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dead battery, or something.They were always so grateful because he’d rescued them, put them back on life’s highway.
    Then there were the times he was unable to help. Like with wrecks. When it was too late. When the bodies were still entwined in the metal. Firefighters covered them with tarps until they cut them out, leaving him to hoist their cars onto his truck; sometimes they dripped with blood and viscera the fire hoses had missed. But he was able to detach himself, even when he saw the beer cans, the briefcases, cell phones, groceries, gifts, coats, shoes, baby seats, toys—the aftermath of lives terminated.
    He kept a professional distance. He guarded his deepest hope—the hope of every paramedic, cop, and firefighter: that you never ever come upon your loved ones, that tragedies like this happened to other people.
    Not to you. Never to you.
    So this — this — bull that they’re telling me is not real. See. It’s just not real because I just spoke with Maria a few hours ago. She was fine. She was heading to the store with Dylan to get milk and bread. That’s all. You don’t pay with your life for goddamn milk and bread.
    So this is a mistake.
    It’s not real because they haven’t proved it. They’ve got to prove it’s real.
    “I want to see Maria!” Colson stood, shaking off Grace as he continued shouting. “I want to see my boy! My wife and son, now!”
    “Take it easy, Lee.”
    Gently, Perelli and Binder got Colson back into the pew.
    “It’s not true, this can’t be, because I was just talkingto her on the phone. I could hear Dylan crying. Last night I kissed them, this can’t—we’ve got plans—it was just milk and bread and—”
    There was a soft noise at the chapel door and a man in a dark suit entered and inventoried matters as he approached.
    “Detective Garner?”
    She caught FBI credentials for Special Agent Kirk Dupree.
    “Can we speak privately?”
    Outside the chapel, in the bright light of the hall, Grace noticed his neatly parted salt-and-pepper hair. His dark eyes, intense to the point of being hostile.
    “That’s Mr. Colson in there?” Dupree asked.
    “Yes.”
    “I want a statement.”
    “We’re getting to that. He’s being notified about his wife and son.”
    “Anything from her?”
    “She’s unconscious and might not live.”
    “You’re the primary then, is that correct?”
    “Yes.”
    “We have jurisdiction over the abduction. I want Mr. Colson in his home immediately to set up for any contact from the kidnappers—phone, e-mail, courier. We’ve got our technical people rolling. Are you ready to put out an alert and set up a news conference with him?”
    “We’ve blasted a forcewide description of the van.”
    “I’m talking about a public, statewide activation of the alert system: TV, radio stations, flashing traffic signs, do you understand?”
    “We’re gathering information for that as fast as we can.”
    “Not fast enough.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Detective Garner, are you aware that in most stranger child abductions, the victim is murdered within the first hours of being taken?”
    “I’m fully aware.”
    “You’ve already lost an hour. Get my point? Colson can do nothing for his wife here. We need him to help save his child. Since you don’t yet have a homicide, we’ll take it from here.”
    “May I see your ID again?”
    Dupree’s brow creased as Grace studied it.
    “I don’t see it here.”
    “See what?”
    “Where it says that you’re an asshole with authority to supervise me.”
    His face tensed as she continued.
    “We’ve had people working the scene since 911 took the call.” Grace invaded Dupree’s personal space, close enough to catch the mint on his breath. “We arrived here in time to see them wheel Maria Colson into surgery and for us to try talking to her and to her husband, who is barely coherent. Maybe it takes you longer to get down the elevator because in that time, you guys were invisible. You’ve lost an