Maggie left at the same time Platt did. Both of them on a mission to find the killer.

After breakfast he’d given her the shot, his fingers gentle, his eyes comforting. With him so close and without the glass between them Maggie found herself thinking about his conditions of release from the Slammer. No swapping body fluids, not even a kiss. She was surprised to find her mind wondering what might happen without those restrictions.

Now on her way to Quantico, Maggie pulled into a gas-and-shop parking lot. She flipped through the personal phone directory she kept in her briefcase. She punched in the number, expecting to leave a voice message and surprised when he picked up.

“Yeah?”

“Professor Sloane? It’s Agent Maggie O’Dell.”

“Agent O’Dell? What can I do for you?”

“I understand you talked to Agent Tully and Keith Ganza on Saturday about the note we found.”

There was a pause, then a gruff, “Yes, that’s right.”

“I found some things on my own that I’d like to run by you and see if they make a difference in your assessment.”

“What things?”

He sounded defensive. From what Maggie remembered of her brief encounters with the professor, being defensive was nothing unusual.

“You had mentioned that there were some similarities to the anthrax case. I think I may have made some connections to a couple of other cases.”

“Good for you.” There was the George Sloane she knew. “I can’t be racing up to Quantico every time you people have something you want to run by me.”

“Of course, I understand. It’s just that you mentioned the anthrax case. I believe I’ve made a connection to the Tylenol murders in 1982, the Beltway Snipers in 2002 and the Unabomber.”

“All of that? Well, you hardly need me, Agent O’Dell. Sounds like you have it all figured out.”

She ignored his sarcasm. “Except I’m not sure of the significance of any of it other than to show off.”

“To show off?” He sounded angry now rather than defensive. “You think he’s gone through all this trouble just to show off what he knows about a few famous criminals? And tell me, Agent O’Dell, when you find this show-off, will he be wearing a double-breasted suit and living with his two elderly sisters?”

Sloane was referring to the Mad Bomber in New York during the 1950s and Dr. James Brussel’s on-target profile.

“You either need my help, Agent O’Dell, or you already have it all figured out.” He was back to his mocking self. “You can’t have your cake and eat it, too.”

She was growing impatient with him. He was playing with her. The cake reference was from the Unabomber’s manifesto. She was on the verge of saying to hell with talking to him but she knew Cunningham had respect for the man’s work. The note and the mailing envelopes were all the evidence they had right now.

“Look, Professor Sloane, I’m just hoping you might be able to help us connect more dots here. Perhaps I could stop in at the university later. I understand it’s fall break this week.”

“Christ,” she heard him mumble. She wondered if he was surprised she had already checked out his schedule. “If it’s that important. I suppose I can make time. Meet me in forty minutes. My office is in the basement of the Old Medical School Building.”

He hung up before she could tell him whether or not that worked. She checked her wristwatch. It would take her at least forty minutes to get to the university.

She leaned back in her car seat. She had a backache. Probably from her morning run. Not true about her headache. It had started before the run. When she’d called Gwen earlier, her friend had told her she shouldn’t go back to work so soon.

“Kiddo, stay home and relax for a couple of days. Or at least work from home.”

Maggie had tried to explain that the best thing for her right now was routine. She didn’t need more time alone to think. She’d had plenty of that in the Slammer.

She punched in another phone number. It went over immediately to voice mail.

“Hey, Tully, it’s Maggie. Sloane agreed to meet at his office in forty minutes. It’s almost noon. I’m heading over to UVA now. I’ll see you over there.”

She sat back up. They didn’t have much to go on. She kept trying to think what Cunningham would advise. Sometimes the ordinary becomes the invisible. What wasn’t she seeing here?

That’s when she felt something drip down her chin. On the steering wheel was a drop of blood.

She glanced at herself in the rearview mirror. Just the sight of blood dripping from her nose stirred up a panic. She grabbed for a tissue. This wasn’t happening. And just as quickly she tried to calm herself. It didn’t mean anything. It was just a nosebleed.

She held the tissue to her nose and leaned her head back against the car’s headrest. She closed her eyes and steadied her breathing.

Oh, God, a nosebleed.