Sachs lifted her head briefly.

She saw nothing but heard an explosion. An instant later the slug snapped through the air beside her. She felt the same draining terror as at the airport. She pressed her face into the cool spring grass, slick with dew and her sweat. Her hands shook.

Bell looked up fast and then down again.

Another shot. Dirt kicked up inches from his face.

“I think I saw him,” the detective drawled. “There’re some bushes to the right of the house. On that hill.”

Sachs breathed a trio of fast breaths. Then she rolled five feet to the right, poked her head up fast, ducked again.

Jodie chose not to shoot this time and she’d gotten a good look. Bell was right: the killer was on the side of a hill, targeting them with the telescopic deer rifle; she’d seen the faint glint from the ’scope. He couldn’t quite hit them where they were if they stayed prone. But all he had to do was move up the hill. From its crest he could shoot down into the pit they were hiding in now—a perfect kill zone.

Five minutes passed without a shot. He’d be working his way up the hill, though cautiously—he knew Sachs was armed and he’d seen she was a good shot. Could they wait him out? When would the SWAT chopper get here?

Sachs squeezed her eyes closed, smelled the dirt, the grass.

She thought of Lincoln Rhyme.

You know him better than anybody, Sachs . . .

You never really know a perp until you’ve walked where he’s walked, until you’ve cleaned up after his evil . . .

But, Rhyme, she thought, this isn’t Stephen Kall. Jodie isn’t the killer I know. It wasn’t his crime scenes I walked through. It wasn’t his mind I peered into . . .

She looked for a low spot in the ground that might lead them safely to the trees, but there was nothing. If they moved five feet in either direction, he’d have a clean shot.

Well, he’d have a clean shot at them any minute now, when he got to the crest of the hill.

Then something occurred to her. That the crime scenes she’d worked really were the Dancer’s scenes. He may not have been the one who fired the bullet that killed Brit Hale or planted the bomb that blew up Ed Carney’s plane or swung the knife that killed John Innelman in the basement of the office building.

But Jodie was a perpetrator.

Get into his mind, Sachs, she heard Lincoln Rhyme say.

His deadliest—my deadliest weapon is deception.

“Both of you,” Sachs called, looking around. “There.” She pointed toward a slight ravine.

Bell glared at her. She saw how badly he wanted the Dancer too. But the look in her eyes told him that the killer was her prey and hers alone. No debate and no argument. Rhyme had given this chance to her and nothing in the world could stop her from doing what she was about to.