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who saved the other girls.  You want to know something strange?  We don’t need her testimony to put the Russians away — we got more than enough from the girls she rescued — but my people went the extra mile to help her recover her identity and discover how she knew those girls were in there.  And you know what my finest detectives came up with?  Nada.  Zip.”
    As Fox looked at the picture an idea came to him.  He took the paper off Jordache and walked over to Linnet, who was being pushed into a police car.  “Hey, George, do you recognize the girl who burned down one of your houses and ruined your party?  Was she one of the girls you hunted?  Was she the one that got away?”
    Linnet looked at the picture with cold eyes, then smiled.  “I’ve no idea who she is.  All I know is that none of the bitches I hunted got away.”
    “Like I said, Nathan,” Jordache said, as the car door closed on Linnet, “no one knows who Jane Doe is or why she went into the Russian’s basement, unless she had a sixth sense about the girls or something.  I’m telling you, Nathan, she’s the real deal:  your classic riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.  The thing is, although she’s all over the news at the moment, no one’s coming forward to claim her.  The last I heard she was destined for the Oregon State psychiatric unit in Salem and no one deserves to rot in that snake pit.  Certainly not her, not after what she did.  I was wondering if…”
    Fox smiled.  Jordache didn’t do detachment.  He couldn’t help getting involved with everyone and everything he dealt with.  “Don’t worry, Karl, Jane Doe’s coming to Tranquil Waters.  The handover meeting’s today.  She’s one of the reasons I’ve got to get back.”
    Jordache nodded, satisfied.  “That’s all I wanted to know.”  He smiled slyly.  “Watch yourself, though, Nathan.  She’s got something about her.”  The detective patted him on the shoulder and disappeared into the lodge.  “She’s got a way of getting under your skin — even yours, my Teflon friend.”
     
     
    Two hours later, entering the outskirts of Portland, Fox turned right when he should have turned left.  The almost subconscious detour meant he approached the city from a different direction — on a particular road.  After a few miles a familiar collection of run-down buildings came into view and he slowed the car.  Usually, he sought out the Chevron petrol station then drove on.  But today a new yellow sign forced him to change his obsessive ritual, brake hard and pull into a dusty car lot, gripping the steering wheel white-knuckle tight, forehead beaded with sweat.
    He had lost count of the times he had altered his route to drive past the place where his life had changed, but he hadn’t ventured inside once.  Apparently the interior had been transformed over the last twenty years — the merchandising of the products, the décor and even the location of the cash register had altered — but that didn’t make the prospect of going inside any more bearable.
    Although he had been only ten at the time, he still felt guilty about surviving the shooting and believed he should have done more to save his family.  When he had told Jordache about the cobra tattoos, the police had identified the killers as members of Sons of the Serpent, a small anarchic cult whose followers took hallucinogenic drugs to reinforce their belief that they were immortals chosen by Satan to sow discord in the world.  He had later learned that the strange looped crucifix tattooed on their arms was called an ankh, an ancient symbol for eternal life.  Fox used to fantasize about hunting the killers down until Jordache had informed him that both men, model citizens before they had joined the cult, had been shot dead in a later robbery:  ballistics had matched their guns to those used to murder his parents and sister. The Sons of the Serpent had disbanded shortly afterwards but