Special Agent Noah Bishop, Chief of the FBI's Special Crimes Unit, possessed an unforgettable face anyway LeMott thought. Because it was an unusually handsome face but, even more, because the pale silver-gray eyes missed nothing, and because the faint but wicked scar twisting down his left cheek was mute evidence of a violent past. Add to that a streak of pure white hair at his left temple, shocking against the jet-black all around it, and you had a man who was not likely to be overlooked, much less easily forgotten.

"You and your wife don't have children." LeMott set the photograph aside carefully, in its accustomed place to the right of the blotter.

"No."

The senator summoned a smile. "And yet you do. Brothers and sisters, at least. Family. Your unit. Your team."

Bishop nodded.

"Have you ever lost one of them?"

"No. A few close calls, but no."

Not yet.

The unspoken hung in the air between them, and LeMott nodded somberly. "Bound to happen. The work you people do, the evil you face. Sooner or later, there'll be a… an unbearable price demanded. There always is."

Choosing not to respond to that, Bishop said instead, "As I told you, we lost what faint trail we had near Atlanta. Whether he's in the city or somewhere nearby, that's the area. But until he makes a move…"

"Until he kills again, you mean."

"He's gone to ground, and he isn't likely to surface again until he feels less threatened. Less hunted. Or until his needs drive him to act despite that."

"It's gotten personal, hasn't it? Between you and him. The hunter and the hunted."

"I'm a cop. It's my job to hunt scum like him."

LeMott shook his head. "No, it was always more than that for you. I could see it. Hell, anybody could see it. I'm betting he knew it, knew you were hunting him and knew you'd crawled inside his head."