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    The snakehead’s attention turned away from them for a moment when he saw several other people in the water—crew members, bobbing on the surface in orange life vests, about twenty or thirty meters away from the killer. The Ghost sped toward the two, his motor running full.
    Understanding now that the man was going to kill them, they waved their arms desperately toward Chang and kicked furiously away from the approaching raft. Chang gauged the distance to the crewmen, wondering if he could reach them before the snakehead was close enoughto have a clear shot. The mist and rain—and the rolling waves—would make it hard for the Ghost to shoot accurately. Yes, he thought he could do it. He started to apply the power.
    Suddenly a voice was in his ear. “No. It’s time to leave.”
    It was his father, Chang Jiechi, who’d spoken; the old man had pulled himself to his knees and was leaning close to his son. “Take your family to safety.”
    Chang nodded. “Yes, Baba,” using the affectionate Chinese term for “father.” He aimed the raft toward shore and turned the motor up full.
    A minute later came the crack of a gun firing, then another, as the snakehead murdered the two crew members. Sam Chang’s soul cried in dismay at the sounds. Forgive me, he thought to the sailors. Forgive me.
    Glancing back, he saw an orange shape through the fog; the Ghost’s raft coming after them. He felt the despair in his bones. As a dissident in China, Sam Chang was used to fear. But in the People’s Republic fear was an insidious unease that you learned to live with; it was nothing like this, the terror of seeing a mad killer hunting down your beloved family and companions.
    “Stay down! Everyone stay down.” He concentrated on keeping the raft upright and making as much speed as possible.
    Another shot. The bullet struck the water nearby. If the Ghost hit the rubber they’d sink in minutes.
    A huge, unearthly groan filled the air. The Fuzhou Dragon turned completely on her side and vanished under the surface. The massive wave created by the sinking ship rolled outward like the shock ring from a bomb blast. The immigrants’ raft was too far away to be affected but the Ghost’s was much closer to the ship. The snakehead lookedback and saw the tall wave heading toward him. He veered away and, after a moment, was lost to sight.
    Though he was a professor, an artist, a political activist, Sam Chang was also, like many Chinese, more accepting of spirituality and portents than a Western intellectual might be. He thought for a moment that Guan Yin, the goddess of mercy, might have interceded on their behalf and sent the Ghost to a watery death.
    But only a moment later John Sung, who was facing backward, shouted, “He’s still there. He’s coming. The Ghost is coming after us.”
    So, Guan Yin is busy elsewhere today, Sam Chang thought bitterly. If we’re going to survive we’ll have to do it on our own. He adjusted their course toward land. And sped away from the limp corpses and the flotsam that were like floating tombstones marking the graves of Captain Sen and his crew and the many people who’d become Chang’s friends over the past weeks.
    •   •   •
    “He scuttled the ship.”
    Lon Sellitto’s voice was a whisper. “Christ.” The phone dropped away from his ear.
    “What?” Harold Peabody said, shocked. A fat hand rose to his cumbersome glasses and removed them. “He sank it?”
    The detective nodded a grim confirmation.
    “Lord, no,” Dellray said.
    Lincoln Rhyme’s head, one of the few parts of his physique that was still mobile, turned toward the heavyset cop. Shocked at this news, he felt a wave of heat pass through his entire body—solely an emotional sensation, of course, when it sped below his neck.
    Dellray stopped pacing and Peabody and Coe stared at each other. Sellitto looked down at the yellow parquet ashe listened once more into the phone and then looked up. “Jesus, Linc, the