She walked to the jar, looked down at it carefully. She said to Rhyme, “There’s a jar full of wasps. I think it’s his safe.”

“Why?”

“It’s nowhere near the other jars. He never looks at it—I can tell by the tracks of the chair. And all the other jars have water in them—they’re aquatic bugs. This’s the only one with flying insects. It’s a great idea, Rhyme—who’d reach inside something like that? And there’s about a foot of shredded paper on the bottom. I’d think he’s buried something in there.”

“Look inside and see.”

She opened the door and asked Mrs. Babbage for a pair of leather gloves. When she brought them she found Sachs looking into the wasp jar.

“You’re not going to touch that, are you?” she asked in a desperate whisper.

“Yes.”

“Oh, Garrett’ll have a fit. He yells at anyone who ever touches his wasp jar.”

“Mrs. Babbage, Garrett’s a fleeing felon. Him yelling at anybody isn’t really a concern here.”

“But if he sneaks back and sees you bothered it … I mean … It could push him over the edge.” Again, tears threatened.

“We’ll find him before he comes back,” Sachs said in a reassuring tone. “Don’t worry.”

Sachs put on the gloves, and she wrapped a pillowcase around her bare arm. Slowly she eased the mesh lid off and reached inside. Two wasps landed on the glove but flew off a moment later. The rest just ignored the intrusion. She was careful not to disturb the nest.

Stung 137 times …

She dug only a few inches before she found the plastic bag.

“Gotcha.” She pulled it out. One wasp escaped and disappeared into the house before she got the mesh lid back on.

Pulling off the leather gloves and putting on the latex. She opened the bag and spilled the contents out on the bed. A spool of thin fishing line. Some money—about a hundred dollars in cash and four Eisenhower silver dollars. Another picture frame; this one held the photo from the newspaper of Garrett and his family, a week before the car accident that killed his parents and sister. On a short chain was an old, battered key—like a car key, though there was no logo on the head; only a short serial number. She told Rhyme about this.

“Good, Sachs. Excellent. I don’t know what it means yet but it’s a start. Now get over to the primary scene. Blackwater Landing.”

Sachs paused and looked around the room. The wasp that had escaped had returned and was trying to get back into the jar. She wondered what kind of message it was sending to its fellow insects.

“I can’t keep up,” Lydia told Garrett. “I can’t go this fast,” she gasped. Sweat streaming down her face. Her uniform was drenched.