Thomas looked to his palms instead of the SAC. 'What would you do, Agent Atta? What would you do?'

'You seem to be saying that an awful lot, professor,' Atta replied. 'Where is it?'

'Still in the machine,' Gerard said.

'Zarba,' Atta muttered, kneeling at the base of the broad screen. Her holster swung into view, gun-metal heavy. The light of the screen flashed across her sweaty cheeks, then the panel framed her in luminous black. Shapes seemed to float in and out of focus, as though they watched things battling beneath black satin sheets. There was a quick glimpse—a shadowy sack of some kind, cement or something—but Thomas was certain he'd glimpsed the name of some kind of farm-supply outlet.

'There… Did you see it? The name on that bag?'

'We'll have it checked out,' Atta said, unimpressed.

Thomas looked to Sam, scowling.

'The webcast with Halasz had the same kind of glimpses,' she explained. 'Specialty labels, products from what seemed to be non-franchise outlets. But when we checked them out, they came from places all over the country. The bastard's playing with us, professor. Throwing us manufactured leads to dilute our resources.'

More and more shapes resolved and vanished in the gloom. The image bobbed, as though the camera probed the bowels of some deep-sea wreck. Thomas found himself every bit as anxious as he had been on his first viewing. For some reason, knowing he wouldn't see Frankie made it seem even worse.

Though if he had…

None of this is real. Just things and people in a head that's all in my head…

The frame abruptly stabilized. Peering, Thomas saw what seemed to be a chain-link kennel. A kennel in a basement littered with defunct possessions. A human shambled through the murky interior, apparently oblivious to the watching camera-eye. 'Halleluiah,' hissed from the speakers, as though surfacing from white noise. The figure stumbled backward, then drunkenly fell to its knees. It was weeping now. 'Halleluiah.'

Light splashed the scene, as sudden and bright as a prison-guard ambush. The figure whirled toward the camera. Thomas heard himself sob—the way he had when he first realized that it wasn't Frankie…

… but Jackie Forrest, hands out, as though fending away paparazzi. His scalp had been bandaged, like Halasz. Silver braces bracketed his head, fixed with what seemed hardware-store screws. 'You,' he spat in indignation. 'You can't hurt me! I know where I'm going! I have seen!'

HOW HAVE YOU SEEN?

The question apparently shocked the preacher. For a moment, anger and terror warred over his expression.

'I walk by faith!' He wiped his jowls, smiled manically. 'Faith is the substance of things hoped for,' he exclaimed in the wavering baritone that so many preachers reserve for biblical quotations, 'the evidence of sights unseen!'

SO BELIEF WITHOUT EVIDENCE IS EVIDENCE?

'You'll never know, you son-of-a-bitch!' Jackie snarled.