They rested for long moments before he raised his head and looked into her face. He brushed aside a strand of her hair that had become ensnared in his scruff. She didn’t realize her eyes had leaked tears until he sipped them off her cheeks. “I made you cry.”

Worse, she thought. You made me care.

Neither addressed that he hadn’t taken the precaution he had the first time, but as they pulled apart, they exchanged a look that acknowledged their awareness of it.

They spooned again. He placed his arm around her. She hugged it to her breasts. “Am I under arrest again?”

“I’m thinking.”

“You’ll let me know when you reach a decision?”

“You’ll know.”

“You’ll put me in handcuffs? Tie my feet with a bandana?”

“No need to. You can’t go anywhere.”

“Fine. I told you, I like it here.”

“Good.” He pulled her closer and slid his thighs up beneath hers. “And, anyway, you don’t know the combination to the gate lock.”

Morning came.

By the time Shaw finished showering, wrapped a towel around his waist, and went into the living area, Jordie had the coffee made. “You didn’t have to do that,” he said as he took the mug she extended him.

“I didn’t do it for you, I did it for me. I was in desperate need.”

The cleavage above her own towel wrap was a distraction he couldn’t resist. He kissed it, then they touched lips, clinked mugs, and sipped, but Jordie almost sloshed hot coffee over her hand when she recoiled at the sound of the buzzer.

“What in heaven’s name is that?”

“Someone’s at the gate.” He set down his coffee and hurried into the bedroom where he whipped off the towel, jerked on his jeans, and retrieved his nine-millimeter. On his way out, he said to Jordie, “Lock the door behind me, and if anybody except me comes back, call 911.”

He jogged down the stairs until his incision protested, then took the rest of the treads more slowly. As he approached the corner of the building, he stopped and peeked around it toward the street.

Joe Wiley said, “Don’t shoot. But hurry up, let me in.”

Shaw relaxed his gun hand and started down the path toward the gate, buttoning his fly as he went. “Hickam?”

“Holding his own. His aunt’s voodoo must’ve worked. Everybody’s cautiously optimistic.”

“Voodoo?”

“At my request she took the pins out of your dolls.”

“Thanks. I owe you.” Dropping the drollness, he added, “Glad to hear about Hickam. I mean that.”

“I know you do.” Wiley motioned toward the bandage. “How’s it feeling this morning?”

“Okay. But you don’t look so good.”

“Tired as hell. Marsha’s furious. Said I should be home sleeping.”

“This must be important then.” Shaw reached through the iron pickets and dialed the combination, then unlatched the lock. He let Wiley through, then locked it back. “What’s up?”

“She inside?”

“Yes.”

“Under arrest?”

“No. I got her to come clean about Costa Rica.” In three or four concise sentences, he told Wiley about Jordie’s limited participation in the scam. “Panella coerced and threatened her. She didn’t solicit or make a sales pitch. Took nothing from it. The guiltiest aspect of it is her conscience.”

“Okay. I’m willing to shelve that for now and address it later.”

“I figured. What’s going on?”

“I’ll tell you together. It’s Josh.”

Shaw stopped in his tracks and shot a worried glance up the exterior staircase before turning to Wiley. “Dead?”

“We don’t know.” Wiley chinned him up. “In any case, you’ve got to put some clothes on.”

They climbed the stairs and Shaw tapped on the door. Jordie pulled it open. While he’d been outside, she’d replaced the bath towel with her clothing. Her hair was still damp, though, and Wiley noticed.

He also didn’t miss the twisted sheets on the unmade bed, which he could see through the open bedroom door when Shaw went in to grab his boots, shirt, and the ball cap he’d shoplifted from the souvenir stand.

Wiley declined when Jordie offered him coffee. “No thanks. No time.”

“Josh?”

Sensing her apprehension, he dispelled her worst fear. “We have no reason to think he’s been harmed. But we have a possible sighting.”

“Where?” Shaw asked as he snapped the buttons of his shirt.

“Bayou Gauche. It’s between—”

“Been there,” Shaw said. “You have to wade through it.”

“It’s in the wetlands, which will make the search a challenge,” Wiley said. “We’ll drop Jordie at the FBI office. Gwen will stay with her while you and I go down there and check it out.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Shaw tugged on his boots. “Here’s your vest back.” He passed Wiley the bulletproof vest Jordie had used the night before. “We’re ready.”

They trooped down the stairs and along the narrow path, walking as fast as the loose stepping-stones would allow. Shaw went through the routine of unlocking and relocking the gate padlock.

As they crossed the street to yet another no-frills sedan, Shaw asked Wiley how he had learned about his apartment.

“Your man in Atlanta. Emergency contact info. I told him you wouldn’t mind.”

“I do mind.”

“I’ll take the secret of your French Quarter hideout to my grave.”

“You could’ve just phoned me, you know.”

“You have a car handy?”

Shaw didn’t answer. The less people knew about him and his life, the better. For him. For them. He’d opened up to Jordie more than he had to anyone in recent memory.

He held the backseat door for her now, then said to Wiley, “Let me drive,” and held out his hand for the keys. Wiley hesitated. Shaw said irritably, “You’ll be making calls and doing all that Bureau shit. Let me drive.”

Wiley tossed him the keys and got in on the passenger side. “Gwen said she’d meet us at the main entrance.”

The streets of the Quarter were still asleep, virtually free of traffic except for delivery trucks. But inside the car, the three of them were keyed up and anxious. Especially Jordie. “When and where did this sighting of Josh take place?”

“If it was Josh,” Wiley said. “But it sounds like him. It was Saturday afternoon at a parcel service drop-off box.”

“Where he sent the package with the cell phone inside?” Shaw guessed.

Wiley nodded. “Agents tracked it back to that box, situated on the parking lot of a strip center. They canvassed the business owners. One of them knocks off early on Saturdays. As he was leaving last week, he remembers a guy walking away from the drop box. He called out to him that he got lucky, made it in the nick of time before the last pickup. Something like that.

“The guy didn’t turn around, but he waved his hand in acknowledgment. The shopkeeper was shown a picture of Josh taken off the security camera in the convenience store. He said he couldn’t be certain, but it looked like the same guy.”