PSYCHIATRIST was a friend of Dr. JL Hayani's. Patrick's second session with him lasted for two hours and was as unproductive as the first. It would be the last.

Patrick asked to be excused, and returned to his room in time for dinner. He ignored most of it as he watched the evening news. His name was not mentioned. He paced the floor and spoke to his guards. Sandy had called throughout the afternoon with updates, but he wanted to see documents. He watched "Jeopardy" and tried to read a thick paperback.

It was almost eight when he heard Sandy speak to the guards and ask how the prisoner was doing. Sandy enjoyed referring to him as "the prisoner."

Patrick met him at the door. His lawyer was exhausted, but smiling. "It's all done," he said as he handed Patrick a stack of paperwork.

"What about the documents and tapes?"

"We handed them over an hour ago. There must've been a dozen FBI agents swarming around. Jaynes told me they would work through the night."

Patrick took the settlement agreements and sat at his worktable in the corner, under the television. Carefully, he read every word. Sandy's dinner was fast food from a bag, and he ate it standing beside the bed, watching muted rugby from Australia on ESPN.

"Did they squawk at the half a million?" Patrick asked, without looking up.

"Not for a minute. Nobody squawked at anything."

"Guess we should've asked for more."

"I think you have enough."

Patrick flipped a page, then signed his name. "Good work, Sandy. A masterful job."

"We had a good day. Federal charges are all dismissed, the litigation is settled. Attorneys' fees are taken care of. The kid's future is secure. Tomorrow we'll finish with Trudy. You're on a roll, Patrick. Too bad you've got this dead body in your way."

Patrick left the papers on the table and stepped to the window, his back to the room. The shades were open, the window was cracked six inches.

Sandy kept eating and watching him. "You have to tell me sometime, Patrick."

"Tell you what?"

"Well, let's see. Why don't we start with Pepper?"

"Okay. I didn't kill Pepper."

"Did someone else kill Pepper?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Did Pepper kill himself?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Was Pepper alive when you disappeared?"

"I think so."

"Dammit, Patrick! I've had a long day! I'm not in the mood for games."

Patrick turned around and politely said, "Please, don't yell. There are cops out there, straining to hear every word. Sit down."

"I don't want to sit down."

"Please."

"I can hear better standing up. I'm listening."

Patrick shut the window, pulled the shades, checked the locked door, and turned off the television. He resumed his customary position on his bed, sitting, with the sheet pulled to his waist. Once situated, he said, in a low voice, "I knew Pepper. He came to the cabin one day asking for food. It was just before Christmas of '91. He told me he lived in the woods most of the time. I cooked bacon and eggs for him and he ate like a refugee. He stuttered, and was very shy and uncomfortable around me. Obviously, I was intrigued. Here was this kid, he said he was seventeen but looked younger, who was reasonably clean and dressed and had a family twenty miles away, yet lived in the woods. I made him talk. I asked about his family, and got the sad story. When he finished eating, he was ready to go. I offered him a place to sleep, but he insisted on returning to his campsite.

"The next day, I was deer hunting, alone, and Pepper tracked me down. He showed me his little tent and sleeping bag. He had cooking utensils, an ice chest, a lantern, a shotgun. He said he hadn't been home in two weeks. Said his mother had a new boyfriend, who was the worst one in years. I followed him deep into the woods to a deer stand he'd found. An hour later, I killed a ten-point buck, my biggest ever. He said he knew the woods inside and out, and offered to show me the best places to hunt.

"A couple of weeks later, I was back at the cabin. Life with Trudy was unbearable, and she and I both lived for the weekends so I could leave. Pepper showed up not long after I arrived. I cooked a stew and we ate like hogs-I had an appetite back then. He said he'd gone home for three days, and left after a fight with his mother. The more he talked, the less he stuttered. I told him I was a lawyer and before long he told me his legal troubles. His last job had been pumping gas at a station in Lucedale. Some money came up missing from the cash register. Because everybody thought he was retarded, they blamed it on him. He, of course, had nothing to do with it. It was another very good reason to stay in the woods. I promised to check into the matter."

"And so the setup began," Sandy said.

"Something like that. We saw each other a few more times in the woods."

"It was getting close to February ninth."

"Yes, it was, I told Pepper that the cops were about to arrest him. This was a lie. I hadn't made a single call. Couldn't afford to. But the more we talked, the more convinced I became that he knew something about the missing money. He was scared, and leaning heavily on me. We discussed his options, one of which was to simply disappear."

"Gee, that sounds familiar."

"He hated his mother. Cops were after him. He was a scared boy who couldn't live in the woods for the rest of his life. He liked the idea of going out West and working as a hunting guide in the mountains. We hatched a plan. I watched the newspapers until I saw this terrible story of a high school sophomore getting killed in a train wreck outside New Orleans. His name was Joey Palmer; had a nice generic ring to it. I called a forger in Miami, who got Joey's Social Security number, and presto!-within four days I had a nice set of papers for Pepper. Louisiana driver's license, complete with a very close photo, Social Security number, birth certificate, even a passport."

"You make it sound so easy."

"No, it's easier than I make it sound. Just takes a little cash and some imagination. Pepper liked his new papers, and loved the idea of riding a bus off to the mountains. No kidding, Sandy, the kid had no hesitation whatsoever about leaving his mother in the dark. There was not one trace of concern."

"Your kinda guy."

"Yeah, well, anyway, on Sunday, February ninth-"

"The date of your death."

"Yes, as I recall it now. I drove Pepper to the Greyhound bus station in Jackson. I gave him every opportunity to turn back, but he was determined. No, he was excited. The poor kid had never left the state of Mississippi. Just the ride to Jackson was a thrill. I made it clear that he could never come back, under any circumstances. He never mentioned his mother. Three hours in the car, and he never mentioned his mother."

"Where was he headed?"

"I'd located a logging camp north of Eugene, Oregon, and I'd checked the bus routes and schedules. I wrote it all down for him, then we practiced it a dozen times on the way to the bus station. I gave him two thousand dollars in cash, and dropped him off two blocks from the bus station. It was almost 1 P.M., and I couldn't run the risk of being seen. The last time I saw Pepper he was jogging away with a smile on his face and a stuffed backpack slung over his shoulder."

"His shotgun and camping gear were found in the cabin."

"Where else could he put it?"

"Just another piece of the puzzle."

"Of course. I wanted them to think Pepper burned up in the car."

"Where is he now?"

"I don't know, and it's not important."

"That's not what I asked, Patrick."

"It's not important, really."

"Stop playing games with me, dammit. If I ask a question, then I deserve an answer."

"I'll give an answer when I feel like it."

"Why are you so evasive with me?"

Sandy's voice was louder, and edgy, and Patrick paused a moment to let him calm down. They both breathed slower, both tried to get a grip.

"I'm not being evasive, Sandy," Patrick said evenly.

"The hell you're not. I fight like hell to solve one riddle, and ten more mysteries hit me in the face. Why can't you tell me everything?"

"Because you don't need to know everything."

"It would certainly be nice."

"Really? When was the last time a criminal defendant told you everything?"

"Funny, I don't think of you as a criminal."

"Then what am I?"

"A friend, maybe."

"Your job will be easier if you think of me as a criminal."

Sandy lifted the settlement agreements from the table and started for the door. "I'm tired and I'm going to rest. I'll be back tomorrow, and you'll tell me everything."

He opened the door and left.

THE TAIL had first been noticed two days earlier by Guy as they were leaving a casino. A familiar face turned away a little too quickly. Then a car followed them a bit too aggressively. Guy had experience in such matters, and he mentioned it to Benny, who happened to be driving. "It's gotta be the feds," Guy had said. "Who else would care?"

They made plans to leave Biloxi. The phone lines were disconnected in the rented condo. They sent the other boys away.

They waited until dark. Guy left in one car, headed east to Mobile, where he would spend the. night watching his rear and then catch a plane in the morning. Benny went west, along the Coast on Highway 90, then across Lake Ponchartrain into New Orleans, a city he knew well. He watched closely, but saw nothing behind him. He ate oysters in the French Quarter, then caught a cab to the airport. He flew to Memphis, then to O'Hare, where he hid most of the night in an airport lounge. Then on to New York at dawn.

The FBI was in Boca Raton, watching his home. His Swedish live-in was still there. She would bolt soon, they figured, and be much easier to follow.

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