She climbed to the landing and paused. She reached for the door handle, thinking as she nearly always did: Why did these doors open without any kind of lock from the stairwell side? It’d be pretty easy for somebody—

She jumped, hearing a faint tap of metal. Spinning around, Sarah saw no one.

And . . . was that the sound of breathing?

Was somebody hurt?

Should she go see? Or call security?

“Is anyone there? Hello?”

Only silence.

Probably nothing, she thought. And stepped into the corridor that led to the back door of her office. Sarah unlocked the door and walked down the long corridor of the company.

Shedding her coat and setting the coffee and cookie on her desk, she sat down at her workstation, glancing at her computer.

Odd, she thought. On the screen was the window that read, “Date and Time Properties.”

This was the utility in the Windows XP operating system that you used to set the date and time and time zone of your computer. It showed a calendar with the day’s date indicated and, to the right, both an analog clock with sweep hands and below it a digital clock, both ticking off the seconds.

The screen hadn’t been there before she’d made the run to Starbucks.

Had it popped up by itself? she wondered. Why? Maybe somebody’d used her computer while she was away, though she had no idea who it might be or why.

No matter. She closed the window on the screen and scooted forward.

She glanced down. What was that?

Sarah saw a fire extinguisher under her desk. It hadn’t been there earlier either. The company was always doing weird things like this. Putting in new lighting, coming up with evacuation plans, rearranging furniture, for no apparent reason.

Now, fire extinguishers.

Probably something else we have the terrorists to thank for.

Taking a fast look at her son’s picture, feeling comfort in seeing his smile, she set her purse under her desk and unwrapped her cookie.

Lieutenant Dennis Baker walked slowly down the deserted street. He was south of Hell’s Kitchen in a largely industrial area on the west side.

As he’d suggested, the officers had divided up the clues found at the church in their hunt for the Watchmaker. He’d told Sachs and Haumann that he’d remembered a warehouse that was being painted with that same shade of sickly green paint found on the shoes in the Watchmaker’s room. While the rest of the team were tracking down other leads, he’d come here.

The massive building stretched along the street, dark, abandoned, bleak even in the sharp sunlight. The lower six or seven feet of the grimy brick walls were covered with graffiti and half the windows were broken—some even shot out, it seemed. On the roof was a faded sign, Preston Moving and Storage, in an old-style typeface.

The front doors, painted that green color, were locked and chained shut but Baker found a side entrance, half hidden behind a Dumpster. It was open. He looked up and down the street then pulled the door open and stepped inside. Baker started through the dim place, lit only by slanting shafts of light. The smell was of rotting cardboard and mildew and heating oil. He drew his pistol. It felt awkward in his hand. He’d never fired a single shot in the line of duty.