yourself. Trust your abilities and your instincts."

She looked at him steadily. "Yesterday was a real… bitch of a day. First interviewing Hollis and then walking through the Mitchell house. And it got worse. It actually got worse. I painted something last night. I closed my eyes and cleared my mind the way you told me to, and I painted something horrible. It was inside me, Beau. That image, dark and bloody, was in my head, a part of my soul. I could almost… feel her die."

He didn't look surprised and merely nodded. "I told you it would probably happen."

"Not like that. You didn't tell me it would be like that."

"You're an artist, you think-and feel-in images. It's natural."

"Natural? What's natural about painting the corpse of a tortured, mutilated woman? A woman I've never met, never even seen?"

His voice remained calm. "You have to try to distance yourself, Maggie, or this is going to destroy you."

She drew a breath and struggled to keep her voice level. "I told you once before that I was afraid. It's… blinding me, I think. I don't know what to do next."

Beau hesitated, then said, "It isn't your fight alone, you have to remember that. Stop trying to do it all yourself, Maggie. Let them help you. Let him help you."

After a moment, Maggie nodded. "I'll try." She pushed her cup away and got to her feet.

Gazing into his coffee cup, Beau said almost absently, "You might want to show Garrett the painting."

Just the idea made Maggie feel even more raw. "Why? Why should I show him… that… in me?"

"Call it a hunch," Beau said.

"… So that's what we have so far." Quentin frowned at the stacks of papers and files spread out on the conference table in the parlor, then looked at Maggie again. "Not a whole hell of a lot, but probably as much as the investigating officers."