The main street of Branville was at the bottom of a valley next to a picturesque stream that provided the place with its sole source of charm, as well as occasional ruinous floods. The county road that connected Branville with the interstate made a long, winding descent from a line of hills and teed into the main street just a block from the Eagle’s Nest. Although it was close to noon when Gurney walked in, only one of its dozen tables was occupied. He sat at a table for two by a bay window looking out on the street and ordered—a rarity for him—a Bloody Mary. He was still surprised by his choice when the server delivered it a few minutes later.

It was a generous drink, in a tall glass. It tasted exactly the way he expected it would. It brought a pleasant smile to his lips—another rarity in recent months. He savored it slowly, finishing it at 12:15.

At 12:16 Rebecca walked in. She sat down immediately. “Hope you weren’t waiting too long.” The way she smiled emphasized the taut contours of her mouth. Everything about her was controlled and alert.

“Just got here a few minutes ago.”

She glanced around the room with that cool assessment with which she always greeted her surroundings. “What are you drinking?”

“Bloody Mary.”

“Perfect.” She turned and waved to the young female server.

When the girl arrived with a pair of menus, Holdenfield gave her a skeptical look. “Are you old enough to be serving drinks?”

“I’m twenty-three,” she announced, sounding baffled by the question and depressed by the number.

“That old?” said Holdenfield with unappreciated irony. “I’ll have a Bloody Mary.” She pointed at Gurney’s glass with a question mark in her eyes.

“No more for me.”

The server departed.

Holdenfield, as usual, didn’t waste any time getting to the point. “How come you were so aggressive with our FBI friends? And what was all that stuff about sniper goggles, the disposing of the guns, problems with the profile?”

“Just trying to nudge him off balance.”

“Nudge? More like an elbow in the face.”

“I’m a little frustrated.”

“And where do you think your frustration is coming from?”

“I’m getting sick of explaining it.”

“Humor me.”

“You’re all treating the manifesto like holy writ. It’s not. It’s a pose. Actions speak louder than words. The actions of this killer were super-rational, steady as a rock. The planning was patient and pragmatic. The manifesto is another matter altogether. It’s a work of fiction, an effort to create a persona and a set of motivations that you and your buddies in the Behavioral Analysis Unit could analyze and regurgitate into that sophomoric profile.”

“Look, David—”