Riptide

said.
    "We don't know," Savich said. "That's a good question."
    "It just doesn't seem possible," Adam said. "Just not possible.
    Why would a colleague or some bloody friend--no matter how
    close to Krimakov--go on this rampage? Even if he is a psychopath,
    always has been a psychopath, why wait more than twenty
    years after the fact? Why take over Krimakov's mission as his own?"
    No one had an answer to that.
    Adam said, "Now we've got to find out who would follow up
    on Krimakov's vendetta once Krimakov himself was dead. What's
    his motivation, for God's sake?"
    "We don't know," Sherlock said, and she began rubbing Sean's
    back with her palm. He was cooing against his father's shoulder,
    the graham cracker very wet but still clutched tightly in his hand.
    "There are graham cracker crumbs all over the house," Savich
    said absently.
    Becca didn't say anything. There were few things she'd ever been
    absolutely sure were true in her life. This was one of them. It simply
    had to be Krimakov. No matter how infallible the handwriting
    experts usually were, they were wrong on this one.
    But what if they weren't wrong? A psychopath obsessed with
    finding and killing her father? He'd called himself her boyfriend.
    He'd blown up that poor old bag lady in front of the Metropolitan
    Museum. He'd dug up Linda Cartwright and bashed in her face.
    No empathy, no remorse, people were detritus, nothing more.
    God, it was unthinkable.
    She looked over at Adam. He was looking toward Savich, but
    she didn't think he really saw him. Adam was really looking inward,
    ah, but his eyes--they were cold and hard and she wouldn't

want to have to tangle with him. She heard her father in the other
    room, speaking to Gaylan Woodhouse on the phone.
    Sherlock and Savich left a few minutes later, leaving Adam and
    Becca in the living room, looking at each other. He said, his hands
    jiggling change in his pockets, "I've got stuff to do at my house. I
    want you to stay here with Thomas, under wraps. Don't go anywhere.
    I'll be back tomorrow."
    "Yeah, I want to do some stuff, too," she said, rising. "I'm coming
    with you."
    "No, you'll stay here. It's safe here."
    And he was gone.
    Her father appeared in the doorway. She said, "I'll see you later,
    sir. I'm going with Adam." She picked up her purse and ran after
    him. He was nearly to the road when she caught up with him.
    "Where are you going?"
    "Becca, go back. It's safer here. Go back."
    "No. You don't believe any more than I do that some colleague
    or friend of Krimakov's from the good old days is wreaking all this
    havoc. I think we're missing something here, something that's been
    there all the time, staring us in the face."
    "What do you mean?" he said slowly. She saw the agents in the
    car down the street slowly get out and stand, both of them completely
    alert.
    "I mean nothing makes sense unless it's Krimakov. But just say
    that it isn't. That means we're missing something. Let's go do your
    stuff together, Adam, and really plug in our brains."
    He eyed her a moment, looked around, then waved at the
    agents. "We've got to walk. It's three miles. You up for it?"
    "I'd love to race you. Whatcha say?"
    "You're on."
    "You're dead meat, boy."

Since they were both wearing sneakers, they could run until
    they dropped. He grinned at her, felt energy pulse through him. He
    wanted to run, to race the wind, and he imagined that she wanted
    to as well. "All right, we're going to my house. I have all my files
    there, all my notes, everything. I want to scour them. If it is someone
    who knew Krimakov, then there's got to be a hint of him in
    there somewhere. Yes, there must be something."
    "Let's go."
    She nearly had his endurance, but not quite. He slowed in the
    third mile.
    "You're good, Becca," he said, and waved his hand. "This is my
    house."
    She loved it. The house wasn't as large as her father's, but it sat
    right in the middle of a huge hunk of wooded land, two stories, a
    white colonial with four thick Doric columns lined up like soldiers
    along the front. It looked solid, like it would last forever. She
    cleared her throat. "This is very nice, Adam."
    "Thanks. It's about a hundred and fifty years old. It's got three
    bedrooms upstairs, two bathrooms--I added one. Downstairs is all
    the regular stuff, including a library, which I use for a study, and a
    modern kitchen." He cleared his throat. "I had the kitchen redone a
    couple years ago. My mom told me no woman would marry me unless
    the stove