Sachs was thinking about Nick, her former boyfriend. How, when he was arrested for hijacking and taking kickbacks, he refused a plea and took the risk of a jury trial. He said to her, “It’s like what your old man said, Aimee—when you move they can’t get you. It’s all or nothing.”

It took the jury eighteen minutes to convict him. He was still in a New York prison.

She looked at the smooth-cheeked Geberth. She asked, “What’s the prosecutor offering for the plea?”

“Nothing yet. But he’ll probably accept voluntary manslaughter—if you do hard time. I’d guess eight, ten years. I have to tell you, though, that in North Carolina it’ll be hard time. No country clubs here.”

Rhyme grumbled, “Versus a fifteen percent chance of acquittal.”

Geberth said, “That’s right.” Then the lawyer added, “You have to understand that there aren’t going to be any miracles here, Amelia. If we go to trial the prosecutor’s going to prove that you’re a professional law enforcer and a champion marksman and the jury’s going to have trouble buying that the shooting was accidental.”

Normal rules don’t apply to anybody north of the Paquo. Us or them. You can see yourself shooting before you read anybody their rights and that’d be perfectly all right.

The lawyer said, “If that happens they could convict you of murder one and you’ll get twenty-five years.”

“Or the death penalty,” she muttered.

“Yes, that’s a possibility. I can’t tell you it isn’t.”

For some reason the image that came into her mind at this moment was of the peregrine falcons that nested outside of Lincoln Rhyme’s window in his Manhattan town house: the male and the female and the young hawk. She said, “If I plead to involuntary how much time will I do?”

“Probably six, seven years. No parole.”

You and me, Rhyme.

She inhaled deeply. “I’ll plead.”

“Sachs—” Rhyme began.

But she repeated to Geberth, “I’ll plead.”

The lawyer rose. He nodded. “I’ll call the prosecutor right now, see if he’ll accept it. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything.” With a nod at Rhyme the lawyer left the room.

Mason glanced at Sachs’s face. He stood and walked to the door, his boots tapping loudly. “I’ll leave you two for a few minutes. I don’t have to search you, do I, Lincoln?”

Rhyme smiled wanly. “I’m weapon-free, Mason.”

The door swung shut.

“What a mess, Lincoln,” she said.

“Uh-uh, Sachs. No first names.”

“Why not?” she asked cynically, nearly a whisper. “Bad luck?”

“Maybe.”

“You’re not superstitious. Or so you’re always telling me.”

“Not usually. But this is a spooky place.”

Tanner’s Corner…. The town with no children.