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“Tell the president that if he wants me to go public, challenge Krimakov at high noon, I’ll do it.”

“No,” Gaylan said, “you won’t. I won’t allow that. He could take you out easily—his shot at the governor was from a distance of at least four hundred feet. You yourself pointed that out to me. He’s better than good, Thomas, he’s one of the best. He maximized his chances to nail his target.” He held up his hand when Thomas would have said something. “No, let me finish. All I’m saying is that we’ve got to come up with something else. Somehow, we’ve got to make him dance to our tune.”

“A lot of very good minds are working on this, as you know, since some of those minds work for you.”

Gaylan nodded, picked up a pen from Thomas’s desk, and began rhythmically tapping it against his knee. “Yes, I know. But for now, your whereabouts stay unknown. I’ll tell the president that everything will be resolved in a couple more days. Think it’s possible?”

“Sure, why not?” And he thought, How the hell am I supposed to make that come about?

“All right. We continue the silence. What about that incident with Krimakov in Riptide?”

Thomas said, “Evidently, the media doesn’t know about her visit there yet. And Tyler McBride—you know, the man whose son Krimakov kidnapped in Riptide—he isn’t saying anything to anyone about Becca. I think he’s in love with her and that’s why he won’t explode sky-high with all this. Becca, however, as much as she cares for his little boy, isn’t headed his way.” He paused a moment, looking down at the onyx pen set that Allison had given him some five Christmases before. “It’s Adam,” he said, smiling briefly as he looked at his old friend. “Isn’t that nice?”

Gaylan Woodhouse grunted. “I’m too old,” he said, then sighed again. “Krimakov won’t find you, Thomas. Don’t worry. I’ll deal with the president. Let’s say forty-eight hours, then we’ll reassess. Okay?”

“Again, Gaylan, maybe Krimakov needs to find me. Forget the president’s political agenda. Just maybe Krimakov’s reign of terror will continue until he knows where I am. Maybe we should let him know, somehow.”

“We’ll all think about that, but not just yet. Forty-eight hours. Jesus, next the guy might try to shoot off the mayor’s wig.” Gaylan Woodhouse rose, dropped the pen back on top of the desk, shook Thomas’s hand, and stepped back through the door, where the shadows were thicker. Three dark-suited men fell in beside and behind him as he left Thomas’s house.

Thomas stared after him. Shadows surrounded him. Thomas understood shadows very well. He’d lived in the shadows himself for so long he could see them even as they gathered around him, and wondered if after a while anyone would actually see him or just the shadows.

Forget shadows, Thomas thought. Now wasn’t the time to wax philosophical. He thought about the meeting. Gaylan was a good friend. He’d hold out against the president about losing the limelight for as long as he could. Forty-eight hours—that was the deal. It wasn’t a lot of time and yet it was an eternity. Only Krimakov knew which.

The next evening, Sherlock and Savich arrived with thick folders of papers, MAX, and Sean, who reared up on Savich’s shoulder, staring about sleepily at everyone, a graham cracker clutched in his hand.

Sherlock looked at everyone in the living room. She didn’t look happy as she said, “I’m really sorry here, guys, but our handwriting experts turned up something we didn’t expect.”

“What have you got, Sherlock?” Adam asked, rising slowly, his eyes never leaving her face.

“We were hoping to learn whether or not Krimakov’s mental state had deteriorated, at least determine where he was sitting presently on the sanity scale, in order to give us a better chance of dealing with him, predicting what he might do, that sort of thing. That’s off now. We have no idea, you see, because the two new samples of handwriting Becca gave me aren’t Krimakov’s.”

Thomas looked like someone had slapped him. He said slowly, “No, that’s not possible. Admittedly