When Jenny Blake announced the F-150’s license plate belonged to the county sheriff, Harrow immediately suspected another switch.

He asked the computer expert, “What kind of vehicle is the plate registered to?”

Eyes on the screen, she reported, “A 2007 Chevy Tahoe.”

“Which,” Harrow said, “doesn’t look remotely like an F-150.”

Pall said, “He switched again.”

This news draped the mobile lab in glum silence. They all knew, too well, that the other license plate switches had led exactly nowhere.

Oh, in each case a trail had been left for the team to follow, but in the long run these searches had revealed no ties to the actual crimes.

This one, however, felt different.

Harrow said, “Certainly this being the sheriff’s vehicle can’t be a random occurrence. Must be a vehicle of choice.”

Pall said, “None of the other license plates appear to’ve been chosen for a particular reason.”

Anderson chimed in: “Just from cars registered to folks who lived along the trail.”

“A trail,” Pall pointed out, “that the killer wanted us to follow.”

Laurene said, “Think about it—nothing this guy does is random.”

“Right,” Pall said. “He’s a planner, a schemer. All the other plates belong to people who couldn’t possibly be our suspect.”

“Then in that respect,” Harrow said, “none were random choices. The killer has wanted us on his trail, wanted us to keep coming, and not get bogged down in the red herrings the license plates might provide. Why?”

Laurene said, “With just a little study, the killer could have picked license plates belonging to people who might’ve served as reasonable suspects, if only for a few hours.”

“Right,” Harrow said. “Still, in this instance, when he had the chance to throw us off the track, to cover his scent? What did he do?”

Pall said, “Just the opposite.”

That made Harrow very wary of what awaited them at the end of this road. And now that the killer almost certainly had Carmen, Harrow’s worry deepened.

“Shouldn’t we call the Smith County sheriff?” Laurene asked. “This Gibbons? And let him know we’re on our way?”

Harrow considered. If the killer had chosen to switch plates with the sheriff on purpose, there had to be a reason for it. The unsub would also have to assume that Harrow and the team would be talking to Gibbons ASAP, if only to rule him out as a suspect.

“No,” Harrow said, firm. “Let’s roll into town unannounced and play it by ear.”

Laurene frowned. “Why?”

Harrow explained his reasoning.

“Sounds like a plan to me,” Choi said. “We’ve been eating this bastard’s dust for too long.”

Pall agreed: “Might not be much, but it could just be something our guy doesn’t expect.”

“Anything would help at this point,” Anderson said. “He’s been leading us around the whole darn time.”

Choi glared at the blond. “Could you goddamn it curse once in a while? You’re driving me bat-shit.”

Jenny asked, “Where is he leading us?”

Harrow said, “Well, to Lebanon. Beyond that, we don’t want to go there…because if the unsub stays in charge, Carmen could wind up dead. And maybe the rest of us too.”

“Let me check something,” Jenny said, and her fingers flew on the laptop keyboard, stopping occasionally, then flying some more. “Here’s an interesting stat—Settler Feed field corn KS1422 is sold in twenty-three counties in Kansas, one of which is Smith County.”

“Lebanon’s in Smith County,” Harrow said. “Did the unsub leave it on purpose, back in Florida? Or did he actually make a slip?”

Jenny shrugged. “Does it matter?”

Silence, but for the semi’s engine and rolling wheels, draped the little lab.

Finally, Harrow said, “We can’t exactly be subtle with two buses and a big rig, meaning when we rumble into town, everybody will know. Jenny, find me a rental car and a place to pick it up, well outside of town. I want to go in unannounced, and anonymous.”

Choi asked, “What about the TV show?”

Anderson said, “Hell with the TV show.”

Everybody clapped.

Everybody except Jenny, that is, who was again busy tapping the keyboard. “Renting the car is easy,” she said. “Assuming you have a credit card….”

Harrow smiled. “I have a credit card, all right—for my expenses, on UBC’s dime.”

This elicited more applause.

Harrow got out his wallet and passed Jenny the AMEX black card.

“Never seen one of these before,” she said.

“I hadn’t either,” he said.

Laurene came over for a look. “You wanna inspire me to catch bad guys? Some new Jimmy Choos would do the trick.”

Harrow said, “When we catch this guy, Laurene, and bring Carmen back safe and sound, I’ll put your shoes on my own damn card.”

Suddenly embarrassed by her flip remark, Laurene said, “We’ll get her back, boss. Carmen’s a smart, tough kid. And you’ve got yourself a good team here.”

“I know I do,” he told her, and them. “I know we came together under the umbrella, even the cloud, of this Killer TV concept. You know I’ve always viewed that as a means to an end. But finding the bastard that took my family away is not as important as getting Carmen back. I don’t mean to embarrass you, but…you’re my family now. And she’s part of that family. Game faces on, children.”

The team members, nodding, seemed every bit as determined as their leader.

“Nearest place to rent a car’s Topeka,” Jenny said. “Round trip, about three hundred miles out of our way.”

“Unacceptable.”

“What can we do?”

Harrow thought for a moment. “Rent the car,” he said. “Tell me when you have it ready, and find me a town between here and Lebanon, where we can pick it up.”

Jenny shook her head. “No way to get the car there.”

“You rent the car, I’ll get it to the drop point.”

She frowned, but said, “Okay.”

“I need ten minutes,” he said.

Sensing that Harrow wanted to be alone, Laurene took over, giving the others fresh assignments.

At the far end of the lab, away from everyone, Harrow sat at a work station and rotated his head. Next, he put his elbows in front of him, closed his eyes, and leaned forward until his forehead rested in his hands.

He didn’t sleep when he did this—the exercise was actually closer to meditation—but it gave him a chance to center himself, and to find that place within where he could focus and set aside frustration, exhaustion, anger, any issue that kept him from concentrating on what was at hand.

Critics of Crime Seen! and its new segment had already started howling, even after just two episodes. Despite a good number of positive reviews, Harrow ignored those and concentrated on the pans.

Some said he was exploiting the deaths of his family. He’d expected that—those voices had been there even during the first season. Others said the show suffered from a slow pace, because they had not yet captured, or even identified, the serial killer. After only two shows!

If Harrow thought there’d been pressure when he was sheriff, or at the DCI, this TV life was many times worse—about six million times worse, actually, and growing (if the overnight ratings were to be believed).

At times he wondered if some part of him needed this, if some dark secret place craved the celebrity, if he was, in fact, somehow profiting from his own misfortune. For years, he’d fought the battle of whether or not the deaths of Ellen and David were his fault.

He even found himself singing the familiar guilty survivor’s song: if only he’d been there….

His job had been to serve and protect. He had served the public well that day, protecting the President of the United States, but not his own family.

And now who was he serving—the public? The show? His own interest in justice? Revenge? Who was he protecting? Certainly not Carmen. The cast, the crew, and his team had become close to him, a chance to start over, and here he was putting his second family in harm’s way.

What the hell good was he doing?

He was trying to stop a madman, yes, but now that they had information, he could just step aside and let law enforcement do its job. He and his people were, in fact, actively avoiding the FBI at the moment, playing off the limitations of distance and personnel the federal field offices faced.

No, he’d had to push it, had to do it himself, with the help of the team, of course…. Yet what had he accomplished? The abduction of one of their own.

But these emotions roiling within him had to be set aside, contained, compartmentalized until this was done, until Carmen was safe. He took a deep breath, held it, and waited for everything to subside, then let the breath out slowly.

When he sat back and opened his eyes, Jenny was standing there, a small sheaf of hard copy in hand.

“Got it,” she said.

“The car or the drop point?”

“Both.” She removed a sheet from atop the pile. “Russell, Kansas—it’s at the intersection of this road and Interstate seventy, running west from Topeka.”

“What’s all the paperwork?”

“Rental contract.”

“You did good, Jenny,” he said, taking the papers.

Then, on his cell, he called Dennis Byrnes and explained what he needed.

“What makes you think I can make that happen?” Byrnes asked.

“Dennis, you’re president of a major television network. What can’t you do?”

“Control the talent.”

“Then make the ‘talent’ happy. Does UBC have a Topeka, Kansas, affiliate?”

“No.”

“Well, you employ freelance crew all over the world. You must use somebody out of Topeka. Hire him or her to drive the car to Russell.”

“You’re lucky your ratings are on the rise….”

“Dennis, I’ll owe you one.”

“I know you will,” Byrnes said, and hung up.

Twenty minutes later, Byrnes’s assistant called with the details for picking up the car.

And when they got to Russell, everything went well. Harrow accepted the keys to a Chrysler 300, and he and Choi jumped in to lead the parade toward Lebanon.

In a hamlet called Downs, twenty-two miles south of Lebanon, the team pulled into a little diner-cum-truckstop that would serve as their staging area.

The diner was a retro affair, checkerboard tile floor, fixtures done up in black, red, and metallic silver, shiny and bright. Maybe ten late afternoon diners—truckers taking breaks, and farmers who had knocked off early for a cup of coffee—were scattered around the joint, all gawking for a second when the entire Killer TV team trudged in, from stars to PAs, camera and sound personnel as well.

Harrow figured—or anyway hoped—the reaction was due more to the size of the group than who they were. Famous people really turned heads in this part of the world; but once that second or two of recognition was over, locals tended to remember their manners, and go back to minding their own business.

Harrow recalled why he’d always loved the Midwest, and it reinforced his belief that, eventually, he would move back.

The diner manager opened up a closed-off area for them, and the booths and tables were soon filled. Harrow gathered the forensics team at a table, and included cameraman Hathaway and audio gal Hughes. The other camera and audio personnel had been given permission by Harrow and the diner management to go out and gather B roll.

Over coffee, Harrow said, “All right, gang—Laurene, Billy, and I will go into town in the rental. The rest of you will wait for our call and then join us.”

Pall, Jenny, and Anderson were clearly disappointed.

“Look,” Harrow said, “this is not personal. Billy and Laurene have the most experience, if things go sideways—that’s the only reason they’re going. Besides, you three are strong in the lab. I don’t want you in the field with me, when at any moment we might need you there.”

They didn’t look happy, but accepted their lot.

“What about camera?” Hathaway asked. “We are going to shoot this, aren’t we?”

Harrow didn’t want them along but knew, whether he liked it or not, trying to do this without shooting footage would be the end of their show-within-the-show. And that was something he wasn’t prepared to give up yet.

Besides, he had imposed on Byrnes, and didn’t have it in him to double-cross the man.

“You and Nancy go with us. Stow your gear in the trunk. Pack as light as possible.”

“Roger that,” Hathaway said, catching Harrow’s toss of car keys.

Then the husky cameraman rose, Hughes tagging after, ponytail swinging, as they went to fetch their gear from a bus.

Harrow nodded to Choi, got up, and Choi followed him to a quiet corner. “Suppose, hypothetically, I wanted three handguns. Where would I go to get them?”

“You’d go to me.”

“Good to know.”

“What, no hypothetical hand grenades?”

“What?”

Choi grinned. “Just kidding.”

“Round up the Kevlar vests too, before we go.”

“Can do.”

They went back and joined the others at the table, where baskets of burgers and fries and other traditional diner fare was being served up.

“All right,” Harrow said, when everyone had eaten. “Let’s get ready. Any questions?”

“Excuse me!”

The voice came from just behind Harrow. It belonged to a matronly lady in purple knit slacks, a purple sweatshirt, and a large red hat. She and three similarly dressed women lined up near Harrow’s chair—he had to swing around a little to take them all in.

Then he rose, and said, “Ladies.”

“We do apologize,” the spokeswoman said, “for interrupting you.”

“We were just finishing our meals. No problem.”

“You are J.C. Harrow, aren’t you? And this is the Killer TV team, isn’t it?”

He smiled a little. “Guilty as charged.”

“We’re with the Red Hat Society. We all watch your show, and just love it.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Now the spokeswoman’s features grew somber. “We were wondering—you don’t think that killer you’ve been chasing is here in Downs, do you?”

He shook his head. “No reason to worry, ma’am. We’re just passing through.”

Their group sigh of relief amused Harrow and the rest. But he suddenly realized another problem with the size of their operation—rolling into a little town, their semi and buses all but announcing serial killer seemed the modern-day equivalent of shouting fire in a crowded theater.

“Well, uh…before you go, could we have your autographs?”

“No problem,” he said. Much as he wanted to hit the road, he was not about to insult matrons in a diner in Downs, Kansas. A napkin was passed around, and everyone signed.

“Where is that nice young girl?” the woman asked. “Carmen Garcia? We just love her.”

“We love her, too,” Harrow said. “She’ll be joining us later. Leave your address with my friends here, and we’ll see you all get signed photos.”