Percey lowered the flap of the engine cowl and clamped it into place. “All right, this’s done. Damn aircraft may actually fly.” She swatted the glossy skin like a cowgirl patting a rodeo rider’s butt.

. . . Chapter Thirty

Hour 32 of 45

At 6 P.M. on Sunday they summoned Jodie from Rhyme’s downstairs bedroom, where he’d been under lock and key.

He trotted up the stairs reluctantly, clutching his silly book, Dependent No More, like a Bible. Rhyme remembered the title. It had been on the Times bestseller list for months. In a black mood at the time, he’d noticed the book and thought cynically, about himself, Dependent Forever.

A team of federal agents was flying from Quantico to Cumberland, West Virginia, Stephen Kall’s old residence, to pick up whatever leads they could, hoping they might track him to his present whereabouts from there. But Rhyme had seen how carefully he’d scoured his crime scenes and he had no reason to think the man would have been any less careful in covering his other tracks.

“You told us some things about him,” Rhyme said to Jodie. “Some facts, some nutritional information. I want to know more.”

“I—”

“Think hard.”

Jodie squinted. Rhyme supposed he was considering what he could say to mollify them, superficial impressions. But he was surprised when Jodie said, “Well, for one thing, he’s afraid of you.”

“Us?” Rhyme asked.

“No. Just you.”

“Me?” he asked, astonished. “He knows about me?”

“He knows your name’s Lincoln. And that you’re out to get him.”

“How?”

“I don’t know,” the man said, then added, “you know, he made a couple of calls on that cell phone. And he listened for a long time. I was thinking—”

“Oh, hellfire,” Dellray sang out. “He’s tapping somebody’s line.”

“Of course!” Rhyme cried. “Probably the Hudson Air office. That’s how he found out about the safe house. Why didn’t we think about that?”

Dellray said, “We gotta sweep the office. But the bug might be in a relay box somewheres. We’ll find it. We’ll find it.” He placed a call to the Bureau’s tech services.

To Jodie, Rhyme said, “Go on. What else does he know about me?”

“He knows you’re a detective. I don’t think he knows where you live, or your last name. But you scare the hell out of him.”

If Rhyme’s belly had been able to register the lub-dub of excitement—and pride—he’d have felt that now.

Let’s see, Stephen Kall, if we can’t give you a little more to be afraid of.

“You helped us once, Jodie. I need you to help us again.”

“Are you crazy?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Dellray barked. “And listen t’what the man’s sayin’, hokay? Hokay?”

“I did what I said I would. I’m not doing anything more.” The whine really was too much. Rhyme glanced at Sellitto. This called for people skills.

“It’s in your interest,” Sellitto said reasonably, “to help us.”

“Gettin’ shot in the back’s in my interest? Gettin’ shot in the head’s in my interest? Uh-huh. I see. You wanna explain that?”