“Stands for ‘What Would Jesus Do?’ That’s what all those good Christians ’round here ask themselves when they’re facing a big decision. I myself don’t have a clue what He’d do in a case like this. But I’ll tell you what I’m doing: calling up Lucy and your friend and gettin’ ’em on Garrett’s trail.”

“Stone Creek?” Jesse Corn said after Sachs had relayed Rhyme’s message to the search party. The deputy pointed. “A half mile that way.”

He started through the brush, followed by Lucy and Amelia. Ned Spoto was in the rear, his pale eyes scanning the surroundings uneasily.

In five minutes they broke out of the tangle and stepped onto a well-trod path. Jesse motioned them along it, to the right—east.

“This is the path?” Sachs asked Lucy. “The one you thought he’d gone down?”

“That’s right,” Lucy responded.

“You were right,” Sachs said quietly, for her ears only. “But we still had to wait.”

“No, you had to show who was in charge,” Lucy said brusquely.

That’s absolutely right, Sachs thought. Then added: “But now we know there’s probably a bomb on the trail. We didn’t know that before.”

“I would’ve been looking for traps anyway.” Lucy fell silent and she continued along the path, eyes fixed on the ground, proving that she would, in fact, have been looking.

In ten minutes they came to Stone Creek, its water milky and frothing with pollutant suds. On the bank they found two sets of footprints—sneaker prints in a small size, but deep, probably left by a heavyset woman. Lydia, undoubtedly. And a man’s bare feet. Garrett had apparently discarded his remaining shoe.

“Let’s cross here,” Jesse said. “I know the pine woods that Mr. Rhyme mentioned. This’s the shortest way to get to them.”

Sachs started toward the water.

“Stop!” Jesse called abruptly.

She froze, hand on her pistol, crouching. “What’s the matter?” she asked. Lucy and Ned, snickering at her reaction, were sitting on rocks, taking off their shoes and socks.

“You get your socks wet and keep walking,” Lucy said, “you’ll be standing in need of about a dozen bandages ’fore you go a hundred yards. Blisters.”

“Don’t know much ’bout hiking, do you?” Ned asked the policewoman.

Jesse Corn gave an exasperated laugh at his fellow deputy. “’Cause she lives in the city, Ned. Just like I don’t figure you’d be an expert on subways and skyscrapers.”

Sachs ignored both the chide and the gallant defense, and pulled off her short boots and black ankle-length socks. Rolled her jeans cuffs up.

They started through the stream. The water was ice-cold and felt wonderful. She regretted when the short trek through the creek—which Jesse pronounced “crick”—was over.