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  Their eyes met, and he saw his death in hers. She saw a cold, dark intelligence in his, an awareness that went beyond the moment, as if he knew her down to her soul. There was a flash of acknowledgment, then his hand loosened and he slumped to the ground.

  The man she had kicked in the knee began to back away, his hands held up to indicate he was unarmed. She didn’t believe that for a minute.

  She jerked her head around to locate the third man, and heard the driver’s door opening behind her. She threw herself on her back, held the pistol over her head, and shot through the door. Sitting up again, she shot at the first man as he pulled his pistol from under his jacket. She missed, but he dived for cover.

  She had two shots left; she couldn’t keep shooting back and forth, she had to make them count. She clambered over her jumbled possessions and settled behind the steering wheel, and jerked the transmission into gear as she jammed her foot onto the gas pedal. The old truck shuddered as it leaped forward, tires slipping on the icy patches in the parking lot. The third man’s face appeared in the window beside her as he grabbed for the door handle. She shoved the pistol at the window and he ducked, letting go of the door. The truck shook as the first man jumped up on the rear bumper, trying to climb into the bed.

  Grace jerked the steering wheel hard to the right, then to the left. It was like playing crack the whip, except the stakes were a lot higher. His feet slipped off the bumper but he managed to hold on. Watching in the rearview mirror, she barreled out through the parking lot entrance into the path of a car turning in. A horn blared, she jerked the wheel again, and the man lost his grip on the tailgate. He went rolling across the parking lot, and fetched up hard against the rear tire of a parked car.

  The passenger door still swung open, but she couldn’t take the time to stop and close it. Stepping on the gas, she took a hard left at the first corner, then a right at the next one. The door slammed itself.

  She tried to think what she should do. They had a description of the truck, and probably the tag number as well. The truck was registered under Louisa Croley’s name, the same name that was on her passport and her driver’s license. She should ditch the truck, steal a car somewhere, and get as far from Minneapolis as she could. The police would be looking for her within minutes; a shoot-out at a McDonald’s was bound to attract attention.

  But she didn’t ditch the truck. She didn’t take the time to drive to a mall and look for a car with the keys left in it, though Harmony had assured her there were at least two fools shopping at any mall at any given time. Instead she hit 36 and drove west until she got to I-35. Then she got on the southbound lane and headed for Iowa.

  “A mysterious shoot-out at a McDonald’s in Roseville has police puzzled,” the talking head earnestly announced. “Witnesses say several shots were fired, and at least six people were involved, with two seriously injured. But by the time police arrived, all those involved had vanished, including the wounded. Witnesses said one person, perhaps a woman, was driving a brown pickup truck. By law, all doctors and hospitals are required to report all gunshot wounds to police, but thus far no one has requested treatment.”

  Parrish paced back and forth, furious. Conrad sat silently on the sofa, his shoulder bound and his arm supported by a sling. A doctor who belonged to the Foundation had removed the bullet, which luckily had struck his collarbone instead of tearing through the complicated system of cartilage and ligaments in his shoulder. His collarbone was cracked, and the insistent throb seemed to pound through his entire body, but he had refused any pain medication. The cut on his hand, though it had required eight stitches, was minimal.

  “Four men couldn’t catch one woman,” Parrish said, seething. “Bayne didn’t even know anything was going on until it was too late for him to help. I’m very disappointed in the quality of your men, Conrad, and in you. She caught you with your pants down, and now she’s gone to ground again. With all the people we have in this city, no one has seen her. She’s one inexperienced woman; how in hell can she keep getting away from me?” He roared the last sentence, his face flushed dark red, his neck corded with rage.

  Conrad sat silently. He didn’t make excuses, but as soon as he was able, he would personally take care of Melker. As soon as he spotted her, the fool had run up to the truck without waiting for the others to get in place. If they had all come at her at once, taken her by surprise, she wouldn’t have escaped. Instead Melker had tried to take her by himself, and she’d kicked the hell out of him.

  Conrad was deeply annoyed at himself, too; he should have expected her to have armed herself by this time, but instead he had allowed himself to be caught off guard, first by the knife, then by that unwavering pistol. She hadn’t hesitated, hadn’t panicked. She had said, “I’ll kill you,” and the warning was sincere. She would have done it. In that moment, looking deep into her pure blue eyes, he saw the strength none of them had suspected.

  He could have held on. She would have killed him, but the delay, and the hindrance of his body dragging on her, would likely have resulted in her capture. He had chosen to let go and pretend to lose consciousness, to save himself. He didn’t want to die, he had too much left undone. He didn’t want anyone except himself to capture Grace St. John, and he wanted to be alone when he did it. Parrish would never know what happened to her. To that end, though he had noted her license plate number, Conrad kept it to himself.

  Rather than get involved in a tedious police investigation, they had all gotten into their cars and left. Despite his pain and blood loss, Conrad had managed to drive to a secure place and arrange for medical care. Parrish was in a rage, not yet paying attention to the sheet of paper Paglione had picked up in the parking lot, the paper that had blown out of Grace’s truck.

  The paper lay on the table. Conrad hadn’t yet looked at it, but his gaze kept going to it. After all these months, searching for both Grace and the papers, a sheet had virtually fallen into their hands. How important could one sheet be, out of all those papers? But it drew him, and he couldn’t stop glancing at it in a mixture of dread and anticipation.

  At last Parrish noticed that his temper tantrum was being mostly ignored. He followed Conrad’s look and stalked over to snatch up the sheet of paper. “What’s this?”

  “Paglione picked it up,” Conrad said. “It blew out of her truck.”

  “It’s some notes she’s made,” Parrish said, his tone growing thoughtful. He walked over to the desk and sat down, turning on the lamp. “I don’t know this language. ‘C-u-n-b-h-a-l-a-c-h’ means ‘steady,’ ‘c-u-n-b-h-a-l-a-c-h-d’ means ‘judgment.’ I’m so glad to know that. This is gibberish. It must be a code that’s in the papers. ‘Creag Dhu’—this doesn’t have any interpretation beside it. Then there’s ‘fear,’ and beside it ‘gleidhidh.’ This looks like Welch without all the y’s and w’s.”

  Conrad didn’t comment, but the feeling of dread was growing stronger. He stared at the paper, hearing his heartbeat pounding in his ears, throbbing in his shoulder. Perhaps he had lost more blood than he had thought, and was about to lose consciousness for real.

  Parrish lapsed into silence, his head bent over the paper. He was an educated, sophisticated man, well traveled. He had seen this language before.

  “It’s Gaelic,” he said after a moment, his tone soft. “It isn’t a code. Dhu means ‘black,’ and I think creag means ‘rock,’ or ‘rocky.’ Black rock.” He stood abruptly, his eyes narrow and intent. “Get some rest, Conrad. I’ll have this translated. Grace’s little slip may be just the break I’ve been needing.”

  Chapter 17

  ONE OF HER PAGES OF NOTES HAD BLOWN OUT. GRACE COULDN’T stop thinking about it, her insides clenched tight with dread. She had made a dreadful mistake.

  She drove carefully through the snow-dusted Iowa night, well aware she was long past exhaustion and operating on sheer instinct. She needed to sleep, but she couldn’t make herself stop. She felt driven, somehow, and so she drove.

  She had lost one of