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Sherlock came back up, grabbed his arms. “No, no, Dillon, I’m okay. Tammy—she was here; she shoved me down the stairs. The alarm was off and I was just coming downstairs to check. I heard a woman’s moan. It wasn’t me. Where’s Lily? Dear God, check Lily!”

Simon was back up the stairs, taking them two, three at a time. They heard him yell, “She’s gone!”

Dillon grabbed his cell phone to call the agents outside.

Simon turned on all the lights as Dillon was speaking to the agents. The front door was open and there was no sign of Lily. Somehow, Tammy had taken her out without Sherlock seeing anything.

Savich stood on his front porch in his boxer shorts, straining to see through the snow falling like a thin, white curtain in front of him, into the darkness beyond.

• Jimmy Maitland said as he sipped his coffee, so blessedly hot that it nearly burned his tongue, “What do the folk in Behavioral Sciences have to say?”

Savich said, “Jane Bitt is guessing, she freely admits it, but as far as she knows, no one has ever before encountered anything like Tammy Tuttle. She may have some sort of genetic gift, be able to project what she wants you to see. What’s amazing is the scope. She had everyone in that airport in Antigua believing she was a man, and this is what makes her so unique. Jane said that even given that, we shouldn’t focus exclusively on it—there’s just no percentage to it. She says there’s no beating her that way. We should focus on a woman with one arm who’s twenty-three years old. What would she do? If we can predict that, she’s vulnerable.”

“But we don’t know what she’ll do, where she’d take Lily,” Sherlock said.

“She was supposed to come after me here, not Lily—to tear my fucking head off,” Savich said slowly, staring at his hands, which were clasped tightly together around Sherlock’s waist.

Jimmy Maitland blinked. He had never heard Savich utter a profanity before, and then he realized he was quoting Tammy.

Simon was on his feet, pacing in front of the two of them. He was wearing only wrinkled black wool slacks, no shirt, even his feet were bare.

“Listen, Savich, you know she took Lily because she figured it was better revenge than just killing you. Now, think, dammit. Where would Tammy Tuttle take Lily?”

It was nearly four o’clock in the morning and snow was still falling lightly. No one said a word. Savich sat in his favorite chair, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. He felt Sherlock leaning against him.

Then Sherlock said very softly, “I think I know where she might have taken Lily.”

29

Lily was colder than when she’d been lying on that naked mattress in Gothenburg. Her wrists and ankles were bound together loosely, with some sort of tape. She was lying on her side in a dark room, and it smelled funny. It wasn’t unpleasant, but she didn’t recognize it.

She was all right. She felt a dull throb on the side of her head, but it wasn’t bad, and her side hurt, but that wouldn’t kill her. No, it was the insane woman who had brought her here who could kill her.

Did she hear someone laugh? She couldn’t be sure.

She gritted her teeth and tried working at her wrists. There was a little bit of movement; the tape wasn’t all that tight. She kept pulling and twisting, working the duct tape.

Where was she? Where had Tammy Tuttle taken her? She knew Tammy was utterly mad and smart, since up to now she’d managed to evade Lily’s brother. She’d taken Lily because she was Dillon’s sister. She thought it was better revenge against Dillon than just killing him.

Lily knew she was right about that. Dillon was probably driving himself mad with guilt. She kept working the duct tape.

What was that smell that permeated the air? Then she knew. She was in some sort of barn. She smelled old hay, linseed oil, yes, that was it, at least it was some kind of oil, and the very faint odor of ancient dried manure.

A barn somewhere. She remembered Simon asking Dillon where they’d first caught up with the Tuttle brother and sister, and he’d said it was at