The DA chuckles, and his voice doesn’t sound even slightly anxious. “Still got your sense of humor, I see. That’s good, considering. Later, Mayor.”

Shad’s confident tone unsettles me, but when I hang up, Caitlin gives me the pitiless stare of a warrior’s wife. “No mercy,” she intones. “I mean it. You show that arrogant prick a future working as a goddamn paralegal.”

“I intend to.”

She gives my hand one last squeeze, her eyes burning into mine. “You know what’s thicker than water.”

I nod once.

After a light kiss on my forehead, she’s gone.

I look down at the nearly weightless stub of plastic and metal in my hand. Can this harmless-looking object keep my father out of jail? For two months I’ve believed that the digital image stored within this USB flash drive represented Shad Johnson’s career. But today I have an unsettling feeling that my old nemesis is a step ahead of me.

CHAPTER 37

TOM CAGE STOOD over his office desk, packing a leather weekend bag with necessities. After a brief stop at home, and a not-so-brief disagreement with Peggy, he’d returned to the office and seen quite a few patients. He’d worked on his records through lunch, trying not to dwell on the possibility that he might be making the last written notes of his medical career. Then he’d driven to the mall bookstore, a minor rebellion against the strictures of his bail agreement, and also a journey meant to gain time alone, where he could reflect one last time on his plan. After returning to the office and seeing a few more patients, he’d retired to his private office and begun packing the things he’d secretly brought from home.

Melba knew not to disturb him when the door was closed. Already in the bag were two changes of clothes, a Ziploc containing a month’s worth of prescription drugs, a prescription pad, and a short-barreled Magnum .357. To these Tom added a plastic case containing diabetic syringes, two packs of insulin vials, and his first edition of The Killer Angels, which contained the fading Polaroid of Viola he’d shot in 1968. After compulsively looking up to be sure the door was closed, he opened the bottom drawer of his desk and removed another Ziploc bag. This one contained two vials of adrenaline, a syringe exactly like the one stored in the evidence room at the sheriff’s department, some powerful narcotics, a vial of local anesthetic, and six pairs of latex gloves. It also held a small pewter box that concealed three baby teeth belonging to Lincoln Turner. Tom tucked this Ziploc carefully into the weekend bag, then closed his desk drawer.