

# PSYCHOTWIST

## Lust, Sex, Depravity

### Published by Doug Walker at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Doug Walker

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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CHAPTER ONE

A dark, gray mood had descended on Kirby Lotto. Many things had gone awry during the last few weeks. Missed connections, poor assignments, maybe a low-grade infection somewhere in her body that faded her outlook on life. And now this. Her news director had asked her to fly to a medical convention in St. Louis and interview a Swiss doctor who was said to have discovered a cure for the common cold. As her plane was landing at the airport, his was taking off.

She had spent a restless night in a St. Louis motel overlooking the Mississippi River, then just about dawn had fallen into a zombie-like sleep which made her late for her return flight to New York. She had no time for a shower, or even a quick brushing of teeth. She pulled on khaki slacks, a turtleneck and windbreaker, jammed her feet into jogging shoes and stepped into a cab for the airport.

Lotto rushed through security and made it to the gate just as the last passenger was boarding. She pushed her boarding pass into the ticket agent's hand and forced a smile. "I made it."

He glanced at it, began to tear off the stub, then did a double take. "Sorry, Miss. This isn't your flight. You're on 1155. It departs in two hours. Of course you have plenty of time."

Her face dropped. Could her hard luck be permanent? "Doesn't this flight go to New York?"

"Why, yes it does."

"Aren't there seats on board?" she asked impatiently.

"There are a few. This early flight is rarely filled," the agent replied, mildly amused by her low boiling point.

"I've got a ticket. Let me on board."

"You're not properly ticketed."

"I don't give a damn! I want on that airplane!" She pointed angrily toward the boarding gate.

"It's against airline policy. There's no time to change your ticket."

"Please." She switched her manner to pleading. "I've got to get to New York. I don't have time to spend two more hours in St. Louis. It seems like I've been here a year as it is."

The agent hesitated, well aware that he shouldn't break ironclad policy, but finally could see no compelling reason to keep her off the airplane. And there was just enough time for her to scramble on board. He ripped off her boarding pass stub, handed it to her and said, "Go ahead, Ms. Lotto. Have a good flight." Kirby rushed on board and found an empty seat about midway in the huge passenger plane.

As the plane taxied to the runway, the ticket agent realized that Kirby Lotto had left her carry-on bag by his station. He shrugged with an air of disgust and decided to put it on the next flight, the one she was ticketed for. Why did he let her board Flight 777 anyway? If she complained about her luggage, and if it was learned he bent the rules, well, maybe she wouldn't cause a fuss.

Kirby settled into her seat and hoped the flight attendants would bring coffee pronto. She nodded and smiled to her seatmate, an older, matronly woman wearing too much fire engine red lipstick, in the window seat, an empty seat between them. The woman wore an electric blue suit of a plastic derivative, bright red and white plastic earrings and a three-strand necklace to match. A whiff of heavy perfume drifted across the empty seat. Across the aisle was a man, judging by his lower body. He had draped a flight blanket over his head and appeared to be already asleep, strapped upright in his narrow seat.

Kirby contemplated the joys of flying coach class and regretted that she had not had time to buy a morning paper. She fiddled with the in-flight magazine. She skimmed a Japanese folk tale about a man named Nagao who was to wed a woman named O-Tei. It seemed that O-Tei had taken ill, but told Nagao she would return from the dead, be reborn, and marry him. As it happened, Nagao eventually married after O-tei's death, but suffered a series of misfortunes including the death of his wife. Years passed and he met a young serving girl who was O-Tei's double.

When she heard the food trolley in the aisle just behind her seat, Kirby put the magazine back in the seat pocket. She had coffee and a croissant, debated with herself whether to butter the croissant and decided in the negative, then tried to catnap.

She awoke to odd sounds and a tingle of excitement in the air. Something was wrong. She had logged enough air hours to know the usual noises, landing gear going down, or up, flaps down, the change of pitch when they reached altitude, the myriad of routine adjustments that kept the huge metal box with its complex human cargo aloft and on the right course. Something was surely wrong.

There seemed to be an increasing vibration that rattled through the aircraft, like the beginning of an earthquake. As seconds passed it became more intense. Someone in the back of the plane shouted and someone else told them to hush. Kirby glanced at her seatmate and the woman tried to smile. Very likely she was not a frequent flyer and thought this vibration, now becoming bone jarring, was routine. Kirby smiled back.

A flight attendant hurried down the aisle. Her cheerless face seemed pale. Where was the confidence? Where was the welcome aboard comradeship? The huge metal tube they all shared was miles in the air, hurtling through space, and there was no place to run, no place to hide. Now they were clearly losing altitude. More than two hundred mice in a gigantic cage somewhere between St. Louis and New York City, rats in a trap that might be slammed to earth. Kirby was certain this was big time trouble.

Why in the hell had she insisted in getting aboard this flight? Why couldn't she have overslept just a little bit longer? And, why, anyway, had her boss sent her to St. Louis on such a wild goose chase. It seemed like everything had gone wrong during the past six weeks. Kirby was beginning to lose confidence in herself and she suspected her boss's confidence was wavering. He often said: Any reporter can go sour.

She was damned mad. The plane was being shaken to pieces. Someone, not far behind her was praying. Others talked in hushed tones. The flight attendants had gone beyond their initial panic and were now patrolling the aisles attempting to calm the passengers. They were doing their job.

And that's what infuriated Kirby. She was a newswoman. And if she was to die, she should be doing her job. She shouldn't die on a nondescript, routine flight between St. Louis and New York, sitting next to a midwestern matron who wore too much makeup and had doused herself in perfume. She should die gloriously in a firefight in the Mideast, during a volcanic eruption in Bali. Maybe an earthquake in Peru or Greece. Trapped in a submarine being attacked by giant squids! Her mind scrambled to compute what was going on. To die strapped in a narrow coach class seat after a breakfast of coffee and stale croissant and no butter.

The very least would be a first-class seat after a glass of cognac, maybe shared with the current quarterback of the Miami Dolphins. There was such a thing as style.

Her indignation kept her mind off the escalating deterioration of the aircraft. A male voice that identified itself as belonging to the first officer came over the public address system.

"It appears we may have to land in an, uh, unfamiliar place. A cornfield, or on a highway. We are not far from New York, but there is some malfunction, something." He hesitated awkwardly. "Severe engine problems. But please, no panic. The flight attendants will assist you. We have a plan and we will execute that plan. But I urge everyone to remain calm and follow instructions." His voice was deadly serious. "Buckle your seat belts securely. Remove your glasses. Place your pillows, blankets, other soft items in your lap, lean forward protecting your head with your arms."

Of course there was panic above the noisy vibrations of the descending aircraft, a definite earthward tilt. At least two women screamed hysterically. A man bolted down the aisle as if there was some place to go. Kirby looked at her companion and tried a smile. The woman smiled back, her eyes as calm as a contented cat, her face at peace. She had a rosary in her hands. Kirby nodded in approval and snugged up her belt. She caught a glimpse out the window, a patchwork of farm fields, wood lots, a distant highway, a pond, there a barn. Now the plane, roaring and vibrating crazily, clipped the top of the first tree, beginning a jarring _danse macabre_.

Kirby could taste fear as she laced her fingers together on top of her head and leaned forward, a wave of terror nearly sickened her, but she drew strength from her seatmate, the woman by the window. How calm and courageous she was during these hellacious seconds as the plane rattled and wrenched itself between sky and earth.

Then the noise and the quaking and the bone-crunching jolts took over. The plane slammed down, then slammed again and again, until a final destructive crash that blotted the memory and triggered a short-lived blackout.

CHAPTER TWO

When Kirby roused and stirred, dust was rising from every crack and crevice. There was the smell of smoke, and the great plane had broken open like an eggshell.

Kirby found herself in one piece, looking over the edge of the break toward the dull ground just six or seven feet below. She glanced at the woman by the window. She looked almost alive, but a copper tube from the torn bulkhead had pierced the center of her forehead. She must have died instantly; the rosary remained in her still hands.

There were cries from throughout the plane. Agony, some badly injured. Two flight attendants further aft struggled to open an emergency door. Pleas for help from passengers wedged in their seats. A baby squalled.

A primal scream from the first-class section up ahead. "My hand is gone. For the love of Christ someone help me. I'm bleeding to death. My legs. My legs. I'm trapped like a dog. Anyone, please help." Then the voice faded among the chorus of pain and torment.

Kirby could only imagine the woman had bled out. Bleeding out, that's what it was called. She had covered wars and disasters in her career. Wounded, shot, torn with jagged edges of glass or metal, no help. Bleeding out. How many on this plane had bled out, or were in the process.

Across the aircraft a man struggled to free his wife, talking, encouraging, words of endearment, all the while. "Darling, you'll be Okay. I'll have you out of here in a minute. Please talk to me, please. Darling. If I can just get this damned belt off you. Please, darling. Talk to me. We'll both be fine. You'll see."

The horrifying stink of burning plastic was beginning to fill the large cabin. It stung the eyes and burned the nostrils.

Kirby unbuckled, half crouched forward and jumped. She met soft earth and was thankful for her jogging shoes. A man thudded down beside her on the ground. He glanced around furtively as if about to dart into the nearby woods.

"We've got to help them," Kirby gasped.

He gave her a puzzled look, then shot back. "The plane's burning. I'm out of here." Without another word he dashed into the woods.

Kirby looked after him in dismay and anger. "You son of a bitch," she shouted. "You gutless son of a bitch."

"Please, lady," came a near hysterical scream from the plane, "save my baby!"

Kirby looked up into the dark maw of the aircraft. She could see little but dust and now dark smoke was beginning to swirl through the interior. "I can't climb back up there," she said helplessly. "I can't even see you." The plane was lodged above her among the severed trunks and limbs of trees.

"I can see you," the voice shouted back. "I can throw you the baby."

Kirby craned her head to see into the turmoil of the broken plane. The screams and cries of the other passengers continued, but no one else dropped down through the shattered fuselage. "I can't see you!" Kirby shouted. But she could hear the crackling of flames, smell burning plastic and oil.

"Cradle your arms," the voice commanded. "I'll drop the baby into your arms!"

"OK," Kirby responded. The baby fell from the plane almost instantly, squirming and crying. She barely got a grip on it. Bright flames and the crackling of the fire became more intense.

"The plane's burning," the trapped mother screamed from the plane. "Get my baby out of here. Run! Run!"

Kirby Lotto hesitated a second, felt the soft baby move in her arms, saw the infant's face contorted into heavy sobs. Then she ran, ran as fast as she could, her heart pounding, bounding into a large area of boulders that had split off from a cliff face, found a safe haven behind a boulder as big as a house where she deposited the baby. Her firm intention was to return to the plane.

Then, varoom, the downed plane exploded like a nuclear bomb, a huge fireball rolled aloft, illuminating the dull day. Even behind the boulder Kirby felt the heat wave, was almost knocked down by the blast, realized instantly that not a soul could survive such an inferno. Flight 777 was dead. She and the baby and the man who had run off like a cowardly wild beast survived. Were there others? As far as she could tell there had been only one crack in the fuselage.

There was no time to wait for the burning wreckage to cool. The baby screamed even louder and she noticed blood trickling from its left ear. She padded the ear with a tissue and tried to sooth the child with soft words and a gentle hug.

Then she began picking her way through the lightly treed area, then down a dry wash, the image of more than two hundred people, who had been alive just minutes ago, flashing like frozen frames in the shadowy passages of her mind. The horror of death and yet, her seatmate, the woman at the window, had seemed at peace, like an anchor, or a safe harbor in a dragon-haunted whirlwind of fear. Kirby regretted making an early quick judgment on the basis of gaudy jewelry and an overdose of perfume.

She hung between reality and nightmare, between earth and hell. The baby, the pleasant day, the joy of dashing through the countryside with the heart pumping the blood at an insane rate. This was reality. But in paralytic flashes her brain was bombarded with the shrieks for help, the wails of the dying, the ghosts of those recently dead. These visions, this terror flooding the dark passages of her brain, would it always be with her?

Her past regimen of jogging and workouts was paying off. She loped down the boulder-strewn dry wash, dodging felled trees and shrubs, her breath coming easily, the baby now quiet in her arms. Fifteen minutes passed, then twenty-five. Off to the right, the noise of a passing truck caught her attention. She scrambled out of the dry wash, over a broken down fence, then jumped a small ditch to reach a two-lane highway. The truck was long gone, but she flagged a late model compact car.

It pulled to a halt and the driver rolled down the passenger side window. "I've got an injured baby," she said breathlessly. "I've got to get it to a hospital, or a doctor, anyway." She waited while the driver digested the news, his eyes darting from her to the bundle in her arms.

"Get in," he said, unlocking the door. He was a well-scrubbed, well-dressed man in his thirties, maybe an accountant or a real estate salesman, Kirby speculated. He glanced suspiciously at the baby, which was whimpering, and then back to Kirby. But he soon had the car slightly above the speed limit. "Was there an accident?" he asked. He had seen no sign of one on the highway, which was sparsely traveled.

"Plane crash," Kirby said. "Back in the fields someplace. It took me forever to get to this road."

"Plane crash," he said. "A private plane?"

"Commercial jet. We were approaching New York when something went wrong. Terrible vibration. Engine troubles I suppose."

"You were on the plane?" His suspicion deepened. For all her ordeal, all the scrambling to the highway, she looked neat and well groomed, not even breathing very heavily.

"You were on the plane?"

"Yes, of course, it was loaded. I mean almost full, I still can't believe it."

"Where's everybody else?" the man questioned.

"A man escaped. Ran off immediately, the rat. Other than that, just me and the baby. As far as I know, anyway. I ran. The baby needs medical attention. It could have internal injuries."

"Is it a boy or a girl?"

"I don't know," Kirby replied. "I haven't looked. I'm not going to change it." She looked at the child. It was wrapped in a sort of green wrap around blanket, but not a blanket, a thing that snapped on.

"It's not yours?"

"No, of course not," Kirby said, a little angry. "It's mother tossed it off the plane to me."

"And she's dead?"

"I suppose so. In fact, I'm certain she's dead. The plane exploded."

The driver shook his head in disbelief. Could this be a strange put on? Stuff like this simply doesn't happen. But the woman looked decent and she did have a baby. The best thing to do was to get her to a hospital and get her out of his car. Tonight he would be at a meeting of hardware dealers. There would be drinks, music and laughter, plus meaty talk about the hardware world -- nuts and bolts sessions as they were called.

He sought to change the subject. "I had some trouble, too. Had to detour for car repairs, find a dealership, not easy to do right here. I'm headed for a Grand Clam Hardware convention in Boston. I'd planned to bring my wife along, but Poagie stayed home with the flu." He suddenly gestured with his hand. "There's a hospital sign."

A large white H on a blue background meant hospital. They had entered a small New Jersey community. "Thank God," Kirby thought. "Two hundred plus people killed in a plane explosion and this bird's worried about his wife missing a hardware convention."

The driver had slowed down, searching for a second sign that would point the way to the hospital. Except for the immense hardware inventory that he kept tucked away in his brain that could be called up at a moment's notice, the wheels in his head turned slowly. But he finally realized that this woman's story was likely legitimate. She was well dressed, intelligent and carried a clean-looking baby from all he could tell by the blanket. "You don't know the baby's name?" he asked, although he assumed she didn't.

"No. I didn't even talk to the mother on the plane. She was a couple of rows behind me."

"You've really been through it," he said. "You must be half out of your mind. Will you check into the hospital too?"

"No. I've got to get to New York as soon as possible. My plan is to drop the kid off and grab whatever I can for Manhattan."

The hardware man thought a minute. "You aren't far. I mean a cab could take you there if you were willing to spend a few bucks."

"If I can find a cab," Kirby said. She rocked the baby who was starting to whimper again. "Christ, it probably needs changing, food, God knows what else. Where is that hospital."

"I'm sure it's not far," her driver replied, then added, "If you like, I'll wait outside the hospital for you and take you as far as a taxi. There should be one downtown."

"Downtown where?" Kirby asked.

"Oakview. That's the name of this town. We just passed a sign. Hey, can I see the baby? Would you hold it up?"

Exasperated, Kirby held the baby up so the driver could take a look. It was a handsome child, fair skin, blue eyes, a haze of peach fuzz on its head. Then she cradled it back in her arms.

Finally, a sign told them to make a right turn. "Let me off at the emergency room," Kirby said.

She thanked him for the ride and pushed the door open. "Do you want me to wait?" he asked.

"Why not. I'll just be a minute." Inside the hospital, Kirby almost bumped into a nun. At last she was having some luck. Thrusting the blanketed baby into the nun's arms, she said, "This baby was in an accident. It's ear's cut and it could have other injuries." She looked into the kindly eyes of a slightly confused nun and said, "Thank you, Sister." Then she was out the door, back in the car and headed for downtown Oakview.

The amazed nun stood holding the squirming baby. She had been too surprised to speak, but now took quick action. She went deeper into the hospital, found a nurse and passed the baby off to her. "Some woman came through the door and handed me this baby. Says it's been hurt and could have serious injuries. I don't know what happened to her. She almost ran out the door."

"Sounds like child abuse," the nurse said. "Did she leave a name, address, anything?"

"No. Nothing," the nun replied. "I'm visiting my sister here in town and came in with an infected hangnail. I know nothing about this baby."

"That's OK, Sister. We'll tend the baby first. Very likely one of the parents will be back. If not, we'll notify the authorities. But maybe you could leave a description of the mother at the front desk."

"I really didn't look at her," the nun said. "I was looking at the baby."

Kirby Lotto did locate the only cab in Oakview parked at a corner of the courthouse square. The driver reluctantly agreed to take her into Manhattan for seventy-five dollars. "That's a tidy sum, Miss. But I really don't want to make the trip. A bus would only cost you ten or fifteen dollars."

"Just drive," Kirby sighed. "This has been quite a day." After taking a good look at the white haired driver and the battered cab, she said, "I'll give you one hundred dollars if you'll take me to the heart of Manhattan."

The old man grinned and replied, "For that price, I'll take you to the heart of the city that has no heart."

"A bit of humor to top off a perfect day," she whispered, adding, "that includes tip of course."

CHAPTER THREE

It was mid-afternoon when she reached her office. Rushing off the elevator, the first person she bumped into was Stan Mayfield, her boss and the news director. Stan seemed always in a hurry, a thousand things on his mind. Their relationship had had its highs and lows. Recently, Kirby's stock had been in a free fall, a deep slump.

"Stan, you won't believe this. My plane crashed in New Jersey. I'm still in shock."

Stan eyed her warily. "Flight 777?" he asked.

"Yes, at least I think that was the number. It went down in the woods. I was on it."

"You had a bad time in St. Louis, didn't you, Kirby?"

"Yes, of course. You know that. I missed my interview. But now I've got the plane crash. I can do a first person piece. Is there something on the wire?"

"Yes, Kirby, there is," Stan said grimly. "Flight 777 crashed, exploded on impact. No survivors. They're looking for the black box. I've already got someone working on an angle, backgrounding the crew, that sort of thing."

Kirby had been not just a good reporter, but a great reporter, a gifted reporter and most of all, a lucky reporter. But for the last few weeks, even months, she was riding a streak of miserable luck. Stan knew it had bothered her and it had begun to eat at him. There was a rotting away of trust between the two and he knew Kirby was a risk-taker, capable of going far out on a limb to redeem herself. Maybe the limb had broken.

"But that's not true! I'm here. And there was a baby. Baby Doe. And there was a man who ran away."

"I'd like to believe you, Kirby. I'd really like to."

"But why can't you believe me, Stan? It's me, Kirby Lotto. We've worked together for years."

"No survivors, Kirby. No survivors. You've had a tough few weeks, but to fake a story on a plane crash. Kirby, get real! I mean, you don't even look like you've been in a plane crash, certainly not an explosion. Just forget about this thing. There'll be other assignments."

Kirby couldn't believe at first that Stan was accusing her of trying to fabricate a story. When she did, her first reaction was blind anger. "Don't be ridiculous," she shouted. "I was on that flight and I can prove it."

"How?"

"My ticket. My luggage. Everything."

At that moment an airline employee entered the office carrying a small blue carry-on bag. "Looking for Kirby Lotto," he shouted to no one in particular.

Stan said, "Over here." Then to Kirby, "Is that your bag?"

"Why yes, it is." She was genuinely surprised to see it.

"I suppose it survived the crash, too?"

"No. No, it didn't." Her mind raced back to the morning. "I think I left it in St. Louis."

"Where'd the bag come from?" Stan asked the man.

"A flight from St. Louis. Ms. Lotto forgot to pick it up. We read the name tag, someone recognized the name." He turned to Kirby. "You're a celebrity! A name like Kirby Lotto is hard to forget."

"I don't understand what flight it came in on?" she asked.

"Arrived a few minutes ago, just like you did. We checked. You were ticketed on that flight."

"Of course I was," Kirby said. "But I took an earlier flight. The man at the gate let me on board Flight 777."

The airline employee gave her a puzzled look. "Ms. Lotto, I'm sorry to say Flight 777 crashed in New Jersey. There were no survivors, exploded on impact. Anyway, a gate attendant would never let you board unless you were properly ticketed. It's out of the question."

"But he did," Kirby insisted. "I talked my way on board."

"Kirby, I don't know what happened in St. Louis," Stan said, "but you'd better go on home. If you want, you can take a couple of days off."

"You're treating me like I'm hallucinating," she said, and then turned to the airline employee. "I wasn't on the flight with this bag. Somebody must know that!"

"Not me, Miss. I'm just a flunky. Otherwise I wouldn't be delivering bags. But I do know Flight 777 exploded on impact. There were no survivors. Everyone died instantly. You know that can be important."

"How so?" she questioned.

"Well, I shouldn't say it because I do work for the airline, but it is common knowledge. If people are killed instantly the insurance payoff goes down sharply. I mean if there was a chance that some of those people could have survived the crash, been pinned in their seats, trapped in the wreckage, suffering and screaming their heads off, then whammo, incineration. A good lawyer can extract hefty damages for suffering and agony in a jury trial. Anyway, somebody pays, but a merciful death is best and more economical."

"But there was suffering on Flight 777," Kirby insisted. "It was just like you said, trapped in the wreckage and screaming their heads off. It was awful."

The airline man shook his head. "You media types have some strange sense of humor. It puts me in mind of those people who were sucked out of a plane sometime back. Those people were strapped in their seats, sitting out on space. Now maybe they froze and maybe they died for want of oxygen. But it was a long way down. It would take minutes to fall that far. Now what do you suppose would go through a person's mind during those long minutes?"

"Probably that they should have either stayed home, or taken a bus," Stan quipped.

"Anyway, there's the bag and I gotta go." He turned and left the office.

Kirby watched him leave, and then said to Stan, "But it wasn't merciful. There was suffering. And, a baby escaped and a man escaped. He'll surface soon and I know where the baby is. At a Catholic hospital in Oakview, New Jersey. I'll call them right now and get this thing cleared up."

"Let me know when you do," Stan said, then walked off.

Kirby took a deep breath and went to her office and asked information for the number of the Catholic hospital in Oakview. She learned very quickly that the only hospital in that small town was Oakview General. She punched in the number and asked to speak to the sister on duty in the emergency room.

"What sister?"

"The sister. The nun. She was wearing a habit."

"We don't have any sisters here. This is not a Catholic hospital. Maybe you want some other town."

"No, I'm certain it was Oakview. But it's okay if there was no sister. There was a baby dropped off there this morning. Could I talk with the person in charge of that baby?"

"What's the family name?"

"I don't know," Kirby said. "The child was in an accident, a plane crash. I dropped it off."

The operator hesitated. There was something odd about the woman making this call. "We do get abandoned children. In fact sometimes abusive parents drop their children here. Maybe they say there was a car accident, or they dropped the child, or a brother or sister was playing with it. A plane accident. That's something new."

"I know it sounds odd. But you must have heard of the plane crash. Flight 777. The baby was in that crash."

"Of course I've heard of the crash. We're setting up a temporary morgue here, although there's very little left. There were no survivors, you know."

"No, I don't know. But let me talk to someone about the baby."

"Let me get this straight," the operator said. "You don't know the baby's name, right?"

"That's right."

"Is it a girl or a boy?"

"I really don't know. It was wrapped in a green blanket. Just let me talk to whoever's in charge of such things."

"Information like that is confidential. There's no way we can tell you anything over the phone. And unless you have something a little more substantial than what you've told me, there's no reason to come here in person. There are laws to protect infants. Whoever you are, I'd forget this whole thing." The woman hung up.

Kirby Lotto stared out the window. She was burning mad, but she was certain things would be right. The man who escaped would go to the authorities somewhere. He could at least prove that he was on that plane. He probably had a wife, a family. She went into the newsroom to see what had developed on the crash. Stan Mayfield saw her coming and drifted back into his office to avoid her. That was obvious.

She thumbed through wire reports and a few still photos. To her amazement she found a picture of the man who had dropped off the plane and run away. Without reading the caption, she rushed into Stan's office.

"This is him," she shouted. "This is the man who jumped off the plane and ran away. All we have to do is contact him." She passed the photo to Stan and dropped into a seat with some satisfaction. The nightmare was over.

After a quick examination of the print, Stan looked up and asked, "Do you know who this is?"

"No." She shook her head no, then added, "I do know he was a passenger and that he survived. I even recognize that little 'L' shaped scar on his face."

"This is Ivan Hicks," Stan sighed. "Nicknamed, without much imagination, Ivan the Terrible. A serial killer. Killed eight women, maybe more, in the Midwest. Being transported to New York as a suspect in at least eleven upstate murders. The man is, that is _was_ , a maniac. And yes, you're right, he was on that plane. He's dead with the rest of them."

Stan hit himself on the forehead with the palm of his hand. "Kirby, whatever it is forget it. Even if you yourself believe this crazy story, let it go. For God's sake, take a few days off, go to Bermuda if you want to. But let this thing lay. Now I'm a busy man, please."

Kirby said nothing and returned to her office. A morose cloud of despondency and gloom enveloped her. If Stan wouldn't believe her, who would? Thus far there was not one fact she could produce to substantiate her story. And Ivan the Terrible was on the prowl again, a crazed killer who everyone but she believed was dead. What a situation.

She called the network library, one floor down, and asked for Ivan Hicks' file. A messenger brought it within minutes.

Somehow she had missed the Hicks' story, or only had a hazy recollection of it. Probably because most of the publicity had broken in the Midwest. Also, sad to say, serial killers were no longer a novelty. But the clippings and wire copy on him painted a picture of a bloodthirsty butcher, an animal who killed for the sake of killing, who enjoyed human suffering. So this was the man who had leaped off the plane next to her, the one she had asked to help rescue the passengers.

One thought formed in her mind, one concrete idea. If Hicks continued to run free someone would die and probably very soon. He was out of control. Judging from his past pattern, the victim would be an attractive innocent woman, probably somewhere between the teen years and thirty-five. And now, the killing wouldn't be simply for pleasure. Hicks had no money and he was on the run. A bloody crime spree could be in the offing.

Kirby glanced at the big clock on the wall. Almost quitting time. She got up purposely and walked into Stan's office. "Stan," she began, "I've been over Ivan Hicks' file. He's a bloodthirsty murderer who kills for pleasure, likes to watch people die. Now he also needs cash and lots of it. I've got to call the FBI and that's all there is to it."

Stan looked up from his paperwork in disbelief. Knowing Kirby's temperament, crazy or not, she was determined and mule-stubborn. There was no way he could stop her. "Give me ten minutes before you do anything. Just ten minutes. Hicks isn't likely to murder anyone in the next ten minutes."

"Maybe not," she said coolly. "And maybe he already has. The longer we wait the more time he has to run, the harder he'll be to catch."

"Ten minutes," Stan repeated.

"I'll be in my office."

Ten minutes passed. Kirby was ready to return to Stan's office when he walked in her door.

"Kirby, you're a free woman. I've arranged for you to be furloughed for a month, medical leave, with pay. Here." He put a slip of paper on her desk.

She picked up the paper and read the name of a doctor. "This is a shrink," she said. "What is this furlough business?"

"What it means, Kirby, is you're no longer working for the show. The Leading Event can't afford to have a staffer running around saying they were on a flight that crashed with no survivors. "For an instant it was quiet in the room, the drone of the air conditioner replenishing the supply. People in the corridor laughing and talking as they walked.

"Now, you're not fired -- it's only for a month. We just don't want you representing the show, or the network. So now we have deniability. Of course its shape, or ship \-- you know the story line. The network does want some sort of a psychological evaluation and an explanation before you're reinstated."

"Stan, what have I ever done to deserve this," Kirby said softly. "You think I'm a loony, don't you?"

"Kirby," Stan said, "you've got some story about you and a killer and a miracle child surviving a fiery inferno. Jesus, in fact it sounds like something out of the Bible. Work it out. We want the old Kirby back."

"I can live with it, Stan." She decided to stop butting her head against a stone wall and opt for damage control. "I'll do what you want. But, let me ask you a very rational question. Okay?"

"Shoot."

"What if in a week, or a month, or tomorrow, you find that I'm right. What will you do about it?"

Stan thought a moment, then said, "I'll apologize."

"Not good enough, Stan. I want satisfaction. Reparation." She was thinking revenge.

"How about if I buy you dinner?"

"Where?"

"Your choice."

"Okay, dinner in Paris."

Stan smirked. "Are you proposing some kind of an affair, Kirby. We could find a motel in Jersey. I'm all for it."

"Nothing of the sort. Two airline tickets, two hotel rooms, two dinners. If I'm right."

"And you won't embarrass the network or the show?"

"Scout's honor. And if I'm wrong I'll see the shrink."

"Okay, it's a deal. Shake." He thrust out his hand.

"I know this seems silly, Stan. But put yourself in my place. I have to call the FBI. If I don't, whoever gets killed will be on my head as well as his."

"Hicks' head?"

"Right."

Stan sighed. It was also quitting time and he was anxious to get a drink or two under his belt.

"Do what you have to do, Kirby, I know I can't stop you. But don't do it from this office. And don't tell anyone you're employed by the network because you're not. I mean I've checked with the airline, checked with Washington. I've been on the phone. Your story, well, it's your story." He turned and was gone.

CHAPTER FOUR

After gathering what things she wanted to take with her, Kirby stopped in the lobby and called the FBI.

It seemed odd even to her, but she began the conversation by saying, "I'm a citizen," then added, "I suppose I have a crime to report, or something like a crime."

"Please state your name, address and phone number," the operator replied. There seemed to be some boredom in the voice on the other end of the line.

Quietly, patiently, she listed the statistics, then began her story: "I was on Flight 777 from St. Louis, the one that was supposed to have crashed with no survivors."

Knowing that she was at the lowest link in the chain of command, she used as few words as possible. When she had finished the voice said, "Someone will be in touch with you as soon as possible. Thank you, Ms. Lotto."

Kirby went home, mixed herself a stiff drink and sat staring out the window as the drab day faded into night and lights in nearby buildings came on, yellow rectangles of hope in the gathering dusk.

An hour passed, then two. She thawed a frozen dinner and picked at it fitfully, poured herself a glass of red wine, then a second. No one telephoned and no one came to the door. She was being ignored by the FBI.

At eight o'clock she decided to call a detective friend of hers. Jim Manor was off duty and the operator refused to give her his number. She left a message for him to call her.

Kirby tried to watch TV, but finally decided on a hot bath. She was about to step into a steaming tub when the phone rang. It was Jim Manor, detective, N.Y.P.D.

"Jim, do you have a couple of minutes?"

"Sure, just got in. What can I do for you?"

"Something very unusual has happened to me. I hope you won't think I'm a nut."

"I'll do my best not to."

Kirby poured out her story -- every detail she could remember. Then she said, "My boss put me on medical leave, he thinks I've flipped. So until I agree to stop talking about it, I no longer represent the show or the network. I might be willing to forget the whole thing except for two items. First, there's a Baby Doe in the hospital that might have a family and an inheritance somewhere. Second, Ivan the Terrible is running around loose and odds are he'll be doing some serious killing. I called the FBI. No agent even returned my call. I'm all alone out in leftfield."

"I can see why," Manor said. "But I believe you. Who was the guy who picked you up?"

"I don't know," Kirby said. "He was heading for Boston to attend the Grand Clam hardware convention in a late model compact car. I don't know his name, don't even know what state he was from. He did say he had car trouble and had to get it fixed. All I know is, I did drop the baby off at the Oakview General hospital and it did have a cut ear."

"That's something," Manor said. "Was it a boy or a girl?"

"How should I know," Kirby said. "Do I seem like the maternal type?"

"It's not an unusual question."

"I don't know. It was wrapped in a green blanket, or something like a blanket, and I wasn't about to change its diapers. Anyway, I didn't have any baby supplies."

"I can check on the baby and I can check on the Grand Clam hardware convention. If you just knew a little more."

"I'm sorry," she said. "It's fairly obvious why Stan thinks I'm ready for a lobotomy. But I'll be damned if I thought he'd hang me out to dry."

"I'll check this stuff out, Kirby. And if I were you I'd try the FBI again, too. If this Ivan guy is running around loose, someone should know about it. They've got the resources and they've already been in on it."

"Thanks, Jim. I'll give it another try. And thanks."

Kirby spent a bad night. Around midnight, she was up pacing her apartment, wondering if a sleeping pill might help. Instead she mixed herself a heavy-duty scotch and water and went back to bed. If she wasn't crazy now the combination of booze, pills and frustration might soon push her over the edge.

She was up again before dawn. She brewed a pot of coffee. And when the morning news shows came on she clicked from one to the other. Flight 777 was everywhere: Photos of charred trees, plane parts twisted by the impact and the heat, the area cordoned off, the search for bodies, knots of bystanders. The stories were much the same on each channel: exploded on impact, no survivors. A congressman from Missouri was on board, so was the notorious serial killer Ivan Hicks. Authorities suspected engine frame problems, but a thorough investigation would probably take months.

Kirby busied herself switching TV channels, taking notes, looking for any odd scrap of information that might be different from earlier reports.

Just after nine, Jim Manor called.

"I checked with the hospital, Kirby. You'll be pleased to know there was a baby with a small cut, in fact a little chunk of flesh missing from one ear. Nothing serious. Anyway, it was all a mix-up. Seems the mother brought the baby in but failed to do it properly. I mean she didn't go through admitting. But a short time later the family returned, did the paper work, paid the bill and that was the end of it."

"You mean the baby's gone?"

"They fixed it up in the emergency room. The bill was paid, nothing out of the routine. Except for the admitting thing."

"Wait a minute. The baby was brought in, then taken away by the family? There must have been two babies."

"No. Only one baby. I've been working with the top detective on the Oakview force, in fact the only detective. A hospital worker even remembered the green blanket, only it wasn't a blanket. I think they call it a 'snuggy.'"

If there was only one baby, Jim. Then that was Baby Doe. And that hospital has given that baby away. The mother died on that airplane. There's no way for the baby's family to have known it was in that hospital. The baby has been stolen."

"I suppose it's possible," Manor said. "It's a small town hospital, sometimes everyone knows everyone, but, well, it seems unlikely, Kirby."

"I know, but it's our best lead. All we need to do is check the hospital records, find out who and where the family is, pay them a visit, look at the baby's ear, satisfy ourselves that it's the same baby."

"But..."

"If it's not the same baby, maybe I'm around the bend. I will seek help, I promise."

Manor laughed. "Okay, Kirby. It's not too much to ask. There was an irregularity in how the baby got into the hospital. I'll get back with the Oakview P.D. and make my case. They may not give it a high priority, but one way or another we'll get the job done."

"Thanks, Jim. If you could have been there, you'd understand why this is important. That mother's last thought was to save the life of her child. I couldn't believe her courage."

"I'll go to the mat for you, Kirby. I owe you more than one favor anyway. I'm also running down the culprits at this Grand Clam convention, but that's another needle in a haystack."

"Good. And I'll continue to make an ass of myself by calling the FBI again."

Kirby hung up and dialed the FBI. This time she managed to speak to an actual agent, a Thomas Elgar.

When she'd spilled out her story, Elgar said, "I think the best thing you can do is commit your story to paper. Put it in the form of a letter addressed to this office. Then mail it in."

"It's that simple?" Kirby said.

The sarcasm went right by him.

"Why, yes, Ms. Lotto. Set down everything you've told me."

"And then what will you do?"

"That depends. I can't tell you our every move. But, I will say the letter will be given careful review."

"It won't just be filed away?"

"Not without every consideration. As you yourself have suggested, every report indicates there were no survivors on Flight 777."

"That's the whole point of my call, Mr. Elgar, to tell you that there were at least three survivors of the flight."

"Were there more than three?" he asked.

"Don't try to trick me," she said, "and don't patronize me. I've told you what happened. It seems to me you could do a little checking. Unless you're planning to ignore the fact that a baby has been kidnapped or that a serial killer is running around with a large knife and a blunt object. Now I'm going to write a letter and the first thing I'm going to say is that you asked me to file my report in this asinine manner. Then I'm going to send copies to the Justice Department, the White House, and every congressman in New York and New Jersey. If there's an ounce of truth to what I'm telling you you're going to wish that Ivan the Terrible would come visit you."

"I didn't mean to offend you, Ms. Lotto. A letter seemed to me to be the best course of action. I actually don't know what part of your story I could check on. I'd forward your letter to the aviation officials."

"I've told you what I'm going to do and I meant every word of it. You could at least do some checking at Oakview General hospital. Pin down who brought Baby Doe in and who took Baby Doe out. As well as what baby is supposed to have died on Flight 777."

"You send me the letter, Ms. Lotto and I'll discuss it with the agent in charge. I promise you that."

Kirby hung up and made herself another cup of coffee. Elgar was a self-important ass, but a letter would at least go on record. And there might be details she would forget later.

Coffee cup in hand, she went to her computer and spent the next hour and a half setting down everything she could remember about the incident, beginning at the St. Louis airport. Then she reworked it, polishing a sentence here, changing a word there.

It took her more than an hour to run off copies to everyone she had mentioned to Elgar, plus a couple of others that sprang to mind. The mayor, the governor, the state's attorney. She stopped short of sending any to the media. If she did, Stan Mayfield might have her head. There would be no more paid medical leave, just a lump-sum termination.

For lunch she made herself a tuna fish sandwich and washed it down with a diet drink. After that she finished addressing, stuffing and sealing the envelopes, placed her morning's work in a brown paper bag and headed out to the branch Post Office. There was a feeling of satisfaction pushing the stamped letters through the slot, but also an uneasy sensation that she might be putting not only her career, but her life on the line.

The weather was fine, a few fluffy clouds, soft breeze, new beginnings. Great for lovers, but Kirby could have cared less. She did walk determinedly for a few blocks, that no-nonsense gait that discourages muggers, moochers and vendors. She came to a bookstore-newsstand and entered, gathering up every newspaper she could that gave an account of the plane crash. Then with her purse considerably lighter and the weighty bundle in her arms, she returned to her apartment.

Patsy Wong, her neighbor, was in the hall, with a sack of groceries, celery tops peeking over the brown bag like a bride's bouquet.

. "What're you doing home in the middle of the day?"

"I got troubles, Patsy," she responded instantly, then wished she had been noncommittal.

"Anything I can help with? Want a bottle of scotch?"

Kirby smiled. Patsy was paired with Sly Kline, a shady food inspector who was often paid off with jugs of Scotch or other potables. Actually, he preferred cash. The apartment itself was a long-term bribe. A restaurateur owned the building. "Naw, just a few minor problems. I'll work my way through them like I always do. How you getting along?" Kirby had always suspected that Patsy was an illegal. She originated in the northern Chinese city of Harbin and had reached New York via Hong Kong. Now she peddled cosmetics door to door in Chinatown.

"I've got a great new skin cream, only twenty bucks a jar, only you can have it for ten. It works miracles while you sleep. A restorative."

"An old Chinese secret?" Kirby inquired.

"No. Chemical company out of Delaware. But it does work. At least I think it does. I'm looking for a real wrinkly person."

Kirby shifted the newspapers in her arms and fished her apartment key from her purse. "It will take more than restorative cream to cure my ills. I'm thinking of a long vacation."

"If you want to shop go to Hong Kong, or Singapore," Patsy said brightly, adding, "I'll give you some names."

"Why do some women buy so many cosmetics," Kirby said half to herself.

"Oh, that's easy," Patsy answered. "None of them really work. I mean you wouldn't want to be hooked up with them for life. So there's always something new. Something to sample, something to try, a new adventure. It's like shopping, or starting a new affair. That's why it's so much fun. No one ever asks me why something didn't do what I said it would. They always want to talk about something new."

"I guess," Kirby said vacantly. She was inside her apartment and said, "See you later" as she closed her door on the sparkling Patsy Wong.

As she dumped the papers on her couch she recalled that Stan had once asked her to do an investigative piece on crooked food inspectors. She had begged off. As far as she knew, no one on the staff of The Leading Event had done the story, at least not recently. It was one of those easy stories, always out there, always available. She supposed food inspectors had been on the take since before the days of the Roman Empire. Maybe they should be better compensated.

At her kitchen table, she dug through the mass of newspapers and clipped and dated everything having to do with the crash of Flight 777. She found at least one thing she was seeking: A complete passenger list with a few background details. Her eyes devoured the printed words for any clue to baby Doe's identity.

Then a related story that went into Ivan Hicks' background caught her attention. It detailed a few of his crimes. His weapons of choice were clubs and knives, never a gun. At least he had never been known to kill with a gun. The clubs were anything he might pick up -- a tree limb, a piece of lumber, or a decorative statue -- anything heavy enough to kill. The knives he purchased at flea markets, or hardware stores when he had money. His attacks on women were only partly motivated by financial gain. He was a sadistic rapist.

One name in the story drew Kirby's eye: Otis Paine. He was a Kansas City detective who had tracked Ivan the Terrible down over a period of more than a year. He had won a national police citation for his work.

Kirby called the Kansas City police and asked to talk with Paine. She learned from the chief of detectives that he had retired during the course of the Hicks' trial. "He had more than enough time in," the chief said. "He's got a place in the Ozarks. Spends his time huntin', float fishin' and foolin' around with a book about Hicks."

"He's writing a book about Ivan Hicks?" Kirby asked.

"Yes indeed. I'll tell you, when Otis was on that case he was one royal pain in the ass. He thought of nothin' else. You couldn't blast him off that case with dynamite. He just wouldn't realize that there was a lot more to do around here than run down Hicks. You say you're from New York. I suppose you're with the media? We've had several calls lately."

"Yes, I'm a writer. I wonder where I could find Mr. Paine?"

"Most cops don't like having their whereabouts circulated. You can understand that."

"I can," Kirby replied. "But I have some information on Hicks, something I'm certain Mr. Paine doesn't know. Anyway, he's not a cop anymore."

"I suppose it's all right," the chief agreed. "I did give a St. Louis TV station his number yesterday morning. You know, he might go on a talk show."

"I'll bet he'd be good, too," Kirby said. She got the number and said goodbye to the chief. Then she braced herself for more rejection as she punched in the area code, then Paine's phone number. He answered after the third ring.

"Mr. Paine, my name's Kirby Lotto and I'm calling from New York City. It's about the Ivan Hicks case."

"Well, it's raining down here and no weather for fishing. And I'm damned tired of pecking at the typewriter. So what do you want to know about that skunk Ivan?"

"You have some time then?" Kirby asked.

"Nothing but time. Retirement isn't all it's cracked up to be. Especially when you're alone. I lost my wife a few years back. Frankly, I'm thinking of getting a job. I'll probably end up as one of those old geezers carrying a flashlight around a warehouse or an office building. Minimum wage doorknob rattler."

"Night watchman. But you are writing a book."

"Yes and no. It's not as easy as it seems."

"I'm a writer. Maybe I could give you a few hints."

Paine was obviously eager to talk to someone, anyone, on any topic. But he did wonder where the conversation was leading. "Is that why you called? To help me write this book? Well, maybe I'll just turn everything over to you and we'll be partners."

"I could use a partner," Kirby replied. "What I'm going to say next will surprise you. But I can and will explain it. I have every reason to believe that Ivan Hicks survived the crash of Flight 777 and is now free as a jaybird in the New York area. He could even be headed back your way."

"You do surprise me," Paine said almost instantly. "In fact you send a little chill up my spine. If Hicks is free, he's certain to think of using one of his knives on my body. I'm the one who ran that bugger to ground. But from all I've heard since the crash, there were no survivors. Are you saying he was never on that plane?"

"No, he was on that plane, Mr. Paine."

"Please call me Otis," the retired detective interrupted. "It's an odd name, but it does belong to me."

"Okay, Otis. He was on that plane and the plane did crash exactly where everyone thinks it did. But it didn't explode on impact. It cracked open and caught fire. Three passengers escaped. I was one of them, an infant was another. The third was Ivan Paine. I saw his face up close, I noticed the small 'L' shaped scar. Later I saw his photograph. I'm certain it was Ivan."

"Why hasn't this been on television, or in the papers?" Paine asked.

"Because, Otis, no one will believe me. I dropped the baby at a hospital nearby and somebody kidnapped it. Then there was some damned farmer who said he witnessed the crash and swears the plane exploded on impact. It's a crazy story, but it's true. And, sadly, what's going to prove I'm telling the truth is Ivan butchering a few more people."

"You know, Miss..., what did you say your name was?"

"Kirby Lotto. Call me Kirby."

"Well, Kirby. Ivan Hicks is one of the luckiest sons-of-bitches I've ever had the displeasure to run across. You would think that God would curse this particular type of depravity, but for whatever purpose, it's like some superior being has placed his hands on Ivan. Now I'm going to try to believe your story, but I need a few details. When you saw Ivan escape this plane crash, was he in shackles?"

"No. I suppose that's another mark against me. Anyone would think a dangerous criminal being moved on public transportation would be restrained in some way. I got a clear look at both his hands and arms. They moved freely. And certainly he was running fast the last time I saw him."

"I said he was lucky," Paine said slowly. "A lucky person is something else. He could have convinced the marshal that he needed to use the crapper. He could have overpowered the marshal, filched the key, at the last moment. I was appalled that they had even decided to move him at all. He could have served his time here just as well. The crimes were so heinous that the locals up there were screaming for justice."

"And now they think it's done."

"Yes. Now they're content, I suppose. But it springs to mind that if you were the only other adult survivor, Kirby, Ivan would normally have killed you. He is very strong and he can club somebody dead in a very few seconds."

"I've thought of that. He did have a hunted, wild look in his eyes, like an animal. But the plane was burning and he thought it might explode any second. I actually asked him to help me save the rest of the passengers."

Otis guffawed involuntarily. "That's like asking the Devil to come to the cross. It would follow that he thinks you're dead?"

Kirby hadn't thought of that one. "Yes, I suppose so. Ivan probably thinks he's the only survivor. He's read the papers just like you and me. Yeah, he probably thinks he's home free. And, if he keeps his nose clean he could live out his life without detection."

"But he won't," Otis said flatly. "I think he needs to kill. But he is clever. He probably learned a thing or three sitting through that trial. The prosecutor drummed away on the pattern of his crimes. The repetition, geography, victims, locations, weapons and so on. He would know now to break that pattern."

"What about his need for quick cash?" Kirby asked.

"That's another thing, a new facet of the equation. He had a small income before, real estate investments. But that's gone. But now he's strictly on his own. So he may have already killed. Certainly he's committed some crime. Wouldn't it be ironic if some county sheriff someplace is holding him as a chicken thief, or for some other petty crime?"

"You sound like you believe my story," Kirby said.

"I'm an old cop, Kirby. And I've heard a lot of stories. Let me say I've no reason not to believe you. But can you start from the beginning and tell me the whole thing? I may take a few notes along the way."

In all, she spent almost an hour on the line with Otis Paine. He agreed to assist her in any way he could, working in good faith until either they ran down Ivan, or her story proved false. They agreed that it might be just as well that Ivan didn't know that the chase was on, although there was a need to alert the public. This conflict would resolve itself if they could convince someone that Ivan lived.

After she hung up, she jotted down a few notes, things Otis said that stuck in her mind. She found that she was feeling better and that she was tired. Last night had not been one for sound sleep. Now at least she had a partial ally, someone who almost believed her story. Flopping down on the couch, she was soon in a deep dreamless sleep.

CHAPTER FIVE

The following day Kirby knew she had to do something about Baby Doe. Although the infant was no longer Baby Doe. Now he had a name: Michael Martin. There had been only two children on Flight 777. A toddler had been killed along with both of his parents. Also listed as dead was an infant, Michael Martin, traveling with his mother, Gloria, to visit her in-laws on Long Island.

Gloria, the woman who had pleaded with Kirby first to take her baby, then to flee the area of the burning plane. Kirby had another name for her -- St. Gloria. Greater love knoweth no woman.

It was as if the two had bonded in that brief moment, full of pain and acrid smoke. Kirby had heard a voice, a final appeal from one of the condemned inmates of Flight 777. Gloria had reached out to her, woman-to-woman, and touched her heart. There was something timeless, something eternal about it -- the mother symbolic of the ages asking that her child live on, that the child should flourish though the mother dies. In a sense the two women became one, both bound by the common goal of saving the child.

In a moment of rare spirituality, Kirby thought that she was indeed, the mother of that child. But the feeling passed.

So Kirby had saved little Michael. Now there was a continuing responsibility to insure that he was reunited with the surviving parent and other relatives. The grandfather's name was in the paper and it was a simple matter to learn that Arthur Martin was an investment banker in Manhattan.

She stared at the phone a long time before she worked up the courage to make the call. Dammit, why did everything have to be so difficult? Then she punched in the number.

Martin's secretary asked the reason for the call.

"It's personal," Kirby said.

"I'm sorry, but I've got to log calls in. What does the call concern?"

"Well, my name's Kirby Lotto and I'm calling about his family, about his daughter and grandson."

"Mrs. Lotto, Mr. Martin's been through a lot. He and his son and daughter-in-law were quite close and very excited over the baby. It's been a terrific shock. If this is a request for charity, or prayers, or anything like that, he'd rather not talk with you."

"It's _Miss_ Lotto and it's nothing like that. But it is private, personal. He will want to talk with me."

"Very well, I'll give him the message."

When Martin came on the line he sounded extremely tired, burned out. "My secretary tells me this call is about my daughter-in-law and grandson," he said. There was a this-better-be-good edge to his voice.

"Yes, Mr. Martin. First let me say my name is Kirby Lotto. I'm not calling anonymously and I want nothing from you. Only your cooperation. I have reason to believe your grandson is still alive."

There was a silence for several seconds, then a loud crash as Martin slammed down the phone. Kirby gently replaced her telephone. She was conditioned to expect the worst. She would wait a few hours, then call again. She knew that she risked some sort of telephone harassment charges and wondered if someone, somewhere along the line, might try to lock her up as a dangerous psychopath. But she was not crazy, at least she didn't think so.

She called the NYPD and caught Jim Manor at his desk. "I was thinking about calling you," he said.

"Thinking about it? Did you get something?"

"Yes and no. They're pretty close mouthed in Oakview. I mean it's a small community. The man I've been working with, he's a detective as well as other things, like assistant chief. He claims to have checked into the matter and says everything's fine. The baby was simply in for a cut ear, then returned to its parents. Nothing unusual."

"And he's talked to the parents?"

"I don't think he has, Kirby. He seems pretty tight with the hospital officials. I think he's taking their word for it."

"He gave you the name and address of the parents?"

"No. He didn't have that. In fact he said we'd just be upsetting some innocent people by busting around on a wild goose chase."

"He's hiding something, Jim. He's told you nothing."

"I don't know what to tell you, Kirby. I've gone about as far as I can with this thing."

"You haven't disproved my story! That was our agreement. Disprove my story and I'll drop out. There was a baby. And now I know that baby was Michael Martin. It was the only infant on the plane. His grandfather's an investment banker, has an office in the Wall Street area."

"Has this Martin filed a complaint?"

"No. He thinks the baby was killed, just like everyone else. I mean, almost everyone else. You can't doubt my story now."

"I just don't know, Kirby. When we work with another department, we've got to take their word at face value. The people in Oakview are good people. The police aren't trying to hide anything."

"It's a cozy family affair and when they screw up everyone covers everyone else's ass. That's what you're dealing with, Jim."

"I'm sorry, Kirby. I've gone as far as I can on this. There's no complaint. Even if I went to Oakview, it's out of my jurisdiction. Why don't you try the FBI?"

"I did," Kirby wailed. "They wanted me to write a letter and I did. In fact, I wrote more than thirty letters."

"Then wait. Just wait. If you're right, something will break."

"I know it will, Jim. Ivan the Terrible will start killing people, probably already has. There are so many murders in this part of the country that no one will notice a few more, not for a long time. Promise me this, Jim. Keep your eyes open for odd murders. Youngish women, raped, brutalized, killed with a knife or a blunt instrument."

She could almost hear Detective Manor shrug over the phone. "I'll do it, Kirby. But as you say, there are so many murders."

"I think you'll recognize Ivan's work, Jim."

After hanging up, Kirby went for a walk, wandering far from her apartment and finally into Central Park. There were joggers, bicyclers, people walking dogs and tossing Frisbees. They seemed happy with their lives and it came to her that she too could be happy again. Simply forget Flight 777, forget the other two survivors, go back to Stan and tell him the whole thing was history. She could still take off a couple of weeks. Go to Europe, or the islands, any islands.

The thought of freedom made her feel better. She hurried back to her apartment and punched in the number for Arthur Martin once more and once more heard the voice of his secretary.

"This is Kirby Lotto. I called before, earlier today."

"You upset Mr. Martin," an icy voice replied. "He doesn't want to talk to you."

"That's fine," Kirby shot back. "In fact I don't want to talk to him, but I feel it's my duty to make the effort."

"Well, I'm not putting you through this time," the secretary said stubbornly.

"I'm glad of that. I merely want to go on record that I tried to give him certain information about his grandson." Then she repeated her name and told the secretary her phone number. "If this Martin has a change of heart, I will talk to him. But I'm not eager for the opportunity." Then with some satisfaction, she slammed down the receiver.

But the matter was too grim for gloating. It came to her that the gate attendant in St. Louis could verify her story. He might be reluctant to because he had broken a strict rule, but serious issues were at stake.

Kirby talked to fully half a dozen airline employees before she learned the man's identity from another attendant.

"Jim was upset something awful by that crash. You'd have thought it was his fault," the woman said.

"Is he on duty today?"

"No. He's gone. I mean, on leave. You see the media got after him. They wanted a firsthand account from the last person to see the passengers and crew on that doomed airplane. That's what they called it a 'doomed airplane.' Heavy stuff. Anyway, they gave him fits and he asked for time off and got it. Jim's a real gentleman."

"Is he at home? Does he have a family?"

"Lives with his mother, just her and a couple of dogs. They got sort of a little farm out towards St. Charles. Not a real farm, but four or five acres. He brings me produce sometimes, you know, in season."

"Yes, I like produce. Fresh stuff."

"That's it," the woman said.

"Do you have her name?"

"Sure. I've been out there more than once. I've got the phone number. His mother's name is Betty Lou Henderson. She's a fine woman. Loves dogs."

The Henderson phone rang almost a dozen times and Kirby was about to hang up when a breathless woman answered. "I was out back. Who's this?"

Kirby identified herself and explained her business.

"Jim's gone," Mrs. Henderson said. "The press people were after him like a pack of wildcats. There was two out here this morning, before I had breakfast. You should've seen them run back to their van when I set the dogs on them. You know them dogs are just big playful kids, but strangers don't know that. They're a blessing."

"I can imagine. Just where did Jim go?"

"Off to visit his father. He's been promisin' to do that for five years. This seemed the perfect time. You know he gets to fly cut rate. Almost anywhere in the world. Can you imagine?"

"It must be wonderful. Where is his father?"

"Mr. Henderson. We're still married, you know. Divorce wasn't part of our marriage contract. We never were the flighty kind."

"But he's not in the home," Kirby said. "Not your home."

"Oh, Lord no. He's in Malaysia. He's a lumberman. Forester really. Has a degree and all. Hardwood."

"He works for a company?"

"Oh, yes. Couldn't work alone over there. Although they say those Malays are good people. Honest people and hard workers. Of course you have to treat them right. Mr. Henderson has always known how to deal with people. He's been over there for fifteen years now."

"Do you have a phone number in Malaysia, Mrs. Henderson?"

"Please, just call me Betty Lou. Everyone else does."

"Is there a phone, Betty Lou?"

"There's an office in Kuala Lumpur. That's the capitol, you know. The two or three times I've tried to call, I've never been able to get through to Mr. Henderson. He's always someplace between Kuala Lumpur and Singapore. You can leave a message, but sometimes it's a week, two weeks before it's delivered. They're in the bush. That's what they call it, back in the bush."

"Well, how would Jim find him?"

"He called and left a message. Then he flew to Singapore. There's a train that runs up to Kuala Lumpur, stations all the way. He'll call again from Singapore, and then Mr. Henderson will meet him somewhere on that train line. That's been the plan for years, but this is the first time Jim's made it. You know there's not much to do over there."

"But the climate's good," Kirby said, feeling she had been aced again by some unseen hand.

"You know that's a fact, Miss... What did you say your name was?"

"Kirby. Kirby Lotto."

After the call to Betty Lou, she toyed with the idea of mixing herself a drink. Instead she changed clothes and went out to a movie. After that she had dinner alone. During the cab ride back to her apartment she wondered how to approach Stan Mayfield. Should she recant? Say she was not on the flight? No. It would be best simply to tell him she was willing to forget the entire episode, to speak of it no more. But there was the matter of the letters. They would probably be ignored. Cranks were a dime a dozen.

Kirby took a long, hot shower before climbing into cotton pajamas and piling into bed. She slept well during the early hours of the night, but came awake, suddenly frightened, just before dawn. For a long while she stared at the darkened ceiling, reliving the crash of Flight 777. She realized there would be nightmares, but hopefully, gradually, they would fade. Sleep came again just as dawn came to Manhattan Island.

The phone jarred her awake at seven. Surprisingly, a man's voice she had heard before announced that it was Arthur Martin. "I'm calling from home, Miss Lotto. I've talked to my wife about this and we've had a bad night. I'd like to hear your story."

"It's a fine time to be calling. I'm still in bed."

"I've agreed to talk to you, Miss Lotto. That's quite a concession."

"It's no concession, Mr. Martin. I've got actual information about your grandson. I think he's still alive. Now I've gone out of my way to bring you that information and you treat me like a piece of shit. I'm sick to death of it."

"Maybe I have been rude," he conceded. "But I do want to hear your story."

"I suppose I should tell you. Yesterday, it was extremely important for me to tell you or someone. Today, I don't know. If you hadn't called, I was ready to forget the whole thing. We'll have to meet. I can't do this over the phone, particularly before breakfast."

"You can come to my office. How about nine?"

"No. Not your office. I can imagine what it's like, a power setting with you behind a thousand-dollar desk. No. Maybe an early lunch."

"There's a restaurant just down from my office." He was making an attempt to be cordial.

"There's also one in Central Park. You know it?"

"Of course, everyone does. But it's quite a ways from my office."

"Are you on some sort of umbilical cord?"

"Certainly not. I'll make reservations for eleven thirty. We'll have a quiet corner and all the time in the world."

"And, also, just the two of us."

"Well, I was thinking about bringing a friend along."

"Perhaps an attorney?"

"Perhaps."

"Well, I'm thinking there'll just be the two of us. After this luncheon, I'm out of the picture as far as I'm concerned. All I want to do is give you certain information. In fact, I insist on paying for the luncheon, including tip. I'll even pay your cab fare from Wall Street and back again. I don't know what you're worried about, Mr. Martin, but I'm not dangerous. I'm a victim."

"Very well. But cab fare won't be necessary."

Kirby had breakfast in her robe and fuzzy slippers, a cup of coffee and the morning news. She dressed in black cotton slacks, jogging shoes and a coarsely woven pullover that was about the color of a ripe watermelon. She stuffed her money, credit card and keys into a denim fanny bag.

Detective Manor called about mid-morning. Kirby thought she detected guilt in his voice. He had not been much help. "I wanted to tell you, Kirby, I did check on the Grand Clam convention in Boston. There were hundreds of people there. Some flew in, some came by car. There's no way even to narrow down those two groups unless we check hotel records, that is if your friend left his car in the hotel garage. He may not have."

"It doesn't really matter, Jim," Kirby said. "I've done all I can do. I've told you, a New York City detective, I've talked with the FBI twice, I've written them a letter. I sent copies of the letter to everyone I could think of. I've talked to the Kansas City cop who ran down Ivan the Terrible. And I'm having lunch with the baby's grandfather. He'll probably try to have me locked up. So I've made about as big an ass of myself as humanly possible. Tomorrow I'm going back to my boss and tell him I'll forget the whole thing."

After a silence, Manor said, "You aren't telling me that you don't believe it either. I mean, you don't think you might have imagined the whole thing?"

"Of course not," Kirby snapped. "It did happen. The baby was stolen and Ivan the Terrible is free. But I can't really convince anyone of that. So maybe I'll call it quits after lunch today."

"And maybe pigs will fly. I never knew you to give up so easy. My years with the department have cost me some sensitivity, but you know I'm with you, Kirby."

"Thanks, Jim. And you understand, my career's on the line. At some point I've gotta opt for making a living. But if some odd murders do pop up, you know what I mean, feel free to call."

After hanging up, she ran a comb through her hair, then put on clear lipstick. Kirby seldom used makeup, but she did check her skin for blemishes and signs of age. She was over thirty. But her weight was good, about one twenty six, good for her height, just under five-seven. Her hair was tawny and she kept it short, her eyes somewhere between hazel and gray. And she was attractive.

An on-camera television reporter needed both brains and looks, there was no question about that. Get old and flabby and you're either on the street, or somewhere in a back hall editing film. And to be a staffer for The Leading Event was a plum.

CHAPTER SIX

Ivan Hicks was chilled to the bone and hungry. A trucker had dropped him off the night before near a modest community called Wooley Woods. He had played it safe, holing up in a deserted shed, wrapping himself in a filthy blue plastic tarpaulin during the night hours.

With dawn, he kept watch over a nondescript yellow frame house, somewhat isolated on a large lot. He saw a man leave, climb into a pickup truck and drive off. A half hour later, three school-aged children trooped out, lunch buckets in hand, and were presently picked up by a yellow school bus.

An expensive looking four-door sedan remained in the drive. Ivan guessed the lady of the house was still inside. If not, an empty house would also serve his purposes. There would be food, maybe clothing, possibly cash and the car keys.

As he watched, a trim woman emerged and walked to the mailbox, the rural type fastened to a support by the road. Ivan's eyes lit up. She was attractive, very attractive. He feared for a second that she might go right to the car and drive away. But luck was on his side. After depositing a letter and raising the red flag to signal the postman, she returned immediately to the house.

Ivan made his move, leaving his place of hiding, he walked directly to the front door and knocked.

The door opened and a smiling woman dressed in a black linen business suit over a white shell blouse, said, "Oh, hi. I was just about to leave. What can I do for you?"

Ivan smiled back, before pushing her deeper into the house. She screamed and he backhanded her across the face, breaking her jaw. She was caught like a rat in a trap, sobbing on the floor.

Ivan dragged her into the bedroom and ripped the clothes from her convulsing body. Then he was on top of her, his hard cock a knife, repaying past debts, his fist a hammer, pounding her head as she gasped for breath, her body squirming beneath him.

CHAPTER SEVEN

It was a nice day, so Kirby left her apartment and strolled toward Central Park. She was early, so she picked a circuitous route, arriving at the restaurant just five minutes late. Arthur Martin, a stocky, handsome man, silver sideburns, was waiting near the cash register. Kirby guessed his identity instantly.

He was probably early fifties and looked like an investment banker, solid, impeccably dressed, conservative seventy-five dollar tie, probably a member of some eastern school's old boy network.

She approached him and stuck out her hand, "Kirby Lotto. Hope I didn't keep you waiting long."

"Of course not, Miss Lotto. The headwaiter has a table for us." He flicked his hand in the direction of an elderly tuxedoed gentleman and they were ushered to an out-of-the-way table.

Kirby noticed a few eyes of other diners had followed them through the main room. "Not an unusual couple," she said as she sank into her chair. "You're the moneyed older man and I'm the bimbo." Martin opened his menu.

"Well, let's hear the story."

Kirby glanced toward him over her menu. "Since I'm the hostess, I suggest we order first. I did come for lunch."

He bristled, but said nothing and spent the time until the waiter arrived studying his menu. When a waiter did approach it was Kirby who spoke. "I'm taking care of the check," Kirby told the waiter. "So, my guest will order first."

"Shall we have a drink?" he asked.

"Get anything you want," she countered. "And don't call yourself 'we.'" The waiter, a college student, almost sniggered. He probably figured he was serving a quarreling father-daughter combo.

"I'll have the bacon-wrapped scallops," Martin said. "And hot tea."

"I'll have the same," Kirby said. Another awkward silence until Kirby remarked on the weather and finally moved to sports and politics. Finally the food arrived. Martin seemed to realize it was Kirby's show; at least he waited for her to begin.

Once their food was served, she told her story. "I was in St. Louis the morning of the crash." She poked at a scallop, swimming in some sort of sweetish mustard sauce. "I rushed to the airport and found that my flight left later -- it was the flight after 777. But I talked the gate attendant into letting me on board 777, which is against the rules. I mean I wasn't ticketed for the flight."

"You're telling me you were actually on the flight that crashed in New Jersey?" Martin hadn't really begun to eat and now he put down his fork and stared at her.

"Yes, I am. What I would like is for you to listen to my entire story -- whether you believe it or not is up to you. After I tell you my story, I'm going to wash my hands of the entire affair."

He nodded for her to continue and she poured out the events of that day. "So you see I've made a laughing stock of myself. No one really believes me, though a couple of people think there may be some truth to my story. But one thing is for sure, Ivan Hicks is free and will kill again and again. I'm afraid that's ultimately what will validate my story."

"What do you want from me?"

"Absolutely nothing. You've given me what I want, a couple of hours of your time. That woman -- I suppose it was Gloria, made this incredible noble gesture to save her baby. I thought the least I could do would be to tell a responsible person, a relative, the child's grandfather in fact. So I've done it."

"Your story's fantastic." Martin stared at his plate as if he had never seen a scallop before. "If it's true, where is the baby? Where is little Mike now?"

"Stolen. Kidnapped, if you prefer. What happened is that a stranger dropped off a handsome child at the hospital. This sort of thing isn't unknown. Usually the police are called in when the mother doesn't return, the infant becomes a ward of the state, might be eventually put up for adoption, a search is made for the parents. But this time someone was watching, someone knew what was going on. Someone was on the lookout for an abandoned baby, a handsome baby, a pretty boy, and they snatched it. In your prayers, Mr. Martin, please pray that little Mike is in good hands." Kirby signaled the waiter for the bill.

"That's all you wanted to do? Tell me this bizarre story?" He attempted to grab the check, but Kirby had it a flash. She pulled cash from her fanny pack.

"What would you do if you were in my boots? My boss thinks I'm a loony, my job's on the line, the FBI is probably sticking my name into some sort of sinister file. A New York cop who was a friend of mine doesn't know what to think. I've gone through hell these last couple of days. What I haven't done is sleep." She piled cash on the bill and stood up. "Goodbye, Mr. Martin." She turned and was gone.

Walking through Central Park and down Eighth Avenue, she felt relieved. To go any further with this business would be foolhardy. At loose ends, she sought out a movie theater and settled down into the shadowy fantasy of a comfortable chair and lost herself in a Fred Astaire romantic musical comedy. Tomorrow she would call Stan Mayfield and start her life from square one.

It was almost midnight when her phone rang. Kirby awoke from a sound sleep and struggled to reach the instrument, pushing it off her bedside table, it clattered to the floor. When she finally retrieved it and said, hello, Arthur Martin's voice, joyless as usual, was on the line.

"Well, you've made your point, Miss Lotto. I've been over your story two or three times with my wife and it upset her to no end. And she doesn't know what to believe."

"Do you know what time it is?" Kirby questioned. Actually, she didn't know herself.

"Of course I know what time it is. There's no sleeping in my household tonight. I know what you've done now. It's like the POW thing in Vietnam. They're dead, you know, but a few ghouls give their loved ones hope that they might still be alive. Every tragedy attracts bloodsuckers, I suppose!" He was almost shouting and Kirby suspected that he had been drinking. She quietly hung up the phone and then pulled its plug from the wall. She buried her head in her pillow and sighed, but getting back to sleep seemed impossible.

In the morning her head was in a fog. She had taken two sleeping pills, a measure of last resort. She had showered and was having coffee when she remembered the unplugged phone. She plugged it in and switched on the news. In the swift stream of life, Flight 777 was already forgotten. There was a fresh crisis in Eastern Europe and an earthquake on some remote Japanese island.

When the telephone rang, Kirby answered it only reluctantly. This time it was a woman's voice, the words sweet and grandmotherly could apply. "I'm Mrs. Martin, Miss Lotto. My husband called you last night and made quite a scene. You must forgive him, he was quite upset."

"And half drunk," Kirby said.

"Yes, that could be true," she said softly. Obviously, the husband was lurking somewhere near, listening to his wife's side of the conversation. "But the fact remains, your story was upsetting to both of us. So perhaps you'll make allowances."

"And, Mrs. Martin, my story, as you call it, is even more upsetting to me. Also, I told your husband that I wanted to, in fact felt it was my duty, to tell someone in your family what had happened. But then I wanted nothing more to do with it. You now know as much as I do."

"But we don't, Miss Lotto. You are our link to the crash. If what you say is true, what do you expect us to do?"

"How should I know?" Kirby said, the ragged edges of her nerves poking through. "I've been butting my head against a wall. Try it, you may like it."

"Be reasonable, I'm willing to give your story a try. We do have money. What should we do?"

"Money? Why do you mention money?"

"Arthur, my husband, thought there might be some need for money. If so, why not? We have it. Our grandson is very precious to us."

"I hope you're not saying that I want money from you, Mrs. Martin. If you are, I definitely don't want anything to do with you at any time in the next two thousand years. Is that clear?"

"Of course it is. But to solve this thing some financing might be needed."

Kirby thought a moment. "You do have a point, and I would like someone to believe me. You can figure this out as easily as I can, but in case you haven't thought about it, here's what you can do. Hire a good private investigator. Ask him to go to Oakview General hospital in New Jersey and find out what became of the baby that was dropped off there just an hour or so after the crash of Flight 777. If you can do that, things might be cleared up a bit."

"And what investigator should we hire?" Mrs. Martin asked.

The question enraged Kirby, but she held her temper. Obviously Martin had brainwashed his wife into believing she was in league with some sort of extortion mob.

"I haven't the foggiest idea. If I knew an investigator, I wouldn't give you his name. The last thing I want is to be linked in any way with you spending your cherished money. And if you ever call me again, either of you, you'd better be polite. Your manners are a little better than your husband's, but I'm not totally taken with your attitude. Goodbye, Mrs. Martin." Kirby placed the receiver quietly, but firmly in its cradle.

She paced the floor of her apartment, stared out the window, and then put water for coffee on the stove. She switched on the heat, then switched it off again, did more pacing and tried several TV channels before flicking off the set in disgust. Finally, she kicked at the couch and hurt her toe, which pulled her back to reality. Kirby heated water for coffee.

Even though she had planned to go to the office and make peace with Stan Mayfield, the Martin call upset her to the point that she decided to do nothing for the rest of the day.

She toyed with the idea of taking Stan's advice and actually making an appointment with a psychiatrist. Then she told herself, you're strong, you can handle this. It wasn't the confrontations she minded so much. The news business was full of that sort of thing on a daily basis. But the underlying implication that she was dishonest, that she was seeking either glory or hard cash, that was getting to her. Using that line of reasoning, it would follow that she was a burnt-out newswoman forced to make up incredible tales to attract attention.

And maybe she was temporarily burnt out. Perhaps she should take the full time Stan had allotted to her and head off on a vacation. Maybe Malaysia in search of Jim Henderson and the lost cities of gold. Kuala Lumpur beckons, a big, noisy, polluted Asian city. But if she did, if she flew off and left things hanging, there would be doubts. At least she would take the day off.

She donned blue jeans and sweatshirt and took a long walk almost as far as Battery Park, then back up through Chinatown. Chinatown, that mysterious block of real estate that at one time consisted of the six blocks below Canal Street, but now had overrun Little Italy and touches the South Street Seaport and is pushing toward Fourteenth Street to the north. Kirby admired the teeming section for its low crime rate and, despite the influx of poor immigrants, legal and illegal, she could not remember seeing a homeless person on the streets.

She breathed in the vigor of the area and saw live carp and bream for sale, swimming in their tanks, partridges and squab were available along with dried abalone and huge lobsters. She passed banquet halls, jammed with families on weekends, but serving dim-sum lunches of steamed dumplings of pork, shrimp and curried meats during the day. The smells and the sounds transported her and cares fell away.

Then it was off to the Village where she made a lunch of herbal tea and a croissant stuffed with cream cheese, lox bits and capers. Although Chinese food was a delight, today Kirby's system cried for a simpler fare.

She had often wondered where capers came from and having nothing better to do after lunch, she strolled up to the public library and sought out a reference book. The first definition of caper was a playful leap, or hop. A wild escapade was also mentioned. Then the reference book she was looking through related: A pickled flower bud of a Mediterranean shrub used as a condiment.

Satisfied and pleasantly tired, she returned to her apartment and flopped down on the couch for a nap. As she drifted off, she was at peace. She relived her trip to the quiet elegance of the library and thought of it as the caper caper. She liked that: caper caper. Just before dropping off, she thought if she had but leaped into the library it would qualify as the caper caper caper. Kirby had always enjoyed words.

Just at dusk, Jim Manor called. "I do have something for you this time, Kirby. There've been a couple of women killed in New Jersey. One not far from Paterson, the second body was found near a place called Mahwah. That's near the New York line. In fact, not far from the New York State throughway."

Kirby took a deep breath. This thing, this situation she was in, seemed to have a life of its own. "These women, these killings," she began, "they were brutal?"

"Yes, and they were both raped. The first one was bludgeoned to death in her home. Quite a number of blows, far more than would normally be needed, a brutal, savage beating, bones all over the body broken, heavy table lamp. The second one was apparently abducted from a shopping mall parking garage, driven to a remote area, raped and slashed up with a knife, cut real bad. The knife was found. It apparently had been purchased at a discount store at the mall."

"I see," Kirby said. "You might guess whoever did the killing got on the throughway?"

"It's a good assumption," the detective said. "It goes north into upper New York, or east toward White Plains, Long Island Sound, what have you."

"All of New York City. Correct?"

"Correct."

"You want to make a guess on the killer?" she asked.

"I told you I'd call and I did, Kirby. But I can't say it's Ivan Hicks. I could relate your story, but I doubt if anyone would believe me. The federal aviation people are sticking to their guns -- exploded on impact. No survivors."

"I understand, Jim. But let me put one bug in your ear. If you can find out if any fingerprints are found, would it be possible to have them compared with Hicks'?"

"I think I could do that. And I will do that. Have you done anything else?"

"Not really, but I'll give your information to someone who might be able to do something with it. And I'll be in touch."

"Thanks, Kirby. I wish I could do more."

Kirby made herself a cup of coffee, then called Otis Paine in his Ozark mountains retirement home. As the phone rang she tried to imagine what it was like, a tar paper shack on the banks of a stream, a log cabin nestled in the pines, a ramshackle trailer home on a junk-strewn lot.

When he answered she gave him the news of the two murders. "I don't have any details other than what I've told you," she said. "I really don't want to know the details."

"Have the murders been linked?" Paine questioned.

"As far as I know, no. However, it shouldn't be hard to link them. They're not too far apart. But we are talking a metropolitan area. A lot of people, no shortage of crime. The second one, the knife murder, it could have even happened in New York state. It was near the line. I didn't press Jim for details. I suppose he saw some sort of report they get at the department. But both killings are not so far from the plane crash. Tomorrow, I'll check the papers."

"Yes, it would be good to know more," Paine said, then asked, "What are you going to do about it, Kirby?"

"I can't do anything, Otis," she said. "You might be only the second person who even slightly believes me. I've called the FBI and written a letter. I've talked to both grandparents of the missing infant. They think I'm some sort of extortionist. I've alerted Jim Manor and he called me. He has some faith. And now I've called you. That's it."

"That's something," Otis agreed. "You know the fishing here has been rotten lately. I'm not without a few bucks. And everyone wants to visit New York City at least once."

Kirby brightened. "Otis, you mean that?"

"Sure. I'd need a place to stay. You'd have to show me the ropes."

"There's a couch in my living room. The sooner you get here, the better I'll feel." Instinctively, she liked this man. "How about tomorrow?"

"Too soon. I've got the responsibility of a coon dog. I'll have to farm him out to a neighbor. But the day after tomorrow. I'll check the airlines and give you a call. You be home tomorrow morning?"

"You bet."

After she hung up, she wondered if she had made the right decision. To invite a man she had barely talked to and never even met to share her apartment. But his credentials seemed good. She could live with her decision and she could also make do with a little moral support. And he was single.

CHAPTER EIGHT

On the morning that Otis was to arrive, Kirby got a call from a polite Mrs. Martin. "We did as you suggested, Miss Lotto. We hired a competent private investigator. He went directly to Oakview General hospital in New Jersey. And he went in person, no phone calls. He said there was no baby the day of the crash. That is, no one dropped off a baby, no one picked up a baby. No baby." She waited for an answer.

Kirby was dumfounded. When she did speak, she asked, "Are you certain of the day, the right date?"

"Absolutely. We paid this man a large fee to be thorough and accurate. There's no doubt about the day and there's no doubt that there was no baby. I thought I'd call and let you know. My husband is so angry and upset that I thought it best that I call."

"Is your husband home now?" Kirby questioned.

"Yes. He's not going to the office until this thing's cleared up. But I suppose it's over now. What you've done is rather cruel, Miss Lotto."

"I can see how you would think so," Kirby said. "But it's not over yet. If I can, I'd like to arrange a lunch for the two of you and your private investigator. But I need to make certain another party can be there. Will you meet me for lunch? I want one more shot at this thing."

"I don't see why we should, but you've raised our hopes. We might as well play it out and lay it to rest once and for all. Of course we'll have to phone the detective. Can I call you back?"

By midmorning the arrangements had been made and Kirby reserved a table for six at a small restaurant called the Alhambra not far from Hunter College. Not long after that, Otis Paine arrived by cab at her apartment building.

Paine appeared to be in his mid-fifties, thinning white hair and gold wire rimmed glasses. His eyes were pale blue and his skin weathered and tan. He was affable, but there was a no-nonsense air about him. She guessed he had been a good cop.

"My first time in New York," was his opening line.

"It's not so bad," she replied. "I've made room for your stuff in a storage closet. You'll be camping out here."

"I can probably find a place."

"Hah," she responded. "You've no idea of the prices. But you're welcome to look. Did you find a good home for your dog?"

"Oh, sure. He'd be better off if I never go back."

Kirby glanced at her watch. "We've got a luncheon to go to in a few minutes." Kirby explained what was happening on the way to the Alhambra. She had decided to involve Paine totally in every facet of the mess she was in. She needed a thoughtful father. But Paine's presence raised another question. What was he really like? No time for that now.

The Martins, along with a nondescript man in a business suit, were waiting in front of the restaurant. Introductions were made and the five of them went in together. The private eye was introduced as Carmichael Jones.

When they were seated at a round dark oak table with Spanish style place mats, Martin said, "I'm keenly interested in why you asked us here, Miss Lotto." There was no humor in his tone of voice.

"It wasn't just to buy you another lunch, Mr. Martin. In fact, I'll let you pick up the tab for this one." She glanced at her watch, then toward the door. She was relieved to see Jim Manor enter the restaurant. "Here's the final guest."

When Manor was seated, Kirby asked the private detective to tell them what he had learned at Oakview General hospital. The man glanced at Martin as if asking permission to speak. "Do we have to go into this?" Martin asked sourly.

"That's why we're here, Mr. Martin. I hope you will keep in mind that there are three of us here who have come to help you and your wife."

"Give your report," Martin told the detective.

Jones talked while looking at notes. He had gone to the hospital, gone directly to the administrator's office, told the administrator why he was there. The administrator was totally cooperative. Together they looked through computerized hospital records for the emergency room and pediatrics for the day of the crash of Flight 777. Absolutely no baby had been brought to the hospital, no baby had been picked up. End of report.

Jim Manor was caught completely off guard by Jones' report. "Are you certain you've got the right day," he asked sharply.

"Who are you to ask questions?" Martin asked.

"I didn't tell you," Kirby said, "but Mr. Manor is an active New York police detective and Mr. Paine is a recently retired police detective from Kansas City. Do you object to those credentials, Mr. Martin?"

"No, of course not," he said.

Manor was still waiting for Jones to reply.

"I'm absolutely certain of the day we checked. The crash of Flight 777 was on everybody's mind. The hospital was used as a temporary morgue. I understand though that the baby was supposed to have been dropped off just before the crash was reported."

"That's right," Manor said. "And I believe it was dropped off. Either your report is wrong, or the hospital records are wrong. I'd suggest you dig a little deeper."

"How can you say such a thing?" Martin demanded. A waiter had approached the table, but then drifted away at what sounded to him like an argument. "Mr. Jones' agency has been in business for more than fifty years."

Manor looked at Martin and smiled. "You're defending this man's report?"

"And why shouldn't I?" he asked.

"I thought your grandson was at stake. I thought you were after the truth." He turned to Mrs. Martin. "If you feel the same way, we might as well forget this whole thing."

"Please, Mr. Manor," Mrs. Martin said. "I want to believe the baby is alive and I do want to know the truth." She glanced at her husband. "Arthur's inclined to be impatient. Why don't you continue your discussion with Mr. Jones and we'll both keep out of it." She put a hand on her husband's arm.

"Well, what do you think?" Manor asked Jones.

"I usually like to go to the top in my investigations. There's no sense in creeping around back halls. Why would the hospital be covering up something like this? That is what you're getting at, isn't it?"

"That's a possibility. There might be others. A computer malfunction. Something else. The fact is, Mr. Jones, you've talked with one person. If there was a baby, someone brought the baby in, someone accepted the baby, someone patched up the baby's ear and someone checked the baby out. And someone accepted money for the baby's medical bill. Have you questioned any of those people?"

"No," Jones said.

Paine was watching the scene at the table with great interest. He was also wondering if they were ever going to eat lunch. On the plane, he had been given only peanuts and a soft drink. He looked hungrily in the direction of the waiter.

Manor gave Martin a hard look. "I happen to believe there was a baby. Now whether it was your grandson, or not, I don't know. But I do believe there was a baby. Now are you satisfied with your detective's report?"

Martin frowned, but his wife was quick to speak. "I'm not satisfied. I say that Mr. Jones should go back to Oakview and do some creeping around back halls. That's what detectives are supposed to do, isn't it? I'm deeply disappointed with his report. It is not thorough." She looked at Otis Paine. "Do you have any opinion on this?"

He scratched his chin. "I think we should eat. I think better on a full stomach." Kirby signaled the waiter who had been keeping an eye on the table. He came over and took their orders as quickly as he could.

"Mr. Manor," Martin said in his best banker voice, "why do you believe there was a baby at that hospital on the day of the crash?"

"Because Kirby, Miss Lotto, asked me to check on it. I made some inquiries and satisfied myself that there was a baby. The story matched what Kirby had said down to the green blanket the child was wrapped in."

"It wasn't a blanket," Mrs. Martin said.

"I know that," Manor said. "It was a type of fitted blanket though. I think it snapped on. Anyway, the child also had the injured ear that Kirby had described. Now comes the fuzzy part. I was told it was a mix-up, that the mother had dropped it off, then left without checking in, but that the family later returned and claimed the baby and paid the bill."

Jones raised his hands in the air in a sign of confusion. "I was told there was no baby and the records seemed to bear it out."

"Okay," Manor continued. "Of course Kirby asked me to follow up by finding out exactly who the baby was and the family's name. She said she'd drop the whole matter if I would do that. But when I checked back I was given the same story and then told these were local people and they didn't want their privacy disturbed. Something like that."

"And you believed that?" Mrs. Martin questioned.

"Yes, I did," he replied. "My source seemed good. Just as Mr. Jones' source seems sound. But the fact is, I wasn't given an answer. So Oakview's not in my jurisdiction. It's as far as I could go."

"I don't understand the contradiction," Mrs. Martin said.

"I don't either," Manor admitted. "But there is a marked difference here. I do know that all hospitals, small or large, are plagued with personnel problems and tend to get sloppy at times. Mixing up a baby, giving away a baby, permitting a baby to be stolen from your hospital is a serious business. I can understand a hospital administrator who got wind of such a thing attempting to squelch it, even falsifying records if he knew he could without detection. And I'd say Oakview is a cozy little community." He spoke directly to Jones. "I wouldn't even fully trust the police out there until I found out what was what."

"Who was your source?" Jones asked.

"I'm not going to say," Manor replied. "It might just muddy the waters."

The remainder of the meal was spent largely in silence. Martin did pick up the tab and Mrs. Martin seemed outwardly excited about the prospect that the grandson, little Mike, might still be alive. There were no sly remarks about Kirby's lust for money. Everyone at the table realized that something unusual was afoot.

"I sometimes make hasty judgments," Martin said at the end of the meal. He looked directly at Kirby. "I should have given you thanks and encouragement, and respect, yes respect, from the beginning. Now I see I was wrong."

Kirby was about to say something nice to Martin, but he suddenly nodded his head in disbelief. "If there were survivors, why in the name of God doesn't the FBI or the airline, or the aviation people in Washington, do something? I simply don't understand it."

"I don't either," Kirby said. "I've told my story repeatedly. I told you, remember?"

"Yes I do and I'm sorry. I'm deeply sorry. And I'll move heaven and earth to find that child, if he did survive. And I'm not saying he didn't, not now, anyway. But the FBI, the government, these are the people we put our trust in, these are the people who get our tax money. They spend millions. And they don't produce a damned cent."

As they left the restaurant, Mrs. Martin asked if Otis was interested in helping in the search for little Mike. "No, Ma'am, I spent a lot of years in police work, but I'm retired. I have certain hobbies to pursue. But in my opinion, Mr. Jones will do a good job. If there was a baby, and I believe there was, if he talks to enough people, something will break."

"I'm beginning to feel a lot better about this entire matter," Mrs. Martin said. "I just wonder if we shouldn't approach the FBI again."

"Your husband might have a better reception than I did," Kirby said. "But this no survivor thing seems to be carved in granite somewhere. It's like Moses brought it down from a mountain. Of course if you know somebody, you know, special access, you might get somewhere."

The Martins went off with Carmichael Jones and Kirby drew Jim and Otis aside. She told Jim about Paine's background and that he had come to New York not only as a tourist, but on the chance that Ivan Hicks might be on another rampage.

"But you're retired," Manor said to Paine.

"That's true, Jim. But I do know a great deal about Hicks and he did some of his murdering in New York State. I'm trying to get material together for a book."

Jim nodded. "That's good. Very good. A good cover. I'd stick with that rather than come out flatly and say Hicks is alive. You could even say you're looking for copycat killers, although it would be strange for a person to mimic a dead man."

"Then I can count on some assistance?" Paine asked.

"Yes, I think so. I'll do what I can for you. Most records and many reports will be open to you. I'll introduce you to a few people."

"And the recent murders?"

"Oh, yes, those. I suppose that's why you've really come. We have reports on them, but you'll have to travel to the local departments to get all the facts. Why don't you come around tomorrow morning? Kirby can tell you where."

Kirby and Otis returned to her apartment. "I think we may have done some good today," she said. "We started some wheels moving in the right direction, started some thought patterns."

"And we did get a free meal," Otis remarked," Although for a while there I thought we'd never get to order. All that wrangling spooked the waiter. Anyway, my first day in New York I'd say was interesting. Later on I'll gawk at the buildings and get mugged."

Paine's personal possessions were contained in one soft plastic bag. He had also brought an attaché case crammed with pertinent material on Ivan Hicks. The two of them spent the next few hours at the kitchen table going over the clips and reports on Hicks' activities.

Finally, Kirby said she would pull dinner together. "I've got some scraps of meat. We can make sandwiches. But first I'll mix us a drink. I've got scotch or beer. Any preference?"

Hicks opted for beer. Kirby handed him a can then rummaged around and found a couple of blankets, a sheet and a pillow and dumped the lot on the couch. "There's your bed. I'm a fairly early riser so give me dibs on the bathroom between six and seven."

She found half a loaf of week-old wheat bread, some deli cuts of roast beef that were turning green and a plastic squeeze jar of hot dog mustard, the spout ringed with an evil looking crust. She set them out on the kitchen counter. Kirby then poured herself two fingers of scotch in an eight-ounce tumbler, dropped in three ice cubes and filled the glass from the kitchen tap.

Sitting down at the kitchen table where Paine had just popped open his beer can, she observed, "This is the life, Otis. I'm sure all those folks in the Midwest envy the hell out of us New Yorkers."

"Uh huh," he agreed. "Tomorrow, I'll make dinner."

When Kirby emerged for coffee the following morning, Otis was already dressed and watching cable news. "You've got more damned channels in this town. Yet there's not much of interest to watch. Not for me, anyway."

"Ain't it the truth. You want coffee?"

"Already had some." He looked up smiling. "But I'll take another cup. Should I go out for donuts or something?"

"No need. There are some bagels in the freezer. I'll unthaw a couple. There's peach jam."

"No cream cheese?" Otis asked.

"Had some, but it turned green. Tossed it out a couple of weeks ago. I'll get some at the store."

"No, I like peach jam, or most anything else. And I appreciate your hospitality, Kirby. I won't be with you long. I've got to get out to where those killings were."

"I understand, but you're welcome to stay as long as you like. I wondered about this, you know, inviting a stranger in. But I think it's okay. How about you?"

"Yeah, I think it's good. I mean we have a goal. So I'll get out in a day or two, but I'll keep in touch. You can have sort of a command post here. You can follow the news, keep up with the Martins and their man, keep tabs on Jim Manor and so on."

"What's Kansas City like, Otis? I mean really like?"

Otis laughed. He could have easily asked Kirby what New York City was really like. "It's a city, not as big as yours. But there are honest people and there are criminals, side by side, sometimes switching sides. Good restaurants, bad restaurants, movies, dances, traffic problems, romance, heartaches, rich and poor, drunks and preachers, schools, what can I say?"

"That's almost poetic."

"I suppose. When I was young I liked poetry, but I became a cop."

"Maybe all cops are poets."

"That's a tough one. I'll have to give that some thought. Of course they aren't just what people think, but I don't know about poets. Sometime you'll have to tell me more about yourself, Kirby."

CHAPTER NINE

Otis Paine wasted no time in getting on the track of the killer he imagined might be Ivan Hicks. He spent an entire day getting to know Jim Manor, trailing him around Manhattan, almost like a partner. The two got on well as Manor explained the complexities of New York police work, bound not only by local law, but also tradition.

Paine trailed his mentor through the city canyons, fascinated by dialects and the multiplicity of languages. He concluded that people are people, but there are differences. He also learned that Manor had taken a degree in journalism at the University of Maryland, was unable to find a job in New York and joined a friend in taking the police exam, scoring high. That was just over ten years ago. Now he had a wife and a child on the way and spent his spare time fixing up a vacation home near a small town called Goshen.

"That sounds like a retirement home," Otis had said.

"Don't I wish," Manor replied. Otis nodded, thinking of his retirement home in the Ozarks with a dog but no family.

Then Paine spent another day as Manor's guest rooting through police files. Then he set out for the wilds of New Jersey and New York State.

Reading the scant reports he had about the two murders and their locations and noting the crash site on the map, he was deeply concerned. This was Ivan, the raging beast was on the loose, Otis felt it in his heart. The savagery of the crimes.

Kirby suggested it would be next to impossible to get a decent rental car in Manhattan, so, his plastic bag in hand, he caught a bus to Paterson, arriving much later in the day than he anticipated, the bus had been a local and seemed to be forever stopping and starting, dropping a passenger here, picking another up at a street corner. Otis found a sleazy hotel and asked about a room.

The room clerk, in fact the only person in the tiny lobby, was a wren-like woman with a sallow complexion and an unwholesomely thin face. Her eyes were bright and seemed too large for her face and were also birdlike, burning as if with a fever. She was barricaded behind a heavy metal grill, with only a slot at its base to permit the passage of money, receipts, or keys. Otis imagined that Ivan, if he had fled through Paterson, might have sought a room at this very place. It was not unlike some dog-trap lodgings he had traced the killer to in Missouri and Kansas.

The clerk was suspicious, but her qualms melted when Otis produced cash from his wallet. "I'll pay for one night, but I may stay longer."

"It's all right," the woman said. "Either pay or check out by noon tomorrow. We do have weekly rates."

"Thank you." Otis took his key and climbed the two flights to a threadbare carpeted dark passage that led to his room, Number Nine. Number Nine contained a sagging double bed, a bedside table, brass plated lamp with a cocked shade, a flimsy chest of drawers made of plastic and fake wood and a single straight-backed oak chair. The walls were papered with a faded floral pattern, and the single window, which looked out at a brick wall eight feet away, was covered by a yellowing, torn shade. There was no phone and no TV.

Yes, this was the type of room that Ivan Hicks might have rented, and perhaps had. Otis looked at the skeleton key in his hand, at the sad condition of the door, which had obviously been kicked in and repaired more than once, then decided to block it with his chair while he slept. Hell, he might even drag the whole bed in front of it. He had been a cautious cop and now he was retired and carried no weapon.

After a night's sleep interrupted by traffic noises, diesels, sirens, and squealing tires, Paine decided to find quieter digs. It was a far cry from the peace of the Ozarks. Anyway, his business in Paterson could be wrapped up in a few hours. He turned in his key and found a small restaurant with placemats that informed him that New Jersey's state flower is the purple violet; its motto, Liberty and prosperity; its bird, the eastern goldfinch and its tree, the red oak.

He wondered why states bothered with such nonsense. Then he thought of the state legislators, most of them at the dull-normal intelligence level, sitting around in their marble halls trying to think of things to legislate. It made sense. Picking a state's favorite color wasn't as dangerous as tampering with real laws that might govern one's daily life. It made harmless work for borderline fools and grist for the placemat and tourist mills.

At the Paterson public library he got recent issues of the paper and photocopied stories relating to both the bludgeoning and the knife murder. The stories were fairly detailed although neither had happened in the city. Again, the brutality, the mindless battering and cutting. Otis glanced over his shoulder half expecting to see the cold glittering eyes of Ivan boring down on him as he read the accounts.

Then he dropped by police headquarters and was well received as a former member of the fraternity, the men in blue, men who are neither white, black or yellow. They are blue men, set apart, often friendless except to their own kind. He learned what he could, then rented a car and set out for the community where the first murder occurred.

The first of the two murders had happened at a place called Wooley Woods, an unincorporated area not far from a major north-south highway. Wooley Woods was a wide spot on a county road. There was a combination service station and convenience store, a failed farm implement building that had been converted into a flea market that was open on weekends and a Presbyterian church. There were half a dozen side streets and a scattering of homes.

Paine at first drove by the victim's home, a small yellow frame on a large lot dotted with fruit trees and a few pines. A faded blue pickup truck sat under a metal carport near the house. A black cat with a white blaze on its chest and three white paws roamed the yard, its nose in the grass as if seeking a field mouse.

This was not a rich house, but a hitchhiker could have been dropped off at the highway, easily walked to this place, spotted a car in the drive, then surprised the woman who was alone at the time, her three children in school, her husband at his factory job miles away. Rape, murder, robbery, car theft.

Otis Paine dropped by the convenience store and chatted with the clerk about the murder. The victim, Bonnie Lumley, had been well known in the area. She was active in the PTA, active in the local church, had been a part time realtor dealing in cheaper properties.

"Bonnie had a real nice car," the clerk enthused. "I guess in real estate you need something like that."

"I suppose," Paine agreed. "Was that the motive, you suppose? Her car?"

The clerk frowned and shook her head glumly. "This was a bad murder. She was raped and beat up something awful. The deputy comes in here and he told me about it. She was found naked next to her bed, blood all over the bed. Whoever killed her must of got bloody himself."

"That would give him away, wouldn't it?" Paine asked.

"It would," the clerk said wisely, "but they think he took a shower. Can you imagine? Bonnie laying there dead by her bed and him, whoever he was, taking a shower? Then stealing some of Mr. Lumley's clothes and driving off in her car." She shook her head and said, "Brrrrr. It makes my blood run cold. We've got new locks for our doors and we're looking for a big dog. My husband bought a gun and he showed me how to use it."

"You think the man's still in the neighborhood?" Paine asked. He had picked out corn chips, salted peanuts and a bottled grape drink and placed them on the counter in front of the clerk.

"He could be," the woman said. "Or he could come back. I mean, this was easy pickin's. We don't have a lot of law officers around here. Don't even see the deputy too often."

"From the sheriff's department?" Paine asked.

"Yes." The woman suddenly realized she was talking with a stranger, a man she had never seen before. And there was no one else around the store. She glanced down the counter where the owner kept a handgun in a drawer. Store clerks had been assaulted, robbed and murdered in broad daylight before. As a veteran cop, Paine could almost read her thoughts.

"I'm a retired police officer," he said, reassuringly. "That's why I'm interested in crimes, I suppose. I'm also trying to write a book about criminals. I had read about the Lumley murder and was on my way to the sheriff's department when I stopped here."

The clerk relaxed and smiled. "Well, they can tell you a lot, although they haven't caught that murderer." She took Paine's money and made change. "The deputies, they're all nice people."

Actually, while the sheriff's office was very cooperative, there was very little more they could tell him. The murder weapon had been a heavy table lamp as reported. No unidentified fingerprints had been found. There were a couple of new pieces to the puzzle. The husband estimated that she might have had as much as one hundred and fifty dollars in cash. She also had an ATM bank card. The murderer must have forced her to tell him her secret number before he killed her. He had withdrawn four hundred dollars from a machine in a shopping center about twenty miles north of Wooley Woods.

Also, the stolen car had been found some time after the murder. It was parked in a public lot in Nyack, New York.

"No prints, I suppose?" Paine asked.

"No. Wiped clean," the sheriff's detective said.

"How far had it been driven?"

"Not certain. Mr. Lumley could only guess at the mileage when it was stolen. But it seemed to have a few miles on it."

"Has the car been released?"

"No," the detective hesitated. "We have it in our garage. Actually, a couple of deputies went to Nyack and drove it back here. They looked over it, but there wasn't much to look for."

"What if it had been used in another crime?" Paine asked.

"I don't know. We cover the county here. The car was found in New York. The New York police had our stolen bulletin, of course, and the murder report. Do you know of a crime?"

"Yes I do," Paine said. "There was a young woman raped and stabbed to death near a place called Mahwah up toward the New York border. Another rape-murder just a couple of days after the one at Wooley Woods. It seemed to me the two might be linked."

"I see," the detective said seriously, then added, "If there were any external signs on the stolen car, mud or what-have-you, they're probably gone."

"I'm going up to Mahwah to get information for my book. I don't have all the facts, but it's possible the young lady was abducted in that car. She would either have been in the passenger seat, under threat of a knife, or locked up in the trunk. There might be hair samples, cloth fibers, you know the bit."

"Yes, I do," the detective said, suddenly animated. "I like it, Otis. At least it's something to go on. This crime, murders these days, so senseless, it's hard to find a reason. Now why did he have to kill her if he just wanted her money and the car?"

"That's something to think about." On his way to Mahwah, Paine's mind raced ahead. He knew he would be covering cold ground again. Where he should be looking was Nyack, New York, a town on the Hudson River, not far from the long Tappan Zee toll bridge and the New York State Thruway.

The old detective wanted to find a way to alert the authorities that a serial murderer was on the loose without destroying his credibility by insisting Ivan Hicks had survived the crash. The federal aviation people had absolutely proclaimed that Flight 777 exploded on impact. The locals would probably believe that Elvis lives, maybe on Mars, but they wouldn't buy the Ivan the Terrible story. Anyway, Paine couldn't take that chance. Being old and retired was enough, crazy he didn't need.

This part of New Jersey housed some incredibly rich people in proximity to the poor. If the killer was Hicks, he had been wise to pick a working class household. The households upward from two hundred thousand dollars, which were plentiful, would have attracted too much law. A working mother raped and bludgeoned in her bedroom would not usually be the subject of widespread notoriety. A degenerate neighbor, or a scorned lover might be to blame, all too common.

Paine picked up a six-pack of beer and a deli sandwich in a supermarket, then found a small motel near Mahwah. He pumped the room clerk about the murder and learned that the body had been found near a trailhead in the Ramapo Mountains. It was in New Jersey, but very close to both the New York state line and a county line. There had been some hassling over jurisdiction.

The victim, a Marge Atterbury, was definitely taken from a small shopping mall outside Mahwah. Her car had been found there, the keys on the ground nearby. Apparently she had been surprised while trying to unlock her car door just after dark. Paine went to his room, switched on TV, popped open a beer and settled down for an evening of news and sitcoms.

He didn't really like motels and had a hunch nobody did. They were always impersonal, the home of a thousand transients, but home to no one. That word "home" had a mystical quality. Otis had known it as a child and later when his wife was alive. Now he was nomadic, rootless, but at least he had a cause, a quest, and Kirby counting on him. That was something.

In researching the Atterbury murder, Paine once more found himself talking to a sheriff's detective, Jimmy Chagall. After his first talk with him, Paine read the autopsy and other reports, and then got together with Chagall over a cup of coffee. "What I'm doing, Jimmy," he confided, "is trying to do a book about Ivan Hicks, but I also want to bring in other murders. This Atterbury killing is something like Hicks' signature. I think it could be linked with a woman who was killed outside Paterson a few days ago."

"You mean another serial killer?" Chagall asked.

"Yes. Could be. One thing Hicks did was commit his killings in either small towns, or unincorporated areas. The departments there are small, usually have a lot on their hands. Say he did all his killing in one large city. It wouldn't be no time until everybody knew what was coming down. But spreading them out, going from a knife to a bludgeon. It might take some time." Paine hoped Chagall would buy his story.

"You've got some experience in this, Otis. How would you approach the case?"

"The car." He pulled his small notebook from his inside coat pocket and gave Chagall the date and details of the slaying of the housewife in Wooley Woods. "This man beat Mrs. Lumley to death after raping her, then took what money she had along with her bank card and her car. We know he drove this way because he used the bankcard to get cash from an ATM about twenty miles north of Paterson. So he could have driven on up here, abducted the Atterbury woman, knifed her to death in the Ramapo Mountains, then buzzed east along the New York State Thruway to Nyack. That's where the car was found."

Chagall nodded in agreement. "Where's the car now."

"The sheriff down near Wooley Woods has it impounded. I was down there talking to them. I even suggested if the car had been used in this murder there might be hairs or some other physical evidence in the trunk, or on the passenger seat. It's a possibility."

"I'll call them," Chagall said.

Paine was pleased. He knew both departments had access to state-of-the-art state police laboratories. He also knew if he pressed his theory too hard he might be considered a crackpot. "I'm going to drop by Nyack and see where the car was found," Paine said. "If this develops into anything it could be another chapter for my book. Eventually I'll work my way up to where Ivan Hicks committed some of his crimes. It's one way to spend your retirement."

"If you do learn anything else about the car, let me know," the sheriff's detective asked. "You know if this killer is in the Nyack area, he could kill again."

Of that, Paine was fairly certain. But he was glad that Chagall had brought it up. He may have found a real ally in Jimmy Chagall. The two of them spent time together, Chagall driving Otis around the area, swapping police stories from half a nation apart, stories that seemed strangely similar.

Chagall was darkly handsome with straight black hair. He told Otis that he was one-fourth Indian, although he didn't know what tribe. His paternal grandfather was a Presbyterian minister who had been born in Dundee, Scotland, and his father had spent his life as a railroad detective.

"Where's the Indian?" Otis had asked.

"My mother's mother. She died in childbirth. That was up in Maine. I guess that's why they weren't sure of the tribe. She had come over from Canada, married a Frenchman, my grandfather."

"What a people we are," Otis smiled.

CHAPTER TEN

The day after Paine had left Kirby's Manhattan apartment, Kirby had planned to return to work and tell Stan Mayfield she was willing to forget about Flight 777.

But then she imagined what Stan might say. He would ask, she envisioned, if she had seen a psychiatrist. She would reply in the negative. He then might ask what her original reason was for pretending to be on Flight 777. She would be at a loss. Then he would press on and demand to know if she still thought she was on Flight 777. She would have to say yes, but she was willing to pretend that she was not on that flight. Stan would then suggest she take more time off and definitely see a psychiatrist.

After going through these mental gymnastics, Kirby decided to hold off a few more days before returning to work. Something might break in her favor. Unfortunately for her, the federal aviation people seemed to have made it a matter of policy, as opposed to scientific fact, that Flight 777 had exploded on impact.

Paine had been gone three days when Kirby received a call from Mrs. Martin. "I thought you might like to know what Carmichael Jones found at Oakview General."

The older woman's voice gave no hint whether the news was good or bad. The vanished traces of that baby had been a subject that had severely tormented Kirby during her waking hours and even in her dreams. But now she hesitated. She had had entirely enough bad news to last her a lifetime. But of course she relented.

"Yes, I've been very anxious about his findings."

"They're inconclusive," Mrs. Martin said. Kirby's heart sank. "But there's hope. The hospital still won't say that a baby was brought in on that day, but there are witnesses that say otherwise. Jones has used a local woman, paid her, and she's talked to hospital employees. He thinks there was a baby dropped off and that it did have a torn, or cut ear. Then someone picked it up. They say the father picked it up. But the hospital is sticking to its guns, denying the whole thing."

"But there was a baby," Kirby said optimistically. "The baby was there on that day!"

"I think so," Mrs. Martin agreed. "Arthur has warned me not to get my hopes up. What we need is some kind of police investigation where the medical staff is officially questioned. Arthur has pointed out that it doesn't necessarily have anything to do with the plane crash, but Arthur's super cautious. You may have guessed. He can be difficult to live with."

Kirby was about to agree on Arthur's personality, when, in an abrupt flash she suddenly knew where the baby was. She was certain of it. "It does have to do with the crash, Mrs. Martin. But we can forget the hospital. I know where the baby is. I know what happened to little Mike. I just feel so sure of it."

When Mrs. Martin finally spoke she simply asked, "Where is little Mike?"

"I told you the story of the crash. It seems that I dropped Mike off and someone picked him up almost immediately. I thought, and I think rationally, that someone at the hospital must have been watching, waiting for a handsome baby to be abandoned. It's a legitimate assumption. Where do you look for an infant: at the hospital. But now I think I was wrong. Now I believe the man who picked me up along the road and drove me to the hospital returned and masqueraded as the baby's father and checked him out. He knew. And just before we got to the hospital, he asked to have a good look at the baby."

"It does sound possible," said Mrs. Martin.

"Possible, yes. He offered to wait and find a cab for me. He knew that I rushed into the hospital, handed the baby off to a woman who was standing in the lobby. Now I know she wasn't even an employee. Then rushed back out and he took me immediately to the town taxi. He has that baby."

"And you know who he is?"

"Of course I don't. If I did we could have cleared this thing up already. But I do know that he was headed for the Grand Clam hardware convention in Boston. And I'll bet a month's pay that he never got there. He would have turned around instantly after getting the baby and headed home."

"You're talking a childless couple," Mrs. Martin said.

"That's the best face to put on it," Kirby agreed. "Let's think positive. But we have to find that man, and when we do, we'll know what happened to the baby."

"I don't know how to proceed. Maybe my husband can suggest something."

Kirby rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. Arthur Martin had made a pest of himself thus far. "Does he have any faith in my story?"

"I believe he does," Mrs. Martin replied, "But I know Arthur doesn't want to be demonstrative. He doesn't want to believe something that might not come true. He is an investment banker and caution has been his watchword. He has seen deceit and he has seen fraud on a large scale."

"He certainly doesn't think I'm trying to trick him," Kirby said. "Not now, anyway. I haven't asked for a thing. I even bought him lunch."

"That might be what worries him. He isn't certain of your motives. In fact, he said just yesterday, there is no free lunch. But you have my trust, Kirby. How should we proceed?"

"Thanks, Mrs. Martin. You are a little calmer than your husband. I've gotten into a bad situation and I'm trying to clear my name. That's my personal interest. Brief as it was, I did feel some affinity for Gloria and still do. I can't begin to tell you about the trauma of that crash. Maybe someday.

"Otherwise, I know it's not right to steal babies and I'm certain it's wrong to loose a killer like Ivan Hicks on an unsuspecting public. We think he's killed at least twice since the plane crash and there's no way the police will believe he's not dead because of that crazy federal 'no survivor, killed on impact' ruling. Anyway, back to the subject at hand. What we have to do is track down a hardware dealer who started for the Grand Clam sales conference in Boston and never got there. He is not too old, drives a dark compact and is probably from not too far away, or else he would have flown. It shouldn't be too hard."

"I wouldn't know where to start," Mrs. Martin said in wonder.

"You don't have to know. Ask Carmichael Jones to do it for you. For one thing, there are hotel reservations. Someone made one and never showed up. Also the Grand Clam records. He likely called in sick, or with some other lame excuse. I'm sure Jones can come up with a short list in a few days. Then we have to think of proving that Little Mike was fathered by your son."

"That's not so hard," Mrs. Martin said, "particularly today. Then we establish a cut ear, the sex, the approximate age and so forth. I think we'll get somewhere."

Kirby smiled. "That's the spirit. You're talking like an investigative reporter now. But we should move and move quickly."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Nyack, New York, is a small city, well under ten thousand souls. It stands on the west bank of that broad stretch of the Hudson River not far north of the Tappan Zee toll bridge. Because of the great width of that section of the Hudson and a Dutch heritage, it is called the Tappan Zee, and the bridge is the only one for many miles in either direction. There is also an Upper Nyack, a South Nyack, a Central Nyack and a West Nyack, all of varying degrees of importance.

Nyack itself is a child of the river now grown old since its founding in 1684. Boat yards are still in business, but since those colonial days the area has added light manufacturing of organs, sewing machines and air-conditioning equipment. There is also a Missionary Training Institute.

When Otis Paine rolled into Nyack his first stop was at the public library where he checked through the local paper back as far as the murder of Marge Atterbury near Mahwah. He found no report of any similar murder in the Nyack area.

Then he headed for the police station. Downtown Nyack had its empty storefronts, blank staring windows, the symptom of some sort of incomprehensible illness that had swept the nation. Some of the empty rooms had been taken up by used book and comic book stores, antique shops and what passed as art galleries.

Paine understood the plight of the cities very well. He had watched Kansas City enter that silent slippage that was caused by the injection of suburban malls into the urban bloodstream.

Just prior to Christmas a year ago, Paine had journeyed through a medium-sized city in the Midwest, he came as a stranger and was amazed by what he saw. It was just after dark in mid-December. Christmas lights flourished on lampposts and in store windows. The town was alive with shoppers. Restaurants, bars, and specialty shops were knee deep in customers.

The impact was one of being transported backward in time to the forties or fifties. Somehow this enclave of humanity had missed the modern era. It was wonderful, at least in the seasoned eyes of Paine, who delighted in small shops, corner drugstores and mid-block poolrooms, all earning their owners and employees a living wage. On inquiry, he found the town was lodged in a narrow river valley, bordered by rocky walls. There was in fact no adequate flat place to put a shopping mall within easy access of the population. So, like a fly in amber, there it was stuck with its downtown barbershops and department stores.

The Nyack police station was small, but fairly new. Paine was quick to find a soul mate, a balding, overweight desk sergeant on the brink of retirement. As members of the same blue fraternity and the same generation they were as thick as brothers in a matter of minutes.

Paine pulled his photo of Ivan Hicks from its manila envelope and showed it to Sgt. Rudy Vanderhamm. Vanderhamm studied the picture for a few seconds and shook his head. "That plane crash saved the taxpayers a few bucks. You can imagine the psychological tests they would have squandered on that bum trying to cop a whacko rap. He was crazy, wasn't he?"

Paine was surprised at the question and his face must have shown it because Vanderhamm smiled slightly. "Yes, crazy as a bedbug, dirty, raving crazy. But I don't believe that's a defense, do you?"

"Shit no," the sergeant grinned. "You shoulda slit that fucker's throat when you caught him. I'll bet you have some regrets about that." Paine nodded, but said nothing. He had deep regrets that two more women had been brutally assaulted and butchered while Ivan was still free and no one except one worn out Kansas City cop was on his tail. "You know these courts we got today will coddle a loony killer and not blink an eye when a God-fearing man or woman is murdered. I believe in democracy, but some things just aren't right."

Otis Paine answered questions about his pursuit and capture of Paine, mentioned the book he was working on and suggested that a pair of recent crimes were along the order of Ivan the Terrible's style.

"That kind of nostalgia, we don't need," Vanderhamm said.

He then outlined the crimes and their sequence and told of the car that was found abandoned in Nyack. "If this killer is following a pattern similar to Ivan's, that would mean he was in Nyack and was on foot and maybe short on cash. This would mean that he either stuck here, or committed some crime and moved on. At least that's my thinking, Rudy."

"It makes a lot of sense, Otis. And there's been no murder. So your unknown suspect might be here in town, but more than likely he moved on to a bigger place."

"Possible. Of course, it's not Ivan, but Ivan preferred smaller places, scattered jurisdictions where he could move easily from one to another. Say there was a murder in Tarrytown, across the river, you'd do the routine, but you wouldn't be so concerned about it, right?"

"Right, that'd be their problem. Most murderers are home grown, but you know that, Otis."

"I do. But the exception is the serial killer who moves from place to place, hardly ever retracing his steps. If the two New Jersey murders are his work, I've got an idea he'd want to move on. So what I'd like to do is look at any missing-person or stolen-car reports that came up just after the time the car from Wooley Woods, the one used in the Lumley murder, might have been abandoned."

"No problem," Sergeant Vanderhamm said. "Now it could have been abandoned a day or so before we found it. So I'll pull the reports starting then." Paine nodded in agreement.

There weren't many reports, and Paine found only one that seemed to match the profile he sought. A nineteen-year-old coed from Nyack College had been reported missing first by her dormitory roommates, then by her parents who lived in White Plains. And her car was missing, a five-year-old Ford. Her name was Joyce DuBarry and she was five-feet-five, approximately one hundred and fifteen pounds with brown hair and hazel eyes.

Paine wished he knew more about the girl, but not too much. He didn't want to know her well because he strongly suspected she was already dead. Vanderhamm produced an envelope of material the parents had dropped off at the station. A wistful young lady with long brown hair looked out from a high school graduation picture. No carefree toothy grin, but rather a solemn determination. Did this reflect the girl's character?

A note attached to the photo said that Joyce had since switched to a short hairstyle. A resume, probably used to obtain summer employment, was included in the envelope. She enjoyed writing poetry, hiking, swimming, skiing and tennis. In fact she was attending college on a tennis scholarship. Her major was English. She had worked as a librarian and as a public park activity leader during two summer vacations. He wondered if this resume might also be her obituary.

"A very pretty young lady," Paine said as he handed the file back to Sergeant Vanderhamm. "She would be a likely victim for whoever it was who killed the two women in New Jersey. The missing car adds to that theory. Unless there is some romance, a man in the picture."

"Of course we asked the parents about that. Nice couple from over in White Plains. I talked with them myself. They gave a definite no. Joyce was a good student and had more or less a regular boyfriend, but he's attending Harvard up in Boston. Also from White Plains. They see each other at holidays and vacations. Her roommates agreed. No local man in her life."

CHAPTER TWELVE

Two days after their discussion on how to locate a Grand Clam hardware dealer, Mrs. Martin telephoned Kirby.

Kirby had been restless. She was up early trying to catch up on her reading, skipping around from magazines to novels, then to Shakespeare's Henry the Fifth. She had a video of the play and was attempting to read the lines with the actors. She found there were lengthy battle scenes with no script. It gave the director a great deal of liberty. When the phone rang she checked her watch, clicked off the video and picked up the receiver.

"I was just waiting until a decent hour to call you," she told Mrs. Martin.

"I know it's only seven thirty," the voice on the line said, "but I'm an early riser. Anyway, Carmichael's been busy as a beaver and he has a list of six names. All of them meet the criteria. That is they planned to attend the meeting, cancelled at the last minute, all within driving range."

"That's why I was going to call you," Kirby said. "I remembered something. The man mentioned his wife's name. It ran through my head all day yesterday and I kept waking up during the night. It was like Porky, or Pookie, or Pikey. Something starting with a P and ending with the Y sound. This morning it came to me and I wrote it down. He calls his wife Poagie."

"Are you certain?" Mrs. Martin questioned.

"Totally. Why I had forgotten before, I'll never know. With half a dozen names and the man's wife's name, Carmichael can't miss. Anyway, I don't think he can. Unless the right name isn't on the list."

"Let's assume it is." Mrs. Martin bubbled with excitement. "I'll hang up now. Maybe I can catch Carmichael before he begins his rounds. I'll be in touch. Just a minute, how would you spell Poagie?"

"I'd spell it P-o-a-g-i-e."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

In a large city, Joyce DuBarry might have been frightened, or at least apprehensive. But Nyack was far up the Hudson from the crime-ridden cesspools of New York City. The night was dark, rainy and windswept, and she had parked in the dim shadow of a convenience store to make a few purchases. Nachos, a jar of salsa, a quart of orange juice and a box of bran cereal.

As she approached her car, she shifted her bag awkwardly to her left arm and fumbled with the ignition key in her right. She had not bothered to lock the car. Scrambling in out of the wet, Joyce pushed the bag across to the passenger seat, inserted the key, then buckled her seat belt. It was only then that she saw the long blade of a butcher knife in front of the her face and heard a voice hiss over her shoulder, "Don't scream or try anything or I'll slit your throat. I only want your car."

A shudder wracked her body and she stopped breathing momentarily. So this was what mugging was really like. She had never felt such terror. When she gained breath and could talk, she whispered, "Okay, you can have the car. I'll get out."

"Not here, Miss," the voice hissed again. "You could run back in that store and turn me in. Drive."

Slowly, she reached forward and started the engine. Whoever it was in the backseat let the long, cold blade of the knife rub against her neck as he withdrew it into the shadows. He made his point. She had strapped herself in, a prisoner in her own car. "Where should I drive?" she asked.

"North. Take Broadway north. And if you try anything, you're dead meat. Don't break any laws."

At this hour of the night there was little traffic. The car glided across the rain-slicked thoroughfare, parallel to the river. Joyce knew the road led to Nyack Beach State Park. She also knew the park would be closed and the area deserted. Did the man with the knife mean what he said? Would he let her go unharmed? What chance did she have against a man with a knife?

Headlights ahead in the gloom. A van slipped by them, headed in the other direction, then a police cruiser. Joyce's heart jumped in anticipation. Police, only a few feet away. What could she do? Her mind scrambled with a flood of thoughts, confusion, her hands frozen to the wheel, her body rigid with fear. A missed opportunity, leaving the frightened girl on a dark night with an armed man in the rear seat. It flashed through her head: I should have rammed that squad car.

Before they reached the park Ivan ordered her to pull off on a side street toward the river. Vacant lots, silent buildings, not a car headlight, no one walking on this raw, wet night. "Pull over and stop," he ordered. She did as she was told. "Now cut the lights and hand me the car keys." Once again she complied. He emerged from the rear seat on the driver's side and opened her door. "Get out here. What's your name, anyway?"

She struggled out in the rain and said, "Joyce."

"Joyce what?" he asked.

"Joyce DuBarry," she replied.

He led her to the rear of the car, found the key and opened the trunk. "Crawl in there."

She began to cry, putting her face in her hands. "Please, Mister. Take the car, but let me go. I won't tell anyone. It's an old car, but you can have it. Please. Please." She was sobbing now.

He grabbed her by the back of her windbreaker and turned her around toward the trunk, then put a strong hand between her legs and lifted her off her feet and into the trunk, slamming her down on the spare tire. "Now stay there and keep quiet," he said as he slammed the trunk lid.

Joyce trembled in the dark box of the trunk, her legs doubled up in front of her. She was wearing cotton slacks, a T-shirt, a sweatshirt and a windbreaker. On her feet were white athletic socks and tennis shoes.

She was not a very religious person, but she prayed. Thoughts of her parents, her classmates and a hundred other things streaked through her mind. But most of all, she thought of the man up front, the man with the big knife. What was he going to do with her, to her? Joyce was angry and frightened at the same time.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Ivan Hicks wasted no time in starting the car and driving back toward the heart of Nyack. He had no real plan except to cross the Hudson on the Tappan Zee Bridge. He drove slowly, happily aware that no one was looking for him, no one suspected that he was alive. He tuned the radio to an FM station that played favorites from the 40s through the 70s. He breezed through Nyack and located an entrance to the Thruway, then made the long crossing over the Hudson. Once on the other side he paid the toll, then headed north on Route Nine toward Tarrytown.

There was no noise from the trunk. The girl was following instructions. From what he had seen she was a pretty girl, and young. He liked that. Maybe a virgin? Probably not. In fact, Ivan was certain of it. There were no chaste women anymore. They were all whores and he hated them each and every one. And now he had another one in his power. And she looked clean, probably no diseases. He liked that.

He drove through country once known to Washington Irving of Headless Horseman fame. He pulled into a self-service station and rummaged through the girl's wallet. Almost forty dollars and an automatic teller bankcard. Later she would give him her number and tell him how much she had on deposit. He was certain she would talk. Women were so frail.

Inside the station he picked up a six-pack of beer and paid for ten dollars worth of gas. He thanked the attendant, commented on the nasty weather, pumped his gas and continued on north. He was looking for a deserted building, or maybe a bridge. Yes, a dry spot under a bridge.

Ivan drove on through North Tarrytown, near the Rockefeller State Park Preserve, and saw the sign for Sleepy Hollow Road. Then through Scarborough and beyond. Finally he found a likely stopping place. Not a bridge, or a deserted building, but a shelter for lumber, a roof supported by uprights with open sides. Piles of lumber higher than a tall man's head dotted the area.

He nosed the car between two stacks of boards and cut the lights and engine. Then he climbed out and prowled the area wondering if there was a watchman. With a truck, it would be a simple business to make off with a quantity of lumber. He walked quietly, stopping here and there, watching, listening. There was only the sound of the wind and rain splashing into dark puddles.

The car was parked in the dry. He unlocked the trunk and ordered Joyce out, pulling her arm. She stood, her head bowed in the darkness, not knowing where she was or what to expect. Ivan put a hand under her chin and pushed her head back. It was too dark for him to get a clear view of her tear-stained face. "Strip," he ordered.

"No. I don't want to," she said quietly, then added firmly, "I won't do it." Expecting such a reply, he immediately backhanded her across the face, sending her sprawling on the ground. Then he was on top of her, pummeling the sides of her head with his half closed fist. She gasped in pain and he warned her to keep quiet or he would kill her. But he was careful not to hurt her badly, no broken bones, or serious cuts.

It wouldn't be like the first one after the plane crash, the one in that little yellow house. He had smashed her up good even before violating her. When he had satisfied himself, she couldn't talk, she could just make noises. He forced her to use a pencil to write out her private bankcard number. Then the real beating began, the real payback. First her ankles, then her ribs, all the time her making those stupid animal screams through her broken jaws, then finally her head.

But this was a pretty young thing, a fresh coed, he wanted to take his time and play with this one, this Joyce DuBarry.

Then he stood her up again. "Now strip. If you want your clothes ripped, I'll rip them off of you. You're going to fuck me and you know it."

Stunned, she pulled off her windbreaker. He helped her off with her sweatshirt and the rest of her clothing until she wore nothing but athletic socks. Then he pushed her to the ground and was on top of her, slamming brutally between her legs, her white-socked feet flailing the night air. He was up and down almost crushing her beneath him. Then he climaxed in a brutal machine-gun-like hammering.

He lay on his side, fondling her body, groping, probing, pinching until Joyce cried out in pain. Ivan smiled. He prodded and pinched, making her cry out again and again.

Then he was on his back pulling her on top of him and forcing her head down. "Use your mouth, you bitch," he ordered. "Blow me and blow me good, or you'll be in the Hudson tomorrow."

She crouched over him in terror, anger, and disgust, then received his rigid cock and began the rhythmic motion that would bring him to climax. When he came, she rolled off of his body, choking and retching, then lay silent, her naked body on the wood chips and sawdust of the lumberyard.

"That's just a sample," he told her, pulling on his trousers. "Now, get dressed. I have some plans for you."

She found her clothing and began putting them on.

"Please, Mister. You've got what you want. There's nobody out here for me to tell. I won't tell anybody. Just let me go. Take the car. You've got my money."

Ivan slapped her full force on the ear and sent her to the ground. "You think I'd believe a whore like you?" Watching her there on the ground, he was tempted to go after her one more time, but he had already spent too much time in this spot. "You get dressed and get back in that trunk."

Joyce did as she was ordered. If she ran he would catch her and beat her some more. She dressed and shuffled toward the open trunk and he tumbled her inside.

He started the car and drove carefully, at first without lights, over the rough ground of the lumberyard. Things couldn't be working out better. He was free, money in his pocket, a nondescript car and a young girl under his control and everyone thought he was dead. In fact several people on TV had at least hinted that his death was the only good thing to come out of Flight 777. He was making a fool of the entire nation. And that little bitch in the trunk, she had some money, too.

Ivan guessed it would be at least the next night before she and her car were reported missing. He drove until he found a shabby motel, its once bright blue sign faded and peeling. He counted ten units and only six vehicles, three cars, a van, a panel truck and a dump truck. He wondered who would travel in a dump truck. He pulled Joyce's car into the shadows of the office and strolled inside.

"Do you have a vacancy?" he asked, trying to sound tired, but cheerful. He was pleased to see the man behind the desk had dark features and flashing black eyes, probably a Pakistani. He was even more pleased when the man answered in broken English.

"I'll pay cash," Ivan said, then printed the name Bryan Good on the registration card and used a phony Trenton, New Jersey, address. He put two twenties on the counter and waited for his change.

"Check out time eleven o'clock," the clerk said. There was no receipt, only a worn key attached to a large piece of wood by a short chain. The number eight was embedded in the soft wood with a lead pencil.

There was a problem getting the girl out of the trunk. No one was around and the rain still fell, but someone could be watching a new arrival. Ivan drove to the room and backed up against the door. He got his small bag and six-pack from the back seat, then the bag Joyce had purchased at the convenience store.

The room was what he had expected, a double bed that sagged slightly, a battered TV set with a clothes hanger antenna, a wooden chair and something that might pass for a credenza. The bathroom was fairly clean, a shower, no tub. A pair of medium sized towels worn thin through use and a small pink bar of soap.

He closed the front door, popped open a can of beer and flipped on the television. It took him ten minutes to drink the beer and during that time he watched a show on fishing.

Actually it was a half-hour commercial pitched to sell a fishing lure. And what a lure. It was obvious a fisherman would have to hide the lure to keep the fish from jumping into the boat.

If anyone had watched his entry, he guessed they would have tired of the job by now. Turning off the room light he slipped outside and opened the trunk. "Don't make a sound," he warned Joyce. He grabbed her around the middle and quickly carried-dragged her into the room and tossed her on the bed. Then he quickly dashed out, slammed the trunk and was back in the room and flicked on the lights.

"Well, Joyce," he said triumphantly, "we're going to have a fine time tonight, aren't we?"

Slowly she crawled to the edge of the bed and sat up.

"Please don't hurt me, anymore," she pleaded. "I'm hurt already. I can't take anymore, please."

"Take off your clothes, you bitch," he ordered.

She complied, fumbling with the button and zipper of her fly, stripping to the buff except for her socks.

"Take off the socks too."

She sat on the bed and removed her socks, then sat trembling, her head in her hands. It was cold in the room and she felt like getting sick. He watched her for a moment, then deliberately removed his clothing and was on top of her. When he was finished he opened another beer and sat on the side of the bed watching her.

"I'd like to use the toilet," she told him.

"Go ahead," he said, "but leave the door open. I can see the window from here. Remember, if you try anything, it's your ass."

She nodded and shuffled to the bathroom and sat on the stool for a long time wondering what he would do next. She guessed that because she could describe him in detail that he would have to kill her. On the chance that she lived, she tried to remember everything about him. Medium height, about five-nine, maybe one hundred and seventy pounds, a powerful upper body, sandy hair, balding, a small L-shaped scar on his face. She would look at his eyes later, although the word vicious sprang to mind. His nose was flat and slightly out of line as if it had been broken. Maybe he would sleep and she could make a dash for the door. Maybe if she screamed.

Finally, Joyce had to leave the bathroom. Ivan was watching TV and munching the snacks she had purchased.

"Thoughtful of you to provide these," he said breezily, eyeing her young body. "You've really got a pair. I'll bet you get laid regular. What kinda sex do you like best Joyce? Oral, anal, or natural? We'll try 'em all, won't we?"

"I don't feel good," she said softly. "Can I sleep now?"

"Huh," he laughed. "And spoil this night for me. Not a chance. I don't get a pretty thing like you every day." Then his face turned ugly. "You cross me and you won't be so pretty anymore." He opened his bag, which was lying on the chair and pulled out the long knife he had first used to threaten her.

"Come here and see how sharp this is." She looked at the knife, but did not move, frozen with fear. If she screamed, if she ran, she knew he would kill her.

"Come here," he demanded.

Finally she obeyed, walking to him, the evil blade in his hand. Slowly, he placed it at the base of her neck and drew the sharp point down between her breasts. He cut the smooth delicate flesh and watched the tears rush to her eyes. A thin trickle of blood ran down her belly.

He smiled, savoring the terror in her eyes and trembling mouth. Her silence was a vow of submission, for she was his now.

Ivan tossed the knife across the room. A trickle of blood ran down her stomach. She put her hand to the cut and it stung.

"That's better," Ivan said. "I could tell you things about women who tried to resist me. What it got 'em and where it got 'em."

He reached out and outlined the tips of her breasts with his fingers, then slowly moved his hands down to her thighs. She stood in motionless submission as his hands explored the soft lines of her waist and hips. Ivan saw her mouth open as if in dismay and tears course down her dirt-streaked face.

Roughly, he turned her body and bent her over the shabby bed. Fully erect again, he thrust in sharply between her buttocks. She gasped, then lay silent, clutching the bedclothes and sobbed to herself as he moved deeper into her body. Ivan could feel the sobs, the vibrations of the young body, the legs moving in frog-like patterns in forced reflex to his harsh probings. Her agony gave him strength and wild joy. He was on top of her, her master, savaging, defiling her youth. A satanic smile on his face, he went about the task with renewed vigor, finally extracting what he wished--piteous pleas for mercy from his victim.

Ivan had made women beg before and it had always pleased him, always caused him to go farther, to more exquisite punishment. On this night there was more, much more in store for Joyce. But he would stop short of the final act of destruction.

In addition to the knife, Ivan had bought fifteen feet of electrical cord. When he was finished with the girl, he tied her hands and feet, then tied the cord to a leg of the bed and left her on the floor.

"You can sleep now," he said tauntingly. All six beers had been drunk through the course of the night. He crawled into the bed and fell asleep almost instantly.

Joyce DuBarry lay naked on the threadbare rug and shivered from the cold. Every part of her body ached, her head pounded where he had slapped her around, the cut between her breasts was sore and she felt dirty and contemptible. In several places her skin was rubbed raw. He had bitten her on the neck and shoulders and the thin wires cut into her wrists and ankles, threatening her circulation.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Ivan was up at dawn. He unwired her hands and feet, pushed her back on the bed and assaulted her again. Stiff and sore, she lay their sobbing uncontrollably, her legs apart, every muscle and nerve in pain as he stroked in and out of her body. She had managed to hold on to some mental fiber up 'til now, but she was beginning to crack.

Ivan sensed her mental collapse and punished her even more, slamming his body into hers. Then, sensing she was having too easy a time of it on the bed, he rolled her onto the floor, bound her hands together and tied them above her head to a leg of the bed. Then he mounted her for a rough fuck on the floor, harshly groping her breasts and body, slobbering and biting at her in an animalistic display of passion and primitive emotion.

"You better pull yourself together, Joyce," he said when he had finished and released her once more. "I don't go for any whimpering bitch. If you want to stay alive you'd better act like you love me. You want to spend the day in the trunk, or on the front seat."

"Not the trunk," she moaned, then tried to wipe away the tears. She did want to stay alive.

"What should I call you," she asked, attempting to placate him.

"My name," he grinned. "Well, I could tell you that. But you don't need to know. You call me 'Lover.' Just Lover."

"Yes, Lover," she responded.

"Hey, that's all right," he said. "We are lovers, aren't we." Ivan gave her a hard slap across the buttocks and she straightened up and made a sharp painful cry. He looked at her with disdain and forced her down on her knees, then realized time was slipping by.

"Get dressed. You can use the toilet, but leave the door open. We're getting out of here."

Ivan left the motel door open and tossed the few possessions into the trunk while Joyce was in the bathroom. She washed her face and made a pass at straightening her shorthair with her hands. Her clothing was soiled, but she dressed and was glad for the warmth.

She wondered if they would eat breakfast. Despite her ordeal, she was hungry. Coffee would taste good. She tried to push thoughts of the nightmarish night from her mind as well as fears of what the future hours might bring.

When she was ready, Ivan led her to the passenger side of the car and saw her into her seat. He gave her the coiled wire and told her to wrap it around her ankles, then watched her as she wound it around and around. Even loosely wound, she was hobbled, unable to make any sudden moves.

"I've got the knife here at my side," Ivan said after they were on the highway away from the motel. "If you try to attract attention, it goes into your gut, then I escape. And you'll be dead. Remember that."

"Yes, Lover," she said.

"Now I need to know how much money you have in your bankcard account and what your secret number is."

Joyce shrugged in resignation. "About nine hundred dollars. The number, or the letters, are 'white.'"

"Why white?" Ivan questioned.

"It stands for White Plains. Easy to remember."

He nodded, then fell silent. They drove for several miles before even coming to a crossroads store. This was rugged, scenic country. They crossed New Croton Lake and continued north. "I'm a little hungry, Lover," Joyce said. A wave of nausea wracked her abdomen and moved up into her head. She felt cold sweat on her forehead.

"Keep your mouth shut," Ivan ordered, but minutes later he spotted a fast food restaurant with a drive-through window. He pulled in and ordered sausage biscuits and coffee, accepted the paper sack and drove on. They ate in silence.

By noon, Ivan had found an automatic teller machine and used Joyce's card to collect four hundred dollars, the day's limit. He knew that the car might be reported missing by now along with the girl. He knew he should get rid of both of them, but he needed transportation and the girl had a great body. And he had whipped her into submission. He had a suspicion that she enjoyed rough sex.

They had headed east, crossing the Hudson far above Nyack, then passing between the U.S. Military Academy and Bear Mountains State Park, generally heading for Pennsylvania. The country was wooded and hilly with few towns. Ivan was well aware of their location. When they crossed the New York State Thruway he recalled vividly taking the life of Marge Atterbury not many miles south at a desolate sight in the Ramapo Mountains. She had crawled in the dirt and begged and sobbed for mercy. Of course he had to kill her. He had had to kill all of them.

A piece of luck befell Ivan in a roadside park where he had stopped to use the pit toilet. It was deserted except for an abandoned car. The car was covered with leaves, streaks of mud and bird droppings, as if it had been there for days or weeks. But it was licensed. With the help of a screwdriver from the trunk, Ivan worked the tag off and put it on Joyce's car. Then he slung her plate into the nearby woods.

Just before leaving New York State, Ivan stopped to purchase a liter of whisky, crackers and some beef jerky.

The two of them munched crackers and chewed the tough jerky in silence. Joyce had been told more than once not to talk and she knew the type of punishment he was capable of handing out. Her body still ached all over and she felt that she would never be clean. She wondered what kind of diseases were in this ogre's sperm and body fluids, what filth and slime was infecting her body. Perhaps death was the only good answer.

They found another cheap motel in late afternoon. This time he parked in front so he could be in the lobby and continue to watch Joyce. He had stuck his big knife in his belt and Joyce prayed that he would somehow castrate himself, but no such luck. He emerged from the office with a key to room nineteen and almost a smile on his face.

She walked along beside him while he opened the door. He carried the coil of wire that had been around her feet in his hand. Then he checked the bathroom window, small and jammed tight. "You stay in the bathroom while I get the stuff."

She sat on the stool and tried to think of a plan to escape. Once again, there was no phone in the room. She had one hope that he would drink himself into a stupor before he got the notion to kill her. She knew what whiskey could do to a person. She had seen her father drunk more than once. And her mother occasionally became a little tipsy, but she preferred gin.

When Ivan returned he made her stand aside while he urinated into the bowl. "The pause that refreshes," he said, then ordered her to strip. Joyce did as she was told, then sat on the side of the bed, wondering what form the next assault might take. Maybe he would let her take a shower. Coming out of the bathroom he poured whiskey into two plastic glasses and handed her one. "Drink this."

She nodded no and said, "I don't drink," then immediately realized her mistake. "I'll drink it," she quickly added, cringing under the expected blow.

He had drawn his hand back, ready to smash her across the cheek, but checked the blow and said, "That's better. Now what do you say?"

She took the glass and said, "Thank you, Lover."

"That's nice, real nice," he responded, downing his whiskey. Joyce drank a little, choked, made a face, then glancing up at the brute standing above her, forced the rest down.

"It burns," she said.

"I'll burn your ass, Joyce." He seemed to like to use her name. He poured them each more whisky and began to undress. She held her cup and stared at it, already feeling a little light headed.

"You like a little sex, don't you?"

Joyce closed her eyes for a few seconds, then said,

"Yes, Lover."

"Yes, Lover, I like sex," he repeated.

"Yes, Lover, I like sex," she repeated. Then drank the whiskey. She knew she was getting drunk and fast, but maybe that was the answer, get lost in an alcoholic haze. Why not? "I like whiskey," she said and she half meant it.

"All you whores do." Taking the glass from her hand he pushed her back on the bed and was on top of her. "Now say, 'Lover please fuck me.'"

She repeated the words and tried to cooperate as much as she could. The room seemed to whirl about her head and she could see Ivan's face coming in and out of focus.

Later she sat on the side of the bed and Ivan let her drape a blanket around her body. The room was chilly, although he had tried to adjust the heat. Ivan sat in the chair with a towel across his legs. Each held a glass of whiskey.

Thoughts of escape had fled Joyce's mind. She was drunk and she had been assaulted twice in the last hour.

"You've done this before, haven't you?" The whiskey had made her bold.

"Done what before?" Ivan asked. Half in a dream world, it didn't even occur to him to whack her.

"Kidnap women and rape them."

Ivan concentrated on his glass. He was half angry, but his anger was not directed at Joyce. "Screw whores," he blurted. "Why shouldn't I?"

Joyce raised her hands in a gesture of apprehension.

But Ivan didn't demand an answer. He had a topic and he continued to talk.

"You're lucky," he asserted. Then, to stress his point, raised his voice and said, "You're a lucky bitch. I can only keep you for a few days. When I was a kid it went on for years. Do you understand? Years?"

"You were kidnapped and abused," Joyce said.

"Kidnapped, shit. My mother and my stepfather. My mother pissed on me. I mean knocked me to the floor and pissed on me, pissed in my face. Humiliated me. My stepfather stuck a knife in my ear, said he'd puncture my brain if I didn't help him. Help him. How do you like that word? Help him? I helped him all right and he helped himself to my body, anything he could think of."

"I'm sorry," Joyce said. She felt her body weave. The small aches had merged into one, a comatose, senseless feeling. But Ivan went on.

"They forced me to drink piss. Both of them. They used to fondle me all the time. I couldn't stand their hands touching me, but there was nothing I could do."

Joyce didn't know what to say. This whole nightmare had now turned verbal. Ivan had banged at her body now his words banged at her brain.

"But you escaped," she finally said. "You're free now."

"But I'm not free and I didn't escape," Ivan countered.

He was full awake now and poured them each more whiskey. "I killed my stepdad with a knife. I plunged it into his stomach then ran across the room and watched him die. He lay on the floor and couldn't move. It took a long time."

Joyce's reaction was one of horror. She now knew for certain he would kill her. It was just a matter of when.

With the whiskey working on her brain she didn't care so much. Maybe now, maybe tonight. "And your mother?" she asked.

"I should have killed that bitch. It haunts me. Her living. If I had killed her things might be different. I would have rid myself of them, of both of them, maybe. Maybe I would have."

Joyce wondered if the mother was still alive. Maybe he could kill her now. Maybe tonight. She could talk him into going after his mother.

"Why not kill her now?" she said.

"Don't I wish," Ivan said. "She's hiding. She was shopping when I killed Howard. When she got home the police had come and I was gone. She got the message. She went somewhere, probably changed her name. If I could kill her now." Ivan shook his head and stirred from his mood.

"Say, you're okay, Joyce. Talking about killing people. You whores like that kind of talk, don't you. Killing, sex, dirty stuff. You're just like my Mom."

Joyce closed her eyes and wondered if she had gone too far. Did every woman remind him of his mother? Is that what he was doing, killing his mother. Violating his mother, then killing his mother. If she could change the subject.

"What happened after that?" she questioned, trying to sound fascinated and eager.

"Nothing much. I worked here and there. Then I saw this kid, a fat boy, about twelve or thirteen years old. That was the first one, the fat boy. I felt sorry after I had done what I did. I mean he was a boy. It was women who were the whores."

Ivan cast a sly glance at Joyce. "You think I might drink too much, don't you. That I might go to sleep. But, I'm way ahead of you. You think you've got me, but you don't, see. I'm way ahead of you."

"Yes, Lover," Joyce replied.

Clumsily, he bound her hands and feet with the wire and put her on the floor, tying the wire to the bed once more.

He let her keep her blanket.

Joyce said from the floor, "Lover, I'm sorry about your Mother, your family. If you had just had a better chance in life, you might have become, well, anything."

Ivan stared at the dark ceiling. He could never ever remember talking to anyone personally before, close, honest.

Even the shrinks in slam, he had thrown up a scornful wall.

"I've thought of that, Joyce. But it's too late now, isn't it?" Could there be a glimmer of hope for him, maybe this girl wasn't like the others.

"It's never too late, Lover. Never too late."

But these were just words. In a few minutes he was snoring and Joyce's head was throbbing, this time from whiskey.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

After a night in Nyack, Otis Paine took the Tappan Zee bridge, then hit Interstate 287 for the drive to White Plains. A patchy gray sky, with glints of early sunshine here and there hung over White Plains. Paine pulled off the interstate and found a fast food restaurant. He knew he shouldn't have eggs at his age, with his weight, with his cholesterol, but he ordered them anyway.

There had been a time when he worked out, jogging, steps, stretching, weights, and ate bran for breakfast and salad for lunch. But one day he realized he was doing it so that he could be youthful and chipper and do as he pleased at some future date. Although he was no longer youthful and chipper, he declared that the glory time had arrived and thus delighted in eggs, bacon, home fries and toast.

He had cut out one thing--annual physicals and the attendant blood work.

After a second cup of coffee, he found a pay phone and telephoned the DuBarry residence. He explained what he was about the best he could to a tense Jody DuBarry who then turned the phone over to her husband, Dan, who had given up going to his office since their daughter's disappearance.

"You're a policeman," Dan asked.

"An ex-policeman," Paine said. "I'm doing research on a book and thought we might be of mutual help."

"I don't understand," DuBarry said in an honestly puzzled voice.

"It's something I'd rather not talk about on the phone," Paine said. "Would you mind if I came to your home?"

"Not at all," DuBarry said. "We're at loose ends here.

The Nyack police, the White Plains police, the New York State Police, haven't been much help."

"Is the FBI in on this?" Paine asked.

"No. They refused. We did call them, but for a missing person, they said no."

"Well, let me come over."

It took less than twenty minutes to reach the DuBarry home, a comfortable, well shrubbed tri-level on an older residential street lined with maple trees. A wreath made of woven vines hung on the DuBarry front door. The door itself was made of vertical wormy chestnut planks, the top rounded into a Roman arch. It was not a rich house, but a comfortable affluent house in a solid middle class neighborhood.

The three of them sat in a cheerful sunroom and Jody DuBarry made tea and opened a tin of shortbread.

"What I have to say," Paine began, "may shock you. But mind you, it is only speculation." He then told them of the two murders in New Jersey and of the murdered woman's car being found abandoned in Nyack.

When he had finished, he added, "I thought you might just like to explore every avenue. You know, leave no stone unturned."

"I understand," Dan DuBarry said quietly. "And of course we do." Jody said nothing, but sat fidgeting with her fingers. "But how will this story help us?" the father asked.

"If your daughter had an automatic teller card, or a checking account, have the police checked it?" Paine knew that so often missing person reports were tossed in a stack with runaways and men or women who were off on romantic interludes.

"She did have an ATC card," DuBarry said. "I suppose she had a checkbook, too. And, no, as far as I know, it hasn't been looked into."

"Well, that's a start," Paine said. "If there've been withdrawals since the disappearance, it could be significant. And we might be able to interest the FBI, particularly if a withdrawal has been made in another state."

"That's amazing," Jody said. "Why haven't the local police done something about that?"

Paine shrugged. "It's hard to explain, Mrs. Dubarry, but there is an explanation. There are many runaways and many people dropping out of sight for one reason or another. A few days later, they pop up again. If the police put out urgent alerts for every person reported missing, they would all become meaningless. I mean it's like a picture on a milk carton. It's a sad situation, but the world is in a sad situation."

"I understand," DuBarry said. "So let's get started on this. Shall I call the bank?"

"No," Paine said. "They won't tell you anything over the phone. Get all of your identification together along with any of Joyce's you might have. Then let's the three of us go to the main bank office and put our story before the manager. We can only ask their help."

"Of course," Dubarry said, "but I've been a businessman in this city for some years. I do know a few people."

"And that will help," Paine responded.

The bank manager was more than helpful. In fact it amazed Paine who was used to using a type of coercion that involved a police badge and the implied force behind it.

They learned that Joyce's account had been virtually stripped, four hundred dollars withdrawn near Peekskill and another four hundred at a small town called Chester.

The pattern was significant to Paine. Whoever was using the Joyce DuBarry card had crossed the Hudson after leaving Nyack and moved north along the east shore, then recrossed, no doubt on Route 202, then headed east.

The three went directly from the bank to the regional FBI office and laid their findings before the agent-in-charge. They made a strong case for carjacking-kidnapping and Paine filled in the disturbing details about the two murders, the abandoned car, perhaps the genesis of a serial killer. The FBI agent made copious notes and seemed to take the story seriously. But it was obvious he could start nothing on his own. He would have to check with a superior somewhere up the line and move the request for an investigation through the proper channels. But he promised a prompt answer.

On the street outside the FBI office, DuBarry thanked Paine for his effort. "We know more now than we did this morning."

Jody was silent; Paine's revelations had disturbed her, shaken her hopes for Joyce's safe return. She didn't know what to say. She clutched her husband's arm.

"If I get anything else, I'll let you know," Paine said. "I hope that you can talk to me later on, too." He was thinking of after the body was found and he was certain DuBarry had caught his meaning.

"Of course," DuBarry said. "You've been very helpful."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Poagie Colin was distraught. Tears welled in her eyes as she struggled to reach her husband by telephone. "There was a man here," she said. "They know about the baby. They know about our boy!"

Colin Woods hesitated before answering. His work desk was near the cashier's station in his hardware store. Two customers who had been chatting about the pros and cons of drain cleaners drifted off.

"We have our story, Poagie," he finally said, as calmly as he could. "Did you say anything?"

"No," she said. "He said he was a private detective named Jones. He gave me his card." She picked it up and read the name, "Carmichael Jones, a New York address. I told him to go away, that my husband wasn't home."

"Did you tell him we had a baby?"

"Not even that, but little Colin was crying in the bedroom. I'm sure he heard him."

"He just left then."

"Yes, he left," Poagie said. "But he said he was going to stop at the store. He might be there now."

Colin glanced around. There was a man in a suit up front examining a display of wooden bird houses. He had a professional look about him and Colin could not recall ever seeing him in East Largo.

"I think he is here," Colin said softly. "I'll talk to him. It's all I can do. If he presses, I'll refer him to Ethel."

"Don't talk to him, Colin," Poagie pleaded.

"I have to talk to him," Colin insisted.

"We could go away," Poagie said, desperation in her voice.

"Poagie, we can't do that. I know you love the baby, but we can't give up everything. It wouldn't be fair to the baby, even. To be on the run, our money running out. What other job could I get. I've built this store."

"Call me, Colin, tell me what happens."

He assured her he would then he hung up and walked briskly up front to as if he could help the man who seemed intent on picking out a bird house.

Carmichael Jones recognized Colin Woods from Kirby's description. At that moment he was certain Flight 777 had had survivors and that the baby he had heard crying at the Woods home belonged to the Martins.

"You're Colin Woods? aren't you?" he said as the hardware store owner approached.

"Why, yes, I am. Are you a salesman?"

Jones smiled slightly. He had seen Woods in a serious phone conversation when he entered and guessed his wife had called to alert him. "I'm a private detective, Carmichael Jones is the name." He passed Woods his card. "I'm here to talk about your baby."

"My baby?" Woods asked. "What's happened to my baby? Our baby. Poagie's and mine."

"That's just it," Jones said, "I have a client who says it's not your baby. That you have someone else's baby."

Jones was careful not to make accusations. He suspected the Woods felt much like any other proud parents.

"I don't know why you're here," Woods said. "But, Colin Junior, that's the baby, is not our natural child. In fact we did come by him under unusual circumstances. But my lawyer's clearing that up."

"I see," Jones said. He had expected a cover story, and now he would learn how creative the Woods were. "May I ask then just how you came to be in possession of this baby?"

"No reason why I shouldn't tell you, Mr., uh." He glanced at the card. "Jones. The baby was given to me by his parents. They are eastern Europeans, just arrived in this country, their English wasn't too good. In fact, I couldn't understand the details of their story. At any rate, they rolled into East Largo almost broke, no money for gas. Both of them said that it was impossible for them to keep the baby, that they were seeking a good home for the child. As it happened, my wife and I have been unable to have children. So rather than refer them to an adoption agency, I took the boy off their hands. Of course I went immediately to my lawyer."

"And gave him some papers, a birth certificate, family history, or something of that sort?"

"No. The baby came with little more than a blanket and a bottle. I gave the parents enough money to see them on their way and they were gone, heading west, California I suppose, to seek their fortune."

"You in effect then bought the baby. Is that correct, Mr. Woods?"

"I didn't look at it that way. My wife and I wanted a baby. They wanted to find a good home for the child. We have a good home, a stable home. We are Christian people and don't smoke or drink. There is love in our household."

"And there is a baby in your household that belongs to someone else," Jones said. "I have come to East Largo because I have a different version of the story. The woman you picked up along the road, Kirby Lotto, described you to a T. She dropped the baby at the Oakview, New Jersey, General hospital. You returned and picked up the baby and brought it home. You did not go to the Grand Clam Hardware convention, you did not stay in the room you had reserved in Boston. It is not going to be too difficult to prove what happened. So, Mr. Woods, you might as well prepare yourself to return the baby to its grandparents and its father, who will be grateful. I don't believe any charges will be filed."

"Nonsense," Woods said. "What sort of charges are you talking about?"

"Kidnapping for openers," Jones said.

The word had an immediate impact on Woods. He seemed to recoil, but then regained his determination. "I've done everything by the book, Mr. Jones. I know it seems irregular just to be given a baby, but my lawyer is working on the matter. It's just a matter of time before the child will be legally ours."

Jones nodded grimly. He could see that there was no reason to continue this argument near a silly looking display of birdhouses in a Grand Clam franchised hardware store. "If you will give me your lawyer's name and permit me to have a word with him, I promise not to go to the police until we've reached some private settlement. I see no reason to go public with this thing. But believe me, Mr. Woods, I do understand how much some couples want children, but that shouldn't lead to a decent man and wife being arrested on kidnapping charges. The two of you are in this together and there is little doubt that you would both serve time if convicted. You know the facts of the case."

Woods' first reaction was anger, to indignantly ask this Carmichael Jones to leave his store. But reason and the specter of his wife going to jail prevailed.

"I've nothing to hide," he replied. My lawyer is Ethel Winter. She has an office just around the corner. You'll see her sign. I'm as eager as you are to get this matter cleared up."

"Thanks, Mr. Woods. There's going to be a lot of questions asked, but if you cooperate I'll do my best to protect you, and I feel the grandparents will do the same." He nodded and went out the door.

Jones walked around the corner and easily found Ms. Winter's office. It was in a remodeled Victorian house, complete with turret. A large copper goose, a weathervane, was mounted atop the turret. Out front was a sign that read: "Lawyers Building." A list of attorney's under the sign included Ethel K. Winter. Jones had noticed that the county courthouse was less than a block away, a magnet guaranteed to produce a cluster of lawyers.

An attractive woman sat typing at a computer in the spacious lobby of the house, the oak-floored room had probably once been called the parlor. A wide mantel over a gas fireplace held a cast of Velletri's bust of Athena. The ceiling was baroque stucco, two Persian carpets covered much of the polished floor and a centuries old cabinet with Oriental black-lacquered doors, decorated in gold and red bamboo and crane designs stood against one wall. Atop the cabinet was a gilt bronze and marble clock with an image of bacchante stretched sensuously on a couch-throne, languorously devouring a cluster of grapes. An 18th-century Venetian love seat with a burnt orange japanned frame stood in front of a low regency style table cluttered with dog-eared magazines.

Jones enjoyed art, had an eye for it and quite a bit of technical knowledge gained from reading, touring museums, and often doing jobs for antique dealers.

The private eye identified himself and asked to see Ms. Winters. The receptionist looked him up and down, a stranger in a dark suit, red, yellow and russet patterned tie, hawk-like nose, thin face that deserved the title gaunt, high cheek bones, black button eyes.

Jones was proud of his nose, passed along to him from his mother's side of the family that laid claim to being part Algonquin Indian. His mother had always told him it was a noble nose, not unlike that of the Caesars.

East Largo was seated in farming country and while strangers were not unusual, their presence caused a second look. In reply to her question, Jones explained that he was looking for Ms. Winter and that Colin Woods from the hardware store had asked him to stop by and talk with her. He then flopped down on the love seat and began thumbing through home improvement magazines. He had never had an actual home, always a small apartment. Tools, boards, nails, tape measures, power saws, and routers were part of a mysterious world reserved for men who wore hard hats and spent their lunch hours taunting office girls.

Eventually, he was ushered into Ms. Winter's office and unrolled his tale for her benefit. When he was through, she commented. "You say that the government has stated absolutely that Flight 777 crashed with no survivors. That does damage your credibility, Mr. Jones." She smiled sweetly.

"You will concede that the Woods obtained their baby under unusual, what might be called illegal, procedures."

"For conversational purposes, Mr. Jones, I will say it was unusual. But that's why they asked me to straighten things out. I know the Woods, know they're good people, Christian people. I also know the local judiciary. There's an excellent chance the baby will be placed permanently in their custody, that they will become the legal parents."

"From your point of view and theirs, I wish it were true, Ms. Winter. I've no reason to believe that they wouldn't be fine parents and I know they've gone to a great deal of trouble, even risk, to bring this child into their home. But survivors, or no survivors on Flight 777, that baby is Michael Martin and I'm employed by his grandparents and through them, his father. His mother is dead. There are just so many ways to prove the baby is Michael Martin. Do I need to list them all?"

"No. Blood, tissue, cells. It's possible," she replied.

"There's also photos. The baby hasn't changed that much. The father and grandparents do have memories. There may be a footprint taken at birth. This is a small town and you have a cozy relationship with the judiciary, Ms. Winter.But buying and selling people just isn't done in our society. You and I both know the Woods family shouldn't have that baby in their possession. Now I'm wondering if we shouldn't have the courts place it in some sort of official protective custody until this thing is settled."

Ms. Winter was indignant. "They're loving, caring parents, Mr. Jones. I've known them for light years. Where would you get such an idea?"

"Well I haven't known them, but I can read the law and the law is above personal feelings. They might be so loving that they take off with the kid. Now, you're an officer of the court, an upholder of the law. You know the law is being broken and you seem to be condoning that lawlessness, in fact being paid for it. The ball's in your court." Jones stood and prepared to go.

"And what are you going to do, Mr. Jones?" the attorney asked.

"I've done my job. I've found Michael Martin, that's the baby's real name, and I've turned my findings over to a bona fide attorney who knows the legal status of that child." He paused and softened his tone. "I'm going back to New York and deliver my findings to my employers, the grandparents. Then I'm going to get a drink and have a hot shower." He turned and left the office.

Ethel Winter sat for a moment, then rose from her chair and went after him. She dashed out the door, down the steps and caught him on the front sidewalk, actually tugging on his sleeve to stop him. "Maybe I haven't thought this thing through."

Jones looked at her in indignation. "I told you my story and you almost scoffed at me. Arthur Martin, the grandfather, is an investment banker. He gave me cart blanche to find the boy and I did with a little assist from a certain person. Martin has a zillion bucks and the most important thing in his life is his grandson. He's going to be in East Largo with a team of lawyers like you can't imagine. I suspect he'll also put a few East Largo legal eagles on the payroll. Frankly, Ms. Winter, you'll be lucky to escape the penitentiary with you as part of a conspiracy to steal a baby. Of course that's not a legal opinion. Do your scoffing now while you're still a free woman." He stuck his hawk nose into the woman's face and glared at her with his black button eyes.

"I see no reason why we can't settle this amiably," she said, glancing up and down the street. A couple of passers by had slowed, thinking they were privy to some sort of lover's quarrel.

"We are all friends of the baby. If there's any dispute over his parentage, it should be explored. Mistakes can be made."

"Can you guarantee the baby will remain in East Largo?"

"Of course," the attorney replied. "I'll go to the hardware store right now and talk with Colin. I'm sure he wants to do the right thing."

"Perhaps," Jones said. "But Colin has known all along that that baby survived the crash of Flight 777 and if he read the passenger list he knows that baby's identity."

"Well, shit happens," Ms. Winter said. "Give me a chance. Tell your clients we'll meet with them, get this thing settled. Perhaps you're right about custody, but if you knew Poagie and Colin, knew them well, you'd know that baby is in good hands. Just give me a chance."

Jones nodded and stuck out his hand. They shook silently and he turned and sought out his car.

Not more than two hours later, Poagie once again called Colin at the store. "I've got my car packed, I've got the baby things together. I'm going to my folk's house for a few days."

"Poagie, you can't," Colin said with exasperation. "You can't take the baby to Indiana. That's across two state lines. I think some sort of kidnapping law might apply, some federal thing."

"For God's sake, Colin. You got him in New Jersey and brought him to Pennsylvania. What are you talking about? My parents will help us. Let Bart manage the store. He can send us money."

"Ethel says we'd better settle this thing with the Martins, the grandparents. Look, maybe they'll let us keep the baby. But she says we're facing serious charges, big time. We can get another baby, please, Poagie."

"I'm sorry, Colin."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

At a drive-in window in a suburb of Middletown, New York, Joyce DuBarry and Ivan Hicks had gotten coffee and a breakfast fried egg sandwich. Then Ivan had headed northwest on Route 17. Joyce was silent. She sensed Ivan was in a more waspish mood than usual. Maybe the whiskey had done it.

When he woke this morning he had untied her and immediately slapped her several times, then violated her and afterwards herded her into the shower where he soaped and washed the two of them, then forced her to her knees for oral sex. His thirst for sex seemed insatiable.

Now she watched as he turned north off 17 and sought out back roads, slowing down now and then, looking here and there as if searching for something. She guessed he had tired of playing with her and was looking for a suitable spot to get rid of her. Joyce's feet were firmly lashed together with the electric wire and there was no way she could think of to attract attention.

That first night, the first minutes, when the patrol car had glided past. She had missed the chance to save her life.

Ivan slowed at a sign that read, "Big Vanilla Ski Area." He continued along the road, then swung off on a smaller road, finally pulling into a deserted recreation area.

Joyce sensed finality as he turned off the ignition. Hicks was out of the car and around to her side. He opened her door and pulled her along, heels dragging in the dirt. He pulled her to the edge of a canyon, a deep gorge.

"Look down there," he ordered, holding her upright. Rocky cliffs, a rushing stream at the bottom, mostly rocks, but a couple of deeper holes. He pushed her forward and she gasped, but he pulled her back at the last moment.

"Hell of a way to die, huh? Over the cliff."

Then he pulled her a few feet from the rim and dropped her near some underbrush and used a loose end of the wire to tie her hands. She lay helplessly on the ground, trussed up like a Christmas goose.

Her thoughts were bitter, blaming herself again for not seizing some lost opportunity to escape, to fight, at least to fight.

Hicks went to the car. When he returned he had the long butcher knife in his hand. He looked at her and smiled, feeling the edge of the blade with his thumb.

"Before I'm through with you, you're going to wish you were at the bottom of that canyon, Mother."

Mother, he had called her Mother, Joyce thought. If I could just convince him that I'm not his mother. Stop this pretense. Desperate thoughts flooded her brain. She pulled up her knees and moved from side to side, trying to look suggestive, seductive, enticing.

"I'm not your Mother, Lover. I'm your lover. Please do it. Right here and now. I want to fuck. I need to, please, Lover."

Ivan watched her writhing on the ground and felt sexual stimulation. This wild woman was begging not for her life, but for raw sex on the ground, rough sex. She adored it, relished his body, just as he had thought. He pulled off his trousers and underpants, then undid the wires around her legs and wrists and helped her disrobe.

She was savage with passion, climbing all over him, clawing at him, fondling his genitals, using her mouth, her lips, on his body, rushing him to climax. For one ecstatic second he relaxed his grip on her and she twisted away and was gone, scrambling to her feet, running like a wild thing.

So she had tricked him. Used a whore's trick. He was up and had his knife in hand. She hadn't thought to go for the knife. No, she had fled in hysteria and he could easily overtake her, bring her down and carve her up at his leisure. She must suffer now. And she had ignored his pants with the car keys in the pocket.

Knife in hand, he turned in pursuit and she was gone. There one second, gone the next! She had dashed to the canyon's edge and disappeared.

Joyce had hesitated for only half a second on the rim of the canyon. Then she was in the air, diving, heading for what appeared to be the deepest of the two holes, her nude body arching through the cool air. She could steer to some extent by diving, looking toward the hole, moving her head.

She seemed to hang in the air for an eternity, then plunged vertically down, head first. She knew if she went in head first and the hole was shallow, she would never surface. Her neck would snap like a mouse in a trap.

Concentrating, judging, her life depended on it, she pulled up in the last few seconds and smacked down hard on her rump and back. It burned like fire, but the cold water instantly enveloped her. She was under for seconds, her knees and toes touching the rocks on bottom. Then she surfaced, scrambling for shore, scampering up on the pebbled shore, hurrying for the trees, feet cut by twigs and rocks.

She glanced back and up to see him standing on the rim of the cliff, long knife in his hand, nude from the waste down. She was tempted to wave, to toss him the finger, but she wasn't safe yet. She was naked, sore muscled, with bruised feet and an abused body, friendless and in the wilderness. The air was cold and the water had been colder and the rough ground hurt her feet as she ran, but she felt wild and free and cleaner than she had for days. Fresh air filled her lungs as she tried to control her breathing. She was an athlete and her trim body had the conditioning of an athlete.

Ivan watched in disgust. He had been tricked by a whore, a whore's lie. And for a moment last night he had thought she cared about him, about him, Ivan Hicks, as a person.

Quickly, he surveyed the situation. There was no road in the canyon. If he went after her to finish her off he would have to climb down a break in the rocky wall and chase her into the woods. There was a good chance that he could overtake her and he yearned to get his knife into that woman, make her scream and sob for mercy before ending her wretched life. She had lured him with sex, then tricked him by going into the water.

Ivan was almost blind with anger, but he was shrewd. To leave the stolen car up here would be too great a risk. Anyway, there were other women, other whores, all too many of them. It would likely be hours before Joyce reached civilization and alerted police. In that time he could find a city, a shopping center, ditch her car and pick up another. Or maybe take a bus to throw the hounds off his track.

Now they would be looking for him, now it was a different game. But his identity, Ivan Hicks, was safe. He had been smart not to tell the girl, that brown-haired bitch, his name. She would call him Lover for the rest of her despicable life. And he had given her something to remember him by.

How past events could create demons that crept out in the dark, silent hours to taunt and terrorize was well known to Ivan. His life was often a melancholy rerun of what should have been long ago laid to rest.

He rolled Joyce's clothing into a ball and tossed them into the rear seat of the car to be disposed of later. If she came creeping back, she would not find them. Then he was back on the road, working his way back to Route 17. He was headed for Binghamton.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The car radio had just finished playing one of his favorite songs when the DJ broke into say a nude woman had been picked up on a remote area road. It was not what the DJ considered a serious story, a naked woman darting out of the woods and flagging down a farmer's pickup truck.

He made a couple of attempts at humor, said the woman arrived at a hospital near Kingston wearing a worn mackinaw--that is all. There were no names and no explanation.

Otis Paine pulled his car off the road and reached for a New York state map. Then he made a U-turn and headed for Kingston, driving as much over the speed limit as he dared.

He found the hospital, parked, and hurried into the admitting office. "I heard something on the radio about a girl being picked up by a farmer," he told the receptionist.

She stared at him angrily for a second. "There seems to be an awfully lot of interest in a naked woman," she said.

"I don't know about that," Paine said quietly. "But I'm an ex-cop and I've been working with the parents of a missing woman. I thought it might be her."

"And what are the parent's names," the woman asked, somewhat more politely.

"DuBarry. Dan and Jody DuBarry of White Plains."

The woman nodded. "Well, you've found her. It is Joyce DuBarry. But you got here before the parents. I phoned them less than two hours ago. They're on their way."

"That is wonderful news," Paine said, immensely relieved. "It's almost incredible. I wonder if there's any chance of talking with Joyce?"

"You've really no reason to see her. She's been through a bad experience and does have injuries. Cracked ribs, cut feet, bruises, a slash wound on her chest. I think we'd better wait for her parents."

"I do have a reason," Paine said. "I believe the man who grabbed her is a serial killer. The quicker I can get some information from her, the sooner the police might be able to arrest him. This man has probably killed two women recently and he will kill again and again."

That stopped conversation for a moment. The receptionist made an instant assessment of Paine's character: Neatly dressed, honest face, maybe a grandfather.

"I see. I'll call the nursing station. If she's awake, maybe they'll let you in. But a nurse will have to be there."

"No problem."

Paine followed a green line down spotless corridors through three sets of double doors, past open doors where patients chatted, watched TV or stared at the ceiling. He liked hospitals. There was always some activity, never a time when absolutely nothing was going on, even late at night.

Joyce DuBarry was a head on a clean pillow slip, her short hair neatly brushed, a blue-yellow bruise under her right eye.

"I'm Otis Paine. I talked with your parents in White Plains, Joyce, told them that you might have been taken by a serial killer. We tried to get the FBI on the case, but that's difficult."

He glanced at the nurse who was standing near the door. "Now I don't want any details about what happened, but I do want to know if you were kidnapped by a man about five-nine, maybe one hundred seventy pounds, sandy hair, balding." Otis touched his nose and Joyce's eyes followed his every move. "Flat nose a little out of line. And an L-shaped scar on his face?"

Joyce nodded solemnly. "Yes, that was him."

"Did he tell you his name?"

"No. He told me to call him Lover." Her face contorted and tears welled in her eyes. The nurse started to speak, but Paine held up his hand.

"I see." Paine pulled a photo of Ivan Hicks from his pocket and held it up for Joyce to see. "Is this the man?"

Joyce hesitated a moment, looking at the face, reliving her terror. "Yes, I'm certain it is. Thank God you know who he is. He tried to kill me. He was going to kill me with a knife, torture me to death, it was horrible. Thank God, you've got him."

"We don't have him yet, Joyce, but you've helped me a great deal. I know what you've been through, but you and I both know you're very lucky to be alive. As far as I know, you're the first person this man has ever gotten in his power who's lived to identify him. I won't bother you anymore."

Paine left the room and the nurse followed him out to the station. "Are the police looking for this man?" she asked.

"Not yet, but I'll tell them, if they'll believe me."

"Why shouldn't they believe you?" the nurse asked. "She seemed to know him. You know him."

"There was a plane crash a few days ago, Flight 777 from St. Louis to New York. This man was on it. The federal aviation people said the plane crashed and exploded on impact and that there were no survivors. It's an odd story, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is." Puzzled, the nurse returned to her work.

Paine found a sheriff's deputy as he was leaving the hospital. He identified himself and told the officer he had just talked with Joyce DuBarry.

"The naked woman?" the deputy smiled.

"Yes. I think she was kidnapped by a serial killer, a man named Ivan Hicks. This is the man they call Ivan the Terrible. He was supposed to have been killed on an airline crash a few days ago, but it seems he survived."

"I read about that crash," the deputy said. "There were no survivors."

"So I've been told," Paine said. "But the young lady thinks that Hicks kidnapped her and probably still has her car."

"We've talked to her," the deputy said. "I don't know where you were a cop, Otis. Somewheres out in the sticks, I guess. But this is a New York chick. She's kinda cute though, isn't she? No telling what she was doing out there in the woods. You suppose she's on drugs? I guess she read about that crash and is telling stories out of school. Probably covering to save her boyfriend's ass." He gave Otis a wink and a wide grin.

Paine saw he was beating his head against a wall, but he got in one last shot. "But I think that Ivan Hicks did survive the crash and that he kidnapped the girl in Nyack. I hope you'll at least report this theory to the sheriff."

The deputy gave him an odd look. "I'll see that he's told about it."

Paine hurried to a pay phone and called Kirby Lotto.

She answered on the first ring. "I've absolutely got a victim who was grabbed by Ivan Hicks, escaped and has identified his picture and his description. There's no question about it."

"It's come together," Kirby shouted. "Carmichael Jones just called. He's certain the baby was stolen by the hardware man. He's from East Largo, Pennsylvania, and that's where the baby is now. What a story!" Kirby was pensive. "I suppose you'll have to tell the police immediately to get them on Ivan's tail."

Paine suspected Kirby's intent. "I've tried to do that already, Kirby. As usual, the deputy thought I was crazy and that the victim was lying. I can drive right back to Manhattan and be on your show if that will help."

"You've got it," Kirby shouted. "If I can get Jones and Jim Manor, maybe one of the Martins. Come on back, Otis.

You've got a key to the apartment. If I'm not there, call me at the network, Stan Mayfield's office."

Kirby tried to control her excitement as she picked up the phone and called her boss. She remembered she wasn't actually working for the show and had to provide a rational explanation. The words came tumbling out when she got Stan on the line.

"But, Kirby, we've been all through this," he said.

"Stan, just open your mind for a couple of minutes. I've got a New York detective, a former Kansas City detective, a Manhattan investment banker, his wife, a private detective, all these people will verify my story. We have a victim who was kidnapped and terrorized by Ivan Hicks who has positively identified his photograph. We have strong evidence that two women have been murdered by him since the crash. We know where the baby is and who has it and how it was taken. And I've got a line on the gate attendant who let me board Flight 777. These are facts, Stan. Facts. It would be one hell of a show."

"And where is this Ivan the Terrible?" Stan questioned.

"That's just it, Stan. He's on a rampage and neither the local police nor the FBI have been willing to believe me. But now we have proof that three people survived the crash, and Ivan was one of them."

"Can you get those people into the studio on short order?"

"I'll do my best, Stan."

"If this thing holds together, Kirby, you'll be a hero. We will actually lead the news and the nation."

Kirby smiled, Leading the news and the nation was the show's slogan. "And I know two people who will be flying to Paris for dinner."

"It'll be worth it," Stan shouted. "Now get it in gear. We've got a tight deadline to meet." Stan was sometimes a skeptic, but he was not one to go down with a sinking ship.

CHAPTER TWENTY

In a motel room in Rochester, New York, Ivan Hicks popped open the first of his six pack of beer, settled back in an upholstered chair, propped his feet on the bed and used the remote to search the TV channels for the news.

Surely there would be some mention if Joyce had been picked up. He moved down the dial past sitcom reruns and a l938 western.

Pausing at the news-feature show, Leading Event, he was startled to see his picture flashed on the screen. As he watched his own face with growing alarm, a deep male voice said: "This man, Ivan Hicks, a vicious serial killer known as Ivan the Terrible, who has raped and slain women in the Midwest and upper New York State, is on the loose tonight, a miracle survivor of a flight from St. Louis to New York City. Reports to both the FBI and local police that he escaped the flight and lived to kill again have been ignored. Yes, I said ignored, incredible as it may seem.

"Tonight The Leading Event presents the entire exclusive story, thanks to one of our veteran staff reporters, Kirby Lotto, who was also on the plane. She confronted the killer face to face and lived to tell the tale."

The photo dissolved into The Leading Event's logo and a voice echoing the words: "The Leading Event, We lead the news and the nation." Then a close shot to Kirby Lotto's face. She was flanked by a panel of people. Ivan recognized Kirby as the woman from the airplane and he almost snarled when the camera showed the face of the hated Otis Paine, the policeman who had dogged his footsteps until he was captured.

Ivan stood up and slammed his half-filled beer can to the floor, then immediately regretted it and ran to get a towel to mop up the suds.

Then he sat transfixed as the story of his escape from the plane, the two rape-murders, car thefts and the kidnapping of Joyce DuBarry were unfolded with remarkable accuracy. Times places, dates, motels, even a close guess as to where he was at this very minute.

Kirby closed the show with, "If you're watching, Ivan, give yourself up. You're a sick man and need medical attention. Please Ivan, don't kill again. We know about your mother, your stepfather, the boy you killed, the reasons why you kill, your abused childhood. Give yourself up, Ivan, you need help."

"They know," Ivan almost shouted in a fury, clawing the air. "They know! They know about my Mother. How do they know?" The very thought that someone, and now everyone, knew his secret drove him into a frenzy. He was taken with a fit that amounted to an insane rage. He darted around the room and then into the bathroom and ripped down the shower curtain and tried to tear it to pieces, but the heavy rubberized material was too strong.

Dashing back to the set, he saw Kirby Lotto and the panel members standing in a group as the credits were run. He scribbled down the name, Kirby Lotto. She was standing near Otis Paine, and the two of them at one time almost embraced.

In a flash, he knew. It was Paine and Lotto that had unmasked him, the two of them working together. He made a silent vow: They would die and he would be the executioner.

He rubbed his hand across the L-shaped scar on his face. That must go; in some way the scar must go. And he needed money, a lot of money.

They would be expecting him to kill again, to kill a woman. Paine could and would predict where. Maybe in the Rochester area, maybe in Buffalo, maybe north into Canada, Toronto. Paine could and had in the past almost read his mind. But now Ivan was wise. He would not kill women for blood and sex and revenge for his youth. He had a larger goal now.

He would accumulate money and he would find Kirby Lotto and then he would kill. He would track and pursue from the shadows. When he killed Lotto, Paine would be nearby and make a foolish move! Incentive! What an incentive he had to kill now.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

In the next few days, Kirby Lotto achieved true celebrity status. She visited talk shows, late-night comedians, and was interviewed by European magazines and newspapers and asked odd questions by Japanese reporters. No, she didn't like raw fish. Yes, she sometimes ate rice. No, she had never seen a sumo match, but had seen photos of the big fellows.

She remarked to Otis Paine, "They're talking Pulitzer at the office. Isn't that a pile of crap? I get on the wrong plane and I'm a loonytoon. Then nothing happens to change it and I'm the greatest thing since deep-dish pizza. The public is mad, the networks are mad. It's like the last days of the Roman empire."

"And I'm some sort of crack criminologist," Otis said. "This FBI man, Thomas Elgar, he wants me to tell him where Ivan is. They were kind of surly at first, but they got over their mad when someone told them I could track Ivan."

"Well, have you helped them?" Kirby asked.

"Yeah, I suppose you could call it help. The night of the show he was definitely in a Rochester motel room and still in possession of the DuBarry car. But now there's a new part of the equation. He knows that we know. Ivan's no dummy. Crazy maybe, but no klutz. He could be in Florida, or he could be in Nova Scotia, but where they're looking for him now, he ain't. And he's an artful dodger. How we fixed for beer?"

"There's a twelve-pack on top of the reefer. Seriously, this Ivan thing bugs me. Now the whole country's looking for him. No Ivan. How can a man hide like that?"

"I'm guessing anybody can hide in New York City, Kirby. That's why I'd like to stay here a while, if you don't mind. We make a fine pair of pigeons."

"I think you mean sitting ducks."

"It's been on your mind, too?"

"That Ivan's coming for us? Sure."

"If you can kill someone you really hate, make them squirm like a pig on a spit...." Otis popped open a beer. "And, you bet, Ivan's not one to give anyone the good death and he does hold grudges. He's threatened to peel my skin inch by inch. That's partly to our advantage."

"How so?" Kirby filled the kettle and put it on the stove, then she got a tea bag from a small canister.

"He could lay on a roof somewhere and knock us both over with a scope rifle. But he likely won't even try that. No, it'd be the knife, or the club. A disabling blow, then a little carving here and there."

"But he might get original."

"Sure," Otis said. He found a large glass in the cupboard, one that appeared to be halfway clean, and poured his beer into it. He was a civilized man. "He could use a mace, or a tomahawk. But he still wants to be up close and personal. For the first time since my retirement, I'm packin' a gun."

The admission surprised Kirby. "There are laws against that sort of thing."

"And laws that call for it. Jim Manor got me sworn in as some special kind of officer. I'm sworn to uphold the law in New York City. I guess that's kind of like being a Puritan in hell."

"You think I should get a gun?" Kirby poured hot water over the tea bag.

"No. The only time a gun is of any use is if you have it in your hand, pointing in the right direction and have the will to use it. That sounds simple, but it's a tough combo. If you're surprised at your apartment door, your quick draw chances are next to zero. You're probably going to be putting one more gun in the wrong hands."

"But we should have a strategy, or talk about it."

"Yes." Otis had almost drained his glass. The first beer always went down remarkably fast. "Stay with crowds, don't get isolated, especially after dark. The usual stuff."

"And, we should stay in touch."

"I suppose. What do you mean?" Otis took another beer from the reefer.

"Don't go off somewhere without telling me. Let me know when you'll be home and so forth."

"That's a good idea. Keep each other informed. Then I drop by Jim Manor's shop every couple of days and look over the reports. I'm like a one-purpose police force."

"Tonight you're the cook. It's your turn. I'm gonna hit the shower, then have a pre-dinner drink. What's for chow?"

"Pizza." Otis poured his beer and purposely avoided looking at Kirby.

She scowled. He had fixed pizza his last three turns. A place around the corner was having a seventy-nine-cent pizza sale and he had stuffed the freezer with them. Just wait until it was her turn for dinner. Tuna city. Right from the can.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Ivan Hicks was checked into a sleazy hotel on Cleveland's shabby east side. He had picked up a cutthroat razor at a junk shop with the intention of carving the scar from his face.

With this in mind, he had also purchased a bottle of Old Crow to ease his pain. At the last moment he decided instead to shave his head and let his beard grow. The shaving had been a painful enough process, accomplished while seated in the gritty bathtub down the hall from his room.

For the next three days he hung close to his room, emerging only at midmorning for his only real meal of the day at a near-by greasy spoon.

"You ain't from around here, are you?" the waitress asked him as she gave his coffee cup a refill.

"No, not Cleveland," he said. Her name was Sofia according to a plastic tag pinned to her green nylon uniform. She had waited on him each day during that slow time between breakfast and lunch and they had become slightly acquainted.

"I ain't either. I moved up here from Covington, Kentucky two years ago with my boyfriend. But he took off more'n a year ago. Covington's right acrost the river from Cincinnati."

"I'll bet it's a real nice place."

"It is. There's real people there. Mostly here there's foreigners, what you call Slovenians and Italians. I don't know where they all come from."

Ivan guessed they came from Slovenia and Italy, but he did not voice his opinion. Instead he asked if she planned to remain in Cleveland.

"Not if I can help it. You got a job?"

Her question was blunt, but Ivan conceded that he was out of work. "I used to be a carpenter, but I've been up in Canada working out in the woods, lumbering, you know, cutting trees." He broke the yolk of his second egg with the point of his fork.

"Why'ja leave?"

"Ran out of trees."

She laughed. "That's good. I mean that's bad. I was up in Canada once, acrost from Detroit. Me and a boyfriend. We sure had a time up there. You like that Canada whiskey?"

"It's alright."

"Where were you in Canada?"

Ivan guessed that Sofia knew little about Canadian or any other geography, but he didn't want to be too far off the wall. He guessed there were few trees in the prairie provinces, so he said, "Out west. Way out west." He realized that he had come to Cleveland supposedly bearing the remarkable message that western Canada had run out of trees.

"That's somethin'," Sofia said. She moved off to wait on another customer.

Ivan watched her go, ample hips, breasts pulling at the buttons of her tawdry uniform. She was overweight, maybe in her thirties, but she had a pleasant face. It would be a perfect cover for him if he could move in with that woman.

When Sofia returned, coffee pot joined to her right hand, Ivan asked where she lived.

"I got a nice place, just a little apartment, but attractive. And the neighbors ain't bad. Irish girl lives across from me. She's a whore, but she keeps things real quiet." Sofia bit her lip and laughed. "She says the Italians really like to screw the Irish. She's busy all the time. Where you stayin'?"

"I'm at a little hotel a block and a half down. The Florence. You know it?" Sofia made a wry face, and he added, "I know it's not too clean. And there's probably a few crawly things, but I'm lookin' for work. Maybe I'll get a place."

"There's work," she said. "Work, if you want it. Some people don't want work. But look at me. I could be on welfare, I suppose."

"I'll find something, but so far it's all minimum wage. How about a drink when you get off work?"

Sofia lit up. "Why not? Hey, I don't even know your name."

"It's Walter. Walter Falcon. Everybody calls me Walt though. You want me to meet you here?"

"No. Not here. I want to change. There's a bar on 160th Street, Jack and Jim's, I could be there at six thirty."

"Good."

Sofia was pleased. This Walt seemed okay, except she had never seen him without his Cleveland Indians baseball cap. She guessed he had a hair problem, but so what. Weekdays were usually sheer drudgery for her. Weekends it was polka bars and one-night stands. Maybe this would be different. He had just hit town and she was his only friend.

After work, she hurried home and changed into a red blouse and black slacks. Walt Falcon was already at Jack and Jim's when she arrived, baseball cap fixed on his head, draft beer on the bar in front of him.

Midway through their second drink, Ivan remembered he didn't know Sofia's last name."

"It's Mirage," she said.

"Like something that isn't there?"

She laughed. It was an old joke, but she laughed just the same. "Yeah, that's it. But there's a little too much of me here, you reckon?"

"No." Ivan finished his beer, enjoying his first evening out. A polka blared from the jukebox, neon beer signs illuminated the back bar. "There's just more of you to love."

Sofia laughed again. Another old joke, but this Walt was fun.

"You think we should eat?" Ivan asked. Usually, food was foremost in Sofia's mind after work, but tonight it carried a low priority. She was working on her second bourbon and ginger ale and feeling fine. Her cheerful face peeked over the rim of her glass at Ivan, but she said nothing. Ivan searched the bar for traces of food.

He did have money left, almost one hundred and fifty dollars. When that was gone he would get more, either by force or stealth. A large jar of boiled, pickled eggs sat on the bar, a rack of sacked potato chips on the back bar. There appeared to be a box of sandwiches, each in its plastic wrap, next to the chips. A sign taped to the mirror read: Chili, $2.25 a bowl. A waitress at the end of the bar had a cup of coffee in front of her.

Ivan signaled the waitress and ordered two more drinks and a sack of chips. "You want an egg?" he asked Sofia.

"No, I'm on a diet." Ivan sensed she was a little drunk.

"Hey, I enjoy your company," Ivan said when the drinks arrived. He lifted his beer glass and said, "Here's to yuh." Then he ripped open the bag of chips and pushed them to the center of the table.

A hillbilly song bellowed over the clatter and talk of the bar and Sofia kept time by drumming her hand on the table. Normal conversation was all but impossible, so the two sat with their drinks and chips, enjoying the evening.

"I got a bottle in my apartment," Sofia said. She had almost finished her third drink.

This was the invitation Ivan had hoped for. Now he could relax for a while. "Do you suppose they'd miss me at my hotel?"

Sofia giggled. "At the Florence? They'd keep your clothes if you didn't pay, but they don't give a damn about you or anybody else."

"I'd like to see your place."

Sofia drained her glass. Two days later Ivan moved in with her.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Joyce DuBarry had always had problems talking with her parents. She knew they loved her, but expressing it was difficult for any of the trio.

After her release from the hospital, her time at home had been awkward. They had taken her to a symphony, something by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Symphony 40 in G minor. They had sat silently, three in a row with Joyce in the middle, during the entire first half. At intermission she read the program, learned that 1788 had been a productive year for Mozart. He died three years later.

After intermission they heard Georg Friedrich Handel's "Dettingen Te Deum," a piece written to honor a comic charge led by King George II during the War of Austrian Succession. Joyce enjoyed the choral group. She had been unable to focus on Mozart.

Following this was a strained late supper, the three of them at a table for four with large snow-white napkins and long stemmed glasses of white wine, each with a ramekin of goat cheese soufflé.

"This restaurant is famous for this dish, Joyce," her father said. "That's what the paper said."

"It's delicious. I enjoyed the symphony, too." Joyce forced a smile.

"It is good," her mother said. "You'll be returning to school soon, won't you?"

Joyce did return to school, but before she did she reluctantly agreed to appear on a daytime talk show. She was persuaded by a woman friend from the local rape crisis center. "This is what it's all about, Joyce. Come out of the closet, talk about it. There are beasts walking the city streets. We must face this monster toe to toe and defeat it."

It sounded so noble. A rape crisis staffer and a man who had authored a book about famous rapes rounded out the panel, lined up on stools like birds on a telephone wire.

Joyce was stunned when she became the target of the most intimate sexual questions, cheered on by the middle-aged talk show host, who alternately registered disdain and provocative prurient interest. She could imagine couch potatoes across the nation getting an overdose of kinky sex vicariously.

When the show ended she was near mental exhaustion, but congratulated by the staff for a first rate job. Joyce was sickened by the carnival replay of her ordeal. If this would help the rape crisis cause she was Omar Khayyam.

On the third day back at school, her psych teacher caught her eye as she was leaving class, signaling her to lag behind.

"I saw a tape of that panel show, Joyce. You showed a lot of maturity."

"Thanks." She didn't really want to discuss the show, she turned to go.

"You've missed some work."

"I know. If there's some reading...."

"You've been through a lot. I am a psychologist. Maybe I could help."

"Counseling? I don't think so."

"Well, catching up." Mr. Ruskin almost always wore a dark green sports coat with gold buttons that looked like ancient Roman coins. It was almost a uniform.

"If there's an assignment, Mr. Ruskin...."

"You've missed class discussion. I could help you. I don't know if you know, but I have an apartment just off the south campus."

"No, I didn't know. I thought a wife, a dog and a child." The conversation was disconcerting to Joyce, not the usual palaver between student and professor.

"That ended more than a year ago. I'm a bachelor again. I'll bet you know more about sex than most any girl on campus. That's one of my fields of interest."

Joyce was suddenly coldly furious. "You can take your interests, Mr. Ruskin. I mean, hit on some other student, or better yet, someone your own age." There he stood in his green blazer, button down shirt, diagonal-striped tie, gray slacks and loafers, like something that should have ivy growing on it, a faculty member she had respected up until a few moments ago. She stalked out of the room.

"I was just trying to help," Ruskin called after her.

Joyce went to her housing, dumped her books on her bed, gathered a few things together and drove home to White Plains. When she arrived, the house was empty except for Mo, the cat.

She dialed her boyfriend, Ralph, and caught him in his room at Harvard. She had seen him once since the incident. He had visited her at the hospital. "Ralph, I'm not feeling so good."

"I saw a tape of the panel show, Joyce. It created quite a stir. Why did you do it?" His manner was brusque, barely polite.

"You know why, Ralph. We both support the rape crisis program. They told me it would help."

"But all those details. It was, well, lurid, like a sex sideshow, the big top, center ring."

"I didn't know. I really don't watch daytime TV. I didn't know they got into things, I mean, I just didn't know."

"Well, you should have. But the damage's done. Everybody either saw that show, or saw a tape. There's a couple circulating here on campus. They're pretending like it's some kind of academic thing, but you know it's not."

"I'm sorry, Ralph. But it's over. It's done with, the whole thing."

"Joyce, I think we better cool it for a while."

"I don't understand."

"Well, I'm busy. You're busy. There's a lot going on. We just won't see each other for a while."

"You don't want to see me anymore, do you, Ralph?"

"It's not that, Joyce. You know the situation as well as I do. What if you came up here, you know."

"No I don't know. Anyway, I'm not coming up there. I'm home now."

"Okay, well, thanks for calling. Take care of yourself."

Joyce hung up. There were a lot of things she could have said, a lot of things she wanted to say, but she said nothing and hung up. It was like hanging up on what a few weeks ago had seemed the most important part of her life.

She was in the kitchen eating cookies and drinking a glass of milk when her mother came home with the groceries.

"I thought you were at school, Joyce."

"I was. I didn't feel right, so I came home."

"I was surprised to see your car." Jody DuBarry begin removing items from the paper bags and placing them on the counter. She seemed preoccupied with the groceries and had not given Joyce a hug and a kiss, her usual greeting after any absence.

"I'm tired, Mother. I can sleep better in my own room."

"Perhaps, but you really shouldn't be here. Everyone knows about that TV show. Frankly, Joyce, it was disgraceful."

"I've heard. It got out of hand as far as I'm concerned, but I had no idea."

Jody made a sour face. "All those terrible details. I could have sunk through the floor. I don't know what your father thinks. He has seen it. There's a tape."

"Tapes, yes. Damn the tapes."

"Joyce, don't talk like that."

"I'm sorry, Mother."

"There's talk around town. You should go back to school, Joyce. That's where you belong now."

"But this is my home."

"Of course it is, or was. When a child grows up, they live with their parents. Then they go off to school, to college, then they usually live somewhere else. That's the way life is, Joyce."

"You don't want me here?"

Joyce rose and faced her mother who was busy placing eggs on a shelf of the refrigerator. "I didn't say that." She opened the crisper and put in green onions and two tomatoes. "But what happened to you, there are those who say you might have brought it on yourself."

"That's ridiculous, and you know it."

"I might know it, but there's talk. Girls, girls a certain age, they can tease men, taunt them. All that talk on TV. I don't know what your father thinks, but he has a position in the community."

"This happened to me. It was a crime. Nothing happened to you or Dad. Wasn't I the victim?"

Jody finally turned to Joyce. "Don't try to confuse me with your talk, talk of rape crisis, talk of this or that. I have to live here in White Plains and so does your father. You're enrolled in school and that's where you belong."

Joyce shook her head and went to her bedroom. She sat among her things, the accumulation of a young life -- a couple of stuffed animals, a pressed prom corsage peeking out from behind her mirror, three tennis trophies, a Wimbledon poster, summer camp pictures, a high school yearbook.

In the bottom drawer of her dresser, beneath three sweaters, was a diary and a small packet of letters from Ralph. The diary she would never write in again, things in her mind at this moment were too loathsome to ever set down as a journal of one's life.

Mo came into the room and hopped up on the bed. Good old Mo, the cat had been given to her by an aunt when she was nine-years-old. Through the years they had slept together, played together -- she had fed and even occasionally given him a bath.

She scratched his ear and he purred and rolled over on his back. Playfully, she poked at his stomach. A paw shot out and raked her forearm, leaving three bright red scratches. She jerked her arm back in fright, examining the red marks, now glistening with blood.

Alarmed, Mo dashed from the room. Joyce went to the door and closed it securely, then returned to the bed and started to cry.

Presently, she stirred and began gathering the few possessions that would fit in a small gym bag. She felt alone, isolated, and wondered if Ivan Hicks might feel the same. Was she being locked out by the same world that wanted to lock him up?

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Colin and Poagie Woods achieved the status of hero-criminals in East Largo. The community was solidly behind them, and business in the hardware store had never been better.

Their attorney, Ethel Winter, had plea-bargained the two under an 1879 state statute of detaining a child without evil intent. They had received identical three-year suspended sentences and been ordered to do one week of community service.

Although Poagie seemed generally happy, her mental well-being did concern Colin. Sometime she sat in the room they had fixed up as a nursery just looking at the baby's things. Colin would have suggested the room be redone had it not been for the fact that several agencies were busily seeking a new baby for them.

Colin was saying to a customer, "Just put a glob of peanut butter on the pedal," in explaining how a live squirrel trap worked, when his attorney entered the store and gave him the high sign. He pushed the trap toward the customer and directed him toward the cashier's station.

"The Martins would like to see you and Poagie," Ms. Winter said.

"The baby's grandparents? Why in the world?"

Ethel shrugged. "She wouldn't tell me. Mrs. Martin called a few minutes ago to make the request. She said she didn't know what kind of reception she'd get if she called you directly."

"I can see that. Poagie's still upset. Surely they don't want to sue us."

Ethel smiled. "I wouldn't think so. Not with their money. And the court has spoken." She fiddled with the attaché case she held in her hand, eager to be off to the courthouse. "But it's up to you. If you agree, they'll drop by your home about six tonight."

"Our house," Colin said, again surprised.

"Very informal. Maybe they want to apologize. Thank you for caring for the baby. The baby was never really theirs anyway. It's their son's. They are just grandparents."

"I know that. Whatever they want, the decent thing to do would be to see them. Sure, six o'clock. You'll call?"

Ethel agreed and went off in the direction of the courthouse.

When Colin drove the few blocks to his home for lunch, he was still undecided about telling Poagie about the visit. If he did, she'd stew about it all afternoon, probably jump at several wrong conclusions.

When he faced her over the kitchen table, two bowls of chicken soup and bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwiches between them, he said, "I have a surprise for this evening."

She half smiled and asked, "What is it?"

Colin smiled back. "If I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise."

"But you did tell me."

"No I didn't," Colin insisted.

"You said you had a surprise."

"I didn't say that I have a surprise, I said there'd be a surprise."

"Well, what's the difference?"

Colin was about to explain the difference when a new idea popped into his head. "I'll be home about five o'clock and I'll bring barbecue from the Pig House."

"That's the surprise?"

"I thought so. You won't have to cook. Shall I get drinks, too?"

"Well, no. We have sodas in the fridge. Anyway, it's not much of a surprise."

"I don't see why not."

"For one thing," Poagie pointed out, "I know about it."

"But you made me tell you."

"How could I make you tell me anything?"

"Maybe you didn't," Colin said.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, maybe I won't bring barbecue home after all."

"You're going to take me out to dinner, aren't you?" Poagie seemed quite happy with the prospect.

"No, definitely not."

"Colin, you confuse me."

Colin finished his BLT, wiped mayonnaise from his mouth with a paper napkin and pushed back his chair. "I'll see you about five."

"You didn't finish your ice tea."

"The meal was great." He walked around the table and gave Poagie a peck on the forehead. "I'm out of here. Got a shipment of lawn seed coming in this afternoon."

Poagie brightened and shouted after him, "The continuing saga of a Grand Clam franchise man."

Colin was pleased with his decision not to tell Poagie about the impending Martin's visit, but she couldn't say he hadn't prepared her for some type of surprise.

After work, he decided not to visit the Pig House. Instead he dropped by the Kentucky Fried and picked up carry out. He felt guilty about buying either barbecue or fried chicken with the attendant fried potatoes.

Both he and Poagie were trying to watch their fat intake. There had been a good Chinese carryout in East Largo, but it had closed, the proprietors moving on to larger venues. Poagie often talked up the benefits of boiled rice and had sometimes mentioned that she planned to buy brown rice, although she never did. The fact was they seldom ate rice at all.

The afternoon snailed by for Colin. Business was slow, nothing went wrong, there were no complaints of product malfunction, nothing to distract him from thinking about the Martins. For one thing, where were they that they could be in East Largo at six? New York City was a long way off.

The two of them had polished off the chicken, finished licking their fingers and deposited the bones and containers in the trash when the doorbell rang. Poagie was putting on the news on television, so Colin went to the door, returning with both Martins trailing behind him.

"Poagie, Mr. and Mrs. Martin have dropped by for a visit."

She stood up and looked from one to the other, then looked at Colin and said, "This is a surprise."

Colin smiled and said to the Martins, "I didn't tell her." He motioned them to a love seat.

When they were settled, Mrs. Martin began. "We thought it might help just to chat, there've been so many misunderstandings."

"Would you like coffee?" Poagie asked. She was clearly puzzled. She had never seen Mr. Martin, although she had met his wife during a tense encounter when she and a social worker came to pick up the baby. It had not been a red-letter day.

"No, not right now," Mrs. Martin said. "Maybe later."

"We're criminals, you know," Poagie said. "Convicts."

Colin was not taken by Poagie's sarcasm. He tried to strike common ground. "We all have something in common, our affection for the baby." They had named it Colin, Jr., and he could not bring himself to call it Mike.

"Yes, little Mike is fine," Mrs. Martin said. "Actually, that's the reason we're here. The baby's father, Rudy, loved his wife very much. He's been out of it since the plane crash, lost, you might say. I'm not saying he doesn't love little Mike. He does. But his loss of Gloria, is, well, devastating."

"But he is taking care of the baby?" Poagie asked.

"Well, no," Martin said. "How could a single man take care of a baby?"

"Somebody has to take care of it," Poagie said. There was still an edge to her voice, although she was more relaxed.

"We're taking care of it," Mrs. Martin said. "We have help, a competent older woman. But regardless, we're not of the age to parent. We are, in fact, grandparents."

"Where's Rudy, the baby's father?" Colin asked.

"We think Portugal. He flew to London, sent us a card, faxed us from Paris, said he thought he'd spend some time in Portugal. I don't know much about it, but there's a region down south there called the Argarve."

"That's Algarve," Martin corrected.

"Yes, of course, Algarve, or whatever. But the fact is, Rudy will get over this loss in time."

"And find a wife and want the baby," Poagie said.

"That's one scenario," Martin said. "The one you'd think would be played out. But before Rudy left the States he gave up all rights to the child. My wife and I are legal guardians and empowered, by Rudy to make certain decisions."

Colin, listening intently to Martin's words, offered an opinion. "Rudy is distraught. When Rudy comes to his senses, as he will, he'll want to reverse his judgment and recover the baby."

"That's exactly what we thought," Mrs. Martin said. "But the fax from Paris contradicted this line of reasoning. Rudy is concerned about the baby, just as we are, just as the two of you probably are."

"I'll say," Poagie said. "This is a little confusing."

"Well, it's not confusing," Martin said. "The three of us, my wife and our son, all agree the baby should have a good home. We also agree that we can't provide it. We have hopes that you will accept the child as your own."

"You mean adoption?" Colin asked. Poagie started to get up from her chair, then sat back again.

"Yes, adoption," Mrs. Martin said.

"With certain conditions," Martin added.

"Conditions?" Poagie asked, instantly suspicious.

"Arthur doesn't mean conditions exactly, not legally, anyway. This thing has to be founded on trust. What he means is we'd like to continue to be grandparents, visit and so forth, maybe have the boy visit us occasionally. Trips to the zoo, that sort of thing."

"And be there to help financially if need be," Martin put in. "I don't mean we want to run the boy's life. We'd just be, well, grandparents."

"You are the grandparents," Poagie said.

"That's all we want, Poagie," Mrs. Martin said, "just to be recognized as grandparents. What do you think?"

Poagie's eyes were wet, her voice emotional. "I think, I think... it's what we want." Mrs. Martin went over and knelt by her side and gave her a hug.

Colin stood up and said, "Mr. Martin, how about joining me in the kitchen for a beer."

"Colin, I wish you'd call me Arthur. Do you have any scotch?"

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Ivan never really intended to get a job, although he told Sofia that's how he spent much of his time during her working hours. And, to her surprise, he did not hit her up for pocket money.

"You see anything good in the classifieds?" Sofia would ask almost every night after work.

"No, but tomorrow night I'd like to take you to dinner to a real nice place. That steak house near 105th Street."

"Honey, I don't know, you not workin' and all. I was thinkin' I might quit my job and the two of us could go down to Kentucky. You'd like it down there, there's real people, down home kind of folks."

"We're doing okay here, Sofia. I'm lucky in love and lucky at cards." He patted her on the rump and she giggled and drew back. "I'll be hitting another game in a day or two and replenish the cash supply."

"Gamblin's no way to live, Walt. Gamblers die broke. Down in Kentucky we could both find jobs. You'd make a right good cook."

Ivan laughed. "You'd work and I'd cook and sew?"

"No, silly. At a restaurant. Short orders. Flippin' burgers, dippin' fries, bacon and eggs on the grill. There's good money in that. You could cook and I could wait tables."

"We'd be a team."

"Yeah." They'd been together just over two weeks and Sofia was already thinking marriage, although she had said nothing. She was aging, couldn't seem to lose weight, and her chances were fleeting. And she yearned for the slower pace of Kentucky, to get away from the gritty Cleveland streets, the smoke. She had come to hate polka music.

Ivan thought of her simply as his cover. And he used gambling as a cover with Sofia. Late night card games. He had been out to such "games" three times and had scored big twice.

On this night, after treating Sofia at the steak house and depositing her back at the apartment, he set out for another "game," first catching a bus for Terminal Square in the heart of the city.

Downtown Cleveland is largely deserted at night except for the hotels and the conventions. Ivan hit the hotels, first the one off the square where little was doing. A couple of bored clerks, a bewildered Japanese family just in from Kobe. An old couple sat on a worn sofa, reading magazines and waiting for bedtime.

Then he worked his way up Euclid Avenue, the once splendid main street. Cleveland is not a Chicago or New Orleans. It is not even a St. Louis. Ivan finally found signs of life, a noisy electronic convention in progress, its members spilling out under a hotel marquee that carried the slogan: Cleveland Circuits the World.

He had a draft beer in the bar, downed it quickly, then used the rest room. It was fairly busy, men coming and going, often in twos and threes. He checked outside the hotel, but there was little activity away from the entrance. He had picked off his second victim after hustling him into an alley near such a hotel.

Back inside the hotel, he took the elevator to the twelfth floor, then wandered the corridors. Ivan was keenly aware of the time element, he could not afford to linger and become a suspicious person. The twelfth floor had no signs of life except for a man who had a pretty young woman half his age pinned against the wall, both leaning into the wall, both a little tipsy and fondling one another. Ivan nodded politely and returned to the stairwell.

There were a couple of parties in progress on the eleventh floor, open rooms crowded with men, most of them with drinks in hand, some with glazed eyes to match their smiles. But too many people.

When Ivan emerged from the stairwell on the tenth floor, a middle-aged man had just left the elevator and started down the hall to the right. He was reeling slightly and actually pushed off from a wall to keep his balance. No one else was in sight.

Ivan stalked him down the hall, watched him turn a corner. Now they were out of sight of the elevator with no one else in the corridor. Moving quickly, Ivan overtook the man, slammed his sap stick in the back of his head and eased him to the carpeted floor. The man made not a sound. It took only seconds to roll him on his stomach and take his wallet.

Then Ivan was gone, back to the stairwell, racing down three flights, into the hall, pushing the elevator button.

The doors opened and a pretty young woman emerged. She wore a dark blue uniform and pulled a wheel-mounted piece of luggage behind her – an airline stewardess. She barely noticed him, but continued down the hall, pulling the bag with her left hand, key in right, purse dangling from her shoulder. Ivan had seen her eyes, extraordinary eyes, a startling blue with long lashes.

Ivan felt the thrill of spontaneous emotion. A lovely woman alone in a deserted corridor. How easy it would be to stalk her, push her inside the room, close the door, quiet her with a few quick blows.

He could see her on her back, sprawled across the bed, those frightened eyes watching him, twisting helplessly, feel his body loom over her, sense her soft flesh as he stripped her clothing. He could sense the hot blood of her heart as that muscle expanded and contracted, fluttering with fear, just inches from the tenderness of her breasts. His hands moving on her body.

He watched her go down the corridor, tight buns, legs encased in panty hose, hips swaying, subtle movements, smart and well-tailored, every hair in place. Ivan could have her and he would. The elevator door closed and Ivan started after his fresh prey, his face and eyes set in determination.

Then he hesitated, momentarily disoriented, then retreated to the elevator and pushed the button. Kirby Lotto and Otis Paine he repeated to himself through clenched teeth as the elevator door opened once more.

Minutes later he was in a cab headed for Terminal Square and the mass transit hub.

Before boarding a bus for the east side, Ivan slipped his sap stick and his hat into a trash bin. He constructed the sapper of lead fishing weights and tough plastic tape, duct tape. The hat was a cloth model with the brim all the way around such as fishermen wear.

Once on the bus, Ivan pulled his Cleveland Indians cap from a back pocket and pulled it onto his baldhead. He ignored the wallet, fat in his right pants pocket, instead staring out the window toward joyless buildings and grim factories.

Bored with the tedious scenes of this grim city, Ivan picked up a section of the Plain Dealer from the seat beside him. It was not the first section, nor the comics, nor the sports – the three sections that generally held his interest. His eye fell on a column of announcements of upcoming events, generally cultural.

He read on because there was nothing else to read. Then a name seemed to pop out of the page and smack him in the eye – Kirby Lotto. In two weeks that woman from hell, that woman who had revealed his secrets to the world, would be in Cleveland. She would participate as a panel member in the Cuyahoga Forum – the topic: TV Violence – Chicken or Egg?

Ivan quickly tore out the three-paragraph item and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. Kirby Lotto was coming to him. The plans he must make!

Sofia was in bed when he returned to the apartment.

"It's not very late, is it?" she asked.

"No. There was a game, but it broke up in a few minutes."

"How's your luck?"

"Won a little. I'm taking a shower." Sofia said something inaudible and rolled over. In the bathroom, Ivan examined the wallet. Almost three hundred dollars in cash plus a VISA and an American Express card.

He sat on the john and ripped the wallet apart, searching for secret pockets. A hundred dollar bill appeared between two thin pieces of leather at the back of the wallet. Close to four hundred dollars in all. Not a bad night.

After tearing up what contents he could, he flushed them down the toilet. Tomorrow he would take a bus to the west side of town, get rid of the other cards -- driver's license and so on -- then use the credit cards as much as he dared before ditching them.

And this was his final card game. He wanted one big score before leaving this pleasant nest and Cleveland behind. But what would it be?

After three drunks in three weeks, the Cleveland police would start laying on extra detectives to scope out large downtown conventions. But they would be too late; Ivan was way ahead of them.

And the thought of Kirby in Cleveland excited him. And at the thought of the lithe bodied, sensual stewardess he shuddered, then became sexually excited, lustfully aroused. Sofia would soon be fully awake and making her little cries of joy.

It was mid-afternoon on a cloudy Cleveland day that Ivan returned from his trip to the west side. Cleveland is a city smashed up against the south edge of Lake Erie, thus the east and west sides are widely separated. It is safe to say there are eastsiders who have never visited the west side.

Among other items, he was carrying in his pocket an expensive watch he had purchased via American Express as a gift for Sofia. Since moving into her apartment, he had gone out of his way to please her. He thought of her as a cow-like woman, lacking sensitivity and imagination.

He did not feel this way about Bridget O'Hara, Sofia's neighbor, who he bumped into going into her apartment when he returned from the west side.

"How's business?" he asked.

"Not bad. How's it with you?"

"About the same." He had gotten to know Bridget fairly well in recent days. Once she had come over to borrow a few cans of beer for a john she was entertaining. She had paid it back the next day with a top-of-the-line brand.

"You want to come in for a beer. I'm probably free 'til tonight." She grinned up at him, auburn hair, freckles, just over five feet, like the girl next door. In fact, she was the girl next door.

"Too early for me to drink. I'll take coffee."

"I aim to please. Come on in." She hustled into the kitchen and put on the kettle. "It's instant, she called back. You want the straight stuff, or decaf?"

"Decaf," Ivan said, following her into the tiny galley. "You got things fixed up real nice." Bottles of liquor lined an open shelf. Scotch, bourbon, brandy, rum, Canadian and a selection of cordials.

"Have to. This is my work place. Usually, anyway. Sometimes I make calls."

"Downtown hotels?"

"No," Bridget answered. "I tried that a couple times. Three a.m., downtown Cleveland, it's like a tomb. Can't even get a cab. This is not a lively city, but I've got a clientele. Out here, they drive me to and from."

"They?" Ivan was puzzled. "Like a corporation?"

Bridget smiled as she spooned coffee into a pair of cups. "Like the Cosa Nostra, like organized crime. I figure you for a guy who can keep his mouth shut."

"Yeah, I do. Usually. You work for the mob?"

"In a way. I'm not one of their working girls. I don't pay them. They pay me. I service the members and the brass. They know where I am. They can call me. And, if need be, I can get protection."

"From the cops?"

She poured the water into the cups and asked Ivan if he wanted cream and sugar. "Who needs protection from the Cleveland cops? But yes, I suppose so. But I'm really talking troublemakers. Some john who might start trouble, or bothers me. That sort of thing."

"I understand."

"Come on, let's sit down." She led the way into her small living room. "I like Sofia, she's a real nice person. She's never had much luck with men."

"She's told me."

"Yeah, her last guy treated her like shit. He rode a Harley. Also, she doesn't like Cleveland. Not a bit."

"Who does?" Ivan asked. The pert woman sitting across from him in a maple rocker could pass for a Junior Leaguer, or a television evangelist.

He was both attracted and repelled by her, this woman who seemed to rejoice in the fact that men violated her body daily -- twice, three times, God knows how many times a day -- in every loathsome manner.

Ivan had called his victims whores. He had fixed his blind, violent fury upon them, this rage that welled up from some twisted cavern deep in his body, he had directed it with savagery at those women he had called whores. Yet his lust was never satisfied, always lurking there in the shadows.

Now this woman, this Bridget O'Hara, this daughter of Irish immigrants, wore her occupation as a whore as if it were a badge of honor. She joked about it, postured and, yes, carried a seductive allure like a banner. Here I am, fuck me, pay the price.

Ivan was becoming obsessed with her. Yet he was in control, measuring every word and gesture. He was Sofia's man and he would do well to play that role until a time came.

"She's asked me to go with her to Kentucky, 'down home' she calls it."

"Are you going?" Bridget asked.

Ivan grinned. "Why no, I hadn't even considered it. We met, had a few drinks, are living together. But it's nothing permanent. I think Sofia knows that."

"I'm sorry, Walt. I was hoping."

"What about you, Bridget? What kind of a future do you have?"

"I've got plans. And they don't include Cleveland. Maybe California. Maybe Florida. With my contacts I could be in Las Vegas tomorrow. But there's too much competition and I'd have to make pay offs. Here, what I make I keep."

"Saving your pennies?"

"Of course." Her voice suddenly cooled and Ivan guessed he was getting too personal. Future plans and finances. If Bridget was hooked up with some type of mafia she probably earned good money and knew a few things.

Wouldn't Ivan like an inside track on how to knock over the mob? His days of rolling drunks in Cleveland were over. And he had to make some move within the next month or his cash would be gone. He wanted to hit Manhattan with a few bucks in his pocket.

"I'm not very ambitious," Ivan said, trying to change the subject. "Just want a regular job, a few beers after work, a couple of yuks."

Bridget nodded and sipped her coffee. She had never been sure about Walt. This Canadian woodcutter who didn't really seem to be looking for work. Now this man of simple tastes. But he was interesting, the beard and the ball cap. It was nice to talk to someone who was going to do nothing else but talk. Turning tricks could be hard on the body.

"Would you do something for me, Walt?"

"Name it. I'll try."

"Take off that ball cap."

He hesitated a moment, then removed it. She gave him a long look. "You shave your head, don't you?"

"Yes, how did you know?"

"You should at least have sideburns, and there's a straight cut where your beard begins."

"I see. I was getting bald, or am getting bald. That is, I am definitely bald now. Anyway, why be half bald. I'm a cue ball." He replaced the cap.

"You look okay without the cap, Walt. You know, you'd look a lot different if you shaved your beard and let your hair grow, wouldn't you?"

Walt suddenly realized he was staring at Bridget and looked at his coffee cup, which was almost empty. She was smart and she was beginning to wonder about him. If she only knew how dangerous he could be.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The time was almost midnight when Joyce DuBarry arrived in Manhattan and showed up at Kirby Lotto's apartment.

Both Kirby and Otis Paine had been expecting her hours before. She had phoned in the early afternoon, talked to Otis and explained who she was and that she desperately needed to talk with the two of them. Although when she called she had no idea Otis was staying with Kirby.

The two greeted her, and she dropped her small bag to the floor and took a chair.

"From what Otis said, we thought you'd be here about six or seven o'clock," Kirby said, deeply puzzled by the late-night visit, baggage and all.

"I hitched in from White Planes. Some old man, I don't know, about my father's age, said he'd give me fifty bucks if I went to his hotel with him. Fifty bucks. Wow."

Kirby tried to look shocked. Otis's expression didn't change. "That can be a little dangerous," the older woman said.

"Not with this old geezer. Fifty bucks just to fuck him. He said he'd give me another fifty if I go back tomorrow."

"That's not a really good paying job," Otis said. "Say you go there five times a week, that's just two hundred and fifty dollars. Plus you have to pay cab fare and you get no benefits. No medical, no retirement, no paid vacations, run the risk of incarceration. Not a good contract."

Kirby picked up on Otis's line. "Of course you could get more customers."

"Then you'd probably end up standing on the corner, competing with the rest of the working girls," the ex-cop said.

Joyce scowled. "I'm not a whore."

"Just why are you here?" Kirby asked.

"I need a place to stay 'til I can find something, some kind of a job, I suppose."

"You were in school."

"Yeah, I was in school. But it was a bore. Then I went home to Mom and Dad, it just didn't work out."

"It's late," Kirby said. "You can sleep on the floor in my room. Otis has the couch. Tomorrow we can talk about things. We'll all feel better."

"You feel bad now?" Joyce asked.

"I don't," Otis said, "just sleepy. I'm on Ozark Mountain time."

"It's earlier out there," Kirby said.

"True, but we sack out at dusk. Pile the dogs in with us."

Kirby turned to Joyce. "There's no problem. I'll find you a blanket and a pillow."

Otis was the first up the following morning, making coffee. Kirby came creeping out soon after. Both spoke in whispers, but were afraid to discuss what they were thinking.

"Is she still asleep?" Otis asked.

"Like a baby," Kirby said.

"Let's go to the coffee shop next door and have a croissant or something."

"Okay. You go on down and I'll get dressed and join you."

The city was coming to life when Kirby joined Otis. Like conspirators they hunched over coffee and Danish. "That entry last night, do you think she was trying to shock us with the fifty dollars?" Kirby asked.

"The kid's been through a lot, Kirby. There's no way to know what happened at her school or at home. And we both saw that talk show she was on. She must have got some feedback."

"She could tell us what's bugging her."

Otis nodded wisely. "Not likely. Another question, why did she come to us?"

"For one thing, she might not have known you were staying at my place, but then again she might have. Also, she's not so old. We may be the only one's she's even brushed against. She doesn't really know either one of us."

"But you did talk to her at length in the follow up story."

"Yes, I did. And I tried to be sympathetic. God knows, I am sympathetic. Do you think we should call her parents?"

"Shit no. She's not a child. That might drive her away. Her mental state is flimsy at best. I know it's your place, but I'd suggest we hang onto her until she finds something better." Otis took a large bite of Danish, then licked sugar from his fingers. Although the coffee shop had just opened and was almost deserted, both talked in low voices.

"She can stay as far as I'm concerned," Kirby said, then suddenly had a thought. "You know our neighbor, Patsy Wong, she's usually looking for someone to help her sell cosmetics. It's not like a street peddler. She has regular customers."

"Might work," Otis said. "Keep her occupied." He finished off his Danish. "We'd better get back up there."

Kirby looked at her Danish with only one bite gone. "You go. I'll finish eating and look at the paper."

Joyce was sitting in the living room when Otis let himself into the apartment. She looked lost.

"Good morning," Otis said. "Sleep well?"

"I did. I just woke up and thought you two had abandoned me. I guess I'd better pack my bag and get out of here."

"No need. Have some breakfast."

"I may have coffee."

"Fine, I'll put the water on." He went into the kitchen and Joyce followed. "Kirby and I didn't want to wake you. We both knew you were tired. I imagine things haven't gotten back to normal with your life."

"You imagine right."

"I can still remember you in that hospital bed."

"Yep. I can barely remember you. A man coming into the room with a picture."

He gave her an empty cup and showed her the coffee things. "Kirby and I were at the coffee shop downstairs. It's next door if you're ever interested. You might have guessed we were talking about you. First, you can stay here. Second, there might be a job possibility."

"What kind of job?" Joyce suddenly relaxed. She had been certain they would tell her to go back to White Plains. Of course she wouldn't.

"The woman in the next apartment. Chinese lady, Patsy Wong, she sells cosmetics, has a regular string of customers. She usually needs help."

"Selling cosmetics? Me? I don't usually use them." Joyce finally cracked a smile.

"I don't think that matters. Anyway, Kirby and Patsy can talk to you about it. And that doesn't matter. Cosmetics, no cosmetics, you can stay here. I think we're three of a kind."

"What does that mean?"

"I'm not sure. Stick around and find out. There's a bagel in the reefer." He was backing out of the kitchen. "I'm hitting the bathroom before Kirby gets back."

One nice feature about Kirby's job was that it didn't matter what time she arrived in the morning, or even if she arrived. If she didn't show up, Stan Mayfield would just figure she was out doing something investigative that might turn into a story. Or maybe she was shopping.

In Manhattan a lot of a reporter's work takes place over lunches. It was always a hassle to pretend to eat, be social, ask questions and take notes. There was also the matter of remaining sober.

A small tape recorder was appropriate, but then there was the problem of transcribing the notes and tossing out the part about how delicious were the mesquite lamb chops and will you have garlic ranch or honey mustard and three turns from the pepper mill?

A negative of the job was that the day didn't necessarily end early to make up for the late start. The opposite was true. The workday would usually drag on into early evening and might end in the late night hours.

On this day, Kirby lingered at home until she guessed the next apartment would be fully awake. Then she called Patsy on the phone, first talking to Sly Kline, the other half of the couple, then getting the cheerful voice of the cosmetic salesperson.

"I've got a young woman staying with me, Patsy. A Joyce DuBarry, I want you to meet her."

"Did Otis leave?" Patsy asked.

"No. He's still here. But Joyce is here, too."

"Kirby, you've got a one-bedroom apartment."

"I know that. Joyce spent the night on the floor in my bedroom. We'll figure something out later. But she's looking for work, some kind of job. I thought maybe she could sell cosmetics."

"It's possible. She doesn't speak Chinese, does she?"

"I don't think so. No, I'm sure she doesn't. She's from White Plains. Do all your customers speak Chinese?"

"Not all, but we'd have to be careful about that. When can we get together?"

"We're over here now."

"Give me a minute. I'll be right over."

Patsy showed up at the door wearing a red kimono and holding a bottle of scotch. "Here, Sly thought you might be able to use this. What with the crowd and all."

Otis took the bottle and carried it into the kitchen. It was a good brand, Johnny Walker Black. He decided to linger in the kitchen and have another cup of coffee. Later he would drop by Jim Manor's office and see what the NYPD was up to.

He also had a vague plan about retracing his steps through New Jersey and New York state to check on the police handling the two murder cases, renew acquaintances, particularly with Jimmy Chagall, the sheriff's detective in the Mahwah area. It couldn't hurt. Ivan had gone to ground somewhere.

He heard the voices of the three women in the next room in animated conversation. They seemed to be getting on splendidly.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Ivan Hicks had been puzzling for days over a pair of problems. First how to isolate Kirby Lotto when she came to town and give her the pay back he had planned. The second was how to score big time and leave Cleveland with a substantial bundle. A bank, a supermarket, or maybe a car dealership? An armored car? Maybe a church revival meeting. They pull in the bucks.

If he could just break into an automatic teller machine, or better yet, waylay whoever fills the automatic teller machines. There'd be some cash money there!

The Lotto problem he had been working on. Posing as a citizen interested in TV violence he had called the Cuyahoga Forum, the group that took its name from the polluted river that runs through a section of the city called The Flats, then dumps its contents into Lake Erie, and found out exactly when the panel members would arrive and where they would be housed – a hotel he was already familiar with.

Ivan thought of simply staking out the panel event and trailing Kirby back to the hotel, getting on the same elevator, following her to her room and pushing her inside. But too many things could go wrong. First there was a good chance he might not be able to follow closely. Then, others might be present. That plan depended on the two of them being alone in the corridor and Kirby unlocking the door without suspicion. It was plainly too risky.

Ivan called the hotel and asked what rooms Miss Lotto and Carl Holmes, the other out-of-town panel member would be using.

"I'm sorry, sir, we never give out that information."

"This is Dick Sacks. I'm with the Cuyahoga Forum, the group that's sponsoring the visit."

"That's fine, Mr. Sacks. If you have to call either of those two, we'll put you right through to the room." The clerk had glanced through the reservation file as she talked. "They aren't due in until next week, then they're just staying with us the one night."

Ivan thought fast. "Well we've had trouble in the past. You see we send a gift to the room. And there's a man's gift and a woman's gift. There've been mix-ups. Now most men don't like bottles of perfume and women usually don't use neckties. You see what I mean? I'm trying to avoid embarrassment to us and to the hotel."

"I guess, well maybe this once. Miss Lotto will be staying in 1244 and Mr. Holmes will be on the same floor in 1262."

The following day Ivan once more called the hotel, making certain not to talk to the same reservation clerk. "This is Johnny Chalmers and I'll be in Cleveland Sunday night. I'd like to reserve a special room. Is that possible?"

"Depending what room it is, Sir."

"Just a minute, I've got it written down. Yes, 1244. It's a sentimental thing. My wife and I were there on our honeymoon."

"And she'll be with you, Sir?"

"Of course."

"The room is available and I can reserve it. If you'll give me your name, address and a credit card."

Ivan had planned his moves, but he had forgotten about the credit card. He gave the clerk a phony name and address in Columbus, Ohio, then said, "I don't seem to have the card in my wallet. I think my wife took it. Do I need it absolutely?"

"You do to guarantee the room. But Sunday night we shouldn't be full and if you arrive before five o'clock."

"I'll be in by mid-afternoon."

"Very good, Sir. We'll see you Sunday afternoon." The clerk put down the phone, then wondered why anyone would have picked Cleveland as a honeymoon spot. There is no accounting for taste.

Ivan lamented having to lay down one hundred and forty dollars of his stolen cash for a room he neither wanted, nor intended to stay in. He did mess up the bed and toss a towel in the shower for appearances. He also made a thorough inspection of the safety chain on the door, removing the screws, enlarging the holes and replacing the weakened apparatus.

Then he caught a bus back to the East Side with the prize key in his pocket. He could access Kirby's room at any time.

The night of the panel Ivan was nervous. He dressed in his best clothes, slacks, sports coat, a long folding knife wrapped in a handkerchief and pushed in his right trouser pocket. He had purchased a sporty looking hat with a multi-colored band. Sofia thought he was off to yet one more card game.

Kirby couldn't have been more laid back. She had dined on prime ribs and baked potatoes with other panel members and two members of the Cuyahoga Forum. The question of whether TV mirrors life, or life mirrors TV was such a battered one that she hadn't bothered to prepare for the session.

During the panel session itself, she did come close to shouting a couple of times during heated debate, but that is what everyone had hoped for.

Until the last moment Ivan hadn't decided whether to be part of the Forum audience, or stake out the hotel lobby. He decided on neither. Too risky. Someone might recognize him. Kirby might be on guard.

He sipped beer in a small bar until well after eleven, then headed for the hotel. Timing was important. He didn't want to go in too late or the clerk might challenge him. There should still be a few people in the lobby.

Just before twelve, he stepped off the elevator on Kirby's floor. The corridor was deserted. He took the key from his pocket, then the knife. He opened the blade and stuck the weapon in his waistband. Then he started down the hall.

Outside room 1244, he paused and listened. He could hear no sound and see no light under the door. Silently, he slipped the key into the lock, then took as deep breath. Ivan gave the key a quick turn, then put his weight against the unlocked door. It opened with startling ease, causing him to go two or three steps into the room. The chain had not been in place.

In the dim light from the hall, Ivan could see a still form on the bed, hear a snoring sound.

Quietly, he closed the door. Only soft light from the sleeping city filtered into the room from a window. Then he took the knife in his right hand, head pounding, his heart almost bursting with excitement. There would be sex, of course there would be sex. Violent sex. Kirby was an attractive woman in the flush of life. He could picture her under the bed clothing, maybe in the nude, maybe a thin nightgown.

He paused by the light switch, but did not flip it. The snoring continued, heavy snoring. He slipped off his sports coat and dropped it on the floor, then his shirt. He tossed his hat on the pile. He must keep his clothing free of blood. His body he could shower. Ivan stepped out of his trousers and clutched the knife.

How easy this had been. Locked in a room in a strange city with Kirby Lotto and hours and hours of darkness before dawn. How the maids would recoil in horror when they opened this door tomorrow. He would place the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door when he walked out with the crowd.

But something wasn't right. The heavy sleep, the snoring, perhaps she was drunk. Instead of switching on the light he crept forward to the bed for a closer look. He would disable her before switching on the light. His hard right fist would do the job. Ivan's eyes had grown accustomed to the soft light of the city and as he leaned over the snoring form he saw it was a fully clothed heavyset man, mostly bald, sleeping like the dead, doubtlessly drunk.

Ivan was gripped with fury. Blood drained from his face. He slipped back to the door and quickly dressed, although there was no reason to rush. Crashing thunder would hardly disturb that sleeper. Checking his attire, then folding the knife and slipping it back into his pocket, Ivan opened the door a crack and checked the hall. Then it was down the hall to the elevator.

When he emerged from the hotel, he was still in a state of shock. What had gone wrong? And he had missed the last bus. The cab back to Sofia's cost him more than twenty dollars. He was fuming with rage when he walked through the door, almost wild enough to take it out on Sofia. But he poured himself half a glass of whisky instead.

In her New York office the following afternoon, Kirby was saying, "That damned Carl Holmes. Came to my room drunk as a skunk. I don't know what he had in mind, but he was too drunk to navigate. I got him on the bed and got his key. Left him there and used his room. You can bet I chained the door.

"Did you see him this morning?" Stan asked.

"Sure. He was one pathetic cowboy. He looked green, maybe a little purple. Apologizing all over the place. Asked me not to tell his wife. Told me whatever it was had happened – he didn't remember – had never happened before."

"He didn't remember." Stan grinned like a Chessy cat.

"That's the beautiful part, Stan. He didn't remember what happened and I wouldn't tell him. All he knew was that he woke up in my room with bombs going off in his head. I'm going to make up the damnedest story."

Shortly after the disappointing Lotto incident, Ivan learned quite by accident that he was sitting on top of the mother lode.

There had been a string of house and apartment burglaries on the east side and Ivan had mentioned them to Sofia.

"One thing's for certain," she laughed. "They won't hit this place, not if they're real good crooks."

"Why do you say that?" Ivan asked.

"Bridget over there," she motioned toward the apartment next door, "and the mob. Those boys don't fool around. Someone comes messing around here and they're dead as doorknobs."

"Oh, I see. She has friends, criminals."

"There's more to it than that, Walt. I walked in on her one day by accident. Knocked, then pushed the door open. She had stacks of money, I think they were hundred dollar bills, on the coffee table. She was dividing it up. You think it didn't scare me?"

"You mean all that cash?"

"Yes, probably thousands of dollars right there in her apartment." Sofia laughed. "It was like she won the lottery."

"Did she get mad? You walking in like that."

"Bridget? Not on your life. She just looked up and told me to close the door and have a seat. Then she put the money into some sacks and tossed them in the corner. When I asked her about it, she just shrugged and said, 'Part of my job.'"

Ivan had wondered about Bridget's favored status with the mob. Now, suddenly, it was as clear as crystal. She was some sort of money clearinghouse, or transfer point.

He tried to be nonchalant about the glad tidings. "Well, I'll be damned. I wonder what she meant by that?"

Sofia leaned forward and said softly: "What she meant was that was mob money and as safe as if it were buried in Fort Knox. No one dast touch it for fear of the mob."

"I see," Ivan said. "And I see what you mean about burglars staying away from this house."

"If they got an ounce of sense they will. You don't mess around with the mob, not in Cleveland, anyway. And they're not all Italian either."

Sofia was becoming more interesting by the minute. "I always heard that the mafia was Italian, or Sicilian, about the same thing."

"I guess things have changed. Some of them come in the restaurant and the boss knows them. There's blacks sometimes and Slovenians. I guess they got some kind of equal thing going."

"That's interesting. I'd just like to stay far away from all of them."

"You don't have to worry, Walt. They won't bother us none. We're as safe as in the arms of Jesus. They watch over Bridget and they watch over this building."

Ivan suddenly had the uneasy feeling that they might have been watching over him. They might monitor the comings and goings from the apartments. If so, had they wondered about him? Had they actually followed him? The thought had never entered his head. A few minutes ago he had felt secure, but now he wasn't so sure.

From now on he would be watchful. And he would try to keep Bridget's apartment under a close watch. One big bag of cash and it was hello Manhattan. But he would have to fake out the mob.

A few days after their mob conversation, Sofia came home from work with the story that the cook at the restaurant had apparently quit, at least he hadn't shown up and his phone had been disconnected.

She took her sack of groceries to the kitchen, then returned to where Ivan was sitting on the couch. "I told the boss about you and he said he'd be willing to give you a try. How about it, Walt?"

"I don't know, Sofia. A cook's job. Well, it's a skill. You mean I'd go right in and start cooking for customers?"

"Sure, it's not that hard. Anyway the boss is doing it now. He'd show you how."

One big reason that Ivan hadn't even applied for any job is that he lacked a social security number. He had made one up for an emergency, but his actual one he had destroyed years ago.

"It doesn't sound too bad, but I'd hate to start as a regular employee, then it might not work out. Could he pay me off the register?"

Sofia thought a minute. A lot of transactions in small restaurants and other businesses were done off the register, cash changed hands with no record. It was as common as restaurant owners getting all of their food for home use from the restaurant's stock. "I don't see why not. He wouldn't have to bother with all that paper work. Tony hates that stuff. Is he ever down on the government. He always talks about those assholes in Washington."

"I'll give it a try. But I guess I'll have to talk with him first."

"No," Sofia said. "I'll call him on the phone. He likes you."

"But I've never really met him."

"He remembers you. Beard and ball cap. Then I told him about you and I showed him the watch you gave me. He was impressed, I'll say."

"I'm glad you liked it, Sofia. You deserve more than that."

She put her arms around his neck and kissed him. "I'm gonna fry us up some real good chicken. There'll be mashed potatoes and gravy and green peas. And I got a bottle of wine, the kind you like."

Ivan forced a smile and gave her a peck on the cheek and a slap on the rump. He hated it when she came so close and hugged him, it was like smothering him with her body, groping, probing, simpering words of affection.

Sometimes he had trouble having sex with her, longing instead for the woman across the hall. The whore, Bridget O'Hara. He fantasized ripping into her body, then smashing that pretty face with blow upon blow. She was like a flower blooming in a sewer, nurtured by shit, but unblemished.

Ivan sometimes had trouble controlling emotions, but Sofia had a calming influence on him. She was steady, dependable, like a beast of burden, content with the freight strapped to its strong back, waiting only to be fed and watered, hanging on a kind word. He would never harm Sofia.

Ivan found he had a knack for cooking. It required complete concentration and kept his mind off less wholesome matters. If he daydreamed of Bridget, or returning to New York and evening the score, he could ruin an order or even get painfully burned.

The boss, Tony Pandolfi, was a good guy, a right-winger and a gun nut who hated gays and people he didn't know. He was also a serious Catholic and a member of the Knights of Columbus and the Sons of Italy.

He told Ivan, like he told everyone else, that there was a great future for him in the restaurant business if he worked hard and kept his nose clean. And he paid him in cash every three or four days.

After two weeks on the job, Ivan realized he was not able to keep an eye on Bridget's apartment, nor was he able to make any other plans. So, one day he told Tony he would have to find another cook.

"What am I gonna do? I got a cook. I got you. Why would ya quit on me like that?"

"I heard they were hiring at some lumber camps in Canada. One season there and I can make a bundle," Ivan said. "Hell, I might even be able do some cooking."

"So, I train you as a cook and you quit on me. I could put you on the regular payroll. Cooks, they just drift around. What about stability? What about family life?"

"I'm not running out like the last one did, Tony. So hire someone else. I'll stay 'til then."

He had not talked to Sofia about his decision, but Tony told her. That night, she was sulky. "You're leavin' me, aint you? Tony told me."

"I've got to go where there's work, Sofia. My kind of work."

"Maybe I could go with you," she said.

"Not to a lumber camp. There's all men." Ivan's ideas of lumber camps came from a book he had read years before. He had not caught on to the modern lumberman who lived with his family, drove a truck from home and used a chain saw.

"I thought we had somethin' goin', Walt. I didn't think you'd just up and go."

"I haven't gone yet. I wasn't cut out to be a cook, Sofia. I've burned myself, ruined orders."

"Tony likes your work. You're one of the best he's had and he's had plenty."

"I can imagine. But it's just not for me. I mean it's not my life."

"Well, quit then. You don't have to go off somewhere. It can be like it was before. You don't need no money. I make a salary and tips."

"We'll see, Sofia. Let's just forget it for now. We'll see."

As it was, the problem resolved itself. A Saturday morning when he was off, Ivan was returning to the apartment with a twelve-pack of beer when he almost bumped into two men on the inside stairs.

One gave him a little shove and demanded, "Hey, where you going, Buddy?"

Ivan bristled and was about to let his anger get the best of him when he realized he faced a pair of muscular, well turned out Italians. They looked mafia.

"I'm just going upstairs," he replied as politely as he could.

The older man leaned close to his face and asked, "You going to Bridget's apartment?"

"No. I live across the hall. With Sofia. Sofia Mirage. I'm a fry cook."

"What you got in the sack?"

"Beer. A twelve-pack." He pulled the box out of the sack so they could see it.

"Okay," the older man said. "Bridget's a friend of ours. We like to know what company she keeps. You understand, don't you?"

"Yes, of course. I've met her. She's a nice woman."

"Yeah, she's a real nice woman," the older man said. The younger one hadn't said a word, neither had he smiled, but he did look menacing. "So what's your name?"

"Walt. Walt Falcon."

"Is that Italian or what?"

"Yes," Ivan lied. "My father was Italian. From Naples. The name used to be Falconi, but he dropped the 'i.' I work for Tony Pandolfi. He owns a restaurant."

"Everybody knows Tony," the older man said. "I'd say you're okay, Walt. But don't go bothering Bridget, huh?"

"Sure. I've got my woman." He continued up the stairs and the two men went out the door. Ivan rubbed his face with his hand in relief. He guessed that the two of them had made a drop in Bridget's apartment. He thought it unlikely that they had dropped in just to screw her on a Saturday morning.

It was now, or never. He had a few bucks for traveling if he had to. He would take a chance and knock over Bridget, then clear out and fast.

In his apartment, he dropped the beer in the kitchen, checked to make certain he had all his personal possessions together. Sofia would be working until about two when Tony closed up for the weekend, so he had several hours. He put what clothes he might need in a sack, then as an afterthought picked up the beer, and took it downstairs and out back and placed everything in the trunk of Sofia's old car.

Then he hurried back up to the apartment and searched for something heavy and small to take care of Bridget. He could find nothing. Frantically, he looked through kitchen drawers and cupboards. Still nothing. In a bedroom closet he found what appeared to be a croquet ball, yellowed with age and with a faded blue stripe. Hefting it in his hand, it felt right.

The final item he sought was a book of matches, which he found in the kitchen. Then he made a final check. He had his wallet, Sofia's car keys and a type of zipper jacket with elastic binding around the waist.

He spent several minutes going through the apartment, wiping with a damp rag the places where he may have left fingerprints, although keenly aware he could not get them all if there was a thorough search. But why would there be?

Then it was out the door and across the hall, rapping on Bridget's door.

"Who is it?" came the voice through the door.

"It's me, Walt, from across the hall."

"I can't see you now, Walt. Some other time."

"Do you have a visitor?"

"No, but I'm busy. And I'm not dressed."

"It's an emergency. Sofia's sick and our phone's out of order."

"Okay, just a minute." Ivan was nervous, the situation had too many variables. What if someone was watching the apartment. Then, Bridget might not have a penny in the apartment. And, if she did have the money, someone would be by very soon to pick it up.

The lock clicked and the door opened. "Come on in. The phone's over there. What's wrong with Sofia?"

Ivan entered the apartment, pretended to go for the phone, then turned, grabbed Bridget's shoulder, turned her slightly with his left arm and whammed the heavy wooden ball into her skull. She crumpled to the floor.

After closing and locking the apartment door, Ivan began his search. He found what he was seeking almost immediately, a small canvas bag that held three plastic-wrapped packages. He tore the plastic from the first one to reveal bundles of hundred, fifty and twenty dollar bills. The other packages felt the same.

He was sweating and breathing rapidly. Walking to a front window he looked up and down the shabby street. A few doors down, a man was seated in a car. He had a clear view of the entrance to the apartment building.

Ivan took the money and wooden ball and returned to Sofia's apartment, rubbing the ball clean with a towel and returning it to its closet. He wondered if Bridget was badly injured, but it wouldn't change his plan one way or another. He wanted money and money he had.

Returning to Bridget's apartment, he crumpled newspaper near the front window. Then he stuffed crumpled paper in his mouth in an attempt to change his voice. After that, he went to the phone and dialed 911, knowing that the call would be recorded.

The police emergency operator answered almost immediately. "There's a woman passed out here and the apartment's on fire. Please, send help. Fire." He slammed down the phone and ran back to Sofia's apartment and stuffed the packages of money inside his zipper jacket.

When he heard a siren, he re-crossed the hall and put a match to the crumpled paper. It quickly ignited the curtains and spread faster than he anticipated.

He was down the stairs and by the door when the first police car arrived. Stepping outside, he shouted, "There's a woman up there," and pointed frantically to the apartment window, now red with flames. He glanced down the block and saw the man come out of his parked car, saw the man stand helplessly by his car as the police raced for the apartment door.

Ivan was around back, had Sofia's car started and was already down the alley when the ambulance and fire truck pulled up to the apartment. His heart was racing, but he felt good. Free and in control of his life, his coat stuffed with cash. No more fry cook. He thought of Bridget in her wispy housecoat, lying on the floor of her burning apartment. That bitch, that sweet bitch!

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

"Do you see anything different about me?"

Kirby Lotto had opened her apartment door to find Joyce DuBarry standing there. It had been almost two weeks since she had seen Joyce, who had moved in with Patsy and Sly. They had a second bedroom that they normally used as a junk haven.

Kirby puzzled over Joyce's appearance. Hairstyle? Tinted contacts? Wardrobe? Maybe it was make up, they say the best kind doesn't show.

"You're using Patsy's make up?"

Joyce laughed. "No, I wouldn't use that stuff. I sell that stuff."

"I'm sorry, maybe I'm not awake yet. Your hair looks the same."

"It's not on the outside," Joyce said. "It's inside. It shows through my eyes! I've been saved. I'm a Christian, a real Christian."

"Maybe you should come in and have coffee. Otis has been out of town for a few days. He should be back tomorrow." Joyce followed Kirby into the kitchen.

"You don't know what it means to accept Christ into your soul, do you Kirby? To give yourself to Christ?"

"I'm not certain. I hear it's pretty good. The water's already hot. I forget, do you take sugar and cream. Anyway, fix it yourself, I've got a cup already." Kirby went into the living room and sat down. This talk about religion made her nervous.

Joyce couldn't stop talking. She shouted from the kitchen while she fixed her coffee, then continued to talk as she came into the living room.

"I've been working in the Village, running this cosmetic route among the non-Chinese. There's this storefront church, I guess that's what you call them. Only this one is called Rejoice. That's the name, just Rejoice. The guy that runs it, this J. Winston Tad, he is so unbelievable. He's counseled me, Kirby. He's opened new doors."

Joyce held a bulky purse on her right knee. Now she opened it and pulled out a full sized Bible. "Look, I have this Bible and I've actually been reading it. I carry it everywhere. But Winston told me, he said, 'Joyce, don't try to force your beliefs on others. Wait until they're ready. That time will come.' What do you think of that?"

"I think Winston's on the right track. I suppose your time came a few days ago?"

"Yes. I had been stopping there. They have coffee, cookies and things. Then there's magazines and posters, things like that. And gradually, I got to liking the place."

"But they didn't try to force their ideas on you?" Kirby asked.

"Not really, but I was open to them. That's when I started attending their meetings."

"Sundays?"

"No, Winston has services every night. He's devoted. You should see him. He wears these old clothes, has a beard, wears sandals. Says he's living the life of Christ. Imagine. I really can't, but I've got a lot to learn."

Kirby nodded in agreement. "Do they want contributions, anything like that?"

"They need money to operate, but that's not important. Later on they might let me help solicit. They know what kind of a job I've got. The important thing is the word. The word for this month is 'Life is a sea of sorrow, but we can rise above it.' You see, I have a life jacket. It can be deep stuff."

"You want breakfast?"

"No. No more food." Joyce was emphatic. "I don't know how Patsy stays so slim. The amount of food Sly brings home, you wouldn't believe. Steaks, roasts, legs of lamb. Last week he brought home a whole salmon. The entire fish."

"You're getting along okay over there?"

"It's incredible," Joyce said. "Patsy's wonderful and she keeps Sly on a short rope. He's a good person, always joking, always a new joke. I guess he just talks to people all day long, goes from restaurant to restaurant, talking and joking."

"And picking up groceries."

"I guess people like him," Joyce said. She put the Bible back in her purse. "I'm a Rejoice Sister."

Kirby gave her an odd look. "You're a what?"

"Rejoice Sister. That's what Winston says. There are Rejoice Sisters and Rejoice Brothers. Whatever it is, it's wonderful, but Winston said I've got a lot to learn. There's what they call a slow train and a fast train to enlightenment. I haven't picked my train yet."

"Still waiting at the station?"

"I suppose. Anyway, things are fine and I'm grateful to you and Otis for setting me on the right track, and that doesn't have anything to do with Rejoice. I want to see you more often. You won't mind if I drop in now and then?"

"No, Joyce, you're always welcome. When Otis gets back we'll all have dinner." As an afterthought, she said, "Maybe we can all eat with Patsy and Sly. They've got the food."

When Joyce was gone, Kirby wondered about J. Winston Tad and his Rejoice storefront. Religions sprang up and religions died out and Kirby had done stories on more than one cult leader, if indeed, this was a cult.

Joyce had talked about Christianity, but she had also mentioned enlightenment, a term often associated with Buddhism. Combining the two wasn't unheard of. Many Japanese accept Christianity, Buddhism and throw in Shintoism for good measure. Their theory is, you can't be too safe.

When Otis returned to the apartment a couple of days later, Kirby told him, "Joyce has religion." He stared at her blankly. "Joyce DuBarry, she has religion. Or do you catch religion, or take it?"

"Some people are born with, have it from birth. I think Baptists have to have some kind of experience. It's like a flash of light, or something. It hasn't happened to me yet."

"Are you a Baptist, Otis?"

"My Mother was. My father used to call her a sailor because they dunk people in pools of water. But they got on fine. I used to go to Easter egg hunts and things like that at the church."

"That was your religious life? Hunting Easter eggs?"

"No, there was more to it. Ice cream socials, church suppers, special things at Christmas. I've always liked Christmas."

"So have I. Joyce carries a Bible around with her. It looks like something she found in a hotel room."

"Religion never hurt anybody, as far as I know. 'Course there are some cults. But every man should believe in something, I believe I'll have a beer."

Kirby made a wry face. "That joke has whiskers."

"Just the same, I'm gonna have a beer." He went into the kitchen and returned with a beer, drinking it fast and from the can. "I worked up a mammoth thirst. What church did Joyce join, or did she make something up?"

"It's a storefront in the Village. It's called Rejoice. Some guy named Winston runs it, dresses like Jesus."

Otis plopped into a chair. "For all she's been through, Joyce is so young. She has a lot of growing up to do. I'm glad she came to us, Kirby. She could've done worse."

"You talk like we were a couple."

"We are a couple, Kirby. Two people sharing an apartment. That's a couple."

"It's not a couple couple. We haven't coupled. There are meanings to the word."

"You want a drink? I'm gonna get another beer, or maybe a scotch. Hell I've had a hard few days, ripping all over New Jersey and New York in a rental, then a scummy bus into Manhattan and finally a cab driven by someone who speaks a strange tongue."

"Sure fix me a scotch." Kirby watched him walk into the kitchen, heard him toss his beer can into the trash and fumed over involuntarily being labeled as half a couple. Then she thought objectively, Otis is right. She had been applying some kind of feminine definition to the word couple.

Anyway, they were a couple. In a way, Joyce was their little girl and here they were sharing a drink after a hard day. And Kirby had had a tough day. She had a few things to tell Otis about her day at the network. She waited until Otis handed her the drink, then she unloaded her troubles on the ex-cop.

Later, Otis told her about his long conversation with Jimmy Chagall, the sheriff's detective he had befriended when he researched the murder of Marge Atterbury, the woman Ivan had taken from the mall near Mahwah and butchered in the Ramapo Mountains.

Chagall had proved himself a true friend and a good cop. He had sucked up all the information he could on Ivan and loaded it into his home computer. He had been monitoring every police and news source possible for traces of the killer.

And a woman had been brutally murdered near Burlington, Vermont, apparently by a transient who used an axe, but there was nothing to link it to Ivan, not yet, anyway.

"I don't think Ivan did that job," Otis said. "I think our boy is holed up somewhere, waiting. And the heat is off. He might come crawling out from under his rock any day now."

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Ivan Hicks had driven out of Cleveland's East Side with thousands of dollars. So much money that it was difficult to count. He drove the car he had taken from Sofia straight out of Cleveland, hit the Ohio Turnpike and to the airport at Pittsburgh.

At the airport, he checked the arrival and departure screen and bought a ticket on the first available flight, National Airport just across the Potomac from Washington, D.C.

In the comfort of a room at the Washington Hilton, he ordered three beers from room service and piled his money in a dresser drawer and began counting it. After the third beer was gone, he had counted more than twelve thousand dollars, and there was an equal amount left uncounted.

Weary of the process, he picked up the phone and ordered four more beers and a club sandwich and flipped on television. Tomorrow, he would shop for a new wardrobe, then he would take the Amtrack up to New York and go hunting.

When he thought of the confusion he must have caused in Cleveland, he was tempted to laugh. Cops, firemen, paramedics, sirens screaming, the apartment in flames, the mob going nuts over its stash of cash, maybe blaming Bridget who might be dead or alive.

And the really good part, the cops not knowing about the money and never would -- just another apartment fire and nobody talking to anybody.

Wandering out of the Hilton in the general direction of the White House the following day, Ivan stopped at a shop near DuPont Circle and browsed through men's casual wear.

A clerk gave him the fish eye. Ivan was quick to anger, but was aware that his scruffy clothing and unkempt beard put him on the level of a street person, an abundant species in Washington.

"Is there something I can help you with, Sir?"

Ivan pointed to a stack of jeans. "I'd like a couple pairs of these if you have my size."

"They're Guess, Sir."

"Guess? Guess what?"

"Guess jeans, Sir. Very expensive."

"I like them. I want two pair. And a couple of those pullovers."

The clerk smiled blandly and picked out the proper sizes. Ivan chose a burgundy and a cobalt blue pull over. Then he found a pair of Timberland low cut shoes in his size and finally a Christian Dior belt and wallet.

The clerk, who seemed pleased if skeptical, gathered the purchases by the cash register and Ivan paid with hundred dollar bills. As he returned to the Hilton he was aware that he shouldn't have drawn attention to himself with such a large cash purchase, but the clerk had irritated him. He would do something about his appearance.

At the hotel he showered, pulled on the jeans and pullover, used his new belt and wallet, then put on the shoes over his dirty socks. Socks and underwear, he made a mental note. Then it was off to the barbershop where he had his beard trimmed.

In downtown Washington, Ivan was well received by the clerical help in a large jewelry store. He had been window-shopping for watches. A few blocks back an Omega had caught his eye. It was an 18 karat gold model with something called a tachymetre and a moon phase.

But, aware of attracting the wrong kind of attention earlier in the day, Ivan decided it was too gaudy and moved on. Now he had entered a deep-carpeted posh store, as quiet as a library.

"I saw a watch in the window," he told a female clerk.

"Yes, Sir."

"It was silver and gold and had a leather band."

"I think you mean a Tiffany." Ivan nodded and followed the sales clerk to a glass case. She opened it and handed him a watch. Gold hands, gold sweep hand, gold Roman numerals, the case was mostly silver with gold highlights. Quiet good taste. "The band is ostrich."

"The bird?"

"Yes, ostrich hide, a flightless bird. It's tough, and durable. It's pretty, don't you think?"

"Yes, I like it. I'll take it. I'll just wear it." He buckled the watch on his left wrist, then asked, "How much?" It was nice having money.

It was nice having money, but a problem to cart around a large amount of cash. In fact, it was a constant worry.

New watch, new clothing, Ivan strolled down to a park across from the White House and sat on a bench admiring the ancient structure.

Then he walked to the Washington Monument, but soon realized the distances in Washington were hard on the legs. He grabbed a cab and asked for a tour of the city, winding up back at the Hilton in time for dinner and a full night's sleep. He had never been a tourist before and he found it exhausting.

He arrived in Manhattan before noon the following day and found a residential hotel and paid a week's rent. The clerk looked at the cash, then looked at Ivan and his new clothes, then back at the cash.

New York is a credit card town. Ivan signed the register with a new name, Bill Walters of Denver, Colorado. The clerk supposed people in Denver carried large amounts of cash in their pockets.

The room was austere, but clean. A worn carpet, television set on a maple table, straight chair, three-quarter bed and telephone and lamp on a night stand. On one wall was a Gauguin print, on another a window to an airshaft, the closet door and the door to the small white-tiled bath on the third and the door to the hall on the fourth.

Ivan looked around and said aloud, "This is what five hundred bucks a week buys in New York City."

He could no longer carry all his cash with him, so he bundled it up as best he could and took it to the lobby and checked it into the hotel safe. Then he set out for a walk around this strange, expensive city.

He walked south on the Avenue of the Americas, then onto Broadway, the street numbers gradually growing smaller, passing Twelfth Street and beyond. He found himself in a small park on the lower east side. Derelicts on the benches, trash receptacles overflowing.

"Heeey, Poncho," someone called behind him. Ivan didn't look around, but kept walking. He would go through the park, circle back to a main street and get back to his hotel. He should have bought a map. What was he doing here, anyway?

"Heeeey, Poncho. You don't like us, maybe?" A smiling Hispanic caught up with him and fell in beside him. "Where you goin' so fast, Poncho? You gotta stop and smell the pretty flowers."

"I'm in a rush," Ivan said. He could hear other feet behind him, but he kept moving. Soon, he would be out of the park.

"There's some people in back of you who want to look at that pretty shirt you're wearin'. It's pretty shirt. Looks expensive. How much you pay for it, Poncho?"

Ivan wondered why the young man was calling him Poncho. He had paid almost fifty dollars for the shirt, now he wished he had his old clothes back. No one would have bothered him. Then, if he had a knife.

The young man stepped ahead and in front of him, faced him. Ivan stopped and eight or nine Hispanics surrounded him. He looked around, but said nothing. Some of them had jailhouse tattoos, two or three had mustaches, but most were young, teenagers, eager, as if sharing a secret joke.

The spokesman, facing him, pulled a knife from his pocket and opened it. Ivan looked at it longingly. "This blade's not legal in New York, Poncho. What do ya think of that."

Ivan shrugged.

"Do you know how long it would take me to stick you in the gut three times? Yes, three times?"

"Why don'tcha show him, Johnball. You did the last joker in three seconds flat," a skinny kid to Ivan's right shouted.

"Now maybe Poncho don't wanna get stuck. He has that nice shirt on, but do you know, he got a nice watch too. You give us the watch, Poncho, and you walk. We just want a little gift, a little somethin' to remember you by. How about it?"

Ivan eyed the crowd around him and felt cold anger. If he had a knife, he would do the sticking. He could get three or four of them and the others might run. But the man they called Johnball had the knife. Ivan unbuckled the watch and handed it to Johnball.

"My gift," he said, and thought, my pretty watch.

"So long, Poncho," Johnball said and stepped aside.

"What about the shirt?" the kid who had urged Johnball to stick Ivan cried.

"We're businessmen," Johnball said. "A deal's a deal. In fact, let's see that the Poncho gets safe out of here." Then to Ivan, "You better get back to New York, Poncho. It's that way." He pointed north.

Ivan turned and hurried away and the gang trailed behind until he found stairs leading to a subway station. Once on the Seventh Avenue Line headed north, he breathed a sigh of relief.

Tonight he would hang around the hotel and have a good dinner and a few beers. Tomorrow, he would hit a used clothing store, outfit himself and track down Kirby Lotto. He would stake out the network building.

Ivan found a seat on the shabby car, hurtling beneath the streets of New York, heading north at a good clip. There had been a few businessmen, a few matrons, but gradually they left the train. He was smart enough to avoid eye contact with other passengers, instead reading slogans and fragments of poetry put there for the purpose.

He realized he didn't know where to get off and searched for a map of the subway system, found one above a door, studied it, looked at the stations they were passing. The street numbers had increased, they were in the low hundreds.

Now there were only blacks on the car. Ivan realized he was in Harlem, probably far north of his hotel, perhaps once again in some danger.

But he was on a subway and stations were protected. Getting off at the first station, he looked for a train going in the other direction. The flow of people sought the exit and Ivan was left on an almost deserted platform.

A train rumbled into the station and Ivan almost loped for the opening door, but his path was blocked by an enormous black man who stood like a mountain between him and the door. "Back off, motherfucker," the man growled.

Ivan attempted to go around him, but the man continued to block his path. "I said back off, mo fo. You deaf, man?"

Almost in despair, Ivan watched the car door close and subway move out of the station. The big man grinned. "I need some cash, motherfucker. Just help me with five dollars and you can catch the next train. It'll be along before long."

Ivan was frightened. This man could throw him onto the tracks, knife him, smash his head in, do most anything. His wallet was stuffed with twenties and hundreds. If he pulled that out, the man would probably take it all.

He felt in his pocket and found paper. Pulling it out, he checked it in the dim light. Ten dollars. He handed it to his antagonist. "Take this ten," he said. "Keep it all."

"I'll do that, motherfuck." The man stuffed the ten in his shirt pocket and stood staring at Ivan, who wondered if he was on something, maybe just stoned on alcohol.

A vibration, then the rumble of another train pulling into the station. Ivan nodded goodbye and the big man let him board. Once on the train, he could feel eyes staring at him. He moved well away from the door, knowing that he could be rushed off with a crowd.

Gradually, the street numbers grew smaller and the subway moved into central Manhattan. Ivan got off the car and ran up the stairs. The evening rush was on, and there wasn't a cab to be had.

Buying a map at a newsstand, he found and circled his hotel. Then he plodded back, arriving just at dark and heading into the bar next door for a beer. He was angry, tired and thirsty. His first day in New York City had been a near disaster. But he had learned a bitter lesson.

The next morning Ivan slept in, then cautiously left the hotel and found a second hand store where he bought some used clothing. Then he stopped in a discount store and bought a cheap plastic digital watch.

For the next few days he staked out the building that housed Kirby's network, finally striking pay dirt on the evening of the third day. Out walked Kirby Lotto. It was a simple matter to trail her on the busy city street, closing in when she approached a bus stop.

On the bus, Ivan stood no more than six feet from his quarry. The bus moved north, toward the eighties. Four stops and Kirby got off, followed by Ivan. Half a block and she entered an apartment building.

Ivan made a note of the address and lingered outside for a time. A coffee shop near the entrance had a sign in the window: Cook Wanted. It intrigued him.

The following morning, Ivan was across the street from the apartment, first sitting on a low stonewall, then waiting at a bus stop, newspaper in hand, finally crossing and re-crossing the street. He was beginning to wonder if his actions had aroused any suspicions when a familiar figure emerged from the main entrance of the apartment house.

Ivan couldn't believe what he was seeing. There, walking and chatting with a small Oriental woman was Joyce DuBarry. Yes, he was certain of it. Joyce DuBarry, the girl who had outwitted him, the girl who had brought about his downfall, the nude bitch.

His head pounded with joy and outrage at the same time. She had somehow joined up with Kirby Lotto. And Otis Paine might be nearby.

A far better plan than he had originally boiled up from the recesses of Ivan's brain. Kill Joyce DuBarry. Do it in such a brutal, hideous manner that there will be no mistaking the author of the deed.

Carefully, he fell in behind the chatting couple, first across the street, then crossing at an intersection and only fifty feet behind them. But he must be careful. That bitch Joyce knew his every feature. Ivan had seen her looking at him, studying his size, his eyes, his nose, remembering, she was like a computer.

They disappeared into a subway entrance and Ivan dared not follow to closely. By the time he got to the platform, their train had pulled out. But he knew the platform, checking his digital watch, he would be on that platform tomorrow.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Joyce DuBarry bounced into the Rejoice storefront and found her mentor, J. Winston Tad, preparing a flyer. It was early, too early for Joyce to begin her cosmetic rounds, and Tad was alone.

She looked over his shoulder. He had sketched what appeared to be a farmhouse and barn with a cow and several chickens. At the top of the sheet in large letters were the words: RANCHO REJOICE.

Tad became aware of her presence and looked around. "Joyce, good morning. How do you like my artwork?"

"Uh," she hesitated.

"I'm not the best artist. But is it effective?"

"For what?"

"Oh, you don't know, do you? It's a farm, or a ranch, a retreat. You know, we could call it Rejoice Retreat, or Retreat Rejoice, instead of Rancho Rejoice."

"It's has be two Rs?" Joyce asked.

"That's called alliteration. They tell me even Shakespeare used it. It's literary."

Joyce smiled. "Then it must be okay, huh?"

"It helps people remember. I think I'll stick to rancho, it sounds more like a place where people live. Of course, I'll go back and forth, but we'll need a permanent population of some kind."

"You have a ranch or a farm someplace?" Joyce asked.

"Yeah, it's been in the works for a long time, but we got this old geezer, I mean this elderly Christian gentleman, to will us the place. He died last week, the uncle of a woman who comes here all the time. You probably know her. Bev Starwick."

"Sure, I know Bev, older woman, always wears a purple suit, sometimes a hat."

"That's her. Hey, you want coffee?"

"I could drink another cup." Tad got them coffee and they sat in comfortable lounge chairs at the back of the store and talked about the property that Rejoice would soon own.

"It's near the New York-New Jersey state line, not far from a town called West Mahwah. Just beyond the farm are the Ramapo Mountains. There's a house and a barn, a couple of other small buildings and it hasn't been lived in for four or five years. So it needs work."

"I'm a little surprised the old man didn't leave it to Bev," Joyce said.

"She asked him to leave it to Rejoice. See, it's not me, it's Rejoice. That's a corporation. Bev got the old man's money and there was quite a pile. She spent some summers on that farm when she was a kid. So she wants to go back, but not alone. So she can live there if she wants, but with the other members."

An ambulance and a fire truck screamed by in the street outside the door and Joyce covered her ears. "But you founded Rejoice, so in a way you are the corporation. I haven't met anyone else."

"Well, there's a legal structure. There has to be, but you're close to the mark. This farm, or ranch, will be an ideal place to develop the true depth of the Rejoice philosophy as well as a place to dig your hands into the soil, sow and reap, cut firewood, boil your brown rice over a wood stove."

"I do have my Bible, as you know." Even now Joyce clutched her large purse, which she carried in addition to the cosmetic samples. "But I've never been clear on the entire Rejoice philosophy."

"That's just it," Tad said. "It's intuitive. It can't be taught, that is, it can't be written down. I put people on the path and they follow that path. The path may be straight and narrow, or the path may be serpentine. And our paths may diverge and meet again. I'm pretty certain of that. The paths meet again somewhere out there in infinity. It's wonderful, it's what you make of it."

"You know, Tad, I thought it must be something like that." She drained her coffee cup and put it back on a badly ringed wooden table. "One more question that doesn't involve the spiritual life. There are animals in your drawing. I thought we were all supposed to be vegetarians."

"True, true," Tad almost shouted. "That's the beauty part. We will have animals at Rejoice Rancho, but we won't eat them. We will not partake of flesh, of the meat of other living creatures."

"But what will we do with them?"

"Live with them. From the sheep, we can harvest wool. From the chickens, feathers."

Joyce stifled a laugh. "Chicken feathers? What good are they?"

"I think, pillows."

"I don't think from chickens," Joyce said. "But from chickens, there are eggs."

"No eggs. No dairy products. And organic food only. It'll be a joy to grow our own clean organic food without the chemicals of a sinful world. Good, wholesome vegetables. Of course, no bananas."

"I don't think we'd have much luck with bananas, anyway," Joyce said. "But, I think you're talking about this whole thing as a learning process. We will learn as we go along, learn by doing. And we could sell the eggs and even the chickens."

"None of us probably knows anything about farm life. So we learn. And we fix it up. There'll be a need for some money, I'm sorry to say. We are getting by here in the storefront, but there's no surplus. That's the reason for this flyer."

"I'll try to give a couple more bucks," she said.

"We may need more than a couple of bucks. Could your parents make a contribution? It would be tax deductible. We are a religion."

"I don't think so, Winston. I haven't seen much of them recently."

"There's solicitation. We're going to have people with cans asking for donations, maybe even sell something, or offer blessings, I'm not certain yet."

"I work most of the time, Winston. I could go up to the farm on weekends and do some work. I've got a couple of friends who might go with me. We could do yard work, maybe repair windows. Stuff like that."

"That might be Okay. Yeah, I envision something like that."

"Then I could donate a few bottles of scotch. These people I live with, they get bottles of scotch all the time."

"You're talking about scotch whiskey?"

"Yes, from Scotland."

J. Winston Tad thought the offer over for a few seconds, then said, "Turning water to wine was Jesus's first miracle. Spirits, or wine, have been used in religious ceremonies for hundreds of years. I think scotch would be very appropriate, Joyce. Maybe you and your friends could bring some up to the rancho. The estate's not through probate, but Bev says we can begin working up there anytime we want."

That evening, Joyce went to the next apartment to see Kirby and Otis. Otis was still out someplace and Kirby had just received a telephone call.

"Guess who just called?" she asked Joyce, then answered her own question. "Colin Woods, the man who drove me and the baby to the hospital after the plane crash. The man who stole the baby."

"Is he in jail?"

"No." There was a note of disbelief in Kirby's voice. "He's not in jail at all, although maybe he should be. He and his wife, Poagie are adopting that baby. Can you believe it?"

"You steal a baby, then you adopt it?" Joyce asked.

"It seems so. He called to apologize to me and tell me how things turned out."

Kirby told Joyce the whole story, then Joyce related the Rancho Rejoice story to Kirby. When Joyce had finished, Kirby asked, "Why 'Rancho?' It sounds kinda Mexican."

"Two syllables. Rancho and Rejoice both have two syllables. There's a certain rhythm to it. Rancho Rejoice. Rancho Rejoice. Rancho Rejoice." She repeated it three times, trying for a beat. "Anyway, Winston has the place and now needs to fix it up. It has a pump, a hand pump for water, there's an outside toilet and oil lamps, plus a wood stove. He hasn't decided whether to keep it that way, or modernize. I think he's waiting for some sign from above."

It crossed Kirby's mind that Joyce might be making light of Winston's religious convictions, but she said nothing.

"I told him I can't contribute much and haven't the time for street begging, which he plans, but would be willing to go up for a weekend or two. I thought it might be a good outing for the three of us. You and Otis and me. What do you say?"

The idea coming from Joyce surprised Kirby. Otis had linked the two of them as a couple and now Joyce was placing the three of them in the context of a family. A family outing.

Kirby shrugged. "I haven't communed with nature for years. I suppose so. We could take food, blankets, a few drinks, make a weekend of it. Why not? I'll talk to Otis. Are there wild animals up there?"

"I don't think so. It's not really too far from White Plains where I grew up. I think it's in Bergen County."

"But there are mountains?"

"Sure. The Ramapos. And there are some lakes and things. But nothing to be afraid of."

"Who said I was afraid? When I was in college we marched on Washington, slept outside on the Mall. That was something."

"Were there wild animals on the Mall?" Joyce asked

Kirby was thoughtful. "I don't think so. But those were wild times. But that's all over now. I've matured. Don't you think I seem mature?"

"Of course."

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

During the following days, Ivan trailed Joyce into the Village more than once, watched her stop at a storefront that had only one large word on the front: REJOICE.

Then she would make her way from apartment house to apartment house, always with a klutzy purse and a boxy sample case. He figured correctly that she had some sort of sales route.

But it was the storefront that fascinated him. When he had satisfied himself that she did not return to the storefront after her early visit, he waited one morning until she had been gone for fifteen minutes, then strolled in himself.

An oddly dressed young man was placing chairs in neat rows and seemed to be in the midst of tidying up. He was bearded and wore sandals, Ivan guessed he was the caretaker.

"I've passed here more than once," Ivan began.

"We only pass this way once, Brother."

"But I've been by the storefront..."

"You walked by the storefront, you creep like a puny figure on the face of the earth. There is more to life, Brother. There is time to rejoice."

"I saw the word on the window," Ivan said.

"The word. Of course the word. The word is rejoice and rejoice is the word. We are masters of nothing, yet masters of all and He is our master, the Master of the universe. And the word is rejoice. You have seen the word, so you seek the light. The word is the light, Brother. Rejoice."

"Do you work here?"

J. Winston Tad stopped and fixed his eyes on Ivan. "We all work here, Brother. We toil for the word. We are lice, vermin, yet we are the most superior and exquisite creatures ever devised, but not by man. Because we are men, mere men, seeking the word and the way. The way is rejoice. You have come the right way."

"You're some kind of preacher, aren't you?" Ivan asked. He knew about preachers. One had visited him often in jail. They seemed to single out murderers for their special attention.

"Yes. I am J. Winston Tad, a servant of the Almighty, a vessel and a vassal of the Eternal Father. I am nothing, a mote of dust, yet am I a prince who walks the face of our precious Mother Earth. And who might you be?"

"Bill Walters. I've wondered about this place. Do I call you 'Father?'"

"No. We are all children. You can call me Brother though. Brother Winston, if you please. Or you can call me Counselor. Call me what you please."

"You a lawyer, Brother Winston?"

"No, not a lawyer, but I help my flock interpret the natural laws of the universe. And you are a seeker, a sojourner."

"I suppose, Brother Winston." Ivan searched his memory of those hours spent with jailhouse chaplains and came up with the proper words. "There's something missing in my life. I have money and the things it can buy. Yet, I am a seeker. You're right."

"We are all seekers, Bill. Even I am a seeker. I am the founder of this place, this place we call Rejoice. It is one small room, but it stretches to heaven. And it will stretch to a farm in New Jersey. We have great plans."

Reluctant to push, he asked Tad if he might drop in from time to time, then said goodbye. There was time to develop a relationship with this ambitious young man who was so taken with himself.

Ivan liked the Village, it was crowded and bustling and made up of people in every conceivable costume, of every known hue and persuasion.

He bought a slice of pizza and ate it on the street. Then he found a street prostitute, bargained for price and accompanied her to her apartment. She had dark eyes and long legs and Ivan enjoyed watching her strip.

After sex, lying on her bed in the darkened apartment, staring at the ceiling, he thought of concluding his business with Joyce, Kirby and Otis, then taking his revenge on New York.

The city had cowed him during his first day in town. Now he was learning the streets, the tensions, the cadence and throb. He could beat this town. At least one Hispanic and one black must pay for that first day. Young girls, the younger the better.

Joyce was already in his power. He could pick her off at will. But before he made his move, he would track the three of them.

"You've gotta go now, Honey. You've shot your wad, so it's time to be on your way. You can come back tomorrow." The whore who called herself Phyllis had pulled on her outfit and stood by the bed.

Ivan knew he could snap her neck, beat her to a pulp and nobody would give a damn. He looked her up and down, jet-black hair, a slash of crimson for a mouth, thickening through the middle, probably past twenty-five. But pretty eyes and long-stem legs.

"Come on, Honey boy, move your ass."

He sat up and rubbed his head. "Okay, I'm out of here. You're not a bad fuck."

"I know, Honey, I'm a professional. Don't screw around with amateurs."

Back on the street, Ivan ducked into an Irish bar for a glass of beer. An IRA poster decorated the wall and the bartender, overweight, florid face, bulbous nose, overdid the accent. Ivan watched the bubbles rise slowly in his glass and decided maybe he liked real whores after all. Maybe they were the only honest people in the whole world.

He studied a coaster on the bar, it was printed in a foreign language and had nothing to do with the Irish: Eine Konigin Unter Den Bieren. Then the word "Warsteiner."

Something smelled odd, familiar, nostalgic, bad memories. He looked around him. The usual Budweiser sign on the wall, whiskey bottles all in a row, a man and a woman making out in a back booth.

Then he spotted an old man with a pock marked face to his left smoking a crooked cigar, a rum soaked crook, the kind his stepfather used to smoke. He could tell by the warped shape and the smell, that aroma, how he had hated it, he would forever associate it with his abusers -- groping, fondling, naked people all over him, prodding, torturing.

"Anybody who'd smoke that crap would eat shit and howl at the moon," Ivan snarled. The old man looked around, hoping this bearded man was having a little harmless fun. "I'd like to push that fucker up your ass."

"Smokers have rights, too," the man said, although he placed the cigar in an ashtray.

The bartender moved down the bar, drying his hands on a dirty towel, "Now we won't be havin' a disturbance in this place of business."

Ivan shot him a hard glance and said, "Fuck you, Mick."

The barkeep stopped in his tracks. "You won't be havin' another drink in this tavern." Then he turned and shuffled up the bar.

Ivan finished his beer and slowly headed for the door, pausing behind the cigar smoker to mutter, "I'll be waiting outside for you, you stinking son-of-a-bitch."

Once in the sunshine, he felt pretty good as he legged it back toward his hotel.

Two times Ivan had seen Otis, once coming out of the apartment with Joyce, the second time going in late in the afternoon. He couldn't have been happier. He had the three of them. Now to map out the details of his plan. First Joyce, maiming, disfiguring.

He toyed with the idea of leaving her alive, minus an ear, minus fingers, her lips split by his knife in ten places, her body mutilated. At night he would lie awake and think of it, revel in it. Oh, the anticipation, the orgasm of hope and expectation.

He had been with Phyllis three times now and she was beginning to trust him. Her apartment in the Village would be an ideal place to bring Joyce. This time she might resist, suspect the horror of what awaited her, but he could overcome that.

First he would take care of Phyllis, push her body under the bed, then go after Joyce. She usually walked past Phyllis's rooming house after visiting Rejoice. But what if she didn't, with Phyllis already dead there could be problems. He could send Phyllis on an errand, pay her off.

But what about the Rejoice storefront itself? There was a back room. He could take care of Tad and lie in wait for Joyce. What a place to find her, bleeding, in agony, barely alive, gasping for breath through smashed jaws, in a store front church. Then, after a few days, waylay Otis and Kirby on their way to the hospital, if they could keep the girl alive. The possibilities were endless. How he relished these fantasies as he lay in bed at night, the orgasms of anticipation.

When he next visited Rejoice, again waiting until Joyce had come and gone, Ivan had almost completed his plan. The two of them, Joyce and Winston, were almost always alone in the storefront that early in the day. And Ivan had never trailed Joyce to the place in the evening.

He would wait until she entered, carry a gun with him, force them both into the back room, force Winston to tie Joyce securely, then smash Winston's skull. Then he would lock the front door and go about his business.

But on this day, he planned to further put Winston off his guard. "Good morning, Brother Winston."

"Ah, Bill. I was just going over some plans for Rancho Rejoice, you know, the farm I told you about."

"Sure. It sounds like a great idea."

"It is, but it'll take work and cash. We'll need a campaign of some kind."

"Maybe I can help," Ivan said.

Winston looked up from his paper work and smiled. When Bill Walters had first walked in the door, he thought he was a derelict looking for something to eat and a place to sleep. Now this. "Some will work on the farm, or rancho, some will solicit money on the street, others will give what they can."

"I'm a businessman, Brother Winston, but I feel good in this place. It's done something for me." He moved his hands to express some emotion. "This very room may be blessed. It's so peaceful."

"Peace and serenity," Winston said. "That's what the world is seeking."

"There was a girl in here a few minutes ago, I saw her leave. Is she your wife?"

"No. That's Joyce. She sells cosmetics, but she's a regular here. She drops in a lot."

"Wonderful. I suppose she'll help with the farm."

"Yes. She has a couple of friends. The three of them plan to go up there, maybe next weekend. It'll be relaxing for them. Get away from the city, then they'll start the cleanup."

"They'll stay there?" Ivan asked. An isolated farm in the wilds of New Jersey. He felt almost weak as the thought of having the three of them in his power flashed through his head, if it was the three.

"Camp out is more like it. There's a well and hand pump. Some oil lamps, outside toilet, wood stove. They'll enjoy it."

"Just three young kids in the woods, eh?"

"No, not kids. It's an older man and woman. I don't understand exactly who they are, but they live in the same building, they're friends, something like that. Joyce has found religion in a big way, carries a Bible with her. Hey, do you want to go, too?"

"No," Ivan spoke quickly, then recovered. "I'm a businessman. I'm looking for a small business right now. I've done well." He pulled his wallet from his back pocket and counted out some bills. "I'd like to give you this, Brother Winston. A contribution. Maybe later I can give you a little more."

Tad took the money and counted five hundred dollars. "I can give you a receipt for this, Brother Bill. This is tax deductible."

"I wouldn't feel right about that, Brother Winston. I think giving should come from another place, not the bookkeeper. This money was like a gift to me, so I pass that gift on to you."

"That's amazing," Tad said. "You've summed up the essence of life. Getting, giving, passing along blessings, what a wonderful world this would be if everyone shared your view of life."

"Thanks. Tell me a little about this rancho. Exactly where is it?"

The two huddled over a map of New Jersey. Ivan saw immediately that it was not far from where he had killed the Atterbury woman, the woman he had picked up near Mahwah.

He was already going over in his mind the things he would need. Plenty of wire to bind them, warm clothes, he might have to spend a night outside. With any luck, he could pick them off one by one as they left the house to use the outside toilet. This time he would need a gun.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Joyce was excited about the trip to the farm. It was an outing the three of them could share. She was relaxed and enjoying life again. She asked Patsy and Sly if they had sleeping bags she could borrow.

"Chinese people don't like to camp out," Patsy said. "In China, it was like camping out all the time. We may have some old blankets."

"Maybe I can help," Sly said.

"I don't think we'll need any more scotch," Joyce said. "I've got six bottles to take to the farm."

"That should last the week end," Sly said. "But there's a restaurant near Lincoln Center that had a grease fire last week. I think the manager's brother has an outdoor store, hiking, camping stuff."

"I can't afford to buy sleeping bags," Joyce said. "Even at a discount. We can use blankets."

"Buy, schmy, who said anything about buying. We'll get a loan. A grease fire's a serious thing. I coulda closed that place down, tighter'n a drum. Still could. They'll bring 'em around to the apartment. How many you need? Three?"

"That'd be great, Sly."

"No problem. How about food? You need a ham, beef tenderloin, leg a lamb? Anything like that?"

"No." Joyce shook her head, definitely no. "We'll pick up snacks. We got the scotch and if you can get the bags..."

"If? Whaddaya mean, if. You got the bags. I'll get the bags. Have I ever lied to you, Kid?"

"Thanks, Sly. I didn't mean to doubt you."

Sly stuck out his chest and cocked his head around in mock pride. "Some people underestimate my considerable abilities."

Patsy finished her coffee and wiped Danish crumbs from her face with a paper napkin. "We better go now, Joyce. I got an early meeting."

"So you've got an early meeting, she's gotta go," Sly said. He targeted Joyce with an elaborate wink.

She smiled, but took her dishes to the sink. One thing Patsy did not do is leave Joyce in the apartment alone with Sly. "I need her to help me cross the street," Patsy quipped. "I'm getting old and feeble."

"And what am I, a dinosaur."

"You have young ideas."

"That's my secret to youth," Sly said. "I don't need that stuff you peddle, that stuff to rub on your skin."

Joyce grabbed her sample case and purse and headed for the door. Patsy followed, shouting over her shoulder to Sly, "You're lucky you have a Chinese woman. We have plenty of Oriental secrets."

"I wish you'd keep 'em to yourself," Sly shot back as the door closed. Then he got up, smiling, and poured himself another cup of coffee. He was lucky to have Patsy, she was good for him. And she was smart to keep him away from Joyce. There was something so fresh about her, like dew on a rose.

Once again, Joyce reached the Village too early to begin her rounds, but this time she had a special reason for looking in on Rejoice headquarters. She wanted to tell J. Winston Tad that the three of them would definitely go to the farm over the weekend.

"Is there a key, or anything else we might need?" she asked.

"No." Winston chuckled. "The front door's hanging on by one hinge. The house is open except for one closet. They used to keep some stuff in it year round and the house was only used some of the time. There's probably nothing in it now. If you can find the key, put the scotch in there, then hide the key somewhere."

"How about oil for the lamps?"

"Yes. There's some. An old round metal can, holds maybe two or three gallons. Had at least a gallon in it when I checked. There's an axe to cut firewood. Be sure and take matches."

"The well water's good to drink?"

"You want coffee, Joyce?" Tad moved toward the backroom where the coffee stuff was kept.

She checked her watch. "I should be on my way."

"I think the water's Okay, but I boiled mine anyway. You could take a jug of spring water, or city water. It might be a good idea. I suppose I'll have to have the well checked."

"I thought maybe with the outhouse so close, if it is close."

"Good point. It's close. I don't know much about wells."

Joyce had never asked Tad about his background, or training. She wondered if he was any kind of theologian. It really didn't matter to her whether he was, or not. Someday she would ask him, but now she had to take a few orders for cosmetics.

She was already thinking about going back to school, but not in Nyack. She had made a new beginning and her old life seemed eons away, although there were certain things that were hard to forget.

"I may not see you before we go, Winston. But I'll let you know what we did up there."

"Good. Things are coming together. Some guy came in the other day and gave me several hundred dollars, money we can use for the farm. Maybe you can see what needs doing first."

It was almost noon when Otis reached the Village. Joyce had told him about the Rejoice operation, its proprietor and the farm, but he wanted to double check for himself.

As he approached the storefront, he saw a bearded man emerge, glance in his direction, then hurry off down the street, quickly lost in the crowd. Otis realized there was something familiar about the man, but couldn't put his finger on it. Otis stood for a moment, staring down the street in the direction the man had gone, but nothing registered.

He must have looked vulnerable. A street bum approached him and said, "Hey, give me a few bucks, Buddy. We're trying to get together enough for a bottle."

Otis pulled loose change from his pocket and put it in the man's hand. "Good luck."

He went into the storefront, a bare room with a few chairs and a rough podium, found Tad alone and introduced himself.

"Joyce has told me about you, you and the woman. Kirby? Is that her name?" The younger man stood smiling, feet in sandals, a coarse-fibered smock that went to his knees, covering his body.

"Yes, Kirby Lotto. I'm staying at her apartment. Joyce lives next door right now. I just wanted to be certain that we aren't intruding, going to the farm and all."

"Intruding," Tad said. "Far from it. You're the shock troops, the first wave ashore. You'll start the cleanup mission. We're not expecting you to bust your butt, or anything. But the place is a mess."

"Just wanted to be sure. Joyce has a lot of enthusiasm. Hey, I saw a man come out of here from down the street. Bearded man. He looked familiar."

"That was Bill Walters. He's dropped in several times recently. Given us some money."

"Bill Walters," Otis repeated. "It's a common enough name, but it doesn't ring any bells. Why'd he give you money?"

"No reason and every reason. Same reason anybody gives to the church. Many reasons. I don't know all of his."

"I see." A picture of Ivan Hicks formed in Otis Paine's mind. This Waters was about the same size, same age group, moved in the same way. A beard and baldhead were the differences, easy to do. But the money, it wouldn't be like Ivan to donate to a church, or anywhere else. He should be close to broke. Maybe Otis was seeing Ivan everywhere.

"I'll be frank with you, Tad," Otis said. "Some nut may be stalking Joyce. She's a pretty girl. I'm an ex-cop and looking into the matter. Has this Walters asked any questions about Joyce?"

"Well, I suppose so. But nothing out of the way. It's just that he came in once as she was leaving, and..."

"They met?" Otis asked.

"No. As a matter of fact, they didn't meet. It was like you seeing Walters. Brother Bill, I call him." Tad smiled more broadly. "He saw her as he was approaching the place. I thought it odd at the time because she'd been gone a few minutes."

"So what did he ask?"

"Nothing much. Just who was that girl. She's attractive." He paused, then remembered, "He asked if she was my wife. I guess that's why he mentioned her, he thought she might be my wife. So you see."

"Yeah, I see," Otis said. "And what else did you talk about?"

"The farm. About the farm, that Joyce and her friends, you and Kirby, although I didn't know your names then, might visit the farm, clean it up."

Tad's words were like a revelation. If this was indeed Ivan he now knew the three of them planned a trip to a remote farm. What a set up!

"Did Mr. Walters ask where the farm was located?"

"No. No, he didn't," Tad said. "At least not at that time. But I guess he got to thinking about it later. So he dropped in with a donation and we talked about the farm, where it was and so on."

"Exactly where it was?"

"I'm sure. I remember showing him a map."

"That wasn't today?"

"No. Today, he just stopped to say hello. But he did ask if the farm cleanup was moving ahead. I told him, yes. That Joyce and her friends were on for the weekend."

"You were certain of that?"

"Yes. Yes, I was," Tad said. "You see, Joyce dropped by early this morning. We talked about the water and different things. She said you were going for sure. You don't really think that Walters, Brother Bill, is dangerous?"

"Tad, I don't know. I just got a glimpse of him, hardly an indictment. Let's just keep this whole conversation between the two of us. No reason to alarm Joyce, or smear an innocent man. What do you say?"

"Sure, I'll keep quiet. Brother Bill gave us five hundred dollars and I think he'll give us more in the future. He's a businessman and has made some big bucks."

"What is his business?"

"He didn't say."

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Ivan had been spooked pretty badly by the sight of Otis Paine bearing down on him. But he didn't think the hated detective had recognized him. There was no pursuit.

He had looked back to see Paine enter the Rejoice storefront. But that was only natural. He might be looking for Joyce, he might be asking questions about the farm.

From the storefront, Ivan checked several times for followers, into crowded shops, out a side door, through an alley here, darting through traffic and finally to Phyllis's apartment. There would be a safe haven for him there, as long as his cash held out.

But she was out. He loitered across the street, watching her door. Then into a cafe, where he sat by the window with a similar view. He drank coffee, had a salami on rye, slathering on dark mustard. Phyllis appeared across the street, a young boy in tow, he could have been a teenager.

The two of them were in the apartment for what seemed hours, but actually was less than twenty minutes. Then the boy came bouncing down the stairs and took off down the street. Ivan went in, climbed the stairs and rapped on the door.

"It's Bill Walters. Let me in."

The door opened and a smiling face appeared. "You seem eager today. You know you should get yourself a girl."

"I got you," Ivan said, pushing by her and taking a seat on the couch. "I need a gun."

"A gun?" she questioned. "What for. You want to shoot somebody? You jealous of me? That'd be sweet."

"I'm serious, Phyllis. I think somebody was following me. Maybe somebody wants to rob me."

"That's so silly, Bill. Somebody wants to rob everybody in this town. But if you're careful, you don't need no gun. Anyway, they're not legal."

"I do. I want one. I can pay big time. I thought you might know somebody."

"Somebody with a gun. You thought I might know somebody with a gun. A cop maybe. Or a gangster. Somebody with a gun. Somebody who wants to give you their gun. Get real, Bill. I don't even have a pimp. I'm a freelancer. I watch my own ass, you watch yours."

"You got a gun, Phyllis?"

"Shit no, I don't have no gun. Guns get you into trouble. You ever heard that before? You go out on the street carrying a gun, you're in deep shit. Your life span is cut by maybe fifty years, maybe more."

"I need a gun. I'll pay for a gun."

"So buy a gun. There are stores that sell guns. If not New York, Jersey."

Ivan fumed. He was getting nowhere. "It takes time. There's paperwork and all that. I just want to buy a small gun to protect myself. What's the big deal?"

"That's all you come here for?"

"I'll pay you. You get the dough and a free ride. How about that? Hey, who was that young kid you had up here?"

Phyllis grinned. "You saw him leave? A real punk, wasn't he. Those young guys, lots of energy."

Ivan did not smile. He pulled out his wallet and removed three twenty dollar bills and placed them on the coffee table. "Just tell me where I can get a gun."

Phyllis picked up the money and smoothed the bills. She always admired pictures of Andrew Jackson. "There's a place down toward Delancey Street, a restaurant, but more of a bar. Hugo's. It's called Hugo's Place."

"Hugo's Place? Not Hugo's Cafe, or Hugo's Tavern?"

"No. There's a sign out front, Hugo's Place. But Hugo's dead, see. His widow runs it with the help of a big guy named Jordon. Now Jordon ain't too bright, but he's strong. Anyway, ask Mrs. Hugo. She can get most anything. And, Bill, this is no sure thing. It's just, I don't know where's a spot that sells guns to strangers."

Ivan noticed the three twenties had disappeared. "They call her Mrs. Hugo?"

"That's what they call her, Mrs. Hugo. I don't know the exact address, but there's a big furniture warehouse down there, big yellow building, brick, four, five stories high. It's right across from it."

"I see." Ivan had very little choice but to go looking for Mrs. Hugo. He had become attuned to New York, but he knew better than to wander around the Lower East Side looking for Hugo's Place, so he grabbed a cab.

Phyllis had been correct. The furniture warehouse was something of a landmark, painted lemon yellow it stood out like a vivacious parrot among its drab neighbors.

He paid off the cabby, entered the small bar and ordered a beer from an elderly woman who he assumed was Mrs. Hugo. Slouched on a stool toward the rear of the room was a gigantic man who looked as if he had emerged from a cave, low furrowed brows, heavy long arms, tiny eyes set close, hair growing from his ears. This would be Jordon.

Ivan put a twenty on the bar when the beer was set in front of him and asked, "You Mrs. Hugo?"

She took the bill, snapped it, then went to the cash register and returned with seventeen dollars change.

"They call me Mrs. Hugo," the old woman said. "Who are you?" She put her face close to his as if trying to place him. Jordon stirred on his stool and made a growling noise.

"I'm Bill Walters. A friend of mine, woman in the Village, told me about you."

"What'd she say?"

"Her name's Phyllis," Ivan said.

"What'd she say?"

"I need a gun. Just for protection, keep it around the room. Somebody's got it in for me."

"This look like a gun shop?"

"No. No, it doesn't. It's just that Phyllis thought maybe I could buy one from somebody around here without all the paperwork, red tape. Just pay a price, a good price, and get the gun, a pistol."

"What do you think's a good price?"

Ivan pretended to think. He took a sip of beer, then named the amount he had decided upon while in the cab. "Five hundred dollars."

"That won't get you much of a gun." The woman started to walk away.

"I don't want anything fancy. But I could pay more."

She returned to face him. "How much more?"

"I don't know." He decided to let her set the price, rather than continuing to bid. "What do you think?"

"A thousand."

She said a thousand without hesitation and the amount shocked Ivan. But he had the money, he had plenty of money left from Cleveland, but why pay such a price for a handgun? No doubt a cheapy, too.

"Do you have it here?"

"No way." She grinned and showed a few yellowing, crooked teeth, with gaps here and there. "You pay now, come back later."

Ivan glanced down the dilapidated bar, a shabby, dank cavern. A couple of rough looking customers sat drinking shots and glasses of beer. He guessed they hadn't paid three bucks a throw for their beers. Jordon's menacing figure loomed behind them in Neanderthal pomp.

"I'll give you two hundred bucks now," he said.

Mrs. Hugo half smiled. She knew she had him, a desperate man. She had seen his type before, probably running from the law, maybe the mob was after him too. "Five hundred now. You come back, nine o'clock."

Ivan needed that gun and he hated to bicker with this hag, but he hated even more to be treated like a buffoon. Here he stood, like the village idiot, begging for a piece of candy. If he got that gun and if he took care of the business at the farm, this was another score he would settle. Enjoy yourselves, Jordon and Mrs. Hugo. Enjoy at my expense. The wheel turns.

"Okay, it's a deal. Phyllis told me I could trust you." From the back of his wallet he counted out five hundred dollar bills and passed them to Mrs. Hugo. "Nine o'clock?"

She smiled, more to herself than to him, then turned and walked into the gloom of the bar. Ivan took another swallow of beer, left the rest, and emerged into dazzling sunlight. He blinked warily, realized he was in a particularly bad part of the city, then headed for the nearest cross street where there might be a cab.

The hours crawled by as Ivan lay on his hotel bed staring at the ceiling, wondering if Otis Paine had seen him, wondering if there would be a gun, yet hating Otis and Kirby so much that he would risk death and life imprisonment to see them crawl, watch them writhe and hear their screams. And that slut, that Joyce, the one that got away.

The sun moved behind the buildings to the west, darkness settled over the city. Ivan pushed five one hundred dollar bills in his side pocket, stuffed another five hundred in his sock, then left the room.

The dusk was pleasant and he walked a couple of blocks, then ducked into a cafe and ordered meatloaf, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans and a bottle of beer. He ate slowly, deliberately, killing more time, watching the passersby through the large front window, through a red neon sign that read: Fine Food.

It wasn't difficult to find a cab. "I want to go to a bar called Hugo's Place. It's on the lower east side, I can tell you where."

"You can find another cab, Buddy." Without a backward glance, the driver pulled away from the curb and into the steady stream of traffic.

Ivan seethed with anger. "What kind of a town is this," he said under his breath, then sought out another cab. This time he took another tact. "I've gotta pick up a package at a bar on the lower east side. I'll pay you double if you take me down there, wait five minutes, then bring me back here. Is it deal?" He tried to smile.

"Where at down there?"

"Bar called Hugo's Place. You know that big yellow furniture warehouse? It's across from it."

"I've been down there in the daytime, Mister. But I don't go down there at night. How much you thinkin' to pay me?"

"Forty dollars. Just down and back."

"Twenty up front?"

"Deal." Ivan crawled into the cab and passed twenty dollars through the small slot between passenger and driver.

"Drivin' a cab ain't no kind of a job," the driver said, then fell silent as he threaded his way toward Hugo's Place.

The streets close to Hugo's were quiet for the most part, daytime businesses, and shadowy. But there were some apartments, some animation. Rap music pounded from a passing car. A single bare bulb lit the Hugo's Place sign, a dim light shown from the soiled front window.

"This the place you wanna go, Mister?" The cab driver cast a wary eye over his shoulder.

"Just for a minute. To pick up a package. Just hang here for a minute."

"Okay, but make it snappy. You can't pay me enough to spend much time here, I've got a life."

Ivan slipped out of the cab door and into the front door of the bar. It was just minutes until nine. At first he could see no one in the bar, not even anyone behind the bar, then the figure of Jordon came lurching out of the shadows. "Give me five hundred," he growled.

"Where's the gun?" Ivan asked. He wished he had armed himself with a knife, this hulking, stupid man could be dangerous.

"Five hundred. Give it to me."

"The gun first," Ivan demanded.

"You make Jordon mad." The man made a grab for him, but Ivan stepped back.

"Do you have the gun? I've got the money."

"You give me the money." The big man came closer, glowering, ready to strike.

Ivan realized there was no gun. He had made an illegal deal and he had lost five hundred. He knew, Mrs. Hugo knew, he was powerless to do anything about it. Now Jordon wanted the rest of his money. He whirled and darted for the door, but Jordon was already in motion, seizing him, throwing him against the bar.

Ivan dropped to the floor, stunned, his ribs aching. Jordon stood over him, demanding the money.

"Okay," Ivan said, struggling to his feet. This man could kill him with his bare hands, but he was a little slow. The cab outside suddenly pulled away, squealing its tires. Ivan's heart sank, he was stranded here in this neighborhood and facing a hostile mountain of a man.

Feinting toward his pocket, as if to get the cash, then another mad dash for the door. He almost made it, was halfway out on the street when Jordon caught him and sent him tumbling across the sidewalk, tumbling into the gutter.

Ivan struggled to sit on the curb, expecting Jordon's ham-like hands to grip him at any second. But nothing happened. He looked up to see Jordon standing calmly by the bar door.

Then he saw the police car, its lights turned off, standing in front of the next building, two cops on the sidewalk watching him.

Jordon was the first to speak. "Drunk man. Trouble maker."

"He caused you trouble, did he Jordon?" one of the officers asked in a slightly amused voice.

"Yes. Troublemaker. You can take him." Jordon turned and went inside the bar.

The other officer walked up to Ivan and took his arm, helping him to his feet. "Come on, Mister. You're coming to the precinct house with us."

"But I'm not drunk, officer. I didn't cause any trouble."

"If you're not drunk, you must be on something to try to take on Jordon. You're either the bravest man in the world, or a gold plated lunatic. Put your hands on the vehicle and spread your feet."

Ivan was shaken down, then helped into the rear seat of the squad car and driven to the precinct house. Along the way, the officer in the passenger seat, kept up a good-humored conversation. "Maybe you're a tourist, hey? Come to the city looking for a good time? Heard about the famous Hugo's Place. Always lots of fun, a bundle of laughs."

At the precinct house his possessions were placed in a brown paper envelope and he was led to a holding cell, all the time, Ivan protesting his innocence.

As the door slammed shut, the jailer said, "You'll get a shot of your pretty face taken and your prints made first thing tomorrow, Slugger."

Ivan sat on a hard bunk and saw a man sitting across from him in the small cell, also on a bunk. There was a toilet with no seat and a small basin and water tap in the cell, nothing else, except a light bulb behind grid work in the ceiling.

Across from him, the man sat, looking at nothing in particular, apparently with no interest in conversation. He was bearded and wore a T-shirt with three words in large letters emblazoned across the front: Born To Boogie.

"You been here long?" Ivan asked.

"Since yesterday, about this time."

"What'd they get you for?"

"Nothin'. Nothin' at all."

"They must've got you for something," Ivan said, although he believed they had gotten him for nothing.

"Breathin' I guess. Maybe bein' a human bein'."

"You get sentenced?"

"No." The cellmate showed a spark of life, sardonic humor. "They never sentence me."

"They've done this before," Ivan said.

"Sure. They roust me all the time. Uptown, downtown, all over town. I never been in this precinct house before, but the story's the same. In the slam, out of slam. You know it's late. When they boot me outta here, it's close to midnight. So what do I do? Find a doorway someplace. You call that a life?"

"You live on the streets?" Ivan asked.

"Sure I live on the streets. Where the fuck am I supposed to live?"

"They're missions."

"Oh, yeah, missions. Handouts. Most run by Christers. Then yuh can't go in until night and yuh gotta clear out by nine. So, whaddayuh do all day? Hit the streets, get rousted. What the fuck."

"What's your name?"

"Tom Pocarny. What's yours?"

"Bill Walters. I got tossed out of a bar for no reason and the cops picked me up off the street and brought me here. You can tell I'm not drunk, can't you?"

"I suppose. So what. It's warm in here. Gets cold outdoors."

"Yeah, but I got a hotel room and a wife. What's she going to think?"

"I don't know," Pocarny said. "I'm no fuckin' lawyer."

"She isn't gonna like it one bit. When'll you get outta here?"

"There's some kind of law, twenty four hours. About now, I suppose."

"And the cops here don't know you?"

"No. But so what?"

"So this. I got some dough hidden in my shoe. We could change places. I'll give you two hundred bucks to switch with me. I take your name and your shirt. We both got beards. I walk, you spend the night. Tomorrow, you got two hundred bucks."

"In my shoe." Pocarny seemed to think that was funny.

"In your shoe."

"Where's the dough?"

"Where's the shirt?" Ivan got the money from his shoe while Pocarny pulled his shirt off. Pocarny put on Ivan's shirt and carefully placed the money in his sock. The two then changed places on the cots, in case the same man came for Pocarny.

"How do you spell your last name?" Ivan asked.

"P-o-c-a-r-n-y. It's European. My folks was immigrants. How do yuh like that. They plopped me down in the land of opportunity."

"Life's no picnic," Ivan said. The Born To Boogie shirt was filthy, probably crawling with lice. Ivan felt as if the weight of mountains was bearing down on him, like a wounded animal in a trap. Pocarny couldn't have been happier. If the switch worked, he had a safe place to sleep for the night. If it didn't, he still had two hundred bucks.

A guard came into the lockup and shoved a key into the door with a metallic snap. "Come on Pocarny, Born to Boogie. You're outta here."

Pocarny started to rise from his bunk, but Ivan was on his feet and pushed him back down, then left the cell. The shirt was his salvation.

He followed the guard to the front desk where a sergeant passed him a brown envelope marked Tom Pocarny. "We don't want to see you in this precinct again," he said. "Now get your ass out of here."

Ivan nodded and left. He walked outside and was once again in the rat-maze of New York. Then he opened the envelope. Inside were two sticks of chewing gum, thirty-five cents in change and a tattered baseball card. He pocketed the change and dumped the rest in a trashcan. Then he sat on a step and took a hundred dollars from his shoe. He was back in business.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

After visiting the Rejoice storefront, Otis looked up Jim Manor. He told the detective that he may have seen Ivan Hicks.

"The man I saw had a beard and was bald, a simple disguise."

"Are you certain, Otis?"

"No. No, Jim, I'm not. Maybe I'm just on edge, waiting, thinking Ivan might appear at anytime. Then there's this farm thing." He told Jim of the plan for the three of them to go to the New Jersey farm on the weekend.

"Will you still go?" Jim asked.

Otis made a give-up gesture with his hand and said, "Probably."

"But if it was Ivan and he talked to this preacher, he knows about it. A farm like that, what better place to lay for the three of you?"

Otis rested his elbow on Manor's desk and put his forehead in the palm of his hand. "That could bring things to a head, couldn't it?"

"Of course you've got a gun, but shouldn't carry it in New Jersey."

Otis grinned. Of course he would. "I've got a buddy over there, a sheriff's detective, Jimmy Chagall. I'm gonna call him and see if he can give us some protection. If he can, we'll just go ahead. Maybe we'll be the bait and, if it was Ivan, he'll fall for it."

Manor was cautious. "Could Ivan have seen you?"

"It's possible. If it is Ivan he's seen all three of us. He would have had to trail Joyce to the Village. And if he just wanted Joyce, he could have had her already. You know that. So, he's out for bigger game."

"I'll do something," Manor said. "Put the word out that Ivan Hicks might be in Manhattan with a beard and shaved head. It could do some good, lightning can strike."

"That's not such a bad idea," Otis said. "You know, if you could get an artist to draw a beard on Ivan and shave his head, we could circulate the picture. I'd ask Kirby if she could get it on the tube."

"It would keep the case alive, anyway," Manor said. "Even if it wasn't Ivan you saw. He's wearing some kind of disguise, or else he's far away from here. I'll check with our art department. You'll have to describe the beard."

The rest of the day, Otis searched the crowds for a bearded bald man. On the bus, in a cab, walking on the street, he was surprised how many beards there were in New York. He had never noticed before. And there were bearded bald men, too. But none of them he saw was Ivan.

That evening as he was preparing macaroni and cheese from a box for dinner, he told Kirby about the possible Ivan sighting.

"It's like seeing Elvis at the checkout line of the supermarket," she said. "You can't be certain. What's Jim Manor going to do about it?"

He told her about the possible artist's sketch and she said she thought she'd be able to get it on the air.

"And he said he'd alert our precinct house to keep their eyes open, particularly around the apartment here. I went back later and had another chat with that preacher, Winston Tad."

Kirby mixed a drink and got a beer out of the fridge for Otis. "Had the bearded man been back in?"

"No. And he usually wouldn't have, according to Tad. He has dropped in only three or four times, then in mid-morning."

"Always after Joyce has been there and gone. That is interesting. Anything else?"

"No." Otis stirred the macaroni. "You know when this stuff is done?"

Kirby shrugged. "Look on the package."

"Tad was talking about monkeys and kittens, baby monkeys, whatever you call them. It's a religious thing."

"They sacrifice baby monkeys and kittens in the Village?"

"No, it's not that. It's their characteristics. Baby monkeys hang onto their mother when she's jumping through the treetops and so forth. A little kitten, the mother will grab it in her mouth by the fur on its neck."

"That's well known," Kirby said.

"Yes, well known, but there's a higher religious meaning hidden here and Tad revealed it to me today." He spooned out some macaroni and laid it on the counter top, then tried to cut it with a fork. "I think the Italians call that al dente."

"You mean it's too tough to eat?"

"Something like that. I'll let it cook a little longer, then dump the envelope of cheese on."

"You drain it first."

"I know that."

"What is this religious business with monkeys and cats?"

"It's just an illustration. The monkey relies on its own strength and clings to its mother. The kitten depends on outside strength. The mother carries it. So, you get two very different religious philosophies."

"Which does Tad rely on?"

"Tad is a little mixed up. Or at least I think so. He thinks he is giving some sort of guidance, but he doesn't know just what. And he hopes everything will turn out all right. That's how I'd sum up his outlook."

Otis drained the macaroni over the sink, spilling some of the crooked noodles into the drain. He scooped them up with his hand and slapped them back in the pan, then he dumped in the cheese.

Kirby leaned against the refrigerator and finished her drink. "I think there's some of that jug wine left."

"Good. That'd be good with this dish. I was thinking of putting breadcrumbs on top and sticking it under the oven burner for a couple of minutes, but I don't have the crumbs. I guess I'd have to make toast first, then crumble it up."

"You can put tuna in that."

"Tuna fish?" Otis asked.

"Sure. Open a can and mix it right in. Mix it up good. Then you might have to heat it again."

"Yeah, well, sometime. With the wine, I think we're all set." Otis put the pan with the spoon in it on the table. Kirby had found the wine in the refrigerator.

Otis chugged down the rest of his beer. "I'll just use this glass."

While they ate, Kirby asked if Otis knew Winston Tad's background. "Is he a preacher?"

"No. He was in the Marine Corps for six or seven years. I was curious and asked him."

"Like a chaplain?"

"No. Lance Corporal. There was some kind of accident and one of his buddies was killed, a couple of others wounded. They didn't kick him out, but the Corps gave him the opportunity to get out and he took it."

"He was responsible for their deaths?"

"Not actually, but they were trainees, he was in charge. I didn't really talk to him too long about it. It's not his favorite topic."

"So you talked about monkeys and kittens instead?"

"He likes that topic."

"With what you've told me about him, I don't see how he turned Joyce on to this born-again business."

"I don't think he did, Kirby. I think she did that herself..."

"But it must have something to do with Rejoice." Someone was at the door and Otis rose to answer it, wondering if he should have his gun in his hand. He didn't. But he did open it only a crack, ready to slam it shut.

"It's Joyce," he called to Kirby.

Joyce came in in high spirits. "We've got sleeping bags. They're in the apartment. Sly borrowed them from a friend of a friend. So now all we have to do is get them to New Jersey."

"And get us to New Jersey," Kirby said. "Any ideas."

"I'll go to Jersey tomorrow and rent a car. Then I'll pick the two of you and the bags up here."

"And the scotch and the luggage," Joyce said.

"I hope there won't be much luggage," Otis said. "I'm only getting a little car."

"Toothbrushes," Kirby said. "And paste."

The following morning, Otis called Jimmy Chagall and laid out the story about the farm, the possible Ivan sighting and told him when the three of them planned to arrive.

"We'll be on our toes, Jimmy. Or, I will, we haven't told Joyce that Ivan may have followed her. But is there anything you could do?"

"I can have a deputy out there, Otis. You think he should stay under cover?"

"I do. If Ivan smelled a trap, he'd run like a rabbit."

"Look, I'll have a man get there early enough to look over the ground Friday evening, then stay hidden. From what you tell me there's a lane leading back to the place. It would probably be hard to approach on foot."

"He'll stay there all night."

"Right. I'm tied up Friday night, or I'd be out there, too. But I will come out bright and early Saturday. You'll have coffee for me?"

"You bet, Jimmy. This probably won't amount to anything. But I wonder. I can't stay in Manhattan for the rest of my life. And I hate to leave Kirby alone. I do know what kind of a guy Ivan is. Then there's Joyce, young, wants to do everything. Why should I feel responsible for them?"

"It's good to have somebody, Otis."

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Sheriff's Deputy Benny Saul was angry. The chief of deputies had ordered him to stake out an old farmhouse and to stay there until he was relieved Saturday morning, which could be anytime.

It was an odd assignment, hide the car, stay in the brush, watch for some kind of a lunatic who might attack a man and two women who would be camping out at the old farmhouse.

Saul was usually off duty Friday night, usually had pizza and beer and watched TV until he fell asleep on the couch. But not tonight. What really burned him is the order had come from the detective section. Why couldn't they do their own stakeouts? The department was always shorthanded.

He was supposed to get to the farm at five, but he didn't get started until after four thirty, then he stopped for a six-pack of beer and some snacks and got to talking to the clerk. They'd been in high school together. She had a couple of kids, but had just gotten a divorce.

It was almost six when he approached the farmhouse, pulled his car off the long lane into a stand of thick trees. It was a pleasant place and he had a clear view of the house, but it would get dark and chilly. There was a threat of rain. The night would be long.

He took a good look at the old house. Wide horizontal board walls, once painted deep red, now peeling. A concrete block foundation, vines growing clear over the brick and stone chimney. Through the windows, once trimmed in white, he could see a few tattered blinds.

One of the four porch supports was missing, the roof slumping on that end. On the side of the house where the ground fell away, there was a small cellar door hanging open, like it had been kicked in. The front door of the house seemed to be hanging on by a single hinge.

A bird had built its nest in the spoiled front porch gutter. In the yard were gnarled fruit trees and grape vines running wild.

Deputy Saul opened the trunk of his car, tore open a bag of chips and pulled the tab on a beer can. He glanced at his watch, barely six fifteen. How time would drag and he knew he wasn't supposed to listen to the radio, but he would anyway.

When the deputy leaned back to take his first swig of beer, a stick of wood slammed into his head and he staggered into his car, then dropped to the ground.

Minutes later, when he came to his senses, he was seated against a tree, his arms around the trunk behind him, handcuffed at the wrists. The position was painful.

"You waking up, Deputy?" Ivan Hicks asked.

"What the hell's going on?" Saul demanded.

"I don't think I have to tell you that. You're pretty stupid if you can't figure it out."

"Turn me loose," Saul said. "You'll get into trouble for this."

"I've been in trouble for a long time. Tell me what you're doing out here, all the details and I won't hurt you."

"You can go fuck yourself as far as I'm concerned," Saul sputtered.

Ivan knew he might not have much time and he needed to know if other deputies would be arriving. It would have been fun to play with this imperious cop, but he simply didn't have the time. The man already supplied him with what he had dearly sought -- not only a pistol and ammunition, but also a riot gun locked in the front seat of car.

Ivan crouched next to the trunk and behind Saul. "Now listen to me carefully. I want to know how long you were to stay here, why you're here, and who else will be here. If you tell me that I won't hurt you. If not, I'll cut your right ear off."

The threat stopped Saul for a moment, then anger and the unlikeliness of such a threat took over. "Fuck you."

His knife already in hand, Ivan grasped the top of the ear and began sawing at the flesh, cutting the ear away from the head. Saul screamed like a banshee, then shouted, "Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. I'll talk!" He struggled in the tight cuffs, wrenching his wrists, his arms locked tight around the tree. The pain in his arms, his wrists, his ear was blinding.

Ivan held the ear in his hand. Blood streamed down the side of Saul's head and neck, soaking into his shirt. He was sobbing and blubbering. Ivan picked up the stick he had felled him with and cracked him across the nose.

"Shut up, or I'll cut off the other ear. Now open your mouth."

Saul did as he was told and Ivan pushed the ear between his lips. "Bite down on that, Deputy. Do it." Saul bit, holding his ear between his teeth.

"Next you'll be holding your cock in your mouth. Do you understand me?" Saul bobbed his head with the fervor of a convert.

"Spit the ear out. Now tell me your story."

"I was supposed to get here at five. I'm to stay 'til morning. Someone will be out then."

"After daylight?"

"I suppose. They didn't say. I don't know just when."

"What's your job here?"

"I'm supposed to watch three people. They'll be stayin' here, in the old house. Some lunatic," Saul caught himself, realizing he was talking to that lunatic. "Some person is looking for them. I'm supposed to arrest him if he shows up. That's all."

"Anything else?"

"That's all." Benny Saul was trembling. He was in shock from losing the ear, plus he realized a man who would cut off his ear would probably kill him. The seriousness of the situation had found home. "I won't cause you no trouble. You got my gun, you got my car."

"But I don't have the three people, do I?" Ivan asked.

"No. They ain't here yet."

"And when will they arrive?"

"I don't know, honest. Maybe soon, maybe later. They're drivin' from Manhattan. I don't know when they'll get here."

"But they will have to drive up that long lane, won't they? Just as you did?"

"Yes." Saul realized this man, this maniac, had been waiting for him.

Ivan stood up swiftly and backhanded him across the nose with the club. The cartilage in his nose cracked and blood streamed down and over his mouth. Saul winced, but could not move, the taste of warm salty blood in his mouth.

"That's for nothing. Try something and see what happens. We're going to have a look around that house."

Ivan undid one handcuff, rolled the cowed Saul onto his belly, then quickly snapped the cuff back on the free hand. Ivan was pleased. Those few seconds when the cuff was off had been Saul's last chance for survival.

He pulled the battered man to his feet and walked him, stumbling, in the direction of the forsaken farmhouse.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Once in New Jersey, Kirby proclaimed that she was hungry. Joyce produced some fast food coupons she had been hoarding. "We can get fish and fries for two forty-nine," she announced, then read the smaller print. "That includes two batter-dipped fish filets, fries and hushpuppies."

"No drink," Kirby said.

"No drink," Joyce agreed.

"That's where they make their money," Otis said. "A little flavoring and sugar, a little carbonated water. There's money in that, big profits."

"Maybe we should have burgers," Kirby suggested.

Joyce was up to the occasion, producing another set of coupons. "Here's a quarter pound cheeseburger for ninety-nine cents. Can you beat that?"

"No drink and no fries," Kirby said.

"Not for ninety-nine cents," Joyce said. "This place also has fried chicken. There are several combinations, but they're confusing. But two of them have eight pieces of fried chicken, one for five ninety-nine and one for seven ninety-nine."

"What's the difference?" Otis asked from the driver's seat.

"The seven dollar one you get four biscuits and two large side orders. There's no side orders with the five dollars."

"What are the side orders?" Kirby asked.

"I don't know. It doesn't say. Maybe coleslaw. Maybe there's a choice."

"Probably fries," Otis said. "Maybe we could get two large orders of fries with the seven dollar coupon."

"Too much fat," Kirby said. "Anyway, the chicken is fat. Is there a salad?"

Joyce told them that there was no coupon for the salad, but she was certain the restaurant sold salads. They drove through an area of fast food restaurants and Otis eventually wheeled into one that sold Mexican food.

"Why'd you stop here?" Kirby asked.

"Why not?" Otis asked.

"You passed a Chinese place half a mile back."

"So Chinese, Mexican, what's the difference?"

Sitting in the back seat, Joyce sensed defeat and put her coupons away. "Maybe they'll have salads," she said, opening her door.

"And maybe burritos have fins," Kirby said.

The time was well past seven when they reached the farm. The remains of a stonewall which had served as a gatepost marked either side of the lane.

Otis left the small county road and drove carefully down the lane, keeping a sharp eye out for a parked car, or the signs of any activity. There were none. Not even a bird stirred in the deserted farmyard

Kirby looked glumly at the weary house, peeling paint, tattered blinds, porch roof sagging. "It's a real fixer-upper."

Otis nodded agreement.

"But can't you imagine a little paint, a few new boards, people and families living here, livestock, cats and dogs, the excitement of growing things." Joyce added, "I think it's terrific."

"You forgot chickens," Kirby said. "Chickens and ducks and goats. It's not really big enough for more than one family. Incidentally, Otis, Did you bring toilet paper?"

"Of course. I'm an old Ozark Mountain man, remember. Wouldn't leave home without it."

"Good. Let's get our stuff inside before dark. I could use a drink."

It was gloomy inside the house, dark flowered paper on the living room walls, some of it peeling. A dusty overstuffed couch and a plant stand made up the living room furniture. In the kitchen were two wooden straight chairs and the wood-burning cooking stove, but no table.

The three of them walked from room to room. One bedroom contained a double bed with springs, but no mattress. "If we're going to make coffee in the morning on that kitchen stove, we'd better get some firewood," Joyce said. She started towards the front door.

"Just a second," Otis said. "Let's all go." Involuntarily, he touched the butt of his gun through his light jacket. It felt reassuring. He wondered where that deputy could be hiding.

They gathered small sticks of wood and returned to the house. Joyce had lugged several bottles of scotch into the house and had found the closet that locked, the one that Winston had mentioned. But it was already locked and the key was nowhere to be found.

Kirby lit an oil lamp to brighten the living room, then poured scotch into a couple of paper cups and handed one to Otis. The three of them sat on their sleeping bags on the floor.

"I suppose when it gets dark, we turn in," Kirby said.

"No TV, too dark to read," Otis said.

"Nothing to read, anyway," Joyce said.

"So this is camping," Kirby observed.

"We could tell stories," Joyce said.

"You start," Otis said.

"OK, I know a Jack story. This one begins with Jack getting out of the army. He had been in for thirty years and when he was discharged they gave him two loaves of white bread..."

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Ivan crouched in some bushes near the outhouse, almost trembling with excitement. The three of them were inside. He had watched them arrive, watched them carry their gear into the house, seen the three of them search for firewood. They had almost stumbled over him.

Now he waited for one of them to come to the outhouse as they must. Who would be the first to fall into his hands?

The door to the house pushed open and a shaft of light angled to the ground outside. A flashlight, of course.

Outlined in the door before the dim light of the oil lamp, Ivan could see it was Joyce. He had been holding the deputy's revolver, but he jammed it into his pocket and grabbed the knife. He would use the knife on Joyce.

Joyce stepped outside and pulled the door closed behind her. Otis had just finished telling a story about when he was a rookie cop and had ticketed the lieutenant governor. When Joyce left the small gathering Kirby was talking about the absolute best meal she ever had, although the way it was starting, it seemed to Joyce the company had something to do with it. A restaurant in Zaragoza, she had bumped into an old college flame.

The starlit night was blue velvet, a chorus of katydids were setting up a racket nearby. Further off other night noises, maybe frogs, somewhere there must be water. The day had been warm and the night was just cooling off, a perfect time.

Joyce picked her way down the short path using the beam of the flashlight, although she could have seen without it, so bright were the stars in this far-off place. The worn boards of the outhouse door creaked open at her touch. She flashed the light around, looking for spiders, or other unwelcome visitors. Then she closed the door.

Outside, Ivan crept close to the door, picked a spot where he could surprise her from the rear, and waited. The door soon opened again and Joyce stepped out, still holding the flashlight.

Ivan pounced like a leopard, locked his left arm around her neck in a death grip, let her feel the knife tip in her upper chest. "Don't move, don't say a word."

Joyce froze, terrified, not knowing what was happening. Ivan released his grip and jammed a gag into her mouth, securing it around the back of her head. "Your lover's back," he whispered in her ear as he dragged her out into the night beyond the outhouse.

Twenty feet in back of the outhouse, he pushed her on her face on the ground and bound her hands behind her with wire. Then he pulled her by her legs, one leg on each side of a small tree, and lashed her ankles. She lay their motionless, breathing hard, a dark figure on the dark ground.

Ivan had more work to do, but he couldn't stifle the impulse to bend over his victim and slit the back of her shirt with his knife. He put his hands on her bare back and moved them around to her breasts, fondling with hard fingers. "Still the same old slut," he whispered.

Then it was silently back to the house, picking up the heavy stick he had used on the deputy on the way. He made his way to a bush between the outhouse and the house, guessing that Joyce had taken the only flashlight among the three of them.

If he had to, he would shoot Otis, but there was no need. Otis emerged, first sticking his head out the door and calling, "Joyce. Joyce, you Okay?" Then coming out onto the porch, looking around and taking the path to the outhouse. Ivan could see the glint of a revolver in his right hand.

As Otis passed the bush, Ivan rose and clubbed him to the ground, swiftly, with a minimum of noise. Then he was on the ex-cop's back, had his arms behind him and the deputy's handcuffs clamped on his wrists.

Otis had not stirred, the first blow knocking him senseless.

Ivan picked up both weapons, walked into the house and came face to face with Kirby Lotto. "I have two guns, Miss Lotto. I can shoot you, or you can do what I say." He was breathing heavily, his plan was working, but he had to subdue this woman and get back to Paine.

Kirby felt the blood drain from her face. "Where are the others?" she asked.

"Tied up outside. They aren't dead, not even badly hurt. Get on your stomach on that couch. I'm going to tie you up."

Kirby complied. When Ivan had bound her hand and foot, he went back for Otis who was just coming around.

"You're some stupid cop, Paine," Ivan said, helping him to his feet. Otis was silent, wondering if the deputy was somewhere nearby, wondering what had happened to Joyce. Ivan hustled him inside and put him on his face on the floor. Then he bound his feet with wire. "You two keep each other company, I'll be right back with the young bitch."

Several minutes later, Ivan reentered the shadowy room in triumph, pushing Joyce ahead of him. Otis had rolled on his side so he could see the room. Joyce still had the gag in her mouth and her face was streaked with tears. Her shirt hung in shreds.

Ivan gave her a final push into the room and she stumbled and fell to the floor, crying through her gag in pain.

"You bastard," Kirby spat.

Ivan gave Kirby a long look, deciding whether to start cutting her now, but instead went to Joyce and looped wire around her ankles. He had the bulk of the night before him and he did want to afflict these three with the agonies of hell before he let them go.

"You three," he said, as he stood admiring his catch. "My lover, little Joyce, knows what I can do. She was a bad girl to run away. And bad girls pay for their sins." He walked to where Joyce had fallen on the floor and removed the gag.

"How do you greet your lover, Joyce?" Ivan laughed, then slapped her across the face, once, then twice. Then he ripped the rest of her shirt away and ran a finger around her breast and asked, "How would you like this finger to be my knife? It will be, soon."

Walking to the table, he deposited the two revolvers, then dug into his pocket for a key. The flickering oil lamp which minutes before had filled the room with a friendly warmth, now cast hideous shadows over the distorted features of the bearded man, glints of light shown from his shaved head.

Ivan opened the closet door to reveal the body of Deputy Benny Saul, his face caked with dried blood. "If you thought someone might save you, this is it," Ivan said, indicating the dead man with his hand. "Before he died he was good enough to tell me that there's be no one else out here until sometime tomorrow. We have all night."

As a cop, Otis had always known that he might die a violent death, but this was a nightmare come to life. He watched Otis take the long knife from his belt, watched him approach Kirby, saw the blade flick toward her mouth, heard her interminable scream. Ivan meant to cut her tongue out!

Then he saw the front door of the house ease open and Jimmy Chagall step inside hefting a twelve-gauge shotgun.

"Drop the knife, whoever you are."

Ivan dropped the knife and turned to face a calm Chagall. "Sorry this happened, Otis," the detective said. "When I heard they'd sent Benny Saul out here, I came as fast as I could. Saul has an attitude problem."

"No more, he doesn't," Otis replied, nodding toward the closet. "Don't take your eyes off Ivan. He's a slimy snake."

Chagall took three steps toward Ivan and slammed the shotgun barrel across his face. Ivan's head snapped back, and he stumbled backward, but he didn't loose his footing. "Benny didn't deserve that." Chagall was furious.

"Don't shoot him," Joyce cried out, a frantic note in her voice. All eyes in the room turned to her, trussed and sprawled on the floor, bare bosom, blood on her arm and shoulder. "It wouldn't be right."

"She's got religion, Jimmy," Otis said. "You better cuff Ivan, then set us free. Two pistols on the table, one mine, one probably belonged to the deputy."

Chagall ordered Ivan to face the wall, hands back, then cuffed him. He sat him on the closet floor next to Benny's mutilated body. Then he untied Otis's feet and the two women.

Kirby immediately went to the table and picked up one of the revolvers. "I'm not taking any chances," she said. "That bastard was this far from jabbing that knife into my mouth." She turned to Joyce. "Find a shirt or something."

Chagall pulled Ivan from the closet and found the handcuff key in his pocket, then shoved him back in the closet. When Otis was free, pistol in hand, Chagall went to his car to call the sheriff's office.

After he was gone, Otis said, "Are we ever lucky. I still can't believe it. We were the bait, the trap was sprung, the rat got the bait." He pointed his pistol toward Ivan. "I should shoot you right now."

Joyce gave him a sharp look, but she knew he wouldn't. "What'll happen to Ivan now?" she asked.

"County jail. Solitary," Otis replied. "There'll be a battle over who gets first shot at him. But he's in New Jersey and now he's a cop killer. I suspect he'll stay in New Jersey for the rest of his life, however long that might be."

"Will they fry him?" Kirby asked.

"I don't know New Jersey law," Otis said. "Killing a cop sometimes falls into a special category."

Ivan was mute, hunched up against Benny Saul's body, staring a hole through the floor. He had several thousands of dollars in his bag in the back of the stolen car hidden in the nearby woods and here he was shackled, humiliated by the people he hated worst of all.

"He should fry," Kirby said. "I need a drink." She poured herself half a paper cup of scotch, then walked over to where Ivan sat hunched in the closet. "I hope they fry your ass. I'd like to smell it sizzle like a pig on a spit."

"Kirby," Joyce admonished.

"Shit, Joyce, what'd he do to you outside? And before? This beast is pond scum. He's not a human, he's a microbe, a slug. He was going to have fun and games with the three of us with his knife. Thank God for Chagall."

"And thank the Good Lord for protecting us," Joyce said.

Kirby gave her a look, shrugged and went back to the scotch bottle. Chagall returned to the house and said that several deputies and an ambulance for Benny Saul were on the way.

"They'll want to kill the son-of-a-bitch," Otis told Chagall.

"I know. I'm gonna lecture them on that. Make sure none of them is alone with him, point out the trouble they might get in if they abuse a prisoner, even a murderin' asshole like Ivan."

Otis poured himself a scotch and offered one to Jimmy, who took it. Soon they heard sirens coming down the lane.

It was obvious the three campers could not stay in the house that had become the scene of a crime. They would have to remain in the area and make reports the following morning. After consulting with Chagall, they drove to a motel not far from the local jail and took a couple of rooms.

They were drained, weary – Kirby was even too tired to call Stan and alert the network of Ivan's capture. Tomorrow. Kirby and Otis each took a bottle of scotch to their rooms.

Joyce sat on the edge of her bed in a trance like state while Kirby sipped until the whisky blotted out the coarse images of the day. Then she slept, her last memory that night was of a cold sober Joyce still seated on the edge of her bed.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Kirby Lotto was hung over the next morning. She took a long hot shower in the relative luxury of the motel bathroom. When she and Joyce were dressed, they telephoned Otis who was in a room down the hall.

"It's hard to believe it's over," Otis said over breakfast. "Ivan Hicks has taken up a good portion of my later life."

"I think you deserve some sort of a medal," Kirby said.

Joyce seemed tense, concentrating on her scrambled eggs and sausage patty.

"Maybe I will write that book," Otis said. "I have a few new chapters now."

"Get a contract first," Kirby suggested. "Maybe I can help you."

"I just might try that. There'd be an advance?"

"Sure. An advance and a deadline."

"You mean I'd have to work?"

"Like the rest of us poor slobs. You betcha. Then you could take me out to dinner."

"I can see my new life unfolding before me. You feeling alright, Joyce?"

"Sure. I guess so. This thing isn't over yet, is it?"

"No," Otis agreed. "It's not. We have to go to the jail, make a report. Then we'll go someplace. Maybe there's a park, or a museum or something."

"I don't think I'll ever go back to that farm again," Joyce said. "Winston had such hopes for it."

"The farm hasn't changed," Kirby said.

"But we have, haven't we?" Joyce asked.

Otis poured more syrup on his waffle, then as an afterthought, added more butter. "People do change every day of their lives," he said. "The only thing for sure in life is to expect change. It'll come, sometimes when you're expecting it least of all."

"And usually it's for the better," Kirby said.

After paying the check, the three of them walked to the jail and found Jimmy Chagall there working on his report.

"Where are you holding Ivan?" Otis asked. From the outside, the jail seemed small and antiquated. It had the appearance of being constructed in the late 1800s.

"There's a cell off by itself, sometimes used for conferences. He's by himself in there."

"Conferences?" Joyce asked.

"Yes," the detective said. "There's an area outside the bars where someone can sit and talk, far enough away so there's no contact with the prisoner. I'll get you some paper and find an empty office, no problem on Saturday, and the three of you can simply write out what happened. Give a few preliminaries if you will."

"You don't want our entire relationship with Ivan?" Otis questioned.

"No. Just a sentence or two leading up to what happened last night. More if you need it, but nothing in detail."

Joyce suddenly spoke up. "I'd like to talk to Ivan."

She drew everyone's attention. "Why?" Chagall asked.

"I'd like to forgive him for his crimes and give him a chance to forgive me."

"What have you done?" Otis asked.

Joyce clutched her heavy purse. "We're all sinners, you know that."

"I've heard," Kirby said. "But Ivan's outdone himself."

"I was raised a Christian," Otis said. "I can see a person going by the rules is bound to forgive their enemies. I've heard that said time and time again."

"And this might be my only chance," Joyce said.

"Why not?" Chagall said. He got up and led the way out of the room. Otis followed, but Kirby remained in her chair. She was not the forgiving type.

Chagall asked the jailer to unlock the door to the area where Ivan was kept and the three of them entered. Ivan, behind heavy bars across the room, sulked on a bench that was supported by chains buried in the wall.

A wooden bench, not unlike a church pew, was against the opposite wall, a place for visitors to sit, a good ten feet from the heavy bars. Joyce sat on the wooden bench.

She looked imploringly at the two men. "May I speak with him alone?"

"I guess it's okay," Chagall said. "I'd better take your purse and let the jailer hold it for you. Jail rules."

"Her Bible's in there," Otis said.

"Yes," Joyce said, clutching the purse to her bosom.

"Okay, we'll give you a few minutes. Rap on the door if you want out early and don't go near those bars. He could be over there like a flash."

The outer door slammed shut behind the two men, leaving Joyce alone with Ivan.

"Ivan, I've come to ask your forgiveness if I've led you astray. And I want you to know that I forgive you," Joyce began.

Ivan was quickly animated. "You cheap slut. I enjoyed fucking you and you enjoyed it too, didn't you." He was up and grasping the bars.

"It was hard to resist you, Ivan."

"You'll remember me, won't you Joyce," he leered. "We were lovers."

"I know, Ivan. I wish I could be in the cell with you. I know you always enjoyed my body, didn't you?" Joyce placed the purse on the bench beside her, rose and pulled off the sweatshirt she was wearing. She was naked underneath. "Shall I come to you, Ivan?" She pulled her shoulders back and struck a pose.

Ivan watched in amazement. This girl, this woman, was actually in his power. He could have her right here in jail and then smash her head against the bars, splintering her skull, killing her in seconds. Victory would be his. What a way to even the score with Otis Paine and Kirby Lotto. He'd give them something they'd never forget!

"You can blow me through the bars, Joyce. Come to me, come now."

"I will, Ivan, but take your pants off. You know what I want to see, you know what I want."

Ivan was frantically removing his pants and shorts. Joyce wanted his cock and he would give it to her. Fully erect, he rushed to the bars and waited for her touch.

"I have my Bible with me, Ivan. I'll bring my Bible to you and we'll join through the bars."

"Come on, come on," he said, keeping his voice low, wondering if the jailer might hear or check the cell. "Come to me Joyce."

Joyce seemed almost in a religious trance as she came toward the cell, purse in her two hands. Just short of Ivan's reach, she paused, opened the purse and withdrew, not a Bible, but a .38 revolver and quickly aimed it at the base of Ivan's erect penis and fired.

The shot reverberated through the small, stonewalled room like cannon fire. The slug hit home, tearing through the hard shaft, releasing an explosion of blood and causing Ivan to roar with pain and anger.

He was down on the cell floor on his back, writhing in pain when Joyce fired again, clipping his left testicle. Ivan screamed like a siren and more blood came. He tried to get to his feet, but could not. Joyce fired twice more, one bullet shattering his left knee, the second ripping through the small bones in his right foot.

Then she walked back and quietly sat down on the bench, a serene look on her face. She could hear the clamor outside, running feet, a scramble to get into the cell where Ivan still lay screaming on the floor in a pool of his own blood. Calmly, she pulled on her sweatshirt.

Jimmy Chagall was the first in the cell, surveyed the scene and said, "Oh, my God, would you look at this?"

"You'll want this gun, I suppose," Joyce said, holding it by the barrel, her arm outstretched to him.

"Yes. Yes. I'll take the gun." He took it, still looking at Ivan who seemed to be trying to clutch hold his bloody crotch, then jerking his hands away in pain. "Somebody call the medics," Chagall shouted over his shoulder, then added, "Jesus, what a weekend."

The jailer, another deputy and Otis and Kirby were also in the room. Kirby went to Joyce, helped her to her feet and led her out of the room and into Chagall's office. "Honey, you sure know how to get even," she said as Joyce sat down.

"I feel a little better now," Joyce confided.

"Frankly, so do I," Kirby said. "But I don't know what happens now."

After a few minutes, Chagall returned to his office, followed by Otis. Both took seats. Chagall sat silent for a moment, then said, "They got the bleeding to stop. It looks like Ivan will live. It won't be a happy life."

"I had something like that in mind," Joyce conceded.

"I suspected that, Miss," Chagall said. "You pack a powerful Bible." He looked at Otis who shrugged elaborately.

"You'll lock Joyce up," Kirby said. It wasn't a question, she simply wondered what the facilities would be like.

"Considering the death of Deputy Saul and this Ivan's past record, particularly with Miss DuBarry, I see no reason to lock her up. The three of you are honest people who have been victimized by a vicious criminal. Why should one of you be locked up? I suppose I could lock Otis up for carrying a gun in New Jersey. I suppose there are any number of reasons why Kirby should be locked up. But, no."

Chagall turned to Joyce. "I'm letting you walk out of here and I'll take the responsibility that you'll be back and appear before a judge at some point. If you come back promptly, that's a mark in your favor. If we have to come after you, well, you know what I mean. I would hope we're talkin' suspended sentence."

"Thank you," Joyce said.

Otis was about to speak, but Chagall continued. "I'm putting you two in charge of Miss DuBarry. You are willing to take that responsibility?"

Otis started to speak, but Kirby broke in. "Of course, we're a couple and Joyce is like our daughter. That makes a family, doesn't it? It's kinda nice to have a family, don't you think so, Otis?"

"I sure do," Otis agreed. "And I think we better get out of here before some hot shot state's attorney shows up. A few miles north, we'll be out of New Jersey."

In the car, with Otis at the wheel and Joyce once more in the back seat, Kirby asked, "Joyce, what do you really think of Winston Tad?"

"He's alright, but a little mixed up. He asked me to go to a movie with him next week. Do you think I should?"

"I don't know," Kirby said. "I've never met the man. I've been told his attire is a little on the peculiar side. Does that bother you?"

"He would look better in a T-shirt and jeans. Maybe I could persuade him."

"What do you think, Otis?" Kirby asked.

"This family thing, it makes for tough decisions."

"Let's forget everything for a while. When we stop for lunch, I'll call my boss and fill him in on the story," Kirby said. "I've got a feeling he'll want the three of us to do a 'How I spent My Weekend' type show."

###

About the Author

Doug Walker is an Ohio University, Athens, Ohio, journalism graduate. He served on metropolitan newspapers, mostly in Ohio, for twenty years, as political reporter, both local and statehouse, along with stints as city editor and Washington correspondent. Teaching English in Japan, China and Eastern Europe were retirement activities.

His first novel was "Murder on the French Broad," available only in a print edition published in 2010.

Now occupying an old house in Asheville, NC, with his wife, he enjoys reading, tennis, short walks, TV and writing.

Connect with Me Online

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