"Dr. Scarpetta?"

"Speaking."

The woman sounded familiar, but I could not place her.

"It's Pat Harvey. Please forgive me for bothering you at home."

Behind her steady voice, I detected a note of fear.

"You certainly aren't bothering me," I replied kindly.

"What can I do for you?"

"They searched all through the night and are still out there. They brought in more dogs, more police, several aircraft."

She began to speak rapidly. "Nothing. No sign of them. Bob has joined the search parties. I'm home."

She hesitated. "I'm wondering if you could come over? Perhaps you're free for lunch?"

"After a long pause, I reluctantly agreed. As I hung up the telephone I silently berated myself, for I knew what she wanted from me. Pat Harvey would ask about the other couples. If I were her, it was exactly what I would do.

I went upstairs to my bedroom and got out of my robe.

Then I took a long, hot bath and washed my hair while my answering machine began intercepting calls that I had no intention of returning unless they were emergencies. Within the hour I was dressed in a khaki skirt suit and tensely playing back messages. There were five of them, all from reporters who had learned that I had been summoned to the New Kent County rest stop, which did not bode well for the missing couple.

I reached for the phone, intending to call Pat Harvey back and cancel our lunch. But I could not forget her face when she had arrived by helicopter with her daughters' sweatshirt, I could not forget the faces of any of the parents. Hanging up the phone, I locked the house and got into my car.

People in public service can't afford the accoutrements privacy demands unless they have some other means of income. Obviously, Pat Harvey's federal salary was a meager sliver of her family's worth. They lived near Windsor on the James in a palatial Jeffersonian house overlooking the river.