HighestPraiseforJohnLutz

“JohnLutzknowshowto

makeyoushiver.”—HarlanCoben

“Lutzoffersupaheart-poundingrollercoaster

ofatale.”—JefferyDeaver

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mastersofbig-citymurder

asLawrenceBlockandEdMcBain.”

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holdthereader’simagination.”

—ClevelandPlainDealer

“It’seasytoseewhyhe’swonanEdgar

andtwoShamuses.”—PublishersWeekly

Frenzy“TheninthentryintheQuinn

seriescontainsalltheelementsfanshavecometo

expect:apainstakingproceduralinvestigation,mordanthumor,white-

knucklesuspense,andathree-dimensionalvillain.”

—Booklist

Twist“Oneofthetoptenmystery

novelsof2013.”—TheStrandMagazine

Pulse

“Grislymurdersseenthroughtheeyesofkiller

andvictim;crimescenesfromwhichcluesslowlyaccumulate;adeterminedkiller...compelling.”

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theyear.”—TheStrandMagazine

Serial

“Wow,ohwow,ohwow...that’sassimpleasIcanputit.Yougottareadthis

one.”—TrueCrimeBookReviews

MisterX“Apage-turnertothenail-bitingend...twisty,creepywhodunit.”

—PublishersWeekly(starred

review)

NightKills“Lutz’sskillwillkeepyougluedtothisthickthriller.”—St.LouisPost-Dispatch

UrgetoKill

“Asolidandcompellingwinner...sharp

characterization,compellingdialogue,andgraphic

depictionsofevil....Lutzknowshowtokeepthepagesturning.”

—BookReporter.com

InfortheKill“ShamusandEdgaraward–

winnerLutzgivesusfurtherproofofhisenormous

talent...an

enthrallingpage-turner.”—PublishersWeekly

ChillofNight“Theingenuityoftheplot

showsthatLutzisinrareform.”

—TheNewYorkTimesBookReview

“Adazzlingtourdeforce...compelling,absorbing.”

—St.LouisPost-Dispatch

FeartheNight“Atense,fast-movingnovel,aplot-drivenpage-turnerofthefirstorder...agreat

read!”—BookPage

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“ReaderswillbelievethattheyjuststeppedoffaTilt-A-Whirlafterreadingthisaction-packedpolice

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NightVictims“JohnLutzknowshowtoratchetuptheterror....Hepropelsthestorywith

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pace.”—Sun-Sentinel

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“Compelling...agrittypsychological

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goods,andthisisnoexception.”—Booklist

ALSOBYJOHNLUTZ

*Frenzy*Carnage:ThePrequelto

“Frenzy”(e-short)*Twist*Pulse

*Switch(e-short)*Serial*MisterX

*UrgetoKill

*NightKills*InfortheKillChillofNightFeartheNight

*DarkerThanNightNightVictims

TheNightWatcherTheNightCaller

FinalSeconds(withDavidAugust)TheEx

SingleWhiteFemale

*featuringFrankQuinn

AvailablefromKensingtonPublishingCorp.and

PinnacleBooks

JOHNLUTZ

SLAUGHTER

PINNACLEBOOKSKensingtonPublishingCorp.

www.kensingtonbooks.com

AllcopyrightedmaterialwithinisAttributorProtected.

TableofContents

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18192021PARTTWO222324252627282930

3132333435363738394041424344

45464748495051525354PARTTHREE555657

585960616263646566PARTFOUR67686970

71727374757677EpiloguePostscriptABOUTTHEAUTHORCopyrightPage

ForTheAardvarkian,Mr.B,Mr.E,Ms. El, The Em, Mr. J, Mr.Lucas,TheSoph,Thejourney.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The author wishes toacknowledge the invaluableaid of Michaela Hamilton,Dominick Abel, MarilynDavis,andBarbaraLutz.

PARTONE

Stillastheyruntheylookbehind,Theyhearavoiceineverywind,Andsnatchafearfuljoy.—THOMASGRAY,“Ode

onaDistantProspectofEtonCollege”

1

Rose Darling knew she’dbegun jogging too late.Unless she lengthened herstride, she’d be caught inCentral Park after dark. Notthat she hadn’t beenwarned,buthadn’teverybodyatsometimeorotherbeenwarnednot

to be in Central Park afterdark?Thetroublewas,shehada

date, and if she turned herdaily jog into a track meetwith the clock,her longdarkhairwouldbecomea sweaty,unmanageable mass in thesummerheat.Rose was an attractive

woman,tallandathletic,withshapely legs and a gracefulway about her. Men wouldstareatherwhenshejogged.

Like the guy she wasapproaching on her left,whohadabicycleupsidedownsoit rested on its seat andhandlebars. Was he onlypretending to work on hisbike, so he could stop andwatch her pass?Maybe he’dgiveherafewseconds,makeup his mind, and start afterher.Hecouldcatchhereasilyonhisbike.And he did straighten up

andgive her a direct, leering

look from beneath a broadbluesweatband.She averted her eyes and

stared straight ahead as shejogged past. When she waswell beyond him, she riskedglancing over her shoulder,half expecting to see himpedaling hard and bearingdownonher.But he was bent over his

upside-down bicycle again,busytryingtorepairwhateverwaswrongwithit.

Bigwuss,Iam!Shealmostsmiled.Breathingmore freely, she

adjustedherpacesoshedidaminimum of bouncing,preserving her hairdo. Shecontinued telling herself tocalm down, she’dmake it tothe Central Park West and81stStreetexitbeforetheskybecamedark.She’dbeoutofthe jungle then, into thebright lights and ceaselessmotionofthecity.Safe.

Safer, anyway.A differentsortofjungle.After about five minutes

the trail bent and she lookeddirectly ahead and saw thetall buildings along CentralPark West. Their windowswerebeginningtoshowlightsinunevenpatterns,remindingherofacrosswordpuzzlethatwas all blanks. Behind thejagged skyline the blue skyhad become an endlessdeepeningpurple.

Rose looked around her.Therewasnooneinsight.But she could hear the

rushingwhisperof the trafficnow.Aheadofher.Getting close. I’ll make it

outbeforedark.That was when she heard

the cry. It was sharp anddistinct, and quickly over.Thecryofawoundedorslainanimal?Awoman?Ithadcomefromofftothe

right and slightly ahead of

her. There were trees there,and thick foliage. She mighthave seen some movement,but shecouldn’tbe sure.Shekept her senses tuned foranothercry.Rose didn’t know the

source of the cry, but uponreflection she was sure ithadn’tbeenabird.Therewastoomuch...anguishinit.Myimaginationagain.She could hear herself

breathing hard and fast.

Without thinking about it,she’dpickedupherpace.Another movement! Off

thetrailandnearwhereshe’dseenthefirst.Someone might be over

there hurt. Might need herhelp.She’d heard the cry and

seen the movement. Shecouldveeroff,runoverthere.Don’t be an idiot! If you

really saw anything it wasprobablyadogorcat.Maybe

asquirrel.Therewereaboutathousandoftheminthepark.Her legs felt suddenly

heavierasshejoggedpastthespot where, if there wasanything in the bushes,predator, human, orotherwise, it would havebegunpursuingher.Shespeededupevenmore.Tomorrow.I’lljogagainin

the morning and go overthere, make sure I sawnothingimportant.Makesure

nothinghappened.She thought she heard

something behind her, andshe stole a glance over hershoulder.No one in sight. Almost

darknow.Nooneinsight.But plenty of places for

themtohide.Herjogbecameadash.

2

“Theywon’tcomenearme,”Lois Graham said in apuzzled voice. “Not evenwhen I try to feed thempopcorn.”She demonstrated by

dipping her fingers into asmall white bag and tossing

backhand several still-warmkernelsofpopcorn.“See,”shesaid,as thehalf

dozenorsopigeonsgatheredaround the bench drew backand away from the popcornandLois,as ifa silent signalhad been received. “It’salmost as if they knowsomethingIdon’t.”“Maybe they know more

than most of us, only indifferentways. Too bad theycan’ttalk,likeparrots.”

“I’m not so sure we can’ttrust parrots. They have away of looking at me, as ifthey know something Ishouldbutdon’t.”Corey smiled. He was a

smallman,wearing carefullyfaded jeans and a green poloshirtwiththecollarturnedupin back. He had on a Metscap, tilted so it made himlook a little jaunty. “Haven’tyou ever noticed pigeons getthat way just before

sundown?”“No. But I’ll take your

word for it. What do youthink? Some protectiveinstinct?”“Sure.” The pigeons

around them fluttered butwent nowhere, as if on cue.“They know it’s almostbedtime.”ActuallyCoreyhadnoidea

how pigeons thought.Especially New Yorkpigeons. You didn’t notice

them for a while, then somedays they seemed to beeverywhere. Dumb birds,skittering around and almostgetting stepped on or runover, but never quite. Heknew they were prey to theperegrinefalconsthatroostedon someof the tall buildingsalong Central Park West,almost directly across fromwhere he and Lois were.Beautiful, deadly creatures.Corey thought it would be

great if one of the largefalconsswoopedinandmadeoff with one of the pigeons.Apropos, though Lois didn’tyetknowthat.“What’s in the bag?” she

asked, pointing to the largecanvasbagathis feet. Itwasdark blue with black strapsandhandlesanddoubledasabackpack.“Sweaty clothes and

exercise equipment,” he lied.“I was working out at the

gymbeforeIcamehere.”“TheoneonAmsterdam?”“Seventy-second Street,”

Corey said, figuring theremustbeagymsomewhereonSeventy-second. Not that itmattered, unless Loishappened to go to a gym inthat neighborhood. Coreyhadn’tbeentoagyminyears.There were so many muchmore interesting things to dowithoutbreakingasweat.He prodded the bag with

the toe of his shoe andglanced around. Shadowswere longer and moredefined. It would be darksoon.“Whydon’tyoucomewith

me?” he said, picking up thebag,thenslingingitoveroneshoulderbyonepaddedstrap.“Where?”“Out of the park. It’s a

dangerous place after dark.Fullofpredators.”Shesmiled.“I’mnotafraid

whenI’mwithyou.”Hereturned thesmilewith

his own. Ever wonder whythatis?Hewishedsometimesfor a victim whose intellecthecouldrespect.She stood up from the

bench,brushedpopcornfromher blouse and jeans, andturnedtogo.Thepigeonsthathadventurednearerfluttered,cooed, and closed in on thediscarded popcorn. It mustseemtastiertothemnowthat

Loiswasleaving.“This way,” Corey said,

motioning toward a stand oftreesandthickfoliage.“Thisisthewayout,”Lois

said, starting in anotherdirection.“I know a better way,”

Corey said, and folded herhandgentlyinhis.He thought about the

jogger,wondering if shewasback on the crowded streetsbynow,orevenhome,ifshe

lived nearby. A woman likethat would explore everynuance of her pain. It waspartof the instinct toattemptescape, or to find somehoped-for measure of mercyinherpredator.He felt Lois squeeze his

hand three times, like somekindofsecretsignal.He signaled back. There

wouldbeplentyof time laterfor the jogger, if that waswhathedecided. Itwouldbe

uptohim.A soft breeze kicked up,

breaking the heat andswaying the upper limbs ofthe trees they were walkingtoward. Lois shifted herweight andwalked alongsidehim, and he was glad hedidn’thavetotellheryetthatforher therewasnowayoutofthepark.Notthatitmattered.She’d soon find out she

was going somewhere much

moreinteresting.

3

It was dawn when PattiLuPone’svibrantvoicebeganimploring Argentina not tocry for her. FrankQuinn layon his stomach, still halfasleep, musing that he couldnever hear enough of thescore fromEvita. Usually he

was awake and out of bedbefore theCD player’s timerturned the bedroom of thebrownstoneonWestSeventy-fifth into Argentina. Thismorningheclungtosleep,asifforsomereasonheknewheshouldn’t get out of bed. Ifonly he had a note from hismother for his teacher, hethought with a smile. Herealized he’d been dreamingabout algebra, and his mathteacherinschoolinBrooklyn.

He could hear her voicetelling him that once heconquered algebra he wouldhave no trouble withgeometry. You can alwaysfindanangle,Francis.And that’s what he was

doinginlife,onlylookingforotherpeople’sangles.“Turn shong off,” a voice

mutteredbesidehim.Pearl, lyingclosewithone

armslungoverhim,her facehalf buried in her wadded

pillow.“Shongoff!”Quinnworkedhiswayout

from beneath her arm,propped himself up on oneelbow,andsatontheedgeofthebed.Withthickfingershefumbled the digital controlson the combination CDplayer, clock radio, alarm,phone.Finallyhetouchedtherightbuttonand thebedroomwas silent except for thebackground noise of the city

outsidethebrownstone.“Thanksh,” Pearl said into

herpillow.Wearing only Jockey

shorts,Quinnstoodup,atall,muscular man in the autumnof life but still strong. Hisshoulders were sloping andpowerful,hishandslargeanddanglinglikegrapplinghooksattheendsofhislongarms.The CD player, clock,

radio,alarm,phonebeeped.Aphonecall.

“Damn!” Pearl said, quiteclearly.Quinn sawon theglowing

ID panel that the caller wasPolice Commissioner HarleyRenz.Quinn didn’t like talking

withRenzanytime,muchlesswhenhewasstillhalfasleep.He picked up the receiver,

withtrepidation.“Quinn?”“It’sme,”Quinnadmitted.“Youstillinthesack?”

“Sack.Yes.”“Hadbreakfastyet?“No.”“Don’t.Igotsomethingfor

you.”Quinn’sinterestquickened.

He and his investigatingagency, Quinn & Associates(Q&A), sometimes took oncasesonawork-for-hirebasisfor the NYPD. Renz was apurely political animal,steppingonnecksandtradingin corruption on his way up

the bureaucratic path to thetop. If a case had politicalramifications and wasdeemedbyRenztobetoohotto handle, he passed it downto Quinn and his detectives.Quinn had worked his way,and Renz had bought andextorted his way, to thehigherechelonsoftheNYPD,before Quinn had gone intobusinessforhimself.“You don’t want to get

your fingersdirty?”heasked

Renz.Renz laughed.“You’remy

go-to guywhen a case lookslike shit thatmight ruboff. Iadmit it. Our business, yougottaexpectsomeshit.”“Iliketolimitit.”“And I like to roll in it,”

Renz said. “I don’t mindadmitting I’m ambitious.Webothknow the score.Wegotthings to trade.You take theriskand themedia flack,andthe money. I come away

clean, move up a notch ortwo,and there’smoremoneyformedowntheline.”Quinn didn’t know how

Renz figured that, and didn’twant to ask. “What is it thatyou have,” he said, “thatyou’resoafraidwillbiteyouintheass?”“Someone is dead,” Renz

said.“AyoungwomanwhosepursecontentsidentifyherasLoisGraham.GotanaddressinSoHo.”

“Is that where the bodyis?” Quinn asked. He heardandfeltPearlstirnexttohim.“Nope. Central Park. Near

the Eighty-first Streetentrance, not far off CentralParkWest.”“Sexualassault?”“Maybe.”“Thatwhyshewaskilled?”

Women were murderedoccasionally in Central Park.So why was Renz callingQuinnaboutthisone?

“The why isn’t whatbothersme.It’sthehow.”“Sowhat’sthehow?”“You’dhavetoseeit.”Quinn knew Renz was

right.Despitetheaggravatingwordgames,Quinnwouldbecuriousenough togetupanddrivetoCentralPark,evenatthisearlyhour.“I’ll be there soon as I

can,”Quinnsaid.“BringPearl.”Quinn glanced toward the

othersideoftheking-sizebedandsaw thatPearlwasgone.Pipes rattled and squealedandheheard the shower run.PearlcouldshoweranddressfasterthananywomanQuinnhadknown.“Trytostopher,”hesaid.

4

After parking the Lincolnillegally near a loading dockon a side street, QuinnproppedhisNYPDplaque inthe windshield, and he andPearl jogged across CentralParkWesttowardthepark.It wasn’t difficult to find

the crime scene. Whitecanvas panels were proppedon twosidesofwhereQuinnand Pearl assumed the bodyto lie. Yellow crime scenetape kept gawkers at adistance on the other twosides. A uniform appearedand moved to stop them.Then the young coprecognizedQuinnandbackedaway, pointing needlesslytoward the canvas and theknot of uniforms as well as

plainclothescopsinsuitsandties. Most of the detectiveshadtakenoff theirsuitcoats,andtheirshirtsweregluedtothem so the color of theirflesh showed through thedampmaterial.Quinn and Pearl moved

through dappled morningsunlight toward the crimescene. Today showed everyindication of becominganother scorcher. Quinn, asusual,wore a coat and tie as

if already on the hunt. Pearl,vividlyattractiveaseverwithher dark hair and eyes andgenerous figure, had oncasual navy slacks and awhite tunic. A breeze rattledthe leaves on the branchesabove as theymoved towardthe body, careful to avoidwhere the CSU techs toldthem not to step. Renznoticed themandgaveahalfwave.Hewaswearingalighttan suit instead of his

commissioner’s uniform. Hisincreasingly rotund form putto waste the expensivematerialandexperttailoring.DoctorJuliusNift,thelittle

necrophiliac(itwasrumored)ME, was kneeling by thenudedeadwomanandlookedup and smiled at them.EspeciallyatPearl,whohatedhimwithapassion.Renzalsosmiled,hisflesh-

padded cheeks almost hidinghis eyes, the fat pink of his

bull neck spilling over hiswhiteshirtcollar.“Meet Lois Graham,” Nift

said.“Beautifulindeath.”Herose to his full height,whichwasn’t much, and expandedhis chest. He saw himself asNapoleonic.Quinnthoughtofhimasabantyroosterwithasourdisposition.Lois Graham’s clothes

were stacked neatly foldedoff to the side. It took asecond look to realize they

appeared to have been cutaway from her body ratherthan removed in ordinaryfashion. Her pale, still formlayonitsbacksosheseemedto be staring up at the skywithfrozenwonder.“She has some rack on

her,” Nift commented,doubtless trying to get a riseout of Pearl, who ignoredhim.But that wasn’t what

sickened and angeredQuinn.

Lois Graham had beeneviscerated, her intestinescoiled next to her body.Andthere was something abouthow she lay. A strangeawkwardness. Quinn andPearlmovedcloser.And suddenly understood.

The corpse’s limbs had beenneatly sawed through at thejoints. Her wrists were aquarterofaninchshortofherhands. Her arms had beensevered at the elbows and

shoulders. Same kind ofsawing with her legs, at theankles, knees, and hips.Quinnhadassumedherthroathad been cut. He saw nowthat her head had been sawnoff and replaced slightlycrookedlyonthestumpofherneck. There was, oddlyenough,notalotofblood.“The injuries are

postmortem,” Nift said. “Ifher heart hadn’t stopped firstthere’d be blood all over the

place. But as you can see,thereisn’t.”“Thank God for that,”

Pearlsaid.“Did the killer have

medical knowledge?” Quinnasked.Nift shook his head.

“Some. He isn’t a surgeon,buthehasabasicknowledgeofthehumanbody.”“Med-school dropout?”

Pearlasked.“Doubtful. A med-school

studentwouldhavedone thisa bit differently, and withdifferentinstruments.”“Still...”QuinnsaidNift shook his head. “Not

part of the curriculum.Thoughmyguessisthathe’sdone this kind of thingbefore.”They all glanced at Lois

Graham. Her corpsereminded Quinn of amarionette that had beencarefully laid out because its

strings had been removed.Unlike some of the recentlydeadtheyhadseen,shedidn’tlook as if shemight surprisethem by getting up andwalking away. Somethingaboutthedetachedbutrelatedparts. Then there was thecompactly coiled length ofintestine.Quinn regarded theincision from her sternum topubis.“What do you think made

thecuts?”heasked.

Nift shot a look at Renz,who had already asked himsomeofthesequestions.Renzsaidnothing.Nift sighed andknew he’d better answeragain. He winked at Pearl,whostoodstone-faced.“Not a surgical tool that I

could identify,” Nift said.“Some kind of sharp, agilesaw with a narrow blade. Itcut cleanly throughboneandgristle,alongwithflesh.”“Electrical?”

“You mean batterypowered?”Nift smoothedhistie.“Idoubtit.Notbecauseaportable saw wouldn’t dothis. It looks to me that theinstrumentwas sharp enoughthat an electrical or fuel-powered saw wouldn’t havebeen needed. And I’m surethe cutting was done righthere.Shewasn’tsectionedofflikethisandthenmovedhereandsoneatlyreassembled.”“But it’s possible?” Pearl

said.“Possible,” Nift conceded.

“More like the work of ajigsaw in the hands of areasonablystrongman.”“Orwoman?”Pearlasked.Nift shrugged. “I doubt it,

butIwouldn’truleitout.”“Thiswas...sextohim,”

Pearlsaid.“Understandable,” Nift

said.Pearllookedathimasifhe

were the most loathsome

thingontheplanet.“Control’s what it’s all

about,”heexplained. “That’swhy victims die such slowdeaths.”Pearlsaid,“It’salmostasif

shewasadollandhetookheraparttoseehowsheworked.”Quinn thought it was

exactlylikethat.“Jigsaw,”hesaid. “Do you really supposethat’showhekilledthem?”“That’showI’ddoit.”Nift

winkedatPearl. “If Iwanted

thesesameresults.Ofcourse,I’m a professional. I’d do acleaner, neater job.” Hewaved a hand to take in thedeathscene.“Thisguywasabutcher, but not one withoutpromise.”“Asasurgeon,”Pearlsaid.Nift smiledather. “No,as

aserialkiller.”Renz looked at his watch.

“I’ve got important meetingsthismorning.”And we don’t. Pearl

considered Renz and Nift.Control.“I’ll drop by and sign the

work-for-hire contract, andpickupsomeNYPDshields,”Quinn said. “Then we’ll golook over the victim’sapartment.”“Crime scene techs have

alreadybeenthere.Nosignofthe killer having visited.Nothing unusual. Place neatenough, if you don’t count aD-cupbradrapedoverachair

inthebedroom.”“I’mgonnagiveyouHelen

for this one,” Renz said.Helen Iman was an NYPDprofiler, a six-foot-plusamazon in her forties wholooked like a women’sbasketballcoach.ShewastheonlyprofilerQuinnhadmuchfaith in. She talked some ofthe familiar and obviousprofiler-standardyammer,buttherewasnoarguingwithherresults.

“Does Helen know that?”Quinnasked.“She does,” Renz said.

“She’llbebyforyoutobriefher later this morning.Remember,shereportstoyouand works for me.” Renzsmiled. “She has a tightropeto walk. Not so unlikeyourself.”“Who discovered the

body?”Quinnasked.“Early morning jogger.

Health nut like the victim.

NameofRoseDarling.”Renzglanced again at his goldwatch. “I’ll fax youwhatwegot when it comes in. Keepthe info tight, though. Thesooner the media find out,and themore they know, theharder it will be to find thispsychoandputhimdown.”“There’s only somuchwe

can do with media,” Quinnsaid. “We can’t keep this asecret, unless we pay offRose Darling and send her

away on vacation someplacenobodyeverheardof.”“It’sthemobthatdoesthat

kindofthing,”Renzsaid.Pearl concealed a thin

smile.Control.“Let Rose Darling talk,”

Renz said. “I run an openshopandplaysquarewiththecitizens. We just won’tmention anything in detailabout the manner of death,especially about thedismemberment. And we’ve

got a couple of days beforewe have to officially ID thebody.”“A few facts and an

inconclusive story will drivethe media wolves crazy.They’ll have their fangs outand will be pressing foranswers.”“Nottoworry,”Renzsaid.

“I’ve got a guy who canhandlethem.”“Who would that be?”

Quinnasked.

“You.”

5

Jordan Kray sat in hisapartmentwatching the newson his small flat-screen TV.Although he could easilyaffordabiggerset,helikedtowatch the news small, so hecould wrap his mind aroundit. Understand it. Learn how

thingswork.He sat in his stocking feet

with his knees drawn upsideways. His living roomwas spacious,with aviewofthe tree-lined street wherehe’dmovedayearago,whena well-thought-out financialstrategy had brought him awindfall. Moving the moneyfromhisvictims’accounts tohisownhadbeenpainful forthem but a pleasure for him.Herelived theiragonieseach

timehe turned thekey inhisfrontdoor.There were two kinds of

peopleintheworld.Hewasawinner, and the other kinddidn’tmatter.Oncetheyweredead and disinterested, whatwas theirs became his. Cash,jewelry,valuableantiques...it all became negotiable andfound its way into hisportfolioofETFsandmutualfunds. The devil’s owntreasure chest for one of his

disciples.He’d stopped off at the

kitchenware department of astore on Broadway andbought two identicalautomatic pop-up toasters—onetouseinhiskitchen,andone to disassemble so hethoroughly understood howthetoastersworked.Didtheyraise the toasted slices ofbreadwhen theyhadbecomesufficiently toasted, or wasthe whole thing all about

times? Like it took a certainamountoftimetotoastbreadandthatwasthat.Simple.Nothermostat, nothing thatJordancouldn’tunderstand.But what about the timer?

Iftherewasone.He glanced at the TV

screen. People in Arabclothingwere throwing rocksateachother,whilethosenotinvolved in some kind ofdemonstration cowered andtried to stay safe. This was

news?He shifted his attention to

the toaster and used ascrewdriver to remove itschromecover.Thereweretheheatbaffles

that were within fractions ofan inch of the bread slices.They would probably glowredandstaythatwayuntilthebread was sufficientlybrowned.But how does the toaster

know?

On the TV screen, abattered pickup truck arrivedon the scene.Menwithwhatlooked like Kalashnikovautomatic rifles beganjumping out of both sides ofthe truck’s bed as it coasteddown the street toward therockthrowers.The killer glanced at the

TV, then returned hisattention to the toaster. Itappearedthatwhathethoughtof as heat baffles were

actually spring-loadeddeviceswhosepurposewastoisolatethetoastsoitwaskeptfrom touching the heatingcoils.Not wanting to be fooled

twice, the killer left thechrome body of the toasteroff, and slipped the powercord into a wall socket. Heputnobreadin,butdepressedthetoaster’shandle.It took less than a minute

for the coils to glow bright

red.The sound of gunfire

erupted from the TV, and awoman’s breathless voicebegan talking about “thearmyandtheterrorists.”There were several

explosions. The pickup truckthat had recently arrived atthe scene was now upsidedown and burning. Peoplewere bent over and running,crossing the Arab street toescapegunfire.

The killer unplugged thetoasterandletitcool.Hehaditnow.Heunderstoodhowitworked. How this brand oftoaster worked, anyway. Itwas controlled by a timerratherthanbyathermostattoregister the temperature thatwould brown the breadwithoutburningit.Crowd sounds drifted in

fromtheTV.There was a soft sproing!

sound and a spring about an

inch long flew out of thetoaster and landed on thetable.Thekillerbentoverandstudiedwhat he could see ofthe toaster’s mechanism.There was no sign of wherethespringhadcomefrom,buthe wasn’t worried. He couldfigure it out later. Or maybethe toaster didn’t even needthespringinordertowork.He suspected that more

expensive toasters had somekind of thermostat and were

controlledbyheatratherthantime.Thisonewasacheapy,bought for research ratherthan jelly or jam. Time nowtoputitbacktogether.It didn’t want to go back

together. At least, not to itsprevious form. Not for thekiller. The chrome coverwouldn’t go on straight, andheseemedtohavebrokentheBakelite handle on the leverthatdepressedthebread.He picked up a smaller

screwdriverandusedittoprythetoaster’scover.Heneededonly about an eighth of aninch.The sleek chromebodyof the toaster still wouldn’tquite fit. He pried with thesmallerscrewdriver.Yeow!Thedamnedthingwasstill

hot!Andtherewasthatdamned

spring,rollingoffthetable.He went to the sink and

filledaglasswithcoldwater,

then sat on akitchencounterstool and soaked his lefthand.He found himself facing

the TV. Someone, a man orwoman, was on fire andcrawling away from theburningtruck.The truck exploded. The

person crawling away wasenvelopedinflames.The killer removed his

handfromtheglassanddrieditonadishtowel.Hisburned

fingers didn’t look seriousenough that he’d needointmentandaBand-Aid.Heresumed reassembling thetoaster.A man in neatly pressed

pajamas, sitting on the edgeof a bed, came on the TVscreen and began talkingabout the benefits of a newpill that helped people get tosleep and wasn’t habit-forming. It also sometimeseliminated erectile

dysfunction.Thekiller remainedzeroed

in on toaster dysfunction.Thistimebeingmorecareful.Until he heard a local

newscaster’s voice say LoisGraham’sname.He put down the toaster

and sat watching the flat-screen TV. The newscaster,Tad something, wasinterviewing a detective thekiller was familiar with, aman named Frank Quinn. It

took the killer only a fewseconds to recognize Quinn,but who could forget theimposing figure? He was abig man, too rugged to be aleading man, but with thekind of honest ugliness thatattractedsomewomen.“We’re searching now for

whoever killed her,” Quinnwassaying.Nodoubt talkingabout Lois Graham. “Itappears that he panicked,probably scared away by

someone or some animal.Unfortunately, no onereached her in time to saveher.”The killer almost laughed

outloud;Iguessnot,withherinsidesalloverthegrass,andtherestofhertakenapartlikeapuzzle.Hewasproudofhiswork.“There’s nothing special

about this killer,”Quinnwassaying.The killer smiled. You’re

lying!“Butwewouldliketowarn

peopleagainaboutthepark,”Quinncontinued.“Sometimessuch places are scenic andsafe during daylight hours,but are much different afterdark. Central Park is a greatplace, but don’t go thereunless you have to aftersundown.”“ToCentralPark?”Tadthe

newsman seemedincredulous.

“To any park. Cowardlykillers like this are friendlywiththenight.”Cowardly? The killer’s

handsballedintofists.“Unless he moves on,”

Quinncontinued,“we’llcatchhim. Killers like this aredoomed to be apprehended.Experiencehastaughtusthatthey’renotoverlybright.”You’relying!“So entangled in their

compulsion that they’re not

capableoflogicalreasoning.”You’relying!“There’s nothing much in

thembutevil.”Lying!IfGoddoesn’twant

me to do this, why is Helettingme?WhyisHeurgingme? Why is He myaccomplice?The camera moved to the

handsome newscaster, whoabsently lifted a hand andsmoothed back his hair. “Soexcept for thevictimandher

family—andourheartsgooutto them—would you saythereisnothingspecialaboutthismurder?”Tellhimabout thegutting,

thedisassemblyofherparts!“No,”Quinnsaid,“it’sjust

another squalid homicide,probablydoneon impulsebyamaniac.”Lying!Lying!Tad the newsman shook

hishead.“Sosad...”Lying!

Quinnwasbackoncamera,lookingstraight into the lens.“It’s a kind of sickness thatcan overcome even the bestofus.”“So this kind of killer is a

mental case, silentlyscreamingforhelp?”“Usually.”Lieon.Quinn imagined the killer

someplace comfortable, withhisfeetproppedup,watchingtelevision.

You’llbesorry.

6

Thetreesblockedtheirview.Ortheduskwasdarkenoughthat there were reflections inthe windows and the glasshad turned to mirrors.Windows of the buildingsacross the street from thepark, overlooking the crime

scene,didn’tyieldmuchhelp.None of the potentialwitnesses happened to belookingoutsideatthetimeofthemurder.That was their story,

anyway.Fedderman, Sal, and

Harold knocked on doorsmuch of the day and weredismayed by how no onewould claim to have seenLois Graham’s murder. Allthree detectives knew that

some of them might bewithholding evidence. Theydidn’twanttogetinvolved;itmight somehow taint them,lead to some crime they’dcommitted without knowing,suckthemintothesystemandrightly or wrongly list theirnamesforeverThesedaysmorethanever,

people didn’t want theirnameson a list.Anykindoflist.Afterlunch,SalandHarold

continued canvassing theneighborhood, while Quinnand Fedderman made asecond examination of thevictim’s apartment. Theylooked again at a stack ofblank paper near the printer.Wouldn’t it be nice if herlaptop or pad turned up, fullof information that couldidentifyherkiller?Theypokedandpeeredbut

found nothing of use in theapartment.Itwasfashionably

but not lavishly furnished.Eclecticwoulddescribeit.“One thing,” Quinn said.

“Wasn’t there a carpet in thebedroom?”Feddermancuppedhischin

in his hand and thought.“Yes,”hesaidwithcertainty.“Not very large, though.Morelikeathrowrug.”They tried to think what

else had been here but wasnow gone. They couldn’tidentify anything for sure. It

was possible some dishes orglasses were missing from akitchencabinet.“Weren’ttherethreechairs

instead of two at the kitchentable?” Fedderman asked,pointing to the small drop-leaf table and two woodenchairsthatlookedasifthey’dspentyearsinclassrooms.“Could have been,”Quinn

said.“I remember now because

themissing chair didn’t look

like theothers. Itwasa littlelarger and had some guy’snamecarvedinit.”“Ourkiller?”Quinnasked,

knowingitwouldn’tbeso.“If his name is Hinkley,”

Feddermansaid.They continued their

search. Like last time, theyfound no evidence that thevictimhadbeenunderduress,or was being stalked, during

the time leading up to hermurder. Her purse, foundnear her body, had held theusualitemsfoundinwomen’spurses—wadded tissue, acomb, lipstick, an oversizedkey ring holding a plasticfour-leaf clover that ifsqueezed became a tinyflashlight,apairofverydarkmade-in-Taiwan sunglasses,some old theater and movieticket stubs. There was awalletcontainingtwotwenty-

dollar bills and the usualcharge, debit, and ID cards.No driver’s license (nosurprise, in NewYork City).Aplasticizedcardproclaimedher membership in a gym.(They all belong to gyms,Quinn thought.) Her keyswere missing. Thesupposition was that afterkillingLois, themurderer lethimself into her apartmentand stole her computer.Obviously, he was afraid

somethingonitmightleadtohim.Maybe, Quinn thought,

he’d also stolen a throw rugandawoodenchair.A phone call to a local

antique dealer shed somelight. The dealer said on thephone he’d have to see therug in order to give anestimate of its worth. Themissing wooden chair, hesaid, after hearing Quinn’sdescription, ifgenuineand in

good condition, might beworth several thousanddollars.So thekillerhad taken the

victim’s computer and thencomebacklatertomovewhatwas valuable and morenoticeable. Quinn assumedthekillerwouldhavedressedlike some sort of workmanandsimplywalkedoutof thebuilding and to his car ortruckwiththechairandrolledrug.

But what amazed andangered the detectives wasthe strong possibility that hehad returned and taken awaywhat was valuable in theapartment while they wereeatinglunch.After work at Coaxly and

Simms,writingadcopy,RoseDarling entered herapartment, closed the doorbehind her, and fastened all

her locks. Since finding thatgirl the way she was inCentralPark,Rosehadn’tfeltsafe.Shereadeverythingshecould find on the murder.Watchedthenews.Howcouldsomethinghave

happenedsoclosetoher?Shehad passed right by whereand when that poor womanwas murdered. The fear hadpushedherintoarun.She recalled the curious

sense of dread she’d felt

while jogging there. Somepart of her mind must haverealized something. Heranxietyhadbeensoreal!She decided she wasn’t

going to run this evening inthe unrelenting heat. Andcertainlynot in thepark.Shewasn’t sure when she’d feelcomfortable again whilejogging.The thing todo, shedecided, was wait until thesicko killer was caught. Andkilled.(Shehoped.)Thenshe

could run again, but on thesidewalks,wherepeoplewerewalking. Then she realizedthat might be unwise, beingthe fastest one and drawingeveryone’sstares.Everyone’s.She cranked up the air-

conditioning,satdownonthesofa,and,usingonefoot,thentheother,workedoffherhighheels. She could recall herfather’s cautioning voicefrom her youth: Don’t stick

yourneckout.Don’tmake iteasierforthebastards.Never had she believed

more in her father’s simplewisdom.She let herself sink back

into fatherly philosophy andthe welcoming embrace ofthesofacushions.

7

“Lennon was shot there,”Sal Vitali said to HaroldMishkin, as they walkedalong Central Park Westtoward where they’d parkedtheunmarkedcar.Before them loomed the

ornate stone building that

occupiedanentireblock.“The Russian or the

singer?”Haroldasked.Not sure whether Harold

was playing dumb, Salgrowled simply, “Thesinger.”Harold’s expression of

detached mildness didn’tchange as he made a slightsound thatmight havemeantanything.They’d finished

interviewing Lois Graham’s

pertinent neighbors, catchingsome of them after workhours but before dinner.People didn’t like to havetheir meals delayed orinterrupted.Thetwodetectivesthought

it might be worth talking tothevictim’supstairsneighboragain, a guy namedMasterson, who had seemedmorethanalittlenervousthefirsttime.Butmaybethatwasbecause his apartment

smelledstronglyofweed.Heand a busty twenty-three-year-old girl named Mitzy,who’d spent the night withhim, swore they’d been inbed all evening the night ofthe murder. They’d beenlistening to CDs of HarryConnick Jr. songs. Haroldthought that was unlikely,though he himself likedConnickJr.Tonight when Masterson

(“call me Bat—everyone

does”) opened his door tothem,Mitzy was nowhere tobefound.Bat motioned for Sal and

Haroldtositonthesofa,andsatdownacrossfromthemina ratty old recliner thatcreaked beneath his weight.Harold noted that Mastersonwas a larger man than he’dfirst thought. Broad andmuscular.“Where’s Mitzy this

evening?”Salasked.

Masterson shrugged. Noteasytodoinarecliner,buthemanaged. “At her quiltingbee.Shebelongstothisgangofwomenwhositaroundandgossip andmakequilts.Givethem to people they like orlove.I’vegotsomanyIdon’tknow what to do with thedamnedthings.”Heshruggedagain, exactly like the firsttime. “I’d be happy to see aChristmastiethisyear.”“Youmeanbetweentwoof

the women in the quiltingbee?”Haroldsaid.Masterson looked at

Harold the way Sal had.Haroldseemednottonotice.SalthoughtMastersonwas

going to shrug a third time,buthe justsat there,as if thebrief conversation and twositting shrugs had beenenough to exhaust him.Harold could do that topeople.“Wouldyou like toamend

your account of last night inanyway?”Haroldasked.Masterson raised his

eyebrows inapracticedway,as if he’d had enough ofshrugs. “You mean have Ithoughtofanythingelse?”Sal and Harold sat still,

waiting.“I remember riding down

in the elevator with LoisGraham. She had a bag ofpopcorn with her. She is—was—an attractive lady. The

sort anybody wouldremember.”“Sheandyouwerealonein

theelevator?”Salasked.“Yes, just the two of us.

We both got out at lobbylevel. I went to pick up mymailattheboxes.Shestartedwalking off as soon as shesteppedonthesidewalk.”“DidsheknowMitzy?”Sal

asked, not knowing quitewhy.Masterson wasn’t thrown

by the question. “The twonever met that I canremember. I mean, LoisGraham and I didn’t reallyknow each other. We werewhat you’d call noddingacquaintances.”“Thenthetwoofyounever

dated?”“Neveranythinglikethat.I

mean,yousawMitzy.”“She has a certain glint in

hereye,”Haroldsaid.“Well,” Sal said, closing

hisnotepad,“wewon’tarrestherjustnowasasuspect,butsheshouldseeadoctoraboutthatglint.”Bat Masterson and Harold

both looked momentarilystartled, then relaxed,realizing Sal was joking.Feddermanwanderedinfromhis interview in another unit,sawthesmilesandjoinedin.The detectives thanked

Masterson for hiscooperation, then left the

building and walked towardtheir unmarked car, finishedafteralongday.AstheypassedwhereJohn

Lennon had been shot, twoyounggirlswerestandingandgawking. One kept snappingphotos with her cell phone.The other stared at thesidewalk approximatelywhereLennonhadfallenandseemedabouttocry.“Where the Russian was

shot,”Salsaiddryly.

Harold said, “Yeah, yeah,yeah.”A ragged figure stepped

out from the narrow darkspace between two buildingsand limped toward them.Fedderman moved hisunbuttoned white shirt cuffand rested the heel of hishand on his gun in its beltholster.The man was one of the

homeless, in a stained andrippedancientgraysportcoat

and incredibly wrinkledbaggy jeans. He had a leanface with a long, oft-brokennose, and a deep scar on theside of his jaw. He mighthave been forty or ninety.The street did that to people.Oncetheygaveup, thestreetwasinchargeoftime.He stoppedayard in front

of Sal and Harold, so thattheyhadtostop.“Iseenwhathappened,”he

said in a voice almost as

gravelpanasSal’s.“Allofit.Whole thing started with thepopcorn.”The two detectives looked

ateachother.“What’s your name?”

Haroldasked.Salrolledhiseyes.Hewas

tired and his feet hurt. Hedidn’tfeellikedealingwithanutcase.“IjustgobySpud.”Harold made a show of

writing the name in his

leather-covered notepad as ifit were vitally important.“You understand we’re withthepolice?”“I knew he was a cop,”

Spudsaid,pointingatSal. “Iwasn’t so sure about you.”Spud used the back of hishand towipe his nose. “Youlook like the kind that neverplayedsportsasakid.”“Looks can fool you,”

Harold said, obviously hurtbySpud’sanalysis.

“HewasastarquarterbackatNotreDame,”Sallied.Spud looked dubiously at

Harold.“Thattrue?”“I don’t give away the

plays,” Harold said. Hehitchedhisthumbsinhisbeltso his holstered gun wasvisible. With his bushy graymustacheandhipshot,slenderframe, he was magicallychanged into an old Westgunslinger. “Now what’s allthis about popcorn?” he

asked.Spudseemedunimpressed.

“Thewomanwassittingonabench, and for some reasonthe pigeons didn’t like thepopcorn she was trying tofeedthem.”“Maybe it was stale,”

Harold said. “Some pigeonsareparticular.”Spud rubbed his bristly

chin. It made a lot of noise.“Now,that’showIseeit,too.Youandme,wethinkalike.”

“Who was the womanfeeding popcorn to thepigeons?”Salasked.“Don’t know her name.

Never seen her before. Thenthisguycamealong,andtheystartedtalking.”“The girl and the new

arrival?”“Thegirlandthepigeons,”

Sal said. Harold could beexcruciating.“Describehim.”“Kinda little guy, wearing

faded designer jeans, apullover shirt with the collarturned up in back. Had on aMets baseball cap, had oneear inside it, another outsideit.That ear stuck straightoutand was kinda funnylooking.”“Funnylookinghow?”“Pointed, it was.” He

looked thoughtful. “I wasdrunk once and seen aleprechaun had ears likethat.”

“Rightear?Leftear?”“Rightone,I’dsay.Maybe

both of ’em. Hard to know,thewayhehadhiscaptilted.”“Where did the popcorn

comefrom?”Haroldasked.“Hell, I don’t know.

Womanhaditbutthepigeonswouldn’t touch the popcorntill she stood up to leave.Then a couple of them gotcloseandpeckedatit.”“Theman?”Salasked.Spudwipedhisjuttingchin

again.Haroldcouldn’tdecidewhether Spud smelled likegin or diesel fuel. “Oh, theymusta known each other, orelse he was an awful goodtalker, ’cause they lefttogether. He picked up hisbagandofftheywent.”“Bag?”Salasked.“Sure.Bigbluebagwitha

lottastraps.”“Diditlookheavy?”“Notatall.”“Where did they go? Did

theyleavethepark?”“No. I’m sure of that. I

kinda followed them, forsomereason.”Salcouldguessthereason.

Iftheopportunityarose,Spudcould throw a sucker punch,snatch the man’s wallet, andrun.Themanmightnotbeinanypositiontofollow.“This woman,” Sal said.

“Do you think you couldidentifyher?”Spudwentintohischinrub

again. Smiled the ugliestsmileSalandHaroldhadeverseen.“Youmeanherhead?”Spudobjected,butSaland

Harold drove him to Q&Aandhesignedastatement.Hewasn’t too worried, becausehedidn’tseeSalorHaroldorany of these people as realcops. If they were, theywouldn’thavebeensonicetohim.Hemightevenbeupon

avagrancycharge.To Spud, these were play

cops, but not cops playinggames.SalandHaroldwrote their

ownreports,whileQuinnandFeddermandroveSpudtothemorgue inQuinn’s old blackLincoln.Quinn figured maybe they

had something here, butprobablynot.“I feel like the mayor,”

Spudsaid,leaningbackinhis

plush seat and crossing hisarms. “My kingdom’s righton the other side of thiswindow.”Quinn wondered what the

real mayor would think ofthat.Hedrovefaster.Fedderman figured the

entire car might have to befumigated.Quinndidn’tseemto mind. The man couldprioritize.Spud,itturnedout,wasan

ex-marine who’d seen the

worst of it in Desert Storm.He didn’t react when theyshowed him the morguephotos of Lois Graham.Simply said, “Uh-huh. Samewoman.Damnedshame.”Quinn said, “You might

haveseenherwithherkiller.”Spud raised a bushy gray

eyebrow.“Mr.Popcorn?”“Thesame.”“Maybe.Didn’tgetaclear

lookathim,though.Toldyouhelookedlikeagremlin.”

“Leprechaun.”“Did I say that? Shoulda

said gremlin. Leprechaunsain’t always bad. Gremlinsare the worst. Too curiousand up to mischief all thetime. No pot of goldinvolved.”“Some mischief,” Quinn

said.“Thereareward?”Quinnstaredathisraggedy

witnessinthebackseatwhereFeds could keep an eye on

him.“Ifyouthrowanetoverhim, I’ll pay you somethingoutofmyownpocket.”“Howmuch?”“Negotiable. And

remember, your testimonywouldn’tbemuchgoodifwepaidyouforit.”“Wouldn’t make me no

differencewhatbranditwas.”Quinn realized they were

talking about bottles, notdollars.Hegaveahalfsmile.Spud didn’t have the

ambition and balls to bemayor of what was outsidethe car. Good for him. “Younet this gremlin and we’lltalk.” He handed Spud hiscard.“Givemeacalland letme know if you learnanythingimportant.”Spudacceptedthecardand

gaveasloppysalute.They left the morgue and

drove him back to the parkwhere he’d first beenaccosted by Sal and Harold.

A street vendor was set upnear the81stStreet entrance.QuinntreatedSpudtoaknishand orange soda. He noticedthat the vendor also soldpopcorn.Quinn thought of warning

Spudtobecareful,especiallywhereheslept.Then he figured Spudwas

careful all the time anyway.On the streets, being carefulwashislife.

The package Quinn found

in the mail at Q&A hadn’tbeen delivered by the postoffice. There was no stampon it, andQuinn’s name andaddresswereprintedneatlyinblack felt tip pen. Oddly,there was a return address,also neatly printed, in thepackage’s upper left handcorner: Return to JackKerouac.Therewasnoactualaddress.

“ThisKerouacthewriter?”Renz asked, when Quinncalled him and described thepackage.“Must be,”Quinn said. “It

was obviously handdelivered.”“So why are you calling

me?”Renzsaid.“Whyaren’tyou out there trying to findwhoever put the damnedthinginyourmail?”“Three reasons. I wanted

you to know about the

packagebeforeIopenedit.”“And?”“I want you on the phone

while I’m opening thepackage.”“And...”“I want to tell you what I

think about in my fewseconds left before a bombgoesoff.”There was silence on the

phone.Finally Renz spoke. “You

really think theremight be a

smallbombinthatpackage?”“Couldbe.”“Thedepartmentdoeshave

abombsquad.Whydon’tweletthemopenthepackage?”“I’m not sure the risk

justifiesall that,”Quinnsaid.“I can examine the packagecarefully, see what we got,thenifneedbewecancallintheexperts.”“That’s insane. If that is a

bomb, or something thatshootswhitepowder,wehave

people who know how to—Justaminute,Quinn.”Within about twominutes,

Renz was back. “Stay put,Quinn. And don’t touch thatpackage. The bomb squad isontheway.”“What’s going on,

Harley?”“I just gotmymail put on

my desk. It contains apackagejust liketheoneyoudescribed.”Quinn sighed. “Okay,

Harley. I guess we’d bettertreatthisforwhatitis.”“Considering who must

have sent the packages. Ormaybe hand delivered themhimself.”“Probably paid some poor

dumb schmuck to deliverthem,”Quinnsaid.“Yeah.Well,youbetterget

outta your building, makesure everybody else does thesame. They’ll think it’s adrill.”

“Youdoingthesame?”“Notrightaway.Ifyouget

anthraxed or blown up, I’llknowwhat to do.One thing,Quinn, in case we don’t seeeach other again. You thinkthe phony return addressnameon thepackagesmeansthe real Jack Kerouac? Theauthor?”“Yeah. But I don’t know

whatthatmeans.”“He wrote Peyton Place,

didn’the?”

Quinn said, “Good luck,Harley,”andhungup.Half an hour later, the

packageswere declared safe.Quinn and Renz had eachbeentherecipientofajigsawwith a charred woodenhandle. As they suspected,there was no clue as to whohad placed the packages inthe mail. Not a very directclue,anyway.

8

Just looking at it, no onewouldguessthatthebuildingin theWestVillagehadoncebeen a bakery. In the earlyseventies it had beenconverted to a three-storyapartment building, with asmall foyer. In the nineties,

the building had beenrenovated again, and in amajor way. Twenty morestories had been added, andthe building had become aboutique hotel, serving bothguests and residents. Stonehad replacedbrickonpartofthe exterior, the foyer hadbecome a legitimate lobby,complete with leather easychairs and potted plants, andan elevator had beeninstalled.Upstairs,mostlarge

rooms had become suites orbeen subdivided into smallrooms. The halls werecarpeted in a deep red, andpaneledhalfwayuptocream-colored wallpaper with asubtleroseprint.EmilioTorres, the head of

maintenance in the building,livedwith hiswife,Anna, ina separate, super’s apartmentbelowgroundlevel.Hecouldopenhisdoor, taketwostepsforward, climb three steps,

and be in the lobby near theelevators.Duringcertainlate-night hours one of theelevators stayed in service,whiletheotherwasusedonlyby the staff. When thathappened,whateverworkmenor equipment needed wasshuffled between floors,usingtheotherelevator.The virtually newbuilding

wasnamedOfftheRoad,inasort of salute to the beatgeneration of the fifties, and

therateswerereasonable—byManhattanstandards.The West Village was

home to artists of all types,someofwhomweredoingatleastokayfinancially.OfftheRoad was a success. Unitswerepurchasedforownershiporrental,andrecentlyallhadbecomeoccupied.Emilio slept well. All of

the systems in the buildingwerealmostnew.Everythingworked as it should, and

almost everything wasdesigned to makemaintenance and upkeep aseasy and infrequent aspossible.He wasn’t sure what had

awakened him at three a.m.At first he thought he musthave something to do, andeitherheorAnnahadset thealarm. After all, it waspreciselythreeo’clock.But he knew it was

unlikely that either he or

Anna had set the alarm as areminderofsometask.He feltworry slipawayas

hefelthimselfdrawnagaintosleep. The apartment—theentire building—seemedquiet now.All he could hearwas the steady rhythm ofAnnabreathing.She stirred and turned

away from him, drawing upher knees. Her familiar,gentle snoring comfortedhim.

Maybe that was what hadawoken him. Anna had forsome reason cried out in hersleep. Emilio punched hispillow to fluff it up, thenrolled onto his stomach andrested the right side of hisfaceonthecool,softlinen.He might have gone back

to sleep. He wasn’t sureafterward.There was a muffled

shuffling sound from out inthe lobby. Anna put out an

arm so she could reach thelamp on her side of the bed,andswitchediton.She and Emilio lay facing

each other, staring puzzledintoeachother’seyes.Anna started to say

something,butEmilioliftedahandandputhisforefingertohis lips, urging her to bequiet.Sirens were wailing off in

thedistance.Alotofthem.Ittook less than a minute for

Emilio to be sure they wereconvergingonOfftheRoad.Hisbuilding!Emilio sprang out of bed

and yanked on his pants,which were folded on anearbychair.He fastenedhisbelt, slid his bare feet intoslippers. After cautioningAnnatostayintheapartment,he pulled a wifebeater shirtoverhisheadandwenttothedoor.He felt thebrassdoorknob

first,tomakesureitwascool.Then he was through thedoor, and up the steps to thelobby.The smell hit him first.

Something burning. Then hesaw a thick pall of blacksmokeclingingtotheceiling.Tenants were running andsometimestumblingdownthefire stairs, pursued by thesmoke. A paunchy, white-

haired guy, wearing nothingbut Jockey shorts, shovedEmiliooutoftheway,cursed,and ran for the street door.Voiceswerecallingbackandforth. At least no one wasmindlessly screaming. Notyet.Though the fire was

obviously upstairs, theelevator was at lobby level.As its door slid open, peopletried to stream out but wereblockedbyothers.Everyfew

secondssomeonewasejectedby force out onto the lobbyfloor.Finally they managed

something like order, andcamestumblingoutoneaftertheother.The lastoneout, awoman whose name wasKaren and who Emiliothoughtwasapainter,pausedat the elevator door andreached back inside beforesteppingaway.“No!”Emiliocried.“Don’t

send the elevator back up!Don’t use it! You can betrappedinit.”Karen stared at him,

comprehended, then stoppedthe elevator doors fromclosing and stuffed her pursein the door. The elevatorstalled,stopped,andbegantoding over and over. It wasalreadyfillingupwithsmoke.Karen, in a blue robe and

one blue slipper, stoppedrunning and gripped Emilio

bythebicep,squeezinghard.“Get out, Emilio! There’s

nothingyoucando.”Buttherewas.“Anna!”“There!” Karen cried, and

pointed.Anna was crossing the

lobby toward Emilio. Heslipped from Karen’s graspand went to save her. Theyhugged, but quickly, and hebegan to lead her throughlowering, thickening blacksmoketowardthestreetdoor.

The door hung open, itsvacuum sweep dangling andbroken.Theywere three feet away

from it when a hugeapparition burst in. A NewYork fireman in full regalia,boots, slicker, gloves, a hat,and some kind of respiratorymask.Emilio and Anna jumped

backoutofthewayasseveralmorefiremanstreamedinandheadedforthestairway.

The first one who’d comein stared at Emilio frombehindthemask.“I’m the super,” Emilio

said.“Getoutfornow,”saidthe

gruff voice on the other sideof the mask’s visor. “Butdon’tgoaway.”“We’ve got no place to

go,” Emilio said. “This ishome.”“Better leave it before it

falls on you,” the fireman

said.One of the firemen who’d

gone upstairs was back. Theone talking with Emilio andAnna went over to him, andthe twomen started shoutingat each other. The bigfireman, with the hat thatsuggested he was in charge,glanced over and noticedEmilio and Anna and wavedthemtowardthestreetdoor.The smoke was thickest

whereitwasbackedupatthe

door, though the door itselfhad been removed and layshattered off to the side.Emilio and Anna made theirway outside and begancoughing.Afiremanledthemaway.“How did this happen?”

Emilio shouted, as if maybethefiremanwasatfault.“Don’tknowhowyet,”the

fireman said. “But it lookslike it started on the upperfloors first, then another fire

in the basement. On timers,so the fire would move upand down, catch people in akind of pincer movement offlames.”“Then somebody did this

onpurpose,”Karensaid.“Yes, ma’am. That’d be

myguess.”“Whoeverdid itwanted to

killpeople.”“Oh,yes,ma’am.”Emilio and Anna had

stoppedonthestreet.

The fireman studied theflames for amoment. “Don’twaste time, then,” he said.“Get some distance betweenyou and the fire.” He pattedthem both on the shoulder.“Go!”Thefireseemedtoclosein

on them, and the smokethickened, as if the flameswanted to take advantage ofthefirefighter’sdeparture.But they both knew the

way. Emilio knew these

streets.The acrid smoke made

their eyes sting and causedthem to water. Their throatsfelt raw, and every coughhurt.Squinting so he could see

at leastpartially,Emilio tookAnna’s hand, and theymadetheir way among shadowydesperatefigures,python-likecoils of hose, flashingmulticolored lights. Therewas a lot of shouting and

cursing.Apolicecararrived,its siren dying as the vehiclepulledtothecurbhalfablockaway, then backed around ata right angle so the carblocked the street. Twouniformed cops got out andredirectedtrafficevenastheyjogged toward theintersection.Emilio and Anna made

theirwayalongthefarsideofthestreetandsatonthestoopofabuildingacrossthestreet

from theirs. Anna producedtissues from somewhere andtheydabbedattheireyes.When they could see

better, Emilio looked morecarefullyatOfftheRoad.Thebuildingwasburningfiercely.Flames seemed to show ineverywindow.Almost at ground level,

toward the rear where itwasn’t noticeable from thestreet, there was movement.Emilioknew that abasement

window was there; it wassmall,butitletinlight.Now it was letting

someone out. A small figurefleeing the fire. At firstEmilio thought he wasimagining it. He used a wadof tissue to wipe tears fromhis eyes. Yes! A woman,judging by her size, wasexiting the building via thebasementwindow.Botharmswere visible now, a legcrooked sharply at the knee.

The figure didn’t look somuch like a woman now.Something in the way itmoved.It was a small man,

wearing a baseball capcrookedly cocked on hishead.Outsidethewindow,heglanced around, noticedEmilio staring at him, andtrotted, then walked to jointhegawkersdownthestreet.He glanced back again. In

the brightness of the

streetlight and police andFDNYflashinglights,Emilionoticedanelfinqualityabouthim.Becauseofhisear.Onelarge ear stuck straight outfromhis head and came to asharp point.He had his headturnedsoEmiliocouldn’tseetheotherear.Thejockey-sizeman moved away, backamong the gawkers. He wasso graceful that he almostdanced. Within seconds hewasinvisible.

“Didyouseethat?”Emilioasked.Anna shook her head and

dabbed at her eyes with hertissue. “I can hardly see mytoes,” she said. “What wasit?”“IthoughtIsawsomebody,

a small man, climb out of abasementwindow.”“Getting away from the

flames,” Anna said. “Did hemakeit?”“Yes. He seemed to have

plentyoftime.Seemed...”“What?”“To know what he was

doing. It was very strange,Anna.”Shemoved to sit nearer to

himonthehardconcretestep.“This whole night has beenverystrange.”“There’s something else

that’s strange,” Emilio said,staring at the water from thefirehosesrunninglikeasmallcreek toward a storm sewer.

“I see them directing theirhoses to put water on thelower floors of the building,butnottheupper.”“It looks as if the streams

of water won’t reach thathigh.”“There are standpipes on

the landings of the highfloors.All theyhave todo iscarry thehosesupandattachthem.”“That’s where the fire

seems tohave started,”Anna

said. “Maybe they alreadydecided they couldn’t saveit.”“Maybe.” Emilio looked

again at the gurgling streamofwaterhuggingthecurb.“Itseemsthatforsuchabigfire,we’veseenverylittlewater.”Anna shook her head.

“Water, fire, they both ruinthings.”Emilio snaked an arm

aroundherandhugged.“Noteverything.”

9

Seven people were dead.Thirteen more were stillhospitalized,mostofthemthevictimsofsmokeinhalation.The morning after the Off

the Road hotel fire, Quinnand Fedderman stood in thebuilding’s ruined basement.

Most of the ashes weresoaked,andtheacridsmellofthe fire, which was stillsmoldering here and there,was enough to sting noseswitheverybreath.Therewasa lingering, nauseating smellthat Quinn recognized fromother fires and theiraftermaths. He wouldn’t eatsteakforawhile.An Arson Squad

investigator stood near thecollapsed stairway, near a

blackened furnace that wasthe origin of the fire. HisnamewasHertz, like the carrentalcompany,buthewasn’tfamily, or what would he bedoing analyzing fires? Hewas in dark blue uniformexcept for oversized greenrubberbootsthatcamealmostup to his knees. He wascarrying a clipboard with athicksheafofpaper,whichhenowandthenjottedonwithastubby yellow pencil. All

three men wore yellow hardhats. Hertz’s had his namestenciled on it and it lookedasifaffordedmoreprotectionthan the helmets on QuinnandFedderman.“We don’t wanna stay

around too long here,” hesaid.Feddermanglancedaround

nervously. “This place aboutto fall?” he asked, obviouslytryingtostaycalm.Hertzlaughedinawaythat

was a kind of snort thataggravatedQuinn.“Iwouldn’tbeheremyself

if I thought it wasdangerous.”Fedderman looked at him.

“Youjustsaid—”“We believe in every

measureofprecaution,”Hertzassuredhim.Quinn wasn’t sure what

that meant but let it pass.“You sure the fire wasdeliberately set?” he asked.

Alreadyknowingtheanswer.Hertznoddedhishelmeted

head. “Look at this.” Hemovedoverafewstepstohisright and pointed at ablackened, half-melted mass.“See that?” He pointed at acharred arc of metal, andsomething else, a tiny blackarrow. “That’s the top of aminute hand. This is what’sleftofawind-upalarmclock.When it rang, a key rotatedand wound some string that

pulledtwowirestogetherandtriggered an incendiaryblast.” He gestured with hishand. “See how thealligatoring starts here andmoves out in all direction?Thefloorlooksthatway,too,only on a larger scale. Therewas some kind of acceleranton it that caught fire andspread flames fast. Peoplewouldn’tbelievehowfast.”Quinn believed.He’d seen

the results of fires set by

cleverarsonists.“This guy know what he

wasdoing?”Quinnasked.“Judgingby the results,he

knewenough.”“Imean,washeapro?”“I don’t think so. The

timing device is jerry-rigged,but good enough to strike aspark.Butitdoesn’tlooklikethe work of a really skilledarsonist.I’ddescribethisguyas a clumsy but talentedamateur.”Hertzjuttedouthis

chin and looked out to theside,thinking.“Unless...”“What?”Feddermanasked.“Unless he was an expert

pretendingtobeanamateur,”Quinnsaid.Hertz looked at him,

obviously miffed that Quinnhadbeenastepaheadofhimandhadstolenhisline.“Exactly,”hesaid,smiling.

“Very good, Captain.” As ifQuinnwereanaptpupil.“Butthere’salsothesabotagingof

thecoiledfirehoses.”“We didn’t know about

that.”“When there are fires

higher than our ladders andhoses can reach, there arestandpipes installed at eachlanding.Firehosesarecoiledinglassfrontcasesnearthem.They’re usually not longenough to reach very faralong the halls, so extensionhoses carried up by theFDNY are coupled to them.

Improvised steel clamps areused to pinch the standpipehoses about seven feet fromthe standpipes, where theycouldn’t be seen when thehoses were coiled. Theybacked up the water and thecrimpedhosesburstunderthepressure. It took valuabletime to replace them,especially considering thatthe brass on them had beenbeatenoutofround.Amateurwork,buteffective.”

Quinn understood nowwhy the flames had sofiercely ravaged thebuilding’s upper floors. Asimpleshortageofwater.Hertzgrinnedinawaythat

wasn’t pleasant. “He’s acleverarsonist,ourfirebug.”“A clever killer,” Quinn

amended.Hertzsnorted.“That,too.”Something shifted above

them,makingaloudgroan.“Let’s get out of here,”

Fedderman said. “Before theplacefallsonus.”Noonearguedwithhim.Backacrossthestreetfrom

the burned-out building, thethree men removed theirhelmets and smoothed backsweat-drenchedhair.“You need a shower after

each of these inspections?”Quinnasked.Hertz laughed and emitted

hispeculiarsnort.“That’dbenice.’Speciallyformywife.”

He looked from FeddermantoQuinn.“So,what’snextforyouguys?”“We’re going to interview

the super,” Quinn said.“We’llcopyyou.”“Vice versa,” Hertz said.

“Supers know everything inthese buildings. See if he’smissinganyalarmclocks.”He was smiling again,

obviously enjoying hiswork.Quinnlikedhimforthat.“His wife, Anna, is not to

be taken lightly, either,”Hertz said. “She’s thebeautyandthebrains.”

10

QuinnandFeddermanfoundout from Hertz that Emilioand his wife Anna werestaying temporarily in anapartmentthatwasownedbythe proprietor of Off theRoad.Theywere both home and

both looked nervous whenEmilio opened the door andinvitedthemin.“More questions,” Emilio

said. He was a short,mustachioedmanandseemedmore tired than annoyed.“I’ve already told my storymorethanoncetothepolice.”“We’re fussbudgets,”

Feddermansaid.Anna, a handsome Latin

woman with a profile thatbelonged on a coin, smiled

wearily and motioned forthem to sit down.Quinn andFedderman sat inuncomfortable modernwoodenchairsofthesortthatrigid religions might use toguarantee discomfort duringsermons. Anna offered themwater.“Wecouldhaveusedmore

ofthatlastnight,”Quinnsaid.“Yes,” Emilio said. “We

found that out too late.” Heandhiswifesatdownsideby

side on a sagging, stainedsofa. It looked as if itwouldopen and become abackbreaking bed. Annaabsently reached over andpatted Emilio’s thigh. Quinnsaw that these two wereactually in love. And thearson investigator wasn’twrong about her beingbeautiful. Emilio wasn’tgoingtodoanybetter.“We read your statement,”

Quinn said. “You saw

someone who might havebeen the arsonist emergingfromabasementwindow.”Emilio said simply, “Yes,”

as if testifying incourtandastenographer needed briefwords from him rather thanimages.Fedderman said, “Would

you say hewas trying to getaway from the scene, orattempting to escape theflames?”Emilio thought. Shrugged.

“It could have been either.The whole thing didn’t lastthatlong.Hesqueezedoutofthe window, then took offrunning and disappeared inallthesmoke.”“I only caught a slight

glimpseofhim, if I sawhimat all,” Anna said. “Thesmoke, the smell, it playedwiththesenses.”Quinn smiled,wishing she

was as helpful as she wasbeautiful. He focused his

attentiononEmilio.“Canyougive us a description of theman?”“I would be repeating it

onceagain.”“Yes,”Quinnsaid.Emiliosighed.“Smallman,

dressed inblackandwearinga blue baseball cap pulleddown low. Moved in a verynimble way. One of his ears—his right one, I think—stuckstraightoutandcametoapointatthetop.Likehewas

a...”“Gremlin,”Annasaid.“I thought youweregoing

to say leprechaun,”Feddermansaid.Anna looked puzzled.

Shrugged. “I don’t knowleprechaun. I know gremlin.Theytinker.Break.”“You’d have to be Irish,”

Quinn said. “What about hisotherear?”heaskedEmilio.“I’mnotsure.Thecapwas

toolargeforhim,anditmight

have covered his right ear,held it flat against his head.Hard to say. Hemoved veryfast,likeamirage.”“Butyoudidseehim?”“My husband doesn’t see

mirages,”Annasaid.That seemed definite and

final.Quinn smiled. “Don’t

worry. That’s not what wethink.Thefirewasstartedbysomeone who wasn’t amirage, but was very real,

using an alarm clock as atimer tosetoffan incendiarybomb.”“Terrorism?” Anna asked,

herdarkeyeswide.“We don’t think so. No

terrorist group is takingcredit, and thiswasn’taveryskilledbombmaker.”“But the bomb worked,”

Emiliosaid.“That’s a good point,”

Fedderman told him. “Buteveryone who should know

sees this as simple arson,committed by someoneclever, but not veryknowledgeable aboutbombs.”“And you can’t put a

policemanineverybuilding,”Annasaid.Fedderman said, “Another

goodpoint.”“Theneighborhoodgossip,

who usually starts and endsnowhere, is speaking of himasafirebug,”Emiliosaid.

“Thatmight be part of it,”Quinn said. “But it’s morethan that. He seemscompelled to look insidethings, see how they work.Knowanyonelikethat?”“A lot of people,” Emilio

said.“Butnotarsonists.”“There is the off chance

that they’re not the sameperson,”Quinnsaid.“Notmuchchanceofthat,”

Feddermansaid.“‘The Gremlin,’ some

newscasters are callinghim,”Anna said. “A kind of ghostin the machine, causingtrouble.”Sheapparentlybelievedthe

single-killer-arsonisttheory.“Gremlins have been

known to tinker withelectronics or engines andbring down airplanes,”Feddermansaid.Quinn looked at him.

“Who told you that? TheFAA?”

“Harold.”Ofcourse.“Those media people who

tagged the killer theGremlin,” Quinn said. “Wasone of those mouthynewscastersMinnieMiner?”Anna said, “How did you

know?”Quinnwasn’ttelling.Minnie Miner had

cooperated,andtherapaciouslittlenewshoundwouldsurelywantsomethinginreturn.

But right now Quinn wastryingtokeepalidonthings,and gremlin was a kinderwordthanterrorist.“‘Gremlin,’” he said.

“Verydescriptive.”“We wouldn’t want it to

become a household word,”Feddermansaid.“We wouldn’t,” Quinn

said,“butthekillermight.”

11

“About half an hourbeforethefireintheVillage,”Renz said, “there was asimilarfireuptown.”It was the next morning,

and he and Quinn were inWorld Famous Diner onAmsterdam, having coffee

and doughnuts. Renz had alargerednapkintuckedunderhis chin so as not to getpowderedsugaronhisRalphLaurentie,tansilksuitjacket,or white shirt. Quinn couldsee the tiny roughness ofsugar on the part of the shirtthat showed, like lumps ofsomething under a recentsnowfall. Probably all thesugarwoulddropontoRenz’spantswhenhestoodup.“Coincidence?” he asked

Renz.Renz shook his head,

causing sugar to drop fromhis napkin to somewherebeneath table level.“Diversion.Samearsonist.”“Howdoweknowthat?”“The fire was in a dry

cleaners only a few blocksfromafirehouse.Itdidn’tgeta chance to burn very longbefore the FDNY arrived infull force and extinguishedtheflames.”

“Start with an incendiarydevice?”Quinnasked.“Yesh,”Renzsaidarounda

mouthful of chocolate-iceddoughnut. “Alsho an alarmclock timer. The firebugdidn’t splash a lot offlammable liquid—probablyplain old gasoline—aroundthe place. Enough, though,that the blackened clockdidn’t yield any prints oranythingelse.Itwasthesamekind of job as down in the

Village, only on a smallerscale.Likeawarm-upaswellasadiversion thatwouldrobthe larger conflagration offirefightersandequipment.”“Anycasualties?”“None.”“Sameamateurtouch?”“Oh, yes.Almost certainly

the same arsonist. It wasalmostlikeapracticerun.”Quinn sipped from his

white coffee mug.“Witnesses?”

“Notofanyvalue.Oneguyin the building across thestreet claimed he sawsomebody or somethingrunningfromthefireaboutanhour before it even began tolooklikeafire.”Hope moved in Quinn’s

heart. Not a lot of hope,because he knew how muchan eyewitness report fromsomeone glimpsingsomething from a windowacrossthestreetwasworth.

“He just got a quick look,doesn’t know if there’s anyconnectionwith the fire. Buttheguywasmovingfast,asiftrying to get away from theareawithoutdrawinga lotofattentiontohimself.”“You think this witness is

worth talking to?” Quinnasked.“Definitely.”“Smallguy?”Renzstaredathim.“Yeah.

Somebodyelseseehim?”

“Maybe somebodydowntown.” Quinn lookedintohis coffeemug, as if foranswers, found onlyquestions. “Anything elseyourwitnessnoticeabouttheuptownguy?”“Thatsuggestshewasalso

the Village firebug?” Renzglancedaroundas if tomakesure they wouldn’t beoverheard.Nooneelsewasinthe diner except for threeteenage girls giggling in a

back booth, and a beardedguy at the counter almostembracingamugofcoffeeasif he wished it were booze.“There is one thing,” Renzsaid. “The witness said thefirebug’searsstuckout.”Quinn was interested.

“Bothears?”“I asked him that

question,” Renz said. “Hetold me he doesn’t know.Might have been only oneear,pointedasitwas.”

“Pointed?”“Yeah.Itstuckoutandwas

pointedon top.”Renz tookahuge bite of doughnut andchewed.“Newswomancalledthe firebug a gremlin,maybebecauseoftheears.”“Leprechauns’ ears stick

out, too,” Quinn said. Notactuallyknowing.“But they don’t plant

bombs,” Renz said. “They’retoobusylookingforrainbowsand pots of gold.” He

swallowed masticateddoughnut. Quinn could hearhisesophagusworking togetthedoughymassdown.“If they want to give this

guy a tag,” Quinn said, “theGremlinisasgoodasany.”“I guess,” Renz said. “I

wonder who thought it up?”Hesmiledlikeacroissant.

12

Iowa,1991Jordan Kray’s twelfthbirthday hadn’t beenmentioned except for thetraditional birthday spanking,whichwasexpertlyappliedtohisbuttocksandupperthighs

withaleatherwhip.Thefleshhadn’t been broken but wasraised with fiery welts thatwould sting for hours. Hedidn’t think he’d sleep at alltonight.His twin brother, Kent,

hadn’tmindedhisbirthdayatall. He was given a Timexwatchandallowedtostayupand watch television. Theirfatherhadtoldhimitwasforwork done around the houseand small farm, work that

was seldom done by Jordan.Kent and Jordan’s mothersmilingly agreed while shewielded the whip and herhusband watched, fondlinghimself.Itwasafairlynormalnight

for the Krays, while five-year-old Nora sleptpeacefully in her bed in thefar bedroom. Kent had toldJordan he’d heard theirmother and father talkingabout moving Nora in with

him and sending Jordan toNora’s shoebox-size room.Alice and Jason—theirmother and father—hadtalkedaboutmovingdifferentkinds of equipment into theroom with Jordan, but Kent,overhearing this, hadno ideawhattheywereplanning.Whipping required

exertion, and Alice stoppedand stepped back, breathinghard.“Leave yourself alone and

usethisforawhile,”shesaid,tossingJasonthecoiledwhip.Jason obeyed, but didn’t

whip hard. Jordan knew thiswasn’tanactofkindness;hisfather was simply moreinterested in other things.Kent lay on his stomach,pretendingsleepwhile facingthewall.Jordan knew his brother

was the better looking of thetwins.Hisfeatureswereevenandheresembledhismother,

with her bold features andcurly hair. Jordan had small,pinched features, and one ofhisearsstoodstraightoutlikean open car door and waskind of pointed. This, alongwithhisdiminutivesizeevenfor his age, lent him an elfinquality that would stay withhim the rest of his life. Theotherear—hisleft—stuckouta little and wasn’t pointed.Themidwifewho’ddeliveredthe twins had learned from

the firstborn, Jordan, whowasafewminutesolderthanhis twin, that identical twinsweren’talikeineveryrespect.The protruding, pointed earseemed to become evenlargerandmorepointedaftera schoolyard bully heldJordan in a headlock andrubbed the side of his faceover andoveron concrete. Itwas decided that Jordan hadstartedthefight.Kenttriedtoexplaintohis

motherthattheaccuserswerelying, but Jordan received aharder than usual whipping,and was made to stand in acorner for yelping andwakingupNora.A week later Jordan tried

to change the oil in the carbut confused it withtransmission fluid. Heenjoyed working on thingsmechanical, large and small.He had a driving curiosity.Jordan liked to think that

anything he took apart hecould reassemble.Hewas aswrong as he was confident,but thatdidn’tstophimfromtinkering.He saved his money and

bought a model airplane hehad to construct by hand.When it was finished, itlooked more like a RussianMIGthanthesleekAmericanSaberJetpicturedonthebox.Whenhe tried toglide it, theplane looped and then nosed

hard into the ground. Hewouldhaverebuiltitandtriedagain,onlyhisfatherstompedon the plane, laughed, andsaidhe’dthoughtitwasabigbug.That was how Jordan’s

childhood went, except forhis dreamswhere hewent tohide.Exceptforhisnighttimehours of lying in the silenceand thinking until earlymorning,whenhewasforcedto get up and do his chores

before walking down to theroad and waiting for theschoolbus.Kent sometimes walked

with him, but usually hadbeen sent on before Jordan.Nora, too young for school,laydozinginhercribandwastreatedlikeaprincess.Jordan knew she wouldn’t

always be treated like aprincess.Sometimeshefoundhimself looking forward tothatandfeltguilty.

He was thirteen when hecame upon an old MovieSpotlight magazine that wasmostly pages of beautifulwomenposedvariouswaysinvarious skimpy costumes.Some of the women Jordanwas familiar with, like JuliaRoberts and Meg Ryan.Othersweremorehisfriends’grandfathers’ age; SophiaLoren and Ava Gardner.Others had names that wereonlyvaguelyfamiliar.

Jordan turned a page andwas surprised to see a photoof a man. Bing Crosby.Jordan knew he had been asingerandamoviestar—hadbeen famous for some time.There was a black-and-whitephoto of Crosby leaning onthe fender of a car.A newerphoto, in color, had himleaningonatreeandlookingstraight at the camera. Hewas, in fact, looking straightat thecamera inbothphotos.

In the earlier one, his earsstood straight out, not sounlikeJordan’s.Inthenewer,color photo, his ears werealmost flat against his head.Beneath both photoswas thecaption“Bing’sSecret.”Jordan read the

accompanying short text. ItseemedthatCrosby’searsdidstick out, but there was thistape that was sticky on bothsidesthatthemoviestarusedwhen he was in front of the

camera. Supposedly, ClarkGableusedit,too.Jordan couldn’t help but

smile. If famous people usedthe special tape,he shouldn’tbe embarrassed by his ears.Hecouldfindwhere the tapewassoldandbuyaroll.He stood before the

bathroom mirror, holdingboth ears back with hisforefingers.Yes,itmadeadifference.He was almost as

handsomeasKent.He got a role of white

adhesive tape from themedicine cabinet, andunrolled about an inch oftape, tore it off the roll, andthen doubled it so it wasstickyonbothsides.Hetrieditonhisrightear.It worked for a few

seconds, then the ear pulledlose and sprang out from hisskull.When he attempted to tear

off anotherpieceof tape, themetal and cardboard spoolcameapart.That and the rollof tape flew from his graspandclatteredtothetilefloor.The door opened. His

mother. She looked at him,then at the clutter on thefloor.“What the hell are you

doing?”sheasked.Jordan was too surprised

andfrightenedtoreply.She grabbed him by the

rightear,squeezinghard,andwalked him out of thebathroom.Hecouldfeeltearsstreamingdownhischeeks.His father was standing in

the hall, holding a sheet ofnewspaper—the sports page.“Whatthehellyoucatchhimdoing?” he asked Jordan’smother.“Jerkingoffagain?”“Whoknowsorcares?”his

mother said.She releasedhisear and slapped him hard onthe left side of his face. His

cheekburned.“What’d he break now?”

his father asked. “Was hetaking that tape dispenserapart?”Hecluckedhistongueat Jordan. “You ever seeanything you didn’t wannatakeapartandscrewup?”Jordan knew when not to

answer.His mother shoved him

towardthebedroom,scrapinghis bare elbow against thewall.“I’lltakecareofhim.”

Jordan’s father studiedJordan’s face, which Jordanstudied to control, and thenshook his head. “You reallydoneedtolearntobehave.”“I’ll teach him.” Another

pushtowardthebedroom.Hismotherandfather’sroom.There was motion off to

the side, and Kent peekedaround the corner. His facepaled.“What’sgoin’on?”His mother glared at him,

and he pulled back and

disappeared.The noise had awakened

Nora, who screamed in hercrib.“I’ll take care of her,”

Jordan’s mother said, “soonasI’mdonewithyou.”“Don’t be too hard on

him,”Jordan’sfathersaid.Shelaughedatherhusband

and looked at him a certainway, until he turned awayfromher.

13

NewYork,thepresent“Have a nice night,Margaret.”The woman, Margaret,

returned the good wishes ofthe man in the suit and tiewho had come out of the

office building she had justleft. A fellow worker drone,nodoubt.Jordan watched her as she

crossed the street at thesignal. How could she movethat way? The precision ofher stride, the rhythmic swayof her hips, the swing of herfree arm with its oppositeresting lightly on the pursethat was supported by aleather strap slung over hershoulder. Why wasn’t she

like theotherwomenhe sawevery day? How was shedifferent?Whatever the answers to

those questions, he knew itwas fate and not chance thathad brought them together.And that would bring themeverclosertoeachother.Shedescended thesteps to

a subway platform withoutlosing her distinctiverhythmicgaitthatwasalmosta dance. He followed her

down the narrow concretesteps.Jordan observed her from

farther down the platform.She was looking away fromhim, idly watching andwaiting for the push of coolair and the gleam of lightsthatmeantasubwaytrainwascoming. While she wasmomentarily distracted, hewandered along the platformtoward where she wasstanding. Her hand tightened

on her purse strap, as if shewanted to be sure shewouldn’t lose her bag in therush of riders leaving thetrain, and those traveling inherdirectiontoboard.Thetrain,adragonofgray

metal and reflective glass,roared before them andappearedforamomentthatitwas going to speed past andkeep going. Then, with ascreamingofsteelonsteel,itslowed rapidly and smoothly

almost to a halt. It stoppedand sat quietly. It was the 1train, headed downtown, andlikeeveryoneonboard,ithadrulestoobey.Those waiting to board

pressedforward.Thewoman,Margaret, had to assertherselfandbackupastepsoshe remained behind theyellow line. One of thepneumatic doors had stoppedexactly in front of her andthen hissed open. She was

oneofthefirsttoboardastheflowofpassengersbothwaysmet and then broke into twodistinct lines, moving inoppositedirections.Jordan was near a door in

the same car, only fartherdown the platform. Hesteppedinsidejustasthedoorwasabouttoclose.Therewerenoseats, sohe

stood with several others inthe crowded car, shifting hisweight from foot to foot.He

could see Margaret seatednearthedoorshehadentered.By the time the train

stopped atWest 42nd Street,in the theater district, it hadtaken on more passengers,and Jordan had to crane hisneck now and then to catchsightofher.Thereshewas,standingup

andedgingtowardthedoor.He pushed toward her,

usinghiselbows.Someoneinthecrowdedcarelbowedhim

back, but he ignored it. Alittle pain was a tonic to thesystem, as his mother hadoftentoldhim.He left the subway behind

and followed Margarettoward the concrete stepsleading to the sidewalk. Asshe pushed through a blackiron revolving gate thatlooked designed to eatpeople, she didn’t glanceback,buthedoubtedifshe’drecognize him anyway. He’d

let his hair grow, and it wascombedbacklikedarkwingsoverhisears.Soontheysurfacedintothe

loud, warm night. Thesidewalk was almost ascrowded as the subway, andhestayedclosebehindher.Afterablock,shecutdown

asidestreetthatwasamixofbusinesses, most of themrestaurants, and residences.Some of the old brick andbrownstone buildings had

been subdivided intoapartments. A few of themlookedvacant.Margaret paused in the

glareof a streetlight, in frontof a dentist’s office. Sherummagedaboutinherpurseuntil she found what lookedlike a key ring, thencontinued to the stoop of thenextbuilding.Asshewentupthe steps, he watched her,mesmerized, listening to theclackofherhighheelsonthe

concrete steps. The rhythmand precision of hermovements captivated him.Theclickandclackandswayandrollandrhythmandclickand clack had a hypnoticeffectonhimthathecouldn’tunderstandbutmust.Assheenteredthebuilding

through an oversized oakdoor, he resisted a glance totheside.He walked past her

building and continued down

the street, but he used hisballpoint pen to write heraddressonthepalmofhislefthand.Hepressedhardenough to

makethehandbleed.Margaret Evans stood

leaningwithherbackpressedagainst the inside of herapartment door to the hall.She knew the man had beenfollowing her, picked up on

thefactwhenshe’dgottenonthe subway and noticed himwaiting, then timing hismovements as he entered thesame subway car before thedoors closed and the trainmovedaway.Itwasn’tallthatunusualin

Margaret’s life that a manmightfollowhertoseewhereshe was going. Usually theywere harmless. Lonely guyskilling time and looking forsomething to do. Dreamers

who moved in her wake,waiting for their dreams tocome true. With those guys,theyweremostlytootimidtoapproach her. Her late auntClarahad toldhermore thanonce that women had littleidea of the power they heldovermen.Mendidn’tknowiteither,butweremovedby it,sometimes even believingthat they were the agents ofchange.“You’re beautiful and will

grow up to be even morebeautiful,” her aunt had said.“You’respecialandwillhaveto understand more aboutmen, how one day you aretheir friend and the next daytheirgoddess.”Clara had been dead for

three years now. Margaretwishedshe’dlistenedmoretowhatheraunthadsaid.Therewas a lot that the pancreaticcancer had cut short, orMargaret would have

understood more about whatmade her special, and moreaboutmen.Suchaswhytheysometimes need to destroytheirgoddesses.Margaret was sure she’d

never before seen the manwho’d followed her to herapartment building. Andprobablyhe’dneverseenher.But sometimes, as Clara

said,itwasallinalook,oracertainmovementinacertainlight.Or. . .whoknewwhat

else?Apersoncouldglimpseanother through a buswindow and be in love forlife.Orsomethinglikelove.

Jordan couldn’t get

Margaretoutofhismind.Shewas a mystery he had toexplore.Hepushedherawayfrom his thoughts. Therewould be time for her. Hewouldmaketime.

Amistclosedinonhimashewalked. Soon it became alight drizzle. He walkedfaster, then turned up hiscollarandbrokeintoajog.Attheendoftheblockheturnedleft and climbed steps to theporch of a white-stone andbrownstone building andwent inside to a small foyer.A long, narrow stairwell ranto the second floor. Jordanclimbed the stairs quickly,then stood before the single

dooratthetopofthesteps.He waited for a count of

fifty, then knocked on thedoor,as instructed.Hedidn’tlook up at the cameramountedatadownwardangleneartheceiling.“Come in,” a woman’s

voicesaid,almostbored.He opened the door and

stepped inside, aware of ascentofjasmine.Thewomanwassittinginachairnearthefootofabed.Somethinghad

been done to extend thechair’s legs to make themlonger.Thechairresembledathrone. The tall, leanwomanin black leather, seatedcalmly in the chair, broughttomindroyaltyandauthority.“Have you behaved

yourself since we last met?”sheasked.“No,Ihavenot.”Theybothsmiled.“Gotomyclosetandopen

it,”shesaid.“Hangingonthe

back of the closet door is awhip.Bringittome.”Jordanobeyed.

14

Renz dropped by the Q&Aofficewithwhathedescribedasnew information.Hedrewaplainbrownfolderfromhisrecently acquired calfskinattaché case, and plopped iton Quinn’s desk in front ofQuinn.

“Lab come up withsomething new?” Quinnasked.“In a way. Those five

womenwhowere among thedeadintheOfftheRoadfire.Twoofthemwereinbathtubsand weren’t killed by theflames.”Quinn leaned back in his

desk chair, listening to itsfamiliarsqueal,andholdingapen lightly level with thethumb and index fingers of

both hands, as if taking ameasurement. “What? Didthey fill the tubs with waterso they might submergeholding their breath andwaitthefireout?”Quinnhadseenthisattempted, tenyearsago,and recalled that it hadn’tworked. The victims whothought they might findenoughtimetosubmergeandletthefirerageoverandpastthem had been boiled alive.He experienced a vivid

memory with an image thatstill haunted him.Oneof theboiled, a woman, hanginghalfway out of the bathtub,herhairreducedtowhiteash,her eye sockets hollowed bytheflames.“You thinking about that

Clovis Hotel fire?” Renzasked Quinn, which joltedQuinn. That was exactly thefire that was occupying hismind. Renz, a younger,slightly slimmer Renz, had

alsobeenattheClovisfire.“I thinkabout it fromtime

totime,”Quinnsaid.Renz emitted a low,

guttural laugh. “Some ofthosevictims,youcouldstickaforkin’emandserve’emata fancy restaurant. Tell thediners it was gourmet fare.You ever heard of lambamirstan?”“No,” Quinn said, “and I

don’twantto.”“Well, it doesn’t matter,”

Renz said, leaning forwardand sliding about a dozensheets of paper out ontoQuinn’s desk blotter. “Helenand a police sketch artistcreatedthis.”Quinn looked at a detailed

drawingof the suspect in theOff the Road and crosstowndry cleaners fires, keying offthe scant eyewitnessaccounts. Staring back atQuinn from the sketch padwas a man, slender judging

by his neck and shoulders,who was quite handsomeuntil a certain somethingcame through. His pinchedfeatures were faintly rodent-like.Theeffectwasenhancedbyanoversized,pointedrightear that juttedalmoststraightoutfromhishead.Itgavetheman a kind of intense ferallook, which lent his elfinfeatures a sinister air. Heseemed halfway between aleprechaunandagargoyle.A

small,blithespiritofevilthattinkered and turned mishapintocatastrophe.Agremlin.“DNA samples are still

being worked up, but so farblood taken out of the pipesbeneath the tub drainsprovides no conclusiveevidence that the Off theRoad and Clovis Hotel firesweresetbythesameperson.”Quinn laid the photos and

sketchonhisdesk.He said, “Something’s

wronghere.”“I see it,”Renz said. “The

drainpipesunder thebathtubswere clogged with blood.Some of the bathtub victimsweren’t burned to death ordied from smoke inhalation.They were tortured to deathwhiletheirbloodrandownsothickitcloggedthedrains.”“It looks like thekillerdid

his routine on both hotels.”Quinn could imagine thewomen lying awkwardly in

thebathtubs,losingbloodandso losing the strength toresist. They probably knewthey wouldn’t leave thebathtubs alive, but assumedtheyweregoingtodrown.When the killer was

finishedwithwhathe’dcometo do, he probably left in awayhe’dplanned,carefulnotto be caught in his own trapof flames and smoke. Thevictimswould have been tooweak to claw their way up

and climb out of the tubs.They probably kept tryingharderandharderasthewaterkeptgettinghotterandhotter.Each of their attempts toescapewouldhavebeenmorefeeblethanthepreviousones.Then the smells of charringflesh, the hopeless screams.Theboiling.Thensilenceexceptforthe

cracklingoftheflames.Quinn looked up from the

material on his desk. On the

other side of the desk, Renzsatstaringathim.Quinn got up and crossed

theofficetoacabinet,whichhe unlocked. He withdrew abottle of Jameson’s andpoured two fingers into acouple of on-the-rocksglasses.He didn’t add ice orwaterbeforecarryingthetwoglasses back to his desk,setting one on the blottingpad, and handing the otherglasstoRenz.

Renz tosseddownmost ofhisdrinkinaseriesofgulps.Quinn sipped his drink

slowly,thinkingthingsover.

15

“There was a similar massmurder in Florida about fiveyearsago,”Helentheprofilersaid. She was standing infront of Quinn’s desk withher arms crossed, rockingback and forth on her heels.“Two women found dead in

theirbathtubs,afterafireinahotel on Pompano Beach.They’d been tortured, thenboiled to death. Fire wasdeliberate,most likely set bythe same person who killedthe women. Three otherpeople—all men—werekilledinthefire.Firebugwasnevercaught.”“The men were collateral

damage?”“Looks that way. Men

oftenare.”

Quinn was thinking aboutthatwhenJerryLidocameinthrough the street door. Theairstirredwithafaintscentofgin.Lido’sstainedwhiteshirtwas unbuttoned and hangingout over wrinkled pants. Hiseyesseemedfocused,though,and he was walking straight.Fedderman, over by thecoffeepot, and himself nofashion plate, looked at Lidoand said, “You look likesomething the cat dragged

in.”“I fought the cat all the

way,”Lidosaid.Quinnsaid,“Ineedyou to

findoutwhatyoucanaboutahotel fire five years ago inPompano.”“SandyToesHotel?”Helen shifted her feet and

stood up straighter. She andQuinnlookedateachother.Lido caught the subtle

exchange and smiled. Heplaced a wrinkled yellow

envelopeonQuinn’sdesk.The charred debris in the

Sandy Toes photos wassurprising.The burn victims’bodies were shriveled blackhorrors. Breasts had beenremoved from some of thewomen. Quinn recalledanother case, long ago,involving an urban cannibalwhodinedonbreasts.He was almost relieved

when he saw that here mostof thebreasts—whatwas left

ofthem—werelyingnearthevictims’bodies.None of the male victims

of the SandyToesHotel fireseemedtohavebeentortured,and only one of them,possibly coincidentally, wasfound burned to death in abathtub.They seemed to have

simplybeenintheway.Collateraldamage.The women, however,

were a different story. What

was left of them—includingtheir severed breasts—thatwas too large to fit down adrainwaslyinginajumbleatthebottomsofthetubs.Preliminary autopsy

reports on the womensuggested they were killedand dismembered swiftly.Thekiller hadknownhehadminimumtime.“He made every second

count,” Quinn said, leafingthrough the autopsy sheets,

which were complete withphotos.“He must have known he

had away outwithout beingtrapped by the flames orsmoke,” Fedderman said asthe detectives passed aroundthefileswithphotos.“Looks like he went from

point to point, killing anddismembering the women,then starting or feeding thefires.”“Those women didn’t run

because they were terrified,”Pearlsaid.She lookedangry,butcalm.Quinn, reading further,

said,“AndwiththeirAchillestendons sawed through, rightabove their heels, there wasno way they could stand up,or even crawl, out of abathtub. Then, when the firereached a certain point, thekiller quickly finished hisbutchery and moved on insearchofmorevictims.”

“How did he find them?”Pearl asked. “Look in everybathtub?”“Listening for screams or

calls for help,” Harold said.“Bathtubs are where lots ofpeople trapped by fire takerefuge. They fill them withwater,climb in,andhopeforthebest.”“And have their pleas

answered by a gremlin withknivesandsaws,”Pearl said.“Nightmarestuff.”

Helen studied thepostmortem report. “A figureof authority heard their callsand appeared, probably afireman in a slicker andhelmet. That’s why theydidn’t run. They thought arescuer had arrived. One ofthe first things he did wassaw through their Achillestendons. Then they couldn’tstand up or climb out of thetub.He’dhavehadtowasteamove disassembling them as

they got weaker and weakerfrom loss of blood. Heprobably eviscerated themlast and then unwound andstackedtheirintestines.”“Think of it without the

blood,” Harold said, “and hesuredoesneatwork.”“Neat enough to be a

doctor or a med-schoolstudent doing extrahomework,”Salsaid.“Like a project,” Harold

said.

Nobody spoke for amoment, thinking that oneover.“Niftsaysno,”Quinnsaid.

“Our killer doesn’t possessthatlevelofefficiency.”“And there’s no sign of

him having used powertools,”Feddermansaid.“Our guy wouldn’t do

that,” Helen said. “Thatwoulddepersonalizeit.”“Power tools might be

noisy, too,”Harold said, and

made a buzzing sound withhismouthtodemonstrate.Sal gave him the look,

cautioning Harold not to getonaroll.“The killer in Florida

might have used the surf tocover up the sounds,” JerryLido said with a sidewaysglance.He’dbeenworkingonhiscomputerwhiletheotherstalked.“Drowned them out,”

Haroldsaid.

“AndthemurderinFloridahad an element ofcannibalism.”“Dinner is surfed,”Harold

said.Salcamewithinaninchof

tellinghimtoshutup.“Not the same as the

murderswe’reinvestigating,”Sal said with raspymoderation. “The killer sixyears ago wasn’t nearly asproficient with hisinstrumentsasourkiller.”

“Our gremlin tinkers,”Fedderman said. “Like he’staking apart a robot to seehowit’sputtogether.”“How do we know he

tinkers?”“That’swhatgremlinsdo,”

Helensaid.“Andhewasinahurry, so he had the victimsget in their bathtubs for himto protect themselves fromthe fire. In a rush, ourGremlin, as if he was on anassembly line doing

piecework.”“A sexual thing?”

Feddermanasked.“Gadgetry and efficiency

asappliedtofleshandbone,”Helensaid.“We’veallknownpeople who’ve conductedstrangersecretsexlives.”Harold looked at her. “We

have?”Pearl said, “Shut up,

Harold.”Feddermansaid,“Iknewa

guy with an enormous

collectionofBarbiedolls,andeachonehada—”“Forget it, Feds,” Pearl

said.“You guys,” Helen said,

“arepathetic.”“But theymight be right,”

Quinnsaid.“Especiallywhenyouputfirebugsinthemix.”“The hell with firebugs,”

Sal grated in his bullfrogvoice.Quinn made an effort not

tosmile.Helikeditwhenhis

detectivessquabbled.Oystersandpearls.

16

When she studied himthrough the peephole andthen opened her door to hisknock, he hardly looked likeathreat.Ajockey-sizemaninbuilt-up shoes to make himappear taller. His dark hairwas long on the sides and

combed back in wings thatobviouslyexistedtocoverhisears. For all of that he wassomehow physicallyappealing. Therewas a forceabout him. A certainty thatdrew a particular sort ofwoman.Men like this, Margaret

thought. They somehowknowaboutwomenlikeme.“You’re the man who’s

beenfollowingme,”shesaid.He smiled. “You’re the

womanwho’sbeenobservingme following. You’ve got alot of nerve, buzzing me inandansweringmyknock.”“You took a chance

cominghere,yourself.Forallyou know, I might haveconsidered you a rapist orburglar and shot you on thespot.I’vedoneitbefore.”Some of this happened to

be true, but the burglar hadbeen her ex-husband, andshe’d stabbed him in the

shoulder,not shothim.Noneof thatmatterednow.They’dstitched him up, and he wasfine. And she’d gotten arestrainingorderagainsthim.“I was sure you wouldn’t

thinkofmeasdangerous,”hesaid.“Whynot?”“Because I’m not

dangerous in any way. I’msureyoucanreadthatinme.”He smiled. “You’re a goodreaderofmen.”

“Howwouldyouknow?”“I’m a good reader of

women.”“Now you’re bullshitting,

flattering yourself. That’s anuglythinginaman.”“If that’s true, how come

you’regoingtoinvitemein?”“Maybe I like absurdly

determinedmen.”“You like men who sense

rightoffhowyouare.”“Oh?HowamI?”“A good person, but

alwaysupforadventure.”Margaretleanedagainstthe

doorframeand lookedathimfor a long time. She had tolook down at an angle, butthat didn’t seem to botherhim. The little bastard didn’tblink.“You’ve got me pegged,”

shesaid,realizingtoolatethesexualconnotation.Hepretendednottonotice,

which helped to keep her inhiscorner.Arealgentleman.

“If you ask me,” he said,“the world needs more likeyou.”“Ithasmorelikeme.”“But they’re rare and hard

tofind.”“Youmeanwe’re rareand

hardtofind.”He turned that over in his

mind.“Yeah,IguessIdo.”“Modesty doesn’t become

you.”“That’sokay.Ihardlyever

becomemodest.”

“Do you know where theGrinder Minder is?” sheasked.“The coffee shop, yeah.

Two blocks over.A pleasantwalk.”“I’m not crazy enough to

invite you in,” she said, “butlet’s take that walk. We cansee through the lies, get toknow each other better overcoffee.”“Learn what makes us

tick,”hesaid,smiling.Itwas

an unexpectedly beatificsmile that made him, for aninstant, look like amischievouschild.“Sounds likeus,”shesaid.

Shetoldhimtowaitasecondwhileshegotherpurse.Theywereoneofonlytwo

couples in the GrinderMinder.Theothercouplewasolder,hewithascragglygraybeard and a bald head, she

wearing faded jeans and acolorful tie-dyed T-shirt.There were winding tattooson the woman’s inner wristsand up her forearms to theelbows, probably to disguiseneedlemarks.Ormayberazorscars.Margaret ordered a venti

vanilla latte, and, amazingly,that was what he alwaysdrank. Most of the time,anyway. The killer watchedMargaret’sgazestayfixedfor

a few seconds on the othercouple.“Hippies lost in time,” he

said.Margaret shrugged. “As

longasthey’rehappy.”“Big job,” he said, “not

trusting anyone over thirtywhenyou’reoverforty.”“Drugs help,” Margaret

said.“We can get some. Pot’s

easyenoughtogetnow.”“That’s why it’s less

desirable.”“Pointtaken.”“I’m a month and a half

outofrehab,”shesaid.“Thenwewon’t do drugs.

Tellyouthetruth,Iwasneverbig on them.My brother gotscreweduponthem.Highonmeth when he drove onto ahighway and discovered toolate hewas on an exit ramp.Van fullof teenagershithimhead-on. Three killed,including my brother. Four

injured.”“God!That’sterrible!”He shrugged sadly,

elaborately, exemplar of allthe grief in the world. “Youlearn to live with it. There’sno choice.” He forced asmile. “Tell me about you,butnothingsad,please.”She returnedhis smileand

her eyes held his. “First, Ithink we should introduceourselves.”Hemade a bigdeal out of

slapping his cheek, not hard,but loud enough tomake thehippie woman glance over.“Goodgrief,you’reright,”hesaid.“I’mCorey.”“Margaret.”“Iknow.”“How?”“Yourmailboxdowninthe

vestibule.”“Ofcourse!Howsneakyof

you.”“Observant, I like to

think.”

“Howveryyou.”“Thanks,” he said. “Now

tellmeaboutMargaret.OrisitMaggie?”“Never.OnlyMargaret.”“So let me into your past,

beautifulMargaret.”She sipped her latte

deliberately, looking like awoman thinking upsomething for a parlor game.It occurred to him that shewas probably a bigger liarthan he was. But certainly

lessconvincing.“I grew up in Baltimore,”

she began. “We were poorbutdidn’tknowit...”He stopped paying

attention, figuring it wasprobably all a string of liesanyway.“. . .Andhere I amdoing

proofreading for anadvertisingcompany.”Heraisedhislattemugina

salute. “You’re to beadmired,Margaret.Really!”

“Oh,notsomuch.”“Don’t shortchange

yourself. You might bepleasantly surprised bywhat’sinyourfuture.”Somightyou.He finished his latte and

dabbed at his lips with anapkin.“Shouldwestartback?”“Back?“Toyourapartment.Ihave

to at least show you to yourdoor. Make sure you’re safe

inthisbigbadcity.”“I suppose that makes

sense.”Anditmakessensetokeep you dangling.Anticipation can workwonders.Astheywalkedthroughthe

lowering night he keptslightly off to the side so hecould observe the rhythm ofher stride. Her high heelsabbreviated her steps; theclicking and clacking of hershoes on the hard sidewalk

was mesmerizing. Her hipsrolled slightlyas shewalked,her body like a sensuousmetronome under perfect,relentless rhythm,metingoutpreciselytheremainderofherlife. There was somethingamazingaboutit.The thingswe don’t know

untilit’stoolate.TheGremlinglancedupat

the beautifulwomanwalkingalongside him and felt thethrill of possession.Her lithe

body kept moving to therhythm being beaten out byhershoes.Herealizedhewasgettinganerection.Can’t have that. Not now,

notyet...“You a baseball fan?” he

asked.“The Yankees, when

they’re the Yankees,” shesaid.She half stumbled—or

pretended to—and foundherself leaning against him.

Hemightbeasmallmanbuthe was hard and muscular.She could feel strengthemanating from him like afieldofelectricity.Didhedosports?Did hework out at agym?Aftera fewmorestepstheywereholdinghands.They talked baseball for a

fewminutesandthenwalkedsilentlyuntiltheycametoherbuilding. She didn’t sayanythingastheystoodbytheelevator. The Gremlin

glancedaround,sawthattheywerealone.The elevator arrived, and

as the doors opened he sawthat it was empty. He kissedMargaret on the cheek. “I’dbettergoupwithyou,seeyouinsidesoIknowyou’resafe.”Shedidn’tdiscouragehim.They kissed again in the

elevator.As the elevator door

openedonherfloor,heheardanother door open and close

somewhere beneath them.Then descending footsteps.Luck held. Still, no one hadseenthem.Hewaitedwhileshefished

her keys from her purse andworkedtwodead-boltlocks.Theapartmentdooropened

todarkness.“YoumindwaitingwhileI

turn on a light?” Margaretasked.“Ofcoursenot.I’llberight

here.”

As soon as the darknessswallowedher,hecrossedthethreshold.She heard him enter and

turned, feeling a tingle ofalarm.Butwhenthelightcameon

hewasstaringattheclockonthe table just inside thedoor.It was an anniversary clock.Itsmechanismwasbeneathaglass dome and revolved agoldfiligreeddecorationbackand forth in a regular circle

andahalf.“Does that thing really

never need winding?” heasked.“Onceayear,”shelied.“How do they manage

that?”“They?”“The people who

manufacturetheclock.”Margaret shrugged. “I

don’t know. It’s got somekindofperpetualmotion.”But he knew that was

impossible.Shouldbeimpossible.Shewasamusedbyhisrapt

concentration as he studiedthe timepiece beneath thesmall glass dome. He waslike a child encountering anewgameorpuzzle.“Realgold?”heasked.“Hardly.”“Goldplated?”“Noteventhat.”“It doesn’t tick or make a

bit of noise, yet it has the

correcttime.MindifIlookatit closer? See if I can makeouthowitworks?”She moved farther inside

and laid her small brownpurseonthesofa.“Maybe when we get

back,”shesaid.He turned away from the

clock, toward her. “Haven’tyounoticed?”heasked.“Weareback.”Margaret ran regularly and

worked out religiously at the

gym.Shewasinshape.She’dtakenacourseintaekwondoand knew how to hip-toss amannearlytwicehersize.Noone had taught her how todeal with being fixated by astare,mesmerizedbytheglintofaknifeblade.Noonehadtaughtherhow

fear could freeze her insidesand make movementimpossible.Noonehadtaughther that

shewasprey.

17

Iowa,1991They sat at their usualassigned places. Jason Krayat the head of the table, nextto him, Kent, next to Kent,Jordan.Ontheotherlongsideof the table,Nora satnext to

hermother.Ithadbeenreportcardday.

Evenfive-year-oldNora,whohad recently startedkindergarten,hadcomehomeafter school with a reportcard. All passing marks, ofcourse. Jordan thought hemight be the only one at thetable who knew the rest ofNora’s class got the samepassing marks. His owngrades hadn’t been so good.NotlikehisbrotherKent’s.

Kent had gotten straightA’sinhisclasses,andanotefrom his adviser saying thathewasapleasureinclass.Healso earned straight A’s forgood behavior. Taller thanJordan, but still of averageheight, he was also going tobe a starter on the schoolbasketballteam.Hismotherhadravedwhen

he’d shown up after schoolandhandedthereportcardtoher.She’dpassedittoKent’s

father, Jason, who merelygrunted and took in anotherglob of collard greens andvinegaronhisfork.“What about your dipshit

littlebrother?”Jasonasked.Kent said nothing. He

squirmed inhischair, lookedat Jordan, and then lookedaway. He knew what wouldhappen if he decided todefend Jordan. His fatherwouldseethatitwouldneverhappenagain.

Jordan was well aware ofhis failures as a scholar. Itwasn’t thathewasdumb.Heknew that. He simply didn’tlike studying anything hewasn’t interested in. He wascurious about how thingsworked,whichseemedtohimto have nothing to do withwhen famous people werebornordied,orwhowaskingor queen during what era.How things worked, theirinner secrets—that’s where

the world’s real knowledgewastobefound.Thedatesofancient battles, won or lost,hadlittletodowithit.“Hedidthebesthecould,”

heheardhismother say.Shedidn’t sound as if she reallymeantit.His father grunted again.

“Some lessons need learnin’thehardway.”Jordanknewwhatthehard

way was. His mother wouldwield the whip while his

fatherwatched.Thenhisfatherwould—“See that the tractor’s in

the barn and gassed up,” hisfather was saying. “You gottillingtodotomorrow.”“He’s got school,” Alice

Kraysaid.“What’sthepoint?Heain’t

learnin’anythinganyway.”“Stillan’all...”“You’ll till after school

tomorrow,” Jason Kray saidto Jordanwith finality. “That

soilneedsbreaking.”“I can till,” Kent said

confidentially.“Yougotyourhomework,”

his mother said. It was agiven thatKentwasgoing tocollege, either becauseof hisgradesorhisathleticprowess.He could already run highhurdles in near record timeand throw a baseball a mile,and now he wasconcentratingonbasketball.He should easily be in the

Olympics,his familyfigured.Ifnotthat,themajorleagues,or professional football, afteragreatcollegecareer.Maybeevenprobasketball, ifhegotmuch taller. One way oranother, his assignment wastomakethefamilyrich.“Idon’tmindtilling,”Kent

said.Heactuallylikeddrivingthe tractor, listening to theengine roar and watchinghow the oversized back tiresdug into thebare earthwhile

the tillerblades laidopen thesoilforplanting.“Yougototherafter-school

chorestomorrow,”hismothersaid.All through this

conversation, Jordan’s mindwas elsewhere. He liked tolearn; he just didn’t likeschool. And for sure hecouldn’truntrack,orthrowabaseball half as far as Kent.Butwhyshouldhebeabletodo those things? He was

smaller than Kent. His armswereskinnyandhislegswerebony.Hewasn’tbuilttobeanathlete, even thoughhe liftedweightsinthebarn.Itwasn’tthathewasweak.He didn’t want them to

know how strong he was. Itseemedtohimthatiftheydidknow,they’dfigureoutawaytouseitagainsthim.Nora spilled her juice and

began to cry. Strained peasdribbledfromhermouth.

“Shutuptherugrat,”JasonKray said. He shoved hischair back so hard it turnedover as he stood up andstrode into the living room.JordanandKent’slittlesister,Nora, didn’t quiet down thateasily. She’d have to learn,andwasalmostoldenoughtobetaught.Hard lessons, not easily

forgotten. That’s what thisfamily was about. What allfamilies should be about.

Hard lessons,andweatheringstormsinsideandout.Kent followed his father

into the living room. Theywouldsitonoppositeendsofthecouchandwatchareplayof last night’s baseball gamebetween the Red Sox andClevelandIndians.Jordan, still seated in the

kitchen,didn’thavetobetoldto help his mother clear thetable. Women’s work,accordingtohisfather.

As Jordan worked, hebecame fascinated by themagnifying glass his motherusedinsteadofglassestohelpher read. She hadmagnifiersall over the house, but thebiggest one was on thekitchen windowsill, where itwas handy for her to usewhile reading food labels orrecipes. She watched hercalories and carbohydrates.Jason had told her whatwould happen if she let

herselfgetfat.The way she had the

magnifiertiltedupagainstthewindow was interesting toJordan. He had read invarious outdoors magazineshowitwaspossible tostartafirewith amagnifying glass.The sunlight and heatstreaming through thecurvedglass could be focused to atinyflammabledot.He’d almost started a fire

thatwayoncehimself.Oneof

the magazines had a storyaboutaguy inAlaskawho’dused a single lens from hisglassestostartacampfirethatkept him and his sled dogsfromfreezingtodeath.Jordandidn’t know if the story wastrue, but he saw how such athingcouldhavehappened.Itwasfascinating, theway

somanythingshadmorethanonepurpose.Likeabeltthatwouldkeep

yourpantsup,orbeusedfor

somethingelsealtogether.In the morning, when it

was tenminutes past time toget up and start gettingdressed for school, Jordan’smothershookhisbedasifanearthquakehadstruck.“Iwasyou,I’dmakesureI

wouldn’tmissthatschoolbusthismornin’,”shesaid.“Yougotnoroomtomisbehave.”“Where’s everybody?” he

asked, though he could hearhisfathersnoring.“They’re sleepin’ in. I’m

gonna give you a note thatsays Kent’s got astomachache.Youtakethattoschool and give it to histeacher.Ortotheprincipalorsomebodyintheoffice.”“Why can’t I stay home

andsleepin,too?”“Itwouldn’tlookright,the

bothofyoubeing sickat thesametime.”

“Idon’tknow.Itseems—”“Just get up and get

dressed afore that school busarrivesattheendoftheroad.Unless you want more ofwhatyougotlastnight.”“No,” Jordan said. “No

more.” He wasn’t sure if itwas pain or embarrassmentthat was making his cheeksflush.He managed to climb out

of bed and stood swaying.Hisbuttocksandthebacksof

histhighswereonfire,anditseemedthateveryjointinhisbodyached.“Get movin’,” his mother

said.“Ahotshower’llfixyouup. I’ll put out some cerealfor you, then I’m goin’ backtobed.”Nude, he stumbled toward

thebathroom.The one thing he surely

didn’t want was to miss thebus.Heskippedhisshowerand

got dressed in a hurry. Hedecidedtoskipbreakfast,too.His curiositywas nagging.

More than nagging. Raging.Insteadof eating thebowlofstaleCheerioshismotherhadput out for him, he slightlyadjustedthemagnifyingglassonthewindowsill,proppingitoversomecrinkledtissueandwadded newspaper from thetrash.Nearthekitchencurtains.

18

NewYork,thepresentHe’d drugged her. Margaretwassureofit.Butwhy?Andwhere...?She knew where without

havingtoopenhereyes.But,hoping against hope, she did

openthem.Margaret was in her

apartment’s bathroom, nudeand in the bathtub inlukewarmwater. Shewas onher back, leaning back, herhead tilted up for a view ofthe ceiling and to keep herface dry. She couldn’t closeher mouth—something wasjammed into it. It felt to herprobing tongue like a rubberball. One of those thingssadists used to silence their

victims.She inhaled and made

noises,notloudandcertainlynotunderstandable.Shefeltsoweak....Why so weak? Tired? A

faint trickling sound was sorestful.Movement on the

peripheryofhervision...There was Casey—no,

Corey—standing above hernear the foot of her bathtub.The warm water—that must

be the trickling sound sheheard, a faucet runningslightly, slowed to a gradualticking. The warmth of thewater felt so good . . . Wasthis some kind of kinkysexual experience he’ddreamedup?I don’t even know this

man!He moved closer and she

saw what looked like ascalpelorsomeotherkindofsharpknife inhis righthand.

In his left was a U-shapedsawwithawhipcord-thinandtaut serrated blade strungbetweenitsarms.Ajigsaw.The bathwater turned cool

with her knowledge.Margaret remembered herchildhood and her father’sbasementwoodworkingshop,hisvariouskindsofsawsandwhattheycoulddo.Shemadeanother small, animal noise,raisingherrighthandtoplead

with Corey—with theGremlin.Shewasshockedbythescarlet,almostblackcolorofherarm.Andsheknewtheliquidinthetubwasn’twater,itwasblood.Myblood.She knew what he was

going to do with the knife.Withthesaw.He squatted down next to

thebathtub,knowingshewastooweak even to splash himwith her blood. Holding the

scalpelupsoshecouldseeitwith her dimming eyesight,he smiled and said, “Openwide.” Then he laughed andsaid,“Oh,I’lldothat.”Therewasanicysensation

at the base of her sternum.Then came the pain. Herbodyarchedandrosetomeethim. He bent her right armover the tub, twisting it andpinning it tight against theporcelain. Then he went toworkwiththejigsaw.

It was all the same painthatshockedherandsentherwhirling toward brilliantwhite light and the darknessbeyond. The relentlessrasping of the saw againstbone or sinew seemed theharshbreathingofpredators.Margaret was alive long

enough to see him carry herarm over to the shower stallandgently lay it inside to berinsed off before he studiedandreconstructedher.

It was easy, when he was

finished with Margaret, forthe Gremlin to leave herapartment building withoutbeing seen.A stockyman indark clothes—Jordan didn’tevenknow for surehewasadoorman—went halfway tothe corner to hail a cab forsome people who might noteven have come fromMargaret’sbuilding.

To be on the safe side,Jordan waited for the stockydoorman (if that’s what hewas) toworkhisway towardthe corner again to hailanothertaxi.Whentheman’sback was turned, Jordansimply slipped outsidewithout being seen andwalked away. He waswearing a stocking capbeneath a Yankees cap,keeping his ears flat againsthisskullandunnoticeable.

As he walked away heknew the doorman might bewatching, but he wouldn’tknowwhereJordanhadcomefrom.AssmallasJordanwas,the man might even mistakehimforawomanorchild.Forgoodmeasure,Jordanstuffedhis hands in his pockets andskipped a couple of steps.Serial killers didn’t playhopscotch.Whenheturnedthecorner,

hefeltsafe.

He continued to walk,relaxednow, replaying inhismindMargaret’smiseriesandfinal moments. Her graspingat life and her inexorableslide into death. Her eyes.Yes, her eyes. They’d fixedon his and the primalunderstandingwasthere.Thiswas a shared experience, allbut the last brief fractions ofseconds, when he, in doomand shadow, turned awayfrom the void as she could

not.Thatwashispower,and it

wasmonumental.

19

Iowa,1991The private road, more along driveway, actually, ranstraight from theKray houseto the county road. Thedriveway was dirt, the roadblacktop. Jordan stood alone

at the T of the private driveandcountyroad,amathbookstuck under his arm, hishandsinhispantspocket.Notbeingobviousaboutit,

he was gazing across thepatchworkoffarmlandwherecorn, beans, and potatoeswere grown. The morningwas beginning to heat upbeneath a brilliant sun in acloudless sky. Jordan waswatching the house, madesmall by distance, a neat

white geometrical shapeamong the pattern of fallowandgreenfields.MovementcaughtJordan’s

attention, andhe shieldedhiseyes from the sun with hisflattened hand, like a frozenmilitary salute. The bus wascoming topickhimupat theT and, making three otherstops along the way, drivehim and some of the area’sother students to Robert F.KennedySchool.

Right now, the bus was asmall yellow dot crawling inhis direction along theperfectly straight, perfectlyflat county road. Jordan’sviewwasamosaicofstraightlines and ninety-degreeangles.Helookedbacktowardthe

distant house and hisheartbeat quickened. He wassuretherewasabarelyvisiblecurl of dark smoke risingfromthehouse.

It’sworking!He squinted again at the

brightmorningsun,hisfriendandaccomplice.Jordanmovedoutwherehe

couldbeseenasthebusgrewlarger. He knew there wouldbe half a dozen kids on thebus, and he wanted to boardfast,sonoonewouldlookoffin the direction of the house.A glance back informed himthat the smoke was risingdarker and more visible. He

knew it wasn’t rising as fastandhighasitmight,becausethemorningwasstill.The bus became larger

faster, and then it was verynear. Air brakes hissed andthe yellow pneumatic doorsfolded open. Jordan got infast, flashed his student passeven though the bus driverknew him, and movedquickly down the aisle. Heflung himself into a seathalfway back, and saw that

the driver, a man he knewonly as Ben, was watchinghim in the big rearviewmirror, waiting tomake surehe was seated. Ben waitedbefore driving away, makingJordan nervous enough tonotice that his right armwastrembling.Hewilled it to bestill,anditbecamestill.“Nobody else this

morning?”thedrivercalled.“Sleepin’ in,” Jordan

answered.

“Lucky them,” Ben thedriversaid.Thedieselenginegrowledandclatteredandthebusmovedaway.Jordan could smell

burning. He was sure it wasthebus’sexhaustandnot thehouse.Notfromthisdistance.The driver caught his eye

in the oversized mirror.“How’re your mom anddad?” he called in a loudvoice.“They’re good,” Jordan

said.As the bus picked up

speed, it rattled and roaredand became too loud to talkover.Jordanchancedaglanceoff to the side. There wasnow what appeared to be adark cloud looming behindtheKrayhouse.Itcouldhavepassedforaraincloud,butheknewitwassmoke.Jordan thought about his

mother and father, his sister,andhisbrother,Kent.Hewas

pleasedthathefeltnostabofconscience. No regret. Noneofthem,includingevenNora,deserved his regret. Badthings in this world simplyhappened. Everyone tried tomake sure they happened tosomebody else. Jordan hadbeentaughtearlyonthatwashowtheworldworked.Andithadtobeworked.Losershadto learn to become winners,small fish to survive longenoughtobecomebigfish.

Hesettledbackinhisseat,excited inside, calm outside.They had taught him how towearamask.The other kids, not long

outoftheirbeds,weresleepyand bored and as quiet asJordan.Ben the driver beganmindlessly humming a tune.Jordan couldn’t place it atfirst,but soon realized itwasfrom the movie The BridgeontheRiverKwai.ThenRollieConrad,thefat

kid who made top grades,yelled, “Hey! Fire!” He wasout of his seat and pointing.“Look!Fire!Fire!”Everyone in the bus

crossed the aisle or swiveledtolookinthedirectionRolliewaspointing.“Fire!”Rollieyelledagain,

this time louderandsprayingspittle.“We see it,” an older girl

named Mary Ann saidcalmly. Shemade a face and

wiped her mouth with thebackofherhand.Jordanknewitwastimeto

pretend.“Oh,no!That’smyhouse!

My mom and dad—everybody—they’re in theresleeping!”“Theotherkidsareinthere

with your folks?” the driverasked.“Yes, yes! I said

everybody! My wholefamily!”

The driver said, “Jesus H.Christ!” and brought the bustoanearstopthatcausedtwoof the passengers to fall onthefloor.“Everybodybackinyourseat!Now!”Ben slowed the bus even

more, looking for a place topull to the side where hewouldn’t go off the shoulderor block the road. Then hethought, what the hell? Thebusmightbetheonlyvehicleforacoupleofmiles!

Hestoppedthebus,thoughit was blocking half of theroad, and got his brand-newcell phone. No connection.He remembered the phonecompany hadn’t put thetowersupyet.Hewastoofarfrom any major populationcenter to make a phone call.Toofarfromanywhere.Adeadzone.The driver looked at his

passengers. A boy namedWally Clark appeared old

enough, skinny and fastenough.“KnowwheretheJohnston

farmis?”thedriverasked.Wally was on his feet,

gettingtheidea.“You run there, Wally.

Fast asyoucan.Get them touse their phone, get somefirefighting equipment outhere.”“Yes, sir,” Wally said as

thedoorshissedopen.Jordan stood, gripping the

seatback in frontofhimhardwith both hands, whiteninghisknuckles.“Letmego,”hepleaded.“No, no!” the driver said.

Obviously imagining whatthe poor kid might see orhear. “You don’t wanna gothere,son.”Jordan couldn’t remember

when anyone had called himson.He slumped back down in

the seat, glimpsing Wally

runningalong theroad in thedirection of the Johnstonfarm, the closest phone.Wally’s heels were kickingup dust that hung in the airbehind him. He was makinggood time at a pacemade toseemslowbydistance.Jordan looked toward the

house and saw orangeglowing here and therethrough the thick blacksmoke. The house wasblazing. He knew it would

takeforeverforthevolunteerfire department to reach thefire. Then their equipmentwould be inadequate. Andhow much water could theybring?Heloweredhisheadsohis

face was enveloped by hisarms,andsobbed.“Staywhereyouare,kids!”

Benthedriveryelled.Thebuswashotinsideand

out, and smelled like fuel.Everyone on boardwas slick

with sweat. Jordan’s eyesstung from it and his nosewasrunning.Oneofthegirlswascrying.Jordan counted to ten and

thenraisedhishead.ThroughthebuswindowhecouldseeBen the driver runningtoward the burning house,limping clumsily under theweight of a brass fireextinguisher jouncing in hisrighthand.Wally,headdownand arms pumping, was

pulling away from him at anangle, toward the Johnstonsandtheirphone.Jordan got off the bus and

followedBen.Whentheygotclosertothe

house,hesawthatasparkorburning tree limbhad set thebarnroofonfire.Someoftheanimalsweresuretodie.Forgetthebarn.Hemadeittothehouse.There were two . . .

somethings...justinsidethe

porch door, curled andblackened. No one elseseemed to have made it thatfar.Jordan didn’t hesitate.

Holdinghisbreath,hemadeafasttouroftheburninghouse.Hecouldfeeltheheatcomingup through the soles of hisshoes.Nowhehadseenthem,all

ofthem...A powerful hand gripped

Jordan’s shoulder and

squeezed. ItwasBen thebusdriver, stopping him, pullinghim close, closer. Jordancouldhear himbreathing.Orwashecrying?Ben dragged him outside,

and then Jordan found hisbalance and was walking onhis own. Ben pointed, andimmediately Jordan knewwhat he meant. Unhinderedby each other, they began torun.Thatwaswhenthepropane

tank alongside the houseexploded.

20

NewYork,thepresentQuinn and Pearl stoodalongside Nift the ME andwatchedhimexplorewithhisinstruments what was left ofMargaret Evans. Where shehad been eviscerated and her

intestines neatly coiled, herbreastshadbeen severedandlaidaside.Reaching so he could

probe something in herabdominalcavity,Nifthadtostretch and for a secondlooked as if he might fallacrossthecorpse.Heshookhishead,smiled.

“Some set of jugs she has—had,”heremarked.Pearllookedathimasifhe

were last week’s spoiled

meat. She thought thatsomedaywithoutwarningshewould kick the little prick,hard in the ribs. Maybe thehead.Renz came in. He’d been

out in thehall, talkingtooneof his detectives. Quinn andPearl both wondered if Renzwas sharing information asgenerously as they’d agreed.Renz, playing his customaryparallelgame.He walked over to Quinn

andPearl, careful not to stepnear the nude dead woman’soddly disjointed body on thebedroomfloor.“Ourguy?”heasked, looking at Nift forconfirmation.“No doubt about it,” Nift

said.Renzwentoverandlooked

in at the bathroom withoutentering. He stayed that wayabout half a minute, thenbacked away awkwardly, butwithout touching the

doorframeandobscuringanyfingerprints.“Killed her and let her

bleed out in the bathtub,”Renz said, “thendismembered her in the tub,washed most of the blooddown the drain, and movedher in here piece by piece,wherehemoreorlessputherbacktogether.”“Naughty Gremlin,” Nift

said.“Hewas reasonably neat,”

Pearl said, noting that therewasn’t much blood on thebedroomcarpet.“Unreasonably neat,”

Quinnsaid.Pearl was thinking how

closely, and horrifyingly, thedead woman resembled aventriloquist’sdummy.If I sat her on my knee,

wouldshe tellmewhokilledher?Renz said, “You might

want to talk to the super.

Name’sBudPeltz.His is theapartment rightoff the foyer.He told one of the uniformshe got a good look at thekiller as he was runningaway.”Quinn was surprised by

thisstrokeofluck.“Don’t get too excited,”

Renzsaid.“Theuniform—hisname is Bill Toth—saysPeltz’s story doesn’t ringtrue.”“Hesaywhynot?”

“It setoffanalarmbehindhisrightear.”“That should play well in

court.”Fedderman showedup.He

lookedtiredandwaswearinga gray suit that appearedclean but was amazinglywrinkled, as if it had beenscrubbed and rubbed overrocks.Thenarrowendofhistie extended half an inchbeneath the wide end. Itdidn’t matter as long as he

kept his suit coat buttoned,whichheneverdid.Everyone glanced at him,

but no one said anything astheylethimwalkaroundandtakeinthecrimescene.“Ourgremlin,”hesaid.“Nastygremlin,”Niftsaid.Pearlsaid,“Whydon’tyou

shut up?Or at least think ofsomethingelsetosay.”Nift grinned at having

gottenunderherskin.“Baaadgremlin.”

Quinn was sure he heardPearl’s teeth gnash. HethoughtabouthergoingwithhimandFeddermantotalktoPeltz the super, then decidedit would be better if shetalked with Toth, theuniformed cop who’d beenone of the first on the scene.They could get together laterand see what fit and whatdidn’t.Pearl didn’t object to the

plan. Anything to get away

fromNift.Bud Peltz was a tall, thin

man with a bushy, droopygray mustache that looked alot like Harold Mishkin’s.The rest of him lookednothing like Harold. Thesuper had handsome Latinfeatures and a muscularleanness about him. Dark,direct brown eyes, and large,callusedhands.

His street-level apartmentwas small and tidy. It waswell furnished, but wouldhave looked larger andmorecomfortable without such aclash of colors. He invitedthem to sit on the flower-pattern sofa, which they did.Springs sang softly beneaththem. Fedderman had hisnotepad out and a shortyellow pencil tucked behindhis right ear. Peltz sat onsome kind of woven basket

chairthatcreakedbeneathhisweight.Alarge-screenTVsatmuted in a corner near whatlooked like a door to thekitchen. It was showing anold Carole Lombard moviefromtheforties.Quinnfoundhimself wondering if anyonehad actually been watchingthe TV when he’d knockedonthedoor.MaybeLombardwas still known and popularin some quarters. Who wasfamous, who wasn’t . . . it

was hard to gauge suchthings.A slender, remarkably

attractive young womanentered the living room andswitchedtheTVoff.Shewaswearing shorts, and had aballet dancer’s shapely,muscularlegs.“My wife, Maria,” Peltz

said.Quinn and Fedderman

didn’tsayanything.Peltzwasuneasy, as if he should have

to explain his ancestry. Hehated that feeling.Butavisitfromthepolice...Quinn wondered if these

two were not long out ofMexico.Peltz said, “My mother’s

maiden name wasRodriguez.”“And mine’s was Perez,”

MariaPeltzsaid.Quinn smiled. He didn’t

wanttoknowtoomuchaboutthesetwo.“Thegreatmelting

pot. It’s a pleasure to meetyou,Mrs.Peltz.”When she returned his

smile she was even morebeautiful. Quinn guessed shewasabouthalftheageofBudPeltz,wholookedtobeinhislateforties.“We met when I was

working for a contractor inMexico,” Peltz said. Hedirected his attention to hiswife. “They’re here to listento my account I gave to

OfficerToth.”“Ah,yes,youraccount.”A look passed between

Peltzandhiswife.Somethingin hot-blooded Maria’s eyes.She seemedangry,but at thesametimeamused.“Can I get you gentlemen

something to drink?” sheasked.Quinndeclined,wondering

how many times he’d heardthat line in themovies or oncraptelevision.

“Icewaterwouldbegood,”Feddermansaid.Quinn relented and

seconded Fedderman’srequest, and Maria glidedgracefully into the kitchen.He noticed that she hadn’tofferedherhusbandaglassofwater.Peopleinhell...Toth had a good eye, or

ear, for a cop. A good gut,really. That was where copsgot their hunches. Therewassomething out of tune

between Bud Peltz and hiswife. Would his statementcontainthesamediscord?“I’m going outside to

shop,” Maria said. “I sleptthrougheverythinglastnight,so I have nothing to relate.Notevendreams.I’vealreadytalkedwithOfficerToth.Butifyouneedme...”“No,no,”Quinnsaid. “Go

right ahead. If we need astatement from you we cangetitlater.”

Feddermanglancedathim,surprised.Maria said good-bye to

them, not including herhusband. Quinn might haveimaginedit,buthethoughtheheard those shapely thighsbrushtogetherasshewalked.“A beautiful woman,” he

said,whenMariawasgone.Bud Peltz seemed

unmoved by Quinn’sobservation. “Everyone saysso, and it’s true.But youget

usedtohowyourwifelooks.”Isthisguynuts?Quinn stood up. Peltz

started to stand also, butQuinnraisedahandpalmoutand motioned for him to sitback down in the creakybasketchair.Peltzsat.“Your account,” Quinn

said,“isaloadofbullshit.”Peltz sat quietly for a few

seconds,staringatthefloor.Thenhesighed.

“All right,”he said. “Let’sgoupstairs.”

21

The door to MargaretEvans’s second-floorapartmentwas still unlocked,buttherewasarollofyellowcrime scene tape leaningagainst the doorjamb, and anNYPD sticker that had to bepeeled off before the door

could be opened. Quinn andFedderman were ready toenter, but Bud Peltz usheredthemtothenextdoor,leadingto the apartment directlyadjacent to the scene of themurder. The detectives werecurious aboutwhat Peltz hadinmind.The apartment next to

MargaretEvans’swasvacantand unfurnished. There wereclean rectangles on theotherwise bare off-white

wallswherepictureframesorsimilar objects had hung. Adeadgeraniumsat in agreenplasticpotonthelivingroomwindowsill.Peltz led them toward the

hall to the rear of theapartment, then into abedroom. Their footfalls onthebarewoodfloorcarriedafaintecho.They entered a bedroom

withawindowoverlookingaside street. The room was

completely bare except for astained double mattressleaningagainstthewindow.Itblocked enough light so thatitwasdimintheroom.Quinn flipped a wall

switch that turned on anoverhead fixture. Nothingchanged, only became morevisible.“Youneedtoturnthelight

out,”Peltzsaid.Quinn did, making the

room dim again. He was

getting an idea ofwhere thismightbegoing.Peltz went to a door,

unlocked it with a skeletonkey, andopened it.Thedoorled nowhere but to an emptycloset. Even the bar whereclothes could be hung hadbeenremoved.Theclosethadanemptytwelve-inchwoodenshelf above and behind theclothes bar. Peltz tilted theshelf, removed it, and anarrow lance of light

penetrated the dimness.Behind where the shelf hadbeen,at itspreciselevel,wasaone-inch-roundpeephole.Quinn stepped into the

closet, peered through thehole,andsawtwoparamedicsputting parts of MargaretEvansintoabodybag.“I saw what he did,” Bud

Peltz said in a tremulousvoice. “I couldn’t help her.When I started looking, shewas already dead.Therewas

nothing I could do to saveher.”“So you watched,”

Feddermansaid.“I—Icouldn’tlookaway.”“You could have called

us,” Fedderman said. “Wecould have caught thebastard. Stopped him fromdoing this.” Fedderman’svoice rose in anger. Thisvoyeurscumbaghadwatchedanddonenothing.Peltz raisedboth shoulders

in a helpless shrug. “I toldyou, she was already dead.AndI...Well,Iadmit,Iwasafraid to leave and get to aphone.”“Did you have your cell

phone?”Quinnasked.“Yes, but he might have

heard,wouldhavekilledme.”“Notmuch doubt of that,”

Quinn said, modulating hisvoice. He wanted to get onthis guy’s side, become hisconfidant, learn what he

knew.“Iwon’tcondemnyoufor looking through apeephole, Mr. Peltz. You’renot the onlymanwho’s everdonethat.”Peltz’s entire body was

quaking. “I’m so damnedashamed. And Maria mightleaveme.”“Didyoutellherwhatyou

saw?”“Not everything. I didn’t

want to talk about some ofthe things the killer did.

Didn’t want to think aboutthem.”“It isn’t easy,” Quinn

commiserated.Fedderman still wanted to

toss Peltz out the second-story window, but he knewwhat Quinn was doing.Getting on Peltz’s good sideso he could mine him forinformation.Then maybe they could

tosshimoutawindow.“Isawwhathedidwithhis

jigsaw,”Peltzsaid.Helookedas if he might break downandstartsobbinganysecond.“PoorMaggie...”Maggie?“Weneedtoknow,”Quinn

said.“DidyouandMaggie—Margaret—have arelationship?”“Wewerefriends.”“Withbenefits?”“You mean did we have

sex?”“Yes.Byanydefinition.”

“Twice.Threetimes.”“Idiot!” Fedderman said

softly, thinking of MariaPeltz.“But it didn’t mean

anything serious. Not toeitherofus.”“Of course not,” Quinn

said.“Awomanlikethat,andaman like yourself . . . hell,things like that are hard toavoid.”HegaveFeddermanastern look so he’d be quiet.“They’re like ripples in a

lake. Left alone, theydisappear and it’s as if theyneverhappened.”“That’s what I wanted,”

Peltz said. “That’swherewewere at. The ripples weredisappearingand therewouldhave been smooth sailingexceptfor—whathappened.”“Onething,Mr.Peltz.And

I hope you won’t object tomy asking this, but did youever take photographsthroughthatpeephole?”

“Oh,Godno!Iswear!”“Video?” Fedderman

asked.“Not that, either. And

believeme,Icouldhave.Thebedroom was bright enough.Margaret liked itwitha lighton.”Quinntriednottoshowhis

disappointment. It wouldhave been more thanconvenient to have theGremlin’s photograph. Hislikenessonvideoorasastill

would go a longway towardfindinghim.“Soyougotagoodlookat

him.”“Yes. Though a lot of the

time his back was turnedtowardme.”Fedderman had his note

pad out. “Can you describehim?”“A small man, but very

muscular.”“Hair?”“Black. Maybe brown. He

wore it kind of long in backand on the sides, combedbackoverhisears.”“Eyecolor?Peltz shook his head.

“Sorry.Ican’trecall.”“Hehavehisclothesoff?”“Yeah.Everything. Iguess

so he wouldn’t get blood onhis clothes he couldn’t washoff.” Peltz began shakingagain. “Margaret was nude,too.”“Any identifyingmarkson

either of them?” Feddermanlookedup fromhisnotepad.“Liketattoosorscars.”“No.NotthatIsaw.”“Is there anything in

particular that we didn’t askabout? Anything. Even if itseems unimportant to you,but for some reason stuck inyourmind.”Peltzpressedhis fingertips

into his temples to make ashow of thinking. “The wayhe moved, maybe. He was

quick and kind of hopped.And his body hair. It wasdark, andhe had a lot of it.”He shook his head. “God!PoorMargaret.”“Sounds like she was

attacked by some kind ofanimal,”Feddermansaid.Peltz said, “No. But there

was something about him . ..”“Likealeprechaun?”“No.”“Agremlin?”

“Yeah!” He lookedmomentarily confused.“However a gremlin’ssupposedtolook.”“You’resureMargaretwas

dead when you first saw herlast night through thepeephole?”Quinnasked.The shaking got worse.

There were tears now, andPeltz’s voice cracked. “Herheadwasdetached.”Quinn made an effort to

keepcalm.Toatleastappear

calm. He was the oneassignedtofindandstopthismonster.“No one could blame you

for being upset,” he said toPeltz.“Jesus save me! Horrible

as it was, I couldn’t lookaway.”“We understand,” Quinn

said.“Anyonewouldreactasyou did. Even old cops likeus.”Feddermanglaredathim.

Quinn almost felt guiltyabout the anger heexperienced on learning thatPeltz was merely a voyeurand didn’t photograph orvideoMargaretorherkiller.Hestartedtowardthedoor.

“Ifyouthinkofanythingelse,Mr.Peltz...”“Of course. I’ll let you

know.”“They’ll want your

statement down at theprecincthouse.”

Peltz seemed annoyed.“Another statement? Ithought that’swhat thiswas.Whysomanystatements?”“C’mon, Mr. Peltz, you

watchcopshowsonTV.”“Yeah.YouwanttoseeifI

contradictmyself,thenit’llbemyass.”“It’sbeenourexperience,”

Quinnsaid,“thatpeoplewhodon’t contradict themselvesareusuallylying.”They were silent as they

left the building. Out on thesun-warmed sidewalk, Peltzstoppedasifhisbatterieshadsuddenlyrundown.“We going back to my

apartment?”“No,” Quinn said. “We’ll

let you face your wife byyourself.”“All that stuff about the

peephole in thecloset,will itbeonthenews?”“Mostlikely.”“Doyouphotographwell?”

Feddermanasked.Peltz looked angry enough

to attack Fedderman. Eventook a step toward him.Feddermandidn’tbackup.“Now, now,” Quinn said,

movingbetweenthem.“It’s all your fault,” Peltz

said, still zeroed in onFedderman. “You’resupposed to catch dangerouspsychos like that, keep themfromkilling.”“You’vegotapointthere,”

Quinnsaid.ThatseemedtocalmPeltz.

He closed his eyes, took adeep breath, and openedthem. “Okay, I’m sorry. Iguess I got lost in my ownanger, in those images ofMargaret. I couldn’t lookaway.”“You told us that,”

Feddermansaid.Peltz lookedmournfully at

him. “I’d like to think youbelieveme.”

Fedderman turned andwalkedtowardthecar.WhenQuinnhadgotten in

on the driver’s side andslammedthecardoorclosed,heloweredthewindowtoletout some of the heat. Peltzbent down and said, “Why’syourpartnergotsuchahard-onforme?”“It’s that part about you

wanting to be believed. Hemostly doesn’t believeanyone.”Quinn smiled. “I’m

prettymuchthesameway.”Peltz looked enraged, his

temperbarely incheck.“Badcop, bad cop,” he said indisgust. He crossed his armsand stood unmoving as arock.Quinnsaid,“I’msorryyou

feelthatway.”Quinn started the car and

turnedtheair-conditioningonhigh. He didn’t drive away

immediately, though. After aminute or so, he goosed theLincoln and made the tiressqueal.Hewanted tobe sureBudPeltzsawthemleave.“Somethingnotringtrueto

you?”Feddermanasked.“Yeah, but I’m not sure if

it matters, except to MariaPeltz.”“You think Peltzmight be

abusingher?”“Orshehim,”Quinnsaid.“He’s got a temper,”

Fedderman said, watchingPeltz move toward hisapartment like a condemnedman,“buthecontrolsit.”“Let’s hope his wife

controls hers,” Quinn said.“Thatwoman remindsme ofastickofdynamite.”Fedderman said, “Notice

we’re both more concernedthat she’s going to do himserious harm, rather than theotherwayaround?”Quinn said, “That oughta

tellussomething.”

PARTTWO

Thisistheveryecstasyoflove,WhoseviolentpropertyfordoesitselfAndleadsthewilltodesperateundertakings.—SHAKESPEARE,Hamlet

22

Iowa,1991AsJordanKraywatched,thepropaneexplosionobliteratedtheonlyhousehe’deverlivedin. Shingles and woodensplinters flew. Chimneybricks and large sections of

the house became airborneandarcedawayfromthefieryexplosioninalldirections.Noone could live through theblastandtheinferno.They were dead. His

familywasdead.For a moment he saw a

flame-shrouded dark figurethat might have been hismother running, flailing herarms. Or he might haveimagined it. She was deadwhen he sawher; she had to

be.Another figure, that he

knew wasn’t a mirage, washurrying toward him, stillabsently lugging the fireextinguisher. Ben the busdriver, luckytobealive.Benwasfortypoundsoverweight,most of it in his gut, andcould run only so fast. Butdespitehisslownessafoot,hisfearhadhelpedtopropelhimoutside the radius of deathcausedbythepropaneblast.

Also outside the reach ofthe explosion, Jordan foundhimself wondering about theeffectsofwhathe’ddone.Was he detached?

Already? No. He definitelywasn’t detached. And hewasn’t horrified or in shock.Maybe he should be boththose things. Instead he wasbeing observant andreasonable. Analytical andcurious.He was aware that others

might assume that his calmsilence was a symptom ofshock.Well,letthem.What he’d planned had

worked.Hewasproudofthatbut knew he mustn’t letanyone realize it. He put onhis mental mask. Itsexpression was one ofdisbelief and disorientationratherthanaccomplishment.Whatwouldthehouselook

like later, inside its burningwalls? How would the walls

and what was left of thewiring and plumbing look?There was a steel I beamrunning the length of thebasement. Would it bemelted? Or would itwithstand heat and explosionlong enough to prevent thehouse from collapsing intothe basement? And whatabout theheatingvents?Hadthe flames found them to beaneasyroutethroughtherestofthehouse?

The firefighting booksJordanhadreadinthelibrarywereaccurateanduseful.Theprecautions, when read andinterpreted from a differentpoint of view, providedinstructionsfromhell.The bus was far enough

onto the road shoulder tomake room for a fire engine,a red-light-festooned chief’scar, and several pickuptrucks.Whattherewasofthelocal fire department. The

lead vehicles had their lightsflashing. None of themsounded a siren. There wasno point. The firefighterscouldseeformilesanditwasjustthemandthefirethatwasdrawingthemlikeamagnet.BenandJordanreturnedto

the bus. Ben, looking at thekids in the rearview mirror,fastenedtheemergencybrakeand said, “Wemight as wellwatch what happens fromhereandstayoutta theway.”

Heopenedthebus’sfrontandrear doors, then switched offthe engine and airconditioner. In theswelteringheat and silence, several ofthekids raised thebus’s sidewindows. A welcome breezeplayeddowntheaisle.Jordan hadn’t counted on

this.Itwashistragedyandhewanted to see it close up.Nobody saw him dash outthrough the bus’s rear doorandrunacrossthetilledfield

toward the burning houseuntil it was too late. Theneveryone pointed and yelled.Benthebusdriversaid,“Youall stay put now,” andstruggled out of his seat andleftthebus.One of the volunteer

firemen noticed Jordanapproaching and jogged outto intercept him. Jordanchanged the angle of hisapproach to the burning ruinthat had been his family

home.The fireman was in good

physical shape and closed inonJordanwhileBenkepthimfrom retreating. They bothtackled him and brought himdown, knocking the breathfromhim.“It’s okay,” Ben kept

repeating.“It’sokay,Jordan.”Both men were breathing

hard. Jordan tried to talk butwastoowinded.“The kid’s family was in

thathouse,”BensaidThe firefighter coughed

andspatofftotheside.Said,“I know. He’s one of theKrays. I seen him around.”HepattedJordan’sshoulder.”All threeof themlayquiet

forafewminutes,workingtobreathe.“Howmanyofyourfamily

wereinside,Jordan?”“All of them, I think.

Everyonebutme.”“Shit!”saidthefireman.

Ben rested a hand onJordan’s shoulder andkneadedhisflesh,asifagoodmassage was what wasneeded by someone who’djustlosthisentirefamily.“Youokay,Jordan?”“Yes. I want to get closer

andlook.”“Lookatwhat?”“My mom and dad, Nora

mysister,Kentmybrother...”“You can’t help them

now,” the firefighter said.“They’re in a better place.”He lookedupatBenand theother firefighter who’d comeover to stand by them. “Hetriedtosavethem.Evenwiththefire.”“Jesus!” the other

firefightersaid.Jordan looked fromone to

the other. What better placeweretheytalkingabout?That was when Jordan

suddenly recognized the first

firefighter. Riley something.He was a deacon at thechurch Jordanandhis familyhad attended exactly twice,before hismom and dad haddeclaredthemselvesatheists.“A brave lad,” the second

firefightersaid.“Couldn’tkeephimon the

bus,”Bensaid.“Notafterherealized his family’s housewasonfire.”“Brave is right!” Riley

said.“Inspiring!”

23

NewYork,thepresentCharlie Vinson, on the firstweekofhisnew job, seemedto be doing well. He’destablished his position assupervisor without obviouslyangering anyone or makingany enemies. At least it

seemedthatwaytoCharlie.Itwasn’teasytomakecoldcallsales, even for a well-established firm likeMedlinger Management. Notonly had they successfullymanaged their clients’investments for twelveyears;ayearagotheyhadexpandedandmovedoperationstotheirpresent high-end address inthefinancialdistrict.With the new offices had

come the necessity of more

employees and someone tosupervise them. So they sentout a corporate headhunter,who had accomplishedsomethingofacoupbyluringCharlie Vinson away fromMcCaskill and CotterEnterprises. Charlie harboredthe very pleasant feeling thateveryone involvedwasgoingtobehappywiththemove.He didn’t think anyone

from the firm was stillaround, among those who,

like Charlie, were standingand waiting patiently for anelevator. There was noconversation as the knot ofhalf a dozen people grew tooveradozen.Everyonestoodsilently with their headsslightly tilted back so theycould watch the digitalnumbers above the elevatordoorsindicatethattwoofthefour elevators were on therise.“Mr. Vinson. Room for

onemore.”He looked over to the far

elevator and saw its lightglowing above the door.Charlie moved toward theelevator to see who’d calledto him. People were stillfiling in beneath the glowinggreenlight.He was surprised to see

Della Tanner, one of thesalespeople, among thosealready crowded into theelevator. She was young—

still in her twenties—unapologetically ambitious,and attractive, if you likedlarge-breasted blond womenwith perfect features.Charliedid.“Come on!” she said,

smiling, and leaned forwardtopressabuttonthatwasoutofhisfieldofvision.Shewas pressing the right

button. The door remainedopenlongenoughforCharlieto elbow his way inside. He

saw that the lobby button onthe brushed aluminumconsole was glowing, alongwith half a dozen othernumbered lights. TheBlenheim Building wasemptying out, like a lot ofother office buildings in thearea.“Thanks, Della,” he said,

returninghersmile.He and Della, pressed

together between severallargemen,couldbarelymove

as the elevator began itsdescent. Charlie decided itwasn’t so bad being crushedintoDella.The elevator didn’t go far.

ItdroppedsmoothlyfromtheMedlinger floor, forty-four,towardthenextfloordown.Itstopped at forty-three, andone of the half dozen peoplewaiting there somehowmanaged towedge theirwayinto it, mashing Charlie andDellafarthertowardtheback

of the car. Someone hadforgotten to use deodorant.Someone else was wearingvery strong lilac-scentedperfumeorcologne.“Push lobby, please,” a

womansaidpolitely.But there was no need.

Almost every light on theconsole was glowing. Even“LL”forLowerLevel,whichwas beneath the lobby.Peopleshiftedslightly,butnoone said anything. The

womanwho’dasked togo tothe lobbymusthaveseen theglowingbutton.The door slid open, and a

smallman in ablue—orwasit dark green?—uniformlooked into the packedelevator and smiled. He waswearing a blue baseball cap.Hesaid,“I’llwaitforthenextone.”This was not the place to

have a conversation. Dellaand Charlie both knew they

would converse, or at leastexchange pleasantries, afterthey’d reached the lobby.Charlie wondered if Dellalived anywhere near theBlenheim Building. Dellanoticed a wedding ring onCharlie’s finger andwondered how much thatmattered.MaybeMr.Vinson—Charlie—drove into thecity,ortookatrain,orstayedhere during the week andwenthometoadullsuburban

lifeonweekends.No one in the elevator

spoke. Charlie tucked in hischin and looked down atDella. She was staringstraight ahead and wearingtheslightestofsmiles.A hand snaked out and

pressed the glowing Lobbybuttonforgoodmeasure.Thedoor closed, and there wassilence as everyone waitedfortheelevatortocontinueitsdescent.

The elevator door had nosooner closed than itreopened. A small blondwoman huffed up to it. Asmaller figure was alsowaiting at the elevators—asuperormaintenancemanorsomesuch.Heturnedaway.“Are you with Medlinger

Management?” the womanasked him. “I’m looking formyhusband,CharlesVinson.This is his first day at workhereandIwondered—”

Butthelittlemanhadspunon his heel and was swiftlywalking away. The womanwas left with an obscureimage of him hopping andrunning as he reached thedoortothestairs.Therewasakindoffaintbutdefiniteelfinqualityabouthim.Charliehadn’tbeenpaying

attentionandhadn’theardhiswife, Emma, address thesmallman.And,truthbetold,heandDellawere lookingat

eachotherinthatwayagain.Ah, well . . . The blond

woman gave up on theelevator and pushed one ofthedownbuttonsforanother.Thenshegaveuponthatandwalkedtowardthestairs.Emma would walk up a

floor and try an elevator thathadn’t yet taken on somanypassengers. It was possiblethatCharliewasdown in thelobby, waiting for her. Shetried to call him on his cell

phone, but apparently it wasturned off. Or he’d let thebattery run down. They bothweredistractedthesedays,hebecause of the new job, andshebecauseshewaspregnantand hadn’t yet told herhusband. She smiled inanticipation,absentlystrokingher stomach. WhereverCharlie was, he was soon todiscover that their luck hadchanged in more ways thanone.

Everyone on the elevator

was silent, but a few peopleexchanged glances as arushing,tickingsoundbegan.The ticks became louder andcloser together, but theelevator’s descent wassmooth.Charlie Vinson looked at

Della,who returned his starewith a puzzled one of herown.

Something was wronghere.The packed-in elevator

passengers milled, movingagainsteachotherwhere thatwas possible. Someone’sbreathwas coming too harshand fast. There were gasps,and whimpers, and thebeginnings of curses andquestionsandcomplaintsandpleadings.The elevator picked up

speed during its forty-three-

floordrop.It took a few seconds for

confusion to becomecomprehension, but everyonehadtimetoscream.Therewere no stops along

the way. The crowdedelevatorwasdoingclose toahundredmilesperhourwhenitcrashedintothebasement.Among those rushing to

see if there were any

survivors was a nondescriptsmallman inagrayorgreenuniform.Orwasitlightblue?Was it actually a uniform?Themanworeablueorblackbaseball cap. The cap’s billwas cocked at a sharp angle,and his hair,whichwas darkbrown or black, was wornlong and combed back inwingsoverhisears.He was later reported to

have been seen in thebuilding’s basement earlier

thatday.Thebuildingwasn’tnew, and had beenundergoing renovations.Workmen came and wentwithout anyone becomingcurious. This man wasassumed to be with buildingmaintenance, or a tradesmanofsomesort,becausehewascarryingatoolbox.Ifhewasthesameman.Therewasadullthudfrom

a distance, not enough tostartle Emma Vinson, or to

make her stumble in thecarpetedhall.When she took the stairs

and reached the higher bankof elevators, the digital floorindicator mounted above itsdoors was flashing that theelevators were temporarilyoutofservice.Emma suddenly felt

nauseated. She bent over,clutching her stomach withbothhands,andsliddownthewall to sit leaning with her

backagainst it andherkneesdrawnup.Her future had taken a

sudden lurch and somehowchanged. She knew it butwasn’tsurewhy.She was terrified to

speculate.

24

Withintenminutestheblockwas closed at bothintersections, and police andemergency vehicles wereinside the cordon, parked atforty-five-degree angles tothe curb. The crowd anduniformed police officers

weremostlyoutonthestreet.The uniforms provided acorridor for victim aftervictim to be brought out ofthe Blenheim Building ongurneys by paramedics andloaded into ambulances. Allofthegurneyscontainedfullyzippedbodybags.Quinn, who had rushed to

the scene as soon as Renzcalled him on his cell, sawRenz’s black limo parkingoutside the cordon. Quinn

found himself wondering ifRenz would someday mountfenderflagsonthelimo.Cityor state pennants thatproclaimed who was in thecar.A tall man in a black

business suit, whom Quinnrecognized as an NYPDlieutenant and Renz ally,approachedRenzandreachedhim when Quinn did, justafter Renz had ducked underthe yellow tape. The

lieutenant was the only oneshowing a shield, fastened tohis suit coat pocket. Theyexchangedglances,andRenzlooked at the lieutenant,whose namewasWillington,andsaid,“What’vewegot?”Willington stepped back

out of the path of stretchersand body bags. He had asolemn, hatchet face thatQuinnthoughtmadehimlooka lot likeGeneralMacArthurin old newsreels. Quinn and

Renzalsomovedbackoutoftheway.“What we’ve got,”

Willington said, “is arunaway elevator. Droppedover forty floors and crashedinthebasement.”“Passengers?”Renzasked.“Youmeancasualties?”“Victims.”“Twelve, and still

counting.They’re...tangledtogether.Dead.The insideoftheelevatorislikesomething

outofabaddream.”“Anysurvivors?”“Only one, so far. A guy

namedVinson.Bothlegsandan arm broken—and whoknows what else? He’s atRoosevelt St. Luke’s, beingoperated on for a headinjury.”“Onlyonesurvivor?”“Sofar.”“Ithoughtyousaid—”“Commissioner,”

Willington said, “over forty

stories, packed into anelevator. Those peopleinstantlybecamemeat.”Quinnwassurprisedtosee

an experienced cop likeWillingtonlookingqueasy.Renzmusthavenoticed it,

too. “It’s okay, Lieu. We’lljustdoourjobs.”Willington gave a half

salutetoRenz,thentoQuinn,andwalked away toward theBlenheim Building entrance,presumablytodohisjob.

Quinn followed him.Takingthestairsdowntothebuilding’s basement. Therewas a horrible smell that herecognized. As he got closerto where uniforms andparamedicswerebusyaroundan elevator, the scene wasbathed in bright light fromportable battery units set ontripods. A faint buzzingsound got louder as Quinnapproached the ruinedelevator.He’dassumeditwas

the lights buzzing; now hesawthatflieswereswarming.Now and then someone witha clipboard or a rolled-upnewspaper would swat themaway. The tone and volumeoftheconstantdroningdidn’tchange. The odor clinging totheareaindicatedwhy.Bloodhad been spilled, sphinctershad released, bladders hadburst.Ifthisisn’thell, itmustbe

alotlikeit.

Using ID furnished by theNYPD, Quinn moved evencloser.Hedecidedtoskiplunch.

SalandHaroldspenthours

talking to witnesses to theBlenheim Building elevatordisaster. They could furnishonly peripheral statements.The lone survivor in theelevator, Charles Vinson,who had been there on the

firstdayofhisnewjobinthebuilding, did help. When heregainedconsciousness inhishospital bed, he described amanwho’dtriedtogetontheelevator on the forty-fourthfloor but decided it was toocrowded.Vinsonwasintractionand

wrapped with so much tapehe might as well have beenmummified. Harold found ithardtocomprehendthat theywere interviewing an actual

livehumanbeing.Except for the eyes.

Vinson’seyes,whichwerealltoo human. They neverceasedmoving,andtheywerehorrified, haunted. HaroldandSalknewthemanwouldbehaunted for the restofhislife.The eyes darted from

Harold to Sal to Harold.Pleading.“Mywife...”“She’s okay, sir,” Sal

grated.

“Emma,” Harold said,knowing the mention of thewife’s name would sootheVinson. “Emma’s rightoutside, waiting for us to bedonetalkingwithyou.”“She might have been in

thatdamnedelevator.”“Butshewasn’t,”Salsaid.

He started to pat Vinson’sbandaged shoulder, thenthoughthe’dbetternot.“Canshecomein?”“Not at this point,” Sal

said.“Butwe’llbeleavinginafewminutes.”“Whaddya want to know

fromme?”Vinsonasked.“Whateveryouknowabout

whathappened.”The dark eyes, sunken in

gauze peepholes, darted.“Elevatortookadive.”“Why?” Harold asked

simply.“Dunno.Maybe itwas too

crowded. Weighed toomuch.”

“Elevators are alwaysovercrowded,” Sal said.“Theyusuallydon’t turn intodive-bombers.”“How far did we drop?”

Vinsonasked.“Forty-three floors.”

Haroldsaid.“Oh,goodGod!”“Where did you get in the

elevator?”“Forty-fourth floor. It was

already crowded. Peoplegettingoffwork,Iguess.”

“Morethanusual?”“I don’t know. This ismy

firstdayatwork.”“Someluck,”Haroldsaid.Vinsonsaid,“Luckier than

someothers.”“Alltheothers,”Salsaid.Vinson didn’t understand

at first. Then he did, and theworld behind his dark andwounded eyes changedforever.“Howmanydead?”Vinson

asked.

“We think it’s fifteen,”Harold said. “It’s still . . .hardtogetanexactcount.”“CanIseemywifenow?”“We’re about done,” Sal

said. “People on the scenedownstairs said they andothers realized what hadhappened and rushed to theelevator to see if they couldhelpinrescueattempts.”“That’s how I got here. I

can’t believe I’m the onlyluckyone.”

You only hope you’regoingtolive,Haroldthought,looking at the mass of tapedgauze, stainedhere and therewith blood. The doctors hadtold Harold and Sal thatpressure was building inVinson’s brain. They weregoing to operate withinminutes.Hehadaboutafortypercentchanceofsurvival.Atleast, Harold thought, heseemstobethinkingokayfornow.

Whatdoeshiswifeknow?“See anything we oughta

know?”Salasked.“NotthatIcan—”“Little guy in a gray or

green outfit with a baseballcap?”Light glimmered in

Vinson’s sunken dark eyes.“Yeah, I did see a guysomething like that. Whenthey got the elevator doorsopen,lotsofpeoplehadgoneto the basement, rushed over

to help. One of them lookedlike the guy you described. Isawhimwhenwegoton theelevator, too. He said he’dwaitforthenextone.”“Were his ears pointed?”

Haroldasked.Vinson said, “Who arewe

talking about here? Dr.Spock?”“Maybe the maintenance

guy.Somebodylikethat.”“Mighthavebeen,forallI

know. I never before laid

eyes on the man exceptoutside the elevator, and Idon’t remember anythingabout his ears. Don’t recallmuch about him, actually. Iremember a lot of peoplelooking, leaning in for acloser look and then backingaway. They must have seenwhatamess theinsideof theelevator was and it madethem . . .Made themwannabe someplace else.Anyplace.”

“Little guy stay or leave?”Salasked.“I’mnotsure.Heseemed.

..”“What?”“Not like the others. I

mean, hewas concerned, butalso looked calm and . . .”Vinson sought the desiredword.Foundit:“Curious.”“Calmandcurious.”“Something like that.

We’retalkingaboutafour-orfive-second look,more likea

glance,thenhewasgone.”“Gonewhere?”“You’dhavetoaskhim.If

he works for maintenance inthe building or someplaceclose, maybe you can findhim.”“Wouldyourecognizehim

if you saw him again?”Haroldasked.“I think so.Yeah. I could.

That’s because he was theonlyonewhodidn’tlookasifhe’d had a walk-on in a

slashermovie.”“We’llputoursketchartist

towork,”Salsaid.“IsthatwhenIsaytomake

the nose a little longer, andthe eyes meaner and closertogether?”“Something like that,”

Haroldsaid.Theman behind the gauze

mighthavesmiled.“Ialwayswantedtodothat.”Thedoortothehallopened

and a uniformed nurse

bustledin.Hernametagsaidshe was Juanita. She washolding some rubber tubingandasmalltrayonwhichsata surgical syringe, whatlooked likea stethoscopebutprobably wasn’t, some whitepills,andhalfaglassofwateron a white napkin. She wasfollowedby a tall, handsomemaningreenscrubs.“I’m Doctor Weiss,” the

maninscrubssaid.“Howwefeeling?”

“Are you hurt, too?”Vinsonasked.Weiss said, “Glad to see

you’re well enough to be asmartass.”“I hope that doesn’t mean

I’m going to get the dullneedle.”“Ofcourseitdoes.”“Canmywifecomein?”“Shortly.”Thenurse,smiling,madea

motionwith both hands as ifscoopingeveryoneother than

herself and the doctor out oftheroom.As Sal and Harold left,

JuanitabentoverVinsonandset to work. Dr. Weissfollowed the two detectivesoutintothehall.“How is he doing?” Sal

asked, as they moved farenoughawayfromthedoortoVinson’s room not to beoverheard.“It’s still a forty percent

chancethathe’llmakeit,”Dr.

Weisssaid.“Sonothing’schanged?”“I’m afraid not. Have you

learnedanythingfromtalkingtohim?”“Maybe.We’regonnahave

himworkwithapolicesketchartist.”“That can’t be until after

the operation,” Dr. Weisssaid.Here was a complication.

“Are you sure, Doctor? Wecan have a sketch artist here

infifteenminutes.”“Absolutelynot.Thenurse

is preparing him for surgery,and the OR is set up andready.”“Whatkindofoperation?”“Anurgentone.”“I mean, what kind of

doctorareyou?”“I’m a neurosurgeon,” Dr.

Weisssaid.A nurse Sal and Harold

hadn’t seen before passed inthe hall with Emma Vinson.

Emma looked miserable andhadobviouslybeencrying.“What’s all that about?”

Haroldasked.Dr. Weiss said, “They’re

goingtosaygood-bye.”“Christ!”Salsaid.Dr. Weiss looked

thoughtful. “We could useHishelp.”On the way down in the

elevator, Harold kept softlyrepeating,“We’rehard-boiledcops,we’rehard-boiledcops.

..”Sal said, “Keep telling

yourselfthat,Harold.”“What are you telling

yourself,Sal?”“Fortypercent.Howit’sso

muchbetterthannothing.”“Especially if it’s your

fortypercent,”Haroldsaid.

25

The killer slept late but stillgotuptositinonthenewsontelevision.Someofthenews,anyway. Most of it was justabove the level of gossiprelated by beautiful blondeswho for the most part weresmarter than he was.

Certainly more well-informed.He had to admit he

admiredMinnieMinerASAP.Minnie, a small anddynamicAfrican American woman,was more interested in thestory than thenews.Not thatshe was the onlyjournalist/entertainer whoworkedthatway.Butshewasthe best at fitting thingstogether so everythingseemed newsworthy. She

skillfully blended mayhemandmurderwith fashion andgossip. She was obviouslyfascinated by the Gremlin.She’d heard the survivor ofwhatshecalled“TheElevatorNightmare” mention onanothertalk/newsshowthatapolicesketchartistwasgoingtousewhatevidence the lawpossessed to create theGremlin’s likeness. Thoughsmall,hewasalsodistinctive.If the sketch was close,

chances are someone wouldrecognizehim.Ifitwasn’tcloseenough,it

might send the investigationoffinthewrongdirection.

The Gremlin laughed outloud.Hewassurenoonehadgottenagoodenoughlookathim—or indeed any look atall—so far in his New Yorkadventures.

He didn’t think it unlikelythat Minnie Miner wouldcooperate with the police intrying to manipulate thepublic, but she was in overherheadwiththisone.Henotonly wasn’t worried, but hewas anxious to see this“likeness” of him. It shouldhelp to put a picture inpeople’s minds that lookedlittle like him. It should be ahelp to him, having all thosewannabes swarming the

police with their worthlessconfessions.He settled back in his tan

leather sofa towatch the restof Minnie Miner ASAP. Itwas a phone-call or tweet-inprogram. Maybe somedayhe’d giveMinnie a call or atweet. Or maybe he’d evensurprise her and meet herpersonally. People still didthat,didn’tthey?Whenhe tiredofwatching

television, thekiller removed

robe and slippers and ran ahot bath. He shampooed hishairwith aproduct that gaveit body, then pleasuredhimself with images ofMargaretEvans.After a while, the images

were replaced by mentalsnapshots of an elevatorpacked with dark blood, redmeat, glistening white bone,and expressions of horror. Itwas something that the greatpainterofHades,Hieronymus

Bosch, would be proud of,and see as among his bestwork.Wouldn’t it be something,

thekillerthought,standingupand showering down, if thatwas what people saw whenthey opened their doors onHalloween?Better stock up on those

treats.After dressing in designer

jeans, aYankeesT-shirt, andsoft-soled leather moccasins,

the Gremlin unpacked theblue gym bag in which hekept his knives, tape, andvarious other instruments ofhis obsession, and replacedthemwithhalfadozenbookson the subject of elevators.Their history, variations,uses, and safety features.He’dbought thebooksat theStrandbookstore,whereaisleafter aisle was packed withused books coveringeverything fictional or

factual.Hepaidcashsotherewouldbenochargerecordofthepurchase.He had learned virtually

everything about elevators,from their invention to theirpresent state. They gotprogressively safer, but still,there were occasionalaccidents. And there washuman error in construction,installation, usage,performance.When the bag contained

the books, along with a fewother contents, he saturatedthem with bleach. Then hecarried the bag out to thedesertedhallandtothechuteto the building’s basementcompactor.Hefancied thatheheard it

hit bottom. Even heard thesound of the compactor’sharshwelcome.Trashpickupwasscheduledfortomorrow.Somuch for incriminating

books,orbag.Otherevidence

the killer wiped clean andplaced in cabinets, drawers,ortoolbox.Sooneverythingwaswhere

itmightreasonablybefound,ornot foundat all because itcouldbeeasily replaced.Thekiller could always buyanother, different color bag,different rope, cigarettes ofanother brand. Differentknives.

Helen the profiler couldhave taken the elevator upeleven floors to the rehab-center gym, but decidedinsteadtotakethestairs.Shetoldherselfitwasbecausethebuilding was cool and sheneededtheexercise.Sure.Charlie Vinson was using

an aluminum walker to getaround, but his therapist saidhe’d soon be graduating to acane.He’d come through theoperationsbetter thananyone

would have thought, sincewhat looked like seriousinjury in the MRI imagesturned out to be congestedblood.He was on a treadmill,

wearing knee-length shorts,an untucked sleeveless shirt,andworn-out-lookingjoggingshoes. The outpatient rehabcenter was in a brick andstone building that alsohoused apartments and acorner deli. The exercise

room was on the eleventhfloor. On the tenth was arooftop garden area withsmall, decorative Japanesemaplesinhugeconcretepots.Beyond the pots, bright redgeraniums lined the roof.There were a few webbedchairs. Sometimes, when itwasn’t so hot and the roofgarden was in the shade oftaller buildings, it waspleasanttositoutside.It was ninety in the shade

this afternoon, and no one atrehab was sitting in thegarden. In the bright lightstreaming through thewindow,ashapelywoman intights was bicycling tonowhere. Helen was prettysure it was Emma Vinson,Charlie’s wife. An attractiveAsian woman was on anearby stationary bike,pedaling almost as fast asEmmaVinson but seeminglywith less effort. She looked

overnowand then atEmma,as if she’d like to challengehertoarace.Emma didn’t look up as

HelenwalkedovertoCharlieVinson.Shemighthavebeentaken for an instructor, withher six-foot-plus frame andmuscular legs. She waswearing a lightweight greendress today that somehowmadeherlookeventaller.Helengotcloserandcould

hear the rasping breathing

emittedbyVinson.Theyhadan appointment tomeet witha police sketch artist today.She hoped he hadn’tforgotten.When she was only a few

feet away she glanced at thecomplex instrument clusteronthetreadmill,andsawthatseveral wires ran to CharlieVinson’s ears, and to whatlooked like a blood pressurecuff on his left arm. Whatappearedtobethetreadmill’s

odometerread1,055miles.Pointing to it, Helen, who

wasn’t the athlete sheappeared to be, said “If I’mgoing that far, I’m taking thebus.”“That’s the past week,”

Vinsonsaid.“Impressive,” Helen said.

“Allyourmiles?”“Well,no.”Vinson smiledandpressed

abuttononthetreadmill,andthe thing slowed down. He

slowed with it, and didn’tstepoffuntilithadcometoacompletestop.“I didn’t forget,” he said

breathlessly, “about ourappointment with the sketchguy.”“He’sonhisway.Ithought

he’dalreadybehere.”The elevator door opened

and Richard Warfield, thesketch artist, stepped out.Hewas a small man holding acardboard contraption with

three steamingpapercups.Abroad strap across his rightshoulder supported a leatherattaché case. Itwas the scentof doughnuts thatcommandedattention.“Since I was taking the

elevator up,” he said, “Ithought I’d stop and get ussomething from that placearoundthecorner.”Vinson looked at Helen

with a superior half smile.“Youtookthestairs.”

“You know me,” Helensaid, though he didn’t. “Anathlete.”“You certainly look like

one,”awoman’svoicesaid.Emma Vinson, Charlie’s

wife, had dismounted herbicycle and come over tothem.“Howhaveyoubeen,Mrs.

Vinson?”“Okay.ComparedtohowI

couldbe.”“Charlie looks like he’s

wellontheroadtorecovery.”“The road’s a steep hill

sometimes,” Vinson said.“The leg’s not all the wayback. Arm’s almost there,though. I’m a tough guy,exceptforwhenI’mnot.”Heleaned over and kissed hiswife’scheek.“Helen’stakingme to see the sketch artist,”hesaid.“You don’t have to go far

to see him,” Helen said. Sheput a hand on Richard’s

shoulder.Shelookedasifshemight dribble him. “This isRichard Warfield, our bestsketchartist.”“She’s being polite,”

Richard said. Helen thoughtthat in the bright light helooked about twelve yearsold.She said, “Richard’s

modest.”“Well,Iamthat.”Everyone took a cup of

coffeeexceptforEmma,who

saidwaterwasn’tonherdiet,and coffee was almost ahundredpercentwater.Helen said, “What do you

dofor...liquid?”Emma smiled. “It’s

everywhere,ineverythingweeat. We’re even mostlycomposedofliquids.”“So I’ve heard,” Helen

said. Somehow withoutburning her tongue, shefinishedhercoffee,crumpledthe paper cup, and tossed it

halfwayacross the room intoawastebasket.“Ithoughtso,”Emmasaid.

“Basketball.”“I could have kicked it in,

too,” Helen said, hoping shehadn’t used up the next sixmonthsofgoodluck.“I’d like to be there,”

Emmasaid.Helen looked at her. “In

thewastebasket?”“No.ToseeRicharddohis

work.”

“Your husband will bedoing most of the work,”Richardsaid.Half a dozen women

entered the room anddispersed to various exercisemachines. Seeing who couldlaugh the loudest seemed tobepartoftheirregimen.Theywore exercise outfits ofvariouscolorsandfashion,allof it designed to make themlookthinner.“They look like starving

cheerleaders,” Emma Vinsonsaid, in a tone somewherebetween jeering and jealous.“’Specially the ones withthoseboobs.”Her husband, Charlie,

seemedtoviewtheexercisersinadifferentlightaltogether.He was leaning forward onhisaluminumwalker,andtheexpressiononhisfacewassofixateditwasalmostcomical.Helen wondered if there hadbeen breast augmentation

goingonhere.Helen and company had

comeheretoobserveCharlieVinsonandhearwhathehadtosay.Theywanted toknowhow certain he seemed, or iftherewereanycontradictionsin whatever he said inconversation. While he wassearching his memory torecall how someone looked,something he heard mightbob to the surface of histhoughts.

“Ihaveadepartmentcarinfront of the building,” Helensaid. “We can drive over toQ&AandgetRichardsetup.The air-conditioning’s beenrepaired, so it will be coolerthere, and Quinnmight havesomethingtoadd.”“Quinnhasbeenwonderful

throughallthis,”Emmasaid.“BlackChevy,”Helensaid,

“parkednearthecorner.”Everyone filed into the

elevator, including Charlie

Vinson. Excluding Helen.Vinson used his aluminumwalkertohelpcreatestandingroom.Helenstayedback.“Are you taking the

stairs?” Emma asked indisbelief.“I’d prefer it,”Helen said.

“That athlete thing. Buildsenduranceinthelegs.”CharlieVinson, leaningon

his walker, smiled at her.“We’ve got to learn to face

ourfears,Helen.”Helensaid,“Why?”

26

AfterthebriefdrivetoQ&Ait didn’t take RichardWarfield, the sketch artist,long to get set up.Quinn satbackandwatched.Warfieldborroweda small

cardtableandtwochairs.Heplaced the chairs so two

people sitting in themwouldbe directly across from eachother. Then he removed twosmall laptop computers fromhis leather attaché case. Heplaced the two computers inthe center of the table, theirscreens facing away fromeachother.The two people in the

chairs would be facing eachother. Warfield and CharlieVinson would be looking atidenticalscreens.

“So this is what sketchartistshavecometo,”Vinsonsaid, understanding how thisprocess was going to work.Warfield could not only getinformation from Vinsonabout what the perpetratorlooked like; he could alsowatchVinsononPIPreactasthe likeness on the screenbefore him took shape andwentfrompixeltoperson.“This and a stylus are

much more effective than a

sketchpadandpencil,oralotof false mustaches,” Helensaid.“It takes the same sort of

talent and expertise,”Warfieldsaid.Helen could see that it

would. She’d observedWarfield work several timesandbeenimpressed.“I’lluse the stylusdirectly

onmyscreen,”Warfieldsaid.“And I’ll use it much as I’duse charcoal or pencil on a

sketch pad.” He peeredaround his up tilted laptopscreen.“Imightaskyoutodosome basic drawing to getacross what you’re trying todescribe.”“I can’t draw anything but

water,”Vinsonsaid.“That’s okay. The process

will concern your memoryrather thananyartistic talent.And mostly, I’ll beresponding to yourdescriptions.I’llfillinwhenI

think you’ve been too light,but other than that, it’s yourshow. Then we’ll discusswhat we have and hone andsharpen the likenesses.” Heglanced around. “Iseverybodycomfortable?”Everyone said that they

were.Nooneswitchedchairsorpositions.Theonlychangewasthattwopeopleaskedforbottled water, which wassupplied.Warfield booted up and

adjusted both computers.Theirmonitors showedblankbackgrounds.Warfield picked up his

stylus and held it lightly, ashewouldapieceofchalk,oraflutehewasabouttoplay.“Remember,” he said to

Vinson, “what will behappening onmy screenwillbehappeningonyours.Muchof what I say will bedetermined by the software.Don’tuseyourstylusunlessI

tell you.” He touched stylustoscreen.“Ready?”Vinsonsaidthathewas.Warfield said, “We’ll

beginwithaperfectoval.”Vinson watched a black

lineappearonhisTVscreen.“NowI’mgoingtomakeit

moreegg-shaped.”Before Warfield, the oval

on the monitor becameslightlysmalleratthebottom.More like a real egg. But aperfectegg.

“That about right?”Warfieldasked.Vinson,knowingthefigure

was to be the basic shape ofthe killer’s head, said,“Maybealittlesmallerat thebase.”“Okay.Pointedchin?”“Yes!”Vinson said. “Now

that you mention it.Definitelypointed.Oneofhisearswaspointed,too.”“One of his ears?” Quinn

asked.

“Yeah. The right one, Ithink. It looked like he’ddone some boxing. Or hemighta been injured orsomethingwhenhewasakid.Likesomebiggerkidhadhiminaheadlockandmesseduptheear.Brokethecartilage.“Whatabouthisleftear?”“Nothing. I don’t recall

exactly, though.He did havehair long on the sides, somaybeitwascovered.”“Showus.”

Vinson did some crudesketching, then Warfieldneateneditup.“Somebody said he was

wearing a baseball cap.”Quinnsaid.“Might have been, but I

don’t recall it. He was justsome little guy in a hurry toget downstairs, trying to getontheelevator.”Warfield played with the

keyboard,mouse, and stylus.The shape on Vinson’s

monitor changed slightly.Then he gave the subjectlongerhaironthesides,andapointedcauliflowerear,anditunderwent a definitealteration.“That it?” Warfield asked

Vinson.“We’re getting there. The

hair on the sides was still alittlelonger,likewings.”The digital image on

Warfield’scomputerchangedagain. The face on the

monitor was looking morefamiliar.Still,thereshouldbeadefiniteclickofrecognition.Thathadn’thappenedyet.Vinsonwasgettingabetter

ideaofhowthiswasgoingtowork. It was going to be agrueling job. Already hisback was getting sore fromsitting leaning forward inconcentration.“I do feel like there are

thingsswimmingjustbeyondmythoughts,butIcan’tgetto

them,” Vinson said, lookingatQuinn.“That’s okay. Memory’s

likethat.”“What about his nose?”

WarfieldaskedVinson.“Long and pointed.” No

hesitationthere.“LikePinocchio’s?”“Good Lord, no. The guy

wasn’tafreak.”Quinn thought,Not on the

outside.Warfield sketched in a

smallernose.“Thatit?”“Not quite. There was a

littlehumpinhisnose.KnowwhatImean?”Warfield brandished his

stylus.“Likeso?”“No.Notquitethatbig.”Warfield made minor

adjustments.“No, no, no, better, better,

too much—that’s it! Now,canyoumaketheeyesclosertogether?”“Sure.” Warfield

accommodated.Heseemedtobehavingfunnow.“Perfecto!”Vinsonsaid.“Eyecolor?”Quinnasked.Vinson shook his head.

“Sorry,Lieutenant.”“It’sCaptain.”“Sure.”Quinn smiled. Civilian,

actually.“Did he have any facial

hair?”Warfieldasked.“Like a mustache or

beard?”Vinsonasked.

“Or anything else,” Quinnsaid.“Not as I can recall,

Cap’n.”Cap’n.Was Vinson messing with

him?Quinnstaredattheman,detectingnoirony.SoVinsonwasn’tanotherHarold.“Tattoos, warts, scars,

anything noticeable?”WarfieldaskedVinson.“Hehadachinwitha line

init.”

“Vertical?”“Upanddown.”“Cleftchin?”Helenasked.“Yeah,that’sit.”“What was he wearing?”

Quinnasked.“LikeIsaidacoupledozen

times,hemightahadonsomesort of work outfit. Green,gray, blue. One of thosecolors that changes a littleaccordingtowhatcolorroomthey’rein.”“What color are the forty-

third-floorwallsandcarpet?”“Bytheelevators?”“Yes.”“Tell you the truth, I’d be

guessing,”Vinsonsaid.That, Quinn thought,

probablywasthetruth.Warfield did a little

touching up. Then he stoodand finished with a flourish.Quinn thought hemight kickhischairawaylikearockstarto share and express hisenthusiasm, but he merely

steppedback.“Not a spittin’ image,”

Vinson said, “but I don’tthink anybody could do itbetter. It captures theessence.”“Youanartcritic?”Harold

askedseriously.Quinn knew itwas one of

those seemingly unrelatedquestions that Haroldsometimes asked, andsometimesledsomewheretheotherdetectiveshadn’tknown

existed.Harold’sWorld.“Inmysparetime,”Vinson

said.It turned out that Vinson

had a blog, Splatter Chatter,thatspecializedincubismandthe impressionistmasters.Hegave everyone his card, onwhich was his blog’s webaddress anda tinyportrait ofvan Gogh with his earbandaged.Allof this,Quinn thought,

wasaproposofnothing.

Maybe.

27

A slightly hungover Lidoarrived the next morning atQ&A and situated himself atthe main computer. He hadthe air of amanwhowas athome and alone—his world,hishouse,hisinvestigation.Quinn walked over and

Lido acknowledged hispresencewithalanguidwave.Two of the computer’smonitors were flashing headshots ofmales, one ofwhichmight be a match with thedigitallikenessofthesuspect.Itcouldhappenanymoment,suddenly.Ornotatall.Itwasasking a lot of facialrecognitionsoftwaretomatcha photograph with a policeartist’ssketch.“Anyluck?”Quinnasked.

Lido shot him a glance.“Not so far. Itwouldbeniceif we had a photo to matchwith a photo. Or, better yet,fingerprints.”“In a dreamworld,” Quinn

said.Lidosaid,“Isn’tthatwhere

weare?”“Sounds like a question

thatcouldleadtooneofthoseexistentialistargumentsheardin dorm rooms around theworld.”

“Dorm rooms, did yousay?”“Aroundtheworld,”Quinn

affirmed.“I been there,” Lido said,

“andit’snotsogreat.”Theshrillfirst tennotesof

“One Hundred Bottles ofBeer on the Wall” suddenlysoundedfromthecomputerThe frenetic movement on

the monitor adjacent to theone that displayed only theartist’s and witness’s still,

digital image of the suspectsuddenly becamemotionless.It was as if that entire wallhadceasedswaying.Lido leaned forward.

Quinn stepped forward.Attentions were riveted onthemonitor.Lidowenttoasplitscreen.

Thesketchofthesuspectwasnext to a black-and-whitenewspaper photo of ascrawny teenage boy. Quinnwouldn’t say the sketch and

photowere like a young andolder image of the sameperson. Still, there was astrongresemblance.Even thecleftchins.“This isn’t a mug shot,”

Quinn said. “That’s what Iwasexpecting.”“Ifwehadthat,”Lidosaid,

“we’d probably also havefingerprintswemightmatch.”Bothmenstaredhardatthe

photos.“What’s thatbehindhim?”

Lidoasked,motioningtowardthenearimage.“Where the height chart

should be?” Quinn movedcloser. “Looks like astairway. Inside somewhere,judging by the light andshadow.”“No, that. It looks like a

double exposure, or a shottakenwithacheapcamerainincrediblybadlight.”Quinnsawwhathemeant.

On the broad landing before

the stairs, several peopleshowed as shadowy forms inthebackground.Awoman ina long dress. Two men, oneofwhomhadhisarmaroundthe shoulders of the other.One of them was wearing awhite shirt and dark tie. Theupper body of another man,without a tie, was visibledescending the steps. Theywerelikeghosts.“Could be the inside of a

publicbuilding,”Lidosaid.

“Courthouse?”“Thatwouldbenice.Ifour

gremlin was messed up withthelaw,thereshouldbeanIDandphotoofhimsomewhere.An account of the case—iftherewasacase.”“I’ll narrow the

parameters,”Lidosaid.“Whatwillthatdo?”“We’ll be looking for a

bigger needle in a smallerhaystack.”PearlandHelenenteredthe

office, letting in warm airwith the hiss of the streetdoor. Both women sloweddown when they saw Quinnand Lido in the rear of theoffice, at Lido’s computersetup.“Wegotsomething?”Pearl

asked.“Maybe,”Quinnsaid.Helen moved closer, then

bent at the waist to get aclearerview.“Tell you the truth,” she

said,“theydon’tlookallthatmuch alike. I know Mr.Sketch, but who’s the otherguy?”“MaybetheGremlin.”“No,Imeanwhoishe?”“Wewerehopinghe’dbea

match with Mr. Sketch,”Quinnsaid.Pearlsaid,“Goodluckwith

that.”“If we get him ID’d we

might find a long sheet onhim.”

“If the images matchcloselyenough,”Pearlsaid.Helen had moved very

close to one of themonitors.“Can you zoom in on theotherguy?”“Otherguy?”“The one most obviously

notMr.Sketch.”“Sure,”Lidosaid.As Lido worked the

computerlikeamadscientist,the figure in the photobecame larger and lost more

definition.“AllIcantellishelooksyoung,”Lidosaid.“That’s lettering, there in

the lower right,” Helen said.She pointed. “I think it’s aname.”“I’ll zoom in on it,” Lido

said,“butit’sgonnabreakupprettysoon.”Helen reached into her

purse and put on a pink pairof glasses. No one had seenheringlassesbefore.She removed the glasses

andstoodupstraight.“That’sokay,Igotit.”“The photographer’s

name?”Lidoasked.“No,it’snotaphotocredit.

It’s the kid’s name innewspaper print: JordanKray.”Lidopressedsaveandthen

ran printouts ofwhatwas onthemonitor.Thenhewent towork with his computer,immersing himself again inhis private digital world.

Someday Lido might staythere, Quinn thought. Mightevenbetrappedthereingeekland, with all the otherbrilliant geeks who wearmismatched socks but canwork complex equations intheirheads.“There’s no Jordan Kray

that fits the characteristicswe’relookingfor,”Lidosaid,afterawhile.“He doesn’t even have a

Web page?” Fedderman

asked. He had come in withHarold’spartner,Sal.They’dheld their silence while Lidowasworking.Fedderman’s wife, Penny,

hadbeencoachinghimonthecomputer while trying tocreate a Web site. She hadconvinced him that everyoneother than the Fedder-manshad a Web site, and that hewasanatural.Alreadyhehada tendency to storeinformation on a cloud

someplace that he couldneveraccess.“The guy’s a troglodyte,”

Feddermansaid.“Something like that,”

Lidosaid.They stared again at the

blown-up digital image.Under Lido’s coaxing it waslarger now, in sharperdefinition. The photo wasobviously one of a youngmale teenager. Or maybe hewasn’teveninhisteens.

“That’sanewspaperphoto,so let’s find out whichpaper,”Quinnsaid.“Small-town rag,”

Fedderman said. “Maybe agiveaway. And not recent.You can tell by the printunderthephoto.”“You mean the font,”

Harold said knowledgeably.“That’s how they startedcallingfront-pagenewsintheearly twenties. In newspaperslang, ‘big font’ meant big

news.Sinceitwasalwaysonthe first page, ‘font-pagenews’ gradually becamefront-pagenews.”“Is any of that true,

Harold?”Salasked.“Shouldbe.”“Get the enhanced sketch

in circulation,” Quinn said,marvelingasheoftendidthathis bickering team ofdetectives could solveanything.Whataccountedfortheir success?

Unconventional thinking,maybe. “Let’s follow it upwith the photograph of thekid. Sendboth images out tothe media, then hit theneighborhoods and shopswhere the victims lived orworked. Do it on foot, face-to-face, so you can see whatreaction you get when theyfirstlayeyesonthephoto.”“Weneedtofindoutmore

onthatphoto,”Salsaid.“Moreon thekid,”Harold

said.“It amounts to the same

thing, Harold,” Sal rasped inhis annoyed tone.SometimesHaroldcouldbeintolerable.“Don’t be negative,”

Haroldsaid.There! Negative.

Photography. Was Haroldjoking,ormakingfunofSal?Or making Sal the joke? OrwasHarold just plain dumb?Orsodumbhewassmart?“I’ll drive the unmarked,”

Sal rasped, “and I’ll controlthe air conditioner. Think ofmeasthecaptainoftheship.”Haroldsaid,“Fontnews.”

28

Iowa,1998For the next several years,afterhis family’sdestruction,Jordan stayed with theMillman family, who had afarm a mile west of theKrays’housethathadburned.

He went to school on theyellowbus asbefore, but theother kids tended not to talkto him. No onemade fun ofhim;theysimplydidn’tseemto know quite what to makeof him. A kid like Jordan,their classmate, an actualhero. Nobody knew how toapproachortalktohim.Akidwhointruthhadbeenthoughtofassomethingofadorkhadmiraculously become“awesome.”

Jordan enjoyed hiscelebrity status—at leastsome of it. But after awhilehe became withdrawn andquiet. Hewould look aroundthe bus sometimes at hisschoolmatesandwonderhowsomething that had nothingdirectly todowith their livescould strike them as so greata tragedy that they seldomknewwhat tosay tohim.Hethoughtitshouldn’tbesuchaproblem. Even the nitwits

they saw on TV news werealways yammering about“gettingonwith”theirlives.TheMillmans were a nice

enough family. The father,Will,haddiedthreeyearsagoinanautoaccident.Hiswife,only slightly injured, became“TheWidowJulia.”TheirsonBill, also injured,wasa littleyounger than Jordan. Heseemed to lookup to Jordan,who, while older, wasconsiderablysmaller.

AttimesBillwouldfollowJordantotheburned,partiallycollapsed hulk of what hadbeen the Krays’ home. Theburnedsmellwasstillstrong,butJordanwasusedtoitanddidn’tmind.Hewould standat the edge of the ruin andpoint things out to Bill.Teacher-to-student mode:“See how the kitchen floorcavedinfirst?That’sbecausetheappliancesweresoheavy.And the fire almost melted

part of the house’s mainbeam, running the length ofthe structure. That’s a steel Ibeam that held up the entireweight of the house,” Jordantold Bill, “but look how it’sbent.Likeit’ssquishyrubberinstead of steel. See overthere, where the electricalservice was run in andmounted on that wall? Thatmetal box hanging on thewall is full of circuitbreakers.”

While Jordan talked, Billlistened carefully aboutelectric current and circuitbreakers. Then they coveredthe subject of smoke alarms.What kinds there were andhow sometimes they workedbut sometimes didn’t. Jordanexplained about the sprinklersystem, and how it was keptdrybyairpressureunlessonepiece of metal melted fasterthan another, whichcompleted a circuit and

triggered an alarm and anindoorcloudburst.Bill Millman thought that

if someone walked in orlistened to them, it wouldsoundasifJordanwastryingtosellhimtheruinedhouse.What Jordan never talked

aboutwastheshorttimehe’dspent after entering theburning house. Before thepropaneexplosion.Jordan had learned a great

deal observing the fire that

morning, not the least ofwhich was how a burnedbody looked. Kent, hethought.Jordanonlyhad tomovea

fewfeettofindwhatmustbehismother’sbody.Interestinghow the blackened corpsemight have worked whenalive, the bone and muscleand tendon receivinginstructions from the brain.Human bodies were simplylarge gadgets, Jordan

realized. Parts working inconjunctionwitheachother.Howfascinating.Especiallywomen’sparts.

The widow Julia liked to

cook.BillandJordanlikedtoeat.Billbecametallandlean,an outfielder on the schoolbaseball team. He wasdisciplined for using thejanitor’s tools to peel abaseball like an onion,

unwinding what was inside.He never told anyone thatJordan had ruined thebaseball, curious about howandwhy it behaved as it didwhenitmetthebat.The two boys grew apart.

Bill became immersed inbaseball, and Jordan, moreand move aloof, discoveredreading. It was rumored thatthe Cincinnati Reds weregoing to send a scout toassess Bill’s talent. Bill

shagged fly balls and spentextra hours in the battingcage, but the scout nevershowedup.Toward the end of that

season,abattedballshatteredBill’s kneecap. He managedto adapt well to an artificialknee,but thatwas theendofbaseball or any other activesport.Bill did, however, learn to

walk with the knee so wellthat unless you knew about

theinjury,you’dthinkitwasjustfine.ThenBillgotintothehabit

of spending time in thepark,hitting fly balls to slightlyyounger, more nimbleoutfielders. Now and thenBillwould even break into arun to field a ball that wasthrownbackin.Not a long run, but it was

amazing the way Bill couldget around with the man-madeknee.

Jordan sometimeswatchedfromtheshadowsonsummernights when Bill would sitwith the widow Julia in theporch glider. With everygentle rock the glider wouldsquealasifinecstasy.Jordanmentionedafewtimesthat itwouldbenotroubletooiltheglider’s steel rockers. Acoupleofdropswoulddothetrick. But Bill told him toleave them alone, he kind ofliked the sound. He told

Jordan it was more pleasantto listen to than the crickets.Jordan wondered if Bill hadevertakenapartacricket.Jordan took to playing

solitaire by the light of ayellow bulb, while Bill andthe widow Julia rocked.Occasionally Bill would getup and go inside to thekitchen to get a couple ofBudweiser beers and bringthem outside. He neverbrought a bottle out for

Jordan.Jordangotintothehabitof

ignoringthesqueakingsoundof the glider. But when thesqueaking stopped, hewouldwait to watch Bill clompacross the porch, then withthe slam of the screen doorreappear a few minutes laterwiththetwobottlesofbeer.Then one warm night the

squeakingstopped.Thebootsclomped across the darkporch,andtherewerelighter,

trailingfootfalls.Then the night was quiet

exceptforinsectnoises.

That night the screen doorneverslammed,andthegliderdidn’tresumeitssquealing.Early the next morning,

routinesetinagain.Itwastheweekend,andJordanandBillhad turnips to harvest beforethesungothigh.

ThewidowJuliagavelittleindication that last night hadbeen different for her andBill. But occasionally theireyes would meet, thenquickly look away. Thereweresmall,slysmiles.Whentheturnipharvesting

wasdone,Juliaputbiscuitsinthe oven, brewed a pot ofcoffee, and scrambled someeggs. Everyone behaved inprecariously normal fashion.Jordansatbackinhisspoked

wooden chair and watchedJuliamoveaboutthekitchen.Shewasbarefootandwearinga faded blue robe with itssash pulled tight around hernarrow waist. Somethingabout her feet with theirpainted red nails held hisattention.Jordan and Bill both

watchedasshebentlowwithherkneeslockedtocheckthebiscuits she’d placed in theoven.

Bill shoved his chair backand stoodup tohelp Julia. Itdidn’tlookasifithurthimtostand, but it was obvious hewassloweddown.Hestretchedandgot some

mugsandplatesdownfromacabinet, and Jordan observedhow well he moved withouthis cane. Jordan didn’t knowwhat artificial knees weremade of—some kind ofcomposite material, heimagined. The human knee

wascomplicated.Theremustbelotsofmovingparts.Jordanwonderedhowthey

worked.

29

NewYork,thepresentTheconcretesawroaredandscreamed simultaneously.Dan Snyder, who’d been aworker for SBL PropertyManagement for fifteenyears, knew how to use the

earsplittingtooltosectionoffconcretebetterthananyoneatSBL. He kept a deceptivelyloose grip on the saw, usingits weight to maintainstability, his arms to guiderather than apply pressure.Let the saw do most of thework.He’d learned to ignore the

noise.Snyder knew some older

workers at SBL whosehearing had been affected by

the noises of destruction andconstruction. He did wearearplugs, though he didn’tthink they’d make muchdifference. Already he wasasking people to repeatthemselves. He wasparticularlydeafatparties,orwhereveracrowdgathered.Letting people know your

hearingwasfadingwasn’tthebestwaytostayemployedbySBL Properties. Snyder wasfaking understanding more

and more. Definitely therewere safety issues, butdealingwith themwas betterthanunemployment.Snyderwasabigmanwho,

when working, worewifebeater shirts to show offhis muscles, not because ofanegothing,butsohewouldcontinue to look physicallycompetent well into hisforties. Fifties, in his line ofwork, might be too much toexpect.

He enjoyed working hard,creating change.Likehere atthe Taggart Building. Itremainedmostlyoffices,withretail at first-floor and lobbylevels. The arched entrancehad been redesigned andwould be decorated withinlaidmarble.Wide, shallowsteps would ascend on agracefulcurve, leading to thelobby entrance. Whatwouldn’t be darkly tintedglassintheentrancewouldbe

veinedmarble.ThatwaswhatSnyderwas

working on now, removingconcrete that would bereplaced by marble. Theexpertswhowouldinstallthedecorative marble werecraftsmen of a different sort,using mallets and chisels.Their art was woven in withhistory. They cut stone withaneyetoinfinity.SBL didn’t build or rehab

structures that wouldn’t last.

MostoftheworkSnyderhadbeendoingforthepastfifteenyears was still around, andvisible,ifyouknewwheretolook.The Taggart Building was

projected to be one of thetallest structures onManhattan’sWestSide.Rightnow it wasn’t all thatimpressive.Itwasstrippedofmostofitsoutershell,anditsextended skeletal presencewas already taller than most

buildings on the block. Thatbasic framework would bestrengthened and built upon,andwithinweeksaboldbrickand stone structure wouldtakeform.At present, the only thing

tallerinthispartoftownwasthe steel crane loomingtwentyfeetabovetheTaggartBuilding’s thirty-fifth floor.Thatwouldsoonchange.Overtheyears,Snyderhad

developed a proprietary

attitude toward New York.Hiscity.Itdidn’thurt,either,totraderemarkswithpassingwomen,unlessSnyder’swife,Claudia, somehow found outaboutit.Claudia never actually

snooped. At least, Snyderdidn’t think so. He’d nevercaught her at it, and he gaveher the benefit of the doubt.Yet she had a way ofsomehowknowingthings.Maybe thatwas thereason

why she’d been so uneasythis morning. She’d had apremonition, she said, andshe’d asked Snyder to beparticularlycarefultoday.Snyder dutifully told her

he’d be more careful thanusual, and kissed her good-bye.Intruthhewasn’tmuchfor

premonitions,butwomendidsometimes seem to havesome mysterious source ofinformation.Onaverage,they

found out things well beforemendid.ItwasasiftheyhadtheirownsecretInternet.In this crazyworld, itwas

possible.Seated in a booth in their

favorite diner, Quinn andPearlwereenjoyingbreakfast—eggsBenedictforher,overhard with hash for him—when Quinn’s cell phonechimed. He wrestled the

phoneoutofhispantspocketand saw that the caller wasRenz.“It’sRenz,”hemouthedto

Pearl, just before acceptingthe call. Then, “Morning,Harley.”“You anywhere near a

TV?”Renzasked.“We’rehavingbreakfastat

the White Flame over onBroadway.”“The place with the great

blintzes?”

“I thought that wassomething the German armydid,” Quinn said. “But thisplacehasgotaTVbehindthecounter. It’s showingMarthaStewartrerunsrightnow.”“Have themput itonNew

YorkOne,”Renzsaid.Quinn glanced at his

watch. Oh no! “MinnieMiner?”“ASAP,” Renz said. “You

know the media types. Theyhavetobefedifyouwantto

keep them on your side.Newshounds like MinnieMiner need meat thrown tothem now and then, so theycanhaveabone tognawon.Keeps them happy and quietforawhile.”As soon as he broke the

connectionwithRenz,Quinnasked Ozzie the countermanifhemindedtuningtheTVtoMinnieMinerASAP.“This is part of your

work?”Ozzie asked.Hewas

an athletically built blackman who strongly resembledtheformerCardinalsbaseballshortstop genius, the realOzzie Smith.His legal namewas Ozzie Graves, but thatwasn’t very glamorous, andwhen somegullible customerthought Ozzie behind thecounter was the genuineOzzie, who could playbaseball anddobackflips, allat the same time, OzzieGravessimplyrolledwithit.

“Whydoyouask?”Quinnsaid.“We ain’t got a lot of

Minnie Miner fans here,”Ozziesaid.“Subject them to her for a

little while,” Quinn said, “orI’ll tell everyone your realname.”Ozzie went “Ummm,”

whichhealwaysdidwhenhewasthinking.“This about those

murdered women and that

Gremlinnutcase?”heasked.“We’re trying to find that

out,”Quinnsaid.“Okay, then. Long as you

let me autograph somebaseballs. I can sign themOssieSnith—keepitlegal.”“Of course, as long as the

photosaregenuine.”“Today we’re going to

interviewarealserialkiller,”MinnieMinerwas saying ontelevision.“Hemightbeableto shed some light on this

subject—if he wants to, ofcourse. We don’t twist armson thisshow—that’showwegetsomanyinterestingguestsand—hopefully—we learnsomething.” She glanced atthe simple set. Two greeneasy chairs flanked a smalltable with a stack of half adozenbooksonit.Therewasa lowcoffee table in frontofthe sofa. It could be reachedbyalltheguests.Thecordlessphone was on the table

betweenthechairs.Therewasa worn, trashy look to someof the set, though it all cameacrossnicelyonTV.The Minnie Miner ASAP

news show was actuallymostly a call-in radio show,but plenty of interestingguests had learned of it byfirstwatchingitontelevision.Minnie always had a phonenumber and e-mail addresssuperimposed on the bottomof the screen. The Gremlin

hadatfirstvowedonlytotalkon the phone, but the lure ofTV, of all those eyeballstrainedonyou,wasformanyalmostirresistible.Not yet, the Gremlin told

himself.Whenthetimecame,there would be plenty ofcamerasaimedathim.Almost,butnotquiteyet.

Minniewasstandingbythe

tablewhenthephonemadea

weird swishing sound, like aswordor largeknife splittingthe air. She grinned—anattractive black woman withmischievous eyes, a greatshape, and a big smile—andraised her forefinger to herpursed lips in a request forsilence.And the audience was

silent.Thephonemade theweird

sound again. She looked atthe audience, gave them an

even bigger smile, and liftedthe receiver with bothanxioushands.Smiling yet wider, the

phonepressed toherear, shenodded over and over, as iftryingtoshakeoffhersmile.This was great. This was

wonderful! She mouthed theword “Gremlin” severaltimes,hersparklingdarkeyesscanning the audience, thenspoke into the receiver, asobsequious and happy as if

she’d gotten an interviewwiththeQueenofEngland.Shewastalkingtoakiller.

30

Quinn, watching MinnieMinerASAP,wasamazedbythe smattering of applausefrom the studio audience asMinnie introduced the killer,referring to him simply as“the Gremlin.” That’s whatMinnie’s audience was

trained to do, so it wasautomatic even though theapplausesigndidn’tlightup.Minnie, wearing a mauve

pants suit and with her hairslickedback,lookeddignifiedand important. She wasseated in her usual armchairshe used when interviewingguests. In the matchingarmchair sat a blackcardboard cutout of a manwith an oval head and nofeatures.

“First of all,” Minnie saidinto her handheldmicrophone, “I’m glad youhadthecouragetocall.”“Let’s not waste time

talkingaboutthat.”“Do you object to me

referring to you that way—theGremlin?”“Ifyoucanhearashrugon

the phone, you just did,” theGremlin said. His voice wasmaleandstrong,notwhatonemight expect from a man

described as resembling adestructiveelforleprechaun.“Andwhydidyouwant to

talk with me, personally,rather than anotherjournalist?”“I’m interested in reaching

youraudiencethroughyou.”“Andthereasonforthat?”“I don’t mind tales being

told about me, as long asthey’re based at least in partonthetruth.”“Do you think lies have

beentold?”“You might call them

selective editing. I call themlies.”“Such as?” Minnie asked.

She looked knowingly at thecardboard cutout, then at theaudience.Theywereallgoingtoget aglimpse into thehellthat was the killer’s mind.This was journalism at itsbest.“That I’m angry, violent,

and vicious,” the Gremlin

said, “and trying to get backat someone. Or that I’m onsomekindofcrusade.OrthatI’m seriously mentallyunbalanced.”“Are you saying you’re

noneofthosethings?”For several seconds there

was only the soundof heavybreathing. Then what mighthave been a whimper. “I’mwondering how you get intothe club they call the humanrace.”

Minnie lookedwonderingly at her studioaudience.“Isthatwhatthisisabout?Arewe going to hearaboutanunhappychildhood?Becausethat’swhatallkillerssay.” Suddenly Minnie wasangry. “Because if that’s it,we—that’s me and myaudience and the hugeaudience out there—aren’tbuyinganyofthosebananas.”“I’m not selling bananas.

Or anything else. I’m just

looking for the truth. Forsomeone who won’t lie tome.”“Well.Youfoundher.The

language spoken here is theliberating, sometimesuncomfortabletruth.”“It wasn’t my fault those

peopledied.”“Whichpeople?”“The womenwho rejected

me. The men who betrayedme.”“Didyouevenknowthose

people?”“I knew all of them,

becausethey’reallthesame.”“Likethepeopleinthefire,

andintheelevator?”“Allthesame.”“But why did you kill

them?”“So I might better

understandthem.”“Areyousayingthat’swhy

youkilledall thosepeople inthe elevator—so you couldbetterunderstandthem?”

“Not the people. Theelevator.” Another pause.“Thepeople,too,though.”Minnie locked gazes with

the audience, made a face,shookherhead.“That’sso...sick.”“You shouldn’t say those

thingsaboutme.”“IpromisedI’dtellyouthe

truth.”“That didn’t mean

anything.”“Itmostcertainlydid.”

“How do you make yourliving?” Minnie asked. “Doyouhaveajob?”“Of course I do. Robbing

from the rich and giving tomyself. And I enjoy theagony and acquiescence myprofessionentails.”“Robbing the dead. You

mustknowhowperversethatis.Youneedhelp.”“You mean someone to

holdtheirfingerontheknotswhileIpullthemtight?”

“I can give you somenames and phone numbers,”Minniesaid.“Ican’ttrustyou.”“Youcan,youcan.”“Areyoutryingtokeepme

onthelinelongenoughsothepolicecantracemycall?”“Ofcoursenot.”“See?”Quinn heard the click as

the killer hung up, thenwatchedMinniedothesame.Ten minutes later, Renz

called. “It was a drugstorethrowaway phone,” he toldQuinn. “The call originatedsomeplace in midtown westof Broadway. Even if wecould find the phone, orwhat’sleftofitafterit’sbeenstomped on, itwouldn’t helpus.”“Wecan’tbesureofthat.”“Sure we can,” Renz said.

“I can tell stories twodifferentways,thenlateronIcan take my pick. Fall back

on theone that’s thebest fit.No one remembers whatotherpeoplesay,anyway.”“Copsdo,”Quinnsaid.“Not if they don’t

remember they’ve forgottensomething.”Quinn said, “I’ll grant you

that. And they—we—alsooverlookthings.”“Notus.Notcops.”“Evencops.”“But how would we

know?”

“We’d find out,” Quinnsaid.“Eventually.”

31

Betty Lincoln and MacyAdamslookedlikeBroadwaydancers. Both of them, fromtimetotime,hadcomeclose.They were wearing tightdesigner jeans, pullover tops,and flat-soled, comfortable-looking shoes. Not shoes to

dancein,buttogivetheirfeetarest.BettyandMacywaitedpatiently for their shrimpsalads and iced tea. Eachwoman was small, with atight body, flat abdomen,large muscular buttocks andcalves. Betty was blond andhad a turned-up nose. Macyhad dark hair and aMediterranean profile. Theymoved with a kind of graceandpower thatdrew theeye,even when they simply

crossedtheLinerDinertotheboothsbeyondthecounter.Sitting toward the back of

the diner suited them. Therewerewindowsthere,andtheydidn’thavecompleteprivacy,but it would do. StudentsfromthenearbyTheatreArtsAcademy hung out at theLinerDiner,andneitherBettyor Macy wanted to be seen.Especially Macy. Betty hadmade the second cattle call.Macy knew by the casting

director’s piercing look thatshewasn’tgoingtomakeit.They would find out

officiallyafterlunch.Two other dancers, and

DarbyKeen,hotnewstaroutof the TV world, walked upand stood outside talking,near the frontwindowof thediner. Betty and Macy satstill, unnoticed, while theothertwodancersenteredandfound a booth near theentrance, to the side and out

ofsightandearshot.“Atleastwewon’thaveto

listen to Keen brag abouthimself,”Macysaid.Bettydidn’tcomment.She

thought Darby Keen was abeautiful piece of work.Couldn’t sing. Couldn’tdance. But what the hell, hewas a draw. And more thanonce, when she was onstagewith the other dancers, he’dgivenheracertainlook.“Whatdoyou thinkof the

playwright?”Macyasked.The writer of Other

People’s Honey, SethMander, was still in histhirties, tall and blond, withsloe blue eyes that turnedBetty on. Betty thought sheandSethwouldmakeagoodpair. Even if he was part ofthe process that might denyher the job, she was stillpreparedtolikehim.Perhaps more than like

him.

“Betty?”“Sethisbeyondcute.”“Andtalented,”Macysaid.

“Other People’s Honey is aseriouslygoodplay.”“With lousy

choreography.”“Younoticed?”“It’llsprainorbreakafew

ankles,”Bettysaid.Bothwomenlaughed.Then Macy felt suddenly

glum.She’dbegladtoriskasprain,ifonlyherluckwould

change and she could be amember of the cast that wasshaping up for OtherPeople’s Honey. Nobodyreally knew where hitmusicals came from—theyeither did or didn’t have themagic. It looked, sounded,felt like Other People’sHoneywasgoingtobeahit.But Macy knew it wasn’t

going to happen for her.Notthis time, and maybe never.Enough rejection taught you

how to recognize it when itwas still on the way. Shecouldseeitinthepostureandfaces of the ones who werejudging hopefuls for OtherPeople’s Honey. The moneygods who held fate in theirhands. Macy, in her heart,wasalreadydefeated.Allthatwas needed was for it to bemadeofficial.Macy wanted to know,

wanted the suspense to end.Orwasnotknowingakindof

masochistic pleasure? Afterall, if you didn’t know youwere a failure, it wasn’t yetan established fact in themindsofothers.Andinyourownmind.The verdict would be

suspendedforanotherhourormore, after the tryouts forvoice. Macy didn’t worryabout that. She didn’t evenpretendtobeabletosing.Shewas a dancer, and not just achoruslinedancer.Sheknew

she was unique, and couldcarryashow.Yet something in her

doubted, and it seemedimpossibletochangethat.Sheknewwhatsheneeded.

Anewlove.Andluckwithanewluster.Thefirstwouldbeeasierthanthelast.Shecouldfall in love—or somethinglike love—easier than sheshould.There was a flurry of

activity up near the front of

the diner. The backgroundtrafficnoisewas louder, thensofter. Someone had entered.Othershadstoodup.Darby Keen, sleek and

muscular in jeans and a T-shirt(hecertainlylookedlikehe could dance), entered thediner. And right behind him,Seth Mander, his straightblond hair mussed by thebreezeanddanglingoveroneeye. He was wearing dressslacks, loosened tie, and

scuffed moccasins. Bettystaredathim,transfixed.Hands were shaken, backs

were slapped.Thedancers inthefrontboothwerestandingup. Everyone was standing.Some were congratulatingthemselves.“They’ve seen us,” Macy

said.Betty forced herself to

raiseherheadandlook.My God! They’re coming

backhere!

32

Little Louie, as his fellowworkerscalledLouisFarrato,wasworking the jackhammertoday, breaking up alreadycracked concrete in front oftheTaggartBuilding,theareathat was to become thedrivewayofaportico.Louie,

who was a few inches oversix feet tall and built like anNFL linebacker, handled thejackhammer like a toy. Hewasfollowingayellowchalkline, where a concrete sawwould neaten and emphasizethe driveway, where it wasprojected it would encircle afountain.It took skill to use a

jackhammer, alternatingheavy and light touches, andit was a tool that had to be

guided carefully. That waswhy Louie so diligentlyfollowed the curved yellowchalkline.Louie had paused in his

workwiththeotherhardhatsas the women they’d heardwere Broadway dancerscrossedthestreetandenteredtheLinerDiner.Onascaleofonethroughten,theywerealltens, on the basis of theirbodiesalone.The littleblondone they called Betty was

particularly appealing toLouie. For whatever reason,he preferred small women.Hiswife,Madge,wasonly alittleoverfivefeettall.Not that she wasn’t a

fireball.Moreofonethantheblonddancer,actually.Thinking ofMadge, Louie

smiled.Whichwaswhy he almost

missed seeing the guy in thebatteredyellowhardhat.At first Louie thought he

waslookingatakidroamingthrough the debris of thebuilding. Then he saw thattheguyhadthebearingifnotthe stature of aman.He hadonfadedjeansandatanshirtwitha tieandwascarryingaclipboard.Louie looked around, and

didn’t see Jack Feldman, thejobforeman,oranybodyelse.Then he realized everyonewas on lunch break. Hehadn’t worn his wristwatch

todaybecausehedidn’twantit subjected to thejackhammervibrations.He leaned the jackhammer

ataneasyangleagainstapileof debris. Then he pulled ahandkerchief stuffed in aback pocket and used it towipesweatfromhisfaceandthebackofhisneck.Louieputonhisownhard

hat, with the company logoon it, and made his waytowardthelittleguy.

He could see, as he drewcloser, that the man wassmaller and older than he’dseemed from across thejumbleofdebris,andthesteelstacked nearwhere the cranewassystematicallyliftingittobeeased intoposition.Thoseinvolved in this delicateoperation worked while theothers were at lunch orotherwiseoff-site.Everythingwas done with extreme care.Peoplehaddiedworkingwith

high steel. People Louie hadknown. But he figured thepay warranted the risk, soherehewas.The crane, affixed to the

twentiethfloor,waspreparingto lift a steel beam thatlookedsmall fromthisangle,up to where it wouldstraighten its long, jointedarmandsteelwouldbefixedto steel with rivets. Thewelders would follow closebehind, making all but

permanent what the rivetershad done.And another pieceof an empire’s giant toywouldbefittedinplace.Someof theotherworkers

were coming back to worknow, after leaving the LinerDiner. The Broadway-startypeswerehangingaroundinfrontofthediner,thewomencasually bending and doinglight exercises, well awaretheywerebeingwatched.

The little guy in the hard

hat looked over at Louie,looked back at his clipboard,andmadeacheckmark.ThenbackatLouie.Hesmiledandsaid,“Safety.”Louie noticed a line of

faded black letters on thescuffed and dented yellowhard hat. So the twerp washereinsomeofficialcapacity.“I think we’re up to code

here,” Louie said, though he

had no idea. This guy, inwashed-out jeans and a tanshirt with a tie, looked likemanagement to him.A dressshirt and tie and a clipboardcouldadduptotrouble.“You want me to call the

boss over for you?” Louieasked.Pass-the-bucktime.The littleguy lookedupat

him, smiling. “I alreadytalked with him. Give me afewminutesandI’llgetouttayourhair.”

“Okay.”Louiegavealittlewave and started back towhere he’d left thejackhammer, along with halfa sandwich from his lunchbag. Pastrami and mustard,with just the right amount ofhorseradish. He wondered,couldanyofthoseBroadwaybabes with the boobs andswingingbehindsputtogethera pastrami sandwich like hiswifeMadgecould?Hedoubtedit.

As he picked his waytowardwherehe’dbrokenoffwork,henoticedtheguywiththe hard hat and clipboardover where the street hadbeentornup.Hewasmakinghis way through piles ofdebris, stepping carefully,still making notations on hisclipboard.Louie heard his name

called.He looked over and saw

Feldman, his boss, standing

across the intersection, neartheLinerDiner.Feldman saw that he had

Louie’s attention and wavedhimover.Jack Feldman was a

reasonable guy, but when hewas mad he was a son of abitch. Mistakes couldn’t bemade here. There were fewsecondchances,andnothird.Louie had no idea whatFeldman wanted. He startedwalking toward Feldman.

There was a large lump inLouie’s throat, but hecouldn’t figure out if he’dscrewed up, or if Feldmanwassimplygoingtoaskforaprogress report on theremoval of the porticoconcrete. Louie couldn’tthink of any reason why heshould endure an ass-chewing.Hetoldhimselfthatmaybehewasgoing toget apromotion,andsmiledat thatone.

Thesunhadmovedenoughso that there was a starkshadow lying across theintersection where the LinerDiner was located. Louierealizedtheshadowwasfromthecrane.Feldman was standing in

the shadow, which extendedfrom the diner to beyondLouie.Louie found it a few

degreescooler in the shadowof the crane, and walked

toward Feldman, who stoodwith his fists on his hips,watchingLouie.There was a sharp,

cracking sound fromoverhead.Lightning strike was

Louie’s first, alarmedthought. But the sky was acloudlessblue.When Louie lowered his

vision he saw that JackFeldmanwasforsomereasonsittingon thepavement, as if

he’d fallen. He was wavingand pointing at the sky.Maybehehadbeenstruckbylightning.Louiecouldfeelhisownhairstandingonend.Then he noticed therewas

somethingdifferentabout thedeeply shadowed path onwhich he stood, leadingtowardFeldman and beyond.Theshadowofthecrane.Itwasmoving.Feldmanwas struggling to

get to his feet,where he had

instinctively dived to theground at the loud noise.Disoriented, he ran to hisright, then back left, towardthe crane’s looming shadow.Thelongshadowwasmovinginagreaterarcnow,backandforth, like a gigantic scythetrying to break free fromwhateverheldithigh.Feldmanwavedhisarmsat

Louie. He was shoutingsomething Louie couldn’tunderstand.

Louie didn’t stop, didn’tthink, running towardFeldman.There was another loud

crack! from above as thehugecranepulledawayfromits moorings. Somewhere awomanwasscreaming.Louie put his head down

andranharder.

33

Betty andMacy had left thedinerandwereabouttocrossthestreettowalkbeneaththescaffoldingwheretheTaggartBuilding was beingtransformed to its larger,moreusefulself.Inthebrightsunlight outside the diner,

they absently paused to dosome stretching and bendingafter sitting so long. They,like the other dancers, werewellawareofthestaringeyesof the hard hats across thestreet.Theywerepreparedforthe shouts, whistles, andoccasional lewd suggestions.Sometimes smiles wereexchanged across the street,but for the most part theconstruction workers wereignored. They might as well

have been calling to thedancers from anotherdimension.“If those guys would ever

learntheirmanners—”Betty,whohadjustbeenreferredtoas“thebouncyblondbeauty,”began. That was when whatsounded like a lightningstrike came from above. Theshouting from across thestreet stopped, then becamelouder.Desperate.Betty heard a woman

scream nearby. There was asubtle change in light andshadow, in the movement ofair. She felt Macy grip hershoulder and squeeze it hardenoughtohurt.AsherantowardFeldman,

some part of Louie’s mindgrasped what was happeningaround them. It wouldn’t bethe first time a constructioncrane had fallen in

Manhattan, but it might betheworst.He was closing on

Feldmanwhensomethinglikethedarkshadowofa raven’swing crossed the groundaround them. Louie loweredhis head and hunkered downas he ran, prepared to hitFeldmanhardenoughtocarrythembothoutofharm’sway.Feldman was like a footballplayer who’d forgotten tosignalforafaircatchandwas

abouttopayforit.Heturnedawayjustbefore

contact, and 260 pounds ofLouie slammed intoFeldman’s hip. Louie heardthe deafening crash of thecrane, felt the ground tiltbeneathhimsothatforafewsecondsheandFeldmanwereairborne.Before he hit the ground

again, Louie was sure hiscollarbone was broken fromhitting Feldman. He knew,

too,all inasplit second, thathe had more injury comingwhenthetwoof themlandedand slid, with Feldman ontop.Louie thought they might

both live, though, as long asmore falling debris didn’t hitthem.Hewas thinkingofMadge

asconsciousnesslefthim.Quinnsaid,“What thehell

wasthat?”Fedderman raised his

eyebrows.“Earthquake?”TheywereatQ&A,Quinn

at his desk,waiting forPearlto call and say where shewanted to meet for lunch,Feddermaninachairoverbythecoffeebrewer,goingovercasenotes.Quinn walked over and

lookedoutawindowatWest79th Street. He could hearsirens now, but they were

fromthesouth,andnotclose.Hewentoutsideandstood

ontheconcretestoop,lookingaround. No sign of smoke.The sirens were slightlylouder, and there were moreofthem.Quinn went back inside

andcalledRenzatOnePolicePlaza,andwastoldthatRenzcouldn’t be reached rightnow.“Ishedead?”Quinnasked

thedutysergeant.

“Nottomyknowledge.”“Then he can be reached.

IsthisSergeantEdRutler?”“It is.AndwhomightIbe

talkingto?”“Captain Frank Quinn.

Howareyou,Ed?”“Still locomoting, Cap’n.

SorryIdidn’t recognizeyourvoice.”“I’msmokingfewercigars,

Ed. I felt and heard a bigboom,andnowIhearsirens.What’sgoingon?”

“We’restilltryingtofigureit out. Could be a buildingcollapse. The TaggartBuilding, that they beenscrewing around with formonths. But it’s too early inthegametoknow.”“Anydeadorinjured?”“Not as many as you’d

think, iswhatIhear.They’resaying one of those bigconstructioncranesletgoandfell about twenty floors, butit’s too early to confirm. I

hope that’s what happened.Fewerkilledandinjuredthanthere’d be in a buildingcollapse.”“Probably, Ed.” Then, “I

gotconfirmationnowinaTVnews crawl. It’s the TaggartBuilding, all right. A bigcrane fell. It did bring downsomeofthebuildingwithit.”“Jeez!Casualties?”“Still counting, Ed. The

building was unoccupied atthetime,butthereweresome

peoplekilledorinjuredbythecrane itself. And there werepeople in the vicinity of thebuilding that were too closeand got hit by falling debris.I’ve deduced a lot of thatfromearlyreportsandwhatIcould see on televisionThey’re still fitting it alltogether. You know how itgoes.”Eddid.Harley Renz called then

and got patched through.

Sergeant Rutler knew itwasn’t going to become aconference call and said hisgood-byes.Renz listenedwhileQuinn

broughthimuptospeedwithwhat he knew, mostlygleaned fromwhat he’d seenon TV and what SergeantRutlerhadsaid.Renz didn’t have anything

solid to contribute, eventhough he’d been among thefirsttoreachthesiteafterthe

crane fell. Now he wasrunning around, probably infull dress uniform, trying toleave a lasting impressionthathewasincharge.A sigh came over the

phone. “It isn’t pretty here,Quinn.”“Does it look like a crime

scene?”“The way things are these

days,I’dhavetosayyes.”“Has the crane been

examined?”

“Not yet. But it doesn’tseem there’s anything wrongwithit.Therewasanoperatorin the crane when it fell. Oruntil just before. We’re stillinterrogatinghim.We’llkeepyouinformed,Quinn.”“Do that, Harley. This is

almost surely part of theGremlincase.”“Fire, an elevator, a crane,

what’s this madmanthinking?”“They’re all different,”

Quinn said. “In most ways,they’rejustliketherestofus.That’s why they’re difficulttorecognize.”“That’s why we have you

on the case, Quinn. You’rejust like the rest of us, onlydifferent.”“Those are important

differences,”Quinnsaid.Renzsaid,“That’swhatall

youguyssay.”

34

The killer sat in his favoritearmchair, with a view ofnighttime Manhattan out thewindow that was slightly tohisleft.Helikedtoenjoythespectacular view, shiftingeyes and interest back andforth between that and big-

screen TV news coverage ofthecranecollapse.Hewasinhis stocking feet, legsextended and ankles crossed,sippingtwofingersofsingle-malt scotch over ice.A dashofwatertohelpbringouttheflavor.Using a variety of aliases

and forged identities,hehad,likearatinapack,joinedthefringes of serious crime. Hemaneuvered, he thoughtbrilliantly,befriendingcertain

criminal types, ingratiatinghimself with them, and at acertain point letting themknow hewas . . .well, headrat.He was impossible to

apprehend,becausehewasn’tgreedy—at least not on thesurface. He was financiallysecurefromayearago,whenhe’dspentaweekofsexandpain with a crookedinvestment manager and hiswife.

The killer knew enough toresult in the man losingeverything and going toprison. Probably his wife,keeper of the secret books,would also do time. But thekiller had broken both ofthem, spiritually andphysically, in the investmentmanager’ssecludedcabinthatwas more like a full-fledgedhouse.The wife, Glenda, in her

forties, was not particularly

attractive, more of agreyhoundthanacougar.Shedidn’t know it yet, but thedivorce paperswere about tobe served when, during adrug-enhanced night, thekiller taught the moneymanager, Hubby, how toinduce and manage someoneelse’spain.Hubby was better at that

thanmanagingwealth.Underhis tutelage, Glenda learnedhow soundproof the cabin

was when she screamed andscreamedandnoonecametoherrescue.Withinafewhoursshewas

eager to turn over to herhusband and the killer thesecret set of books that shekept, completewith numbersand names, and sometimesphotographs.This was just the sort of

thing the killer sought. Itwouldhavebeensilly,atthispoint, to set the wife free.

Besides, a plan was growinginhismindlikeadisease.After a few days Wifey

wastremblingsothatshehadto be spoon-fed so shewouldn’t make such a mess.Hubby the money man ledher to a wall, made her leanagainstit,andbeatherwithabeaded leather strap.Bynowshe automatically obeyed hisinstructions and made nosound while she was beingwhipped. A gag was no

longernecessary.When the husband’s arm

was almost too tired to lift,the killer walked over, tookthe whip from his hand, andlaid the whip hard along thebackofthewife’sthighs.Wifey was sobbing now,

her head bowed insubmission.“Take her to the basement

and hose her off,” the killersaid.Hubby looked confused.

“Hoseher...?”The killer grinned. “With

water.Ifyouwanttobeatherwith thehose,maybewecanarrangethatlater.”He could barely stop

smiling. These two wereperfect.Whenthekillerwentdown

to the basement, he saw thatthingswereinorder.Wifey’sarmswere tiedoverherhead

and she was hanging from arafter with her toes barelytouchingtheconcrete.Quiteastretch. She tried to shiftposition now and then torelieve the pain when herstretched muscles cramped.Sheer agony. A hard rubberballwasjammedbetweenherupper and lower teeth so herjawswerestrainedwideopen.Her hair was soaked, pulledback, and fastened with arubber band. She knew the

rubber band was so theycould see her face. Herexpressions. That was greatforphotographsthatcouldbesold and resold on theInternet. Her husband andtheir houseguest had taughtherthat.The faint, rhythmic

thrashing sound began, morevibration than noise. Thekiller was ready for it, knewthat itwouldstop,knewhowtostopit.

He stood with his handspressed to his ears, his eyesclenchedshut.Waiting.Finally the thrashing noise

reached a crescendo thensubsided, and he was calm.The air that he breathedwaslikenectar.The killer tested the

strengthof the ropes, felt thewarm wetness of her body,then unnecessarily toldHubby the fund manager tostay where he was and went

upstairs.Tenminuteslaterthekiller

came back down thebasement’s wooden stairswith something obviouslyheavybeneathablanket.“What’sthat?”thehusband

asked.Hehadn’t somuch asbudged.The killer smiled. “My

equipment. Car battery.Cables.Alligatorclips.”Terror paralyzed the wife.

She emitted a lot of gagging

and gurgling, and then lostconsciousness.The killer knew that

unconsciousness was wherethey oftenwent to escape.Acountry of painlessness andpeace.He had brought smelling

salts.

35

Fourpeoplehadbeenkilled,seven injured, in the fall ofthe construction crane at theTaggartBuilding.Twoofthedead were off-Broadwaychorus line dancers, BettyLincoln and Macy Adams.Their names and faces were

known only to avidplaygoers.Not enough time had

passed that Quinn and hisdetectives were done talkingto the few witnesses who’dactually seen the crane comedown, observed the panic,heard the screams. Thenalmostinstantlytheimpactofthe crane, followed by thelandsliderumbleandcrashingof concrete, marble, andbrick.

Quinn and Feddermanwere doing the last of theinterviews of witnesses,whichdidn’tmakefora longlist. Usually they weren’ttechnically witnesses, as itwas the bomb-like crash ofthecrane that firstdrewtheirattention. It also scrambledtheir senses so that much ofwhat they saw and said waswrong, forgotten, orirrelevant.Now Quinn and

Feddermanwere in amodestapartment on the East Side,interviewingagiantofamanthe others in SBL PropertiescalledLittleLouie.He had abandage on the bridge of hisnose and an arm in a sling.Quinn knew they wereinjuries from the craneaccident.NexttoLittleLouie,on a faded but comfortable-looking sofa, sat Louie’swife,Madge.Louie Farrato looked like

whathewas,asolidtypewhoworked with his hands,simple but not stupid. Hewould have made a greatIndiana Jones in the movies.Madge was a sloe-eyedbeautyofthesortwhowouldabidenononsense.Quinn glanced at the

preliminary notes madewithin hours of the craneincident.“Wouldyoulikesomeiced

tea or lemonade?” Madge

Farratoasked.Quinn declined.

Fedderman gave it somethought and settled for icedtea.Theybothwaitedpatiently,

alongwithLittleLouie, untilMadge returned with a trayonwhichwerefourglassesofwhat looked like iced tea.“Justincase,”shesaidwithasmilethatmadeher looklikeSophia Loren. (Had Lorenand Harrison Ford, who

ownedtheIndianaJonesrole,everbeeninthesamemovie?Fedderman wondered.)“There’srealsugarandsomeartificialonthetray.”Shesetthe tea on a glass-toppedcoffee table, and they allsettled in as if they weregoing to watch a movie ontelevision instead of talkaboutmurder.Quinn, who had changed

his mind, sprinkled thecontents of a pink artificial

sweetener package in his teaandtwirledtheicecubeswithhis forefinger. “We don’tmean to irritate anyone byasking them to repeat whatthey’vealreadyprobablysaidover and over. It’s just thatsometimes, after a traumaticevent,peopledon’trememberthings until some time haspassed.”Madge said, “Tell him,

Louie.”Louiesquirmedabit, illat

ease. He had on buffedleather boots, a many-pocketed tan shirt, and fadedLevi’s, and sure enoughlooked as if he should be onanarcheologicaldig.He said, “Not long before

the crane fell—say, abouttwenty minutes—I wasworking a jackhammer and Ilookedupandsawthisguyina yellowhard hat, carrying aclipboardand takingnotesorsomething. I got agood look

at him when I let up on thejackhammer and he becamemorethanablur.Still,hewassome distance away. I gotcurious and walked overthere.”“So you saw him close

up,”Quinn said, as if just tokeep the conversational ballrolling. They might have agenuine close-up eyewitnesshere.“Yeah,”Louiesaid.“There

wasn’t anything really

memorable about him. Hewas short. Built aboutaverage. Little, nimble type,but strong. Like a goodflyweight boxer. Even had acauliflowerear.That’swhatIrememberedlater,whenIsawthatdrawingor somethingofhimonTV.”“What did you say to

him?”“AskedhimifIcouldhelp

him. He kind of tugged hishard hat down like he didn’t

wantittoblowoffhishead.”“Whatdidhesay?”“Kept kind of doing his

job, making notes, checkingoff stuff, like he was on aschedule.Said,‘Safety.’Likeit was the one word thatshould explain it all. So Ifigured he was an inspectorfromoneofthecityagencies.We get ’em all the time,checking for workplacedanger, long-term issues,lead-basedpaint,asbestos...

thatkindathing.”“Did you talk about

safety?”Feddermanasked.“Naw.We didn’t gab.We

bothhadthingstodo.”“Then?”“Thenheleft.”“Saygood-bye?”“Nope. I guess neither of

us thoughtwehad thatkindarelationship.”“Didyouseehimgetintoa

vehicle?”“Nope, he just walked

outta sight. I didn’t thinkmuchofitatthetime.”“When did you think of

it?”“A few hours ago. I was

watchingnewsonTV,anduppopsthispictureofsomebodythat looked familiar. Then,during the commercial, Iremembered.Thesafetyguy!ThenIreadabouthimonthecrawl at the bottom of thescreen.Istillcouldn’tbelieveit, that I was just a few feet

awayfromthisguy,talkedtohim. So I read some moreabouthim.TheGremlin.Thatjustaboutscaredthepastramiouttame.”Louie clamped his lips

together,lookingasifhewasin conflict. Quinnwaited forhim to say more, not askinghim, not wanting to be thefirst to speak. Feddermanmaintained the same silence.Sometimes people who arethe first to speak say the

damnedestthings.It was Madge who spoke

first.“Tellhim,Louie.”“It’sprobablynothing.”Quinn said, “Everything’s

something.”“Tell him, Louie,” Madge

saidagain.Louie looked pained, but

he spoke. “The big noisewhenthecranefellwaswhenit slammed into the ground.But there was a small noisebefore that. A smaller

explosionuphigh.”“You sure? It could have

been the crane hittingsomethingonthewaydown.”“It came before the crane

hit,” Louie said. “Before itfell.” He clamped his lipsclosed again. Then partedthem. “I was in bombdisposal in Afghanistan. Iknowexplosives. I canknowsome things by the sound ofthe explosion, the extent andkind of damage that’s done.

I’m pretty sure this was ashapedcharge.”“Whichis?”“Abomb—and it canbe a

small bomb—shaped acertain way so that it directsmost of the force of theexplosion in one direction.They’reusedtotakeouttanksandotherarmoredvehicles. Ithink one was used toseparate the crane from theTaggartbuilding.”Quinn and Fedderman

looked at each other. Theyseemed to be thinking thesamethoughts.“Wouldittakeanexpertto

build and plant such abomb?”Louie squeezed his lower

lip between thumb andforefinger, then said, “Anexpert,yes.Anartist,no.”Quinn thought, herewas a

man who loved his previousoccupationperhapstoomuch.“Could you build one?” he

asked,smiling.“Probably, but I might

blowmyselfup.Myexpertisewas in disassembling bombssotheywouldn’tdetonate.”“He might have gotten

killed,” Madge said, pattingLouie’sarm.Fedderman said, “My

guessisheknewwhathewasdoing, or he wouldn’t behere.”“Could an amateur have

made and set this shaped

charge?”Quinnasked.“A gifted amateur,” Louie

said. “Giftedand lucky.Likethis Gremlin I keep hearingandreadingabout.”“I wouldn’t jump to any

conclusions,” Quinn said.Feddermanshothimaglance.ButLouiehadjumped.“I wasn’t gonna say

anythingabout it at first,”hesaid. “It was Madge talkedmeintoit.”“You’re lucky to have

Madge.”“Iamthat,”Louiesaid,and

gaveMadgeahug.When they were back out

on the sidewalk, Feddermansaid, “They’ve got a greatmarriage.”Quinnkeptquiet.Heknew

the problems of a copmarriage.Hewondered ifhisand Pearl’s relationshipwould last, and if it had a

better chance because theywerebothcops.It took only a phone call

for Quinn and Fedderman toascertain that there hadn’tbeen any kind of safetyinspectiononanythingownedbySBLProperties thedayofthe crane collapse. And thecompany’s hard hats werewhite and had a corporatelogoonthem.“What now?” Fedderman

asked,astheywalkedtoward

Quinn’s old but pristineLincoln.“We get that high-tech

artistwhomadetheso-calledsketch to get with LittleLouie,andmaybeHelen,andimproveonit.”“TheGremlin isn’t getting

betterlooking.”“Noneofusis.”“Withhim,thereshouldbe

a portrait in his attic, wherethe subject gets uglier withevery rotten thing he does.

KnowwhatImean?”Quinn said, “You’ve been

seeingtoomuchofHarold.”

36

QuinnphonedRenz and toldhim about the shaped-chargepossibility. Renz thankedhim, but told him the bombsquad had already beendiscussing the shaped-chargetheory.“Do they like it?” Quinn

asked.

“They say it’s unlikely,except for a guy whodisarmedbombsintheNavy.He said somebody with alittleknowledgeandashitpotfulla luckmightmakesuchabomb.”“Why didn’t we learn this

sooner?”Quinnasked.“We just figured it out

ourselves. But it’s onlyhypothetical. We’re stilltrying to decide howseriouslywe take it. Look at

it piece by piece, and itdoesn’t seem like much, sodon’t go getting all excited.And for God’s sake, don’ttalk about this to MinnieMiner.”“Do I sound excited?”

Quinnasked.“Orpissedoff?”“Do I sound gone?” Renz

asked, and ended theconnection.

Louie was still on sickleave, and still wearing thearm sling, when Helen andthe NYPD sketch artistvisited him in his andMadge’s apartment. They’dstopped for breakfast on theway, but that didn’t stopMadge from offering themcoffee. Helen and the artistfell under the aromatic scentof freshly brewed coffee,thoughtheymanagedtoforgothe delicious but wildly

caloric cinnamon-buttercoffeecake.The artist wasn’tWarfield

this time, but an affable kidnamedIgnacioPerez,onloanfrom the FBI, who askedeveryone to call him simply“theartist.”Hesethis laptopon thecoffee tablebutoff tothe side. Then he ran somewires,turnedonthefifty-two-inch screen on which LouieandMadgewatchedJustifiedand The Good Wife. He

settled back on the sofawitha small mouse pad and awirelessmouse.Up popped the digital

likenessof theGremlin, as itoriginallyappearedonMinnieMinerASAP.“I wonder what he’d look

like in a hard hat,” Helensaid.“Carryingaclipboard.”“I anticipated you,” the

artist said. “Except for theclipboard.”Hisfingersdancedoverthe

keys.Hepressedsomeothers,and thereon the large screenwas the Gremlin in a yellowhard hat that looked too bigforhim.“My old friend,” the artist

said.“See anything that doesn’t

look right?” Helen askedLouie,leaningtowardtheTVscreen.“No. That’s just the way

thehat fithim, likehewasalittle kid playing dress up.

How’s it look when you tugthehatdowninfront?”Theartistloweredthehard

hat until the subject’s eyesalmost disappeared.“Somethinglikethat?”“Yeah. That’s more it.

Morehairstickingout.”Helensaid,“Nowmakethe

ears somewhat visiblebeneaththehair.”“Like they’d stick out

withoutthehair?”Louiesaid.“Yeah,justlike.”

“Did you notice anythingunusualabouttheears?”“Naw. Not on this guy.

Exceptfortherightear.”“Itsticksoutmorethanthe

left?”“Somewhat,” Louie said.

“But like I told you, he wasbuilt like a flyweight boxer.Had a cauliflower ear, itlookedliketome.”The artist played

electronically with the rightear. Made it slightly larger

and more damaged bycountlessjabsandlefthooks.“That’s good,” Louie said.

“Buthishairshouldbealittlelonger,andslightlydarker.”Againtheartistmadesome

adjustments while the otherslookedon.“More chin, less nose,”

Louiesaid.Theartistcomplied.“The ear that you can see

all of, it is rather pointed, atleastfromacertainangle.”

Helen squinted at it. “Soclosetothehead.Notliketheotherear.”“Other one probably came

unstuck,”theartistsaid.“Unstuck?”“Like with movie stars. A

guy’s or woman’s ears stickout like open car doors, sothey got this flesh-coloredtwo-sided tape. Like carpettape.Anearwon’tstaytapedin for very long, but plentylong enough to shoot movie

orTVscenes.Andifit’sstilltoo much trouble, there’salways an operation tomaketheearsflattertotheskull.”“Sotellmewho’shadtheir

ears operated on?” Madgesaid,fromwhereshesatoverin a corner where she couldseethebigscreen.The artist shook his head,

smiling. “I couldn’t revealthat.”“They’ve got their right to

privacy,”Madgesaid

“I don’t know for sureaboutthat,butthey’vegottherightnottohiremeifIshootthemor draw themwith car-doorears.”“Shoot?”Madgeasked.“Photograph. Shoot

pictures.”“Oh.”“Anyway,forphotoshoots

or short movies for TVscenes, there’s always thetwo-sided tape. The stuffworksprettywell.Andifyou

don’t like it, you can alwaysdo what this guy probablydoes...did—growyourhairlongat thesidesandcomb itbackoveryourears.”The artist put together

another screen image of theGremlin,thistimewithoutthehardhat.“Looklikethesameguy?”

heaskedLouie.“Yeah. Iwouldn’tmistake

him.Of course, some peopledo look different with and

withoutcapsorhats.”“But would you feel

confidentpickingthisguyoutofalineup?”“Sure. Unless he’s got a

twinbrother.”“Louie,” Madge said,

“don’t make things morecomplicatedthantheyare.”“So let’s make some final

adjustments,” the artist said.“You never saw this guy’shairline,right?”“Yeah,buthewasn’tbald.

Hehadsideburns,anyway.”The artist used the mouse

to create sideburns on thescreen image.HepausedandlookedatLouie.“A little longer,” Louie

said.“There.Justright.”“We can put out images

with different hairlines,”Helensaid.“Good idea,” the artist

said. He created severalrenderings,finishingwithonethatleftthekillerbaldexcept

for a bushof hair aroundhisears.“Iwishwecouldhaveone

ofhimsmiling,”Helensaid.The artist shook his head.

“I’dhavetoseehimsmile todothat.”HelookedatLouie.“Didhesmilewhenyouwerewithhim?”“Not once. He was all

business.”“Which you shouldn’t be

all the time,” Madge said.“Remember you are not

well.”They thanked Little Louie

andlefthimwithMadge.Nota bad situation, if you didn’tcountLouie’snightmaresandbrokenbones.As they were walking

towardwhere their carswereparked, the artist said, “I’dliketodrawthatwoman.”“You guys,” Helen said,

“for the kind of drawingyou’re talking about, you’dhave to use a crayon so the

other ten-year-olds wouldunderstandit.”“Acrayon,” theartistsaid,

“wouldmelt.”

37

An hour later, Renz calledQuinn on his desk phone.“No doubt about it,” Renzsaid,whenQuinnhadpickedup the bulky plastic receiverthat fit handandear sowell.“The crane falling wasmurder.Therewere traces of

hydrofluoricacidfoundatthebreaking points of the steelcables. It ate through thecables until enough strandspoppedthattheyfinallybrokeapart under all that weight.Thatoverloadedthestressontheothercables, thenasmallbomb separated the cranefromthebuildinganddownitcame. The thing is, whoeverwas responsible had to havesome basic knowledge ofhow that crane was put

together. How the damnedthingworked.”“Just like he knew about

elevators,”Quinn said. “Wasthis the same kind of acidusedontheelevatorcables?”“Yeah. The base was

hydroflouride, along withnitric acid. A devil’s brew,accordingtothetechs.Ifyouwant to tote it around, you’llneed a special container.Most likely it was outta thesamelab.”

“Do the techs think ourkiller is a chemist?” Quinnasked.“Not in any major way.

But you don’t have to be achemistorengineeringgeniusto know how to destroysomething. Common sensegoes a long way. To knowhow to build up is to knowhowtoteardown.”“Butwe’re not necessarily

looking for a scientist orengineer.”

“That’s right,” Renz said.“Matter of fact, most of theinfo you need, you can findontheInternet.”Quinn doubted if that

would be reassuring to thepublic.“The Internet and DNA,”

Renz said. “One helps findthem, and the other helpsprove them guilty. Life getsharderandharderfor thebadguys.”“Can’tgethardenough.”

“That’s what my ex-wifeusedtosay.”“Thecranecablesareright

out where anyone can seethem,” Quinn pointed out.“Or get to them, dependingonthepositionofthecrane.”“It gets better and better,”

Renzsaidbitterly.“Wheredopsychos like the Gremlinlearnthiscrap?”“Like the artist told us,”

Quinnsaid,“there’splentyofinformation on the Internet.”

The main air conditioner inQ&Awasn’tquitekeepingupwiththeheat,andhisclotheswerestucktohim.Therewassome not-quite-cold-enoughdietcolainthelittlefridgebythecoffeemaker,buthechosenottohavegas.“The Internet is a school

forcrime,”Renzagreed.“Andthestudentsget their

advanceddegreesinprison.”“Itshouldn’tbelikethat.”“Nobody’s figured out a

betterway.”“Iknowone.”“I didn’t hear that,”Quinn

said.“TheGremlin.Ireallyhate

thatlittlebastard!”“We’llfindhim,Harley.”“Will we? They never

foundJacktheRipper.”“They might have, if he’d

ever been listed in the FBIdatabase.”“Speakingofdata...”Quinn brought him up to

date on the Little Louie andMadgeinterview.“This isamassmurderer,”

Renz said, when Quinn wasfinished talking and readingaloud. As if Quinn neededreminding.“We’ve got a reliable

eyewitness that puts him atthe scene of the cranecollapse,” Quinn said. “Andwe’re working out a digitalimage that’ll beasgoodas aphoto,ifitisn’talready.”

“We’ve got everything butthecriminal.”“I wouldn’t express it that

way to the media,” Quinnsaid.“So can I tell the press

predators what you just toldme?When I step outta here,they’regonnabeonmelikeapackofmaddogs.”Quinntriedtoimaginethat

but couldn’t. Renz wouldsurely have even larger maddogsprotectinghim.

“I would tell the mediaonly what I wanted them toknow, Harley. At this point,we’re using them instead oftheotherwayaround.”Renz seemed to like that

observation.Quinnwasn’t sosureitwastrue,butatleastitgavetheillusionofprogress.“We clear on everything?”

Renzasked.“Ordoyouhaveany questions that won’t bewastingmytime?”Quinnsaid,“Ididn’tknow

youhadanex-wife.”Renzhungup.

38

The next morning Quinnslept in and Pearl left thebrownstone around seveno’clock to open the Q&Aoffices. The team of Sal andHaroldwere coming in earlyto prepare for an interviewwiththeSBLPropertiescrane

operator. He’d given hisstatementhalf adozen times.Anotherwouldn’thurt.So far therehadbeenonly

the occasional smallcontradiction. The cranehadn’t responded as usual toits controls.Quinnhadheardthat the operator was aredheaded guy named Perry,who looked about fourteenuntil a second look revealedhe was about forty. He wasstill jumpy, and blamed

himself for the crashing andcarnage.Of course, unless he was

connectedinsomewaytotheacid thathadmeltedsomeofthe crane’s cables, or to theshaped charge, he had noreasontofeelguilt.Quinn poured himself a

cupofcoffeeandwentouttothe tiny secluded courtyardbehindthebrownstone.Therewasasmallgreenmetaltablethere, and three green metal

chairs. They were rust-freeand weatherproof as long asQuinn painted them everyspring.Randall, the bulldog that

livednextdoor,begantobarkup a storm, until he heardQuinn’svoiceanddecidedtobequiet.One of these days, Quinn

thought, Randall would becorrect in his desperateprognosis of a catastrophe.Those were the odds,

anyway. This kind of dogcouldn’t be wrong all thetime.After Quinn used a paper

towel towipedownthe tableand one of the chairs, hespread open the twonewspapersPearl had left for him, the

Times and the Post. Despitethem being already read byPearl, and maybe by Jody,they were folded inreasonably neat fashion. He

used another paper towel,folded in quarters, as amakeshift coaster for hiscoffeecup.It was a beautiful, clear

morning, with only a breathofbreeze.Quinnfireduponeof his Cuban cigars. Hehadn’tkeptupontheMickeyMouse ordinances he kepthearingabout.Didn’tknowiftheCubanshadbecomelegalyet or not. Whether andwhere in the city he could

smoke any kind of cigardidn’t much concern him.Peoplewhorobbedandkilledand blew up other peopleconcerned him. Not if orwhere someone somewhereelse was lighting up sometobacco.Scofflawbastard.Hesipped,inhaled,read.The press didn’t seem as

interestedintheparticularsoffires or crashing cranes orelevators as theywere in the

two dead, beautiful dancerswho had both been elevatedby the media to the choruslineinOtherPeople’sHoney.The producers of the playknewhowtowring tearsandpublicity from theirprospective audience. Therewereplentyofquestionstobeasked. Had the two dancersdiedat thesame time?In thesame way? What were theirlast words? Did they suffer?Have husbands? children?

(Neither was married or amother.)What other playsormovieshadtheyappearedin?What other celebrities didthey know? Who were theirfavorites, not just in plays orinfrontofthecameras,butasreal and dedicated humanbeings? Who was going toreplace them in their currentroles? Was the play nowcursed?Quinnsipped,smoked,and

mulled over some of those

questions,butnotall.In another part of town,

Jordan Kray was avidlyreadingthesamepapers,plustheDailyNews.He was famous, all right.

Notashisrealname,butthatdidn’tmatter.Heknew,intheheart and depths of his fear,that at some point his realname would be revealed. Itwould be engraved on his

tombstoneorplaque.Not the brief stint he’d

done in the military. Thatmight never be known. Notfor sure. He’d joined underanother name, another age,anothermission.But he wouldn’t lose his

professional name. TheGremlin. The ghost in themachine.Helikedtheringofit. It was memorable. Whenhe thought about it, thethrobbing in his brain, the

relentless thrashing sound,wouldusuallysubside.People would visit his

grave. The public wouldfinally recognize thevoracious fire of genuinegreatness. And how it couldconsume the bearer of thegift.They would know real

fame, real celebrity, whentheysawit,heardit,fearedit.Right how it was merely aspeck on the horizon, a red

carpetunrolled.Rightnow.

39

Missouri,1999JordanKray thoughthe’dbegivena simple instructionbythe farmer, whose namewasLutherFarr:Getout.But Luther apparently

decided there might be too

much risk involved. Thingsdidn’t stop growing, orrotting,becausethehiredhelpwas . . . precariouslybalanced. Jordan seemed allright physically. In fact, hewasagoodworker,andtherewas still a lot of work to bedonearoundthefarm.Jordan understood that his

days and nights at the farmwere limited. There was noway the familyor anyof theother FreedomFarmworkers

would understand. He haddismembered the goat toinvestigate itsbone structure,seethethicknessofthebonesandsinewthatpermittedsuchbuttingpowerinsuchasmallanimal. How could anyonenotrealizethatnothingwronghadbeendone?Thegoatwasone of those animals peoplereliedupon. Itwas leather, itwasinsulation,itwasmeat.It was also cuter than a

cow, and possibly more

intelligent. Closer to thehuman mind if not body ofthe cow or ox. Or even thehorse.Whenyou looked intogoats’eyes,theyoftenlookedback at you with a certaincalculation. A message:We’re both smarter than thehens. We should be friendsandpartners.But of course that wasn’t

true. Not the last part,anyway.You should be food. You

should be sacrificial. Like inSundayschool.What he didn’t know was

that the goat was Jasmine’sfavoritepet.AndJasminewasthe farmer’s favoritedaughter.Jasmine was sixteen, but

mature for her age. Jordanwas fond of her, or at leastsawherasadesirableobject.She seemed to return hisinterest. In fact, he was sureshe’d developed a crush on

him.Thatcouldbeuseful.A few times, Luther Farr

had caught his daughtersmilingatJordaninawayhedidn’t like. But all that hadhappened so far were somecautionary, scathing looks.Still,Lutherwasplanting theseed of fear in Jordan. AndLuther was on the edge ofunderstanding that aboy likeJordan wasn’t rich soil inwhich fear might thrive.

Something quite differentfrom fear had already takenroot.One evening, at Jordan’s

request, he and Jasmine metsecretly in a copse of elmtrees.Theywerewellbeyondthe farmhouse and itsclapboard addition. Theaddition was where the helpslept.IncludingJordan.There were half a dozen

youths living andworking atthe farm. Jordan wasn’t the

only one there who’d hadminor brushes with the law.Whatdidpeopleexpect,fromsomeone usually alone andwith practically no money?There was in the land acatalyst thatnotmanypeoplehad to experience: Hunger.Usually it was hunger thatdrove Jordan to larceny.Hunger and cold sometimesteamed up to edge himtowardmoreseriouscrimes.(Thoughhedidn’t thinkof

them as crimes.Not by theirstrictest definition. If it wasabout survival, it wasn’tcriminal.)Jasmine, who had ripened

that year with the crops, satwith her coltish legs crossedonasmallblueblanketshe’dbroughtwithher.Itwaswithgreat reluctance that she’dagreed to meet Jordan thisevening. She was stillheartbrokenoverthedeathofher pet goat, Sadie. Yet still

she felt the magnetism ofJordanwhenhewasnearher.Liketonight.“I just don’t understand

why you did that to Sadie,”Jasmine said. Just thinkingaboutitmadeherchokeupsoshecouldhardlybreathe.Butit was something she didn’tunderstand. She trulywantedtounderstand.Jordanmovedclosertoher.

The toeofhisshoewasonacornerof theblueblanket,as

if itwere amagiccarpet andwithonefoothecouldholditdown so she couldn’t flyaway.“Imadesureshedidn’tfeelanything,”helied.“Iwashumane.Andyouknowyourdadwasgoingtosellthegoatbefore winter. I saved herfrom a less humane death.Sometimes you have to befirm to be kind. Anybodygrew up on a farm oughtaknowthat.”“Butstill...”

“Also,IneededtoseehowSadiediffered.”“Fromwhat?”“The other goats. I mean,

inside.Theboneandmuscle,howitmoved.”She stared at him with

unblinking blue eyes. Hecould see she was not evenbeginningtounderstand.“I don’t see what the big

dealis,ifyouthinkaboutit,”he said. “I mean, we eatgoats.Partsofthem,anyway.

They’re even killedsometimesaspartofreligiousceremonies.”“Sayswho?”“Says the Bible, Jasmine.

You’ve heard of bloodsacrifices?”“Usuallyit’slambsthatget

sacrificed.”“Well, a goat is a kind of

lamb.”“Notreally.”“Read your Bible,” Jordan

said. “There are plenty of

pictures of goats beingsacrificed.” He wasn’tactuallysureofthat.Shehadtoadmitthatshe’d

seen such pictures, thoughshe couldn’t recollect whenor where. Sunday school,probably, during thoseservices she’dbeen forced toattend. And he was right,people did eat lambs andgoats.“But not Sadie,” she said

withbravecertainty.

“It wouldn’t matter to thegoat,”Jordansaid.“Exceptingoatheaven,maybe.”Jasmine suspected he was

puttingheron,butthatdidn’tmake what he said untrue.Jordan liked to jokesometimes, and not takethings serious that wereserious.Hewasjustlikethat,and when you came rightdowntoit,shedidn’tmindallthatmuch.He knewmore ofthe world than she did,

though he wasn’t always aswise as he thought. Heseemed kind of dangerous,even if he wasn’t all thatlarge a man. You didn’talwaysseeit,butitwasthere.Shekindoflikedthat,too,ina way she didn’t quiteunderstand.Jordan squatted down on

theblanket’sedge,producinga knife from somewhere. Itwasn’t a switchblade or anyother kind of pocketknife; it

had a broad, flat blade thatcametoahonedpoint.Likeabowieknife.He smiled at her, and

began tossing the knife infront of him so that itpenetrated the blanket andstuckinthesoil.“That’s the blanket I used

for my dolls,” she said. Notwarninghimoraskinghimtostop. Simply giving him anugget of partialunderstanding. A glimpse of

herearlychildhood.He continued to flip the

knifeexpertly,soitmadeonerevolution in theairand thenstuck with the same solidchuk! in the ground beneaththe blanket. The rhythmic,brutal sound, over and over,washypnotic.Likesomethingkillingherchildhood.Jordan gazed deep into

Jasmine’s eyes, holding hergaze so she couldn’t turnaway.

Through an understandingsmilehesaid,“TheBibletellsus there comes a time to putawaychildishthings.”She knew that was true.

She would have to face itsomeday. She fought backtears.“I’ll be here in the

morning,” Jordan said. “I’llearnmyfinalpay,thencomeeveningI’llbegone.Ifyou’rehere, we’ll leave together. Anewlifewillbeours.”

He wiped the knife bladecleanwith twoswipeson theside of his thigh, then slid itinto a leather scabbard. Shesaw that it had a yellowedbone handle as he sat downon the blanket and leanedtowardher,kissingher,usinghis tongue, teaching her howtousehers.Still kissing her, he bent

her backward and placed hergently on the blanket. Hebegantounbuttonherblouse,

her shorts. Her clothesseemedtomeltfromher.Shegazed off to the side, likebillionsofwomenbeforeher,and for a second or twobecame as much observer asparticipant.This wasn’t supposed to

happen.Notsosoon.Butnowthat it was happening, shedidn’t mind. Time keptrushingtowardher,pasther.She lay back, her elbows

supporting her at first, then

all theway back, and spreadherlegs,welcominghim.Afterward, Jasmine

couldn’t stop trembling. Sheknew what her father wouldthink. Knew what he wouldtell her. Itwouldn’t be aboutJesus and the blood of thesacrificed. It would be aboutcommerce.Thefoodchain.Everylivingthingrequired

areasontoexist.

Ausefulness.“Even people?” shewould

ask.“Especiallypeople.”“Whyshouldthatbe?”she

wouldask.She hadn’t yet heard a

convincinganswer.

40

Jordan worked hard on thefarm the next day, standingnear Jasmine’s father as thetwo of them shucked corn.Jasmine’s father,Luther,wasa gangly, powerful man. Hewasn’t intimidated, but hedidn’t like meeting Jordan’s

unconcerned gaze. Lutherwas smart in a direct,instinctive kind of way, andwhathesensedinJordanwasakindofdarknessofthesoul.Anemptinessthatinonewayor another would have to befilled.Luther had talked to his

daughterearlier thatday,andthough she had told himnothing, he knew by lookingat her that something hadended, and something had

begun.Shecouldnomorehideher

feelings than could Luther.And Luther believed in Godanddemonsandtherealityofhell.Side by side in the bright

sunlight, the heat andhumidity building, the twomen shucking cornsometimeschancedtolookateachother,anditwasalwaysLutherwhoturnedaway.

Jordanhadaplan.Railroaddicks thesedaysweremostlyan invention of fiction. Theexpenseofhiringsomanyofthem just to keep freeloadersfromtravelingwithoutticketsdidn’t make good economicsense.The boxcars were going

north again, most of thememptiedofcoal andproduce,jingling and jangling along

the rails with their slidingdoors open wide. More thanhalf the boxcarswere empty,the train’s engines so farahead of them theywere outofsightexceptwheretherailscurved.After supper Jordan went

outontotheporch,carryingacold can of Budweiser. HewasscheduledtomeetLutheragain in the morning andfinish the bin of corn cobs.BothLutherandJordanknew

they probably wouldn’t seeeachotheragain.The screen door slammed

and reverberated in the quietsinking light. Luther cameout, carrying a canof chilledBudlikeJordan’s.“Hot night,” he said to

Jordan.“Thattimeofyear,”Jordan

said.Luther glanced around. It

wasanobviousact.“Jasminearound?”

“NotthatIknowof.”“Seenhergoupstairsafter

supper,” Luther said. “Guessshe’s still up there.” Therewasahightensionemanatingfrom him, a crippling regret.Thepastwasover.Thefuturewasgoingtochangeinawaythat made Luther sick andafraid.He’d known this day

would come. When thecancer had gotten his wife,Jasmine’smother,Lutherwas

left with Jasmine and hermemories. He lived with hisregrets. The silent truths thatboth knew were left unsaid.Nothing could stop themfrom working their dreadeddamage.Hecouldn’tleavethefarm,

and nothing would compelJasmine to stay in a househaunted by her mother. Afamilyhadbeendestroyedbydeath. Luther knew whatquiet horror would haunt his

final days, and perhaps hiseternity,Hehesitated,seemedabout

to say something more toJordan,thenloweredhisheadandturnedaway.“Seeyoucomesunrise,”he

said.Jordan didn’t answer.

Lutherdidn’tlookback.The eleven o’clock

American Eagle sounded its

lonely trailing wail. Jordanthought it was like a wolfhowl,carriedonthewind.He and Jasmine each

carriedaduffelbagjustlargeenough for a change ofclothes and some personalitems. Jasmine had stoodfrozeninherbedroombeforeleaving, knowing it was thelast time she’d see so manythings, keepsakes, pictures,hermussedandlongtimebedwith its sheet dragging the

floor.Jordan had warned her:

therewasnowaytomoveonwithout leaving the pastbehind.Wasn’tthatthetruth?

The Eagle wailed again.

Jordan knew it would beaudible back at thefarmhouse, but not loudenough to wake anyone.Especially if they were used

toit,aswasLutherFarr.Themournfulsoundofthe

train whistle signaled that itwould soon be part of thepast, and the past would befixedintimeandplace.Carrying their bags slung

over their shoulders, Jordanand Jasmine jogged so theircoursewouldcrossthatofthetrain tracks. But theywouldn’tcrosstherails.Theywouldstopatthem,thenwait.Seconds became minutes,

then theEagle came at thematanangleoutof theeast. Itstarted small and then grewslowly,comingatthemfasterand faster. They watched inthemoonlightasboxcarafterboxcar, most of them emptyand with opened doors oneach side, clanged andclatteredpast.As they’d agreed,

approaching the train fromthesideataforty-five-degreeangle,Jordanhungbacksohe

could runalongside.Thenhequicklymountedasmallsideladder near the front of aboxcar’s open door. In thesame smooth motion, hetossedhisduffel bag in, thenpulledhimselfupandaroundandintotheboxcar.He swiveled so hewas on

his hands and knees, lookingahead for Jasmine. For amoment a voice in his mindtold him she wasn’t comingwith him. What was a

promisefromagirlsoyoung?Toaboynotmucholder?He edged closer where he

was kneeling at the openboxcar door, and there shewas.Jordan watched fascinated

as she followed hisinstructions perfectly. Firstshe hung on to the ladder ofthe moving car and with herfree hand tossed her duffelbag up through the gapingside door. Then she gripped

the small steel ladder builtintothesideofthecar.Madeherwayalongthesideof thebouncing,clangingcar,totheopen door. As Jordan hadtaught her, she grabbed holdoftheladderwithbothhandsand swung out and theninsidetheboxcar,Butonlyhalfway.Herheart tookflight likea

startled bird, then Jordan’sstronghandclosedaroundherwrist. He pulled, pulled, her

shins sliding and bangingpainfully against the floor’sedge.Thenshewasin!They lay together on the

boxcar’s rough plank floor,the train jouncing andsquealing and very graduallybuilding up speed. Fresh airstreamed in through theopendoors,alongwiththesmelloftheworkedearth.Thetrainhelditsspeedand

theridebecamesmoother,the

boxcar swaying in a gentle,rocking rhythm. The steelwheelsbeganasteadytickingsound. The night breeze—orwas it the moonlight?—playedoverthem.JordanandJasmine were out in theendless fields and prairies,theirdreamsintact.A man’s voice from the

darkshadowsatthefarendofthe boxcar said, “I was gladtoseeyoubothmadeit.”

41

NewYork,thepresentRenz, seated behind hisairport-sizedeskinhisoffice,handed a photograph toQuinn. He had leaned so farover the desk, so he couldreach Quinn’s outstretched

hand, that Renz’s purple tiedragged and got defaced bywhat looked like erasercrumbs. Or were they pastrycrumbs?Whatever theywere, Renz

saw Quinn staring at themand deftly brushed them offandonto thefloorbehind thedesk.Quinn concentrated on the

photo. It was in black andwhite,andgrainy.“It’sa still froma security

camera,” Renz said. “Fromfournightsago,tenthirty-fivep.m. Outside the DevlinBuilding over on TwelfthStreet.Theguyswho run thecoffee shop inside have beenbitching about drug dealsgoing down in thepassageway. That’s alsowhere a big Dumpster sits,gets emptied every twoweeks.”“Sowhatmakesthemthink

this isn’t a drug deal? Or

some scroungers looking foralatemeal?”“Lookcloseratit.”Quinn moved slightly

sideways so a better lightwouldshowonthephoto.“Thatwasthebestthetech

guyscoulddo,”Renzsaid.Quinn was looking at a

slight figure, maybe awoman, turning and runningawayfromwhatlookedlikeaDumpster.Shewasclutchingsomething white in her (or

his) hand, and looking back,asiftomakesurenoonewasfollowing. The camera anglewas from approximately tenfeetabovethesubjectandatasharp angle, so her face wasbarely visible. She waswearingabaseballcap,eitherblue or black, with the billpulled down low so herfeatureswouldbeobscured.Itdid appear that the subjectwasglancingback.Renz handed Quinn a

magnifyingglass.Quinnheldthephotoatthesameangletothesunandobservedthroughthecurvedlens.“That white object the

character has in his or herhand looks like a foamtakeout box from arestaurant,”Quillsaid.“Yeah,butlookattheear.”Quinn did. The subject’s

right ear seemed to protrudeat a sharp angle from hishead,andmightverywellbe

pointed. If itwasn’t simplyashadow.Or an errant lock ofhair.Quinnsaid,“Idon’tknow,

Harley.Timesaretough.Thislookslikesomebodysnappeda photo of a Dumpster-diverscoutingaroundfordinner.”“Or it could be our

Gremlin on the run. Takingmealswheneverandhoweverpossible.”“With another killer with

him?Acopycat?Who’dwant

to be mixed up with a guywhoslicesanddicespeople?”“Somebody who doesn’t

know what he’s bummingaround with. The worst ofthese sickos can seem thenicest and least dangerous.That’s their cover, how theycamouflagethemselves.”“The public seen this

photo?”Quinnasked.“Yeah. The morning

news,”Renzsaid.“ThankstoMinnieMinerASAP.”

“Thatwouldfigure.Minniecan’t stay away frommurdercases. They make suchcompellingnews.”“Well,youcan’tblameher

for turning death intoentertainment.That’sherjob.At least we knowwhere shestands.”With a foot on your balls,

Quinnthought,butdidn’tsay.TheGremlin put down his

coffeecupindisgust.Hewason the balcony of hisapartment, where he oftentookbreakfast.Hedidn’tfeelhis best this morning, so itwas coffee and orange juiceonly. No cream, no fat. Hehad to stay in shape. Smallbutmighty,hethought.He laid the paper out flat

and studied the photographclose up. Then he leanedback, satisfied.Therewasnoway anyone could make a

positive identification basedonthegrainysecuritycamerastill.Sowhatwasgoingon?Or

was it reallyonly somegoodcitizenwhowantedhisnamein the papers and talkedhimself into thinking that thesmall person in thephotographwastheGremlin?And that the Gremlin wasJordan.The more the Gremlin

thought about it, the less

likelyanythingrepresentingathreat,or aplan,hadbeen inevidence. He had simplyparked half a block downfrom the restaurant and thencarried his three large blackbags from his car’s trunk tothepassageway.Quicklyhe’dliftedthelidof theDumpsterand tossed inside the blackplasticbags,listeningtothemland softly on trash that hadbuilt up for the past twoweeks and now had a

familiar, sickening stenchwhenthelidwasraised.Thatwas good, because when theDumpster was lifted andemptied in the truck, whatwas on top would be on thebottom,andleast likelytobefound.

42

Missouri,1999The shadow in the corneroftheboxcarmoved,thenstoodup and became a tall,potbellied man with a darkbeard and gray-streaked hairgrowndowntohisshoulders.

“You twohopped rides ontrainsbefore?”heasked.“First time,” Jasmine said.

Shesoundedalmostcheerful,as if theywere talking aboutlearningtorideabicycle.Theman smiled.A couple

of teethweremissing,givinghimajovial,carved-pumpkinexpression. “I’m Kirby,” hesaid. He was holding whatlooked like a gin or vodkabottle. He started to take adrink, thenrealizedthebottle

was empty. He skillfullydropped it on the leather toeof his shoe so it wouldn’tbreakontheboxcarfloorandleave grass shards. It rolledwhole and harmless away.Thewhole process looked asifhe’ddoneitcountlesstimesbefore.Jordanhadn’tmoved since

noticing the man. “Jordan,”he said, by way ofintroduction.There was a slight dip in

the rails, causing the car tolurch and sway. Everyoneflexedtheirkneesandrodeitout.Looking dubious, Kirby

said, “You two sure this isnewtoyou?”“We’re sure,” Jasmine

said.Kirby stretched as if to

show off his height andmuscles in contrast toJordan’s slightness. Helookedanythingbutfit,yethe

still held the undeniableadvantageinsizeandstrengthoverJordan.“What we gotta do right

off,”Kirbysaid,“isgettheseboxcardoorspartwayshutsowewon’tdrawanyattention.Y’unerstan’?”“Sure,” Jasmine said. “We

wanna look like the otherboxcars,butnotsomuchthatwewon’thaveenoughhidingspacetostayouttasight.”Kirby smiled at her,

lookinglikeahappypumpkinwith selectively missingteeth. Then he aimed hissmile at Jordan. “This is asmart and sexy little gal yougothere.”Jordandidn’tknowwhatto

say to that. Simplymuttered,“Thanks.”Jasmine looked at him, as

if for the first timeabalancehad shifted. He seemedscared,andthatscaredher.She wasn’t the only one

scared.Jordanwishedhehadaweapon.Astoutclub.Evenagun.Theonly thinghehadthatcoulddodamagewashisfolding knife in his jeanspocket, with its four-inchblade.Heknewitwouldtaketoo long to fish theknifeoutof his tight jeans andopen itwithbothhands.He was standing near one

of the wide-open doors, hisfeet spreadwide so he couldmaintain his balance in the

swaying boxcar. Outside,only a few feet from him,greensceneryglidedpast.“Youkids’llgetusedtoit,”

Kirbysaid.“Used to what?” Jordan

asked.HesawthatKirbywasnow standing closer toJasmine.“Bein’ on the road. It’s

hard till youknow the ropes,thenyoucatchon.”“Towhat?”Jordanasked.“To where you can grab

some sleep, find ameal.An’stay outta harm’s way.Y’unerstan’?”“Sure.”“An’ you gotta knowwho

yourfriendsare.”Kirby moved suddenly,

causing Jordan to jerk hisbody and step protectivelytowardJasmine.But Kirby was merely

moving to one of the wide-openboxcardoors.Hepushedsidewaysonthe

heavy steel door to close it,butitdidn’tmove.“Sometimes they don’t

closesoeasy,”hesaid.“Thisone slides rough. Gimme ahand,Jordan.”Jordanmadehiswayover,

and the two of them leanedhard into the door. It didn’tbudge.“Sum’bitch is like it’s

welded,”Kirbysaid.Suddenly the door slid

easily halfway closed and

then jammed. Jordan hadfallen to his knees. As hestood up, he saw that Kirbywas watching Jasmine. Hecouldn’t keep his eyes fromher.“Only open it partways,”

he said to Jordan. “Leave itabout two feet from bein’closed, then we’ll do that tothe other door. That waywe’ll have some crossventilation and light in here,and we’ll still be outta sight

unless somebody pokes hishead in and looks aroundclose.”Jordan recalled how

invisible Kirby had been inthe shadows when he andJasmine first got into theboxcar. Kirby had been niceenough so far, but Jordanknew enough not to eat thewholeapple.His right knee was plenty

sorewherehe’dbumpeditonthe floor.Hecrawledover to

where Jasmine sat near anopen door, then sat downbeside her with his backagainst theboxcar’splywoodside.Alongwith Jasmine, hestared out at the trees andfields. At the distance. He’dnever been this far fromhome.Kirby was sitting across

from them, near where theotherdoorwasopenbutonlyafewfeet.“How far you two goin’?”

Kirby asked. Here and therestraw and white packingtablets lay on the boxcar’splank floor. He had a strandofstrawstuckinthecornerofhismouth likea toothpick. Itrotated in a wide arc as hemovedhistonguearound.“All theway east,” Jordan

said.Kirby stared across the

boxcaratJasmine.“This train’sgonna stopat

JeffCity,”hesaid.“Thenit’ll

goontoSt.Louis,whereit’llswitchout.”“Switchout?”“Uncouple and sit empty

till it gets hooked to anotherengine.Wejustneedtoavoidtherailroaddicks.”“We’ll figure out how to

makeourway,”Jordansaid.Jasmine smiled at him,

reaching over and squeezinghiswrist.Kirbysneezed,spatouthis

straw, and struggled to his

feet in the swaying boxcar.Hereachedintoabackpocketas if to draw out ahandkerchief.Instead he was gripping

something in a small grayclothbagthesizeofasock.“What’s that?” Jasmine

asked.Kirby smiled, then said,

“Candy.”Only it wasn’t candy; it

was gravel. And it formed ahard lump in the toe of the

sock thatmade itanefficientsap.

43

Kirbyswung the saphardatJordan’s head but hit hisshoulder instead, said,“Sum’bitch!” and swungagain. This time he missedentirelyandalmostfellastheboxcarjerked.Then the girl, who

appeared to be so frail, wasonhimlikea tigerandmuchstrongerthanshelooked.“Ow! Friggin’ country

bitches,” he yelled as hersharp fingernails dug hardintothesidesofhisneck.He pushed her away and

shefellback.Gothalfwayupthenstumbledandfellagain.The pulsing and swaying

boxcar was Kirby’s friendnow.He coulddispensewiththesetwoeasily.

He turned toward the boy,but he was no longer there.That puzzled Kirby. Hethought he’d hit Jordan hardenoughtobreakacollarbone.The kid should beincapacitated.So what’d he do? Jump

outta the boxcar? Was thefeisty little bastard lying inthedarkness?Washeoff thetrain and running and hidinginthenight?Jordan charged out of the

blackness at the other end ofthe boxcar and hit Kirby atthe knees; Kirby went downhard, and Jordan crawled uphis back and twined an armaroundKirby’srightarmandwastwistingit,causingKirbyto yelp. He tried to pushhimself up with his left armsohecouldstand,butJordanpunched the arm out frombeneath him and Kirby wentface-first against the hardfloor.

Kirby yelped again.Damned farm kids spendtheir lives at hard labor,gettin’ strongbefore theygetsmart. Twice as strong asthey look. Kirby spat bloodand figured he’d be lucky ifhisnosewasn’tbroken.This is wrong! I don’t

deservethis!Ineedtobeleftalone!But he knew he was too

late.Hecouldn’tsurrendertohimself.Andnobodyelsewas

listening.Here came the girl again.

What the hell was she doin’now?Wrestlingwith both ofthem. Almost like she wasattackingJordan.But that notion was

dispelledwhenherteethsankintoKirby’sbareheel,andhewas angry with himself nowfor using the sock as a sapand then missing his target.Friggin’Jordankidshouldbethe one down with his head

splitopen.What was the bitch doin’

with Jordan now? Tryin’ totake his pants down? Whatthehell?Wasfightingforherlifegettingherhot?Despitehisbruisesandbite

marks, Kirby was feelingmoreconfident.Jordanmightbe on top, but he wasweakening. Jasmine keptclawing at him like she wastrying to work down hisLevi’s.

What she would do then,onlyGodknew.Then he realized what

Jasminewasattemptingtodo.Sum’bitch!

Jasmine felt anotherfingernailbendbackand tearas she clawed at the roughdenim of Jordan’s jeans. Shegrabbed the edge of a sidepocket, gripped and pulled,

and the fingernail felt as if ithadtorncompletelyloose.She felt the wetness of

blood.It made her fight all the

harder.Jordan was squirming

around now, understandingand trying to help her. Hecouldn’t help much. One ofKirby’s arms was pinnedbeneath him, the other bentback and pinned by Jordan,but he was a powerful man

andstillplentydangerous.“You kids stop this right

now!”heyelled.Asifthey’dattacked him and started thehostilities.Jasmine got three fingers

intoJordan’ssidepocketandfelt the smoothhandleof thefolding knife he alwayscarried.Shewaselated.Ifshecould just work the knife allthewayoutofthepocket,shecoulduseonehandtoopenitwith her teeth, then this

struggle would end and thatwouldbetheendofKirby.Howshehatedhimat that

moment. He’d attempted tostealtheirfutureforwhateverhe could loot from their colddeadbodies.Theirfuture!Her blood served as a

lubricant. She worked,worked with her mangledfingersand felt thehandleoftheknifecleartheedgeofthepocket.

Itwashalfwayout.“Youkidsstopthisnow!”“We ain’t kids,” Jordan

said.“Andweain’tgonnastop,”

Jasmineadded.“I’m warnin’ you!” Kirby

yelled.“You’regonnabeinalottatrouble!”“Fordoin’toyouwhatyou

were gonna do to us?”Jasmine said. And the knifewasfree.Jasmine gripped the knife

as best she could in heruninjured hand. Like mostfoldingknivesithadagroovealong the back of the bladewhere you could hook yourfingernailsintoitandpullthebladeopen.“A lotta trouble!” Kirby

choseforhislastwords.Jasmine didn’t have the

fingernails for this task. Shegrippedtheknifecarefullybyits handle, holding her tornnails so they were under the

leastpossiblepressure.Kirby knew death was on

its way and buckedpowerfully.Jasminewasstraddlinghim

now,staringatapulsingblueartery in his neck. She fixedher eyes on it, knowing theknifewouldgodirectly to itstarget. Drew her knife handbackandgrippedithard.Toohard.The blood from her torn

nails had made the smooth

knife handle even smoother,andtooslipperytohold.Jasmine felt it slide out

frombetweenherfingerslikeawatermelonseed.Shemadea futile grab for the knife,praying even that she couldcatchitbytheblade.But Kirby had worked his

pinned arm free and grabbedat the knife while it wassuspended in midair. Hecouldn’t get a grip on it buthe knocked it away. It went

skittering across the boxcarfloor, out of everyone’sreach.Kirbyusedhis free arm to

punch Jordan in the side ofhis head, then shoved himawayalongwithJasmine.Hestarted to crawl toward theknife. Jordan was only halfconscious, and Jasmine waswinded“I’ll show you little

pissants somethin’ now!”Kirbywheezed.

Jasmine was terrified thathewas right.Hewas closestto the knife, and couldmovefaster and was stronger thaneither of them. She andJordanwereasgoodasdead.Untilherhandclosedona

sockfullofgravel.She started crawling faster

towardKirby,not toward theknifeitself.Thatpuzzledhimforafewseconds.A few seconds were

enough.

The first blow with themakeshiftsapdazedKirby.ThenJasminemountedhim

likeahorseandhithimagainandagainandagain...The train was on the flat

now, and in vast darkness. Itspeeded along, making time,toward the brightmystery ofits wavering light far ahead.The train wouldn’t goanywhere but straight for

miles, and the source of thelightwasunseen, awaveringunsteady glow up ahead andofftothesides.Jordan and Jasmine were

stillbreathinghard,inconcertwith the rhythmsof the trainrattlingthroughthefields.Jasminesaid,“Let’sgetrid

ofhim.”Jordan, leaning with his

back against the swayingboxcar wall, looked over atKirby stretched out

motionless on the floor. Itwas too dark to see for sure,butthereseemedtobealotofblood around Kirby’s head.Kirby’smouthwasopen.Hiseyes looked to be only halfclosed. His expression wasthat of aman slyly planning,exceptforthefactthathewassostill.Thedeaddidn’tplan.Jasmine got up, her body

swaying with the boxcar soshe could maintain herbalance. Jordan used the

boxcar wall as a supporthelpinghimtogettohisfeet.Fighting off dizziness, healmostfell.They made their way to

whereKirbylay.“Hegone?”Jasmineasked.“Far as we’re concerned,”

Jordansaid.“TimeforMisterKirbytogetoffthetrain.”Together, they gripped

Kirbybyhisshirtandleatherbelt and inched him towardtheopensteeldoor.He’dleft

a large bloodstain, glisteningblackinthedarkness.Jasmine sat down on the

floorandshovedKirbyalongwithbothfeet.Jordan,withawidestance,stoodoverKirbyand used Kirby’s belt to lifthim slightly and shove himtoward theblackrectangleofthedoor.They pushed together,

usingall theirmight.Kirby’sarmjammedinthedoor,asifhedidn’twanttoleave.

Then the arm came loose,and he was out in the blacknight, as if plucked from thetrain by someone orsomething that had beenwaiting for him all along.Jordan leaned out the doorand looked toward the backofthetrain.TherewasKirby,his momentum still tumblinghim along near the steelwheels.Thenhebouncedintoinvisibility and the night hadhim.

“Dead or alive,” Jordansaid, “nobody’s gonna findhim for a while. And if he’sdead, or even justunconscious,it’lltakeawhiletofigurehefelloffatrain.”Jasmine knew the rails

would be all the clue thepolice would need to tellthem where the body hadcome from, but she didn’tmention it to Jordan.Hewasstill shaken up and notthinkingstraight.

Heleanedbackagainst theswaying boxcar wall andclosedhiseyes.Thetrainrattledonthrough

thenight.

44

NewYork,thepresentIt was a surprisingly coolmorning. Quinn and Pearlwere walking alongBroadway toward Zabar’s tohave breakfast and then buysomepastryfortherestofthe

Q&Apersonnel.It had rained slightly

duringthenight,butnowthesky was cloudless. Thecolorfullinesoftraffic-stalledcars were punctuated by theoccasional yellow cab.Sunlight glancing offconcrete, steel, and glassmade everything lookrecently washed, which in away was the case. Here andthere, glitters of dew stillclung to weeds or grass that

had inched their way upbetween edges and cracks inthepavement.Pearl’s cell phone chimed

and she walked slower andfisheditoutofherpurse.Shewas afraid the callerwas hermother, whom shedeliberately and shamelesslysaw too little of. But whenshe squinted down at thephoneshesawthecallerwasherdaughter,Jody.Pearl andQuinnslowed to

a near stop. A passerbybounced offQuinn, glared athim, and then looked closerandsweetenedup.“What’s up?” Pearl asked

her daughter. It was aquestion she never askedwithoutsometrepidation.“IwentouttoseeGramma

at Assisted Living. She saysshemissesyou,toldmetoletyou know you should giveher a call at the nursinghome.”

“Nursing home” was whatPearl’s mother called SunsetAssisted Living in NewJersey,whereshehadawell-furnished one-bedroomapartment. The kind of placethatwouldhavecostamillionand a half dollars inManhattan.“That all?” It was a short

message to be coming fromPearl’smother.“No,” Jody said. “She

wants us to buy her

somethinghereinthecity.”“You know about real

estate prices in Manhattan.She’sbetteroff—”“No,no,Mom.Shedoesn’t

want a better apartment—atleastnotnow.Sheneedsoneof those folding contraptionswith metal claws on the endofalongpole.Forpickingupobjectsshecan’treach.”“What kind of objects?”

Pearlasked.“Isuspectdesserts, snacks,

wrapped candies. She uses awalker now and doesn’t likeit.”“So she wants to use her

walker and a grabber on apole?”“No, no. Just the pole

contraption, like a lot of theotherpatientshavehere.”“Tenants.”“And maybe a new

wheelchair.”“Good God! Are they

goingtojoust?”

“She’syourmotherandmygrandmother. Don’t make ajokeofit.”“Okay.Sure.”“The longest pole they

make,shesaid.”“Sure.Butwithherwalker

she’sstandingup.”“It’s getting to things,”

Jody said. “Her walker isn’tfast enough. Some of theother women are alwaysaheadofher.Shegetsthelastor the smallest or what’s

broken.”“Shehastennisballsonher

walker,” Pearl said. “If sheputs oil on them she’ll havethe fastestwalker.Oil on thetennis wheels, and thosewalkers will blow your hatoff.”Jodygiggled.“What’sthatIhear?”Pearl

asked. “You’re an attorney.You’re supposed to beserious.”“Oil your tennis balls,”

Jody said, through hergiggling. Pearl started togiggle. She couldn’t helpherself.Moregiggling.Quinnlooked at her as if she wereinsane. But then, that couldhappen,talkingtoJody.“For God’s sake,” Quinn

said.“You’reacop.”PearllookedoveratQuinn

and opened her mouth toexplain.Thatwaswhen they heard

thethreeloudexplosions.

Quinn put his hand onPearl’s shoulder, while shetoldJodyshehadtogo.“Business?”Jodyasked.“Business.”“Becareful,Mom.”“I’macop.”QuinnandPearlrantoward

thesourceoftheexplosions.

45

Whentheygot to theendofthe block, a crowd wasbeginning to build. Threepolice cars had arrived, twoof which were parked toblock traffic and turn itaround to detour. Apotbellied, uniformed cop

was wandering around,wavinghisarmsandshoutingfor pedestrians to get back.Two others were knee-deepin debris, trying to findpeople and dig them out.Several civilians had ignoredthe uniforms and entered thefieldofwreckage.Aten-storybuilding housing a drycleaners and apartments hadcollapsed on a five-storyoffice building. Brokenbricks, bent iron rebar,

twisted steel, chunks ofconcrete and marble,stretched before them forblocks. A cloud of dirt anddrywallrolledoverthescene,the breeze snatching it awayfrom where Quinn and Pearlstood.Theycouldhearamanscreaming nearby, beneaththedebris.Sirens yowled, horns

blared, voices screamed andpleadedforhelp.Quinnheardachild’svoicesomewhere in

thegritthatwasairborneanddistorting the source anddirectionofsound.Itwasalsoblockinghisnoseandleavingahorribletasteonhistongue.He was close to the child

whohadscreamedand,alongwith others, began to digthroughandthrowdebris.Five feet away, Pearl was

workingtofreeawomanwhowas trapped beneath whatlooked like a large fallenbeam.

Quinn and the othersconcentrated on the child,who was almost completelyburied.Five minutes later several

others joined their efforts.Quinn was surprised to seethat one of the rescuers wasPearl. Her expression toldhim that the woman she’dbeen trying to savehaddied.Pearl found space next toQuinn and began grippingwhateverwreckageshecould

reach and tossing it away.She was gasping for breathand he could hear hersobbing.Someone yelled, a joyous

whoop,andacrossthejaggedand blackened pile of rubbletwo men were carefullyremoving the child they’dbeen working to free. Nomorethanthreeorfouryearsold, the child appeared to bein shock, but definitely aliveand still protesting with

healthylungs.Morenoise,more calls for

help,more people trapped inthe rubble. Quinn and Pearlcontinuedtoworknearwherea woman stood sobbing andpleading for help to free herhusband, who was trappedbeneath bricks and shatteredglass. When the womanwasn’t screaming, he couldbe heard fromwhere hewasvirtuallyburied.A particularly large chunk

of concrete was eased asidebyseveralbloodyhands, andthe man who’d beenscreamingbutnowwasquietwas carefully removed frombeneath the debris. He waswhite with shock, and hisright leg was missing. Thesobbing woman who’ddirected searchers to himrushed toward him but wasrestrainedbyseveralmenandateenagegirl.Quinntookoffhisbeltand

fashioned a tourniquet tostanch the injured man’sbleeding.Movement and noise

around him, more voices.Quinnwasnudged aside, notall that gently. The belt wasremoved and replaced bysomething else. Somethingmore effective. Then handswearing huge gloves workedtheirwaybeneath the injuredman and lifted him. Morehugegloves,helpingtolocate

and remove the injured, thepeople in shock. Playing outhoses.WearingblackT-shirtswithwhitelettering—FDNY.The Fire Department had

arrived.Sirens of every kind of

emergency vehicle were stillyowling. Uniforms at bothends of the blocked streetwerelettingthempassinandout with alacrity. No onewantedtocomeinhereunlesscompelled by compassion or

occupation.A woman obviously in

shock, wearing a tatteredpants suit, stumbled over toPearl and collapsed. Pearlheld her, helped her towalk,urged her to keep breathing,and led her toward where atleast three ambulances wereparked, their light stripsputting on a colorful butmuted display in the thickdust.Exhausted, Quinn trudged

on. He’d taken only a dozenstepswhenahandlikeaclawclosed on his arm andsqueezedhard.“Take him, please!” a

woman’s voice pleadedalongsideQuinn.He turned and saw a

womanholdinganinfantlessthan a year old. She wasobviously about to pass outanddropthechild.She thrust the infant at

Quinn. Said, “My other

daughter’sinthere.”He could think of nothing

to say, nothing to do butaccept the child. Thewomanturned around and made herwaybacktowardthecenterofhell.Quinnthoughtforafewsecondsthathe’dgoafterher,help her. But there was thechildinhisarms.He gripped the silent,

staring boy and walkedtowardtheambulances.Ashestrode in shuffling, zombie-

likestrides,hefeltaglimmerof hope that the damagewasless than it might be. Thereseemedtobesomecontrolofitnow,sincemorepoliceandthe fire department hadarrived.When he reached the

ambulancesheturnedtheboyover to white-uniformedparamedics. As the back ofthe nearest ambulanceopened, he saw the womanPearl had been helping,

sitting with others in theambulancewhoweresobbingorsimplysittingandstaring.He glanced around,

walking along the line ofparked ambulances, lookingfor Pearl. Finally he saw hersitting on the back of one ofthe vehicles with an openback door. It struck Quinnthat shewas staringwith thesamedazedexpressionasthewoman who’d just handedhimherbaby.

When she saw Quinn shesmiled,andhefeltimmenselybetter. Hewalked to her andstoodnexttoher.“Thewomanfindherother

daughter?”heasked.“I think so. Yes.” She

seemed tohaveno ideawhathe was talking about. Herealizedshethoughthemeantthe first infant they’d helprescue.“Imeantthesecondbaby,”

hesaid.

“Therewasasecondone?”Hesmiledagain.Two in one day, she

thought. Not such a toughguy. She drew a deep breathand stood up. “Wanna gobackformore?”“Likeyoudo,”hesaid.They walked back toward

the fallen buildings. Thevolunteers, cops, andfirefighters were swarmingover the debris now,searching for survivors or

more of the dead. At leasthalf a dozen dogs and theirhandlers were roaming thewreckage.“Let’s pace ourselves this

time,”Quinnsaid,seeingthatthereweresignsoforderandprogress. “It’s almosttwilight.”Pearl was so tired she

simply grunted heragreement.Quinnknewthatevenifhe

triedhecouldn’tstopher.Not

anymore than she could stophim.“TheGremlin,you think?”

sheasked.“Probably. The little

bastard might very well bepartofthecrowd,standingatthe edges, watching andenjoying.Andlearning.”“Infuriating,”Pearlsaid.Quinnwassilent fora few

seconds, then stopped andstoodstill.Pearllookedupathim.

Quinnsaid,“Ismellgas.”

46

Quinn and Pearl stood still,workingthecalculusofdeath.If the buildings had beenbrought down with bombs,there might still be a few ofthem around, timed to killrescuers as well as trappedvictims.

QuinnclutchedPearl’sarmand turned her around. Theypassed a few rescuers goingtheotherdirection,towardthecollapsedbuilding.One of them was a cop,

covered with grit and whatlookedlikedriedblood.Quinn blocked him,

standing squarely in front ofhim and clutching both hisshoulders. “Gas!” He shookthe man. “We’ve gotta turnthesepeoplearound!”

HesimplystaredatQuinn.Seeingthatthemanwasin

deep shock, Quinn tried toturn him around, but hepulledawayand resumedhisshufflingwalktowardthetwobuildings that had beenreducedtoruins.HalfpullingPearlwithhim,Quinnstartedwalking faster toward theNYPDsawhorses andyellowtape, and the seeminglyimpossible geometry ofdozens of hastily parked

vehicles.“Gas!” Quinn shouted

again, waving his free arm.“The gas lines are broken!Wegottagetouttahere!”A few people heard him,

thenstoodstillandlistenedtosee what he was yellingabout.When they finally figured

it out, they began walkingaway from the collapsedbuildings.The smell of the gas was

stronger now. And constant.More and more people leftthe scene of the bombing.Some began to jog. Anysecond another, even worse,explosionmightoccur.Almost everyone, rubber-

necker or rescuer, wasmovingaway.SeveralNYPDcops were yelling as Quinnhad, and waving their arms,trying to hurry people along.This wasn’t simply someonewho’d left the stove on

without the pilot light. Carswithin the crazy mosaic ofparkedvehiclestriedtocutinon each other, fighting fordistance. Metal screeched.Fenderscrunched.Auniformwastryingwithoutsuccesstorecover some order in whathad become a panic.Hewasknocked down by whatlooked like a football playerdressed like a banker, thengotupandranafter theman.Oneengineafteranotherwas

starting up. People shouted.Starters ground. Hornshonked.“Every time an engine

starts,there’saspark,”QuinntoldPearl.“Thanks for that

information,”shesaid.The word spread quickly,

and the word was gas.Everyone outside a vehiclewas runningnow,pickingupspeed.Within seconds trafficjammed up and cars were

being abandoned. Pearlstopped fighting Quinn andranalongsidehim.Thescreamingbegan.Close behind them, the

morningburstintoflames.Blocks away and upwind,

the Gremlin sat at a rooftoprestaurant window table andwatchedwhatwashappening.He had a throwaway cellphoneandwasdescribingthe

scene to Minnie Miner, whosoundedgenuinelyaghast.The Gremlin knew he’d

been on the phone longenough for GPS to pose athreat. He said good-bye toMinnie.Shesaid,“No,please!Tell

mewhyyoudidthis!WhyinGod’snamedidyoudo this?Please!”He turned off the phone,

then under cover of thetablecloth, used his butter

knife to pry it apart. Thecheap plastic case snappedopen easily. With powerfulhands, he broke the piecesinto smaller pieces. He putthebrokenphoneinhissport-coat pocket. When he got achance he would fold anewspaper around the phoneand drop it into a trashreceptacle. Why not today’spaper? He’d used thetablecloth so his fingerprintsweren’tonflatsurfacesofthe

broken phone.All the dishesand flatware he’d used hadalready been picked up andtransported from his table tothe kitchen. He wasn’tleavinganyaccidentalclues.Diners without window

seatsweredriftingacross therestaurantnowtostandatthewide windows and gawk atthe dark smoke rising fromthe city. He hoped Minnie’sminions would get a lot ofgoodvideooutofthis.Maybe

they’dusethatasinineartist’srendering of him to showalong with the video. It wasan unflattering likeness, butthat was the one thing heliked about it. It didn’tresemblehimatall.He cautioned himself.

Overconfidencecould lead tominormisstepswhile hewasfocusing on avoiding majormistakes.Though everything had

gone as planned, he still had

the broken cell phone in hispocket. For all the talking orlisteningitcoulddo, itmightas well have been a stupiddrawing of a cell phone.Butit could become evidence. Itmight be a good idea to buyyesterday’s newspaper andturn the phone to trash assoon as possible. Therewereprobably thousands ofdiscardedcopiesoftheTimeson streets and in trashreceptacles around the city,

waiting tobepickedup. Inafew days they would beunfindableinalandfill.And in a few days he

should be able to view upclosethewreckagehisbombshadcreated.Thereshouldbeenoughof

the buildings left standingthat they would providealmost an X-ray view.People’s homes, people’slives, how people lived, howtheydied,allwouldbenaked

for observation andcalculation. The guts of thebombed buildings, their linesof water, gas, electricity,would be visible. Secretswouldbeexposed.Howthingsworked.This was very much like

reverse engineering.Everything was a learningexperience.He decided to skip a

second espresso and letsomeone else watch the city

dealwithitswounds.That was what someone

whocaredmightdo.

Laterhestoppedatapark.There seemed to be no oneelsearound,sohestoodforawhileandtossedthepiecesofthe shattered cell phone onebyoneintoalake,pretendinghe was feeding the ducks.Thoughtherewerenoducks.

Nexttime,hetoldhimself,bringsomebreadcrumbs.Or some ducks, if any of

themaredumbenoughtoeatplastic.He laughed at his own

humor.Therewas,ifonelookedin

the right places, someamusementinlife.

47

Quinn looked up from whathe was reading at his deskand saw Renz stomping intothe offices of Q&A with afoldedmorningTimes tuckedunder his arm. He drew thepaper out as if removing asword from its scabbard and

slammed itdownonQuinn’sdesk.“Seeafly?”Quinnasked.“I see a goddamned

hurricane!” Renz said. “Itlooks like a gigantic MinnieMiner.”Quinn leaned back in his

swivel chair. “She hasn’tblownupanybuildings.”“She’s about to blow up

One Police Plaza—with meinit.”“You’remakingastrategic

mistake,Harley.”“Whichis?”“Instead if concentrating

onapprehendingtheGremlin,you’re concentrating oncoveringyourass.”Renz propped his fists on

hishipsandwalkedinatightcircle.“Ioughtafireyou.”“You don’t reallywant to.

Besides,Ihaveacontract.”“Thenfulfillit.”“Okay.”Quinnadjustedhis

tieknotandshruggedintohis

suit coat. Best to look like adetective, if that was yourgame.“Let’sgo,”hesaid.“Where?”“Tolookatsomecollapsed

buildings.”“They’re still digging out

the dead and wounded overthere,”Renzsaid.“Maybesomebodywilldig

outaclue.”“Already we’ve got

twenty-seven dead and sixtyinjured.Whatahellishmess.”

“Like a war zone,” Quinnsaid.“I’m thinking more of the

politicalside.”Quinn held his silence.

Renz apparently didn’t knowthat when you had dead andwounded, therewasonlyoneside.As soon as they stepped

outside, the heat hit them.They took Quinn’s oldLincoln, with the airconditioner on high, and

Quinn drove toward thedisasterarea.Forawhile it seemed they

were in normal New Yorktraffic. Then, three blocksaway, they began to seepolice barricades and detoursand No Parking signs. Theyparked the car and wentaheadonfoot.Thetwouniformshandling

traffic and trespass problemsrecognized both thecommissioner and Quinn,

lettingQuinnduckunderoneof the NYPD sawhorses andholding the yellow crimescenetapeupsothecorpulentRenzcouldgetunderit.When they reached the

corner they looked at theblocks of damage. Thedesolation caused by theoriginal bombs was morethan bad enough, but the gasexplosions spread fire andmore gas explosions, anddamage that encompassed

what seemed like the entireneighborhood.Three bulldozers were

roaringandsnorting,workingamong the debris withcautious, elephantinedelicacy, and Quinn couldhear another close by.Workers with picks andshovels were making theirway toward rescue orremovalofdeadbodies.Thatonly twenty-seven had diedwas, in Quinn’s mind, a

surprisingly small number,considering the field ofdestruction they foundthemselves in. Certainly thatnumberwouldgrow.“I know it’s early on,” he

said to Renz, “but hasanybody come forward as awitness?”“OnlytobeonTVorinthe

papers. Your people learnanything that might behelpful?”“Might. Yeah. But it’s a

meagermight.”Renzsaid,“Maybesecurity

camerascaughtsomething.”“If theydidn’tcookinthis

weather,” Quinn said. “I’vegot Sal and Harold lookingintothat.”“So you haven’t just been

sittingonyourass.”“Nope.DidImention,I’ve

gotacontract?”“Now I’d like for you to

haveaclue.”After a depressing twenty

minutes, during whicheveryone other than Renzmoved wreckage to revealmore wreckage, one of theuniforms came over and toldQuinn and Renz that theGremlinhadphonedintotheMinnie Miner show andclaimed credit for thedestruction of the buildings,aswellasforthedeaths.Thecallwas,ofcourse,briefandimpossible to trace, but thevoice tracks appeared to be

the same. The Gremlin’s, inbothinstances.Quinn said, “Seems like a

clue,Harley.”Renz, flushed and puffed

up from the heat andpervasivesmell,calledforhislimotopickhimup.Now that he’d delivered

his message, Renz had littleuse for Quinn. He didn’t somuch as glance in Quinn’sdirection as the gleamingblack town car with NYPD

platesglidedaway.Only to reappear on the

opposite side of the bombblast area and fire damage.Maybe Renz had thought ofsomethinghelpful.Aclue.Quinn watched Renz from

half a block’s distance.Renzwasoutofhiscarandtalkingto a woman with amicrophone. Another womanwas frantically leaping

around the limowith a smallcamera, finding good anglesforshotsofRenz.Renz was helping her as

much as possible. Heremoved his suit coat androlled up his whiteshirtsleeves.He foundahighspot in the debris so thephotos would have aflattering upward angle. Forsome shots, he propped hisfistsonhishipsandraisedhischin.AportlyMussolini.

Quinnwatched andwaitedforawhile,butheneversawRenzactuallytouchanything.ThatwasRenz’stalent.

48

That evening, in his office,Renzwaslesscircumspectintalking to Quinn. He knewthere were no hidden videocameras or recorders here.Andlikeabeastinhislair,hewas most comfortable infamiliarsurroundings.

The conversation was soamiable that Renz gaveQuinn one of his best cigarsand fired up an identical onefor himself. He confided toQuinn that the cigars wereillegal and from some Southor Central American countrythatQuinnhadheardofonlyin a Woody Allen movie.Now they were partners incrime.Quinnsat inacomfortable

leather armchair, holding the

cigarandaglassashtray.Thearmchair faced Renz’s desk,behindwhichsatRenz.Ifthedesk had been any bigger,Quinnthought,hemightneedtoshouttobeheard.“Now that we’re off the

record we can talk,” Renzsaid.Quinn didn’t remember

anything about being on oroff the record, but he let itslide.Renz tilted back his head

as if about to administer eyedrops. He made a perfect Owith his lips and blew animperfectsmokering.“Arewe reallygettingany

traction in finding thisGremlin bastard?” he asked.“Something or somebodywecan toss to the mediawolves?”Quinn blew a perfect

smokering.“Tellthemwe’remakingprogress.”“Theywon’tbelieveme.”

“They won’t believe youno matter what you say, sowhy waste the truth onthem?”Renz chewed on his cigar

butdidn’ttakesmokeintohismouth. “This Gremlin guywouldbeeasierforustogetaline on if he was aprofessional.But real expertsin those fields always peghim as a talented amateur.Newtohiswork,maybe,buthe knew or learned enough

aboutkillingthathemanagestomake the hit and then getaway unseen.” Renzproduced a whitehandkerchief as big as asurrender flag and wiped hisforehead and neck with it.Watching him made Quinnrealize the office had gottenmuch warmer. It might havebeenthecigars,orthefutility.“For instance, he knew

how to neutralize all thoseelevator safety brakes in the

Blenheim Building,” Renzwent on. “All those floors.”He tapped ashes from hiscigar into an ashtray on hisdesk and made a facesuggestinghewasnauseated.“God! All that bone stickingthrough flesh. And the fires!The arson guy said it tooksome knowledge and somejerry-rigging to bring offwhat this guy has done.Imagine the planning,learningwhat thosebuildings

are made of, when and howthey were constructed—theirmaterials and vulnerabilities.He must have made studiesbeforehemadeplans.”“You would think so,”

Quinnsaid.“He knew where the

flammable wooden supportbeamsandjoistswere,”Renzsaid. “How the fire woulddance its way through theplace. Which walls wereload-bearing. Everything

that’d cause the fire to feedon itself and turn buildingsintoovens.”“Fire seems to fascinate

peoplewholikegadgets.”“Doesitfollowthatpeople

wholikegadgetsliketokill?”Quinn thought about that.

“People who like gadgetswant to know about how theinsides of things work. Theycan only gain that deeperunderstandingthroughcarefulobservation and examination.

Whichiswhyourgremlinhasa compulsion to disassemblethings so he can study them.Evenwomen.”“So he thinks that by

abduction and torture he canlearn about women?” Renzlookedskeptical.“Onlysomethings,”Quinn

said.“Otherthingshe’lllearnin other ways. We have tolearn those things, too, ifwe’regoingtofindhim.”“Itsoundsreasonablewhen

yousayit,”RenztoldQuinn.Hesnubbedouthiscigar.Quinntookthatasasignal

from Renz that their tête-à-têtewasfinished.Quinndidn’t thinkso.Still

seated, he said, “There issomething you might toss tothe circling news vultures,Harley. Tell them we’restudying closed-circuitsecurity camera stills andvideos of people at theTaggart Building fire. The

peopleinthestreet,observingthe flames. Images frombefore, during, and after theexplosionsandfire.Wethinkwe might be able to do afacial match with the killerand the artist’s rendering.MixinapictureofKrayasayouth, andwemay come upwith some positiveidentification.”Renz looked surprised.

“Arewedoingallthat?”“Assoonasyousupplythe

camerasandcassettes.”“Nobody uses cassettes

anymore,”Renzsaid.Quinn ignored him and

stoodup.HeknewRenzhadthe political clout to getwhatever he needed to getsomething done in a rush.Themanhadhisconnections.Thatwashowitworked.Thefavor would also subtractfrom Renz’s stock of favorsowed. Some might sniffweakness, but who knew if

therereallyweresuchimagesthathadn’tbeendestroyed?Renz stood up and said,

“You are really a prick,Quinn.”As Quinn was leaving, he

paused at the door and said,“Nice cigar, Harley. But it’sonlythat.”When Quinn arrived at

Q&A, he found Jerry Lidothere, along with Pearl andFedderman.Sal and Harold were still

occupied interviewingwitnessestothebombingandburning.Salhadcalledearlierand talked to Pearl. She’dtold him two witnesses hadsurfaced and reportedglimpsing a child of abouttwelve running and dancingthrough the flames. Neitherwitness had gotten a goodlookatthequick,lithefigure.Pearl gave Sal and Harold

names and addresses andsiccedthemonthewitnesses.

“Could have been a small

adult,” said one of thewitnesses, ahard-lookingbutglamorous woman namedPhilipa.“Or a large child,” Harold

said.They were in her living

room, in a modest but cozyground-floor apartment thatlooked out at ankle level atpassersby on the sidewalk. It

wasontheupwindsideofthefield of wreckage left by theexplosions and fire. Half thebuildingsontheblocklookeduntouched, in contrast to theothers.Harold wondered about

Philipa’sethnicity.Shehadacertainearthymagnetismthatintrigued him. When shecaught Harold staring at herbreasts, she gave him a lookthat startled him with itsclarityofmeaning.Sheknew

whathewasthinkingshewasthinking,buthewaswrong.Exactly.“I was just curious about

your ethnicity,” he said,layingitalloutthere.“Whereyou’refrom.”“Philipistan,” she said.

“And before you ask, yes, Iamnamedaftermycountry.”“Like Odessa,” Harold

said.Salglaredathim.“OrMiss

Australia.”

Philipa’s husband enteredthe room then, and that wasthat.“I wasn’t here during the

event,” he said. Meaning hehad nothing to add, andneitherdidhiswife.Interviewover.Harold thought “event”

was an odd thing to call abombing and conflagration.And to Harold, the mandidn’t look at allPhilipistanese.MoreIrish.

“Thanks for yourcooperation,” Sal told thehusband, feigning deadseriousness.Hegavethewifeone of his cards. “If youremember anything else,pleasecall.”As Philipa accepted the

card,sheglancedathim,thenupandtotheside.Somethingin her eyes sent the ancientwordless message: I knowyouknowIknow...“Where exactly is—”

Harold began, as Sal pushedhimoutthedoortothehall.Backintheunmarked,with

itsengineandairconditionerrunning, Sal riffled throughthemanyinterviews.Whatheand his fellow detectiveswere doing didn’t seemproductive,butheknewhowsomesmallitemorphrase,oreven silence, couldunexpectedly yield up a factorphysicalpieceofevidence.Hesqueezedthebridgeofhis

nose between thumb andforefinger. Some peoplethoughtdoingthatcouldhelptomakeaheadachegoaway.Sal wasn’t one of thosepeople. His headache had aname:Harold.Theydroveforawhile,Sal

behind the wheel. He knewthatsoonerorlatersomethingwouldclick.Thetrickwastorecognize it when ithappened.Thelegworkoftheinvestigation was only

beginning.Whena little timehad passed, the samewitnesses could beinterviewed again.Differences or contradictionsintheresultscouldbeuseful.Salcontinuedtodrivewhat

he thoughtwas theperimeterof the recent catastrophe.Harold sat and fiddled withhisiPhone.Fifteen minutes passed

before Harold spoke: “It’snowhereonGoogle.”

“What’sthat,Harold?”“Philipistan. As far as

Google’s concerned, itdoesn’texist.”After a while, Harold

muttered, “Those countriescomeandgo.Sometimestheyevenoverlap.”

Back at Q&A, Quinn satslouchedinhisdeskchairandlistenedwhileSalandHarold

read their reports innoticeably weary voices.Quinn didn’t mind, not onlybecause he wasn’t doing thedrone work on the Gremlinchase, but because hebelieved that sometimeswhat’s not noticed in onesense is noticed in another.Listeningtoreportsdifferedashade from reading them tooneself. Quinn had oncepersuaded Pearl to touch hertongue to a sheet of paper to

seeifittastedthesameastherest of the paper in a tablet.The papers had tasted thesame, but Quinn pretendedthatonewasmoreacidicthanthe other,which convinced asuspect to roll over andimplicatehiscodefendantinaseriesofburglaries.I know that you know I

know...

49

St.Louis,Missouri,1999The Happy Brat sandwichshopwascloseenoughtotheballpark that, when the ballclub was in town, there wasno shortage of customers.Fran and Willie had opened

the place after the previousowner had put it up for saleand retired to Kissimmee,Florida.Theyhadthemselvesretired twoyears ago, almostdied of boredom, and saw itas their fate to at leastmakeanofferwhen thedinerwenton the market. Their offerwas rock bottom, but theowner knew them and likedthem. And sold them theHappyBrat.Williewas a bigman, and

strong, but he was in hisseventies now. His hair wasthinning and gray, his backbent, but his arms were stillpowerful. There was a hitchin his gait. He knew he’dsoon have to have a hipreplacement. Fran was wiryandstrongerthanshelooked,but she, like Willie, wassurprised to discover thatretirement had beenwearing.They needed help, full-timeand part. A fellow retiree,

Henry Lodge, who was alongtime friend of Willie’s,bought a percentage of thediner and sometimes spentweekdays there with them.There were days whenbusinessdragged.When the Cardinals ball

club was in town, it wasanother story. The HappyBrat couldn’t afford much,but hired a series of short-order cooks and countermento handle the additional

business. Henry helped,especiallyonthosebusydayswhentheChicagoCubswerein town for day games.Baseballfanslovedbratwurstonabunwithsauerkrautandmustard. And what could gobetter with that than beer,which Fran and Willie soldondraughtandicecold?All went well beneath the

neonbratwurstonabunsignuntil, during a long homestand,aneedforadishwasher

and sometimes short-ordercook became too obvious toignore.This home stand, the

Cardinals stayed in townalmostthreeweeks.Franwasbeginning to look haggardand tired all the time.WillieandHenry took to sniping ateachother.“Enjoy the backbreaking

work while you can,”Williewasfondofsaying.“There’llbeplentyofslowdaysinour

future.”But this was the present,

profitableevenifitwasatestfornerves.Theeconomywassuch that itwouldbeeasy tohire temporary help, maybefor the rest of the baseballseason.Hiringseemed thesolution

totheirproblem.Fran put a help-wanted

signinthelowerrightcornerofthewindow,andwithinanhour the kid turned up. He

was small, said he actuallywanted to become a jockey.But things other than horseswereslowat the trackacrosstheriverinIllinois,sohewaslookingforajobhecoulddoforawhile.Fran, who was at the

register, listened carefully tothe boy, and motioned forhimandWillietocometoherendof thecounterwhere shecould take part in the jobinterview.

Upclosetheboylookedtobe in his teens. Willie, withhis aging linebacker’s body,dwarfedhim.Thekidwasn’tthe cleanest, but he probablyhadn’t planned on seeing ahelp-wanted sign. The hand-printed sign also said “part-time,” down at the bottom,butthatwasokay,ifapersonwasgettingdesperate.“What’syourname?”Fran

asked.“PabloDiaz.”

Shelookedathimforwhatseemed a long time. Then:“Youdon’tlookMexican.”“On my father’s side,” he

said, as if that explained anyquestionsabouthisethnicity.Franwasthepracticalone,

but there was somethingabout this boy thatmade herfeel maternal. A basicgoodness thatwasmore thanyouthful idealism. On theminus side, there wassomething he was holding

back.Fran decided to put it

aside, for now. “If he’s notafraidofhardwork,Isaywehirehim.”“Can we do that on our

own?” Willie asked.“Remember, there’s three ofusthatownthisplace.”“Henrymightmake it two

out of three, if it comes to avote. But I don’t think hewould.Ain’tnoreasonnottohirethislad.”

“What about the girl?”Willieasked.When no one answered,

Fran said, “She tells me hername’sMay,andsheandtheboyaremarried.”“We hiring her, too?”

Willieasked.“Notlikely.Shedon’tlook

strongenoughtoliftapea.”“They’ll fool you, though,

thosecountrygirls.”“You think any of that’s

true?”

“Idunno.Doyou?”“Like I’m married to

RobertRedford,”Fransaid.

50

NewYork,thepresentDespite the effectiveness ofLido’s software, thecomposite image of theallegedGremlinstruckanotewith no one. Possibly whenfinally they ran the Gremlin

toground, therewouldbenorealresemblance.“This guy,” Harley Renz

said, “is at least as lucky asheistricky.”He andQuinnwere seated

on a bench in one ofManhattan’s pocket parks.Though it was near a busystreet, the park had a lot ofgreenery. It seemed moreprivatethanitwas.Amaninagraysuitandawomanwitha ponytail sat on another

bench,sidebysideandfacingaway from Quinn and Renz.The woman appeared nowandthentotossbreadcrumbsto the pigeons. Three of thebirds seemed to take turns inpecking at the gift of bread.Others stood nearby andsolemnly observed. Quinnknew what they werethinking, like all the earth’screatures:Itmightbeatrap.“Nobody’s called in with

any information or

identification of our artist’srendering of the Gremlin,”Renz said. “Probably ifanybody gets a good look athim, they still won’t havepaid enough attention torecognize him from thatcomposite.”“It hasn’t worked so far,”

Quinn admitted. He waswondering why Renz hadsuggestedthismeeting.Hedidn’thavetowaitlong

tofindout.

“We’ve got anothervictim,” Renz said. “Womanover on West Seventy-seventhStreet.DoraPalm.”Quinnfeltthestabofanger

and sadness that he alwaysfelt when informed of avictim, especially a victimgiven a name. Somehow thename made the murder evenmore grotesque, the victimmorerealandalive—apersonwithapastandpresent.Untila short time ago, a future.

“Any doubt it was theGremlin?”“None.TheME even says

he can tell it was the sameblade. Says the killer used asharp knife here and there,butajigsawforhardtoreachpartsorheavy-dutycutting.”“Whendidithappen?”“Last night around ten

o’clock. After a steak dinnerwith a goodMerlot. At leastshegotthat.”“We all get that,” Quinn

said, “sometimes notknowing when it’s coming.Maybeit’sbetterthatway.”“Ornot.”“Crime Scene techs find

anythinguseful?”“Not yet. But they’re still

looking. Why I called youabout this one was to warnyoutobecareful.”“Carefulofwhat?”“What you say. Who you

sayitto.Extracareful.Thisisa somewhat complicated

case.”Quinn leaned back on the

bench, watching the womanwith the ponytail feeding thepigeons.“TellmewhatIneedtoknow,Harley.”“Youlikedogs?”“Dependsonwhatkind.”“Greyhounds.”“A couple of them have

run fast enough to win memoney—butnotmuch.”“We’re talking about a

racing dog,” Renz said.

“Here’stoYou.”“Huh?”“That’sthedog’sname.”“Thisaracingdog?”“Doesn’t matter,” Renz

said.“It’sadog.”“Howold?”“Abouteightyears.”Quinn understood now

whatRenzwas trying to say.“Here’stoYouwasprobablya rescue dog, saved from anabbreviated life by someanimal lovers’ organization

thatarrangedhomesfordogsthatfoundthemselveswithoutowners. Here’s to You wasprobably adopted by DoraPalm when it retired fromracing. Along with its newowner, it had been killed bytheGremlin.”“You might say the killer

autopsied the dog,” Renzsaid.Quinn thought that over.

“The bastard wanted to seewhyitcouldrunsofast.”

“You know, that might bepossible,” Renz said. “Itwasagreyhound,poorthing.”Quinn knew Renz was

making a joke by stating theobviousabouthisconcernforan aging racing dog that hadcome toabadend.Thatwascontemptible but notunexpected.RenzwasawarethatQuinn

wasadoglover.Asimpleall-around pet lover. WhileQuinn felt genuine concern

about Here’s to You, Renzfelt none. What scared himwas that Quinnmight say ordo something the public orsomeorganizationlikePETAmight build into an issue.RenzknewthatifithelpedtonailtheGremlin,howeverthedogwasusedwouldbeokaywith him. He would not bethinkingofthedog.Quinnwouldbe.Thatwasaweakness.Renz glanced at his watch

and stood up, buttoning hisvoluminous suit coat.“Uniforms are still at thevictim’sapartment.TheyandtheMEknowyou’reonyourway.” Renz tried to impressQuinn with an unblinkingstare, but Quinn stared backmildly,unimpressed.Beyond Renz, the pigeons

had finally gotten out theword. Over a dozen nowhopped and pecked aroundthe bench where the

ponytailed,beneficentwomansatcastingoutbread.“I’ll swingbyandpickup

Pearl,”Quinnsaid.Renz grinned. “Make sure

shebehaves.”“Likealways,”Quinnsaid,

andwalkedtowardwherehisblackLincolnsatgleamingintheblazingsun.

51

Once in the hushed quiet ofthe Lincoln, Quinn calledPearlonhiscelland toldherhe’d be by the office to pickher up for the drive to DoraPalm’saddress.Pearlsaidshewas having lunch with herdaughter, Jody, and would

takethesubwaythereassoonaspossible.Quinn told her he’d meet

heratthevictim’saddressbutto take her time, the personthey wanted to see wasn’tgoing anywhere. “Better,too,” he said, “if you don’tbringJody.”“She wouldn’t be

interested anyway,” Pearlsaid, sotto voce. “She’s allinvolved in an animal rightscase.Canlizardsbeclassified

aspetsthat—”“Never mind,” Quinn cut

in.“Idon’twanttohearit.”“The lizards just might

have a case. Of course, theroacheswouldn’t—”“Still don’t want to hear

it,” Quinn said, using histhumb to break theconnection and turn off hisphone.He hadn’t told Pearl that

the medical examinerassigned to the case was her

antagonist,Dr.JuliusNift.She was, after all, eating

lunch.

DoraPalm’sapartmentwasinamidtownbrickandstonestructure that had once beenanofficebuilding.Likemanymidtown buildings thesedays, its face was madetemporarily anonymous byscaffolding.

Quinn saw a uniformedcop within the maze ofscaffolding about the sametime the cop sawhim.Whenhe flashed his ID, the copmotionedhimover.After parking the car,

Quinn went on foot andzigged and zagged throughthe scaffolding, along atemporaryplankwalkway.The cop motioned again,

this time to indicate thebuilding entrance. Quinn

thought he might know thecop, but he wasn’t sure. Theguyhadoneofthoseaverage-this, average-that faces.Theymight simply have glimpsedeachotheralongtheway.Bea cop long enough and faceswere indelible once seen,stored somewherealongwithidentifyingmarksandbloodycrime scenes and theindignities of death. A cop’smind...“This way, Captain,” the

cop said. That was whenQuinn recognized him.Vincent Royston, fromHomicide South. It had beenacoupleofyears.“Howyoudoing,Vince?”Royston’s face lit up. He

waspleased toberecognizedby Quinn, whom he saw assomeone reasonably famous.Atleastincopcircles.Itwasarhetoricalquestion,

but Royston said he wasdoingthebesthecould.

“Aren’t we all?” Quinnsaid.But sometimes he

wondered.“Third floor,” Royston

said, realizing he wasn’tgoing to be engaged in alengthy conversation. “Leftofftheelevator.”Quinn went through a

narrow, unmarked doorwayhewouldneverhaveguessedwas an entrance. He foundhimselfinafairlylargefoyer

that had been created whenseveral other spaces weretaken down. It was the kindofplacethatordinarilywouldhaveadoorman, if itweren’tfor all the remodeling. Eightor ten people were comingand going through the mazeof iron pipes supporting thescaffolding in the lobby.Almost everyone wore workclothes, and some had onhard hats. A signwas nailedcrookedly to a vertical

supportbeamreadingEXCUSEOURDUST.Theelevator lookedpurely

functionalon theoutside,butwhen Quinn stepped insideand the door closed,everything looked finished,mostly in oak and brushedmetal. Quinn’s mind wentback to the elevator in theBlenheim Building, to whatmusthavegoneonamongthepassengers during the five orsix seconds it took to reach

the basement once theyrealized what must behappening.Hismindrecoiled.The elevator stopped

smoothly and the dooropenedonthethird-floorhall.Quinn stepped out, turnedleft,andsawthatonthisflooreverything lookedas finishedandusableas in theelevator.Oakwainscotingandbrushedmetal was the theme here,too. It appeared that interiorrehabbing had begun in the

upperfloorsandwasworkingits way down. Probably amoney thing, Quinn thought.Rents collected on the high-pricedupper-floorapartmentswould help to finance thelobby’s modern curvedmarble registration area, andwhatmight someday becomea fashionable bar andrestaurant.A stalwart uniformed cop

stood next to an openapartment door about fifty

feet down the hall from theelevator. Quinn was sure hehadn’t seen the man before,wholookedcapablebutabouttwenty pounds overweight.Gained recently, Quinnsuspected, noting the cop’syouth, and the taut materialstretched over a stomachpaunch.WhenQuinnflashedhisID

the uniform stepped aside sohecouldenter.Quinn was directed to the

apartment’s one bedroom.Techs and the dance of thewhite gloves wereeverywhere except thebedroom. They’d finished inthere, interpreting thebloodstains and gatheringpossibly minute evidence tobe examined later. Trying torecreatewhatwas.Nift, the atrocious little

medical examiner, waskneelingbesidethisvictiminthewayQuinnhadoftenseen

him, more intensely curiousthan somber. His lips weremoving slightly and silently.Itwasalmostasifheandthecorpse were getting to knoweach other on the mostintimate terms, which in awaywashalftrue.AshesawQuinn,Niftsaid

hello, removing from thetorsoofthedeadwomanwhatlooked like an indicator toprobeforlivertemperature,avaluable part of the calculus

that would provide time ofdeath.The victim, Dora Palm,

was on the floor, lying in anawkwardpositionthatneededa second look to be sure shewasreal.Theobserverwouldsee that her arms, legs, andheadwere about a quarter ofan inch from where theyshouldhavebeenattached.“Skillfully done, isn’t it?”

Niftsaid.“Strangeskill,though.And

why in this cramped littleroom did he put her on thefloorinsteadofthebed?”Nift looked thoughtful.

“Could be he wanted her inthe lowest position possible.Ameasureofher importancecompared tohis.Gremlin theconqueror,hisconquestlyingon the floor like a detachedandbrokendoll.”“Or it could be that it’s

difficult to pose a deadwoman on a soft mattress,

especiallywithherlimbsandheadsevered.”“I could think of more

interesting poses,” Nift said,lookingbeyondQuinn.“I’m sureyou could,” said

awoman’svoice.Pearl had walked in. Nift

looked instantly interested.Pearl had on a light tanraincoatoveragraypantssuitand a white blouse open atthe neck. The neckline waslowenoughtoshowtheswell

of her more than amplebreasts. Why would sheunfasten that top button onher blouse, knowing Niftmightbehere?Or had the blouse come

unbuttoned and she hadn’tnoticed?Thethingswomendidthat

madementhink.Butthen,hewas the one doing that kindofthinking.“Hellotoallthreeofyou,”

Niftsaid.

Quinn considered sayingsomething to Nift, thendecidedPearlcouldspeakforherself. She had oncepunchedoutanover-amorouspolice captain when she wasintheNYPD.Promotionwasdifficult for her after that, ifnotimpossible.Nift began packing his

instruments in a containerthat would keep themseparatefromthesterileones.Hestraightenedupslowly,as

ifhisbackhurt.Pearlhopeditdid.It occurred to Quinn that

Nift was getting up in yearsto be acting like a nastylothario who might have astrain of necrophilia in hishorror-housemind.“Unless you have some

reason for her not to,” Niftsaid,“it’sokaynowforDoraPalm to leave for ourrendezvousinthemorgue.I’llphoneyoulaterandgiveyou

factsandfigures,amongthema more accurate time ofdeath.”Heglancedaround tomake sure he wasn’tforgettinganything.“By the way,” he said,

“there’s a uniformed officerdownstairs, a big cop namedVincent something. He cangiveyouthenameoftheguywhofoundthebody.LivesinBrooklyn and works for thecompany that’s doing thework now on rehabbing this

area.”“I’ll talk to him,” Quinn

said.“Hisname’sStanGorshin.

You’ll recognize him. He’stheonlyhardhatout there inasuit.”Quinn said, “Did he have

on thehardhatbeforeall theunscheduleddemolition?”Nift thought for longer

thanaminute.“Yeah.I thinkso.ButIcan’tbecertain.”“Seems nothing in life is

certain.”“Orindeath,”Niftsaid.There Quinn disagreed

withhim.

52

St.Louis,Missouri,1999Fran came in early themorning of a doubleheaderthat was going to be playedbecauseof an earlier rainout.DowntownSt.Louiswasstillsnoozing,asweremostofthe

suburbs. But Fran knew thatwithin a few hours, parkingspace would become a rarecommodity, and expensivewhen you parked anywherenearthestadium.She’d left the car near the

double-wide where she andWillie lived and taken theMetrodowntown.By the time she was

walking the short distancefrom the Metro-link stop toBusch Stadium, the slight

drizzle had ceased, as theweather wonders on everyTV channel had predicted,and the low gray sky hadbecome blue. Probably, Franthought, the temperaturewould reach ninety-fivedegrees,aspredicted,andthesun would be blasting awaymostoftheday.Baseballfansapproaching and leaving thestadium would wantbratwurst,whichwouldmakethem want beer or soda,

whichwouldmakethemwantbratwurst. A vicious,profitablecircle.Fran picked up her pace

andsmiled.Itwasgoingtobeagoodday;shecouldfeel it.She could take the register,spelled now and then byWillieorHenry.Thenewkid,Pablo, could work thekitchen.TheHappyBratwasthe kind of restaurant whereno table service wasexpected. Alcoholic

beveragescouldbeorderedatthe counter and would bebrought tableside, butcustomers served everythingelse to themselves. To eathere or to get food to go. ItalwaysimpressedFrantoseehowmanypeoplelikedtoeatanddrinkwhiletheywalked.Multitaskers,Fran thought.

That was okay with her, aslong as they paid and didn’tmake a mess of the publicsidewalks.

As she rounded the lastcorner before reaching theHappyBrat, she saw that thelights were on inside, fromthe fluorescent ceilingfixtures. They cast a ghastlyglow,addingageandangsttoeveryone inside. But it wassummer and it wasn’t darkoutside now. The night hadbeen chased away, butrecently. The diner shouldn’tyet be open. The notion thatsomething might be wrong

stirred in Fran, but shedispelledit.Henryhadclosedthe diner last night, and hadmost likely simply forgottento switch off the fluorescentoverheadfixtures.She was pleased that the

red neon open sign in thewindowwasoff.Franrealizedherheartwas

bangingawayandtoldherselfto slow down. Nobody wasburglarizingthediner.MaybePablohadoversleptagainand

Henrywasgettinga jumponthings in the kitchen. Itwouldn’t be the first time.She could smell the scent ofthe bratwurst rotating overthe open oven, the specialsaucecrustingonthemeat.At least she thought she

couldsmellit.Shedidhaveapowerfulimaginationwhenitcametofood.Shesawnowthatsomeone,

probably Henry, wearing awhite shirt,darkpants, anda

dark apron, was working inthe kitchen, visible throughthe window and beyond theservingcounterpass-through.Henry,allright.Ormaybethekid. Certainly notWillie. Hewas still home in bed,breaking the sound barrierwithhissnoring.Orwashe?Hemighthave

beatenhertothediner,ifhe’dleft the double-wide rightaftershehad.The red neon bratwurst

signwasstilloff,andmostofthe light in the diner wascomingfromthefixtureinthekitchen, directly above thesink.When Fran opened the

door, the figure at the sinkhad his back to her, wearingthe white and black outfitwith the apron. He eitherheardorsensedsomething.AsFran stepped inside, he

turned.Thekid.Pablo.

When Pablo turned and

sawher,hisexpressiondidn’tchange for a few seconds.Thenheforcedasmile.“Where’s Henry?” she

asked.“Stillasleep.”“WhataboutMay?”Helookedconfused.“Your wife,” Fran

remindedhim.“Yeah.She’s still asleep. I

couldn’tsleep,soIdecidedtoget some brats ready to go.You know, for earlycustomers.”“I don’t know,” Fran said

reasonably.Pablo turned away from

the sink to faceher squarely.Shesawtheknifeinhisrighthand.Whatlookedlikebloodwasontheblade.“We need some buns,” he

said. “We’ve got plenty ofbrats,butweneedbuns.”He

placed the knife on the sink,wiped his hands on a towel,and removed his apron. “I’llgoseeifIcanfindsome.”Fran decided therewas no

sense in arguing. Let the kidgetout,get somefreshair inhissearchforbuns.She stepped around him,

looked at what was on thecutting board, and recoiled.Her eyes were huge andhorrified.“MyGod!Whatareyoudoing?”

“Nothing, really!” he said,backing away. Pablo hadpicked the knife back up.Time seemed to havesolidified. He was the onlythinginthedinermoving.Henryopenedthedoorand

came inside. His shirt wasuntucked and his hair wasstill wet and slicked backfrom showering. He glancedaround. “What’ve we gotgoingonhere?”heasked.“Good question,” Fran

said.Pablo noticed the others

werestaringat theknife,andhe tossed it backhanded so itfell clattering behind theburnersonthestove.“What are you cutting

there?” Henry asked calmly.He stepped toward Pablo,thentotheside,andstaredatthecuttingboard.“ThatwhatIthinkitis?”Pablo couldn’t prevent a

frightened smile that quickly

disappeared as he regainedcontrol.“It’s a rat!” Fran said in a

horrified voice. “My God,he’scarvinguparat!”“I got it here, in the

kitchen,”Pablosaid,asifthatexplainedeverything.“This is a diner!” Fran

said.“Arestaurant!”“That’showtheratsawit.”

Heactuallysoundedsincere.Henryglancedagainat the

carving board on the sink.

“What were you gonna dowiththat?”heaskedinacalmvoice.“Iwas just . . . looking at

it.Studyingit.”“Studyingarat?”“Theydo thatatHarvard,”

Pablosaid.Henry shook his head.

“This ain’t Harvard. Youain’tJonasSalk.”“Jonaswho?”“Salk. He found a way to

fightpolio.”

“Who was polio?” Againheseemedserious.“Don’t play dumb,” Fran

said.“Likewe’resupposedtobelieve you just happened tofindthatratinhere.”“Youcanbelievewhatyou

want,”Pablosaid.“Okay. You’re a medical

doctor doing cancerresearch.”“Yougot it first try.Now,

I’m gonna leave here.Anybodytriestostopme,I’ll

have to tell them about thatrat. How I found him in thecornerbythestove.”“Maybe you’re not so

dumb,”Henrysaid.Fran walked behind the

counter and scooped ahandfulofbillsfromthecashregister. She placed themoney on the counter wherePablocouldreachit.“Take that,” she said. “All

of it. And then leave us thehellalone.”

Pablokepthis eyesonheras he picked up the moneyand stuffed it into a sidepocketofhisjeans.“Now go someplace else

wherethey’llbelieveyouandyour so-called wife areMexicans.”“Gracias, señora,” he said,

pattinghisbulgingpocket.Hebackedoutofthediner,

almost falling as he spun inhisworn-downbootsandranaway.

Fran walked to the door,held it open, andwatched asPablo—orwhateverhisnamewas—joined his wife, May,orwhateverhernamewas.They cut across a level

stretch of bare earth thatwould, within about fourhours, become a parking lot.Thentheybothturnedtolookback. May waved at Fran,looking as if she might besmiling. Then theydisappeared into downtown

St. Louis, where Cardinalsfans, and Cubs fans fromChicago, would soon beroaming the city streets,lookingfornewplaces toeatlunch, or find that bar orrestaurant they’d been toduring their last trip to St.Louis. Some of them wouldrecall the delicious bratwurstserved at a neat little dinernot far from the stadium, inanareasoon tobedevelopedbythecity.

“BetterwakeupWillieandgivehimthebadnews,”Fransaid.Henry said, “I best get rid

ofthatrat,first.”When he went to the sink

and got a better look at therat, hewas surprised by howneatlyithadbeencarvedandpartially skinned by Pablo.The incisions were neat andprecise, as if the kid hadstudied medicine and at onepointwantedtobeasurgeon.

When Pablo worked at thegrill, he always wore a do-rag,knottedat thecorners soit made a sort of skullcap.Henryhadassumed itwas tokeep his hair out of his eyesandoutofthefood.Buthe’dglimpsed the kid’s ear once,when he had the do-rag offandwassplashingcoldfaucetwater on his face to cooldown in the heat. Heremembered the kid’s rightear. It looked something like

Dr.Spock’searsinStarTrek.It tookonlya fewseconds

for Henry to figure out whatheshoulddoabouttheeventsof the morning—which wasnothing. No way was hegoing to let anyone find outabout the rat on the cuttingboard in the Happy Brat.Henrywould tell no one.Hemight have been bornyesterday, but it wasn’t atnight.He lifted what was left of

theratbyitstailanddroppedit intoaplasticbag, thenputeverything else on the boarddownthegarbagedisposal.“I’ll go drop this in the

trash, then go wake upWillie,”hesaidtoFran.“Youthink we should tell himabout the rat, and what thekidsaid?”Fransaid,“Idon’tseewhy

weshould.Itwouldjustgivehim something else to worryabout.”

“That’s for sure,” Henrysaid.

53

NewYork,thepresentQuinn felt a helplessnessaboutDoraPalm’sdeath thathe hadn’t felt after the othermurders. It wasn’t that thesevering of body parts andremoval of internal organs

was that much more viciousand sadistic than the othermurders. It was more of awearing-downprocess.Quinnknewhispatiencewasgettingthin.In a case like this, where

the investigation seemed togo nowhere, there came atimewhen the strain reachedits breaking point. The killerwas aware that he couldstretchhisgood luckonly sofar, then something he

overlooked, or some littlesomethingthatwassupportedonlybyamassofliesandanalternative reality, wouldfinally give. He would betripped up, and he knew thatmoment would somedaycome,hadbeengettingcloserallthetime.Quinnknewthatsomepart

of the killer’s mind yearnedfor luck that would see himthrough,andatthesametimehe wanted something out of

hiscontrolthatwouldendthesuspense. In glory andgunfire,itwouldend.Andnoone would ever forget whattheGremlinhaddone.No one would ever forget

theGremlin.The public would

eventually forgetwhatQuinnhad done. Who rememberswhoarrestedSonofSam?OrTedBundy?The age of tech

didn’thelpasoftenasitupsetbalances. Computer micewere clicked. Buttons werepushed. Digital blood wasspilled. It all confirmed thatdeath and murder could bereducedtoagame.Andevenif the players were acutelyawarethattheirluck,goodorbad, couldn’t run forever,whowasafraidofagame?Quinn felt about that the

samewayheknewhisquarryfelt.

As if anoosewere aroundhisneck,andtightening.This game was going to

end soon, along withsomeone’sdeath. Itmustendthat way. Both menunderstood that. Someone’strust would be misplaced, oran informant would whisperin the wrong ear. Orsomeone’s will would break.Someonewouldhavetodie.To help make sure he

wouldn’t be the one, the

NYPD photography directorcarefully selected enlargedbackgroundsandphotos.The photographs of what

wasleftofDoraPalmlookedas if they’d been taken bysomeone with more thanmediocreskillwithacamera.Still, they would accomplishtheir purpose, which was toencourage Minnie Miner tocooperate with the law.Minnie was glad to giveQuinn a few minutes to

describe any progress on theGremlincase,andtoanswerafew questions. Quinn gaveherthequestions.Minnie, who had been in

Renz’s office when Quinnarrived,gaveQuinnabalefulstare and asked him if Renzhad known about the use ofher program, Minnie MinerASAP, to help lay a trap fortheGremlin.“Maybe,” Quinn said with

anenigmaticsmile.

ButitwassmileenoughforMinnie,which is howQuinncame to find himself on herearly call-in TV show thenextmorning.This was one interview,

Quinnknew,thatwouldhavetogoright.Not like the few, dream-

filledhours’sleephehadlastnightworryingaboutit.

54

After the round of applausefor Quinn, Minnie let thecallerstalkabouttheGremlininvestigation. Quinn sat inone of the big easy chairsangled toward the audience,andMinniesatintheother.Shemadeabigdealoutof

using Quinn’s clout so theydidn’t have to reveal thequestioners’ names. Forsafety’ssake.“Thisman looks friendly,”

Quinn said, about thecomposite rendering of theGremlin on the big screencentered on the wall behindtheeasychairs.Quinnwishedhe had a laser pointer. “Heisn’t. He’s thirty-five yearsold. He was released fromdetention in Louisiana

recently because some DNAin sperm foundnear ayounggirl’s dead body had beencontaminatedandsocouldn’tbe matched to his, as theprosecuting attorney hadpointedoutoverandovertoagrand jury. It was alsoconfirmed that, while thegrand jury had thought himguilty, they had theirreasonable doubts aboutwhetherheshouldbeindictedand tried in criminal court.

Not only would the judicialprocess be futile, itmight beunfairtothedefendant.”“We could use fewer of

those cases of mistakenidentity,” Minnie said. Sheraised a hand palm-out. “Idon’t mean we shouldrailroad people, just that weget tough with the realcriminals.Theviolentones.”There was a great deal of

applause from the studioaudience.

“We’re trying,” Quinnsaid. He continued to lieabout the sprung prisoner inLouisiana, who didn’t existexcept as a ploy created byQuinn. “The Louisianadefendant was released,though the jurymade it cleartheythoughthedidthecrime.Theywerealsosurethatwiththe compromised DNAevidence, he would probablynot be found guilty. In thecourt of public opinion, he

wouldbecomeavictim.“A range of other expert

witnesses were called,”Quinn said. “But theycouldn’t prove beyond somepeople’s ideaofa reasonabledoubt that the defendantwasinanywayimplicatedinwhatcouldhavebeenanextremelyunfriendly separation, like somany others wherein bothpartiesbecamelosers.“The prosecutor didn’t

knowit,buthewasapawnin

a small game inside a largegame.“Here’s the thing,” Quinn

said, leaning forward in hischair.“Thiswomanhadbeenrapedandkilled,andnowthelaw can prove it. And if itweren’t for contaminatedDNA, there wouldn’t havebeen a chance in hell of thesuspectescapingpunishment.Allofyouknow,orthinkyouknow, that he’s beaten thejustice system.All ofus also

know that sometimes thejustice system isn’t enough,and that’s because wesubscribe to the idea that it’sbetter to let a guilty man gofreethantoimprison,orevenexecute, an innocent man.”Quinn looked directly at thecamera.“Thisrefusaltobringan indictment will beappealed.”Knowing all the time that

anactualappealscourtwouldnever act on this matter. It

couldn’t, without an actualpotentialdefendant.“We did good,” Renz said

to Quinn later, in Renz’soffice.Quinn’s gaze slid over the

wall festooned with framedphotos of Renz receivingmedals, winning awards,posingwithcelebrities.“We only did half a job,”

Quinnsaid.

“Now don’t go getting allwishy-washy,Quinn.Weputadagger through theheartofwhoever it was who’s tryingto ruin my political career.Youmightbeabletomakeitlook like we solved yourcase.”“We solved nothing,”

Quinn said. “Not for sure,anyway.”Renz shrugged his meaty

shoulders. “I’msuspiciousofthat word, sure. What the

hell’s for sure in this life orthenext?”“I’m sure I’m the lead

investigator on this case,”Quinnsaid.“Inaway.”“In away thatmight have

gotmybrainsshotout.”“Prepare to be shocked,

Quinn:Idon’tcarearat’sassaboutwhogetsshotorwho’sguilty.”“Speaking generally, what

about thehypotheticalguy in

ajailcellwho’sinnocent?”“He’s just that—

hypothetical,notreal.”“You’re all politics and

games,”Quinnsaid.Renz shrugged. “You

forgotheart.”“No,” Quinn said, “I

didn’t.”Renzwasnowoccupiedin

making sure his expensivepenwasworkingwell so hissignaturewould be unbrokenand impressive.Hewasway,

waybeyondinkblots.Quinn felt anger rise in

him, along with a kind ofpressure.Heabsentlyreachedintoashirtpocketandpulledout a cellophane-wrappedcigar that he’d been givenearlier as a kind of harmlessbribeinvolvingKrispyKremedoughnuts.Harmlessbribe?Renz raised a pudgyhand.

“You can’t smoke cigars inhere.”

“I have before, just likeyou.”“We’ve got rules,

regulations.”“Laws,” Quinn added. He

lithiscigar,drewsmokeintohis mouth, and exhaled. AllwithastarefixedonRenz.“Look at yourself,” Renz

said. “You’re no differentfrom me. It’s just that youwon’t admit to yourself thatyou’re like the rest of theworld.Youaredefinitelynot

the type who wouldn’tjaywalkeveniftherewasn’tacar for miles. Just look atyou.”“We’re dealing with rape,

torture,murder.”Quinn said.“Notjaywalking.”Renz smiled, his jowls

spilling bulbously over hiswhiteshirtcollar.Then he leaned sideways

andopenedadeskdrawer.Hewithdrew a yellow envelopewith its flap fastened by a

clasp.“Andthenthere’sthis.”He laid the envelope on thedesk where Quinn couldreachit.Quinn worked the clasp

and opened the envelope. Itscontentswerephotographs.Adozen eight-by-tens in blackandwhite.“These are copies, found

hidden in Dora Palm’skitchen.”Quinn looked closer at the

photos.Theyseemedtobeof

thesamescatteringofpieces,large and small. “What thehellisthis?”heaskedRenz.“They were found by the

crime-scene people whenthey did their deep search.Anddon’tgivefingerprintsathought.”“Wiped?”“No, but the killer was

wearinglatexgloves.”Quinnlookedmoreclosely

at the photos. Whatever hadbeen found torn to pieces in

the dead woman’s kitchendidn’tlookveryfamiliar.“Sowhatwasit,ablender?”“Somekindofcoffeemaker

that uses compression, so itforces the grounds through afilter.” He pointed. “There’sthe handle. The way it’sshaped, that glass part, iswhat makes it look like afilter.”“Our gadget guy again,” a

voicesaid.It belonged to Nift, the

NapoleoniclittleME.“Mysecretary letyou in?”

Renzasked.Nift smiled his oddly

reptilian smile and stuck outhis pigeon chest. “I charmedher.”Neither Quinn nor Renz

knew how Nift had sneakedorliedhiswayintotheoffice.But they were sure he’dentered of his own accord.OtherwiseRenz’sreceptionist/aide would have called and

alerted Renz that someonewas on their way, in caseRenz or a guest wanted tomaintainprivacyandleavebytherearexit.Therearexitwasawayout

of the building, supposedlysecret, that almost everyoneknew about. If the newswashot enough, media typeswould have someone postedto see if anyone of anyconsequence was sneakingout.Thosewithsomething to

hideusuallyfabricatedstoriesauthenticated by friends orlovers.Orbythepolice,whodidn’tliketobeone-uppedinthemedia.If they didn’t remember

that secrets known by morethan one person were nolonger secrets, people whoshould have heeded the oldadagewouldoftengettrippedup.Therelationshipsbetweenthe criminal world and copworld involved people

knowingsecretsaboutpeoplewithsecrets.People forgot that, even

thoughitwasnosecret.

PARTTHREE

AndnowIseewitheyesereneTheverypulseofthemachine

—WILLIAMWORDSWORTH,

“SheWasaPhantomofDelight”

55

NewYork,thepresentQuinnlayinbedlisteningtoPearl’s deep and regularbreathing. They had enjoyedsex last night; he couldn’timagine not enjoying it withPearl.Shesighedandrolledonto

her side. One of her amplebreastsspilledhalfwayoutofher unsnapped nightgown.The city, an hour before thedawn, lay beyond thebrownstone’s bedroomwindow. Its sounds, madefainter and less definable bydistance, seemed to ebb andflowwithPearl’sbreathing.Quinn’sownbreathingdid

notseemasregular,almostasif he didn’t belong in thisroom, this city, with this

woman. As if he didn’tdeserve them. Some kind ofcelestial accident must haveoccurred, and, improbable asitseemed,heretheywere.Thatwashowluckyhefelt

somemornings.Pearl let out a long breath

and rolled further onto herside, almost resting on herstomach.Herheadwasturnedtoward him, and she sensedhis attention, opened hereyes,andsmiled.

He propped himself up ononeelbowandrestedhischinin his hand, still looking ather even though she seemedtohavefallenbackasleep.He felt rising inhimagain

a thought thatwas becomingstrongerandmorepowerful.Hewantedafamily.Acertainfamily.Pearl,Jody,andhimself.They were already much

like a family. They livedtogetherandhadbecomethat

close, thatdependentoneachother for the various thingsthatkeptafamilytogether.It wasn’t that family life

wasforeigntohim.He’dhadsomething like it with hisformer wife, May, and theirdaughter,Lauri.Hestill, inalessforcefulway,lovedthemboth—especially Lauri. Buthe knew he had never lovedashelovedPearl.He reachedover and rana

knuckle gently across her

cheek, waking her halfway.Still only partly awake, sheturnedtowardhim.Quinn whispered to her,

“Weshouldbemarried.”A long several seconds

passed before she answered.“Istherealaw?”“Probablynonewehaven’t

broken,”hesaid.“Thenwecan’tfail,”Pearl

said.Hedrewhertohim.Kissed

her.

“There is one thing,” shesaid.“Like inallmarriages,”he

said.“I think we should wait

untilthiscaseisover.”“Kindof a distraction,” he

said.“A distraction,” she said,

“would beRenzwatching uswalk down the aisle while amurderer is still walking hisstreets.”Quinn said, “There you

haveapoint.”

56

NewYork,thepresentAnyonewatchingthewomanwalk along First Avenuewould have guessed her ageat about seventy. Her walkwasslowandindecisive,asifshehadnodestination.Which

was probably true. Her backwas slightly bowed, and herhairwasdullandfrizzled,toolong inbackandstickingoutin clumps on the sides. Hercomplexion was pale andtherewere soreson the sidesof her neck. From the wayshe thrust out her jaw andheld her lips, it was obviousthat she needed cosmeticdental work. She must havebeeninherthirties.Shekeptherchinupasshe

walked,slowlylookingtotherightthentheleft,likeaturtlegazingfromashellthatwasatatteredgreen coat.The coat,which she had stolen from aused clothing store, wasalready too warm, but itwouldkeeptherainatbayatleast for a while, until itbecamesoakedthrough.She was approaching the

doorway of a closed beautysalon. A few months agoshe’dbeenshooedawayfrom

that same doorway by thewomanwhorantheplaceandwas the main beautician.Most likely because thewomanhadbeentoomuchofa smart-ass with hercustomers, theshopwasnowpermanently closed, itswindows soaped. The blankwhite show windows linedthe entrance. They did aslight zigzag to a door thatwasnowlockedandfeaturedared-letteredCLOSEDsign.

The woman moved backand out of sight in thedoorwayuntil shewasoutofthe drizzle that wouldeventuallysoakheronlycoat.A low, fierce wind swishedin,whirlingamini-tornadooftrash out on the sidewalk. Aloosely crumpled sheet ofnewspaper broke away fromthe other litter, skipped intothe doorway, and wrappeditself around the woman’sleg.

Shebentover,peeledawaythepaper,andtosseditaside.The breeze picked it up,

and the airborne newspaperpage swirled around andagainfoundthewoman’sleg.She bent slowly, as if herbackhurt, snatched thepaperawayfromherankle,andwasabout to crumple it into atight ball when she noticedsomethingandstopped.She smoothed out the

crumplednewspaperandread

it.On the front page was

news about the so-calledGremlin,whowasbynow,ifyou believed all accounts,responsible for over a dozenvictims.Thecaptionsbeneathrenderings of the Gremlinwereprettymuch likeothers.Nooneseemedtohavegottena clear look at him. Thewoman mostly usednewspaperstolineherclothesso she wouldn’t become

chilled in the early morninghours. She didn’t readmuch,and sometimes wondered ifshe’dlosttheknack.Here was good reason to

find out, and maybe sharpenherskills.She studied the crinkled

newspaper and laboriouslyread the tawdry, horribleaccounts of the victim’sdeath, as theorized by thepolice.But there was something

elsethatcaughtherattention.For some reason the killerhadtakenthetimeandriskofdisassembling the latestvictim’s expensive andcomplexcoffeemaker.When the old young

woman turned thenewspaperpage over, she saw thecompositerenderedimage,asimagined by the police andmedia. She still couldn’t bepositive, but the more shestared at the composite, the

more she thought she knewhim.Orhadknownhim.Somethingabouthiseyes.Hermemorysuddenlygave

up the man’s identity like aprize. My God! He was achildhoodfriend!Morethanafriend.Years ago she had helped

him throw a man out of aboxcar thatwas coupled to amovingtrain.She and Jordan Kray had

savedeachother’slives.

Their childhoods were far

away from them now.Though the sketch in thenewspaper wasn’t all thataccurate, the artist hadcaptured something of hissubject. There was no doubtthat it was Jordan. It wasdifficult to imagine him as aserial killer, though not sosurprising to learn he wasprobablytheprimesuspectin

aseriesofmurders.She recalled how Jordan

liked to take thingsapartandputthembacktogether—ifhecould. Things that weresimply objects, and thingsthatwerealive.A curious boy, Jasmine

Farr thought. Her seamedfacebrokeintoasmile.Inthosedaystheyhadboth

beencurious.Maybetheybothstillwere.

Thenewspaperhadbeena

door-opener. Jasmine hadfallen low and fallen againand again, and she hadcontacts,ifnotfriends,inlowplaces.It hadn’t taken her long to

learn who in New York shecouldcontactifsheknewtheidentity, and even thewhereabouts, of theGremlin.MaybetheGremlinwasbackinSt.Louis.Thatwaswhere

they’ddepartedthetrain,andnear where they had left,sprawled alongside the darktracks, thebodyof a railroaddick.Surely the man had died.

Jasminecould still rememberhow the knife had felt whenshe slid it into his side, thesurprised and frightened crythat he couldn’t suppress.Had she really heard theknife’s sharp blade scrape arib? That was how it was in

hermemory.Whatever the reality,

Jasmine and Jordan hadknown that after the mandied, the sooner they got outofSt.Louis, the safer they’dbe.The wisdom of that had

been confirmed by the nextday’sSt.LouisPost-Dispatchnewspaper.RailroaddetectiveEllson Ponder had beenstabbed to death and wasfound alongside a train car.

Police theorized that Ponderhad discovered his killer orkillers hiding in what wasthought to be was an emptyboxcar. A struggle ensued.Ponder had tried to fight offhis attackers, but he wasbeaten, stabbed, andapparentlyhad thenbeen lefttodie.Ponderhad livedwithhis wife, Charlotte, and theirten-year-old son, Ivan, in theSt.Louissuburbs.

While Jordan and Jasmine

had known they’d be safersomewhere other than St.Louis, they’dalsoknown thepolicehadmostlikelytrackedthemasfarasSt.Louis.Fromthepolice’spointofview,thetwoof themmight still be inthe city, made to lie low sotheycouldn’t run.Theywerepinneddown.Atleastforawhile.Two people running from

murder could attract a lot ofattention in ways theycouldn’tguessat.Itwasjustamatteroftime.

57

NewYork,thepresentIt was easier to find Jordanthan she’d thought it wouldbe. Jasmine knew wherepeoplewhodidn’twanttobefound might be located. Theinvisibleswhotookformonly

whenworldsoverlapped.Past and present worlds

overlapped here, as JasmineandJordanstoodonoppositesides of Canal Street. Whilehe was unaware of herpresence,shestudiedhim.He seemed even smaller

than she remembered. Hislight jacket was wrinkled, aswerehisbrownslacks.Therewas no shine on his shoes,andhewaswearingashabbyfedora that looked too large

for his head. Jasmine notedhis dark hair was tuftedbeneathhishatbrim,andthathe needed a shave. Thestubbleonhischinandalonghisjawlinewasalsodark.He raised both hands and

heldhispalmspressed tohisears,asifaloudnoisethatnoone else could hear wastorturinghim.The traffic signal changed

to walk and he dropped hisarms, stepped down off the

curb,andcametowardher.As theypassedeachother,

their eyes met only briefly,butitwasenoughtomakeherbreathcatchinherthroat.Helookedolder(ofcourse

he did). And hewas slightlybent forward as he walked.Hewastheshorterofthetwo,evenwiththefedora.After five steps she turned

around and followed him.That was when she noticedthat something didn’t ring

true about him. It took her awhile to figure it out. Hisforward bend was more amatterofposture thanofageand hard luck. His clotheswere those of a homelessperson,buttheydidn’tmatchhisattitude.She said something not

usually heard in New YorkCity: “You finish shuckin’thatcorn?”Jordan took a few more

steps, slowed, and turned

around.He looked at her, and a

smile slowly formed. Shewasn’t surprised to find thatshe couldn’t look away fromhim.Shehadalready felt theattraction.Hesaid,“Jasmine?”“’Fraid so.” She was

trembling.Couldheseethat?Couldhenot?He reached forward and

touched her shoulder, as ifassuringhimself thatshewas

real.Shelaidherhandontopofhis.They realized, at the same

time, that thepasthadboundthem, and now they sharedthefuture.“Come with me,” he said

through a smile. “We’ll havesomecoffee.”She looked at him, then

bowedherheadandsurveyedherself.“Willtheyletusin?Imean,wecan’tgosomeplacewhere I usually check the

Dumpsterforleftovers.”The traffic signal had

changed again. Now a hordeof cars was moving towardthem.Heheldherelbowandescorted her up on the curband safety. She felt like aparody of royalty. “I don’tknow about this, Jordan.”Sayinghisnamefeltgood.“Don’t worry about how

we’redressed.Ihavemoney.I wear these clothes to walkaround the city without

drawing a lot of attention. Itworks if I stay in the rightneighborhoods.”“Clever,” she said. “You

alwayswereclever.”They were walking now,

him leading her slightly,towardthecoffeeshop.“Hadbreakfast?”heasked.Sheshookherheadno,and

wasastonishedwhenhedrewa fat roll of bills from hisjacket pocket. The top billwasatwenty.

“This’llfixthat,”hesaid.“Are you always in

disguise?”sheasked.“Not all the time.But I’ve

foundit’sthebestwaytotakeadvantageofthecity’sgiftofanonymity.”“I can vouch for the

invisibility,” Jasmine said.“Sometimes I think I couldwalk right in and rob a bankandnobody’dnotice.”“Thatwouldbeacrime.”They exchanged a secret

smile.Bothwereawaretheywere

exploring the bond betweenthem. It was powerful.Bindinginawaythatneitherof them quite understood.After all, this was the manwho had claimed hervirginity. The man withwhomshehadmurdered.Jasmine found herself

wondering, Is murder anaphrodisiac?She remembered the

Gremlin, and decided itwasn’t time yet to bring upthatsubject.“I always wondered,” he

said,“whyyou leftme inSt.Louiswithnoexplanation.”“Iwasyoung,afraid,andI

was going to go home. ButthenIdidn’t.”After they’d gotten

doughnuts and coffee, hesaid, “I’ve been thinkingabout going where I can beevenmoreunnoticeable.”

Jasmine added cream toher coffee and sipped. Shehad been beautiful, in herway, and still was, eventhough time and events hadworked their way with her.Hers was an indestructiblekind of beauty. The crow’sfeet, themottledcomplexion,the crazy hairdo that was allcurls. Itwasas ifwearcouldchange her, but she wasimpervioustotime.“What city would we go

to?”sheasked.“Where we’d be least

likelytogo.St.Louis.”

58

St.Louis,thepresentNow here they were, backnear the banks of theMississippi and its muddysecrets.JordanhadafriendinSt. Louis, name ofChristopher,whowould lend

them a vacant apartment heoftensubleasedwhilehewasaway on business trips inMexico. There would be nopaperwork. The rent moneyhad to be fast and up front,and beyond the attention oftheIRS.Jordan didn’t ask

Christopher what kind ofbusiness he tended to inMexico. And Christopherdidn’t ask Jordan why hewanted to keep a lowprofile

in St. Louis. Jasmine didn’task where the money camefrom.Orhow.Ifpressedhardenough,she

would have to guess itinvolved gunrunning. Orperhaps people smuggling.There were a fair number ofillegals in and around thecity, and trafficking in themwas said to be wildlyprofitable. She deliberatelydidn’t think too much aboutit.

Everyone profited by notknowingtoomuch.Jasmine and Jordan had

finally stopped running, inbodyandspirit, thefirst timesincethey’doriginallyarrivedinSt.Louis.The landlord Christopher,

fromwhom they’d subleasedthecondounit,wasshortbutheftyinamuscularway,builtlikeanoffensivelineman.Hehad a nervous air about him.JordanandJasmineweresure

hewaswantedby thepolice.That would explain why hewas so eager to leave St.Louis.Four days after Jordan

introduced Christopher toJasmine, Christopher left forMexico.He didn’t say where in

Mexico.“Can we trust him?”

Jasmine asked. After living

on the streets in New York,the St. Louis apartment,which was actually barelyadequate, seemed luxuriousto her. And it was theirsanctuary.“We won’t stay here any

longer than we have to,”Jordansaid.“Howlongarewegoingto

havetobeontherun?”“For the foreseeable

future.”Jasmine lowered her head,

said,“God!”Jordan looked at her and

smiled. “We can surviveanywhere, and for as long asittakes.”As long as what takes?

Jasminewondered.Jordan paced to the

window of the small livingroom and looked out towardthe neighborhood beyondGrand Avenue. So manycitiestookonanotheridentityat night. Outlined and

punctuatedbylights.Hefeltthethrobbing,heard

the thrashing noise, growinglouder, and massaged histempleswithhisfingertips.Jordanactuallydidn’tmind

stayinghereforawhile.Nowand then he would buy aSouthwestAirlines ticketandflytoNewYorktocheckthecondo he had on the UpperWest Side. He wasn’tprepared to share thatinformationyetwithJasmine.

He was reasonably sure shewasloyalanddependable,butthat person might be the oldJasmine. People changed. Toknow that, you had only tolookatthehaggardandwornJasmine and compare herwithheryoungerself.He smiled thinly. Did we

all finally have to live in theclothes that we disdained,withthefaceswedeserved?

They might have left St.Louis for the larger, moreanonymous city of NewYork.Buttheyfeltsafethere,andaMidwestapartmentwasahell of a lot better than theNew York streets. That waswhere he would be, alongwith Jasmine, because hedidn’t like the thoughtofherknowingabouttheNewYorkapartment.Stay, do nothing

noticeable, and keep a low

profile. Let time wash somemore of the past away. Thatwas Jordan’s plan. Hecouldn’t figure out Jasmine’splan, but was sure she hadone. The longer she lived inSt. Louis, the safer sheseemed to feel, and thatscared Jordan. She wouldfollow his lead for a while,butnotforever.Howcouldhetotallytrusther?Totally.Life for Jordan and

JasmineflowedeasilyenoughforawhileinSt.Louis.Theyreally did feel separate fromthe rest of humanity.Detachedandreasonablysafeintheirisolation.Theyseldomwentout,but

eachmorning Jasminewouldwalk to a corner bakery andget two toasted bagels andtwo coffees to go. No onepaidanyattentiontoher.Shewas simply another creatureofthecity,scrapingtogetby

likeothersinalower-middle-classneighborhoodinalousyeconomy.So,too,seemedJordan,but

in two neighborhoods half acontinentfromeachother.Hedidn’t have to explain toJasmine that he had anotherapartment in another city, orwherehegothismoney.Shedidn’t know he wasmoderately wealthy, anddidn’tneedtoknow.Sheonlynowand thenbroughtup the

past,asshehad thismorningwhen theywere seatedat thesmall kitchen table havingtheir breakfast. She hadlearned early that they bothate lightly for breakfast, andsharedalikingforbagelsandorangejuicewithcoffee.She also knew that this

man she was living withkilled.Andhe knew that sheknew. That she also hadkilled.Theypretendedotherwise.

The reason why was, toJordan, irrelevant, thoughnotall thathardtounderstand.Ifthese kinds of very privatearrangements didn’t takeplace, a functioning modernsocietywouldn’tbepossible.One thing Jordan couldn’t

getJasminetodowastostopcollecting news items fromWeb sites and newspapers.What bothered Jordan wasthat the items she seemed tobe saving weremostly about

theGremlin.Dayspassed,Jasmineshed

some of her street-personhabits and mannerisms, andregainedsomeofherbeliefinherself.She lookedpeople inthe eye now, and carriedherself differently, with astraighter back and a bolderstride.While Jordan had come to

trustandadmirehermoreandmore, he still didn’t trustJasmine enough to reveal

howhe’dnurturedasub-rosastock portfolio, though hewas aware that she knew hewas the Gremlin. He alwaysestablishedanescapehatchinlife. He could, if need be,disappearquicklyandwithoutatrace.Fromtimetotime,hedid.Once Jasmine had found a

playbill from a Broadwaytheaterinhissuitcoatpocket.Another time, a receipt fromaNewYorkrestaurant.

All right, Jasmine thought.We can still lead our privatelives. Better that right now,Jordan was leading some ofhis in New York and not inSt.Louis.What Jordan did that

sometimesirkedJasminewasto bring home gifts that sheconsideredtobemostlyjunk.Itwasneverasurprise togetup early, or in themiddle of

the night, to find somegadget, either whole ordissectedforanalysis,laidoutonthekitchentable.The man simply loved

gadgets, and delighted indisassembling them so hecouldbetterunderstandthem.It was a sort of obsessive-compulsivebehavior,Jasmineknew, and not the onlyobsession he had. That wasokay with Jasmine. Sheunderstood and could accept

addictions.At times, thesegadgets,or

renderings of them, wouldappear in the media alongwith explanations or furtherdescription.Everyoneseemedtoknowwhowasresponsible.WhatwasobviouslytheworkoftheGremlindominatedthenews and the onlinespeculation at the fringes ofnews. Jasmine was savingjustabouteverythinginprint.Sometimes photographs or

video. Crime in the time oftech.Jasmine clipped most of

the horrific news itemsdescribing how a riverboathad sunk with six of itspassengers. Itwas thought atfirst that the boat had strucksome flotsam. Later it waslearnedthatthesternnearthepaddle wheels had beendamaged by a small,homemadeunderwatermine.Jordan knew that at a

certain point, he woulddestroy this potentiallyincriminatinginformation.AsforJasmine,asmuchas

shetrustedJordan,whichwasmore than she could trustanyoneelse, itwasgettingtobenotenough.

59

NewYork,thepresentThe Mary Contrary line ofclothing was taking off. Ifsales figures continued toclimb at their present rate, itwould make Lola Bendindependentlywealthy.That word, independently,

was important to her. It wasone of the reasons she usedhermaidennameintheworldof fashion. It alsomeant thatat times there were peoplewho referred to her style ofclothing as the Lola Bendline. She tried to stamp thisusage out with thedetermination and grimenthusiasm of a gardenerstampingoutweeds.It was this new line that

was selling like crazy.

AnythingwithMaryContraryon it seemed to be flyingoffthe shelves and transformingitselftoprofit.Lolawasgettingrich.She herself was rather

plump to be wearing MaryContrary, especially the newluxury line, Effin’ Right! Ithadn’t sold well at first. Along, raked hemline and apinch at the waist had donethe trick. Now it was sellingsowellthatLolatookagiant

step she would have onlydreamedofsixmonthsago.Lola and her husband,

Roland,haddiscussedbuyinga Manhattan condo so shecouldbeclose toherwork—whathecalled“herventure.”Lola had bought theexpensive unit with a downpaymentoffiftypercent.Hadagreed to, anyway. Not onlythat, it was fully furnished.Lola wasn’t crazy about theantique French provincial in

the largest bedroom, but thehell with that. She couldchange things over time,eventually make the condohers. That, in fact, would bethe most enjoyable part ofthistransaction.She had an appointment

now to meet with the realestate broker and makearrangements so the onlything left to do was forRoland to sign on the dottedline. She knew Roland well

enough to be sure he woulddothat.Shehoped.

After a long lunch, Lola

took a short cab ride acrosstown, back to theWhitworthArms.A uniformed doormanopenedthecab’sdoorforher.Lola gave the driver abackhandedwave rather thanacceptchangeforthetwenty-dollar bill she gave him,

thanked the doorman, andenteredthelobby.Itwasassumptuousasshe

remembered it.Acres of red-grained marble, rich brownleather furniture, and twoelevators. A chandelierstraightoutofPhantomoftheOpera graced a vaultedceiling.Thedoormanhadfollowed

her in and gone behind amarblecounter.Lola stoppedgawking and walked over to

him.“I’m here to meet Charles

Langleyin303,”shesaid.Thename,whichhadbeen

onthebusinesscardLolahadtaken from the coffee shopbulletin board, seemedfamiliar to the doorman.“Third floor.” He motionedtowardtheelevators.Lola thanked him and

could feel him watching heras she walked toward theelevators.Shegavealittlehip

switchbutdidn’tglanceback,thinking, Soon you’ll beworkingforme,pal.As longas the condo board okaysRoland and me as unitowners. Lola didn’t have theslightest doubt about theirapproval. She thought aboutthe latest sales figureson theEffin’ Right! Line. This wasone of those times when itwasokaytoberich.Plentyofdesigners would love tradingplaceswithher.

The elevator made not asound and seemed to takeabout three seconds to risethree floors. The door slidopensilently.Her footfalls in her high-

heeled shoes were as hushedas the rest of the building.Wasshedreaming?Floating?The doorman must have

calleduptoLangley,becausethe real estate agent wasstandingwaiting forherwiththedoorto303open.Hewas

asmallmaninawell-tailoredgray suit. His hair was longand combed down in back,puffed up in spikes on top.Despite his diminutivestature, the hairdo didn’tmakehimlookfeminine.He beamed. “Lola!” Like

an old friend greeting herafteralongabsence.She smiled back at him.

“Were you afraid I wasn’tcoming?”“I never for a second

doubted it. Such a bargainthisis!”She felt somewhat

ashamed because she didn’tactually know if the condowas a bargain. It must becheap, if its address wasscribbled on a business cardpinned to a coffee shopbulletinboard,withnoprice,no photograph. And it wasbeingsoldbyanindependentbroker.But it was precisely, give

or take a few blocks, whereLola wanted to live, so shetookdownthecardandcalledthenumber.The sales agent, a man

named Charles Langley,picked up after five rings.Lola had heard that they didthat, letting thedreamdangleenticingly.Still,shefeltgreatrelief when he identifiedhimself. She still had herchoices.Itcreatedtheillusionofbeingincharge.

Langley had the knack ofspeaking in away thatmadeinterruption almostimpossible. He knew shewould love the condo, andshe would understand thefactors that made it such abargain. The couple whoowned it were locked in anasty divorce and wanted toreturn to England, wherethey’d lived previously. Thehusband could retain hisemployment in London only

if he could report there by acertain date. Time wasgrowingshort,andanybuyerhad to accept that and use itas an advantage. Right now,the ownerswanted to get ridoftheplace,furnitureandall,and had priced it so theycould stop thinking about itand walk away withoutlookingbackonitoranythingelseAmerican.“But they will take

Americandollars,”Lolasaid.

“Or anything thatconverts.” Langley smiledagain, a kind of devilish,inclusivegrin.“Ifyouwanttolook around again, that’sokay.Ihavesomepaperworkfor you to sign—nothingfinal, but it will lock up thisplaceforyou.”Lola pretended to think

hard.“Wecouldstillbackoutofthedeal?”“Sure.Butyouwon’twant

to.” He glanced around.

“Heck, you could probablysell thisplaceforabigprofiteven if you didn’t want tolive in it. Or lease it.” Heshrugged.“Youcan’tlose.”“I could probably figure a

way,” Lola said. “But I’llsign. I just want to see theexpression on my husband’sface.”“Me, too,” Langley said,

andlaughed.Hereacheddownandgota

large brown leather briefcase

fromwhereshehadn’tseenitalongside a chair.Heopenedthe briefcase and paused.“Oh, before you do sign,there’ssomethingyoushouldseeinthemainbedroom.”He strode toward the hall

andshefellinbehindhim.Asthey passed the open door tothe kitchen, she noticedsomethingsilverandblackonthe countertop. It lookedfamiliar but she couldn’tquite place it. Some kind of

gadget.Thentheywerepastit.When they reached the

bedroom door, Langleystepped aside so she couldenterfirst.“If you’ll concentrate and

lookupnearthatlightfixture...”hesaid,pointing.

60

EddieAmos,thedoormanatthe Whitworth Arms, wasconflicted.He’dacceptedfivehundred dollars to let thisfriendoftherealestateagent,Langley, into the unoccupiedcondo so he could make adeal. If the friend did land a

temporary tenantandmakeadeal, Eddie had anotherpayment, of a thousanddollars,coming.Heknewthatif he revealed thatarrangement he would losehis job, not to mention thethousand-dollarcut.Afterall,he wasn’t in real estate, hewasadoorman.WhatgottoEddiethemost

wasthatLolaBendturnedoutto be a hotshot designer, onthe verge of becoming very,

veryrich.Nowshewasverydead.And now there was the

package. It was small,wrappedinbrownpaper,withEddie’snameprintedonit inblack felt-tip ink.He’d comein fromhailingacab foroneof the tenants and found thesmall, square package on themarble desk where thebuilding’s logwaskept,witha record of every visitorcoming and going at the

Whitworth.So far, Eddie hadn’t

openedthepackage,knowingthatifhedidsobeforetalkingto the police, he’d be acoconspirator in amurder. Ifthey didn’t already think ofhimthatway.But thentherewasthekey

to the condo. How reliablewas Eddie’s story that thecondo’s real owners were inEngland? The police wouldwonder soon how the killer

got into the condo unitwithoutakey.Orwithakey.Howmany people knew thatEddie had a master key thatfitalltheunits?That was something else

Eddie needed to think on.Sooner or later the policewere going to find out aboutthe master key anyway, sowould his best move be tohand the key to them andexplain what it was? Eddieknew they’d find the key

anyway, so why not play itlikeacardfirst?He slid the package down

into the shadows of themarble pedestal where theblack leather logbook lay.Unless someone for somereason reached way in thereand felt around, the packagewouldbesafe.Italsotookthepressure off Eddie.He couldthinkmoreclearlyandcalmlyabout his position. He couldalways tell the police he’d

known nothing about thepackage, if they happened tofind it. Or, if he decided tocome clean, he could tellthemaboutLangleyand thenpretend that he’d just foundthepackage.Almost certainly, Langley

hadleftthepackage.Eddiewasn’tsureaboutall

the details yet, but he knewwhathehadtodo.When finally the police

were finished talking to him

theywouldcuthimloose.Loosebutnotfree.

61

The corpse of Lola Bendyielded information but nosurprises.Shelayonthebed,where apparently she hadbeen dragged after being leftto bleed out in the bathtub.The tub itself, and thebathroom, were fairly clean,

considering. The killer haddissected the victim, mostlydrainedofblood,on thebed.She had the now familiarpuppetlike look, her torso,head, and limbs laid out intheir anatomically correctpositions.“It almost looks like there

wasamedicalseminarhere,”Nift the ME said. He brokeinto song, providing his ownlyrics: “Oh, this bone’sconnectedtothatbone...”

If the bastard broke into adance, Pearl was going toslughim.Out of deference to the

CSUtechs,whoshouldshowup any minute, no one hadtouchedanything,“Got a time of death?”

QuinnaskedNift.Nift rubbed his chin.

“Abouttenthirty,butIcanbemore precise when we talklater.”Helookeddownatthevictim. “Someof the injuries

are ante mortem.” Hesmacked his lips. “Hetortured her, probably for along time, before letting herdie.Maybehours.”“Sowhat’sthemessonthe

sink counter?” Renz asked.Quinn followed him into thekitchen.PearlandFeddermanstayed in the bedroom withNiftandwhatwasleftofLolaBend.NeitherofthemtrustedNifttobealonewiththedeadbody. Not that it made any

difference. He’d shortly bealone with Lola Bend in themorgue, and doing intimatethings to her, if the rumorsabout Nift and his deadwomen were by all accountsaccurate.Pearl waited so she’d be

among the last to leave theapartment. She could swearthatNifthadleaneddownandwhispered something to thecorpse. It sounded like,“We’llneverhaveParis...”

“Placelooksbrandnewbut

livedin,”Quinnsaid.“It’s fully equipped and

furnished, according to thebrochure,” Pearl said. “Ifyou’re wealthy enough toafford it, you shouldn’t havetogotothetroubleofpickingoutwallpaper.”Fedderman said, “The rich

theyareafunnyrace.”Quinn, Renz, and the

others were standing in thekitchen,staringatthevariousBakelite and metal partsscatteredonthecountertop.“Looks like he

disassembled a MonsieurCafé,” Pearl said, “andcouldn’tputitbacktogether.”“Sounds like our man,”

Feddermansaid.Quinnsaid,“Icanseewhy

he couldn’t get it backtogether. It looks like it’smanufactured so no one can.

Butwhatisit?”Pearl picked up some of

thepartsandsniffedatthem.“It’s a very expensive

gourmet coffee brewer,” shesaid.“Itpressesthebeans.”“Why?”Quinnasked.Pearl shrugged. “Flavor.”

She knew Quinn’s favoritecup of coffee was hot, withcream, and in near proximitytopastry.“Presses the beans,”

Fedderman said slowly and

thoughtfully,mulling it over.“Maybe we should testwhat’s left of that coffeebrewer to see if anythingotherthancoffeewaspressedinit.”

62

Eddie the doorman waiteduntilthetimewasright.He’dmade a study of thebuilding’s security camerasand knew how to moveamong them keeping to theblindspots.Hestood just so,for only a few seconds, but

with his back to the camerathat was slowly sweepingacross the lobby where themarble podium with thevisitorlogsat.Hestoodatthepodium and appeared to bechecking the logbook. Then,when seconds counted andthe slowly rotating camerawasturnedaway,heremovedthe small, wrapped packagehe’d stowed in the shadowedspace beneath the writingsurface.

With smooth, casualmotion, he kept the packagebetween himself and thepodium as he slid the littlerectangular,wrappedboxintoa side pocket of his uniformjacket.Squaredawayagainbehind

the podium, he pretended toscan the logbook idly, surethatwithin a few seconds hewouldagainbeoncamera.An hour later Robert, one

of the building’s two other

doormen, came on duty andrelievedEddie.Robert was in his mid-

thirties, classically handsomeandaswellgroomedasafilmstar.Hemadehisratherplainuniform,exactlylikeEddie’s,look like a spit-and-polishgeneral’s outfit, completewith epaulets. Though he’dnever served anythinganywhere, other thanrestaurant food for a briefstretch, his bearing was

military.Itwasashamehe’dmissedtheBritishEmpire.He gave Eddie an

appropriate little half salute.“So whadda we got, someexcitement here today?” Hedidn’ttalklikeageneral.“Woman dead up on the

thirdfloor,”Eddiesaid.Robertheld thestreetdoor

open for a guy in awrinkledsuit who sure looked like acop. “The fox that plays hertelevision too loud?” he

asked,when the copwas outofearshot.“No. This one hadn’t

closed thedealyet.Toobad.She was kind of a looker.Andthesortwhoflauntedit.”“You seem to know a lot

about her, considering shehadn’tevenmovedinhere.”Eddie shrugged. “I see

them come, I see them go.She looked good from eitherdirection.”“So what happened?”

Robert asked. “She have aheart attack brought on bysexualarousal?”“Somebody killed her.

What I hear, he played withherforquiteawhile, thenhefinallykilledher.”“Holy Christ! They know

whoshother?”“She wasn’t shot. The

Gremlingother.”Robert didn’t seem

surprised.“You,uh,seewhatwasleftofher?”

“Yeah.Idon’twanttolookagain.”“Not much bothers me. I

seen some shit inAfghanistan. You mindhanging around a fewminuteswhileItakealook?”“Treat yourself,” Eddie

saidagain.“Justdon’taskmetojoinyou.”“Backinajiff,”thegeneral

said, and stormed awaytowardtheelevators.

Eddie waited until Robert

returned from upstairs.Robert’s facewasashen,andhe looked likehemighthavetovomit.Eddiethoughtaboutaskinghimwhenhe’dservedin Afghanistan, then thoughtbetterofit.Eddiegaveaquasi-military

salute ashe left thebuilding,and wasn’t surprised whenRobertsalutedback.Eddie followed company

rules and didn’twear his redjacket with its decorativebrassnameplatewhenhewasawayfromwork.Theydidn’twant him looking like acommoner dressed up forsomekindofTVcommercial.He carried the neatly foldedjacket over his right arm,careful to keep the wrappedpackagewhere it couldn’t beseenandwouldn’tfallout.The subway surprised him

and wasn’t crowded. He sat

near one of the doors, thejacket folded in his lap, hishandrestingonitsohecouldfeelthetinypackageinside.

63

Eddie’s wife, Kellie,watched Eddie hang up hisred uniform jacket and brushit off.Hewas always carefultohangitneatlyintheclosetwhen he was finished withworkfortheday.After brushing the jacket,

he used a sticky roller to gooveritandliftoffanydustorhair or dandruff that mighthave collected during hisshift. Satisfied, he started towalk into the living room,when he remembered thepackage. He got it from hisjacket pocket, sighed, andwentintothelivingroom.Kellie went into the

kitchen. “Want a beer?” shecalled.Eddie called back that he

didandcarriedthepackagetothe secretary desk, whereunpaid bills were stacked inchronological order. He satdownatthedeskanddroppedthewritingsurface.Kellie came in from the

kitchen, carrying two bottlesofHeineken. She placed oneof thebottlesonthedesk,ona square cork coasteradvertising Guinness stout.Held the other bottle by itsneck.

“A cop left here a littlewhileago,”shesaid.Eddie wasn’t surprised.

“Figures,” he said. “Somewoman in an upper floor gotherselfbadlyhurttoday.”“Killed, is what the cop

said. He was a big guy,tough-looking in a niceway,ifyouknowwhatImean.”Eddiedidn’t.Helookedseriouslyather,

butcalmly.Lettingherknowthat,justincase,he,thealpha

male, had everything undercontrol.“Accidental?”“From what I heard, it’s

murder,”Kelliesaid.“Iguessthat’swhythey’llwanttotalkto us, youworking there andall.Helefthiscard.”“Thoughtful of him,”

Eddiesaid.Seated at the desk, he

quickly began filing thosenews articles he wouldn’twant Kellie or a few otherpeople seeing. When Kellie

finally understood what wasgoing on, she was certain tobeallforit.Itwastimeforafresh adventure. Even if shedidn’t yet realize it, she wasabout to have a brush withgoodfortune.WhenEddiewasdonewith

his filing, he went to hiswallet and removed the halfdozen or so business cardshe’dcollectedduringtheday.After placing them in adrawerwithothers,hecleared

thedesktopandslowlybeganunwrapping the package.Kelliestoodupfromthechairshe’d been sitting in andwandered over to look overhisshoulder.The package contained a

small music box that lookedlike an antique. On itsporcelaintopwasthepaintedfigure of a beautiful womanin a white gown, seated onthe lap of a prosperous-lookingEdwardiangentleman

withalongbeard.There was a small key

taped to the bottom of themusic box. Eddie found theedge of the cellophane tapeand turned it back with histhumbnail. He sat with thekey in one hand, theminiature music box in theother.His wife Kellie hadn’t

moved. She remained staringcuriouslyatthemusicbox.Itlooked genuinely old. And

harmless enough. Andvaluable in an AntiquesRoadshowsortofway.“That filigree around the

edges looks like real gold,”shesaid.“Maybeitis,”Eddiesaid.“Windit,”shesaid.“Seeif

itstillworks.”Eddie didn’t need much

encouragement. He was thecurioussort.Kellie watched as he

inserted the tarnished key in

itsslotinthesideofthebox,then gave it a few tentativeturns. The box ticked andwhirred, and then beganplayingsomesongshedidn’trecognize. The kind ofsimple, chime-like notesshared bymost of the musicboxesevermade.Itwasfaint.Couldn’tbeheardunlessyouhelditclosetoyourear.Eventhen,Eddiecouldn’tplacethetune.Tired of standing, Kellie

took a sip of Heineken andwent over and sat down onthesofa.Eddie looked over at her

and shook his head. Shewatched silently as he heldthemusic box even closer tohis ear, so he could try toidentify the haunting andfamiliartune.It remained faint and

unidentifiable.Thetunewasnothingshe’d

associatewithwhathappened

next. The small block ofSemtex concealed in themusic box, and ignited by awatch battery, sent its sparkto the detonator. Eddie washolding the box close to hisear sohecouldhear the tunewhenitexploded.It wasn’t a large or loud

enough explosion to destroyeverything in the room. Still,it was more than efficient,and narrowly targeted. Halfof Eddie’s head was blown

away, and landed halfwayacross the room, in Kellie’slap.She stood up immediately,

brushing the thing onto thefloor. There was no soundother than a high-pitched,constant scream, and sheseemedtobemovinginslowmotion as shemade herwayto the secretary where Eddiewas slumped dead andbloody. At least the ruinedside of his face was turned

away.ThankGodforthat.She moved her right hand

carefully around Eddie, notlooking at him, and openedone of the secretary desk’ssmalldrawers.Witha tremblinghandshe

delicately reached into thedrawerandwithdrewQuinn’scardthathe’dpressedintoherhandbeforeleaving.She wondered if the

screaming in her headwouldeverstop.

64

TheywereintheQ&Aoffice—Quinn, Pearl, Fedderman,Lido,Helen, Sal, andHarold—engaginginwhathadcometo be known to them as aconfab of the fab. Nobodyknew where the terminologyhadcomefrom,buteveryone

assumed it had started withHarold.Nooneregardedsucha description as totally self-effacinghumor.Itsmackedofthetruth.“He’s going to kill again,”

Helen theprofiler said. “Andsoon.”Quinn said, “We need to

useourresources.”“You mean Jerry and his

techgenius?”Helenasked.Jerry Lido looked at her,

wondering if she was being

sarcastic. He decided hedidn’tgiveashit.“Thatmight be part of it,”

Quinn said. “We need to getthat refined photo of theGremlin out to every site onthe Internet where it’ll beFacebooked, tweeted, andretweeted.”“And LinkedIn,” Harold

added.Lido, slouched on a chair

near the coffee brewer, said,“Soundsas ifyoudon’tneed

me.”“Just sounds that way,”

Quinnsaid.“WhenIheartheword blog I think Hound oftheBaskervilles. And I don’tknow a sound bite from amosquitobite.”“So what resource are we

talking about?” Helen asked.She knew about Quinn andhis resources. They scaredher, though she realized thatsometimesshelovedthethrillthey provided. “Is this

resourceofyourslegal?”Quinngaveherthekindof

smile that should itself bedeclared illegal. Said, “Moreorless.”Great! “I am in the

NYPD.”“So are we all,

temporarily.”Heregardedheras if she might be growinganotherhead.“Youwantout,Helen?”“Depends on what this

resource is and what you

wanttodowithit.”“Thenewsmedia,”hesaid.

“Specifically,MinnieMiner.”“Marvelous!” Sal growled.

“Whyher?”“She’s got moxie,” Pearl

said.“The Marvelous Minnie

Miner Media Moxie plan,”Haroldsaid.Sal glared at him with

disgust.“Putting planning in

progress,”Haroldsaid,stillin

thegripofalliteration.“There’s someone else

involved,” Quinn said.“Somebody we’ve trustedbefore.”“Howdid those times turn

out?”Feddermanasked.Quinn said, “She seems

always to wind up inhospitals.”Helen looked at him

sharply. “Likes sex, healsfast?”“Well...yes.”

“NancyWeaver?”“Jackpot.”“Every time she heals up

and gets out of the hospital,she goes back to the ViceSquad,” Helen said. “Shebelongs in the Vice Squad.Maybeontheotherside.”“She enjoys getting the

snot beat out of her,”Feddermansaid.Noonedisagreed.When it

came toWeaver, theysimplydidn’tknowwhattothink.

Helen looked around. SaidtoQuinn, “Everybodyyou’reinvolvinginthisisthesortofperson who would skydivewithoutaparachute.”“That’s how I got here,”

NancyWeaversaid.Noonehadheardthestreet

dooropen,butthereshewas,in four-inch heels and abusinesslike pants suit thatwas a size too small for herand looked completelyunbusinesslike.

Shedisplayednoinjuries.Helen, in the complete

silence, watched Weavermove all her parts as shecrossed the room and satdown in one of the deskchairs. Her pose and posturewere calculatingly prim. Theeffectlookednasty.Helencrossedherarmsand

glanced around. All themaniacswerepresent.Allofus.Except for the police

commissioner.Quinn smiled at her,

reading her thoughts whileshe was reading his. “Renzdoesn’twanttoknow.”Helen knew he was right.

Not that anything wouldprevent Renz from throwingthem all under the train if itwastohisadvantage.Aslongas he held that strategicposition he was fine withwhatevertheydid.“Okay,” Quinn said. “I’ll

clueinMinnieMinerlater.”“What if she doesn’t want

to play?” Helen asked.Knowing how foolish thequestion was even as shespoke.“She’ll play,” Quinn said.

“Here’stheplan.”Hefeltthefamiliarthrillas

he realized that at thatmoment no one in the roomwanted to be anywhere else.Feelanythingelse.Beanyoneelse.

Two hours later, after her

show, Quinn made his pitchto Minnie Miner. As hespoke, he saw in her facewhathe’dseeninthefacesoftheothers.Intheireyesandinthe slight forward lean oftheirbodies.An acknowledgment and a

readiness.Wolvesandgraywolves.Shesaid,“I’min.”

When Quinn got home he

found a message on hisansweringmachine.ItwasRenz,informinghim

that the pieces of the brokencoffeemaker were clean offingerprints.Whatthey’dbothexpected.The coffee-bean presswas

onlyacoffee-beanpress.

65

St.Louis,2000Theywere by the river, justnorthofdowntownSt.Louis,in thecommercialpartof thecity. The doors of the emptyshippingcontaineropenedoutandwerecrackedjustenough

to let a breeze in. Jordanwished it had been luckinsteadofabreeze.Thingshadgonewrongfor

Jordan and Jasmine. Jordanhadbeenturneddownforhalfa dozen jobs. Most placessimply weren’t hiring, or atleast told him that. The lastplacehe’dapplied,unloadingcargo from one of the manybarges that moved up anddown the river, had resultedin a fight with the man who

would have been Jordan’sboss.Hewasalargemanwhose

face was like a map ofmadness. Yet he succumbedearly and turned away fromJordanafter abrief exchangeof punches. There wassomething about the boy’seyes.Themanhadseeneyeslike that inawindedfox thathad been cornered by half adozen hounds and knew itwas going to die. It had

fought even harder, andalmost survived. It wasn’tgoing to giveup—ever.Thatinitselfcouldbeaforce.“You’re the only man I

know,” Jasmine told Jordan,“who can lose a job and atoothinthesameday.”“Least it’s a molar,” he

said, flashing his handsomesmile.“But you can’t chew your

steak,”Jasminesaid.Jordanspatoff to the side.

“I don’t anticipate that’sgonnabeaproblem.”“Wecangotothatdinerup

onSouthBroadway.”Forthefirsttime,shenoticedthattheknuckles on his right handwere reddened and cut. Thehandwasslightlyswollen.“We get done eating,” he

said, “and we’re gonnaexperienceanissue.”“Issue?”“They’re gonna be

unreasonableat thedinerand

wantmoneyfromusafterweeat.Youknowhow theyare.They’ll see it as some kindatrade.”“They’ll just have to learn

toshare,”Jasminesaid.“Share?”She smiled. “Somebody

say something aboutsharing?”Jordan felt something shift

inthecoreofhim.Wherehisheart maybe should be. Thethoughtamusedhim.

Jordan remembered tellingJasmine that if two peopleknew a secret, it was nolonger a secret. That hadseemedwise then. It seemedwisenow.Even if they trusted each

other totally now, and feltthey would share that trustforever,theybothknewadaymight come—would surelycome—when things wouldchange. If they delayed longenough, the secret that was

murder would become againarealsecret.Jordan knew it, and was

surethatwhenthetimecame,hewouldact inhisownbestinterest.Jasmine also knew this,

and had contemplated killingJordan first. Then she’dbecomeresigned.She decided that if Jordan

didn’twantherenough to letherlive,shewantedtodie.Love?shewondered.

Actually,shethought,therewasnotitanicstruggleragingin her breast. It was reallykind of obvious and simple.SheandJordanwereliketwoshipwrecked people in themiddle of an ocean, starvingin a lifeboat. Neither spokewhateachknewtheotherwasthinking. Eventually, onecould only survive by eatingtheother.

66

St.Louis,thepresentJordan had this persistentnotion that the police weregaining on him. He hadplenty of net worth, andstolen credit and debit cardsthat were too hot to use. Heknewthepolicecouldquickly

trace that kind of plastic, sohe stayed with the rapidlydiminishingcashthathekepthiddeninamoneybelt.Only now the ready cash

had about run out, and thedangerous cards beckonedmoreandmoretohim.Thereseemed to be only one thingto do—or rather severalthings.They all had to resultintheacquisitionofmoney.Jordan noticed what

seemedtobeayoungcollege

guywalking toward him.Hechanged course slightly andapproached the boy, makingnoteofhisexpensive-lookingsweater tied by the armsaroundhisneck.Mr.Preppy.A closer look took indeliberately worn-out jeans,andexpensive-lookingleatherboots that had built-up heelsthat made the kid appeartaller.They were pretty much

alone,inaplacenotfarfrom

where the Eads Bridgecrossed into Illinois. Acrossthe Mississippi the grimoutlineofEastSt.Louiswassharp against the cloudlesssky.Down here on the leveethe sun seemed to burn withan extra brightness, castingsharpershadows.Rivertrafficseemednottomoveuntilyoulookedawayandthenbackatit and realized the scenechanged slightly. It madeJordanwish, in some part of

him, that he was a Frenchimpressionistpainter,wise tothewaysoflightandshadow.Amanandwomanwalked

close together and stoppednow and then to kiss. Theyweretheonlyotherpeopleinsight.Jordanwaiteduntiltheydisappeared intowhat lookedlike some kind of parkingstructure.A car emerged five

minuteslater.Itwasadentedconvertible with the top up,

and was in no way a rental.The woman was driving andwasalone.Shewasinahurryand didn’t look anywhereexcept straight ahead. Shedidn’tapplythebrakesasshepulledoutontotheroad.Almost immediately, the

preppy-looking guyreappeared andwalked alongthelevee,seeminglyenjoyingthelingeringmorningandthenearbyrushofmuddywater.Jordan approached Mr.

Preppy, keeping his hands inhis pockets so he’d seemmore casual than dangerous.Noting that theboyappearedscared, he smiled with falseassurance and said, “Youlooklikeafellawho’dgiveadesperatemanasmallloan.”Now the kid did look

afraid. His eyes dartedaround, seeking company orsomesortofhelp.Buttherewasnoone.Hetriedasmileandahead

shake. “Sorry, I don’t have acent on me.” He stepped tothe side and walked aroundJordan.Jordanmovedtoblockhim

and tookhishandsoutofhispockets.At first he thought the kid

was going to turn and run.Jordan didn’t want that. Infact, he decided that if theboy did break and run, he,Jordan, would run theoppositedirection.

Insteadofrunning,theboysighedandsaid,“AllI’vegoton me is ten dollars.” Hepulled his brown leatherwalletoutofahippocketandflipped it open, showingJordan that it was emptyexcept for a single ten-dollarbill. Jordan held out a handand was given the bill. Itseemed so easy, he thoughthe should do more of this.“Give me the entire wallet,”he said. “I’ll give it back. I

just want to make sure therearenosecretpockets.”Decision time. The kid

lookedasifhemightbolt,butinsteadcomplied.Thumbing through the

wallet,Jordanfoundnomoremoney.He discovered nothing

more of value. The usualjunk. A driver’s licenserevealed that the kid wasSamuel Pace, and he wasnineteen years old. The

clothes...thecheapwallet... Sam didn’t figure to be thescionofawealthyfamily.On the other hand, the

trendy clothes suggested thefamilyprobablywasn’tpoor.A plastic charge card

didn’t interest Jordan; heknew that once reportedstolen it would be a trap.Therewasanothercardinthewallet.Twocards,actually,ina little envelope that had thename of a hotel and a room

number on it. Inside theenvelopewere twokeycardsfor the nearby Adam Parkhotel,room333.Therewasaphoto in the wallet, too,pressed in plastic—anattractive young blond girlseatedinawoodenswingandsmiling. “This yourgirlfriend?” Jordan asked.Pocketing one of the hotelkey cards. Probably the kidwould think he misplaced it,orthathewasgivenonlyone

keycardwhenhecheckedin.“Sheismygirlfriend.”“Sheherewithyou?”“No. Yes. Coming in

tomorrow.”Anobviouslie.“IbethernameisCherry,”

Jordansaid.Samuel Pace looked

slightly confused, notknowing if Jordan had justinsulted his girlfriend. “HernameisEleanor,”hesaid.Atugboatchuggedupriver,

its air horn blasting a low,mournful note. Samuel Paceglanced at it with brief hopein his eyes. No one was onthe boat’s deck. No one tolookbackathim.Jordan said, “What size

shoedoyouwear?Samuel blinked at him.

“’Boutaneleven.”Jordan shook his head in

disappointment. The bootswere too large for his feet,even if he stuffed something

inthetoes.“I ain’t got any money in

my boots,” Samuel said,gettingthewrongidea.Jordan smiled. “I’mgonna

believe you.” He knew thathecould,orSamuelwouldn’thavebroughtupthesubject.Hehanded thewalletback

to the boy, keeping only theten-dollar bill and thephotograph, which he slidinto his shirt pocket. Hedidn’t count the hotel key

cardasloot;pluckingitoutofits tiny envelope when thekid’s head was turned hadbeenalmostautomatic.ItwasoneofJordan’scardinalrules,not passing up a chance touse somebody else’s chargeorkeycard.“I know where you live,”

Jordan said. “And I can findoutaboutEleanor.NeitherofyouknowwhereIlive.”He took a careful up-and-

downlookatSamuel.Hewas

skinny,butalsotall.Probablyclose to six feet. Nothing hewaswearingwouldfitJordan.Everything would drape onhim, making him look evensmaller than he was. Lost inhis clothes, as his motherused to tell him. His latemother. His father hadn’tminded his diminutivestature. ItmadeJordaneasiertocontrol.“YouseemnottobelieveI

think of that ten dollars as a

loan,”Jordansaid.Samuel stared at him, still

afraid,butcurious.“You be here this time

tomorrow and I’ll pay youback, with interest,” Jordanlied.“Youbelieveme?”“Ifyouwantmeto.”Jordan smiled. “I’m not

sureIknowexactlywhatthatmeans, but yeah, I want youto. I toldyou itwasa loan. Idon’tlie.”Samuelwas in noposition

to contradict Jordan. Hesimply stood with a stupidhalfgrinonhisface.Jordan stuck out his right

hand. “I’ll bring thephotograph, too. The one ofEleanor.”Samuel thanked him

because he couldn’t think tosayordoanythingelse.“See you tomorrow,”

Jordan said. He shookSamuel’s sweaty, tremblinghandwithitsslenderfingers.

As an afterthought headded, “I know a famousglamour photographer who’dlovetoshootEleanor.MaybeI’ll bring her, too. He mightwannashootbothofyou.”Thinking, always leave

themconfused.Jordan had noted on the

Missouri driver’s license thatSamuel’saddresswashereinthe city, though he wasstaying at a hotel. He wasmost likely here for an

assignationwithEleanor.Onethat he didn’t want anyoneelsetoknowabout.Ortellanyoneelseabout.Samuelwassmart tobeso

suspicious,Jordanthought.He walked off in the

directionofJasmine.LaterthatdayLying in the cool air-

conditioning with his eyesclosed, Jordan thought about

hismasterplan.Theplanthatwouldplayout as tragedy sovastitwouldbeponderedandadmiredforgenerations.Thewitnessingofwhatthe

famousarchitectandengineerEthanEllishaddonetoaten-year-old boy ensured Ellis’scooperation and his silence.He had understoodimmediately what Jordanwanted.And why, like Jordan, he

hadlongagomadehischoice

ofevils,andithadenvelopedhimlikeashroud.

PARTFOUR

Arighteousmanregardeththelifeofhisbeast;butthetendermerciesofthewickedarecruel.

—PROVERBS12:10

67

NewYork,thepresentMinnie Miner was not somuchamenableaseagertobepart of the plan. Quinndecided Helen the profilerwouldbebestfortheopeninggambit, the softening up.

Helen was skilled at turningunease into fear, fear intohorror, horror into mindlesspanic.“My vote for someone to

explain these gruesomemurders goes to a womanwho knows all about thepeople who might perpetratethem,” Minnie said with allsincerity to camera 2’s redlight. “I give you policeprofiler, psychologist, andauthorHelenIman.”

Helen, all six feet plus ofher, strolled out onto the set.Despite Helen’s toweringheight advantage, Minniematched her presence withpure energy. Fireball meetslackadaisical.Applausewas enthusiastic.

Minnie made a welcomingmotion with her right arm,andHelensatdowninoneofthe wing chairs angled atforty-five degrees so theyboth faced the low coffee

table. Shewaswearing a reddress with a low neckline,and a high hemline thatshowed off her almostimpossiblylonglegs.Minnie sat in the other

chair,ontheveryedgeoftheseat cushion, and smiledwhile the audienceapplauded. She waited,waited...When the applause began

to flag, she heaped morepraise on Helen: “This

woman has a sixth sensewhen it comes to gettinginside the heads of the badguys.”Minnielaughed.“Andshe knows a lot more thananyone else I know aboutweaponry, villains, lawenforcement, and serialkillers.” She turned herattention away from theaudience and faced Helen.“And one interesting thingI’veheardyousayinthepast,Helen, is thatsuchkillersare

liketickingtimebombs.Atacertain point they verymuchwant to get caught andstopped. That happens whentheirmurdersmakeitbegintoseem like they’re the onesdying a little at a time witheach death they cause, eachlife they stop. Killing doesthat to themurderer,male orfemale.”Helen looked beyond

Minnie and spoke to thestudioaudience.

“Have you ever eatensomething you thought wasdelicious, knowing it wasn’tgoodforyou?”She pretended to count

members of the audience,observing the various headsnodding yes, yes, they knewthe satisfaction of stuffingfood into theirmouths to thepoint of gluttony.AndHelenknew it. They had that incommon, being humanbeings. But Minnie wasn’t

anykindofcriminal.Sohowcould she know the cost ofdisregarding the lengtheningshadows?The ticking bomb?Her background surelyprecludedthat.“Helen?”Minniewas looking at her

expectantly.“Sorry,” Helen said. “We

push the food away. We’vehad enough. We can eat nomore. Finally, it is time tostop.”

The audience applauded atthe pause, without a cue.They liked this woman.Minniedecidedtoletitroll.“Usually one person can

understandanotheronlyuptoa certain point,” Helen said.“Going beyond that point iswhat I do. That is what I’vedone.It’smyjob,andit’smycalling.“The Gremlin,” she

continued, “is not a goodperson.Notinanywayheroic

or iconic. He has a curiousmind.Thatweknow.Andheis sick. He might be clever.He might be deadly. Hemight be three moves aheadofhispursuers.Butheisalsosick. He can’t stop hisincreasing use of the knife.Hecan’tstoptorturingbeforekilling.Hecan’thelp reverseengineering every interestingdevice he comes upon. Hecan’thelpthis;hecan’tresistthat;hecan’t reverse this;he

can’t change that. He is nottheskilledgeniuswhoalwaysmust know more. He issimply a simple man with asimpleproblem.Thesolutionisalsosimple.Hewantstobecaught now. Finally. Evenmorethanhewantstokill.Hewantstobelockedupforlifeordiebyneedle.Butnotjustthat. He wants to chose thetime and place of his death.Hewantstobeanobserveraswell as a participant. He

needs to stop. On the otherhand,heneedstocontinue.“He needs to know how

deathworks.”

68

“I heard most of theconversation,” Pearl said,whenQuinnandWeaverhadbroken their connection.They’d recorded most of theHelen/Minnie conversationontheircellphones.Quinn laid his phone on a

bookcase. Most of the bestmystery writers’ books werethere. Tricky folks, those.Hadtheyinfluencedhim?Hehadn’t mentioned to Pearlthatshewouldbetheprimarytarget in Quinn’s plan. Thebait. She was the one in thekiller’s sights, whatever thecondition of Weaver. Hadbeen his ultimate targetalmost from the time of hisarrivalinthecity.ItwasHelen’sopinionthat

Pearlwas themost importantpiece on the killer’simaginary game board, thequeenthathadtofall.That Weaver ostensibly

was the ideal bait also madehertheidealdiversion.Pearl was what the killer

had to claim to complete themadsymmetryofhispurposeinlife.Andindeath.“Youdon’t have to do it,”

QuinnrepeatedtoPearl.She smiled. “I want to do

it. Iwant to stop thisbastardjustasmuchasyoudo.”“Why?”“You know why. The

reasons that sound corny ifyousaythemoutloud.”“Theladyintheharbor?”“I don’t want to get all

metaphysical before I brushmyteeth,”Pearlsaid.Quinn poured a cup of

coffee, then sat down at thekitchentable.Hesippedashestared out the window at a

ledge of the building nextdoor. A small pigeon keptlanding there, which seemedto drive the other pigeonsnuts,becausetheywouldflaparoundandcooandflyattheintruder. As Quinn watchedtheaviancombat, itoccurredto him that he had neverbeforeseenatiny,half-grownpigeon. He wondered if forsome reason there weren’tany, or if he simply hadn’tbeen looking. Were they the

victims of hawks? He knewthere were hawks inManhattan. Their presencehad been called to hisattention, and he had seenthem.Quinnwonderedwhat else

in life he simply hadn’tnoticed.Hehadsofarseenacertain kind of life a greatdeal, but there was more,muchmore.Therehadtobe.

Quinn drove to Faith

Recovery and parked theLincolnonthestreet.The amazing imaginary

woman who’d been in a caraccidentandlosthermemorywasonhismind,hauntinghisthoughts.He almost believedit himself, that he and shewere going to enter amaniac’s mind and destroyhim.All ormost of the planhad been hatched by Helen

the profiler, in partnershipwith a former cop who’dlearned psychology on thestreets.Their plan—their trap—

should work, and perhaps itmight even evolve intosomething that surely wouldwork.Quinn and Helen hadn’t

simply been burning upcalories when they joggedtwicedailyaround theblock.Helen moderated her pace,

and with Quinn hadmemorized theirsurroundings, the layout ofFaith Recovery Center’sreceptionarea,thelocationofthe elevators, the entrancesand exits, including the onesonly for staff, the fireescapes, numeric sequencesof the rooms, radiology,cardiac,andoperatingareas.The place was a large

enough facility to have apark-like area behind it, as

well as a smallgift shopandcafeteria.Quinnglancedathiswatch

and saw that it was almostsevenp.m.Time togo to theroom adjoining Weaver’s,through an open, wide doordesigned to admit gurneysandwheelchairs.Weaver was good at her

job. She actually appearedinjuredanddrugged.Shewasconvincing as a womanwho’d died and come back.

Thepowerofsuggestion.Can you do that? Ethan

Elliswondered,puttingdownthe Times. Actually returnfromthedead?Not long ago he would

neverhaveaskedhimselfthatquestion. But maybe heshould have. Now the bitterpill he could never swallowwas the truth.Therewere nosecond chances. And even if

there were, he knew in hishearthewouldn’thave takenthe smarter and morehonorableroad.He knew he had to pull

himself together. His wife,Cynthia,andhisson,Jeremy,wouldwonderwherehewas.Ethan was in the lobby of

the recently rebuiltAAAALbuilding, financed by oilmoneyand the taxpayers.Hewas the creative geniuswho’d figured out the best

way to addmarble and stoneand glass and at the sametime make the buildingalmost twice as tall as itsoriginal thirty stories.Already the building wassixty percent rented.Nowhewas to accept his secondGoldenArchitecturalAward.It was a night for

celebration.But damping high spirits

was the subtle but persistentrhythmic whack, whack,

whack that pounded throughhishead.Then came the images of

what Manhattan couldbecome.Thepain.Ellis bowed his head and

sobbed.

69

Minnie Miner’s voicethrummed with excitementwhen she called Quinn thenextmorningonhiscell.“It’s working, Quinn! I

made sure the Helen Imaninterview was the hottestthingonline,andthatgotusa

lotof theprintmedia.Not tomention even more video.CNN and FoxNews are stillrunning it on their loops.OnTwitterit’s—”“Sounds good so far,”

Quinn interrupted. “Odds arethatoneplaceoranother, theGremlinwillseeit,hearit,orreadit.”“According to Helen, he’s

bound to come in contactwith it because he’ll belooking for it hard. He’s

hooked on his own infamy.He can’t stay away fromwatching and reading abouthimself, no matter how hardhe tries. This is what thesicko has been working for.It’s what they all want. Tobecome legends.Their life isa story, and what’s a storywithoutaslam-bangending?”“Helenisn’talwaysright.”“Yes,she is,”Minniesaid.

“She’smyhero.”“Mine, too. If this

continuestowork.”“Nobody said it would be

easy.”“That oughta tell us

something,”Quinnsaid.He turned off his cell

phone alarm and went intothe bathroom to take hisshower.Quinn was toweling off,

and was going to wake upPearl, when the landline

phone rang. This ring waslouder than the cell phone’salarm, and should have beenloud enough to wake Pearl.He imagined her fluffing herpillow and gradually risingfrom sleep. He managed agruff “’Lo . . .” ashepickedupthephone.“Quinn. It’s Nancy

Weaver. How come youaren’tinyouroffice?”“I just got awakened by a

phonecallatmyhome.Inmy

bed.”Asmalllietohelpmakehispoint.“Noneedtobepissedoff,”

Weaver said. “I’m thebearerof good news. I think.Homicidecalledaboutfifteenminutes ago. There’s thiscouple inSt.Louis,FranandWillie Clarkson, that ownsandoperatesabratstand.”“Awhat?”“Brat stand. People in St.

Louis like their bratwurst.Youknow,theylooklikehot

dogs.”“ThepeopleinSt.Louis?”“I’mbarelyawake,Nancy.

Gettothepoint.”At thementionofNancy’s

name,Pearlsatstraightupinbed.“Dammit,Quinn!”Weaver said, “The male

half of this couple, WillieClarkson, called aboutsomething that happened intheir bratwurst stand aboutthirteenorfourteenyearsago.They saw the stories about

the Gremlin and his ear andthought they’d better call.”Quinnwaitedsilently,staringat Pearl while she staredback,andlisteningtoWeavertell about the young couple,PabloandMayDiaz,andtheepisode with the knife. Andtheevisceratedrat.“All this might have

nothingtodowithanything,”Quinnsaid.“Iwish Icoulde-mailyou

aphotooftherat.”

“Never mind that,” Quinnsaid.“TheClarksonscleanedup

theplaceatthetimeanyway.There was nobody there totell themotherwise,andFransaid the ratwas creeping herout. There were noinvestigations at the time,either. But word got around.Somebody crossed out theBin their stand’s outsidemenu.”“Cruel,” Quinn said. “To

you, me, the Clarksons, andtherat.”“MinnieMinerisspreading

thewordaboutmy‘accident,’” Weaver said. Her voicewas eager, without a tremoroffear.Hecouldimaginethediamondglintinherslyeyes.Weaver was born for action.The huntress was on thescent.“I want to go through it

again,”Quinnsaid.“I don’t want to recite it

again,Quinn.”“Good. I want you to

listen. The news-starvedmedia will grab this story asifit’sahamburger.You’llbereported as being on thecritical list after the autoaccident. The doctors willhave put you in an inducedcoma. They’ll expressamazement that you’re stillaliveafteryourheartstoppedbeatingforoverfiveminutes.Yousimplycameawakeafter

you were pronounced deadandhadnovital signs.Thereseems no reason that, whenarousedfromyourcoma,youwon’treturntonormal.”“Gee,Ifeelbetteralready.”“You’ll stay in your

hospital bed at Faith,supposedly making the firstmeager beginnings of acomplete recovery.You’llbetoutedasamedicalmiracle.”“And the killer will be

obsessed with finding out

how I . . . work.” She saidthiswithlittleemotion.“What he won’t know is

that you’ll be watched everyminute,andwecanbeinyourroomwithin seconds. Just incase, you’ll be wearing aKevlar bulletproof jacketbeneathyourhospitalgown.”“I want my nine-

millimeter,”Weaversaid,stillwithhercalm,flatvoice.“You’ll have it, but you

probablywon’tneedit.”

“Such a plan we have,”Weaversaid.“Youshouldbesafe.Helen

is certain of one thing. Thewoman the killer will wantmore than anyone in thathospital room, and whosedeath will be a personaltragedy anddefeat forme, isPearl. He’s chosen the timeand place. Everything elsewillbeadiversion.”“And he’ll assume I’m

Pearl.”

“Yes. Pretending to besomeoneelse.”“Whoisalsopretendingto

bePearl.”“Uh-huh. He won’t be

sure,though.Hecan’tbe.”“Won’thenoticethebulky

flak jacketundermygown?”Weaverasked.“He shouldn’t, what with

all the distracting plastictubes and medicalparaphernaliaaroundyou.”“At the least, he’ll

hesitate.”“Right. His target is the

real Pearl, pretending to besomeone else. He’ll surelyexpect something like that.Muchlikeamarbleunderoneof three walnut shells ahuckster keeps movingaround.”“What prevents the

Gremlin, and not you, frombeingthelasttoincorporateaswitch?”“Iknowhim,”Quinnsaid.

“He likes back-and-forthtrickery,butnot if itgets toocomplex““Thisistoocomplex?”“I honestly don’t know.

Three women are involved,andoneofthemisn’treal.”“Thank God!” Weaver

said, “that not everythinghappening around here isreal.”“Don’t be too thankful,”

Quinn said. “Remember thatthe woman in Pearl’s bed,

beneaththeblackwig,alltheKevlar,andPearl’sbandages,willbeyou.Pretending tobePearl pretending to be awoman who already diedonce.”“Pretending to be

pretending,” Weaver said.”Because Helen hasconvinced you that theGremlin wants Pearl evenmore than he wants thewomanwhocheateddeath.”“She didn’t exactly cheat

death,”Quinnsaid.“Sheonlyvisited.”He worked the miniature

keyboardonhisiPhone.“Who are you calling

now?”Weaverasked.“LaGuardia,” he said.

“Flight to St. Louis. Oldhabitsdiehard.”

70

St.Louis,thepresentJordan knocked on the doorto Samuel’s riverfront hotelroom.Light shifted in the

peephole. An unintelligiblevoicesoundedfromtheother

side of the door. Jordanmovedover soSamuelcouldseehim.He knocked louder, so it

could almost be said he wasabouttomakeascene.Thedooropened,andthere

wasSamuel,wearingnothingbutapairofjeans.HelookedworriedandscaredasheshutthedoorbehindJordan.Thenhe made a show aboutlooking at his watch. Ratherthe white mark on his wrist

where the watch would beafter he got it from thenightstand in the bedroomandslippediton.“We were supposed to

meet farther down on theriverfront, at teno’clock. It’sonlyninefifteen.”“I thought this would be

moreprivate,”Jordansaid.Standing there in worn

loafers,socklessandshirtless,with his hair looking like ithadbeeninablender,Samuel

made a face that wasprobably meant to scareJordan, or at least gain theoffensive.Someoffensive. “Idon’t like you changing therules as we go along,” hesaid.“Not to worry,” Jordan

said.“DidyoubringthemoneyI

lentyou?”“OfcourseIdid.”There was another soft

knockonthedoor.

Jordan ambled over andopened it. Behind him,SamuelPacetookafewstepsand then stopped, trying toget a handle on what washappeninghere.“Who’s that?” he asked in

a tight voice, as if someonehad him by the neck buthadn’t yet squeezed inearnest.“The photographer,”

Jordan said. “Remember?You said you might bring

your lady, Eleanor, so shecouldposeforsomeshots.”He opened the door and

stepped aside. Jasmineslipped inquickly.Shehadadigital camera slung aroundher neck on a broad blackstrap. Jordan thought shelookedoldbeyondheryears.Shegotrightintotheflow,

looking around. “Where’sEleanor?”A slight noise came from

thedirectionof thebedroom.

Threeheadsturnedthatway.Tall, blond, and very

young, Eleanor opened thebedroom door and steppedinto the sun-drenched mainroom. Her long hair wastousledbutinawildwaythatwas strangely attractive. Sheworea sheet likea toga, andlooked like something out ofaShakespearemadnessplay.She smiled and said, “I’m

Eleanor. I hear you want tophotographme.”

As she talked, her gazetraveled from Samuel toJasmine to Jordan. Her looklingered,andsheappeared towant to say something aboutJordan’sjockey-likesize,andthenchangedhermind.Still she seemed amused.

That didn’t set well withJordan.NeitherdidEleanor’sseemingly unshakeableconfidence. He wantedcontrolofthisagain.Hesaid,“You’re from money, right,

Eleanor?”“Money?”“Yourfamily.”Her smile became wider,

displaying perfect whiteteeth.“Itshows?”“Very much so. And I’m

thinkingyoubookedthehotelandpaid theway forSamueltobeherewithyou.”Eleanor glanced Samuel’s

way and flashed a reassuringsmile. Surely somewhere,sometime, she had been a

cheerleader.“That’s none of your

business,” Samuel said.Feisty,buthecouldnolongerdisguise his growing fear.There was an off-key noteherethathewasbeginningtohear but Eleanor hadn’t yetdiscerned.Shemoved slightly toward

Jordan,whosmiledandsaid,“You ever hear of theGremlin?”“No.Whatisit?”

Jordan seemed surprisedandmiffed.He stared at her,noting with disgust that shewas the taller of the two.“Don’tyouwatchthenews?”“No. I don’t have time for

that crap. It’s all lies,anyway.” She stood moreerectlyandspreadherlegssothe sheet was stretched tautbetween her thighs andemphasized her figure. “TheGremlin . . .Didn’t thatusedtobea caror something?Or

wait a second—that buildinginRussia?”“Your first guess was

right,”Jordansaid.“Anybody’d buy a car

called aGremlinwould haveto think itwas guaranteed togive them trouble. Theyshould have stayed withJaguarorRolls.”“You think your money

can buy you out of any kindoftrouble,don’tyou?”Jordansaid.

Eleanor sneered. “Matterof fact, I do. My family hasattorneys that will drain youlike a sun-dried tomato. Notlike your pro bono publicdefenders, you miserablelittlepissant.”Uh-oh! The discord was

out in the open whereeveryonemight hear and seeit.Samuel said, “Eleanor . . .

please!” He could feel hishearthammering.

Jordan had had enough ofthis.Hadreallyhadenough.Hewent into the bedroom

andreturnedwithapillow.Inhisrighthandwasasmall.25caliber Ruger handgun. Hewrapped the pillow aroundthegun,pointeditatEleanor,and said, “By God, girl,you’ve got spirit.” It was aline he remembered from anold movie. Or close enough,anyway.Shestiffenedherspineand

stareddownhernose athim.“You better believe I’ve gotspirit.Enoughthat—”Hesqueezedthetrigger.Theshotfromsuchasmall

gun was muffled by thepillowanddidn’tmakemuchnoise, but feathers from thepillowflew.Eleanor looked startled,

then plucked one of thepillow feathers from the air,stareddownatitwhereitwasheld loosely inherhand,and

said, “This is real goosedown.Thisisagoodhotel.”She closed her eyes and

fell.Jordan looked over and

saw Samuel standing rootedto the spot. He saw that thefrontandonelegofSamuel’spants were stained where hehad relieved himself.Walkingclose, carefulwherehesteppedsohewouldn’tgeta shoe wet, Jordan used thegunandpillowagain,placing

the bullet perfectly betweenSamuel’seyebrows.It was a hell of a shot,

consideringthepillowtendedtospoilyouraim.Jasmine was standing

stunned, her mouth hangingopen.Thenshelookedaroundas if coming out of a trance,sawallthegoosedownintheair, and began a crazy,cackling laughter, catchingand releasing the feathers,repeating, “My God, it’s

snowing!It’ssnowing!”Shefixedherwildstareon

Jordan. “I knowwhat you’regoingtodo,youbastard!It’smonstrous!”How could she know?

Guessing? She must beguessing.“Isn’tit?”Jordansaid.“Monstrous!”sherepeated.He shot her twice just

behind her left ear and shedropped straight down to herknees and sat with her legs

folded back and her feetpointing in oppositedirections. It was probablythewayshehadsatasalittlegirl.Jordan glanced around,

waiting for his breathing tolevel out. The strangethrashing,beating sound roseuparoundhim.Liketheearthwas vibrating. He fought itback. Everything was undercontrol.Ifhekepttohisplan,things would turn out all

right.Hekept tellinghimselfthat.Repeatingit.Believingitmoreeachtime.Calm. That was what he

could do better than anyone.Staycalm.God, his breathing was

loud!He’dknownhehad tokill

Jasmine.He’dhadnochoice.If twopeoplehelda secret itwasnolongerasecret.Andifever a secret called forsolitarypossession,itwasthe

one he held so close. Whenhe chose to loose it into theworld, therewouldbestormsthat had nothing to do withweather, tectonic shifts thathad nothing to do withearthquakes.He slid the gun into his

pocket and went into thebathroom, where he brushedand picked the snow-likegoosedownfromhishairandclothes. Then he used awashcloth to wipe his

fingerprints from the fewplaceshe’dtouched.He put on rubber gloves

and went to the living roomto get the backpack he’dbrought with him. All theimplementshe’dneedwereinthere, along with a touristguidetoNewYorkNo one seemed to give

Jordan a second look as heleft the hotel and strode out

into the sunshine, wearingFoster Grant sunglasses andcarrying his backpack slungby a strap over his rightshoulder.Hehadnoremorse.Justashe’dhadnorecourse.He’d done fine. He was

sure of it. Believed it morewith every step away fromthe carnage. Planned wellenough, and executed withspeed and conviction, therehad been no doubt of theoutcome. And when the

unexpected had occurred,he’d done what wasnecessary.He was safe now, and no

doubtaboutit.Certainlysaferthan before. That wasundeniable. Hell, it wasmathematical.Twopeopleplusonesecret

equalednosecret.Even if one of them, like

EthanEllis,wasboundtightlyinthewebofhispast.

71

NewYork,thepresentPearl supposedly lay in thebedofthewomanwho’donlyvisited death. Supposedlybecause Quinn had inventedthat woman. The variousplastic tubing and wires

attached to her were mostlyaffixed by tape. Theelectrodes dotting her bodysentnosignals.Atleast,nonethatmeantanything.Nancy Weaver was in

similar condition in theadjoining room. Leading tothat roomwerefoldingdoorsthat could be cast aside toallow full access and createone largeroom.TheGremlinwould be stopped before hecouldpullatrigger.Probably

he would be tackled andcuffed even before he couldremoveagunfromhisbeltorhisankleholster.Probably, Quinn thought,

theGremlinwould try touseaweaponwithasilencer.Thatwasthepolitethingto

do, considering there wasstaff along with genuinepatients in the recoverycenter. It was one of thosemedical facilities pretendingtobehospitalsyetatthesame

time managing a kind ofhomeyness that belied thetruths of illness and death.There was a small library, agame room, a conversationroom, and a dining room forthose on the meals plan.There wasn’t muchconversation about theoccasionalemptychair.A lot of life, Quinn

decided, was the art ofpretending. That way lay alesser madness, but a

madnessnonetheless.Alone in her half of the

adjoining rooms, Pearlglanced around, fixingobjects in her mind—thevariousequipmentrollednearthe bed or mounted on thewall by the headboard,monitoring, softly beeping.Thepartitioned-offpartofthedouble roomwhere the otherbed was concealed. Therewas a visitors’ easy chair.Another, smaller wooden

chair, and a steel rack onwheels.Pearlglanced towardher wristwatch lying on themetal tray table next to herbed.Therewere also agreenplasticpitcherandamatchingcuponthetray.Pearlfeltliketaking a drink, then decidedagainst it. She might disturbsomeof the tubingandwiresthat were only looselyfastenedtoher.The idea was to trick the

Gremlin intosnatchingPearl;

he would suspect Quinn ofreplacing theoncedead,nowliving woman—only to findtohissurpriseanddelightthathehadinsteadwhathereallywanted the most. Given thenot completely unexpectedopportunity, he would takePearl.Helen had assured Quinn

that the killer couldn’t resistat least trying for theremarkable if fictitious life-after-death patient, but even

more he couldn’t resistchoosing Pearl as his nextvictim.Moving her head slightly

on the hard pillow so shecould see her watch’s face,Pearlnotedthatitwasalmostten o’clock. It was Quinn’sbet that the killer would payhisvisit sometimeduring thenight,whenthecenterwasona looser schedule and thereweren’t somany doctors andpatientsinthehalls.

PearlknewthatBillCasey,auniformedcopwhowasanold friend ofQuinn’s,wouldbe getting up from his chairout in thehallby thedoor toher room. He would walkdowntotheelevatorsbutveerinto one of the small,semiprivate waiting areas—called conversation nooks—wheretherewascoffeealongwithsomevendingmachines.Pearlwasright.Carryinga

half-eaten candy bar, Casey

strolled to the conversationnook.Heglancedaroundandmoved a small sofa slightly,so ifhesaton ithe’dhaveaclear view down the hall.From there he could see thedoors to Pearl’s and theadjoining room. Feddermanwas in the opposite directionon the same floor, seated inan area similar to Casey’s.Harold was down in thelobby, watching the buildingentrance and elevators. Sal

waswearingawhiterobeandmighthavebeenmistakenforapatient,idlywalkingaroundasifhecouldn’tsleep.QuinnsawCaseydriftpast,

peeling the wrapper off acandy bar, and guessed hewould have a gruff bedsidemanner. Soon enough, thatshouldn’tmatter.Theywereallintouchwith

each other via two-ways thatwould work in hospitals,rehab centers, and other

places with radiology andimagingequipment.Quinn said, “Me,” and

enteredPearl’sroomfromtheadjacentone.“Me,too,”Pearlsaid.Hewalkedoverandkissed

hergentlyontheforehead,asifshewerearealpatient.“Everything a go?” she

asked.He smiled. “We just need

anotherplayer.”“Weaver all set next

door?”“She’s always set,” Quinn

said.“She’s gotten the crap

kicked out of her more thanoncewhenitcouldhavebeenmeinstead.”“She’s an adrenaline

addict.”“Soarewe,Quinn.”Hedidn’targuewithher.“Soishe,”sheadded.Quinn knew who she

meant.

He bent over and kissedhercoolforeheadagain.“Getsome sleep,” he said, thenwentintotheadjacentroom.The idea was that, faced

with a choice between thetwo women, the one theGremlin reallywantedwouldseemallthemoregenuine.IfHelen was right, and unlesseverything she’d learnedabout human behavior waswrong, the killer would passonthesupposedlyback-from-

the-dead woman and go forPearl.He’d be pressed for time,

and would have to make hischoice quickly if he were totake a hostage and escapefrom the building before hispresencewasknownandstaffandpolicewouldclosein.That was when things

wouldstarthappeningfast.Pearl thought, Let the

gamesbegin.She closed her eyes, but

notalltheway.

72

St.Louis,thepresentIt was mid-afternoon whenMarta Jones, a maid at theAdamParkhotelinSt.Louis,opened thedoor to room333and saw awhite feather driftout. She knew immediately

thatitwasfromapillow,anditmightsignifythattheroomwas a mess. It alwayssurprised Marta howdestructivesomeoftheguestswere, especially if there wasliquor involved. The AdamParkwasn’tcheap,andMartathought it was people withmoremoneythantheyneededwho caused most of thetroubleandmademostofthemess.Shehopedthiswouldn’tbe

toobadassherolledherlinencartbackafewinchessoshecould make the turn, thenpushed it past the openeddoor and backed into theroom.MyGod!Theplacelooked

as if there’d been asnowstorm inside. Moregoose down. So much whiteandred.Red?Thesnowwasspottedwith

red here and there, and

smeared with red. As if itwere real snow and someonehad taken swipes at itwith apaintrag.Then Marta saw a young

blond woman lying on thefloor, with blood on hershoulder and chest and oneside of her face. There wassomething awkward and notquite rightabout thewayshewaslyinginthegoosedown.Shewasonherback,legsandarms akimbo. Almost as if

trying tomakea snowangel.Marta was momentarilyparalyzed. Arms and legsdidn’t bend quite that way.Shemovedtwostepscloser.Stopped and stood still

again.Peeredwithoutmovingforward. She didn’t want toget closer to the blondwoman,yetshewantedtoseeherbetter.Sheleanedforwardandfocused.And saw that there was

some space between the

bloody neck and the head.She realized with a lurch ofher stomach that the womanhad been beheaded. And herlimbs had been detached andlain or propped so theywereclose to where they’d be ifonly they weren’t severed.One arm was slightly longerthantheother.Itwasaman’sarm, with an expensive-looking gold expansion-bandwristwatch. Marta lookedcloserandsawthatthewatch

wasaTimex.And there was the rest of

the deadman, lying near thesofa, his limbs severed andcarefullyproppedorlaidnearwhere they’d been removed.Marta didn’t know him butthought she recognized him.He’dmade a pest of himselfwithsomeofthehotelguests.Marta had been numb, but

now she was slightly dizzy.And more than slightlynauseated. Fearing shemight

vomit, she hurried into thebathroom.From thebathtubapair of

infinitelysadblueeyesstaredup at her. Dead eyes. Thenude dead woman in thewhite porcelain tub wasalmost as white as the tubitself.Waterhadbeenrunonher until most of her bloodand other body fluids hadbeenwasheddownthedrain.Her body was taut and

shapely and looked young,

but her face lookedprematurelyold.Inaway,ithadbeenold.

Marta bumped her hip

painfullyonher linen cart assheranfromroom333,downfrom the steps leading fromthecatwalk, then the shallowwooden steps leading towardthelevee.She screamed as she ran,

wavedherarms,pointedback

toward the hotel. One of hershoes flew off and she feltcoolmudsquishbetweenhertoes. At first people thoughtshemightsimplybeenjoyingherself, joking, a vacationingrefugee from some boringjob, suddenly set free andscreamingwithrelief.But it didn’t sound like

relief.“Mortandad!Policia!”Someonesaid,“I thinkshe

wantsthepolice.”

Thefederalparkrangerforthat stretchofwaterfronthadbeen observing this from thebeginning. His name wasJohnRandall,butmostoftheriver people who knew himcalledhimRocket.Rocket saw now that the

womanhadamaid’suniformon, and she was definitelyheadedfortheriver.Shewaslimping now, dragging oneleg. Soon she’d be closeenough to the brown rushing

water that he wouldn’t beabletocatchupandsaveher,if she was one of thosewhoneeded saving. A swimmerdidn’thavetogetveryfaroutin the river before thedeceptively powerful currentwould take charge. Somepeoplewhowent inherehadbeen founddeadas far southasNewOrleans.Thedecisionwasmadefor

Rocket when he suddenlyrecognized the woman.

Marta! One of the maids attheAdamPark.Marta seemed unhinged,

anddefinitelywasheadedforthe river. He didn’t know ifthatwasonpurposeor ifshesimply didn’t realize howsoon she’d be getting wet.Thewayshewaswavingherarms and yelling, it wasobviousthatshewasn’tgoingtoslowdown.Hebegantorun.Hewasa

bigman,ayearoutofFlorida

State, where he’d gone on afootballscholarshipasawidereceiver. It was no mysterywhyhewascalledRocket.He almost caught up with

Marta, calling her name,reaching out for her andbarelymissing.Sheseemedtorunharder.He tackled her, but as

gently as possible, and theybothwere down on the edgeof the water. What felt likegravelwasonlya fewinches

beneaththem.Rocketthoughtitmighthavecutuphisrightknee.Thewater lappedcoldlyat

Marta, and she stoppedstruggling and began totremble. Rocket held herclose, saying over and overthat she should take it easy,takeiteasy.Marta calmed down

somewhat and stared up athim. It gave him a jolt, howhorrifiedshelooked.

“Policia!”shesaid.“Yeah,”hesaid,smilingat

her to keep her calm. “Showme. Ifwe need to,we’ll callthe locals.”He held his grin.“Whathappened,Marta?youseeamouse?”“Policia!...”

73

St.Louis,thepresentSt . Louis, Quinn decided,wasahotterplacetolivethanNew York. Most of thepeople in and around theAdam Park hotel had oncasual clothes, jeans, shorts,

pullover shirts, moccasins,sandals, or jogging shoes.Cross the street, stroll downto the river bank, and youwere near the Mississippi.Thewide,lazyriverthathelditssecrets.Even before it soared over

the riverfront, the famouslybeautiful and utterly uselessArchhaditsfans.Peoplewhomight as well have hadTOURIST stamped all overthem were lined up to enter

the nearest leg. New YorkPolice Commissioner HarleyRenz, in his gray JosephAbboudsuit,white shirt, andpolishedblackwingtipshoes,didn’t seem to belonganywherenearthisbunch.But here he was, after a

hurried flight fromLaGuardia, following a leadon aNewYork killer.Mighthe gain national fame? Hesmiled.Thiswaswhyhekeptasuitcasepacked.

Renzmadehiswaytowardthe hotel entrance and air-conditioning. Quinnfollowed.“Somemess,”Renzsaid,moppinghisfacewithawhitehandkerchief.Quinn didn’t bother

voicing his agreement.Though the identification ofall the Adam Park victimswas missing, doubtlessremovedby the killer, itwasassumedthatallthreeofthemhad been killed by the

Gremlin. No one else wasmurdering people and thenturning them into puppetpieceswithoutstrings.Notatthemoment,anyway.Quinn peered into the

bathroom, where a femalevictim was sprawled in thetub. He stepped closer andsaw that she’d beeneviscerated, her internalorgans stacked neatly besideher. Most of the blood hadbeenwashedfromthetuband

thepaledismemberedcorpse.“There isn’t any question

about thesevictimsbeing theworkof theGremlin,”Quinnsaid.“Iwonderifheknewwebaited our trap at FaithRecovery Center, and thatwould occupy us while hecommitted his murders andmutilations here, in anothercity.”“Maybe,”Renzsaid.“This

doesn’t seem at allunplanned.”

Quinnlookedaroundatthecarnage and wondered whatwas wrong with the humanrace. With the Gremlin. Hedoubted if the killer himselfcouldtell therealreasonsforhismurderspree.“Sick, clever bastard,” he

saidunderhisbreath.Renz stared at him. “You

really think he’s that smart?That he canmove us aroundlikechesspiecesandcommitmurders without eventually

beingcaught?”Quinn said, “Exactly like

chesspieces.”“Well, we’re chess pieces

that fight back,” Renz said.“Soon aswe get some bloodand fingerprints here, we’regonna run them through thenationaldatabases.”“I think we better

concentrate on what’shappening with Pearl andWeaver,” Quinn said. Hecouldn’t help it. He still

wasn’t comfortable with allthe electronics taking overpolicework.“I made sure there was

plenty of protection at FaithRecovery,”Renzsaid.Quinn thought, Plenty of

chesspieces,mostlypawns.Thetechsarrivedwiththeir

white gloves and medicalequipment.FiveminuteslatertheME,aDr.Nicholson,wholooked amazingly like Nift,showed up, with his black

leather case and cheerful,crudetactics.He got to work

immediately.Renz appeared in the

bedroom doorway.“Something odd about thetoiletbowl,”hesaid.Quinnwentovertothehall

bathroom. Behind him,Nicholson continued tendingto his work, seeminglyuninterested in the bathroomand untouched by the gore.

Seemingly.Quinnstoppedhisthoughts from going whererumormightrule.He stood in the bathroom,

staring at the conventional-looking white toilet bowl.Quinn hadn’t heard it flush,and was glad Renz hadthoughttolowertheseat.When Quinn moved to

flush the toilet, he couldn’tfindthehandle.Heexaminedthe toilet more closely andencountered only its smooth

whitesurface.Nohandle.Heheld his breath and carefullylifted the seatof themodern,streamlinedcommode.It had flushed on its own.

Musthavebeenautomaticallyandsilently.“Very impressive,” Renz

said.Quinnwaved a hand close

to the top of the commode’stank. Two recessed rows ofLED lights illuminated thesmooth tank top. His fingers

almost touched the tank, andsilentlythewaterinitswirledanddisappeared.“Very, very impressive,”

Renz said. “Can you do thatwithfoldingchairs?”Quinn cocked his head to

one side. A faint sound. Helifted the commode lid andatiny whirlpool swirledsteadily at the bottom of thebowl.“It doesn’t work right,”

Renz said. “Doesn’t turn

itselfoff.”Quinn smiled thinly,

gettingamentalimageoftwohardcase cops standing anddiscussing a futuristicporcelaincommodeinahotelbathroom.Maybetheyshouldbe working for theDepartment of Sanitation.Maybe they should beplumbers. “We better nottouchthisthing,”Quinnsaid.“My guess is that ourGremlinbecame intriguedby

it.Hehadtotakeitapartandseehowitworked,andhowitdidn’t.” Quinn let his eyesrange over the gleamingfixturesandblueceramictile.“He cleaned the place prettythoroughly, wiped it down.But things didn’t go exactlyas planned. That threw him.He couldn’t be sure aboutwhere hemight have left hisownfingerprints.”Looking out the door into

the bedroom, Renz pointed.

“What the hell is that?” Hewaspointingtoametalobjectbarelyvisiblewherethebed’scomfortermetthecarpet.Quinn went over and

stooped down, feeling it inhislegs.Heusedhisballpointpen to ease out the objectunderthebed.“Well?”Renzsaid,asthey

looked down at a strangemetal contraption that faintlyresembled an alligator withitsmouthopenwide.

“It’s a wine-cork puller,”Quinn said. “Taken apart.Lookslikewhoeverdidithadto use a screwdriver, thencouldn’tgetitbacktogether.”“Gee,”Renzsaid.“Whodo

weknowwho’ddothat?”“Let’shopesomebodywho

left a fingerprint,” Quinnsaid.“And is rich,butnot sosophisticated that he knowsaboutself-flushingtoilets.”Renz wrestled his cell

phone from his pocket and

used it to check the time.11:45.Themurdersherewerehours old.Howmanypeoplehad come and gone in theroom since then? “The waythis place has been wipeddown, even if somebody’sprints are on file from thesemurders,theyprobablywon’tmatch.”Quinn shook his head. “I

say that the Gremlin eitherknowsorisafraidtheremightbematchingprintshere,orhe

wouldn’t have taken thechanceandgonecrazytryingto make sure he’s wipedeverything clean. And thatcommode...”“What about it?” Renz

asked.“You tell me. You’ve had

timetocheckonit.”“You’re right. I used my

iPhone.”“And?”“The commode isn’t

broken—or if it is, the

Gremlin broke it. It musthaveintriguedhimbecauseitdoesn’t have a flush handleandit’sselfcleaning.”Quinn was relieved. He

wasafraidRenzwasgoingtotell him about how someonemight have drowned via thetoilet bowl, an ignoble deathno one should be forced toendure.Almostnoone.“I’m informed that the so

calledauto-flushfeature is in

a lot of swank hotels,” Renzcontinued,“butnone thatourkillerwouldhavestayedinifhe knew he wasn’t going topay the bill. This one tickledhisfancyandhecouldn’thelptaking it apart, or at leastexamining it to see how itworked.Gadgetsarelikepornfor this guy.He couldn’t getthe thing back together andmake it work, and he gotflustered and had to rush tofinishuphere.That’swhythe

placelookslikeitwasgivenaonce-over by a maid onspeed.”“Ifthereareprintsthatcan

bematched,”Renz said, “theCrime Scene Unit will findthem. They’re a capablebunch,hereinSt.Louie.”“Notice that nobody here

says‘St.Louie’?”“I say it,”Renz said. “But

then I’m not one of theMillennials.”“Evenifwedon’thavethe

killer’s matching prints onfile, he might think we havethem,” Quinn said. “Thatcouldwork just aswell. Theclock is ticking. That shouldprompt the kind of responsewewant.”“I prefer being proactive,”

Renzsaid.“What the hell does that

mean?”Quinnasked.“MeansIhavetowrapthis

up, then get back to NewYork and catch up playing

commissioner. Seems we’vegot other problems in townthere.Notjustourdead-then-undeadgirl.Whichisn’tevena crime, as far as I know.How are Pearl and Weaverholdingup?”“Impatiently. They want

action.Haven’t had somuchasanibblefromtheGremlin.He’s cautious and he’ssmart,”Quinnsaid.“Youcanbethe’sat leastmullingovergoingforthebait.”

“Meanwhile we’ve gotanother death of note. Afamousarchitectengineer.”“Victimorperpetrator?”“Maybeboth. I don’t have

thecompletepicture.Itwasacar accident but the policedon’tknowwhetheritwasanaccident,suicide,ormurder.”“Got a name on the

victim?”“EthanEllis,”Renzsaid.Quinnwas surprised. “The

guy who’s designing the

MOMAaddition?”“The same. I forgot you

wereadevoteeofthearts.”“Any connection between

that death and what we’redoinghere?”“Only in the way

everything is in some wayconnected with every other,”Renzsaid.“Besure toget intouchwithmeifthereareanyissues.”“Are issues something like

problems?”Quinnasked.

Renzsaid,“Haveablessedday,”andlefttogotohiscar.

74

NewYork,thepresentAt Faith Recovery Center,Quinn stayed out of sight,behind the folding doors thatpartitioned Weaver’s roomfromtheadjoiningone.Inthemonitor propped high in a

corner, he could seeWeaverwith bandages over much ofherface, lyingbeneatha thinwhite sheet that made herlook all the worse. Herbulletproof vest wascompletely covered by thesheet, as was the Ruger .25semiautomatic handgun,withineasyreachofherrighthand. The plastic IV tubealongside her bed drippedonlysimpleglucose.A second monitor was

trainedonthedoortothenextroom,sothatanyoneenteringor leaving would be seen.Quinn knew that just outsidethedoorwasauniformedcopinachairborrowedfromoneof the small waiting areas.Theuniformhadagoodviewof the elevators from wherehe sat, as well as a view ofanyone who might open thedoortothefirestairs.In thewallmonitor,Quinn

sawFeddermanpauseoutside

in the hall, then enterWeaver’s room. He waswearing a light raincoat andhis hair looked damp.Fedderman took a quickglanceatthetinycameranearthe room’s ceiling, disguisedto look like one of thesprinkler heads of a fire-protectionsystem.Hewalkedover to the bed and leaneddown, said something toWeaver that Quinn couldn’tmakeout.Weaver seemed to

nod.As Quinn watched in the

monitor, Fedderman walkedtoward the folding doorsseparating the two rooms.Then the doors parted nearthe wall and he appeared inthefleshandlife-size.“Watching old Adam-12

reruns?”Feddermanasked.Quinnthoughtabouttelling

him ten-four, but he didn’twant to start something.“Weaver still doing okay?”

heaskedinstead.“Says her flak jacket

chafes.Webothagreedthatifthatwasourbiggestproblemweweredoingokay.”“You’re early if you’re

here to relieve me,” Quinnsaid.“I came in to show you

these,” Fedderman said.“Renz wanted me to makesure you saw them.” Hereached beneath his tan lightraincoat and handed Quinn

some printouts. “The policesketch artist aged thesephotos and theyappear tobethe older woman who waskilledinSt.Louis.”Therewere threecopiesof

black-and-white photographs,front and profile views of ateenage girl. They weren’tmug shots. She was wearingdifferent blouses and mighteven have been older in oneof the shots. In that one shehad a more mature profile,

andadifferenthairdo. Itwascutshortratherthanshoulderlength,asintheotherphotos.Thethirdprintoutwasn’ta

photobutanappeal to reportthewhereaboutsofamissingsixteen-year-old girl namedJasmine. It was dated fifteenyears ago. She haddisappeared from the familyfarm one night and neverbeenheardfromagain.“Twenty-year-old Jordan

Kray, a hired hand on the

farm, disappeared atapproximately the same timeas Jasmine’s sudden andunexpecteddeparture.”“A connection?” Quinn

asked.“Theymight have been an

item,” Fedderman said. “Aweek after thedisappearances, severalpeople noticed half a dozenbuzzards circling in the clearbluesky.Twomendroveouttoinvestigate.

“They saw more buzzardsontheground.Someofthemwerepeckingandstandingonsomething dark among thecorn. One of the men got ashotgunfromthe truck’s rearwindow rack and blastedaway. Scared the birds, buttheydidn’tgofar.“Themanwiththeshotgun

saw what interested the bigbirds. There was a man—orwhat used to be a man—barely visible in the rows of

corn.Hisclotheswererippedand filthy, and birds andanimalshadgottentohim.“There was an empty,

worn, and weathered leatherwallet near what was left ofthedeadman’sbody,Nothingin the wallet. Noidentification. The man whoowned the farm kept askingthe Highway Patrol trooperstoremovethedeadmanfromhis field. He was informedthathewasgrowingcropson

agovernmenteasement.“As thebodywasdragged

afewfeetclosertothetracks,onlookerssawthatthevictimwas male and had onoversized Levi’s that werereducedtoragsthatfellawaywhenhewasmoved.“The dead man was

barefoot. Empty wallet,missing shoes. No watch—wrist or pocket. He’d beenpickedclean.”Moreandmoreitlookedto

Quinnasifthedeadmanhadbeen a train hopper. Maybeonewho followed the simplephilosophy of empathizingwith losers, and then actingon what he’d seen or heard.What he’d learned. Therewere plenty of that kindaround. Always they hadulteriormotives.Alwaystheywereacting.Sometimes they were

lambs. Sometimes wolves.All the time theycouldn’tbe

trusted.

75

NewYorkCity,thepresentInFaithRecoveryCenter,theuniformwasseatedinachairoutside where Officer NancyWeaverlayinbed,whereshewas pretending to be Pearlpretending to be lost in a

coma. Her protector wasSergeant Dave Gregg, threeinchesoversixfeet,andfortypounds over two hundred.He’d been with the NYPDover twenty years and hadseen about everything thatcops saw.He’d considered itan honor rather than dutywhenhe’dbeenassignedthisjob.Thetwomenrunningtheshowwere fixtures inNYPDnobility. Renz, thecommissioner who might

somedaybecomemayor.AndQuinn, who was already alegend.For the third time this

eveningOfficerDavidGreggbraced with his arms andlifted his bulk up out of hischair.Hehitcheduphisblackuniform belt, yawned, andslowly strolled down to thewaiting area near the end ofthehalltogetacandybaroutof one of the vendingmachines.

None of the nurses oroccasional doctors seemed totake the presence of the biguniformed cop as anindication that somethingmight be wrong. Or, if notwrong, unusual. They werequick to returnhis smile, butalways they hurried along.All thatweaponryonhisbeltwasmade to inflict injury ordeath, the two things thedoctors and nurses in therecovery center were trained

todetest.Greggwasgladtoseethere

were still Zero bars in themachine. They were hisfavorite.Theyweredeliciouswhen washed down with acheap red wine, but thiswasn’t the time or place forthat.Maybelater.A female doctor entered,

recognized as such byGreggbecauseshewaswearingpaleblue scrubs, a matchingskullcap, and floppy pull-on

shoecovers.Acrinkledclothmask was still tied looselyaround the doctor’s neck.Coiled below the mask’s tiestrings were the twin tubesand earpieces of astethoscope.“Beautifulevening,”Gregg

said, and was answered withasmile.Everyonewassonicehereitalmostmadeyouwanttorecoverfromsomething.Asthedoctoreasedaround

Gregg’s bulk, it occurred to

Gregg that he’d never seenanyonewholookedmorelikeabrilliantsurgeon.That was what alarmed

him.Still smiling, he reached

out as if he were going toshake hands with the doctor.Instead he grabbed her wristandhelditinapowerfullockinoneofhisbighands.ThisfeltgreattoGregg.He

hadn’t been fooled for long,and now he was making the

collar. This was the kind ofthing that might get himinterviewedintheTimes.Theplayofstrength in the

doctor’s arm promptedGregg’s first misgiving.Something was wrong here.The doctor was strong as aman.Wasaman.Notalargeman, but strong out ofproportiontohissize.The man’s tightly fitted

blue surgeon’s cap had tiltedandrevealedaprotrudingear,

almost perfectly pointed. Itgave him a constantappearanceofalertness.Gregg’s smile faded as he

said,“Ithinkyou’dbetter—”He saw the stiletto-like

knife in the doctor’s righthand.The longpointedbladelookedas if itweredesignedfor taking and not savinglives.It entered Gregg’s

corpulentbodyeasily,angledupward tight to his sternum,

andpiercedhisheart.He couldn’t cry out an

alarm. Instead hemadewhatsounded like a hopeless sob.Noonehadeverlookedmorelike a real lady surgeon thanhis killer. Gregg knew heshould have noticed that,actedonit,alertedtheothers...Buthe’ddonehisjob.Andnowthelightwasfading.Heneededadoctor!Hedidn’tfall.TheGremlin

supported Gregg and helped

him to stumble over to achair.Gregg felt himself being

easeddownintothechair.Oncethebriefstrugglehad

begun,thewholethinghadn’ttaken half a minute. Greggwashavingahardtimeseeingnow. He was too weak tomove under his own power,andheknewhewasdying.Heheardadistant,amused

voice.“Taketwoaspirinsandcallmeinthemorning.”

In some remotepartofhisbrain, Gregg was gladsomebody had a sense ofhumor.Thenthepaincame.

WhenGreggwasdead,theGremlin propped him firmlyinthewaitingroomchairandarranged his arms and legs.Now he was posed lookinglikewhathewas,acoptaking

a break. Arranging the bodyhad gotten blood on theGremlin’ssurgicalscrubs,butthatwas okay.He knew thatnowhelookedevenmorelikeagenuinedoctor.Or one from Central

Casting.Heglancedathiswatch.It

was time to make the phonecall. The one thatwould endthegamewiththewinnernotin doubt. Time for Quinn tolearn his final and most

important lesson: Thewinninggamewasnotalwaysthe long game. Not evenalways the game you thinkyou’replaying.Hemadehisphonecall.And then another, that

would change worlds andfutures.

76

Weaver scratched beneathher left armpit where thebulletproof vest chafed. Shetried to get something likecomfortable. Her two-wayproduced nothing but static.Shegaveup for themoment.Probably some piece of

medical equipment wasrunning somewhere nearby,emitting rays that cured thisor that, or displayed that orthis, and interfered withcommunication. Weaverdecided to give up for thetime being and rest. A realcoma wouldn’t be bad rightnow.Except for the fact thatshemightnotwakeup.Keeping that in mind, she

tried to ignore herrestlessness, and to resist

scratching where the bulkyvestitched.Weaver’s chief protector

wasnowsittingdeadneartheother end of the hall. Thekillerhadleftafoldedsectionof newspaper tented over thecop’s ample midsection sothe blood wouldn’t seepthrough after a while and benoticed.The Gremlin had scouted

the territory, learning thelayoutoftherehabcenter.He

knew the target’s roomnumber, and had evenglanced into the room whilemaking sure he knew wherethecleanlaundrywasstored.It had all worked well, at

leastforawhile.It took thepolice less than

ten minutes to get there.Sirens growled to silence astwo NYPD radio cars pulledin at an angle to the curb in

frontoftheCenter.Quinn was already, along

with Fedderman, runningtoward the room whereWeaver played the mysterywoman who’d entered andthenlefttheafterlife,andjustafewsecondsagohadalmostlosthercorporeallife.He made it to room 409

just in time to watch theelevator doors close. But notbeforehecaughtaglimpseofWeaver inside. She wore a

hospital gown stained withblood, probably from hernose,whichappearedbroken.TheGremlinwasholdingherwithherarmbentbehindher,in such a way that anyupward pressure made hergrimaceinpain.When she saw Quinn she

smiled.The subtle smilewas brief

andonlyatthecornersofherlips, but it informed Quinnthat the Gremlin had taken

the bait. He had, ostensibly,Pearl, disguised as Weaver,playingtheroleofPearl.This was the kind of

labyrinththeGremlinwanted,or thought he wanted.Advancedchess.More radio cars, sans

sirens, arrived silently andwere lined up outside thecenter. Both ends of thedrivewaywereblocked.

The Gremlin slid behindWeaver, locked the doubleglassdoors,andretreatedintothe maze of halls and roomsbeneaththecenter.Weaverfeltaroundbeneath

her gown for her Ruger butcouldn’t find it. As theyhurrieddownahalllinedwithidenticalpea-greendoors,theGremlin removed the Rugerand held it up so she couldseeit.Most of the rooms were

unoccupied,butsomeofthemsheltered recuperatingpatients. Now and thensomeone would glance atthem from inside a room. Ifthey had spotted somethingwrong, they didn’t want tobecomeinvolved.Theydidn’twanttobecomedead.TheGremlinneededoneof

thosepatientsforaconvincer.Thewomanwho’dbeendeadbutwassomehowagainalivehadtoknowhewouldusethe

gun.There was so much he

wantedhertotellhim.A PA system clicked and

buzzed. Then a woman’scalm voice proclaimed thattherewere “difficulties beingdealt with,” and instructedpatients and staff to remainbehind the locked door ofwhicheverroomtheywereinuntil they heard the all clear.That was appropriatelyambiguous,thekillerthought.

It carried exactly the righttouch of controlled urgency.Panic was right around thecorner.Footfallssoundedaheadof

them, and a uniformed copand another nurse came intoview.Thecophadthewomanby the elbow, hurrying heralong. Suddenly they wereface-to-face.The Gremlin drew

Weaver’s gun and blastedaway. The cop, who’d

managed to get his gunhalfwayoutof itsholster,satdown and his eyes wentblank. The nurse staredhorrified at the Gremlin andstartedbackingaway.TheGremlinbentdown to

get the cop’s gun from itsholster.“You killed him!” the

youngnursestammered, thenshe spunonherheel and randownthehalltowhereittookarightturn.

“That was a bad idea,”Weaver said, “killing a cop.Haven’t you seen any ofthoseoldgangstermovies?”“Allofthem.”Hemadehiswayalongthe

halls, tried some doors untilhe found an unlocked one,and slipped into anunoccupied room, pushingthe supposedly injuredWeaver aheadofhim. Itwascoolinthere,andquiet.Hewasgladagain tohave

studied the Center’s floorplan, and thought he knewexactly where he was. If hemadeitaboutfiftyfeettothenext cross hall, draggingWeaver along with him, heshould be able to turn rightanduseanexit.Of course, the exit would

becoveredbythepolice,whobynowmusthavesurroundedtheCenterwithmuchoftheiruniformed force, along withtheirteamsofelitesnipers.

The Gremlin went to thedim room’s door andattempted to lock it, butdiscoveredtherewasnolock.That was when, for somereason, an element of fearcrept into hismind. It was asmall thing, leaving him nomore vulnerable, but it waslike having a black cat crossyour path. Nothing butsuperstition,butstill...Something else he should

have thought of was the

young nurse he had let runaway after he’d shot, andsurely killed, the uniformedcop. If he’d held her as ahostage, she could havebecomeavaluablebargainingchip. Even though she wasnot the one he had come tocollect.The killer looked around

but didn’t see a phone.Probably the Center broughtlandline phones in andplugged them into wall

outlets when new patientsarrived.He pulled his throwaway

cell phone from his pocketandpeckedoutanumberthatwasbynowfamiliar.Quinn’scellphone’snumber.Itcouldbe traced to this area, but ifhedidn’tkeeptheconnectionopen for a while theywouldn’t be able to pinpointtheroomhewasin.Therewas no caller IDon

Quinn’s phone, only the

number that had mostrecentlycalled.Quinn answered and

identifiedhimself.“This will be a short

conversation,” thekiller said.“It’s time for me to havePearl.”Quinn felt the anger grow

in him. “I don’t think therewilleverbeatimeforthat.”TheGremlinlaughed.God,

he enjoyed this! Whoeversaid victory was hollow

didn’t know what he wastalkingabout.When he heard the laugh,

Quinn tightened his grip onthephone.“You’renotgoingto get off the grounds herealive.”“Afterwetrade,watchand

seeifIgetofftheground.”Quinn knew the Gremlin

might well have a way. Hewasn’t thesortwhowouldn’thaveaplanB.ThenQuinnrecalledHelen

the profiler’s words: “Hedoesn’t want you; he wantswhat’s yours. He wantsPearl.” Helen had been rightfrom the beginning. He’dbeen played for a fool.Weaver and her back-from-the-deadacthadn’tfooledtheGremlin. The little bastardhadguessed in thebeginningthatWeaverhadonlybeenanarrow pointing the way toPearl.“IhaveWeaver,”thevoice

on thephonesaid.“She’llbeactually and forever deadwithinanhourifyoudon’tdoasIsay.”Quinntoldhimselfthatthis

was going at least somewhatasplanned.Buthedidn’tfeelatallaheadinthegame.Hewondered howWeaver

felt.AndtheGremlin.He knew how Pearl felt,

andhedidn’tlikethat,either.TheGremlinsurprisedhim

again. “This place doesn’t

haveaheliport,” theGremlinsaid, “but it does have a flatgrassy areaup front thatwilldoforone.”Quinnwas thrownby that.

It was something he hadn’tconsidered. “Are you tellingmeyouwantahelicopter?”“Not for keeps,” the

Gremlinsaid.Quinn thought it wasn’t

goodthatthekillerstillhadasense of humor. Someof themostviciouspsychotickillers

he’d encountered enjoyed agood laugh. It at leastdistracted them for themoment.The Gremlin was using

Weaveras thesurest route toPearl.“Get me a police or

hospitalhelicopter, and fast,”the Gremlin said, “before itgets completely dark, or I’llshootyourpolicewoman,andthen everybody will beshootingeverybodyelse.You

know how these things getout of hand. Some unluckysap in the next blockwill besitting watching crap on TVand a bullet will come inthrough a window and blowhis brains out.”He tightenedhisgriponWeaverandstuckthegunbarrelunderherrighteye. “I’m waiting for youranswer. You’ve got only somany seconds to make upyour mind, and I’mcounting.”

Weaver said, “Don’tbargainwiththelittleprick.”InsteadQuinn said, “What

happens after you get yourhelicopter?”“I guess that depends on

what you and our phony,miraculously reborngirlfriend here decide. If shecooperates,thehelicopterwillsimplydropdownsomewhereandletherout.Ifshedoesn’tcooperate,thesamethingwillhappen, only from higher

up.” The Gremlin laughed.“I’ll bet there’ll be someTVcopters, too. Recordingeverything. It will beimmortalontheInternet.”Quinn stood thinking it

over.At least thepsychopathwouldn’t be at the controlsand wouldn’t crash thehelicopter.“It isn’t as if you have a

choice,”thekillersaid.Quinnknewhewasright.“All right,” he said. “I’ll

try togetyouahelicopter. Itwon’t be easy. I’ll have tomakesomephonecalls.”Quinn used his index

finger to peck out Renz’snumber.In the building’s lobby,

Renz answered a CenterphoneandlistenedtoQuinn’sconcise request. Since allcalls in or out of the Centerwere being monitored, healready knew the contents ofQuinn and the killer’s earlier

conversation, so it didn’tsurprise him. Wouldn’t havesurprised him, anyway.Desperate people oftenviewed helicopters as if theyweremagiccarpetsthatcouldswoopdownandliftthemoutof trouble. It was wishfulthinking.Mostofthetime.He said, “I can get us a

helicopter.”“Ineeditfast,Harley.”“You’llgetit.”

Renz didn’t bother tellingQuinn that somewhere alongtheline,probablyinhisbriefstintinthearmy,theGremlinhad learned to fly ahelicopter. That was onlysevenmonthsbeforehewentAWOL and was given adishonorabledischarge.WhatQuinndidn’tknowmightnothurthim.OrRenz.Quinn relayed Renz’s

answer. There were fewpeople in the country who

had the popularcommissioner’s push. Askillful social climberanddefacto extortionist, he knewalmosteveryoneconnectedtolaw enforcement. And notonlyinNewYork.When he heard, the

Gremlin grinned. The gunwas stillpointedatWeaver’shead. She looked as if she’djustswallowedasmile.People who lived on the

edge, Quinn thought. Why

did he understand them sowell?He caught a glimpse of

himself reflected in awindow.It was subtle, but if he’d

looked closely enough hemight have noticed he wassmiling.Itwasn’tanicesmile.

Thingsgotworse.Renz called Quinn’s cell

phoneandtoldhimasmuch.“We’ve got more

information,” Renz said. Hesounded frazzled anddesperate.“Anotherphonecall?”“A letter, actually.

Remember the Ethan Ellisdeath?Lookedlikesuicidebycar?”“Of course.” Quinn could

feel everything enlarging,getting more dangerous.“Yousayingmurdernow?”

“Nope. Suicide by car.There was a suicide note inan envelope stuck downbetween the seats. Had yournameonit.FromEllis.”Now Quinn was

dumbfounded. Thepossibilitieshismindgraspedwereslipperyandtemporary.“Note said he was being

controlled by the Gremlin.Saidwe’d find out how.Thething is,we’vegottaact fast.Ellis planted explosives in

about a dozen buildings. Heknewwhereandhowtoplantthem. Not only will thebuildingscomedown,buttheway and sequence in whichthey fall will cause them tobring down strings ofsurrounding buildings,sometimes over a dozen at atime.”“Like dominos,” Quinn

said. He felt his heartbeataccelerate.Fearcreepinginashe tried to grasp what he’d

justheard.Whatitmeant.“But with people inside.”

Renz said. “Manhattan willbe mostly debris when thechainreactionsoccur.”“What’s supposed to

detonatetheexplosives?”“Timers that will activate

sequentially so the mostdamage can be done. A cardrivenaroutesouthtonorth,mostly along Broadway, issupposed to send out signalsthe length of the island that

will activate the timers as itpasses. That way the rightbuildings will come down inthe right sequences.” Renz’svoice got heavy. “This willall happen within minutesafter the first timer isactivated.”“So somebody other than

Ellis is supposed todrive thecar and make the bombslive?”“Nope. That’s not our

problem, now that we know

their plan. Ordinarily we’dsimply stop all north-southtraffic, at least minimize thedamage.”“Why can’t you do that

now?”“We don’t have to worry

about a car or truck,” Renzsaid. “The killer wants ahelicopter.Thedeviceusedtosignalallthedetonatortimersto start ticking is simply abastardized cell phone. Abrief helicopter flight over

Manhattan with that thingbroadcasting will causeapproximately the samedamageasanuclearbomb.”“Is there a way to fly the

samerouteandneutralizethetimers or detonators bybroadcasting a differentsignal?”“That’swhateveryonehere

is trying to determine. Wedecided to talk to you aboutwhat we consider our onlyalternative.”

“Whichis?”“Give the helicopter pilot

whathewants.”“Whichis?”“Pearl.”As Quinn stood in the

suddenlycoldsilence,hewassurehecouldhearthedistantbutpersistentthrashingsoundofanapproachinghelicopter.

77

It was dusk, and they heardthehelicopterbeforetheysawit. The engine itself wasn’tthat loud, but the air passingthrough the thrashing rotorblades as they provided liftand balance soon madeconversation impossible

unlessitwasshouted.Downward-aimed lights

illuminated the dimminglanding area. The copterdroppedtoabouttwentyfeet,towardthecenterofthecircleof brilliant light. It rotateduntil its nose was pointednorth and the craft wasparalleltothebuilding.It settled in gradually, and

the choppy, thrashing sound,the one from the Gremlin’snightmares, lost volume as

the rotors and vertical tailpropeller slowed and theengineidled.The helicopter looked

muchlargerontheground.Itwasgraywitharedcrossandbore the lettering of one ofthe hospitals in the area, St.Andrew’s. The killer hadneverheardofit.Didn’tcare.Aplainclothescopcameto

theforeoftheknotofpeople,then edged closer to Quinnandwhispered,“Renzsaid to

tell you the guy at thecontrols was a former attackhelicopter pilot inAfghanistan. He volunteeredforthisjob.”That was good to know.

Confirmation. At least theGremlin wouldn’t be at thecontrols when the craft triedtotakeoff.“That’s where they met,”

the cop said. “Both thoseguyscanflyachopper.”Great, Quinn thought. He

could almost feel the oddsshifting,andnotinhisfavor.With Quinn beside her,

Pearl trudged toward thehelicopter as if her feetwereheavy.The side door on the

helicopterslidopen.Weaver stood leaning

against it, the blasts of airfromtherotorsplasteringherhair over her face. She wasfeigning a weakness shedidn’t feel. She was actually

revved and ready for action.The pilot, a stocky guy withgrayhaircutsoclosehewasalmost bald, slid over wherehe was visible and extendedhis hand to help Weaverclimbinside.Anencouragingsignal that he was ready toget away from their exposedposition fast. Another figure,no doubt the Gremlin, wasbarelyvisibleseatedinbackWeavermadeamoveas if

toclimbintothechopper,but

Quinn squeezed her shoulderandshestopped.“Wait,” he said to her,

“wait...”“I’mnolongeruseful,”she

said, her head turned towardQuinn so the others couldn’treadherlips.“He’ssweepingupafterhimself.”He knew what she meant,

andthatshewasright.Thelookonthepilot’sface

was fear. The figure in backfired a small, silenced

handgun.Wearing an astounded

expression, thepilot slumpedforward.Hescrambled togetout of the helicopter, fell tothe ground, and died staringup at the slowly rotatingblades.While that occupied

everyone’s mind, the smallnimble figure in thehelicopter moved quickly tothe front of the craft. Heleaned forward, aiming the

gun at Weaver. Thehelicopter’s speaker systemwas on. “No one else has todie,” the Gremlin said.“Quinn, give me Pearl and Ispare the police lady.Disobey,andwe’ll see if shecancomealiveyetagain.”Pearlhadmovedtotheside

ofQuinnandnowshe edgedforward and was standingbesidehim.The Gremlin said, “Come

forward,policelady.”

Weaver, trembling, took astep toward him. He wasseated in the helicopter,leaning slightly forward.Quinn knew the snipers hadno clear shot at that angle.The Gremlin also wouldknowit.Thiskill-crazylittlepsycho

is going to do this, get whathewants.Wecan’tstophim.“Police lady,” the killer

said,“stepforward.”He grinned as she obeyed.

“I no longer need you,” hesaid with a twist of falseregret.That was when Quinn

understood that the Gremlinhad known from thebeginning that he, Quinn,would make his doubleswitch, sending Weaver toplayherself,Weaver,playingPearl.Therehadneverbeenadeadwomanwhosehearthadresumedbeating.AstheGremlintookaimat

her, Weaver bolted. He shother in the shoulder, and shefell.Pearl had stepped around

Quinn and was movingtowardthehelicopter.“Pearl!” Quinn shouted

behindher.“KeepwalkingorI’llshoot

him, darling.” The Gremlinworehisgrinlikeamask.Pearl kept walking toward

him. When she was closeenough, he leaned slightly

farther to grab her and pullher therestof thewayinsidethe helicopter, still with thegunaimedatQuinn.Quinnstoodstaring.Quinn...Pearl accepted the

Gremlin’s hand up. As sheraised herself into thehelicopter, she squared herbodytowardtheGremlin.Quinn hadn’t moved,

exceptforextendinghisrightarmslightlytowardPearland

. . . what? Pressing a key orbutton on his iPhone?Signaling?In those last seconds, the

Gremlin sensed thatsomething was very wrong.His face twistedmeanly.Hiseyes implored. “Quinn, youdon’tknow—”The blast was loud and

sounded more than anythinglikeashotgunbeingfired.Itssource was like somethingthatused tobecalledabelly

gun.It was a shaped charge.

The Gremlin would haveappreciatedthat.It wasn’t just Weaver

who’d been wearing abulletproof vest. Quinn hadbeen sure that Helen theprofiler was right when shesaid it was Pearl the killerwanted most of all. Given achoice, he would choosePearl, who was the mostimportant thing in the world

to Quinn. Weaver had beenwearing her unaltered vest.Letthekillerthinkhewastheone who’d decided on Pearl.Her vest had been altered inthe front, and contained asmallironplateonwhichwasashapedchargeaimed likeashotgun and full of nails andball bearings. The explosivehad been fitted to Pearl’smidsection, outside the vest,and aimed straight forward.Herbaggyhospitalgownhad

covered the vest. Pearl hadbeen instructed to aim hernavelattheGremlin.Ithadworked.Pearl had trusted Quinn

and he’d come through.Weaver had suffered only aslight shoulder injury. Shewould live. Pearl, who hadbeen target and becomeweapon,wouldlive.Pearl was sitting stunned

and bent forward, and stillhad a stomachache, but the

vesthaddiffusedmostof thepainofthecharge’spowerfulkick.Hersoremuscleswouldsoonheal.TheGremlinhadtakenthe

full force of the blast. It hadbeen concentrated on him asplanned. A shaped charge,directing its blast forward.Theshrapnelofnailsandballbearings had blown himalmostinhalf.Hestilllookedastounded at having beenkilledbyawoman.

Defeatedbyagadget.Pearl thought maybe they

wouldbury theGremlinwiththat same astoundedexpression on his face. Shehopedso.Shehopedtheywouldbury

himdeep.

Epilogue

Twoweeks later,aman inawrinkled gray suit and noneck came into Q&A, stoodjust inside the door, andglanced around. He wasaverageheightbutbroad,andhad about him the look of abill collector who loved his

work. He walked directly towhere Quinn was seatedbehind his desk. Feddermanstood up across the room,wondering.But the broad man smiled

and offered his hand toQuinn. “Frank Quinn.” Hesaid it as if he were tellingQuinn and not asking him.“I’mHenrySafire.”“WhatcanIdo—”“Listen,” Henry Safire

said.“That’sallIwant.Just.

..listen.”Quinn settled back in his

chair. “You’d better not tellmeIneedinsurance.”“There’s something we

thoughtyoushouldknow.”“You’re off to a bad start.

Whoare‘we’?”Safire drew a badge from

his pocket and flashed it atQuinn. “I’m HomelandSecurity.”Quinn leaned forward and

studiedtheIDandbadge.He

sat back. Said, “I’mlistening.”“You might have some of

this info,” Safire said, ”butI’m here to keep you up todate. We’ll start with EthanEllis, the architect-engineerwhodiedinthatcaraccident.Hecommittedsuicide.”“Yes,Iknowthat.”“You know about the

envelope with your name onit tucked into his car’s seatcushion,” Safire said. “We

readitanddon’twantanyoneelse to ever know about it.Ethan was into some prettybad behavior. Compulsive.Illegal. Harmful. There isproofof that, butnopoint inletting the tiger out of thebag. Ethan Ellis was beingextorted. Compromised. Hehad to obey orders, or somethings harmful to himwouldhavebeengiventothemediaand sensationalized. Youwere part of what Ethan

planned in order to spare hisfamilyandreputation.”Safiremade a tent of his fingers.Looked at his nails, whichwere chewed almost tononexistence.“To be brief,” Safire said,

“someone owned andinstructed Ethan Ellis. Forseveral years Ethan studiedthe architecture andengineering of certainManhattan buildings. Hewanted to make sure that

what was planned waspossible. He chose buildingsthat could be brought downby explosives in such away,anddirection,thattheywouldknock down adjacentbuildings.Sobuildingscouldbe destroyed in sequence, instrings of four or five, ormore, like dominoes onlymessier.”“The Gremlin,” Quinn

said. “Hewas the architect’smaster. The Gremlin wanted

those buildings destroyed,revealing what was inside.Everything exposed to hiscuriosityandcompulsion.Hecould have been made todestroy some of the samebuildingshe’ddesigned.”HenrySafireseemednotto

have heard. “Someone likeEthanElliscouldbemade todetermine exactly how thestructures would fall, instrings of up to a dozen ormore. Since he’d designed

many of the buildings, hecould also plant theexplosives. Small, powerfulcharges,expertlyapplied,thatcould be detonated from ashort distance. All that wasneededwasadrivertotakeacertain route at a certainspeed through the city,sending out intermittentsignalsviaacellphone.”“What would keep this

driver from being killed ashalf of Manhattan fell?”

Quinnasked.Ashespoke,hetried to imagine the islandofManhattan a jumble ofwreckage north to south.Then he tried not to imagineit.“The signals would

activate timers on the bombsso they would detonate inprecise sequences,” Safiresaid. “This wouldn’t happenuntil well after the driver,who activated the timerswhile keeping a constant

speed,wasfaraway.”Quinn pushed for more

answers. “Why not simplyuse Ethan Ellis for thedriver?”“Let’sfaceit,Quinn,some

folks are squeamish aboutkilling thousands, maybemillions, of people.” HenrySafire shrugged. “Like you,Quinn.”Quinnsaid,“ThankGod!”“Besides,” Safire said,

“they had to have something

profound on the driver.Something they could holdover his head that wouldscare the hell out of him.Somethingdearertohimthanlifeitself.Evenhisownlife.”“Then the car crash was

suicide?”“Nodoubtaboutit,”Safire

said. “We’ll keep themotiveunder wraps as long as wecan, but you know how it iswithsecrets.”“Secrets?” Quinn said.

“Therearenone.”

Postscript

Demolition experts, usinginformation contained inEthan Ellis’s suicide note toQuinn, located and disarmedmostoftheplantedbombssetto tick away to detonationwhen a certain code wasbroadcasted to them at a

certain frequency. Thechancesofeventually findingand combining the code andfrequency were practicallynil.Practically.It shouldn’t matter that a

number of the bombsremained unfound, hiddenaway or concealed in castconcrete.Within a few yearsthe explosive would becomeinertandadangertonoone.In what used to be a car

dealer’s service center inAstoria, New York, thedevoted son of Ethan Ellisworked assiduously, usingmail-order parts and plans torebuild a small, wreckedhelicopter a Midwest TVstation had given up on forweatherandtrafficreports.Ahome project, he called it, ifanyoneasked.Whenfinished,itwouldn’t lift or carry a lotof weight. Nor would it flyvery fast, with a pilot and

passengerlimitoftwopeople.Butitcouldflylowenoughtopass under radar, yet highenough so that its broadcastsignalswouldreachreceiversand detonators, even inbuildingswithhigherfloors.That was enough. Even

more than enough. For itsfinalflight,thehelicopterwasonly required to carry onepassenger at a certain speed,alongwith amodem sendingout a certain signal in a

certaincode.StraightdownBroadway.

PhotobyJenniferLutz-Bauer

ABOUTTHEAUTHOR

AmultipleEdgarandShamusAwardwinner—includingtheShamus LifetimeAchievement Award—JohnLutz is the authorofover30novels.HisnovelSWFSeeksSame was made into the hitmovie Single White Female(1992), starring Bridget

Fonda, and later remade asThe Roommate (2011),starring Minka Kelly andLeightonMeester,andTheExwas a critically acclaimedHBO feature. He lives in St.Louis, Missouri, andSarasota, Florida. Indescribing his serial-killerthrillers,JohnLutzsays:“I’mtryingtoprovidereaderswiththekindofroller-coasterridethatwill scare thema lotbutcompel them to buy another

ticket.”His website isjohnlutzonline.com.

PINNACLEBOOKSarepublishedbyKensingtonPublishingCorp.119West40thStreetNewYork,NY10018Copyright©2015JohnLutzAllrightsreserved.Nopartofthisbookmaybereproducedinanyformorbyanymeans

withoutthepriorwrittenconsentofthepublisher,exceptingbriefquotesusedinreviews.Ifyoupurchasedthisbookwithoutacover,youshouldbeawarethatthisbookisstolenproperty.Itwasreportedas“unsoldanddestroyed”tothepublisher,andneithertheauthornorthepublisherhasreceivedanypaymentforthis“stripped

book.”Thisbookisaworkoffiction.Names,characters,businesses,organizations,places,events,andincidentseitheraretheproductoftheauthor’simaginationorareusedfictitiously.Anyresemblancetoactualpersons,livingordead,events,orlocalesisentirelycoincidental.

PINNACLEBOOKSandthePinnaclelogoareReg.U.S.Pat.&TMOff.ISBN:978-0-7860-2831-3Firstelectronicedition:September2015ISBN-13:978-0-7860-3798-8ISBN-10:0-7860-3798-9