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crowd for a man out of place, someone nervous or excited. He wanted to be dead wrong about Salvi. But other than a few obvious undercover cops, all he saw were earnest, troubled small-town Americans gathered in crisis to comfort one another, to hold a candlelight vigil, and to pray for help.
    The hymn ended and a middle-aged preacher stepped forward to lead prayers for the girls’ safe return. First he read from the Bible, Jeremiah 31:15. Lamentations. Rachel weeping for her children…hoping for their return…
    Venturi watched a wide-eyed, curly-haired tot nestled in her mother’s arms, her profile a tiny replica of the teary-eyed young woman who held her.
    His own eyes stung and blurred for a moment, then he left. He knew what he had to do.

CHAPTER THREE
    Gino Salvi was a dangerous, admitted killer.
    Venturi had been ordered to keep away from him and this small, tense community, which was already on edge and wary of strangers.
    He was accustomed to conducting missions on forbidden turf, but this time he was stateside, alone, with no chain of command.
    Officially, he was at the Jersey Shore. He couldn’t risk a traffic stop by some sharp-eyed cop who would run his ID through the system.
    He blended in as best he could and wondered why the FBI hadn’t entered the case. Had the people he worked for asked them to hold off?
    He used Iggy’s credit card to check into a small guest cottage, one of six clustered near a trailer park a mile away from Salvi’s place. The arthritic desk clerk asked what had brought him to Flemington.
    He and his wife hoped to relocate to a slower paced rural community, Venturi said, and he was scouting the area on his way home from a business meeting in Burlington.
    â€œChildren?” the old man asked.
    Venturi nodded. “One, she’ll be three soon.”
    He always knew precisely how old their daughter would be—had she been born. Madison’s name was constantly at the tip of his tongue, her laughter an echo, her touch a memory just out of reach. His ghost family was always with him.
    â€œHave to pay people to live here if they don’t bring those little girls home soon,” the clerk grumbled. “Born and raised here, I’ve never seen the town in such an uproar.”
    â€œSaw all the posters,” Venturi said. “A parent’s worst nightmare. What do you think happened to the girls?”
    â€œWhatever it was,” the old man said, wagging his head, “they better solve it quick, before it happens again.” His swollen, misshapen fingers trembled as he handed over the key.
    Venturi took what he needed into his room from the car, set up his laptop, made coffee, and took the dog for a long walk. They passed Salvi’s house. The computer screen in the dining room had gone dark. A light was on in the bedroom. They returned to the motel and waited.
    He was solo. Salvi knew him, and he had to keep moving so no fearful neighbor called the cops to report a stranger or an unfamiliar car. A perfect surveillance requires three teams who switch off frequently. Venturi had three strikes against him, so he did what he had to do. At 2 a.m., he pulled on a dark color sweat suit and running shoes, left Scout in the room, and set out on foot through a wooded area bordering the road between the motel and Salvi’s neighborhood.
    He emerged a block from the house and jogged by. Everything quiet, the bedroom was now dark. He jogged by again, dropped to the ground, and slid beneath Salvi’s Ford in search of a metal surface. He found a perfect spot next to the gas tank. Penlight clenched between his teeth, he attached a magnetized device half the size of a small cell phone. The job took less than fifteen seconds.
    He was ready to go, but suddenly the entire driveway was bathed in a light so brilliant that it hurt his eyes.
    A policeman on patrol? Or Salvi with a powerful flashlight? He froze.
    Then he heard the engine. An SUV