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  person for his help and then slammed down the phone. The veteran FBI agent jumped out of his chair and yelled "Fucking bingo!" to the empty room. Under the circumstances, Sawyer's excitement was quite natural.

  Quentin Rowe was also a 1984 graduate of Columbia University.

  And, far more importantly, Steven Page and Quentin Rowe had shared the same residence during their last two years in college.

  When it occurred to Sawyer a few seconds later why the two guys in sunglasses on the videotape looked so familiar, his happiness quickly faded into complete disbelief. There was just no damned way. But, yes, it did make sense. Particularly if you looked at it for what it was: a performance, all a sham. He picked up the phone. He had to find Sidney Archer as fast as possible and he knew where he wanted to start looking..Jesus, Joseph, Mary, has this case just taken one big U-turn, he thought.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Traveling in a rental car, Mrs. Patterson and Amy were on their way to Boston, where they would stay for a few days. Despite arguing about it until the early morning hours, Sidney had been unable to persuade her father to accompany them. He had sat up all night in the motel room cleaning every speck of dirt and grit from his Remington twelve-gauge, his jaw clenched tight and his eyes staring straight ahead as Sidney had marched back and forth in front of him pleading her case.

  "You know you really are impossible, Dad!" She said this as they were heading back toward Bell Harbor in her father's car; the battered Land Rover had been towed to a service shop for repairs. She breathed a quiet sigh of relief, though, as she leaned back against the seat. Right now she didn't want to be alone.

  Her father looked stubbornly out the window. Whoever was after his daughter would have to kill him in order to get to her. Ghosts and bogeymen beware: Papa was back.

  The white van trailing them was a good half mile behind and yet had no trouble mirroring the Cadillac's movements. One of the eight men in the van was not in particularly high spirits. "First you let Archer send an e-mail and then you let his wife get away. I can't believe this shit." Richard Lucas shook his head and angrily eyed Kenneth Scales, who sat beside him. His mouth and forearm were heavily bandaged and his nose, although reset by his own hands, was crimson-red and swollen.

  Scales looked over at Lucas. "Believe it." The low voice coming through the damaged mouth carried with it enough pure menace to make even the tough-as-nails Lucas blink and quickly change tack.

  Triton's internal security chief hunched forward in his seat. "All right, no good talking about what's past," he said hurriedly.

  "Jeff Fisher, the computer guy from Tyler, Stone, had a copy of the contents of the disk on his hard drive. The file directory on Fisher's computer shows that it was accessed at the same time he was in the bar. He must've gotten another copy that way. Smart little sonofabitch.

  We had a few words with the waitress from the bar last night. She gave Fisher a certified-mail envelope addressed to Bill Patterson, Bell Harbor, Maine, Sidney Archer's father. It's on its way here, that's for sure, and above all else, we've got to get it. Understood?"

  The six other grim-faced men in the van nodded. Each sported a tattoo of a star with an arrow through it on the back of his hand, the insignia of a veteran mercenary group to which they all belonged--a group that had been formed from the vast dregs of the defunct Cold War. As a former CIA operative, Lucas had found it easy to rekindle the old ties with the allure of U.S. dollars. "We'll let Patterson pick up the package, wait for them to get to an isolated area and then we hit them, hard and fast." He looked around. "A million-dollar bonus per man when we get it." The men's eyes gleamed. Then Lucas looked over at the seventh man. "Do you understand, Scales?"

  Kenneth Scales didn't look at him. He pulled out his knife and pointed the tip toward the front of the van and spoke slowly through his wounded mouth. "You can get the disk. I'll take care of the lady.

  And I'll throw in her old man for no extra charge."

  "First the package, then you can do whatever the hell you want," Lucas said angrily. Scales didn't answer him. His eyes stared straight ahead. Lucas started to speak again and then thought better of it. He sat back and put one hand nervously through his thinning hair.

  During the twenty minutes it took to drive to Alexandria, Jackson tried Fisher's number three times from the car phone, but there was no answer.

  "So you think this guy was helping Sidney with the password?"

  Jackson watched the Potomac River meandering by as they scooted down the GW Parkway.

  Sawyer glanced over at him. "According to the surveillance log, Sidney Archer came here the night of the murders at Tyler, Stone. I checked with them. Fisher is Tyler, Stone's resident computer geek."

  "Yeah, but it looks like the gent's not at home."

  "Lotta things in one's home that may help us out, Ray."

  "I don't recall that we have a search warrant, Lee."

  Sawyer turned off Washington Street and shot through the heart of Old Town Alexandria. "Details, Ray, you always get hung up on the details." Jackson snorted and fell silent.

  They pulled to a stop in front of Fisher's townhouse, got out and quickly headed up the steps. A young woman, her dark hair blowing in the whirling snow, called to them as she got out of her car.

  "He's not home."

  Sawyer looked back at her. "You wouldn't happen to know where he is, would you?" He walked down the steps and over to the woman, who was hauling a couple of grocery bags out of her car.

  Sawyer helped her and then held out his official credentials. Jackson did likewise.

  The woman looked confused. "FBI? I didn't think they called in the FBI for burglary."

  "Burglary, Ms .... ?"

  "Oh, I'm sorry--Amanda, Amanda Reynolds. We've lived here for about two years and it's the first time we had the police on the block. They stole all of Jeff's computer equipment."

  "You've already talked to the police, I take it?"

  She looked sheepish. "We moved down from New York City.

  There, you don't chain your car to an anchor it's gone in the morning. You're on your guard. Here?" She shook her head. "Still, I feel like an idiot. I thought for sure it was all on the up and up. I just didn't think stuff like that happened in an area like this."

  "Have you seen Mr. Fisher recently?"

  The woman's brow wilted into furrows. "Oh, three or four days ago, at least. So miserable outside this time of the year, everyone stays indoors."

  They thanked her and drove over to the Alexandria Police Station.

  When they inquired about the burglary at Jeff Fisher's house, the desk sergeant punched some keys on his computer.

  "Yeah, that's right. Fisher. In fact, I was on duty the night they brought him in." The desk sergeant stared at the screen, scrolling down some of the text with his skinny fingers while Sawyer and Jackson exchanged puzzled looks. "Came in on a reckless endangerment spewing this story about some guys following him. We thought he'd had a few too many. Did a sobriety test; he wasn't drunk but he reeked of beer. Kept him overnight just to be sure, he posted bail the next day, got his court date and left."

  Sawyer stared at the man. "You're saying Jeff Fisher was arrested?"

  "That's right."

  "And the next day his home was burglarized?"

  The desk sergeant nodded his head and leaned against the counter. "Quite a run of bad luck, I'd say."

  "Did he describe the people following him?" Sawyer asked.

  The sergeant looked at the FBI agent as if he wanted to smell his breath as well. "There wasn't anybody following him."

  "You're sure?"

  The sergeant rolled his eyes and smiled.

  "Okay, you said he wasn't drunk and yet you kept him overnight?" Sawyer put his hands on the counter.

  "Well, you know some of these folks, those tests don't work on them. Down a twelve-pack and the breathalyzer comes back a point-oh-one.

  Fisher was driving crazy and acting drunk, anyway. We thought
it best to keep him overnight. If he was intoxicated, he could at least sleep it off."

  "And he didn't object?"

  "Hell, no, said he'd never spent a night in jail before. Thought it might be refreshing." The sergeant shook his bald head. "Doesn't that take the cake? Refreshing, my ass!"

  "You don't have any idea where he is now?"

  "Hell, we couldn't even find him to tell him his place was broken into. Like I said, he posted his bail and got his court date. Only gets to be my concern if he doesn't show."

  "Anything else you can think of?" Sawyer's face was full of disappointment.

  The sergeant drummed his fingers on the counter, staring off into space. Finally Sawyer looked at Jackson and they started to leave.

  "Well, thanks for your help."

  They were halfway to the door before the man broke out of his trance. "The guy gave me a package to mail for him, can you believe that crap? I mean, I know I wear a uniform, but do I look like a mailman?"

  "A package?" Sawyer and Jackson bolted back to the counter.

  The sergeant was shaking his head as he recalled the event. "I tell him he can make a phone call and he says, before he does that could I just pretty please drop this in the mail chute for him? Postage is already on it, he says. He'd really appreciate it." The sergeant laughed.

  Sawyer stared at the man. "The package---did you mail it?"

  The sergeant stopped chuckling and blinked at Sawyer. "What?

  Yeah, ! put it in that chute right over there. I mean, it wasn't any trouble. I figured I'd help the guy out."

  "What'd it look like? The package?"

  "Well, it wasn't a letter. It was in one of those brown puffy packages, you know."

  "The ones with the bubble packing inside," Jackson suggested.

  The sergeant pointed at him. "That's right, I could feel it through the outside."

  "How big was it?"

  "Oh, well, not big, about yea wide and yea long." The sergeant made an eight-by-six-inch shape with his bony hands. "It was going first-class mail, return receipt requested."

  Sawyer again put both hands flat on the counter and looked across at him, his heart racing at a fever pitch. "Do you remember the address on the package? Who it was sent from or going to?"

  Again the man resumed his drumming. "Don't remember who sent it; just assumed it was Fisher. But it was going up to, uh, Maine, that's right. Maine. I know because the wife and I just went up in that part of the country, fall a year ago. If you ever get a chance, you should go, absolutely breathtaking. You'll wear out your Kodak, that's for darn sure."

  "Where in Maine?" Sawyer was trying his best to be patient.

  The man shook his head. "Something Harbor, I think," he finally said.

  Sawyer's hopes plummeted. Off the top of his head he could think of at least a half dozen towns in Maine with that word in the name.

  "Come on, think!"

  The sergeant's eyes popped wide open. "Were there drugs in that package? That Fisher fellow a dealer? I thought something was funny. That why the Feds are interested?"

  Sawyer shook his head wearily. "No, no, it's nothing like that.

  Look, do you at least remember who it was sent to?"

  The man thought for another minute and then shook his head.

  "I'm sorry, fellows, I just don't."

  Jackson said, "How about Archer? Was it going to anyone with that last name?"

  "Nope, I'd remember that one. One of the deputies here has that last name."

  Jackson handed him his card. "Well, if you think of anything else, anything, give us a call immediately. It's very important."

  "I'll sure do that. Right away. Count on it."

  Jackson touched Sawyer on the sleeve. "Let's go, Lee."

  They headed toward the exit. The sergeant went back to his work.

  Suddenly Sawyer whirled around, his thick finger pointing across the room like a pistol directly at the sergeant, the vision of a MAINE

  VACATIONLAND bumper sticker on a Cadillac firmly planted in his mind. "Patterson!"

  The sergeant looked up, startled.

  "Was it going to someone named Patterson in Maine?" Sawyer asked.

  The sergeant brightened and then snapped his fingers again.

  "That's right. Bill Patterson." His smile was cut short as he watched the two FBI agents sprint out of the police station.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Bill Patterson looked over at his daughter as they drove through the snow-covered streets. The snow had grown much heavier in the last half hour. "So you're saying this guy from your off'ice was supposed to send a package up to me to hold for you? A copy of something on a computer disk Jason sent you?" Sidney nodded. "But you don't know what it is?"

  "It's in code, Dad. I have the password now, but I had to wait for the package."

  "But it never came? You're sure?"

  Sidney sounded exasperated. "I called FedEx. They have no record of the package being picked up. Then I called his house and the police answered. Oh, God." Sidney shuddered as she thought of Jeff Fisher's possible fate. "If anything's happened to Jeff..."

  "Well, have you tried your answering machine at home? He might have called and left a message."

  Sidney's mouth dropped open at the brilliant simplicity of her father's suggestion. "Christ! Why didn't I think of that?"

  "Because you've been running for your life the last two days, that's why." Her father's voice was gruff. He reached down and gripped the shotgun that lay on the floorboard.

  Sidney pulled the Cadillac into a gas station and stopped near a phone booth. She ran over to the phone. The snow was pouring down so fast she didn't notice the white van that drove past the station, turned down a side road, made a U-turn and awaited her return to the highway.

  Sidney punched in her calling card and phone numbers. It seemed an eternity before the machine picked up. There was a slew of messages.

  From her brothers, other family members, friends who had seen the news and called with questions, outrage, support. She waited with growing impatience as the messages plodded on. Then she sucked in her breath as the sound of a familiar voice reached her ears.

  "Hello, Sidney, this is your Uncle George. Martha and I are up in Canada this week. Enjoying it very much, although it's very cold. I sent your and Amy's Christmas presents early like I said I would.

  But it's coming in the mail instead because we missed the damn Federal Express and didn't want to wait. Be on the lookout for it.

  We sent it first-class, certified mail so you have to sign for it. I hope it's what you wanted. We love you very much and look forward to seeing you soon. Kiss Amy for us."

  Sidney slowly put the phone down. She didn't have an Uncle George or an Aunt Martha, but there was no mystery about the phone call. Jeff Fisher had impersonated the voice of an old man pretty well. Sidney raced back to the car and got in.

  Her father looked sharply at her. "Did he call?"

  Sidney nodded as she gunned the car and drove off with a squeal of tires, throwing her father back against the seat. "Where the hell are we going so damned fast?"

  "The post office."

  The Bell Harbor Post Office was located in the middle of the town center, its United States flag whipping back and forth in the punishing wind. Sidney pulled up to the curb and her father jumped out. He went in and then came out again a couple of minutes later, ducking his head to get back in the car. He was empty-handed. "The day's mail shipment isn't in yet."

  Sidney stared at him. "You're sure?"

  He nodded. "Jerome's been the postmaster up here ever since I can remember. He said to check back around six. He'll stay open for us. You know, it may not be in today's bundle if Fisher only mailed it two days ago."

  Sidney banged the steering wheel fiercely with both hands before laying her head wearily down on it. Her father put a big hand gently on her shoulder. "Sidney, it'll get here eventually. I just hope whatever's on that disk will clear up this nightmare."