If nothing else, the trial would be enough to finish Marcus’s career. Perhaps it would even bring down Krazle.

Two other agents who’d heard the scuffle showed up at the door, and Thurman and I handed Rockwell off to them. “Arrest him,” I told them. “Take him away.”

“On what charge?”

“Murder, for starters. We’ll move on from there.”

++++

I knew that none of this would bring back Senator Murray’s son or any of the other victims, and all I could say to him was how sorry I was.

“I can’t believe it was him,” he said softly. “So, he met Jon during the internship, and then what? Somehow found out about my gambling and targeted him?”

“That’s what it looks like, yes.”

We located one of the staff psychologists to speak with the senator, to comfort him, then the photo came through from an officer at the greenhouse property, the image of the inside of the semi, and I saw the code Mannie had left for me with the snapped-off limbs and heads of the mannequins:

I recalled the tic-tac-toe grid and mentally decoded the cipher: FIND HOPE.

I processed that.

Find hope?

Oh.

His wife’s name was Hope.

Is it possible that—?

“You good?” Thurman asked me.

“What?” I said distractedly. “Yeah.”

He noticed that I was staring at the image on my phone. “What’s that?”

“Mannie destroyed the mannequins in the truck and left the body parts in this pattern.”

“Is that the same code he used at the Field Office?”

“It is.”

“Does it mean something to you?”

“I think it means his wife is alive.” Then it hit me, how this was all tied together, how Mannie had managed to escape from the Field Office. Thurman was only scheduled to work half the day on Sunday. Timing and location. “But you knew that already, didn’t you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re a good actor, Thurman, I’ll give you that.”

Just like Vidocq.

“An actor?”

“After Mannie got your wallet. You shed a tear for your wife and kids who were never in any danger. That’s why Mannie gave us a ninety-minute window—you were scheduled to work only half of the day, and he needed you there to help him escape.”

Thurman quietly appraised me.

“How long have you been his handler?” I said.

“You’re basing all this on my work schedule? How could that even matter?”

“Everything matters. It was no coincidence that you were right there at that key intersection in the hallway or that you sent me in the wrong direction. You helped him. And Hope, his wife, she’s alive?”

“Yes,” he said at last.

“Where is she?”

“A black site in Djibouti.”

“You’re holding her just to get him to help you?”

“It’s not like that. She’s not a prisoner. We’re protecting her.”

“Can she leave?”