“We’ve caught him,” Rhyme said to Jim Bell and his brother-in-law, Deputy Steve Farr. “Amelia and me. That was the bargain. Now we have to get back to Avery.”

“Well, Lincoln,” Bell began delicately, “it’s just that Garrett’s not talking. He’s not telling us anything about where Mary Beth is.”

Ben Kerr stood nearby uncertainly, beside the glowing mountain range on the computer screen connected to the chromatograph. His initial hesitancy had vanished and he now seemed to regret the end of his assignment. Amelia Sachs was in the lab too. Mason Germain wasn’t, which was just as well—Rhyme was furious that he’d endangered Sachs’s life with the sniping at the mill. Bell had angrily ordered the deputy to stay out of the case for the time being.

“I appreciate that,” Rhyme said dismissively, responding to Bell’s implicit request for more help. “But it’s not that she’s in immediate danger.” Lydia had reported that Mary Beth was alive and had told them the general location where she was being held. A concentrated search of the Outer Banks would probably find her within several days. And Rhyme was now ready for the operation. He clung, of all things, to a bizarre good-luck charm—the memory of Henry Davett’s gruff argument with him, the man’s tempered-steel gaze. The image of the businessman prodded him to return to the hospital, to finish the tests and to go under the knife. He glanced at Ben and was about to instruct him on how to pack up the forensic equipment when Sachs took up Bell’s cause. “We found some evidence at the mill, Rhyme. Lucy did, actually. Good evidence.”

Rhyme said sourly, “If it’s good evidence then somebody else’ll be able to figure out where it leads to.”

“Look, Lincoln,” Bell began in his reasonable Carolinian accent, “I’m not going to push it but you’re the only one ‘round here’s got experience at major crimes like this. We’d be at sea trying to figure out what that’s telling us, for instance.” He nodded at the chromatograph. “Or whether this bit of dirt or that footprint means anything.”

Head rubbing against the Storm Arrow’s pillowy rest, Rhyme glanced at Sachs’s imploring face. Sighing, he finally asked, “Garrett’s not saying anything?”

“He’s talking,” Farr said, tugging at one of his flaglike ears. “But he’s denying killing Billy and he’s saying he got Mary Beth away from Blackwater Landing for her own good. That’s it. Won’t say a word about where she is.”

Sachs said, “In this heat, Rhyme, she could die of thirst.”

“Or starve to death,” Farr pointed out.

Oh, for God’s sake …

“Thom,” Rhyme snapped, “call Dr. Weaver. Tell her I’ll be here for a little longer. Emphasize ‘little.’”