“What’s the area like around you?”

“Forests and fields mostly.”

“You know anywhere that somebody might hide a kidnap victim?”

Frank seemed to be considering this question earnestly. “I don’t, no.”

Rhyme: “Can I ask you a question?”

“On top of the ones you already asked?”

“That’s right.”

“I suppose you can.”

“You know about Carolina bays?”

“Sure. Everybody does. Meteors made ’em. Long time ago. When the dinosaurs got themselves killed.”

“Are there any near you?”

“Oh, you bet there are.”

Which was something that Rhyme was hoping the man would say.

Frank continued. “Must be close to a hundred of ’em.”

Which was something he was hoping he wouldn’t.

Head back, eyes closed, reviewing the evidence charts in his mind.

Jim Bell and Mason Germain were back in the evidence room, along with Thom and Ben, but Lincoln Rhyme was paying them no mind. He was in his own world, an orderly place of science and evidence and logic, a place where he needed no mobility, a place where his feelings for Amelia and what she’d done were mercifully forbidden entry. He could see the evidence in his mind as clearly as if he were staring at the notations on the chalkboard. In fact, he was able to see them better with his eyes shut.

Paint sugar yeast dirt camphene paint dirt sugar … yeast… yeast…

A thought slipped into his mind, fished away. Come back, come back, come back….

Yes! He snagged it.

Rhyme’s eyes snapped open. He looked into the empty corner of the room. Bell followed his eyes.

“What is it, Lincoln?”

“You have a coffee machine here?”

“Coffee?” Thom asked, not pleased. “No caffeine. Not with your blood pressure the way—”

“No, I don’t want a goddamn cup of coffee! I want a coffee filter.”

“Filter? I’ll dig one up.” Bell disappeared and returned a moment later.

“Give it to Ben,” Rhyme ordered. Then said to the zoologist, “See if the paper fibers from the filter match the ones we found on Garrett’s clothes at the mill.”

Ben rubbed some fibers off the filter onto a slide. He gazed through the eyepieces of the comparison microscope, adjusted the focus and then moved the stages so the samples were next to each other in the split-screen viewfinder.

“The colors’re a little different, Lincoln, but the structure and size of the fibers’re pretty much the same.”

“Good,” Rhyme said, his eyes now on the T-shirt with the stain on it.

He said to Ben, “The juice, the fruit juice on the shirt. Taste it again. Is it a little sour? Tart?”

Ben did. “Maybe a little. Hard to tell.”

Rhyme’s eyes strayed to the map, imagining that Lucy and the others were closing in on Sachs somewhere in that green wilderness, eager to shoot. Or that Garrett had Sachs’s gun and might be turning it on her.