 
HUNTING KETCH

A Novel

by

Jack Forge

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 John Stephen Rohde

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. It may not be re-sold or given to others. If you want to share this book, please buy a copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book but did not buy it, please go to Smashwords.com and buy a copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

Chapters

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 1

Little Tony Wright was playing alone, when the stranger appeared. The boy was completely unaware of the man who for days had been hanging around Henley Park, watching children, staring at them, and stalking them. In the balminess of late summer evenings, Tony liked to play there, across the street from his house, and he was having too much fun to notice anyone else in the surrounding world.

September days in Southern California can be torrid, but the evenings often mellow with the hint of the coming fall. On the soft air, Tony sensed through the yellowing trees the aromas of cooking food that drifted from nearby houses in the San Fernando Valley suburb. He knew his mother would be calling him for dinner soon so he wanted to play as long as possible. He enjoyed clambering on the complex structure the neighborhood fathers had built in the middle of a big sand pit. Whenever he saw an opportunity, the little boy would head straight for it, even without his mother's permission, especially without it. She had let him play there so many times Tony assumed she would not mind if he went there occasionally on his own.

The child had been on the Earth only six years going on seven, but he possessed an independent streak, probably inherited from his mother. At least that is what Donna Wright liked to say whenever anyone noticed or mentioned the little fellow's wandering ways. Since her husband left her, she increasingly counted on her son to look after himself as much as he could. Not that she was neglectful. No woman loved and cared more for her children. But she was a single parent. Even with the best intentions and actions, she often strained to provide for her offspring, particularly in making time for them.

While preparing dinner for Tony and his baby sister, Donna seldom looked out a window to check on her boy, whom she assumed was playing in the front yard. If she had glanced, she might have noticed that Tony was gone. If she had discovered him in the park, she might have spotted a shadow drifting among the Japanese mock-orange bushes and the California sycamore trees.

At first, the shadow was only that: an insubstantial thing, a fluctuating shade cast by fluttering leaves, formed by the vagaries of light and imagination. Had anyone peered into the tight spaces among the shrubs, though, one might have seen the familiar contours of a human being. But for now, the shape was barely visible as it floated low from tree to tree around the sand pit.

If the boy had seen the shape, he might have thought it a bogeyman and either froze with fear or raced home. But, even when the stranger reached the periphery of the playground, the boy did not see the dark figure. Tony was unaware of any attention to him, oblivious to the glint on the gray narrowed eyes and to the eerie smile at the corners of tightened lips. The child was so engrossed in play that he did not notice another shape appear, see the two shapes disappear, or hear the muffled noise of a person gagging. He barely noticed the screaming birds and their whirring wings as they shot out of the bushes and trees where the shadow had been lurking.

"Tony!"

The strident female voice startling him, the boy looked up and saw his mother crossing the street to the park. He swallowed hard at the sight of her slender figure marching toward him, her long dark hair flying as if flaming in the late light.

"Anthony Jay Wright!" she snapped. "What do you think you're doing—running off without my permission?"

Tony gulped. He was experienced enough to realize that his mother knew the answer to her question. He thought quickly and climbed to the top of the structure. The boy spread his face wide into an endearing smile and shouted to his mother with a ploy he often used to placate her whenever she was charging with a burst of reprimand.

"Mommy—watch me!" He sat upon a parallel bar then let himself swing backward, hanging at his knees.

His mother nearly gasped and presently forgot her fear born anger until she saw he had not fallen from the bar, and then with a sharp squint she kept her purpose. "Now, don't you go showing off, young man—thinking I'm going to forget about this. You come down from there this instant and get back to the house. It's time for dinner."

When he saw his mother put her hands on her hips, Tony knew she would be coming after him at the next moment so he let himself drop to the ground. This time she could not contain a gasp. When the boy stood up and raised his arms in Olympian victory, she had to set her jaw to keep from grinning at her spunky child.

"Yes, yes—that was very good, Tony," she said. "But you shouldn't be taking such chances. You could break your neck."

Knowing he had dulled the point of her righteous anger, Tony Wright took his mother's hand and walked happily with her back home. As she mildly admonished him along the way, as he listened submissively, neither of them had the slightest idea of what lay lifeless in the thick bushes thirty feet from the playground.

Chapter 2

The next morning Detective Sergeant Mark McQuade was the last to arrive at the scene. Actually, he planned it that way. He liked to hear from the other officers their version of a crime scene before he examined it himself. He knew which cop had discovered the body, because the uniformed officer was already questioning curious neighbors who were standing on the periphery, close enough to glimpse the corpse but distant enough to preserve both propriety and their digestive systems. Even so, the flashing police lights rippling across their faces made them look dyspeptic.

"Hey, Bob—" McQuade said so loudly to the uniform that a few gawkers turned to look at him. He liked to stimulate bystander curiosity. "You call it in?"

Officer Bob Tranks was officious, proud of being the first cop to make the grim discovery. "Yeah, I'm the lucky one, Detective. Taped off for you. Ready for your big board. Woman who discovered the body over there—in the sweat clothes—one with the dog."

McQuade glanced at her and snapped his eyes back at Officer Tranks. He had heard a smartass crack in the cop's description of the list of crimes in the Robbery-Homicide Division. McQuade disliked it almost as much as the title Killer Kops that Tranks and others had attached to the detectives. McQuade ignored him and let his eyes follow the plastic yellow tape tied to some trees, a haphazard polygon around the dead thing on the ground. Stepping into the scene, he scanned the corpse.

Like any other guy, McQuade thought. Ordinary clothes. Face blue. Probably strangled. Neat though. No fuss, no muss. Looks like a professional job. No staging. No struggle. Killer caught him by surprise and left him where he fell. McQuade crouched beside the crime scene investigator. "Whaddya say, Michael—some kinda tidy mugging?"

Doctor Michael Murrin spoke to him without looking away from the body. "I doubt it, Mark. Too fast. The killer caught him from behind with a thin garrote—like a wire. Killed him without a fight, barely a twitch. Almost like an assassination. Man's wallet still in his pocket."

Detective McQuade grunted then nodded into a question as he stood up and pushed back his dark hair. "Maybe a personal vendetta?"

Murrin looked at him. "Maybe."

McQuade knew the look and the terse comment, which meant that figuring out motive was his job. He looked at the woman in sweat clothes. She was standing back from the crime scene, her head averted as she talked on a cell phone. McQuade headed straight for her. "Excuse me, ma'm—"

She threw a startled look at him then said into the phone, "I have to go now, dear. Yes. Yes. I'll get home as soon as I can."

"Detective McQuade, ma'm. You found the body?"

The woman, a suburban princess on the high side of thirty, obviously worked out regularly. Her body under the blue skintight outfit looked good to McQuade. "Susan Doherty," she coughed. Her golden Lab greeted the detective, jutting his nose into the man's big hand.

McQuade stroked the dog's head affectionately as he studied the woman's eyes. "I have a few questions, if you don't mind."

"Sure. No. But I don't know that I can tell you much, Detective. Sunshine, my dog, he found the body. I let him off the leash in the park. He likes to run. Suddenly he disappeared into the bushes. And he wouldn't come when I called him. He likes to look for bits of food the kids leave behind. Disgusting. When I went over to see what he had gotten into, I saw him sniffing that, that—" Her voice locked up.

McQuade liked her looks but even more her vulnerability. "Take it easy, ma'm. See anyone else in the park?"

"No. It was early. I like to run before people get up. It's quiet and cool then. I find it clears the mind." She chuckled. "Not this time—"

He nodded and looked at the dog. "So—you didn't hear anything unusual."

"Not a sound but the birds. Just the way I like it."

"Yes, ma'm." He made some notes in a pad. "Guess that's all for now. Can you be available, if we need to ask you more questions?"

Her eyes quivered with anxiety when she looked at him.

"No trouble, ma'm. Just like to keep in touch with anyone invol—with all potential witnesses. You understand."

She nodded reluctantly. "May I go now? My husband is waiting with the children. And he has to go to work."

"Yeah—sure. Go ahead." He was disappointed to see her leave. "And thanks for your help, ma'm."

She flipped a weak smile over her shoulder and hurried out of the park with her dog on a short leash. McQuade watched her go, admiring her moves. Nice butt. Only a slight jiggle. He grinned. In a moment he shook off the distraction and gazed around the neighborhood.

Upscale. Ranch style homes. Manicured yards. Not a weed in sight. Scarcely a fallen leaf. The killing dirtied up the place. Poor guy prob'ly somebody's husband, some kid's father? Check missing persons. One of these housewives maybe a widow overnight. Tough. Someone settling a score? Pissed off neighbor? Bad business deal? Caught messin' with a guy's wife? Gotta be greed, jealousy, or revenge. Even in Happyland. Never know.

The detective found himself wandering back to Officer Tranks. "Anyone else see or hear anything, Bob?"

Tranks shook his head with more gravity than necessary. "Not a soul. So far looks like you got yourself a big red file."

"Not for long." McQuade turned slowly and marched back to his late model chariot. He did not appreciate the suggestion that the case would go unsolved for a long time. He hated that. One of the reasons, maybe the only reason he liked police work was to solve the mysteries—quickly. The game kept his mind off the evil. And when he could figure one out and arrest a bad guy in no time, he felt like he was making progress toward a better world. He knew deep down that was bullshit but Detective Mark McQuade at least tried to pretend something good about life.

In his car he thought about this new case but not too hard. He estimated he would solve it in a day or two. Likely a crime of passion. Some guy found his wife in bed with an overly friendly neighbor. Those kinds usually come to light soon. Funny, though, how the perp killed him in the bushes. Almost like he caught him there. And with a wire too—like a pro. Strange.

McQuade made a U-turn in front of the park, glanced back at the scene, and drove slowly out of the quiet, pretty neighborhood full of people much better off than he was. When he got onto the busy boulevard, he felt more relaxed, more in his element of a broader and deeper stratum of society. City streets were like that—democratic zones where everyone traveled on evenly paved roads. Most did not give more than a honk or an obscene gesture to others in passing. He felt almost glad to be back in the urban mix. Something disquieting about the 'burbs for all their celebrated peace and quiet. Too tidy. Like they're covering up bad deeds with pretty packaging. He grinned at his clever insight as he took the freeway back to downtown LA. Still feeling confident, he cut the car into the parking lot of the Parker Center. Yeah, he'd solve this one fast. Too easy. He strode into the building, wishing he had something big to work on for a change. Not that he wanted bad things to happen to folks, but a cop's life could be damned dull between the big scenes. Yes. Detective Mark McQuade, twenty years on the force, was ready for some excitement.

Chapter 3

As he sauntered into the police building, McQuade presented his sardonic grin to the comely woman behind the front desk, reminding himself that someday he ought to ask her out for lunch. Not bad for a female cop. Now that he was living alone again, he believed he had the right. Before she could drop her eyes, though, he took an elevator up to the Robbery-Homicide Division, all the way wondering if the green eyes in her smile meant come or go.

When he pushed through the door into the division bay, McQuade saw gigantic Gordon Dalsworthy spreading his huge butt all over McQuade's desk while gabbing with a couple of detectives. Sweet thoughts about the pretty cop disappeared from McQuade's mind, as he blurted out, "Hey, Gordo—get yer ass off my papers. You gonna wrinkle 'em—don't know what else."

Gordo glanced at him with a look that said: "Fuck you." artificially softened with tiny creases curled up at the corners of his mouth.

McQuade chuckled down his adrenaline and shoved the big man as if being playful. "You guys got nothin' else to do but hang around my desk and shoot the shit?"

Greg Firth, one of the guys in the klatch, quipped, "We were waitin' for you, Mac. We got a bet about the theory of relativity." McQuade hated being called 'Mac', especially by his colleagues. Too familiar. Even contemptuous. Ronnie Binder in the desk behind him uttered a subdued snicker and pointed her thumb at Firth to show McQuade that she was not an accomplice to the men's shenanigans.

McQuade winked at her and checked Firth, unsure if he was joking. He had never heard him or anyone else in the RHD talk any serious science, let alone astrophysics. But he decided to play along for the hell of it. "Yeah?" He raised his square chin and stuck it out. "What about it?"

"Gordo here says you can knock up a relative as long as she's yer cousin twice removed." He winked at the others.

To McQuade the wink meant the whole thing was bullshit but he was one of the guys, so he took a flier, no matter how much the subject bothered him. "I'll bite."

"Well, give us the answer, man," Firth said. "You're supposed to be the thinker in the division. We figured you'd know right off."

"Yeah, Mac," the other cop said, a new guy transferred from vice whose name McQuade could not pronounce.

McQuade ignored him and looked at Gordo, who was grinning and nodding like a drunken gorilla. Then McQuade shot a look at Firth. "Tell ya what, Firth. Why don't you guys go into the storage locker and jack off together. When you finish, you'll know the answer."

The three cops looked him over as if he had just asked them to solve a problem in calculus then looked at each other for confirmation of the insult and their respective indignation. Greg Firth spoke for the team. "Cute, Mac—real cute."

With that as a signal, the three men dragged their butts away from McQuade's desk and returned to work, grumbling among themselves. McQuade smirked and let himself fall into his chair. Interlocking his hands behind his head, he leaned back and looked out the big windows. He often did that, hoping to glimpse a bird or even a cloud. Certainly no chance to see more than the top of a tree. Too high. Have to stand close to a window. Nothing to see anyway. Inside or outside. He hated the structure as being too corporate. A police department designed to look like a business building seemed to Mark McQuade entirely too slick and completely incongruous. He preferred the old stone building. Monumental. Like the law.

Spotting nothing to amuse him in the smoggy space over the vast pile of gray city blocks, he yanked open a drawer and pulled out a report form. While filling it out, he thought more about the crime in the park. That is what it would be in his mind for the time being—the crime in the park. Probably some yuppie gone off the deep end. Maybe an anonymous neighbor will call in a day or two, or maybe the perp will walk into a police station. Give himself up. With his lawyer of course. Hoping to snag a passion plea. Prob'ly will. Prob'ly get off too. Specially if he's got plenty dough.

Ever since a famous rap star walked free after beating his girlfriend to death, McQuade had lost a lot of faith in the system. Been losing confidence in it for years, but when that happened, he felt like spitting in the juror's faces. Justice. Hah! Exoneration of the rich and famous. That's what it's become. His bitterness did not keep him from busting bad guys; besides the competition, he liked the chase. McQuade was a predatory animal. At least that is what his wife had called him among other things just before she walked out with the dog and a big part of their collection of video tapes.

Mark was surprised Shelley did not contest him for the house. He expected she would have wanted the place. It pissed him off she took Pardner and the tapes instead, especially the porn. He guessed she did that to spite him. It worked. He felt like belting her even though he never had hit his wife and never would. But taking the dog was low. Pardner was his best friend. Maybe more than his wife. Mark had kept a few pets since his childhood, but none of them had meant as much to him as that border collie.

Mark McQuade had never laid a violent hand his wife in their three years together, but when she walked out with Pardner and some of his best diversions he had an urge to succumb to the beast in him. Good thing they never had a kid. Would've taken that too. Now when he went home he walked into a house too big and quiet for comfort and did not like it. Even the RHD was better than the house. At least the distractions of cops and their work kept his mind off his troubles. At home he thought only of his broken love life, reminded of it by every scent, every sight in the house. For the first few weeks after she left, he thought he heard her rummaging around the place. Tidying up the rooms. Trying out new recipes. Bathing the dog. Laying the covers back on the bed before the two of them crawled between the sheets. He was pining for her in a big way.

Damn. He missed her—girlish, nymph-like. She looked great for thirty-five. Proud of her figure. He missed sleeping with her almost as much as her company. They'd been buddies. Understood each other—at least in their work. When he first met her at County Hospital, Mark felt the magnetism. Nearly made him forget his partner in intensive care with three bullet holes in his body. Mark was surprised to find out she was an emergency medic. Not because she was a woman but because she seemed too sensitive for that kind of work. This first conjecture was wrong, though, for she was one of the most dedicated medics he had ever known—man or woman. And her sensitivity translated into a passionate caring for the people she helped. Made her a prize on the team.

So they had shared a lot of war stories, laughed and cried about them. One of the things that had bound them together. Mark was sorely sorry to lose her company in the house. He wished he could have been a different person for her. Not so predatory, as she called it. Idealistic little broad. Tough but romantic. Something he could never be. For him life was a do or die contest. One struggles through seventy, eighty years then calls it quits from sheer exhaustion. Nothing romantic about it.

Detective McQuade sensed someone standing behind his desk and sat up straight, a little embarrassed to have been caught daydreaming.

"Don't let me interrupt you, Detective," a man with a rather quiet voice said, putting a sarcastic curl on his words.

McQuade spun around in his chair to face the hulking figure of Captain Dwight Mansford grinning at him. "What's up, boss?"

Mansford tossed a folder onto the desk. "Take a look at that."

McQuade flipped open the folder and saw clipped to a rap sheet a mug shot of a man who looked familiar.

"Recognize the face?"

McQuade started to shake his head until he saw a body beneath the face form in his mind. He looked at Mansford. "The vic in the park."

"You got it. Looks like we're minus one child molester."

"Child molester!" McQuade looked over the rap sheet, all three pages. "Guy made a career of it."

"Well, somebody retired him."

McQuade looked again at Mansford and felt a little stupid. "Yeah—" he droned.

"What you been thinkin' up to now? Feuding neighbors? Maybe a screwed up drug deal?"

McQuade nodded. He would not admit how inaccurate his guess had been.

"Better make another trip to the scene, McQuade. Talk to the neighbors. See if anyone knows anything about this guy."

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll do that." McQuade scooped up the folder, jacked himself to his feet, and headed for the door.

"While you're there—" Mansford shouted after him, "check if they got a neighborhood watch or something. Could be some vigilante types tryin' to do our job for us."

McQuade waved in compliance without looking back. He marched out of the RHD with a little bounce to his step. The case was beginning to look like it could amount to something after all.

Chapter 4

When Detective McQuade returned to the area of the crime scene, he stopped his car at Henley Park and scanned the surrounding houses. Vine-covered fences separated them from the park, and no windows were clearly visible, so he looked at places across the street. Six of them lay in view, all typical Valley houses. Anyone looking out a window, picking up a paper, or turning on sprinklers could have seen someone lurking around the playground. He guessed they probably would not have noticed anything peculiar about some guy taking a walk through the neighborhood but might have looked twice if the guy looked suspicious. McQuade knew people tend not to suspect others, though, and if they do so, they refrain from telling anyone. Part of the let's-not-get-involved syndrome that has infected society and made the police officer's job more difficult than necessary.

The sun was cooking off the morning cool for another southland roaster. McQuade did not bother catching weather reports most days, because it was nearly always sunny by noon and sunny in LA means hot. What that TV weather personalities liked to euphemize as a warm spell in the arid southwest. More like a curse, McQuade thought. He hated the heat. Born and raised in LA but he had grown to detest the weather.

He was supposed to wear his dress coat when talking with the public, as part of the professional image the force was always trying to impress upon the citizenry, but when the temperature rose, he could not think clearly so he took off his coat when he got out of the car. The man needed to feel a little air on his sweaty skin to keep him on track.

Striding across the street, he headed for the farthest house on the left, among those with a sizable view of the park. When no one answered his knock or the bell at one, he moved on to the next but received no response there or at the next one either. He knew many people worked these days, both parents. Kids at school. Not until he got to a pale blue house directly across from the park did someone open a door. A cozy little place with pansies in the flowerbeds.

The young woman was wearing a white T-shirt under a short denim jumper and holding soiled cloth gloves in one hand. Strands of brown hair drifted around her dewy face. Traces of dirt lay like fine freckles on her nose. Her brown eyes sparkled in the sunlight. She smiled invitingly and spoke with a lilt. "Yes?"

"Sorry to bother you, ma'm—" McQuade fumbled with his ID. "Detective Mark McQuade. I'd like to ask you some questions—if you don't mind—" He watched to see if she was going to invite him in, hope rising in him that she would. He was always eager to spend some time with a woman like this, even officially.

Her smile faded. "Questions? About what?" Something like an electrical shock struck her mind. Her eyes rounded as she fixed on his eyes. "Nothing happened to my son—?"

"Oh, no, ma'm—I'm sure you're son is fine." He sought the right words to open a frightening subject. "Did you by any chance see all the commotion in the park earlier this morning?"

"Commotion?" She looked past him into the park.

He caught the scent of her bath soap mingled with odors of sweat and the earth, reminding him of wildflowers. His smile drew her eyes back to him. She did not return it but frowned. "No—no, I didn't see anything like that, Detective—but then I was taking my son to school—and I had to pick up some plants from the nursery. Trying to make the yard look better." She laughed with a little puff of air. "But I'm not much of a gardener."

He sensed her breath was as sweet as her face and had to force his eyes away from her mouth. She in turn noticed his attention and jumped into her words. "Oh—please—come in, Detective."

He wanted to hear his name on her lips as he stepped into her living room and glanced around the house. The place had that hyper-lived-in quality of homes with small children. Frayed furniture. Wrappers lingering in a nearly empty candy bowl. Fingerprints on the TV screen. A ball in a corner by the fireplace. "Thank you, ma'm." He bowed slightly.

She wiped her free hand on her shorts and held it out to him. "Donna Wright. Have a seat." She started to turn. "Can I get you something to drink?"

He was burning for a beer but declined. She looked frustrated for a moment then said, "Well, I'm going to have some iced tea. Made it just for gardening day. Sure you wouldn't like a glass?"

He accepted. He liked being friendly to this woman, as he watched her sashay into the kitchen, and wondered what her husband was like. Nice butt, he thought, and remembered the woman with the dog in the park. While waiting for her to return he studied around the room. Nice place. Smells good too. Homey. The house made him feel he belonged there: soft colors, comfortable furniture, lots of light. When she came back, he watched her move and thought of dancing. She was smiling broadly, perhaps at being intensely noticed by this man. When he took the glass from her hand, he barely touched the tip of one of her fingers and felt or imagined a current pass between them. "Thanks," he said and sipped the tea while watching her slip her body into a chair. The drink was very cold, and he wanted to slug it but thought it would look better if he took occasional sips. Polite sips. Over the glass, he watched her drink and fixed on the wet that made her lips shine, made them look even more tumid than they were. When he started to wonder what her nipples looked like she fractured that train of thought with a hard U-turn back to the purpose of his visit. And she was there waiting for him.

"So, Detective McQuade—" she asked, "what else would you like to ask me?"

He looked at her too sharply. "Yeah. Right." He tried another sip but sucked in a mouthful. "Uh—have you noticed anyone, any strangers in the—hanging around the neighborhood lately, Mis'ess Wright?"

Caught by the question while drinking, she shook her head. The ice rattled in her glass. One slipped into her mouth. She stiffened a little. "No. Sounds scary. Is somebody...?

He was reluctant to throw a bomb into the middle of their pleasant little visit but he had to lay it out for her if he was going to get the information he needed. "I hate to tell you this, Mis'ess Wright, but...."

"Donna—please."

He nodded and tried to smile but could not make it work. "A man was killed last night—murdered."

She held the ice immobile in her mouth and spoke around it. "Who? Where?"

"In the park."

She sat straight up to look out a front window. "Across the street?!"

He nodded.

She nearly swallowed the ice, and her face blanched. "Oh, my god—my son was playing there yesterday evening.

"Your son? When exactly was that, ma'm?"

The fear of what might have happened to her son was distracting her. "When? Oh, about dinnertime—seven o'clock—I was running late that day. I had to go over and get him. He likes to...." She nearly spilled her drink in setting it on the edge of a pile of magazines spread across a coffee table. She covered her eyes with both hands and groaned, nearly sobbing, at the thought of her son in danger. "Oh, my god—!"

"Your son's all right, ma'm?"

She shot a look at him that made him shudder. "Yes. Of course he is. Do you think I'd be in the back yard gardening, if something had happened to Tony? What kind of mother would I be?"

He could see her eyes were gleaming now. "I'm sure you're a very good mother, ma'm." He pulled the mug shot of the murdered man out of his pocket but for a moment kept it turned away from her. "I need you to look at something, Mis'ess Wright." He slowly laid the photo onto the table next to her drink.

She picked up her glass and leaned over to look at the picture, her other hand still at her face, near her mouth. McQuade noticed her tapered fingers, the nails neatly filed. He wanted to take her hand in his, steady her nerves. "Have you seen that man before?"

She studied the picture as if trying to find some sign of recognition yet afraid she would. After a long time of studying the image, she shook her head. "I don't think I've seen him before. Why? Is he the...?"

"Yes, ma'm. The man who was killed."

"Unbelievable," she whispered in a long draft.

"Ma'm?"

She looked at the detective with eyes that seemed to plead for safety. "I can't believe something like this could happen here—right across the street—where my kids play—" She started to gasp but swallowed it with a big gulp of tea, wishing then it was wine.

McQuade nodded pathetically. Then silence swelled between them, and he thought she might want him to leave so she could process this terrible information by herself. However, he could not leave. Not yet. He had more to say, something he wished he could put into the toilet where it belonged and flush it out of sight and mind, but he knew he had to bring it up. His job. No matter how much it upset people, he had to dig into the dark rot of human nature, find the evil there, and root it out, bind it, see it locked it into a cell of concrete and steel—or as many people wanted—execute it out of existence. That was his mission. And he took it seriously. "I'm sorry to trouble you with this question, ma'm—but has your son told you about any—any interactions with strangers?"

"What kinds of interactions?" Before the last syllable left her florid lips, she knew what he was driving at and again she paled. She studied the picture once more, attempting to find something reasonable in it. "Who was this man? Where did he come from?"

His name was Lawrence Tribble. He was a convicted child molester, tried once for murder but beat the rap for lack of evidence. The jury couldn't get over their unreasonable doubt."

She started and nearly jumped to her feet, the color rushing back into her face. "Child molester. Jesus Christ! I heard one of them was living somewhere in the area—but I didn't think he was so close. What in hell was he doing walking around our neighborhood?"

He looked at her knowing she knew the answer to her own question.

"God!" she snarled. "Those horrible monsters are all over the place."

"Yeah, well, not this one. Not anymore."

She started to nod but was not going to be appeased. "Where in hell did he come from, Detective? Prison, right?"

"He was on parole. Lived in the neighborhood—"

"Lived in this neighborhood?!" Her eyes rolled.

He dropped his eyes, knowing what was coming.

"Good God, Detective—"

"I know, ma'm. It's a crazy system. But the guy had rights, so...."

"Rights! What about my children's right to life—and his right to freedom to play in his own neighborhood without—? Don't their rights count as much as some, some sick murderous bastard's so-called rights?"

"Look—I'm with you. If I had my way, we'd lock those guys up in steel cages and leave them there until they turned to dust. But...."

"But we don't, do we? We let them out so they can terrorize our children." She shook her head and grabbed her glass. Looking into it, she felt she could not swallow another thing then put it down. A shudder rattled her spine.

He thought for something else to say, something that would be comforting or at least sound like police business, but he could think of nothing. She was right. The world had become a terrifyingly dangerous place, even in the traditional enclaves of suburbia. He wanted to stay with her until she got over the worst of her distress, until her child came home from school, till she went to bed and fell asleep and for several hours unconsciously drifted away from the squalid realities of life. But those were flights of fancy. He was on the job and knew better than to waste time. The force was short-handed enough without him spending his workday flirting with pretty housewives, no matter how vulnerable—or beautiful.

A baby cried in a back room. Donna turned her head slightly to listen, the sound both focusing and intensifying her mood. McQuade took it as a sign to leave. "I'd better go," he said without conviction.

She got up and headed to the rear of the house. "Please stay a moment, Detective. It's just Dawn telling me she's hungry."

"Dawn," he echoed and described it quietly: "Nice."

"The name suits her better—and differently—than I thought it would. She's better than an alarm clock in the morning." A little laughter bubbled out of the young woman, surprising McQuade after the dour conversation, as she trotted out of the room.

He was glad she had asked him to stay. It gave him an excuse to hang around her. He got to his feet, though, stretched and stepped around the living room, glancing at the artifacts of the woman's life.

Donna had gone into the children's bedroom in a back corner of the house and found baby Dawn building up a head of steam to cry. The young mother felt her diapers and said, "Ew—ee." She removed it, put on a fresh one, and then carried her back to the living room.

When she stepped into the dining room, she saw the detective looking over some photographs on the mantle. Sensing her approach, he turned away from the shelf a little too fast, appearing as if he had been snooping, a behavior that actually seemed natural for a policeman but always seemed to annoy others.

She did not mind, though. "That's my son, there in the middle next to the baby's picture."

McQuade looked closely at the boy's handsome little face and smiled. The detective's eyes drifted along the row of pictures and noticed the significant absence of a man; photos of an older man and woman, but no man of age likely to be Donna's husband. He was itching to ask her about that but sucked it back into his mind.

"He's my big man," Donna said as she sat with the baby on a flowery sofa.

McQuade looked awkwardly around, thinking for a moment that she was referring to a picture of her husband in a place he had missed.

"His name's Anthony James."

Realizing she was referring to her son, he appreciated her pride in the boy and looked at her a little too long for comfort. And when he saw no bottle in her hand and noticed the baby nuzzling her bosom, he knew it was definitely time to leave.

She grinned at his boyish fluster. "He'll be home soon—if you'd like to meet him."

"Who?"

"Tony." She squeaked a quick laugh like a tiny hiccough.

He was relieved, and in his mind a flicker that maybe this woman had no husband. That thought lightened his step and carried him to the front door with an ascending hope that he could see her again in an atmosphere much less threatening. "I'd really like to meet young Tony, ma'm—but I'd better be goin'."

"Donna."

In the doorway he looked back at her and nodded.

"Yes, I'd like you to meet him." She smiled in a way that made him feel he would be welcome in her house anytime. When he shut the door behind him, she watched his large frame diminish down the walkway. She saw him glance back once at the house then cross the street behind a walnut tree and get into his car. When he was gone, she lifted her shirt and pulled out a small but turgid breast for the baby. Just in time. Dawn was fast working up a fuss, having no patience for lollygagging. When she found that tender button on her mother's body that served the sweet warm fluid she immediately settled into the pure joy of filling her belly. Donna watched her and for the time ignored the dangers that darkened her mind and skulked beyond her little house. Soon Tony would be home from school, and the three of them would be safely together again.

Chapter 5

On his visits to the other houses in view of the park that day, Detective McQuade picked up no more information about the killing or the victim. Apparently, as he had expected, no one had heard or seen anything suspicious—or was willing to tell about it. However, he did not leave the neighborhood without having gained something for his effort. He had met Donna Wright, and the simple fact of having made her acquaintance inspirited him, made him feel more vital than he had since his wife left him.

All the way through town that afternoon, he replayed his visit with the lovely young woman. Analyzing her remarks for hidden meanings. Wondering if she had misunderstood any of his. Wishing he had asked about her husband, even though no topic of conversation called for such a question. He was such the self-centered being that he did not realize she was running the same tape through her mind. Before he got to Parker Center, he decided that he was definitely going to see her again, even if he had to make up some excuse. First, he had to know if she was married, second he had to find out if their easy communication had occurred only because of the intensity of the subject or because they had a real rapport between them.

When Mark McQuade got to his modest house in Hollywood that evening he was less distressed than usual about walking into an empty house. Even the reminders of his wife failed to trigger that chronic twinge in the center of his chest. Instead of ordering a pizza he actually made himself the semblance of a meal: a bowl of canned chili adorned with a few leaves of lettuce, tomato, and red onion drowned in bottled Italian dressing sopped up with a piece of buttered white bread—all washed down with beer. He thought of having a glass of wine. Interest in a woman was tending to elevate the man's stony consciousness closer to the loose ends of a civilized style. More relieved than disappointed to discover that he had no wine in the cupboard he happily popped open a can of brew.

Mark set his feast on a coffee table and dropped onto a couch in front of the TV to watch a news report about the killing in Henley Park. Normally he avoided the televised sensationalizing of human degradation disguised as journalism, even if the story related to his case, but this time he had a special motive. He was hoping to glimpse Donna's house, maybe even catch her in an interview. He sat through the whole segment but saw neither house nor woman and wished he had instead watched a ball game.

Flipping through numerous sports channels, he arbitrarily decided on a soccer game, not because he liked watching soccer. Actually he found it only snoozeworthy. Having a lot on his mind, he did not pay much attention to a bunch of guys running up and down on a vast field in long shot chasing a ball to kick or knock with their heads. He could not understand why anyone would deliberately want to rattle his brains by using his bare head as a firing pin for a projectile. As the tiny images scurried around the green to get their one or two scores in more hours than points put together, he recalled the murder scene, the mug shot of the victim, the eyes of Donna, and his immediate world.

Even though he had barely met the woman, he was developing a protective attitude toward the young mother. He cared about her fear for the children in a community that should be as safe as a family backyard. While scooping a spoonful of chili into his mouth he wondered about the murder of Lawrence Tribble. Was the captain right? Had the neighborhood watch turned vigilante? Many people objected strongly to child molesters living near their homes. Some of them got downright threatening in their protests. Maybe one or two aggressive guys with a lot of fear turned anger had decided in their own way to eliminate this one particular offender from the census. Still, it looked like a pro job. Quick. Quiet. Tidy. The perpetrator jumping the victim, stopping his heart in a few beats, and vanishing like the invisible man. In reality Mark was thinking less then about who did it than the reason. Since the killer's motive was unclear, a cop could easily assume an act of jungle justice. Not altogether reprehensible, thought Mark. For years he had mulled over the pluses and minuses of taking the law into his own hands. Definitely against the rules. Could get out of control. But wholly understandable. Natural. Gotta protect your family by any means necessary. Right?

Being a cop McQuade believed in law and order but he had become increasingly disillusioned by the violence in society, abuse of children, and lack of support for law enforcement. More people but fewer police. Not surprising some people would do it themselves. Prob'ly what happened here. Some guy in the neighborhood, maybe an ex-GI, maybe even an ex-cop. Self-appointed guardian of the people, the kids. Can't blame the guy. But gotta find him anyway. Lock him up. The law.

Mark sucked the last warm drops of beer and lay back in his favorite chair. The soccer game had become a blur. He cut through the channels but found nothing to catch his eye. Thoughts of his ex-wife crept into his mind. Hankering for diversion he locked onto an old black and white movie about a crook who escapes through the storm drains of LA. The guy was smart. And gutsy. Took a bullet out of his own body without anesthetic. Moved fast. Mark realized he was nearly rooting for the perp to escape. A little disappointed when the cops got him—but also satisfied. Excellent police work. Good film. Showed it like it is.

On overly loud commercial after the late news startled Mark from slumber. "Damn car peddlers," he growled. Gotta scream at ya. He scanned the channels once more and paused a few moments on a comedy/talk show with a bevy of near naked young women flaunting their silicon stuffed tits at the camera. But he soon tired of this too, flicked off the set, and ambled into his bedroom. After taking a leak and brushing his teeth a few strokes he stripped and fell into bed. The drowse in front of the tube had removed the soft warm portal through which he could slide easily into sleep, so he lay on his back and followed shadows flitting across the ceiling from neighbor lights that filtered through the mulberry tree in his back yard. He thought about his wife again, but Donna's face replaced her image and stayed in his mind. He pictured her naked. Usually he found that difficult when recalling a woman fully clothed, but it was surprisingly easy this time. He was also surprised to feel how rigid his attention to the fantasy had become and how readily he was oozing with anticipation. When a paroxysm of pleasure released his body and mind from their burdens, he drifted unaware into the delicious darkness. He slept through many dreams that night that he would not remember in the morning; and he would awaken as though never having fallen asleep, as if either time had stopped or he had simply blinked between dark and day.

Chapter 6

As soon as he regained consciousness on a new day Mark McQuade saddened to see, once again, that not only was he alone in bed but Pardner was not there to greet him. Having lost both the reassuring presence of his wife as well as the warm devotion of his dog was a double blow. Surprising he was able to sleep at all these days.

He felt unexpectedly good, though, when he slid out of bed and stepped into the shower. Having met a new woman, who at least partially displaced the longing he had for his departed wife, he felt a renewed determination to do his job well. An interesting woman could do that for a man. He thought so anyway. Besides, by doing his job thoroughly he thought he could find an excuse to contact her again. Yet the question of her marital status kept rattling around in his head. McQuade postponed breakfast as always for the gooey pastries and vitriolic coffee at the RHD office. Sliding into one of his three suits and stepping into one of his two pairs of shoes he left the house.

Marine air had swept low, gloomy clouds across the entire city, but McQuade enjoyed the drive to work for a brief time without the morning sun in his eyes. Most days the Tropic of Capricorn heat turned his car into an oven before he had backed out of his driveway. Once on the freeway he drove slowly in dense traffic downtown, not looking forward to facing the captain with nothing new about the Henley Park killing.

So engrossed was McQuade in preparing for the captain's pressure and entertaining fragmented dirty thoughts about Donna Wright that when he entered Parker Center he barely nodded a greeting at the pretty front desk cop. She did not respond to McQuade's distracted look, but he did not let a little thing like that take him away from doing his job like a hound pursuing a fugitive. After grabbing some caffeine and carbs, he settled at his desk to study the case.

When he opened the folder for Tribble's file, McQuade reviewed in his mind the information he had gathered over the years about child molesters. This guy was like others of that twisted mold. Through a despicable career, Tribble had escalated his violence toward children. McQuade guessed the guy had started as a kid himself, getting expelled from school for sexually harassing much younger kids, busted as a teenager for fondling a neighbor infant. By the time he was an adult, he had served time for child rape, finally charged with murder. McQuade was undeniably pleased to see one more dangerous freak off the streets but he knew his job was to find murderers, even executioners of monsters, no matter how justified their action appeared.

The cop reflected about the numerous homicide cases he had covered in his career. Too many. He wanted to forget them all, but that would be like trying to forget a knife in the chest. To make it worse, he was afraid their numbers were increasing. And the internet was helping to disseminate the deadly poison they injected into the collective consciousness.

Of all criminal cases, violence toward children was a hellish plague on society, abhorrent more than any other pathological human behavior. Uniquely human. Damned species. McQuade nearly spoke aloud as he examined the file. Lotta plagues these days. Sometimes he felt as if he were trying to hold back a fog bank of poison gas with his bare hands. As he was mulling this over and studying the documents, Captain Mansford called him to his office. Detective McQuade stretched his large frame out of his chair and strode into the captain's private cubicle.

"Sit down, Mark—I heard from the Watch in the neighborhood where that child molester went down."

"Yeah?" McQuade doubted they would take responsibility for the act like some terrorist group. "Let me guess...."

"You don't have to—you're right. Their spokesman swears they had nothing to do with it. They said they were surprised and shocked by it. But—they're not complaining."

McQuade grinned cynically.

The captain did not reflect the expression, kept it inside. "You got nothing from the neighbors?"

"Either they know nothing—or they're playing three monkeys."

Captain Mansford eyed him for a second before getting the allusion then chuckled. "Well, they're not monkeying around with us. They're scared and want action. The removal of that deadly pedo from their midst relieves one fear but his murder raises another."

McQuade nodded. "But we got little to go on—so far. The medical examiner gave us little. Strangled proficiently with something strong and thin like a wire—that much we know."

"Wire. Haven't seen that since the Dwight Lovell case."

"Yeah," said McQuade. "I thought of the same thing. But that guy killed only young women. Right?"

"Right. Check the computer to see who else we got uses a wire."

McQuade would do so but doubted he would find anyone. He had already scanned the files but remembered nothing recent about a killer using such a tool. The captain was watching over his shoulder. "Could be someone from outta town," McQuade said.

"Could be. But I'm not ruling out some self-appointed savior from the neighborhood."

McQuade snapped at the chance. "Want me back there—ask some more questions?"

The captain contemplated him with weary eyes. "Whatever ya gotta do, McQuade—but you'll have to go alone. I can't spare anybody else today. I'm counting on you to wrap this up fast. I don't want any god damned assassin workin' the neighborhoods." The captain walked back to his office, his big shoes whacking the floor. "And I got a feeling we haven't seen the last of this guy's handiwork."

McQuade watched Mansford close the door to his chamber and lower himself behind his big dark desk. He liked the captain, respected him. While working under him for ten years, he had found lines of communication with the man that often needed no words. If the captain thought this perp could turn into a serial killer, he might well be right. McQuade turned all attention back to the computer.

Scanning the rap sheets of killers both convicted and still at large, after an hour he came up with zero—not even a possible frame job. Just as he had guessed—no leads on record. The path of least resistance, for now, lay in the Henley Park neighborhood. May as well go back for some more information. A reflexive grin activated the deep lines in his face and almost made him look happy for a moment. Grabbing another Danish, he went down to his car.

The sun was already burning through the fog. Another hot one, he observed. All the way to the park, he was trying to come up with a reason to knock on Donna Wright's door. But by the time he got there, he thought he had better stay away from her for now, especially since he still was not sure if she had a man in her life. When he got out of the car, he glanced at her house, hoping she would see him and wave from a window. But she did not show, so he strode down the street to inquire at houses he had missed on his previous visit.

Mostly no one answered the door; two or three nervous housekeepers, worried that a policeman on the premises signified an imminent visit from la Migra. In one house a pleasant young woman could not or would not speak English. Only one place showed promise. When a man answered, a big guy named Filette who proudly claimed himself a member of the Neighborhood Watch, McQuade introduced himself and started to state his purpose. Filette interrupted him: "Yeah, I heard about the dead creep," he snarled, "and I'm not wringing my hands over it, clapping instead. I don't mind tellin' ya—if I catch some bastard messing with our kids I'll cut his fucking throat and tell the world about it."

McQuade zeroed in on him, studied his eyes, trying to read behind the fellow's bombast. Was he simply a blow hard? Or was he trying to conceal a deadly secret behind bravado? The detective quickly placed him in the category of big talkers yet would not put it past the guy to commit a serious act of violence against any person who threatened his well-groomed world. "I know how you feel, Mister Filette but right now I'm more worried about a killer at large than eliminating child molesters."

"Damned pedopheels," the man growled. "They're responsible for this sick crap. Got their disgusting shit all over the internet. Oughta be a law against it."

"No law against putting it on the web, sir—only against taking action."

"Well, at least there's one of them never gonna do any more harm."

"Yes, sir."

Filette started to shut the door on the detective.

"So you have no idea about anyone who might have done this—or know anyone who...."

"Like we told your captain, Detective—McQuail, is it?"

"McQuade," the detective said, showing his fangs in the guise of a smile.

"Like we said—we know nothing about it, except what we saw when you guys arrived and what we hear on the news."

McQuade glared at the man a moment longer then raised his hand slightly and backed away from the house. "If you do hear of anything, please...."

"You'll be the first."

McQuade thanked a closed door and walked back up the street. He now doubted the Neighborhood Watch was in on the killing. Maybe a rogue among them, though. If so, they probably know about it. Especially if the killer a pro. Wouldn't leave any clues around. Too sharp. Seasoned. Like a cop—or some kind of agent. Hell, maybe just a guy who got lucky. Possible never catch him. Could be a one time Charlie. Never do it again. Worse kind. Hardest to catch. The detective got back into his car and sat there for a while surveying the neighborhood. Except for the more expensive houses, not like his part of town. Homes. Families. Kids playing in the streets. Peaceful. A kind of country quality with all the trees. Incongruous to have a criminal creeping among them, even more so a corpse lying in the park.

He fired the engine of his old sedan and glanced at Donna's place. Thinking he spotted her silhouette in a window, he started to wave but held it back, careful not to make a fool of himself. Then he thought he saw an arm moving inside the house. He did. The arm attached to Donna came close to the window. He could see a smile on her face. Shutting down the car, he got out and trotted across the street. She opened the door before he reached the front porch.

"Hi, there—" she said, one hand shading the morning sun from her face.

As he responded in kind, an idea hit him to find out about a man in her house. "I was wondering if you—and your husband—belong to the Neighborhood Watch. We've been talking to them and thought—maybe they could help us with some information. Is he...?"

"I don't have a husband, Detective. Well, actually, I do—the divorce isn't final yet. But he's been gone for more than a year."

McQuade wondered how a man could leave this woman and their beautiful children. He wanted to ask but stayed in the safe zone. "I see. I'm sorry."

"Yeah. So am I."

Not the reply he wanted to hear. "Kids miss him a lot, eh?"

"They do. More than I—"

That was more like it. He kept his eyes on her.

"And no—I don't belong to the Watch. No time."

"I see."

She studied him a moment then grinned curiously. "With the kids and all." She smiled. He mirrored it. They stood looking at each other like a couple of adolescents, until she found more words. "Well, nice to see you again, Detective."

"Yes, ma'm. Same here." He stood awkwardly silent, then, "Well—better go. Gotta a killer to catch."

"Yes, of course. When you're in the neighborhood another day and you have some time, stop by—have some tea with me—if you're not too busy."

His smile could have cracked his cheekbones. "I'd like that, ma'm."

"Donna."

"Donna." His smile set. "Then you gotta call me Mark."

"Not too, I hope." A little coy laughter burbled out of her.

He cocked his head a little, surprised by her simple attempt to be funny. She had a sense of humor. Another plus mark on his mental list of good things about the woman. He tried his own hand. "More than I'd like."

Her laughter changed to a smirk, not sharp but invasive. He wished he could retract the remark. But too late. He knew words once uttered could make a permanent record on the mind. She only looked at him, waiting for another word or action. Almost automatically, he back-pedaled down the walkway. She reassured him with a wave. He threw his hand over his head and strode to his car. When he got behind the wheel and again started the engine, he saw her still standing in the doorway. As he pulled away, she waved again, this time with a broad sweep of her arm as if laying a bold stroke onto a canvas. He nodded over his stuck smile and drove too slowly down the street. She watched shadows from the trees slide over his car until it turned a corner, then stepped back into her house.

Chapter 7

We have seen them around us for centuries. They exist in practically every town, certainly in every state, every country. They live in our world but on the edges. They are millions. Unverified numbers of them scratch out a miserable existence even in a bastion of wealth and abundance like the United States of America. We do not count them. They don't count. Disowned. We look past them, even right through them. Sometimes we alleviate our guilt by granting them small things: some coins, maybe a few dollars. They tramp along our streets, pushing their worldly goods in shopping carts or carrying them on their backs. A few of them make scant money recycling our abundant waste. Many eat out of garbage cans and sleep in doorways, in abandoned buildings or shantytowns, beneath freeways, even in ditches. They are part of the ancient tribe of paupers. Our fellows without homes, often unsound of mind and body, nearly always loveless except for an occasional mongrel, they wander through our world as outcasts—rejected, ignored, and despised.

One of the members of this spurned sub-class was J. D. Ketch. None of his street kind knew what the J and the D stood for; some guessed it meant common names like Joe and Don, the mentally marginal guessed Jesus Dominus, but to most of the people in the city it meant merely John Doe. Even Ketch had come to think of it only as a set of initials in front of a last name, the skeletal remains of his former distant identity. So he always referred to himself as others called him—simply JD. Veteran of a foreign war, JD Ketch had become addicted to narcotics or alcohol. Maybe both. As a soldier he had killed nearly as many men as his twenty-two years of life. And the faces of each one of them haunted his sleep, so he seldom rested well in the spot he had claimed for a temporary home by the Los Angeles River. Preferring to be conscious during the night he often wandered the streets in search of anything to keep him going, whether it be a scrap of food, a salable item, or the sight of people doing something entertaining. Traffic accidents in particular he found fun to watch. Like most humans he was fascinated by violence and its bloody aftermath.

Although a member of that bottom level of society, below the bottom rung, barely the height of a chin out of the gutter, he did not associate with his peers. JD was a loner who did not enjoy his own company, not at all, but preferred the silent observation of the world around him without commentary. Even if intoxicated, which was lately less of the time, JD Ketch had a knack for surveillance. With eyes that miraculously mirrored the clear autumn sky, his vision was one of the few senses that remained sharp. Having lost most of his hearing during combat and the ability to taste because of chain smoking, he relied upon his senses of touch and sight to reassure him that he was still alive. Besides the sharpness of these two senses, he was physically strong for an aging, undernourished, and overexposed animal in the wilds of Los Angeles.

Of course he no longer possessed the magnificent strength of his youth when he could lift three hundred pounds over his head, crack sticks an inch thick with one hand, and run miles without stopping. He had been an athlete in high school, a young Olympian known for speed, strength, and stamina. Even now in years far beyond youth, he still possessed some of those qualities. He could stride all day around town, if he had fortunately found a good pair of walking shoes, without wearing down. He could haul more heavy things in his dirty old backpack than any other man in the city. Most of all, though, he was alert. And he could see like a raptor. Although his close vision had faded years before, with his bright blue eyes he could focus on things clearly from one to a hundred yards. And he enjoyed the looking. He was a voyeur but not a peeper. Women for him had long lost their allure and faded into a vague mélange of humanity. But he was a watcher of all kinds of things: vegetable, mineral, and animal. JD Ketch liked pretty little things: flowers, shiny stones, as well as young and small living creatures.

Despite being homeless, JD had claimed a place for himself in an obscure section of bank along the LA River. Above a storm drain that emptied into the river and nestled in a hollow of earth beneath a sheltering cluster of oleander bushes, he made his Paleolithic quarters. Not too close to private property or the incessantly roaring freeway and out of sight of passers-by, his open-air abode was fairly quiet, surprisingly temperate, and secluded. Although he seldom stayed there for more than a few hours, even at night, it was his residence, the only place on Earth he had any reason to call home, regardless the contrary attitudes of the Departments of Transportation and Public Works and of course the city police.

Although born and raised on a small farm in Iowa, after the war John David Ketch chose the southern California metropolis as his hometown primarily for its climate. He could stay warm and dry there most months of the year. The heat did not bother him. Besides, he could always go to the seacoast when the inland temperature soared beyond the usual eighty degrees in the shade. And he barely noticed the smog, being a smoker, when he could find the butts. In fact, his immediate atmosphere consisted largely of carbon monoxide, not a danger to him but simply a prescription for an early death, which for JD Ketch thought would be a welcome escape from the protracted misery of his life.

An ex-wife lived somewhere in Iowa. She had divorced him while he was at war. By the time he returned home, she had remarried and identified her second husband as the new father of JD's child. He had not known his son, Justin, the boy having been born while he was overseas. JD saw only photographs of him until he was nearly two years of age. By that time the boy was living with his newly constructed family. JD never forgot his son and for a while wrote him long letters full of hope for the future. He had composed those letters, though, while high on one drug or another, so they did not make much sense to the boy. For the last thirty years, the father had not communicated with the son, except in conversations JD had with him in his tortured mind. Yet he always kept a scrap of hope in his tattered heart that someday he would see his only child as a grown man who was succeeding in life at least partly because the man, JD Ketch, had helped bring him into the world.

The derelict would not reveal any of this to anyone, though, especially if one tried to get him to respond to questions about his life—past or present. JD spoke little, being mainly a man of action. Most of what people knew about him came from his military and police records. He carried his burden of lifelong memories in his chest to which he lent no one the key. It was his treasure that sustained his breathing when he felt like dying, an estate that he would take to his grave. The man was unsociable but not antisocial. He cared about people, but only while they were small children. Every single one of them reminded him of his own lost child to the point that each, boy or girl, had come to look the same with features identical to those of his own flesh and blood.

JD Ketch often thought about the disconnected facts of his life as he trekked through the sprawling city. Able to walk an astonishing number of miles without getting fatigued, the tall lean man had probably walked back and forth across LA enough times to set a record, if anyone were counting a homeless person's daily travels. Instead of by miles, the prodigious walker measured his progress by city parks, places where he would rest on benches and watch ducks in a pond or kids on a playground. Sometimes he found a partially eaten sandwich in a waste barrel, even a few gulps of flat soda at the bottom of cup. Food meant little to him, though, other than the means to satisfy at least one of the longings that chronically plagued him and to keep him going from day to day. So he was emaciated, his protruding bones defining a marked eeriness to his demeanor. Along with his long white hair and beard, he appeared like some dangerously demented scarecrow that had stepped out of a horror movie.

JD knew he would not live to a venerable age. He could feel death creeping up his legs as if roots from the grave were reaching for him, reminding him of that universal destiny. Yet he went on being alive. Thus, JD Ketch existed. And the opportunity to drift through the city or to sit in the shade of a big sycamore where he could watch the machinations of the world was all he wanted personally for the rest of his life.

Most of all, though, JD liked to watch the kids. And they watched him too; rather their parents did. The children only glanced at him by way of recognizing yet another nondescript organism that appeared of no more significance than the bark on a tree or the contours of a boulder or maybe a feral dog. If the man sat on a park bench long enough without moving, perhaps the children would even climb on him the way they climbed on the monkey bars or the limbs of an oak. They were curiously unconcerned about JD, but their mothers were more than anxious. They feared people, particularly men, who were dirty, stank, acted crazy, and worst of all loitered near their children. To have one watching their sons and daughters was more than they would tolerate. More times than JD could count, police officers had rousted him from a park bench at the request of a fearful mother.

One bright early fall day while JD was sitting in one of his favorite parks, watching a little girl on a swing, he noticed a young woman spot him staring at her child then make a call on her cell phone. JD read her lips enough to know she was calling the cops but he did not care. He would stay as long as he could to watch the sweet youngster playing in the sun. He did not have to wait long for the official response. A police car soon rolled up to the park. JD turned casually to see two officers get out of the vehicle at the same time and walk toward him. They were holding their arms away from their weapons they way cops do, probably, he thought, to avoid banging their hands on the hard objects, but JD preferred to interpret the mannerism as a gesture of good will. He had seldom suffered violence at the hands of the police. While they did not show any concern for his well-being, they also did not abuse him.

"How's it goin', fella?" the older one of the two asked as they stopped about six feet in front of him, one on each side.

JD looked up at them; cast his vision back and forth between the two, shading his eyes from the sun and showing a sparsely toothed grin. Except for glancing quickly around the park, the officers did not look for the woman who had called them but kept their attention on the suspicious man. But she was there, watching from the playground. Obviously she was quite interested in seeing the outcome of the confrontation between police and a man she believed had to be a threat to her child.

"Got some ID?" again the older cop asked with a momentary look at the younger officer, apparently in learning mode.

JD knew they knew he had no such thing so he continued to grin as amiably as he could for someone quite unpracticed with social interaction.

"Well, if you've rested up enough for now," the officer said in a soft voice, "maybe you ought to be moving on—" The older policeman narrowed his eyes at JD but smiled.

JD was used to this kind of treatment and bore no ill will toward them. Indeed, he was glad to see parents protective of their young and to find police doing their job to ensure public safety. JD was well aware of how threatening he appeared to others, a quality he had cultivated to keep people at bay. He saw hell in other people but only adults. Little children he valued along with the other animals as the one clear evidence of good in the world. The sight of them made him imagine that life was worth living one more day. That and his personal mission.

JD nearly laughed when heard the woman's child cry out: "Mommy, look at me!" and he watched the little one stand on top of a slide. When JD started from his bench in an unconscious reaction to danger for the child, the cops tensed.

"You sit down, Melissa—" the child's mother commanded, "the way you're supposed to, so you don't fall and hurt yourself."

When JD saw the child obey her mother, he relaxed, as did the cops.

"So then—" the older one reiterated, "you going to be moving along soon, sir?"

JD knew the question was rhetorical but he nodded a response anyway without giving any immediate sign of moving anywhere. He enjoyed this park and felt like resting here until dark but he did not want trouble; most of all he wanted to avoid a booking at a police station. While a night or two in a jail cell was for him and others of his ilk an occasional break from inclement weather and gnawing hunger, he did not like the confinement or the officious prying into his life that went with the procedure. JD Ketch wanted to dwell as close to a phantom existence as he could. The less other people knew about him, the more he liked it. So he cranked his creaky frame off the bench, stretched, and sauntered away from the cops. They watched him leave the park without looking back, then with a glance at each other and shake of their heads they marched back to their car.

The mother of the little girl followed with her eyes first the derelict then the police officers out of the park. When they were gone, she redirected all of her attention to her child at play, the little girl oblivious of the scene that had unfolded around her.

JD marched down the street with a grin lingering around his mouth. Rather than feel insulted or rejected he was content, knowing that particular mother was sharply vigilant and would let nothing bad happen to her child if she could prevent it. So the poor man left the park in high spirits, as though he had completed a job well done instead of having suffered the indignity of being rousted from a public place as a repugnant outcast of the civilized world. As he made his arbitrary way through town, he muttered noises to himself, sounds that might have signified something meaningful to him but would have been undecipherable to anyone else. He often did this as he walked. A way of keeping himself company.

While he kept on muttering JD looked at the sky, a frequent target of his vision, where he sought in the clouds capricious shapes suggesting all manner of images fanciful to his multifarious mind. The sky was cloudless today as usual in southern California, but he was not disappointed. A clear blue dome had meaning for him too. And this time the meaning reflected the success of the mother-and-child scene he had just witnessed, which for him was as important as a picture of a Madonna by a high Renaissance master, an image of protective love constituting the essence of religion, of life itself. Happily, JD wandered into the labyrinth, content for the time that no cloven tracks showed in the dust around his feet. For the time being, no sign of a demonic beast threatened his singular view of a right world.

Chapter 8

Less than a week after the Henley Park murder, just after he had grabbed his daily coffee and sweet roll, Detective Mark McQuade got a report of another body found. Since this new death appeared similar to the recent killing, Captain Mansford directed him to investigate. As soon as McQuade received the report, the possibility of a serial killer flashed in his mind: that bane of law enforcement, which can preoccupy the entire homicide department, frustrate individual cops, and terrify the citizenry.

"So what we got going here, captain—" McQuade asked, "a case of to-be-continued?"

"Maybe so, Mark, maybe so. But I'm not thinking in that direction, till we know for sure. I don't want the chief and commissioner beating on my desk, mad as hell to placate the politicians and the press. For now let's simply take it as a coincidence and keep our fingers crossed."

McQuade sensed the captain knew better and steeled himself for long days and nights interrogating suspects under increasing pressure. At least, he consoled himself, this killing did not take place anywhere near Henley Park. He was relieved for Donna's sake despite the need for inventing excuses to see her again.

When the detective arrived at the crime scene that morning he knew they were not going to be lucky—a string of killings had started. Although the body lay not in a park but in a vacant lot beside an elementary school, the McQuade surmised from an initial quick look at the corpse that the guy had probably died by strangling just like the victim in Henley Park. The neat gash around the neck was a dead giveaway. A macabre signature of the same killer. Cut so deeply into the flesh the head was hanging by only the spine, vessels, and a few ligaments. Dead in seconds. Cut off both air and blood to the brain. Must've been an angry son of a bitch. Careful not to sever the arteries though—too messy. If this perp's anything, he's damned tidy. God, I hope the media doesn't pick up some stupid word like 'neat' to describe this guy.

McQuade paced around the body then bent down for a closer look. Laid out straight, he noticed. Not a clump, not even a strand of the high weeds around him crushed. Not a scrape in the dirt. In full daylight too. Just like I thought—killer's a pro. Who in hell—? The detective looked at the school, the yard. Something was forming in his mind that he did not immediately recognize, a glimmer of connections that could eventually become comprehension. Synapses firing in orderly succession to illumine a good idea. The detective made both mental and written notes. Got to organize the shit on this case. Could spin out of control. He walked over to a uniform and asked, "Any witnesses?"

The officer looked at him in recognition and shook his head. "Not a one, Detective. Lotsa gawkers, but no one can—or will give us any information."

McQuade grunted a noise that could have indicated gratitude then looked around the neighborhood, scanned for something to ring a bell, anything to link this killing with the one in Henley Park. He observed houses nearby. Stores too. And the school. Kids. Playground. The park. It was coming together, and his blood started surging. Wonder if this vic was a molester too? The detective again looked at the body, at the face. Distorted in death. Difficult to see any familiarity. He studied it and recalled a montage of mug shots flickering through his memory like a slasher movie. Nothing lighted up. No obvious pairing. No superimposition of features. Still he had a hunch. Mark McQuade was a man of hunches. Instinctual. That was part of what made him a good cop. He only wished he could apply intuition more to his private life. McQuade pushed his awareness outside of himself and got back into his car. He drove fast, back to the Center to learn the identity of this new victim.

He did not have long to wait. The RHD was right on top of it; by the end of the day he had the corroboration he guessed he would get. The dead man had indeed been a child molester. Not convicted but tried four times for molestation, rape, and manslaughter. The last child had died, but the monster had a good lawyer. McQuade knew too well that one of the ancillary troubles with convicting child molesters is that they come from all levels of society, including the wealthy, and they can sometimes hire the best legal representation. The only characteristic McQuade had learned that they possessed in common, besides having been molested themselves, was their ethnicity. The vast majority were white. A fact that kept a sore spot of shame stinging in his Euro-American soul.

"Looks like we have a pattern forming, McQuade," the captain said as he stepped to the detective's desk. The weariness of all the dark degradation of humanity weighed more and more heavily on the man in charge. Not a weak soul he had been working law enforcement for nearly thirty years and should have hung up his shoulder holster and turned in his badge years ago. The job was killing him. He had suffered from high blood pressure for ten years and now his heart was starting to gripe. He looked at McQuade with dark eyes barely visible behind bags and folds. His dogged looks roused in the RHD the appellation of Ol' Blue. Mansford knew of the nickname and did not object but even found it oddly humorous for its accuracy of description. "Unfortunately you were right, McQuade. Looks like we may have ourselves another god damned serial killer."

"Now, don't think...."

The captain cut him off with one of his quick floppy-jowled looks. "I know you don't collect these cases as a hobby. But you do seem to attract the tough ones, don't you?"

McQuade nodded reluctantly. "Yeah, well, maybe I can nail this guy before he becomes famous."

"Maybe." The captain knew as well as McQuade that from the manner in which the killer dispatched his victims without leaving as much as a broken twig or fingernail that he was going to see a substantial future in murder.

"Think I see the vague outline of a pattern showing between these two cases, captain."

"Yeah?"

"Uh-huh. Perp seems to have caught both vics completely by surprise, as if he had been following them or expecting them to be at certain places at certain times."

The captain was staring at the detective's mouth as if to find the words forming into three-dimensional images that he could pick out and examine in the palm of his hand. "So the guy's got himself a god-damned objective in life, huh?"

"Possibly this is what he does—sort of his career." The irony in his last word made him grin incongruously.

The captain did not see the humor in it and frowned a little to parry the grin. McQuade blinked it off and went on with his impromptu analysis. "So—what say instead of lookin' all over town for a killer who could be so good at his trade that we fail to catch him for thirteen murders—what say we keep our eyes on the kid brutalizers in town?" He was surprised to see the captain considering the suggestion.

"Just how're we gonna do that, Mark—put tails on every known offender of children in the whole god damned city?"

McQuade knew the captain was only blowing off steam so he continued. "First off—we contact them and...."

"What—?" the captain snapped. "We warn them to be careful when they're tryin' to pick up their marks so they don't find loops tightening around their god-damned necks?"

McQuade saw the point, and it fit with his secret approval of the assassin's work, so secret he himself did not yet know of it. "Okay, we don't let 'em know we're interested. We let 'em go about their shitty lives but we watch 'em selectively."

"Selectively?"

"Let me go through the files and try to figure out which ones could be next,"

"Like trying to guess which bug's going to hit the windshield next, isn't it?"

Once more McQuade saw the point. He shrugged. But what better idea did anyone have? "Might as well take a crack at it, captain. Maybe I'll get lucky."

"Lucky! Jesus Christ! Now we're thinking ourselves lucky if we can save the lives of the garbage that destroys little kids." The captain stomped back to his cubicle. "Go with your hunch, Mark." Before the door slammed, he could be heard to mutter, "Jesus—!"

McQuade's eyes stayed with the big man for a moment then he played them on his computer. Clicking open a file on child molesters and miscellaneous pedophiles, he started scanning the long list of men and a few women that resided in the city. Helluva lot more of 'em than I thought. As he watched the mug shots roll past his eyes, he wondered what went on in the minds of these people to drive them to commit such horribly vicious acts. He noticed how ordinary most of them looked. Not individuals one could easily detect as perverted or dangerous. He remembered a conference he had attended on the psychopathology of the pedophile. Given by the department psychologist. She said that most of them had been sexually abused as children. And the majority was common citizens in all lifestyles. Catholic priests had become most notorious lately, but the largest number dwelt in families, taught in schools, sat in corporate boardrooms, and served in the houses of government, as well as owned simple stores on Main Street, USA. Watching the string of faces flicker by, McQuade choked at seeing the huge task that lay ahead of him. Maybe he could find another way. How about a decoy? Undercover cops had worked well in cases like this. But that could be too dangerous. If the killer is good as he seems, a UC officer could be at serious risk if placed in such danger. Course I could do it myself, McQuade thought. The detective could handle himself in a tight spot. He had shown his nerve and mettle on several occasions, not the least being the time he stood against an addict with a nine-millimeter pistol in his shaky hand.

McQuade had walked in on the guy during a routine visit following a tip that a crack dealer was living in an upscale apartment complex south of Ventura Boulevard. The jerk was strung out and desperate enough to grab his stepdaughter as a hostage to escape. He kept switching the gun barrel between McQuade's face and the terrified girl's temple. From the look on her face, he could see she was going to pass out. Knowing that if he did not act fast, both he and the kid could die, the cop offered himself as hostage in exchange for the girl. Feeling the girl going limp in his arms, the junkie agreed, and McQuade took her place with the pistol at his head. When the guy was walking the detective out to the street, McQuade spotted a sharpshooter on a rooftop. Knowing he had only moments between the building and a car waiting to ride the drug freak out of town, McQuade took a chance on the rifleman's skill and jerked his head away from his captor. When he heard the long-barrel shot fracture the air, he knew he would survive. Instantly he felt the hand release his belt at the back and heard the guy's body thud on the pavement behind him. McQuade spun around to see the perp's head exploded all over the pavement. The girl was safe, and one more coke dealer was pushing only the grass on his grave. That episode had gone a long way in helping to make him a detective. But the incident had happened ten years ago, and McQuade was no longer the brash young cop. Although he had suffered moments when his life seemed unworthy of another day on Earth, he was still looking forward to a lot more years. While a seemingly good idea at the time, McQuade decided to forego the crazy idea of setting himself on the frozen lake of Hell as a decoy for the devil. For the time being, he sought another tactic to catch the killer.

The telephone clipped his thoughts. He was surprised to hear a female voice on the other end. And pleased. This was just what he needed to take his mind off a case that was becoming more troubling by the minute. Even better, the caller was Donna Wright. McQuade had for a second hoped it was his wife but he was perfectly happy to settle for this woman.

"I hope I'm not interrupting any important police work," she sang into the phone.

"Hey—I welcome it."

She giggled slightly. He liked the sound. She went on: "I was wondering if you'd like to take me up on my offer for tea."

"Is it tea time already?"

She laughed. "I don't suppose you're much of a tea drinker. A black coffee man, right?"

"So far—but I'm game for something new."

"I've gotten to like it lately, especially green tea."

Mark drew a short breath. Green tea. "You'd don't look Asian."

She laughed politely into her words. "You don't have to be Asian to enjoy green tea. It's good for you—so I've heard."

"Sounds good." He thought he had to lie to keep the line open. "When?"

"How about Saturday afternoon?"

"Fine."

"My son will be here. And I know he'll get a kick out of meeting a cop." When he did not answer right away, she thought the little word might have insulted him and was relieved when he spoke.

"Everything quiet in the neighborhood?"

"Yes, thank God. Especially in the park. Seems no one to want to step foot in the place since the murder. Too bad for Tony."

He laughed nervously and immediately regretted it. "Too bad. Yeah, spoils it for the kids."

"Tony loves it there. His home away from home."

Mark liked the way she said home with a warm emphasis on the letter 'm'. "Well, when I come over maybe we can all go out and play together." She giggled. He really liked her laugh; it made him want to be funny, a behavior the policeman in him often found awkward. He waited for her to say something more. When she did not, he gently prodded with "So—"

"See you Saturday then."

"Saturday." He wanted to keep the connection and, when he heard it click off on her end, he dangled the phone in his hand for a few moments. Then he noticed Dalsworthy watching him so he let the headpiece reseat with a clatter and he bent toward the computer screen. At least now Mark McQuade had something to look forward to at the end of the day.

Chapter 9

He pulled in front of Donna Wright's place in the middle of a typical hazy, stagnant afternoon on Saturday, thinking from his scant knowledge of British culture that he had arrived close to the designated time for tea. Actually he had gotten the information from English movies. What were those things they ate? Crumpets? He wondered if she would have them. Was she English? Wright. He knew little about the ethnicity of names except for obvious ones like O'Connor or Sanchez or Bacigalupi. But he was not sure if the last one was Italian, Sicilian, or Spanish. Mark McQuade was not a cosmopolitan kind of guy.

As he was walking to Donna's door, the possibility occurred to him that he might be rebounding off his wife. From painful experience, he knew that to be a bad action. Someone nearly always gets hurt. But he was too drawn to this woman to turn back now. Being needy made him selfish. So involved with his thoughts he was a little startled when Donna opened the front door. While she scrutinized his physique better revealed in a white short-sleeved shirt and jeans than in a business suit, a little boy popped up next to her, standing straight and as tall as he could stretch his three feet, acting like the house gentleman. His mother had obviously prepared him for a visit by a policeman, because his brown eyes were almost perfectly round.

"Detective Mark McQuade—" Donna said for the boy's benefit.

Mark realized he was swaggering a little to impress them. Donna noticed and grinned but only said, "This is my son, Tony. Tony, shake hands with the Detective."

Tony shot his hand forward and bent his head to one side. Mark took two steps to the doorway and grasped the little boy's hand. "Gotta a good grip on you there, young man."

The boy flushed with delight.

Mark looked at Donna. "Fine boy, ma'm."

"When are you going to get past calling me 'ma'm', Mark?"

"Just got past it." Mark followed Donna into the house and let his eyes drop to her round rear end in a pair of red polished cotton pants until he noticed the boy walking beside him, gawking.

"Have you got a gun?" the boy asked.

"Tony!" his mother said with a little blur around the edge of the exclamation.

"Yes, I do, Tony." Mark worried over Donna's disapproval.

"He's always thinking about guns. Scares me a little."

Mark chuckled. "Typical boy, I'd say." He thought of showing the little fellow his weapon but thought again, when he noticed Donna shaking her head. "But I didn't come here to show off my gun, Tony." As soon as he had spoken, Mark caught the double meaning and kept his eyes off the woman until she said something.

"Sit down, please—" She led him to a low table in the living room, the one on which he had displayed for her the mug shots of the murdered molester. A lacquered tray held a floral tea set with ceramic containers for lemon, sugar, and cream. He saw nothing that he thought could be crumpets, only some butter cookies. She sat on the sofa and patted it for him to sit beside her. Tony dropped onto the floor at the end of the table and reached for a handful of cookies. "One at a time, dear." The boy scowled and circled his little hand over the batch to find the largest one. Mark positioned himself as far from Donna as he could without looking like he was afraid of her. "Cream and sugar? Lemon?" she asked without looking at him and reaching for the pot.

Being a pure coffee drinker Mark said, "I'll take it black."

She poured him a cup, set it on a saucer with a crisp little bell sound, and handed it to him. "You should try it different ways sometime, Mark. It's fun."

Mark had never thought of his caffeine fixes as fun. The word 'fun' brought to mind an idea of adding alcohol to the brew but he guessed that would be more fun than the woman presently wanted.

"Can I have some tea too, mommy?"

Without hesitation his mother poured a teaspoon of tea into a cup, filled it with cream, and then dropped a cube of sugar into it. Before she could finish stirring it, the boy surrounded it with his hands. "What do you say?" she said with a lowered brow.

"Thank you," the boy mumbled.

Their interaction fascinated Mark. He always found parents with their kids captivating, maybe because he had none of his own. Little regret about that bothered him, though, being a cop. He knew how devastated kids could be when their parents are killed. Besides, he seriously doubted people should be making any more people. The world was a shitty place. Dragging kids into it seemed stupid and almost wicked. He thought of his wife's contentious response to that. Still a small uncomfortable part of him longed a little for a child, so he enjoyed watching this woman with her son. Suddenly he wished the boy's father had not left home and that his wife had not left him. When he felt his eyes moisten, he quickly blinked.

Donna saw the gleam but could not read its cause so she guessed. "Too hot?"

"Too strong."

At first, she thought he was serious but, when he grinned, she relaxed and laughed lightly.

"Compared to the coffee we drink in the RHD, this is like fruit juice."

"Actually it's blackberry."

"Blackberry?"

"Do you like it?"

He looked into his cup and found himself nodding. "Yeah—actually I do. Is this your own concoction?"

She laughed. "No. Unless you consider steeping a bag in hot water a concoction."

He chuckled and sipped the tea obligingly. Except for Tony's munching, the room was silent long enough for both of them to become aware of it.

"So—have you caught the kil—the bad guy yet?"

"What bad guy, mommy?"

Donna rolled her eyes and draped a smile over her son. "Oh, just some silly crook that Detective McQuade has been chasing."

"Crook," the boy echoed as the word spun around in his mind.

"Some fellow who didn't obey his mother," Mark said, thinking he was being fatherly. The boy stopped mangling his cookie and stared at him. When Donna blinked her disapproval, Mark knew he had put his big foot right into the middle of teatime. "But not like you, big boy." Mark was fishing for words. "I'm sure you always do exactly what your mother tells you."

The boy kept staring, the cookie suspended between his hand and his mouth. Donna had stiffened but quickly eased, assuming the detective meant well. "Of course he does," she said sharply and tousled her son's hair to his annoyance. Not enough, though, to spoil his tea. She watched him suck down the last of it. "Tony's a good boy." She smiled at the child then looked at Mark, content that, despite the detective's rather rude intrusion into the quality of her motherhood, they had eliminated any immediate chance the boy would learn about the killer at large. Still, she was personally anxious to know more about the case.

Mark felt his stomach knot for he could not allay her anxiety. And he dared not tell her about the second murder, even though it had happened far from her neighborhood. It had occurred in the city, though, which made it a danger close enough to keep people awake at night. He drained off his tea.

"More, Detective?" She reverted to the formality for safety.

He accepted to stay connected.

While pouring she said, "Tony, please go and play in your room. Will you?"

The boy's face started to pinch.

"You can take a couple of cookies with you."

That spread his face into a smile. He grabbed them and ambled to the back of the house.

"Say goodbye to Detective McQuade."

"Bye, 'tective M'Kay."

"So long, young man." Mark felt like laughing and looked at Donna for permission. When he saw levity lift her face too, he let his go in unison. "Cute as a...."

"As a bug?"

He did not know whether he should agree.

"He's a little bugger all right. But a darling."

Mark let his laughter trail off. "You're a lucky woman."

She favored him with a tenderly obliged expression. "You have children, Mark?"

He sighed both in hearing her use his name familiarly and in response to her surprisingly intrusive question. "No. No, I don't."

She wanted to ask him if he was married, not seeing a wedding band. He did not want her or anyone else to know he had thrown it across the room when his wife had left him. Although she wanted to know more, Donna left that subject alone and brought up the one that had been searing her mind. "So—" she sipped her second cup of tea. "How's the case going?"

He looked around the room as if to find some answer printed on a wall, anything that could mollify her fears but, being a man who shoots his comments from the hip, he could find nothing in the air but the truth. "Not well, I'm afraid."

The look on his face prompted her to probe. "Because you aren't close to catching him or because he's killed again?"

Her use of the stark verb shocked him. And he thought about her presumptive reference to the culprit as male. Actually the police had no idea of how to describe the killer. For all they knew he was an invader from Mars. Still, Mark felt the impulse to be honest. "Both."

She inhaled rapidly, and the tea sloshed in her cup. She set it down and looked at the quivering light brown liquid until it settled. "What are we to do—keep our kids locked indoors all the time?"

"No. Of course not. You should...."

"Even then we can't be sure. They break into our houses to steal our children while we sleep."

He could not deny the veracity of her statement, and the thought of such insecurity among decent families infuriated him, but he kept cool. Not too cool though. He wanted to move close to her, put his arms around her, and hold her until she felt safe. He wanted to do all of this without knowing that she wanted the same. A long silence made the space around them feel suffocating. When she reached her hand and patted his knee twice, the air opened up, charged with a tangible current. "I know you're doing all you can, Detective. It's just that...."

"I know, Donna. I know how you feel. I see it everywhere I go. People afraid to leave their homes at night. Afraid to let their kids play outdoors. Afraid to send them to school. We live in a terrifying time."

"It wasn't always like this, was it? I don't remember the world being such a horrible place when I was a child."

"Neither do I. We've got a helluva lot of sick people running around nowadays. More than we can keep up with, I'm afraid." He did not like to admit this weakness in his profession, a public service that was supposed to guard against the cruelty that humans inflict on one another, so he threw in a booster. "We do what we can."

"I know you do." She put her hand on his knee again, this time leaving it there a few heartbeats.

He felt his own hand automatically move off his thigh and settle onto hers. She did not pull away but looked into his eyes. Her gaze was so constant, so fixed that it made him blink again. She smiled in a way he had not seen grace her features, an expression that drove nearly all rational attributes out of his mind, especially when she said, "You know,—you have a lot of color in your eyes."

He grinned to fend off a blush, an expression he found profoundly unbecoming.

She bent close to his face. "I see blue and green—and flecks of gold."

He smiled like a boy on his birthday but would beat the crap out of anyone who told the guys at the RHD that someone, even a woman, had described the color in his eyes.

She had more for him to protect from discovery: "Pretty eyes for such a big guy."

Uncertainty about her meaning lifted his eyebrows.

"I like that in a man. It could be a sign of sensitivity."

Mark was indeed something of a sensitive man. More than he liked. As a cop he had always tried to camouflage it with machismo but was not at all convinced that his cover worked. This woman, though, seemed to be inviting that part of his nature to show itself. So he let his defenses down a notch and smiled boyishly. She smiled back as if his aspect had switched on a bright green light between them. He wondered if she was seducing him. Nah, he thought. Not with the kids in the house. Still, men and women these days were unpredictable. And if this was an opportunity for sensational sex, he was not going to let it pass. "Maybe you'd like to—to go out some time together. Dinner maybe."

She nodded quickly into her words. "I would. When?"

He felt her enthusiasm like a warm wave enveloping his entire body. Then he thought maybe he should back off for a while. Hell, Shelley had been gone only a few months. Maybe something like this would muddy the waters even more. Nah. What was he thinking? He had seen the bottom of the well, read the stones. The future showed no sign of Shelley back home. He might as well go for any pleasure that life had in store for him. What the fuck? "How 'bout tonight?" he said rather loudly.

"Tonight?!"

"Or...."

"I don't know if I can get a sitter—"

"Then maybe...."

"Let me see what I can do. Can I call you?"

"Sure—or I can call you."

"I'd better. It's not that I don't want to give you my number. You know where I live. You're sitting in my house. If I can't trust a cop, who can I trust?" She tittered.

Mark knew of at least four cops she should not entirely trust. "Sure," he said, pushing the word through a forced smile.

She read it wrong. "But if you'd rather not...."

"Oh, no. No, really, I want to go out with you." Now he felt the wave crashing on him. "I didn't mean to hesitate. It's just that, well, I've haven't dated since my wife left."

"Your wife?" her voice soared to another pitch.

"Huh. I guess I didn't mention—that I'm married." He sought a safe place for his eyes—anywhere but on hers. They settled on a bottlebrush tree just outside the front window.

She leveled her dark eyes at him for nearly longer than he could bear. "It looks like we're both a couple of casualties from the war zone." Her image of marriage stunned him. He had never thought of it as a battle and wondered what had transpired between this sexy young mother and the father of their two beautiful children. She complemented his line of thinking. "We should have a lot to talk about."

"Yeah." He sighed and nodded half-heartedly. Mark did not want to talk about his wife with this woman or any other person of either gender; not because he thought it was rude or boring but because he was not sure if he could contain his emotions. He had not gotten over the woman he had married and felt he never would. Yet this fetching female was making it easy for him to displace Shelley in his mind—at least temporarily. Besides, the element of revenge was not foreign to his motivation. If he could make his wife jealous, she might, if not rush to reconcile then maybe suffer a little threat to her powerful position. At the bottom of it all, Mark was getting a good solid hard on for this new woman in his life and wanted an excuse to let himself slide into a carnal state. Nothing like a good hot, slippery, sensual feast to obscure the troubles in one's mind—while it lasts. "So—when do you think you'll know?"

This question pleased her. "Let me call the sitter right now. Try to catch her before she makes plans for the night. She's a popular teenager." Donna squeezed his knee and jumped up, her breasts bouncing. "Don't lose that thought."

What thought? Mark wondered. How can a guy think at all with a pretty woman's hand taking his pulse so close to the fucking tool? "Oh, I won't," he said with another rather artful smile and watched her body move fluidly across the floor. He listened to her on the phone and tried to detect the validity of her intentions. Although unable to make out the words, he could catch from her inflection that she was carrying her enthusiasm to the baby-sitter. Definitely a positive sign.

"Good news," she bubbled on her way back into the living room. "I'll be free tonight."

Free. Free of what? Her children? Mark's judgmental streak shot through his mind, but he forced a falsely approving smile.

"So what time?"

He paused to regain that line of thinking. "How 'bout seven?"

"I'll be ready."

Mark made a show of finishing off his already empty cup then stretched to his feet. "Thanks for the tea, Donna. And I enjoyed meeting your son."

"I know he was thrilled."

Mark nodded awkwardly and headed for the door. She stood in the doorway and watched him walk away from the house, saw him clinch the success of their visit with a high wave. When she closed the door, she stepped to the window and watched him get into his car and pull away from park. Her eyes hung on the playground for a second then she shook off the disquieting thoughts it brought to mind by removing the tea set to the kitchen. She was happy to be getting better acquainted with Detective Mark McQuade. Knowing he was coming around in more ways than one heightened her sense of security. Since her husband had left, Donna Wright had become disturbingly vulnerable. Yes, she liked having a man back in her life, even if it might not go anywhere. A possibility she dismissed, though, for she was well aware of the energy flowing between her and the handsome policeman. She cleaned up the dishes briskly, a merry melody thrumming from her slender throat.

Chapter 10

JD Ketch would often go to the beach to escape the heat. He liked to walk barefoot on the wet sand, and sometimes immerse himself fully clothed in the surf. Not only was it refreshing but the swirling salt water rinsed a lot of the dirt out of his only set of clothes and partially cleansed his body. He made no attempt to conceal his homelessness but he had always disliked being filthy and tried to keep his pungent odor minimal. During the big summer months in southern California of April to November, he often visited the sea at night to avoid people's disapproving and denouncing eyes. He enjoyed the ocean most under a full moon when he could see white water far out on the choppy plain. He liked to submerge beneath big breakers, feel them sweep over his back, hear only churning water and his own exhalation bubbles, when he could imagine himself removed from the world, safe in the arms of the grand and good mother. One day, he thought, he would stay under water and let a rip tide take him out to sea where he would drift into oblivion. The endless dreamless repose.

Good way to die. Return to the beginning. Dust to dust. Salt to salt. Water to water. As he rode the swells, he was unafraid as are so many people, of the dark depths, knowing that his finned brothers and sisters mean no harm. JD had always felt more at home in the wild than in the civilized world.

As a child in Iowa, he used to play hooky from school to wander in the woods around his home and watch the river run. A prodigious walker even then he would trek for miles to a lake and back. Alone. In those days he did not have to worry about the threats that imperiled children these days. Living in a small town might have been a factor in his safety but he knew it would not provide any assurance of protection today. In city or village, monstrous human predators travel both boulevards and lanes to find their innocent human prey.

JD's endearment to the natural world was not the only reason he used to escape into the wood. He was constantly fleeing abuse from his schoolmates. Being a quiet child with no particular positive magnetism to compensate for the basic insecurity of youth, he still attracted attention, but the wrong kind. Bullies sought him out to demonstrate their dominance in the hierarchy of childhood. Girls picked on him because he would not grant them the attention they were craving. Little Johnny Ketch liked other kids but he believed they did not like him. In class he would sit as if surrounded by adversaries, all trying to destroy his identity as an individual boy. He got into fights but did not provoke them and when he did battle, he was a hellion. His pale blue eyes, at that age the color of arctic ice, would flash, his face would burn, and he would growl like a Tasmanian devil. After a few attempts to beat him down, most of the kids, even the bullies, settled for razzing the boy but avoided his ferocious fists bursting like pistons out of an explosive temper. Curiously, though, Johnny did not like to fight. That is, he liked to beat the crap of kids who infuriated him, but he did not premeditate fights and he always felt bad after leaving some surprised boy's face bloody. To avoid such trouble he often headed for the backwoods.

Fortunately he was bright and studious so he passed through high school despite his record of truancies. John Ketch liked to study. Found it both enjoyable and challenging. These qualities combined with his reclusive nature made it easy for him to succeed academically. He could have gone to a major university on a full scholarship but he wanted to see the world. So when he graduated from high school, he promptly joined the Army. He had considered the navy but dreaded confinement with other people for long periods. Although Ketch never knew anything about Jean Paul Sartre, the young man had grown to believe that hell is other people. Predictably, upon enlisting, he signed up for Special Forces training; he was quick to learn and took readily to hand-to-hand combat. After scoring extraordinarily high on the Army entrance exam, his recruiting officer was glad to offer him the choice to become an elite officer.

Shirley Mae Ketch objected to her son throwing away his life in the military when he had the talent to become a highly educated professional, preferably one that makes banks full of money. However, her estranged husband, Ben, wielded more influence over the boy. Being a decorated war veteran the father was consequently the recipient of his son's unflagging admiration. The young enlistee was glad to see his father at the station where a train would take him to a basic training but he was sad his mother did not appear. He accepted the fact, though, for she had never been one to show unconditional love and support, especially over actions of which she disapproved. John had never been close to his mother, a situation that gnawed at his guts all his life, never lessening, always raising a bad taste in his mouth, and motivating his determination to find a woman for a wife who was entirely different from her.

As a new recruit in the army, though, he was less inclined to seek marriage than wanton sex with female bodies. Never having enjoyed the sensation of sex for its own sake he chased women like a young buck excelling in a school for satyrs. Typically, the only ones he could get made it easy for him, but not on his monetary supply. John D. Ketch set an official record for fucking more whores in the towns around Fort Leonard Wood than any soldier in his company. Many of them knew him by name and would call out to him on the streets. "Hey, Johnny! Hi-ya, Johnny! Come to mama, baby! Johnny got a point to make?" They would cry out to him as he marched through town, his face wide with absolute joy in the dubious attention of professional women.

Rather than suffering embarrassment at their public display, he was proud of it. "Hey, Georgia! How's it goin', Pearl? You're lookin' mighty delicious tonight, Annie Fannie!" These were the few times Ketch would string more than three words without necessity. Soldier John D. Ketch was smart and strong but taciturn and very naive.

His fellow GIs laughed at him behind his back but dared not laugh to his face. Almost immediately they recognized a man with a talent for deadly combat and after witnessing more than a few of his fights in the barracks they showed him all the respect required to keep their facial bones intact. Still, JD still did not like to fight. He was good at it and quick to it but he usually felt sick after some violent dispute when he beat somebody nearly unconscious. His discomfort was lessening, though, as he progressed through training. By the time he received his gold bars as a member of Special Forces, he had gained complete control of his temper and learned to ignore personal insults. Continuing his quiet ways, he simply stared down an adversary, smirked, and walked away from the conflict, knowing by then that he could easily kill a man if he wanted to but preferred not to do so, thus building in himself a powerful self-confidence formerly absent from his personality. Some of his cohorts guessed that he might have lost his nerve, but that conjecture evaporated like alcohol off the hood of a hot car when JD went to war.

Lieutenant John D. Ketch was a natural killer in combat. Besides having a mind for strategy, he found a legitimate outlet for his violent nature. To him the foreign enemy all wore the faces of those who had tormented him throughout his young life so he felt no remorse, no sense of killing a person who really mattered. He became particularly adept at commando raids when his platoon would infiltrate enemy positions and destroy them swiftly and silently like phantoms. He was indeed a highly trained killing machine—a dire spirit of death. A damned good fighting man. His purpose in the military. He had no compunction about it, made no complaint about the sanctity of human life when it was the enemy. He was just doing his duty as condoned by the United States Army.

The night he acquired his nickname name, his platoon was on a mission to find and destroy a command outpost in the mountains. Six of them with Lt. Ketch. Using rock-climbing skills, they scaled a sheer stone face behind the objective for a surprise attack. JD always favored killing by surprise. Enthusiastically he led the way. They climbed to a bunker carved out of granite that resembled the artifactual settlement of an extinct indigenous people. Only the current inhabitants were nothing like the Anastazi or any other primitive tribe. They were well-organized guerrillas determined to conquer the enemy for their beliefs and their personal desire to die as revolutionary heroes. They were fanatics who would not go down easily. Just the kind Ketch liked to fight.

JD directed the squad to surround the bunker and locate the enemy positions. "When we have each in our sights," he whispered, "we'll hit 'em at the same time—on my signal." He was a fervid warrior, and it excited his men. Each one with knives ready in the bunker, they waited for his signal. He was good at imitating wild animal sounds, a skill he had learned from his youthful days in the woods. When he called like a nocturnal bird of prey, they simultaneously rushed to assault their targets. JD and two commandos killed their men instantly, and when the others fumbled their kills, got caught wrestling the enemy for life or death, JD stepped in and cut their throats as if he were reaping a horrible harvest of heads. As he moved like a ghost in his dark clothes and made no sound but only the swift slash of the blade through flesh, his men's eyes were riveted on him in his cool ferocity. When the dead lay quivering in their own blood, one of his men looked at him, grinned weirdly, and called him "The Reaper". He neither disdained nor discouraged the handle. From then on until the end of the military action, Lieutenant JD 'Reaper' Ketch received numerous medals for injury and valor in combat.

Ketch served two years of overseas combat duty before returning to the States and his home, into which he walked a changed individual. He had suffered many battle wounds to his body, but the most being permanent damage was to his soul. Not only from the killing but also from people he had thought he could trust.

While he was overseas, his wife wrote him off and snapped any hope for reconciliation by announcing her intention to marry another man. With the divorce he also lost his son. For him there remained only his military career and that sealed his fate. He became a heartless instrument of violent death, volunteering for every dangerous assignment, caring little for human life, least of all his own. Killing can destroy the best of human nature. Too much dwelling in the darkside. But that was not all that destroyed JD Ketch. To ease the constant and profound pain of his many injuries he sought comfort in readily available narcotics; he became addicted first to morphine in the hospital and then to heroin on the street. To this he added alcohol. By the time he walked out of the Veteran's Medical Center in Los Angeles, he was a not the same John David Ketch. No longer the bright and strong young man. No longer the decorated military officer ordained for war. No longer the hero of his platoon and the terror of the enemy. No longer a husband or even an acknowledged father. JD Ketch was a mutated man. The Reaper had become dark spirit, deadly dangerous. And he was loose upon the world.

Chapter 11

While Mark McQuade was driving to Donna's house to pick her up for dinner that Saturday evening, he was dwelling on his wife. He did not summon her to mind, but simply found her there along the way. Maybe he was associating her with someone else. Maybe he was harboring a fantasy that she would see him with another woman, become unbearably jealous, and rush repentantly back into his arms. That thought excited him but also made him uncomfortable. He doubted he should be seeing this new woman. Was he using Donna to regain his wife or to soothe his heartache? Or both? An impulse to turn around and go home caused him inadvertently to slow down, but he kept going. Still, thoughts and memories of Shelley went on swimming right behind his eyes.

He remembered their feverish dating period, their flash of a wedding in Corona del Mar, their absorbing delight in making daily and nightly carnivorous love. That had been the best part of them, he thought—the sex. She was a carnal woman all right, one to match his appetite, but he should have known she wanted more from their relationship. She had wanted them to do things together other than copulate every day. He had quipped about his willingness, eagerness to do other things with their bodies, but that did not strike her as humorous or exciting. Shelley wanted to continue their courtship indefinitely: go to parties, play with people, visit family, and celebrate holidays with droves of friends and relatives. She was much more of a social animal than he was. They had both known that before their marriage but each, being enraptured by their animal magnetism, neglected to consider the importance of that fundamental difference. Besides, they were as different in background as smog and bluesky.

Mark McQuade had been born and raised in Los Angeles, the eldest son of mechanic. Shelley Ross had originated in Colorado Springs, the baby daughter of a teacher. He had struggled through college; she had achieved a Master of Science degree. His parents had broken up when he was a child; hers were still together after fifty years. Shelley had come to work in the vast southern California city to do some good for people in emergency medicine, harbored an ambition to become a physician, and generally looked upon each day as potentially full of sunshine even if it rained. She was athletic and beautiful, not masculine but tough. The sight of blood did not make her sick, but cruelty did. She had boundless compassion tempered with concentrated skill. The woman could step out of her work clothes, splattered with blood and filth, shower, and slip into an evening gown to look like a starlet. Most of all, though, she was a born mother, her own having been the most beloved person in her life. She wanted a child, but she found out after their marriage that her husband did not. And that was the real problem.

Mark hedged on the subject while they were dating and in the early days of their marriage, but she soon discovered his real attitude and resented him for deceiving her. To Shelley marriage was primarily a partnership for children, secondarily for companionship. To him it was the other way around; he considered her his best friend as well as his mistress. In his mind, having children meant a wedge between them, but more than that it meant the frightening presentation of innocents to a brutal world like a sacrifice to a brutal god. But she loved children too much to live without them; and he, so he believed, loved them too much to give them life. They had argued about this for the last year of their time together, until she could stand it no longer and left him, taking Pardner with her, and stating that since he would not give her a child she would at least have the dog. He figured she did it ought of spite. He was partly correct. But there was more to it.

Hoping for weeks immediately after she left that Shelley would return to him, Mark called her incessantly: first at her girl friend's apartment, then at her new place, trying to persuade his wife to give her husband another chance. But she was not so inclined because of fear he would not change. That his nature and his work had spoiled him for children. That she would be miserable with him alone. The words she wrapped around these feelings hit him like a truck, and he stopped calling. She had not sent him divorce papers yet, but he dreaded looking at his mail for fear one day he would see an attorney's return address.

For a long time after his wife left, Mark did not look at another woman. Looked maybe but certainly did not leer. Only in the last week or so did his eyes resume their lascivious interest in the seductive lines of women's breasts, buttocks, and legs. He still did not feel like pursuing anyone, only observing, as if he needed to remind himself of his manhood. Besides, he was too terrified his wife would sleep with another man to be attracted to other women. The dirty movie of his wife's beautiful body commingled in sweat with a rival male nauseated and infuriated him. Perhaps the reason he became so attracted to Donna Wright. He wanted to free himself of that fear by being the first to break the sexual bond between him and his wife. So determined, he drove resolutely into the Henley Park suburb and stopped sharp in front of Donna's house, completely rejecting of any hypocrisy in his action.

When he got out of his car, a rare cool breeze blowing off the sea fanned his face. Glancing at the sycamore trees in the park for a moment, he watched the star-shaped leaves flutter in the slanting light. Gold was invading their pastel green and they were curling into themselves, evidence of the summer descent through a coda to summer called southland autumn, prior to the yearly flirtation with a brief rainy season. Mark liked fall weather. Although an LA person, his whole life he perennially looked forward to the slight refreshment that the season of dying brought to this coastal desert. He was deeply inhaling its short respite when he heard a sweet voice behind him.

"Hi, there!"

He spun around to see Donna standing in the doorway with her hips at an alluring angle. In a very good mood now, he waved to her and trotted across the street.

"Right on time," she said when he reached the porch. "I like a punctual man." He heard something suggestive in the way she pronounced the word 'punctual' that sharply improved his blood flow. "I'm all ready," she went on. "Just let me say goodbye to the kids." She twirled back into the house and disappeared into a bedroom.

Mark stepped inside and saw Tony the boy lying on his belly in the middle of the floor. An adolescent girl was sitting on the sofa beside him. They were engrossed in a violent cartoon on television about robots. The girl cast her eyes in the visitor's direction long enough to check him out, seemed indifferent to what she saw, and returned her attention to the TV. Mark gave her a smile that she barely reflected on her way back to the show. "Hey, there, young fella—" he said.

The boy twisted his head over his shoulder and said, "Hi," with a guttural noise then rejoined his babysitter in their diversion.

Mark felt a chill in his chest. He had begun a fantasy that the boy would be enthralled with him as a big, tough policeman but was now disappointed to see that he had apparently failed to charm the lad. Not an ill omen, he hoped.

Just in time to save him from self-pity, Donna sashayed back into the living room, her long hair jouncing, a pale blue summer dress fluttering around her legs. "Dawn's sleeping quietly, Trish," she said to the babysitter. "With any luck you may not have to feed her before I get home." Trish looked at her obligingly, nodded without a word, and returned to the tube. "I'll be back in a few hours," Donna said. "Please make sure Tony's in bed by nine." Trish exactly repeated her previous movement. Donna bounced her hazel eyes off Mark on their way to her son. "Tony? Did you say hello to Detective McQuade?"

"Yeah, we boys took care of that," Mark inserted.

Donna kept looking at the child for a moment, trying to determine whether she should make more out of the boy's coolness; then she opted for the easy way, shrugged, and stepped close to him. Holding back her long hair as she bent down, she hovered over him. "Well, aren't you gonna give mommy a big kiss goodbye?"

The boy shook his head and continued watching two badly drawn animated characters smack each other around against a vague surreal background. Again avoiding rough territory, Donna pecked him on his forehead head and said, "I love you." The boy shrugged and let his chin fall to his hands on the carpet. His mother stood up and smiled somberly. Then she looked at Mark with the same expression but arched her brow over her large eyes as if to convey apology and reassurance at the same time.

Mark silently mouthed the words: "It's okay."

She took that as a signal to make her way to the front door. With one last look back at her son next to the sitter, Donna again voiced a casual farewell. Getting only a glancing grunt in response, her mouth pursed and the lower lip pushed up toward her nose, as she showed her date out of the house. Without looking back inside, she closed the door and took his arm. "I think he's unhappy with me."

"You suppose he thinks you're trying to find a replacement for his father?"

She popped a look at him, surprised by his insight and not annoyed by the presumption nor displeased with the concept. "Actually I'm afraid you may be right. He's been mad at me ever since his daddy left."

"He blames you?"

"No. I don't think so. Not really. But he wants to blame someone. And I'm the closest."

"Does his father see him?" As he opened the car door for her Mark caught his breath, afraid he might be prying.

Donna was glad to talk about it, though, and showed no sign of resentment. She also showed surprise at his manners. "I thought that was a lost art." She looked up at him happily as she slipped into the front seat.

"What?" he asked then shut the door on her answer as he hurried around to the other side.

"Opening a door for a woman," she repeated to him, as he slid onto the sit.

"Nearly lost for good during the feminist revolution, I think," he said. Her eyes looked all over his face and head to find something unexpected there. "Not that I have anything against it." That was false. He was very uncomfortable with women who competed with men. Considered them ball busters and avoided them as if they were surly cats. She guessed that he was not entirely candid with his view of strong women but decided to leave it alone. Best not to dampen their first date.

As the car rolled through the city streets, they allowed a silence between them. Sensing he was uncomfortable with it, she broke into the gap. "So—where we going?"

He was glad for the question. "Uh—oh, a little place I know on the coast. I hope you like seafood."

"Love it."

"It's kind of exotic but quiet. Nice view of the ocean."

"Sounds perfect." She leaned toward him, wanting to snuggle but holding back.

Once more they let the silence in. Again she broke it down. Donna was itching to know about his marriage. "So tell me—what happened?"

The question baffled him for a moment until he saw in her eyes what she meant. "Oh. My marriage?" She nodded less in affirmation than in prodding. He accelerated the car onto a crowded freeway and shifted in his seat to make himself more comfortable. "A lot like your situation, I guess. She left me."

"Why?"

He liked the way she modulated the word, saturating it with a lot of wonder, but he thought it best to tone it down. "You make it sound like she was foolish."

"Wasn't she? My husband was." She pushed out a short, odd little chuckle. "Maybe neither of them knows what they've lost."

He had to laugh big, which made her laugh. It loosened any tension. By the time they were heading toward the Pacific Coast Highway, Mark and Donna were bound to enjoy themselves that evening, largely because they were two wounded persons in the same war and found themselves on the same side, regardless or maybe because of their different genders.

By the time they hit the coastal highway, the sun was gone beyond the oceanic horizon, leaving broad strokes of red and gold streaking the western sky. When Mark pulled his car into the parking lot of the Bali Hai restaurant, they were becoming so absorbed in each other that for the moment they forgot their separate loves and lives. When she saw the name of the restaurant, she broke the fixation and started humming the melody of the popular tune: one that he found partially familiar but could not place. She was a melodious person. And he liked the combination: beautiful woman and lovely music together.

They talked and laughed through the meal. Both drank too many pineapple and rum concoctions served in coconut cups with floating flower petals, likely to soften the rough edges of their new relationship. Mark was glad when after dinner she wanted to walk on the beach. Mentioning something about having to work off all the food he had eaten to cover his real motivation, he led her onto the strand.

The evening air was mellow on their skin, and a fine salt spray from big splashy breakers was kissing their faces. They took off their shoes to feel the surf swirling around their toes. They remarked on the warm water. She leaned on him demonstratively to steady her gait, wobbly from the alcohol in her brain, but just as much to feel the sinews of his body. He made a show of holding onto her for the same reason. For too long they had not touched the amenable flesh of another attractive person, nor feel the radiating warmth, the mingling of pounding pulses. For several paces in the soggy sand, they said nothing, happy to let the dark wild sea entertain them. They enjoyed their personal proximity, as incipient infatuation carried them adrift through a beguiling space. She had to break the spell. "Let's sit a while and listen to the waves," she burbled and pulled him onto the dry beach.

Beneath its cool surface, the sand was still warm from the heat of the day. Donna burrowed her hands into it and made a delicious humming sound. He sat close to her and watched her childlike play. After stretching out her full length, she rolled onto her back and fixed on his eyes. In the deepening darkness, their bodies seemed to reflect a mysterious light. She drew his head toward her. He did not resist. A sly grin graced her face, one of those DaVinci smiles that some women wear when they regard a man, a look to make his blood surge. Mark felt a wanton desire to kiss the woman but he hesitated, hanging his face over hers like a ripe fruit about to fall from a tree. She knew well what was happening. "You may kiss me—if you like."

Kiss you, he thought. I could devour you! "I've got to admit—the notion crossed my mind," he said. Crossed his mind! It was riveting his being to the very earth.

Curling one hand around the back of his neck, she pulled him to her. He needed no further bid. The touch of their lips, cool from the ocean air yet warm from the blood racing in their flesh, made them shiver into each other. Each wanted to cry with delight but settled for faint moans. To keep his weight off her and hesitant to connect his body to hers, he grasped her in his arms and rolled onto his back, easing her breast onto his. With all barriers breaking down like waves on the shore, they feasted on one another's mouths the way butterflies suck nectar from passionflowers. Their liquid-smooth lips cushioned the ardor and cemented the bond between acquaintance and intimacy. Their bodies tense but moving slightly, uncontrollably, they ached to engage the primordial power seething within them. He felt her breast soft but demanding upon his chest. She sensed the solidity of his animal pressure. For the time everything else in the world vanished. Sea and sand and stars existed for them alone. Entranced they became engrossed in that thrilling opening episode for the erotically beguiled: the prelude—the opening measures to an intimate duet soon to come.

Chapter 12

Within two weeks a third dead body showed up in an alley. In a dumpster. Jumbled among a mess of trash and garbage. Before Detective McQuade arrived, his instinct told him it was the work of the same killer and that the deceased would turn out to have been another kid molester. One look at the corpse, his head dangling, a surprised look on his face, and Mark knew he was right. A serial killer was working the city. As he examined the body and the surrounding area, he did not immediately see a connection among the murder sites: this alley, the lot, and the park. If the victim had been a molester, where were the kids? He scanned the buildings on both sides of the alley but spotted nothing of what he expected. Walking the streets adjacent to the alley to check out the building facades he found clothing stores, a dry cleaner, a bank, shops that sold a variety of useless decorative items, and a childcare center. That was it. Of course. Hurrying back to the alley behind the center he found a rear door and knocked hard.

A small child opened it and looked up at him. Mark was dumbfounded. A dark matronly woman appeared behind the child and looked at the visitor suspiciously. "May I help you?" she asked with enough acid in her voice to etch glass.

The cop showed his badge. "Detective McQuade, ma'm. No trouble. I'd just like to ask you a question or two." He picked his words carefully to avoid frightening them. "Use this door often?"

She looked at the door as if to find the answer scratched in its peeling paint. "Yes. Yes, we do. Parents sometimes pick up their children back here. Parking is hard to find in the front. Why? Is there a problem, Detective?"

"No problem. Just curious."

She stuck her head out and looked up and down the alley. Spotting the police commotion around the dumpster, she gasped. "Que pasa? Was there an accident?"

He started to shake his head but said, "Yes. An accident." He glanced into the interior of the center and saw bevies of children scurrying around space enough for only a small family. "Do the kids ever come out into the alley? To play or anything like that?"

She drew into a shell. "Oh, no—we wouldn't let them do that—"

Mark sensed she was not being entirely honest.

"Sometimes the children will watch for their parents through the window...."

"And through the open door?"

She started to nod then shook her head demonstratively. "No, Detective—we never let them go outside the center without an adult. No, we can't do that." She continued to shake her head as if to secure her statement.

Mark looked at her for a silent moment then said, "Thank you, ma'm. I appreciate your time." She nodded quickly and pulled the child rather forcefully back into the room then shut the door sharply. Mark glanced back at the closed door. Once more he was glad he had no children. What if he had to leave them in a place like that? The thought made him shiver.

He took one more course around the crime scene. As before, no sign of a tussle, no obvious clues. Maybe the forensics people could find something, he thought, but he had doubts. On the way back to the division, he reviewed the facts. Almost certainly the dead guy would turn out to have a record for criminal acts against children. The pattern appeared to be holding. Sicko watching kids. Killer stalks sicko, catches him unaware, and takes him down without as much as a bang or a holler. Then disappears into the metropolis to find his next victim.

At Robbery-Homicide, McQuade's intuitive deduction proved true. The case was the talk of the division. Serial killer at large. Executes child molesters and pedophiles. A big white board stood against one wall, showing the victims, dates of death, locations, and evidence. The last column was empty. McQuade was looking over the board, when behind him Captain Mansford dropped a newspaper onto his desk. McQuade glanced at the captain then at the headlines.

VIGILANTE KILLER STALKS PEDOPHILES

He skimmed the article:

A reliable source—serial killer at large—

targeted only convicted child molesters—

wire garrote—attacks near parks and

playgrounds—dispatches them quickly—

disappears without a trace....

The detective snapped a look at his superior with the big question in his eyes.

The captain read his look. "Yeah, McQuade. We have a leak. I was hoping you'd know who it is."

The hair on McQuade's back stood up. He hated when someone suggested he might have done something he did not do, even by association. The captain had not actually accused him but was close enough to doing so. "Well, it sure as hell wasn't me, boss."

"I didn't say it was, Mark. I just wondered if you knew who it was."

"Could be any of us. Even someone held for questioning that overheard a conversation. It's become the talk of the whole damned division."

"Well, now it's the talk of the whole damned city."

McQuade stood silent for a moment. Mansford kept looking at him, then at the big board. "Anything from forensics yet?" the detective asked.

Mansford shook his head forlornly. "Not much. They're looking at fibers. Trying to find some DNA. Nothing yet though. This guy's sharp."

"Looks like we're in for a hell of trip with this one."

The captain cast his woeful eyes on the detective. "The molesters and pedos are—for sure."

McQuade sensed a little sympathy for this vigilante so he fished for it. "Guy might be doin' us a favor, eh, captain?"

Mansford's eyes instantly turned from sad to fierce. "I don't give a shit what anybody thinks he's doing for us or anyone else, McQuade. He's murdering people. That's all we need to know to do our job."

"Yes, sir—I...."

"I know, Mark. I know how you feel." He turned slowly and lumbered back to his office.

The detective stood still, feeling like a reprimanded child; an uncomfortable feeling for McQuade, as a man who wanted always to be on top of things. Still he knew he had sensed a hidden attitude in the captain's words, an attitude that other cops and many people in the city shared. Let the sick bastards die. The policeman sat at his desk and poured over the case. Despite his personal feelings, he was a cop and had to, wanted to solve it. Three killings in as many weeks. Something better break soon or we could have a real slaughter on our hands. The guy's good. Too good. Terrifyingly good. McQuade hunched over the computer keyboard and focused on the sickeningly luminous screen. See what we got on his kind.

He typed in a search with the keywords: killers strangle wire. Nothing came up but the case of a mob hit man who had knocked off one guy in the racehorse business ten years earlier. He fixed on that single hit on the screen. Amazing not more guys using the device. Damned effective. McQuade sat back in his chair and swiveled right then left as if trying to jog his brain. Maybe the guy a trained killer, he thought, but not a goodfella or whatever those mob guys like to call themselves. Maybe a select government agent, maybe even....

The detective disliked thinking the killer could be a cop. Too close to home. But he would not be surprised. Too many cops had taken a leap into the darkside. Extra cash. Striking back at the system. Or just going nuts. This job can make you crazy. McQuade cut off that line of thinking—too disturbing. He had work to do and could not afford to allow his nerves to fray. Frustrated he decided to follow one of his previous hunches and focus on future victims.

Who could be next? He opened a file on known child molesters and pedophiles in the city and county of Los Angeles. Gotta be scores of them. Maybe hundreds. Perp maybe gonna try to take 'em all out? Seems where he's headed. McQuade studied the faces, names, and addresses then looked at the city map, trying to catch a hint, a subtle trend that would light up his eyes. Eyes. She likes mine. He smiled to think of Donna Wright and their make out on the beach, a subject he found infinitely more pleasant than this filth. Noticing Gordo staring at him McQuade dived back into the foul search for people in danger of dying at the hands a phantom killer with a wire. The computer screen made his eyes hurt. Or was it the disturbing images? Pulling up a map, he traced the grid of city streets through neighborhoods that lay like a huge puzzle across the urban sprawl of the famous city. He located parks, playgrounds, and schools. Finding at least that much consistency in the case, he tried to see some pattern on which he could project a future incident.

The first had happened in the middle of the San Fernando Valley. The second also in the Valley but far to the northwest, nearly to the county line. The third on the eastern end, beyond Griffith Park, at the edge of the downtown city center. Where would the killer hit next? Close to the hills in the north? Below Ventura Boulevard? Over the hill on the west side? Or would he shake everything up and leave the city for more distant hunting grounds? Part of McQuade hoped the killer would disappear. The cop had a sickening sensation that the case would grow into a ravaging monstrosity that would make him and the LAPD look grossly incompetent. After the recent scandals, that would not be good. So he wanted the case to go away as soon as possible. On the other hand, the detective in him wanted it all for himself. He wanted to nail the bastard to jack up his police prowess but most of all to reaffirm his meaning. Something by which he could feel good about himself when he lay alone in bed at night, evaluating his now solitary life.

However, nothing was jelling in the case. McQuade reconsidered offering himself as a decoy but promptly pushed that out of his mind. No need to get crazy. He looked again at the faces and the places. Where? His head hurt with the question pounding like Mansford's big fist on his skull. Out of the information and supposition swirling in his mind he finally grabbed the idea of talking to the offenders. Not to warn them. To hell with them. He did not care if they all blew up spontaneously. No. The detective needed another perspective on the case. At the risk of alerting every molester and pedo in the area, he decided to see where this hunch took him. After doing a thing in his mind rather like spinning with his arm extended and stopping on a chance direction, Detective McQuade picked the north valley as a likely destination. And the address of Carl Shunt. Convicted of child molestation, he had served time, and now lived among families with children. Shutting down the computer and shoving his chair against his desk, he left the division to visit a person he would rather see dead but had to try to keep alive.

Chapter 13

The sunlight was blinding, the heat broiling when McQuade parked in front of a down scale apartment building in Sunland. Stepping out of the car, he looked at the rocky, treeless, mountains jutting violently out of the high desert to the north. He disliked the sight of them during the dry months. Like craters on the moon, devoid of life, prohibitive. When winter snow graced their peaks, though, they softened and stood almost beautiful against dark gray January skies. He looked forward to that time and its short break from the heat.

McQuade found Carl Shunt's apartment building, a small compound with a single dusty sycamore tree in front. He stood to one side and knocked on the door, wary as always, ready for any unpleasant surprise. When the man opened the door, the cop realized he had little to fear. "Detective Mark McQuade. Mister Carl Shunt?"

Shunt, a fat little man with a head like a cue ball, nodded with apprehension widening his small gray eyes. He did not resemble what one may stereotype as an ex-convict of abhorrent criminal acts against children, but more like a neighborhood grocer or a dull high school math teacher. "Look, I haven't...."

"I'm not here to roust you, Mister Shunt. Just to talk."

The little man smiled in a curiously humble way. "Oh, sure, Detective—sure thing." He showed the police officer into his small, tidy apartment. "I was just about to go to the—do a little shopping—but I can spare a minute or two."

McQuade got the hint. The man wanted him out of his place as soon as possible.

The big cop stood in the middle of a surprisingly comfortable living room and looked around. Shunt did not ask him to sit nor did he offer any refreshment, but simply looked up at him the way a puppy does while waiting for a domineering master's next move. "I won't keep you long, Mister Shunt," McQuade said. He studied the round man and suddenly had second thoughts about bringing up the serial killer. "This may sound like a strange question, but I have a good reason for asking. Have you been following the local news lately?"

"I try to avoid the news, Detective—too distressing. Anything in particular I should have noticed?"

"Then you don't know about the series of killings in the city over the last few weeks."

"Killings? I heard—but nothing in particular. What about them?"

"You don't know that all three of the victims were, well, they were—"

"They were what, Detective?" His further widening eyes showed he was getting the idea.

"They had records of illegal acts with minors."

Shunt's face at first reddened then faded to an ashen gray. "Good God!" He sat, rather fell down onto an upholstered rocker, and leaned forward, hands onto his knees. From the look in his eyes, he was way ahead of the detective.

"I was wondering if you've seen any strange men in the neighborhood, maybe someone watching you—or...."

"Watching me! You mean to say the killer is after me?" He started to jump to his feet but remained on the edge of his chair, quivering with a precarious balance.

"No, no—I'm not saying that." For all McQuade knew the killer had spotted Shunt as his next victim but the big cop could be compassionate, even toward people that hurt children. "It's just that, well, we have reason to believe people like you—"

Shunt fired a surprisingly fierce look at him.

McQuade continued: "Could be in danger." He was actually starting to feel sorry for him, an emotion he never expected to have for such a despicable human being.

"Oh, my Lord!" Sweat started to dot the little man's broad forehead as he held the detective's eyes. "Well, are you going to do anything about it?"

McQuade was struck by the irony of this question and nearly blurted out a remark about the waste of good manpower to protect a man who hurts kids. Nonetheless, he knew such a question from a legal resident of the city deserved an official answer. "We're doing all we can, but...."

"But you're not too keen on catching a guy who rids the world of evil-doers like me. Right, Detective?"

The sharp insight of the fellow set McQuade on his heels. He wanted to agree with but instead said, "I'm keen on protecting the citizenry, Mister Shunt. My job."

"Your job. Yeah, so I guess your heart is probably not exactly throbbing to protect us." McQuade nearly nodded but for his stiffened neck. The little man suddenly laughed, a further surprise. "This is a riot. Here's a cop telling me I'm in danger when any other time you're telling everyone else to beware of me." He laughed around the edge of hidden tears.

McQuade wanted to remind the man that not everyone required such warning. Only children. He wanted to say that to him, smack him around, run out of the place, and then take a long hot shower. But he kept his mouth shut. He had a dangerous killer to catch, certainly no more dangerous than bastards like Shunt; but, because the killer could be on a rampage, could sweep through the city like the angel of death, he was foremost on McQuade's mind. As much as he disliked the idea, the cop knew he could use Shunt's help and that from others of his vile tribe. When McQuade reached into his pocket to grab his wallet, Shunt tensed but relaxed a little when he saw the detective take out only a card. The cop grinned and handed it to him. "Call me if you see anyone hanging around the place, Mister Shunt—anyone suspicious."

"Just who exactly should I be watching out for, Detective? What does he look like?"

McQuade hesitated in his uncertainty. "I wish I could tell you." He was about to advise the man to be careful but held it back. Let him figure that out for himself. "All we know now is that he stalks his victims, catches them unaware, apparently while they're watching kids—" He noticed the little man flinch. "And he uses a wire." He felt a little uncomfortable revealing that information because he knew he had said it more to torture the little man than to help him but he let it stand.

"A wire?"

McQuade nodded with noticeable enthusiasm and said, "Strangles them with it." He had not needed to add that; he could see from Shunt's face that he had guessed how the killer was murdering people.

"What am I supposed to do, Detective—stay in my apartment day and night?"

McQuade heard it as a stupid question. "Not much you can do—but watch your back."

"Watch my back! I've got people in the neighborhood, in this building who know my background, thanks to you—well, not you, but the government and the police department—and they want me out of here. I get notes in my mailbox. One night someone threw a rock through my window, nearly hit me." McQuade wanted to leave, made a motion toward the door, but Shunt continued. "I served my time, Detective. I go to counseling. I haven't re-offended since my release eight months ago. I've got a decent job, nothing fancy but it keeps me dry and well fed. I'm trying to live right, but no one trusts me. Everyone thinks because I did terrible things in the past that I'm going to do again." McQuade raised his eyebrows and listened. "But I won't," Shunt went on. "A man can change. I don't want to hurt children. I'm working very hard to understand what made me do such things and make sure I don't ever do them again—as long as I live." By now he was in tears. McQuade felt lousy with both scorn and pity tumbling together in his stomach. "And I won't," Shunt cried. "I swear I won't!"

McQuade wanted to believe him, much as he always hoped for the better angels of human nature to show themselves despite his repeated disappointment, but that was not the issue and he would not reiterate the point. He simply wanted out of there. Grasping the doorknob as if at a lifeline, he muttered, "Just let me know if you see anyone suspicious, Mister Shunt."

The fat little man looked at him again with his saddog eyes, saw he was going to get no sympathy, and slumped back into the rocker, his face turned away, chin on his chest. The last McQuade saw of him, Shunt was rocking slowly in the chair and weeping softly. McQuade hurried away from the building, jumped into his car, and could not drive fast enough away from the place. Before leaving the neighborhood, though, he noticed several persons, mostly women, watching him drive down the street. They appeared to be peering into his car to see if someone were riding in the backseat, to see if the man they considered a monster in their midst were being spirited away for having committed another offense or simply for having at any time in his life molested an innocent child.

On his way back downtown McQuade was castigating himself. What in the world was he thinking of—trying to enlist such a putrid ogre in his campaign to capture the killer? He and his crowd are the enemy too. Loathsome even talking to the guy like he was a normal person. If anything, should've just staked out his place and not made contact with the little shit. Naw. Can't do that. No resources. Can't watch the dwellings of every molester in the city. Like the captain said. Too many of them, too few of us. Besides, the killer obviously too smart to walk into that. Still, maybe happen with dumb luck. The cop tightened his grip on the steering wheel as he pondered the problem. If I only could get into this guy's mind. Think like he does. Need a profiler. Shelley's sister. A psychologist. Maybe she could help. Have to run it by Shelley though. Probably wouldn't trust me. Think I was tryin' to manipulate her. Too fuckin' bad.

McQuade grinned as he watched the streets slide past him. He knew the department had a profiler on staff and thought he might as well talk to her first. He looked at the swarming cars, the occasional pedestrian, and the endless rows of storefronts—all meaningless to him in the great gray impersonal grid of greater Los Angeles. He wanted to talk to his wife's sister but he would have to go with the police officer. Not a bad looker, he thought. Why often women? Intuition? That a fact? McQuade had never noticed any woman being more intuitive than he was. They seemed to like it, though—digging into a person's private world, figuring out what goes on in their heads. Analyzers. McQuade nearly broke a laugh. He did not look at people that way. His intuition focused more on overt actions. Which way a guy was going to run. If he had a weapon to use. Whether or not his face showed guilt or something to hide.

When McQuade got back to the Center garage, he headed straight for the department psychologist. Yeah, not a bad looking broad, he remembered. Talking to her might be a good idea in more ways than one. He knocked on her door and let himself into the office. Her own space. A shot of rivalry coursed through his arteries. With a little heat in his face, he walked in on Doctor Emily Patcher working at her desk. Hearing his entry she raised her dark-lined eyes and smiled with what McQuade thought conveyed more than a collegial greeting. "Excuse me, doc, but...."

"Hello, Detective McQuade. What can I do for you?"

Surprised she knew his name he tried to look seriously professional but could not restrain a grin. Taking a seat without her invitation he said, "I was wondering what you think about this repeater we have in homicide?"

She studied him for an awkwardly long time, her eyes lowered but steady on him. Then she regaled him with a series of opinions phrased as gifted insights three times longer than he wanted to listen, and while he watched her incessantly mobile mouth, all hope to see her as a sexual being disappeared with every word of her pedantic patter. Now, he had found an excuse to call his wife about her sister. A second take on the subject.

Chapter 14

Children were playing in their carefree way on the grounds of a large apartment complex on one of the busy boulevards that cut through the San Fernando Valley. Mostly small kids—preschool age. The autumn afternoon was warm, the burning grip of summer still lingering like a glass dome upside down on a hot stove but slightly cooled by a breeze blowing off the ocean. A few leaves of red and gold rustled in the trees and drifted down to the lawns. Birds and squirrels were foraging from the autumn harvest of seeds and nuts. The sun slanted low amber light across the land, but the sky was unusually radiant, swept clean by the moving air. No parents or sitters or other caretakers were visible on the grounds yet they might have been keeping watch from inside their residences. McQuade reckoned they encouraged their kids to play outside often to keep them out of their hair so the adults could enjoy a little quiet after work. The people considered the neighborhood, inhabited by working class folks and families, perceptibly safe. No serious history of violence or even burglary here. So no one, certainly not the children, would do anything more about a man passing them than casually glance his way.

Having walked along a path adjacent to the complex, one such man noticed the children and stopped at a fence to watch them play. A person of no particular distinction, average appearance, ordinary clothes, he was apparently out for an afternoon walk before dinner. Maybe some long-time resident of the neighborhood. Perhaps he stopped frequently at the fence when the kids were out of doors. If any adults had been attentive, they would have seen him there more than once. If they had studied his face, they would have noticed that he watched the children with a keen interest. A faint smile hung around his mouth more out of concentration than amusement. His eyes leaped from child to child then fixated on one pretty little girl rather scantily clothed. Her happy face was florid from play and her little body bounded sprightly across a lawn with the simple absorbing pleasure of innocent childhood.

The unknown spectator's eyes followed this little girl wherever she went on the grounds, and when for a few seconds she vanished behind a shrub or around the corner of a building, he stretched his body and stepped from side to side to catch sight of her again. His hands clung to the chained links of the fence, his fingers gripping as if he were preparing to climb over it. The only time, and then only for fractional seconds, he took his eyes off the child was to glance furtively around him. If he had not been a civilized human being, anyone watching him closely might have perceived him as a predatory animal sizing up his next meal. Not far off. So intent was this man on observing the gay little girl that he became careless, failed to survey his surroundings carefully. If he had been more alert he would have noticed another man in the vicinity, a man certainly not a resident of the neighborhood, a man approaching the watcher's position, staring straight and steadily at him with a fiercely predatory attitude of his own.

When the newcomer stepped within twenty yards of the man at the fence, he turned his head and looked at him. Noticed how tall he was, the diamond sharp look in his eyes. As if allergic to the attention, the tall man relaxed into a long stride and averted his eyes. Because he appeared to be a homeless wretch, the man at the fence thought nothing of him. In passing, the tall man glanced around, his cold blueyes resting on nearby vegetation: a small grove of evergreen tree around a hollow secluded and shadowy. Hearing the man step past him the man at the fence resumed his surveillance of the girl child.

In the next instant, with only a sound like a gust of wind the man was no longer standing at the fence. He lay struggling among the trees. A thin copper wire was cutting through his neck, stopping his air, pinching his arteries. He waved his arms and kicked his legs aimlessly and tried to scream but could make no sound. Before he blacked out, his eyes rolled back and he saw the rigid but haggard face of the passerby, heard him whisper: "Your time has come." The killer's eyes were not wild or maniacal, only fixed, glacial, and electrically blue.

"Jen-ny! I don't want to play that game!" one of the children shouted at the pretty little girl who had neither noticed the stranger's attention nor his disappearance. "I want to play keep-away!"

A smile thawed the killer's frozen face as he looked at the children. While watching them he absently removed the wire from the corpse's neck, wiped it on a dirty rag, then carefully coiled its eighteen inches, terminated on each end with small knobs of wood, and stuffed the tidy package into his pocket. By the time one of the children again glanced over at the fence where the man had been standing, he saw no one there, nor did he see the other man step out of the trees and continue his walk calmly down the path. The children also did not see into the grove of trees where the man lay in his own spreading blood, eyes bulging wide in surprise but dull and absolutely still as though in full view of eternity.

The children played exuberantly in the yard around the buildings until sundown when they all went to their homes for dinner, dwelt with their families, and fell asleep with little to worry their young minds. They had no cognizance of the dead man stiffening in the small wood near the apartment building. Nor did anyone else. Insects were the first to discover the body. Later a feral cat approached it cautiously, sniffed its grotesque hand, and then slowly crept into the darkening brush.

The killer walked quickly along the path for a few miles to a street. After looking left then right, he turned one way as if flipping a coin for direction. An hour later he was miles from the apartment complex near the little evergreen wood and eons away from the individual whose life he had deftly and ruthlessly canceled. Exhilarated, he walked jauntily for several blocks like one who had heard good news that would change his life for good. However, as the miles rolled under his worn out shoes, a profound weariness invaded his body, and he longed for his private little den by the river and a brief respite from the endless turmoil of the jamming city streets. He had been hungry before taking his walk and had hoped to happen upon a discarded sandwich, maybe a few swallows of cola, but had since lost his appetite. Not that he was disgusted at having taken a human life; the man was as remorseless as a lion. At the moment he craved no food. Only sleep. He was utterly satisfied with his work.

As he drew closer to his resting place, he progressively picked up the pace of his steps. Traffic noises were annoying him more than usual, and he craved quiet. The eyes of passing strangers appeared unusually curious about him, and a quick wish to tell them, to scream at them what he had done jumped into his mind. If they knew what good work he was performing, knew how he was serving society, doing his sworn duty, they would not think of him as a derelict. No longer would they see him as a reject of the human race, worse than a feral dog, revolting as a rat or a roach. They would regard him as a hero. JD Ketch walked on to his den, favoring that fantasy of himself over all the bitter reality that had for so many years confronted him in the world.

***

When JD Ketch slumbered fitfully in his hollow beside the cemented conduit of the Los Angeles River that night, his dreams went beyond reality and were far more frightening. His mixed up mind at first presented some of the sweet images of youth when he had still seen life as a great adventure to be believed. Then in the apparition of a vague countenance JD thought he recognized his mother's face beaming her pride down on him as he lay in her lap, the beautiful product of her body. A baby rabbit on his birthday hoped around his little feet and made him laugh wildly. The whirling Earth thrilled him as his father flung him into the air and swung him around and around. But horror forced its ugly front into this mental movie and displaced the few pleasant images in his memory. Monsters invading a nursery rhyme.

Distorted, screaming faces of children shattered his eardrums. The eyeless skulls of countless people killed in action revolved around him on an unholy carousel. Their bodies dangling sinews, dripping blood onto a glassy floor. A column of multifaceted mirrors rotated in the middle of his mind, reflecting on every plane headless eyes that rolled in space but always focused on him. Incessant explosions ran the length of a quavering sound track: guns and bombs cracking and booming as incendiary flowers into an oppressively hot and humid night sky. Children were walking in an endless column between banks of flames as high as redwood trees that reached with gigantic fiery hands to grab anybody out of line. One of them a small boy, his head a hologram, strayed from the column and was near disappearing into the tongues of fire. The dreamer desperately wanted to save the children, the child, but he could not move, his feet shackled to a concrete tomb buried in the earth. He screamed but made no sound. The effort made him choke. Extending his arms unnaturally long, he touched the child's fingertips. At the instant of grasping the boy's hands, the tentacles of flame became a woman's arms wrapped around the boy's body and pulling him the opposite way. The dreamer could not hold on to the child's hands, and they slipped from his fingers. When he looked into the face of the fierce kidnapper, he saw that of a familiar woman, perhaps resembling the one in the park with the little girl on the slide. Slowly she raised her transparent eyes to him and snarled, tongue flicking. Her face morphed into that of his former wife. Then his mother. She opened her mouth so wide it threatened to swallow him whole. Sucked into the maw he fell through space. Tried to fly but had no wings, no arms. As his body tumbled into an infinite chasm, his legs became roots, his torso granite. When he strained to see bottom his igneous head ached and swelled as if to vulcanize.

Lying in the hole by the river basin JD's body was shaking from the nightmare, his eyelids twitching. He mumbled in a raspy voice like that of an animal crying in grotesque pain or pining. His clothes were damp from sweat along his neck and down the middle of his back. The sound from his throat awakening him, his eyes snapped open to see pointed fingers hovering above him as though blocking out vague sparks of stars. Exhaling into a scream that died to silence, he held his breath for more than a minute without knowing it then gasped to breathe.

Terrified JD bolted upright and shot glances around him to gain his bearings and see if any danger lurked around his hideaway. Seeing nothing, he relaxed a little and listened to insects and a rodent rummaging in the brush, despite vehicles roaring along the freeway beyond the river. JD wiped moisture from his eyes and crawled out of his gap in the earth, slid down the embankment, and stepped to the fence along the concrete canal. He peered over barbed wire strung along the top of the fence and followed a dark trace of water sliding like spilled sewage down the man-made gorge.

The ribbon of river gleamed in its reflection of city lights. Almost beautiful but it stank. London, he thought, has the Thames, Paris the Seine, Rome the Tiber, New York the Hudson River, but Los Angeles has only this open bowel: a flood course for desert rain runoff and the foul issue of countless drains and gutters swirling out of the street maze where millions of people dwell. JD saw the algae-bound trickle as a metaphor for his blood flow. The stream ran low and slow for most of the year, but after winter rains, millions of gallons of water tumbled through the canal, a torrent of diarrhea full of broken vegetation, bits of human artifacts, and unidentifiable flotsam. He liked the look of it then and often had an urge to jump into the rushing flow, let it carry him quickly through the broad metropolis in its mad run to the sea.

JD felt a gust of wind stroke his head, lift his matted hair, cool his flesh. He gazed to the mountains in the north. Soon the big cumulonimbus clusters would be billowing above the peaks; soon the southern California wet season would sweep dark gray rain-filled masses across the valley sky. Whenever the bountiful rain came, he wanted to strip off his clothes and run naked in it to wash away the filth of numberless days on the street, brands of misery and degradation. Pulling open his crusted coat and unfastening the few buttons on his grimy shirt JD let the moving air circulate around his body, embrace him like a feminine spirit. The air neither warm nor cool but soft and tender. He flung out his arms to invite the invisible visitor, an angel to lift him from the earth and carry him around the world until he would fly into space then drift forever through the frozen void.

Chapter 15

Mark McQuade was calling his wife when he got the word about the fourth killing. Hesitating a moment, he mouthed the word 'shit' then went through with the call.
Shelley Ross McQuade was shoving clothes into a washing machine when the telephone rang. Even wearing housework clothes with her blonde hair gone a little wild she was attractive, not a beauty like Donna Wright, but a woman with plenty of animal magnetism. Catlike in her moves, mysterious, but not at all threatening. Her mouth always appeared slightly smiling. "Hello," she said sweetly as with one finger she pushed a strand of hair from her face.

Mark hesitated again, thinking she might have been expecting someone else.

"Hello," she insisted.

"Hi, Shelley."

"Mark."

"Don't worry—I'm calling on business."

"Business." Her forehead wrinkled.

"Yeah. I'd like to talk to your sister."

"My sister! Why? What happened?"

"Nothing. Don't worry. Like I said—just business. I need her point of view on a case."

"Why call me if you want to talk to her?" Suspicion raised her eyebrows.

"I don't have her number," he said.

She sighed. "Okay. I'll tell her you want to talk to her, and if she wants to talk to you, she can call you. How's that?"

He paused to suppress the resentment rising to his throat. "Come on, Shell—I'm not trying to play with your head. I've got a hell of a case on my hands and I need a shrink's take on it."

"She's a psychologist, Mark—not a shrink." Her words in rapid fire.

Mark disliked that way of talking she had when excited but stayed on the point. "I know. That's why I wanna talk to her."

"Just don't call her a shrink."

"Uh-huh."

"And she's not interested in you, never has been—so don't get any nasty ideas."

"Gimme a break here, Shelley." Noticing Detective Firth glancing his way from time to time, McQuade felt like flipping him off but lowered his voice and tried to look seriously busy. "Have I ever given you any reason to distrust me?" he asked her quietly.

"No. You haven't, Mark. That's one thing I can't complain about." She thought a moment as if ready to elaborate but bit it back. "Look. I'll tell Bren you called."

He rushed some words. "How's Pardner?"

She hesitated. "Pard's fine."

Mark started to ask her to put the dog on the phone but one look at the guys in the office and he decided against it. "I bet he misses me."

Shelley said nothing but looked at the dog sitting at her feet, looking up at her with imploring eyes.

"I'd sure like to see him." Mark wanted to tell Shelley how much he missed her and nearly blurted it out but held that back too.

She sensed it and even nodded privately yet avoided the subject. "Look—you caught me right in the middle of the laundry, Mark. I really have to go."

"Oh, sure. Yeah. Go ahead. I didn't mean to take up your time."

She weighed his words for sarcasm and did not respond.

Into the middle of her silence he threw, "I hope you're doin' okay."

"I'm fine." She took a deep breath. "You?"

"Fine."

Neither breathed for a moment, both waiting for something else, something meaningful to come through the phone. When it did not, Mark said, "Well, better let you go." The last word caught in his throat.

"Yeah," she nearly whispered.

"I got a lotta work to do too." He might have postponed the entire case, maybe even put his career on hold, if she had hinted at talking with him further. But she did not. Instead, she waited for him to say goodbye before responding in turn then quietly put down the phone. He kept it at his ear a few moments after the line started buzzing. Noticing out of the corner of his eye both Gordo and Firth staring at him he went to the restroom. No sense broadcasting his emotion to the entire division. After Mark splashed water onto his face and smeared it off with a paper towel, he looked at himself in the mirror briefly to make sure his face did not reveal anything he wanted secret. Back at his desk, he grabbed his coat and left to see about a new homicide. His two colleagues opened their mouths to toss a few words at him, but he was gone before they could speak. They did not have to; he knew what they were going to say: quips about him and his wife, jibes veiled as compassionate concern. Many cops were separated from their spouses or had signed divorce papers and were often looking for someone to share their misery. McQuade was determined not to join that club. He sealed his resolve by slamming the door on his way out of the division.

Chapter 16

Shelley's sister called Mark while he was at the crime scene. Her voice on his cell phone jolted him for a moment, sounding too much like her sister's, and for a few beats his heart banged in his chest. At first he thought of calling her back but wanted to keep the connection; besides, he had seen enough of the scene to know it was the same MO. Quick and crafty, neat—no trace. "Hi, Bren—," he said with forced enthusiasm.

"Shelley said you wanted to talk to me professionally." Doctor Brenda Ross relaxed in a high back leather chair and looked out her office window onto a landscaped buffer zone between her building and a busy boulevard. The slight smile on her face suggested something other than pure professionalism. Not as pretty as her sister or as magnetic, she compensated for what she lacked in seductive power with an air of educated intelligence. Maybe it was her hair in a tight bun and the gabardine business suit. Maybe it was the elegantly designed office.

"Yeah," Mark said. "You probably read about the killings. Right?"

"I have." She seemed disappointed. "That's what you want to talk to me about."

"Yeah. I need your expert take on the case. You free the next few days, Bren? I won't take much of your time."

"I'll make time for you, Mark."

He liked the sound of that and expressed it with real enthusiasm this time: "Terrific."

"How about today? Five-thirty?"

He was surprised and took a second to respond. "Just right. I'm standing over the body of the killer's latest victim and feelin' a bit discouraged. I can see the body count in double digits if I don't get this guy soon."

On his way to Doctor Ross's office, Mark was naturally thinking about his wife. He guessed he would be hearing from Shelley's sister about their split but he did not worry about it. The siblings were not close, so he might get an objective treatment. He could easily do without anymore Ross disapproval. Not having previously visited the psychologist's office Mark took in the surroundings with some interest. The woman appeared to be doing quite well in her practice. Maybe lots of folks need her kind of help. Or think they do. Willing to pay to listen to their troubles. Makes them feel better. Mark personally thought it a waste of time and money. He had told his wife that in rock-hard terms, when she had tried to get them to see a marriage counselor. Mark McQuade could work out his own problems without dumping them in front of others who would secretly enjoy his misery, especially those experts who would also charge him a bundle for his spilled guts.

When he walked into his sister's-in-law office, her secretary was gone for the day and the door was open. He knocked anyway.

"Come in, Mark—" She looked important behind a broad mahogany desk in front of a wall of framed achievement papers. As soon as he stepped into the room, she stood up like a cat stretching and came around the desk to greet him.

As they embraced politely, he looked around the office, expecting to see a couch but saw only two comfortable chairs. He dropped into one and she sat in the one next to him. Her attempt to make him comfortable only aroused his talent for suspicion. Mark had never felt completely at ease around Shelley's sister, too bothered by the nagging sense that she was trying to seduce him. He did not know that Doctor Brenda Ross had no such interest in him but was only observing him like a specimen in a laboratory. "How are you doing?" she asked with a professional smile.

"Well enough, Bren. You?"

She cast about the room with her eyes, accompanied by one slender hand, and said, "Oh, just great."

He noticed that her hands looked very much like Shelley's hands. "Thanks for giving me some time, Bren—er, Doctor...." In her office he felt a definite distance between them.

"Bren's fine." Before he could begin his story, she cut him short. "I'm wondering why you're coming to me. Oh, I'm flattered. But I know you have a profiler on staff with the department. I've read a few of her articles in the journals. Sharp cookie. So why me?"

Mark knew she was seeing right through him but had no intention of confirming her view. "I spoke to her. Yeah, she does good work. But I thought I'd get a fresh perspective from someone else."

Doctor Ross lowered her eyes over a skeptical grin. "So you decided on me."

"You."

She continued to hold her eyes on him in that penetrating way without saying a word, until he could not stand it, and his cool pose cracked. "So how about it, Bren? You gonna listen to what I have to say?"

Seeing he was not going to reveal openly his ulterior motive for visiting his estranged wife's sister, her occupational interest sparked. "Okay—" She leaned back in her chair and crossed her long legs. The Ross women were known for their sexy legs. "Tell me about it."

Mark looked at her for a second to find in her eyes a sign that she was truly interested before he jumped into the case. Satisfied, he narrated the story from the beginning, regardless that she probably had gotten most of it from the media. "Damned guy's a ghost. A smart one too. Seems like a genius at what he does."

"He could be." She was making notes on a pad she had slid from her desk. "Do you think he's smarter than you, Mark?"

That question caught him off guard but should not have surprised him. He had seen plenty of movies where head docs asked such probing questions. The detective had to respect her, though, for she was doing in her own way much what he did in his. Anyway, he dodged the question. "He's no dummy. That's for damned sure."

"No." She reviewed her notes. "But he's probably psychotic."

Mark McQuade did not want to pursue that line of thinking, a path in court that could keep the killer out of prison, but made a dead-end of the thought process by grunting, "Huh."

"He could be on a mission—or thinks he is."

"Sure as hell seems to be."

"The man knows where to get information on convicted child molesters. So he could be a rogue cop or some other kind of government agent gone berserk." Her eyes showed a question behind them.

Mark nodded at what he already knew and had already told her. Now he was getting impatient. "Easy to do on any library computer."

"Library." She pondered this a moment. "He knows the streets."

"Sure does."

"Do you think he's on foot?"

"Could be. But careful to make his footprints go away."

In thinking, she looked at him without seeing his face. "Like a Native American."

"You think he's an Indian?"

"Maybe. But I doubt it. As you know, most serial killers are white males." He nodded and looked at his hand on the arm of the chair, his fingers clenching. "And he leaves no trace." She made more notes.

"None. Seems extra careful about that—kinda anal, I'd say."

She grinned. "You know the jargon, Mark."

He grinned back at her. "Only what I hear, Bren."

"Yes. He could be the nasty-neat type—or a highly trained expert."

"Uh-huh." Mark kept seeing Shelley's expressions and mannerisms in the woman and he did not like the distraction.

"He executes them, doesn't he?"

"Uh-huh." Mark garnished the grunted response with a single sharp nod then added: "Clean and quick."

"Catches them in the act—by surprise—and summarily executes them without asking any questions. He seems awfully sure of himself. It's as if he considers his victims the enemy in a war."

"Could be a veteran, huh?"

The question temporarily occupied her thinking. "Could be." Without looking at her ex-brother-in-law, she continued on her train of thought. "He may very well escalate his attacks—to win the war—making the world safe for children."

Mark smirked at the idea of such an unlikely world. "So the guy's nuts, eh?"

"Probably. But I'm sure he doesn't see himself that way. It's possible that his mission is all he has left—or believes he has left to live for."

Mark felt that subtle compassion he had sensed while talking with Carl Shunt creep into his breast. He did not remember having had such feelings much during his career as a cop.

The psychologist might have noticed the anxious look in his eyes but continued with her profile of the killer. "He might fancy himself some kind of guardian angel...."

"More like an angel of death, I'd say."

"That too. His power to kill secretly, undetected could make him feel immortal, godlike."

"A damned vengeful demigod, eh?"

"Not a lot different than the Judeo-Christian god. Punishing the wicked—sending them to hell." She reflected on her words. Mark watched her and waited until she went on. "He might have been to hell himself—and returned the worse for it."

"That supports the war veteran idea." Mark had to contribute something.

"Yes." Doctor Ross held her eyes on him for an uncomfortably long time, and then the corners of her mouth curved up slightly. "I hope I've been of help to you, Mark. I'm talking rather extemporaneously. Normally I need a lot of information and plenty of time to study a case."

"Take all the time you want."

Her slender smile opened into a laugh. "So I'm doing this pro bono?"

"Well, I thought...."

"You thought since we were family, I would be glad to do you a favor. Right?"

"Sort of. Yeah."

"Okay. Anything for law and order. But I would like something in return."

Mark shoved his rump back into the chair. "What's that?" He could nearly visualize Shelley catching him as he made love to her sister.

"Talk with me about you marriage."

"My marriage!"

"Yes. I'd like to know what went wrong between you two. Oh, I've heard Shelley's side of the story till I've got it memorized. But I'd like to know how you see the problem."

"No problem. Shelley left me. Case closed."

"Oh, so you're going to give me the big tough guy act."

"I didn't come here to talk about me and Shell."

She let him have one of her professionally practiced supercilious looks, as if to say: 'You know that I know better.'

They held each other's eyes for a few moments. Mark looked at the windows and noticed the light fading outside, the room becoming more comfortable in the half-light. He wanted to shift in his chair but thought she would find something meaningful in that, such as a desire to dash out of the place. To convince her of his staying power he opened up. "Well, I got to admit I wasn't unhappy to get to you through Shelley."

"Of course. That's only natural. You're trying to find any path back to her good graces."

He felt a sudden pressure around his eyes. The woman's not bad at her job, he thought.

"What did you do to her anyway that sent her running from your house? I've always thought you two were madly in love."

"We were," he said more loudly than necessary.

"And you still are. Right?"

He wanted with all his strength to deny the truth of that remark but could only shake his head and reach for a timeworn reason. "I guess she got tired of livin' with a cop."

"Cop's life must be hard on marriage."

"Sure as hell is."

"It that why you don't want any children?"

At first Mark was annoyed that Shelley had obviously blabbed their private conversations to her sister but quickly realized that was bound to happen. Thinking more, he actually felt good about it. "I never said I don't want any children. I just worry about bringing them into a world like ours, Brenda. Look at it—" He swept his arm toward the window. "So many evil bastards out there hurting and killing children these days that some crazy cowboy thinks he has to kill them all to protect 'em. Jesus Christ! We've got such a pack of those freaks on the books it makes me sick to think about it—and now we've got a lunatic acting as cop, judge, and executioner. What in hell he is: a goddamned executioner. Who knows how many like him walking the Earth? Civilized world seems to be coming apart." He had been speaking to a crescendo without realizing it. "It's chaos!" he yelled. "Madness!"

Noticing his eyes burnished with rage she applied her bedside tone of voice. "A self-styled executioner, huh?" She looked at her notepad and wrote on it. Under her breath: "Executioner." Then more loudly: "The world has become a scary place. But do you think Shelley sees it that way? Oh, I know she worries about the state of society as do many of us, but she may see the solution differently than you." The psychologist raised her carefully penciled brows to check his understanding of her words.

Mark could not remember if he had heard his wife mention her reason for having children, other than to fulfill her motherly instinct, but he was not going to reveal this uncertain memory to her sister. So he pretended to be in control of the conversation. "Tell me. I'd like to know how you think she sees things."

The doctor smirked but took up the challenge. "Of course Shelley wants children because she's a young married woman. What could be more common—and natural?" Mark flinched at the sarcasm, the resentment hiding in the question. He guessed Brenda was on her way to becoming a lifelong spinster; since he had known her, she had always put career first. He did not answer. So she went on without him. "And of course she wants to have them with you."

At the 'of course' part, he inhaled deeply, held the air in his chest, and then let it out slowly. Using the positive momentum he said, "We could've adopted kids. Hell of a lot of 'em waiting for parents."

"True. That is certainly true. But you should keep in mind that a healthy young female wants to produce her own offspring."

Mark knew that as well as he knew his wife and now he was beginning to feel an almost unbearable pressure behind his eyes. He wanted out of the place. "Look, Bren—I appreciate your concern about us but I don't know if Shelley would trust me even if I did agree to have kids. She's gone pretty far to get clear of me, you know."

"Not too far. She took the dog."

He burned a look at her annoying smirk. So many people in her position take themselves too damned seriously, he thought. "Yeah, she took Pardner." He decided to play along with her to see where she was going.

"You realize—that's no way to get clear of someone—take his beloved pet."

Mark was gratified to know she had observed his fondness for the dog. And his own psychological insight pleased him more. She had a point. Maybe Shelley had a string attached to the dog's collar that wound right back to him and their home together. He liked that idea and would ponder it for days. Figuring he ought to leave while he was ahead, he nodded himself to his feet. "Well, I sure appreciate your time, Brenda. I thought you'd have some good ideas on the case."

"Which one?" she asked over that irritating grin.

"Both," he admitted.

Self-satisfaction widened her mouth and narrowed her bright green eyes. She looked as if she had just won a grand award. Mark noticed some of the same insufferable self-righteousness in both sisters. He had tolerated it in Shelley to the point of their split but he found it much harder to swallow in this woman. She stood and extended her hand to him with a look in her eye that indicated she wanted more. He obliged and put his arms around her. She held him more tightly than he thought she would, more firmly than he remembered her doing in the past. Pulling her head back to look closely into his eyes she said softly, "We're still family, Mark—and friends I hope. Don't let us fall apart if you can help it." She kept her hands on his arms.

He resented that comment, suggesting he was to blame, and he wanted to insist that Shelley too had a part in keeping the marriage alive. More, he wondered to what she was referring by the word 'us'—him and his wife or him and her. "I'm always open," he said unblinking.

She looked at him, smiled for a second, then said, "Good," at the same time as she stepped away from him. "If you want to talk more about the case, just let me know. I want to help."

He ignored what he perceived as an innuendo and tossed her a friendly farewell then left her standing in the middle of her plush office. Mark felt better leaving the place than he had coming in; not only did he have more things to chew on about the killer but he also had unexpected hope for his marriage. Maybe Shelley had taken the dog to keep him on a line, maybe she still wanted to have children with him, and maybe she still loved him. In his car he found a classical music station and listened, something he rarely did. With a Chopin Scherzo rippling around his head, he drove back to Parker Center. He had a lot on his mind and was surprised to find the music seeming to help him make sense of it all.

Chapter 17

At home that evening Mark was nursing a beer and staring at the TV news without knowing what was going on, when the phone rang. He let the machine take it. Finished for the day. But upon hearing his wife's voice, he nearly fell on the floor and banged his knee on a table in a scramble to catch it before she hung up. "Yeah—Shelley—," he shouted into the phone. Behind him on the tube, a reporter was talking about the killings, showing photographs of the victims, and interviewing people in the street, among them the Chief of Police. Mark groaned.

"Mark? What's the matter?"

"Nothing." He was rubbing his knee and glancing at the TV, trying to pick up what the reporter was saying, as he spoke to his wife. "Hi, Shell. What's up?"

"Oh, I just thought I'd call." She stopped short and said nothing for a second or two. "Brenda told me you talked with her."

He lay back in a chair and lifted his large feet onto an ottoman. "Only this afternoon—yeah. She was a big help." He kept an eye on the screen.

"She told me about you and the serial killer."

"Uh-huh." He was wondering what else she had told her. He did not have to wonder long.

"She also told me you two talked about us."

Us. Mark switched off the TV. "Yeah." He thought the Earth would circle the sun before she spoke again.

"I was thinking if, well, if you wanted to drop by and take Pardner for a walk one of these days."

"Pard. Oh, sure. I'd like that." Now he was hesitating. "The three of us—"

"I don't know. I guess we could go together."

"You guess!" His heart dropped into his stomach. "Why? You have to check with your boyfriend or something?"

"Mark. Don't get shitty with me. It wasn't that easy to call, you know. Besides, I'm not trying to replace you, so don't get defensive." He sighed slowly, silently. "I was only thinking about the divorce." He stopped breathing. "And I don't know if we should be seeing each other."

"Why in hell not, Shell—we're married for Chrisake!"

"Don't swear at me, Mark, or I'll hang up."

"I'm sorry. I just—I feel like I've been unhinged lately."

"I know the feeling." Silence hung on the line so heavily Mark thought the connection would snap. "Maybe this wasn't such a good idea—," she said with a quaver in her voice.

He wanted to reach through the telephone to keep her from flying away from him. "I'd still like to see Pard."

"Sure. I want you to."

"When?"

"Anytime. Just call to let me know."

"Uh-huh."

Another long suspended silence. "Well, I better go," she said.

"Yeah." That was last thing he wanted but did not know how to keep the conversation going. Besides, he was afraid he would say something to poison it. "Maybe I'll come by tomorrow."

"Anytime—but call first. Okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah." He wanted to hang on the phone with her all night.

"Well, I guess I'll go—"

"Sure." He hurried to insert an afterthought before she hung up. "Thanks for callin'." He heard her laugh lightly like a breeze ruffling leaves.

"Bye."

The word played in his mind like a sad song lyric. It obsessed him until he crawled into bed and finally fell asleep after running their conversation repeatedly in his mind.

***

When Mark turned onto the street south of Ventura Boulevard where Shelley lived, he had to search for the address, never having been there, actually having avoided the place. Slowing in front of a ranch style house, he pulled his car into the driveway and stopped behind another car, newer and much more expensive than his old chariot. With an eye on the windows of the main house to see if anyone at home would be watching, he walked to the backyard, where a small white house sat nestled among flowers, shrubs, and trees. A nice place, he thought—for a woman alone. Kind of like a fairy tale cottage. Before reaching the door he heard Pardner barking from inside, saw a hand pull curtains aside, heard the front door open, and took the rushing dog's forepaws right in the stomach. "Hey, Pard ol' buddy! How ya doin', guy?" Mark ruffled the dog's thick white mane and grabbed his gently biting jaws. "How 'bout a walk, fella?"

"Mark—I thought you were going to call." Shelley's voice laced with angst.

He grinned boyishly when he saw his wife standing in the doorway. Her set chin and frowning brow weakened his smile, and the sight of something behind her destroyed it. A stranger, a man, was standing in the same house with his wife. Words tumbled out of him. "I told you I was comin' over today, Shell."

She huffed and glanced at the man behind her. "Dan—this is Mark McQuade."

The fact that his wife did not identify him as her husband to this man who was occupying his rightful position meant to Mark one of two things: either she had already told him or she was hiding it. In case it was the latter, Mark said, "Yeah, I'm her husband. Who are you?"

The man stepped forwards of Shelley as if her bodyguard. "I'm Daniel Horning."

Mark glowered at him then quipped, "I bet you are."

Shelley hit him with a sharp visual rebuke.

Mark stood his ground for a moment then returned his attention to the dog. Crouched to rub his flanks vigorously then looked up at Shelley. "Is the offer still good?" he asked with feigned randiness.

Horning threw an inquisitory eye at Shelley. She glanced back again and shook her head then said, "Okay. As long as you're here. But don't be long. We're going out soon."

Mark was bursting with four or five different smartass remarks but to his immense surprise contained them all. "Just a walk around the block, maybe through a park—if there's one nearby."

"There is," she said. "I take him there all the time."

"Be back in a half hour or so. Wouldn't want to delay your date." Shelley and her guest looked at each other, waiting for the first to speak, to deal with this boor. Seeing the shared looks Mark had to drag out their discomfort. "So—Horning. What's your claim to fame—other than knowing my wife?" Shelley seared him through eyeslits. Mark raised both hands in exaggerated supplication. "Hey—only trying to be friendly here."

"It's all right, Shelley." Horning took her hand in his and held it level with his crouch. He looked down at Mark and said through a half smile, "I'm a physician."

Mark bristled at hearing his wife's name coming out of this interloper's mouth and nearly jumped to his feet at seeing the physical familiarity between them but he forced himself to keep calm. "Uh-huh." He looked at Shelley and grinned. "That's neat."

Neither she nor her guest knew what to make of that remark but Shelley retorted anyway. "Yes, it is. Now, why don't you go and play with Pardner before it gets too late."

Mark stood slowly, stretching through the resentment he was feeling from head to toe at his wife's condescending tone, and focused on the dog. "Well, Pard—we boys better go before mommy sends us to our room without supper." He tossed a twisted grin at them both for good measure. "I'd better have his leash. It's the law, you know."

Without word or gesture, Shelley turned into the house, left the young doctor alone in the doorway. He was distinctly nervous and kept his eyes on the dog. When Shelley returned, she handed a leash and a plastic bag to Mark. "You'd better have this to pick up the shit. It's the law too."

Mark flushed with embarrassment and anger. "Right." Trying to act as cool as he could under the awkward circumstances he left the yard and followed the dog down the sidewalk. Shelley and Daniel watched him saunter away then smiled at each other as they stepped back and closed the door soundly.

Out of his wife's sight, Mark spit out the word 'bitch' under his breath and stomped down the street. Pardner bounced and strained at the leash while looking back at the man with eyes wide and tongue lolling, gestures that meant in dog body language: "Where we goin? Huh? Well, let's go! What you waiting for? Come on, slowpoke! Get movin'!" Pardner's exuberance eased Mark's rancorous mood into boyish enthusiasm, and he picked up his pace to let his friend enjoy the sights and most of all the scents along the walkway. Mark McQuade was often far happier to be with his dog than with humans. He won't let me down, Mark mused, as he followed the black and white collie's tugging lead into the park.

While the two buddies circled a playground, Mark watched some children at play. For once he was starting to see them with different eyes. The man had always liked kids, despite his reluctance to bring new ones to life, but now he saw more their sweet innocence, their basic good nature, their promise, and most of all their vulnerability. More than fragile beings to be kept from the horrible darkness of civilization, maybe they were precious and priceless securities for a decent future. Children born of and raised right could grow up to light the darkness. As angry as he was at his wife, Mark McQuade was beginning to realize that women like her had a serious motive for wanting babies. She was simply desirous of fulfilling a profound purpose on Earth. Her passion proved the meaning of life. Trouble is, Mark thought as he turned Pardner loose in the grass, who else is she going to share that passion with—me or the handsome young doctor?

Mark scanned the scene. Not the rarely untainted sky, or the warm foliage of the season, or the kids at play could prevent his thoughts from falling into the pit. That dark bottomless strangely alluring hole of self-pity for its own sake. Only Pardner's joyful dashing and darting from one attraction to another turned on the light of day again for Mark McQuade and helped him keep his head high.

Chapter 18

The City of Angels is a paradise for people who enjoy exposing themselves to severe sunlight, the climate consisting of two seasons: big and little summer. Scant rain and scarcer ice. Practically desert. High pressure often hangs over the city and its tandem towns like an invisible stratospheric umbrella. Only the mountains to the north and the great ocean to the west provide any clemency. Without that mighty alpine shield, without that merciful marine current the land would bake to hardpan yearound. Not surprisingly, it is home to multiple millions of sun-loving, heat-soaking people, and none more than to homeless people. As many of the miserable ones dwell there as in any city of the world. JD Ketch one of them.

He was tramping the streets of Los Angeles on an early October day, when the Santa Ana winds were sweeping off the inland deserts and searing the big basin day and night. Often having to walk JD sometimes begged bus fare but mostly trekked on foot from the northern foothills of the San Fernando Valley to the Santa Monica seashore. On duty today, as on most days to his way of thinking, he was traveling to an apartment in West Los Angeles that he had been observing for nearly a week, watching for a particular inhabitant. From his computer research in libraries and constant inventory of postal posters, he had selected another subject for removal.

To avoid attention, not that anyone actually attended to this modern mendicant, he walked around the neighboring blocks as if looking for recyclable trash or fresh garbage for a meal but always passed the same apartment building. He did not look in the windows, at people who entered and exited, or even at the structure itself; but he was looking for one man. The hunter had sighted his quarry and, once JD Ketch started tracking his prey, he did not yield.

JD knew his target lived in this building. Having identified him as a convicted child molester, JD did not let him out of his sight, while the man was outside. He followed him to the neighborhood store, the corner mailbox, the local park, and playground. With no car JD could not follow him on the roads, a fact that frustrated him. But he knew from observation and experience that this kind of person often kept his heinous activity close to home—the vicinity where he watched his own small prey for a few days before finally using a car for a quick snatch. That interim was JD's open window.

That day was so hot he wondered if the man would appear in daylight. JD hoped not, because nighttime was downtime for him. By necessity—one watching the other watching children—both did their work in the full light of day. JD was fretting as he waited, wringing his hands as if they were cold. Still he waited and watched. Then the man appeared, and JD's hands stopped moving like the paws of a great cat in sight of his prey. Adrenaline gushed through his body, quickening breath and pulse. Late afternoon. Perfect. A few hours left.

The man stopped on the front steps, lit a cigarette, and turned down the sidewalk right in front of JD, who looked down and away to avoid suspicion. He need not have bother. The man ignored homeless individuals like lepers.

JD let some distance grow between them before starting in pursuit. The old combat soldier had not lost much of his finesse. He knew from talent and experience how to stalk a man. He printed the image of his subject in his memory: slender, hair dyed black and combed over a spreading baldpate, dark green jogging clothes, bright white running shoes, and a nervously hurried gait. JD could read the signs. The ogre's found what he wants, he thought. Got the body language. Picked out some poor kid. On his way now to set it up. Damned savage. Intruder from the underworld. Maybe even the Devil would reject his kind. Ravager of children. JD wished he could stop that cruel heart repeatedly. Strangle and revive. Strangle again. But let him see me. See his executioner. Last human face he ever knows. JD hurried his pace, chanting something inaudible to himself.

The man slowed down when he reached the playground at a small neighborhood park, looked and behaved as though there only for a daily exercise. He took a walking path off the sidewalk that encircled the park. JD noticed large eucalyptus trees standing guard over the grounds. Just right to hide and watch. A perfect space among the massive trunks to clot with a corpse. But his prey stayed in public view. Brazen. He strode along the path until he found a bench on the edge of a cluster of Japanese mock orange bushes then sat and lit another cigarette. His fingers yellow, skin wrinkled, he reeked of nicotine and tar. A chain smoker.

Poisoning himself to death, JD thought, but takes too long. Got to stop him now. JD continued on the footpath until well beyond the man on the bench then doubled back through the trees behind him. At about five yards from the man's position JD stepped inside the sheltering branches of a large cedar, pretending to have found a place to drink a bottle of cheap wine and descend into boozy dreams for the night. But he was not drinking. He was high enough on adrenaline and his personal fanaticism. Sitting at the base of the tree, he watched the man watching the children at play in the park. He saw the man's head turn to follow one cute little boy. JD stared at the child in amazement. Justin? Believing him to be his long absent son he nearly blurted out his name and made a half start to his feet until he realized where he was and crouched low, tense.

The man on the bench had no sense of anyone behind him, stalking him; no awareness of this highly skilled specimen of the deadliest predator on Earth. Had he known such an animal was there, watching, waiting, he should have preferred a wolf or a bear or a tiger—anything but a human. When working JD moved like a panther and was nearly invisible in the shadows. Through the trees he watched his prey with unflinching eyes, waiting for the right moment. Can't take him on the bench, he thought. When he stands up. Near the bushes. JD's eyes flashed to spot any witnesses. None. The children were too involved in play to notice anyone acting strangely around them. Noisy kids. Their guardians watching only them. Just the way JD liked it. Plenty of distraction. He waited. Patient, he would remain there all day and night if necessary. Not a man of clocks he measured time by his heartbeat and the endless changes of light and dark. He waited to make his move.

The man sat on the bench a long time. Too long. JD's legs were stiffening. He wanted to stretch but could move only inches to relieve the strain. JD was afraid he could hold the position no longer and might have to blow his cover, when the man got off the bench and stood up, his eyes on the children. JD shivered. Without blinking, he watched the man as he stepped away from the bench and moved along the grass at the edge of the shrubs.

Too rapidly for the eye to follow, too quietly for the ear to catch, JD attacked. Whipping the wire out of his pants pocket, he snared the man's head, snapped the wire tight, and dragged the stunned body into the dense bushes. "Your time has come," the Reaper whispered into the man's ear. Under a sheltering copse, in the dark shade of shiny green leaves, on a cool patch of loam, JD performed his deadly act. Tightening the noose every time the man took a breath, the talon-like hands muscled the thin wire deeper and deeper into the flesh, slicing the skin, drawing blood, severing muscle, veins, squeezing arteries, closing the copper collar onto the cervical vertebrae. Crimson life quickly flowed out of the quivering organism. As always JD avoided his victim's flailing arms, soon quieted from loss of blood and oxygen to the brain. When the body's feet stopped pushing, its heels stopped scraping the soil, JD waited like a leopard on the throat of his prey. He waited until no movement in the body—not a pulse, not a twitch—until the warmth drained out with the blood. Certain the man was a corpse, JD uncoiled the wire, wiped it on a rag, and shoved it back into his pants.

When he crawled out of the bushes, he winced at sharp pain in his knees and realized that he had moved clumsily. He had been slower in his attack, a weakness he could not allow. Staying in the shadows of the shrubs and trees, he crept undercover for fifteen or so yards before emerging from the park. Then standing among some oleander along a sidewalk he again looked for witnesses. No one. Lucky again. A car passed, but the driver did not even glance at the homeless man. JD exhaled long and stepped onto the sidewalk. But before going three paces, he noticed a dark red spot on his pants. Scratching up a handful of dirt and leaves, he rubbed them into the stain, turning it earthen, grease-like. Satisfied that the spot no longer looked like blood, that it blended with the filth of his rags, he walked down the street and headed instinctively westward through the city. He was seeking the sea.

JD Ketch always tried to get to the ocean after a mission. Hiking the West Los Angeles streets he turned onto Santa Monica Boulevard where he knew people would see him but would also pay him no heed. He imagined he could be walking naked down Sunset Boulevard and not one person would notice. That image always made him grin. JD Ketch seldom laughed. Only birds, squirrels, and children made him laugh at all, rather smile with a discreet crackle; but he never made a sound resembling laughter. He was a dismally moody man, dark as death. Only innocent harmless living things stirred in him any atom of joy.

As he passed store windows, he glimpsed a grotesque reflection of himself as in a fun house of mirrors. He wondered why such places were called fun houses. As a boy he had not found them fun but frightening. Now JD the man was not easily scared, yet the image of an inhuman monster could raise the hair on his flesh, especially when the monster was he staring back at him. So he avoided such distorted reflectors. He shied away from anything that showed him more than he wanted to see. Hiking down the sidewalk, he kept his eyes not on the buildings, not on the cars, not on the people but on the sky; he was always looking to the sky for clouds and birds. The vision in the vapors, the sight of swinging crows and gulls, and sweeping pigeons, fluttering finches cheered his miserable soul. In that manner JD Ketch made his lonely way to the Pacific shore.

When he arrived there, he found the sand still warm from the daily heat, even the surf tepid. The air felt like the long forgotten touch of a loving woman on his face. He wanted to strip off his ragged garments and run naked into the churning water but jumped in fully clothed. He had to cleanse them, rinse away the tincture of death, and rebaptize himself in the swarming arms of the Great Mother. A huge wave swallowed him, tumbled his long body as a bunch of kelp. He let himself revolve in the dark brine. He tasted the salt. Underwater he heard a tinkling sound around him as myriad bells. Out of breath he swam to the choppy surface and spouted like a porpoise. For a while he trod adrift, swaying toward shore with the swells then moving out to sea with the draw. Rolling onto his back and exhaling he gazed at the purpling sky, streaked with scarlet cloud stretching from horizon to horizon, and at hordes of seabirds savoring the last hour of the hunt. I could die happily right here and now, he thought, not move a muscle to see another day.

As a small whitecap washed over his face, he burst into tears. All the fond fancies of his life rushed into his mind: love for this wife and child, love for any goodness left in the world. Over it all he knew he was a dead man, preconvicted by his murderous ways, condemned. While he wept, his body rocked in the surge. He sucked in a deep breath and bellowed, screamed an indecipherable oath of fear and grief into the infinite space that arced above him. Seabirds flapped overhead, glanced down at him, and then soared out of sight. Only the great flood and the vast firmament remained indifferent to his profound despair. When a huge pulse of water rolled beneath him, JD let himself sink and go with the current. The swell lifted him, tossed him onto its crest as if in offertory to a greater power, then pushed him in a rush of foam onto the beach.

Deposited on the wet sand like a dead reject of the marine world, he lay on his back, eyes closed. He lay there until all color and light drained from the sky. When he opened his eyes again, the stars were claiming their domain. Shivering he pulled himself to his feet and stumbled across the dry sand to a drain tunnel where he removed his clothes and squeezed out the salty liquid that dripped into the gutter runoff at his feet. His naked body was white in the rising moonlight, glowing eerily, ghostlike. Slender, almost skinny, his limbs were sinewy, his muscles taut strands that appeared about to snap his bones. Shaking droplets out of his thick patch of vapory hair, he shoved his hands over his head to lay the silvery strands flat and long down his neck. After cramming his arms and legs back into the cold damp clothes, he stood in the hollow of the drain and gazed over the sea. As long as he could look at her, lie in her embrace JD Ketch could enjoy a fragment of happiness. Eventually only hunger, demanding his primal attention to life, cold move him out of that trance. After scaling a concrete wall that abutted the drain, he ran across the highway to a fast food restaurant. Reaching into cans around the building, he found his food, his only meal for the day. Then he returned to the wall along the beach and sat there to devour the garbage. Stomach settled, his mind drifted away, while his eyes scanned the unfathomable pageant of sea and sky. With nightfall the dark stain on his clothes had vanished, and he forgot the man he had killed.

Chapter 19

When Mark McQuade discovered the young physician in his wife's apartment, his gut response was to seek revenge by beating or at least matching Shelley at her own game. And the person to play it with was Donna Wright. Mark called her from the RHD before he left for the day, before the division could hear about the serial killer's latest deed. Mark could rationalize a tryst with Donna as being born of his genuine fondness for the woman; maybe he was even falling in love with her. She was beautiful, bright, sexy, and domestic—all the qualities Mark most admired in women. So he telephoned to invite her to his place for an evening, which he hoped meant the night. When he posed the date he held his breath a moment, worried that she would find that too much of an adventure. Mark was surprised to learn that Donna was more responsive than he had expected.

She was bathing the baby and talking on the phone at the same time. "I'd love to, Mark. When?" The moisture curled the ends of hair at her temples; the heat flushed her cheeks.

"Damn. I keep giving you short notice. Actually I was hoping tonight. Being Friday I'm off tomorrow, so mommy won't make me go to bed early."

"What if mommy puts you to bed late?"

Mark hardened almost immediately. Easier than I thought. A twinge of conscience or concern or something pinched him but he ignored it. "That could be good, if...." Glancing around the office at the other cops, all appearing to have huge red hot ears, he veered off on another line. "I'm not much of a cook. Thought we could order Chinese and watch a movie." He did not want to have to conceal a bulge in his pants. The guys were always looking for something like to that to make into an endlessly tiresome joke.

"Oh, I love Chinese," Donna said then lowered her voice to an exaggerated huskiness. "What kind of movie?"

Mark was hankering to go where she was heading. "Oh, I don't know—anything you want."

"Anything I want!" She toweled off the infant and tied a diaper around her. "God, I haven't heard that from a man before." She would not have heard it from Mark either if he had not been so concerned with eavesdroppers. He was thinking strictly porn. She was thinking love story with interludes of romantic sex. "As usual I'm not sure I can get my sitter so late," she said, "but I'll try."

"Call me at home. I'm leaving now. What do you like in Chinese?"

"Whatever you choose. It's all delicious."

Everything she said now sounded seductive. "Good. You're easy."

Her tittering stirred in him an urge to apologize that he denied. They were on a roll. Mark did linger at his desk, pretending to file papers and find things in drawers. His colleagues filed past him, each with a wink or what Mark perceived as a wink, maybe a twinkle in the ol' boy code that said without words what Firth could not contain: 'Hey, man—gonna get some tail tonight, eh? Heh, heh." Mark could think of nothing else to do but grin stupidly.

Even in his car on the way home, the grin lingered on his face. But when he haphazardly glanced at a cab driver next to him at a stoplight and got a return grin, the look fell from of his face like water down a drain. At the green light, Mark shot off the line and sped through the streets to his house. Mark leaned over the wheel like an adolescent driving to a first date with the hottest girl in school. Squealing to a stop in his driveway, he heard the phone ring and ran to catch it.

The ringing stopped at soon as he burst into the house. He was about to curse his bad timing when he saw the light blinking a message. Zipping through the calls, he stopped on one next to the last and was surprised to hear:

"Hi, Mark," Shelley's voice sang out. "Just wanted to straighten out that little scene at my place the other day. Call me—if you feel like it."

"Traitor," Mark snapped and rolled the tape to the last call.

"Good news, Detective McQuade," Donna's voice sang. "I can join you for dinner tonight. I'll bring desert—my treat. Be there at six. Oh, and I've got to be home early, you know, to relieve the sitter. Ciao, love."

Love. Uh-oh. An icy feeling crept up Mark's legs. He picked up the phone and started to call her back but suspended it halfway to his ear. What can I say? He wanted her to come over for the evening. Hell, he just wanted her. But she obviously had more on her mind than a fling with a cop. The instrument and his intentions hung in the air for several beats. Pulling a card out of a drawer in a table under the phone, he read some read numbers then punched them. "Yeah. Two specials, please—delivered." Before the phone stopped rattling on the table he ran into the bedroom, stripped on the way, and jumped into the shower.

Mark washed himself more deliberately than usual, not so much to get especially clean, but because he was so preoccupied with the upcoming event, he kept scrubbing the same spot. In all his and Shelley's years of dating and marriage, he had not slept with a woman other than her. He had always considered himself a one-woman man. Now he had to rethink that attitude. In doing so, he noticed the water suddenly too hot, the shower stall suffocating. He cranked the faucet for cold. What was he doing with this other woman? Would fucking her really make him feel better about another man fucking his wife? Or worse? He could not think but stood feeling helpless, nearly paralyzed in the chilling spray. Goosebumps erupted on his flesh, his genitals shriveled into little boy parts. An urge to weep surprised him. He fought it back. Not the time to break down like a girl. He stuck his face into the cold water and turned off the faucet.

Before he could dry himself and put on some clothes, the doorbell rang. Wrapping a towel around himself, he hurried to answer it. The Chinese food. After mentioning how damned quickly the delivery boy had brought the food and getting no response but a weary grin, he searched out his wallet and fingered out some bills. "Keep the change."

When Mark saw the delivery boy's grin brighten, he knew he had probably given him too much but let it go. Not time to fuss over funds. Part of the investment. He shoved the boxes of food into the oven, absently turned it on too high, checked the fridge for beer, and went back to dressing. Got to be casual, he thought. Don't want to look like I'm trying to impress her. He stepped into a pair of faded chinos and dropped a white polo shirt over his head. Only socks on his feet. Mark liked to stay out of his shoes at home; let the old cop dogs spread out a little. While tucking in his shirt, he heard the door again. Opening it was like drawing the curtain on the start of a notorious performance.

Donna looked like a star standing on his front porch. She was dressed to break hearts: heeled sandals showing off her ruby red toes, short white pants hugging her thighs, a rayon blouse to match her toes, silky hair long and loose around those gorgeous eyes. "Hi-ee!" She made a cute little waving move with her hand and cocked her head to the side. Her big smile signaled an evening of absolute delight.

He wanted to suck on her lips before saying a word but curbed his desire and simply said, "Hi there!" Before he could utter another sound, she wrapped her slender arms around his neck and pressed her lips onto his mouth. When he felt her tongue playing along his teeth his appetite changed from victual to carnal. And he had been fiendishly hungry.

"God, it's good to see you," she whispered down his throat.

"Thanks, occasionally I like to appear in the flesh—to choice mortals."

She laughed wickedly like a classical witch, and he for the first time thought she could be dangerous. Not physically but in that ingeniously artless way superb women can captivate a man's mind. But Mark McQuade liked danger—as long as he had every reason to believe he would come out on top.

"Well, don't we think well of ourselves," she said.

"If we don't—we should."

The mythical laugh refilled his house, drenched his head. "Where's the food?" she demanded. "I'm starved!" Still she hung onto his neck. He was too aware of his heart beating between her breasts to answer coherently. She shot a question mark at him with her eyes. It reminded him of something else.

He sniffed the air. "Damn!" He broke away from her and ran for the kitchen.

"What's the matter?"

"The food—in the oven!"

She laughed again and scanned the room, looking for indications of the man of the house but more for signs of the woman who used to share it with him. Her head turned when she heard the oven door bang shut then a series of yelps. Sensing an entertaining scene, she scurried into the kitchen and saw him juggling a bunch of small white cartons onto a table. "Can I help?"

He thought of suggesting she kiss his burned fingers and make them better but knew such a silly remark would crack his tough guy routine. "Naw. Got it under control—I think. At least there's no chance of this grub getting cold anytime soon. Hope ya like beer."

"Love it, especially with Chinese." She would have preferred a chilled Riesling but would not think of dampening his enthusiasm.

"I can see we're gonna get along fine," he said with too big a smile.

She swung a look around the house. "Where we going to eat?"

Knowing, despite his inexperience with adulterous affairs, that she did not find the kitchen suitable for a romantic dining atmosphere he said, "We could eat in front of the fire." He knew the weather was too damned hot and was going to pretend it to have been a joke.

For a moment she thought he was serious then laughed and said, "Let's. On the floor." Gingerly he started to move the boxes onto a tray. She stepped across the kitchen and said, "How 'bout we scoop the goodies into bowls? Got some?"

"Oh, sure—" He glanced around at the cupboards, opened one, then another. "Here—" He pulled out a few dishes large and small and set them on the table.

"And a spoon?"

He grabbed two large utensils, which she took and stuck into the cartons. "Mmm—smells wonderful!" she cooed while transferring the aromatic fare to the living room.

"The special. My favorite."

In relays they carried steaming bowls of rice, savory vegetables, and spicy shrimp. "Could you get the beers, Donna?"

She grabbed the bottles and found two glasses. When he saw the glasses, items he rarely put together with beer, he looked at them long enough for her to notice. "Oh, do you have chilled ones?" she asked big-eyed.

"No, that's fine." He set the tray on a small carpet he and his wife had bought that year from an Iranian rug dealer, and they sat crossed-legged in front of the carbon-coated fireplace.

Donna poked her finger into the saucy vegetables and stuck it into her mouth. He watched her lips surround the finger, shiny and pink. Grinning at him like a nymph, she slowly pulled her finger out with a delicate pop. "Yummy," she murmured as she removed her sandals. Her feet were small, youthful.

His appetites became confused again. He wanted to jump her and tear her clothes off. Roll around in the rice and noodles then drive his body into hers deep and hard.

"Shall I serve?" she said without guile.

He gave her a befuddled expression. "Oh, yeah—dig in."

Despite their intense hunger, they ate slowly, fixing onto each other's eyes and mouths, grinning rather moronically, until the food and the beer relaxed their pretenses. She ripped her eyes away from his for a cursory survey of the room. "Nice place. Kind of like mine. I mean the shape and all." He followed her eyes and nodded, realizing she was right. Their two houses were more similar than he had thought. He wondered what other similarities would appear. "How long has she been gone?" she abruptly asked.

He started to respond with 'Who?' but only let his mouth fall open dumbly.

"Oh, I'm sorry. That's none of my business."

"No, no. It's all right. Shell—she left last year."

"Shell? Her name's Shell—like a...?"

"Shelley."

"That's a nice name—" She stuck a bamboo shoot into her mouth and chewed it demonstratively to disguise the rivalry that pinched her insides. "Musical." She grinned mysteriously.

He did not try to solve it. "Yeah. It is." His eyes drifted away from her.

"I know. It's all right. I was kind of that way too when my ex left."

This woman might know him better than he thought she did, and he did not like it. Made him feel vulnerable. Mark McQuade always protected the inner squall of his being with an invisible coat of armor. Being a cop made that easier for him than could most other professions. Believing then that he needed to say something quickly he asked, "Do you think you'll marry again?" As soon as the last word stumbled between his teeth, he knew he had uttered the magic word to open a door better left locked.

"Oh, yes," she gushed. Not yet finished with her meal Donna moved closer to him, leaning on one arm, its soft inner bend at the elbow bluish white. "I wouldn't want the kids to grow up without a man in the house. For that matter either would I." Her smile radiated pure sex. Its vermilion glow enveloped his mind, which he promptly lost. When she stroked his face, Mark became paralyzed—all but the necessary parts, which were full of life. He focused on her lips, shiny from the food. He had an urge to lick them. She saw the urge and crowded his face with hers. "Ready for dessert?"

He could not help but blush, not from any awkwardness or discomfort but from the raw heat suffusing his body. A long time since Mark had enjoyed such heat. The occasional sexy movie left him with the annoyance of a cold spot on his bedsheets in the middle of the night, but—movie! He had forgotten to pick up the porn tape and was about to mention it when he realized that they were soon going to perform their own scene. No artificial stimulation needed. Too bad, he thought, I don't have a camera set up in the bedroom and grinned at his whimsy.

Any possibility of further semi-rational thoughts evacuated his mind when Donna slipped her lips across his cheek to meet his mouth, electrified by her hand abandoning his face to seek the center of his brute identity. Gently rattling the plates and bottles, Mark hooked her in his arms and bent her backward to the floor. She obliged so freely he marveled at her suppleness, at the lightness of her body, the smallness of her frame, skinny wrists, narrow shoulders, but mostly her satiny skin. Sliding a hand under her blouse at one corner, he let his big palm drift down her spine to find her pelvis. When the tips of his thick fingers sank into her pelvic dimples, he smiled into the burnishing kiss.

Assuming his direction, Donna temporarily removed one busy hand to unbutton her shorts at the waist. This man's style of making love, so different from that of her husband, distracted her for the moment but she quickly recovered her purpose, comfortable in realizing she would probably not have to convince this man she was a goddess. Her body rippled with ardor, when his hands tugged at her blouse, her shorts, and her panties. His fire ignited her and released their animal fluency. They united wildly, oblivious of the scattered kernels of rice and beer dripping onto the plush pile. Moisture lubricated the slowly moving wreath of their bodies. All sound but theirs diminished to nothing. Having forgotten to light the fireplace, they set the house ablaze. Their two planets fused, they spun alone into a joyously expanding universe.

***

Mark and Donna had blazed a trail from living room to bed and were about to begin their third mating, when the telephone rang. At the jarring trill, he thought of Shelley. Was she psychic? How did she know he was right in the middle of—? He picked up the phone. "Yeah—?" he said breathlessly as he looked at Donna and shrugged. She crawled behind him and stroked his chest.

Not Shelley. But a voice sadly familiar. "Another body, Mark." Captain Mansford was speaking quietly as he reclined in a chair in his den.

For a millisecond McQuade did not know to which body his boss was referring before it dawned on him. "No shit."

"Sorry to spoil your weekend. Sergeant Krintz on the night desk just called me and said some groundskeeper discovered the corpse in a park on the west side. Can you...?"

"Yeah—sure, captain. I'm leavin' right now."

Donna lifted her head and set her chin on his shoulder as he hung up the phone. "Aw—" Her pout invited him to kiss her. He obliged but only long enough to make a smacking sound.

"I gotta go, baby." He slid out of bed and yanked on his clothes.

She sat up and stretched, her breasts lifting smartly. "It's all right. I've got to get home to the kiddies. Besides, I think we made our point, didn't we." She smiled into a feline look.

"More than once," he said with a grin on the way to the door. "Can you let yourself out?"

She looked a little surprised at his trust then said, "Sure. Mind if I use your shower?"

"Enjoy yourself. I'll call ya later."

"I hope so." She fell back onto the pillows, her dark hair nesting her head. "I'm getting used to this."

Mark threw her a noncommittal look sweetened with a half smile and left the house. She let her eyes rest on the doorway through which he had gone and contemplated his response. Bouncing out of a dark mood that threatened her like a rain cloud, she leaped off the bed and trotted into the bathroom.

While showering she reran their scene in her mind. She had not expected his careful tenderness, maybe because of some preconceived notion she had about cops or some prejudice about men. The hot water felt so soothing on her body she had to force herself out of the stall to dry off and get dressed. While putting on her shorts and shirt she toured the house. Checked out the other bedroom, the den full of his scent, the backyard, the furnishings, the color scheme, and pictures on the walls. Nice place, she thought. Homey. Sense of a woman still lingers here. But it's okay. We fit together. Sure did. Despite a bug of concern gnawing in her chest, she smiled and strode through the living room on her way out of Mark McQuade's house. Before closing the door, she took a long look at the place and said to herself nearly aloud: Yeah, I think it's going to be good.

Chapter 20

The homicide detective was getting the forlorn feeling he could work this case blind. Everything nearly the same, only the places and faces different. But no. Something new this time. Signs of a struggle. Nothing big, no real indication of a fight but definite activity: scrapes in the turf, a broken branch, and scattered leaves. A little careless this time. McQuade crouched to study the ground around the body, looking for a handprint, shoe print—anything to help identify this maniac. He looked into the bushes where the killer might have fled but saw no trail to follow. Not that careless. The guy sure as hell isn't going to lead me to his door.

Dodging the gathering press McQuade walked around the park, along its periphery of sidewalks and streets, keeping his eyes on the ground. Among some trees he stopped and bent low. He peered at a slight stamp in the soil. Barely a dent. Ground too hard. But something. A footprint? He examined it for letters, a logo, grooves—a mark that a plaster mold could retrieve. McQuade flipped open his cell phone. "Michael—send a tech to the south side of the park and him them to bring some casting material. Looks like a footprint. Maybe nothing. But we should pick it up just in case."

Shoving the phone back into his pocket McQuade continued exploring the area while waiting for the technician. The vague print seemed to point west. Angling that way he walked down the street, looking for another mark or any thing the murderer might have dropped in his hurry to get away from the scene. He kicked through the trash in the gutter, bits and pieces of nondescript paper and plastic all sodden from oily water running off thousands of lawns and gardens up hill from the park, globs from even more thousands of vehicles parked along the streets. The toes of his shoes collected some of the greasy grime but he saw nothing interesting. Certainly no clue. He wiped his shoes in a patch of weeds.

When the crime scene people got there, McQuade watched a young woman wearing bib overalls make a cast of the print. She shook her head to signify, without looking at or speaking to the detective that probably nothing helpful would come from it. "Grounds hard," the young tech said. "And the shoe looks too worn to show any distinctive features." McQuade only grunted and watched her work for a few minutes. When media people began to encircle them, he retreated to his car to escape a free-speech inquisition. But he heard from his rear the questions coming rapid fire:

"A word with you, Detective."

"Any evidence the killings could be the work of one man?"

"What can you tell us about your progress in finding the killer?"

"Is the department protecting pedophiles in the city?"

"Detective!"

"One question—"

McQuade dived into his front seat and spun the car out of the gathering mob of press without granting them a glancing look. Let the honchos deal with that bunch, he mused. I got my hands full tryin' to catch this guy.

On his way home McQuade was glad to have avoided the RHD that night, especially if the captain was there. Detective McQuade did not look forward to facing his boss since each newly discovered corpse raised the old man's impatience to the boiling point. Easily McQuade displaced such thoughts with more pleasant ones. He remembered the evening with Donna; could not have gotten it out of his mind for long if he had tried. Not even the baffling crime scene, something he always focused on intensely, could block memories of her naked body in his bed, the fragrance of her hair, the feel of her flesh, the look in her eyes. He wondered if she would still be there. Naw. Sitter waiting. She had to get back to her kids. Good mother. Responsible. Sure made for breeding. Digs sex more than any broad I've known. He relished the snake reawakening in his pants. Beamed at his virility. I still got it. How long? Slow down at forty? Hope not. One of the few things worth living for.

As Mark angled the car into his driveway, he noticed a light in the living room and realized Donna must have done that for him. Thoughtful. He wondered if she had left him a note. Eagerly he shut the garage door and hurried into the house.

Her scent filled the whole space, but that was the only artifact she had left him. No love note. And he was disappointed. Yet she had picked up the trash and put the dishes into the machine. When he walked into the living room, he saw no sign of their dinner or of their sex together. In the bedroom, even the bed was made. Domestic. When he yanked the bedding back, he caught a whiff of her body—gamy. He ran his hand across the bottom sheet to feel any remains of their explosions.

Mark tore off his clothes, and took a long leak as he rocked slightly on his heels; then he ran a toothbrush over his teeth and crawled into bed. Exhausted. Wrapping the sheet around him he imagined a woman intertwined with his arms and legs as he lay amid their commingled scents and drifted toward total darkness. Donna? Shelley? He could not discern.

As much as Mark McQuade wanted, expected a comatose sleep that night, it was not to be. A few hours later a radiovoice jarred him out of slumber: "...break dancing, as an art form originated with B-Boys from the Bronx in New York City as a stylized form of fighting between rival gangs...." When Mark regained consciousness, he was momentarily lost. For a flash he thought he was lying on the ground next to a fresh cadaver. He snapped his head right to see who was lying next to him. He exhaled slowly and looked at the clock. 6:00. Back to work.

"Shit!" He staggered into the shower. He was too sleepy to notice how tidy Donna had left the bathroom. He greatly desired to linger in the steamy stream for at least twenty minutes but knew if he did not get his ass to Parker Center promptly, the captain would be calling his house. Mansford was a stickler for punctuality, probably one of the qualities that helped him get the double bars on his collar. The detective respected that. A good cop was punctilious. He thought about the word and snickered. He pictured a fey grungy rock musician in a captain's uniform. He shrugged off the silly image. Mark was feeling strange. Beginning to think he might be on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Hell of a lot of pressure lately. A guy can take so much and then—

He heard the telephone ring or thought he did. Cranking off the water he jumped out of the stall and opened the bathroom door. Nothing. Not a sound other than that ass hole on the radio. Got to find another station. Maybe something classical. Hard to find though. Mostly rock shit or country corn. Mark liked music but did know what kind would be good for the early morning. Maybe jazz. Naw. Too lively. Need something slow but bright. Piano could be cool. Too bad they don't have wake up music by request. Good idea. Could sell. Mark toweled himself half-dry and put on the most rumpled of his three rumpled suits. He was not going to see either Donna or his wife that day so his sartorial splendor or lack of it made little difference. Besides, he wanted to show some rebelliousness, certain he would have to attend a one-on-one lecture from the captain.

Just as expected, when McQuade walked into the RHD, Captain Mansford was waiting and watching for him. The big man lumbered out of his cubicle with a newspaper flapping in his hand. His eyes burned into McQuade, who kept his own eyes on the paper rather than meet his superior's gaze. Jeez. Him and his god damned newspapers headlines. Before reaching McQuade's desk, Mansford tossed the paper onto it. The sections spread into a semicircle. McQuade scanned the big words in the Op-Ed Section:

STREET EXECUTIONER A LEGEND

"Good Christ!" he nearly spit at the captain and ran his eyes over the column.

The serial killer, aptly called by some—

the Executioner—seems less feared among

the public than admired. People, especially

parents of young children are praising him

for doing a dirty job that, as Thomas Grenard

of Sherman Oaks says, "...needs to be done,

a job that many of us have thought about

doing ourselves but lacked the guts." That

is a growing sentiment which unfortunately

reveals the popular disapproval of allowing

convicted child molesters to live in our midst....

The captain fired his own words on the subject at McQuade: "The media is working this bastard into a national hero, Mark. We've got to get him before people start rooting for him or worse—copying him." A few frames ran through McQuade's mind of a city full of vigilantes taking down every suspected criminal they see on the streets. For some reason unknown to him, he could not help but smirk at the image. The captain scowled. "I don't share your sense of humor, Mark. And how in hell did the press get a hold of that Executioner tag anyway?"

McQuade turned the smirk into a grimace as he widened his eyes and raised his hands in a mock show of helpless ignorance. "Dunno, captain. Some damned leak head, I guess." He nearly blushed in remembering about his talk with Shelley's sister.

Mansford stared at him for a while then said, "Well, I'm assigning Steve Novato to help you out with this one, Mark."

"Novato!" McQuade knew the man, a brash young cop who could turn a fellow's ear to mush with his constant chatter. "I can handle this myself, captain." McQuade could not conceal his doubt inherent in the statement. He was gradually getting a grip on the case but knew quite a few more people were going to get their heads loosened on their shoulders before he found the killer.

"I know you can, Mark. But humor me, will you? The chief and the mayor are beating me up everyday. It's becoming a matter of cop credibility. Half the citizens of LA are beginning to think we don't know what we're doing here, and the other half doesn't care—maybe wants us to fail."

McQuade felt like fighting for himself. "We're not gonna fail, boss. I'm not gonna fail. In fact I'm workin' up an angle on this guy I wanna pursue."

"Yeah?" A spark of hope lighted the captain's face but quickly went out. "Well, I'm assigning Novato to ride with you anyway. Two heads, you know." McQuade nodded, knowing he had no choice. "Besides," Mansford went on, "since Mike died you been trying to carry the work of two men. I appreciate that, Mark, I really do. But...."

"Partners like Mike Franklin come along once in a lifetime, captain. And Novato sure as hell ain't gonna fill his shoes."

Mansford looked down and away. "Yeah, well, you don't have to deal with it right away—he's off today. Be in tomorrow morning to take Franklin's desk. Try to make him feel welcome, will you? He's going to be a good cop someday." Before McQuade could retort, the captain turned and clomped back into his own space.

McQuade mumbled, "So what am I supposed to be—his tutor?" He was glad his captain did not hear the remark as he stared at his former partner's desk. McQuade had insisted it be left vacant, complete with coffee cup rings on a warped desk blotter beneath a half gone yellow legal pad and a broken pen and pencil holder. The detective pictured his partner still sitting there, his chunky frame too big for the old wooden swivel chair, the victorious look in his eye when they both came upon the solution to a case that had been on the big board for months.

Mark McQuade had tried not to think about his partner after seeing him in his desk for the last time. He certainly kept all memories of the shooting out of his mind. The sorrow and the guilt swelled an unbearable pain in his chest, not a physical pain but a massive weight of remorse that was crushing whenever the memories invaded him: the screaming of the junky in the closet, the endlessly repeating gunshots, the fear and confusion, Mike going down right in front of him, the junky at the same time crumpling dead on the floor, Mike Franklin twitching at McQuade's feet, bleeding out on his shoes. He could still see traces of blood on them. That was the first day in Mark McQuade's career when he doubted his vocation. He was a grown man nearly forty and only then had completely lost his innocence. Seeing a cocky kid with a big mouth sitting at Mike Franklin's desk was going to be damned hard to take. McQuade buried himself in his work to find the serial killer. The best way to keep all the crap out of his head.

Chapter 21

The next day McQuade found Detective Steve Novato already busy at Franklin's desk. McQuade paused in the doorway and took a deep breath before confronting the young cop, expecting to have to shut him down quickly when he would start his bullshit about the importance of being a police officer and his bookish theories about solving crimes and most of all his insufferable gloating about making detective at a younger age than anyone in the history of the force. McQuade approached him slowly and looked away when the young officer caught his eye. The older cop said nothing, waiting for the young fellow's known ebullient greeting, a way about him that irritated nearly everyone in the RHD. But this time it did not erupt. Instead, Novato simply watched him with his eyes big and boyish. McQuade, feeling the urge to be civil, nodded his new partner's name at him.

"How you doin', Mac?"

"Great—but don't call me Mac." He glanced at him then muttered, "You?"

"Sorry—Mark." Novato was getting flustered. "Well, to be honest—" He did not know of McQuade's urge to dive under his desk to dodge a barrage of bullshit. "I'm a little uncomfortable taking Mike Franklin's desk," Novato continued, "he was a great cop. Everybody knew that. I don't know if I can match up. I'm damned sure gonna try but...." He seemed to know he was going too far. "Anyway I hope you don't take offense that I'm sittin' here, Mark. I'd like to think you...."

"We'll get along fine, Steve—as long as you don't try too hard. Know what I mean?"

The young fellow's head bobbed boyishly as if he was sitting at the feet of his hero. McQuade had no idea that Steve Novato idolized him and Mike Franklin and had done so since joining the department. The green detective saw men like McQuade and his former partner as prototypical policemen: smart, independent, and tough—blessed or cursed with dogged determination to solve a case not matter how difficult or how long it took. Sometimes no matter what it took. "If you get a chance," he said, "I'd appreciate your filling me in on the details of this case. Of course I've read about it and talked it up with the guys—hell, I guess everybody in the world knows about the Executioner case by now."

McQuade suddenly thought that Novato could be the leak. He dissected the fellow with his eyes but instead of trying to find out he decided to shelve the suspicion in the back of his mind for later reference, maybe when and if he needed it for getting his new, unwanted partner reassigned. "Yeah, I guess they do. Got any ideas, Steve?"

Novato stopped breathing for an instant. He had not expected Mark McQuade to ask his opinion of the case so soon after becoming his new partner. Of course young Detective Esteban J. Novato had his views on the serial killings as well as most everything else in life and was about to lay them out elaborately for McQuade, when the phone rang. McQuade listened as he eyed Novato then slammed it down. "Looks like you got a chance right now to test your theories, Steve. Let's go." McQuade was half way to the door before Novato realized that he was probably going with him to investigate another crime scene. He self-consciously checked his weapon, buttoned his suit jacket, and bounded after his partner, not noticing the half-concealed chuckles erupting from the other detectives behind him.

In the car on their way across town, the two men said little, not because the smart young cop had nothing to say, but because McQuade had thrown up an invisible but impenetrable barrier around himself. He had gotten used to traveling alone since his partner died and resented anyone else in his vehicle. He knew it was impracticable and temporary but felt that way just the same. Novato tried to keep his gaze out the window and away from McQuade's; he was wise enough to let the man alone. He wanted the older cop's friendship and calculated the best way to get it was to let the big man come to him, even though the young detective was bursting with questions and answers. McQuade could feel the heat from the kid's desire for nonstop discussion so he kept his eyes straight on the roadway. Maybe the upstart would get bored and disappear. Having traveled around the block enough times to know better, McQuade longed to reach the crime scene.

As soon as the car rolled within a block of the location of the latest murder and parked in the middle of thronging press, McQuade knew something was different here; nothing he could actually see yet, just a hunch. A park nearby, but something not right about it, like a puzzle improperly assembled. Novato was all eyes. McQuade wanted him to wait in the car but knew it would be futile and rude to suggest it. Yanking up the hand brake McQuade snarled, "Gotta see this." Novato was out of the car and on his way to the taped off area before his partner had stepped out of the car. "Hold on there, marshal," McQuade shouted. The young man wheeled around impatiently, waiting for him to catch up.

"Looks like more work of the Executioner, huh?" Novato asked almost gleefully.

"Maybe. Maybe not." McQuade nodded a greeting to Dr. Murrin and his team. "Michael."

"You're not going to like what you see, Mark," the doctor said flatly. Detective Novato eyed them both with question marks in both eyes.

"Huh." McQuade already knew what the investigator meant as he looked around for a sign of kids. A park all right but no playground. And no sign of a school nearby. As the older detective paced the perimeter of the yellow tape in his usual way, the younger detective followed him practically in step. After a few paces, McQuade stopped and withered his eager shadow with quick eyes. Novato halted, nearly bumping into him, and watched his partner walk the rest of the boundary, watched him study the surrounding terrain, checked his expressions. When McQuade bent under the tape to get a look at the body, Novato guessed it would be acceptable to follow this time.

Detective McQuade stood over the corpse, staring at the wound around its neck. He shook his head, a motion that Novato found enigmatic. He too studied the deathblow, saw the bruise encircling the neck, noticed the contorted body, examined the severely scored earth, battered branches, and crumpled leaves, footprints all over the place. Plenty of blood. Fear and rage froze onto the victim's face. His hands clenched, fingers dirty, something gripped in a fist. McQuade bent down for a close look at the object. He glanced up at Dr. Murrin then back at the object, mumbling under his breath. "What's that, Mark?" Novato asked, bending down beside him. McQuade did not look at his partner nor answer him but only grinned at the doctor, who went back to work.

Detective Novato decided to venture his point of view. "Garroted. Another pedophile falls to the wrath of the Executioner. Looks like he's getting careless, though—or this one put up a good fight."

McQuade fixed wrinkled eyes on him. "Wrath of the Executioner?" What you been readin'?" He looked back at the body. "Our guy's vics don't get to fight, Steve—good or bad."

"Well, maybe he grabbed hold of more than he could handle this time."

McQuade did not bother to respond to this one but kept looking at the object in the dead man's hand. His concentration drew Novato's closer attention.

"What is that, Mark? Looks like some kind of jewelry—"

"An earring."

"An earring! What? The serial killer's a woman?" As soon as he had said it, Novato realized the silliness of his question.

McQuade stupefied him with a poisonous look. "I doubt it, Detective. Earrings are unisex nowadays. Right? Vic probably ripped it out of his attacker's ear in the struggle. Must've hurt like hell. Enraged the attacker. Vic fought for his life. Killer got the best of him but it wasn't easy. If this poor bastard had caught a break he might've been able to turn it on the ass hole with the wire around his neck."

"Then it was the Executioner."

"No, Detective. It probably wasn't. In fact, I'd bet my pension it wasn't our serial killer." He stared at the corpse. "Someone else did this one." He shook his head in remembrance of his captain's recent admonition and checked the dead man's pants pockets. "Wallet's missing too. Perp most likely some junky lookin' for cash. Figured he'd score and hang his deed on the infamous killer. Just my take on it. We'll know for sure as soon as we get the DNA on that earring."

"A copycat," Novato said with forced authority.

McQuade looked at him in mock approval. "You got it, Detective." He stood up and strode back to the car.

Novato hurried to catch up with him. "Damn. Now we got two killers to find."

"Something tells me this one won't be difficult," McQuade said as he slid into his car. "Might even be at the Center waiting for us when we get there." The car tires squealed, as he pulled away from the curb and joined the endless flow of traffic.

Novato started to laugh, thinking his partner was joking, but squelched it as McQuade drove straight-faced back to the Center. "It's the legend crap," McQuade said. "A small time wannabe nutcase thinks he's gonna capitalize on the notoriety of a high profile killer."

"So—are guys like this going to be coming out of the woodwork?"

McQuade shot him a contemptuous look, belittling the hackneyed phrase. Novato sank in his seat. He was getting frustrated in trying to gain a rapport with his new partner but finding only discord decided to air it out. "What in hell you got against me, Mark? Did I offend you or something?"

McQuade's contempt softened into discomfort. "Naw. You're all right, kid."

"And why do you call me 'kid'? Just because I'm not middle-aged doesn't make me a child."

The middle-aged crack raked McQuade's ego. "Yeah, it does," he said dryly.

"Look. I'm damned sorry about your former partner. And I wish you could work with someone you respect. But I'm trying to be a cop here—your partner—and we've got an important job to do. A hell of a big one. So I figure if we work together instead of playing these star versus rookie roles, we should be able to accomplish some damned good police work."

McQuade appreciated the speech as an effort to break the ice, since he had become the iceman for potential partners, not only because this young buck was riding where one of the best cops who ever wore a badge used to sit, not even because the young fellow was so irritating, but because the big cop was afraid. Mark McQuade would never admit this to a soul, other than his wife, but he was terrified of losing another partner and friend, seeing him gunned down in front of him and die without one more word between them. Still, McQuade could not dislike this young cop no matter how hard he tried. He did not see himself in the kid; they were as different as a seasoned workhorse and a show pony. But Novato had spirit; scattered maybe but a bright energy that promised a lot of solved murder cases, and McQuade liked that most of all in a cop. That was the main reason he associated little with his cohorts in the RHD. He did not respect most of them. Too slipshod. Not all of them, especially not the captain. And this young detective was showing, despite his insufferable qualities, that he was made of good stuff.

By the time they got to Parker Center, McQuade had softened toward Novato. He was not going to walk into the division arm-in-arm with him. Maybe someday, not now. But he did lower his bristling guard with the young cop. Besides, he focused on two reports: the identity of the deceased and that of the killer. If he had been a gambling man he would have started a pool in the office, betting that the dead man had not the slightest suggestion of pedophilia in his life history and that the man who closed the book on the poor guy's history had a rap sheet long enough to wipe the asses of everyone in the division—yet nothing to do with murder.

While they waited on the science and coroner reports, Detective Novato sat quietly at his computer without saying a word one way or the other. They would see both results on their screens, like catching the answers to million dollar questions on a quiz show, minus the bullshit and the glitz. During the wait Novato got them both cups of coffee out of a pot he made fresh for people in the division, an action that immediately ingratiated him with all present, for what Esteban Novato lacked in conversational reserve he somewhat made up for in brewing the bean.

Detective McQuade was halfway through his second cup, when part of the information hit their computers. McQuade skimmed through the first report, looking for the words he was seeking, and when he found them, he howled.

"Jesus H—Mac!" Gordo snapped. "You 'bout scared the shit outta me!"

McQuade laughed through a lame apology. The thought of such an emission from Big Gordo occurring in the RHD office raised an image he found too horrible to contemplate. He pointed his partner's attention to the screen. "Now that's why I get the big money, my young friend, or should," McQuade said rather amiably despite his resentment of Franklin's replacement getting too comfortable in his desk. "There it is in black and white. Not a speck of pedo shit under his fingernails. Now all we need is the DNA from the perp to prove my point completely."

Novato read aloud: "'Identification of deceased—McCauley Park, October 2, 2002, 20:00 hours confirmed: Lawrence W. Hapson. Aged 45—No known criminal record.'" Novato echoed his partner's vocal celebration with more of a hoot than a howl. An impulse flashed through his mind that sucked the vigor out of his exuberance. "But how do we know the one who offed this guy isn't the Executioner."

McQuade hated the use of the word 'off' to mean murder but knew his partner had a point, one he himself had considered steadily. "We don't of course. Maybe we've gotten lucky and don't know it yet. Maybe not. But something tells me the killer isn't all of a sudden going to let us make him so easily after taking such pains to avoid it."

Novato raised his eyebrows and nodded. "Well, anyway, the suspense is going to keep me awake tonight."

"Yeah. Several nights. We probably won't get that report till next week."

"Not so," the captain's voice boomed behind them. "I put a rush on it. Should be here in a day or two." He smiled at McQuade, an expression he rarely bestowed on his detectives. "And I'm not crazy about admitting this, Mark, but I think you may be right."

"Yeah?" McQuade knew what he was driving at but wanted to hear it from the horse's mouth. That's right, he thought. Mansford's a giant—big feet, big head, huge lumbering body, and thick mane—a Clydesdale.

"I think this one's going to make it damned difficult for us," the captain said grimly.

"Everyone slips up sometimes," Novato ventured.

The captain swung his regal head toward the young cop. "That's right, Detective. You're quite right. But let's hope that's not all we can hope for." Novato had the strange feeling he had just been belittled. Glancing at his partner for confirmation he saw only a smartass grin, then knew his feeling was accurate. Mansford continued, angling toward McQuade. "I hate to see what the press is going to do with this kink in the case."

"God. I can see it already," McQuade followed. He raised his hands and spread them apart to portray his words. "Two killers stalking the city? Where in the world are the police?"

"Caught in a flood. That's where we are," Mansford said. "Been drowning in shit for years. Makes a man yearn for the gold watch."

"You're not going to retire yet, are you captain?" Novato asked with too much concern.

Mansford actually considered the appreciation in the question. "No, Novato. I'll probably die doing this damned job. Sitting in that chair in my office." He motioned with his head toward his cubicle. "Head askew. Eyes bulging. Heart stopped." McQuade was relieved. For a second he thought his captain was going to place his weapon in the picture of his sudden death. He smiled nervously under a guise of empathy.

The young detective preferred sympathy. "Oh no, cap. You're the heart of the RHD."

Mansford threw his head back and roared. "The heart of the Robbery-Homicide Division. Now that's a line. Put that on my tombstone, Mark." He framed his own words in the air not far below the neon lights on the ceiling: "Here lies Captain Dwight W. Mansford. The heart of homicide." He continued roaring all the way back to his private office, except to say over his shoulder, "Hey, Novato—"

The young detective started to get to his feet. "Yessir."

"That's the last time I'll have to hear you call me 'cap', right?"

Novato hung half out of his chair. "Yes—sir—" He again looked at his partner, this time for reassurance but got only an irritating smirk. Mark McQuade was not going to make it easy for him.

Chapter 22

The DNA report on the deceased came in at a record three days, yielding the identity of the copy killer. He was one Joey Frizzel. Just as McQuade had predicted, the person who had murdered a fellow in a bungled attempt to imitate the serial killer was a career felon who had not graduated to homicide—until now. Plenty of busts for burglary, mugging, even armed robbery, but until last week no killing. A soul-dead junky, the killer of this hapless victim, had escalated his method of operation by trying to imitate a notorious serial killer and get away with murder.

"Stupid jerk thought he was gonna stick the Executioner with his own fucked up crime," McQuade blasted. "I hate bastards like that. No sense of style. Worthless shoescraping—that's all." He dragged himself to his feet. "Let's go get the turd."

Detective Novato complied with curiosity bulging his eyes. "You know where to find him?"

"Frizzel's been in handcuffs so many times we thought of making his own pair for him." McQuade picked up his pace. He needed to make an arrest, even if it would not solve the serial killer case. Too much frustration is bad for the spirit. He craved success any way he could get it and showed the mood in reckless driving. As the car swung in and out of traffic, Novato wondered if he had been hasty in his desire to partner with this particular cop.

McQuade took the streets into a sleazy neighborhood as if he could have driven them with his eyes closed. In the San Fernando Valley, the class structure noticeably degenerates from the Henley Park area to the north side. In this particular district, even the air seemed more toxic. The sunlight maddening. Litter piled along the sidewalks. Graffiti scrawled on every surface large enough to fit a marker nib. Shop windows boarded up. Vehicles abandoned. Dismal animals, mostly human, loitering around liquor stores and hanging around check-cashing windows. Hookers on busy corners. And above it all an overtone of noise—horns, sirens, beat-up engines, shouts, and distant screams—a maniacal chorus bewailing a pervasive savagery.

Furtive glances caught McQuade's car, noticed its unmarked but familiar salience, and probably recognized the forbidding face of the driver. To the miserable indigents of these hard streets, Detective Mark McQuade was infamous for his coziness with stool pigeons and his heavy-handed way with suspects. They avoided eye contact with him and murmured among or to themselves as he slowly rumbled past in his city issue sedan. In observing them Novato interpreted their reaction as respect instead of fear and hatred, having no idea of McQuade's history with them. Not that the big cop despised these people; he did not care that much and simply considered them part of the growing lost tribe of humanity. Novato noticed McQuade's eyes continually scanning the bleak faces on the streets.

He had cruised five blocks when he veered to the curb and jumped out. Novato's hand on his weapon and eyes wide he joined his partner. McQuade barreled to a walking scarecrow and grabbed his shoulder, spinning him around, pushing him against a sooty brick wall, and spitting razor-cut words. "Hey, Ginch. Still on two feet, eh? Thought you'd taken the big nod by now."

Ginch was shivering, staring at the stained sidewalk. Novato thought the skinny little man was sick, that his partner was being too rough on him, and thought of putting his hand on McQuade's arm. Then he thought otherwise.

"I should be so lucky," Ginch said. "Smack's been in short supply lately, McQuade...."

"That's Detective McQuade to you, junky." The cop reached for his wallet.

Ginch nodded crazily and mumbled something that resembled more curse than respect for authority. McQuade ignored it. Novato realized the emaciated man's sickly condition was probably due more to withdrawal than any kind of infection; still, he guessed that this burned out body of a former man was certainly host to many hazardous microbes known and unknown.

"Guess you don't need any green then, eh?" McQuade said as he started to put away his wallet.

The dried up addict's bloody eyes widened from slits to cracks and he again nodded as if his head were on a spring. "What you buyin'?"

"Joey Frizzel's current dive."

"Frizzel. He's been scarcer than a clean needle."

McQuade pulled the corner of a bill out of his wallet until the number twenty showed. Ginch ogled it and bent close to count its neighbors. McQuade shoved him back against the wall. "Keep your eyes in yer head, shit bag."

Ginch yelped more for effect than from pain. "Awright, aw goddamn right. Take it easy, big guy. I'm a sick man." He flung bloodshot eyes up and down the street to see who might witness his betrayal. "Let me think—"

McQuade popped a little laughter. "This I gotta see."

The junkie fidgeted with his hands under his raspy chin. He smacked his lips and salivated like a dog hoping for a biscuit. "What day is this?"

"Cold turkey day in a cage for you, Ginch, if you don't cough up a location damned quick."

The threat sank deep into the junkie's gut. He started counting on his fingers and mumbling the days of the week. McQuade was getting impatient. Novato was worrying his partner would explode all over the poor bastard. But Ginch was only worried about being locked up too many days without any blue sky. "Okay. I got it. Last Saturday or Sunday maybe. I mix 'em up."

"Yeah, yeah," McQuade barked. "Go on."

"Frizzel was struttin' and braggin' about a big score. Bought a bunch o' sweet stuff for the whole gallery. Wouldn't let me in, the ass hole. After what I done for him the last...."

"Yeah—you're a helluva helpful guy, Ginch. Now prove it," McQuade said with threatening quiet. "Where's Frizzel crashing?"

"Maud's place." The junkie lifted a filthy arm and pointed a bony finger. "Down there. In the old packing plant. Upstairs."

McQuade's predatory eyes pitched in that direction. "There now?"

"Most likely. Been high for three days. Haven't seen him come out—even to collect butts off the street. Coulda sucked it all up." He slurped and grinned, toothless. "Fool and his money, ya know." He cackled, discharging a morbid stench.

McQuade ignored it, but Novato ogled the miserable man, slightly shocked at hearing any words of wisdom, common as they were, oozing out of such a polluted hole. So surprised he did not notice his partner heading down the street until he saw the junkie pocket the bill and cast around for his connection. McQuade did not appear to care if Novato joined him but breathed more easily to know he had a new partner to watch his back. But he was still worried, as the young detective scurried after him. "Stay behind me," McQuade ordered as they approached the building. A dilapidated structure covered with rusty corrugated tin, mottled with faded words illegible beneath layers of spray paint. The big cop drew his weapon and slid into the interior shadows. Novato close behind.

"Pew!" Novato shook his head but kept going. "Shouldn't we call for back up?"

McQuade merely glanced back at him while trying the freight elevator. As he had guessed, it did not move or make a noise; obviously had not worked in years. Looking around he spotted a makeshift ladder on a wall. The top end jutted through a ragged opening into the second floor. Slowly, carefully he climbed into a deeper darkness. Winced at the nauseating stink. On the way up, they heard faint animal noises: moaning or groaning. When McQuade's head cleared the upper floor, he peered around the dim space.

Torn, filthy mattresses lay on a planked floor. Trash everywhere. Stained walls. Piles of human waste. McQuade pulled a small flashlight out of his coat pocket and threw its narrow beam from bed to bed. Bodies barely breathing lay on the pads. The detectives stepped onto the grimy floor; unknown things crunched and squished under their shoes. They crept among the prostrate figures, unconscious, maybe comatose. One welted face opened an eye at them, could not focus, and then turned away, its body not easily discernible as male or female, vaguely human. Novato covered his nose and mouth with his coat sleeve and held his breath for long intervals.

When McQuade found a flesh and blood thing in the shape of the man he was looking for, he kicked him. The thing did not move. McQuade kicked him harder. It groaned. "Good," McQuade put his gun away. "He's still alive. Afraid he was going to get off easy."

Novato looked at the man on the mattress then at McQuade, holstered his gun and searched in his pockets for rubber gloves, putting them on with a snap that startled his partner but not the junkie. Too far gone. "Good idea," McQuade said, looking at his hands. "Never know what you're gonna catch from these sacks of slime." Another boot to the lump on the floor.

The mass of flesh wrapped in rags rolled away from the blows onto his belly. McQuade pulled cuffs out and clamped them on twig-thin wrists. Novato saw puncture scars up and down the man's arm. "All right, beauty—," McQuade said. "Get up." He yanked the scrawny figure to his feet. "Bedtime's over in the land of Nod. Time to face the wizard." When the junkie was wobbling on his pins, McQuade grabbed his arm and jerked him toward the ladder. On the way to the ground floor, the detective rattled off the clincher: "Joey Frizzel—you're under arrest for the murder of Lawrence Hapson—" Frizzel did not respond. Not even knowing what planet he was on he showed no sign of comprehending what was happening to him. Without looking at his partner McQuade said, "Read him his rights, will ya? The words come too hard for me with garbage like this." Novato looked at him annoyed then obliged, as they dragged the half-dead man down the ladder, out of the building, and up the street to their car. Along the way, Novato noticed the timid glances of the walking dead in the neighborhood, but McQuade ignored them.

Driving back to the Center, McQuade was more garrulous than Novato had expected. Making an arrest stimulated him. That was what he worked for, even if a collar was only a sewer feeder like Joey Frizzel. "Did our job today, Novato. Could be a good omen. Maybe start us on a roll to catch the repeater." Novato started to offer a comment but not fast enough. "You keepin' track of your busts, Detective Novato?" The young cop shook his head and again tried to speak but could not get it out. "Well, you should," McQuade said. "Ever since I graduated from the academy I've been cutting notches into the barrel of my gun." The young detective was taking him seriously, until McQuade laughed. "That would be something, huh? I knew a guy like that once in high school. But they weren't notches—too painful—and it wasn't his gun he was marking." He bellowed so raucously that Joey in the back jerked slightly then slowly toppled onto the seat. "Helluva swordsman, he was—ol' Danny Caster," McQuade went on. "I was a starter in varsity football for three years running but always envied Caster his conquests. Little guy too. Well, not little but no strapper either. But could he lay the ladies! Uu-weee! Helluva stud! Had a whole book of lines. Never would've tried one myself. Sounded stupid comin' out of my mouth. But Danny Caster, he drew the chicks like bees to honey. Butterflies." His laughter interrupted him. "Made 'em feel like queens." He paused, reflectively. "Wonder what he's doin' now, ol' Caster. Probably seducing lonely housewives on the internet." He chuckled but suddenly fell silent, and his eyes darkened. He looked at his partner and spoke with more warmth than he might have intended. "You married, Steve?"

"Yeah—Mark. Actually I'm a newlywed. Married last spring. How 'bout you."

McQuade was surprised his colleague had not heard the scuttlebutt about his rather melodramatic break up with his wife. He shook his head. "Yeah—but we're separated."

The look on McQuade's face drained Novato's enthusiasm but he struggled to sustain the first decent conversation he and the big cop had enjoyed since their new partnership. "I take it the break up wasn't your idea."

McQuade looked at his young comrade, unsure if he wanted to get personal with him then let go. "Hell, no! I love the broad."

Novato frowned and guessed Mark McQuade probably identified all adult women of childbearing age with that word. Maybe derisive, maybe not. Novato stayed with the topic. "Any chance to...."

"Damned if I know. Up to her." McQuade made a show of peering into his side view mirror. "Bet a situation like mine would never occur to you with your new wife."

"Not a chance. She's my best friend, man. We've been friends since high school, and...."

"High school sweethearts, eh. Wow. I don't know any sweethearts from my school days who are married, still married that is."

Novato nodded sadly. "Yeah. It's become a social disease."

McQuade for an instant thought he meant venereal disease but caught his drift before saying something stupid. "Disease all right. Makes me wanna puke every time I think of it."

Young Novato was developing genuine compassion for his elder partner and wished he had good advice that would help heal his wounds, but he had none. Silence might have draped them for the rest of the trip, had not Joey started howling out of his unconsciousness.

McQuade let it go for about three seconds then shouted, "Shut your hole, shit head. This ain't a taxi cab, and you're not on your way to Vegas." Joey either ignored the command or did not hear it and kept up the racket. McQuade threw his head around and bellowed at the junkie: "I'm gonna gag your stinking' mouth, if you don't keep quiet." Steve Novato squirmed in his seat, alarmed by McQuade's red-hot anger. But the warning did not faze the delirious addict. McQuade looked at his partner sternly then grinned as he threw both hands into the air and slammed them onto the steering wheel. "Junkie's revenge, eh. Price we pay for bustin' his ass." Novato was relieved to see McQuade make light of the situation so the young cop could loosen the fear his partner was going to split open the man's miserable skull.

Novato realized McQuade was in pain despite the rage. The young man was familiar with such behavior. His father had a bad temper; so did his older brother. He had grown up in a house where violence or the threat of it was as constant as the chain saws they used to trim trees for a living. Steven Novato had determined years ago he was not going to spike his blood pressure, as had his brother, or suffer an early heart attack like his father. He said nothing more to his partner until they got back to the RHD, not because he was afraid of McQuade's mood, but because he knew enough to let him cool down like an overheated radiator. Once the emotional explosion was over he would mellow out, Novato thought. And he was right. By the time they pulled into the Center parking lot, McQuade was talking on a different subject, speaking poignantly about his dog, Pardner, much as would a boy about his favorite pet that had run away from home. Novato only listened as they walked into the building.

Chapter 23

Coincidentally, Joey Frizzel's arrest occurred prior to a lull in the serial murders, so many people, goaded by the press, were gullibly thinking that the killing was finished, the killer caught. Happenstance—all it was, though, for JD Ketch knew nothing of the Frizzel case. He avoided media news, seldom read a paper except for the funnies. In a humorless life, Ketch sought diversion in crumpled comic panels he found on the street or those he burrowed into while loitering in libraries. He would catch up on his favorite cartoon characters, the only ones he could look at as having lives nearly as pitiful as his own, but he avoided the news as being far too inflammatory to his already fried psyche.

For now Ketch had taken a break from the killing. Not to hang up his wire; he would not do that while he lived. He had made a commitment to rid the city of as many devils as he could find on its savage streets, kill them until he was killed or succumbed to being alive. But he had to revise his tactics and to do so he needed time to revive his dark energy. So when Detective McQuade was booking Joey Frizzel for murder, the Reaper was on hiatus. Running out of immediate subjects marked for death he wanted to replenish his mental notes on the local child molesters and chose his quarry more carefully. Since the last killing, which he had dispatched rather crudely, he knew he had to work more efficiently. He was getting too old to terminate his targets carelessly. One slip up and his career could be over, leaving a town full of kids to face the savages.

Got a good string going, Ketch thought. Keep it going. No end to this work till I wash out. Only one who can protect them. They need me. Parents need me. He needs me. As he trudged the city streets Ketch always thought of his estranged son and wondered where he was; tried to calculate how old he was, what he was interested in, if he ever asked about his father. The old man knew that such musings always made him weep but he could not help it. His wife and marriage were gone, his life was a wreck, but his son would always be his child.

Despite the break in his work, JD Ketch continued to linger at the parks and playgrounds. When he did not see anyone suspicious loitering around the children, he would relax and watch them play—his favorite pastime. Curiously some mothers and fathers or the numerous au pairs who looked after their children appeared not to notice the old bum watching them. Many adults had seen him so often sitting on benches and simply smiling radiantly at the little ones while they played that they gradually came to believe he meant no harm. Occasionally one even greeted Ketch in a friendly way and offered him money.

At first when JD saw people staring at him, he thought they were going to call the police. Some did, but a few approached him, spoke to him. Ketch was so startled the first time a young woman with twins did that, he got up to leave and would have done so, if the woman had not called him back in a voice soft and sweet. It struck him as birdsong, chirpy and cheerful, a tune he never forgot.

"Excuse me," she said gently. "I don't mean to bother you. But I see you here often and thought, well—I would like to—" She handed him a few folded bills.

He looked at the money and started to shake his head with astonishment; a look she promptly misinterpreted. "Oh, please take it. I just want to help."

When he snatched the money, she jumped a little then giggled. He looked full into her eyes so intensely she thought he was grateful, not knowing that he was utterly astounded to see a pretty woman standing so close to him, looking kindly, speaking sweetly to him. His rheumy eyes gleamed. She lowered her head to the twin children standing on both sides of her and said, "Bobby, Bonnie—say hello to the man."

The boy and girl hid behind their mother and peeked around her legs at the strange person. JD wanted to touch them, set them onto his lap, stroke their heads, make them laugh but he knew better than to take an action that would frighten this lovely young woman and her children and certainly get him arrested. Despite his misgivings, he extended his long bony hand, trembling. The little ones whimpered, withdrew, and bumped each other behind their mother. She giggled again. "I'm afraid they're not comfortable with strangers. They don't mean to...."

"Not a word needed, ma'm," JD said rather sharply in a shrill voice. He was not used to speaking much, especially to pretty women. "They're smart to be wary of people they don't know. Never know who could...." Even with his mind distorted by years of pain, violence, and drugs, he knew to shut his mouth at the right moment. He noticed her grip the children by their shoulders and hold them tightly.

"Yes." she said with a deep breath. "Some people can be very dangerous these days, but something tells me you're not at all like that. I've seen you in this park a few times, noticed you watching the children. You always keep your place, just sitting on this same bench, smiling. You never bother anyone, never ask for anything, and only sit here week after week watching the children play. I'm a pretty good judge of people, Mister—?"

"Ketch. JD Ketch."

"Nice to meet you Mister Ketch. My name is Connie Strait." She extended her hand to him. Shocked, he hesitated but reached out, touched it for a fraction of a second then pulled back. "I know a good man when I see one," she said, "and I think you're...."

"Oh, ma'm—that's mighty nice of you to say so, but I'm not, er, you don't really know anything about me."

The twins were tugging at their mother to return to the playground, but when she did not yield, they started to whine. "Well," she said with a slightly embarrassed expression, "I should let them play or they'll be little wildcats in the house tonight." She ended the sentence with a few notes of musical laughter. JD nodded and smiled with a wave at the little ones. "Goodbye, Mister Ketch." The woman said for the benefit of her children. He mouthed a farewell but failed to make it audible as he let his waving hand falter and fall to his lap. So delighted was JD Ketch with the unexpected encounter that he did not notice two young policemen approaching his bench.

"Sir—," one of them, shorter, stockier, called to JD from five yards behind him. He did not answer, did not hear them, so engrossed was he in watching his recent acquaintance helping her twin boy and girl up the slide ladder. "Hey, you on the bench," the policeman shouted. "I'm talking to you."

Bewildered, JD turned around to find the source of the voice—two dark images approaching to out of the sun. Being in a good mood, the old man spread his lips over the remains of teeth. "Yes, sir?"

The two cops stepped in front of him and stood feet apart, hands on weapons. "Now what do you think you're doing, pops—bothering young mothers with their children in the park?"

"I—I...." JD was trying to remember the French phrase for an incident apparently repeated. Yet these two men in blue did not really resemble the other two who had accosted him in a park.

"You don't have to answer that—even if you can. Got any ID?"

Ketch shook his head, still befuddled by the radical difference between this experience and the one he had just enjoyed.

"Of course not. Why'd I ask?" The cop took out his nightstick and waved it in front of the old man. "Well, you better be moving on, fella."

Getting a grip on the event, Ketch glanced around the park to find the one who had called the police on him. None met his eyes. All appeared oblivious of him, as if he were not there; all except Connie Strait. She had been watching the policemen and was acting as if she wanted to speak to them. JD wished she would do just that. He could not remember the last time anyone advocated for him. He thought he might have willed it so, when she hollered to the officers from the playground. They turned around and greeted her, perhaps believing she was the one who had called them. "Yes, ma'm," the short one said enthusiastically. "Nothing to worry about, ma'm. This gentleman is leaving and won't be back—" He turned sharply on JD and snapped, "Right?"

JD did not acknowledge the ultimatum but started to his feet. The cops took a step away from him, not seeing the young woman walking toward them. "Why does he have to leave, officer? He hasn't done anything wrong."

The policemen look confused then at each other as if for an explanation, then quickly realizing this was obviously not the woman who had complained. For the moment they simply stood there, imposing figures in dark blue with various instruments on their uniforms glinting in the sunlight.

"I've been here the whole time with my children. Been here before. I've seen this man many times. He never bothers a soul. Just sits and watches the children play."

The smaller cop sniggered into his words, "Well, ma'm, I don't mean to frighten you, but that's not such a good sign."

"I know. And for a few days, I thought the same way. I thought he was a pervert or some kind of deranged person. But after I'd gotten used to him being aroun—and when I spoke to him today I realized he...."

"You spoke to him, ma'm?"

"Yes—yes, I did."

The cops shared exclusive looks. "Oh, I don't think that was such a...."

"And he was very polite—so I think you should leave him alone."

The other cop walked over to her and spoke with mannered pacing. "Look, ma'm. I'm sure you feel like helping this man, but we have a job to do. Some woman complained about a dangerous looking man hanging around the kids. So we can't let this individual remain in the area. You understand."

The woman's eyes dropped. Her kids called to her from the playground, whining for her to return and watch their daring feats. She turned to them eagerly and said, "Well, I don't have to time to argue about it." She was walking away. "I just think it's a darn shame a poor old man like that can't sit in the park on a sunny day, not doing any harm to a soul, without being forced to leave."

"Yes, ma'm," the tough cop said flatly.

"Don't worry nothin' about it, Mis' Strait," JD said. "I gotta be goin' anyway." The woman and the two officers wheeled around to face the tall, thin man raising himself from the bench. The cops again alerted at his movement, at his imposing figure. But JD Ketch was not about to show them the slightest sign of aggression. He knew his time was up in that park; besides, he had work to do where he thought he could be most useful. "Nice to meet you, ma'm." He waved as if leaving a picnic. "You take care of those little ones of yours. Keep 'em out of harm's way." He kept talking as he increased the distance. "World's full of evil. Wicked ones that prey on the young and innocent. Keep those children close to your breast and beware of staring eyes, clawing hands." He was marching steadily down a street away from the park but still talking, rather orating: "Eyes of fire, hearts of ice. Harpies lurking in the shadows. Not witches in the woods, not goblins in the night. Real live maniacs that feed on the blood of babes." He was hollering now. "Ma-ni-acs!" And his raspy voice echoed off apartment buildings along the street.

The woman and the two policemen stood stunned. The cops shook their heads at his apparent dementia. Nodding to the woman, they returned to their car. Slowly they drove past the gangly figure striding down the sidewalk, giving them no attention. Connie Strait returned to her children and their totally involving ways but glanced once more to see the old derelict's size diminishing until too small to be seen.

That evening over dinner, she would tell her husband about the episode, and they would argue about the causes of homelessness and the remedies. He would say categorically they were weak and lazy and deserved their poverty, that what they simply needed was jobs. Make enough money and their problems would be solved. Being a corporate lawyer, he believed he knew the practical benefits of such a theory. She, however, analyzed the condition differently. She would say in an effort to stay out from under her husband's domineering nature that the homeless men, women, and children of the world were forsaken people. That they had been born as good as anyone else, had grown up with the same hopes and dreams as everyone, but that some terrible event had destroyed their lives. They were the walking wounded of the world and as fellow human beings deserved compassion and support from those more fortunate. He would accuse her of being an armchair socialist and a hypocrite. She would wince at the insult but withdraw from further discussion, knowing that his last point was well made while she basked in a comfortable and secure life with a big beautiful house, a successful husband, and two lovely children. Most of all she squirmed with guilt from enjoying life so much while people such as the old man in the park were suffering. And when she had put the children to bed and was lying next to her husband on their kingsize bed, her conscience kept her from enjoying the late night talk show on TV, her mate's ritualistic pawing of her flesh, and it prevented her from falling asleep as quickly and deeply as he did when he had emptied his token of manhood into her body.

When JD Ketch had traveled miles from that park, he continued to think of Connie Strait and her two children. Rerunning their brief interaction in his mind occupied him for hours, as he trudged along the city streets. Before long, he was picturing her face as his long gone wife, and her twins as mirror images of his own child at that age. He did not think of analyzing her existence, determining the cause and effect of her situation. He did not blame her for being young, pretty, domestic, healthy, and rich. Nor would he have cared if he had heard her husband's harsh remarks about him and his kind. To JD the young woman and her children had comprised an angelic vision, something out of a book of ancient art like one he had lingered over many times in the library. Struggling to sustain her image in his mind, he wanted to keep it there forever, the way a fan keeps a movie star's photograph. The old man needed such a vision to help sustain his mission. Not that his resolve was faltering. He fully believed he had a profoundly just reason for his extreme actions against the dangers men bring to the world; but now a spirit dwelled in his head that became as a religious icon for his terrible zealotry.

JD Ketch had walked more miles around the city that day than he had during any sunrise to sunset he could remember. He had temporarily forgotten about his lethal task and marveled at how wonderfully out of mind he was when dwelling on goodness for a change. Mother and child. They were the mysteries of his profane faith. Long divorced from organized belief in an anthropomorphic god, Ketch had not entered a place of worship since his elementary school days in Iowa. And then he had only practiced at being devout, as expected of him, for he never experienced any truly pious sensation. After hearing stories of an unmarried young woman immaculately conceived with the child of God, of the saint known as the Little Flower famous in religious history for her ecstatic vision of the heavenly Christ, of the girl at Lourdes who believed so much in having seen an appearance of the mother of Jesus that she convinced thousands of people and the Catholic Church itself to believe in the apparition, Ketch had thought he was unholy and would always be so. As a growing child, he had envisioned nothing but juvenile nightmares while sleeping and voluptuous or violent daydreams while awake, often during the religious rituals in church.

Until now, JD Ketch had harbored a powerful but unadorned concept of his murderous actions. He was a judge and executioner summarily without sentiment. Since meeting that rather ordinary though pretty young mother in the park, however, he believed his murderous mission was blessed by the mother of man. From then on, he would do his killing for the honor of Connie Strait as well as for the children of the world. She had become his profane Beatrice. From now on, he would see her face before him when he went in search of his perverted prey and he would dwell on her image in the night sky, his personal vision of her no longer at all resembling the real woman but the quintessence of fantastic love. His marvelous fantasy would be a consummate comfort when at the end of the day he lay his wretched body down in the hollow by that foul river running through the underworld.

Chapter 24

Because of Donna Wright's need for a man and Mark McQuade's need for a woman, they bonded quickly, more quickly than either had expected. Although their relationship was almost entirely sexual with little else in common, it sustained them through the motions of dating into courtship. At least she was seeing it that way. Mark was too self-centered to see it so. Each one felt to be falling in love without bothering to consider the likelihood of a lifelong future. If either had any real vision of a life together, it was Donna. Her marriage having long completely died, except for the children's father's periodical visits, she was looking for a replacement. And Mark McQuade seemed the likeliest candidate, not that he was alone in her line-up of choices. The woman attracted men and could pick and chose among them at will. But Donna actually cared for Mark. Not beyond her personal need of course but she had a genuine affection for him, largely because he did all the right things to keep her coming back for more. After their first sex meet (nearly a marathon) cut short by Mark's call to duty, they re-united a few more times to verify their sustainable lust. And verified it was. They epitomized sexually compatible animals. No doubt. Naturally with that established they allowed themselves time together for noncarnal activities. At first, Mark was apprehensive about dating the woman, any woman, but when he discovered he enjoyed her company and even that of her children he started looking forward to some out-of-bed time with her.

Once the imitative murder case was cleared up and the copycat was in the prosecutorial system, Mark returned to his primary objective of capturing the serial killer. However, since he had not slain anyone, as far as the police knew, for nearly two weeks, Mark backed off a little and sought Donna's safe and sexy companionship. With such a craving in mind one afternoon, he called her from the division to set another of his last minute dates.

"Hi, Mark!" she was always delighted to hear from him. "I was hoping you'd call. How would you like to go to the zoo next Sunday?"

The zoo. Mark had been thinking of only a movie and sooner than the next weekend. "I was hoping we could get together tonight."

Misunderstanding, she said, "Naughty boy! Well, as hot as that sounds, I really can't get away this time on such short notice. I am a mother, you know, with responsibilities."

He felt mildly chastised. "Of course you are, Donna. I don't mean to...."

"I know, Mark. You've been very thoughtful."

Actually he had not really been at all considerate but he went along with the ruse. "I'd just like to see you."

"Oh, that's sweet. So would I. But Sunday's only two days away. Saturday I've got house cleaning and chores, but the next day I'm free, and if we take the kids, I won't have to bother with a sitter. They'd love it. What do you say? Up for a day in the open air with a bunch of wild animals in cages? I promise I won't make you carry the baby."

He almost groaned but managed to make it sound like a good-natured chuckle. "Okay. Sounds like fun." He really did not like the sound of it, too familial but his desire to keep things going with this luscious woman overrode his resistance for the time being.

So late Sunday morning Mark picked up Donna and the two little Wrights and, after loading a stroller into the trunk, drove to the city zoo at Griffith Park. The day was of course warm despite the fall season, a brief period people like to call Indian Summer; although, not very brief in southern California. He was irritated as soon as he arrived and saw the sea of cars in the parking lot and further annoyed to find Donna breaking her promise. As soon as they got out of the car, she asked him to hold her infant while she pulled off her sweater and unloaded the stroller. "She's getting so heavy for me," she burbled, "but I bet she's light as a feather to you. Huh?" She watched for his response.

Mark was not concerned about the baby's body weight but a personal cargo the tiny girl might unload in his arms. Holding her stiffly he looked into her wide blueyes staring at him, slowly growing apprehensive. He had the distinct fear she was going to bawl, but his fear quickly changed to hope when he realized such an outburst could relieve him of any future baby-toting tasks. But the longer he looked at her sweet round face, rosy and flawless, incredibly tiny features framing gorgeous eyes, the more he got to like the feel of her in his arms.

"Okay," Donna said, grinning. "I'll take her now—if it's all right with you."

Mark relinquished the child with a twist of regret in the back of his eyes and unanticipated longing in his heart. The tough cop, who had made such a point of not bringing new human life into a wretched world, was surprised at himself and confused, a consternation that did not prevent him from smiling happily, though, as he watched Tony scurry ahead of them into the zoo grounds. The boy's spirit enthused both Donna and Mark, still, his mother hollered at him: "Slow down, Tony—and don't get too far ahead of us." To Mark, "I try to keep him in sight, but it's like trying to keep an eye on a young dog in the woods."

Mark laughed at the image, reminding him of Pardner, and rousing a wish that he had his pal with him. He settled for joy in the boy. "I'll keep an eye on him for ya. Guys should stick together."

They did not have to worry about Tony going far, for he soon stopped short at the reptile exhibit. Standing on his toes, he peeked through glass at the snakes and lizards. At the sight of a twenty-foot python Donna cried, "Ooo! Snakes always thrill me. Scary but fascinating. I can't take my eyes off them." She bent down beside her son. "Just look how shiny he is, Tony."

Mark enjoyed her appreciation of the big snake and glad she was not too prissy. It annoyed him when people overreacted to animals that creep and crawl in the wild. "A beauty!" he said. "Bet he's got a hell of an appetite."

Tony looked up at him quickly and said, "What does he eat?"

Mark nearly blurted out 'little boys' but swallowed it. Not the time or place for dark humor. "Oh, rats and chickens and things like that, I guess."

"Chickens!" The boy's eyes widened.

"Probably could eat a small pig—if they gave it to him."

"Wow!" The boy's round eyes reflected in the glass. "Will they give him a pig for lunch?"

Mark looked at Donna for help but got none. She wanted to know what he was going to say almost as much as did her son. "Well, I dono—" Mark let spill, "maybe he's Jewish."

The boy stared at him and waited for an explanation, while Donna shook her head between a grin and a frown, squelching Mark's laughter. Then she said, "He's joking, Tony."

This confused the boy further, but his curiosity to see more exotic animals drew him away from the conundrum of the python and its diet. "Let's go to the monkeys, mommy—I wanna see the monkeys."

"Of course you do." She said.

Mark looked around to find directional signs to lead them through the zoo. "That way, I think," stepping off in one direction, Tony running ahead. "Hold on, big guy—wait for us." He watched the boy slow down but keep the point several yards in front of them. "Kid's a dynamo."

"Like a monkey himself, huh? He loves them so much—I'm always afraid he's going climb into their pit."

"Good thing there's a moat."

"I don't know if that's good thing. Remember that little boy that fell into one among the gorillas?"

Mark nodded. The case had become famous: a female gorilla carried an unconscious boy out of the moat and sat with him in her lap until the keepers could rescue the child. The scene, a favorite on TV, revealing surprising awareness and sensitivity. "They didn't hurt the kid, did they?"

Donna let her eyes wander around his face for a moment. "No, they didn't. She wouldn't let any of the others near him. Must've been a mother. I know how she feels."

Mark stared at her without expression or response, never having had any such experience. Unable to share it with her he searched out the boy and found him gawking at the orangutans. "Whaddya think of those guys, big fella?" The boy beamed at him and imitated their movements.

Donna laughed and pushed the stroller to the railing. "Oh, I love those apes! But you know? Whenever I see orangs, they remind me of that story by Poe. Remember the one—?" Mark had no idea what she meant but nodded to keep her going. "Murders in the Rue Morgue—that was it. Scary. At least when I read it as a kid. It's about these women mysteriously slaughtered. Then this detective figures out that an escaped orangutan climbed down their chimney, killed them, climbed back up, and escaped. That was a good story. But it wasn't fair to those apes. They're so sweet." Mark wondered how the detective solved the case and started to ask her.

"Mommy! Watch!" Tony was waving his arm and pointing to a man next to him. "Watch!"

The man threw an orange to one of the great apes. A big male sitting against a huge log caught it with one hand, sniffed it, and then peeled it slowly with his teeth. Tony jumped up and down, laughing. Then he ran to his mother and squealed, "Mommy, can I throw one to the orange-o-tang?"

Both she and Mark looked at each other and burst out laughing. "Orange-o-tang!" they echoed. "That's perfect!" Mark said. Donna was about to correct her son, when Mark restrained her. "No. Let it be. That's too rare to ruin. Of course he's right. The big orange ape eats oranges. Gotta have a name like that." He roared. But Tony's mother was not so exuberant, not at the expense of her son. Later in the day, when Mark was away buying ice cream bars for them, she quietly corrected her boy on the pronunciation of that particular kind of primate and explained to him that it probably had nothing to do with the fruit he likes to eat. However, in explaining it she too found the boy's observation charmingly reasonable and slightly regretted having to straighten out his thinking. Spoiling the innocence.

For the rest of the day Tony led Mark and his mother to every exhibit he could find. They saw elephants, rhinos, hippos, antelope, wildebeest, zebra, lions, leopards, grizzly and polar bears, tigers, eagles, hawks, giant tortoises, and farm animals in the petting zoo, but the little boy always led them back for another look at the apes and monkeys, especially the spider monkeys.

Standing in front of their open space built for the gangly simians to climb and play, the little human primate studied his distant relative's antics carefully and mimicked their clownish movements, waving his arms over his head and walking in circles with a cantilevered gait. His mother blushed at her son's silly behavior, but Mark found it just right. "He's practicing his moves, Donna," he laughed. "Better to navigate those monkey bars in the park."

Donna's embarrassment eased into nervous laughter at the thought of her son swinging on the play structure with all the agility of a jungle creature. "He's a little monkey, all right."

"You're little monkey," Mark said. "I bet you were just like him when you were a kid."

"Me? Oh, no. I was too busy trying to look like a starlet. I'm afraid that's his father we see in him. He's the other monkey. The big ape."

Mark saw an opportunity to probe. After allowing a respectful silence he said, "So—what happened between you two? He decide to go back to the jungle?"

"Yeah, a jungle full of babes." Mark looked at her and waited for more, his interest keening. "He ought to become a Mormon—or a Moslem."

Mark thought about the allusion a second then got it. "A roamer, eh?"

"A faithless, horny bastard is what he is."

"Oh," he said quietly, looking down at the boy and wondering if had heard his mother's remark. At that moment the commonality of their situation hit Mark. Here they were having a sexual relationship while their spouses were doing the same with other people. Just about the same behavior that might have caused this woman to kick her husband out of the house. Mark was wise enough not to pursue that treacherous path so he stayed with her point of view. "Not exactly the domestic type, eh?"

Her eyes fixed him with a look out of hell. "No," she snarled. "And I'd almost give my right arm to find that type." She locked onto him with her gaze. "Know anyone like that, Mark?"

"Well, I—" He glanced around nervously to find a way out of the conversation. "How 'bout some lunch? I'm hungry enough to eat a wildebeest. And I bet Tony'd like a hot dog."

Donna's gaze softened and brightened with a twinkle. "I bet he would. I could use a bite myself." She kept staring at him.

Mark did a double take at her suggestive comment but could not stay connected to her eyes. He had never been so intimate with such a downright doll. His wife was sharp but not stunning like this woman. It knocked him a bit off balance. "Beats me how your ol' man'd wanna stray—with someone like you waitin' at home."

A smile transformed her face. "Why, that's sweet, Mark." She curled her lithe arm into his and let him lead her to the snack bar, while shouting over her shoulder, "Come on, little monkey." They both laughed at the strange boy ambling after them.

The three of them devoured a salty, greasy, sweet lunch with a picnicker's pleasure then took one more quick turn around the zoo, ending up at the monkeys for a last look. Mark bent down to Tony and said, "Found anyone you know, young fella?"

For a moment the little boy seriously studied the animals to locate one he might recognize then jerked his head at Mark and spotted the joke in his eyes. Grabbing the big man's arm, he laid his head on it and then let his eyes drift into the trees. "Well," Mark said as he picked up the boy, "guess it's time to go home."

Exhausted, Tony quietly murmured only a half-hearted complaint then relaxed, as Mark lifted him off the ground. Donna watched her son settle into the big man's arms. She stayed close, lightly bumping them, as she pushed the stroller. "Thank you for taking us to the zoo, Mark McQuade."

"I had a great time. You've got a great couple of kids, you know. I can't believe how quiet the baby has been all day."

"Yes, she's such a good girl," Donna said, dropping a kiss onto the infant's silky head. "She loves the movement, the color, and things. All news to her."

Mark looked at the baby then at the boy then at their mother, pleased to be with them. Noticing the smiles of passersby, he suddenly realized they three looked like a family—man with wife and kids at the zoo for the day. A fatherly thing to do. Domestic. Traditional. Simple and good. Sound as the earth. Without warning a new concept rushed into Mark's mind, a notion that sank his heart then sharply uplifted it, an idea he had thought shelved into the recesses of his mind, never to be re-examined, a thought so important it had caused a great rift between him and his wife. An electrical charge. Mental ignition. Epiphany. For the first time in their relationship, he knew what his wife had been talking about, what she meant by wanting children. She had an instinct for it, but he was not so talented; he had to learn, to feel the little ones in his own hands as if they were his flesh and blood before he could comprehend her passionate, fundamental desire.

All the way back to the car, through the city, back to Donna's home, Mark's face was illumined by more than the slanting sun. She noticed the brightness and thought it simply a reflection of his happiness to be with her. She was not far off and luckily did not realize that his mood was dooming her to disappointment. From that moment forward, Mark knew he had to renew his marriage. And Donna was the catalyst. The oblivious agent. He found it troubling to think of hurting this sweet young woman who so lovingly looked after her children—and so openly cared for him. She deserved a good man, certainly a better one than she had, better one than Mark; besides, he belonged with the woman he married, the woman he loved. How he was going to break this news to good-hearted Donna Wright, though, he had no clue.

When they arrived at her house, she invited him in for a drink, a simple a reward for him for spending a long day with her kids at the zoo.

"Thanks, Donna, but I better not. Things to do around the house. Work on my car. You know."

She was annoyed to hear his excuses, see him bow out so quickly, almost eagerly. Had not they begun to cement their relationship with good companionship and better sex? What was going on? She pretended to wonder. Self-deception. She knew but was unwilling to face any disenchantment. If she openly confronted the significance of his behavior, it would have hit her like a sledgehammer. So she would not allow herself to accept that he was already withdrawing from her and would likely be out of touch within the month. Despite her pain and sadness at the premonition of the impending inevitable split, as Donna put her baby to bed, she decided to keep her mind open for this man against the odds and wait for him. Mark McQuade was worth the effort, she thought, even if she failed to win his heart.

Chapter 25

In another part of the city, remote from the cozy suburban world, JD Ketch was walking the streets, apprehensiveness about taking out his targets effectively, a concern soon to be validated. But his mission was primary force of his being. He had to continue until he could no longer lift a righteous hand against the virulent evil.

After researching his future prey for address and daily habits, he zeroed in on a man who would threaten to undo JD's mission and send them both to hell. As soon as he saw him, Ketch knew the man was not going to be easy. Like Ketch, the fellow had been a soldier; in fact, he had made a career of the military. Unlike the physically compromised specimens the Reaper had previously eliminated, this man was fit, a jogger who trained with weights and kept his self-defense skills tuned. A big man, not as big as JD Ketch, but big enough to hold his own in hand-to-hand combat with almost anyone. Even his name suggested trouble: Hugo Boxweiler. Normally JD avoided their names, kept them out of his mind. Too personal. He wanted his victims as faceless monsters, almost like in a video game, that he could remove the way a surgeon cuts out a malignant tumor. This one's name, though, hung in JD's mind like a bad omen. Hugo Boxweiler. The Huge Wily Boxer.

Even in following the man JD knew he was headed for a strenuous encounter for the aging hunter of men had to walk fast, nearly run to stay in sight of his prey. Twice he lost him when the jogger cut through parks or crossed busy streets. This worried JD. He feared the man would grab some boy or girl before he could stop him, and commit terrible acts upon the child, acts that made JD shudder with an engulfing nausea. He had to catch this guy in the right way, at the right spot and nail him before the devil ruined another young life. To make it even worse, not only was JD Ketch beyond his prime but he was also malnourished and prone to serious physical ailments such as bronchitis, emphysema, arteriosclerosis, and coronary disease. But worst of all he was mentally ill from years of violence, drug abuse, and solitary destitution. Although he was lean by condition and sinewy by habitual foot travel, he could not run for long and he winded easily.

Despite his limitations, JD would not let infirmities prevent him from erasing this particular villain from the face of the Earth, if his last act. From what he had learned about this child molester, he knew the man had a record of unmentionable abuse to children that made JD want to puke his guts into the river. And he dreaded the thought of what the guy probably had done to children before a conviction that ended his military service and sent him to Leavenworth prison for ten years. More than others, this beast was becoming an obsession with JD. He saw Boxweiler in his nightmares, making them even more terrifying than what he had been suffering for years. Worse, he saw him in his waking daydreams. He saw him on the edge of every park, playground, or familyard where children gathered. He saw him in every jogger on the street, every man working out in a gym. Hugo Boxweiler had become such a devil to JD Ketch that he would not rest until he rendered the man stone cold; only then, he thought, would the vicious creature leave his mind forever. Still, he might have guessed how this victim of his vigilante rampage would affect his lamentable life.

JD chose a spot near the Los Angeles River to spring his attack. That vast storm drain system that runs from the foothills to the broad basins in a tremendous network of concrete canals, tunnels, and drains, follows an elaborate course above and below ground. JD knew of these underground waterways, having heard or read about kids sliding into curb openings and running with their adventurous playmates through the large tunnels, so he did the same. When he found an opening with missing or broken protective bars, he explored part of the great drainage system, planned to use it should he need to escape a police pursuit. Despite his awareness of such a need in the back of his mind, JD decided to make a move on Hugo Boxweiler one late afternoon when the offender had stopped to watch some children at a birthday party in Griffith Park. A place conveniently near the river.

JD might have known, when just the right moment did not present itself, that this task was going to be trouble. He watched and waited for his man to step close to the dense vegetation, which the old commando needed for cover. Daylight was dimming. The party appeared to be ending. JD was about to give up his action, as Boxweiler lingered too much in open space. Then JD tensed with excitement when his target sat on a bench right in front of a thick hedge near the river. Perfect set up for assault and escape. JD slunk through a cluster of conifers then crawled into a hawthorn shrub, its thorny branches scratching his face. And when he separated the branches, they scratched his hands. He winced yet stayed focused on his goal, holding his breath as he removed the garrote from his coat pocket. But the copper coil caught on a twisted branch. He breathed hard while freeing the weapon and keeping his target in view.

Hearing noise behind him Boxweiler angled his head around but did not see the man in the bushes, maybe assuming a bird was scratching for crumbs among fallen leaves.

When JD saw the man turn his head, he froze, unsure whether to play drunk or run from the park. Doing neither he did not breathe. Then, feeling something uncontrollable surging inside of him, something urgent, desperate, he leaped off the ground and looped the wire over the man's head. "Your time has come," he whispered as he snapped tight the noose.

JD's body stretched too far for good leverage, so the loop slackened around the burly neck. Boxweiler yelped, grabbed the wire, and tugged at it, as JD tried to tighten its deadly embrace, moving closer, too close. Gasping, Boxweiler reached behind him with his long arms and found his attacker's head. JD kept tightening the wire. Choking, reddening, Boxweiler's eyes bulging bloodshot, he gripped with both hands JD's long hair. Panic straining his gut, JD held his head up and bore down on the wire, dragging the big man beneath the hawthorn bush. Boxweiler twisted onto his side to get a better angle on his adversary, a look at his face. But JD kept his head down and away from the man, waiting for him to fall limp, unconscious. But it did not happen. The man would not go down, would not pass out. JD kept reaching for a better grip, trying with all his might to control him. With one last strenuous reach, Boxweiler's fingers found his attacker's balls and squeezed them as hard as he could. JD groaned but held on, hoping the man would give up before he did. The two powerful men held each other that way, one in a vise of searing pain, the other in a coil of death. But JD could not hold. When his hands began to let the wire loosen, he knew he had failed and must now escape to cut his losses, probably save his own life. Doubtless, this man would come after him if he could, so JD slugged him in the temple. The blow would have been devastating, had JD been better positioned, but it merely stunned Boxweiler. That was all JD needed, though, for he scrambled out of the hedge and ran to the fence along the river. Hearing his victim growling to full consciousness and struggling out of the bushes, JD climbed over the fence. But his clothing caught on barbed wire that scratched his forearms and thighs. Mindless of the injuries he lowered himself hand over hand down the chain links until he reached the top of the wall. Dangling there for a moment, his fingers aching, he glanced up and saw the man's face, a gargoyle above the fence.

"You son of a bitch! You fucked with the wrong guy, ass hole! I been hoping you'd try to make a move on me. I get a hold o' you again I'll rip your chickenshit heart out and eat it!" He screamed maniacally. "You hear me?!" Mad with hurt and rage he latched onto JD's wrists and tried to pull him up but, weakened from having been so close to death, he could not do it, so he lifted his big foot and stomped on JD's fingers that barely clung to the edge. "Die—motherfucker! Break both your legs! Split open your goddamned skull! I wanna see your shitty brains floating down the river with the rest of the fucking sewage!"

JD hollered at the pain searing his mashed fingers and fell to the rock hard floor of the canal. Luckily he dropped right onto a something soft. One of the rare little islands of soil full of grasses and river plants that strive in vain to renew the environment of the waterway. But good enough for JD. The small patch of earth broke his fall. One of his ankles twisted but his bones did not crack, his body did not break. Hitting bottom he lay in a still heap as if dead.

In the dim light Boxweiler could not see if his assailant was still alive. After peering at the crumpled mass for half a minute and noticing no movement, he assumed the man was dead and walked away, his body still shaking from the attack, his neck burning from the wire. At a drinking fountain he splashed water over his head, drank to clear his throat, coughed; then, checking his skin for bleeding, he trotted back to the bench to see if any one had witnessed the attack. Not a person in sight. The party had disappeared, leaving only trash lying on tables and scattered in the grass. Relieved to be alive Hugo Boxweiler took a deep breath and staggered home. Never would a shower feel so good to him. He had survived the deadly attack. As soon as he got cleaned up, he was going to call the police and the press. Everyone should know about the terrifying ordeal he had endured. He had beaten the Executioner. In his eagerness to get home and tell his story, though, he neglected to look around the site. If he had done so he might have seen entangled in the gnarled branches of the hedge a crucial piece of evidence, a tangle of copper wire lying like coarse hair from some mechanical beast.

When JD Ketch realized he had survived the fall and that his counter attacker had gone, he sat on the islet and looked up and down the river. At the sight of the dark green swath of water weaving down the middle of the canal he felt fiendishly thirsty but knew better than to slake it there. In a moment his failure dawned on him. He had not eliminated his target. The man had not only beaten him but was undoubtedly also on his way to tell the police the whole story. Within the hour the park would be swarming with cops looking for evidence. By instinct JD smacked his hand on his coat pocket. "Oh, no!" Reaching inside he found the pocket empty. Whipping his head around, he looked for the wire. Maybe it had fallen out and was floating down river. No. Too heavy. Straining to his feet, groaning from his injuries, he peered into the dark stinking fluid but saw nothing like thin metal. Then it hit him like a brick to the head. Glancing up he knew he had lost it in the park, beneath the hawthorn bush. Maybe he had left it around Boxweiler's neck. "Jesus Christ!" he howled. "How could I have been so goddamned stupid?!" His mind was racing, his thoughts nearly aloud. The party's over. I'm on the run. Damn. I screwed up big time. Had to happen, I guess. Cops be hot on my ass now. Couldn't stay long out of their sights. Had to happen.

Standing lightly on his sore ankle JD Ketch looked up and down the canal then started hobbling up river. May as well head for home, he thought. Rest the ankle. No more likely to find me there than any other place in the city. Limping along the dry bottom, he was heading northwest, keeping an eye out for drains large enough to receive a grown man, openings into which he could disappear if necessary. The night was dropping fast. Although he could not see far ahead of him, he trod for miles. The noises of nocturnal creatures clicking and scuffling around him drew his head from side to side, but he spotted only shadows flitting between the walls and the dark stream of water. Things looking for food and a drink, he thought. JD wondered how they could tolerate the toxic water. But the thought made him want to try it himself. A little couldn't hurt, he guessed. Besides, I may be a walking dead man anyway. Bound to find me. Lock me up for life or kill me. Kill the killer. All right with me. Couldn't stand a cage. Been free too long. Prison like this concrete river but no way out of it. But no sight of stars overhead. No following the moon across the night sky. No long walks through the city. No watching kids play in the parks. No protecting them from evil. Living hell—prison. Worse, even than this.

As JD bent down to scoop some of the filthy water into his hand, he saw something flying around him. Bats. He stood up and smiled. "Evenin', little ones." He tried to spot one against the lights of the city but could barely follow the small mammals in their erratic darting movements. When he was not able to sleep nights, which was often, JD enjoyed watching the things zipping over the river, picking off their meals on the wing. He often wished one would land near him so he could look closely at it, stroke it, and feed it little bugs from his riverbank hideaway. Make a friend. JD had kept a dog for a while until a car killed him. Solitary he yearned for another pet. He knew the bats would not come near him, though, too fearful of humans. Too many centuries of persecution. JD laughed aloud to think how people thought of bats as evil when they had suffered so much torture and death at human hands. The little creatures of the night did not realize that he would not hurt one of them for the world. He loved his fellow animals almost as much as he loved children.

With these thoughts running through his head, JD did not notice the change in his surroundings, did not feel the riverwater bloating, did not sense the acrid odor in the air, and did not see a strange sunset setting fire to the sky. A gradual swell in the flow was spreading to the casement walls. At the sloshing sound of his boots in water, JD stopped and looked down and saw the river above his ankles. The water phosphoresced, illumining the walls. And it seemed warmer. Sounds like disharmonious vocalizations as if from an exotic chorus emanated from downstream. Or was it upstream? Peering into the deepening darkness JD could not see the source of the eerie chorale. Looking at the sky, he saw no rain clouds, but only scant yellow stars barely visible through lingering smog. He lowered his eyes to the rising river. Fearful but fascinated, he plowed across the glowing stream to a wall where the water ran shallower. By then it was at his knees. JD was worried, though, for he was a strong swimmer. He estimated the increasing water volume was fallout from a thunderstorm in the northern mountains. As with most rainstorms in that desert land, it would reach only a few feet before leveling off then soon subside.

When the water hit his waist and the current carried him off his feet, he lay forward in the luminous liquid and started swimming, keeping his head up, eyes alert to spot jagged branches, broken boxes, anything that could erupt ahead of him. The current raced and coiled like a great snake, tossing his body back and forth, dunking his head, filling his nose and mouth with the incandescent fluid. He gasped for air and became dizzy. In a moment he thought he was going to die but did not fear; he only let the torrent take him as it willed—dead or alive. Perhaps it was time. Rolling onto his back, JD gazed at the sky trimmed by trees passing in and out of view, as his body rushed downstream. He was about to close his eyes and submit to the inevitable flow when he felt something nudge his foot. Lifting his head, he saw an object behind him, a large thing floating. In the light emanating from the river, he could see the vaguely defined lines of a vessel. A boat! Astonished he treaded water to let the hull pass. A lanyard dangling overboard slapped his head, and he instinctively grabbed it, hanging on, as the boat carried him bouncing over the bow draft.

When JD had traveled a few hundred yards and could not easily hold onto the rope, he reached hand over hand to climb into the boat. Clawing at a rail, he pulled his soaked and sagging body onto the deck. He flopped onto his back and lay there panting like a dog until he felt his strength returning, his heart slowing down, breath coming evenly. When he lifted his head to look over the craft he saw vaporous images that appeared to be humans: all naked and facing forward without speaking. Behind them, he saw the tall gaunt shadow of a man holding a huge tiller, apparently navigating the vessel. The tillerman alone was clothed in a long dark robe, his head completely bald, and eyes reflective of the gleaming stream.

JD raised his hand and said, "Thank you, sir—for saving me." The tillerman did not answer; neither did he nor any of the others meet the newcomer's eyes. JD was pulling himself off the deck to approach the apparitions when he noticed he himself was naked. Curiously he made no move to cover his body but only grunted with surprise and said, "Must've been the fast water. Took everything but my life." No one responded. JD shouted "Hallo!" thinking the rushing river was covering his voice, but they did not answer. And the tillerman only kept his wary eyes forward as if intensely interested in catching sight of their destination.

Feeling unwanted amid these uncanny shades JD went back to the bow, sat cross legged, face forward, calmly trying to enjoy a trip he had long wanted to make down the river, even though the circumstances of his voyage were more outlandish than he had expected. Before he could relax, a thought flashed that he was heading away from the hole he called home, that he could wind up stranded without his clothes, that the trip back would be very long. Speculating the boat might be headed for the river mouth and the open ocean, he decided to submit to his fate. He lay against a hatch cover and locked his hands behind his head. No sense resisting the inevitable, he thought. Can't swim upstream. Just as well. Maybe it's time. I'm ready. He closed his eyes. Feels good, he thought. Take a doze. Maybe never wake up—

An abrupt sensation of falling shocked him and he looked straight up into the deepest darkest night he had ever seen, a black so dense it was suffocating. Lifting his head, he saw not the smooth gray wall of the canal but rough rock, oozing with treacle. Startled, he turned to see the same nebulous figures and the tillerman still in position. Hearing a faraway roar, he spun his head around and saw the river falling into an abyss, clouds of mist billowing out of its depths. At first he thought they were washing into the sea. Throwing his eyes from side to side, he saw the canal was now like a great rocky cavern. Descending, only descending, he feared the boat would crash onto rocks or smash into a vast watery plain. Fearful he cast wide eyes at the implacable tillerman. None of the other passengers looked frightened but resigned and strangely sad. Hanging his head over the bow to gape into the chasm, JD saw the river become a huge cataract below the boat. The craft became airborne. "My God!" he screamed. "We are falling to our deaths!"

Terrified JD covered his face with his hands and buried his head between his knees. "Please, God, let it be quick—" He was about to weep, when his body arose from the bow and floated above the boat. Opening his eyes and darting looks in all directions, he saw only an impervious gloom. Looking at his hand, he could not see his own flesh. He could feel no skin, no muscle, no bone. Disappearing? No longer falling but flying, unhurt, without pain, completely numb, he was conscious of a deliciously warm vacuum around him. Closing his eyes, he let go. Easy. Nothing to become nothing. "Death?" was the only word he uttered, the last question he asked unheard, unanswered before he awoke.

Chapter 26

Mark McQuade telephoned his wife as soon as he got home from his day with Donna Wright and her children at the zoo. The sun was at that moment disappearing beyond the Santa Monica Mountains, but he was bright with eagerness to see his wife. He hurried to call her.

"Mark," Shelley said, as she lay on a couch in her small living room. She had been reading a book titled KEEPING IT TOGETHER. "I didn't expect to hear from you today." A Chopin Nocturne was rippling softly in the background. Pardner was lying alongside the couch, her fingers absently curling the thick white fur around his neck.

"Hope I'm interrupting something," Mark said.

"Well, you aren't—so don't be getting pleased with yourself."

"What he do—stand you up?"

She sighed to soften her response. "Did you call just to give me a hard time, Mark?"

He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry." Then another gulp of air. "Mind I come over?"

"Right now?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I...."

"I miss Pardner. How's he doin'?"

"Doin' great. Probably misses you too." She thought a moment. "I guess it'd be all right."

"Fine!" He nearly lifted off his feet then consciously calmed himself. "Promise not a word about your doctor."

"He's not my doctor. You see, you can't help it, can you?"

"What did I say?"

"It's the innuendo."

"What's an innuendo? Sounds like some four dollar word for 'stick it up your ass.'"

"That does it—" She started to rip the phone from her ear.

"No wait. Please." His legs were getting wobbly. "I was only kidding."

"Well, it wasn't funny."

"Sorry." He waited to see if she was still listening. "Tell me. I want to know. What's an in-you...."

"Innuendo. Latin, I think. Something hidden in your words. You should know what it means, Mark. You use it all the time."

"I've always thought of myself as a straight shooter, Shell. Whaddya talkin' about?"

She paused to stroke the dog's back. "I'm sorry. That wasn't fair. You have always been straight with me—till recently."

"I know. It's just—well—you gotta know how hard it is to see you with another guy, Shell. Feel like kickin' his ass down the block."

She grinned despite her displeasure at his suggestion of violence. "That's the way you'd handle it, huh? Big tough guy."

"You know I wouldn't actually kick his ass. Make him think I would, maybe, but never lay a hand on him. It'd be—"

"It'd be what?"

"Nothing." He sucked in a lot of air. "Well, whaddya say?"

"Huh? Oh, sure—come on over if you want." She looked down at the dog that looked up at her with a hey-let's-go-run-and-play look in his big brown eyes. "Pard needs a good run."

Mark was glad in more ways than one that she had kept the dog. "Be right there." He started to hang up when he heard her speak, could not make it out, but thought she had said something he really wanted to hear. "Yeah?" He stopped on his way to the door.

"I said—maybe I'll go with you guys."

He could not contain his glee this time. "Great! Be knockin' on your door before you can get the leash."

She squeaked out a quirky laugh. "For him or me?"

He chuckled in turn. "No strings, Shell—I promise."

Traces of laughter remained on her face as a screwy smile. "Okay. See you soon."

After she hung up, he kept the phone to his ear a moment, lingering on the echo of her voice in his head. Mark had always liked her voice—similar to the music he heard her listening to in the background.

When he pulled into the driveway alongside the main house, Shelley was watching from the window of her cottage. At his appearance she backed into the shadows and bent down to pet the dog. Pardner alerted, ears erect to Mark's footsteps on the flagstone walkway. The dog barked before he knocked. Shelley laugh with a start. "Whoa! You know who's there, don't you, fella?" Pardner barked repeatedly. "Quiet, boy," she whispered through laughter. "You'll get us evicted." Standing up and smoothing her maroon sweater, she opened the door. Pardner jumped into Mark's arms.

"Well, someone's glad to see me."

Shelley made a move toward her husband, even raising her arms a little as if to embrace him. Mark noticed the move but stood still with the dog in his arms. She faltered then sought the leash. Grabbing it, she hooked it onto Pardner's collar, looked at Mark, and said, "Shall we?"

He looked at her, pretending to be uncertain about her meaning. "Oh. Yeah—let's go—" Upon hearing that last word wonderful to dogs' ears Pardner leaped out of his arms. "To the park."

Shelley nearly took his arm by force of habit. Mark smiled at her, in his eyes an entreaty he could not have concealed if he had tried. She saw it as the look of a little boy hoping for candy. "To the park," she echoed and handed Mark the rein to the bounding dog.

They reached the street before Mark said, "Well, I didn't expect this."

"What? That I'd want to walk with you?"

"Uh—yeah, actually."

"I don't dislike being with you, Mark."

He grinned weakly. "Sure you're not just feeling lonely?" When she flashed her green eyes at him, he decided on another line of conversation. Looking through the trees he said, "Kinda nice day, isn't it? Fresh air for a change."

"I love the fall season."

"I know. One of the first things I discovered we had in common."

She smiled and watched her feet trod the sidewalk, lightly kicking a few crisp brown sycamore pods in front of them.

He caught through the corners of his eyes the curves of her breasts in the sweater. "Love you in sweaters, especially red ones."

She kept her eyes straight ahead. "Now you're not going to try to make a move on me, are you?"

Nervous laughter burst out of him. "God. I get in trouble no matter what I say."

"Don't try so hard, Mark. Let's just walk the dog to the park and back and be nice to each other. What do you say? Can we do that?"

"I can do that."

"I know you can—when you're not trying to protect and serve too much."

His laughter loosened into a vigorous roar. "You know—you're the only woman who's ever been able to make me laugh." He wanted passionately to ensnare her with his arm, pull her slender body to him, feel the bumps and bends of it, but refrained from doing so, kept walking. His laughter diminished to a smile. "Good to get away from all the shit for a while. Always out there, always, more of it every minute—but takin' a breather like this makes me feel there's still somethin' good about life."

"Life can be good—if we give it a chance, Mark."

He dropped into the rhythm of their footsteps and said nothing for about ten yards before sucking in a chest full of the rare autumn air and letting it out with—"Kinda what I was thinkin', Shell."

Slightly baffled she looked up at him and waited for more of what he was saying. When he did not follow it right away with more words, she prompted him. "What's on your mind, mister?" She had guesses and a wish for what he was thinking but dared not bring them to the verbal stage; instead, she waited impatiently for his reply.

Even Pardner tossed a look back at them, especially at Mark, as if to know what he was going to say. Mark stared at him and said, "Whaddya lookin' at me for, Pardner? Pay attention to the walk. You could miss some good stink round one of those trees you don't keep your nose in front of you." The dog barked and tossed his head forward as he strained at the leash. Mark turned to Shelley. "This guy needs some obedience training. How come we never taught him to heel like other dogs?"

"You tried. Remember? When he wouldn't cooperate, you decided it was better not to break his spirit."

He grinned. "Has got a helluva lotta spirit, ain't he?"

"Yes, Mark. Pardner's a super dog. Now—what were you thinking about? Something about giving life a chance."

He looked at her a moment then quickly back at the dog. "Yeah, well—I think, I mean I guess I'm beginning to understand you a little better."

Her heart pounded but she said nothing, afraid uttering anything could smother his train of thought or his enthusiasm. Still, the word "Oh?" slipped out of her like water overflowing a bowl.

"Understand why—why you wanna have kids so much." The word 'kids' stuck in his throat a little but came out whole.

She nearly raised one hand to her breast but was still afraid of scaring him away from what she wanted to hear. She tried to contain the words bursting inside of her but the urge was irresistible to help him deliver his thoughts, her wishes. "You don't mean to say you...."
"I don't know what I mean to say, Shell. All I know is that something's goin' on in my mind, maybe my heart, that I haven't, that I'm not used to."

"Something that feels good?"

He pondered this question a while. "I'm not sure. I guess so. I just didn't expect at my age to be remodeling my principles. That's all."

She tittered more out of nervous apprehension than at his curious turn of phrase. "Tell me, Mark—tell me what's been going on inside of your thick head."

"So thick I can't dig into it myself sometimes." He said nothing for a few steps. "It's just that, well—I'm not so sure anymore I don't wanna have kids." He kept his eyes away from hers.

Then she too walked several paces without speaking. "I'm glad your certainty has cracked a little, but—"

Now he looked at her, hard. The man could not help it. He was itching to know what was going to follow and did not have to wait long. This time she found his eyes too intense to join. "How do I know you're not saying this just to get us back together?"

Something crawled up his spine. She was right about his wanting that with every pulse in his body, but he resented her implication that he was begging into her favor or manipulating her for a reunion. "I guess you don't, Shell. Guess you really don't. You'll just have to take my word for it."

When they reached the park, Mark bent down and unhooked Pardner. The dog dashed down the run. Mark watched him prance up to another dog, their heads and tails high, each trying to dominate the other without a show of fangs. Watching them reflected something back to himself, something vaguely uncomfortable. He stopped, turned to face her, and put his hands on her upper arms, squeezing them gently. "Can you?"

"Can I what?"

"Take my word for it?"

"I want to."

"Then you can."

She slowly twisted out of his grip. "I don't know, Mark. We've been through too many years at opposite ends of the issue. Now all of a sudden, since we're separated, I'm supposed to believe your heart and mind have completely changed? You were so rigid. So dead against bringing children into 'a rotten world' as you would say. Remember?"

She walked to the edge of the dog run and watched Pardner gamboling with his playmates, one of them a pretty young golden retriever. Shelley giggled. "I think Pardner has a crush on that dog. He goes goofy every time he's with her."

Mark watched the two canines bounce around, the retriever dodging her suitor's cold nose in her rear end. The big cop exploded with one of his howling laughs. "Ol' Pard's got a good eye for the ladies."

Shelley looked at him and grinned. "Maybe there's something to the notion that dogs resemble their masters."

Mark flushed, caught off guard. So far on the walk, he had conveniently forgotten about Donna but he had not for a second put his wife's doctor friend out of his head. Diversion the best tactic, he decided. Take the offense. "Or their mistresses," he said regretfully.

"He's your dog, mister."

Mark was a little hurt by the lack of shared affection for his beloved four-legged friend. "Then why'd you take him, Shell?"

"Oh, Mark—you know as well as I that you let me take him to keep a line open between us."

He nearly choked on her insight. "It worked, huh?"

She could not suppress a laugh. Then both fell silent as they sat on a bench and watched Pardner carry on for several minutes. Each was privately pleased to discover that they were still comfortable being together during long silences. When Shelley laid her hand on the bench beside Mark's, he felt the warmth of it and wanted to place his on top. Perhaps sensing his desire she let her eyes drift to his much the way sunlight blinked through yellow leaves on a tree above their heads. Looking at him long she smiled and pressed her hand onto his. "I've missed you, Mark. Do you know that?"

He was actually surprised to hear it and started to admit the same feeling but kept it in reserve, not wanting to give up too much of his power. But she was not about to let him off easily. "I keep remembering the good times," she said sweetly. This pushed a big smile across his face. She went on. "It's hard to stay mad at you when I think of our time together." He kept the smile spread wide, figuring that his best strategy for the time being. She let her eyes find Pardner at play and laughed at him acting like a puppy around his canine crush. Instantly Shelley's face turned serious, a tiny furrow forming above her nose. Without looking at her husband she said, "Did you really mean what you said, Mark?"

"About what?" He knew what. "Oh—about having a kid?"

"Only one?"

"One or two. I don't wanna basketball team."

She laughed good-naturedly, hoping he was sincere. Then, "What changed you?"

Donna Wright and her children flashed into Mark's mind. "I don't know. Maybe something I saw on television." He squirmed.

"I should think with that serial killer keeping you busy you'd be more against having kids than ever."

"Why? He's gettin' rid of the danger."

She looked around the park. "That he is. Strange how we think of it that way. Some person starts murdering guys, and we're relieved."

"A lot of people think he's doin' us all a big favor."

"But that can't be the reason."

"For what?"

"For your dramatic change of heart."

"No."

She waited for an explanation that did not come. "So—what did it?"

"I've gotten to know a couple of great kids. That's all."

She perked up more out of curiosity than interest. "Oh?"

"Yeah. This woman I met while investigating the first Executioner killing...."

"Executioner? That's what they call him in the papers, isn't it? Who came up with that one?"

"I don't know." He was impatient to say more about Donna's kids, not realizing Shelley might not want to hear anything more. "Anyway, I met her kids and got to like them."

"While investigating the murder? Or...."

"Yeah. No. Later, I started seeing them, her." He half regretted opening that door but let her look through it anyway.

"I see—"

He felt his power surging without knowing that he was straddling a fault line. When Shelley dropped into a glum silence, Mark wanted to reassure her then had a second thought. May as well play it out. Do her good to be a little jealous, he guessed. Make her appreciate him. He let it stew in her. Shelley was not the jealous type, though, and made a statement that could completely undermine his dominance of the situation. "Just don't fall in love with her, Mark."

Fall in love with her! What in hell kind of thing to say is that, he thought. Nothing about the fact that I'm fucking her. What could she be thinking? Despite his befuddlement, he had to push it farther, even too far. "What if I do?"

She captured his eyes. "That would break my heart."

He felt something sharp jump into his throat. God, she turns me on. When he saw the liquid in her eyes like polished emeralds, he wanted to lift her into his arms and carry her home to live happily ever after. Then he let escape a stupid remark. "I'm surprised you care."

"No, you're not, Mark. You know how much I love you—"

"Then why aren't we living together?"

"We've been in and out of that question so many times I'm dizzy."

"Tell me again. I need to know."

Shelley pressed her breasts against his chest and spoke with such deliberation that her voice sounded nearly contemptuous. "Because, big man—you didn't want to have children and I did. Why do you conveniently forget that?"

Something in what she said reassured him. "What if I do now?"

She smiled and kissed him quickly on the lips. "What if you do?"

He could not make heads or tails of that answer by question. "I do—at least, I think I do."

She put her hands on his chest and pushed off. "Come on, big boy—let's go home."

Mark thought for a moment that she had referred to him as her big boy until he saw her walk toward Pardner. Going along with it, he whistled for the dog and said, "Here, boy—come." Pardner tossed his head into the air, ears flopping, and tongue lolling, looked straight at Mark, and then bounded toward him.

Mark wished he could make Shelley come to him that way. No, not really. One of her most attractive qualities was her strong will. Independent. She was no pussy. She had balls. He would not have wanted her any other way and his admiration for her prompted him to say: "Yeah, let's go home."

Shelley looked at Mark curiously while attaching the leash to Pardner's collar. Mark thought he saw a sweet smile slide across her face. The word 'home' resonated deeply within him. He did not know it was doing the same within her. For a moment he felt they were a couple again. When she handed the leash to him, he took her slender hand in his and held it firmly. She left it there as they strolled out of the park.

While they were walking back to her apartment, Mark kept looking at Pardner's sleek black and white fur but his other senses fixed on Shelley. Her footsteps on the pavement. The rustle of her clothes. Her scent. He had always enjoyed her scent. Something slightly sweet but a little wild too like forest flowers. It struck him that Donna's scent was similar.

Shelley not only left her hand in his was but also let her arm brush the length of his. She was obviously pleased to be with him. She too delighted in his scent: something like treebark in the rain. And electricity was coursing between them, manifested as primal heat. The charge held them without words and made them feel adrift out of time and place. Only man and woman. But she was not entirely mindless of the surrounding situation.

All the way back to her place, she was trying to determine the depth of his integrity. She knew him to be an honest man but she also knew he could be ruthless when he was after something he wanted. Did he really want children? Am I to believe him? God, I want to. It would all fit together then so perfectly. But she was afraid. To reconcile only to be seriously disappointed again would mangle her faith in the man. She needed to know his heart. How could she discover the truth? Has he actually changed? Can people change so radically—so quickly? She wanted with burning desire to believe it but she would have to wait and see. If his words were true, she would know in time. They would come to sound like notes in perfect harmony.

Chapter 27

When Mark and Shelley got back to her apartment, Pardner ran inside and looked back at the man with his mouth panting and his eyes roundly wide—that undeniable wordless invitation. Seeing the dog's gesture, Shelley picked up the opportunity, at the same time weakly disguising her own wish. "It looks like Pardner wants you to come in and stay awhile."

Mark stood in the doorway like a lovestruck adolescent. A gust of wind blew past him. Shelley wrapped her arms around herself and said, "Whether you come in or not, Mark—please shut the door."

In spite of being a little blocked by her mild ultimatum, he stepped into the room and blocked out the wind. Immediately he reached down for the dog to relieve his tension. It always worked. Shelley stood over him and said, "Want some tea?"

Tea? He had not known his wife to drink much tea. What's with these women and their tea? Had she met Donna? Had they talked? To cover any possible connection he declined.

"Well, how about some coffee then? That be good?"

"If you put some brandy in it."

Shelley glanced at him with a look that suggested she could read his mind. She could not deny thinking of the same wild thing. Then scruples hit her. "Look maybe this isn't such a good...."

"Okay. Forget the brandy. But coffee would be great."

Shelley stood still a moment as if frozen by indecision, but when Mark lounged on the couch and took Pardner's head in his lap, she let herself drift in his direction. Grinning she said, "I'll put some brandy in it for you—but not too much. You have to drive home. Right?"

He knew then what she meant by innuendo but deflected it. "Don't worry. If I drink too much I can always rack out here. Right?" His eyes warmed her flesh.

"I don't think that would be a...."

"I think it would be an excellent idea." He tried to attract her with his eyes. "Come here."

"I'm not Pardner," she said pleasantly.

"You're my partner."

A little laughter bubbled out of her. She so was glad to see her husband lying on her couch despite misgivings about the entire scene and possible sequence of events that she decided to sanction their rendezvous. "Instead of just coffee—maybe you'd like to stay for dinner."

"What's on the menu?"

"Your favorite."

"Meat?"

"I was going to broil a steak for myself."

"Is it big enough for two?"

"If you're willing to share a little."

"I've never been willing to share my food—or my women."

"I know. And I don't blame you with a woman like this—" She turned a graceful pirouette. "Who cooks as well as I do."

"You are a damned good cook."

"Is that what you miss—besides the dog?"

He tossed his head back onto a pillow and laughed so sharply that Pardner yelped. Then Mark suddenly seared her with such heat in his eyes that she turned and hurried into the kitchen. "How about steak, French bread, and salad? That enough?"

"Any wine?"

"I think I've got a bottle of cab hiding in here somewhere. Want to come find it, pour us an aperitif?"

"'Perateef. You learn that from the doc?"

She peeked out of the kitchen with a scowl. "Don't let's talk about other people tonight, Mark. What do you say?"

"Sounds good to me." He knew, though, that if they made love, which he hoped with all his flesh and blood they would, he would be touching parts of her body that another man might have touched. Parts personal to husband and wife. The thought made him queasy as much as angry. Ugh! He had always considered used women rather repulsive. Now his own wife was perhaps no longer completely his. Of course she had not been a virgin when he had met her, but she was so adept about letting him think she so he had nearly come to believe it. He repeated, "Sounds good to me," as he stretched off the couch and loped into the kitchen. "So—where's this bottle of the grape?"

She pointed with a paring knife in her hand to a low cupboard. "Down there. I keep it in a cool place."

When he opened the cupboard door and bent down, he saw a bottle of champagne. "Hey! Bubbly! Too bad it isn't cold."

She glanced at it and smiled at him with a strange expression. He wanted to ask her for whom she was keeping the bottle but instead said, "Planning a celebration?"

She laughed. "I hope so." Again she shot him that strange look.

He grabbed the cabernet and set it on the kitchen table. "Anything to...?"

With a hand wet from rinsing cherry tomatoes, she indicated the open utensil drawer. Stepping close to her, he found a corkscrew but lingered at the drawer to feel her body beside him, catch the scent in her hair. She lay her head back slightly so that a few tresses brushed his cheek. He pushed his face gently behind her ear and inhaled. She too took in some air, swelling her breasts. He looked down at them and slid his arms around her waist.

"Hungry?" she cooed.

"Famished," he growled.

"For what?"

"Fresh...."

"That you are. And if you don't stop trying to get me hot, I'm going to mess up this meal."

"Impossible."

"You're all of a sudden easy to please. You'd scream bloody murder if I overcooked your steaks."

"Yeah. I do like it raw."

"I know." Without a signaling move, she kissed his mouth, flicking her tongue along his lips.

"Mmm. An or-derve." He thought his pronunciation came out just right.

"Just that."

Unsure of her meaning he backed off and opened the wine with an exaggerated pop. Taking two glasses out of a cupboard, he poured some into each and handed one to her. Picking up his own he said with a quiet tone, "To family," and touched her glass with a tiny bell sound. They drank together, and then she reached up and tasted the wine on his lips.

"Mmm," she murmured. "Quite an aperitif."

"If you keep that up I'm gonna come to attention."

She laughed seductively. "You're such a horny bastard."

"Yeah." He tightened his arm around her waist and felt her flat stomach with his fingertips. Still the same hard body, he thought. He had always liked her athleticism. Nice touch of masculinity in her overall feminine nature. Another quality about her he liked. He buried his face in the smooth place below her ear and bit her neck gently.

"Ooo—you bloodthirsty devil!"

The vibration of her voice against his teeth aroused him further. "What say we make dinner the second course?"

"You up for it, big man?"

"I think I could do a marathon."

She laughed loudly enough to make him back off a little. "My, my—aren't you macho this evening?"

"They don't call me the man for nothin', baby."

Her laughter resounded like an invitation to a horizontal duet, but she reached down to take the steak out of the broiler. "Well, this baby is ready and too good to waste. Dinner is served."

During the meal, Mark and Shelley reminisced. Good times come back easily. So engrossed were they in each other and in their past together, despite the succulence of the steak, the impetus of the wine, they neglected Pardner who kept drifting from one to the other, perching at each chair and praying to catch an eye. Shelley finally noticed him and motioned for Mark to look. Just what the dog wanted. As soon as Pardner captured Mark's eyes, a morsel of steak was bound for the slavering jaws.

They had not finished the wine when Shelley started to remove the dishes to the kitchen. Under the pretense of helping her, Mark grabbed her in the doorway and kissed her deeply. The wine, the lingering taste of par-cooked flesh, and his strong scent lightened her head. She closed her eyes to keep her balance. She let his tongue swath her mouth, teasing it with the tip of her own.

Ignition. Take off.

Mark started tore off her apron, she his shirt. Then expediency drove them to attend to themselves. Trying to hold the kiss, their mouths bumping lightly, they stumbled toward the bedroom but as soon as they felt the length of their bodies naked, warm, tingling against each other they angled toward the couch but sank to the floor short of its cushions. She spread, he entered. Too excited he lost his payload in her before she could crest. Unperturbed she held him close, her arms and legs wrapped around him. They lay on the floor quietly; he still in his socks; she with her panties dangling off one ankle. They said nothing and heard nothing but their own rapid breathing which sounded in their ears like a proximate sea. Slackening, cooling, they felt lightly musical. While they so dallied, Pardner had known to find his place on a chair and lay snoozing with his head pointed toward them, his darkeyes occasionally flitting open to remind himself of their presence.

When she had calmed enough to recover her aplomb Shelley whispered in his ear. "Want to go again?"

Lifting his head from between her breasts, he put his face close to hers and studied the springseason color of her around her irises. "Yeah. Just gimme a sec." An afterthought tightened his brow. "Hey—I hope you're wearing something."

When she shook her head slowly around a sly grin, he lifted off her body. "Jesus, Shell!"

"What do you care? I thought you wanted a child."

"Well, yeah—but...."

A shadow veiled her face. "So it's a different story now you got what you really wanted, huh?"

"No. That's not it. It's just...."

"Just what?"

"I didn't figure we'd make one right now, right here, right this second. Not that I think it's a bad idea." He grinned stupidly. "Actually I found it kind of exciting, as you could tell, but...."

"You never were one to dilly-dally, but that must have set a record. Guess you've been horny too long, big guy."

He tried to nod in assent but could not get past the secret reality of Donna in the back of his mind. However, when Shelley started swabbing his ear with her tongue, grazing her nipples in the hair on his chest, gently rolling her pelvis under him, he lost track of Donna, the time of day, and even the planet on which he was revolving around a sun in a galaxy of shooting stars. And as Mark joined with Shelley the second time he was ready to go the distance.

Stuffing a few cushions around them, they made love on the floor of the living room for nearly half an hour until Shelley's body began to take flight. For the first time in his life, Mark McQuade knew the ecstatic joy in sex for the sake of conceiving a child. And he was riding Shelley's wavelength. She was to him the rudiment of all fertile females flying back to the Great Rift Valley. As the rapturous couple synchronized their mutual explosions, their united bodies tightened like snakes, their skin reddened, eyes rolled, until inevitably and simultaneously they arched and screamed from their ascendant souls, and then discharged their own personal solar system into the grand matrix.

Slippery and gasping for air they held one another as though locked, fused into one being. Even longer than their prior union, they lay entwined, descending, languid, and deliciously drowsy before one of them broke the magnificent trance with words. "Now that was an act of creation!" Shelley sighed.

I'm afraid so, Mark thought but said, "Better than any act I remember."

She wrapped her arms around him. "That's 'cause we're lovers and want to be parents." He could feel joy radiating from her body, as it lay the length of his, still connected, but he uttered nothing. Disappointed she said, "I hope you're only suffering a little post coital depression and not having second thoughts. It may be a little late to turn back now."

Mark McQuade did not like the finality that shouted at him from those quietly spoken words but he was also surprised to feel no panic or regret at having released all his swimmers in search of one of her little opalescent orbs. Indeed, as he rolled off her, his bore slipping limply out of her, he lay on his back and grinned at the ceiling. Turning toward him, her head propped onto her hand, she examined his enigmatic expression and tried to read his mind. "You can't anyway, you know?"

"Can't what?" He might have known what she was referring to but did not want to bother trying to understand it. Feeling too well.

"You can't turn back—if you've made me pregnant."

Pregnant. The powerful word drew his gaze to hers as if it had cast a spell over him. His eyes, round and unblinking, focused on hers. She nearly laughed. "You look like a little boy who has suddenly discovered the true story of the birds and bees."

"I think I have."

That made Shelley laugh loudly and merrily. So did he. And it infected them. They fed off each other and laughed until they could only squeak. Pardner lifted his head and tilted it to one side, always curious to see that particularly manic human behavior.

When Shelley recovered enough to speak intelligently, she said through drizzling laughter, "You sure act like you know all about it."

Barely able to remove his eyes from hers he looked again at the blank space above him and said one word on a long draft of exhaled air: "Pregnant."

"How does it sound to you?"

"You seem mighty confident you're knocked up."

"Well, maybe not yet, not this time, but if we do this any more times, I will be."

"What do you want?"

She looked unknowing a moment then said, "Oh, boy or girl?" She pondered this unusual question for them for a moment. "You know I don't think I really care—now that it may actually happen. I'd like one of each."

"Whoa! Hold on there, girl. I'm just gettin' used to the idea of any kids at all. Don't start doubling up on me now."

Her laughter was coming back easily. "I didn't mean twins, silly. I only meant two kids."

"Two. Yeah. May as well, I guess. One would be lonely, huh?"

She found nearly everything he said or did not say made her laugh. "We wouldn't let our kids be lonely, though, would we?"

"I won't even let 'em out of my sight. I wouldn't even want 'em to sleep in another room."

She tittered. "We could put one of those tiny cameras in their bedroom, so you could keep your eye on them."

"I don't think I'd sleep a wink."

"Vigilant father cop." He dropped into silence. She put her hand on his chest. "It still scares you, eh?"

He did not want to admit his everpresent fear about bringing children into such a terrifying world. "Just 'cause I think I want one now doesn't mean things are any different for a kid these days."

"You think you want one."

"Pretty sure. Don't worry. I won't change my mind—if you turn out to be knocked up."

"And if I don't?"

"Something tells me you will, Shell. I can't explain it, but the feeling between us was something else. Something basic but majestic at the same time. Something that seemed way beyond you and me. Know what I mean?"

She smiled beatifically, eyes shining. "I do, Mark. I do." She put her head next to her hand on his chest. He curled his body into a fetal position beside her. Turning her body toward him, she made a G shape against him. Mark and Shelley McQuade could have slept there for the rest of the night had not chilly air stirred them.

Showering together, they bathed each other's bodies, became aroused once more, and coupled in a cool spray. Not feverishly as before. Not even taking flight this time. Only uniting to confirm their duality. Then they dried one another, played a little with the towels, and crawled into bed. They talked and giggled about sweet reminiscences that soothed their minds, but soon their speech slowed and slurred like a tape losing speed. And while drifting into an undaunted sleep they lay quiet and listened to the first rain of the season falling on the world around them. Lightly drumming on the roof, tapping on the window, the heavenly liquid was soaking the countless seeds of summer splendor and swelling them in the everbearing earth. There they would round with the gift they bore and await the spring. By the middle of the next year, the promise would be fulfilled, and radiant new life would open abundantly to face the sun.

Chapter 28

The next morning Detective Sergeant Mark McQuade walked into the Robbery-Homicide Division with a rare buoyancy to his step. His colleagues noticed it but were more interested in the silly grin stitched across his face. Most of them were tactful enough to keep their comments to guffaws and gestures among one another, but Firth enjoyed too much being the overgrown kid. "Hey, Mac—how's it goin'? You look like you finally got some last night."

Even the usually reserved Detective Binder could not cover up her amusement, as her fellows erupted into hoots. Mark tried to keep his eyes steadily on the big mouth but the accuracy of Firth's guess crumbled his resolve. He was glad in more ways than one, when his partner beckoned him with some good news. "Looks like we caught a break in the Executioner case, partner," Steve Novato said, crossing his legs onto his desk and interlocking his hands behind his head.

"No shit?!" Mark was doubly elated to hear such news given his mood. Things were going well for a change. "What we got?"

Novato spoke deliberately, enjoying his revelation. "We got footprints—we got a wire, maybe the wire and—we got a live victim."

"Live! How in hell did that happen? You sure not just another copycat?"

"Maybe so but I doubt it. Picture perfect MO. I believe we're finally on his trail. I've been itching for you to get here so we could go to the scene. Couldn't reach you at home." He gagged on a snicker, an act of will the other cops did not bother to exercise.

Mark ignored it and said, "This I gotta see. Let's be outta here." He did not even take time for a cup of Novato's good brew as he led the way out to the car saying, "I bet the captain was clickin' his heels."

"He talked to the vic before I got in this morning."

"Guy's a molester, eh?"

"Sure enough," Novato said. "Served time in Leavenworth for it."

"Military, eh?"

"Busted up his career...."

"But not his vocation."

Detective Novato offered to drive, but without even a look, Mark pushed him into the passenger seat. The big cop knew the city like his dirty shoes and he was not inclined to relinquish his prowess to an upstart partner no matter how much he was getting to like the guy.

The poisonous haze was hanging over the city, as they drove to Griffith Park. When Mark parked and got out of the car, he cocked one eye at the atmosphere and spit on the ground. "Ahh—nothin' like LA air." He glanced at Novato. "Let's take a look at the spot where the attack occurred—and failed." They headed to the taped off area and joined the investigative team pouring over the place from the park bench to the river.

When they reached the scene, Mark took his slow, methodical tour. Looked over the bench. Crouched under the bush to examine the torn up turf and broken branches. Trotted down to the fence to peer into the river channel. Shopping carts and car parts littered the bottom. "Executioner lost it and jumped down there, eh?"

"That's what Boxweiler told us."

"Boxweiler."

Novato nodded rapidly. "Hugo Boxweiler—a former sergeant in the army—dishonorably discharged."

"And maybe too damned mean to die—even at the hands of the Executioner." Novato shrugged. "I can't wait to see this guy." Mark paced a few yards up the riverbank then a few yards down. "Got away down there, eh?" Must've panicked. Should've known he would be trapped."

"Maybe he lives down there." Novato followed his remark with a short cackle.

Mark shook his head and began to castigate his partner for saying something stupid, when a thought stopped him. Something that was stuck in the back of his mind. Yet unclear but relevant. He stood still a few moments, staring at the stinking algae-ridden water. "Maybe he does indeed. And rises from underground to claim his victims like a fiend from hell."

Novato studied his partner as if seeing a trait in him for the first time. "I was actually joking."

Mark looked back at him. "Mebbe no joke. Our man might know this vast drainage system damned well, like you and I, well, like I know the city streets."

"That's disgusting."

Mark chortled. "It's not actually full of shit, ya know."

Novato concealed his ignorance by saying nothing.

"That travels through another system. There are two in fact—one for filthy water and the other for filthier water."

"Water?"

"What? You one of those think it never rains in California, eh?"

"Not much—from what I've seen of this place."

"True, we get but about ten inches all year—most of that in a one or two months—but we get it. And when it falls it falls hard, sends tons of water crashing down this channel. Rises halfway up the side."

"No shit?"

"Like I told ya. Hell, I've seen it close to the top."

"Jesus. And that guy maybe lives, probably travels down there?"

Mark again peered at the dark gray floor of the canal and the narrow stream of green water sliding slowly down the center. "Could be." He laid his hands on the barbed wire and pushed off to head back to the car. "Let's see what the lab has come up with—and have a talk with our hero—Hugo Box—"

"Boxweiler."

"Sounds like some big bruisin' dog."

Novato chuckled and hurried after his partner up the embankment to the park where he caught up with him before they reached the car.

On the way back to the Center, they did not discuss the case. Instead Mark had another subject on his mind, a completely different topic about which he wanted to pick his partner's brains. "So Steve—tell me—you guys gonna have any kids?"

The question surprised the young detective so much that he only looked dumbly at Mark for a moment. "Oh, Jan and I? Sure thing, man. We work on it every day." He giggled.

Mark grinned at his boyish manner and the lusty remark. "I bet you do. But listen I'm not after the details of how you two get it on, youngster. I was only curious. You know. Lots of couples are doing without kids these days."

"Yeah, I guess so, but not us. We can't wait."

Mark looked at him so long that Novato got nervous about him keeping his eyes on the road, so nervous that he made a motion with his head to remind the man behind the wheel of his primary responsibility. Mark caught the signal and stayed with his task but also kept on the other track. "Wouldn't you be worried about 'em? I mean—look who were tryin' to catch here—a guy that dedicates his life to hunting and killing child molesters. There's a glut of those damned pervs in the world. Aren't you at all nervous about finding one of your kids torn apart in a shallow grave?"

Novato's mouth fell open but he was speechless. "Well, yeah—Mark," he managed to say. "Of course I worry about that. Every parent does. But you gotta have a little faith, man. Chances are they'll grow up well and...."

"Chances get worse and worse every day, Steve."

Novato sank. McQuade let him fall. He believed he knew the real condition of the world—rotten—and he wanted everyone else to know it too, even if it hurt. "I've always thought of it as irresponsible these days."

Novato snapped his head toward him. "Irresponsible! What's it all about then if not for kids and family? I could just as well say it's irresponsible not to have any, Mark, especially if you're good people capable of raising good kids."

Mark caught the indirect compliment and let the corners of his mouth crease his cheeks. "Think so, eh?"

Novato nodded emphatically. "Someone has to keep civilization going. Otherwise we leave it to the monsters. Then we're back in the caves. Big houses and fancy cars, yeah, but primitive as hell. And I'll go down fighting before I hand it over to crooks, killers, and perverts. Damned if I won't."

Mark McQuade was gaining admiration for his young partner. "You talk older than your years, fella."

A tinge of red flashed into Novato's face. He felt like saying the opposite about McQuade but took another line. "It's simply the way I feel, man."

"Yeah? Well, you do got a point. And lately I been thinkin' more your way."

Novato had not expected this and waited quietly for the explanation. But it did not come.

When they pulled into the Center Mark said with an imperceptible smile: "Kinda like the feelin' too." Then he yanked the hand brake and jumped out of the car. "Now, let's see what we can do to clean things up a little for your future kids." Novato did not respond, but moved a little closer to McQuade, as they walked side by side into the building.

Data from the lab had not come in yet, so the two detectives sought the Executioner's intended victim in one of the interrogation rooms. When they saw no one there, they went to Captain Mansford's office. They found him brooding at his desk. "Hey, captain," Mark said. "Where's our hero?"

Mansford rolled his eyes at him. "The guy declined to let us interview him, Mark. He stayed long enough for us to collect some evidence from him then split. He said he needs to rest his nerves and that if we want his story we should get in line behind the media."

"Nursing his wounds and his ego at the same time, eh?" Mark said.

Mansford nodded. "I'd like you and Steve to pay him a visit, Mark—see if you can get to him before all the press in the country has been there."

"Good luck," Novato said.

Both McQuade and Mansford turned and looked blankly at him. Novato simply shrugged. "You better get over there right away," the captain said.

"Absolutely," Mark said. "Anything comes back from the lab, will you call me, captain?"

Mansford nodded at the two detectives hurrying out of the office, eager to get salient information on the case despite not being thrilled about interviewing the only surviving victim. Mark had a feeling he was going to have to deal with a big-mouthed fat head, one of the personalities in the world he most hated and always tried to avoid. Back on the road, McQuade uttered not a word, and Novato detecting his partner's vibes, steeled himself for an ordeal. Anxiety about possibly having to pull Mark McQuade's claws out of Boxweiler's neck nagged at the young detective all the way to the residence.

The apartment building in which Hugo Boxweiler lived was in the middle of the valley, one of the thousands of ugly compounds found all over the city—big cubes behind butchered shrubs and a few scrawny trees. When they slowed down in front of the place, they saw cars parked on both sides of the street.

"We may be late to the party," Mark said. As they strode up the walkway to find the apartment number, they saw a door open and a young woman step out in front of a big man wearing only shorts and a tight T-shirt. It occurred to Mark that this was probably the man's usual costume. On the front of the shirt, the cop noticed a faded image that appeared to be a stock car on steroids.

"Thank you for your time, Mister Boxweiler," the woman said, turning and walking backward toward the detectives without seeing them.

"My pleasure, Miss Naggle. When'll my story appear?"

She started to respond when Mark put out his hands to keep her from bumping into him. The woman jumped at his touch and spun around, obviously nervous. "Oh!"

"Excuse me, ma'm," Mark said softly.

Seeing the two men so close to her, she backed off a step, smiled, and scurried past them without another word. Boxweiler raised an arm for a response to his question but when he caught sight of his next visitors, whom he thought were more reporters, he prepared for further self-promotion. "Welcome, gentlemen. And you represent?"

"The Los Angeles Police Department," McQuade shouted.

Boxweiler appeared to shrink into his apartment and even to lose a little height in the process. "Uh-huh." He stood in the doorway and squinted at them.

"Mind if we come in, sir?"

"Uh—" He glanced around the interior. Seeing no way out of the situation and realizing they were probably not here to bust him, he granted them entrance with a lame attempt at hiding his displeasure. "Yeah—come on in. I wasn't expecting you." He extended his hand automatically then regretted having done so, especially when neither police officer took it.

"I'm Detective McQuade." He nodded toward Novato. "My partner, Detective Novato. You got a minute between news conferences, Mister Boxweiler?"

Boxweiler started to buck but reined it in. "Just want 'em to know my story, Detective. Show folks the maniac runnin' around killin' innocent people ain't supernatural."

Novato looked at McQuade, who said, "Mind tellin' us the tale?"

"Ain't a tale. It's the truth. Besides, I already told the cops."

"I'd like to hear it again from you, sir," Mark said. "Just so I get it all. You want us to catch this guy...."

"Well, you guys've been doin' a hell of a job so far, haven't ya? I'da nearly caught him myself, if he hadn't...."

"Could you just tell us what happened?" Mark's irritation was beginning to burn his face.

Boxweiler took a seat without offering one to either of his guests. Novato removed a pad and pencil from his coat and sat on a hardwood chair by the door, but McQuade stayed on his feet, eyes on the man. Boxweiler took a deep breath as if preparing to recite a long adventure. "Pretty quick really. Maybe minutes. But seemed like time stood still. Combat's always like that."

"Hit you from behind?" Mark asked.

"Yeah. Tried to strangle me with a wire or something." He laughed wickedly. "Gave it up, though, when I got hold of his balls."

Mark looked at his partner who stopped writing. The older cop's head turned slowly back to his host, as he said, "You learn that move in the military, Mister Boxweiler?"

"Anything that works, Detective. I'm here to tell about it, ain't I?"

"Sure 'nough, big guy," Mark said. "So—you chased him, did you?"

"Yeah. Fuckin' coward made for the river like a scared rabbit and jumped over the fence. If he hadn't dropped, I'da cut his fuckin' head off and stuck it on one of those fence posts." He laughed in a whiny way out of keeping with his brawny appearance. "Mebbe the fall killed the motherfucker."

"No sign of him."

"Shit head got away?"

McQuade deferred to his partner. "'Fraid so," Novato muttered.

"So—Boxweiler," McQuade resumed. "Collect trophies?"

Sparks flashed from the big vet's eyes. "Look, cop. You gonna gimme a hard time or you want my help. Seems you need it if you blue boys ever gonna find that freak."

McQuade looked again at Novato, mostly as a way of throttling the corrosive retort that was boiling up inside of him. He was aching for a reason to cuff this guy, rough him up, and throw him into a box where he belonged. But he stayed on task. "We'll find him—McQuade looked coldly at the man. "Like we eventually find all the freaks." He awaited a reaction that did not come. "So—you didn't stick around to see him get up and walk along the river, eh?"

"Nah. Guy fell long and hard. Looked like he was too busted up to breathe let alone walk."

"Well, he did walk," Novato interjected.

Boxweiler shrugged. "Huh. Luckier than I thought."

"Or tougher," McQuade grumbled.

Both policemen stared at him, Novato grinning, McQuade boring in. "Get a description, Boxweiler?"

"Didn't have a lot of time to admire his looks, Detective. I was kinda occupied with—" He took a quick breath and shouted, "Saving my fuckin' life!"

Mark McQuade winced at the profane description of Boxweiler's existence and wanted to make a verbal point of its sickening irony but kept his mouth shut. Novato was impressed and surprised at his partner's poise after having seen him strongarm the copycat killer.

"Anything at all," McQuade said with ice.

Boxweiler thought a moment, motionless, and then said, "Big fella. Taller than me. Older too."

"Older?" McQuade raised his eyebrows. "How old?"

"Couldn't tell for sure. Strong as a bull, though. Seemed like he mighta been an athlete—" He looked straight into McQuade's eyes. "Or a cop."

"Or a vet?" McQuade rejoined.

The big man grinned like a smartass and said, "Yeah—could be. Might be some post-traumatic stressed out fuck."

"See what he was wearin?" Novato asked.

"Couldn't tell. Nothin' noticeable. But filthy. Stank too."

The two detectives' eyes met simultaneously. Boxweiler verbalized their thoughts. "Like a fuckin' murderous bum."

"Homeless?" Novato asked.

"How in hell do I know, Detective? Why don't you find him and ask him yourself." He stood up abruptly and said, "Look, guys—I got more people comin' by. We done here?"

McQuade, itching for an excuse to manhandle the guy, set himself solidly on his two feet when the big man stood up and faced him. After studying Boxweiler for a moment, realizing he was not going to have any fun with him, the cop took out his card and extended it. "Call me if anything worthwhile ever crosses your mind, Mister Boxweiler."

The man glared at him. The two men stood toe to toe. Novato, ready for trouble, said, "Mark—"

"Yeah," McQuade said, his eyes on the man.

"We got all we're going to get here." Novato made the declaration sound more like a question.

McQuade thought about the statement then nodded. "'Fraid so." On his way out the door, he took one parting shot. "Remember, tough guy—we're watchin' you too."

"And you remember, cop—," Boxweiler crowed. "I'm the only one who's beat him, come close to catchin' him."

"Think that makes you some kinda hero, eh?" Before the man could reply, McQuade hit him with: "Tell it to your club of sickos, big boy."

Boxweiler rushed out the doorway after them. "I don't have to take that shit from you, Detective. You're treatin' me like I'm the goddamned fuckin' serial killer."

"No. Don't worry, Mister Hugo Boxweiler," McQuade snarled in walking away. "I know exactly what you are."

Boxweiler took a quick step as if to rush the police officer. McQuade spun around to face him with his arms open, saying without words: "Come on—just give me a reason." Novato grabbed his partner's arm. Unnecessary. Boxweiler knew enough to restrain himself. He had a good thing going and was not about to blow his time in the limelight, especially when he spotted people with television cameras coming up the walkway. Ignoring the detectives, he raised his hand and shouted over their head, "Right here ladies and gentlemen. Local or network news?"

The two detectives slipped past the media crowd and slid into their car. McQuade glanced back at the big man bowing to microphones in the midst of the throng. "Look at that son of a bitch on stage. Thinks he's a goddamned hero! And now he's gonna be the most celebrated child molester in the country." He slammed the steering wheel with such force that Novato grimaced. "Too bad the Executioner didn't cut off his fuckin' head and throw it into the river."

"Mark—"

"Well, part of me wishes he had." Mark kept staring daggers at the man in the center of attention. "That's one kind of human being I would like to see become extinct."

"I know how you feel, partner. He's a god damned devil, but we've got a job to do."

McQuade threw a hot look at him, eyes narrowed, face flushed, and then relaxed a little and nodded. "Yeah, you're right." As the car turned a corner, McQuade rolled down his window and spat violently into the street, as if trying to rid himself of a revolting taste in his mouth. "Will you tell me how someone turns into such a detestable brute? He was a kid himself once. What in hell happened to make him wanna do such, such—I don't know. God almighty!" Not expecting an answer, he did not look at his partner. Novato had no answer and only shook his head. Neither man said another word until they returned to Parker Center.

Chapter 29

When data on the wire came back from the lab, McQuade and Novato checked the fingerprints. DNA report from skin and hair fragments found under Boxweiler's fingernails would come later. For now the detectives were contented, actually elated to see definite results on the prints. Just as McQuade had guessed: the perpetrator was a veteran. John David Ketch. Career soldier. Combat Special Forces. Highly decorated. Honorably discharged. Mark immediately contacted the Veterans Administration in his curiosity to know if Boxweiler's guess had also been right. It had. Ketch had suffered severe depression after returning from duty, a condition for which he had been treated in the Wadsworth Medical Center then released. No known current address. Novato riffled through the pile of telephone directories that covered residents all over LA County and found several persons named John or John D. or J. D. Ketch.

When the detectives visited those leads, they found two octogenarians, a fifteen-year-old boy, a middle-aged woman, and a transsexual. They lingered with the last one a while until discovering the man had been a woman who lacked the background or the butch to catch and kill several men. Disappointed but not surprised this case was not going to get easier, McQuade and Novato went to Wadsworth with a court order to examine patient records in the VA Medical Center

The records clerk in the center, a big woman with a protruding jaw and bristly hair, openly displayed her displeasure at having to work. Without making eye contact with the two police officers, she checked their identification then handed them a form to fill out and made them wait fifteen minutes while she got good and ready to make the search.

"One John David Ketch—," she mumbled. The detectives did not realize she was talking about their man, until she straightened up in her chair and glowered over the counter at them. "You boys wanna hear this or not?" she asked. The detectives got up from their seats and leaned over her desk to hear what she seemed determined to keep to herself. "Stand back behind the counter please," she said without looking at either man. Mark noticed a sign that read: 'Please—cover your mouth and nose with tissue when you cough.' He was beginning to wonder what kinds of diseases were in the air, when the clerk's mouth opened again: "Hospitalized here about twenty years ago. An outpatient for the next five."

"What was he in for?" McQuade asked.

She looked at him, thinking he was being sarcastic but said, "Combat injuries in the beginning. Then drug addiction. Then acute alcoholism. Then depression. Then...."

"Jesus!" Novato said. The clerk singed him with a look.

"You got a description?" McQuade asked.

She ignored the question and showed less interest in the file. "Looks like maybe he recovered from everything—or gave up trying. Hasn't been back for more than a year, not even for a flu shot. Humph. One of our success stories, I guess." She grunted through a narrow grin that twisted her irony.

"All very interesting," McQuade said. "Now have you got a description of this man?"

She frowned at his perceived lack of sympathy. "Yes—yes, I do. If you'll just hold your water."

Novato chuckled but cut it short when he saw McQuade's look. Turning back sharply to the clerk McQuade fixed his eyes on her and ground his teeth.

"A tall one," she mumbled. "Six-six. Big. No, not so big anymore. Last weighed in at less than two hundred pounds." Her interest in the patient piqued defensiveness on his behalf. "Why the cops after him?"

McQuade and Novato glanced at each other. Neither wanted to answer, fearful of leaks. The older cop gave her the appropriate reply. "Routine."

She looked at him incredulously and the guesswork was nearly visible in its random process behind her eyes. McQuade pushed past it. "You got an address on this man, ma'm?"

"Address?" She scowled at him as if thinking he were stupid. "Ain't got no address. Leastways not after he left here. Got a picture though. Mean lookin' guy."

"The policemen found each other's eyes and spoke simultaneously. "Homeless." As much as McQuade hated Boxweiler, the cop had to admire the man's perceptivity. "Thank you, ma'm." Both detectives leaned over the counter to see the picture. She backed off.

McQuade said, "Ma'm, could we...."

"Miss."

"Can we get a printout of that, miss?"

She gave each man a share of her stinging look then hit the keyboard. A printer started humming, a sheet of paper crawled out of it. Snapping it up with her long nails, she slapped it onto the counter. McQuade looked it over carefully, focusing on the picture in an upper corner—a small photo in black and white—of a hard-looking man beyond his middle years with a wild shock of white hair hanging to his shoulders, a frosty beard, and a fierce look in his eyes. The image suggested a religious fanatic. McQuade showed it to Novato then folded it crudely and stuffed it into his pocket. He nodded and said. "Thanks, miss." Novato nodded too, but she did not reply, only grunted, and returned to her work at the computer.

While mumbling profanity under his breath McQuade walked out of the records department and headed down the hallway to the exit. Novato looked at him with a question all over his face. McQuade said, "Would be homeless."

"So what?"

"Know how many homeless men live—" He laughed into a growl. "Live—that's a joke. You know how many of them exist in this city?"

Novato looked at the passing wall for the answer. "Thousands?"

"Tens of thousands—maybe more. Be like tryin' to find a particular rat in a huge maze."

Novato recoiled at the unkind comparison of the disenfranchised human being and started to disapprove of his partner's attitude but chose not to rile him. He was in a bad enough mood. "So—where do we start?" the young detective asked quietly.

McQuade did not answer until they were getting into the car. "We start by covering the shelters and the missions and...."

"Right here."

McQuade at first looked at Novato with uncertainty then with a glint of comprehension heightened by increasing satisfaction with his partner. "Yeah, you're right. Might've hurt himself in the fall. Prob'ly did. Could be bad too. Good thinkin', Steve."

For half an hour, the two detectives remained in their car with a view of the front door to the medical center. Then McQuade called Mansford. "Gotta hunch, captain. Since our man, this John D. Ketch, is a vet with a history of medical—and mental problems he might be comin' back here soon. Prob'ly got hurt in that fall into the river. Mighta broken a bone or something. So we oughta keep a watch on the Wadsworth VA hospital. Got a picture of him too."

Captain Mansford's attitude became more hopeful than it had been for days. The thought that they might actually be able to catch the serial killer and soon infused him with renewed energy. "Good idea, Mark. Now, if we can keep the media from broadcasting every speck of info on this guy and scaring him out of town, we might get lucky and bag the bastard. Boxweiler has at least agreed to give a detailed description to our comp artist, so we'll have another take on the suspect. Good work, fellas. I'll send a car over to relieve you."

The detectives' hopeful mood was not to last. When McQuade glanced at a newspaper rack in front of the medical center, he saw a headline that evoked another curse. "God damn it to hell!" he yelled, startling his partner. This time the big cop accompanied his profanity with a violent air right hook over the dashboard.

Novato ducked as a natural reaction and, seeing the front page, mouthed the words:

EXECUTIONER AMONG THE HOMELESS

"Jesus Christ!" McQuade shouted. "How in hell did they get that on the street so damned fast?"

Novato shrugged.

McQuade went on. "Thought it was somebody at headquarters—either has a close personal relationship with the press or gettin' paid off."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, like some beat cop with a grudge—or gambling debts. But now it's gotta be none other than...."

"Hugo Boxweiler," Novato finished it for him.

"Every pervert's knight in shining armor."

Novato nodded reluctantly then said, "Well, maybe Ketch won't see it."

Mark bestowed on him a respectful look. "Maybe not. Being homeless, he prob'ly doesn't have a TV or spend his money on the daily journals."

"Could see it in the library though."

"Now you have to go and fuck up my fantasy."

When a police car rolled up in relief, the two detectives drove back to the Center to pick up the drawing of John D. Ketch. Finding the image remarkably like the photograph from the hospital records, they immediately took off to canvas the city shelters and soup kitchens.

No one in the shelters remembered seeing a man looking like Ketch, but several persons in the charitable kitchens had seen him. At one mission in the heart of the San Fernando Valley, a prim little woman in missionary garb recalled the man vividly. She spoke so softly the men had to lean forward to hear. "He's a most noticeable fellow, Detective," she said particularly to McQuade. "You're a tall man, but he's even taller. Thin, though, like most of the poor souls to whom we offer succor and spiritual guidance. Sadly he doesn't visit us very often. In fact I haven't seen him for several months. Sometimes they pass away, you know, without us knowing a thing about it. It's so sad. Have you checked the hospitals?"

McQuade nodded.

"And the morgue?"

A little stunned by the matter of fact tone of her voice McQuade looked hard at her then glanced at his partner. "We haven't thought of that yet, ma'm. You see—" He pondered a moment, considered telling her about the man's deadly activities, and then thought it better to avoid the subject. He handed her his card. "If you see this man again, ma'm, would you please call me immediately."

"Oh, I hope he's not in some sort of trouble. We try so hard to shine the light of Christ into their miserable souls. I'd very much dislike to hear that he has gone astray."

"I'm afraid he has, ma'm."

"Oh dear!" She crossed both hands on her ample breast and looked as if she were going to cry, but no tears materialized. Merely a kind of institutional compassion.

"Will you call us, ma'm?"

"Yes, oh, yes—of course I will. And I certainly hope I do see him again—now that I know he needs me more than ever."

"Just be careful, ma'm. He's—well—be better you let us handle him."

Her hands clasped together tightly on her breast and again she uttered: "Oh dear!" very softly, her face blanching.

"Thank you, ma'm," Novato offered, as the detectives walked out of the mission.

"Let us pray for him, Detectives," she said after them with surprising volume.

The detectives turned slightly and bowed as they stepped onto the sidewalk. When they got back into the car, McQuade said, "Afraid this guy's way beyond prayers."

Novato nodded with noticeable sorrow. "Damned shame."

"Ugly world."

"Here this guy—fought for his country, decorated, comes home—and turns into a maniac."

"A monster killing monsters," McQuade added. "Something fitting in that, don't you think, partner?"

Novato looked at him strangely. "I believe you actually sympathize with this lunatic, don't you, Mark?" The big detective started to nod but made no move, spoke no word. Novato let it go.

When they got back to the RHD, an electrified air filled the place. For the first time in many weeks, they had a line on the serial killer. Even though McQuade doubted the likelihood of the missionary woman's suggestion, he checked the morgue for newly found John Does. Being homeless, Ketch would probably have no identification. If some beat cop found him dead somewhere and called in the meat wagon, no one would know who he was. While a spark of eagerness charged McQuade's research on the city network, he found what he had expected—no corpse fitting the description of the Executioner had recently been stored in the county icebox.

When Mark finally went home and relaxed in front of the TV that evening, his hopes for catching his man by surprise further evaporated. All over the local news and even the national coverage the picture and story of John David Ketch, serial killer, was appearing.

"Shit!" Mark growled. "So much for a confidential investigation. Damned press. Sensationalize every shitty story they can find, even if it means warning away the god damned man we're trying to find." Probably caught a bus, Mark thought, or jumped a freight train out of the city by now—or gone underground. Underground. Remembering the movie about the criminal escaping the police by traveling the LA storm drain system, Mark envisioned the Executioner doing the same. Thoughts raced around in the cop's head. Maybe the guy didn't jump into the canal just to get away from Boxweiler. Maybe he knew what he was doing, where he was going all along.

Mark fired up his computer and ran a search for the LA storm drain. He found a site that showed the history and a scheme of the complex infrastructure stretching for thousands of miles under the city from the mountains to the sea. After opening an online map of the metropolis, he compared the subterranean maze to the map. He slapped the desk and shouted: "Yeaaah!" While printing the page of the drain system he ran the possibilities through his mind. Now I'm onto the bastard, he thought. Then in the eerie glow of the monitor, he realized he had yet to answer a few pertinent questions. Does the guy live down there? Naw. Too dark, dirty, and dangerous. Rats, maybe alligators, but no man. Where does he go? Mark thought about the murder locations and pinpointed them on the map, again comparing them to the system. Sure enough. Killer could've disappeared into the city substructure after each murder. Mark slapped his hands, making a loud pop. Now we've got something of a pattern. Yep. Just like a rat in a maze. Only this one knows his way around down there. I don't. But he prob'ly comes up for air? That's the place to catch him. Guy's gotta eat and sleep. Yep. That's the time and place to catch him. "Yes!" He grabbed the phone, punched some numbers, and waited impatiently.

Steven Novato was making love with his wife, when the call frosted their heat. At first he did not answer and attempted to sustain the passion. And his wife told him to let the machine take it. He tried. Then he heard a familiar voice.

"Hey, Steve—"

Novato separated from her, showed her the palm of his hand to beg off, and picked up the phone. "Yeah, Mark—this better be good."

Mark, who had been pacing the floor, halted. "Oh, shit—I bet I'm callin' right when you and your wife are...."

"That's okay, Mark. What—what's on your mind?" His wife was stroking him into distraction. He tried gently, half-heartedly to swat her hands away.

"You know we were talkin' about the storm drain system?"

"That what you called me to talk about, Mark—the damned sewer?"

"Not the sewer, Stevo. Like I told you. It's for rain runoff—and maybe for something or someone else not intended—"

Novato waited while playing absently with his wife's breasts but then became impatient. "I'm listening, Mark—but I don't want to. So please make your point so I can—go back to sleep." He glanced at his wife who giggled and put her hand on his still standing conduit.

Mark's face showed a rare blush. "It's—oh, hell—I'll tell you all about it tomorrow."

Novato had already let the telephone drop from his hand and barely heard Mark's last words: "Sorry to bother you, man." Mark started laughing before he could hang up. "Sleep well." When he did click off he said, grinning broadly, "And I bet you will." As he stood over his computer he was no longer excited about his breakthrough in the case, could not focus on the screen; so he turned off the machine and sat down to let the TV take his mind off the call and the subsequent thoughts about his absent wife it had aroused in him. For the rest of the evening the city, the storm system, and the serial killer never re-entered his head. Unable to sit still or go to sleep Mark called his wife and held his breath until she answered. He exulted to find her still awake and alone.

Chapter 30

Normally JD Ketch awoke to birdsong and a dawning sky. This morning, having narrowly escaped from the man he had failed to kill, he might not have awakened at all but for sunlight burning into his eyes. He had passed a night fraught with nightmares and was reluctant to face the day. For the first time in his career of killing people both legally and illegally his lethal action had miscarried and he was sick with the failure. When he first squinted at the orange sky, he jerked violently, his heart pounding, to find himself tucked into his hollow by the river with no inkling of how he had arrived there. He remembered only walking along the river bottom amid a hellish vision. Checking over his clothes he found them still damp, feeling his hands hurting, he saw cuts across the inside of his fingers. Then he remembered losing the wire and he sickened even more.

"I blew it!" He looked around to see if anyone was nearby, someone who might have heard his exclamation. Seeing no one, he sat up, buried his face in his dirty hands, and rubbed his eyes with his fingertips for a long time. It felt good. He wanted to rub his whole body. When he move to stand up, pain shot up one leg from his ankle. Pulling up his pants leg, he saw it bruised and swollen. "Damn!" The sight of the injury upset him. A disturbing question fired in his brain: How am I going to walk? He examined the ankle with his fingers, looking it over carefully, and saw it was not broken. Thank God! Pulling his good leg beneath him, he slowly stood up, letting the wounded leg dangle with a crook in his knee to keep his foot off the ground. Slowly, gently he touched his heel down and put a little weight on it. Another shooting pain. But mercifully brief. He knew from long experience that swelling was causing the pain, that and the pressure from his elevated body. He minced a step, quickly letting his weight on and off the foot. Then another step. Another. He could walk. If he could get the swelling down, the ankle would be all right. He sat back down on the embankment that framed his hollow and pondered the problem. Cold. Need something cold. Where can I get some ice? He thought hard, working his mind up and down the streets he had traveled, trying to remember a liquor store, a bar, a neighborhood market that would offer a simple handout. Gotta walk. Need to lean on something. Scanning the bank, he limped up and down the river, looking for a long stick.

Finding a branch fallen from a fir tree he stripped its twigs and rough bark then scraped the stick in the chainlink fence along the river. Snapping it at the right length, he poked it into the ground and walked a few paces. Good enough, he thought. Pain not so bad. I can move around. Need some R'n'R. Take a break from the mission. Bad luck the son of a bitch got away. Others could escape too. Gotta lie low. Probably news all over town. Check papers in the library. Later. Hungry now. Good sign. Gotta recoup.

JD hiked up to Ventura Boulevard and found his favorite trash receptacles where he dug out some partially eaten fast-food garbage and a few cups with remnant coffee, even some cups with ice for his ankle. He had to hurry in gathering his breakfast despite and because of his lameness; whenever he spotted a police car he limped behind a bush, a car, or into an alley. He knew the game leg would make him more noticeable. They'd be lookin' for a gimp. After jamming the ice into the remnants of his sock on the bad leg, he wolfed down handfuls of cold ham, eggs, and cheese smashed between pads of greasy bread and washed the mess down with tepid coffee. Then he headed for the library. Good place to hide out, he thought. Rest the leg. Find out what they know about me.

He had not even reached a seat when he spotted a front-page story on the Times that rocked him so much he had to hold fast to his walking stick. Stunned he stared at his own image staring back at him. Furtively glancing around the room, he picked up the paper, folded it onto the picture, and took it to a chair in a corner. He knew he would be alone there; people in the library avoided him because of his appearance and most of all his odor. For once his lousy hygiene was working for him. When sure no one was watching him, he slowly opened the paper and read the headline:

SERIAL KILLER A DECORATED VET

"Shit!" he whispered so loudly, an elderly woman standing at a magazine rack threw an acerbic look at him. Ignoring her, he scanned the caption under the picture.

John David Ketch in recent Veterans Administration ID photograph.

Swallowing hard he perused the column under the headline.

Police have identified the notorious

serial killer, who has been terrorizing

the city, as John David Ketch. The

alleged murderer is believed to be a

homeless man with a long history of

drug abuse and mental illness.

Decorated for heroic action in combat,

Ketch has been an outpatient at the

Wadsworth VA Medical Center in West

Los Angeles for many years. According

to reliable sources, Ketch may be

injured and seeking medical care for a

wound that he reportedly received while

fighting with one of his intended victims.

Ketch allegedly killed three people in

the city of Los Angeles within the past

several weeks. Police are looking into

other unsolved murders that this man

might have committed over the years....

Unable to read more JD turned to stone, his flesh pallid, eyes fixed. He wiped his sweaty hands on his pants and inhaled deeply to quell the panic rising into his breast. They're lookin' to make me a scapegoat, he thought. Blame me for all the murders in this god-damned city. Got to get out of sight for a while. Let things cool down. Nurse my leg. Let 'em think I'm dead. That's it. Disappear for a time. Like what's his name? Guy in England. Jack the Ripper. I wouldn't kill women, though. Evil. Lunatic. I'm fightin' a war here—against the enemies of children. Oughta be thankin' me. No. Gonna hang me. Can't let 'em. Got more work to do. Yeah. Disappear. Guerrilla style. Can do. Go underground. Under the city. That's the place. Never find me. Come up only to for food and water. Sleep down there till the rains get too heavy. Hell, flood drowns me—so much the better. What do I care? Yeah. Gotta get outta here.

JD searched the stacks for a book he had once seen that showed the storm drain system. He was slightly familiar with that part of it in the immediate area of his sleeping spot but now he needed the whole picture. Finding the book, he fished some coins out of his pocket, gleanings from the street, and flashed a copy of a schematic drawing of the entire system. After replacing the book exactly in its place on the shelf, JD left the library.

In Central Valley Park, he had seen a large storm drain opening in a curb, maybe big enough for him to squeeze his long body into the catch basin; then he could gain access to the underground system. Knowing he could be noticed entering the drain during daylight and wanting to rest his ankle at his hollow he thumped through the park to the location of the hole in the ground only so that he could reconnoiter the situation and determine the accessibility of the storm drain system. He had not been down there in his life, only heard of kids sliding into them and getting stuck or killed during flash floods, so he feared the opening would be too small. And safety bars across them.

JD was relieved when he arrived at the site to see an unusually large opening in the curb. No bars. Maybe, he thought, busted out during big rains. Walking past the drain several times, he guessed it would be a tight fit and he would have to make like a rodent and flatten his body. Good, he thought nearly aloud. That'll work. Come back here tomorrow morning before dawn, after breakfast; take a trip through the subterranean world. He laughed aloud. Seems like I been there most of my life anyway. Should be familiar. He stroked his beard. Now, he said to himself, I better find a blade someplace. Get rid of this hair.

Balancing on his three legs, he limped into an alley full of trashcans and dumpsters. Find almost anything in these, he thought. Castoff junk from overabundance. Waste from an overindulgent world. "Thank God for the disposable society!" He cackled as he dived into a big steel box and plowed through rubbish with his stick to find something sharp enough to cut hair, maybe shave his face. Inside a plastic trash bag, he found a woman's razor. Picking up the pink thing, he grunted, cocked his head, and applied it to a strand of hair. When a clump fell onto his shoulder, he said, "Good 'nough." and crawled out of the dumpster. Sliding the little razor carefully into a pocket he hobbled back to his hollow.

Tucked into the crevice of earth that comprised his home, JD began a crude tonsorial task. Starting with his head he methodically sawed off six-inch strands until he worked the length down to about one inch all over his scalp. Then he chopped off lengths of beard until he could drag the razor across his face. In about an hour, he had transformed himself from a bombastic prophet out of the Old Testament into a character resembling a ragged white supremacist, the wartime tattoos on his arms completing the picture. Picking his way to a car sideview mirror, he admired his handiwork in the waning light of day. "Sure 'nough. Like an aging warrior. All right. Lost a few years. Sharp 'nough for the ladies." He burst out laughing so hard he nearly fell over but for an agile maneuver with his stick. Ambling back to his hole he lay on his back, cane by his side, and watched the light drain out of the sky. In the twilight he followed swallows zooming silently back and forth over the river in their quest for evening meal tidbits until after dusk, when the bats took over the territory.

JD gazed at the white sparks like punctures in the darkening dome and wished he knew more about the constellations. Knowing the large twinklers were possibly planets he searched for them through the luminous haze cast by city lights. But the distorting urban atmosphere appeared to make many of the lightspecks sparkle so he could not discern planets from suns. Distant suns. Solar systems billions of miles away. Maybe some like this one. One at least in all the countless stars. Wonder if humans there. Like us? Me? God, I hope not. One world of our kind enough in the universe. JD lost concentration when his stomach complained for lack of food.

Setting off for the boulevard by night, he searched out his evening meal, confident now that no one would easily recognize him. And his leg was feeling better. He would not need the stick much longer. Stuffing handfuls of partially eaten burgers and chicken sandwiches into a bag and pouring remnant cola into a large cup, he went back to the river and sat on the edge of his earthen quarters to watch a gigantic moon rising into the nightsky. He fixed on its amber glow and devoured the food. Eating by moonlight, he mused. Romantic. He felt strangely comfortable with food in his belly, a new look, and another world to explore in the morning. After dinner JD relieved himself beneath some bottlebrush bushes downwind of his hollow then stretched out to watch the firmament again, until his senses shut down, and his brain passed into the alternate mode.

Before dawn he got up and tried to stand on his ankle with the stick, then without the stick. He could walk fine on two legs, a little gingerly on the bad one but well enough. He took the stick with him anyway, having gotten to like the feel of it in his hand. Besides, it could come in handy below ground. After scavenging something starchy to fill his belly, he took off to the park where he had found the open drain.

Finding the slot in the curb, he stood above it and watched for onlookers and cars going by, but it was early enough for the streets to be empty of pedestrians, and only a few vehicles rolling past. He would have to make his move between cars. No chance there would be a long lull in traffic, not in LA.

Seeing a break, JD squatted by the drain and lay down on his belly. When he slid against the opening, he found it smaller than he had perceived, but just large enough to take his body. Rotating his feet first, he pushed himself backward into the catch basin, squeezing his hips through. His knees sunk into the muck on the bottom, he brought his shoulders into the gap, but they were tight. Working his scapula and rib cage he inched his thorax through then sensed the width for his head. Turning it sideways, he cleared the concrete frame, only lightly scraping his ears on the rough edge. At the next moment, he was sitting in the basin no larger than an appliance crate. For a moment he crouched and watched car wheels go past the opening. They stopped at a signal on the corner, and then rolled down the street. Did not see him. JD was out of sight.

He turned to look at the round pipe leading from the basin to one of the tunnel feeders into a larger channel that eventually empties into the river. When he saw the black hole, he realized he was missing a vitally important tool—light. The system would be pitch dark day and night. He had to find a flashlight or a lantern someplace. Probably have to steal one. Might as well do it now, he thought. Got to see if I can slide in and out of this hole without too much trouble. He sat in the filth at the bottom of the basin and thought. Where can I get one? Some car? Maybe, if one's open. In a store? Too risky. Can't get caught shoplifting. A house? Same danger. No, got to be a car or a truck. Yeah, some guy might leave his door unlocked. Most likely gonna be one with flares and shit. Get outta here and find it before too much daylight.

JD crawled out of the basin and looked up and down the street. By chance some trucks were parked outside a building supply store. Checking the cab doors of each one, he found to his surprise that most of them were open. Probably nothing inside, he thought. Maybe drivers think no one would steal a truck. Hell, some people would swipe anything. JD stepped into one, another, and another but did not find a flashlight. Then he struck it rich in the fourth one. Testing the light, he clicked his tongue when it flashed his face. Good. Fresh batteries.

Concealing it in his coat, he stepped out of the truck and before taking a step, he jumped at a loud voice from behind him. "Hey! Whaddya doin' in my truck—you old bum?" JD spun around and saw a stocky man waving a big fist in the air. "Stop right there, ass-hole. I wanna know what in hell you're doin'!"

Without looking back JD ran back up the street. His movement a little lopsided because of the tender ankle but he fairly flew to get back to the storm drain, adrenaline pumping through his body.

"Stop!" The fat trucker gave chase but could make no speed, his wobbly belly slowing him down. "You sonovabitch! I get hold of you I'll—"

When JD reached the gap in the curb, he flopped into the gutter and slid belly first into the basin, bumping his head on the concrete but skidding into it bodily.

"What the—?" The trucker stopped and lifted his arms from his sides in exasperation then, mumbling residual curses amid pants for breath, turned back to check out his truck.

JD kept the light off until he had crawled about twenty feet into the pipe. With every inch of advance, his hands and knees sank into an oily oozing slime and his fingers bumped into alien objects. When JD turned on the flashlight, he wished he had stayed in the dark. Motley chunks of yellow, brown, and black trash soaked in greasy water lay strewn the length of the pipe. The walls were stained as if wiped with excrement, and a disgusting stink, like the reek from a million unwashed ass holes, was rising potently from the dark direction he was headed. He crawled many yards before the pipe opened into a larger passage, which from his map he knew was a tunnel that extended for miles underground and emptied into the wash on the other side of the park.

As he stuck his head out of the feeder pipe and flashed the light up and down the bigger passageway the stink nearly made him dizzy. At that moment he was having serious second thoughts about his subterranean escape plan. Maybe a prison cell would be better. Certainly cleaner. But JD had never been a captive and would rather dwell free in hell than caged on Earth. Turning around in the pipe, he let himself drop feet first onto the tunnel floor. He uttered a breathy cheer to be escaping the small pipe. Too like burial. But he found more debris. Flashing his light one way then the other he saw an endless river of waste: paper, glass, wood, metal, plastic, tons of plastic, as well as pieces of furniture, car parts, clothing, branches and brush, and a few furry things of no identifiable species.

Slogging through this vomitorium of modern urbia, JD kept passing the light from right in front of his feet to as far down the passage as it would illumine and bouncing it off the cracked and corrupted walls; he was unsure of what would rise up in front of him and ready for anything he could envision. And JD Ketch was capable of imagining a ferocious surreality.

He plodded toward the wash into which the big tunnel disgorged its foul effluence, wanting to see how far it extended, what he would encounter along the way, and most of all how high the opening hung above the concrete floor of the tributary to the Los Angeles River. As the comforting ray from his flashlight flickered along the walls of the drain tunnel, he ventured farther and farther down the long line running beneath park, streets, yards, and buildings. He could hear the boom of vehicles overhead and wondered if the cracks in the walls meant the system were breaking down around him. What if an earthquake, a big one shook the city? Would not a massive temblor destroy it? Crush the pipes and tunnels like corrugated paper and snuff out his life in seconds? JD Ketch thought about dying down there. Buried alive beneath the great and terrible metropolis. Not the way I'd planned to go, he mused. Pasted into a catacomb. He shivered and saw his breath in the light. It was cold down there, but a surge of panic chilled him more. He picked up his pace.

JD walked for what seemed like miles before he spotted a bright speck, the outer orifice. Sloshing through the assorted detritus, he watched the lightspot widen, round out, enlarge, and then pour in widening rays on the walls of the long tunnel. When he reached the end of it, he stood on the curved ledge and surveyed the massive concrete casement of the Tujunga Wash. A strange sense of a profane rebirth prodded his fancy and he danced a little jig on the lip of that urban anus.

Within the dark network of drains behind him lay a wilderness he had never known. Little of nature, as he knew it, existed down here except for microbial and animal lifeforms that always thrive on the fringes of human society. He had heard stories about everything from unidentified exotic organisms to large maneating reptiles dwelling in the depths below the city, so he kept an eye out for anything that might start scudding under its own power along the bottom of the tunnel. Curiously the chance of such a sighting actually thrilled him, for to this sojourner through the infernal depths such creatures of the dank and dark were nearly brethren. From this time forward, he thought of himself as a subterranean beast. JD stood on the edge of that tunnel and witnessed what would become from that day forward a rare view of the sallow sunrise over LA. Like Dante, he had ventured into the underworld to find salvation, if only from the relentless reach of the law. In days to come, he planned to explore countless miles of this contemporary Hades in his desperation to escape capture but he did not realize he was entering another terrible type of illusory confinement—man on the run.

Chapter 31

Mark McQuade's life was looking up for a change: he had gotten a break on the serial killer case and was sensing an imminent reconciliation with his wife. Of course he had also begun to neglect Donna Wright but he told himself that was acceptable. They both knew what they were doing. As refugees from marital strife, they had found temporary solace in one another while keeping the facts open for review. Neither had expected anything to develop beyond the bedroom, at least Mark had not; and to him Donna's constant cheerfulness whenever he decided to call meant she could take or leave the affair. Fine with me, Mark thought. She's a good woman. Great kids. I owe her a lot. But we both belong to other people. Well, I do anyway.

Mark did not bother to inform Donna that he would not be seeing her again; instead, he planned to let time and distance provide her with all the information she would need. Besides, he had a lot of work to do now that he was hot on the Executioner's tail. And whenever he got to the office these days he was a man in charge of his life, reinforced by a string of promising omens if not events.

When the DNA report arrived, it further confirmed the identity of the killer as John David Ketch. Even though they had not yet captured the man, Mark McQuade and Steven Novato were nearly celebratory, and their energized attitudes enlivened the entire division. The captain himself caught their excitement and rather rashly told both the Chief of Police and the Commissioner that they would be apprehending the serial killer soon.

"We got to get that guy now, Mark," the captain said with uncharacteristic elation. "The whole department, media, and all the citizens of LA are expecting an immediate capture."

"Yeah, and I bet the pedos are the most eager of all, eh?" Mark said, grinning wryly. The captain could not help but reflect the grin.

"What say we use 'em as decoys, Cap'n?" Mark asked sarcastically. "Kinda like rats to catch a feral cat. How 'bout Tribble. He'd be juicy lookin' bait." The captain's grin decayed to a grimace. He could be as jaded as the rest of his detectives but knew where the line was drawn and so turned his back on the banter and retired to his closed off cubicle.

Detective Steven Novato, on the other hand, did not so easily ignore the remark. "Jesus, Mark! You sound like you mean it."

"Course I mean it, Steve. I'd stick my neck out there myself if I thought Ketch wouldn't make me as a cop."

Steve pondered a moment. "Okay. How about me then—instead of an innocent civilian?"

"Innocent! What in hell makes you think rotten meat like Tribble or Boxweiler is innocent?"

"Oh, they're rotten beasts all right. I'll agree with that, Mark, but they doesn't deserve torture. There's something in the Constitution about 'cruel and unusual punishment', you know."

"Now don't go givin' me a sappy civics lesson, Steve. You know as well as I do we work around it every day. And don't try to stand so tall your feet hurt. I was only jerking you around with that decoy idea. Not a bad one, though, eh?"

Novato looked at his partner as if not knowing whether to laugh at him or slug him. "Yeah, I guess so. Probably see right through it, though. Guy's probably no dummy."

Mark chewed on that. "No dummy. And certainly smart enough to lie low, now the dirt on him is showing up across newspapers and TV in every house in town."

Novato mulled this over a while then looked serious. "So—what's next, Mark?"

"We follow every lead that comes in, no matter how stupid it seems. And believe me, there'll be a shit pot full of bad leads."

Novato let a little sound escape his nose then nodded briskly. As Detective McQuade had guessed, calls and email were pouring into the division with sightings of men that supposedly fit Ketch's description. All bad tips but they kept the cops' enthusiasm cooking. Hoping any one of the leads could produce a suspect, an arrest, the two detectives followed every one of them.

In West LA, they interviewed an old woman who had complained about a strange man lurking in her neighborhood, a man who turned out to be a real estate agent looking for listings. In Sherman Oaks, they talked to a shopkeeper who venomously described a vagrant that kept hanging around the store, scaring away customers. They visited school security patrols in Southcentral LA that reported men waiting outside the grounds who were actually grandfathers picking up their grandchildren. They rushed to emergency rooms downtown, when nurses called about indigent patients who came in with lacerated hands or broken legs. They attended to scores of such leads without connecting any of them to John David Ketch.

When the telephone rang now, both McQuade and Novato yanked it to their ears only to be annoyed and frustrated, attitudes that were steadily overwhelming their former zeal. Soon the unproductive drudgery thickened so much, the two men started to avoid answering the phone, maneuvering the other one to dealing with it. After scores of such calls, Detective Steven Novato received one that sucked him out of the soft center of his chair.

"Yes, ma'm. With your son?" Mark perked up for some reason wondering if the caller were Donna, but when he reached for the phone, Novato shook him off and stayed with the caller. "Where did this happen, Senora Gonzalez? Donde?" Mark leaned and mugged inquisitively, distracting the young detective. When he scribbled a name and address on his pad, Mark cocked his head to read it. "Muchas gracias, senora," Novato said. "We'll come right over and talk to you. Pronto. Stay home—por favor." He hung up, jumped to his feet, and waved his partner to follow. "Looks like we could finally have a decent lead here, partner."

Following him, Mark said, "This I gotta see," but laid his big hand on Novato's back, and let it slide off naturally, as they strode out of the division office. When they got to the car, Novato eased behind the wheel before Mark could get there. The older man stood still and faced him with a big brother grin on his face. Novato looked up at him with a cocky grin and said, "I may as well drive, Mark—since I know where we're going."

Brushing off the silly competitiveness Mark stomped around the car and got into the passenger seat. "Better not be a waste of time." While Novato pulled the car out of the garage and turned it into the traffic, Mark was staring at him, but the young cop only kept a serious eye looking straight ahead. "Well, what's the story, Detective?" Mark pressed.

"Yeah—," Novato said with a trace of mockery. "This woman. Senora Inez Gonzalez says she spotted a man, thinks could be our killer, behaving suspiciously around children at a neighborhood playground."

"Around kids?" Mark said. "Sounds more like one of his victims. Unless he...." The thought did not completely form in his brain, as he glanced around the neighborhood through which they were traveling. "Where is the place?"

"I'm taking us there."

"Don't be cute with me, Novato. Where in hell we goin'?"

"North Hollywood. Near the river."

"Figures. Better juice this thing."

Novato obliged. "Show the light?"

"Yeah, and if we sound the siren too we can make sure the guy knows we're comin'."

Novato flushed with both embarrassment and anger. Mark saw it in his face and smiled. They were silent the rest of the way.

About fifteen minutes later, they stopped in front of the Gonzalez residence. Mark let his partner take the lead to knock on the door, but Mrs. Gonzalez opened it before they were half up the walkway. She spoke English with a rolling Spanish accent. "Oh, senores, I'n afraid the man, he ees gone. I weesh...."

Mark skipped the introductions: "Where's the playground, ma'm?"

"El Parque," Novato added, ignoring his partner's lifted eyebrow.

The small, tidy woman with long black hair gathered at the nape of her neck raised one arm in the direction up the street. "Ees close. We walk, eef you want." She looked up at the two men for affirmation. The looked at each other, then Mark motioned with a sweep of his arm for her to lead the way.

As they walked, Mark sized up the woman for credibility. "You say you saw this man, ma'm."

"Si, I see heem."

"And he was watching the kids?"

She nodded emphatically. "Si. A dirty man. Homeless, no? And tall—mucho grande." She lifted one hand horizontally above her head. "Bery, bery tall man." She sized Mark up in turn. "Taller even than jou, senor."

Novato grinned but Mark ignored it, nodded absently, and said, "Did you see anyone else there ma'm?"

She looked at him wonderingly.

"Another man maybe," Novato said. "Un otro hombre—looking at the kids—los ninos?"

She thought only a second then shook her head. "No, senor. Only thees man. Y I'n bery glad he el solamente uno. Bery scary. Dos—?" She wrung her hands in front of her as though shaking off a poisonous spider. "Ayee!" Steve Novato smiled at the woman, then at Mark, who was too preoccupied with what he was expecting to see at the playground to notice her behavior. Novato picked up his partner's concentration. "Here ees thee place, senores!" The detectives immediately shifted into hunting mode. Putting his arm in front of the woman to stop her progress, Novato followed his partner to a large dense hibiscus bush near the street, a place from where they could view the park, partially hidden from view. For several moments the three of them said nothing but only breathed rapidly, as the detectives scanned the playground.

"You see him, Mark?" Novato whispered.

Mark shook his head and looked at the woman. "The man still here, ma'm?"

She stood on her tiptoes to see over a branch. After looking long, squinting her eyes to see clearly, she started to shake her head then said. "I think he's...."

"Damn!" Mark said, startlingly the woman.

"No!" she shouted. "There he ees! There! See! He sit on dat bench—on l'otro side—near the canal—"

McQuade and Novato both peered at the lanky, figure of a man in dirty clothes watching the children play, the way one watches a cartoon movie. Neither cop made a move and looked dubious. Novato expressed it first. "Doesn't look like him, Mark."

"Put some hair on him it does." Mark was right. The man was John David Ketch. He told the woman to return home, but she remained as if not understanding his words. Without pressing her, he said quietly to his partner, "Go round behind him, Steve. When you get into position, give me a hand signal, we'll take him from both sides." The plan was a good one, tried and true, for securing any ordinary suspect. But JD Ketch was extraordinary.

The bum on the bench was happily watching the children play and appeared completely absorbed in their monkey shines, oblivious to anything else going on around him, but if the cops had looked close up they could have seen the old man's weathered eye surveying the entire area. JD had spotted the three persons approach and hide behind the bush; he had seen the woman; and he had seen one of the men separate from the other. Surmising what they were after, JD slowly got to his feet, clutched his stick, and leaned on it while appearing casually to watch the kids. Without another move, he broke from the playground and ran as fast as he could to an adjacent street.

When their suspect rounded a corner, both detectives lost sight of him behind a building for a several seconds. Long enough. Taking advantage of his temporary invisibility the fugitive slid into a storm drain, jamming his massive chest, but close to panic squeezed his body into the catch basin. By the time JD's pursuers dashed to the playground then ran around the corner, the fugitive was out of sight.

"Check the yards," McQuade shouted to Novato. Both men darted among houses and apartments in the area, peered into dumpsters, garages, knocked on doors but found neither their man nor word that someone had seen him. "Damn it!" Mark snarled and punched his open hand. "What in hell is this guy?"

"Like a magician," Novato said, his head turning, eyes scanning the neighborhood. "Some kind of phantom."

Mark stuck him with a look. "Well, this phantom strangles people, moves like a cat, and knows his god damned way around the city—probably better than we do."

"I'm calling for backup," Novato said.

Mark nodded. "Suppose we should, but I doubt they're gonna—" His eyes falling by chance on the opening in the curb, he stepped closer to it and crouched for a look into the basin. Only slop and trash. Examining the entrance, he saw nothing notable around the gap, the gutter having been brushed and watered recently by a streetsweeper. Had he been inclined to stick his head into the drain he might have spotted his man lying low in the pipe leading out of the basin.

JD Ketch held himself still as stone, his clothes soaking up the slime around him, and he barely breathed while watching the policemen's shoes tromp around the slot in the curb. Only when they walked away from the drain and he no longer heard their footsteps or their voices did he inhale deeply and let down his guard. Having slid into the pipe so he could face toward the basin to see if one of the cops would take a wild flyer and enter the underground, he came back out of the tube, turned around in the basin, and headed back into the pipe. In minutes he came upon one of the thousands of larger tunnels that lead into a washbasin or the main river, draining the squalid streets of the vast metropolis.

Detectives McQuade and Novato lingered around the neighborhood for some time, searching for anything the man might have dropped, asking any person who might have seen the fugitive. They found nothing. But Mark could not take his mind off the drain. Big enough for a man to slip into, he reasoned even a big man. Could be in there. Gone underground. Hell of a good escape route. "Let's go back to the RHD," he said to Novato. "I wanna dig up a map of the storm drain system."

"You really think he's down there, Mark?"

"Sure didn't disappear into thin air, did he?"

"But down there. God—"

"The man may be used to hell, Steve. One level same as another for him."

After escorting the woman back to her home, the detectives got into their car and drove back to the Center, McQuade behind the wheel. Partly because he thought it futile but mostly because he was painfully chagrined at having missed the collar, McQuade did not bother to call for further investigation of the area, and Novato did not again bring up the subject. This frustration aggravated them but added to their driving motive to catch the illusive serial killer.

Chapter 32

Mark McQuade had long ago come to realize that coincidences are so common in life it would seem a divine or magical hand were playing with our lives, much the way he knew of the ancient Greeks from a show on public television he had accidentally caught while making dinner. Unfortunately he knew such chance occurrences are not always playful but perilous, suggesting that evil fingers could be at work, and this caused no end to wonder about what in hell is controlling the universe.

Donna Wright too could have mused on such ideas had she time enough to do so whenever she found herself in the middle of a crisis. As so often happens to people, though, she had no idea that disaster would threaten to ruin her life, especially since she had become close to big, strong, protective Mark McQuade.

Naturally, since the murder of the child molester in Henley Park, Donna had been keeping a close watch on her children. Much to Tony's dismay, she would no longer allow him to play in the park without her attendance; however, because she was a working single mother she had little time for such diversion. And during her days, she sometimes had to take the children into public places full of countless distractions. One such ordinary trip to a local mall would become the darkest day of her life.

Tony had been unruly all morning that Saturday, and Donna wished she could call a sitter to look after the children but she had to take him shopping with her. The child was growing so fast, she could nearly see his clothes shrinking on his boyish body. He needed new pants and shirts.

So then, shortly after noon, loaded with offspring she parked the car in the mall lot, put baby Dawn into a stroller, and clutched Tony's hand. When they entered the mall Donna tried to keep hold of the boy, but he was determined to run and look in every toy store window and beg at every junk food cart. Tiring of the wrenching tug-of-war the harried young mother eventually loosened her grip on his hand, especially when she spotted an attractive item or price.

"Tony!" she shouted repeatedly. "Stay close to mother. Don't run off where I can't see you." Her motherly instinct was heightened by the intense dangers in the modern world, an impulse that spiked her voice. The boy of course took it only as nagging, denial of his fun-loving freedom. "Tony!" she shouted repeatedly, until after each routine return to her outstretched hand the boy stopped hearing her and drifted farther and farther away.

As often, people choked the mall. Donna kept bumping into them as she trekked from one store to another or meandered through the labyrinthine aisles of the expansive department stores. Normally she enjoyed shopping but, after more than two hours with the children, she was losing energy, sensing the baby's need to feed and nap, and becoming exhausted by her adventurous son. If she had left the mall when her intuition told her to do so, she might have returned home safely with her children. But she decided to make one more search through a pile of boys' pants on sale, long enough to distract her from Tony's location. Only a minute or two before she lost both contact and sight of him. That was all it took—seconds.

Howard Spellman had been following them since they entered the mall. While sitting on a bench by a fountain in the middle of an artificial garden he had spied the young mother arrive with her two children, had heard the boy's name, and found him fascinating. Spellman, a mundane man of middle age, did not appear threatening but to most people in the mall probably looked much like a bored husband waiting for his wife to finish her shopping. At sight of the boy Tony, though, the man's interest lifted his apple-shaped body off the bench and drove him to follow the family through the mall.

Keeping a lengthy distance, practiced in his ways, he did not make the slightest move or expression to reveal his interest. Pausing to look in windows, even quickly visiting stores, and mostly keeping his eyes off the boy, he behaved as any other mall patron, coveting or consuming the treasury of things. But this particular patron was not in a mood to buy anything; he had something far less banal on his mind. He was going to steal.

Spellman followed the Wrights up to the moment when Donna lost track of Tony. Then seeing the little boy alone, his face pressed against the glass of a toy store, the dimple-cheek man quietly approached him, crouching beside him. "See anything you like, son?" Tony glanced at the man. His face was close enough for the boy to sense his mouth-washed breath. The boy pointed at a robot decked out in space gear and futuristic weaponry. Spellman laughed lightly and said, "Ah—hah! Robonaut!" Tony looked at the man with surprise that anyone older than six would know the name of the most celebrated robotic toy in all of childhood. Excited by a glimmer of hope he nodded with an expression of contrived sadness. Careful not to stare at the boy with his small, close set, paleblueyes, Spellman paused for just the right length of time before he asked: "I bet you'd like one of your very own—huh, big guy?"

Tony looked at the toy longingly and said, "Yeah—but my mommy says she can't 'ford one."

Warbling unctuously at the boy's response and encouraged at having broken the ice, Spellman said, "Aw—that's too bad." Once more he timed his next question perfectly. "Well, how would you like to have one of your very own for—" He let the line dangle before setting the hook. Tony was all eyes on the man's moist, ruddy face, when Spellman said, "Free?!"

"For free?!" Tony shouted.

"Shh, now!" Spellman's eyes flickered around the mall. "We don't want all the other kids to think I'm giving away toys. But you're a special boy who knows how to take care of a good toy, aren't you, Tony?" That perfect timing. "So why don't you come along with me and you can see it for yourself?" Tony pondered the question with a vague caution scratching around in the back of his mind, but it stopped bothering him when he heard the man's next words. "How 'bout it, Tony boy? You're such a nice young man, I may even let you take it home for—well, let's go see if you like it first. What do you say?"

Tony nodded like a colt watching candied oats pour into his feeding trough as he let the man take his hand and walk him out of the mall. Howard Spellman's smooth confidence disarmed his young prey and anyone else who might have noticed the two together. He could easily have resembled a doting uncle out shopping with his favorite nephew. Heartwarming. The kind of scene that makes unknowing onlookers smile with sentimental appreciation of a loving family.

Donna of course would have seen it otherwise. If she had not become so engrossed in clothing colors, shapes, and sizes she might have noticed how long Tony had been away from her. If she had emerged from the store twenty seconds earlier, she might have seen her son with a strange man disappear around a corner toward an exit and the parking lot. If she had gone outside the building instead of remaining inside, she might have seen the man help her little boy get into a van. But Donna did not know that Tony was no longer in the mall, that he was not even on the shopping center grounds, that her first born child was riding away from her in a big dark vehicle which very much resembled a hearse.

At first she remained calm at not seeing her son. His disappearing had happened so many times. "To-ny!" she called while standing in the shop entrance. "To-ny!" she called up and down the line of stores. "Tony!" she whispered to herself on the verge of panic. For some reason she glanced at her baby then started to move with a nervous gait. The infant bounced in her arms, as the young mother hurried several yards up the broad passageway then several yards down. Steadily increasing her range, she covered the ground floor from one end to the other. No sight of her son. She began to cry, quietly but steadily intensifying. Looking up to the second floor, she bolted to the bottom of an escalator and climbed the ascending stairs, dragging the stroller up the steps behind her. From the height, she surveyed the garish and cluttered floor below, searched among the men, women, and children. But no Tony. Trying to quell the terror swelling, threatening to explode within, she looked for a police officer, a security guard, or any employee who could help find her son. But she could find none. "Oh, God!" she cried. Leaving the stroller, she bounded down the escalator and spotted at the juncture of two branches of the huge mall an information kiosk. Running to it while holding her baby's head in her hand Donna excused herself as she pushed past a customer asking for directions and with wild eyes pinned the information clerk's attention.

"May I help you, ma'm?" the young clerk said through an overly practiced smile that showed no interest beyond disapproval of this wildly behaving young woman.

"I've lost my—my son seems to have wandered off somewhere." Donna sucked up all her strength to keep herself as calm and coherent as possible. "Could you—? Maybe someone could...."

"Sure thing—" The clerk picked up a telephone and punched three numbers. In a moment she said, "We have a lost child—" She listened without expression. "Yes, the mother is here with me." And she listened without revealing a twitch of emotion. Looking up at Donna, she asked, "And what is the boy's name, ma'm?"

"Tony, Tony Wright," Donna said with a quaking voice.

"Tony Wright," the clerk echoed into the phone, listened further, and then hung up. "We'll page him for you, Mis'ess Wright." While the clerk pulled out a blank form, Donna waited to hear the page. "Would you describe him for me, please?"

As soon as Donna opened her mouth, a mechanical male voice sounded from scores of speakers throughout the mall. "Attention, Tony Wright. Tony Wright. Please go into the nearest store and find a salesperson. Tony Wright, go to the nearest salesperson and tell your name."

Donna looked up and down the mall as if expecting to see her boy running toward her with his little arms outstretched for an embrace. But she saw only crowds of strangers, out of which a security guard was approaching her. Hopeful she turned to him as the only means to salvation. "Have you found him?"

"No, ma'm—not yet. But I'm sure we will—soon."

"Mis'ess Wright?"

Donna remembered the clerk and returned attention to her. "Oh, yes—Tony. He's six years old, about three and a half feet tall, light brown hair, brown eyes like mine—oh, please hurry and find him!"

The clerk wrote quickly and telephoned the description to the main office. The guard took Donna's hand and led her with him to search the expansive mall. "Try not to worry too much, ma'm," he said. "We have security everywhere and cameras transmit video pictures to a bank of monitors in central control. If the boy's in the mall—or even in the surrounding lots—we'll find him."

Donna snapped a look at him in response to his use of the word 'if'. Not what she wanted to hear. She said, "He has to be somewhere around here. He was out of my sight for only a short time. Oh, why did I bring him with me?" The baby began to squirm and whine in her arms. "I knew I should have left him and the baby home with a sitter but...."

"Don't blame yourself, ma'm. Unfortunately this sort of thing happens."

She shot another look at him and followed it with verbal bullets. "What sort of thing is that, sir? Children gone missing in the mall. Do you know what you're saying? Do you have any idea how dangerous this world is today?"

He nodded patiently. "Yes, ma'm. Now let's just keep looking for the boy. That's the best action we can take right now. I'm sure he's off in some corner of a store, playing with a toy. I bet he'll be home with you within the hour. Here, let's take this escalator—"

With the baby growing increasingly restless, Donna searched the mall for the next sixty minutes with the security guard, covering every floor from one end to the other. But neither she nor any of the many mall employees could find her son. Frantic and sobbing she hurried back to the information desk and, without asking to use the telephone, called the police. But no reassurance there.

The officer on the line told her to keep looking for the child, that he would probably turn up; if he did not, the officer advised her to call again, and the department would send a car to the mall. Donna kept looking for her child but, when he did not turn up, she again called the police, this time directly to Detective Mark McQuade.

Mark was out of the office but picked up the call in his car while he and Steve Novato were investigating known haunts of homeless men in and around the LA River. "Yeah, Donna—," he said with some annoyance at being disturbed while on duty; much of his disturbance arose, though, from his discomfort at hearing from this particular woman, now that he was in the process of reconciling with his wife. "What's up?"

"Oh, Mark! Tony's gone!" She disintegrated into a storm of tears.

"Hold on, Donna," Mark said while taking a freeway off ramp. "Tell me what happened." He listened to her fractured story and got enough details to make him change his plans for the day. "What mall?" After hearing it, he turned on the siren and motioned for Novato to put the light on the roof.

The car was still rocking slightly in the mall garage parking space, when Mark leaped out and ran inside the building, Novato after him and wondering what had happened to electrify his partner. Right inside the main door, they halted to spot the information desk and Donna Wright with her baby.

When she caught sight of Mark, she rushed into his arms. He held her close and stroked her back. Novato watched them with a dozen ideas rolling around in his mind, the main one being a question if this woman was his partner's wife. Mark gently pushed Donna back so he could look into her eyes. They were wet, glassy, and red, the irises wide. The sight of her roused in him a profound sympathy and he lent her the full force of his will. "Look, Donna. Here's the first thing—we're going to find the boy—alive and well. Do you hear me, Donna? We're going to find him. You've got to believe that."

Steve Novato's face showed concern at his partner's profuse reassurance. Novato had been a cop long enough to know that predictions of good results in disappearance cases were as valuable as advice from fortunetellers. Mark McQuade too felt uneasy about his immoderate encouragement but could not deny an irresistible urge to appease the woman, especially in seeing her so distraught. Still, he tried to temper his words. "You've got to have faith in a situation like this, Donna. Hear me?" She nodded dutifully but without resolve. "You must hope for the best." He knew he was talking too much, and his partner's hand on his shoulder reinforced the knowledge.

"Could you tell us exactly what happened, ma'm?" Novato asked, stepping forward.

"Donna, this is my partner, Detective Novato. Steve—Donna Wright."

Although Novato had never met the woman and realized now that she was not his partner's estranged wife, he perceived a definite relationship between Donna Wright and Mark McQuade, one that complicated the situation, but he stayed on track. "When did you last see him, Mis'ess Wright?"

After, through a torrent of tears Donna had told the detectives the whole story, Mark directed Novato to call in the missing person report immediately and said to her, "In a few minutes we'll have people searching this entire area for blocks around, Donna."

"Could you give me a description, Mis'ess Wright?" Novato asked calmly.

She complied but the strain was tearing at her mind. "God! I can't believe this happened! After that incident in Henley Park, I've been so careful with the kids. It's like we're cursed." Mark did not know what to say.

Novato ignored her last remark and said, "They're more than a handful, ma'm. It's hard for anyone to keep track of them every minute."

"That's all it was—minutes. It couldn't have been longer." Her eyes pleaded. "He must be around here somewhere—" She started nervously rescanning the mall. The baby's crescendo of whimpering was on the brink of breaking into a full-blown ministorm. Donna knew she had to change her, feed her, and put her to bed as soon as possible. "Oh, I have to take care of Dawn but I want to stay here and look for...."

"You take care of your baby, ma'm. Mark and I'll do everything possible to find your son."

Both Donna and Mark regarded him with appreciative if weak smiles. "He's right, Donna," Mark said softly. "Go home. Take care of your little girl. We'll start looking for your boy right away." She studied his eyes for a second to spot any sign of fraud in them; but seeing only genuine care in the deep furrow of his brow that hooded his kaleidoscopic eyes, she leaned close to his big body as he arced his thick arm around her, and they picked up the stroller and walked out of the shopping center. Steve Novato watched them walk away as he remained in the building to gather further information from the mall personnel.

At the car, Mark took the baby from her and set her into her car seat in the back, while Donna fell behind the steering wheel. "I can't just drive away without Tony. It's like—I'm deserting him, Mark."

"You can't do any more here, Donna. Go home with the baby and try to get centered. We'll do our best to find the boy and let you know the moment we do."

Leaning halfway into the car, she looked up at him and tried to smile. They were close enough to kiss, but that was the last thing on their minds. Mark shut the door for her, and Donna turned on the engine then sat staring at him, tears streaking her blazing cheeks. He patted the roof as if signaling an all clear for her to leave the parking garage. She slowly released the hand brake and slid the gearshift into position. Once more she panned Mark McQuade with her fear-ravaged eyes then let the vehicle's direction pull her into its progress.

Mark watched her small sedan roll almost without momentum to the exit, flash in the blinding sunlight, then turn onto an avenue and vanish into traffic. He stood still a moment after seeing her car disappear and mulled over the situation. He had not wanted to see Donna Wright again, but only to let her know indirectly by neglect that he was no longer interested in continuing their affair, maybe do as much as leave a message on her answering machine, but no more physical contact. Yet here he was entangled with her even more than sexually; he was caught up in her desperation to find her lost child. A bond nearly as tight as love.

Immediately that old distress at the plight of children in the world resurged into the vessels around his heart, reminding him of how good his idea had been to avoid producing more innocent lambs for slaughter at the hands of the depraved devils that stalked civilized streets. Not even the Executioner scares them away, he thought. Too much for him. Too many. And they keep hatching like flies out of garbage. Need an army of assassins, ten thousand clones of John David Ketch to keep the diseased phalanx of pedophiles in check.

Mark McQuade would not consider saying anything to Donna or any other parent but knew in his gut that some sick pedo had snatched little Tony Wright and the man was nauseous with the knowledge. Forcing his body to action despite his constricted heart, he spun around and hurried back into the mall to find his partner. They had to act fast if they were going to find the missing boy. If they did not locate him alive and well (he blinked hard at the word) within forty-eight hours, he would have to tell Donna the dark probable truth. He faltered in his steps.

Even the thought of anything ugly and painful happening to that sweet and lively little boy made the big man shudder, as if a foul wind had suddenly blown out of an ancient mausoleum buried deep in the arctic tundra, swept down the continent, and wrapped around his chest. Shaking off the fright the detective jumped at Novato when he found him. For the first time since his former partner's death Mark McQuade was glad to have Steven Novato riding shotgun. What he feared about this case might have been too much for even a jaded cop like Detective McQuade to confront alone. With a grip that tightened Novato's arm to the point of pain, Mark said, "We gotta find that kid, Steve. We got to find him alive—"

Novato looked into his partner's eyes, now darkened by revulsion, and found the cloistered humanity in the man. "We will, Mark," he said against his better judgment. "We will." Then he had to look away from his Mark's tormented eyes and was relieved to see police officers entering the mall. In the midst of such crushing anxiety, Novato too could not resist reaching for undue optimism in the guise of reassurance. As the two detectives met the other officers, the words 'We will.' reverberated in their heads like the plaintive peal of distant church bells.

Chapter 33

Young Tony Wright was old enough and bright enough to suspect when the van doors closed on him and locked that the situation was wrong. His suspicion turned into breathless dread when he saw in the van no Robonaut toy or any other object that resembled a child's plaything. "Where's Robonaut?" he asked with the unfounded hope of the innocent.

"Oh—," Spellman said with an oily gentleness, "I didn't bring it with me, son. I keep things like that safe at home for special boys like you."

Recalling his mother's oft-repeated admonition to avoid strangers, Tony looked at the man's bulbous face and asked, "Do you know my mommy?"

"I know her well, my boy. We've been friends for years. In fact she knows all about the toy I have for you."

"She never said nothin'."

"She wants it to be a surprise. You like surprises, don't you, boy?"

Tony nodded absently while he thought further. "Do you know my father?"

"Of course. We work together. That's how I met your mother."

Knowing that his parents had not been living together for a long time Tony wondered how and when all this meeting and friendship could have happened. He stared again at the man who was driving him farther and farther away from the mall, his mother, and his home. Noticing the boy's concerned attention Spellman looked down at him and smiled, but the smile was occult like a transparent mask hiding a face too horrifying for the eyes of a trusting child. Perhaps sensing something of that horror Tony turned to look into the rear of the van.

No seats. A dark cavern. Ropes hanging from hooks. A dirty mattress on the floor. More loose ropes. The two rear windows dark with black paint. Nothing to see behind the van. The interior stank of a strangely sweet odor that Tony did not recognize but reminded him of a chemical cleanser his mother used in the bathroom of their home. Uneasy at the sight of that dismal space Tony turned to look out the window beside him. Also dark. All the windows and the windshield were smoked. So murky the daylight of the world outside appeared to have faded to dusk. He watched the faint images of cars and buildings passing and wondered where he was going.

Sensing the boy's growing vexation Spellman said, "Won't be long now, Tony my boy. In just a few minutes you'll have Robonaut in your arms." He accelerated the van.

Tony did not like this strange man calling him 'my boy'. His little face frowned but he said nothing. He wanted his mother. She would be angry since she could not find him and she might be worried. The man said she knew about the surprise. But why didn't she say anything before? She had never surprised him without some hints. The boy was not old enough to know something was amiss here. He wanted very much to ask the man more questions; he had so many questions in his mind that they all ran together. And because he had no answers nor even could guess them, he was growing progressively afraid of this weird person driving him alone to some unknown destination.

Spellman had been telling the boy he was taking him home but knew he could not go there immediately. Since it was broad daylight on Saturday, many of his neighbors would be working around their houses. Besides, being painfully aware that the round man who lived alone among them was a convicted child molester they took turns watching him to make sure he behaved himself, especially around their kids. They had tried repeatedly with letters to the newspaper, pleas to the police, and demonstrations in the neighborhood to get the hated offender ousted from their midst, to no result. Not a bunch of people averse to social services operating in their 'backyard', they, however, drew a line with a sword in the sand at criminals who preyed on children.

So, needing darkness to cover his entrance into the house with the boy, Spellman drove into Griffith Park, knowing of a road off Griffith Park Drive that ascended Mount Bell, a place where he could park beneath a grove of sycamores and be out of sight. He wanted to hide but not physically hurt the boy. Howard Spellman was not a killer and he did not like to beat his victims but he could be ruthless and deadly poisonous to the well being of a child. Most of all, he was damned eager. Having denied the depraved urge that coursed through his body and mind like a drug for so long, he felt crazed to satisfy it, even if as always it was only temporary. Still, he had to wait. Wait until he could conceal the boy securely in a secret place in his house.

"Do you live here?" Tony asked with a whimper in his voice.

"Sure. I live in a big castle high on Mount Hollywood. In the middle of my grounds, I have a big wavepool with waterslides and all kinds of floating toys. Around the pool I have tables covered with cakes and candies. A huge refrigerator is full of every flavor of ice cream you can imagine. And in the center of the castle, a big screen TV stands between shelves full of every cartoon ever made. And...."

"Is Robonaut there?"

"Oh, yes—he's in a place of honor in the main toy room. You can see him first if you like." He laughed with a psychotic edge that agitated the boy. "I think you'll enjoy my castle, Tony, my boy. Can you hardly wait?"

Even six-year-old Tony Wright knew the strange man's description was beyond belief, but the images it conjured were too much for his young mind to dispel, so he nodded meekly. And the man laughed, his body trembling with excitement. Tony saw it and trembled too but with a pervasive erupting fear.

Spellman was still laughing when the van turned up an unpaved road and drove for about a quarter of a mile then stopped beneath some pinetrees. He could see people in the park below but was unconcerned, confident the seclusion of this place from previous trips.

Tony's head spun around. "I don't see any castle."

"Oh, we're not there yet, Tony. It's a long trip so I thought we would rest here for a while. Besides, the best time to visit the castle is at sundown. The sky is so beautiful from up there—high in the clouds."

Tony's dark eyes widened into circles, as he looked forlornly at the man who had taken him away from his mother and was not taking him back. "I don't like it here. I wanna go home."

"Soon, Tony boy. Soon." Spellman turned his round body toward the boy and laid his evil eyes on him as if the child were a feast. "Hey!" he shouted. Tony jumped. "What say we watch some videos?"

"Videos?" Tony looked around the van.

"Look back there." Spellman jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

Tony got to his knees and peered over the seat to see a small TV set. Spellman clambered over the seat and lifted the lid on a DVD box as if he were opening a treasure chest. "Look what I have here, Tony!"

Tony showed little interest, so Spellman pulled out two in each hand and showed the case covers to the boy. His immediately recognized some of his favorite characters, including Donald Duck, Tom and Jerry—and Robonaut. "Robonaut!" he squealed.

"Robonaut!" Spellman echoed. "I had a hunch you'd pick that one. He slid the disk out of the case and slipped it into a player mounted beneath the TV. "Come on down here with me, son. We'll watch it together. It's the latest one, I think."

"Robonaut and the Battle of Sargath?" Tony asked with uninhibited interest.

Spellman laughed. "Hey! You know your titles, youngster."

Tony hesitated in climbing into the back of the van with the man who had acted so strangely, but the prospect of watching a video magically dissolved the boy's distrust. When Spellman reached for the child to lift him over the seat, Tony went rigid but did not resist. He wanted to see that movie of his favorite superman and, since his interaction with adults in his short life had so far been harmless, he guessed, hoped this particular adult would be no different. And when Spellman lay next to the boy without as much as touching his arm, Tony assumed he was probably safe. Anyway, he thought, when they got to the castle, there would probably be other people there. Maybe even mother. With such self-comforting words soothing his mind, he relaxed to watch the movie, and soon forgot everything but the marvelous escapades of the robotic adventurer.

When the movie ended, though, that vague anxiety that Tony had not completely lost crawled back into the front of his mind, coupled with a gnawing sensation in his stomach. "I'm hungry," he said.

"Of course you are, my boy." Spellman gazed out a window. "Looks like it's time to go home and have something delicious for dinner. What do you say?"

Tony nodded avidly. The word 'home' meant to him something completely different than what it meant to Spellman. The boy wanted to misunderstand. And he was so glad to think about jumping into his mother's arms that he forgot all about the castle and Robonaut.

Spellman gathered what was on the boy's mind but said nothing, letting him think what he wanted, to keep him quiet. "Then let's go." He picked up the boy and set him in the front seat then plopped himself behind the wheel. "Home by dark," he said more to himself than to his young passenger. "Safe and sound."

Tony smiled and shivered with delight at hearing those words and he became buoyant when Spellman turned the van around and headed back they way they had come. Home, the boy thought. Mommy. He pictured her face close to his, her mouth kissing his head, his cheeks, and his eyes. It made him giggle quietly, briefly. Spellman looked at him and grinned, imagining in his diseased mind that his captive was actually happy to be with him.

The boy watched out the window, as buildings he now recognized passed in the opposite direction. He looked to spot the mall and his neighborhood. Would the man know where he lived? Tony thought to ask him, for the young child could not quite picture in his mind the right blocks and the familiar turns that led to his street and that little house beneath the walnutrees that he had known all his life. But he did not see what he wanted to see. Only a strange neighborhood, an unknown locality made ominous by the gathering darkness. Wishing against reality Tony stretched his neck and forlornly sought the sight of his own house, the shape of familiar windows glowing with warm light from within. But he did not see anything such thing that could make his wish come true. He saw only a scene that could have jumped out of one of his nightmares. But this one was going to materialize into a waking terror more truly threatening than any nocturnal fantasy his youthful mind had ever conjured.

When the van turned into Spellman's driveway and rolled into the black hole of a garage, the boy felt his body sucked into an endless space that might harbor some monster, which only the likes of Robonaut could conquer. Fear flooded him, manifested itself in a low but steady cry. And Spellman's voice jolted through his little body. "Here we are, my boy!"

Tony jerked his head around and peered into the shadows beyond the garage. "Where's the castle?"

Spellman laughed crazily. "A man's home is his castle, my boy. And we're home."

"Not home—!" Tony began to cry loudly.

"Now, now. You want to see Robonaut, don't you?"

"No. I wanna go home. I want my mommy!"

"I'll tell you what, Tony. We'll call your mommy just as soon as we get settled. Okay?"

Tony glanced at him but was too fearful to believe it. He dropped his head and sobbed as though gagging.

"Come on, boy. You need something good to eat and drink. Talk to your mommy. Play with Robonaut. Then you'll be a happy little camper."

"I don't want to eat. I don't want Robonaut. I want my mommy!" He was now crying wretchedly.

Spellman glowered at the bawling boy a moment then said, "I was hoping I wouldn't have to do this—" Reaching across the child, he opened the dash compartment and pulled out a rag with a small bottle of liquid. After pouring some of it onto the rag, he put the bottle back into the compartment. Tony watched his action and noticed the sickeningly sweet smell, the same odor he had sensed in the van when he first got into it. As soon as the boy realized what was happening and started to resist, the hand covered his nose and mouth. He struggled valiantly but in vain. "There, there, now, my boy—just relax. Everything will be fine." A simpering look seeped into Spellman's face. In a moment Tony stopped struggling, moving, and fell unconscious onto the front seat.

Spellman looked him over like a predator sniffing its kill then stepped out of the car and closed the garage door. After checking the windows to make sure no one was watching, he went to one corner of the garage, reached beneath a windowsill, and pushed a button that opened a small door low in the wall. Then he went back to the boy, picked him up, as if a cherished package, and carried him through the opening into a stuffy windowless room, a secret chamber.

The walls were covered with acoustical tiled walls with no windows; a bed lay on the floor next to a low table, no chairs, a sink and toilet low to the ground; a TV, a DVD player, and a camera were mounted in one corner of the ceiling; in a corner stood a case packed with children's books beside a chest full of toys. Spellman laid his small burden on a mattress and turned on a climate control system. He sat on the pad and stroked the boy's face, pushing hair off his forehead. He studied the smooth, pallid countenance for a few moments then removed the boy's shoes and covered him with a cotton blanket. Preparing to leave the room, the man squeezed his rotund body through the entryway. Shortly he stuck his head back inside and gazed at his guest. "You take a little nap, Tony, my boy—and I'll fix you something yummy for dinner."

With that same simpering look crawling around his eyes, Spellman left, behind him the trap door swinging shut to lie flush with wall, its seam practically invisible. Waddling across the garage, he opened a door to the main part of the house and stepped into a utility room. A gray cat greeted him with a loud rolling purr and a pluming tail. "Well, I'm glad to see you too, Caligula." He picked up the feline, tousled his head and ears, and muttered baby talk to him as he carried him across the house to his bedroom: "We have a beautiful little houseguest staying with us for a while, Calipuss-puss. And I want you to be very nice to him, because he's very, very special."

In the bedroom Spellman kissed the cat's forehead then dropped him onto a kingsize bed, stripped off his street clothes, and stepped into a large bathroom where he washed his hands thoroughly with lots of soap and hot water. When he had dried his hands and combed his hair, he put on a full-length jumpsuit made of purple velour and shoved his little fat feet into matching slippers. Picking up the cat again, he carried him into the kitchen. There he opened a can of tuna and emptied it into a small crystal bowl. After watching the cat sniff the food then bite carefully into it, a satisfied look widened Spellman's pudgy face and he began to prepare the evening meal for two.

In the chamber Tony Wright did not hear the activity in the kitchen. He heard nothing outside the room or even outside his head. He was sleeping the stupor of the drugged, but his mind was hyperactive. On its enveloping screen was viewing a moving vision of a world beyond reality. Far beyond the boring constancy of his mother's mundane home and that small part of the only neighborhood he had known during his first half decade of life. This new world around him now was drenched in darkness. A night so black the young dreamer could see only yellow lights like stars gone meteoric, spinning around him so fast their points blurred into jagged lines. No moon. No real earthly light. Yet he could see a rolling plain of inky water, mountains that could have been thunderclouds, tall clusters of spikes without branches or leaves, broad, flat flying things, vaporous creatures drifting into aerial dances. Suddenly a light flashed across a limitless space and expanded but cast no illumination or shadow. Hearing a sound beckoning from the center of the light he tried to get up and run to it but could not move. Yet the bright image grew larger and the voice became louder, varying in pitch like a singer with a two-octave range. The young dreamer could not reach the light, but it was approaching him. As it bled across the height and breadth of his vision, a shape formed in its center—a head then a body with arms but no legs. The image could have been a man or a woman. Mother? He strained to see her, to touch her. But he could not move. Yet the image came closer, swelling in size. Then it began to laugh, roar, and a storm without wind sucked the dreamer into a cavernous mouth. The maw of a giant. An ogre. Laughing and licking its snakelike tongue the monster unfurled a web of sticky liquid. Feeling his body dissolving, the little dreamer screamed soundlessly for help that no person could deliver. As the gigantic web wrapped him into a tight roll, it whipped him into a black hole filled with flameless fire, then dropped him into a bottomless hole. He fell through time and space and felt his flesh disintegrate. He saw through the bare cage of his ribs his heart like a wild animal pounding and about to explode for want of escape. With a quick and brief exhalation, he awoke out of the bizarre netherworld into an invisible, soundless space and wondered if he had died.

Lying still but breathing rapidly Tony made his hands crawl on the bed beneath him, felt a soft blanket, a foam mattress. Peering around the blank room, he sought some sign of an object but saw nothing. Darkness. Then he remembered. He was not dead. But he was not home either. He was in the belly of a beast.

Chapter 34

JD Ketch had lain low since the close call with the police. After making his way underground back to his hollow beside the LA River, he grabbed some castoff nourishment, rested his sore leg, and frazzled nerves. The ankle was healing but slowly. He was surprised how fast he had been able to run on it, but he paid the price. It was swelling again, so he needed some downtime. Just as well, he thought. Too active. They on to me. Stay out of sight. Underground. Still, he felt frustrated by being denied his holy mission. He had only scratched the surface in his efforts to eliminate this particular evil in the city of Los Angeles and had a lot more work to do before he retired. JD knew he could not continue much longer, though, maybe no longer, now that the cops were on his trail but he wanted to take out as many of the maniacs as he could. In the end the police could stop his one-man campaign but would not capture him. JD had decided at the beginning of his career as self-appointed minister of death to die doing his grim job. Just one more kill, he thought, before I sleep. One more dumping of the trash. Then the Reaper will retire—forever.

On weekends he usually visited the local library to keep up-to-date on likely targets. Itching to get back to work, he decided to take a chance on a trip to the book house. When he stepped into a local branch Saturday afternoon JD scanned the newspapers as was his habit before sitting at a computer. He wanted to see if he was still a front-page item as the legendary serial killer of child molesters. But before he could even pick up a paper, he saw a headline that focused his entire being and set him rigid, stone still like a statue in the middle of the carpeted floor.

BOY DISAPPEARS IN VALLEY MALL

Clawing the paper off the shelf, he looked at Tony Wright's picture and read the story about the boy missing from a local shopping center, about the police looking for him, about mall personnel and ordinary citizens searching the complex and the vicinity for any sign of the child but finding nothing. JD's face tightened, his hands trembled. Had he failed? Had all his work been for nothing? He read and reread the story. They're not sure he was abducted, he thought. Well, I'm sure. Damn it! Just when a child needs me most I have to take medical leave. God damn it! He jumped up and dashed to a computer. Opening the site on the web where he always found his targets, he scanned the list, studied their photographs, and made notes with a tiny pencil on a few scraps of paper. Zeroing in on the those known to reside in close concentric circles radiating from the mall, he wrote down the names and addresses of several likely men, ignoring the rest, hoping to get lucky before it was too late. After disconnecting from the web, he checked the addresses on a map and left the library.

All that day, despite the danger of being noticed, JD journeyed in a widening circle from one apartment to another, from one house to another near the mall. He knew that the kidnapper could have come from anywhere in the city but by experience he also knew the culprit probably lived nearby. He was concentrating so intensely on finding this particular mark that he scarcely sensed any pain in his ankle.

The sun had disappeared, when JD, having checked out numerous places, happened upon the house of Howard Spellman, but it was too dark for him to see anything distinctive or to expect the man to appear outside. When JD was about to walk away, he saw a light go on in the garage. Taking a seat on the curb beside a leafless mulberry tree JD waited to see what would happen. His patience paid off, for in a few minutes the garage door opened, and a dark van rolled onto the driveway. A van. JD's mind worked at the speed of light as he peered into the dark space in the garage before the door shut but he spotted nothing significant. Crouching behind a parked car he watched the van turn onto the street, spotted the man behind the wheel, and stretched up to see someone else inside. He could see no one as he watched the van head down the street until it turned a corner.

Returning his attention to the house, JD observed it a few moments to see if anyone else might be inside. All house lights were off. The place appeared vacant, lifeless. After one more look to be sure the van was not returning, JD galloped across the street. Bounding from window to window, he peeked inside each one but found only blackness, invisible space. He listened but heard nothing, not even the refrigerator running, certainly no sound of a child. Of course not, he thought, has the boy hidden. Turning to the garage, he peeked into a window but again neither saw nor heard a thing. Trotting to the other side of the street before the van came back JD stood on the sidewalk and watched the house for several minutes. At the point he was giving up and about to leave, he saw the van turn the corner and head back to the house.

Taking cover again behind the car, his old shoes in the gutter, JD watched the man park the van in the garage and, before the door closed, start to unload bags full of what looked like groceries. JD then saw lights go on in the house and ran back across the street to look in a window. Spellman was putting things away in the kitchen. JD studied his face for any clue of what the man might be doing—or hiding, but the man inside was behaving the way any resident might just back from marketing. JD was about to turn away again from the window and leave the neighborhood when something caught his eye—a box of cereal. "Fruit Loops!" he muttered to himself quietly. The guy likes kids' cereal, he thought. Then he spotted a box of candy bars, a half-gallon of ice cream, bottles of juice, loaves of white bread, bologna, frozen pizza, and more cereal boxes. JD tracked the man moving around the kitchen and tried to figure out from the look of him if he was the type to eat such things. Could be, JD thought. I would. Course I eat most anything these days. But a guy like this? Fat. Eats too much—but Fruit Loops, punch, and bologna? JD was uncertain about the significance of the food but had enough reason to return the next day and find out more about this guy. His best lead all day. Slipping away from the house quietly JD tramped back to his grotto. Even if the wrong man, he thought, take him out anyway.

As he lay in his hole in the ground and let his eyes drift into a murky November sky, he settled on Spellman as his only likely suspect and planned his strategy. Different situation now, he thought. Kidnapper's not gonna behave the way other people do. Gonna be wary and secretive to avoid attracting attention. If he's got the kid, is he alive? Can't think about that. Has to be. If not, get the guy anyway. But may be lucky. Got to be. JD did not fall asleep until after midnight for pondering his task. If this guy the kidnapper, JD thought before dropping off, could be the last one I eliminate. Has to be a perfect strike. Kill the brute save the kid. Set an example. Want a legend? Give 'em one to remember.

Before dawn, JD was back on the street where Spellman lived. But when he got there, he noticed no lights in the house, only a glow in the garage. Expecting soon to see the door open and the van roll out he waited. But it did not appear. Noticing in the crack of light under the door what looked like the shadows of moving feet, JD ran across the street to a side of the garage next to the adjacent yard. Carefully passing through a gate, he stepped into a walkway between a fence and the building. There he saw a lighted window. Creeping to it, he peeked over the sill and saw Spellman opening a door into the house. Before Spellman's hand hit the lightswitch, JD quickly scanned the garage. He saw nothing other than what he would expect to see: tools, cabinets, shelves, storage lockers, cans, boxes, and the van. Then the light went out, and another went on inside the house before the door closed, as Spellman stepped inside. JD faltered in his determination but kept it alive.

After trying the window but finding it locked, JD crept to the other side of the house. Peeking into windows, he saw Spellman go into the kitchen and make coffee. Noticing the predawn darkness dissipating, JD glanced into two more windows. Hearing a noise behind him, seeing a person come out of a house next door and pick up a newspaper, he crouched behind a lilac shrub. When the man re-entered his house, JD hurried out to the street. He most feared someone calling the cops who would pick him up for loitering or spying on people and take him away from his task. He needed time to find the boy, free him, and destroy the beast.

JD hung around Spellman's house despite his fear of attracting attention but did not see the man do anything suspicious. Still, JD felt in his gut he was onto the right man. He knew he should check out others living in the area but his mind kept coming back to the Spellman house. Time was critical. If this the kidnapper, no telling what he might do to the boy. Maybe already done it. He shivered and spit into the gutter. When he saw people stirring in the neighborhood he realized he had to disappear. After dark he would return to the target's house and continue his watch. He would watch the house for as many days as needed, having nowhere else to go, nothing else better to do. If the boy were somewhere inside, the man would eventually give himself away. JD knew he could be wrong about this one being the kidnapper and that the boy could be with someone else or dead and haphazardly buried by now, but the old warrior had nothing else to go on but his hunch. Intuition and experience had gotten him through the war alive and sustained him on the tough streets of the city for many years. He would count on it again to help him save the boy.

Using his long stick more as a prop now than a cane he sauntered back to the river and his hole in the ground. On the way, he picked up some food but was too keyed up to eat so he fed most of it to the finches that lingered around his makeshift cave. JD liked the birds. They helped him forget the glut of ugliness in the city around him.

Chapter 35

McQuade had been wanting more time with his wife, a lot more to make up for all he had missed, but now he was irrevocably caught up in Donna's terrifying ordeal. Just as he and his partner had feared, the boy was no place they looked, and they searched the mall including its surrounding grounds for the rest of the day. Donna had gone home but was calling every fifteen minutes for updates on the search. When night brought its frightening allusions, and her boy was not home, she begged Mark to come to her. She could not stand to be alone, could neither eat nor rest. He acquiesced only because of a sense of obligation to the woman. They had undeniably bonded, even though he still considered himself married. On the way to the Wright house, he called his wife to keep their connection alive.

"Don't worry, Mark," Shelley said. "I'm not going to disconnect my phone or move out of town—not without telling you first." She snickered.

Mark was in no mood for humor, especially mild sarcasm. "It's just that I've got this special situation, Shell—a missing person case—that I have to stay on top of." He winced at the unintended joke.

"Missing person. But you're in homicide—"

"I know but—" thinking fast, "it could have something to do with the serial killer." He knew that Tony Wright missing had nothing necessarily to do with the Executioner or his rampage, even though privately he hoped it would, especially if it could save the boy.

"Well, you have your job to do—" She gathered her thoughts. "I just don't want us to lose the momentum. You know what I mean?"

"I know, Shelley. Believe me, I don't want to lose anything between us."

"You call me then, Mark, when you get a chance. Come by if you can."

"I will." He wanted to tell her loved her but only listened for her to say it.

Neither said a word for nearly five seconds. Then she said, "Be careful. If we have a future together after all, I don't want us to blow it."

A grin folded his cheeks and stayed there. "Me neither." When he hung up, he was still grinning. At a stoplight, a woman in a car next to him saw his expression and smiled. For an instant he felt irresistible to women but quickly lost the feeling, as he jerked his car through the maddening LA traffic.
When he braked in front of Donna's place at dusk, she was standing on the front porch with the baby in her arms. She looked tragic but beautiful. Before reaching her, he could see she had been crying. He spoke softly to her. "How you holdin' up, lady?"

"I keep coming out here, hoping to see him in the front yard or playing in the park. I even think I hear his sweet little voice, but...." Weeping drowned her words, and she turned back into the house.

Mark followed her and gently shut the door. "That's hope, Donna. You've got to keep that. I don't go in much for all this psychodrivel people get into these days but I really believe thinking positive helps. At least it makes us feel better, keeps us going until the news turns good.

She paced the floor and then stopped, her face to him, eyes red and swollen. "I'm trying, Mark—but every minute he's gone I get sicker with an ugly foreboding."

"Yeah." He put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed, noticing her slender frame, how her collarbone felt small into his hand. "Here—" He extended his large hands. "Why don't you let me take the baby? You look beat."

She looked at Dawn, and the sight of her for a time quelled Donna's crying, almost made her smile. "I am tired but I'm afraid to let go of her, for fear I'll lose her too—" Another deluge of tears. "I won't let her out of my sight. She sleeps with me, bathes with me. I don't even want to go to work because I can't take her there."

Pity rushed through the man. He wrapped both arms around her and held them close without words for a long time. She wept on his chest. The baby leaned her head back and ogled the man. A sweet smile opened on her pretty face. A smile crept into Mark's face yet he felt uncomfortable. Donna noticed their interaction, and a giggle broke through her sobs. "I can probably lay her down and leave her alone—now that you're here." Her eyes were big and shiny and unbearably beautiful in their sadness.

With her in his arms that way, with the baby smiling at him, Mark realized that this woman meant more to him than he had been willing to admit. He really cared for her. Wanted good things to happen for her. And he wondered if he was falling in love with her. Then the theory was good, but the fact could be ruinous. Barely able to manage a steady relationship with one woman, he surely could not manage two. Would not. He had always been a one-woman man. So he believed. He let his arms slide off her and stepped back.

She looked at him as if wanting to ask a personal question but did not do so. Instead she carried the baby into her bedroom. While she was gone, Mark looked around the familiar room. The place appeared messier than he had remembered. She's depressed, he thought. Can't blame her. Taking a corner of the kid-mangled couch, he sat and watched in the direction Donna had gone. In a few moments she reappeared looking as though a little cheer had seeped into her heart. "She's such a good girl," she said. "Never any fuss. Eats, sleeps, plays, grows. You saw. She's absolutely lovable."

"Sure is—" he adding quickly, "a doll." He thought, 'Like her mother' and nearly said it but held it back. Gotta keep control. Touchy situation.

Donna sat stiffly in a chair across from him. She was not being at all seductive, having little taste for romantic games since her boy was missing. "I'm counting the minutes till he's home, Mark. The seconds."

"I'm sure you are."

"You know how long it's been?" He nodded, but she told him anyway. "Almost six hours."

"That's not long, Donna."

"Not long! It's been an eternity in hell!"

He thought about informing her of the forty-eight-hour marker but knew such information could cut either way with the parent of a missing child. A short time since the disappearance she could bear; but if too much time passed, and the boy did not appear alive and well, she could go out of her mind. To Mark McQuade she looked like she was already close to falling off the edge at any moment. He was glad he had come to her but at the same time feeling somewhat trapped by her pressing need, a need he could not fill.

"Every time the phone rings, or someone knocks on the door," she said. "I'm too anxious to answer it. I get paralyzed. So far, though, I might as well not have bothered to respond. Nothing. I hear nothing from anyone. Neither good nor bad."

"You know what they say about no news."

"Yes, but I'm not sure it works in this case. The longer he's gone, the worse it...." She could not form the rest of the words.

He simply watched her without speaking for a while. Her eyes kept glancing around at nothing in particular: catching his for an instant, then dropping to her lap, then peering out a window, then looking at nothing, as if the walls and everything else in the world had become invisible. Abruptly she said, "Can you stay the night."

He had been dreading that proposition since she had called and asked him to visit her. "Well—" He racked his mind for a reason, any excuse not to stay. Since it was the weekend, he would not have to work the next day, yet he felt extra devotion to duty might help him bow gracefully, perhaps admirably, out of her invitation and help him find the child. "I really ought to get back to the search, you know." He said this with little certainty, since it really was not in his official capacity as a homicide detective. But if the boy were murdered— He stopped his thought and shook that disturbing possibility out of his head. Then he found the right words. "I can keep an inside eye on the investigation, check the computer, keep an ear out. People having been combing the streets and parks for your boy, Donna." He thought of a kicker that did not mean much to him but could reassure the mother. "The FBI is on it too, you know."

"I know." Although she was aware of that, hearing it from him helped to fortify the little hope she was harboring. "They called earlier and said they would be coming by for a statement."

His eyebrows lifted to hear of their promptness. The subject gave him confidence. "A lot of law enforcement looking for him. Tony should turn up soon." He wanted to smack himself for again slipping into undue reassurance, but there seemed no way to avoid it.

"Turn up—oh, God!"

He leaned forward and wanted to reach and touch her hands. "I know, Donna. It's scary as hell. But you gotta know we're doing all we can to bring the little guy back home to you in good shape."

"So—do you think some—some person—took him, Mark?" She had to struggle to get the fearsome words out. Simply uttering them made the possibility of a kidnapping real to her like a phantasm made flesh.

In Mark's mind the answer was a bitter affirmative, but he said, "Not necessarily. Tony could've wandered off. When he tried to find you and couldn't he might have tried to make his own way home. He's an independent little guy and might do something like that. Don't you think?"

She tittered and nodded rapidly. "He might." Then the frightfulness of that situation hit her. "But he'd never find his way back. The mall is too far away and...."

"Been there before, hasn't he?"

"Yes, but...."

"Many times?"

"Yes."

"Well, maybe he's—" McQuade caught himself before drifting too far into such a wishful state of no return. "Look, Donna—I know this thing is tearing you apart, but we've got to keep hoping for the best outcome."

"It's only that I hear so many horror stories about kids disappearing, then turning up d—" A burst of sobbing engulfed the dreaded unspeakable word.

Unable to restrain himself further, Mark got up, sat close to the woman, and put his arms around her. When he drew against her body, she threw her arms around his neck and hung on as if to a lifeguard. "Oh, Mark! I'm so scared! I know something terrible has happened to him."

He stroked her slender back and tightened his embrace. Without thinking about what he was doing, he nuzzled her neck and kissed her ear, her cheek, then her eyes, licking teardrops off his lips. He pulled one arm off her and held her face in his big hand. "Stay afloat, Donna. You've got to keep breathing, facing the light."

Her face opened upon his. Their mutual gaze melded hope and sorrow into an invisible taut cord, connecting them more firmly and lastingly than years of courtship could ever accomplish. In her pooled irises, he saw the earth awash in a glistening supplication that challenged his masculine strength and told him volumes without words. After holding him in a trance for moments, she uttered two simple but momentous lines: "Find him for me, Mark. Find my precious boy."

Mark knew that whether he loved this woman or not, whether or not he would reject her for his wife, he had to find her child. It was a matter of humanity. Recompense. Not to forget ego. Besides, it was his job. "You know I'll do what I can, Donna."

She kept eying him as if waiting for him to get up, go, and perform a miracle. "I thought I needed you here with me," she said. "But that was selfish. I'm all right alone. Tony needs you more than I do."

Taking his cue Mark eased her out of his arms and stretched to his full height, looking down at her. She stood up and leaned against him then gently led him to the door. An overwhelming obligation was now squarely upon his shoulders. He did not know what to say so said nothing and clumsily pulled at the front door. Holding him back, she kissed him on the mouth, not sensually but feverishly the way a wife would kiss her husband going off to war. He smiled with confusion in his eyes then stepped across the porch and marched to his car. Not until he had opened the door did he turn to look at her again. She was standing straight in the doorway, her arms wrapped around her body. The look on her face could have inspired legendary heroics in a man. To Mark it was what drove him. He bent his big frame into the front seat, closed the door firmly, and fired the engine. With one more look back at Donna and a slicing wave, he pulled slowly away from the house.

As Detective McQuade's car rolled down the street then turned onto a boulevard, he breathed with great relief to be out of the house. A few more minutes there in that mood and they might have interlocked, not passionately as before but consolingly in a union against unbearable calamity. Mark could not let that happen, yet he knew how much in a short time he had come to care for that woman and her little broken family and he did not bother to sort out whether his concern was born of pity or honest affection. He did not care. Donna was a good person, a friend, a mother who needed his help. But now that he was back on the road, a big part of him wanted to see his wife, reestablish their new but tenuous bond, and forget about this misery for a while. But that was impossible then, so he headed for Parker Center. A thorough review of computer files on local child molesters would have to be his next step despite his duty to find the Executioner.

When he walked into the Robbery-Homicide Division, McQuade was not surprised to see Novato sitting at his desk and staring at a computer. They were sharing the same thought pattern and both knew they would have to work after regular hours on this case. "Looks like you had the same idea, partner," Mark said, startling Novato who tried to hide his racing pulse with a casual salutation. "You thinkin' what I'm thinkin' about the missing boy?" Mark asked.

Without taking his eyes off the screen Novato replied, "We can't take a chance on thinking otherwise, Mark. If some guy snatched the kid, we've got to get on top of it before—well, I don't have to tell you."

Mark leaned on his desk and grunted wearily, "Yeah. What've you found?"

"A hell of a lot of pedophiles living in LA. That's what."

Mark dropped his head then picked it up with noticeable strain on his brow. "Case like this—we gotta get lucky, Steve—and fast. D'ya look up pedos that like to haunt malls?"

"Yeah. And I found quite a few. They seem to be popular places for perverts."

"Course," Mark said. "Lots of kids and some careless parents." Mark was only then becoming aware of his anger at Donna for not having watched her child more carefully. Novato glanced at him but said nothing about the remark. Mark went on. "Print out a list of those in proximity to the mall, and let's hit the streets."

"Where do you think the guy might've taken the kid?" Novato asked as he selected names and addresses and punched the keyboard for a printout. Mark did not answer right away since he had little to no experience with kidnappings. Then he said, "I hate to say it but I guess we got to think like a pedo."

As Novato yanked the paper out of the printer tray he muttered, "Shit."

"Exactly. Sometimes we have to get closer to the scum we chase than we'd like, but it's the way I've always done it. A lot of this job is gut feeling. And gettin' down with the filth."

Novato nodded reluctantly, as they walked out of the office to the elevator. "One thing's for sure, the son of a bitch isn't likely to parade the boy all over town. So we'll have to scrutinize the suspects carefully. And I think we shouldn't take too much time with each one."

"A minute or two at the door," McQuade said. "If we seem to like one too much he could take off on us." He made a sailing motion with his flattened hand.

"Yeah," Novato said. "We sure as hell need a large dose of good luck."

"Damn right—and soon."

Novato looked at his watch. "It's been nearly eight hours. From what I hear people gone missing, we got maybe a few more—then...."

"Let's not even think about that right now, Steve." Mark was scowling as they entered the parking garage and jumped into their car.

The town was alive with Saturday night lunacy. A lot of young drivers tearing up the streets. Novato and McQuade did not speak much on the way to the first address. The place was in a small apartment building on one of the many fast, noisy boulevards of the suburbs. The detectives found no one home but shone their flashlights through the windows. "You think we're likely to catch him sitting at home watching TV, Mark?"

"Don't know where we're gonna catch him. But I don't think our guy lives in a rented place. Not private enough."

They passed four other apartments and two houses before arriving at Spellman's little tract house. When the two cops saw it they looked at each other to acknowledge a shared hunch that was likely more hope. After passing the house and parking the car around a corner, McQuade lifted one foot out of the car then stopped and pulled it inside. "Maybe you go up there alone, Steve. Two of us could spook the guy. Besides, you're less threatening."

"What am I—a boy scout?"

McQuade chuckled. "No offense. But you're still smooth enough around the edges to disarm the guy. Pretend you're selling newspaper subscriptions or tickets to a revival or something—he won't suspect a thing."

Novato looked at him, trying to read what was really going on in the back of his stern partner's mind. "Don't you think you should take a close look at him yourself, big guy? You've got the weathered eye and all."

McQuade grinned at the double-sided remark. "I think you've been hanging around me long enough to know how to size up a suspect. Consider this your initiation into Mark McQuade's inner circle of expert policing methods."

"Seems like a pretty damned small circle from where I sit."

"Go on and check out the pedo, will ya?"

Novato started to grin but did not let it form as he slid out of the car and concentrated on the pale house three doors down from the corner. McQuade watched him walk around the front of the car and head up the street. He watched him approach the house jauntily, acting as if he were pretending to be something like what McQuade had suggested.

When Novato approached the house, he saw a light under the garage door. No lights on in the house. Still, he knocked on the front door and rang the bell. No answer. He rang the bell. No answer. Then he heard doors open and close in the back of the house. He was stepping back a pace and considering a look around the rear, when the front door opened.

Howard Spellman stood straight in the doorway but appeared relaxed. His small narrow eyes were bright in the middle of an apparently genuine smile. "Yes?" he said good-naturedly.

"Good evening, sir—my name's Paul Thorndyke. I'm with the Times."

Spellman looked Novato over with one quick vertical sweep of his pale eyes. "What are you selling, young man? Subscriptions?"

Novato chuckled as though a con man caught in the middle of his pitch. "Not really, sir—not at the moment. I'm only taking a survey of people in your neighborhood who may be interested in a special offer of the Sunday paper for six months."

Spellman tittered. "Not selling anything but a special offer, huh?"

Novato laughed as genially convincing as he could while stealing peeks into the dark living room. "Yes, sir. That's right." He turned his eyes on Spellman's. "Would you be interested in participating, sir?"

Spellman echoed Novato's laugh too precisely to be disingenuous. And Novato's countenance flash froze for an instant. Not slower than the blink of an eye it was but enough for Spellman to catch. Without changing his attitude he said, "I'm afraid I'm not interested in the Sunday newspaper, young man. And I wonder—would you kindly take me off your list."

Novato tried not to look suspicious of the man. "Sure thing, Mister—"

"Spellman. Howard Spellman."

"I'll do that. Sorry to bother you."

"Oh, no bother. Good luck peddling your papers." Spellman shut the door at just the right speed to appear like any other homeowner gracefully denying a door-to-door salesman. Then he stepped to the edge of a window and peeked out to watch his visitor leave. When he saw the man glance back over his shoulder at the house and toward the garage, Spellman stiffened and muttered to himself: "And thanks for the heads up." Backing away from the window, he began a hurried search through his domain for any clue that could reveal his clandestine actions or his cloistered captive.

When Novato returned to the car, he slid in without a word, only contemplating what he had seen. Mark could not wait for him to work it out in his mind. "So—how does he look?"

"It's hard to tell, but something is not quite right about the guy."

"Gut feeling, eh?"

"Yeah. He was relaxed and friendly but too much so. You know what I mean?"

"Exactly. Now the question is: What in hell we gonna do about it?"

"Nothing we can do, Mark, but keep an eye on the guy—same as all the others. We could call for a surveillance team from Missing Persons to watch the house."

"Not enough to go on. Besides, it wouldn't work, if the guy's made us." He turned on the engine and sped down the street. "Damn! I got a sick feelin' about drivin' away from this guy."

"I know what you mean, but...."

"God damn it! I feel like bustin' into the place, cuffin' the bastard, and squeezin' him till he spits out the boy."

Novato shot a reproving look at him. McQuade did not have to look at his partner to know his eyes were on him. "Don't worry. I'm not gonna drag us into a mess we can't get out of."

"I don't have to tell you, Mark—the guy walks, if we blow an arrest."

"No, you don't have to tell me that. Whaddya think's eatin' me?" McQuade slammed with dash with his open hand. "Shit!"

Novato shook his head slowly. "It is a shitty situation." McQuade fell glumly silent. Novato tried to compensate. "So—maybe you and I should stake out the place ourselves," he said. McQuade merely stared straight ahead without responding then headed back to the Center. They knew they had a hell of a lot of work to do to find the kidnapper and Tony, before it was too late, but they also had nothing to go on, nothing solid that would allow them to enter a residence without a warrant. So they went back to their regular duties, but in his spare time Mark McQuade privately continued his investigation of known pedophiles in the area. He knew as sure as the sun would rise on another smoggy day in LA that one of them had little Tony Wright.

Chapter 36

For the next several days, Detective McQuade worked and reworked the serial killer case but got nowhere, the Executioner having stopped his deadly activity, maybe left the city. And McQuade the whole time carrying a secret regret the serial killer had not nailed the kidnapper before he could snatch the boy. Too much good luck to expect. The cop had a hunch that the killer was still around, though, that he had literally gone underground. He kept in the back of his mind the intention to investigate that possibility further but was far too preoccupied with the disappearance of Donna's boy to keep his mind on a case gone cold.

Although the people in Missing Persons were officially working known pedophiles, bringing in the more likely suspects for questioning, McQuade made sure to hang around the interrogation rooms. He scrutinized those brought in one after another: ex-cons, parolees, new leads, old leads, the 'retired', the elderly, the young, big guys, small, thin, fat, rich, poor, middle class people, even a woman. McQuade studied them all, but the intuitive part of his mind kept returning his attention to one man—Howard Spellman.

For close to a week the round up and interrogation of suspects continued without a productive lead to the whereabouts of Tony Wright. The police were unofficially winding down their enthusiasm, having to focus on other viable cases in their overwhelming workload. The Feds left a representative with the city police, but she seemed more of a token than an active participant. Captain Mansford was increasing pressure on the Executioner case and others, while aware that McQuade needed time to work through the loss of the kid. The captain did not know the details of the man's relationship to the boy and his mother but heard from scuttlebutt in the RHD that the Wrights meant more to Mark than did other victims of the numerous and nefarious crimes that constantly ravaged Los Angeles.

"I understand the missing Wright boy is kind of special to you, Mark," Mansford said to him one day with some trepidation.

McQuade did not look at him but muttered, "Kinda." The response prompted Novato to look up from his computer and turn his eyes on his partner.

"You know his mother, huh?" Mansford asked. McQuade nodded and noticed Novato grinning slightly. The younger detective promptly looked back at his work. Mansford went on. "Would you like some time off to—well, to get things sorted out?"

This time McQuade shot a look at him. "I've got it all sorted out, captain. Some rotten bastard stole a beautiful kid, but I'm supposed to catch the one man in the city who's actually doin' anything to stop such sickos." He jumped up and strode to the coffee machine. While filling his grimy cup he let the steam bathe his bloodshot eyes.

"One's breaking the law no less than the other," Mansford said.

McQuade turned around with such force his coffee sloshed over his hand. He ignored the pain, only shaking off the hot liquid as if it were bath water. "One man's crime another man's public service," he snarled. Novato looked up at both men; he was now too interested in their conversation to stay on the work in front of him.

"I know you don't really believe that, Mark," Mansford said.

"Yeah, well, my belief system prob'ly needs an overhaul, captain."

Mansford regarded him with visible concern. "I think I'd better put you on leave—at least until we get a new lead on the Executioner." McQuade stiffened to protest but could not speak before Mansford continued. "Yep. That's just what I'm going to do, Mark. You've been working the serial killings nonstop. It's time you took a break. Maybe look in on the boy's mother. She a single mom?" He did not wait for an answer. "You could probably do her some good right now." With a curious glint in his eyes, he looked askance at the detective.

McQuade caught the look and guessed the meaning. "Yeah—maybe you're right, captain. Think I'll do that. She's havin' a damned hard time."

Captain Mansford merely smiled into a partial nod then left the room. Novato watched him go. Then he watched his partner look at his coffee, set it down unfinished, grab his coat, and leave too. McQuade might not have been entirely certain of the meaning behind the captain's words but he definitely understood to get out of the place, before the boss changed his mind.

"Hey, partner—where you going?" Novato asked, rising out of his seat.

"Got to check in with Donna—Mis'ess Wright, Steve. I'll call you if I get any bright ideas. Do the same, eh?"

Novato acquiesced with a suspicious eye. He could not let him go so easily. "So—what do you say, partner?"

McQuade stopped and turned. "'Bout what?"

Novato stepped near him and spoke quietly. "About us watching the pedo's places in our spare time."

"Yeah, yeah, sure, Steve. Do that if you want. Like I said, I gotta look in on Mis'ess Wright." He stared his partner down. "Call ya later."

Novato backed away from McQuade and returned to his desk, glancing back at him once or twice. Novato again dropped in front of his computer, till the suspicion overwhelmed him. Shouting to the captain that he was going to check on a lead, he followed McQuade to the garage. Hanging back, he watched McQuade get into his car and wheel away from the building. Then he got into his own car and followed at a distance.

McQuade headed for Donna's house and stopped on her street behind a large cedar tree. When Novato saw his partner's car close to the Wright place he turned away before going down the street, slowed a few yards, then headed home. McQuade had been watching his mirrors. When he saw his partner's car disappear, he glanced at the house then pulled away from the curb, hoping Donna had not seen him. He was not avoiding her, he told himself. He simply felt an urgency to nail the man who had taken her son, and that urgency was burning in his belly.

For the next few days, Detective McQuade kept an eye on the residences of the known pedophiles and child molesters in the area around the mall, the ones they had already investigated. He knew that if he could watch them long enough, and get lucky enough he might spot something—an unusual behavior, an unexpected purchase, a strange activity at home—that would turn a cold lead hot. The problem was he could not watch every one of them at the same time. He had to be selective so he spent more time watching some than others. Still none of them did anything strange enough to arouse more than his basic distrust of criminals in general. Yet, all the time the gnawing hunch, stemming from his partner's comments about Howard Spellman, made that particular suspect as likely a lead as any other, and that likelihood drew McQuade back to the suspect's little white tract house.

McQuade spent the rest of the day and the night in his car a few doors down from the Spellman house. Food wrappers and empty coffee cups lay on the floor beside him. He had slept little but he was exhausted beyond sleeplessness. An argument had been raging in his brain: the reserved side cautioning him to keep watch for solid evidence, the bold side nagging at him to bust into the house and take down the suspect on a whim. True to his nature, he had been hoping for some sign to justify a search. But nothing jumped out at him. The house was quiet day and night. A few lights went on and off in the evening. Then the place was dark all night. Spellman had not shown himself. Definitely no sign of the boy. When discouragement was about to send McQuade off, he caught a break, not much but something to get a cop's blood flowing.

The door to Spellman's garage opened, the dark van rolled out to the street and headed right past McQuade's car. After coming up from his slouched position to avoid being noticed, the detective cranked a U-turn and headed after the van. He tried to spot another passenger, a small one, inside the vehicle but could not see through the smoked windows. Too dark. Could stop him for obstruction of visibility, he thought. Give me a chance to look inside. That's it! Wait and see where he goes. Watch what he does or buys. Brings back. Then stop him for the windows. Maybe get lucky. God knows I need it.

McQuade followed the van to a strip mall and watched the fat little man bounce into a grocery store. The detective followed and bought something himself so he could see what Spellman was purchasing at the checkout stand. Absently picking up some flowers Mark looked at them and let a smile soften his face. Give 'em to Donna—maybe the wife. He approached the checkout stand two customers behind Spellman and looked carefully at the items the man was buying: a bottle of bourbon, some frozen dinners, a carton of milk, fruit, candy, and videos. Movies. McQuade leaned forward to read the titles. The woman in front of him, an elderly person, glanced back at him and smiled uneasily with a twist of censure in her face. The big cop backed off but kept straining to see the videos. Before the bagger put them away, McQuade noticed them garishly colored with flashy designs with cartoon characters splashed over them. Kids' videos, he thought.

Spellman paid with cash and pushed his cart with two grocery bags out of the store. Mark was caught behind the old woman slowly lifting her things out of the cart and carefully placing them on the conveyor belt. When Mark saw his man exit the building and walk into the parking lot, he butted in front of the woman and showed her his badge. "Excuse me, ma'm. Have to get ahead of you. Police work."

The woman jumped in surprise and cried, "Oh!" She, the checker, and the bagger simultaneously cried out in alarm. "Don't worry, folks—" McQuade said tossing the flowers at the checker, "no problem here. Just need to get through the line. Excuse me," he said repeatedly as he pushed his way past the old woman and ran out the door.

"Officer!" the checker hollered after him. "Your flowers!" The old woman, pale and shaken, put her hand to her breast and uttered inaudible words about such rudeness being a sign of the times.

McQuade glanced back and shouted, "Give 'em to your husband." Then he ran and reached his car when Spellman's van was turning out of the lot. The cop cut into traffic but lost sight of him so he raced back to the house.

McQuade was back on the street where Spellman lived before catching up to him. Slamming the gumball machine onto the car roof McQuade lit up the van in front of Spellman's house. Looking the vehicle over for violations but finding none, not even the smoked glass, he stepped to the window and said, "Your license and registration, please."

Spellman eyed him more curiously than fearfully. "What—are you guys in unmarked cars so hard up now you're stopping drivers on the street?"

McQuade pretended to read the license. "Watch your mouth, Mister Spellman. I stopped you because of your windows." He glanced into the back of the van and spotted the mattress.

"Windows!" Spellman protested. "What's wrong with my windows? They're perfectly...."

"Step out of the van, please, sir—and open up the back for me."

"Why? I've got nothing in there but my camping stuff."

"Camping, eh?"

"Say this is more about the child abduction, isn't it?"

McQuade did not answer.

"I already told your people all I know about it, which is nothing. I've been clean since the joint."

"Sure ya have. Now open up the back for me."

"Certainly, but you're wasting our time, officer." Spellman stepped out and opened the double doors in the rear.

McQuade looked closely at the mattress, the ropes, and the TV. "You watch television on the road, mister?" he asked, sniffing the air but could not place the scent.

"I love television—I'm addicted to it."

"Fit to be tied, eh?" McQuade caught sight of the videotapes but could not see their titles. "You can close the doors now." He was thinking fast for a reason to hold the man but nothing came to mind. Frustration distorted his face.

"Thank you, officer—now, may I go?"

McQuade looked down at the little man meeting his gaze with an aggravating grin. The detective wanted to mangle the grin with his fist but gave him back his identification papers and glanced at the house. "You live around here. Mister Spellman?"

For the first time during their interaction Spellman acted nervous, fidgeting with the papers as he slid his license back into his wallet and crawled onto the front seat of the van to put his registration back into the dash compartment, next to the bottle of ether, which he shoved behind some papers.

"Well?" McQuade asked, not spotting the bottle.

"Well what?" Spellman said with a noticeable quiver in the words.

"I asked if this is your neighborhood."

"Oh, no. I live on the other side of the boulevard. I just cut through here to avoid the congestion at the intersection. Left turns can take forever in this town, you know." Spellman sucked in air realizing his address was on his license. He let it go, hoping the cop had not noticed.

The cop had. He smiled and nodded more from the happy discovery of an untruth than any possible acceptance of Spellman's lame explanation. Thinking he was finally going to get clear of this cop, Spellman started up the engine and said, "That all then, officer?"

The detective grinned like a mandrill and replied, "For now. And that's Detective."

Spellman looked at him with a curiosity that quickly dissolved into anxiety. He moved slowly down the street well past his house and turned the next corner. McQuade watched him go and gloated. "Now I know I got the right piece of shit in my sight." Getting into his car, he did not bother to wait for the man to find his way home but raced to the court to get a warrant.

When Detective McQuade explained the reason for the authorization to enter the Spellman residence to Assistant District Attorney Beverly Bench, she listened patiently, as they walked from one courtroom to another, and then interrupted him. "A lot of people buy kiddy things and drive vans with smoked windows that carry bedding as well as other tools, Detective. You've got to get me something better than that. If I step in front of a judge with such a request he'll throw me out of his chambers for wasting his time."

"Gotten 'em with helluva lot less, counselor."

"Yeah, and a hell of a lot of suspects have walked out of court free to rob, kill, and molest again, haven't they, Detective? Let's do it right so we can get a conviction and keep the guy off the street for a long time." She strode into a courtroom, expecting to have finished the conversation.

McQuade shouted after her: "Meanwhile the son of a bitch is torturing a six year old boy." She spun around and leveled her most litigious gaze at him. "Look, I see your point, Detective—but you're wasting your time and mine, trying with what little you have on him, to get into the man's house legally."

McQuade watched the door close behind her and stood in the hallway pondering her last word. Legally. Was she suggesting what I think? Assuming it, affirming it for himself, he ran down the stairs to the ground floor and flew to his car. Get back there. Bust in on the guy—surprise him with the kid in full view. He sped through town to Spellman's house. He would watch the place for a while longer, maybe one more day. Could get lucky and spot something to prompt a reasonable search. After that? Well, he would play it as he saw it. Parking his car in behind some trees and shrubs through which he could see the front door and two of the windows, he resumed his vigil for the rest of that day and through the night, not once noticing a tall ragged hidden companion on the watch.

Chapter 37

Early the next day, McQuade squinted through some magnolia trees to the east and saw the sky lightening to dull metallic gray. Dawn soon. Gotta get off the block. What of it? Worse thing they let him go. Maybe the bastard sues the city. I lose my job. Not likely. Maybe get lucky. Tony could be in there. Gotta find out. Take a chance. Worth it to save the boy. The bold side of the detective won the debate. Snapping the handle and shoving the door open he stepped out of the car, checked his gun, and tossed his jacket into the backseat. Ready for combat he marched to the house.

Pounding on the front door with his fist he shouted, "Open up! Police!" He waited impatiently. No answer. He pounded and shouted again. In the middle of his demand, the door opened slowly. Spellman in his velour robe, his designer underpants showing, stood there bleary eyed and muttered, "Yes? What is it this time?"

McQuade shoved the door, slamming it against a small table, knocking over a lamp. At the same time, he put his big hand on Spellman's chest, pushed him back, and bellowed at him, "Face down on the floor, creep!"

Spellman froze with dread then sputtered, "How dare you break into my home! What right do you have?"

"Law of the jungle." He grabbed the little man's shoulders, spun him around, and shoved him to the floor. "Now stay down and shut up." He yanked his cuffs out of his pocket and clamped them tight around the man's fat wrists.

"I want to see a warrant, mister!" Spellman demanded despite his predicament.

McQuade jerked out his gun and thrust its barrel into Spellman's ear hole. "It's Detective to you, ass hole, and here's my warrant. If you don't shut your filthy face, I'm gonna execute it on you with the full force of the canon. Got it?" Spellman nodded nervously. "Now get this. I talk. You listen. And keep your stinking mouth shut unless I ask you a question. Comprende, fuck head?" Spellman nodded rapidly, his forehead sweating. "Good. Now—here's the one and only question I'm gonna put to you. I'll ask it once and I expect an immediate answer. Understand, maggot?" Spellman's head bounced up and down, his body quivering. McQuade's words spread out into the room with an ominous cadence. "Where is the boy?"

"What boy?"

McQuade dropped his knee into the middle of the man's back. "Wrong answer, shit head!"

Spellman shrieked and started whimpering all over his words. "I don't know anything about a boy. I'm clean, I tell you. I don't do that sort of thing anymore. I've been clean since the joint."

"Bullshit! Once a pedo—always a pedo. Tell me where you got that little boy hid, you bastard, or I'm gonna break your back like a chicken bone."

"Please. Oh, please, don't hurt me, Detective. I'd tell you if I could. I don't have any boy. I'm here alone. See for yourself." He started sobbing. "Take a look around—"

McQuade was getting a very uncomfortable feeling he might have made a mistake bursting into this guy's home, but it was too late now for regret and a change of action. He thought hard and fast as he scanned the living room. Stepping over the lump on the floor, he moved rapidly from room to room; in each one he searched for a sign—toy, shoe, picture—any clue that the boy was or had been somewhere in the house. He found nothing but the everyday things of a man living alone. That and the extraordinary, irritatingly nasty neatness of the place.

Opening a door to the back yard McQuade turned on a floodlight and rolled his eyes around the grounds, seeking, fearing he would find a freshly turned grave. To his immense relief he saw only flowerbeds full of fall blooms and a putting-green lawn. Going to the garage, he looked in a window then searched for an outside door. Seeing none, he went back inside the house, found the door, and jumped into the garage. Behind him, Spellman was watching closely. He tried to shout from his belly-down position on the front room floor, "You'll find nothing, Detective. You're wasting your time—and—and you're harassing me."

McQuade threw his head around and fired a deadly look through the kitchen at the man resembling a trussed up hog on the floor. "You ain't seen the beginning of the harassment I can deliver, scumbag. And if I don't find that boy in about two seconds, you won't have to worry about harassment 'cause you might not see another sunrise."

Spellman chortled crazily to nullify his onrushing fright, while McQuade searched the garage. "So now you're threatening me—with murder. What kind of cop are you, Detective? The Gestapo type, of course."

Ignoring the fat little man and quickly becoming stumped in his frantic search, McQuade stood in the middle of the garage next to the big dark van and ran his eyes over every square foot of the space but found no clue. Saw nothing, heard nothing. "Shit!" he spat and shouted, "Tony! Tony, you in here?!" He listened. Nothing came back but his own voice amid Spellman's whining. Cupping his hands over his mouth, he shouted loud enough to alert people for miles around the place. Spellman tensed, turned pale, and started whimpering. But McQuade heard nothing of the boy. Not a sound. Not a sign. He was alone, he feared, in the house of a man who was certain to charge him with false arrest and probably file a civil suit. "To hell with it!" he barked into the dank, stale air of the garage, and then strode back into the living room, too late to hear a faint whine, like a creak in the structure or a chirp from a nesting animal. "All right, Mister Howard Spellman—you're under arrest." McQuade grabbed the man by the cuffs and yanked him to his feet.

Spellman groaned from pain and rubbed his wrists. "On what charge?!"

"Abuse of a police officer. Wanna add resisting arrest?"

"Bah! You've got to be out of your mind!"

McQuade removed the cuffs and shoved him across the room. "Get some clothes on, creep. 'Less you want me to put you in jail lookin' like some guy's date."

Grumbling to himself Spellman stumbled into his bedroom. McQuade watched him closely. When the man had put on pants, shirt, and shoes, McQuade cuffed him again, raced through his rights, and dragged him out of the bedroom.

"Do you mind if I at least get my wallet?"

McQuade found it on a dresser and dropped it down Spellman's shirtfront. "You better get your tooth brush too, dung bag."

"Spellman cast a supercilious smirk at McQuade and said, "No need, Detective—I'll be released and home for brunch."

"Not if I can do anything about it."

Spellman laughed, and McQuade straightarmed him in the middle of his back. "Get going, ass hole." Spellman tumbled down the front steps of his house, and McQuade yanked him to his feet then shoved him across the lawn.

At the car, McQuade pushed his prisoner into the backseat so forcefully the man bashed his head on the roof. "Ow!" he yelped. McQuade grinned sardonically and took the wheel. Jerking the car from the curb, he hauled back to the Center. Spellman was staring warily but confidently at him all the way. McQuade did not once meet his prisoner's eyes for he knew he had nothing to hold the suspect on, that he would almost certainly walk in a few hours, that he himself would catch hell for his actions, but he continued to Parker Center. The detective figured that since this thing in cuffs was the only warm lead he had for finding the boy, it was worth any castigation the captain would lay on him. Besides, maybe Spellman's brazen front would crumble in the face of the increased punishment he would get for not cooperating with the police, namely Detective Mark McQuade. The cop was absorbed in these thoughts from the moment he drove away from the Spellman house, so absorbed that he did not see the tall, thin sentinel watching from behind a magnolia tree on the other side of the street.

When McQuade's car had turned onto a crossroad and rolled out of sight, JD Ketch took his chance. Bounding across the street with the flashlight in one hand and his stick like a lance in the other he ran up the lawn to Spellman's house. What a break! But gotta move fast. More cops could be here any minute. Stepping to the open gate beside the garage JD glanced around the neighborhood to see if anyone was watching and then quickly slipped behind the house. As the detective had done, JD took a brief look around the yard for any sign of recent burial. Not wanting to accept that gruesome possibility he returned his attention to the house and found an unlocked window. Crawling through it, he rolled onto the bedroom floor. He looked up to see Caligula sniffing his face and nearly jumped off the floor.

Absently stroking the cat while uttering affectionate gibberish, JD peeked under the bed, nightstands, and dresser and then stood up and looked around the sleeping space. Determined to check every hollow and handle for a hint, a clue, a sight, a sound that could reveal the captive boy, he tore into the room and the contents of every drawer. But he saw nothing suspicious and cursed his luck. A big part of him had not expected a fortunate discovery, since the cop had probably just examined the house. Still, he possessed an eye for detail about mortal enemies and he was going to be thorough; yet he also had to be swift, before someone joined him. The police. A nosy neighbor. The owner of the house. He ground his teeth at the notion.

Okay, he thought, what kind of place to hide him? Checking the closet for a special compartment, he spotted a hatch to the attic. Leaping once he popped off the hatch cover; leaping again, he grabbed the frame of the opening and lifted himself into the dark space beneath the roof. Good place to hide the kid, he thought, if sound-proofed. But, as he saw from shining his flashlight, the attic was nothing more than a plain crawl space with naked rafters and weather insulation. He surveyed the attic futilely then grumbled to himself, "Couldn't be that easy."

Dropping back into the closet, he checked the walls for sound. As he pounded from one side to the other, he listened for any change in the echo that could indicate a hidden space. He had convinced himself that if the boy was here he had to be located somewhere in the building—alive—not dead. No. JD would not let him be dead and lying in a crude grave. As he searched, JD was cursing himself. He could not abide having let this man escape his crusade, then steal, maybe murder a child. Such an idea countered his belief in himself as holy warrior, come to protect children from profane creatures like Howard Spellman—brutes born out of hell. JD Ketch was an avenging angel come to Earth to send the wicked back to the endless circles of torment. He was the Reaper and he would not rest until he had finished his mission against a consummately evil enemy.

Once satisfied the boy was not in that part of the house, JD checked the other closets and the kitchen cupboards. There again he saw the boxes of cereal and other foods packaged for kids. Holding him as a houseguest. A personal plaything? A pet for his perversions? Keeping him alive—for years? Then what? When the boy gets too old to satisfy his debauched taste, does the savage steal a new one? JD had heard about pedophiles that abduct children, keep them in their homes, raise them, treat them well in every way except sexually, then trade them in for newer models. This particular subspecies did not kill them. Not while they were children anyway. He hoped that the man who had kidnapped Tony Wright was at least that kind of freak and not a killer. Bad enough the horrible abuse the boy must be suffering.

"Tony!" he yelled across the house, now ignoring any fear of neighbors discovering his presence. "Tony! Can you hear me?" JD ran from room to room trumpeting the boy's name. "Tony! I've come for you, boy. Listen to me! Answer me! Let me hear your voice. I've come to save you. Come to carry you home and lay you in the arms of your mother—where you belong. Tony!" he shrieked. He listened. No answer. The house was completely quiet but for the quickly fading echo of his voice off the walls and the thumping of his racing pulse. He spun around in the center of the living room and stopped still with a sudden realization, his vision pointing in a direction yet undiscovered. The garage. Of course. Must be—!

Running through the rooms to the kitchen and the door to the garage, he snapped it open and leaped over three steps to the concrete floor, ignoring the biting pain in his ankle. "Tony!" he cried. "Are you in here? You have to be," he whispered. Then shouting again: "I'm here, Tony! Answer me boy! It's okay. I bring the light!" JD shined the flashlight through the van windows. He glanced up at the roof. Ripping his eyes along the walls, he scanned shelves and cabinets. Opening them, he found only small boxes and scattered containers. Standing in the middle of the space, he looked perplexed. Where? He asked himself. Where in hell—?

Outside the garage he scanned the walls and roof. He looked over all the outside surfaces. Nothing. Then on his way back inside, he glanced through a window and caught sight of something along the back wall. Wait a second. He stepped back outside and looked again at the rear wall, then back to compare the inside of the partition. Strange. He dashed into the garage. A thick wall, he thought, and then it hit him. Too thick. "Yes!" he screamed. "That's it!" He ran his hand over the surface, pounded on it. Hollow! An extra space—built onto the back wall of the garage. Windowless. Disguised with sheet rock, plaster, and paint. He laid an ear against the wall and listened. "Tony!" he shouted. "Tony Wright." He heard something like an animal crying in distress calling from a long way distant. A voice? The boy screaming? Electrified he groped feverishly for a way into the secret chamber. No door. But has to be. Know there is. Got to find it! Flattening his long body, his ear against the wall JD listened every inch to verify that sweet noise, the musical sound of the child still alive and waiting for deliverance. "Tony!" he repeated, exultant.

Chapter 38

Detective McQuade dragged Howard Spellman into the Center and booked him into the city jail, ignoring the skeptical look on the face of the pretty desk sergeant who scrutinized the paperwork. Instead of locking his prisoner in a cage, McQuade took him to an interrogation room, where they could be alone. The detective removed the cuffs then like a hungry lion paced the floor in front of the suspect. Spellman followed the big man's movements with terrified eyes. "I want—I want to call my—my lawyer," he stammered, his pudgy hands fidgeting.

At first McQuade pretended he did hear him and then said begrudgingly, "Yeah, yeah—in a minute." He kept pacing rapidly, as if preparing for battle, while thinking of the quickest way to manipulate the man into an admission. Turning sharply toward him he snapped, "Look, creep...."

The name's Howard Spellman."

"Your name's shit in my book. And we got you cold. We know you've got the kid. So give him up—while you can still walk."

Spellman winced and shook his head. "How, Detective? How do you know? You don't know any such thing."

McQuade turned his back and continued pacing. "We been watchin' you."

"Watching me? That's a load of crap!"

McQuade spun around and started to lunge for him but held himself back at the last minute. Spellman nearly fell over in his chair.

"We know all about your sick hobby, shit head, and we know you've been a busy little rat in the last few hours."

"You know nothing. If you did you wouldn't be questioning me." He gained confidence from his reasoning. "Where's the boy, huh? If you're so sure I took him, where is he?"

"Alive, you'd better hope." McQuade grabbed Spellman's shirt, tightening the collar around his thick neck.

"I—I'm not a murderer."

"No, that's right, isn't it? You don't kill your helpless little victims; you only violate their bodies and destroy their minds—for the rest of their damned lives!" He was screaming, face florid, eyes bulging. "That's all you do, isn't it!" Like a vengeful beast he again went after Spellman, grabbed him by the throat. Spellman was sweating and trembling, about to burst into tears.

The fracas attracted other officers. Gordo looked through the one-way glass and saw McQuade roughing up Spellman. He waddled through the building to inform the detective on duty, Lieutenant Charlene "Chuckie" Strung. She checked with the desk sergeant and discovered that Detective McQuade had booked a questionable collar. The lieutenant, a meaty, big-boned woman, hurried to the interrogation room and found Detective McQuade threatening the prisoner. Opening the door quickly but without excitement she said, "Hey, Mark. What you got here?"

McQuade at first did not look at the voice but kept burning his eyes into Spellman's, then he turned his head only slightly and said, "Number one suspect in the Tony Wright case, LT."

Strung motioned for McQuade to join her in the hallway. Stepping out of the room and closing the door behind them, the lieutenant said sharply, "You know that's a case for Missing Persons, Sergeant. Why don't you let them handle it from now on?"

McQuade stared into her dark eyes and said, "Be glad to, LT—after I get what we need from that sick bastard."

"You're sure you've got the right man, Mark. Fast work. The kid went missing only a few days ago, right?"

McQuade nodded impatiently then said, "Right. But we—that is, I picked up a lead on this guy right away. Got lucky. And, well, here he is, LT—all wrapped up and ready for shipment—to hell."

"D'ya find the kid?"

McQuade hesitated then shook his head reluctantly.

"So you don't know where the child is?" McQuade looked at the floor, as she went on. "Has this guy admitted anything to do with the boy?"

The detective wanted somehow to avoid answering in the negative but could not find a way so neither said a word nor made a move.

"Jesus, McQuade! And I suppose he's asked for his lawyer by now." McQuade stiffened to stone. "Good God, Detective! You've got nothing to hold this man on. What in hell you doing?"

McQuade merely looked at his superior without flinching. He had never liked the woman, too masculine for his taste but he respected her as a good cop. Strung returned McQuade's look then snapped, "Cut him loose, Detective." She turned sharply to walk away but stopped to say, "You better hope he doesn't go straight to a lawyer and start screaming false arrest." She continued down the hall and, before slamming a door to another room, she muttered loud enough for him to hear: "Good Christ!"

McQuade let his eyes trail after her as he stood still in the hallway for a moment then turned and stepped slowly back into the interrogation room. Inside he glared at Spellman, did not say a word, but when he saw a grin stretch across the man's pink round face, his fury broke loose. "Okay, shit head. You're gettin' some rope, but I'm not letting go of it till I see you hangin' on the end of it."

As soon as Spellman started to speak, McQuade wheeled around and left the room. Before he could slam the door on the man's words, Spellman said, "So you would lynch me, wouldn't you, mister officer of the law." He coughed out a brief laugh then exhaled as if he had been holding his breath since McQuade had pushed into his home.

"Lynch you? Naw. You'll do that for me, yerself. But if I find out you hurt one hair on that kid's head I'll make you wish you could die so quick and easy."

Fear and defiance awash in his eyes Spellman fixed on him.

With bitterness palpable in the confining space of the interrogation room, Detective McQuade ground words through his teeth: "Take a hike, Shitman."

Spellman slowly lifted himself off the chair and headed for the door, all the way his eyes on the big cop. McQuade's face was dripping rage as he watched the round little man leave the room.

***

In Howard Spellman's garage JD Ketch was panting as he looked up and down the back wall, then corner to corner, and felt with his fingers for a slot, an opening, maybe a button or a lever. He surveyed every inch of the wall, scraping his knuckles in tight spots, catching his fingers on nail heads. But he found nothing like an entrance. Throwing down his stick and sitting, almost falling down in the middle of the garage floor, he leaned against a front wheel on the van and contemplated the situation. Straining his fevered mind, he tried to think like a man who had something to hide from everyone. Where would it be? JD looked low under the shelves for some kind of opening device. He lowered his head nearly to the floor and followed the trim, looking for a break in it. He looked at the light switch, at the bare bulb in the rafters, at the electrical outlets. Nothing to signify some kind of release mechanism. Where in hell is the way into that damned room? Then it hit him. Of course, he thought almost aloud and slugged his forehead. "The boy!" He'll know.

Jumping to his feet, JD flew to the wall and hollered, "Tony!" then pressed an ear to it and listened. Hearing the same animal cry as before, he shouted carefully enunciated words: "The door, Tony. Where is—the door?" He listened and heard sounds that could have been words but did not understand them. "Where, Tony?!" he shouted and listened. Thinking he heard what sounded like the word 'here' he hollered, "Pound, boy—pound your fist at the spot!" He listened and heard a faint bumping noise at the end of the wall near the door into the house. "The boy's alive I'm not too late. I've saved him." Scrambling, he searched the surface for a crack, a straight-line break where a door could open. But he saw nothing. Pounding on the wall again, he yelled, "Here? Tony, is it here?" He listened and heard a faint voice but could not catch the words. "Pound, Tony! Pound at the place!" He listened and heard another bumping noise low in the wall. Beneath a wide shelf, he flashed his light into the shadow and saw cracks—two straight right angle cuts in the plaster with small chips along the edges. The entrance! "There it is!" he screamed. Along the two-foot square panel, he could not find a way in, a handle or latch. Striking it with his fist, he found it solid. "Damn!" Better not kick it in. Got to pry it open.

Swinging his eyes around the room he saw tools hanging behind a workbench; he looked for a crowbar but finding none, he grabbed a hammer and a chisel. With the tools in hand, he dived under the shelf at the corner of the wall and began hammering at the panel. Clawed at it. He rammed the chisel into the crack, hammered it, and wedged it into a chink. Working the tools along the break vertically and horizontally, he labored furiously, chipping away chunks of plaster and wood that flew around his face in a small storm. But the panel was firm. He kept driving the steel shaft into the rift, making it wider with ragged gouges. Pounding the tool into the narrow gap, he worked for nearly an hour, blistering his hands and skinning his fingers, as he tore pieces out of the wall. The whole time he kept shouting, chanting: "Tony! Tony! I'm comin' for ya, boy! Hold on! I'm comin'!" JD did not listen for answers now, too intent on reaching the entombed child. Like a wrecking machine, he kept attacking the wall.

An edge of the door panel sprung an eighth of an inch out of plane. When JD spotted that small mismatch in the wall, he thrust the chisel deep into the fissure, growled exultantly, and focused his formidable energy. He hammered and pried and pushed far beyond the point his hands, arms, and back were aching. Millimeter by millimeter the gap widened, until he beheld a vision of success. A thin illumination, a gleaming golden line of light that thrilled him more than any sunrise he had ever witnessed. "I know the way now, Tony! Can you hear me, child? I'm comin' to set you free!"

"Yes," a voice said still faint but louder.

To JD that one short positive word was the sweetest song he had heard in his whole life. Harder and faster he hammered and pried, as the gap widened a few more millimeters but opened no farther. A latch, he thought, a latch is holding it. Got to find the damned latch!

When he ran the chisel along the length of the vertical opening, it stopped dead in the middle. Jamming the blade against the unseen mechanism, he hammered the handle again and again. Twenty, thirty blows he inflicted on it, but the latch held fast. Fifty, sixty blows and JD did not stop. Weary, dripping, and sore he worked to break the only barrier that kept him apart from the captive child. Blang, blang, bang—the hammer sent the force of his strong body through the shaft to shatter the metal mechanism. With one big blow, he broke the latch apart, and the door moved ajar. Open. Revelation.

***

McQuade watched a police officer lead Howard Spellman out of the interrogation room but did not follow the suspect to collect his personal property. Did not listen as Spellman walked to the front desk while loudly complaining about abuse of a law-abiding citizen. And was not present when Spellman griped about having to take a bus or a taxi home. "The least you can do is offer me a ride to my residence," the plump little man shouted at the desk sergeant.

"Have a seat, Mister Spellman," she droned and called for a patrol officer. Spellman plopped onto a bench near the exit. When a uniform responded, she said without emotion, "Take this man home, please."

"Thank you for that at least," Spellman said, standing with a groan and rubbing his hands. On his way out the door behind the officer, he left a parting shot: "You'll hear from me again, you so-called peace officers. You can be sure of that."

McQuade heard this when he stopped by the lobby on his way out of the building, and it was too much for him to take silently. "And you can be sure I'm watchin' you, creep!" he shouted at him. "Day and night!" he hollered. "Every gassy minute of your miserable stinkin' life!"

Spellman either did not hear the big man's baritone or ignored it for he barreled out of the Center without another word or even a backward glance. In the middle of the lobby floor McQuade stood forlornly watching the man leave, the way a lion watches his prey escape across the savanna. He half expected a cosmic jeer from the heavens. Instead he heard a single voice behind him: "In my office, Detective McQuade."

McQuade did not look at the source of the voice as he turned, lifted his chin, and strode toward Lieutenant Strung standing in a doorway. As the detective passed her, she said, "I just called the captain at home. He's on the phone, wants to talk to you—and he's smoking mad."

McQuade twisted his mouth into a mock and quipped, "Doesn't like being bothered off duty, LT, unless an emergency,"

Strung ignored the gibe. "You wish that's all he's fuming about, McQuade. He told me what I already knew—you were supposed to be working the serial killer case and shouldn't have been messing with the kidnapping—at all."

McQuade started to speak his pat excuse about the two cases being related but knew that story was getting old and lame so he kept his mouth shut. He was seasoned and tough but smart enough to know when he was in a bad spot. Still, his superior officer would not leave it alone. "Are you out of your mind, Detective? Busting into a guy's home without probable cause, arresting him without enough glue on the charge to hold him till lunch. What in hell was going on in your head, man?"

McQuade thought of telling her about Donna Wright, their relationship, and her sweet little boy but did not want to share his thoughts with anyone right then, especially not with this particular person whom he found insufferable, so he simply said, "Too much shit, LT."

The lieutenant eased into a semblance of compassion. "Look, I know you've had a lot to deal with lately—losing your partner, trying to catch that killer, but...."

"Listen, Lieutenant. You're not talkin' to some rookie here. I've been in tight spots before and I can handle it. So save the pep talk, will ya?"

The lieutenant raised both her arms, spread her hands, and widened her cold eyes. "Okay. Okay. You handle it then." She picked up the phone and tossed it to McQuade.

The detective kept his eyes on her while he snatched the telephone in mid-air. The lieutenant studied him right back, as he spoke quietly into the phone: "Captain Mansford. Sorry the LT had to spoil your evening, sir." Lieutenant Strung glared at him and stood there awkwardly for a few moments before sitting at her desk and making herself busy. By then McQuade was not saying a word, only listening, as he stepped to a window and looked down to the street where he saw the tiny ball that was Howard Spellman entering a black-and-white. As the car pulled into traffic, McQuade raised his eyes to the yellow haze hanging over the city, a cloud of noxious gas. His eyes narrowed as if feeling the sting of smog even inside the building. He tried to glimpse the ocean far to the west but could not see more than a few murky miles. When he glanced down at the street again, the police car was gone.

***

In the garage, JD grabbed the wall panel and ripped it open. He caught a sight more beautiful than what he imagined could be the apparition of a heavenly angel—the small boy's face. Tony on his hands and knees, his eyes round with fear and faith, was staring at JD's craggy countenance. The man smiled broadly, unabashed about his missing and yellowed teeth, and asked softly, "Tony Wright?" The boy hesitated a moment then nodded slightly, still unsure if he was being rescued or delivered into the hands of another monster. Tony backed away when he saw JD's big bony hands reach toward him. "Don't be afraid, son. JD Ketch has come to save you."

Tony stared at him with the look of cornered prey. "Mommy!" he whimpered. "I want my mommy!"

JD crawled into the chamber. "I know you want your mother, son, and I'm here to deliver you to her." JD's eyes scanned the room and found the space immaculately clean, comfortably air conditioned, and bearing only the scent of the child. He looked the captive over for any sign of blood or injury, saw none, and then again reached for him.

Tony scooted backwards into a corner. JD sat crosslegged in the middle of the floor and smiled at him, speaking softly. "The man who put you here is gone, Tony, and I won't let him get you again. Now it's time for you to go home."

"That man—" Tony started with more with apprehension than question, but sobbing closed cut off his words.

"Did—did he hurt you, son?"

Tony looked down deeply into a woeful nod.

JD's face flushed with fury; the muscles of his body tightened like rope. "He won't hurt you anymore, Tony. He's a dead man."

The boy looked up and for the first time showed in his round, dark eyes a look of rudimentary trust. JD wanted to put his arms around him and draw him to his chest, to comfort him until all fear vanished from the child's heart and mind but the old man knew not to do that. So he slid back toward the exit and said, "Follow me, Tony. I'll show you the way home." The boy began to move then froze. "Come on, son. You want to go home, don't you?" Tony nodded. "Then follow me."

"Bad man out there?" the boy whimpered.

"No, Tony—the bad man is gone. I'm here to save you. But you have to come with me—so you can go back to your mother."

The idea soothing to the little boy like a warm bath after days and nights lost in a blizzard, he bent forward and followed the tall, gaunt man. They crawled one behind the other into the garage, Tony peering around nervously. When he saw the van, he shrank back toward the small opening and cried. JD looked at him, concerned something was wrong with the boy, something he could not see but sensed was cutting deep into his being. "What is it, son?"

Tony pointed at the van and said sobbing, "He's here! Bad man's here!"

"No, Tony. He's not here. The police took him away. He's gone and won't come back."

The boy fixed on the old man's eyes to find the truth in his words. He wanted desperately to trust this towering filthy stranger, this man who stank worse than any odor he could remember, this giant who treated him gently and appeared to be trying to help him. JD held out his hand. The boy looked at the big dirty paw but refrained from taking it. JD waved it slightly in the air, palm up, fingers open like a weird flower. "It's all right son. I protect children like you. Here—let me show you the way home." As if unconsciously Tony's small hand rose from his chest, drifted slowly across the gap between them, and alighted like a tiny winged creature in the palm of the huge hand.

***

When the officer dropped Howard Spellman at his house, he did not thank nor bid him goodbye. The round little man was in too much of hurry to get inside. He wanted only to check on his special guest but he forced himself to walk slowly to his door. The police officer lingered at the curb and watched him. When Spellman closed his front door, the police car headed down the street.

As soon as he stepped inside his home, what he saw jolted Spellman and he had an impulse to run after the policeman. He thought someone, maybe the cop, had later broken into his house to search for the boy. Furniture was out of place. Closets and cabinets all over the house were opened and their contents in disarray. In the bedroom, the drawers and closet were untidy. There Spellman found the open window and dirty footprints on the carpet. Two more thoughts burst into his mind: call the police, check on the boy. The latter dominated. Fearful the intruder was still on the premises the little man stepped carefully into the kitchen Caligula purring and stepping figure eights around his legs. "Sorry, Cali," he whispered, "I have no time for you now." Stopping at the door to the garage Spellman listened.

Overhearing voices—the boy's and a man's. Not the detective's voice. Someone else he did not recognize. Opening it a crack he spied JD with the boy and stiffened. When he saw the shabby looking man with his captive, stunned, he backed away from the door but kept his eyes nailed to it as if to pierce the wood. Jerking his head around he sought a kitchen drawer, eased it open, and removed a ten-inch knife. Back to the door, he heard the voices approaching. Whipping open the door, he thrust the knife in front of him and shouted, "Stop—right there!" and fell backward. Even at the top of the steps, Spellman was no taller than the imposing intruder.

JD had just about grabbed the doorknob when he snapped his hand back at the sight of the weapon. "Stay behind me, Tony," he said. "I won't let him get you." The boy hid behind the big man's long legs like temple pillars. JD's hand slid into his pocket but withdrew it empty. No wire. He was holding only the flashlight, having set his stick down to go in after the boy. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the shaft on the floor.

"Don't try anything," Spellman said, his voice oscillating between fear and rage. Glancing at the tool bench next to him, with his free hand he grabbed a sickle to join the long knife. "I'm not afraid to use these, old man. So move over to the garage door slowly—and leave the boy right where he is. He's mine. You can't have him."

Tony started to bawl.

"He ain't yours, you devil," JD snarled in a raspy voice, "and you ain't gonna touch him again. You ain't gonna do anything more at all—not even breathe. Your time has come."

Spellman shuddered at the threat and stepped back a pace. "I'll kill you if you don't leave the boy and get off my property, you stinking dog. I don't care how big you are. I'll kill you!"

JD's mind was racing. His predatory eyes flicked around the garage to process his position. His stick lay not three feet from him. Got to make a move, he thought. But he worried about the boy in the middle of a deadly fight. Meanwhile, his years of military training and combat experience and killing were coursing through his brain.

Spellman broke his train of thought. "Get over to the door, I said," he shouted over the child's crying. The fat little man was sweating and trembling. "Where in hell you come from anyway? Who in hell are you?" As soon as the last question left his mouth, something dark and fearsome inside of him knew the answer. He was shaking violently.

JD's face transformed into a mysterious mask: skin pale, eyes narrow but sharp as lasers, lips slightly parted, teeth clenched. He was the Reaper. In a blink he switched on the flashlight, shone it into Spellman's eyes, and picked up the stick. Spellman lunged with both weapons, spearing with one and slashing with the other.

"Get behind the van!" JD hollered at the boy but kept his eyes on Spellman. The child froze a moment then scurried around the vehicle and crouched behind a wheel, eyes peeking over the bumper.

Giving part of his attention to the boy JD for a split second lost track of Spellman. JD felt a blow at his side. Spellman had stuck the knife into his waist. Twirling away from the thrust of the blade and swinging his stick, JD dropped the flashlight and slammed the stick into Spellman's knife hand. The dagger slid out of the wound, took flight, hit the floor, and slid across the concrete toward the boy. It spun around once, the bloody blade pointing back at Spellman. After spotting the position of the knife, JD caught in the corner of his eye the sickle plummeting toward his head like the beak of a demonic raptor. Swinging the stick above him, he blocked the blade. It sliced into the hard, dry, wooden shaft without breaking it. Rotating the stick like a baton, JD cracked Spellman's wrist, making him drop the sickle. In a blur JD spun the stick and whipped it at Spellman's head, his temple. The little man howled and fell backward onto his workbench where without looking he grabbed a hammer and threw it JD. He ducked the whirling missile, but the handle glanced off his collarbone and crashed into a van window, the glass shattering into thousands of tiny cubes that rained in a brief burst and scattered across the floor. Ignoring the pain in his shoulder JD snapped one look back to check on the boy then swung the full length of the stick at the other side of Spellman's head. The blow sounded dull but solid. The man's round body bounced off the bench and thudded onto the floor. Dazed he clasped both hands onto his head as if holding it together and howled in pain. Blood started trickling from his nose and ears. In panic now his head swiveled, his eyes wildly casting around the bench for another weapon. But through his dizziness, he could not focus and only fumbled around the floor as if scavenging fish in the bottom of a barren sea.

JD stood over him, a pagan colossus. Grasping the scant hair on Spellman's head, the giant lifted him and with his big foot and flipped him onto his belly. Raising the round and bloody face to his own, the Reaper whispered, "I said—your time has come." Finding the sickle in his other hand as if by magic he hooked it beneath the man's chin and pressed the blade into his throbbing flesh. Tony screeched in terror. JD, halted, gawked at the child for merely a moment, and then whipped the blade across the man's throat from ear to ear.

Spellman mouthed the word 'No!', trailed by a long gasp, and then said nothing. His eyes wide with amazement stared at oblivion as all light faded from them. His body stiffened, his flabby muscles went rigid. Blood beaded along the neat crescent gash then gushed out and splashed over his chest and belly, a carotid artery severed. The Reaper let the head fall to the concrete floor with a bony thud. Then it rocked back and forth at the end of the spine.

Tony screamed but could make no sound. Air was rushing in and out of his lungs. He was dizzy. Faint. JD stepped over the quivering body and reached for the boy with bloody hands. Tony backed away behind the van and cowered into a corner. Realizing he still held the sickle in his hand JD threw it across the room. It twirled twice, half again, stuck into a plaster wall, and then fell clanging onto a pile of paint cans. He knelt down and looked into the boy's wet and wild eyes. The child, shivering with primal fear, was whimpering into his two little hands that hid his pallid face, his terrified eyes.

"It's okay now, boy. The bad man is dead." JD laid his bony fingers on the child's head, inadvertently smearing blood into his hair. The child shrieked and pulled his arms and legs to his body like a ball. "I won't hurt you. I hurt only bad people. You're a good boy." Tony dared to look at him but said nothing nor made a move. "And you're safe now, aren't you?" Tony kept his eyes on the man and barely nodded. "Yes, you are." JD picked up the flashlight, shoved it into his pocket then grabbed the child with both hands and lifted him off the floor as if he were weightless. "And now it's high time you went home, son—home to your mother."

Tony's eyes blinked then shined at the wonderful word. Was it possible? Could he actually find himself again in that personal place he had always thought was the whole world? Could this terrifying man, this savage giant really take him there? Or would he—? Tony could not bear to think of what had happened to him, what more could have happened. He had lost his innocent faith. His naive trust in others demolished. Forever gone his wide-open, headlong view of life. His nightmares had become real, and he was beginning to fear that in neither waking nor sleeping could he find a safe haven. More than ever in his brief life the child wanted his mother: to see her radiant face, feel her tightening arms, inhale the warm familiar scent of her body, and hear her musical voice calling him home for supper, to the daily refuge of family.

JD let his hand float down to the boy's and grasp it gently. "Come on, Tony—let's go." The tall man picked up his stick, bent over, and tugged on the boy's arm. "Come on, son."

Sobbing in shock the boy let the man lead him away from the van to the doorway and into the house. All the way JD tried to screen the blood soaked cadaver from the child. Lifting him by his upper body JD set him onto the kitchen floor and said, "Go find the telephone, boy. Call your mother."

After only an instant of hesitation, Tony spun around and ran through the house. JD followed and found him standing by a telephone, his head bowed. "Go ahead—call her."

"I can't."

"You can't—"

"I don't know the number."

JD smiled, shook his head, his eyes widening on the boy. "You are lost, aren't ya, son?"

The boy nodded as if reluctant to admit the fact. JD peered through a window at a street sign then opened the front door and found the number on the house. While mumbling the information he went back to the phone, hit 911, and looked down at the boy with a strange look in his eye. For a flash he thought the child was strikingly familiar, a child he had known many years earlier. A voice broke his reverie, asking him about the emergency. "Tony Wright—" JD said, "the missing boy—" then listened and nodded quickly. "Yes, he's alive and waiting." He listened again but impatiently. "Never mind about me. You want the boy. That's right. You'll find him at 1660 Stayner Street." He hung up the phone with a clatter and bent down to the boy. "Be here soon, Tony."

"My mommy?"

"The police will come and take you to your mommy, son." JD studied the child long then spoke quietly. "Now I have to go."

The child's eyes widened in renewed fear. JD put his big hands on the boy's arms and said, "You wait here, Tony."

"But the—" the boy turned his head in the direction of the garage. "He...."

"No, Tony. He'll never touch you again. He's—" Something in the back of his tormented mind told JD to speak with care. The child had endured too much. The old man simply said. "He's gone—and he won't come back."

Tony knew what that meant, that it had to do with living things no longer being alive or with persons disappearing like his father. He knew a little about such things and he knew the word people used for it. He blurted out, "Is he—dead?"

JD fired a look at him then nodded without words. After looking over the boy's head and small body, touching his little fingers, straightening his bloody hair, the big man stood up, towering over the child. He said, "Goodbye, Tony." Then he turned and walked out the front door.

Seeing the man stepping out of his sight for the first time since he first saw his distraught face in that small opening to the secret chamber, Tony ran to the front porch and cried, "Don't go, Giant. Don't leave me alone. I'm scared!"

At the end of the walkway, one step from the street, JD Ketch glanced over his shoulder and said while striding away, "Nothin' to be scared of now, boy. Just wait here. You'll be with your mother again soon—where you belong. Goodbye, my son." Without another word, leaning on his stick, he hiked up the street and turned a corner, then disappeared from view.

Tony watched the way the man had gone then ambled down to the street and sat on the curb without once looking back at the house of so much horror. But he squirmed and breathed heavily, for fear the bad man would walk out of the house, grab him around his little neck, and gnaw at the boy's belly. And the fear swelled in his breast like a malignant tumor. He felt about to burst from the bulging fear, when four police cars turned sharply onto the street and stopped, their tires screeching, right in front of him.

Officer Bob Tranks jumped out of a car and shouted at the boy, "You Tony Wright?"

Tony nodded sharply but strangely without expression. The officer stayed with him, while the others drew their guns and dashed into the house. In the next moment, a paramedic truck parked behind the cars, and medical techs ran to the boy. After quickly examining him, they carried the child to the truck and sped down the street, red lights flashing, siren screaming to tear a path open to the nearest hospital.

By the time Detective Mark McQuade arrived at the house on Stayner Street, cursing himself and the city of Los Angeles for not having detained the suspect, the police had found the bled-out body of Howard Spellman grotesquely twisted on his garage floor. Officer Tranks met McQuade on the walkway and said with curious humor in his voice, "Looks like your man's back to work, Detective."

"My man!" he glowered at the uniformed officer, ready to blast him, and then thought of the most important issue at hand. "Boy's all right?" Without waiting to see the cop nod, the detective blew past him and ran straight for the garage. As soon as he stepped inside, he simultaneously saw the van, the secret opening in the wall, and the bloody corpse. Not the same kind of kill. Messy like the African savanna or a slaughterhouse. McQuade knew. Even before the forensic report, he knew the killer. After a long hard look at the carcass, McQuade took a deep breath and exhaled, "Thank God for the Executioner."

Chapter 39

When Mark arrived at Valley Hospital, Donna Wright was already there, impatient for her son's release. "Is Tony all right?!" he hollered as he trotted down the hallway to her.

Hearing his voice she jumped up, ran, and threw her arms around him. Pressing her head to his chest, she said quietly, "Thank you, Mark. Thank you for saving my son."

Mark eased her back so he could find her eyes. "I'd like to take credit for it, Donna, but I wasn't the one who saved him."

She looked at him with confusion and curiosity. "Some other policeman?"

He shook his head, unsure if he should tell her about the Executioner, and then decided she ought to know. "It was the serial killer."

"The one who's been murdering...?"

He nodded. "JD Ketch. We have reason to believe he saved your son. Obviously heard about Tony's disappearance, knew about the pedo, and found the boy. He also killed Howard Spellman—the man who abducted him."

Wonder filled her eyes. "My God!"

Mark was afraid to find out what he had feared for the boy. "Did Spellman—? Was Tony—?"

Her wordless look told him that the bad news. Then she said, "Thank God he's alive. The doctor said he hasn't been seriously hurt—not in body anyway." Tears flooded her eyes.

Mark embraced her gently. "I'm glad you have him back." He grunted then muttered, "At least Spellman was a collector."

"What do you mean—a collector?"

"Doesn't kill his victims but keeps them like pets—secretly. Till they get too old, then...."

"I don't think I can deal with that kind of information right now, Mark. Please—"

"I understand. I got a big mouth and...."

"No. Actually I'm relieved—and, I guess—a little lucky my son's...."

"Mommy! Mommy!" A door opened and Tony ran out of an examining room, straight to his mother. A doctor stood behind him, watched the reunion for a moment, sadness showing through the cracks in his medical facade. He started to speak, but someone called him back into the treatment room.

"Tony! Oh, My Tony!" Donna enveloped her boy and poured kisses over his head and face. She held him and neither moved nor spoke, she only murmuring, her mouth against his head, as in prayer. Mark watched them until he became uncomfortable then turned away, pretending interest in a man stacking bedpans onto a cart. Donna looked up at him and asked, "Would you like to come home with us, Mark?"

Surprised he turned around too rapidly, looking befuddled. He wanted to be with his wife again but felt an obligation to see Donna through her ordeal, at least to her home, where her family would surround her, so he nodded and uttered acquiescence. She picked up his mood but made nothing of it, keen for him to accompany her home and maybe stay the night. Taking her son into her arms and holding him as though he might fly away, she led the way out of the hospital.

As Mark followed Donna's car out of the hospital parking lot he kept running through his mind the words he would say to his wife. Tony's abduction, despite his salvation, had rocked the big man's world. Right when he was actually considering reuniting with Shelley and finally making a baby together, this happened, reminding him of the common and constant evil that seemed everywhere lying in wait for children. Now that he thought about it, he was nearly relieved to be going to Donna's place.

He would have to get back on the Executioner case right away, but his feelings about that had shaken him too. More than ever he felt ambiguous about stopping that notorious vigilante, the man who had saved little Tony Wright. No, he could not face his wife with the old sick feeling back in his belly but he did not want to spend much time with Donna either. She needed him. But now more than ever he needed solitude. Following her car down the street to her house he struggled to form a convincing excuse for escaping from her gracefully, as gracefully as Mark McQuade could do it.

Just as he expected when he parked in front of her house, she stopped on the front porch with the baby in her arms and holding Tony by her side. As Mark ambled up the walkway, she shouted, "I almost feel like celebrating." He smiled obligingly. As he passed close to her, close enough to catch a whiff of her scent, and entered the house, she said quietly, "Seems more like I should go to church, though, and thank God for saving my son."

"God and JD Ketch."

She swung a look at Mark, paused while mulling over the connection, and then said, "I could use a drink. How about you?"

Mark still wanted to get away but also wanted the little boost that a shot of alcohol could give him. "I'm on duty but...."

"Only a glass of wine. That won't hurt, will it?"

Hurt, he thought. It would be like balm to a wound. What he really wanted was a double shot of rye whisky but he nodded in acceptance and dropped onto the sofa. He watched Donna take the baby into another room, and Tony follow her like a forlorn puppy, lacking the wideyed bravado of innocent young animals he had normally exhibited with such simple charm. Anthony J. Wright was no longer of that group, despite his age, and he would never again know the same gentle bliss. In about a week, the child had probably aged and suffered enough for a grown man. Mark's heart ached for the boy and wished he could do something to take him back to his childhood where he belonged, but the cop knew better than to wish for the impossible. Tony was forever changed. Mark could only hope that the invisible clawmarks of the monster would disappear from the boy's soul, that he was not infected with evil.

While Donna was in the kitchen pouring the drinks, Tony was trying to hide in the folds of her slacks. When she returned to the living room, he trailed her with one little hand gripping the cloth around her legs. When she set the drinks on the coffee table and sat next to Mark, the boy sat on the other side of her, pressed his head against her breast, and looked at Mark as if at a stranger. Curling her arm over his small body Donna held him so close they felt their pulse in time.

Mark stared at the child and said through a weak smile, "Back where he belongs."

Donna nodded. "And mommy will never let him out of her sight again." She cuddled him. "Will she?"

The boy looked up at her as if wondering about the possible meanings in her words. Mark, sensing an undertone of guilt in her voice, asked, "You don't blame yourself, do you, Donna?" He was not going to tell her that he had privately reproached her from the beginning of the ordeal.

"Myself, my absent husband, my stinking world—I blame all of us."

"Could've happened to anyone." Mark had to swallow after making that generality, then without thinking he added, "It's almost like a war zone out there sometimes, Donna. Never know when some freak is going to—" Donna's rounding eyes halted his words, and she shook her head slightly. If Mark had been a blushing man, he would have turned crimson. "Guess I've been on the front lines too long. Never gonna learn to keep my mouth shut."

Donna smiled and touched his hand lightly with her fingertips. "We're all upset, Mark." She looked down at her son and saw his eyelids drooping. Hoping the boy had possibly not heard Mark's remark or chosen not to listen, she cradled him on her lap and looked back up at the man with such an exquisitely tender expression that he blink several times and checked his watch.

Slugging his wine Mark stretched his big body and said, "Well, better get back to work. Never ends, you know."

She nodded through a disappointed look. "Can you come back for dinner?"

His back stiffened but, when she stroked his arm, tightening her fingers on it, he felt as if he might dissolve into a pile of cotton at her feet. "Thanks, Donna—I'd like to—really would—but I've got a hell of lot of work to do. Prob'ly be in the office till late tonight. Also an appointment. Someone about the case. Don't think I'll even have time to eat." He had gone too far. She was seeing right through the pile of jelly he was building, and he knew it. When she gazed at him, an aura about her beckoning like a rare and natural perfume, a magnetic force softened his resolve and hardened his response, but this time he did not like the feeling. Not only was he trying to be faithful to his wife, since their recent reunion, but he also felt dirty in being sexually responsive to this woman, especially after what had happened to her son. Still, the animal part of him had a will of its own, an attitude he had blindly followed more often and more carelessly in the past than he wanted to recall. This time, though, he was determined not to give it free rein.

Donna Wright was a beautiful and beguiling woman. No doubt. And she personified Mark's image of wife and mother—feminine yet strong like the ineffable energy that flows through the earth. Regardless of this fundamental fact, Mark stood to go but did not want to leave. Instead he glanced around the room, tipped the empty wine glass into his mouth, slapped his thigh for his keys, looked out a window, and examined a leafless tree. He sighed and rechecked his watch.

Perceiving his distress, Donna let her power dissipate. "You go then, Detective. Do your duty. Just don't get too busy and forget us." She smiled as if she had known all along that their separation was both expected and accepted. Her smile was a mask.

Forget? Mark McQuade would always remember Donna Wright and her children, especially Tony. He would never forget the broken but happy family, the ordinary but comfortable house they lived in, or the night he made wild love with her until practically daylight. But he had to walk away now and maybe never return so he did not want to respond. Doing so would have made him feel soft and weak. And Mark hated being maudlin, especially to others. Spreading his arms like wings he said, "Got a k—a man to catch."

Donna did not respond nor stand up but sat looking up at him with a strange upward curve to her mouth, not a smile, more like an inverted frown. She had feared what Mark McQuade had not known or had not been willing to face: he was not going to pursue their relationship. She held her son close and rocked him gently. Mark admired that image of woman with child, reminding him of pictures he had seen as a kid in church or in one of his schoolbooks. He admired the two together and did not realize at the time that he would carry that picture of them with him for the rest of his life as a kind of mental talisman. Smiling with subtle sadness, he looked long at the boy then at the woman and said, "Can't tell you how glad I am he's back home with you, Donna."

Donna reflected his smile but did not get up from the sofa when he turned toward the front door. Nor did she follow him out of her house. Nor watch through the window as he took long strides down the walkway to his car. She had not wanted him to see her cry. And if she looked too longingly at him going away, she might have lost all control of herself and wept until her eyes burned and her head ached with agony. Instead she buried her face in her son's small chest and listened to his heart beating. That sensation was all she needed for life and love. Men could come and go, but her motherhood would abide.

Donna sat with Tony long after she heard Mark McQuade's car roar down the street and blend into the noises of the city. She sat there until the sun was no longer in the sky, until the house became dark, until her body craved food for the first time in days. Carefully carrying her boy to her bedroom she laid him in the middle of her bed, rested his head on her down pillow, gazed at him for a few moments in the dimming light, then went to the kitchen. She would prepare a meal in humble celebration of Tony's homecoming and their good fortune to have escaped the terror. They would have a quiet dinner, Tony would fall fast asleep, and she would go to bed early. In the morning Donna would rise before the sun, feed the baby, and fix Tony's favorite breakfast of pancakes dripping in boysenberry syrup. They would go on with their lives, not as they had before, not as carefree and as blithely assuming of an obvious existence, but with a new and intense appreciation of every shining day.

Chapter 40

McQuade headed slowly back to Parker Center. He was not eager to face the job ahead of him—going after the Executioner—even if it would give him a reward. From what jelled in his mind about this particular killer, the detective guessed where he could find him, at least where he should look for him—underground. Might as well get started, he thought, as he called his partner.

"Mark!" Novato shouted before McQuade could get past a greeting. "Why in hell did you bust Spellman without letting me know, man? We're partners."

"I appreciate the sentiment, Steve—but I knew the guys with the stars on their collars might disapprove of my little freelance action enough to put me back in a black-and-white cruising the streets. I didn't want you mixed up in it, what with your wife expecting and all."

Silence on the other end, then, "How in hell did you know that, McQuade?"

"Well, considering your crazy passion for having kids and catching you in bed with her all the time, I only figured...."

"What do you mean catching me in bed? Have you been watching my house too, partner?" He chuckled.

McQuade sniggered. He was loosening up a little despite having found life even less humorous even than he had thought it to be. With good reason, he mused. "Listen, Steve—I need your help on the Executioner case."

"Sure thing. Glad to hear it."

"Hear what?"

"That you're getting back to work, McQuade."

"I haven't stopped workin' for fifteen god damned years, Novato."

"I mean the serial killer case, man."

McQuade did not speak for a moment then said, "See if you can hook up with someone works for the county flood control system, someone knows the storm drains."

"Storm drains. Oh yeah, because you think he's...."

"Not sure. Only a hunch, eh?"

"I'll check it out, Mark. Maybe I'll have something by the time you get here."

"Yeah. Thanks." McQuade reseated the phone as he took a ramp onto the freeway and cut into a string of dense traffic. Killer's got a game leg, he thought. Probably find a hole somewhere to crawl into and hide from the light and the law. Under the city. Could be walkin' under me right now. McQuade grunted and gazed across the vast LA basin at the hodgepodge of buildings interlaced with thousands of streets, each one emptying filthy fluid into the drains that feed the LA River that streams to the sea. How in hell, he thought, nearly aloud, am I ever gonna find him in that maddening maze? He lifted his eyes to the sky: scaly clouds scraped across the dingy hint of blue. Rain comin'. Good ol' LA monsoon. Dry as a stone February to November then a few weeks of deluge. Enough to raise the river ten feet in two days. Damned hard for ol' Ketch to navigate those tunnels, if a storm. Need a boat. Huh. This I gotta see. Maybe a raft or some damn thing. Resourceful son of a bitch. Neat trick to catch him. Prob'ly get a god-damned medal. American Society of Pedophiles. ASP. He shouted like gunfire and said, "Give the snake a bad name." Someone like Carl Shunt pin it on my lapel. McQuade snarled out a bitter little laugh and gunned the car through an opening in traffic.

By the time he arrived at the RHD, Detective Novato had done his job, showed the results to his partner. "Well, I got a guy to tell us about the drains, Mark. A fellow at Public Works. One Bobby Rent. Says he knows them better than the city streets. The drains."

"Yeah? Well, we might not have to look down there long for Ketch—rain comin'. If he's in those drains when a storm hits, it'll flush him like a turd through a toilet."

"Nice image, partner."

Not a hint of humor showed on McQuade's face. "Shitty job, but...."

"I know the line."

"Let's find this Rent fella and take a trip to the underworld."

"I guess I should've worn my galoshes," Novato quipped as he followed McQuade out of the Parker building.

In the garage McQuade spoke out of the corner of his mouth: "You gonna tell me where this guy's located, or do I have to let you take the wheel again?"

Novato grinned with a face full of cockiness, eased into the car, and fired the engine with a slight but noticeable flourish. McQuade made nothing of it. He was not looking forward to a trek through the city drainage system. Figures, he thought. Shit keeps gettin' deeper and deeper. Whole damn city is goin' to hell. Hah. May as well look at the future.

Novato kept the car at the speed limit as he headed into the Valley. McQuade did not mind this time. He merely watched the banal buildings, dusty trees, and remote people pass. Everything in the LA open air was dirty for many months until the rains came. McQuade was always ready for them. Unlike most people in the Southland, he enjoyed a good downpour. Never used an umbrella nor a hat, even walked around outside with his raincoat open from throat to knees. He did not care if he got wet, as long as his feet stayed dry. During the wet season he wore his alternate shoes. Waterproof. When he stepped into puddles, he felt as happy as child, knowing his feet would be dry when he set them free at the end of the day. But McQuade was annoyed with himself for not having thought to put on his waterproof shoes that day, since he knew might have been bound for the filthy underground passageways. He mumbled the word 'shit' to himself, not loud enough for Novato to catch it, but he glanced at the big man to see if he had spoken to him. McQuade kept his eyes on the road, nervous about Novato's handling of the car, even though the young cop drove with skill and care. The man behind the wheel grinned and faced forward but was not the kind of person to pass much time with someone without a word. After a few minutes he had to ask question that had been nagging him for days. "So, Mark—how's Mis'ess Wright?"

McQuade snapped him a look. "Fine—since her boy's back home."

"I'm sure." Novato did not say what was really on his mind, but McQuade knew. The young cop had to ask another question. "Have you talked to your wife lately?"

McQuade popped another look at him. "Yeah, kid. What about it? You practicin' social work on the side?"

"Hah! That's good." Novato was silent for a second then said, "I was only making conversation."

"Well, make it on another subject, will ya, partner? Say, where in hell is this place anyway—Nevada?"

Novato's laughter stayed in his throat. "Should be right along here—" After traveling another three blocks he turned off Glenoaks Boulevard in Sun Valley into Hansen Yard with a big parking lot full of city and county utility vehicles. McQuade stayed in the car as Novato entered a building. In moments he came out with a burly man wearing dirty overalls and a grimy baseball cap that bore an indistinct sports insignia. Bobby Rent, a career employee of the LA Department of Public Works. Rent lumbered beside Novato to McQuade getting out of the car. "Mister Rent meet Detective Mark McQuade.

Rent stuck out a dirty paw. McQuade grabbed it and felt the man tighten on his hand like an arm wrestler. He matched it and asked, "So you know the storm drains, eh?"

"Like the back of my hand, Detective."

McQuade glanced at Rent's filthy hand and understood the answer. "Good. Detective Novato prob'ly told you were lookin' for the Ex—the serial killer who's been...."

"Yeah, I know. The guy who's been knockin' off them stinkin' child molesters in the city. Ya wanna know what I think—when ya find him give him a medal and put him on the force."

McQuade grinned at the notion of him and the killer both getting medals. "Lot of people feel that way, Mister Rent. Now, if you don't mind—maybe, you have a map of the drains, you could show us?"

"Do I!" The stocky fellow turned around with a bounce and swung his arm for the detectives to follow him. Inside Rent led the cops into a small office and pointed to a big map that nearly covered one wall. "There she is. One of the greatest drainage systems in the world—extends five thousand miles beneath the city. Only those like the one running under the city of Paris, I believe, compare to it." Rent gazed at the graphics and ran his hands slowly over the plastic surface as if he were an artist admiring his masterpiece.

McQuade had neither reason to doubt his words nor to be interested in them; he simply stepped closer to the wall for a better look. "So all this dumps into the LA River."

"Like tributary streams. Then all the way to the sea. You fellas know the history of this beauty?"

McQuade tried to cut him off, but Novato shook his head like a kid in school and said, "No. No, we don't." McQuade scowled.

Ignoring the big detective's disinterest Rent folded his beefy arms over his abundant chest and spoke as if beginning a tour: "After a massive flood in thirty-eight killed more'n a hunnert people and caused more'n forty million bucks in damage to public and private property, the Army Corps of Engineers built the Los Angeles storm drain system." Rent slowly scanned the map; to him the image did represent masterpiece. "Them army builders a helluva group, ain't they?"

McQuade looked at his partner's nodding head and said, "Yeah, well, that's very interesting, Mister Rent, but...."

"I bet you fellers don't know how much water flows through the system, do ya?"

McQuade sighed in submission to the mini-lecture but scowled at his partner's absorption in everything Rent had to say.

The husky fellow sucked in a chest full of air. "Even during the summer an average of a million gallons flows from the mountains to the sea in only one typical day. And you might ask how that happens, since we have so little rain in southern California." He paused and looked at his audience of one and a half, apparently expecting either of them to take a wild guess. Receiving none he rattled on: "Well, I have the answer for ya. It comes from—to name a few—hunnerts of thousands of overwatered lawns, fire hydrant leaks and pressure releases, as well as the hunnerts of car washes they is throughout the county. But—when it rains. Oooo—wee! A heavy downpour can increase the water flow to billions and billions of gallons. Movin' fast too." Satisfied with his erudition and eloquence, he propped his ample buttocks on the edge of a low counter beneath the map and glanced back and forth between the two detectives.

Sensing a narrow opening McQuade jumped into it. "This man we're after, Mister Rent—could he get in and out of the system easily?"

"Sure, he could get in and out—but not easily. He'd have to be a lot thinner than I am and find an unbarred opening into a catch basin. Course he could also get in and out through man holes in the streets—if he had the right tool."

McQuade beat Novato to saying what they both had on their minds. "Could he travel throughout the system?"

"Sure could—" Rent said, "if he don't mind wadin' through a hell of lot of motor oil, paint thinner, pesticides, antifreeze, plastic, paper, dirty diapers, dead animals, loads of shit, and other junk of all manner and description. But I doubt he'd run into any alligators or atomic ants." He started to laugh but ceased upon seeing the detectives staring at him curiously. "Just a joke." Rent's eyes showed his mind working. "Then, as I said, if it rains—well, your man would continue to move but not under his own steam." He laughed heartily. "Wash him at thirty-five mile an hour right out to sea with the rest of the refuse, it would."

McQuade glanced at Novato then said, "And if we need to get into the system, Mister Rent—can you tell us how?"

Looking up at the map Rent pointed to places in the diagram and said, "See those green dots? Those indicate access points along the system. You can get into it through any one of those. In fact—" Bending down with a grunt he opened a cupboard beneath the counter and pulled out a roll of laminated paper. This he jutted in front of McQuade. "I just happen to have a smaller version of this map. Some guy from headquarters left it here. You can take it with you if you like."

McQuade looked at Novato who grabbed it and said, "Thanks."

Rent nodded, "You'll need a large screwdriver or a small bar to lift those manhole covers, though—and a good strong flashlight. Gas mask wouldn't be a bad idea too in some places down there." Another belly laugh burst out of him. "Stinks like hell!" An unpleasant thought crossed his eyes that quelled his humor. "And you might wanna check your skin for rashes a day or two after visiting the system. Oh yeah—be sure to wash yer hands good—in fact, you'd oughta take a hot soapy shower right away." He grinned strangely at the two men, who looked at each other dumbly and drew deep breaths. "So—" Rent said, "where you fellas gonna start yer search?"

McQuade and Novato looked at each other again. That question had been in the backs of their minds but they had not wanted to bring it forward, having no ready answer. McQuade covered their uncertainty by saying, "Haven't decided yet. Thanks for the information and the map, Mister Rent."

"You bet. Always glad to help fellow city employees, especially officers of the law." Rent extended his hand to them. "Thought about becomin' a cop once myself, ya know—"

McQuade quickly shook the man's hand and headed out of the office, as Novato smiled obligingly at Rent and lifted his forearm in a half-hearted wave. The burly DPW worker threw his hand into the air and said, "Lemme know if ya need any more information about the system. Like I said, I know it like the back of my hand."

Hearing that McQuade glanced at his own hand and wiped it on his jacket as he took the driver's side in the car. Novato shook his head slowly as he too got in and shut the door when the sedan backed away from the building and spun out of the Public Works yard. The young detective waited until they were cruising on the street a mile away from the utility yard before saying anything. "So where do you think we'll find him, Mark?"

McQuade shrugged and said, "Haven't the slightest idea. You?"

Novato mimicked his partner's shrug. "I guess we'll have to count on some good luck. All the uniforms in the city, reporters, and a lot of citizens are probably watching for him now more than ever."

McQuade glanced at him in subdued agreement.

"Now that he's a hero," Novato added.

McQuade grunted.

"Probably a hell of a legend after this."

"Prob'ly."

Another few minutes of silence ticked by before Novato said, "Weird, isn't it?"

"What?"

"How it all played out."

McQuade waited for more without looking at him.

Novato did not keep him in suspense. "Here's this war hero, a homeless guy, definitely crazy—he murders pedophiles, becomes some kind of weird celebrity, saves a kid's life, goes on the run, becomes even more famous and celebrated—only to wind up sooner or later collared, convicted, and sentenced to life or death—if we don't kill him in pursuit." Novato glanced at a few people standing on a corner. "It kind of makes you wonder what's right and wrong about life, doesn't it?"

"I been thinkin' there's a helluva lot more wrong than right."

"It is easy to see things that way, I suppose."

"You s'pose. Only reason you don't see it that way yet, my young friend, is that you haven't walked long enough in my shoes."

"So you wouldn't be that cynical if you weren't a cop?"

McQuade bent his head a little sideways. "Hell, I dono. Prob'ly. All ya have to do is keep your eyes open, partner, to see all the shit in the world. God, you could be blind and smell it."

"Well, I like to think I'm doing my part to clean it up a little."

"Hah! This I gotta see!"

Novato started to protest a perceived insult.

"Aw, don't go boostin' your blood pressure. I don't mean to put down your police work, partner. You're gonna be a damned good cop—someday."

"Someday! I think I'm doing pretty well right now."

"Sure you are, Stevie boy—sure you are. And the better you get the more you're gonna get like me."

Novato nearly said, 'I hope not.' but was too tactful. Instead he grinned and said, "That good, eh?"

McQuade jerked his head around and fastened his eyes on him then slowly smiled and returned his attention to the road. "Well, maybe not that good."

Novato laughed, not derisively but with a barely perceptible nuance of admiration. McQuade pretended severity then shared the laugh quietly. Treading lightly on the gas pedal he kept a steady pace on the freeway into downtown. The dense traffic as usual flowed slowly through the city: countless robotic transports rumbling along the concrete freeways passing over the great labyrinth of streets. McQuade glanced at the sky and removed his shades. Gray clouds heavy with water were clearly rolling in from the ocean. The light was dimming and wind blowing from the west. Novato followed his partner's eyes and said, "Yep. Looks like rain."

"Uh-huh," McQuade grunted. "The heavens could be workin' in our favor for a change."

"Mister JD Ketch won't want to stay underground when the torrent starts rushing through those storm drains."

McQuade nodded. "Unless he's part fish."

Novato chuckled and gazed over the central city, as the freeway skirted the LA River. McQuade leaned over the dash and viewed the broad concrete canal, its central trough running with black-green water, its slanted walls tattooed with graffiti. "Could be down there right now. Might even see the guy if we happened to look in the right place at the right time."

They both looked along that part of the river yet saw nobody. But Detective Mark McQuade was right. If they had by chance or ability looked into another part of the drain system, they might have spied a tall, gaunt figure walking alone in one of the channels and heading with the flow toward the main canal. The river was running freely. Soon it would gradually swell with muddy water and debris and rush through the city on its way to San Pedro harbor and the sea.

Chapter 41

After leaving the boy at the house on Stayner Street, JD Ketch walked back to his residence beside the LA River. But he was hobbling along the streets now, unable to move fast, his aging body tired and hurt. The gash in his side was throbbing so much he completely forgot his injured ankle. Right under his rib cage the pain was so sharp it felt as though the knife were still stuck there and twisting in the wound. He had stanched the blood with his shirt and hand pressure but he could not stop the pain. Having walked above ground from the house, he was now hearing sirens and, fearing the police, he found an open drain where he could slide into a catch basin. He crawled through a pipe to a channel that would eventually take him into the river by which he could reach his hole in the ground. Good thing I remembered to pick up this up off the floor of the garage, he thought, as he sprayed the flashlight down the pipe and followed it. While crawling toward the main channel, JD did not realize someone had seen him slip into the drain. A man in a car stopped at a light, a man who had been following the story of the serial killer in the news, a man who had a phone in his car with which to call the police.

Even if he had known about the man who had observed him JD would have had a far more serious and vital condition on his mind. As it was, he focused on himself. He lowered himself gingerly out of the pipe into the large tunnel. As he trudged along the channel, he kept stumbling over pieces of indistinct things on the floor while fighting off the shock into which his body was threatening to sink. Got to calm down, he thought. Not necessarily a killing wound. Talk myself out of an adrenaline rush. Been here before. Only a scratch compared to the blows I took in combat. Got to make it home. He laughed to think of his dirt hollow as any kind of a home. He wanted desperately to rest but he did not want to die there in that ditch by the river; he also knew he had little time. If his struggle was finally going to end, he did not want his heart and mind to stop working while lying in a ready made grave.

Before JD Ketch had gone five miles in the tunnel, he heard a noise and stopped short. At first he could not discern its direction, the noise sounding all around him in a cacophonous though faint percussion. Then cocking his head without moving or breathing he heard the noise coming from behind him. Tapping sounds. Regular. Multiple. Getting louder. Footsteps. More than one person. "Cops!" Someone, he thought with a quick gulp of air, some dutiful citizen must have spotted me. Peering back down the tunnel to catch sight of them, he saw nothing but heard the noises, steadily louder. Definitely more than one. Can't fight 'em off, he thought. Too weak. Gripping his stick tightly he limped on down the channel, his feet kicking nameless debris and stirring up the slimy liquid that ran constantly past him like ooze from a giant open sore. If I can only make the river, he thought—I'll have a chance. Other channel openings. Take any one of them. Get lucky. They won't guess. He stood still to look at his wound. The bleeding had stopped. That revitalized him. He was not going to die. Not yet. At least not in the wretched bowels in the city. Can I make the river? The sea?

***

The police had responded quickly to the man's call about spotting a person who resembled the serial killer enter a storm drain. Among those responding were Detectives McQuade and Novato on their own way to find a manhole cover. They had entered the tunnel near the place toward the river from where JD had reportedly entered the drain. About a quarter of a mile behind the fugitive, they dropped into the hole and started slogging along the dismal passage toward the river. The two men saw nobody but heard a barely perceptive noise—maybe footsteps, maybe not, but definitely a steady pounding noise that kept reverberating past them. McQuade stopped and held his partner back. "Listen—Hear that?" Novato listened and nodded, his head barely visible in the flashlighted darkness. "Whaddya think that is, partner?" McQuade asked.

"I'm not sure," Novato replied. "It kind of sounds like hammering."

"Hammering or thumping—with a stick."

"A stick?"

"Yeah. Remember we saw Ketch in that park with the Mexican woman. Carrying a stick, wasn't he?"

The Central American Novato had an urge to comment on his partner's assumption that the woman was Mexican but chose to stay on the critical point at hand. "Yeah, I think he was."

"Sure he was. And if that noise we hear is what I think it is, we're finally on his god damned trail, my friend."

The two men quickened their pace, the possibility of finally catching the killer driving them forward. That and the stench. "Are we sure this isn't the city sewer?" McQuade griped, shoving his nose and mouth into his coatsleeve.

"Rent told me they're two entirely different systems," Novato said. "So did you."

"I dono. Seems like we hear a lot of reports about sewage dumped into the ocean. Where in hell's that stink comin' from then?"

"Leaks probably—in the sewage system," Novato said. "It can't handle the volume. It's too old and...."

"Angelinos produce too much shit. Must be all that crap comin' outta Hollywood."

Novato laughed then instantly thought of how much bad air he was inhaling so he also covered his face. His partner pulled slightly ahead and with a sweep of his big hand urged him to move faster. They tried to keep their shoes out of the putrid stream on the bottom of the channel, but the muck was too deep and wide. As they trod through the huge drain, McQuade's constant curses of revulsion rang off the walls.

Forward of them and just out of their sight, JD steadily plodded through the long passage until he reached the main canal. When he stepped into the large open waterway, he inhaled deeply of the relatively clean air, fresh from sea wind blowing rain clouds across the southern California sky. He looked at the dark gray masses rolling over him. Storm coming, he thought. Rain. Lots of it. Flash flood. Catch me in here, trapped, pick me up and carry me off like a piece of trash. At first the concept alarmed him, but he quickly realized that it could be his certain and final escape. Take the river to the sea. Most likely kill me. He laughed crazily. Worse ways to go. Rotting in prison. Or doped to death on a table. He remembered the dream about washing down the river in high water. Maybe a prophecy.

Instead of heading up river toward his personal place in the earth, he abandoned that plan and followed the current south. Can't walk to the end, he thought. Too damned far. But could make it floating, if the river rises. On some kind of raft. Hold on against the current. Gotta be lucky, though. People die during floods. Kids mostly. No kid. But hurt and tired. Yeah, need something to hang on to until the end. Till I can reach Mother Ocean. Let it all go then. Safe and sound in those great aquatic arms.

The old man was approaching Griffith Park when the rain started falling heavily. One of those torrential downpours that deluge the entire metropolitan grid from the mountains to the palisades. No lightning yet but it would come. The faint drumroll of thunder would boom and reboom off the mountains. Electric charges between vapor and earth would illumine the region like cosmic flashbulbs. People would run for cover. Cars would crash on the streets. Foliage would revel in silent joy after months of shriveling drought.

"Thank God!" JD Ketch vocally addressed the force nature, whose universal evidence denied his mortal disbelief in a deity. As he extended his long arms to the great bluegray clouds blanketing the land, the rain roared, falling denser and faster with each minute. JD knew it would flood. He knew rivulets were already rushing out of the San Gabriel Mountains, small overflows that with ominous hiss and boil were sweeping through the foothills into the concrete tributary canals, rushing to the main river channel. He knew in minutes, maybe less than an hour, that soon a low wall of milky brown water was going to lift him off his feet and carry him through the city like a foreign particle expelled from a gigantic organism. He knew but he did not fear. Rather he accepted what was going to happen to him for he believed he no longer belonged on Earth. His time too was coming. He had lived, reproduced, and killed his own kind. Now he headed for his own extinction. That was the way of things. He knew it was coming and did not care about anything but reaching the sea before he lost consciousness of the world around him. He wanted to see his end.

***

McQuade and Novato cared about things, though, when they stepped into the river channel and heard thunder and saw sheets of rain blinding their vision of the concrete wall of the river casement only ten yards across from their position. McQuade knew they were in a bad place, when it rained, and that they had to get out of there soon. Assessing the threatening situation himself Novato said, "We'd better call for help."

Reluctant to be rescued, McQuade said, "Naw. Let's go back to one of those exits up to the streets." He turned back into the tunnel. "I think we passed a manhole about five hundred yards back. He headed into the dark passage.

Novato was not eager to follow but did so. "Well, I hope to God we find it before the streets start flowing and filling up this tunnel."

"No shit. This damned city floods quicker than a clogged cesspool."

"I don't like the sound of that," Novato said. He started running. McQuade joined him, splaying the flashlight along the ceiling. Soon they were plowing through an incremental flow of water, covering the floor of the tunnel and rising over their shoes that splashed in the stinking black soup.

"Dammit!" McQuade snapped. "Waterproof shoes sittin' high and dry in my closet, while my good shoes and socks are soaking up this filthy slop." After sloughing up stream several hundred yards, they saw light gleaming off metal pieces embedded into the wall. McQuade stopped and aimed the light at the objects.

"Rungs!" Novato said. "Could be a manhole up there!"

"Yeah," McQuade ran to it and looked up at a round steel disk in the center of the ceiling. "Hope it's free." Novato's eyes glinting in the half-light formed an unasked question. "Could be something on top of it," McQuade said as he handed the flashlight to his partner and climbed the rungs.

"Like what?"

"Like a vehicle. Saw this movie where a killer ran from the cops into LA drains and tried to get out through one of these manholes—but couldn't open it. Car parked right on top of the thing." McQuade pushed with both hands against the heavy cover, straining and groaning. "Damn! Won't budge."

"Do you think something's blocking it?"

"How would I know?" McQuade grunted and glanced at his partner, who was watching the water steadily rising.

"Well, if you don't get it open soon, Mark, we're gonna be up to our nostrils in flood water."

"I'm workin' at it, Steve. Workin' at it." He shoved until the veins in his neck, forehead bulged, and his face flushed crimson. "Seems like it's givin' a little. Must be rusted or some damn thing." He pushed until his back began to give out then said, "Here, you take it on for a while, man."

They changed places, McQuade stepping into a foot of water, Novato climbing the rungs. As soon as he put pressure on the disk, it lifted slightly out of the hole. "I got it!" he shouted, but his voice was lost in the clang of the cover banging back into place, as a car on the street rolled over it. "Jesus Christ!" Novato screamed. "What was that?"

"LA Traffic. Thing's in the middle of some street. Gonna be lucky to get out of here between cars or...."

"Or get smashed when we're half way out of the damned hole."

"Or that," McQuade said. He glanced at the water swirling around his legs and shouted, "Try it again."

Novato looked at him and said, "Maybe we should go back to the river and call for help, man."

"Too late. By the time we got there, a huge wad of water could pick us up and carry us across town."

Novato pondered that possibility only a moment before pushing harder against the manhole cover with both hands. "Put your body into it," McQuade said. Novato thought about the suit he was wearing but forget it in the next moment as he shoved his shoulder against the heavy disk. Steadily he raised it out of the hole; grunting and straining he pushed the steel cover onto the street, the thing rattle-clanging on the pavement. "I got it!" he hollered. "We're out of here, man!" He scrambled through the hole and crawled onto the wet street as a car zoomed toward him. Rolling to the gutter, he dodged the wheels but not a spray of filthy water in the face. "Careful coming up here, man!" he shouted, spitting. "I nearly got run over!"

McQuade poked his head out of the hole and shouted, "All clear?"

Novato threw quick looks up and down the street and hollered, "Now, man! Go for it!"

McQuade heaved his big body out of the hole and crawled onto the middle of the street. When a horn blared, he rolled into his partner but could not duck the spray from a huge sport utility vehicle as it tore past them without slowing a click. McQuade jumped to his feet and threw his fist into the air. "Son of a bitch!" he screamed at the car. "You catch that ass hole's license?"

Novato shook his head.

"Helluva chance findin' any good Samaritans in this town." McQuade gave his hand to his partner and helped him to his feet. "Look at you, Steve—you're a god damned mess." The two men stood on the edge of the road in the rain, stared at each other, and started to laugh. "Damned excitin' job, ain't it?" McQuade said.

"It's why we get the big bucks and the people love us, huh?"

"Oh, yeah!" McQuade said as he shoved the cover back onto the manhole. "Regular heroes."

Novato started up the sidewalk. "I think the car is this way, Mark"

"Yeah. Well, I've had enough walkin' today." He waved down a taxi and they jumped in, glad to be watching the rain from inside a dry, warm vehicle, even though it stank of stale cigarette smoke.

"Wonder where ol' JD Ketch is right about now," Novato said.

McQuade shook his head gravely. "Your guess as good as mine, partner. If he's still in the river he could be driftin' along pretty fast by now—anywhere 'tween here and San Pedro."

"Maybe he got out just like we did."

"Mebbe. But sooner or later someone will spot him walkin' the streets or lyin' washed up on a beach. Either way we'll get the poor bastard and we'll put him away for the rest of his life."

When they found the car, they drove to their homes to change clothes. By the time they arrived back at Parker Center, the rain was falling furiously, had been for hours. The streets were creeks. The LA River was a swelling torrent of coffee colored water full of tumbling debris. While McQuade and Novato were sitting at their desks, discussing strategy, the telephone rang. McQuade let his junior partner take it.

"Robbery-Homicide. Detective Steven Novato here." Listening he jerked his feet off the desk, stood up, and leaned over it. "Where?" Novato flashed an excited look. "Thanks." He hung up and popped his eyes wide at McQuade. "Someone spotted Ketch." Before McQuade could ask, Novato said, "In the river—near the Los Feliz Bridge."

"Alive?" McQuade asked as he pulled binoculars out of his desk.

"Alive and afloat."

"Afloat! How in hell...?!"

"I don't know." Novato was out the door before McQuade. "Let's find out."

By the time McQuade got to the car his young partner was already behind the wheel. McQuade grinned and jumped in without a word. They cleared the garage before either man spoke. "If he's adrift we better calculate a place to intercept him," McQuade said. "How fast that DPW guy say the water runs in a storm?"

"Thirty, thirty-five miles an hour."

"Damn! Ol' Ketch is in for the ride of his life—or death."

"If he was right below Griffith Park a half hour ago then he's probably just north of us," Novato said. "Where can we get close to the river?"

"Cut over to Chavez. From there to the bridge."

Novato accelerated onto Alameda Street and turned onto Caesar Chavez Avenue heading east. Seconds later, he and McQuade were out of the car and running across the bridge. Looking north toward Elysian Park, they scanned the basin. Through the field glass, McQuade studied the river. The water level had risen several feet. "Gonna be quite a surge this rain keeps up," he said.

"Do you see him?"

"Nothin' human yet. Wait. Maybe—"

"What?"

"Take a look with your young eyes, Steve." McQuade handed him the binoculars and pointed. "That look like a person to you? Man's upper body bobbing in and out of the chop? There—this side of that railroad trestle."

Novato focused, looked carefully, and then said, "No shit. That could be him." He handed the glass back to his partner. "How in hell are we going to fish him out of there?" McQuade let the binoculars fall to his chest and shook his head. Novato started back to the car. "I'll call the Fire Department."

"No."

"Why not, man?" Novato was irritated. "They know how to do these things. Jesus Christ, Mark! They're always saving people in situations like this."

"I know, I know. But I want him. Yeah, it's crazy but I wanna get him myself."

"Yourself! What are you going to do—jump in there after him?"

McQuade thought about it. "If I have to."

"In your suit and tie and all."

"All right—I'll take off my tie, if that'll make you happy."

"It's not the damned tie, Mark. You'll drown your god damned ass in there!"

McQuade peered at the figure floating toward him. "He ain't drowned yet."

"Not yet—but he will. Nobody could survive in that flood for long."

"Well, we better do something fast, 'cause if that is JD Ketch he's gonna be cruisin' right past us in seconds." As if too fascinated to move the two cops watched the bobbing shape approach, coming clearer in view. The shape was human. Waves submerged it, only head and shoulders intermittently showing out of the muddy water. McQuade raised the glass to his eyes. "Yep. Definitely a person down there. A man. Sure as hell looks like our guy." They watched the man pass under the bridge then ran across the street and watched him going south.

"What in hell is keeping him afloat?" Novato said.

McQuade kept the binoculars trained on the figure. "Something white. Looks like a box or something." He looked with the naked eye. "Let's go!" He ran to the car. "We got to find a place to intercept him before he goes under or manages to scramble out of the river somewhere downstream." Novato ran after him to the car, too late to take the wheel but let it go: McQuade was in charge of the chase. He turned on the flashing light as McQuade gunned the car across the bridge then veered onto the 101 freeway south. It turned into Interstate 5 and bent eastward away from the river. Zigzagging through relatively light traffic for LA, McQuade flew far beyond the speed limit to get downriver below the fugitive and catch him before the booming flood swallowed him.

"Good thing we didn't follow him to the river," Novato said as he nervously watched McQuade negotiate the cars. "We could've been swimming for our lives right along side of him all the way to the ocean."

Chapter 42

When JD Ketch had exited the drain tunnel and was walking along the LA River bottom in the heavy rain, he noticed the stream change color from its usual greenish black to light brown—rain runoff. Already the flow was reaching wall to wall. He was ankle deep in water by the time he came to Griffith Park and had to keep looking behind him to dodge large junks of debris. He felt the river rising. Be up to my waist soon, he guessed. Find something to hang onto when the surge gets rough. Watching upstream, he spotted pieces of white material sailing toward him. Styrofoam! He snagged one after another until he had enough to support him. Pulling out the rope that cinched his pants he lashed the pieces together. Now, when the water reaches my waist, I'll be ready.

He did not have to wait long. A flash flood was rushing downriver, a wall of water two feet high. JD heard a soft roar far behind him, a rushing noise that rapidly grew louder. Then he saw a front of roiling water extending from wall to wall in the river casement, bearing down on him faster than he could run. Moving to one of the sides, he faced downstream, gripped the crude flotation device close to his chest, and braced himself for the impact.

When the wave hit him, it knocked him forward, off his feet. Submerged he flipped over, spun sideways, and fought for air as he lay under but held onto his crude float. When the head of the wave passed and the water calmed, he stuck his head out of the muddy liquid, mouth gaping, lungs screaming for air. Once he caught his breath, he faced downstream and kicked to gain some control but discovered he was at the mercy of the powerful element. At least I'm afloat, he thought. Ain't goin' under that easy. Now—to watch out for junk. River still risin' and movin' faster. God! What a trip! Won't catch me now. Even if I drown, I go down free. "Hal-le-lu-yah!" he screamed, his voice a lost solo in the raging water.

He sailed past the park, along Interstate 5, under the Glendale Freeway, past Elysian Park, past the confluence of the Arroyo Seco tributary, through the Union Station trainyards, beyond downtown Los Angeles. As he sailed along the fugitive did not spot the man who made a 911 call nor did he later see the two detectives watching him from the Los Feliz overpass. JD Ketch was oblivious of the civilized world around him. In the darkening sky, his eyes were aware of the concrete wall of the river, the fences, highways, bridges, and buildings but he focused only on the light catching fire before fading in the west, and his mind only on his destination far south where the river empties into the great sea.

Along the way JD forgot his fear and pain, and ran his life like an old movie through his mind. Sheets of rain opened before him as a curtain and he envisioned his childhood home on a farm in Iowa. He pictured his mother toiling in the old two-story house and his father breaking his back in the fields, both usually too busy and tired to give him much time and attention. He tried to picture his older brother and younger sister but could not conjure their images. JD saw himself as a boy hunting muskrats along the creek, setting stones on the railroad tracks and watching the trains pulverize them, climbing into the hayloft of the barn and surveying the fields in all seasons. He saddened to remember no friends and few playmates. A childhood to this to this day he did not understand. He remembered his transformation as an athlete. Meeting the woman he believed was the love of his life. Marriage. JD visualized his wife in her wedding dress, a portrait in joyful hope. He remembered making love to her the first time, impregnating her, watching her belly swell with their only child. But, no matter how hard he tried, he could not remember her face. He remembered his son and saw his sweet smiling countenance in the place where the sun would be shining behind the stormclouds. And that vision buoyed his tattered spirit. He had lived for his son. He had stayed alive through war to see him again, to hold him in his arms. Now JD knew he would never see him again. "Justin!" he shouted across the tumbling stream, into the driving rain. "Justin, my boy! Remember me?!" Justin!" he screamed. The tumultuous water caught and carried his cry, echoing around him on his long last journey.

Tears formed in JD's eyes and ran into the rain pouring down his hollow cheeks. The waning metallic light of the rainswept sky shone strangely on his face; he appeared insubstantial, ephemeral: an apparition, an illusion bobbing in the pale brown surge like some ancient sprite freed by the gods from the bowels of Earth. Free. Having endured eons of confinement since the desecration of a grand myth he was finally free. Free to sail from the beginning to the end to the beginning. Free to be nothing but elements in the grand display of the infinite. JD's sorrow transformed to joy become ecstasy.

The storm raged. The rain, wind, and lightning persisted, but for JD Ketch the torturous misery of suffering days between haunted nights was going to end forever. No one, nothing could stop him now. Limited by land, bound by water, he was taking wing.

"Rain and river!" he shouted into the stormy din. "Rain and river and sky! Wash away my sorrow and my sins. O Jordan! Cleanse my wretched soul! Wipe away all but the light. I commend myself to your eternal power. Take me in your wild hands and carry me onward to the everlasting sea."

***

Detective McQuade was slowly gaining on the fugitive. Unable to take a direct line next to the river, he had to veer off onto Interstate 5, away from the direction of the flow until he connected with Interstate 710. That freeway lay in nearly a straight line to San Pedro Harbor and the mouth of the river. The light flashing and the car weaving through traffic, they passed through the town of Commerce and again picked up the river at Maywood. They cut through Bell Gardens, South Gate, Lynwood, and flew past Compton ahead of Ketch. "Look for a place near the river," McQuade said to Novato. "Got to try to cut him off."

Below the Highway 91 interchange, Novato saw a greenbelt on the opposite shore. McQuade left the 710 at Long Beach Boulevard and angled through residential streets to DeForest Avenue Park. Grabbing the binoculars, he leaped out of the car and ran to a fence along the river where he could see upstream. Novato quickly joined him, and there the two men waited for their man to appear. The freeway structure crossing the river obstructed McQuade's view, so he could not see very far. When they saw no sign of the man, Novato said, "Maybe he got past us."

"No." McQuade would not have it. "We made good time. He'd have to be on a jetski to pull ahead of us. Here—you look."

Novato took the glass and scanned the river northward. In a moment he said, "There. That could be him! Look!" He handed the glass to his partner who was already climbing the fence. "Hey! What in hell you doing—?"

"Goin' after him," McQuade bounded down the forty-five degree bank. "Keep yer eye on him, Steve. If he spots me he might try to get out of the river."

"Mark!" Novato shouted, but McQuade either did not hear or did not listen, but stepped close to the swirling water sucking at the concrete slopes. "There he is!" Novato hollered. "Look! About a fifty—sixty yards above you."

McQuade glanced at the torrent briefly then started to wade into it. Novato shouted, "Mark! Don't! It's too dangerous!" He ran along the fence looking back and forth between the man in the water and his partner. Novato screamed, "You're too late, Mark! He's going past. You missed him. Get the hell away from there, man!" McQuade did not hear for all his cursing of the man and the water taking him away.

The big cop stumbled up the concrete slope, his face dripping rain and sweat. When Novato grasped his arm, McQuade looked him in the eye with a look something like gratitude. His partner was watching out for him. Novato sighed then barked at him, "That would've been a damn fool thing to do! You know that."

"Yeah, you're right. Seemed like a good idea at the time though." They both gazed downstream to catch sight of the JD Ketch, but he was already out of view.

"Well—" Novato asked, "What now?"

"We go after him." McQuade climbed back over the fence.

"You aren't going to try a stunt like that again, I hope," Novato said.

McQuade did not look at him nor respond in any way except to say, "Let's get movin'."

Back in the car and racing south again on the 710, the young detective did not speak nor glance at his partner. Instead he called headquarters: "Headed south on Interstate 710. In pursuit of JD Ketch. In the river. Yes, the fugitive is in the Los Angeles River. Headed for San Pedro harbor." When Novato did look at his partner, McQuade nodded but kept his eyes split between dodging cars and his view of the tumbling water. Novato cut his call and snapped at his partner, "Would you stay focused on this god damned race track, Mark? I'll watch the river."

They crossed into Long Beach but saw no sign of their man. "Son of a bitch's gonna make the ocean." McQuade growled.

"Looks like it."

***

In the river JD Ketch was sailing south and somehow staying afloat. Dunked repeatedly, bobbing crazily, but keeping his head up enough to breathe, he was battered by branches, boxes, tires, and all kinds of junk but still alive. The sky had become a deep gray dome. Thunder boomed overhead in a grand drumroll. When JD could see the sky, he saw streaks of electricity flash from deep inside the dark clouds. Jagged links of power between heaven and Earth. One bolt hit close to the river near his position. Before its noise cracked and rolled across the great southern California basin, he shouted back at the violent sky as if addressing a god. "You ain't gonna stop me!" he stammered. "I'm gonna make it all the way home." When thunder exploded again across the sky, it sounded to him like a phenomenal fanfare celebrating his flight. For the first time in his life, JD Ketch began to believe that some infinite and omnipotent power was guiding his life.

He did not hear the racket of rotors or notice helicopters sweeping over the river, or heed the sirens, or see the scores of police cars as they swung onto the 710 freeway in a long column south to Long Beach. JD Ketch saw an endless expanse of turbulent water, a liquid rippled and rolled by waves that would carry him to the everlasting ocean, and he saw the bright face of the golden star flashing through clouds piled on the horizon.

***

McQuade and Novato saw the copters and the cars, though, and the younger detective was reassured. But the older one could not conceal disappointment. Unknown even to him for some reason he wanted to be the one to catch the Executioner. Not for the glory. He never thought of himself as super cop. That for the movies. No. He wanted to capture the killer for other reasons: maybe to make sure he was in custody, maybe to do it by the book to keep from losing him in court, maybe to guarantee the man a clean arrest, protect him from the overzealous cops, keep him in one piece. But for what? McQuade knew in his heart that JD Ketch would probably not let anyone take him alive. The cop breathed deeply slowly. Maybe the best way. Maybe for the best all around.

Detective Novato noticed his partner's mood and guessed what was on his mind. "The chopper guys'll spot him and follow him into the bay. And the Coast Guard will pick him up there. Even if he goes under for the count, his body will wash up on shore. One way or another, partner, they're going to take him off our hands. No rush now."

McQuade listened to all of this yet kept the rapid pace. "Mebbe so," he said quietly, "but this I gotta see. We've had such a helluva time nailin' this guy, I'm gonna have to witness him in irons or a body bag before I'll believe he's done."

Despite what McQuade was saying, Novato knew his partner wanted to collar the serial killer. Except for the distraction of the Tony Wright kidnapping, McQuade had been preoccupied, obsessed with this case, almost maddened by it. It seemed to have become his personal mission in life. Law and order and all that noble stuff aside, Novato knew Detective Sergeant Mark McQuade enjoyed this dangerous game. He thrived on the investigations, the search, the chase, the capture. With this in mind, Novato also knew McQuade would never slow down and simply join forces to catch the killer. The relentless race down the 710 convinced him of that.

As they sped southward, the cloud-blocked sun was nearly gone from the sky, so drapes of darkness were shadowing land and sea. The car passed below the Pacific Coast Highway, Anaheim Street, and Ocean Boulevard, and then shot under the Queensway Bridge. At the end of the freeway, they saw a swarm of copters hovering over Queensway Bay, sweeping the water. Gushing into the mouth of the bay the tumultuous river spread and slowed as it streamed into the ocean, but the scalloped surface and dimming light hid the fugitive. McQuade's car skidded to a stop at the end of Queens Highway North. He jumped out, and ran past the immobilized Queen Mary to the end of the pier. He tried his binoculars but could see nothing. Handing the glass to Novato, he strained to see the murky water in the fading light. Nothing. And the helicopter rotors fanned the water, confusing his vision. McQuade thought he saw the JD once but could not hold on him. Again. No. The man adrift appeared in six places at once.

McQuade ran back to the car, Novato close behind; they spun the vehicle around and cut back onto Harbor Scenic Drive, across Pier J to a gate, then stopped next to a guide light right off the jetty. Running at an acute angle to the edge of the pier McQuade stopped and looked over the blackening water. Nothing. Steve ran to his side. "He's gone under, Mark." He pointed at the copters and the boats. "If not—those guys will get him."

McQuade would not listen, would not believe it. He kept looking, straining to see a shape, a shadow, something human in the water. Giant storm swells were crashing over the breakwater and spilling through Queens Gate, but the floodwater was penetrating the opening, flushing the rain and silt and pollution and junk of the massive city into the Pacific Ocean—a degenerate ejaculation into an unfathomable womb. As the rain lashed his face, McQuade shielded his eyes and peered at the boiling black water. Nothing. "Damn!" he whispered. Then he saw him. Only a speck at first. A glimmer of white in the broad blackness. But he saw him. JD Ketch. "There he is!" he screamed and leaped into the bay.

"Mark!" Novato shouted and reached to grab his arm but he was too slow. The big man dropped like a piling as he fell through the darkness until he plunged into the wild water with a brief explosion. Clawing to the surface, he sucked in air and started swimming. About fifty yards beyond JD was clinging to his plastic pontoon and kicking his way west as if he knew where he was going. Ahead of him like a gateway to the open sea stood the twin Long Beach Harbor Light Stations. McQuade could not hear nor see his man but knew he had to get past the breakwater to find open ocean so he swam toward the double lights. JD was weary, cold, and weak, but the floats still supported him, so he could make steady headway. His pursuer, despite his energy, was at the mercy of the whitecapped waves and whipping currents. Yet he was gaining on Ketch. For a while the cop he did not realize it and felt a twinge of panic. But he was closing the gap. The chase electrified McQuade. The hunter. He was running on instinct, adrenaline, and pure passion to catch his prey.

Just inside the light stations, the cop pulled close to the fugitive and saw him for the first time. McQuade shouted, "Stop!" But JD kept going. Pouring on an afterburner of desperation McQuade tore through the raging water. When he pulled between the double beacons, he reached forward, his hand open and grasping frantically through the water. Nothing solid. Then on his face he felt churning water. Swimming with all his strength and stretching his hand forward again, he touched then grabbed a kicking thing. A shoe. Swinging his other arm forward he grasped an ankle. With both hands on the leg, McQuade went under but held tightly. JD kicked and pounded at the cops hands with the other foot, but McQuade did not let go. As tenacious as a shark he held on to JD, slowing him down, stopping him. Scrambling up JD's legs, McQuade gasped for air above the heaving chop and locked his grip onto JD's coat. As soon as the big cop pulled close to the man, the raft sank.

JD turned his head and screamed, "Leggo! You fool! Yer gonna kill yerself!"

"If I go down," McQuade hollered back, "you—go down too! Give it up, Ketch! It's over!"

Exhausted, Ketch kept struggling to swim into the open sea, but McQuade kept straining to hold him back, even turn him around. JD would not let it happen. "I don't want to—kill you, mister!" he screamed. "Leggo!"

Both men repeatedly sank beneath the waves and fought their way to the surface. McQuade held on, gagging on gobs of water. "You're—killin' nobody—but yourself, man. Give it up—I tell ya! Give it up! You got nowhere to go!"

JD suddenly became calm and looked straight into McQuade's eyes bright in the light of the beacons. "Just lemme loose. I'm finished." Water was spilling from his eyes, nose, and mouth. "Lemme go home."

McQuade looked hard at JD's streaming face, his flashing eyes, and thought the man might have been crying. But he could not be certain for all the pelting rain and spraying sea. "I can't—let you go," he yelled, spitting salt water. "You know that."

The two men struggled to keep their heads above the frenzied surface, McQuade holding on to his captive, JD no longer resisting. Sea and sky dark now, the beacons shone around them and danced off the water in an animated mosaic of light. "You can let me go," JD shouted. "My time has come."

At that point a helicopter found them with its drenching spot light. Distracted, McQuade relaxed his grip. JD looked into the blinding light, his face apparently smiling with resignation, then after a paralyzed moment he let go of the float and slipped out of sight.

McQuade reached for him but missed. He dove for him but found only cold blackness. The searchlight stayed on the cop as he, clinging to the small raft, yanked his head around to see if Ketch had come up for air. After nearly a minute, he saw something break the surface on the slope of a swell then disappear over the top. McQuade swam over the swell. The light followed him. He saw the object again and thought it might have been Ketch's head. He started to swim for him, could have reached him, even though he was spent and swimming slowly; but he stopped stroking, treaded water, and only watched the object, perhaps the wet grizzled head of the fugitive fade into the darkness. The water around McQuade churned and spread into a splattering circle, as a rope splashed beside him, and a voice through a speaker called from the copter. "Grab the line?"

The detective took one more look across the black water to the west then looked up into the light and grabbed the line. When he had looped it around himself and waved one hand, someone above him raised his soaked and dripping body slowly out of the water. Hanging just above the surface, McQuade again looked in the direction that JD had plowed through the tempestuous sea. He could see nothing but the glow of countless whitecaps fading into eternity, nothing at all distinct, as if a monumental wall had risen between him and the mysterious world to where JD Ketch had gone. As McQuade rode the lifeline to the safety of the hovering craft, he uttered one quiet question to himself: "Now, who's gonna protect the children?"

Chapter 43

Mark McQuade was leaning back in his chair in the division office and paying no attention to the conversation buzzing around him. He was loath to get involved with any talking and signifying about The Executioner case: his identity, his actions, his disappearance. McQuade's colleagues had all asked him about it, but he had closed his book on the subject. Dalsworthy, Binder, and Firth stood around his desk, though, begging him for his side of the chase, especially how he had managed to miss capturing the killer.

"So, McQuade," big Dalsworthy bellowed with a tone of mock interest, "after driving practically the length of LA, chasing the guy downriver and diving into the San Pedro Bay—tell us, how in hell you managed to miss the collar." McQuade shrugged.

Novato tried to fend off his colleagues' attacks disguised as honest professional questions. "That guy was slippery as a snake," the young detective said. Mark's the only one who even got close to him." Novato knew as soon as the last word left his mouth that he had not helped his partner.

"Close but no prize, huh, Mac?" Firth glanced around, hoping for a wink and a nod from his fellow taunters.

Only Ronnie Binder said nothing, content to observe this male ceremony with a smirk on her face. She relaxed it, though, when Captain Mansford came out of an elevator, walked the division office. "Well, Mark," he said with little enthusiasm. "Your report on the Executioner case is working its way upstairs. I can't say they're gonna hang any medallions around your neck with a pretty ribbon but at least they seem satisfied with your actions. I do anyway." McQuade looked at him with hard edges around his eyes but said nothing by way of appreciation for his leader's rather equivocal show of confidence.

"Point is—" Mansford continued, sidling into the gathering. "Are we going to see anymore of this guy's deadly handiwork in LA—or has he left the land—or sea—of the living? Crews are combing the coast north and south of the river mouth but haven't found as much as an old shoe that might belong to John David Ketch. They did find some of that Styrofoam trash you said he was using to keep his head above water—but nothing that looks anything like a makeshift raft."

McQuade considered the stormy sea had probably broken apart its pieces but said nothing about that either. He had other things to ponder. Other persons. Especially a woman. Shelley. In the back of his mind hung a desire to visit Donna Wright but he could easily talk himself out of that in favor of his wife. He had been thinking of calling her all day, a long day made even longer and more tedious by the extensive report he had recently completed on the closed serial killer case. He was watching the clock for quitting time in more ways than one. "What can I say, captain? All I know is the guy disappeared into the Pacific Ocean. As far as I'm concerned he's dead and gone."

"Yeah. We'll leave it at that for now," Mansford said. "And if we don't hear about any more pedophile killings we'll assume you're right." He nodded rather curtly at his detectives, who slowly dispersed to their respective places and individual tasks; then he left the main room and enclosed himself in his office. McQuade stared at him a moment then breathed relief.

Novato kept looking at McQuade. He had developed a different attitude toward his partner. He had established a kinship with the man and wanted to keep a line open between them; for him they had drawn closer through the ordeal. McQuade noticed the young man's attention but ignored it and picked up the phone. He punched his wife's number and waited through several rings.

Although annoyed at getting a machine he tried to inflect some warmth into his message. "Hi, Shell. Sorry I haven't been in touch. You prob'ly seen the news about the serial killer. Helluva trip." He paused a second to think and to inhale. "Like to drop by later—if you're not busy." He ran the tape of his last statement through his mind. "Call ya before I leave for the day. Okay? Talk to you...."

"Mark—" Shelley broke in breathlessly. "I was out with Pardner. I heard your voice—as I was coming through the door."

"How ya doin?" he asked nervously.

"Fine. But you must be exhausted."

"Kinda."

Silence amplified between them.

"So—would you like to come over for dinner?"

Mark's chest ballooned. "Yeah. That'd be great. I sure do miss yer cookin'."

She let go of a girlish giggle. "I'll fix one of your favorites—thick and bloody."

He grunted an acknowledgment then said, "Actually I haven't thought much about eating lately."

"Something light then. Anyway, I'll be glad to see you."

"Fine. 'Bout seven. I should go home first—shower, change clothes."

"You can shower here. I have some of your clothes. I guess I packed them by mistake when I left. Sorry I haven't told you about them till now. So you can put those on if you want." She was not attempting to hide her eagerness.

Mark was a little unnerved by it. "Well—"

"You do what you want, Mark. Either way. Just know you're welcome."

He smiled but made no sound for a second then said, "I'll be there soon as I can."

"Good. I have news for you." He heard a complicated sentiment in her voice, and it nearly made him question her, but his mind was still racing from the chase so he simply signed off quietly. His uneasy reaction at the news preoccupied him.

It bothered him as he descended in the elevator. It bothered him as he drove to his house. It bothered him as he showered and dressed. It bothered him as he drove to her place. All because, he guessed, she was going to tell him that she was pregnant. The word stuck in his mind like an obsessive song lyric. That's why she's so glad for me to come over, he thought, and all that stuff about the shower and the clothes. God. What am I gonna do, if she is? And I know she is. Just my luck. What can I say to her? She'll be damned pissed when I don't jump up and down with joy. Be hurt as hell.

Mark's dilemma was beating up his brain. He wanted his wife back more than anything else he could have wanted in the world but he was still wary of having children. He knew she would think he had misled her to get her panties off, to get back together with her. He also knew he had meant no such motive, at least not consciously, but that would make no difference to her. If she was pregnant, and he showed the slightest sign of regret, she would probably kick him out for good. And he would not blame her if she did just that. The man was a wreck of indecision. And quickly losing self-respect. Could not make up his mind about having a family. Felt he had used Donna Gannet. Had failed to capture The Executioner, might even have let the guy go after chasing him like a madman across the city of Los Angeles. Mark McQuade was feeling like a fool and a failure. Two descriptions that did not set well with this kind of man.

But when he saw Shelley in her doorway, and took Pardner's sloppy greeting full in the face, his troubles drained away and he had a good strong sensation of being home. "Hi, Shell. Hey, Pardner!"

"Welcome," she said and fastened her smiling mouth on his and left it open for him.

"Wow! Dessert before dinner. Feel like a kid on his birthday."

She pulled her head back to look into his eyes as if to see something in them that showed he knew what was on her mind. Wrapping his thick arm in hers, she led him into the house, colorful with lights of the holiday season. He looked at them with some surprise, having paid no attention to the advent of Christmas—still several weeks away. She said, "Speaking of birth—"

Uh-oh! Here it comes, he thought.

"Before we start the evening, I want to ease your mind about something I know you've been fretting over." She paused for a disturbingly long time. "You can relax—" Her smile was maddening. "I'm not pregnant."

He froze. Then he wanted to shout for joy but at the same time thought to show her some sensitivity so he tried gamely to conceal his relief. It did not work. His face was beaming like one of the lights on the tree. "Oh—" was all he could think to utter, laden with no little sadness.

"I know you're relieved, so don't pretend to be disappointed." She let go of his arm and sat on the sofa, patting a place close to her for him to sit. He obliged happily. Pardner jumped up and curled beside him, laying his chin on his thigh. "I must say that I am, though. Disappointed. I was kind of hoping—" She breathed deeply. "Well, I promised myself I wouldn't get maudlin about it, so—"

He saw her eyes go liquid. Instinctively he put his arms around her and held her close. As soon as her head was against his chest, she started weeping softly. "I don't know why I'm so upset. It's not like I had a miscarriage—or an abortion. But I...."

It struck Mark McQuade that his wife having an abortion might have been just another way of destroying kids. He shook off the thought and muttered soothing sounds to interrupt her as much as to cover his continuing loss for words. He was as distressed as a dog lost in a strange neighborhood. And he did not like the insincerity that stirred in him while consoling his wife in her deep disappointment. Despite his discomfort, he forced words he thought she wanted to hear: "You'll have another chance, Shell." He doubted it.

She tensed, looked straight into his eyes to know his exact meaning, for those were not the words she had wanted to hear. All wrong. We. We'll have another chance. She ran the line through her mind. We'll have another chance. Why didn't you say that, Mark? She thought the words for him but did not speak them. Instead she let the subject go, stopped crying, and left her head on his chest. The position reassured her regardless of his waffling about having children. Yet she knew. Shelley knew her husband had again changed his mind. She did not press him on it but she knew, and the plain fact deflated her enthusiasm, but she did not let his attitude embitter the evening.

She cooked him the promised steak dinner, which he ate with a gusto that surprised him. Shelley enjoyed his appetite for food if not for family. She let him talk about himself, asked him about the case. She said the right things to make him feel better about his actions. He helped her clear and clean the dishes, help he had rarely offered when they had lived together. He made her laugh lightly. She aroused him with her body. Her scent. Her effervescent laughter. Her occasional and surprising deep kisses. Mark knew Shelley was his mate even if he did not want to make babies with her. But he also did not want to lose her to another man. He wanted her to be his best friend and his lover, his woman: monogamous, perpetual, and solid—but not a mother. These desires saddened him, for he knew as well as she did that their marriage would not endure without children.

As they sat in the living room with colored lights warming the space around them, they sipped sherry, a drink for which she had taught him to acquire a taste. They reminisced about their young love and their youthful escapades; but they never once mentioned a future. Nor did they make love. Lying on the sofa, she on top of him, enclosed in his arms they listened to Chopin and the rain pattering on the roof. They thought about a lot of things, especially whether they would ever again live together but neither dwelled upon it nor spoke of it. Too sobering. Gradually, unaware, they drifted into that tender mood that hangs around the exquisite fringe of sleep. Mark's hand slid off Shelley's shoulder and touched Pardner on the floor beneath them. The woman listened to the man's heart pulsing in rhythm to her own. He listened to her breathing and to the soft sound on the roof.

High in the San Gabriel Mountains the rain had turned to snow, which had blanketed the peaks and upper slopes. As the evening darkened into the full density of night, all precipitation slowly abated. The flooding streets subsided; the river reached its highest level as it rushed its brawling burden to the great ocean. Shortly after midnight the sky cleared, the stars glittered surprisingly bright in the southern California nocturnal sky despite the broad glow of the city. But no moon appeared. Before allowing himself to fall asleep, Mark stretched and sat up to leave. She let him go.

"Good night, Mark," she said at the front door with an affectionate but sad tone to her voice.

"Good night," he echoed as he walked slowly to the street, something following him in the darkness.

Mark McQuade drove back to his place but was not alone this time. Pardner was with him. The dog sat in the front seat and watched the road ahead as though anticipating the sight of the home in which he had grown from a puppy and lived for three years.

When they entered, Mark kicked off his shoes and dropped in front of the TV. Pardner sat at his feet and laid his chin on the seat cushion beside him. At home. Mark idly stroked the dog's mane as he watched the late news.

A picture of JD Ketch. A talking head: "Still missing but presumed dead." The official police story. Mark grunted. Even though he believed the killer was dead, he wondered what exactly had become of him, his body. Prob'ly fish food, he thought. Or worm food. A small chunk of crooked laughter fell out of his mouth. All of us.

Mark thought about his life, his future, and knew something was going to be very different: he no longer wanted to be a cop. Time for a change. A new angle anyway. Another way to look at things. He chuckled at the strange idea and looked at Pardner. He met his gaze, the dog's round black eyes staring at man perceptively, seeming ready for anything.

"Whaddya think, Pard?" Mark laughed slightly, and the dog's ears perked. Mark tousled his mane.

Switching off the TV before the report was over Mark walked into the bathroom, took a leak, splashed water on his face, undressed, then crawled into bed. Pardner jumped onto it, circled a few times, and then curled up at the end. Mark stroked the dog's back with his foot, until sleep overcame both of them, and they lost track of time and place.

A siren cried in the distance. Pardner's ears lifted but he did not raise his head nor open his eyes. Mark did not hear the distant wail. He heard nothing, saw nothing for the next few hours.

In the minutes before dawn, his mind dramatized a surreal plot straight out of his life with characters familiar but resembling none, he could recognize. At a climax between life and death in the nocturnal tale, he awoke startled, eyes round, chest throbbing, lungs gasping for air. Bolting upright, he pressed his chest and felt his heartbeat. For an instant he was frightened. Gradually his pulse slowed and he breathed smoothly. He wondered if he had come close to death. Is that how we go in our sleep? Terrifying! He remembered a terrible dream but could hold onto only chaotic snatches of it like ragged and ephemeral fragments from a fantastic tapestry.

Pardner lifted his head, mouth awry, eyelids half-closed, and looked at the man in the darkness. Mark patted Pardner's warm body, and the dog slowly lay his head down. Mark too lay back but did not immediately fall asleep. He let his eyes drift through the window into the clear night sky. For several minutes he ran segments of his life around in his mind without any rational order. When the streams of disconnected memory started repeating themselves, he grew intensely weary. For a few more moments his mind presented nothing that made any sense. In another tick of the clock, he was oblivious, gliding into an unknown place where he would neither sense, think, nor imagine anything more about life and death until morning.

###

Surviving early life in Los Angeles, Jack Forge has been creating art since childhood. After college, he taught English for many years. His poems, stories, graphic art, and novels have been published on the internet; one novel as a paperback. Despite the storm and stress of the world, Jack lives for art, nature, and love.

Cover by Jack Forge.

Sample Jack's other writing and connect with him at  Smashwords.

