He could already hear sirens. The local police chief had not minded the FBI intervention. Sally had been taken from her home in Maryland, and they were now in Virginia. Mark had been confident about the Krewe and the certainty they would find Sally, and the police chief acknowledged that what few clues they had led to Virginia, so he had been happy to agree to their handling of the case.

Mark hurried to the young woman, feeling for a pulse. It was there—weak, but steady.

“Sally,” he said softly.

Red whined and gave her a sloppy lick.

Sally opened her eyes, screaming hysterically and edging up against the wall.

The girl had just turned twenty-four. She had large brown eyes, a tangled mane of dark hair, and a pretty face filled with fear and despair.

“Sally, Sally, it’s all right,” Mark assured her. “I’m FBI. You’re safe,” he said softly.

She stared at him at first, afraid to believe she might have been rescued. Her eyes switched from terror to mistrust. Then she started to cry. Red set his paws on the cot and whined as if also telling her it was okay. The girl threw herself against the dog, sobbing.

The local police and emergency crews had been put on alert, and they must have been near when Ragnar had put through his 911 call.

A paramedic hurried down the basement steps, followed by a county deputy.

“Sally—” Mark began.

But she threw her arms into the air and started shaking and crying and speaking in disjointed sentences that made no sense.

“Let me get her to the hospital,” the paramedic said. “Give her time. You can talk to the doctor later. They’ll get her checked out, hydrated, and sedated, and by tomorrow morning, she’ll probably make more sense.”

“Thanks,” Mark said, and turned to the deputy. “Carver ran. I’m going after him—my partner is already on him.”

The deputy nodded and Mark hurried back up the steps, Red on his heels.

“Which way, boy?” Mark asked.

Red ran to the left; Mark followed.

They were in a quiet suburban neighborhood an hour out from DC, a bedroom community for many who worked in the city. The houses were large here, with nice yards—probably costing about the same as a small apartment close in. That was the way it was. Mark was glad; neighbors were at work or in their houses. It was too early for kids to be playing outside.

Carver didn’t seem to know how to shoot very well, and the last thing they wanted was a civilian casualty.

Red suddenly veered to the right, heading into an adjacent yard. Mark took off after him. As he raced around the side of the house, he heard a shot. Then Ragnar’s voice.

“Drop it, Carver. You have nowhere to go. It’s over.”

“I’ll kill the kid or the damned stupid dog!” Carver raged.