I was back at the Bertoli mansion, sitting in the dining room, ice packs wrapped to four different places on my body, staring at my computer. I'd been at it for over nine hours, and I was getting pissed. I knew so much about Drake except the one thing I needed most. I needed to know where the hell the bastard was keeping Adriana.

For example, I knew that he was more than just a guy who flipped his lid once and killed two women. While his outburst was greater this time, I suspected that he'd been involved with at least a dozen other murders, stretching back nearly twenty-five years, and that was just in his time after he got out of the military. In each town that he lived in, including Seattle, there was a noticeable uptick in disappearances of young women, with bodies being found months or even years later. While the autopsies normally said that the women had died of exposure, accidentally, or due to some other natural cause, and that any disfigurement to the corpses came from normal decomposition or from small scavengers eating the body, I could tell from the way there were angles and symmetry that those wounds were intentionally inflicted. If I could tell that, any detective worth their salt could too—they must have been trying to not incite panic.

I knew that Drake favored using tools from a company called Sculpture Hut, and that he ordered a lot of it online now that the company had gone to a Web-based presence. I even knew his fucking credit card that he used for placing his orders.

What I didn't know was where in the hell he was right that second. Seattle's a big city, land-wise, and had done a lot of expansion and contraction over the years. Surrounded by the Pacific Northwest, it doesn't take a lot to disappear in Seattle. I needed something to point me in the right direction.

Unfortunately, the pain in my body, combined with the lack of information, was driving me nuts. After looking at the same information for the third time without making any progress, I slammed my fist on the table, rattling the tea cup that was on the other side and sending it tumbling to the floor, where it shattered in a bomb-like explosion.

“I never liked that tea cup anyway,” a voice said behind me, and I turned my head, instantly regretting it as my sore neck twinged. Margaret Bertoli stood in the doorway, her hair and face so similar to Adriana's that I nearly cried. She stepped in closer, seeing the pain in my face, and came around to sit down on the chair nearby. “Sorry, I forgot about your neck.”

“Not your fault,” I replied, rubbing at the sore area. “It'll feel better soon enough.”

“You're a pretty horrible liar for a Mafia man,” Margaret said with a chuckle. “Besides, I know that jaw has to still be killing you.”

“I put some Orajel on it,” I mumbled, aware again of the sick throb on the left side of my face. “After I find Adriana, I can go to the dentist and get some nice, shiny porcelain replacements put in.”

“How goes the search?” she asked. “Carlo told me he has every man in our employ out combing the city. Still, it's a big damn city.”

“With a lot of places someone with military training could hide,” I finished. “And this guy—he's good. I've gotten to know more about him than perhaps even the cops they have on his ass, and he scares me. One on one, I'd have his ass for breakfast, but right now, he has the advantage. I have to find him, not wait for him to come to me.”

Margaret nodded. “If you were him, what would you do?”

I blanked for a second, then sighed. “I don't know. I'm not a psycho. I'm not like him.”

She shook her head and put her hand on mine. “Don't limit yourself. Being married to Johnny, I saw both the wonderful man and the dark side of him over the fifteen years we were married. I came to understand it, and it's why, even after his death, I stay with the Bertoli family. It's more honest than the lie the rest of the world tells itself sometimes. Turn on the TV and listen to what normal people tell themselves. They hear about crimes, the horrible things that monsters like Drake do, and they tell themselves that they can never understand them. They say that they could never do the same, and that only someone aberrant would do such things. But the truth is different. We all have that monster inside us, the voices inside our heads. Most of the people out there refuse to accept it. They refuse to accept that your ancestors were the same people who perpetrated the Holocaust, while ancestors of the Bertolis thought that crucifixion was quite a normal way to treat undesirable people. The Irish and Scots . . . we engaged in the wholesale slaughter of each other, uniting only when we hated the English more than other clans. This idea that we call civilized culture is a relatively new thing, overall. Within the Bertoli organization, we accept that dark animal side, and by accepting it, we've been able to have greater strength and control over ourselves. So don't deny that side of you. Accept it, knowing that when you are done with it, you can put it away.”

I thought about it, then nodded slowly. “I'll try.”

“In the meantime, though, can you answer another question for me?” she asked, her voice different. She sounded both concerned and happy at the same time.

“Sure. Whatever you need.”

“Were you two going to invite me to the wedding?” she asked lightly. “Or was I going to find out through email?”

I smiled and let my head hang. “We were going to wait on the wedding,” I said softly. “She wanted to try and reconcile enough that you'd be able to come.”

Margaret smiled and leaned over, kissing me on the cheek. “Thank you . . . son. Now, when you find her, we can have the wedding here, and not at some cheesy hotel.”

I chuckled, then stopped, a lightning bolt of inspiration flashing through my mind. “Hotel. Hotel . . . shit!”

“What?” Margaret said, excitement dawning in her face from the sound of my voice. “What did you think of?”

“Adam did a complete background on Drake, and he was going to check out everything, but outside of his house, there wasn't anything. But his wife . . . there!”

“The Vista Pine Motel,” Margaret said, reading over my shoulder. “What is it?”

“An old motel on Route 99, south of SeaTac,” I said. “It's in his wife's name. It's been sitting in probate the whole time. The cops went through right after the murder and didn't find anything, but if I were to try and kidnap someone . . .”

“Let's go,” Margaret said, standing up and offering me a hand. “I’ll drive. You armed?”

“No,” I replied. “Carlo's men did a smart job of that.”

Margaret nodded, then shrugged. “There's always some guns somewhere in this house. We can get you something from the kitchen safe.”

I took her offered hand and lurched to my feet. Going to the kitchen, she opened the safe there and pulled out two pistols. “Which do you prefer, 9mm or .45?”

“Forty-five,” I answered. “Beretta.”

“Always buy Italian, Daniel. Don't you know that? Here.” She handed me the forty-five handle first, and I took it. It was nice, one of the newer pistols from Beretta's Cougar line, not my preferred model, but still damn good. “Good enough?”

“Good,” I said, checking the magazine. I had eight rounds of gleaming brass inside, with hollow point rounds. If I put one of these into him, the fight would be over. “Come on. What are we driving?”

“The Gran Turismo,” Margaret said, pointing. I was impressed. She normally drove much more conservative cars, but the Maserati Gran Turismo Stradale was different. Sleek, powerful, with feminine lines and that touch that just differentiated it from its competitors. “Need help into the passenger seat?”

“No, I'll make it,” I said, limping over and ungainly dropping into the passenger seat. “See?”

She started the engine up, and I couldn't help but grin at the rumbling power under the hood. This was one sexy car. “Think you can peel this thing out?” I asked, buckling in. “I can navigate.”

“Watch me,” she said, slamming the gear stick forward and jamming her foot to the floor. “Johnny took me on a couple of trips to Europe. I got to drive cars like this on the Autobahn. Hold on—we're going to break some traffic laws.”

According to what I checked out later, the distance from the Bertoli mansion to the Vista Pine Motel was thirty-seven miles. If you follow the traffic laws, driving that would take you between forty-five minutes and an hour.

For Margaret Bertoli, driving to find her daughter behind the wheel of a car with four hundred and sixty horsepower, racing suspension and near super-car status, she nearly ripped street signs off in her wake as she tore down Interstate 5. I wanted to navigate, but I was so focused on trying to just hold on as she took curves and corners at nearly suicidal speeds that I barely had the presence of mind to call Pietro. “Pietro? Yeah, it's me. Mrs. Bertoli and I are checking out a lead. The Vista Pine Motel, it's a closed down motel near SeaTac. Yeah, I'll send you the address. Get some men over there before us if you can. What? FUCK!”

“What is it?” Margaret said through clenched teeth as we passed a semi before quickly cutting back in to swerve around a minivan in the passing line.

“Pietro says they don't have anyone near SeaTac right now,” I said. “Everyone is in the downtown and University areas. They figured that he'd keep her close by, as much as he was able to get onto campus.”

“Then we get there first,” Margaret said. “You take the lead.”

I stopped, then turned to her, surprised. “You're going in with me?”

“That's my daughter,” she said, her voice filled with steel. “There's no way I'm not going in after her. Besides, I know how to handle a gun, Daniel.”

I said nothing, my thoughts my own as she jerked the steering wheel to the right, this time into the breakdown lane, to go around a pair of cars in the two lanes before cutting back over. “You do realize we just passed a cop.”

“By the time he gets that piece of junk up to speed, we're going to be off the Interstate,” Margaret replied through clenched teeth as we approached the off ramp. “Hold on, this'll be fast.”

My ribs groaned as I was thrown against the side door as we took the right turn getting off the Interstate at seventy, sliding part of the turn like a drift racer. “You should be a pro at this,” I hissed as I tried to find a comfortable position again. “And get a five-point harness system.”

“Don't worry,” Margaret said. “Only a mile to go. Get ready.”

We pulled up into the parking lot, which was weedy and cracked, one of the few eyesores in an area that looked like it had been undergoing rejuvenation for a while. Heading to the back, I saw a van and held up my hand. “Stop here.”

“Why?” She said, but still doing what I asked.

“Because if that is Drake, and he's got Ade . . . if he sees a vehicle, he may kill her before we're even out of our seats. We go in on foot.”

My cellphone rang, and I picked it up. “Yeah, Pietro?”

“We have men coming. They'll be there in ten minutes,” Pietro said, his voice calm and composed. “What is your status?”

“We're at the motel,” I replied. “I'm going in.”

“No, Daniel. Hold for backup,” Pietro said. “This Drake is to be taken alive.”

I took the phone away from my ear and hung it up. “Pietro says wait. I'm not going to disobey him directly by saying no, so if anyone asks, my phone lost reception.”

She nodded and took the phone from me, putting it in her purse. “You ready?”

“Just a second,” I said, and winced. When Margaret leaned over to see if I was okay, I chopped her in the back of the neck, knocking her out. She sagged against the door, and I swallowed my disgust at my actions. “I'm sorry, but I'm not going to risk you just to get a little backup. I need to do this one alone.”

I got out of the car, closing the door softly behind me, and raised the pistol next to my head. I was sore, hurt, stiff, and barely functioning after being without sleep for so long.

Good enough. I went in.