Using the asylum’s own special high-security internal system, he’s going to lock them all out.

The front foyer has no CCTV cameras; the FBI is relying on the female agent impersonating the receptionist to keep them informed. The foyer is not as warmly illuminated as usual, but the agent at the desk has a small lamp positioned to allow her to “work.” A phone sits on the desk as well, plus a box of Kleenex and the ledger that Hannah Lempki—the real receptionist—uses when she herself sits in that chair.

Hoyt walks toward the desk from the left-hand side of the foyer, on his return from the men’s bathroom in the west-wing corridor, where he washed and dried his hands thoroughly.

“Ma’am.” He bobs his head at the agent on the desk as he approaches.

“You’re heading to the control booth now?” The woman is the same age as Hannah—midthirties—but her dowdy tweed skirt suit does nothing to disguise her physical fitness and musculature, and she does not look like a receptionist. “Will you contact Agent Martino to let him know, so he can check you off? Or should I call him?”

The control booth door is behind and to the far right of the sign-in desk. He is passing behind the receptionist’s chair now. “Thanks, I can do it.”

“Great.”

He times it so he is only one step past her. “Uh, excuse me, ma’am?”

His position means she’s forced to swivel awkwardly to face him. “Yes?”

When she turns, his hand darts out with the scalpel. The No. 22 scalpel blade is the largest on the market and is customarily used for bronchus resection; he uses it to open up her windpipe and carotid artery in one quick slash. He’s very good at this now. Before she has a chance to scramble for her weapon, she is already bleeding out.

Once she’s gone, he positions her so she’s slumped on the desk. Using a Kleenex, he removes her gun and tucks it into the desk drawer, making a grimace of distaste while handling the gun. Then he checks himself: a little blood spatter on his shirt cuff and the back of his hand. He rolls his cuffs, wipes his hand with another Kleenex, puts both tissues in the wastebasket, and plucks another to take with him.

He steps smartly over to the front entrance door of the asylum, closes it, and locks it with the two heavy bolts at the top and bottom that are relics of another age. Then he resumes his progress.

It’s time to call Martino and deal with Hannity in the control booth.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Now, here is Evelyn Scott’s home in the moonlight. A big pecan tree grows nearby; Scott’s late-model Volvo is parked by the white-railed porch and portico. It’s an old house, the roof slightly sagging.

“Are we breaking and entering?” Kristin’s bright hair is covered by Emma’s scarf.

“Just entering,” Emma says. “No breaking.”

She and Kristin exit the truck. Bell leans over and unlocks the glove compartment, retrieves his gun belt and revolver. The gun is a stainless steel, double-action Colt Python with a six-inch barrel and rubber combat grips. It’s significantly heavier than what he’s been shooting with Emma, and he’s had a lot of practice with it. He gets out and secures the truck, buckles the belt around his hips. Looks up to see Emma watching from the portico.