 
The Shivers Between

Book I

DH Young

Cabin Fever Press

Copyright © 2020 DH Young

All Rights Reserved
Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Thanks for Reading!
Dedication

To Mary Anne. She knows why. But for the rest of you...she makes the good things in my life possible. As for me? I just try to keep up.

Author's Note

I've taken some liberties with Corpus Christi's geography. Mainly I've altered driving times for convenience, and created a new City Marina. As for Viktor's house, it's really there. Somewhere.

Chapter One

(One Day Before--Hunter)

**T** he hunter found her on Saturday night, at the downtown Whataburger between Water Street and North Shoreline Boulevard.

He'd always wanted to hunt there, but busy streets and bright lights in the parking lot had made it impractical. Tonight, though, he noticed all but one of the lights were out--and road construction had shut down traffic on Water Street. He pulled in to see what would be offered to him.

Corpus Christi, Texas was the home of Whataburger, and the downtown restaurant was huge. Two stories, a deck, kids going everywhere. It felt wrong to him, letting kids run wild like that. But maybe their parents were blind to the nature of the world, or their families' rightful place in it.

When he saw her he already knew it would go perfectly. Past sunset, the sky going blue-black, the city lights brightening, the dead-fish ocean smell blowing in from the Bay...dwindling twilight was _his_ domain. He glanced slyly at the well-lit building across Water Street from the restaurant, almost wishing someone would come out and try to stop him. But that was mere fantasy. Between the darkness and the construction signs, he wouldn't even be seen.

She looked to be about ten years old, with long blonde hair and an energetic stomping sort of walk. Blue and white dress, white stockings, dark blue shoes. Or so he guessed. He couldn't actually see her shoes from the parking lot. But he was sure they would be right. She was that kind of person.

Her parents looked like tourists, if they were her parents. She didn't seem to fit them, somehow. Her father sported a mostly-red Hawaiian shirt with olive-green nylon shorts, possibly a swimsuit, definitely due for a wash. Her mother wore old jeans and a faded orange T-shirt. But the girl appeared ready for church on Sunday. She was sharper, more in focus, a higher order of being. Did they know she didn't really belong to them?

He was sitting in his van wondering how he would get to her when she solved the problem for him. He watched her argue with a younger boy (her brother?) and stomp back to her parents with an air of setting things right. He lost sight of her for a few moments, and was thinking about going inside--though he knew better and would never have actually done it--when he felt an almost electric tingle at the base of his spine and realized she was outside the restaurant, with a set of keys in her hand, heading toward his corner of the parking lot. He supposed he wasn't surprised.

As she passed, he got out of the van. He left the engine running and followed her back toward Water Street. She stomped along, intent on her mission.

"Susie?" he called. She reminded him of a girl he'd known when he was about her age. What was her name? Albright, that was it. What the hell. "Susie Albright?"

She stumbled, but kept going without looking back.

Time to invoke authority. "Come on Suze, I have something for your mom," he called. "Hold up a sec!"

She turned around. "I'm not Susie," she said. "I think you've got the wrong person." She hesitated, then shrugged. "My name's Katie."

That's it, he told her directly, without speaking. He was sure she could hear him. Stay put, now. Keep talking. "Oh, I'm sorry. I thought you were someone else. Susie's my horse, you see, and she's always wandering off in parking lots. I think maybe she wants to be a car."

The girl looked amused. Or maybe a little irritated. Maybe both. "I'm supposed to look like a horse? Nice story, I guess. What do you want?"

Could she be older than she first appeared? It didn't matter; he was almost there. "Actually Susie's my niece, and she looks a lot like you. I have something I was going to give her mom, and I thought you were her." He shrugged. "Maybe I'll give it to you anyway. Do you like chocolate?"

"Um . . ." She glanced toward the Whataburger behind him and took a half-step away. "I'm not supposed to take stuff from strangers."

Of course she wasn't. And yes, she was too old for candy to work. But she was beautiful. Dark blue eyes, the color of the sea. Perfect. She belonged in the deeper waters, away from sandbars and shallow folk. In his world, dark and quiet and still.

"Well, okay, I can find a different horse then." Oh, she would be so good.

She rolled her eyes. "Enough with the horse thing, okay? It was funny the first time, but not anymore." She turned and walked away.

"Horses don't eat chocolate anyway," he said, following her. "So I guess it's for me."

A car pulled into the lot behind him and he froze. He cocked his head, listening, but it went past him and parked on the far side of the lot, under the single working light. It disturbed a group of seagulls, which squawked and flew into the air.

He smiled at the driver when she got out, though he didn't think she could really see him. He was just a shape in the dark. Most likely she wouldn't have looked directly at him anyway. She'd probably heard that eye contact was dangerous--they taught that sort of thing in self-defense classes. And of course she'd parked under the light. Good for her. Safety was important.

He turned back to the girl. She'd picked up speed, circling around to the right. She didn't know where her car was. "Hey, what if you took the chocolate inside and asked your mom if it was okay?" He angled to cut her off. It was almost time. She stopped between two SUV's and peered back at him. About to bolt, maybe.

He glanced around. No witnesses except for the lady who'd parked under the light, and she was almost inside. He reached out with a foil-wrapped package.

Seagulls screeched and flew nearer to investigate. No, birdies, none for you. Impatience filled him with the power he needed. Come on, you little bitch. Just a couple of feet closer.

She looked past him, toward her parents. "I can't. I have to go." She turned away, hesitated for a moment, then headed farther from the restaurant.

Okay. That hesitation was a sign. She clearly wanted him to take her.

He stood between her and her parents. The potential witness had gone inside, and there was nobody else around. But that could change at any moment. Time. Go for it.

He ran after her.

His feet scraped on the sandy asphalt and she glanced back over her shoulder. She spun and threw the keys at his face, looking more angry than frightened. When he reached up to block them, she took off at an angle toward the light and the restaurant beyond, dodging between cars so he couldn't cut her off.

He laughed as he ran. He'd known she was special. But she was just a kid, and gawky, and he would catch her.

She tripped as she jumped over a curb. He dove onto her sprawling body, pinning her down, and covered her mouth with his left hand. He'd scraped it as he landed, and her eyes widened with the taste of his blood.

But she was still a fighter. Even as he brought a rag out of his pocket with his other hand, she bit him, hard. More blood flowed into her mouth. He panted with laughter, excited by the game. He knew she wanted to be with him, or would want it later, when she understood. The same thing, really.

She struggled briefly, but passed out soon after he covered her mouth and nose with the sweet-smelling cloth. She was perfect, he knew. Perfect. She'd never shown any fear at all. He picked her up, filled with compassionate joy by her potential, and carried her back to his van.

As the van moved slowly out of the parking lot, a seagull swooped down to grab the foil-wrapped chocolate he'd dropped on the asphalt. Another flew to contest it. More gulls appeared, summoned by the noise and activity...or, he supposed, just possibly they were _created_ by it. He wasn't going to rule it out. The night was magical, and so was he, and so was his prize.

Taking her, having her, wasn't really the point this time. It was part of a larger plan. But that didn't mean he couldn't play with her. He shivered all over, rubbing his arms gently, then put both hands on the wheel as he turned toward the Crosstown Expressway.

In the parking lot across Water Street from Corpus Christi Police Headquarters, the only sounds were the ticking of a cooling engine, tucked away safely under a light, and the discordant screaming of gulls.
Chapter Two

(Sunday Afternoon--Owen)

**S** hadow quit struggling when they got past the boat. Owen set him back down on the dock, nearly tripping himself over somebody's bait bucket.

He braced on one knee and scratched Leon's dog behind the ears. Once they were past the worst of it, he figured seventy pounds of muscle and bone, split about equally between Black Lab and Great Dane, ought to be able to walk on its own.

But he didn't blame Shadow for balking earlier--Owen half-longed to plant himself on the concrete and whimper right alongside him. If he could just get a little more distance first.

The smell ought to have faded by now. He stood, inhaling a warm soup of Texas Gulf Coast humidity, diesel exhaust, and the almost-visible stink of rotting fish. Anything beyond that, this far from the boat, had to be a memory...stuck in his nose. He tried breathing through his mouth instead.

It didn't help. It just reminded him that his mouth still tasted vile, and his teeth felt fuzzy under his tongue.

But the marina was full of people going about their business as if they didn't notice a thing. Owen practiced forcing himself to breathe normally until he was fairly sure he wouldn't pass out, then twitched Shadow's leash. He led the dog down the dock, up the ramp and across the parking lot, unable to meet the eyes of anyone he passed. Shadow bumped into his legs all the way.

He hooked the leash over a post of the Coast Guard's "Kids Don't Float!" sign next to the payphone, for once barely registering either the newly familiar oddity of the recently installed payphone or the well-meaning slogan's enthusiastically goofy claim. Shadow sat on his feet.

Owen wiped at his face with his T-shirt, but the sweat kept dripping. The shirt was too stiff with dried saltwater to help much. He found the police non-emergency number and dialed. His knees shook and he pulled over a cheap plastic chair.

"CCPDmayIhelpyou?"

He almost smiled, and something in his chest opened. He forgot about sitting down. She sounded so _bored_. Efficient, too. She probably sat at a clean desk, in a cubicle in an air-conditioned building, living in a chill world where phone calls were dull. He wanted to kiss her. "This is Owen, uh, Tremaine. There's a--"

"Sirhowdoyouspell 'Tremaine'?"

"T-r-e-maine, like the state. Look, there's a dead body on my boat." He closed his eyes, wishing his memory of Leon's face would subside, and feeling guilty that he wanted it to. "No way it was an accident. Somebody killed him. I'm at--"

"Sir, what is your location?" She sounded more alert. But what did she think he'd been about to tell her? So much for efficiency.

Owen sensed bureaucratic machinery jerking into motion on the other end of the line, and sighed. The official wheels, once started, would grind in their own way, however disconnected they might become from any reality he could grasp. He reached down to pet Shadow, who licked his fingers gratefully. God, he wished he could get back into his kayak and paddle away from all this. Out in the Laguna Madre, he could go for days without talking to anybody.

But Leon deserved more than that. "Ma'am, please just be quiet for a minute and listen to me. I'm at the Corpus Christi City Marina, the new one, on Ocean Drive. Slip 35, on the first finger to the left as you walk out. The dead man is Leon Purvis. He has a--"

"Sir, I have to ask this. Do you feel you are in immediate danger?"

He hadn't even thought of that. Should he have? If this had happened to Leon, _somebody_ must have been responsible. Who? Why? Was whoever had done it still here? "Uh, maybe. I mean, I don't know, but I don't think so. I'm not on the boat, and from...from the condition of the body I don't think anything happened today."

"Sir, I'm dispatching a cruiser and an ambulance." She sounded doubtful. "They should be there shortly. Please stay on the line. Do you have a driver's license number or state ID?"

Machinery in motion. The conversation suddenly seemed hazy and meaningless, her now-skeptical voice nothing more than a bland echo. What was the point? He'd have to go through it all again when the cops showed up in person.

He should get himself together before they did. Besides, Shadow really needed to go for a little walk. No telling how long he'd been shut up in there. The poor guy was probably hungry and thirsty too.

So Leon's dog would trump bureaucratic gibberish, for now at least. "Ma'am, I think we're done. I'll be waiting out by my boat. It's the _Fusty Navel_ , slip 35."

"SirIneedto--"

Owen hung up, feeling a little better. Irritation and defiance had restored his strength. He led Shadow out of the parking lot and down the street, tempted as he went to just keep going and never look back. Who would it hurt?

But...no. The police would probably react badly if he wasn't there. Not that it would be much better if he stuck around.

Still, he wasn't staying on the boat tonight even if the police allowed it. Leon's little cabin cruiser wouldn't be available this time either. Maybe he could get a hotel room, if he could find a place that didn't mind dogs.

He thought of Shawna, but she'd moved into an efficiency apartment. He and Shadow wouldn't be able to breathe. And Shawna had a huge, spoiled, declawed Siamese. Owen didn't want to strain their relationship just when it had started to work again.

But he needed to call her anyway, to break their date for tonight. She'd understand, under the circumstances. At least he hoped she would.

Shadow took care of some urgent business on the sidewalk. Owen cleaned it up with a baggie he'd grabbed from a dispenser in the parking lot, then turned back toward the payphone.

He raised his eyebrows. A police car had already pulled into the lot. So the waiting was over before it had really begun. They must have been pretty close when they got the call--but then, their headquarters building was only a few blocks away.

Two uniformed officers got out and headed down the ramp to the dock. They looked like kids. Just out of high school, maybe. Though they had to be older than that, didn't they? Even from fifty yards away, they seemed awkward--out of their element, and a little scared.

Owen pulled Shadow into a jog. Calling Shawna could wait. He didn't want the police on his boat before he talked to them. He tossed the baggie in some bushes as he ran, promising himself he'd pick it up later.

At the bottom of the ramp Shadow started whining again. Owen knelt to fasten his leash to a post about thirty yards short of the _Fusty Navel_.

The officers stood next to the boat, looking around nervously. Owen decided to walk the rest of the way, rather than come up to them at a run. They had enough on their minds.

He waved to get their attention.

They started toward him. One of them, the larger, hung back about twenty feet. The other kept coming. His youthful eyeless gaze pinned Owen in place, his mirrored shades reflecting defeat and impotence. "You Tremaine?" the officer asked from ten feet away.

"Yeah. The guy in there is Leon Purvis. He's a friend of mine." Owen winced. Part of him apparently still thought it would all be okay, that if he did everything right somebody would somehow push an "undo death" button and reverse the last hour--but it had been longer than that for Leon, hadn't it. He supposed it came from spending too much time working with computers, solving problems in artificial jurisdictions where anything could be fixed. He tried again. " _Was_ a friend of mine."

The cop nodded. "You guys get in a little tussle? Been drinking maybe?" He stepped forward, arms up, ready for a fight. "Okay, what I need you to do now is turn around and put your hands on your head. Don't argue with me, just do it."

Owen stared, flatfooted. "Hey. Wait a second. I wasn't even around when it happened. I just got here half an hour ago. I called you guys."

"Don't argue!" the cop shouted. "Turn around and put your hands on your head!" His partner drew his gun and moved closer. Suddenly they were both yelling.

Shadow jumped up and barked loudly, startling the nearer cop, who backed three quick steps away from Owen and dropped his right hand to his gun. Shadow growled and jumped again, trying to get loose.

"Okay! Fine! I'm turning around!" Owen stumbled over his own feet, trying to watch both Shadow and the cops, and nearly fell. If Shadow backed up instead of pulling forward, the collar might slip right over his head.

Owen raised his hands. "Look," he said over his shoulder, trying to sound calm for the dog's sake, "I'm doing what you said. But I _called_ you, and then I _waited_ for you. Why the hell are you acting like this?" It was one thing to be a suspect; he'd expected that. But to have a gun pointed at him just for calling the police . . .?

"Stand still," the smaller cop said. He frisked Owen quickly, then cuffed his hands behind his back. "Ramirez!" he called. "Take this guy over there a few feet and stay with him. I'll check out the boat." He turned and gingerly stepped up onto the houseboat's aft deck, pulling himself aboard with a stanchion. "Jesus, it's gotta stink to hell in there, it's clogging up my throat from here."

Owen stood on the dock, left wrist pinched by the cuff. His legs shook, a little. What was he missing? Were these guys nuts? Or just young and dumb?

"Sit down over there," Ramirez said. "We aren't going anyplace for a while." He pulled a card out of his pocket and read the Miranda warning. "Do you understand these rights?" When Owen nodded, Ramirez put the card away and jerked a thumb toward the _Fusty Navel_. "Anything missing inside? Anything you want to tell me about before we find it in there?"

Owen was busy doing his best to sit down without falling over. Funny how much he missed his arms for balance. Normally he didn't notice using them.

He'd delayed his answer long enough to make Ramirez's face redden. He spoke up just as Ramirez's mouth opened again. "I didn't see anything missing. But I was only inside for a few seconds." He squirmed on the concrete, trying to get more comfortable. Why bother with these guys? They didn't seem to speak the same language. "As for the rest, you can just see it for yourselves. I already tried talking to you."

Come to think of it, they weren't detectives, and Owen was pretty sure they shouldn't be messing with the interior of the houseboat. "Let me know when somebody a little brighter shows up."

A passing woman with a young girl in tow held her close, keeping her well away from Owen as they went by. Ramirez wiped sweat from his forehead and watched them walk toward the ramp. "That your dog down there? He acts like it."

Shadow had stopped trying to get free, but stared intently at Ramirez, his teeth showing. He let out a low growl. The woman and child gave him an even wider berth.

Owen looked past Ramirez, watching a seagull dive into the water. He didn't answer. _Was_ Shadow his dog now? If not, whose?

Ramirez nodded. "Better hope he doesn't bite anybody."

He hadn't yet. Owen had never seen Shadow even growl at anyone before, except in play.

Ramirez kept talking. "So, has he had his shots? You got him licensed? I don't see any tags on him. There's a law, you know."

Never mind the dog--Owen's teeth ached to sink into Ramirez themselves. He looked up. "That's what's on your mind right now? Tags?"

Ramirez flushed. Maybe he'd been trying to build pressure, maybe threaten Owen with a fifty-dollar fine if he couldn't produce the tags? He really was just a kid. Though he couldn't be more than a few years younger than Owen, in spite of appearances.

If these guys did anything to Shadow, they'd pay for it. One of Owen's friends was a columnist for the _Caller-Times_. And he liked dogs.

Owen went back to watching the seagull.

"Jesus _fuck_!" the other cop yelled from inside Owen's boat. "He's got a damn _spear_ through his head!"

Ramirez backed up a step, then remembered to close his mouth. Owen gave him an awkward shrug and tried to make eye contact. "So now what?"

Ramirez shook his head slightly, but said nothing.

Yeah, Owen thought. They teach you about that in cop school last month?

God. Who had done this? And why? He was losing faith that the police would figure it out.

Owen leaned back on a post, trying to relax. Shadow was lying down. Good. They might be in for a long wait.
Chapter Three

(Sunday Evening--Owen)

**R** amirez and his partner had left Owen in an empty office at the boat broker's place across the street from the marina. To wait for a detective. Two hours ago.

He sat uncomfortably, hands still cuffed, on a wooden chair behind a scarred mahogany desk. From time to time he got up to pace to the door and back. He could hear nothing from outside. He didn't know where Shadow was.

At first he couldn't think past his anger, at the police and whoever had killed Leon. Then for a while he worried about Shadow, out there with the police. Then he wondered about Leon's parents. They were still around, up in San Antonio. Would they want Shadow? Though Leon had said his mother didn't allow dogs in the house, hadn't he?

Probably the police would tell them what had happened to Leon fairly soon, if they hadn't already. The police would have questions to ask, too. Would they do it over the phone, or go in person? San Antonio was only a few hours away. Owen felt bringing the news--and the dog?--should have been his responsibility, though he couldn't say why.

None of this seemed real to him yet. He'd just been out for the weekend, having a good time. He'd stopped for lunch and conversation when he'd seen the Hermit's boat, then paddled across the Bay, and...everything had gone to hell.

* * *

**O** wen collapsed forward over his paddle, gasping for breath as his kayak glided to a stop.

His arms ached, and as circulation returned to his numbed hands a grainy sort of stinging sensation vibrated between his left thumb and forefinger. Another blister. He should have stopped to do something about it before it got this bad--the gloves weren't helping much.

But hell, blisters didn't matter. He'd pushed himself pretty hard, maybe even set a personal record, crossing the Corpus Christi Bay. Wheezing and flailing at the water, good form left somewhere far behind, he'd thrashed his way into the City Marina and declared victory. The _Fusty Navel_ , home sweet home since he'd left his job last year, floated only forty or so yards away.

He laughed briefly, his lungs still heaving. A record, by God. If he'd actually timed it, and if anyone cared. He could tell Shawna about it later--he'd be doing the cooking tonight, so maybe she'd agree to feign awe at his prowess.

Or not. But that was okay. She'd probably smile, at least a little. He'd take what he could get.

After a few minutes, his breathing almost under control, Owen glanced up--and took a few quick strokes to get out of the way of a fast-approaching tourist in an aluminum outboard. It looked like one of the boats John Sumner notoriously left clustered at the loading dock, apparently so he could rent them to idiots in paisley Speedos.

Owen rode out the overpowered little boat's wake, shook his head and began paddling slowly homeward. He'd been away for two days this time, and even with the hazards to navigation it was good to be back.

Up in the parking lot, somebody's child screamed his defiance of the natural order and repeatedly slammed a car door. Owen usually enjoyed noisy kids, and only partly because they weren't his problem. But his grin died half-formed, and he nearly missed the water with his paddle, as his eyes leapt to an empty space next to the fresh-shrimp stand.

Owen lowered the paddle to his lap, still staring into the parking lot. For several minutes no boats moved in or out of the marina. The kayak drifted through an oily flatness.

His Jeep Cherokee was missing.

All at once he couldn't seem to move, couldn't focus his mind even to paddle the last few yards to his boat. He felt inadequate, struck by an absurd conviction that he should be able to immediately understand, and maybe fix, what had happened.

But...who would have _bothered_ to take the Jeep? With all the other cars sitting in the lot, grabbing Owen's twenty-year-old ride didn't make a lot of sense. It almost had to be kids, or maybe something personal.

Whom had he pissed off lately? And was the houseboat okay?

Or...Owen's chest loosened as he realized there was a more likely explanation...maybe Leon had needed to borrow the Jeep? He knew where the keys were. He'd promised to rewire Owen's instrument panel this weekend, and all he'd wanted in return was a 12-pack of Shiner Bock. Which he would probably split with Owen anyway, because Leon didn't like to drink alone. So if he _had_ taken the Jeep, he'd more than earned the privilege.

And for some reason Leon couldn't keep his little diesel-powered VW Jetta running smoothly, even though he was a miracle worker with marine engines. He'd kept Owen from falling for a shady mechanic's claim that the _Fusty Navel_ 's port-side Westerbeke needed replacing, and then hadn't charged much to fix the old one, so Owen didn't begrudge him the occasional loaner.

On the other hand, up till now Leon had always asked for permission in advance.

Leon usually left notes about the work he was doing inside, on Owen's refrigerator. Owen closed his eyes, told himself to relax. There would probably be a note. Or maybe Leon would only be gone for a few minutes.

He leaned out and dug in with his paddle, aiming for home. He'd deal with Leon and the Jeep later, if it turned out he had to. Right now he was going to enjoy the end of his trip.

Owen reached his boat and climbed aboard, smiling partly in self-mockery but mostly in a genuine and pleasant fog of anticipation. He hungered for some quiet, laughing time with Shawna in a few hours.

Once he'd stowed the kayak on deck and finished off the sole remaining bottle of beer from the cooler he'd carried behind him, he stretched out his aching legs and checked his watch. Thanks to his personal record crossing the Bay, he had plenty of time before Shawna showed up for their date at nine. He had filleted fish to split between the freezer and the frying pan, salty gear to rinse with freshwater, and probably some mail waiting for him at the marina office.

But his first priority, aside from checking for a note from Leon, was clear: he needed a shower. Two days of dribbled sweat were backing up his pores, and the disconcerting full-body prickle-chafe of dried seawater was calling attention to anatomical regions he preferred not to contemplate.

Besides. Coming back to the _Fusty Navel_ also meant returning to the everyday world, with all its standards and expectations. His fragrant blend of old and new sweat, fish slime, and spilled beer would definitely not please Shawna when she arrived. He left everything where it sat and fumbled with the combination lock on the starboard door.

A faint but subtly out-of-place scent drifted beneath his own stench, permeating the back of his mind and settling in dark recesses. Its passage was setting off alarms, but they were muffled by the comforting insulation of exercise and alcohol.

When he finally opened the door (or hatch, as Leon kept wanting him to call it) and entered his living room, a concentrated miasma seemed to gather itself and rise up like a wall in his path.

He clapped a hand over his mouth, his eyes watering. His first thought as he turned away and stumbled back outside was that he would have to stop calling it a living room.

Leon had always insisted it was the main salon--and what was left of Leon waited inside. In a very real sense, he would never leave again.

Owen's second thought was lost over the rail, along with the beer and sandwiches he'd had for lunch.

* * *

**O** wen shook his head. None of it made any _sense_. But after all this time in the empty office, with nothing new happening, the sheer absurdity of the situation had risen to the fore. Given the number of people who'd gathered to watch all the excitement, what would being led away in cuffs do to his status on the docks? Would he be asked to leave the marina? Would people walk more quietly past his boat when they returned, drunk, at two in the morning? At the very least, the story ought to be worth a few beers down at Snoopy's. If he wasn't in jail.

By the time the office door opened, his thoughts were careening from Leon to Shadow to his missing Jeep to wondering what life in prison would be like and back to what had been left of Leon's face. He heard himself giggle just as a heavyset dark-haired man in a gray suit let himself in. Jesus, he had to get a grip. Hysteria wasn't going to help.

"Mr. Tremaine?" the man asked, looking at Owen oddly. "I'm Phil Gordon, a detective with the CCPD." He pointed at the badge clipped to his belt. "I'm sorry about the cuffs. It's a nuthouse out there, and I was on another call."

"Sorry?" Owen tried to sit up straighter. "Does that mean you're going to take them off?"

"Should I?" Gordon asked.

"Depends. Where's the dog?"

"Outside. He's fine. Looked like somebody gave him a hamburger. I hope that's not a problem."

Owen nodded. "Okay. I got over being mad at you guys a while ago. Now I'm just tired. But I did nothing wrong, except maybe for a phone call to you people that didn't work out so well. I might get irritated again if somebody tries something like shutting me up in a room for two hours." He paused. "You know what really _is_ a problem? I need to go to the bathroom. Do you want to help me, or uncuff me, or should I just piss here on the chair?"

Gordon looked at him, appearing to come to a decision. "Tell you what. I'll get the cuffs off, then you can go to the bathroom across the hall, maybe step out to check on the dog if you want. Then you can come back and tell me what happened. Notice I'm not saying you can tell me your _story_ ," he said, making quoting motions in the air with his index fingers. "I'm saying you can tell me what happened. And we'll go from there. Deal?"

Owen grinned at him. Gordon felt solid. More than the kids who'd put him in here, anyway. But getting people to trust him was part of Gordon's job, wasn't it? "Maybe." He stood up and turned around, offering his wrists. "But maybe not. Do I need a lawyer for this?"

Gordon puffed out a laugh as he bent behind Owen. "What for? You weren't even there when it happened, right?"

"Yeah." Was he about to make a big mistake? The kind you couldn't recover from? "Right. One thing, though--I had a date for tonight. She was supposed to show up at my boat around nine o'clock. It's getting close to nine now. Could you tell the folks around the boat to watch out for her and tell her I'm okay? She's about five-four, blonde, brown eyes, name's Shawna McPhee. Can you do that?"

"Sure," Gordon answered, still busy behind Owen's back. "I'll let 'em know outside." He straightened up. "Done. See you in a few minutes."

When Owen came back into the room, Gordon waved for him to take the big wooden chair again. Interesting. "You want me to be comfortable, right? Maybe I'll get overconfident and say something dumb?"

Gordon shrugged. He sat in a visitor's chair in front of the desk. "Hell, if it works I'm a genius. Also I'm not the one who just spent a couple of hours in cuffs. And I'm between you and the door. Besides, I never did like chairs that swivel around. I like a chair to stay put when I sit in it." He gave Owen a jaundiced look. "Good enough?"

"Sure."

"Great. So I'm gonna put this recorder right here on the desk. You want to say something you don't want recorded, just point and I'll shut it off. Otherwise it's on." Gordon hit a button and leaned back in his chair, pulling out a notepad and pen. "Oh yeah, almost forgot." He read Owen his rights and established their identities on the tape. "So what happened?"

"I got home--I live on the boat--and found Leon. He was dead. I called the police. I got guns pointed at me. Looked like they might be about to shoot the dog, too, if he got loose. There was a lot of yelling. I got put in cuffs. Been waiting in here ever since." Owen thought for a second. "That's it." Assholes.

Gordon nodded, then leaned forward. "Mind if I smoke?" he asked.

"No, go ahead." Worse things had happened today.

Gordon shook out a cigarette and lit it, smiling faintly. He met Owen's eyes. "Okay. Here's the deal. Whatever happened to your buddy Leon probably went down yesterday sometime." He took a drag on the cigarette, tilted his head back, and blew smoke at the ceiling. His eyes returned to Owen's. "You say you weren't here until this afternoon. That's fine, so you weren't here. But you had to be someplace. If you'll tell me where it was I can go check it out and write my report. Then I can start looking at other things, maybe figure out what happened. The way I understand it, this guy was your friend. And it happened in your house. Where you live. That's gotta bother you some. So tell me where you were, what you were doing, who saw you. Okay? I'll just sit here and save my questions till you're done."

Gordon balanced his cigarette on the corner of the desk. Ash fell to the cheap yellow carpet. He glanced at it and shrugged, seeming a little embarrassed. "Carpet's ugly anyway." He focused on Owen. "This would be a good time to start talking."

Owen took a deep breath, held it for the ten seconds Shawna liked to count aloud for him when she was around, and let it out. Yeah. Gordon was right. If Owen could help, he needed to do it.

"Okay. I was out in my kayak the last two days. The first day I drifted around, not really fishing much, just trying to remember how to look at stuff around me instead of the inside of my own head. Between all the people, in those empty places, there's a whole world out there, you know?" He shook himself. "But that's not what you want to hear. I saw a few people, and watched some boats go by, but I didn't talk to anybody. Or recognize anybody either.

"I stayed overnight on Mustang Island, in one of the inlets. Nobody was around. I guess I could take you and show you where it was." Owen blinked. He had something better than that, didn't he? "Or I could give you the GPS coordinates, because a friend gave me one and I was playing with it. I mean, I don't carry a phone, so it was sort of..." Owen forcibly twisted his mind around: Gordon wasn't going to be interested in his personal philosophy. "Anyway. Actually I have my whole route stored on the GPS. Not a human witness, but it's better than nothing."

Gordon leaned forward as if he wanted to ask a question, but then settled back in his chair and waved for Owen to continue.

What had that been about? "Anyway," Owen went on, "there wouldn't be much to see out there, because I did my cooking on an alcohol stove and I pack out my trash on these trips. On the second day, this morning, maybe ten o'clock, I ran across a friend's houseboat and stopped in to say hello. He fed me lunch and we got to fishing and talking. We had a few beers in there too. I started back around four o'clock so I'd have time to get here and clean up, because I had a date tonight. Did Shawna show up, by the way?"

Gordon shook his head. "Not yet. They'll tell us when she does. Go on."

"There isn't much more. I got back here around six o'clock. When I went in to take a shower I saw . . ." he swallowed bile. Not again, not here, not now. "I saw Leon in the salon, with a spear going in his mouth and out the back of his head. There was blood everywhere." He felt lightheaded. "I ran out and puked over the rail. Felt like I might pass out for a while there. Then I called you guys, and waited."

Gordon nodded. "You didn't call 911?"

"No. I remembered something about a city ordinance against frivolous calls. I wasn't thinking too well, I guess. But I figured it wasn't an emergency, because there was no way anybody could help Leon. Does it matter?"

"Nope. Only difference is the call didn't get recorded. Sometimes people dial the regular line so we can't prove they're the ones who called. But it doesn't apply here, I just wondered. So how do you know Leon?"

"We went to high school together." It seemed to have been a lot more than ten years ago. And there wouldn't be any more memories of him, would there? Never mind that for now; Gordon needed answers. "We weren't all that close back then, and I hadn't seen him for years, but there's still a connection with people like that. I moved out to the new marina when they built it last year and decided to allow liveaboards again. Leon lived here too, so we'd get together sometimes for a beer. He taught me a lot about boats, and I'd hire him to work for me sometimes. Other people did too. I don't know if he ever had a regular job, but he did okay."

"What kind of work do you do?" Gordon asked.

"Private investigator." Owen felt his face warming, and hoped Gordon wouldn't notice. "I've done a lot of things, but I don't want to do them anymore. I was an MP in the army so I could get the license without too much trouble. But I'm just starting, really."

"PI, huh? What kind of clients you got?"

"Just a couple. A lady hired me to find her husband. It wasn't hard. He'd run off to Dallas with another woman, I think the wife was the only one who didn't know. And I'm waiting for a contract to show up in the mail. If it goes through I'll be working for Wave & Surf, to figure out how they're losing inventory. Stuff like that. Nothing exciting so far." And within six months to a year, in spite of his savings, Owen would have to either find more clients or get what almost everybody he knew insisted on calling a real job. Unless he won the lottery. But Gordon didn't need to hear about that.

Gordon was already unimpressed. "Anybody out there doesn't like you? Or Leon?"

"Not that I know of. I mean, a few people probably wouldn't mind if something happened to me, but no real enemies." Owen hesitated, then shrugged. "I don't think Leon made enough of an impression on anyone to have an enemy. No money, either, as far as I know."

"Okay," Gordon said. "Now I'll tell you what this looks like. You say you weren't here, but you got no alibi. That GPS thing is cute, and I'll look at it, but even if it checks out there's no way to know for sure when you traveled that route, or if it was even you who did it, so it doesn't do me much good. When did your friend give it to you?"

"Couple of months ago."

"See? That's no good. If it was a couple of _days_ ago, and your friend swore the route wasn't on the GPS when he gave it to you, it'd at least prove you went to some trouble. This way it means nothing. Hell, if we check into it and find something funky it might help convict you, but it won't do much _for_ you, because you could fake it too easy."

Gordon paused, gave Owen a bland look. "Relax, Tremaine. I believe you. Maybe even because nobody would make up such a lame alibi. So let's move on. You were with a friend earlier, but you haven't given me his name. I'll need that to check with him, but it won't help you much either, because from the smell and the condition of the body Leon got himself killed yesterday at least. Maybe before. We'll get that nailed down later." He grimaced. "Personally I hafta say I wish you'd left the air conditioner on." He eyed Owen for a moment.

Owen focused on breathing, doing his best not to react. If this didn't end soon he might pass out after all.

"On the plus side," Gordon went on, "you were seen paddling up to your boat and you definitely puked over the side. But you might have done that even if you knew what you were gonna find. And whoever killed Leon had to be pretty strong. That spear went right through him. You're a big guy. Know anything about the spear?"

"It's mine. It usually hangs on the wall." Owen shrugged. "I like to go gigging in the Bay sometimes. You know, walk around with a flashlight after dark, looking for flounder?" It wasn't all that different from this interview. The Bay sat quiet and still, just like this office. You never changed direction quickly when you were wading. There might be a stingray right behind your heels, hoping to eat whatever you stirred up. You didn't want to step on it accidentally, because its stinger would go right through your foot. Or leg. You had to be sure to move in an arc, so the rays would quietly follow you around. There was no way to know when they'd punish a misstep. Gordon, with his alert eyes and conversational twists, was starting to remind Owen of the rays. He resolved to walk slowly and carefully.

"Yeah, I done that before," Gordon said. "Not with that kind of spear, though. The one I used had little prongs on it, to hold the fish. How come yours doesn't?"

Owen shrugged. His hands were sweating. He wiped them on his shorts. The shorts, stiff with saltwater and stinking of dead fish, felt like sandpaper. "It was at a garage sale and I liked it."

"So anybody at all could have grabbed it off the wall?"

"Yes."

"Supposing they were in your houseboat, anyway."

Owen looked at him. "Well, somebody _was_."

"Sure. Who was your friend today, the one you were drinking with?"

"Um. It was just a couple of beers on a Sunday afternoon. And...I can't tell you who it was."

"How come?" Gordon asked. He looked disillusioned. Owen thought it was a pretty good act.

But he couldn't bring the Hermit into this. Not without a better reason than Gordon's curiosity. "Because he doesn't like cops. Because I've known him since I was twelve years old, and if I send the police out to find him he might hold it against me. And also because--as you pointed out--I went there _today_. Nothing happened to Leon today. So if I get charged with a crime I'll talk to my lawyer, and maybe I'll tell you who it was and maybe I won't. But right now you don't need to know."

Even with Gordon glaring at him, Owen couldn't think of the Hermit and his posturing without smiling a little. He suspected the local fishermen thought finding the old man in the _Nameless_ , his ancient and cluttered houseboat, to be an omen of good luck to come. And the gifts they left--usually a few beers or some of their catch--had always struck him as being less than charitable, an oddly fearful sort of propitiation.

But Owen figured he, at least, was all grown up now and knew better than to believe any fairy tales casting the Hermit as a peculiar spirit of the Laguna Madre. Still--the Hermit was family, in a way, even if he _had_ sent Owen off in a storm of insults a few hours ago.

Gordon pointed at the recorder. "Anything else you want to tell me?"

Owen shrugged.

"How about the dog? You take him with you on the kayak? Or was he with your friend Leon? Think he'd make a good witness?"

Damnit. "I guess you know I got him off Leon's boat. But what was I supposed to do? I knocked on Leon's hull to see if anybody was around--maybe I thought somebody might be there looking for him, I don't know, I was pretty messed up--and Shadow went nuts. So I got him out. Then I called you guys."

Gordon nodded. "Yeah, somebody saw you. I'd have to ask a lawyer to find out if what you did was legal. My guess is it wasn't. And it sure doesn't help me do my job when people mess with a crime scene." He shrugged. "But if it was my buddy's dog I'd probably get him out too. I just wondered if you'd lie about it. Did you touch anything in either boat?"

"Just the outside of the hatch on Leon's. I would have gone in to get Shadow's leash, but it was already clipped to his collar."

Gordon looked interested. "Yeah? Would Leon have been likely to leave him that way?"

"I doubt it. Maybe for a few minutes. It would depend on what he was doing."

Gordon made a note. "Okay, so we'll check that. Maybe somebody else was seen with the dog. Maybe Leon didn't put him in there. How about your boat? Touch anything?"

"Uh...you know about the kayak and camping stuff, I guess. I don't really know what I touched when I was on deck. After that--well, I usually grab a rail when I climb inside. I might have touched the wall or a counter as I left. I wasn't thinking very clearly just then."

Gordon turned off the recorder. "Okay. I think we're done here."

Owen blinked at him. The rhythm of the questioning had nearly hypnotized him, and this sudden awakening was almost unwelcome. "So I can go?"

"Sure, you can go. Let me know where you're staying and how to reach you, though. I might have more questions."

"All right." It sounded reasonable. Probably. Owen was still reeling. "I can do that. After I figure it out for myself."

"I'll get some clothes off your boat for you. It's gonna be locked up tight for a while." He handed Owen a card. "You can reach me any time on the cell."

Gordon stood up, still watching Owen. Owen shrugged and walked around the desk. Gordon's finger jabbed the recorder just as Owen reached for the door. "One more thing. What's your connection to Viktor Bentley?"

"Viktor Bentley? I don't...oh, Junior Bentley? Or his father, I guess. I never think of him as Viktor, but I guess I remember it now." Owen walked back behind the desk and sat down. Here it came. The stinger.

Gordon checked his notebook. "Junior." He sat back down too, planting himself as if he wasn't planning to get up any time soon.

Too much history there. Gordon didn't need all of it, especially if he was going to play games. "I used to work for him, at CyberLook. It's a software company. But I quit a year ago."

"Why?"

"Um, a personality conflict, maybe. Why? How'd you know there was a connection?"

"Did you talk to this Junior Bentley recently?"

"Yeah. He wanted to hire me a month ago. Not back to my old job, exactly. He just wanted me to poke around."

"Poke around what?"

"I don't know. Something funny going on, he said. I told him I was busy. Right after I quit, my girlfriend left me for Junior. I used to like him okay, but I didn't want to work for him again." Jesus, where was this going?

Gordon tapped his notebook. "Junior Bentley disappeared last night. A neighbor checked on things when she saw the front door standing open. From the blood on the floor, we figure he's probably dead. And your girlfriend, the one you're waiting for, that's this same Shawna McPhee who used to date him, right?"

Owen nodded, unable to speak.

"Yeah, that's her. We think maybe she did it. But I dunno how she could have done this thing to your buddy Leon, that took real strength, so maybe it's not connected. Or maybe she's got somebody working with her. Or she got dragged off by whoever got Bentley. Anyway, she's gone too. So if you see her, you call me. Okay?"

Owen swallowed. "Shawna's...missing?"

"Yeah." Gordon leaned closer. "Pay attention, Tremaine, stay with me here. Right now this doesn't look so good. There's something between you and this McPhee woman and this guy Junior Bentley. Maybe some jealousy there, I don't know. And Leon Purvis gets it in the face with a spear, on your boat, probably the same night somebody left blood all over Bentley's place. His blood type, not your girlfriend's, by the way. And you know what tops it all off?"

Owen didn't really want to know. "What?"

"Your damned résumé. The file was open on Bentley's computer. Right there, front and center." Gordon slowly stubbed out his cigarette on the side of the desk. He never looked away from Owen's face. "We looked for you late last night and again this morning, but we didn't have a warrant to get into your boat. You say you have no idea what Bentley wanted to hire you for, a month ago."

"Just something at CyberLook, that's all I know. He figured we could make it look to everybody there like I was coming back to my old job, or maybe consulting. Said there was some funny stuff going on. But I turned him down before we got into the details." Owen stopped himself. Was he babbling?

Gordon nodded. "There were files on his computer we couldn't read. Encrypted, they tell me. You know anything about that? Or where he might keep a password?"

"Sorry, but we weren't exactly close."

Gordon leaned back in his chair. He gave Owen a speculative look. "You really go out fishing from that kayak? I mean, as a regular thing?"

"Yeah. It gets me away from people." Just not far enough, sometimes. Where the hell was Shawna?

Gordon snorted. "Could do that in the big boat too. And you wouldn't have to paddle."

"Sure. There's just something about moving under my own power, and camping on the beach. Sometimes you see the damnedest things out there too."

"Yeah? Like what?"

So Gordon wanted a story now. "You know how if you catch a fish, and slap it on the water, the porpoises will come sometimes and eat it?"

"No." Gordon looked skeptical. "I can't say I've ever seen that."

"Well, in a kayak you're close to the water, so it's easy. I guess it'd be a pain from a bigger boat. Anyway, this happened early on Saturday afternoon. I'd seen a porpoise jumping within the last few minutes or so, and I'd just caught a redfish too small to keep. It was pretty torn up by the time I got the hooks out, so I figured I'd give it away if I could. So there I was, slapping the fish on the water, not really expecting anything because usually nothing happens, and this big damn hammerhead shark came up from underneath the kayak and grabbed the fish."

Owen shivered, suddenly feeling cold. His father had told him that happened when somebody stepped on your grave. He guessed he was still a little spooked. "I thought it would get my hand. I dropped the fish and jerked back, and the hammerhead took it, and I just sat there for fifteen minutes, too scared to move. The thing must have been about eight feet long, and I'd had no idea it was anywhere near me. I guess they're always around, but you don't think about 'em much, and it shook me. Anyway, I'm not saying I want to repeat that particular experience, but things happen out there. I want to see them."

"Huh." Gordon turned the recorder off again. "Hell of a story." He regarded Owen for a moment.

Owen looked back at him. There had been something unnatural about that shark's grab for his hand. He'd had a sense of...malevolence. He was certain it had only taken the fish because he'd moved his hand in time. And he'd never heard of a hammerhead doing that before. Could a shark be rabid, or did they get some similar disease? He didn't understand what had happened--but he also didn't care whether Gordon believed him. Gordon had asked; Owen had answered.

"I'm going to let you go," Gordon said finally. He took in Owen's appearance and almost smiled. "Your boat's a crime scene, so I hafta ask you not to go back to it without checking with me first. Same for Leon's. I'll bring those clothes to you here." He drummed his fingers on the desk. "We probably have enough to hold you on. But the thing is, personally I believe you. And I don't think holding innocent people is a good policy. Still. You're mixed up in something pretty nasty, even if you don't know what it is. So don't forget--stay in touch, I might need to talk to you. And be careful. Very careful. Okay?"

"Sure." Owen was startled by the sudden reprieve. He'd been half-expecting Gordon to arrest him. "Uh...the dog?"

"You want him? I figure you went to some trouble for him already. So I can't tell you it's okay to take him with you, but I ain't watching that closely either. Your buddy's parents will probably show up eventually. Work it out with them."

Gordon left.

Owen followed him outside, hoping nobody would notice his wobbly knees. In spite of everything that had happened, the night air seemed sweeter than usual, more potent somehow.

He walked Shadow for over an hour, hoping they'd both be able to sleep if they could manage total exhaustion. It wasn't until he picked up his bundle of clothes to get into a cab that he remembered he hadn't told Gordon about the missing Jeep.
Chapter Four

(Sometime--The People)

**T** he People were restless. They were always restless, according to their larger, slower-moving Cousins. But this time they had a difficult choice to make, and had no time to wait for the wisdom of the Cousins.

The schooling Cold Ones were swirling, shifting for position. They were even more bad-tempered than usual, biting at each other, coming closer together.

The People's memory didn't go back as far as the Cousins', but even they knew that when the Cold Ones gathered close in their dominance games it might mean they were about to lash out. All at once. Even the People kept their distance from that sort of threat.

Some of them had found a way to approach the Great Cold One and ask him to intervene, but of course he would not. He never had before, and he probably never would. Even so, some of the People liked playing with him, because he was irritable but had never actually harmed them. So they asked, even though he was not the sort of Cold One that swam in a school. It passed the time, and it was fun.

The People lived in tidal waters, and the Cousins swam out in the Deep. Still, the Cousins sang of greater tides, or Tides, that came and went in spans of time vaster than any the People could comprehend. The People listened to the Cousins, though at times they did not understand what they heard, because it made a good game.

Lately the Cousins had begun Singing that the time had come to repair what had been broken, that the People Above and the People Below would come together again.

The People hadn't ventured Above into the dry world beyond for so long that they had almost forgotten they could. Many of the People had died Above their shimmering Sky, and the few who had survived had lost the Songs that made it possible to cross. Just recently, though, some of the younger ones among the People had begun to remember their ancient Songs...with the help of the Cousins.

But some of the Cold Ones were Above as well, which none of the People remembered having happened before, though they barely remembered going Above at all, so just maybe it was not a new thing after all. Still, if the People were killed and driven back Below before, possibly without Cold Ones about, what would happen now?

One of the People was already involved in Cold One business, and the rest were afraid. The People shivered in their fear, enjoying the thrill it gave them, and Sang for the Cousins even though they knew events Above would probably unfold before the Cousins could respond.

And they played, of course, defining themselves in their timeless way.

They did that.
Chapter Five

(Monday Morning--Owen)

**O** wen woke, tangled in his sheets. The window air-conditioning unit had finally kicked in sometime during the early morning. The sheets, damp from his sweat, were now also cold.

He rarely slept well in a strange bed, but this had been worse than usual. He'd woken repeatedly from a nightmare that had seemed to return every time he closed his eyes.

He walked on the beach and saw Leon's body washing out to sea, with gulls swooping and crying out overhead. He dove in to pull the corpse back to shore and found Shawna under the surface, her lower body replaced by a scaly green mermaid's tail, trailing seaweed, tugging on the spear that was still, horribly, poking through Leon's head. Leon's eyes rolled in Owen's direction, and their lack of expression showed, illogically but absolutely, Leon's full awareness of what was happening to him. Shawna towed Leon farther out into the Gulf, and Owen could do nothing to stop it.

Owen surfaced and yelled for help, but the beach was deserted. Except sometimes the Hermit was there, leaning on his own spear, much larger than the one stuck through Leon; the dream named it a harpoon.

The Hermit thundered out advice, exhorting Owen to straighten out his life. "Commit yourself to something! _Be_ something! You must make a _choice_ , boy!" The old man had a seagull on each shoulder, and behind him Owen caught occasional glimpses of a black dog, probably Shadow, digging up old bones in the dunes. The bones were dry and brittle, but Owen knew if they ever reached the water they might begin to move on their own.

He hadn't managed to shake the dream and get any real sleep until well past three o'clock. It wasn't until sometime around nine that he pried his eyes open and looked blearily around the hotel room.

He peeled the sheets off his body and staggered around a small dining table to the window, stepping over Shadow's sleeping body on the way. The dog's front legs twitched.

He didn't want to think about the bit with Shawna and Leon's body. It was just a nightmare, and he figured he was entitled to one under the circumstances. And as for the Hermit, he'd had enough of that sermon yesterday.

Coastal Bend mornings in September, or any other month, were frequently gray and wet. This one had turned out to be sunny. When Owen put his hand to the window, warmth sank into his fingers. He turned off the air conditioner, which had lowered the temperature in the room to that of a meat locker once it got going, and resolved to get a different room if he ended up staying in the hotel.

He shook himself. Might as well get moving. He dialed Detective Gordon's number to let him know about the missing Jeep, but hung up before the first ring.

Maybe it was time to stop reacting and start thinking.

Gordon had felt like a good guy, even if somewhat tricky--but Shawna's welfare wasn't going to be his first priority. And Owen had a feeling the Jeep was important. So far, if he was going to help Shawna, the Jeep was the only card he had to play. He ought to look at it a bit more carefully before giving it away.

He padded into the bathroom and took a shower. He'd cleaned up the night before, immediately after getting into the room, but had bathed since in clammy sweat. Even when he got out, he didn't feel quite clean.

Clothed, and as alert as he figured he could get, he picked up the phone and dialed a different number.

It was picked up right away. " _Corpus Christi Caller-Times_ , Carl LaMott speaking."

"Hey, Carl. Had breakfast yet?" God, he was hungry. He'd forgotten to eat last night.

"Holy shit, you're alive and free. Yeah, I had doughnuts two hours ago. Where the hell are you?"

"Off the record? The Wave Inn on South Padre Island Drive. Though I'm thinking I might like to wave goodbye to it."

"Yeah, yeah, off the record, whatever. For now. You're a computer guy, you don't even know what that means. Jesus, man, what's been going on? I hear somebody got killed out at your boat, Shawna's gone, your ex-boss is gone, and now you're calling me from a hotel and saying shit like 'off the record.'"

"Want to watch me eat breakfast?"

"Hell yeah, I'll even buy. How about the Cracker Barrel over near you on SPID?"

"Works for me." Owen thought about it. The restaurant and the hotel were both on South Padre Island Drive, but it would still be a long walk. "Can you pick me up? I'm having a little transportation problem this morning."

"Jeep's not running? Why not, everything else around you is screwed up. You ought to buy a real car anyway. Maybe even one with working air conditioning."

"Carl . . ."

"Not my fault you're so damned cheap. Okay, okay, be there in twenty. Meet you outside." He hung up.

It was closer to thirty minutes before Carl showed up. He held his iPhone against an ear, carelessly listening, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Owen grinned and put Shadow in the back seat. He got in the front and watched Carl drive, wondering who could silence him so effectively.

"My editor," Carl explained when he eventually got off the phone. He pulled into the Cracker Barrel parking lot. "He has these great ideas every once in a while, and he has to tell me about 'em. If I'd argued, it would have taken longer." He shrugged. "Sorry."

They left Shadow in the car with the windows cracked. Owen ordered pecan pancakes and sweet tea. Carl, insisting he was on a doughnuts-only diet, sneered at the menu and ordered coffee.

Carl spoke first when the waitress left. "Okay, Owen. What's going on? And what's with the dog?"

"What do you know?"

"Not a lot. I've got calls in to a couple of people. If they get back to me I'll let you know what I find out. Junior's missing, presumed dead. Shawna's missing, status unknown."

Owen held up a hand, swallowed. "How do the cops figure she was at Junior's? She didn't even have a car last weekend, it's in the shop getting a new transmission."

"Appointment calendar, plus a neighbor saw somebody matching her description. And prints. All over the place, apparently...but also on a fireplace poker. It's got Junior's blood and hair on it, too. Or at least they think it's Junior's. Don't tell anybody you know about that, because I'm not supposed to know either."

"How'd they ID her prints? I don't think she's ever been arrested."

Carl looked up from shredding the napkin that had been wrapped around his silverware. "Beats me, man. Maybe they went by her place, or stopped by wherever she works. I don't think it'd be too hard. Or maybe she's got a record you don't know about."

"Carl, you have to know Shawna would never . . ."

Carl shook his head. "Look, I only met her a couple of times. And I don't know what the circumstances were, over there."

Owen tried to speak, but Carl rode over him. "Neither do you. Maybe Junior threatened her. Maybe he even hit her. Or maybe someone else staged the whole thing. But forget that for now. Who got killed on your boat, Owen? I couldn't get any info on that. I thought it was you until you called me this morning."

"Leon Purvis," Owen said. "He was a friend. Shadow--the dog--is his. Or was. I think you met Leon once, a couple of months ago out at the boat. We were having a fish fry."

Carl shrugged, looking down at the napkin again. "I might have. I don't always remember things like that, especially if there's beer involved, and there would have been for a fish fry at your place. Hell of a trait for a reporter, but there it is. Lucky I've got a column now, so I can write about my feelings instead of facts."

"You know, Carl, that'd be a lot more convincing if I didn't know you drink maybe once every six months or so. And I think three beers is about your limit."

Carl laughed. "Okay, okay. But I really don't remember him. Uh...anyway, maybe I shouldn't be playing around. I'm sorry about your friend, and I'm sorry I don't know more about what happened, but...right now I'm just glad it wasn't you."

"Me too." Owen met Carl's eyes for a moment. But Leon hadn't deserved it either.

"So why are you out on the loose? You have a good alibi or something?"

"Not really, no. I was out in my kayak most of the weekend. I guess I have an alibi for yesterday afternoon if I need it, but I'll have to check with the Hermit before I mention it. On the record, anyway."

"You didn't tell the cops you were with him? Jesus, Owen."

"I told you, it was only yesterday afternoon. And you've met him. How do you think he'd react to cops showing up? And what about after he found out I'd sent them?"

Carl shook his head. "Maybe somebody ought to show up. I mean, it looks like the guy's barely getting by out there. And he's not getting any younger. Could be he'd be better off if he got locked up."

Owen laughed, wincing at the thought. "I think he's getting by okay," he told Carl. The Hermit could probably buy the mortgage on that new house Carl was so proud of out of his profits from this year alone. The Hermit had a doctorate in English Literature from Yale, had once taught at the University of Texas, and had been a professional bridge player in what he called his misspent youth. He still made a substantial income from rental properties he'd bought with his card-playing profits. He just lived out on the water because he was, in his own words, a geriatric delinquent.

"He's a wing nut," Carl said with an air of finality. "And so are you, if you don't see it."

"Yeah. But if he gets mad at me, and he knows you _through_ me, he probably won't tell you where the fish are biting anymore."

Carl laughed, then pointed his fork at Owen. "Whatever, man. If they fry you I'll write it up real nice for the paper. Anyway, what's with the Jeep? You need a ride someplace?"

"The Jeep? I figure whoever killed Leon has it, or Shawna has it. Don't know which yet." If that wasn't just two ways of saying the same thing...but it couldn't be. Nobody who really knew her could think so.

"What do the police think?"

Good question. "Far as I know, they don't think anything. I forgot to tell them about it last night."

Carl groaned and grabbed the top of his head. "You _are_ going to tell them, right?"

Owen looked at him, then away. "I don't know. I need to see if my keys are still in my boat. If they are, maybe Shawna's using the Jeep. It would have to be some sort of emergency before she borrowed it, because she hates driving a stick shift, but she has her own keys. If she has the Jeep I don't necessarily want to send the cops after her."

"Jesus Christ, Owen. What if whoever killed Leon and Junior has Shawna _in_ the Jeep?"

Owen shook his head. "You mean, what if he just happened to kidnap or kill Junior and Shawna, then go to my place and kill Leon, and steal my Jeep? What was he, on foot before that? Or what if he walked to my boat, killed Leon, stole my Jeep, and then drove across town to grab Shawna and Junior, and Shawna had taken a cab or something to get there? The whole thing is nuts either way. I think Shawna borrowed the Jeep to go to Junior's, and if anybody's using it it's probably her."

"Owen. That makes her sound pretty fuckin' guilty. I mean, if Junior and Leon are both dead, and Shawna was in both places...I don't believe in coincidences."

"Neither do I. And yeah, it looks bad. But I'm not going to help the police catch her just yet."

"What are you gonna do, find her yourself?" He looked at Owen more closely. "Holy shit. You are, aren't you?"

"Off the record, Carl."

"Jesus." Carl shook his head. "I'm not sure any of this makes sense. But it's your show. So okay, how 'bout if you drop me off and borrow my car for the day? If you still need it later I'll get a ride home from somebody. I can just use my truck tomorrow. Deal?"

"Yeah." Owen met Carl's eyes again. "Thanks. I really appreciate all this."

"No problemo, buddy. Just try to keep us both out of jail." Carl got up, pulling out his wallet to pay the bill. "And Shawna too, if you can. I kinda like her."

Owen nodded.
Chapter Six

(Date & Time Unknown--Katie)

**K** atie Bradshaw was terrified.

And if she ever got over that, she'd be embarrassed. She was twelve now. Being scared was supposed to be something she'd gotten over a long time ago. But for some reason she couldn't help it.

This was a lot worse than even that time four years ago at her grandmother's house when her cousin Kevin had tied her up in a sack and hoisted her to his shoulder, threatening to throw her in the lake. He was only three years older, but he'd been big for his age and she'd always been small.

She'd been mad then, and hadn't had time for fear. She'd kicked out at him as he strode toward the water, managing to entangle her legs in his, flinging them both down the concrete steps that led to the pier.

She'd broken her collarbone when she landed, and her cries of pain had scared Kevin far more than he'd frightened her. He'd helped get her out of the sack, and asked her with tears in his eyes if she was okay. In spite of the pain, his tears had completely undone her anger, leaving pity behind. He would be in so much trouble!

But in the end he hadn't been, because she had never told anybody the truth about what he'd done, though the story he'd come up with hurt her pride a little. Even at eight, she wouldn't have fallen off her bike, not without a better reason than the water moccasin encounter Kevin had dreamed up. And she was still a little angry with him for the way he'd strutted around afterward, explaining to everybody that he'd chased the snake away for her.

But at least it had been over quickly and everything had turned out okay, though she still had a little bump on her shoulder.

This time it was completely different. She was really, truly, scared.

At first she'd thought of the man in the parking lot as Silly Man. He'd tried so hard to be funny with that story about his horse! It actually had been kind of funny, and she'd felt bad about turning down the chocolate he'd offered her, because she hadn't wanted to hurt his feelings.

But she knew she wasn't supposed to accept gifts from strangers, and chocolate made her face break out, and besides, Aunt Maria and Uncle Stephen would have been mad.

She'd just wanted to go to the car to get the Harry Potter book she was reading so she could show her cousin Patrick, Kevin's younger brother, the place where Hermione was time-traveling on her own. Patrick had seen the first movie but hadn't read the books, and he'd insisted that Hermione never did anything cool without Harry and Ron. This had cut Katie to the quick, because she secretly (or so she believed) idolized Hermione. There was nothing wrong with being studious, or knowing things, and she thought Hermione saved the day at least as often as that doofus Harry. Though she supposed he was okay too, for a boy, and actually pretty cute in a geeky kind of way.

So she'd gotten the keys, but Uncle Stephen had made a big hairy deal out of making her promise to go directly to the car and come directly back, and he hadn't kept his voice down either, so she was sure everybody in the restaurant had heard. Patrick had smirked at her humiliation, and so there had been just no way she could go back with Silly Man's chocolate. And she just hadn't time to talk to him anyway because she'd had to get back quickly, so Uncle Stephen wouldn't embarrass her again.

Even when she'd heard Silly Man running behind her she hadn't been frightened. She'd been thinking of Hermione and Patrick and Uncle Stephen and at first she'd just been mad because Silly Man was interfering with her when she was _busy_ , and he should just eat the chocolate himself.

Then when she saw he'd dropped the chocolate and seemed serious about catching her, it got all mixed up in her head with that time with Kevin and the sack and the lake and she got mad again. When he started to get close she spun and threw the keys, though she pictured Uncle Stephen's face in front of her when she did it and figured he would yell when he found out she'd lost them. But the keys were what she had, so they were what she used.

She ran diagonally away from him, because she knew she had to get back inside, somehow sure he wouldn't hurt her except in darkness. But she fell down and he jumped on top of her, and the sight of his face transfixed her. He laughed, and he still looked like a nice guy, but his features flowed strangely, sort of _behind_ the face she could see.

Suddenly she'd been sure it had to be some kind of magic, like maybe he had been possessed by a demon or something. Then he'd put that smelly rag on her face, and her last thought before passing out was that magic was real after all and Hermione would have known a spell to save herself.

When she woke up she didn't know where she was. It was dark. Her neck hurt. Her hands were tied behind her, and her feet were tied together, and she was lying on her left side.

She still had her underthings on (including her new bra, and she blushed to think that Silly Man, only she thought now he was Crazy Man, had seen it and might have noticed she'd stuffed it with a little bit of toilet paper) but her shoes and her dress were missing.

A little bit of light came in from a window in the door. The room was about the size of her bedroom actually, and she was lying on some kind of thin carpet over what felt like slightly uneven boards. She had a pillow under her head, but the floor was hard and she thought maybe the carpet had bugs in it too, probably fleas, because she itched all over.

She could see a little better now. It looked like outside the door was just another big room with a window letting some street lights shine in, not like there were lights on inside or anything.

She started thumping the floor with her feet, and it sounded like maybe it was hollow or suspended in air instead of being right on the ground or a foundation or whatever, she didn't know about buildings, but anyway it made this great big booming sound until suddenly she realized it might bring Crazy Man back and she froze, listening for footsteps or voices.

Hearing nothing, she closed her eyes and relaxed as much as she could and thought about what Hermione would do. Magic wasn't an option, but with her hands tied Hermione wouldn't be able to use a wand either, so that made them even.

She flopped (as quietly as she could) over on her right side because her muscles were cramping, and noticed her feet were now able to rub back and forth a little bit. Maybe it was all the thumping? And--her pulse quickened--maybe if she could loosen her hands the same way she could escape!

She started moving her hands back and forth as fast as she could, and moving her feet too when her arms got tired. It took a long time, but she was almost sure it was working. After a while she had to go to the bathroom so bad she couldn't move any more without hurting, and eventually she was afraid she might burst something so she closed her eyes and just went. The liquid was shockingly warm, and when it dried she itched and chafed even more. And she was hungry, and her throat was parched, and her lips felt like they might split from desiccation. That had been one of her spelling-bee words. She'd come in second in the whole school. Desiccation.

But she kept going. She had to.

Later she fell asleep again, and when she woke up she had her feet free and the cord on her wrists felt noticeably looser. But the light from outside was brighter, and she was afraid she'd slept all night. She tried to sit up to look through the window and fell over. Her hands were tied to the floor, too, only she hadn't noticed earlier.

Her legs cramped horribly. She sobbed once, but went back to moving her arms back and forth even though her wrists were raw. She had to get free, and soon.

Because otherwise Crazy Man would come back and find her there, and know she was trying to get away, and he might be mad at her.
Chapter Seven

(Monday, Late Morning--Owen)

**F** ive months ago Shawna had opened Signs & Portraits, a small graphics design business. She and her partner Martina Moynihan leased space in an oddly funky section of downtown Corpus, nestled between the big hotels, fancy tourist restaurants, banks and similarly archetypal city-center enterprises. Owen found a parking spot on Water Street, two blocks away.

He and Shadow walked by a palm reader's establishment sitting cheek-by-jowl with the Church of Scientology. In the next block somebody was about to open a bookstore specializing in the occult (and with, judging by the window display, a sideline in supplies for arcane rites and rituals).

Directly across from Signs & Portraits was a business specializing, if their signs could be believed, in something called "Holistic Pest Control." Biodegradable, and poison-free. Apparently the proper diet was critical to the process. They had cookbooks available.

Owen quirked his lips and wondered for a moment what, exactly, the proper diet might be if you had (for instance) termites in your house? He didn't come to any definite conclusions, but was newly suspicious of a diet high in fiber. Cellulose was fiber, wasn't it? And termites ate it? Maybe a lot of fried food would do the trick.

He wondered how Shawna's new business was making out. The door was locked, and the interior was dark. He was trying to peer through the window when he heard keys jingling behind him.

Martina stood there, smiling. "Hey, you're Owen, right? I saw you looking at the place across the street," she said. "It gets me too." She smiled at Shadow. "Who's this? Shawna never said you had a dog."

Owen smiled back at her. "This is Shadow. I already had a shadow, but he's auditioning anyway." He nodded at the locked door. "Don't you have a secretary, or receptionist, or whatever I'm supposed to call her?"

"Sure, but she didn't show, and I wanted a latté. So I locked up and went to get it."

"Does she do this a lot? Just not show up."

"Nope. Probably only the once, unless she has a really good reason. We can't afford to have the place closed, we're barely making it as it is." She unlocked the door and held it open.

Owen twitched Shadow's leash and walked inside. Martina bent down to pet Shadow as he went by. Shadow suddenly wanted to stay right where he was, and Martina showed no sign of straightening up, so Owen dropped the leash and wandered around.

The walls had a few samples of work done for three different clients, certificates and awards in Shawna's and Martina's names, and very little else. A desk faced the entrance, with a closed door behind it. Against one wall stood a cheap table with two copiers, a fax machine, and what appeared to be random papers in loose piles.

"Are you looking for Shawna?" Martina asked from the doorway, where she was still rubbing Shadow's belly. "She's not here, obviously." Shadow groaned and turned over to show her where to pet him next. She laughed, and Owen forced himself to grin a little.

Either she didn't know anything or she was really good at pretending. "Any idea where she might be?" he asked.

"No."

Owen's gut twisted. He looked away. He'd known better than to expect to find Shawna that easily, hadn't he?

Martina kept talking. "And that's pissing me off too. We have a client who wants a restaurant menu done, and this guy's really a pain. He just insists on misspelling every word he possibly can, and won't believe a mere woman when we try to fix it. I'm busy with a couple of brochures, and Shawna promised the restaurant guy she'd have his menu ready for the printer by this afternoon. So either she gets here soon or I get to choose which customer to annoy."

Owen had been nodding, looking around the office. When she stopped talking he glanced at her, finding her watching him with a concerned expression.

"What?" she asked. "Did you guys get in a fight or something? You look like you haven't slept in a week, which I wasn't going to mention, and now you're acting like I just kicked you someplace sensitive. I mean, sure, she should be here, but it's not the end of the world."

"She's missing," Owen said. "Since Saturday night. I hoped you knew something."

"Missing? What do you mean, missing?"

"I don't actually know what I mean," he said. "None of it makes much sense. Can we go sit down someplace for this?"

"Oh! Sure. I'll just lock the door again and we can go in back. What the hell, we don't get many people just dropping in anyway."

"So the missing receptionist is no big deal?"

"What? Oh. Sort of. Mostly we need her to answer the phone. Just give me a second here." She busied herself at the front door, waving Owen toward a hallway that led further into the building. "Go on back, it's the second door on the left. I have a couple of things to do up here first."

Owen opened the door, snapped his fingers for Shadow, and led him down a short hallway. He turned left and chose the least-cluttered of several tables that filled the room. The tables were identical to the one up front. Maybe they'd been on sale?

He cleared what looked like work-in-progress on a gratuitously vegetarian restaurant menu (was there really a demand for "fried portobello fingers"?), dragged two chairs over, and sat in the one that gave him the best view of the room's single door. Shadow sighed and collapsed on his feet.

Martina was taking a while to lock up, if that was what she was doing. He was thinking about going back to check on her when he heard the faint flushing of a toilet.

She came in a couple of minutes later with her latté and a glass of water for him. "Sorry. Water's all we have right now."

"It's fine. Can I ask you some questions?" For example, it would be good to know if she had Shawna hidden someplace. Or knew where she was.

Martina sat, then gave him a quizzical look. "Sure. But what happened--"

"First, can you tell me what's going on with the business here?"

"What do you mean? And why are you asking about that? I thought you were going to tell me about Shawna."

Owen nodded. He'd rather find out what she knew before her reactions were colored by the news about Junior and Leon. Assuming she didn't already know all about them. "I am. I'll tell you what I know, anyway. But the thing is, she's missing, and we've been out of touch until just recently. I need to know more about what's happening in her life if I'm going to find her."

She didn't answer him immediately. Owen found himself staring into her eyes. They were green enough that he wondered about tinted contacts, but he had a feeling they were natural. His gaze wandered. Freckled nose, slightly wavy black hair. Black Irish, he decided. Mostly, anyway. Her first name sounded Mexican or maybe Spanish.

"Owen," she said finally, "we've only met a couple of times. You say Shawna's missing, and I guess that has to be true, because she's not here. But how do I know she's not hiding from _you_?"

It was a reasonable question. "You don't, I guess. But you'll have to make a decision. Did Shawna give you the impression she might have a reason to hide from me?"

"No. Actually she said she wished you would push a little harder." Martina blushed slightly. "I mean, in your relationship."

Owen spread his hands and waited. She smiled, then looked down at Shadow as the blush deepened, began to radiate warmth into the room, and spread--probably--to her toes.

What else had Shawna been telling her?

"Okay," she said, meeting his eyes after a few moments of increasingly awkward silence. "What do you want to know?"

"How do you get your customers, besides walk-ins?"

She laughed. "Not many of those, not around here. We tried traditional advertising. We're in the Yellow Pages with a quarter-page ad. But we're new, and a lot of other companies aren't. In this business that matters a lot. So we have to work a little harder."

She sipped her coffee and made a face. "Guess I waited too long." She put it aside. "Anyway, we get a list of all the new business license applications every month, and we solicit them by mail. Email too, if they give an address on the application. Sometimes we take the list and work our way down, calling all of them. We're hoping to get Andrea, she's the receptionist, to do that starting next month. We tell them straight out that we're in the same position they are, trying to get off the ground--but that means new customers are important to us, and we'll give them a good price."

Owen nodded. "Makes sense, I guess."

She shrugged. "So far it seems to be working. We do get our share of deadbeats. And some of the people we talk to don't seem to have much chance of making it, but I like to think we're in the business of helping people to realize their dreams. While, of course, we realize ours at the same time."

"That's pretty much like what we used to do at CyberLook in the early days," Owen said. "It turned into something different later on...but anyway, I think you're being a lot more efficient about it than we ever were."

She smiled. "We really are hoping to grow with some of these guys, so we have a strong interest in helping them make it. I think it shows."

Shadow got up and stuck his nose under her hand. Owen shrugged apologetically, but Martina smiled and went back to work at Shadow's direction.

Owen doubted she was hiding anything. But maybe she knew something she didn't realize was important. "Back to Shawna...how many customers has she been dealing with personally?"

"You mean just lately? Anywhere from four to forty, for all I know. We work better when we don't work together too closely. It took us a while to learn that, but we did. So if you're thinking she might have gone out to meet some new customer, I wouldn't necessarily know about it. I can look up the recent orders, though." She looked more worried than she had. Maybe the idea that Shawna was really missing was sinking in.

"Did she seem close to any of the customers? Personally? Or did any of them bother her?"

"Not really. No."

"Okay. The customer list sounds like a good place to start." He paused, thinking. "While we're on the subject, does Andrea ever go meet customers with either of you?"

She looked at him. "You think they might be together? Because they're both missing this morning?"

If they weren't together, Owen didn't know what to do next. The customer list might help, but it was a long shot. And the police, with their manpower and clout, could look into that more effectively than he could.

"I don't think I've ever met Andrea," he said. "Right now the only thing I'm sure of is that I'll know more if I ask questions. Do _you_ think they might be together?" Come to think of it, the police should have talked to Martina by now. Maybe they didn't know where Shawna worked, or they'd been busy with something else?

"Huh," she said. "I don't know. They could be, I guess. They hit it off pretty well when Andrea started here. All of us did, really, though I'll change my mind if Andrea doesn't come up with a good excuse for not showing up today. Anyway, as far as the business goes, no, Andrea hasn't ever gone out to meet a client with us. I guess it could happen eventually, but she's never seemed interested. Right now we're just hoping to teach her enough so she can do some of the cold-calling for us. On the personal side, I don't know. Sometimes they go do things, I guess. I haven't paid much attention."

"How did you and Shawna meet?"

Martina blushed again. Owen had begun to enjoy watching her do that. "Through Junior," she said, looking away. "Shawna insisted on quitting her job at CyberLook because she was dating him, which if you ask me is going overboard, but that's how she is. So she was looking for something else, and Junior knew my father because Dad runs a charter business and takes him out on a boat sometimes for fishing tournaments. Anyway, Dad and I ran into Junior and Shawna at the Port Aransas marina when they were coming back from a sailing trip. We ended up eating dinner together, and I talked about how much I wanted to quit my job and go out on my own, and the rest," she waved her arm grandly, "is history."

Owen smiled at her. "Sounds like a dream come true."

"It is. But we have to work at it."

"How did your receptionist--Andrea, right?--come to get hired?"

"We still don't really need her full-time. But one phone call from a client used to disrupt both of us for an hour or more. We get a lot more done when we know we'll be left alone for a few hours at a time, so it's worthwhile having her here."

She stopped talking. Owen looked at her. Did she think she'd answered the question? Maybe she had, in a way. He tried again. "Did either of you know Andrea before she came here?"

"No, we put a sign in the window." She grinned. "Partly so we could see what sort of person might walk in and apply in this neighborhood. Anyway, she came in with experience in telemarketing, and she looked presentable, so we hired her."

Owen nodded. He might as well get to the point. "Do you know anyone else Shawna might have gone to?"

"Well...lately she was seeing you quite a bit."

"Right." He met her eyes. She waited patiently. "Okay, here's what I know." He told her about Leon first, then Shawna and Junior. He didn't mention the Jeep.

"My God, Owen." Her voice shook. "We have to find her."

Owen raised an eyebrow. "We?"

"Yes, goddamn it, we. What'd you think? I'll start calling the client list, I know more about these people than you do. You check out Andrea's place. Nobody's answering the phone there, I called again before I came back here, but it's worth a look."

She was fierce, like a mother defending her young. Owen had wondered how Shawna was coping in the business world--but as Martina hustled him out the door he was suddenly convinced she had everything under control. He wasn't worried about the client list, either. Martina would be on it, and God help anyone who didn't jump when she got them on the phone.

Shawna was bright and capable, but she didn't do a whole lot by herself. If she was hiding somewhere, somebody was helping her. Somebody besides him, it looked like. Though maybe she'd tried him first? He was having a hard time understanding the connection between Leon and Junior. Maybe Shawna had been followed to the marina, but she knew about the kayaking trip, so why would she have been there? Had she planned to hide on the _Fusty Navel_? Of course, she would have had to go there to borrow the Jeep....

He'd been hoping Shawna had gone to Martina. But he couldn't believe that anymore. Martina was about as direct and honest as it was possible to be. She probably _would_ have helped Shawna, but she hadn't been asked.

So where was Shawna? He could still look for Andrea, but what if that didn't pan out? If Shawna hadn't asked anyone for help...maybe it was because she couldn't.

He felt better when he got to Carl's car and found a couple of guys in expensive suits leaning on it. When one of them opened his jacket to show a gun and indicated with a theatrical gesture that Owen should precede them down the sidewalk, Owen shortened Shadow's leash and complied almost cheerfully. He'd recognized them, or at least the one with the gun.

He'd been worried that he wouldn't be able to do anything useful. But now maybe something was shaking loose.
Chapter Eight

(Monday, Noon--Gordon)

**D** etective Phil Gordon inched forward with the rest of the traffic on the Crosstown Expressway. He'd been stuck for over ten minutes, and from what he'd heard on the radio there was a major accident up ahead.

Gordon's guts oozed around, sloppily rearranging themselves. His partner, Jon Faulkner, had been having trouble, the last month or so, with what he called "the runs." So now maybe it was going to be Gordon's turn--not the happiest thought to have while stuck in traffic.

He refused to look at the accident scene as he passed the emergency vehicles. First, because he hated all forms of wasted time with a passion and had a cold contempt for rubberneckers who slowed down traffic to satisfy their morbid curiosity. Second, because just last week he _had_ looked.

It had been on this same stretch of road. Gordon had idly glanced between two stopped cars and seen a man's body. The guy had been dressed for the office, with dark gray slacks and a white shirt. Gordon had first noticed that both shoes and one sock were missing. The naked foot was smashed and twisted so it looked more like a flipper than anything human. He'd immediately regretted looking at it. But something else was wrong, too....

It took him a few moments to understand what he saw. The corpse had been decapitated. Well, worse than that, really. Its neck just ended in a bloody smear, with little chunks of meat and bone sprayed out over the asphalt. The shirt's collar was sort of tucked in on one side, and Gordon had felt an absurd impulse to straighten it out.

He still couldn't remember it without wondering whether the guy had been wearing a tie--and if so, where had it gone? Wrapped around a tire, maybe. Or an axle. Could be it was just farther down the road.

Even without looking this time, his stomach roiled. He hated the idea of death, in which all possibilities were extinguished. Murder was the worst, because in addition to the horror it was disrespectful. But accidents were almost as bad.

Traffic picked up as he left the flashing lights behind him. To maintain cosmic balance, or so he figured, it began to rain. He flipped the wipers on and scowled at his police radio, though it hadn't actually done anything to offend him this time. Lieutenant Kleinman had called on Gordon's cell phone, told him to get his ass over to Malaquite Beach. Said to drive clear out to Little Shell, and don't ask any questions.

Great. Gordon had just ordered his lunch at the City Diner, which he was convinced was the best restaurant in town. He'd really had his mouth set for fried mushrooms, and now this. What the hell did he need to go to Little Shell for?

He turned onto SPID, heading toward Padre Island. He couldn't figure a connection between the beach and anything he was working on. But it pretty much had to involve a dead body. At least one. The life of a homicide detective was like that.

Malaquite Beach and the National Seashore were way the hell out on the island. Some of his favorite places for surf fishing were out there. The deep water came in closer to the beach than elsewhere, and occasionally somebody would catch more than he was prepared to handle. You had to drive on the beach, there were no roads, but there were sixty miles of beach. Four-wheel-drive only past a certain point because of deep sand, and you had to watch out for the tide. Every few weeks some fool of a tourist drove out on the flat sand below the high-tide mark and had his car engulfed when the tide returned. One guy Gordon had heard about a couple years ago had actually managed to dig out his little Toyota out and drive it back when the waves receded, but generally it didn't work out that way. Local entrepreneurs sometimes cruised the beach with their trucks, charging extortionate rates for a tow.

Little Shell, his destination, and its cousin Big Shell were inexplicably rich in seashells, but otherwise just part of the beach, a few miles past what most people saw. Hurricanes and major storms hit the barrier islands fairly frequently, but Little Shell and Big Shell seemed able to maintain their existence in spite of the episodic reshaping of the coastline--though they did wander up and down the beach a bit, sometimes shifting their locations by up to a mile. Little Shell currently sat about twelve miles from the road. Big Shell, maybe twenty-three.

As Gordon left the road and passed the first section of the beach, with its semi-permanent residents in barely-mobile trailers and amazingly tattered tents interspersed with tourists in motorhomes the size of football fields, locals in pickups, and more tourists in whatever they happened to bring along, the rain suddenly let up.

He cracked the window to sniff the salt air, always fresher after a shower. It really was beautiful out here, in spite of everything. And actually all the frenetic activity of the tourists (whose kids, at least, seemed to be enjoying themselves in the water) and surf-fishing devotees combined with the shifting, endless gazes of what Gordon still called bums and the cries of seagulls looking for a handout to create a baroque sort of charm. A flight of pelicans thrummed overhead, and Gordon was glad he'd made the drive.

He'd worried about taking his Dodge Neon out on the beach, but the rain over the last couple of weeks had apparently tamed the deep sand, making it firm enough that he had no trouble. He drove at a steady fifteen miles per hour, enjoying the play of sunlight on water and sand. He felt almost grateful to whoever had died out here.

A helicopter launched itself farther down the beach and tore away his pleasant reverie. The chopper circled like a mechanical buzzard--another image for his incipient nausea. Near its launch point were divers, uniformed cops, press, and a group of civilians. His view past the civilians was blocked by an ambulance.

He parked as close as he could get to the ambulance. Once, he'd parked farther away and somebody had dragged a key all the way around his car, gouging the paint down to the metal. And plastic. Wouldn't be a modern car without plastic.

He found Kleinman on the far side of the ambulance, smoking a cigarette and looking sour. With him stood a tall man in a white shirt, blue tie, and gray crew cut. Black pants, with a dark jacket held over his shoulder. Dark glasses. A walking cliché.

"What the hell is this?" Gordon asked Kleinman, jerking his thumb at the cliché. "Feds? If they're taking this over, what am I doing here?" He stared at the stranger. "Great outfit, though. Come here often?"

The stranger smiled thinly. Gordon couldn't read his expression past the dark glasses, which was of course the point. "Yes, I'm federal. Agent Stanley, FBI. And you're here because one of your cases is suddenly related to one of mine." He turned to Kleinman. "Lieutenant?"

Kleinman grunted and flipped his cigarette in the sand. "Hey, Phil. Captain's still at that conference in Atlanta, but I called him on this. Junior Bentley washed up on the beach this morning. Or what's left of him, anyway. Sharks."

"Fucking great. Any sign of the McPhee woman?"

"No."

"So I still don't get it. Why the Feebie?"

"Agent Stanley is here about Pete Bradshaw's daughter."

"The kid who got snatched from...ah, from Whataburger downtown Saturday night?" Now that had been what you call a media nightmare. Gordon didn't want any part of it.

"Yes," Stanley said. "The kidnapping." He held up his hands. "I'm not taking your case, Gordon. But we need to work together on this. Will you have a problem with that?"

"So what's the connection?" Gordon asked, still looking at Kleinman.

"The kid's dress," Kleinman said. "It washed up with Bentley. Wrapped around his neck."

Gordon stared. "Just the dress? Not the kid? And the dress stayed with him? Hell, would his _own_ clothes wash up with him if the sharks were at him?"

Kleinman jerked a thumb toward the water. "Chopper and divers are still looking for the girl."

"The dress matches the description, including the kid's initials on the tag," Stanley said.

"So we don't know if she's alive, if McPhee's alive, or who killed Bentley. Just a connection. Great. And I'd question the washing up on the beach part, because of the dress, but I don't guess the sharks got to him on land. Cause of death? Head wound from the poker in his house?"

Kleinman shrugged. "He's a fucking mess. Coroner's report will narrow it down. Maybe."

"So what else do I need to know here?"

"First," Kleinman said, "Stanley's right. You guys need to get together on this. Share everything you've got."

"Starting," Stanley said, "with the reason you let that asshole Tremaine walk."

"Judgment call," Gordon said. "My judgment. My case."

Stanley showed no reaction. "Shall we go? To the station? I'd like to see your report so far, and I have things to show you too."

Kleinman looked as if he wanted to say something, but threw his hands in the air instead. He stomped off through the sand and started yelling at the divers.

Gordon glanced at Stanley. If they could get out of here, maybe Kleinman would handle the reporters. Gordon didn't want to talk to them yet. "Fine. Give me a few minutes to check out the body and wherever it was found. Then we'll leave them to it, go look at papers. You know the way?"

Stanley nodded.

"Right. Follow me. In about fifteen minutes." Gordon walked to the ambulance, his mouth tasting of vomit. On his way he lit a cigarette, though he knew he shouldn't smoke it near a crime scene. It was almost an occupational necessity for a cop who encountered badly-preserved dead bodies on a regular basis. Nothing else killed the smell quite like it. A nasal prophylactic, his partner Faulkner had called it once, though _he_ somehow didn't smoke.

Gordon shook his head and stubbed out the cigarette on the bumper of the ambulance. Whatever. He had a job to do.

* * *

**W** hen they got downtown he led Stanley to an unoccupied interview room. Gordon had carried his case file in from the car, because he kept it in the trunk. It was more up to date than the version in the office, and he could check it whenever he wanted to. Also, he was allergic to desks. They made his balls itch. Someday medical science would back him up on that one.

This time, though, he was glad to meet Stanley on CCPD turf. "Fine," he said, dropping the file on the table in the center of the room. He grabbed a chair, leaned back in it, and put his feet up. "What've you got on the kidnapping?"

Stanley's lips quirked as he looked at Gordon's feet. He pulled back his own chair and sat with an erect posture Gordon would never be able to duplicate. He removed his glasses. Gordon saw an ironic amusement in his eyes, and snorted to himself. Stanley was consciously playing a role, the same way he was, and probably for the same reasons. And enjoying it, too. Gordon began to feel a little better about working with the Feeb.

"Kate Bradshaw," Stanley said. "Twelve years old. Called 'Katie' by her family. Blonde hair, blue eyes. We have pictures, height, weight, et cetera." He handed Gordon a thick file from his briefcase. "Abducted Saturday night from Whataburger on North Shoreline Boulevard. Across the street from this building, I believe." He paused. Gordon said nothing.

Blandly, Stanley continued. "Daughter of Pete Bradshaw, Member At-Large of the City Council. Was in the company of Bradshaw's sister and brother-in-law, who saw nothing, and their two children, descriptions and pictures in the file, who also saw nothing. She went outside to get a book from the car, and never came back. Police were called approximately one hour after she was last seen, when the car keys were found in the parking lot. The book was still in the car. Some of the other customers, statements in the file, were helping to look for her, but by the time anyone noticed she was gone the family were the only people who remembered her at all. None of the employees noticed her. We've got tapes from inside the restaurant, and we're looking at them, but the kidnapper probably didn't go inside. Spots will be airing tonight on TV to try to connect with any potential witnesses who were in the area, but we don't have a lot of hope for that."

"You check the tapes from this building?" Gordon asked. After some recent vandalism, security cameras had been set up to cover the immediate area surrounding Police Headquarters. Gordon figured they'd only last until people found out about them and started hollering about privacy, but the cameras should have been running Saturday night.

"We looked. Too dark, and they weren't really pointed in the right direction."

Gordon nodded. So much for that. He hefted the file. "You have a lot of information here."

"We aim to please. There was already a team here."

"Yeah? Here for something else, or have other kids disappeared recently?"

"Both, actually. Four other kids within the last year, all in the Corpus Christi area. Also blonde, eye color varies, ages ten to thirteen. Details in the file, but so far," he laid out his hands, palms up, "nothing."

"What do you mean, nothing?"

"The kids were grabbed at various times and places. Details in the file. Every time it happened, it was close to a road. I figure this guy probably has a license to drive. That's about it."

"Hold on a second," Gordon protested. "You guys are supposed to be the experts at this stuff. You have those profilers, supposed to be able to find a hair and tell you all about how the guy's bad haircut when he was a kid traumatized him and sent him over the edge, so now he has to grow a full beard because he can't stand to use a mirror to shave. Or whatever. Where's that in this file?"

Stanley sighed. "We have nothing. It's in the file, if you want to read it."

Gordon looked at him. "Okay, I'm the hick cop. Want to tell me what that means?"

Stanley shook his head. "Sorry. It's not about you, or you and me. I have a problem with the way we handle these cases." He tapped a finger on the file. "If you read what we have, it'll tell you the perp is male, probably twenty to forty years old, intelligent, probably single and a bit of a loner. Plus a lot of other crap that may or may not be true. The thing is, I just summarized the actually useful information in _any_ of our profiles of a probable sexual predator. The, ah, experts don't get any better than that, just more creative. Especially in a situation like this, where the only thing we really know is that the kids disappear and are never found. But read it if you want to."

Stanley reached across the table and tapped the file. "I may be overstating the case a bit. There are some other things. Panel vans are favorite vehicles, these guys frequently gravitate toward jobs working with kids, stuff like that."

Gordon nodded slowly. "Got it. Sounds like you've been doing this for a while."

"Yeah," Stanley said without expression.

"Okay. But now we know something new. He's mixed up in a murder, maybe two or three."

"Uh huh. And his name's probably Owen Tremaine."

"How do you figure?"

"Too many coincidences. His résumé on the computer. The missing woman is supposed to be his girlfriend, the body on the beach is the third in their little love triangle. The other guy, Purvis, gets killed on Tremaine's boat. Tremaine has no alibi to speak of."

"You listen to the tape?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Let's take it one thing at a time." Gordon started counting off on the fingers of his left hand. "He's got no record. No arrests, no speeding tickets, nothing. His alibi is just dumb enough that it sounds real to me. A creep generally has either nothing or something he thinks is airtight. Tremaine's GPS was on his kayak. I checked out the course before I left. According to the mapping software it would have to be done by a guy in a small boat, because the route goes through places with only a few inches of water. Or a guy who swims really well, I guess. I haven't checked with the friend who gave him the GPS to find out if the course was already on it, because the friend's a reporter. But anybody smart enough to have that kind of half-assed alibi isn't going to slip and forget to have his buddy back him up." He held up his right hand to forestall Stanley's rebuttal. "Hold on, I ain't done."

"Okay," Gordon went on as Stanley crossed his arms, "that's all indicative but not conclusive. I also like the refusal to tell me who his friend was he spent the day with on Sunday. Again not what a guilty guy would say. And his story had to be at least partly true, because he had both filleted fish and ice in a cooler. Somebody caught and cleaned the fish, and they don't sell ice out in the Bay."

Stanley still looked stubborn. Gordon quirked an eyebrow at him. "Tremaine's shark story is just unbelievable enough it almost has to be for real. Might be worth checking with his friends to see if he's told that story before, though, 'cause if he was talking about something from a while back I doubt this is the first time he's mentioned it. Still, it's not evidence either way."

"Here's the clincher, for me at least. When I told him about his girlfriend being missing it hit him hard. I don't think he cared one way or the other about Bentley, but I didn't get the sense he was trying to convince me of anything there. A creep in a situation like that is an actor whether he did the particular thing you're accusing him of or not. He tries to sell you on his story. Tremaine just sat there and didn't give a damn what I thought."

"Is that it?" Stanley asked.

"Pretty much. Also I figured I'd give him a chance to do something stupid if I was wrong. We didn't have enough to convict him of anything anyway. I could have let the DA tell me that, but I knew it. If we pushed, and he got lawyered up, his lawyer would tell him to sit tight. He wouldn't talk to us anymore. We'd be nowhere. This way he'll talk to me, because he knows I listened to him before."

Stanley nodded. Finally. Nothing wrong with his questions--the Feeb was pretty sharp--but Gordon preferred to trust his own judgment until he had a reason to change his mind.

"So you thought," Stanley said, "it was the best play whether he was guilty or not."

"Yeah. In my hick cop sort of way."

Stanley didn't react. "And the clothes you gave him? They were from a crime scene. And speaking of crime scenes...no, the hell with getting his buddy's dog out of the other boat. I kind of admire him for that. But the clothes?"

Gordon laughed, trying to make it look real. Who the hell had told Stanley about them? That hadn't been on the tape. "Sure, they were from a crime scene. But we weren't going to _do_ anything with them. We don't have anything to look for--well, Bentley's blood, maybe, but we weren't going to go through this stuff for that. I found some clothes that had been dry-cleaned and were still wrapped up, with a slip dating the cleaning before any of this happened. Threw in some socks and underwear. Safe enough, and again, it helped to build a rapport. A cop I respected told me about that little trick twenty years ago."

"What do you think now?" Stanley asked.

"Now I wish Tremaine was in here so we could ask him some more questions. I want to know where he was when these girls disappeared. But," he hesitated, "here's the thing. I still don't like him for it. How many sexual predators, who go for kids, have steady girlfriends? And how many _also_ kill their friends, and their ex-bosses, and maybe their girlfriends? While we're at it, how many guys who can grab four kids without leaving a trace would put themselves in a situation like this? I guess it's possible, but it's just too weird for me to assume it's all this one guy, you know?"

"He might be fairly weird," Stanley said seriously. Then he smiled. "Okay. You've convinced me he's not the obvious candidate I thought he was. But let's bring him in. You know where he is?"

"Yeah, sort of. He called me this morning and told me where he's staying. He's probably not there right now, but we can go get him tonight if we need to."

"All right. Let's go talk to the coroner and see what we've got on Purvis." Stanley pushed his chair back and was straightening up when somebody knocked on the door. He looked inquiringly at Gordon.

Gordon shrugged and leaned back to open it. Sergeant Peabody, theoretically retired but still hanging around doing office work out of boredom, stood in the hall. It wasn't supposed to work like that, but a lot of people owed him favors, and he was useful.

"Hey, found you," Peabody said. "Guy out at Randall's Towing called. Said he'd picked up a Jeep that had been in the Wal-Mart parking lot out at Flour Bluff for a couple of days. He saw what looked like dried blood. Smelled funny, too. Maybe a bloody handprint on the seat. He figured we should know. Anyway, the Jeep's registered to a guy named Tremaine. I would have just logged it, but Ramirez was hanging around when I ran the plates and he got all excited. Said you'd want to know."

"Thanks," Gordon said. "Jeep's at Randall's?"

"Yeah, it's still there. This important?"

"Could be." Gordon glanced at Stanley, who had frozen half-out of his chair. "Thanks. We're on it."

"Sure." The door closed. Gordon glared at it.

"Never mentioned his Jeep," he said. "I didn't have a reason to ask about it. Funny how he didn't say it was gone, though." He shook his head. "You suppose we're gonna find out he loaned the Jeep to a friend and wasn't expecting it to be around? Just a coincidence that the friend left it in a parking lot with a fucking bloody handprint on the seat?"

"Shit," Stanley said. "No offense, Gordon, but--"

"No, you're right, I agree completely. Shit."

After a moment of contemplation, Gordon shrugged. "Let's go take a look, get a team out to Randall's. Then let's go get this guy and talk to him some more."

They headed for the door.
Chapter Nine

(Monday, Noon--Owen)

**O** wen stretched out his legs, enjoying the comfortable ride. The Lincoln Town Car had far more room inside than even his friend Danny's Cadillac, which Owen had previously assumed to be the pinnacle of luxury. He toyed with the idea of buying one himself if the Jeep didn't show up. Too expensive, probably.

The two guys who'd picked him up hadn't said anything to him, so the trip was quiet. Owen felt no urge to open a conversation, especially after Shadow had fawned all over the guy in the back seat, the one with the gun. Shadow had jumped in back, and was getting his belly rubbed again. He was just a dog, but a little loyalty would have been nice there.

Owen was somewhat worried by the gun--or guns, which seemed more likely. Neither the driver nor the guy sitting in back had made any overt threats, but he still wasn't happy with them.

He was pretty sure he'd be dealing with their boss before long, though. Owen had seen Shadow's new friend in the back seat following Junior's dad around when the old guy had toured the CyberLook offices. The goon had probably even worn the same brown suit. If Viktor Senior wanted to talk to Owen, he'd talk.

Maybe these guys were bodyguards, or bodyguard and driver? Viktor was mostly in real estate, but he was rumored to have business interests all over the city. There were other rumors, too.

If Viktor was showing this sort of interest in him, Owen hoped it meant the old man knew something about what was going on. If so, Owen was determined to convince him to share the information.

Of course it was also possible that Viktor had already concluded Owen was responsible for the whole situation. It could be that these guys were just going to kill him. Owen contemplated that for a while, then wished he could go back to thinking about the comfort of the car instead. Showing fear wouldn't help his bargaining position, assuming he had one.

The sky had been getting darker all morning, and the clouds chose that moment to let go. Owen closed his eyes, listened to the rain. Even if Viktor thought Owen was responsible, he would probably want to ask where his son was. As long as Junior was missing, Viktor would have to talk before doing anything more drastic.

Owen opened his eyes as they turned onto a driveway, and wished he hadn't. It was Viktor's place, probably, and huge. The architect appeared to have been inspired to create the impression of a medieval castle, with turrets. But...it was painted in pastel yellow, pink and green. Sure, it was a popular color theme on the beach, but this was so far over the top it had hit bottom on the other side. Was Viktor Senior nuts?

The driver parked under a portico. The guy who'd been riding in the back seat was already getting out of the car, and the driver nodded for Owen to do the same. When Owen closed the door, the driver took the car around to the side of the house. Owen turned to his remaining escort and found him politely offering Shadow's leash. Owen took it.

"Inside, second floor, first on the right." The goon smiled, though Owen had the feeling it was both habitual and meaningless.

"Oh," he responded. "I didn't realize you were capable of speech. I'm sorry. How are you doing today? Nice weather for ducks, isn't it?" He gestured at the sky. There was a flash of heat lightning in the distance. Owen tried to look as if he'd caused it.

His escort's smile didn't change. "Viktor's waiting," he said.

Owen bared his teeth in return, then went inside. Everywhere he looked he saw oiled mahogany and shining brass. The lighting fixtures were styled to resemble gaslights. Owen was sure there would be a library, a pool table, and a well-stocked bar somewhere around. Probably a swimming pool on the grounds, also well-stocked with naked nymphs. The place just had that sort of feel.

He took a wooden spiral staircase to the second floor and entered what appeared to be an office. It had to be an office, because there was a desk in it and it was slightly too big to be a basketball court. Viktor Bentley sat behind the desk. He looked up when Owen entered and rose, gesturing toward a chair. Owen sat, holding Shadow close. His escort came in behind him, closed the door, and leaned on it.

"So," Viktor said. "Is there anything you wish to tell me?"

"Yeah. Nice paint job on the house."

Viktor nodded. "My late wife thought so," he said meditatively. "At first I had trouble adjusting, but with the passage of time I've learned to rather enjoy it. Cultivating an appreciation of absurdity has become necessary, I've found, as I grow older. It is, unfortunately, both pervasive and inescapable. The interior design was redone three years ago, but I left the exterior as it was, largely because I like the contrast." He stared at Owen thoughtfully.

Owen looked back at him. He'd never spoken to Viktor before. Viktor was old, he decided, the way California redwoods were old. His once-black hair was going gray at the temples, and his beard was pure silver, but the pale blue eyes looked as if they'd never missed anything of consequence. He slouched behind the desk, but his shoulders still looked powerful. Viktor stood well over six feet tall, almost Owen's own height, and Owen recalled from his visit to CyberLook that the old man moved like a stalking lion. Owen shook his head slightly and waited.

"You once worked for my son," Viktor said. "But you left. And now you are involved with him again. I would like to know how, and why."

"My only interest," Owen said, "is finding Shawna McPhee."

"Ah, the missing girl. Perhaps the murderess." He watched Owen narrowly. When Owen didn't react, he went on. "I understand she was with you, but then with my son. She then left my son and returned to you. I don't need to know why all this has occurred," he said, waving one finger, "but I do need to know why she was at my son's house on Saturday night, and what your involvement is. Perhaps you can help me with this."

Owen didn't respond. A flash of anger crossed Viktor's face. "Surely, you can understand a man's need to know what has happened to his only son."

"Sure," Owen said. "I understand that. But I was brought here at gunpoint, which tends to limit my willingness to cooperate." Had he really said that?

Viktor shifted his gaze to Owen's erstwhile escort. "Atkins? Gunpoint?"

Owen sensed Atkins' smile brightening behind him. He kept his gaze on Viktor. Show no fear, he reminded himself. But...as long as he stayed in the "tough guy" role he was creating for himself, he actually felt capable of handling the situation. Illusory, sure, but it felt real enough at the moment. Useful, as long as he didn't completely lose touch with reality.

Atkins cleared his throat. "Just showed him the gun, sir. We were on the street, and it seemed easier than a conversation."

"So," Viktor said, "now I want to ask this man for information and, perhaps, cooperation. The gun, Atkins, was a bad idea. And also a felony, of course."

"Sorry, sir," Atkins said. Owen didn't think he sounded even faintly sorry. "I don't think it scared him too badly, though. He looked like he was taking a nap on the way over."

Viktor looked back at Owen, a glint of humor in his eyes. "Well, sir? I did not intend for you to be threatened, and I offer you my most sincere apology. Are you willing to forgive and forget?"

The old bastard was smooth as hell. He'd known Atkins was going to use the gun, or do something similar. That was why he'd sent a thug. But now he'd both distanced himself from it and catered to Owen's desire to be treated as an equal by a powerful man who, after all, sat at home in his castle.

But on the other hand, it _was_ Viktor's son who was missing. And Owen was beginning to like the guy. What the hell. "Sure. And maybe you can help me, too. I'm not sure what my involvement is either, or who intended to involve me, or for what reason."

Viktor nodded slowly. "I see. Perhaps we can indeed be of assistance to one another. May I have the first few questions?"

Owen nodded warily. Maybe he would learn something from the questions Viktor chose to ask.

"Very well. Then will you tell me of the circumstances surrounding your departure from my son's company? I understand he wanted you to stay on, and the future looked bright for all concerned." He looked at Owen expectantly.

Was this relevant? Owen took a moment to gather his thoughts. "It was partly a matter of loyalty," he said, "and partly a question of how I wanted to spend my time."

"Interesting. Usually these things are about money. But do go on, sir, please."

Owen shrugged. "Maybe some of that too. How much do you know about CyberLook?"

"Enough to know I won't understand if you begin talking about computers. But I do understand business."

Owen was sure of that. "Okay. Truthfully I wasn't the techie guru of the organization either, at least by the time I left. We started out creating websites for businesses here in town. Danny Sheffield was the sales guy, and I would follow along behind him to figure out what the customer's needs would mean to us. Usually I had to turn people away because they didn't know what they wanted, or because they wanted something beyond our expertise or their budget, but we stayed busy."

"It was just the two of you, then?"

"Originally, yes. I actually started it up by myself when I got out of the Army, but I don't like sales. Danny was both good at it and interested in the idea, so we got to be partners. We hired some graphics design people, including Shawna, although she came in much later. A couple of programmers joined us pretty quickly. Frank Serno was a CPA Danny knew, and he kept the books for us."

"How did my son become involved?"

"Greed. Dreams of wealth and glory. The technical group I was leading by then had some new ideas that were beyond simple websites. Some of the guys and I had always been more interested in complex kinds of programming. We played around with that stuff on the side. But eventually we had more competition here in town, and it was getting harder to sign up new customers. It got to the point where we had to either find customers who needed what we wanted to do or bite the bullet and pay more attention to the small-business guys who had paid our bills so far."

"And Junior's involvement was . . ."

"New customers, new money. We could have scaled back the fun stuff and stayed in business, but we didn't want to. Danny brought Junior in. Junior believed in what we were doing. He was willing to finance us for a while, even to the extent of hiring some new people. Junior also had contacts in businesses that could benefit from what we could do."

"Fascinating," Viktor said. "So you were actually expanding as your original market share dwindled?"

"Yes. We kept our existing customers, but quit looking for more of the same."

"Was there resentment," Viktor asked, "between you and my son? He was changing the direction of what I am beginning to think I should refer to as _your_ company."

"No. No resentment at all. We would get excited, throwing ideas back and forth. We had so many plans for the future it was a strain sometimes to remember what we were doing at the moment."

Viktor shifted in his chair. "I don't quite understand why you left. Was it the woman?"

"No. She didn't leave me until after I had left CyberLook. And I had no idea that was coming, so it just wasn't a factor. The problem was that Junior was ruthless."

Owen paused for a moment, considering his audience. "And maybe that was my problem, not his. Junior wanted to restructure the company. Get rid of our sales team _per se_ , create something new he called a 'Customer Relationship Management Team.' He wanted to focus exclusively on our new customers. Not necessarily a bad idea, but in the process he wanted to eliminate Danny's position. He suggested that I become Operations Manager, that we hire somebody else or promote from within--my choice--to get a new Development Manager, and that we find someone new to lead the Relationship Management team."

It might have worked. Even now Owen found the idea tempting. He shook his head. "I wouldn't go along with it, so Junior talked to Danny about taking on the new job, but under me. I didn't know the conversation was going to happen, but Danny didn't believe that. So when he blew up, he did it at me. Danny had his own ideas about how to use the sales team, and they sounded pretty good. I thought he and Junior needed to talk more. After I got Danny calmed down, I told him I would fix it."

"Ten minutes later I came to the conclusion that I enjoyed helping people solve problems, but I didn't like my job. I could see the sense of what Junior was doing, but that sort of draconian decision-making about other people's lives wasn't anything I wanted to be a part of. So I left. Some people were a little shaken up, and Junior was pretty much forced to keep Danny afterwards or the whole thing might have fallen apart. It worked out okay for everybody. Mostly."

"Just like that?" Viktor asked. "You left after ten minutes' consideration?"

Owen nodded. "I'd been thinking about it for a while. This was only the most recent crisis. I don't know if I made the best choice--it certainly wasn't the best financially--but it felt right."

"And what is your current ownership?"

"Five percent, now. It used to be more, but the contracts we all signed when Junior came aboard included a commitment to stay for three years, or forfeit some shares and options." Owen shrugged. That might or might not end up making a difference. Any profits were being plowed back into the company. An IPO was just a dream at this stage. His five percent wouldn't be easy to sell, and could easily turn out to be worth nothing at all. A higher percentage of nothing would still be nothing.

"And Junior recently wanted to hire you?" Viktor asked. "From what I'm hearing, that surprises me. Oh, nothing against you, young man. But he should have been more perceptive."

"I got the impression he thought there was something wrong, but couldn't put his finger on it. I suppose he trusted me enough to hire me to figure it out. Or maybe he was desperate. But at that point, he had my company and my girlfriend. I didn't want to sell him my time to go with them."

"This is fascinating," Viktor said. "I hadn't realized we were already partners, in a sense."

Owen looked at him inquiringly.

"Oh, I have some interest in the company too. Junior obtained some of his capital from me."

Owen nodded. He'd suspected that.

Viktor steepled his fingers. "I have a favor to ask, sir. Will you, as a courtesy, mingle somewhat with key employees of CyberLook and see if you can get a feel for what was bothering Junior?" The old man's pale eyes pinned Owen to his chair. "I'll pay whatever you like. But my son is missing, and you are the person best qualified to delve into that aspect of the situation."

Owen thought about it. It gave him an angle, and maybe access, and he was already involved. Why not? "Yes, I'll do it. With the understanding that finding Shawna is my first priority. But, Viktor...no more guns."

Viktor threw his head back and laughed. "I like you, Mr. Tremaine. Or should I call you Owen? Yes, Owen. Very well, no more guns. Atkins! Tell Johnson to bring the car around."

Owen stood. His legs felt a little shaky. That seemed to be happening to him fairly often lately. "Good-bye, Mr. Bentley. Viktor. I'll do what I can."

When Atkins showed him out, Owen thought about punching him in the face. Might be going overboard with the tough-guy act, he told himself.

He left peaceably.
Chapter Ten

(Monday Afternoon--Owen)

**"H** ello?" Martina demanded.

Owen was willing to bet she didn't normally answer the phone that way. "I suppose this means there's no news."

"What? Oh! Owen. No, I've been calling people but so far nobody seems to know anything. I'm talking to them about scheduling a meeting with Shawna to see how they react, and so far nobody's twitched."

"Won't that cause a problem when she doesn't show up?"

"So far I've managed to get out of the conversations without actually scheduling anything. What's up? Did you find anything interesting?"

"I'm at a Laundromat near Andrea's apartment. I had a little unplanned meeting with Viktor Bentley Senior--at least I didn't plan it--but I can tell you about that later. Then it took me a while to get all the way to Rockport and find the place. Anyway, I was wondering if Andrea ever showed up, or if I could get you to call her again to verify she isn't home."

"Oh. Sorry, Owen, I'm such an idiot today. I should have expected you to call when you got there. No, she hasn't shown up here. And I just tried to call her at home not five minutes ago. Is that good enough?"

Owen grinned. Martina's self-proclaimed idiocy didn't seem to be much of a handicap. "It's perfect. You're perfect. I'll come by later, I have things to tell you." He hesitated. "Assuming you're still planning to be involved in this? It might be dangerous. I can--"

"Of course I am! Shawna's my partner, you know, and Bogart said something or other about how you're supposed to do something about it when bad things happen to your partner. I'm not going to argue with Bogart on this, he's the expert."

Bogart had been playing Sam Spade, and his partner had been killed. Owen hoped Shawna hadn't. "Yeah. Okay. You know, she may be fine."

Martina sobbed, once. "I keep telling myself that, and now I'm telling you. She's fine. She's fine, because I need her to be fine, and so do you. So I'll talk to you later." She hung up.

Owen stood staring at the phone in his hand until it beeped loudly. Just as well she'd hung up. He had no idea what to say to her. Giving himself a mental shake, he checked on Shadow, who waited in the car, and went back to the apartment building.

It somehow squatted in spite of its three stories. U-shaped, rectangular; all the apartments faced a central courtyard. There had obviously once been a swimming pool in the middle of it, but the hole had been filled in. The area was covered with now-cracked concrete. Brownish-yellow grass poked through the gaps. Two shades of blue tiles surrounding the pool had mostly come up, but there were enough left to see the pattern.

It reminded Owen of the building he and his father had lived in while Owen had been in high school, except that this place didn't have either the piles of trash or the derelicts burrowing in them. Too bad. One old guy (probably in his thirties) had been pretty helpful with Owen's math homework. Owen would like to find him now, if he was still alive, but had never been sure of the guy's real name. And he wouldn't be easy to find online even if he'd known the name. Or in a phone book either, Owen decided, since he was wasting time on nostalgia and once upon a time people had used those.

Owen checked the address again. Apartment 213. Okay, up one flight.

On his way up the wet steps, he narrowly avoided a collision with a dark-haired teenage boy carrying two boxes of what looked like groceries, piled high enough that the kid had to peer sideways around the edges.

"Whoa!" Owen sidestepped and flattened himself against the wall. The teenager, maybe seventeen or so, gave him a wide-eyed stare and scampered down the rest of the steps. Owen puffed out a surprised laugh and continued, smiling a little. Good thing there hadn't been a little old grandmother behind him. Oh well. Kids.

When he got to 213 he stood in front of the door, wondering if there was something clever he should be doing. He could go around to the back of the building, but chances were there wasn't any access to the second floor.

And anyway it would be stupid to try breaking into the apartment without first ringing the bell. If nobody answered, and the door was locked, he could check out the rear of the building.

Or not. The tough-guy act was maybe something he didn't have to maintain all day long, even if Martina _had_ mentioned Bogart.

So he tried the bell. No response.

On the other hand, he hadn't heard anything when he'd pushed the button. He knocked on the door.

"Just a minute!" he heard a voice call from inside. A few seconds later the door opened to reveal a dark-haired woman, probably two or three years younger than Owen.

"Back already?" she asked. Then, recovering quickly, "Oh! I'm sorry, I thought you were someone else. My, uh, friend just left. I thought maybe she forgot something." She bit her lip. "Anyway, can I help you?"

"I hope so." He'd been a little taken aback himself. She was only a few inches under his own height. He'd seen other women over six feet tall, but he'd also had more time to get used to their presence.

He smiled at her. "I'm Owen Tremaine," he began, "and I was wondering . . ." he trailed off as he saw her nodding forcefully.

"You're Owen, Shawna's friend Owen. Come on in. I should have recognized you from her description. Don't mind the dog, he won't bother you."

Dog? "Thanks." He entered, nodding as he stepped around a sleeping creature that might have been partly dog. It looked to Owen as if coyote or even wolf made up a large portion of its ancestry. It snored. She waved for him to sit on an ancient couch that had been covered with what looked like a Navajo blanket.

"Can I get you something? Tea, coffee, a Coke, something stronger?"

Owen started to refuse, but changed his mind. "A Coke would be great. With a glass of ice, if that's okay."

"Sure, we buy the three-liter bottles anyway, so you pretty much have to use a glass. We practically live on the stuff." She disappeared into the kitchen.

We? Owen took advantage of her absence to look around more carefully. It was a small one-bedroom unit. The Navajo blanket on the couch was joined by a dreamcatcher in the window. A set of shelves next to the bathroom door held books on the Tarot and other New Age topics. Incense burners and variously-shaped crystals were scattered about. On the dining-room table, which looked as if it had come from a thrift shop, were empty grocery bags. Above the table a picture of the teenager he'd seen on the stairs, showing him shirtless and laughing on the beach, hung on the wall.

A small stack of mail sat on a coffee table with a translucent plastic top. He riffled through the stack quickly. Bills, solicitations, something from a "Save the Whales" group, a personal letter from somebody named Alan Fist, possibly a boyfriend?

He heard her returning and stood to examine the shelves more closely. He recognized several Wiccan titles he'd seen in Shawna's collection. She'd talked him into reading some of them. He found the idea of worshiping a mother-goddess interesting, and most of their beliefs had struck him as surprisingly reasonable. But the same could be said of Christianity, and look what people got up to because of that. The only conclusion he'd come to was that Wicca looked like it might be fun to practice--if you could manage to take it seriously.

Andrea smiled at him as she came out of the kitchen with his Coke. "I guess you can see why Shawna and I get along so well," she said.

"At least you have some interests in common." Owen accepted the drink. "Listen, Andrea, I don't know if you've heard . . ."

She nodded quickly. "Sure. I know. I watch a lot of TV. Last night they said on the six o'clock news that Shawna was missing and wanted for questioning. Somebody was dead, too, but I didn't hear who." She wiped her hands on her pants. "I didn't know what to do. I haven't even gone to work today. It might cost me my job, but I don't want to be involved in any of it." She met Owen's gaze squarely. "I don't have all my papers. I can't talk to the police."

"You're from Mexico?"

She hesitated, then nodded. "Please, you must understand."

"I understand. I don't want to cause you any trouble. I just came here because Shawna's missing, and you were missing from your job. And you're her friend. I hoped you would know something."

Andrea bit her lip. "I wish I could help you. But...you should know, Shawna is not without resources."

"Resources?"

She waved a hand toward her bookshelves. "Yes, resources. Not everything in the world is visible in our daily lives. I cannot tell you where to find Shawna. I wish I could. But she is a good person, and she has strength. You should," she said, smiling at him, "simply have faith. She will come to you again."

He looked at her quizzically. She just smiled, apparently under the impression she'd been making sense. She hadn't been kidding.

Wow. Suddenly Owen couldn't think of anything else to ask her. He figured there was a good chance of a communication breakdown even if he did. He wasn't sure they lived in the same world, though maybe hers was a little nicer than the one he was saddled with.

"Thanks for your time, Andrea," he said finally. "For what it's worth, I think you should probably go to work. Martina will forgive you for not showing up earlier. And when the police check the shop, finding you gone is more likely to make them wonder about you than if you're simply there, nothing more interesting than a receptionist."

She tilted her head to the left. "Thank you, Owen. I will consider it." She reached out and surprised him with a hug. "And you, have faith."

Owen nodded. He picked up a pen from the coffee table and wrote his address, room number and phone number at the Wave Inn on an envelope. He tried not to think about the flaky air conditioner, to which he was now committing himself. "If anything comes up," he said, "or if you hear anything...please call me."

She agreed.

He had further business with her, but it could wait.
Chapter Eleven

(Monday, Late Afternoon--Owen)

**T** he rain had stopped while Owen was in Andrea's apartment, and the sky was clearing. He chose to think of it as an omen. Sooner or later, things had to start working out a little better. For somebody.

When he got to the marina, he wondered about the wisdom of walking out to the _Fusty Navel_ , still supposed to be off-limits, in plain sight--but he couldn't come up with a reasonable alternative. There were a few people about, cleaning and oiling and varnishing, generally doing the chores necessary to slow a boat's inevitable decay, but none were friends or close acquaintances.

None, as far as he knew, had any reason to notice him. Though that depended on what rumors had spread after he'd been led down the dock in handcuffs.

Deciding boldness was his only choice, he left Shadow in the car again (he would have to make all this up to the mutt later, somehow) and strode to the houseboat, trying not to be obvious about glancing around for reactions. But maybe, he thought wryly, he wasn't the center of the universe after all...given that nobody seemed to pay him any attention.

The police had left yellow crime-scene tape along the dock beside the boat, and on the two large doors (hatches, he reminded himself) to the main salon. They hadn't put anything on the forward hatch, though, possibly not recognizing it as an entrance in spite of the padlock. Owen was constantly surprised by how little most residents of a coastal city knew about boats, but in this case it seemed to have worked in his favor. Or maybe they'd just run out of tape.

Continuing under his apparent cloak of invisibility (however oxymoronic _that_ might be, he suddenly realized), he vaulted lightly onto the forward deck, unlocked the hatch, and entered the boat. He looked around just before closing it behind him, and still nobody seemed to care what he was doing. Shrugging, he latched it and turned toward the salon.

The boat had been thoroughly searched, and the searchers hadn't been too careful about putting things back where they'd come from. Owen stood still for a moment, wondering if he'd ever really be back to stay. It didn't feel like home anymore. It was actually more of a tomb--and not just for Leon. Part of Owen's life had ended here too. Though he'd gotten a far better deal than Leon had.

He sniffed the air. There was still a faint odor from the salon, and he switched quickly to breathing through his mouth. He didn't want to think about the source of the smell, or remember Leon at all, just then. Owen had an idea that if he did, he might try to _feel_ Leon's presence--here in the place where his friend had drunk so much beer, argued late into so many nights, and died so bloodily.

It was ridiculous. But he wasn't sure what might happen in here, given the opportunity. If ghosts existed, which he was fairly sure they didn't, but if they _did_ , Leon's would be found here. Not that he was afraid of Leon, exactly, but if he were in some sense still here...a deranged inner voice wondered aloud what death might have made of him.

Spooked, feeling foolish but with the backs of his arms nevertheless suddenly covered with goosebumps, he moved quickly to the old wooden breadbox he kept in the galley.

He'd bought the breadbox years ago from the same garage sale at which he'd found the spear. (Which someone had shoved in Leon's face, and where was it now?) He used the box to store keys, matches, and other small objects that didn't otherwise have a home. It was old, and decorated with a carving of a man catching a huge fish, with the fishing line snaking through the air. But any self-respecting fish would have an excellent chance of dislodging the hook before the faceless angler could take in all that slack.

Owen hesitated for a moment, staring at the fish and the hook that was so clearly poking out of the side of its mouth, remembering Leon and the spear again, then put it firmly out of his mind. It was absurd for a grown man to be afraid of a breadbox.

He opened it. His Jeep keys were gone.

Gone. The floor disappeared beneath his feet, leaving him hanging over an abyss. If Shawna had needed the Jeep, she would have used her own keys. She wouldn't have needed these. So if she hadn't borrowed the Jeep, and it was missing--who had taken the keys?

Leon, maybe? Owen grasped at the thought. Leon knew where the keys were, and he was here when...when he was killed.

Grimly, Owen searched the boat, hoping desperately he'd find the keys had been set aside somewhere. Or possibly thrown. But he couldn't believe Shawna had taken them.

If Leon had taken the keys, intending to use the Jeep, and been surprised by an intruder...if the keys were still in the boat it meant the intruder probably didn't take the Jeep. Probably didn't take it to Junior's place, probably didn't take Shawna away in it. Probably hadn't had close to a full day of additional time to dispose of the Jeep (and Shawna?) because Owen had decided to be clever instead of telling the police the Jeep was missing.

After nearly an hour of searching, he gave up. It was still possible, he told himself, that the police had found the keys and taken them for some reason. And if they hadn't, the longer he kept looking for the keys the longer it would be before they knew to look for the Jeep.

He needed to call Detective Gordon. But when he picked up the phone he found himself dialing the number for Signs & Portraits instead.

When Martina answered he didn't know how to begin. After saying "Hello" a couple of times, she hung up. He called her back.

"Hello?" she demanded.

"Martina? It's me, Owen."

"Oh." Her voice suddenly sounded smaller than he remembered, as if she were unsure how to react to him. "Was that you a second ago?"

"Yeah. It was. Sorry about that." Whatever she thought of him now, it was about to get worse. "Listen, I have some news--"

"Owen, the police were here. They just recently figured out Shawna didn't work at CyberLook anymore, I guess. Anyway, they asked if I knew where you were. I told them I didn't, but I don't know if they believed me. One of them kept staring at me as if he expected me to flip out and start stabbing people right and left. And they really wanted to find you, Owen. They made it sound like you were involved, like maybe _you_ had been killing people."

"I don't know. Maybe I have been, in a way. I hope not."

"But--" she chopped herself off. He waited. "Owen, that's ridiculous. What's happened? What is it I don't know?"

She sounded businesslike again. Owen shook himself. "I thought I would be able to tell you that Shawna was probably fine," he said. "Hiding, and I don't know why she would do that, but probably okay. But now it looks as if I might have been wrong. There was some information I didn't give the police, and I don't know how critical it would have been, but I held it back when I shouldn't have. I need to call them now. I just wanted to talk to you first, let you know what's happening."

She sighed. "Okay, Owen. Calm down. Just tell me what's happened."

He told her about the missing Jeep, and the missing keys. When he finished, she was silent for a few moments. He waited, wondering what she would say to him. He'd been an idiot, and it was Shawna's _life_ he'd risked. "Look," she said just before he was compelled to say something to be sure she was still on the line. "I agree you should call the police. But it probably doesn't _matter_ about the Jeep, you know. Chances are, if the killer had it, he got rid of it a couple of days ago. And he didn't leave prints or anything at either your place or Junior's--or the police would have them. They'd be looking for him, not you. So he probably didn't leave any clues in the Jeep either."

"True." He hadn't thought of it that way. "I just feel..."

"Responsible? Because of course you feel responsible, you're the kind of guy who would. But listen to me, Owen. You did none of this. You are not responsible for the...the _things_ this killer has done, whatever they turn out to be. When you didn't mention the Jeep, it was for a good reason." She was silent for a few seconds. "Go ahead and call the police, and come by my place when it's over." She gave him the address. "I'm closing up shop here for the day, but we need to talk and figure out what to do next."

Owen agreed. Using her no-nonsense businesslike voice, she told him to cheer up, that Shawna might still be okay. If Owen hadn't heard her sobbing before, he might not have been able to detect it now. She hung up before he could say anything. Again.

Probably for the best that she did that, he decided. He felt like an ass for dragging her into it, and knew what she would say to that, and forcibly pulled his thoughts out of a useless spiral of guilt and impotence.

He took several deep breaths, remembered Shawna in some of the poses she assumed for meditation, and almost managed to laugh. He smiled, to see how it felt. Not bad. Okay, time to face the music.

Calmer, he dialed Detective Gordon's cell phone number.

"Gordon, CCPD, what now?"

"Detective Gordon? This is Owen Tremaine?"

"Tremaine? Hold on a sec." Owen heard him tell someone he was pulling over. After a few moments he came back. "Tremaine. We need to talk."

"I know. I heard you were looking for me. And I have information for you. My Jeep--"

"Why don't we meet downtown, at Police Headquarters?"

Oh boy. "Are you planning to arrest me?"

"Arrest you?" Gordon asked. Owen heard him repeating the question to someone else. "I don't know," he said to Owen. "I'd like to, because I've had a really lousy day and I don't think much of you right now, but I guess it depends on you. Do you want to be arrested? Do you want to confess to something?"

"No, and no. Why don't we meet somewhere else? Neutral ground, maybe."

Gordon snorted. "Neutral ground? Who are you, Sun Tzu? Karl von Clauswitz? You know, on 'Star Trek' entering the Neutral Zone never seemed to work out all that well."

"Is that a 'no'?"

"No, it's just a bad day. Where?"

Owen thought about it. He looked at his watch. Nearly five o'clock. "The City Diner? I'm not far from downtown, so I could be there by five-thirty. And I haven't eaten since this morning."

"Huh. Imagine that. Yeah, that's good. I'll meet you there in an hour or so. Bringing somebody along with me. If you beat us there, order up some fried mushrooms. You're buying." He hung up.

Owen cradled the phone and made a final pass through the boat, piling up clothes and toiletries he would need--assuming again that he wouldn't be in jail. He didn't plan to come back here any time soon.

He discovered the police (or someone) had taken his 7mm Browning hunting rifle and his Winchester 12-gauge shotgun, but had missed his Colt .45 model 1911 pistol. Sloppy of somebody. He put the Colt, and a box of ammunition, in the pile he was taking with him.

It occurred to him that he hadn't checked his messages. He went back to the main salon and found his answering machine smashed on the floor close to where Leon's body had been.

He hoped he hadn't missed anything important.

Before he left, he picked up the phone and made another call.
Chapter Twelve

(Monday Evening--Owen)

**"O** wen," Carl LaMott asked, staring as Gordon and Stanley entered the City Diner, "what the hell have you gotten me into now?"

Owen had caught Carl before he left the _Caller-Times_ offices, and offered to take him to dinner. Carl had agreed, saying he'd done some research on the Bentleys and found something interesting.

At the table, Owen had just finished explaining that he was meeting a detective and wanted Carl handy in case he happened to find himself arrested. He ignored Carl's question and raised an arm, waving to get Gordon's attention. Carl subsided for the moment, the look in his eye promising a later discussion.

Gordon and Stanley arrived at the table, taking seats opposite Owen and Carl. Carl nodded at both, smiling sweetly at Stanley. Owen looked a question at him, but Carl returned a slight shrug. Owen was paying the price for dragooning him into this. Owen shrugged back apologetically. Carl didn't appear to buy it.

Gordon introduced Stanley as another policeman who was working with him on the case. He looked at Carl briefly, then asked about the status of the fried mushrooms. A waitress appeared with them as if on cue, and they all pretended they were friends meeting after work as she took their orders.

Once she left, Gordon looked hard at Owen. "In spite of appearances, this is not a social occasion, Mr. Tremaine. We have some questions for you. But before we get into that, could you please explain what Mr. LaMott is doing here with us tonight?"

"Aha!" Carl cried. "I am recognized!" He turned to Owen. "I am, of course, a well-known columnist. This happens all the time." He smiled happily and snagged one of Gordon's mushrooms.

"Yeah," Gordon said. He moved his plate closer to his body and picked up a fork, making it clear that Carl was welcome to try again, if he didn't mind being punctured. "I read your stuff. Mostly I like it. Your article about the police department not being much use to the community irritated a lot of people. You were right about a lot of it," he continued, obviously surprising Carl, "though maybe it's more complicated than you made it look. Mostly the services we discontinued, like unlocking people's car doors when they leave their keys inside, and even occasionally giving rides home to people who've had a little too much to drink, we hadda stop because of lawsuits from private-sector people who make their living from that stuff. It cost too many taxpayer dollars to keep fighting it, so we stopped."

"Could be," Carl said. "Maybe it isn't your fault, or the department's fault. But if you can't provide actually useful services, maybe we should stop paying for them, and modify the CCPD budget to reflect that."

Gordon nodded. "Figured you'd say that. But this isn't what we're here for. So, Mr. LaMott, why _are_ you here?"

Carl grinned. "I was tricked into in by my friend Owen. He's concerned that he might get arrested. But I'm not here as a journalist, unless I have to be. Everything said here is off the record unless Owen tells me otherwise, and so far he's not showing any sign of respect for the people's right to know."

Owen spoke up. "I don't want to hide behind a lawyer," he said quietly, "but I'd like to be sure I don't get railroaded either. So Carl's here to bail me out as needed, and to be a witness if necessary."

Gordon shrugged. "We're not charging you with anything at this point. Before we get started, though," he said, putting his recorder on the table, "let's just make all this official." He asked Owen and Carl to identify themselves on the tape, gave his own name and position, and said Stanley was present to assist if needed. Gordon got Carl to repeat that the conversation would be off the record until and unless Owen was arrested. He then read Owen and Carl the Miranda warning.

"Go ahead, Mr. Tremaine," Gordon said finally. "Tell us what your information is, something about your Jeep." He looked at Stanley and rolled his eyes.

"Okay," Owen said. What had that been about? "It was stolen."

"Really? Any idea by whom? And when did this happen?"

"I don't know. Sometime during the weekend."

"Uh huh. You know, Mr. Tremaine, that's interesting to me. Do you find it interesting, Mr. Stanley?"

Owen thought Stanley looked ready to arrest him and lock him up for a life sentence. Or longer.

"Oh well," Gordon continued. "I'm sure he does. Just when did you notice your Jeep had been 'stolen,'" he asked, making quoting motions in the air, "Mr. Tremaine?"

Carl was following the conversation intently. Owen decided to pretend Gordon wasn't pissing him off. "I noticed it on Sunday, as soon as I got back to the boat. I thought at first that maybe Leon had borrowed it, but...anyway, later I completely forgot about it until I was ready to leave and go to the hotel."

"Hell of a thing to forget," Gordon said.

"I guess when I saw Leon I realized he didn't have the Jeep, and somehow when we were talking about him I just didn't think about it anymore. I had a lot on my mind."

"Uh huh," Gordon said. Stanley looked disgusted.

"So," Owen continued, unable to fight a compulsion to confess, "I was going to tell you about it, but then I thought Shawna might have borrowed it. She's had her own set of keys for quite a while."

Gordon nodded. "You thought she was hiding from us, and you decided to help her."

Denying it was pointless. Gordon could throw a fit if he wanted. "I didn't know what was going on. So I decided to get more information before I did anything."

Gordon leaned back in his chair. "Damn no-smoking rule," he said. "You know, it takes something away from eating out when you can't light a cigarette anymore."

"Yeah," Carl agreed. "It subtracts from the atmosphere."

"Hey. My point here is that personally I like to smoke. This law they passed irritates me, and probably hurts tourism, which this city can't afford. What I'm saying," he said, making eye contact with Owen, "is this. I understand when somebody decides to think for himself. I even approve of it." He waved a hand. "But let's get back to the subject. Work with me here, Mr. Tremaine. Tell me what information you thought you needed before you could talk about the Jeep."

"The keys," Owen said. "Shawna had her own set." He thought about the next part, phrasing it carefully. "It has recently come to my attention that the keys I left in my boat are not in their usual place."

"Yeah?" Gordon asked. Owen glanced at Carl, who was staring at him in fascination. Stanley was thin-lipped, his face white with anger.

All Owen could do was finish. "Shawna wouldn't need them. So the killer probably took the Jeep. Unless you guys took them as evidence?"

"Wasn't us," Gordon said. "So now you figure your girlfriend's not using your Jeep to get away, so it's okay we should know about it."

Owen felt the abyss open beneath him again. Some part of him had clung to the idea that the police had the keys, and he'd been worried still that telling them about the Jeep might hurt Shawna, but now all vestiges of comfort and stability were dropping away. He remembered his dream of the night before, with Shawna pulling Leon's dead body out to sea, and was unable to speak.

"Tremaine!" Gordon said sharply.

Owen looked at him.

"We already knew about the Jeep. It was abandoned, and somebody called a towing service. They noticed a bloody handprint and called us. There were two smears, actually. Junior Bentley's blood type, Tremaine. And Leon Purvis's too. With your girlfriend's fingerprints in the blood, and on the steering wheel. We'll get the DNA test results back later, but I think we all know what we're going to find."

Owen's mind seemed to have shut down. He couldn't make sense of any of this.

"That's why we're not arresting _you_ right now, Mr. Tremaine. But it don't look so good for her. So we would like very much for you to give us all the information you have, right now. Do you have any idea where Shawna McPhee might be?"

Owen thought of Andrea, and her little speech about Shawna's "resources," and opened his mouth. "No," he heard himself say. "I have no idea." He closed his eyes and sank back, suddenly exhausted.

"Shit," Gordon said, and clicked off the recorder. Owen heard him and Stanley sliding back in their chairs.

Carl spoke up, his voice sounding unnaturally cheerful. "Ah, one moment, gentlemen."

Owen opened his eyes.

Carl was grinning. "I do have a question you might be able to help me with."

"Not my job," Gordon said.

"True. So, Agent Stanley, what interest does the FBI have in all this? Those pesky eco-terrorists, maybe?"

FBI? Gordon's face was blank.

Stanley looked alert and resigned. "I thought you might have recognized me, Mr. LaMott."

"Sure. That's my job." Carl turned to Owen. "This guy went to the public library a while back, wanting to get all their records of who was reading what. Identifying subversives, I guess."

Stanley glared coldly. "The request was legal under the Patriot Act, Mr. LaMott. And we had a real need for that information."

"I'm sure you did," Carl said. "Just happened I was there when you guys met with the head librarian, and you backed off when I mentioned I might write a column."

"It was illegal," Stanley said evenly, "for the librarian to notify you. We could have put you both in a federal prison. Also part of the Patriot Act."

"Notify me? I was there doing research, that's all."

Stanley shook his head slightly. "I'm not going to argue with you. You mentioned eco-terrorists. What's your source?"

"Research," Carl said promptly. "Like in the library. Except this time I did some reading in back issues of the _Caller-Times_. Turns out both Junior Bentley and his father have been threatened by environmental groups. Viktor's a real-estate developer with a shady reputation, and both of them apparently used to go for big-game hunting and trophy-fishing expeditions. Viktor Senior also took people on well-publicized trips for business reasons, supposedly. Apparently he once got splashed with cow blood in New Orleans. Anyway, I thought that was sort of intriguing given what's been happening."

Carl nodded at Owen, who was staring at him. "And Leon? I remembered him a little better after I thought about it for a while. He was sometimes a fishing guide, wasn't he? I don't know how he's connected otherwise, and I'd about decided this was all a false trail, but you know what? Suddenly I see the FBI involved. Isn't _that_ interesting, Mr. Stanley?"

Stanley stood up, nodded politely, and walked outside.

Gordon watched him go, then turned to Owen. "Mr. Tremaine, I don't know about this stuff your friend is saying. But...stay in touch. Leave me a number if you can, or call me every day." He noticed Carl was about to speak. "This is _not_ a violation of anyone's rights, Mr. LaMott. I'm asking Mr. Tremaine to do this voluntarily, for his own safety." He looked at Owen. "Okay?"

"Sure," Owen said, lost in thought. "Fine."

Gordon looked at him for a few seconds, then snorted and stood up. "Thanks for the mushrooms." He walked out, following Stanley.

The waitress arrived with food for all of them. "Damn," Carl said. "I was hoping they'd tell us more."

Owen shrugged. "Carl . . ."

"What?"

"We're not looking for a story here."

"What? Oh." Carl thought about it. "Yeah. You're right. Just a reflex, I guess. Anyway, it looks like you're off the hook on the Jeep thing. I mean," he continued when Owen glanced sharply at him, "it turned out not to matter that you didn't mention it, that's all." He picked up his fork. "Are you still planning to look for Shawna yourself?"

Owen didn't answer.

Carl nodded. "Shit. I thought so." He made a face, but shrugged and pulled a plate over. "Come on, let's eat, then you can take me home. I need my beauty sleep."

Owen ate, but didn't really taste the food. Based on her mail, he was pretty sure Andrea was involved in at least one environmental group.

* * *

**G** ordon found Stanley out in the parking lot. "Patriot Act?" he asked. "Eco-terrorists?"

Stanley shook his head. "We were after a kidnapper at the library." He shrugged, looking a little embarrassed. "It was a desperation move. He'd blown up a car with a homemade bomb. We were looking for anyone who might know how. We dropped the inquiry because the guy blew himself up a little later--regardless of what Mr. LaMott thinks he accomplished."

Gordon nodded. "I remember hearing about that. How about the eco-terrorists?"

Stanley twitched a shoulder. "We can check it out. I'll make some calls in the morning. But I doubt anything like that's going on, with the missing kids and all. Too complicated an explanation." He looked at his watch. "If we hurry to a TV we can still catch the spot they're running about Miss Bradshaw."

Gordon looked at him. He was pretty sure one of Stanley's FBI buddies would tape it. If they didn't already have a copy.

Gordon unlocked his car and got into the driver's seat while Stanley climbed in on the other side. There was sand on the carpet and even a little on the dash, reminding Gordon he ought to rinse off the undercarriage to get rid of any salt he'd picked up at the beach. Otherwise it would probably start rusting by tomorrow. He started the car and glanced at Stanley.

Huh. Patriot Act? He'd nearly forgotten it had even happened.

Whaddaya know.
Chapter Thirteen

(Monday Night--Owen)

**O** wen drove through the growing darkness toward the address Martina had given him. Off the highway to his right were odd, spindly structures. He was slightly embarrassed not to know what they were. He'd always figured they were probably oil refineries or something similarly industrial, though.

Normally he'd be unsympathetic to such obvious examples of what he considered exploitation, but tonight he was struck by their strange, almost unearthly beauty.

They were eerily illuminated with hundreds of small white pinpricks of light, their dense thickets of skeletal towers reaching up into the indigo sky as if they composed a miniature city designed by some alien race of eldritch engineers. Gouts of flame flared sporadically from the tops of some of the towers, and smoke was carried away by the offshore winds in straight lines that put Owen in mind of contrails, as if the alien city were in some sense moving across the earth.

Maybe it was. Maybe the multi-legged oil rigs he'd seen out of town, or offshore on a clear day (or night, and weren't they lit up with small white lights too?) were both sentry posts and scouts, constantly peering out in search of new territory for the eldritch city. Probably a cruel, cold and ancient race lived within the towers, and the sentries would also be on the lookout for especially succulent humans to drag back for the decadent pleasures of the insectile Lords and Ladies who dwelt in their opulent (though of course very small) palaces.

Yeah, that was probably it. But he needed to watch the road a little more closely if he wanted to arrive at his destination. Regretfully, he let the fantasy slip away, though not without a brief moment of speculation as to the exact nature of the games the Little People (as he had christened them) might enjoy with their defenseless prey.

He was still smiling when he pulled up to Martina's place. She answered the door wearing the same clothes she'd worn earlier at the office, and he got the sense that she hadn't relaxed for a moment all day. He could almost hear the high-pitched twanging of jangled nerves. The odors of Italian cooking escaped through the door.

"Hey, Owen," she said. "You look different somehow. Calmer, maybe."

"Really? I guess I do feel a little better. My friend Carl and I ate at the City Diner a little while ago."

"That'd do it," she agreed. "Come on in. I just finished dinner myself. Want some coffee? And my fence is pretty good, so we can put Shadow out back. I blocked the only big hole with some firewood earlier. I figured he's probably had enough of being confined for one day."

Did Shadow even need him anymore? Leon's dog suddenly seemed to have friends everywhere. Owen put Shadow in the yard and sat at the table drinking his coffee while Martina cleaned up after her meal.

"Smells good," he said.

"Oh...I like to cook. Are you still hungry? I have leftovers."

He smiled. "Nope. We had lots of extra food, because the cop and the FBI guy left before their meals showed up. We did our best, but I think Carl's dogs are going to end up having the feast of their lives on what we didn't finish. Carl said he would eat it later, but I've known him long enough to know better. Those are the two most-pampered Golden Retrievers in the history of the world." And yes, he'd saved some for Shadow. But she probably had something better. No need to worry his head over it; the Friends of Shadow would take care of everything.

He saw his offhand reference to Gordon and Stanley was having the desired effect. Revenge, however unjustified, was sweet.

"Uh huh. Owen? Are you going to tell me what happened, or shall I just scream for a while first?"

She appeared to be serious. "Um, sure. I was just . . ."

"Teasing?" She smiled at him. "Go ahead and delay some more. I have a feeling this is going to be a long story. I'm going to take a shower and change clothes. There's plenty of coffee in the pot if you want it."

* * *

**S** he came back in a flannel robe. By that time Owen had relocated to the couch and was leafing through a magazine dedicated to desktop publishing. She settled in across from him in an easy chair, gulped coffee, and nodded firmly. "Time, Owen. Talk."

He decided to go through the day in chronological order. She was attentive, nodding as he made points. Several times she seemed on the verge of interrupting, such as when he mentioned being threatened with a gun and when he described Andrea's strange final speech, but each time she waved for him to continue. When he finished, she sat quietly for a moment. Owen waited, giving her time to think.

"This guy Carl," she said. "He's a good friend? That's his car you're driving?"

"Sure."

"What do you think of his eco-terrorist theory?"

Owen thought about it. It had a surface plausibility. But..."Let me tell you about Carl. Last summer I bought a new Zodiac inflatable to use as a dinghy for my houseboat. I didn't really need it, because I don't take the big boat out much. But it was a good deal. And it was a new toy, which was maybe the most important point." He checked to see if she was listening. She watched him gravely, sipping her coffee.

"So Carl and I decided to go play with it. We anchored the houseboat in fairly deep water on a calm day, and got the Zodiac over the side. It came with an outboard motor, which we wanted to test while we fished from the little boat. It was sort of our excuse for being out there. Anyway, I climbed into the dinghy so Carl could hand down the outboard. I was busy putting stuff in a cooler when Carl stepped in, with the outboard in his hands." He grinned briefly. "He actually had pretty good balance. But I'd only tied one end of the dinghy, and he stepped down at the other end. So the little boat moved away from the big boat," he said, demonstrating with his hands, "and Carl teetered on the side for a bit, then fell into the water."

She laughed. "With the outboard?"

"Yep. Sank it into the briny deep. Fortunately he did let go of it, so he managed to escape drowning." He shook his head. "We never did see if it would have worked." He paused. "I eventually decided to let Carl back in the boat, in spite of his sins. Turned out he knew how to row, too."

She laughed again. He smiled at her. "I got another outboard later on, though. And it was also a really good deal."

"So, the point about Carl?"

"Sometimes he's a little enthusiastic. He means well, but he's not careful."

She nodded. "Okay, eco-terrorists taken with a grain of salt. But it _is_ odd that the FBI would be there."

"Sure it is. But I'd swear Stanley had no idea what Carl was talking about."

"That doesn't mean Carl was wrong," she pointed out.

"No, it doesn't. At least not about terrorists. But on the other hand, if Stanley hadn't heard of eco-terrorist involvement, he must have had some _other_ reason for being there before Carl sprang his theory on us. So I'd have to say Stanley's presence is still a mystery."

She nodded thoughtfully. "Okay. What was the bit about Andrea at the end of your conversation with her? You sounded like you thought she was nuts or something. You know, there are lots of different religions and not everybody--"

"Whoa," Owen said gently. "It wasn't that. Well, maybe I do think she's a little nuts," he conceded. "But the interesting part happened earlier."

"What do you mean?"

"That kid I almost ran into on the stairs. He was carrying groceries."

"So?"

"So he had to be carrying them _to_ somewhere. And there were grocery bags on the table in Andrea's apartment. And a picture of the kid on the wall."

"So he came from the apartment. So what? It's quite a leap to assume he took the groceries to Shawna. That _is_ where you're going with this, right?"

Owen grinned at her. "Gimme a little credit here, lady. I gots my reasons."

She gave him a sour look. Owen figured she wanted to believe him. Probably why she was fighting so hard.

"Okay," she said. "Tell me, oh Great One. What are you leaving out?"

"A pronoun." He continued quickly when he saw her brows drawing together. "Andrea said her friend had just left when she opened the door. But she said _she_ had just left. The kid was a boy. Why would she lie about something like that? She must've been worried I'd seen him. But what if I had? What difference would it make?"

"Tell me."

"The only thing I can think of is that he was carrying groceries. So if she didn't want me to associate him and his groceries with her, there had to be a reason."

Martina nodded. "Got it. She might have recognized you, from pictures maybe, and even if she didn't she was staying home and not answering the because of what happened with Shawna. So you figure if she lied, it was probably about Shawna." She eyed him skeptically. "So that's it? I follow you, but there are holes in it. What if she just misspoke? Or had some other reason to dissociate herself from that teenager? This is pretty weak, Owen."

"That's what I thought, too. I was telling myself not to jump for joy the whole time I was there. But then she made that speech at the end about Shawna's 'resources,'" he said, making quotation marks in the air. He stopped, realizing he was imitating Gordon, then shrugged and went on. "It just seemed ridiculous. And the initial lie, if it was a lie, was pretty clumsy. Basically I think she's just not very good at deceiving people."

Martina cocked her head to the left, reaching up to push hair out of her eyes. "Okay, it all fits. Which doesn't mean you're right, but I'll agree it's grounds for optimism, and we could use some of that." She paused, looking directly at Owen. "But all that happened _before_ you found out the keys to your Jeep were missing. You were all messed up when you called earlier, thinking it was your fault the cops hadn't found the Jeep, and you sounded as if you thought something had happened to Shawna. Nothing's happened since then to cheer you up, as far as I know. So why are you happy again?"

Owen shrugged. "Time passed, I guess. I realized, while I was eating, that being wrong about part of what happened didn't mean I was wrong about the rest." He stood up and began pacing between the dining area and the kitchen. "I was convinced Shawna had taken the Jeep. I still don't understand about the keys, because she didn't need them. But the cops did find her fingerprints, so maybe she'd lost her keys somewhere."

"But doesn't that mean--"

"The _point_ here is that Andrea's behavior is reason enough by itself to think she's helping Shawna hide someplace. Never mind the Jeep and the keys, that's a separate question. And since I flat don't believe that Andrea and Shawna are _both_ homicidal lunatics," he spread his hands, "I'd say they probably have what they think are good reasons for whatever they're doing."

"Great," Martina said. "Now what?"

"Sleep, I guess. It's not all that late, but I'm tired. Tomorrow I want to go by CyberLook and then maybe see what Andrea gets up to when she's not in the office."

"Okay," she said, "but I meant now what about telling the police all this? You can tell that Gordon guy you were talking about what you think is going on with Andrea."

He looked at her. "No. I can't, for two reasons. Andrea says she's an illegal from Mexico--though I did notice all her books were in English, and she's pretty tall for a Mexican. But it's possible she's telling the truth. Maybe Gordon could use that to pressure her, or maybe he'd let it slide, but I don't know what would happen and it's not something I'm willing to risk on her behalf."

Martina nodded, unsmiling but with a glint in her eye Owen suspected was humor. "Yeah, it's funny about that illegal immigrant thing. I mean, we didn't ask many questions when we hired her, but she has no accent at all. But never mind that--what was your second reason?"

"I guess it's really just an exercise in logic. If I'm right that Andrea's helping Shawna, with both of them involved--well, maybe they have a good reason for what they're doing. It's not up to me to decide they should talk to the police. And if I'm wrong, there's no reason for Andrea to take the risk of talking to the police anyway."

"Uh huh." She put her cup down on the coffee table. "Owen...you do know you can't save the whole world, don't you?"

"Huh?"

"You started off trying to rescue Shawna, or protect her from the police. Now you're protecting Andrea."

Oh. Maybe he was. But so what? "I'm just trying to do what I can." He pointed at her. "And so are you. You're trying to take care of _me_. You're worried about me."

She blushed.

"Hah!" he said, grinning. "Caught you!"

She smiled slowly and looked into his eyes. "You're tired. So I won't hold your behavior against you. Would you like to stay here tonight?"

"Uh . . ."

She batted her eyes at him, then snorted. "Oh come _on_ , Owen. I have a spare room. It has a bed in it. You can sleep there. Unless you need something from your hotel?"

He shook his head, telling himself he was relieved. "No, actually I have more stuff in the car than I do back there. So yes, I'd like that very much. I hate hotels anyway. Just one thing I'd like to ask you, though."

"Yes?"

"It's about your car. Can I borrow it tomorrow?"

* * *

**O** wen woke to the smell of frying bacon. He lay still for a moment, unsure of where he was or why he was so comfortable. When he saw the fluffy pink towel Martina had left for him on the chair next to the bed, he remembered where he was.

It took him longer to realize why he was so comfortable. But it came to him as he rose and headed to the guest bathroom to take a quick shower. Martina was cooking breakfast. She would almost certainly make enough for two. Nobody had cooked breakfast for Owen since his mother had died when he was twelve.

He hummed happily as he showered, stumped only briefly when he realized the obvious result of showering in a woman's house. He decided he could accept the consequences of his actions, and soon sat at the kitchen table, watching Martina cook.

She stopped and looked at him. "Don't tell me you're a morning person. You live on a boat. You're self-employed. You used to work for a computer company. You can't possibly be alert right now."

"Not usually," Owen conceded. "But today's special. Today, I smell pretty. You have a wonderful collection of exclusively rose-scented bath products, by the way. Woke me right up."

Martina giggled. "Oh. I didn't think of that. Tell you what, I'll make it up to you with breakfast. I was about to fry some eggs, but I can scramble 'em if you like."

"Fried is great. Over easy?"

"Sure. How many?"

"Hmm." He made a show of thinking about it. "It'll be a busy day...let's see...how about six or so?"

"Oh God. You're not kidding, are you."

"No," he said. "Six would be great. Really."

She nodded fatalistically. "Guys," she said, and frowned. "I'd better make some more bacon too."

Owen smiled and drank coffee. This was going to be a good day.
Chapter Fourteen

(Tuesday Morning--Owen)

**O** wen parked in a "Visitor" spot outside CyberLook's new offices. The company had relocated to the third floor of a four-story concrete building. They'd needed the additional elbow room for their expanded staff, but Owen had been fond of the funky old warehouse he and Danny had originally set up shop in. It had been only halfheartedly converted to office space, but it had character. The new building was blandly tepid. And dull. Boring, too. Probably they didn't throw wild parties anymore.

Although Owen had approved floor plans and negotiated the lease for the new building just before leaving CyberLook, coming here made him faintly uneasy. It was almost a familiar place, but a familiar place seen through a funhouse mirror. The nagging sense of unreality intensified when he was asked to show his ID before being announced. Even six months ago he would have wandered in to be greeted with smiles and backslaps.

He'd finally realized, after a night's sleep and three cups of coffee, that it made no sense to borrow Martina's car. She'd agreed to loan it to him the night before when he'd pointed out that too many people, from Viktor Bentley's thugs to Andrea and her mysterious teenager, had seen him driving Carl's Oldsmobile. He would probably follow Andrea, at least, later in the day--and there was no reason to be obvious about it.

But anyone could use a car's license plate to track down its owner online these days. Maybe he was being overly cautious...but he could afford a rental, and it was cheap insurance.

And Andrea would recognize Martina's car. Owen decided he shouldn't try to think without caffeine.

They'd left Shadow in Martina's back yard, ignoring his mournful looks. Well, Owen had ignored them. Martina had fed him bacon--first some of the cooked pieces Owen had planned to eat himself, then a sizable chunk of raw meat. Owen had stopped to buy dog food for Shadow the night before, but it didn't seem to be needed. Fortunately, Martina had stepped in to save Owen from all the fats and cholesterol--and to take care of Shadow too. Somebody needed to.

Owen gave Frank Serno's name when asked who he was visiting. He had a pretext ready, and anyway Serno was the most likely person to actually be in the office at eight-thirty in the morning.

When Owen finally got past the receptionist, Serno smarmed behind a newly-installed door, which blocked what had been an open hallway when Owen had last visited. Serno's unconvincing smile was surprising, not so much by its presence as by the evidence of dental work.

Serno had always had a rabbity look to him, with a gap between his large front teeth, but the gap had been closed. Owen looked more closely. The teeth seemed smaller, too. How had they done that?

"Hey Frank," he said. "Nametags now?" He pointed to Serno's, with his name and "CFO" in large letters, and to the "Guest" badge he'd been asked to wear when in the offices.

Serno sighed. "Lots of changes, Owen. Come on back, we'll grab a conference room."

Owen followed him past the programmers' bullpen and the area previously reserved for the sales team's cubicles, which had been converted to an open meeting area. There were several free-standing whiteboards scattered about.

Owen glanced at their contents as he passed. Some major new project seemed to be in the works. Part of one drawing looked as if it dealt with some satellite-based communication software ideas Owen and his team had been playing with before he left, but there were changes. He couldn't interpret the diagrams and acronyms on the other whiteboards at all.

Serno had a keycard hanging from a plastic reel on his belt. He pressed the card to a pad installed next to a door and let it go. The reel whirred and the keycard snapped home. After a moment the lock clunked loudly, and Serno opened the door. Did that hefty wallop cost extra? Maybe it would impress potential investors....

Serno peered inside, then waved for Owen to follow him in. "Good time of day for you to drop by," he said. "Most of the programmers don't show up till ten at the earliest. We probably need to do something about that, but at least the conference rooms are empty in the mornings."

Typical bean-counter reaction. Sure, the programmers didn't show up until ten, or maybe even noon--but they were also likely to be working past midnight when they needed to. Serno, who would be on his way home by four-thirty at the latest, just didn't get it. For him, the appearance of productivity outweighed actual results.

That sort of thing had always bothered Owen, and he found himself tensing to continue the old argument. But Serno would never change. Also, Serno was the CFO. Owen told himself the Chief Financial Officer wouldn't be likely to get his way in something so far removed from his training and experience. And Owen wasn't here to argue with him, anyway.

The walls of the conference room were covered with whiteboards, but these had been wiped clean. Owen sat across a cherry-wood table from Serno, who was busily picking at a splotch of mustard on his blaze-orange tie.

"Hungry?" Owen asked.

Serno gave him a faintly startled look, then glanced down and laughed. "No, just hoping my wife doesn't kill me." He closed his eyes for a moment. "Bear with me, Owen. I'm a little shaken up here. I've had to handle the office, and if I think about what's going to happen to the company I start to get a little jittery." He smoothed his tie and leaned forward. "I just can't believe he's dead."

"Dead?"

"Oh, Jesus, you didn't know? They found Junior's body yesterday morning. The police were here asking questions in the afternoon, and they wanted us to keep quiet about it. But it was on the ten o'clock news last night, so I guess someone talked."

Owen swallowed. "Ah...any other bodies?"

"What?" Serno looked at him strangely. "No, not as far as I know. Why?"

Owen cleared his throat, annoyed with himself. Gordon had been looking for Shawna last night. So he must have thought she was still alive.

"Oh!" Serno said. "That's right, you used to go out with Shawna." He looked embarrassed. "I'm sorry, Owen, I thought you knew. It's been all over the news this morning too."

Owen breathed carefully. He was surprised by a sudden pang of loss at Junior's death. Junior had actually been a pretty good guy. They'd just gone in different directions...or sometimes the same direction, when there was only room for one of them. But it was too late now to change anything.

"Where's Danny?" Owen asked.

"Here. He was incommunicado out on Goose Island over the weekend. Some sort of fishing trip with a couple of his sales guys, I think. He got back late on Sunday, but he was dealing with...with some of our new customers, so he didn't have time to be here yesterday. I had to handle everybody's questions. And you know me, Owen. I'm not all that great with people."

Owen shrugged. He felt no urge to argue with Serno, or reassure him. Serno was an acquired taste at best. Good at his job, but in Owen's opinion he should be kept locked in his office during the working day. The only even vaguely social activity he'd ever heard of Serno participating in was martial arts tournaments. Apparently he did well in them, judging from the trophies he kept in his office.

Serno eyed him for a moment, then went on. "Danny's got a big meeting scheduled in an hour or so. You're welcome to hang around and attend, but I don't know if he'll have much time to talk to you one-on-one."

"That's okay. I just wondered. I'm mostly here to see what you can tell me about the effect Junior's disappearance--death, I guess, now--is going to have on this place. From a business perspective," he added when he saw Serno about to demur, "not so much how it will affect morale. Though I guess that's related."

Serno wet his lips, looking away. "That's the thing, Owen. I really can't tell you."

"Okay. But can you give me a rough idea of what the possibilities are?"

"Not really. I wish I could," he continued under Owen's sudden stare, "but Junior played his cards pretty close to his vest. Some things I know about, and Danny probably knows other things, but we're pretty much adrift right now. I'm hoping Danny learned something from our customers when he met with them yesterday, backwards as that may sound."

"Who are these customers, Frank?"

Serno began fidgeting with his tie again. He dropped his eyes to the table. "Uh, that's the thing, Owen. I can't tell you." He glanced up quickly, then back down. "I'd like to tell you, but I just can't do it right now."

"When will you be able to tell me, Frank?"

Serno shrugged miserably. "Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never. Look, Owen, I haven't had a chance to talk to Danny yet, not really. Can you give me some time? I know you have a history here, and you own a chunk of the company, and you have a right to know. It's just that right now things are too, well, delicate."

"Frank?" Owen asked.

Serno looked up, his eyes watering.

"Does this have anything to do with the problems we had a couple of years ago? Or is it something similar?"

"What?" Serno pulled a filthy tissue out of his pocket and blew his nose. "Oh. No, it's not that. I swear, Owen, that whole business was just a stupid lack of communication that got out of hand. We've got bigger problems than that." He looked relieved, which Owen found interesting. "Tell you what. Why don't you give me your number and I'll call you as soon as I can?"

Owen watched Serno put the tissue back in his pocket. "Oh, I'll check back after a little bit. Meanwhile I ought to get out of your hair. Mind if I wander around, say hi to people?"

"Uh...I'll have to go with you. New security rules. You know, the badges and stuff. I'm not worried about you doing anything, it's just that if I break the rules I can't enforce them very well, so . . ."

The Chief Financial Officer, a rule-enforcer? "Sure, Frank." Owen stood up and smiled at him. "Follow me." He turned and walked through the door. Serno hurried to catch up.

Owen walked quickly. He saw Johnny Opiela, a guru programmer he'd hired earlier on, spot him and duck behind a cubicle wall. What was that about? He and Opiela had always gotten along pretty well.

He found Danny's office in a state of disarray. Something was up. Danny _always_ kept things neat. Owen ignored Serno's protests and walked right in, hoping to sneak a peek beneath the veil of "security" around the place.

He heard a familiar laugh behind him. "Owen!" Danny said. "I'm not moved out yet. You'll have to wait a few minutes to grab my office, you damn scavenger."

Owen turned, grinning. He and Danny exchanged friendly handshakes. "Scavenger? Me? Have some respect for the actually dead, you idiot."

He saw Serno flinch and wander away. Oh well. Political correctness was for nonessential personnel...as Johnny Opiela had once said. He'd have to figure out what was going on with Johnny before leaving. "What the hell, Danny. You moving to Junior's office already?"

"Yeah," Danny said. He looked uncomfortable. "It's ghoulish, I know, but I don't want people around here to wonder what's going to happen next. So I thought I'd sort of clarify it for them."

Sure. Move in before anybody else could, that was the ticket. "So step into your office, while it's still yours. I have many many questions."

"Yeah," Danny said. His eyes, magnified by the glasses he wore to allow him to read anything less than forty feet away, were as oddly blank as Owen remembered them. "Look, Owen, I really don't have much time right now. And I probably can't answer all your questions anyway." He looked regretful. "We have a couple of NDA issues right now, and we're also trying to figure out what to do next. Unless you want your old job back?"

Owen laughed. "Nope. I'm just an interested part-owner. Find your grunts somewhere else."

"Hey, it was worth a try. Look, can you come back in a week? There's a lot to talk about, I just have to straighten things out first."

"Sure. Ah...I was going to wander around, talk to people. But Serno was going to follow me, and he's disappeared someplace."

"I wish he would," Danny said. "Disappear, I mean." He waved a hand. "But don't quote me, and anyway I don't really mean it. Look, I'd go with you, but I don't have time and I'm about to call everybody in for a meeting. Can I trust you to just...well . . ."

"Just leave?"

"Frankly, yeah. We're busy. You know how it is."

"Sure, Danny. I need you guys to make money too, you know. I'll give you a call in a week or so."

"Great. Maybe we can go fishing on your boat again. It's been a while."

Johnny Opiela stuck his head in. "Hey Danny," he said in his Polish accent. "I need to talk to you about the budget for the new developers."

Danny violently crumpled a piece of paper. "Later, Johnny." He tossed the paper into a trash can. "Hey, can you show Owen out?" He began scooping files out of his desk and putting them in boxes.

"Sure, Danny," Johnny said, sounding just like Owen had a few moments earlier. Owen looked at him. Johnny had always done impressions, but when had he picked Owen as a target? Or would it be better not to know? Johnny grinned slightly and backed out of the office.

"Later," Owen told Danny. Danny nodded but didn't answer, busy with his files.

As they walked, Johnny handed Owen a card. "Call me," he said quietly. "I need to talk to you. Away from here."

Owen put it in his pocket.

Johnny was all business when they got to the receptionist's desk. "Hi, Steve. Mr. Tremaine here is ready to leave." He turned to Owen. "Visitor badge goes in that bin, you sign out on this sheet. Catch you later." He left Owen in front of the skeptical-looking receptionist. Jesus, this place had changed.

Owen walked to his rented Focus and checked his watch. Too early to meet Martina for lunch.

Maybe he could use the time to think. He had a feeling he hadn't done enough of that lately.
Chapter Fifteen

(Tuesday Morning--Gordon)

**J** on Faulkner was a hell of a cop.

Faulkner was exactly five feet tall, when he stood straight and maybe up on his toes a little. Not that Gordon challenged his claim to that last inch. He figured everybody needed some illusions.

Faulkner had an MBA from Harvard. He was the neatest dresser in the CCPD, and very black. He didn't accept any other description--not African-American (he would point out the existence of an African-born _white_ judge in San Antonio), but simply black.

A Homicide Detective's pay was ridiculous for someone with Faulkner's qualifications. He wasn't independently wealthy, either. Gordon had no idea why he'd decided to become a police officer. Faulkner didn't talk about it.

It didn't matter, though. They were partners. They planned to stay that way. However odd a pair they made, they cleared their cases with a single-minded ferocity of purpose. Mostly the rest of the department left them alone.

Today Faulkner had beaten him to the office. Good. Gordon had a lot of work planned for the day. The FBI guys had helped a lot, but some things he wanted to see for himself. "Feeling better?" he asked.

"Physically? Absolutely. But some of our cases are utter garbage."

"Yeah?" Gordon supposed it was true. The dead 14-year-old male prostitute, for instance. He'd been shot, and the body left in an alley. They'd probably never know more than they did right now, unless some creep gave up another creep for it down the line somewhere. They'd try, but the body was found in an industrial area that was nearly deserted after closing time. Nobody had seen anything. And he'd been shot somewhere else; there wasn't enough blood at the scene. The coroner confirmed that the body had been moved. The kid was found face-up, but the body had lain face-down for a long time first. Where? Who knew? No wounds other than a single shot to the neck, maybe a .38 or a 9mm, but they had no bullet, because it had gone right through him. Worst of all for their investigation, the kid had lived on the streets and didn't have a regular beat, so they'd probably never even know who to ask about him. Only a lucky identification had given them his profession. And even that was shaky.

Gordon shook his head. "Nothing new there. They always suck. That's kinda the point, it's why we try to solve 'em. Listen, I've got some new stuff on the Bentley thing. You read the file?"

Faulkner nodded, pursing his lips.

"Good." He told Faulkner about the meeting the night before at the City Diner. "I don't know about this eco-terrorist angle, but it's worth checking out. And Stanley seems okay for a Feeb, but he might not be telling me everything, so I want to do some looking around on this without him."

Faulkner shook his head. "We'd pretty much have to."

Gordon looked at him. Faulkner's eyes usually darted in all directions, cataloguing everything he saw. Today he was staring straight ahead, at a blank wall. "Oh, shit. What happened?"

"Lieutenant Kleinman said we're off the case as of this morning. It's now, ah, what did he call it? Oh yes, I remember. A matter of national security. And thus beyond anything we could be expected to handle."

"That knock-kneed son of a bitch," Gordon said calmly. "Feeble bastard burned me. He seemed to be playing fair, so I brought him along with me yesterday. With the missing kid involved, I thought he might actually be helpful. So now he's found out what he wanted to know, and we're out?"

Faulkner shrugged. "Maybe it's because I'm back, and I'm black."

Gordon snorted. "No, that's why I'm gonna make you drive. I've got some calls to make, but I'd rather do 'em from the car. You ready?"

The first call Gordon made was to Stanley's cell . There was no answer, or at his office either. Gordon didn't leave a message. What was the point? The guy was a jerk.

* * *

**S** tanley saw the call from Gordon come in as he drove north on 37. He reached over to turn his phone off. He wanted to answer it. But some jerk named Reinhardt from the National Security Agency--the NSA, for God's sake!--had come to his hotel last night and told him he was off the case.

Stanley had laughed at him, but when he'd called in to check it turned out to be true. He and most of his team were being pulled out. They were going back to Austin, and a bunch of new people were coming in, under NSA direction.

The TV spot he'd watched last night with Gordon after leaving the City Diner had shown the little girl running in a playground. She was beautiful. Smart, too, from what he'd gathered from the interviews. And the hell of it was, they'd had a chance with this one. Whoever had taken the kid was mixed up in too many other things. He was getting fancy, and that meant they might catch him in a mistake.

What the hell did the NSA know about kidnappings? Reinhardt hadn't even seemed interested in the file.

But it wasn't supposed to matter. Stanley was supposed to give everything he had to Reinhardt, get out of town, and have no further contact with anyone regarding the case.

Fifteen minutes later, he still gripped the phone. His hand ached, but he hadn't noticed.

That little girl. Katie Bradshaw. She could still be alive. The thing with the dress had struck him as a clumsy attempt at misdirection. He still didn't understand what had happened at the beach. But he would have figured it out.

Given a chance, he might have saved her.
Chapter Sixteen

(Tuesday, Late Morning--Owen)

**O** wen parked a few blocks from Signs & Portraits. He figured he had at least an hour to kill. But that was okay; he could wander around downtown for a while. He always seemed to think better when he was walking.

Junior hadn't been the kind of boss who would have made all the changes Owen had seen at CyberLook without a good reason. He'd been open to suggestions and excited by what the company was doing. He'd also tended to leave people alone to do their jobs in whatever way worked best for them.

Of the senior management staff, only Frank Serno seemed likely to enjoy name badges and keycards and the mindset that went with them. But Serno hadn't ever had that kind of clout. And from what Danny had said about wishing he would disappear, Serno was still too much the butt of everyone's jokes to have managed the transformation on his own.

It almost had to be some external influence. The only possibility Owen knew of was the advent of CyberLook's mysterious new customers. Maybe they'd demanded the security measures.

More to the point: Did any of this matter? Even if Owen figured it all out, the changes at CyberLook were probably a dead end. Obviously Junior, at least, had known all about them.

So what had he wanted to hire Owen to poke into? And whatever Owen did manage to learn, how could he find out whether Junior had known about it a month ago?

But he had an idea about why Junior had come to him, specifically, and if he was right it had little to do with either the increased security or his private investigator license. Two years ago, Owen had almost accidentally uncovered a problem, and Junior had tried to sweep it under the rug. It might have come back out and bitten him.

One of the programmers had told Owen that Danny had hired two cousins to work as salesmen. Owen almost hadn't looked into it at all. He didn't really care who Danny hired as long as they produced, and he was sure Danny would demand the same, relatives or not.

But if one of the programmers had noticed, other people probably knew about it too. Owen decided to be sure the company was protected against a potential lawsuit. Danny had followed their standard hiring process, though. Everything looked okay, at least as far as the paper trail went.

When he halfheartedly decided to see if Danny's cousins were actually producing, he couldn't find any records of their sales at all. When he dug deeper, he found out they were dealing with customers who weren't in any of the databases he could access.

Owen went to Danny. Danny hit the roof. They pulled Junior in, who listened to them and summoned Serno.

When it turned out none of them would admit to knowing what was going on, Danny drummed his fingers on the table and left to do what he called research (Owen would have called it yelling). He came back in less than ten minutes with one of his cousins--and Serno's assistant. The pair explained the whole thing was intended to be an aid to market research.

The customers they were working with were all small businesses that either required only simple websites or had indicated they had no major plans for their websites in the near future. Because these customers required so little attention, and because CyberLook's billing and customer support computer systems didn't talk to each other, the pair said they needed a separate database. There was no better way, supposedly, to track the profitability of such customers versus those who required more complex software development.

Danny's cousin argued he should be commended, not criticized, for agreeing to focus on these customers in spite of the low commissions he earned.

Serno had been sorting through the papers the pair had brought in with them. He looked up suddenly, glanced at Danny, and excused himself for a moment to make a phone call.

When Serno returned, he showed that money from the segregated customers actually went into a separate bank account. Serno said he hadn't been aware of this, and it invalidated several of the reports his department had produced over the last couple of months. It also affected CyberLook's tax situation, but he couldn't say yet how bad it was.

Owen demanded to know who had created the account. Serno, by now sweating and looking more upset than Owen had ever seen him, admitted that he'd opened it a few months before. But he claimed he'd believed the account was nearly empty, and had intended it for another purpose that had never materialized. While he'd been out of the room, he'd called the bank and verified there had been no withdrawals.

Owen let the issue of the bank account slide for the moment. Regardless of anything else, he pointed out, creating a separate customer database had been ridiculous. His group was responsible for all CyberLook's databases. They could have flagged any set of customers. Reports could have been modified or created, as needed. Also, Owen's team was responsible for backing up all databases to guard against system failures, and rogue databases they'd never heard of wouldn't have any such protection.

Danny's cousin jumped in, saying Owen's group was so slow to make changes that it had been easier to just start fresh. Owen asked if anyone else had noticed that the customers they'd separated out were also those whose absence from the original database was least likely to be missed by anyone else at CyberLook.

Junior put an end to the argument by asking Danny's cousin and Serno's assistant to wait in another office. An hour later, he announced a solution everybody could live with--and would, he said with a tight smile, start living with right away.

Danny's cousin and Serno's assistant were to be terminated immediately for overstepping their authority in creating a new database and--worse--deleting customers from the copy in common use. But because the situation was unclear, and Serno said all funds could be recovered from the bank account they'd used, no charges were to be filed.

Junior, perturbed that the scheme hadn't been uncovered earlier, also created a new Quality Assurance position and hired Julie Jacobsen away from Dell Computers in Austin to fill it. She regularly audited all departments and reported to the management team on a monthly basis, which (Owen conceded) irritated everybody about equally, including her.

Danny's remaining cousin, an outstanding salesman who appeared to have been uninvolved except as a dupe, remained on the payroll.

But Owen had never quite trusted Serno since. Not only had he appeared excessively nervous at the time, but after months passed and tempers cooled he'd begun to make statements like the one he'd made this morning about the whole thing being a result of miscommunication. Other times he'd blamed it on improper training, or overzealous but innocent research, or something else innocuous.

Given that Serno had made no such statements when it was all happening, and that he had to know Owen was wondering about him, his behavior only increased the strength of Owen's suspicions. Owen went to Junior with a request that they look more closely into the situation, specifically the separate bank account, but Junior asked him to let it go. He did, but he hadn't forgotten any of it.

Serno's relief earlier this morning, when Owen had asked if something similar might be happening now, had been obvious. Whatever was going on, Serno clearly felt the situation from two years ago was minor by comparison.

But if it _had_ been an outgrowth of the earlier problems that had led Junior to try to hire Owen a month ago....

If nothing else, it was at least a place to start.

* * *

**O** wen found himself standing outside the door to Signs & Portraits with no memory of getting there. It was nearly eleven o'clock. He shrugged and went inside.

Andrea sat at her desk. Her eyes widened when she recognized Owen, but she recovered and smiled at him.

"Is Martina busy?" he asked. "I was planning to meet her for lunch, but I'm early. If she's caught up in something I can just wander around."

"I think she is, actually. She went into the back with a customer. Something about a menu."

Owen winced, remembering the portobello fingers. "Then I won't bother her." A thought struck him. "Mind if I use your phone, though? It's a local call."

"Not a problem." She turned the phone around and offered him the handset. "Just dial 9."

"Thanks." He pulled the CyberLook business card Johnny had given him out of his pocket. Apparently they had a new logo, with a complicated-looking monocle covering one eye of an androgynous face. The other eye was closed. Owen liked it.

Johnny had crossed out his office number and written in a cell number with a pencil. The card gave Johnny's title as "Development Manager." That had been Owen's job, once upon a time.

Johnny answered on the third ring. "Hey," Owen said, "you must not be very busy over there if you have time to take personal calls."

"Um, right. Sure, lunch would be just fine. Where would you like to meet?"

"Okay. I guess you can't talk. But yeah, I can meet you for lunch. How about Snoopy's in an hour or so?"

"Good idea, sweetie. I can take you by the dentist's afterward. I canceled that meeting we were talking about, so I don't need to be back here right away. See you soon."

Owen replaced the handset thoughtfully. He nodded thanks to Andrea, and was about to ask her to check on Martina when Martina herself and a stocky older man appeared from the work area.

"Thanks, Mr. Johnson," Martina said. "I'll let Shawna know what you said about the spelling, and we'll have those changes made for you by Monday."

Mr. Johnson appeared ready to argue, but Martina looked past him and spotted Owen. "Mr. Tremaine!" she cried with a hint of desperation. "I'm so sorry I'm late for our appointment. We just had a little crisis to deal with, but I'm free now. Come on back and we'll discuss your project." She drew Owen down the hall and closed the door before the flustered Mr. Johnson could react.

"Whew," she said, leaning against the door. "You're early, but I wish you'd pounded on the door half an hour ago. It turns out that man doesn't even have a location in mind for his restaurant--but he keeps fiddling with his menu and wants us to drop everything else whenever he wanders in with his latest changes."

Owen grinned, noting the "us." For Martina, Shawna's absence was only temporary. "Could be he's bored. Or doesn't know how to cook. Or maybe he just likes you."

She rolled her eyes. "Sit, sit." She pointed at the chair Owen had sat in the day before. "So you saw Andrea out there. If you still want to watch her to see where she goes, I think it can wait until this evening. I've pinned her down with so much work she won't be getting up for at least the next six hours."

He nodded but didn't sit. "We should talk, but we can do it on the way, if you still want to get lunch and if you've got a couple of hours free. We're meeting somebody, and it might take a while. Have you ever been to Snoopy's?"

"Sure. That sounds great, actually. I could kill for one of their combo baskets right now."

"So let's go. We'll be a little early, but I want to get a table before the lunch rush makes it impossible."

She nodded and picked up her purse. On the way out she told Andrea she wouldn't be back for a couple of hours at least because of a business meeting after lunch. Andrea nodded and waved, busy working her way through a list of potential customers.

"Think she believed that?" Owen asked as they walked out.

"Who cares? She works for me, and she didn't show up yesterday. She can handle the place by herself for a while."

Owen filled her in as he drove. She took notes on a pad she pulled from her purse. She looked unhappy, but not surprised, to learn that Junior was dead.

"So, basically," she said after he finished, "we know there's more security at CyberLook than ever before. It might be because of a new project related to stuff you were working on before you left, or new customers, or both. Danny Sheffield is planning to take over Junior's role. The sales team's space has been converted to something else, but we don't know what happened to them. The CFO is worried, and you think he might be a crook. And this guy Johnny wants to talk to you without anybody at CyberLook knowing about it, but we don't know why."

"Sounds about right. We can ask Johnny about all of the above when we see him, if he doesn't tell us on his own."

"So that's what we're doing? Trying to find out what we can?"

"Sure, and dealing with whatever he wants to talk to me about." He glanced at her as he turned onto a gravel road. She was smiling. "What?"

"Just wondering how many people you're planning to adopt."

Owen shook his head and parked the car. "We're here. Let's just go see what he wants." He got out and started walking to the restaurant.

She caught up halfway to the entrance.
Chapter Seventeen

(Tuesday, Noon--Owen)

**O** wen called Johnny from inside Snoopy's, and shook his head at the sheer volume of food the programmer wanted him to order. It was almost as if Martina had coached him, to get back at Owen for breakfast...but that was ridiculous. Wasn't it?

Martina hurried to grab an outside table, where they'd be able to watch boats passing along the Intracoastal Waterway. Owen stood in line at the counter to place their order. The restaurant, tucked up beside the JFK Causeway stretching from the mainland to Padre Island, was one of his favorite hangouts--but timing was everything. Excellent food, low prices, and friendly atmosphere had won Snoopy's a devoted clientele.

Monofilament fishing line strung around the outer dining area discouraged seagulls from approaching the customers. Signs bearing the legend "Please Don't Feed the Birds" were posted in several places. Owen grinned, watching a small boy standing under one of the signs throw pieces of a hamburger bun to a hovering cluster of gulls.

Johnny showed up as Owen was retrieving their food from the counter, and grabbed a tray to carry back to the table. Owen made introductions as they passed everything around.

Johnny glanced at Martina, then turned to Owen. "Uh...have you heard anything about Shawna?"

"No," Owen said. Did Johnny know about her disappearance from TV, or from water-cooler conversation at CyberLook? "Martina is Shawna's business partner. We're both trying to figure out what's going on."

Johnny nodded, appearing both relieved to discover Martina's status and concerned about another topic. "I don't know what's up with all that. I wish I could help you out, dude, but I'm clueless."

Owen shrugged. He didn't really want to talk about it. "Yeah, well. We're doing what we can." Martina nodded but said nothing.

"I ought to apologize," Johnny said. "I realized on the way here that you might think I knew something that would help you with something important, and all I actually wanted was to talk about business. If I'd been thinking at all, I'd have given you a hint."

Owen grinned. "That didn't even occur to me. But what the heck, you can owe me a favor for being so damn inconsiderate. Next time, either you do better or we start talking about a case or two of beer."

Johnny laughed. "Okay. So anyway, here's the first thing. Are you coming back to CyberLook?"

Martina suddenly gave Owen a merry look that said she had a secret. What was that about? He'd have to find out later.

"No," he said to Johnny. When would people stop asking? "I'm a little confused by what's happening there, and I guess I'd like to be sure my five percent of the company is worth something, but I really don't want that kind of job again."

Johnny sighed. "I was afraid you'd say that. I just hoped, after I saw you there. We could really use you, man. I'm in charge of the developers now, you saw that, but I don't get included in the big decisions."

He looked directly at Owen. "It was different when you were there. You let us know what to expect. I try to do the same, but if nobody tells _me_ anything there's not much I can do."

"Might have to push your way in." If he was up to it.

Johnny's lip curled. "I tried. NDA problems, they tell me, but that doesn't make a lot of sense." He saw Martina's blank expression. "NDA stands for non-disclosure agreement. Normally it means you've agreed not to talk about a client's business, but it's really weird not to tell the guys who're building software how it's supposed to be used."

Owen leaned back in his chair. "Yeah. It'd be a great way to waste a lot of time and money." What had Junior been up to?

Martina spoke up. "Sounds like you guys are going through some growing pains."

"Sure." Johnny nodded, giving her a surprised smile. Owen suspected Martina had just won some respect from him. That was sort of interesting. He didn't remember Johnny ever bringing a date when people got together after work. Something to think about.

Johnny went on, still looking at her. "That's part of it. We used to be a completely different kind of shop. Anyway, I tried to finesse my way around it all by telling them we need professional project management staff on board. It was true, and would tend to get my team more information sooner, but Danny and Junior wouldn't go for it." He turned to Owen. "We've redesigned the software several times to meet new requirements. Some of the changes were pretty drastic."

Owen looked at him carefully. "Johnny, I don't work there. But I do own a little chunk of the company, and sometimes I can be reasonably discreet. Can you tell me what this new project is?"

"Oh, hell yeah." Johnny shook his head. "Or I can tell you what I think it is, anyway. Sorry, I forgot you didn't have any idea what I was talking about. Just don't tell anybody you got it from me." He looked at Martina. "Okay?"

"Deal," Owen said. Martina nodded.

"Okay, then. It's based on that software we were working on to transfer data to and from oil rigs. Um, Martina, the idea was that a lot of the rigs and remote sites all over the world have only satellite-based connectivity to the Internet. The connections are pretty unreliable in some places because of weather, so our customers needed something that would keep resending or requesting data until it all got through."

"Makes sense," Martina said, smiling at him. Owen was beginning to wonder if he should leave them alone for a while.

Johnny grinned back. "It had to be really simple to set up and use. We couldn't count on any network engineers being around to fix things, either. To make it work everywhere, we generalized the software so it didn't matter which Internet service provider you used or what particular network you plugged your computer into."

Johnny thought for a moment. "Look at it this way. Sometimes a company has rules against downloading things from the Internet, and they block a lot of sites. But it's an even bigger deal if an employee somewhere wants to make information _available_ online. Normally you have to have a server, which is basically a computer that stores data and makes it available, and a room to put the server in, and...well, it's not something just anybody can do casually. You can hire people to do it for you, to 'host' your server, but then you lose some control and it's still pretty complicated security-wise."

He paused to eat some fish. "You know, I hate plastic silverware. But man, this is tasty. Good call, Owen. Anyway, there are things called peer-to-peer network programs that people use to swap music and other files online, and our software is sort of like that. The basic differences are that we have much tighter control over the machines and users that are allowed to participate, and we have that retry-and-resend logic that guarantees information delivery." He looked frustrated. "I wish I had a whiteboard so I could draw all this. It's a lot simpler that way."

Martina laughed and touched his hand. "I think I get it. But if I miss something, Owen can explain it to me later. Don't twist yourself inside-out for my sake."

Uh huh, Owen thought. He could explain later. Good to know he was still useful.

Johnny nodded seriously. "The main point is that you can use it anywhere. Users can in effect post information as if their machines were directly available on the Internet without having to worry about security issues or becoming network engineers. Anyway, it works."

"So far," Owen said, "that sounds pretty much like what we were playing with before I left."

"Yeah, with some tweaks. But then it got interesting. We had something that worked over low-bandwidth or noisy connections. So far, so good. But then it had to work with multiple servers, each with its own secure database and access controls for its own group of users. The servers still had to share data with each other. But not just any data. There had to be a thing we called a 'data-sharing agreement' between any two servers before anything would be sent in either direction, and the administrator of each server could specify exactly what data got shared, when, and with whom. Then they wanted client software that would work on handhelds."

He grinned at Martina again. "Smartphones, tablets, and so forth. So you could take a picture, say, and send it anywhere in the world with whatever sort of Internet connection you had. Dial-up, satellite, cable, DSL, microwave, whatever. And it works from inside anybody's network, as long as the network is connected to the Internet and allows users to browse web pages. To the firewalls and other network security devices, our stuff always looks just like a normal web browser. Like Firefox or Chrome or whatever. And everything's encrypted. Sometimes an organization blocks access to encrypted websites, but we get around that by using the standard HTTP protocol and encrypting everything at a higher level."

His face turned pink. "I'm getting too far into the details again. It's like email as far as the user's concerned, only it's more reliable, more secure without requiring a lot of user sophistication, and it allows for some fancy management of what information can go where. It's especially nice that you don't have to allow your network administrator techie-types to see the actual data."

He shoved more fish into his mouth and talked through it. Owen checked, but Martina didn't appear to mind. Or even notice. Huh. "Then they wanted utilities that could take data from our system and push it into other databases. Old, basically outdated databases. And then they wanted it to work in both directions."

"Jesus," Owen said. He'd only been half-listening, but he'd suddenly seen the implications. "Put it all together, and that's huge. You've just described software that moves data between different computer systems, anywhere in the world, with distributed access control so each organization can decide which employees see what information--and _also_ what they want to share externally, and it's all rolled up into one system. Better yet, it works over the Internet. If people actually used this...this kind of flexibility has been information technology's Holy Grail for the last thirty years."

"Right. Exactly. And the user interface is always the same regardless of where the data comes from, so it cuts down on training costs. The software also encrypts data when it's stored on the user's machine. The security built into all this is a few steps beyond ridiculous. You can set the level you want to use, but no matter what it's all encrypted somehow. Sometimes, because of network topology or availability issues, a server has to relay data between two others, or pass a client connection on to its own server. When that happens the server in between can't read any of the data it's relaying because it doesn't have the recipient's private key."

Johnny blushed again, turning to Martina. "Uh . . ."

"Doesn't matter," she said, smiling. "I don't need to understand the details of how it works. It's the implications of this that are interesting to me."

Owen grunted. Something was interesting her, anyway. They even blushed alike.

"It gets worse," Johnny said darkly. "We use standard algorithms for encryption, but we've had to modify the software so other stuff can be plugged in. I heard Junior saying something about steganography--uh, that's encryption algorithms that hide data in what looks like plain text or maybe images, to use when transmitting or receiving data in organizations that monitor web browsing too closely for even our stuff to get by unnoticed." He looked at Owen. "We don't get samples of those algorithms, we just provide the interface so other people can plug 'em in. But, dude, who would _need_ that?"

Owen shook his head. Come to think of it, that was kind of a scary question. But..."How much of this is real, and how much is just a wish list?"

"The basics are done. Things like a version for handheld computers and the conversion routines to talk to other databases haven't really even gotten started. Though a lot of that would be pretty easy. But lately we've gotten a lot of new requirements for creating 'business rules' on the fly about what data gets moved and when. It's a huge amount of work, and I don't think Junior, or, well, just Danny now, understands the difference between what we have and what it could be, or what the cost is of choosing one set of features over another. It's just not his field."

"So you think the top brass at CyberLook are expecting too much too soon?" Martina asked.

"I don't know. Probably. It's hard to know what they're actually expecting--or promising. Sometimes I think even they don't know. Lately we've had a bigger budget thrown at us, and that's good, but there's a lot of pressure to produce prototypes very quickly, and the whole place is starting to feel very strange."

"This doesn't sound," Owen said slowly, "as if we're talking about an oil company, or even a group of oil companies, anymore."

"No, it sounds like the government," Johnny said, "maybe even multiple agencies. And I'm not sure I want to make it easier for whoever this is to exchange and protect information."

"But," Martina asked, "can't government agencies already exchange information between their networks? I mean," she said, blushing, "they have to, I know that. But this sounds like just more of the same."

"Sure," Johnny said. "It's the same thing, only different. They have to set up individual connections between their networks to do it, even if they're what we call VPN's, or virtual private networks that actually use the Internet. It involves a lot of time and trouble. There are security policies at several levels that can take a long time to work through. Governments and large organizations are just not very quick to get that sort of thing going."

He was smiling into her eyes. Again. "And when they _do_ get it all set up, remember, it's only one connection at a time, with one other organization. And probably only to one physical location. Our stuff mostly bypasses all that. With our system, once they get a server going--which in principle somebody could put under his desk and plug into the wall--that server 'talks' to an upstream server the same way the users' software talks to it. There aren't any firewall issues, and our customers are in business the same day, talking to anybody, anywhere. No individual labor- and money-intensive connections anymore, just one giant pseudo-network. And the client software, which runs on individual PC's, is always irrevocably tied to a particular server, so whoever sets it up can still control access to their own information."

Martina looked troubled. "But if it's so convenient and secure, why isn't the Internet used this way already?"

"It is, almost. A lot of what we're doing is duplicating some of the Internet's functionality at a higher level, where we can control it. We're taking advantage of what's already there, sort of building a hierarchical structured network on top of the existing Internet. If you're asking why governments and large corporations didn't think of it first," he shrugged, "maybe it's because they're just not as good as we are?" He grinned at Owen.

Owen grinned back. "Look at it this way," he said to Martina. "A mechanic knows a lot about a car and how it works. But you don't have to be a mechanic to drive a car. Right now, for a lot of reasons, you probably have to hire the equivalent of a mechanic if you want to share a lot of information on the Internet. If you belong to a big company or work for the government, you probably also have to deal with bureaucracy like you'd find in an auto insurance company, only worse, because the people in charge usually don't understand their own data or where it's going." He tried to hide his grin. "So you're stuck. But you still have to shift the information. So...think of this software as an automatic transmission."

Martina groaned. "Oh, come _on_. Did you have to go there? All that was just for your punch line, wasn't it? I don't think I want you to explain anymore." She covered Owen's mouth with her hand. "Johnny, you were doing just fine."

Johnny nodded, looking away from them. "You know," he said, "the whole thing makes a lot of sense. Maybe these peer-to-peer networks really are the future of the Internet. Except that ours is too controlled for my taste."

Yeah. But. "The devil is in the details," Owen said. "If you guys don't get that professional project management you asked for, it's going to fall apart. Projects like this can't be run without a lot of structure, especially as they get bigger. And don't government contractors have to use ISO-9001 or some similar quality management system?"

Johnny wiped his mouth, eyeing Martina's hand. "That bothers me, too. I swear, nobody at CyberLook who's senior to me even knows what that means. They'd have to reorganize the company to do it, and project managers would be just the beginning. Right now we can barely manage a to-do list, and everybody does everything. Job descriptions are a joke. Besides, shouldn't somebody be worried about security clearances, if this is for the government? We're trying to design the perfect software product, so in principle it wouldn't matter if someone got access to our code, but that's always been an impossible dream. I just don't get it." He looked sadly at his empty plate. "But if it's not government, who is it?"

"Some other government?" Martina asked.

"I don't know," Johnny said. "That's why I wanted to talk to you, Owen. I thought you might be able to find something out, and maybe help with the project management side of things." He shrugged, blushing again. "It would be good if you were coming back."

"Can't do it," Owen said. "It sounds exciting, but I'd just want to play with it for a while and go on to something else. You need somebody there full-time. Maybe several somebodies."

"Could you consult?" Johnny asked.

"Why? I don't have anything you don't have, except maybe some history with Danny. And that might not count for much anymore," he said, remembering the conversation from that morning. "Tell you what, though, I'll make him talk to me. Or to Junior's dad, maybe. He's curious about the company anyway. And he's probably inherited Junior's shares, those he didn't actually own already, so Danny might get a surprise sometime soon."

"Well," Johnny said, pushing himself back from the table, "thanks for your time, and for looking into all this. And Martina, it's been a pleasure meeting you." He turned to Owen. "Tell Shawna I said hi when you see her."

"Will do," Owen promised. "I'll call you in a couple of days, tell you what I've found out. If anything."

"Great. Thanks again. See you guys later."

Martina looked at Owen as Johnny walked away. "Well, that was interesting."

"Sure was. I just wonder what to do about it."

She smiled. "Probably not what he wants you to do."

"Not if it means working there." Though the idea tempted him a lot more than he wanted to admit....

"Oh come on, Owen. That's not what I meant."

"Huh? Did I miss something?"

She laughed. "I guess you did, though I don't see how. Didn't you see how he was looking at you? He wants you to come back to CyberLook, but believe me, that isn't all he wants."

Owen stared at her, then looked in the direction Johnny had gone. "Are you serious? You can't be serious."

She pursed her lips. "He's a nice guy. Give him a kiss sometime," she suggested. "You'll see."

"Oh, for Christ's sake. You're wrong. You're just wrong." He stood up. She picked up her purse, still smiling. They walked out to the car.

"What's next?" Martina asked as they drove out of the parking lot.

"Two things, I guess. I want to talk to Viktor again, find out what he knows about all this. And tonight I want to follow Andrea to see if she leads me to Shawna. There's a better reason to find her than just being sure she's okay. She might know more about what's been going on, if she was at Junior's place last Saturday. And now that _we_ know some things, maybe we can pool our information."

"Hey," Martina said. "We haven't talked about it, and maybe I shouldn't say anything, but...you should know, Shawna really wasn't interested in Junior anymore. I'm surprised she went there at all, but believe me it was for something other than romance. You have nothing to worry about on that score."

Owen shrugged. He hoped she was right, but Junior's murder and Shawna's disappearance had made the topic even more uncomfortable than it might have been otherwise. He would deal with that aspect of things later, if it turned out he had to.

After he dropped her off at Signs & Portraits, he leaned out the window and called to her. "Martina!"

"What?"

"About Johnny--I really think you're wrong."

She laughed and went inside.

Shaking his head, Owen drove away.
Chapter Eighteen

(Tuesday Afternoon--Viktor)

**V** iktor Bentley detested business meetings. If he attended a meeting, it was to assess his opponents, or sometimes to deliver the _coup de grace_ to an interesting adversary. In his normal mode of operation, he did not schedule meetings. He simply gave orders, and expected them to be carried out. It was, he felt, an excellent system, and far more efficient than the modern fashion of coddling and stroking one's employees.

On this occasion, however, he had felt it necessary to agree when young Daniel Sheffield had called to suggest that Viktor meet with him and become acquainted with, as he had put it, "certain features of the new situation at CyberLook."

Those features, Viktor trusted, would include a way to safeguard his investment in spite of Junior's death. Otherwise, Sheffield would find himself in a very difficult position. It was not as if they had no ties outside a software company. Viktor could make the remainder of young Mr. Sheffield's life quite miserable indeed.

Sheffield had wanted to hold the meeting in the CyberLook offices that afternoon. Viktor had resisted, preferring to retain a home-court advantage. Young Sheffield had eventually capitulated, agreeing to come to Viktor's house at one o'clock. He had said he would bring one or two others with him.

Sheffield and the two men who had arrived with him had now been kept waiting for approximately ten minutes, which Viktor judged to be about right. He looked up from the contracts he was studying and nodded to Atkins, who was leaning against the wall. Atkins left, coming back in a few moments with Viktor's visitors.

Viktor rose to greet them. His office had been arranged with only two chairs facing his desk, which was where Viktor intended to sit. The third man would have to get a chair from against the wall, several feet away, and sit behind the others. Viktor wanted to learn something about the dynamics of this trio before they began.

Sheffield introduced the other two as Jameson and Reinhardt. Jameson was a spare, white-haired fellow who looked fresh off the boat from Ireland in spite of his well-tailored suit. Reinhardt was younger, perhaps forty, with black hair Viktor suspected was a product of modern chemistry, and possessed of the lightest gray eyes Viktor could remember seeing. They both seemed comfortable in their formal clothing--a bit out of place in Corpus, but not necessarily in Viktor's house.

Neither showed any reaction when Viktor remained behind his desk to shake hands. He stood straight and forced them to lean forward in what he chose to consider a respectful bow in order to complete the ritual.

Viktor sat down immediately after the handshakes, smiled thinly at them and suggested they have a seat. He was pleased to see that Sheffield sat immediately, without looking at the other two. So the boy wasn't intimidated by these strangers. Good. Perhaps Viktor would allow him to keep his job after all. Assuming this meeting actually proved productive.

Reinhardt sat as well, and Jameson went to get the chair from against the wall in spite of the age difference. Interesting. Viktor smiled at them all impartially. "Well, gentlemen. Welcome to my home. How may I help you?"

Reinhardt reached into a jacket pocket. Atkins, who had come in behind them and been slouching against the wall as usual, leaned forward. His hand twitched beneath his own jacket. Viktor let his eyes drift over Atkins, then shook his head very slightly. Atkins leaned back slowly, remaining alert. Jameson's lips twitched, Viktor noted, though he couldn't have actually seen Atkins from his position.

Apparently oblivious, Reinhardt drew out a wallet and laid it open on the desk. He pushed it toward Viktor, who ignored it. "First of all, Mr. Bentley, could we clear the room?"

"Certainly," Viktor agreed blandly, nodding to Atkins. As Atkins left the room, Viktor tapped a switch with his foot that would both record their conversation and allow Atkins, who would go to the next room, to observe via a hidden camera.

When the door closed, Reinhardt nodded. "Thank you. As you see, Mr. Bentley, we're with the National Security Agency." He still showed no expression.

"Oh? And what is that?" Viktor saw no reason to admit he knew about it. Apparent ignorance might make these people underestimate him. Also, it might make projecting a slight contempt more believable, and their reactions might be informative.

Reinhardt looked a trifle smug. "Lots of people have never heard of us. We're bigger than the CIA and the FBI put together, though less well-advertised. And we're pretty much what the name sounds like. We are largely concerned with protecting critical U.S. information and assets, and learning what we can about what's happening outside the country."

Viktor nodded. The man was a pompous ass. He sounded like a brochure. "Does Mr. Jameson also have identification?"

Jameson leaned forward to display his wallet. Viktor nodded without looking at it. What had his son, whom he had never before had cause to consider an idiot, gotten him into? Or was this young Sheffield's idea? "Very well. Again, how may I help you?"

Sheffield spoke up. "We have a product under development at CyberLook, Mr. Bentley, in which these gentlemen have expressed an interest. A strong interest."

"Oh? What product is this?"

Sheffield shook his head. "That's part of why we're here. I can't tell you that."

Viktor nodded. "You are here," he said, "for the purpose of _not_ telling me something. Without delving into the obvious inefficiency involved, may I remind you that I am the majority stockholder?" He shook his head slowly. "I believe it may be time for me to take a more active role in the company. As you have accomplished your stated purpose, perhaps our immediate business here is concluded?" He rose from his chair.

"One moment, please," Reinhardt said. Jameson smiled blandly behind him. "Mr. Bentley, we are currently backing CyberLook based on some prototypes we've seen, using discretionary funds. Until the last few years we would have had to put a project like this out for bid, requesting proposals from qualified contractors. But recent legislation and Executive Orders have freed us somewhat. CyberLook has something under development that could be extremely important to national security. If the next demonstration goes as planned, I expect to get approval to award a rather large contract."

Sheffield nodded, looking less nervous than Viktor would have expected. "Some of the money would be used to restructure the company, Mr. Bentley, to bring us in line with federal contractor guidelines and requirements. It would be quite a shakeup, but the core of our development team, which is what is giving us this chance, would remain unchanged." He smiled briefly. "We would hire a number of new personnel."

"At that point," Reinhardt said, "things would become a great deal more formal. Security clearances for all personnel would be required. Mr. Sheffield has suggested that you may," he hesitated, "prefer not to be investigated. As a matter of personal privacy. We may be able to arrange that, with the understanding that you agree to remain unaware of the specifics of the project, and uninvolved in the company's day-to-day operations."

Viktor steepled his fingers. So young Sheffield thought he had found a way to get control of the company. Viktor had been expecting something of the sort, though not so soon.

He was quite sure he could arrange to find out what they were working on, but it did no harm to go along with the fiction that he would remain ignorant. He wondered how much of this had been Junior's doing, and a dull pain throbbed in his left wrist. His son should be sitting in Sheffield's chair.

At any rate, if the whelp could be made to understand who was really in charge, this might work. Provided the bother would be worth his while.

"I'm curious, Mr. Reinhardt," he said, "about exactly how much money we are discussing, and at what point we might actually receive this contract."

Reinhardt nodded. "At present we are merely helping to defray expenses associated with producing a prototype, using discretionary funds as I said before. We have a great deal of support from well-placed sources, however, or we would not have been able to access the funds we have used thus far. I believe Mr. Sheffield has the data you are requesting, and would like to go over the books with you in private."

Viktor smiled thinly, rising to his feet again. He could still feel his pulse in his wrist, but the pain was subsiding. "Very well, gentlemen. I will certainly take all this under advisement. I trust Mr. Sheffield will be able to contact you and let you know my decision?"

"Yes, of course," Sheffield said.

Reinhardt and Jameson rose from their chairs. Viktor nodded to them. "Atkins will show you out, I'm sure."

On cue, Atkins opened the door behind them. They exchanged expressionless glances and left, though Viktor thought he might have detected a hint of humor in Jameson's eye just before he looked at Reinhardt.

It might be worth looking into Jameson's motivations, if a method presented itself. Viktor suspected Reinhardt was someone's pawn, and he preferred to deal with principals.

Viktor cleared his calendar. He and Sheffield stayed in the office for the remainder of the day and well into the evening.

It appeared that the company truly had no appealing prospects apart from the NSA, if Sheffield was being truthful. Why had Junior allowed that state of affairs to come about? It wasn't like him.

At one point Viktor remembered he had asked Tremaine to look into what might be happening at CyberLook. He was no longer certain that was a good idea. Could Sheffield be prevailed upon to hire Tremaine, thus defusing the situation and giving Viktor an eye into the company's activities?

No. Viktor gave up the idea. Tremaine would be insufficiently tractable to function efficiently as Viktor's agent. And he would almost certainly challenge Sheffield's leadership, which could lead to unwanted complications.

Viktor sighed. Tremaine was unlikely to pursue his inquiry in such a way as to avoid the NSA's notice. Under the circumstances, that might be fatal...to CyberLook. Which was not acceptable. And at this point, attempting to call Tremaine off would probably merely increase his curiosity. Somewhat regretfully, Viktor gave Atkins new instructions while Sheffield was out of the room for a moment.

He returned his attention to Sheffield's scheme. The figures involved were substantial. There was a distressing shortage of options, and Viktor strongly preferred to have backup plans well fleshed-out, but this did at least appear to have the potential to be quite satisfyingly profitable. He supposed he was not yet too old to take a chance.

Especially when he had no other choice. Viktor wouldn't walk away from an investment this large. Not without a compelling reason.
Chapter Nineteen

(Tuesday Evening--Owen)

**O** wen was beginning to wish Martina would give up and go away. He'd parked so they had a good view of Andrea's building across the street. Everything was going as planned--but the plan had turned out to be deeply flawed.

Earlier in the afternoon he'd tried to call Viktor Bentley, but was told Bentley would be in meetings all day. If Owen didn't want to leave a number, he should try again in the morning. So he'd tried to reach Danny, with the same result.

Frustrated, unable to think of anything more constructive, he'd assembled what he thought he might need for the evening, driven downtown, and called Martina to ask if she could let Andrea leave the office early after all. At least that way he would have the illusion of activity.

Andrea drove straight home. Nothing exciting happened on the way, but it still took an hour of Owen's time. If he was going to get serious about doing this sort of thing for a living, maybe he should buy one of those tracking gadgets he'd read about. He could put it on her car, maybe in a wheel well, and see where she went without having to keep her in sight.

But he didn't like gadgets. They reminded him of his last job.

The point was to watch what she did, anyway, in or out of the car. No electronic toy on the market would do that for him. Yet.

He'd brought plenty of snacks. He had Cokes and a few beers (fringe benefits of self-employment) in a cooler. He sported jeans and a dark shirt, in case he had to follow her on foot at night. He'd even tossed a blanket on the back seat against the off chance he got cold...and there were other things under the seat, for emergencies. Such as the emergency he was developing now.

Martina had shown up a couple of hours after he'd called, as promised, to let her know what was going on. He'd had to use the Laundromat's payphone. Maybe a cell phone was another gadget he should buy--but he didn't want one of those either. It might ring from time to time, and who needed that? Not to mention Facebook was almost certain to follow, once he went down that road. And Twitter, and who knew what else. Just not anything he wanted in his life. But he was reasonably sure he was being ridiculous.

She'd parked her car at the Laundromat and joined Owen in his, just about the time he'd finished his second beer. She kept wanting to talk about the sunset that was transpiring behind them while Owen watched the apartment.

It wasn't that he didn't enjoy her company. But ever since he'd gone to the Laundromat to call her, he'd worried that Andrea might have left the apartment on foot while he hadn't been watching. He didn't want to get out of the car again. And one of the items under his seat was a plastic bottle he'd already filled a couple of times, and emptied out the window, before Martina arrived.

He was about due to fill it again, but under the circumstances he tried to wait it out. Were the whites of his eyes turning yellow, as the fluid level rose? Maybe the beer hadn't been such a great idea after all.

He eventually made the painful (and by now it would be) decision to take a chance and walk to the Laundromat's bathroom. He'd have to leave Martina watching the apartment.

But then he saw the teenager who'd almost run into him on the stairs earlier. The kid parked a beat-up VW Bug in front of the apartment building. Red, rusted, with a blue fender and only one headlight.

Owen made a note of the license plate and nudged Martina. "Know him?"

She watched the kid park and get out of the car. "No. Why? Is that the kid you saw with the groceries?"

"Yeah." He looked at her. "You know, they've got two cars now. Andrea might recognize yours, but I'll bet the kid wouldn't. If they split up, you could follow him and I could stay on her."

She thought about it. "Good idea. But I should go get my car and bring it closer." She peered around the area. "If I park it behind that trash bin, Andrea probably won't notice anything if she comes out."

"Oh." He tried to sound as if he hadn't been planning to say the same thing. "Sure, that makes sense. If we get separated, I'll call you at work around ten o'clock tomorrow morning." He hesitated. "Uh, no, Shadow's still at your place, so I'll--"

"Oh, don't worry about that," she assured him. "He can stay there tonight, whether you make it or not. It's a pretty big yard. He probably likes it a lot more than the hotel room."

Uh huh. He probably did. "Okay."

Owen was beginning to wonder if he was really qualified to take care of Shadow. Poor guy. Even their runs, when in the past he'd borrowed Shadow from Leon to help jump-start conversations with girls, must have been sheer torment for his big black victim. Sure, Shadow had rushed around barking, seeming to laugh at Owen as he puffed along, but inside--ah, _inside_ the dog had been worried about the effect on his nails (and when _was_ his last pedicure?) and would probably rather have sat down with a nice steak. But it was okay; Owen was learning.

Martina glanced at the back seat. "Can I take one of those Cokes with me?"

"Absolutely." Owen twisted around to get at the cooler. Jesus, that hurt. "Here, take three."

"Thanks." She got out of the car. She gave him a little wave as she walked away. He nodded back and watched until she turned the corner, out of sight.

He reached for his bottle, but Andrea and the teenager came out of the apartment dressed in shorts and T-shirts. The teenager carried what looked like an empty gym bag. Andrea had a couple of large towels over one arm.

The sun was nearly gone, so they couldn't be planning to work on their tans. This was good. The great detective had a chance to follow them and watch them do laps in a pool somewhere. There were worse ways to spend time. Probably.

They got in the VW and drove off, moving away from the Laundromat and Martina. Oh hell, he couldn't just let them go. He eased out and followed them, staying several car lengths behind.

He checked his rearview mirror before he followed them into their first turn. Martina was nowhere in sight. He grimaced and shifted painfully in his seat. Maybe she'd stopped off at the bathroom.

How would she react when she discovered both he and the VW were gone? Would she stick around and wait to see if the teenager came out? Or go home and play with Shadow? Either way, he hoped she would forgive him eventually. Yeah, Detective Tremaine, maybe it was time to buy a cell phone. Though he didn't think she had one either. Or at least if she did he'd never seen it, which would be even weirder. People with cell phones lost their free will, and became on-call slaves to the technology. And also slaves to everyone, everywhere, with notifications buzzing and ringing and hissing and eating their brains.

Yep. That was why he didn't need one. So, not being ridiculous at all.

The VW didn't make many turns, so following it was easy. Owen took a chance when he realized they were probably heading for the ferry and moved up closer, leaving only one car between them. He didn't want to risk having them lose him, either by taking a different boat or by getting off and driving away while he was still stuck in another lane on the ferry.

He suddenly realized that if either the VW or the car behind it ended up the last in a lane, he would be forced to drive right past them, and sit in full view while the ferry chugged across. But there was nothing he could do about it.

Up to four ferries ran at once, shuttling people and cars between Aransas Pass, on the mainland, and Port Aransas, on Mustang Island. Mustang Island was just north of Padre Island, both of them part of the chain of protective barrier islands shielding the Texas coast.

Owen had always liked Port Aransas. It was a friendly little town almost wholly dependent on tourism. "Port A" was a place to avoid during Spring Break season every year, when thousands of high-school and college students descended on its beaches, but the rest of the year it sat quietly on its island. The "winter Texans," or "snowbirds," who had only begun to arrive in the last month or so, were essential to the local economy. But they kept mostly to themselves and stayed away from the actual water.

Based on the locals he'd met, Owen suspected nobody ever decided to move to Port Aransas permanently without being in an altered state of consciousness. And most people would forget or rescind any such decision soon after making it--which made the few who stuck around very interesting indeed.

There was no trouble with the ferry. He followed the VW into the leftmost lane and shut off his engine. About halfway to the island, he put the cap back on the bottle and relaxed for the first time in well over an hour. Outside, the teenager ignored warning signs and leaned over the side of the ferry, apparently watching porpoises and enjoying himself. Owen didn't begrudge him the moment. He felt pretty good too.

The ferry docked so gently Owen didn't feel it connect. Their lane was the first to leave the boat. Owen gave the VW more of a lead than he had on the mainland. There weren't many roads on the island, and speed limits were low.

They drove down Cotter, past funky houses and the University of Texas's Marine Science Institute, to the beach. The teenager parked against the South Jetty, one of a pair built in 1888 to stabilize the pass between Mustang Island and St. Joe's, to the north.

The jetty stretched out into the Gulf of Mexico almost farther than Owen could see in the darkness, with fishermen's lights twinkling all along its length. Many of them would stay out on the granite-and-concrete jetty all night long, pulling in redfish, crabs, trout, flounder and anything else that wandered by. Sometimes they'd get a shark, which could be pretty interesting.

Owen grabbed his flashlight and, resolute but slightly ill at ease, his Colt .45 in its leather Alessi holster. He'd qualified for a Texas concealed-carry permit months earlier, which almost any non-felon would have little trouble doing, but hadn't carried a gun before tonight. He doubted he'd need it now either--but whatever was going on, at least two people had died already.

Ignoring a suspicion that he was behaving like an especially juvenile idiot, he hooked the flashlight on his belt and clipped the holstered gun under his pants. It made his jeans uncomfortably tight. Maybe if this got to be a habit he'd have to buy a larger size. Or go running more often. Which he should do anyway, for Shadow's sake. Unless, of course, Shadow recruited someone else to do it. Owen's connection to the dog seemed to be hanging by a thread all of a sudden.

Only a few people were out on the beach, so Owen hung back as far as he could, keeping Andrea and the teenager just barely in sight. The hum of RV generators and the chirping noises of shouting children faded behind him.

They probably weren't going to meet Shawna on the beach. But he had nothing else to do, and he didn't think he'd be able to sit still.

Besides, maybe Shawna _would_ be waiting up ahead. Or something else interesting might happen. Anyway, it would be stupid to quit after coming this far.

Seaweed washed ashore regularly, and the last few days must have dumped more than usual. It would get cleaned up, with bulldozers if necessary, but that didn't help the footing tonight. Sharp-edged shells, driftwood, little clots of oil, jellyfish, and an occasional piece of glass from a broken bottle were mixed in with the seaweed. Owen picked his way carefully through the mess.

After fifteen minutes or so, they approached the Horace Caldwell pier. It was run by Nueces County, and stretched nearly a quarter-mile into the Gulf.

Usually a number of people would be out fishing, even on a cloudy night like this was turning out to be. It only cost a dollar to go out there. A shop sold food, drink, bait, tackle and assorted tourist junk.

But the county had shut down the pier for repairs. The lights that normally provided a dim illumination had been shut off. Fortunately for Owen, the Corpus Christi city lights reflected from the low-hanging clouds and held off true darkness.

Andrea and the teenager continued toward the pier, sometimes walking, sometimes trotting, occasionally running through the surf or kicking saltwater at each other. Owen trudged along behind, glad he'd worn his running shoes.

They stopped under the section of the pier that was over dry sand. They slipped off their outer clothing and put it in the gym bag. Clad now in only swimsuits and water shoes, they moved slowly out into the surf. Their course paralleled the pier, and they took the bag with them. Their earlier high spirits had degenerated into some sort of argument, but Owen couldn't tell what it was about.

What were they doing? A late-night swim might be fun at some other time, but with the seaweed washing up, not to mention all the jellyfish and Portuguese men-o'-war he'd spotted, the water struck Owen as foul. The surf was unusually high tonight, too, though it wouldn't be too dangerous if they were careful.

Maybe there was something hidden under the pier? Or were they leaving something? Either way, he wanted to see what it was. He took a chance and ran through the sand to the entrance of the pier while they were looking the other way.

Gaping holes and chunks of concrete created an obstacle course in the near-darkness. But the chain-link fence with a sign reading "Closed for Repairs" wouldn't stop anybody who wanted out there.

Owen climbed the fence and worked his way down the pier. He crept to the edge when he estimated he'd caught up to Andrea and the teenager. But they had moved faster than he'd expected, or he'd misjudged the distance. They were farther out still, stumbling in the surf.

Owen worked his way along the pier, staying as close behind them as he dared. At one point the teenager was nearly knocked against the sharp-edged barnacles on one of the pier's concrete pilings. But he twisted away from danger with an agility Owen had forgotten was possible. Owen shook his head, momentarily envious. It wasn't so long since he'd been a teenager himself. Maybe he should sign up for a gymnastics or martial arts class? Or just find the Fountain of Youth. It was supposed to be in Florida somewhere, wasn't it?

He lost sight of them briefly as they went beneath a large sling that seemed to be there to catch concrete chunks falling from the pier. He considered jumping down to it, but they came out on the far side and he didn't get the sense they'd completed their mission. Whatever it was.

They turned abruptly, heading toward the pier almost directly beneath where Owen crouched. He held his breath, hoping they wouldn't spot him against the glowing clouds. But they were still arguing, and never looked up.

When they disappeared beneath him, Owen lay down and peered under the pier as best he could. He couldn't see them. Should he try to lower himself further, or wait where he was?

But they came back out, directly beneath him. He grunted in surprise, then laughed softly. They no longer carried the gym bag, but they also no longer wore their swimsuits.

Had he misunderstood their relationship? He'd thought they looked like brother and sister, but maybe he'd had it wrong. Or could this be some sort of religious experience? Shawna had described Wiccan rituals that were sometimes performed naked, though she'd insisted on the term "skyclad." Maybe this was "seaclad"?

And...what was he doing here, anyway?

They were still arguing. He might as well go back to the car and wait, leave them to whatever they were doing down there.

Andrea suddenly lunged toward a piling and cut her arm. Owen hadn't seen a wave, but maybe she'd been caught by the undertow or stepped into a hole at the wrong moment. She made no sound, but he could see the blood, dark against her skin.

She thrashed wildly, more than the cut on her arm could justify. What else was wrong? The teenager backed up and watched her, apparently calm and actually grinning a little. Was she in some sort of religious or drug-induced frenzy, or was she seriously hurt?

Andrea's thrashing took her underneath the pier again. Owen leaned out farther, but couldn't see her. He pulled himself back up and kicked off his shoes.

She threw herself out from beneath the pier, covered in a dark fluid that looked like blood. But how could there be so much of it? She windmilled her arms, but...they moved strangely. Had she dislocated her shoulders? How? The kid still watched, bobbing silently in the surf. Owen was mesmerized, unsure how to respond.

She screamed, briefly, and fell face-down into the water. Owen came back to himself and jumped from the pier. The water twenty feet below broke some of his fall, but he still hit hard. Saltwater rushed up his nose as he went under, burning its way to the top of his head.

He came up sputtering and spun around wildly in the gloom, one eye partly blocked with seaweed. The kid stared at him, not ten feet away, but Owen couldn't see Andrea anywhere.

Suddenly the water swirled strangely behind the kid. Owen grabbed the flashlight from his belt and shone it past him. Andrea's head surfaced, screaming.

A huge dark tail rose out of the water behind her. She noticed Owen for the first time and quit screaming, a bewildered expression on her face. She looked as if she might be about to say something. Then her body jerked downward, and she was gone. Owen plunged toward where she'd been.

A few moments later, a dorsal fin cut the black water in the trough between two waves, moving away from the pier. Owen grabbed his gun, not sure he dared to shoot without knowing where Andrea was, but ready to use it if he had to.

The kid seemed upset for the first time. He raised his arms and threw himself back. "Don't shoot!"

His leap had taken him between Owen and the fin. "Get out of the way!" Owen yelled, but the kid was jumping up and down, waving his arms and spoiling Owen's shot. The fin disappeared under a breaking wave, and Owen didn't see it come back up.

He looked desperately for Andrea, but saw no sign of her. "Where is she?" he yelled.

"She's gone!" the teenager yelled back. "Leave us alone!"

Owen plunged past him, searching for any sign of Andrea. The kid scrambled back toward the pier and the gym bag, which Owen could now see hung on one of the pilings under the pier.

"Kid!" Owen yelled. He fired a shot into the dark, away from the beach.

The teenager turned back, raising his hands again.

"Put your damned hands down," Owen said as he came closer. "You're obviously not carrying any weapons." He wondered if the kid was in any shape to help him search, but he hadn't been acting like it. "I was just trying to get your attention. Look, we need to find her. I'll go out away from the pier. You just stand there. Don't do anything. And sing out if you see her!"

"Go to hell! She's gone! What are you, nuts? Shoot me if you want, but you can't hurt her now! And I'm _not_ gonna help you!"

Owen stopped moving and stared at him. What the hell was the kid talking about? He'd been calm through it all, until Owen pulled the gun out. Now he'd come all over angry. He wasn't grieving, or looking for Andrea, or doing anything but glaring at Owen. In shock, maybe? Better get him out of the water and talk to him--but Andrea had to come first.

Owen turned slowly, shining the flashlight in all directions, but could find no sign of her in the surf. Or of her body, which seemed more likely. Whatever the shark had done to her, with all that blood it was probably fatal. Especially if she hadn't popped back up yet. He turned off the flashlight, hoping his eyes would adjust and let him spot any disturbances in the water beyond the area its beam could reach.

Owen glanced back to check on the kid. He was breathing hard, but what Owen could see of his face was no longer twisted with rage.

"Kid?" he asked. "What's your name?"

"Aaron. Why? Are you surprised I _have_ a name?"

Jesus Christ, the kid had come unhinged--assuming he'd ever been sane. Owen flipped the flashlight back on and turned it to Aaron's face. The kid's chin came up, and he looked as if he might be thinking of jumping Owen if he got the chance.

"Hell, Aaron," he said, trying to sound calm and friendly. "I'm not gonna hurt you."

Aaron looked surprised. He squinted into the light, trying to see Owen more clearly. Owen shone the beam on his own face, realizing as he did so that it probably wasn't going to help. "Look. I'm putting the gun away." That might make a difference. If the kid's mind connected to reality at all.

Aaron's shoulders relaxed slightly. He came closer and stared at Owen speculatively. "Holy shit. You're that Owen dude. You didn't know what was gonna happen, did you?"

Owen blinked. He opened his mouth, but found he had no answer. Surf crashed over his head, and he choked for a moment.

The kid actually smiled. Owen hated him briefly.

"Okay," Aaron said. "It was a misunderstanding, I guess. My sister says you're okay, and she knows about stuff like that." He hesitated. "Uh...mind if I put on some clothes?"

Owen stood dumbly for a moment longer, then shook his head and waved in the direction of the gym bag. "No, go ahead." Damn, now the kid thought everything was fine? "Hey, Aaron?"

Aaron looked back. "What? Please don't tell me you think I've got a nice ass."

"No." Owen decided this had passed surreal a while back, but he thought he might actually be finding his balance on the far side. "Too scrawny. But...we need to talk. Back on the beach."

The kid nodded, and slogged back toward the gym bag. Owen turned again, scanning the waves, trying to believe in his newfound calm but fully aware the waves might wash it away at any moment.

He didn't have much hope left of finding Andrea in the dark and the surf. She was gone. He remembered the hug she'd given him yesterday, and his chest ached.

Also...now that he had time to notice. . . under the chilly water, amorphous terror tickled at the soles of his feet. The attack on Andrea--along with the memory of the hammerhead that had tried for his hand the weekend before, and Leon's bloody death (though why would he remember that now?)--had his teeth chattering. He'd always thought that was a myth.

He wanted to levitate right out of the water, and it seemed nearly possible. But should he get out and search from the pier above, go for help, or tend to Aaron? He didn't think he could trust the kid to help with either of the other choices.

He scanned the waves one last time. He would get Aaron out of the water and see what the kid was capable of doing to help.

Aaron called to him. "Hey, mister? Owen?"

Owen turned around. Aaron stood by the piling where Andrea had cut her arm. He hadn't put on his swimsuit. "Dude, I've gotta go, there are people expecting me. But don't worry, everything's fine. And _don't_ shoot. I'll see you later, okay?"

Aaron's mental state would probably turn out to be his first priority after all.

Aaron waved, then leaned backward and threw his arm at the piling, lacerating himself badly. He plunged his arm into the water and grinned at Owen. "It's okay, man!" Pain twisted his face and belied his words.

Owen ran toward him through the waist-high water between waves. Aaron's blood was dispersing in water where a shark had recently attacked.

But the kid began to thrash and _change_ in front of him. His skin split and reformed continuously, covering his body with a dripping, near-gelatinous sheen of blood. Through the gaps, Owen saw bones and internal organs rearrange themselves. Aaron threw his head back and screamed, his mouth stretching and elongating in mid-cry, sharp teeth cutting their way out to scythe through the night air, then half-dove and half-fell under a wave.

Owen felt the rush of a powerful body moving past him, shouldering him to one side, and Aaron was gone.
Chapter Twenty

(Tuesday night--Owen)

**O** wen woke to a faint scratching at his door. At first he thought it was Shadow. The hotel's alarm clock showed just past two o'clock in the morning. Lightning flashed beyond the window, and rain battered its panes in sheets.

Shadow wouldn't be in the hall. He was at Martina's. So what was making that noise?

Still half-asleep, he looked at the gun on the nightstand beside the bed. It seemed to him that he'd fired it earlier, but for some reason the gun had been under water. He frowned groggily, trying to remember why he'd carried it into the Gulf.

As he sat up, the muscles in his lower back twinged. He'd been running in the surf, hadn't he? Wavelike, the full memory of his experience at the beach crashed over him. He shivered in the air conditioning, suddenly wide awake.

After Aaron had disappeared, Owen had slogged back to the shore and swung himself up onto the pier. Climbing the chain-link fence had hurt his feet, but...it was hard to find good running shoes. By the time he wore out a pair, they were off the market and he had to try out a bunch of new ones. He wanted them back.

After he retrieved them, he picked his way out to the end of the pier and searched the waves, unsure of what he hoped to find. Surf rumbled, and the tops of breakers phosphoresced where they weren't darkened by seaweed. Oil rigs and passing ships twinkled in the distance. Back toward the jetty he saw the lights of the motorhomes and all-night fishermen. Corpus Christi, invisibly insistent behind him, reflected from the glowing clouds.

There was nothing here that he hadn't seen a thousand times before. But tonight all this perceived illumination was nothing more than a dismal and useless denial of darkness.

If what he'd seen tonight could happen, could exist, and the rest of his world could appear unchanged, then the boundaries between real and unreal were not where he'd always supposed them to be. Anything could happen, or fail to happen, and he didn't know the rules.

In the end, with no conclusions or comforting thoughts coming to mind, he'd returned to his hotel, showered, and fallen into bed. He had considered getting drunk, and had stopped to buy whiskey, but once he got to the hotel he'd found drinking alone had no appeal.

The scratching at the door resumed, slightly louder than before. Owen picked up the gun. He didn't know why he thought he might need it. It just made him feel better, and that was enough.

He put it in his left hand, the hand that would be hidden behind the door if he opened it. He flipped the safety off, glad he'd had the presence of mind to put it back on while standing in the surf, and checked the chamber. There was a round in it, ready to go. He figured it would be good for one shot, anyway.

It might not fire twice. But it was a good gun, and unlikely to blow up in his hand even if it didn't work.

Oh well. Apparently anything could happen. For all he knew, his hand might grow back after being blown off. Maybe the new one would be better somehow, or it could turn out to be a lobster claw. If so, he'd cash in on network TV. Why worry?

He walked quietly to the door, wearing the clean T-shirt and boxers he'd put on after showering off sand and salt. Whoever (whatever?) was out there apparently didn't want to attract attention from other guests. He flipped on the light and stood for a moment, listening. The scratching had stopped. Was anybody still there?

He put his eye to the security peephole in the door. At first he saw no one. Then he heard a muttered curse, and a blonde head rose into view. He saw a slightly beaky nose, a strained expression, and a brown eye staring directly into his own.

He almost dropped the gun in his haste to get the door open. She stood there, her smile flickering, her expression unsure. "Owen?" Shawna asked. "Can I come in? I shouldn't be seen here."

He struggled, got his voice under control. "Sure." He stood, just taking her in. She looked good. She could use some sleep, maybe, and her hair was stringier than usual, but otherwise she seemed fine.

She noticed the gun and nodded thoughtfully. "Owen?" She made a pushing motion at the door. "Let me in?"

"Oh. Yeah." He backed off.

"You know," she said as she walked by, "I saw a movie once where a guy was locked up in his room and somebody came to kill him. Got him right through the peephole when he looked out. You probably ought to leave the light off anytime you feel like you need a gun to answer the door, don't you think? Anyway, that's what I got out of it."

"Shawna. What the hell happened?" To Junior, to Leon, earlier tonight...anything.

She shook her head. "A lot of things happened. I'm here to tell you about it, but can I borrow your shower first? I haven't been clean in three days, and I haven't had much sleep tonight. A shower would make it easier to think."

He noticed a small suitcase in her hand. "Planning to stick around?"

"That's part of what we need to talk about." She walked to the bathroom. "Be out in a few minutes, okay?"

It would have to be, wouldn't it? "Want a drink?"

"God, yes. As soon as I get out." She closed the door behind her.

Owen realized he was still holding the hallway door open. He closed it. As he heard the shower start, he opened the bottle of Lagavulin he'd purchased earlier in the evening and found two plastic cups. He poured for them both, and was putting the drinks on the table when he decided there was a better way.

He walked into the bathroom and set the cups on the back of the toilet. Nice, he thought, looking at them. Romantic. He shook his head. Well, what the hell, it was a flat spot they'd be able to reach.

"Shawna?" he called.

"What?" she responded, sounding tense. She shut off the water.

"I'm turning the lights out." He took off his shirt. "Don't panic."

He heard her laugh, and restart the shower.

In the dark, in the warm water, he found her. He took the soap from her hands and ran it over her body, lightly, massaging her gently. Her breath caught, and she turned to face him. As he kissed her, he tasted the salt of her tears.

* * *

**L** ater, she raised herself on one elbow and gazed at him in the flickering light from the storm outside. He fluffed the pillow behind his head and looked back at her. He reached up to touch her face.

"What was that we were drinking?" she asked. "In the shower? It was different."

"Oh. Lagavulin. Single-malt Scotch, sixteen years old. I had a bottle ready for last Sunday as an experiment, but we never got the chance to drink it. So earlier tonight I was thinking about getting drunk, and I bought another one. Like it?"

"Yes." She caressed his chest, and smiled. "It was perfect," she said.

He nodded and met her eyes. She closed them and sighed. "I guess we have to talk, don't we?"

"Guess so," he agreed. "Here?"

"No, let's go sit at the table. I want to come back here afterwards, and then I won't want to talk anymore." She got out of bed and put on a robe the hotel had left hanging on the bathroom door. He got back into his boxers and T-shirt.

They sat at the table. Owen refilled their plastic cups.

"Okay," he said. "What happened on Saturday night?"

"Junior happened." A tear formed in the corner of her left eye. "Junior called me on Friday at the office. You remember when he wanted to hire you a while back?"

He nodded, sipping the whiskey and covering her hand with his own.

Her smile trembled. "He said he knew more about what was happening at CyberLook. He said he really needed you to come back, just for a while. I told him you wouldn't do it, and he said he had something to show you that would change your mind. So I asked what it was. When he wouldn't tell me, I said I wasn't going to try to talk you into anything without a better reason than he was giving me."

Owen shook his head. "Why would he think I would go back? Why would he want me to? I'm done there."

"I don't know. We arranged to meet on Saturday at five o'clock at his place, so he could show me whatever it was." She met Owen's eyes. "I didn't know what was going on, but Junior was always a decent guy. I thought I owed it to him to see what he was talking about."

He nodded, not sure he agreed but unwilling to argue the point. Had it been just an excuse to see Shawna again? Jealous anger toward a dead rival was ridiculous and somehow demeaning. He didn't like it. But...how much had Junior damaged, and who had been killed, because he'd decided to invite Shawna over for a visit? "So what happened on Saturday?"

"Andrea dropped me off at Junior's house about forty minutes early. I figured it didn't matter much. If Junior wasn't there, I could wait on the porch. When I walked up the driveway--it curves, so I couldn't see from the road--anyway, I saw your Jeep out front. I wondered why you'd come back from your trip so early. I hoped nothing was wrong. When I got to the house, the front door was open. I walked inside, and it looked like there had been a fight or something."

She looked at him. "I thought you'd been fighting with Junior."

"I was out in my kayak." Maybe he shouldn't have come back. But no, Shawna needed him. Probably.

"Yeah. I know that now." She took a deep breath. "So I called your name and a guy came up behind me and knocked me on the floor. I rolled, and he closed the door behind him, with this strange smile on his face. Right then I knew it wasn't just a fight between you and Junior. Um, there's stuff I haven't told you about, stuff about Andrea and--"

"We'll get to it," Owen interrupted. But he didn't want to, not really. "I thought that might be why you picked tonight to show up. But just go on with what happened." One form (hah!) of insanity at a time was all he could handle right now.

She closed her eyes. "Okay. I ran into the living room. Junior was sitting on the floor with his hands tied behind him, and there was another guy in the room. This guy had his back to me, so I grabbed a poker from the fireplace and swung at his head with it. He just stepped out of the way, I guess he heard me or saw me in a mirror or something. I almost fell over. He had a gun."

"Junior twisted and kicked at the guy's legs, and suddenly the guy was falling down right in front of me. I brought up my poker, doing my best to hit him with it, and the guy from the front of the house came up behind me again. He grabbed the poker and kicked me across the room."

"I went sprawling on the carpet. They just laughed at me. The guy with the poker went over to Junior and...and he just sort of casually swung it back and forth. Junior looked mad and tried to stand up, and the guy hit him on the head." She began to cry again. "It was awful, Owen. There was blood everywhere, even on the wall. He just kind of shriveled up. He looked dead."

Owen squeezed her hand. God, he wanted to protect her from this. But he needed to know it all first. "Can you tell me the rest of it?" he asked gently.

She nodded, keeping her eyes closed. "Yes. Because I have to." She breathed deeply for a moment. Was she about to do some of her meditation exercises?

But she opened her eyes and ran a hand through her hair instead. "Okay. So Junior was on the floor, probably dead. I was on the floor and these two guys were standing up. At least one of them had a gun. But he wasn't pointing it at me, it was like they were both floored by what had just happened, so I got to my feet and ran like hell. I had to run between them, and I tripped over...over Junior's body and fell in this pool of blood. But I pushed off and kept going. I heard one of them yell not to shoot, and I got outside, and Andrea was long gone, so I went for your Jeep. The door was unlocked, and I'd pulled my keys out of my pocket on the way, so I just...drove away."

"They didn't chase you?"

"Not out of the house. I don't know why."

Owen nodded. "Where'd you go? Why didn't you call the police?"

"At first I thought they'd killed you too. There was blood on the seat next to me. But maybe you were okay, maybe you were out on the water someplace and they'd just taken your Jeep. I pulled over and thought about it. It looked like you and I were being set up for something. Junior...well, Junior was a decent guy personally. But I'd known for months that something like this might happen. Anyway, I was safe for the moment and I hoped you were too."

"I didn't know why any of it was happening the way it was, though. Not the specifics. I mean, whose blood was on the seat? Who _were_ those guys? How were you involved? I thought the best thing for both of us was for me to find out what was going on." She looked at Owen. "If I called the police, that was it, I couldn't do anything else. And what if it turned out to be a bad idea? I needed more information."

Owen winced. Was this what he'd sounded like earlier? "Okay. That makes sense, I guess." Maybe. But he'd ask his questions later. "What'd you do instead?"

"I thought about going to your place, but I was scared. I left the Jeep in a parking lot and called Andrea to pick me up. She showed up about an hour later, and I've been hiding ever since. She and some other people were running around to find out what had happened. When it turned out I was a suspect it just didn't seem like a good idea to turn myself in."

"But, Shawna--"

"Don't you get it, Owen? My _fingerprints_ were on the poker that killed Junior, and how was I going to convince the police that the other guys even existed? _They_ were wearing those clear plastic gloves, did I mention that? If I'd gone to the police, I'd have gone to jail. And I'd probably be dead by now, too."

Owen raised his eyebrows at that last. "So you're still not planning to turn yourself in, are you?"

"No."

He nodded. "Okay, Shawna. You're planning to leave, not stay here?"

"Yes. Owen, I _have_ to."

"Sure. I get it." He just didn't like it. But she was doing okay. He hadn't found her; she'd found him.

He squeezed her hand again. "But now...I have some questions. First, what did you mean when you said Junior was a nice guy, but you'd known something like this might happen for months? And second, why would you be dead if you were in jail?"

"Same question, almost." She sat back, looking at the tabletop. "But first, I want you to know that after all this happened, Andrea's...well, somebody checked out your boat and found a dead guy there. But from the description I knew it wasn't you. Later I found out it was Leon."

"But, Shawna--why didn't whoever found him call the police? Even anonymously? Or _you_ could have done it."

She sighed. "Okay. Maybe we should have, I don't know. But we can't trust the police, Owen. Let me try to tell you some other things about Junior. Then you'll know why going to the police wasn't an option."

Owen leaned back. He tried to keep his expression blank. Maybe Shawna didn't trust the police, but he had a feeling Gordon wasn't in anybody's pocket.

She looked at him. "God, this is hard. The first thing you have to know is that Junior was a shark. Literally. He swam in the ocean."

Owen winced. He'd been trying not to think about what had happened by the pier. "I told you, I saw some things tonight. But still, that sounds . . ."

She nodded, a combative light coming into her eyes. "It sounds ridiculous and crazy, and I damn well know it. But I'm not a nutcase, Owen." She touched his hand. "Believe me."

He stared into his whiskey. He couldn't just pretend that nothing had happened tonight, or that he hadn't suspected Shawna's arrival was connected with what he'd seen, or that he wasn't beginning to glimpse a new pattern in all of this.

But life had seemed so much simpler yesterday. Or more comprehensible, anyway.

"Okay," he said, looking up at her. "Let's assume for the moment that Junior was a shark. I've seen enough to entertain the possibility." Was there anything at all in the world that would remain constant, that wouldn't someday mutate into something else?

No, forget that. Right now, he had to deal with whatever was actually happening. He could whine and hope to adjust to it all later.

"But, Shawna? It doesn't explain anything, not by itself. I don't have any hooks in the idea. I mean, so what? What does it signify? What does his being a shark _mean_ to us, right here, right now?"

She started to answer hotly, then reconsidered. "You know," she said slowly, "I'm not sure." She held up a hand. "I can tell you what it means in general. He's what Andrea's people call a Cold One. We'd say he's a hammerhead."

Owen had been looking away, but at this his eyes darted to her face.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing, I guess...except some corroboration." He told her about the hammerhead coming after the fish--and his hand--on Saturday. "I've never heard of them doing that before."

"Me either. But it wasn't just a hammerhead, it was somebody checking to be sure you were where you were supposed to be."

Owen nodded sourly. And maybe trying to eat a few fingers. He'd worry about that later, too. "Go on."

"Okay. Hammerheads school, where other sharks swim alone. So they're somewhat social, and when they're on land they kind of network." She waved her hands. "They're plugged into the local power structure. That includes the police. Really, Owen, you wouldn't believe the kind of connections they have. And I have no way of knowing who's on which side in all of this."

Yeah, maybe. But Owen was struck by a thought. "Hey, does this mean Junior's dad, Viktor, would be . . ."

"Right. Him too. And a lot of other people, I guess." She stared past him. "But, Owen, being a shark isn't all there is to these people. Junior was a good man, I think. Some of the others probably are too. It's just that--well, they're always struggling for dominance. They don't even, uh, _mate_ unless they're strong enough. Otherwise another shark will take their, um, mate away."

Owen grinned slightly. "So you're saying that when you and Junior...that he wasn't . . ."

She turned red. "He was strong enough, he was sort of the crown prince. His dad's a big shot under the water too, apparently. I think their status is sort of tied together, in both places, but it's apparently pretty complicated."

"So if you guys had...what about kids? How does that work? I mean, he was a shark and you were just--"

"I don't _know_ , okay? I don't know everything. I did worry about that a little, though." She pointed to herself, then Owen. "I was sort of hoping we might avoid that problem."

"Um." He hadn't seen that coming.

She grinned slightly. "Just so you know, I _did_ freak out for a while when I found out about him. But anyway, I only went out with him because I was mad at you."

"Mad at me?" He was completely adrift.

She puffed out her cheeks and blew in annoyance. "Yeah, mad at you. You had this dream job, at a great company, and you left. To do what? The private investigator thing is just a juvenile fantasy, Owen. You can do more, be more than that."

Owen tried not to glare at her. She sounded just like the Hermit. "So why did we get back together?"

"Because I'm an idiot," she said. "No, wait, I didn't mean that the way it sounded. I was an idiot for leaving. I should have stuck with you. Because you'll do things, accomplish things, whether you want to or not. You can't help it. If you wanted to take a break for a while, I should have just smiled and gone along with it."

Flattery, criticism and potential commitment all at once. Owen didn't know what to say. She smirked at him and brought his hand up to her mouth, then kissed it. "I love you, Owen. I always will. Even when I'm being bitchy."

Nearly a year's worth of bitchiness? Torn between tenderness and irritation, he waffled. "I love you too, damnit." Talking about this stuff didn't seem to help. "Did Junior tell you all that--about the sharks?"

"No, it was Andrea. After I got to know her and she found out about me and Junior. Believe it or not, some of the things I'd seen made a lot more sense after I knew."

"Yeah. About Andrea...I guess she and Aaron told you what happened earlier tonight?" Would Shawna have come to him if they hadn't?

She nodded, grinning slightly. "I would have loved to see your face."

"Have you ever seen them do it? Seen them change?"

"No. But I want to."

"Uh huh." He waved a hand, letting it go. "Look, Junior could be pretty cold and ruthless sometimes. I barely met Andrea. I did kinda like her, from what I saw." Of course he'd liked Junior too. "I'm not saying she's any worse than lots of other people I know--but she's not human. She's a shark. I don't think you should trust her too far."

She smiled. "Oh, that's different."

Sure it was. "Different how?"

"Different because she's not a shark. She and her people are _porpoises_. They've just started coming on land in the last few years."

Owen got his plastic cup and poured more whiskey.

* * *

**S** hawna left the room at just after four-thirty, saying she didn't want to be seen. Owen argued that she'd be more noticeable in the early morning than if she waited until the day was well underway and other people were moving around. But she vibrated with an intense lust for resolution, ready to _move_.

They said their goodbyes and agreed to send messages via Andrea. Owen considered telling Shawna about Martina's involvement in searching for her, but Shawna didn't seem to be in a mood for calm discussion. He suspected she'd think he was trying to make her feel guilty about the effect of all this on Martina. Or, worse, she might get jealous. So he settled for giving her a quick kiss and quietly closing the door behind her.

* * *

**S** tanding inside the hotel's side door, Shawna peered through the glass into the parking lot. Someone had parked a dark-colored panel van next to Aaron's VW, which she had borrowed to get here, but there was no sign of movement now.

The rain had stopped, and a thick fog had set in. Excellent. Owen had probably been right about waiting, but the chances of anybody recognizing her or being able to give a good description later were minimal. She couldn't even see across the street.

She left the building and strode to the Bug, smiling a little, confident that things would work out. Owen was a hell of a guy. He'd handled the events of the night before with an amazing _savoir-faire_ , which she should have known to expect.

As she walked around the panel van, a figure stepped out of it and confronted her. She started, then looked more closely.

"Danny?"

He smiled at her, his magnified eyes showing no expression. "Hi, Shawna." He raised what looked like a handkerchief.

She turned to run, but hesitated when she saw a little girl's face watching from inside the van.

That was odd. Was she misreading the situation?

She hadn't thought Danny had a daughter--but whoever the kid was, surely Danny wasn't planning to do anything to her in front of a little girl?

# Thanks for Reading!

Well, here we are. The end of Book One.

It's a full-length novel, which is great: but a total cliffhanger, I know. On the other hand...it _was_ free, right? And there's good news: Book Two (not a cliffhanger ending!) can be free too.

Here's how that works: I'm actually planning to give out a lot of free stuff via my website. Definitely including Book Two of The Shivers Between, and if you like you can get it here.

But there's more. Including short stories that exist nowhere else, until/unless I collect them into an anthology or maybe try skywriting. Though I'm having trouble figuring out the financial side of that last idea....

The freebies go to people who join what I call a Reading Club but is actually an email subscription list for my blog. As if you didn't know that already, right? Along with random rants and sideways looks at the world in general, I post updates on new stuff I publish. Sometimes free, sometimes only available for members. Sometimes just stuff that's for sale, in case I need coffee money or a new sailboat. (Someday!)

If you'd rather not join, well...that's okay, too. Book Two is widely available, fully novel-length on its own, and reasonably priced.

Also? You can totally hack this system. It's easy. Sign up, and after you get your first download link you'll also get an email with a link to my members-only download page. Like, _all_ the downloads. No email address required for the rest of them. Grab whatever books/stories that are available that interest you. Then, you can unsubscribe! Not only is that totally fine with me, because I really don't want to be spamming people who don't want to get my emails, but beyond that...well, the download page? It'll keep working. It'll keep getting _updated_. (At least that's my plan. Sometimes the squirrels intervene.) So, you could always bookmark that page and check back in the future. Grab any new freebies that may have appeared. Or do the whole sign up & unsubscribe bit again if you lose the link. Or just ask me for the link directly, because that's fine too. Whatever; it's all good.

So that's out of the way. (That signup link? For Book Two plus the rest soon after? Here it is again.)

If it wasn't obvious, I'm an indie author/publisher. Mostly but not entirely working with my own books and stories. Not necessarily doing things the same way others are, because it turns out I have trouble being too many people at once and I promised my wife I would stop trying that trick, not counting Mardi Gras and Halloween and other special occasions too numerous to mention.

Ahem.

If you're coming along for the ride, enjoying yourself, and want to help? A review would be great. Or maybe you could mention me to a friend. Or, you know, you could get in touch directly (via my website?) and let me know what you think. That kind of thing.

(Pro tip for those of you reading this on some device without an internet connection right now: the signup links at dhyoung.net will get you the same freebies I mentioned above. Easy enough to remember, or make a note, right? Well, that's my hope.)

Truthfully I mostly write stories that are fun for me to create, because discovering them as I go is the only way I seem able to do this at all...but I do value suggestions, comments, even criticisms! Also reading-material suggestions, because in spite of the deluge of new books out there I often find myself casting about for my next book to read.

But here's the most important bit, and the way I'd like to finish this book: _Thank you_ for coming along with me on this adventure. You're obviously a fun person with an interesting mind, or how would you get here?

I'm only sort of kidding about that. I'm having a blast with my writing. And it doesn't work without you folks. Stories mean so much more for me when I have an idea about who's reading them. So, stay in touch?

And: have fun out there!
