The chase was on.

Bell received a call over his mobile radio, which was tuned in with the Highway Patrol: "We're setting up a roadblock just west of Tahoe. Officers will be checking everyone coming through. According to the time frame you gave us, we estimate the hitchhiker has a twenty-five mile jump on your position. Patrol sent out from our direction should intercept the suspect within fifteen minutes."

Bell glanced at Svenson. He came on: "Affirmative C.H.P. . .FBI informed." He switched off.

"Road's covered both ways," he said confidently to Svenson. "Not even Houdini could get out of this one."

"Yeah. Well—Houdini wasn't a sociopath."

"We better get this guy," Bell said then. "The Bureau looks bad enough as it is. All the murders over the last few months, and no arrests, is bringing down a lot of pressure on the directors." He changed hands on the steering wheel. "This added with the recent slayings in Texas by that black—Well. . .We might soon be seeing a reorganization of jobs in every branch this side of the Mississippi."

Svenson pulled the 9mm from his holster. He inspected the barrel, his mind on the sociopath, ran his hands over it, and then abruptly slipped it back under his jacket.

"He'll kill the motorist before Lake Tahoe," he said suddenly.

"What—How do you know?"

"He needs to abandon the car in the Harrah's parking lot, like the others that end of the highway. He'll pull off the highway to make the kill."

Bell commented, "There's maybe only another seven exits."

"Get on the radio. We need to cover them all."

Bell broadcast the alert. Turning to the rookie, he said, "Well done."

JAKE had a plan. First a knife deep in the stomach—Tucker watches in amazement as his blood pours through his shirt, only the hilt of the knife visible. His eyes bulge in disbelief. Then he grasps the hilt, if he hasn't fallen yet, and reflexively yanks it out.