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didn't know what he'd find in the salt flats or California, but he wanted to be ready. The darkened skin, the pupil pinpricks in the bright light, the slight extra weight and inches of hard, muscled flesh on his already fit body were noticeable only to him.
    Too damn soon for another Change, but what choice did he have?
    #
    Jack's Prima phone rang while he waited to board his flight to Salt Lake City. He checked the display and depressed the call button. He didn't waste time identifying himself. Warren Linders' deep voice rattled over the line. "Change of plans."
    "How so?"
    "Got a lead shows our boy might've made it to California. Damn convenient of him. Contact the Sheriff in Bigler County, get his cooperation."
    "Are you sure it's our man?"
    "Maybe, maybe not, but you gotta go to California anyway. Check it out."
    "What about the Utah scene?"
    "Make it brief. Rent a car in Salt Lake." A pause while Warren no doubt checked his facts. "It's a ten-hour drive to Sacramento. You can approach the Gant woman there. I have a feeling you'll be in the hippie state for a while."
    Jack snapped the phone shut without commenting.
    On the flight to Salt Lake, he sank into his first-class seat. Traveling over twenty-four hours straight – from Tel Aviv to Baltimore to Salt Lake – was grueling and reinforced his concern about another assignment. He stared at the tremor in his hands, knowing – drugs or no drugs – his body was unprepared to rev up again. Instead of reverting from hunter to normal state, he was transforming into a predator again. The mere idea of a hunt fueled the adrenaline, boosted oxygen and glucose levels. This see-sawing was dangerous, but the Invictus doctor had happily reconfigured Jack's drug dosage.
    Lucky Jack. He was a human medical experiment.
    After the plane reached its altitude and leveled off, he removed his PDA from his pocket, checked for messages. Nothing. He breathed deeply, pressed his fingers into his temples, and contemplated the single failure of his career.
    He'd been stupid to believe the killer had stopped so suddenly four years ago. Three victims had been killed in a six-month period. Then no activity at all. Jack had made an uneasy peace with himself. And now it looked like the son of a bitch had started again.
    Occupying a window seat, he glanced across the aisle to the opposite seats. Empty. The adjoining spot also was vacant. The high seatbacks provided sufficient privacy. Reaching for the briefcase wedged beneath the seat in front of him, he extracted the first of three caramel-colored folders. He pulled out an envelope, untied the clasp, and shook the photos onto his laptop tray.
    Case number SX-28904, Laura Jean Peterson, Caucasian female, age nineteen, DOD approximately August 7. Cause of death: suffocation. She was a freshman at the University of Virginia in Charlottesville.
    Laura Peterson's body had been discovered fourteen days after she was reported missing. Traces of a sedative were in her bloodstream. Her naked body was dumped in a wooden box and the crate buried in a tobacco field outside Richmond, Virginia.
    She'd ripped the nails off both hands, trying to claw her way out of her crude coffin. Her knees and feet showed skin scrapes and dried blood. Buried alive, Laura Jean Peterson had taken nearly four hours to die.
    He fingered the photo of her at her high school graduation. Others of her body in the ignominious, shallow grave like an indigent in Potter's Field. No signs of physical assault, no rape, no possible reason why someone drugged a nineteen-year-old girl and buried her, still breathing, in a remote, shallow grave.
    Rummaging through his briefcase, Jack retrieved the thin file the Judge had given him. It contained little beyond the coroner's report and the photographs. The girl found at Mammoth Proving Grounds in Utah hadn't yet been identified. Nevertheless, the similarities between her and the Peterson girl were unmistakable. Both girls were drugged and stripped