"Right." He nodded. "What's it mean, 'Passover'?"

"When the firstborn of the Egyptians were killed, God 'passed over' the Jews' houses. He spared their sons."

"Oh. I thought it meant like you passed over a border to safety or something. Like the Red Sea."

Roth laughed. "Yeah, that makes sense."

"Anyway. Sorry I didn't wish you a happy holiday."

"I appreciate that, Andrew." Then he looked into the man's eyes. "If things work out the way I'm hoping they will, maybe you and your wife could come to our Seder next year. That's a dinner, a celebration. We have about fifteen people. They're not all Jewish. It's a good time."

"You can consider that invitation accepted." The men shook hands. "All the more incentive to get me out of here. So let's get to work. Tell me about the charges again and what you think we can get Grady to agree to." Constable stretched.

Felt good to have his hands in front of him and the shackles off his ankles. He felt so good, in fact, that he actually found it amusing to hear his lawyer recite the laundry list of reasons why the people of the state of New York found him unfit for social relations. This monologue was interrupted, though, a moment later when the guard came to the door. He motioned Roth outside.

When he returned the lawyer looked troubled and said, "We're supposed to sit tight here for a bit. Weir's escaped."

"No! Is Grady safe?"

"I don't know. I assume he's got guards looking out for him."

The prisoner sighed in disgust. "You know who's going to come off the heavy? Me, that's who. I've had it. I'm just sick and tired of this crap. I'm going to find out where Weir is and what he's up to."

"You? How?"

"I'll have everybody I can muster up in Canton Falls track down Jeddy Barnes. Maybe they can convince him to let us know where Weir is and what he's doing."

"Hold on, Andrew," Roth said uneasily. "Nothing illegal up there."

"No. I'll make sure of that."

"I'm sure Grady'll appreciate it."

"Between you and me, Joe, I don't give a rat's ass about Grady. This's for me. Giving 'em Weir and Jeddy's head on a platter-I do that and maybe at last everybody'll believe I'm on the up-and-up. Now let's make some phone calls and get to the bottom of this mess."

Chapter Thirty-eight.

Hobbs Wentworth didn't get away from Canton Falls very often.

Dressed like a janitor, wheeling a cart containing push brooms, mops and his "fishing gear" (that is, his Colt AR-15 semiautomatic assault rifle), Hobbs Wentworth realized that life in the big city had changed quite a bit in the past twenty years, the last time he'd been here.

And he noted that everything he'd heard about the slow cancer eating away the white race was true.

Lord above our green pastures, look at this: there were more Japanese people or Chinese or something-who could tell?-than in Tokyo. And Hispanics everywhere in this part of New York City, like mosquitoes. And rag-heads too, who he didn't see why they weren't simply rounded up and shot because of the Trade Towers. A woman in one of those Moslem outfits, all covered up, was crossing the street.

He had a fast urge to kill her because she might know somebody who knew somebody who'd attacked his country.

And Indians and Pakistanis too, who should be sent back home because he couldn't understand what the fuck they were saying, not to mention they weren't Christians.

Hobbs was furious at what the government had done, opening up the borders and letting these animals inside, to gobble up the country and force decent people into little islands of safety-places like Canton Falls-which were getting smaller and smaller every day.

But God had winked at sharp-operator Hobbs Wentworth and given him the blessed role of freedom fighter. Because Jeddy Barnes and his friends knew that Hobbs had one other talent aside from teaching Bible stories to children. He killed people. And he did it very, very well. Sometimes his fishing gear was a Ka-Bar knife, sometimes a garrote, sometimes the sweet Colt, sometimes the compound bow. His dozen or so missions over the past few years had gone perfectly. A spic in Massachusetts, a leftist politician in Albany, a nigger in Burlington, a baby-killing doc in Pennsylvania.

And now he was going to add a prosecutor to his list. He pushed the cart through the nearly empty underground parking garage off Center Street and paused at one of the doors, waiting. Looking apathetic about starting his night shift as a janitor. After a few minutes the door opened and he nodded pleasantly at the woman stepping out of the downstairs lobby, a middle-aged woman with a briefcase, wearing jeans and a white blouse. She smiled but pulled the door shut firmly behind her and said, sorry, she couldn't let him inside, he understood, with security being what it was.

He said, sure, he understood. And smiled back.

A minute later he dumped her twitching body into the cart and pulled her ID card lanyard over her head. He slid it through the electronic reader and the door clicked open.

He now took the elevator to the third floor, rolling the cart in front of him, the woman's body obscured by wads of garbage bags. Hobbs found the office that Mr. Weir had decided would be the best one to use. It offered a good view of the street and, since it belonged to the Department of Highway Statistics, wasn't likely to have any emergencies that would require employees to be here on Sunday evening. The door was locked but the big man simply kicked his way inside (Mr. Weir had said there wasn't time to teach him how to pick locks).

Inside, Hobbs took his gun from the cart, mounted the scope and sighted on the street below. A perfect shooting blind. He couldn't miss. Truth be told, though, he was uneasy.

It wasn't actually bagging Grady that troubled him; he could easily catch that trophy, no problem. It was getting away afterward that had him somewhat concerned. He liked his life in Canton Falls, liked telling his Bible stories to the children, liked hunting and fishing and sitting around with all his likeminded friends. Even Cindy was fun on some nights, given the right lighting and a bit of liquor.

But Magic Man Weir's plan had made provisions for his escape. When Grady appeared Hobbs would shoot five rounds, one right after the other, at him through the sealed window. The first bullet would shatter the glass and might be deflected but the rest would kill the prosecutor. Then, Mr. Weir explained, Hobbs should push open a fire door-but not actually leave that way. It would "misdirect" the police into thinking that was his escape route. Instead he should return to the parking garage. He'd move the old Dodge in a handicapped spot and climb into the trunk. At some point-possibly that night but more likely tomorrow-the car'd be towed to the parking-violations impound garage.

The towing crews were prohibited from opening either the locked doors or the trunk of cars they were towing and so they'd take the car to the garage, driving right past any barricades, without a clue that it contained a passenger. When it seemed safe Hobbs would pop the trunk from the inside and escape back to Canton Falls. There was plenty of water and food in the trunk and an empty jar if he had to pee.

It was a smart plan.

And, as a God-winked sharp operator, Hobbs would try his best to pull it off.

Sighting on random passersby to get a feel for the killing field, Hobbs reflected that Mr. Weir must put on some damn fine magic shows. He wondered if, after this was all over, he could get the man to come back to Canton Falls and put on a show for the Sunday school.

At the very least, Hobbs decided, he'd make up some stories about Jesus being a magician and using his tricks to make the Romans and heathens disappear.

Sweating.

Chills from the cold perspiration trickling down Amelia Sachs's sides and back.

Chills from fear too.

Search well . . .

She turned down another dim corridor of the Criminal Courts building, hand near her weapon.

. . . but watch your back.

Ah, you bet, Rhyme. Love to. But watch out for who? A lean-faced fifty-something who might be wearing a beard or might not? An elderly woman in a cafeteria worker's uniform? A workman, a DOC guard, a janitor cop medic cook fireman nurse? Any one of the dozens of people who were legitimately here on a Sunday. Who, who, who?

Her radio clattered. It was Sellitto. "I'm on the third floor, Amelia. Nothing."

"I'm in the basement. I've seen a dozen people. All their IDs match but, hell, who knows if he's been planning this for weeks and planted a fake badge here."

"I'm going up to four."

They ended the transmission and she resumed the search. Down more corridors. Dozens of doors. All locked.

But of course simple locks like these meant nothing to him. He could open one in seconds and hide inside a dark storage room. He could get into a judge's chambers, hide until Monday. He could slip through one of the padlocked grates that led down to the utility tunnels, which in turn would give him access to half the buildings in downtown Manhattan, as well as the subway.

She turned a corner and plunged down another dark corridor. Testing knobs as she went, she found one door unlocked.

If he was inside the closet he would've heard her-the click of the knob, if not her footsteps-so there was nothing to do but go in fast. Shoving the door inward, flashlight up, ready to jump to her left if she saw a weapon turn her way (recalling that there's a tendency for a right-handed shooter to pull the gun to the left when panic firing, which sends the slug to the target's right).

Arthritic knees screaming at the partial crouch, she swung the halogen beam throughout the room. A few boxes and file cabinets. Nothing else. Though as she turned to leave she recalled that he'd hidden in shadows by using a simple black cloth. She looked around the room again more slowly, probing with the flashlight.

As she did she felt a touch on her neck.

A gasp and she spun around, bringing the gun up-aiming at the center of the dust-coated cobweb that had caressed her skin.

Back into the corridor.

More locked doors. More dead ends.

Footsteps approached. A man walked past her now, bald, in his sixties, dressed in a guard's uniform and wearing an appropriate ID badge. He nodded as he walked past. He was taller than Weir so she let him pass with no more than a glance.

But then she thought there might be a way for a quick-change artist to change his height.

Turning back, fast.

The man was gone; she saw only an empty corridor. Or an apparently empty corridor. She recalled again the silk the Conjurer had hidden beneath to kill Svetlana Basnikov, the mirror to kill Tony Calvert. Her body a knot of tension, she unholstered her weapon and started toward where the guard-the apparent guard-had disappeared.

Where? Where was Weir?

Trotting along Center Street, Roland Bell surveyed the landscape in front of him. Cars, trucks, hot dog vendors in front of their steaming metal carts, young people who'd been working at their perpetual-motion law firms or investment banks, others woozy from pitchers of beer at the South Street Seaport, dog walkers, shoppers, dozens of the Manhattanites who roam the streets on days beautiful and days gray simply because the city's energy draws them outside.

Where?

Bell thought much of life was like driving a nail-shooting, in his local vernacular. He'd been raised in the Albemarle Sound area of North Carolina, where guns were a necessity, not a fetish, and he'd been taught to respect them.

Part of this involved concentration. Even simple shots-at a paper target, a rattlesnake or copperhead, a deer-could go wide and dangerous if you didn't stay focused on the target.

Well, life was just like that. And Bell knew that whatever was going on inside the Tombs right now, he had to remain focused on his single job: protecting Charles Grady.

Amelia Sachs called in and reported that she was checking out every human being she could find in the Criminal Courts building, of whatever age, race or size (she'd just tracked down and ID'd a bald guard, who was far taller than Weir and looked nothing like the killer but who had only passed muster because it turned out that he'd known her late father). She'd finished one wing of the basement and was about to start on another.

Teams under Sellitto and Bo Haumann were still searching upper floors of the building, and the oddest addition of all to the hunt was none other than Andrew Constable himself, who was tracking down leads to Weir in upstate New York. Now that'd be a kick, Bell thought-if the man accused of the attempted murder in the first place turned out to be the one who found out where the real suspect was.

Looking into the cars he jogged past, looking at trucks on the street, looking down alleyways, guns ready but not drawn. Bell had decided that it made the most sense for them to hit Grady here on the street, before he entered the building, where there was a better chance of escaping alive. He doubted that these people were suicidal-that didn't fit the profile. In the moment between the time Grady parked his car and stepped out until he walked into the massive doors of the grimy Criminal Courts building the killer would go for his shot. And an easy one it would be-there was virtually no cover here.

Where was Weir?

And, just as important, where was Grady?

His wife had said he'd taken the family car, not the city one. Bell had put out an emergency vehicle locator for the prosecutor's Volvo but no one had spotted it.

Bell turned slowly, surveying the scene, revolving like a lighthouse. His eyes rose to the building across the street, a government office building, a new one, with dozens of windows facing Center Street. Bell had been involved in a brief hostage-taking in the building and he knew that it was practically deserted now, on Sunday. A perfect place to hide and wait for Grady.

But then the street would be a good vantage point too-for a drive-by, say.

Where, where?

Roland Bell recalled a time he'd gone hunting with his daddy up in the Great Dismal Swamp in southern Virginia. They'd been charged by a wild boar and his father'd winged the animal. It had disappeared into the brush. The man had sighed and said, "We gotta go git him. Can't ever leave a wounded animal."

"But he tried to attack us," the boy had protested.

"Well now, son, we walked into his world. He didn't walk into ours. But that's neither here nor there. It's not a question of fairness. It's a question of we got to find him if it takes all day. Not humane to him and now he's twice as dangerous to anybody else comes along."

Looking around them at the impossible tangle of brush and reeds and swamp grass and loblolly, stretching for miles, young Roland said, "But he could be anywhere, Dad."

His father laughed grimly. "Oh, don't worry 'bout finding him. He'll find us. Keep your thumb on that safety, son. You may have to shoot fast. You comfortable with that?"

"Yessir, I am."

Bell now made another visual circuit of the vans, the alleyways nearby, the buildings next to and across the street from the courthouse.

Nothing.

No Charles Grady.

No Erick Weir, no sign of any of the killer's confederates.

Bell tapped the butt of his gun.

Don't worry 'bout finding him. He'll find us. . . .

Chapter Thirty-nine.

"I'm doing a door-to-door, Rhyme. The last wing of the basement."

"Let ESU handle it." He found his head craning forward tensely as he spoke into the microphone.

"We need everybody," Sachs whispered. "It's a damn big building." She was in the Tombs now, working her way through the corridors. "Eerie too. Like the music school."

Mysteriouser and mysteriouser . . .