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“You're suggesting I turn myself in?”

“What other way is there? We've both done what we can. Let's let the professionals put it together now. Look . . .” she said. “I think you deserve a real detective working for you, don't you agree . . . ?”

“I think you've done just fine,” I said. “But I just can't . . . There's stuff I can't tell you.”

“You have to, Dr. Steadman. We're done. I don't see any other way.”

If I told her the whole story, that the person who was trying to destroy my life also had my daughter, and it got back to the police, and they looked into locating Hallie . . . I couldn't take the risk.

“I wish I could,” I said, and looked at her. “Turn myself in. But that's not an option anymore.”

I shook my head, tears of frustration burning in my eyes. Frustration that I couldn't tell her what I knew.

“Then don't you see—then I can't help you anymore, Dr. Steadman. I'm totally in over my head as it is. I can't go on with you.” She shook her head. “I shouldn't even be here with you now . . . What I should do is . . .”

“What? Arrest me? You're not even a cop, Carrie. You're in community outreach!”

“What if I screamed, then? I could yell out who you are. I doubt you'd even make it out of this diner. You definitely wouldn't make it to the next town.”

I looked behind us, and saw there was a group of good ol' boys standing around near the entrance who, I could imagine, would just love to raise a beer one day about how they had tackled the Jacksonville killer.

“Then scream . . . Go ahead. I'm in your hands. There's your posse over there. I can see them all on the
Today
show tomorrow
 
. . .”

Carrie gave me a pleading, no-nonsense smile. “What? What is it you can't tell me? Look at what I put on the line for you.”

“I hope to think it over. In the morning. Just put in a little more—”

“So if it's a yes, you'll be at breakfast. And if it's a no—you'll be outta here.”

I shook my head. “I won't be ‘outta here' . . . You put a lot of faith in me to do what you did. I'll do the same for you. I promise.” I put up two fingers. “You have my word. I just need to run it all through one more time. Scout's honor . . .”

“Right, like you were ever a scout.” She rolled her eyes.

“Accused murderer pack. Tiny chapter.” I smiled. “Never meet in this same place . . .”

She looked at me, as if she was trying to read something on my face. How much she could trust me, how much faith to put in me.

“What was it that made you believe me?” I asked her. I moved my hands close to hers. “You had no reason to look for that car. I'm damn sure no one else there would have. What was it?”

“Something you said.” She cleared her throat. “Seems kind of stupid now. In light of everything.”

“Try me.”

She shook her head. “I'll tell you,” she said, the twinkling disappearing in her eye, “after we turn you in and they dismiss your case.
Deal?
”

“I guess trust is a two-way street. Takes more than a single bowl of turkey okra, huh?”

“Guess so.”

I stood up and left some bills. I smiled and put up the same two fingers. “See you in the morning. Either way.”

“Are you in the motel?” she asked me.

I shook my head. “No. Lexus.”

Chapter Forty-Six

J
ames Fellows sat in his padded chair, smoking, long after his wife, Ida, had gone up to bed. And long after he normally would have gone up as well.

He was thinking about the two visits he'd gotten today. One, from that pretty gal who worked for the Jacksonville police. The other . . . he didn't know who the other one really was. Just that he wasn't no claims adjuster. Of that much, he was sure.

Both of them looking into the same set of plates.

Truth was, he didn't have a clue where they'd ended up. (Though now, after he had seen the picture the woman had brought, maybe he had some idea.)

He surely didn't want to find himself drawn into some kind of investigation. Hell, these days, he didn't much like even showing his face in town if it wasn't totally necessary.

Any more than he liked covering up for someone else's trouble.

But he was also the kind of man who stood by his friends. He didn't know just what had been done, but it must be of some matter, he reckoned, if people had come here all the way from out of state.

And he always knew, if there was a fellow who was capable of something, well, the man who drove a car like that, or at least, his daughter's car, he was it. He'd always been kind of a lit fuse. Not one to hold his liquor well. And now, with what had gone on with Amanda, who could even blame him.

Still, it was one thing when they worked together, something else, given what happened, now . . .

Fellows picked up his phone and called. The man's cell phone, the only number Fellows now had. Anyway, this hour, he'd no doubt be asleep himself.

He answered on the third ring, not sounding sleepy at all.

“It's Buck,” James Fellows said. “Hope I'm not disturbing you none. Just giving you a friendly heads-up. You been driving your daughter's car around? Down in Florida maybe?”

Vance remained silent for a while before he answered. “Why you asking?”

“These people were up here looking for a license plate.
My
license plate, in fact. And they seemed to have seen your car. Or
hers
. . .” Fellows laughed darkly. “Seems you got yourself in a lick of trouble, huh, partner?”

Chapter Forty-Seven

I
t was hard to sleep that night. Carrie was kind enough to get me a room so I didn't have to sleep in the car, or show my face again at the front desk, and I lay awake in the spartan motel room, long after
Letterman
and
Craig Ferguson
had ended, hating how I'd had to hold back what was really going on from the one person I actually trusted, and slowly coming to the conclusion that there was no other choice now, at least no better one, than to put myself in her hands and turn myself in.

I was scared to death of what this might mean for Hallie.

But with Fellows's license plate no longer a lead to follow, maybe there was no other way.

And Liz wasn't going to go on blindly trusting me forever.

Tomorrow I could be in the hands of the police. How could I ever trust that they would act in Hallie's best interests after how they'd already acted to me?

I tossed and turned, feeling like I was hanging my own daughter over a cliff. I had found the source of the license plates and it led nowhere. I had nowhere left to go.

I sat up against the pillow and racked my brain for maybe the thousandth time trying to figure out who had a reason to do this to me.

Certainly Marv didn't. My shares in the clinics didn't even revert to him if anything happened to me. Anyway, he was like an uncle to Hallie. And as Carrie noted, it wasn't like someone was trying to kill me anyway.

In fact, I seemed to be the only one this bastard seemed intent on
not
killing!

I knew I wasn't perfect. I'd played around a bit and screwed up my marriage. Maybe I'd gone for the bucks a bit in my practice instead of devoting myself to saving lives. But I had tried to do good for people. I gave my time and energy and built up a pretty good life. And I was a good dad.
Who could want to cause me such suffering?

Who could take innocent lives and end them so coldly, just to hurt me?

I was scared. Scared of the decision I had to make. Scared of what might happen. If I told her . . . if I let Carrie know about the abduction . . .

Maybe I should just go. In the morning. Not put this one on her. But where . . . ?

Teeming with frustration, I took out my iPad, logged onto MapQuest, and called up the town of Blackville, South Carolina, where we currently were.

The only thing that
did
make sense to me was that whoever was doing this at some point had to have had some contact with James Fellows.

I looked at all the surrounding towns around Blackville. Bamberg. Denmark. Williston. Places I'd never heard of. Perry. Barnwell.

Of course, this person didn't have to have been anyone I might have met. He could be a hired hand. An accomplice. He could live anywhere. I enlarged the map to a wider radius.

Suddenly my eyes focused on something.

Not exactly a “eureka!” moment at first. More like a faint throbbing deep in my memory. I had to clear my head just to narrow in on it. The town.

Acropolis.

It wasn't actually in South Carolina, but in Georgia. Just over the state line.

But I'd seen it before, that name. I just couldn't recall where.

I checked the scale: Blackville and Acropolis were maybe thirty miles apart.

You've seen this name before, Henry. You have.
Where do you know it from . . . ?

Then suddenly it hit me.

I'd seen a patient from Acropolis. In Georgia. A few weeks back. I tried to bring the guy to mind.

He was heavy. Bald on top, orange hair around the sides. Ruddy. He had come about something on his neck. Those heavy wrinkles. I pictured it. He had fallen into the memory bin of patients I'd only seen once and never saw again. He had seemed a little odd. As I recalled, I told him I could recommend something up his way,
then . . .

All of a sudden it was like a jackhammer was drilling me in the chest.

That's when Mike had called that time!

It suddenly was a “eureka!” moment.
Yes, when that guy was in the office, Mike called.
To set up our golf date at Atlantic Pines. I tried to bring it all back. Adrenaline surged through every part of me. I had told Mike I was heading up to Jacksonville to give a speech.
Did I mention a date?

I couldn't recall. But then I realized it didn't matter. I'd mentioned the Doctors Without Borders conference I was speaking at.

That was enough.
Anyone could put it together. And I'd mentioned Mike. I remembered now:

“You can e-mail me directions to your house in Avondale. . . .”

My eyes shot back to the MapQuest map again. I couldn't recall the guy's name, but I did remember his face, and a certain oddness about him. And I damn well recalled where he was from . . .

Acropolis. Georgia.

I didn't know if I was just imagining something. Or if I was fabricating it, out of sheer desperation. I didn't know this person from Adam. I'd never seen him before in my life. It made no sense.

What could he possibly hold against me?

But as I fixed on the map, clouds of doubt and uncertainty opening up in front of me, light shining through the night, I fixed on that town:

Acropolis, Georgia.

Could it be?

Chapter Forty-Eight

I
did my best to hold off until morning. I barely slept a wink.

At five-thirty I called Maryanne, my assistant.

“Maryanne—it's Henry!” I said. “I realize I'm waking you up, but this is important!”

“Dr. Steadman?”
she muttered groggily. I could hear her husband, Frank, stirring next to her, wanting to know what the hell was going on.

“Maryanne, I'm sorry to disturb you so early—but I need something from you. It's important—or I wouldn't be calling you like this . . .”

She cleared her throat and gradually gathered her wits. “What is it you need?”

Frank was probably calling the police on the other line, but I didn't care.

“You remember that guy who came in about a month ago—heavyset, bald, fuzzy reddish hair around the sides. From out of state. I can't think of his name, but he came in about his neck. Wrinkles . . .”

“Yes. I think so,” she answered. “Hofer . . .”

“I need his records, Maryanne. As soon as you can get them to me
.
I need his name and address, whatever he left, as well as his Social. And a photo. I'm pretty sure I took one while he was there. It has to be in the system. I need you to get that for me . . .”

“Sure. Of course . . .” Maryanne said. “I'll go right now.”

I could hear her already out of bed and in motion. The gears must have been turning in her mind as she mobilized herself because she suddenly asked: “You think he's involved . . . ?”

“Fast as you can, Maryanne! That's all I can say. You have no idea how much is depending on this.”

Chapter Forty-Nine

I
couldn't wait for breakfast to show Carrie what I'd found. I was far too wound up.

By 6:15, Maryanne had e-mailed me what I'd asked for. The patient's name was Vance Hofer. The address he'd left was 2919 Bain Road. In Acropolis. He'd left a Social Security number as well.

And a photo. I always took one as a “before” shot to scan into my patients' files.

And there he was! My eyes swarmed over the round, pink-complexioned face. The dull gray eyes that seemed to stare off past me with the slightest hint of a smile in them. I'd never seen him before he walked into my office that day.
Was he the one? The one doing this to me?
What possible motive could he have to want to harm me?

Excited, I knocked on Carrie's door with the iPad at a quarter of seven. She opened it just a crack, a towel wrapped around her. “Okay, you're still here,” she said. “I can see that. Can you give me a couple of minutes, though? I'm dressing . . .”

“Carrie,” I said excitedly, “I think I know who it is!”

The door edged open wider. Her hair was still wet from the shower.

“Something hit me during the night. I just received a file back from my office. A patient's file. I need to show it to you.”

“I shouldn't be more than a minute or two, okay . . . ?”

Seconds later Carrie opened her door.

She was in a baby-blue Gator basketball warm-up T-shirt over jeans, her hair combed out a little. A bunch of clothes was strewn all over the second bed. No makeup. If I had been there for any purpose other than to save my daughter's life, I might have thought she looked totally adorable.

“What are you talking about, Dr. Steadman?”

I told her how it came to me during the night, this town where a patient of mine had come from: Acropolis, Georgia. Not a patient actually, a prospective one, and how I'd just bumped into the name kind of randomly as I searched through MapQuest. How he'd been in my office a couple of weeks back at the same time as Mike happened to call about my trip.

I opened the iPad, and showed her what Maryanne had sent me.

“Vance Hofer . . .” Carrie muttered to herself. “Acropolis. I don't understand, what's his connection to you?”

“There is no connection!” I sank onto the bed across from her. “At least none I can identify. Only that you asked last night if I knew anyone from around here and then I saw this town on the map where he said he was from, and it's only about thirty miles from here. And then it hit me that he happened to be in my office the day Mike called in. I took the call while he was sitting right there in front of me. And I'm certain I mentioned the conference I was going to and about playing golf; I'm not sure, but I may even have mentioned Atlantic Pines . . . And I even think I told Mike to e-mail me his address in Avondale . . . I'm sorry”—I could barely hold myself together—“but I'm not really into coincidences right about now . . .”

More seemed to fit together the more I recalled.

“Go on,” Carrie urged.

“I remember him being kind of odd . . . I don't know . . .” I got up, my blood racing, like I was on speed. “I can't exactly put my finger on it. Just not my usual kind of patient. He came in about some rhytid tissue on his neck. Heavy wrinkling. I told him what I could do. I even told him I could recommend someone closer to his home if he wanted. That's why I recall where he was from.” I stopped pacing. “I never heard back from him.

“But it all kind of fits. It's the
only
thing that has fit! I don't know what his connection to me is, or any motive, only that he was there! He heard all those things on the phone. And he's from fucking
here
 
. . .”

Carrie nodded, slowly at first. I wasn't sure she was totally buying it.

I told her, “I'm thinking we can take this back to Fellows and see if he knows him . . . ?”

Then she looked up at me, blue eyes beaming, resolute. “I'm thinking I can do you one a whole lot better than that.”

She grabbed her cell and found a number on her speed dial, and I sat on the bed, expectantly. The person picked up.

“Jack
—
I need you to look someone up for me,” Carrie said, cutting right to the chase, “and I don't want to have to tell you why, or how come the JSO isn't able to do it for me. I just need you to do this for me—no questions asked. Okay? If it's what I think. . . .”

She stopped herself, and looked at me, one knee curled to the side, like a yoga position. “If it's what I think it is, I may have a headline here for you.”

She waited, seeming to gird herself for the barrage she was anticipating.

“I know. I know.
I know all that, Jack . . .”
After a pause, she exhaled with exasperation. “I can't tell you that, Jack. And I can't tell you where I am either. Only . . . Just write this down, okay?” She spelled out Hofer's name. And his address. And she gave him his SSN. I heard a trace of excitement in her voice. I knew she was putting herself out on a line. This wasn't exactly part of the community outreach routine.

My blood throbbed with the certainty that we were finally getting close to the truth.

“Just e-mail what you have back to me as soon as you have it. Whatever you can find on him. With a special emphasis on anything that might have caused him to become violent, okay? That's not important,” she said. Then, in answer to another question: “That's not important either. You just have to trust me on this. Like ol' times . . . And, Jack . . .” She waited. “This is important. This has to stay one hundred percent between us, okay? I need your promise on that.” She nodded. “Thank you, Jack. And I will be careful. I promise . . .”

Carrie hung up and looked over to me, a crooked, little girl's smile conveying,
I hope that was smart.
That this was terrain she had never been down before.

Neither had I, for that matter.

“Someone you work with?” I asked curiously. “At the sheriff's office.”

“Brother.” She shook her head. “At the FBI.”