ife is a struggle, of course.

My idol—Andrew Sterling—and I share the same passion for data, and we both appreciate their mystery, their allure, their immense power. But until I stepped into his sphere I never appreciated the full extent of using data as a weapon to expand your vision to every corner of the world. Reducing all of life, all of existence to numbers, then watching them billow into something transcendent.!!!Immortal soul…

I was in love with SQL, the workhorse standard for database management, until I was seduced by Andrew and Watchtower. Who wouldn’t have been? Its power and elegance are enthralling. And I’ve come to fully appreciate the world of data, thanks to him—though indirectly. He’s never given me more than a pleasant nod in the hall and a query about the weekend, though he knew my name without a glance at the ID on my chest (what a breathtakingly brilliant mind he has). I think of all the late nights I spent in his office, 2:00 A.M. or so, SSD empty, sitting in his chair and feeling his presence as I read through his spine-up library. Not a single one of those pedantic and silly businessman’s self-help books, but volumes and volumes revealing a much greater vision: books about the collection of power and geographic territory: the continental U.S. under the Manifest Destiny doctrine in the 1800s, Europe under the Third Reich, mare nostra under the Romans, the entire world under the Catholic Church and Islam. (And they all appreciated the incisive power of data, by the way.)

Ah, the things I’ve learned just from overhearing Andrew, savoring what he’s written in drafts of memos and letters and the book he’s working on.!!! “Mistakes are noise. Noise is contamination. Contamination must be eliminated.”!!! “Only in victory can we afford to be generous.”!!! “Only the weak compromise.”!!! “Either find a solution to your problem, or stop considering it a problem.”!!! “We are born to battle.”!!! “He who understands wins; he who knows understands.”

I consider what Andrew would think about what I’m up to, and I believe he’d be pleased.

And now, the battle against Them moves forward.

On the street near my home I press the key fob again and finally a horn gives a muted bleep.

Let’s see, let’s see… Ah, here we go. Look at this piece of junk, a Honda Civic. Borrowed, of course, since Amelia 7303’s car is now sitting in a pound—a coup I’m rather proud of. Never thought of trying that before.

My thoughts stray back to my beautiful redhead. Was she bluffing about what They knew? About Peter Gordon? That’s the funny thing about knowledge; such a fine line between truth and a lie. But I can’t take the chance. I’ll have to hide the car.

My thoughts go back to her.

The woman’s wild eyes, her red hair, the body… I’m not sure I can wait much longer.

Trophies…

A fast examination of the car. Some books, magazines, Kleenex, some empty Vitamin Water bottles, a Starbucks napkin, running shoes shedding rubber, a Seventeen magazine in the backseat and a textbook on poetry… And who owns this superb contribution to the world of Japanese technology? The registration tells me it’s Pamela Willoughby.

I’ll get a little more information on her from innerCircle then I’ll pay her a visit. Wonder what she looks like? I’ll check DMV to make sure she’s worth the trouble.

The car starts up just fine. Ease out carefully, no upsetting other drivers. Don’t want to make a scene.

A half block, into the alley.

What does Miss Pam like to listen to? Rock, rock, alternative, hip-hop, talk and NPR. Presets are extremely informative.

I’m already forming a game plan to arrange a transaction with the girl: getting to know her. We’ll meet at Amelia 7303’s memorial service (no body, no funeral). I’ll offer sympathy. I met her during the case she was working on. I really liked her. Oh, don’t cry, honey. It’s okay. Tell you what. Let’s get together. I can tell you all about the stories Amelia shared with me. Her father. And the interesting story of her grandfather’s coming to this country. (After I learned she was snooping around, I checked out her dossier. What an interesting history.) We got to be good friends. I’m really devastated… How about coffee? You like Starbucks? I always go there after my run in Central Park every evening. No! You too?

We sure seem to have something in common.

Oh, there’s that feeling again, thinking about Pam. How ugly can she be?

It might be a wait to get her into my trunk… I have to take care of Thom Reston first—and a few other things. But at least I have Amelia 7303 for tonight.

I drive into the garage and ditch the car—it’ll rest here until I swap plates and it goes to the bottom of the Croton reservoir. But I can’t think about that now. I’m pretty consumed, planning out the transaction with my red-haired friend, waiting back home in my Closet, like a wife for her husband after a really tough day at the office.!!!Sorry, no prediction can be made at this time. Please input more data and try your request again.

Despite drawing from the world’s largest database, despite the state-of-the-art software examining every detail of Amelia Sachs’s life at the speed of light, the program struck out.

“I’m sorry,” Mark Whitcomb said, dabbing his nose. The high-def system on the video-conferencing system displayed the nasal injury quite prominently. It looked bad; Ron Pulaski had really slammed him.

The young man continued, sniffing, “There just aren’t enough details. What you get out is only as good as what you put in. It works best with a pattern of behaviors. All it tells us is that she’s going someplace she’s never been before, at least not on that route.”

Right to the killer’s house, Rhyme reflected in frustration.

Where the hell was she?

“Hold on a minute. The system’s updating…”

The screen flickered and changed. Whitcomb blurted, “I’ve got her! Some RFID hits twenty minutes ago.”

“Where?” Rhyme whispered.

Whitcomb put them on the screen. They were in a quiet block on the Upper East Side. “Two hits at stores. The duration of the first RFID scan was two seconds. The next was slightly longer, eight seconds. Maybe she was pausing to check an address.”

“Call Bo Haumann now!” Rhyme shouted.

Pulaski hit speed dial and a moment later the head of Emergency Service came on the phone.

“Bo, I’ve got a lead on Amelia. She went after Five Twenty-Two and she’s disappeared. We’ve got a computer monitoring her whereabouts. About twenty minutes ago she was near six forty-two East Eighty-eighth.”

“We can be there in ten minutes, Linc. Hostage situation?”

“That’s what I’d say. Call me when you know something.”

They disconnected.

Rhyme thought back to her message on voice mail. It seemed so fragile, that tiny bundle of digital data.

In his mind he could hear her voice perfectly: “I have a lead, a good one, Rhyme. Call me.”

He couldn’t help wondering if it would be their last communication.

Bo Haumann’s Emergency Service Unit A Team was standing near a doorway of a large town house on the Upper East Side: four officers in full body armor, holding MP-5s, compact, black machine guns. They were carefully staying clear of the windows.

Haumann had to admit he hadn’t seen anything like this in all his years in the military or the police department. Lincoln Rhyme was using some kind of computer program that had tracked Amelia Sachs to this area, only it wasn’t through her phone or a wire or GPS tracker. Maybe this was the future of police work.

The device hadn’t given the actual location where the teams now were—a private residence. But a witness had seen a woman pause at both shops where the computer had spotted her, then she’d headed to this town house across the street.

Where she was presumably being held by the perp they were calling 522.

Finally, the team in the back called in. “B Team to One. We’re in position. Can’t see anything. Which floor is she on, K?”

“No idea. We just go in and sweep. Move fast. She’s been in there a while. I’ll hit the bell and when he comes to the door, we move in.”

“Roger, K.”

“Team C. We’ll be on the roof in three or four minutes.”

“Move it!” Haumann grumbled.

“Yes, sir.”

Haumann had worked with Amelia Sachs for years. She had more balls than most of the men who served under him. He wasn’t sure he liked her—she was pigheaded and abrupt and often bluffed her way onto point when she should have held back—but he sure as hell respected her.

And he wasn’t going to let her go down to a rapist like this 522. He nodded an ESU detective up to the porch—dressed in a business suit so that when he knocked on the door, a glance through the peephole wouldn’t tip off the killer. Once he opened the door, officers crouching against the front of the town house would leap up and rush him. The officer buttoned his jacket and nodded.

“Goddamnit,” Haumann radioed impatiently to the team in the back. “You in place yet or not?”