He was already en route. First he’d heard it from the local news channel, the tense voice of its news anchor wafting through the cracked bathroom door and through the steam of his shower. And then it was Jackson, a direct call with directions, and a breakdown of what he’d heard from his sources. Sam was a little surprised to hear that a false alarm had spread so quickly through the nation.

Despite talk of it being a false alarm, Sam was rolling through as many stop signs and red lights as possible, doing everything in his power to get to the scene—to get to Clara. But the closer he got to the courthouse, the heavier the traffic, until finally he turned the wheel swiftly and drove into an alley, parked illegally, and then got out on foot and sprinted toward the scene. It was easy to tell the direction; all he had to do was follow the wailing of sirens. It was also the same direction that everyone seemed to be rushing away from. Aside from the various uniformed personnel and the camera-holding news hounds, there weren’t many people traveling in his direction.

Dodging cars and people at a crosswalk, Sam suddenly heard a loud echoing thud. A detonation. The sound made him cold inside. Jackson had mentioned there being a bomb crew there, detonating suspicious packages. Hopefully that was just the sound of another purse left behind being obliterated. There’d been a bomb threat made to the court building. It had to be that. It couldn’t be anything more than that.

Which building Clara was working was a mystery to Sam, though there were only two options for her today. No matter what, given the size and scope of the event, and the fact that Jackson had actually called him about it from Washington, it was safe to say that Clara probably wasn’t having a very good day. She’d be scared. That was his worst fear: her stuck somewhere, feeling scared and alone. He’d find her soon and then that would all be over. There would be nothing worse than that. Jackson had the accurate info and the bomb threat had been bullshit. She wouldn’t be hurt. That just couldn’t happen.

He tried her phone again.

No answer.

Like an idiot, he tried calling her likely abandoned office. That call couldn’t even get through to ring. The place was probably overloaded with calls, loved ones checking in after the news of “a disturbance at the downtown courthouse today.”

Sam turned the corner that should have opened up to a large, verdant courtyard. What he saw instead was pure madness. A clustered mass of vehicles and people strewn everywhere. The emergency vehicles were parked every which way, forcing the evacuees to slowly filter through the maze of metal. Some evacuees had come to their own parking spots, lying every which way in the grass, on the pavement, lying sprawled and still.

The sight knocked all the feeling out of him. He stood there, numb and bloodless, his eyes having trouble focusing on the separate little clusters of medics over bodies, and all the busy work of saving lives rushing back and forth. There were even pedestrians—civilians—rushing to form human chains for the passing of logistics. Water. Stretchers. IV supplies.

Sam was glad not to see blood or human carnage. No one was missing any limbs. But why the hell were so many people on the ground? It looked more like a training exercise than anything else, like all these people were just crisis actors lying around for free lunch and fifty bucks. Only today their acting was way too good. Like Academy Award good. It was fucking horrible.

“Hey. You there.”

Sam felt someone’s hand on his shoulder. A cop.

“Sir, you’ve got to clear out. This whole block is getting cleared.”

“With all those bodies lying there? I can help.”

Another person in uniform came rushing up and started shouting something into the cop’s ear, something about an expanded perimeter and how they needed it right fucking now.

“What do you need?” Sam asked. “I can—”

“Sir, we need you to back up.”

Sam spun around and jogged onto the grass of the courtyard, moving from one victim to the next, asking the medic at each if he’d needed anything. He would have done it anyway, but it also gave him a chance to look around for Clara.

“What’s wrong with these people?” he asked another volunteer, a short woman in a wind breaker. She had some sort of name badge strung around her neck. Sam tried reading it, but she wouldn’t keep still. He looked back up at the woman’s face and she was almost scowling at him.

“Who are you?” she asked, stopping dead in her tracks.

“I’m a first responder.”

“Where’s your badge?”

“Forget the badge,” he said. “Do you need help or not?”

The woman turned away from Sam and then knelt down next to a pair of medics. Together they slid an elderly gentleman onto a stretcher. He was still alive. So at least there was some good news.

Sam moved toward the courthouse, following a wide trail of half-conscious victims stretched out on the grass. He looked down at each of their faces, hoping not to find Clara. He wanted to find her, but not like that. Not on the ground. Please not on the ground.

When he got too close to the building, several tactical ops men got up in his face and started pushing him back.

“Sir!”

They had assault rifles and weren’t looking very pleased.

“Sir, who are you? What are you doing?”

He was met with a barrage of hostile questions, and so he said the only thing that might get him through the line. “My wife . . .”

“Sir, please get the fuck out of here.”

Fuck.

Sam turned away from them and headed back toward the road, careful now to avoid anyone in uniform. The road would be a better spot, anyway. He could wait near the ambulances, checking on each patient as they got wheeled up and loaded in. It was all he could really do after so many of his offers for help had been turned down.

There was, however, one other way he could assist the security forces. A way no one rushing about clearly knew he could do. He’d have to talk to Jackson about getting some sort of official clearance for next time.

God. Don’t let there ever be a next time.

His ability, the scanning of faces and body language, could be used on the hordes of people still rushing around the crime scene. Maybe he could spot an anomaly, someone looking a little too calm, or perhaps a face wracked with a specifically guilty type of nervousness.

Sam climbed up on a tall concrete planter, standing above the scene, his eyes sweeping back and forth across the courtyard. He was not only looking for the motion signature of Clara’s walk, but of anyone who looked at all suspicious. It was a certain facial tightness, a barely controlled exterior shell holding in the subtle shiftiness of eyes and of fingers—nervous, fidgeting fingers at the lips of pant pockets that, to anyone else, would go completely unnoticed.

He took a systematic approach, breaking the scene down into a square grid much like that of an archeologist’s dig site. One by one, he analyzed and then cleared the square and the suspects populating it. He worked quickly, the ability a matter of instinct and not conscious mental processing. Each face rushing past that he’d seen before in another grid was immediately and automatically cataloged and ignored. It was an innate ability to detect, to feel, to absorb energy, almost like that of a psychic medium. It didn’t matter how close or far he was, as long as he could see their facial expressions, their gait, and the minute tics and twitches of their bodies. He could see the scene perfectly from up on the planter, using an eagle-eye precision, his discerning gaze zooming in as if through a sniper’s scope, scanning across the rolling lawn of the courtyard.

“Hey, can I help you?”

Sam looked down from his perch to see a blue-jacketed FBI agent standing at the base of the planter. The agent mentioned something into his radio and then said, “Who are you?”

“Sam Hyde,” he said, returning his gaze to the crime scene and its people. “I’m with DARC Ops in Washington.”

More crackling over the agent’s radio. And then he walked away.

Sam wouldn’t have much more time to be putzing around like this. Now that the Feds had moved in, they would be clearing everyone, even the citizen volunteers, out of the crime scene. He looked back across at the row of ambulances. They were waiting with open rear doors, but there weren’t any incoming stretchers in sight. Sam scanned the area again, noting all the remaining victims, at least the ones in the courtyard. None of them were Clara. Though she might still be inside the building . . .

He wanted to get inside, but he’d have to rig up some sort of security clearance for that. At the end of the day, he’d also probably get in a lot of shit for something so reckless. He’d have to keep his nose somewhat clean if he’d want to assist later in the efforts to track down whomever had done this— whatever it was.

Taking one last wide look over the area, Sam finally saw a familiar face.

But it wasn’t the one he’d hoped—or even expected.

He was a tall, spindly man, walking through the clumps of medics and bodies, looking down at each as he moved past. He wore that same type of sociopathic calm on his face that Sam had been looking for. He also wore poorly fitting clothes. An overly large plaid button-up, on top of faded jeans, on top of big, black, steel-toed boots. Sam looked back up to his face, the pale and sunken, pock-marked face of man in his mid forties. A man who looked disturbingly similar to Kurt Brevic.

Sam had seen his mug shot and his prison ID photo. He had read up about how much of a bastard he was, the quick biographical sketch leaving Sam shocked that he’d ever had anything to do with Clara—let alone Molly. After learning of his full name after his visit with Dave, Sam learned everything he could about the man, the “father” of darling little Molly. He learned about his history of violence, and what he might be capable of in the future if he was indeed getting out of jail—and especially if he wanted to hassle Clara in any way.

He’d wanted to know the man, to build a psychological profile and to predict his next moves. But now Sam was watching his moves unfold in real time, the way he creeped around the scene like an arsonist enjoying his work, enjoying the madness he’d just created. Perhaps Kurt was playing the part of the helpful rescuer as so many arsonists do after sticking around, waiting in some bushes somewhere before finally emerging and pretending to save the day—even though they’d been the direct architect for that’s day’s misery.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

It was the FBI agent again. He had returned after doing whatever it was he’d had to do, and now he seemed intent on shaking down Sam.

“And what the fuck is DARC Ops, by the way?”

Sam kept his focus on the slithering creature out in the courtyard. Kurt was looking around now, shifty-eyed. It was almost too easy, the behavior matching too closely and comically to the clichéd bad guy of children’s shows.

“Are you gonna climb down off there or will I have to get you?”

Getting bodily forced off the top of the planter by a federal agent probably wasn’t going to help his cause. Sam climbed down, holding eye contact the whole time with Kurt. As his feet hit the ground, a strong urge to walk up to him followed. Just walk to where he was standing, and maybe smack him around in the face a little bit. Show him what it’s like.

“Where do you think you’re going?” The agent was pushing Sam back against the planter.

He finally looked the agent in the eye, transferring his rage onto from Kurt onto him. “I’m looking for my wife.” It felt natural now to say it. Odd, but natural. At first it was an excuse to gain a little more credibility, a lie that Sam seemed to successfully pass off. But now it was normal, natural. She was his wife somehow, and he needed to find her.

“We’re looking for her,” the agent said a little softer. “Now please step back and head past the barrier and stay out of our way. Got it? You can only hinder our efforts being in here.”

“Well, what about that guy over there?”

“What guy?”

They were both looking out over the courtyard. But now Sam couldn’t even spot him.

“That guy . . .”

“Buddy, do I have to arrest you?”

Sam kept looking, but Kurt was nowhere to be found.

“Go home and wait for your wife.”

Sam shrugged out of his grasp and started walking toward the barrier, taking several long looks back for Kurt on his retreat. But still, nothing.

Well, fuck it. Maybe it was all in his head. Had he conjured up the ghost of Kurt? He’d been looking so hard for Clara, and straining his abilities so intently to find any suspicious-looking people that maybe he’d finally seen what he wanted to. He was so badly in need of answers, even just one answer. Even just one lead to go on, for fuck’s sake.

Now, he was just empty and useless. He couldn’t find Clara. He was too late to be any actual help to anyone at the scene. He had made a fucking nuisance of himself with the first responders. And he’d quite possibly let Kurt, who was perhaps a real suspect, slip away into thin air.

His self-flagellation looping through his mind, Sam marched dejectedly toward the barricade. The authorities had set up control barriers backing up the police tape, and backed up again by a human wall of police officers holding back the curious onlookers. Now that the scenes of horror had faded, people wanted back in. But not the original evacuees. This new group was made up of all types of media personalities and crew, concerned family members, and just plain old nosy citizens who were all clambering to have access. It was too late for anyone to breech the barrier like Sam had. Or like Kurt. Sam still wasn’t sure how or when he had arrived to the scene—if he had at all.

“Can I just get through?” he asked one of the cops at the barrier. Sam didn’t expect much of a problem getting through. It should be a lot easier getting out than in.

When several cops moved aside and let him crawl under a wooden barrier, Sam finally emerged back into the civilian world. A world of confusion and so many questions. Here he was back in the darkness along with everyone else struggling to comprehend what the fuck had just happened.

Needling through the crowd, he made an effort to turn off his detecting abilities. It was too much. He would be overloaded by the energy whipping up along the barrier. Without even trying or looking, he could feel the fear and craziness of the crowd like it was one organic being, one breathing, squirming tangle of ganglia, billowing around like an octopus and grappling its many arms uselessly against the smooth bottom of a fisherman’s boat.

Sam felt just as useless.

For once, he was ordinary.

The crowd at the barrier was particularly thick, the people with a natural momentum surging forward and into each other and trapping each other there. It trapped Sam momentarily before he started getting a little more forceful with his pleas to “move please” and his tapping of shoulders and waiting for gaps of people to open up. After a half minute of that nonsense, Sam just began pushing forward, not through gaps, but through people, forcing his way out of the mess of onlookers and their uninformed gossip and hysterical questions. He felt much like Dave, much like the professor’s half-drunk desire to football his way through that line of students at the previous night’s A&M protest.

When Sam finally broke free, or so he thought, there was one last obstacle. One last football player to contend with, a small yet forceful weight tackling into his legs. It was also a blindside. He hadn’t seen the impact coming. It startled him, knocking him off balance, his knee buckling under the pressure, his ankle almost rolling over itself as he took the blow. And then suddenly there was a big mess of hair at his waist, someone’s head, thrashing about, fighting with him and through him.

“Hey!” He tried disentangling himself, tried holding his ground.

And then a little face looked up at him, a face scrunched in anger. A little girl’s face, wet with tears.

“Molly?”

Her struggle ended, the force of it fading into a look of annoyed confusion. And now she looked exactly how he felt inside. That was the difference of thirty-seven years of maturing on this planet, the ability to hide such volatility behind at least a sheen of adult insincerity.

There was nothing insincere about her backing off him with her little waddling steps, her little mouth hung open and staying that way until another adult ran up behind and grabbed her. Molly seemed unfazed by this latest impact, clutching and then holding on in a bear hug to a young, college-aged woman. Not an older professional. Not the stenographer Sam had been wanting so badly.

“It’s him!” Molly cried into the woman’s chest.

Sam took a few steps forward, hands stretched down and pleading for calm, saying, “Alright, let’s just—”

“Stay back!” the woman cried.

“What? I’m—”

“It’s him,” Molly said again.

The woman backed up with her little bundle of Molly still attached to her waist. “Who are you?”

Molly spoke first. “It’s Sam.”

“Sam?” She stopped walking backward, yet her eyes had squinted up. “Clara’s Sam?”

God, yes. He was Clara’s Sam. That was exactly who he was and at that moment, nothing else. He wasn’t Jackson’s Sam. He wasn’t criminal psychologist Sam. He wasn’t Sam from Washington. He was hers.

“I came looking for her,” he said. “Right when I heard.”

Molly had freed herself and was staring at him. “Where’s Mommy?”

“I don’t know.” He hated saying it. “I’m sorry.”

Molly spun around, looking through the crowd.

“Hey,” her caretaker said firmly. “You stay right here.”

“Are you . . .? Um . . .”

“I’m Bren.”

“I’m Sam.”

“Any news?”

He tried thinking about what he could tell her, anything that would make even a little sense. But even he was so left in the dark about this.

“What the fuck,” she muttered, her face looking increasingly horrified. “I guess there was a bomb?”

“And maybe some kind of . . .” Sam looked at Molly.

“What? Some kind of what?”

“Some kind of gas or something.”

“Gas?”

“I didn’t see any obvious injuries, but some people . . . a lot of people have collapsed. I was able to check, but I couldn’t find her.”

“What do mean collapsed?”

“It’s possible that Clara could already be on her way to a hospital.”

Bren, seemingly, was having trouble comprehending the situation, her eyes glossing over like she’d just taken a huge hit of hashish.

“We have to start calling around.” Sam scratched his head, trying to warm up his brain a little. It was time to start working out a solution. “I’ve got so many calls to make. Back in Washington . . .” He looked up at Bren with hope resounding in his voice. “Have you heard from her at all?”

“No. That’s why we’re here.”

Sam pointed to Molly. “Is she . . .?”

“I picked her up from school.” Bren wrapped an arm around Molly, who was beginning to look a little restless, like she was about to make a run for it. She kept wanting to squirm away and look around through the crowd herself, searching for Mommy even though her line of sight ended at the tops of everyone’s legs.

“Wait,” Sam said. “Do you know where Clara parks? Maybe she was able to get out and now she’s . . . Has she called you?”

“No. You?”

“No.”

“Fuck.”

Sam checked his phone again anyway, just to make sure.

“Anything?” Bren asked. She asked quickly, without even giving time for the screen to load up. Sam could understand her impatience.

He was growing impatient, too. Why hadn’t anyone heard from her?

His message box flicked on. Empty. Without his even saying anything to Bren, she muttered, “This is bad.”

“What?” Molly said, fear creeping in her voice.

“We’ll find her, Babe.” Bren said. “We’ll find her. Everyone’s just really confused right now, that’s all. It’ll be fine. Like, remember that one time you got lost at the mall?” Bren looked back at Sam. She spoke with a little hint of anxiety that was, thankfully, too subtle for an eight-year-old. “It’ll be fine, right?”

Sam nodded. “We’ll find her.”