Bell blinked uncertainly at this abrupt tone in the criminalist’s voice. “Sure thing, Lincoln. And, hey, if we get too Southern down here, move a little slow for you Yankees, you’ll speed us up now, won’t you?”

“Oh, you bet I will, Jim.”

One out of three.

One of Jim Bell’s three senior deputies seemed glad to meet Rhyme and Sachs, Well, to see Sachs, at least. The other two gave formal nods and obviously wished this odd pair had never left the Big Apple.

The agreeable one was a bleary-eyed thirtyish deputy named Jesse Corn. He’d been at the crime scene earlier that morning and, with painful guilt, admitted that Garrett had gotten away with the other victim, Lydia, right in front of him. By the time Jesse had gotten over the river Ed Schaeffer was near death from the wasp attack.

One deputy offering the cool reception was Mason Germain, a short man in his early forties. Dark eyes, graying features, posture a little too perfect for a human being. His hair was slicked back and showed off ruler-straight teeth marks from the comb. He wore excessive aftershave, a cheap, musky smell. He greeted Rhyme and Sachs with a stiff, canny nod and Rhyme imagined that he was actually glad the criminalist was disabled so he wouldn’t have to shake his hand. Sachs, being a woman, was entitled to only a condescending “Miss.”

Lucy Kerr was the third senior deputy and she wasn’t any happier to see the visitors than Mason was. She was a tall woman—just a bit shorter than willowy Sachs. Trim and athletic-looking with a long, pretty face. Mason’s uniform was wrinkled and smudged but Lucy’s was perfectly ironed. Her blond hair was done up in a taut French braid. You could easily picture her as a model for L.L. Bean or Lands’ End—in boots, denim and a down vest.

Rhyme knew that their cold shoulders would be an automatic reaction to interloping cops (especially a crip and a woman—and Northerners, no less). But he had no interest in winning them over. The kidnapper would be harder to find with every passing minute. And he had a date with a surgeon he absolutely was not going to miss.

A solidly built man—the only black deputy Rhyme had seen—wheeled in a large chalkboard and unfolded a map of Paquenoke County.

“Tape it up there, Trey.” Bell pointed to the wall. Rhyme scanned the map. It was a good one, very detailed.

Rhyme said, “Now. Tell me exactly what happened. Start with the first victim.”

“Mary Beth McConnell,” Bell said. “She’s twenty-three. A grad student over at the campus at Avery.

“Go on. What happened yesterday?”

Mason said, “Well, it was pretty early. Mary Beth was—”

“Could you be more specific?” Rhyme asked. “About the time?”