“Let’s get you to a hospital. They’ll need to check for concussion.”

“I’m okay.”

“Did you pass out?”

“A couple seconds, no more.”

“You’re not okay,” Frankie said.

She helped him along the path and across the stone bridge. The rain showed no signs of stopping. They retrieved the gun from the trail, and then Frankie helped Frost into the passenger seat of the Suburban. She went around the other side and got behind the wheel, but before she could start the engine, red lights flared ahead and behind, lighting up the park and the downpour. Silently, without sirens, four police cars surrounded her like phantoms. A dark-blue sedan joined them and pulled adjacent to the window, close enough that Frankie couldn’t open the door. She saw a severe, heavyset Hispanic woman climb out of the sedan.

“That’s my lieutenant,” Frost said. “Jess Salceda.”

“I know her,” Frankie murmured. “From last year.”

Frost lowered the passenger window. The lieutenant leaned inside, dripping rain. Her eyes acknowledged Frankie, but there was no love lost between them. Frankie knew that Salceda blamed her for Darren Newman. Then and now.

“Did you pass Newman’s car on the way in?” Frost asked.

“No.”

“We need a BOLO. He has a hostage with him.”

Salceda passed on the details to another officer, but she didn’t move from the Suburban. Her eyes shot coldly to Frankie and then back to Frost. “Lucy Hagen is gone,” she said.

“What?”

“Violet checked on her. The apartment is empty. I’m sorry, Frost, but I wanted you to know. We’ve put out a report on her, but right now, the best thing we can do is find Newman. Chances are, if we find him, we find Lucy.”

Salceda marched back to her sedan. Frankie watched Frost stare through the windshield. His face was black with shadows. He didn’t even roll up the window. Rain swept inside. The red lights of the police cars made the water shine like blood.

“Frost?” she said.

He didn’t answer.

“Are you okay?”

He still said nothing.

And then, making her jump, her phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number, but she knew who it was.

“Oh my God, what do I do?” she asked.

His voice was calm. “Answer it. Put it on speaker.”

She clicked open the speakerphone. “Hello?”

She heard breathing on the end of the phone and the noise of city traffic. He was in a car. She said again, “Hello?”

A singsong voice, as bitter as the wind, chanted to her.

“Fran-kie . . . Fran-kie.”

She tried to answer, but she couldn’t make her mouth form any words.

“Fran-kie . . .”

Chills wracked her wet body. She hissed into the phone. “Stop this, you sick son of a bitch. Stop playing this game.”

He didn’t answer; he simply breathed. And then he said with an odd, childish giggle, “Game’s almost done . . . game’s almost done.”