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provided in the SUVs.
    Once Hotchner was satisfied, they climbed into their Tahoes and followed Garue’s Durango to a chain motel, a four-story building overlooking Lake Bemidji, the reason the town sprang up here in the first place.
    In her room, after she’d unpacked, Jareau stared out across the black lake, four stories below, stars glinting off its choppy surface as windblown waves worked the water.
    Beyond the far shore, she could see lights from the east side of town. Somewhere here, among all these peaceful houses with their glittery little lights and drawn curtains, lurked a killer.
    The BAU team would get a good night’s sleep, have breakfast, then begin the hunt.

Chapter Two
    Bemidji, Minnesota
    You could not work at the FBI without getting used to seeing a lot of white people.
    Supervisory Special Agent Derek Morgan had long since grown accustomed to that. But the short time he had spent in Bemidji, Minnesota—at the sheriff’s office, in the hotel lobby, and going for a five-mile run this morning—had convinced him that he now found himself in the whitest place on the planet.
    And according to some Internet research he’d done on returning from his run, the town turned out to be nearly eighty-five percent white. The dominant minority, Native Americans (everyone around here called them Indians), made up another thirteen percent. That meant that only three percent of the population, or about 450 souls if Garue’s census figures were right, were African-American, Latino, Jewish, Asian, Arabic or Klingon, for that matter. Certainly not the racial mix of Washington, D.C., or Chicago, where Morgan grew up. . . .
    Up here, snow wasn’t the only thing that seemed to be all white. On his trek through the aptly named Paul Bunyan Park, the only individual of color he’d encountered was a statue of Babe the blue ox, standing next to a sculpture of the park’s legendary lumberjack namesake.
    To their credit, none of the people of Bemidji had been anything but nice to him, and none had given him so much as a second glance. In fact, while he’d been running through the park, just north of the motel, a few had even smiled and wished him good morning. Several had waved.
    That, too, was certainly different from D.C. and Chicago—in parts of the Second City, ‘‘Good morning’’ was grounds to dump you in Lake Michigan. Particularly before a first cup of coffee.
    After showering and getting dressed in a gray mock turtleneck and black slacks, Morgan had checked his pistol, put one in the pipe, clicked on the safety, then holstered the weapon. Wearing a light jacket over the pistol, he carried his parka with him. He had no idea when he would get back to his hotel room and its snug and comfy bed, so he took everything he might need with him.
    Down in the lobby, he found everyone else already there. At one table, Prentiss sat working a crossword puzzle, a morning habit passed along by Jason Gideon, while Hotchner and Rossi sat together having coffee, the older agent nibbling at a bagel. At a separate table, Reid and JJ were each working on a light breakfast; for her, a banana, a bran muffin, and orange juice; for Reid, a bowl of cereal and juice.
    They all gave Morgan a nod or a wave as he passed on his way to the breakfast buffet. He grabbed a doughnut, a banana, two boiled eggs and a cup of coffee. He pulled out a chair and sat at the table with Reid and JJ.
    â€˜â€˜Did you get some sleep?’’ she asked.
    He nodded. ‘‘Some.’’ The two eggs and the banana disappeared almost instantly. The doughnut and coffee, he savored.
    Looking over at Prentiss, he saw her shaking her head at him over the top of her crossword.
    â€˜â€˜What?’’ he asked, wondering if he had spilled something.
    â€˜â€˜Doughnuts?’’ she asked.
    â€˜â€˜What?’’ he repeated, wounded now. ‘‘It’s only one