PARKER HOYT IS leaning back in his office chair, dozing, when a ringing phone wakes him up.
He lurches forward, automatically picks up his standard office phone, says, “Hoyt,” and realizes he’s talking to a dial tone.
The phone keeps on ringing.
It’s his other phone.
He tries to put his standard phone back into the cradle, misses, and it clatters across his clean desktop. Parker lunges for the other phone, grabs it.
“Yes?”
“We’re checking out a small farmhouse, about three miles upstream from the horse farm. She might be there. It’s within walking distance.”
“Wait—you’re still working the case? Grissom was told to stand down!”
“Yeah, well, she doesn’t listen well. We’re out freezing our asses off, ready to get moving.”
“Give me the address,” he says, and he fumbles for a pen, grabs it, doesn’t see anything to write on, picks up a crumpled poll report from last night—Harrison Tucker’s polling collapse is deep and widespread—and he flattens it out, says, “Go.”
“Fourteen, that’s one-four, East Dominion Road, Walton.”
He scribbles the numbers and words and says, “Why do you think she’s there? What’s the evidence? Could it be a safe house for terrorists?”
The voice laughs. “Only if the terrorists are environmentalists. It belongs to a conservation group from Ohio.”
“Ohio…why in hell does that matter?”
“Gotta go.”
Parker sits up straight, like every bone in his spine has just fused together in one hard column. “No! Damnit, tell me why it matters!”
“Because of the guy who’s the chairman of the conservation group.”
And he mentions the name, and before Parker can react, his hired contact hangs up the phone.