Her uniform was soaked with sweat. The top two buttons of the white outfit were undone and the white of her bra was visible. The boy kept glancing at the rounded skin of her breasts. But she hardly cared; at the moment she wanted only to escape from the Outside, to get into some cooling shade, wherever he was taking her.

Fifteen minutes later they broke from the woods and into a clearing. In front of them was an old gristmill, surrounded by reeds, cattails, tall grass. It sat beside a stream that had largely been taken over by the swamp. One wing of the mill had burnt down. Amid the rubble stood a scorched chimney—what was called a “Sherman Monument,” after the Union general who burned houses and buildings during his march to the sea, leaving a landscape of blackened chimneys behind him.

Garrett led her into the front part of the mill, the portion that had been untouched by the fire. He pushed her through the doorway and swung the heavy oak door shut, bolted it. For a long moment he stood listening. When he seemed satisfied that no one was following he handed her another bottle of water. She fought the urge to gulp down the whole container. She filled her mouth, let it sit, feeling the sting against her parched mouth, then swallowed slowly.

When she finished he took the bottle away from her, untaped her hands and retaped them behind her back. “You have to do that?” she asked angrily.

He rolled his eyes at the foolishness of the question. He eased her to the floor. “Sit there and keep your goddamn mouth shut.” Garrett sat against the opposite wall and closed his eyes. Lydia cocked her head toward the window and listened for the sounds of helicopters or swamp boats or the baying of the search party’s dogs. But she heard only Garrett’s breathing, which she decided in her despair was really the sound of God Himself abandoning her.

… chapter ten

A figure appeared in the doorway, accompanying Jim Bell.

He was a man in his fifties, thinning hair and a round, distinguished face. A blue blazer was over his arm and his white shirt was perfectly pressed and heavily starched though darkened with sweat stains under the arms. A striped tie was stuck in place with a bar.

Rhyme had thought this might be Henry Davett but the criminalist’s eyes were one aspect of his physical body that had come through his accident unscathed—his vision was perfect—and he read the monogram on the man’s tie bar from ten feet away: WWJD.

William? Walter? Wayne?

Rhyme didn’t have a clue who he might be.

The man looked at Rhyme, squinted appraisingly and nodded. Then Jim Bell said, “Henry, I’d like you to meet Lincoln Rhyme.”