ou see what a problem it is, Raymond," Senator Lake said. The big, gray-haired man nodded in acknowledgment. They sat in the parlor of the senator's Washington townhouse, lingering over their morning coffee. Raymond had gotten a late flight out of Minneapolis the day before and arrived in Washington well after midnight, so the senator had left word for him to get a good night's sleep, and they would talk in the morning.

The senator had gotten, for him, a late start; he had slept until eight, and now it was ten-thirty, the morning sun bright and hot. "I had my doubts about the way Hayes handled the matter of Medina," he said slowly, "and now it looks as if he lied in order to get me to do things his way. I can't imagine any reason why Frank Vinay would deny knowing about Medina's death, if he already knew, or any reason for him to say Medina had no family if in fact he did. I wasn't asking for classified data, and I am chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee."

"Hayes must have his own agenda," Raymond said, his thick brows furrowed as he thought. He looked like a boxer who had gone one round too many, but there was an agile brain behind the battered appearance.

"That's what I thought, too. I wonder if perhaps he is gathering ammunition with which to blackmail me. Whitlaw could have given him the idea." The one good thing about that scenario, the senator thought, was that it proved Hayes's minions hadn't discovered the notebook and he had kept it himself. If Hayes had the notebook, he wouldn't need any other means of blackmail.

"You know what I think about loose ends." Raymond shook his head. "They're dangerous. You don't use people you can't trust. You said Hayes used people you didn't know to take care of Medina?"

"Yes. He swore they knew nothing about me, that they thought he was the head, but if he's lied in one thing, then nothing he says is trustworthy."

"Get their names from him," Raymond said. "I'll take care of it."

Raymond had always taken care of things. Senator Lake could remember, as a child, hearing the burly man quietly say to his father, "I'll take care of it," and his father had always smiled and nodded, and it was done. It was reassuring now to hear him say the words, to know his affairs were being handled by someone he could trust with his life.

"Do you have Hayes's address?"

"Yes, of course." The senator had made it a point to find out. He had not, however, written it down in his address book or had his secretary add it to his computer files. No, anything to do with Hayes was stored only in his head. In his position, he knew too much about the capabilities of current technology to believe anything in his computer was private, and though he took the security precautions any sane man would take, he didn't assume his system was inviolate. If it wasn't written down, then it wasn't accessible; that was the most secure any information could be. He rattled off the street number to Raymond, whose lips moved slightly as he memorized it.

"I'll get right on it," Raymond said, and the senator knew everything was going to be all right.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Piper asked for the tenth time as she and Karen walked across the hospital parking lot to Piper's car. There was a parking deck, but it was reserved for the doctors and administrative staff, so they wouldn't get wet or have to walk very far. The nurses and other peons, who were evidently all in good shape and not allergic to water, had to use a parking lot that was half a block away from the hospital.

Karen squinted into the hot afternoon sun and wished she had her sunglasses. "I'm fine," she said, for more than the tenth time. Piper had insisted on taking Karen home with her. Several of her friends and colleagues had stopped by the emergency department to check on her. Ice had been applied to her various bruises, the cut on her foot had been anointed with antiseptic and covered with a bandage, and she had been made to lie down for several unnecessary hours while they plied her with food and fruit juices. She didn't feel shocky any longer, she just felt tired and harassed.

Piper carried her suitcase, having refused to let Karen lift it because of her sore ribs. Detective Suter had been prompt about having her things collected, earning Karen's undying gratitude. Her options until then had been wearing either her own blood-splattered gown or a hospital gown. The hospital gown had won the contest, but just barely. Now she was dressed comfortably and securely in the all-American uniform of jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers.

"It's too hot to cook," Piper said. "Let's get some take-out on the way home. What are we in the mood for? Mexican or Mexican?"

"I don't know. I think I'd rather have Mexican."

"Say, that's a good idea. Do you want Taco Pete's or—"

A car pulled out of a parking slot and headed down the aisle straight toward them. Karen stopped listening to Piper rattling on and watched the car. A man, probably one of the maintenance workers, was driving. There wasn't anything unusual about the car; it was a beige Pontiac, several years old. But it was going too fast, and she edged Piper more to the side to give the car plenty of room to pass.

If she hadn't been attacked that day in her own home, she probably wouldn't have paid the car more than cursory attention, but she was on edge, something deep inside her still frightened and outraged that the sanctuary of her home had been violated. She didn't feel safe. And so she watched the car, watched it gaining speed as it came down the aisle of the parking lot.

The driver was wearing sunglasses. She saw him clearly through the windshield as the car bore down on them, and she had the impression he was looking at her.

Piper broke off her running list of Mexican restaurants and said, "He's going too fast."

The fine hairs on Karen's arms stood up. She stopped, staring at the driver. Closer, closer. He gunned the engine, and the car rocketed toward them. Karen turned and drove her shoulder into Piper, knocking her sideways into the space between two parked cars. There was a loud crash, and metal screamed as it tore and bent. They both hit the pavement hard, sprawling on the grit, Piper under her and the suitcase tangled between them. The car beside them rocked wildly on its suspension as it was hit, the rear end skidding around toward them. The front end of the car crashed into the car on the other side of it and bounced back, coming to rest with the rear tire only an inch from Piper's head.

Tires squealed in the parking lot. Someone shouted, and they heard running feet. Then tires squealed again, and there was the sound of a car engine roaring as it turned its maximum rpms, rapidly growing fainter with distance.

Gingerly, Karen sat up. She was already sore, and this latest insult to skin and muscle only aggravated the previous injuries. Now her hands were bleeding as well, from sliding on the pavement, and her right knee throbbed.

Piper sat up also, a hand on her head. She leaned against a tire and looked at Karen.

"Are you all right?" they both said together.

They stared at each other another second. "Yeah," Karen finally said. "How about you?"

"Oh, your standard contusions and abrasions. That car almost hit us!"

"Are you two all right?" Another nurse practically vaulted over the fender to reach them. "He didn't even stop!" She knelt down beside them, dragging things from the pockets of her tunic. Her name tag announced her name was Angela, and the tiny koala clinging to her stethoscope with Velcro paws announced she worked in pediatrics.

Most of the nurses on first shift had already left; Piper was running late because she had swung by emergency to collect Karen. But there were still a few people around, and they all came over. "Go get some gurneys from emergency," Angela said to an orderly, her voice crisp and calm.

"We're all right," Karen and Piper said in unison.

"Don't be silly. You both need to be checked out. You know, sometimes people can't tell if they're injured until several hours later, because of the shock." Angela would have made a good general; maybe it came from dealing with kids all day long.

"Here," another nurse said, tearing open a disposable package containing an antiseptic wipe and handing the package to Angela.

"Do you have any more of these?" Angela asked, taking Karen's hands and wiping her raw, bleeding palms.

"No, just that one. Let's see." The second nurse dug in her pocket again. "Here's a gauze pad, but that's it." She climbed over the bumper, since the car was now sitting at such an angle that its front end was almost touching the bumper of the car beside it. Karen and Piper were sitting in the slight V-shaped space between the two cars, with Piper in the wider part of the V. The nurse crouched beside Piper and pressed the pad to a cut on her forehead, which was sullenly oozing blood. "Someone needs to call the police," she said positively. "That creep not only almost hit you, he left the scene. The owners of these two cars will need an accident report for their insurance companies."

"I've got a cell phone," someone else said. "I'll go call."

Within minutes, the parking lot was swarming with emergency personnel, both the medics who happened to have been in the department at the time and one of the emergency department doctors as well as two of the nurses. Two gurneys were brought, despite Karen's and Piper's groaning objections. Piper tried to stand and sank back to the pavement with a startled exclamation. "I think I must have sprained my ankle," she said sheepishly. "I guess I'll need that gurney after all, unless someone wants to lend me a pair of crutches."

A patrol car pulled into the parking lot then, and they all got to tell their stories to the policemen. The orderly said, "Man, he didn't even have license plates on the car. I got a good look when he was leaving the parking lot, because by then it was obvious he wasn't going to stop."

No one recognized him, but it was a big hospital; it was impossible for everyone to know everyone else. And since there was no security at the parking lot, anyone who wanted to could park there regardless of whether or not they worked at the hospital. All the cars were supposed to have employee decals on them, but no one ever checked, so the decals were useless.

Angela said, "I was standing just over there. It looked to me as if he tried to hit them." She didn't speculate about what sort of chemicals might be zipping around the driver's bloodstream, but several others did.

Karen knew better. When she could, she said quietly to one of the police officers, "I'd appreciate it if you would notify Detective Suter about this."

He gave her a "Get real" look, and she added, "This is the second time today someone has tried to kill me. I'm sure you heard about what happened this morning, when two officers shot and killed the burglar. That was my apartment."

He got serious fast. "You think this was deliberate?"

"I know it was. He aimed for us." She managed to keep her voice even, but she was trembling inside with rage. The driver hadn't cared that Piper would have been seriously injured, possibly killed, too. Anyone with Karen was apparently as expendable as she was.

She couldn't say just when she had arrived at the conclusion that someone was trying to kill her—maybe while she had been airborne between the two cars, hearing the impact behind her. But she wasn't stupid, and she wasn't paranoid. As improbable as it seemed, someone really was trying to kill her.

Detective Suter thoughtfully tapped his notebook against his knee. Karen sat quietly, having finished what she had to say. She had outlined her father's murder and the burning of her old house. Added to both of that day's incidents, it was enough to make anyone thoughtful.

Piper's ankle had been X-rayed, revealing a hairline fracture. No cast was necessary, but the ankle was securely wrapped, and she was under orders to stay off it for a week. Karen's scrapes had been cleaned and bandaged, but she was free to go. The question was, where?

"Ms. Whitlaw," Detective Suter said slowly, choosing his words so as not to give offense, "you've had a very rough day. Anyone who has endured what you have could be forgiven for thinking there's a conspiracy against her. I'm sorry about your father, too, but from what you tell me, he was living on the streets, and those types of crimes are all too common. As for the house fire—" He looked helpless. "How can you tie that in with anything else that's happened?"

"I looked in the phone book," she said. "The new ones don't come out until December. My address is still listed as the house that burned."

"Still—"

Karen leaned forward. "Someone knew I was still at the hospital this afternoon, that I would be going home with Piper. Why else would he have been waiting in the parking lot? I work third shift; I wouldn't normally be there this time of day. You knew I was going with Piper, because you were here when she asked me. Who else knew?"

The detective's face went hard and blank. He said slowly, "I see what you mean. I guess I'm glad you're not accusing me of anything."

She didn't entirely trust him, either, but she didn't tell him that. She thought he was a straight, honest cop, which was why she had asked for him, but at this point she wasn't taking anything for granted.

"Your whereabouts weren't a secret," he said slowly. "Several people asked your condition, and I told them you were okay and would be going home with one of the other nurses when her shift ended. For that matter, maybe someone called the hospital and checked."

"Only a condition report would be given, not my plans for the evening."

He looked distinctly unhappy. "Ms. Whitlaw, looking at things in that light, I agree that something unusual is going on here. But why would someone be trying to kill you? Do you owe a lot of money to someone? Did you witness something you shouldn't have? Do you know a terrible secret?"

Karen shook her head to all those questions. "No, none of that. I don't know why anyone would want to kill me, but all the indications are that someone is trying to. And that man who tried to run me down in his car wasn't concerned that he might hit Piper, too. My friends are in danger, Detective. I can't stay with anyone without worrying they might die in a house fire or get shot if they step in front of me at the wrong time. What am I supposed to do?"

"I don't know." He turned the notebook around and around. "I can't help. I can't even justify investigating, because there's nothing to go on. The only dead person is the guy who broke into your apartment. If we run across a beige Pontiac with no license plate, a damaged right fender, and paint scrapes, we can get the owner for leaving the scene of an accident, but that's all. Not attempted murder. I don't know what to tell you, except that you should take a leave of absence and go somewhere safe. Don't tell anyone where you're going, either."

A leave of absence? She sighed. At the hospital, there was no such thing as a leave of absence unless you had a medical reason. Administration would grant her request for a leave, but whether or not there would be an opening for her when she came back was the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. It would also have to be an unpaid leave of absence, which would eat up her savings. Because of the life insurance policy on her mother and the proceeds from the sale of the house, she had more money in the bank than she had ever thought she would have, but by no means could she simply quit work.

"Just think about it," Detective Suter said.

This time, Karen walked alone to the parking lot, to retrieve Piper's car and then pick Piper up at the emergency department. Night had almost fallen; twi-light was still hanging in there, but the street lights had come on. She would have asked an orderly or another nurse to walk with her, but after the hit-and-run, she didn't want to take chances with anyone else's life.

The entire situation felt like a Twilight Zone episode, with danger lurking all around her, and she didn't know what form it would take or why she had been targeted.

Leave. That's what Detective Suter wanted her to do. Hide. But if she didn't know what she was hiding from, how would she know when it was safe to come out of hiding?

It all tied together somehow. All of it. From her father's murder to the two attacks today, they were all for the same reason.

She was so tired, too tired to think clearly. Surely, when she was rested, she would be able to see a picture that eluded her now. But she'd had very little sleep in two days, and today had been a shock to her nervous system from start to finish.

She could think clearly enough, however, to know she couldn't go home with Piper. Her conscience hurt her, because Piper was on crutches and she needed someone. But Karen's presence brought danger, and she was too tired tonight to stay awake and alert.

On the other hand, Piper couldn't go home, either, because he had known Karen planned to go home with her. Having missed once, the logical thing would be for him to try to get to her at Piper's house. He might already be there, inside, waiting for them.

Chill bumps roughened her skin at the thought of walking into a dark house, to be met by a stranger with a gun.

A motel, that was the ticket. Just for tonight, for both of them. Piper wasn't dumb; she would see that the only logical thing to do was not take the chance of going home. Tomorrow—well, tomorrow she would think of something else. Piper had a sister with whom she could stay.

And Karen knew where she was going. If she had to hide out, then she intended to hide out in the one place she really wanted to be. She was going to New Orleans. To Marc. All she had to do was stay alive until then.

Marc replaced the phone, frowning. Karen still wasn't at home. He had called twice, even though he was still royally pissed, because after the blood bath in the Garden District, talking to her had suddenly seemed more important than cooling down. Even if he was angry, she needed to know that he cared enough to get in touch. In trying not to spook her, he thought, he had made the mistake of not letting her know she meant more to him than just a hot time between the sheets. He usually wasn't that clumsy in love affairs, but hell—

He ran his hand over his face. The operative word before had been affair. Now the emphasis was on the other word.

Love. He'd never been in love before. He had greatly cared for some of his lovers but never before felt this fascination, this obsession, with a woman. He loved her, and it scared the shit out of him. What if he did the wrong thing? He seemed to be walking a delicate tightrope between not coming on so strong that he scared her off, and holding back so much that she thought he didn't care at all.

To hell with it, he thought. From now on, he was going to go with his instinct, which was to move as fast as possible and make damn sure she and everyone else knew his intentions. The primitive urge to stake his claim went beyond the physical; making love to her was wonderful, but he wanted all the legal ties, he wanted his ring on her finger for all to see.

But where in hell was she?

If he knew Karen, she had worked last night, never mind having gotten very little sleep the night before, never mind the hassle of navigating airports and wrestling luggage. He hadn't called earlier because he figured she would be asleep, but it was late enough now that she should be awake. Night had fallen, and the Quarter was alive with tourists looking for good food, hot music, cheesy strip joints, all of which were readily available.

It occurred to him that she didn't know his home phone number, and she couldn't get it by calling information because it was unlisted. He dialed her number again and left a third message, giving her the number and ending with, "Call me, sweetie. No matter what time you get home, call me."

She did have his voice-mail number, though. Just on the off chance she had called it, he punched in some more numbers and listened to his messages. There were only two, one from a gutter punk trying to make points by feeding him some info he'd already had for two days, but the second message was from Karen. His heart thumped against his ribs when he heard her voice.

"This is Karen. Someone is trying to kill me. I'll be on flight sixteen twenty-one, American, arriving at ten-thirty in the morning."

Every hair on his body stood up. Swearing, sweating, Marc waited to see if there was an addition to the message telling him where to reach her now, but the line clicked off, and nothing but silence followed.

God damn it! He stood and slowly paced around the living room, thinking. This had to be tied to her father, just like the Medina murder. But how? Why? A comparison of the slugs taken from Rick Medina hadn't matched the one that had killed Dexter Whitlaw, but just because they hadn't been killed with the same weapon, that didn't mean the murders were unconnected. Neither was this. Every cop instinct he had developed after years on the job told him Karen was in danger for the exact same reason her father had been killed. The problem was, he didn't know why, he didn't have a clue who was behind it, and Karen was evidently in hiding somewhere and he didn't know how to get in touch with her.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered, and picked up the phone one more time. He had some instructions for Shannon.

The only seat available on the flight was a window seat, in the very last row. Karen stared down at the blue bowl of Lake Pontchartrain and the brown coil of the Mississippi River, with New Orleans sandwiched between them. It had all started here, with Dexter. Even if Marc wasn't interested in her personally, he would still help her, because he was a good cop, and Dexter had been murdered in his territory.

She still hadn't talked to him. When she called from a pay phone last night, she had gotten his voice mail again. The message she left was to the point: "This is Karen. Someone is trying to kill me." Then she gave him her flight number and arrival time and was too tired to think of anything else to say, so she hung up.

Maybe going to Marc wasn't such a bright idea, but he was the only person she could think of who might help, and she would certainly be safer in New Orleans than she had been in Columbus. She had had to use her real name to get the airline ticket, since passengers were now required to show a photo ID when checking in for the flight. Assuming her pursuer had the expertise, contacts, and funds, he would be able to trace her movements to New Orleans, but once she was there, she planned to check into a motel under a false name and pay cash, so there wouldn't be a paper or electronic trail for him to follow. New Orleans was a big city, a tourist city, with thousands of tourists every week and a lot of hotels and motels to accommodate those tourists. She could easily hide.

It occurred to her now, after she had gotten some sleep and could think again, that she could just as easily have remained in a Columbus motel under the same conditions. Columbus was more dangerous, though, because people knew her, could, if anyone asked, say, "Oh, yeah, I saw her a couple of days ago. She was in the supermarket on Such-and-such Street." A lot of people passed through the hospital, and a lot of them remembered her. Strangers were constantly speaking to her, telling her of their stay in the hospital, and she always smiled and nodded, but she seldom remembered anything about them.

She didn't want to be in Columbus. She wanted to be in New Orleans, with its heavy, sticky heat and air of casual, cheerful wickedness. And so she was here, though she had no idea if Marc would be at the airport or what sort of welcome he would give her even if he was there. If he wasn't, she would take a cab to the city. He had a job, a busy one. Just because he had made time for her before didn't mean he could, or would, do so again.

The plane landed with a slight bounce, and they taxied to the terminal. As soon as the plane lurched to a stop at the jetway, passengers ignored the instructions to remain seated until the captain turned off the seat-belt sign and crowded into the narrow aisle, taking down bags from the overhead bins, dragging them out from under seats. Karen remained seated; the rear of the plane was always the last to empty, and she was in the very last row. Except for stretching her legs, standing up would serve no purpose because she certainly wasn't going anywhere for a while.

But eventually, the line began to snake forward, and the plane emptied in fits and starts. Karen crawled out of the cramped seat, wincing at her sore ribs, her sore knee, her sore hands. She ached all over. This morning, she and Piper had solemnly bandaged each other, then hugged good-bye and laughed and cried at the same time. Piper had argued at first against the entire preposterous idea that someone was trying to kill Karen, but the more she thought about it, the more worried she became, and finally she had agreed the safest thing to do was get out of Dodge.

Piper had been right about something, too. With her hands bandaged, people rushed to handle her one suitcase for her.

Though her wardrobe was limited to what the policewoman had packed, when Karen finally stepped off the plane into the heat and humidity of the jetway, she realized she was better dressed for New Orleans weather now than she had been before. Other than a couple of uniforms, her wardrobe currently consisted of two pairs of jeans, a lightweight flowered skirt that fell to mid-calf, three cotton tops, some socks and underwear, sneakers, and a pair of sandals. She wore the skirt and sandals and felt much cooler than she had before.

Marc nabbed her as soon as she set foot in the terminal. That was the only word for it. A hard hand closed over her nape, dragging her to a halt, and he said with suppressed violence, "What the hell is going on?"