The ambulance carrying Alan Lassiter disappeared down the mountain road, its lights flashing against the dark wall of pines. Carver stood in the snow outside the cabin, his phone pressed to his ear, listening to Chief Benton's voice crackle through a bad connection.
"Strand hasn't been seen at his office since this morning," Benton said. "His wife says he called her around noon, said he had to go out of town for a few days. She didn't ask where. She never asks where."
"He's hunting witnesses. He has a list. We need protection details on everyone who testified before the impeachment committee."
"That's forty-seven people, Carver. I don't have forty-seven officers to spare."
"Then prioritize. Miriam Okonkwo at the Legal Aid Society. Shaniyah Cole and Darius Cole in the Flats. Odette Laveau. Mr. Okonkwo. Anyone who was named in Lassiter's testimony. Strand is going to go after the most vulnerable first."
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Carver could hear Benton breathing, could picture him in his office with the blinds drawn and the phone pressed to his ear, weighing the political calculus against the moral imperative.
"I'll send what I can," Benton said finally. "But you need to understand something. Strand is not just a rogue investigator. He's connected. He has friends in the department. Friends in the state police. Friends everywhere. If you go after him, you're going to be going after people who have been protecting him for years."
"Then I'll go after them too."
"Carver—"
"This ends tonight, Chief. One way or another."
He hung up and turned to Webb. "We need to get back to the city. Strand has at least an hour's head start."
They drove down the mountain at a speed that made the sedan's tires skid on the icy pavement. Webb worked the phone, coordinating with the department and the state police and the attorney general's office. The task force that had been assembled to investigate Thorne and Hartley was being hastily reconfigured to hunt one of its own.
"The AG's office is in chaos," Webb reported. "They just found out that one of their senior investigators is a murder suspect. They're locking down files, auditing records, trying to figure out what else Strand might have covered up."
"What about the witnesses?"
"Miriam Okonkwo is safe. She's at the governor's mansion with her cousin. State police are guarding the perimeter. Shaniyah Cole is at home with Darius. Two officers are on their way to the Flats now."
"And Odette?"
"Odette Laveau. Apartment 614, Building 7. No answer on her phone."
Carver felt his stomach tighten. "Call Darius. Tell him to check on her. Tell him to knock on her door and not leave until she answers."
Webb made the call. They drove in silence, the mountains giving way to foothills, the foothills giving way to the outskirts of Bethel. The city lights were a smear on the horizon, orange and yellow against the black sky.
Darius called back ten minutes later. "Odette is fine. She was asleep. She didn't hear the phone."
"Stay with her," Carver said. "Don't leave her alone. Strand might come for her."
"Who is Strand?"
"Someone dangerous. Someone who killed Elena Maris and tried to kill Alan Lassiter. Someone who might try to kill anyone who can testify against Governor Hartley."
"The list. Lassiter's list. We're on it, aren't we?"
"Yes. You and Shaniyah and Odette and everyone else who helped Elena."
Darius was silent for a moment. "We've been on lists before. The Housing Authority had lists. The welfare office had lists. The police had lists. We're still here."
"This is different. Strand is not a bureaucrat. He's a killer."
"So were the Collectors. So was Thorne's security team. We've survived worse."
Carver wanted to argue, but he knew Darius was right. The people of the Flats had been surviving predators for decades. Strand was just the latest in a long line of men who thought they could eliminate the inconvenient.
"Just stay inside," Carver said. "Keep your door locked. We'll be there as soon as we can."
They reached Bethel at 9:30 p.m. The streets were quiet, the snow falling in soft flakes that muffled sound and blurred the edges of the buildings. Carver drove directly to the Flats, past the checkpoints that were now manned by community volunteers instead of National Guard soldiers, past the memorial that had grown outside Building 14, past the Southgate clinic where lights were burning in the windows.
The clinic was open. Someone was inside.
Carver stopped the car. "Webb. Look."
Through the clinic windows, they could see a figure moving in the examination rooms. A man. Tall. Dark clothing. He was carrying something in his hand.
"Strand," Webb said.
They approached the clinic on foot, their weapons drawn. The front door was unlocked. The waiting room was empty, the chairs still arranged in rows, the magazines still on the side table. But the door to the examination room was open, and the light inside was on.
Victor Strand was standing in the room where Elena Maris had died. He was holding a syringe. On the examination table in front of him, a figure was lying motionless.
"Strand," Carver said. "Put the syringe down."
Strand turned. His face was calm, almost serene. "Detective Carver. I was wondering when you'd arrive."
"Step away from the table."
"I'm afraid I can't do that." Strand gestured toward the figure on the table. "This is Orson DeWitt. The janitor. He was here the night Elena Maris died. He saw more than he ever told you. He saw me."
Carver looked at the figure on the table. It was Orson DeWitt, the janitor who had found Elena's body. He was alive, but barely. His eyes were open, his breathing shallow. A syringe mark was visible on his arm.
"You drugged him."
"A mild sedative. He'll recover. But first, he's going to tell me everything he knows about the other witnesses. The ones Lassiter didn't include on his list."
"There are no other witnesses."
"There are always other witnesses. People who saw things they didn't understand. People who heard things they didn't report. People who are too scared to come forward but might change their minds if someone asks the right questions." Strand smiled. "I've been cleaning up messes for twenty years, Detective. I know how this works."
"Cleaning up messes. Is that what you call murder?"
"I call it what it is. Necessary. Unfortunate. Inevitable." Strand shrugged. "The system is a machine. It runs on money and power. People like Elena Maris and Alan Lassiter try to throw themselves into the gears. They think they can stop the machine. But they can't. The machine just grinds them up."
"And you're the machine?"
"I'm a mechanic. I keep things running smoothly."
"You killed Elena Maris."
"Yes. I did. Lawrence Dreyer was supposed to persuade her to drop the lawsuit. He failed. So I was sent to finish the job."
"Sent by Governor Hartley."
"Sent by the people who employ Governor Hartley. The people who employ everyone. The people whose names never appear in any document, any filing, any investigation." Strand's smile widened. "You think you've won, Detective. You think the impeachment was a victory. But the people who really run this state are still in power. They're still making decisions. They're still protecting their interests. Hartley was expendable. Thorne was expendable. I am expendable. But the machine? The machine goes on."
"Not if I stop it."
"You can't stop it. You can only choose whether to be crushed by it or to join it." Strand held up the syringe. "I'm going to walk out of here now. I'm going to finish what I started. And by the time the sun comes up, every witness who can tie me to the Maris murder will be dead. Including your friends in the Flats."
"You're not walking out of here."
"I am. Because if you shoot me, you'll never find the list. You'll never know who else I've been sent to kill. You'll spend the rest of your life wondering who died because you pulled the trigger too soon."
Carver's finger tightened on the trigger. Strand was right. If he killed him now, the list died with him. The witnesses would be unprotected. The machine would keep grinding.
"What do you want?" Carver asked.
"I want safe passage. A plane out of the country. New identity. New life. In exchange, I give you the list. I tell you who else is on it. I tell you who gave the orders. I tell you everything."
"You want a deal."
"Everyone wants a deal. Even you, Detective. You've been making deals since the beginning. With Mira Voss. With Viktor Cross. With Senator Callahan. You're a pragmatist. You understand that justice is just a word. What matters is results."
"Justice is not just a word."
"No? Then what is it? Elena Maris believed in justice. She's dead. Mira Voss believed in justice. She's dead. Margaret Holloway believed in justice. She's dead. The only people who survive are the ones who understand that justice is a luxury the poor can't afford."
Carver looked at Webb. Webb shook his head slightly. They had been partners long enough to communicate without words. No deal. No negotiation. They were going to take Strand down.
"Here's my counteroffer," Carver said. "You drop the syringe. You tell us where the list is. You surrender peacefully. And maybe, just maybe, you spend the rest of your life in a cell instead of on a slab."
"That's not much of an offer."
"It's the only one you're going to get."
Strand sighed. "I was afraid you'd say that."
He moved faster than Carver expected. The syringe arced through the air toward Orson DeWitt's neck, and Strand's other hand was reaching for something in his jacket, something that glinted in the fluorescent light.
Carver fired.
The bullet hit Strand in the shoulder, spinning him backward into the examination table. The syringe clattered to the floor. Webb was on Strand in an instant, cuffing him, pressing a knee into his back.
"The list," Carver said. "Where is it?"
Strand laughed. Blood was spreading across his shirt, staining the charcoal fabric a darker shade. "You think this changes anything? You think killing me or arresting me or whatever you're planning to do will stop what's coming?"
"Where is the list?"
"In my head. It's always been in my head. And now it dies with me."
He closed his eyes. His breathing slowed. For a moment, Carver thought he had lost consciousness.
But then Strand opened his eyes again and looked directly at Carver. "They're already moving, Detective. The people on the list. The people not on the list. Everyone who knows anything. By tomorrow morning, there won't be anyone left to testify. The machine doesn't stop. It just replaces its parts."
"Who are 'they'?"
"You'll find out. Sooner than you think."
An ambulance arrived and took Strand to Bethel General under heavy guard. Orson DeWitt was treated at the scene and released. He had seen nothing, heard nothing, knew nothing useful. Strand had drugged him before he could learn anything.
Carver and Webb stood in the examination room, surrounded by the debris of the confrontation: the broken syringe, the blood on the floor, the overturned table.
"He was bluffing," Webb said. "About the other people. About the machine."
"Was he?"
"We took down Thorne. We took down Hartley. We took down Dreyer and Cross and Strand. Who else is there?"
"I don't know. But Strand wasn't lying. He believed what he was saying. Someone else is out there. Someone who's been pulling strings this whole time."
Carver's phone rang. It was Darius Cole.
"Detective. You need to come to Building 7. Right now."
"What happened?"
"Odette. She's gone. The door was locked, but the window was open. There's a note."
"What does it say?"
"It says 'The patient rests.' The same note. The same handwriting. He was here, Detective. Strand was here before he went to the clinic."
Carver felt the floor shift beneath him. Strand had been at the clinic when they arrived, but before that, he had been at Building 7. He had taken Odette. And if Odette was gone, the others might be gone too.
"Webb," he said. "Call Shaniyah. Call Miriam. Call everyone on the list. Make sure they're still alive."
Webb made the calls. One by one, the voices on the other end of the line confirmed that they were safe. Shaniyah and Darius were together in apartment 412. Miriam Okonkwo was at the governor's mansion. Mr. Okonkwo was with his daughter. The other witnesses were accounted for.
All except Odette.
"She's seventy-two years old," Carver said. "She has COPD. She can't survive long without her oxygen tank."
"Strand took her oxygen tank?"
"He took everything. The tank. Her medication. Her wheelchair. He left nothing behind."
They searched the Flats for hours, going door to door, questioning everyone who might have seen something. But no one had seen anything. Strand had moved like a ghost, invisible and untraceable.
At dawn, Carver received a text message from an unknown number. It was a photograph of Odette Laveau, sitting in a chair in an empty room. She was still alive. Her oxygen tank was beside her. And pinned to her chest was a note:
"The patient rests. But the doctor is still practicing. — The Machine"
Beneath the photograph was a single line of text:
*You took my pieces. Now I take yours. This isn't over, Detective. It's just beginning.*
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