He heard her voice again only briefly toward the end of the call, and only a few of her words clearly. It sounded to him as if she was agreeing to do something. A few moments later, she appeared at the kitchen doorway, regarding him with the previous night’s worry back in her eyes.

“How’s your hand?”

The lidocaine nerve block they’d given him prior to his nine stitches had worn off, and the lower half of his palm was throbbing.

“Not too bad,” he said. “What are they asking you to do now?”

She ignored the question. “You should be keeping it elevated. Like the doctor said.”

“Right.” He raised his hand a few inches above the sink island, where he was waiting for the coffee to brew. “Did they have another suicide?” he asked, rather too jokily.

“Carol Quilty resigned last night. They need someone to fill in today.”

“What time?”

“As soon as I can get there. I’m going to take a shower, have a piece of toast, and off I go. Will you be all right here alone?”

“Of course.”

She frowned and pointed at his hand. “Higher.”

He raised it to eye level.

She sighed, gave him a silly little “attaboy” wink, and headed for the shower.

He marveled for the thousandth time at her innate cheerfulness, her perennial ability to accept the reality of whatever had been placed in front of her and address it with an attitude far more positive than his own.

She faced life as it was and did the best she could.

She played the hand she’d been dealt.

Which made him think again about his wild card.

Whatever it might be worth, he needed to do something with it soon. He had to play it before the game was over.

He had the sinking feeling that it might not be worth a damn thing. But there was only one way to find out.

His “wild card” was his access to the eavesdropping equipment that had been installed in Kim’s apartment. Perhaps by the Good Shepherd, who perhaps was still monitoring its transmissions. If both of those assumptions were valid—and both were big ifs—that equipment could provide a channel of communication. A way of talking to the killer. An opportunity to send a message.

But what kind of message should it be?

It was a simple question—with an unlimited number of answers.

All he had to do was figure out the right one.

Shortly after Madeleine left for the clinic, the den phone rang again. The ID announced it was Hardwick. The raspy voice said, “Check the Manchester Union Leader’s online archives. They did a series on the White Mountain Strangler case back in ’91. Betcha find a shitload of what you want. Gotta go piss. Take care.”

The man certainly had his ways of saying good-bye.