“Why? Why does Eve do anything?” Mirabella raged, waving her arms. She was gently corralled by her husband, Jimmy Joe, probably the only person there who understood that the angrier she sounded, the more frightened it meant she was.

“Something’s happened to her,” Pop Waskowitz rumbled. “Had to.” Beside him, his wife, Ginger, silently squeezed his hand.

Across the aisle, Charly cleared her throat and said in her dry Alabama drawl, “Anybody thinkin’ about callin’ the police?”

Her husband, Troy, leaning against the end of the pew at her elbow, shook his head. “That’s probably a little premature. What’re you gonna tell ‘em? I doubt she’s the first bride who ever got cold feet and decided not to show up for her own wedding.”

“Sonny and his friends are out looking for her,” Ginger Waskowitz offered in a hopeful tone. “Maybe we should wait and see…” Her voice trailed off.

“When’s the last time anybody saw her?” Troy’s eyes went from person to person, asking each one the question.

Summer met Mirabella’s eyes and opened her mouth, then snapped it shut again at her sharp sound of warning.

Which, of course, Jimmy Joe didn’t miss. “Marybell?” he prompted gently, as all eyes turned her way.

Mirabella fought it for a second or two, drew a reluctant breath and muttered, “Okay, this is really embarrassing. The last I saw her, she had a bottle of champagne and a couple of glasses and was going to the rectory to find Sonny.”

“But,” Summer quickly put in, “according to him, she never got there. He hasn’t seen her, either.”

That revelation was met with stunned silence, except for the rhythmic sound of footsteps. All heads turned to follow the elegant figure coming toward them down the long center aisle.

“One of Sonny’s men found this on the walk beside the rectory,” Summer’s husband, Riley, said quietly, showing them what he held, nested in the folds of a pristine white handkerchief. Shards of broken crystal. “Could be champagne glasses.”

Someone-Ginger-uttered a small, stricken cry. Her husband, who had once been a chief of police, rose slowly to his feet as Riley carefully rewrapped the glass shards, then put a hand on Summer’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“I’ve put in a call to Jake Redfield,” Riley said in a low voice, meant for his wife’s ears. “He wasn’t there-out on assignment, they said. I left my beeper number.” Summer swallowed, nodded gratefully and put her hand over his.

“Jake Redfield?” Mirabella said sharply. “Where have I heard that? I know I‘ve-who’s Jake Redfield?”

Summer and her husband exchanged a look. “Someone we know,” she said in a shaken voice, “with the FBI.”

“Oh, God,” her mother whispered.


Jake was on the phone to his Bureau office, which happened to be located only a few blocks away from the church in downtown Savannah. He, however, was going in the opposite direction, heading southwest on Abercorn as fast as he could go without risking official attention, a course of action he knew was not apt to make either his partner or his superiors happy. He was, in fact, at that very moment holding the phone some distance from his ear in an attempt to lessen the impact of the irate voice on the other end. But Jake had a considerable amount of experience in getting yelled at and had a pretty good ear for when he was nearing the limits of someone’s patience. Right now he was confident he was nowhere near the red zone.

“Get her in here,” the distant voice of his supervisor, Don Coffee, was bellowing in tinny impotence. “Right now! You hear me, Agent Redfield? Now.”

Jake waited for a break, then calmly drawled, “That’s… not a good idea, Don. At the moment she’s in no shape to talk to anybody. I’m gonna need to get her cleaned up and-” he flicked a glance in his rearview mirror and wryly offered “-calmed down,” as a euphemism for “sobered up.” “I’ll bring her in as soon as she’s up to it. Hey-do me a favor, would you? When you hear from Birdie, tell him I’m sorry I had to leave him stranded. Tell him something came up. Tell him-” Then he had to hold the instrument away from his ear again.

“Redfield! Where are you taking her? Dammit, Red-”

“Someplace safe,” Jake growled, and broke the connection. In the ensuing quiet he heard a distinct hiccup from the interior of the van, and then a musical little ripple of sound he realized must be laughter.

“Someplace… safe,” his passenger murmured with mocking solemnity as her head with its tousled cap of sun-shot hair pushed past his shoulder and into his line of vision. She gave that delightful giggle again, followed by another hiccup.

“Hey!” Jake barked as he threw out his arm just in time to bar her way to the front passenger seat, “where do you think you’re going? Get back inside and keep down out of sight.”

At that order she sort of reared back in surprise, and he watched in the mirror as she stuck out her lopsided lower lip, then winced and gave it an exploratory poke with her finger, while a frown darkened her eyes. But only briefly-so briefly, it was like the shadow of a bird flying between him and the sun. The pout became a quirky, fat-lip smile, and she muttered,…, “Okeydokey,” and sank to the floor of the van right where she was, all but disappearing into the billowy cloud of her skirts.

“Oh, Lord,” Jake sighed under his breath. But his mind retained the image of her lower lip, and he felt a sensation at the back of his jaws like the feeling he got walking past a bakery on a cool early morning.

A sharp hiccup and some exasperated swearing brought him back to the here and now.

“I can’t… stop hiccuping,” she said in a disgruntled voice. “An’ you know why? I can’t… get a deep breath. This dress is… too tight, that’s why. I really, really wish I could get out of this…stoo-oopid dress. Hey!” Jake felt a tug on his arm and glanced down at fingers tipped with virginal pink nail polish, several of the nails chipped and broken now. “How’m I gonna get out of this… dress, hmm? It has a million little buttons down the back. Who’s gonna help me unbutton ’em-you?”

“If necessary,” he grunted, keeping his eyes on the road.

“Ha,” she said, and then was silent for a moment. Thinking about it? he wondered. That mouth-watering feeling was back-with a vengeance.

But when her voice came again it was low and whispery with regret, and it appeared she’d stopped hiccuping. “Boy, I sure messed up, didn’t I? Messed up my dress, too. Damn thing cost a fortune. And you know what? It’s all wasted. Whssht-down the drain. But-” she heaved a little sigh “-I guess it’s a good thing I found out… when I did. Otherwise, I’d be married to a mobster right now…”

A shiver rippled down Jake’s spine. The stirring of excitement he’d felt before became a stiff breeze. “And what was it you found out?” he asked softly.

But the only answer he got was a murmur and some rustling sounds. Casting a quick glance over his shoulder, he discovered that the battered bride had curled herself down in the nest of her skirts and was softly snoring-passed out with her head uncomfortably pillowed on her pearl-encrusted arms.

Patience, he told himself, willing his heart to resume its normal rhythm. Patience… She’s here, she’s safe and she’s yours. Whatever it is, you’ll find out in due time.

But it was hard-damned hard. How many months had it been since he’d allowed himself to believe that victory might actually be within his grasp? How many nights since he’d slept without having nightmares about the goal that had already cost him five years out of his life, a good bit of his professional reputation and the wife he’d adored?

Not since last summer when he’d watched Hal Robey’s body being pulled from that hurricane-swollen river near Charleston had he felt this close to the end. So close. But now…now.

He had that sensation at the back of his jaws again, but it wasn’t craving for food or hunger for a beautiful woman that made his mouth water. It was the blood lust of the hunter, closing in for the kill…

Once he’d made sure he wasn’t being followed, Jake headed straight out to Abercorn. The traffic near the mall on a Saturday afternoon was brutal, but once past that he could turn off onto the back road that skirted the outer boundaries of the hospital parking lots, and from there it was a matter of minutes before he was pulling into his own driveway.

The town house apartment he’d rented when he’d transferred-temporarily, he devoutly hoped-to Savannah was in a neighborhood of brick Colonial-style apartment buildings arranged along wooded, curving dead-end streets. On weekdays it was peaceful enough, with the children in school and most of their parents at work, but at that hour on a beautiful October Saturday it was a hive of suburban activity. Children slalomed through the streets on skateboards, in-line skates and bicycles; minivans zipped in and out, disgorging noisy teenagers, pizza deliverers, housewives bearing armloads of grocery bags and armies of children wearing soccer uniforms. Stereo speakers thumped, dogs barked and engines revved at the whim of men happily up to their elbows in car parts and motor oil.

And how, Jake wondered, was he going to sneak an unconscious bride past all that?

It was, in fact, easier than he’d expected. The fact that the van he was driving bore the insignia of a utility company helped; no one would think twice about such a van backing in between the buildings, so as to have easy access to the rear of the apartment. And Jake’s was on the end, so he was able to park close to the door.

After glancing at his still-unconscious passenger, he felt reasonably safe in leaving the van unlocked while he let himself into the apartment. There he gave the ground floor a habitual and cursory once-over, then went upstairs and into the only one of the two bedrooms that had furniture in it. He was trying to decide which would be the least conspicuous method of transporting a body: rolling it into a rug, zipping it into a garment bag or just draping a sheet over it, when he heard something that made alarm impulses go whistling through his nerves, lifting the fine hairs on his arms and the back of his neck.