Rhyme asked, “Have you got a police boat?”

“No. But it wouldn’t do us any good anyway. You don’t know the Paquo. From the map it looks like any other river—with banks and all. But it’s got a thousand inlets and branches flowing into and out of marshes. If Garrett’s on it he’s not staying to the main channel. I guarantee you that. It’d be impossible to find him.”

Rhyme’s eyes followed the Paquenoke west. “If he was moving supplies to the place where he’s got Mary Beth that means it’s probably not too far off the river. How far west would he have to go to be in an area that was habitable?”

“Have to be a ways. See up there?” Bell touched a spot around Location G-7. “That’s north of the Paquo; nobody’d live there. South of the river it gets pretty residential. He’d be seen for sure.”

“So at least ten miles or so west?”

“You got that right,” Bell said.

“That bridge?” Rhyme nodded toward the map. Looking at spot E-8.

“The Hobeth Bridge?”

“What’re the approaches to it like? The highway?”

“Just landfill. But there’s a lot of it. The bridge’s about forty feet high so the ramps leading up to it are long. Oh, wait…. You’re thinking Garrett’d have to sail back to the main channel to get under the bridge.”

“Right. Because the engineers would’ve filled in the smaller channels on either side when they built the approaches.”

Bell was nodding. “Yep. Makes sense to me.”

“Get Lucy and the others there now. To the bridge. And, Ben, call that fellow—Henry Davett. Tell him we’re sorry but we need his help again.”

WWJD …

Thinking once again of Davett, Rhyme now offered a prayer—though not to any deities. It was directed to Amelia Sachs: Oh, Sachs, be careful. It’s only a matter of time until Garrett comes up with an excuse for you to take the cuffs off him. Then to lead you to someplace deserted. Then he’ll manage to get a hold of your gun Don’t let the passing hours lull you into trusting him, Sachs. Don’t let your guard down. He’s got the patience of a mantis.

… chapter twenty-eight

Garrett knew the waterways like an expert river pilot and steered the boat up what seemed to be dead ends yet he always managed to find creeks, thin as spiderweb strands, that led them steadily west through the maze.

He pointed out river otter, muskrat and beaver to Sachs—sightings that might have excited amateur naturalists but left her cold. Her wildlife was the rats and pigeons and squirrels of the city—and only to the extent they were useful in helping her and Rhyme in their forensic work.

“Look there!” he cried.

“What?”