"Is there any chance I could have met him?" Cassie asked Ben.

Grimly he said, "A good chance, though you probably wouldn't have paid much attention. Mike Shaw is the first-shift counterman at the drugstore."

"I've met him," Bishop said. "He struck me as having a ghoulish interest in the murders."

"He'd be off on Sundays," Cassie mused, recalling that the drugstore was closed then.

"And one other day." Ben looked at Matt. "Can we find out if he was off on Friday at the time the Ramsay girl was taken?"

"Yeah, easy enough once church lets out and his boss is back home, but…" Matt hunted through the file folders on his desk and opened one of them. "I seem to recall… oh, shit. Bingo."

"What?" Ben asked quickly.

"Mike Shaw is one of the people her mother mentioned had a disagreement with Ivy Jameson a few days before she was killed. Seems she ate at the drugstore and wasn't at all pleased with Mike's cooking. Ripped him to shreds – as only Ivy could – in front of his boss and half a dozen customers."

Bishop said, "I would say that probably upset him quite a bit."

"He's the right age," Ben noted. "And plenty strong enough physically."

Matt frowned. "Say we find out he was off on Friday. Does that give us enough to search his place? Will Judge Hayes sign a warrant, Ben?"

"In this case? Yes," Ben said. "He'll sign a warrant."

"Mike, why are you doing this?" She kept her voice as steady as possible, even though she had never been so terrified in her life.

He made a "tsk" sound and shook his head. "Because I can, of course. Because I want to." His attention was caught by the slowing of the music box, and he walked quickly across the concrete floor to a heavy old table where the box was sitting. He picked it up and wound it, then set it back on the table. "There," he murmured to himself.

There was an old iron cot a few feet away from her against one cinder-block wall, and she glanced toward it, fear spiraling. Surely he didn't mean to… "Mike – "

"I want you to shut up now." His tone was pleasant. "Just shut up and watch." He opened a battered leather duffel bag that was also on the table and began removing things from it.

A butcher knife.

A hatchet.

A power drill.

"Oh, God," she whispered.

"I wonder if there's a receptacle down here," he muttered, staring around with a scowl. "Dammit. Should have checked that."

"Mike – "

"Oh, look – there's a receptacle." He turned his head and smiled at her. "Right behind you."

His intercom buzzed, and Matt reached for the button impatiently. "Yeah?"

"Sheriff, a lady named Hannah Payne is on the line for you," Sharon Watkins said. "She says it's important and – I think you'd better talk to her."

Sharon had more experience in the department than he did, so Matt tended to respect her judgment. "All right."

"Line four."

"Thanks, Sharon." He punched the correct line and then turned on the speaker. "Sheriff Dunbar. You wanted to speak to me, Miss Payne?"

"Oh – yes, Sheriff, I did." Hers was a young voice, and uncertain, and also very frightened.

Matt consciously gentled his own voice. "What about, Miss Payne?"

"Well, it's… Joe came into the classroom when I found them, and he says I probably shouldn't bother you, and on a Sunday and all, but I'm just so worried, Sheriff! They were just there, in the classroom like he forgot them, and I think there's blood on them and – and now she's gone!"

Patient, Matt said, "Start at the beginning, Miss Payne. Where are you, and what did you find?"

"Oh, I'm at the church, Sheriff – Oak Creek Baptist. And I found a pair of black gloves in one of the Sunday school classrooms. A man's gloves, and I think they have blood on them, because they're all wet and it's coming off pink on my hands."

Tension crept into Matt's voice. "I see. Is there a label in the gloves, Miss Payne? Do you have any idea who they might belong to?"

"Well, that's why I'm worried. Because the initials inside say MS, all nicely embroidered the way Miss Lucy can do, and he's in her Sunday school class, so it must be Mike. But he isn't upstairs in preaching, because I checked. And she's gone too, when she was supposed to play the organ, and I know she wouldn't have left without getting somebody else to play, not when she told me she was going to check on the music – "

"Hannah." Matt's voice was insistent. "Who's gone? Who are you talking about?"

"Abby. Mrs. Montgomery."

NINETEEN

"See, you really shouldn't have been mean to me, Abby," Mike said gently.

"Mean to you? Mike, when was I ever mean to you?" The only clear thought Abby had was to keep him talking, to stall, delay the inevitable. She had no idea what time it was, how long before Matt came to pick her up and found her missing from church. How would he find her in this place – wherever it was? A basement, she thought, but where was it? There was nothing familiar that she could see, no sight or sound to tell her what building loomed above this dim and musty-smelling room.

"That loan." He picked up the butcher knife and held it point up to study the shiny blade. "The loan I needed to get that cool 'ninety-five Mustang back before Christmas. You really should have given me the money, Abby."

She didn't bother to explain income versus debt to him. Instead, she said strongly, "I'm sorry, Mike."

"Yeah, sure you are. Now."

She swallowed hard, almost hypnotized by the way he kept turning the blade of the butcher knife. Keep talking.

Just keep talking. "What about Jill Kirkwood? How was she mean to you, Mike?"

"She laughed at me. Her and Becky, they both laughed at me. I saw them." He put the knife down for a moment to once more wind the music box, then picked up the knife and frowned at it.

"How do you know they were talking about you, Mike?"

His head snapped around with the speed of a striking cobra, and his young, pleasant face was twisted into an ugly mask of bitter hate. "Can't you hear good? I saw them. Heads together, giggling. Of course they were talking about me. Laughing at me. But they're not laughing now, are they, Abby? And I bet you wish you'd loaned me that money now, don't you?"

"Yes," she whispered. "Yes, Mike, I do."

Matt's fear was a palpable force in the room, and it was almost impossible for Cassie to close out his emotions, but she tried.

"Music," she murmured, her eyes closed. "I keep getting flashes of a music box. I think he's playing it, but – Damn. Damn. I can't get through."

"Oh, Christ," Matt said hollowly.

"Can you reach Abby?" Ben asked quietly.

"Not with her walls."

"Even now?"

"Especially now. They've been built up over years, over a lifetime, designed to protect the mind and spirit, so the habit is to withdraw even more thoroughly inside them when there's trouble. Damn. If I can just find a way past the music…"

It was Bishop who said, "Don't try to get past it. Let it carry you in. Concentrate on the music box."

She opened her eyes and stared at him a moment, then shut them and concentrated fiercely. "The music… the music… the box… I can see it. There are two dancers twirling around each other, bobbing…"

Abby looked at the music box because it terrified her so much to look at the knife he held. It was one of those cheap little music boxes that tended to be gifts early in a little girl's life, cardboard covered with ribbed pink paper that was stained and faded. The lid was mirrored on the inside, and the mirror was cracked in at least three places. In the box between two removable velvet-covered trays two tiny dancer figurines bobbed and twirled around each other in jerky accompaniment to the tinkling music.