“No, no, Jim, for real. He says he’s protecting the girl. He says she’s happy where she is and you oughta go looking for this guy in tan overalls and a white shirt.”

Bell said, “He doesn’t even have a good description and if he gave us one it’d change tomorrow because he’s making it up.”

McGuire slicked back his already-slicked-back hair. The defense used Aqua Net, Sachs could smell. The prosecution, Brylcreem. “Listen, Cal, this’s your problem. I’m offering you what I’m offering. You get us the girl’s whereabouts and she’s alive, I’ll go with reduced counts. You don’t, I’ll take it to trial and go for the moon. That boy’ll never see the outside-of a prison again. We both know it.”

Silence for a moment.

Fredericks said, “I’ve got a thought.”

“Uh-huh,” McGuire said skeptically.

“No, listen … I had a case in Albemarle a spell back, a woman claimed her boy’d run away from home. But it seemed fishy.”

“The Williams case?” McGuire asked. “That black woman?”

“That was it.”

“I heard of that one. You represented her?” Bell asked.

“Right. She was giving us pretty odd stories and had a history of mental problems. I hired this psychologist over in Avery, hoping he could give me an insanity opinion. He ran some tests on her. During one of ’em she opened up and told us what had happened.”

“Hypnosis—that recovered-memory crap?” McGuire asked.

“No, it’s something else. He called it empty chair therapy. I don’t exactly know how it works but it really started her talking. Like all she needed was a little push. Let me give this guy a call and have him come over and talk to Garrett. The boy might see reason…. But”—now the defense got to poke a finger in Bell’s chest—“everything they talk about’s privileged and you don’t get diddly unless the guardian ad litem and I say so first.”

Bell caught McGuire’s eye and nodded. The D.A. said, “Call him.”

“Okay.” Fredericks stepped toward the phone in the corner of the interrogation room.

Sachs said, “Excuse me?”

The lawyer turned to her.

“That case the psychologist helped you with? The Williams case?”

“Yeah?”

“What happened with her child? Did he run away?”

“Naw, the mother killed him. Baled him up in chicken wire and a cinder block and drowned him in a pond behind the house. Hey, Jim, how do I get an outside line?”

The scream was so loud that it stung her dry throat like fire and for all Mary Beth knew permanently damaged her vocal cords.

The Missionary, walking by the edge of the woods, paused. His backpack was over one shoulder, a tank like a weed sprayer in his hand. He glanced around himself.

Please, please, please, Mary Beth was thinking. Ignoring the pain, she tried again. “Over here! Help me!”