Riptide

next the guy might try to shoot off the mayor's wig." Gaylan
    Woodhouse rose, dropped the pen back on top of the desk, shook
    Thomas's hand, and stepped back through the door, where the
    shadows were thicker. Three dark-suited men fell in beside and behind
    him as he left Thomas's house.
    Thomas stared after him. Shadows surrounded him. Thomas understood
    shadows very well. He'd lived in the shadows himself for so
    long he could see them even as they gathered around him, and wondered
    if after a while anyone would actually see him or just the shadows.
    Forget shadows, Thomas thought. Now wasn't the time to wax
    philosophical. He thought about the meeting. Gaylan was a good
    friend. He'd hold out against the president's whining about losing
    the limelight for as long as he could. Forty-eight hours--that was

the deal. It wasn't a lot of time and yet it was an eternity. Only Krimakov
    knew which.

    The next evening, Sherlock and Savich arrived with thick folders
    of papers, MAX, and Sean, who reared up on Savich's shoulder,
    staring about sleepily at everyone, a graham cracker clutched in his
    hand.
    Sherlock looked at everyone in the living room. She didn't look
    happy as she said, "I'm really sorry here, guys, but our handwriting
    experts turned up something we didn't expect."
    "What have you got, Sherlock?" Adam asked, rising slowly, his
    eyes never leaving her face.
    "We were hoping to learn whether or not Krimakov's mental
    state had deteriorated, at least determine where he was sitting
    presently on the sanity scale, in order to give us a better chance of
    dealing with him, predicting what he might do, that sort of thing.
    That's off now. We have no idea, you see, because the two new
    samples of handwriting Becca gave me aren't Krimakov's."
    Thomas looked like someone had slapped him. He said slowly,
    "No, that's not possible. Admittedly I just looked at the ones from
    Riptide briefly, but they looked the same to me. You're sure about
    this, Sherlock? Absolutely?"
    "Oh, yes, completely sure. We're dealing with a very different
    person here, and this person's mind isn't like yours or mine."
    "You mean he's not sane," Thomas said.
    "It's difficult to say with absolute certainty, but it's possible he's
    so far over the edge he's holding on by his fingernails. We could
    throw around labels--psychopath comes readily to mind--but
    that's just a start. The only thing we're completely certain about--

he's obsessed with you, Thomas. He wants to prove to you that
    you're nowhere near his league, that he's a god and you're dirt. He
    sees himself as an avenger, the man who will balance the scales of
    justice, the man who will be your executioner.
    "It's been his goal for a very long time; it could at this point even
    be his only reason for living. He's rather like a missile that's been
    programmed for one thing and one thing only. He won't stop, ever,
    until either he's killed you or you've killed him."
    "So it was never Krimakov," Adam said slowly. "He really was
    killed in that auto accident in Crete."
    "Probably so. Now, not all of this is from our experts' analysis.
    Profiling had a hand in it, as well." Sherlock turned back to
    Thomas. "Like you said, the two different sets of handwriting look
    close to a layman's eye, which probably means that this guy knew
    Krimakov, or at least he'd seen his handwriting a goodly number of
    times. A friend, a former or present colleague, someone like that."
    "We're sorry, guys," Savich said. "I know that Krimakov's former
    associates have been checked backwards and forwards, but I guess
    we're going to have to try to do more. I've already got MAX doing
    more sniffing around Krimakov's neighbors, business associates,
    friends in Crete and on mainland Greece, as well. We already know
    that he had a couple of side businesses in Athens. We'll see where
    that leads."
    "No, all that has already been checked," Thomas said.
    Savich just shook his head. "We'll have to do more, try anything."
    Sherlock said, "We've also inputted everything we know into
    the PAP to see what comes out. Remember, the computer can analyze
    more alternatives more quickly than we can. We'll see."
    Thomas said, "All right. What exactly did the profilers have to
    say, Sherlock?"
    "Back to a label. He is psychotic. He has absolutely no remorse,

no empathy for any of the people he's killed. None of them mean
    anything to him. They were detritus to be swept out of his way."
    "I wonder why he didn't kill Sam," Becca