“He’s over here,” the woman shouted. “I’ve got him.” Then her voice dropped and she looked into Garrett’s eyes. “Do what I say and you won’t get hurt. I want you to toss the knife away and lie down on the ground, face first.”

But the boy didn’t lie down.

He merely stood still, slouching awkwardly, fingernail and thumbnail of his left hand clicking compulsively. He looked utterly scared and desperate.

Amelia Sachs glanced again at the stained knife, held firmly in his hand. She kept the sight of the Smith & Wesson on Garrett’s chest.

Her eyes stung from the ammonia and the sweat. She wiped her face with her sleeve.

“Garrett ….” Speaking calmly. “Lie down. Nobody’s going to hurt you if you do what we say.”

She heard distant shouting. “I got Lydia,” Ned Spoto called. “She’s okay. Mary Beth’s not here.”

Lucy’s voice was calling, “Where, Amelia?”

“On the path to the stream,” Sachs shouted. “Throw the knife over there, Garrett. On the ground. Then lie down.”

He stared at her cautiously. Red blotches on his skin, eyes wet.

“Come on, Garrett. There’re four of us here. There’s no way out.”

“How?” he asked. “How’d you find me?” His voice was childlike, younger than most sixteen-year-olds’.

She didn’t share with him that how they’d found the ammonia trap and the mill had been Lincoln Rhyme, of course. Just as they’d started down the center path at the crossroads in the woods the criminalist had called her. He’d said, “One of the feed-and-grain clerks Jim Bell talked to said that you don’t see corn used as feed around here. He said it probably came from a gristmill and Jim knew about an abandoned one that’d burned last year. That’d explain the scorch marks.”

Bell got on the phone and told the search party how to get to the mill. Then Rhyme had come back on and added, “I’ve got a thought about the ammonia too.”

Rhyme had been reading Garrett’s books and found an underlined passage about insects’ using smells to communicate warnings. He’d decided that since the ammonia wasn’t found in commercial explosives, like the kind used at the quarry, Garrett had possibly rigged some ammonia on a fishing-line trip wire. This was so that when the pursuers spilled it the boy could smell that they were close and could escape.

After they found the trap it’d been Sachs’s idea to fill one of Ned’s water bottles with ammonia, quietly surround the mill and pour the chemical on the ground outside the mill—to flush the boy.

And flush him it had.

But he still wasn’t listening to her instructions. Garrett looked around and then studied her face, as if trying to decide if she really would shoot him.