He was pointing to something she couldn’t see. He stared at a spot near the shore, lost in whatever tiny drama was being played out on the water. All Sachs could see was some bug skipping over the surface.

“Water strider,” he told her then sat back as they eased past. His face grew serious. “Insects’re, like, a lot more important than us. I mean, when it comes to keeping the planet going. See—I read this someplace—if all the people on earth disappeared tomorrow the world’d keep going just fine. But if the insects all went away then life’d be over with way fast—like, one generation. The plants’d die then the animals and the earth’d turn into this big rock again.”

Despite his adolescent vernacular Garrett spoke with the authority of a professor and the verve of a revivalist. He continued, “Yeah, some insects’re a pain in the ass. But that’s only a few of them, like one or two percent.” His face grew animated and he said proudly, “And the ones that eat crops and stuff, well, I have this idea. It’s pretty cool. I want to breed this special kind of golden lacewing to control the bad ones, instead of poisons—so the good insects and other animals don’t die. The lacewing’d be the best. Nobody’s done that yet.”

“You think you can, Garrett?”

“I don’t exactly know how yet. But I’m gonna learn.”

She recalled what she’d read in his book, E. O. Wilson’s term, biofilia—the affection people have for other types of life on the planet. And as she listened to him telling her this trivia—all proof of a love of nature and learning— foremost in her thoughts was this: anyone who could be so fascinated by living creatures and, in his odd way, could love them couldn’t possibly be a rapist and killer.

Amelia Sachs held on tightly to this thought and it sustained her as they navigated the Paquenoke, escaping from Lucy Kerr and from the mysterious man in the tan overalls and from the simple, troubled town of Tanner’s Corner.

Escaping from Lincoln Rhyme too. And from his impending operation and the terrible consequences it might have for both of them.

The narrow boat eased through the tributaries, no longer black water but golden, camouflaged—reflecting the low sunlight—just like that French cricket Garrett had told her about. Finally the boy steered out of the back routes and into the main channel of the river, hugging the shore. Sachs looked behind them, to the east, to see if there were police boats in pursuit. She saw nothing except one of the big Davett Industries barges, headed upstream—away from them. Garrett throttled back on the motor and eased into a little cove. He peered through an overhanging willow branch, looking west toward a bridge that ran across the Paquenoke.