Speaking in Tongues by Jeffery Deaver

see the driver clearly though he was now certain he was young and black.
    And because he followed Matthews so carelessly and obviously he sure wasn’t a cop.
    But who?
    Then Matthews remembered: Megan had a black boyfriend. Josh or Joshua, wasn’t it? The boy that Dr. Hanson had suggested she leave—if Megan had been telling the truth about that bit of advice, which he suspected she might not have been.
    What was going through the young man’s mind?
    As a scientist, Matthews believed in logic. The only time people acted illogically—even psychotics—was when they were having seizures. We might not be able to perceive the logic they operated by and their actions might be illogical to rational observers but that was only because they were not being empathetic. Once we climb into the minds of our patients, he wrote in his well-received essay on delusional behavior in bipolars, once we understand their fears and desires—their own internal system of logic—then we can begin to understand their motives, the reasons behind their actions, and we can help them change . . .
    So, what was this young man thinking?
    Maybe Megan had planned to meet him at the office after the appointment. Maybe he’d just happened to see her car, being driven by a man he didn’t recognize, and followed it.
    Or maybe—this accorded with Matthews’s perceptions on the frighteningly powerful dynamics of love—he’d been waiting at the office to confront the doctor about the breakup. Maybe even attack him.
    Thanks for that, Dr. Hanson, he thought acerbically. Should have broken your hip, not Mom’s . . . Rage shook him for a moment. Then he calmed.
    Did the boy have a car phone? Had he called the police and reported the Mercedes’s license number? It was a stolen plate but the number didn’t belong to a gray Mercedes and that discrepancy would be reason enough for the cops to pull him over and look in the trunk.
    But no, of course, he hadn’t called the cops. They’d be after him by now if he had.
    But what if he’d called her parents? What did Tate Collier know? Matthews brooded. What was the man thinking? What was he planning to do?
    Matthews sped on until he came to a rest stop then he pulled suddenly into the long driveway, weaving slowly through the tractor trailers and four-by-fours filled with vacationers. He noticed that the white Toyota had made a panicked exit and was pulling into the rest stop after him. Fortunately the rain was heavy again. Which gave Matthews the excuse to hold an obscuring Washington Post over his head as he ran to the shelter.

Chapter Eight
    They were trotting through the rain to Tate’s black Lexus when his cell phone buzzed.
    As they dropped into the front seats he answered. “Hello?”
    “Tate Collier, please.” A man’s voice.
    “Speaking.”
    “Mr. Collier, I’m Special Agent William McComb, with the FBI’s Child Exploitation and Kidnapping Unit. We’ve just received an interagency notice about your daughter.”
    “I’m glad you called.”
    “I’m sorry about your girl,” the agent said, speaking in the chunky monotone Tate knew so well from working with the feds. “Unfortunately, I have to say, sir, based on the facts we’ve got, there’s not a lot we can do. But you made some friends here when you were a commonwealth’s attorney and so we’re going to open a file and put her name out on our network. That means there’ll be a lot more eyes looking for her.”
    “Anything you can do will really be appreciated. My wife and I are pretty upset.”
    “I can imagine,” the agent said, registering asplinter of emotion. “Could you give me some basics about her and the disappearance?”
    Tate ran through the physical details, Bett helping on the specifics. Blond, blue eyes, five six, 128 pounds, age seventeen. Then he told McComb about the letters. Tate asked, “You heard about her car?”
    “Um, no sir.”
    “The Fairfax County Police found it at Vienna Metro. It looks like